Montana smells of fresh greenery and rain.
Montana smelt of fresh greenery and rain, as it should have, given the state of the dirt road he was walking on, carrying a single backpack across his slim shoulders, left arm extended, thumb jutted out in the universal sign of wished travel from a passing car; the sky above was still overcast and heavy with clouds. He had a feeling nobody was going to slow and pick him up, but that was all right. His body was fit and slim, and as long as he found a bit of protection from the wind before nightfall, he'd be all right until the next morning.
A grumble in his stomach tried to inform him otherwise. He ignored it, and tilted his head away as another car went driving passed, this time kicking up water from a puddle, drenching him in mud and oil.
"Great," he grumbled with all the sarcasm fitting a teenager like himself. He abandoned his hope of a hitched ride for a few moments, still walking backwards, as he ran a hand through his shaggy golden hair, trying to rid it of all that grime.
He heard the car approaching at a much more decent pass, but didn't look up from cleaning himself off until he realized that said vehicle was keeping pass with him. Then, his icy blue eyes shot up, thinking a police officer had spotted him.
Instead, a kind face smiled out at him from behind a rain-coated window. He blinked, blindly seeing the merge of his face and the smiling one beyond that the glass created. There was music playing inside the car--an older model, perhaps '08, with a normal radio and few electronics. The window lowered, and the driver leaned out.
"What're ya doin' out here, kid? Yer gonna catch yer death."
"Uh," he muttered intelligently, flushing slightly beneath the mud that was still dripping off him pale face. The driver--an androgynous person, with a lean face, short hair and large eyes--chuckled and shook their head as though he were some hopelessly lost puppy.
"Get in. It's gonna start rainin' again pretty soon here."
It took a moment for him to process what had been said, and by then he was already around the car and gingerly stepping in, hoping he wouldn't be chastised for being wet and dirty all over the upholstery.
The driver, he noticed, was in fact male, though not much older than himself. He shifted on the seat, noted a lack of belting, and sighed a little, feeling suddenly uncomfortable as the car shifted into gear and they began down the road again.
"What's yer name? Never seen ya around before. . ."
"I--. . .It's Idaho." The driver nodded slightly, and cast him a glance out of the corner of one eye. He ignored it, staring out the windshield blindly. His fists clenched over his knees as they bounced along, and he tried to focus all attention on not shivering, and not looking over at the driver.
"I'm Montana." Idaho looked over at him, raising a brow slowly. The driver chuckled a little, noting the scandalized look on his young passenger's face, and smiled handsomely, flashing straight white teeth and deep, pretty dimples. "No joke. Montana Reddings. Ya gotta last name kid, or are ya just a state?"
Idaho ignored the question pointedly, and looked out his side window. In the glass, he saw Montana watch him for a moment, then heard him sigh and watched him refocus his attention to the road. The clouds rumbled overhead, and soon enough the rain began again, clouding Idaho's view of the surroundings.
It was then that the music began to pervade his senses. There were no singers, as far as he could tell. Simple sounds made from instruments that he couldn't name, nor particularly wanted to. Some hopeless urge told him to either turn it off, or rip the damn thing out of the dashboard. He did neither, instead leaning back on the bench and staring up at the car ceiling.
"So, where're ya from?"
"What do you care?" Idaho demanded hoarsely, crossing his arms over his chest. There was a dull bit of silence after that, and Idaho sighed slightly, hoping that Montana had given up on the scrutiny of his life.
They were silent for five more miles. Montana pulled into a winding drive, and soon pulled up in front of a small mobile home with chipping paint, and tarps stapled to a leaking roof. Idaho stared at it critically from the car, and barely heard Montana's quiet chuckle.
"Yeah, it ain't much, but it's warm an' dry, which is more than I can say for you, kid. C'mon. Let's get'cha inside and cleaned up."
"I'm not a kid," Idaho growled under his breath, obligingly opening his side door and stepping out onto the muddy front drive. He heard Montana's side door slam shut, and watched him stride around the hood. There was a small smile pressed towards him, and a shake of the head over his statement, but there was no comment over his age, for which Idaho was grateful. He ran a hand through his pale hair, and strode behind the other man towards the dilapidated old mobile.
Inside wasn't much better. Takeout boxes were strew across the kitchen; plates collected in the sink. There were clothes thrown over every available surface, and some just tossed onto the floor. Chairs and lounges were arranged without order. A TV sounded quietly in one corner. A long hall, lined with bookshelves, was dusty and smelled of cat piss, though no cat was evident. The doors to separate rooms were shut, and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know why.
Montana wandered down the hall, and opened the first door. He sighed, bit his lip, and shut it again, shaking his head. Idaho followed him farther down the hall, and fell in behind him as the next door was opened.
It swung completely open, and revealed a clean, sparse room with a small radio, a futon, and a couple of places for books and clothes. He slid in effortlessly, spun in a slow circle to take everything in, and nodded a little. Montana was watching him, flushed slightly.
"Only room in the house with an actual bed," he stated blandly. "If ya want it, I'll sleep on the couch--"
"I don't take up much room," Idaho excused, and settled onto the futon. "And this is a big bed." Montana's flush grew slightly, but he shrugged, and nodded a little, leaning against the door in an obviously manufactured nonchalance for the situation.
"I'm gonna order some food. Anything sound good to ya, kid?"
"I'm not a kid."
"Whatever. What d'ya wanna eat?"
Blue was smiling at him breathlessly, her cheeks flushed. She was his age now, her skin fair and unblemished, as though she'd never contracted Mahn's Disease. Her hair was long and glossy, and hung around her naked shoulders in an unconsciously seductive sprawl.
Idaho shifted in his sleep, twitched, and tried to reach out to touch her. Blue danced away from his ghosting hands, then closer, until he could feel her soft, warm skin. As warm as he remembered, before she'd gone so cold and that woman had taken her away.
He made a little sound in the back of his throat. Blue wrapped her long, snowy arms around him, and kissed his forehead, his eyelids, his nose. She kissed his lips softly, lovingly, as though she'd only been gone on a trip, and now she was back. And she had so much to tell him about, and show him.
A hand on his shoulder, which was not Blue's, made him jump and fly awake. His eyes snapped open, and he almost lifted a hand to strike off his attacker.
Montana stared down at him with sleepy eyes that glimmered in the watery moonlight from beyond the storm windows of the only room in his mobile home with a bed. That same moonlight gleamed over a naked, hairless chest of the same pale tone as. . .
Idaho flushed slightly, and raised a brow in confusion, silently questioning the wake-up call.
"Ya kept kicking me in yer sleep, kid. Bad dream?"
"It was nothing," Idaho muttered, too quickly. He flushed, and shifted onto his side, away from Montana's scrutiny. A sudden chuckle, and a hand that turned him, made his flush turn dark and powerful.
"Wanna talk about?"
"No, I don't," was the sharp retort, and he tore his shoulder away from the soft grip there, turning back onto his side. The covers had slipped down off his shoulder and had pooled just below the curve of his hipbone. He could feel Montana looking at him critically, no doubt taking in the few scars that dermal regeneration had never quite healed, and tensed a little when he felt a finger tapping against the sharp protrusion of his vertebra.
"How old are ya, kid?" The question was soft, somehow welcoming, and Idaho turned just his head, only a little, to look up at Montana. He scowled as best he could, considering the blush on his high cheekbones.
"Old enough. I'm not a kid." Montana raised a brow slowly, his eyes dancing first over Idaho's face, than over the sharp lines of his back and arm, and down to the curve of his hip. The blush moved from his cheekbones all the way over his face, and down his neck.
"I'm eighteen in three days," Montana whispered, his eyes unfocused and still racking slowly over Idaho's body as his finger continued to run over the nubs of his spine. It was somehow oddly sensual, and Idaho shifted uncomfortably, well aware of the affect that sensuality, coupled with his dream of Blue, was having on his lithe, adolescent body.
"Stop it," he gritted as powerfully as he could. It sounded more powerful in his head, for it came out as a breathy little sound that was more moan than demand. But Montana's eyes and hand stilled, and he drew away, blinking, and turned his back to him.
With the sudden loss of contact, Idaho shivered, and directed his attention to the opposite wall, curling around some invisible fulcrum into a fetal position as he tried to recover the images of Blue his mind had provided.
And there she was. Blue was smiling radiantly at him, her eyes sparkling brightly. She was completely naked now, her hands splayed beneath small, pert breasts. He made a small sound at that sight, and was reassured to that stimuli. Some small part of him rejoiced--/I'm not queer if I liked breasts,/ it justified--and in his dream, Blue continued to touch herself, and moaned.
It took him perhaps half a moment to realize that it was not Blue who was moaning, it was him. A half moment after that, he came to some small realization that he didn't rightly care who was moaning, nor who was touching him there just right, so long as he kept his eyes shut and didn't think about it too hard. Blue remained behind his shut eyes, touching herself and moving against him, and those strong hands on his body only made her image more vivid.
He knew that Blue was dead. Also, he was coming into the very firm realization that it was Montana who was touching him as he was. The two equations, however, refused to fuse into one whilst his eyes remained closed. And as long as his eyes remained closed, he was willing to let this happen.
It took him a moment to realize that his eyes were open, and that Blue was gone again. In that moment, a plethora of stimuli demanded his attention: a warm, harried breath on his neck and ear, ruffling his shaggy, still damp hair; a lightly calloused hand stroking the concave of his slim pectorals and occasionally running over the peak of flesh on his chest; a second hand cupping his thigh, stroking the downy flesh on the inside, eliciting soft whimpers from him.
And the overwhelming sensation, towering over all: a warm, hard body pressing into his back, and subsequently nestling a length of heat between the crease of his buttocks.
It was that sensation that made him flinch and pull away from all the others. His back was to the wall in and instant, relishing the cool, fake-wood paneling there, as his eyes darted over the image Montana presented, sprawled as he was, face flushed from. . .well, from something that Idaho didn't want to think about, mostly because thinking about it would mean that he'd have to identify with that miffed little voice inside of him that had enjoyed that entire scenario, and identifying with it would mean he'd have to admit to his homosexuality.
Idaho came to the belated realization that Montana was kissing him around the time that he felt the other teen's tongue tap against his lower lip. The kiss was sweet, far sweeter than Idaho would have expected from another man--if he'd ever thought of that, which he hadn't, he firmly informed all of his bristling nerve endings--and he found himself moving towards Montana, until they tumbled back against the mattress, and he was sprawled over Montana in some coyly wanton fashion.
I'm going to regret this in the morning, he sternly told himself, before allowing his crazed teenage hormones to take reign of the situation.
In the next moment, Idaho had gone from coyly wanton to feral lust. He pulled back from Montana's kiss, and rubbed against the other man just so, until Montana's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he simply moaned, loud and strong, his hands coming up to grip Idaho's butt firmly and pull him closer. It was somehow pleasant, knowing he had control over the other man, but it was more pleasant to know that his body was responding to those sounds. A little part of him damned his hormones and teenage libido, then resolutely locked itself away from the situation.
Montana growled under his breath suddenly, and rolled Idaho off him, pinning him to the futon and kissing him in that firm fashion that Idaho thought men should possess when kissing one another. His legs lifted at some point during the kiss, and wrapped securely around Montana's waist, pulling him so close that, once or twice, Idaho could feel that hot, sticky heat press at him insistently, trying to find a way in.
When it did, it was sudden, and under no pretense of either man. Idaho pulled away from their kiss with a grimace, and tried to jerk away from Montana's hold. It hurt, more than a little, but Montana didn't notice. He stilled for a moment, taking in that new sensation, before pushing forward.
Idaho screamed, bringing up his hands to claw at Montana's chest and neck. The hurt had become a low, frightful burn that he had long ago made synonymous with bleeding. The older teen, towering over him with his larger size and weight, seemed to barely notice his protests as he thrust in deeper.
"Stop it!" Idaho hissed, but as it had earlier, it came out as something other than his forceful demand. Montana let out one last snap of his hips, and the scream that had been ready on Idaho's lips--full of pain and anger and betrayal--transformed halfway through it's release into a breathy, whimpering moan of surprise.
The pain did not leave. Montana pulled back quite suddenly, and snapped his hips back in. Idaho's screech became another cry of mixed pleasure and pain--more the latter than the former. A coarse hand fell to his hip, pinning him there, while the other settled below his armpit for balance as the action was repeated.
Idaho's eyes, clouded with tears as they opened, met Montana's lustfully stormy gaze. Both men were gasping for breath.
"Do you want me to stop?" Montana whispered, lowering his mouth to kiss Idaho hungrily before he could answer, shoving his tongue into the somehow less than welcoming orifice and caressing the edges of molars and canines.
He repeated the question when he pulled back. Idaho, not trusting his voice or body to tell the truth for a moment, closed his eyes and tried to sort through everything.
His negligence for an answer seemed Montana's own reply. He pulled back, and slid back in slowly, much slower than the first few times. Idaho cringed, but his back arched off the bed as his hands gripped into the sheets
"Do you want me to stop?" Montana asked. Idaho only gasped, trying to discern whether or not his eyes were open. The older teen moved again, this time with the sharp repetitions he'd used earlier.
With every thrust, he took a moment to ask if Idaho wanted him to stop. Each time, there was no reply, and the act continued unheeded. Eventually, there was no need to ask. The sounds Idaho made, still holding a hint of pain, negated the question itself. Montana moved almost seamlessly above him, holding himself up on one arm, and pulling Idaho close with each thrust with the other.
It was with an abruptness that startled Idaho that the movement stilled. His eyes slid open slowly. Montana was staring at him--no, not at him, beyond him for a moment, then down to where they were joined. A look of sadness overtook his face, before he started again, harder than before, his gaze focused on their joining, until a strangled shout left him, and Idaho could feel a warmth different than that which had filled their coupling spill between his legs.
Montana jerked away from him as he regained control of his limbs. Idaho watched him pull out and immediately turn away. He shifted uncomfortably at the odd sensation of loss, and reached a hand down past his yet untouched erection to prod at himself.
His fingers came away to glimmer in the moonlight with blood and semen. A sob choked in his throat, and he sat up, ignoring the ache. He could hear Montana in the bathroom, and he stumbled that direction.
"Why didn't you stop?" he asked softly, without entering the shaft of light from the bathroom. Running water almost drowned out his question. Montana was silent for a moment, then replied with a sad, watery mumble of despair.
"You never told me to."
Montana smelt of fresh greenery and rain. Idaho stared at him as he slept, and sighed, shifting uncomfortably. At least one of them had found sleep after what had happened.
He hoisted his backpack over one shoulder carelessly, and strode down the hall, through disarrayed kitchen, and out onto the front drive, where Montana's dingy old car sat like a foul museum tribute.
He fingered the keys in his pocket as he opened the door. The mobile home leered at him, seeming to laugh at his misfortune. The teeth found their niche in the ignition. He turned, revved once, twice, than sighed as the engine turned over; he'd never driven a car before.