*Request* Love’s Travel Stop, Brigham City, UT- Chapter 1

Cursed Thomas/A1/A2 roadtrip fic for SailorSuu!

—

“You want anything?”

“Sour gummy worms,” A1 says, taking off his readers to pinch the bridge of his nose, “Pepsi Twist if they have it.”

“That it?”

“Mm.”

“Get me a—“ Thomas starts, just as A2 pats the roof of the truck once, loudly, and makes his way towards the little gas station convenience store.

“I don’t think he heard you,” A1 says, turning his attention back to the book on his lap.

Thomas sighs through his nose, takes a beat before cracking open the door of the back cab.

He’s hit hard by the Utah summer air, heavy and suffocating, so dry it kinda almost burns the back of his throat. It doesn’t do his head any favors— the dull throb behind his eyes now a sharp and persistent ache— but at least being out of the truck eases his nausea a bit.

The inside of the gas station isn’t all that much better, outdated air conditioner rattling loudly as it blows out warm, stale air, the refrigerators lining the walls buzzing loudly like weird, tall insects.

Speaking of weird, tall insects.

A2’s already at the cash register, alarmingly put-together despite all the hours he’s racked up behind the wheel, straight-backed and bright-eyed in a way that annoys and impresses him in equal measures. Thomas tries to remember what it feels like— being twenty-three.

He puts it out of mind, grabs a bottle of San Pellegrino and adds it to the pile of sugary drinks and processed trash A2’s accumulated on the counter.

“Is this all together?” the attendant asks.

“No,” A2 replies, the same time Thomas says yes.

“It’s two dollars,” Thomas says.

“You don’t have two dollars?” A2 asks, handing a twenty over to the attendant.

She hands him back his change, two dollars and fifty-six cents.

Thomas exhales slowly through his nose, smiles tightly as he pulls out his wallet and slides an amex black card across the counter.

“There’s a ten dollar minimum for credit card transactions,” the attendant says, popping her gum.

“Ah,” Thomas says, fishing a hundred from his wallet to hand to the attendant. He would bet his fucking amex black card that she’s never even seen a fucking amex black card before today.

He catches a glimpse of the corner of A2’s obscenely plush mouth tug up into a minute grin before the shithead gathers his trashfood and makes his way back to the truck, leaving Thomas alone with the increasingly annoyed cashier.

She looks at him, then at the offensively large bill, then back at him again, before taking the note and pretending to take her time checking the watermarks.

—

Thomas is half surprised to find the truck still parked where he had left it, wouldn’t have put it past Thing 1 and Thing 2 to leave his ass stranded in the middle of this godforsaken desert.

He takes a minute to study them, mostly to prolong his respite from backseat induced carsickness a little longer. Watches how A2 patiently waits as A1 gingerly bites off the red sections of the gummy worms and hands him the blue bits, another weird, private ancient ritual between them.

There’s something endearing-disgusting about it, brings to mind the image of a momma bird mouthfeeding her baby. Kinda makes him want to put them in separate little cages just so he could listen to them cry out for each other.

He takes a sip of a his sparkling water, which is somehow already lukewarm, and sighs. Their weird was definitely contagious.

—

Another five hours on the road lands him even deeper in the middle of fucking nowhere, in a truck stop motel lobby. Though, he supposes lobby is a somewhat generous word for an establishment where the front desk is situated behind bullet proof glass.

Thomas gets them each a room even though he knows it’s probably a waste of money. He figures it’s easier to just go along with whatever little pretense they have going.

He finds A1 leaning up against the front of the truck when he leaves the lobby, readers swapped for a pair of aviators Thomas bought him years ago.

It’s a little alarming, seeing him alone.

The only thing worse than the two of them together is the two of them apart. Thomas is not a man who scares easily, but it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand a little, not knowing where the other one was.

Still, he can’t help feel a touch of relief. A1’s different alone, more agreeable, a little less jagged around the edges. Alone, Thomas can still find traces of the boy he fell in love with.

The kid smiles at him, a sweet, genuine-looking little thing. It annoys him tremendously, how little it takes to get his heart pounding.

“I’m in 226,” he says, handing A1 the other two keys.

“Oh,” A1 says. “Okay. Lemme go wash up.”

—

They have a late dinner at the 24-hour diner across the street, a cramped little place with sticky floors and sticky table tops and lights that flicker and buzz.

Even so, Thomas feels better than he’s felt all day, two beers and half a basket of fries warming his belly as he half-listens to Tweedledee and Tweedledum carry on with what could almost pass for human conversation. They’re saying words, sure, but they mostly seem to be shards of decades old conversations, disiecti membra poetae, utterly meaningless without context.

He feels his mood souring fast, the familiar pang of jealousy rising, only somewhat stifled by the fact that he still had A1’s spit drying on his cock.

Still, he can’t help but scoff at the way the sides of their boots are pressed together under the table, like they’ll die if they don’t keep at least one point of contact at all time. They’re sharing a basket of fries, because of course they are, A1 nudging all of the crunchy ones over to A2 who seems to be going out of his way to chew them as obnoxiously as possible.

The rest of their food is somehow still not ready yet, even though there isn’t a single other soul in the place.

“I can’t wait to get the fuck out of this place,” Thomas finds himself saying aloud.

“Mm.”

“About that,” A1 says.

Thomas looks between the two of them, who seem to be having an entire conversation in silence right in front of him.

“Hey,” Thomas says sharply, “Use your words.”

An unreadable look darkens A1’s face for a split second, then replaced by his signature placid smile so quickly Thomas is almost convinced he had imagined it.

“There’s an oil leak from the right-side cylinder head gasket,” A1 says.

“And?” Thomas prompts.

“And it’ll probably take a day, day and half to fix,” A1 says.

“If we can get the parts,” A2 adds, chewing thoughtfully on his fries. “We could be here for weeks.”

He seems way too happy about it.

“Great,” Thomas says, “I’ve always dreamt of vacationing in Brigham City, Utah.”

“Muy exotic,” A2 says.