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Dawn had yet to break, leaving the grungy little diner in the middle of nowhere the only spot of life and light for miles around. The handful of patrons inside radiated exhaustion, staring groggily into their cups of coffee as if begging it to wake them up in between listless bites of breakfast. Even the lone waitress, a pale brown cow in a ruffled apron that used to be white but was now a patchwork of faint stains, leaned on the till, blinking sleepily and doing her best to stifle a yawn.

Bill stole a few subtle, curious glances at the folks scattered about the place, seated either at the counter on aged stainless steel stools or in the worn booths running along the wall of windows that made up the front of the diner. There were a couple of humans like him, a twitchy looking hare that may or may not have been hopped up on some amphetamines, a burly gator with his arm draped over the back of his booth that was chatting it up with the pair of German shepherds behind him, and a long, loopy rattler coiled up on the far stool, sullenly sipping coffee. They all had the same worn and road-weary look of a trucker, dressed in broke-down jeans and scuffed boots and faded t-shirts and flannels. Bill looked out of place – felt out of place – with his punk rock mohawk flopped onto his forehead and his shiny black leather jacket. This was one of those times he wished he wasn’t so big (6’4” without the extra inches from his hair when he spiked it up, with broad shoulders and a built chest and arms to match); if he was smaller, he could have just melted into the cracked and worn red pleather of the booth and avoided the looks that had been thrown his way when he came in.

The bruises around his eyes and nose certainly hadn’t helped him avoid attention.

“You gonna eat your breakfast, boy, or you just gonna push them flapjacks around all mornin’ til they get tired of it and push back?”

Bill’s head jerked up in mild surprise at the drawled words, having half forgotten he wasn’t alone in the booth. The horse seated across from him was as big as he was, if not bigger, and the kind of burly with a bit of a belly that came from years of hard work, not lifting weights at the gym like Bill. He had on a dusty blue plaid shirt that contrasted nicely with his almost foxy coloring: a rich coppery bay complete with black tipping his ears and pointing his muzzle and arms, overlaid with white circling his eyes and the end of his muzzle. His black mane was cropped close to his neck, and in the open collar of his shirt Bill could see a splash of white. (Not that he was staring, mind you, just a thing one noticed, of course.) At the moment the horse's big, dark eyes were watching Bill curiously as the man pushed his half-eaten pancakes around on the plate.

“Oh, uh, I uh, yeah, I’m gonna eat,” Bill fumbled awkwardly, avoiding the horse’s gaze and almost shyly taking a bite of pancake. “I just got distracted is all.”

The horse whickered a laugh. “Didn’t your momma teach you it was rude t’ stare?”

Bill felt his face heat up in embarrassment and half covered it with one hand while the other worked on shoveling his breakfast wordlessly into his mouth. The horse laughed again and comfortingly patted Bill’s forearm with a heavy, calloused hand before turning his attention back to his own breakfast of eggs, toast, and a bowl of oatmeal big enough to drown a toddler in. He was glad to be free of the trucker’s gaze; not that he was a bad guy, gods no, Bill was fucking lucky it had been Marshall who’d picked him up off the side of the road and not some fucking creep, but that warm, weary stare of his seemed to cut right through all the bullshit and look straight into Bill’s core. It was fucking intense, and made him a little nervous, worrying that Marshall was going to see what a piece of shit Bill really was deep down — see the piece of shit that his ex had seen so clearly — and drop him off on some backwoods road somewhere he’d never be found.

They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence, Bill finally focusing on his food instead of rubbernecking. He felt pleasantly full in the end, and the sleepiness of the diner had seeped into him despite the three cups of coffee he’d downed while he ate. Marshall, on the other hand, was bright-eyed and raring to go. He stopped Bill’s hand as it went for his wallet, then pulled out his own and started rifling through the bills.

“S’all right, I got this,” he told Bill, pulling out enough to pay for both meals as well as leave the waitress with a generous tip.

For the second time that morning, Bill’s face grew hot. The trucker kept buying his food for him and he wasn't sure why. Guilt had started to gnaw on his insides over it; Marshall was nice enough to give him a free ride for the past two days, and the last thing Bill wanted to do was take advantage of his generosity.

Out in the parking lot, with the sky overhead lit a dusky grey and purple by the dawn just starting to roll in, Bill kicked at a chunk of gravel. "I can pay for my own food, you know," he grumbled, watching the rock skip and jump over the sea of stones. "I do have some cash on me."

Marshall snorted and glanced back at the human. "Aw, hush now, it ain't no problem. It's the least I can do to pay ya back for keepin' me company."

Bill ducked his head and stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, avoiding Marshall's gaze. "I can't imagine I've been very good company, it's not like I talk much."

"That's all right," Marshall drawled as he unlocked his truck and climbed up into the cab. "I ain't much talkative myself, y’know; it's just nice to not have to ride alone."

Bill watched him get into the cab, then followed suit on the passenger's side almost sheepishly. Once they were buckled in, Marshall brought the truck back to rumbling life and slowly, carefully pulled back onto the highway, gravel crunching loudly under eighteen heavy wheels. The horse was right, he wasn't much of a talker, instead opting to fill the silence with the chatter on the CB. Bill didn't mind at all. It was nice to just rest his forehead against the cool window and watch the landscape fly by for hours on end: rolling green fields of crops planted in neat rows that went on forever; a picturesque sky of clear blue filled with streaks of clouds stretching as far as he could see, too big and too open to feel real; the occasional spot of life in the form of a truck stop or little cluster of a town. They only stopped twice for a piss break, grabbing some corn dogs off the gas station rollers for a quick on-the-go lunch from their second stop before hitting the road again. Despite the morning coffee and the road sodas, Bill's exhaustion still lingered, weighing down on him like a stone, and so at Marshall's insistence after a few tired nods (that he totally was not snoring during) he crawled into the bed behind the truck seats to crash for a bit.

The horse was all smiles and chipper humming when Bill woke some time later, the bright light of early afternoon having faded into the warm gold of a summer sunset. It brought a smile to the man's face as he leaned against the back of the passenger seat, rubbing the sleep out of his eye.

"You're in a good mood."

Marshall glanced over and flashed him a big grin, big hands drumming gently on the steering wheel. "Ayup. Had a call while you were snoozin', boss okayed us stayin' in a motel tonight. Be nice to sleep in a real bed for once."

Guilt gnawed at Bill's insides, but he didn't let his smile falter, at least not until he laid back on the bed after giving Marshall a light, friendly punch on the shoulder. The horse had been kind enough to let Bill take the sleeper bed the past few nights since he'd picked him up, electing to sleep in the driver's seat himself and refusing to hear otherwise. Bill could tell that arrangement hadn't been kind to Marshall's back with the way he grumbled and stretched stiffly in the morning before heading on. Maybe tomorrow he'd head off on his own and stop taking up so much space in Marshall's cab. He had a little bit of money, anyhow, both in cash and on his credit card, and it would stretch decently if he could thumb a ride with someone else. But that was a problem for Tomorrow Bill; tonight, he'd enjoy sleeping in an actual bed in an actual room.

A brief flash of fear shot through him. Oh god, what if there was only one bed?

—

Bill's fears proved to be unfounded as they entered the motel room, and he heaved a silent sigh of relief. He wasn't sure how that would have played out between Marshall's stubbornness and his own. Both of them probably would have vehemently insisted the other take the bed (because Bill would not have let Marshall sacrifice his own comfort for him yet again), but luckily it was avoided by the presence of the two queen beds. Marshall dropped his bag on the far bed, the one closest to the air conditioner and window, and flopped face first onto the mattress with a groan.

"Oh baby, I've missed you," the horse mumbled, face buried in the blankets.

Bill chuckled, sinking down onto the foot of the other bed. "Should I leave you two alone?" he teased.

"Mm, maybe," Marshall laughed, rubbing his hands almost lustily over the bedding before pushing himself up into a sitting position. "Maybe some supper first though, I'm starvin'. How about you?"

Bill's smile faded and he looked down at his hands. "No, I'm okay. I don't think those corn dogs are too happy with me, I think maybe I'll just shower and crash."

Marshall gave a little snort as he nodded. "All right, suit yourself. Promise I'll be quiet when I come back."

The big horse gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder before grabbing the keycard and tucking it into his wallet on the way out the door. As it clicked closed, Bill flopped back on the bed with a sigh, arms outstretched. It felt good to be able to stretch out, felt good to be somewhere that didn't hum and rumble beneath him the entire time, felt good to be completely alone for a while. Not that he disliked the company, gods no, but it was nice to just be away from anyone and everyone for a while.

It was nice to be able to cry.

He hadn't realized he was doing it until a small sob hitched in his throat. Ah fuck. Not here, not now. He ground his palms into his bruised eyelids, pain flaring up sharply at the pressure, and tried to will himself to stop. Why the hell was he even crying? It was stupid. He was stupid. So he was out here all alone, away from any friends and family he had, so what? It had been his own fucking decision to leave, to run away like a little kid after one fight that wasn't even that bad. It wasn't like Wes had meant to hurt him, it had just happened in the heat of the moment. An accident.

It took Bill a few minutes to get a hold of himself, luckily managing to keep himself out of a spiral of despair and self pity that would have left him an emotional mess for hours instead of just a few minutes. Wiping his eyes, he pushed himself off the bed and made for the bathroom, which was split up with the toilet and tub closed off behind a door and the sink area left open to the rest of the room. He laid out the little rug (or was it a towel? He could never really tell the difference) and turned the shower on to what he hoped was a reasonable temperature, watching the steam start to fill up the tiny bathroom as he stripped.

It was not, as he discovered, a reasonable temperature, and he hadn't been smart enough to test it before just stepping in. The scalding water on his lower back made him yelp and swear, nearly jumping out of the tub to avoid it as he fumbled with the knob to tone it down. Once that was wrangled, he stepped into the stream and practically melted. Bill hadn't realized just how fucking dirty he felt until the water hit him. His last shower had been a lifetime ago – the morning before the fight that ended everything – and his greasy, grimy skin and hair definitely felt it. He took the time to wash up thoroughly with the microscopic bar of soap the motel had left for them, doing the recommended lather, rinse, and repeat with a content sigh. No one appreciates a shower as much as they do when they’ve collected several days' worth of road grime.

Bill's mind started to wander as he showered, drifting from hazy pleased thoughts of nothing in particular toward his last fight with Wes (which he hurriedly smacked away before it could stick and he started crying again) before finally landing on Marshall. The horse was a bit of an enigma. He didn't talk much about himself, at least not outside of his work, and he was helping Bill without asking for anything in return besides a bit of company – and not even in the skeevy way. Bill couldn't figure out why. Was he really just that nice of a guy?

Was he really disappointed by that?

He mentally slapped himself a little, embarrassed by that train of thought. It wasn't like he exactly wanted to be hurt by the horse, or end up in his secret serial killer freezer or something, but he was incredibly handsome, and Bill wouldn't mind giving the guy a blowjob in any scenario. He bit his lip a little, a flash of arousal racing down his spine and making him shiver, and smacked those thoughts away even more vigorously than the memories of his breakup fight. It didn't do any good to start thinking like that and get himself in trouble. At the very least, he didn't know when Marshall would be back, and the last thing Bill wanted was for him to return while he was jerking off in the shower, especially when it was instigated by thoughts of the big horse.

But those thoughts lingered at the corners of his mind as he finished up and crawled into bed, not bothering to put on anything more than his boxers. He wished they were clean, but it was better than nothing, and at least he could sprawl out unhindered in the big bed, stretching his long limbs as far as they’d go. Clicking the TV on to distract himself, he pulled the duvet up to his chin and sighed, exhaustion settling back over him with the weight of the blanket. The true crime show on TV did little to keep him awake or occupy his mind, fading into a low hum of background noise he drifted hazily between sleep and wakefulness. Lustful thoughts about Marshall crashed through his mind like waves on a beach, rushing in and fading away on the tides of sleep, fragmented thoughts of big hands and soft lips and hard cocks that slipped through his fingers like sand whenever he tried to focus on them.

It was well past dark by the time the horse returned. Bill faintly heard him come in, slowly rising out of the sleep he hadn't realized he'd fully sunken into. His eyelids were too heavy to open, his body too tired to fight to wake up, so instead he just laid there, half-asleep, and listened to the sounds of Marshall moving around the room. Hooves clopped softly on the thin carpet as he circled around to his own bed, then came the rustling of him searching for something in his duffel. The TV was clicked off and those hoofbeats moved back toward the door, growing louder as they struck tile. The door to the bathroom shut with a near-silent click, followed shortly by the sound of the shower.

Bill tried to go back to sleep, but the longer he laid there, the more awake he felt. His eyes finally opened and he stared at the ceiling in the darkness as he listened to Marshall hum softly to himself in the shower. The only bit of light was a sliver from the parking lot slicing through the closed curtains and whatever was leaking out through the crack under the bathroom door. Steam and the smell of a fresh, clean, masculine soap and what Bill could only guess was wet horse rolled out from under the door as well. It was a nice combination, incredibly manly and downright sexy, and it made Bill's cock twitch. He scrunched his eyes shut tight with a groan and wrestled with himself internally, trying to force himself to go back to sleep before he did something stupid.

The shower shut off, and Marshall came out of the bathroom. Bill kept his eyes shut at first, but couldn't resist stealing a peek when he heard the bed sheets rustling. Marshall was standing next to the bed, facing away from Bill as he pulled the sheets aside, and the man could just barely make out the horse's form in the dark. The slice of light cutting through the curtains edged the left side of his body, rimming his strong arm and shoulder in yellow and illuminating the curve of his flank and the edge of the towel wrapped around his hips. A thick black tail swished into the beam as one ear turned back toward Bill, then the towel dropped to the floor as Marshall started to slide under the sheet. Bill caught a glimpse of the horse's round ass and thick thighs before forcing his eyes shut again, his heart suddenly in his throat and pounding rapidly.

After what felt like forever, Bill braved cracking an eye. Marshall was laid out comfortably on his back, one hand tucked behind his head, the other resting on his broad chest, rising and falling slowly with each breath. The sheet came up to just below his chest, and Bill probably would have been staring at his strong, exposed pecs if it weren't for the way the beam of light went right over Marshall's crotch, drawing the eye to the gentle folds in the cloth and the mind to what lay underneath.

Shit.

Bill told his body to roll over and go to sleep, but he found himself slipping out of the bed instead and padding over to where Marshall lay. He stood next to the other bed for a moment, his heart hammering in his chest in both arousal and anxiety and his brain screaming at him about what a horrible idea this was. That didn't stop him from lifting the sheet and carefully slipping in next to the horse, doing his best not to press too tightly against his side and keeping his hands to himself. But though it was a big bed, they were both big men, and the limited room pressed them into close proximity anyhow.

Marshall's slow, steady breathing paused for a moment.

"Bill?"

It was sleepy, but stern, somewhere between a warning and a question. Bill's stomach dropped out of him in fear and he braced himself for a blow that never came. In fact, Marshall didn't move at all, not even to open an eye and look at him. Bill had to swallow two or three times before he finally found his voice.

"Y-yeah?"

"Y'know this ain't your bed?"

The tone wasn't quite accusatory (but definitely danced on the edge of it and heavily implied that Bill did, in fact, know this was not his bed) but neither was it angry, and he risked slipping a hand under the sheet to rest on Marshall's belly. "Yeah," was all he could think to reply with, his fingers gently stroking the soft fur in small circles. Marshall's breath hitched a little at his touch, making a little electric thrill run down Bill's spine.

"So just what d'you think you're doin', then?"

Bill's head felt like static, blood pounding in his ears, and he kept his eyes on the lump under the sheet that was his hand.

"I just, I was gonna, I just wanted to thank you," he stammered stupidly.

His hand started to slide down the curve of Marshall's belly, but the horse grabbed his wrist and stopped it. His grip was gentle yet firm, keeping Bill's hand in place.

"Ya don't gotta do that, boy. I didn't pick you up because I wanted somethin' from ya, I just wanted to help. That's all."

His words were soft and gentle, and Bill chanced a glance up at him. The horse was looking at him now but otherwise unmoved, and Bill felt a faint fluttering in his stomach under his gaze. He didn’t fail to notice that Marshall’s grip on his wrist was unchanged. He could have pushed his hand away, but he didn’t. He just kept it pinned in place under the sheet, against his short, velvety fur.

"I know," he whispered back, fingers softly stroking his belly. "I want to, though. I want, I want…"

His voice trailed off as his mouth went dry, unable to find words that didn't sound stupid, or desperate, both of which he felt. Marshall kept him pinned under his stoic gaze, silent and unmoving for what felt like an eternity, then wordlessly guided Bill's hand down to his crotch. The man's breath caught in his throat as his fingertips met the suede-soft skin of Marshall's sheath, tracing around the opening at the tip before gliding along the thick, swelling length of it. He squeezed down gently on the cock growing inside it and stroked it slowly a few times, then dropped his hand down to cup the horse's heavy balls. Bill had known what to expect, more or less, but he was still a little surprised by just how hefty they were and how much they filled his hand, and he couldn't help but think about how big of a load they must carry as he rolled them around in their soft, leathery sac. The thought sent a hot wave of arousal down his spine and made his cock throb.

Marshall snorted softly and spread his legs a little, his hand returning to rest on his chest, but made no other sound or motion as Bill played with his balls, kneading and tugging on them gently. He stayed quiet and still even as Bill's hand slid back upward, and for a moment Bill was afraid he'd fucked up, that maybe the big horse wasn't into it, but then his fingers closed around a hot, hard, and – goddamn – thick shaft. His eyes went a little wide as he stroked up, and up, and up; everyone always joked about how big horses were but Bill had always figured they were just that: jokes, or exaggerations. And porn didn't count, everyone was huge there, so of course the horses he'd seen there were hung. But Marshall was easily in double digits, and so thick that Bill's fingers barely met as they curled around his girth, and he couldn't help but let out a little moan when he finally reached the broad, flat head. He squeezed and worked it for a moment, listening to Marshall huff softly as he did, then quickly started to stroke the top half of his cock.

"Whoa, whoa there," Marshall chuckled softly, resting a hand on Bill's wrist. "Easy now, boy. Been a while since I had someone give me a hand, so to speak, and I'd like to enjoy it, not blow in ten seconds."

Bill blushed deeply and was glad for the darkness that hid his embarrassment. Obediently, he slowed down, working the thick cock in his hand with long, slow strokes, base to just-barely-flaring tip. Marshall snorted quietly in approval.

"There you go, attaboy," he grunted softly. "Just like that."

The praise made Bill's head spin and his cock ache, feeling even harder than before somehow, though the gods only knew how that was possible. Biting down on his lip, he choked back a soft whine that threatened to slip out of his throat. Marshall was hitting all of his fucking buttons and didn't even know it, leaving him aching and squirming and internally begging to be fucked. But he'd have to settle for having his hands (and hopefully, if the horse wouldn't object to it, his mouth) on Marshall's cock. At the very least he could look at it, right?

He glanced up at Marshall's face, which was tipped back as he huffed and groaned softly in pleasure, then down to where his hand was moving under the sheet. Letting go for just long enough to throw the sheet back, he stared at the sheer tower of flesh jutting up from Marshall's crotch, his hand on the base to help support it. It seemed even bigger now that he got his eyes on it, and his mouth went dry as he started to slowly drag his hand up the length. He could have wrapped both hands around it and left the faintly speckled head completely uncovered. Aside from the smattering of small, pale splotches across the very tip, the rest of the shaft was solid and dark, though in the ugly yellow light of the parking lot it was hard to tell if it was dark brown or black.

As his hand grazed over the medial ring, tugging it upward gently in its passing, a small bead of pre formed at the tip of the horse's cock. It grew as Bill's hand traveled higher, his grip seeming to squeeze it out, and he couldn't help himself as his hand finally bumped the underside of Marshall's forming flare. Pushing himself up, Bill leaned in and licked the little droplet away, the salty taste of it making his mouth water eagerly. A short, squeezing stroke coaxed another out, which he lapped up greedily before closing his lips around the head. Marshall grunted, and a heavy hand landed on the back of Bill's neck encouragingly. Not that he needed the motivation; he was ready to get as much horsecock down his throat while he still could, but the almost commanding hand on his neck was hot as hell and he couldn't hold in a moan as he started to sink further down onto his cock.

Marshall responded with a groan and nudged his hips upward, shoving another inch of cock into Bill's mouth. He could feel the tension already starting to form in the hinge of his jaw, his mouth feeling too full already, but that just made him work faster, sinking down as far as he could without gagging before starting to bob slowly. One hand held onto the lower half of the shaft for support, squeezing and stroking to match Bill's actions on the upper half. Marshall's head fell back with a low, rolling groan as his hand gently squeezed the back of Bill's neck. Bill couldn't keep from moaning himself, though it was heavily muffled by the massive spire of meat in his mouth.

He took the horse as deep as he could each time, feeling the blunt head bump against the back of his throat with each downward stroke. Marshall snorted softly and gripped the back of Bill's hair, sending tingles down his spine. Another snort huffed out of the horse's nostrils and his hips started to shift, thrusting lightly up into Bill's mouth as the hand on the back of his head first held him in place, then started pressing downward forcefully. Steeling himself, Bill took a deep breath and pushed forward, swallowing down as much horsecock as humanly possible.

"Fuck, boy!" Marshall grunted, his grip on Bill's hair tightening.

Those powerful thighs drove Marshall's hips upward, thrusting deep into Bill's throat. Bill had no choice but to metaphorically hold on for dear life as Marshall throat-fucked him, his whole body tingling from the treatment. Or maybe it was the lack of oxygen. He could feel Marshall's flare expanding, pressing uncomfortably against his esophagus, and his head was spinning when he finally pushed off and away. Marshall's cock came free with a soft but audible pop and Bill sputtered for air, saliva and precum drooling uncontrollably over his chin and onto his chest.

His hand had never left Marshall's cock and was now stroking the entire length, quick and eager. Still slightly gasping for air, Bill kissed his way down the underside of the shaft to those heavy, taut balls. He slathered his tongue greedily over the front of the soft, leathery sac, and then took his testicles into his mouth to tease and suck on, first one, then the other. His hand paused its ceaseless stroking as he reverently worked Marshall's nuts, sitting at the base of the shaft and squeezing rhythmically. Marshall was panting and groaning heavily, more noise than Bill had heard from the horse in the three days they'd been riding together, and it made him smirk a little to himself.

By the time Bill finished with Marshall's balls and kissed his way back up to the head of his cock, the flare had swollen fully and he was leaking precum in streams. Bill swiped his tongue across the leaking tip, then dipped it into the urethra, earning another thick dribble of pre as a reward. Both hands circled the shaft and began to stroke quickly as Bill kissed and swirled his tongue across the head. He might not be able to fit it in his mouth anymore but by god it wasn't going to keep his lips off of it.

Marshall's huffs and snorts were starting to hit a fever pitch, and Bill doubled his efforts, squeezing the shaft firmly as he stroked it hard and fast and licked across those spots that made the horse's powerful thighs quiver.

"Fuck, boy, I'm gonna – " was all Marshall got out before he started to blow, clapping a hand over his mouth to muffle a shout. Bill didn't let up, letting the horse unload on his face as he continued to stroke and kiss his cock, only letting up when Marshall's thighs started to shake and the muffled sound behind his hand became strained. He kept one hand on the throbbing shaft, stroking slowly and milking out every last bit of cum he could. He caught most of the thick, sticky ropes on his face and chest, with the last pulses simply drooling out and over his hand.

Marshall was breathing hard, head thrown back and his arm across his eyes, and Bill took the opportunity to stick his hand in his boxers and jerk himself furiously. He could feel his balls churning already; it wouldn't take much for him to blow as well. Letting his eyes close, he focused on the pleasure building up rapidly in his crotch.

A hand touched his shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts. He'd half forgotten anyone else was there. Muttering an apology, Bill yanked his hand back out of his boxers, leaving his cock throbbing and frustrated, but Marshall shook his head and applied light pressure to his shoulder.

"No, you're alright," he said hoarsely, his eyes fixed on Bill. "I wanna see."

Bill's face heated up and he slowly leaned back into the light, shucking his boxers and shifting onto his knees. His thick cock bobbed lightly as he moved, and a heavy drop of pre had dripped down and around the curve of his Prince Albert piercing, glistening in the light as it beaded on the underside of the ring. Marshall grunted in appreciation, his own cock laid against his thigh and softening slowly. Bill let his eyes rove over Marshall's body, then swiped his hand across his face and used the cum he wiped away to lubricate his stroking. He could hear Marshall grunt softly at that, and one heavy hand dropped down to fondle his own cock as he watched Bill jerk off.

"Atta boy," Marshall murmured, resting his free hand on Bill's thigh.

The praise made Bill's cock throb in his hand and another spurt of precum dribbled out to join Marshall's cum slicking his hand. He'd already been close to the edge when Marshall stopped him, and it didn't take him long to get back to that point as he worked himself hard and fast, balls churning and his cock feeling like a stick of fucking dynamite in his hand. Taking one last look at Marshall, he closed his eyes and focused on the heat roiling between his legs and in the lower part of his stomach, letting out a soft cry as he hit the breaking point and it all came bursting out of him in hard pulses. Head spinning, his spine and brain tingling, he swayed a little and tried to catch his breath.

Marshall grumbled approvingly and squeezed his thigh a little. "Damn, boy. If I hadn't'a just cum, I woulda popped watchin' that."

Bill blushed and let out a breathless laugh. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He was silent a moment before saying softly, "Thank you."

Bill slowly dragged his eyes open with a small smile, his eyelids and limbs feeling heavy. "Yeah, no problem. It's the least I can do."

Marshall grunted softly and started to pull the sheet back up over him. Bill took the hint and slipped off the bed, padding to the shower to wash the leftover cum off his face and body. The hot water only made him sleepier, and he was nearly staggering by the time he returned to his bed, not bothering to put anything on. Marshall was already out and snoring lightly as Bill snuggled under his own covers, sleep overtaking him as soon as he pulled the blanket up to his chin.

—

Marshall was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the next morning, up and raring to go before the sun was even up. He gave Bill a little shake to wake him and urged him to get up before starting to bustle around the hotel room, packing his bags and getting ready for the day. Bill grumbled sleepily and rolled up tighter into the blanket, but after a moment he managed to pry his tired eyes open. His breath caught in his throat. He certainly hadn't been expecting to be greeted by the sight of Marshall's bare ass, but there it was, the horse buck naked and facing away from Bill. His ruddy fur seemed to glow in the yellowish lamplight, and Bill could see much more now than he could last night: the black socks that went up to Marshall's knees and matched the markings on his forearms, the faint dappling that spread across his back, and, when his dark tail swished, the creamy white fur on his rump and the insides of his thighs.

Bill had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment to stop himself from staring and get himself under control, or at least try. It did the opposite of help, however, as it was all the easier to imagine Marshall climbing on top of him, his heavy weight pushing him into the mattress, his strong arms hooking under his knees and his hot, hard cock pressing against his -

A pillow smacked him across the face, startling him out of his thoughts as Marshall whickered a laugh.

"C'mon, lazybones, we got another five hundred miles to put behind us. Gotta hit the road before sun's up."

Grumbling a little more, Bill reluctantly flung the blanket off and got up to get dressed. He didn't fail to notice the sly look Marshall threw his way over his shoulder and he couldn't help but blush a little. Sure, the guy had already seen him naked, and watched him blow his load, but this was different: the lights were on, and aside from the fading feelings churning in the back of Bill's mind, there was no hot sexual energy washing away any embarrassment. It was just Bill, naked and exposed, all his faults on display for the whole fucking world to see.

One big hand pointed toward Marshall's duffel bag. "There's some fresh undies in there if ya wanna borrow 'em. I know you ain't got nothin' but the clothes on your back, and ain't nothin' worse than takin' a shower only to put on dirty drawers."

Bill opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it and dug through the horse's clothes, pulling out a sloppily folded pair of blue plaid boxers. He hated imposing even more on the trucker, but Bill knew he wouldn't take no for an answer, and he was right. Bill's mood lifted three notches just putting on some clean underwear, even if the rest of his clothes weren't the freshest; at least he wouldn't reek of sweaty balls. He mumbled a reluctant thanks, which Marshall only grunted quietly in response to.

The rest of their morning was spent in the horse's usual stoic quietness as they both got dressed and trooped back out to the semi, stopping to grab a few muffins and a cup of coffee from the hotel's so-called "generous" spread of breakfast, which consisted mostly of prepackaged muffins and individual servings of cereal that reminded Bill of school breakfast. Marshall did his usual inspections, jotted some things down in the leather-bound logbook that lived in a little notch on the dashboard, and they were back on the road, with the sunrise breaking behind them in soft pinks and bright oranges. Bill watched the color shift and spread across the horizon in the big side mirror just outside his window. He was pretty sure he'd seen more sunrises in the past few days on the road than he ever had before in his life. Funny how a batch of bad luck could turn beautiful somehow, even in just a small way. He propped his chin on his hand with a little smile and watched the sky turn from pink to gold to a soft, clear blue as the miles rolled away beneath them.

It was well after noon when Marshall finally broke their silence, his lunch of a cheap gas station egg salad sandwich in hand; Bill couldn't decide if he was brave or reckless for eating it.

"So, you wanna tell me how you got them shiners, boy?"

Heat blossomed in Bill's belly and in his cheeks, a mixture of arousal and shame, though mostly shame. Marshall was still unintentionally pushing his buttons, which only made him more ashamed about getting worked up over a silly little word, joining the shame about carrying his fuckup around on his face. They'd avoided the topic so far, surprisingly, and, frankly, Bill could have gone the rest of his life not talking about it. The bruises had darkened to a nasty, glancingly obvious deep purple, drawing unwanted attention to himself, but hopefully soon they and the unpleasant ache in his nose would fade away to just another easily avoided memory.

"Not really," he said softly, plucking at nonexistent loose threads on the zipper of his jacket. "It's kind of embarrassing."

"Fair enough," the horse grunted, taking a big bite of sandwich. "So, whatchu got waitin' for you in Fairharbor, then? A little girlfriend? Boyfriend? Somethin' like that? Long way to go with just the clothes on your back."

Bill barked a humorless laugh. "No, nothing like that. I burnt down anything I had like that when I got in your truck. My cousin lives there, and he's the only family I have."

"Yeah? You sure he's gonna want to see you, since you're just showing up outta the blue and all?"

"Yeah. I'm the only family he has, too. It's been just us for, well, a long time. Since we were kids." A soft, sad little smile touched his lips. "I think he'll be glad to see me, actually. He didn't like me moving so far away."

Marshall scratched at his chin thoughtfully, giving Bill a sidelong glance. "And I take it you moved 'cause of those bridges you just burned?"

Bill folded his arms tightly across his middle, staring out the side window. "Yeah. Something like that." He was quiet for a moment, then, "Hey, I don't think those nachos agreed with me, you mind if I lay down for a bit?"

"Yeah, of course, you know I don't mind at all. Mí casa es su casa, and whatnot."

Bill nodded and crawled into the bed of the truck, not bothering to close the curtain. He stared numbly at the grey fabric of the back wall, his stomach churning unpleasantly and bile prickling the back of his throat, but it wasn't the food that had unsettled his stomach. Marshall's words had set doubt creeping into his mind, and now Bill was wondering if he'd made a mistake. What if Clyde was still pissed about him leaving in the first place? What if he turned Bill away and sent him packing after coming a good thousand miles? It wasn't like he could go back, not after just walking out without a word. He didn’t know how’d he’d even get back; it had been a miracle he made it this far. Oh fuck. He wrapped his arms around his middle and squeezed his eyes shut, fighting down the tears that were burning behind his eyelids and the anxious bile that was rising in his throat.

He involuntarily made a little whimpering noise, and Marshall asked if he was okay and if they needed to stop. Bill assured him that he was fine, though his voice was thick and strained, and they kept driving. The grunt Marshall gave in response didn't sound like he believed it, but the horse didn't press the matter. Bill must have fallen asleep at some point, because the hissing pop of the brakes engaging as Marshall parked the truck startled him awake.

"C'mon, bud, let's go get some supper," Marshall said softly, resting a hand gently on Bill's shoulder. "And don't tell me you ain't hungry, you skipped supper last night, I'm not gonna let you do it again."

Bill's stomach was still writhing like a pool of angry eels and eating was the last thing that he wanted to do, but he had the sneaking suspicion that Marshall wouldn't take no for an answer. He followed the horse out of the truck, boots crunching on the gravel of the lot where sleeping trucks were lined up in long rows.

"No hotel tonight?"

Marshall snorted in annoyance. "Naw. Boss said one night was good enough, especially since we'll be home tomorrow anyhow. Cheapass."

Home tomorrow. The words tumbled over and over in Bill's head as he followed Marshall up to the truck stop diner sat at the far end of the lot. Was it really home still, after he'd been away for five years? Who knew if anyone he knew was still there. Who knew if Clyde was even still there. The thought that his cousin might have left hit him like a freight train, making his heart seize and his throat tighten. He'd not considered that a possibility, and now? Oh fuck. If Clyde had left, even just moved houses, Bill was fucked. He wasn't sure where to even start looking for his cousin, nor where he’d end up sleeping for the foreseeable future, with no job and barely any money. Shit.

Tears blurring his vision, Bill stumbled blindly over a rock and nearly fell. Marshall caught his arm with one big, strong hand and managed to keep him upright, his warm brown eyes full of concern when Bill met them. He felt his heart skip a beat, and for a moment everything stood still, tension shimmering in the air between them. He'd never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his life.

"You okay?" Marshall asked softly, his hand giving Bill's bicep a little squeeze.

Bill forced a smile, ignoring the butterflies fluttering in his stomach, ignoring the desire to take Marshall by the lapels and press his lips against the horse’s. "Yeah, yeah I'm okay. Just tripped over a pebble is all. Wasn't paying enough attention."

"Well, be careful, okay? Don't want you bustin’ your head open."

Bill gave him a thumbs up, and Marshall gave his arm another little squeeze before letting go and continuing on to the diner. Closing his eyes, Bill took a deep breath to steady himself, then followed behind him, taking care not to lose his footing again. It was busy inside, the collective chatter and clank of dishes of a hundred or so truckers combining into a low, overwhelming roar that washed over him and made him want to jump out of his skin. The hostess, a pretty young deer with small spots of piebald on her hands and arms, gave him a sympathetic look and seemed to take pity on him, setting them up in a small booth in the quietest corner of the restaurant, not far from the restrooms. It still was far from peaceful, but at least it was quiet enough that he could almost string two thoughts together without wanting to fucking explode. Almost.

He looked over the big laminated menu the hostess handed him dully, not really seeing it. His brain was still foggy and scrambled, and despite the quieter corner, every little sound still grated on his nerves, making him feel scraped raw and tense. Their waitress came by, a blonde human woman about Bill's age with a tired smile, and he could barely manage to get the words out to ask for a glass of water. He was grateful when she offered them more time, and as soon as she left, he excused himself to the bathroom, his skin feeling too tight and his stomach clenching and roiling.

Slamming the stall door, he sank down onto the toilet and buried his face in his hands, sucking in deep, desperate breaths. Shame and embarrassment clawed their way into his ribs, making his chest feel even tighter and tears sting his eyes hotly. No no no no no. He could not lose it, not right now, not here, not with Marshall waiting for him to order and eat and with the risk of some trucker coming in to destroy the toilet next to him. Bill couldn't even remember the last time he was on the verge of a meltdown like this. He’d smothered a few small ones here and there, sure, but those were easy to cover for and easy to settle, not like this, the kind that made it hard to breathe and his skin feel like it needed to be ripped off his bones or he'd implode. He clapped his hands over his ears for a moment, pressing hard and blocking everything out, then dug his nails into the back of his neck. The pain was like a pressure valve, releasing the tension that had coiled up around his limbs and chest like steel bands, letting him breathe again.

Taking a few moments to catch his breath and fully steady himself, Bill eventually left the stall, pausing to wash his hands and splash a little water on his face, carefully avoiding looking at his own reflection. His emotions were still somewhat all over the place, and his skin prickled faintly, but overall he felt much calmer and more in control of himself. He ignored the ancient-looking air dryer on the way out, opting to dry his hands on his pants instead. The low roar of the restaurant was still a little overwhelming as he left the bathroom, but he felt more like a human being again instead of a walking bundle of raw nerves.

A payphone caught his eye as he started back to the booth, tucked between the two restrooms, and it stopped him dead in his tracks. He stared at it for a long moment, his thoughts tumbling over and over in his head, then robotically pulled his wallet out and stiffly walked over to the phone mounted against the wall, its once gleaming stainless steel surface scuffed and scratched from years and years of use. Lifting the worn receiver from its cradle, he again hesitated, then hung up, then picked up the receiver again and began feeding change into the slot. His finger hovered over the keypad, then slowly dialed the number, hoping and praying that he remembered it right. The line rang and rang and rang, and just when he was about to give up, a gruff voice picked up on the other end, sounding none too thrilled to be answering.

"Hello?"

Bill almost collapsed to his knees in relief at the sound of the familiar voice, one he hadn't heard in years, one he'd been afraid he wouldn't hear. He sagged against the wall next to the phone, leaning heavily on his arm and resting his head on the boxy body of the phone. It took a moment to unstick his throat, during which he got another, more annoyed sounding "hello?"

"H-hey," he managed, his voice a little shaky. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Hey, Clyde, it's, it's me."

The other end was silent a moment, and for a split second he worried he'd fucked up. But instead of the click of the phone hanging up, he got a quiet, incredulous "Billy?" and he couldn't help but laugh a little in relief.

"Yeah, yeah it's me. Long time, no see, eh? I'm glad you didn't change your number."

"Yeah, well, you know me. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, right? Besides, that would mean I have to learn a new number, and I ain't doin' that."

"No, you're so right, that's such a pain in the ass," Bill laughed, then fell silent a moment, rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. "So, so I'm coming back to Fairharbor for a bit, actually. I was wondering, do you think, maybe, maybe I could, y'know - "

"You know I always got a place for you, Billy," Clyde said softly, cutting off Bill's fumbling. "How soon are you gonna be here?"

Bill squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back the tears that were prickling behind his eyelids. "Um, like, tomorrow some time probably? Maybe kinda late, depending on what traffic looks like, y'know?"

"That's okay, I'll be here. Gimme a call before you get here if you can. I haven't moved; you still remember where I'm at, right?"

"Yeah, of course. Even if I was gone twenty years, I'd remember." He had to pause and clear his throat, the tightness that was starting to form threatening to squeeze it shut. "I'll, uh, I'll see you tomorrow then."

"Yeah. It'll be good to see you, Billy. I missed you. I'm glad you're comin' home."

His words were like a kick to the solar plexus and Bill had to catch his breath as a couple of tears escaped and rolled down his cheeks. "Yeah, same," was all he could manage to squeak out around the thickness in his throat before Clyde grunted a quiet goodbye and hung up. He kept the receiver against his ear for a moment, listening to the dial tone hum before returning it to its cradle with a loud click. He felt a little jittery still but somehow like a weight had been lifted, even if it was just a small one. Clyde was still there, waiting for him, just like always.

Bill stayed leaning against the phone a moment more, trying to catch his breath and organize his emotions. His feet felt like lead even as his head felt like a soft cloud, floating high above and away from everything else; it made the sounds of the diner seem muffled and very far away as he returned to the table. Marshall raised one eyebrow at him as he sat down, folding the menu he'd been perusing and setting it down to get a better look at his companion.

"You okay?" the horse asked. "I was startin' to worry about you, thinkin' maybe you fell in."

Bill cracked a little smile at Marshall's joke, the first real one he'd felt in a long time. "Yeah, I'm okay. I just stopped and made a phone call on the way back. Sorry for making you wait so long."

Marshall waved one big hand. "S'all right, you had business to take care of. Though I think I might need to go piss now after I had three sodas waiting for you to come back."

"Sorry," Bill said again, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

Marshall chuckled. "Boy, I swear, if you don't stop apologizing."

Before Bill could respond - most likely with another apology - their waitress came back around and asked if they were ready, her friendly smile having grown thin. Marshall raised a brow at him questioningly, and he nodded quickly, grabbing up the menu and ordering the first thing his eyes landed on. Lucky for him, it was the meatloaf and not the liver, and after the agonizing ordeal of having to choose sides, he handed the menu to the woman with a heavy sigh and rested his head in his hands, letting his eyes close. There was a dull ache starting to build behind one eye, but he knew from experience it would fade as soon as he got some actual food into his belly.

Marshall mumbled something to him, and when Bill looked up, the horse was gone, presumably to go empty his bladder. Anxiety prickled his skin faintly, and he folded his arms tightly across his chest as he looked around the restaurant. Everyone was absorbed in their food or conversation or both, an occasional deep belly laugh cutting through the din. He let himself feel just the smallest bit of relief. No one should notice his embarrassing bumbling.

No one except Marshall, that is. The last person he wanted to trip over his own feet in front of and simultaneously a big part of the reason for it, with his kind eyes and quiet smile that made heat blossom in Bill’s belly each time. It didn't help that the booth was small and dark, lending an almost intimate air to it, like a date, and it made the tense anxiety in his stomach tighten. It was stupid to feel like that, it absolutely was not a date, not even close. Marshall was just a guy helping him get home. A guy whose dick he'd sucked, sure, but just some guy nonetheless. It wasn't the first time he'd sucked just some guy's dick, and probably wouldn't be the last.

But as the horse returned, giving him that gentle smile that crinkled the corners of his warm brown eyes, Bill felt a deep pang of longing, of wanting it to be more than just something fleeting. He pushed it down and away; Marshall was just being nice to him, helping him get home because he was a kind soul and Bill had needed help, nothing more. He really, really had to stop falling for every guy that smiled at him and gave him a kind word. It did nothing but make him look stupid as it got him into trouble.

That pang didn't disappear entirely, though, staying lodged in his side like a splinter and digging at him more and more as Marshall tried without much success to engage him in small talk until their food arrived, when they began to eat in relative silence. Bill poked at his mashed potatoes without really seeing them, and it took even him by surprise when he finally broke the silence.

"It was my boyfriend," he blurted.

"'Scuse me?"

"My, my boyfriend," Bill repeated, unable to stop the sudden stream of words tumbling out of his mouth. "Well, I guess, at this point, my ex-boyfriend. But, yeah. That's where I got, well, y'know, these."

He gestured vaguely at his face, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Marshall put down his fork. His brain screamed at him to stop, that he was ruining dinner, ruining everything, like he always fucking did, but it was too late. The words were bubbling up from gods know where and he was powerless to stop them.

"We, we got in a fight. I don't remember over what, something stupid - "

"Are you fucking him?"

" - and things got kinda heated. You know how it is - "

"What? No, he's just some guy I talk to once in a while at the gym!"

"I've seen the way you look at him, practically drooling all over yourself. It's pathetic."

" - one minute your voices are just kinda raised, and the next you're screaming at each other - "

"I don't know what you're talking about! I was just being nice!"

"Oh please, it's never just 'being nice', not with you. You'd bend over for any man who smiled at you. Like a whore."

" - and before you know it something's getting broken." Bill barked out a short, sharp laugh. "In this case it was my nose."

Marshall's hand tightened around his fork and for a second Bill was afraid he was going to crumple it. When he chanced a glance at the horse's face, there was something hot and sharp glittering in his eyes that took him a moment to recognize: rage.

"He hit you." It wasn't framed as a question but a statement of fact, and the coldness of his voice made Bill's stomach drop out of him.

"No no no!" he said in a rush, plastering an appeasing smile on his face. "It was just - "

_“Slut! You're a lying fucking slut!” _

" - an accident - "

“I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I won’t go back to that gym, I promise!”

“You'd better not. If I catch you there again you'll be out on your ass, got it? And who’s gonna take your stupid ass in? Especially with that ugly ass haircut. Everyone knows you’re a slut, running around looking like that. Get rid of it.”

" - that's all. I somehow ran into the door - "

_“No.” _

“No?”

“I like it. I don't think I look like a slut.”

“Of course you’d say that. Well, you do. Do what I fucking told you to do or get out of my house. What, oh, you’re gonna cry now? Think you’re gonna manipulate me with tears? Fuck off, Bill. I'm not falling for that shit. You wanna cry? I'll give you a reason to fucking cry.”

" - you've seen how clumsy I am. Big and clumsy are a terrible mix."

Marshall was dead quiet, and Bill suddenly realized he was shaking like a leaf. The memories filling his head had also flooded him with adrenaline, and his face was weirdly damp. Bringing a hand up to his cheek, he wiped away a flood of tears and stared stupidly at the wetness on his fingers, as if he didn't understand where it had come from. Had he really been crying? Again? Over some stupid fight he'd overreacted to? Fucking embarrassing.

He made a move to slide out of the booth, hoping to excuse himself again, but a strong, callused hand closed over his and stopped him in his tracks. Marshall didn't say anything, just picked up a napkin and dabbed at Bill's cheeks tenderly, gently wiping away the tears and snot making a mess of his face. The pity made him feel like throwing up, but something crumbled inside him and he leaned into the touch instead of fighting or pulling away, letting his eyes close as the horse cleaned him up.

"There, now, hon, it's all right," Marshall murmured to him. "You're all right. I shoulda known it was something like that, I'm sorry for pryin'."

Bill shook his head a little. "It's not - it's okay. I'm, I'm sorry for being like this."

"Shush. What did I tell you about apologizin' for everything? You're okay, Bill." He squeezed Bill's hand. "Finish your supper for me, would ya? You haven't ate much today, and a real meal will help you feel better."

Numbly, Bill nodded and picked his fork up with a final hard sniffle. His half-eaten meatloaf looked like the most unappetizing thing on the planet, but he forced himself to take a bite. It had grown cold, which didn't help make it any less unappealing, but he slowly chewed it and forced it down. Marshall gave him an encouraging smile, and he took another bite. This one felt less disgusting, and it paved the way for another. Once Marshall was satisfied that Bill was going to actually eat and not just pick at his food like the world's most nauseous bird, he turned back to his own half-forgotten dinner.

They finished eating in silence, Bill feeling utterly drained and afraid of crying again. But through some miracle he kept it together and made it back to the truck without another breakdown, which was easier said than done when he felt Marshall's hand on his back as they made their way through the gravel lot. The touch was kind and comforting and made him feel guilty about dumping all his issues on the guy over dinner. He felt even worse when Marshall opened the driver's door and gestured for him to enter.

"No, no, I can't take the bed again," Bill protested, shaking his head. "I've been hogging it, and you've already done so much for me."

Marshall gently rested his hands on Bill's shoulders, looking him in the eyes even as Bill avoided his gaze. "Listen, it's all right. It's one more night, I think my back can handle with it. Besides, I'll get to rest in my own bed for a couple weeks starting tomorrow, so it ain't all bad."

Words stuck in Bill's throat, and he had to swallow to clear them away before croaking, "Why have you been so nice to me?"

He was met with a soft smile as Marshall squeezed his shoulders gently. "Because you needed help, and my momma always said that if you can lend a hand, do it. A little kindness goes a long way, and honey, do you need some fucking kindness in your life."

Bill barked a dry, humorless laugh. "Yeah, guess so. Thank you, Marshall. I appreciate it more than you know."

The horse chuckled and pulled him in for a hug. Bill stiffened just for a second, then melted into it with a deep sigh, wrapping his arms around Marshall's broad chest. The hug was warm and comforting, and Bill felt oddly safe in Marshall's strong arms. He could stay like this forever, but he didn't want to overstay his welcome and carefully extricated himself from Marshall's grasp after just a second or two.

"We should catch some Z's, huh? Early day tomorrow," Bill said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Marshall didn't move, save to fold his arms across his chest. "Mmhmm."

His dark eyes flicked from Bill to the truck and back, and the man threw his hands up in frustration.

"Okay, okay, fine! I'll take the fucking bed!" Bill grumbled, climbing up into the cab.

He carefully ditched his boots and shrugged his jacket off before climbing back into the bunk. He leaned out between the seats and glared at Marshall as he clambered in as well with a strained huff and puff, groaning quietly as he settled into the driver's seat. The horse laid the back down as far as it could go, folded his hands over his chest, and closed his eyes. Bill didn't move, and after a moment, Marshall spoke up, not bothering to open his eyes.

"You can glare at me all you like, boy, but I'm stayin' right here. I suggest you lay down and get some shuteye."

Bill huffed quietly and yanked the curtain closed, then proceeded to flop down against the mattress. He stared up at the ceiling, unable to see anything in the dark, his mind still churning. At least tomorrow he'd get to see Clyde and would be out of Marshall's hair for good. That realization hit him like a kick to the chest, momentarily knocking the breath out of him. It was stupid, but he hated the idea of never seeing Marshall again; he'd grown fond of the horse's company, even if Bill himself was actually the most annoying man on the planet. Fuck. Tears stung his eyes yet again, but he managed to blink them away before they could form as he rolled onto his side, his back to the cab.

Silence poured over the truck, weighing heavily down on Bill, crushing him beneath its weight. The cacophony of the diner had been awful, but this was almost worse, leaving him alone with nothing but his thoughts. They buzzed and hummed relentlessly, flicking rapidly between worries about tomorrow, memories of his fight with Wes, and berating himself for the way he acted earlier. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, doing his best to will his brain to calm down and shut the hell up, but it didn't want to let him rest, shoving his failures in his face over and over again in a rapidly worsening spiral. The worst was the shame and embarrassment from earlier, of making Marshall wait ages for him to return from the bathroom only to dump all his drama on him over dinner. The guilt gnawed at him like a starving dog with a bone, chewing on his insides of his ribs and scratching on the inside of his skull until he couldn't take it anymore.

With a heavy sigh, Bill pinched the bridge of his nose as his eyes scrunched tight. "Hey, Marshall?"

The horse grunted softly, sounding sleepy. "Yeah?"

Bill didn't answer for a moment, steeling his nerves for what he wanted to say. Marshall started to snore quietly again in the meantime. God he was gonna be so pissed at having his sleep interrupted so many times, but Bill had no other choice; if he wanted to sleep, he'd have to make his brain shut off, and this seemed to be the easiest way to do that.

"I'm, I'm sorry. For earlier. I didn't mean to ruin dinner."

Marshall was quiet a moment, and Bill assumed he'd been too asleep to hear him, but then he spoke up, still drowsy. "You didn't ruin anythin', Bill. Why would you think that?"

Why wouldn't he think that? Wrapping his arms around his churning stomach, Bill curled up in the little bunk. "Because, because I'm a fucking mess. I'm sure people were staring at the guy having a freakout in the middle of the restaurant."

"So? Let 'em. It's my fault for bein' nosy about something that I shoulda known was sensitive."

Bill huffed out a harsh laugh, his throat feeling tight. "You're not nosy, just curious. Only natural to wonder what the fuck is up with the freak with a busted nose that you picked up off the side of the road in the middle of the night.”

"Curiosity’s what nosy people call it to make themselves feel better about it," Marshall chuckled. "And having a pair of shiners from a busted nose doesn't make you a freak."

"No, but, the everything else…" Bill sighed, tightening his grasp on himself as his eyes burned and his throat threatened to close up. "There I go again, fucking everything up, because I can't ever shut the fuck up."

He'd said the last mostly to himself, but hearing Marshall shift uncomfortably in his seat sent panic shooting through him. His nails found the back of his neck again, digging in harshly as the burn in his eyes intensified and a tear escaped his tight eyelids.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm shutting up now, you need to sleep."

The curtain opened with a soft clatter, faint light pouring into the bunk as the panic puddling in his belly swelled into a flood. Oh, fuck, this was it. He'd fucking done it, Marshall was finally kicking him out for being annoying, and so close to home, too. All he had to fucking do was keep it together for one more night, just one more fucking night! His breath hitched and his nails dug deeper into his neck, unable to move despite the way he mentally screamed at himself to stop.

But the words he dreaded to hear never came. Instead, the thin mattress buckled behind him and before he knew it, a big, warm body was pressed up against him, one strong arm wrapping around his chest. He froze in place, his skin prickling faintly, stomach clenching anxiously as he held his breath and waited; for what, he wasn't sure. Maybe to wake up back home and realize he'd blacked out against the door for a while and the past few days had been nothing but a dream, maybe for a hard blow to the temple that he deserved for being such a pain in the ass.

But it was Marshall pressed up against his back, warm and soft and real, not the hard wood of a door, or even the soft comfort of a mattress, and his arm never moved from around his chest. Slowly, slowly, Bill unlatched his nails from the back of his neck and began to breathe again, though every breath he took filled his lungs suddenly and hotly, that all-too-familiar burn stinging his nostrils and his tightening throat. Marshall pressed the top of his muzzle to the back of Bill's head and his arm tightened around him slightly, his warm breath washing over the back of his neck softly. It made him shiver slightly, a confusing mix of emotions tumbling over one another as his chest heaved, on the edge of sobbing but somehow keeping himself under control. It was comforting, being held like that - so firm yet so gentle - but also embarrassing and guilt-inducing; he shouldn't be enjoying this, shouldn't be acting like this, losing his shit and teetering on the verge of fucking tears yet again, imposing on Marshall's - a stranger's - kindness and getting him to pity him. He didn't deserve it.

"Hey, now, you're okay," the horse mumbled in his ear. "I gotcha."

Marshall's words would have tipped him over the edge and into a blubbering mess had they not been accompanied by the soft brush of lips against the back of his neck. Bill stiffened slightly, electricity suddenly crackling through him, and he felt Marshall start to pull away.

"Shit, sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean - I dunno what I was thinking, I just —"

Bill cut him off by reaching back to grip his mane and pull the horse back towards him, his other hand landing on the arm still wrapped around his chest to keep it in place.

"No, no, it's okay," Bill murmured, trying not to sound pathetic and failing as he arced back into the horse. "Please."

For a moment, everything seemed to stand still, and Bill was certain that this was the end for sure, that he'd somehow totally misread everything and he was about to be tossed out into the truck stop parking lot to fend for himself, then a low huff snorted out of Marshall's nostrils and he pressed his face back against Bill's neck, his hips rocking forward slightly. Arousal flared suddenly and hotly in Bill's belly as velvet-soft lips hesitantly kissed his neck and he let his eyes close, rocking his ass back against Marshall's growing erection. Okay, now things made sense. Sex was easy; he didn't have to think or feel or speak, he just had to react to the stirring in his groin and make his partner feel good. The dark, complicated tangle of dread and self-hatred that had been settling in his stomach washed away in a flood of bright, simple lust.

Marshall's hand slid up under his shirt, drawing a little moan out of him as his thick, blunt nails scraped gently at his stomach and raked through the thick hair on his chest as he kissed his neck more confidently, more eagerly. Bill couldn't help but squirm a little, the hand still wound in Marshall's mane tugging gently to urge him on as he ground back against the horse desperately. Marshall snorted softly in response, his hot breath now on Bill's ear, and dropped his hand down to grope Bill's crotch as he thrust against him harder. The way Bill's cock throbbed eagerly, almost desperately at his touch made him feel a little stupid, like a teenager in his first make-out session, but the embarrassment washed away quickly when Marshall squeezed down on him. He clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a moan, the sound coming out thin and whiny, and a brief flash of fear shot through him, his body tensing for a reprimand that never came. Instead, Marshall grunted quietly and released Bill's crotch, the quiet jingle of his belt buckle following soon after.

A fresh wave of arousal hit Ball so hard it made his head spin, and his hands flew to the waist of his own jeans, shoving his bottoms down as far as he could, as fast as he could, his head swimming and the only thought in it being how desperately he wanted Marshall. A brief thought flickered through his head about how he wasn’t clean and there was no lube, but when the horse grabbed his ass as his cock slid between his cheeks it knocked any thoughts he had left clear out of his skull. The broad head of his cock ground teasingly against his hole, then slid back and up as the length of his shaft ground against the crack of his ass.

Marshall pressed his forehead against the back of Bill’s neck as his big hand came back to grip his hip instead, holding him steady as he thrust against him. Bill clung onto his mane and rocked back against him eagerly, his eyes fluttering shut with a quiet moan. He gave the horse’s mane a little tug, then released it and flexed his cramping fingers a little before grabbing his own forgotten cock and stroking it in rhythm with Marshall’s hips. Part of him still ached for the huge cock grinding between his cheeks to be inside him but this? This was beyond good, and Bill realized with a small twinge of embarrassment that their little escapades of the past two nights were the most turned on he’d been in ages, and more enjoyable than anything he’d had in recent memory.

Fingers touched the back of his thigh, then the inside of it, and he lifted it without a second thought, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. Marshall readjusted himself, sliding his cock between Bill’s thighs instead, grinding against his taint pleasantly and nudging the back of his sac before getting settled. A hand pressed gently on the outside of his thigh, and he obediently closed it.

“Good boy,” Marshall grunted, quiet and husky. “Grip me tight.”

Crossing his feet, Bill squeezed his strong thighs together tightly, making Marshall grunt softly again. He was rewarded with another “good boy” as the horse started to thrust again, making his cock throb in his furiously stroking hand and his head spin. Marshall didn't fail to notice the ferocity with which Bill was jerking himself and he gently pulled Bill’s hand away to replace it with his own, stroking him with the same easy pace he was thrusting. Another pathetic little moan wanted to escape at his touch and Bill clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle it yet again. It was all so much: the soft breath and lips on his neck; the hot, hard cock between his thighs, grinding against the bottom of his balls; the big, slightly callused hand stroking him in time with Marshall’s thrusts. If Marshall hadn’t taken the reins, Bill probably would have burst already. He could still feel it building, but it was down to a low simmer rather than the raging boil it had been rapidly building to.

Teeth nipped gently at his neck and his breath stuttered, coming in as a gasp when he pulled his hand away from his mouth to grip Marshall’s arm tightly. He could feel the strong muscles flexing under his palm, and he dug his fingers into them when Marshall’s thumb grazed over the head of his cock. Marshall snorted softly and did it again, knocking against the heavy ring looped through Bill’s cock and making him whimper and squirm. He teased him a little with featherlight touches on the sensitive glans, until Bill gasped out a soft, desperate “please”, to which Marshall responded with a harsh snort and a hard thrust forward.

He gave Bill a few hard strokes, then his hand fell away and his arm wrapped around his waist as he started to thrust harder between his thighs. Bill let out a low groan that matched the grumble rumbling in Marshall’s throat and his hand dropped down to take over stroking his own cock, much less frantic than before. Marshall held him tight to his chest as he fucked between his thighs, his forehead pressed to Bill’s back. Small huffs and snorts filled the little bunk as Marshall rutted against him mindlessly.

Bill had lost himself to it all as well, riding high on the heady haze that was filling his skull, leaving room for no thoughts, until teeth found his shoulder, just above his collar and right below where it connected with his neck. He cried out sharply, then moaned, his hips rocking back against Marshall. The initially gentle nip grew much harder as the horse’s broad, blunt teeth sank deep into his flesh with a harsh snort. It hurt like hell, but that just made the embers smoldering in Bill’s belly flare up hotly into flames. His head fell back against Marshall’s shoulder with a soft cry, his hand working himself faster as Marshall fucked between his thighs harder, more desperately.

The big horse hit an erratic fever pitch, then stiffened with a series of loud, heavy snorts as rope after heavy rope of cum blasted from between Bill’s legs, splattering against his balls, his thighs, the mattress in front of him. Bill squeezed his eyes shut and chased after his own release as Marshall relaxed against his back, the hold on his shoulder loosening. Marshall gave the spot he’d clamped down on a soft kiss as his hand ran lustily over Bill’s stomach and chest, his hip and thigh, and down along his tense arm. He pulled Bill’s hand away from his dick and replaced it with his own, jerking him with the same intensity as Bill had been doing to himself.

“There's a good boy,” he whispered in Bill’s ear, making him whimper. “Atta boy, go on, cum for me.”

Bill’s hand fisted in the flimsy sheet covering the mattress and he rocked desperately into Marshall’s hand, choking down the little whimpers and whines that wanted to come tumbling out of his throat. He was close, so fucking close, he wanted to be good and cum for Marshall, just like he’d told him, and then he did, shivering and shaking in Marshall’s grasp. He bit back the shout that threatened to escape, somehow swallowing it down as white spots dotted his vision behind his tightly squeezed lids. Marshall hummed in approval, squeezing and stroking Bill’s spasming cock til it was spent, then gently patted his hip as he nuzzled the back of his neck. Bill wheezed softly, his heart thudding loudly in his ears as he caught his breath, his whole body full of static.

From a million miles away still, he felt a gentle hand wipe him down: Marshall was cleaning him up as much as possible with his handkerchief. He felt him roll away, presumably to toss his filthy hanky, and then felt a twinge of rejection when he didn’t return. He should have known better - they weren't anything but strangers giving each other a helping hand - but he couldn’t help the pang of loneliness that settled in as he was left alone in the bunk. With a sigh, he pulled his jeans back up to his waist and glanced over his shoulder, watching Marshall settle back into the driver’s seat. He wanted to say something, but he didn't know what, and any words he might have had would have stuck in his throat anyhow, so he swallowed his feelings and rolled back to face the wall, drowsiness weighing his eyelids down.

He woke the next morning as Marshall started the truck, the rolling rumbles jostling him awake. He poked his head into the cab and mumbled a sleepy “good morning”, to which Marshall only replied with a quiet, detached grunt. Bill glanced out the windshield at a sky that was just starting to lighten into a soft pink.

“Early start,” he said, shifting into the passenger’s seat with a yawn.

“Yeah,” Marshall grunted in response, pointedly avoiding Bill’s gaze as he put the truck in gear. “Not far from home, might as well get there.”

The truck was rumbling forward before Bill was fully settled, making him scramble to get buckled in before the tires hit the pavement. Marshall had his hands tightly on the wheel and his eyes on the road, his jaw set stiffly. The air between them was chilly and tense, Marshall’s usual bright, chipper nature turned hard and stiff. Even the chatter of the CB was missing, leaving the two of them to roll on in an awkward silence that was making Bill more and more uncomfortable by the second. He did his best not to squirm in his seat, and after about an hour of the unbearable quiet, he finally broke it.

“Did I, did I do something wrong?” Bill asked hesitantly, his eyes straying towards Marshall once or twice.

The horse sighed a little, his own gaze never leaving the road. “No, you didn’t do anythin’ wrong, Bill.” His big hands tightened on the wheel, tendons straining under the short fur. “I did. I… I shouldn’t’a done that last night.” A heavy sigh. “Or the night before.”

“What? No, it’s fine, I - ”

“I took advantage of you, and I shouldn’t of. It weren’t right,” Marshall went on, cutting him off and steamrolling whatever else he had to say into dust. “I'm sorry.”

Bill’s mouth flopped open and closed like a fish a few times as he searched for the right thing - anything - to say, but before he could find it, Marshall leaned over and clicked the radio on, twiddling the dial til he found a station. Contrary to the evidence still purpling his face, Bill could take a hint, and so he sighed and turned his attention out the window to watch the landscape roll by, his vision only a little blurry. Marshall didn’t speak, and so neither did Bill, the two riding in relative silence for the better part of another hour before the radio turned to static. Marshall fiddled with the dial yet again, searching for something that wasn’t nonstop chatter or spiritual, and hesitated on a channel that transitioned from a commercial to a bombastic bumper, complete with a string of zany cartoon sound effects, followed by a DJ with a grating voice introducing himself as Elastic Ass.

Bill couldn’t help but make a face. “Oh, I fucking hate this guy.”

“You want me to keep going?”

The yes was on his lips, but a strange, content feeling welled up inside him. Elastic Ass was annoying, absolutely, and always had been, but hearing his voice once again meant they were close enough to Fairharbor to pick up the channel, which meant he was almost home. A little smile touched Bill’s lips.

“Nah, that’s okay. Leave it.”

Marshall grunted in affirmation and returned his hand to the wheel, leaving them with the strangely comforting sounds of Fairharbor’s rudest radio DJ harassing people in between the lamest butt rock hits of the last decade. As irritating as it was to listen to, it felt like home, and it lifted some of the heaviness that had been weighing him down, leaving him feeling lighter, almost excited despite the previous tension in the truck. That lightness buoyed him up throughout the rest of the ride, through Marshall dropping off his load and parking his truck in a massive gravel lot, though he started to get dragged back down as he guided him and his beat up old pickup towards his cousin’s house. The uncertainty of what awaited him was like a stone chained around his neck, and the knowledge that he'd never see Marshall again left a nasty taste in his mouth. He wanted to say something, anything, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth any time he tried to speak something that wasn't driving instructions.

It wasn't a far drive. It turned out that Clyde lived only twenty minutes from the lot where Marshall’s truck lived. Bill’s heart stuttered in his chest as they pulled up out front and stopped. Marshall leaned forward to look out Bill’s window and get a better look at the place, resting a big forearm on the steering wheel.

“You sure this is the place?”

Bill nodded numbly, unable to tear his eyes from the little house. It looked almost exactly the same as had five years ago when he left it; the red paint on the trim around the windows and doors had faded a bit, and the grass was a little overgrown, sprouting up high around the walls of the house and the mailbox, but the old truck sitting in the driveway hadn’t changed one bit, and the Judas Priest blasting from the open garage door was exactly what he expected to hear. He felt like he was in a dream, and he was afraid any second now he’d wake up and be back with Wes, hundreds of miles from here. But the door handle under his fingers was real and solid, and the heat and humidity of the summer afternoon was sticky on his skin and made him sweat under his leather jacket. Pulling the handle to open the door, he paused, anxiety twisting inside him, then turned and threw his arms around Marshall’s neck before he could think better of it.

“Thank you,” he mumbled quietly, fighting the sting of tears.

Marshall was stiff for a moment, and Bill had just enough time to worry he’d made a mistake, but then the horse’s thick arms wrapped around him and held him tight. “You’re welcome. I hope…” He trailed off with a sigh and gave Bill a firm pat on the back before gently pulling away. His soft brown eyes searched Bill’s face for a moment, one hand still resting on his shoulder. “I'm glad you're back somewhere that's home. And I'm glad I had you to keep me company the past couple of days. It was nice. Nicer than most of my trips end up.”

Bill couldn't help but blush a little. “I'm glad I could help. It was, nice, having someone to talk to.”

A small smile crossed Marshall’s muzzle, and Bill stamped down the urge to lean in and kiss him. This was it, the end of the road for them, where they parted ways and went on with the rest of their lives. Bill felt the corner of his mouth tug up in a sad smile, but he hid the sadness by giving Marshall a playful smack on the shoulder.

“See ya, Marshall,” he said in a way that was hopefully light before sliding out of the truck.

Bill didn’t make it more than a few steps before Marshall stopped him with a call.

“Wait! Bill, wait.”

He turned to find the horse stepping out of the truck and making his way around the front, fumbling for something in his pocket. Bill watched him curiously, his confusion only growing as Marshall pulled out his wallet and rifled through a small stack of business cards. Finding the one he’d been looking for, he held it out towards Bill.

“Here. In case you need somethin’. Call me any time, day or night. I'm happy to help if I'm in town.”

Stomach somersaulting, Bill just stared at Marshall’s extended hand in disbelief for a moment, then numbly reached out and took the card. It was simple and a little worn around the edges, with Marshall’s name stamped on it in the middle and a phone number printed below, all in neat navy letters on a plain matte white background. It felt like a perfect fit for the horse it represented.

“I will,” Bill replied quietly, brushing a thumb across the face of the card. “Thank you, again, for everything.”

“Of course.” Marshall looked like he wanted to say more, but he glanced up toward the house and gave Bill a melancholic, lopsided little smile as he gently smacked the side of his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, boy.”

Bill’s grip on the card hardened as he watched Marshall turn and head back to the truck. His throat tightened and he turned away himself before he could feel any worse, his head dropping down as he started toward the house. He only looked up when he heard the truck behind him take off and found himself coming to a stop yet again in surprise. A man had appeared in the open garage door, arms crossed over his broad barrel chest and a scowl on his face as he glared at Marshall’s truck as it pulled away. He should have expected to see him, yet it was still a surprise somehow. Maybe it was because it was a little like looking into a mirror. Bill and Clyde looked shockingly similar: same dark hair (though Clyde wore his short and mostly neat), same grey eyes, similar heights and builds and faces, to the point that when they were younger most people assumed they were twins despite the age gap of several years between them. Those few extra years were starting to show on Clyde – he was a little heavier than the last time Bill saw him, and the scowl lines forming between his brows were deeper, and there seemed to be silvers now threading the hair at his temples and peppering the stubble on his jaw – but just like the house, he looked almost exactly how Bill remembered him. For a long moment neither of them moved or spoke, Clyde still staring the way Marshall had gone.

“Who’s that?” Clyde asked eventually, his voice that familiar, raspy grunt that Bill suddenly realized he had missed so fucking much.

“Trucker. He let me hitch a ride home with him. Nice guy, I swear.”

Clyde glared at the empty street for a moment more, then grunted, finally turning his gaze to Bill. “You didn’t call.”

It wasn’t a question or an accusation, just a simple statement of fact. Bill felt his face heat up as he realized his mistake and he wanted to kick himself for it. Yet another fucking mistake in the long line of fuck-ups from Bill Thurman. The currents of a whirlpool were tugging at him, threatening to drag him down into a spiral of self-loathing and despair.

“Fuck, I'm sorry, I just, I forgot,” he stammered, feeling those eddies pull at him harder.

The hard scowl on Clyde’s face softened and he waved a hand, his whole stance loosening up. “That's all right, shit happens. You’re here, and that’s what matters most.”

He gave Bill a small smile, and every ounce of resolve Bill still had crumbled to dust. Charging up the rest of the driveway, Bill flung himself at Clyde, nearly taking him off his feet from the force of the bearhug he wrapped him up in. Clyde let out a little “oof” from the force of the impact, but he managed to keep his footing and gripped Bill back just as hard, nearly crushing the air out of his lungs. It was good, great even, just what Bill’d been missing without realizing til just this moment. Burying his face in his cousin’s chest, he stifled a little sob.

Clyde felt Bill’s chest hitch and held him tighter, one hand going to the back of his head. “Hey, hey, it’s all right, I gotcha. You’re home, Billy, you’re home.”