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Stuck on the motorway.
Their trip had been off to a promising start, but road work had soon caused a bumper-to-bumper bottleneck of traffic and now they were crawling along at 10 miles per hour.
The sun doesn't help matters either, throwing itself through their windows and neutralising the air con; has the surface of Clive's skin boiling in the denim of his shorts. Just one more small annoyance to add to his overall foul mood. They move just slowly enough to progress maybe the length of the vehicle in front of them, and then Graeme steps on the brake; it's start, stop, start, stop, and every little jolt has Clive's stomach in a fluttering, tangled mess. With a sigh, he drums his fingertips against the window sill and figuratively bites his tongue.
Graeme's eyes flick over to his mate in the Chewie seat of their hired Focus. "Clive?"
"Mm?"
"You alright? You're awfully quiet."
Clive grumbles when Graeme taps the brake a little harder than usual and they jerk against their seat belts as the cars around them roll to sudden stops, too. "No I'm not," he chirps. "I'm– I'm fine."
Graeme smiles unsurely before facing forward once more, fingers tapping against the wheel to Maroon 5 on the radio. He always gets a bit fidgety when he's anxious, whereas Clive tends to freeze under pressure. Or pass out completely.
He feels a bit like passing out now, growing increasingly sick with himself, sweat gathering along his browline; long hair making his scalp damp and itchy. He sighs through his nose - a long exhalation that's unwittingly too loud despite the music and has Graeme looking at him again.
"I gotta wee," he mumbles.
"Eh?"
"I have t–" he tries, voice raising as he swallows down his pride, "I need to have a wee."
"Man," Graeme scolds, his back arching against his seat, eyes to the roof. "I told you not to finish that mochaccino before we– Why didn't you go in the car hire? You know you've got a child's bladder."
“Hm." He stares out the window, unwilling to face Graeme's scrutiny. He's already beaten himself up over it enough - for the past 78 minutes since they'd rolled out of Charlotte, North Carolina and onto the I-40. "I didn't have to go, then."
“Okay, well. I thought I saw a sign up ahead, should say how far the next service station is."
"It's over there," Clive thumbs at the sign on the side of the road, beyond two long rows of idling cars to their right, declaring the next stop 14 miles from where they're sat.
"Shit. Have you got to go badly?"
Clive shrugs, nonchalant, but the pressure he's under is insane. "S'alright, I can hold it," he lies. "Just quit it with the abrupt stops."
He says it just as Graeme's made a perfectly-timed jarring stop.
"Sorry."
Closing his eyes is nice. It dulls the sun to a rusty red behind his eyelids and helps him to think about his options; they don't have any bottles or jugs to piss in, and they're in the farthest lane from the side of the road, surrounded by frustrated drivers, back seats full of impatient children excited for their summer holiday.
… In the same way he's been so excited about this trip - his and Graeme's third road trip since Paul entered their world and just as quickly fled it. It's become tradition, the lustre of America hasn't worn off yet. He opens his eyes to glance over at his best mate, his creative partner; begins to open his mouth, when there's another urgent twinge in his bladder and Clive has to bite his lower lip as a distraction.
Woefully, his wandering eyes meet those of a boy the next car over, sipping from his Dunkin' Donuts cup without breaking eye contact. He just looks on, emotionlessly. Taunting him with sweet, syrupy Coca Cola through a bright orange straw.
Clive can't help but groan, curling his body forward to rest his forehead on the dashboard–
It doesn't help.
"Fuck," he growls, springing back in his seat instantly, his gut having put more pressure on his bladder than he could handle. He has to slam a hand between his legs to keep from breaking, shuddering against the seat until the feeling lessens.
"Nn– Clive, you'll ruin the upholstery–!"
"I think it’s hydrophobic."
"What– yeah?"
"Ugh. What if… What if I get out of the car and run across the road to the bushes?" And Graeme's looking at him like he has three heads. "All the cars are stopped."
"Clive. No…"
The tension hangs thick in the air between them; a sense of helplessness that crushes Clive's chest, strangles him 'til he's bright red in the face with guilt and humiliation. A moment passes, about as slowly and silently as the nudge of their car, and all Clive can see is that red behind his closed eyes. He can't bear looking at anything else.
"Um," Graeme says then, a single finger bouncing on the wheel. He drives a few metres, careful to ease to a flawless stop. "What if you got– ah, you know…"
"What?"
"This is going to sound crazy…"
"You thought getting out of the car was crazy."
"This is worse…" Graeme chews on the words for a second. "What if you got a hard-on? I don't think I've ever had to pee with one. Um. Maybe it'll buy you some time."
Clive's eyes bug open.
No. No-no-no-no-no, not now. Not like this. He can feel a trickle of sweat running down his temple, the growing dampness soaked into the t-shirt under his arms. He makes to adjust the air con, but it's no use when he's already covered in flop sweat and his heart is racing to the concept of Graeme asking him to get hard.
Madness.
Impossible.
"Nn– naw." He always was the sensical one, wasn't he.
Truthfully though, the suggestion makes his cock stir - what he wouldn't give, under better circumstances, to have Graeme proposition him, to watch him or even maybe touch, to coach him to orgasm–
"I don't think I could get a hard-on like this anyway," he says with a whine, canting his hips upwards in discomfort, squeezing his thighs together more tightly around his wrist. He writhes in his seat. "All these people around…"
Graeme sighs like the weight of the world is suddenly on his shoulders, his voice tight when he says, "Then I don't know what to do… It's no big deal, okay? I've seen it all before, just… close your eyes. Think of Leia. Barbarella. O-or Xena, Warrior Princess."
"Ngh–"
"Jenny Starpepper in Escape from the Galaxy Vagar when she's taken by the Aclaxians and forced to mate with their leader."
But fuck, there's no way he can concentrate on any of them now; not with Graeme right next to him, trying to get him hard. It's stupid to think anything of it, to try to read into it something that isn't there. He's just trying to help, faced with an unfortunate situation. He's just trying to save the integrity of their hired car.
With one nervous glance at Graeme he gives into insanity, and removes the hand he's got wedged between his legs in favour of splaying it over his crotch. He taps the pad of a finger over the fly. Could this even work? It'd be better to hold it– squeezing the tip helps a bit, so he tries that, stalling, sucking in a breath that makes him shiver.
His palm is so inviting like this– Christ.
"And I mean, don't even think about the people out there," Graeme offers. "I don't think anyone can even see in, really. It's just… us… and Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbusters. You know, when she's possessed and horny for the–"
"Stop," Clive whimpers. His cock throbs in his hold, challenging him by tenting his shorts regardless of what little he's done to provoke it. He can't help but squirm. "Stop."
Then Clive lets his eyelids droop, lets his lips part and a shaky hiss of frustrated air escape past his teeth. It seems as though the outcome of all this was only ever going to be the drag of his zip, springing his shrouded cock free of denim and that much closer to North Carolinian sun. It excites him, regretfully. He's already oversensitive, flesh prickling and damp with sweat. Every muscle in his legs trembles, taut, and that tightness lends to the pressure he feels inside. Painful, but in the best way, simultaneously stinging and tickling.
It's little solace that he's not completely exposed - it's still obscene, the way it bobs and strains in his underpants, the tip of it already slick with a dab of precome and piss he couldn't hold.
And it's because of Graeme.
He can't deny it now, that he wants his best mate in ways he's never dared to acknowledge, ways he still doesn't understand or particularly like. Presently, he knows he'd love for Graeme to touch him; to talk him into a frenzy and make him come. To take him onto his tongue and into the back of his throat and swallow everything he's got.
He sniffles, pawing his erection in a more determined manner; slowly, because they need this to last thirteen more bloody miles. But when he looks at Graeme, the man looks horrified; hands gripping the wheel so tight the leather squeaks. A car behind them honks, and Graeme visibly jumps, turning his attention to the road and start-stopping in a way that makes Clive groan,
"Ohhhh, god–"
And he's certain that Graeme would've preferred him not to have caught the blush that spreads like watercolour over his cheeks, colouring the tips of his ears beneath his mop of ginger hair.
Graeme's eyes snap down to Clive's clothed hard-on, for the briefest of seconds.
"Sorry–! I shouldn't be seeing this."
"No, you shouldn't!" Clive snips. “It was your stupid suggestion."
He breathes heavily, fighting against the urgency he's feeling with tapered strokes of pleasure. The pathetic thing is that this overwhelming desperation is starting to feel good; the absurdity, this tingling irritation, is beginning to be just as much a turn-on for him as Zuul is. "Eugh, can we just– Please pull over?"
"Not unless you can think of a way for us to teleport across two lanes of traffic!"
But despite the argument, the right-hand signal is instantly on; Clive can hear it click like a metronome over the radio and Graeme's hollow voice. He knows Graeme is trying to help. He runs it over and over in his mind. He's helping.
Traffic breaks long enough for Graeme to steer them into the middle lane - just one lane shy from the edge of the road, where they could pull over, were most of that not a construction zone. But at least they're that much closer to the next station exit.
"Remember, you just have to keep it up. You don't have to, ah–" Graeme clears his throat in lieu of finishing the sentence.
In fact, Clive does know that, sneering at the unnecessary reminder. Not that it does a lot of good when he's so sensitive that even the heel of his palm over his pants feels like bliss. He's parched; swallows, but his throat is so dry, and thinking about quenching his thirst feels irresponsible. It's a miracle that he's so deliriously horny that it barely feels like he's going to burst all over the front seat anymore.
Without thinking, he slips his hand into his open fly front and under the elastic waist of his pants; dry knuckles brushing soft, damp cotton– Fingers hot and electric ghosting over the aching head of his cock to a nearly-inaudible hitch of Graeme's breath.
There are cars on either side of them now. The fear of being seen is hot as hell, which frightens him; it's well and good to be a bit indecent in fantasy and fiction, but he's never fancied himself an exhibitionist.
One quick glance at Graeme and he's torn back to reality: hunched over the wheel, with that anxious finger still tapping erratically up and down - faster even than the turn signal that reassures him they're still trying to move right, if there were space to move at all. He catches Graeme looking, not even turning his head, just the dart of his irises and a wiggle in his seat.
"ghuy'cha'," Clive curses, whispered in Klingon; his frazzled brain whirring and whinging and blaming himself for corrupting his poor friend who's only ever been there for him. Platonically, of course.
He pinches the volume dial and turns the radio up louder to cover his whimpers and haggard breaths in the hope that maybe, if Graeme can't hear him, he'll snap out of this. Maybe they both will. But the moment his hand leaves the dash, Graeme is turning it back down.
"Just in case I need to hear something outside."
"Graeme–"
"Is it helping? Do you still have to go?"
His thumb swirls over his sticky bellend, electricity firing through his system. "M'fine for now."
Except, it isn't a proper, well-prepared hand job. The lull of it's lasted longer than usual, the phantom pain of a full bladder has morphed into something akin to blue balls; the guilt he's feeling is beginning to depress him more than arouse him and makes his stomach rumble. As his cock threatens to soften, he clenches every muscle down to his curled toes to keep the urge to piss at bay.
He draws in a hiss through his teeth, and–
Graeme's right hand flies to his thigh. "You're doing good," he says.
"This is insane."
Graeme nods, staring wide-eyed at the bumper of the car in front of them, but his hand stays glued to Clive's shorts. Tightening his grip, even, if Clive isn't imagining it. He wants to believe he's not, running his thumb up and down his shaft, pinching its girth between his thumb and forefinger to tease himself stiffer; he wants to believe he hasn't imagined the appreciative murmur that Graeme makes just then.
No, no– Clive screws his eyes closed tight and groans. If he comes now this whole stupid thing will have been for nothing.
Does Graeme have any idea how much he's fucking this up?
A moment later and Clive finds that they've successfully made it to the right lane. Likewise, he can feel the weight of Graeme's hand slipping inwards; doesn't dare open his eyes to confirm that it's Graeme's pinky brushing against his knuckles on the other side of his pants.
And then the number of his mate's fingertips multiplies very slightly, tracing slowly downward. His touch is awkward and unsure, but it has Clive stifling a moan; shielding his face with a big sweaty palm slapped over it as he absently rocks against the back of Graeme's hand. When the end of the bottleneck is finally in sight, they stay connected hand-to-crotch; and when they're finally moving a cautiously-improved 25mph, Graeme's movements pick up pace, too.
Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam.
He wants Graeme's hands all over him, wants him inside. How would he even handle it when he's already past the point of no return, warm and throbbing from little more than a caress?
"S-stop, I'm–" he sobs, spasming against the seat, and Graeme's fingers stall a hair's width above Clive's cock. "Eggy–"
"Oh…" And Graeme's voice is so small and dry, "Shit."
It betrays him.
Maybe Graeme isn't the one who's been corrupted after all.
Clive lurches forward, palm against the window frame; pushing him down into his seat as orgasm wracks him and he spills over his knuckles and pants, white and wet through the warps and wefts of cotton.
It's an instant relief, but he immediately catches himself as an eager burst of urine chases the ejaculate and dampens his y-fronts. Sore muscles and a tight chest have him shaking, groaning and repeating "Fuck," and he continues to dribble and twitch just beneath Graeme's levitating palm.
He won't be able to hold it, even though they're driving at a steady 40 now.
… Until a honk startles them both and traffic slams to one more sudden halt - including their car, which Graeme stops instantly, sending them both jerking forward into their seat belts. "God!"
Over the music, Graeme inhales shakily. His knuckles are white, crowning the top of the steering wheel. "Clive, I think… you should just go."
"Where?" Clive sobs.
His vision is too blurry with frustrated tears to see his face, but Graeme's voice is breathy, bassy; sounds just like it does the few times they've shared a bed and Graeme's talked in his sleep. Clive blinks harshly to make the tears fall to clarity, and when his gaze falls to his knees in shame, he catches the tent of Graeme's poor, confused cock in the periphery of his view.
It's too much.
"Piss."
Definitely not the way Clive has ever in a million years fantasised his first fling with Graeme to go, but he's too desperate, too strangely turned on and hopeful. The tip of Graeme's tongue darts out to moisten his chapped lips, and Clive wants to lick them, too. A chill runs up his spine, all the way to the part at the top of his head, and he pisses himself.
He thinks they both might curse synchronously.
It bleeds over the complete front of his shorts; down the centres of his thighs and pools under his arse, soaking into the denim more than the seat, for now.
Immediately the windows roll down, and Graeme's anxious finger is bouncing to no particular beat - he's embarrassed. Of course he must be.
Clive himself is mortified.
They're going to have to explain what happened to the car hire, though Clive can't even begin to explain what just happened to his own conscience. More and more tears seem to stream down his cheeks with each blink - the cherry on top of this pathetic scene he's made, an anxious reaction rather than a full-body cry. The gravity of what he's done crushes in on him like an iron maiden; their trip is only just starting and he's gone and bollocksed it up.
"We're 3 miles away," Graeme says, curtly nodding towards a motorway sign.
He turns up the radio and drives.
—
Mercifully, they're not on the road for much longer, but it feels like an eternity anyway.
"You go ahead," Graeme says as they pull up to the single-stall service station toilet. He kills the engine. "I'll go into your bag and bring you a change of clothes."
Clive nods, barely meeting his mate's eyes. "'Kay."
Getting out of the car is a wretched experience. He's wet in new places as pooled urine trickles down his legs; uncanny in the way that the suffocating Southern breeze draws his attention to the arse of his shorts. He doesn't chance a look at the car seat - he'll have to face the damage soon enough, but making a walk of shame to the toilet is bad enough for now.
Worse still, the door is locked when he tries it– "Occupied," says a stranger’s voice from the other side.
"Awright," Clive says, leaning against the brick wall in wait.
Scoping out the area, he's relieved to find few cars around - he doesn't see a soul, really - and Graeme is still in the driver's seat. The curious thing is the way that Graeme's leant forward, forehead on the steering wheel. He's motionless–
No, he's not. Clive straightens, struggling to see better through the windshield at his distance, almost ready to go and check on him when the puzzle comes together and it clicks–
Graeme's right arm is moving. Fast, until it isn't; until Graeme's shoulders hitch and open mouthed, he arches his back against his seat.
And he stays like that for a moment; long enough for the door to the loo to open and its occupant to emerge with an obvious eye cast at Clive's soaked jeans. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters right now, except to get his arse into the bathroom and process his best mate having a wank in their pissy hired Focus. He doesn't let the thought distract him from partially undressing and running his shorts under the tap.
He shouldn't let the thought play and replay in his mind's eye.
There's a knock at the door– "Clive? It's me." –and Clive lets him inside.
That flush hasn't really managed to leave Graeme's cheeks; it's almost cute how his mate's so flustered, as awful about it as Clive feels. In the end, they were simply pushed to their limit in an awkward situation - it doesn't have to mean anything.
Graeme comes bearing a new pair of pants and cargo shorts, as well as a tee he keeps for himself as he shoves the items into Clive's chest.
"Wha'sat for?"
With a slight wrinkle of his nose, Graeme turns away; tosses the fresh shirt over the edge of the hand dryer and removes his top. "Guess we both made a mess."
With Graeme's back turned, Clive takes the opportunity to slip into clean underpants and shorts and tosses the soiled pants into the sink as well. There isn't much he can do, other than make some suds with hand soap and swish his clothes around in the lukewarm water, but he tends to them as best he can.
And then just like that, Graeme's fully clothed as well, and heading to the door. But just as his hand is on the lock, he clears his throat. "It wasn't that weird… you know?"
"It was weird for me."
"Okay, it was kind of weird," Graeme snorts a laugh, drawing closer to lean against the wall. "I just figure, after aiding and abetting an extraterrestrial lifeform across a foreign country, being shot in the chest, dying, and being brought back to life soon thereafter, a lot of things don't seem so weird to me anymore. I mean, let's not do it again… Save some clothes for the rest of the trip," he grins. "... Ruth always tells me to be open to experiences."
Clive side-eyes Graeme; once, twice. "Well that was an experience," he snips. He doesn't feel as jovial about the situation as his friend does, but he supposes it's lucky that Graeme's not holding it against him. Maybe Ruth's been good for something after all.
"I'm gonna see if the petrol station has Febreze." Graeme slaps a hand to the centre of Clive's back– The unwashed hand that'd been wrapped around his cock just ten minutes ago. "Meet you at the car?"
He's never going to drink a mochaccino again.