"Christ!" screamed Stuart as the Jeep swerved across the centre line, narrowly avoiding oncoming traffic, for approximately the ninth time in as many minutes. "How the FUCK do these bloody Yanks stand all this mess?!"
Stuart was in a mood. Things - namely the weather - weren't going exactly to his liking, which was never anything the Irishman dealt with well.
"Canadians, Stuart," corrected Vince. "And slow down! You'll have us killed. It's only snow - just mind the road."
"It is NOT just snow Vince. I've seen snow. This is a bloody blizzard."
Stuart's 'blizzard' was nothing more than a seasonal flurry that had, nevertheless, created some rather dodgy driving conditions.
"D'you suppose that's why they call it the Great White North, then?
"What?"
Not to be frazzled by Stuart's snarkiness, Vince continued.
"Canada - d'you suppose that's why it's called the Great White North? All that snow? It's brilliant really. It's like a whole different world. I mean it's really only America - more polite, mind. But the country itself. Could drive for days up here and never see anyone. Blimey! I wonder if we'll see any of those Canadian Police blokes - the ones in the red uniform. A sight better than our stodgy ol' Constables, I bet. Wouldn't mind at all being detained by a big strapping lad dressed up like that. And those boots - phwoooar! Could do without the hat, mind. I heard they call them Mounties. Wonder what, exactly, it is they mount?" Vince giggled at his own double entendre.
Stuart couldn't help himself; Vince's twittering always made him giggle, but the Mountie comment had elicited an all-out laugh.
"They're Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Vince. They ride on horseback, y'twat! The horse is the mount…not the copper." He tried to sound stern, but it was too late - he'd already boarded Vince's train of thought. "Could do with a Canadian shag, though. Wouldn't be so bad mounting a Mountie."
Vince quieted at that. Despite having been each other's sole company for the past five months, the boyhood friends had remained just that - friends. They may not have been out on Canal Street every night, but the patterns hadn't changed. Drinks, dancing (when they were somewhere populated enough to house an establishment with a dance floor) and a frustrated Vince left to longingly watch his best friend cop off with the prettiest local. 'Sad bastard,' he thought - an audible sigh the only evidence his cheerful mood had changed.
"Vince. Vince - where'd you go? I asked you a question!" demanded Stuart, instantly dissolving Vince's reverie.
"Sorry. What?"
"Check the map, would ya. How much further before we're at the lodge?"
"Umm...hang on a tic," mumbled Vince, furrowing his brow as he studied the well-worn road atlas.
"If we're here" he indicated by pointing at the map, "then we're almost to Yellowknife," he deduced happily.
"Ehm - exactly how far is 'almost' Vince? Care to translate that into an actual measure of space. Time or distance. I'm not fussy - either one will do nicely."
"Oh shut it Stuart." Vince cut him off, a grin creeping back across his boyishly handsome face.
"Another hour and we should be there. Unless, of course, you feel the need to keep up these Barry Sheen speeds. Then we'll most likely be there in ten minutes or so. 'Course we're bound to be wrapped around the bonnet of an oncoming lorry long before that happens."
"Christ Vince. Quit being such a big girl's blouse and relax, would ya! When's the last time you had a good shaftin'? 'Cause I think its high time you had another." For Stuart, the comment had only been meant as a quick dig. But to Vince, the jab hit a bit too close to home.
Vince dropped his head, leaning against the window, and stared straight ahead into falling snow. Truth be told it had been months, he realized. Not since Cameron. 'Christ! Had it really been that long? What the hell was he waiting for? Prince Charming? 'Course not. No one would ever confuse Stuart Allan Jones with a fairy tale prince. No one but Vince Tyler.' Stuart's words still echoed in his head "You never know, Vince. You might finally get that shag." He was taking the piss, of course. He always was when he said things like that, Vince thought glumly.
"C'mon, Vince - when?" Stuart continued. "When's the last time you got a good hard cock up the arse?" his voice dropped, pronouncing his lilt. "When's the last time someone made you cum so hard you forgot your name?"
Oh shit - not this, thought Vince. 'Not the patented Stuart Jones sex interrogation. And not in that seductive I-know-how-desparately-you-want-me-Vince-and-I-know-I'm-driving-you-mad voice.' His heart rate had jumped the minute Stuart started asking about his last shag. That's all it took. Sad bastard, indeed.
"Gone awfully quiet, Vince" Stuart purred, trailing his fingertips up Vince's thigh. "Has it been that long?" Vince shuddered as though some electric current had been emitted from Stuart's digits and was now slowly marching toward his cock. "Has it?"
"Been a while," mumbled Vince.
"How long's a while, Vince?
Vince cautiously glanced at his predatory friend. Stuart's eyes were darting back and forth between the road and Vince, lingering much longer on his flustered passenger than on the snow-slick road. His fingers continued their teasing path to the top of Vince's thigh, making the uneasy Englishman even more trepidatious.
"What's all this in aid of Stuart?" Vince muttered, desperately trying to keep his voice steady.
"Just curious, is all." Stuart's hand was a fraction away from caressing Vince's straining, overheated crotch. "You're the one mentioned Barry Sheen - thought you might fancy finishing that wank."
"Oh give off Stuart! Look - there's the exit for Yellowknife!" Vince sounded almost jubilant. 'Oh. My. God.' That was too close, thought Vince. 'We'll just check in, get Stuart fed, put a few cocktails into him and send him off after the nearest good-looking bloke. Blimey, but he gets randy when he's bored.'
Stuart manoeuvred the jeep through the narrow streets of the small town, cursing anyone who exhibited the audacity to actually travel at the posted speed limit.
"Chateau Nova, Stuart! Look there it is!" Vince shouted, desperate to keep the lusty Irishman's thoughts - and hands - clear of his own crotch.
"Good, I'm half starved. Let's get our room and find someplace to eat."
"D'you suppose we can get a curry here Stuart?"
"Vince, luv - try and expand your horizons would you? At least try to be a bit adventurous. Give the local cuisine a go."
"Caribou curry?" Vince asked, deadpan - his face as stoic as he could manage.
Like schoolboys, the pair exploded into a fit of giggles. And as Stuart pulled the Jeep to a stop, he lowered his forehead against Vince's - his eyes smouldering with a look usually reserved for his nightly conquest - and let his hands softly caress his friend's shoulders.
Vince, instantly on sensory overload, tensed under Stuart's fingertips. Afraid to break this cherished eye contact - eye contact that usually warmed him to his toes but, this time, made him swallow nervously - Vince simply smiled and waited for Stuart to finish whatever game it was he was playing.
"What would I do without you, Vince?" Stuart breathed. His eyes sparkled with something Vince didn't quite recognize and before he had a chance to clock it, Stuart lowered his lips and captured Vince's in a searing kiss. Not one of those drunken Vince-you're-my-best-mate kisses, either. This was a full on snog and Vince was beside himself. Despite his brain's first reaction to panic, his body took over and he allowed himself to melt into Stuart's kiss. Liquid heat coursed through his veins and he instinctively responded, allowing his lips to part and give access to Stuart's gently probing tongue.
Time stood still as Vince lost himself in Stuart's taste. His mind had shut down and he allowed himself to explore the sweet, warm confines of his friend's mouth. A moan escaped him as he felt Stuart's hands leave his shoulders and slowly undo the zipper on his parka. As their tongues continued this exquisite dance, Stuart worked the shirt from the top of Vince's jeans and was slowly grazing his fingers across the trembling man's stomach.
'Oh. My. God. What's he like?' Vince grasped Stuart's shoulders and hesitantly pushed him away, his face flushed and his hands shaking.
"Fine!" spat Stuart as he jumped from the Jeep and slammed the door. Stuart Allan Jones did not do rejection - and it did not sit well that he faced it constantly with his best friend.
"Shit." Vince uttered under his breath. Now Stuart was hungry and pissed off. God help me, thought Vince. He steadied his breathing and opened the car door.
"C'mon, then - let's get going!" snapped Stuart. "Bound to be a few lonely blokes around town in need of a good shaftin'. Best be getting to it."
Yeah. And while you're doing that, I'll just toss off in the shower with visions of that snog, Vince thought miserably. 'Christ - don't want to let Stuart be privy to that sort of information, though. Never hear the end of it.' It was true, though. How many lonely nights had Vince spent, his only solace being his near photographic memory and his ability to lose himself in the blissful reflection of something as simple as a hug or a conversation - or whatever token gesture of affection Stuart had bestowed upon him. Wouldn't be so bad if those memory jogs didn't always lead to the same place - a desperate, disheartened wank punctuated with Stuart's name.
Vince let out a dejected sigh and grabbed their luggage from the back of the Jeep.
...TBC