Sam is perched on the hood of the truck, fingers greasy from the french fries they picked up in a town just three miles back, but which has already vanished as if it never was. He dumps the last small pieces out onto his hand and tips them back into his mouth, squinting up into the sun. John pulls his gaze from the sight of his throat stretched out, flexing as he chews, and watches the paper wrapper skid off the hood and across the ground.
With a flick of his finger he plays with it, sending it tumbling and crinkling across the ground in directions that have nothing to do with the breeze.
John pushes it abruptly against his sneaker and snatches the paper up, standing and shoving his hand into his pocket. His t-shirt sticks to the sweat at the small of his back, and he feels it pull at the muscles of his tense arms. Sam is watching him, brown eyes gone dark with shadow and a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He isn't afraid of what John can do; he doesn't even blink anymore.
Sam pushes a hand through his hair and pulls his own shirt free from his body. They've been on the road long enough that his curls have grown soft and brush the curve of his neck. John's own hair is half dark and half light; when the nights are dark he wonders if it's a sign of his mongrel heritage. Right now he can't stop looking at the roots of Sam's hair, darkened to black by sweat. He doesn't realize that he's taken the two long steps to the truck's fender until he lays his hand on the hood and burns it, and Sam smiles down at him.
Sam is taller than him, right now. "I could throw that out, you know. You didn't have to..." He waves a hand at the grass, and John shrugs.
"I wanted to."
Sam rolls his eyes and looks away, out over the lake they've parked next to. He probably has a grand view, perched as he is, but John doesn't want to turn and look. He pulls his hand back from the hot hood and flexes it. If it's glowing a bit with his speeding heart, he can't tell in the noon-light. Sam stretches out a hand.
"So, can I throw it out?"
John smiles halfway and nods, pulling the wrapper from his pocket. He holds it out and Sam's hand wraps around his to take it, and when it does John seizes his wrist and pulls him forward and down until their lips meet. He hears Sam's sudden breath of surprise, but doesn't let him move back. He wraps a hand around his waist and pulls him forward to the edge of the hood. John kisses him, tongue licking along his chapped bottom lip and the salt from the edge of his upper. Sam's eyes crinkle at the corners in a smile and he opens his mouth, tongue slipping against John's. He lets his eyes close.
The hot summer day grows hotter, fiercer. Sam's legs, dangling from the hood, part to let John come closer, push himself up against Sam, breathe against his chest. John's hand moves up and he threads his fingers through Sam's hair. He wants them closer. He backs up slightly, pulling until Sam is stretched, leaning forward and over John. He breaks the kiss, taking a few quick breaths. His eyes are wide. Sam's hands come up to rest on John's shoulders and he pushes him away, slipping off the truck with a bounce. He reaches out and seizes John's hand, clenched around the french fry wrapper.
"Can I throw it out?"
John nods. He opens his fingers and Sam takes the trash, walking over to a nearby can. John leans against the front to the truck, fender digging into side, and sighs.
"I never can stop you, can I?"
He's looks away and then Sam's there, leaning right in front of him, eyes dancing. His smiles is wide and glad. "Nope. And you never will."
His fingers scrabble at the back of John's neck, seizing his two-tone hair, and he pulls him down.