GOLDEN BOY 🏵️

it's almost two days before johnny can make it back down to see him again. a little longer than intended because nancy's keen eye has been a little too watchful and the old man has made demands of him that he obliges if only to buy himself the privacy and the time for this. this, here. him cracking open the door fully expecting the gnashing teeth and the snarling dog caught on a leash, maybe even gnawed through its own paw.

but that isn't the image that greets him.

that isn't the strong protective jock, ready to die for his friends.

he's a shadow of his former self.

a ghost.

another to add to the many that crawl and sift through the damp halls carved out in this basement. his body would look pretty propped up on the mattress that sits on the floor now, just out of reach of the tips of his toes. stained and springs exposed and hardly comfortable.

under the harsh yellows, the college boy is looking a little gaunt. dark shadows beneath dark eyes and his teeth chatter against his lips that look like they're raw from the cold, from neglect, from the passing of his own teeth as time cleaves chunks from his resolve. something awfully close to concern knits itself in a thin veil across johnny's jaw. what use is he if he's sick and frail and clinging to death now anyway?

his voice is rough. rough and barely there, strained, johnny nearly misses it, too. a sound absorbed into the walls of this little makeshift cell. the boy who was so bright and so big has already begun to deteriorate and there's equal parts amusement and discontent that tug at the center of johnny's chest because of this revelation.

"well shit," he finally speaks, not bothering to unfurl the furrow at his brow. "what i wanted to do was a lot more excitin' than this. buuuuut, since you asked so nicely," he moves from the doorway, the small room flooding with some more of that faint light, a wave of cold with her luring curls of air and bone chill following. with his boot, he wedges the door closed to prevent that air from touching leland. then, the distance between them is closed enough that johnny can wrap his arm around leland's body, fingers merciful against his bruised ribs and torn up back. he smells like meat left on the counter for a little too long, long enough that the flies would've been swarming him if it were warmer down here. long enough that maybe if he hadn't been strung up, the rats would've tried to feast on his soft flesh. johnny holds him firm, but tender, weight held in his curled arm so he can reach up with the other and cut loose the ropes that dig and feed on leland's wrists. crusted blood sits in the winding threads. he leverages leland's dead weight, holding him close to his own body while he cuts through them. a few seconds, maybe a minute at most. his warmth bleeding into leland's cold body. for a second, he swears he can feel the jackrabbit humming of leland's still beating heart against his own chest and the familiar pulse of electric current he's felt when this boy is close webs at the center of his chest.

defibrillator. proof of life. for who? he's not the one strung up and yet...

with his arms cut free, johnny doesn't haphazardly drop leland's body, though the thought occurs to him, he drops his knife instead. it doesn't make much more than a dull thud against the dirt floor. it frees his hand to allow him to wind that arm too around him. holding him close. feet on the floor now, but he's pressed against johnny. close enough that he can see the haze in his eyes and the beads of sweat indicating a fever that pool at his temples despite the frigid air. briefly, without warning or permission, he presses his lips to leland's forehead. checking his temperature. attempting to hold his focus through the apparent illness.

"i leave you down here for a few days and you go 'n get yourself sick. thought you could handle anythin' i throw at you?"

had he pushed too far? was he already broken? he clears his throat, chest tight again with the pinching sensation he has no name for, no root cause for. something only leland causes. like thorn pinpricks against his skin, a splinter he keeps thumbing over even when the skin gets raw.

he should let him die down here. alone and forgotten. he should.

but then what?

gently, johnny helps him down onto the mattress. laura-jean looked small sunken into that same mattress about a month before all this happened with leland and his little friends. she had begged for her life, too. had enough fight to keep johnny amused for all of two seconds and then he snapped her neck. her ribs were tender. the old man is annoying, but he sure knows his barbecue. callused fingertips slip beneath the tattered, bloodied shirt clinging to leland's wounds. fingers catching at the rungs of his ribs. he's thinner now. thinner than he had been when he was all muscle and all grit, throwing himself at johnny and hands and anyone who dared to look anywhere other than him.

"easy," he murmurs, settling onto his knees beside the mattress. "if you think you can just slip away and die like a pussy after all'a that fight you put up, you got another thing comin'," his tone is colored with play. with jest. with something near affectionate were it not laced in that same stale liquor on his tongue. johnny reaches then for leland's hands, his wounded wrists, and starts to rub circulation into them. he isn't gentle now, rough hands used to rough work, but he takes care to not rip open the raw wounds already there. he's deliberate about the pressure he applies, dragging and coaxing blood through leland's hands. and then his hands dip further, along his forearms. beyond his elbows, along his biceps. not unlike a sick dog, but this one he knows won't bite hard, even if he had the strength to do much more than lay there and take this. "how you feelin'?" johnny dips down closer, brushing hair from leland's brow, his skin feeling clammy to the touch. with that same hand, he rubs at the center of leland's chest. small, soothing circles, and then stops completely. he stops and lets the cold air settle between them again. all teeth when he asks, a mask of earnesty,

when the rope finally gives, his bruised body doesn't dead-drop to the ground — like before. instead, he’s caught against johnny's much sturdier frame. vision spots like colourful fireworks — all leland can do is collapse like his strings have been cut. his brows knit and he makes a gentle questioning sound at the feeling of — what the fuck? did he kiss him? leland doesn't have much time — or space, to unpack that. or the way the man’s rough hands feels under his shirt. he sort of wants to throw up, thinking about it — but he’s not sure there’s much left in the way of stomach contents, right now.

leland frowns softly, wanting to argue. ❝ i can, ❞ last bit of stubbornness materializing in a protest. ❝ — plus. you didn't do that. cold did. and… s’gross in here. ❞ he points out with a small, shivery huff — as if it matters what takes credit for his state. the cold, disgusting cell, or johnny’s knife.

the tone he takes isn't that surprising to leland — johnny has the luxury of thinking of this as some kind of sick game. meanwhile, this was leland's fucking life, now. one he had thought would be over weeks earlier than this. he’d even wanted it to be over, a few times. but johnny hadn't let him have that. not even when he'd asked. in more pain than he’d ever been in in his life, sobbing and pleading for it to be over — leland felt ashamed of that, now. there’s a dizzy stab of anger, too — as if he hasn’t survived this hell this long. it's not fair — now, there’s no fighting back if he wanted to. he's dying, right? he needs help — more help than a few stitches. this room is wasting him away, and maybe soon he’ll really be dead — swallowed and digested by this house like countless others. whether johnny wanted it or not. fuck him, leland thinks. he shouldn't get what he wants.

but — truthfully, he feels like he might crack and fall to pieces, being held so gently. he hates that it feels kind of nice — being touched at all. he hates how he feels like crying. he hates how he wants to curl up in a ball, once johnny lowers them to the filthy mattress. but he doesn't fight it. leland relaxes unconsciously, shoulders slumping and head drooping. wanting to sink into a puddle, now that he’s not straining to keep himself upright. he gives no thought to struggling now that he’s free. he just gives a little sniffle, blinking dazedly up at johnny. ❝ th — thank you, johnny. ❞ it's more of a mumble, gravelly and brittle. as polite as he can manage, hoping the man doesn’t suddenly change his mind.

hearing his own name is kind of strange. johnny doesn't use it much. calls him anything else — mostly demeaning stuff. leland doesn’t like how it makes him feel to hear it now. sickly warm and stomach-curdling. he’s tried to humanize himself to johnny before — but he doesn’t expect gentleness here. johnny’s hands are expectedly rough, but he doesn't seem like he's looking to cause any unnecessary pain — this time. leland hisses through his teeth; the angry, deep wounds around his wrists aching and pulsing as blood is forced through them by the man’s ministrations. that hurts, too, but everything does, so leland doesn't complain. it’s just — when he looks down, his hands look about as bad as he guessed they would. wrong. discoloured. he grimaces as he tries to flex his fingers. after a minute, he has to look away, eyes stinging and throat tight.

❝ y-yeah. ❞ he lies, trying not to shiver. not while this man's hands are on him. not while he feels his heart stuttering to life in his chest. waking up, after barely beating down here in the freezing cold. leland’s brows furrow together in confusion, like he doesn't understand the second part of what’s been said. he doesn't, really. can’t comprehend this being anything other than another sick trick. another way to humiliate him, somehow. he hesitates, wary. teeth worrying at cracked bottom lip. ❝ … why are you being n-nice? ❞ he accuses, earnestly. when he looks at johnny's grinning teeth, some sinking part of him knows that's not what this is at all. but right now, he can't bring himself to care.

what more does he have to lose, anyway?

suddenly, johnny’s hands retreat, and leland feels a spike of racing, unfamiliar desperation. it makes his chest squeeze. eyes flick up pleading and panicked. suddenly, the thought of johnny leaving out that door again gets him right around the throat. it makes him… scared — the feeling foreign and suffocating. the returning cold has him taking in a sharp, pained breath;

miles touches his fingers gingerly to the back of his head, winces when they come away wet. that hick had hit him hard. he'd been admittedly off-assignment, more interested in the missing persons reports coming out of the neighboring muerto county than the water pipe restoration he'd been sent to texas to cover. that's not great... means they won't start looking for him until he misses his deadline on saturday, and when they do, they'll start in childress county. likely won't even draw the connection to the sawyers and newt until much later, especially considering that miles has all his notes about the disappearances on him. fuck, he's an idiot. he'd gotten cocky, broken onto the sawyers' property at night after receiving a tip-off in the right direction. just to look around, maybe take a few photos -- unlike the townspeople, they'd been strangely resistant to any phone calls from journalists, despite the amount of times people had gone missing in their area.

texas is a stand your ground state, last time miles checked, but he's pretty sure that just gives them the legal right to shoot him, not to hit him over the head with god knows what and lock him in a fucking basement.

an...occupied fucking basement, clearly. he forces himself into a sitting position, his head throbbing. takes in his surroundings, and the concerned look on the face of the teen next to him. a fellow captive. so i was right about them, after all. how incredibly comforting.

❝ oh my god. ❞ voice comes out a disused rasp; ❝ i thought you were... ❞ dead. the nausea still sits low in his stomach. seeing the man finally stir, he felt somewhere between hopeful and dreading. maybe those people thought the man would be out longer, too — it didn't look like they bothered tying him up.

in retrospect, are you okay probably sounded like a dumb question — but it seemed messed up not to at least ask.

the man reacts pretty understandably, all things considered. but it makes leland's head ring a little at the sudden volume. ❝ ... h-hey man, you should take it easy. ❞ leland tries, wincing. his own open wounds flaring as he adjusts. rope-bitten wrists chafe as he raises hands in a small, placating gesture, trying to follow the man's sharp questioning; ❝ i— i dunno, they just threw you in here. maybe... a couple hours ago? is that... good... or bad? ❞ he trails off, uncertain.

what day? he didn't even know what time it was. ❝ i— no. sorry. i'm sorry. ❞ leland's shoulders drop, apologetic. if he was smarter, maybe he would have kept track. it can't have been that long, but drifting in and out of consciousness wasn't helping with his sense of time down here.