#clownfields

the look sticks in rust's thoughts as he pilfers subtle glances towards hunter over the top of cole's head, eyes trailing gently downward every few seconds to gauge cole's reaction to all of this. but it's not too easy to read, with how they're slotted uncomfortably together; cole already seems mostly in rust's lap, but a quick look alerts him to the proximity to hunter as well, and, with a small grunt, not bothering to ask permission, rust slides an arm around cole and hauls him entirely into rust's lap; a move he's done countless times, in their home, the bed of rust's truck. it's rarer in public - and this feels a little like that, rust's skin prickling with the sensation of being watched. his muscles tense as he adjusts in the seat, handling cole with ease until they're both settled more comfortably.

book asks

rust draws his breaths slowly, the effort making a whistling sound through his crooked nose, stopped up with blood. he spits a glob of it up and into the sink, gripping the edge for leverage and utilizing the mirror to glance at cole - rust wondering if he's capable of convincing cole it looks worse than it is, like his face isn't smeared with flaking crimson. there's some comfort for him in knowing not all of it's his, that he didn't go down easy, though that's something rust knows better than to say, even with the pain at the base of his skull making it difficult to think clearly.

he hadn't expected the guy to have a friend. but it's a fact that makes rust only more certain he did the right thing in beating the shit out of him. and rust would've walked away with maybe only the broken nose, if not for his friend and his brass knuckles.

"cole," rust sighs. he turns, the movement making him grimace, rust continuing to prop himself up with the counter, but reaching a red-stained hand outward to cole, not quite touching him, but hovering instead above his stomach. shaking his head, rust says, "you didn't see it." the way he - or they, rust supposes, though he still can't figure out where his friend even came from - was following a woman. rust could read the intent in it, felt he had to do something. it's why he started doing all of this in the first place.

rust stops mid-stride, eyes tracking cautiously to cole's phone, and he wonders, anger streaking across his face, what's being said about them now. there's no shortage of possibilities: further questioning of their relationship, supposed new evidence that really shows they committed murder this time, more fabricated victims attributed to himself or quinn... the theories endless, the algorithm ruthless, and cole doesn't help himself by doomscrolling through it nightly. rust swallows, clicks his tongue against his teeth, sidesteps the clutter of the bedroom floor; crawls atop the bed, until he's able to pluck the phone from cole's hand, which he then deposits down the mattress - not bothering to lock it or power it off, so it's sure to buzz at some point and annoy them, but rust's too busy focusing on him.

he'd expected more from tucker, at least. the thought makes nostrils flare and rust's suddenly pushing the truck door open, not bothering with shutting it as he climbs the steps to hill manor's door, staring at the dark wood and faltering before raising a hand to knock. he looks around, not sure if anyone's home, not sure if he'll be welcome here - by cole or his father - but he's certain if anyone is here then they most likely already know he's standing here: he wasn't exactly quiet, squealing tires down the stretch of hill manor's drive. rust has the brief and fearful thought of whether or not he left marks.

pacing down the length of the porch, rust wonders if he should circle the house to where he knows cole's room is, chuck a rock up at the window like they're in a fucking romcom. maybe if he didn't feel so tense, muscles aching from the nervousness buzzing through him, he would - maybe any other day, he'd think it would make cole laugh.

he doesn't know if he believes what tucker said - but he knows he isn't ready to dismiss it. not after the last talk they had in their clearing. rust recalls that night so easily in his paces, eyes squeezing shut as he remembers the sight of @clownfields, the promise he made - and it makes rust all the more angry to remember it. it makes his decision for him, too; he pulls his phone from his jeans pocket and navigates to his thread with cole, heart stuttering a beat at the picture of him, curled up in rust's jacket. rust's fingers begin to tremble as he types, a line of tears welling, threatening to spill down his cheek.

book asks

he wouldn't say he disliked him before - mistrusted, maybe, but glenn understands it was never about cole at all. it was just his own worries, the fear he could never be a good enough parent on his own, that quinn's rebelliousness would end in her hurt or dead as well. and maybe you could put it like that; maybe she never would've gotten caught up in the violence if she'd stayed home. maybe she never would've had to do all the things she did, none of which she's recounted directly to glenn, but it's not as if he doesn't know; it's just another thing they don't really talk about.

he fixes a heatless glare on cole before shaking his head, attention returning to the political brochure he's been painstakingly editing. he may be running unopposed, but he still wants the (remaining) citizens of kettle springs to understand his platform; to know that he's not just looking to seize power, but that he wants this town to be something good again.