october 1954 - may 1960
(cw rape, verbal abuse, transmisogyny, suicide, uhhh fuckin)
He convinces himself it's good, this is good.
Sitting in the parking lot at 2am waiting for Dylan's car to pull in, is good. Fucking in the bed of his truck because they lack any other actual private space, is good. The name calling and the. The roleplay? The... elaborate, grown-up game of pretend?
When does it stop being a game and start being something concerning?
Isaac likes it. He thinks.
He likes the names.
Some of them.
Dylan's always trying something new. He's got his go-to, but it doesn't really sell it the way Isaac would like.
He likes the dresses, anyway. He likes when Dylan mutters under his breath that Isaac needs to shave his legs for their next hunting trip, and he likes when Dylan is wrestling Isaac into the side of the road and calling him a sissy for having shaved his legs. Pulling out his cock while he spits that Isaac is hopeless, he's a waste of a man, and all Dylan's trying to do is help. Be that nurturing father figure Isaac never had.
"It's so pathetic."
"I am."
"You are."
"I'm sorry."
"You should be."
"I am."
"It's so pathetic."
An endless cycle, sunrise to sunset. They go weeks without splitting, confined to a cabin until their teeth begin to rot, until they turn on each other, until Isaac turns on himself, shoving a gun to his chin and screaming to Dylan that he's really gonna do it this time, and Dylan only screaming back when Isaac backs down. Upset at his cowardice. Dylan didn't raise him to back out so easily. A real man would commit.
But he's not a real man.
"No."
And he's not a real woman, either.
"No."
So what is he?
Dylan kneels down to look Isaac right in the face, ask Isaac what he is.
"Sorry."
"You should be."
Sunrise to sunset.
