#off anon ask

but i think there's still moments he slips into it. where he relives fragments of a memory that's not his. where he's in a mind that's not his own, even though he never means to be. it still happens, it just doesn't freak him out as bad as it used to. doesn't spiral into consuming a city. i think it's quicker too, like truly just a glimpse from a stranger's life. enough that bob can play it off like it's nothing.

he gets good at walking the other person through the conversation, as well. politely finishing orders, or gently guiding conversations. giving longer answers until they can orient themselves. sometimes he just says nonsense, or rambles about what ever comes to mind in a kind tone. just to entertain himself. because it doesn't really matter what he says until their back, he learns. i think that's part of what fucks him up with you.

i have such a distinct scene in my mind of reader being a barista or a cashier, maybe your a college kid, maybe not, and your hands touch when he hands you cash. not flirty, not intentional, barely a graze. and he sees it.

you.

a younger you, teenage you. at the side of your bed, scrambling to hide something he can't really see, stuffing it under a floorboard you struggle to put back. loud footsteps pounding down the hall, the door slamming open, a louder voice, yelling you're name. he doesn't really like that's how he learns it, wishes he'd heard it from you instead. it's a lot of little details in just a few seconds. but again, bob's (kinda) used it by this point. going through the rest of the transaction like he usually would. trying to at least

i think he fumbles when you don't react like most people do. he's used to scared faces, pained looks, the etchings of confusion. i think it's when he tries to ramble about nothing until you're back, until you can actually hear him again - because that's how this always goes. it's your "what are you talking about?" that catches him off guard.

that makes him pay attention, that makes him notice the familiar "blank" look. the one he's never seen, but his friends have described well enough for him to recognize it. when his face is completely relaxed, but his eyes carries a tension they struggle to put words to. half lidded and distant, is the best he gets. they see it even when he's functional, keeping up with chores and doing his normal routine. it was always in the moments he was on autopilot, when he lets his mind wander so far he couldn't remember where he'd gone when comes back into himself. just that he doesn't want to go back

it never really made sense to him how he could be "distant" if he was still there. he wasn't remembering in the way that kept him trapped in place, he was still doing things, he'd always figured. but seeing it on someone else?

it's not

it's not the most comforting thing to see, under normal circumstances. he can imagine why it'd be worrying to his friends. why it'd be worrying to see on him specifically.

that's a realization for later, though. there's plenty of realizations for later. with you. from meeting you

in that moment, he's more surprised. cautious. curious

he'd never met someone who reacted like that. your mood seemed to sour, sure, but him pulling that memory to the forefront of your mind didn't catch you off guard. it wasn't like he was pulling on something you were trying to keep out of your mind. it didn't feel like a memory he had to go far for, it felt different. like it had been there, close to the surface. he was just seeing it to.

bob leaves a dumb tip, much more than a cup of tea warrants. he doesn't really know how to rectify it when you won't acknowledge it first. he makes a mental note to come around again, though.

and he does.

he catches a few more glimpses, fragments of lines snorted and prescriptions stolen, scraps of wrecked rooms and scattered thoughts. half-manic parania and all the broken bones in the aftermath. bob becomes fascinated by them. how familiar they feel. i think he gets a little obsessed. like when you find a new favorite candy and make yourself sick off of it. because the memories, what little he sees of them (which is less and less, everytime he sees you, thank you very much), aren't good and they're familiar in the same way pressing down a yellowed bruise feels familiar, but you're always you. deadeyed and cool.

and like, in my personal experience, sharing similarly fucked up stories with a new person is fucking awesome. there's such a strong sense of relief and comfort that comes from finding someone that's fucked up in the same way that you are. that gets it without explanation, and bob finds that with you, by accident. and you don't really know that he's found it with you

i think he finds himself coming back, struggling to figure out how to talk to you. to befriend you. because it's difficult position to be in. uniquely weird, because bob knows more about you than he should of a power he can't control and you're barely aware of bc you're actively disassociating. that's really rough, and i didn't think anyone could be smooth about it, and bob, in particular, doesn't come off as someone we might think of as suave.

i don't really have any specific headcanon on what the inciting incident would be. but i think it would be something small. it is something he says though. because he does try to talk to you. everytime he's in he tries to strike up conversation. say something interesting or something to let you know he's like you. that he gets it. most of his attempts are a wash, i think whatever it is he says that leads to him getting your number is completely by accident. maybe an awkward comment or a joke that's a little too honest. something that's only funny because of the people you are. something that probably wouldn't fly at the tower or with your family.

regardless, it makes you laugh. and that's it for him. you're it for him. he doesn't really know what that means, but he knows it's true.

for your part, i think it'd be the best ice breaker you could get. it's your glimpse. your turn to see a little more of him than you're meant to

overall its a win.

the beginning of the friendship is slow. i stand by that. i think it's mostly random questions and memes interspersed into a longer conversation about hanging out. i imagine it's just weeks, at minimum, of trying to figure out when you'll hang out. i can't imagine it where you both aren't bad at texting, so it's just a response and (effectively) flavor text from one of you every few days. but once you hang out for the first time, there's a drastic shift

like it starts small. was supposed to at least.

it's just a quick hangout on your break, because coordinating is getting annoying, and you're both just kind of over trying to actually schedule something, so you just agree to meet close to your work during your lunch

and it's supposed to be 30 minutes, that's what you had time for.

you lose track of it

badly.

like almost two hours have gone by and you need that stupid job, badly.

and there's a moment where you're on the phone with your boss and he just watches the impulse take over. watches as you make up a lie. quickly answering every rebuttal over the phone, not because you wanted to lie, not because you felt bad, not for any other reason other than you had to sate the disapproval you were faced with. you needed your boss to like you if he had to notice you at all. and i think that's something bob would recognize in himself - because he does do that. watching that eased some excess energy, a lurking anxiety.

it sets a new standard with you, in his mind. changes how much of the mask he can take off. it's a thrill he feels everytime he's with you. it's like you were carved out of each other's worst parts and came back together better.

like i think this relationship would be full of slow build ups to abrupt change. i just can't shake the idea that after such a slow build up, at some point it's like a damn breaking.

slowly you spend more and more time together, until it's rare you don't fill them with each other's presence. like sure, sometimes you actually hang out, but a lot of it is just running errands and doing chores. from grocery and laundromat trips, to late night snack runs. from cleaning, to reading, to cooking. if you're able to be near each other, you just are. it becomes the default. truly just like bonded cat, you just didn't leave each other alone. like sure, maybe for a shift, or therapy. but largely, you just become fixtures in each other's lives. once you're at that point, i didn't think you two even talk that much. like, again, you still hang out, still shoot the shit. but there's a lot of parallel play happening

and i think it only gets more intense when it gets physical. i don't mean sex, inherently, you could take it that way regardless, i suppose. i moreso mean, bob has observably lived a lonely life. and if you're anything like him (and this hc is predicated on the idea that you are), you have to as well. you both have to be so insanely touch starved and once the boundaries surrounding touch have broken down, it's so over for you two. i think you're ruined for anyone else. the thought is pervasive, at least. like throughout this entire relationship, there's a dependency building that borders into unhealthy and obsessive. it could. like it super depends how serious about and honest in therapy either of you are as to how well this can be maintained without going into full blown mutual codependency. it could get ugly, quickly, but i choose to continue with that assumption that you both are serious about getting better and manage it.

like i said, touch adds a new intensity to it. you'd also said i could take this in whichever direction i wanted, like romantic or platonic, but like i think dynamics like this kinda live outside of that. like it might have elements of either. probably does. you might consider each other partners, or maybe not. but like, there's no doubt about who's the other is. claim has been staked. for bob, you're it for him. whatever that means.

touch muddies already murky waters. you cuddle, you sleep together (interpret as you please), you hold hands. there's fixing hair and clothes. comforting touches and absentminded ones. there's wandering touches, when one of you is doing something and the other follows, theres gentle hands trancing contours, scars, and imaginary shapes. spelling out words to make the other guess. he'd trance the line work of your tattoos if you had any. play with any piercings you have, touches always light and careful. it's anything. any touch because you can. you're allowed. there's not so much an explicit ask, so much as soft touches are always followed by expecting looks. either of you expecting to be told "no" by the other, waiting to be pushed away because neither of you would fight back or pull away

it's maybe not the most traditional relationship, but it's one i think bob would be very comfortable in and desperate to keep. i think he'd be eager for it, and enjoy the feeling of having a person, of being someone's person

walker doesn't seem to have shame when it comes to violence. he has regrets. in falcon and the winter soldier, he and lemar talked about regretting not being about to save more people when they served, about how the serum would've helped do that. how they regret not having it. but we haven't seen shame from walker, not about his time in the field, not about killing the wrong flag smasher, or not listening to sam throughout the events of falcon and the winter soldier. but when walker fucks up, with the flag smashers and sam, in his shame room that we see, he gets defensive. walker doubles down. he digs his heels in, even when it's clear he's in the wrong, even when his face shows he knows he's wrong (that's how i interpreted a lot of his reactions, at least).

this speaks to an overall theme of doubt in his character. but not a doubt in himself, a doubt in the importance of what he was being told. each moment had drastic effects on his life, though. in moments where he isn't being a soldier (in whatever capacity). in the moment, he's confident. when he knows he's right, feels it, in moments of action. he is confident. it's in the idle moments, he struggles to know what to do with himself - side note, he probably had a really hard time adjusting to civilian life. when sam wants to speak to karli alone, he gets anxious. he doesn't know what's happening and against his (hopefully) better judgement, he undermines sam. after he's removed from the position of captain america, i'm guessing he's less emotionally present with his family - and he probably wasn't very emotionally available to begin with - based on olivia's reaction and the way he talks about it in thunderbolts.

if i had to guess his other "shame rooms", it'd be other moments he didn't listen. moments where he chose not to listen. like the conversation he had with sam before karli killed lemar or possible conversations he had with olivia about working for valentina, to times he didn't listen to olivia's needs/their son's needs. his rooms would be the moments that felt small in the moment because he knows if he'd paid better attention, it could've gone much more favorably for him

that's about the only thing you can make out. his words are slurred and he mumbles over himself. it's easier to catch the voice in the background, the one calling out to correct him on the details - the bartender, you'll learn when you get there.

it'd be easier if rhett would put him on, but he won't.

almost a quarter 'til four is when you get there.

you take a breath when you push the door open and it feels like the first one since rhett called you. when you left your house, you were expecting to have to search for a drunk, upset rhett. you could've thrown up when you didn't see his car in the parking lot. all par for the course. something that's become tradition on the nights like these. late calls and trying to catch him before he catches another dui.

especially because this isn't wabang.

it's not far, but it's a few towns over. lot more cops he'd have to evade. by the looks of him, he wouldn't have.

"where's your truck?"

"in town, still at the handsome gambler." he sounds a bit more sober. easier to understand at least, looks like he'll eat shit if he tries to stand though.

when you're next to him, you pull cash out, not bothering to look at how much. it doesn't matter, he - the bartender - had saved you a bit of heartache and world of panic. you just slip it onto the bar and mouth thank you.

he takes it, muttering it "it won't happen again."

you nod, pulling rhett to his feet, keeping your arm around his waist for support. "so, how'd you get here, then?"

he's finicky tonight.

"i hitch- i can fuckin' walk." he interrupted himself, abrupt and abrasive, pushing himself away from your hold. and you love the man, but you are tired.

you don't care to do this right now. so you drop your arm, let him stumble and catch himself. just to fuck with him a little bit. "looks like it."

there's a softness to your voice. one that's reserved for rhett. it's clear you're not thrilled. you never are when you come picking him up on nights like this. he doesn't expect you to be. always expects it to be worse, though. just before you get there, he expects long silences painted with a temper. expects exasperated words tinged with anxiety.

it's never there.

just relief, with a little groggy frustration. there's always some amount of nerves that leave him when you're around, like when you pull him to your side, again, half carrying him, you take up too much room next to him for those nerves to keep any space. he prefers it that way, they can stay gone.

home, the home he calls home, your home, isn't close. the drive home is flooded with long silenced. occasionally, rhett will speak up, somewhat absentmindedly.

"i hitched a ride," comes an answer you forgot to expect. then, even more belatedly, rhett offers, "guy was gonna take me back."

"yeah, what happened?"

"told 'm i had a ride."

there's a scoffed out laugh from you. "suppose i am, yeah."

your tone is light, more humored than anything. it leaves a bad taste in rhett's mouth, regardless. bad enough he wants to argue, feels heated words boiling in his throat.

he doesn't.

just let's those words fizzle out.

there's a few more random thoughts along the way home, some short drunken rambles that. all of which stear clear of his loss, until you're pulling into your driveway: "i wish you'd been there."

it's a dumb thing to say. he'd know that even if he didn't watch you press your lips together. if he didn't see how viscerally you work on not reacting. because rhett knows you'd go if he'd let you.

you nod, voice as light as it's been all night. "why don't we talk about this in the morning," looking over his face once your parked, bringing a hand to his cheek. rhett pushes into it as your thumb slides against his cheek. there's a frown with furrowed brows etching itself onto his face. "ok?"

he doesn't say anything more about it in the moment, but it's clear he wants to. rhett's never been terribly good at hiding when he has something on his mind. not from you. he always tells you eventually.

wishes he didn't with stuff like this. things, he figures, that are just a fight waiting to happen. it's inevitable, but inevitable doesn't have to be right now, so he just let's a bunch of other moments pass by.

it's about as close as you get to a 'yeah, ok' when he's like this.

after you've gotten him into the house, pushing bottle after bottle of water on him

after you got him into a shower he dragged you along for, despite the fact it wasn't supposed to be full shower. you'd just wanted him to rinse off. figured part of the weight of today would come off with his clothes and maybe a bit more would find itself down the drain with a quick rinse. instead you find yourself behind him, easing off the day's stress yourself. you usually do, one way or another.

after you're both in bed and you're more than half asleep, with your face against the back of his shoulder and an arm slung around him. your arm that he holds there without really thinking.

it's after all those little moments pass by that he says anything again. "i fucked up."

"fucked what, baby?" you're so close, he can feel the rumble of your voice against his skin, feel the languor in it. he doesn't mind that you're barely awake. prefers it really.

"the first round."

it's like practicing a confession. figuring out how to answer all the questions you'll have in the morning.

it feels nice to be raw with you when he can handle it, even like this.

especially like this.

"i just- it, i couldn't stay on" rhett pulls away slightly, just enough to shift the side he lays on, just to face you. "fucked up the score." he loses the conviction he had when he started, or rather it's replaced by a new one. the words slow, dying as they come out. and it's absurd. it just doesn't feel important right now. just doesn't matter anymore because your face scrunched a bit when he moved, and all he can do is watch you press your face into your arm, think about how comfortable you are in his presence, how easy sleep comes to you when he's in your bed. how natural he feels in yours

he's heard you mention having issues sleeping. he's reaped what little benefits can come from it from time to time, in the form of late night hookups and rides home from the bar. seldom is rhett actually witness to it.

it's a sillier one, but it is a point of pride for him.

you hum, belatedly. the only response you can really manage in your stupor. it strengthens his new conviction. the thought eases a tension in himself rhett forgot was there, just a bit. a tension he can't remember living without.

he'll blurt it out the next morning over breakfast, toast and weak coffee, with his head pounding and his heart calm.

"i want you to come. to my next ride, i mean."

distantly he could hear his mom's voice, warning his dad to 'keep decent to mavis' boy' earlier in the week. she was talking about you, he knows that. knew it then too. didn't really hit him until he saw you in town, just outside your parents' bakery, lit cigarette in hand. mavis slapped your arm as she went in. rhett can't hear what either of yous said, but he can imagine. your mom never did like you smoking, always blamed rhett for you picking up that habit.

he kept you out of enough trouble to make up for it, he guesses. she never bothered banning rhett from the house, which he appreciated, but always figured it was bound to happen someday.

he could see why cecelia gave royal a warning, looking at you then. you came back looking a little more jagger than john wayne. he could see how it'd be a shock to his dad. could already hear everything cecelia didn't want royal to say. has a few thoughts of his own he doubts his parents wouldn't be thrilled to hear for entirely separate reasons. thoughts that are already sending a flush over his face. a flush that'll come back later when you're brought up at dinner. a flush perry will have to tease him for. because you have a few more tattoo's than before, much more visible than would generally be acceptable in wabang, barely hidden under that coat that's not quite leather. just something that looks like it. you got a few piercings, new ones. professional ones.

nothing like the one you impulsively gave yourself when you and him where fifteen. that one was through the ear and only on the one side.

your mom caught you before you could do the second one.

which was rhett's fault. he yelped when he saw you doing it. didn't really think you were serious. wasn't ready for you to already be doing it when he turned around in your desk chair.

"rabbott."

maybe that's why mavis doesn't mind rhett.

he was squeamish. at least, a bit - he's used you as a shield through too many gorey movies to not admit that. not to say rhett was straight laced, himself. just quieter. and usually the downfall of your more 'inspired' ideas.

just not the one that made you leave. he knows it makes him a horrible friend, but that was something he never stood a chance of fucking up. no matter how badly he wanted to. not when you wanted it so bad. still remembers finding the acceptance letters because you never really told him.

some were community colleges.

"hey, rabbott. you good?"

but some were from bigger schools. kendall. cia. johnson & wales - those are some of the ones he remembers, but there were more. because there were more than a dozen. some of those schools weren't awfully far, either. he knew you though, likes to think he still does. you never would've picked one of the closer ones. not if there was something better.

rhett hits the ground before he realizes you pushed him. it wasn't a huge fall. he'd been kneeling, at some point. his legs were folded under him by the time you shoved him down.

"i'm not doing this shit by myself just 'cause your smokin' green."

he hadn't smoked. not that, at least.

not since he was a teenager.

not since you and him used to sneak out to barn. always after you two thought everyone else was asleep. you two were right usually, but you'd been caught by perry more than once. he had a knack for knowing what bullshit you two were up to and when.

always too enrapt by each other and the floaty high you were caught in together to notice him to notice him. that he wasn't asleep. or that he was already smoking out in the barn. more than once, rhett had given his brother a sizable chunk of his stash. much more than perry would've asked for, but rhett was always far too nervous to really think about it before shoving it in his hands. trying not to plead.

in hindsight, he doesn't think his brother would've snitched, regardless. rhett didn't bring a lot of friends around. certainly not ones like you. his family was careful not to fuck that up, worried he'd never bring anyone else around.

rhett still remembers how warm your skin was, though. how your breath felt against his face when you two were standing too close. in those moments when you were both a little too high to catch just how close you were, until one of you did. until rhett would tug at your arms, pulling you closer, while you licked into his mouth. because rhett never really started it, but he always let you fuck his mouth with yours.

he tried not to look forward to it when you smoked together. tried to just accept that it was apart of it. being high felt nice and boys will be boys. it's natural you'll do other stuff that feels nice too, rhett reasoned with himself back then. when he was still trying to convince himself that it wasn't, y'know. that that kinda stuff doesn't really count if you're too high to remember it.

rhett remembers you said that once. couldn't really tell if you were joking, just that he tried not think about it after the fact. pretended he was so high, high enough that he couldn't keep those memories for the few nights he spent without you.

regardless, rhett doesn't bother to argue that second part. "not asking you to."

"not doing much neither."

his face does that thing. where he squints, does a half frown. almost looks pained. rhett's not sure why his face does that when he's doesn't know what to say. or just doesn't want to say anything. just that you used say 'thinking shouldn't hurt you that much' when you saw it. that you're trying not to say it now, when he just opens himself up for it. "i was thinking."

"about?"

you.

"nothin'."

you reach out a hand, "bullshit."

rhett takes it. let's you help hoist him up, trying to think of anything to say. anything he could say that he was thinking about. anything that wasn't you. and him - in general. not like, well.

whatever.

he taps just below his bottom lip, where there's a labret on you. what looks like a hoop on your bottom lip. "how do you have that in a kitchen?"

"mask," is all you say. there's a shrug. your face is pinched like you don't quite believe him. "that really what you're thinking?"

he could say no. could tell the truth, but you smile something annoying. you continue, "you really sitting here thinking about my lips?"

there's that swell in his throat again. makes every breath ache in a way he shouldn't like as much as he does.

and it sounds flirty. is flirty. your brand of it. it's not wholly serious, he thinks. sounds more like a challenge, like you're daring him to push or double down. to give you anything. rhett never did - still doesn't. always got flustered in that quiet way he does. just kept his face schooled and struggled to find words after.

rhett figures it's not much different from how he is normally. perry could always tell. always teased him if he saw it. maybe you did, too. you never pushed him too hard, though. didn't goad and prod at him like you did with anyone else. rhett never gave you that rise you wanted, he guessed.

"it hurt?" is too easy of an out. one you don't fight him on too hard.

"that's really what you're thinking?"

"last time i saw you with a piercing, you did it with a rusty safety pin. just curious how... different that one was."

"it wasn't rusty, rabbott."

you couldn't say life had been slow, because it hadn't. from culinary school, to your dad, to every service you've worked since, you haven't really had a moment to catch your breath since leaving wabang. even this, being back, was temporary. you didn't really mind that. you've never been good at sitting still.

idle hands and all that.

you think it's probably why your parents pulled you into the bakery. it's hard to imagine they ever thought you'd fall for it so hard. that you'd uproot your whole life, make it the focal point. that you'd move so far away just to school for it. you try not to think about it, but the thought lingers, anyway; would your parents have taught you to bake if they knew that's what would drive you away from home?

your mom always found it funny. that between you and rhett, you were the one with the softer passion.

stereotypically.

and on the face of it, it is kinda funny thinking about that sensitive little boy you befriended in grade school, getting thrown off of bulls, walking away with (a minimum of) a few fractures on a semi-regular basis. seems like it should've been the opposite.

seems like it.

a rodeo, oddly enough, is a lot kinder of a place to be. almost relaxed. supportive. more so than you remembered. you were never really payed that much to the bullriders when you were younger, though. just rabbott. it's not so different now.

now there's just one bullrider you pay attention to.

you couldn't really imagine rabbott in a kitchen. not a professional one. you doubt he'd make it a full service. he'd probably come out about the same as he would thrown off a bull, anyway. there's something to be said about rabbott's proclivity for pain and his relentless intolerance for anything leaning towards decidedly dickish behavior. it has to be some part of why he ends up in so many fights. and undoubtedly why he finds himself in bullriding.

you suppose, on the matter of kitchens, there's also the much more glaring fact that rabbott can't cook for shit. he'd learned simple things. he can make a passable grilled cheese. and anything from a box is fine. otherwise everything is undercooked and underseasoned.

he's been long since been banished from your kitchen - your mom's kitchen, really. you've just taken it over for the time being - and that was before you were helping your mom prep and stock the bakery. even now, he's been relegated to the small dining table across the room. supposed to be keeping you company while you work, filling you in on everything that's happened since graduation. "assuming i didn't miss too much, then?"

you've really only been in wabang back once, since. you hadn't really cared to do any catching up after your father's wake.

rabbott was sure you'd never come back after that. he mentioned that one night you were drinking together. didn't mean to say it.

you've basically been attached at the hip, just like when you were kids, since that first day he saw you in town. and it's comfortable. familiar, but it stings if you think about it too long. he didn't say this part, but he didn't have to. you know him well enough - it's why he didn't mean to say the first bit - rabbott worries. worries you'll just disappear if you're gone too long. convinces himself he'll wake up one day and realize these past few weeks were just a dream. that you're still off in whichever city you live in, now.

its when his nickname slips from your lips again that he finally drags his eyes up to you. you're turned towards him, instead of the counter."you were staring at the pages, i'm guessing there's not too much to tell."

your voice isn't gentle. but you are. you've grown into it, a new brand of it.

"no," he drawls, letting each word sink in. letting himself catch up to the current moment. "no, not much to report."

"then," you pull away from the counter and step towards the dining room table. you lean over rabbott a bit, pulling the year book - your parents had insisted on getting one every year, despite how much you didn't want them - he had in his hands from him, setting it aside. there's just the slightest brush of your hands when you replace them with your old notebooks. "dig through these."

you used to journal everything. you brought most of them down, there were a few filled with some rather risque thoughts you'd rather not share. especially not with the man most of those thoughts were about."read anything that sounds interesting."

rabbott nods, staring at where your hand had touched his. absentmindedly sliding his hand over one of the books. flicking the cover open. but doesn't say anything. there's just a look on his face when you glance at him. it's familiar. old. something you haven't seen since you used to sneak out to the barn as teenagers. you realize just how close you got when his gaze flickers to yours. just as close as you were then. when he'd pluck at your sleeves, play with your shirt's collar.

you pull away when you feel your face go hot at the memory.

turning quickly, you continue, starting to ramble to fill the quiet. to push out all those little details. "or anything that sounds familiar, like that you remember-"

it doesn't work.

you can still feel his hand ghosting at the side of face, finicking with your hair. you can hear that low 'sorry, i'm being weird' when his hazy eyes finally met yours. you remember how he didn't stop, just looked at you. head down, looking through thick eyelashes. expectantly. like girls did when they wanted your attention, you remember thinking. it never worked for them as well as it did rabbott.

felt like he was waiting for you to...

you don't know.

but rabbott only looked at you like that when you were high together. just after he'd tug you behind some of the hay bale, just before your mouth landed on his.

"pantry," you abruptly cut your own rambling off.

saved by the metaphorically bell before your brain can pull anymore details. before it can place those details with current rhett. because you're missing ingredients for the next few batches.

that's why you stopped to chastise rhett.

'could you grab-" you pause, mumbling, 'er, fuck. i just reorganized,' to yourself before speaking up again. "pick out some good parts, ill be right back."

you almost scream when you walk into your mom's pantry.

instead, you laugh at the instinct instilled you from culinary school. the instinct that carried you through the worst (and often more prestigious) kitchens you've worked at. the instinct that followed you all the way home.

he liked it.

the closeness. the hesitance to pull back. the anxiety he could feel off of you.

it's shitty to say, rhett gets that. but, it put him at ease.

for the moment.

it was nice to know you were just as nervous as he was. rhett hopes that's what it is. that there's still that spark. that that nervous giddiness didn't die out in you.

it didn't in him. not with you.

rhett doesn't think it ever will.

the thought sates a particular worry. because you don't need him here. rhett is not very good in a kitchen. rhett never really needed to learn past the basics. that's what he'd always had you for.

that phrasing.

'have you'

makes him feel some type of way.

when you were kids, back in elementary when he was smaller than everyone else; when he was that quiet, awkward, sensitive little boy - it wasn't so complicated. it felt so simple. so honest to say he had you. that you were his. because you were.

somewhere through middle school that got muddied, but rhett couldn't say when. by the time high school hit, and he wasn't small anymore. when he was more gangly, still hadn't quite grown into his own skin. when he was still quiet and awkward, just in a way that most found more charming than before. when it got easier to hide how sensitive he could be.

it still felt honest to say he had you, then.

because he still did. you never really grew apart. always slept over at each other's houses, always sharing a bed. just like when you were kids. you were together most of the time. cecelia used to joke the only time yous spent apart was the time you were actually in class. which wasn't too far off.

but things were different.

they felt different.

felt more complicated to just say it. it was heavier in a way he didn't know how he felt about.

still doesn't.

he tries to ignore that thought, though. tries to push it to the back of his mind. flipping through the pages of your notebook until something grabs his attention away from the phrase 'have you'.

which isn't terribly hard. this notebook used to be a journal. but glancing through it, rhett can tell at some point this became a dedicated recipe test book.

there was plenty of words scratched out and written over in sharpie. sections covered in white out. or completely blocked out in marker. haphazard notes and stains litter the book, but if he strains, rhett can kind of make out some of the words. the first sentence he figures out is:

liking guys in this town is ass.

and gone is that comfort from a few moments ago.

because he didn't know that about you.

he never thought- well, y'know, sure. you and he did stuff. sometimes. just didn't think you saw guys like that. rhett always thought it was just him. puts him in a weird space. somewhere between 'how could you not tell him?' and 'how could you when he's getting pissy that you like other guys?'

there's an arrow his eyes follow without really thinking about it. points to a scratched out note in the margins, 'staring at rabbott's is a pretty good pasttime though'.

and he has to laugh.

not because it's funny, but because it's very you.

because even when you're in the other room, completely oblivious to the revelation rhett's coming to. one that feels heavy. heavy enough to shuck a weight from him that rhett never realized he was carrying. you manage to break the tension.

there's a few other notes in the margins. some scratched out, partially erased, or drawn over. most are some combination of three making them almost impossible to read. the few phrases he can make out are, in no particular order; 'hard to find'; 'that make rhett squirm', which brought that flush rushing back; 'stay in wabang'; and 'great ass' next to a half-erased drawing of peach. they're spread across the page and rhett doubts they're anything but unrelated thoughts.

he can't imagine what was originally written here.

rhett skims some more pages, finding a few more disjointed phrases. some explicit. ish. he can figure the general idea enough to keep a little color on his face. some of them aren't so crass, just random thoughts he can't figure the context of. some of them are about him, some he can't tell. some are definitely not about him.

the back of the book is much rougher than the front. pages are ripped out. some are partially there, some are pulled from the binding. there's loose pages. and too many that look like they'd tear if he touched them.

rhett doesn't bother with it. sliding it away gently, he grabs another. one that looks less mauled.

the first sentence gets a scoff.

rabbott's kind of a bastard.

the date doesn't give him any hints as to which fight this might've been. because there were so few, he could pin each one down to general time period.

i dont really know why i hang out with him. he aint mean, not outright. just hard to be around sometimes. i dont hate him.

that last part weighs heavy in his mind, sticks out and leaves a lump in his throat.

i'm not sure i ever did. it's hard to figure what i feel about him, just that it's a lot. maybe that's what i hate.

and past you is right. it is a lot.

he's had thoughts none too different, thinks he knows what you were getting at. that you, him. some of it might've meant a little more. nothing he's particularly keen to get into at your dining room table.

rhett flips to a random page.

the next one isn't any better. it's just confirmation he didn't want. scribbled and littered with misspellings like you wrote it quick, it read:

-suffocating and i can't come up for air. i can't tell anyone, least of all him. fuck. im so fucked. i am drowning. will it just burn me inside out until i can leave? just have to wait until i leave and then i can breathe?

it goes on.

there's another page and a half filled with that scrawl.

rhett doesn't bother reading it.

doesn't need to.

knows the feeling well enough to get the gist so he just sits with the growing consternation. that you felt like that. that you didn't tell him. that he could've, that you and he.

well.

you guys were you.

you and rhett.

you could've still been that, but. what. rhett doesn't know. different? more?

did anything have to be different? was there really anything that needed to be different?

the pantry door creaks. a second before you walk through it. "find anything good?"

rhett skips halfway into the notebook. doesn't think about it, just feels too raw with that page open. it feels too intimate to have read as much as he did.

"no," is what he settles on. "you're handwriting is shit. can't read any of it."

rhett misses sleeping with you. in the same bed as you.

it was one of the few pieces of closeness you never shed. it's hard to say why. he figures there was never anyone else around to comment on it. no one to ruin it.

you used to hold hands all the time. usually, you were leading rhett by the hand, keeping him close so you didn't get separated on the street. because closeness like that was easier when you were kids. because closeness was allowed to be innocent then. sometimes.

rhett can't remember which neighbor it was anymore, but he remembers your mom sitting you and him down - she'd never been very good with the delicate stuff, that had always been your dad's thing. mavis had said who it was, whoever it was that kicked up a fuss to her. so she explained that sometimes you just can't do things like that in public. things people might see as queer, even if it isn't. not because it's wrong, mavis was very clear on that. but because it's not safe, because certain people aren't safe.

so you two adjusted. you didn't hold hands in public, anymore. or really ever. it felt weird to do now that it had a label. queer.

he remembers one night, when you were kids. when he was over at yours, because despite all the adjustments you two had made, spending less time with each other was never one either you thought to make. neither was sleeping separately. you kept that up until you left, just after graduation.

he was curled up on his side, half asleep. only vaguely aware of you, laid out on your stomach behind him. he could feel your shoulder pressing into his back, because the bed was small and not meant to hold two pre-teens. he remembers the quiet apology that came from you. remembers the "'m not trying to make you gay or nothing. just like... being with you, like friends, i guess. sorry people get weird sometimes," that came after. there's a lot of things rhett's never responded to. some he regrets, some he doesn't. he usually knows where he stands on it.

he doesn't really know about that night. doesn't know if he should've said something. or nudged you. acknowledged the fear that had seeped into the safe haven of your bed. or if it was better to just ignore it. if he was right to just pretend he was asleep. because he didn't want anymore adjustments.

because you were always the gay one. not rhett. it wasn't a secret. neither of you were ever under any illusion. you knew what it looked like. that you were infecting him. so, you were always the one to stop those bits of closeness when they were pointed out.

rhett wouldn't have. it was all just rumors as far as he was concerned. just rumors and the barn and your bed.

rhett also never really considered that you actually liked men. you never said anything, he just found it in a journal almost a decade later by accident. back then, he figured you were just a little funny. creative. an old soul. all the words that sound nice, that older people use to say when they mean they think you're a fag. when they don't know what they're talking about. when they don't know how to mind their damn business.

it wasn't so bad in high school.

your "eccentricities" were suddenly cool and ironic. you weren't one of the cool kids, but you were deemed the funny kid. so all those coded words weren't a crime anymore. it was like a 'get out of jail free' card.

is that when you started to like him?

no, by the date in the notebook, that would've made it almost three years that you felt like that. freshman year up until the end of junior. you still didn't know how how you felt about him then. that's what you wrote. that it was suffocating feeling that way.

rhett can't stand that thought. leaves a pit in stomach and his mouth wet.

it's a sickly feeling. one that's been there since he read it. one that worsens when he thinks about you drowning. that you felt that way. was rhett with you when you wrote it? did he just not notice?

were you thinking about it when you slept together? not like- not that there'd be something wrong with it. but just in the same bed. were you thinking about that in the barn? or were those little moments the exception.

it didn't feel like you were. you felt present.

felt like you were all there was then. that there wasn't anything waiting on the other side of the hay. that was suffocating for rhett.

more addicting. every moment with you was then. every moment with you is now. rhett would choke on that feeling. let his lungs spasm and cramp, never try to come up for air again, if it could be satiated. if there was some relief that came with making himself sick on that feeling. if he could stop himself from chasing that dizzy, achy high he only gets with you-

oh.

oh, fuck.

"now what fucking bullshit-" you voice is too something.

"it's a thing."

"you're fucking with me." it's richer. smooth in a way that makes rhett's chest feel fluttery. he's always liked your voice.

he thought he did, but you didn't used to sound like that. you didn't have that same control of it. now it's something firm, mature. adult. you sound so much more you. like you managed to boil yourself down to a sound and speak in it. he needs it more than the drink in his hand.

hearing your bemused,"i'm not drinking beer from your fuckin' hat, rabbott," is better than anything he's ever won at a rodeo. if your voice was all he'd gotten for winning tonight, that'd be just fine.

he's still high on it when you're walking home. to your home.

it's in town. and the bakery sign out front makes it easier to find. they're aren't many advantages to your mom's business being attached to the front of the house, but finding where to stumble in drunk, well after last call, is pretty good one.

it's that high that pushes him to do it, rhett thinks. because, of the two of you, you were always the braver one. more adventurous and reckless. rhett could be those things too, after a couple drinks and some heated words. but that usually ends in thrown fists, rather than, "we should sleep together."

and distantly he can hear himself.

somewhere his brain gets it. gets that, said like that, spoken from him, it sounds more salacious than it is. sounds more like a proposition than a plead.

"rhett?"

but really it's your fault he has that 'whore' reputation. he had it most of highschool, but it was wholly unearned, then - now not so much. because rhett wasn't much of a conversationalist. definitely wasn't picking up freshman and sophomore year, not that he was really trying, yet.

you just couldn't sit still. you'd pull him into conversations you started and disappear part way into it, leaving rhett to continue it. it was a smooth transition. even rhett, who paid more attention to you than he'd likely ever care to admit sober, had a terrible time keeping track of when you left.

indirectly, it led to rhett gaining a few reputations. girls thought he was a good listener, and in all fairness that's not far off. it's about the only part of the conversation he doesn't struggle with. guys thought he was an ass. that probably wasn't too far off either. most agreed rhett was pretty easy. but it never caused him to much trouble one way or the other. nothing a scrap couldn't end.

rhett continues belatedly. barely registering his name from your mouth. "like when we were," he vaguely motions between you like that's explanation enough. "like before you left."

he gets why you did.

another belated thought he adds: "the other way's fine too, i guess."

kind of.

he's starting to, he thinks.

you were chaotic, a lot of people thought that. rhett didn't, to him you were just fun and weird and his sometimes. but you were liked enough to not be a total outcast, but not cool enough to be invited anywhere without rhett. usually you were only invited because it was an open secret that he wouldn't go without you. if he were any less popular, it might've been a problem. but as it were, it was another thing a handful of fights could handle. and there'd been a few, but they'd been few and far between.

it was peace contingent on being the right kind of weird. you wouldn't have been happy if you stayed. even if there wasn't a school pulling you away.

he has the passing thought, "never wanna go anywhere without you, again," when you're pulling the side door to your house open.

"then take your damn shoes off so we can go to bed, together, faster." and he does, quickly stumbling after you down the hall. trying to be quiet.

what he doesn't get is why he couldn't know. there's an ugly part of him that would've tried to stop you, to keep you in wabang with him. a part he'd hope you don't know is there.

maybe he could've gone with you. he could've been happy like that.

rhett thinks so.

he wouldn't've been too committed to anything, back then. school hadn't really been his strong suit. he'd been interested in bullriding, but nothing was confirmed. he hadn't been far enough in it for it to matter yet. he could've figured something else out he thinks.

if he'd known.

if he'd get this. you. all the time. rhett would have done it.

supposes he could've anyway, could've had this earlier. could've reached out. he never lost your number, just never used it.

you half pull him into your room. don't let go too quickly, though. there's something distant in your gaze, and you laugh.

"what?"

"nothing," and it really is nothing this time. a dumb, passing thought you don't care to repeat. you let go of him, pushing rhett back on the bed, "just lay down."

he goes down easy, saying your name as a protest. the bed's small. same one you had before you left, he thinks. the whole room is about the same as he remembers it really. makes sense, he guesses. you wouldn't have had time to update it in the weeks since you've been back, if you've been spending all of it at work or with him.

"nothin', rabbott. just a meme."

he's getting whiny. always used to get like that when he felt left out. rhett tugs at your sleeve a little harder than he means to, makes you sorta lean over him to catch yourself, pushing him back too forcefully to be cute. "what is it?"

there's a smile from you.

can never be too certain when he's blasted, but he can't imagine both if you will fit. not with any space between you. "just, was gonna ask if you wanted a kiss goodnight," you're so close. you both take up so much of the bed already.

rhett doesn't think he'd mind if you were closer still. "like a kiss from the homies, type deal."

it's meant to be funny. was when it just lived in your mind. was before you were close enough to do it. before those eyes, prettier than they have any right to be, flick up towards you. just like in the barn. before he asked, "are you fucking with me?"

"no" and there's that voice of yours again. full, warm. honest.

rhett nods, hesitant to let his hand rest on your cheek.

the kiss isn't passionate.

there's no force or sparks behind it. it's more of a graze. so soft you barely feel it. feels like an 'i love you' you're too used to hearing, something that's lost meaning when you have it. something you notice the moment you don't.

because it's hard to think you two were ever different. that rhett didn't just always have you this way. that every way he's ever had you didn't just boil down to this. that this is new. hard to think there was any reprieve from that itch currently clawing it's way back. that swell in rhett's chest that leaves him near desperate for air while he's still breathing.

a need that stays with him until morning. through dragging himself out of bed to follow you and while he pulls himself to sit on the counter, waiting for a hangover cure in the form of coffee.

until you hand him a mug: "i think i gave you the wrong notebooks the other day."

your handwriting wasn't that bad, is what he meant to say. he wouldn't usually think himself so bold to kiss you, even if so gently as you had him the night before. but he had.

which covered about all he had to say on the matter.

"go out with me" was the only thing left, but you beat him to the punch.

and the ache is satiated.