#rafeward

It’s late enough that Ward’s eyes are crossing as he fiddles at his desk, combing through papers and writing notes to himself for his meetings the next morning. He always preferred writing with a pen over keyboard, needing the tactile sensation of ink against paper to better commit things to memory. His office is mostly dark save for the warm yellow glow of his desk lamp, illuminating just enough for him to see across his desk. Rose is likely already asleep in bed, two Klonopin and a glass of wine escorting her to dreamland. Soon, Ward would follow his wife and crawl into their Merino wool and silk sheets, dyed a color he could never remember the name of that Rose just had to have. It is the feeling of his memory foam pillow beneath his ear that Ward is craving as he jots down a few more memos.

The creek of the door creeping open breaks the silence of the room. Ward doesn’t look up from his notes, seeing a flash of baby pink in his periphery and filling in the image of Rose’s satin robe. “I know, I know. I’ll be up to bed soon,” Ward says with a wave of his hand, imagining his wife’s chastising grin. Chardonnay always made her clingy if the pills didn’t knock her out first. Ward has a smile on his face as he looks up, that handsome grin of his that said he was a man that had it all together.

What greets him instead of his wife is Rafe.

Wearing a dress Ward almost certainly bought his daughter last year for her birthday party.

Ward’s son stands six-foot-two with long limbs that always reminded him of a lemur, his skin tan from being out doing God knows what every day. He’s pressed up against the back of the door with his hands folded behind his back, staring at his father with an expression Ward can only make out as maudlin in the dim light. The thin straps of Sarah’s dress are biting into the meat of his shoulders and the damn bodice barely stretches over his ribcage. The skirt is a pale pink gossamer, tulle maybe, and cuts off just above Rafe’s knees. The sight of him ignites disgust within Ward’s chest, but beyond that is searing disappointment. The kid had been a failure since birth and with age had only gotten more unpredictable. Cross-dressing in his sister’s clothes was par for the course, apparently.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ward asks with a grimace, pushing back from his desk before sighing heavily. He checks his clock before rubbing his brow. “I don’t have time for this, Rafe. Get the fuck out and go to bed.”

He casts a glance at Rafe that turns into a stare when he sees his son hasn’t moved an inch. Leaning onto his desk, he counters Rafe with a look that means business. But Rafe doesn’t move. He’s just standing there with that puppy-look that makes Ward sick to his stomach. “Sarah’ll kill you if you rip that dress,” Ward says with a low warning, giving the boy one last chance to get in line or suffer the consequences.

Like a gunshot Rafe pushes from the door, crossing the room in two unsteady strides before he’s around the desk and landing on his knees with heavy thunks that undoubtedly penetrate through the floor to the level below. He grabs at Ward’s knee and uses the leverage to turn Ward in his desk chair to face him. Bathed in yellow, Ward can see that Rafe’s eyes are all pupil, two black orbs staring up at him like dolls’ eyes. The effect is heightened by the long lashes that circle his eyes, thickened with mascara. There is rouge on his cheeks too, some kind of shimmery blush he no doubt stole from Sarah as well. Most obscene is the lipstick, a bright red smeared across Rafe’s lips.

“Jesus Christ, son.” Ward winces as he grabs Rafe by the jaw, turning his face into the light to examine the damage done. His lips curl in disgust as he looks away, blinking past the humiliation bubbling in his gut. He prays that this is just some bad trip, that Rafe mixed coke with something he shouldn’t and would forget all of this like a bad hangover, but then he feels hands running up his calves. Ward looks down, his eyes meeting Rafe’s, and past the high he sees ugly determination.

“Please, Dad. Just let me,” Rafe begs, his voice quiet and trembling as badly as his hands as they work their way up his father’s legs. Ward freezes, confusion and shock turning him rigid until finally his hands catch up with his brain. The urge to kick the kid like a hyper dog is ever present, but Ward opts to seize Rafe by his biceps and haul him up instead.

“The hell are you doing?” He asks through his teeth, his eyes nearly bulging as he tries to see his son past the haze of whatever he took and that goddamn makeup. Abomination. The word cuts like a blade through his mind, carving itself into whatever gland was meant to produce affection. “This isn’t funny, Rafe. Say something!” Ward shakes his son, recalling all the nights he had held the boy as a baby and sang to him until his squealing finally subsided and he could get back to sleep. All that effort, wasted on an ungrateful, thoughtless child.

But Rafe doesn’t stop. His hands are on Ward’s thighs now, grasping at the meat of his legs like he wishes to claw out chunks of his flesh through the fabric of his pants. The boy is shaking, his wide eyes wet with tears that smear the clumps of black stuck to his lashes. “Please, Daddy,” He gasps, and Ward flinches at the word. Only Sarah calls him that still. Rafe had grown out of it by the time his mother died. “I’ll be good. I promise to be good for you.”

The words shock Ward to his core and his breath hitches, escaping his lungs in a stuttering exhale. Slowly he releases his grip on Rafe’s arms, trying and failing to make sense of this. The kid’s sweating, he realizes, the scent of spun sugar heavy in the air. And crying. Rafe is crying as he looks up at his father, his hands now on Ward’s belt. The full grain leather slips from the buckle with ease, accompanied by the tinkling sound of metal. It’s not his son he sees before him, but for a moment it's her. Rafe always shared his mother’s coloring, that dark honey hair and eyes the color of sea glass. After it happened, during that short while Ward was alone, he had barely been able to look at his son. All he saw was what he had lost. That resentment had never been scrubbed away, even after Rose swept into his life and made Ward whole again. Why did Rafe get to live when he squandered every chance he was given? When he was nothing but a pitiful fuck-up, destined for prison or worse?

The thoughts send Ward grasping Rafe by the hair and bending forward to get in his face as he wrenches Rafe’s head back. “You disgust me.” Ward spits the words like venom. He smells vodka on Rafe’s breath, heady enough for Ward to feel buzzed as he shoves his son away. Rafe isn’t deterred, going now for the button and zip of his father’s pants. It’s happening. There’s no denying what Rafe intends to do as he slides down the pull of the zipper with a shaking hand.

“Good. I’ll be good,” Rafe whispers to himself, and Ward can’t tell if the boy is psyching himself up or still trying to convince his father not to intervene.

Rafe is all hands, running his fingers over Ward’s legs in massage-like circles. Ward’s curiosity is beginning to outweigh his shock as his own hands find the arms of the chair, gripping the cushioned rests until his own trembling subsides. How much is Rafe really like his mother? How far is he willing to go? Rafe was a coward as much as a fuck up, and Ward intended to win this game of chicken like he won at everything in life. “You want it? Take it,” Ward orders, waiting for his son to turn tail and run.

Ward isn’t aware that he’s half hard until Rafe pulls him out. The kid bends forward between Ward’s spread legs and licks him from root to tip, one long stripe on the underside that makes Ward hiss. He grows against Rafe’s tongue and forces his breathing to remain even as Rafe circles his hand around the base of him. Rafe's mouth is hot and wet as he pops the head into his mouth. Ward can feel every bump and groove of Rafe’s tongue and his stomach lurches, every logical neuron in his brain shooting sparks of pure terror.

This is happening. And it feels good.

Rafe is swirling his tongue around the head, flicking his tongue against the slit in a way that has Ward’s back arching as he braces himself with his iron grip on the arm rests. He lowers his head, taking Ward into his mouth inch by inch until Ward can see that Sarah’s dress is open in the back. Rafe hadn’t been able to do up the zipper and the fabric flaps like wings as his bird-like shoulder blades jut out. With every inch Rafe takes, he’s sucking harder, his hand twisting around the base like he wants to rip Ward from the root. The boy’s got a mouth like a hoover and Ward shuts his eyes, seeing her and smelling Sarah’s perfume. Rafe’s tongue is too much, too hot, and Ward releases one of the arm rests. He opens his eyes to stare down at his son as he takes him by the jaw, feeling his mouth work as he begins to bob back and forth, sucking Ward’s cock like he had been trained for it. He wipes away the drool that escapes Rafe’s plush lips before slipping his thumb inside, stretching his mouth to the side until he sees teeth.

Rafe opens his eyes and meets his father’s gaze, his lipstick smeared across his face. He looks filthy, like some back alley whore Ward found in the Cut. He expects to see hatred or fear in Rafe’s eyes, but all he sees is a half-lidded look of desire. Humiliation returns with a vengeance and Ward leans back in his seat, unable to meet the boy’s eyes any longer.

He wants to shove Rafe away, but he’s harder than he’s ever been for Rose inside that slick mouth. It would be one thing if Rafe wasn’t enjoying it, if this was just a punishment like all the other times Ward had cut him with words or taken away privileges that Ward had worked hard day and night tirelessly for. But this wasn’t a punishment; this was desperation.

“So fucking needy,” Ward groans, his thumb slipping out of Rafe’s mouth before snatching his hair again. He pushes Rafe forward, forces him to take it all until he feels himself smacking the back of Rafe’s throat. Rafe begins to gag, choking and sputtering against Ward’s crotch. His hands scatter to grip Ward’s legs again, tugging on his pants and digging his nails into the muscle. “You like this, don’t you? So, take it.” Ward bucks his hips into Rafe’s mouth, his breath heavy as his body warms, tightens. “Fucking take it.”

Rafe resists a moment longer before he breathes through his nose and his throat relaxes. He swallows down the head, allowing Ward to penetrate his throat to the hilt. Naturally, it takes a dick in his mouth for the boy to follow orders. Ward doesn’t have the ability to feel pride, too busy fucking up into that ruined mouth. It lasts for hours or seconds, Ward can’t tell, but then he’s shooting off and Rafe is drinking every thick drop that exploded against his tongue.

Ward’s orgasm rolls through him in waves, leaving him trembling and gasping for air. No sooner does he release his hold on Rafe’s hair than his son is pushing himself away, his chest heaving like he had been drowning. Ward looks down at him and is overtaken with the sense that he has spoiled the boy, that this is just one more mistake in a sea of regret. Reaching out, Ward wipes a smear of lipstick and cum from Rafe’s bottom lip before shoving hard at his shoulder.

“Get yourself cleaned up.”

~

Semen gets cold so quickly. Rafe’s lamenting the change as he stares at the pearlescent splatter across his freckled chest and drags a spasming finger through the muck. It’s like schoolhouse glue at this point, smells like moldy icing. The guy, Rick or whatever, needs a better diet, but Rafe’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut. There’s rings around his wrists from where the handcuffs have bitten his skin red and papery, thin as blown-up bubblegum. It’s an ache like any other, less of an annoyance and more like a song stuck in his head, background noise he tries to tune out.

Sitting up, Rafe sucks in a wince, the fucking batton that Ranger Rick’s currently washing in the en-suite sink having left a phantom impression through his colon. It’s routine at this point, but that doesn’t clean the blood off the sheets. Twisting his arm back, he feels for the welts slashed between the nubs of his spine like the bastard was aiming. He can’t quite reach, but the twinge is there, sharp and throbbing. It’s enough to leave him dizzy, but most things do.

Rafe’s gotten very good at seeing double.

Shaking the noise out his ears, Rafe moves his shoulders one muscle at a time, acclimating to the sting licking up his back and blooming from his backside. Bend. Twist. Bend. Twist. Rick’s getting braver, eager to test the limits of anatomy. If Rafe didn’t find it so fascinating himself, he might mind. Reaching the moth-bitten and smelly scrap of fabric that was once considered a t-shirt, but now could be legally defined as a biohazard, he tugs it overhead. Be a man, you’ve swallowed worse. Dad’s voice in his head, that whiskey-slick purr that slides past his ear all syrupy. You’ll heal, son. Bones grow back twice as strong. Stretching his arms feels like acupuncture with knives, so Rafe has to bite back a whine as that nasty anger of his slugs up his throat like bile.

Rick comes into view and he’s laughing. Rafe can’t hear it, but he feels it, watches as the man’s expression contorts in a howl. It’s only a second, a flash that doesn’t match what comes after, but he can’t shake it, can’t help but feel like Rick the trick is trying to take what he didn’t earn.

“You owe me an extra twenty,” He croaks, sounding weaker than he expected. Breathless, like someone else is speaking for him. Rafe’s always like this for a while after, still hanging around on the ceiling somewhere. Only the pain lancing his joints and flaying his skin has any hope of lassoing around his ankle and yanking him back down to the world of the living.

The guy, Rick the slick, Rick the sick, Rick with his heavy black leather broomstick, is slipping his belt through the loops of his uniform. His thick fingers are like pale sausages and Rafe’s stomach turns at the taste of spoiled meat coating his tongue. “We’re already square, kid,” He says, and Rafe’s moving, throwing on his flannel and jeans. It’s everywhere, that anger, like someone had burst the veins behind his eyes. You don’t mishandle merchandise, it’s bad for business.

“The fuck we are,” Rafe snaps, rising to his full height. He’s wiry, spindly, and Rick’s got at least a buck-fifty on him, but there must be something in his face that makes the guy take him seriously, because Rick isn’t hitting him or laughing. Rafe had expected laughter. “My shirt’s sticking to my fucking skin. You went off menu.”

The slovenly face staring back at him is all butter, his bald head the only taut part of him. Rafe feels the urge to mush around the features, try and find something human in those black eyes like twin riverstones. Rick tuts before patting down his uniform, reaching into his right pants pocket. Rafe can’t help but salivate at the sight of the leather wallet presented like charity, some Pavlov instinct turning his tongue into a hungry proboscis intent on seeking sugar.

There’s a crisp twenty dollar bill and a small Ziplock with a couple lines worth of white powder pressed into Rafe’s palm. It’s like taking the Eucharist, like Saint Rick’s giving his blessing. Rafe nearly sticks out his tongue.

“For your trouble,” The satisfied customer says with a wink, like they’re old friends. In a way, they are. Ranger Rick was one of the first. An early bird that caught the worm.

Rafe’s already headed out the door, the smell of mildew and cigarettes clinging to piss-yellow wallpaper. He’s been to this motel so many times that he knows the layout by feel alone, doesn’t need to open his eyes as his hand grasps the knob. “And also with you,” He calls back, chipper as only a boy with cum stains on his briefs can be.

It’s easy to swallow anything when you’ve got nothing to lose.

Quick pit stop in the parking lot, Rafe pops open the baggie. The coke goes down smooth as he snorts a couple bumps off the side of his hand, his septum long-since-deviated making his nose run. Sniffling like a pup, Rafe’s thoughts burn a little clearer as the high turns his heart into a hammer, shooting his blood through every vein until his skin pulses. He imagines the layout, the hidden rivers that power his body spread out down his limbs, as he gets on his bike. It’s a piece of shit, thrown together with spare parts, but it beats walking.

It takes two tries for the engine to turn over, but then Rafe’s gone, narrowly avoiding smacking into the side of Rick’s cruiser before turning out the lot. It’s still early, so Rafe heads in the direction of where he goes whenever he’s got loose change or Dad’s allowance burning a hole in his pocket. It’s rare he gets extra, even if he knows the twenty won’t get him far, so he’s giddy. Excitement hums behind his ribs and maybe it’s the coke or the fact that it’s cloudy today, the air swollen with rain to come and the sun hidden behind a bluey-grey curtain that’s got him all riled up, but Rafe rides the wave. He leans into the vibration of his bike, cranks the accelerator until the wind whips his face.

He’s not alive yet, just undead. The living’ll come later.

The girl Barry plops in Rafe’s lap tastes sweet, like lead and lithium. She’s kind of eating his face, but he’s kind of too busy thinking about the party favors Barry said he’d throw in for showing her a good time to give too much of a shit. It’s weirder with girls, their hunger different. Rafe’s been digested plenty, but he still feels like he’s all hands whenever something with breasts and hips tries him on for size. They’re on the couch, surrounded by smoke and baseheads, and Rafe didn’t catch her name, wouldn’t remember it anyway.

When she pulls back, Rafe notices the murky green of her eyes. She doesn’t turn away as she reaches out to pick up her joint from where it’s been burning in the ashtray, her smile as slick as jellyfish. Instead of bringing it to her lips, she slips it between Rafe’s, letting him inhale like a suckling infant. She says something, but it's just whispering, constant whispering doubling and tripling over and over again until all Rafe hears is an uninterrupted buzz. It isn’t until she flicks him on the head that her question sinks in like a hammer to his skull.

“What sort of name is Whippet, anyway?”

Barry laughs, sorting through pills he’s got on the coffee table, piles all colors of the rainbow laid out like he’s moving into the confectionery business. Rafe tries to look over, but what’s-her-name pulls him back to her with a tug of his chin. He wants to correct her, his tongue loose and spongy behind his teeth, mouth hanging open with inhaled speech, but the Candyman cuts him off. “Dumbass here got caught huffing nitrous behind his elementary school, ain’t that right, Whip?” Barry says, the light glinting off his gold tooth. “Shit like that tends to stick.” Rafe tries to size him up, tries to decide whether to join in on the joke or feign embarrassment, but he’s all unglued, held together by the promise of payment and what’s-her-name’s claws currently digging into the meat of his arm.

She nips at Rafe’s bottom lip, the pop audible as it snaps back against his gums. “I like it,” She says, and Rafe figures that’s a compliment. Her greedy fingers spill under the hem of his shirt, tracing the bends of his ribs. She’s reaching back and back and back until Rafe gasps, nails scraping the hot, puffy wounds like tiger-stripes along his spine. Before he can tug himself away to safe harbor, what's-her-name snatches him by the shoulders and wrenches him forward like she's discovered cancer. Doubled over, Rafe’s got his face buried in her jean miniskirt as she pulls up the back of his shirt. She must see the damage, because he hears more mumbling he can’t decipher. There’s too much blood in his ears, like he’s underwater, but she doesn’t sound happy anymore.

“Christ, Whip.” Barry’s voice, slicing through the fog like lightning through thunderclouds. “You better not get blood on my damn couch. Here, get the fuck out.”

It’s either pity or the fact that Rafe’s gagging, but he feels a tied-off baggie hit his face. Rafe snatches it, shoves it in his pocket, shoves himself away from what’s-her-name’s milky sweetness and cloying perfume that's been giving him a headache the last half hour. She’s still calling after him as he stumbles towards the exit, past a group of lifers huddling together around a shared pipe.

A strong grip clamps down on Rafe's shoulder just before the carpet’s about to give under his feet, steadying him. Turning quick enough to make his stomach flip, he shrugs off the calloused hand that falls without fight and gapes at the startling handsome face before him. Tan and aged, flecked with grey stubble, they’ve never spoken, but their paths have crossed at Barry’s frequently enough that Rafe recognizes him.

“Get yourself cleaned up, kid,” Luke warns before turning back just in time for one of the walking corpses to pass him the pipe. Rafe watches with vague fascination as Luke takes a hit, the spinning glass catching his eye like a Fourth of July sparkler, before continuing on in his programmed direction, away from the stench of bleach and heat.

By the time Rafe makes it back to his bike, the blanket of clouds is beginning to crack open like fragile eggshells. He’s weaving down side streets and backroads in the hopes of beating the breaking light. The sun doesn’t like him, or he doesn’t like the sun, Rafe’s still not sure who started it. All he knows for certain is that he can’t trust the light, can’t stand the heat of it or look at what it reveals. It’s safer in the dark, hidden beneath shadows that obscure and blur away all the disagreeable details. Mom had died in the dark, and the shadows had been there to take her to wherever she needed to go. He’d been shielded from the blood all over everything and her limpid, slack face, hadn’t seen the gashes carved up her arms with the blade from Dad’s safety razor. All the moonlight coming in through the window had allowed him to make out was the inky water she lay in and the pale gold of her hair. If Rafe had just left it at that, maybe everything would have been okay. Maybe she wasn’t even dead until he flipped on the light.

The Cameron house is one of the larger shacks the Cut has to offer. Ward never made it past a year at UNC, but no one's forgotten his honor roll rank or SAT scores, the potential he drank away while managing, somehow, not to poison his intelligence. That could've-been-a-contender pride earned him a cushy gig supervising construction, and it had paid for the only home Rafe's ever known. From its flecking white exterior to the shudders Sarah had helped Mom paint green, the site of endless arguments and sleepless nights still filled Rafe with animal comfort. It was sort of like the beginnings of the flu and a little like the relief after the initial panic of a burn blends out into pleasure, but maybe that was the coke. Whatever the shit Rick gave him was cut with still has Rafe sniffling and breathing through his mouth as he dismounts his bike and wheels it around back.

He never uses the front door if he can help it. When Dad’s off, he’s always parked in the living room, a king supervising his domain from his brown leather La-Z-Boy throne, and Rafe doesn’t want to face him yet, doesn’t think he can take that look of his like staring down the barrel. Quiet as miasma, Rafe passes through the back door, skirting the house’s heart with his hand trailing along the wall. His clumsy feet are suddenly precise as he strays from every creaky floorboard, careful not to draw attention. There’s music coming from Dad’s stereo, George Strait’s croon leaking through the walls, and compulsively Rafe hums under his breath as he slips into Wheezie’s room.

They’ve got an agreement. Anything Rafe doesn’t want found, he hides here. He goes straight to her chest of drawers, kneels before the second-from-the-bottom tier. Riffling past Sarah’s old dolls, now missing limbs and most of their hair, school function t-shirts never worn, and various pre-teen baubles, he finds the metal box he’s looking for. The dinosaurs printed on the top yawn wide to show off their teeth and Rafe’s sure not to make eye-contact as he opens the tin and places the pills inside. Shoving it all away, he’s careful as he rises to his feet. His backside still aches from his neck to his thighs, while the front of him’s relatively numb. He needs a shower and probably some food, his stomach’s all knotted up, usually is.

Rafe can go days without eating, it’s a good trick.

He’s only a couple steps down the hall when Dad’s voice rings loud in clear, not in his head but in reality, the sharpness of it turning Rafe to stone for an instant. The music shuts off, an eerie silence in its wake.

“Rafe, don’t make me call for you twice.”

It’s something automatic, the way his feet move, like Dad twisted a crank or pulled a string. He follows the yellow glow of the living room light spilling into the dim hallway, steps into the room with unsure shoulders hunched. His fingers are restless, so he brings his thumb to his mouth, starts gnawing at the swollen skin around the nail. Sarah says it makes him look like a burn victim, like he dipped his fingertips in acid. Dad’s in his chair, chunky blue and white plastic cooler cup on the end table beside him. He’s gotta drink just to keep the shakes away, so by now he should be half a box deep in wine.

Rafe can smell it, that acrid tang hanging in the air like smoke.

Leaning forward, Ward waves his son over with one hand, runs the other down his beard. Always obedient, Rafe steps closer. He doesn’t wince as he gets down on his knees since his father can’t stand weakness, pokes at any fault till the blister pops. “Rick called me,” He says, some kind of feeling simmering beneath his surface that Rafe can’t quite make out. It’s not anger or disappointment, but something else all together. Envy, maybe. Shame? Rafe just stares up at him, fingers in his mouth like he’s teething. “Said he might have gotten a little out of hand. How out of hand?”

Looking away, Rafe shrugs, but the rawness around his wrist must give him away, because his father catches his arm and pulls him forward to examine the defects. Ward’s all furrowed brow, grumbling to himself before releasing the boy and motioning towards the couch. “Get over there.”

Rafe starts, his gaze flicking back and forth between his father and the sofa. “What about Wheezie and Sarah?”

Ward’s already gotten up, but he pauses to offer a confused look. “The girls are at school, you know that,” He says before turning away and slinking heavy-footed into the shadowed hall.

Shoving himself to his feet, Rafe blinks. He knows what’s going to happen, but it takes a moment to get his limbs to cooperate. Once his fleshy fingers get to moving, he starts to strip. Flannel, t-shirt, jeans, all of it gets peeled away until he’s in just his underwear. There’s a tremor in his hand as he folds it all neatly in a little pile on the coffee table, but that’s normal.

“On the couch,” Ward orders, carrying in his supplies, and the boy knows better than to be asked a third time.

It’s not Rafe that stretches out on the sofa, feet hanging off the armrest and stomach pressed to the cushions. It’s Whippet, blank eyed and agreeable, arms folded under his cheek. Ward sits on the edge next to Whippet’s thighs and opens the tub of Arnica, starts spreading the cold cream on the boy’s back. Whippet shivers, but the thick fingers making circles against his skin and smoothing out the sting puts him back at ease, especially when Ward places his free hand on the back of his neck, holding him steady. It’s nice, it really is.

“You gotta learn to say no, son,” Dad says as his fingers sweep across his lower back, no longer caressing, but kneading. Whippet’s sore muscles whine and the sensation pushes an easy gasp past his lips. “You give them an inch, they’ll take a mile. I vet everyone as best I can, but there’s always a risk. What’ll happen to us if you end up in a wooden box?”

Whippet stares at the wall, remembers how Mom used to polish the oak laminate with dizzying oscillations, until his eyes lose focus. He’s already in a wooden box. He’ll never leave it.

Ward sighs and Whippet flinches, can’t stand the disappointment on his breath. He wants to be good, needs to be. It’s as urgent as air in his lungs, but he’s drowning and Dad’s got his hand on his ass, briefs shoved away.

“There you go,” Ward murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of Whippet’s ear as he pushes and pulls at the tortured glutes one handful at a time.. “Easy now. Easy … Just let me check.”

Whippet squeezes his eyes tight, mouth pulled open as his father begins to probe, two fingers jammed inside him. He’s feeling for fissures left behind from Ranger Ricky’s baton and Whippet’s shaking, back arched and hips raised to meet Ward’s hand.

It’s what he knows best; how to allow your own murder.

Ward keeps shifting his hand back and forth, his touch deepening with every thrust until Whippet’s shaking. Rafe’s somewhere up there, watching the boy writhe with the indifference of angels. There’s no way to stop it, no way to run from the hand swallowing him from the inside. Not when Ward’s pressing against the spot that makes the cock pinned under Whippet’s belly twitch like a neglected pet.

There’s warmth on Whippet’s cheek, soft as feathers and twice as gentle, that eases his eyes open. The trick reveals itself as the sun comes into view, rays bursting from behind the window. Blinding white rips at Rafe’s vision, slaps him across the face with the force of a sledgehammer. He can’t get away fast enough, can’t escape the burning whiteness as he begins to kick, clawing at the arm rest as he lunges for safety. It burns all over, his sensitive flesh on fire, and he scrambles to get behind the couch, to hide, to shove himself into the dark where he can breathe again. Rocking back and forth, Rafe’s smacking at his cheek, desperate to carve the betrayal from his skin.

As quick as Rafe disappeared, Dad comes after him, kneels beside the kid doubled over and pressed to the floor. “Rafe? Jesus, Rafe, stop it!” He grabs at Rafe’s arms, tries to wrench them away, but Rafe’s crying now, wet, ugly sobs bursting from his lungs.

“The sun. The fucking sun,” Rafe’s gasping, fighting against the strong arms wrapping around him. It’s suffocating, the embrace, the stench of sweat and fermented grapes. It’s too fucking much, but it’s all he has. “It- It hit me. You saw it! It hit me!”

“Shh, son. It’s alright,” Dad reassures, cupping the back of Rafe’s skull as he pulls the boy to his chest like a wailing child. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Rafe’s fight begins to give, exhaustion settling in as he clings to the sturdy frame of his father, bitten fingers clutching at his shirt. He’s shaking so hard his teeth are rattling, his tears hot and heavy as they roll down his cheeks to soak into Ward’s shoulder. “Where’s Wheezie?” He asks through frantic pants. “I need Wheezie, Dad. She can’t be out in the sun!”

Ward only holds Rafe tighter, squeezing the tears out of him like puss from a wound. “Your sister’s at school. She’s safe,” He says, stroking the back of Rafe’s hair over and over again. The buzzing’s back, humming in Rafe’s ear. Maybe it wasn’t the sun, but a bee sting. Maybe there’s thousands of yellow-assed insects making a home in his skull and drilling holes in his brain. That would explain what’s wrong with him, the malfunction that makes a papercut feel like a missing limb and a stab wound feel like a skinned knee. “Everybody’s safe, son. I promise.”

Shaking his head, Rafe bites his lip, tries and fails to calm his breathing. He can’t get in enough air, can’t expand his lungs and that fucking buzzing won’t stop. “Why can’t it leave me alone?” He asks, begging the only god he knows for answers. “Why can’t I just be left alone?”

Eventually, Rafe manages to come back down to Earth. Ward holds him through it, rocking him back and forth. It nearly puts Rafe to sleep, and he’s barely conscious as his father helps him to stand, guides him like a fellow drunk out the living room and down the hall. Rafe trips over his own feet, but each time he’s caught and set upright. The end of all things comes when he’s laid in bed, covers pulled up around him, because it’s only then that Rafe’s eyes focus enough to catch the look his father’s giving him, that sickly-sweet pity that always follows disgust.

It hurts as much as the punch had, but Rafe’s too tired to keep crying.

“Rest a little,” Ward says like all the tenderness has been bled out of him. It’s Rafe’s fault, he’s sure. If his father is bleeding, Rafe had to have created the wound. “It’s Sarah’s turn to make dinner.”

Luke hasn’t twitched in a while, but Rafe can’t stop. He’s lost count of how many times he’s brought the crowbar down onto that wrinkled, sun damaged face, but by now it’s no longer a face at all. The mound of gore stares back at him as Rafe lets his arm swing down, down, down. The bones stopped crunching some time ago, so the only sound is Rafe’s whacking and the slimy squelch as iron thrashes brain. Snail-like trails of silver mix in with maroon, reminding Rafe of the Jackson Pollock paintings he was shown in high school art class. He doesn’t know if it’s him or JJ that’s screaming, but he tastes copper. Maybe that means something. Rafe … says the heap of blood and meat … Rafe, wake up … He ignores it and keeps striking, though he can’t feel his arms anymore … Rafe, son, wake up!

Rafe wakes up choking, his chest heaving as he sucks in great gulps of air between sputtering attacks. He shoots up and meets his father’s chest and strong arms wrap around him. Still more than a little fucked up from the night before, Ward’s embrace makes him think of an anaconda, some great yellow bastard wrapping around his body to squeeze the life out of him.

“It’s alright, honey. Hey, now, it’s alright,” Dad’s saying, using that soft and gentle voice Rafe hasn’t heard in a long time. He’s got his hand in Rafe’s hair, cradling the back of his skull to keep him close.

Rafe’s still trying to find his breath, his whole body trembling. He’s sweaty, he realizes, absolutely soaking through his shirt. It must have been the speedball last night, Barry’s treat for being such a loyal customer lately. He can still feel it, thrumming through him despite the couple hours he managed to sleep. Pulling back to look at his father feels like a death sentence, sure that the instant he does, Ward will be able to tell he’s loaded.

Biting the bullet, once he’s finally got a handle on his breathing, Rafe makes space. He scrapes his fingers through his hair, taming it from a night of fitful sleep. Ward’s hand is on his thigh now, over the covers, a solid weight grounding his son.

“You were having a nightmare,” Dad says, and he’s got that look again. He’s been wearing it whenever Rafe manages to make an appearance at home. He doesn’t ask where his son’s been, doesn’t ask why Rafe’s bank account keeps emptying as quickly as Ward can put his allowance in. He doesn’t ask why Rafe’s not eating, why it seems like he’s had the flu for weeks now. He’s a good father that way. “I could hear you crying. Jesus, you haven’t been like this since …”

Ward looks away. They don’t talk about Mom.

Shaking his head, Rafe takes a deep breath and steels himself. It’s nothing. It’s not the fact that JJ hasn’t texted him since all that shit went down with Luke. It’s not the fact that the little asshole isn’t even dead -- Rafe’s seen him around enough times to confirm -- but flat out ignoring him. It’s not the fact that Rafe can’t force himself to text JJ first either, too dependent on his dignity to lose their game of chicken. It’s not the fact that he had nearly bludgeoned Luke to death, or that his nightmare isn’t from guilt of what he almost did, but regret that he hadn’t gone through with it.

“It’s nothing, Dad. Y’know how I get sometimes,” Rafe says, his voice quiet as he speaks with his hands, shaping the air around his head. Ward’s rubbing his leg now, slow and easy like calming down a horse. It’s nice, it really is. “I’m sorry I made you wake up.”

Now it’s Ward’s turn to shake his head. “No, it’s okay, really. You just scared me, that’s all. I thought the worst before I came in here,” He says, using that honied voice that Rafe has missed so terribly. He’s missed home, but he’s needed to be away. He doesn’t want to get fucked up around Dad and Wheezie, and getting fucked up is non-negotiable right now. It’s addicting to have his father like this, the sweet side of him so intoxicating. It’s only when Rafe’s on the verge of imploding that Ward turns warm and syrupy with him. “I know you’re going through something-”

“Dad-”

“No, Rafe,” Ward objects, his tone firmer now in a way that has Rafe straightening to attention. “Now, I haven’t said anything, but I’m worried about you. You’re never home, and when you are …” Ward pauses and Rafe suffocates on guilt, his chest heaving with it like something’s pressing down on his ribs. “I was young once too, y’know? You’re an adult, I won’t tell you not to have a little fun, but it’s not a good example for your sisters.”

“I have a handle on it.” Rafe swallows thickly around dry mouth. What he wouldn’t give for cheap beer and some of JJ’s pot to mellow out with. It’s better than the ragweed Topper gets. Raising his gaze to meet his father’s eyes, Rafe gives him as honest an answer as he can. “I’m working something out of my system. It’s not … good right now. In my head.”

The words make Rafe feel sick. Showing any kind of weakness around his father makes him want to fall to his knees in contrition. It feels wrong to drop any of his bullshit in Ward’s lap, but the dregs of last night’s decisions has his tongue looser than normal. Besides, it’s hard to lie when Ward’s giving him his full attention. Rafe’s too eager to bask in the glow of it.

Dad’s hand is under Rafe’s shirt now, tracing the ridges of his ribs. It tickles, but Rafe doesn’t dare move. His breath hitches, eyes fixed to the wall behind his father. Rafe’s room is bare, so different from JJ’s. There is barely anything here except for clothes and a handful of personal bullshit. It’s like a hotel room, sterile and cold.

“I know how to get you back to sleep,” Dad says, his hand shifting to Rafe’s chest before he presses Rafe down against the blankets. Rafe lets him, his stomach doing flips as he forces his heart to ease its suddenly rapid pace. Blankets are shifted and gentle hands help Rafe out of his clothes. In seconds or maybe hours he’s naked, shivering. He’s like a livewire all over, tense and needy. He hasn’t been touched since JJ blew up whatever it was they had, and Ward is being so kind with him, taking his time to rub the ache from Rafe’s muscles. It’s overwhelming, and Rafe feels bloodsick from it.

Ward’s over him now, a sturdy weight in an old college t-shirt and boxers. He always looks so striking in pajamas to Rafe. He’s not Ward Cameron like this, but Dad, with his greying beard and uncombed hair, with hands that should be soft, but instead are calloused from his Pogue upbringing.

Rafe feels a kiss pressed to his shoulder and has to bite his tongue to keep from screaming. The affection burns his skin and each subsequent kiss leaves Rafe twitchy. He shuts his eyes, forces breath into his lungs and out his nose. Ward’s everywhere, touching him all over until every inch of Rafe feels like a raw nerve his father won’t stop tonguing. It shouldn’t be Ward coming to him like this, all sweet-mouthed and helpful. That’s not how they do things. It’s always Rafe that goes to him, eager to ease his father’s burdens. Ward has so much stress, and only his son knows how to snuff it out like candlelight. He is practiced and rehearsed, having memorized every way to please his father.

Now it’s all wrong, and Rafe can’t do it. He must be taking advantage of his father, greedily sucking more attention than he deserves. He can’t make himself wrap his arms around Ward and pull him close, doesn’t yield to Ward’s touch or his incessant kisses. Rafe lays there prone as a corpse, face turned away and pinched with nausea. Breathe in, out. In, out. If this is what Dad wants, he’ll do it, he’s a good son that way, but the wrongness of it all is scorching Rafe from the inside out.

He tries to think about JJ when Ward takes Rafe by the shoulders and turns him over. Face buried in his pillow, Rafe breathes in the scent of his sweat and imagines threadbare sheets littered with burn holes and faded stains. It’s not Dad on top of him now, running warm hands down his back, over the curve of his ass. It’s JJ, all seawater and sunshine and dirty jokes. Rafe’s heard them all; even in bed JJ’s funny. Especially.

Stomach threatening to lurch from out his throat, Rafe grips the pillow beneath him. Ward’s hands are too large, his body too heavy. He feels ensnared, like he’s tied to the bedpost though his hands are free. He can’t move, but he has to. He has to sever the chord or he’ll die in this house. JJ knew that, he always talked about riding a wave to somewhere far away and never looking back. He has a future, a grand, wild life stretched before him that Rafe will never understand. The truth of it feels so close, and Rafe tries desperately to grasp at it.

“Jesus Christ-”

A chill runs over Rafe’s back when Dad leaps off him, making the notches of his spine tingle. He lifts his head from the pillow and sees his arms, stretched out towards the wall. Rafe’s left arm is covered in rabid scratches, the flesh swollen and scarlett. There are gouges, deeper cuts like Rafe had been trying to dig beneath the skin. His hands are shaking, but he can’t feel it. He can’t feel anything.

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t- I-” Rafe slowly pushes back onto his knees, resting on his calves as he stares dumbly at his arms. His words are slurred and hurried all at once and Dad’s got that look again. “I gotta- S’okay.”

Everything tilts as Rafe gets off the bed, his chest so tight he wants to break his own ribs just to breathe. Arms reach for him and Rafe shoves at a hard body, needing space. There’s no air in the room, sucked out through a vacuum. He can’t look at Dad, can’t see those watery eyes or he’ll really lose it. Dad says something about a doctor and Rafe shakes his head so vigorously he has to hold the wall to catch his balance. Clothes. Where are his fucking clothes? Everything Rafe touches falls out of his useless fingers.

It’s not until Rafe hears the click of the door shut that he can breathe again. Out. He has to get out, has to cling to this moment of clarity before Dad comes back. Frantically Rafe shoves on the sweats and old t-shirt Ward had taken off him, the fabric still grimy with sweat. He forgets shoes, too preoccupied with finding his keys and phone. Dad’s yelling at Rose, but Rafe is walking too quickly to catch any words. His legs move without his permission until he’s sprinting through the house to the garage, throwing himself behind the wheel of his car like something is chasing him. The acrid stench of burnt rubber permeates the interior as he reverses out the driveway at the same speed. JJ is at John B’s, Rafe feels it. He wouldn’t have gone back home, not after last time.

He’s not that fucking stupid.

Morning is breaking through the clouds by the time Rafe pulls up to the Chateau. He got here by miracle alone, the streets mostly vacant at this time greatly reducing the possibility of vehicular manslaughter. He shuts off the engine and takes his phone from his pocket with trembling fingers, muttering to himself as he does. After counting to ten, he pulls up JJ’s contact. This is a bad idea and he knows it, but he can’t go to anyone else. He can count his friends on one hand, and none of them know shit about him. He had wanted it that way, but JJ had somehow wormed his way to the truth. Staring at the screen, Rafe calculates the risk in losing what remains of his dignity. He’s not bleeding anymore and his head’s cleared a little, but everything still feels mixed up. It made sense coming here, but now it doesn’t.

“What’s with you and screwing with my beauty sleep? I’m starting to think it’s jealousy, Cameron.”

Rafe releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding, phone pressed to his ear as his free hand grips the wheel. “I’m outside. I know- I know we’re not talking and I fucked everything up, but I-I-” Rafe twists his fist over the wheel and the leather squeaks beneath his palm. He’s on the verge of exploding, something terrible and ugly smoldering beneath his ribs. He can’t breathe again, his lungs smothered beneath the weight of everything he feels. “You’re you. You’re you and that’s- that’s important right now.”

JJ doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing but shuffling on the other end of the call. Rafe grits his teeth and throws his phone across the car into the passenger seat. He falls forward, digging his forehead into the wheel as he slams the sides of his fists against his thighs. It’s too complicated. Too ruined. JJ will ignore him like he’s been for weeks and Rafe will have to go back home. He can’t couch surf forever. He’ll have to go back and beg Dad for forgiveness, show him that he’s still his good son, that this was just a setback. He’ll get clean and he-

The sound of a door clattering closed makes Rafe snap to attention. He stares ahead out the windshield as JJ shambles out the Chateau, looking like he recently went twelve rounds with a semi-truck. Rafe’s out the car before he can blink, marching across the damp grass in bare feet to meet JJ half-way. His face is swollen and bruised, smeared with brown and yellow. He’s itching at his ribs, and one look at the scabby state of JJ’s knuckles has Rafe gasping. “You went back,” Rafe says through grit teeth, his shock switching lightning-quick to fury, and shoves at JJ before he can stop himself. He’ll kill Luke for this. He’ll kill that fucking trailer trash bastard like he should have weeks ago. He’ll kick in his head and smash his brains into the moldy hardwood. “You fucking idiot.”

JJ grimaces from being shoved, but recovers quickly to take Rafe by the shoulders. He’s taller than JJ, but it still feels like he’s looking up at the kid. “Down boy,” JJ says, his eyes flicking back and forth as he searches Rafe’s gaze for something. “He got what was comin’ to him, alright? No need to go all attack dog on my behalf. I can handle my own shit, thank you very much.” Rafe clenches his jaw, but doesn’t argue. “Now, why are you here after the radio silence, Cameron? You look like steam-rolled caca and I was in the middle of catching waves in dreamland.”

“I’m not high,” Rafe says, unsure why he needs JJ to know that, but he does.

JJ leans in closer and scrunches up his nose. “Yeah, well, you don’t smell too pretty either, dude.” Rafe catches the moment JJ’s gaze falls to Rafe’s arm and JJ flinches, releasing Rafe’s shoulders to snatch the injured limb. Rafe doesn’t jerk from the contact, welcoming the pain of JJ’s clumsy, hyper fingers digging into his muscles. It’s nothing like Dad’s controlled touch, always careful not to leave a mark. “What happened? It’s like you tried to fist-fuck a cheese grater.”

“I did it,” Rafe says, that burning in his chest beginning to ebb, shift. He raises his free hand and stares at the dried blood under his nails, wiggles his fingers. His hand feels alien; the only spot of flesh he has any connection to is where JJ’s touching him. “I don’t remember. I’m a little fucked up still.”

JJ raises an eyebrow before letting go. The loss of contact makes Rafe want to whine and he has to clench his teeth to keep quiet. “Stay out here,” JJ says, then thinks better of it. “Actually, go around back. John B’s sleeping and this is a nice neighborhood. Can’t have you bringing down the rental value by bleeding all over the place.” Clutching his middle with one hand, JJ jogs back inside.

Rafe watches him go before doing as instructed and walking around the house. He rubs at his eye with the heel of his hand, counting his steps in some vain way to stay present. Dad’s good at this, at bringing him down, but thinking like him isn’t helping. His thoughts feel like scurrying rats, like barking dogs. Either way, it’s all too loud and too quick. He tries to take in the scenery around him as he sits at the fire pit, but it’s distant, watery. And it’s hard to pay attention to the misty morning air or the burgeoning rays of gold filtering through the trees above him when his feet are caked with mud.

JJ comes back eventually, holding a first aid kit, and carefully sits down on the log next to Rafe. They both shift to face each other, and Rafe focuses on the boy in front of him. Though he’s seen him around busting tables at the country club, it’s been a while since he’s seen him up close. Aside from the bruising and minimal swelling that remains, he’s still how Rafe remembers him. Floppy blond hair and farmer’s tan. Faded clothes full of holes. It’s only been a little over a month, and yet Rafe feels the urge to catalogue every detail of him to memory.

“You gonna tell me why you went all Freddy Kruger on your arm,” JJ asks as he opens up the box and begins to riffle through its contents. He sets aside what he needs on the open lid. “Or are you going to keep being all cryptic and weird?”

Rafe considers the question, his sight fixed to the craggy scratches. It’s like an allergic reaction, his skin pulsing and warm. “You first,” He says. His tongue feels less like marbles the more he talks, but it’s hard to get his brain to connect to his jaw. “Why’d you go back?

JJ lifts his head to look at Rafe like he’s an idiot before turning back to his work of opening up plastic packets. If Rafe wasn’t used to it from him, he’d be offended. “Because fuck you for telling me not to, that’s why,” He says with a little grin. “I wanted to prove a point.”

It takes Rafe a few seconds to process what JJ said, but then he huffs a small laugh. “How’d that work out?”

“You’re de-flect-ing,” JJ says in a singsong voice, and takes Rafe’s arm, tugging it over to his lap. He gets that pinched little look of his as he concentrates, his lips puckered as he bites inside his mouth. Rafe remembers what it feels like in there, how the small ridges of scar tissue would brush against his tongue. It wasn’t as unpleasant as it sounds.

“And you stopped texting me- ah, fuck!” The alcohol wipe JJ’s got burns like a motherfucker as he cleans the punctures and scrapes. Every swipe and dab’s got the inside of Rafe’s forearm tingling like he struck his funny bone, leaving him more than a little nauseous.

“You did try to kill my dad. Pardon me for thinking we’d hit a wall.”

Rafe draws his brows together, trying to figure out when exactly they became a we. The burning subsides, but JJ’s still toiling away. He won’t look up from Rafe’s arm, but Rafe can still make out his annoyed frown. “You wanted me to do it, I could tell,” Rafe says, exhaling the words in a slow, tired whoosh. The hold JJ’s got on him and the constant stimulation from the cleaning is overwhelming Rafe’s senses, bringing him back to his body quicker than he’d like. It’s giving him the spins, like any second he’ll fall off the log he’s sitting on and go tumbling down, down, down. “You’re a … bad … liar.”

JJ snaps in front of Rafe’s face, making him recoil as if struck. “Stay with me, Cameron,” He says, and Rafe manages to nod. He’s exhausted and wobbly all over, his thoughts still circling to the point of blur.

“I dream about it, that day at your house,” Rafe blurts out, watching as JJ gets out a roll of bandages and begins winding it around Rafe’s arm. JJ pauses at his words, but swiftly continues on. “That’s what happened. I was freaking out in my sleep, I guess. Dad came to check on me.”

JJ lets Rafe’s arm go, closes up the kit, and sets it aside. Rafe runs his finger tips along his bandaged forearm, trying to remember what happened and when. In his memory, Rafe is killing Luke one second and naked the next. It all feels very far away, like something that happened to someone else.

“I thought you had … an arrangement,” JJ says before Rafe can settle his mind. His gut reaction is to think JJ’s mocking him, but the edge to his voice doesn’t match his face. He doesn’t look confused, but unsettled. Rafe’s not sure why. “You nearly drowned me last time I pointed out it doesn’t seem all quiet on the Cameron front.”

Rafe hunches over and lets his head fall into his hands. Every word out his mouth feels like blasphemy. Or sacrilege. One of the two. He’s choking on the things he wants to say, but he can’t claw the words out. “Make this easy for me,” Rafe whines as he drags his fingers over his scalp. The rasp of his nails helps keep him settled, but it’s not enough. He claws at his hair, gripping the strands.

JJ’s hands wrap around his wrists and gently tug until Rafe releases his hair. He lowers Rafe’s arms, but keeps his fingers curled around Rafe’s wrists. It’s a little like holding hands and Rafe closes his palms, squeezing his fists as tight as he can. “You fucked him again.”

Rafe shakes his head and works his jaw, trying to physically force the words out. “He wanted me. He wanted to help me,” He finally manages, his voice dry and cracked. Rafe blinks and feels wetness on his cheek, but that can’t be right. They must be caught in a morning shower. “And I couldn’t do it. He was giving me a gift and I threw it back in his face. When I did this,” Rafe raises his mummified arm. “He freaked out and I drove here.”

A fog of disquiet shadows JJ features, making him look older, almost angry. The dark circles beneath his eyes from his severed sleep worsen the effect. It’s giving Rafe major deja-vu. A distant part of him feels guilty too, but his conscience has always been easy to ignore, so he continues on.

“All I could think about was how he didn’t feel like you.”

JJ doesn’t flinch, but a tremor goes through him, some subtle current that Rafe only catches because JJ’s currently his only anchor to reality. Rafe can’t stop now, his mind finally latching on a stray thought and digging its teeth in. He doesn’t fully understand it, but he claims it.

“It was like I was there again, watching you and Luke, only it wasn’t you I was watching, but me. My dad was over me and I wasn’t even there, I was across the room and he-” Rafe can’t breathe again, his words accelerated by each shallow breath he manages to gulp. The rain keeps barreling down on them; never mind that JJ’s dry as a bone. “I can’t do it anymore. I don’t know what else to do, what else I’m supposed to do. He leads me. As long as I do what he says, I know I’ll be okay, but I can’t let him touch me again. If he does-” Rafe swallows thickly and grinds the heels of his hands into the log’s bark. JJ’s grip on his wrists doesn’t waver. In Rafe’s vision, it’s the nightmare all over again, but this time Ward’s on the ground instead of Luke. The fantasy doesn’t scare Rafe as much as he knows it should, and that freaks him out more than anything. “I’ll do something unforgivable.”

Rafe knows he can’t throw away his whole life. Without Dad and Cameron Development he’s nothing. No college, no skills, no prospects beyond what knowledge his father’s passed on and endless nights spent scrolling on Reddit. He can’t hack it in the real world like JJ, who will always land on his feet. He thinks he’s destined for prison like Luke, but that’s horseshit. JJ’s got everything he needs, while Rafe has nothing concrete.

Except for JJ, holding him down not to restrain, but to keep him tethered.

Rafe looks up at JJ, but he can’t make out his expression. Whatever he’s thinking, Rafe is too quickly running out of energy to decipher. Rafe either needs to go to bed or do a line, and neither option is at his current disposal. He’s getting closer to screwing his head on straight, but then it all bubbles up again and he veers off course.

Releasing Rafe’s arms, JJ pulls back to scratch at his ribs beneath his shirt. Only a sliver of his belly peaks from the lifted hem, but still Rafe catches the edge of his bruises like ink stains across his skin. “When’s the last time you ate?”

Something clicks into place and Rafe draws his brows together. A knot in his stomach gives as he tries to think back to the day before. “I don’t-”

“Yeah, I figured. C’mon,” JJ claps Rafe by the shoulder, giving his trapezius a squeeze. “Right up the road there’s an all-night diner, yeah? Breakfast burritos bigger than your head. I can’t hack family psychodrama on an empty stomach -- gives me heartburn.”

Rafe can’t stop himself from gawking. They’ve never done that, hung out in a way not tied to fucking. The fact that they’ll be seen together in public only worsens Rafe’s paranoia, since there’s no doubt Ward is currently prowling Figure Eight in search of his only son. If someone sees them, sees them together, word could get back and Ward will know everything. He’ll know and he-

Again, JJ snaps in front of Rafe’s face, slamming him back into reality.

JJ leans in close, his free hand raised to pat Rafe’s cheek. “If you think a bunch of middle aged dock workers give a shit if we’re chowing down together, you’re more cracked than I’d given you credit for,” He says with that smile of his, like Rafe’s some lost duckling he found in the middle of the road. “Unless you start sucking me off right there in the booth, we’ll be golden.”

Too exhausted to really argue, Rafe just shrugs.

After JJ jogs back inside for his keys and wallet, he brings Rafe to the garden hose and helps him clean off his feet. What Rafe really needs is a shower, but this would have to do for now. JJ’s giggling the whole time, making cracks about Rafe looking full Pogue. Any other time, Rafe would hate being seen like this, but JJ looks just as rough as he does. They fit together.

Leaving Rafe’s car behind, they walk the few blocks to the diner without speaking. It’s comfortable instead of awkward, as silence always is between them. JJ let Rafe borrow a pair of shoes, which are just small enough to pinch, but the discomfort helps keep the fog away.

As expected, the diner is half-full with old men sipping coffee and reading the paper. They’re the youngest patrons by decades, and Rafe breathes a sigh of relief and they scootch into their booth. “See? You gotta learn to trust me, Cameron,” JJ tuts.

Rafe looks at the kid and realizes that he’s the only person in all of Kildare he does trust.

After the shared breakfast burritos, which JJ wolfed down and Rafe picked at, JJ pays the bill. Rafe promises to pay him back, but he just waves him off and makes some joke about being Rafe’s sugar daddy. It shouldn’t be funny, but it is.

They end up back at Rafe’s car, sitting on the hood. The sun’s fully out now, keeping Rafe warm despite the look JJ’s wearing. He’s twiddling with his rings, a habit Rafe always assumed was a nervous one. “You’re going home, then.”

It’s not a question, but Rafe can tell JJ wants it to be. Rafe does too. “He’s already lost Sarah. I can’t leave too, it’ll break him. Besides, Wheezie’d be all alone.”

JJ gives him a look, but lets it go without comment. He could kiss JJ for that.

Rubbing the back of his neck, JJ considers him. “I believe you. When you said you’d do something unforgivable,” He says, his words quiet, concerned. It makes Rafe itchy all over. “You know it’s only a matter of time, right? It doesn’t stop until you make it stop.”

Rafe looks up at the sky and thinks about what’s waiting for him back home. He’ll lie and tell his father he went to the doctor himself, JJ’s first-aid tidy enough to be believable. Maybe because of what happened, he’ll lay off Rafe a while, give him space. Maybe he won’t. Either way, Rafe’s got nowhere else to go, no other family to fall back on. JJ’s a Pogue, but he’s so much richer than Rafe will ever be.

You answered! I didn’t think you’d answer. I know it’s late but you- you’re up, right? You’re always up.

Since when do you call me, Cameron?

Since now, man! We should hang out. Like now, bro.

… Bro?

Yeah, right now. Come over. I’m- I’ll send a ping. You’ll find me, right? I really need you to find me right now.

How wasted are you? I’m not in the mood for getting blue balled by whiskey dick. It’s like 3 A.M., rich boy. Some of us need our beauty sleep.

Just fucking get here, alright? It’s not a suggestion.

Wind whistles past JJ’s ears as he steers his dirtbike down the rain slicked streets, a welcome distraction from the pulse of blood in his ears. It’s winter, which in the Outer Banks doesn’t mean cold as much as wet and everything is slick. During a few risky turns, JJ nearly ends up chomping on asphalt. The road resembles an inky ribbon, endlessly stretched out before him and leading the way to the address Rafe had sent him. Road eventually gives way to grass, and JJ has to trudge through mud to get to the dock, the glow of his phone a modern-day candlestick.

The call hadn’t made sense. First of all, Rafe never calls him. JJ doesn’t call him either. Aside from u up? texts, naked pics, and the minimal communication necessary before a meetup, they don’t converse. They’re not friends. They’re not anything really, just a few dozen or so fucks. Second of all, Rafe had sounded completely obliterated. JJ had barely made out his words through the slurring, especially at the rapid pace. Neither of the boys are known for their sobriety, but Rafe’s voice sounded wrong. He sounded like Dad with that trembling edge to his voice that had made JJ’s bones tense. It was that chilling reminder more than anything that had JJ giving into Rafe’s demand to meet up.

“Ah, fuck!” JJ gasps as his heavy boot trips over an empty bottle of bourbon. He lands on his hands and knees in the muck, his head spinning from the sudden change of perspective.

“Oh, shit. That’s mine. Sorry, man.”

The voice makes JJ look up, and there on the floating dock ahead is Rafe. He’s all alone save for the presumably second bottle of bourbon that he’s nursing, this one mostly full. Even from this short distance, the guy doesn’t look right. He’s not weird in that Rafe way that JJ had come to expect, if not find endearing. JJ doesn’t have the vocabulary for it, but he simply looks wrong. Like how people in dreams look, their features half-formed and swirly.

Pushing himself to his feet, JJ smacks the dirt off his bare knees and wipes his hands on the first wooden post that line the edges of the dock. “Didn’t take you for an exhibitionist. Isn’t this a bit too public for you?” JJ asks as he flops down next to Rafe.

As soon as his ass hits the wood, Rafe is standing. It’s immediate, like JJ’s got cooties. “I didn’t call you to fuck around, okay? I just …” Rafe looks away as if finding the words and takes a pull from the mouth of the bottle. It drips down his chin and he roughly wipes the residue away with the back of his hand. “You’re the only person I could call. You’re … you.”

JJ feels his brow crease as he stares up at Rafe, completely confused. Rafe keeps pacing, swaying back and forth like an uneasy animal ill-equipped for its cage. “Hard to argue with that,” JJ says as he takes off his ratty cap to run a hand through his hair and scratch at his scalp. He continues to watch Rafe, waiting for the boy to expand upon his labyrinthian thought process, but it never comes. “Did something happen, man?” JJ asks, losing his patience. The wrong look of Rafe is quickly turning hostile, JJ can sense it from his grimace to the way he’s holding that bottle the way cavemen held clubs. It’s not a comforting sight, so JJ feels the pocket of his camo shorts for the familiar hardness of his knife. It’s more for cutting boxes than throats, but JJ refuses to be found in the morning face down in the water like that chick from Twin Peaks.

Rafe is muttering to himself, taking a swig every few words until JJ can feel the burn down his throat just by looking at him. He looks like Luke after a bet went bad, mean and condemned. It’s making JJ antsy so he toys with his rings, twisting them around his fingers. He knows it’s Ward that’s got Rafe all wound up, knows it without having to ask. This kind of grief only comes from a father, but JJ doesn’t see any bruises. Not that it matters much, since the worst of Luke’s injustices against his son’s body had all happened where clothes so conveniently cover.

“Thinks he can do whatever he wants …” Rafe is mumbling. He’s got the heels of his free hand pressed against his eye, the bottle hanging precariously from the slender fingers of his other. “Never enough … Never good enough … I try, man. I stick my head out, hold my neck up … Wait, that’s not right … Fuck, what is it again?”

JJ opens his mouth to shut Rafe up, unable to take the drunken nonsense on two hours of sleep, but Rafe cuts him off. “I need you to get my mind right,” He says as he roughly presses two fingers to each temple as if pointing right at his brain. Rafe’s eyes are wide and dark like the water that surrounds them. Unnerving, JJ thinks. “I keep having these thoughts and I don’t know what to do with them. It’s all in my gut, like bad Chinese food.”

JJ stares at Rafe. The smart thing would be to tell the Kook to fuck off and haul ass back to John B’s for some much needed Zs, but he can’t get the words out. When they started screwing around, JJ expected some eccentricities, but the deeper JJ falls down the hole that is Rafe Cameron, the more twisted shit he finds in the depth. As stupid as it is, JJ feels compelled to keep falling. He wants to peel back Rafe’s tan skin and poke around the meat until he finds all the pearls Rafe would rather die than let the world see.

He decides to barrel in head first. The subtle approach is for shrinks and car salesmen, not JJ Maybank. “What’d dear old Dad chew you out for this time?”

JJ realizes his mistake when Rafe looks down at the bourbon bottle like he’s calculating how easy it would be to brain him with it. His knuckles are white where he grips the neck of the bottle and the amber liquid housed within is sloshing from how much Rafe’s trembling. The tension in his shoulders makes JJ uneasy, so he raises to his feet. The brittle wood of the dock’s railing presses into his back as he leans against it, wanting as much space between him and Rafe as possible.

“You don’t get it.” Rafe says, his voice so quiet that JJ has to strain his ears to hear him. “You wouldn’t. It’s mine.”

“What’s yours?”

“It’s not like anything, okay? It doesn’t hurt. He makes sure it doesn’t hurt.”

JJ feels pearls tumble down his throat. No matter how much he swallows, the slimy, shiny balls of calcium choke him on the way down. His throat bobs as he tries to breathe through it, his hands clenched into fists. Rafe hasn’t looked up and JJ doesn’t want him to, too aware of what he would find in his gaze.

Instead, Rafe turns away and chugs from the bottle until he can’t anymore, doubling over and hacking. He sets the nearly empty bottle down on the dock and puts his palms to his knees. Every breath sounds labored, forced. “Forget it,” He says on the exhale of a deep breath. “Just forget it, man. Bad idea.”

But JJ can’t just forget it. Doesn’t want to. His instincts tell him to run, but his feet stay planted.

“What doesn’t hurt?” JJ asks. He breathes through his nose, ignores the nausea bubbling in his stomach, the ache in his fists. “Huh, Rafe? What doesn’t hurt?”

It’s the use of his name that makes Rafe straighten and turn. JJ realizes they never call each other by their first name. Not in texts, not in conversation, especially not when they’re fucking. It makes JJ claustrophobic, like forcing yourself into clothes you wore as a kid, but he can’t take it back now.

“I said forget it,” Rafe commands, his voice jagged.

“He didn’t slap you around. You wouldn’t bring me here if he just whacked you good. Why am I here, Rafe?”

Rafe begins to charge forward, closing the gap between them faster than JJ can prepare for. His hands are on JJ, gripping him by the shirt. “Forget it!” Rafe rages as he shoves JJ against the railing. The old, damp wood whines from the weight and JJ scrambles to hold onto Rafe, grabbing the guy’s wrists for purchase. If JJ falls, he’s taking Rafe with him. “Fuckin’ forget it!”

JJ shakes his head, bitten nails digging into the tender skin of Rafe’s wrists. He can feel Rafe’s pulse, fast and heavy. “No, no. We’re past that, Cameron,” JJ says as he forces his lips into a smile that feels more like a wince. His heart is bashing itself against his ribs, making the blood in his veins thud like bumper cars through his limbs.

Rafe’s eyes are bottomless, all pupil. It’s not just fancy-pants whiskey that’s got him all twisted up. It’s coke or speed, maybe. Near-lethal doses if JJ was a good judge, and he was. He’s completely fucking obliterated, obvious by the shine of his eyes, the curl of his bottom lip. JJ only sees it now that they’re nose-to-nose. “It’s mine. It’s all I have,” Rafe says before giving JJ a hard shove. He pushes himself away then, retreating from JJ. “He’s all I have.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” JJ asks as he steps away from the edge of the dock. The water keeps tilting or JJ’s dizzy, either way he feels seconds from puking his guts out.  It’s like he’s on one of those pansy carnival rides for kids, the teacups. Everything spins.

“I give him all I have. All of me,” Rafe says and JJ sees the beginning of tears in his eyes.

That’s enough cryptic bullshit. JJ can’t take it. He rubs at his chest but the hammering won’t stop. “You make it sound like he touches you.” JJ barely manages to get the words out, his tongue coated in sludge.

“No!” Rafe snarls, pacing again in a quick, twitchy way. “No, no, no no-”

“Is he fucking you?” JJ snaps, talking over Rafe who keeps repeating himself again and again and again.

“No, no, no, no,” Rafe’s got his hands over his ears, his eyes shut tight as if to drown JJ out. “No! NO! NO! NO! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”

JJ makes it to Rafe in two strides. It’s messy work to take him by the shoulders and shake him. His hands bunch in the fabric of Rafe’s shirt as he hauls the boy closer. “Say it!” JJ cries out, jostling Rafe in the process. “Fucking say it!”

“I FUCK HIM!”

Jackpot.

“I fuck him,” Rafe stresses as he drops his hands. The hostility leaves him in a whoosh, which means only the quiet sorrow remains.  “It’s the only way, okay? He- He needs me. No one gets that. They all think he’s perfect, but he needs me. Not Sarah, not Rose, me.”

JJ’s wholly focused on breathing, in and out, in and out. He can’t feel anything below his legs, upright by the miracle of physics alone. All he can see is Rafe on a bed, pressed flat beneath the sturdy frame of Ward Cameron. He knows what Rafe looks like being fucked, knows how he sounds. Everywhere he’s been inside Rafe, all those pearls he’s hunted for, Ward’s been there first.

A rage unlike anything JJ’s ever known blooms inside him, flooding through his nervous system like acid. It’s half jealousy, half justice. Rafe’s been abused. He’s been abused and fucked and it can’t go on. Ward can’t get away with this like he gets away with everything else. Smacking your fuck-up kid is one thing, but this? This is-

“Why would I want to stop it, JJ?” Rafe asks, making JJ flinch. He realizes after a moment that Rafe hadn’t actually read his mind, but is talking to himself. Rafe’s eyes are clouded, hardly aware. “I’m all he has.”

JJ’s mouth is dry and it’s hard to breathe. They’re outside, but JJ feels trapped, like a glass dome has been placed over them. There’s no air, no understanding. Rafe is too close and nowhere near close enough. He thought it was Rafe that was shaking, but it’s him.

“When?” JJ croaks, his mouth pinched in a grimace.

Rafe’s hands circle around JJ’s wrists. He’s not gripping like how JJ’s got Rafe’s shirt seized in his fists. He’s just holding him there. “He wanted me. I could … see it. I could feel it, y’know?” JJ shakes his head, but Rafe keeps going. “I had to do it. I had to let him have me, ‘cause he can’t just take it. He’d be a monster, but if I do it …”

JJ tastes bile. Despite the chill in the air he’s sweating, simmering. He notices the shadow of a nearly-gone bruise JJ had bitten into Rafe’s neck last time they hooked up, right where his throat meets his shoulder. Has Ward marked him before? Does he see JJ’s signatures left behind and take it out of Rafe, hating that someone else has touched his son? JJ hates it, hates that Rafe isn’t his and never has been.

No wonder Rafe never fucked like a virgin. He wasn’t one.

No one’s ever a virgin.

“I swear it doesn’t hurt,” Rafe says and JJ wants to throttle him. He wants to snatch him by the skinny neck and squeeze until his head explodes. Somehow JJ finds the will to open his hands, but the second he drops them Rafe’s got JJ’s head between his palms. JJ flinches, his breath catching in his throat. “I’m not a battered wife. I know- I know what I’m doing. I’m just giving him what he needs, like a good son.”

It’s rehearsed. Rafe is just repeating the things he’s told himself a thousand times. JJ can tell, can feel it in his fucking bones. It’s all just pretend.

“Let me have this,” Rafe begs, his words crystal clear and soft despite the tears in Rafe’s eyes. “Please. Please let me have this one fucking thing, JJ.”

Swallowing, JJ tries to dampen his flame. He has to, if he’s not supposed to bike to Tannyhill and kill the fucker with his bare hands. But it’s not going anywhere. All that hate is stuck inside of him, like hair in the drain. He’s tangled up in it, strangled.

JJ looks up at the sky and thinks of his father, wasted off pills and cheap beer. He thinks of hands. The discomfort of a boot ramming into ribs. Belt buckles. Silent pleas.

He’s good at keeping secrets, having earned the skill young. Along with lying, theft, and knowing when to run, JJ’s the master of ‘em all. Rafe needs this one thing, so JJ will bury his rage like he buries everything else.

“Oh, fuck. I’m gonna-” Rafe shoves JJ away and heads for the railing. He barely manages to lean over the side before he’s vomiting into the black water. JJ goes to him, because where else can he go?

The smell hits him first. It's all stomach acid and bourbon, making JJ’s already spongy stomach lurch. He hesitates, but eventually gives Rafe’s back a few gentle pats. “Fuck, man,” JJ says with a wince. “You stink like death. Rolled in shit. On a hot plate.”

Rafe’s long arms hang over the railing like a puppet. “Shut up …” He groans, and begins to waver. JJ manages to catch the baby giraffe before he goes tumbling off the dock and carefully lowers him down. The pair end up sitting against one of the wooden poles of the railing with JJ’s legs stretched out and Rafe crumpled up with his knees to his chest.

“Just wait it out, Cameron,” JJ suggests, and for once Rafe listens. He sighs deeply, likely in defeat, and leans against JJ. When Rafe lays his head on his shoulder, JJ doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t breathe either, not until his lungs burn and his eyes water.

It stays like that for a long while, the two sitting on the dock listening to the sounds of crickets and bubbling water. JJ can tell when Rafe falls asleep, hearing the change in his breathing. Rafe must have a deviated septum, because his exhales have a funny little wheeze.

He’s just a kid underneath all that macho bravado he likes to spew. It’d be charming if it wasn’t so fucking depressing.

When the sun begins to rise over the horizon, staining the sky with smears of lilac and orange, JJ’s still awake. He knows Rafe will wake up soon, both drunk and hungover with a crick in his neck. He knows he’ll have to ride back to John B’s and try not to get hit by a car on the way. He knows next time he sees Ward Cameron he’ll taste blood from clenching his teeth.