Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A little heartbreak, a little soul pain
I been up all night on the cheap cocaine
Tryna make it better but
It's always the same

Rafe stared into flames he'd sat in front of many times before, though it had gotten empty around that little fire down at Barry's trailer, these days, that he wore the word traitor like a noose around his neck and addicts rarely searched him out in desperation; only one was still around.

It weren't the same flames he'd stared into back then, back when he was something close to innocent and just a little less of a man and would offer insightful thoughts like "what is a flame? I mean, where does it end?", before passing the joint back to his snickering dealer. "Oh you high high"

It had never felt embarrassing to share those thoughts with Barry, when he was too high to make sense of them; Rafe had liked it when they made him laugh, and even more when Barry leaned into it, started philosophizing. He always looked a certain kind of pretty, the way the light of the fire fell onto his features when he tilted his head to think, warmly reflecting off his golden teeth as he laughed.

One flame looked deceivingly much like the next, swallowing it's little brother whole, though even when Rafe stared without blinking, he couldn't catch the moment they changed places. These days, Rafe longed for those meaningless conversations that shifted shapes and stayed just the same, but it had been a long time since he found them drunk around Barry's bonfire.

Barry had sat there all by himself when Rafe arrived, without his father this time around, though the false deja-vu made his stomach ache when it hadn't been him his fathers boots had kicked—just Rafe knew they had been directed at him, and he'd experienced them like it.

"How are you not sick of the heat yet", Rafe had announced his presence and found a seat in one of the empty chairs around the fire. They'd spent enough time sweating on liquid gold and watching flames dance on the metal just yesterday, to last for a lifetime. The heat had been so dizzying at times, in combination with the scotch they shared, Rafe felt almost high when blackness threatened his eyes. 

"I'm microdosing hell, bro", Barry had replied dryly, and leaned back in his chair, welcoming his uninvited guest with a grin. Rafe had offered a short chuckle. Isn't that all of life, though? He'd wanted to say, and drop right into the deep talks they'd spent nights to mornings with, but it felt out of place these days. "Got some' for me?", he asked instead.

Resting his phone on his thigh, Rafe had cut a line with the powder Barry threw over, telling him to keep his cash, there'd be enough of it once the cross was sold and Rafe had stayed to talk business, though there wasn't much they left unsaid meeting on his yacht earlier, and their conversation soon slipped back into the same banter they'd shared before, when it had been different flames dancing between them, and life had been lighter, or at least seemed like it, looking back.

"You know what's, like, super embarrassing?", Rafe slurred his drunken words. He'd snatched the bottle Barry left in the grass by his feet earlier, and almost mumbled the question into it, before tipping it against his lips to drink.

"Wearing those golf shoes in public? Nah? Shit, nevermind", Barry joked dryly, nodding at Rafe's feet.

"It was a rhetorical question, alright", Rafe clarified sharply.

"Ohh, alright then, cause I was gonna guess that polo sh-", Barry played dumb.

"You actually think I'm taking insults from a guy dressed like a trash can?", Rafe interrupted him sourly and Barry offered a warm grin.

"Aww, when'd you come up with this one, huh? Kindergarden?", Barry mocked his poor excuse of a clap back. Rafe didn't reply, just glared at him over the fire and put the stolen bottle of whiskey to his lips again. Barry sighed.

"Aight, bro, what's so embarrassing, huh?", he offered, cocking his head.

"Nah", Rafe made, petty as shit, pushing his chin forward. What was embarrassing was saying the very thing out loud now, after Barry'd drawn it into ridicule.

"Uh-uh, you can't start shit and not finish it, Country Club", Barry lectured and that tone of voice did something to him, always fucking did when Barry put it on so effortlessly; bittersweet mixture of a demeaning order and gentle reminder that attacked all the right parts of Rafe. He figured it was a remant of his time in the army, though something in Barrys disciplinary voice was too sweet to fit a soldiers lips.

Rafe stared silently, for a while, unsure whether to hold a petty grudge, drop the topic in hopes it would piss Barry off, or if he should spill his feelings over the dancing flames, that teased him to lay himself bare and talk with a coke-loosened tongue about things he was too drunk to regret in the morning, the way they had back when, back when, back when Rafe slurred stupid shit over the fire. 'Is it weird, that I trust you?', he'd asked one day before sharing company secrets his father would sure rip his head off for, but what did it matter, to some drug dealer on the cut that gladly took the weight off Rafe's heart. Only much later, the memory of that careless question would resurface and cement itself in Rafe's mind.

Nah, he wanted the other man to know.

He wanted Barry to know, and if just for the off chance that it'd hurt him, somehow. It was stubborn in the same way Rafe liked to flash the scar on his wrist in front of him, did so when it was still fresh and bright red and hurting to the touch and did it still, now that it was a spot of delicate white skin in contrast to the rest of him; by all means separat—not his. He'd caught Barry's eyes on it once, looking up and into them as a grin spread on his face just a little too wide over the prospect of Barry feeling sorry, even if he didn't say a word, or just batted an eye at the wound. His eyes lingering there for just a moment had been enough. Rafe acted stubbornly blunt in the way he tried shoving his wrist into Barrys face at times, holding his arm awkwardly just to make sure the scar was out for him to see, silent accusation, though never subtle. See what you did? This is how you hurt me.

Rafe lifted his gaze to look into Barry's eyes, miss out on not an ounce of regret he might catch, some fraction of compassion, or at least the acknowledgement of Rafe's pain, even if he did not care for it.
 
"What's embarrassing is I actually...I actually started seeing you as a friend, the night we got beat up together, alright", Rafe told, and scratched the back of his neck as he spoke, nervous tick, one of many, and Barry noticed how intimately he knew each one of them, right that moment.

Rafe tried a smile, a self deprecating one, showing how ridiculous the idea had been, how he no longer thought that way, knew better these days that he looked back on those thoughts like cringy pictures from the past. Despite the occasional delusions and getting into his head just a little too deep at times, Rafe wouldn't have been stupid enough to take just any of it as more than normal, almost mandatory interaction between dealer and client. He wouldn't have dared.
 
He'd known not to think too much of Barry's smiles or jokes, not even the times when he offered him some of his home cooked dinner or the couch to stay the night. Rafe was almost certain he didn't treat every client like it, still, he wouldn't have made the mistake of ever hoping Barry as a friend. That guy was his dealer, untouchable, effortlessly cool, entirely out of reach and sure not one looking for friends, especially not the ones hoping for discounts.

Just after what Rafe referred to inside his head as 'the fuck up', after breaking down at Barry's feet, after that man pulling him right back up, after chasing pogues all over the island; no, precisely after getting beat up by 'em, Rafe had thought a shy idea so hopeful, it was almost perverted in times like those—they were just anything close to friends.

Barry had laughed with mocking admiration, upon finding out the bad something Rafe had done, careless act that had meant the world and more to Rafe, during a time he felt like he'd shot not her, but himself out of it when he pulled that trigger, didn't think he'd ever fit back into anymore, or there was a place for him, when Barry showed him there was, in his world there was.

Barry silently stared back. Rafe wouldn't offer such a vulnerable truth without gain; he wanted him to know this.

Know the pain, his pain.

And what was he supposed to say to that? Sorry I wasn't?

"Why?", Barry asked instead.

Maybe because he genuinely was wondering. They were so unalike, and Barry had met Rafe's friends, briefly so, when threatening him at the golf club, when delivering cargo to a party, or in the stories Rafe told—unlikeable rich kids and surely nothing Barry could be for him. They'd spent a lot of time together, yeah, but it was always coke in between, til it was murder, til it was gold.

Rafe seemed caught off guard by the question. Why? It sounded like the worst of accusations, though maybe Rafe was just used to it; his father managed to fit a lifetime of insults into a single sentence, or a simple glance, so heavy with annoyance it forced Rafe's head down at an instant. It sounded like Barry called him stupid, though he usually didn't hold back on saying it out right.

Rafe could've laughed at stupid. He could've barked back. Why felt hot like that interrogation room Rafe sat in after the fuck up, deep inside his head on whether the cops cranked up the heat as manipulation or if it was just himself, if he'd make himself look guilty if he pointed it out, or rather guilty if he didn't, if it was a test maybe, or his mind playing tricks, if he was overthinking it, or under thinking it, if they were steps ahead, and how to catch up.

"You were there for me", Rafe shrugged. "I guess"

Barry wanted to defend himself, somehow. He was just being nice. He'd do that for anyone. It was about the money.

"I know it was just about the money", Rafe added, tilting his head to the side to reveal another pained smile in the glow of the flames. "I know that now and..I'm cool with that. I'm cool with money, yeah—totally cool"
 
He tapped his pointed finger on the armrest of his chair a few times, as if signaling about their business operation. Lifting his head, his smile at Barry's silence was almost genuine this time, seemed to enjoy the dealer scrambling for words.

"You don't need to say anything", he clarified, and made a throwaway gesture with the bottle in his hand before raising it to drink again, downplaying all he said to nothing more than drunken rambling, or trying to, anyways.

"Nah, bro, I-", Barry started.
 
"Nah, nah, I know you're not saying anything cause you'on got nothing to deny it, so don't— just don't", Rafe interrupted him. That familiar smile crept onto his lips again, a sad grimace that had turned dull with acceptance. In pain, yet knowing he deserved it.

"I don't care", he said, and felt a certain sense of pride over it, became inevitably aware of the effects of that line earlier in his veins, working hard in his little heart. Short sense of bliss; he interrupted it himself: "I don't want you defending yourself right now, bro, I just mentioned it because I thought it was funny, okay?"

"What's funny about that?", Barry asked.

What's funny was that Rafe actually thought someone would see all of him, the murderer, the coke addict, the rich kid, the little bitch that cried on his floor, the cruel fuck that smiled with blood on his teeth, the dark and the broken, see and somehow be cool with it. Like him.

"I never had a friend", he replied, answered Barry's question well enough—nothing was.

Barry hid his face in a hand, sighing, before reaching out. "Alright, gimme the bottle"

"No", Rafe said.

"You're drunk as shit", Barry said, poor attempt at getting Rafe to come to his senses and shut up, stop crying to a man that wasn't his friend.

"So?", Rafe made.

Barry sighed again, falling back into his chair. Rafe felt good with the bottle still in hand, like he'd won something. He felt good with Barry's slight unease, anxious to stop Rafe before he could escalate inside his mind.

"I never had friends", he went on. Barry opened his mouth to protest, but Rafe already clarified. "People that care about me, I mean"

"Emo Rafe, huh?", Barry mocked.

"I never even had a girlfriend", Rafe said, dramatically glanced up at the stars. "I don't think I'm cut out for shit like that.."

Women? Barry wanted to ask but he stayed silent, in fear it'd come off sounding like another joke, once he said it out loud. Care, Rafe meant. Love, he meant. Just any sort of connection, with another human being. Though the feeling had intensified, no, confirmed itself after the fuck up, it had always been there, ever since Rafe could think—a sense of not belonging, not on figure eight, not between his sweet little sisters playing dolls, not inside his fathers house, not anywhere else. He'd turned cruel, for it.

"You think I'm a psychopath?", he asked. Oh the drama, it was genetic, for sure.

"Sure, give me the bottle now, big boy", Barry replied tiredly and reached out once more.

"Ask again and I'll smash it in your fucking face", Rafe snapped, relaxing as soon as Barry leaned back in his chair again, a skeptical eyebrow raised in subtle amusement.

"I know you don't wanna hear all this right now", Rafe offered, leaning his head to the side with a crooked, knowing grin. Not that he was tone deaf to the uncomfortable situation he kept pulling them deeper into, knew damn well Barry didn't know how to handle his angsty ramblings, or respond to premature ideas of alienation; sad ideas you'd at best expect from his little sister, not the grown man Rafe claimed to be.

"You don't care", he noticed. "But I don't fucking care about that, alright?"

Barry pushed air out of his nose, another empty excuse already on his tongue. His disinterest in Rafe's sad antics was blatant; desperate attempt to make him stop; spare him. Rafe didn't care, he kept talking.

"You know, this..this is actually kinda nice? Knowing you're just hanging out with me for the money.", he shrugged. "I don't gotta try anymore"

Pointless anyways, getting people to like him. He tried plenty, for all his life. He tried with Barry, desperately so, tried acting cool and hard, tried impressing the man with a new bike or new scar, with scabs on his knuckles, with wealth that wasn't his and violence that wasn't either.
 
"Feels...", Rafe tried to think, a small smile creeping on his lips again, genuine, for the first time this night. "..light, you know?"

It was good not constantly doubting what was between him and Barry. If he was just that dealer or yet a friend, or what Rafe didn't dare to hope. Easy, not constantly questioning whether a smile or touch had been too much. Whether he should trust, though Rafe never really asked himself that.

Now, he knew he couldn't trust. Now he knew they were all business, no more, no less. And through all the pain it took for Rafe to get there, to realize, there was comfort, for all was like it had always been, and Rafe alone, still, though free of foolish hope any of that would ever change.

"Like a therapist", Barry noticed.

"Like a whore", Rafe replied with a smug grin over the fire. 

Barry chuckled into his beer. "Yeah, right, Country Club"

Rafe chuckled too, softly, turning the bottle of whiskey between his hands. The liqour looked golden in the shine of the fire, and just a few weeks back, the tiniest exchange of laughter like this would've had his heart pound with hope, now it was just the coke working there, tight and cruel in his chest. Barry chipped the label of his beer with the nail of his thumb, cleared his throat.

"Well I hate to break your fantasy, Rafe, but I do like you", he said. Looking up from the golden bottle, Rafes eyes narrowed down on him.

"Don't piss me off right now, a'ight", he slurred low and dangerous across the fire, not that intimidation ever worked on Barry, Rafe just bared his teeth to show. Wasn't in the mood to fight, and hoped Barry'd back off, he was here for sappy monologues and a pretty face to tell sad stories to, not a response back. Never handled those well, anyways.

"Just said that I like you. My bad", Barry defended himself carelessly. He bit into a grin, too greedy to share it with Rafe, who caught it anyways.

Barry the traitor. Barry the rat. Barry the fucking liar. Barry the cruel cruel man.

"You think this is funny or what?", Rafe barked.

"I do like messing around with you", Barry shrugged, ignoring Rafe's angry glare. "Ya, I like your tough act, and I like when you can't keep it up"

Cold blooded soldier that never made it past the cover of sarcasm, hid behind it to keep a coward head out of scope, lived and laughed in it, seemed cold through it, wrapped a fragile heart and patched it up, sarcasm so thick and ever present it was hard to catch a truth in it, though Rafe had heard it clearly, frightened by the unusual tone in his voice.

"Fuck you", Rafe simply said. "Think I wanna hear this shit right now?"

"Well you're right. I don't wanna hear about your bullshit either, Rafe. Cause that's what this is, some bullshit.", Barry harshly replied. "You think you're unlikable? So what. Everyone does, and you don't see me crying about that shit"

The roughness of Barry's words brought back a comfort Rafe had found missing just moments before, his heart racing with unwarranted fear at Barry's claims, and the passing off of them as truth. I do like you and all he'd built was gone, and nothing light or free. Wasn't just Rafe's fantasy that broke there—the fairytale that he did not care what Barry thought of him, not anymore—it was all he had to keep himself together, these days.

"You think you're unlikable?", Rafe laughed in disbelief.

"Course", Barry shrugged his shoulders.

"Bro, everyone likes you. You got coke and shit", Rafe argued. Barry raised his eyebrows, looking back at him.

"Yeah", he laughed then, genuinely. "Right"

Rafe remembered thinking he could get people to like him if he sold. He always knew it wasn't real, like happiness snorted up your nose or put under your tongue, but it felt good enough at the time, to have people's eyes hungrily glowing at him when he pulled out yayo at a party. He'd bathed in the attention, starved for it, a thrill almost as addicting as the shit he was selling.

Though things were different for Barry. He was actually a cool guy, kind one—people felt comfortable at his trailer, they felt comfortable with him; he was skilled in effortless and light conversation, he was funny, he was lifting people up and they liked him for it, or at least Rafe knew he did.
 
"You know, I felt bad..", Rafe started again. "On the boat"

Funny. Barry felt bad on the boat.

"Like...like I finally made a friend and now I gotta leave? I kept hoping like, God, let something happen so I can stay", Rafe told, and gestured heavily with his hands.

Sure pathetic to admit, though none of that had put Barry off before, none of Rafe's weakness had, none of his cruelty, none of him, a fever dream too good to be true, hope too fragile not to be crushed.

"Always be careful what you wish for", Barry pointed out, lazily shaking a pointed finger as if he was lecturing. Always, always back to sarcasm and empty phrases, he carried them on his hip like a loaded gun, violent in his self defense.

Rafe stared back silently, tried faking anger in those glossy eyes.

"That's what you're gonna say?", he breathed.

Barry had plenty, plenty to say, shit that rested heavy on his heart, though he carried the weight with a soldiers endurance, not for it felt safer than letting anyone hear, no, for it felt like the only way, for it's what he'd always done. There was no use in telling Rafe how he felt on the boat—bad—for he jumped anyways, and there was no use in telling him how he felt after, for it didn't fix what he broke.

"What else you want me to say", Barry shrugged carelessly.

Sorry. Fucking sorry.

"I wished I could stay. For you", Rafe repeated. Like that damn scar on his wrist. The urge for Barry to understand, even just know, all the ways he broke Rafe. To really really get it. Obsessed, almost, with showing him.

He stared at Barry, hard and merciless.

Maybe he wanted an explanation. Maybe he wanted Barry to tell him all the ways he was a horrible person, and why he'd never be enough for anyone to care about, not even some morally crooked drug dealer from the cut. Maybe he wanted Barry to say it out loud, just once. I don't care. I don't care about the damage, I don't care about the hurt, I don't care about you.

"That why you told your dad you're not going back to Guadeloupe?", Barry asked and raised his chin at him. His smarts were a waste in the army, waste on the cut.

Rafe let his eyes travel over him. Did Barry know? Despite his carefree tone throughout all this conversation. Did he hear? How incredibly fucking lonely Rafe was. How he was barely anything else anymore, barley murderer, barley kook, barley man, and fully and entirely lonely.

"No", he replied coldly. "I know better now"

Better than to hope, better than to believe he deserved to be just anything else.

"Well...sorry", Barry said. Rafe thought he misheard.

He visibly flinched at the word, and wasn't sure if he'd imagined the satisfaction on Barry's face, the expression ran quick over his features like the shadow of the dancing flames, too restless to be caught. Something in him wanted to get angry again, though he didn't know what for, Barry wasn't making fun this time, and Rafe almost wished for the cold and comforting sarcasm again.

"For not wanting to be your friend", Barry added, laid it out there like a simple truth.

Rafe nodded. That's what he wanted to hear. That's all he'd been waiting for and he had a feeling Barry knew, Barry knew and had cruelly withheld it from him all that time talking, had made him wait.

"I liked you, Rafe, and just a little too much at that to, err-", Barry dug the tip of his sneaker into the dusty ground, grinding it into the soil. Acting fucking shy as if he ever was.

To ruin him. To do what he'd been craving to, what really wanted to do to the kook. And just enough to know it was better to stay away from that mess. To think he deserved just a little better than what Barry'd be able to give. What Barry'd take.

He knew that he could've had Rafe if he wanted to.

The man had this aura of incredibly loneliness since the first day they met, it seeped through his entire being, the whole rich kid act, a desperate play of pretend, facade of an arrogant kook who could not care less about the rest of the world—defensive act he grew into; avoid being crushed by the very realization that the rest of the world could not care less about him.

Loneliness that rested heavy on his broad shoulders, seemed to drag him down at times, same way Barry's wet sweatshirt had—the rough fabric hurt Rafe long before it was drenched with betrayal and water from the surge. On that boat, heading into Uncertainty, Rafe had thought little about escape, and all the more about Sarah's boyfriend shelf, a morbid collection of shirts and hoodies of her past victims, quite like a serial killers relics. Wheezie had pointed that out—and Rafe had relished one of those rare moments, where it was him and his little sister laughing, while Sarah stood by with crossed arms. "Why keep 'em?", he'd asked, and thought of Sarah's answer when Barry handed him the worn sweater. At the time, Rafe had felt bad, for the backpack, and the sweater, and the sandwich Barry prepared and wrapped in plastic foil like he did with his coke, who knows how long you'll be running, he'd said, and thrown him the pb&j with a loose grin on his lips, when he'd known, he'd known, he'd known by then.

Rafe's loneliness had always been awfully visible to Barry, it stuck to his skin, rotten under expensive perfume, it rested on the delicate features of his face, it vibrated through his laugh, it tempted Barry with the sheer ease it would've been for him, to make him fall like that.

Seemed almost hungry for it—just any crumb of attention—and ready to leap onto it if it was ever gifted to him. Barry could see it in the way he talked at just the slightest bit of interest, without pause and a shy excitement on his tongue over gracious attention, kind he didn't get, not at home, and not from his friends either, unless he tried his hardest to talked the loudest and have the most impressive story to brag about. Desperate attempts that left him empty, once the coke wore off. If no one paid attention, Rafe made them watch and shudder at sudden outbursts of violence—with blood on his fists, he had it easy catching stares.

Barry noticed soon how overjoyed Rafe got at the littlest of gestures, how he seemed to glow over the stupid nicknames, for they felt personal, and Barry crafted them for him, how excited he got over discounts and not for the money he saved, but the things Barry so carelessly told him, 300 for you, bro, for you.

Almost pitiful to notice, how very starved he was, of all the silver spoons didn't feed. Something so tempting, to just wrap an arm around his back when they briefly pulled each other in for a greeting, bumping at the shoulders. At times, when Rafe showed up at the trailer, Barry was certain he'd fold into the hug immediately, collapse against Barry's broad chest, and sink into his arms, if he offered them around his back just once.

He never tested it.

It wouldn't have been fair. To have him break and crumble when Barry wasn't that safe space Rafe so craved, only just wanted to see the boy weak, and feel strong and needed around him in return.

Barry knew all his interest in the kook was entirely selfish, he knew it in the way his dick twitched when he thought about making him his mess, he knew for he got hard over images of his hand under Rafes chin as tears streamed down his face, the puffy eyes and swollen face looked good on him in a way Barry could've never said out loud, or even admitted to himself.

He knew how bright Rafe's eyes flashed at lazy compliments, how his chest swelled and he drew his shoulders back; Barry'd called him a good boy as a joke just once, though none of it had been joke, and all hunger for Rafe's response, a blush to his nose, the shock in his soft features, like Barry'd revealed something he wasn't supposed to know.

Stupid shit like that had Barry contemplate Rafe's desperation, wonder how far he'd go to please, how easy it'd be to have him bend to his orders. Fantasies that left Barry feeling guilty when he came to them, fisting his own cock the mornings after Rafe left.

He knew all that was wrong with Rafe, or at least how much of it, he'd heard it seen it felt it, and knew he was no one to fix, no one to give the boy a gentle love and all the things he lacked. Was just a stupid soldier with rough hands that couldn't comfort the kook the way he needed it, wanted to grab and and slap and choke instead, wanted a soft heart to beat under them at the pace of coke, and to have it calm for him.

Wanted impressionable blue eyes on him, pleading to be of any use in exchange for just an ounce of attention, and overwhelm him with it instead, worship the boy in ways that made him flustered and unable to speak, shower him with all the affection he'd starved for till he ached from it, trembled and begged, of just a break from Barry all on him. Sweet to imagine, how hard it'd be to handle for the boy, when Barry didn't ask for anything but he let him please, with nothing in return. How fun it'd be, to force his love on him, and have Rafe overwhelmed with all he ever lacked.

Was surely that very loneliness, that made Rafe sacrificial, made him willing to give all of him, if it'd be enough to look at him, made him ready to lay his life down, if it'd be seen, too worthless anyways, to hold onto for himself.

And Barry couldn't take all that.

He liked Rafe too much.

"To?", Rafe asked.

Barry made a throw away gesture with his hand, as if it didn't matter all too much.

"Can't start shit and not finish it", Rafe repeated with a thriumpant grin. Felt great to use Barry's bullshit against him.

"You're right, I never wanted to be your friend", Barry said and nodded to himself. They had established, or at least, Rafe had noticed that. "And it wouldn't have been fair to..have you any other way"

Rafe stared back, face open with disbelief. He understood nothing and all that Barry had just said, no matter how vague that coward of a soldier tried to be.

"Wow", he made.

Telling him this? After everything Rafe had confessed, after Rafe just told him now, he felt comfortable in what they were.

He liked what they had now.

He was safe in hate and mistrust. Surely, lost in it at first, but he'd spent enough time wandering the inner landscapes and vast fields of mistrust and resentment that they're relationship had been thrusted into, to become well versed, knew how to navigate through them now, had found slow and shy ease in all that distance, knew where he stood now, or at least where Barry stood, and found great comfort in just that. Keeping it strictly business. Strictly practical and no feelings to be hurt in the middle.

After Rafe literally just told him how liberating that felt—liberating like that step off the ledge, for all the time it took to crash. How the pressure was gone. The aching. The desperation, to be liked—defeat, though at the very least, the end of a war.

What a bullshit fucking excuse. Saying he liked Rafe too much, it wouldn't have been fair. Was this fair? Was never acting out on it fair? Was not even giving him a fucking chance fair? Ratting him out? Was any of that fair?

"You're like the meanest fucking person I've  met", Rafe noticed, pushing his chin forward.

"Yeah", Barry agreed. "You don't wanna be my friend, Rafe"

It's not like he left him a damn choice. Belittling tone of voice that made Rafe wanna put a dent in his face, for that last little push, to mock after all Rafe just told, show that he listened, heard Rafe's request for friendship, and made fun of it, and meant it, still. It was almost remarkable, how Barry roughened truths with sarcasm so sharp it made them sound like a lie.

Rafe wasn't even sure Barry's claim was true—he liked him, no, liked him too much, even. Could be a lie like all the others, or just malicious joke. If not, Rafe had been clueless to it. Either way, it was cruel to bring it up. Like it would change a thing. Like it would make just any of it better. No I don't wanna be your friend, but it'd hit that. Maybe Barry had just said it to take the ground under Rafe's feet. To be a little meaner. To have him sway and fall. To fuck his brains, mess with his heart.

Rafe sighed, pushed himself up from his chair and carelessly let the empty bottle slip from his hand into the grass.

"Going home", he announced, accepting defeat and ending a conversation he could only lose—his opponent more cruel, or maybe he just more hurt. "We got a ferry to catch tomorrow morning, alright", he added like an excuse, or maybe just desperate attempt to go back to all he'd praised earlier: just business. Walked slow, on the way to his bike, and Barry watched in silence.

Chapter Text

Barry had sent Rafe spiraling with nothing more than a few words, patient in his cruel use of them, waiting well until after Rafe had cried his heart out to him once more, to drop them ever so casually. No doubt though, that he’d known what he was doing, what they’d do to Rafe, how he'd spiral—maybe it had even been the goal. 

Fucked part was it felt good to think it, that all the anger Rafe carried home with him wasn't his, but what Barry placed in his heart with intention, felt good to be awake and thinking that Barry wanted him awake and thinking, good being victim to Barrys control, not for he felt secure in obedience—particular at the expense of his own self—no, for the mere underlying truth, shining golden through it all: he was something worth being controlled, he was worth the intention.

Rafe was an accidental masochist, he knew little else but pain and felt comfort in it, good bottle of scotch he’d taken from the cellar in hand, he spent the night pacing the master bedroom like a panther in a cage, same dark elegance, hunched shoulders and a stealthy look, a predator with no prey, teeth without a pulse to sink into. His thoughts raced, fueled by unpointed anger, dull and useless, bout every smile and every joke and every goddamn fucking touch, that had made him feel warm though certain he was alone in it, how Barry had him fooled with bro’s and shoulder taps, how he’d cruelly held back and hidden all Rafe ever wanted. Couldn’t tell, if he’d really been stupid, if Barry ever let it show, if he even just hinted, and Rafe’d been blind to it. 

It had always been on Barry to act, no way Rafe could’ve shown that hardened dealer just any of his want, he seemed untouchable at times, intimidating in his violent ways; though if anything, it was that very roughness that had drawn Rafe into him. It was that hard act, it was all that maleness Barry so effortlessly flaunted with buff arms and strong, callous hands, with dirty jokes and unbothered ruthlessness, unquestionable and desirable, all Rafe thought he lacked. 

Though Rafe crushing on Barry was, and should've been obvious. It was certainly everyone coming to see him for drugs that did, at least, Rafe couldn't imagine anyone not falling for his easy smiles and the way his hair fell into his face, onto tan shoulders bare under that tanktop like a slut, glowing from hard labor under the sun. Impossible for Rafe to make a move, he was a coward like his father always said, though he couldn't help but think what if he had. If things could be different, and the two of them something. If—and Rafe tried to stop the thought with another line of coke, it hurt all too much on his heart and the coke didn’t numb all that—Barry still would’ve jumped the boat. 

The deeper the night, the emptier that overpriced bottle of scotch, the more sexual Rafe’s thoughts turned; maybe it was the anger, still, that fueled it. 

Have him; Barry’d said. Have him. 

He felt the word warm in his groin, thoughts running wild to all Barry could’ve meant. Have him. The soldier was sure strong and had proved how easy it was for him to throw Rafe around before, though his hands had never been particularly loving on him. Rafe liked the idea of Barry having him. Of taking him, in all the ways he pleased, he imagined his rough hands handling him around, he imagined playfully resisting just to have Barry prove his strength. He imagined all that man on him. 

Coke always made him rough on himself, made his grip tight and movements frantic in less than primal need, crudely fisting his dick for relief. 

Kind no one could provide better than his own hand, those nights that the coke had him fucked, cruel white bitch, made it unbearable at times to be patient to someone else's touch, though the thought flashing through his mind as his hand provided relief—Barry could. Familiar wave of shame once cum ran warm down an open hand, the scar on his wrist above *grinning* back at him. Barry sure could. 

Rafe stumbled into the en-suite to wash his hands, avoiding the light switch like the trigger of a gun; a bleary outline waited for him at the mirror anyways, staring back long after Rafe had lowered his eyes to hide; dim grey light fought it's way into the bathroom, dawn threatening already—a whole night wasted away to Barry’s bullshit. No point in catching up on sleep, Rafe went and did another line instead, help him shower, tried punishing himself for all too much weakness with cold water, but the temperature tore too much at his coke-battered heart, cut off his breath and made him give up, turning it warm instead. 

His dad had left all his clothes, when he blew up the boat and swam his way over to Guadeloupe or something something—Wheez wanted to hear the story over and over again but Rafe never listened, hurt all too much to think of yellow tape and junk washing up in the backyard, hurt when Ward laughed telling his ingenious plan that had left Rafe broken and terrified—the cops couldn't fish a single finger out of the water, he was all still there somewhere behind the tape. 

Rafe picked one of his shirts to wear, figured it‘d make him look serious for the job ahead, liked how intimidating the man in the mirror looked in his father's clothes, not knowing he was the only one who saw, the only one scared of an image so alike his fathers. Felt confident, for it. Craved to strike the same impression on others, that his father did on him. 

When that very man stepped through the door, Rafe was polishing nuggets of gold to keep anxious fingers occupied, contemplating on how to handle Barry once they were on the road together—ignore last night's drunken missteps like Barry always graciously did for him, or act on what felt like an invitation, with the way Barry had bit his smile, usually generous in sharing those. 

Spotting Ward, Rafe felt intimidated, certainly his clothes that did it, and Rafe was wearing the same armor to fight back. Ward didn’t mention his shirt, he didn’t mention the bottle on the nightstand either, and he didn’t mention the coke he spotted; the days of scolding his son for numbing the part of him that didn’t want this life his father gifted him—or any life, for that matter—were over. He had a cross, to rant about instead. 

Rafe knew, what his father was here for—the bottle, the coke, and even the shirt—and rejected the caring act; the sudden false affection made him feel second like he never had, made him mad at the prospect of what could’ve always been, what that man had in him yet never shown. He’d needed it, back then. He’d needed love, before he pulled that trigger and killed his chance at it, he needed it and didn’t need it now. 

He was raging, when he stormed out to his truck, about all claimed in hindsight, when it was too late to act, he’d felt it too, in bitter nights of storms swallowing pretty blonde girls whole, I loved her, he thought, once there was no chance to show it anymore, forgot it with her back and remembered the second she slipped away from any need to act. Only loved, when there was no pressure to be loving, only loved when she was out of reach to hurt. 

Barry was already waiting all the way up at the road when Rafe got there, much too late. He rolled down his window, whistling through his teeth before nodding at him. "How much?"

“Real funny, bitch”, Barry grinned, ripping the door open to jump in.

“What the fuck is this”, Rafe asked, looking him up and down, his nose wrinkled in blatant disgust. 
  
“This?”, Barry asked and pointed at the red tank top he was wearing. Rafe nodded, putting his truck back into drive and steering it onto the road again. 

“I have a genuine question for you, bro”, he said. 

“Yeah me too, bro, know how late you are?”

“Do you, like, close your eyes in the morning and just reach into your closet and just put on whatever?”, Rafe asked with unjustified annoyance, ignoring Barry's question so Barry did the same, continuing his own conversation. 

“Was starting to worry you slept in on me”, he said. He'd worried 'bout other things. 

“I didn’t sleep”, Rafe defended himself, poorly so, Barry's eyes flashing showed him right away. That fucking asshole, confirming anyways, he knew what kept him up, and liked it, too. Satisfaction Rafe regretted granting him, in an instant.

 "Well usually I just take what’s on top of my laundry pile, if ya need to know”, Barry said and offered an exaggerated grin then: “But I actually handpicked my outfit for you today”. Kind of jokes Barry always made, almost naturally so, but it was ridiculous to pretend it was all still the same, all still well, when nothing was and Rafe didn’t joke back, just stared ahead onto the road to get them to the ferry Ward damn near made them miss. Ready to pretend it was all still the same. 

Thrill of the money built up slowly like an acid trip, shy tab-under-your-tongue kind of excitement that soon dropped to a subtle buzz in your stomach, it only really settled in once that jeweler counted the bills out in front of them, and Rafe's smile was sweet and precious on their money. It wasn't that Barry wasn't used to seeing these amounts of cash, he handled them plenty, just it was never his, always just payments, always investments he needed to flip to survive, never just there, unmistakable and without risk attached to it. 

What followed was play, was childish joy and innocent smiles like they were firsts, silly little plan Rafe had proposed the second they stepped out with their first cash. "We're not taking a single cent of this home", he'd promised, and his grin made it sound like a threat instead, Barry felt it in his stomach like the first car he jacked, certainty it was stupid, and stupidly fun, a race with his little heart pumping, for a life worth loving. He didn't know where to spend that kind of money in a day, but Rafe had ideas. 

Acting out a child's dream of going into a store and buying every single thing he'd never need without looking at the price tag (Promise me, Rafe had insisted, after catching him at it, promise me not to look, with that stupid grin on his face), a blissfully disgusting waste of money on expensive scotch and the idiotic idea of dressing each other up, and Barry was certain that had been Rafe’s, though Rafe insisted on the opposite later, well fitted in a tight black shirt, claimed Barry had suggested it, was all hazy anyways between the pricey scotch and all the coke, Rafe did it without break, in the car, in the dressing room, in the barbershop before returning to watch Barry with eyes that startled Barry with all he felt drawn to—danger, and his reckless love for it. 

By the end of the day, they’d turned every last of the nuggets they brought into sweet cash, and not all of that into stupid shit yet, but Barry was exhausted, blissful times that had him tired, while Rafe didn’t seem it just a bit. 

"If we hurry up we can catch the next ferry in twenty", Barry noticed with a glance at his phone, startled by Rafe jacking his head to glare at him, dangerously dragging the wheel as he moved—should've taken his goddamn keys four lines ago. 

"You wanna go home?", Rafe asked.

Before Barry had the chance to answer, Rafe had pushed the brakes and pulled over the truck in a risky move, brushing off the honks from the car behind him with a yelled fuck you out of the window. "Geez", Barry sighed, cause Rafe was in the wrong mood to criticize his driving skills.
 
"Bro, there's a bike shop", he yelled, already jumping out of the car, and Barry followed him onto the sidewalk. "Let's buy new bikes, bro"

Rafe seemed manic, in the way he was moving, and Barry careful, watching him. He knew him like it, something in him adoring the determination in him, when he had his eyes set on something like prey, was like he stopped hearing and seeing then, like he fell out of the world and not even Barry capable of reaching him then. He couldn’t tell, what triggered it. 

Rafe was almost frantic, in his attempts to get Barry to follow him into the shop like there was just anything at stake, he rambled on: "We gotta celebrate, bitch, right? We said we'd celebrate, right? So don't, don't pull that shit now, yeah, let's go, let's go, alright, we're getting new bikes, hey, are you coming? Bro, you seein’ this? Come on-“

"Can you calm down for sec, bro", Barry sighed. Must be the coke Rafe did, the lack of sleep seemed to be catching up, and Barry sensed it was time to contain him, instead of feeding into the mania he'd been joining in on all day, running through the city on a money-high. Realized now, with a sinking stomach, it had been all too wrong to enjoy Rafe’s energy for the day, that he noticed all of it had been running; though he didn’t know what from. 

Rafe acted as if Barry never said a thing. Rambled on, in his usual ways, and Barry felt worry at the empty gaze in his eyes, like the man across from him was just anything to protect. 

"Ey!", Barry yelled, worry made him rough, and sometimes mean; he grabbed Rafe and threw him back against his car, interrupting his endless talk, cause he’d seen it play out too often. Slapped him once, for good measure. "Snap the fuck out of it, alright"

Rafe stared back, more annoyed than anything, at Barry’s outburst. 

"What’s the matter with you, huh?", Barry asked, still holding him against the truck, like he might run and turn frantic again. 

"I am calm", Rafe pressed out. Though his stare was hateful, Barry was glad to have him there again. 

“You been snorting through the whole night, bro?", Barry asked precisely. “Why don’t we call it a day, get some rest, yeah? Aren’t ya tired?”

“And who are you, huh? My fucking dad?”, Rafe spat. Barry’s soft act was ridiculous, and out of line to say the least, no matter the careless voice he tried to put on, his real intention was loud and clear, treating Rafe like any less than the man he was, belittling him with worry uncalled for. “Think I don’t got enough of that shit waiting for me at home?"

“What?”, Barry breathed. 

“Nothing. Get off me”, Rafe replied and lazily pushed back at him, too weak to warrant Barry to slam him back into the car like he’d hoped for. Barry just stared back. 

“Tannyhill?”, he asked.

Rafe turned his head away like he was once more annoyed with the whole ordeal, and Barry’s reaction embarrassing. At least he hoped Barry felt like it, knew he always did, when he’d screamed too loud, or pushed too impulsevily; embarrassed for feeling, embarrassed for showing it.

“Get in the car”, Barry ordered, and this time Rafe followed right away, falling into the passenger seat and crossing his arms like a sulky toddler. 

Barry was on him the second his door slammed shut. “He’s here? In Kildare?” 

“Ya”, Rafe said, stubbornly looking out of the window as if there was just anything to see. 

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me”, Barry yelled. Rafe barely remembered him ever actually being mad at him. Sure, he’d wanted his money back, but he realized only now, that Barry and him had never fought—maybe, for too less was at stake, to get upset. They’d never known or liked each other enough to fight, never owed the other honesty, or at least, Rafe wouldn’t have dared to demand it, or anything else for that matter. 

“Didn’t wanna bother you with my personal bullshit. I know you don’t care”, Rafe said. He turned to look over, pin Barry with the blatant accusation; he’d told him to his face just yesterday, he didn’t give a fuck. 

“Bitch, that is business, alright, _my_ business”, Barry said, pointing at his chest. Played his part well. “So next time something is threatening our little operation I want you to tell me right away, we fucking clear?” 

Rafe acted as if he was the one to be offended, arms still crossed. Had picked up his sister’s defense tactics, though he’d never had the pretty face to carry them out. 

“Hey, we clear, country club?”, Barry repeated harshly and Rafe stared back. 

“Ya”, he made. 

Should've been a million things running through Barry's mind, though all he felt was embarrassment over the ridiculous assumption he'd made that morning, over the twisted excitement he'd felt; Rafe had spent the night awake because of him. Had been the very first day the two of them met that Barry learned there was a number one in Rafe's life, so greedy in his taking of Rafe's heart, there wasn't room for much else. He'd stayed back for it. 

“So what the fuck is he doing here?”, he asked. 

“Figured it was me with the cross”, Rafe shrugged.

“Are you fucking kidding me”, Barry yelled. “You letting me running around with the gold all day, knowing this shit, huh?”

Rafe couldn't help and feel a slight bit of satisfaction, over Barry acting all betrayed and shit. He smiled. “It’s fine. I took care of it” 

"When I said fifty-fifty I didn't just mean the money, yeah?", Barry said. “This isn’t fifty-fifty. This is Rafe Cameron doing stupid shit on his own”

“I’m fucking sorry, okay? Didn’t wanna think about this shit today, so thanks, anyways”, Rafe said. Barry stared back. Saw more than anything, a child, and felt all it didn't get to have, felt once more, the wrongful urge to protect, a man that didn't need protection. 

“Where's the scotch”, Rafe asked and escaped his gaze, bending to search the foot space for relief. 

He was running, and had been since little legs could carry him, was running still, even after it all got too heavy to, ran into coke and bloody fights and shitty sex, direction that couldn't be wrong, for at least it was away. There was no point in calling him out for it.

“What does he know?” 

Barry was a practical man, who didn't care about Rafe's bullshit, just business, his business, his half of it. 

“That I’m not fucking playing by his rules no more, alright”, Rafe said. He started grinning. Some childish pride in those features. 

“And now you wanna stay up past your bedtime, big boy?” 

Rafe grinned coldly at the joke, means to ridicule him, for sure. “Yeah, you don’t?”

Chapter Text

Barry had silently commented Rafe’s choice with skeptical amusement. He didn’t frequent strip clubs—the kind of establishment his peers, his people worked at. Though Rafe seemed too fragile, all day, to voice just any criticism and something in Barry was hungry to see Rafe in there, anyways.

“You sure gone trash the trailer, right?”, Rafe said, swirling the ice cubes in his drink with the flick of his hand.

“Why?”, Barry made.

“What you mean why? You don’t wanna get out of that shithole?”, Rafe asked. Barry couldn’t answer, his lips parted in disbelief. Didn't get a chance, anyways, to voice what was on his tongue, pretty girl strolled over, and he was almost glad to be interrupted in what Rafe was too ignorant to hear.

“You two having fun?”, she asked.

“We could sure have more”, Rafe said, leaning back in his seat as he grinned up. “How much for a lap dance”

Barry rolled his eyes at him, hint of annoyance, hint of amusement, though surely the ever lasting skepticism on his features.

“70 for you”, the girl smiled at Rafe, pointed a carefully manicured finger at his chest, like she was gonna stab him with it—something Barry would've payed 70 for in a heart beat.

“It’s for him though”, Rafe grinned and nudged his chin at Barry. That hint of amusement spread on his face, now, made it crack open with laughter. “Nah, I’m good, thanks”, Barry chuckled.

“Don’t be rude”, Rafe growled. “It’s a gift”

Rafe’s cold tone of voice, unwarranted, had Barry hesitate for just a moment. Something flickered in his eyes, could easily scare away a man as hatred or simple threat, but Barry saw the play behind, provocation, or better yet, invitation, though he wasn’t quite sure what for. Rafe sat tense in his chair, seemed pressed, almost.

“I’m good, bro”, Barry repeated slowly.

Wasn’t one to get intimidated by a bit of angry blue, no matter the intensity of it. Rafe’s features twitched minimally, nothing that Barry’d miss, he had his eyes set on him too, fearlessly. Rafe pried his off him, looked at the girl and tried a smile, stiff and unnatural.

“He’s just shy”, he said, eyes flickering back at Barry. “Give him a dance”, he ordered coldly.

Poor woman seemed nervous on her feet, hesitating between the two of them—Barry almost would’ve laughed, Congrats, psycho, you crept her out. Hard to not pick up on Rafe’s energy, a tenseness that was chilling, far more than just the coke, far worse.

Barry pushed his tongue against his teeth, nodding slowly, as if he got it now. Was sure risky, getting into the game, and Rafe a crazy little bitch, but Barry couldn’t help and be amused, still.

By this, by him, by his boldness.

Almost shameless, in his pursuit, or maybe just too desperate to hide it all, the sheer pressure on his body as he stared, the whiteness of his knuckles, clawing at the leather of his chair, the urgency, with which he wanted to watch. So blatant even, Barry didn’t even need to call him out, to taste humiliation.

“Come ‘ere”, he waved the stripper over.

She seemed relieved, anyways, to get out of the uncomfortable spot Rafe put her in. Barry leaned back, acted as if he didn’t pay attention to Rafe’s face lighting up, twisted satisfaction, licking his lips in anticipation as he leaned back himself.

But he saw Rafe clearly, saw all of him, every muscle in his face and how he tried to keep them calm, saw his legs spread wide and obnoxious in that chair, saw Rafe’s hand fall to his lap like coincidence, the golden ring on his finger flashing pink under the neon lights.

This was Barry giving in, giving up, though he didn’t act like it, seemed careless, almost, unbothered, with that girl on him—though he was far from it. Not particularly turned on by her dance on him, nah, it was Rafe getting hot, that got him hot.

Little sicko smiled and enjoyed himself, his blue eyes had turned soft, jumping back and forth over all he took in, that girl on Barry, lusciously moving. Who knew what went on behind them, Barry could only imagine, though he didn’t want to, not with a bitch in his lap and not with Rafe hungry for it, wouldn’t give him that. Promised himself to let his thoughts run wild, come back to it, eventually, and turned his focus to toilet duty back in basic training instead.

Rafe's eyes were clear, and his cheeks kissed with a pink hue so pretty it had Barry wish for them between his thighs, once that girl got off and Rafe payed her without wasting a glance at her, stupid thought to have, stupid and dangerous. Barry caught Rafe's eyes, hadn't gifted him an exchange of looks just a single time during the dance, cruelly so, cowardly so.

“Are ya happy, Cameron?”, he asked. Such demeaning tone, he was mocking him, he was making fun, was calling him pathetic and perverted all at once. Topped it with his gaze flickering for just a second there, to Rafe’s crotch.

Rafe didn’t react. He pushed himself up from his chair. “I need a line”, he said. “Come on”

Oh, this man really thought he could be ordering Barry around here. He could play doll and dress him up, he could watch him, he could make him run to please the little kook with coke. Barry followed anyways. They were here to celebrate, have fun. So he’d let him have fun, no need to put the Cameron boy in his place yet.

Would be ridiculous to pretend Barry didn’t know damn well what he was stepping into when he followed Rafe into that small bathroom stall and locked the door behind them.

Maybe it was even ridiculous to pretend he hadn’t known the moment he accepted the dance, eyes fixed to Rafes unwavering stare on him.

Maybe it could be drawn back further and further, ridiculous to pretend Barry didn’t know what he’d do, when he carefully chose the words he shared with Rafe over the bonfire in front of his trailer, about wanting, and taking.

If Barry had to stand trial for the breaking of Rafe’s soul—though he surely wouldn’t be main suspect—maybe the state attorney would even argue, he’d known with every look thrown at the kook, with every smile cracked, he’d known the first line he laid in front of him, what he was walking into, what he was doing to him. They’d call it intent, and give him the max penalty.

Barry’s lawyer would argue. Your honor, my client couldn’t have known the Cameron boy was nutty like that. The defendants own words. Clinically insane, he means.

Mr. Soul Breaker, the attorney would address him on the witness stand, so you’re saying you were not aware Mr. Broken Soul was “nutty” when you entered that Bathroom stall at 2:11am sharp?

No, I mean before it all, Barry’d argue.

Define ‘it all’

The soul breaking

So, Mr. Soul Breaker, could that not, in fact mean, Mr. Broken Soul was not clinically insane before you broke his soul?

I didn’t break shit

Yes or no is sufficient, Mr. Soul Breaker.

Barry’s chances in that court room would look slim. He was sharp, and there when he stumbled into the stall after Rafe, comfortably buzzed from liquor and coke.

He was all there, and well aware of the heat in Rafe’s face when he watched him, he’d liked it of course, he’d like Rafe’s boldness, he liked his determination, he liked Rafe’s sweet teeth sunken into his lips at times.

Barry still acted surprised, when Rafe pushed him back into the glossy black tiles with a rough hand at his shoulder. Acted like Rafe’s other hand at his crotch a split second later was ambush—and he not that trained us army solider who could’ve fought him right off.

“Fuck, Rafe”, he breathed, and saw Rafe’s eyes widen at his size, grasping for his dick through the soft fabric of his shorts. Went on to feel for his full length, a wild smile running over his lips.

Would be wrong to call it bravery, the way Rafe leapt onto Barry in that small bathroom, it was recklessness at best, and a twisted desire to self destruct at worst.

“What you doing”, Barry asked, stupidly. He hadn’t moved against Rafe’s hand at his shoulder, or backed away from the one at his dick, could’ve thrown him off with ease. Could’ve yelled, but stayed ever so calm, almost painfully unbothered.

“This not what you want?”. Rafe’s voice was breathy and close, he’d leaned in even, hot and sweaty against Barry still palming him through his shorts, and he wasn't asking. Barry hadn’t been specific when he said he wanted Rafe in another way, but Rafe had spent most of last night figuring, and getting hard over his ideas.

“Nah”, Barry replied, dryly.

Rafe ignored his answer, maybe because it was hidden behind the usual sarcasm anyways, maybe because he was too in the moment, too focused with coke sharpening his view, to really take it in; slipped down on his knees in a fluid motion—this time, Barry was surprised and the shock on his face honest. “Woah”, he made, sounded almost helpless with it.

Rafe grinned up, he fumbled with Barry’s pants, almost urgently so. He didn't say it, didn't need to: Said you wanna have me..Have me. Rafe had liked his choice of words, did shit to his dick, anyways. He was crude and messy despite his intense focus on Barry’s soft shorts, liquor made him sway and his hands shook without a cause—he was too drunk to be nervous. Finally just tried pulling on ‘em, his fingers grasping the fabric at the sides.

"Get your dirty little hands off me", Barry hissed.

Rafe froze, and his hands shook still. He stared at them, pulling back slowly but surely, undoubted obedience Barry should take advantage off, and hiss just any other order, but he kicked it with his feet.

Barry had made it pretty clear, that he wanted him.

God, what else was all that bullshit for, yesterday over that bonfire? Rafe had spent all night thinking it out. Why else, would Barry tell him now? Just to tell? Just to have it said? 

"What the fuck are you doing, Rafe", Barry sighed and the disappointment in his voice felt like a slap in the face. It was desperate, though Rafe too blind to laugh at it. Tone too cold to reveal just any of Barry's fear behind, when it was all he felt, and his cruelty no more than cries, when he was small in that stall, and Rafe not at his feet, but all over him instead, suffocating him with undeserved devotion.

"We do have a good thing here, don't you think?", Barry asked.

Rafe had said it himself, how perfect it was, how easy between the two of them, now that it was all business and no feelings to be questioned. Barry had ripped that shit apart, cause he felt like it, in the safety of that dim bonfire round his trailer. Cause some gut instinct told him to fucking take that boy back, that had once belonged to him in all his innocence and was slipping through his fingers now.

Had been a selfish, stupid act. The very reason Barry couldn’t have him, never could, wouldn’t allow himself, not here, not now, not ever. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He’d taken that good thing and fucked it. He didn’t want good things for Rafe, he wanted Rafe.

It was kind of hard to focus at the height of Barry's hips, especially after Rafe had felt his size. He dropped his gaze and stared straight ahead into his pants. Barry put a hand under his chin, made him look up again. Cruel, in all he didn't grant.

"What you wanna ruin all this for, huh?", he asked.

As if he wasn’t the one that did.

"For a taste of this?"

Rafe eyes dropped naturally, tempted almost, to lean in, give answer to a question Barry didn't want answers to, he wasn't asking, he was scolding him like a child.

Those low blue eyes sure angered him, or maybe it was just Rafe still down there that did, maybe it was the feeling he put him there, same way he did most things with Rafe—out of impulse and he imagined his pretty face glowing if he ever said it: you havin' me act like a goddamn animal, Cameron. He wasn't glowing now, and Barry slapped him still. "You stupid bitch", he spat, and Rafe almost heard the fear in his shaking voice, this time, felt it, on his cheek. "You don't want this"

Slapped like a stupid bitch, Rafe's cheek turned red with shame, for a split second, Barry had hope he'd snapped him out of his trance, but he didn't move an inch, was staring still, though into nothingness, not those soft shorts in front of him.

"You wanted to be my friend. I'm not your friend", Barry said.

His tone was cold, and it was begging still, pleas for Rafe to come to his senses, Barry remembered with a twist in his stomach talking to his abuela that way, when he was barley more than a boy, it's Barry, it's Barry, i'm Barry, he'd turned sour and angry for it, tears swelling up in his eyes. Was pointless, reasoning.

Should've never told Rafe how he felt. It would’ve been the kindest thing he ever did, but Barry wasn’t kind.

"I want your cock", Rafe said. Stubborn protest—Barry didn’t know shit, didn’t know shit about him and what he wanted.

He smiled up, knowing what he did. Smiled with malice, sweetly so.

Was pointless, reasoning.

Barry looked down at him and shook his head. It was the pity that hurt, it was pity that really reached Rafe's heart. "Look at yourself", Barry made, almost softly, nodded down at him on the floor, just holding back on stroking sweaty stubs of hair to comfort. "You'on think you deserve this, do you?"

And what if he did? What if Rafe thought exactly that.

What if he was right?

Barry didn't comment on it. Didn't clarify what he thought, didn't tell Rafe he deserved better than the dirty bathroom tiles in a strip club and a man like Barry standing above him. And Rafe looked up, so angry he could cry, or fall down to the floor and weep or cling to Barry's leg and wipe his snot into basketball shorts, arms wrapped around his thigh.

He was tempted to say I do. I know I do. This is what I deserve.

Maybe Barry would give it to him then.
Maybe Barry'd say he didn't.

Both would be enough.

"Shit's humiliating", Barry pointed out, as if Rafe didn't understand it himself.

So what?

As if it changed a thing. As if he cared.

"And you?", Rafe asked and raised his chin at Barry. A winning smile crept onto his lips. "Think you deserve it?"

Deserve him. Rafe on his knees right there, willing, to please at the expense of his own pride, something Rafe pretended to value so highly, till it was Barry‘s feet he could drop it at.

Barry's lips parted. He laughed, real quietly.

"Nah, man", he said. Was tender, in the way he stroked Rafe‘s head; pitiful gesture, straight to Rafe's heart—all animal with his hands on that man after all. "That's what I'm saying"

And wasn't this what he'd been trying to tell Rafe all this time. What he told him over the fire, he‘d always liked him, but it wouldn’t have been fair. And maybe it hadn't been all cruel like Rafe thought, maybe it had been Barry joining in on his monologues of self-pity, maybe he'd just wanted to share, his own heart break; maybe he'd wanted sympathy, but unlike Rafe, he'd caused it for the both of them.

"So get up. Come on", Barry offered. “Come on, pull yourself up, bro”

Acted causal almost, so casual it hurt. Rafe got up. He never had issues following Barry’s orders, though a part of him would’ve rather crumbled into himself on the floor, and stayed there, died there.

He was unsteady, getting up, the liquor grasping at his legs, and Barry offered no help seeing him sway—it wouldn’t have been fair to touch—though Rafe caught himself fine enough, raised his chin, drew back his shoulders and straightened his back, stepping closer to Barry against that wall. Humiliation was a fine price to pay, if Barry‘d touched him then, but he didn’t, left Rafe mad, left Rafe desperate to take back what he gave.

"You're a disgusting fucking liar", he hissed through his teeth. For a split second, Barry felt fear, the primal kind. “Said you wanted me”

Embarrassing to admit, because Barry'd seen it, Barry'd seen it and rejected him for it, the very reason Rafe got onto his knees in the first place; want for him, for Rafe the Unloveable, want, priceless, and his immediate attempt to pay with all of him.

“Said it wouldn’t be fair”, Barry defended himself.

“Why”, Rafe breathed the question like a threat. Barry shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m no good, Country Club”. It was almost an apology, or maybe just the unexpected sadness in Barry’s voice making it sound like one, lack of sarcasm Rafe had grown to fear and crave. The bones of Rafes jaw stuck out like the bared teeth of a dog ready to bite, and Barry sensed his anger well.

"You actually think you're worse than me?”, Rafe almost spat the words. He waited, to catch Barry’s eyes and pin them with his stare.

“Prove it".

Insane, to ask for it, raised chin and all. Insane to glow at it, hunger to Rafe’s eyes—he wanted to believe Barry, wanted him worse, and see it.

"I just did", Barry said dangerously close to his face. Glanced down at the floor, the dirty fabric around Rafe's knees. Rafe pushed air out of his nose, sound just short of a laugh, pulling Barry’s humiliation into ridicule. That was nothing, bitch.

"If you were, you'd use me", he said and shrugged.

His smile was small and dangerous, all too confident. Barry loved and hated it on him. Rafe got ever closer, leaning in to breathe whiskey down his neck.

"I'd use you", he said.

If he was in Barry's place. And Barry in his. Cause he was bad, real bad, sick at mind, sick to his soul. He licked his smile.

"I'd break you"

Barry’s grin had grown while listening, mocking Rafe with bold amusement over his threats. He chuckled softly, dropped his head and lifted it again. Rafe hadn’t budged an inch at his movement.

"You'd bite your teeth out on me, Babyboy", Barry grinned warmly.

Rafe had the urge to bite him. Leave bad marks. He leaned in like it was an invitation, though Barry held him at a distance with a hand at his throat with ease. Rafe bared his teeth, and sunk back in disappointment.

"Always knew you were fucked in the head, Cameron", Barry noticed, letting his hand sink down. "But not like this.."

This desperate.

This lonely.

"'s it scare you?", Rafe asked, grin just shy of proud.

Maybe that was the real reason Barry wanted to stay away from him after all, not feed into his obsession, let him close. He was sure scared even now. Of what he'd done, with a simple comment. Barry shook his head.

"Makes me sad", he said.

He waited, unwavering, to win this game of stare, until Rafe’s gaze softened up with defeat, the painful realization there was nothing mean to say, no threat to make against Barry’s sadness, the immediate fight to not make it his own, to not let it pass through the drunkenness he wore like armor, it was sad, and nothing else.

Barry grabbed Rafe by the shoulder; rough, friendly touch, that felt rougher for they weren’t friends, and maybe had never been less of it than in that moment. "Let's get outta here, bro. You're drunk as shit”, Barry said and pulled him in. “Come on, let’s go. You a mess, bro. Let’s get out”

Chapter Text

"Next ferry won't come in a few hours", Barry had said, tapping the wheel.

Something in Rafe had felt too tired to be mean, he'd been mean, he'd gotten hurt for it, he'd bit his teeth out.

He'd appreciated the cold window against his temple, and thought about letting Barry know he'd noticed the man's constant need to chase away silence with empty sayings or stupid jokes; had kept quiet instead, smile creeping onto his lips for just a moment, til he'd become aware of the effort it took and dropped it again. He enjoyed Barry's voice, and the stories he told, but craved what he was hiding with it, he craved silence and the sound of his heart, the kind of truths you couldn't speak or hear.

"I'll drive us somewhere quiet, yeah", Barry had said. Rafe had huffed a chuckle; even when he stayed silent, Barry knew to ward off insults he never spoke. Wasn't the first time he felt like the other man could read his mind, and felt relief instead of fear for it.

Hadn't said a single word until they were down at the port, and Barry spoke again. "Wanna go lay in the back?", he'd asked. "Catch some sleep, huh?"

Rafe had wanted to bark at his softness—he didn't need it and it had felt like an insult and it had felt like Barry wanted it to; needed to believe him weak that moment and for Rafe to believe it too. Rafe hadn't barked, he went and laid in the back, not for sleep but silence, and both caught him there.

Was all quiet, with Rafe sleeping curled up on the backseat of his car, his limbs awkwardly angled to fit into the tight space, tough Barry didn't dare turn and catch a glance, his heart felt fragile in that truck, and looking back might just have it shatter.

He spotted that stupid bottle of overpriced scotch in the footspace; couple hundred bucks spent for that liquor to be gulped warm from the bottle, in some parking lot at Wilmington Harbour. Barry grinned around the bitter taste as he sipped, what a waste, he thought, Rafe, he thought and tipped the bottle to wash that stupid shit away.

It was the late hour making him sentimental, it was the coke leaving his body like a rude lover, always did, picking clothes on tip toes and leaving you to wake up feeling dirty, about the blisses of last night. The white lady was a bitch.

Barry didn't dare turn on the radio and risk waking Rafe, he stared at the distant lights of cranes and container ships instead, like man made stars, being moved by the brave workers breaking their backs those hours. Barry felt ridiculous in his new clothes and shiny shoes, they fit like a costume, and he knew he belonged with the guys over there, with cheap whiskey in a thermos to make it through long days.

Barry didn't remember turning, just noticed at the fine features of Rafe's face, that he had. He looked awfully pretty and just innocent enough, sleeping, to make it feel like he didn't deserve any of the shit Barry put him through—like it hadn't been fair. But Barry knew better than to give a fuck about what he felt, he knew Rafe was cruel and deserving...he'd use him, he'd said, he'd break him, and Barry felt, remembering Rafe's words, felt and knew better still.

It certainly wasn't the first time he'd seen the kook loose it, just a little bit, and he the one to take care of that. Rafe'd arrived at his trailer troubled, shaking at times, when he let go of the handle of his bike, and Barry just glad he made it there, he'd arrived crying or debilitated by anger, he'd arrived broken, countless nights, but he'd arrived.

Barry calmed him then, not always with ease.

He couldn't relate to the problems Rafe cried about, if he was speaking clear enough to understand them even, some shit about his dad, his dad, his dad, sometimes Barry lovingly mocked him for it, sometimes Barry comforted him with cold logic, sometimes he distracted with silly jokes, sometimes he sat quiet in shock over the cruelty of a man he had not met.

Sweet Rafe sleeping on that couch then. Barry often thought to offer an arm or his chest, was glad he didn't those times he was sleeping, cause he looked too precious then, for him to touch.

Barry had liked it.

Those quiet nights and dried tears on pretty cheeks—though worse he'd liked them swelling in Rafe's eyes.

He liked him broken.

Was no point in denying the excitement he felt each time Rafe showed up in despair, too clear, too there in his consciousness to even claim innocence, Barry knew damn well how good it felt to see the man suffer, better yet to provide comfort then, and if it was just drugs, and if it pulled him deeper, saw it, was there, when Rafe found peace or even just a break.

He was a terrible man.

Disgusting for liking what he did, and acting like he cared. Never wanted Rafe to be better, ever just with him, and worse without.

And Barry felt sick to his stomach when the whole murder happened, because out do all things, he'd felt excitement, the terrible kind he'd seen particular cruel men at the army have—made him question if not them, but he was in the wrong place for it. Prospect of Rafe doing worse sweet like cavities, the way he'd depend on him to get through it.

Pathetic to get off on that kind of shit. Have some poor mentally troubled boy find comfort in him. He'd been disgusted of it then, he was disgusted of it now.

And Rafe was supposed to hate him, after the betrayal, he was supposed to feel disgusted of a man that didn't deserve the sparkle in his blue eyes on him, not his attention or forgiveness, not half a gold cross or even the pricey whiskey in his hand.

When Rafe came back, Barry knew there was something deeply wrong with him—it excited, it disgusted him even worse.

Rafe deserved better than any of this shit. And Barry didn't know if better was out there for him, just that he did. Deserve some kind of love that wasn't fucked and broken. And Barry couldn't give that. Didn't have that, he thought, and took another sip from the bottle. He didn't fucking have it.

When Rafe woke up, he left some part of him on that backseat, climbed out of skin that didn't fit those morning hours and shed the veil of desperation, Barry was used to those remnants Rafe left after nights at his place, he was the one to pick 'em in the mornings, when Rafe put on a mask out of habit like Barry hadn't seen him without.

That morning on the ferry, he was grateful for the act, and Rafe's talk about business, about phase two and three of their plan, about gold prices, and not a mention of what he offered on his knees in a bathroom stall—not a thanks for Barry not taking it.

Awkward moment at the side of the road to Barry's trailer, night threatening to catch up with that silence between them, hesitant with good byes for they felt out of place; just any word did.

Barry nodded up the road. "Think your dad's still there?"

Watched Rafe's jaw tighten. "I'on know", he faked indifference.

Dropped his mask the second Barry was done fumbling with the bag he'd dropped in the foot space of the truck almost 24 hours ago, pulled out a gun and painted a disbelieving smile onto Rafe's lips, when he asked: "Wanna take this?"

Rafe nodded. Would sure make him feel better facing his dad, would sure make his face drop when Rafe let it show hooked into his belt, he'd liked the shock in Ward about the melted cross, he'd liked a reaction he had expected, had liked the control.

"But, uhm, if you wanna avoid that man, just go somewhere he can't, yeah?", Barry suggested. "Country Club or some? Lotta witnesses, you see?"

Felt suddenly embarrassed about the amount of thought he put into it, suddenly scared Rafe would point it out.

"Yeah", Rafe nodded. "Yeah, yeah. That's smart. That's good"

"Aight", Barry said. "Take care"

He grabbed his bag and slipped out of the car, watched Rafe drive off before his shoulders dropped and exhaustion welcomed him back home with greedy arms around his neck—felt in dire need for a joint and just one or two hours of sleep, process and reasses, make a goddamn plan and stick to it.

He dragged himself up the wooden stairs, thought for a tired second about the lumber he could afford with the cash, the things he'd fix, the home he'd built outta that old trailer—and stopped in his tracks.

"Ward Cameron", he noticed, looked at that ghost, that gun in his hand, sitting in the same damn spot dickhead junior usually sat on that couch of his, not with the same ease his son did, not with the same familiarity of his surroundings, safe there. Had that gun tight in his hands, like a man that didn't wanna shoot—though Barry knew he would. "You got balls"

He resisted the urge to reach under his top, knew it was nothing there.

"Rafe must've told you I'm alive", Ward sighed, massaging his temples with his free hand. "He's a mess"

Barry shrugged. "Ion got shit to do with him. Turned him in, remember?", he said. Lying was easy, truth the thing that had him struggling.

"Still hung up on that, ey? That why you're here?", he asked. "Or just came by to have a chat? Should've called, I could've made us tea"

Barry talked, talked too much when it was fear in his brains, and the gun in the other guys hand—talked, when defenseless.

"He just dropped you off, didn't he?". Ward nodded outside, he'd let him talk with intention, picked up on fear when it was the last thing Barry'd ever shown, enjoyed it too.

"I respect you", he said, slow, like he meant it.
"You are a man trying to built some wealth for himself, and you're willing to put in the effort for it. You're willing to sacrifice and I see myself in that."

Barry thought how honored Rafe would feel if Ward told him that, but he didn't want the compliment.

"It's just that's not gonna work if it's my son being sacrificed, you see?", Ward continued.

"Ain't no one being sacrificed, man", Barry assured him.

Ward nodded, but he didn't listen. Asked, instead.

"What do you have on him?"

Barry frowned. "What are you talking about"

"Just tell me what you have, and we can talk about the price", Ward replied, like the business man he was. Barry got it now, and couldn't help but laugh.

"Look, if I had dirt on him, he'd be man enough to take me out on his own, trust", he chuckled. Wondered, for a short moment there if Rafe had told his dad about back when, bout owning and coming back here either way.

"What do you have on my son?", Ward repeated stubbornly— didn't take Barry's claims of Rafe being able to take care of his own shit serious, he'd raised the kid.

"Ion got shit on him, man", Barry said. "You slow?"

Ward's face wrinkled with genuine confusion, when he asked, low and almost speaking to himself, though he was still making a case. "Why else would he be with you?"

The underlying insult in Wards disbelief was loud and clear. Barry shrugged. Smiled, for just a second.

"We're just friends, you know"

Wasn't confusion anymore, was genuine disgust on that man's face, and sudden helplessness though better hidden. He'd come here to save his son from the claws of this man, certain he was the reason for Rafe stealing—he'd been before.

"Want your tea, now?", Barry grinned.

"No", Ward replied, not even saying thanks.

"Well I'm making one for myself", Barry decided. He cautiously moved to the kitchen cabinet and Ward didn't raise his gun, either didn't mind him making tea or hadn't paid attention anyways, lost in thought.

Long enough for Barry to grab his back up piece from an empty box of cereal, and jump behind the fridge too quick and skilled for Ward to even twitch.

"It's over, cripple", Barry yelled, squatting behind the metal shield as he clocked his gun.

"Take a bet and see if you miss this shot, old man", he mocked, braver with a gun in hand. "I know I won't"

If Ward wanted to shoot, he could've a long time ago, instead of offering money to please just leave his son alone—pathetic begging the Cameron's were good at.

"So why don't you go and hobble your ass outta my home, huh", Barry suggested.

Listened closely, to the sound of Wards cane on the planks, heard him hobble, and only left cover when Ward had turned his back already, gun pointed at his crooked head, leaning into his cane to stand. Ward was just by the stairs, nasty obstacle, when he turned around again.

"I know what Rafe sees in you", he noticed. Barry doubted Ward knew that, or anything about his son, hadn't known they were friends and certainly nothing more. Ward let a defeated smile show. "Someone worse than him"

He turned, again, made his way down the stairs and Barry took a step for every pathetic three of his, only stopped at the edge of his porch himself, gun raised til the man was out of sight.

Sunk back against a beam, wiping sweat out of his face with his arm. Needed a goddamn joint and those two hours of sleep he'd hoped for, when his phone rang already. Dickhead Jr. to no surprise.

"Yo", he answered shortly. "You good?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Soo..he wasn't here", Rafe happily announced into the phone. "Scared him off, I think". Barry could hear him grinning.

"Nice", he said.

"But, uhm, I been thinking bout what you said. With the witnesses and stuff? So, uh, I'm throwing a little party tonight, bunch of people around. You can come if you wanna"

"Sure, I'll see", Barry said.

"Yeah and, uhm, don't come empty handed, if you know what I mean", Rafe added, acting casual.

"Ah, now this why you calling", Barry figured and couldn't deny it felt good Rafe hadn't found a better source yet, or maybe just a better excuse to call.

"Why else would I", Rafe replied.