Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“She [Sue] was dating him—”

“Walt?”

“Yeah, his name was Walt!”

“I don’t know how I remember that!”

“By that time, I was—I must’ve been sixteen, because I remember—I would, I would come, I would drive home—”

“You were younger than that when they started dating.”

“I do remember being sixteen and driving home and mom wasn’t home because her car wasn’t under the car port, but his car was there, and he was sitting—”

“Sitting on the stoop!”

“—on the stoop with—I’m pretty sure he was drinking a beer.”

“Well, he had a six pack.”

“Yeah.”

“I remember this story! I wasn’t there, but I just remember my mom telling me, she was like, ‘now, Link got home and Walt was sitting on the stoop drinking beer. He had a whole six pack.’ That’s, I just remember—I was like, whoa!”

“I mean, that’s just the start of a nice Netflix and chill, is what he was thinking!”

“Well—No—Well, in our world, it was like, he may be dangerous! You know what I’m saying? That’s how I thought about it.”

“Well, I was—It was weird for me. It wasn’t like my mom wanted to make sure that I was okay with her dating somebody. Walt was a fine guy. You know? There was nothing wrong with the guy. He was—I seem to remember him being a bit of a tool.”

—Ear Biscuits #286: Sibling Stereotypes

Chapter Text

He doesn’t mean to make such a big deal out of it; it’s just that he can’t help but to tell Rhett everything.

Link tends to forget, sometimes, that they’re two separate people—two bodies, two minds, two families. Two different sets of parents, with two different homes, and two different expectations of what’s normal and what isn’t. Two disparate beings. He’s grown so used to thinking of them as RhettandLink over the years that suddenly thinking of them as Rhett and Link is jarring.

So when he mentions to Rhett completely off-handedly one day that his mom’s sort-of serious sort-of boyfriend Walt drinks sort-of a lot, that sometimes he’s sprawled on the porch five-deep into a six-pack of beer when Link gets home after band practice, it doesn’t occur to him that someone else might take that differently than he did. It doesn’t occur to him to be annoyed, much less worried. It doesn’t occur to him that this is a serious thing that he’s seriously disclosing to someone, that it’s anything other than practically just talking out loud to himself.

But Rhett mentions it to his parents it at dinner, which leads to him eavesdropping on them having a tense, whispered conversation about it in the den later that night, which leads to Momma Di calling Mama Sue when she gets back from her graveyard shift at the hospital, which leads to a terrifying, explosive argument behind the locked bedroom door, and now—this.

This awful quiet.

It’s quiet now, on a Thursday night a few weeks before the true start of Spring, and the only noise in the house is the faint rumbling of some old war movie droning from the TV downstairs. Walt’s on the couch, swigging from the flask he hides from Sue. He’ll stay the night, greet her when she gets home, and spend the morning being all lovey-dovey with her—after, of course, wiping the evidence of his inebriation from his breath and his eyes. And Link will stay in his room, the door closed, not even daring to quietly play his illicit Red Hot Chili Peppers tape in case it pisses Walt off. He just does his homework and reads his comic books and fiddles around with some song lyric ideas and stares at the ceiling trying to regulate his breathing.

In, out. In, out. Downstairs, the clinking of glass.

Since his mama ripped her boyfriend a new one about his drinking, Walt’s been acting like Link is nothing more than a stain on his shoe, or an awful smell that just has to be suffered around the house to survive. Granted, they were never all that friendly to begin with. Still, things are markedly worse now.

There are no more awkward, pained attempts at manly camaraderie—about which he’s not complaining, to be fair—but the calm, if awkward, coexistence is gone now, too. They don’t eat dinner in front of the TV anymore, exchanging stilted small talk. They don’t talk at all. Now, the air in the house whenever Walt’s over—and Walt is always freakin’ over—is tense and heavy and sour, like the sky before a thunderstorm. Like there’s no telling when something will strike.

Walt spends his every waking moment glaring daggers at Link like he could kill him if he just hates him hard enough. Link starts spending every waking moment avoiding that very gaze.

*

“You oughta come over tonight. I think this weekend’s gonna be the first one of the season where it’s warm enough to camp outside.”

They’re at their lockers after school that Friday, packing up their book bags to go home. Rhett’s right; it’s been dramatically warmer these past few days than it has since last Fall, and they’ve been itching to get back out under the stars for forever. Link swings his bag over his shoulders and smiles.

“Alright! Where should we go? You and Ben’s A-frame? The river?”

“Mm, the A-frame’s getting a little small. And gross.”

“Oh. True that…”

“And the river will still be way too cold. Let’s just get in our sleeping bags and lay out in the backyard, man.”

“Okay!” Link has to consciously stop himself from skipping out the school’s front doors at Rhett’s side, lest he look like an idiot in all his excitement. “You got your car? I biked this morning. Truck needs gas, and I ain’t getting paid for that painting job ‘til Sunday.”

“I got it. Come on.”

And that’s that. They wave to their friends, hoist Link’s bike into the back of the Nasty, squabble over what to play on the radio for a solid ten minutes. Before they know it, they’re driving along the town’s old dirt roads, singing along to the too-loud radio, laughing and lamenting along as Merle sings, from now on, all my friends are gonna be strangers… I’m all through ever trusting anyone… The only thing I can count on now is my fingers…

Link sticks his head out the side window as Rhett, laughing, takes a turn too fast, feeling the old sedan whip around the bend and allowing the resulting wind to lash through his hair. He closes his eyes to the breeze. He could spend the rest of his life here, he thinks, suddenly, could go years—decades—in the passenger seat next to his best friend. It makes something in him ache, the hope that this will never change: the gently warming air whistling through his too-thin flannel overshirt, the sound of the old dirt road humming beneath them in protest as the Nasty growls onwards, music on the radio.

And Rhett. Rhett in the driver’s seat beside him, head tossed back as he belts aloud to Merle. Rhett, one broad hand tapping along to the beat on the wheel, the other dangling out the window, the hairs beneath his rolled-up sleeves golden in the afternoon sunlight. Rhett, whose proximity makes Link’s skin practically buzz with warmth. The honey-gold of his smile in the midafternoon sun.

Link looks away from the profile of his friend’s body, solid and real on the bench seat beside him, sitting on his hands so he doesn’t do something inexplicable and stupid, like reach out to touch his glowing skin, practically mythical in this light. That’s just not the kind of thing they do. It’s not the kind of thing he should want.

Link’s very good at ignoring the things he wants. Especially when he doesn’t quite understand them in the first place.

Rhett pulls into the Neals’ driveway and is halfway out of his seat before he even cuts the engine. The birdsong seems whimsically close in the absence of car noise. It’s lovely; Buies Creek is on the cusp of Spring, and Link can practically smell it in the air. He smiles idly as he fumbles for his keys.

“What do you wanna do today?” Rhett asks as they head inside, “It’s too cold to swim, but it’s too nice out to just hang in my room…”

“We could go to the student center?” Link suggests.

“No, no, it’ll be too crowded. I kinda want to work on some music, and we’ll never get anything done.”

“Maybe we can just go to the riverbank? We can bring blankets…”

“Hm. That could be good... I can bring my guitar and some snacks and stuff.”

“Okay!”

The boys kick off their shoes by the door and discard their backpacks by the couch. Mama Sue’s off at work again—always is, it seems, these days—and they’ve got the house to themselves until they tromp off again to the McLaughlins’. Rhett makes a beeline for the kitchen and starts rummaging around in the cupboards, while Link starts pulling things out of his backpack to make room for his sleepover gear—clothes, toothbrush, hmm… Some tapes, maybe? To record songs if they get anything good going…? Maybe they could—

“Oof.” Link stumbles into a broad chest, not looking where he’s going as he rummages through his bag on his way to the kitchen. For a moment, he thinks it’s Rhett—god knows the guy’s a million miles tall and only getting taller—but when Link tilts his head up, he realizes it’s not his friend at all.

It’s Walt.

His auburn hair is scruffy and disheveled, and his eyes are a little red. Link steps backwards on instinct, and stumbles—Walt catches him above the elbow, harder than necessary. His gaze is intense. He doesn’t smell like alcohol, though it’s clear he’s been drinking. He just smells strongly of sweat and mouthwash.

“S-Sorry,” Link stutters, trying to subtly ease his arm out of the man’s grasp. Walt doesn’t let him go. His eyes just harden further, and his grip tightens. He squeezes hard enough for Link to gasp in pain.

“Walt—”

“Link? Everything okay?”

The air rushes out of Link with a heave of relief when Rhett appears in the doorway, a bag of potato chips in hand and his brows furrowed low. He’s talking to Link, but his glare is focused on Walt. Suddenly hyper-aware of the company, the older man abruptly lets go of Link’s arm, which he rubs at to ease the ache; he can tell already that it’s going to bruise.

“Yeah. Sorry, Walt. Wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“S’alright,” the man grunts. To Rhett, he adds, “Don’t eat all the chips.”

“I won’t. We were just leaving, actually. Right, Link?” Rhett’s voice is uncharacteristically hard and steely, and his chest is all puffed up like a lizard or something, marking territory. Link supposes he’s got every right; he’s been welcome in this house way longer than Walt, anyway.

“Right,” he croaks out, an awkward beat too late, “Um. I’m staying the night at Rhett’s. You’ll, uh. You’ll tell my mom if she asks, right?” Walt takes seemingly forever to tear his eyes away from Rhett to finally meet Link’s eyes.

“Mhm. Don’t you get into any trouble, now, boy,” he warns. If Link’s mama had said it, it would’ve sounded like a playful tease. From Walt’s mouth, it just sounds like a threat.

“Yes, sir,” Link murmurs, and Walt nods once, before stalking off upstairs to the bedroom. Link holds his breath until he hears the sound of the door slamming. Only then does he deflate, running his fingers through his hair.

“Jeez,” Rhett whispers. Link quirks up one corner of his mouth at him.

“Piece of work, huh?” he laughs, very quietly. Rhett doesn’t smile.

“He’s an asshole.”

“Rhett!” he hisses, scandalized, “Don’t say that!”

“I’m sorry! It’s just true.” The potato chip bag in his hand is crinkling squeakily under the angry clench of his fist. “Gosh. He’s so mean to you. I never realized that. Has he always been this mean to you?”

Link flushes then, uncomfortable. He feels like he’s eight years old again, getting picked on by John Carson on the playground. Tiny and stupid and in need of saving. He doesn't need saving—as much as the thought of Rhett as his knight in shining armor makes his heart do incomprehensible loop-de-loops in his chest.

“It’s nothing,” Link brushes off, “You about done raiding my mama’s kitchen over there? I wanna get some clothes and tapes and get outta here, man.”

Rhett gives him an odd look for a moment, before finally acquiescing to the change in topic. Link smiles in quiet relief when he doesn’t push the issue further and allows him to keep this a non-issue—one more little hurt, under wraps.

*

So they go to Rhett’s. Momma Di pinches Link’s cheeks and tells him he’s getting too skinny these days, even though she saw him just last week at church. He lets her; he knows his mama coddles him a bit, doesn’t spank him when she ought to and still lets him curl up next to her on the couch and put his grown head in her lap, but she’s gone a whole lot these days. Having a mom fuss over him for a minute, even if it ain’t his own, is nice.

Rhett finally pulls him away, and they gather their things, hop on their bikes, and head down to the riverbank. They tromp through the woods for a bit, scaring away the newly emerging wildlife and tearing up the underbrush. They play catch with a stray, waterlogged tennis ball until they’re sweaty and giggling. And when they flop onto the bank, they’re loose-limbed and smiling.

“Do you think there’s a creature at the bottom of Cape Fear?”

“What, like the Loch Ness Monster?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Oh, come on, Link. You don’t think Cape Fear’s got its own Nessie?”

“Maybe crocodiles.”

“What! There’s no crocodiles in North Carolina!”

“You don’t know that! You don’t—Hey! Stop laughing at me!”

“Your face, man, your face!”

“You’re such a goober! You don’t know nothin’!”

“I know more’n you! Snakes, sure, but crocodiles in the Cape Fear? Aw, man…”

“Shut up, Rhett.”

Later, at the McLaughlins’, they sit at the table and eat dinner together. They hold hands as Rhett’s dad says grace, and Link’s palm goes hot and sweaty where it’s clasped loosely in Rhett’s long fingers. When they let go, Link quickly drops his hand below the table and wipes it on his jeans.

Rhett gives him an apologetic look, mouthing sorry, but it’s not the sweaty palms that’s got Link feeling like a shaken up can of pop—there’s something else there, beneath the surface, that makes Link’s heart race out of nowhere. It feels like he’s emptied a whole pack of pop rocks onto his tongue and pressed it against the roof of his mouth, feeling the little explosions in his brain. Link pushes it down and swallows around the tightness in his throat.

He’s not gonna think about it. This is Rhett, for god’s sake. It’s Rhett. He takes a few deep breaths while Momma Di starts asking about their days. In, out. In, out. Everything’s okay.

“So, Linkster,” Rhett’s dad starts, “Soccer season over?”

“Yessir,” Link says, swallowing a mouthful of food, “Just scorekeeping from now ‘til Spring.”

“Hm. For the girls’ basketball team?” Link glances quickly at Rhett, then nods. Mr. McLaughlin’s face does something he can’t quite decipher, before going carefully blank. “Well, you know Rhett’s got to focus hard now. Varsity basketball, Junior year…”

“I know, Dad,” Rhett says, “Coach says I’m doing great.”

“Good. Oughta keep it that way.” He’s speaking to his son, but his eyes are on Link. He gets the message loud and clear: don’t distract him from what really matters. Don’t put any of your crazy ideas in his head. Stay out of his way, or else.

“I know he will, Mr. McLaughlin,” Link says, after a brief hesitation. He’s starting to get so nervous he feels the sweat starting to form under his pits. “He’s set a record already—maybe he’ll set another by the time we graduate.”

He has no idea how Rhett’s dad takes that, but Link means it as a peace offering: don’t worry, I know. I know.

The conversation moves on, Momma Di interrupting to talk about one of their teachers she noticed dozing off at the last basketball game, but Link stares down at his plate, idly moving peas around with his fork and zoning out. The truth is, Link knows Mr. McLaughlin isn’t the biggest fan of him; he only tolerates him ‘cause he and Rhett have been joined at the hip for so long that trying to wedge them apart now would do more harm than good. It bothers him a little, sure. Who doesn’t want their best friend’s family to like them?

But what eats at him the most is the guilt. Link presses his fingernails into the faint scar across his palm, squeezing so the pressure turns the skin there white. Mr. McLaughlin has all these dreams for Rhett, all these pressures and expectations. Link’s the one who knows the truth. The oath. Creating something big together. Wax Paper Dogz, the rockstar life, maybe even film school one day. Rhett doesn’t want his dad’s big dreams. He wants Link’s.

And as much as that makes him feel a little warm and fuzzy inside, it’s followed immediately by the cold rush of knowledge that Link’s the one who’s tearing Rhett—perfect, upstanding, golden boy Rhett, his father’s pride and joy—away from the life he’s supposed to lead. He’s the one corrupting these people’s good Christian son with dreams of the godless West.

Hanging around a guy like Link—with all his, his weirdness and his wrongness and his sin—that’s no way to live the kind of life the McLaughlins value. That’s no way to make a father proud. Link’s dragging his friend down by the ankles, childish in his possession, his ego. Just thinking about it makes his stomach hurt.

“You alright, sweetie?” Momma Di asks, startling Link out of his stupor. When he looks up from his plate, he realizes that he’s the only one not finished with his meal yet. Heat rushes to his cheeks at all the eyes on him.

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry. Just not very hungry.”

Link catches Rhett’s gaze when his mom starts fussing over him again. There’s a strange look in his eyes—like he knows something Link doesn’t. Link’s grown familiar with that look over the years, but it doesn’t really make sense here. He tries not to think about it too much, just focuses on Momma Di’s excellent cooking. He’s not entirely successful.

After dinner, he and Rhett are on dish duty. They chat while Link washes and Rhett dries, putting things up the way he knows his mama likes her kitchen organized. Everything feels normal when they’re like this, like they’re nine years old again, uncomplicated and best friends. Things were easier then.

Mr. McLaughlin comes in while Link’s attacking a particularly tough stain on a pot, and reaches into the fridge. There’s a clinking noise, and then a hiss as he uncaps a beer. Link pauses with the sponge in hand, suddenly nervous.

“You staying the night, Linkster?” he asks, voice gruff. He’s only just taken a sip, but Link already feels like he can smell the alcohol on him, in the air. His back stiffens involuntarily in response and his heartbeat quickens.

“Yessir,” he murmurs, “If that’s alright.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mr. McLaughlin says, clapping a hand on Link’s shoulder and making him startle, “And will you quit calling me sir? I’m no drill sergeant. You’re making me feel about a hundred years old.”

“Yes, s—Mr. McLaughlin.”

“Atta boy,” he says softly, ruffling Rhett’s short hair before heading into the living room. Link finally feels like he can breathe again, swallowing hard. Rhett hip-checks him, making him drop his sponge.

“Hey! Watch where you’re standing, you big lug.”

“The crap is wrong with you, huh?” Rhett asks, “You’ve been acting so weird lately.”

“Nothing! And I’m not acting weird; you are.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Weirdo.”

“Dude, seriously.”

“Seriously,” Link stresses, “I’m fine.” He sets the pot into the sink, sighing. “This ain’t coming out, brother. Will your mom be mad if we leave it to soak?”

“Nah, it’s fine. Come on, let’s set up in the backyard.”

They change into their PJs—well, into Rhett’s PJs—brush their teeth, and roll out Rhett and Cole’s sleeping bags in a relatively flat, dry part of the grassy backyard. They say their prayers together, heads bowed in unison, before crawling into the crinkly layers of bedding for the night.

“Dang, it’s cold,” Link exclaims, shuffling deeper into Cole’s sleeping bag and waiting for his body heat to insulate him from the chilly air. He’s in Rhett’s too-long flannel pajama bottoms and an old long-sleeve that’s comically oversized on him, but there’s still a sharp sting to the air that hasn’t quite been sloughed away by Spring yet. Rhett scoffs.

“Really?”

“Yes!”

“You’re just being a baby, man.”

“Well I ain’t got the extra padding you have.”

“Hey! You calling me fat?” Rhett pokes a finger into the side of Link’s sleeping bag, aiming for a sensitive spot, and Link yelps and wiggles away.

“No, I’m calling you freakishly big, you dang sasquatch!”

They tussle for a moment, trying to tase one another and quickly wriggle out of harm’s way like squirmy little earthworms, giggling like little children in the moonlit night.

When they finally stop screwing around, Rhett says, “Just scootch in, buddy. I’ll keep you warm.” A flush immediately comes over Link’s face.

“N-No, that’s okay.”

“Seriously? I can hear your teeth chattering from over here. Just bring it in! We’ve cuddled for warmth before.”

“Yeah…”

“This is for survival, man. We’re like rugged outdoorsmen.”

“I think rugged outdoorsmen tend to be more prepared.”

Rhett sighs in exasperation, like he can’t believe Link’s being so annoying about all of this—which is ironic, considering he’s the annoying one in this partnership. Before Link can say anything, however, Rhett’s leaning over and grabbing two fistfuls of Link’s sleeping bag, and—holy crap—hauling him in like he weighs nothing. Link’s helpless as he gets slid across the grass towards Rhett’s side, and the jerk doesn’t even realize how insane he’s being; just gives him a little pat on the chest before tucking himself back into his bedding.

“There. Ya big baby.”

Link doesn’t respond. He’s too busy losing his mind a little bit.

He’s always known Rhett was stronger than him, bigger than him. He feels it every time he pulls the dang I’m dead move on him, every time they wrestle or race or play ball against each other in the McLaughlins’ front yard. But something about the proximity, the warmth soaking into him where their sides are pressed together, the casual show of strength, is making him feel…

Something. He isn’t quite sure what. Certainly not something he’s supposed to be feeling. He’s not supposed to be feeling anything about a boy. About Rhett.

“You okay?” Rhett’s voice jerks him out of his thoughts. Link smiles; he can’t help it. Rhett’s giving him that stupid crinkle-eyed grin and it makes his stomach swoop and he can’t help it.

He’s feeling something.

“Just fine,” he says, and lies.

*

Of course, they don’t go to sleep immediately; Rhett and Link lay on their sides facing each other in their sleeping bags, talking so long into the night that they start to get giggly and ridiculous.

“Remember when we wanted to drink a cloud?”

Link laughs. “Of course.” Rhett’s voice gets a little mischievous then.

“Still think we could do it?”

“Sure, why not? We’re older, smarter, stronger—”

“One of us, anyway.”

“—and I bet we could figure out a better way.”

“You could skydive through it and just open your mouth when you hit one.”

“Or climb a really tall mountain to reach one.”

“Or just a skyscraper.”

“You think they go that high?”

“Well, they’re called skyscrapers, ain’t they?”

“I guess. Whaddya think it’d taste like?”

“Sprite, of course! Don’t you remember, Link?”

“That’s ridiculous. You can’t still believe that.”

“Okay, fine. It would taste like the best sip of water you’ve ever had in your whole life. Like the first sip after a long hike, or a basketball game.”

“Or middle-of-the-night water.”

“Night-water!” Rhett crows, “How could I forget!”

They laugh together in the quiet. Link rolls over to look up at the stars, and he hears Rhett follow suit. He doesn’t know much about the stars, can’t really tell constellations apart. He’s got no idea how someone ever saw a bear up there, or a spoon. He can see the belt, though—Orion’s belt, in a neat little row. The Hunter.

There’s so much out there he doesn't know.

“Your dad was drinkin’ a beer tonight,” Link says softly. The statement startles him a little; he didn’t realize he was thinking about it until it came out of his mouth, but now that it’s out in the late-night chill with them both, it’s all he can think about: the clink of the glass, the hiss of the metal tab, the condensation rolling down the side to meet work-worn fingers. Rhett gives him a quizzical look.

“Yeah… He does most nights. Why?”

“I dunno. Ain’t that an awful lot to be drinking all the time?”

“It’s just one beer, man. Sometimes two if there’s a game on. It’s not like he’s a drunk.”

Not like Walt, he doesn’t say, but Link can hear it in his voice. He always knows what Rhett is thinking. Still, he has to—he has to make sure. Just in case. He has to ask.

“You ever get… He ain’t… I mean—” Link pauses, takes a breath. The stars blink above him, distant and cold. He can feel Rhett’s eyes on the side of his face, but refuses to turn and meet his gaze, lest the delicate quiet of his question be shattered.

“You ever get scared of him?” Link finally gets out, “Your dad?” Rhett is quiet for a long moment.

“Sure...” he finally says, hesitant, his voice carefully level, “Don’t we all? I mean... It’s not about the beer, though; I just—don’t want to disappoint him. Or catch a spanking.”

“Yeah. That makes sense.”

“I mean, he only wants the best for us. Cole and me, that is.”

“Mhm.”

“He’s strict, y’know. A bit… I dunno. Sometimes you can’t tell what he’s thinking, if he’s mad, or stressed, or just tired, or what. But he’s a good dad. I wanna make him proud.”

That makes Link turn his head to look at his friend. Rhett’s the one staring up at the stars now, his brows a little furrowed like he’s thinking hard. The thought rises in his mind, unbidden—he looks beautiful like this. Ethereal. Link squashes that shameful ache down the second it crops up. He swallows hard around the lump in his throat.

Of course he wants to make his dad proud of him. Doesn’t everyone? A shiver runs through him that’s not entirely from the breeze.

“You ever get scared of your dad?” Rhett asks. Link turns back to the sky and thinks about his father—he’s not around much, and Link doesn’t really remember what they talked about last time they spoke on the phone, but he can be a pretty good dad when he tries. Goofy, aloof. A hard worker, despite what people say. Loves Link to bits, even though he ain’t around to show it.

“Nah,” Link says honestly, “My dad’s… I want to be a good son, sure, but… I ain’t afraid of him.” Rhett hums.

There’s a moment of silence then, before he asks, “What about Walt?”

That jolts Link out of his thoughts. When he turns his head, Rhett’s already looking at him. His eyes are unreadable in the dark, his green-gray irises an eerie silver in the moonlight. Link feels frozen under his gaze, like a trapped deer.

Is he afraid of Walt? Sure, he drinks a lot. Sure, he’s a little off-putting, always slinking around the house like he owns the place, a shadow across the once-familiar comfort of the Neals’ living room. But Link’s an anxious kid, always has been; maybe it’s just all in his head?

Link realizes he’s been quiet for too long. Something in Rhett’s look has changed. His eyes have gone softer, somehow, darker, like he thinks he understands something, or thinks something that ain’t true. Link’s heart’s suddenly in his throat.

“No,” he says, too loud and unconvincing even to his own ears, “I ain’t scared of him. I ain’t scared of anybody.”

It’s childish, and stupid, but he puts as much heart behind the words as he can. When he looks up at the sky, Rhett says nothing. They both lay quietly, letting the lie stretch between them in the brisk night air.

Link feels suddenly, ridiculously, like he’s about to cry. He clears his throat once, then twice.

“I’m not,” he says again, voice starting to grow a little pitchy. His face flushes with humiliation.

“I know,” Rhett responds softly, “I just—You sure sound… Well.”

“Well what?” Link snaps.

“Nothing, jeez!” They lay in stony silence for a while. Then Rhett says, grumbling a little, “It’s just that—Well, my mama told me to look after you. With Walt at your house all the time and all.”

Huh. That’s new. Link didn’t think Momma Di cared about him like that, to ask her own son to keep an eye on him.

“That’s… awful nice of her, but I’m fine. I don’t need anyone to look after me. We’re practically grown, dude.” Rhett doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

“Whatever you say, man,” he responds, and that’s that.

They drop off to sleep after that, huddled side by side in their sleeping bags beneath the stars. Link has strange dreams all night—crocodiles chasing him in the river, his beloved truck filling with saltwater, his house sprouting unfamiliar new rooms and hallways out of the blue. When he wakes up in the morning, it’s to the sound of birdsong and Rhett’s dad calling for them from the back porch. Link blinks the sleep from his eyes, and when he looks around him, he finds that he’s pressed into Rhett’s side, snuggled up with his body curved into him and his nose practically pressed into the side of his neck.

Mr. McLaughlin stands in the doorway and gives him a look that Link can’t decipher. All he sees is the furrow between his brows, the arms crossed against his chest in disapproval. He wipes the drool from his mouth and rolls away from Rhett, trying to put space between them, but the man’s already turning back into the house.

Rhett stirs and blinks open his eyes and smiles at him, all red-cheeked and sleepy, and something hurts sharp and deep inside Link’s chest. He can’t deny it: there is something there, something illicit he’s feeling, something he can never say aloud.

He presses a finger to the divot between his ribs, hard, until he winces in pain. There is it—the great big terrible thing, right under his skin.

Chapter Text

Link’s awfully close to his mama, but they’re not really the talking kind.

The unfortunate circumstances of their life has made it so they’re far closer than most mothers and sons are, he knows; Rhett’s mom certainly doesn’t call him her darling boy and play card games with him on the porch during warm, slow Sunday evenings until it’s too dark to see the numbers anymore. Momma Di certainly doesn’t teach Rhett how to knit, with her hands carefully guiding his, or sing and dance along with him to Elvis on the radio while making pancakes in their pjs on Sunday mornings, or take him on cheese-and-cracker picnic dinners in the backyard when there’s too much month at the end of their money. Link doubts any of the other boys his age in this town greets their mamas with a kiss on the cheek every day—and if they do, they sure ain’t proud of it.

So, they’re close—but they don’t talk about the big things. Money, and the fact that they've barely got any. Divorce, and the fact that their family is twice-marred in the eyes of God-fearing little Buies Creek. Men, and the awkward, lurching lineup of them coming in and out of their lives.

What they can talk about, though, is church. God. God is safe, and reliable, and constant. God never wavers or fails them. Despite the complicated feelings Link’s starting to have about this whole religion thing, one thing he’s not turning back on anytime soon is his one sure-fire connection with his mom: their God’s eternal love.

So when Mama Sue brings it up one morning as they’re eating breakfast before starting their day, it doesn’t at first catch Link off guard.

“You oughta talk to him about all this sometime,” she says, gesturing vaguely to the table. Link looks down at his bowl of oatmeal, confused. They hadn’t really been talking about anyone—or any breakfast foods, for that matter—before this; just church, and the fact that they oughta give to the charity more, like the McLaughlins.

“Huh?” he grunts ineloquently, “Who? What?”

“Charles Lincoln, don’t you talk with your mouth full.”

“Sorry, mama.”

“I’m talking about Walt.”

That just leaves Link even more confused. He blinks up at her, doe-eyed and bewildered, and she sighs, rubs at the dark circles under her eyes.

It’s a rare weekday morning when Link’s mom hasn’t got to work early; usually, he tends to grab some toast or an off-brand Pop-Tart or an apple before thundering out the door to his truck and off to school, but his mama’s got the day off today til the graveyard shift and opted to cook him something up. He knows she must be exhausted, all too ready to catch a few more hours of sleep, but they cherish these mornings, few and far in between as they come. Link really should tell her to go back to bed, but—it’s nice to see her like this, her hair up in rollers and her cheeks pink from the morning chill. He so rarely gets this anymore.

That nagging part of his brain cries out at him: Selfish, selfish! Still, the voice isn’t strong enough to keep him from wanting, anyway.

“Link, honey,” his mom says, sitting down next to him at the table and taking one hand in hers, “You know as your mama, I’m here to guide you through everything in this life. But—It’s different now. You’re growing up to be a fine young man, and… and you ought to be talking to another man about things like God’s word. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Well, I’ve got Dad,” Link offers. His mom’s eyes go all wet and sad at that, and he averts his gaze, circling his spoon around the near-empty bowl of now-congealed oatmeal.

“You know it ain’t the same. He’s not around much, and…”

“But he’s still Dad.” His voice is weak, shaky. “Walt’s not my dad.”

“I know, honey. I’m not asking you to… I just think you ought to talk to him more, that’s all.” Mama Sue ducks her head to look him in the eye then, all sober and serious. “You know he ain’t drinking anymore ‘cause of you. He cares about you a lot.”

Link stares at her, unsure what to say. An eternity passes in the blink of an eye.

He could tell her, he thinks—about the hidden flask of whiskey Walt keeps in his car, about the red eyes and the mouthwash and the pin-drop silent nights when he’s passed out drunk in the master bedroom while Link’s beating back panic under his rocket-ship covers. He could tell her about the bruise that’s still faintly circling his upper arm from where Walt grabbed him too hard the other day, about the mean way he calls him boy, about the tightness in Link’s chest. He could tell her everything.

But… She’s just so happy. And it’s been so long—after Jimmy left, and took everything, and they moved to this sad little house, she didn’t smile for months. Link hasn’t seen her so free in—he can’t remember when. Doesn’t she deserve that? Doesn’t she deserve some peace of mind? Doesn’t she deserve the world?

“Link?” Mama Sue says softly, breaking him out of his turmoil. Link smiles his lopsided grin, slapping happiness over everything that’s bubbling underneath.

“Alright, mama. I will.” He knows he’s said the right thing when her face splits into a delighted smile, and she leans in to kiss his temple and comb a hand through his hair.

“That’s my good boy. Now, run along—don’t you be late for school.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Go on!” she laughs, “Get!”

Link holds onto that laughter, waving goodbye and bounding out the door. That laughter’s what all this is for. That’s what makes it all worth it.

*

School goes as it always does—Link sits through all his classes, doing his best until he starts to get bored or sleepy or distracted, and then he spends the rest of the period doodling in the margins of his notebook or playing chopsticks under the desks with Rhett. In Pre-Calc, Rhett draws a picture of him focusing so hard there’s steam coming out of his ears—labeled Link the Think, which doesn’t doesn’t even make sense—and it delights him out of his furrow-browed concentration and makes him laugh.

At lunch, they sit with their buddies and talk about music and girls. Johnny D is going steady with Sarah Jane now, and they all spend a good fifteen minutes teasing him until he turns a deep fuchsia and hides his face in his hands.

“What about you, Rhett?” asks one of the Matts, breathless with laughter, “What girl do you have a crush on now?”

Link glances over at him, and they make sudden, hard eye contact over the whooping and hollering of the other boys at the table. The intensity of their gaze is startling and hurts, sharp, like a prick to the heart. Link swallows.

Rhett looks sheepish, a little pink around the edges, which surprises Link—Rhett’s always got a crush on someone or other, ain’t never embarrassed of his fierce, pliable heart.

Something twists in Link’s stomach. He braves a lopsided smile.

“Aw, I dunno,” Rhett says, “Annie Cooper’s real pretty.”

“Ooooh!” someone crows, “A senior! You dirty dog!”

“Come on, come on,” Rhett laughs, “Stop that.” Still, he’s flushed and glowing, taking the playing jostling of his friends with a good-natured smile. He just has this natural confidence about him, despite the faux bashful grin. Like, yes, of course he’s got a crush on an older girl. And of course it’s nothing to be embarrassed about; for all they know, Rhett’s got a genuine, fighting chance.

Link finds himself digging his nails into the soft, white flesh of his palm. When he forces himself to relax his fist, there are deep pink indentations in the skin there, cutting his blood-oath scar into five pieces. He shoves his hand in his jeans pocket, pressing the smooth skin to rough denim.

When he looks up again, Rhett’s staring straight at him, his green eyes intense and inscrutable. Go for Annie, then, Link thinks with surprising bitterness, Do it, then, you coward.

“It don’t mean anything,” Rhett says to the table, despite all their groaning and protesting, “Just a silly crush, is all.” He’s addressing the group, but his words feel pointedly directed at Link. Link’s not sure what to do with that.

When he breaks eye contact at last, Link finally feels like he can breathe. He takes a shuddering, gasping breath, and shoves it down.

*

It’s unseasonably cold when they get out of school. It had rained at some point during the day, leaving the sky a sleepy, sickly gray and the world covered in a thin sheen of mist. Link shivers hard in his thin flannel overshirt, unprepared for the weather.

“Dang, it’s cold!” he calls to Rhett through the rolled-down window of the Nasty. Rhett makes a disgruntled noise from where he’s rummaging around in the boot.

“I think you’re just a wimp,” he yells back.

“Shut up!”

The trunk lid slams. When Rhett comes around the sedan and climbs into the driver’s seat, he chucks something wadded-up and blue at Link’s chest, which he just barely manages to catch with a flinch.

“Jeez! What—?”

“It’s a sweatshirt, you doofus,” Rhett laughs, climbing in and starting the ignition, “Since you’re being such a big baby.”

Link looks at the navy blue sweatshirt in his hands. It looks like it’d be a little small on Rhett—which means, like all of his hand-me-downs, it would’ve ended up in Link’s closet one way or another anyhow. It’s dark and thick and, if Link were to bury his face in the fabric and breathe deep, it would likely smell like Rhett: his sweat and musk and his mom’s laundry detergent and the crappy cologne he pilfered from Cole.

And Link feels—flushed. All warm inside suddenly, in spite of the chill in the air. It’s ridiculous, because it’s not like this is the first time he’s borrowed Rhett’s clothes; they’ve practically lived in each other’s pockets for the better part of their lives, and sharing clothes is so second nature that sometimes Link can’t tell what things in his closet are his and which are Rhett’s. He’s not a girl getting her boyfriend’s damn varsity jacket, for God’s sake.

Still, he can’t help but smile, a little shy. It’s Rhett’s sweatshirt. Feels like Rhett’s big ole arms around him, smells like Rhett’s scent. It belongs to him, and wearing it would sorta make Link belong to him, too. Link blushes bright pink around the neck and ears at the thought.

“You gonna put that on, brother?” Rhett interrupts, “Or are you just gonna stare at it?”

“Sorry. I was just taken aback by the fact that you actually did something nice for once. It’s not like you. Are you really Rhett? Or are you an alien taking over Rhett’s body? Quick! What’s something only Rhett would know?”

“Oh, can it!” The boys laugh as Rhett pulls out of the school parking lot and onto the road. Link buttons up his flannel and shuffles the sweatshirt on overtop, letting the collar peek out a little. He feels instantly warm and safe, like he’s caught in a big, giant bear hug.

“Where am I taking us?” Rhett asks.

“Hmm. Still too cold for the river.”

“Yeah, we really caught a nice day when we camped out last week.”

“Spring’s gonna be on and off for a while yet. Student center?”

“Sure. Or—Hang on. Is my camera in the glove box?”

Link jimmies it open, peers inside. There’s an old baseball cap crammed in there, a ton of crumpled-up receipts, and a few CDs. The license and registration info Mr. McLaughlin hammered into Rhett’s head to never leave without. An old rubber bracelet from who-knows-what church event. And—

“Yes!”

“Oh, epic! We could go down to the riverbank and take some artistic pictures. Really build out our portfolio for when we apply to college.” That too makes Link go all warm and fuzzy inside.

“You really think film school’s gonna want to see our lousy little pictures?”

“Hey, man! They love that artsy stuff! We get us some nice landscapes and we’re a shoo-in.”

“Shoe-in-your-ass, maybe.” Rhett reaches over, one handed, to give Link a noogie, and he yelps and presses himself against the door. “Stop, stop! Come on!”

“That’s what I thought. So! Photo shoot?”

“Let’s do it.”

They drive down to the river and park far enough up the bank for the car to be safely out of any background shots. It’s still vaguely misting, so Link grabs the hat from Rhett’s glove compartment—one more mark of his best friend on his body. They take turns snapping photos of trees and foliage and things, trying to make each shot look artistic and fancy.

It’s a very serious affair; about fifty of the photos are carefully curated angles of the sky and the water, amateur attempts to capture the ethereal nature of the distant mist and the faint lines of weak sunlight mosaicing through the clouds. They do portraits, too; there’s an angled shot of Link looking solemnly out over the water, one of Rhett admiring the current under a tiny footbridge, several of them both beneath the awning of an abandoned church. Rhett finds a plastic yellow carnation in one of the fake window boxes that still cling to the outside of the dilapidated building, and they take turns posing with it—tucked behind an ear, poking out of a back pocket, caught between teeth.

They wander all along the riverbank, taking pictures. They find an abandoned house and sneak inside, snapping pictures among the dark brick walls and debris (and some deez nuts graffiti). Rhett and Link take turns playing director, putting on voices, telling the other to move their hands, to look mournful, to place their flower in a specific way.

When they wander out into a field, it’s Rhett who suggests, “Let’s take our shirts off for these next ones.”

“What?”

“Come on, it’ll be artistic. All of those famous painters have naked people in their pictures.”

“I’m not gettin’ naked!” Link exclaims, scandalized. The flush in his cheeks and ears is back; he can tell by the way Rhett laughs at his shocked, pink face.

“I’m not saying we oughta get naked! Just shirtless. Come on, it’s fine! We’ve seen each other in less than that a hundred times.”

It’s true—between skinny-dipping in the river, changing and showering in the locker rooms at school, and splitting all their time between each other’s houses, the boys have seen each other in various states of undress; simply being shirtless is no different. Still, Link feels a lump of panic rising in his throat. He can’t help that lately, there’s been something new in the way he feels when he’s around Rhett, fully clothed or not. Something he isn’t quite sure how to interpret.

But expressing discomfort now would be suspicious. So, instead, Link shrugs, and starts taking off his clothes, pretending his hands aren’t shaking a bit—chucking Rhett’s hat on the ground, then his sweatshirt, then unbuttoning his flannel layer. Beside him, Rhett’s faster to strip off his layers. He’s down to his jeans and boots in under ten seconds, and he’s snatching up the camera right quick thereafter.

“Come on, my turn first! Why don’t you stand… here, right here. No, no, more to the left. And turn around completely. Like that! Yes! Now you’re, like, framed by the entryway. Okay, hold that.”

Link feigns confidence, staring out at the field while Rhett gets into the right position to snap a photo of him. It feels like his skin is buzzing, like he’s on fire despite the chill in the air—something about the eyes on his bare skin, serious, contemplative. Despite the fact that they’re always goofing off together, their art is something they always take dead serious. Making movies, writing stories, all of that is hallowed. Holy. Perhaps it’s sacrilegious to say, but the bated-breath reverence they have for the art of creation, that’s a kind of faith to which nothing else can ever compare.

“Look to the side,” Rhett calls, his voice curiously soft. Link complies, but not without saying, “I thought you wanted me to look out into the distance? All serious and everything?”

“Well, now I want you to look over there. Don’t question my artistic vision.”

“Oh, brother, I got questions galore.”

“Just do as you’re told, you big ole brat!”

Link laughs, but he has to follow up the nervous little noise with a heavy swallow when Rhett returns to his serious, furrow-browed quiet. It’s electrifying, being the center of his attention like this. Makes Link feel like he’s precious, like he’s worthy of being looked at, if it’s Rhett doing the looking. Especially when Rhett’s looking at him like he’s—like he’s art.

That makes a shiver run through him, the thought of Rhett seeing him as anything more than—than this. Something more than just his buddy, just Link. Something to be admired.

Something to be wanted.

“Alright, I think I got some good ones. Wanna switch?” Link startles out of his stupor, turns to see Rhett—shirtless, smiling that damn lopsided grin, camera dangling from one palm—looking back at him, all haloed by the weak afternoon sun. He’s breathless with it, all of a sudden. The wanting.

“Yeah,” Link croaks, “Sure.” And he smiles, pretends nothing has changed.

*

Rhett drops Link off at his house with a promise to take the film to get developed as soon as he can. Link tries not to linger in the doorway watching him drive off like a sad military wife watching a husband go off to war, but it’s a concerted effort; he can’t help glancing out to the carpark while he’s shutting the front door, and gets a clear view of Rhett’s long, pale neck as he twists around to reverse his car. The split second sight makes something in Link’s stomach ache—some sort of hunger there he can’t quite place.

“Hi honey!” calls a voice from the kitchen. Link closes the door in stunned silence.

“Mama?”

“In here, sweet boy.”

Stepping into the kitchen feels like stepping backwards in time—his mama’s home, and in a housedress, her apron around her waist. She’s walking plates and dishes over from the cabinets to the little kitchen dining table, a smile on her face. Her hair’s done. There’s makeup and a smile on her face. Link stares, open-mouthed, like a fool. He could cry with how lovely she looks, all happy and smiling and present in their kitchen.

“Gosh, Link! You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“What are you doing here? I thought you had work!”

“A lady at the hospital needed to trade shifts with someone for next week; I thought, why not? It’s been far too long since I was home to have dinner with y’all.” Mama Sue leans in to press a kiss to his temple when Link steps in to help move cutlery over to the table. “Were you out with Rhett today?”

“Yeah. We went down to the river, but it was too cold to swim.” Something she said catches up to him then. “Hang on—dinner with who?”

From elsewhere in the house comes the sound of a toilet flushing. Immediately, the hair on the back on Link’s neck is rising, and his heartbeat’s quickening in his chest.

“Walt’s here?” His mama looks a little amused by the question.

“Well, yes, honey. I’ve still got that late shift tonight, and I don’t want you here all alone.”

“Mama, I’m sixteen. I’d be fine by myself…”

“I know you’d be okay, Linky. I just… I just don’t like the thought of you alone all the time. You know it makes me nervous.”

His mama looks so damn worried, and that familiar stress line’s appearing between her brows again. Link can’t bear to argue. Instead, he gives her the most believable smile he can muster, and chirps, “I know, mama. I love you.”

Mama Sue ruffles his hair, scrunching her nose up at him. “You’re a dear.”

The warmth in his chest is just barely beginning to bloom when Link’s blood runs cold again—Walt turns the corner into the kitchen, locks eyes with him, and his smile drops.

“Link,” he says gruffly, “You’re finally back.”

“Yessir.”

“Come on, Walt, honey, take a seat,” Mama Sue says, “I’ve got a few hours before I need to head out; let’s all enjoy our dinner together before I need to leave.”

“Thank you, love,” says Walt in his deep, grumbling way, and leans in to kiss her. Link can’t help averting his eyes in disgust at the sight. That’s his mom, man! Ew!

They sit at the little round table, holding hands while Walt says grace. Link tries to disguise a grimace as the man’s grip tightens uncomfortably around his fingers—Walt used to scold him to ‘shake my hand like a man!’ back when they used to talk and do stuff like that. Said it was a life skill, to have a firm handshake. Still, the force seems a little aggressive.

Link murmurs amen when the prayer’s done, and jerks his hand back as fast as he can. Something about having Walt’s skin against his own makes him feel like he’s covered in ants.

“So, Walt, how was work today? I heard the demo’s going well downtown…”

While Walt and Mama Sue chat over their meals, Link keeps his head down and shovels food into his mouth. He tries to eat as fast as he can, so he can be excused from the table—being around Walt is so ridiculously stressful it makes him feel a little sick sometimes—but he’s got to chew each bite thirty times and take a sip of water every five bites like clockwork or else he’ll start going out of his mind.

All of the joy Link felt earlier in the day—the fun of hanging out with Rhett, the thrill of creating art, the flush of his attention—has completely disappeared. The delight feels eons away now, totally unreachable from the anxious pit of his stomach. Swallowing is a chore.

Link had hoped he could get through the dinner without having to add to the conversation, but alas, that fantasy is shattered all too soon.

“You know, kid, you ought to get yourself a job.” Walt’s knife scrapes shrilly against the plate, and Link grimaces at the sharp noise. He squashes a pea under the tines of his fork, uneasy.

“I do have a job,” he protests sullenly, not meeting the man’s eyes, “I just did that painting gig for my dad’s buddy last week. I’m part-time. Just work more hours when school’s out.” Walt scoffs.

“Come on, Charles, that’s barely a job.”

Link grits his teeth. “It’s Link.”

Walt’s eyes snap up to meet his, and there’s something burning in his gaze. Link immediately feels cowed, nervous. His heart rate kicks up in inexplicable panic.

“I mean. Please call me Link… Sir.”

“Oh, Walt, lay off him,” Mama says, waving a hand at the man good-naturedly, “He doesn’t need to get a job; he does enough around the house already. Besides, he’s busy! Aren’t you, darling? With school, and soccer, and church, and youth group, and your band…”

“He’s a grown boy, Sue,” Walt says, the anger in his voice barely restrained behind his placid tone. How his mom doesn’t pick up on the seething rage there, the danger, Link has no idea. Walt lays a gentle hand on his mom’s wrist on the table, and it makes his stomach turn, that big, rough hand on her slender wrist. All that potential for violence against the porcelain of his mama’s skin.

“He’s practically a man, now. He shouldn’t be doing the housework and goofing around with his friends singin’ and dancin’. He should step up for his family. Ain’t that right, Link?”

“Y-Yeah,” he stammers, “I guess so.”

“You guess so?”

“I should. Sir.”

Sue tuts again, a little more forcefully this time. “Walt, that’s enough. Link doesn’t need to worry about chipping in. I’m the mother. Running this household is my responsibility.”

It’s like a switch is flipped; immediately, his gaze softens, his body language turns pliant, simpering, and he reaches out to squeeze his mom’s shoulder in a sweeping, caressing gesture. Link suddenly feels sick. The meatloaf and green beans in his stomach turn to cement, and he sets down his fork. Walt’s voice is so gentle and sweet that it makes bile rise in the back of his throat.

“You’re right, Sue, I don’t mean to overstep; this is your house, and you make the rules.”

“Ain’t that right,” Mama Sue says, smiling into her glass of water despite herself.

“It’s just that you work so hard, baby,” Walt cajoles, and Link swallows back the urge to gag. “Construction ain’t pay much, and you’re working at that damn hospital dawn til dusk, and… You know I worry about you.” He leans in to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth, and she gives him a tired smile.

“That’s life, Walt. But we get by. Don’t we, Link?”

Link startles, nods. “Yes ma’am.”

The conversation goes all tense and stilted then, the three of them stepping carefully over the landmines of the Neal household—money, work, men, lonely children—in an effort to keep the peace. Walt does as much groveling as he can without outright saying the words I’m sorry. Link’s so damn stressed, he can practically feel the tremor in his hands as he brings the fork robotically to his mouth, can feel the sweat dripping down his temple.

He should get a job, shouldn’t he? Should help out, instead of being—a deadbeat. A burden on his mother’s life. A bad son. Link glances up at Walt accidentally, and is taken aback to see that the man’s already staring at him. His eyes are cold and hard and sinister, like he’s trying to send some sort of message with just a glare.

I hate you, maybe. You’re a freeloader in this house.

Screw you, Link thinks back, You absolute tool.

Immediately, Link feels childish, a little guilty; what would God think if He heard all the vile things Link’s thinking and feeling about this guy? This, ostensibly, completely innocent guy who’s just a little rude to him sometimes for the greater good? He’s just looking out for Link, really. Right?

Right?

Link looks away, trains his eyes on his peas. There’s a lot he doesn’t understand about the world. Maybe he never will.

*

Later, after his mama’s left for the graveyard shift and the house has gone quiet but for the sound of some old movie playing on the TV and the sound of Walt’s ice clinking against his glass of whiskey, Link holds his breath and slinks down the stairs.

It’s late—so late it’s practically early. He’s got school tomorrow and should really have been in bed by now, but the churning of his stomach and the racing of his thoughts are keeping him up. He can’t stop thinking about his mom’s advice this morning. But how is he supposed to ask someone like Walt about God? Someone who’s just so…

Link doesn’t really have the words to describe him. He’s trying really hard not to think about it. He’s largely unsuccessful.

By this time, Walt’s usually passed out on the couch, and it’s safe to tiptoe through the kitchen for a glass of water. Link’s had weeks of experience with his patterns to know he’s more than safe. That’s exactly why it comes as such a shock to see none other than Walt himself in the kitchen—hunched, heaving, over the sink.

“Oh, crap,” Link blurts out, “Are you okay, Walt?”

The man grunts, spits. He spits again, breathing hard. Link isn’t sure if he should approach or run away—when his mama’s sick, he takes real good care of her. Should he get Walt some paper towels? A glass of water?

Walt hacks and spits again, before turning on the tap. Link watches, uncertain, as the man washes his vomit down the drain, then turns his head sideways to drink straight from the spout. When he’s done, he shuts the water off, then straightens up unsteadily.

“Um…” Link scratches at the back of his neck. “Do you… need anything?”

“I’m alright,” the man grunts, turning to walk away from the sink, then stumbles. On instinct, Link lurches forward to catch him—clearly the wrong move, as the man recoils from his bracing hands with a sneer.

“I said I’m alright,” Walt growls, “Get off me.” Clumsy and irate, he ends up shoving Link, hard, into the kitchen counter, hard enough to momentarily drive the air from his lungs.

“Oh!” he gasps, knees buckling a little before he catches himself against the fake granite countertop. It hits him right at the rib. Even though he gets his feet under him, Link still finds himself suddenly doubled over in sharp, blinding pain, and struggling to breathe. He swallows down a hurt, whiny sound, even though it feels like he’s been stabbed in the freaking lung; letting out a noise as pathetic as a whimper would only piss Walt off more.

A part of him expects Walt to apologize, to make some excuse for his violence. A part of him still has hope that the man ain't as bad as he seems. That he won't be as cruel as he could be.

“Jesus,” the man mutters instead, “You’re a child.” He spits the word child the way some kids at school—older kids, the ones who mean no good—say words like bitch or pussy. When he stumbles off into the dark living room, it’s with a grumbling sound Link can’t decipher.

The more he breathes, the more the hurt fades into a tender, bruising ache. Still, the sharp pain of panic in the back of Link’s throat remains, a searing knife of shock. Walt shoved him. Shoved him hard enough to hurt him, hard enough to probably bruise him. And it wasn’t an accident—not like all the times he’s patted him on the back a little too hard to be friendly, or grabbed his arm too tight, or slammed a car door in his face hard enough to make him flinch.

This was on purpose.

Link’s no stranger to cruel people. He’s been picked on at school for being a little too close with his male best friend, and he’s been given dirty looks from people in church who think there’s something wrong with his family just ‘cause his mama and daddy aren’t married anymore. All that to say, Link’s not naive to the world.

But it’s the first time someone’s hurt him so callously, so intentionally. It’s the first time he thinks he feels truly afraid of Walt. He has a sickening feeling it won’t be the last.

Chapter Text

Walt starts shoving him around more regularly after that.

It’s not, like, a big deal. Walt isn’t beating on him, or anything like that. He’s not drawing blood. Barely even leaving bruises, really. He’s just—rough. Abrasive. That’s his nature.

And besides, it’s always for a good reason; he only ever puts his hands on Link when Link’s in his way in the kitchen in the mornings, or when he’s complaining about something, or when he’s trying to approach the man to ask him a question, or when he’s being annoying, or when he’s chewing too loud, or…

Well, okay, so maybe Walt sort of puts his hands on him a lot. Big deal. So what. Link’s not a child; he’s sixteen, for crying out loud! And he’s kind of objectively annoying. He gets that; Rhett tells him all the time. That’s his nature.

Still, Link starts to get a little nervous around the house. Starts to tiptoe around the kitchen after school, even when Walt isn’t there, instead of tromping in and rummaging through the cabinets like usual. He starts to get these terrible stomach aches—a deep, bruising pain, the kind of hurt that comes when you’ve been too hungry for too long, and the sharpness of an empty stomach has faded into a nauseous, thrumming, hollow kind of hurt that makes you more inclined to curl up into a miserable, nauseous ball than actually eat.

Case in point, he’s not been very hungry as of late either, his appetite crushed by the incessant anxiety. When he goes to Rhett’s house, Momma Di complains loudly that he’s getting too skinny, pinches his cheeks and loads up his plate with delicious food he can barely stomach.

“Really, Momma Di, I’m full,” he insists, hands raised as though proclaiming his innocence to prevent her from scooping more layers of tortilla, beef, and cheese on his plate. He’s already gotten through one helluva stack, forcing himself to eat past fullness just to appease her worried mothering; there’s no room at all for more.

“I’ll have some, mama,” Rhett says.

“Well then, help yourself to seconds, Rhett.”

“What! You don’t make Link serve himself! You’re so much nicer to him than me.”

“That’s because he’s a respectful young man who doesn’t eat me out of house and home,” Momma Di snipes at her son playfully, making Rhett pout. Link laughs at his put-upon face.

“What are you laughing at? Stealing my mama’s affection from me like that…”

“I can’t help it that your mom likes me better’n you.”

“Now that’s not true. Mama, tell him that’s not true!”

“Boys, boys,” Mr. McLaughlin cuts in, “Come on, now. Y’all know we have no favorites in this house.”

Rhett grumbles something in response, but Link has no words to answer; he’s deeply touched by the sentiment. He and Rhett have been best friends since forever, but to be so loved by his family—especially Mr. McLaughlin, gruff and undemonstrative as he is—is a surprise every time they prove it to him. The man gives him a small, brief smile. Link’s practically choking back tears at the gesture.

Later, after dinner and their dish-duty chores, Rhett and Link head on up to Rhett’s bedroom. They’re a little too old for it, but they dig up an old Nerf ball and play Nut Ball, laughing and shrieking at each other across from one another on the floor, trying to smother their noises to they don’t make his dad angry with all their racket. When they tire of that, they lie on their backs and listen to some of Rhett’s tapes, trying to feel inspired. Link curses himself for not bringing along the tapes he’s too scared to listen to at home anymore, for fear of annoying Walt—he’s not a fan of Link’s music at all, prefers a quiet house, but they could’ve played them here.

They fall quiet as Neon Moon starts up. Link can’t help doing a little shoulder shimmy as he hums along to Brooks and Dunn crooning, I spend most every night beneath the light of a neon moon… Rhett chuckles at him, and when Link turns his head to look over, he’s caught off guard by the pale green of his eyes.

It’s not something he’s supposed to feel—this, this silly feeling. It feels the way his little-kid crushes have felt, the way his first kiss made him so happy and butterfly-excited he almost threw up. The kind of giggly, stupid feeling he’s only ever felt about girls.

But Rhett is here, smiling that goofy smile, with those bright, familiar eyes, and he’s so handsome and funny and smart and Link is—Link has no chance. Rhett knows him inside and out, and he could have chosen anyone in this dang town to befriend, but he chose Link. He chose Link, and Link is so darn lucky, he can’t believe it. Here’s this boy who’s been here so long, he can’t tell where he ends and where Rhett begins anymore. Here’s this boy who he loves beyond anything and who loves him right back.

It hits him then.

Oh my god," Link thinks with a significant amount of panic, I have a crush on Rhett.

“So, uh. Annie Cooper talked to me today.” Rhett interrupts his train of thought, stops him from leaping to catastrophe immediately.

“Oh,” is the only thing he can think to say. Rhett turns back to the ceiling. The profile of his nose rises strong from the plains of his face. Link stares at it until, suddenly, his brain processes what he just said. “Wait. What?”

“Yeah, man. After basketball practice.”

“Okay. What did she say?”

“She said, ‘Rhett,’” he imitates her high, musical voice, pretends to twirl a lock of golden hair around his finger. Link is, for once, unamused. “‘Rhett, you’re so busy! It’s hard to get ahold of ya!’ And I said, ‘Oh, yeah, I’ve got a lot going on.’” He puts on an exaggeratedly deep swagger.

“Oh, you don’t sound like that.”

“Shh! Let me tell my story! Anyway, she was like, ‘I know, you’ve got basketball, and you’ve got that band, and church group… Are you ever free?’ and I said, ‘Yeah, I’m free on the weekends and stuff,’ and she said, ‘Free enough to take me out on a date sometime?’”

There’s a growing lump in Link’s throat. He looks up at the ceiling too, and breathes in shallow, stuttering breaths. The cassette player croons, no telling how many tears I’ve sat here and cried, or how many lies that I’ve lied, telling my poor heart she’ll be back someday…

“And what did you say?” he asks hoarsely. The thin scar on his palm is throbbing, and he digs his nails into the skin there, hard.

“I didn’t know what to say, man! I was all gobsmacked and I was starin’ at her like a fool!”

“Ain’t as tough as you think, huh?”

“Shut up! Anyway, I said something like, ‘Yeah, I’d like that,’ and she was doing her little giggle—you know that girl-gigglin’ thing that girls do when they’re embarrassed?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And so I guess I’m taking her to get some sodas and walk around the mall on Saturday.”

Link doesn’t know what to say for a long moment. He feels like his heart’s shattering, like all the broken, smashed up pieces in his chest are pressing into his skin from the inside, splitting him apart. He’s got half a mind to squeeze his hands to his chest to hold all the hurting in.

Instead, he smacks Rhett with the back of a hand in that rough, brotherly way they revert to when they don’t know what else to do, or when they’ve been too vulnerable.

“Hey, congrats, buddyroll. A senior girl! Wow. I’m proud of ya. Everyone’s gonna think you’re so cool.” He swallows heavily and continues, “Guess I’m gonna see a lot less of you now, huh?”

“Aw, don’t be sad, Link,” Rhett laughs, “I bet Annie’s got a pretty friend who won’t mind putting up with your ugly mug for a double date or two.” Link shoves him in faux offense, making him laugh. “Come on, come on, I’m joking! We’ll get you a senior girl too, and we can be cool together. I promise.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Link says, trying to keep his voice light so as to not reveal his heartbreak. “Have fun, man. But not too much fun!”

“I know, I know! I’ll be a gentleman.”

“You better.”

They go quiet again. The music meanders on, singing about love and loss: the words of every sad song seem to say what I think, and this hurt inside me ain’t ever gonna end…

Link lays there, breathing slowly, hands in shaking fists, and tries not to cry.

\God, he’s so stupid. So what if he’s got a big, fat, stupid crush on Rhett? Nothing ain’t ever going to come of it. It ain’t right. It’s a sin. Link’s always been the one that’s a little off in this friendship, the one who’s built a little different, a little wrong. This is just one more broken thing about him to add to the roster. It doesn’t mean Rhett’s screwed up, too. It’s Rhett—good, straight, golden-boy Rhett. Of course he likes girls. He’s normal. He’s the kind of kid Link’s never gonna be.

Brooks and Dunn cry, oh, if you lose your one and only, there's always room here for the lonely, to watch your broken dreams dance in and out of the beams of a neon moon, and Link has to blink slowly and carefully at the ceiling so that the tears welling up in his eyes don’t spill out the sides. Damn these men for always knowing exactly how he’s feeling. Damn them for getting each one of his emotions right, every time.

“Oh, by the way,” Rhett says, rolling away from him on the carpet, “I got those photos printed. There’s a whole lotta blurry shots of trees, but, uh, there’s some good ones, too. Here. Got two copies of ‘em all.”

Rhett returns to his spot next to Link on the floor, a little closer this time, to hand him the pictures. They’re so close their shoulders are touching. Link feels hyper-aware of it, the warmth of Rhett’s skin seeping into his through the thin fabric of their shirts, and it makes his fingers shake.

“Look good, right?”

"Huh,” says Link, “They do look good.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

Link flips quietly through the photos for a few moments. Neon Moon fades out and Lost and Found begins playing in its stead. He knows Rhett’s watching him look, so he tries to school his expression, not give off that he’s nervous to see the finished products of their latest artistic endeavor. It’s kind of difficult. He just hopes he doesn’t look constipated.

Rhett’s right; there sure are a lot of unfocused shots of foliage, water, and shoes, which he flips past quickly. Then there are the more artistic shots, angles they thought were interesting or pretty, pictures of faraway geese and patches of sunlight and windswept grass.

It’s when he gets to the pictures of them that Link starts to struggle with keeping his composure.

There are so many pictures of them both. Rhett, looking mournfully out into the distance. Rhett, the yellow plastic flower between his teeth, sticking out of the pocket of his jeans, threaded through a buttonhole. Rhett, his shirt off, weak sunlight illuminating the planes of his back, the camera angled to capture the breadth of his shoulders, the slope of his nape.

Link can feel the color creeping up into his cheeks. He can’t bring himself to look over at Rhett, to meet his gaze over his shoulder.

God, he’s just so embarrassed. It’s so freaking obvious how besotted he is, how much he adores his best friend, the intimate details of it all made clear in the photographs he’s taken. Link may be good at keeping secrets, at covering this up, but the camera lays everything bare. The things he traces with his eyes are echoed by the lens: the fuzz of hair leading to a point at the nape of his neck, the solid weight of his crossed arms, the quirk of his natural smile.

“Whaddya think, man?” Rhett asks, the proximity of his voice startling him a bit. Link turns to look at him, surprised by how close they’ve ended up to one another on the floor. If he leaned in just a little bit, he could probably feel the brush of Rhett’s eyelashes against his cheek.

“They’re nice,” Link says hoarsely, “Real nice. We’re a shoo-in for film school, man.”

Rhett smiles, and it’s like the sun explodes. Link’s heart is so broken, it even hurts to love him in that moment. Trying not to hurts worse.

He’s screwed, there’s no two ways about it. Link is completely, irrevocably, screwed.

*

The revelation about Link’s big, huge, terrible crush doesn’t change much, in the grand scheme of things. He and Rhett have been attached at the hip and otherworldly close for their entire lives, so the constant proximity doesn’t change, just makes Link terribly heartsick. And he’s always been—well. Rhett’s a popular guy. He’s always had a great big gaggle of friends, other people wanting to hang out with him, girls hanging on his every word. Link’s very familiar with jealousy, and the guilt that follows it.

Rhett’s always had everything. Link’s always just had Rhett.

They don’t really talk in detail about dating or girls, just the basics—how to talk to a girl on the phone, what movie is romantic enough for a date but not too romantic so there isn’t any funny business, whether they’ve kissed yet and if this girl’s a little gross about it or not. With Annie Cooper, though, it feels different. There’s a pressure that starts behind Link’s eyes every time Rhett talks about her that just keeps building and building, mounting every time he blows Link off to go hang out with his new beau—something akin to the welling of tears.

Link does his best to take it all with a grain of salt. He’s fine. Everything’s fine. Why wouldn’t they be?

With Rhett preoccupied with basketball and taking his new girlfriend out on dates, Link decides it’s probably high time to get himself a job—a real job, like Walt wants from him. He starts working at the Piggly Wiggly across the neighborhood a few nights a week, sweeping floors and bagging groceries. It’s not much, something menial and minimum wage, but it’s something to do.

Beyond that, it’s something to get him out of the house. Link’s no good at feeling aimless; his empty room and the quiet, dead air of the second floor gets him all stuck in his own head sometimes, makes him feel anxious and twisted-up inside. Having something to leave that house for, something to do with his hands, makes him feel a little more put together. A little more sane.

Link walks home late one Friday in a rare good mood—he and Rhett have plans to see a movie that weekend, the final instalment of some godawful pulp detective franchise they can’t help but to love; his mama’s not working on Sunday, so she doesn’t have to rush off right after church like usual; and it’s a beautiful early Spring evening. The weather’s finally turning for the better, and the rosy sunset is tinged with gold. Wistfully, Link thinks it sort of looks like the flecks of gold that streak Rhett’s hair when the angle’s just right, or the warmth of his wide-mouthed laugh. The memory drives a sharp spike of pain through his chest, but he’s grown used to it—the ache of yearning for something he can’t have is familiar, an almost comforting pain.

He’s known it all his life. What’s one more hurt to bear?

When he swings the front door open, Link’s expecting it to be to an empty house. To his surprise, however, Walt is already over, sitting on the couch in his filthy blue jeans, his legs spread wide and his arm draped over the back like he owns the place. He looks up at Link with his steely gray eyes, and the curl of disgust pulls at his upper lip almost immediately.

“H-Hi, Walt,” Link stammers. The man grunts in acknowledgement, takes a sip from his silver flask. It’s barely nightfall, and he’s already got that shine to his eyes that means Link had better stay out of his hair tonight.

He goes to do just that, ready to sequester himself in his room for the rest of the evening, but Walt interrupts him before he can make it to the stairs.

“Where d’you think you’re going, boy?” he demands, voice low.

“Um… Just to my room. I’m, um. Kind of tired. Might have an early night.”

Something flashes in Walt’s eyes. “Tired?” he scoffs, “Tired! You don’t know tired. You’re a fucking child. Tired. Jesus.”

The tension’s building in Link’s stomach. He feels suddenly nauseous, like if Walt presses him any harder, he might puke all over the dirtbag’s grimy work boots. Link watches, sweating, as the man takes another swing and pockets the flask, rising unsteadily to his feet.

“You work hard for that money, boy?” Walt’s pointing to the slightly crumpled envelope in Link’s hand, containing his pay for his two weeks so far at the Piggly Wiggly. He’s worked about twenty whole hours; he’s practically rolling in it.

“Yessir,” Link replies, but that seems to be the wrong response.

“Yeah, right. Like putting old ladies’ diapers and cat food in plastic bags is hard work. You know what that sounds like?”

“No, sir.”

“It sounds like wuss shit. Are you a wuss, Charles?” Walt’s stalking towards him slowly, pinning him to the wall.

Link swallows hard. It takes two tries to get his next words out, and when he does, his voice is very small. “No, sir.”

“Then why, might I ask, are you claiming to be tired?” Link doesn’t know what to say. “Answer me!”

“I—I—”

“Gimme that,” Walt growls, snatching the envelope out of Link’s hands.

“What—Wait!”

“Thinkin’ you deserve this or something.” Anger outweighs the fear in Link’s gut momentarily.

“I worked for that money! Give it back!”

Then Walt’s back in his face again, his mouth reeking of whiskey. “I’m sorry, are you talking back to me?”

“No, I’m just—”

“‘Cause it sounds like you’re talking back to me.”

“I just—”

Walt cuts him off when he grabs Link by the jaw, his dirty fingernails digging into his cheeks. Link’s heart skips a beat in his chest, leaps up into his throat. He grabs Walt’s wrist on complete instinct, not attempting to push him away, just holding on for what feels like dear life.

“Don’t fucking argue with me,” he snarls, spittle flecking Link’s skin and making him flinch, “You know how hard your mother works. Whatever money you make belongs to his house, you remember that. Don’t you want to support her, you selfish child?”

“My mama would never let me,” Link breathes, forcing his lips to move despite Walt’s iron grip on him.

“Well it’s a good thing your mama ain’t gonna know, then. You’re a man, ain’t you? Ain’t you?” he repeats, shaking Link once, hard.

“Yes,” Link grits out.

“Well, real men keep secrets from their women. Protect them. You ain’t telling your mama nothing because you’d rather get hurt than let her get hurt. Ain’t that right?”

Link’s breath feels caught in his throat. He can read the underlying threat in Walt’s words, understands what he’s implying, and the thought of his mom—his poor, sweet mother who’s given everything for him, the only person he truly has in this world—facing Walt’s rage just because he’s too stingy to fork over his cash makes his stomach twist so hard his body reacts reflexively, jolts like he’s about to wretch.

“Answer me!” Walt barks.

“Yes, yes!” Link cries, “Yes, I get it. I understand. You can have the money.”

Walt continues staring into his eyes for a long moment, his breath a cloud of rancid fog choking Link with its sharp alcoholic tang.

“Good,” he grunts, finally releasing Link. “Get out of my face.”

Link complies immediately, for once the fight drained out of him. He races up the stairs as fast as he can, runs to his bedroom, and slams the door. Barely even thinking, he throws himself onto his knees by his bed, clasps his hands.

“Please, please, please, please,” he whispers shakily, “Please, God. Please protect my mama from him. Please get him out of our lives. Make him leave. Make him stop hurting me. Please, God, please, please…”

When the breathless tears come, there’s little Link can do to stop them. He presses his face to his covers, star-patterned, still mussed from the previous night, and tries not to hyperventilate or throw up.

There’s a lot of stuff about god, about religion, that Link doesn’t understand: he doesn’t get why the rules have to be different for boys versus girls when they’re all gonna end up in the same place one day anyway; doesn’t get why some folks are doomed just ‘cause they believe in different things or love in different ways, when god’s supposed to love all his children the same; but most of all, Link doesn’t understand why bad things happen for no reason. He’s read his fair share of the Bible, listened to enough sermons on Job and original sin to know that sometimes god tests people who need to be tested. But untimely death? Natural disaster? Terrible men who put their hands on kids?

Why does any of that need to happen? Why?

Why would god put him through a trial like Walt? Sure, Link’s gotten up to no good a fair amount as a kid. He’s got a rascal streak a mile wide and a body about as traitorous as the devil himself. But he goes to church every week. Obeys his mother. Doesn’t have sex before marriage, doesn’t drink or smoke or anything of the sort. What did he ever do to deserve Walt?

Chillingly, the thought comes to him: his big, fat crush on Rhett. Link shivers as something sharp and terrible rises in the back of his throat. Surely this is punishment for his terrible, sinful feelings.

“I’m sorry,” Link whispers, half sobbing, to his clasped hands, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please. Please help me repent. Please, please, please, I don’t want to feel this way. Please, god, I’m sorry. Only you can save me. Please save me. Please…”

Link presses his wet face to his covers to muffle himself and tries to take deep breaths so he doesn’t pass out. In, out. In, out.

Walt’s just down the stairs. He mustn’t hear.

In, out. In, out.

He’ll figure this out. He will. He’s got no choice.

In, out.

Everything’s going to be okay. Link’s gonna make sure everything will be okay.

*

Link’s first order or business is keeping the whole thing under wraps.

Walt’s already basically threatened hurting his mama, and Link would rather shrivel up into a little ball and die of guilt than put his sweet mother in harm’s way; once he’s made that decision, it’s easy to choose keeping the truth from everyone else. It ain’t like his dad’s around to keep an eye on him, anyway, and his Nanny and Papaw are getting up there in age, just enough to miss things like this. The only person he has to actively work to keep secrets from is Rhett.

He’s just so used to telling Rhett everything. From his silly little crushes, to his struggles with not being a perfect Christian, Rhett knows every last bit of who he is. To suddenly keep so much from him—not just Walt, but the soft innards of his horrible, terrible, no-good, traitorous heart, too—feels like hiding one part of himself from another. It’s unnatural. Foreign. Link doesn’t know how to really navigate it.

He tries very hard to act perfectly normal that Saturday when he picks Rhett up at his house to take them to the movies. The old red pickup’s been a little worse for wear these days, a little sputtery when the weather’s off, but it’s Link’s pride and joy, and he keeps it looking spick n’ span.

Case in point, when he leans out the driver’s side window to grin at Rhett bounding down the stairs, the other boy throws a hand over his eyes and groans in faux agony.

“You’re blindin’ me, Neal! Your truck’s too dang shiny!”

“Just ‘cause you never wash your car don’t mean we all have to live in filth!"

“Hey! I wash my car plenty!

“Sure… That’s why we found fossilized french fries in your glove box last week…”

“That’s different! No one cleans their glove box regularly!”

“I do!”

“Well, that’s ‘cause you’re a weirdo!”

They bicker on and off on their way to the theater, laughing heartily as they drive. Merle howls on the radio, and Rhett sings along, shouting out the window for passers-by to hear: I’d like to hold my head up and be proud of who I am, but they won’t let my secret go untold… I paid the debt I owed ‘em, but they’re still not satisfied… Now I’m a branded man out in the cold…

At the movies, they squabble over what snacks to get with their shared couple of dollars—the few quarters Link’s managed to hide away from Walt, and the allowance Rhett’s momma gives him every Saturday—debating over getting a large Mello Yello and a small popcorn, or vice versa. They end up getting mediums of both, and two straws so they can share without swapping germs.

It’s a nice day out, and the theater’s thrumming with energy, but not so crowded that it’s sweaty and uncomfortable and overwhelming. Link’s got that bubble of joy swelling in his chest, some cross between affection and contentment.

All that excitement bursts, however, when a voice calls out to the from the dark, carpeted hallway.

“Oh my god. Rhett?”

The boys stop in their tracks. Outside theater 2, bearing huge tubs of popcorn, bags of candy, and frosty glass Coke bottles are a short, brown-haired girl Link finds vaguely familiar—and Annie Cooper.

“Annie!” Rhett cries. His mouth is open in that stupid, lopsided grin of his that makes him look about twelve years old, and Link can practically see the hearts in his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

Annie laughs her musical little laugh. “Seeing a movie, of course, since you said you were too busy to take me on a date! I thought you had plans?”

“Well, I mean,” Rhett laughs, squirming, “I didn’t realize our plans were the same.”

Annie’s clear blue eyes slide from his face over to Link’s. Something in them turns cold, like she’s looking at a bug, or maybe stepped in some gum.

“Oh, hi, Link.”

“Hey, Annie. Hi, uh…” Link trails off, and the brown-haired girl gives him a dirty look.

“Lindsay.”

“Lindsay, right. Sorry.”

“Y’all want to sit together?” Rhett asks.

Just as placidly as she turned to him, Annie’s gaze slides away from Link to direct her sunny smile at Rhett instead. When she beams at him, it’s like she basically sparkles with joy. Link tries not to pout too obviously; these movies were his and Rhett’s thing. And instead they’re gonna—what, hang out with some girls?

“Sure! C’mon, let’s get our seats!”

Annie and her friend lead the way inside, Annie bouncing cheerfully, her golden hair swaying along with her, Lindsay trailing a little bitterly behind. Link manages to grab Rhett right as he starts to follow them into the theater, grabbing the big oaf my an oversized shirtsleeve.

“Rhett!”

“What?”

“Are we seriously gonna sit with them?” he whispers furiously.

“Well, yeah! Come on! Lindsay’s pretty, ain’t she?”

“What?”

"That’s what you’re nervous about, ain’t it? Don’t worry. I know Lindsay. She’s super nice. And pretty. I told ya we’d find you a nice girl to go on double dates with!”

“This isn’t a double date! I don’t even know her!”

“You boys coming?” Annie calls. Rhett gives him a sheepish look.

“Come on, Link. Be a good sport!”

Link shoots him a dirty glare, but nods his acquiescence anyway. When he follows Rhett into the theater, it’s with no small amount of feet-dragging.

At Rhett and Annie’s behest, they split up—Link takes Annie’s seat in the row behind them, next to Lindsay, who won’t stop looking at him like he personally killed her dog in front of her. She does not share her snacks with him; Rhett hogs the popcorn and Mello Yellow instead, the two lovebirds giggling when their fingers graze each other while reaching for their food. The lights dim, and the movie begins, and Link sinks further and further down into his seat.

The movie is—fine. Link tries to get into it, spends a lot of mental energy focusing on the plot, but the sight of Rhett’s head, the back of his stupid blonde buzz blocking half his view, is too infuriatingly distracting. Link wishes he had gum to stick into Annie’s hair, or at least a damn soda pop. Instead, he’s got a girl who hates his guts for forgetting her name or something.

God, he’s so stupid. Of course Rhett was gonna ditch him for a girl again. This always happens when he starts dating someone new—it’s like Link doesn’t even exist to him.

Maybe Rhett would like him better if he were a girl, he thinks. The thought immediately brings a flush to his face.

In the dark of the cinema, Link lets himself imagine it—Rhett and Leah, maybe, or Charlotte, after his granddaddy. Best friends since first grade, attached at the hip… Then maybe Rhett would look at him the way he looks at his crush-of-the-hour, his eyes wide and warm and sappy. Then maybe he’d call Link up and talk nervously into the receiver, twirling the phone cable between his fingers like a lovesick fool. Maybe he’d hold Link’s hand, make gooey eyes at him in the dark while they watched crappy movies, lean in to kiss him…

Okay, cool it, Neal, Link scolds himself, panicking a little at the direction his thoughts are taking him, God’s gonna freaking smite you if you start thinkin’ like that in a public place!

Still, he can’t help it. What if he were the kind of person Rhett would have a crush on? What if he were the kind of person Rhett would like?

What if, for once, he was enough?

When the movie’s over and the girls leave—Annie, reluctantly, with many giggly kisses to his tomato-red cheek, her friend with much more enthusiasm—the sun is starting to set and it’s time to drive home. Rhett clambers into the passenger seat, rattling on and on about the movie, about how his girlfriend snuck her hand into his, how he was so nervous he left sweat stains on the cracking leather seats.

Link hums when appropriate, nods along to Rhett’s storytelling. He’s staring at the road, but he’s on autopilot, his eyes unseeing as he takes them on their long journey home.

Envy’s a sin, he knows that. Still, he can’t help it—the way the jealousy comes up and up and up like bile.

He doesn’t even have the ability to ask what Annie has and he doesn’t—she’s a nice girl, nicer than him, that's for sure. And, of course, she’s a girl. A pretty one, with bouncy hair, and soft hands and—and boobs and hips, and all the things Rhett wants.

How can he blame Rhett for getting everything he wants?

“Dude, come on,” Rhett interrupts when Link’s fumbled one too many responses, “What’s the matter with you?”

And, well—What’s Link supposed to say to that? I’ve got a big, fat crush on you and it’s freaking me out? That’s ridiculous. That’s a sin. Rhett would never forgive him if he knew, and even if he did, it would ruin their friendship forever. It would ruin everything.

Or—What? What else is there to say? My mom’s boyfriend smacks me around? My mama’s never home and I’m so dang lonely it feels like a hole in my chest I can’t fill? I’m so scared and so in love with you it hurts?

He’d sound like a child. An idiot. Rhett would probably laugh at him. Or worse, blow it all out of proportion like when they were kids, haul off and get into it with Walt, or even his mom, try to fight his battles for him. No, no, he can’t say that, either.

Rhett’s still looking at him expectantly. It makes Link’s stomach hurt just thinking about his friend being mad at him, but there’s nothing he can do. He shrugs.

Naturally, that only serves to make Rhett more upset.

“Are you freakin’ serious, dude?

“Whaddya want me to say, Rhett?”

“Why’ve you been so pissy all day?”

Link winces. “Don’t—”

“I don’t get it,” Rhett steamrolls on, “We just saw a movie. You sat with a pretty girl. We both got to eat popcorn and sit with beautiful ladies and have a good time, and you’re for some reason mad at me? Come on.”

“I didn’t want to sit with some random girl, Rhett!” Link finally cries out, “I wanted to sit with you!”

The truck falls silent. Link’s eyes are burning, he realizes with no small amount of mortification. His knuckles are bone-white around the steering wheel.

“Is that what this is about?” Rhett’s voice is so soft it makes Link grit his teeth until his molars ache. “Link—I thought you’d prefer to spend time with a pretty girl than just… Do the same stuff we always do.”

“Yeah. Well.” Link’s voice comes out hoarse. He clears his throat. “Lindsay didn’t even share her popcorn with me.”

“Aw, man. That sucks.”

“I don’t think she liked me, honestly.”

“Oh, come on. She doesn’t even know you yet! I’m sure you can win her over.”

“I dunno, Rhett.” Link sighs shakily, blinks hard. “It doesn’t really matter.”

They fall silent again. The radio’s playing something quietly, and Link reaches over to turn it up. Familiar voices sing: once I thought that love was something I could never do… Never knew that I could feel this much, but this yearning in the deep part of my heart for you is more than a reaction to your touch…

The orange sunset streams in through the windshield and turns everything otherworldly and warm. If Link were to look over right now, it would be to the sight of Rhett, lit up golden and beautiful, soft in the springtime glow. That familiar pressure behind his breastbone returns, aches. It takes all his willpower not to take his hands off the wheel to rub at that hurt, press his hands concurrent to that pain.

It’s starting to grow dark when they get to the McLaughlin’s house. Inside, there are yellow lights on in the kitchen, spilling bright and brilliant out into the emerging shadows. Link cuts the engine, watching. Before he can say a word, he’s distracted by the shadows behind the curtains—Mr. McLaughlin and Momma Di, dancing to something in the kitchen, laughing, spinning. Link’s heart, if possible, aches even more. No one’s waiting for him at home.

Well, that’s not true—one person is. The thought makes him feel so, so cold inside.

“Hey,” Rhett says softly. His hand brushes Link’s shoulder. “You wanna come in?”

Link looks over to see Rhett’s eyes, so green and pale, wide in that caring, affectionate way of his. The way that says he knows so much more than he lets on. They’re so close, Link can count the freckles on Rhett’s cheeks.

“No, I’m okay,” he replies, practically whispering. “Walt’s at the house.” Rhett nods.

“Okay. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow in church, then.”

“See ya then, buddyroll.”

“Take care, brother.”

Rhett climbs out, shoves his hands deep into his pockets. Link watches him go. The low, slanting light shooting through the darkness, turning his hair mahogany. The breadth of him, the familiarity. If only a modicum of that belonged to Link. God, if only. If only, if only…

Then, Rhett turns around, walks backwards towards his cookie-cutter house, grins his perfect, darling grin.

“Let’s hang out tomorrow! Just you and me, this time. I promise!” he calls.

And Link is gone, gone, gone.

Chapter Text

The thing about going to the First Baptist Church in Buies Creek, North Carolina is that it’s a damn small church with a heck of a lot of people packed into it like sardines. And the sound in that space sure carries.

Rhett’s turning red in the face from trying not to laugh, and Link’s muffling his giggles behind his palm. They’re passing notes back and forth during Pastor Rogers’ sermon, and they totally should be paying attention right now—Miss Leneer’s already given them two dirty looks from the choir loft—but they can’t help it. They’re writing Deep Thoughts to each other on the backs of offering envelopes and trying not to absolutely lose it.

Sometimes I wish I were a turtle, Link writes, shoulders shaking already from laughing at himself, So that I could retreat into my house whenever I wanted to. I’d have my tapes in there, and my comic books, so I’d always have something to do. But then again, I wouldn’t want to carry all that stuff around. On second thought, maybe I wouldn’t want to be a turtle at all. Maybe snails have got the right idea instead.

It’s not very funny at all, but they’re far enough into the sermon that their giggle fit is just ramping up and up and up, ready to burst at any moment. Rhett reads it and lets out an audible snort, and Link cackles silently into his own hands at the sound.

“Boys,” Miss Leneer mouths at them from downstairs, enunciating the words very clearly so they can’t miss it, even with their subpar lip-reading, “Knock it off.”

Rhett and Link exchange glances, trying not to laugh any more. Link’s growing a little pink around the ears, cowed by the rebuke. Still, he doesn’t have it in him to feel too chastised; Miss Leneer’s just a huge party pooper.

Still, he takes a deep breath and tries to calm down and listen to Pastor Rogers while Rhett writes back to him. He’s in the middle of a passionate soliloquy, and the folks downstairs are starting to hum and nod along to his words.

“...and that is why we ought to take sin so seriously. That is why, for the young men I see before me today, we do not want you to wander where you ought not to wander. Because if you keep wandering there over and over again, to that place you were commanded not to go, it will send you to hell.

“This is serious!” he cries, “Hate your sin. Fight your sin. Do not give yourself over to a lifestyle of sinful desire, of sinful action—because if you do, and that is what Paul is talking about here, if you give yourself over to your temptation, you will not inherit the kingdom of God.”

Link swallows, a bit nervous. Rhett is still scratching away at his own envelope by his side, and he’s starting to grow a little restless at the way the preacher’s gesticulating, at the way the veins are starting to stand out on his forehead.

“Paul tells us that homosexuality is a sin,” Pastor Rogers says, and it hits Link like a lightning strike straight from god himself. The man isn’t looking up at him, but it feels like there are millions of eyes burning into Link’s skull anyway. The preacher continues, “Some men have an attraction to other men. And some women have an attraction to other women, too. The Bible tells us that these are unnatural according to God’s design.

“But there is a difference between attraction and action. One can struggle with attraction—so long as he does so faithfully. Repent to God! Pray for Him to heal you of your sin. But to take action upon those desires—that, my friends, my family… That is a path from which salvation is nigh impossible.

“Now what can we learn from the plight of the homosexual? If we look at the next few lines…”

“Psst,” Rhett whispers, distracting Link with a jolt. He’s passing over an envelope, clearly not listening to the sermon, trying to keep himself from snorting or giggling again.

I wonder if my toes are all friends inside my shoes, he’s written, Or if they’ve got sibling rivalries in there. What happens if my pinky toe and the next toe start fighting? I don’t want to have to ground just one of them. I have things to do and places to be.

Again—not funny at all. Link laughs anyway. Miss Leneer looks practically murderous.

Link looks down at Pastor Rogers again. He’s moved on to talking about other unnatural things as described by god’s design—cheating, abandoning your family, sex before marriage. Still, he can’t shake the abject horror of hearing the words the sin of homosexuality spoken by his own preacher, the feeling of being a trapped animal caught in the crossfire of god’s big smiting beam. Sweat starts to bead at his temples. The skin across his palm aches, and he digs his fingernails into it, hard enough to nearly break the skin.

Does anyone know? They couldn’t possibly, right? He hasn’t told anyone about his feelings for Rhett. He hasn’t told anybody anything. Surely they can’t know.

But still—there was that boy who graffitied their names in the high school bathroom once, scrawled 'Rhett + Link are GAY!' across the stall door, who spat at them and laughed when Link’s lower lip started wobbling despite his greatest efforts to keep himself in check. Can people just—tell? Just by looking at him? Does anyone know?

Rhett nudges Link’s knee with his own. He’s got another envelope ready already—If I were a deer, I’d be a great big majestic buck with giant antlers like a hat rack. If I were a dear, I’d get made fun of for being a big old softy.

Link snickers into his own collar.

You already are a big old softy, he writes back. Rhett steps on his foot in retaliation. Link checks to make sure no one’s looking before sticking his tongue out at him. He tries not to look too in love. Maybe if he just plays it cool, no one will ever suspect a thing. Least of all, Rhett.

When the sermon’s over and the songs are finished, the boys start on their journey through the crowd to find their families again.

“Want to go play kickball with Matt and the others?” Rhett asks, taking the stairs two at a time. Link imitates him, then slips—Rhett’s there to grab him by the arm, though, steadies him so he doesn’t completely eat it on the floor. “Whoa! Slow down, buddyroll!”

“Oof. Thanks.” Link brushes off imaginary dust. “Wish I could, but we’re going to Nanny and Papaw’s for lunch.”

“‘We?’ Does that include…?”

“Yeah.” The familiar lump of anxiety starts to rise in his throat again. “Walt’s gonna come. Mama wants him to get to know her folks a little better.”

“Hm.” Rhett says nothing for a long moment while they let a gaggle of kids go in front of them, shrieking and laughing as they tumble to the door. He’s very careful when he asks, “Think he’s… sticking around?”

And oh god, the thought of that—Walt, around forever? Living with his mama, his stupid face in Christmas photos, his shoes and toothbrush next to hers, for the rest of his life? Coming to Link’s graduation one day. Sitting in the front row at his wedding. Holding Link’s firstborn child. Jesus. The idea makes him shudder.

But then again… His mama can’t handle another heartbreak. Maybe this’ll be good for her.

“I dunno,” Link says, “We’ll see.”

“Hm. Well, we’ll see if he manages to charm your Papaw, then. God knows he’s—Whoa.” Rhett interrupts himself suddenly, stopping Link with a hand on his elbow, “What happened here?”

When Link follows his line of sight, his heart drops to his stomach. The sleeve of his nice church button-down has ridden up a bit, exposing the dark bruises around his wrist and forearm. They look worse than they really are, deep, blotchy imprints of a large hand gripping pale skin too tight, the injury at its worst.

Link remembers Walt grabbing him a few days ago, smacking him around for not doing the dishes before he got home from work. It wasn’t even all that bad. The red swelling across his face had calmed down after a single night of holding frozen peas against his skin until the ice melted. He’d just forgotten about the bruise.

“Oh,” Link says, awkwardly late. He tries to laugh, but the sound comes out forced, hollow. “That’s—That’s nothing. I fell off a ladder stocking shelves at the Piggly Wiggly the other day, I must’ve hurt my arm. I’m fine.”

He pulls his arm out of Rhett’s grip, shoving the cuff of his shirt down to cover his wrist. Rhett keeps looking at him with that concerned, bewildered look in his eyes, like Link’s started speaking a different language all of a sudden, or grown a second head.

“Are you sure? Looks pretty bad, bud.”

“It’s okay. It was just a clumsy, stupid mistake. My pride hurts more than anything else, to be honest.” Link tries to give Rhett the most dazzling grin he can muster. “Don’t make me feel more embarrassed than I already am, man.”

Rhett smiles a little, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sure, Link. Whatever you say. Klutz.”

“Hey!”

“What? You said it yourself!”

“Yeah, well, still!”

Rhett laughs to himself, shaking his head. “You’re a hypocrite, man. You can call yourself clumsy but I can’t?”

“It’s different when you do it,” Link protests, faux pouting, “I’m just goofing. You’re being mean.”

He expects Rhett to make fun of him, maybe mock the whiny pitch of his voice. He doesn’t, though. Rhett is silent for a bit, just staring at the playful pout of his lips. Something warm and strange rushes through Link’s chest.

“Rhett? You alright?” That seems to snap him out of it.

“I’m fine. Question is, are you alright?”

“What ‘chu mean?”

“Well, considering all the brain cells you’ve lost from falling off your bike one too many times, can you really afford to lose more at work?”

“Alright, that’s it! You’ve gone too far!”

“Boys, boys!” Mrs. McLaughlin’s voice stops their roughhousing in its tracks. “Come on, now, not in church!”

“Sorry, Momma Di,” Link says sheepishly, relinquishing Rhett’s head—which is still begging for a noogie, in his expert opinion. But the woman’s frown disappears almost instantly, and she reaches out to pinch Link’s cheek, then swat at Rhett.

“Ow! Mama! You’re never this mean to Link!”

“He apologized!”

“Well I’m sorry too, mama!”

“Sure you are.”

“I can’t believe this…”

“Link, are you coming over for lunch, sweetie?”

“No, Momma Di, Mom and Walt and I are going over to Nanny and Papaw’s.” He watches her exchange a quick glance with her husband, one Link can’t decipher—but just as soon as he notices it, it’s gone, and both their faces have been smoothed over into neutral expressions.

“Alright, then. We better get going. See you, dear.”

“Bye! Bye, Rhett.”

“Bye, Link. See you at school.”

Link watches them go with a heavy heart. Rhett, head and shoulders above his father, his parents arm in arm beside him, chatting idly as they head to the parking lot. Mr. McLaughlin puts one arm around Rhett’s shoulders, pats him there affectionately.

Footsteps approach Link from behind, and the hairs on his neck begin to rise.

“Ready to go, honey?” asks his mom. When Link turns, Walt is there, right over his mama’s shoulder. His face is impassive, cold as stone.

He reads the threat there, clear as day: don’t mess this up for me. You don’t wanna know what I’ll do.

*

They drive over to Link’s grandparents’ house, taking two vehicles—Walt’s big work truck and Link’s little red one, sputtering engine and all. Walt’s met Nanny and Papaw before, but this is the first time they’re sitting down to have a meal together. His grandparents, sweet as they are, gush over Link when he arrives, right behind the big gray vehicle splattered with mud. Walt gives him a hard glare over his Nanny’s shoulder.

Link knows he thinks this ain’t how a man’s supposed to act. Walt’s very concerned with that—looking like a man. Looking strong. He’s embarrassed to be associated with someone like Link, who can’t help but to wear his heart on his sleeve, who looks small and unassuming—especially next to Rhett—who loves affection and can’t say no to the women in his life. He grits his teeth and forces himself to peel out of his grandmother’s embrace, shake his Papaw’s hand. He tries not to crumble when they laugh, bewildered and charmed.

The lunch goes… well. Nanny and Papaw are sweet as always, Aunt Vicky and his mom are thankfully civil, and Walt is on his best behavior. Link isn’t sure whether to be relieved or horrified.

It’s just that it’s almost sickening to watch Walt in his charismatic act—calling Nanny ma’am and making her blush with all his compliments, buttering Papaw up by asking about his work and listening in faux-wide-eyed astonishment, raving over Aunt Vicky’s cooking. Link’s appetite is shot by the time she brings out her peach cobbler, pink around the ears, insisting everyone try a generous slab.

After, Aunt Vicky, charmed by Walt singing her praises, drags him into the living room and demands to show him Momma Sue’s baby pictures. The others join them, laughing and telling stories, one happy family. Link stands awkwardly in the doorway, watching Walt put an arm around his mama’s shoulders and press his mouth, half-smile half-kiss, against her cheek.

The sight makes him nauseous.

“Hey, little Link,” comes his Papaw’s voice from behind him. The man punches him fondly on the arm, a love-lick that sends Link stumbling into the wall, but the motion isn’t the violent kind that he’s come to dread; it’s the old man’s gruff, undemonstrative way of showing affection.

“Hi, Papaw.”

“Your mama’s been telling me about your truck getting up to all kinds of no good. Want me to take a look?” Something warm rockets through Link at the request.

There are still people who want to take care of him.

“That would be great, Papaw, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, kid. Come on, let’s go see what’s up. Learn something, boy.”

“Yessir!”

Link follows his grandfather out to the car park, watches him pop the hood and peer into the guts of the truck with his hands on his hip, his brows crinkled. He pokes around for a few minutes, hemming and hawing. Link watches, not sure what’s happening, but enraptured all the same. His Papaw has that quality—always so fascinating to Link, no matter the reason.

“Hm.”

“What is it, Papaw?”

“Your dang spark plugs are busted. Look here. See how worn out they are?” He points something out that honestly looks completely fine to Link, but he makes an audible ohh noise anyway. “Lucky for you, I can fix ‘er up right here and now, send you home good as new. Let me get my tools. Go grab us some ice tea, will ya? It’s starting to get warm out here.”

Link does as told, coming out to find his grandfather already at work on his little red truck. He sets the iced tea down on the driveway, the ice in the tall glasses clinking, before peering over the man’s shoulder, watching him work. There’s something soothing about his sure, steady stands. All that power and no violence. Familiar and safe.

“Now this here’s a 3/8s ratchet. Here, hold this—no, no, like this. There you go. Atta boy. Now…”

Some time passes. Link’s granddad shows him how to use a gap tool, makes him tighten the first plug with a torque wrench himself, laughing and taking over when he struggles. He feels good. Barely even flinches when he reaches up to ruffle Link’s hair.

“So how’s this Walt fella treating you and your mom?”

His blood runs cold. Papaw’s not looking at him, still working on the car. Sweat starts to bead on his forehead all of a sudden, and not just from the heat coming off the engine, or the sun beating down on them from above. It’s early Spring still, but the weather’s warming up, and Buies Creek is awakening.

Link hesitates.

“Well? He treating y’all right?”

This is his Papaw, who he’s looked up to since he was about knee-high. He can’t tell him about Walt. About the bruises he’s hiding beneath his shirtsleeves. This is his Papaw, who loves him and his mom like anything, who wants to see him grow into a man, strong as anything.

And Walt makes his daughter happy. Link’s loathe to ruin that.

“Yes, Papaw,” Link lies, “He’s alright. Treats mama like a queen.” At least that part’s true—from what he’s seen, Walt’s nothing but charming to his mother.

“Hm,” the old man grunts, seeming satisfied, “Good. And… He’s treating you alright?”

“Yessir.”

“Hm. He’s got you calling people sir.” He says it with an odd tilt to his voice, and Link can’t tell if it’s concerned or proud.

“He’s a real stickler for manners, Papaw.”

“Fair ‘nough.” There are some clanging noises as he continues tuning up the truck. Link doesn’t really understand what’s happening anymore, but he keeps handing his grandfather tools as he requests them, still peers into the open hood as though he gets what’s going on.

Working on cars, getting dirty—it’s supposed to make him feel like a man. But really, it just makes Link feel like a little kid again, tagging along as his grandfather works. It’s not bad, but he knows it’s not what he’s supposed to be feeling. That seems to be a common refrain in Link’s life at the moment.

“He’s not easy to talk to, though,” Link says after a pause.

“How do you mean?”

“Well… Mama says I ought to talk to him about things. Like—God, and all. She thinks it’s something a man should talk to another man about. And since my dad’s not around much…”

“I see. And what is it that you’re so nervous to talk to Walt about?”

The question catches Link off guard. What does he want to talk about? He certainly can’t tell anyone the truth about what’s going on at home. And he definitely can’t talk about his… unfortunate feelings for Rhett.

But maybe…

“I’ve been wondering, Papaw,” Link begins gingerly, “About… Um. Well, I’ve been hearing some folks say things, and…”

“Come on, now, spit it out, boy. I’m not getting any younger here.”

“I just think—” Link realizes his hands are shaking. He clenches them into fists to keep his terror from shining through, obvious. “Folks say that if you’re not—If you don’t do everything the regular way, the normal way, then you’re doing it wrong, and God will hate you and never forgive you for it. Even—even things like love. But Papaw, how could love be wrong? God told us to love thy neighbor. Why would he punish us for something like love?”

The words rush out of him in a manic jumble, and as soon as they’re out, Link’s convinced he’s done for. He’s said too much. His Papaw says nothing for a long moment, staring at his greasy hands, his wrench. He’s the picture of masculinity. Sweat drips down Link’s brow.

“Well, son…” Papaw starts slowly, “You know as well as I do that folks have all sorts of ways of reading the Bible. And there ain’t just one way that’s right. That’s why we’ve got all sorts of different versions of the good book, and so many denominations.

“There are lessons that are the same all throughout—trusting in God’s word, honoring your parents. But what that looks like can be different for different people. And love’s a complicated subject, son. Lots of people have different ideas on what’s wrong and what’s right. Some people think theres a wrong way to love someone. That’s just the way of the world.”

“Do you think love can be wrong?” Link asks, and immediately cringes. He’s pushed too far, put his foot in his mouth, as always. Any minute now, Papaw’s gonna haul off and hit him…

“I don’t know,” he says softly, looking up to meet Link’s eyes at last. His look deep, troubled. “I don’t think so. I’ve seen a lot of the world, you know. A lot of it’s bad. A lot of it’s hurtin’ for some goodness, some love. And if you’ve got love to give… I don’t see anything wrong with giving it. So long as you’re respectful, and God-honoring, and honest about it… I don’t see anything wrong about it.”

Link feels struck dumybut his grandfather’s earnestness. There’s something about the way he’s saying it—some weight behind his words—that make it seem like he’s being very intentional towards Link right now. Like maybe he suspects.

Maybe he knows.

“You love whoever you love, son,” he says softly, clapping Link on the shoulder hard enough to make his knees buckle, “Just don’t love someone who hurts you.”

Rhett’s face flashes in his mind’s eye, smiling bright like sunshine. The boy who protects Link from everything he can. The boy who creates with him. The boy who dreams with him.

How could a boy like that ever hurt Link? How could loving a boy like that ever be wrong?

*

So—Link’s a little overwhelmed. He’s juggling school, work, band practice, and church, all at the same time, not to mention his ongoing struggle with his big fat crush and whether it’s right or wrong in the eyes of God and the church.

And on top of that, Walt’s starting to get more and more bold and aggressive—shoving Link around more often, pushing him to take more shifts just to come home and fork over more money, demanding more secret-keeping, more obedience. It’s a lot for Link to handle; he feels like he’s been running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Which is why, when he hears news of a party planned for this Saturday night while Trent’s parents are out of town, he knows he’s got to go immediately.

“I can’t, man,” Rhett groans when Link corners him about it at school that Friday, “Coach wants me to work on my conditioning. I gotta hit the gym before church the next day, and I don’t wanna be all tired.”

“Come on, you can’t stop by for a little while at least?”

“I dunno…”

“I’ll drive! We can leave whenever you want, I promise.”

“Why do you wanna go to this party so bad, anyway?” Rhett raises one eyebrow. “You know what Trent’s like. He doesn’t come to church, he drinks… Things might get out of hand. You really want to get involved in all of that?”

Link flushes up to the roots of his hair. They’re whispering passionately to one another across their desks in chem, waiting for their teacher to come in, and some other students are glancing over at them. Link squeezes his hands together under the desk, so the scar on one palm presses into the life line on the other.

“Just ‘cause he’s not a Christian don’t mean he’s not my friend, Rhett.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I want to go hang out with people. Have fun. Won’t you just come for a little?”

Rhett sighs. Their chemistry teacher saunters into the classroom then, greets them all. The general chatter starts to fall quiet.

“Maybe for a little bit,” Rhett whispers, then turns to face the front of the room. Link spends the rest of class distracted by the perfect shell of Rhett’s ear, the rumpled collar of his shirt. He resists the urge to straighten it for him. Instead, he pastes a sticky note on his back: kick me!

Saturday evening can’t come fast enough. Link’s mama gives him permission to sleep over at Trent’s, and sends him off with a kiss on the cheek. He feels horrible about lying to her, but the guilt is overrun by the excitement soon enough.

So much of the night is a blur. The sun’s set by the time he gets there, and already, folks are playing music much too loud, laughing in clusters across the living room, talking or clumsily playing darts at the far wall. Link can’t help feeling a little nervous—always has been, even more so these days—but Trent’s older brother’s presence is a small comfort.

Rhett’s presence, as always, is even more of one.

“Hey, man.”

“Hey, Link. Just get here?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Just about to leave, brother. Root beer?”

“Sure.” Rhett hands him the rest of his cup, the pop a little flat by now, and Link takes a swig from it. They’ve shared drinks their whole lives, from crinkly water bottles by the river, to Mello Yellows at the movies, but something about sipping from Rhett’s red solo cup feels uniquely thrilling. Maybe it’s the music, or the blurry chaos of bodies all around them, but Link feels, for once, like a normal kid with a normal crush, be that as it may so far from the truth.

“Party’s picking up,” Rhett comments. “You gonna be okay?”

Link laughs. Sure, it’s a big house with a lot of people in it, but this is Buies Creek, for gosh sakes—how crazy can a party get around here?

“I’ll be fine, Rhett.”

“Alright, well. See ya in church tomorrow.”

“Bye, buddy.”

Link slaps at Rhett’s hand when he goes in to ruffle up his hair, and the boys part, laughing. He watches Rhett make his rounds, say his goodbyes—already practicing to be a movie star someday. Link finishes off his root beer and tries not to want.

“Link!” someone calls his name—Matthew H., waving him over from the far corner of the room. “Come play darts!” When Link looks back up, Rhett is gone.

Link shakes himself as though to get his thoughts in line. He’s being normal tonight. He’s going to play darts with his friends, goddamn it.

The evening passes quickly, without him even realizing so much time is passing. Link plays darts for a while, poorly, laughing all the while, then gets sucked into a conversation about music with another group of friends. Someone changes the music on the radio, and a Red Hot Chili Peppers song comes on—when Link starts singing along, it sets off a chain reaction of kids laughing and jumping along to the lyrics.

Link feels like his skin is buzzing. Like he’s outside of his own body, watching some other kid—some other Link—laugh and dance and be some semblance of a normal boy.

This Link doesn’t have panic attacks when his mom’s not home by the time she says she’ll be. He doesn’t get disappointed every time he answers his house phone and it’s not his dad. This Link doesn’t get stomach aches so bad he can’t eat whenever he opens the front door and the house smells like whiskey and tv dinners.

This Link doesn’t have a man in his house all too willing to put his hands on a defenseless kid. He doesn’t have a best friend who he wants to be more than a best friend.

This Link isn’t—maybe—gay.

“Hit me, you can’t hurt me, suck my kiss!” the radio screams, the room full of sneakers keeping beat with the bass, “Kiss me, please pervert me, stick with this! Is she talking dirty? Give to me sweet sacred bliss, your mouth was made to suck my kiss!”

It’s the kind of music Link loves—and everyone in their youth group despises. And for good reason; already, he can see through the crowd two couples making out in the darkness.

It should feel wrong. But really, he just feels normal. It’s thrilling.

Maybe that’s why, when Trent and his older brother manage to jimmy open their parents’ liquor cabinet and start pouring people drinks, Link doesn’t refuse.

He knows it’s wrong—drinking, that is. God forbids it. Link’s taken a vow. But he just, for once, doesn’t want to sound like a freaking monk denying himself a normal life and simple pleasures. The liquid is a smooth amber color, the shade of sun-kissed summer skin. It smells horrible and tastes worse, and Link gasps in shock and pain when it makes his throat burn on the way down.

And then a sweet, warm feeling starts in his belly and spreads all the way out to his fingers and toes. And that feels pretty nice. So he keeps drinking.

From that point on, things are a bit of a blur. Link plays darts—worse than before, this time, and someone has to make him stop before he hurts himself—and bops along to the music, talking and laughing with other partygoers. He feels so much freer than he’s used to. Talking to people has never felt so easy. So fun.

It’s a blast. Too soon, however, the party starts to die down. Kids start leaving, first in pairs and trios, then in droves. The boys who are crashing at Trent’s start finding their spots to sleep for the night—three guys sleep puppy-piled on the couch, another stretched out on the carpet at their feet, and another joins the host upstairs. Someone—Jason—steers Link up to the guest room with him.

Link gingerly gets into bed, trying not to topple over and die. The alcohol has made him feel great all night, but now he just feels dizzy and a little sick. Jason, being a good sport, help him take off his shoes before army-crawling into bed next to him.

The house is suddenly quiet. All Link can hear is the hum of electrical appliances and the rustle of sheets as Jason settles in to sleep. It sounds eerie.

It sounds like his house.

It dawns on Link then—he smells like Walt. The same whisky breath, the same pungent sour sweat. It’s almost enough to make him puke.

God, what has he done? Link made a vow. He wasn’t supposed to go down this path. He’s supposed to be a good Christian, set an example for everyone around him. Link’s hands clench reflexively, as though in prayer. This isn’t him. This isn’t him.

“This isn’t me,” he realizes he’s been saying out loud. A hand pats him on the shoulder in the darkness.

“You’re good, Neal. You’re fine.”

“I’m not—This isn’t who I am. I just feel—I just feel so guilty. I wasn’t supposed to—I just… This isn’t me, man.”

“Just… Go to sleep, dude. You’ll be fine.”

Jason rolls over and pulls the covers over his head. His presence is like a line of heat soaking into Link’s side, a warmth that just barely overrides the guilt that’s chilling him through like ice. It’s nice not to be alone, but the foreign comfort is almost worse than none at all. This isn’t right.

It’s not his mom. It’s not Rhett. Tears start welling up in Link’s eyes. He rubs his hands over his eyes, takes a shaky breath. When he stops just long enough to stare at his hands, blurry in the moonlight, he catches sight of the scar across his palm. It follows his head line shakily, just barely bypasses his heart line. Tears well faster in his eyes.

What has he done? God, what has he done?

Chapter Text

When Link wakes up in the morning, it’s to the worst headache he’s ever had in his entire life.

Light is streaming into Trent’s guest bedroom through the slats in the blinds, and everything feels otherworldly, both real and out of a hazy dreamscape at once. For a moment, he wonders if he’s in heaven, if the warbling of the light and the faint ambient noises of the house around him means he’s passed on—and, miraculously, made it to heaven. Then the pain sets in, and it’s clear he’s either in hell or still alive. Neither option sounds great.

Link throws the covers off his legs and stands, feeling a little wobbly still. His shoes are discarded on the rug. His shirt is wrinkled and still reeks of the night before. What has he done?

When Link stumbles blearily downstairs, it’s to a gaggle of boys at the kitchen island, chatting while they wince at their mugs of black coffee. Trent’s cooking up eggs—he’s cracked about ten already, from the looks of his discarded eggshell tower growing from a napkin on the countertop—scrambling them for everyone.

“Hey, Link. Want some?” The smell of butter and egg makes him feel nauseous, and Link shakes his head carefully, trying not to get woozy or hurl.

“I’m good, thanks. I think I’m gonna head home.”

“Alright, man. Oh, by the way, make sure you suck on some pennies on your drive back.”

Link blinks, wondering if he’s still drunk. “What?”

“Pennies. So your breath don’t smell like alcohol. You don’t want your mom to know you’ve been drinking, right?”

And, no, he doesn’t. Link climbs into his truck, sucks on the loose change from his ashtray on the drive home. He’s not sure if it helps, but his mom’s in such a rush to get to church that she doesn’t seem to notice. Link begs off, claiming a horrible migraine, and his mama allows him to skip church, leaving some water and a glass of ginger ale for him on his bedside table.

It feels horrible to lie to his mom—and even worse to skip church, like an added insult to God on top of the drinking. He really doesn’t feel good, but in addition to that, he just doesn’t think he can take the shame. The guilt.

How can he sit in church and pretend to be a good Christian, when he’s broken so many rules?

Despite skipping church, he can’t skip lunch at Nanny and Papaw’s, which has always been tradition, so he showers and tags along, hopes he doesn’t give himself away. Walt drives them all, joining their family as he’s been doing for the past couple of weeks, and the atmosphere feels tense and choking to Link. No one else seems to be able to pick up on the thickness of the air, the bruises on his arms.

Link eats as much as he can stomach, then curls up in one corner of the couch and tries not to throw up. His heart leaps to his throat when his mama says, Link, you don’t look well—if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were hung over! That earns him a sharp look from Walt. The fear almost makes him throw up, but thankfully, everyone else laughs off the comment, and Papaw ruffles Link’s hair affectionately, as though to say, This kid? No way! Link swallows down his guilt and tries not to hurl.

Walt drives the three of them home, Link with his heart in his throat in the backseat, and when they arrive, his mama heads to work, Walt heads for the couch, and Link heads outside, where he knows Rhett is waiting for him.

The Nasty idles in the carpark, Rhett’s left arm dangling out the open driver’s side window. Oh, I saw the light, I’ve been baptized, his radio sings, the music floating out the sedan and into the tepid afternoon air, by the fire in your touch and the flame in your eyes… I’m born to love again, I’m a brand new man…

“Hey there, stranger!” Rhett calls, “Come on!” Link climbs into the passenger seat and hides a wince when he slams the door a little too hard.

“Hey, man.”

“Missed you today at church. Where were you?” Rhett pulls out of the carpark, starts driving away from the Neals’. Link has no idea where they’re going, but he supposes it doesn’t really matter, so long as they’re getting away.

“I was sick, man. Woke up with such a bad headache.”

“Huh. Late night?” Link’s eyes snap up to meet Rhett’s, a lurch of panic jerking through him. But Rhett’s not looking at him. He’s staring out over the open country road, drumming along to the song on the steering wheel. I used to love ‘em and leave ‘em, oh, I’d brag about my freedom, how no one could tie me down… Then I met you…

“Yeah. I crashed at Trent’s,” Link says belatedly.

“I thought so. I wish I could’ve, but I had to go to the gym in the morning. Coach has got us all on these new exercises, wants us to get real strong for the season… I dunno what lifting heavy things and putting them back down has to do with playing ball, but whatever. Anyways, it seemed like things were really picking up at Trent’s, huh? With the music and the darts and all. And it seemed like his older brother was there with his friends too, did you—”

“Rhett,” Link interrupts, sweat forming at his temple. The words start bubbling up, his mouth going sweet like he’s about to puke. Word vomit starts to spew from his mouth instead. “Rhett, I drank at Trent’s last party night. Alcohol. That’s why I didn’t come to church. Why I was sick. I was—I was drinking with everyone there.”

There it is—the truth, or at least some small part of it, out in the open for everyone to know. Even if it’s only Rhett, it still feels like Link’s confessed to a whole world full of people, like he’s speaking to the only one who truly matters. The air is so still and so silent it’s hard to breathe.

“What?” Rhett’s voice is flat. The sedan starts to slow down, almost involuntarily, like Rhett’s too shocked to even move the car an inch. Link starts blubbering, feeling tears well up in his eyes, hands twisting together anxiously.

“I—I’m sorry, Rhett, I didn’t mean to. I know it’s wrong. I just—Everyone was doing it, and I know it ain’t right, brother, I know it was wrong, and I—I made a mistake. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry, man.”

Rhett says nothing. He slowly pulls over, stops the car on the side of the road. He doesn’t hit Link. Doesn’t yell at him. He keeps both hands on the wheel and looks at the road, which is slowly going golden in the sunlight as the sun begins to set.

“Get out,” he says softly. Link’s heart drops to his stomach.

“What?”

“Get out of my car, man.” Just like that—matter-of-fact.

“Rhett—”

“Get out of my car.”

Rhett’s face is impassive, unreadable. The tears start to fall from Link’s eyes, stream down his face, drip off his chin. He doesn't say a word. There’s nothing he can say or do. Despite everything in him dying to stay in the car and convince Rhett to talk to him, beg for his forgiveness, Link forces his feet to move, forces himself to get out of the passenger seat and close the door behind him.

When he’s out on the side of the road, Rhett drives off. Link watches him pull a U-turn back into town, the Nasty growing smaller and smaller before it disappears completely over a far hill against the horizon. The light is turning the world honeyed and yellow-gold.

That’s when Link bursts into tears.

It comes on him like a pipe bursting—the sobs heave out of him raggedly, shoulders shaking, spit and snot starting to leak out of his face. God, how could he have been so stupid? Of course Rhett would be angry with him. He messed up, and bad. He’s horrible. A horrible son, a horrible friend, a horrible Christian. He’s never going to heaven, even if the having-feelings-for-a-boy thing doesn’t bar him from getting there. He went back on a vow. He’s the worst.

The afternoon is warm, but Link’s in a thin, worn, long sleeved shirt that feels like air and the breeze makes him shiver. The golden sun slants down into his eyes, steals whatever’s left of his blurry vision, muddled as it is by his tears. He’s two miles away from home, at least. No one’s coming along this road at this time of night.

There’s nothing to do but walk. So Link walks.

He feels a bit drunk again, stumbling blindly along the road, not even knowing if he’s going to step in something because the tears keep coming, keep rattling sobs out of his chest and streaming down his neck and into his shirt collar.

He’s so miserable he could die. Suicide’s a sin too, but Link’s no stranger to falling from grace. What would one more misstep be? What would one wayward car speeding down a winding country road hurt?

Link’s got nothing—he’s nothing. An ungrateful son, a bad friend. He can’t even believe right. He can’t even love right. Maybe the people he loves would be better off without him.

The foot of the hill beneath his feet trips him up, and Link stumbles. He swipes at his eyes then, trying to clear his vision enough to walk. The sun is turning everything orange.

Then Link looks up. Over the crest of the hill comes a figure—just the dome of someone’s head at first, like the sun rising over the horizon at dawn, come to reverse this glowing sunset. Then broad shoulders swell over the edge, then a familiar shirt, familiar jeans. He starts to descend towards Link, Moses coming down the mountain.

It’s Rhett. Rhett, haloed in gold, coming back for him.

Link hauls up the slight hill, still wiping at his face. Rhett comes closer and closer, his face unreadable. Link wonders in passing if he’s coming back to beat him up.

But then they’re a foot apart from each other, both breathing heavily. And Rhett’s stony expression cracks open like the red sea, and his arms go out as if to say come here.

Link’s tears start fresh again when he steps into Rhett’s open arms, loops his hands around his friend and clasps them tight together. He presses his face into Rhett’s shoulder, weeps so hard he feels the fabric there going damp.

“I’m so sorry,” he chokes out, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Rhett responds softly. They’re in the middle of nowhere even in their podunk little town, and, god, Rhett’s all he’s got. He’s all Link’s got.

“It’s okay,” Rhett repeats, “I forgive you. There is no righteous man on earth who always does good and never sins. I forgive you, man. You’re okay.”

And that’s that—Link’s very own small-town God, offering him salvation. Link holds him tight, takes the blessing like a man healed through miracle.

*

They don’t talk about it after that.

Life, for the most part, goes back to normal. Well—as normal as it was before the party, at least. They still don’t see too much of each other, what with Link’s job, Rhett’s basketball practice, and Annie hanging off his arm all the dang time, but they still have youth group. They’ve still got the band. They’re still friends, and all.

Something’s just… different, now. Something has changed, irrevocably, and Link doesn’t know how to fix it.

They don’t write stories together anymore. They don’t sing together unless it’s for the band. They don’t go down to the river on the weekends and just mess around, just to hang out. These days, Link spends more and more of his time picking up work at Piggly Wiggly’s, more time laying on his bedroom floor and staring at the ceiling in the dark. One night, the scar on his palm itches so bad that he digs his teeth into it like a madman, makes himself bleed.

He’s going crazy, he knows it. The tension and the loneliness are driving him insane.

Rhett, on the other hand, looks—happy. He’s glowing in the springtime warmth, his buzz growing out soft and fluffy, the color of spun gold in the sun. His basketball coach and Mr. McLaughlin have been pushing him hard, and his shoulders have grown a little broader since the start of the season, his biceps a little bigger. Link sees him in basketball shorts more often these days than in jeans, and his long, long legs are bronzing quickly from exposure.

It makes him feel kinda wild, kind of stupidly mad. As kids, they’d roughhouse constantly, always touching, skin on skin like they didn’t know they had two separate bodies. They’d sleep on the same bed, tangled together. They’d share ice cream cones and socks and nighttime prayers. There was no shame. They were brothers, in every way but blood.

Now, Link can only look from afar. Can only imagine what it might feel like to touch that warm skin again, to be hugged by those strong arms. To be that boy’s everything again.

He forces himself not to think like that. He’s mostly unsuccessful.

One night after school, when Link’s in the kitchen housing a microwave meal before work, Walt ambles in, not drunk yet. Instantly, his stomach starts to tighten, and his shoulders begin to climb up to his ears.

Walt, when drunk, is a cruel menace. He’s violent, mean-spirited, foul-mouthed in the worst of ways. By now, Link knows that devil. Knows when to nod, when to stay quiet, when to brace himself for a blow. But sober Walt—sober Walt is a wildcard. With his mama, he’s sweet and loving. Over her shoulder, he glares at Link, gives him a stern look as though to say keep your damn mouth shut. Sober Walt moves silently through the house, making the air crackle with tension. Sometimes he looks at Link blankly, emotionlessly, like he can’t even remember who he is or why he makes him so angry. Other times, he averts his eyes. Link wonders if sober Walt is embarrassed of drunk Walt, if he regrets the actions of his violent nightly doppelgänger.

“Leaving soon?” Walt grunts, stepping around Link to reach the fridge.

“Yessir. Got a shift in about half an hour.”

“Hm.” Link watches as he pulls a beer from the fridge—he always starts with beer, keeps up the façade that he only ever has a bottle or two with dinner, before moving on to something secretive and harder—and opens it with a pop and hiss. “Grab me some dip on your way back.”

“Uh—I don’t think I can, I’m not eighteen—”

“You’re an employee, ain’t you?” Walt interrupts sharply, “I’m sure there’s a way to get some if you wanted. Grab me some on the way back or don’t come back at all.” He slams the fridge door hard enough to make the contents rattle and Link flinch, hard. When the man takes a step, he ducks away instinctively, but Walt doesn’t hit him.

“Don’t forget,” is all he says, before stalking off to the living room. Link stands deathly still and tries to remember how to breathe again. Dinner doesn’t feel too appetizing anymore. He tosses it, half-eaten, into the trash.

He’ll figure things out. He just needs to remember how to breathe. In, out. In, out. Everything will be okay.

It has to be.

His shift is long and slow. Link dawdles at the cash register for what feels like eons, though he’s there for less than half his shift. No one’s at the store at this time of night except for Miss Dawson, the pretty new teacher at the elementary school, who pops in to grab some salmon and white wine. Link rings her up with his cheeks pink, and she smiles at him on her way out. Off to live her fabulous mid-twenties life, he presumes, to cook dinner and eat it with her probable equally gorgeous boyfriend and drink wine and laugh.

Link tries not to be bitter. It’s a bit of a challenge.

Time yawns on. He does the crossword his manager left behind in the break room, drinks awful black coffee someone brought in that morning, scorches it further in the staff microwave. It isn’t until he’s restocking canned vegetables that something notable happens.

“Link?”

The voice surprises Link enough to drop a can of green beans, and it rolls down the aisle where he’s kneeling on the floor, organizing cans so the labels all face out. Someone else picks it up for him. When he looks up, it’s to Rhett.

They haven't seen much of each other since the day after Trent’s party. They still sit at the same lunch table and pass notes in church, but things feel a little off, still. Link’s heart skips a beat when he sees that Rhett’s in his basketball shirt and a tank top, his long legs and strong arms and broad shoulders all on display, a little sweat-slick. His blonde buzz is starting to grow out just a bit, in an awkward in-between stage that makes him look like he just stuck his finger in a socket. He needs a shave.

The guy looks ridiculous. It still makes Link’s stomach swoop.

“Hey, Rhett.”

“You’re here late.”

“I got night shifts on Thursday nights. I told you.”

“Oh. Didn’t realize you worked this late, though.”

“It’s only eight.”

“Well, still.” Rhett walks over, hands the canned beans back to Link so he can stack it with the rest. It gives Link a good excuse to not look at him, focusing instead of organizing the vegetables in neat, ordered rows.

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Just finished training and wanted to get a drink before heading home. I just ran, like, four miles. Coach’s got me running three times a week now. It sucks.”

“Huh. I bet you look like a flailing giraffe—”

“Hey!”

“—All limbs and no coordination.”

“You’re a mean, mean man.”

They laugh, and Rhett sinks down on one knee beside Link as he works. After a long while of just watching, he starts pulling cans out of the big cardboard box he’s got, starts putting them up, too.

“What’re you doing?”

“Helping you, duh.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“It’ll get done faster if I help.”

“I still have to stay until the end of my shift, you know. The more time I can spend doing this, the less time I gotta sweep. And I hate sweeping.”

“Well, I’m not helping you there, buddy. Don’t want to hurt my back.”

“Okay, grandpa.”

“Oh, hush your mouth.”

Link laughs at the faux offense in Rhett’s tone. It feels like a tight knot in his chest is being slowly released; it’s just been so long since they laughed together.

“I’ve missed you,” Link blurts out, and immediately regrets saying it. They don’t really say things like that, never have. Boys aren’t supposed to be so mushy-gushy with their emotions. He flushes to the tips of his ears and the roots of his hair.

Instead of laughing at him, or brushing him off, though, Rhett just smiles.

“Missed you too, bud. Sorry I’ve been so busy with basketball.”

“And Annie,” Link adds meekly.

“And Annie. You know how it is.”

Link doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. Just keeps stacking beans, keeps moving. He doesn’t have many other options.

A different song comes on the overhead speakers, something Elvis his mama loves. Wise men say only fools rush in…

“Oh man, Mama Sue loves this song, doesn’t she?” Rhett asks, “But I can’t help falling in love…”

“Yeah, man, you know she loves Elvis.”

Humming, Rhett gets to his feet. Before he knows it, there’s a hand shoved in Link’s face.

“What—?”

“Take my hand,” Rhett sings along, exaggerating the depth of his voice to imitate Elvis’s swoon-worthy crooning, “Take my whole life too… Come on, man, take my hand.”

“What are you doing, you goofball?” Link shakes his head, but takes it anyway. Rhett pulls him up, then in.

“Dance with me! ‘Cause I can’t help…”

“What! No!”

“Don’t be such a baby, come on!”

“Rhett—”

“With you… Like a river flows…”

“You are so annoying.”

“Yeah, yeah. You love me.”

Link’s heart skips double-time at that, and he fumbles a response. Instead, Rhett pulls him in closer. They both go for each other’s waists, which makes him let out a laugh a little too high-pitched to be natural.

“I at least wanna lead!”

“Nuh-uh. I’m taller, I lead.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Mhm.”

They link hands. It’s sweaty and gross and so dang sweet. Rhett sways them a little, and the flush grows deeper in Link’s cheeks. His hand is just so daggum big on his waist, and his tank top is still a little damp with sweat at the shoulder, and he smells awful, but Rhett is smiling and warm and Link can feel him humming where their chests are pressed together, and it feels so soothing. He feels a little ridiculous, still in his dorky work apron with a roll of yellow 25% of stickers in his pocket, Rhett in his sweaty workout clothes, but he also feels remarkably precious. Like he’s a normal kid with a normal crush.

Like he’s a kid no one would ever try to hurt—not while he’s with Rhett, at least.

“Shall I stay? Would it be a sin?” both Rhett and Elvis sing, “For I can’t help falling in love with you.” Rhett makes them do a stupid little shimmy then, and they laugh. With the hand they’ve got pressed together, Link twirls Rhett, which proves to be a challenge with all his freakishly long limbs. They guffaw at their attempts for a minute, then Rhett spins him in return. It is wildly more successful.

“Darling, so it goes… Some things are meant to be…”

Returning to Rhett’s embrace feels like coming home—before home became something complicated and scary. It feels like stepping into the cool river on a hot summer’s day, like sinking into a hot bath when you’re sick. It just feels right.

How could something so right be so wrong?

“For I can’t help falling in love with you…”

The song winds to a close. Rhett steps back and bows. Link laughs, attempts a curtsy and fails. He feels suddenly cold without him.

“Thank you for this dance,” Rhett says, “But I ought to be getting home.”

“Yeah, of course. I got work to do here, anyway.”

“See ya, Link.”

“Rhett—” he blurts, “Do you—Are you free this weekend?” Rhett’s face goes a little sheepish at that, and Link’s heart sinks because he already knows the answer.

“I’m not sure. I told Annie I’d take her out. But I’ll call you?”

“Yeah, sure, buddy. We’ll talk then. See ya.”

Rhett raises a palm in farewell, and then he’s gone. He didn’t even get a drink.

Despite the fact that they probably won’t be hanging out on the weekends anytime soon, Link’s in high spirits by the time he gets home that night. He’s flying high on the memory of Rhett’s hand on his waist, the warmth of him radiating through their clothes, the vibration of his chest as he sang along to the radio, like the content purring of a big cat. He’s practically skipping by the time he makes it through the front door.

Of course, that doesn’t last long. Walt emerges from the shadows of the kitchen like a creature of the dark, and if the redness of his eyes is any indication, he’s long since moved on from beer and has started drinking something stronger, reeking and sour. Link swallows hard.

“Hi, Walt.”

“Link,” he grunts. “You got my dip?”

Link’s stomach drops out from under him. Oh no. Oh god.

“Oh man. Um—”

“You fuckin’ forgot, didn’t you?” He stalks closer, lips rising in a sneer. “God, you’re useless.”

“I-I’m sorry, Walt. I completely—I’ll get you some tomorrow.”

“I didn’t fucking ask you to get me some tomorrow, did I? I asked you to get some now.”

Walt comes closer, and Link is frozen. His breath starts coming in sharp little gasps, and there’s nowhere for him to run. He’s trapped against the corner of the living room, and Walt is coming closer and he can’t breathe.

“I’m sorry,” Link wheezes, but it’s too late.

“Stop fucking saying that!” Walt growls, and backhands him across the cheek so hard he lists against the wall, ears ringing. “Jesus. You’re so fucking annoying. No wonder your mama spends so much time outta the house. It’s just to get away from you.” He hits Link again, the pain a heavy ache across the other cheek, then fists and hand in his t-shirt and throws him up against the wall.

Link’s head is spinning, and he feels so numb and weak that he can barely even move. Walt leans in close, teeth bared like a wild animal.

“God, I can’t believe I have to put up with you. I can’t believe Sue has to put up with you. You can’t even do one thing right!” Walt drives his fist up into Link’s stomach, high between his ribs. It hurts all the way inside, up into his throat, and he can’t help the high whine it forces out of him, can’t control his own body when his knees go weak and he starts to sink against the wall in Walt’s hold. The man lets go of him so he collapses to the ground like a marionette doll with cut strings.

Link sees Walt coming for him blurrily out of the corner of his eyes, and he throws his arms over his head to protect himself. Instead of another hand to his cheeks and ears, Walt rears back and kicks him in the stomach instead. Link cries out, a horrible hurt-puppy noise, and he does it again, and again. He doubles over, squeezing himself into a tight ball, trying not to retch.

Walt steps back, breathing hard. “Fuck. Jesus. Fuck.”

There’s more movement—Link scrunches his body up even tighter, trying desperately to protect himself as best as he can, but Walt doesn’t hit him again. Instead, he sweeps away, stalks out of the living room and out the front door. He slams it behind him so hard that it rattles in the frame, the thud so loud it makes Link flinch again.

He doesn’t move for a long moment. He just focuses on breathing, taking in shallow sips of air through his teeth so he doesn’t throw up. The sharp, deep pain in his stomach is unbearable. He wonders if Walt has broken something inside him, if he’s snapped something or shaking something in his body loose. Tears are dripping from the corners of his eyes. He hadn’t even realized he was crying.

Slowly as he can manage, Link uncurls from where he’s collapsed on the ground. He stumbles unsteadily to his feet to look out the front window. Walt hasn’t driven off—probably for the best, in his inebriated state. He’s sitting on the stoop, drinking from his flask.

Link isn’t the kind of person to hate, but he can’t help it when the sick feeling rises in him like bile—he hates Walt. Hates his stupid face and his stupid hair and his stupid scruffy beard. He hates the way he sits in church, hands clasped like a good Christian, a better Christian than Link, even, despite being the way he is. He hates his stench of whiskey, only barely masked by deodorant and mouthwash, hates his dirty work boots that spill construction site debris all over the carpet.

He hates the fact that, despite everything, his mama loves him.

Link keeps one hand on the wall to steady himself and hauls his bruised body up the stairs to his room. He feels like a raw wound, throbbing everywhere, aching with each breath. When he makes it to bed, he only has energy to slump on top of the covers, holding his hands to his stomach like a man wounded in war.

He doesn’t even have the energy to pray. He doesn’t even have the strength to ask for protection.

*

“Link? Link, honey?”

Link hears the door open gently the next morning, hears his mom step into the room. “Link, what in the blazes are you doing, still in bed? Get up, honey, you’re gonna be late for school!”

The bed dips, and Mama Sue’s warm hand threads through his hair. Link’s stomach roils. He breathes carefully, blinking at the blurry specter of his mother leaning over him and blocking out the faint sunlight coming in through the window.

He’s spent the entire night alternately lying awake in pain, or sleeping fitfully, sweating through his sheets and startling out of unformed, confusing dreams. Come morning, he feels sick and exhausted and about two seconds away from barfing.

“I don’t feel so good, Mama,” he croaks, just barely managing to grit through the nausea climbing up his throat before he has to slam his mouth shut again and grind his teeth together. His mother—his poor, sweet mother, who he’s lying to—tuts and smooths her hand over his hair, presses the back of one palm to his forehead.

“Hm… You don’t feel warm. What hurts, baby?”

“Stomach,” Link groans, “Head.”

“Oh, my darling boy…” His mama cups his face, runs a thumb across his cheek. Link feels his eyes start to well up with tears, and he isn’t sure if it's because of the pain splitting him apart, or the tenderness of her hand. Moisture beads up in the corner of one eye and starts to slowly drip across his nose. “Oh, Link… It’s okay, honey. Let me get you some pills and a ginger ale, okay? You’ll be alright. Shh, shh. Don’t cry, sweet boy.”

“Mama,” he tries to say, and it comes out as a sob. He can’t help it after that—every strained exhale forces another awful noise out of him, and even with both of his hands over his mouth, he can’t muffle the sound.

“Oh, my poor baby. My darling boy,” his mama coos. Her cool palms are like a balm against his cheek, the old familiar feeling of her calloused fingers stroking circles on his skin transporting him to being five years old and down with the flu, soothed only by her soft voice.

Link finds himself being scooped up, his head drawn into her lap like he’s a baby. Like he’s small and young and precious. Untainted, still his mother’s little boy. It makes him cry harder, pressing his damp face into her stomach, grasping at her skirt.

“Oh, Link… It’s okay, honey. I’m here. I got you.”

And she doesn’t, does she? Not really. His mom’s never there. She doesn’t know. She can’t protect him, she never has.

Link’s alone. He’s in his mother’s arms and he’s never been more alone.

Chapter Text

So—sometimes Link stays home from church because he can’t bear the idea of sitting in a rigid, wooden pew with all the bruises on his body and the aches in his bones. Sometimes he can’t make himself go to school because his face looks a little messed up, or his stomach hurts so bad he’s spent the whole night weeping into his pillow. Sometimes he can’t get out of bed in the morning. No big deal.

Hey, that’s life, isn’t it? That’s just how it is when you become a man. You put up with all sorts of pain. All sorts of little hurts. And you don’t tell anyone—you can’t. You can’t say a thing. That’s just how it goes.

But Link still goes to school, and church, and work, and band practice, and youth group, most of the time. He still puts on his brave face, still does everything he’s meant to do. He just does it a little lonely. And a lot scared. That’s par for the course.

He’s a man. That’s what that means.

It’s a Saturday when Link jolts awake to someone pounding on his door. He’s tangled in his sheets, having slept poorly, and when he jerks into consciousness, it’s with a throbbing head.

“Boy!” shouts Walt on the other side of the door. The handle jiggles—Link asked his Papaw to help him fix the lock the last time he was over—and he scrambles to open it. “Boy, get yer ass out here!”

“I’m coming!”

When Link finally makes it to the door and throws it open, it’s to Walt simmering with a barely retrained rage. Instantly, the bile rises in the back of Link’s throat. He’s standing there, all vulnerable in his boxers and an oversized sleep shirt he doesn’t even think is his, hair a mess flopping into his eyes, and Walt is here in his heavy work overcoat, Walt is angry and reeking with the scent of wet cement, Walt is—Walt is—

Walt is not hitting him. Or even yelling at him. Instead, through gritted teeth, he says, “Your friend is here,” before he stalks away. When his hulking form empties from the doorway and thunders down the stairs, Rhett’s standing in the space left behind, shining like an armored knight in the early morning sunshine. Link feels like he’s been shot in the heart.

“Rhett! What are you doing here?”

“Hey, man.” He looks sheepish. “Just wanted to see if you were busy. It’s been a while.”

“Yeah, yeah it has.” They stand there for a moment, just looking at each other. Usually, when they see each other after a while, he and Rhett slip easily back into step with one another, like there was never space between them. This sudden distance feels uncanny. Wrong.

“So… Are you?

“Huh?”

“Busy?” asks Rhett with a smile. Link feels suddenly giddy with joy.

“No, I just woke up. Come on in, buddy.”

Rhett follows him into his room, looks at him with a quizzical amusement when he closes and locks the door. Link knows it’s odd, new. He doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he shuffles over to his dresser, roots around for clean jeans.

“Good to see you, dude, it’s been forever. What are you up to today, huh? You here for any special reason, or just because?” When Rhett doesn’t answer, Link straightens up, turns to look at him. He’s sitting on the edge of Link’s bed, just staring at him, mouth open like an idiot. He’s going pink around the cheeks. He looks stupid as hell.

“Dude,” Link laughs at him, “You look stupid as hell. What are you doing?”

“Oh—I just—” Rhett shakes his head as though to clear it. “Is that my shirt?” Link looks down at himself; the soft, worn shirt he’s in is a little too big for him, sliding off one shoulder and hitting him mid-thigh. There’s a non-zero chance that it is, in fact, Rhett’s.

“Aw man, maybe,” Link says, flushing a little bit. “I probably grabbed it by accident the last time we went camping. Sorry, dude. I’ll wash it and give it back.”

Rhett sounds strangled when he says, “It’s okay, man. No worries. Take your time.” Link shoots him an odd look over his shoulder; he sounds like a freaking frog just died in his throat, and he’s licking his lips like a dog dying of thirst.

Still, they haven’t hung out in so long—Link’s not going to ruin this precious moment of peace by making fun of the poor guy. Instead, he pulls on a clean pair of jeans, shoves a pair of mismatched socks onto his feet, and grins at his friend.

“So, where are we going today?”

Rhett smiles back, and suddenly it’s like they were never even apart.

*

They take the Nasty down to the river ‘cause Walt’s been taking all of Link’s gas money and he isn’t getting paid again until next Saturday. They try fishing with makeshift bait, attaching sillier and sillier things to the end of the line in an attempt to tempt some fish, including FunYuns, used Band-Aids, and Rhett’s last dollar, which he loses to the current. They are wildly unsuccessful.

When that loses its spark, they strip down to their underwear and leap into the river. Link’s stomach goes tight when he pulls off his shirt and Rhett immediately frowns at the ugly but fading bruise on his ribs, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. Link is partially relieved that Rhett doesn’t bring it up, glad that he can keep his secrets under wraps even when he can’t hide it under fabric. Another part of him feels a little let down.

He’s not really sure how to handle that.

“Whoo!” Link screams, like a wild boy, before he jumps into the water. Rhett shouts after him, but it’s too late—the river rushes up to him, and time dilates so he’s suspended in the air for a long moment, then two. Then he falls.

Breaking the surface is holy. The cold that rushes up to meet him is a terrible shock, breathless and icy. It’s early enough in the season that the river isn’t pleasantly cool yet, still holding onto the frost of the previous winter. Link sinks under the surface, and his body weight holds him down below for a long moment.

He opens his eyes.

It’s quiet. The water isn’t perfectly, beautifully clear, but it’s clear enough to see the light coming in through the surface. It’s starting to make his eyes burn, but Link can’t help himself. The sunlight is lacing through the current like a veil, and it’s such a peaceful sight that he thinks, for a second, that he wouldn’t mind staying down here forever, just quiet and safe at the bottom of the Cape Fear, surrounded by nothing but the mud and the little fish and the memories of a childhood where things were happier once.

But the pressure in his lungs gets to be too much. Link leaves behind the peace of drowning and surfaces for a great gasp of air, and the real world rushes back in with a great swell of sound.

“Cannonball!” Rhett yells, and jumps into the water beside him. Link shrieks when the impact splashes him with icy droplets of water, then again when Rhett resurfaces and shakes the water out of his hair like a dog, spraying Link entirely.

“Dude!” he laughs, splashing weakly back in Rhett’s direction, “Ew!”

“What? You have a problem with my hair-water?”

“Just that it smells like a dog.”

“That’s the river, brother.”

“No, I’m pretty sure that’s just you.”

“You sure about that?” Rhett strides over to where Link’s treading water hard so as to not get swept away, and he lets out a panicked giggle when Rhett reaches for him with grabby hands, getting ready to smother him in his gross, wet arms.

“No! No, no no!”

“Come ‘ere!’

Despite Link’s best efforts, Rhett catches up to him and grabs him by the shoulders. Link shrieks as he gets another faceful of wet hair, then gets dunked under the surface of the water. He’s still laughing when he goes under, so he gets a mouthful of river, and comes up coughing, water shooting out of his nose.

“Oh crap,” Rhett is laughing, “Are you okay?”

“You jerk!” Link manages between coughs. Rhett pounds on his back, unhelpfully hard. “Ow, ow, ow.”

“Sorry, man. Seriously, are you okay?”

“I’m fine! Stop smacking me so dang hard!” Rhett complies, but not without digging his fingers into Link’s ribs first, which makes him yelp more in pain than laughter.

“Come on then,” Rhett calls, oblivious, “Race you to the other side!”

They spend a few hours in the water, goofing off. A little past midday, when they start getting hungry, Rhett and Link pull themselves up into the big flat rocks by the side of the river to dry off before heading back into town for a bite to eat. Link’s body aches after a long day of swimming, the first of the season. It’s finally warm enough for this, but even still, when they’re out of the water, the breeze makes goosebumps rise on the skin of his arms. Rhett looks over at him when he shivers.

“It’ll warm up soon,” he says, because he always knows exactly what Link’s thinking.

“I know. Soon ‘nough, I’ll be wishing it weren’t so dang hot.”

Rhett chuckles, looks back up at the clear blue sky. “You always want what you can’t have.”

That cuts close. Link feels the words hit him like they’re tangible things, hugs his arms to his chest as though in protection. He does always want what he can’t have, doesn’t he? Things, people. Link swallows hard around the lump in his throat.

“Well, you know what they say,” Link says hoarsely, “Grass is always greener, and all.”

Rhett scoffs, surprisingly bitter. “Ain’t that the truth.” The sharp tone of his voice surprises Link, who looks over at him. Rhett’s face is all pinched as he looks up at the cloudless sky, like he’s deep in thought or severely constipated. He’d look stupid if Link wasn’t so hopelessly in love with him.

“What’s with you, man?” he asks instead. Rhett sighs.

“It’s nothing. It’s just… Annie broke up with me.”

Link feels like his stomach just dropped out from underneath him. He can’t tell if he’s pleased or upset.

“Sorry, man,” he says carefully instead, “What happened?”

“Nothing. I don’t wanna talk about it. Just sucks, you know?”

“Sure.” An awkward silence stretches between them for a moment.

Link doesn’t know what to say; he’s itching with curiosity. What happened? Why did she dump Rhett? They don’t really talk about this sort of thing, not usually. But he’s dying to know. Was it his ineptitude with phone calls? The fact that he’s too busy with basketball to take her on more dates? His stupid overgrown haircut?

More than anything, he wonders: is this why Rhett sought him out today? No girl to hang out with, so he’s fallen back on his second-best?

He doesn’t say any of this, though. Instead, they just lay there, drying in the cool Spring air, listening to the grackles and waiting for something that never comes.

When they’re all dried off, the boys pull their clothes back on and head for Rhett’s sedan. On the drive to Mama Sue’s, they turn on the radio: sing me back home with a song I used to hear, make my old memories come alive… Take me away and turn back the years, sing me back home before I die…

Rhett sings along, his adam’s apple bobbing to the lyrics. Sing me back home before I die. Link says nothing, all blank inside, just watching his best friend sing. Watching those long, calloused fingers tapping on the steering wheel.

Sing me back home before I die…

At Link’s, they find that both Walt and Mama Sue are out at work and that there’s no food in the house. In lieu of a meal, they scrounge together some chips and deli meat, making little cracker sandwiches by folding cold turkey between two salty potato chips instead. It’s surprisingly delicious. Link plays tapes his mama doesn’t like while they eat sitting across from each other on the floor, and he feels like a child again, small and light. He doesn’t feel that way much anymore, especially not at home. It’s a rare treat to feel so free in his own bedroom these days.

Rhett seems to notice a shift in the air.

“So what’s been up with you lately, man?” he asks, wiping his greasy fingers on Link’s carpet. Link pulls a face at the action.

“Dude, come on. That’s so gross.”

“Sorry. Don’t change the subject.”

“I dunno what you mean.”

Rhett rolls his eyes—a true feat, Link thinks with a surprising shock of annoyance, for someone so dang dumb he’d probably forget his head if it weren’t attached to his body.

“Come on. You’ve been acting off ever since I started dating Annie. And now that we’re broken up…”

“How am I supposed to act?” snaps Link. Rhett looks shocked at the sudden vitriol in his voice. Link’s a bit shocked, himself. He doesn’t know where the anger is coming from, all out of the blue like this. His heart is pounding in his ears, and in combination with the music and the hunger he can’t quite kick, it’s making his head hurt.

“Alright, calm down, dude. I just thought you’d be—supportive or something, is all.”

“What, I wasn’t supportive enough when y’all were dating and she was takin’ up all your time?”

“What?” Rhett laughs bitterly, “Oh, don’t tell me you’re jealous.” Anger, quick and sharp, flares up in Link’s chest like a firework.

“Jealous?” he bites. “Please. More like I was waiting for this to happen.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“This always happens, Rhett!” Link gets to his feet, turns off his music. The room cuts into tense, crackling quiet. “You date a girl and you go off and forget all about your friends. Then she breaks up with you and you come crawling back until you find someone else you think is pretty, and the cycle starts all over again.”

“That ain’t fair, and you know it.”

“Isn’t it?” Link whips around to see that Rhett’s on his feet too. “Or are you just embarrassed to admit the truth?”

“And what’s that?”

“That you don’t actually care about me. I’m just your stand-in until you find someone new to slobber over like a dog in the backseat of your car.”

“Link! Don’t say that about Annie! I never—I’m a dang Christian. I’m not that kind of guy.”

“Some Christian you are,” Link spits, despite knowing he’s gone way too far. “Is that why y’all broke up?

“Don’t you say another word about her, man.”

Link steamrolls on, can’t help it. “What, you couldn’t keep it in your pants and she got fed up? Or was it the other way around?”

Rhett’s turning red as a tomato. Link feels like a live wire, his nerves on the outside of the skin, so worked up he could choke. He doesn’t even know why he’s being so mean all of a sudden, why he’s saying all these cruel, nasty things. The anger just keeps rising, keeps bubbling up out of him like bile. He feels evil. He feels like—like—

“You’re being disgusting,” Rhett growls.

“Well, what is it then? ‘Cause I thought you were a good Christian boy, Rhett. Last I heard, good Christian boys ain’t supposed to love ‘em and leave ‘em the way you seem to do an awful lot.”

Something dark enters Rhett’s eyes. His nostrils flare. When he takes a lumbering step towards Link, it makes his hackles raise even more, makes him feel like a trapped animal, violent and afraid.

“Oh, yeah? Then how come your mom and dad ain’t married? I thought they were Christians too. Why’d they break up?”

That’s a low blow, and they both know it. Still, it doesn’t make them stop their terrible dance, their hands clenched into fists.

Link’s hands throb with some want he can’t name. Rhett is advancing on him, his hulking form tall and imposing. It makes his heart climb in his throat, makes his chest go all tight. He can feel his breath catch, start to burst in and out of his chest in panicky, sharp gasps. His fists are shaking.

“You don’t know anything, man!” Link shouts, shoving at Rhett’s chest to keep him from towering over him so damn much, “You don’t know anything at all!”

Rhett grabs him by the wrists to keep him from shoving him further, which only makes Link more panicked, makes him fight back even more. Despite being restrained, he manages to smack Rhett in the middle of the chest with their joined hands fairly hard, making him groan. Link leans all his weight into his next shove, and manages to make them both stumble a few steps.

“Stop, stop!” Rhett cries, “Link, stop it!”

“Lemme go, man!”

“I don’t want you to hit me!”

“Then you oughta learn to shut up about my mama!”

“Maybe you should learn to stop keeping secrets from me!”

“Get off!” Link cries, succeeding in wrenching one wrist out of Rhett's grip and using it to try to pry his fingers off the other one. Rhett retaliates by shoving him backwards, hard.

The results are immediate. The combination of Rhett’s sheer mass and Link’s lack of coordination sends them both tumbling in a pile to the ground. Link lands flat on his back, winded and suddenly breathless, and Rhett comes crashing down on top of him.

“Jesus,” Link wheezes, gasping for air under the crush of Rhett’s weight and the force of the fall. Rhett groans, and leans up to look at him. Their faces end up inches apart.

“You alright, man?”

“You’re heavy. Get off me, dude,” Link groans, but Rhett doesn’t budge. He’s got Link pinned down completely, from shoulder to shin. His face twists into a look of mischief—one that Link knows all too well.

“No—!”

“Can’t. I’m dead.” Fury sparks through Link like lightning. He begins to writhe and struggle immediately.

“No, no, no, no, no, Rhett, you can’t be serious!”

“As a heart attack, brother.” Link manages to free one hand and attempts to use it to shove at Rhett, but to no avail—Rhett recaptures his wrist and joins both of Link’s hands in one of his stupidly large fists, pressing them above his head so they’re completely pressed up against each other, immobilized.

Panic rises high in Link’s throat. He keeps thrashing and squirming, trying to kick out against Rhett’s weight, but there’s no way he can escape. He’s totally covered, pressed into the worn carpet like a security blanket.

Please don’t pop a boner, he begs his traitorous body, Please, please, please be normal just this once! The thought only makes him struggle harder, practically feral with the need to be freed.

“Ow, jeez, Link!” Rhett exclaims.

“Get off me! Get off!”

“No can do. I’m dead.”

“You’re—Stop it!”

“Nope. Dead.”

“Rhett!”

“As a doornail.”

“Rhett, stop!” It’s with a pang of utter humiliation that Link realizes the shout comes out more as a sob. He can feel himself losing energy, his efforts starting to die down. Still, Link’s chest is heaving hard. His eyes are starting to burn like he’s about to cry.

What if someone walks in here and sees them like this? What if it’s—god forbid—Walt? He’d kill them. He’d kill Rhett first and make him watch. He’d beat the living hell out of them both and he’d think he’s doing them a favor.

Gosh, it all just feels so hopeless. Link stops kicking and thrashing, though his body still lies tense and resistant against Rhett’s, unwilling to fully give up the fight but unable to truly win. His lower lip is quivering. He’s gonna cry. Goddamn it. He’s gonna cry.

“Link?”

“Get off’a me,” he sobs, eyes squeezed shut, “Get off, stop it, stop—”

“Am I hurting you?” Link shakes his head.

“No, no, you’re—” He makes a horrible and uncontrollable noise then, half hiccup and half cry, “You’re just—You can’t—You—”

“Hey, hey, breathe, man—”

“You just don’t understand!” he bursts out, fully crying now, “You don’t understand. You don’t, you can’t, you—you couldn’t possibly get it, what it’s like—You just can’t understand! You don’t know! You don’t know!”

Link goes entirely limp then, sobbing in earnest. He doesn’t even really know what he’s talking about: Walt? His mama being gone all the time? His broken family and the awful stares they get for being so damaged and incomplete?

Or these feelings he’s had—sinful and wrong and all too powerful, despite everything Link’s done to suppress them? These thoughts and dreams he’s had about Rhett, about a boy, despite Walt’s valiant attempts to beat it out of him?

He realizes a few beats too late that Rhett’s released him, sitting back on his haunches and freeing Link from the I’m dead move. Link scrambles up to a seat, scooting backwards to lean against his bed, knees up like a shield. He swipes angrily at his eyes, trying to force the tears away. He’s panting hard, and shaking. Rhett hovers near him, looking uncertain and concerned.

“Link, you gotta breathe, man.”

Link realizes he’s starting to hyperventilate. He swallows hard, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to get his breathing under control. His heart’s racing in his chest like it’s about to explode, and Link can hear the thudding in his ears.

“Link, it’s okay.”

“I can’t,” he gasps, “I’m—”

“Link.” There’s a pressure on his shoulder then, Rhett’s warm hand gripping him tight. “You’re okay, buddy. Come on, stop that. Stop it. Breathe.”

They inhale and exhale in tandem—in, out. In, out. Everything’s okay. Everything’s okay.

It takes a few minutes of them sitting like that, tense and scared, before Link finally calms. His heart’s still beating hard, but he doesn’t feel like he’s going to die anymore. He wipes at his face with his sleeve one last time and takes in breath after deep, shaky breath.

When he finally musters the courage to look up at Rhett, his friend looks terrified and bewildered. This just isn’t the kind of thing they do. This isn’t the kind of thing they’re supposed to do. Boys ain’t supposed to cry. At least, not the boys from their little town.

“Sorry,” Link croaks, then clears his throat. “I dunno what came over me.”

“Link…” Rhett’s voice is suddenly so soft it makes Link’s teeth hurt. “What’s going on with you, man? Tell me. Please.” He sounds so earnest and desperate that it makes his heart ache.

Link tries to convey everything he’s feeling to Rhett with just his eyes—how sorry he is for all of this, how scared. When his friend squeezes his shoulder, it makes him want to cry again.

“I can’t,” he whispers, “I can’t tell you. I want to, I just—can’t. I’m so sorry.”

They sit there, just looking at each other for a long time. Then Rhett scoffs and shakes his head.

“Man, whatever. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore,” he mutters, and gets to his feet. A sharp spasm of pain goes through Link’s heart. He scrambles up, too, desperate.

“No, wait. Don’t go. Rhett. Rhett, come on, man. You know I didn’t mean any of it. Rhett. Rhett!”

But he’s already out of Link’s bedroom and heading for the door. Link follows him like a sad puppy into the living room, watches as he collects his shoes, wallet, and keys, intentionally not making eye contact as he does. An errant tear slips down Link’s face, and he bats it away with a tight fist. His nails dig into the scar on his palm, sure to leave crescent moon marks. Rhett opens the door and pauses on the threshold.

“Don’t come around, Link,” he says over his shoulder, and he’s gone.

*

Link’s read the Bible cover to cover twice. He goes to youth group every week, once considered himself an exemplary Christian, the kind of guy that inspires others to see the light and come to Jesus. It used to mean that he spent a lot of time praying, writing songs about the grace of God and the afterlife and forgiveness.

Now it means he thinks an awful lot about the End Times.

It’s a little dramatic, sure, but he can’t help thinking about it obsessively. About that day or hour, no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. Link’s father ain’t around, doesn’t know anything about anything, but he’s not alone; no one knows what’s coming. Link surely doesn’t. He’s living life like there’s danger around every corner, and most days, there is.

Walt’s still taking all his money, but Link starts hiding some away, tucking away a few bucks every time he gets paid and stashing it in the shoebox he keeps under his bed with all his valuables: the cross his Nana gave him as a kid, the blood oath he made with Rhett, his photos, the brochure he got from some college fair with a list of film and art schools out West. Something’s gotta give, and when it does, he doesn’t want to be out on his ass with no money to his name.

He doesn’t talk to anyone except when cold-called in class. He spends so much time alone and in the quiet that when he does speak, his voice starts sounding foreign to his own ears, dry and unused and distant.

He can’t bring himself to eat. He can’t sleep, and when he does, it’s too much, and he starts being late to school a whole lot. That used to fill him with crippling anxiety, but now he’s too tired to even care.

Link’s no writer, can’t tell a story with a good ending to save his life, but it just feels like everything’s coming to a close. There’s just a sense of finality to every day that sometimes he’s surprised when he wakes up in the morning, whole and alive. He feels like a ghost, in between realities. He feels like a shadow, following strangers doggedly along.

On Sundays, Link goes to church with his mama and Walt and, for the first time since they were old enough to finally sit together, he chooses to stay by their side instead of at Rhett’s. Something is ending, and he can’t quite put his finger on what it is. Sometimes he wonders if he ought to hurry it along, make the epilogue come faster, but he doesn’t know how. He just keeps his head down and his feet pointed forward.

One Sunday evening, right before the sun goes down for the night, Link comes home from work early after his manager tells him he’s maxed out his hours, and the house is quieter than usual. It doesn’t occur to him that this could be a sign of danger. Instead, Link heads for his room, his footsteps barely making a sound in the quiet, stagnant air. The place smells of lemony cleaner and mouthwash, like Walt’s trying to hide how much he drank again, but even that doesn’t set off warning bells in Link’s head; he’s too numb to really care.

It isn’t until he steps into his room that he realizes something is terribly, terribly wrong. Because Walt’s in there, the once-hidden shoebox opened, the contents spilled out onto his bed. He looks furious. In one hand is the money Link’s been squirreling away over the past few weeks.

In his other hand is a stack of pictures.

Chapter Text

When Link was a little boy, he was babysat a lot.

His parents divorced when he was just a baby, and his mama has always been a hard worker—first as a CNA, then an EMT, then an RN—and was always out of the house, leaving Link to get sent to Aftercare programs or getting picked up by little old ladies who’d watch him color, eat snacks, and do homework until his mama could come get him.

He still remembers the woman with the warts on her fingers, who teased him in a way that felt more mean than joking, who asked him to try to pull off her warts, who would sit with him while he waited for his mom, morose, on the front steps of her house and intermittently gasped, there she don’t come! That always sent a shock of anxiety through Link; what if she really didn’t come? What if she never came back for him? And his Papaw and Nanny didn’t want him either? His dad had already left; he’d proven he didn’t want Link a long time ago. What if no one wanted him? What if he had no one?

He’d be all alone.

Link is reminded of that gut-wrenching, heart-stopping anxiety now, as he stands just inside the doorway of his bedroom and stares at Walt, a menacing shadow clutching all of Link’s secrets in his violent hands. He feels like a little kid, abandoned. By his loved ones again, maybe, or by God, or his own damn common sense—all he knows is that he is desperately, dangerously alone in this moment, and there’s nothing he can do to protect himself from Walt.

Things are coming to a close. Link’s no writer, but he knows that whatever’s coming is a fight to end all fights.

“What the fuck is this?” Walt spits. His voice is scary quiet, his rage low and simmering before it explodes. Link drops his bag off his shoulder in the doorway, says nothing. His mouth is so dry that when he swallows, his throat clicks loudly.

“Answer me!” Walt barks, shaking his fistfuls at Link, “What the fuck is all this, huh? This money you’ve been hiding from me? These—these perverted, disgusting pictures?!”

“They’re not—They’re not perverted. They’re not—We were just messing around. We didn’t mean anything by it.” He doesn’t know why he says it; it just comes out of his mouth, the way most things just blurt out of him without a thought. He cringes; he can practically see the muscles of Walt’s jaw straining under the weight of his anger.

“You’re lying. You’re a lyin’ piece of shit.” Walt’s red in the face now, practically snarling. Link feels a lump grow in the back of his throat. “These pictures of you and that boy of yours, that boy you’re always runnin’ after like a pussy, like a damn whore, you fucking—”

Walt rears back and throws the pictures and the money at Link, who flinches. When he raises his head again, a confetti of shame is swirling through the room. Images of him and Rhett flutter by, crinkled and creased by Walt’s sweaty hands—the two of them by their river, their yellow carnations a pop of color among the shower of gray-green and blue.

“You disgust me!” Walt bellows, “You fucking—-You fucking fag, you disgusting, horrible—”

Link can’t speak anymore, the lump too big. Horrifyingly, he finds that his eyes are beginning to water a little bit, his breath going sharp and panicky against his will. The wall next to his door presses against his shoulder blades—he didn’t even realize he’d been backing up, cowering in his own room. The open door is just to his right. If Link could just make a run for it, he might be able to…

“Don’t even fucking think about running, boy,” Walt sneers, stalking forward unsteadily like a freaking zombie from one of Link’s comic books. The sight of him approaching makes the panic rise higher in his throat, makes him press his back harder against the wall. Link feels like a cornered animal, a mouse fixing to scamper away at the first sign of danger.

He has no choice. The man’s a foot away from him when he makes a frantic break for it, racing towards the stairs—but he’s not fast enough. Walt lurches forward, grabs him by the wrist, and throws him up against the wall so hard it knocks the air from his lungs.

“You little asshole,” he spits, “I told you not to run!”

“Let go of me,” Link gasps, trying in vain to wrench his arm from Walt’s iron grasp, “Let go ‘a me!”

“Stop whining like a little bitch! God, I can’t fucking stand you. Actin’ like—like a prissy little child whenever you don’t get your way. Well, buck up, kid! Life ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. The sooner you learn that, the better.”

“Walt, you’re hurting me,” Link breathes, tears welling up in his eyes. His voice sounds sharp and whiny to his own ears. “Agh, Walt—”

Walt responds to that by squeezing tighter and wrenching his arm back harder, and Link yelps at the sharp, twisting pain. With his free hand, the man grabs Link by the throat.

“Shut up. Shut up!”

“Please—!”

“I said shut the fuck up!” he shouts, spittle spraying Link’s face. Walt’s fingers squeeze around his carotid, and a rush of panic surges through him. “If you were my son, you’d be in pieces in a ditch somewhere right now. If you were my son, I would’ve shipped you off to military school to man the hell up. I would’ve turned you out to die. Sue’s too soft on you. But we both know she and I’d rather have a dead son than a fussy, weak, annoying little fag!”

Adrenaline spikes in his blood the tighter Walt crushes his windpipe. All Link can see is the man’s murderous expression, the frothy white phlegm collecting in the corners of his mouth. All he can smell is the sharp odor of liquor on his breath and his own fear in the air.

His mom loves this man. His poor mama, who’s been through relationship after failed relationship. His sweet mother, who’d give anything for him. He can’t fight this man. The first good thing she’s had in years. The fingers tighten.

But he’s going to kill him; Link can feel it in his bones. Give him an inch, and he’ll take a mile. Give up the fight, and he’ll win, every time. His poor mama—how’s she supposed to choose? A man or her son, a shot at a happy life, or an eternity stuck with this failure of a kid…

Walt’s growling in his face, choking him out in earnest. A sudden rush of fight floods his blood.

He can’t die. He can’t let this waste of space waste more of his mama’s time. He’s gotta be there, stick around, to protect her. He’s all she’s got. Forget the men, the rest of the family, forget this whole damn town—it’s always been the two of them, since the start. Link can’t leave her now.

When his eyesight starts to go blurry and spotted, Link thrashes, heart in his throat, flailing and wrenching himself out of the man’s grasp. Walt releases his throat, allowing him to haul in a lungful of air, but the relief is short-lived. Walt rears back and punches him across the face, snapping his head to the side in an explosion of violent darkness.

Walt is shouting, hurling insults and slurs at him, but Link can hardly hear him over the pounding, screaming rush of blood in his ears. He fights against his grip, yanking his arm this way and that, falling nearly to the ground as he scrambles to run away.

“Come back here, you little shit!” he screams, but Link is practically yanking his arm out of his socket, pulling with all his might so that Walt will let go. There are already bruises blooming on his wrist, and something hot and wet drips down his face. “Fuck. Fuck!”

Link cries out, whirling around to run for the door, but the motion causes Walt to wrench his arm behind his back and pull. Something makes a horrible sound. Link screams.

The sharp agony of his grinding bones makes his knees buckle, and falling to the ground—along with the startling, sharp noise that screeches out of him—is what finally shakes Walt’s grip. Link’s hyperventilating, practically gagging with the pain, but there’s no time to stop, no time to even think—he somehow scrambles to his feet and makes a break for it, sprinting down the stairs and out the door.

“Come back here!” Walt screams, but Link is too far ahead. He thunders down the porch steps in an instant, yanks open the truck door, and is fumbling for the keys in his pocket before Walt even makes it to the darkened doorway. “You little shit! Where you runnin’ off to, huh?”

Link’s breathing hard. Sweat, or maybe blood, is dripping down his face. His truck ain’t starting. It’s making those horrible freakin’ noises again, like a smoker’s cough bellowing from the exhaust pipe. Dang it. He twists the keys, once, twice, begging for it to cooperate. No dice.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, please,” he’s chanting under his breath, the panic rising. Walt’s stalking down the driveway, heading right towards him. His arm hurts. His head hurts. Link lets out an uncontrollable sob when the truck sputters and fails yet again.

“Bastard.” Link jumps at how close the sound is. Walt’s at his rolled-down window, reaching for him, grabbing the shoulder of his already injured arm. His breath is hot and rank. “I know where you’re headed. Off to your boyfriend’s?”

Truth be told, Link had no idea where he was running off to—but where else would he go, he supposes? Rhett’s house has always been like a second home to him. A constant, safe place where he belonged. Where he’ll always belong. Walt reaches in, grabs a fistful of Link’s dark hair, and yanks his head out the window to spit directly in his face.

“You’re disgusting. You’re a goddamn disappointment. Your mama would be better off with you dead.”

By some heavenly miracle, the truck starts. The engine roars to life and the lights come on, blinding in the early North Carolina evening. Link slams on the gas, and the brilliant, wonderful, perfect little vehicle screeches backwards, dislodging Walt’s grasp and sending the man flying on his ass on the Neals’ front lawn.

Link doesn’t bother listening to his shouts as he drives off. He just grits his teeth, grasps the clutch, and hightails it down the long dirt road, one destination in mind.

*

He doesn’t realize he’s parked haphazardly in the McLaughlins’ driveway until someone’s opening the driver’s side door.

The sunset is beautiful. Always is, at this time of year. The sky is all pinks and oranges, like all the angels forgot their ice pops and the sugary liquid seeped everywhere, melting through the clouds. The warm gold light casts a brilliant glow over everything—the truck, the grass, the beautiful new vinyl siding of the McLaughlins’ beautiful white house, where their beautiful family lives. Link’s eyes start to well up with tears. It’s all just so beautiful, so lovely.

“Link?” The voice is soft, nervous. “Oh, Christ. Hey. Hey, it’s okay. You okay?”

Link barely processes the words. He’s panting, practically hyperventilating, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard it hurts. He feels like a live wire, too charged to be safely touched. He feels like a prey animal, having narrowly escaped death.

“You’re scaring me, bo.”

That pulls him from his thoughts. Slowly, Link turns his head. Rhett’s leaning into the driver’s side, his grey-green eyes wide in fear. He’s hovering his hands over Link’s skin, as though afraid to touch. The light’s hitting him just right. He looks like an angel, haloed in gold. Link’s own personal guardian angel. Go figure.

Rhett’s wearing a familiar, worn NC State hoodie that’s a little too small for him—the sleeves are already starting to sit too high on his wrists. One day, that’ll be his, Link thinks, another obvious hand-me-down, an oversized claim of a hoodie that’ll make people look at them funny, people like Walt, and the thought makes him laugh a little, hysterically.

Rhett’s face only goes more pinched at that. “Seriously, Link. You’re freakin’ me out, man. Are you okay? What in the world happened to you?”

But Link can’t stop laughing. It’s just—It’s so funny, ain’t it? He ruined not one, but two of his mama’s marriages. Her boyfriend hates his guts. He’s spent months—months!—making his life a living hell. And, god. Some of the things he’s been on Link’s ass about ain’t even wrong! Some of the things he’s been calling him—child, useless, fag—he ain’t even wrong. Jesus.

“You’re shaking,” Rhett says. He is. Link looks at his white-knuckled hands and laughs even harder. God, he’s in so much pain.

Somewhere, from the McLaughlins’ front lawn, someone’s talking about calling the cops. About calling the hospital, calling Sue. There’s something wet running down his face, and he can’t tell what it is. It feels like tears, but it can’t be. It can’t. Surely Link’s not crying?

When he finally pries one hand from the wheel, he touches it, shaking, to his face. His fingers come away red. Link suddenly feels like he could faint. Something about that turns his laughter into tears real fast.

“Oh, gosh. Oh, no. Hey, hey, c’mere,” Rhett says. He’s hiding his panic well, all things considered. Gingerly, he helps Link, shuddering, shaking, convulsing, out of the truck. Link stumbles immediately, knees weak, but Rhett’s there. Rhett’s always there. He catches him around the waist and holds him tight.

Link’s sobbing in earnest now, holding back as tight as he can with his injuries, face pressed to that soft hoodie, heaving for breath. “Rhett,” he gasps, “Rhett, oh god, Rhett.”

“I got you, Link. It’s okay.” Rhett cups the back of his head with one hand, like he’s shielding him from the world. That only makes Link cry harder. “You’re okay. I got you.”

“Rhett, I—I…”

“Don’t cry. You’re alright. I’m here. It’s okay.”

“Rhett…” It’s not okay. It’s not. He doesn’t know how to say that. But Rhett is so sure, so certain that everything will be alright, that it’s so much easier to just believe him.

“You’re okay. I got you. I got you, brother. I got you.”

Link shudders, then, and cries. He closes his eyes tight, and believes.

*

Momma Di sits him down on the front porch while Mr. McLaughlin makes some phone calls. Rhett sits next to him and holds his uninjured hand while his mama wipes gently at his face, hiding the wet towel from his line of sight when it comes away red. Rhett’s babbling something by his side, speaking soothingly to him as he shakes. Link doesn’t process a whit of it. He just sits there, pliant, and tries not to pass out.

“That arm don’t look too good either, sweetheart,” Momma Di says softly. Link looks down at it.

The first thing he registers is that Rhett’s big palm is cradling his hand, his thumb rubbing circles into the skin there. On instinct, Link goes to pull away—and stops when the motion sends a searing pain up his arm, making him cry out. Momma Di makes a sympathetic noise.

“Oh, dear.”

“Good god, Link,” Rhett breathes, gently angling his elbow so he can take in the extent of the injury without aggravating it further. Fingertip bruises are already beginning to stand out against his skin, and a wash of yellow is steadily spreading down his forearm. He wonders if the bone underneath is shattered, somehow, remembering the awful noise it made when Walt—When he—When—

“Ugh,” Link manages, before he’s leaning over and hurling all over the McLaughlins’ front steps.

He’s pretty out of it by that point, but Link thinks he can hear Momma Di saying something to him, calling for her husband. Rhett’s murmuring softly in his ear, rubbing circles into his shoulders. His arm hurts so bad. He’s crying again. He wants his mom. He thinks he might’ve said that aloud, at some point, but he can’t recall.

“I’m sorry,” he keeps blubbering in between all his sobbing and retching, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Shh,” Rhett keeps soothing, “Shh, you’re okay. Everything’s alright.”

Eventually, Link manages to get his stomach under control. Momma Di fusses over him with a paper towel, and Rhett and his dad help him up gently, two solid forms on either side of his body. They guide Link into their car, buckle him in, and close the door for him like he’s a child. He’s too weak to protest anyway.

They take him to Harnett County General—not the smaller medical center where his mom works, which he’s kind of grateful for. As much as her comfort would help him in this moment, Link doesn’t want her to see him like this—tear-streaked and sweaty, blood crusted into his nostrils despite Momma Di’s attempts at wiping up his face, dark, mottled bruises spreading up his forearm. Instead, Rhett holds his hand the entire way. He’s grateful for the warm, reliable presence against his side. He’s just—he’s felt so alone for so dang long. It’s kind of nice to have someone taking care of him.

The nurses and doctors are careful and professional. They call him Mr. Neal and ask him to rate his pain on a smiley-face scale. They let Rhett come into the examination room with him, but not into the x-ray booth. When Link stops being able to respond to them, exhausted and overwhelmed, they direct their questions at the McLaughlins instead.

Link is diagnosed with a broken nose, which an older nurse with a salt-and-pepper beard sets for him, his warm hands big and gentle. Another nurse gives him an ice pack for his busted-up face. He does not, thankfully, have a concussion. Rhett nervously jokes that it’s a good thing he’s still got his good looks, but Link feels too blank inside, too empty to laugh.

His arm is a whole other story. The x-ray reveals what the doctor calls a spiral fracture—the kind of break little kids get from playing sports and being roughhoused by older siblings. It’s humiliating. It’s closed and relatively simple, so they set the bone and get him in a temporary soft cast until they can schedule him for a hard plaster one.

They sit him down in a chair in a big white hallway while the doctors and the McLaughlins talk, and Link leans back so his head is resting against the wall. The painkillers are really kicking in, and he feels ephemeral and woozy. The people walking past back and forth are blurring together like an unfocused film camera.

So this is how it ends: big, ugly, explosive. Link’s been waiting for something terrible to happen, something earth-shattering and world-ending, and he hasn’t really been able to tell what that terrible something was supposed to be. Someone finding out, maybe, that there’s something not right about him, about his head and his heart. He wasn’t sure. But now—Walt.

Walt nearly killed him today. The world swims. Link closes his eyes. He could have died today.

There’s movement to his right. Link can tell without even opening his eyes that it’s Rhett, coming to sit in the uncomfortable plastic chairs with him. He can tell by his familiar footfalls, by his warmth, even by his scent. Link shifts slightly towards his body, too drugged up to feel insecure at the way he subconsciously seeks Rhett’s comfort.

“You gonna get everyone at school to sign your cast?” he asks, voice carefully light. Link snorts, then grimaces when it hurts his nose.

“Oh, yeah. The girls are gonna be all over it.”

“You’ll be drowning in phone numbers.”

“You know it, brother.”

“Maybe I should break my arm too, soak up some of that attention.”

“Come on, man, don’t try to outshine me.”

“You’re right; it’d be tacky if we both do it. I’ll go for a shoulder. Or an ankle.”

“Cop-out.”

“Hey, I got a basketball career to think about. Can’t go totally ruining my chances at stardom.”

“Sure, sure.”

Rhett goes quiet then. Hospital noises continue on in the background—people walking around, devices beeping, pagers going off. The pleasant, low-level chatter of worried loved ones. Link sinks a little bit more into his seat.

“Are your parents talking to the doctor?” he asks, voice very small. Rhett doesn’t respond for a moment. Link opens one eye and peeks to his side, to see the other boy looking troubled and sheepish. “What?”

“I think… I think they’re talking to the police, actually.” That jolts Link wide awake. He struggles a bit to sit up in his chair, gritting his teeth in pain, and Rhett scrambles to help him. “Careful, careful! Jeez…”

“Why’re they talking to the police?” he gasps. Rhett’s holding him by the shoulders. He looks a little confused at the question.

“Are you kidding? Link, you…” Rhett swallows hard, his ridiculous Adam's apple bobbing dramatically. “You look like… You—It’s clear that someone hurt you. Of course the cops were gonna come.” Link’s face heats. Well, duh. Of course.

“Oh,” he says, feeling very young and very small.

“Link…” Rhett’s mouth works for a moment, like he’s struggling for the right words to say. There’s blood on his hoodie, drying dark and flaky—Link’s blood. He realizes with a start that he’s covered in it too, that his shirt is more red now than white, his face still streaked with it where Momma Di’s gentle scrubbing missed its wayward flecks.

“Link, what—? Was it… What happened?” Rhett’s face wavers, suddenly, in Link’s vision. He blinks hard to keep the tears at bay. The tightness in his throat grows until he feels like he’s being choked again.

“I…” He coughs into his fist to clear his throat. “It was—Well. You know.” Desperately, he asks, “Don’t you?” Rhett’s eyes go dark.

“Walt?” Link hesitates, then nods. He sees the murderous anger wash over Rhett’s face like lightning. “I knew it. I knew something was off about him. He was always so mean to you, and for what? No reason at all. That—That asshole.”

“Rhett!”

“That’s why you’ve been so weird lately, right? That’s why you keep staying home from school, and band, and church, why you have weird bruises sometimes, why—” Rhett cuts himself off then, his face going deathly pale. “Oh God. That’s the big secret you couldn’t tell me.”

“Rhett, you couldn’t have known,” Link says, but the other boy shakes his head.

“No, I—I knew something was wrong, I just didn’t—Oh, Link. Oh, buddy. I’m so sorry.”

Tears well up in Link’s eyes then. For months now, he’s been hoping for this, for Rhett to see him, to understand, to know that his coldness wasn’t truly him, that he wasn’t trying to be awful, that he loved Rhett, really, that he would never hurt him on purpose—

“He’s been hurting you all this time?” Rhett whispers, sounding near tears himself. His hand trembles when he reaches slowly for Link’s face, but he doesn’t touch him. His fingers barely graze one undereye, which must already be swelling up and rapidly darkening from his broken nose.

Link doesn’t know how to respond. He just nods, tremulous, trying not to cry. Rhett’s face crumples in despair.

“God. I hate him.” That makes Link bark out a sad, wet little laugh.

“Yeah,” he says, voice wavering, “Yeah, me too.”

Rhett rests his hand back on Link’s shoulder, rubs his thumb in comforting circles over the protruding point of the bone there. Link could lean into that soft touch forever, could stay in this hazy little limbo until the day he dies. His head bobs with exhaustion then, dips a bit towards Rhett—but before he can rest his weight on his friend and doze off, he’s interrupted by a noise.

Someone down the hall is yelling, someone with a voice he recognizes. No. He hardly believes it. But there’s no one else it can be. Link jolts with the realization that it’s his—

“Mama?”

Mama Sue rushes into the room, harried and flustered, still in her work uniform. She is backlit and angelic in the fluorescent hospital light, running right past the McLaughlins, the nurses, the furious cops. She looks like the archangel Michael, fiery and righteous. When her gaze lands on Link, he feels like a little boy again—like a kid who can, after so long, truly be protected. Like a lost child, he instinctively reaches his good arm out for her.

“Oh, Link!” his mama sobs, and collapses to her knees in front of him, takes his face between her strong, calloused palms. She tilts his head back and forth, taking in his injuries, scans his body up and down, presses frantic kisses to his cheeks, his forehead. There are already tears streaking down her face. Her hands are shaking. All the boohoo-ing he managed to avoid while talking to Rhett leaps up to the surface now, and he starts crying, too.

“Mama, you’re here,” he says, voice very small and shaky.

“Oh, my baby,” his mom cries, like he’s just broken her heart, “Oh my God, Link, oh, my baby. I’m here now. I’m here now.” Link can’t help but to choke out a little laugh.

“You’re here.”

His mother says nothing—she’s crying too hard to speak. Instead, she pulls Link in, wraps her arms around him tight enough for it to hurt, and he does not protest despite the pain. He loops his good arm around her neck, holding on for what feels like dear life. Rhett and his parents and the cops and the nurses and the random people passing by are all looking at them, this frazzled mother and her bruised, blood-soaked son, but for once Link doesn’t feel self-conscious in the slightest.

His mom is here. The great big terrible man is not. That’s the most important part. Nothing else matters at all.

*

Things don’t quite go back to normal after that—it’s hard to even define what ‘normal’ really means anymore, with how crazy Link’s life has been lately. Instead, things go to what their English teacher would call a “new normal,” though Link’s no hero and he’s surely not on no journey.

After Walt beats the shit out of him and breaks his arm and his nose, the Harnett County police department sends four whole officers down to take him into custody. At the hospital, Link stutters and struggles through conversations with stern-looking men in their heavy uniforms and bulky weapons where they ask him, faces pinched, what Walt did to him, how long he’s been hitting him, if he ever—you know—touched him. At one point, Link gets so overwhelmed and so dang scared that he literally cannot make himself speak, and his mom has to intervene and chew out the then-bashful officers for their brusque treatment of the delicate conversation.

No matter—they haul Walt off anyway. They take pictures of Link’s bruised face, his throat, his ribs, his arm. They come to their house and take pictures of the blood on Link's bedroom floor. Walt goes away.

Link hopes he stays away forever.

His mom’s been spending a whole lot of time at home in the wake of the ordeal, turning down shifts and rushing home on the weekends to be with him. Right after they arrested Walt, she took the whole week off work, stayed by Link’s side, monitoring anxiously as he took his medicine and showered with his cast in a plastic bag. That first night, Link had fallen asleep on the couch with his head in her lap, so exhausted he could feel it in his bones.

When he’d woken up at dawn, Mama Sue looked like she hadn’t slept a wink, her eyes red-rimmed and her cheeks flushed and streaked with dried tears.

“I’m so sorry I brought him into our home,” she’d said, her voice so hoarse it made Link’s chest hurt, “I’m so sorry I didn’t notice how horrible he’d been to you.”

“Mama, no,” Link had said, “It wasn’t your fault. I made sure to keep it a secret, ‘cause he told me he’d hurt you if I told anyone. It wasn’t your fault at all.”

That had only made her cry harder. But she’s been around more ever since, no longer a ghost floating in the margins of Link’s life. When she goes back to work, it’s to a far less hectic schedule than before—now that it’s just the two of them she has to support, and no one’s drinking her out of house and home, she can afford to slow down a little bit.

Nanny and Papaw mind him when she’s got late shifts. Link thinks he’s too old for that, but he aure does appreciate that he doesn’t have to endure one-armed struggles alone. He worries that Papaw will think differently of him, now that he knows his grandson’s been getting slapped around this whole time, but he seems to grow only more gruffly protective—he helps Link fix up his truck again, even gives him a hug, instead of a too-hard love-lick. Sure, he holds him a little too tight, squeezes ‘til he squeaks and Nanny has to make him stop, but Link appreciates it all the same.

Link goes back to school. He goes back to church. He still skips band practice sometimes if he’s feeling too worn out by the time evening rolls around, but they start to just cancel practice to hang out instead when Link can’t make himself sing about God and peace and forgiveness anymore. None of them seem to feel as comfortable as they used to with all that stuff these days. They don’t talk about it, though.

People still whisper about him at church. That’s to be expected, he supposes. And sometimes kids at school are mean to him—he expects that, too. Joseph H. launches spitballs at him in class, laughs at him for being a baby and getting his arm broke, once calls him a pussy in the hallway between sixth and seventh period.

What he doesn’t expect, in spite of everything, is how mad Rhett gets on his behalf. That’s a whole new can of worms.

He knows the other boy hasn’t gotten in a fight since John Carson called Link gay in third grade, knows he’s a gentle giant, not a fighter. However, one second, they’re walking shoulder to their next class together, laughing about something stupid in the hallway, and the next second, Rhett’s got Joseph thrown up against the row of lockers by the collar, and is practically growling in his face like an animal.

“Rhett, don’t!” Link shouts, but Rhett ignores him entirely.

“Don’t you ever—I mean ever—say that about him,” he spits, and poor Joseph looks like he might piss himself in fear, “And that goes for any of your mean little buddies, too. Leave him alone. You understand?” Joseph nods vigorously, but Rhett’s not satisfied, shoves him against the lockers again with a horrible metal echo. “Understand?”

“Y-Yes! Yes!”

Rhett finally lets him go, and Joseph brushes himself off, flushed bright red, angrily trying to reclaim any sense of dignity.

“Jesus!” he mutters, “Fine. Okay.” And he scurries off the class, leaving a trail of wide-eyed onlookers in his wake. A teacher pops his head out of his classroom to tell everyone to move along and get to class, and the hustle and bustle of the hallway resumes.

Link drags Rhett to a quieter part of the hallway with his good hand, livid. Part of him feels fluttery and flattered by the protective instinct, like he’s a dang dame in some black-and-white film getting her honor saved by her beau.

The other part of him is aching for meat and gristle, for something real. He’s not a Disney princess. He’s a real boy, and he better start getting treated that way.

“Link—”

“Rhett, what in the world is wrong with you?” he hisses, smacking him in the chest, “Are you trying to get detention?”

“He doesn’t get to talk about you like that!” Rhett shoots back, “It’s—It’s plain mean, and it’s not true, and—and I’m not just going to stand by and let people treat you any different now.”

“Oh yeah? You oughta join your own club, then.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I can’t take care of myself, Rhett!” Link snaps, “You don’t have to rough up anyone who’s a little rude to me just because I’m—some poor little abused kid. You can’t treat me like I’m glass! I’m still me!”

They stare at each other then, panting and quiet. Link blanches at the realization of what he’s just said.

He hasn’t used that word before. Abuse. The paperwork did, and so did the police officers, when they came to tell Link and his mama about next steps. They said he didn’t even have to come to court and say anything, ‘cause they had all the pictures of him beat to hell and back. But Link doesn’t—Link isn’t—

“I know,” Rhett says softly, his voice suddenly unbearably gentle, “I know. I’m not tryin’ to treat you any different. I know you’re not a little kid. I know you’re not fragile. I just—” He sighs, looks down at his feet.

“You just what?” When Rhett looks back up at him, his eyes are blazing. It makes Link swallow hard.

“You’re mi—my friend,” he stammers, fiery with determination, “My friend. No one gets to make fun of you but me.”

And—huh.

Well.

Ain’t that something.

Chapter Text

So—there’s something there. Maybe. Maybe. Link can’t really tell what’s going on between him and Rhett, and he definitely doesn’t want to get too ahead of himself, but there’s certainly something in the air that feels changed, now, charged.

Well. Maybe.

They’re thick as thieves again in the absence of the pressing, constant danger and all the miscommunication, tromping down to the river and the cow pasture and the mall all the way up in Dunn and the cemetery and all up and down every damn inch of town until they wind back at one other their houses, talking and singing and goofing off. It’s been—nice. All things considered.

It just doesn’t feel entirely real. Link’s spent so much time stressed out of his mind, so much time shut into himself keeping secrets and just trying to quietly survive, that now, having his teachers tremulously ask him if he’s okay and going back to worrying about chord progressions and grades feels foreign. It doesn’t feel like real life.

Link’s thinking about this one Sunday afternoon, reclining on a rock at the riverbank and staring up at the sky. He and Rhett had come down to shoot the shit after church, and over the hours, the sky has gone from a bright robin’s egg blue to blinding early Spring brightness, and Link’s got his eyes closed against the light.

His arm itches. They haven’t properly gone swimming since Link broke his arm, despite their efforts to tape a trash bag around the cast—it’s too risky, and the last thing he needs on top of a spiral fracture is a damp, stinky cast. Instead, they’ve been hanging out at the bank, getting wet only up to their knees. Link’s arm is wrapped in tough pink plaster from his palm to the crook of his elbow, and names are scrawled on it at every angle—his mama’s loopy signature, his friends’ stupid little inside jokes, Rhett’s worm of a signature in his palm. He’s been tracing over it with the index finger of his opposite hand a lot lately, in lieu of digging his nails into his palms. It feels reverent, precious. In a way nothing else has really felt lately, not even church.

The sun spilling out over Link’s face disappears. He cracks open his eyelids to see Rhett standing over him, grinning like a fool.

“Whatchu doing?”

Rhett shrugs. “Lookin’ at you.”

“Did you go piss in the trees?”

“Yup.” Rhett sprawls onto the rock next to him, his bare leg knocking into Link’s. Link shoves him back, and they spend a few minutes wrestling before reclining, giggling, on their backs.

Link will be seventeen in a few short months. And then—senior year. Their last stretch before college. Film school. California.

And then? Gosh. Who knows?

“What are you thinkin’ about so hard over there?” asks Rhett.

“Nothing.”

“Sure. You’re letting off smoke over there ‘cause you’re thinking about nothing.”

Link rolls his eyes, scoffs. “Jeez, dude, fine. I’m thinking about… The future. I dunno.”

“Wow. Okay, Mr. Philosopher.”

“This is why I don’t tell you anything. Jerk.” Link gripes, but his complaint is good-natured. Rhett laughs at him indulgently.

“Okay, okay, I’m serious. You’re thinking about the future?”

“Yeah. I dunno.” Link squints up at the bright blue North Carolina sky. Summer’s just on the horizon. He can feel it on his skin. “Only a year left here. And then…”

“Yeah.” Rhett’s voice is suddenly quiet, thoughtfully reverent. “And then… All the things we’ve planned.”

Link turns his head, just to find that Rhett already looking at him. There’s something in his eyes that makes him freeze, that makes his heart skip a beat painfully in his chest. They’re so close Link can feel the warmth of Rhett’s body soak into him like the sunlight, blurring the boundaries of their skin.

And then—Rhett looks down at his lips. It’s unmistakable. He glances down, then back up to his eyes, then down again. He swallows hard. When their gazes meet again, it’s charged, like lightning. Like fire.

Link sits up, heart racing. Rhett follows suit, stammering.

“Link. Link, I—I just—”

“I don’t wanna—I’m all in my head,” Link blurts out, “I’m—”

“You’re not.” They lock eyes again. There’s something desperate there, like a living thing fighting to survive. Rhett’s face is so close to his own. “You’re not,” he repeats, softer now, more honest.

“Why…” Link swallows hard. He feels a little dizzy. “Why’d you really break up with Annie?”

Rhett gives him a sad little smile, and he already knows the answer before he says it.

“You, man. I was spending too much time hanging ‘round you.”

It’s like the earth splits open. Everything rushes in—the birds, the breeze, the sunlight. Link’s dissolving into the air, shaking apart in his own skin.

“Rhett,” he says, because what else is there, really, to say?

Suddenly, there’s a faint pressure against Link’s cheek—soft and warm and slightly damp, leaving behind a searing mark against the skin over his cheekbone. For a moment, he can do nothing but blink, breathless with shock.

The world’s gone still. Not even the cicadas make a noise.

When he blinks dumbly at his friend, Rhett is already panicking a little, already stuttering something that sounds like an explanation. His face is going tomato red. There’s sweat on his upper lip. Link shouldn’t find the sight so appealing, but he’s never felt the things he’s supposed to feel, has he? Especially when it comes to Rhett.

“I didn’t mean to—You, uh. I just—That was wrong. I should’ve asked. Sorry. I, uh—”

“Rhett,” Link interrupts, a sudden thrill of bravery forcing his body to lean in, “Shut up.” And he presses their lips together, kisses him for real.

Ho-ly crap.

Link’s kissed girls before, sure. Three if you’re being a stickler about it, three and a half if you count the sweet little peck Maisie-from-Lillington gave him on the corner of his mouth when they were, like, four. But those were silly, little-kid kisses, clumsy attempts at making out, self-conscious and chaste.

Kissing Rhett is like—well. It’s as familiar as the river. It feels like coming home.

Rhett spends half a moment frozen in shock before he starts kissing Link back in earnest. His lips are surprisingly plush, his cheeks a little scratchy with his peach fuzz facial hair growing in, and his hands—holy crap!—feel huge when they come up to cup Link’s jaw. Then he laves his tongue across Link’s bottom lip, making his gasp, and suddenly there’s a tongue in his mouth. Rhett’s tongue’s in his mouth. What the crap!

“Mh,” Link groans involuntarily, grabbing onto Rhett’s shoulder with his good hand so he doesn’t overbalance. Something about the little sound seems to light Rhett up, and he starts kissing back harder, starts feeling around Link’s back molars with his tongue, starts pulling him in across the long, flat rock like he’s trying to get them as close as possible, press their bodies into the same skin so they can never be apart.

Link feels overwhelmed, can barely breathe with how intense it is. He tries to reciprocate with the same enthusiasm, making ridiculous, whiny little gasping noises in his desperation for air, but then Rhett starts pressing him back onto the ground with those giant freaking paws on his jaw and his waist, leaning down over him, and Link startles, jerks his head back to make their lips detach.

“Oh my gosh,” he pants, staring up at Rhett, whose pupils are blown wide and ringed with the tiniest circle of green in the golden midday brilliance. They’re both breathing hard. Link’s trembling a little, and he realizes Rhett is too, holding himself up over him, his warm body a blanket of delicious heat.

“We should—calm down,” Link breathes, and when Rhett doesn’t reply, he urges, “Rhett? C’mon, man.”

“Right—yeah. Sorry.”

Rhett leans up, releasing Link, and he immediately misses the weight, the feeling of being covered up, blanketed, protected. He pushes himself up with a wince, and Rhett grabs him by the shoulder, steadies him instinctively. They sit there for a long moment, just looking at each other.

Then they start laughing.

“What the crap, man!” Link cackles, “You freakin’ animal! You trying to maul me?”

“Shut up! You were—just shut up!”

“Holy moly! You worked up this much all the time?”

“It’s not my fault! You’re the one who was—who was making those noises!”

“Noises?”

“Yeah, like—” He imitates Link then, makes exaggeratedly high-pitched moans and whimpers, and Link blushes bright pink.

“I do not—I do not sound like that!”

“Yes you do! Is this how you kiss girls? No wonder they all break up with you. Ain’t no girl wants to kiss a guy that reminds her of a puppy.”

“Shut up, dude.” He smacks Rhett in the arm, and he exclaims in faux pain. When their frantic, uncontrollable laughter finally dies down a bit, Link averts his eyes and adds, “I don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Kiss girls like that.” When he glances back up, Rhett is open-mouthed, two high spots of pink on his cheeks. “Just you.” They share a moment of silence.

“We… We kissed.”

“Yeah. Oh my gosh.”

“I’ll second that.”

Link hesitates. “So you… You like me? The same way I like you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think—I think I have for a while now.” That makes him duck his head again, suddenly shy.

“Yeah. Me too.”

Rhett gently reaches out one leg, knocking their feet together. Link watches their feet bump into one another, presses back through the toes in lieu of holding hands.

“Let’s not tell anyone,” Rhett says. It doesn’t hurt the way Link thought it would; he understands, he realizes, knows there’s no other way this could be.

“Okay.”

“They wouldn’t understand. Not here.”

“I know. I know.” Link meets his eyes. “Rhett, we’re not—this ain’t… This ain’t wrong, is it?” Rhett looks troubled. Link knows he’s thinking about their youth group, about Sunday mornings at First Baptist: man shall not lie with man…

“I—I don’t know. I hope not. But, Link…” He leans in again so their faces are inches apart, so close their skin starts buzzing at the tension of their proximity. “I don’t care. I don’t care. I’ll face hell if it means being with you.”

And it ain’t perfect. Won’t ever be, probably. They’ve had their secrets, and they’ll have more. The shadows of their lives will always lurk around every dark corner—that’s just how it goes. But soon enough, they’ll be far away from this old town, just the two of them, stepping into the world and in hand. And isn’t that a miracle all in itself?

In, out. In, out. The sun shines. Link breathes. It ain’t perfect, but it’s good. It’s going to be okay.

He leans in for another kiss—soft this time, gentle. It’s the first thing that hasn’t felt wrong in a long, long time.