Chapter Text
The storm howled, shaking the greenery outside and assaulting their house. It left a chill in the air, freezing the splintered floorboards and icing the door hinges. They didn’t have heat, couldn’t afford it like a lot of other things. It was unfair, the way they lived.
But life isn’t fair, His sense of clarity (The thick flakes of snow that fall through the cracks in the ceiling, he thinks. That's his clarity) mumbles and leaves a spot of wetness on the outer shell of his ear.
He says a prayer aloud under his breath. The only response was the wind, wailing as it passed through the trees and the soft sound of footsteps in the otherwise silent darkness of their home. A frosty breeze brushed by, sending a shiver down his spine.
He gave a small answering smile and continued to slink through the hallway; avoiding that one spot on the floor that always creaks, tiptoeing by it and approaching on the only door left open. A few childish stickers, peeling and grey with age, decorated the wood of the door.
He peeked his head in, taking in the sight of his little sister, coiled up in stringy throw blankets and shaking violently. It made his chest burn. He took a shuddering breath in, unable to wrench his gaze away.
“I’m so sorry, Karen. “ He whispers to nothing, no one, in particular. But is he really all that sorry, if he's leaving her?
He shoves the heartburn away with another forced whisper, more of a hiss. “I’ll come back for you when you’re old enough.”
When Carol and Stuart McCormick wake up that bitter morning, Kenneth McCormick is nowhere to be found, Gone with his backpack and the pistol he was given for his 14th birthday.
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Kenneth's legs burned with exertion, stinging with every increasingly sore step he took on the cold earth, aimlessly wandering. His winter boots were almost completely soaked through in the soles, causing him to slip on more than one occasion. The extra heft of his backpack didn’t do much good either, weighing down his malnourished body and knotting the muscles in his shoulders.
“Fuck,” He wheezed, doubling over. his hands, numb through his gloves, grasped wetly at his knees and his head barreled down. his chest heaved with shallow breaths.
He’s been walking for hell knows how long. The sky blends into a purple-orange, signaling sun-down.
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Fuck knows what time it is. All Kenneth is aware of is the bitter cold gnawing at his sluggish body and the nasty tears in his clothing. He’s coming up to a porch now, in the middle of bumfuck nowhere with a measly farm surrounding it.
It’s night now, and as you can guess, he’d gone through a forest to come across this farm.
To explain the newfound tears in his jacket: A hungry coyote jumped him. Before he could get a solid hand on his pistol and flick the safety off, It took a big snap of his backpack, tearing one of the straps to shreds and ripping the material, no more than a moment later getting a bullet lodged between its eyes without uttering a single yelp.
Kenneth didn’t feel much of anything, staring down at the chunks of blood and brain matter splattered onto the ground. It probably scented the jerky in the pouch of his pack. He had removed a pest from the farmlands, probably protected some livestock too.
He did mourn the loss of his backpack though. It was torn in two, forcing Kenneth to pick and choose what he did and didn't need. Needless to say, he'd grabbed his pistol and the $19 cash he took from under his mattress.
He strayed from his original path after that in case the smell of blood drew in other predators and happened upon where he is now: All rickety fences on the edges of collapsing, some already tipped over, and the horses braying and whinnying from one of the nearby buildings.
He wasn’t all that smart, nor did he have money, but he could certainly train horses and fix a few fences. And even if he couldn’t, It was that or the next likely scenario, fall unconscious from hypothermia on a random person's porch and pass away.
With his mind made up, Kenneth lowered the hood of his Parka and made himself look weaker. Weaker than the boy who was barely 90 pounds with not a single ounce of strength in his arms and knees that shook, forcing him upright with a stiffness only found in hypothermic patients.
He rapped roughly at the door, irritating his raw knuckles.
(Yeah, he lost his gloves to the coyote too. The fucker chewed them up and almost ate his fingers off in the process.)
The sound of life echoed from beyond the door frame. Idle chatter, muffled by the wind and the walls protecting them, was something Kenneth picked up on quickly.
He sighed; more of a wheeze, ice burning his throat. At that moment, the door cracked open, revealing a paunchy hick of a man in a pair of denim overalls.
“Whatdya want here, boy?” The man questioned roughly; His accent was heavy and he spoke with a drawl. Very country indeed.
He worked up a reply through the squeeze of his shaky arms hugged tight to his chest. “Ken.. Kenneth,“ he mumbled his name aloud before steadying himself. “I’ve nowhere to go, sir, on account of my ma’ and pop passing away.”
The lies flew from his chattering teeth as easily as breathing.
(Does that term really work here, though, when he can barely keep oxygen in his lungs?)
The farmer nodded his head alongside his words, “I’m mighty sorry to hear that, sounds like a tragedy. What can I do for you?” He pressed on. Kenneth didn’t like the way he was being spoken to, but he grit his teeth and stood a little taller. If there was something to take advantage of, he’d use it to survive, even if it was pity.
“I ain’t very smart, don’t got a dime to my name. But I’m damn good with horses and I can mend the fallen fence posts I saw out back without askin’ for anything besides a hot meal and a warm barn to sleep in once the days well and over. “ Kenneth said firmly.
The man in the doorway looked him up from head to toe and clicked his tongue. “Alright, boy. I’ll letcha stay on two conditions, “ he said, a hardened look on his face. “You stay away from my wife an’ daughter. And if ‘ya bring any trouble here, yer' out. “
Kenneth kept quiet, meeting the farmer's eyes.
“You hear me?”
He nodded hastily. “Yes, Sir. I hear ‘ya. “ His knees wobbled, shaking away like the dry leaves clinging to the trees branches above. It didn’t go unnoticed. The farmer widened the door, turned back towards the inside of his home and shouted, puffing his chest out with the action.
“Leopold! Come out here now!”
Footsteps answered his call and less than a minute later, a breathless boy emerged besides the man.
Which was damn convenient, because Kenneth's legs buckled underneath him at the same moment of this boy's arrival, sending him to the damp porch floorboards with a raspy groan and a following curse.
Everything around him was spinning. He blinked rapidly, seeing white and black. One especially hard squint had him reeling, spots blocking out colours in his vision before the world fell into a velvety darkness.
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Kenneth awoke in clothes that were warm and very much not his, surrounded by thick bales of hay and laid out on a foldable cot, a wool blanket draped over him. It would’ve been pleasant, were he able to breathe.
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Leopold ‘Butters’ Stotch startled awake to the sound of violent heaving and thin gasps. His feet, which were kicked up against one of the hay bales, quickly met with the ground and he ran up to the other boy, clad in some of his old clothes. One of the blanket corners was scrunched in a white-knuckled, quivering grip.
Butters pushed his nerves aside so as to not scare the already spooked boy even more. “Woah there, Fella.” His hand reached out, settling on the middle of the boy's back, coming back and forth in a patting motion. “You gotta breathe! Deep breaths, In and out, can ‘ya do that for me?”
“Don’t touch me, “ He snarled hoarsely through a hagged intake of air. Butters gaze flitted to his face, where his eyes were doing something very alarming. They couldn’t focus on a single thing, rapidly darting from one place to the next in a frenzy.
Oh.
An understanding flickered in Butters eyes and he raised his hand off of the boys backside, taking a step away from the stray they’d picked up. He made himself small and took up an unassuming position, crouching down on one knee near the cot. “I ain’t gonna hurt ‘ya, “ he promised. “I promise I’ll keep my hands off’a’ya. “
The other boy wheezed something under his breath and looked up, teary. “If you’re lying, I’ll shoot you. I… I have a gun,“ Whew. What a sharp contrast between his actions.
Butters nodded slowly. “I gotcha. I’m not lying to you, fella. You want me to go by those empty pens over there?“ His movements were deliberately exaggerated as he gestured across from the boy to a farther spot
He nodded.
Butters drew himself up and retreated without a word, kneeling besides a short pen where the sheep used to be. He didn’t miss the way the boy across from him sighed with relief, breathing a lot easier now.
“Alright, buddy. I’ll be over here on my phone. If ‘ya need anything, I’ll be around. “ Butters informed him calmly while fishing his mobile device out of his pants pocket. The tiny screen lit up quickly, and no reply was given. He snuck concerned a glance towards the boy, but didn't offer anything else.
After a long bit of silence, Butters caught a quiet, “...thanks. “ from the other boy. The rest of the night was spent in not so comfortable, but tolerable silence and the occasional exchange of words between the pair.
Butters didn't have a name to associate with the boy, but he’s sure he’ll learn it in due time. After all, they’ll be close together with all of the winter work ahead of them.