Work Text:
The first time the world ended, he was caught off guard.
His broken leg had been a sign, but he hadn’t understood it then. When the kid came, and right after that, the diagnosis, he was still blind to what was happening. He only realized the world had ended when Chivalry moved away. It was a sudden apocalypse, and he was left behind on an empty wasteland, soft fingers curled inside his big and awkward hand and a pair of deep brown eyes looking up at him. So strange, yet so familiar. He couldn’t bear to look at those eyes, at first. But he got used to it, to him . He could handle it. He could handle anything that Chivalry threw at him, even as he felt his heart break worse than his leg, he was going to see things through, for Chivalry.
Then the world ended again.
This time, he thought he was prepared. He knew the signs now. When Chivalry kept postponing his visits, when Patience stopped answering his calls, when he asked Verity about it and got only cruel half-truths and gentle lies. Still, he hoped. It would pass. Chivalry was a strong man, the strongest man he knew. He couldn’t picture a world where Chivalry didn’t live, as if his very existence was one of the fundamental truths of the universe. The sky was blue, birds sang in the morning, and somewhere, Chivalry was breathing.
So, even though he knew it was coming, it still felt like the world had fallen off its axis when it finally happened, like the end of times. The end of joy, at least.
Burrich sat down at the end of the bar, his head hung low while he waited for his drink. It was a familiar bar, with the usual crowd of dried up alcoholics and obnoxious college students, and yet he felt out of place, inadequate. He felt like that more and more often, the confidence he had worked so hard to build had been slowly falling apart, and now here he was again, a small boy masquerading as a big man. The bartender brought him his usual order and flashed him a friendly smile.
Burrich tried to hide behind his glass, holding on to it like a lifeline.
He drank with purpose. He drank to forget himself. Still, the memories came flooding into his mind.
A girl climbing up a tree. She was beautiful, unlike any other girl he had seen before. Her chestnut hair was a mess around her pretty, small face, and she was looking down at him with the sweetest chocolate eyes. She was saying something to him, what was it?
They had been kids when they met. Patience was a rich, spoiled brat visiting Buckkeep over the holidays. She was also wild, in love with nature, always escaping from her parents to go walk down the beach or getting lost in the woods. Burrich was a good-for-nothing boy with too much free time, also escaping from his parents. It had been a chance encounter, but then it happened again, and again, until snappy conversations turned into stolen kisses, and Burrich was the one who was lost. Patience, of course, couldn’t stay forever. They were never going to be more than a short, secret romance.
He was fine with it. She wasn’t. But they both loved someone else too much to do anything about it.
Patience, his Patience, didn’t call him. It had been Verity, always reliable, who had reached out to him. By that point, he had already seen the news.
He should be mad at her. Why didn’t she tell him when it happened, why did he have to find out from others. Was he no better than the press, did he not deserve more than official statements on the paper. In truth, he knew why she hadn’t. Burrich was fucking weak. She had done him a kindness, spared him from the humiliation of showing her this ugly, desperate side of himself.
And here he was, drowning his sorrows with cheap alcohol, proving her right once more.
Huh, his glass was empty. He could see his face reflected on the shiny glass. Red cheeks, messy beard, bloodshot eyes.
The bartender came over. A man, around Burrich’s age, perhaps younger. A more sober Burrich would probably remember his name, and they would have a cordial but ultimately meaningless conversation. It seemed to Burrich that was all he was good for. The other man looked at Burrich with curiosity, but he must have read on his face that he wasn’t up to idle chat, and he filled his glass without a word.
Burrich was a college drop-out, barely scraping by doing odd jobs here and there, never staying in the same place for too long. He was doing a shift at a local ranch, a fancy place for rich kids to fool around. None of them cared for the horses like Burrich did.
Except for him, of course.
It was summer. Chivalry had come to the ranch to check-up on his mare, a calm and sweet old girl that always nuzzled up to Burrich when he brushed her hair. Burrich was on his way to her stall, when he saw a figure standing in front of it. He was about to raise his voice, tell the stranger to back away, she was private property. But then he saw the guy gently caressing the mare, murmuring sweet nothings into her mane. His words died on his throat.
Burrich’s boss came, and they were introduced to each other. Chivalry looked at him with sharp eyes, so dark they were almost black, and he showed Burrich more respect than anyone had ever thought him worthy of. It made Burrich want to stand up straight, it made him nervous but also filled him with pride, to be treated in such a way by a man so clearly above him.
Because Chivalry was perfect, or so he seemed to Burrich those early days. He came over to the stables every week that summer, and he asked for Burrich to personally attend to him when he went riding. At first, they only talked about horses, Chivalry hanging on to every word as if Burrich was some kind of sage, always deferring to Burrich’s knowledge. Over time, they got to know each other, and Chivalry told him about his family, his responsibility, and how hard it was to live up to the expectations placed upon him. Still, he made it seem easy. Always polite, kind to everyone, ready to offer counsel when needed, gracious and humble in all his interactions. He carried himself like a prince. On top of his horse, Chivalry looked like he was taken out of a fairy tale.
They became friends, if such a word could hold all that Chivalry meant to Burrich.
It was supposed to be another temporary gig. But as summer blended into autumn, Burrich’s boss kept giving him shifts, and then he was given the opportunity to become a permanent worker. He knew it was because of Chivalry, and his pride demanded that he refused, but he couldn’t. Only he could take care of Chivalry’s mare, he told himself, the poor creature needed a gentler hand. He should have known then, that he would never be able to refuse Chivalry.
He knew that now. The day they met was the day Burrich stopped belonging to himself.
The months passed. Burrich eventually met Chivalry’s brothers; he was even invited to visit the family’s estate up in the hills. Verity took to him just as easily as Chivalry, though their stepmother, a bitter woman, had made it clear he wasn’t welcome in their fancy house. The youngest brother held the same opinion. It didn’t matter, not really. Burrich was used to that, and he could put up with it as long as Chivalry kept smiling at him, as long as he could talk with his friend about anything and everything.
Then Chivalry introduced him to his fiancé. It had been a shock, to say the least. The same sweet brown eyes that had haunted Burrich’s dreams now looked at him with horror, while Chivalry, completely unaware of the turmoil he was causing on his companions, asked Burrich what he thought of her, and wasn’t she every bit as beautiful as he had told him? She was, Burrich agreed, and saw Patience flinch.
There were fights, and tears, and terrible accusations. Always hidden from Chivalry, so he wouldn’t be burdened with their shit. He deserved better than that. If his lover and his best friend didn’t get along like he had expected, at least they were polite to each other, and that would have to be enough. Burrich made the choice for the three of them. It was the right thing to do.
Patience never forgave him. She loved Chivalry, but Burrich could admit to himself that there was a time where her heart wasn’t set, and she had hoped he would do something about it. But to betray Chivalry would have been a bigger betrayal than the one he was committing against himself.
He tried to imagine a world where he had taken Patience. It was impossible—he kept seeing Chivalry’s dark eyes, when he wanted to see chocolate. His head hurt, and he massaged his temples.
Another glass down. The third? The seventh? He had lost count already.
It wasn’t working. He felt sick, his head was about to explode and he was disgustingly sweaty, as if he had spent the entire day out in the sun instead of holed up in his empty house.
The funeral had been that morning. He still had the crumpled up invitation in his back pocket, and it burned him through his jeans.
The bartender came up to him. What was his name? Burrich tried to remember, but it was futile. The man asked him if he was okay, Burrich must have grunted something in response, and if his answer wasn’t satisfactory it didn’t matter, he pushed his glass away and pointed at a bottle of some hard, expensive whiskey. The bartender sighed, before opening up the bottle.
Burrich was trembling, vision fuzzy around the edges, but he downed the stinging amber liquid in one big gulp and slammed the glass on the wood. He hastily paid his bill and got up, his legs almost giving up under his weight.
The bar was almost empty. Now it was only him and a few wasted up bastards, and they were too busy whining about their bitchy ex-wives and their ungrateful children to care about what he was doing.
Burrich stumbled into the bathroom. He felt a pair of eyes following him.
One time, Chivalry called him in the middle of the night. Burrich had been sleeping, but he got dressed up and left his ratty apartment in a frenzy. He drove to the address Chivalry had sent him, and found his friend sitting on a bench in some random park, absolutely miserable.
They sat together, legs brushing, and Burrich waited for Chivalry to tell him what happened. He was scared. They stood on the edge of something, something he couldn’t name. Chivalry leaned against Burrich’s shoulder, hot breath dancing on his neck. They were so painfully close. And Burrich was scared.
Chivalry was drunk. It was the first time he saw the other man like that, and the realization that Chivalry trusted him enough to see him in such a state hit Burrich like a running horse. He almost didn’t hear Chivalry talking to him over the loud drum of his heartbeat.
He felt the words on his skin more than he heard them. Something about a family dispute, an argument with his father. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was Chivalry’s hand, creeping up on Burrich’s thigh, and the fact that they were alone in the middle of nowhere, in the dark, and Chivalry would probably forget all of it in the morning.
But Burrich was scared.
They never spoke of it again. Whatever “it” had been. Burrich brought Chivalry to his apartment, made him drink some water, and laid him to rest on the bed. Chivalry had been so drunk he passed out immediately; Burrich had been so drunk on his own fear that he spent the entire night on the sofa, wide-awake and trembling. When the morning came, Chivalry apologized for the trouble, and if he had any memory of the previous night, he didn’t show it.
Burrich gripped the bathroom’s sink tightly, knuckles white. His ugly, flushed face stared back at him in the mirror. Would Chivalry recognize him now? It had been so long since the last time they saw each other, and now Chivalry would never look at him again. His dark eyes were closed forever, and Burrich felt his own eyes burn. Pathetic.
Once, his grandmother told him he had wolf teeth, too sharp for his own good. He used to chew his nails as a child, until the tips of his fingers became bloody stumps. Now, he bit his lip hard enough to tear the tender skin, and let the pain fill his senses.That was easier to understand.
Blood dripped onto the sink. His mouth tasted of iron. He worked his tongue over the injury, and he trembled.
He heard someone rapping at the door. Burrich barked something. The door opened, and the bartender (what was his fucking name?) came inside. When the man saw the blood, he gasped and went back outside with a quick “Wait here!” over his shoulder. Burrich barely registered it.
There were other instances. Close calls. Heady looks after one too many beers, fingers lingering a little too long on his arm, knees touching as Chivalry sat unnecessarily close to him. Every time, Burrich willed himself to forget about it, and he beat himself over for having such disgusting, uncalled for thoughts. Chivalry would never, he was a real, proper man. He was in love with Patience. Of course, Burrich reminded himself, he was also in love with her. Those were coincidences, innocent accidents, maybe Chivalry just wasn’t used to having a friend like Burrich.
If he caught himself whispering Chivalry’s name instead of Patience’s while fucking some random dark-eyed girl, he bit his tongue and brushed it aside. If he pictured calloused hands around his dick while touching himself, he imagined they were Patience’s, even if behind his closed eyes he could see they were too big, too rough to be hers. And if his pillow was wet from tears in the morning, he blamed it on Patience’s wedding date, getting closer and closer.
Memories washed over him as he leaned back against the bathroom’s tiled wall. His shirt clung to him like second skin, why was it so hot all of a sudden? It was gross, and uncomfortable, and he needed to get out of here quickly. His broken lip stung, the pain barely keeping him afloat. Burrich kept abusing the skin between his teeth, savoring the blood. It wasn’t enough. One moment he was inside the bar’s dirty bathroom, the other he felt ghost hands caressing his sides (Patience’s? Chivalry’s? did it matter?), and then he was thrown back to his teenage bedroom, cowering under his mother’s disgusted glare.
The bartender came back with napkins and a towel. He chided Burrich for being careless and swiftly cleaned the blood on the sink. Burrich’s gaze followed the other man’s deft hands as he worked. Again he tried to remember the guy’s name, but he was too far gone to think clearly. It was unkind, but if he looked at the man’s chin and unfocused his eyes, he could almost imagine a different face.
He had never been a kind man. Not like Chivalry.
What's-his-name sighed and held out a napkin for Burrich to clean his mouth. Burrich swallowed, and felt the man tracking the movement of his throat. Suddenly, he was standing much too close, and Burrich was acutely aware of the small size of the bathroom and the closed door. This clarity of mind disappeared as soon as the man brought the napkin to Burrich’s face and started cleaning him up, his fingers dangerously close to Burrich’s mouth.
His hands were trembling. He lowered his eyes, unable to look at the other man in the face. The bartender threw the bloodied napkin on the trashcan, but he didn’t move away, still trapping Burrich against the wall. The same hands that had just tenderly wiped the blood from his lips reached tentatively towards Burrich, and before he could do something to stop them Burrich felt fingers cupping his jaw, and then a thumb brushing his bottom lip, right where he had bitten himself. He inhaled sharply.
One time, in high school, he went to a party. He didn’t have many friends, but he was trying to fit in with his classmates. That’s why he found himself drinking with kids he barely spoke to in class. At some point, they started playing some dumb party game, something involving alcohol and sloppy kisses in front of everyone. Burrich sat down with the rest, and when his turn came, he was shoved into the center of the ring along with some guy he vaguely recognized from the basketball team. The others were giggling. Burrich felt sick, and he was too drunk to know what was happening but he knew he was the butt of a joke. He doubled over, about to vomit all over himself.
The basketball player snapped at the other kids and gently carried Burrich away to the bathroom. He expected the boy to make fun of him, but instead he rubbed Burrich’s back while he threw up into the toilet. Afterwards, once Burrich cleaned himself and the boy offered him a ride back to his house, Burrich accepted. The boy filled the car with idle chat, and Burrich’s mind slowly cleared. He was still confused, but it was a pleasant kind of confusion, and then they were exchanging soft kisses in the driveway of Burrich’s house.
The next day, his mother told him she saw them. She called him a faggot. His grandmother came into his room and stared at him with disappointment written all over her face, telling him he was going to bring shame upon their family. After that, he avoided the basketball team as much as possible.
Burrich closed his eyes. The bartender chuckled, said something about how Burrich should be more careful with his teeth, and then the thumb was replaced by a tongue, and there were hands on his shoulders. Burrich flinched. Perhaps it was the alcohol or the grief or something that had been bubbling under the surface for too long, whatever it was, Burrich gave in and opened his mouth further, allowing the other man’s tongue inside.
It was barely a kiss. Burrich’s teeth sunk into tender flesh, drawing out a grunt from his companion. The hands on his shoulders moved on to his biceps, massaging the muscles there before going lower. Burrich didn’t know what to do with his hands. It didn’t matter. He was pushed hard against the wall, and the man left his mouth to explore Burrich’s neck, while his hands fumbled with Burrich’s belt.
Patience’s kisses tasted like honey. She told him she was trying to convince her parents to let her keep bees at home, so she could make her own honey, and maybe even learn how to make wax. It sounded ridiculous at first. She was always jumping from one hobby to another, in the short time they had known each other she had tried acupuncture, book-binding, sewing, and watercolor painting. But as they kissed, Burrich thought of Patience dressed up in a silly bee costume and covering her lips in honey just for him, and he laughed into her mouth, unable to contain himself. She scoffed at him, before peppering his face with sugary kisses.
Burrich tasted blood. He wasn’t sure it was his. His belt was off, and there was a hand snaking inside his pants, palming at his growing erection through his boxers. He hissed, grinding into the touch involuntarily.
In a haze, he saw the other man kneel in front of him. Burrich was panting like a dog, and in seconds he felt hot breath against his crotch. The man that had been licking at his wounded lips was now mouthing his dick through his boxers and all Burrich could do was clench his fists and swallow a moan.
What was he doing?
He thought of Patience, waiting for him at the funeral. Who had she clinged to as the body was lowered? Had she cried once she realized he wasn’t going to come? Or was she glad? He tried to picture Chivalry inside the coffin, and he sobbed.
What was he doing?
Suddenly, he remembered the bartender’s name. Mark. He looked down at the man and he saw him, really saw him, for the first time that evening. In the bathroom light, he could see that Mark’s skin was rather pale, and his hair was short and straight. His eyes were too light, no sweet chocolate or piercing darkness. He was, truly, ugly.
What was he doing?
Burrich buried his nails into his palms, the pain bringing him back to himself. With a gasp, he pushed the other man away. Mark fell on his ass and sputtered something, but Burrich was already pulling up his pants. He didn’t even try to find his belt. Holding up his jeans with one hand, he threw open the bathroom door and scrambled away.
He woke up in the afternoon, nursing a splitting headache and wearing his shame like a shiny new uniform.
Nosey was staring at him from the doorway. A pretty little pup, always running around when the boy was home, but he was so shy around Burrich. The other dogs came inside as soon as they sensed he was awake, and they excitedly licked at his face, his hands. Burrich tried to call Nosey over, but he only turned around with a slight wag of his tail. He knew who his master was, and he would politely ignore Burrich until the boy came back.
Burrich envied the dog’s certainty of his master’s return.