Chapter Text
The bell over the shop door jingles sharp when Nick pushes me through, his hand clamped hard on my shoulder like he’s herdin’ me to market.
“Don’t see why we gotta do this now,” I mumble, hittin’ my boots against the tile floor that shines too clean for comfort. “Revival ain’t for another few weeks. Plenty of time to… y’know… not spend half my day pickin’ out ties.”
Nick just smirks, lettin’ the door swing shut behind us. “Plenty of time, huh? You’d wait ‘til the morning of, show up in that same dusty flannel you wear to muck the barn, and call it a day.”
“Dust don’t show character?” I shoot back, brows raised as I grin.
“Not the kind they wanna see from us, little brother,” he fixes his cuffs, all put-together as usual, lookin’ like he was born in a Sunday suit. “You think you’re slick, but Mama ain’t here to iron you proper, and I ain’t sittin’ next to you while the whole congregation whispers how my blood looks like he crawled out a hayloft.”
The words sting a little, though he says ‘em soft, almost fond. I shove my hands deep in my pockets, starin’ at the rows of jackets lined up like soldiers on parade. The air smells of mothballs and starch, too stiff for breathin’ and definitely not the most appealin’. But it’s not exactly like either of us could afford some fancy suit venue.
Nick’s already shakin’ hands with the shopkeeper, some round man in a vest who beams wide at him. “Nicolas,” he introduces, easy as pie, that practiced charm slidin’ out smooth as butter. “My brother here’s in need of a suit, as you can see. Somethin’ respectable that’ll do him good.”
The shopkeeper claps his hands. “We’ll fix him right up.”
I huff under my breath.
Nick leans close while the man bustles to fetch fabric swatches. “Quit sulkin’. It won’t kill you to look decent for once.”
“Yessir,” I grumble, as I follow him deeper into the store.
The next half-hour’s a battle. Nick pulls jackets off racks, tosses ‘em at me, and I wrangle my arms through stiff sleeves that pinch my shoulders. I swear some of ‘em are stitched wrong on purpose.
“This one’s too tight,” I complain, twistin’ in the mirror. “Can’t even lift my arms.”
“You ain’t plannin’ on liftin’ hay bales at church, are you?” Nick retorts, straightenin’ my collar with a sharp tug.
“Feels like I’m bein’ strangled.”
“Good. Maybe it’ll shut you up.”
I shove him off with a laugh, nearly knockin’ a stack of hats clean to the floor. The shopkeeper glances over, frownin’, but Nick just grins. It don’t surprise me when the shopkeeper offers the gesture back.
Finally, Nick settles on a gray number, crisp and simple, nothin’ too flashy. He makes me try it on three separate times, turnin’ me this way and that like I’m a prize hog at the fair. I keep crackin’ faces in the mirror just to spite him.
“Better than your usual look,” he admits, steppin’ back to admire his work. “Almost decent.”
“Almost,” I echo, rollin’ my eyes.
Nick chuckles and drums his fingers against his knee as we wait for the tailor to pin the cuffs. The air’s quiet, only the tick of a wall clock accompanyin’ us.
“So,” he starts, casual-like, but I know him too well to see through the cracks. “Reverend Owens, he’s settin’ up for the revival already?”
“Yep,” I answer quick, glad for safe ground. “Got me haulin’ tables down at St. Joseph’s this mornin’.”
Nick hums low. “He’s got a way of makin’ everybody do a little more than they planned, guess it’s the pastor in him.” He pauses, eyes narrowin’ just a bit. “So… that son of his. You been spendin’ time with him?”
My back stiffens, and I keep my eyes on the floor, pretendin’ like I’m pickin’ at a loose thread on my pants. “He just shows up sometimes. Follows me around, mostly. Guess he ain’t got much else to do.”
Nick nods, not quite believin’, not quite doubtin’. “Seems like you two been seen together more than a little.”
“Yeah, well.” I clench my teeth. “Ain’t like I asked him to.”
Nick’s still lookin’, thoughtful. His eyes crinkle as he taps his wrist, shaking his head. “Alright.”
I clear my throat, shiftin’ in the chair like the cushion’s turned to stone. My hands won’t stay still, rubbin’ my palms against each other, before tappin’ my fingers on the wood armrest ‘til Nick shoots me a look.
The shopkeeper bustles back in, arms full of pressed fabric. “Here we are,” he announces cheerily, layin’ the gray suit out across the counter. “Jacket’s good, just needed a little nip in the shoulders. Trousers’ll sit fine after the hem.”
Nick stands, fingers runnin’ down the sleeve like he’s checkin’ quality himself. He nods, satisfied. “That’ll do.”
I hover behind him, hands buried in my pockets again, seeking refuge as they tremble.
“Now, price comes to-”
Nick cuts him off with a polite hand, pullin’ his wallet before the man can finish. “It’s on me.”
My head jerks up. “Nick-”
He just waves me off, countin’ bills into the man’s hand. “Consider it a long-term investment for the greater good.”
The shopkeeper chuckles, foldin’ the bills away as Nick claps the suit box under his arm. We leave after that, the heat slappin’ me across the face as we walk across the lot and try to ignore the rope pulled taut between my chest.
Not long after, when the wind feels breezier, I’m out on the back acreage, rifle slung easy in my grip. The yard feels wide and empty as I take in the steady chirp of Cardinals and the thin smell of oil on steel. I’ve lined glass bottles along the rotted fence post, all kinds, old mason jars, a chipped milk jug, even a blue glass soda bottle that caught the sun like a jewel. They glitter out there in the fading light, beggin’ to be broken.
I brace the stock firm against my shoulder, cheek pressed to the worn wood. The rifle’s cool at first, then warm as my skin adjusts. I pull a breath deep, let it out slow.
Crack.
The bottle bursts apart, shards scatterin’ into the tall grass. A satisfaction ripples through me, sharp as the echo that carries across the fields.
I reload.
Crack.
Another one gone.
The air holds the tang of gunpowder now, hard and bitter, as it sinks into my tongue.
“What are you doing?”
Chris’s voice jumps out, startled and clear.
I lower the barrel just enough to glance over my shoulder. He’s standin’ a little way back, hair lit up yellow by the sunlight, his pupils wide as coins. He clutches at his shirtfront like he’s grabbin’ a hold of himself, then lets out a shaky laugh.
“What I mean is,” he adds, breathless. “I didn’t think you’d be out here.”
The corner of my mouth twitches downwards. “My entire life don’t just revolve around workin’ for your daddy, y’know.”
He steps closer, feet crunchin’ through the brittle grass. His face is lit with that wide-eyed curiosity that never seems to burn out, no matter how many times I try to douse it. “Oh. I was just coming to see if you’d ride with me. Sunflower’s saddled and Daddy said I could take her down by the creek.” He hesitates, then smiles sheepish. “I mean, you’d have to come too.”
“Mm.” I set my sights back down the barrel. “Figure I’m better company here right now.”
Chris don’t answer right away, just sidles up nearer, the space between us shrinkin’ with every step. He’s watchin’ the rifle now, head tilted like he’s tryin’ to memorize how it sits in my hands. The sunlight catches against the steel, bouncin’ sharp into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink.
“How do you… I mean, how do you know how to?” His voice is low, careful, as if he’s askin’ somethin’ forbidden.
I shrug, shoulder pressin’ tight into the stock. “Been doin’ it since I was a boy.”
Chris’s lips part, before smiling again. “So you can ride horses and shoot rifles. What can’t you do?”
I don’t answer, just squeeze the trigger.
Crack.
Another glass shatters downfall and Chris only flinches a little at the noise this time. He bites the inside of his cheek, eyes lingerin’ on me instead of the target, standin’ so close I can feel the heat comin’ off him.
I sigh, settin’ the rifle low. “You wanna give it a go?”
His entire face lights up, a spark so bright it near blinds me. “Really?”
“Before I change my mind.”
I shift, turnin’ the rifle so it rests crossways in my arms. He steps in, almost bumpin’ into me, and I realize too late how close we gotta be for me to guide him proper. His hands, almost the same size as mine, but not near as soft, hover uncertain over the dark wood.
“Like this?” he asks, tentative, settlin’ his grip clumsy.
I move behind him, one hand slidin’ over his to steady it, the other adjustin’ the barrel. He’s all elbows and nerves, laughin’ under his breath like he knows he looks foolish.
“Better?” His eyes turn sideways, waitin’ persistently for me to nod.
My shoulders sink as the knots in them untangle. “Yeah. Better.”
The gun’s heavier than he expected, I can feel it in the way his arms sag, strainin’ to keep the barrel lifted. I shoulder some of the weight without thinkin’, keepin’ my hand firm over his so it don’t wobble.
“Okay,” I murmur, movin’ close, smellin’ the faint smell of his soap. Lemony. “Now breathe out.”
He does, a puff of air past his flushed lips. His finger presses sloppy on the trigger as the shot cracks. It’s wild, nowhere near the bottles, kickback jarrin’ us both.
Chris stumbles, but I’m already grabbin’ him, my arm firm ‘round his shoulder. His giggles burst free, echo bouncin’ off the field like birds takin’ flight.
“Did I hit it?” he asks, grin spread long, cheeks pink.
I glance at the untouched bottles glitterin’ safe on the fence. My throat works as I shake my head. “Close enough.”
Chris beams once more as his teeth flash white, eyes crinklin’ all soft at the edges, and I have to look away fast before it sticks.
I clear my throat, shiftin’ the rifle back into my own grip. “Don’t tell the Reverend you touched this thing, y’hear? He’ll whoop both our asses.”
Chris puts a hand to his chest, mock solemn. Then his grin breaks through again, boyish in the way that I’m used to at this point. “So now that we’ve done all your grumpy man shooting-” he waves his hands in a wide arc, nearly smacks me in the elbow. “can we go ride horses?”
I give him a long look, lettin’ the corner of my mouth curl slow. “Only if you grab me some fruit first.”
I don’t mean it serious, but Chris nods exasperatedly. “Alright!” he blurts, and before I can stop him he’s joggin’ off toward the house, shoes kickin’ dust behind him.
I let out a laugh through my nose, low and disbelievin’, before settin’ the gun back in its place.
At the point when I’m crossin’ to the barn, it’s quieter, the dryness fallin’ still in the warm air.
Cupcake’s there, patient as ever, the big shire watchin’ me with those dark eyes that don’t miss much. I run a brush quick along her flank, pat her thick neck. “Gonna have some fun with you,” I chuckle under my breath, and Cupcake lifts an ear like she agrees.
Footsteps patter quick across the packed dirt. Chris reappears, carryin’ a plate piled with nectarine slices, bright orange against the tin. “I didn’t know how many you wanted, so I cut all of them.” he explains, like it’s a confession. His words taper off when he spots Cupcake and his Adam’s Apple bobs once.
I take the plate, poppin’ one of the slices in my mouth. Sweet, near syrupy, juices runnin’ sticky down my thumb. It’s sweeter than I remember them bein’.
“It’s about time you start ridin’ on a man’s horse,” I tell him, noddin’ toward Cupcake.
Chris blinks at the sheer size of the shire, takin’ a hesitant step back. “That-, uh-… she’s taller than the door!”
I smirk around another slice. “Then you’ll get a good view.”
He laughs, nervous, shufflin’ his feet. “Maybe I’ll just…stand here and admire her instead.”
“Nope.” I jerk my chin at Cupcake’s broad side. “Up you go.”
Chris edges closer, slow like he’s approachin’ a bear. He stops a few feet away, fists flexin’ at his sides. “It’s too high.”
“Try anyway.”
He bites his cheek again, mumblin’ something I only half catch about Cupcake’s name not matchin’ her size. As if on cue, the horse lets out a deep snort through her nostrils, tossin’ her mane.
Chris squeaks, an honest-to-God squeak, and hops back half a step, his face red as the barn walls.
I break into a laugh, one I couldn’t hold back if I tried. “Lord, you’re hopeless,” I manage between bites of nectarine, sticky goodness sittin’ soft on my tongue.
Chris squares his shoulders after a beat, drawin’ in a breath. His jaw’s set now, all stubborn pride. He glances at Cupcake, then me, then the horse again. Finally, with a little grunt, he grips the edge of the saddle and hauls himself up clumsy, legs kickin’ until he’s perched half-sideways.
Cupcake doesn’t move an inch.
I lean back against the stall door, chewin’ slow on another slice. “Well, would you look at that.”
Chris twists awkward in the saddle, tryin’ to get his leg over. His boot heel hooks on the leather stirrup, then slips, and he nearly pitches forward. He yelps, clingin’ to the pommel like a drowning man hangin’ on a raft. “Is it supposed to feel this high?”
“Depends.” I lick juice off my thumb, smirkin’. “You scared of heights?”
His head snaps down toward me. “No,” he says it too fast, the word breakin’ at the end like a snapped string.
Cupcake moves one hoof, the sound of it on the dirt floor heavy and sure. Chris stiffens, shoulders hiked to his ears, but the horse only twitches.
“Relax,” I murmur, softer now. “You weigh nothin’, so she won’t be mean.”
Chris gulps, settlin’ his grip. After a moment, he dares to lift one hand, wavin’ it uncertain in the air. Cupcake don’t so much as blink.
“There.” I nod, swallowin’ another bite. “You’re ridin’ already.”
Chris blinks down at me, then lets out a laugh that tumbles from his chest. He rustles again, tryin’ to straighten himself up proper, and finally manages both legs over. “I did it.”
“Don’t get cocky,” I tease. “You just sittin’ there. Try movin’.”
His face goes pale. “Move her?”
“Y’know, give her a squeeze with your heels, gentle.”
Chris bites his lip, hesitant, then does as told. Cupcake starts into a slow walk, her massive body tumblin’ calm under the saddle. Chris lets out a strangled noise halfway between a laugh and a prayer.
Around the barn they go, Cupcake ploddin’ faithful, Chris swayin’ like a loose hinge on a door. His hands clutch the reins wrong, too stiff, but his smile’s back now.
I watch, arms folded against the stall as Cupcake circles back. Chris’s hair is messier from where it started, he tugs at the reins lightly, and the horse stops. “I think that’s enough for now,” he admits, voice wobbly but proud.
“Good call.” I step forward, reachin’ up. “C’mere, I’ll help you down.”
He hesitates, like he don’t trust the ground any more than the saddle, but then he leans into me. My hands grip his waist, firm but not too much, guidin’ him down careful. His loafers thud back onto the dirt, knees bucklin’ just a touch before he composes himself.
Chris shudders, a full body shake and laughs again, layin’ a tentative hand on Cupcake’s thick neck. “Good girl,” he whispers, patting her soft. The horse lowers her head, snortin’ warm air against Chris’s arm.
I look away, pop another nectarine slice in my mouth.
“Could I have one?” Chris pipes up as he watches me.
I grunt, holdin’ out the plate. “Here.”
He plucks one sloppy slice between thumb and forefinger, orange flesh gleamin’ sticky. He ain’t careful in the least, he sinks his teeth in like he’s starvin’, lips draggin’ across, pink tongue catchin’ the juice as it spills. A rivulet runs straight down his chin, shiny in the light. He swipes at it too late, smearing it into his jaw, then down his shirtfront.
“Shoot,” he mutters with a laugh, starin’ at the dark spot spreadin’ on his collar. “I’m making a mess.”
My chest locks up, watchin’ the line of his throat move as he swallows, the gloss of juice still shinin’ on his lips. It’s vulgar, disgusting even, the way he licks his thumb, sucks it clean, smiles sloppy and unbothered. Yet my gaze won’t move, won’t tear away.
I force another slice into my mouth, bitin’ down too hard. A burst of flavor floods my tongue, cloyin’, but all I can taste is the thought of his mouth workin’ soft, careless, sticky.
Chris notices, ‘course he does. His eyes fall to the side, catchin’ me. His smile don’t waver, instead, it sharpens. He takes another piece, does it again, slower this time, juice dribblin’ down his wrist.
My pulse pounds hard in my ears. I drop my eyes, pretend to fuss with the plate. “Eat faster,” I grumble. “Before you ruin your whole shirt.”
My throat burns, and I ain’t sure if it’s from the fruit or the fire chokin’ me up inside. Every part of me’s wound tight, held together by nothin’ more than stubbornness.
Then, just when I think I can breathe again, Chris moves close. Too close. His arms loop sudden around my shoulders, a hug gentle and thoughtless.
I go stiff. My body don’t know what to do with itself, frozen straight as a fencepost. The plate’s near slip from my hand, nectarines tiltin’, my breath locked deep in my chest. I should push him away, but my arms stay down at my sides, useless, as the heat of him presses in.
He don’t hold long, just a heartbeat. Then he pulls back, brows lifted, eyes searchin’ my face like he’s tryin’ to read somethin’. “You okay?” he asks.
I clear my throat, force my features flat. “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” I say again, the word scrapin’ as it comes out.
Chris rolls his shoulders, smiling. “Good-just thought you looked a little sad earlier.”
The ground tilts under me. I got no answer, not one that won’t betray me. Before I can fumble somethin’ out, he’s already steppin’ away, hummin’ some little tune, leavin’ the barn light all cracked open behind him.
And I’m left standin’ in the smell of hay and soot, nectarine juice sticky on my hands as my chest hollows out and raw.