Chapter Text
“That stall there’s for Justice,” Reverend Owens says, tippin’ his hat toward the far end of the barn. “He ain’t mean, but he sure don’t care to be touched ‘less he knows you. Like some women I know.”
His voice cuts through the still morning, low and deliberate. Got that way of talkin’ like every word's already been weighed and measured before it ever leaves his mouth.
The gravel crunches under our boots as we move slow beneath the barn’s shadow. Sun’s just startin’ to rise, not even warm yet, just smearin’ orange across the treetops like God dragged a brush across the sky and quit halfway through.
I follow behind, quiet. Hat low, hands in my jean pockets, bag still slung over one shoulder. Not much to say when a man like Owens is speaking. He’s one of those folks this kind of town don’t question, part preacher, part myth. People listen when he talks and shut their mouths when he don’t.
The barn looms up like a chapel, slatted wood gone silver from age, roof sloping like it’s bowin’ to the weight of time. The horses inside stir soft, tails flicking, the air full of hay and dirt and somethin’ that smells a little like rain left too long on dirt.
“Justice don’t spook,” the Reverend continues, “but he don’t follow orders from just anybody neither. You earn him. Or he’ll make you regret tryin’.”
We stop in front of the stall. The horse is big, proud. A scar rides his flank like a rope burn turned ghost white. He turns his head, eyes locked on me. Still, dark, expectin’ something.
I nod. “Reckon we’ll figure each other out.”
Owens hums as if that answer satisfies him, or don’t surprise him, either way. He turns, keeps walkin’ down the center aisle, and I trail him past rusted tack hooks and loose hay underfoot.
“There’s only one of you workin’ here this season,” he sighs. “Ain’t room in the budget for a crew, not since that damn recession near gutted half the valley. And the Lord didn’t say nothin’ about things comin’ easy.”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “I’m used to that.”
“I imagine you are.”
His tone’s got a knowing edge to it, but he don’t press. Just gestures out the barn doors to the fields, wide and gold. It rolls out far enough to see the low wooden fence half-buried in honeysuckle, a grain shed that’s leanin’ just slightly west, and a patch of tomatoes already looking sun stung.
“We rise early. Start with prayer. I expect the animals seen to by six, breakfast after that, field work till supper. You’ll sleep in the loft over the tack room. There’s a cot. Sheets, if they ain't gone stiff from disuse.”
“Sounds alright.”
He pauses at the threshold of the barn, glancing sideways at me. His eyes are pale but sharp, like weathered glass that still catches light just fine.
“You runnin’ from somethin’, Mr. Bernard?”
My stomach pulls, but I don’t let it show. “Just tryin’ to earn my keep, sir.”
He watches me a moment longer, then nods once and starts back toward the house, boots draggin’ soft across the dirt path. I stay where I am and let the silence wrap around me like it’s checkin’ my pockets for secrets. Justice snorts from his stall and the wind kicks up just enough to stir the long grass by the fence line.
I roll my shoulders, breathe in deep, barn tastes like dust and something old. I set my bag just inside the barn door and get to work. First thing’s the feed, then the water line. Place runs quiet, but not dead. I move from stall to stall, checkin’ hooves and latches, my hands remembering the rhythm before my mind even catches up. Justice watches the whole time like he’s still undecided about me.
The sun climbs slow. Heat creeps in like it always does, at first just a shimmer in the distance, then pressing into the back of my neck. I’m mid-shovel, raking out the last of the old straw, when I hear it.
Laughter. It’s light, breathless. Cutting through the still morning. I glance up at the sound that don’t belong.
They’re walking up the dirt path from the road, maybe twenty yards out. A boy and a girl. He don’t look like he belongs out here either.
He’s got wavy brown hair, soft-looking, like he never had to cut it with anything duller than his mama’s kitchen scissors. Falls just above his collar, moves when he laughs. He’s dressed neat, too clean for a Sunday morning, much less a farm: cream-colored button-down hanging above his slacks that don’t have a single grass stain on ’em. There’s a leather-bound book clutched in one hand, and his free hand’s caught up in her wrist, like he’s pulling her along slow.
And his skin, porcelain, like he’s never spent more than fifteen minutes under real sun. Looks untouched. Unworked. His eyes catch blue like frost caught in glass. They shine when he laughs, then squint when she bumps her shoulder into his and he stumbles sideways, grinning.
The girl’s redheaded, the loud kind of pretty, dress cinched at the waist and flaring at her knees like a bell. Her shoes don’t match the road beneath them, and her lipstick’s too red for morning. She giggles into the back of her hand, curls bouncing, and says something I can’t hear that makes him duck his head and smile.
Whatever Sunday they just came from, it wasn’t the same one I woke up in.
They pass the edge of the field, their voices low, brushing against the barn air like a tune caught on the wind. He doesn’t notice me, but I see him clear. I stare longer than I should, until I ain’t thinkin’ about shovelin’ anymore.
Justice snorts behind me, loud enough to jolt me back, and I drop the rake against the wall with a sharp clang. The boy glances toward the noise, but I’ve already turned, wiped my palms on my jeans, and gotten back to work. I keep my head down after that. Rake, feed, pump water from the line till my shoulders burn.
By late afternoon, the sun’s sittin’ mean in the sky, and the dampness on my back’s dried twice over. I saddle Justice slow, ease the bridle on like we’ve known each other longer than a day. He don’t fight it, just flicks his tail and shifts his weight, probably still thinkin’ on me.
“Let’s go, then,” I mutter, and swing into the saddle.
The fields splay out long and mustard, and the wind picks up as we ride. Hooves strike dry earth as we pass fence lines, old mailboxes rusted at the hinges, and porch swings that creak in the wind even when nobody’s sittin’ in ‘em.
By the time we reach town, the sun’s settin’ low, casting everything in that yellow haze that makes even the broken parts look holy. I tie Justice out front, give his neck a quick rub before heading inside.
Hushpuppy’s plain wooden sign’s been hangin’ over the door since before I was legal to walk through it. Not that anyone in Waycross cares much about legal. Inside’s cooler, dimmer. Smells like sweat, beer, and old wood. Ceiling fan turns lazy above the bar. A Hank Williams tune crackles out the jukebox in the corner.
And there he is.
Nick. My older brother, town golden boy, talk of every supper table from here to Cedar Hill. He’s behind the bar, leanin’ on one arm, grin carved smooth into his face. His hair’s combed to the side, sleeves rolled up, bronze chain just visible under his shirt.
He sees me before I sit. “Well, look what the wind dragged in.”
I slide onto the nearest stool. “You makin’ fun of my smell or my entrance?”
“Both,” he says, pourin’ a glass without askin’. “Long day?”
I nod, wiping my brow with the back of my hand like it’ll do anything for the heat still settlin’ in my bones. “Felt longer. That damn horse watches me like he’s waitin’ for me to mess up.”
Nick grins, sets a glass on the bar and pours himself two fingers. “They say Reverend’s animals have a better judge of character than most folks ’round here.”
I huff a laugh through my nose and take another sip. The whiskey’s starting to taste like memory. The place ain’t packed, it rarely is unless there’s a game on, but the usuals hold their ground like church pews.
There’s Marvin in the corner booth, same plaid shirt, still nursin’ one beer as if he’s afraid they’ll run out if he finishes. Bette from the post office is hunched at her usual spot near the window, flipping through her crossword with a pencil chewed nearly flat. Across from her, Dick, not too old but always looks like he’s about to confess something, sips his beer and mutters now and then, probably to God or his dead wife, no one’s sure.
Miss May’s leaned against the jukebox, legs crossed at the ankle, red nails tappin’ slow against the plastic as she browses. She's always dressed like she’s got somewhere better to be, even if she’s just picking songs. Sunday skirt, earrings that flash when she turns her head, lipstick dark as the sky before rain.
I swirl the ice in my glass, take a longer sip this time. “Reverend’s boy still around?”
Nick doesn’t flinch, doesn’t smile either. He just lifts one brow, slow like molasses. “That a real question or a lead-in?”
“Just curious.”
Behind me, a whistle cuts through the hum of conversation, sharp and low, like someone lettin’ steam out a kettle.
“Well, look at that,” Dick mutters from the window. “Reverend’s princess got someone askin’ after him.”
My jaw ticks. “Ain’t what I meant.”
I don’t turn around, just stare into the bottom of my glass as heat curls at the back of my neck.
Nick clicks his tongue. “Christopher Owens,” he says, “Been back about six months. Reverend sent him off to some school up north when he was sixteen, came back in two years taller, quieter, and wearin’ shoes too clean for gravel.”
Marvin snorts. “Looks like any other kid his age playin’ hooky.”
Nick leans on the bar again, gives me that look he saves for when he’s half-concerned and half-amused. “Reverend says he’s home for good now. Somethin’ about helpin’ with the youth group, bringin’ God to the restless. But far as I can tell, he’s been spendin’ more time walkin’ the creek paths and readin’ under the church bell than preachin’.”
“Still keeps to himself?”
Nick shrugs. “Depends who’s around. But yeah, quiet.”
He watches me, then adds lower, “I’d steer clear if I were you. That family’s got eyes everywhere, and I’ve heard Reverend Owens don’t take kindly to folks diggin’ where they don’t belong.”
I just nod, like Nick’s words ain’t already coiling around my ribs like barbed wire.
By the time I get back to the barn, I finish the last of the stalls as the sky fades from gold to a bruised kind of blue. Crickets’ve started up in the grass, and the barn’s hashin’ into itself, boards creakin’, horses snufflin’, the low chime of tack swayin’ on its hook.
I’m at the water line, coiling the hose, when I hear a faint scuff of boots on dirt. I glance toward the far paddock, thinking it’s Reverend Owens come to check the gate again, but it’s not.
Chris’s out there in the last scraps of sunlight, sleeves rolled up, barefoot in the grass. There’s a horse tied off at the rail. Sunflower, the youngest one, skittish as hell if you don’t handle her right. I pause, lean my elbow on the post, and watch.
He approaches like someone who’s read about horses more than he’s ever been around one. Hand out flat, murmuring something too low for me to hear. Sunflower lets him get close, surprisingly, maybe thrown off by the soft voice or the fact that the boy looks like he walked out of a children book’s illustration.
Chris tries to mount, fails. His foot slips from the stirrup, leg flails for the saddle, and for half a second he’s hangin’ on like a cat on a screen door before gravity decides otherwise. He goes down in a thud, flat on his back, all the air knocked right out of him.
I stifle a laugh without meanin’ to. It slips out like breath, sharp and sudden. Sunflower dances sideways, startled, reins janglin’ against the rail. Chris stays down a moment, eyes shut like he’s negotiatin’ with heaven.
Then he opens them, his nose scrunchin’ at the dust. He sees me standin’ there, and the tips of his ears go red. He doesn’t say a word and brushes himself off slow. Dignity clings to him like dust bunnies, and he walks away without lookin’ back.
I let the laugh die in my chest and shake my head. I make sure Sunflower’s latched, double-check the feed bins, and flick the lights off one by one. The barn empties around me, quiet but not lonely.
By the time I climb up to the loft, the stars are out and the air’s cooled just enough to breathe easy. I drop my bag near the cot and tug off my boots, already dreamin’ of not standin’ for a while.
“Mr. Bernard.”
It’s the Reverend’s voice, floating up through the slats in the floorboards like it’s always belonged there.
I step to the edge, lean down. “Sir?”
“Supper’s served.”
I tip my hat and follow him.
The house is quiet, our footsteps muffled on the old wood floors. Smells like cornbread and something stewed low and slow. I ain’t sure what I expected, maybe a plain table and a cold prayer, but the dining room’s formal, set with heavy dishes and water already poured. A plump woman in an apron, hair tied neat, moves about without a word. She nods at me politely, then disappears into the kitchen.
Reverend takes his seat at the head of the table. I linger by the doorway until he gestures. “Sit. You work a man’s day, you eat a man’s supper.”
I lower myself into the chair nearest the end, careful, like I might break something just by breathin’. Silverware glints. Candlelight flickers soft against the glass.
Chris walks in. Different clothes, but still him. This time it’s a plain linen shirt, sleeves falling at his knuckles, collar open just enough to show the curve of his throat. His hair’s damp, like he just washed it, curls clingin’ gentle to his temples. He’s wearin’ those fancy leather loafers I’ve seen on one of them commercial ads.
His eyes flick to me once, a glance so fast it might’ve been a trick of the candlelight, then back to the Reverend. He walks over, leans down, and presses a kiss to his cheek.
“Evening, Daddy,” he says soft.
Reverend Owens smiles, smiles, and places a hand at the back of Chris’s neck, a brief press like a benediction. I blink, try not to shift in my seat. Chris slides into the chair across from me. Folds his hands. Closes his eyes.
Reverend bows his head, and I realize we’re prayin’.
“Lord, for the labor of our hands and the food on our table, we give thanks,” he begins, voice low, measured. “For the breath in our lungs, and the stranger made kin by your provision. Amen.”
“Amen,” Chris echoes, quieter.
I mumble it late, not used to speakin’ at tables that weren’t mine. The food’s passed, meatloaf, greens, bread, mashed potatoes whipped smooth, but I can’t quite focus on the taste. Chris eats slow, methodical. He doesn’t talk, only glances out the window every so often like he’s expectin’ a storm.
Reverend Owens breaks the quiet. “Need more salt, Mr. Bernard?” His voice is gentle but firm, like the steady hand of a man used to guiding others.
I shake my head. “I’m good, sir.”
“There’ll be eggs at sunrise, and if you want coffee, the pot’s yours after my first cup.”
Chris hums softly at that, biting his lip. His eyes curve soft and low over his plate. “He is really protective of his coffee,” he says quietly.
The Reverend chuckles. “That’s puttin’ it mildly.”
Chris shifts, like he’s gathering his thoughts, then launches into a babble. “We were talking about the parables last week. The Lost Sheep, you know? How the shepherd leaves the ninety-nine to find the one. It made me think that sometimes we all get lost-” He stops, swallows a nervous smile, then picks up again, “but it’s okay, because someone’s always looking.”
Reverend Owens clears his throat, the soft sound slicing through the moment like a bookmark.
“Huh,” he exhales, turning to me with a hint of a grin, “I suppose it’s time you knew. Mr. Bernard, well, Matthew to you here will be staying with us for the season.”
Chris lifts his eyes slow, like he ain’t sure what he’ll find when he looks up. Fork stills in his hand, halfway through pushin’ around the last of them potatoes. A beat passes, quiet as anything, before Reverend Owens hums and says, not unkindly, “This one’s a handful.”
That gets a flush outta Chris, high and pink across his cheeks. He sinks a little lower in his chair, like he’s hopin’ the pine boards might open up and swallow him whole.
“I’m not that bad,” he mutters, but it don’t carry much weight. He’s grinning anyway, embarrassed and boyish all of a sudden. He ducks his head and starts chasin’ a lone pea around his plate like it’s got somewhere to be.
The Reverend just raises a brow, fond, but sharp, and goes, “Let’s not revisit the incident with the baptistry hose.”
Chris groans, buries his face in his sleeve. “That was one time.”
I let out a quiet laugh ‘fore I can stop myself. “Guess I’ll keep an eye on him,” I say, glancing over at Chris.
He don’t look up right away, but I catch the twitch of a smile, workin’ its way through his blush.
Reverend Owens stands with a soft grunt, collecting his plate. “You’ll both have your hands full, I imagine. Boys your age always do.”
He pats my shoulder as he passes, then tips his chin at Chris. “Dishes stay clean when you dry ’em proper. Don’t let him cut corners.”
“I heard that,” Chris calls after him, but he’s laughin’ now, easy and full.
The Reverend just waves him off and disappears down the hall, the hush of his steps softenin’ as he heads for the back bedroom. I push up from the table with a stretch that pops my spine clean in two places.
“I’ll be back,” I murmur, mostly to myself as the screen door rattles gentle in the breeze.
Upstairs, it’s hotter, thick air, soaked into the rafters and the floorboards both. It’s like old wood and somethin’ sweeter, maybe pollen driftin’ in through the cracked window. I swap my shirt for a worn-in tee, soft from too many washes, and tug on a pair of loose plaid sleep pants. For a second I just stand there barefoot, listening to the night outside, frog song, the cough of a tractor down the road, and water lapping slow against somethin’ hollow. I shake it off.
When I head back down, I stop at the foot of the stairs. Chris is at the sink, sleeves rolled up, forearms freckled and glistening under the yellow light. He’s got the water runnin’, dish towel slung over one shoulder, scrubbin’ like he’s fixin’ to get into heaven through elbow grease alone. His brow’s bunched, real focused, as if the plate’s gonna tell him a secret if he just listens close enough.
I lean against the doorway, arms crossed.
“Don’t ya got a maid for that?”
Chris jumps a little, looks over his shoulder with a half-hearted scowl. “You scared me.”
I shrug. “Just didn’t peg you for the domestic type.”
“I’m full of surprises,” he says, rinsin’ the plate and settin’ it down in the rack. Water splashes up, catches the counter. “Since I made the mess, might as well clean it.”
I cock my head. “That accent of yours always been that prim?”
Chris straightens up some, eyes narrowing like he’s tryin’ to figure if I’m messing with him. “What accent?”
I gesture kinda lazy. “You from ‘round here, or just playin’ pretend?”
He smiles in acknowledgment. “Went to church school, Daddy’s kind. They taught us how to talk ‘proper.’ No drawl, no slouch.”
“Didn’t stick,” I say, and he flicks a bit of soapy water at me without even turnin’.
The faucet shuts off. Dishes gleaming in the rack now, the clink of ceramic settling soft in the quiet. We stand there a second, the slow tick of the old clock above the stove. The kitchen’s dim, full of warm lamplight and air that smells like woodsy soap and somethin’ sweeter I still can’t name. Chris wipes his hands on the towel, folds it careful, sets it beside the sink.
“Goodnight, Matt.”
He disappears down the back hall, and I stay put a moment longer, leanin’ there with my arms still crossed, strain’ at the stillness he left behind.
“Yeah,” I whisper, “Night.”
Notes:
i hope you enjoyed the first chapter! this is just a PSA for future chapters:
-There's a high chance I may not be posting every single day, I'm so sorry 😭 school has taken up majority of my time but I will try my best to remain consistent
- I hope the Southern accent isn't too difficult to read, I wanted to try something different and I love Matt's POV but I was worried my writing was getting to repetitive, so this is just a little twist!
-Unfortunately, they aren’t related in this 💔 but Matt and Chris still look extremely similar, except I imagine Matt with a beard but you can imagine anything however you want :D
thank you for reading and I'll see you soon xx
Chapter Text
Mornin’ light slants through the barn slats, thin and gold, dust skimmin’ lazy in the humid air. It wafts of warm hay, leather worn soft, and a hint of manure that clings no matter how much I shovel. I got my sleeves pushed up, pitchfork workin’ through the last stall, boots scuffin’ over the packed dirt. It’s quiet, just the shuffle of hooves from the next row over, and the low huff of a Morgan checkin’ if I’ve brought grain early.
A saddle squeaks somewhere past the far stall door.
I glance up, lean the fork against the wall. Out in the pen, Chris is sittin’ high and wrong on Sunflower, hands stiff like he’s afraid the reins might bite him. Sunflower’s ears are twitchin’, pickin’ up every bit of that tension. And sure enough, the horse shifts under him, slow at first, then quicker when Chris tries to correct too hard.
“Easy,” I mutter under my breath, but I’m not close enough for him to hear.
He wobbles once, again. Then lands his boots in the dirt with a grunt that carries in the still air. His hair’s mussed where the brim of his flat cap caught it, shirt clingin’ loose even though the morning is scorching hot. He dusts his Seersucker trousers before glaring at Sunflower like it’s the horse’s fault.
I watch a second more than I should, just long enough to catch the way he bites the inside of his cheek, mutterin’ somethin’ I can’t hear. He catches me lookin’, and squares his shoulders like he’s tryin’ to shake off bein’ seen, but the corner of his mouth twitches.
I’ve been watchin’ him try near every morning this week, same scene playin’ out. Him up on Sunflower, stiff as a fencepost, and down again before she’s made it ‘round the ring. I’d bet he’s burnin’ through more pride than saddle leather.
I go back to my stall, workin’ the fork through a pile that ain’t near as light as I make it look, but I feel him comin’ closer. Hoofbeats shuffle out in the pen as he leads Sunflower in, his fancy black helmet hangin’ from two fingers.
There’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn slow, and he’s standin’ there, helmet cradled against his hip now, eyes steady on mine. His brows are drawn, but not in anger, and his gaze flicks down before liftin’ his head back at me.
“Will you teach me?”
I blink once. “Teach you?”
He puffs out his left cheek, and I swear his eyelashes flutter. “How to ride.”
I sputter before I can stop myself. Chris tilts his head, teeth sinking in his bottom lip. He notices the way I stiffen and blinks slow, all calm. “The horse?”
I drag a hand down my jaw, tryin’ to keep my tone even. “Right.” My boots shift in the straw, like I need an excuse to move. “Well… Sunflower ain’t the best for a start.”
He doesn’t argue, just follows my gaze to the far stall. Justice stands there, ears twitchin’, the big sorrel gelding lookin’ like he was carved from old earth and muscle. My horse.
I lead us over, lay a hand on Justice’s withers. He flicks an ear at Chris but don’t move away. I give the reins a light shake. “C’mon, cowboy,” I mutter, though it’s for the horse, the words feel too close stickin’ to Chris.
He steps up without hesitation, but I can tell from the way his knee catches the saddle flap he’s not sure what to do with his body. I reach for him, one hand at his elbow, the other at his hip. It’s meant to steady, but my palm fits too snug over the sharp line of his waist, heat pricking up my arm. I’m used to haulin’ hay bales, to gentlin’ colts who’d rather break my arm than be touched, not this.
“Swing your leg-no, the other one. There.” My voice comes out low, like I’m talkin’ to Justice himself.
He lands in the saddle, posture neat but stiff. I swing up behind him, settling in the seat. We don’t touch much, and there’s air between us, but it still feels like too little space. His cologne, something faint and gourmand, cuts through the barn smells.
Chris shifts just enough to glance over his shoulder. “How long have you been doing this?”
I snort, defensive before I can help it. “My entire life, ain’t like I learned at some summer Bible camp for the Reverend’s princess.” The words come out with more bite than I mean, but I let them stand.
Justice flicks his ears, feelin’ the mood, but steps out slow when I give the signal. My hands hover over Chris’s at the reins, close enough I could guide them, but I keep the leather in my grip.
The gelding shifts into an easy walk, the sway of his stride jostlin’ Chris just enough that he stiffens. I feel it in the way his shoulders lock, the little hitch in his breathin’. My palms find his sides without thinking, fingers pressin’ down firm.
“Relax your hips,” I say, low and rough in his ear. The words come out like gravel, instructive, but too close to the soft place behind his jaw.
He tries, but instead of loosening, his spine goes taut as a fencepost, and that breath of his catches again. I figure it’s nerves, first-timers always get tight when the ground starts movin’ under ‘em.
We make a slow loop past the far wall, Justice’s hooves thudding steady against the packed dirt. Chris starts to settle, rolling with it instead of fightin’, his weight findin’ the saddle. My hands stay where they are.
When we draw near the open side of the barn, light spilling across the floorboards, Chris tips his head toward me, voice brighter now. “Can I try?”
“No.”
“What? Why not?” There’s a quick laugh in his tone, like a challenge, surprise.
I click my tongue, give Justice the smallest nudge to keep him moving. “Because if the Reverend’s son goes home with a busted leg ‘cause I let him play cowboy, best believe I’ll need to find elsewhere.”
Chris huffs like he’s not sure whether to laugh or pout, and I let a corner of my mouth twitch up. “You wanna get yourself killed on horseback, do it on someone else’s time.”
Justice’s ears perk back toward the open air, as if he knows we’re headin’ somewhere more interesting. I steer him toward the trail behind the south pasture, the one that winds between scrub oak and mesquite before spilling out to the ridge. Chris sits straighter, his knees brushing mine when the gelding takes a lazy turn. He’s lighter than I expected, not just in weight, but in the way he sits. I can tell he’s tryin’ real hard to do it right without making it obvious he is.
We pass through a gap in the fence, the posts silvered from years of sun. Out here, the breeze carries dust and the light, bitter smell of clover. Chris tilts his head back to take it in, smilin’ like the horizon belongs to him.
“Do you take this trail a lot?” he asks over his shoulder.
“Sometimes,” I respond, keeping my eyes on the path ahead.
“Ever go all the way to the river?”
“Nope.” I click my tongue again, nudging Justice forward before he can get ideas. “Riverbank’s too fast this time of year. Bad footing.”
He hums, a little disappointed, and lets the silence stretch until the sound of hooves and roosters fill it.
Around the bend, a rider comes into view. He’s tall, lean, must clingin’ to his hat brim. It’s Cole Pliars, one of the hands who’s been on my pop’s payroll longer than I’ve been alive. His roan mare picks her way up the slope while he tips a hand in my direction.
“Afternoon, Matt!” Cole calls.
Chris perks up, lifts a hand to wave. “Hello!”
I feel my throat tighten. Without thinking, I pull Justice into a sharp turn, gravel crunchin’ under his shoes. Chris sways in the saddle, grabbin’ for the horn.
“Whoa, what are you-?”
“Trail’s done,” I say flat, pushin’ Justice into a brisk trot. The wind catches at my shirt, but not enough to cool the warmth crawlin’ up my neck.
By the time we make it back to the barn, Justice’s sides are sweaty and damp. I swing down in one motion, boots hittin’ dirt with a thud. Without looking at Chris, I reach up and take hold of his leg, steadyin’ him while I slide him off the saddle.
He stumbles when his boots hit the ground, blinking at me. “Oh. Thank you. But you could have just told me how to get down, you know. I mean-I don’t want to be an inconvenience for you.”
“Faster this way,” I mutter, uncinching the girth.
He watches me work for a second, brushing dust off his pants. “Was that your friend back there? On the horse?”
I keep my head down, tugging the saddle free. “Just someone I know.”
“He seemed nice.”
I don’t answer. The bridle comes off next, and I lead Justice into his stall. Chris trails after me, his fancy loafers scuffing against the dirt floor.
When I finally turn to face him, he’s got this crooked grin, like my mood isn’t enough to ruin his. “So… can we do that again sometime? Maybe go a little further?”
I wipe my hands on my jeans. “We’ll see.”
“‘We’ll see’ as in probably? Or ‘we’ll see’ as in yes?”
I give him a look that makes his smile falter just a little. “Don’t push it.”
I grab the curry comb from the hook by the stall door, the bristles worn smooth like they’ve been rubbed on a hundred hides. Justice snorts, shiftin’ his weight back on his haunches, big brown eyes blinking slow and steady like he knows what’s comin’.
Chris steps up beside me, hands twistin’ nervously in front of him. “Can I help?” he says, voice bright but a little unsure. “I don’t know how, but I’d like to learn if that’s okay.”
I glance at him, half-expecting him to back off, but there he stands, eager and wide-eyed, like he’s ready to jump right into the deep end. I snort, feeling that mix of irritation and somethin’ else, maybe patience, stir in my chest.
“All right then, start with the neck.” I reach over, brushin’ the comb slow in wide circles, feeling the dirt and sweat loosen under the bristles. “Don’t press too hard, you’re scrapin’. It’s gotta feel like a scratch.”
Chris mimics me, awkward at first, delicate fingers clumsy against the horse’s warm skin. Justice twitches his ear but stays still, peaceful as a saint. Then, just as Chris’s hand settles into a decent movement, the horse shifts his weight and Chris lets out a sharp yelp.
Chris pulls back fast, cheeks pink, powder blue eyes blinkin’ fast. “Sorry, I didn’t expect that.”
“Horse ain’t a statue,” I huff, tryin’ not to laugh. “Gotta pay attention.”
We move down Justice’s side, me brushin’ steady while Chris tries to keep up. His foot catches the edge of the feed bucket, and it tips over, sloshing cold water onto the dusty floor. Chris’s eyes go wide again, and he stumbles, steadyin’ himself with one hand on Justice’s flank.
I’m grinning now, can’t help it. “For a boy who lives on the farm, you sure don’t know how to keep your boots dry.”
Chris lets out a soft laugh, fingers brushin’ the loose chestnut strands back from his forehead. “I’m better with words than chores.”
“Yeah, well, out here words don’t feed horses or fix fences.” I hand him the bucket to set upright, watchin’ the way he moves. Careful, a little outta place, but stubborn enough to want it right.
He bends down slow to scoop a handful of feed from the grain bucket, lookin’ like he’s handling somethin’ fragile, not just horse food. Chris giggles soft, eyes bright with some secret amusement, and holds out the feed to Justice, who snuffles it down with a low munch.
“You know,” Chris says, his voice holding that fancy polish. He glances back at me with that half-smile, “Daddy was too scared I’d fall off, so he never let me ride when I was little.”
I chuckle, more to hide how that hits me, “Sounds like Reverend don’t know much ‘bout horses, then. They’re tough as nails.”
“Maybe so.” Chris shrugs, still feedin’ Justice, who’s now nuzzlin’ at his hand gentle-like. I haven’t had the horse for long, but he ain’t ever been this easy.
We’re standin’ there, the smell of hay and sun-hot leather hangin’ thick, when the barn door creaks open slow. I freeze, hands stillin’ on Justice’s mane. Ain’t expectin’ no one, but here he is, Reverend Owens.
He’s dressed like he’s ready for Sunday service, even at dawn. His salt-and-pepper hair’s slicked back neat, but a few strands fall loose over his forehead, makin’ him look a little softer than the hard preacher folks talk about. His eyes, sharp, clear, scan the barn with calm, quiet authority.
The Reverend’s gaze flicks toward me for a beat. I straighten up, tryin’ to look busy, shufflin’ some straw with the pitchfork like I’m workin’ a real hard shift, even though my heart’s bumpin’ in my chest.
“Mornin’, Chris,” the Reverend says, turning to Chris. His voice steady but warm. He steps closer and ruffles his hair with a quick, familiar motion.
Chris beams up at him. “I rode a horse today. Justice was steady as a rock, and Matt helped me more than I could’ve asked for.”
Reverend Owens turns his eyes slow from Chris to me again, eyes squintin’ just a touch like he’s takin’ measure. “That so?”
Chris, in the short time I’ve known him, is never one to keep quiet long. “Matt showed me how to sit right. I’m thinking I might be getting the hang of it, even if I got a little dirty.”
The Reverend chuckles, head tilting to the side, eyes flickin’ back and forth between us. Then he notices the damp spot on Chris’s trouser leg, and I catch that quick flash of worry crossin’ his face.
“Well, son,” he sighs slow and warm, the kind of tone that can soothe a rattled snake, “Looks like you best go on and clean up before Abigail gets here. Don’t want her seein’ you all wet and muddy now during choir practice.”
Chris grins sheepish, noddin’ quick. “I’ll be right back, Daddy.”
As Chris heads toward the house, Reverend Owens lingers a moment, eyes shifting to me.
“Well, Mr. Bernard, or Matt I should say,” he sighs, tipping his head slightly, that preacher’s drawl thick with a slow kindness, “You been workin’ hard out here. Makes a man proud to see a young fella puttin’ in honest sweat.”
I shift, hands still on the pitchfork, tryin’ not to let the compliment get under my skin too much. “I do my best, sir.”
“You ever think ’bout comin’ by the church on a Sunday? I don’t see you much. We got a good crowd and I’m always lookin’ for someone with a steady hand to help with the grounds. And maybe, if you’re up for it, there’s a spot on the sound team, playin’ the organ, or runnin’ the mixer.”
I blink, surprised. “Sound team?”
He chuckles, that warm, low sound that fills the barn like sunshine. “Yep. I’ve heard you got a way with machines. And it’s a fine time to keep busy on Sunday mornings without sittin’ in the pew the whole time.”
I shrug, a little wary but flattered. “Maybe.”
Reverend Owens nods, eyes crinkling at the edges. “I’ll save you a spot. If you decide you wanna come ’round, just let me know. Church ain’t what people think ’bout lectures and sermons, it’s a place folks find grace, a little peace.”
I almost say something, but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I nod slow, and he claps me lightly on the shoulder before turning toward the door.
“Don’t be a stranger, Matt.”
Some time passes, and the barn is still thick with the smell of hay and sweat when the door creaks open again. It seems though the Reverend’s prone to visitors, and I ain’t an exception. Abigail steps in, that wild red hair of hers catches the light like it’s catchin’ fire.
She doesn’t even wait to say hello, just saunters right over, eyes fixin’ on me like I’m the only thing in the barn. “Well, if it ain’t the busiest boy on the farm,” she drawls, voice dripping honey, “Workin’ so hard, you might just wear those boots right through.”
I keep shufflin’ the straw with my pitchfork, keeping my gaze steady on the floor like I’m caught up in the dust and not her. “I’m the only boy on the farm,” I reply flat, slow, not invitin’ any trouble.
She steps closer, hips swayin’, arms crossed but leanin’ into me a little. “You sure know how to make a girl feel welcome.” She teases as her eyes flick up to mine, sharp as a tack. “I’d say you’re a bit too serious for such a handsome face.”
I swallow hard, none too used to this kinda attention, ’specially from her. “I ain’t much for chattin’,” I say, voice low, hopin’ that’ll put a lid on it.
But she ain’t letting up. Abigail tilts her head, those freckles dancin’ across her cheeks like she’s challenging me without sayin’ a word. “I bet you’ve got a soft spot under all that dirt and hard work.” Her fingers twirl a loose strand of her hair, slow and deliberate. “Maybe you’ll show me.”
I glance over at the far stall where another saddle hangs neat, hear footsteps comin’ down the path before the door swings open again.
Chris is there, all cleaned up in his nicer clothes, looking a little outta place as usual and still carryin’ that same proper demeanor. His eyes find Abigail quick, and with a gentle tug on her elbow, he steers her toward the door like he’s rescuin’ her from getting too comfortable.
“Abbie, we’re going to be late for choir practice,” he says, voice low but firm.
She pouts just a bit, shootin’ me one last look over her shoulder that makes my skin crawl. “Later, cowboy. Maybe I’ll catch you ‘round.”
Chris shoots her a look before the barn door shuts behind them, leavin’ me standin’ with the dust and the faint echo of that fire-red hair still lingering in the air.
I set the pitchfork back in its place and step out into the yard, sun already climbin’ higher, burnin’ the dew clean off the grass. The chickens are fussing in their coop, cluckin’ and scratchin’ like the world might end if they don’t get fed that very minute.
I toss the first scoop of feed, the grain hittin’ the dirt in a soft scatter, and their heads bob quick, beaks workin’ like sewing needles. The barn’s warm, thick with the smell of dry hay and the faint sweetness of last night’s rain steamin’ up off the ground. Somewhere past the tool shed, a burst of laughter cuts through, high and loud, Abigail’s voice, and under it, lower, softer, Chris’s.
It wasn’t hymns I heard, not yet. More like talkin’ in between little fits of laughter, it carries clearer than any singin’ could’ve.
By the time the feed bucket’s empty and their voices quieted some. Abigail came ‘round the side of the house, skirt swayin’, cheeks pink from whatever joke Chris had told. She catches my eye as she passes the coop and sends me a flutter of lashes. The action hittin’ me like she’s tossin’ a stone in a pond that had already gone still. I set the bucket down and figure I’d best go fetch more from the pantry inside, ‘fore the rest of the hens start complainin’.
The house’s cooler than the barn, the air dim and still, with that smell of flour and coffee grounds that never really left.
An abrupt sound stops me. Not the chatter. Not laughter. This is somethin’ else, melodic, low at first, like a hum that’s nursin’ itself into a tune. It rises steady, words I don’t understand rollin’ smooth as creek water.
I follow it down the hall, my steps slow without thinkin’, until I come to the half-open door of Chris’s room.
He’s perched on the edge of his bed, head tilted just a little, eyes closed and a worn book open in his lap. The late light from the window cuts across his face, pickin’ out the curve of his jaw, the rise of his cheek. His lips shape the words like they’ve been born there, some language older than anything I know. Bible words, maybe. The ones I’ve only ever heard in church when the preacher wants to remind folks God don’t speak plain English.
I lean a shoulder to the wall, quiet as I can be, lettin’ the sound wash over me. It’s like the song itself belongs in his bones.
His eyes flick open, catchin’ mine in the sliver of space between the door and the frame.
I clear my throat, sudden and awkward. “Uh, chicken feed.” My hand goes to point at it, only I realize I haven’t even picked it up on my way in.
Chris blinks, then lets out the smallest laugh, one corner of his mouth tuggin’ higher as he shuts the book. He pats the empty space on the bed beside him.
I wave him off, tryin’ for casual. “Nah, I’m just-”
But his smile falters, just enough for somethin’ in my chest to shift. Before I can talk myself out of it, I step in and sit down, the mattress dippin’ under my weight.
“She your girlfriend?” I ask after a beat, not lookin’ at him.
Chris giggles again, head shakin’. “Who, Abigail? God, no.” He lets the words stay there a second before glancin’ at me. “She’s just Abbie. She likes talking to whoever’s standing still long enough to listen.”
I huff a little, the ghost of a grin on my lips. “She’s got a way of makin’ it hard to walk off.”
Chris chuckles low, thumb tappin’ the edge of his book. “Yeah, well… some people like to be seen. I guess I can’t fault her for that.”
I nod, leanin’ forward on my knees. “That what you were doin’ just now? Bein’ seen?”
“No,” he says, smirkin’ a little. “This is practice.”
“For what?”
He shifts, flipping the book closed and setting it on the bed between us. “Choir. Daddy’s having us singing at a revival meeting in a couple months. It’s supposed to be a really big one, some people are driving in from two states over. He says it’s good for bringing in new faces, filling the pews.”
I snort. “You sing to recruit people?”
“All the ones who don’t slip out before the last amen,” he says, grinning. “We’re doing three songs. One’s an old hymn, the other’s something from my mama’s side of the family, and then there’s the psalm I was just singing, I wrote it myself.”
“The weird language?”
“Not weird,” he pouts, mock offended. “Just old. Older than English, even.”
I tilt my head. “What’s it mean?”
Chris shrugs, though his eyes soften. “Something about keeping the sun in your pocket for when the night feels too long, it sounds stupid.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod, lettin’ it sit between us. Chris leans back on his hands, glancin’ toward the window where the last bit of light slides off the sill. “Anyway… I have to be able to sing it without messing up, or Mrs. Kelton will make me stand in the back row again.”
I smirk. “Back row don’t sound so bad.”
“Back row’s where they hide the ones who can’t stay in tune, the only reason I’m not there this year is because I’m the pastor’s son.” He replies, pointing at me. “You’d be back there in a heartbeat.”
I laugh, shovin’ his knee with mine, and he pushes back just enough to make the bed creak.
I clear my throat, standin’ up. “Well. Feed ain’t gonna spread itself.”
He nods, but his eyes follow me all the way to the door. “Hey.”
I glance back, my hand stilling on the doorknob.
“Don’t tell Abigail I called her chatty. She’ll make it her life’s mission to prove both of us right.”
I grin despite myself. “Your secret’s safe.”
Chris smiles, sendin’ me a wave before his eyes drop down to his book again. Then I’m out in the hall, the sound of that old song still trailin’ after me, like a sun in my pocket.
Notes:
hiii i hope u had fun with this chapter lol, just wanted to preface that this story has a lot of references to Christianity and rural church life. i’ve tried my best to research and represent them respectfully, but it is more for the plot and i am not making any statements about faith. that being said, if anything feels off or inaccurate, i'm open to feedback and improving :)
thank you and happy reading!
Chapter Text
When Chris had asked me if I could teach him s’more, I agreed, thinkin’ it wouldn’t be every damn day. That it couldn’t be too hard trainin’ a church boy, he’d probably quit half way.
It’s every goddamn day.
“Are we practicing now?” he asks, all doe-eyed like he don’t hear me mutterin’ under my breath.
I give him a look, leanin’ back against the stall door. “Ain’t that what you’ve been houndin’ me for? Or you just like wastin’ my time?”
His mouth quirks up. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Don’t flatter yourself, I got nothin’ better to do today.”
He laughs, kicking at a clump of dirt with his boot. “I don’t buy that for a second. You just like bossing me around.”
“Bossin’?” I step over to Sunflower, adjusting the saddle straps. “You sittin’ there acting like you been ridin’ all your life, and I’m supposed to fall for that?”
Chris grins, sliding his hands up the reins. “Maybe I like pretending. Makes you more fun.”
I blink at him. “You got a funny way of showin’ it. Ever think I might just dump you off in the hay if you start talkin’ too much?”
“You wouldn’t dare.” he says as he wiggles in the saddle, mock horror on his face.
I shake my head, laughin’, and maybe a little annoyed. “Don’t get too comfortable.”
We ride a little further down the pasture, the evenin’ sun warm but not burnin’ no more. I keep an eye on his hands, his posture, the way he’s gripping the reins. He’s… learning, though I won’t admit it.
I bend down to adjust a strap near the feed trough. My elbow knocks against the Reverend’s old hay hook, and… snap.
I freeze.
Chris leans forward. “Are you okay?”
I stare at the metal bent like it’s makin’ fun of me. “Shit.”
He slides off Sunflower, still a little clunky as he comes over. “What happened?”
“Nothin’.” I respond, too quick, too loud.
Chris narrows his eyes but doesn’t press. I shove the broken hook into a corner, mutter somethin’ under my breath, and start thinkin’ fast. He don’t say another word, just watches me like he already knows I’m stewin’. I turn away, busyin’ myself with the hay bales so he’ll quit looking at me. Chris lingers a while, then finally pets Sunflower goodbye and heads toward the lane, not before giving me a small wave.
Soon as he’s gone, I’m workin’ double-time, pitchin’ hay, sweepin’ out stalls, like maybe if I do enough the Reverend won’t notice that one damned hook gone missing. The man’s been nothin’ but honest towards me, and part of me know that he won’t do me a big misfortune, but the picture of him stompin’ in with a pinched mouth, askin’ who broke it, and why I ain’t careful lays in my head.
I can’t let it get to that.
So I shove the broken iron deeper behind the straw, wash the dirt from my hands as quick as I can, and saddle up my own horse. I’ll ride into town, buy a new hook, and be back before supper. Nobody’ll know.
The sky’s turned into that soft lavender shade, light stretchin’ long across the pasture as I kick Justice into a trot. Crickets are startin’ up already, and the air smells of cut grass and woodsmoke. It should be easy, this ride into town. But my stomach knots tighter with every mile.
By the time I hit Main, lamps are flickerin’ on in the windows, throwing gold across the street. The whole place is filled with fried grease and tobacco, engine oil and dust hangin’ thick in the heat that ain’t quite bled off yet.
First stop’s Moore's Supply, bell over the door gives me away soon as I step in. Roger O’Darrel, behind the counter barely glances up, glasses low on his nose. “Mr. Bernard, pleasure. How can I help ya?”
I give a curt nod. “You got any hay hooks left from the season?”
He scratches his chin, shuffles toward a rack near the back, comes up empty-handed. “Sold the last one two weeks back. Won’t get more till fall shipment.”
My jaw ticks. I thank him, force a polite nod, and walk out.
The second stop’s the hardware store near the feed mill. It’s brighter inside, the smell of oil and iron infiltratin’ my senses. Rows of nails and chains and hammers gleaming in their bins. The woman at the counter smiles, sweet but distracted, tappin’ a pencil against her ledger. I brush my hands off my jeans and gather up my bundles of nerves.
“Hay hooks?” I ask.
“Sure do. Six dollars.”
Six Dollars. For a bent piece of iron. My gut sinks as I shake my head and step back into the dusky street.
By the time I hit Johnson’s General, the sky’s near navy, stars prickin’ through like pinholes in a worn blanket. The place feels hollow, shelves gone patchy, canned goods stacked all uneven, and that old smell of burnt coffee gone stale on the burner.
“Don’t carry them no more,” the shopkeep mutters, voice flat as his paper rustles. “Ain’t the demand. Folks usin’ pitchforks now.”
I swallow hard, my hand curls into a fist against my thigh. Every door I push through, every ‘no’ I get, that knot in my chest pulls tighter. I just stand there, jaw clamped so tight it aches, hand curlin’ into a fist against my thigh. Heat’s crawl’n up my neck, ‘cause that makes three goddamn stops tonight, three dead ends.
“Christ almighty,” I spit, the words grindin’ outta me like gravel. “Son of a-fuckin’ useless, damn near the whole town’s turned to shit.” My voice cracks the stillness, too loud in a place that don’t deserve it, so I shove the door hard enough the golden bell above rattles wild.
Outside, the night air hits sharp, but it don’t cool nothin’. I kick at the ground, boot scuff sparkin’ little clouds of dust. “Busted-ass town, busted-ass job. Can’t even keep a goddamn fence straight without the whole place laughin’ behind my back. Hell. Hell!”
My chest’s a twist, breath heavy like I been running, though I ain’t moved more’n a few yards. The thought of showin’ up back at the Reverend’s empty-handed makes my stomach turn. First month in, and I already look like I can’t handle shit.
I slam my fist against a near truck hood once, the hollow clang echoing mean through the lot. “Fuck!”
I rip an edge of my fingernail and turn my boots toward the only light left in town, neon buzzin’ tired over the diner’s glass. Place looks like it’s been sittin’ there since the thirties, oil stains baked permanent into the linoleum, but it’s open, and that’s all I need right now.
The door sighs when I push through, smell of fried onions and overcooked meat hangin’ heavy. A dog tied by his leach on one of the chairs barks and a couple of old boys in trucker caps glance up at me, then back down. Nobody cares. And that suits me just fine.
I take a booth near the back, slide in, shoulders saggin’. My hand’s aggressive when I fish a cigar outta my jacket pocket, turnin’ it slow between my fingers. I don’t even light it at first, just hold it there, somethin’ solid, somethin’ that ain’t slipping away from me.
By the time I strike the match, flame jumpin’ small and wild, I can almost taste the calm that never quite comes. Smoke swoops lazy toward the ceiling, but my thoughts don’t ease, just circle and circle.
A waitress swings by, pad in hand, her hair tied up high, face tired in that way that don’t leave. “You eatin’, hon?”
I shake my head, voice low. “Don’t want nothin’.”
She shifts her hip, pen tapping the pad. “You can’t just sit here puffin’ smoke. You gotta buy somethin’ to stay.”
I grit my teeth, rollin’ the cigar between my fingers like I could press the temper out of me. “Cheapest thing you got?”
She don’t even blink. “Cup of coffee. Fifty cents.”
“Fine.”
She scribbles it down and moves on, and I’m left sittin’ in the hum of the place. The diner’s more alive in that cracked sort of way, dishes clatterin’ in the sink, someone laughin’ too loud at a corner booth, jukebox croakin’ out an old tune that’s lost most its notes. It’s noisy, but it ain’t comfortin’, just feels like everyone’s rubbin’ elbows with everyone else.
I sit back, cigar lit now, more smoke curling toward the fan that don’t spin right. Let my eyes wander, not lookin’ for nothin’, only takin’ it in. Until it snags on a face I know too familiar.
Chris.
At first, I don’t move. Don’t even blink. He’s sittin’ up front, hair all tidy as usual, shirt pressed clean against his shoulders. There’s a shiny silver watch that looks too big for his frame restin’ on his wrist. He looks outta place in a joint like this.
Two trucker boys lean in on him, real friendly-like. They’re smilin’ wide, laughin’ low, talkin’ sweet while their hands get busy. One nudges Chris’s wallet half out his back pocket, fingers slippin’ smooth, as there ain’t no chance they haven’t done this before.
Chris only smiles, noddin’ along like they’re tellin’ him the damn gospel. Not a lick of sense how they’re makin’ a fool of him.
“C’mon now, preacher’s boy,” one says, toothpick in his mouth, pattin’ his shoulder like they’re old friends. “Oughta buy us a round, bein’ pious and all.”
The other chuckles, thumb flickin’ open Chris’s wallet under the table and then back at him. “God provides, don’t He? Looks like He provided you plenty.”
Chris shifts awkward, voice light as air. “Oh, uh-I’d rather you didn’t…” He trails off, not pushin’, not grabbin’. Just sitting there like a damn doormat, still smiling like an idiot, like maybe if he’s polite enough they’ll give it back.
I slap my forehead and groan.
One of ‘em pulls the whole wallet out, flips it open bold as brass. Chris stammers, his hand twitchin’ forward then pulling back. “Please, uhm, I need that.” His voice don’t carry, just drowns in the noise.
“Aw, don’t get sore, Reverend’s little princess. You know that’s what they call ya?” The trucker winks, waving the cash just outta reach. “Bet Daddy’d tan your hide if he knew you was sittin’ in a place like this.”
A couple folks in the diner chuckle at that, heads shakin’. Chris forces another weak grin, cheeks pink, like he don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I almost catch the corner of his eye.
I let out a short, sharp snort, flicking ash into the tray. “Keep it down,” I mutter, though I ain’t lookin’ their way. “Too goddamn loud.”
The three of their heads swivel toward me.
The wallet slaps shut in one boy’s hand. “What’s it to you, cowboy?” His dark eyes narrow, lip curlin’ mean.
I shrug, blow another stream of smoke their direction. “My paycheck comes outta that thing you’re holdin’. So maybe put it back before you make me late for rent.”
The second boy leans back, grin twistin’. “You work for the good Reverend, huh? Figures. Stable hand’s just the… stable boy.” His voice dips to Chris, oily with something that makes the corner booth snicker. “Bet he keeps ya close, don’t he?”
My hand stills over the cigar as Chris bites his lip. The laugh track from the diner swells, a couple throats clearing like they caught the joke too. Heat hides up the crook of my neck, all the way into my ears.
Slow, I push back from the booth, wood groanin’ under me. “You callin’ me gay?”
The trucker’s tongue slides over his teeth in a disgusting snark as the other boy nudges him by the elbow with the same shit eatin’ grin.
I swing before he even opens his mouth.
My fist cracks into his jaw, sharp, loud, the whisper of blood on my knuckles. Cups rattle, some woman yelps into her napkin.
The other boy swings at me, and I barely dodge. His knuckles scrape my cheek, stingin’ like fire. I shove back, throw again, fists flyin’, a blur of pain, noise, and spit.
Chris stays frozen, standin’ there, hands tight at his sides like he’s carved outta the chaos. I barely see him. My breath, my fury, my heart poundin’. That’s all there is.
Another jab lands to my ribs. I grunt, double over, taste iron and sweat and metallic on my tongue. I swing again, connect with a shoulder. My hands are hot, the blood slick as my forehead stings.
They come at me together, teeth gritted, eyes wide like they done realized the hell they walked into. I twist, duck, shove, arms swingin’ like hammers, chairs screechin’ across the floor, plates clatterin’.
One swift jab hits my stomach. Wind gone. I grunt again, push, punch back. My split knuckle burns and my cheek aches, blood runnin’ down slow, hot. Adrenaline tastes like fire and mud in my throat.
The taller one falters first, stumbling into the booth, clutchin’ it like a lifeline. Face red, eyes wild, gaspin’ for breath. The shorter one hesitates, looking around at the other folks in the diner, some frozen, some snickerin’ quiet.
I shove both of ’em at once. They hit the wall, groaning, arms twitchin’, dazed as hell. I stand over ’em, chest heaving. My hands slick with crimson, lips split, forehead burnin’, heart beat like a county fair drumline. Almost everyone in the diner claps their hands together and raises their drinks.
I let out a ragged exhale, wipe sweat off my face.
“Stay down,” I mutter, before grabbin’ the wad of cash and wallet, slick with red in spots, and shove it into Chris’s hands, his fingers brushin’ mine. He doesn’t say a word, just stares at me, wide-eyed and lips parted.
I don’t wait for more. I turn on my heel and push through the diner door, lettin’ the night take me away.
“Ow, fuck!”
Nick clicks his tongue, rubbin’ the cotton pad over my cheek. “Jesus, boy. You’re gonna turn into a damn pincushion if you keep doin’ shit like this. Stay still.”
I grind my teeth together, lean back against the chair, arms crossed. “Yeah, well maybe I don’t wanna sit still.”
Nick snorts at my childish behavior, rolling his eyes. “Ain’t sittin’ still the least of your problems. Not even three weeks into that job, and here you are lookin’ like you wrestled a bull in the barn and lost.”
I scowl, tryin’ to keep from wincing at the sting of the alcohol. “Well maybe some of us don’t come out perfect like you, huh? Maybe some of us make a few mistakes without gettin’ a damn medal for it.”
He raises a brow, smirk tuggin’ at the corner of his mouth. “Mistakes, huh? You call beatin’ the hell outta two men a mistake?”
“Maybe I do,” I mumble, tone quiet. “Maybe I don’t care about them sissies and I’d do it again.”
Nick leans closer, rubbing slower now, like he’s tryin’ to soothe me without sayin’ it. “Matt… you gotta stop pickin’ other people’s battles. It’s not your duty. Lord knows I’ve tried tellin’ you that.”
I laugh, some pride flarin’ up, some anger. “Yeah, well, I don’t exactly follow instructions real well.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s one way to put it. You think you’re protectin’ folks, but you’re just gettin’ yourself hurt. You and that fiery temper of yours…”
I glance away, jaw tight. “I don’t get the luxury of just sittin’ back and watchin’. I gotta handle things.”
Nick sighs, movin’ back, letting his hand hover for a second before he presses the cotton to my forehead. “Yeah, well, you handle things too much, is all. Reckon you need to learn when to step in and when to step back. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ careful.”
I grumble under my breath, watchin’ him. “Careful don’t put food on the table, Nick.”
He smirks, tippin’ the bottle of alcohol. “Well, lucky for you, careful don’t mean lazy either. You still gotta work your ass off, even if you’re lookin’ like a damn mess.”
I glance at him, somethin’ soft behind that teasing grin. “Yeah, alright. Thanks for patchin’ me up.”
Nick laughs, standing. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m gonna make you sit through some ointment for the rest of the week.”
I groan, but can’t help a crooked smile.
A knock at the door startles me. I glance at Nick, who raises a brow. “Go see who that is,” he smirks.
I drag myself up with a scoff, bruises achin’, and push the door open. Chris is standin’ there, shiny loafers rubbin’ against the dirt, the faint house light catchin’ the edges of his brown hair. He’s got a small, wrapped bundle in one hand.
“I brought dinner,” he says, voice quiet, almost careful. He doesn’t step in. Only stands there, small in the doorway.
Nick tilts his head, still grinnin’, and nods. “Well, come on in then,” he replies.
Chris shuffles in, givin’ me a sidelong glance, and Nick decides his work here is done, slippin’ out with a raised eyebrow. I watch the door click shut, feelin’ that little tension coil in the pit of my stomach.
He shifts his weight, fingers fidgetin’ with the bundle. “I… I wanted to… I want to say I’m sorry,” he blurts, eyes down. “For, you know… everything.”
I blink at him, confused. “Uh, it’s alright,” I mumble, unsure why he’s even here, how he got a hold of my address.
Chris hesitates, then babbles, “I wasn’t even supposed to be in town, actually. But… I went… because-” His words tumble, messy, like he’s trying to cram too much into one breath.
He stops, swallows, then digs into the bundle and pulls out a brand new hay hook, the one I’ve been huntin’ all over town. It’s got a brown handle with silver linin’, and sure as hell cost a penny.
“I got it,” he adds, voice small, hands shaking a bit. “I bought it, I mean.”
I nudge my chin, put my bruised hands in my pockets. “You wanna come up?”
Chris looks up, nods.
I lead him to my room, the door creakin’ as I shove it open. It’s a mess, clothes scattered ‘cross the floor and books piled high on the nightstand. A single lamp casts a warm glow, makin’ the shadows dance on the walls.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, the springs groanin’ under my weight. I’m ‘bout to tell Chris to sit when he starts rummagin’ through the brown bag, his hands movin’ quick and nervous.
“I told Daddy you weren’t feeling well,” he says, his voice soft and gentle. He fumbles with somethin’ in the bag, and before I can react, a fork clatters to the floor, slidin’ under my wooden dresser. I haven’t seen him this jumpy since well, ever.
“Shoot,” Chris mumbles, droppin’ to his knees and crawlin’ under the dresser. I watch as his backside wiggles, and I look away with a cough.
When he emerges, he bumps his head on the dresser, and I cringe, hearin’ the loud thud.
“How many times have I done this in front of you?” Chris laughs, rubbin’ the back of his head. He’s crouched closer than I realized, his face mere inches from my knees. I can see the sparkle in his blue eyes, the way they swim with a mix of embarrassment and somethin’ else.
His soft brown hair falls over his forehead, his teeth pinchin’ his bottom lip. His eyes are now opened wider, like they were at the diner, and his brows are furrowed. There’s a mix of curiosity and nervousness in his expression, a flush of harsher than usual pink adorned on his cheeks that makes my chest tighten.
And-oh.
Oh.
Chris’s eyes dart back from my crotch then back at me. He clears his throat, cheeks blushin’ harder. “Sorry-”
Fumblin’ with my zipper, I drag it down as fast as I can, my hands shakin’ as I do.
I push his head down.
Chris’s plush lips wrap around me, and I let out a low groan, my head fallin’ back. His tongue swirls on my tip, giving me a few little kitten licks. I grab the back of his hair and sink into him further, gruntin’ as I do.
His eyes water as I push him midway, then all the way to my base, so his nose is pressed up on my pelvis. He chokes and sputters but doesn’t stop, his tongue wet with drool that slides onto my skin. His lips are like heat suctionin’ my stiff length. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he whimpers and gags on my cock.
I moan, my hips buckin’ involuntarily. I reach down, tanglin’ my fingers in Chris’s waves, guidin’ him. He takes me in deeper, his cheeks hollowin’ out as his throat clenches again. My vision blurs, and I can feel the pressure coilin’ tight in my abdomen.
“Fuck-”
I can’t hold back anymore, I come with a low cry, my body shakin’ like electricity. Chris swallows, his eyes never leavin’ my face. A trail of saliva stretches from his lips to my cock as he pulls back, his breath comin’ in quick, shallow gasps.
Chris’s cheeks are still flushed and his eyes are glazed over like glass. His swollen lips are covered in a sheen of wetness that make them look red. He looks back up at me, his hair disheveled and sticking to his forehead. His shoulders are trembling a little as his hands steady on my thighs.
I yank my boxers and pants back into place, zip them up, and leave.
Notes:
i had smmm fun writing this chapter, and just if you aren't aware, there will be a lot of intimacy scenes in this fic so if you are uncomfy with that feel free to scroll until they're over <3
love u cuties!
Chapter 4: Halo of the Dark
Chapter Text
The bruise runs dark along my jaw, a sick shade of purple and green that no wash of cold water could dull. I feel it swellin’, tight and hot. Every time I chew, or even try to set my teeth right, it flares up sharp, like a match struck under the skin.
I sit hunched at the counter with Nick behind it, Marvin and Dick on my right, already half a bottle ahead of me. Marvin’s laughin’ so hard at his own joke he near spit his drink down his shirt, belly shakin’ like the hogs in the pen. Old Dick ain’t any better, squintin’ at me over his glass with that red nose of his, always ready to throw in somethin’ smart.
“Boy looks like he went a round with the fencepost,” Dick snorted, noddin’ at the bruise still painted on my jaw.
“Fencepost won,” Marvin wheezed, slappin’ the bar.
They both crack up and I tip my glass slow, lettin’ the beer burn down my throat, pretendin’ I didn’t hear.
Nick cuts his eyes at me, the only one not laughin’. He never was much for joinin’ in with Dick and Marvin’s nonsense. I like to tell myself it’s ‘cause he thinks he’s too good for this town, but he probably is. He leans back on the shelves; boots hooked on the rail and rag thrown over his shoulder.
“You walk in here with that face, course they’re gonna bite,” he says, sliding a glass down the counter. “You oughta loosen up a little, Matt.”
I swallow slow, temple throbbin’ like the damn thing wanted to split open. He’s right. I hate it, but he’s right.
I needed to get laid. Yesterday.
“For once you agreein’ with me,” Nick teases, smirkin’ like he caught me thinkin’. He leans closer, voice dropping. “Ain’t like you don’t got options. May’s been starin’ at you since you walked in.”
My eyes flick toward the end of the bar where she sat, dress hiked a little too high on her thigh, glass twirlin’ in her hand. Sure enough, she looks back when I catch her.
Nick chuckles low. “Told ya.”
Miss May doesn’t bother hidin’ it after that. Every time I look up, she’s already lookin’ my way, lips wrapping lazy around the rim of her glass, eyes draggin’ over me like she knew I’d break first. It didn’t take long before she slides off her stool, heels clickin’ against the scuffed floorboards. She comes right up beside me, leanin’ her arm on the bar like she owns the place.
“Well ain’t this a rare sightin’, you hardly notice me anymore.” She drawls, voice sweet but cuttin’. Then she tilted her head, lashes low. “Would you be a gentleman and help a lady out with the cases in the back?”
I let my eyes trail over her, slow, then tip my chin toward the narrow corridor leading to the bathroom.
“Reckon I got a minute to spare.”
The bathroom door had barely swung shut before I knew I’d regret it. Didn’t matter how tight she pressed against me, or how her nails bit down my shoulders, or how her giggles echoed off the tile like we’d done somethin’ worth laughin’ about. My hands had been on her, my body in hers, but my head was somewhere else.
By the time I step outside, the evening’s already leanin’ heavy toward night. I feel dirty all over again. I cinch my belt, tug my shirt straight, and whistle low for Justice. The old geldin’ paws at the dirt, tail switchin’, like he knows I’m restless.
The ride home is quiet ‘cept for the rhythm of hooves hittin’ gravel, the weight of May’s perfume still clingy on my collar, turnin’ my stomach more than it stirs me. The bruise on my jaw throbs with every jolt of the saddle, hot and mean, like a reminder I can’t shake.
I should be feeling better.
When I finally arrive, slower than usual, the barn light cuts through the dark before I’m ready for it. Reverend Owens is standin’ stiff by the fence post, hat low, arms folded. The way he looks at me ain’t no preacher’s kindness anymore.
My gut twists sharp. He must’ve said somethin’, must’ve run straight home and told his daddy what a horrible man I am. How I put hands where I shouldn’t, thought things no God-fearin’ boy should ever think.
The thought chews me raw, every breath heavier than the last. I can already see it, black mark on my name, uncle turnin’ his back on me, Reverend Owens draggin’ me up by the collar and lettin’ the whole congregation spit on me. I’ll be banished or worse-
“Son,” he says, voice even, though his eyes land square on my jaw. “You’ve been missin’ church.”
I blink, a breath I didn’t know I was holdin’ escaping my mouth. I slide down off Justice, boots hittin’ the dirt, clunky. I wipe my palms down my pants, try to look him in the eye. “Been workin’, Reverend. Long hours. You know how it is.”
He studies me, the corners of his mouth set tight. “It would do you good to be in the Lord’s house. Soften a man’s spirit, give him somethin’ clean to carry.”
I nod, polite as I can manage, but inside I feel that twistin’ pull. The words clang around in me like loose nails.
“I got a different job for you today.” His voice cuts through, hard as a whip. “No more groomin’ horses. You take the goats out onto the field. They’ve been penned too long, need stretchin’.”
I hitch a nod, jaw lockin’ up so tight it hurts. “Yes, sir.”
He don’t move, don’t soothe, only stands there with that weighty stare, and I can feel it draggin’ on my back as I turn. I whistle sharp, Justice’s ears flickin’ before he falls into step behind me. The goats come bleatin’ wild from their pen, a tangled mess of horns and hides, ropes cuttin’ hot against my hands as I wrangle them into some half-order.
The Reverend’s still watchin’ when I glance back once, like he can see straight through my skin. My face burns, and I jerk my head forward again, leadin’ the herd out onto the trail.
Dust kicks up quick, clingin’ to my boots and pants, paintin’ me in the same dirt I can’t ever seem to wash off. The goats jostle each other, snappin’ at tufts of grass, and I swear the clatter of their hooves sounds like judgment chasin’ me down.
By the time the trees start to thin, I’m sweatin’ clean through my shirt. The sunset spills sudden and blinding, and there it is, the river, stretchin’ wide and restless, stones scatterin’ the bank like a trail God laid Himself. The water catches the sky, flashes silver bright, and for a second I almost believe it could wash somethin’ outta me.
The goats scatter easy, bendin’ their heads into the grass, bleats soft against the churn of water. I drop the ropes, let my hands fall heavy at my sides. Justice flicks his tail, nudges at my shoulder.
There’s movement on the stones, a figure balanced against the light, and it’s him.
Chris is out there, balanced easy. It’s ironic how leisurely he is on tiny rocks but not sittin’ on a horse. He don’t notice me, not yet. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, hair fallin’ in his face, the last of the sun paintin’ him gold around his cheekbones. He moves careful, reachin’ his hands slow through the air, like he’s tryin’ to catch the light itself. Takes me a moment to see what he’s after.
The fireflies are out thick tonight, over the water in slow sparks, blinkin’ in and out like heaven forgot to keep its stars up high. He lifts his palms, closes them soft around one, and when he peeks inside, that glow flickers warm against his face. Chris smiles, wide, real. The kind of smile that makes a hard twist under my ribs.
Lord help me.
I shouldn’t be watchin’. I should turn away, tend to the goats, keep my eyes on the dirt. But I stand there like I’m caught.
He opens his hands, lets the firefly loose, and it flies right back into the air, light blinkin’ off toward the trees. Chris watches it go, head tilted, hair fallin’ into his eyes. Then he looks up, and his gaze lands square on me.
For a breath, I almost turn back, hand tight on Justice’s reins. But my shoes hit the ground before I can stop myself, carryin’ me closer to the water.
He stands steady on the stones, river pushin’ at his ankles, he doesn’t lift his head.
“In spring, the river rises clean over the bank. Fast, too, it’ll take the fence if you aren’t careful. But you already know that, don’t you?”
I clear my throat, noddin’ once. “Hard to picture, lookin’ at it now.”
Chris shifts, his eyes trailin’ after the current. “That’s because it’s summer, the water’s low. It’s the same reason the fireflies come out, they like it warm.”
My gaze shoots back to the sparks over the water, hoverin’ in slow. “You learn that in Sunday school?”
He huffs quiet, shakes his head. “Just from watching.”
The goats fuss in the grass behind me, but I don’t turn. Chris shifts sudden, bendin’ at the knees before jumpin’ down from the stone. Water splashes up, darkenin’ the cuffs of his pants, clingy and heavy the way they’d been before. He don’t seem to mind, and steps easy toward me, river lickin’ at his boots.
I raise a brow. “You plannin’ on catchin’ your death walkin’ ‘round like that?”
He only grins, reachin’ for my hand. My fingers jerk back on their own.
Something flickers in his face then, quick but sharp. Like a window slammin’ shut. His mouth presses flat, blue eyes dropping down.
So before I can talk myself out of it, I reach out, rough, tug his hand to mine. His palm fits soft against my own, and the feel of it near undoes me.
He smiles and pulls me gentle toward the rocks. My boots slosh in the shallows, water climbin’ up past the leather, cold bite rushin’ through my socks. First stone I step on wobbles under me, near sends me sideways.
“How the hell you do this?” I mutter, arms stiff out like I’m fixin’ to rope the wind.
Chris laughs under his breath, that smile stretchin’ faint in the glow. He lets go of me then, hopscotchin’ to a smaller rock. He holds his hands out, palms open. “Watch me.”
Fireflies float thick over the river, scatterin’ soft light ‘round him like the whole sky bent low just for him. He moves careful, calm. “You gotta relax. Hold out your hands like this. Don’t grab, just wait.”
I’m watchin’ him more than I’m listenin’, the curve of his fingers, his lashes dip low in the dark. While he’s showin’ me, one of the little lights drops right onto his skin, glowin’ gentle against the ridge of his hand.
He tips it toward me, proud. Then he opens his palm and lets it lift, wings catchin’ gold as it disappears into the trees.
I try too, standin’ awkward, palms out. A firefly hovers close and I shift too quick, boot slippin’ slick off the rock. I stumble hard, splashin’ down into the river with a curse. Cold bites sharp up my back.
Chris can’t hold it in, his laugh rings out clean, rich, chest shakin’ with it.
“Glad you findin’ this so funny,” I mumble, grabbin’ his pant leg. His balance tips and the next thing I know, he’s crashin’ down beside me, water sprayin’ up around us.
Now we’re both laughin’, breathless and loud, the sound carryin’ across the river.
Then, a firefly drops slow, landin’ light on my shoulder. Chris notices first, eyes bright as he points.
I jolt like somethin’ stung me. “Shit-”
He smirks, teasing, voice low. “What, you scared of a bug?”
“Fuck you,” I snap back quick, heat risin’ in my face before I can stop it.
His grin falters, softer now. “I was only kidding,” he squeezes the sleeve of his shirt, draining the water from it. “I’m scared of chickens.”
My jaw works. Then I let the corner of my mouth twitch. “Chickens?”
Chris nods, all earnest, though his lips fight a smile. “Yes! The beady little eyes, always staring at you. It’s so creepy.”
A short chuckle escapes me before I can choke it down. “You’re scared of a bird that ain’t taller than your boot?”
“Boots don’t peck,” he shoots back quick, grinning now, hair plastered wet to his forehead.
We slog out of the river, clothes heavy and grabbin’. The grass bends soft beneath us when we fall down side by side, water drippin’ off in the dirt. The air’s humid, but the dampness makes my skin prickle.
Between us, a scatter of smooth black pebbles waits. Chris picks one up, flicks it out across the water. It skips three times, plunks under. I take one too, sendin’ it flat. Mine bounces once and sinks.
“You always come here by yourself?” I ask, watchin’ the ripples fade.
“Yeah,” he says, leanin’ back on his palms, eyes followin’ the glow of the fireflies. “Mostly.”
I glance at him sideways. “Hard to picture a boy like you bein’ alone. Haven’t seen you with anyone ‘sides that redhead.”
A shudder works through me just rememberin’. “She near burnt a hole through my skull.”
Chris laughs, soft and unguarded, and for some reason it makes me want to hear it again. “I don’t have a lot of friends,” he admits, shoulders hunchin’ like he don’t want to say it. “I mean, I do. But they’re mostly more Abbie’s friend’s than mine.”
That knocks me back a little. I don’t know what I was expectin’, but it wasn’t that.
“What about you?” he asks, stone tumblin’ from his fingers.
“What about me?”
“That man at your house. Was he your friend?”
A bark of laughter bursts outta me. “God, no. That’s Nick, my brother. Pops saw how perfect the boy turned out, figured he wanted another one just like him.” I huff, dry as dust. “Only thing is, he got the shitty version instead.”
Chris turns his head then, eyes on me, steady in a way that makes my chest hitch. “I don’t think you’re the shitty version.”
The words settle between us, gentler than they got any right to be. The fireflies blink slow over the river. My stomach knots hard. I shouldn’t be sittin’ here like this. Not with him lookin’ at me like that.
I tear my eyes away, push up off the grass too quick. My palms are dirty, jeans stickin’ to my legs. “I oughta round up the goats,” I grumble. “Get back before it’s late.”
When I glance up, he’s standing too now, frowning faint, confusion written clear on his face. “If this is about… that night at your house-”
My boots stop dead in the grass. The river’s still churnin’, but all I hear is the rush in my ears, high as a whistle. “No.”
He swallows, sentences tumblin’ out, fast and messy. “I’m sorry about that, I don’t know what I was doing. I shouldn’t have-I wasn’t thinking-”
The ringing climbs more, pressin’ against the inside of my skull till I can’t stand it. I spin back just enough, cuttin’ him off flat, colder than I mean to. “Nothin’ happened.”
He freezes, lips still partin’ as if he had more to say that was worth sayin’. His throat bobs once.
“I don’t regret it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I feel the air knock clean outta me. For a moment, I swear I didn’t hear him right. My shoes stay sticking to the dirt, body gone still as the stones under the water. Regret, that’s what I been expectin’, what I been carryin’ around, knot hard and pitiful in my gut like it was carved in. But his words scrape against every nail already rattlin’ in my chest.
I turn back slow, my eyes lockin’ to his. He doesn’t look scared, doesn’t look sorry. Just calm. Patient, even.
Hot slick seeps into my nape, shame sour on my tongue. He should be the one sayin’ it never happened, the one draggin’ us both back into silence where it belongs. But here he is, standin’ there with wet cuffs at his ankles. That smile he wore on those river stones still flickers behind my eyes, and all I can think is how easy it’d be to let it swallow me.
My stomach turns. I shouldn’t even be listenin’. Oughta walk off, call it foolishness, leave him in the dark where he belongs. But I don’t, and my feet hold.
The guilt gnaws deep, sharper than anything Reverend Owens could preach, and I push it down the only way I know how.
“Look…” My voice is hard, like gravel in my throat. “It don’t gotta mean nothin’. If that’s what you want.”
The river hushes, fireflies blink lazy between us. My jaw works as I force the next part out, each one heavy as a stone I don’t wanna carry. “If it stays just what it is, no strings, no talk-” I pause, swallow hard. “-then it wouldn’t matter. Right?”
I search his face for an answer, for judgment, for anything. But his expression won’t give. Shadows cling to his eyes, mouth twitchin’.
Finally, he nods once. “Okay.”
My pulse drums wild, but I shove my hands into my pockets, tryin’ to anchor myself in the motion. “But I’m not-”
“’s fine. Me neither.”
“Good,” I say.
Chris doesn’t move right away, he stands there wet and still, like the fireflies might light him better than the moon ever could.
The goats are restless in the grass behind us, knockin’ horns soft, bleatin’ low. Justice paws at the dirt, ears flickin’, tail swishin’ at flies that don’t let up, his patience thinner than mine. And the river continues to roll quiet, silver breakin’ against the stones. I drag my gaze from him at last, chest as tangled as a lasso.
No strings attached.
Notes:
thank u for reading cutiesss xx and know that you are important and loved and i appreciate u 🫶
Chapter 5: The Devil Rides Shotgun
Notes:
was just made aware that some of u weren't aware of my posting schedule (completely my fault im so sorry 😭) i update at around 7:30-8:30!
i know i say this every time but this is one of my fav chapters teehehe
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
I set the last hoe against the shed wall, wood clappin’ back with a hollow thud. Tools all in their places now, the shed waftin’ of dust and old iron. The day’s work finished earlier than I’d planned, and that leaves me a whole hour till supper. Ain’t often I get time stretched out like that. So it can’t help but feel a little strange, standin’ here with nothin’ weighin’ on my hands.
I step out, boots hittin’ dirt soft, the air heavy with that late-evenin’ stillness. The sun’s slid low enough to cast everything in bronze, shadows long across the fields. My eyes drift without thinkin’, sweepin’ over the Reverend’s house, then catch sudden on the upstairs window.
There’s steam. Foggin’ the glass, thick and white like the whole room’s breathin’.
I stop right there.
Chris’s standin’ in the shower, back turned to me, water pourin’ down in a steady sheet. His spine dips soft and clean, every ridge glistenin’ in the light that manages to slip through. Soap foams high across his shoulders, rolls slow down his ribs, gathers at the small of his back before slidin’ lower. The steam rises all round him, curlin’ and twistin’ like smoke off a fire, half-hidin’, half-showin’.
I grip the gloves still in my hand tighter, leather pressin’ against my palm. I know I ought to look away, but my eyes don’t listen.
He tips his head back, runs his hands through his hair, and the motion pulls every line of muscle taut. His hips shift with the movement, easy, careless. The soap trails bright across him, and my mouth goes dry as dust.
I stay fixed, heart thuddin’ hard enough I swear it rattles my teeth.
He turns.
It’s not all the way, just enough that his eyes find mine through the blur of fog.
I freeze. Breath sticks in my throat, readyin’ for the slam of the curtain, the curse, the look that’ll cut me down where I stand.
But he doesn’t.
Chris smiles, slow and lopsided. Like he knows every thought churnin’ in me. He pushes the latch, swings the window open. The humid air spills out in a rush, heavy, warm, soap and heat hittin’ me even from the yard. He turns back to the water, shoulders flexin’ as he goes on washin’.
I stand there too long, longer than I ought. Till my jeans feel tighter and my face burns hot enough I’m sure somebody could spot it from the road. I wrench myself away, shoes bitin’ hard at the ground, and march toward the house.
By the time the bell clangs for supper, I’ve scrubbed my hands raw at the pump, but it don’t rinse near enough of the heat off me.
We gather ‘round the long pine table, plates already filled with biscuits, beans, and a roast that smells so good my stomach’s growlin’. It’s gotta be one of the best parts of workin’ for the pastor, among other things. Reverend Owens sits at the head, napkin tucked proper in his collar. He bows his head and says grace slow and steady, every word like it’s carved in stone. I keep my eyes shut, hands folded, tryin’ to keep my thoughts holy. But when the “Amen” leaves his lips and I look up, Chris is slidin’ into the chair across from me, hair still wet from the shower.
It’s drippin’ down in lazy rivulets, soakin’ dark into his collar. A bead runs straight from the curl at his temple down the side of his neck and vanishes under his shirt. I choke down air and stab a fork in my beans too hard.
“Now, Brother Miller,” Reverend Owens begins, drawlin’ my name like we’re old friends, “you mark my words, that no-good Mr. Harlan’s fixin’ to stir trouble again. Man’s on the committee just so he can hear his own voice. Wants the revival tent moved closer to the road, says it’ll ‘draw more eyes.’ Eyes! Lord knows what kind of eyes he’s hopin’ for. I tell you, it’s vanity. Pure vanity.”
I nod, swallow, try to act like I’m listenin’. “Reckon you’re right, Reverend. Don’t seem proper to be makin’ God’s house a spectacle.”
“That’s exactly it,” he says, leanin’ in, pleased. “Faith ought to be simple, humble. Not somethin’ for show. But men like Harlan… well, they’ve always got an angle.”
I chew slow, hummin’ agreement, though half my brain’s nowhere near Harlan or his angles. It’s caught on the water darkenin’ Chris’s collar, the way his shirt clings just faint at his chest, and I’m bitin’ my tongue near bloody tryin’ not to look.
Then Chris clears his throat. “So, Daddy-”
Reverend Owens looks up, brows raised.
“Abbie and I finished all our Sunday school prep this morning,” Chris continues, words practiced, casual, like he’s been waitin’ his moment. “So I was wondering… would it be alright if we went down to the drive-in tonight?”
The Reverend blinks. “Drive-in?”
“Yeah,” Chris smiles that charm-smile of his, the one that softens his whole face. “They’re showin’ Pollyanna. It’s Disney, nothing bad in it. I swear.”
My fork stills on my plate. Pollyanna. A children’s picture, sweet and simple as pie. I glance at Chris over the roast platter, one brow itchin’ to climb. He catches my look, quick, and his grin twitches wider, like he knows I don’t buy it.
“It’s past seven already,” Reverend Owens says, settlin’ back. “And I’ve no great favor for motion pictures, you know that. All manner of foolishness in them.”
Chris leans an elbow against the table, voice dipped just shy of sulky. “Yes, I know. But this one’s different. And Abbie’s been asking all week.”
I can’t help but watch him argue, not with defiance, but with this soft persistence. What catches me though is the fact of it, eighteen, near nineteen, and still havin’ to bow his head and ask his daddy like a boy half his age.
“What if…” Chris shifts in his seat, eyes flickin’ quick toward me. “What if I brought Matt with me? You trust him.”
The Reverend’s gaze slides my way, steady and weighin’. “That so?”
My mouth goes moist. For a second I don’t catch what he’s askin’, don’t quite believe Chris just threw me into the deal. I look back at Chris, and his eyes are on me now, wide and subtly pleading, like this little freedom hinges on me alone.
I clear my throat, swallow down a lump of biscuit too big, near choke myself. “Yes, sir,” I reply, voice rough. “Don’t see no harm in it.”
Chris’s smile lights fast, quick as a match strike. Satisfaction flickers in his eyes before he drops them back to his plate, hidin’ it in a bite of bread.
I stab another bean with my fork, shiftin’ in my chair, wonderin’ just what I’ve agreed to.
By the time the dishes are cleared, and Reverend’s settled into his armchair with the Good Book, I slip back out to the yard. The sun’s near gone now, sky burnin’ orange low on the horizon. I lead Justice from the stall, his dark coat gleamin’ in the half-light, breath puffin’ white in the coolin’ air. I’m cinchin’ up the saddle, checkin’ straps careful, when loafers scuff on the dirt behind me.
“There you are!”
I glance up. Chris’s standin’ there in his good shirt, sleeves fallin’, hair still damp at the ends, dark waves stickin’ to his neck.
“I was looking all over for you,” he says, comin’ closer, hand slidin’ along Justice’s neck. The horse leans into it, snufflin’ soft. “What are you doing?”
“Gettin’ ready,” I respond, tugging the strap tighter.
Chris blinks, confused. Then it hits him, and his mouth quirks. He lets out a giggle, though he tries to cover it up politely after. “Uhm, there’s no need for that. It’s a drive-in.”
Before I can ask, he fishes somethin’ from his pocket and tosses it my way. Metal catches the last of the light, keys.
I catch ‘em clumsy, near drop ‘em in the dirt. “What-?”
“Daddy’s car.” Chris grins, proud of himself. “We’re taking that.”
I stare at the keys, heavy in my palm. “You sure he’s alright with that?”
“Of course.” Chris runs his hand down Justice’s nose, tender, then steps back. “You think he would let me ride into town on a horse at night? I think I would never see the light outside my room again.”
I rub the back of my neck, feelin’ heat crawl up my throat. The Reverend’s car. Expensive, shiny, sittin’ in the shed like it don’t belong to any dirt road I’ve ever known. A ’59 Cadillac Coupe de Ville, cream paint, tailfins sharp as knives. Whole thing looks like it’d belong more to a senator than a preacher.
And I’m the one meant to drive it.
The engine purrs when I turn the key, deep and smooth. Chris sits in the passenger seat, window rolled down, elbow propped. His shirt collar’s still stained where it’d caught the shower, and every now and then he runs a hand through his hair, brown strands catchin’ the wind.
I grip the wheel like it might buck me off if I let go. My eyes are glued on the road, though I feel him there beside me, every laugh and shift of his leg thrumming louder than the buzz of the tires.
When we roll into the gravel lot, it’s near full dark. Cars packed tight row after row, tailfins and chrome catchin’ glints off the tall floodlights. The big white screen stands high at the front, projector beam cuttin’ through the night, bugs dancin’ in the light like sparks.
I ease the Cadillac into an open space near the middle, woodchips crunchin’ under the tires.
On the screen, ain’t Pollyanna like Chris swore. It’s Elizabeth Taylor, sharp-eyed and glarin’, voice ringin’ through the tinny speakers clipped to car windows. I squint as I take a look, BUterfield 8. My forehead crinkles as I cringe, it’s too much for Sunday school children, that’s for damn sure.
“That don’t look like Disney.”
Chris presses his lips together, tryin’ not to laugh, sheepish smile tuggin’ through anyway. “Yeah, I might’ve bent the truth a little. I hope you don’t mind.”
I cough into my hand, movin’ in the seat, eyes going back to the screen where Taylor’s draped in satin sheets. “It’s fine. I like… whatever this is.”
His expression lingers, soft and happy all at once. “Good. I thought you might.”
A sharp thwack rattles the glass by my ear. I jolt so hard the steerin’ wheel jerks, near slam my knee on the dash.
“Hey!”
Abigail’s face beams in from the driver’s side, palms smacking the window again just for fun. She wiggles her fingers and bursts into laughter.
Chris perks up, grinnin’. “Abbie!” He fumbles with his door handle quick, excitement rollin’ off him quick.
Meanwhile Abigail bends low, elbow braced on the window frame, her chin resting in her hand as her green eyes cut over me. “Well, Reverend’s boy sure knows how to pick company tonight.” Her smile curves slow, lingerin’ on my face longer than polite. “You clean up nice, Matthew.”
I blink, throat thick, not sure what to do with my hands. “Uh-thank you, ma’am.”
Chris groans loud, already halfway out the car. “Could you maybe not flirt with my-” He breaks off, shoots her a look that is a sad attempt to be intimidatin’. “Seriously, stop.”
Abigail just laughs again, high and musical, straightenin’ up. “Oh, lighten up, peach. I’m just sayin’ hello.” She tips her head toward the lot. “C’mon, the movie already started.”
Chris shuts his door, and I scramble out mine, heart still knockin’ too fast from the window smack.
“Where we goin’?” I mumble, fallin’ in step beside him as we walk.
“You’ll see,” he answers, with no more than a little pink on his cheeks.
We weave through rows of cars, projector beam slicin’ the dark above us. The air’s thick with cigarette smoke, buttered popcorn, perfume driftin’ from open windows. Then Chris slows, noddin’ ahead.
It’s one of them open-roof convertibles, big and bold, fins gleamin’ in the projector’s glow. Abigail’s perched right on the trunk like she owns it, ankles crossed dainty in white sandals, one hand high in a wave. Two others sit inside, a broad-shouldered boy slouched in the driver’s seat, his arm stretched casual along the back, and a girl with a scarf tied neat around her hair, laughin’ at somethin’ he just said.
“Over here!” Abigail calls, patting the space beside her.
I watch Chris stride forward, shoulders loose, sliding easy into their circle. The boy in the car claps him on the back, the girl leans in close to say somethin’, Abigail beams.
I hang back a second, starin’. Never in a hundred years would I have pictured him like this. Reverend Owens’s son, the quiet boy I pegged who couldn’t even stand up to a couple of thieves, hangin’ with this crowd. It doesn’t feel right. But I shouldn’t be surprised. Not after the things we’ve already done, and what he already did.
Chris glances back, catches me stallin’ in the shadows. “C’mon, Matt,” he encourages. “Don’t stand off by yourself.”
So I step forward, till I’m right up beside the car.
Chris tips his head toward me. “This is Matthew. He’s been workin’ at the barn, and he’s really good with horses.”
The boy in the driver’s seat sits up straighter, smirkin’ wide. His hair slicked back neat, a white tee stretched tight across his chest. “Clyde Mercer,” he responds. “Nice to meet ya. Didn’t figure Chris for bringin’ his work out with him, but hey-I like it.”
My face burns red as Chris leans closer to me and whispers in my ear. “Just ignore him.”
The girl at his side leans forward then, blonde hair fallin’ in a soft wave beneath her purple headband, bangs neat. “I’m Luanne,” she offers, sweet drawl fallin’ off her tongue.
“And I’m still Abigail,” Abigail pipes up from the trunk, kickin’ her heels against the chrome. “But y’all knew that.”
Chris lowers himself onto the bumper beside her. He pats the empty spot next to him, gentle but sure.
I follow again, metal warm under me, projector light cuttin’ across our faces in quick flashes.
“So,” Clyde continues, leanin’ back deep in the driver’s seat, arm slung across Luanne’s shoulders like he owns her. “What’s it like, sleepin’ under the Reverend’s roof? Must feel strange. You know, bein’ who you are.”
The words slip out slick, sharp as a tack dressed in honey.
Luanne bats at him with a laugh, bangs bouncing under her head accessory. “Clyde, hush. Don’t be ugly.”
“I ain’t ugly,” Clyde protests, grinnin’ wide enough to show teeth. “I’m just sayin’. Man don’t look like he belongs sittin’ at the Reverend’s table, breakin’ biscuits with the family. Bet the air conditioner is a blessin’ for ya.”
My forked nerves prickle. I don’t answer him, don’t trust myself to. It ain’t the words alone, it’s the way he says ‘em, like I’m some stray dog lucky to’ve been let inside.
Chris shifts, his shoulder barely touchin’ mine on the bumper. Not a word from him, just a glance, small, quick, like he knows exactly where the jab landed.
On the screen, Elizabeth Taylor rolls across silk sheets again, cigarette smoke curling round her head like a crown. Her voice cracks clear through the night air, “I was the slut of all time.” The crowd hoots here and there, whistles piercing the summer dark.
I look back at Chris. His lashes catch the flicker of light, his profile delicate as usual, lips set thoughtful as he presses them together.
“Hey, Matt.” Clyde pops his lips around the phrase. “Why don’t you fetch us some popcorn?”
“Yeah,” I grumble, standin’ before he can twist it deeper. It hits like a command more than a favor.
I head for the gravel lanes, shoulders stiff as I trudge through the lanes, hands in my pockets. Why did I c’mere again?
“I thought I’d help you carry,” a voice jumps in. Chris steps in behind me voice light, an attempt at casual.
Right.
He beams at me like he didn’t just watch me get sent off like a servant. But I don’t argue.
The concession stand glows bright ahead, a square of buzzin’ light, friends and couples lined up in front. Grease and butter hang in the air, sweet with melted sugar. I walk closer, and my stomach knots.
Behind the counter, are two men that I recognize all too well.
The same bastards I laid out in the diner. Their faces are healed now, but I can still see the shadows of what I left, one man’s eye a little swollen, the other with a dull scar just under his lip. They see me, too and their shit-eating grin spreads wide.
“Well, well,” the taller one drawls, pushin’ forward on the counter. “If it ain’t the famous cowboy. Look at that face, almost didn’t recognize ya without the blood on your fists.”
Chris freezes up beside me, quiet, his arms drawn in like he could make himself smaller. The other man slides a striped bag across the counter, slow and tauntin’. “On the house. For old times’ sake.”
I don’t move. Just stare as my jaw grinds.
The taller one smirks, head cocked. “Don’t reckon we introduced ourselves last time.” His voice is syrupy, thick as a South Georgia cliché. He straightens, dustin’ his hands together, proud as a rooster. “Name’s Monty Miller. This here’s my brother, Dale.”
Miller.
It hits like a hammer to the ribs. Everybody in these parts knows the Miller's. Their daddy owns near half the cotton fields south of town, got men sweatin’ under him sunup to sundown. Their mama hosts every church social worth attendin’, silver set always gleamin’ like she stole it from Savannah itself. Hell, the Reverend was complainin’ bout them rules a few hours ago. It’s ironic that regardless of their status, they stoop low as a snake’s belly no matter how much money is in their pockets.
Monty leans toward us again, smug. “Our folks, good God-fearin’ people, always taught us manners. Always taught us to give our names proper.” He nods at me like he’s grantin’ a favor. “Now you know who it was you laid your dirty hands on.”
Dale chuckles low, voice scratchin’. “And who it is you’ll answer to if you ever try it again.”
The bag crinkles in my hand as I take it, knuckles white. My heart thuds, but I don’t give ‘em the pleasure of seein’ me flinch.
Then, with one little flick of his fingers, Monty tips the sack upside down. Popcorn spills like pale teeth scatterin’ across the gravel, butter seepin’ in dark stains. He lets out a laugh, rich and mean.
Chris stirs beside me, his lips partin’ like he wants to speak, then shut again. His gaze drops to the ruined bag, shoulders folding smaller still.
“You boys enjoy your picture show,” Dale adds, stretchin’ the words thin. “Don’t let us keep you from your-” His eyes flick to Chris, linger there too long. “Company.”
My grip itches, wantin’ a fight, but I keep my face flat. It’s in the shift of their shoulders, the way Monty rolls his neck like he’s loosin’ up, Dale’s hand slidin’ lazy across the counter’s edge, like they’re both waitin’ for me to twitch. I can feel it, that swell in the air before somethin’ tips, as if watchin’ a bull just before it breaks through the gate. They’d be glad to topple this stand, send popcorn and glass scatterin’, loafers and fists followin’ right after.
Chris shifts beside me, quiet as a rabbit. I catch the edge of his breath, quick, nervous. And all I can think is I ain’t lettin’ him get dragged into this, not my mess.
“On three, we run.”
Chris blinks at me, startled. “What?” His whisper cracks, soft and uncertain.
“One.”
The Miller boys keep talkin’, but I don’t hear the words, just the smugness in ‘em.
“Two.”
Chris hesitates, Adam’s apple bobbin’. His fingers brush mine, quick, a tremor of contact like he’s searchin’ something to hold on to.
“Three.”
I yank his wrist and bolt.
We break into a run, gravel kickin’ under our heels. Shouts erupt behind us, but no hands grab us. We’re too quick, dartin’ between rows of Chevys and Fords, projector light slicin’ white across our backs. Horns honk as we cut too close to bumpers, voices curse, but I don’t stop, and Chris doesn’t let go.
The Reverend’s Cadillac gleams like salvation itself at the edge of the lot, big and polished. Chris wheezes halfway to it, stumblin’ on the loose gravel, but I drag him forward, heart slammin’ against my ribs.
I wrench the door open and near throw him inside, his shirt collar is dry now, hair fallin’ wild across his forehead. “Get in,” I bark, and he does, eyes wide.
The slam of his door ain’t even faded when Monty and Dale catch up. They’re on us quick, fists poundin’ against the glass, faces twisted with fury. Dale spits somethin’ I don’t catch, and Monty’s hand smacks the roof hard enough to make the whole car shudder.
I slide into the driver’s seat, crank the ignition with shaking hands. The engine roars, smooth and deep, all power. I slam it into gear, tires spittin’ gravel as we peel out. My hand shoots high in the rearview, middle finger lifted plain as daylight, and the look on Dale’s face is the last thing I see before we hit the road.
Chris shouts my name, but it ain’t fear, it’s exhilaration. We’re flying down the blacktop, night air rushin’ in through the closed windows, the projector glow shrinkin’ behind us ‘til it’s just another star swallowed by the horizon.
I don’t slow until the lights and voices are long gone. Until it’s just fields stretchin’ wide, crickets loud, moonlight silverin’ the tall grass. I pull the Cadillac onto a dirt shoulder and cut the engine.
Only then do I let the breath out of me, ragged and long. My knuckles are cotton-white again against the wheel, and when I finally turn my head, Chris is already lookin’ back at me. His chest rises sharp, cheeks flushed and crimson.
Then, he giggles. Small at first, then it tumbles out bigger, brighter, till he’s laughin’ outright. It’s contagious, so much so that it hits me in the gut, until I’m laughin’ too, bent over the wheel.
“Are you-” I choke out, still breathless. “You okay?”
Chris wipes at his eye with the heel of his hand, still smilin’ so hard it hurts to look at. “That was insane,” he manages, voice warm, almost proper, the city edges of him peeking through. “Absolutely mad.”
I’m still chucklin’ a bit, chest heaving, when he moves in his seat, like he can’t sit still from all that leftover adrenaline. Then he tugs at his pocket, sheepish, and pulls out a crinkled paper sack no bigger than his fist.
I blink. “Is that…?”
“Popcorn.” He shrugs, holdin’ it up between two fingers, guilty smile quirkin’. “While Monty and Dale were chewing you up, I…might’ve slid it off the counter. Don’t worry.” He shakes it like a magician showin’ his trick. “I left the money there.”
I let out a snort that startles even me. “You’re outta your damn mind.”
“I guess it runs in the family.” His grin softens, proud he got me to laugh. He tears open the bag, salt and butter driftin’ up rich. “Share with me?”
So we sit there in the dark, passin’ the sack between us, eatin’ in silence, only the rustle of paper crickets keepin’ us company. The night’s so still it feels euphoric.
Chris clears his throat. “I’m sorry. Again.”
I turn, cheek stuffed with kernels, brows liftin’. “For what?”
His eyes fall down, lashes fluttering. His hand drums restless against the door, then stops, then starts again. “Clyde making fun of you. He-he shouldn’t have, and I didn’t stop him.” His voice is low, ashamed.
I swallow, lookin’ at him.
“I’ve never actually been to a drive-in before,” he admits. “Not without Daddy. And that movie…” He shakes his head, nose scrunchin’, embarrassed. “I couldn’t sit through it. So I followed you out, Matt. I only-I only said it ‘cause I thought it might…” He stops, bites his bottom lip hard, eyes squeezin’ shut for half a breath before he says it. “Impress you.”
It hits me slow. I thought he was settlin’ into a crowd I’d never belong in, but the truth’s sittin’ right here in front of me.
The moonlight cuts across his face, catchin’ the glimmer in his cheeks. His shirt’s rumpled, collar turned soft from my grip earlier. His mouth’s still wet and shiny from bitin’ at his lip, and I swear I could drown in that sight.
“You apologize too much for things that aren’t your fault.”
Chris lets out a tiny huff, almost a laugh. “Sorry-” He cuts himself off, lips curvin’ in that shy way of his.
The popcorn bag slips from my lap, forgotten. And the dark hums around us, thick and alive, but all I hear is the quick hitch of his breath.
I tilt closer across the seats, eyes on his mouth, murmuring into his ear. “Why don’t you let me do the talkin’ for once?”
Chris’s eyes fly back up to me, wide and searching. His cheeks flush just faintly, and I catch that sharp hitch in his breath, small and almost inaudible, before I act.
In a swift motion, I push Chris down onto the leather seat of the Cadillac, my hands rough and demandin’. He gasps, his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and anticipation. I can see the innocence in his gaze, the slight tremor of his lips as he tries to form words, but I silence him with a grunt, my mouth already waterin’ for what's to come.
My hands roam over his body, explorin’ every curve and contour with a hunger I didn’t know I had. I grab the waistband of his underwear and pants, pullin’ them down with a brutal urgency. Chris lifts his hips to help, his breath comin’ in short, shaky pants. I fold his legs back, high and wide, exposin’ him completely. He whimpers, his body tensin’ as the cool air hits his skin.
I lean down, my breath hot and heavy against his entrance. I give him little kitten licks, teasin’ and tantalizin’, feeling him jolt beneath me.
"Shhh, be quiet," I hush, my voice a low rumble.
I can taste the salt of his skin, the musk of his arousal, and it's intoxicatin’. The raw, primal taste makes me rush for more.
My tongue prods deeper, exploring and probin’ with a ruthless intensity. When I hit that sweet spot, I feel him shake again, a low moan escapin’ his lips. I circle my tongue around his prostate, applyin’ just the right amount of pressure to make him squirm. His hips buck against my face, seekin’ more friction, more pleasure.
“M-Matt, please-”
The taste is addictive, a heady mix of salt, nothing like any woman I’ve ever been with. I lavish attention on him, my tongue workin’ in earnest, drawin’ out his pleasure. His whines fill the car as I circle his rim.
I can feel his cock, hard and leakin’, pressin’ against his stomach. The sight of him, spread out and wantin’, is almost too much. I redouble my efforts, my tongue workin’ in tandem to push him over the edge.
Chris's body tenses, his muscles coilin’ tight.
"Matt," he gasps again, his voice a plea and a prayer. And then he comes, his release hot and sticky on his stomach, his body quiverin’ with the force of it.
I pull away, my chin and lips glistening with his essence. Chris is a come-covered mess, his chest heaving, his eyes glazed with pleasure. We're both gasping for breath, the air thick with the smell of sex.
Chris shifts slow, still tremblin’, his chest bare and glistenin’ in the moonlight. His lashes are wet, cheeks pink, and I watch the rise and fall of his ribs.
He leans in. Small, hesitant, tender. His hand ghosts up my arm, and his mouth tilts toward mine.
My whole body locks.
My hand finds his chest, holds him still. “Kiss me and crack your skull open.”
I can hear his breath hitch, see his eyes shutter just a little. He pulls back slow, his face turnin’ away.
The Cadillac’s windows fog with the heat we made, but now it feels cold as a tomb. My chest burns as I look straight ahead at the dark field stretchin’ endless under the moon.
Chris lies quiet beside me, breath evenin’ out as we come down from our highs, his expression hidden in the shadows.
I sit there with the taste of him still on my tongue as I reach for the keys, the jingle loud in the hush, and twist the ignition. The car rumbles back to life, steady and low as I grip the wheel like iron.
I drive.
Notes:
matt this is NOT no strings attached 💔
tysm for reading cutiesss xx
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.
Notes:
i didn't proof read this again bc im rlly sick rn but i still hope this chapter was good sorry 😭 also i know it wasn't very eventful but the next chapters will be going by with a bunch of sub eventss so stay tuned for that
love uuuu and ty for reading!
Chapter Text
"That’s it, nice and slow for me," I drawl, my voice low and rough with need as I stand before Chris, who is on his knees in the dimly lit loft. The single bare bulb casts a warm glow over his flushed cheeks and wide, watery eyes. He swallows hard, his tongue dartin’ out to wet his lips in a nervous gesture that sends a jolt of desire straight to my groin.
Chris reaches out, his pale hand wrappin’ around my thick length, and I groan at the contact. His touch is tentative at first, findin’ the velvety skin and the steel beneath. I can see the hunger in his gaze, the way his eyes focus down to watch his own hand move, and it spurs me on.
"Fuck, yeah," I moan, my hips buckin’ forward slightly, forcin’ more of my cock into his grip. "You been thinkin' about this, ain't ya? About takin' me deep like a slut?"
Chris nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement, his needy eyes never leavin’ mine. He leans in, his breath hot against my tip, and I can feel the wet heat of his mouth as he takes me in, inch by inch. I hiss through my teeth, my hands fistin’ in his hair as I guide him deeper. His mouth is heaven, wet and tight, and I can feel the suction as he pulls back, his tongue swirlin’ around my sensitive head.
"Just like that, darlin'. Take it all," I encourage, my tone a low rumble of approval. Chris gags slightly, but he doesn't pull back. He takes me deeper, his nose pressin’ against my pubic bone as he swallows around me. I can feel the vibrations of his whimpers against my cock, and it sends shivers down my spine.
I start to move my hips, fucking his mouth in earnest. The sight of him, kneelin’ for me, his glistenin’ lips stretched wide around my cock, is almost too much. I can feel my balls drawin’ up, the pressure buildin’ in my spine as I get closer to the edge.
"You like that, don't ya?" I growl, tuggin’ his hair. "You like suckin’ my cock like a good girl-”
Chris whimpers again, the sound muffled but filled with need. His hands grip my thighs, his nails diggin’ into my flesh as he takes everythin’ I give him. The room fills with the wet sounds of his mouth workin’ me, the occasional gasp for air, and my own rumbles of pleasure.
I can feel the orgasm buildin’, the tinglin’ in my sac, the tightenin’ in my stomach. I'm so close, so fucking close. But just as I'm about to release, Chris pulls away, his lips poppin’ off my cock with a wet sound.
"Wh-what the-?" I stutter, my breath comin’ in ragged gasps. I look down at him, confusion and frustration warrin’ in my eyes. "Why'd you stop?"
Chris looks up at me, his eyes glazed with lust, his lips swollen and red. He shrugs, a small, shy action as he gets up to reach my level. I can see the glisten of saliva on his chin, and it takes every ounce of my control not to push him back down.
“’m not a girl.”
“Huh?” I stare at him, confusion and somethin’ else, swirlin’ in my gut. "Well, you kinda are, since you like suckin’ on-”
Chris’s eyes snap, sharp as broken glass, and the air between us chills. It ain’t the usual sparkle, not that eager grin I’ve grown too used to leanin’ on. He just stares, steady, lips pressin’ thin, chest heavin’ hard.
I huff out a breath and turn my head away. My laugh comes jagged. “Don’t get sore on me now, I was only foolin’.”
Chris doesn’t answer right off. He only rolls his shoulders again and I falter.
Before I can think of somethin’ else to say, a voice carries up from downstairs, deep and certain. “Christopher! Come on down here a minute, son. Time to pray.”
Chris’s head swivels, eyes dartin’ toward the door. He pushes himself up, runnin’ a hand through his hair like he’s tryin’ to tame more than just the mess of curls. “I have to go,” he says quiet.
And just like that, he’s out of reach, steppin’ across the room, tuggin’ his shirt back into place. My hand twitches like I might call him back, but my throat locks. The door clicks shut behind him, leavin’ me alone.
I sit there a spell, starin’ at the empty door like maybe he’ll come back through it. But the silence just grows thicker, and my lungs won’t stop rattlin’. So I shove myself up, boots hittin’ hard on the stairs, carryin’ me outside into the cool. The barn looms quiet under the dusky sky, doors yawnin’ wide like it’s been waitin’ on me.
Inside, it smells of hay and feathers, that warm musk of the animals settlin’ in. I grab the feed pail without thinkin’, pourin’ corn out steady into the trough while the hens bustle close, cluckin’ greedy.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter at the fattest one, watchin’ her tilt her head, bead-eye sharp. “Seems everyone’s got a problem with me today.”
I crouch, reachin’ under a hen to pluck a warm egg from her nest. She pecks at my sleeve, and I glare at her. “You got opinions too? Well, let me tell you somethin’, missy. He’s the one actin’ strange, not me.”
Another egg, smooth in my palm. I set it in the basket, talkin’ low just to fill the air. “Happy as can be one minute and the second he hears one thing he nitpicks at it. Ain’t no sense in it, I tell you. Them city boys are too damn sensitive.”
The hens cluck back, like they’re arguin’. I huff a laugh, bitter round the edges.
Eventually, the chores are done, until my hands smell like dust and yolk. I sit heavy on a hay bale after cleanin’ up, straw scratchin’ my wrists as I pick at a piece between my fingers for what feels like forever.
I stand before I’ve decided to. My boots crunch straw, then dirt, then gravel, each step faster, like I’m tryin’ to outrun myself. I’m steadfast on the stairs after pushin’ open the front door of the house, my feet goin’ faster than my mind.
Chris is sittin’ at his desk, hunched over a small leather notebook. His pencil’s scratchin’ light against the page, lips pursed in thought. When he sees me, he freezes, pencil hangin’ mid-air.
His mouth parts. “Do you… want to come in?”
I lean against the frame, pulse hammerin’ too fast. I’ll come in if I damn want to.
I cross the room slow and flop onto his bed carelessly, boots propped on the quilt. I fish a cigar from my pocket, strike a match, and take a long drag ‘til the smoke burns the roof of my mouth.
Chris shifts in his chair, unease clear as day. “Uhm, Daddy doesn’t allow smoking in the house, or frankly anywhere.”
I let out the smoke in a long, lazy stream toward the ceiling. Then I shift forward, elbows on my knees, eyes cuttin’ sharp into his. “You always do what he tells you?”
He squirms in his seat, turnin’ the pencil over and over in his fingers. “I mean, I try to.”
Something hot spikes in me, and I narrow my eyes. “Why you lookin’ at me like that?”
Chris blinks, startled. “Like what?”
“Like I got somethin’ wrong with me.” My voice comes harsher than I mean, snappin’ like a whip. “What’s up with you, huh? You been actin’-”
I cut myself off. He’s sittin’ so close, desk pulled right up to the bed, and I can see his throat bob, his lips tremblin’ like he wants to speak but can’t.
His eyes glisten, wet. He blinks quick, turnin’ his head away.
Shit.
The smoke tastes foul on my tongue now, and I stub the cigar out against my boot sole.
Shit, shit, shit.
I don’t know what the hell to do, my hands won’t stay still, twistin’ in my lap like they belong to somebody else. The quiet extends, heavy as the summer heat, and Chris won’t look at me, only keeps starin’ at the floor, lashes wet.
Before I can think, my palm cracks against my own cheek. The sting blooms sharp, and Chris jerks his head up, eyes bulgin’.
“Why’d you do that?” His voice is small, startled.
I rub my jaw, swallow hard. “I don’t know. Did it help?”
For a second, he just stares. Then a tiny laugh bubbles out, broken by a sniffle. “A little.”
Relief loosens my chest some. I nod, clumsy. “I won’t smoke in here again.”
Chris shakes his head quick, curls bouncin’. “No-that’s not why.”
I freeze, waitin’. He shifts in his seat, worryin’ the pencil between his fingers ‘til it snaps clean in half. “You’re going to think I’m stupid.”
“I can’t think anythin’ ‘til you tell me.”
He finally lifts his eyes, sighing. “It’s just… I feel bad when you talk to me like that. Calling me those names. It’s not that I don’t like-” he stops, cheeks pinkin’, words chokin’ off. “Y’know. It just makes me feel like I’m just those things to you.”
The words hit me like buckshot, my chest drops hollow, dread crawlin’ cold up my spine. “I-did I hurt you? Physically?”
Chris shakes his head fast. “No! No…forget it.” He looks down again, ashamed.
“I’m sorry.”
Chris blinks, surprised, like he wasn’t expectin’ it. Truth is, I wasn’t either. But my chest feels lighter the more I talk, so I keep goin’. “It was shitty of me, real shitty. And for the record-” my jaw works, “I don’t think you are any of those things.”
His lips twitch, the smallest smile breakin’ through like a crack of dawn. He shrugs, eyes glistenin’ still but softer now. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I repeat before continuing. “Tell you what, you tell me what you wanna do. Anythin’.”
Chris blinks, startled, then laughs soft. “Anything?”
“Yeah. Go on then.”
He chews his lip, the way he does when he’s thinkin’ too hard, then shakes his head. “I don’t know. What’s the best thing to do at night?”
I huff a laugh, low and careless. “Best thing? Well, I’d take you down to Hush Puppy’s, but you wouldn’t be up for it.”
That gets his attention. He sits up straighter, brows knotting. “Why not?”
I shrug, like it don’t matter either way. “Wouldn’t want your daddy worryin’, is all. The pastor’s son sneakin’ out late, slippin’ into a bar? Don’t sound like you.”
Chris’s mouth quirks, just a little. “Okay, why not?”
I blink at him, clickin’ my tongue. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
But he shakes his head, curls fallin’ over his forehead, eyes sparklin’ now instead of wet. “I’m up for it.”
Before I can answer, the door creaks open. Both of us jolt like guilty kids caught with our hands in the sugar jar. My heart bangs against my ribs, blood roarin’ loud in my ears.
“What’s goin’ on here?”
Abigail leans against the frame, her silhouette cut sharp by the lamplight in the hall. She’s dolled up different than in the daytime, blouse tucked neat into a dark skirt, little pearls catchin’ the glow at her ears. Her ginger hair’s looser, brushed back soft but still proper, and her lipstick looks fresh, glossy red like she’d only just touched it up.
“Well, well,” she hums, eyes switchin’ between us with a grin. “Ain’t this cozy.”
Chris stammers, voice crackin’ under the weight of it. “A-Abbie… how long have you been there?”
She snorts, pushin’ past the jamb with all the grace of someone who’s been eavesdroppin’ shameless. “Long enough to hear y’all were plannin’ on sneakin’ off without me.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holdin’, thank Christ.
“Came over ‘cause I forgot my book,” she admits, wanderin’ toward the desk. “Didn’t think I’d find the two of you conspiring.” She flashes me a quick smile, eyes lingerin’ a beat too long.
Chris clears his throat, desperate to change the subject. “So how do we get there? To the bar?”
“We’ll walk,” I respond.
“Yes but how? Daddy’ll never-” He cuts himself off, realizin’ he’s provin’ my point. His nose scrunches, then he swallows hard, noddin’. “Yeah, we’ll walk. Okay.”
Abigail claps her hands together once, delighted. “Now let’s get goin’ before one of the old hens wake up.”
The three of us creep out quiet as ghosts, shoes barely scruffin’ the worn boards of the hall. The Reverend’s door stays shut, his snores faint behind it as we tip toe by.
The road into town ain’t dark so much as it is alive. Porch lights glow faint in the distance, moths beatin’ themselves silly against bulbs. A dog barks somewhere down the lane, a chain rattles after it, and the three of us walk fast, our shadows stretchin’ long and crooked under the moon. Abigail’s hummin’ off-key, all sugar and nerves, while Chris keeps his eyes down, his shoes pattin’ the dirt, hands buried in his pockets.
But the closer we get, the louder it grows, there’s music ridin’ the air before we even see the place, a fiddle screamin’ sharp and fast, stomps and claps rollin’ like thunder. Hush Puppy’s glows like a furnace on the edge of town, windows pulsin’ yellow with light and motion. Folks crowd the porch, cigarettes flarin’, laughter spillin’ over the rail. It’s the busiest I’ve seen it.
Chris hesitates at the threshold, his shoulders tense, and I lean in, low so Abigail doesn’t catch it. “Seriously, you don’t gotta if you don’t want-”
But he shakes his head hard, bitin’ his cheek. His chest rises, then falls in a calm breath, and he steps inside like a soldier stormin’ a line.
The air hits us thick with smoke, sweat, and fried grease. The wooden floor bounces underfoot with the sheer weight of bodies poundin’. And the lanterns sway above, silhouettes dancin’ across the rafters.
Nick’s behind the bar, sleeves rolled, hair stickin’ to his forehead, passin’ mugs faster than I can blink. He looks up just in time to see Chris weave through the crowd and fling himself at him in a hug.
The bar hushes just enough for Nick’s brows to shoot damn near his hairline. His eyes cut to me, question burnin’. I raise my hands, palms up, grin crooked.
“Hi, it’s so nice to see you!” Chris exclaims when he finally pulls away.
Nick smothers a laugh. “What can I get y’all?”
“I’ll take a pink lady.” Abigail orders.
I shrug. “You know my usual.”
Nick nods, writin’ it down, which he only does when there’s a rush. He taps the brim of a bottle as we all wait for Chris.
“Uhm, do you have lemonade?”
Nick barks out a laugh, shakes his head, and pours it clean anyway.
At that moment, Marvin and Dick barrel in, both sloppy with drink and grinnin’ like fools. I groan as Marvin claps Dick on the shoulder, whistlin’ low. “Well I’ll be damned.”
Dick hollers, “Look at him, sittin’ at the devil’s table!” He slaps the bar for emphasis, nearly spillin’ his own pint.
Chris flushes but doesn’t shrink. He lifts the lemonade in a shaky toast, tryin’ his best to be polite. He’s better than me, that’s for sure.
I lean close, poppin’ the cork off my flask, pourin’ just a finger into his glass. “Don’t say I never taught you nothin’.”
His nose scrunches a little, face twistin’ like he bit into a raw persimmon as he sips.
My laugh comes easy, spillin’ out louder than I meant. “Atta boy.”
Chris’s cheeks and ears flush pink, and his lips press together as he looks away, suddenly very interested in the counter.
But before I can see if he tries again, Abigail hooks my arm, draggin’ me across the room. “Dance with me!”
I stutter, but let her take me anyway, past the juke box and deeper into the crowd. The music swells, fiddle screechin’, banjo slappin’, boots hammerin’ like gunfire on the boards. Abigail spins me into the crush of bodies, her skirt flarin’ as she wraps her arms around my neck. My hands fall stiff on her hips, goin’ through the motions, but my eyes keep strayin’. She talks a mile a minute, words drowned by the noise, but I don’t hear a damn thing.
Because across the floor, Chris is laughin’.
Marvin’s got him in tow, showin’ him the steps, heel, toe, clap, turn, and Chris is tryin’, stumble-footed, waves bouncin’ with every stomp. He ain’t too good at it, but hell if he don’t look like he was born for it.
“I’m gonna go get another drink.”
Abigail pouts but nods her head. “Be a peach and get me one too.”
I nod and push through the crowd.
I’m nearly free when someone grabs my wrist, haulin’ me back into the circle. The floor thunders with stomps, hands clappin’ in time, and before I can argue I’m movin’ with it, boots hittin’ down to the fiddle’s screech. My shoulders loosen, almost against my will, and Chris is standin’ there.
He’s breathless, cheeks red, hair damp with sweat, and the moment his eyes catch mine across the circle, his smile spreads wider.
“Matt!” he calls, loud over the music.
I bark out a laugh, shakin’ my head. “What?”
“Come here!” He beckons, nearly missin’ a step, Marvin yankin’ him back with a hoot.
I step closer, crowd almost suckin’ me in until we’re side by side. He’s laughin’ so hard he can barely breathe, his feet skippin’ off-beat.
“Y’don’t know the steps!” I shout over the banjo, smirkin’.
“I’m trying!” he yells back, giggling. “It’s not my fault that man has two left feet.”
Marvin howls, stompin’ harder just to prove him wrong, but Chris only laughs louder, shoulders shakin’.
“Like this,” I show him quick, heel-heel-toe, clap, spin, and his eyes stick to my feet, tongue pokin’ at the corner of his mouth in concentration. He stumbles it once, twice, then catches on, hittin’ the beat sharp.
“There you go!” I clap loud for him, heat bloomin’ in my chest I can’t chalk up to the whiskey.
Chris beams, eyes crinklin’. “You’re not half bad yourself.”
“Not half bad?” I grin, breathless. “You kiddin’? I’m damn near perfect.”
He barks a laugh, throws his head back, and stomps the floor like he’s tryin’ to shake the whole place down.
“C’mon!” Marvin hollers, and Chris clambers onto a stool, shoes poundin’ against the wood, crowd whoopin’ around him. He’s wild and radiant up there, waves now plastered to his forehead, shirt stickin’ to him, but he ain’t shy. Not one bit.
He stomps along, with that cheeky grin as he looks’ down at me.
“Don’t fall,” I shout, laughin’.
“Don’t tell me what to do!” he fires back, eyes gleamin’.
And then, just like I knew it would, his boot slips.
He drops straight into me, heavy and sudden, knockin’ the air outta my lungs. My arms snap around his waist, holdin’ him tight against me. His lemonade tips, cold spillin’ sticky-sweet down his shirt.
“Shit, sorry,” I mumble, voice gone rough.
But Chris only giggles, high and breathless, his face so close our foreheads almost brush. “It’s okay.”
We stay locked like that, just a beat, long enough for me to see the way his lashes clump with sweat, the curve of his lips still tremblin’ from laughter. His cheeks are still painted deep, same color as the cherries folks toss back at the bar. I’m so I close I can smell the sugary citrus scent comin’ off him.
I suck in a breath sharp enough to sting, ready to shove myself back. But Chris falters, voice small but sure.
“No one’s watching, Matt.”
The words freeze me, and my feet plant on the floor. The crowd’s too busy stompin’ and hollerin’, fiddles sawin’ wild, Dick shoutin’ at some other fool across the floor. No one cares what we’re doin’.
My grip loosens, not lettin’ go but shiftin’, steadier. I feel the weight of him leanin’ into me, easy as breathin’. His soft bangs dangle between us, blockin’ my view, so without thinkin’, I reach up and tuck one damp lock behind his ear.
Chris’s eyes flick up, wide and bright. But he don’t say a word.
The whole place goes quiet inside me. Not really quiet, the music is still blarin’ and the glasses still clink, but it’s muffled, distant, like I’ve slipped underwater. All I can hear is his breath, shallow against mine, all I can see is the shine of his eyes and the half-smile still sittin’ at the corner of his mouth as I stay there.
He lets me.
“Quit wrigglin’, you’re gonna topple us both,” I grunt, hitchin’ Chris higher on my back. My arms are looped firm ‘round his legs, his shoes knockin’ against my thighs with every step.
“I’m not wriggling,” he insists, though his laugh ruins it, high and loose in my ear. “I’m riding… like a prince on his noble steed.”
I snort. “Prince my ass, more like a sack of feed.”
That makes him burst into another round of giggles, right against the side of my neck. His breath is warm, ticklin’ the hair curlin’ there, and I gotta fight not to smile too wide at the sound.
“One teeny little shot,” I remind him as we trek down the dirt road. “Just one, and you go down faster than a Sunday mornin’.”
“Lightweight,” he mumbles, mockin’ himself, then flops heavier against me, cheek settlin’ right at the top of my head. He sighs gentle, like he could fall asleep right there. “Your hair’s so soft.”
“Stop talkin’ foolish or I’ll drop you right here in the ditch,” I murmur as I hold him tighter.
Chris hums tunelessly against my back, hiccuppin’ every so often, makin’ me chuckle in spite of myself.
When I stumble up onto the porch, his laughter’s gone soft, meltin’ into little hiccupy breaths. I bend down, lettin’ him slide off gentle. His loafers thud against the boards, but he wobbles, still holdin’ my shoulder for balance.
“C’mon,” I say, pushin’ open the door with my hip. The hinges creak like they always do. “Sit yourself on the couch. Don’t move. I’ll grab you somethin’ clean to change into.”
He nods, cheeks red from more than the vodka, and drops onto the couch cushions with an exhale, hiccuppin’ again as I head down the hall.
In my room, I dig through drawers in the dark, pullin’ out the nicest things I got, a pair of linen pants I hardly wear ‘cause they wrinkle too easy, and a plain crewneck soft from a recent wash.
When I come back, ready to hand ‘em over, I stop short.
Chris ain’t sittin’ like I left him. He’s moved forward, elbows diggin’ into his knees, a picture frame balanced careful in his hands. The lamplight shines off the glass, catchin’ the edges of his fingers as they trace the surface slow, reverent almost.
“Hey.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean, and I stride across the room, snatchin’ it from him fast as I drop the clothes onto the couch.
Chris blinks up, startled. His face relaxes into somethin’ apologetic, ashamed even. “Oh, I don’t mean to intrude, it was just sitting there and...” His voice dips low, almost shy. “Was that you? That little boy?”
I clutch the frame close, pressin’ it tight against my chest. The wood digs heavy into my palm and my throat feels tight, but I nod.
Chris’s gaze flicks back to the glass. “Who’s the other boy with you?”
I look away quick, my eyes blinking rapidly as I fidget with the hem of my sleeve. “Ain’t important.”
He nods, like he’ll let it rest, but I can see it in his face, and my chest locks again. I let out a long breath, rubbin’ the back of my neck.
“He was my neighbor,” I add. “When I was a boy.”
Chris’s lips curve into the faintest smile, tender as candlelight. “He was beautiful.”
Heat pools in my cheeks, down to my chest and I look away, clearin’ my throat. “You want water while you change?”
“Yeah,” he replies, shakin’ his head in gratitude.
I step away, grateful for the excuse, headin’ toward the kitchen. The faucet squeals before the glass fills, water glintin’ under the weak light. I balance the glass of water careful in my hand as I walk back to the living room.
Chris’s curled on his side, shoes half-kicked off, one arm tucked under his head like a pillow. His breath is slow and even, mouth parted just slightly, lashes restin’ on flushed cheeks. Out cold.
For a long moment I just stand there, watchin’. The water sweats down my fingers, the clothes limp in my grip. Then I set ‘em aside gentle, drape the old quilt off the armchair over him, tug it up to his shoulders.
My hand lingers, brushin’ light against the fabric before I dim the lamp, leavin’ the room washed in gold shadow as I head to my own room.
Notes:
tell me why i was getting so much ick writing matt dirty talking chris like that 💔 just admit ur a boy kisser bro
anyways i hope u loved this chapter as much as i did!
Chapter 8: The Yoke and the Cross
Notes:
⚠️ Warning: This chapter contains content that may be triggering or sensitive.
hi lovelies, just a quick warning but i don't want to go in full detail because it does have MAJOR spoilers, so if you don't feel comfortable you can click the end notes for full content on what the warning is :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
We’re half-runnin’ up the dirt road, shoes kickin’ dirt, laughter still lingerin’ faint in Chris’s throat from the night before, though it dies fast when the steeple comes into view.
The Reverend’s house sits there like a sentinel in the dawn, white paint grayin’ with age, shutters shut tight, no sign of life but the tiniest glow in the downstairs window. The air’s thick with dew, damp and heavy. It clings to my skin, and my gut twists tighter with every step we take.
Chris slows when we reach the porch, breath shudderin’ out, like he knows what’s waitin’ inside. My hand twitches, and we push open the door.
The sound of it creaks through the house like a gun cockin’. Inside, the parlor feels colder than the air outside, like all the warmth’s been wrung out. The Reverend sits rigid in his chair, straight-backed by the window, Bible open in his lap but untouched. His eyes don’t move from us, not even a blink. It pins me so hard I got no space to breathe.
“Where were you.”
Chris shifts, shoulders hunchin’ like he could fold himself small. “I, uhm, I was just out. With Abbie and some friends.” His words stumble, thin, like paper tryin’ to hold back water.
The Reverend’s gaze dips, slow and deliberate, until it settles on the clothes hangin’ loose on Chris, my clothes.
“What are you wearing?” He asks, though it’s more of a demand than a question.
Chris swallows hard, like a blade on honed stone. “They’re Matt’s. I…I slept over at his house.”
My face burns, blood rushin’ up hot. My heart damn near stops. Why’d he have to say it like that? Why’d he say it at all? I want to jump in, explain, smooth it over, but I’m stuck, the words locked in my throat.
The Reverend rises, slow as a storm cloud buildin’, but just as sure. He lays the Bible aside with careful hands, but I can feel the fury coiled in the motion. “You left my house in the dead of night. No word, no note. I woke to an empty bed where my boy should’ve been.” His voice deepens, shakes the walls. “You think I don’t rise for prayer? You think I don’t notice?”
Chris wilts under the weight of it, mouth open but nothin’ comin’. His chest heaves, eyes shinin’, but he don’t speak.
Before it boils over, my voice bursts out, rough and hurried: “Sir, it-it was my fault.” I force, even as my knees quake. “Chris, he ain’t to blame. I asked him, shoulda thought better.”
The Reverend’s eyes snap to me, burnin’ black and fierce. It’s nothin’ like I’ve ever seen ’em.
His hand flies.
I don’t see it comin’, just feel the crack split through the room, sharp as lightnin’. Heat sears across my cheek, pain bloomin’ sudden and white-hot. The sound echoes off the walls, louder than the chickens cluckin’ outside, louder than my own heartbeat poundin’.
I freeze, bite my cheek, and hold myself still. Every muscle rigid, like if I don’t move maybe the burn’ll fade.
“Are you serious right now?” Chris’s voice tears raw from his throat, high and furious, shakin’ with more than just anger. He steps forward, fists balled, eyes wide with disbelief.
The Reverend’s hand cuts through the air again, this time only pointin’, sharp as a spear. “You will not raise your voice in this house!”
“I’m not a kid anymore!” Chris’s words tremble, wild. His whole body shakes like it can’t contain him. “You can’t keep me locked up like this! I’m going to college in two months, Daddy, and you still treat me like I’m twelve!”
The Reverend looms taller, chest swellin’, voice thunderin’ down. “And look what happens when I loosen my grip! One night free, and you shame yourself! Runnin’ wild to God knows where, wearin’ another boy’s clothes under my roof-” His eyes slash to me. “-dragged down by him.”
Chris’s breath hitches, fury twistin’ his face. “What’s so wrong with that? I wanted to go. I wanted to-”
The Reverend’s jaw clenches tight, teeth grindin’ before he bellows. “That’s enough! Go upstairs.”
There’s a pause, Chris doesn’t move. He stands there, fightin’ silent but fierce. Then his shoulders drop, heavy with rage and hurt, and he turns. Steps drag across the floor, wood groanin’ under his weight until he disappears up the stairs.
My cheek still burns, hot and hummin’, but I don’t lift my hand to it. I stand stiff, starin’ at the floorboards.
The Reverend faces me once more, tone low but no softer. “You’ve got chores backin’ up. You’re late.” He shifts, eyes cuttin’ into me like knives. “You’ll finish every damn one and then some, or you can find another place to beg wages. You’re lucky I don’t fire you right here.”
“Yes, sir.” I strangle out.
He don’t wait for more. Just turns, steps firm, leavin’ me alone in the parlor, exhalin’ shallow, cheek sting still spreadin’ fire across my skin.
The Reverend’s boots strike hard against the floor as he leaves me there, parlor colder than ever. I don’t move till the sound of him fades down the hall, till it’s only the hush of the house pressin’ in on me. My face feels like tiny needles, throbbin’ in time with my pulse, but I keep my hands stiff at my sides. Touchin’ it feels like admittin’ somethin’s wrong. And if I’ve learned anything, it’s how not to admit.
The clock ticks sharp in the silence. I let out a breath and set to work.
Out back, the dawn’s cracked open wider. Chickens scatter when I step into the yard, their feathers catchin’ gold in the light. The air smells of wet earth, sharp hay, and the tang of metal buckets stacked by the well. The Reverend wasn’t bluffin’. There’s a mountain of chores waitin’: stalls need muckin’, troughs need scrubbin’, wood needs haulin’. My hands itch just starin’ at it, but I grab the shovel anyway.
It’s punishing work. Every lift of the pitchfork sends fire shootin’ down my arms, every bucket sloshes water onto my boots, soaks my socks till the skin puckers. The sweat’s runnin’ down my back before the sun’s even high. So I move fast, harder than I need to.
The sound of it, his hand snappin’ across me, still rattles in my ears. The Reverend’s voice thunderin’. I keep replayin’ it, but not ‘cause of the pain.
The way he looked when I stepped in front of him, when the Reverend turned his wrath on me instead. Chris’s face twisted up, disbelief and somethin’ else too, like the floor had tilted under his feet.
He’d shouted back. Chris. Sweet, even-tempered Chris who’d always kept his head down, always softened the blows with a nod and a yes. I’ve never seen him flare like that, chest puffed, voice gone raw.
The Reverend’s wrath is somethin’ I’ve heard like scripture from folks, but he’s never laid a hand on Chris. Raised his voice, sure. Tightened the rules, maybe. But never that. The thought comes quick, and I shove it away just as fast, and bury it under the scrape of shovel on dirt.
By noon, my arms are rubber. The Reverend stalks through once, eyes narrowin’ at the slop I’ve tossed too close to the fence, and he piles more on. Stack wood by the porch. Sweep the barn. Wash down the tools. My body sags but I nod, wordless. He wants to break me down into pieces of labor, fine. That I can do.
When I steal a swallow from the pump, I catch sight of the house. His house, the white paint still flakin’, shutters open. And in the window upstairs, the one I know leads to Chris’s room, there’s a shape movin’.
He sits at his desk, head bent low over papers. Sunlight glints off the thin wire of his glasses. I didn’t know he wore glasses. His brow furrows, lips twitchin’ with half-said words as his pencil scratches.
I stand too long. A bucket slips from my hand and clangs against the dirt, breakin’ the moment. I flinch, almost expectin’ him to glance up, but he doesn’t. He keeps on writin’, lost to it. Maybe he didn’t hear. Maybe he just didn’t care.
By late-afternoon, Reverend Owens calls me in with no room for delay. I step onto the porch, silhouette stretchin’ long across the ground.
“Matt, get yourself into town. The feed’s run low, and we’re needin’ flour, kerosene, and a dozen other things besides. Don’t you go draggin’ your feet.”
I wipe my hands on my jeans, try to hide the ache in my arms. “Yes, sir.”
He tosses me a list, folded neat, his scrawl dark and hurried. I catch it, pocket it, and start down the dirt road. I thought about takin’ Justice, but I doubt the Reverend would be too pleased if I took his horse down after today.
The road into town’s easy, soot and dust risin’ up with every step, stickin’ to my boots and cakin’ my neck. And when I reach the roofs of Main Street that peek over the treeline, the town’s hummin’. Wagons rattle by, iron rims sparkin’ when they hit stone. A stray dog darts between wheels, yappin’ till a boy throws a crust at it. Folks call to each other across the street, hands wavin’ high, the heat of their voices minglin’ with the stink of horse and tar. I square my shoulders, head low, and step inside the general store first.
The air folds around me, the smell of sawdust and tobacco mixin’ with leather and soap. The boards creak under me as I make for the counter.
“Afternoon, Mr. Bernard,” old Mrs. Cobb says, peering down her nose over her spectacles. “Reverend keepin’ you busy as ever?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I mutter, handin’ her the folded paper.
She squints at the scrawl, clicks her tongue, and waves a boy off to fetch sacks of flour, tins of oil, and a jar or two of kerosene. But I bend to the task, fillin’ my arms with what I can and stackin’ it by the door. The pile grows taller, brown paper and burlap.
Mrs. Cobb squints at the scrawl, clicks her tongue. “That’ll be two dollars for the flour, seventy-five cents for the kerosene, and the oil’s ninety cents a tin.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Two dollars? Ma’am, that flour’s been sittin’ here since last harvest. Can’t you knock it down to-say-fifty cents?”
She narrows her eyes. “Fifty cents? You tryin’ to starve me, boy?”
“It’s what the Reverend gave me ma’am, all I have. He’ll notice if I pay more than he told me to.”
She snorts. “Notice or not, I can’t give it away.”
I waggle my fingers like I’m sealing a deal. “Come on now, help a fellow worker out.”
She laughs, sharp but reluctant. “Alright, alright. Flour’s seventy-five, kerosene forty cents, oil’s yours for eighty-five. Take it or leave it.”
I snatch up the sacks, stacking them proudly. “Deal! You won’t regret it, ma’am.”
I bend for the next bag, then freeze at the empty spot.
“Wait… that’s not right,” I mutter, scannin’ the floor.
Mrs. Cobb frowns. “Lost it, did ya? Can’t see it walkin’ off on its own, Mr. Bernard?”
My gut drops hard. I whip around, eyes cuttin’ sharp through the crowd. And there, just at the edge of the store, slippin’ between two women with baskets, is a scrawny figure, clutchin’ a brown bag too big for ‘em.
“Hey!” The word tears out of me rough, loud enough to turn heads. I shove past a man with a cane, near topple a stack of crates, and crash through the doorway.
The thief bolts fast, feet poundin’ the dirt, kickin’ dirt that tinges my eyes. They weave through the swell of folks on the street, duckin’ under an ox yoke, dartin’ past a cart piled with melons. I shove after ‘em, elbow first, hearin’ curses flare up behind me.
My pulse hammers, legs burnin’ as the sun slants hotter on my back. Every step drags the bag further out of sight. I push harder, near slam into a stall of apples, sendin’ a few rollin’. Hands reach to grab me, voices shoutin’, but I don’t stop. I’m gainin’, chest heavin’, close enough now I could near feel their sleeve if I reached.
I lunge, catch their arm, and spin ‘em round. The bag near tears loose in the pull.
I nearly fall back.
It ain’t some whiskered man with grit in his eyes. It’s a girl. A child. Couldn’t be more than eight, maybe nine. Dirt streaks her cheeks, hair stickin’ in wet ropes to her temples, sandals worn so thin one strap dangles loose. Her eyes go big, blue, glassy, wild as a rabbit pinned under a hawk’s shadow that’s all too familiar.
I loosen my grip quick, breath catchin’ in my throat. “Hell,” I mumble, softer now. “Sorry, kid.”
She fumbles with the bag, holdin’ it out like she expects me to snatch it back. “I-I didn’t mean-”
I shake my head, push it back against her chest. “Keep it.”
Her fingers tremble, clutchin’ the bag like it’s her last anchor. She blinks fast, tears shimmerin’ though she fights hard to bite ‘em back.
I dig into my pocket, thumb brushin’ the little stash of coins that ain’t the Reverend’s. My own, barely enough for a couple days’ wages, but I fish out a silver dollar anyway and press it into her small palm.
“Buy yourself somethin’ decent, y’hear?” I tell, “Food. Shoes. Whatever you need.”
Her lip quivers, but she nods quick, eyes flashin’ like a deer in headlights. I don’t wait for thanks. Just step back, turn, and walk away.
As soon as I circle back to the store, the bag’s gone for good. And so’s the Reverend’s patience in my head. I sigh, rub at my jaw, and pay out of my own pocket to replace the items. Mrs. Cobb’s offers me a pity smile and hands me an extra loaf of bread for my troubles. Still, the coins clink smaller, lighter, till I know I’ll feel the loss later. But there’s no choosin’.
Arms sore from haulin’ sacks, I cross the street to the hardware store for the last of my errands. The place is dimmer than Johnson’s general, cooler too, the air heavy with iron and pitch. Rows of tools hang neat along the wall, their shadows stretchin’ tall in the lamplight.
I grab a basket from the front and start down an aisle, boots knockin’ against the plank floor. My eyes skim the rows of nails, hammers, screws, tryin’ to make sense of the Reverend’s scrawl.
That’s when I hear it.
A voice. One I know all too well, low, almost a whisper.
I stop, hand hoverin’ above a box of nails as I edge toward the next aisle, peekin’ through the crack between shelves stacked with coiled rope. And Chris’s standin’ beside Abigail, her ribbon’s tied neat in her hair, red as a cut apple. She leans close, talkin’ soft, like the words are meant to stay between them.
Chris’s shoulders slope down, his hands jammed into his pockets. He don’t look like the boy who laughed last night, runnin’ wild in the bar. He looks small. Sad. Just like I saw him in the window earlier, hunched over his desk.
“I don’t know what else to do,” Chris slumps, voice rough around the edges. “He won’t even look at me without… without that look. Like I’m already doing everything wrong.”
Abigail touches his arm, gentle. “Okay, he’s stubborn, sure. But he can’t hold you in forever, you’re growin’ up. He’ll have to see it sooner or later.”
Chris shakes his head, a tight, miserable laugh catchin’ in his throat. “He doesn’t see me that way. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”
Abigail steps closer, her hand slidin’ down his sleeve till her fingers catch his wrist. “Then he’ll just have to learn. You don’t need to keep provin’ it to him. He’ll realize, one day, he has to let go.”
For a moment, Chris just stares at her. And I swear I can see the war in his eyes, the ache buried deep, the kind that don’t show when he smiles for other folks.
Then Abigail tips her chin up and presses her lips to his.
He falls into it, with a little smile ghostin’ on his mouth. It’s quick, soft. But it lands like a hammer blow in my chest.
Chris exhales, slow, shaky, and when he pulls back. “Thanks, Abbie.”
“Anytime,” she replies, her thumb brushin’ his hand before she lets go.
The basket near slips from my hand, but I catch it clumsily, knuckles white round the handle. My chest’s beatin’ wild, breath comin’ fast like I just ran the ridge and back. Abigail’s kiss hangs in my head, branded sharp as iron, and Chris, Chris smilin’ small at her like she’d just fixed some part of him I’ll never touch.
I don’t stick around to see more. The box of nails lies forgotten on the shelf. My boots scuff hard against the plank floor, drawin’ a look from the shopkeep as I push through the door like the devil’s at my back. Heat slams into me, dry and stiflin’, but it’s not enough to burn. I walk fast, don’t look back, basket bangin’ against my leg till the bruises’ll set.
When I make it back to Reverend Owens’ place, the sun’s saggin’ low, and the weight of the day’s settled deep in my bones. I take the supplies to the kitchen, dump the heft on the table without much ceremony. The maid gives me a side-eye but doesn’t press and starts settlin’ jars and sacks into their places.
The loft upstairs calls like refuge, and I stretch out on the narrow cot, boots still on, arms folded behind my back. The rafters above blur in the low light, beams stretchin’ like ribs overhead, shadows shiftin’ with every sway of the lantern. My body sinks heavier into the thin mattress the longer I stare.
The night air slips through the cracks in the boards, cool enough it raises a shiver across my arms. I pull the quilt over me, but the chill lingers, crawling slow through my bones, tuggin’ my eyelids down with it. My breath grows shallow, a steady tide, until even that feels like work. Thoughts scatter in fragments, but the memories eventually seep away as my vision thickens with dark. My hands slip from my chest, hangin’ limp over the edge of the cot as I shut my eyes.
Just for a minute.
When I jolt awake, my chest’s heavin’ like I’d been runnin’. Sweat sticks cold to my neck, hair plastered damp to my forehead. The loft’s dark, silent, the whole house hushed but for the creak of beams shiftin’ in the night. My stomach knots when I glance toward the lantern by my cot, it’s out. I grope for my watch. The hands glint dim in the moonlight streamin’ through the cracks. Past twelve.
I missed dinner.
My throat’s raw, desert dry. I swing my legs off the bed, feet hittin’ the floor quiet. Every sound feels too loud in the hush, door creakin’, my steps thumpin’ as I make my way downstairs.
It’s dark in the kitchen, only my shadow leanin’ long across the walls. I move quiet, the floorboards whine under my weight, and I flinch at each one, prayin’ no one wakes. I pour water from the jug into a tin cup, the clink of metal sharp in the still. I drink deep, throat workin’, the cool relief spreadin’ through me.
I lick my bottom lip in thought, sleep feels like a trap now. So I push the front door open slow and slip onto the porch. The night air rushes cool against my skin. Crickets saw their song in the grass, and the moon throws silver down across the yard. I dig the stub of a cigar from my pocket, strike a match, and suck in the smoke till it burns. It curls heavy in my lungs, easin’ me into bliss.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
The voice cracks the quiet like a whip, and I damn near jump out of my skin. My head whirls fast, the cigar almost droppin’ from my fingers.
“What the-?”
Reverend Owens sits in the old wooden rocker at the far end of the porch, half in shadow. His big frame leans back easy, one arm curved round Chris. He’s curled tight into his daddy’s side, head pressed under the Reverend’s arm. His eyes are closed, lashes fannin’ on his cheeks, but the moonlight shows light tear tracks still shinin’.
The rocker creaks slow as the Reverend shifts, his gaze cuttin’ toward me through the dark. My hand jerks behind my back, fumblin’ to smother the ember against my palm, but the Reverend’s eyes catch mine before I can finish. That stare pins me like a nail through wood.
“Sit down, son,” he says, quiet but firm, noddin’ toward the chair beside him.
I hesitate, throat workin’ around words that won’t come. Chris rustles in his sleep, a small sound pressed into his daddy’s coat. I nod once and ease down into the chair, every move stiff, the half-dead cigar still hidden in my fist.
I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I rest ’em on my knees, starin’ out at the dark yard like maybe it’ll speak first.
“Y’know, I used to be a smoker too.”
I turn my head fast. He don’t look at me right away, only keeps his gaze fixed somewhere out in the trees as I wait.
“I was workin’ for the Pacific & Western Freight Company,” he goes on, voice low and even. “Long hours, harder bosses. My shift ended most nights with my head near fallin’ off my neck. I’d walk down to the tavern, order a rye whiskey neat. Always told myself just one to take the edge off. But one turned into another, then another.”
He pauses, drawin’ a slow breath through his nose, the wood of the rocker sighin’ beneath his weight.
“And after the last drink, I’d light up. Sat hunched on that barstool with smoke till my eyes blurred and I forgot enough I could sleep.”
His voice has a gravity to it, every word settlin’ like a stone. Chris stirs again, and the Reverend smooths a big hand down his shoulder before continuin’.
“I did that every day for seventeen years.”
His voice is steady as an oak but softer than I’ve ever heard it. His hand smooths over Chris again, gentlin’ him. I don’t move. Don’t dare.
Finally, the Reverend’s mouth curves in the smallest way, but it’s there. “Her name was Maggie. Maggie Campbell. Met her on a Sunday, if you can believe it. I was nineteen, she was seventeen, standin’ on the church steps in a dress she’d stitched herself. She had that sun in her hair and fire in her eyes that made me know it was her.”
The smile holds a moment, then falters. “Chris favors her. Got her same eyes. Same nose. But I didn’t see her smile much, after a time. Not the way she did that first day I saw her.”
My chest pulls tight again as he stares past the porch.
“I was always caught up in work. Always thinkin’ about how to scrape another dollar, how to prove myself to men that didn’t give two licks about me. Thought if I made enough, maybe we’d have somethin’. Thought to have money was to be respected.” His jaw tightens, and he shakes his head slow. “All it did was take me further from home.”
His voice dips, heavy. “Didn’t leave much for my boy. Well, I had the time. I just never chose to spend it right.”
My gut twists and I glance at Chris, still tucked small, lashes shadowin’ his cheeks.
The Reverend exhales through his nose, the sound near a sigh. “One day I was at the freight office and my phone rang off the hook. They said my boy’d gotten into a fight. Beat another kid so bad his nose was broken, lost four of his teeth, blood everywhere.”
He pauses, eyes darkenin’. “That boy was the son of my boss.”
My skin prickles cold.
“I stormed into that school, barked at him in front of the teacher, in front of everybody. Told him he was a disgrace. Told him-” his voice cracks just the slightest, but he steadies it quick. “-told him he was nothin’ but trouble I never should’ve had.”
The words slam into me, sharp and sick. I can feel it echo through my bones.
The Reverend’s hand stills on Chris’s back. “That night, me and Maggie fought for hours. She begged me to see him, to ask why. I wouldn’t listen. He just sat there at the table, starin’ at the floor. Never spoke once.”
The rocker creaks once, twice. His voice lowers. “The next mornin’ I found him. Tub full. Wrists cut open. Two weeks before his eighteenth birthday.”
My heart near stops. My eyes dart to Chris, alive and breathin’, but it don’t fit. None of this fits. The Reverend’s son? Then who’s-?
He rubs his brow, shoulders sinkin’. “Lost my job that same week. Maggie…she never saw me the same. She was six months carryin’ by then. And she knew what I’d been doin’ all those nights at the tavern. Slippin’ out back with any cold body waitin’. She knew I was filth. And when the baby came…” His throat bobs. “When the baby came, she looked at me, then at the nurses, and she said he was already dead. Screamed it, thrashed in that bed, wouldn’t touch him, wouldn’t look at him. Called me a murderer. Said I killed him just like I killed our firstborn.”
The words scrape raw in the air, and my hand goes slick where I’m still holdin’ the dead cigar, suckin’ in a breath.
“They said she had hysteria and labeled her sick. They took her away,” he swallows hard. “Left me standin’ there with that baby in my arms. Her words were stuck in my head, that he was doomed, that he’d die if I touched him. And I believed her.”
The Reverend inhales sharp. “I walked him down to the firehouse and set him in a basket on the step. I walked away. Sixteen minutes later, I ran back. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, just knew I’d already lost one and I couldn’t lose him too. And when I saw him there, still breathin’, still fightin’, I knew he wasn’t dead. He was a second chance, the Lord’s mercy in flesh.”
He looks down at Chris then, soft, tender. “So I put down the bottle, put down the smoke. And we left the city and came south where not a soul knew who I was. A fresh start, I swept church floors for pennies, not nearly enough to keep dinner at the table. But when I came home, and my boy would smile and run to me, it was okay.”
He leans back, eyes turned skyward. “Father Gordon, the priest back then, saw somethin’ in me that he thought was worth savin’. He kept me close, told me to listen when he preached, even if I was only scrubbin’ the pews. He taught me that faith wasn’t about bein’ worthy, but about lettin’ yourself be changed.”
The Reverend’s lips press tight, then loosen. “When Father Gordon passed, they gave me the pulpit. I never thought I deserved it, still don’t some days. But I had my son, and that was reason enough.”
Reverend Owens lays his palm on Chris’s head, gentle. “So maybe I ain’t the best father. Maybe I shelter him too much, maybe I didn’t raise him up into what folks call a ‘man.’ But he’s mine. Perfect just the way the Lord made him. And I’ll protect him till I draw my last breath.”
There’s a silence. His hand runs once more down Chris’s back. Then his eyes shift, steady on me. “I see myself in you, Matt.”
Heat creeps up my throat, sharp and chokin’. “You don’t,” I manage, rougher than I mean. “You don’t want to.”
His eyes soften, but he don’t look away. “I see enough to know that you’re young enough to choose different.”
I shake my head, a half-laugh with no humor in it. “Different how? I don’t… I don’t think I know how.” The words fall out before I can swallow ’em back down, low and ashamed.
The Reverend doesn’t answer right away. He lugs in the rocker, the old wood screechin’, and I can hear the crickets grindin’ their song out in the grass. Chris stirs against his side, murmurs somethin’ too quiet to catch, then settles again.
“The Lord don’t hand us a map, son. We stumble plenty, make a mess of ourselves, hurt the folks we oughta protect most. But sometimes He gives us a moment. Just one. A turnin’ point, clear as day if you got the eyes to see it.”
I stare down at my boots, scuffed near to ruin. My throat burns with somethin’ I can’t name, fear or want or maybe both.
A turning point.
“What if I’d already passed mine, if I’d already ruined it, then what?”
The Reverend leans forward then, his voice quiet, calm as a hand on the shoulder.
“You’ll know.”
Notes:
⚠️ Trigger Warning: This chapter references descriptions of suicide, self-harm, and intense emotional distress. If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of self-harm or suicide, please reach out to someone you trust or contact a trained professional immediately. You are not alone.
im sorry for such a big announcement but i dont want anyone to feel uncomfy, but that being said, one of the big points is finally revealed !! i guess now u can kinda understand why the Reverend is the way he is with Chris, lemme know what your thoughts on him are!
love u guys 🫶
Chapter 9: Fire in the Straw
Notes:
ahhhh i know i left you guys upset at the last chapter, so here's my apology 😚
hope u enjoy xx
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The barn’s quiet but for the scrape of my boots draggin’ through straw and the soft grunt of Justice shiftin’ in his stall. Heat hangs stubborn in the rafters, makin’ my back sweat as I move. I pitch the last of the feed into the trough, lean both arms on the edge, and stare down at Justice chewin’. My hands ache from the hammer, blisters torn raw. I set the bucket aside, roll my shoulders as I drag a hand down my face, grit caked under my nails.
A shadow flickers across the gap in the barn doors, and I catch him out the corner of my eye. Chris, easin’ out the house, shirt sleeves rolled, that notebook tucked under his arm.
I freeze mid-step, a nail hangin’ between my fingers. I watch him move down the road, he doesn’t look sore at me. Don’t look like he’s carryin’ a grudge at all. Maybe he’s got them stored, hanging ‘em out where he pleases.
My jaw locks. Hell with this.
I toss the nail back in the tin, wipe my hands on my jeans, and stalk out the barn before my nerves can talk me down. The sun’s still high enough to sting my eyes, dust swirlin’ up with every bootfall as I cut across the yard. He’s halfway down the lane when I call out.
“Hey!”
Chris turns, that same easy smile liftin’ on his mouth. “Hi.”
The sound catches me wrong, sharp in my ears. I slow, brows drawn. “...Hi?”
“Yeah,” he says with a small laugh, tiltin’ his head like I’m the strange one. “Hi.”
I keep walkin’, but my gut’s twisted up, tangled. I clear my throat, dig my hands in my pockets. “Where you headed?”
He taps the notebook against his leg, gentle. “Church, I can’t really think straight with all the racket in the house. I work better there.”
The words land flat in my chest. “Huh.” I flick a glance at him, let the corner of my mouth curl deep. “How come you ain’t goin’ with your dear good friend Abbie?”
Chris blinks, shoulders hitchin’ like he didn’t expect the bite in my voice. “What?”
I don’t respond.
He gives a small shrug, gaze back on the dirt path ahead. “I write better when I’m alone.” A pause, then, almost to himself, “Though maybe I should meet her there.”
My face must give me off, ‘cause he slows, turns his head. His voice softens. “What’s wrong? Would you like to come?”
“No!” I tear out, loud enough to startle a bird from the brush. I force a laugh, brittle. “Why the hell would I wanna sit like some sissy watchin’ you scribble nonsense?”
He watches me, eyes narrowed like he’s tryin’ to puzzle somethin’ out, then lets his shoulders drop. “Alright,” he says quiet.
We keep on, step for step, the road crunchin’ under us. My throat feels raw, scraped out.
“So that’s just a thing now? You and Abigail?”
Chris smiles faint, eyes on the road. “She’s nice. I like hanging out with her.” He pauses, then tilts me a sidelong look. “At least she’s not afraid to kiss me.”
I stop cold in my tracks, tryin’ to sputter up somethin’ but nothin’ comes out. Chris don’t turn back, just keeps on, notebook swingin’ light in his hand till the dust swallows him up and I'm left standin'.
The river’s mean this time, runnin’ quick and shallow, the water cuttin’ silver through the light. Stones crowd the bank, slick with moss, some sunk half into the mud. I kick one loose, watch it roll till it plunks in the current, swirlin’ off into the distance.
I crouch low, grab a rock, and fling it hard. The splash’s echoes in the stillness, and it almost feels good for half a second.
“Stupid Chris,” I mutter, teeth tight. My voice sounds strange out here, too big against all that water. “Stupid with his little notebook. Stupid hair, too, must pay a buck for that boogie style, sittin’ like some girl under curlers.” Another stone arcs out, sinks straight, no fuss. “I ain’t scared of nothin’. He’s the one who gets his little panties in a twist all the time and who has to deal with it?”
My palm’s cut up from the edges, but I keep grabbin’ rocks, chuckin’ ‘em till my shoulder burns. One skips twice, then sinks, and I bite down hard. I hurl the next one so hard it cracks against a bigger stone midstream, shatterin’ in two before the river eats it whole.
The current’s got that same pull I feel in my gut, draggin’ me places I don’t wanna go. I wipe my palms down my pants, smear grit and river silt, then push up slow, legs stiff from crouchin’ so long. The light’s softenin’ over the fields when I trudge back toward the road.
My feet beat steady against the dirt, the sound loud in my ears as I cross into town. The stores are closin’ for the night, folks sweepin’ their porches, signs clappin’ against wood frames in the breeze. I catch a couple faces I know, lift a hand out of habit, but I don’t slow.
Hushpuppy’s squats low on the corner, its sign crooked as usual. The neon bone in the window blinks lazy, half burnt out, but I can still hear the hum of it from the street. Light spills thin across the walk, catchin’ dust motes that spin lazy in the air. I shove the door wide and step into the dark cool.
The place smells of spilled beer and cheap sweetness, wood floors stained deep with years of it. Ceiling fans whir overhead, pushin’ the heat around instead of killin’ it. A couple of old boys are leaned over the pool table, cues clackin’ soft, and Miss May and another woman laugh near the jukebox, their voices floatin’ above the steady hum.
Nick’s behind the bar, polishin’ a glass with his sleeve like he’s tryin’ to rub it down to air. He glances up when I slide onto a stool, his brow liftin’ a touch. “Evenin’, Matt.”
“Bourbon.”
Nick studies me, sets the glass aside, and turns to the shelf. “Sure thing.”
The burn’s steady as soon as it hits my tongue, and I welcome it. It feels like somethin’ cuttin’ clean through all the knots inside. I set the glass back down hard, push it toward him with a grunt. “Another.”
He hesitates, then pours anyway, slow like he’s testin’ me.
I take it down quicker this time, the warmth climbin’ my throat, floodin’ my chest. My mouth runs before my head catches up. “You know what the problem is with folks these days?” I grunt, tappin’ my finger against the counter. “They’re never satisfied. Always askin’ for more. More time, more words, more attention. Like you gotta bend yourself in half just to keep ‘em happy.”
Nick leans a hip against the bar, mouth twitchin’. “Sounds like you’re talkin’ ‘bout a woman.”
Before I can answer, Dick drops onto the stool beside me, smellin’ of hay and chew. He slaps my back with a laugh. “Sounds like my wife! Matt’s got some gal runnin’ him ragged. Who’s the unlucky girl?
I bark a laugh, bitter. “Don’t matter. She’s got a mouth on her, I’ll tell you that. And if she ain’t whinin’, she’s actin’ like I’m the fool. Like I don’t do enough, don’t care enough, don’t…” My voice trails sharp. I shake my head, swallow the rest. “Hell. Doesn’t matter.”
Nick and Dick share a look, their laughter low, heads shakin’ like they’re in on some joke. Dick nudges me with his elbow. “That’s women for ya. You let one in, next thing you know she’s bossin’ you about even though you pay the bills.”
“Bossy,” I agree, takin’ another swallow that burns hotter than the last. “Always wantin’ somethin’ from me. Well, I’ll tell ya, I ain’t a damn genie.”
Nick chuckles, wipes down the counter slow. “Maybe you oughta head home, Matt. Sleep it off.”
I slam the glass down, the sound sharp. “Pour me another.”
He stills, eyes narrowin’. “I think you’ve had enough.”
My jaw snaps tight. I lean in close, voice low but iron. “Pour me another, or I’ll find someone who will.”
Silence spreads for a beat. Nick lifts a shoulder, slow, like it ain’t worth the trouble to fight me. He splashes another measure into the glass, sets it down with a solid clink. “Your funeral.”
I curl my hand around it, the anger in me twistin’ tighter with every swallow.
The bourbon’s still burnin’ down my throat when the door bangs open hard enough to rattle the glass in its frame. A draft moves through the haze of smoke and sweat, and in lumbers a man built like a damn ox. He’s near seven feet if he’s an inch, broad as two fence posts side by side, shoulders stretchin’ his shirt near to rippin’. A beard like a briar patch hides half his face, but them thick, black brows do enough talkin’ on their own, set low like he’s forever mad. His hands look like they could crack a skull easy as walnuts, knuckles swollen, scarred pale with tattoos.
The room shifts when he steps in, voices sinkin’ low. Miss May quits laughin’, one hand hoverin’ at her throat, and the pool game dies mid-shot. He drags a chair out with a screech, drops into it heavy, and calls toward the bar. “Whiskey. Make it quick.”
Nick moves cautious, pourin’ a glass neat and settin’ it down like it’s holy water. The man downs it in one swallow, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then grins wide, teeth yellowed. “Tab,” he says, shovin’ the glass back.
Nick’s jaw tightens. “You got three tabs sittin’ already. You’ll settle first.”
The big man leans forward, shadow stretchin’ long across the counter. “Don’t think you heard me right.” His voice rumbles low, like rocks rollin’ in a barrel. “I said tab.”
I’m drunk enough my mouth gets ahead of sense. I let out a bark of a laugh, loud in the hush. “What, all that height, all that muscle, and you still can’t reach your wallet?”
Nick’s eyes cut sharp at me, whisperin’ fierce, “Matt, shut up.”
Dick chokes back a laugh anyway, slappin’ his thigh. “He got you there, stranger.”
The man turns his head slow, brows droppin’ like storm clouds. His gaze lands on me heavy, pinning me where I sit. “You got somethin’ else to say, boy?”
I swirl the last of my bourbon, tilt my chin. “Just sayin’, fella built like you, I’d expect strength in more places than your arms. Maybe your pockets, too.”
Nick mutters a curse, runs a hand down his face. “For Christ’s sake, Matt.”
But the man just huffs, like he’s almost amused. “Mouthy little rooster.” He cracks his neck side to side, a sound like branches splittin’. “Tell you what. Since you got so much to say about strength, why don’t we make a deal?”
My grin’s sharp, sloppy. “Now that’s more of my language.”
“Arm wrestle. Right here.” He slaps a hand down on the bar, thick and heavy. “Loser buys a round.”
Nick groans, already reachin’ for the bottle. I plant my elbow beside his, grip tight. My hand looks small swallowed in his, but the liquor’s got me bold. “Loser buys a round,” I echo. “But if I win, you settle them tabs, too.”
The man’s grin widens, mean. “And if you lose… I’ll drag your sorry hide out back and show you what losin’ really feels like.”
Dick whistles low and we lock hands, wood creakin’ under our weight. Nick counts us down half-hearted, already pourin’ himself a drink.
At first, I push and swear I feel him givin’. My arm quivers, muscles screamin’, but the alcohol makes me laugh, loud and cocky. “Ain’t so tough, are ya? Thought you were supposed to be some giant. Hell, I-”
And just like that, he moves. A flick of his wrist, casual, like swattin’ a fly. My arm slams to the counter hard enough to rattle the bottles. Pain jolts through my elbow, my knuckles skiddin’ against the wood.
The bar’s silent but for my breathin’. The man doesn’t gloat, he only stares, cold and steady, then cracks his neck again. I glance at Nick, at Dick, at Miss May by the jukebox starin’ wide-eyed. My grin falters, throat dry.
“Uh… fellas, I think I’m-”
The man pushes up from his chair slow, like a bear comin’ to full height. He flexes one fist, the leather of his glove creakin’. “Run, rooster.”
So I do.
I stumble off the stool, knockin’ it sideways, and bolt for the door. The night air hits hard, cool against my flushed skin, but his voice bellows after me, shakin’ the windows, “You can’t outrun me, boy!”
Boots pound behind me, each step thunderin’ closer. I tear down Main, past shuttered shops, heart jackhammerin’, the bourbon churnin’ sick in my gut. Folks peek out windows as I barrel by, the man’s shadow stretchin’ long in the lamplight, swallowin’ mine whole.
The barn looms dark ahead, moonlight spillin’ crooked through the slats. My lungs are screamin’, legs half-numb, but I don’t stop till I’m inside, bangin’ the doors shut with a hollow thud that rattles the hinges. I press my back to the wood, chest heavin’, breath rippin’ raw down my throat. My knees near give, and I bend forward, palms braced hard on ‘em, gaspin’ like a man half-drowned. Sweat drips down my temple, stingin’ my eye hard.
“She isn’t so scary after all.”
My head jerks up, heart still hammerin’. Chris is a half-shadow, crouched by Cupcake’s stall. He’s run his fingers through her mane, little braids weavin’ sloppy down her neck. His touch is light, like the horse never spooked him in the first place. He looks up slow, grin quirkin’ at his mouth. “You were right, she likes it.”
The air in me stutters. I push off the door, my boots swishin’ through straw toward him. The scent of bourbon clings thick around me, sweatin’ off my skin. Chris tilts his head, brows pulled and I already know he’s about to ask if I’m alright. His mouth just starts to shape the words-
And I’m on him.
I grab hold rough, slammin’ him back against the stall boards. The thud rattles Cupcake’s bridle, a startled whicker breakin’ the quiet. Chris gasps, palms splayin’ against my chest, but before he can shove or speak, my mouth crashes over his.
It’s messy, all teeth and heat, my tongue pushin’ past his lips like I’m starved of him. I taste alcohol burnin’ through spit, taste the salt of sweat and the faint sweet of whatever toothpaste he uses. He makes a sound, thin, high, desperate, and it feeds somethin’ ugly and hungry in me. I kiss him harder, hand slidin’ up his ribs, down his waist, over the sharp protruding edge of his hip bone.
Chris fists at my shirt, like he can’t decide if he wants to push me off or pull me closer. A low whine breaks out of him when my tongue tangles with his, hot and deep, slick movin’ back and forth till we’re both gaspin’ against each other’s mouths. His lips are wet, swollen, bruised already from the press of mine, and I don’t care. I lick them open again, swallowin’ his little moans whole.
“Say it,” I whisper, breath ragged against his jaw. My voice cracks low, rough. “Say you’re mine.”
Chris’s head tips back, eyes shut tight, lips partin’ on a tremble. His breath ghosts hot against my ear as he moans, helpless, “I’m yours.”
“Fuckin’ right you are.”
I sink my teeth into the slope of his throat before he can catch another breath. He yelps soft, the sound breakin’ into a whimper as I suck hard, draggin’ my mouth over skin till I feel him writhe under me. His fingers clutch at my shoulders, his knees knockin’ against mine like he can’t hold himself up. I bite down meaner, leaving a mark big and raw, branded clear on his neck.
Chris moans again, sweet, tiltin’ his head back to give me more. His chest heaves against mine, frantic. I lap the sting of the bruise with my tongue, taste his skin, then crush my mouth back over his, drownin’ myself in the noise he makes, in the fever of him.
We tear apart like we been ripped from each other, gaspin’, lips swollen, strings of spit still catchin’ the moonlight between us. My chest rises, ribs feelin’ like they might crack from how hard they’re strainin’. I keep a hand braced on the stall board, the other hangin’ limp by my side.
Chris is flushed through, sweat shinin’ at his temple, waves stuck damp to his forehead. His lips are red, mouth still partway open, breath comin’ shallow. The bruise I left on his neck shines dark already, ugly and raw and mine, and I can’t look away. Not from the way his eyes glint half-lidded, soft as if I’d carved somethin’ pure into him instead of sin.
My heart pounds so loud it’s near drownin’ out the crickets outside. I take him in greedy, his shirt wrinkled where my fists had bunched it, his hair wild, his chest flutterin’ quick like he’s scared but craves more. He’s beautiful in a way that hurts, like starin’ too long at the sun, and for a moment all the heat drains out of me, leavin’ just the ache of want.
It shatters so fast I nearly shove him away.
“Come out, boy!”
The voice slaps through the barn like a whip. “Fuck,” I hiss, stomach droppin’. My head whips toward the doors, still judderin’ in their frame.
Chris blinks, dazed, brows pullin’ tight. “What?”
“Shh-shit!” I whisper sharp, scramblin’. I duck quick, near trip over my boots, and dive into Cupcake’s stall. The shire shifts, tossin’ her head, nostrils flarin’ as I press myself flat to the boards.
The doors screech open, wood creakin’ against the wall. Heavy feet thud against straw and the air fills with the stink of tobacco and grime.
A wad of spit lands wet on the ground. “Boy,” the man growls, voice like stone rollin’. “You seen him? Sharp mouth, dark hair, eyes too big for his head. Ran this way.”
I press tighter into the corner, heart bangin’ against my chest like it’s beggin’ to be let out. Cupcake noses my shoulder, snortin’ soft, and I shove her muzzle back, mutterin’ a silent, desperate prayer.
Chris straightens slow. “Why?” he asks, voice even.
The man clicks his tongue, a smirk curvin’ his beard. “We’ve got some unfinished business.”
Chris blinks, then smiles polite like it’s Sunday school manners. “He’s in that stall.” He lifts a hand, points right to where I crouch.
My stomach lurches. “Goddamn it,” I whisper, but it’s too late.
The man’s mouth curves wide, strides over heavy, and wrenches the door open. Before I can twist, he’s got me by the collar, haulin’ me up like I weigh nothin’. My feet kick at hay, boots knockin’ against the boards. My throat closes, panic floodin’ me raw.
“Now hold on!” I rasp, hands scrabblin’ at his wrist. “We-we can talk this out, right? Just-just talk!”
The man shakes me once, hard enough my teeth clack. His shit eating grin shows yellow. “I don’t think we can.”
I cringe and brace as the man’s fist comes in closer contact to my face. “Wait, wait-!”
“Excuse me, sir,” Chris interrupts, small but steady. “These are holy grounds.”
The man stills, brows knotting as he pulls back, but he doesn’t set me down. He tilts his head, squints at Chris. “Holy don’t mean much when a man owes me.”
Chris’s voice stays soft, strange. “What would your mother think of you, shedding blood where the pastor lays his head?”
The question hangs heavy in the air, not cruel but true. My pulse stutters. The man’s jaw works, grip falterin’ a touch like the thought crept in where fists couldn’t.
Then he growls low, shakin’ me again. “Your little boyfriend owes me.”
Chris frowns. “I’m sorry about him.”
I snap my mouth open to argue, but Chris cuts me off with a look so calm it pins me silent.
Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a fat stack of bills, fifties and tens, crisp and clean. Near fifty bucks in all, maybe more, somethin’ that could pay near a month’s rent for most men. My jaw drops dumb as I gape.
Chris holds it out neat in his palm. “Take this, come to church on Sunday. My father will help you.”
The man stares at the money, at Chris, at me. His grip slackens, and I drop hard to the dirt, knees bucklin’. Pain shoots up my hip, but I bite it down.
Slow, the big man takes the bills, fingers twitchin’ rough against their edges. He nods once, solemn, almost grateful, and then, he smiles.
Chris waves kind. The man turns, shoulders hunchin’ as he ducks out the door, vanishin’ back into the night.
I stay crouched on the ground, breath shallow, chest poundin’ like a snare drum. Chris doesn’t say a word at first, just pats Cupcake’s neck, lettin’ her nose at his sleeve. I finally haul myself up off the dirt, knees weak, and stagger over.
“How’d you do that?”
He lifts his head, brows pinchin’ light, like he don’t rightly understand.
“With him,” I press, noddin’ toward the empty door. My throat feels dry. “How the hell’d you calm him down like that?”
Chris just shrugs. “I felt bad for him. It’s obvious he’s hurting.”
I gape, disbelievin’. My chest pulls tight for a different reason now; somethin’ caught between relief and awe. I let out a low laugh, breathless. “You’re a damn fool.”
That gets him grinnin’, soft and lopsided. A real laugh slips past his teeth, warm as a mornin’ day.
It knocks somethin’ loose in me, and before I know it I’m laughin’ too, quiet, shaky. I nudge his shoulder with mine, light but lingerin’ as we stand there in the hush, The straw smell is sweet now, and the horses rustle quiet again. I pick out a piece of hay from his hair as he giggles.
I tuck the strand away in my pocket and smile.
Notes:
when my card declines at therapy so they bring out how i fail to end my chapters good 💔
butt the next chapter is (last time saying it i promise) my fav chapter so stay tuned for that amazing people and ty!
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they_love_jaz on Chapter 2 Wed 03 Sep 2025 07:31PM UTC
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