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Deacon brandished his new book proudly, signing excitedly with one hand about how he was so pumped to finally have a book about the wild west for them to do. Chase was… not so excited. All there was to see was dirt, more dirt, and buff cowboy dudes covered in dirt.
Now wait a minute…
Chase changed his mind. Goth cowboys were a thing, right? Buddy could totally make that work.
But, of course, given Deacon's track record with horses, and given that in the wild west, you're never more than ten paces away from the nearest long-legged beast, Chase was still skeptical about this book's potential for fun.
He and Buddy could have a good enough time strutting their stuff down the packed dirt runway of an old-school high noon draw, right smack-dab in the middle of a town that is (for some reason) only big enough for one person, but if Deacon gets maimed by an equestrian monster, then nobody's bound to get much narratonin.
Hard to enjoy yourself in the midst of agonized screaming.
Chase was about to say no, and put the wild west on their list of 'ABSOLUTELY NOT' books, right alongside pirates, sailors, pirate-sailors ("And yes, there is a difference, Chase!"), and anything to do with a pizzeria— it knows what it did— but Deacon had apparently been taking lessons from a sad, kicked puppy, because he pinned Chase down with the biggest, wettest, most pathetic looking eyes Chase had ever seen.
It was gross.
Chase agreed to do the cowboy book on the condition that Deacon never make that face again in a million-trillion-gazillion years.
"So who am I, then? I'm assuming there aren't any princesses to be found in that little ghost town, or whatever it is," Chase asked, leaning his hip disinterestedly on the surface of his desk, the offending cowboy book next to him with the keys sitting in their little beach chairs.
Bronze was sleeping (and honestly, when wasn't he), but Silver kept herself occupied with her knitting while the two human boys signed back and forth above her. Silver would, with the utmost humility, say that she was learning a very decent amount of signs in a short amount of time, but the way the boys signed when not specifically talking to her was nothing short of sound barrier breaking. Her wrists ached at the mere thought of being able to sign that fast.
There really wasn't any use paying attention to them when they got like this. Honestly, they were probably arguing about something, and Silver didn't care much for that sort of thing anyway.
"Relax, would you? I just said that you'd probably be some sort of barmaid or something. There aren't any characters that could be the heroine, so you don't have to do any plot work! Isn't that basically your dream?"
"What, I'm just supposed to work a part-time job serving gross old men who've never heard the word 'shower' in their lives while you're off gallivanting as Mr. Big-Shot Sheriff? That hardly seems fair."
"Chase come on, you pick literally every single book we ever do. Just let me have this!"
"Nuh uh!! I do not pick every book. It was your idea to go into the terrible vampire book."
"Because it was for your birthday! We're doing this, and that's final."
"Fine!" Chase swiped the book off the desk and tapped his fingernails on the cover, getting Silver to look up at him. She set her knitting down and calmly stepped onto Chase's outstretched palm before turning into a key in a poof of gray smoke.
Chase stuck his tongue out at Deacon one last time before slotting Silver into the book and disappearing.
Deacon sighed. At least Chase actually gave in this time. He could be earning bucketfuls of narratonin if Chase would just let them do his Seas of Passion books, but no everything's always about Chase. Well, not this time. Today, Deacon is going to be a cowboy sheriff, and they're all going to have lots of fun.
Deacon extended a timid finger to lift up the reeses peanut butter cup wrapper Bronze had been using to cover his face during his nap, and Bronze blinked blearily in the wake of sudden illumination. "Wha? izz't time t' go?"
Deacon nodded, so Bronze stood slowly off his beach chair and stretched his back out, taking a good five seconds to do so, after which he contorted into a tree pose— if perhaps your yoga instructor were an actual tree. It looked kinda funky, but Bronze merely hummed contentedly and shifted to another stretch.
Deacon knew, just knew that Bronze liked to take so long purely to make Deacon mad.
But it would all be okay! Deacon would have a very fun, chill day! Nothing can ruin that for him! (Except maybe a horse, but even then, that would mean a horse noticed him, which would still be a win).
Bronze finally finished his makeshift yoga routine, and Deacon— at long last— joined Chase within the story.
————— 🏜🏜🏜 —————
It was a fine looking old western town, with packed dirt streets and humble looking storefronts along the quaint little main street. Chase was off to his right, looking incredibly pissed off at the rope that was currently tying him to a post next to a couple disgruntled horses.
Why would he be…? OH. The realization hit Deacon like a sack of bricks as soon as he glanced slightly downwards and saw a braided fiber tail hanging off the back of Chase's belt. In all other regards, Chase was dressed like a stereotypical Hollywood cowboy: boots, jeans, hat, vest and all. It looked good, if a little floral for Deacon's tastes, but that tail (and the fact that Chase was tied to a horse post) gave away the fact that Silver hadn't chosen to make Chase a random barmaid, but instead Deacon's— er, the sheriff's trusty steed, Belinda.
Deacon let out a laugh. And then another. And another. It was high time Chase found out just what Deacon had had to go through in that weirdly colorful demon book. Though Deacon did have to thank his lucky stars for the fact that Chase hadn't noticed him yet, because if he saw Deacon laughing, he was likely to show Deacon in great detail just how he'd won all those wrestling trophies, and Deacon (who had seen those matches in person, mind you), did not want to be on the other end of that kind of unrestrained fury.
Deacon quickly composed himself before approaching Chase to help him untie the rope. Before he could, however, Chase snatched Deacon's hand away from the frayed rope and bit him. Chase bit him.
What the fuck.
Deacon snatched his hand away and gaped at his younger cousin, completely aghast and not a little hurt (in more ways than one).
Before Deacon could do anything— although, really what would he have done— Chase had finished untangling himself from the rope and threw it on the ground, grinding it beneath his heel for good measure, and even going so far as to spit on it.
Deacon raised an eyebrow. Chase was acting weird. And not the fun, spontaneous 'Chase weird.' Just plain old weird. And uncomfortable, if Deacon was being honest with himself.
"Are you… feeling okay??" The signs were hesitant and a bit choppy; too quick to pull back lest Chase decide he'd gotten too close and bite him again.
Chase glowered at him momentarily before pushing his sleeves up and unleashing a torrent of signs not even Deacon could parse through. Honestly, most of it was probably just Chase waving his arms around angrily.
When they were young, Chase had told Deacon proudly that rolling his sleeves up showed that he 'meant business.' Of course, no hearing people outside of their family had understood, so instead of doing it when he wanted to be taken seriously, the gesture gradually morphed into one that conveyed: 'you have two seconds to run.'
"–and I don't even want to know why I was tied up, because that would mean you'd have to tell me, and to be honest? You're, like, MEGA pissing me off right now, dude."
"WHAT DID I EVEN DO??? YOU'RE THE ONE WHO BIT ME!"
Chase looked at him like he was an idiot before just vaguely gesturing to all of Deacon.
Wow. Very nice.
The two became locked in a staring contest, both daring the other to make a move. How did they even get in this situation? Wasn't this supposed to be a fun book?
On the street behind them, a tumbleweed lazily rolled past, making Chase giggle and point at it excitedly.
"Check it out! It's just like those old western films grandpa has!"
Deacon rolled his eyes. "No duh, Chase. We're in an old western book."
"You shut up," Chase snapped, trotting away from him in favor of aimlessly strolling the main street.
Deacon spluttered for a moment before jogging to catch up with the shorter man. "What is your problem??"
Chase sighed and ran a hand down his face. "Look, I don't know, okay? I. Don't. Know. But you're making me mad. Somehow. So shove off."
Deacon stopped in his tracks. Better to fume and get his anger out of his system while not within punching distance. As Chase continued on, however, Deacon found his eyes drawn back down to the swaying fiber tail hanging from Chase's hip, and the hoof imprints in the mud, taking the place of regular boot tracks.
That's right… Chase is a horse. No wonder he's got a bone to pick all of a sudden. Deacon found himself scowling again— but not at Chase this time— no, more so just at the fact that he can't catch a break, and god must think this whole ordeal is pretty hilarious. It's as if the whole world is in on some sort of sick prank. It's not his fault he likes horses. And it certainly isn't his fault that they don't like him back.
But for the stupid horse prank to infect Chase?? That's just sick. Sick and twisted.
Deacon reached out a hand to tap Chase's shoulder before thinking better of it and retracting his hand. He'd much rather exit this book with the same number of fingers he had going into it. Hopefully once Chase understood that he wasn't upset, rather the horse was, maybe they'd be able to go back to normal and enjoy the book.
He sped up a notch and rounded Chase, causing the younger man to come to stop and let out a stilted "What." before folding his arms and cocking his hip out expectantly.
"You're a horse. I think that's why you're suddenly–"
Chase cut him off, derision clear in his raised eyebrow. "A horse? What makes you say th–"
Deacon had pointed to the tail on Chase's belt, and once Chase had twisted around to see it, his arms jolted to a stop.
Chase took the braided fiber tail in hand, examining it, then his footprints— or rather, hoofprints. He let the tail fall out of his grasp, expression unreadable. "Okay, well… alrighty. I guess I understand where Boris is coming from now. You suck."
Deacon sighed, exaggerating the rise and fall of his chest so Chase could see it. "Can you lay off? You still haven't apologized for biting me. That hurt."
Chase at least had the decency to look a little guilty at the mention of his violent horse past. "Right… yeah. Sorry about that, dude. Won't happen again. Probably."
"That 'probably' had better turn into a 'definitely,' or I'm kicking you out of the book and finishing it myself."
"What, with an actual horse?" Chase asked, hands settling onto his hips disapprovingly before he remembered that he kinda sorta needed them to finish his thought. "Y'know, the animals that hate you for no good reason? I'm sure that'll go well. At least I'm halfway decent at showing restraint."
Deacon rolled his eyes again. "Riiiiight. I'm sure everyone else at the school's scavenger hunt would agree. Chase Hollow is just the best at showing restraint and acting normally."
Chase laughed breathily, a tiny bead of sweat that had nothing to do with the harsh, noonday sun sliding down his temple. "So, anyway, speaking of Buddy–"
"I wasn't–"
"SPEAKING OF BUDDY. Where is the guy, anyway? Shouldn't we be hurling insults and practicing our rootin' tootin' gun-slinging quick draw right about now?"
Deacon pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay, first of all: the story just barely started. Secondly, Buddy shouldn't even show up this time. There isn't a villainess in this book. Just a group of bandits, and they're all men."
Chase looked unimpressed. "That's not very matcha-drinking, labubu-having, six foot two, reader of feminist literature of you, Deacon. How sad. It's always the ones you trust the most." Chase shook his head, and probably thought he had just delivered a scathing insult, but the way he was slightly giggling dampened the effect. Deacon would pretend for him, though. Chase couldn't always tell when he was making audible sounds.
Probably the last thing you'd expect a deaf person to be is loud, but Chase, whether he's aware of it or not, is always. Making. Noises. It gets old fast. The one good thing about it is that Chase still doesn't know why he can never seem to sneak up on Deacon successfully. Heh. Take that.
Deacon shrugged and admitted defeat, if only just so Chase could keep pretending to have the moral high ground. With Chase satisfied at Deacon's apparent surrender, the two set off towards the saloon where the story is supposed to begin.
Chase utterly refused to be left outside with the other horses, so with only minor looks of bafflement from the other patrons, he and Deacon settled at a table and ordered what looked to be sewer water from the high school men's room. Eurgh, who drinks this stuff??
Deacon busied himself explaining that most people had no choice but to drink the alcohol due to factors such as water impurities, scarcity… and uhhh some other reasons… Chase wasn't really listening.
It was honestly kind of surprising that Deacon kept droning on, because Chase wasn't even looking at him anymore; too focused on his makeshift tail to pay much attention.
"–Which is why they lower birds into the wells before they–"
"Yeah, yeah, that's all very cool. I'm a horse, right? That's what you said?" Chase asked, letting the tail fall from his hands.
Deacon pursed his lips, having seemingly only now noticed that Chase hadn't been watching his fascinating lecture on old western water practices. "Yes, Chase. That is what I told you. At least you caught that much."
"What do horses sound like?"
Deacon blinked, the question catching him slightly off guard. It had been a game they'd played all throughout their shared childhood. Chase would think up a random animal, and Deacon would try to explain what noises they made. He'd told Chase about horses before, he's almost one hundred percent sure of it, but asking Chase to remember things is like asking Boris not to eat your laundry. You're better off just giving up.
Well gee, how to explain what a horse's neigh sounds like... He'd almost just given up and finger-spelled 'neigh' for him, but Chase would probably go ballistic if he assumed that Chase wasn't familiar with the word for the sound he was seeking.
"It's sort of like… a laugh and a cough all in one. Or sort of a yell?"
Chase's eyes lit up. Of all the things for him to pay attention to, it just had to be anything other than what Deacon actually wanted to tell him.
"And how do you make the sound?" Chase was just about vibrating with excitement now, the prospect of being able to be obnoxious in a horse accent clearly appealed to him greatly.
Deacon let out a long breath. He'd be damned if a simple question from Chase had him testing out different neighing techniques for the whole tavern to hear. He did that once in public when they were in middle school and has yet to live it down. He could probably just use his imagination to come up with a horse noise. "Let's see… you kind of have to flap your lips; it's easier if you do it while shaking your head, and um… You need to exhale really forcefully, but sort of, like, in a staccato way? I don't know if that makes sense. And if you sort of close up your throat a little bit, then it sounds deeper and more gravelly, like a real horse."
Chase scrunched his face. "Gravel? Like… tiny stones??"
Ah, he'd used the wrong sign… it worked well enough in English, but he should have remembered Chase wouldn't have the context to understand. "No, it's uh… rough, is what I meant. Like… rumbly," Deacon emphasized his point by rubbing his fingers together and then sliding them across the table, hoping the deep grooves of the wood grain would help carry his point across.
Chase looked perturbed. "Sounds can be rough? Does it make your tongue feel weird? Is it like how humming makes your face buzz?"
Deacon chewed on that for a moment. He'd never really thought about how making noises felt physically, unless he'd strained his voice and his throat hurt, but that hadn't happened in years. He liked to think that nobody understood Chase quite like he did, save for Aunt Myra of course, but conversations like this really highlighted how differently Chase viewed the world. And it only made sense; Deacon isn't actually deaf like Chase and his mother, he just… forgets that they're not like him. They don't have a choice. Deacon signs because he wants to, but for them… it's their only option.
It's kind of funny. Out of all the people in the world, two out of the three Deacon could probably still speak verbally to, are completely deaf. He still tried to speak to his grandpa sometimes, if only to prove he still could. Sometimes he even thought he was getting better. Although… better… that's not a word he liked to use. There wasn't anything actually wrong with him. It's just… frustrating sometimes. Something that used to be so easy, and even something Deacon enjoyed is now so far out of reach it seems as though he really is mute some days.
Maybe it'd be easier if he was. Maybe then people wouldn't look at him so strangely. Maybe then they'd be sympathetic instead of just assuming he's silent because he wants attention. Because he wants to be different. Because his cousin is special, and he's just… Deacon.
He used to push himself to speak more often. To his teachers, his friends, and even his parents once. It got harder and harder each time. In the end he could barely get two words out before his throat started closing in on him. His voice would come out scratchy and broken; barely more than a whisper, but it felt like such an impossible feat. Like cresting a mountaintop only to find that everyone else had taken the elevator up. Like spending eternity expected to climb indefinitely, while everyone else just magically appeared one step ahead of him. Always one step ahead. And why was he struggling so badly, they'd ask. Nobody else was tired. Everyone else made it to the top of the mountain so easily! Surely Deacon's just not trying hard enough.
Why is it that everyone else can make it without struggle? Why is it that Deacon seems to be the only one giving up?
Why couldn't they understand that he'd already worked so hard to achieve what they always took for granted?
At least grandpa understood, somewhat. He didn't know what it was like to have to climb, but he could sit and wait for Deacon at the top. They'd stay there together for a nice little while, and then he'd let Deacon climb back down without asking him to keep going higher. And he'd be there when Deacon came back, still just waiting at the top of the peak.
Chase broke him out of his musings with a rather interesting attempt at a neigh. He was shaking his head, as Deacon had suggested, but the sound leaving his mouth was less of a 'neigh' and more of a 'fblpblblblp.'
"Did I do it?" Chase beamed at him, clearly proud of his flubbed horse impression, and Deacon simply smiled back. It wouldn't do to spoil Chase's fun by telling him it didn't sound much like a horse.
"Yeah, it sounded great!"
One of Chase's greatest dreams was to get a vocal coach and learn how to sing, and Deacon… well, he wanted that, too. If only because it would make his brother happy. Chase… had had a rough time of it there for a while. Growing up deaf in Sugar Springs wasn't the easiest thing in the world, and he'd almost dropped out of high school several times because of it.
Each time, Deacon would find him sulking in the barn out behind the house, fighting back tears and sinking further and further into his hoodie, convinced that one day he might not come back out.
Nobody understands me, he'd told Deacon once, I can't make myself seen, and I can't be heard. I just… feel invisible sometimes. Like I'm just some idiot in the background; unimportant and always left behind.
But he'd been feeling better this summer, or at least that's what he wanted people to think. Deacon knew there was at least a little truth to the mask he put on. After all, they had a plan to heal Aunt Myra, they had the keys, and Chase had finished school. Things were looking up now, right? He even had his Buddy to be happy about. As much as Deacon disliked the guy, he was at least kind to Chase now, so that was something. Of course, that kindness didn't extend to Deacon— because of course not. Why would it? Honestly, he wouldn't be surprised if Buddy turned out to be a weird magical talking horse that found a key, and that's why he hates Deacon so much.
Whatever. It's not like Deacon even cares. Because he doesn't. So there.
In any case, the two of them were supposed to be on their way to the sheriff's station right about now, and if Buddy did happen to sneak into the book somehow, Deacon did not feel like getting mocked for not following the plot. Save that bogus behavior for Chase.
As they set off, a haggard looking old prospector stumbled in front of them, screaming about a group of thieves running him out of his land claim. The display surprised Deacon for a number of reasons, the first being that this dude's teeth were nasty and he was getting all up in Deacon's face. EW. The second was that this wasn't supposed to happen until later in the story. Deacon furrowed his brows. He and Chase hadn't done anything to derail the plot (yet)… so why was this happening?
They were supposed to go release someone out of the county jail and then ride out of town on a patrol before getting stopped. Weird.
The wrinkled old coot was still rambling about how they had to go run the bandits off of his land claim, but Deacon had already stopped paying attention. He already knew what they were supposed to do, and anyway, the way the old man was yelling and signing at the same time made it hard to follow. He'd been noticing that more and more often lately.
According to Chase, the storybook characters hadn't spoken at all until Buddy— and then later, Deacon— started joining him in the books, and Deacon supposed it made sense, seeing as how they were both hearing, but man it could be inconvenient at times. With all the differences in sentence structure, he could really only understand one at a time, but they all seemed intent on bombarding him with both, day in and day out.
If he could have a word with whatever storybook magic governed the characters— well, he probably had more important questions to ask than just 'can they stop speaking to me and only sign from now on,' but it would certainly be pretty high up the list. Maybe just under 'how does all of this work' and 'can you kick Buddy out of the books for me?'
When he zoned back into reality— or… fake book reality— Chase was assuring the prospector that they'd do their best to get 'his' land back just as soon as they were able to rustle up some food that wouldn't poison them.
Deacon rolled his eyes. Typical Chase: always thinking with his stomach. Although… come to think of it, he hadn't had a chance to give Chase any notes for this story, so he probably didn't have a clue what they were really supposed to be up to. Not that he ever did anyway, even with the notes, but whatever.
Deacon took Chase by the shoulders (narrowly dodging another bite in the process) and steered him away from where he was salivating over the display jars of dried fruits and little peppermint candies within the town's general store window. "We can get something to eat later. I want to check on something before we leave town to go find the bandits."
Chase scowled, but relented, and the two made their way towards the county jail, where— sure enough— the prisoner they were supposed to release was no longer there. How odd…
Deacon rubbed the back of his neck, brows furrowed. "I guess the story wants us to speed up a little? It's weird though, I don't think we took all that long in the saloon."
Chase shrugged. "Maybe the book realized that the less time we spend here the more of a chance you've got at escaping with all of your fingers intact."
To emphasize his point, Chase made a show of reaching for Deacon's hands, which were swiped out of the way indignantly before he could even touch them.
"Well, maybe if you'd stop trying to bite me, we could actually get something done!" Deacon complained, leading them out of the dingy little jailhouse and back onto the main road.
"That's what you get for making me a horse, dorkin. Them's the consequences. C-o-n-s-i-k-w-e-n-s-e-s." Chase finger-spelled the word with utmost confidence, unaware that Deacon was about two seconds away from losing any and all composure he'd worked so hard to maintain within the story.
In the end, it was a losing battle, and Deacon had to speed up a little so Chase wouldn't see him holding back his laughter.
On any other day, Deacon would have ridiculed Chase into the ground for such a silly spelling mistake, but the horses weren't on Deacon's side today (are they ever?) and he had a sneaking suspicion that Chase wouldn't be in the mood to take a joke very well. Call it a hunch. (And the fact that his hand still hurt from when Chase bit it earlier).
Chase trailed after Deacon, scuffing his boots in the dirt as he dragged his feet. He was obviously still a little miffed at Deacon, but hopefully that was just the evil horse influence talking.
The main street was deserted now, all traces of townsfolk completely wiped off the face of the earth. The only living things in sight were the Hollow cousins trudging along, and a solitary tumble weed that had yet to find a suitable place to re-root itself.
Deacon's lips quirked up in a half smile. He could almost hear The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly playing in the background, and maybe that was just a figment of his imagination, but stranger things had happened than a story providing a little musical ambiance by way of dramatic flute playing.
Maybe if Chase could hear it he'd calm down a notch. He always liked plucky guitar music, though of course, that was only because he could feel the instrument rumble underneath his fingers. The shrill whistling and coyote howls of the song probably wouldn't matter too much to him, if he could even sense them at all. Maybe through a good enough speaker, but those wouldn't be invented for a long while.
Sometimes Deacon wondered what kind of music Chase would like if he hadn't been born deaf. As of right now, Chase mostly listened to really upbeat pop songs because they had a strong beat that he could feel, but other than that, he didn't really know the difference between music genres. Just recently he'd taken a liking to a rather… um… inappropriate song that he'd found on the radio, and was quite bent out of shape when grandpa had had to explain to him why he couldn't blast it through the truck's speakers one day.
Before then, Deacon hadn't really paid much attention to Chase's car habits— because duh why should he care? But Chase had complained that he really wanted to feel his new favorite song through the truck's door, prompting looks of bafflement from both Deacon and their grandfather. Was there something special about the door? Not really, they'd come to find out, but Chase had told them that with all the little speakers inside the truck's cab, all the old plastic pieces of the interior frame rattled really nicely when you turned the volume up really high. Grandpa liked to complain that Chase was trying to make the rest of them deaf as well, with his ear-splitting listening habits, but Deacon supposed he could understand. He liked loud music as well, just maybe not quite that loud.
The pair reached the end of the main street, and were caught off guard at how abruptly the scenery changed from rotting wood and peeling paint to a seemingly endless expanse of dirt, sagebrush, and the odd prickly pear here and there.
Deacon stared out towards the horizon, shifting his hat lower to shield his eyes from the blistering sun. He really should have asked Bronze for sunglasses or something. "Okay, so… since the prisoner was already released, uh, somehow, he should have gone to meet up with the rest of the bandits, so that means it's time for us to go round them up."
"And how are we supposed to do that? 'Cuz what I'm seeing out there is a whole lotta nothing. Not a goth cowboy in sight." Chase scrutinized the empty expanse of desert before them as if it had personally wronged him, before turning back to Deacon so he could reply.
"Why would they be goth? You know what, never mind. I don't want to know. From what I remember of the book, the prisoner stole a horse after the sheriff turned his back— which at first seems like such a stupid mistake for the sheriff to make— but then you learn a couple chapters later that he did it on purpose so he could track the horse and the bandit back to the leader of the gang of thieves. Pretty neat, yeah?"
Chase rolled his eyes. "Well that's all fine and dandy, but here's the thing: there wasn't anyone to let out of jail back there. The book's gone all screwy, and we weren't even trying to mess it up this time. How are you supposed to find Buddy and get all gross and sappy with him if there aren't any tracks to, uh… track. You ever stop to consider that, dorkin?"
Deacon sighed. As much as he did not want to find Buddy and get all gross and sappy with him, Chase did bring up a good point. The story seemed to have skipped over a pretty crucial plot point, and without it, they had no way of finding their way out to the bandit camp.
Pointedly ignoring Chase's halfhearted attempt to project, Deacon steered the conversation away from silly one-off crushes and back towards actual plot relevant stuff. "I guess we just… start walking and see if the book makes anything happen? Or, wait. You start walking, and I will start riding," he signed smugly, maneuvering himself behind Chase to try and climb onto his back.
Chase stepped forward, dumping Deacon onto the ground in a puff of kicked up dust. "Just what do you think you're doing?"
After hacking up a lung's worth of dust, dirt, and probably some other things that Deacon really didn't want to know about, he righted himself and cocked an eyebrow at his cousin. "You're a horse, remember? I let you ride on me in that demon book, so now it's my turn. Need I remind you to stop being a loser and start being a horse?"
Chase leveled him with a flat stare. "Yeah, nice try. I'll see ya later." He turned and started stalking away, but only made it a couple paces before getting tackled from behind.
Now, this is the part where Chase would have signed something along the lines of: "Um… OW???" or "GET OFF!" or perhaps even "!$%&@" (that one was always a riot at parties). But alas— having a tall, gangly, freckled dork of a cousin flattening you into a dirt pancake didn't exactly make it easy to move your arms.
Chase managed to shove Deacon off and went to bite him again, but was cut off as Deacon propelled them into a roll, coating every inch of their clothes in a thin layer of dirt.
If one were perhaps more cartoonishly minded, you could imagine them engaging in a scuffle of free-floating limbs and various 'booms,' 'pows,' and 'whams' being thrown about inside an opaque dust cloud.
If you don't happen to be cartoonishly minded, well… they just rolled around and sort of kicked and pulled at each other before getting sick of it and separating so they could stand and dust themselves off.
Chase snatched his cowboy hat from the ground and pointedly set it back on his head. "Alright, that was fun and all, but I am not carrying you and that's that."
"Come on, Chase." Deacon groaned, shoulders sagging as he rolled his head around in its socket. "Fair's fair. I carried you, now you gotta return the favor."
"UUUUUUGHHHHH YOU'RE THE WORST! FINE." Chase turned around and crouched slightly, holding his hands behind his back to let Deacon climb on.
Deacon pumped his fist in the air, then grabbed Chase's shoulder with one hand and hopped on his back. With the other hand, he reached in front of Chase's face and signed 'Onward.' He nearly lost his fingers because of the gloat, but the temptation had been too great to resist.
Ah, sweet victory. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…
Unfortunately, Deacon didn't get to count the ways, as they didn't even make it a single step before a lasso came flying and yanked Deacon right off of Chase's back, causing the both of them to stumble to the ground.
Dazed, Deacon sat up just in time to notice a group of four outlaws surrounding them.
Right… the ambush. The sheriff gets captured in the book halfway through tracking the prisoner. He'd forgotten. But then… why now? They hadn't even left the town, and yet here they were, getting hauled to their feet and… wait– no, they– they shouldn't have ropes. This isn't right.
Deacon found Chase's eyes and was met with the only expression Deacon never wanted to see again in his entire life. Chase's eyes were wide, and his mouth hung open uselessly, unable to do for him what his arms could; his arms that were currently being held behind his back by one of the bandits, and bound thoroughly by the other. Each successive knot winding tighter and tighter until the fibers rubbed his wrists raw, and Chase gasped as they shoved him forward, letting him stumble into Deacon, who— having just recieved a similar treatment— nearly toppled over.
Deacon's mind spun. None of this was supposed to happen. Had something happened to the book? Did he spill something in the pages? Why would it skip so many scenes?
Why would the characters tie them up? They never did before. If a story required them to be captured, they always just slipped the ropes around their waists and called it good… they never–never… not like this, this was–
Deacon's breath stuttered, and a loose rock nearly caused him to trip face first into a little cactus. He needed to think. Be present.
Be. Present. Think.
They were taking him and Chase somewhere. The bandit camp. Like the book, Deacon reminded himself. Okay, they were being taken to the bandit camp. What happens at the bandit camp? The sheriff is supposed to slip out of their grasp and trick the leader into riding his horse into a ravine. Or– no, wait, is that right? He read the book, didn't he? Did they have a duel instead? Drinking contest?
Why can't he think?
Where are they going??
To his right, Deacon heard Chase's breaths get louder and louder, and he was able to twist within the bandit's grasp enough to make out the way Chase's eyes were unfocused, the barest hint of tears beginning to form as he stumbled forward at the bandits' insistence.
This is bad.
This book was supposed to be fun.
Why would it do this to them?
How long had they been walking?
In the distance, Deacon made out a campfire and a sparse little group of figures surrounding it. Whatever he needed to do as the sheriff here, he was now completely, utterly, one hundred percent certain he wouldn't be able to do it. Not like this.
Not when he couldn't even think straight.
They needed to leave. He could feel the cool metal of Bronze's key flush against his skin underneath his shirt, but unless he had some sort of trick up his sleeve that not even he knew about, there wasn't any way to get to it with his hands tied as they were.
Well, that was it, then. He needed his hands free.
Deacon squirmed and thrashed in the coarse, tight ropes as they were being brought towards the leader of the outlaws, a fierce looking man, astride what was probably supposed to be a dark and awe-inspiring steed, but who turned out to be a snooty little weirdo they called 'Buddy.'
The dark haired man was positively fuming, his icy blue eyes wild, and cheeks red with anger (or exertion, more likely). The sight could have perhaps been intimidating, were it not for the fact that he was giving a piggyback ride to a much larger, more intimidating person.
He was talking. Deacon should be able to hear him. Why couldn't he focus? The world swirled and mixed together, a cacophony of watercolor dripping into… was that rain? Why couldn't he focus?
Storm clouds gathered on the horizon, painting the sky a murky gray. The wind picked up, ushering each cloud along like a gracious host welcoming them inside for tea, and their eerie whistles sounded in time with the howls of a lonesome coyote, signaling the oncoming storm to a pack that wasn't there.
It smelled like rain.
He and Chase had always loved that smell. Petrichor, it was called. They'd looked it up once on grandpa's old desk top computer after arguing for a whole afternoon on what they should name the aroma. It was earthy and sweet, a mixture of wet soil, plant oils, and minerals, and Deacon found himself slipping further and further into that perfect summer storm. That was before grandpa had tweaked his back, so he was out in the yard with the two of them, laughing and running through the puddles, helping them look for worms, and making everyone hot cocoa after they'd decided to head inside to take shelter.
It was nice there. He'd always liked the rain. And Chase did too, even if he was crying.
Crying?
No, that couldn't be right. He loved the rain.
Deacon jerked out of the pleasant memory only to find himself still on that godforsaken desert plain, being pulled along just behind Chase, who wouldn't even be able to tell that Deacon was still with him.
————— 🏜🏜🏜 —————
Chase was limp in his bonds, the outlaws easily dragging him along even as he hyperventilated, eyes unfocused and crying. Each tear hitting the dusty ground as tender as the torrential desert rain, and just as sweet.
The texture of the ropes burned against his skin, every fiber rubbing him raw to the bone, mocking his helplessness. He couldn't ask for help. Couldn't tell the bandits to let him go. Couldn't even get Silver to take him home, bound as he was. Her key dangled uselessly within the confines of his shirt, so close, yet completely and utterly unobtainable.
Like a lot of things in his life, he supposed.
Chase was still panting heavily, trying fruitlessly to steady his breathing. His shoulders ached from the strain of trying to free himself, and his legs trembled to the point that, when shoved in front of the bandits to be presented to their masked leader, he fell to his knees and let out a sob he couldn't even hear.
The dirt beneath him became littered with water droplets, staining the ground with blood-red mud, smearing into oblivion as Chase's vision swam. There were dark, angry clouds overhead, but Chase couldn't feel any raindrops hitting his skin. So why… Chase distantly realized that he was still crying, and apparently hard enough to make a sound, because one of his captors lifted his head up by his hair and signed for him to shut up.
With his head up, Chase noticed Buddy in front of them. Had he always been there?
He seemed to be struggling to get away from one of the bandits— a tall, masked man with fiery eyes and hands rough from a lifetime of hard work. He had a hold on the back of Buddy's shirt, keeping him from moving forward.
Buddy looked like he was shouting, but it wasn't directed at Chase, it was…
Chase glanced to his left, where Deacon had just been thrown to the ground alongside him. With his arms bound behind his back as they were, he was struggling to lift himself to his knees, and from his position in the dirt; hat missing, hair a complete mess, and face smudged with dirt covered tear streaks, he spoke.
Deacon spoke.
Chase's eyes widened. Deacon almost never spoke, but this? This looked like more of a scream.
————— 🏜🏜🏜 —————
"Untie him!"
It was a simple enough phrase. Two words. Three syllables.
So why did the mere utterance of them sting? It was as if the words had ripped and clawed their way loose, uncaring of the carnage left behind. Deacon's throat burned in their wake, the inner walls of his esophagus twisting and thrashing in protest.
In front of him, Buddy had frozen in shock. Deacon had never used his voice in front of their strange companion, and if he had to guess, Buddy didn't even know he could speak.
He did, however, know that Deacon could hear. Unfortunately. The sour little man seemed to make it his life's goal to antagonize Deacon to the ends of the earth. And— of course— that included calling him names for picking a book where he'd show up as a horse. Well, sue Deacon for not taking that into account. He'd honestly hoped that Buddy would just leave them alone for once.
Buddy seemed to shake himself out of his stupor and kicked back at his captor with renewed vigor, leaving the burly man to double over in pain, his knees having buckled from the force of Buddy's attacks.
For a scrawny guy, Buddy sure seemed able to hold his own in a fight. Or maybe that was just the story book horse strength showing through.
Regardless, Buddy (after a few unnecessary stomps on the fellow) left him in a heap and came rushing towards where Deacon and Chase were left tied on the ground.
The cronies that had been holding them down stumbled backwards as Buddy approached, perhaps scared into their senses by a mad horse running straight towards them after mangling their leader.
Deacon watched as they fled, the kicked up dust clouds accentuated by the storm rolling ever closer. Loud cracks echoed throughout the sky, heralding in soul-shaking booms of thunder, and at long last, it began to rain.
Water droplets cascaded down on the three of them, soaking into their cottons and slipping off their leathers, running and splashing and mixing with the iron-rich dirt until every last bit of them was covered in a deep, rusty red mud.
Buddy was whispering meaningless assurances to Chase as he worked clumsy fingers over the knots, hands slipping more than they had a right to. He was shaking, Deacon realized.
At last, the ropes came undone, and Chase— ever the hugger— enveloped him in a hold that practically screamed 'don't let me go.'
Buddy's eyes widened at the contact, but he reciprocated nonetheless, letting his arms wrap around the smaller man gently.
Interestingly, he didn't seem upset about his intricately patterned purple chaps getting ruined in the mud, nor did he pay any heed to the glittering rhinestones that had been ripped from his vest in the tussle with the bandit. Deacon found it odd, but also strangely comforting. At the very least, this mysterious stranger cared for Chase more than his clothes. He might not have given him the benefit of the doubt before such a display, but Deacon could be okay with this.
Just as soon as the hug was initiated, Chase broke it off, pushing Buddy away and glancing around wildly before his gaze locked onto Deacon's.
He was still bound and on his side in the ever more soaking mud and clay, but he found he didn't actually mind.
Chase was free, and as long as Deacon never had to bear witness to his brother sobbing and in pain like that again, he'd be alright. As a matter of fact, he could barely even feel the strain in his arms anymore— though the more he thought about it, the more he realized that was because he was going numb from the cold of the rain and the unnatural position they'd been stuck in for so long.
Chase scrambled to his side in an instant, slipping once in the mud as he came, and propped Deacon up apologetically before cupping his face in his hands, fresh new tears welling up in his bright, honey brown eyes.
A choked, broken sound fell from his lips, and Chase ducked his head against Deacon's chest, arms still holding his head close.
With his arms still bound behind his back, Deacon could do nothing but let it happen, unable to hold Chase in return.
From over Chase's shoulder, a quickly spared glance told Deacon that Buddy was watching them, still kneeling in the mud, rain pouring down his face, expression unreadable. With trembling hands, the ghostly pale man fished out a brilliant violet key from his shirt and disappeared in a flash of radiant sparkles, leaving the two of them alone in the barren wasteland of shrubs and soon to be flooded prairie dog mounds.
If Deacon didn't know any better, he'd say Buddy looked… almost wistful.
Maybe after they'd all had plenty of time to recover, Deacon could find them a calmer apology book to do. After all, Chase had been looking forward to seeing Buddy today.
For now, though, he let himself be content to stay in Chase's arms.