Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A month ago, I was given an offer. A good, genuine job offer. I was thankful, and I was excited.

Just…

It worried me a little, the cons.

But then two weeks ago, I accepted that offer.

Maybe I was thinking that the pros would outweigh any cons.

Today, I'm standing outside the door to Mr. Green's house, a suitcase and a bag packed with my belongings, hoping and praying that these new moments of my life won't be as bad as imagined in the car ride there.

I was just shopping at Walmart. I was hoping to not be seen by anyone important, mostly because you could sort of really tell that I hadn't been outside in days, ridden with a cold.

I was in the meat and produce aisle and all I remember is two whole boxes of steaks almost crushing a poor old man to his doom.

Despite being sick out of my mind and my bones just remembering how to work, I tore myself away from my own errands and quickly caught the boxes before something terrible would be about the guy. There were two or three people there near us, and the silence was awkward and deafening, their stares almost louder than the Black Eyed Peas on the store radio. I didn't mean to make a big deal about it.

The worker took the boxes and gave his sincerest and deepest apologies, mortified. The older man wasn't upset at all, and sent the worker away slightly less terrified of losing his job.

As for me…this is where that offer was proposed to me in its full.

The man whose life I saved trailed up to me, his two big eyes staring with the type of want I've only seen in hiring managers when I tell them what college I attend. “Son, ya know allat was ‘bout two hun’red pounds?” He gawked, examining my arms half out of concern, half out of amazement.

I laughed it off, embarrassed. I didn't realize and I didn't wanna seem like I was showing off, a big fear of mine for the sole reason that I'm more introverted than meets the eye.

He squinted his aged eyes at me and huffed suspectingly. “Ya gotta job?" Huh. Funny question. I had just quit my old job at Dunkin’. The pay was almost as disgusting as the environment. Ten dollars an hour making Americanos was the biggest governmental propaganda I'd heard since Caesar Flickerman opened his mouth.

"No, not at the moment, sir.”

Right then is when he grinned from ear to ear.

Which is how I found myself in northern Nevada, knocking on the door of that man's home and workplace, no longer jobless.

Like I said before, I tallied up the pros and cons.

The Pros:

• 300 a day.
• Under the table.
• Free housing for the summer.
• I can take as many breaks as I want, I just have to get the job done.

The Cons:

• I don't know this man.
• It's 7 hours away.
• It could be a scam.
• I could get killed.
• I have to help take care of his grandkids.
• There's a lot of hefty physical labor.
• It's a year round job, but once the cold comes in, I'll be there helping with town festivals.
• I have to drive. A lot.

I feel the list of cons slowly evaporate from my mind when the door opens and I'm met with…God?

I think he's my age. I hope so. Am I going to see him everyday? Is he going to be shirtless everyday? Can he be?

“Ken, the kid's ‘ere,” he calls back from inside the house, and I feel my hope dissipate a little. Kid? I'm 20. How old is he?

He steps to the side and lets me in.

Ken—Mr. Green—appears from the kitchen, holding a cup of coffee with ‘World's Best.’ plastered on the front.

“Dallon, great ta see ya."

I smile at him and glance towards the brunette that let me in. Mr. Green takes a sip of his coffee, clearing his throat.

“This here's m’ favorite great nephew, Ryan.” Mr. Green gives Ryan a soft nudge. Ryan stares at me for a second, and I realize that I should probably say something.

"Dallon.” I go to shake his hand, but he backs away from my hand like it's poison and I feel a wave of dread instantly wash over me. For a second, I consider just turning around and leaving, never to be seen again by anyone in the world ever, but that thought is cut off when Mr. Green explains with a wave of his hand.

"Ah, ya don't wanna do that, trust me. Ry’s got all sortsa pesticides on ‘em fr’m cleanin’ up the grass.” He places his mug on the table. "We'll get to greetin’s at dinner time. Let me show ya round. Ya can leave yer bags at the door.”

I force myself to look away from the Greek myth that is my boss's nephew, following Mr. Green outside to his backyard.

Lots of land. Lots.

There's three or four acres of varying plants. Fruits, vegetables, flowers. A paved and organized field for it all, and what looks like a greenhouse being constructed in the extra space. Off to the side of it all is a barn and stable, some more land taken up for the animal's comfort. The last two acres in the very back are used with an orchard that I can't see very well from the distance but is probably equally as uniform. I knew farmers weren't as poor as depicted in fiction, but it seems like a good sum of them are rather well off.

Mr. Green's home, although modernized, still had a nice vintage and homey charm, something I didn't expect. It was three stories, painted eggshell white, full of windows and slanted roofs. He even had a walkway up to the door.

And even though all the dirty work goes on in the back, it's just as aweing to look at. It's like a wonderland of nature.

I catch a glimpse of a few more of his family members as he shows me everything. He doesn't get into details, just gives me a quick tour. I like the stables the most. And not just because I saw shirtless Ryan doing some work in one of the stalls. The horses were gorgeous. One took a liking to me—Lemon Springs was her name. She had a long blonde mane and a soft golden coat.

It gets dark easily. I was scheduled to come there at 12, but because of a pile up on a main road, I was an hour late. I was worried that nobody would be very happy with me, but not even Mr. Green was fazed.

By the time we get back to the house, it's already 5. There really is that much land. He also told me lots about how the business started, and how they get things done. His great grandfather, Weston, started the farm part. Bought all the land and whatnot. Weston married into a barn family and they merged, bringing the animals from his wife's family over to his, and taking the crops from his family to his wife's. They sell to local supermarkets, but at the height of seasons, a lot of their fruits and vegetables get sold at larger companies like Giant and PriceRite. I thought it was way cool.

“Here's ya room. Yer right ‘cross the hall fr’m Ryan, so if ya need somethin’, ya got him.”

He pats my back. "Get comfy n’ unpack. Dinner’ll be done in a jiff.” I place my backpack on the bed, set my suitcase next to it on the floor, and take in the room.

There's a large window arch that lets in a warm glow of sun, the bed pre-made with grandma quilts and feather pillows. I took a special liking to the view. If I wanted to, I could climb onto the roof and sit there, since it's notably more leveled than the other parts of the house. I decided against it for the sake of my job.

I didn't bring much because I get to go home after the weekend. Just enough outfits for the week, my hygiene essentials, an extra blanket, and my favorite photo. Since I'm spending most of my time here, and I'm not much of a phone person, I don't want to go insane staring at the wall.

So I brought a photo of me and my friend, Breezy. She's smiling, leaning against my shoulder, her bleached blonde waves blowing into my face from the wind. I miss her a lot. Way more than she could possibly feel.

I place the photo on the nightstand next to my bed and continue to sort out my things.

By the time I'm done, like Mr. Green said, dinner is ready. I'm a little nervous to meet the rest of his family. I know he has a couple grandkids here as well, but I only saw one of them so far.

When I'm told to take a seat, there's only a few left available, and one of them is for Mr. Green. I assume it's the one at the head of the table, so I sit in a different chair. It's between his daughter, Andrea, and one of his other grandkids, Donny. I remember him passing by the strawberries and pointing out Andrea picking out some of the ripe ones. She smiles at me as I sit down, asks how my day was so far and if I'm comfortable and whatnot. I think she's pretty sweet.

Donny shows me his toy pet snake, and I entertain him for a few until I see a familiar face enter the kitchen.

It's…Ryan.

The first thing that made me double look were his silver dangling earrings, paired with a dainty silver necklace. The blue-black of his dress then catches my eye. It's long sleeved with a squared neck and a ruffled bottom, stopping at his fingertips. I don't see the rest of his bottom half as he sits down, but I can only imagine that it's just as feminine.

Nobody bats an eye at the fact that Ryan is casually crossdressing, so I pretend not to be surprised.

I'm not judging him or anything. That would be kind of hypocritical of me. I've seen a lot more shocking things than a boy in a dress.

I just didn't think that out of all times, I'd see a boy who lives working on a farm in a dress.

Frankly–I think he looks good in it. The color suits him, and I think the silver compliments the soft bit of makeup on his soft face. He should wear mascara all the time.

But as much as I'm not judgemental and completely fine about it, I'm still blown away in the back of my mind.

Which I think comes out on my face to look like disgust when all well, it's anything but that.

I think it's cute, the way his brows knit together when he sees me, and how his resting face turns into a defensive one. I offer my best smile, just in case I did look disgusted or weirded out.

Mr. Green sets pots and pans of food at the table and serves everyone their portion, from youngest to oldest. I find that Ryan is older than me. I wouldn't assume too much older, though. Twenty two at most.

Before eating, we join hands and pray. Ryan leads it, but even then, I can tell that he's a man of little words, and to say that he led it was generous. He had everyone go around instead and thank God for something today. I thanked the Lord for the food and the opportunity, since it seemed most appropriate. Ryan thanked the Lord for another day on earth. I really like that when you listen close enough, you can hear a Western accent from him, too.

After prayer, everyone began to eat. I'm surprised how they kept from scarfing down the meal after such a hard day of work.

Rather than inhaling their food whole, they asked me questions between normal human sized bites.

Lenny, Mr. Green's son, asked me if I had family back home.

“Oh, um, yeah. I live with my friend." I try to keep it short and simple, avoiding the topic of parents. But Donny seems to be a little curious, and asks anyway.

“What ‘bout yer pops n’ momma?”

Andrea sets her hand on the table, firmly but calmly. "Don, remember no talk ‘bout that at the table. Dallon's tryna enjoy this meal. We dunno what he's been through.”

Donny shrinks in his seat. “I ‘pologize, Dallon." I try to make him feel better about asking, giving him a small smile. “It's okay." I still don't answer because I really am not in the mood to ruin my meal with whatever the hell went on the last time I spoke with my father.

I take a bite of my mashed potatoes and suddenly I notice everyone staring me down. I wasn't raised with a lot of table etiquette. Do we pray before mashed potatoes, too?

A man I don't recognize rolls his eyes with a heavy chuckle. “Don't scare him ‘way, now. Dallon, ya know what we do when we gots someone over, mm?”

I shake my head. He grins.

“See here, my pops gotta real special way makin’ his mashies. Never met no one that ain't like it.”

He nods towards my plate, eyebrows raised in anticipation. “We jus’ wantsta see if ya like it er not.” I think the idea of the tradition is cool and only slightly funny. Mr. Green must know a ton of things about food.

As for the quality of it, I'd rate it 5 stars if this was Michelin. These are some pretty good potatoes. They're mashed just to the perfect consistency. Not too salty, not too bland. Not too much pepper, not too much water.

“They're great. Some of the best I've ever had." Mr. Green smiles.

"'M glad.”

I take another bite. Andrea pipes up. “Ryan, be a dear, n’ get the salt n’ peppa?"

He nods. "Course.”

I watch the way his dress brushes against his thighs as he stands and walks to the kitchen. I notice he has stockings on. Ones that are the same color as his dress, lacy at the hem. Cute.

“So Dallon, ya gotsa girl back home?”

I shake my head and feel my cheeks stain red. "No. No one. I know most of the people from school, so it's a little awkward looking for someone.” I earn a series of hums. I know it's stupid to say, but they all sound related, and I don't yet know if it's cute or creepy.

“Well, there’re plenty fish ‘round here. Ya may just find yerself the perfect girl. Or I dunno, a guy if ya swing the oth’r way.”

I nod. "Yeah, um…guy." Mr. Green looks like an evil idea pops in his head when I say this. He checks behind him.

“Ryan, gets the good wine, too!” He shouts back, getting a small okay back.

"I'll tell yer what, Dallon." He leans closer over the table in a whisper.

“My nephews is searchin’, too. Ya think he's good lookin’?”

I shift in my seat. I think Ryan is way more than good looking.

Instead of vocalizing this, I nod.

"A’ight. How bout y'all get comfy with each oth’r? Ya ain't never know. Might just get a date." The idea of a date with Ryan sounds sweet, but I don't even know him. And I don't want to make him uncomfortable. And it's embarrassing to get recommended to a date, especially by your boss, especially to your boss's great nephew.

“O-Okay."

Ryan sits back down.

When everyone's done with dinner, Donny eagerly offers to do dishes, and is thanked with each plate he takes.

I help wipe the table down and rearrange some things.

The first one to say goodnight is Ryan. Andrea and Jackie (the mashed potato guy whose name finally clicked back in my brain) head up next. I take my leave a while after.

“Thank you for the dinner, Mr. Green. It was amazing."

Mr. Green pats me on the back. “Anytime. Get some sleep. Busy day fer ya tamarra."

I find my room with minimal struggle. I need a shower. Today was hot and despite not doing any work, I still feel gross.

I get some clothes for my shower, but I quickly run into a dilemma.

I can't work the faucet. This always happens.

I curse to myself. Maybe it's fate.

It takes a second of me hyping myself up a little. I really hate bothering people. If there were instructions to life, I'd never have to, but unfortunately those instructions only exist within a game that doesn't give me a step by step on faucets anyway. Damn.

With one last self affirmation, I leave my room and walk to the door directly across from it. Despite it being creaked open, I still knock.

That familiar soft voice sings back to me like a rain-worn wind chime. “Doors open."

I open the door and I'm not sure if I regret it or if I want to take a step closer. Maybe both.

Ryan, still dripping from his own shower, a white towel thrown loosely around his hips. His hair is in all sorts of disarray, droplets of water flying when he turns around to look up at me. I almost want to apologize.

A single step and I'm sure it'd slip off. No, not the water. Fuck.

“Uh, Um, hi, um…m-my shower faucet…isn't working, um…c-can you help?” I don't know where my voice ran off to, but I'm sure that when I find it, I'll never use it again as penance for the humiliation I endured just asking him a question that he doesn't even answer.

"If yer lookin’ for m’ eyes, yer not gonna find ‘em down there."

I hurry out an apology and tear my gaze from his V line.

“S-Sorry." Am I really? Maybe not.

“C'mon then."

I awkwardly let him follow me back to my bathroom.

“Show me how yer doin’ it."

I lean over and turn the big knob first showing him that it won't budge, nor the smaller ones on either side.

Ryan, without a second thought, grabs my hand and puts it over the bigger knob, and then pushes it in.

“Like a washin’ machine."

I move away from the shower head so as to not drench me, and then I turn it, and the water flows with ease.

"S’ child proof, kid."

I look up at him from where I'm bent over, trapped with Ryan still hovering over me. “I'm not a kid. I'm twenty."

Ryan nods, standing straight. I follow suit. Though it's not large he doesn't let our height difference intimidate him not one bit. “N’ I'm not an adult. M’ twenty-five. Need anythin’ else?"

I shake my head. "...Thanks.”

I stare at his back as he walks away.

As refreshing as the shower was, my mind is in the same spot as before.

Ryan is different. He's unique, but in a way that seems so natural you can't help but ignore it.

As shy as he seems, he's confident. As feminine as he dresses, he's a masculine person. As young as he looks…he's older.

I wonder what she would say about him.

He makes me curious.

I lie in bed, tracing her face in the photo on my nightstand for what feels like hours.

“I like it here so far," I tell her, eyes droopy with sleep. “I want to get to know him." She stares at me, smiling, wide awake.

“Blow the wind if you think I should stay.”

The wind blows.

I place the picture down and get comfortable under the sheets. Okay, Breezy. I'll stay.

Chapter Text

“Rise n’ shine, Dallon!"

Two raps on the door followed by Andrea’s voice is what wakes me that morning. I try to feel at least a little excited about the fact that I actually have to work.

I take a minute to wake up, sitting on the edge of the creaking pillowy mattress. I can hear the springs working overtime whenever I move just the slightest, but the bed itself isn't uncomfortable, so a few groans won't stop me from rolling my ass right back to sleep.

That is if I didn't have a new job I valued.

And funnily enough, I'm not as tired as I usually am. My head doesn't hurt, my body doesn't ache. I feel energized. They must’ve started putting crack in the sun.

After washing the sleep off of my face and brushing my teeth, I have a small dilemma on what I should wear. Mr. Green said old clothes are best, but I don't want to look like a bum.

I perk up when I hear two more knocks at the door. It opens after. Ryan.

I blush, not because I'm shirtless, but because he's cute. And maybe because I'm shirtless. But Ryan is my main focus, him and the way his cargo pants hang off of his strong hips, and how his t-shirt is slightly too big for his neck.

“Make sure ta lock yer windows ‘fore ya come down. S’ gonna rain.”

I nod. “Okay, I will. Thanks." He eyes me for a second, glancing at my bare chest. It'd be a bit hypocritical for me to say something, but I guess it's also hypocritical for him to be looking, too.

So I stay silent. Ryan stares for a few more seconds. Then, he quickly turns around and leaves, shutting the door behind him with a practiced ease and that same sway in his hips.

Ryan is weird. I like it.

I try to get downstairs as soon as I can. I don't want to make anybody wait. I decided that a pair of jeans and an old t-shirt from when I did volunteer work for credits last year would work. It sounds a little shitty of me, but I ended up liking it.

I don't have any breakfast. Unlike dinner, they don't sit down and eat together. It's more of a rush, with Jackie, who takes out eggs and bacon from the pan, serves to whoever wants or walks by, Andrea cleaning up behind him, and then them both repeating the process, everyone grabbing left and right for a quick bite before the busy day of work ahead.

As for me, I'm not an early food person. A meal before 12 sounds like a nightmare, and it's only 7. So I pass on the breakfast with thanks nonetheless.

I'm not sure what I'm doing, so I wait out back for Mr. Green, leaning against the railing on the porch and shooting my roommate a text that lets him know that I was in fact not crucified in my sleep.

After about fifteen minutes, my boss fits through the door coffee mug first, salt and pepper beard second, the same ‘Worlds Best’ printed in bold black letters across his cup. If I were him, I'd get the same thing. There's so many people in his family that it's hard to think that he's helping to raise or did raise more than half of them.

“I set ya up with tha good ones t’day. You n’ Ry 'er gone pick up some veggies fr’m the fact’try n’ take all’o em rounds t’the markets."

“Oh, is that all?" Mr. Green laughs and I'm a little worried that I said something wrong.

“Is that all!?" He laughs some more, slapping my arm with a playful grunt. “Suggest ya gets goin’s, er imma haveta give ya more work. You best be thankin’ me, boy.”

“Oh. Th-Thank you.”

Mr. Green nods toward the screen door back in the house. "Easy. Just pullin’ yer leg. Ry’s out front waitin’ fer ya. Ya better hurry en. He get ‘mpatient like a bull lookin’ at red.”

I make my way back inside, navigating around the still moving kitchen with no poise or understanding of the flow whatsoever. It feels like I can breathe again when I get outside, the quiet nature greeting me once again.

Then I see Ryan, and his face takes my breath away like usual.

"Ya ready?”

He looks at me, uncrossing his arms. He looks down and then seems almost disappointed. I let myself believe that he's upset because I have a shirt on because I'm just so jaw dropping, but I know deep down he's probably wondering if I'm a juvenile of some sort that had to make their way to a better life through community service.

“Yup."

Ryan turns on his heel and I wipe the sweat from my palms on the front of my jeans, cringing at the streaks left.

“Grab that." Ryan motions to a clipboard on the dashboard. I reach for it as he runs over a pothole. He saves me from crashing into said dashboard, hand pushing me back in my seat until the car turbulence is for sure done. I pretend this doesn't affect me in any sort of way. In reality, I think it's possibly one of the hottest things he's done.

I clear my throat so when I next speak, he won't hear the pathetic wavering of my voice.

The clipboard has a packet worth of pages. It's filled with handwriting that I won't lie and say I can read. In fact, it's completely illegible.

“What's this?"

Ryan double takes me. “Read it."

I look through the pages, then back up at him. “I…uh. I kinda can't?” He rolls his eyes, seeming…embarrassed?

I squint at his newfound shyness. “Did you write this?"

Ryan shifts a little. “Maybe."

I can't help but smile. It's kind of cute. Ryan, and his chicken scratch writing. He's been picking out too many eggs, I guess.

We stop at a red light. “'S jus’a list’o vege’bles we're ‘posed ta pick up n’ deliv’r." I squint harder, trying to decipher the shakily written Greek hieroglyphics he left in the boxed out sheet.

“Oh, that says tomato, right?"

Ryan sighs at where I point. “Cucumb’r." I purse my lips. He starts driving again.

“I'll do the readin’, you do the liftin’."

As predicted, driving made up most of the day. On our trip to the first store, I was genuinely surprised when he put up the GPS. I don't know why I expected them to sort of be Amish and use outdated satellite maps from the library. Maybe it's because everyone else around here does, and on my way here yesterday, two different Mennonite groups stopped me to ask if I had the updated version of a map that belonged to a city three towns over.

But Ryan isn't Mennonite, and he sure as hell knows how to whip his truck around. Which. Doesn't make me feel anything. Not at all.

Instead of being a freak, I try my best to make small talk even though I'm not that kind of person. “Do you go out a lot?" I do want to get to know him.

He shrugs. “Not r’lly. No one ta go with."

I say something that probably sounds a little rude, but is too late to take back.

“You don't have any friends?"

He makes a face, like he's been asked a hundred times. “F’fteen minutes left’o us is a KKK, n’ thirty right er judgy vigilantes. Don't think I really want no friends fr’m ‘round here.”

I want to laugh at the irony, but I don't because it is slightly super worrisome that there's a KKK group near us.

I nod. “Yeah, no…I don't think I would either. I don't blame you.” I watch through a field at a herd of deer as we pass them by.

Ryan taps his fingers on the wheel. “‘Bout you? Ya get out?" I'm shocked and flattered that he asked, but I don't show it. Yeah, pretty boy. Ask me more.

"Uh…a little. I'm sort of a homebody. Just my friend and I, my cat, and school against the world.”

“School?"

“College. I graduated early."

“Ya ain't got no friends there?"

I forget that not everybody is like me, and they actually do in-person school. “I'm online," I explained. “Campus is…eight hours away. I really don't want to do that to myself."

Ryan hums. "Ain't know that was an option. What school?” I want to smile. Is Ryan really interested in me? In what I have to say? Am I pathetic?

“Uh, Stanford."

He triple takes me this time. Cute.

"Smarty pants.” I'll take the title with pride, since Ryan was the one who crowned me.

He pulls into the parking lot of the first store.

Just as he says, I do the lifting, he reads.

At one point, maybe at our third store, I caught him staring a little more intensely than normal.

“What?" I ask when he notices that I notice him watching.

Ryan leans against the truck, one thumb in his belt loop, the handle to the clipboard hanging loosely from the rest of his curled fingers. He has a toothpick hanging from his lips, as cliche as it sounds. When he talked, I watched his mouth, saw his rigid teeth. He must have a habit of chewing on things. Probably carries the toothpick to avoid biting his nails off.

“Where'd ya learn ta lift allat?"

I unload a crate of green bell peppers from the truck and onto a cart while debating if I should give him the real story about my truce with the theater kids who let me hang backstage like a loser in exchange for some post musical production labor, or if I should pretend like I'm cooler than I actually am. “Uh, volunteer work. I just force myself to deal with the weight, I guess." I say, settling on a bullshit answer that doesn't deny the truth nor expose it. I hear Ryan scoff and I turn around, trying to understand what he's thinking.

“I can tell.” He says, and I'm not too offended. “Ya look like a duck." I've also heard that at least a thousand times from the theater director when I was 16.

I laugh. “Yeah, well nobody's told me the right way yet, so I guess I'll just-"

My body goes into cardiovascular shock when I feel Ryan's hands over my own.

The tension is thicker than my very lame, audible gulp.

Bree, is this just my imagination?

Blow the wind if yes.

Birds chirp happily outside. Ryan slides the crate closer to me. “Lift with yer legs, not yer arms." He says, but it feels more like he's whispering in my ear.

And anyway, I have news for you, Ryan;

My arms and my legs are both jello, and there's only one thing on my body that's lifted.

I follow his instructions carefully after what feels like an eternity of panic. I will admit that it hurts way less and makes way more sense.

“Attaboy."

Oh. My. God. My ears are ringing.

He squeezes my shoulder and I melt, disguising my content with a huff as I pick up the next box.

“I'll bring em in. Watch the truck, yeah?"

I nod, shaken up and not really listening. “‘Kay."

He hikes the cart over and rolls it through the back doors. With the way he pushes it, he's bent over just the slightest, and I get the perfect view of his ass swaying through ten layers of khaki brown.

I'm a mess.

Lunch time rolls around, and we're back to the scheduled sit down to eat. I want to drive back. I ask Ryan to. He doesn't bother to answer, just getting in the driver's seat with an amused smirk. He could probably tell I don't have a license for trucking.

We're almost halfway there when, just like I was told earlier, it starts to drizzle. It gives me a fluttery feeling, seeing the windshield slowly getting drenched by the dewy clouds. I really like the rain. Growing up in Utah only really scheduled me for snow and dry, windy days. Plus, the thought of getting back to the house while it's still raining, the sound of pitter pattering outside, it makes me sleepier than ever.

I guess my dozing was obvious. Ryan nudges me. “Don't fall ‘sleep now. Ya can take yer nap aft’r lunch.”

I blink my eyes open quickly. Holding off a yawn, I stretch my arms out and shake the sleep out of my head. “Rain makes me tired," I grumble, holding on a little tighter to the car when he turns a corner.

"Need yer nap time, kid?” He teases, and I don't bother to correct him. Sometimes nap time is crucial.

"Yeah, I do actually.”

Ryan's back to tapping his fingers along the steering wheel. It's a beat I don't recognize, but it wakes me up a little, the fast paced rhythm.

Maybe it won't be too bad to stay awake a bit longer.

When we sit down to eat, Ryan is across from me again. Instead of being all dolled up, he wears his work clothes. I want to ask what it was about. If he just liked dressing up, or if he didn't see clothes with genders, or whatever. I think he could tell I was curious. But I never asked.

He still doesn't say much. He's not at all like how he was when we were alone. I assume it's just anxiety.

Even then, he doesn't look at all nervous or worried at the table. He's just as laid back as he was in the truck. But he doesn't speak. I wonder if it's just because he doesn't want to, or maybe he's tired too and doesn't want to seem hypocritical for teasing me.

As much as I would like to get to know Ryan some more before we go out to finish the transport, I'm exhausted. The food just added onto my needed rest. I'm not sure how long I'll crash, but I'm eased knowing that someone will probably wake me up when I'm needed given that Ryan also heads up to his bedroom.

So I trod upstairs and house my boots at the foot of the bed, tossing my shirt on the bedpost and getting under the covers. Nothing's more rewarding.

I'm awoken by Andrea, nudging me awake with gentle hands.

The first thing that I notice is that it's dark out. The second thing I notice is that my chest feels tight and I can't seem to get a good breath even through my mouth.

“Dinner time, hun." She says, not at all phased. I flinch at a dull ache in my upper back.

“Why didn't anyone wake me up?" I grumble, still kinda half asleep. She laughs like it's obvious, raising a confused brow in the direction of my wobbling arms. “Well, ‘cause ya were tired."

I sit up, my brain ahead of my body and my body ahead of my brain. Like they're racing for the finish, but neither realize that there is no finish and I'm just insanely paranoid because of regular anxiety things.

I grab my backpack and go in the front pocket, grasping the soul from an ugly orange bottle and shaking three pills into my trembling, sweaty palm. I'm not sure what Andrea is doing when she asks me for the container but I let her have it.

“Now what's this?" She turns it around in her hands, reading the label through the bifocals that rest low on her pointed nose. “Anxiety." I hype myself up to take them dry. As long as I've been taking pills, I still cringe when I don't have water and feel them stuck in the middle of my throat and taste those small explosions of dysgeusia erupting on my tongue like land mines.

“Says here yer ‘posed ta only pop one. Lemme see.”

She opens my hand without even trying and takes two of those three pills, putting them back in the bottle. "Easy doesit, Dallon. Ain't nothin’ ta gets anxiety over. I cooked t’night. Come try it, yeah?”

I'm confused and I don't know why I'm shaking. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of panic attacks like these. My heart stops and I can't breathe and it feels like I'm standing on one leg on the edge of a building with my arms taped to my sides.

It's a little awkward with her here and I feel extremely exposed now that someone's already been witness to the ass of my illness.

“Okay," I say after a second, still a little unsure that I'm even speaking English. “I'll be down in a minute." I don't want to worry her either way, so I put on my best front that must be a kiddie act because she sees through it without even looking.

Andrea huffs, laughing. “As if I'd leave ya by yer lonesome like this. Imma stay with ya, now. ‘Til I'm sure yer okay.” She insists I can tell she's not taking no for an answer, so I won't bother trying any harder.

And, weirdly, company sounds like something I need the most right now. I might be a little homesick.

So I let her stay beside me. She encourages me to take my pill after finding a water bottle from the night before on the bedside table. She also tricks me into some breathing exercises that I won't admit helped or not. But I do feel better and a lot less air hungry after a good few minutes. It usually takes hours for me to calm down.

“Thank you." I manage, and she just rubs my back in a sweet circle. “Ya ain't got nothin’a thank me fer. I'm a moth’r. Carin’ is my first nature.” She stands, smoothing out the wrinkles that may have worked into her floral knit dress. “Ya got somethin’ nice ta wear? RyRy got all dolled up today. Did I tell ya it's Missy’s birthday? ‘M sure ya want’na look handsome fer some photos.”

“Oh, I didn't know…” I stand as well, looking through my dresser, backtracking when I process what she said. “RyRy?" It can't be true.

Andrea giggles. “Ain't it cute? He hates it. Say’s he's ‘not no kid no more.’ Whatevs. Right there, show me that.” She points to a dark blue in the mess of embarrassingly unfolded clothes shoved in a drawer and I pick it up. It drops out to luckily be a button up. It's got tiny light blue pinstripes and I couldn't name where I got it from for the life of me.

"See, that's p’rfect. You ‘n RyRy can match, hmm? Don't ya think he's a sight?” She helps secure the buttons as if I was one of her own kids, her aged hands comfortable and familiar in a familial way. It's weird, but it's quite nice, too. I'm not used to it yet it soothes me like no other.

I try to play off the fact that I have a sort-of crush on him. “Oh, yeah. He's cool." Andrea kisses her teeth and I'm already caught red handed. "Don't go actin’ all nonchalant ‘bout it now. I see ya blushin’. What, ya scared he don't fancy you?” I feel my cheeks burn a little hotter. Gosh. I've only known this guy for two days.

“I dunno," I admit, finding a pair of pants that won't make me look like an ass. One more thing added to my shopping list; clothes that won't shrink in two years. “He sees me as a kid. I'm sure he wants someone older." I shrug it off, dressing in the brown slacks while Andrea magically finds one of my belts that I didn't even know I brought with me.

She scoffs. “Don't listen ta none’o that kid talk he tells ya. That's Ryan fer ya. He's got a whole stigma ‘round it ‘cause he's embarrassed bein’ the youngest adult, ‘cause we would always baby him ‘bout.” She shakes her head and kisses her teeth. "I oughta remind him who he is. Is he teasin’ ya?” I fit the belt through the loops and fasten my pants around my waist. I feel dumb and overdressed, but I remind myself that everyone is also dressed up, and it's for a birthday, and I would never be able to overdress Ryan.

I cover for him quickly. “Oh, no, he's not. I'm only 20 anyway. I understand where he's coming from." Andrea doesn't seem convinced, but lets it go for now. “Me n’ my pops talked ‘bout it. We think ya two would look real cute fer each other. Why dontcha ask him onna date?” I almost start panic-laughing at the idea. A date? I try not to seem absolutely against the idea for Ryan's sake, but I'm sure Andrea can tell by my fumbling of an explanation.

“I don't know. I-I mean, I don't think he's all that into me. And we haven't known each other long, so—plus, I-I think I'm way too awkward for him."

Andrea rolls her eyes at me like my answer was complete gibberish. "Ryan's real sassy. He gets extra hot n’ cold when he likes ya. Just think ‘bout it. Ya never know, right?”

I shrug and nod, letting her brush through my hair with her fingers. I've never been momed before. It's really calming. It feels like she really does care. Chicken soup for the parentally mentally abandoned soul.

It's a little odd to think about, but if I had a problem with anyone, she would be the one to set it straight and somehow make both me and the person cry out of happiness. She's just that type of person. I hope she knows it.

“Ya clean up very nicely, Dallon. Anythin’ else ta do?” I shake my head. “Thank you a lot, Andrea."

She shrugs and waves a flattered hand at me. "Why, I just know my colors.”

I laugh, but I still make sure she understands the depth of my gratitude. She's one of the sweetest people I know, and I've only known her for two days. "That, but everything else, too. Nobody's done that for me before. You really didn't have to." She huffs, giving me a playful glare.

“Now, don't ya go tellin’ me what I do and don't haveta do, young man. I may not know ya person’lly, but that don't gotta mean I don't care. Everyone deserves some lovin’.” She pats my cheek with a smile. "Ya ever need help, you go right to me, ya hear? Soon as my pops welcomed ya, you was fam’ly. And I love helpin’ out my fam’ly.”

Her grin is contagious. I thank her once more and she hugs me in a way that I've never been hugged, but I enjoy it more than if another person were to. Maybe I should schedule with my therapist soon. Jeez.

Thankfully, it's still busy downstairs, and there's no question when we get down there. The younger kids are running around singing unintelligible birthday songs with Missy's name in them, and the adults stand around talking and sipping on champagne. Birthday's must be big.

I noticed a few people there that I've never met. They must be some other close family. Ryan chats it up with a guy that looks way cooler than me, laughing into his wine glass and punching him in the side when he seems to say something stupid.

I'm more focused on the way Ryan's dressed in a pretty, dark blue dress with—light blue pinstripes and buttons down the front. The bottom is similar to yesterday's but he still works it with a head turning class. He steals the guy's glass of champagne shamelessly, exchanging silent glares with him before the man rolls his eyes and lets him keep it, giving him some retort about being a wedding crasher in the making.

The top is different, held up with strings that tie around his neck and graze against the splatter of freckles on his back. He wears white converse with it, ones that must be used specifically to dress up or brand new, since they aren't beaten or worn down. Red white and blue looks good on him.

I panic when Ryan catches me staring, and then I panic some more when the guy he's talking to calls me over by my name. Am I really the talk around here? I hope not.

The guy has a nice beige sweater and jeans, but I still feel way outshined. Something about the way he carries himself reminds me of my loser highschool days. Not in the way that he's rude, but in the way that he's so happy-go-lucky and involved with everything that it's hard to not like him. The chess club had it out for me the second I denied their entry offer.

“Nice to meet you, Dallon." He grins from ear to ear, shaking my hand. “I'm Reggie, I'm RyRy’s cousin. I've heard much good." He's got the accent of a typical Californian, which is a little strange to hear in a house full of no g’s and lost syllables, but sort of refreshing in a way that reminds me that not everyone sounds like the Green family.

"Oh, gosh, I hope so. It's really nice to meet you too, Reggie.” Ryan looks a little embarrassed which only fuels an interest in finding the nearest door that leads outside so I can never be seen again.

"Oh, trust me, I haven't heard the end of it. You're the talk of the family right now. It's great to get someone to help out, we really could use it in this weather.” Reggie sighs and shakes his head. I try to be normal, so I ask him a casual question. "Oh, are you part of the business, too?" Reggie shrugs off the matter humbly. “Ah, something of the sorts. I help with the stock of the company. Trying to expand and whatnot, you know?”

"Oh, that sounds super cool. People who do that stuff always seem like geniuses to me." Ryan huffs. “His ego’s ‘bout as big as his mouth. He don't needa hear none’o that.” He snorts, and I only laugh when I'm sure that I can. Reggie rolls his eyes. The habit really runs in the family.

“It's been what, two days? How do you deal with this kid's sass?” I see the way Ryan's cheeks puff out when Reggie calls him a kid. It's kind of adorable.

I shrug. “I dunno, uh, I kinda like it. He says it how it is." Reggie laughs some more. "Yeah, well, I've known him all my life and it only takes me a few smartass remarks before I knock him in the gut.” Saying this earns Reggie a hefty punch in his gut, but he can't retaliate.

“Reg!? Where are you!? We're leaving!"

He sighs. “Watch out for your birthday, kid. I'm gonna get you." Ryan nods, seeming to not believe him. They share a hug, which I didn't at all expect to be pulled into. Okay. I'm hugging Reggie. And I'm hugging Ryan. Cool. Cool, cool, cool, cool.

"Great meeting you, Dallon." He says, and I do my best to actually breathe in the godsend strength of his embrace while returning the statement.

He says his final goodbye and once he's gone, Ryan is looking at me. I decide to do the courteous thing, which would be apologizing for suddenly intruding in the conversation and also for ditching him for five hours so I could sleep.

“Hey, um, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to butt in your conversation like that. And I'm also really sorry for leaving you to work the rest of the transport. It's my first day, and I shouldn't have done that. I sort of expected you to wake me up, but I realize that was really selfish, and–

“Y’know yer talkin' lot ‘bout a whole lotta nothin’, right’?"

I immediately close my mouth. I get a strong urge to turn the other way and book it back up the steps for the two other pills I missed out on, but I don't want to be rude, and Ryan is speaking again before I get the chance.

“I'm goofin’."

I sort of fake smile because I think if I open my mouth, I'll throw up all over him. But the term ‘goofing’ is a little ridiculous even for him, so I'm stuck between laughing like a maniac or like a paranoid freak.

“Did I hurt ya feelin’s, kid?"

I swallow back the bile in my mouth before I answer him. "Ah, no. I just don't really know what to say.” I try to keep my sentences short and sweet. Maybe he wasn't really joking.

Ryan tilts his head, swishing back and forth on his feet. “I dunno why yer sayin’ sorry. If yer tired, sleep. D’ya think I'm too weak ta lift a couple’o boxes? I’on needs no beauty sleeps. ‘M gorgeous.”

"You are.” I say, promptly regretting it when he raises a brow at me. He is right. I talk too much. Really, I should sew my mouth shut like a Lalaloopsy doll. That'll keep me from saying stupid things.

Ryan is being weird again. I like it still.

“Say it." He breathes, and for a second, I want to ask if he had too much champagne, but then I remember that I'm not even at the legal age to drink yet, so I probably shouldn't inquire about his habits, and he just said I talked too much, so I should probably stick to the script.

“You're gorgeous."

"You don't think so.” Only he would have the gall to deny the words straight out of someone else's mouth. He doesn't even say so because he himself thinks that he's not gorgeous. He says so…almost just because he can.

His confidence is attractive, but I won't let it get in the way of the truth.

"How would you know?”

"’Cause ya don't know me."

I frown. “I don't need to know you to know that you're gorgeous." I counter, but Ryan shakes his head, not taking my answer. "What if ‘m not a gorgeous person?” He asks, and I feel my head rattle.

"What if you are?”

"You don't know me,” he says again, as if it meant anything. "You don't know who I am. What if I'ma woman?”

It's such a weird question that I can't help but direct it back to him. "Are you?”

Ryan crosses his arms, defensive now. "Sometimes.”

"I still think you're gorgeous.”

He looks angry when I say this. "Yer gay.” But it's another bullet missed. Is he just saying things so I keep repeating those words back to him?

"Beauty is subjective, and I'm bisexual.”

Ryan doesn't seem to have a counter to this, so he just stares at me. I guess that his stare could be counted as a comeback on its own due to the intensity, but my brain is a little foggy so I wouldn't know. His eyes are so brown, but when he sways a little too far left, ditzy from the wine, the kitchen light gleams in them like the sun, and I see a ring of green around his irises.

I stick to staring at his eyes just because I know that if I look down and see his lips, it'll be an endgame for me.

“RyRy! Come take a picture with yer Lily!”

I want to ask what the hell a Lily is, and if it's referring to Missy, why, but Ryan spins around and starts walking before I can even open my mouth. I keep starting only because I quickly became mesmerized by the tattoos on the back of his arms. I don't know how I didn't see them before, but looking at them makes me dizzy. A Q and a question mark. It's a thing to ask about tomorrow, but something I'm curious about today.

I'm pushed into a crowd of the family by Lenny, who grabbed me to take a group photo. Not like I was doing much before that. Y'know. Just glaring at the wall, sort of turned on, sort of charmed, sort of confused.

Ryan stands next to me in this big photo. It's definitely awkward, mostly because I think it's the first time I've seen him with a full smile, and a little because of what just happened.

Right after pictures, dinners coming out, and everyone's taking a seat at the table. I use the bathroom first so I don't have to leave awkwardly while everyone's eating.

I probably should've just dealt with it. Are they doing this on purpose?

I take the only seat left available. Between Ryan and Lenny.

Andrea comes out with all sorts of pots and pans, setting them on the table.

After Mr. Green's prayer, like last night, dinner is calm, and I'm questioned some more on my personal life.

“I heard ya go ta college, Dallon. Is it ‘round here?"

I try to talk in a certain way that makes it sound like I'm not boasting. “Uh…sort of. It's farther east. Stanford.” Lenny's eyes widen, and he nudges me. "How ‘bout that! Ya tryna be the next Einstein or somethin’?" I play off my extreme need to sink into the floor and die with a laugh. I'm so far from that mathematical legend, he wouldn't touch me with a seventy foot pole dead or alive.

“Oh, no, I-I'm only studying theory. Nothing majorly important anymore.”

Mr. Green scoffs. "Aw, c'mon. I know people scratchin’ at them walls ta get inta that school. If it's taught, it's import’nt. Tell’em whatcha told me, how ya got in.”

I try to keep the story minimal. I don't like being the center of attention, nor do I like telling people about school, since they always end up assuming that my brain is swollen with knowledge when in reality, I didn't even pass biology.

“Well, I mean…I've always been a nerd about that kind of stuff. And Stanford offered a scholarship, but I had to graduate highschool early.”

"How early?”

"Oh, it was already my sophomore year. I wasn't really against the idea since I wasn't gonna learn anything useful after that anyway”

They look at me like I have a third eye, so I just stare down at my plate.

And like the angel she is, Andrea takes the topic off of me so smoothly that nobody even noticed.

“Jackie, wasn't ya planning on goinna college, too? What'd ya wanna do?”

Well, not really nobody. Because Ryan is Ryan, and he sees a lot.

“Don't ya like school?" He asks, twirling his pasta around his fork but making no move to eat it. I appreciate that he talks to me only, not expecting me to speak to the whole table. It makes me feel way more relaxed.

I look down at my plate. I'm not really a fan of shrimp. I'm sort of just hoping someone will ask for mine.

“I do. It's just a little weird to talk about.”

I thoroughly misjudged Ryan yesterday. He's not of little words, no. Not at all. Ryan just only ever speaks if he wants to. He never makes himself feel like he has to, something I wish I had the ability to master. It may have been a little forward, but what Ryan said earlier was true. I talk about a lot of random bullshit. It's probably that minor theology degree in me.

"I'll trade ya my brocc’li fer yer shrimp.” I want to tease him for that. I'm the kid, but he doesn't like his veggies. I just nod, thankful that God answered my own prayer.

Dinner isn't so stress inducing after, and when everyone is finished and plates are washed, styrofoam and plastic are handed out for cake. They sing at least eight different birthday songs, pray again, and Missy gets a fair share of cake smudges when the lights flick on.

I wonder when Ryan's birthday is as I sit back down and eat the frosting off of my slice.

I'm tired again, and all I want to do is eat my cake and go to sleep. Anyone could tell if they looked at my face.

But Andrea sits beside me and starts chatting it up, and for some reason, I'm not at all upset about it. If I was dying I think she would be my spokesperson.

“Ya feelin’ better, sweetpie?"

I smile and nod, but it's not fake. I feel relaxed, especially when a familiar face is near me.

"Yeah. Uh," Since I'm weird, I've mentally adopted her as my mother, and she's the only one that knows I have it big for Ryan. So I'm okay with asking her a few things to satiate my before bed curiosity.

Along with the fact that Ryan isn't there at the moment.

“Is Ryan's birthday soon?" She laughs at me, but answers my question with a wobble of her hand. “Right at the enda summa. August 30th."

The date suits him. August 30th. That's two months. Technically, he's 6 years older than me. Is he a cougar?

…Am I a cub?

“Oh. Twenty-six then, huh?" I say instead, not wanting to show my disappointment nor that I'm kinda into it. There's no way in hell he wants to date me, and I should probably stop trying while I'm ahead.

But I don't want to let it go so easily. I feel so wrung up around him. He makes me dizzy. This can't just be it.

Andrea makes a face at me. “Twenty-six? That yer big day?”

“Oh, no, I just…isn't that how old he's turning?” Did I confuse it? Hear it wrong?

She giggles a little, brows drawing together. “What, that what he told ya? That boy.” She giggles some more, shocked.

“RyRy’s twenty-two.”

I almost choked on my cake. Twenty-two? Ryan?

“O-Oh," I manage to not sound like I'm freaking out, still trying to understand how twenty-six came about. “I-I must've heard him wrong." Although it's a terrible excuse, and I can't understand why that would've been what I heard instead.

“I hope so. Ain't no nephew of mine gone lie ‘bout nothin’ under this roof.” That reminds me of my biggest curiosity of all. Ryan's parents.

If I was a douchebag, I would ask Andrea about them. But I'm not a douchebag, and I plan to actually get to know Ryan by talking to him, so I save my extra personal questions for the date I've somehow already planned upon figuring out that I do have a chance.

I can't believe I've only known him for two days. It felt like a week had already passed us by.

I'm now buzzing with excitement at the thought of tomorrow and the next day.

I buzz saying goodnight, I buzz getting undressed, I buzz washing the sweat off of my body.

After a hot shower, I'm somewhat refreshed.

Or more so, Ryan is fresh in my mind, I fought a strong hormonal urge to jerk off, and I am exhausted.

It's awkward here. Ryan makes it feel less awkward. His stare, and his thick pretty eyelashes. He mellows out any setting so well.

And thinking about him mellows me right to sleep.

Chapter Text

I think I wake up just at the right time, since when I sit up and am finally ready to start my day, Andrea is knocking on my door.

“Are ya awake, Dal?"

A still half asleep part of me nodded before realizing that she can't see me. I verbally answer with something that thankfully doesn't sound like a groggy yawn. I'm way more tired today.

Andrea leaves, and barely a second after does Ryan pop his head in. Today, it's without knocking. I'm much more awake now.

“We gots clean the stables. Be dressed fer mud."

I nod, remembering that it's been raining pretty hard since last afternoon. "Okay. Thanks.” I say, more so focused with the fumbling of my shirt tucked halfway inside out.

The sound of the door clicking shut makes my chest ache a little. Ryan makes my chest ache with an insanely strong yearning.

But the sensation leaves so quickly today.

Because the door may have closed, but somehow, that didn't mean Ryan left.

"Act’tlly…" My head snaps up at the sound of his voice, and I can't believe that he's really standing there. I probably look like an idiot with my mouth falling open halfway, my muscles not yet being strong enough to hold my surprise back. It’s too early to pretend like I don’t think he’s better than me.

“D’ya wanna get to it later?”

I look down at my hands, then up at Ryan, whose shirt is still too big for his shoulders, and whose Christmas red pajama pants are ripped and faded at the bottoms. He doesn't have any shoes on. Just stands in blue socks on the rug.

“Um…” On one hand, I don't want to seem like a slacker, since I didn't do much at all yesterday. On the other, I don't want to seem stuck up, or like a swine that can't think for myself. Impressing Ryan is like trying to do a show as a jester in the Victorian age. Although jesters are executed by the king if they’re anything but subpar, and I would do it by my own hands solely out of embarrassment.

So I redirect it back to him because I really am a pussy. “I'm okay with anything you wanna do." I probably sound all of the above that I was avoiding, but Ryan seems pleased enough with my answer that he moves on without teasing or rolling his eyes, which the more awake and conscious side of my brain is undoubtedly grateful for.

He steps closer to me. “Great. I needa use yer bathroom. M’ shower's brok’n.”

“G…Go ahead," I try to not sound pathetic, but I want him so badly and I might be totally weird and gross, but the thought of Ryan using my shower does things to me that I don’t even want to get into in the comfort of my own brain.

When Ryan turns around and leaves to get his things, there's an empty air around me from where he was standing, and I have no idea what I was doing prior to his presence.

It takes me a second to find some clothes to change into. Mostly because my brain fart lasted a whole minute, and the only thing on my mind was RyanRyanRyan.

I learn that fate is a stupid, made up thing to excuse your luck or lack thereof, and I also hate that because while I'm lifting my jeans up my legs, Ryan walks through the door and gets a load of my flat ass, boxer bulge, and hairy legs. Fun. So incredibly fun, and this is exactly what I wanted the second I saw his face. Totally.

If I have no luck, I have no fate, and so I really should just kick my own bucket.

“S-Sorry," I don't want to turn around and seem like a wuss, so I just shove my pants up as fast as possible, zipping and buttoning them lightning fast, probably breaking a record.

Ryan just stares at me, the corners of his bottom lip caught between his teeth. Which is something I'm absolutely not normal about, and I think he should bite his lips way more often because seeing them chapped and raw sort of suits his vibe.

“Hm.” He walks into the bathroom, towel in tow, and shuts the door behind himself.

Fuck.

I feel like I should maybe stop ogling Ryan whenever I get the chance, but whenever he's shirtless, it's just so hard not to. His body is so calmly toned, that light work of muscle on his stomach from farm work over the years flexing whenever he fucking breathes.

On our way down to the stables, Ryan catches me looking twice before he says something. “I gots sum’n’ on me?" He asks in mumbles, glancing up at me. I quickly shake my head. “N-No. Sorry." I force my gaze in front of me, focusing on the field surrounding us.

“So ya just—"

A rumble of thunder startles not just Ryan, but Lemon Springs who’s relaxing out in the field, and she jumps catapults herself right towards him. She neighs and kicks and out of my own fight, flight, or freeze, I grab Ryan and yank him away before she can crush him into broken bones all over.

If you aren't keeping count, that's the second Green that I've saved from sudden, certain, and unfortunate death.

Thankfully our feet are steady on the ground, and neither of us fall or are injured. The sound of pattering over the wooden stable is quiet when compared to how loudly my chest pounds, or how shallow and quick Ryan's breath had become.

It's not because of the unforeseen near-death experience, or the clouds warning us of the storm. No. It's because Ryan is in my arms, pulled to my chest with raindrops on the high points of his cheeks. Because he's staring up at me like I'm the only other person in the world.

I only notice now that Ryan has freckles. They're only on his nose and the left side of his face, but they're light brown and they're there. His brows are thin and dark, but they still look maintained and I'm pretty sure he does them himself. I get lost in his eyes yet again, but I really can't help myself. Not when they're wide and curious like that, looking at me of all people. That sugar maple brown always distracts me.

“Sorry," I say, although I don't mean it. I saved his life, afterall.

But we both know that what I’m apologizing for, earnest or not, wasn't about me pulling him away.

“It's okay." Ryan replies like he wasn’t listening, and it seems like he didn't mind that I held him so close for so long in the first place. That I'm still doing it.

We only let each other go a minute after, and my hands struggle to move away from the tanned skin of his shoulders. I feel his fingers reluctantly trail down and fall off of my chest. I want to put them back. I liked holding him like that. I liked the smell of his body spray and the warmth coming from his neck.

Lemon Springs huffs and gallops under the stables so she won't get wet.

Ah, right. Employment. Professionalism. Just a worker who needs to focus on the stables rather than stabilizing his brain and his dick and the funny feeling in his gut. That’s me.

Ryan wordlessly turns on his heel just like earlier, but this time he's leading me into the stables to show me how to fix up.

"I'll groom em while ya clean the stalls.”

"Okay.”

Weirdly enough, there's no awkward tension. I just feel that intense longing like always, and while trying to remember what Ryan's heartbeat sounded like, I get it confused with the pattern of rain drizzling above us.

Ryan runs through the routine, showing me where to rake the old hay and manure and where to scrub the walls of their dirt. I listen as best as I can with the previous moments still fresh in my mind.

“I'll be in the last stall if ya need anyth’n."

I watch him walk away with a purpose I wasn’t listening in enough to know about, that entrancing saunter in his hips that I'm sure he doesn't realize he has when he wears his jeans so low. Cute walk, cute talk, cute back, cute front. Is it weird for me to want to squish my face into his skin?

I grab a rake and a trash bag, even if all I want to do is stare at Ryan.

I hear him talking to Lemon while guiding her into an empty stall in the back, and I'm sure she understands what's happening with the way she neighs and shakes her body out. I catch a few glimpses of him, smiling and petting her muzzle.

I get hotter with each bag I fill and slightly more annoyed. If it were anyone but Ryan, I wouldn’t hesitate to take my shirt off. But I’m a little insecure and I don't want to seem overly cocky or weird. It's just that the rain is so humid and gross, and it smells like shit, and Ryan is still in my mind.

I don’t endure it for another three minutes before I give up, peeling my shirt from my skin and tossing it over the door. I'm only halfway done with my second bag, but thankfully the smell has subsided and now I don’t feel integrated with the death bombs on the floor.

I just hope that Ryan can't see me.

Another ten minutes pass with the sound of waking animals and huffs of hard work. I don’t have much going on in my head. Only wishing Ryan was in my job description.

When I have five bags filled and a clean stall, I put my shirt back on and move the garbage outside for when I go back near the house. Ryan is there, looking up from where he's bent over, trimming hooves. Like he was waiting for me. Sweat and a little mud smeared down the side of his face and swiped across his stomach. Hair tousled in all sorts of directions.

I freeze a little when we make eye contact, and he raises his brows, probably expecting me to say something. I try not to look like a total spaz when he licks his lips, but it's really fucking hard when he’s the one doing it.

“Just…” I think of an excuse to talk so I don't look crazy just standing there, but I'm sure Ryan can tell that I'm pulling words out of my ass. "I, uh, I just finished bagging the trash. I'm gonna um…I'm gonna get to the walls, now.” He tilts his head, brows rising higher in pure amusement. He's probably enjoying the hell out of this. What a sadist.

“Right." He looks down at Lemon Springs’ back hoof, and I swear I see him laugh. "You do that.”

I want to do him.

I get Lemon's stall squeaky and sparkly by the time she's all cleaned and dolled up to get back in it. She looks pleased and pretty, a white ribbon braided into her soft mane. Ryan grooms the horses so well. Like they can speak to him and tell him what they need themselves. He's quick and gentle but still thorough and precise. I want that. For his hands to be in my hair and brushing over my skin. I want him to be gentle with me.

I wonder if Mr. Green would ever let me take Ryan on that date.

Ryan leads a male horse down the stalls this time. His name is Mocha Swirl, according to his spotty brown coat and white mane. His stall isn't as bad, thankfully. I still take my shirt off, and I still have to breathe out of my mouth, but there's significantly less shit, and the walls aren't too dusty.

We continue with the routine once more, the last stall being the cleanest, lucky for me.

So, by the time that I'm done, Ryan's still working, and I'm not sure what to do, so I just lean against the wall and close my eyes for a quick break. The rain had stopped, but the sky still moved above us, an occasional rumble heard every few minutes. Even so, the sun passes some light through the grey, and although it's hot, I still enjoy the feeling of it basking over me.

I didn't hear Ryan walking down the stables, or even standing in the doorway. I flinch when he makes himself known, opening my eyes in a panic.

“Ya done?"

I quickly nod, moving out the way so he can guide Old Chester back in his stall. While Ryan isn't paying attention, I put my shirt on just as quickly as I did with my pants that morning.

“S’ bout lunchtime. We can head back.”

Ryan says he'll help me bring the garbage to the front of the house, but I feel more like I'm helping him. He can only carry one bag at a time, as opposed to the two I have in each hand. I can’t tell if he's embarrassed about this, but I know anyway that he has more experience with the way he kicks it over his shoulder. And I definitely don't mind an extra hand.

“So, um…” It's a long way back to the house. Probably a ten minute walk. I think it's an appropriate time to question the whole age thing with Ryan. Maybe clear up the fact that processing words can be a head scratcher for me from time to time. “I…I think I heard you wrong the other day, hah...just–I could've sworn you told me that you were twenty-five. The topic came up between me and Andrea, and–I guess, I just thought you were older.”

Ryan doesn’t miss a beat.. "Hm. No. I lied.” Yikes. Was that a hint? I should stop micro-flirting.

"Oh.” We walked in silence for a minute after that.

I feel Ryan look over and up at me, but I don’t want to look back and make things more awkward than they have to be.

"Yer not gonna ask me why?”

What a confusing man he is. “I-I don't want to overstep or anything." I say quickly, just in case he's testing me for some sort of reason.

More silence. More awkward walk. Maybe I should've brought it up when we were closer to the house.

Now, the whole half mile there, I can't stop thinking about what I would've messed up if I hadn't asked, and lived in ignorant bliss. I hope I wasn’t making him uncomfortable.

Another 5 minutes after, we reach the house and leave the garbage bags next to the trash can.

Before I can turn around to make my walk for the  last two bags, Ryan catches my attention and speaks with that same glint of amusement in his eyes that started my whole very mild obsession with him.

“I lied ‘cause I wanted ta see if ya still thought I was cute, even if I was older."

“Oh," I say again, even though I sound super lame. That's really all I can say. Ryan was just bored, and he lied to cure said boredom.

I can’t find it in me to be even the slightest bit upset.

Ryan's lips pull back into a smile and it rips something through my chest. “Yer a little degenerate. Ya thought I was six years older n’ ya still wanted it." Did he really expect anything less from me?

I know my face is burning, and I know Ryan can see that. I’m completely embarrassed for my lack of shame and Ryan probably thinks I'm the biggest perv ever.

He leaves inside before I can even begin to form words, thoughts, or ideas.

Fuck.

“Would ya like ta pray for us taday, Dallon?”

I'm only a little nervous when I'm asked this question. I had sat down with full intent of daydreaming about Ryan and not speaking a word.

Respectfully? …Maybe?

I'm not very into the religious scene in a personal sense anymore. I tend to zone during their prayers unless I need to speak, or unless Ryan is speaking. I don't mean to per se. I'd just rather be eating. And I prefer to thank the earth for my food by not trashing it.

But I respect their beliefs and thought to include me, and I don't mind playing pretend for a bit. Maybe I'll learn something new for this research summer project at school.

“Ah, sure. No problem."

Fortunately, I have a prayer on duty for when this happens, and I just recite it word for word instead of trying to figure out something more meaningful. I don't think it's a bad thing. I can pray to the Lord about the same thing as many times as I want. And anyway, I usually add a spin to it so it's not exactly the same and robotic as hell.

When everyone is settled and seated, we brown our heads and close our eyes and take each other in hand.

"Dear father, we thank you for the fresh food on our table, and we thank you for another healthy day on earth as we serve it with gratitude. We thank you for the rain and we ask sunshine to follow soon after. May you hear this with your heart full as it can be. Amen.”

"Amen.”

And the Green family is wowed, and I don't have to pray again for a little while. It's perfect.

I can feel Ryan's eyes on me as I take a sip of water, but I don't know what else I would do besides look back, so I place my glass down and I catch his gaze on my own.

I notice now that he always seems to be on my left side. I hope it's my good one.

For a second, a question pops up in my mind, and I almost ask him out loud. I'm deeply curious. But I remember that the question I have should probably be asked when we aren't at dinner in a large group of people, especially since I don't know if his family knows, even despite his flamboyant nature.

I want to know who Ryan is. A girl? A boy? A medium? What's his sexuality? Is he a sad person? Is he angry, or laid back, or jittery all over? What does he like to do? Who does he hate? What are his values? Has he dated anyone before? Does he think about me? Is he even a he? Is he curious, too?

I want to know all about him.

And I know that these questions I have are all date questions, and maybe it's a sign to man up and ask, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm scared to do that.

“Ya ever ridd’n a horse b’fore?"

I shake my head. To me, it's always seemed like one of those bucket list activities that you'll never actually get to.

Ryan grins mischievously. Never say never, I guess.

“McQueen is real easygoin’. I could put ya on him.” I raise my brows, not trusting Ryan for a second despite him being a professional. "Uh, what about Gary Snail? He sounds a lot more in my tempo.”

Ryan laughs. “Sure, if yer tempo is hell’s door. Their names is oxymorons. McQueen is our slowest. Gary Snail done won himself a gold medal five times.”

Ryan goes up to McQueen, petting his head gently. "S’ a little shit, though. If he don't like ya, he won't let ya.” This worries me just slightly. I don't know if I'm a likeable person. Lemon Springs and Mocha Swirl took an appreciation for my pets, but if McQueen has a high standard for friends, I'm not sure if I'd meet it.

I let him smell my hand first, and when he didn’t back away in any distaste, I lifted it up and grazed my palm over where Ryan showed me was a horse's forehead.

Huh. I don't think he hates me.

I glance over at Ryan, who I catch staring at me. He quickly looks away, cheeks flushing. I wish he didn't.

“I-uh, I think he likes me," I breathe lamely, not taking my eyes away from Ryan's soft and flushed face.

A mistake on my end, I realize.

Just as Ryan goes to speak, my face contorts into something of horror and disgust as a wet and rough tongue slides up my neck and cheek. Gross.

Ryan bursts out laughing and I just stand there, hand to my face as I try to come to terms with the fact that I just got a wet willy by a horse.

“Horses lick people!?"

Ryan laughs into his hand, hunched over in a fit of giggles. Oh yeah, real funny. Horse breath is hot.

He composes himself after a second, and I really can't help but wish he was laughing for just a bit longer. It's like music, and it's much more pleasant than whatever bacteria was just smeared in my pores.

“All animals lick people, Dall'n. Be glad you ain't ever had a sheep gnawin’ at yer hair.”

My mind blanks. He's never said my name before. I don't know what else he even said, or how to respond.

Dall’n. It’s easy to mispronounce my name. People who feel sorry about it usually have no idea how much worse others have butchered those 6 letters.

But Ryan says nothing about the fact that he made my name into one syllable and completely eradicated a letter. I don’t want to say anything either.

Because it was hot, and I’m so incredibly fine with him calling me that for the rest of my life.

“Jeez. Real fuckin’ spacey, aren't ya?" Ryan mumbles, shaking his head as he opens McQueen’s stall.

I don't bother to even get offended. He's right. I don't know a single guy in my family who isn't an insane freak from outer space. I’ve learned over the years to take the title with pride. My spacing out is usually about the person who’s talking while I’m on another planet, and it’s pretty hard to find a guy that doesn’t hear a single word you said because he was too busy thinking about you.

“S-Sorry," I say, mostly because I don't want to annoy him, and it's the first thing that came to mind.

Ryan closes the stall door once the short, auburn horse is out. “I don't like it when ya ‘pologize when it ain't due." He tells me, grabbing a harness off of the wall

"Sorry.”

Ryan glares at me, and suddenly I see what he means, but I don't know how to portray that without apologizing again, so I just look away.

He fastens McQueens harness and gets him ready after a few minutes of fussing with the unruly leather straps.

Ryan maneuvers him out from the stables and we agree that I'll only get on if I'm on the back, not controlling anything, only fighting for my life and holding on.

“Alright, c'mon then." Ryan motions to McQueen. "Put yer foot in there, grab that, and hike yerself up.” The idea seems mildly difficult and dangerous, and I'm not exactly sure how to execute those movements without breaking an ankle.

I stare at the harness for a second. Ryan notices my confusion and rolls his eyes, sticking his hand out to help me. I feel like a damsel in distress, but I don't exactly have a choice.

It happens quickly, Ryan guiding my foot into the bottom strap before launching me upward with just the strength of one hand, my frantic flailing to grab the handles up top before gravity catches me on the other side. McQueen huffs a little and I shake around, grasping to the harness with all of my might so I don't slip.

Suddenly, horses seem way too tall, and I don’t believe for a second that Ryan is weaker than me, especially not in his arms.

Ryan looks up at me, half of a grin showing on an otherwise impatient face.

“Ya ridin’ back er front?" It’s his way of telling me to move the fuck on, I know, but I still have to find my courage to let go of the only thing that will ensure I don’t die.

But I don’t want to keep him waiting, so with great hesitancy and bravery, I let the handle slip from my fingers as I move back with trembling arms.

Ryan gets on with much more confidence and grace than I probably ever could. His boot kicks into the stirrup and he hoists himself over with a grunt, somehow managing to not kick me in the face.

I immediately backed up upon his landing because my nuts are far too close to getting sat on otherwise, and I was meaning to adjust myself since I got on anyway. Thankfully, I can't be judged for the moment I spend shuffling around because Ryan does the same. I'm glad we can accept the necessary touchless adjustment as just dudes having to be dudes, no matter that it sucks or can be really cringey.

“Ya set?” Ryan asks me, turning his head back just enough to glance at me. I nod, waiting for further instruction while also squeezing my legs against McQueen's sides to further ensure that even without the help of my hands, I have a lower change of falling to my doom.

When he gets my confirmation, Ryan grabs my hands and places them on his stomach. “Hold on tight.” I secure my grip as best as possible without having a shirt to hold onto, hopefully not accidentally violating his stomach chub that I am very normal about.

But my grip seems to confuse him, because I guess I'm just not close enough.

“Don't get shy, now. C’mere.”

I feel like maybe I'm just slightly dramatic when Ryan pulls me forward until my front is to his back, and my face starts to burn. But it's Ryan. I think everyone would feel that way around someone like him. Someone so unconsciously nonchalant and hot and really good smelling.

I hug him from behind, close enough to catch his warmth from the heat and hear how his breath picks up from the physicality, but just far enough that I can see my surroundings around his loose brown curls.

“Erright, we're gone start up now.” He warns me, and I give him the okay before he tugs the straps.

It's a steady pace, and I can feel each step that McQueen takes. It could barely be considered a stride, but I still don't ease up. The punch back of his movements from up top is enough to keep me glued as is.

“Are ya good to speed up?”

I nod again, this time against his head, and from the angle I'm pressed against him in, I can see him smirk a little.

He takes me in a circle around the roaming plot, and McQueen does prove to be pretty gentle.

I ask Ryan some things about horses, and my questions don't seem to bother him, so maybe I'm doing something right. Back to micro-flirting.

“Do they ever get violent like in movies?”

Ryan laughs, steering McQueen away from a wall that he didn't seem to care he would run into.

“We had one like that. Ken tried gettin’ him gone, but no one wanted an angry horse. I was ‘bout fifteen, n’ the only one that could control the damn thing. Ev’ntually, ‘ey gave up, n’ we kept em.”

The story seems to end on a sad note. I feel like I should leave it at that, but I can't help but let my wonder get the best of me. “Which horse is it?” I don't recall a single one of them who seemed angry or violent at all. They all were all well behaved and rather gentle.

Ryan lets out another dry chuckle. “Yer ridin’ em.” I look down at the grey coat of McQueen.

Huh. That was something I didn't expect. Ryan tugs the leash around his mouth a little and the movement makes him back up closer into me.

*He must've needed a lot of training to get calm like this.” I mention, and Ryan shakes his head, patting the lighter grey on his mane with familiar strokes.

“Humans needed trainin’ on how to keep him calm.”

The spin of words makes me see the situation much differently. “He wasn't no unruly horse or nothin’. Was just scared, n’ had no-good owners. S’ not his fault.” Ryan continues, and the words seem to make him melt even though he's the one saying them.

Ryan stills us as McQueen neighs and shakes off. “Now he's ‘imself. All sassy n’ special. How he deserves ta be.” I like that Ryan is also sassy and special, and he deserves to be as well. I don't know what earned him the right, or why specifically him, but he seems to have taken the opportunity and run with it, and I don’t want to stop him at all.

“I like the way you tell stories.” I tell him, and he just scoffs. I also like that he chooses who he is, and doesn't let up even with his reaction. He's seriously un, truly just living his life how he pleases.

“Ain't heard that one before…” Ryan says, but it's genuine, and he seems really shocked. For a second, I'm stunned as well. Did I just make Ryan nervous?

He's a hard person to impress. Seeing him get all shy with his eyes focused down and his voice so soft, I can admit that it's something I could get used to. I want to see all the sides of Ryan, but especially the ones where he's bashful.

We go around once, twice, three times more before Ryan huffs and gets McQueen to stand still so we can dismantle.

As Ryan slides off, his eyes flicker to look at me, seemingly gauging my reaction to such a spontaneous activity. “Ya had fun?” He asks. I'm surprised that he's curious, but I answer with a nod and a smile.

“I don't think horseback riding will become a hobby of mine, but it's actually pretty cool.”

My confession looks to satiate that curiosity and Ryan accepts my response. “Hm. Fair. Most folks beg me ta go ‘nother round.” After he says this, he laughs to himself. “‘Specially the men.” He adds on, and I can’t help but let a laugh slip as well. God, I want to be one of those men someday.

Ryan helps me off, though I'm a bit more nervous because the drop down somehow looks even higher. I do feel like a damsel when he catches me so I don't fall, but I'd rather feel like a pretty princess than a dead one.

“Do we clean the empty stalls too?” I ask Ryan as he guides McQueen back into his stall. Mr. Green mentioned that a few horses had been transported for a show, and shouldn't be back for a few days.

Ryan locks the gate and then takes a meaningful glance at the walls and ground that I previously cleaned.

“Eh. Ya worked hard taday. We can finish up before the horses come back down ‘morrow. ‘S take a ride at the disposal n’ get ridda that fertilizer.”

So after Ryan puts everything away, we head back to the house to take a road trip.

It’s quiet, the grass still wet beneath our feet and a flock of birds above us the only real noise around.

I have a crazy strong urge to fill our silence and just talk to him, but maybe that's the totally inappropriate work crush I have going on.

The walk is long and my ADHD is running miles per minute in my head, begging me to open my mouth. He's right. I talk way too damn much.

But…I really can't be bothered to care. I’m too nosey. I’ll live in bliss and believe that he really was just joking.

So I bring up a different topic from that night. One that I haven’t been able to get off of my mind since he said what he said.

“Hey, so…uh…I hope this doesn't come off as weird or backhanded or anything, but, you–the other night, you told me you…that you were a woman, sometimes. Just–I wanted to make sure I'm referring to you correctly, and all that. I don't want to disrespect you or your identity or anything.”

Ryan promptly stops walking, so I stop.

He then kneels down in front of me and before I can choke on my spit because I am not at all an exhibitionist, Ryan begins to tie my shoe.

Oh. Oops.

“Yer not disrespectin’ me.” He starts, and I notice that he double knots the laces instead of the loops.

“‘M gender fluid.” He stands. I feel that maybe this is the time I start nodding, because I'd hate for him to think that I'm not listening or that I think he's crazy. He's also coming out to me fully, and I think that’s crazy, not him.

We continue down the grass, a small man path made from the frequent trips over years of hard work.

“Sometimes imma man, sometimes a woman. Sometimes m’ neither.”

“Is that why you dress in feminine clothes for dinner?” My words come off stronger than I mean them to. Ryan doesn’t mind.

He shrugs. “I guess. I can't really go wearing none’a that outside. It just don't go with nothin’ I do fer work.”

“Do you usually dress up when you aren't working? –Sorry, I don't mean to put my nose in your business. I’m just wondering.”

Ryan shakes his head this time. “Yer not putting yer nose anywhere it don't belong. If ya did, you would knows.” He nudges me a little, definitely by accident with the few steps he takes to the opposite side to regain his balance. Cute. Not straight at all and can’t walk in a straight line either.

“I jus’ like ta feel pretty. There ain't no reason, rhyme, or why. If 'm not workin’, m’ prob’ly sleepin’, and if 'm not sleepin’, 'm dressin’ m’self. But I always do m’ makeup.”

I quickly nod, no stranger to that urge. “Yeah, no, of course, I'm sort of the same way. I used to wear makeup a lot in high school. It's pretty fun to do.” Ryan raises a brow, and it doesn't look like he believes me.

“I'm telling the truth,” I say, thinking of what might convince him. “Since secondary, I got crowned the prettiest eyes every year during superlatives because I did my mascara everyday, but everyone thought it was natural.”

This makes Ryan laugh, and now I'm a little embarrassed.

“I don't believe you any more.”

I scoff, no more tricks or ideas in mind. “Why not?” Donny and his younger brother Charles run right past us, chasing each other with flowers while Andrea calls for them to come back.

“‘Cause ya said ya used to. Implying ya don't no more. But ya do, ‘cause ya got some on right now.” And I'm caught red handed.

Knowing that he looks so closely at me makes me flattered and way too nervous. I should touch up my face more carefully from now on.

Mr. Green looks delighted to see me, and he pulls me away from Ryan to talk really quick. Ryan mentions something about going to load the truck, but I'm too busy trying to remind myself that I'm not being eaten by wolves, and Mr. Green is most likely talking to me about what I’m gonna do tomorrow and not about how he’s going to fire me for no apparent reason.

“I talked ta Missy. We's is goin’ out to eat t’night.” He tells me, and a disgusting amount of dread fills me for a very good reason.

“Oh, sounds fun.” And I am absolutely not looking forward to it. The family is big as is. I have no money, as is. I have violent anxiety, as is.

Mr. Green nods. “I just wants ta makes sure ya ain't gots no food allergies n’ whatnots.”

I hate that I have to deny the outing, but I really have no other choice.

“Oh, um…I'm really sorry, Mr. Green–”

“Ken.”

Great. Even worse. He feels a personal connection to me enough to let me call him by his first name, and I'm letting him down and everyone else down. I might just be getting eaten by wolves.

“I-I'm really sorry, K-Ken. I won't be able to go tonight. I don't mean to offend you or your family or anything...”

Ken looks baffled, eyes blown wide at my statement. He looks around, my words absurd enough to him that he can't seem to believe he was the only witness to them.

He huffs, patting his legs in confusion. “Well–Well why not?”

I don't have any excuse that will make me sound less beggar than the truth, so I choose to stay honest. And I'm a terrible liar. He would've found out sooner or later.

I purse my lips and fold my arms, searching for some solidarity to my current overanxious state.

With a long exhale, I tell him my situation. “I just don't have the money right now. I'm sorry.” Unfortunately, saying this doesn't make me any more relieved of guilt.

And Mr. Green–Ken laughs. He laughs at me, right in my face.

He takes another glance at his imaginary audience before laughing again. I'm too used to not having money to be embarrassed. I've gone months with nothing but a dollar to my name and I am somehow alive. That has to account for something.

Sometimes I'm proud. Sometimes amazed. Never have I been embarrassed. It's just what college life is like.

“Boy, did ya rodeo a pig too fat for its legs?”

Carefully, I shake my head, silently trying to figure out what the hell the metaphor is referring to. Me getting nowhere? Me counting on the greed of the government and getting nowhere? Me not working to get money, and then being surprised when I get nowhere?

Ken snaps his fingers. “‘Xactly. ‘Cause all pigs is too fat for them little legs, n’ that'd be just cruel. So ya ain't smokin’ crack. Yer just crazy.”

I want to take it as a compliment, but the way it genuinely bewilders Ken makes me feel like maybe my crazy is just a slight problem.

Ken grabs his mug from God knows where–because of course he always has to have it with him–and gestures to me before taking a sip. “You.” He lets out his last few chuckles.

“I dunno what gave ya the idea that yous is payin’ ta’night, but I suggest ya let that source go gone with the wind.” He sets his mug down.

Not paying? In what universe?

“All meals is provided. I said that in yer job description ‘idn’t I?”

“Uhh…” This time I nod, taken aback myself. Is Ken really serious? That I don't have to pay?

“So get the hell back ta work, boy! You don't worry bout the price of the food ya eat here. It'll always be free fer ya, ya hear me?”

I nod again, much quicker this time. “O-okay. Thank you so much, Mr–uh, Ken.” The way I rush away is slightly pathetic, but I can't help it that I never know when he's upset or just being light-hearted. The Greens and their strong personalities.

But, hey. Free food is free food, western scolding attached or not.

Chapter Text

Ryan's waiting in a black pickup for me, leaned back in the driver's side with his eyes closed as he tapped at the wheel to the beat playing on the radio. It's not a country song, which I'm only half surprised at. His room was decorated with a few posters, and he has an impressive collection of vinyl's.

I recognize the song. Of all things that Ryan's unpredictability brings to the table, I didn't expect him to be into the scene. Especially not Radiohead.

But there he is, all his charmingly effeminate, erratic, and somewhat daunting glory, basking in the sun that hits through the windshield without a care in the world. The phrase ‘golden hour’ rings somewhere in the back of my mind. Of course, it's 4 o'clock, but I like to believe that Ryan's existence naturally sets it at an earlier time than usual.

I take him in before he gets the chance to realize that I'm there.

If we went to school together, I would recognize him as the dirty blonde boy. The one with half a face of freckles and hooded eyes. With an accent from nowhere and ink on the backs of his arms. The dirty blonde boy with soft pink lips and shoulders faded with sun-kissed olive skin. The dirty blonde boy with a button nose and that irresistible gait.

His Adams Apple kisses the sun right back, moving up and then down when he swallows, that soft jawline tensing sharp under the pressure.

Uh oh. He caught me.

Am I weird for thinking that it's so incredibly hot when Ryan takes his hand in from his open window to click the button to roll mine down? Maybe. But I'm probably more weird for standing right outside the door just staring at him. I was gonna open it eventually. My hand was on the handle. I just wasn't ready. I didn't finish looking at the muse.

His head rolls to the side, and his voice rings in my head like honey.

“Ya didn't think I'd catch ya starin’ like a creep?”

I don't have an answer to this. Everything he says is technically right, and as found previously, I'm not very good at lying. So instead, I keep my mouth shut.

Ryan nods to the door. “‘S unlocked.”

After fastening my seatbelt, I look back at Ryan because I feel his eyes burning holes into me, and it's just slightly super hard to ignore.

He shrugs. “What? Ya can lookit me but I can lookit ya?”

I shake my head. “No, it's okay.” Really, it sort of isn't. I get dizzy when he looks at me.

Ryan huffs and shifts the car into drive.

He turns the music down as he drives, which I assume is so he can focus, so I stay quiet so as to not bother him.

This leaves me to relish in my own thoughts, and only now do I remember that I have bright blue eyes, and I probably scared the shit out of him, and I am definitely a creep as he very blatantly stated.

The realization has me guilty enough to apologize then and there.

“Sorry for staring.”

Ryan glances at me twice. Although the music playing isn't as loud, he continues to tap to the shuffling songs, which makes me notice that he follows the bass and guitar rather than the drums or the voice. He must know a thing or two about playing.

“I like it.” He responds easily, so unbothered that I can't even argue. My own eyes scare me sometimes. I don't know how Ryan could be so okay with it. I almost don't want to believe him. But so far, he's been almost completely honest with me.

“Oh,” Really, I don't know what else to say to that.

I guess I don't have to say anything. I actually don't think I can. Not at all. Not when Ryan takes his right hand from the steering wheel, and my mind is set into overdrive when it lands on my knee.

Oh my God. Is this the temptation they talk about in the bible? It's working. God would've been so sick of my ass.

I think he heard me gasp pathetically, and that's why he's got that shit eating smirk, but I also can't think at all right now so it's not like I would know.

Ryan continues drumming his fingers, but this time it's on me, and this time, I feel a tightness in my stomach that makes my cheeks burn. My breath is as shaky as I am. I really hope he doesn't think that it's in a bad way, because then he'd have no idea about what he just did to the state of my pants.

My mouth is left agape. I just can't comprehend it. His calloused hand is holding me. He wants to touch me. Is he just teasing? Is it a promise for later? I don't remember my own name.

We run over a bump, and Ryan's hand slips up, and to regain his balance or whatever, he squeezes my inner thigh.

I'm hard.

Oops? Maybe?

I take another breath, shakier. I couldn't begin to believe that Ryan would even have a reason to have his hand on my knee, but now it's on my thigh, right inside, halfway up.

As much as I ‘oh my God’ in my head, I can't seem to get an answer. Maybe it's time to ask Asmodeus.

I press my legs together, not sure what else to do.

We stop at a red light, and Ryan finally takes a good look at me.

When he giggles, I go through a complete factory reset.

His hand trails down and then back up, just an inch higher. I'm afraid that if he does that again, I might come in my pants.

“‘S that feel nice, Dall’n?”

“Oh my God, Ryan.”

Ryan bites his lip. “Thought you was an atheist.” He says, mostly joking, but I can't help but keep the humor so I don't accidentally do something out of my control.

“I don't think God would want to associate with me if he knew what I was thinking right now.”

He giggles again and then takes his hand away. Despite the relief, I almost find myself reaching out to put that warmth back on my leg, or telling Ryan to just wait and keep himself there a little longer. But I remember that that's weird, and Ryan probably only did it in the first place to humor me.

It takes no more than a few turns after that for us to arrive, and unfortunately, I'm not able to get out of the car right away.

When Ryan sees why, he raises his brows and grins. “You sit there n’ look pretty.” He laughs, closing the driverside door.

Sit there and look pretty. I'm sure he'd know a thing or two about that.

I don't want to leave him hanging like the other day, so instead of being super horny and ditzy, I make myself kind of sad and nostalgic by thinking about my dead childhood cat to get my erection back down.

—I also curse myself because now whenever I think about the softcore porn esque nature of wordless homoerotic roadside thigh grabbing, it will instantly be associated with my orange-tabby baby Milo.

Eventually, I step out of the truck, and I find Ryan talking casually to an older man. When he sees me, Ryan points the man towards my direction to introduce us. Great, some social interaction. Now I'm really turned off.

“Ya feelin’ bett’r?” Ryan asks me, nothing but smug about it.

I nod, face still warm from something other than the heat.

“This ‘eres my uncle.”

We shake hands. “Real pleasant tameet ya, Dallon. Name's Dan.” He doesn't seem to be insane, so I give him the benefit of the doubt. Probably a nice person.

“Likewise, thanks.” Dan points to the truck.

“Ya kids ‘re gonna haveta carry allat. Doc says I can't do no manual lab’r til I get m’ brace off.” Dan sighs, patting his left leg where a black brace supports his knee.

Ryan nods. “‘S erright. Hey list’n, hook me up?” Ryan nudges him, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. Something tells me that this isn't about work, but I'm not a snitch, so I'll mind my business.

“How much ya lookin’ fer?” Dan doesn't seem to care that Ryan's asking, more interested in the wad of cash in his hands.

“Week n’ some worth. Bout 3 grams.”

Aha. So the cute, laid back, no-nonsense farm hand is a stoner. Who would've guessed.

Dan leaves to get the requested after being handed a 50, and Ryan nods to the truck so we can start unloading.

“You smoke?”

Ryan eyes me up and down. “Nah. ‘S acid.” I almost believe him until he rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, I do. Why? Ya want some? Dan ain't cheap.”

I shake my head before Ryan can start recommending local dealers. To think that he sells lettuce around and it all comes right back to him.

“No, no. I just…I didn't think you did.”

Ryan opens the back of the truck, and I try to keep my disgust at bay because I did just sweep it all into those bags, but fuck, somehow every second it sits it smells worse.

“We're dropping’ ‘em over innat hole.”

Ryan grabs a bag and I grab my four, and I follow him over to a small sinkhole forming behind Dan’s shop. “Throw ‘em on the sides.” I think his aim has something to do with fertilizing the ‘hole’ part so it won't spread open too much. It looks pretty deserted otherwise. I assume that most people have found a more ethical way to dispose of things they don't need.

Ryan looks at the natural disaster with annoyance. “Been usin’ horse n cow shit ta try n’ get ridda this thing fer months.”

For someone who grew up doing this for a living, I'm surprised that Ryan hasn't done the usual solution to the problem.

“Well, don't you guys compost it?”

Ryan gives me a look. “The hell is that?” I find it incredibly hot when Ryan says this, and I think he can tell, but I'll live in bliss and pretend like I'm not itching to jump his bones.

“It's uh, when you break it down through a whole process. It releases all the chemicals that help manure fertilize, and it works even better.”

We head back to the truck and Ryan still looks a little confused at the idea. “Yeah, I dunno. Andrea prob’ly doessit. She knows bout that planting business n’ whatnot.”

This time, Ryan grabs the last three bags. I'm worried that it's more than he can chew, but it doesn't even phase him.

I hate that he can read my expressions so easily. That he can tell exactly what I'm thinking and why, and that his answer is always the craziest thing ever but he knows that I'll like it, too.

“Ya thought I was a weaklin’, huh?” It's only teasing, but I still shake my head. I've seen his muscles at work. He's anything but weak.

Ryan tosses the fertilizer in the sinkhole and turns around, dusting his hands off. “Really, I jus’ wan’ed ta see ya lift allat.”

“W-Why?” I sound so pathetic, but it's not my fault when Ryan is all close up next to me, eyeing me with those golden browns.

His eyes squint and he tilts his head. “Cause ‘s hot, duh.”

I can't figure out why I'm so charmed by this. Maybe because I haven't been complimented in these ways since my middle school girlfriend. He doesn't have to know so.

“Erright. Ya know yer uncle can't cut fer nothin’, so ya got ’n extra halfa one.”

Ryan takes the ziplock baggie and gives Dan a quick hug. “Thanks much. I'll prob’ly be back ina coupl’a days with s'more.” He stuffs the weed baggie in the front pocket of his jeans with a chuckle.

Ryan waves one last bye to Dan before he drives off, so casual about everything that just happened.

Today really changed my perspective on Ryan.

He's weird. He's light. He's slick. He gets high.

He's got a personality that couldn't be found in a dictionary, nor a thesaurus, because it's all so much, and no word could depict that.

Ryan mentions something about getting gas. I'm not exactly paying attention, but I don't really question it either when we get on the highway. I'm a little occupied with the empty space on my leg. The one that I totally don't miss one bit. The one that didn't drive me crazy at all.

Ryan is thankfully trying his best to get in and out of the gas station, and we're managing to avoid a poorly disguised KKK group, an evangelical priest, and a guy who definitely has a gun.

For such a work dominated area, there sure is a lot of crime and violence.

Ryan hops back in the car and before we drive off, he puts his phone to charge. I notice his unease, but I'm also a little spaced, so I just take it as him being uncomfortable with the creed of the population we're surrounded by right now.

When Ryan sits up straight again, he jumps and curses, accidentally beeping his horn.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Ryan groans, and the suddenness makes me jump as well.

It's like they appeared from thin air. Three men surrounded the truck, one on Ryan's side, one on mine, and one in the front.

I want to question, but it looks like Ryan is fed up already. “God forgive me if I drive right now.” He mumbles quickly before rolling his window down. Of my options to fight or flight, I freeze, staring at the dashboard as some creepy cultivist tries to steal my soul from just a window away. What a cock block.

“What, Caleb?”

The man on Ryan's side smiles slowly, and his broken mannerisms are more eerie than the fact that I don't believe that these guys are real human beings with thoughts and ambitions.

“Hi, Ryan.” Caleb leans closer. “Ya gotta dollar?”

Ryan doesn't even look at him. Just stares angrily in front of himself, knuckles white on the wheel. I can practically see his moral compass spinning in circles, debating on whether he should drive and just face the murder charge later.

“No, Caleb.”

I feel an extra set of eyes on me. Is he staring? I'm scared. Maybe Ryan should drive.

“Who's yer friend?” Caleb chuckles, tilting his head. I hope Ryan steps on the gas soon. I hope he steps on it, and drives straight to the police station to file a restraining order.

Ryan scowls. “No one of yer concern.”

Caleb opens his mouth, but Ryan cuts him off.

“I'm leaving.” He reverses and speeds the hell out of that place.

Thank God.

I try to question, but it doesn't seem like I'm getting an answer any time soon.

“Who the fuck was that? Did you know that guy?”

Ryan puts his hand up and shakes his head.

Unlike some people, I take a hint and choose silence for the rest of our tension-filled ride home, subconsciously checking the side mirror a few times to make sure those creeps didn't get offended and start following behind us.

When we get back to the house, Ryan storms inside and upstairs.

I'm looked at like I smacked him senseless, which I wish was the case, but unfortunately my only defense is to just shrug.

Andrea motions to the dining room to talk. I'm relieved. I'm still shaken up from the prior events, and I really do need someone to talk to about the fact that I never want to leave again.

“What's goin' on? You two were peas ‘fore ya left,” She sits beside me at the table and I sigh.

“I-I don't even know. We stopped at a gas station before we went home and–” the recollection makes my skin crawl. When Ryan told me that there were groups so close by, I didn't think they were so close that I'd see them.

“These Klan members got around the truck right before we were about to leave, and this guy, Caleb, he–”

Andrea frowns. “Caleb?” She doesn't seem fond of the man either, and I don't blame her. What a weirdo.

“Yeah, I-I think Ryan knew him.”

Andrea takes my hand in her gentle ones, squeezing firmly but carefully. “It's real import’nt that you tell me ‘xactly what Caleb did and said, erright?”

I nod, my unease now back almost tenfold.

“He-He just asked if Ryan had a dollar, and then he asked who I was. Ryan drove off after that.”

“Did ya say anythin’?” I quickly shake my head. “I barely even looked at them.”

“Who's them? How many were there?”

“Only three, but Caleb was the only one that said anything. —Who are they? Why did they do that?”

Andrea squeezes my hand again, probably feeling my tremble. She glances towards the stairs, then back at me. “Caleb was Ryan's little fling from ‘bout two years ago.” She sighs at the thought. “He appeared outta nowhere, but he was yer boy next door, ya know? Nobody thought much’a ‘em.” Ryan dating the guy makes this situation ten times worse. No wonder he was more annoyed than fearful.

“Without alla extra details, Ryan woke up one day n’ Caleb was–he was pr’formin’ all sortsa crazy rituals on Ryan. He was tryna convert him.”

“To be straight?”

*To cultivism. Weirdly enough, they don't mind queer lifestyles. So long as it's a white guy.” She scoffs.

Reason number ten-thousand why they need to be put in jail.

Andrea scoffs. “I tried gettin’ Ryan ta file somethin’. Press charges, get a restraint. Move ta the city fer a while, even. But ya know how stubborn that boy can be.” Don't I. So adamant.

“He was scared, r’lly. He ain't wanna end up dead in no forest. That Klan don't target just black folk–God bless the ones they have–Ryan ‘idn't wanna risk nothin'.”

“I asked Ryan who he was…I hope I didn't set him off.”

Andrea shakes her head, gives me a small smile. “No sugar, you don't worry ‘bout that. Ryan is…he's a diff’r’nt boy. Sounds like he's upset his day got turned ‘round a bit. Wasn't nothin' ya said.” I hope so. The last thing I'd want is for Ryan to get annoyed with me after already facing a huge problem.

“Is he going to be okay?”

She nods. “I'm sure. I'll talk ta him. Meantime, you go freshen up and dress yerself nice, yeah? We’s is goin’ out."

“RyRy?” Andrea knocks on Ryan's cracked open door.

Ryan sighs. He knew in the back of his head that she'd come check on him, but he did wish it would've happened a little later. He's kind of busy relaxing his nerves.

“Doors open, Auntie.”

Andrea shuffles inside, pursing her lips at the sight of what he's doing. She says nothing. Ryan won't stop because she disapproves, and she won't ask him to because it's his life.

“I heard fr’m Dallon what happ’nd. You okay?”

Ryan takes another hit from his joint before nodding. Only out of respect for her does he blow it out the window and not back into his room air.

“I'm just sick of that prick. He thinks he can threat’n me, n’ follow me ‘round. Thinks he can fuckin’ scare me.”

Andrea pats his sprawled out legs, and he moves them so she can sit.

“I think it's bout time you go ta the cops ‘bout this. Hes comin’ ta be a probl’m.” She says this despite knowing his response already. She knows he's scared. She knows he won't. But she also knows that he has no idea of what they're capable of, and that's far scarier than what he deems as harmless stalking.

Ryan puts the bud of his joint out and leaves it on the windowsill for when they come back.

He stands up and goes to his closet, shuffling around for something to wear. “Ya know I'm not doin’ that.” He mutters, stuck between his femininity and androgyny.

And because she knows him like the back of her hand, Andrea comes up behind him and grabs something completely different from what he holds in his hands, and it somehow completely works.

“Can't ya just think ‘bout it? I'm scared for ya, RyRy. I don't want them to keep doin’ this.”

Ryan stares at the pink, lacey button up and the long, frilly white skirt. It's perfect. It's calm. It's how he feels right at the moment. Sometimes he wished that she were his mother instead.

“There ain't nothin' ta think ‘bout. I don't owe them a single word outta my mouth or a glance from my eye. And I ‘specially don't owe them no restrainin’ order if I don't have to interact with all them shenanigans.”

Andrea watches with a helpless frown as Ryan grabs his clothes and towel. “I'm goin’na show’r.” She sees him head out of his room with his things and can't help but satisfy her curiosity.

“Where? Outside?” Ryan glares at her. If she were his mother, then all that sass would make sense. “Dall'n's lettin’ me use his. Mines broke.”

Andrea raises a brow, folding her arms together. “Dallon is in the shower right now.”

Ryan grins. “Even better.” He leaves with a newfound eagerness, opening the door across from his without knocking.

Ryan is so pretty. Especially today. Today, with his unruly golden hair and the sun on his freckled golden skin and his golden honey brown eyes looking at me. He's golden.

What happened earlier—prior to the douchebag he calls an ex-boyfriend—made me starved for his affection. No matter that I'm touch starved to begin with. The only other intimate relationship I've had was…with a douchebag. One that unfortunately knew all the wrong ways to get me going.

So Ryan did a number on me today. I still feel that warmth. Secretly, I wanted his hand to go higher.

I don't mean any disrespect to Ken when I jerk off in his house. This is the first time it’s happened. It will (probably) be the last. I just really can't help myself. I'm sort of worried that I might even get blocked up if I don't. I'm just so fucking hard for him.

But of course, Ryan and his spontaneity happens.

“Oh–s-sorry!” I don't know what to say. Ryan bursting through the door while I'm showering was not on my bingo card this week.

I don't think he really cares much for my shitty apology. I think he's more focused on the fact that I'm taller than the shower curtain, and how I probably look ridiculous. —And if he is focused on my apology, I'm assuming it's because I sound like an idiot for it.

“Wanna shower t’gether?”

Am I even awake?

What should I even say? Shower together? Is he just joking?

I think he notices the confusion on my face and takes it for something else, but really, I can't figure out how to answer past the obvious yes or no. I haven't even been able to take my hand off of my dick because I'm still majorly in shock.

“A simple no woulda sufficed.”

Before he can take his leave, the extra down bad part of me jolts forward and grabs ahold of the controls in my brain.

“W-Wait-!” My cheeks are bright red, I'm sure he can tell, and it just looks to amuse him more.

“I-I-um…” I don't want to seem so desperate. But there isn't anything else I can do to stop that. And I also really want to take a shower with Ryan.

“Uh, y-yeah, just-just give me a second, uh–”

Ryan is back to that adorable grin he makes on his face and my penis is not any less hard.

“Great.” He starts stripping and my brain melts. The only thing I can think to do is reach forward and turn the hot water cold until my situation shrinks.

When I look over at Ryan—which I promptly realize as a mistake when he's already naked and I get a view of his full body—he has a look that tells me he definitely knows what I'm doing and I'm caught red handed.

Ryan bites his lip, looking up at me and fuck my life, if that doesn't undo the progress all that cold water just made.

He walks closer to the curtain, leans against the wall. I'm secretly grateful about this, because he's just tall enough to get his eyes above the rod which covers my dignity for a few more seconds. “C’mon. Ya saw me. Lemme see what ya hidin’ ‘hind there.” Ryan tries to pull the curtain back but I'm still just not ready, so I push it back against the wall.

Ryan raises a suspecting brow, glancing down although he can't see.

“Fightin’ a little probl’m?”

I should give up on hiding it. Ryan sees my face. Hears me breathing. He can tell.

So I nod, and Ryan gently brings my hand back, pushing the curtain with it. With a heavy swallow, I watch him, gauging his reaction to such an embarrassing thing.

But Ryan just smiles, curses. “Shit, Dal. You been carryin’ that monster all yer life?” My shoulders slump, and my eyes blow wide. Did he just say what I think he said?

“...M-Monster?” I barely get the chance to blink before Ryan is stepping in the tub beside me.

Ryan won't take his eyes off of me. “Hm. Ain't know you was jacked like this either…” He feels at my arms with a titled head and that innocent look that I don't know how he still has after making me feel like this all day.

Goosebumps arise on his arms when the water begins to chill him up. “Jeez. Did I r’lly getcha goin’ so bad that ya had to use ice wat’r?” He looks like a startled cat, hairs sticking up and all.

I might look like a dumpster fire myself when Ryan turns around and switches the water back to its warm temperature. He has the cutest ass ever. Freckles.

Ryan turns back around and catches me looking. I think he liked it.

His hair falls flat under the water, but when he takes it out, his waves come back. Those brown locks own the loosest curls ever, and if Ryan was born a girl, I think his name would be Lucy. Or Crazy, but I suppose that's gender neutral.

“Want some help?” Ryan asks me with his hands folded in front of him, and a part of me believes he's asking if I need help cleaning myself which would earn him a very confused look since I'm still capable of moving even though he's paralyzed my brain with his doe eyes. But no, he's asking if he can touch me. And I think that makes me further incapable of any movement because I just can't fathom that he'd want to do that with me.

Even though Ryan's right in front of me, naked, eager, willing, I don't want to believe that it's real. I wonder if he can tell. Does my open-mouthed, stupefied face give it away?

“Help…?” I glance down, just to ensure that he really really means it.

Next thing I know, Ryan's God-send strength pushes me back until I collide with the wall. He has this hungry smile that I don't think I could ever get over in a million years, breathing so close to my neck and my ear and–

He nods quickly. “Mhmm. I could give ya a real good rub out. I know you’s been waitin’ onnit all day. Thinking ‘bout me crazy, yeah?” His hands go down from my arms to my stomach, and from my stomach to my pelvis, and from my pelvis to my hips.

With no disrespect to the hunk of meat in front of me, but if Ryan was a prostitute, he'd leave his clients begging for more every day. Always fucking teasing.

“‘S alright, Dal. Ya just gotta relax, n’ say the word, n’ I'll get ya huffin in no time.”

I almost fall to the floor when I feel Ryan lick right up my neck. From my collar to my jaw. And then he starts sucking and I have no idea how he's holding me up just by my hips because my knees literally buckled in.

But he's doing it, and of all the mighty things he's taking charge of, what affects me the most is his fucking mouth, sucking and whispering and biting.

I can't take it anymore. “Please, jerk me off,” I breathe out, and Ryan smiles against my hot skin.

That damn whisper. “Yeah? I can do that.” My stomach starts burning up too when his hand wraps tight around my dick. Yes.

“But,” Ryan squeezes me, making my hips kick back a little. “Yer real sensitive ‘ere, mm?” It sounds like he has some evil intentions for after I cum, but I don't think I'd want him to stop anyway.

I nod pathetically. “Uh, um, yeah,” The stupid book of Mormon decided my circumcision to be unnecessary, so now I'm stuck with an unnecessarily oversensitive cock that makes me want to cry if I touch it wrong.

I quickly warn him of my little situation before I get a handjob due for nothing but pain and discomfort. “It-It hurts easy, so be careful please,” Ryan doesn't at all look worried. In fact, he grabs himself like it's obvious, and I realize that we're two birds with the same missing stone. Or, stone left sitting.

“Ya don't gotta worry ‘bout none’a that. I been privy to the pain, too.” This eases my nerves probably way more than he realizes. There's nothing worse than getting touched by someone who doesn't care.

Ryan slowly moves his hand up and down, just the way I need it. Granted it is a little slippery because of the water, the stimulation still feels great and I won't complain at all. He said it earlier. I've been waiting all day for this.

His lips are right back on my neck, sucking that hickey further into my jaw. Ryan laughs when he feels me twitch. Gradually, his hand continues on faster, faster. My chest rises and falls heavier. I feel bad for not looking at him because I know in the back of my head that he's staring me down, but if I open my eyes I might cum.

Ryan pauses just in time to let my building orgasm fall. I want to pout and tell him I hate him and he sucks, but only the latter would be true in ways that aren't figurative.

I made the amazing mistake of looking anyway. “Fuck,” The sight of Ryan spitting right on my cock makes me groan. It's so warm, and I'm sort of glad he didn't suck me off. I probably would've suffered premature ejaculation.

He leans closer, close enough for us to be bare, wet chest to bare, wet chest. He's not just holding me up, or touching me. Ryan is against my body, and that feels even better than his hand stroking me to the patter of the water. It almost reminds me of the rain that's been dribbling around all day. Warm and plentiful and with a beat that I think only Ryan understands.

“Canni edge you?” He asks, something so sweetly requested that I don't really want to deny. I've only done such a thing once or twice myself. It was torturous, absolutely. But at the end, when I finally got that well needed relief, it came tenfold and I'd never felt so relaxed.

So I shake my head in agreement. “Yeah, I–” I think my eyes might've rolled back when Ryan’s grip tightened and his gaze narrowed. “Yeah, or yes?” There's something so captivating about him when he follows me up with this. It's sort of adorable, sort of intimidating. Mostly captivating. He has even more of my full attention doing it so effortlessly.

“...Yes,” I breathe out, letting Ryan shuffle himself in between my legs just the slightest. He's satisfied for now, continues with what he's doing when I answer while looking for the telltale signs.

Unfortunately for Ryan, I experience the telltale signs from the start. Unfortunately for me, Ryan seems to be an expert, and can spot the second I get close again from a mile away.

And like the evil degenerate he is, Ryan slides his nimble fingers up to focus solely on the head despite knowing how overstimulated I'll get before even coming, but it's so good that I'm not even mad.

It's overwhelming, feeling every ridge of his fingerprints rubbing over the slit again and again while he just stands there and giggles. I wonder if he thinks I sound bad, groaning, whining and jerking back when it all gets to be too much.

Maybe he doesn't. Maybe, when I really give out and begin to sink down, moaning his name, I see Ryan's eyes brighten at the sound as he guides us to sit in the tub. I've never been so sensitive before. Not by myself, not with anyone else. But Ryan…I just get so weak around him. Everything is so much and ten times more of it.

He straddles my legs. Goes back to those ruthless up and down twists over my cock, deliberately avoiding the head just as I'm so close again. I think it's the third time he's delayed my orgasm, but the first one, although accidental, still was the most intense.

I realize as Ryan is doing this that maybe the premature ejaculation is just bound to happen with him so hot all over me. Calm biceps and a toned abdomen with the nicest V pointing me right down to the growing chub plopped on my thigh.

I want him to feel as good as I do. I think he sees my newfound interest in his semi, which causes him to really, actually blush. His ears go red first, then spread the burn to the apples of his cheeks. It's crazy cute, and it makes me twitch in his hold again.

“Can I?” I manage to ask as only half of a moan. Ryan nods, hesitant only at first but then completely sure when he looks me in my eyes.

Time runs away from us when my shaky hand scoops him up to get him to his full stiffness. Funnily enough, I don't get close as easily when I'm doing this. It gives me time to focus on Ryan and how absolutely sexy his shaken up sighs and back-of-the-throat whimpers are. He has the nicest eyelashes and the prettiest scrunched up expression.

I like making him feel good. At one point, I edge him too. I was a little caught up in the agonizingly good feeling of my orgasm building back up and being let down so quickly after, my hand stuttered over his cock and it made him do a similar act.

“F-Fuckk you-!” His gasp and hiccup does something to me that probably shouldn't be explained in detail.

It's my turn to laugh. Seeing Ryan so needy after making me feel the exact same need, it's sort of fulfilling in a weird, sadistic way that I, as the opposite of the power bottom in this situation, should be on the opposite end of feeling.

Sentence swish aside, I do end up getting the feeling full circle back to me, and it kicks me right in the ass.

Ryan gets his revenge within moments of my sweet revelment, placing his left hand right on my tip and circling his palm over it ruthlessly until I'm squirming.

“Haah–you’re so mean,” He strings more laughs out of me doing this, the intensity of everything feeling like I'm being tickled but instead it's in an erogenous zone that gets violently overstimulated in mere seconds. Maybe I'm a freak, but Ryan tickling me might turn me on too, even.

I try to fight back with my hand, but there's only so much trembling fingers can do on tough cowboy skin, and Ryan takes the title of a winner with pride when my orgasm falls apart in his warm hold.

I could've gotten hard again when Ryan sweeps my cum up from my stomach and drops it on his own cock, making me use it as his lubricant. When he wraps his hand around mine and makes me make him feel good. I could've but I don't, still in a blissful high when we move my hand up and down his cock, my grip tighter from the feeling of such a good finish. He wants to feel that too and I don't blame him.

Lasting not another two minutes, Ryan moans into the bathroom echo, hands fisted on my chest as I jerk his eager finish all over my spent cock. The image is too smutty to put into words.

It's been way longer than either of us have kept track of. So long that the water is lukewarm again, and we jump into each other when there's someone knocking at the door.

“Dallon, let's getta move on! RyRy too, if ‘es in’ner!” Jacob calls from the other side, and we sort of panic remembering that we should've been ready probably thirty minutes ago.

“Erright!” Ryan calls back so Jacob can leave back downstairs. He gets up off of me and when standing, I think we both cringe at the feeling of dry cum. It's only kind of gross.

“Right.” Ryan clears his throat, reaching out the curtain and grabbing his washcloth from his pile of things on the sink counter.

“Um. Can I use yer soap?”

I think the part I enjoyed most out of today was watching Ryan get ready. Dressing himself exactly how he feels, dusting last minute makeup on his face and scrunching the water out of his hair to fix the swirls on his head. Grabbing accessories left and right while he makes me wait for him in his doorway. Refusing to cover the hickey he gave me just because he likes it.

Ryan is messy but not disorganized, quick witted but not snide. In charge but not controlling. He's the medium that I've been drawn to all my life, like Goldilocks, indecisive, difficult, headstrong and adamant all around.

We make it downstairs just in time for his family to not get fed up with our tardiness.

Carpooling over there ends up with a car full of the Greens, and Ryan's truck with the remaining three of us. I only know it's Ryan's because he argued with Jacob on who was driving, and ended their bickering with the point.

So Ryan drives, Jacob sits shotgun, and I'm awkwardly squeezed in between the both of them through a lifted console. It's pretty accurate to how I fit in with the family here. I'm a little different, and it's a little weird for me to be here, but they squeeze me in happily, and I'm okay with that.

It's mostly Jacob and Ryan chatting the long ways there. I'm tired, spent, and spaced out. Ryan's doe eyes and smooth accent really did a number on me today.

While silently hoping that something wakes me up soon, I find myself staring at Ryan to compensate and just because he's so pretty tonight. He looks straight out of a forest in a fantasy novel. His long skirt reminds me of butterfly wings and the pink blouse that adorns his chest reminds me of a morning glory.

Suddenly, I'm awake.

Like always, Ryan catches me in the act and has that smug look about it. I'm not really focused on that this time. Moreso, I'm questioning if my presence was a real thing just ten minutes ago when we were on our way there, or if I was just so spaced that I didn't realize Ryan was smoking.

His eyes are glazed over, pink, flickering. I've seen enough in my days at Stanford to know that he's definitely under the influence.

He must see my confusion. “What? I got somethin’ on my face?” I shake my head no, but my confusion isn't helped at all.

“When'd you get high?” I ask him in a whisper, only slightly worried that it might've gotten to me too if it was in the truck. Which I hope it was, because it'd be the only plausible explanation other than—

Ryan laughs, confused with me. “LIke two hours ago. Why?” My stomach twists in a knot.

“D-You-I didn't know-! I'm sorry, Ryan, I–did I make you feel like you had to–”

He cuts me off with a roll of his eyes and a chuckle. Always so different.

“Dall’n, I barged in on ya, got m’self comfy in yer shower, edged ya till ya shook, n’ used m’ hand ta use yers to get off. Ya weren't in enough control to take ‘van’age of me in the first damn place.”

He sits down at the long table we're led to. I take my spot beside him. I'm on his right side again.

The claim still makes me embarrassed. I didn't think I was all that submissive. Not that much, at least.

Ryan leans back in the booth seat. I'm glad he chose this side instead of the chairs. “And anyways, imma grown man. I know what I want, n’ bein’ high don't mean I can't get it no more.”

He really leaves me no room for argument, shutting me down each time I ‘but’ him. I let him win again, but just to be sure, I'll ask him tomorrow when he's sober. One hit, three hits, or no hits. The last thing I'd want to do is make him feel like he has to do something, or like he has to dismiss his feelings. That's just shitty.

Still…I think I had a pretty good control of the situation earlier. It's not like I just completely gave myself to him and let him do whatever he wanted just because it felt really good and I was really overwhelmed. It wasn't like that at all.

No wonder Ryan's been so talkative tonight.

Thankfully, nobody catches sight of the marking on my neck. —Besides the waiter. She gives me a look, then immediately squints her eyes at Ryan. I think they know each other. I hope so, or else she just has some crazy mind reading skills.

Although dinner is awkward, in the beige lighting of the French restaurant, Ryan glows, and he makes the painstakingly stuffy atmosphere way worth the while.

It dawns on me that today is Saturday, and tomorrow, I leave. I won't come back until next Wednesday. I wonder if Ryan has ever been to the city—I ask.

He shrugs. “Not…techn’clly. I wanna go just ta go. Not fer a quick ATM job or fer the not’ry.”

An idea flashes in my head, and as much as I want to shake it off as me being completely crazy, I can't lie to myself and say that it isn't a good idea.

I've been avoiding asking Ryan one thing, actually. With as much as I talk, I don't think he noticed me holding back. But I am.

Today sort of sealed the deal on whether or not I should. I didn't want to escalate things if Ryan was just being a tease, or getting me worked up and embarrassed for his own amusement.

“What…what do you think you'd do if you went?”

He eyes me up and down, suspicious. If She was here, maybe I'd have a bit more clarity on how he felt, and if I should continue making my move or not.

“I dunno. Window shop, prolly. Go look at all them crazy murals on the brick walls. Check out the parks ‘er whatever.”

I almost can't fully wrap my head around the fact that Ryan isn't a city boy. He's all walk, talk, bark, and bite. He was built for the bustling at midnight. I can practically see him, sitting on the fire escape of his LA loft, joint in one hand, book in the other, an eccentric 2000’s band whistling through a cozy apartment and out the window into the streets of half-naked drama queens and roughed up blonde stunt doubles just trying to make a living off the newest low budget action movie.

But no. That isn't Ryan. Ryan is someone who basks–no, thrives in the evening sunlight, scoffs to himself with heavy stock on his shoulders while his thoughts run wild in the silence of chirping birds and lively plants and animals. He keeps those joints hidden in his windowsill and only likes the legends that make up late 1900’s pop and funk. And, while he has such a buzzy nature to his person, Ryan isn't neurotic, he's temperamental.

And maybe I'm psychoanalyzing him to avoid asking what I really want to.

Ryan is like the dead wife in movies. As much as it isn't true, I want to believe that my most recent memory of him other than his dimly lit button nose was his bright face tussling under white bed sheets that for some reason have wind flowing through them. A gracious laugh here and there followed by a comfortable silence where we ogle each other and I remember how pretty he looked sleeping. A time where we'd make corny inside jokes and talk about nothing while we stay in for the morning.

As wrong as it is, I see Ryan as her. I remember her as him, his face covering happily squinted green eyes, sharp cheeks, and long honey blonde highlights.

Why do I see him in place of her? To fill a void?

I wish I could ask her myself. If she wasn't busy blessing God with her presence in heaven, maybe I would. If I truly believed in it, maybe.

Ryan quickly turns impatient. I didn't realize how long I'd left the conversation hanging to just…look.

It feels like I hadn't blinked in forever.

“Sorry” I apologize even if I'm not really remorseful. I stop myself from asking just a little longer so I can think of what to say.

I don't want to give a specific day, just in case he's busy. He's naturally a busy person. I shouldn't stress him out.

“So help me God, Dall'n. Spit it out.”

The anticipation kills him as much as it does me.

So, with no confidence whatsoever, and probably no chance, I ask Ryan out.

“Um, so, one of these days—w-when you aren't busy working of course—uh, did you wanna maybe go out on a-a date with me? Like, out in the city, to a plaza, maybe?”

Ryan's eyes are so intense that it feels like he's glaring. I know I definitely sounded lame—he's probably laughing about it in his head—but I hope I wasn't so lame that he'd hate it and me.

“So yer sayin’ ya wanna spoil me n’ give me e’rrythin’ I want?”

I'm not sure if he's joking. That grin can deceive, believe it or not. For good or for worse, I don't think I'll ever be able to understand those pearly whites or that pale pink pulled back so smugly.

So I'll play along, because my answer would be the same regardless.

“I guess I am, yeah.”

Ryan takes a sip of his cherry coke float, still smiling. He has dimples. Light ones. They're hidden in the creases of his cheeks when his lips pull back, dented right underneath the end of his nose’s freckle cluster.

He has an overbite. It's one of the first things I saw on him. Though it's not overbearing at all, it is a visible ridge over his bottom teeth, and I think it's the most adorable thing ever. Then again, I think that about every part of him.

“Erright.” He agrees, almost challenging it. “Fine. You best take me sm’places nice.”

He's only half joking, but I'm a little focused on celebrating my win because finally, I'm able to understand one of the complex emotions he carries, and he just said yes to a date. The lotto.

Ryan orders a fancy steak dinner and offers to split the bill with Ken but only on the terms that his uncle would pay the tabs of his $4 coke floats.

I have a lot of questions for Ryan. I hope I don't annoy him when we go on the date. I'm just curious. Does he work another job? Does he go to school? What's his relationship with our waitress? How come he's pierced his ears seven times over? I saw the scars.

I wonder what he does for fun. What's his favorite movie? Where does he get his clothes? What's his biggest dream and his worst nightmare?

I think it's the fifth or so time that I've caught myself questioning who Ryan is as a person. It's not my fault. He's the one that sits around looking so pretty. Naturally, you'd be curious if a hot twunk wormed his way into your brain with just a few glances and a twitch of his lips. It's totally not like I'm super obsessed or anything 

Ryan takes the glass of Dr Pepper from my hands and takes a sip.

His face changes and he gives me a look. “Barbeque water? Electrostatic currents? Jesus coffee? What?” I've heard it all. I expect him to be thinking some clever word play to call my favorite drink some variation of garbage juice. 

But Ryan grimaces at my words and not at the taste.

“Taste like cherry pop. S’ it.”

Oh.

Yeah. I'm obsessed.

He places my glass on the table and giggles to himself. I don't know if it's the cannabis in his system or if I'm funny, and I don't know which one I want it to be more either.

“When?”

I really refuse to believe that of all things, Ryan would be talking to me. “Huh?” Ryan crosses his arms.

“When’re ya gone take me?”

Maybe I should stop assuming what Ryan is going to say before he says it. In my head, I imagined him asking me when I'd shut the fuck up and stop staring. Obviously, I was wrong, and his actual question makes me a little more excited than I'm willing to admit.

“Oh. Umm…” I scan my head for a day when I'm free. Really, it's every day. I don't have much on my plate besides talking shit with my roommate and feeding my cats. My schoolwork is due whenever I say it is, and my job…well.

“When are you free?”

Ryan racks through his own schedule for a moment, gaze trailing around the room in thought before it narrows back on me. He's a roaming thinker. Cute.

“Sat’rday.”

I bite back a frown. “Oh…I-I have work that day.” But he isn't at all upset. “Yeah, whatev’r. Ken’ll let ya take me.” He says simply, dismissing my concern with a wave of his hand.

I want to believe him, but I haven't been around Ken enough to know if he hates me or if he really is just joking with me. I can never tell and maybe it's the unspecified autism that even my therapist is baffled by, but I let myself think that it's because he's good at sarcasm.

“Oh, are you sure? I don't just want to like, demand anything, or–”

I trip over my words when Ryan rolls his eyes and turns to the other end of the table. “Ken.” He calls for his uncle, who peaks up from the middle of a crazy handshake with his grandson.

Like he was telling the time, Ryan tells Ken about our newly solidified date, not even asking.

“Dall’n's takin’ me onna date come Sat’rday.”

Ken looks at Ryan like he's crazy, brow sinking down into a bored eye. “Good fer you?” he shakes his head and shrugs.

Huh. That's probably the 5th time Ryan’s saved my ass from humiliation. I should start trusting him.

I try not to be embarrassed, putting up my best front of confidence and smiling.

“Thanks. Saturday it is.”

His hand goes back on my thigh, and I let a long breath pass my lips.

Getting back to the house and going to bed was otherworldly. I was exhausted from a long day of work, elated because of my date, and relaxed beyond words because of some certain events that happened prior to dinner.

Andrea stops in my room while I'm fixing up after brushing my teeth. She smiles at me and takes a seat on my bed closer to my pillows.

I put my toothbrush back in my suitcase, the germaphobe side of me convincing my anxiety that I'll get poisoned from some type of bathroom virus if I leave it in there, even though I have a casing protecting the entire thing. I sit beside her once my ridiculous worries are relieved.

“I know t’day was much fer ya, Dallon. How's ya holdin’ up?”

I wonder if Andrea is just a saint sent from heaven disguised as a mother. Or maybe that's really just what she is; a mother. I think it's sweet that she keeps that title as an honorary.

“I’m okay,” I tell her honestly, taking a deep breath. “Tired, but okay.” I tear my eyes from my lap, catching her softer brown eyes glancing all around the room. “How are you?” I ask, not just out of respect but really out of curiosity. She seemed…out of it, almost.

Andrea smiles, tucking browns and greys to the other side of her head. “I'm hangin’ in there. M’ nephew been quite the handful t’night.” She laughs, nudging me with her shoulder. “But I s’pose ya like that ‘bout him, hmm?” I didn't expect her to be one for innuendos, but it is hilarious that she is, so I'm all for it.

We fall into a comfortable silence after we get our giggles out. I think that of all people in the world, I've felt most comfortable in silence when with her.

Still, I'm not sure how to feel when she spots my favorite picture and picks it up. A part of me is nervous. Another part sad. Mostly nostalgic. It's just that…

Now that I think about it, Andrea reminds me so much of her that I can almost feel the wind get knocked out of my lungs upon realizing so. I don't realize that I'm smiling about it until Andrea catches me.

“Sister?” She guesses, and I shrug. “Something like that.” It's kind of healing to say so. I was always her brother, or something like that. She was always my sister, or something like that.

She was my ride or die, or something like that, since she took the ladder nonetheless. Sorry, Bree. The opportunity was right there.

“She's a gorgeous thing.” Andrea gawks, her lips tugging up into her own smile. She really is. My best friend Breezy was a gorgeous woman and even more gorgeous of a person.

I let Andrea admire her because I'd do the same. Her next question, albeit making my heart drop, gives me the kind of relieved closure that I really needed tonight.

She looks up at me. “She's back home with ya?” It's a funny question for Andrea. Someone who's always so careful about those things. Someone who cares for those who grieve the deceased just as much as she cares for the deceased themselves.

“Something like that.” I say again, not upset that she didn't know, or that she doesn't understand my weird cryptics.

“You didn't tells me nothin' ‘bout no best friend of yers. Is she yer roommate?”

I want to laugh just at the irony. My roommate? “Something like that.” Andrea squints her eyes. “What's with ya?” She skims over the picture once more to see if she was missing something. Usually, the grieving put the dates of their loved ones on photos that they keep.

I don't want to ever do that to Breezy. I think that although she's dead, she's still with me, and to me, that doesn't count as the year she left earth.

So Andrea is left stumped, stuck trying to understand why my entire relationship with her is determined by a something like that.

“She passed.” I finally tell Andrea, who looks like she's been shot with a silver arrow. Something in her eyes dims, and her face falls. “Oh, oh, no…?” She doesn't want to believe it, hand covering her mouth in shock.

“I'm sorry, Dallon! Wish ya woulda said so soon’r. I hope I wasn't nothin' overbearin’ on ya.” She goes full parental and engulfs me in a warm hug, something I didn't know was so addicting until I got it from her. Andrea, aside from the one other woman I'd say this about, she's the embodiment of home. She smells like baby pictures lining the wall and 5th grade summer vacation stuck indoors. Her voice sounds of a broken grandfather clock and the news at 6. She feels like a bandaid when you most need it and no nonsense anger when it's due.

She's just like her, and knowing that gives me a weird bout of joy. It's reassuring knowing that no matter what, the world will always carry a piece of her, even though it's some more than others.

I shake my head. “It's no problem. I like talking about her.” I don't believe in God, but I do like to believe that he'd have her some place nice where she can watch over me.

Andrea sighs, finely aged wrinkles stressing themselves in worry.  Even with words in her mouth, she remains quiet, thoughtful.

A long moment passes where we sit in each other's embrace and just breathe. It's relaxing. Andrea pulls away reluctantly, and with a completely certain smile that wavers through tears she's been fighting off since she found out, she finally speaks her mind.

“I bet ya any money that she's braggin’ all her coins n’ throw ‘bout ya up in heav’n. Yer gonna have the time of yer afterlife when y'all meet.”

Andrea is right. I'll live for her so she can relax for me, and when we meet again, we're going to have millions of things to catch up on. A big dream of mine.

Blow the wind if you love me.

Goosebumps rise on my forearms and Andrea shudders. “That rain is gettin' up ta no good again, hmm? Er ya must love that air flow, boy.”

“A cool breeze always feels great.”