Chapter Text
"Gary!"
A teenage Barkovitch made his way to the dining room, and his grandmother and her friends sat at the table, engrossed in conversation. Meemaw looked up from her place at the table, with a smile that Gary knew meant a chore was going to be thrown on him.
"Go get your aunties and me some water, yeah? and pass the cookie tin from the top shelf," she said, shooing Gary into the kitchen. He nodded quietly as he walked, a bit annoyed that he had to cut off his alone time.
"You hear about Jacob's boy?" he overheard one of the women say. "Oh yes, everyone was asking him about it in church today!"
"What did he say?"
"Wouldn't say shit, man's probably sick with shame,"
"I mean, who wouldn't be? No father wants to hear their son was caught with a boy," Gary stilled, glasses set on the countertop.
" Caught?"
"Caught! Right near that riverside, them youngins always run off to."
"The one the high school had a whole kerfuffle over, right?"
"Thats the one, alright. Someone saw him and some kid from the town over and ran his ass back to his father." Gary silently cursed as his trembling hands caused him to spill as he filled one of the glasses.
"Damn straight! I know he was pissed after what happened with little Betty last year,"
"Oh, he was fuming, Martha, we all know how hot-headed he is"
"Secretive too, won't say what happened to him. The boy that is." Jesus Christ.
"Think he ran off like his sister?"
"Nah, I think his daddy prolly dealt with him, he's real strict like that."
"Or, he got sent off somewhere, same place they sent that one from a few years ago." He really didn't want to listen to this shit right now. Gary came back in, resting the now full water glasses on the table.
"Speak of the devil, when are you dealing with that hair, son?" He stiffened.
He looked up at her, trying to look as unbothered as possible. His grandmother talked for him. "His hair is just fine, Martha!"
"Come on, Nance, his hair is gonna be past his shoulders soon, it makes him look like a sissy!" Oh.
"Now you leave him alone. He ain't no sissy, right son?" Gary nodded, looking at his feet.
"You go take this back to the kitchen and run back to your room, mkay?"
"Yes Meemaw," responded Barkovitch, grabbing the empty tray before scurrying away. He prayed as he left, and the conversation would move on from him.
"You can be upset with me all you want, but you know I'm right." It didn't.
"Size of him doesn't help either," he heard everyone at the table hum in agreement.
"I really don't know why you let him get away with nonsense like this. It's no damn wonder all them boys pick on him, you can hardly blame 'em for thinking he's—,"
Gary heard the women jump as he slammed down the mental tray, clanging angrily as he rushed past them, up to his room. They didn't know what they were talking about. He wasnt—he'd never. They were all wrong. Those cocksuckers at school, those kids from church, all of Meemaw's stupid fucking friends who always gave him weird glances. He wasn't no fucking queer.
—
Fuckkkk.
Gary was trudging down the dimly lit streets, chest stuttering and eyes blinking away tears. This shit sucks. His arms trembled as he clutched his biceps, trying to hold onto the minimal body heat he had. He really should've weighed his options better and just picked up the stupid jacket and taken whatever embarrassment that came with it. At least that would made some of this shit situation better. He was cold, tired, disgustingly sobered and still fucking hard.
He tried to zone out for most of the walk home, trying to focus on his boots dragging on the pavement—he kissed Collie—the cars passing through—his dick hurts in his jeans—the breeze stinging his skin—anyone could've seen him. He tries to blame the alcohol, but the sense at the back of his brain scratched at the thought. This was more than just tonight.
When he makes it back to his residence building, he throws himself up the stairs till he's fishing for his keys, thanking God (should he be talking to Him right now?) he hadn't put them in his jacket. When he finally gets in, he cringes at the mess of clothes left on his bed. He remembers earlier that night, a nervous Barkovitch trying to pick what to wear, how to wear his hair, what Collie was going to wear…this night was fucked from the start. He grabbed an older shirt from the pile and a new pair of boxers and locked himself in the bathroom. He rushed past the mirror, not wanting to see how fucked he looked. He peeled everything off and stood in the shower, turning the tap. He kept turning until the water was scalding hot, fogging up the room and warming his face.
Barkovitch was gritting his teeth, he could feel his mind betraying him. No matter how bad the water burned his back, how hard he scrubbed at himself, he couldn't get those thoughts out his mind—Fuck Collie had smelled so good and all that bullshit he was whispering when he was against him, the feeling of him pressed against him and how he held his hips—
And just then, the water hit the bruise, and Gary could fucking scream.
He sharply inhaled hot steam as he grimaced at his own thoughts. He wasn't letting himself do this, not again. There are only so many bathroom jack-offs he can take. Like. Mentally. He shuts the shower off, hastily gets his clothes on and throws himself onto his mattress, shoving the clothes by his feet. He groaned into his pillow, smushing his face into the fabric. Why did he have to choose this week to use those stupid scratchy pillowcases Meemaw gave him? He thought for a second that he wanted to go home, but immediately rejected the idea once it entered his thoughts. He couldn't bear being there now, but didn't particularly want to be here either. He didn't know where he wanted to be.
—
He's in a field, behind the cracked rock, near the riverside. His face feels warm, and he can hear the soft woosh of water hitting river rock from behind him. His cheek feels warm, heat radiating off of whatever--whoever he was lying on, their hair, beautiful hair, was tickling his face. The mystery boy keeps his head straight, Gary only seeing his jaw and his hair blowing in the faint breeze. The boy raises a hand to his face, pulling away strays, petting at his jaw, running them over his lips. He shuddered as he felt the man run through his hair, scratching him from the crown to his nape. He could hear himself making a faint sound, leaning into the man's touches, letting himself be—whatever this was.
Before he knew it, he was being lifted by the neck and pulled into a kiss. The feeling was making him loopy, the feeling of his tongue in his mouth, the strong hand on his waist and one rubbing soothing touches into his nape.
He doesn't remember how he got on his back, but all he could focus on was how warm he was, hands were gripping on his hips, and it burned so good, fuck everything felt so hot. He could faintly hear himself, and he sounded inhuman, unrecognisable to his own ears, and he felt so floaty and hot and perfect and when he fluttered his eyes open (when had he closed them—?), he saw that hair and that jaw and those arms and those eyes and fuck he couldn't bear it anymore. He was so overwhelmed, eyes squeezed shut again as he got lost in the goodness of everything, and then suddenly something rocked him and his head lunged back, pushing into the grass and forcing his eyes open with the shock of it. Fuck it was so good, so fucking good—
"Colli—" the cry dies on his lips as his mouth runs dry, eyes locking in on something in the far distance. Suddenly, all that goodness twisted into something horrible, and his stomach lurched, and he could feel bile rising as the figure grew closer, raising its hand to point to him. He tried to force himself up, away from the—the—
He couldn't move, and he couldn't close his eyes anymore, and all there was the pointing man, unhinging his jaw to call something—
"Barkovitch?"
—
Gary lunged up out of his sleep. His eyes were burning, and he was hyperaware of how much his clammy hands were trembling. What the fuck. What the fuck?
The dream was swirling around his brain, uncomfortably pressing itself into all the crevices of his skull. He clutches at his hair, trying to rip the thoughts out of his stupid fucking head. What was wrong with him? His stomach turned, and he felt the unignorable urge to vomit. He shoved himself off the bed, rushing towards the bathroom until he was left dry heaving on the floor, clutching onto the bathtub next to the toilet. He sat like that for a bit, pain stabbing his chest with each heave, but despite each great effort, nothing ever came up.
Shakily, he got up from his place on the ground, leg buzzing after being stuck awkwardly for too long. He braced against the bathroom sink, staring at himself in the dirty mirror. He looked pale. Sickly. No shit he did. His body was just reflecting the disgusting shit inside him, trying its best to expel the poison he let seep into him. But no, that didn't work. The depravity within him couldn't be rid of that way and was still stuck, clutching at his insides. He had fed into it—this was his fault, his fucking fault for allowing himself to let it bubble up to the surface and barely its ugly head, in front of people, no less. He cringed at the memory, and his chest squeezed tight with guilt at the heat that coiled in his tummy. This shit was over. Whatever this was, it was ending now before he fucks up again, jesus he came so close to—his eyes drifted to the bruise, and that heat kept rising. No. He's not fucking doing this.
Harshly splashing cold water on his face, he turns to head back to bed. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, deeply inhaling before striking himself across the face. He didn't care if it took avoiding the fucker or putting him off him or something, he wasn't letting this happen again. He crawled back into bed, wincing as Harkness tossed in his sleep, and forced his eyes closed.