Chapter Text
If you asked anyone from Custer's Grove, the town could easily be mistaken for a wrong turn into Death Valley any time of year, but Summer was when the sun overtly dug its heels in and shined its rays the most obtrusively.
When all the children were smothered in sun block and thrown into front yards with preying Mosquitoes and ostentatious Cardinals.
When parents leaned back in lawn chairs and barbecued for the street, browbeating their children to, for the love them, be still and make nice with the neighbors' kids.
But while summer warned of vicious heat, loud birdsong and bites, and unwanted social endeavors– it announced the resolution of the school year forby.
The long warm nights on the back lawn, staring at the stars because the phrase 'school night' ceased to exist within the frame of those two months. The popsicles melting too fast, leaving a pool of artificially flavored syrup at the bottom of the plastic tube. The summer games because the town was just small enough to appreciate football even after the school year had receded.
And of course, Walker could get his dad off his back. Well, no, not completely– his dad had been on his back so long, he was surprised he hadn't adapted spine issues.
There was just less for his dad to hound him about when school was finally out. No grades to hang over his head as an excuse to holler and shout at Walker at every hour of the day. And, the end of school, too, announced the freedom from his dad's ever watching eye.
He was kicked to the boiling curb like the rest of the hapless children.
He didn't have as many grievances as he pretended to, he was right glad to be liberated from that suffocating house into the muggy weather of Custer's Grove. Right glad.
Now, Walker wouldn't go about and lie that he enjoyed the heat, especially with his hair having grown down to the nape of his neck. He was sure he'd hear an earful about it from his father later, but at that moment his mind was centered on his circuambient friends.
"Com'on, Walker! Just go'n over and talk to 'im. I can't promise he won't bite though!" Liam shoved Walker shoulder to shoulder with a wide, gap-toothed grin.
"Aw, Come on, guys. If Walker doesn' want to, he don't gotta," Lemar added with a gracious smile.
"Don't tell me you're too puthy, Walker," Ben goaded, leaning forward with his arms crossed on his chest.
The teasing and laughing abated so quickly, Walker might've been worried Val had shown up for her 'Monthly inspections' again if not for the ire that lit up his skin.
His brow twitched and his knuckles itched. Ben wouldn't miss his last front tooth, would he? Not like it helped him much anyways.
Walker was not a pussy, and Ben was a brave man to make such a remark. Brave was being generous, he was foolhardy and in over his head. Good thing Walker was more than happy to wipe that addlebrained expression off of his face.
Walker grit his teeth, taking a step closer towards Ben with his fists balled up at his sides and such exorbitant amounts of adrenaline rushing to his limbs that it was nearing uncomfortable. His head was fuggy, overcast with a voracious irritation that glossed over any rational thoughts he could have drawn up.
His legs moved provoked by only the annoyingly scared look veiling the face in front of him and the sudden restlessness that seized his entire anatomy.
"Now, I d'n'know what sorta ghoul got into that head'a yours, but I do know I'm about to beat it right out--"
"Walker."
Lemar's voice halted Walker in his steps.
There seemed to be some invisible restraint placed in Walker's limbs that made it near impossible for him not to respond to Lemar's voice. It'd been there since as long as he knew Lemar, and no matter how badly he wanted to do something, one 'no' from Lemar and he'd stop despite any rebuff.
Walker turned on his heel, "but, Lemar. He just--"
"What would your daddy do if he heard you'ere goin' around fighting again?"
Walker chewed the inside of his lip, clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides.
Walker could feel the phantom sting across his cheek, the bruising ache on his stomach, and the spit flying in his face from his fathers unforgiving mouth. Lemar was often right, that time being no exception.
Walker grumbled under his breath, his eyes sticking to the sidewalk as he considered his options. He huffed before turning back to Ben and shoving a finger in his face, "I don' wanna hear another sqawk outta you or I wont hesitate to bust your face in, y'hear?" Walker spat.
Ben backed away like a scared dog, his hands raised up in surrender. He swallowed with a jerky nod of the head, "yeah, thorry, Walker. 'Wath jutht jokin'."
Walker glared at him one last time, upper lip twitching up in a mock snarl and his eye brows furrowing deeper. He spat at Ben's shoes for good measure, before twisting on his heel and wandering into the street. His eyes locked onto the poor chump on the opposite sidewalk.
Walker and the rest of his friends had been observing the new kid since the first whisper of Summer in the air a few weeks ago when he'd first appeared in his much too big blue sweater with his brunette hair that fell just past the nape of his neck. They had mostly been scoping him out to make sure it was a him– guying a girl was too crude and they couldn't tell until about a day ago that he was a boy.
He would walk along that sidewalk everyday at the same hour. He'd come dressed in the same sweater, head down, fiddling with his fingers as he shuffled awkwardly down the side walk. No one ever saw him go or come from home, and it was then that Walker and his friends had decided that he was ghost.
Walker puffed out his chest, taking long strides towards the figure ahead and hiding the fear that loomed in his mind at the hindmost part of his head.
He stepped into the other boy's path, crossing his arms and clearing his throat.
"Hey, there."
The boy stopped but didn't lift his head.
"Hey, I'm talkin' to you," Walker pushed with a growing irritation.
The boy mumbled something intelligible.
"Gonna havta speak up if you want me to hear!" Walker hoped the tremble in his voice wasn't appearant. He was honestly terrified, he could admit that much to himself. But with every one of his friends' eyes searing through that interaction, he didn't let it show. The kid was a creep and Walker couldn't wait to retreat back to his side of the street.
The boy in the sweater finally looked up.
Walker braced for a mauled face, scratches and bites with blood splattered carelessly about. Maybe even a complete lack of eyes, or a carved out smile.
He gasped quietly, not because of any of the previously mentioned afflictions but rather the opposite.
The boy had a smooth face with deep eyebags. His mouth was scabbed at the corners and the lids of his eyes seemed to droop ever so slightly with something like exhaustion. What looked to be a very odd, poorly made cigarette hung loosely from his cracked lips. He was unnaturally pale and lacked what body fat you would expect from a teen around Walker's age, his body also had a slight tremble that didn't seem to stop.
The sickly looking boy plucked the cigarette from his mouth, brows furrowed in what looked to be annoyance. The peculiar cigarette dangled between his index and middle fingers as he raised his scratchy voice for John to hear, "what?" He harshly spat.
Walker lagged for a second. There were many emotions that clogged his throat, the top one being confusion. Who was this kid? Why wasn't he an appalling spirit? Where'd he come from?
But one question rang the loudest in Walker's head.
Why was he pretty?
When the words came to him, Walker so intelligently sputtered, "Walker's is name. Neighborhood welcomes." His arm shot out despite himself in what was supposed to be an offer of a handshake, but instead caused the other boy to flinch back and jerk his hands closer to his chest.
"I'm Bob," he timidly whispered; his wide, doe eyes not settling on either of Walker's for more than a second.
Walker gave a nod, dropped his arm to his side, and stepped back. He then rigidly turned towards his house, and stiffly made his way back to the group of anticipating boys.
"So? What happened?" Lemar asked in an excited manner.
John's nerves were still excited, but he couldn't place why. He felt warm in the face and especially in the ears, and the same word sounded in his head when he thought of Bob. Pretty.
That wasn't right. Boys weren't pretty.
Olivia— she was pretty. In old photographs of Walker's mom when she was here, she was pretty. Hell, even old Mrs. Carter across the road was somewhat pretty.
But Bob wasn't. John was just afraid and hopped up on fear, so he was thinking irrationally. That was it. Yes, he was simply hysterical.
"Um, yeah. I showed 'im who was boss!" Walker said with a cocky smile.
"You sure? Looked like a robot over there, looked a bit uneasy." Liam asked tentatively.
"Mhm, just a scare tactic. Had him shiverin' in his pants, didn't ya see?"
"Sure did!" Lemar quickly added, patting Walker on the shoulder and giving him an encouraging look. Walker couldn't help but smile brighter as the rest of the boys joined in cheering him on.
Eventually, all the kids were rounded up and stuffed into starchy, cramped church clothes and narrow cap-toes and polished dress shoes– being overly pampered to have harmonies and hymns sang at them for a long two hours.
Walker, Micheal, and their daddy packed into the truck. Walker was crammed into the back along with whatever other trash his dad discarded back there as per usual, Mike taking the passenger seat.
Walker's dad had his elbow resting just outside the window, the warm air of Summer breathing into the cab of the truck in a steady stream through the open window. Mike sat silently, his eyes catching on objects outside the window every so often. Walker fidgeted with his hands in his lap, picking at skin until it turned pink and red.
His dad's voice shattered the silence.
"So, what were you up to this mornin', Walker?"
Walker lifted his head, seeing his daddy's eyes on him in the rearview mirror.
The fact that he was asking Walker that meant only one of two things: some alien who had empathy had gone and taken over his body, or he already knew and Walker was in trouble. Either option seemed unfavorable, seeing as Walker wasn't entirely fond of aliens or getting beaten beyond belief with a leather belt.
"Dad." Micheal looked back from the window, facing their dad with a stern look on his face.
"What, Mike? I'm just asking the kid how his day was, am I not allowed?" He asked with a strained voice, the anger seeping seamlessly into his words.
"It's barely eight A.M., he hasn't done enough to tell you about. Leave 'im alone."
"Walker doesn't mind, do ya, Walker?" He turned back towards Walker who was frozen in his seat, watching Mike bicker with their dad.
Micheal had a tendency to stand up to their dad more often than not. Especially when it came to Walker. And Walker couldn't say he was upset with it– no, of course not. He just wasn't entirely partial to the screaming matches their arguments swelled into or the way Mike wouldn't speak to him afterwards.
Walker shook his head.
"Words, boy."
"No, sir," Walker forced the quiver from his voice.
"See, he doesn't mind."
Walker fisted the fabric of his pants, inhaling shallow, deep breaths. He wanted nothing but to wipe the smug smile off his dad's face; but, the man settled a deep rooted, weed-like fear within Walker that you couldn't burn out of him.
"So, you finally stop scoutin' that fag from across the street?"
"Sir?" Walker's voice cracked on the word.
"Don't act all surprised, I see you starin' at him practically every day."
"Sir-"
"Now, I should be right worried that my son's lookin' at another guy this much, shouldn't I?"
"Sir, we were all just-"
"Ah- I don't want that bullshit. I seen you sittin' on the porch, eyes stuck to him like a target."
"I don't-"
"Now, I ain't accusing you o' something unless you got something to be accused of."
Walker stayed silent.
"Tell me, Walker, is my boy a faggot?"
"No, sir," Walker all but whispered.
"Stop with the mumblin'. Speak up."
"No, sir," Walker reiterated louder, his fists white with the pressure he had on the fabric of his slacks. His gaze was locked on their blurry shape, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes before he could stop himself. He expired shaky breaths, blood rushing to his face and lighting up his ears a bright red.
The rest of the ride was filled with nothing but the rattle of the old truck against the dusty road and a heavy, suffocating silence that choked Walker up.
They eventually arrived at a small church, just big enough to fit near every taxpayer of Custer's Grove and their kids inside. It was a miserable blue, years of usage resulting in insoluable discolorment along the coffee-white trim. A gable end porch was situated slightly off centered to the main doors that were propped open like they were every Sunday.
A small group of people shuffled in, all greeting pastor Hill with polite smiles and diminutive waves.
One form in particular caught Walker's eye. In between the drab and usual, stood a boy and his mom. In particular, Bob and his mother.
Bob's mother was dressed in an eau de Nil, pegged dress and soft white stockings that led down to brown flats. Her russet hair was in an untidy ponytail and she had an attempt at makeup on. Bob, however, was still dressed in the same sweater that Walker had found him in earlier; though, he was wearing trews, alternative to the beige cutoffs he had on in advance.
Walker pushed the car door open, the hinges creaked with age, and hopped onto the muddy green grass that carved out the front space of the Church. He meekly followed his dad and brother to the door, watching Bob enter before them with his head tilted towards the floor.
They spent the, it seemed mandatory, ten minutes near the entrance greeting "old friends."
Oh... he's doing well, is he? Well, yes. Oh, no, of course not. Yes, John is practicing everyday, a little sloppy but he's workin' on it.
The usual lackluster conversation about this and that, yes, yes, no, of course. Then, it was good to catch up, just wonderful to see you! Before they went back to a week of ignoring each other, save for the weekly barbeques Walker's dad hosted for the neighborhood to pretend they liked each other– if not for the harmony, than for the sake of football discussions.
When Walker's dad decided that the sheen of sweat covering Walker's face was enough, he ushered them into the main hall.
The building was basically just one big room with white walls and wooden floorboards being scuffed from Alabaster to tawny. Pews that looked older than the town itself sat on either side of the nave. Past the pulpit and lectern sat the altar, just in front of a large stained glass window that immersed the layout in a mélange of vivid, polychromatic light.
Walker used to think that if he stood within the divine cast of blues and greens and reds that it would permeate his anatomy– proliferate whatever piety might linger in his blood stream and lift God's downcast eyes to face him. To love him again as He did when Walker's mother was alive, to lift whatever anathema had been placed on his life when she died.
Safe to say he eventually discovered that no matter how much he called on God to rectify his, what could be called, former glory– no one was coming to save him. He had the bruises to prove it, too.
It wasn't like Walker had lost his faith completely– no– he still hung on by a thread. A small, nigh on invisible tread and he hung on with an iron fist. He refused to let it slip, if that happened everything would finally tilt completely out of place and he'd lose every aspect of what he knew life to be like before. Before he was thrown onto his back, forced to find his way back up in a world that didn't seem to want him upright. He felt that everytime he was close to normal, a carpet was pulled from under his feet and he was back to the reality that nothing was normal. And it was improbable that it ever would be again.
But God– God had always been there. So, keep that hold on his belief and keep a smaller part of his erstwhile life.
Walker was tugged back to reality by his dad ushering him into one of the pews. He sat on the rightmost end like he always did, it let him see much more. He spent most time at church just looking, looking at all the people around him and just wandering; not about anything specific. He just looked and he wandered.
Like about old Mr. Green in the very last pew to the left. Walker wasn't sure if his name was actually Mr. Green, but he had a slight envy tint to him. Mr. Green never left his house, or he at least never came to town where Walker could see him, but he was always at church every Sunday. He seldom sat near anyone and never even participated-- he wanted to be alone. Walker wasn't sure why anyone would come to a church on a Sunday if they wanted to be alone, but that's how it had always been so it was only right to let it be.
The back pews were usually empty, leaving the front ones crowded, but there were two new bodies inhabiting the pew across from Mr. Green: Bob and his mother.
They were tucked into a corner. There was an unusual amount of space between them, Walker thought. It wasn't majorly obvious, but they seemed like magnets being pushed red to red, Bob pressing himself as far into the corner as he could and his mother showing a grave interest in the ceremony.
The rest of the service Walker couldn't help but observe them from the corner of his eye. Bob seemed afraid of his mother from the way he flinched and adjusted himself anytime she spared him a glance. She seemed disgusted of him, a look on her face that rang too familiar to the very manner Walker's own father would look at him.
As the priest was wrapping up, Walker glanced back again and saw Bob tugging his sleeve from his mother's grip with a scrunched up, flushed face. His mother seemed to whisper scream at him, her face fixed in a sneer as she tugged even harder.
Walker looked around to see if anyone was getting up to help him, maybe ask them to leave and stop causing a disturbance? But no one got up, their eyes fixed on the priest who was remaining just as purposely ignorant.
Walker's eyebrows furrowed and he watched a moment longer until Bob's mother let go suddenly and let Bob fly back onto the floor with a dull thud.
Walker's knee bounced and he lurched forward in his seat to stand up when he felt his dad's firm hand on his shoulder, gripping tightly.
"Sit down." His dad demanded, his voice quiet but rough, firm.
Walker looked back one last time to see Bob running out the large doors of the entrance. The pale boy had tears running incessantly down his face, him chest heaving in a hangdog display.
Walker sat restless for the rest of the service, occasionally looking back to see Bob's unaffected mother and feeling a rage build in his body for a reason he couldn't explain. Really, he shouldn't've felt that upset about the random faglet across the street but he couldn't shake the worry that rattled gently in his bones-- like a soft reminder. Walker wasn't completely sure what the reminder was for, but it clouded the worry and a foggy guilt together in a dangerous fume that tensed the blonde's body uncomfortably.
By the end of church, he'd chewed down seven out of ten nails and watched the doors with such intent you might've thought it was the new game playing on them.
He was absent as they walked out of the doors back into the grueling heat, subconsciously searching for that same familiar, softly sharp face.
"Hey, where are you?" Mike's voice forced Walker back to the present— that and the grounding smack on the head.
Mike leaned back against the rusty side of the old firebrick pickup, his arms loosely crossed over the flannel of his shirt. Walker tugged awkwardly at the bottom of his dress shirt, stealing another survey through the crowd of people as he spoke up, " Here. Sorry."
His brother hummed in thought, pushing off the pick up and ruffling his hair, "'Right." Mike stepped away, presumably also going to mingle with the few girls his age that had collected with the rest of the churchgoers in front of the building.
Walker rounded the truck, sitting on the grass with his elbows on his knees and staring into the wide field in front of him. Sweat had already started to build on his skin within the few minutes he'd been outside and he could tell by the volume of the crowd behind him that he wasn't going home any time soon. Honestly! It wasn't like the people couldn't talk to each other whenever. It was ridiculous.
Walker's eyes drifted to the right, where an old abandoned gas station sat sadly. He saw muted blue object inside that he hadn't seen there before-- No, not an object. A person wearing blue, that same blue.
Walker stood and took a step forward.
"Hey, Walker," Olivia's careful voice sounded behind him.
Walker turned around quickly, feeling as if he'd been caught doing something wrong. He couldn't shake the, it seemed, baseless guilt.
"Hey, Liv."
Olivia walked closer to him with the same grace she always did, a diffident smile painted on her smooth face. She was dressed neatly, like she always was but with an extra modicum of effort. She had on a powder blue bouffant dress and a matching headband in her carefully straightened hair.
She was truly a marvel to behold. Walker thought so, well, he thought he thought so. He hoped he did. God, it'd be bad if he didn't think his girlfriend was pretty. He did. Of course he did, she just looked slightly off. There was something slanted in his perception of her and her pearly earrings, the way she filled out the top half of her dress.
Olivia, thankfully, snipped that train of thought before Walker could spiral and spoke up, "You okay? You seemed more off than usual in church. Did--" She frowned, "Was it your dad again?" She asked gingerly, her hand hovering in the air between them like she wasnt sure she could touch him.
Walker hesitated. He couldn't exactly tell her he was stressed over a random nobody across the street and he definitely couldn't tell her he was stressed over how he felt about that random nobody from across the street.
"Uh- no. Just a bit tired. Didn't sleep much." It was a believable lie, seeing as nights of peaceful sleep didn't come easily to Walker.
"Okay, well, I can't wait to see you on the field Tuesday." Olivia said with a smile, a look in her eyes that said she didn't quite believe him but pitied him enough to let it slide.
Walker rubbed the fabric of the bottom of his shirt between his thumb and index finger, offering a smile, "Yeah. Yeah, can't wait for the game." Walker's eyes flicked from Olivia's to the gas station in the corner of his eye, doing possibly the worst job of hiding his interest in it.
Thankfully, he was in Olivia's good graces because she set off with a kiss to the cheek and a shy goodbye.
He looked back to the desolate building to find it being completely abandoned once more.
He didn't have much time to dwell on it though because eventually families started to branch off to their own vehicles with lengthy 'see you laters.'
Mike came over and ushered Walker to the car quickly with a few playful shoves and chuckles and an arm around his shoulder, making sure they were seated and ready to go before their dad could bitch about them being too slow.
The ride back to the house was filled with their old man's rough, malboro ridden voice complaining about the same people he'd just invited to the barbecue and the barely-there melody of the radio playing some old country songs Walker couldn't place.
The rest of the day was slow and Walker couldn't bring himself to be satisfied with his daily games with his familar friends— there just seemed to be an itch he couldn't scratch.
Unfortunately for him, that itch happened to be a very sad looking boy.