Chapter Text
The last day of school is split in half, final bell sounding off at noon signalling freedom, and Wheezie rushes out the front door in search of the pick-up truck she knows awaits her. Amongst the sea of parents driving foreign cars she spots Barry, arm danging out his window and rock music blasting, making no effort to fit in.
When she approaches, Barry leans across the cab to throw the door open for her. "Good day?" He asks, turning the music down a smidgen.
"Great," confirms Wheezie, tossing her bag down by her feet. "Rafe?"
Barry shifts the gear as the line starts to move. "At work until 4. Ice cream?"
"I'm going to die out there," Rafe complains. He's sitting in Barry's lap on a lawn chair, a tanned arm wrapped around his waist and fingers hooked on his inner thigh, digging into the seam. Barry suggested they go camping this coming weekend and Wheezie wholeheartedly agreed, arguing with her brother that they need to try new things, and then planned the whole thing behind his back.
Barry falls back against the seat, hauling the man along with him until Rafe is practically lying across his chest, and leans in to press a lingering kiss on his lips. "Ain't gon' let nothin' happen to ya'." He promises, turning his face away to take a sip of cold beer.
"Yeah? You're gonna protect me?" Rafe leans in the moment the bottle is lowered to lick the taste of the liquor from Barry's mouth.
"Ugh, gross," Wheezie calls from across the yard. She's kneeling on the dewy ground, aggressively patting soil flat over the flower seeds she just planted. "I'm literally right here."
Rafe raises his free hand to cup Barry's jaw, drawing him into a dramatic kiss, smacking sound deafening in the quiet evening. "Sorry, Wheeze," Rafe says as two arms circle him, the older man grinning from his place against Rafe's broad chest.
Wheezie mumbles just loud enough for them to hear, "I hope you get eaten by a shark."
And Rafe is turning abruptly to look at Barry. "Sharks?"
Barry parks the truck under a tree near some undisclosed beach, hidden in a little alcove and scattered with sea glass and driftwood, hauling the boat down to the water. The journey to the small uninhabited island is a lazy one, the three of them navigating the boat through the channel without plight until spotting the overgrown hunk of land, docking on the rocky bank.
Once Barry is sure their way back home is secure and won't meander back out to sea, he begins carting the tent and bags up to dry land, dropping them in a pile. Wheezie had jumped the boat the moment it stopped to run off down the shoreline, exploring with the promise of staying close enough to hear them call out to her.
Rafe, however, has not stepped foot off the boat since they got here 35 minutes ago. "You forgot this," Rafe calls out, pointing to a duffel bag.
"You carry it," Barry suggests, not looking up from assembling the tent.
Once he's finished inserting the poles through the slots in the frame, he spares a glance at Rafe, who is staring into the murky water, inky blue as the sun sets. He stands up then, and makes his way over to the boat to offer the man his hand. "C'mon, baby."
"We're going to get killed," Rafe informs him, but takes the hand anyway, climbing onto solid ground. Barry smiles warmly at him before grabbing the forgotten bag from the hull, slinging it over his shoulder and leading Rafe to the clearing.
Barry starts a fire and Rafe hands out sandwiches, all while Wheezie shows them the plethora of seashells she collected. They watch the sun go down as they eat, millions of stars the only light they can see from out here, the sound of crickets chirping and wind flitting through the trees and gentle waves lapping at the shore surrounding them.
When it's time for Wheezie to head to bed, Rafe deposits himself in his boyfriends lap, the two of them laughing and drinking and swapping languid kisses. Despite all his whining, sleep comes easily to Rafe, passed out minutes after his head as hit the pillow—pillow being Barry's bicep.
Wheezie wakes from a nightmare with a panicked gasp. She swears she hears something rustling around outside the tent, getting louder and closer and she can't go back to sleep, tossing and turning. So she slinks from the confines of her sleeping bag, scooting closer and closer to where the boys lay, planning to sit near them until morning.
"Cut that out," Barry whispers, sitting up.
She stills. "I had a nightmare," is all she gives as explanation, and then big hands are under her arms and dragging her across the short distance, settling her between him and Rafe.
Barry lays back down, mumbles, "Go to sleep, I'm right here." Then turns away, sighing. He gets an elbow in his side and a foot pressed against the back of his knee but it's worth it when he watches a startled Rafe wake up to find his sister beside him, any grouchiness from lack of sleep melting away immediately.
"I hate camping!" Rafe declares when they're back in the OBX. "Thanks so much for forcing this experience on me," he tells Barry, leaning in to kiss him quickly.
Tossing gear into the bed of the truck, Barry says, "You hated it this time, but next time you gonna love it."
"No next time."
Unlike her brother, Wheezie liked camping, except for the whole fear of being eaten by some creature of the night thing. She liked it so much she made plans to camp with Sarah, too.
Days bleed into weeks of balmy weather, sunsets spent on sandy beaches and pastel colored bikes riding alongside the open garage door, Andy calling out: "Your girl's here, Barry!" And Barry moseying out, fishing a twenty from his breast pocket to hand over, careful not to smear grease on Wheezie.
Between taking several day trips to the mainland, supervising Wheezie and her friends at the adventure park or the beach or the zoo, and beginning the strenuous task of clearing out the mess that is the pool they didn't know existed beneath the brush at the back of the property—Rafe and Barry can't wait until summer is over, while simultaneously never wanting it to end.
Music is blasting from the outdated radio as the truck speeds towards Mocksville. Barry is driving with one hand, wrist adorned in a friendship bracelet Wheezie made draped over the steering wheel and the other stretched across the back of the seats, fingers scratching absentmindedly at Rafe's nape.
Wheezie is between them, knees pulled up to her chest and a novel held inches from her face, glasses slipping off her nose as she concentrates on reading.
Arriving at their destination is like admittance to a museum; not a modern amenity in sight. Rafe can't fathom why anyone would leave Paradise on Earth for this place. The roads are bumpy and split, weeds finding life in the cracks of asphalt, every sign they pass vandalised with graffiti. Unruly kids probably have nothing better to do around here than cause trouble, the poor things.
A long winding dirt path leads them to a quaint house, siding a pale yellow and shutter's dark green. It doesn't match at all, but it isn't his house, so it's not his place to pass judgement. At least out loud.
"Oh, he's here!" A voice shouts from inside, a thin woman running out the door and jumping down the porch steps, bare feet padding across the uncut grass. "My baby," she coos, wrapping Barry up in a tight embrace. She's wearing a lot of makeup, Rafe notes, and her blonde hair is piled high on her head, resembling a beehive.
When she opens her eyes and meets Rafe's, she's pushing her son aside to throw herself at him, squeezing around his middle with more strength than he would've gave her credit for. "And you must be Rafe," she drawls, southern accent more pronounced than he would have expected.
"That's me," he confirms when she's pulling back to pinch his cheek. "And you must be Mrs—"
She swats him on the arm playfully. "Daisy is just fine, sweetie." Then she catches sight of Wheezie, who had been hiding behind him since she got out of the truck, and pushes past him to hug the little girl. Rafe looks to Barry for guidance, but finds the man staring skyward, looking like he would rather be anywhere but here. Rafe knows the feeling.
Daisy leads the three of them inside, her arm circling Wheezie's shoulders as they walk. Inside it feels homey, every room cramped with mismatched furniture and clashing wallpaper, no apparent decor theme.
"Now y'all go on upstairs and get settled down. Louisa your room is to the left," she tells them, patting Wheezie's cheek affectionately. "Hope y'all brought your appetites, I'm makin' cajun salmon for dinner."
"Sounds spicy," Wheezie says happily. "Rafe is gonna cry."
Daisy shoots him a concerned look and he waves her off. "She's kidding, I'll be fine."
Barry carries their bags up the steep flight of stairs, opening the first door on the left for Wheezie and then crossing the landing, setting their stuff down at the foot of a rather small bed. Barry catches him glaring down at it and asks, "What's wrong?"
"Small bed," Rafe comments offhandedly, like they aren't two grown men expected to sleep on a twin size mattress.
"The fuck do you care? You sleep on top of me."
Rafe is going to relinquish his father's company. Real estate is not his calling and he feels no excitement over the prospect of living in his father's shadow for the rest of his life. There was a time where money felt like everything to him because it mattered so much to his dad; fancy dinners, expensive vacations, foreign cars. Those were things Ward lived for. Status, wealth and legacy were everything to him.
But Rafe doesn't need that kind of cash now. He has the Crain house. He wakes up and goes to work down at the wharves and has enough money between his paycheck and savings to keep Wheezie in her extracurricular's and new novels in Barry's hands, a list in his phone of recommendations the bookkeeper suggested his man might like.
Unfortunately, the legal side of giving up his position and selling his shares is a pain in the ass. His mac-book is open on the kitchen table, sorting through his most recent unread emails when someone clears their throat, and then Barry is jumping up from his chair to hug the guy.
"There's my boy," he says, clapping Barry on the back. "And you've brought friends!"
Barry snorts. "Ain't my friends, pops. This is Wheezie," he tells the man, smoothing a hand over Wheezie's wild hair, and she waves timidly. "And my boyfriend, Rafe."
If this was Tanneyhill, and pops was dad, and this was a Cameron family event he was crashing, introducing Barry as his boyfriend—they would be dead. Ward would literally kill them.
Can't help but feel envious when all Barry's father does is give an enthusiastic, "Well hey there, happy y'all could come."
Twenty minutes later Rafe is hunched over his keyboard, responding to a lawyer. Jamie, Barry's father, invited his son out to look at a fourwheeler he just picked up out in the garage. A minute later a kid Wheezie's age strolled in, introduced himself as Barry's cousin Sam, and asked if she wanted to see the treehouse he helped build. Which left him alone with Daisy, who was twirling around the kitchen listening to country music and preparing dinner.
The treehouse turns out to be a couple planks of wood nailed between four trees, a rope ladder and a tarp stretched overhead to catch the rain. "This is so cool," Wheezie gushes once she's climbed up.
"My daddy helped me build it when the snow melted," Sam informs her.
"Do you guys live here? With Daisy and...Jamie?"
He peers through the trees at the house in the distance. "Nah, my dad and I live down the road, just through that path, you see?" he points off to the right, a trail of mud beaten down from heavy footfall fading into the distance. "Always visitin' though."
Sam asks about Wheezie's life in the Outer Banks, and in turn she wonders what he does around here, time passing a lot faster now that she has someone her age to talk to.
That is until they are interrupted by a third, nastier voice. "And now what do we have here. Whose your little friend, Sammy?"
"Oh, this is Wheezie," Sam says, gesturing to the girl in question. "Barry's, uh...y'know, kid. Or whatever."
Close enough, Wheezie thinks.
The man is glaring up at her, bushy eyebrows covering half his forehead and he's chewing something loudly, lips smacking. It's gross. But Wheezie is nothing if not polite. "My name is Louisa, sir. Or Wheezie, either is fine."
"Charlie," he gives as introduction. "What are ya' doin' out here, Louisa? The forest ain't the place for a young lady, such as yourself."
She shrugs and frowns—a mannerism picked up from spending so much time with Rafe—boring her eyes at the house in the distance, willing someone to call for her. "I'm allowed to play in the woods."
Charlie lets out a mean laugh, shaking his head. "You try'na tell me Mr. Cameron lets his baby run wild?"
Now she wants to call out, alert Barry of her whereabouts, the hair on the back of her neck standing at attention. Wheezie mumbles, "You mean Rafe?"
"Why don't you head on inside little girl, find the kitchen and help auntie make supper." His lip is curled, almost a snarl at the mention of her brother. And the last thing she wants to do is climb down, fear gripping her the longer she's stuck out here with him, beside her Sam remains quiet.
Wheezie twists around until her feet drop through the hole in the floor, and she climbs down the ladder carefully, deliberately walking out of the trees. Once she's in the clearing, only rolling hills standing between her and the house, she starts sprinting as fast as her legs will carry her.
Bypassing the front door, Wheezie heads straight for the garage, calling out for Barry.
"Hey," he shouts. She rounds the corner, panting and flushed red with exertion. His brows scrunch together when he asks, worriedly, "You aight?"
Wheezie forces herself into his side, wrapping both arms around one of his when she looks up at him. "This guy said I can't play in the woods because I'm a girl and I should be in the kitchen."
"Who? Where is he?" comes Barry's immediate response, looking out at the yard for any sign of life.
She tugs on his arm until he drops his gaze back to her. "Charlie? That's his name."
"Hey now," Jamie cuts in, setting down a Jerrycan. "Don't you go startin' fights your first day here. I'll put that jackass in his place, don't fret."
Once Rafe decides he's spent enough time answering emails and reviewing his calendar, he closes the laptop and returns it to his room, coming back down stairs to help Daisy set the table. Slowly people meander into the cramped kitchen; Jamie comes in first, followed by Sam and another man, who introduces himself as Charlie, shaking Rafe's hand this side of too hard. Then Barry steers Wheezie into the room by her shoulder, pulling out the chair closest to the head of the table for her, and dropping into the seat right next to it.
Bowls of differing patterns filled with steaming food are spread around the table, and everyone has said their introductions, so they take their seats. Daisy sits at one head of the table, closest to Wheezie, and Sam sits on her other side, next to Rafe. Charlie sits beside him, knees spread wide enough to knock into Rafe's, and Jamie sits on his other side, across from Daisy.
There's an empty chair beside Barry, and if the air wasn't so thick with tension, Rafe would move to it.
Daisy tells him, "Mickey, that's Sam's dad, couldn't make it," when she catches him glancing at it. "You'll meet him at the party, don't worry."
Yay, Rafe unenthusiastically thinks, more people.
The table falls silent, everyone begins to eat, and Rafe takes a timid bite of his food—noting Barry nudges his own glass of iced tea closer to Rafe—but finds it's not spicy at all. Not even a hint. He glances at Daisy, and she winks at him conspiratorially.
Easy chatter filters around the room; Jamie shares his plans to build a new tool shed, Sam is visiting his mom in Charleston for a week to go school shopping, and Daisy gushes about how excited she is for upcoming holidays, ranting and raving to Rafe and Wheezie about how over the top her decorations are.
Then Charlie pipes up, "Cameron's ain't gonna come 'round again, I reckon."
"Nonsense." Daisy waves him off dismissively. "I have a feelin' we'll be seeing each other often, don't you think, honey?" She turns to look at Wheezie, who nods politely in agreement.
God, Rafe wishes the floor would open up and swallow him. Cameron's ain't gonna come 'round again. What the fuck does he mean by that?
"This is really good," Wheezie tells her, pointing to her plate with her fork.
"Sure is," Charlie concurs. "Hey Rafe, you ever learn to cook?"
Rafe blanches, embarrassment settling over him because no, he never learned to do half the shit an average sixth grader in the Cut can. Never had to. "No," he confesses, "Never really had a reason to growing up."
"That's a real shame. They say home cooked meals are the best way to keep a man from straying," continues Charlie. Rafe shoots a menacing look at Barry, hoping it conveys that if he catches his man straying it will undoubtedly lead to someone's untimely demise. "Besides, someone's gotta teach the girl—"
"Watch your mouth," Barry snaps. And Rafe feels like he's missing something.
Beneath the table a foot nudges his, and he looks up to meet Barry's eyes, the other man looking at him assuredly, letting him know he'll handle whatever's going on.
Daisy slams her cutlery down on the table, jabbing a finger towards her son. "Cut out all that yellin', my goodness." Then turns to Charlie. "And you stop provoking him. I swear the two of you are meaner than rattlesnakes to one another. We're goin' to have a nice dinner, and a nice weekend, ya' hear me?"
Both the men agree bashfully, turning their attention back to the good food.
Wheezie emerges from the bathroom in fresh pajamas, a yellow scrunchie around her wrist and her brush in hand, glancing in each room she walks by.
"Lookin' for your brother, honey?" Daisy asks meekly.
"No." She waves the brush. "Barry. He always does my hair for me."
A sweet smile splits her face. "Ain't that just so precious. I'll tell ya' I don't know where them boys ran off to, but I can do it for you."
Wheezie falters, "It's okay, I don't want to bother you—"
"Oh my gosh, it's no bother, really," Daisy insists, strolling up to stand behind the young girl. "I can get it done easy as pie, who do you think taught Barry?" Wheezie passes the brush back to her when asked for it, and the bristles combing gently down the length of her unruly dark curls, damp from the shower. Daisy tells her, "You have beautiful hair."
Wheezie snorts at that, never great at taking compliments. "You should see my sister, Sarah. She has blonde hair like Rafe."
"That is one handsome boy," Daisy commends, "But as a fellow blondie, I've always secretly been jealous of my Barry, and his father. You have hair just like him, you know, it suits you."
Barry informs Rafe that his cousin, Charlie, previously worked for Ward until being laid off, eventually forced to move when he couldn't find work in the OBX. "Guys a fuckin' prick, talkin' to you and Wheeze like that, but he's harmless."
"Bet I could out douchebag him," Rafe challenges.
"I ain't takin' that bet," Barry snorts. "You're a fuckin' menace." That gets both of them smiling, Barry wrapping one arm around Rafe's waist and blindly reaching out with the other to throw the bedroom door closed. "Question."
Rafe hums, leaning in to trail open-mouthed kisses down the mans throat.
"How'd ya' eat that food, baby?"
Barry tilts his head to the side, giving Rafe better access to bite down, smoothing over the skin with his tongue. He grins, murmurs, "No spice."
And Barry sighs dramatically. "What's it like gettin' whatever you want wherever you go?"
"I don't know..." Rafe trails off, smoothing his hands down his boyfriend's torso until they rest on his waistband. "I'll let you know after you're done fucking me."
Rafe doesn't know how he lived this long without knowing what Barry's cock inside him felt like. Makes him wish he could go back in time and open his legs as payment for the coke.
Barry is settled between his spread thighs, buried to the hilt and rocking in deep, trying not to bang the headboard into the wall or make the old frame squeak, both of them acutely aware of the fact there are several unsuspecting people within hearing distance.
A hand is clamped firmly over Rafe's filthy mouth, muffling his pathetic whining, eyes shiny with unshed tears. "That good, baby?" Barry whispers and it is so Rafe nods, nails scratching down the length of the mans tanned back.
Rafe comes between their grinding bodies making a sticky mess, two of Barry's fingers pressing down on his tongue as he sucks at them greedily, sobbing around the obstruction. Barry follows him, cock pulsating deep inside his tight hole, Rafe cradling Barry's head into his neck as he groans deeply.
Rafe just isn't good at this type of shit, he concludes, staring down at the uneven chunks of carrot. He wouldn't admit it if anyone asked, but the comments Charlie made got to him. Sure, he grew up rich and well taken care of, at least where tidiness and food were concerned—but that was no excuse to not learn how to take care of his home, and his family...aThnd his man, like Charlie said.
Sure, he had money, but that was really it. Barry did everything that needed to be done, always looking out for everyone and staying on top of things.
When he glances up from the mess he's made, Daisy is smiling warmly at him from across the dining room table, and she pushes a bowl towards him. "Here ya' go sugar, you peel these potatoes and I'll finish cuttin' the veggies."
"Sorry," Rafe says, handing over the cutting board.
She waves him off, easy grin never leaving her face. "Don't you worry 'bout a thing."
They sit in quiet contentment for several minutes, country music playing softly from a radio on the counter. Rafe thankfully finds peeling potatoes much easier than cutting carrots.
"I just want you to know that I'm so thankful for you," Daisy tells him warmly. She must sense his confusion, clarifying, "My baby is always takin' care of us, says you take real good care of him. He's so happy now, I can hear it when he calls and I can see it on his face."
Rafe is at a loss for words, feeling a lump of emotion form in his throat. When time is stretching on and he's expected to give a reply, he forces out weakly, "Uh, yeah, he is always looking out for everyone. Wheezie and I would be lost without him."
"Wheezie, you and I," Daisy comments. "When we moved here, well, we ain't have a thing to our names. Figured it be easier here than in the Outer Banks, but hard times followed. Barry was sendin' us money for just about everythin', tryin' to take care of us and he wouldn't let us give him anything back. That's why it means so much to us that he has you."
And oh, Rafe's going to cry in front of his boyfriend's mother. He averts his eyes quickly, blinking up at the ceiling in what he hopes passes for a contemplative look, trying to find a response in his overactive brain.
Suddenly it all made so much sense; why Barry worked over time and sold drugs but wore shoes until the soles wore out and never replaced his only fan at the trailer, suffering through the sweltering heat. He was sending all his spare cash here to his parents.
And now he carries a couple bills in his pockets to give to Wheezie before she goes out and buys Rafe flowers for the kitchen because he mentioned once he missed the displays at Tanneyhill.
Fuck, he really lucked out.
Before they can continue their conversation, the front door slams open and little feet are running through the house, calling out to him.
Wheezie barrels into his side, a smudge of what he assumes is mud on her forehead, and what's clearly a grown mans baseball cap on her head, just a little too big. "I caught so many freaking fish, Rafe!"
A bucket is slammed on the table, smack in the centre between bowls of chopped vegetables. "This little girl is cooler than creekwater," Jamie praises, throwing an arm around her shoulders.
Daisy sets her chef's knife down to take a peek in the container, whistling when she sees what they've brought. "You caught these?" she asks, and Wheezie responds with an enthusiastic nod, smiling proudly. "My goodness, you're a natural!"
"Thanks!" Wheezie says, then turns to Rafe. "Do I have time to gut them or should I get ready?"
Rafe grimaces. "Gut...them?"
"Well you have a few hours until the party, I say get it done quick and we can cook them up tomorrow," Daisy offers, and Rafe shrugs in agreement.
He tells her, "don't take too long." But she's already gone, bucket of fish sloshing in her hand.
What a weird child he's got a hand in raising. He's blaming this part of her—the part that likes turning over rocks to look at disgusting bugs and stomping in murky puddles until mud is up to her kneecaps—on Barry.
The party comes together nicely; over the top decorations and guests showing up by handfuls, adorned in faded jeans and cowboy boots. Rafe feels like a cardboard cut out, placed in the perfect position to gather attention from onlookers, picking him apart.
Barry is swinging Wheezie around to the music blasting from a couple large speakers on the back of someone's truck, the two of them laughing and making fun of one another. He didn't bother to dress up—which is fine by Rafe, his man always looks perfect—but he did help Wheezie get ready, little seashell pins in her hair, a piece of the OBX for her to carry around.
Wheezie is waved off, going off to find Sam by the punch bowl when Barry catches his eye, stalking forward. "C'mon," Barry says, extending his hand in offering.
Rafe snorts, "Hell no." But takes his hand anyway, allowing himself to be pulled into the clearing of dead grass everyone is treating like a dance floor. Barry wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him close, both of them sharing the same air.
"Missed ya today," Barry confesses, swaying to the music slowly.
Rafe can't tamp down the dopey smile he gives in return, cheeks flushed. "I missed you, too."
"Havin' fun?" he wonders, thumb caressing the small of Rafe's back.
"Tons," Rafe deadpans. It gets Barry to snort a laugh, maybe his favorite sounds in the world, and then Rafe continues sincerely, "Thanks for inviting us here."
Barry licks his lips nervously, mutters, "Yeah? Think you'd wanna come back some time?"
"Absolutely." Then Rafe is tilting his head to capture the others lips in a languid kiss, feeling warm and happy and safe.