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It isn't just the drugs Rafe is addicted to.
Something about Barry is magnetic, pulls him in and refuses to let him go. He doesn't even remember exactly how it started. He thinks he was high at the time. He knows it isn't like him—Barry is a guy, and he isn't into guys. Not really, anyway. Not as much as he's into girls. So as long as he doesn't tell anyone about it, it's okay. His friends wouldn't understand, and even if they could move past the Barry being a guy thing, they couldn't move past his being pure trailer trash.
He used to tell himself Barry was taking advantage of him. He'd come to Barry, desperate for a fix and with no money to buy it. So Barry would let him do him a favor. First a hand, then his mouth. And it should have stung, being on his knees for him, but part of Rafe loved it.
It's why he's here now.
“...come on, man. You know I'm good for it.”
They're alone in Barry's room, though there's a party of some sort going on outside. The trailer is crammed full of too many people, all drinking and smoking. It makes the whole place smell stale, like weed and cheap beer. Here in the bedroom is the faint, lingering smell of sex, sweat and body fluids. It almost makes him jealous, but that would be stupid. Besides, he can't be the only person who comes up short sometimes. Barry probably gets his dick wet as often as he likes.
There's a glint in Barry's eyes as he looks him over. He's wearing one of those tank tops that show all that skin along his side. Rafe wants to touch it, skim his hands over it. Stupid.
“On your knees, Country Club.”
Rafe lets himself drop in front on Barry, mouth already watering. The first time they had done this, Barry had made out with a little, helped him relax. Now it's straight to business. Rafe kinda misses the kisses. But he's afraid to ask for them, afraid Barry will realize he likes this and ask for more. (He's afraid he'll say yes.)
He sets to work, and Barry threads a hand through his hair, guides him. “Think you're starting to like this too much, yeah? Think this is what you really came for.”
Rafe can't answer, not with Barry's hand holding his head down, but he doesn't know what he'd say anyway. It's true, is the thing. It's shameful, but it's true.
Barry finishes without warning him and hauls him to his feet. Before Rafe can speak he's pressed back against the wall and hands are yanking open his fly. Then a hand is around him and it feels so good, like everything, like being high.
“Last time, Country Club,” Barry says near his ear. “Can't have you hanging around like some bitch in heat.”
Last time. Yeah, that's good. It's better that way. (At least, that's what Rafe tries to tell himself.) Barry is just some trash from the Cut; he's Rafe Cameron.
And Rafe Cameron doesn't fall for trash.