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Once upon a time, the unraveling had not yet begun, nor even been conceived of. In the Arkansas summer, a warm breeze blows through the grass, shimmering and golden, not so different from Levon’s hair. Robbie tries not to seem like he’s looking at Levon as they sit comfortably by the creek, a joint dangling from Levon’s mouth as his brow furrows.
“Do you reckon…” he mumbles, trailing off into silence as the thought evidently escapes him. Or as close to silence as you can get out here—the low hum of cicadas is music to Robbie’s ears. Everything down south seemed to be steeped in rhythm and blues, from the trains to the food to the great outdoors.
The sun beats down as hot as anything but it doesn’t bother Robbie much. It leaves a slick sheen on their skin and then comes the dust, stuck on like glue, powdery and gritty and real. Robbie loves Arkansas, because it’s real. Or is it that he loves America, or the South, or maybe it’s simply that he loves Levon. It’s hard to say; or so he tells himself, although he knows it isn’t true.
Levon is real. Robbie feels like an imposter in his own body sometimes, but Levon is loose and easy and comfortable, especially here. He feels honored to have been brought here, to Levon’s own home and family. They treat him like one of their own; not like a guest or a visitor, but like he’s kin. It leaves a warm buzz in his chest each night when he and Levon traipse up the stairs to that small bedroom.
“I wanna show you something,” Levon says, pulling Robbie out of his thoughts and back down to earth. He puts out the joint and tucks it into his shirt pocket, patting it affectionately before standing and holding out his hand for Robbie to grab, steadying him as he clambers to his feet. Light-headed from the pot and the heat and a little bit of something else he doesn’t care to examine too closely, Robbie follows as Levon ambles off down a well-trodden dirt path.
“How far is it?” Robbie asks, feeling a little bit faint.
“Not far,” Levon says, grinning. “You’ll like it. You’ll like it good.”
And he’s telling the truth, as he almost always does. It isn’t but a few more minutes before Levon’s leading him to a broken down car in the middle of an overgrown field. Robbie briefly wonders about snakes—whether it’s safe to be wading around in the tall grass like this, in the dead of summer—but he knows Levon wouldn’t put him in danger. Well, at least not like this.
“Dig this,” Levon says, wrenching the door open with an awful screech. “I got a working radio in here. And,” he pauses, yanking a blanket from the backseat dramatically, “I stashed a cooler out here this morning while you were still laying around like Sleeping Beauty. We got beers, smoke, and music. All we need, ain’t it?”
Robbie nods, mouth dry. Levon grins and points inside the car.
“Your chariot awaits, baby. Hop in.”
“Smells like shit,” Robbie says, sliding across the cracked leather seat. It doesn’t really. Kind of like dirt and gasoline, burnt rubber, motor oil; and another smell, too, one that Robbie’s grown to know well, one that lingers on pillowcases, on jackets, on hotel sheets and t-shirts. Sweet and rich, like Tupelo honey.
“You’re awful hoity-toity all of a sudden,” Levon says, smacking Robbie’s arm playfully as he wiggles his way into the backseat. He grabs a beer—Schlitz, in the longneck bottle—and hands another to Robbie. “Now, I can pick up some of them good Memphis AM stations here. Blues stuff.”
“You got working AC in here?”
“Come on, now. It ain’t a five star hotel.”
“It’s hot as hell.”
“It’s July in Turkey Scratch. Get with it, canuck,” Levon says, smacking Robbie’s arm playfully. “Take something off, ain’t nobody out here but us.” Levon strips off his t-shirt and flings it somewhere in the general vicinity of the driver’s seat. Catlike, he stretches out across the seat. His nearly hairless chest is pale, a product of months on the road and not much time spent outdoors, glistening with sweat in the dying rays of the Arkansas sun.
Hesitantly, Robbie pulls off his own shirt as Levon switches on the radio. Little Willie John’s smooth, sultry voice fills the car–Fever, a little too on-the-nose in the moment, with the way Robbie’s skin burns flushed and hot.
“I’m glad you wanted to come out here with me,” Levon says, bumping Robbie’s shoulder. “My ma loves you. Hell, she probably wishes you were her son, too.”
“Your family’s too kind to me. Makes me feel guilty sometimes.”
“Don’t. Mama Kosh ain’t never been nothing but amazing to me, it’s only right that my ma’d treat you the same.”
“It’s nice. I like it here. Reminds me sometimes of summers on the rez, you know? Being outside like this.”
“Yeah. I miss it. Being outside.”
“The music makes it worth it.”
“And the women,” Levon says with a laugh. “Gotta love the women.”
“Yeah.”
The conversation lulls. For a while, they just exist, together, listening to Muddy Waters, Lightnin’ Hopkins, Otis Rush. It’s good. Robbie likes quiet moments like these, away from the hustle and bustle of the city and the constant chaos of touring. He loves life on the road, loves almost every aspect of it. But, it’s nice to slow down sometimes.
It’s moments like these where time stands still.
Then a soft noise breaks through the low hum of the music, and it’s then that Robbie realizes Levon is hard in his jeans. In the fading light, Robbie watches as one of his hands slides down to feel at the bulge there.
It isn’t like Robbie has never heard or even seen Levon take care of business before; hell, they’ve shared plenty of girls on the road with Ronnie, and spent plenty of nights together in hotel rooms without a girl in sight, doing what had to be done facedown on the mattress or behind a flimsy bathroom door. They’d even kissed a time or two, at the behest of a woman or for a laugh with the guys.
But this is different. This is Robbie and Levon, alone in the sweltering dusk, languishing in the backseat of a rusted out Bel Air—something far more intimate than whatever had come before. Everything beyond this would be the after, Robbie realizes.
Before he can think about it too much, Robbie’s crawling forward, kneeling between Levon’s spread legs.
“This okay?” He asks, voice hoarse, searching for any signs of trepidation in Levon’s face. He finds none.
“Yes, god,” Levon groans, and then his mouth is on Robbie’s. Their teeth click together as Levon’s hands come up to grasp what little of Robbie’s short hair he can. Levon’s thigh pushes up into the space between Robbie’s legs and an involuntary moan slips from Robbie’s throat at the friction.
Levon twists them around until he’s looming over Robbie, rocking against him, face buried in his neck. Sweat slick skin meets sweat slick skin, little gasps filling the car. Robbie’s blunt nails dig into Levon’s back. Surely leaving marks, he thinks, and the idea of it fills him with a kind of warmth—Levon, his, marked—and he digs in harder as Levon pants against his neck.
His jeans are too tight now. He looks down between them, searching for a glimpse of where they’re joined together, sees the wet spot forming on the faded denim at Levon’s crotch, sees a matching one on his own, reaches down wildly to fumble with the buttons and zippers. Then he’s wrapping a hand around them both, whimpering—fucking whimpering, christ—and Levon’s making some kind of wounded noise and surging up to kiss him again.
“Fuck, Robbie,” Levon mumbles, pulling back to study Robbie’s face in the low light. Robbie’s struck by how beautiful he is once again; golden hair, the bluest eyes he’s ever seen, face screwed up with pleasure, all for him.
“Move, sideways,” Robbie says, pushing Levon until they’re on their sides and Levon doesn’t have to hold himself up anymore. Levon reaches down and covers Robbie’s hand with his own.
“Good,” Robbie chokes out as Levon’s hand tightens around them, “really good. Don’t stop—”
Cut off by Levon’s mouth on his neck, then farther down, biting at his collarbone. There’s going to be a bruise there—it sends a thrill through him. It’s all so much. He can barely breathe, caught between Levon’s body and the sticky leather seat, that familiar pit of heat pooling in his stomach. He doesn’t want it to end; wants it to last forever, thinks he could live here in Levon’s grasp.
“I’m close,” he gasps, and immediately feels a hot flush rush up his neck at the stupidity of announcing himself, but Levon just nods and grunts, moving his hand a little faster.
He’s close too; Robbie knows what he sounds like when he is. Hard not to with the way they live.
“Fuck, Levon,” Robbie whines, hips jerking erratically as they hurtle towards the end. Levon’s moaning and gasping, whispering little endearments.
“That’s it, baby, c’mon.”
Robbie comes with a gasp, making a mess of their jeans, and Levon follows with a grunt. They lay there, panting, sticky and hot in the afterglow. Aftermath, maybe. A hint of fear tugs at Robbie’s stomach and he does his best to ignore it. He doesn’t look at Levon, in case he’s messed up terribly and this ruins everything. Did he start it, or did Levon? Does it matter? He knows Levon is no fag, and he thinks he isn’t either. What the hell were they thinking?
“Damn,” Levon says, low, lighting two cigarettes in the periphery of Robbie’s vision. He hands one to Robbie.
“I’m sorry,” Robbie says. “I didn’t—”
“Duke,” Levon says, “Shut up. It ain’t nothing. Just helping each other out, that’s all.”
“Okay,” Robbie says. He chances a look at Levon, who’s looking at him.
“C’mon. It’s just me and you. Ain’t nothing. Don’t get your knickers in a knot.”
“I’m not wearing any,” Robbie says, giggling.
“Aw, hush.”
Later that night, when they head up to Levon’s room and get settled, they don’t sleep head to foot, and Robbie wakes up with Levon’s arm wrapped around his waist.
Later still, the unraveling begins.