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The third summer around, Barry wasn’t going to be surprised when his parents were late to come pick him up from his grandmother’s house. When a few weeks turned into until August and that turned into we’ll try to drive down before winter break. When she ended up being the one to show him where to find mudbugs when the creeks warmed up again. It was sweet of her to continue the charade coming into his room to break the cold news, dishrag anxiously wrung in her sun-worn hands, telling him to unload the suitcase he didn’t bother repacking.
Never a hard sell anyways. Junietta— Miss June to the neighborhood— raised Barry freely and gently, with the softened fist bestowed upon any Cajun woman. Intelligent enough to finish her schooling at fifteen, clever enough to escape an abusive marriage and convince a jury of her innocence, wise enough to stop calling his parents back and quietly file the paperwork with the state to make him one of her own. His glee for his own room in her turquoise shotgun house mostly overshadowed any heartache about his folks not even putting up a fight.
Barry watched the cloudy water roil on the stovetop, each surge of bubbles flipping the webbed frog legs and disappearing them under the surface again. His grandmother had only ever prepared the legs of the animal: pan-sauted in garlic, crunchy and deep fried, boiled, his least favorite, like today. Crawdads may have been fair game, but never was she so cruel to cook an entire live amphibian and he always wondered—
“Do they really die in boiling water?” June turned to him with a raised eyebrow, and yeah, kind of a dumb thing to ask. He quickly amended the kneejerk question. “I mean— like the saying goes. Do frogs not jump out ‘til it’s too late?”
She picked up a spoon and for once, he didn’t flinch. His grandma stirred the legs around, stabbed one with fork tines to feel for the tenderness. “Of course they jump out. You play with the frogs outside. Can you get ‘em to sit still?”
Good point. He spent enough afternoons poking at the creekbeds with shaved branches, trying to nab whatever wriggled and leapt along the banks just to toss it back. Snails and crawfish, easy, sometimes the occasional minnow that blindly swam into his palm. But frogs? Wily, slippery little bastards that popped right from his hands and into the slow-churning stream. Surely they would spasm and flee the second the steel pan went red hot under their toe pads, right?
Right?
Barry hasn’t returned to Louisiana in over a decade. Nothing but a skinny concrete slab remains of his old home anyways, one of Katrina’s many scars stamped into the land. He’s just glad she passed a month before landfall. Not much came with him when he crawled back to the east coast. In ascending order of usefulness: how to zipper the pinbones from a catfish in minutes, a handful of recipes to feed two (or just himself for two nights) with only the change from his center console, the mind to consider his words before blurting stupid questions. Definitely didn’t find his ten-speed after the flood waters receded.
It’s fine. He moves on well, always has. Just like his parents did. But once the rug is pulled out from under you, you’ll never stand on anything but earth again. Barry likes to think he has his shit together, has a full grasp on every part of his life and could drop everything of his own volition if push came to shove— he owns the title of his trailer and truck, even strong-armed the stupid Cameron kid into handing over the slip for his equally stupid bike. Has a survivably steady income from the pawn shop that benefits from the latest thrifting trends and a side hustle getting degenerates on the island high. He gets his dick wet on a semiweekly basis, except—
Except that one may be slipping on him. And he’s not sure when things went too far. Maybe the line was way back when things got physical.
Unlikely. Sexuality came naturally to Barry growing up, skirting around with anyone who’d sit in the back of the bus with him or lingered in the quieter rooms of house parties. Men, women, those in between, he didn’t care— his stint in the army was a heyday, all back alleys and strip poker and hot breaths mingling in the cramped bunks.
And sure, a select few of his customers become a different kind of regular, like the ginger with nice tits and a pretty smile, or the baseball player who gave really good head. He tried not to blur the lines between business and pleasure too often, fearing a slippery slope before even getting in the water, but sometimes he can’t help himself. Sometimes the punk with the loud mouth and the combat boots that track mud in from God knows where is one of the best lays he’s ever had. He doesn’t even ask for favors in return, just shows up to get high and ride him through his thin mattress. Almost inconsiderately. Then he leaves, making it a perfect arrangement in Barry’s eyes.
Maybe it was when he stopped keeping track of his debts. He keeps a serious front to hide the generosity underneath, knowing some weeks pay worse than others and that itch for a hit doesn’t just go away. Barry forgives but doesn’t forget, and the next dimebag will be more of a nickel if you don’t settle out.
Unless you’re a blonde with a dirtbike, apparently. JJ would roll more than he paid for and sink between Barry’s thighs before he could do the math. Or he’d follow him like a shadow at parties, grubby hands reaching for the bong before it could be passed to anyone else. He’d leave the trailer with a saunter, and the glass jar holding Barry’s stash would be nearly an ounce light.
His sticky fingers know no bounds, either— some months ago, an embittered man brought a watch to the shop, already hissing about getting scammed out of two grand for an ersatz Omega. Barry tossed him a hundred out of pity and pocketed the piece with a rounding error because, hey, it wasn’t too bad of a replica. He didn’t wear it often, and noticed a suspiciously similar watch on JJ’s wrist a week after it disappeared from his dresser drawer. The audacity is the only explanation Barry can give when he asks himself later why he didn’t even say anything.
JJ gets bolder in every aspect around the same time. Doesn’t ask if it’s okay to pull on his hair or tighten a hand around his throat or start topping, but does it all anyways. The last one stunned him the most, too dumbfounded when his tongue dropped below the seam of his balls to his ass, followed by his fingers and then cock. Barry hadn’t even processed the departure from the status quo by the time JJ was leaking out of him and the kid was zipping himself up on the way out.
So maybe the line was crossed when Barry finds himself on his knees, slipping around the linoleum floor of his trailer, soaked by the drool he gags out. His nose is pressed into some blonde ass pubes, a hand cupped around the back of his skull keeping him from pulling off, and JJ owes him some four hundred bucks and an Abu Garcia rod at this point. Time to jump, or get cooked.
The fingers digging into his scalp bend suddenly, twisting into his hair and yanking back until JJ’s cock drops from his mouth. Barry’s tongue splays out, presented for the head to slap on its soft pad when he’s ready to come back. JJ smirks at the hospitality but leans forward to spit on his face. Barry assumes he’s aiming for his mouth, but he purposefully lands it on his cheek and uses his length to smear it around, like he wasn’t enough of a mess. Then he stuffs his cock back into his mouth, past the wet clasp of his throat.
The bubbles that form around his calves aren’t an omen, not a warning sign, just another sensation that tingles up his spine.
He isn’t the worst Maybank visitor by a long shot. Luke doesn’t even knock when he shows up, just throws open the screen door and rattles on the inner knob until Barry can scramble to answer it. He’ll be on the scale of half-drunk to wasted depending on the weekday, reeking of piss and sweat and whatever plastic bottle spirit he dusted off the bottom shelf of the ABC store. Shows up too early and stays too long, but he works for his money and always pays up. So Barry keeps letting him in, too.
“Long time no see, boss,” he waves him inside, moves to prepare the bowl he knows Luke will ask for. He actually can’t remember the last time he had to kick him out of the trailer, and it’s not like he’s gonna wake up a new man any time soon.
“Had a job in Bethel.” Luke mumbles his response around a wad of chew, which he scrapes out of his gum with an index finger and flicks directly into the ashtray. His aim sucks, and amber droplets hit the coffee table. “They wore the fuck outta me.”
A map pops into Barry’s head. That’s not an easy day trip. “Damn, how long?”
Luke makes a noise and shifts around on the couch. “I dunno. A month or so.”
He has to ignore the twist in his gut. JJ’s an adult, hasn’t needed direct supervision in probably over a decade, but he’s cut from a different cloth. A more sociable weave. Sure, couldn’t be less of his business if he tried, but the grilling questions in his head keep simmering up. Did you leave any cash for him? Did you make sure the lights wouldn’t cut off when you were out? Did you even fucking warn him you wouldn’t be there when he woke up? He wishes he didn’t know better.
But he was a bartender in another life. No last call, either. “Just a zip, right?”
The mind-boggling part, to Barry at least, was how this was not their dynamic around anyone else. Andy walks in, and the toys drop as JJ falls back to his rightful place on the island.
It took him weeks to notice when he rarely catches him around town, until Barry spots him outside the lumberyard trying to shove twelve feet of wooden planks into six feet of truck bed. Even twisted in an awkward diagonal, they’re likely to take out an unassuming driver’s back window if he cuts too close in the next lane.
“You dyin’ to get pulled over, or what?” he calls, catches JJ’s attention whip-fast, and Barry watches him shrink in on himself.
“Leave me alone,” the kid mutters. He cocks an eyebrow before noticing him nervously eye the shop employees smoking outside with heads buried in their phones. Not a bad mood, not a bad time, just a little bite to keep up appearances. He can work with that.
Barry grins. “What’s this for, Maybank? You buildin’ a birdhouse?”
He shoots daggers his way but doesn’t stop adjusting the planks. “Actually, I gotta fix a hole in my porch.” He shifts from foot to foot. “And at some point, the leaky roof right above that hole.”
Yeah. He lives in a shit hole too, and knows that song and dance well. He’ll leave that bruise alone.
“I’m not jokin’, by the way. You need a flag if it sticks out this far,” Barry explains, thumping the two by fours. “And I’d wager you’re not in a position to get stopped.” Whether that be for the date of the vehicle’s registration sticker, the aftermarket light bar welded to the bumper, or the earthy aroma wafting out of the glove compartment.
JJ sulks, drags a forearm across his sweaty forehead. “Well, I don’t have a flag.”
Easy fix. Barry reaches over and pinches the hem of his t-shirt sleeve, conveniently cherry red, and rips the thin fabric until the whole seam tears off clean and JJ is left holding the frayed tube.
“Hey, whoa, what are you doing?” he yelps as Barry already works on the second sleeve, but this one is a bit tougher.
“Well, it needs to be bigger than just one,” he explains in a huff, tugging on the shirt and not getting anywhere.
“I could’ve bought one—”
“This way’s free, though.” Barry tries once more, but his hand slips and pops right against JJ’s chin, who groans. “Jesus, settle down. Rip it yourself, then.”
He digs into his cargo pants and flips open a pocket knife, but extends it towards him handle-out. “Or you can act like a civilized human.”
“Watch it,” Barry warns, half-expecting the kid to stand up for himself. Maybe puff out his chest a little, raise his voice that he’d better watch it, but he’s always surprising him.
JJ’s eyes drop to the pavement like a whimpering puppy. It’s pitiful, his asymmetrical and tattered shirt and his bad posture and droopy gaze. Two days ago, he was shoving one of his salty bandanas into his mouth before drilling him into the couch. Barry takes the knife and tries not to notice the way JJ leans his bicep against his wrist while he saws through the fabric.
Nothing about it feels retaliatory. He wouldn’t blame the kid if he’d pick on him in public, bust his chops in front of his friends and totally make him his bitch and the next night he’s forced to cum so many times that he ends the evening with a totally dry, painful last orgasm. But his trailer is a vacuum.
For the latest spawn in a long line of addictive personalities, his visits remain consistently infrequent. Barry’s got a honed roster waiting for him if he starts to miss him and what the kid does in his free time is entirely his own business, but he forgives the twinge of ownership in his gut when he hasn’t darkened his doorstep in over a week. Call it earnest concern for his neighbor.
The line is so far behind them that he’s forgotten what it looked like when JJ reappears with the blooming ghost of a punch on his left cheekbone. He’s diplomatic in not cracking a joke, asking which Kook he irritated this time, but he doesn’t check if he’s okay either. Not like he’s ever asked.
They don’t get high. They wait for the screen to latch again and JJ listens for anyone else in the trailer before he pounces. Teeth clack together and he licks into his mouth eagerly before fellating Barry’s tongue. He tries to card his fingers through the blonde’s hair and receives a slightly too-hard smack on his palm. “Hands off,” he orders against Barry’s mouth and starts the drag towards his bedroom. Fair.
Before the mattress can materialize below him, his back slams against the wood paneling of his hallway. Barry feels canines drag along his neck, points dipping into the flesh and tempting it to break. JJ’s lips suction around his jugular and tongues at the cord, hot and claiming. “Don’t—” he blurts and cuts himself off before leave a mark can tumble out after it because— is he even allowed to ask? “‘M not going anywhere,” he quickly pivots, and fumbles with the bottom hem of his tank.
All too telling, JJ mutters, “Aren’t you?”
There’s a shared pause in their movements, a beat where they both wonder if Barry will acknowledge that. It’s the only time the mask has ever slipped. He holds it up so well Barry’d just started to believe there wasn’t one at all, but the blink of truth dunks him in cold water. This is not commensalism; JJ is just as out of his comfort zone as Barry is. He’s just more understanding of exposure therapy.
You can trust me to stay. I have nowhere else to go.
Instead of saying anything, he lets his head thump against the wall, stretches out his neck for him. Beck will give him hell at the store when she sees it, but it’s not really at the front of his mind with JJ moaning into his skin and grinding against his thigh.
He tries to follow the no-touching rule by palming himself through his shorts and steadying himself on the closest door jamb with his free hand. He’s allowed to chase pleasure, lets himself be used, but can’t reciprocate. The index compiles itself automatically, his do’s and don’t’s quickly sorting in his brain so he isn’t left behind. JJ makes it simple, near effortless when he’s a treasure trove of warning signs and hard limits. Barry hardly even feels like he’s thinking.
Maybe that’s how they got to this point so quickly.
It’s a miracle they make it to the bed before either one of them finishes in their boxers, but it’s a close call. They both leak fat drops of precum when JJ frots against him, bare, smearing all around the hair trailing down their stomachs.
“Fuck me,” he says, a whisper against JJ’s mouth, and he must be too impatient to tease because he flips Barry around and plunges his first two fingers between his teeth.
His vision blurs just as time does. He’s opened, bitten, scratched and fucked and all he has to do is lift his hips a bit so JJ has the ideal angle. It’s rough, it’s always rough, but not punishing. Barry’s eyes roll back when he cages his arms around his head and starts pounding into him.
His shitty bedframe squeals under them, a surprisingly steady tempo harmonized by the vocal hitches in their breaths. God knows why they’re quieting themselves, but the restraint turns him on anyways. “‘M gonna cum,” Barry mumbles against the pillow and gets a growl in his ear in return.
“You’ll cum when I fucking say you can,” JJ snaps along with his hips, deeper and deeper, well past his prostate until he bottoms out with every stroke. It’s not direct pressure, thank fuck, but it’s enough friction to keep him teetering on the edge.
Barry squeezes his eyes shut and fights to think of anything that’ll prevent him from unraveling, and opens them quickly when he realizes it only helps him focus on JJ’s groaning and the slick sound of being stretched around him. He’s never actually disobeyed, never tested to see what happens if he counts down to one, and has no interest in seeing the other side.
“Nngh, fuck, feels so good,” JJ slurs, and Barry’s pretty sure he’s drooling onto his shoulder. Better than the face, but he’d take it anyways. “Mm. Y’ready?”
He clenches in response and it’s more than enough to put spots in JJ’s vision. Barry cums with his cock pressed to the sheets, staining the fabric and painting the skin he can reach, and he feels JJ finish inside him. He doesn’t ask him to wrap it or pull out, usually doesn’t have the chance when he’s so fucking keen to fill him. Yet another door he plans on leaving shut.
JJ pulls out carefully before he ends up collapsing onto the bed. He can stay or he can leave, six to one in Barry’s eyes. He knows he’ll be back; he isn’t the only one who needs this.
The water’s nice. He wouldn’t jump even if he wanted to.