Gays in Cornfield

Everything Colton Hill had ever touched wilted beneath his finger tips, died at the first signs of his affection. The irony of it was that Cole himself never actually died. It was like a sick game Cole played with fate, how many times could he knock on death’s door before it finally let him in.

The only thing that had ever made it out alive from Cole’s wild destruction, just to come running back for more, was Ruston Vance.

“You don’t look like Superman, Daddy. You’re too big!” The little boy giggled, hanging off Arthur’s back.

For Halloween, Cole’s mom had insisted that Cole and Arthur dress up like superheroes. Cole had dressed up as Spider-Man, and Arthur had dressed up as Superman.

The decision had been made because Cole wanted their costumes to rhyme, to match, and Arthur Hill would’ve done anything to see that tiny smile on the three-year-old’s face.

“Well, that’s why you should never meet your heroes, buddy,” Arthur grumbled, the costume too tight in all the wrong places as he repositioned Cole on his shoulder.

Cole’s mom let out a loud snort as she positioned the camera, finding humor in how uncomfortable her husband looked and how straightforward her son was, causing her to snap the photo accidentally. All hope was not lost, however, because when she looked down to investigate how it turned out, she managed to capture the photo perfectly. Even despite the chaos.

Arthur Hill had stood in front of the Frendo statue, a genuine smile resting on his lips. Cole had sat on his shoulders like a mirroring image of the man, if he had been thirty years younger. Cole’s cheek had been squished against his father’s hair and his gap-toothed smile was so wide it nearly engulfed the entire photo, and Arthur’s eyes had been looking up; looking right at Cole.

Arthur looked so happy and content that he could die.

That was the last candid photo taken of Arthur and Cole Hill that ended in a smile.

After the photo had been taken, Crystal Hill would later inform Arthur that he was about to be a father of two; they would tell Cole that he’d have to share his parents’ attention with his new little sister, but that they loved him all the wiser.

Many years later, the Halloween photo would be shoved into Arthur’s office drawer to be crumpled, forgotten, and replaced.

It could take someone up to an entire lifetime, even their death, to capture everybody’s attention.

Some people did crazy things for the rush of having all eyes on them. They became singers, actors, murderers. They would squeeze through small caves, set world records. Maybe even eat the sun in hopes of vomiting starlight; For everyone to know that they could shine from the inside out if people just paid attention.

It didn’t take nearly as long, or near as much effort, for Cole Hill to shine.

“Do you think I could be in the NFL?” Seven-year-old Tucker asked, attempting to flex his thin, spaghetti arms.

Cole scrunched his buttoned nose, trying to find a way to gently let Tucker’s dreams down. “I think you’re too little. Maybe when you’re bigger!”

Another kid, a girl, ran up to Cole, holding up two dolls with a happy expression slapped across her face.

“Look, Cole! This is what our kids will look like when we’re older!” she innocently exclaimed, showing him the toys she held in her arms and Cole’s face split into excitement.

“That’s so cute! I hope I have kids when I’m a grown-up! How old do you have to be to be a grown-up?” He questioned, finding himself lost in his own curiosity.

“Hm,” she thought, very concentrated as she articulated her answer. “One hundred!”

“Huh, that’s not even that far away!” Cole giggled, throwing his arms up.

Attention flocked to Cole Hill like moths to a lamp, everyone wanted to taste his starlight. Cole was too little to know about the power he held, he was too young to process how his stardom might have consequences in his future.

Right as two more boys rushed over to show Cole their action figures, an unfamiliar face slowly walked into the class, a backpack far too big hanging off his tiny frame.

He was in an oversized flannel and jeans, the shirt looking like it belonged to his dad. His shoes were dirty and his hair was fluffy and wild, undefined dirty-blond curls framing his soft face.

The seven-year-old looked around the room of giggling second-graders and playful groups, none of them paying attention to the teacher, who was shushing them quietly. No one except for Cole watched him walk into the classroom, no one glanced his direction, and the strange boy looked nearly relieved at that fact.

That was until the teacher started to introduce him.

“Class,” her voice spoke, sickeningly high-pitched and gentle. She made a motioning movement with her hands, gesturing for the new kid to take it. Slowly, he stepped forward, and clasped their hands together as shyness flushed his cheeks.

“This is Ruston, he’ll be joining us this school year. Everyone, give Ruston your loudest hello!”

The cramped room echoed with tiny greetings and Cole tried to be the loudest one, desperate to be heard amongst the others.

Cole was drowned out almost immediately when following the introduction, some kid shouted out, “Why are his clothes so dirty?”

That started up a chain of laughter. Cole didn’t laugh.

Cole furrowed his eyebrows, watching the little boy slouch his small shoulders as if he was trying to make himself go back to being invisible.

The teacher had a mortified look on her face when she glanced back to the kid— Ruston, and he looked like he was on the verge of tears. After the teacher allowed him to find a seat, Ruston surprisingly didn’t try to talk to Cole like the other kids did, which only intrigued Cole more.

Ruston didn’t have to be the one to talk to him.

Cole was just waiting for an opening, a moment to bite like a predator hungry for connection. His eyes watched from afar as he remained patient, which was something his mother scolded him often for not being, but he decided that this potential friendship was worth waiting for.

Around half an hour into the school day, a kid named Garret attempted to tease the new boy.

“Why do your shoes have holes? That looks silly,” He giggled, pointing at Ruston’s feet. More small laughs bounced throughout the class and Cole had sympathy for the teacher, because she genuinely tried to prevent the unrelenting child, but her efforts were to no avail.

Cole felt selfish for viewing Garret’s bullying as a gateway, but that didn’t stop him from using it as such.

Maybe being selfish wasn’t that bad.

Garret didn’t stop talking until a tiny hand touched his shoulder and lightly pushed him out of the way, Cole taking his place in front of Ruston’s desk.

“That was really mean,” Cole said towards Garret, an almost pouting expression on his face when he turned to Ruston.

Cole’s gaze locked onto honey-brown eyes for the first time.

An unfamiliar feeling flooded his body. Something Cole discovered later on in life that no one else could make him feel.

Nervous, shy, sick to his stomach in the best way possible. The word Cole was looking for at the time would be butterflies, but at seven-years-old, butterflies just meant bugs.

“Are you okay?” He found himself sheepishly asking, his massive personality dwindling down to just a slightly out-there echo, mindful of Ruston’s shyness.

The little boy’s eyes beamed upwards, and for a split second, Cole thought he was going to stand up and walk away.

And then, a small smile crept onto Ruston’s lips. “Yeah, thanks.”

Cole got far too excited, rushing to take a seat in the desk beside the boy as if it was in jeopardy of being occupied anytime soon.

For an unknown reason, Cole swore his heart was about to leap out of his chest.

“I’m Colton, but everyone calls me Cole. I like my name but it’s too long, I hate spelling it. I hate spelling anything, actually, my dad thinks I’m gonna get behind because I don’t like doing homework cause it’s, like, all spelling,” Cole word-vomited, seeming to have too many words to say to keep up with his little mind as he spoke with impressive speed.

When Rust didn’t answer, Cole took that as a sign to keep talking. “But my little sister is four and she still can’t even say my name yet! My mom says she needs a talking doctor but my dad won’t take her.”

Ruston paused, opening his mouth then closing it, resembling something of a goldfish. “What’s a talking doctor?” His voice was almost inaudible.

“They help you say things, I think. Actually, I don’t really know?” Cole had originally meant to say Speech Therapy, but getting the terminology right wouldn’t have helped his lack of knowledge surrounding the topic.

Ruston doesn’t say much for a minute and Cole stands there, swaying his arms back and forth, not willing to back down til he speaks. When he finally got around to replying, his response was much shorter compared to everything Cole had poured out.

“My name is Ruston but my parents call me just Rust.” Rust’s voice had the hints of a southern drawl to it, Cole found himself listening to the sound like it was a lullaby.

Cole’s face nearly split in half as he grinned, his two front teeth still in the process of growing back after losing them. “I like that name, you have a really long name. I’d hate spelling that.”

Rust smiled at Cole’s obliviousness. “But our names have the same amount of letters?”

Cole gaped, as if Rust was a genius for thinking of something so profound.

“They do? We’re like twins!”

Rust was smiling, Cole’s heart was pounding, and he couldn’t wait to get home and ask his mom to arrange a play date.

Cole’s foot bounced against the hard floor impatiently, on the verge of dramatically storming out.

Eighth grade had not been kind to Cole Hill. Okay, sure, an occasional adult would argue, “You have the best things money can buy, Cole. You don’t have the right to feel mistreated.”

And that occasional adult was typically (always, actually) his father.

But Cole would argue that his ironed shirts and fresh shoes did not protect him against the principal and Mr. Williams’ eagerness to send Cole to detention at every wrong step he took. Not to mention, Cole hated his dad anyway, so fuck his opinion.

Cole knew he should respect his parents, but he couldn’t help it.

Him and his dad didn’t get along anymore, they hadn’t for a long time, if ever. If for whatever reason they did talk, they were shouting, and it earned Cole a slap to an already sore cheek and his mother had to get involved. If his mother wasn’t home and his dad was feeling particularly cruel, it ended a little worse than that.

Never hard enough for signs to show and never delicate enough to not sting late into the night.

Cole shrugged the thoughts away; detention and thinking about his dad were opposite ends of the same prison. It always ended up prolonged and put Cole in a bad mood.

“How much longer?” Cole whined, looking at Mr. Williams, who sat slouched over his desk, scribbling words on an important looking piece of paper.

“Forever, Colton. Until the stars die out and school shuts down for good,” he deadpanned through his glasses, and Cole was not having it.

Cole hated Mr. Williams too. He had a feeling that it was mutual. He wasn’t sure what was up with adult men who were supposed to be protecting him, yet ended up hating him immensely, but it had become quite the recurring theme.

Cole let out an annoyed sigh, leaning back in the uncomfortable seat he had chosen earlier.

Then he abruptly heard the door to the office gently push open, letting in the distant chatter from students outside like fresh air to Cole’s lungs. His face perked up until he realized that, no, he wasn’t being freed from detention.

Someone else was being forced into it with him.

Ms. Ramirez, whom Cole recognized as his History teacher, had her hand on a boy’s shoulder, guiding him into the room.

He knew who it was, actually.

Rust—or was it Ruston? Cole wasn’t sure—Vance.

“Sorry to be a bother, sir, I can see you’re already occupied.” She shot Cole a glare, who in turn sent her a smug—falsely innocent, someone might say—smile right back at her. “But Rusty and another student got into a bit of an altercation earlier, so we decided it would be best for him to think it over in here, if that’s agreeable with you.”

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Williams yawned, clearly not fully listening, then politely nodded towards her, a silent thanks for alerting him.

Cole watched it play out with amusement tugging at his lips. An altercation? Rust Vance? That didn’t sound right.

To be fair, Cole didn’t actually know Ruston Vance.

He’d be lying if the boy hadn’t always caught his attention. They’d pass each other in the hall, and students would beam, would follow behind Cole like fortune left a trail everywhere he went, and they were just aching to take a bite.

Rust would never look over, not once. He always stayed that shy kid, hovering in the corner of a primary classroom.

Cole knew that he was really quiet, didn’t have many friends, and he knew that Rust still got picked on whenever someone did grace him with a conversation.

But still, Rust had never said more than a sentence to anyone as far as Cole was aware, and that was typically just to respond to a teacher or a student who was poking fun at him, so he knew that Rust couldn’t have been the instigator of an argument.

Cole wasn’t necessarily a justice-seeker, but whoever had started it deserved to be there too. It didn’t seem fair.

Mr. William gestured towards Rust and the only other chair in the room, which happened to be sitting right next to Cole. Ms. Ramirez smiled and closed the door behind the boy.

Rust stared at the chair like it was molten lava, like sitting in it would burn and itch at his skin. It took Cole a few seconds to realize that the eminent danger wasn’t actually the chair itself that Rust was worried about, it was Cole.

Cole raised a brow, not sure what he could have possibly done to make Rust feel so alarmed.

They hadn’t even really ever talked aside from the occasional conversation in elementary.

“I don’t bite, promise,” Cole tried to ease him by raising a hand in a salute, and Rust just awkwardly shuffled over to sit down, resting his backpack on the floor.

Cole was met with silence. Okay, he could work with silence.

Cole could turn silence into conversation like water into wine, it melted and relaxed between his fingers like the vibrato of his voice was enough to make someone’s day.

Cole didn’t really know why people cared what he had to say, but Cole loved saying what he had to say, so he basked in the attention.

But as Cole had noted, Rust wasn’t the usual kid in Kettle Springs.

Rust had never even once tried to spark small talk or seek Cole out, he’d never asked to walk to class together even when they had the same History teacher, he’d never tried to get on Cole’s good side for popularity, money, or any other superficial reason.

And from the little about Rust that Cole did know, his family could really benefit from all of that.

“So,” Cole started off, getting a shushing noise from Mr. Williams, so he dialed his tone back a few notches. “Ruston.”

There was the concept of a nod, Rust tilting his head down in acknowledgment. Cole rolled his eyes.

“You got too cool to talk to me?” Cole tried to joke.

There was a soft pause as the boy avoided eye contact, staring at the floor.

“Yup.”

It was clearly sarcastic and Cole still couldn’t help but feel slightly offended. He frowned. He expected a tad more of a reaction than that, so he decided to circle back around to his initial approach.

“That is your name, right? Unless you’re an undercover spy.” Cole made a dramatic point of looking around the room. “Ruston Vance, are you an undercover spy—“

“People don’t really call me that.” His voice was coated in a soft drawl, his accent slightly thicker than most people Cole knew. “Just Rust.”

The sound was gentle to Cole’s ear, Rust’s voice was impressively deep for his age and unexpectedly warmer than Cole imagined. Not that he walked around school daydreaming about Rust’s voice, anyways.

But the memories came rushing back to him, how soft Rust’s face used to be when they were just little kids. Before Cole started caring if his shoes were on-brand and if he had the latest Apple releases.

Their friendship at the time was short-lived, didn’t prolong into the next school year and never quite rekindled afterwards. Cole changed a lot, or rather, just molded into the selfish and corrupt man he was destined to be, and Rust stayed the same.

Just Rust.

The more Cole thought about it, that wasn’t a bad thing.

Cole found himself smiling without having a real reason to.

“Okay, just Rust, I remember now. I like how you talk,” Cole accidentally voiced aloud, not realizing how he was coming across or what he was saying until the words slipped through his teeth.

His face flushed when Rust slowly looked over to him, a puzzled expression across his features, and heat built in the core of Cole’s stomach.

Shit.

“What?” Rust sheepishly asked.

“I just meant— I mean, you have a nice voice. Your accent, I don’t know. You were all like ’People don’t really call me that’” Cole echoed, forcing his voice to have the same intensified southern twang that Rust had naturally while puffing out his chest to mimic Rust’s broader frame.

Okay, maybe Cole was slightly jealous of Rust’s height. Only slightly.

There was an awkward moment where they simply stared at one another, and then Rust hesitantly spoke.

“Thanks…?”

Cole looked around, trying to think of something else to say and to swallow the burning in the back of his throat.

“Well, my name—“

“We’ve met. And also, everyone knows your name,” Rust interjected. He didn’t even sound like he was being rude, not by any means.

It took a lot of skill for a person to say something so incredibly passive-aggressive and still have it come across as softly spoken.

“Okay, well then, skipping past introductions. What was that about?”

“What do you mean?”

“The altercation,” Cole spoke, making air quotes with his fingers.

Rust started leaning back in the chair, then flinching when his shoulder touched Cole’s, as if it electrocuted him.

The flutters slammed inside Cole again, hitting his entire body this time, and Cole shuddered slightly. Rust raised back up to avoid touching him.

Cole felt weird for being a little disappointed that a boy he had just officially met, excluding a conversation or two at seven, didn’t want to touch him.

“Uh,” Rust started, rubbing his palms together. Cole made a point not to look at his strong-looking hands. “Some Kid was just saying stuff.”

“About what?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, clearly not nothing,” Cole pushed.

“About my family.” Rust quickly blurts, like the words stung against his tongue.

Cole paused.

Oh. Right.

About his family. Cole has heard about his family on the occasion too.

He heard they had guns lying around everywhere, heard they could barely afford to buy Rust things for school, heard his parents were weird, that Rust was weird. Cole heard even more shocking things, like Rust’s dad was waiting for the day he could finally hunt a person with those guns, instead of an animal.

Cole knew better than to believe that, or to feed into it at all.

“Oh, sorry.”

“’S fine.”

Cole gulped, trying to figure out how to cut the tension as he tapped his finger against his knee.

“Aren’t you gonna ask why I’m in the slammer too?”

Rust glanced over, a smile on his face—no, that was too generous. It was more like a slight pull at the corner of his lips, like it was happening against his will. It was something you would miss if you were more than two feet away, but sitting right next to Rust had its advantages.

Cole got to see what his face said that his mouth wouldn’t.

“I mean, I wasn’t,” Rust admitted playfully.

A joke. A tease, even. Cole smiled, he was finally in.

“You should, it’s a very funny story.”

Rust turned to face him, intrigued.

“Why are you in the slammer, Colton?”

His name on the redneck’s lips sounded better than anyone else had ever said it, like the letters only curved and bent to fit perfectly on Rust’s tongue.

Cole’s face burned beneath Rust’s attention.

Rust’s stare felt like daggers made out of soft things, meant to comfort and not to hurt. Cole cleared his throat, attempting to find his voice and to shake away whatever odd feelings were surging through him.

Maybe it was because Rust was a new face to talk to, maybe that explained Cole’s inability to act normal at the moment.

“My friends and I make these videos and post them, sometimes. We wanted to make one today, just for fun, and we spent all of lunch trying to get some kid to sit with us so we could film it,” Cole started, already smiling at the memory.

Cole’s attention snapped back when Rust kept staring, waiting for the ending to his story.

“Anyway, so he finally did, and I was the guy who had to record while they started throwing food at him. Naturally, I was the only kid who got in trouble because I was the one holding a camera. Stupid, right?” Cole chuckled as the words exited his mouth, oblivious to the reaction Rust was having.

When Cole finally looked over, the sight surprised him.

Rust wasn’t laughing, he wasn’t laughing at all. He was snarling actually, as if Cole had confessed to murder.

“That’s— that’s a really shitty thing to do,” Rust started, staring at Cole judgmentally. Cole wasn’t used to being looked at that way. “It sounds like you were bullying him.”

Cole furrowed his eyebrows and opened his mouth to defend himself when the realization slapped him.

Maybe that was really mean.

It was a thought that had never even begun wandering through Cole’s mind, the possibility that he was an asshole, and so were his friends. Maybe that was why Rust never wanted to talk to him.

Suddenly, a feeling that Cole didn’t get very often surged through his body as Rust stared at him. Shame, embarrassment, shyness. He wanted to crawl under a hole and die for even assuming that Rust would find amusement in that.

Especially with how other kids treated Rust.

“You’re— you’re right,” Cole mumbled, looking down at the floor. “I didn’t think about it that way.”

“’Course you didn’t. Why would you?” Rust humorlessly laughed, shaking his head.

As if that was expected, like Cole was the exact pretentious asshole he expected him to be.

“I’m sorry.”

“Say that to the kid you threw food at.”

“Technically, that wasn’t me—“ Cole started to say before Rust glared at him, his nose scrunched. Cole gulped, Rust’s silence saying more than any words.

“Okay, yeah. Fuck, you’re still right,” Cole grimaced at the floor.

“Language, Mr. Hill. That’s twenty more minutes,” Mr. Williams slammed his palm against the desk as he nearly shouted, and Cole and Rust both jumped, as if they had forgotten his presence entirely. “Ruston, you can go.”

“What?” Cole exclaimed, standing up in objection.

Rust didn’t say anything, just leaned down to pick up his bag and began to dart towards the door.

Cole didn’t listen to the tangent Mr. Williams had started trailing off on, his attention focusing on the boy in flannel, brainstorming something to say without knowing why he even cared to see Rust leave.

“Wait, Rust—“ Cole coughed, interrupting the Principal and Rust’s hand hovered of the doorknob hesitating. “I heard your family likes to go hunting?” It came out as a question, not as confident as Cole intended.

Rust sneered, looking defensive. “’Course you did—“

“No, not in a bad way! I just meant, maybe you could show me how it works sometime? My dad doesn’t have time to do stuff like that.”

He didn’t have time for anything involving Cole, actually.

Cole was nearly vibrating with nerves where he stood, he didn’t know why he suddenly cared so much about what people thought. Maybe it was because no one had ever thought anything negatively about him before.

If he should feel nervous about anyone’s opinion, Rust should rest at the bottom of the list, but he wasn’t. He was suddenly at the top. Cole felt like the world was staring, burning billions of eyes right into him. He felt like he was about to die at the tip of Rust’s stare, at his silence, at his everything.

And then, Rust broke the quiet. “Uh, yeah, maybe.”

Cole watched Rust gently close the door behind him.

Cole couldn’t help the smile that expanded across his features. With that, Cole sat back down, happy to spend the next half hour in detention.

Cole’s mom died, and the color that remained in the world did too.

He stood at her open casket, peering down into it and at a face he should recognize— yet he didn’t.

She looked frail and weak. The makeup covering her face didn’t make her look any less pale and Cole looked over his shoulder. Victoria was crying, Cole should be too. The tears stopped at his waterline, they didn’t fall, they just lingered.

People were glancing around and whispering and he knew that he probably looked heartless. Right then, he felt heartless.

The problem was she had spent so long in the hospital that the inevitable passing felt more like closure, the tears that he wanted so desperately to cry remained unmoving because he’d wasted so many already.

His arm wrapped around Victoria’s shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head and she leaned into the touch before Cole let go.

It was a fleeting gesture, but it was all he had in him.

Mom would know how to comfort her, Cole thought before looking in the casket for the last time. Maybe, maybe she wouldn’t.

His mom was dead and Cole didn’t know anything anymore.

Cole laid sprawled out on Rust’s bedroom carpet, staring at the ceiling alongside Rust.

Cole and Rust had turned into somewhat friends around a year or so ago, whenever Cole had forced Rust to take him hunting during eighth grade.

They were in high school now, and ever since then, Cole had refused to leave Rust alone.

At first, he had gathered the impression that sometimes Rust would prefer silence and solitude to Cole’s loudness. Then after a while, Rust had willingly made room for the company. Alone had never truly meant alone anymore; it had always meant alone with Cole.

Cole had thought that secretly, Rust preferred it that way. Or maybe, Cole had just hoped that was true because he preferred it that way.

But Rust had never told him he couldn’t come over. He had never told Cole that he was annoying him or to shut up. He had never shoved the boy away when Cole accidentally pressed their knees together when they sat on a couch.

The thought of Rust making adjustments to his life before Cole just to include him in it was making Cole ridiculously giddy.

Rust wouldn’t do that for anyone else, Cole had selfishly thought, making him happier than it should.

He had looked over, his eyes tracing Rust’s side profile. The wisp of his lashes, the curve of his nose, the sharpness of his jaw. Cole had accepted a while ago that hanging out with Ruston Vance meant shoving down the intense arousal that had stirred every time the Redneck breathed.

Cole loved Rust’s house. He loved Rust’s space. He loved being included in Rust’s alone time, even if it had killed him to stay quiet.

Cole doesn’t really mind suffering in silence or having to shove his overflowing personality down, as long as it meant he got to hang out with Rust.

Their shoulders pressed together, and Cole’s stomach fluttered. Rust’s breathing had come in short and comforting spurts beside him, like soothing white noise to Cole’s staticky mind.

Of course, Cole could never stay silent for too long though.

“That’s a little morbid, don’t you think?” Cole had broken the serenity, looking over to him with a smile as he had started pointing to the deer head that had hung on Rust’s deep green, painted walls.

Cole loved to poke fun at how redneck Rust’s family was, and Rust always just shrugged it off his shoulders.

It was always lighthearted, and Rust knew not to take it personally because it was Cole that usually refused to hang out at his own mansion. Rust hasn’t asked, so Cole hasn’t told him, but that’s because of his dad.

Not a single air hockey table or cinema room in that house could shallow out the screeching tension that had come with it.

All the stuff that Cole’s mom used to have that now haunts the place.

Cole doesn’t know why him and his father gotten along like water merging with oil. The raging hormones of a fifteen-year-old boy, mixed in with the raging anger of a grieving grown man, just didn’t mix well in the Hill household apparently.

That was probably why Cole liked Rust’s house. It had been homely and warm. It wasn’t large— it was small, actually. Cole’s house had been huge in comparison but that was all it had been, huge. It had been cold and unwelcoming, like an expensive hotel. It had always felt that way, long before his mother had gotten sick.

“I think it suits me,” Rust finally replied, and both of their eyes lingered on the dullness of the stuffed, long-since dead deer.

“Agree to disagree. I don’t think death suits you, Rusty,” Cole quipped, and when Rust turned his head to look over, Cole winked.

Ruby flushed over Rust’s face as he scoffed, glancing back to the ceiling. Cole’s stomach hurt with affection as he softly smiled.

In the humblest way possible, Cole knew the effect he had had on Rust. Cole knew that Rust would surrender his tough-guy act at Cole’s every request. The knowing was almost worse than not knowing.

Knowing meant they had both been sitting there, basking in each other’s presence and aching to touch each other, and no one was been brave enough to do it.

Cole knew that Rust would more than likely never do it. He was the bravest kid— no, person— that Cole knew, but he apparently wasn’t kiss-Colton-Hill brave.

Cole was gonna have to make the first move, it was just a matter of when and how.

Patience. If Ruston Vance had taught him anything, it was patience. How to settle down, let things be, even if it was just for a few minutes.

Cole relaxed slightly, closing his eyes.

The comfortable silence hadn’t lasted long whatsoever before Cole talked again; he had never been one of speechlessness.

“So, what are you doing for your birthday next week?”

Rust looked over to him, his eyebrow raised before Cole’s words dawned on him. “My birthday?” He asked, looking a bit surprised.

Rust’s surprise only started to surprise Cole, who the fuck casually forgets that their birthday was approaching? That was the best part of Cole’s year. “Uh, yeah, your fucking birthday. You’re almost sixteen, man!”

Rust made an unreadable expression before turning his gaze back to the ceiling. “Nothing, more than likely.”

Cole cocked his head. “Nothing? Why not?”

Rust shrugged.

“You’re not going on vacation or anything? Do you think you’ll get a new car?” He pushed, and Rust looked over to him, disbelief on his face with an amused tug at his lips.

“I think that’s the richest, most spoiled-child thing you’ve ever said.”

Cole’s mouth gaped, swiftly sitting up from where he laid to look down at Rust.

“How? Everyone gets a car for their sixteenth. Why even turn sixteen without a car? Sixteen is basically short for ’sweet, now get me a car.’” He said matter-of-factly and arguably, very ignorantly.

Cole knew that sometimes he could be insensitive to Rust’s different way of life.

Most people’s way of life.

Growing up as a millionaire meant Cole had lacked a little awareness (or a lot-tle, according to Victoria, who somehow had more empathy than him,) surrounding finances.

From what Cole had seen Rust during grocery store visits and gas-station stops, Rust already spent the majority of his fifteen years worrying about finances, and he had refused Cole’s help when he’d offer to pay.

It made Cole a little sad, but he wasn’t able to force someone to let him to pay for them.

Even if all he wanted to do had been grab Rust’s shoulders and scream,‘ I have more money. Unlimited amounts. I only have one of you,' Cole wouldn’t do that, he was understanding that money wasn’t something Rust wanted to acknowledge around Cole.

Cole hadn’t exactly played a kind role in Rust’s comfortability, however.

Cole thought back to a few months ago, when he had laughed at Rust for rewearing the same shirt three days in a row; those were things that millionaire kids like Cole wouldn’t understood.

Couldn’t even begin to understand.

“Why don’t you just wash a new shirt?” Cole chuckled, playfully shoving Rust’s shoulder as his feet had dangled in the lake.

So much for fishing. Cole’s fits of laughter had definitely scared them all away.

“Water was too high last month.”

“Then buy a new shirt.”

“My family can’t afford that shit like yours does,” Rust murmured.

“Wouldn’t having to wash it every night make your water bill higher than if you just bought a new shirt?” Cole had asked, looking over to see the discomfort on Rust’s face.

Cole’s mouth fell open, his face contorting with rich-boy judgment and his voice had gotten higher-pitched, something taunting that he had picked up on when hanging out with Janet Murray or Matthew Trent.

“Oh my god, you don’t wash your shirts every time after you wear them?”

Cole grimaced at the memory now, embarrassed for being so insensitive.

“No, Cole,” Rust sighed. “Not everyone gets a car for their sixteenth. I’m stuck with the ford. Shit, I’ll be lucky if I get groceries.” Rust’s joke—that hadn’t really been a joke but was clearly meant to come across jokingly—didn’t land.

Cole looked over with a soft frown. “Rust, that’s not funny—”

“I was kidding.”

“Still not funny.”

“Cole, I said I was kidding.”

Fortunately enough, Cole dropped the niceties. They remained sitting there until Cole’s dad called, and Cole had to go home.

Cole knocked on the front door, his nerves feeling like they were on fire.

Cole has stepped into this house probably a hundred times in the last year, but he had always gotten that shaky feeling before Sibyl or Jim had opened it.

They had always had the same reaction, impressively consistent.

One of Rust’s parents would open the door, and they would sigh upon seeing Cole. They looked at Cole in a way that no one else had looked at Cole.

Like a problem. A dangerous insect. A threat to their child. Like a rose with thorns.

Cole didn’t understand, he had always tried to be polite when he come over. He cleaned up after himself, made sure to say please and thank you.

In Cole’s opinion, he had been a complete suck-up every time he came over, and they still hadn’t approved of their friendship. It was pretty annoying.

You give a mouse a cookie, and they throw it back in your fucking face, Cole thought as Jim Vance opened the door.

“Good evening, sir,” Cole said, putting on his best friendly smile. A smile that Janet had told him was handsome, once or twice.

One of her—admittedly, few and far in between—compliments.

“Cole,” Jim awkwardly greeted, tilting his head forward in something resembling a greeting.

Jim Vance reminded Cole of a lumberjack of some sort. Tall, manly, rough. He also carried that same serious glare that Rust has, except intensified with the force of every star in the galaxy.

Times five million.

Cole gulped nervously. Jim looked down at the ’Happy Birthday’ bag in Cole’s hand.

He let out a slow sigh, the wrinkles on his forehead becoming more prominent. “Rust,” the man called out, only to receive no answer. “Rust!” He repeated, louder.

It took a moment for the teenager’s voice to echo in the hallway. “Sorry, pops.”

Rust’s dad wasted no time stepping back from the door, revealing who stood in the frame of it.

There Cole Hill stood in all his (hopefully attractive) glory, holding the Happy Birthday bag in his right hand, his previous fake smile melting into a real one.

Rust looked like he had seen a ghost.

Rust looked—okay, rough. He looked rough, but rough in the way that Cole wanted to rip his clothes off and find out how rough Rust could really be.

Rust hadn’t changed out of his dirty work clothes from helping his dad, and he clearly hadn’t showered yet either; his curls were greasy, and there were black smudges smeared across his face.

Cole wanted to make a comment like, ‘Work? On your birthday? Fuck, you really didn’t have any plans.’ But he didn’t; he was distracted.

Cole’s eyes traced down to the veins that snaked up Rust’s strong, calloused hands, and his mind wandered, picturing his fingers wrapping around Cole’s—

Nope. Not right now. Later, soon, not now.

“Cole,” Rust greeted awkwardly, doing that same weird head tilt that his father had done.

“Rust!” Cole glistened, stepping into the home, then noticing that Sibyl was in the kitchen, with a coffee mug in hand. She smiled and Cole smiled back.

Rust coughed, Cole assumed it was to ease the tension, and they made their way towards Rust’s bedroom.

The wooden door shut gently behind Cole as they stepped in. If Rust noticed that Cole locked it too, then he didn’t say anything.

“So,” Cole huffed out, turning around with the bag still in hand. “I got you a present.”

“I see that. You shouldn’t have.”

“I know, I’m such a gentlem—”

“No, like, you shouldn’t have. I didn’t need anything.”

Cole rolled his eyes, sitting on the edge of Rust’s perpetually, perfectly made bed. “You don’t even know what it is.”

“I don’t have to know, return it.”

“Okay, rude. Stop complaining and get your ass over here,” Cole replied, patting the spot next to him on the mattress.

Not that Rust needed permission to sit on his own bed, but Cole just liked to boss people around—especially Rust—so it checked out.

Rust let out a sigh of defeat, plopping down beside him. “Really, Cole, I didn’t need—”

Cole shoved the bag into his hand, anxiously rubbing his palms together. Rust looked down at the bag like it held a bomb, his eyes once-overing Cole’s face.

“Open it,” Cole urged, getting impatient.

He couldn’t help it; it was a hard habit to break when he never had to truly wait on anything a day in his life.

“I feel bad, man.”

“Rusty, please?” He flashed what was hopefully his most intense puppy-eyes.

Rust bit his bottom lip and looked away.

Nailed it.

“Open it—“ Cole started back up.

“Okay, okay. I’m getting there.”

Rust reached into the bag hesitantly, moving the light-blue tissue paper out of the way and pulling out whatever remained.

Cole watched him like he was studying for a test, memorizing every expression like cheat codes.

At first, Rust didn’t seem to know what he was looking at. Then Cole watched him unfold it, feel the fabric glide beneath his fingers.

It was a reddish-brown flannel, a shirt. A new shirt.

“Happy birthday,” Cole whispered when he leaned in, low in Rust’s ear, his voice obnoxiously smug. “I think it suits you. Way more than dead animals, anyway. Would fit right in with your collection.”

Rust slowly turned his head, his expression blank—annoyed, at most. Cole met his gaze, their eyes locking together until Cole couldn’t help but grin, and it erupted a chain of laughter from both of them.

“Fuck you. You’re such an asshole,” Rust lightheartedly chuckled, beginning to throw the shirt back at Cole but Cole caught his wrist, stopping the movement before it even took off.

He was officially in operation Bone Ruston Vance.

Rust hesitantly looked back over.

There was an unrecognizable heat in Cole’s eyes, a seriousness that had never really lingered before. Cole’s hand remained locked on Rust’s wrist, and it seemed to be having the effect Cole intended.

“Yeah, I know,” Cole breathed out quietly. He was almost scared if he talked too loud, Rust would bail. Or maybe, Cole would freak out and bail.

Cole could feel the pulse of Rust’s wrist start to pick up and his stomach stirred in arousal, his eyes skating over Rust’s lips.

Part of Cole wondered if this was how every wild animal Rust had ever hunted felt like, trapped. Caught. Anxious. Cole cleared his throat and found himself leaning in slightly, brushing their noses together as his eyelids fluttered shut momentarily.

“Jesus, Cole. Please don’t do that,” Rust whispered, nearly pleaded. Cole listened to Rust’s silence, he heard what Rust had to say yet didn’t. Please, don’t lead me on. Please, don’t leave me here. Cole wanted to drink the worries from his lips.

Cole ignored Rust’s silent begging, looking down into his lap and watching his grasp on Rust’s wrist sneak downwards until their fingers were being intertwined.

Cole’s hands looked small in comparison to Rust’s. Pampered, even. Baby-smooth, not a line or callus of struggle. Rust’s hands were large and rugged, dirty and rough. Cole was staring at the difference like it was killing him, and deep down, it was.

Rust loved to call him spoiled. He wanted Rust to show him what that really meant. To pin him down, pick him up, let Cole feel humbled for the first time in his life. His eyes looked back up to meet a honeyed stare.

Rust looked confused, turned on, and slightly scared.

“Try it on for me?” Cole asked, gesturing to the shirt.

Rust started to shake his head but Cole’s voice knocked the disapproval out of the water.

“Don’t make me beg you, because you know I will, Ruston,” He whispered, unlocking their fingers to run his hand over Rust’s thigh, dangerously close to his crotch.

“Please, Rusty? Just for me?”

Rust let out a groan, and the sound went straight to the tent growing in Cole’s jeans. Yes, that, Cole thought, that noise, forever.

Rust always melted at the nickname, an unfair card Cole learned to draw. Cole couldn’t remember a single day of his life that he wasn’t selfish. Rust was wordlessly nodding, and Cole shook his head this time.

“Let me hear it.”

“Fucking hell, Cole. Just for you,” Rust cursed beneath his breath, so quiet Cole might not have caught it if he weren’t straining his ears so intensely.

Cole Hill was so whipped, and Cole Hill was so fucked.

Cole pressed a hand against Rust’s lower back, pushing him forward slightly until Rust was standing on his feet. He turned and grabbed the flannel off the bed, tugging his dirtier and older shirt off to toss it on the floor for the time being.

Rust would definitely complain about the mess later.

Cole watched like a starving man, like he hadn’t eaten in years. His mouth opened as Rust’s core flexed, tugging the fabric over arms that had always been toner than Cole’s.

’There’s just more meat on you,’ Cole would defensively say whenever Rust could carry something that Cole couldn’t. That might be true, but it was mostly just added muscle. Cole never told Rust that he wasn’t actually just jealous over it, however that may have appeared. He was desperate for it, for Rust.

Cole stood up when Rust had the flannel fully buttoned, and a blinding white smile was now on full display, right in Rust’s personal space.

“Looks good,” Cole said, eyes subtly peering up at him due to their small height difference. Nothing drastic. “Wanna know why I got you a shirt?” He whispered.

Rust shivered. “To make fun of me and my flannels?”

“Wanna know the other reason I got you a shirt?” Cole sarcastically spoke, looping his finger into one of the belt-holes of Rust’s jeans and pulling him close, their lips inches apart. “I got it so I could do this.”

His wandering hands started to undo all the buttons Rust had prepared with impressive speed, the fabric falling to the carpet in a matter of seconds.

Cole’s entire body felt like it was on fire, and Rust was leaning in.

Their lips connected and it was fireworks, loud and strong, it was everything Cole knew it would be. Rust’s hands were flying to Cole’s waist like they were made specifically to cradle him. Rust’s shyness and shame seemed to die on his hands. Rust was touching him, Rust was kissing him, and everything was happening so fast.

Cole shoved Rust to sit back against the mattress, dropping to his knees and fumbling with the zipper of Rust’s jeans.

“Happy fucking birthday, Rusty,” Cole grinned, eyes wild with lust.

“No kidding,” He huffed, his head tilting back as his fingers tangled into dark, silky hair.

Cole Hill realized that his and Rust’s situation was teetering dangerously close to something serious, rather than simple fun or hormones, in the most mundane way possible.

Rust had been over at his house, which wasn’t a typical occurrence. Arthur wasn’t home, thankfully.

However, his dad wasn’t his only problem, because the minute Rust stepped into the house, Victoria rushed to ask him if he wanted to binge-watch TV with her. That was her favorite thing to do. Cole did not want to binge-watch TV with her. Cole had other plans, sexier plans. Plans that would require alone time with Rust, a locked door, and absolutely no Gilmore Girls.

Maybe it even required a soundproof room; Rust liked hearing Cole’s whines when things got heated.

Cole had been tugging on Rust’s flannel, making an expression that he hoped would scream, Say no. Say no. Say no.

Rust was a pushover. He couldn’t say no to puppy eyes when they came from someone in the Hill household, and that was becoming clear.

Cole sat squished on the loveseat in Victoria’s room that rested in front of her almost comically large TV. (“This is a bedroom?” Rust had beamed. He looked so cute that Cole only kind of wanted to strangle him with affection.) Victoria sat next to Rust, and after around ten minutes or so, the twelve-year-old fell asleep with her head against Rust’s shoulder.

Excitement filled Cole’s chest as he instantly stood up. “Fucking finally,” he huffed out a laugh, gesturing for Rust to take his hand to exit the sickeningly girly and frankly cock-blocky bedroom, but Rust held a finger to his lips to shush him.

Cole turned his head in confusion, and slowly, Rust stood up. Then he slouched over, curving one of his strong arms underneath Victoria’s legs and one behind the back of her head, swiftly lifting her off the couch, then walking over to lay her gently in the pink-sheeted queen bed, without any struggle.

It wasn’t that Victoria Hill was heavy at all. Could Cole have effortlessly lifted her like that? Probably not, but that was beside the point. The part of the gesture that caught Cole’s attention was that Rust cared enough to do it in the first place.

Cole watched, his expression blank but his chest exploding with overwhelming tenderness.

Rust pulled the fuzzy blanket over her body, and when Victoria shifted in her sleep, he paused, careful not to wake her. The only time Cole had ever seen Rust stand so still was when they went hunting together.

Rust tiptoed back to Cole, a soft smile on his face. They made their way out into the hallway, the door shutting with a gentle click.

“Anyway—” Rust started, cut off with a hard smash of lips. He lightly pushes Cole back, eyes wide. “What was that for?” He questioned, and Cole isn’t sure why Rust even asked that, because Cole usually kissed him like that anyway.

”Because, you’re nice and hot and you should let me suck your dick,” Cole whispers, nodding with every word to push his point.

It didn’t take much more convincing.

“Have you ever been in love?” Cole asked Janet on a random Tuesday night.

She looked inside the mirror attached to her vanity, pausing her blush application to glare suspiciously at Cole through it.

“Before you piss me off, where are you going with this?”

“Nowhere. Just asking.” You wouldn’t like where I was going with this. You would fall over dead if you knew who I was asking this for.

Janet sighed, rolling her eyes, halfheartedly. “I mean, I guess.”

Cole twirled in the spinning chair by Janet’s desk, something he only realized he had been doing for far too long when he started getting the early stages of a migraine. However, that didn’t stop him from doing it again.

Cole laughed at her response. “What kind of answer is that? That doesn’t sound like something someone would say when they’ve been in love.”

“Oh my god, Cole. You’re so annoying. Yes, I’ve been in love. Romeo and Juliet love. I mean, what else do you want me to say?”

Cole grinned at her words. It was so insensitively Janet.

But then Cole paused, cocking his head sideways. As far as he knew, Janet hadn’t dated anyone long enough for that kind of love. So unless it was pining from afar, or some secret hook-up she never told him about, he couldn’t even guess who it could’ve been.

“Okay, well, another question before my next question. Who have you been in love with?”

Janet paused, reaching into her makeup drawer and pulling out another pink powder of some sort. Eyeshadow, Cole subconsciously tried to guess, then she added it to her cheekbones and nope, it was more blush.

There was a split second where they locked eyes in her mirror, and there was an unreadable expression on the feisty girl’s face. It was almost sad, completely unlike her. “Does it matter?” She spoke, soft with an edge to it. A pillow filled with bricks, perhaps.

Cole shrugged. He knew if he kept moving forward in that route, Janet would never confess and they would lose track of the conversation. Cole would push the matter later; he wanted to solve his own problem first. “Guess not.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“So, how did you know?”

”Know what?”

“That you were in love.”

She whips around from where she sits in her vanity, giving him a judgmental stare-down. “Can’t you make yourself useful and google it or something?”

Cole laughed, his eyes crinkling. “I don’t want to google it; it’s not as reliable as the real source.” Cole kicked his feet against the floor and rolled in the chair, over towards Janet’s direction, sitting beside her.

“How. did. you. know?” He repeated, accentuating every word.

She groaned, nearly breaking the pink-power—blush, eyeshadow thing—as she tossed it back into the bag. She shifted in her own chair, her dark eyes staring right at Cole. There was something swarming in them that Cole couldn’t pin down.

“Look,” She sighed, never breaking the eye-contact. “I hate to be one of those assholes who say 'when you know, you know’ to everything, but it’s true. You’ll just know.”

“But what if I don’t know?”

”Cole,” She said, unusually soft, reaching down to Cole’s lap and resting her hand overtop of his. “If you’re even considering it, then you already know.”

Cole looked at her, Rust flashed through his mind. He started smiling, and she did too.

”Now, are you gonna tell me what that was about?” She asked, tilting her head sideways, hand still on Cole’s when Cole retreated it from the physical contact. Cole wasn’t paying attention to the way she looked disappointed.

Then Cole grinned, putting on his best Julia Robert’s impression. “Maybe, I’m just a boy, standing in front of a girl—“

Janet pushed him so hard that he fell out of the chair.

The night Cole Hill broke things off with Ruston Vance, he had walked down the luxurious yet cold hall and towards his bedroom.

The tears on his cheeks had started to dry, and the ache in his chest had simmered down to a slight burn. As long as Cole tried not to think about Rust at all, the emptiness would stay at bay.

Of course, Cole could never go longer than a few seconds without thinking of the redneck boy, and he felt the sting of tears prick his eyes all over again.

Cole never meant to hurt Rust. Cole never meant for things to spiral the way they did. But Cole couldn’t help it. He thought about losing Rust in the way he’d lost his mom, agonizingly slow. He had thought about how attached he was becoming, how co-dependent. Every breath he took was for Rust.

So Cole ran from it. He left. The worst part of it, in Cole’s shattered opinion, was that Rust just allowed him to leave.

He didn’t beg, he didn’t ask too many questions. Rust dropped Cole off at his mansion-like house, and Cole watched him drive away, a shattered expression hanging from his features.

The image flashed through Cole’s head, and he felt like he had been stabbed, except he was the one who held the knife. Cole’s palms were starting to burn from how hard he was digging his nails into the skin, trying not to think about everything.

He was snapped out of his own head when he passed a certain door in the hall, a sound echoing in his little sister’s room.

Giggling. She was giggling.

Giggling in a way that she hadn’t since mom died. If it had been any other night, Cole wouldn’t have cared.

But deep down, Cole couldn’t afford to be alone right then.

Victoria and Cole hadn’t talked a whole lot the past year.

Not since their mother died. Not since Cole started barricading himself in his bedroom, locking out the outside world. Everyone except Rust and his friends, anyway. The Rust thing hadn’t gotten him very far either. Rust couldn’t save Cole from himself.

Cole turned back around and took a few steps forward, beginning to push Victoria’s door open.

The door creaked, and Victoria raised her head.

She was lying on her stomach, entangled in her pink-sheets. There was a tray next to her filled with a multitude of candies and chips, and Cole must have caught her mid-grab for a gummy bear when she slowly laid it back down.

“Cole?”

Cole bit his bottom lip, trying not to get emotional again. “Hey,” he stared at the floor. “What’s so funny?”

She stared at him like they’d never met before, like she wasn’t the same little kid that used to follow Cole around everywhere he went. That would sleep in his bed when she got scared.

She looked like she was about to genuinely give him an answer, but she picked up on the fact that Cole was not doing okay, and seemed to take the route of trying to improve his mood.

“Your face.”

Cole looked at her, she looked at him. They both huffed a breathy laugh. There was still a soft silence, like she was waiting for him to say something else.

Instead, Cole stumbled forward and sat down on the mattress, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Is something—“ Victoria couldn’t even finish the sentence before another tear rolled down Cole’s face.

Victoria sat up and shoved the tray onto her nightstand before scooting back over, like she was in protective-little sister mode, and leaned her head against his shoulder.

Cole wasn’t sure how long they sat there before Victoria decided to ask again. “What happened?”

Cole sniffled. “Rust and I— we aren’t… We decided not to be friends anymore. ”I decided. I ruined everything. I don’t know if we ever were friends.

Victoria stared at Cole, her eyes sympathetic and warm and so much like their mother’s.

“Oh.”

“And I think I’m a really bad person,” Cole confessed quietly, whispering the sin like he was testing the waters.

Victoria cleared her throat. “Yeah, you are.”

That wasn’t what Cole expected to hear. He looked over, his lip jutted into a pout and the tears sticky against his cheeks. Victoria had a soft smile on her face, and before Cole knew it, they were both chuckling.

“Asshole,” Cole grumbled.

“Learned from the best,” Victoria giggled, playfully shoving her older brother then standing up.

“Where are you going?” Cole asked. A stupid question, really, since there was nowhere she could go. Cole was the one in her room.

“To get ice cream, stay here. We’re gonna binge watch Gilmore Girls.”

“Why? So I can be depressed and get fat?”

“Exactly. I have to kick you while you’re still down.”

Cole was laughing again. Deep, guttural laughs. Victoria was laughing too, high-pitched and sweet.

For a moment, Cole could pretend like everything wasn’t fucked. He could pretend like him and Victoria do this all the time, he could pretend that when he wakes up, it’ll be to a ’Good morning’ text from Rust. And maybe, he could even pretend his mom would be waiting for him in the kitchen, a plate of pancakes with melted chocolate chips.

Just how he liked them.

”I don’t even like Gilmore Girls,” Cole half-laughs and half-sobs, and it makes Victoria giggle evilly. She comes back with a carton of cookie-dough ice cream and two spoons.

Cole wasn’t sure when his hysterical laughter turned into desperate sobs.

All Cole knew was he fell asleep in Victoria’s room, to the sound of the TV and snores drowning out his terrible decisions.

Janet had told investigators that she wasn’t sure when Victoria’s jump turned into a fall.

In private, Janet had told Cole through tears that she could replay the moment in her head—without even having to rewatch the video—and pinpoint the exact moment his little sister lost her balance at the Reservoir.

Cole couldn’t pinpoint the moment everything had gone wrong. He didn’t catch when her dive transpired into a death-drop. But Cole could trace down to the last breath he took when he realized Victoria was dead.

Not injured, not unconscious, not concussed, but dead beneath his shaky hands.

Cole had jumped in after her, he had dragged her to shore. He had shouted her name and shaken her shoulders, and then he had felt it.

He hadn’t felt the knot on the back of her head. He hadn’t felt a real, tangible sign that she was gone. Rather, it was just a deep sense of loss. That same indescribable ache he had felt when his mother got sick, all those years ago. Ambulance sirens and distant chatter echoed all around him, people tried to pull him off, but he couldn’t move.

He couldn’t pull his eyes away.

Even in death, Victoria Hill looked beautiful, just like their mother. Delicate, gentle.

Her dark hair was swirled around her head like a comfort blanket, masking out her porcelain face. Her eyes were been half-lidded and dull, no sign of the inner light that once was brighter than the force of the sun. Blood had been leaking from the back of her scalp and colliding into the puddle of water that had dripped off her body, surrounding her head like a deadly halo.

Victoria and Crystal Hill were dead, and Cole had sworn in that moment he wouldn’t be far behind them.

Cole wasn’t granted the mercy of death, however, because the refinery fire never put him out of his misery the way he had intended it to.

Arthur sat at the head of the kitchen table the night after Victoria’s funeral, long after the time he would usually have been asleep.

Cole walked through the front door, the circles under his eyes nearly black.

He didn’t try to stop and talk to the man; Arthur hadn’t called a single time to ask where he’d been.

Cole only stayed out so long, drinking and partying and hooking-up with random people, just to see if he would. If Arthur would care about Cole the way other parents cared about their kids. He didn’t, apparently.

“Cole,” Arthur abruptly echoed through the large and empty house, his voice loud but not packed with any confidence.

Cole stopped in his tracks before letting out a soft sigh, slowly turning on his heels and walking towards the dining room. Arthur looked just as bad as Cole had figured.

“Yeah?”

Arthur nodded to the chair across from him, the chair his mother used to sit in. There was a whiskey glass in his hand, about a sip or so left in it.

Cole begrudgingly sat down, crossing his arms. If it had been another time, Cole might have stormed off to his room despite the demand, but Cole knew they had to get this over with.

Whatever this was about to be. Wherever the conversation was about to lead.

About Victoria, about his mom. About the fact that their four-person household had succumbed to just two, and neither of them had enough love for each other to make that feel like it was okay. Like they could get through it together.

They didn’t speak for a while. Cole sat there, watched Arthur refill the glass.

Arthur sat there, watching Cole watch him.

Cole felt split into four different people.

His mom’s little boy, so curious and full of life and infatuated with the ideal of living.

His father’s son, angry and hateful, careless and ignorant. And secretly, unfathomably scared of himself, of mistakes he could never undo.

His friends’ friend. Loud, cheerful, never scared to do anything for a good video. For a few likes. The guy who would first-bump Tucker, throw a football with Matt, pretend to check-out Ronnie.

And then, the version of himself he was around Ruston Vance. Carefree, happy, kind. The best version of himself.

Not that Cole still thought about Rust or anything. He swallowed the thought; he didn’t let himself think about that anymore, it wasn’t worth the time.

“Veronica,” Arthur whispered, snapping Cole from his daze.

“What?”

“That’s what we were going to name her. Victoria or Veronica. You chose Victoria, it was easier for you to say,” Arthur trailed off. “God, you were so little. Probably about this big.” He used his free hand to measure through the air, stopping at a height probably about three feet above the floor.

“Time flies,” was all Cole said. He felt silly even saying it, he had just turned sixteen not too long ago. Time was still flying, Arthur and Cole still had time.

Cole knew they wouldn’t use it.

“Yeah, it does.” Arthur swirled the neat-liquor in the glass, staring down into it like it was a portal, would suck him up and save him from the nightmare they were living. “It’s just us now, Cole.”

The words echoed throughout the room like the universe was playing a cruel joke; reminding them that yes, it was just them. Alone in this massive house, with no giggles or gentle voices to distract either of them from their self-loathing anymore.

Cole watches his father like he’s looking into a cracked mirror. I am a reminder of the innocent boy you used to be, you are a reminder of the evil man I’ll become, I don’t know which is worse.

Cole couldn’t stop the next words leaving his mouth.

“I know you wanted it to be me instead.”

Arthur looked over, and for a moment, Cole thought he was going to cry. Hug him or something fatherly, even if it was a lie. Arthur didn’t and that hurt worse, he couldn’t even play pretend about loving Cole.

“Didn’t say that,” He said.

“You don’t even like me.” Cole replied.

“No one ever said parents had to love their kids, just provide for them. I’ve done that, haven’t I?”

Asshole.

Cole let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head and choking down the unexpected emotion swelling in his throat. He didn’t think anything Arthur Hill could say would hurt more than anything else he was feeling, but it came awfully close.

His father didn’t say, ’No one ever said parents had to like their kids.’ His father said, “No one ever said parents had to love their kids.”

The difference was apocalyptic, earth-shattering.

Cole stood up and did what he should have done ten minutes ago.

He stormed off.

“Quinn and I were about to go dance,” Cole found himself drunkenly murmuring. “But if you’re still around later, we should talk. Drink. Catch-up.”

Cole looked at Rust. From his stupid John Deer hat to his worn-out flannel. The lines of sadness creasing his lips and the tired expression in his eyes.

Rusty. Cole’s Rusty. Cole wanted to reach out and touch him. I still want you, I love you, let me fix it. Let me kiss everything away. I’m sorry. Please, say yes.

Cole stared deep into Rust’s eyes. Please, say yes.

“I’ll probably be heading out early,” Rust politely rejected. “If I don’t see you, stay safe.”

No.

No. No. No.

Rust turned around, disappearing into the crowd. Ruston Vance didn’t want Cole Hill anymore. Cole’s ears were ringing and he bit his bottom lip.

When he turned around, he was disappointed with the face that stared back at him.

Quinn was pretty. She was sweet. She was not Rust. No one was. No one would be again.

Rust didn’t want him anymore.

“Well, that’s why you should never meet your heroes, buddy.”

That was the first thought Cole had when he discovered that the mastermind behind it all was not just Sherrif Dunne, it was his father.

Apart from the betrayal, the pain, and the hatred that ran like a never-ending river between him and the man, that was the first thought Cole had.

Never meet your heroes.

Denial flooded his nervous system, reality shook him awake. Vulnerability gushed through his teeth like a breaking dam.

”Dad, don’t do this.” Cole was three-years-old all over again.

Never meet your heroes.

Arthur Hill stepped out of the foreman’s office, the room had mostly went up in ashes during the Refinery fire.

”Don’t call me that.” Arthur was teaching Cole that they can share the same blood and not the same love all over again.

Never meet your heroes.

Black.

That was the color Cole saw when the ground fell beneath his feet, when the noose tightened around his neck, restricting his airway as he fought for his life for what might have been the last time.

That was when Cole realized that death had a shade, and it was as haunting as its concept.

Cole’s body fought on instinct; his feet kicked in the air as he struggled to find an airway, yet his mind was everywhere but his surroundings. Cole thought about everyone he had lost. Emotionally, spiritually, and physically.

All the people he had failed.

He wondered if Victoria and his mother had taken in this same, melancholic shade of darkness. He wondered if his little sister had gotten a kinder passing when her head hit rock on her way down. Rays of light pinks, oranges, and reds. She always loved the way the sky looked as the moon took the sun’s place, the beauty of a setting horizon.

He wondered if his mother had even known what was happening when she died in that hospital, if the cancer had already gnawed its way at her senses by the time her soul had left. If she did know, he hoped she had thought about him. About Victoria. Anything but the fact she was dying.

And finally, Cole wondered if Rust’s death had been instantaneous. Perhaps, he had been gone before he even knew he was gone. Cole hoped that was the case; Rust deserved a quieter epilogue than the Silo’s explosion. He had relished in calmness, he deserved an easier love than Cole could provide. But damnit, Cole wished that he had at least tried a little harder to give it to him.

Cole’s chest tightened. He wanted to cry but he couldn’t even breathe so there was no use. Cole had failed everyone, even Arthur Hill. If he had been a better son, he could’ve prevented this.

The squeezing around his neck started to feel looser, tender, it felt a little like Rust’s hands.

“Cole—” the voice echoed through Cole’s head. “Cole.”

Everything had been a blur.

Cole had been running out of air.

He was started to drift in and out of consciousness when his knees had hit a surface, freeing his lungs from impending suffocation.

He was cut down from the rope, his body laid against the ground. For a minute, Cole thought he was in heaven.

“Cole—“ Rust had croaked, dropping to his knees alongside where Cole had rested, who was still coughing up his lungs. “Cole.”

Cole hadn’t had time to process that Rust was there and that he was alive and that Cole desperately loves him before his hungry mouth was been met with even hungrier lips, pulling Cole in like Rust had been dying without him.

Cole’s throat still burned, but Rust kissed the pain away. He kissed everything away. The betrayal of his father, the death of his sister, losing his mom and all his friends. Everything had faded into background noise. All Cole knew was the familiar touch of Rust’s hands, and all he knew was that he thought Rust was dead and his world collapsed beneath his feet.

Rust still wants him. Cole couldn’t lose him again, ever.

He didn’t remember much afterward.

Cole awkwardly walked into Rust’s hospital room number, which was only a few halls down from Cole’s.

Cole looked at Rust; he was still asleep in the bed. Quinn said they had him on a lot of different medications, so he probably would be out for a while.

It had been a few days since the whole Frendo-turned-homicidal-killer massacre thing. After everything had happened, all Cole wanted to do was see Rust.

The ambulance had to force Rust away from his grasp; they had to get another officer to prevent Cole from following wherever they were taking the Redneck.

Cole was stressed, sweating, still shaken up, and still half expecting all the first responders to morph into homicidal clowns and try to kill him. The only person who could have calmed him was Rust, and they took that away.

For a good reason; everyone could tell that out of the few survivors, Rust and Glenn Maybrook needed the most tending. Cole wasn’t in that clear-thinking state at the time.

They made Cole sit in the back of a police car—one that didn’t belong to Sheriff Dunne—to relax his nerves with the presence of people who were there to help, not hurt. Cole couldn’t think as he sat there, his body wrapped in a blanket that had been handed to him by some lady.

Police officers had been questioning him, needing his story as a first-hand witness. Or rather, a survivor. A victim, one of them had stated. News reporters were shoving microphones into his face, desperate for a news headline and asking things that Cole was too foggy to answer. There were doctors left and right, checking for wounds, bruises, or signs of concussions.

Cole’s mind had been blank the entire time, his lips responding on instinct. All he could think about was Rust and the fact that they ripped the love of his life—that he had just gotten back on speaking terms with—right out of his cold grip.

Cole’s arms had felt empty, useless. His body was useless when it wasn’t tending to Ruston Vance; his existence meant nothing if not to be with him.

Cole remained zoned out after that.

And now, here he was, finally at the hospital.

Well, technically, he had been at the hospital the whole time, just in his own separate room. Cole wasn’t entirely sure why they felt so persistent on keeping him over for a few days; the only serious injury he had taken was trauma to the throat, but he was in no position to fight authority.

He also didn’t mind because he really didn’t want to go home after all of that.

Cole stood there, still watching Rust sleep and only feeling slightly creepy.

There were bandages scattered across his body, and they had shaved the majority of his hair off to get to certain burns, his dirty-blonde waves nowhere to be seen.Cole found himself softly smiling. He still looked perfect. In pain and tired and unaware of Cole’s presence, he still looked perfect.

Like Rusty. Like Cole’s Rusty.

A rough but familiar voice, coming from the chairs sitting near the hospital bed, took Cole by surprise.

“Cole,” Jim Vance tilted his head, the same cold greeting. Sibyl had her head rested on her husband’s shoulder, clearly dead asleep and worn out from worrying about her son.

Cole didn’t know why he hadn’t expected Rust’s parents to be there. Maybe, because Cole had no parents to be there for him, so he assumed it was a shared loneliness.

“Sir,” Cole greeted back, subconsciously lowering his voice to a deeper octave. It wasn’t that Cole thought his voice was high or anything, he just wanted the extra attempt at sounding braver than he felt.

He hadn’t seen Jim in years. Way back when Rust and Cole had been hooking up in truck backseats and twin mattresses. Probably around three, maybe even four, years ago by now.

Jim’s beard had more streaks of gray, and there were deeper lines on his face, sunspots to showcase the hard work he had lived.

Cole respected the hustle; he could see where Rust gets his strong nature.

“How’s he doing? Has he woken up?”

“Once or twice, in an’ out. He’ll be alright. Knew he would be; he’s a strong kid.”

Cole wanted to say, ’You have no idea.’ Cole wished Jim could’ve seen Rust, the way he fought.

All those years of being Redneck Rust, of gun jokes being shoved in Rust’s face, was actually their saving grace.

According to Quinn, Rust tried his hardest to protect Janet, someone who had been nothing short of cruel to him for years. Rust had taught Quinn to use a gun, and Quinn used it to save Cole. Cole watched Rust blow up the Silo (and his heart split in half, but that was besides Cole’s point), Rust was willing to sacrifice himself.

Rust’s efforts still didn’t actually prevent Ronnie, Matt, or Janet from their unavoidable demise, but that wasn’t Rust’s fault at all. Cole hoped Rust didn’t pin the deaths on himself later down the road; Cole would carry the guilt for him.

Rust had always been braver than most people Cole knew, but seeing him in that protector-lighting painted a new portrait of Ruston Vance that blew not only Cole, but probably everyone in Kettle Springs away.

If Janet was alive, she’d probably still be shocked that Cole and Rust kissed. She would be shocked Cole was gay, then even more shocked to discover that he was into Rust, and then would go on a tangent about Cole’s poor taste, making dramatic vomiting noises.

Then she’d see Rust in this hospital bed, realize how heroic his actions were, and say something along the lines of, ’You know, he’s actually kind of, sorta, a little cute. Only if you don’t look at him too long. And only in the dark, maybe.’

Cole would laugh and again, would think to himself, ’You have no idea.’

But Janet wasn’t there. Cole kept having to remind himself of it, again and again. Janet, Tucker, Matt, and Ronnie were dead.

Cole’s little group was dead.

He let out a slow exhale.

“He is, isn’t he?” Is all Cole replied to Jim with.

Silence. Solitude ran in the Vance family like all-consuming anger ran through Cole.

“Why are you here, son?” Jim gruffly asked.

Shit.

At some point, Rust definitely ended up telling his parents what happened back then. Cole didn’t think for a second that it was the full truth, maybe the truth painted with a few lies, but Jim still seemed aware that Cole didn’t deserve to be on Rust’s nice list.

Cole paused. “To see Rust.”

There was a longer echo of pure quietness before Jim coughed. “He’s going through enough—“

“I’m not going to hurt him again. I promise.” Cole wasn’t even sure if that’s what Jim was referring to, but he found himself saying it anyway. “We sorted things out. Kind of. I’ll talk to him later, when he’s up for it.”

It appeared Cole hit the nail on the head, answering every unspoken question, when Jim’s gaze averted towards his son. Cole fidgeted where he stood. “You don’t believe me.”

“I’m his old man, I wouldn’t believe anyone who said that.”

Right. But Jim especially wouldn’t believe Cole. Not after everything.

Cole lets a few beats pass before he talked again. “I thought I was protecting him,” He quietly admitted.

“Probably was. Don’t think Rusty wanted protected.” Jim sighed, leaning back into the chair. “That’s not always your call to make.”

Jim made a good point, but two stubborn personalities didn’t mix well, so Cole absentmindedly retaliated.

“You never liked me anyway. Not even before all of that.”

The older man looked around the small room, defeated, when he pinched the bridge of his nose. “You wanna do this here?”

“Yeah, I do.” No, not really. Cole didn’t know why he said that.

Then Jim was standing up, and Cole immediately panicked. Oh God, he’s gonna hit me. Jim roughly grabbed Cole’s shoulder and shoved him out into the silent hallway.

Oh?

Cole followed behind Jim like a baby duck, unsure of where they could possibly be headed. Cole regretted his attempt at dominance, he should’ve turned around when he noticed Jim sitting there in the first place.

They walked down the hospital’s haunting path until they reached a bench a few feet away from the glowing vending machine, and Jim slowly bent over to sit down, grunting in the process.

He really was getting old.

Cole reluctantly sat down alongside him, suddenly wondering if they should be having this kind of conversation yet. Cole hadn’t even actually confirmed if Rust was willing to try again or not, but he couldn’t back down now.

Neither of them spoke, like a silent war; Cole caved in first.

“Just say it.”

”Say what?”

”That you hated me back then.”

Jim cleared his throat, scratching the back of his head. Cole didn’t rush the old man; he allowed him time to gather his thoughts. It took a while, however, and Cole started to feel silently offended about how much disdain Jim Vance apparently held.

”I’m not good at any of this,” He spoke.

“That makes two of us,” Cole confessed with a defeated sigh.

Jim nodded. Common ground. That was good. Maybe not that it was about their inabilities to communicate, while actively trying to do so, but it was still good.

”As a father,” Jim abruptly starts, straight to the point. The man’s voice sounding less confident than Cole remembered him being. “You start to plan out how you think your kid’s life should go. Even if you ain’t mean to. Just kinda happens, ’I guess.”

Cole looked at the wooden floor, the familiar clean smell of a hospital reminding him of when he’d visit his mom in them.

Jim started again. “Finish school. Get a good job. Meet a nice lady, have a baby or two. Had his whole life planned out the minute I found out we were havin’ a boy.” He listed with the ghost of a smile, nostalgic for the life Rust wouldn’t live, and Cole swallowed.

”So, you hated me because I was a boy?”

Jim looked over, his un-pampered eyebrows furrowed. “How many times are you going to say I hated you when those words never left my mouth?”

”I could tell.”

Jim grunted, leaning back into the cushioned bench they sat on. If Cole strained his ears enough, he could almost hear someone’s heart monitor beeping. He always hated how eerily quiet hospitals were.

”It wasn’t because you were a boy. I mean— I can’t say that wasn’t no surprise. Even now, I can’t act like I ain’t still surprised. Stills a little weird, sometimes, but I’m trying.” He inhales slowly. “My point was, you’d like to think you know exactly where your kid is going to end up. And then,” Jim spoke, looking over at Cole. “He brings home Cole Hill.”

Jim said it like that was the worst thing Rust could have done. Cole felt the all too familiar sting of an adult’s rejection.

Cole allowed Jim to trail off without interruption. “I knew your kind of people. Your dad—“ He paused, the words dying on his lips. “Your family’s kind of people. I knew Rust would get hurt, and he did. And now, here you are. Again.”

”I wasn’t trying to hurt him. I’m not trying to now.”

“I know,” Jim nodded, his voice rough and raspy.

“If you want me to leave him alone, if you think it’s better for him, then I will,” Cole whispered, even though the thought killed him.

Cole could almost feel Jim taking it into consideration.

“Again, that ain’t our call to make. Rust wouldn’t want me to do that.”

“Then what else do you want me to do?”

Jim clasped his hands loosely together and leaned forward, concentrating. “The point I was making earlier, I don’t know much about parenting. Sure as hell ain’t the best at it. But I do know that sometimes your kids do things… or rather, turn out different than you outta thought. And when that happens—“

“You try to hang them in a Refinery, dressed as Frendo?” Cole spoke over him, his joke fell painfully flat. Okay, so definitely too soon.

“—You love them anyway,” Jim finished.

Cole felt the burn of emotion in the back of his throat. To hear a man talk so vulnerably about his love for his son was a wound that Cole didn’t expect to be so open.

A hand took Cole by surprise, resting heavily against his shoulder.

“He asked about you. Right after he woke up that first time.”

Cole looked over to the man, trying to hide his excitement since it was not the time to be giddy. “He did?”

“Yeah, he did. The first thing that came out of his mouth wasn’t about how much pain he must’ve been in, it was just, ’Where’s Cole?’” Jim leaned forward slightly, the chair creaking as he looked at him. “Listen, I don’t get it. None of it. Why he had to like a boy, why it had to be you.” His southern drawl pierced at the last word, pounding it into Cole’s head. “But if Rust wakes up again and says, ’Dad, where’s Cole?’ Then I want to be able to answer that.”

Cole’s chest was pounding. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but he hoped it was good.

“But I gotta ask you something,” Jim said and Cole nodded, a little too fast. Too eager.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” He gently spoke.

“Do you love him?”

The question drained the blood from Cole’s body. It was packed with more than Cole could process. A grown man was pleading with just four words. Four words that meant everything. Do you love him? Can you protect him? Can I trust you? Will my son be in good hands?

Yes, Cole thought. To all of it.

Jim asked it as if that was all the man needed to know to move past what Cole did. It felt like a movie cliche, a moment where the main character was supposed to have a realization.

Cole didn’t need a lightbulb moment; he had felt it, way too many years ago. Way back in second grade, in eighth grade, in high school, in Rust’s truck. He felt it back at that party when Cole forced Rust to talk to him and Quinn, before clowns started terrorizing teenagers.

Cole felt it when the Silo exploded; he felt it when Rust cut him down from the rope. He felt it when Rust kissed him, when Rust practically had to be dragged away from Cole afterward.

The more Cole thought about it, he almost laughed at the question, like it’s idiotic of Jim to even wonder, despite the fact it was a valid curiosity after every egregious mistake that Cole had made.

If Cole were a braver man, he’d say what he was really thinking. I love him so much it wakes me up at night. I’ve spent every day since I left wishing I’d stayed. I’ve spent the majority of my life loving him and half my life running from it. Instead, it came out more like a squeak.

Embarrassingly quiet.

“I do.”

“Well, then, I guess we’ll see how far that takes you.” With one last pat to Cole’s back, Jim stood up.

Cole didn’t move for probably an hour afterward.

Rust shoved Cole against Cole’s bed, his body still bouncing slightly when Rust crawled over top of him.

Cole had always hated his house.

It was been just him in it now, aside from the housekeepers and other people he had hired to help him tend to it. Rust said that was a waste of money, and it probably definitely was, but Cole had too much money to waste now, so he was happy to let some of it run down the drain.

The only time the house felt less cold was when Rust was there.

“Hey there, big guy,” Cole grinned, looking up at Rust. His hands trail down Rust’s toned biceps, the strong muscles looking like something off a sculpted statue.

Rust let out a small chuckle, leaning down until their lips crashed in a collision of gentleness and fierce desire.

Cole liked it when he couldn’t tell if Rust was trying to tear him open senselessly or take him apart gently, piece by piece. Even when Rust was rough, there was always a constant state of tenderness hidden beneath it.

Cole’s shirt was thrown across the room, Rust’s flannel had been unbuttoned and forgotten on the floor. Before Cole could even process it, their pants had been ripped off and boxers were scattered, leaving Cole entirely bare beneath Rust.

“What do you want, Cole?” Rust breathed, pressing sloppy kisses down Cole’s neck.

Cole laughed at the question. He wanted what he had always wanted.

“For you to fuck me.”

“Cole…”

“Rusty,” he murmured in a sing-song tone, kissing alongside Rust’s jawline. He had become very aware of what turned Rust on, and being vocal about how much Cole wanted him had definitely been at the top of the list.

(Cole had never asked if that had been because Rust needed constant reassurance that Cole wouldn’t leave again. Cole probably wouldn’t like the answer.)

Rust let out a sigh against Cole’s lips, kissing passionately and slowly, and Cole had felt their erections brush together, jerking his hips up to meet the friction.

And then, Rust reached over awkwardly onto Cole’s nightstand and grabbed the small bottle of lube. A clicking noise had filled the heavy atmosphere, a sound Cole had heard countless times by now.

Slick and cold fingers pressed against Cole’s entrance and goosebumps scattered across his body, painted him in anticipation of Rust’s touch. Rust was looking down at him like he wanted to do unspeakable things, and Cole would let him, and let him, and let him.

“This okay?” Rust asks, slowly sliding a single digit inside Cole’s tightness, and Cole had let out a groan.

“How could it not be okay?” He asked before pulling Rust into a softer kiss, hissing into it when Rust’s finger had grazed his prostate, the action short-lived. Giving Cole everything he needed and nothing he wanted.

“Don’t wanna see you hurt.” Rust’s finger brushes the sweet spot, again and again, until Cole was opening beneath him like a flower. Cole whined when the touch retracted, looking up at Rust with frustration.

“More,” Cole groaned in response, wrapping both of his arms around Rust’s neck to keep him pulled close. “Rust, more, please. M’begging you, okay? I need you—“

Rust made a guttural noise at the words, and hot breath had fanned against Cole’s collarbone; he could feel Rust nodding desperately against his skin. The second finger was sliding forward and filling Cole up, and at the same time, a strong hand had wrapped around Cole’s excruciatingly hard cock, slowly stroking the tip of Cole’s weeping erection.

“Fuck,” Cole cursed, his eyelids fluttering shut, and his body had curved into Rust’s like second nature.

“Tell me if it hurts,” Rust said, the fingers starting to scissor in and out of Cole’s aching hole, and Cole wanted to punch him. Cole kissed the worries from Rust’s lips, rocking his hips back into Rust’s hand.

Somewhere along the line, there had been a third finger. Rust had been stroking and touching, and Cole had been close, but no, he didn’t want to be. Finishing meant nothing to Cole Hill if it hadn’t been straight from the real source.

Cole pulled away and looked up at him, lips swollen and slick with spit, eyes glossy and needy.

“What’s wrong?” Rust asked teasingly, no trace of real concern. Rust knew what was wrong.

“Rusty, please. Fuck me,” Cole begged, listening to Rust’s shaky breaths. “I’m ready, okay? I promise, I can take it—“ Cole rambled and nodded and pulled Rust’s face towards his own. He kissed his lips, his nose, his eyebrows, everywhere he could reach.

Then abruptly, the fingers were rudely removed, and the hand on his cock was gone. Cole was left just as empty as he had started, and the feeling was terrible, agonizing. Then Rust scooted off of him and sat up, his back pressed against the bed’s headboard.

Cole furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “What you doing?” He asked, breathless and unmoving.

”God, Cole. C’mere,” Rust chuckled, grabbing Cole’s wrist and started to pull him up and into his lap.

Cole huffs his own laughter, wasting no time readjusting positions, throwing himself into Rust’s lap like it was a throne for the lucky and willing. Cole made a point to rub their hard-ons together just to watch Rust’s mouth fall open, to watch his chest heave.

Cole looked down at the body rested beneath him and nearly came on the spot. Even after so long, he never gotten used to the fact that this life, that Rust, belonged to him.

The lit lamp on the nightstand was drenching Rust in its warmth, making the droplets of sweat dripping off his skin look almost golden. The red scars were been mapped across Rust’s body like they had been guiding Cole downwards, to the parts he wanted to see the most. Rust’s sandy waves was plastered to his forehead, and his honey-brown eyes were examining Cole the same way he was doing to Rust, studying each other.

Taking all they could have lost in, holding it close.

“Well, well, well,” Cole managed to huff, putting aside the aching feeling of needing to be full just to be himself. Aka, just to be an asshole. “Look at you, Redneck Rust. Not too bad.”

Rust’s hungry stare melted into something playful, annoyed. He bit his lip to prevent himself from smiling.

“Am I still weird?”

“Really fuckin’ weird,” Cole grinned, kissing the sensitive spot beneath Rust’s earlobe. “Weirdo Rusty,” Cole teased, chuckling as he had looked down and between Rust’s legs from where he had been placed beneath Cole, his cock twitching and hard, and Cole had been losing his self-control. “Really hard Rusty, too.”

Rust groaned, shoving his face into Cole’s shoulder and biting down gently. “About to be going-soft Rusty, if you don’t shut up.”

”Oh, so you’re funny now?” Cole smiles, nipping at Rust’s earlobe. “I like funny Rust the best.”

Rust just scoffs in reply. In doing so, he slid his hands over the curve of Cole’s ass, and Cole was reminded that, Oh, Right, he’s still trying to get laid.

Cole positioned himself over Rust’s cock, feeling his own erection throb between their torsos. Rust’s hands slid to dig into Cole’s hips and guide him down slowly, helping him ease into the pleasure. Cole let out a gutted whine, taking him inch by inch.

“Rusty,” Cole breathed out, the fullness almost overwhelming.

“I know,” Rust said, before barely lifting Cole up by his waist then unexpectedly snapping his hips upwards, burning himself deep into Cole’s tightness, again and again. “I got you, I promise,” Rust had whispered, low and sweet and lustful and caring.

So Rust that it had made Cole’s chest squirm.

Cole let out a strangled cry, the feeling of Rust moving inside him so effortlessly driving him to the brink of insanity. Cole’s lips somehow managed to find Rust’s, and it was more devouring than kissing, inhaling each other’s exhales. Cole knew for a fact he wouldn’t last long, and if the groans spilling from Rust’s lips were anything to go by, he wouldn’t either.

Cole’s fingers run up Rust’s chest, his neck, his jaw, until they meet sweat-soaked curls. He lightly yanked Rust’s head backward, tilting it up to look into his eyes as Rust slammed Cole’s hips back onto his length, again and again.

Rust’s cheeks were flushed red, and he looked so intoxicated on Cole that Cole had let out a small laugh. Rust was been buried inside his favorite place, his favorite person, and Cole knew that. He decided that he would allow his ego to be driven insane; he wouldn’t force himself to be humble about the fact that no one else got to see Ruston Vance so uncoordinated and messy.

That was how Cole had known they had been meant for each other, even when he was just a kid.

Cole was so loud— he always had been— so messy. His personality was so big, filling every room with his presence until the walls would nearly burst at the seams. And there Rust would be, always ready to unmake the mess of Cole, put him back together like his favorite fucked-up masterpiece. Teaching Cole patience, silence, calmness.

Cole didn’t mean to make himself emotional, the overwhelming thoughts about Ruston Vance had always been against his own will. But they were always there, lingering, and it meant something. Cole’s wreck of a life had shoved him into Rust’s arms, and it was been beautiful, and complicated.

“Rust,” Cole whispered, shaking his head for a reason that even he hadn’t been sure of. “My rusty,” he mumbled, gasping when Rust’s dick had begun abusing his prostate, milking him of his sanity. “I love you. I love you so fucking much—“ Cole had rambled.

Rust let out an uncharacteristic sound, something resembling a whine, and the sound pushed Cole far over the edge. His orgasm struck like lightning, loud and unmissable. He let out a strangled noise, and his fingers tightened in Rust’s hair, pulling harder than he meant and kissing Rust in apology.

Rust followed shortly after with a loud groan, his harsh grasp on Cole’s waist loosening. Cole collapsed onto his back beside Rust, and for a minute, they just laid there, side by side and panting.

Cole let out a wet laugh, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Gets better every time,” is all the wit Cole had left. “Again?”

“Fuck. Give me like ten minutes.” Rust let out his own snort

Cole moved to raise up but stopped at the aching pain in his lower back.

“Okay, make that twenty.”

Cole opened the curtains to his bedroom, sunlight flooding the room as a smile tugged across his lips.

Cole whipped around on his heels, skipping over to the bed that had been neatly made when they first laid in it, and now was entirely wrinkled and scattered. Cole threw himself onto the mattress and right on top of Rust, who let out a pained grunt.

“Cole—“ He wheezed, letting out a cough as he squinted his eyes from the brightness of the room.

“Hi,” Cole smiled, resting his chin on Rust’s chest. “I’m bored. I miss you. Wake up.”

“I’m awake, and I’m right here.”

“You’re still in bed.”

“You are too.”

Cole paused before nonchalantly shrugging. “Yeah, but it’s okay when I do it.”

Rust chuckled, wrapping his arms around Cole and enclosing him in his warmth.

Chest to chest, skin to skin, and Cole melted into it.

Rust reached one of his hands down to grab Cole’s and bring it to his lips, kissing each of his fingertips.

“You know,” Cole started, “My hand wouldn’t mind a ring on it.”

Rust groaned, letting go of his hand to grab a pillow and smash it into the side of Cole’s head. Cole let out a loud cackle.

“One thing at a time, Cole.”

Rust probably meant that they had had two killer-clown incidents in the span of two years, so they should try to stay safe and heal for now, but Cole liked to think he meant one thing at a time together.

One second at a time, a minute, a month, a year, every day forever. Just with Rust, only Rust.

“Right, fine. I’ll wait another week or two before I bring it up again.”

“Cole.”

“Rusty.”

Cole managed to drag Rust out of bed (for the first time ever, considering Rust was usually always awake before him) and into the kitchen to make breakfast together.

If someone had asked Colton Hill, at any point in his life, to describe love in three words, he would say: devotion, all-consuming, patient.

If someone had asked Colton Hill to break that statement down into just two words, he would simply say, “Ruston Vance.”