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Raylan startles awake from a dream where he’s deep inside the pits of the earth. The only reason he knows he escaped it and is in the land of the living now is because morning light from the sun filters in through his curtains - still too early to get up yet.
He has always loved the curtains that hang in his windows, privately, in a way he wouldn't share with anybody else, not even Boyd. They've been there ever since his family moved from the trailer into the house, and Raylan never had any say in the matter of his domicile’s interior decoration, but he loves them all the same, as if he did choose them. His mama told him they’re very old, some hand-me-down from a great grandmother. Sometimes Raylan would sit right beneath them, the breeze from the open window pushing the delicate, fluttery linen over his face like a veil, and he could imagine someone coming in behind them, some gentle hands to touch him.
These aren't normal things for someone like him to imagine. It somehow makes him feel more perverted than when he thinks about kissing Boyd or worse, but he doesn't stop either of them. It's all Boyd’s fault anyhow that Raylan thinks about kissing him as much as he does. Boyd’ll offer Raylan a sip of his Dr. Pepper at the movies without wiping off his straw first, and he’ll complain about how dry his lips are from the cold air and lick them wet over and over, and he’ll stick his shiny pink tongue out during the first snow of the season to catch snowflakes, and he’ll thank Raylan for bringing him a spare pair of gloves by saying shit like, “ah, Raylan, I could just kiss you.” What's Raylan supposed to do? There are some things he just can't empty his mind of.
He doesn't know if Boyd's been kissed before, at least in the way Raylan believes he ought to be. In the way Raylan would do it, if Boyd ever wanted it. They don't talk about things like that together - Raylan never brings up any of his dates, and if Boyd has any dates of his own, he keeps equally private about them.
In Raylan’s dream, it was pitch dark, and he was all alone. There were hundreds of unblinking eyes reflecting in the light cast from his helmet, and the pick in his hand was soft and pliable and useless. Somehow he knew that the eyes watching him had teeth, too, and they were inching closer and closer, ready to devour him.
Boyd told him it wouldn’t be permanent. Just for the winter, Raylan, just for some extra money for Christmas. But Christmas has been over a week now, and he was working the mine overnight while Raylan slept in his bed. He shivers, the dream at the forefront of his mind instead of melting away like they usually do. The longer he’s alive, the more it becomes unavoidable: Raylan will have to go down there soon. It’s almost like it’s predestined for them, writ in their DNA way before they’re born. Down into the dark they must descend.
Raylan lingers in bed for a bit longer, the light in his window growing more yellow as the sun rises higher. If he’s in bed, it always means he can pretend to be asleep. If he’s asleep, he’s less likely to be bothered. He shuts his alarm off before it has the chance to ring and puts his feet on the floor to go get him. There will be no gentle hands for him today. It's winter, and Boyd is at work.
~*~
“You comin’ this weekend?” Raylan asks Boyd, kicking himself for the phrasing of the question. Comin’ implies an invitation. You goin’ this weekend? would’ve meant something different. Boyd’s got enough to worry about without Raylan pressuring him into anything.
Raylan knows Boyd has already had to scrape Bowman off the bathroom floor, or the front lawn of the Crowder house, after more than one of these barn burners. It’s the last weekend before winter break ends. The days are getting longer yet, but dark long enough still to get into a whole lot of trouble. He’s always preferred the winter over the hot weather events of this nature. There’s a quiet starkness in the woods, like a blanket over a birdcage, and he likes to see the proof of life of his breath in the beams of everybody’s car headlights, and he likes keeping some pretty thing warm on his lap. His skin doesn't get eaten up by mosquitoes and there aren’t as many critters about, either. One summer Dickie Bennett got bit by a snake and some unlucky soul had to suck the poison out of him - that sure as shit doesn’t happen in the winter.
Boyd’s shoulder brushes against his as they walk to Raylan’s truck. If Boyd does come, Raylan’ll have to give him a ride. He won’t mind it so much. Raylan’s been enjoying Boyd’s company for a while now, and enjoying it more probably than he should more recent than that. Used to be, Raylan was closer to Boyd’s cousin Johnny, seeing as how they played ball together. Eventually, Boyd just started hanging around, even though he was odd and not a ball player and seemed entirely against the sport as an institution.
He just had a way of insinuating himself between Raylan and whoever Raylan was with, until Raylan realized he’d been conversing with Boyd longer than anyone else. At first, he didn’t get why Boyd even bothered. Now, he doesn’t know what he’d do if Boyd had never bothered.
“I do not know,” Boyd fights a yawn, sharp jaw cracking. “I’m pretty beat.”
There’s coal dust on the side of his nose, and Raylan wants to lick his thumb and rub it off for him. His truck died the day after he took the job at the mine, and is currently parked in his daddy’s driveway waiting for him to save up enough for a new battery. Raylan tried to tell him it was a sign.
Now Raylan’s been picking him up from the mine after his shifts for a few weeks. He thinks Bowman has been taking him in, and Raylan is thankful for that. He doesn’t think he’d be able to stand driving Boyd to that place and leaving him there, would probably blast right past it and spirit Boyd away somewhere. Better he’s the one to come get him, like he’s rescuing him from the mouth of the monster rather than dropping him into it.
“Well, I - I won’t expect you, then,” Raylan says.
“Aw, don’t be like that, Raylan,” Boyd says, teasing. He stops at the side of Raylans truck and taps his boots against the bottom of it, cleaning off any excess grime before climbing in. His buck teeth poke into his bottom lip as he tries to hide his smile.
“Like what?” Raylan says.
“Like I stood you up for the winter formal,” Boyd says. He shivers so hard his teeth chatter. Raylan should’ve left the engine running, kept it nice and warm for him. He cranks the heat all the way up. “There’ll be plenty of other girls there for you to dance with.”
“Shut up,” Raylan says, cheeks burning so bad he turns the heat down a notch. “Or you’ll be walkin’ home.”
Boyd respects the rules and doesn't smoke in Raylan's truck, but he pulls one out of his pack and sets it between his lips, ready to light it as soon as he gets out. That's another infuriating thing Boyd does to draw all that attention to his mouth.
Usually he's talking up a storm - Earl in the mine cheated on his wife Sandy with Bobby’s wife Bobbie, and Bobby is set to find out any day now. This morning, Boyd’s so quiet Raylan actually takes his eyes off the road to check he hasn't fallen asleep. But Boyd is wide awake, wide eyes fixed open on Raylan.
“Somethin’ on my face?” Raylan says.
Boyd licks his thumb and scrubs it over the mole under Raylan's eye, the motions of it so easy and effortless that Raylan is jealous of the ability. He can be cool and casual - just not with Boyd.
“It won't come off,” Boyd says, acting confused.
Raylan shakes his head violently and tries to resist turning his head and biting Boyd. “Cut that out.”
Boyd plucks the unlit cigarette from his mouth and tucks it behind his ear. His hair is somehow both flat and wild from his work helmet and could use a good combing. Raylan's fingers tighten on the steering wheel.
“Something on your mind, Boyd?” Raylan asks, worry creeping up his throat.
“I cannot tell you in words how much I appreciate you doing this for me, Raylan,” Boyd says. Before Raylan can brush him off, Boyd continues. “I know it's a burden, coming out this way to chauffeur my sorry behind. Just a few more weeks, and then - then I can get my new battery.”
“Don't mention it, Boyd,” Raylan mutters through his teeth, heart sinking through the floor and onto the road and under the wheels. “Thought you was quittin’ anyway.”
“I was,” Boyd says. He puts the cigarette in his mouth again and smiles around it, humming thoughtfully. “Well, they- “
“Don’t you dare get fuckin’ started,” Raylan warns, putting the truck in gear, “or I’ll have that earworm all damn day.”
~*~
Once Raylan gets up and dressed and drives all the way out to the woods, he realizes he’s not actually in the mood. He takes one lap around the fire, saying hello to the people he knows and even some of the people he wishes he didn’t. No, he’s not in the mood for any of it - the smoke in his eyes, the cheap beer, clashing country music radio stations blaring from different trucks, the girl on the softball team with the weird Dr. Seuss name he can’t quite recall who keeps hovering around him like she’s waiting for him to sit so she can have a seat in his lap.
It’s dark and clear out enough to see stars out here, and he’d rather be hurting his neck craning to look up instead. Boyd has tricked him a time or two into driving out to one of the valleys, stopping to point out Venus and Big Dipper and explaining how in thousands of years it’ll be different, flatter, like someone melted it. But that was only ever in his own truck, like he’s too shy to ask Raylan to bring him out there again.
There aren’t many things keeping him at the party, other than himself. He’s not exactly what you would call buddies with everybody in his class or anything. Friendly enough without being too friendly, never closer than the surface, never deeper than what needs be. He can’t help but feel people know more about him than he’s said - about his mama, and his daddy, and himself, what he likes, and who he wants it from. They don’t say anything, but he suspects they know.
Raylan’s ears can’t help but prick up listening for Boyd’s ha-ha laugh, and his eyes can’t help but stay peeled for Boyd’s straight spine gait and puff of dark hair. He wishes Boyd had come anyway, or he wishes he hadn’t come out here at all and done something different. He keeps thinking he sees creatures in the dark of the woods. The back of his neck prickles, like he’s being watched by flashing eyes. The party is too loud for them to attract bears or bobcats or coyotes, but there are worse things in Harlan than that. Hell, one of them is at Raylan’s house right now, probably waiting up for him in the kitchen with his fist clenched.
It’s not hard work to extricate himself from the gathering and stray outside of the circle of firelight. Nobody’s begging him to stay. Maybe he’ll just get in his truck and go for a drive. He could pick out the Big Dipper himself by now, or find a different constellation to ask Boyd about. What shape will this one be, years from now? Will you tell me, then, when the time comes? Or maybe he’ll drive by the Crowder house, check if Boyd’s bedroom light is on, toss a pebble at his window.
His truck is parked far away, almost to the road. Last year, he got blocked in for hours and couldn’t back out, so this year he made sure to give himself a good amount of space. Just as he’s sticking the key into the door to unlock it, he spots movement in his peripheral. At the same time, he squeezes his eyes shut and turns toward the movement, bracing for impact and preparing to fight at the same time.
But no fists or claws or teeth ever come out of the dark. When he opens his eyes again, he can see it isn’t a predatory creature at all. It’s Boyd Crowder, trying with all his might to climb up a tree. Trying being the operative word. Each time he gets his fingernails dug into the bark, it tears away from the trunk and he stumbles back down to the ground. The sight of it is so shocking, Raylan can only stand there frozen for a long moment and watch.
Raylan whistles softly and Boyd’s eyes snap over to him. They’re bright and shiny in the moonlight, the whites blue like the light of a television on a blank wall. As Raylan gets closer to him, he has a fleeting nonsensical thought: my god, he’s too young. He shouldn’t be out here. But he and Raylan are the same age, separated for part of the year by only some months, and they start them out young here in Harlan. As he crouches down to the ground, he can smell the liquor on Boyd - more than just beer, something harder and more pungent, and mixed with the scents of sweat and sick and dead leaves.
Had Boyd been at the party the whole time and Raylan didn’t notice? It could’ve been they were orbiting circles around each other. With the state Boyd’s in, drunk as he is and the way he can’t hold himself upright more than a second, it seems like he’s been here for hours.
“Hey, Boyd,” Raylan says, pissed off more than anything. “Thought you weren’t comin’?”
"Raylan Givens," Boyd says, surprise mixed with a strange relief, like Raylan just rescued him from beneath some rubble. “Well, as you know, I had not planned on attending, but then I thought. Well, I thought - I thought, well - I don’t know what I thought.” It isn’t like Boyd to stumble over his words at all, so Raylan knows he must be dangerously far gone. “And then I got here. And I spotted you, across the fire. Through the flames.”
“And the sight of me made you want to give yourself alcohol poisoning and throw up?” Raylan says, hooking his arm through Boyd’s elbow to try and get him up off the cold ground. In the leaves next to Boyd, there’s an empty, unmarked glass bottle. “Jesus, Boyd. you drank all that ‘shine on your own?”
“It was not the sight of you,” Boyd says as an answer. “Rather it was. The sight of you…” He trails off helplessly. .
“Thank you for clarifying,” Raylan rolls his eyes. “You shoulda come and said hello.”
Raylan gets him up and Boyd is thankfully able to stand on his own. He’s covered in dirt and leaves, and Raylan tries as best he can to brush them off him without getting too handsy. It’s not that he cares - he doesn’t think Boyd does, either, based on how he clings to Raylan for dear life - but Boyd is drunker than a skunk and can’t see an inch in front of him. If Raylan does touch him, he wants Boyd to know, and he wants it to be with a certain intent.
“Mmm,” Boyd mumbles, pressing close to Raylan. “Warm.”
“Jesus, Boyd, where’s your coat?” Raylan says. His skin is ice cold and clammy. Boyd is an avid reader - and enthusiastic explainer - of every year’s Farmer’s Almanac, having each season’s weather memorized before it happens. Even if he wasn’t, one only needed to step outside his house to know a coat was needed.
Boyd pats the pockets of his jeans, as if he took his coat off and stuffed it inside one of them. “I am unsure of its current presence in proximity to my person.”
“Leave it to you to use alliteration and no contractions when you’re three sheets to the damn wind,” Raylan mutters. He strips off his jacket - it’s a hand-me-down from Arlo, thin but sherpa-lined and plenty warm. Boyd sighs contentedly when Raylan helps him slip into it. It hits him at the tops of his thighs whereas on Raylan it only goes to his hips.
What would've happened if he hadn't left, Raylan wonders. If he had actually gone off with somebody else, if he hadn’t found Boyd out here at all. Boyd would just be out here, passed out or falling down a hill and breaking his neck or asphyxiating on his own throw up. Who else would come looking for him? Who, if anyone, ever looks out for him at all?
Boyd’s own kin drops him off at that mine in the morning. He goes into that deep underground with nothing and nobody. Raylan’s the only one with any sense to want to take him away from there.
Once he gets Boyd boosted up into the passenger seat of the truck, Raylan takes his head gently between his hands. His skinny legs dangle out of the door and Raylan squeezes between them, close enough their separate breath on the cold air mingles into one. He’s only checking for injuries, any blood or scrapes or bumps, but while he’s at it, he presses two fingers to Boyd’s neck to check his pulse. It’s strong, if erratic, quicker than it ought to be. If Boyd is here, it means he walked all this way. When he does speak, his voice scraped, metal against cement. Up close, his big eyes are bloodshot and broken. There’s a mess of sick on his chin and down his shirt.
"Let's get you cleaned up a little bit, huh?” Raylan says, pulling his sleeve down over his hand, not caring if he fucks up his shirt or not. He wipes Boyd’s mouth and chin with the fabric, rough and careful. Boyd scrunches up his face and tries to dodge it, whether he doesn't like how it feels or he’s embarrassed. It's kinda cute, if Raylan’s honest, which on a given day he is or he isn’t. “C’mon, now, can’t have you like this. Hm?”
Boyd closes his eyes and tilts his face up. “I will submit to your ablutions, Raylan.”
“Alright,” Raylan says, not knowing what any of Boyd is saying might mean but flushing hot red with bashful tongue-tied want anyhow.
Any time Raylan ever got sick, Arlo never, ever let his mama baby him. He always had to tough it out, or act like it wasn’t even happening at all, just move on from it. Boyd probably didn’t get a lot of time as a kid to be tended to, either, being forced instead to tend to the needs of his daddy and his brother at such a young age after his mama died. He thinks of how he’d want to be taken care of, and puts everything into it now, though he doesn’t know much about it.
Boyd’s nose is clean of coal dust, but he wipes it anyway, for his own sake, then swipes his thumbs over the thin, delicate skin of Boyd’s eyelids for good measure.
On the drive, Boyd rests his forehead on the window, breath fogging a reassuring, pulsating circle on the glass. Raylan takes special care to avoid any bumps in the road so he doesn’t jostle the cab and cause Boyd to bang his skull too much. He doesn’t know where he’s driving them to, turning this way and that until they’re on a small dirt road that leads towards the valley.
Raylan doesn’t want to go home yet, and he’s going to take liberties to presume Boyd doesn’t either. Out too far from town, Raylan’s old beat up radio antenna can’t pick up too strong of a signal. He fiddles with the dial for a minute then gives up.
“Well they - “ Raylan warbles softly in a deep, gruff voice, eyes sliding over to Boyd.
Boyd looks like he could be asleep except for how he grins big and bright. “Oh, but I ain’t allowed to get started? Don’t you get started now.”
“Well they, blew up a chicken man in Philly last night - “ Raylan sings poorly but from deep in his chest, which to him is what counts.
“It’s ‘the’,” Boyd interrupts emphatically.
“Pardon?” Raylan says, genuinely unable to follow Boyd’s meaning.
“It’s the chicken man,” Boyd says, snuggling down deeper into Raylan’s coat. It’s unbelievable how small he looks in it. “There’s only one of ‘em.”
“Oh,” Raylan says. “I thought it was a franchise or something.”
“What?” Boyd finally cracks an eye open. “The chicken man?”
“Yeah, like it was the Kentucky Fried Chicken of the Atlantic City region,” Raylan says. “They don’t have them around these parts, do they?”
“Raylan,” Boyd says, face twisting in disbelief. “The chicken man is a man. It was a human man. You thought he was a restaurant?”
“I don’t know!” Raylan says, defensive. “He said they blew it up!”
“They blew up the chicken man and they blew up his house too?” Boyd starts sitting up now, turning his body towards Raylan. It’s almost like the power of Raylan’s ignorance is sobering him up. “Who did you think’s house they blew up?”
“How am I supposed to know?” Raylan says. “I ain’t a songwriter.”
“It seems you ain’t much of a songreader, neither,” Boyd says. “You damn fool. God love you, Raylan.”
Raylan’s face burns crimson even in the dark. “Do you want me to sing it or not?”
Boyd’s smile slips from his face. He stares out past Raylan’s head, through the driver side window. “Raylan. Pull over for a spell, will you?”
“Uh oh,” Raylan says as he brings the truck to a slow stop. “You want me to come with - “
But Boyd’s out of the truck like a shot, emptying what’s left of his guts on the side of the road. They’re not too far from the valley now, and Raylan watches closely as Boyd kneels down beside one of the small streams that fork out from the creek and cups his hands in the water to splash his face and rinse his mouth.
“You alright?” Raylan asks when Boyd comes back.
Boyd blinks slowly and swivels his entire head like an owl. He hugs his arms around himself. “I don’t know,” he says. “Why’re you being so nice to me?”
“I’m always nice to you,” Raylan scoffs, putting the truck back in drive and taking off again. What kind of a question is that, he wonders. What was Raylan supposed to do? Leave Boyd there alone? The thought of it makes his stomach turn hard enough he thinks he’ll have to pull over to be sick himself.
There isn’t a hidden meaning behind Raylan’s kindness towards Boyd. He doesn't know what else to make of it other than he just likes him, plain and simple. He wants things to be easier for him, wants to make him laugh. He wants to make sure Boyd is warm, and wants him to know there’s at least one person looking out for him even if he ain’t much, and wants him to stop looking at Raylan with such a deep frown or his face might get stuck that way. He wants Boyd to climb through his open window at night and be so, so sweet to him that it nearly hurts. If there’s any other intent behind it, he isn’t conscious of it.
“Coulda had a pretty girl in your lap,” Boyd murmurs. “Instead of looking after me.”
He coulda, and he wasn’t in the mood. Boyd’s starting to piss him off. “Yeah, well,” Raylan says, mouth pinched. “You coulda froze to death out there.”
“Yes,” Boyd says, like he was looking forward to it and had been interrupted. “I know.”
Raylan rears back, jerking the steering wheel and veering slightly. He double checks Boyd is buckled in before his foot slams on the brake and they pull over again.
“Don’t say shit like that,” Raylan says, quiet and serious, his eyes hot. “Don't even think it, neither.” As if he didn't spend this Christmas Eve huddled outside in the snow, rather than stay inside his house another minute with Arlo.
He shuts off the ignition and clambers out of the truck, wanting to breathe his own air. It’s brutally frigid and burns his lungs like smoke. It’s a relief when Boyd joins him after a few moments.
Raylan must look how he feels, like he’s about to shatter into a million pieces. Boyd flinches and steps close enough to him to crouch in Raylan’s direct eyeline, so he has no choice but to see him. “Sorry,” Boyd says, the word soft across Raylan’s aching eyelids. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. I didn’t mean it.”
All Raylan can do is nod. “Fine.”
Boyd hops up to sit on the engine-warmed hood of the truck. He pats the spot next to him, but Raylan just crosses his arms and leans against it, stubborn as a barking dog.
“Don’t be like that, Raylan,” Boyd pleads.
“It’s fine,” Raylan snaps, turning his head. Boyd looks smaller somehow up on the truck, and terribly young. They ought to be anywhere else. “I get it.” He waves his arm out vaguely towards the dark of the valley. “Tell me about it.”
“What?” Boyd says, like he can’t believe the request. “The Big Dipper again?”
“No, Raylan says. “The mine.”
Boyd is silent for a long time. “It’s not so bad down there, Raylan. Honest. And - and I’ll be there with you. No matter what.”
Raylan shivers violently, like his very blood has turned to ice. Boyd scoots over on the hood until he’s right behind Raylan, knees digging into Raylan’s back until Raylan has no choice but to shimmy between them. Boyd leans forward and drapes the coat he’s still wearing around Raylan’s shoulders, and they share the warmth. It’s easier like this, when they’re both facing ahead. Easier to take what Boyd’s offering.
“You know, I was gonna come toss a pebble at your window,” Raylan whispers. It’s so quiet out here, and the heat of his anger bleeds out of his skin the harder he leans against Boyd. “That’s where I was headed, from the party.”
“Oh yeah?” Boyd says, laying his hand on Raylan’s shoulder. Raylan shivers again, and Boyd scoots even closer. “What were you plannin’ on doing after that?”
“Dunno,” Raylan sniffs, too cool for somebody that has no idea what he’s doing. “Helen told me once. She said, Raylan, you’re like tinfoil in the microwave.”
“What?” Boyd laughs, perplexed. “Explosive?”
“See, that’s what I thought, too,” Raylan turns around so he can face Boyd full on. He rests his hands on each of Boyd’s knees, sure and certain. “But she said no, dummy. She said, because you’re a big mistake some fool will only make once.”
“Oh,” Boyd says, clearly trying not to laugh. “I have never heard that country adage before, Raylan. Miss Helen is quite the clever woman and there’s no mistaking that. However - “
“Oh, here he goes,” Raylan says. “Busting out the however. What’s next, thus? Heretofore? Nevertheless?”
“However,” Boyd continues. “I don’t know. See, I think the fool you find will be one who makes mistakes with you over and over.”
“Boyd,” Raylan says. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt warmer in his life. He could fall asleep like this, on his feet like a cow, draped in Boyd. “You ain’t drunk anymore, are you?”
“Not so much,” Boyd says, already leaning down, a lure to a fish. “Why do you ask?”
Raylan stands on his tiptoes and kisses Boyd on the mouth. Boyd starts back with a gasp.
“My breath,” Boyd pants out, zero to one hundred.
“It’s fine,” Raylan says, looping his hand around the back of Boyd’s neck. It’s red-hot to the touch, and his pulse under Raylan’s thumb is like a rabbit. Where Boyd’s mouth has been is the last thing on his mind. His breath is the least of his worries. He’s gonna kiss Boyd no matter what. “Come back here.”
Boyd slides off the hood, feet hitting the ground with purpose. He presses Raylan back against the steel, hands gentle as gauze in the breeze. They stand there like a slow dance, Raylan's arms sliding around his back. When they kiss again, Boyd opens his mouth, and his tongue swipes along the point of Raylan’s canines.
“You got teeth like a wolf, Raylan,” Boyd says into his mouth.
They kiss until Raylan’s jaws ache and he can’t help but rub up against Boyd’s thigh between his legs. Boyd’s lips are swollen and red when he pulls away, like he’s been kissing, and the knowledge that he did that to him rings Raylan like a bell. Raylan leans his forehead against Boyd’s and catches his breath.
“Why’d you walk all that way in this cold,” Raylan says, petting the side of Boyd’s face, his throat. His pulse is strong and steady under Raylan’s fingers. “I woulda come and got you.”
Boyd looks at Raylan through his long, dark eyelashes. His skin is so warm, so unlike when Raylan found him earlier in the night, so full of life and blood and his future. If Raylan looks closely, he can see the stars in Boyd’s eyes. If he gets any closer, their minds will touch. Boyd belongs up here, not down there. Raylan wishes he were good enough to stop it.
Boyd kisses his thumb and presses it to Raylan’s mouth. “Shh, I know. You always come and get me. Always. And you always will.”
“Yeah,” Raylan promises, Boyd’s fingerprints all over him. “I will.”