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Paul was alone more often than not these days. Darry, ever the provider, had gotten a job seemingly the moment they arrived in the city, so Paul spent most of his time in the apartment, waiting for him to return. He knows he should look for a job, but he's never had one before, and if he's honest with himself he isn't sure there's anything he could do that anyone would hire him for. So he was bored. Bored, lonely, and looking for an escape. He thought he would find it in New York, but the city wasn't as welcoming as he thought it would be. It was big, sure, but that just meant there were more eyes on them. He felt them every time he and Darry went out together, careful not to seem too friendly but inevitably slipping up when they thought no one was looking.
The first thing Paul learned was that someone was always looking.
Tired of hiding, and waiting, and of himself, Paul took to wandering the streets of New York. He told himself he was looking for a job, but really he was looking for a way out. So when he ended up at a bar called The Lucky Duck down the block from the apartment, he didn't blanch at the thought of ending up like his father. Anything was better than this wallowing.
He got home before Darry, and in a better mood than he had been in months. Waiting at the kitchen table, he jumped up when he heard the door open, not waiting for Darry to close it, always scared that someone would catch them in some immoral act.
"Hey, baby!" The alcohol in Paul's system made him bolder than he'd been in a while.
"What the hell are you thinking?" Darry pushed him off before shutting the door behind him. He was always so scared. "Or did you forget that we could get killed for that shit. This might not be Tulsa, but we don't need to put a target on our back for no goddamn reason." Paul stared at him, taken aback.
"Sorry, darling, you're just so gorgeous. And I want everyone to know." He leaned in for a kiss before Darry swatted his hands away and took a step back.
"Are you drunk?" Darry almost looked mad. Why does he care? This is the most he'd paid attention to Paul since they left Tulsa. Paul finally felt like himself again; he didn't need Darry ruining this for him.
"Not at all," he smiled, hoping to calm his boyfriend down. "I'm happy to see you. Hi, baby." He leaned in for a kiss, and this time, Darry accepted. It was the happiest they had felt in a while. At least, that's what it seemed like to Paul. So who could blame him for going back to the bar again and again to try and recapture that feeling?
———
It was one such visit to The Lucky Duck that sent everything crashing down around him. He took his regular seat at the bar, ordered some shots, and glanced around for any of the other regulars. The bar was pretty deserted, even for early Tuesday afternoon, but there were a few faces that Paul thought he recognized. A guy named Tom from somewhere down south was the only one he'd spoken to—they brought out each other's southern accents whenever they spoke, which Paul usually tried to hide, but somehow it was different with Tom. They could usually fall into a casual sort of routine; well, as casual as a routine of getting shitfaced at a bar every day could be. But when Paul caught Tom's eye, he could immediately tell that something was off. Rather than smiling or waving, Tom looked downright pissed off, getting up from his stool and stalking over to Paul.
"Get the fuck out of here." It wasn't a request—it was an order. Paul was caught so off-guard he almost immediately acquiesed, before his impulses got the better of him.
"Absolutely not. Who the fuck do you think you are?" Paul said defensively. He had a sneaking suspicion he knew exactly what Tom was talking about.
"Doesn't matter who I am. I'm protecting the public. I know what you are, you freak."
"Oh yeah? What the fuck is that?"
"I was wondering why a guy like you would be sulking around a bar every morning, so I followed you home last week. I saw your fucking apartment. You're a fucking fairy, aren't you?"
Paul froze. If Tim was telling the truth—and Paul had no reason to believe he wasn't—then he couldn't deny it. If he saw the way Paul greeted Darry most days, then there was nothing Paul could do. So he stood there, silently, while Tim berated him in front of a, thankfully, empty bar.
"I can't believe I've been pallin' around with a fucking fag. You're from Tulsa, you know what we do with fucking fags, don't you?" Tim was easily three inches shorter than Paul and 50 pounds lighter. Paul could've taken two of him and hardly broken a sweat. But he knew he deserved it. For being so careless; for taking Darry so far away from home and hardly giving him the light of day anymore; for countless reasons he was sure existed but the alcohol had wiped from his memories. So he didn't fight back. As he felt his lip crack and start bleeding, he couldn't help but smile—this was the most alive he had felt in a long time.
After Tom decided he had proved his point, he walked out without a word, stranding Paul on the floor of the bar. Paul ordered a couple shots—and really, who could blame him—and then wandered back to the apartment to clean up the mess on his face before Darry got home. He didn't need his boyfriend worrying about his safely because he was stupid enough to get outed to the only friend he had made in New York.
When Darry finally returned, Paul was gladder than ever that he cleaned up the blood: Darry was pissed off.
"I'm not gonna ask you if you're drunk. I know the answer to that. But what the hell is happening? All you've done since we've gotten out of Tulsa is leech off of me and drink like your father. We could've done that back home." His tone softened. "What's going on? I need you to talk to me, baby." Darry was too good to him, Paul thought. He deserves so much better than this.
"I'm not even drunk," Paul said, slurring his words slightly. "Can you just leave me the fuck alone? It's not like you had any chance to get out of that shithole otherwise. I was doing you a favor." If he rationalized it to where he was doing something good for Darry, maybe he could get rid of the guilt that gnawed at him whenever he thought about everything they left behind.
"What the fuck did you say to me?" Darry was on his feet at lightning speed. Shit. "I gave up everything for you. I moved halfway across the damn country for you and you can't even get a fucking job. I know you're used to having other people work for you, but some of us actually have to do shit for a living."
Paul didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure there was anything to say. Darry was right, if course, in typical Darrel Curtis fashion. What reason did Darry even have to stay? Paul was treating him like shit; they both knew it. But Paul really did love Darry, even if he was terrible at showing it. He knew he was taking Darry's love for granted, but he could never get Tom's words out of his head. And not just Tom, but the dozens of comments like his that reminded him that there was something wrong with this, and that as much as he tried, he would never be normal. So he distanced himself from Darry, trying—and failing—to convince himself that it would hurt less if it was slower. He found other bars: bars where he wouldn't get kicked out for loving Darry. And he found some people who he didn't feel guilty about kissing. He knew it was wrong, but he didn't want to ruin Darry with his sin; he'd be better off getting it out of his system far away from his home. Or at least that's what he told himself. If he really considered it, maybe he'd admit that he was too scared to ever leave Darry, but he was much more scared to ever be together. So when Darry didn’t come home from work one day, he wasn't too surprised. Darry was always the brave one.