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It's the first weekend of August, and Scout is in Indiana, against his consent. If he was eighteen, this would be illegal, this would be kidnapping, the news would have his (handsome, masculine, Dwayne The Rock Johnson-lookalike) face all over it. Missing! Scout Wilson! Red and blue lights blaring, Ma crying her eyes out when they finally find him.
Unfortunately, Scout is seventeen and his moms agreed to the damned contract. Which makes this not-kidnapping. No police reports, no kick-ass escape, no hope for an out of this school year at a military academy.
If there was anyone he had to blame, it was the rich kid who Ma used to nanny for. Spy, or at least, everyone called him that back at home. Everyone except Scout, who gave him such loving nicknames such as dickhead and head of dick and gilipollas (thank you, Spanish III honors, it was good knowing you).
Now that Scout thinks of it, Spy can't be his real name. He probably had some fancy, poncy, uppity name, one given to him by his father—the French-fucking-ambassador. Ma always told Scout to be friendly to him, ‘cause the bastard’s mom couldn't be around and he needed the support, but how could Scout be chummy when Spy would barely bother to look down his nose to talk to him? When Spy only scoffed at his lunchables and told him (and he quotes!), “That is a very high concentration of sodium, it would never be allowed in more civilized countries.”
Yes, he was, like, nine and speaking like a true pretentious bastard. But, be nice, Scout. I'm sure he didn't mean to call your beyblade a safety hazard. He's all alone in that big house, no Ma like you have. Be kind to him.
God!
His speed picks up, his pulse racing in his neck. He can't hear his footsteps, certainly can't feel anything but his own adrenaline. Everything exists in a vacuum, colors swirling in the corner of his vision. He runs, runs, runs. He's always been the fast one. The racer. The Scout.
God fucking damnit, he thinks, hateful and regretting and just mad, goddamn mad out his own mind.
Scout should've been meaner. He shouldn't have ever listened to Ma’s gentle reminders. He should've made Ma quit her job and leave the De Guillaume family; Even if it paid well, it wasn't worth it, being tricked like scum—especially since Spy's own daddy refused to even acknowledge Ma.
Sweet, kind Ma, who was a housemaid for that family since Scout’s first brother was born. She was the nanny of the Ambassador’s only son until he grew into a teenager (and became even more of an asshole). She cared. Cared too much about him.
Ma was always so fuckin’ invested in Spy, like having eight sons wasn't enough, as if none of them—and especially not Scout—were good enough for her.
Spy, the bane of his existence, was at the St. Michael Preparatory Academy. The last possible year— Sergeant Rank, where they were taught espionage, sleath, and how to be a pain in the ass for all the younger years.
It's Spy’s fault. When he inevitably returns to the academy, it'll be Spy’s fault that he's in detention, because it's because of Spy de Guillaume that Scout is even here.
Scout is hopping over fences like a ninja, trying not to trip over wild overgrown vine, and finally stumbling between tall stalks that are already sprouting yellow cobs. He finds a clear spot in the middle of the farmyard, where nothing grows there. Scout sees it and, out of pure exhaustion, just collapses.
His senses come back to him; the feeling returns to his legs, now worn out and jelly like boiled noodles, and his hands search for something to do. He picks at weeds, twirling the grass between his fingers. His brain is buzzing with unreleased energy. He needs to scream.
“Fucking Indiana,” he swears, panting and out of breath. He could sleep right here, right now, let the world overtake him. Let him rest only a moment, stop running for one single second. That'd be enough. He can feel the hot summer pounding on his skin, the sweat evaporating, leaving him with sticky skin and what will probably become a bitch of a sunburn that even lotion won't kiss. He crosses his arms behind his head, sprawling himself out. Grass soaks into his jeans, dampens the back of his shirt. “This place is a fucking hell hole of corn and cows.”
“No it ain't.”
Scout’s eyes flip back open, instantly alert. Slightly obscured from the brim of his Red Sox cap, he sees a pair of black thick boots, American flag socks that are hiked up all the way to the ankles. Thigh-highs and Wellingtons. What kind of time is he in for? Probably not a good one.
“This is my farm,” rumbles a burly voice from above. “Show yourself, ya maggot.”
Scout stretches, pulling at an aching muscle in his back.
“I'm showin’ myself perfectly well.”
“You know what I mean,” he growls. The tip of his black boot nudges at Scout’s side which, rude as fuck. “Get up.”
“C’mon, big guy, give me a break.”
“Up. I don't like trespassers. It's against American law.”
“I'll show you what's against American law—”
Scout tenses suddenly, focuses where he's laying, and then immediately launches himself forward in a double-backflip.
Scout looks forward and sees this idiot, and the rest of his outfit—a camo vest, a tank, and jorts staring at him, jaw dropped.
The hell he's looking at? He ain't never seen a Bostoner do a backflip before?
“...I don't think that's against the law,” he says, with a slow frown like he was actually thinking about it.
“Wouldn't surprise me if it was.” Scout pats off his clothes, pretending not to feel a rush of homesickness, right there in his stupid heart. It feels good to have dirt on him. “Fuck ass America. They don't know how to have fun.”
A flash of offense crosses the other boy’s face, tanned and taut. His spine straightens, chin tilting up—and Scout can see his eyes, when his drill helmet jostles out of place for just a moment.
He has blue eyes, washed over muddy blue like the lakes. Ain't pretty. Those eyes remind him of the Boston port—this dude would like that, if he'd knew—the waters splashing, the ships pulling in. He was taught to fish there. He used to look in the waters, see his reflection in navy blue swirls.
Ain't fuckin’ pretty, he thinks yet again, determined, mean, electrified alive.
Scout swallows, momentarily startled, before that precarious moment is over because this dorky patriot is already scolding him.
Wellington Boots says, “You shouldn't talk poorly of this fine country. It's not right, I'd say.”
“America kicked me out and put me in a prison, a’ight,” Scour snaps, somehow managing to sound even more bitter than when he'd first gotten here. He sighs. “Lemme rest for a second, jesus.”
When he tries to plop right back down, this guy grabs his wrist and gives it a sharp tug up.
“You are not resting on my farm!” He orders, sharp like a drill sergeant.
Scout groans. Can't a guy sleep in peace anymore?
“The hell not?”
“First, it's my property—my daddy’s property, but my farm one day too—and second… You seem like trouble. I don't want any trouble.”
Trouble.
Trouble?
“Damn right I'm trouble.” Scout jerks a thumb at himself, strangely proud. “The biggest trouble you'll ever encounter here in Indiana.”
“And, pray tell, my fellow American, why is that?” Wellington Boots asks, very much unamused. The asshole’s taller than him, stocky and big, so he's looking down. Scout doesn't mind it as much as he should.
“Why? Why?” Scout laughs, “I got kicked out of the Great State of Massachusetts ‘cause I'm a troublemaker. A reckless hooligan. A no-good prankster. You get my drift.” Scout feels the clouds shift and, thankfully, cool air begins to envelope him. His skin burns inside, though, out of shame or resentment or whatever, he doesn't know. His heart’s still racing like he's run a marathon. “My buddy’s had his dad’s car, and he's makin’ bets. I find a car on the side of the road, decide, why the hell not? Long story short, we were racing like hell. Got caught, and now, I'm practically in prison for bein’ a silly guy. Tell me, Americana, is it illegal to be one silly guy?”
The guy’s lips twitch, for only a second, a second that makes his heart rate spasm, before he fixes himself. Back to frowning.
“I’d suppose it would be if you were infringing on the rights of others, such as their safety on the road,” he hmphs. “I read the Constitution every night. The Founding Fathers don't like silly.”
“Huh.” Scout doesn't think the word silly even existed in 1776, but, y’know, this Star Spangled Indianian obviously knows better than him. “Well I don't need a father. I got my own family, down in the pilgrim colony. Six older brothers. I'm the seventh, which makes me the best.”
The other boy takes this in with a slow curl of his lip.
“I only have a sister,” he says this softly, his rumbling voice attempting to hide itself as a whisper. “You mighty lucky to have such a big family.”
Scout twitches into a frown.
Why's he getting all soft all of a sudden?
“My Ma’s the only likable one out of the bunch, trust me,” he says back. “Is your sister as proud of a patriot as you?”
He means it as a joke. It doesn't sound like one.
“The daughter of Liberty herself,” he replies, keeping his chin forward, hands clasped. “If you stay, you can meet ‘er. She's a little hellion.”
“I’d teach her how to hotwire a car, if you don't mind.”
The boy is quiet, awkwardly watching him—Scout can tell, even if he can't see the boy’s eyes—like he ain't ever been outside before. Had never seen anyone of the human race.
It's weird. All of this is weird. Indiana is hell. The silence is buzzing with flies and thick wind and the slight shifting of the clouds.
Like he does with most things, Scout breaks it without realizing it.
“You have a name?"
The stocky boy's shoulders go high and tight. A reluctant duty rolls off him. He would've been the kind of guy to salute without question, to a marine or a milk man. He acts without question.
“The boys call me Soldier.”
Scout lifts his eyebrows. “And the girls?”
“The army’s rule is that boys and girls are not supposed to… uh, conspire. My dad told me that.”
The army. Scout feels a small grin coming on.
“You in the army?” he asks.
This dude— Soldier —hesitates. “One day, just you wait,” he finally hums. A breathless sort of adoration enters his voice. “Not in it yet. I'm gonna join, the second I turn eighteen, I'll join. Make my country proud.”
Scout could make a joke right now.
He… doesn't want to. Not about this. The guy’s happy, stupidly happy.
Scout clenches his jaw. “I'm Scout,” he says, offering a hand that Soldier doesn't shake. “‘Cause I run the fastest out of all my brothers, and out of all my town, too.”
The mention of his brothers leaves him raw. As babyish as it is, he'd never been this long without ‘em before and he feels his absence, when there's no laughter in the mornings, when there's no stories to extract from them on lonely nights, when he wakes up without anyone to talk to.
God, it was pathetic.
Scout must sound pathetic, too, because Soldier’s looking at him all funny now.
Soldier shifts, swaying somewhat, like he doesn't know what to do with his feet. So quiet that the wind’s whistling breeze is accenting his words, he speaks up. “I don't suppose you're from where I think you're from?”
“What, Neverland?”
“No… Indiana. Here.” Soldier becomes oddly clumsy, lifting up his chin high, revealing small, alert eyes that restlessly move across the farm, examining every corn stalk. “I mean—you don't seem like… like anything I've ever known. You're… you're trouble, I know, but you just must be from here. Nobody ever comes to Indiana.”
“Not by choice,” Scout snorts. “I got kidnapped, buddy-pal."
Soldier stiffens in alarm.
“Should I call the good servicemen?”
“Like they'd do anything. It's all legal. You ever hear of a prison called St. Michael Preparatory Academy?”
“St. Michael’s?!” Soldier is alarmed, but for a different reason. He's… excited? “Why! How'd a miscreant like you get into such a school?”
Miscreant. Thanks.
“By being too baller for New England, that's how.” When Soldier only looks at him with bemusement, Scout finds himself elaborating his tale of misery and torture, “It all started with this dude—Spy, he's, like, French. And Evil. Ma nannied him when we were just kids, and Spy’s always been super lame about everything. Like he thinks he's better than me, y’know? And he's always talking to Ma about my behavior. My conduct. He doesn't know jack shit. Right?”
“Right,” Soldier nods.
“And so, one day, I made that little mistake—”
“Grand theft auto—”
“Good game, don't know how that's on topic though, but anyway, the charges were dropped ‘cause the guy whose car I found I knew. He was a friend of a friend of my local sandwich guy, I explained the situation to him, paid him a good twenty dollars, and it's all over, right?”
“I… would guess not?”
Scout snorts, a rude sound full of resentment.
“Not over in the slightest. Ma’s fretting over it, and Spy comes—from whichever portal to hell he spawns from—and he starts talkin’ in her ear. Ooh, I'm French! Ooh, I would've never done something so insouciant! Ooh, I'm SUCH a better son than he is, despite the fact I'm not your fuckin’ son! Starts going on and going about how I'm such a problem child, about how easy detention in Massachusetts ain't working. How I need stricter discipline, and he brings up St. Michael’s, this military boarding school states away from my hometown. The dickhead gets his father to pay for my full tuition. Ma barely had time to hug me by the time I was shipped to this…”
“If you call it a hell hole again, I'll feed you to my cows.”
The dark anger tightening Scout’s chest, like he's got heartburn or something, loosens a little bit. Makes the ache disappear like the cloudless healing of a world after a storm.
“You can try, I'm a meat eater.” Scout flashes his crooked teeth, pointed and ragged at the canines. He's got dog teeth, which made Spy sneer and being up braces, but Scout likes that he can rip and tear and attack just from his mouth alone. He may not be too strong, but he's got danger in his very bone structure. He won't always have to run. “And I'll have you know I think very fondly of Indiana now—the corn stalk parts of it only. Call it Stockholm Syndrome from this warm welcome.”
“It's a good state, plenty of corn and sunshine,” is all Soldier murmurs on the topic, like he isn't affected by the gibes and pokes at all. Anyone else would've shocked Scout by now. Soldier is fumbling. “So I take it you aren't from Indiana? Not from anywhere near here?"
Obviously, not. It was weird how Soldier kept bringing it up. Surely, all Scout's mentions of Massachusetts and pilgrims and his amazingly attractive, roguish accent told him that?
Maybe he didn't want to believe it.
Why?
Scout doesn't fuckin' know.
“Nah, Boston,” he says, through a cough from the back of his throat. “The real Boston. The second I turn eighteen, I ain't completing my year.”
"But then… where will you go?”
“Home,” Scout answers, shrugging. “I ain't here to stay. My heart belongs elsewhere.”
The conversation dwindles into what's not comfortable but not uncomfortable… it exists, the air between them. They stand in front of each other, each waiting for the other to act, and Scout thinks, oddly, you ain't a stranger, I guess you're just fine.
His worn-out kicks are stained, the shoelaces tied into knots. Not a lot of people are fine. Most are assholes, jerks, stick in the muds...
Soldier is fine.
Scout looks up and sees him. "Oi, buddy," he calls, and Soldier is... unhappy. Weirdly unhappy, in a thunderstorm Monday sort of way.
Quit making that face, he thinks, annoyed. Okay, technically, Scout can't see half of his face, but... Still. It makes him feel some type of way.
"Ayo, look at me, big guy. I got a question for you."
Soldier's lips part in response, waiting for Scout to ask it, and Scout's not a pussy, so he asks it right here right now.
“Why do you wear that hat?”
Soldier’s confusion emulates from him, an aura of bafflement.
“Like… the helmet.” Scout knocks at his head. “The thing. The hell do you wear it? Are you blonde or somethin’?”
“I have brown hair,” Soldier replies, the back of his hand reaching up to his neck. “It’s too scruffy. Short. M’dad doesn't like it.”
“...Oh, god. Do you have a buzzcut?”
Soldier purses his lips tightly together. “You ought not to play fun at the one who's letting you stay here. It’s bad manners.”
“And I wasn't raised well,” Scout agrees seamlessly. Ma isn't here right now to hear them, but he still glances around. “I wanna see your buzzcut. Show me.”
Soldier doesn't falter.
“No.”
Scout’s lips curve upwards, the kind of dorky smile he only gives when he doesn't realize he's giving it.
“C’monnnn,” he eggs on. “Show me yours and I'll show you mine.”
“You are mighty childish,” Soldier scowls, but his face is flashing blushing rouge, strawberry pink. “I can't see how they'd ever accept you into St. Michael’s.”
Spy’s dad has a shitload of money and Spy managed to convince my Ma to send me here.
“I’m charming,” Scout says instead, clicking his tongue. “And intimidating, too. You don't know what I can do with a Fluffernutter.”
“Whatever you can do, it must be impressive,” Soldier murmurs, his scarred, well-worked hands awkwardly clasping together, a thumb rolling over the back of his palm. “I tried to get a scholarship there, since I was thirteen, I've tried. Didn't work.”
“Did you try this year?”
“No.” Soldier’s gaze restlessly moves elsewhere, the brim of his helmet affected with the turn of his neck. Not so brash anymore. Scout scowls. Holding his big paws, he goes, “I–I don't wanna upset the good people at St. Michael’s. They're more elite than my daddy could ever afford—and I know by experience they don't accept salt of the earth folk like me—”
“They might. How do you know?” He demands, brows furrowed together. “They’d be dumbasses if they didn't accept you. They're stupid as fuck now that they haven't already.”
Soldier, this big fuckin’ man, is hunching over. Unsure, nervous, like he's got something to worry about. Scout thinks that Soldier is more worthy than Spy will ever be. More worthy than any other guy out there.
“Try again this time,” Scout gives his own order.
“I can't possibly bother them…”
“It’s ain't like it'll kill you to try, sugarheart,” Scout interrupts harshly, abrasive and loud and why the hell is Soldier smiling at him like that? “And if they reject you again, you break their fuckin’ car windows like your boy did once upon a sunshine—”
Soldier’s face goes beet red. He's working towards an astonished, probably negative reply, but Scout is on a roll.
“And if they try to say any shit to you, and you pop ‘em in the face,” he finishes triumphantly. “That's the American way. Didn't they do that to the Brits?”
“I—I suppose they did, but… that's not…” Soldier halts. “Y’know what? Fine. Fine, that! I'll do it, just to prove you wrong. They ain't gonna accept a lousy-kicked son of a corn farmer like me. I know they won't.”
“When they do, you owe me a double sausage, double pepperoni, jalapeno pizza and a pack of cigarettes.” Scout thinks about his deal. He snaps his fingers. “And a slushie.”
Soldier’s got his thinking face on. “What flavor?”
“Cherry.” Scout leans forward, his dog tags jangling like music in the wind, and lets Soldier’s height cast a shadow over him. He was expecting Soldier to back away, hell, to stumble and curse, but Soldier stayed in place. Scout tries a smirk to hide the flying spiders in his stomach. Not just any spiders, they're girly spiders—erratic and buzzing, all in a tizzy over nothing. “Coca cola if they have it.”
“A deal's a deal, and my honor is bound by the judicial system itself—”
“That ain't a lot of honor—”
“To tell the truth and nothing but the truth, that's what my daddy always taught me. He was on a jury twenty-five times in his life.” Soldier peers at him, in a very George Washington type way, slapping his hands on his hips. “I’ll do it. We'll see who wins.”
“It'll be me—and you, I guess, since you'll be goin’ to that school and showin’ em you don't ride cows for a living for nothing.”
“I don't ride cows.”
“Sure you do. I'll tell them that when you're my roommate and I don't gotta deal with some German doctor up my ass for boxing his skeleton.”
“I'll pretend like I know what you mean, boy.” Soldier shakes his head, and he's about to say something more when suddenly, he opens his mouth and smacks his lips. “It’ll rain in just thirty minutes.”
Scout looks at him weirdly.
“You the weatherman or somethin’ now?”
“I taste the rain, all farmers can do it,” Soldier clarifies. Still doesn't make any sense. “It’s a mile away now, but the clouds will move soon. It'll be mud everywhere.”
Fuck. Scout wasn't planning on running back to the academy in the pouring rain. Even if it stopped raining, his shoes would still be soaked. God help him if he slips. Breaks a leg or two. Spy would never let him live it down.
“Hey. Scout. Why’re you making that face?”
“What face? My smolder face?”
Soldier licks his lips nervously. His helmet dips downwards, so sudden that it nearly covers all of his nose, when he glances at his boots. “You wanna… come inside?”
Nobody has ever asked him that—to get inside, to join them, to just… be there with ‘em. He's a troublemaker. They tell him to fuck off and push him out store doors, they kick him out of libraries because he's on the computers playing Google Dinosaur, they shove him by the shoulder and tell him you're not welcomed here.
He ain't ever been welcomed to any place, and certainly not a home, because who would ever want someone like Scout?
…It feels nice. It feels nice to have a door opened, to look out in the distance and see a farmhouse with the curtains glowing bright from the inside. He can imagine what kind of candles Soldier’s family uses, can almost guess what kind of rug is on their front porch.
Next to a rusty spigot and two rocking chairs, is a door that won't be locked. He can stay for an hour in a dry, warm place, maybe two hours, to be shielded from the rain, so he won't catch a cold. He won't be wet. He won't be wandering without a purpose.
A promise that he'd be safe there, if he was ever safe anywhere, for any amount of time.
It feels like the kind of thing a guy would die for. It feels—revolutionary.
Scout, of course, has to ruin this.
“That's what she said,” Scout snickers.
Soldier tilts his head, eyebrows knitting together. He runs at the back of his neck, confusion—and something else, something warmer and stupider and, fuck, lovelier that cannot possibly be identified—lingering in his eyes.
“You are no army man. An army man has honor and dignity.”
“I don't got either, if you can tell,” Scout grins in return. “I have flighty feet, I'm handy with a baseball bat, and I have twenty-two reruns of Babe Ruth’s games. That’s all I have to my name.”
Soldier’s chin dips thoughtfully, his gaze back shifting to the ground. “Ain't all you have,” he says back, quiet.
Scout laughs, that’s the only thing he knows how to do, laugh or fuckin’ malfunction, and races to the large farm house. Soldier jogs up and, in a bid to slow him down, the little cheater, he yanks him back by the hand—
“You’re all wet, maggot!” Soldier jumps away from him, a flush shooting up his neck, ruddy. “That's right disgusting! You ever think of drying yourself on those baggy jeans?”
Scout’s face splits into a wild grin—grinning so hard that it hurts his cheeks—and lunges for the other boy's hand. You know, as a prank. “Indiana heat don't wait for nobody,” he cackles, holding onto him tight. “Especially not a Boston boy with a grudge against this fine country.”
Soldier scowls, hot and agitated, but Scout thinks there's a smile pulling at the corner of those lips.