Chapter Text
Dennis Whitaker believes in God.
He believes in his Sunday best for church every week, his knees against the creaky floorboards next to his bed every night, saying grace before every meal, even if he never really knows which words to pick. He plucks them from his memories of the day before and hopes he’s convincing enough to avoid suspicion.
He believes in praying for the lambs born every spring like clockwork since he learnt his first word, and pretending to sip at the wine during communion even though he hates the way it stains his lips, and listening to his mother every time she pushes him to play basketball with the boys who run the youth group.
He believes in sitting in the back of the classroom—second row from the back, closest to the window, it was always his seat—and watching as his classmates chew up wads of their homework to stick to the back of the only boy stupid enough to be gay in this town.
Each night before bed, in the secret prayer he speaks in his head when his lights are off and his door is closed, he begs not for forgiveness, but salvation. The preacher can say whatever he’d like—Dennis knows forgiveness is earned. It’s a sacred thing, and it is not meant for him. That much, he has picked up. Forgiveness is for those who are jealous, or spiteful, or selfish. It is not for those who are broken.
That is another thing he knows—he is broken. There is something within him, a piece of his soul that arrived in shattered pieces, which makes him defective. Because, despite a lifetime of prayer, of tearful pleas to his Father who art in Heaven, he has still not been fixed.
If something is so deeply embedded within him that God cannot reach it, mend the ever-open wound, then it surely is a punishment of sorts.
He doesn’t know what he did, but he knows he’ll spend the rest of his life repenting.
This morning is no different from the rest.
He wakes with a start, a jump of his heart at the sound of his father’s boots raking against the doormat upon his return. Up bright and early, preparing their sheep for the auction, grumbling under his breath about how Dennis’ help would have been nice for a change. Even if he would have just slowed the whole process down. It’s the thought that counts, he says. The effort shown.
Dennis is supposed to care about the farm. It’s why he’s still here, instead of leaving for college years ago like he wanted to. His parents know best, and so he stayed. Not that he had much choice.
So he’s here, pushing his blankets back and half-heartedly swinging his legs off the edge of his bed, feet planted on the worn and weathered wooden planks where his knees will be tonight.
He hears his name called from downstairs, that gravelly voice of his father that he knows came from the cigarettes, even when the man lies about having quit during dinner. When Dennis sits in the barn, willing himself to melt into the bale of hay beneath him, he can smell the tobacco, see the smoke lingering above him. It must be bad for the animals.
With a small grunt, he manages to stand, shucking his boxers off and toeing them into his laundry basket at the same time as he reaches over to grab another pair from the drawer that’s still open.
“Denny?” he hears from the other side of the door, the proximity catching him off guard with his boxers halfway up his legs. He stumbles as he responds to his mother, voice wavering while he hurriedly dresses himself. The woman’s never been much for boundaries.
“Yes, mom?” he gets out as he tugs his overalls on. He hates that nickname. It’s feminine—the boys at school would call it out after him on the playground, and the girls would taunt him with it, in that sickly-sweet way they thought hid the patronisation. He’s never understood why his mother would stick by it so willingly. Maybe it’s just the same as the kids in school. His father was the one to yell, the one to push, the one to bully, and his mother would play the good cop, always on his side.
She says something about leaving soon, telling him to hurry along, although it’s obscured as he plucks a flannel from his floor and clumsily pulls it on, still buttoned up. He musters up a polite-enough ‘okay’ in response, listening to her footsteps fade away until he’s alone again.
Beneath his shirt lies the thin, gold chain that never leaves his neck, the one with the cross hanging from it. Pressing against his sternum. He keeps his flannel buttoned, despite the heat.
When he emerges from his room, he keeps his chin up but his gaze down, a respectful nod to his father as he passes through the front door being pointedly held open.
He’s squished against the door in the back seat, crates of feed taking priority, and his gaze remains glued to the dirty floor of the truck—it’s much too depressing to watch the fields stretching out from the road, nothingness as far as he can see, the whole way to Arnold. They pass sixteen houses on the half-hour drive, and he doesn’t count the ones right outside Merna, he never does.
It’s too hot.
It always is, and he should be used to it, after spending every day on the farm all summer, but it seems worse on days like these. Days where he’s being dragged along to some shitty livestock auction, hating every second of it all, because he knows he shouldn’t get attached to the animals for this very reason, and yet he does. He always does. He can’t help it—the sheep listen to him when no one else does. When he sits in the fields with a cow’s head in his lap, heavy and grounding, he doesn’t have to worry about what they think. He just talks, and talks, and talks, until the sun has long-since dipped below the horizon and the chill sets into his bones.
Now, he watches as his dad unloads them, and his heart hurts. More, when he remembers he did this to himself.
He goes through the motions, letting himself be paraded around for all the same greetings and catch-ups, feeling like a sheep himself, herded to all the places he has to be. All prim and proper, a good farmer’s boy, a helping hand where it’s needed. It’s all he knows how to do, all he’s ever been.
Usually, he sticks around a little longer. Engages in the pleasantries a little more, puts in the work to avoid a strong talking-to on the car journey home. But it’s too hot, and the days seem so much longer.
When his father finally forgets about his existence, he wanders off to the barn he’s been eyeing up since they arrived. A big, burgundy haven, secluded enough that he can drown the auctioneers’ voices out, the same mindless chatter he hears every month.
He hasn’t been here in a while, hasn’t sunk into these specific bales of hay, but the air feels like home more than his childhood room ever will. No smoke lingering above him today, but no barn cat either. Wins and losses.
There may not be a tabby to keep him company, but there is a horse. A stunning Appaloosa, by the looks of things, a deep chestnut coat dappled with white. He takes a moment to unbutton his shirt, just a bit, just for some air, as he pushes himself to stand up again on renewed legs. Like his exhaustion with the world has been lifted for a second.
Despite all the animals he grew up with, horses were never present on his parents’ farm.
They’re charming creatures, he thinks. All of them are, all the sheep, the pigs, the cows, the chickens. The barn cat, the kittens she had last fall that they had to sell even when Dennis couldn’t hold back the tears at dinner. The mice that only run around when his dad’s not there—the ones that seem to get along with the tabby when he’s there. He’s not sure why that is.
He moves with a confidence he’s not had all day, a sense of purpose that steadies him as he approaches the horse, the animal almost an entire foot taller than him. It’s beautiful, and clearly well taken care of, its mane a smooth chestnut colour that matches its coat, with streaks of white. He’d lifted an apple from a crate he passed earlier, and he figures the horse will likely enjoy it more than he will, so he lifts it from the pocket of his overalls, polishing it gently on his flannel before holding it out. Not tentative, but slow, welcoming. Not that he’s ever really perceived as a threat, unless he’s in church. Even then, he’s less of a threat and more something to be looked down upon. Something to be fixed, and pitied, and left behind. When they realise there’s no hope.
The horse isn’t tentative, either. Just rightfully cautious, but clearly trusting—clearly used to a caring owner. A good life. It leans down, nosing the apple curiously before wrapping its lips around the fruit, taking it from his outstretched palm. Some of the juice drips onto his boots, and it’s the first time he’s smiled all day. Maybe in days at all.
“She’s a beauty, ain’t she?”
The voice makes him jump, a little jolt as he spins to find the source, almost losing his balance. When he steadies himself, he finds that the source certainly matches the sound.
The man must be almost as tall as the horse, in a dark wash denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up tight around his biceps and a pair of well-fitting jeans just slightly darker. A short beard, unusually groomed compared to most men around here, and wire-framed glasses with oval lenses. Scruffy hair, almost sea-swept, like the exchange student they’d had from California in junior year. Strong arms, and a slight belly. A working man.
When Dennis can’t find the words to reply, the man takes it upon himself to keep up the conversation with a small, amused smile. It makes him feel giddy. It makes him feel unclean.
“Name’s Bijou, though she’s anythin’ but small,” he says softly, stepping forwards until he’s leaning against a post a few paces away from Dennis. He has no idea what the man’s talking about, and while he assumes it’s some sort of reference, he’s lost as to what, and figures it’s a safer bet to just nod along like he understands. Maybe the man sees that, because he smiles that stupid smile again, like he can see right through Dennis. It’s infuriating, but more than that, Dennis hates how it makes him feel. Special, almost.
“She likes you,” murmurs the man, his lips upturned, nodding to where Dennis is stood with the horse—Bijou. As if she understands, she nuzzles into the side of his neck, and he jolts back again, feeling a little penned in between the two. They must be working together, he thinks.
“I like her,” he manages to muster up in response, once he’s found his footing again and remembered his manners. “Bijou’s a nice name.”
Clearly, he doesn’t remember enough of his manners to ask for the man’s name, too preoccupied glancing between him and the horse, fingers carding through its mane in an attempt to calm his racing heart. There’s a little stretch of silence, where he can feel the man’s gaze on him.
“Sure is. You got a name yourself, son?”
Even when he’s not looking, he can hear that charming smile lacing the man’s tone.
“Oh, uh, Dennis,” he answers, his cheeks pink—he hopes the heat can excuse that, although from his time with the man, albeit limited, he’s willing to bet nothing’ll get past him.
“Dennis is a nice name,” he echoes, in that low tone that makes his insides flip and his brain go blank and his soul doubt the existence of hell.
“Do you have a name?” Dennis asks, before he has a chance to double-check the question in his mind, and he thinks then that maybe it wouldn’t have been such a bad idea to stick with his father just this once, if it would mean saving himself from this embarrassment and the desire to sink into the ground.
Luckily, the man seems to find it endearing—although that may just be wishful thinking, as Dennis is too caught up in kicking himself to discern between affection and condescension.
“Sure do. ‘S Michael, but most people call me Robby.”
Once again, Dennis can’t seem to find the correlation between the two, and decides to voice his confusion this time around, if only to continue the conversation.
“I don’t follow,” he says, absentmindedly running his fingertips through Bijou’s mane as he speaks, the horse seemingly content with the attention, setting her chin on his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch away this time.
“Last name’s Robinavitch,” Michael—Robby—explains, tapping the toe of his boot on the wooden beam behind him before pushing himself forward, approaching his own horse. His gaze appraising Dennis as he walks forward, eyeing him from head to toe and back again before landing just a few steps away. Robby reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cube of sugar, holding it out for Bijou while he returns his attention to Dennis—who’s currently rattling off a list of Bible passages in his head. So intensely so that it takes him a moment to connect the dots, to understand why he’d possibly be called Robby. When he does, he just nods, frantically, as if he’s remembered that that’s something he’s supposed to do.
There’s that smile again. It’s accompanied by a chuckle this time, deep and amused, making its way through Dennis’ chest and down his spine. He hates it, he swears he does.
He would continue the conversation, engage in pleasantries like he claims to be so good at, but he’s too preoccupied watching Robby’s free hand fiddling with the handkerchief in his back right pocket, a dirty white colour contrasting the tanned skin of his fingers, the callouses that adorn his flesh. He wants to reach out and touch it. He doesn’t.
His train of thought is derailed when he feels a finger on his chest, between the open buttons of his flannel. Robby is tracing the cross over his sternum, his fingertip gentle and slow and tender, like he’s mesmerised by it. Dennis doesn’t want to talk about religion. He feels that dread in his stomach, the same dread he feels every Sunday morning, walking through those doors to be greeted with the man on the cross. Staring down at him.
Robby’s staring down at him. It feels holier than it has in a long time.
The man seems to read his mind, like he can see his thoughts, and doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Just lets it be. Dennis is afraid to move, a deer in headlights, unsure of where to look or what to do with his hands or how to breathe. He can feel Robby’s touch through the metal, into his chest, brushing his heart.
“You’re good with her.” Robby’s voice breaks through the haze that’s settled around them, his hand dropping to his side. Dennis remembers how to breathe, but not how to speak.
“You have horses of your own?” the man enquires, moving the conversation along like it’s nothing.
“No, never,” Dennis answers with a small shake of his head, his hand subconsciously burying deeper into Bijou’s mane. “Too much work, my dad says. Not worth their keep. He says,” he adds, like an afterthought. Not wanting his father’s opinions to be conflated with his own.
“Oh, that’s where he’s wrong. Beautiful creatures. Worth it just to know ‘em,” Robby replies, a soft, affectionate murmur with a glance back to his horse. “You have a farm, then?”
Dennis nods, then shakes his head, then shrugs.
“My parents’ farm. ‘S in Broken Bow. Got a barn, but ‘s mostly for storage,” he explains, trying his hardest to keep his gaze anywhere but the man in front of him, who seems to have shuffled closer when he wasn’t paying attention. He’s not looking up, but he can hear Robby hum an acknowledgement.
“Whitaker Farm?” he asks, with a tone that suggests he already knows he’s right, and another hum when Dennis nods again.
“I met your daddy a couple times. Never knew he had a handsome son helpin’ him out. You’re back from college for the summer?”
Dennis is faced with the thrill of affection, the immediate wave of disgust that punches him in the gut, and the crushing reminder that he’s going nowhere in his life in quick succession. It makes his head hurt, not helped by the way his head spins when he shakes it in response.
“No, I’m not at college. Stayed back to help my folks,” he says, gathering the courage to glance up at Robby, who’s got an expression on his face that looks almost like recognition. Another hum, maybe a little softer this time.
“Good lad. You like horses, then?”
Grateful for the switch in topic, Dennis nods eagerly—so eagerly he worries he’s making a fool of himself, more than he already has. Robby just has that smile on his face again.
“Love ‘em. Think they’re real beautiful, like you said,” he gets out, tone somewhere close to reverent. Opposite him, Robby nods, seemingly satisfied with his answer.
“‘S a good trait for a stable hand to have. Gotta have respect for ‘em. You think you’d like that, Dennis?”
Just like that, he’s lost again. He’d been staring at the handkerchief again without even realising it, and now he’s scrambling to understand what Robby’s asking, cheeks pinker than before. He doesn’t know how the man does it, but he seems to read his mind again.
“Bein’ a stable hand. For me. You’re good with horses, and you love ‘em, I can tell. ‘S the only thing I care about. You think you’d like that?” he repeats, gentle and understanding, no judgement in his tone. Dennis nods before he can even think about the details, whether he’ll be paid, whether he can travel wherever Robby needs him, whether his parents will let him go. He just nods, because he wants this, and he hasn’t truly wanted anything in a long time.
He looks up, and Robby’s smiling.
Corners of his eyes crinkled behind his glasses, dimples hidden under his scruff but still so, so obvious.
“Good. Be nice having some company. I’m in Merna, Hays Ranch. You just show up any time and I’ll get you all set up, don’t be frettin’ the details,” he hums, reassuring in a way no one ever is with Dennis. Something blooms in his chest, and he pretends not to notice it.
“Thank you, sir,” he murmurs, and even as he looks up and catches the glint in the man’s eyes, Robby shakes his head.
“No need for any of that ‘sir’ nonsense, makes me feel like an old man,” he says, as close to admonishing as he can get with that smile on his face. Still, something seems to spark in his head, and then Dennis’ eyes are tracking his movements, back on his hand, the handkerchief.
Robby tugs it out of his pocket, folding it all nice, before stepping closer. Closer than a man is supposed to be. He leans forward, one hand covering the cross over Dennis’ sternum, the other reaching around to tuck that dirty white handkerchief into Dennis’ back left pocket. He straightens himself back up with a strange, indiscernible look on his face—Dennis would mistake it for pride, or perhaps something other, something he can’t quite place.
“Every good stable hand needs a hanky,” Robby explains, like it’s so simple. Dennis opens his mouth to protest, reject the gift, but he’s too slow, interrupted before he can begin.
“You keep that with you. Be useful on the ranch. Makes you my help, good and proper,” he says, with that infuriating smile, and before Dennis can formulate a response that doesn’t make him out to be completely pathetic, Robby’s walking out, Bijou following right along.
He’s down an apple and up a purpose. He thinks it’s a fair trade.
He goes to find his dad.