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On an icy Tuesday late into January, Cole decided that Rust wanted nothing to do with him. Not that this was an ungrounded claim even if they had spent most of the last three months practically joined at the hip.
With the Hill mansion having gone up in flames on Halloween night, there had never been a question of where Cole was going to stay; of course he was staying with the Vances. The problem with that was the giant hole that had been blasted out of the Vance residence’s entryway by Rust’s dad.
The Maybrooks had been gracious enough to let them stay in their house while Quinn’s dad recovered in the hospital and Quinn stayed with him, but after only three days of that, Rust and his dad decided enough was enough and got to work fixing the ruined front door and all the space around it. Cole had desperately wanted to be useful, but with two broken arms, he wasn’t good for much. He spent most of his time at the hospital with Quinn and her dad or making awkward small talk with Rust’s mom, who loved him, but who still wasn’t set on her son being in love with a boy.
They moved back into the house- and Cole into the house for the first time- with the piles of left-behind dust and bricks hauled away and a giant sheet of plastic covering the jagged hole that used to be their front door. There wasn’t really any debate on whether or not a move was necessary, but it only seemed feasible when Cole piped up, offering up a great sum pulled from the fortune that was too large for him to know what to do with.
The Vances had stared at him with open, gaping mouths like they weren’t sure what to say until their son broke in, firmer than Cole had ever heard him get with his mom and dad; “Because he’s coming with us wherever we go.” His eyes darted between the two of them, daring them to argue, and when neither of them did he sat back heavily in his chair like a huge weight had been taken off his shoulders.
He didn’t look at Cole through any of it, but Cole still felt a huge wave of relief wash over him regardless. Rust might not have spoken more than four words to him that weren’t related to his current medical state in days, but this proved that he still cared. He still loved Cole even if it felt as if a giant wedge had been shoved into their relationship.
A giant wedge that had previously been known as Hunter Duvall. And then Rust stopped talking to him almost entirely. And Cole…could be the pettiest person he knew on his best days.
It wasn’t as if Cole blamed Rust for Hunter’s death. He knew him better than that. The buckshot hadn’t killed him, and even if it had, he knew Rust would’ve been wracked with guilt for the rest of his life even if he hadn’t been Cole’s…friend.
Friend probably wasn’t an applicable word for the predicament that led to Hunter’s untimely death at the hands of Arthur Hill, but the gravity of what Hunter had wanted from him really hadn’t hit Cole until he was drunk, shirtless, and on the precipice of making a decision that no part of him wanted to make.
Rust knew that Cole hadn’t cheated on him. Or at least, Cole was pretty sure he knew. He’d muttered it to him through a haze of pain while laying cradled shirtless in Rust’s embrace with a pair of broken arms in front of a crowd hellbent on a public execution for both of them. “Yeah, I know,” Rust had whispered, clutching Cole tighter, “don’t worry about that right now, alright?”
Cole had begun to protest, needing Rust to know that he would never, but before he could, Quinn Maybrook saved their asses for the thousandth time and there was no use talking about it anymore. Not that he hadn’t tried in the ensuing chaos, and not that he hadn’t tried after Rust’s dad had set his arms and the mind-dulling pain in them had died down slightly. But Rust always conveniently found something else that needed fixing or someone else to mumble at every time Cole tried to breach the subject.
It was funny, the way their lives worked. The first time they almost died at the hands of killer clowns, they spent the next three months clutching onto each other and reassuring the other that they weren’t dead: tracing their fingers over Rust’s scars and the fading line where the rope had been pulled taut against Cole’s neck.
Most folk lived their entire lives without a single run-in with a killer clown, let alone survive the first one. But the three months after this second attack…it seemed to Cole that something between them had died along with Hunter Duvall in the hospital that night and had yet to be resuscitated.
Even the nightmares that still sent Cole shooting bolt upright in his bed and had once upon a time had him reaching for Rust next to him in bed, now made him say a silent prayer that he hadn’t woken Rust up with his flailing before he could even begin to process whatever horrible dream he’d just had.
Rust had silently driven them to Main Street that morning and Cole stood out in the cold, observing the bullet holes that still riddled the movie theatre even three months after the clowns had fled Kettle Springs. Rust was overseeing the construction crew assigned to help the brand-new marquee into place. The team consisted of eager volunteers from middle schoolers to people nearing retirement age, but Cole didn’t join them. His arms had been released from their casts only three weeks ago, and while they were mostly healed now, that combined with the cold chill in the air that had melted most of the February snow on the ground but had left thick sheets of ice dotting the landscape led to two extremely stiff limbs that wouldn’t be much use even if he tried to put them to work.
“It’s never going to look as good as the original,” Cole caught Rust’s quiet voice from across Main Street; not surprising as he had kept an ear out for it for well over a decade now. “This is probably the best we’re going to get.”
Cole turned, hands in his jacket pockets, to examine his boyfriend, Redneck Rust, good ol’ Rusty, his Rusty. He wore his curls slightly looser now, not bothering to put as much effort into them than he had in the past. Near death experiences tended to do that to you, Cole supposed. He used to love running his fingers through them, loved the flush that steadily built in Rust’s cheeks when he did so.
Now, the last time he had touched Rust was three nights ago at dinner when their hands accidentally brushed both reaching for the butter. He’d turned bright red again and had drawn his hand back like he’d been shocked, mumbling a quick apology while Cole stared at him balefully.
Rust’s cheeks were red now, but from the cold, no matter how much Cole mourned that it wasn’t from him. His now-loose curls hung by his cheeks and his hands were fisted in the pockets of the black jacket that fit his broad shoulders in a way that would’ve had Cole drooling if it felt like he was allowed to. He was handsome, in the most rugged redneck way you could possibly imagine, and Cole had thought that since they were first graders chasing each other around the Kettle Springs Elementary playground and hitting each other with their superhero (Cole) and dinosaur (Rust) lunchboxes.
That Rust had loved Cole with such a ferocity that Cole had only ever seen in movies, and didn’t really recognize for years. It’s not like his parents were a shining example of mad, true love. It wasn’t until their freshman year, in the back of Rust’s truck, when Rust had leaned over and kissed him that every puzzle piece in Cole’s head had clicked together, and fireworks burst behind his eyelids as he kissed back.
And he’d let him go. It was one of Cole Hill’s biggest regrets, right up there with letting his baby sister come to the reservoir that dreadful night and inviting Hunter Duvall into his home that…other dreadful night. He’d tried to start slow, to phase Rust out so easily that maybe he just wouldn’t notice, but he’d never forget the look in Rust’s eyes when he’d ditched him for Ronnie and Matt for the third time in one week. Angry. Betrayed. Wondering why Cole couldn’t just man up and tell them.
And now, after a year back together, really their only year officially together, Rust was doing the same thing to him. And if this was how Rust had felt all those years ago, Cole questioned how he’d even survived it. He’d supposed they hadn’t lived together the first time; Rust hadn’t felt the unbearable cold that Cole felt every night when his boyfriend turned away from him to sleep instead of gathering him up in his arms like he’d used to.
A soft voice suddenly rang in the back of his head, reminding him of what seemed to be the last genuine conversation he had had with Rust. “Are you my boyfriend or my bodyguard?” He’d cried out in a burst of frustration that he’d reconsidered in months past but had never really regretted. It would take a lobotomy to forget the way the fight had fizzled out of Rust after he’d said it, and maybe not even then.
And now, on a near-freezing Tuesday morning, Cole stood with a stiff pair of arms, no fight left in him either, and knew that Rust Vance didn’t love him anymore. He’d pushed too hard, pulled back too far, asked for too much while giving nothing in return, and now he was going to get exactly what he deserved. Rust was still with him as he was a creature of habit, but the other shoe would drop any day now. Cole wouldn’t move with the Vances to the countryside. He would be sequestered back to the ruined Hill mansion, alone, where he belonged.
Feeling like the air was being sucked from his lungs breath by breath, Cole felt eyes on him. He turned his head just in time to see Rust’s gaze flitting away. The quickness of the moment would’ve be comical had Cole had the capacity to find anything funny right now.
He took one stumbling step forward, well aware that if he didn’t move right that instant he’d be rooted to the spot until some poor sap had to come pry him up. Boy billionaire, never the same after he ruined his own relationship, the people of Maybrook would gossip just as they had for years. He’d stand there so long that his heart would stop beating. He’d be buried with an empty headstone when he died, which was to be soon if he followed in the footsteps of the rest of his family, honestly. No one would speak at the funeral. Everyone who’d ever loved him had either wised up and ran, or was buried in a nearby plot in the graveyard.
Cole took another step forward and found himself right in a wide-eyed Jerri’s path. She reached one hesitant hand toward him before reconsidering and pulling it back. Good. He was poison to the touch anyways. “Cole?” she asked delicately, her head tilting to the side. “Is everything okay? You look…um…”
“I’m alright, kid,” Cole replied, trying to smile, but the slight waver in his voice blew his cover immediately. Not wanting to fuck the whole thing up even more, he took an intentionally large step past her and right onto a slick patch of ice that had gathered near the main road.
Instinct screamed for him to thrust his arms out in front of him in his quick trip to the ground, but panic spiked in him upon remembering what had happened last time he’d fallen like that. Rather, he tucked his arms in by his sides and his ribs took most of the impact, though his head hit the cold gravel and caused him to let out a low groan.
Jerri let out a small shriek, and was down by his side immediately, gently shaking his arm. “Rust!” she called out. “Rust, Cole needs help!”
Cole tried to pry his mouth open, to protest against the help of someone who wanted nothing to do with him, but he once again felt paralyzed under the weight of his grief. And besides, heavy footfalls he could pick out of any crowd were already speeding towards him. Those familiar fucking whispers had already started back up again.
Rust fell to his knees beside Cole, having gotten to the slick patch of ice where he’d fallen in record time. His nose was still bright red from the cold and there was harried look in his eyes. Good going, Cole. “Cole,” he said firmly, rolling him gently onto his back to assess the damage. “Did you fall? What happened?”
The conscious part of Cole’s brain tried desperately not to look at Rust, trying not to make the situation worse, but he’d never been good at tearing himself away from Rust Vance for long. “No,” he said, finally finding his voice, “just thought I’d lay down for a minute here.” Rust rolled his eyes and reached down to cup the back of Cole’s head to better look at his pupils, presumably checking for signs of a concussion.
A sudden burst of fondness shot through Cole at the familiarity of it all and tears welled up in his eyes with no warning. Rust’s eyes widened at the sight. “I think Cole and I are going home for the day,” he told the small crowd that had gathered but was still keeping a respectful distance and to Jerri over his shoulder. He angled his body just enough so that no one could see Cole’s distraught expression, sending such an intense wave of love for the boy through him that it physically hurt. “Get back to work, guys.”
The small crowd dispersed with little more than a few irritated grumbles. Jerri remained poised at Rust’s shoulder for a moment, ready to help, before he waved her off, saying that he had it under control. He leaned in closer, still cradling Cole’s head so affectionately that he felt sick. “How about we go home?” he murmured, and Cole nodded, his breath catching in his chest.
Despite Cole’s repeated attempts to tell Rust he was completely fine (his head and ribs were kind of throbbing but whatever, he’d had worse), Rust still insisted on keeping his arm firmly locked around Cole’s waist the entire walk to the car. “It was just a fall,” he mumbled, but Rust aimed a rueful glance towards Cole’s stiff arms and got the reminder of his last fall across without even saying a word, and Cole snapped his mouth shut.
He at least relinquished his grip enough for Cole to buckle his own seatbelt before sliding into the driver’s seat and buckling his own. Cole stripped off his winter hat and curled himself up against the passenger side window and rested his head on top of his knee, trying to stay the rapidly building tears campaigning to make their appearance. It was the most that Rust had touched him in weeks, and Cole briefly wondered if he could keep up a stream of injuries steady enough to prolong their relationship.
Rust shifted the truck into drive, and they set off. He didn’t look at Cole when he spoke next. “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked softly. “Didn’t upset your arms? Your head?”
Cole let an honest-to-god snort of laughter leave his mouth, almost immediately regretting it when he saw the startled way that Rust looked over, but he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore.
He wasn’t ready to let Rust go. Just like he hadn’t been ready to let Victoria go, to let his mother go, to let Janet go, hell, to let Hunter Duvall go. But he’d let them all go, kicking and screaming all the way. At long last, he’d let the person he loved most go peacefully, more unscathed than most even if practically his entire body was covered in scars, both physically and metaphorically. Even if there had to be large gaps of him missing from where Cole had sunk his fingers in and ripped. He’d let Rust go. Hell, he would suffer through the whole rotten ordeal over and over again just to see him smile.
“You don’t have to keep pretending to worry, Rusty. It’s fine.” Cole curled tighter in on himself as if he was trying to make himself as small of a target as possible for the eventual fallout.
“What are you talking about?” To give chops to his acting, Rust did look genuinely bewildered. “You hit your head pretty hard, didn’t you?” He reached over with one hand as if to card through Cole’s hair, jerking it back as if he’d been shot when he leaned back from his touch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Cole shook his head. “You didn’t scare me, I just…” He sighed, feeling the knot in his chest tightening with every word. “I know you don’t want to touch me. I know you don’t…I know you don’t love me anymore. You don’t have to pretend, it’s okay. I mean it, I swear I do, Rusty. I’m not mad at you, it doesn’t…it doesn’t have to be like the last time. I’ll let you go willingly.” He pressed his face into his denim-covered knee, for warmth, but also he was unwilling to see the look on Rust’s face when he bit the bullet and broke things off. Whether anger or relief or whatever else, he didn’t think he could handle it. He would listen to him, allow him that one thing.
But Rust didn’t make a sound. Instead, Cole felt the car slowly roll to a stop, heard the gearshift switched from drive to park. He lifted his head in confusion to find that yes, he was right; they hadn’t driven nearly long enough to make it back to the Vance’s. Rust had pulled over to the side of the road just as the neatly trimmed urban side of town began to give way to the unkempt and overgrown rural side.
The second thing Cole registered was the look of abject horror on Rust’s face. “Rust?” he asked carefully. “What’s that face for?”
Rust reared back from him. “Did you not hear what you just said?” he said in a near whisper, taking his hand from the gearshift where Cole could see he’d been clenching so hard his knuckles had turned white. “Are you insane?”
Cole stared back, flabbergasted at Rust’s outburst. “No, they ran plenty of those psychiatric tests, I think I’m clear of that by now.”
“I’m not joking, Cole.” Rust’s chest began to rise and fall a little quicker, probably undetectable to the average person, but Cole honed in on the change at once, recognizing the signs of Rust’s anxiety, something that had manifested in a major way over the last year and a half. It was natural, a symptom of their shared PTSD, but still freaked Cole out to no end.
“I’m sorry. Bad attempt at levity.” Cole winced, trying immediately to backpedal.
Rust turned away from Cole, replacing his grip on the steering wheel like he badly needed something to hold onto if he was going to get through this. “Cole, how could you ever think that?” he said quietly, and Cole’s heart instantly shattered in his chest. Maybe one piece would puncture a lung; it’d serve him right.
“This is the most we’ve talked in months,” Cole argued, going on the defensive at once. “You used to-” His voice wavered. “Shit Rust, you used to talk to me when you loved me,” he finally finished, trying to fight off his still warbling voice. Guilt crept across Rust’s features and Cole felt bile rise up and burn in his throat. “You don’t have to feel bad,” he added on quickly, hugging his knee to his chest a little tighter. “I don’t want you to feel guilty. I-I forgive you, okay? I wouldn’t love me either if I were you, and Rusty, you deserve so, so, so much better than-”
“You came out to the front yard to get me last night because I was still working on the house, and you were going to bed.” Rust gulped like the words were getting stuck in the back of his throat. “You said that I should come in so I could moisturize my scars, so I did. Not because I didn’t think I could do it later in the night because I could, but because I knew it would make you feel better if you knew I did it. And because I didn’t want you to fall asleep in our bed alone.”
Cole gaped at him. “Rusty, I-” All of that was true, even if he hadn’t given any of it a second thought at the time. It all just seemed so commonplace.
But Rust plowed on undeterred, more words than he’d probably said in years spilling out, frantic and guilt-ridden. “And if that doesn’t prove I love you and you love me, I don’t know what does. But I know it’s not all about that. It’s not just quietly showing up for each other, it’s…it’s loudly showing up for each other when it counts too. And…and we haven’t been doing that lately, and I’m sorry that that can’t be enough. I’ve been trying to give you space with Hunter, and what-” He gulped again, leaning forward to rest his head on the wheel and fisting his hands in the fabric of his flannel shirt. “I thought it could be enough. But it should be different,” he finished quietly. “I should be different.”
Cole had been frozen in his seat until Rust’s last sentiment. His hands moved of their own accord, reaching forward and pulling Rust’s face off the steering wheel, towards him. He tried to formulate something meaningful to say, anything meaningful to say, but all he could stand to do in the moment was brush his thumbs over the scarred skin on Rust’s cheeks and revel in the fact that they were both alive to have this conversation. “We’ve been through so much together,” he said after several moments of this loaded silence. “You would think it would make us smarter, and you would think it would make it easier to talk about this shit.”
Rust chuckled softly, his gaze darting down to the dirty floorboards. “I don’t think we’d be us if we were good at talking to each other.”
“Exactly,” Cole whispered. “I need us. I fucking need you. And I don’t need you to be different, I just need…more than what’s unspoken.”
“I can give you that.” Rust lifted his hands to cover Cole’s on his face and gave them a gentle squeeze.
“And I’ll do the same. I love you, idiot.” Cole pulled his hands from Rust’s grip, settling back in his seat. “Let’s go home.”
It turns out that Rust had stopped the car only a few streets away from the Vance house and they pulled up to the curb within a few minutes. The sheet of plastic covering the front flapped loosely in the chilly air, ensuring that they’d have to keep their winter gear on inside.
It was only when Rust put the car in park and turned to face Cole in his seat that it clicked in Cole’s mind that they weren’t breaking up. That Rust didn’t want to break up. That Rust loved him, just as he always had. “We’re going to go inside and you’re going to lay down,” Rust instructed, “I don’t care how fine you claim to be, that was a pretty good fall you took.”
Cole rolled his eyes. “You know you don’t have to come up with excuses to get me into bed anymore, Vance,” he teased, if only to see the red spark in his cheeks again.
Rust grumbled under his breath about it as they climbed out of the car and started towards the house, and a hot, sticky ball began to form in the pit of Cole’s stomach. Hesitantly, for the first time in many months, he allowed the feeling to unspool within him, spreading a heat throughout his entire body that only got warmer when Rust reached over to shyly take his hand in his.
Rust’s parents weren’t home, so there was no awkward pleasantries needed to get up to their room thankfully. Cole tossed away the winter hat he’d stripped off and collapsed on their bed immediately.
Rust hummed, opening up the drawer of the dresser that a few pairs of Rust’s pajama pants had been crammed against the wall of to make room for Cole’s when he’d moved in. Cole had made him promise to hold off on building a whole new twice-as-large chest of drawers for them until after they’d moved into the new house and actually had space. “Did you want to change or-”
Cole groaned, already throwing his heavy jacket in the general direction of the closet and wriggling his jeans down his legs, leaving himself in a pair of boxers and a T-shirt. “Just get in bed, babe.”
Rust shrugged, averting his eyes as he stripped down in a similar manner and climbed into his own side of the bed. “Come here, let me see your head.”
Feeling a wave of love rush through him at something so easily affectionate and protective, Cole scooted across the bed until he was close enough to rest his head on Rust’s chest. Rust traced his fingertips gently over Cole’s scalp in search of a bump or anything worse, though it quickly shifted to merely running his fingers through his hair in a matter of seconds.
“You’re a fucking sap Rusty, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” Cole mumbled into the cozy fabric of the shirt that used to be Cole’s and had now been worn by Rust so many times that it now permanently smelled like him.
“So I’ve been told.” Rust kissed the top of Cole’s head, hesitant but intentional. Slowly rebuilding what had eroded with their distance. “You make me a sap, idiot.”
“Nah, that’s all you, baby.” Cole clenched Rust’s shirt in his fist, wondering how best to broach the subject that was still weighing heavily on his chest after all this time. “I didn’t cheat on you, by the way.” Well, probably not like that.
Rust pushed up from the bed to stare down at Cole, surprised. For a moment, Cole thought he was going to have to clarify before Rust hesitantly said, “With Hunter?”
He nodded, relieved, sitting up with him. “Yeah. With Hunter. We didn’t, um- I’m not sure if we ever got that all squared away. But I didn’t. I wouldn’t.”
Rust slowly laid back down. “I know you wouldn’t,” he whispered. “But he shouldn’t be dead. Not that he should be if you…if you did cheat, but. You know what I mean.”
Cole draped an arm across Rust’s chest, pulling him impossibly closer. “He shouldn’t be. But just because he is doesn’t make it your fault.” He buried his face in Rust’s shirt again, pressing a soft kiss there. “I’m glad you’re alive, Redneck Rust. The whole fucking town could be dead, and all I’d be worried about is you.”
He felt Rust slacken underneath him, exhaling a shuddering breath. He felt fingertips graze his neck, tracing the faded marks where a rope had once tightened around his neck. Cole felt nineteen and eighteen and fourteen all at once. “You’re not dying on me,” Rust informed him, stroking his thumb across his throat. “Ever. I love you.”
“I love you too,” Cole muttered. “Get some sleep, okay? You probably need it.”
He probably didn’t, actually. But they fell asleep anyways, and Rust didn’t move an inch. If that wasn’t love, Cole didn’t know what was.