Chapter Text
Figures glided under gas light as she stood motionless at the edge of the dance floor, practically twiddling her thumbs. Butch had, of course, expected this, but she'd hoped for at least one dance. But, as it turns out, cutting off your hair and scowling in disgust at any man within a five metre radius doesn't exactly get you a partner for the dance. Go figure.
Butch didn't even want to dance with a boy, which had been confusing enough to process, because, if not with a boy, then who? Fortunately, they'd had all the time in the world tending to cattle to entertain the thought. Perhaps they had foolishly thought that, maybe, a girl would notice their lack of a partner and, possibly, dance with them. However, evidently, that plan had backfired.
As the music picked up again, pairs took to the centre, and Butch allowed herself some people-watching to negate the awful heaviness settling in her chest.
Across the barn, a girl giddily rushed along the wooden flooring, interlocking arms with a gangly boy in a far-too-large pair of dress pants. The fabric shuffled amongst the hay, with the hems haphazardly folded into makeshift cuffs. What made Butch cringe the most was the bright yellow speckled bowtie that adorned his neck. A ghastly fashion choice, if you asked her.
Given that it was more socially acceptable for him to wear dress pants and ties, Butch figured he would've worked out colours by now. At least she could coordinate her tie.
Come to think of it, Butch had picked out quite a nice outfit: a soft white button-up they only saved for special occasions, a flattering pair of brown dress pants, and a lovely vest, only for them to be sidelined the whole night. They never even came to these stupid dances either. The thought of having a boy's hand on their waist had always made them feel physically ill.
Boys were just... boys. They were rough and loud and messy, and they reeked of teenage hormones and abhorrent amounts of cologne. The mere thought of having to listen to one of their squeaky voices for more than five seconds sent shivers down her spine.
Butch had never been one for men. She'd known that since she was about ten. She also knew the things girls in town said about her; they quite liked one word in particular, she noted. They were nice to her face, of course, but Butch couldn't help but notice them staring at her from across the room every once in a while, giggling and whispering. Even before she cut her hair, she'd notice that barely disguised fearful disgust in their eyes in the bathroom, at the stables or out on the street.
The way they thought of her—like some kind of pervert—rooted in Butch's chest with a painful twinge. She never understood why they couldn't just—
"Don't fucking talk to me again, Jeremy!"
Butch snapped back from their brain, their eyes darting forward.
A few feet from them, a girl slapped someone's hand away, storming off the dance floor and screaming things even they'd dare not scream alone. Her skirt trailed on the air behind her as she stomped in Butch's direction, her eyebrows furrowed.
The girl donned a blue knee-length dress, adorned with flowers and white trimming. She was quite pretty, Butch thought to herself, but that was probably what little Jeremy thought before he messed up their dance saying Lord knows what to the poor girl.
Before they could brace themselves, the girl practically threw herself at the table Butch had stationed themselves next to. Her shaky hands fiddled with the knot of a ribbon in her hair, slamming it onto the table with an exasperated sigh.
At first, Butch left her alone with her thoughts in a minute or two of awkward silence, before a careful curiosity got the best of them, and they turned in her direction.
"You alright?" Butch asked, cocking their head slightly to the side.
The girl sighed in response, fiddling with her hands as she scrunched her nose. "Just... boys. God, they're special things ain't they?"
"Yeah, that's why I don't dance with 'em." Not strictly true, and if she was being truthful, she didn't dance with boys because they were just that. But, the girl seemed to appreciate the sentiment they, nonetheless, now shared. "If, uh... if you don't mind me askin', miss, what exactly did he say t' you?"
"He just... It was so weird—what he was sayin'," the girl said, before pausing for a moment. "They'll say somethin' stupid like, "you're pretty", and expect shit back for it! I'm just tired of it, I guess. Not that I'm not grateful for the attention, I know I should like it, but..."
Butch nodded slightly. "They do that, don't they?" They said, before the girl's puzzled expression sent them stammering. "Like—like—say the least effort bullshit, and expect you to swoon, I mean. And I get not likin' it too. Because, y'know, the way they say it, well, it don't quite feel real? Anyhow—just—I understand."
Damnit, Butch.
Embarrassment threatened to claw its way up their neck, but, for a moment, they paused. Getting a closer look at the girl now, she wasn't just pretty, she was... gorgeous. Butch's heart fluttered in their chest, even daring to skip a beat or two. Her hair, long, blonde and curly, was weaved precisely into a waist-length braid rested across her chest; loose strands, presumably tussled out of place during one of the night's line dances, hugged her face. Her face. Butch could barely breathe. God, she had to be divine. And here they were, stumbling over their own words like a fool.
When their lungs finally let up, even a little, they were confronted with the reality that they had, in fact, been staring. "You—sorry, I—my thoughts wandered a little."
"No, no—don't worry about it, really," she said. They exchanged another awkward pause before the girl cleared her throat, returning to their conversation. "It's just... you hear it as much as I do and it starts to lose meanin', y'know?" She sighed, relaxing against the table.
"I think you're beautiful." The words tumbled out of Butch's mouth before she could stop them. Quickly stammering an apology, she tried her damnedest to salvage what little remained of her reputation. "Well—I mean—I know—y'know what? Never mind, sorry."
The next few seconds were torturously long, as every voice in their head screamed at them to just shut the fuck up, goddammit, Joane Josie, or so help me—
But she laughed. Not a little giggle to be polite—the hearty, genuine kind. The kind they could get used to. 'Course her laugh's pretty too, Butch only dared think. Although, just in the way she smiled a little crookedly—the way she covered her face when she laughed too hard—they felt something swirling deep in their chest.
"It's fine, really! Thank you," the girl managed between giggles. She extended her hand before continuing. "Annabelle Parker! What was your name, stranger?"
For a second, Butch wasn't certain she remembered. "Bu—Joanie. It's—It's Joanie." The name almost left a bitter aftertaste. A little wrong, in some sense.
Annabelle shook their hand, quite firmly for a girl of her stature. "Well, it's lovely to meet you, Joanie."
"I—uh, you too! Lovely to meet you too."
With that, Annabelle released Butch's hand from her white-knuckle grip and they both turned back towards the dance floor. The band had retired for the evening, leaving their small platform to a man hunched over a piano, playing a slow, waltz-like song.
Outside, they could hear a faint tapping against the tin roof, accompanied by an occasional rumble—the kind you felt in your chest—as soaked strangers sought shelter from the beginnings of a thunderstorm.
As Butch was just about to find another atrocious outfit to scowl at from across the floor, Annabelle's hand gripped theirs, and they felt her press against their side.
"Listen, I like you, Joanie," she whispered, a mischievous grin pulling at her lips. "We should get outta here."
Butch could've sworn their heart stopped. They were suddenly quite aware of the fact that Annabelle had clasped her hand around theirs. It felt... right. Not itchy or fuzzy. Like their hands were made for holding hers. They stared at her, dumbfounded, for a few seconds, before she squeezed them expectantly.
"Joanie?"
They clambered for an answer. "Oh—yeah, no, that—that sounds great, Annabelle. And I like you too."
"Perfect!" she exclaimed, shaking Butch's hand as if they'd just sold their soul. "I know a spot—just down by the lake behind my daddy's farm. 'S quite pretty this time of night. You'll love it."
With that, Annabelle's hand snaked around their wrist, pulling them along behind her. As they winded through dancers and small clusters of people, Butch saw the barn doors held shut with a small plank of wood. Probably to keep the rain out and us in, they thought.
Annabelle carefully removed the plank, shoving it into their hands and yanking at the old barn doors, which gave way with a loud groan.
Much too loud.
"Hey!" An older man's voice called out from behind them. "Where do you two think you're gettin' to?"
The pair skidded to a halt, Butch's boots scraping awkwardly against the hardwood.
"Daddy," Annabelle said with a pleading sigh, "we were just getting some fresh air!"
"In that weather, Annabelle?" He asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Like hell you were. You're not getting up to trouble again, are you?"
Butch turned away, taking a small step back through the doorway before Annabelle's grip tightened. She looked back at them the same way a madman might look at his gun, and Butch swore they saw the cogs in her head click into place.
And they ran. Boots and heels thudded against sodden dirt as they fled the scene, rain be damned.
They'd never felt more at home.