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All that I want for you, my son, is to be satisfied – Simple Man, Lynyrd Skynyrd
He didn't get beat up.
He didn't get raped.
It wasn't something that dramatic that pushed Daryl over the edge. In fact, nothing pushed him over the edge. Eventually, he just decided that he'd had enough.
One day, when Merle was out getting high or doing fuck knows what, Daryl decided to have a beer.
Then he had another beer.
Then he thought 'fuck it' and dug out his brother's stash of rotgut because, well, why the fuck not?
Half-drunk and lonely as hell, he jerked off to some copy of Men's Fitness he'd had lying around since the beginning of time. That was what made him decide, really. He had the weak shudder of an unsatisfactory, inebriated orgasm, and then felt so disgusted with himself that he punched the wall in anger.
He didn't want to be like this. He couldn't take it anymore. The sideways glances and the muttered insults and the crushing, endless solitude of constant hiding. The relentless anxiety about putting a foot wrong or saying something to give himself away. He was getting to be a nervous wreck, gaining nothing from it, and he'd fucking had enough.
This might have been life, but it wasn't living.
He told Merle everything, in the letter. He told him about Missy, Chuck, Jimmy, and everything else. What was the point of leaving anything out if he wasn't going to be here to face the consequences? He even managed to only tear up a little bit, at the very end, when he thought about all the things that he hadn't been able to put into words and that Merle would never know.
Funny how he managed to be the stoic Dixon man he was always supposed to be, right when he was about to leave. Merle would have been proud.
Daryl unsheathed his hunting knife, and made his choice.
*
The first time Daryl kissed someone, it was Missy Marsh in the playground during a game of truth or dare. Daryl never chose dares, but Missy did, and when she had to kiss someone she picked him. Later on she'd come and sat next to him at lunch, told him she'd chosen him because she knew he wouldn't be mean to her. Gave Daryl his first peanut butter cup as thanks.
Girls were weird.
Maybe being nice was enough, he figured. He could just be not-mean to girls and maybe hold their hand sometimes, and that would be all he needed to do. Kissing them seemed icky, maybe if he was just kind to them then he wouldn't have to do that too often.
He told Merle about his plan and his big brother just laughed and slapped Daryl on the back of the head in his affectionate way. Daryl was more than a foot shorter than Merle back then, and he scowled up at him through his dirty blonde fringe as his brother smirked.
"Aw hell, little brother, you'll see. Give it a coupla years n'see how gross you think chicks are."
And then he'd leaned in to Daryl's freckled little face, real close, and fixed him with a warning stare. Poked his finger hard into Daryl's chest until he left a weedy brown smudge of a bruise that Daryl tried stupidly to scrub off in the bath later.
"Now, don't you go spoutin' that shit around Pa. You hear me, boy? He ain't gonna understand that you're a lil' scrap a'nothin' that don't know what you're talkin' about yet. I'm warnin' you."
So Daryl learned to keep his mouth shut at home.
*
The second time he kissed someone, it didn't go as well as the time with Missy (who, years and years down the line, he met at a bar with her girlfriend. Figures). The second time, he'd been making friends with this older guy, Chuck, who knew Merle vaguely but was still at middle school and promised to keep an eye on his little brother for him.
Daryl loved Chuck, because he let the younger boy sit with him at lunch and talked to him like he was a real grown up. Always gave him the chocolate milk off his tray, too. At that age, food was a good way into Daryl's affections, and Chuck always seemed to have candy in his pockets that he didn't want. He seemed like the best friend Daryl could have asked for, and for the first time Daryl looked forward to going to school, knowing there would be a friendly face to greet him.
Once, lying in bed nursing a black eye and listening to Merle and Pa go at it through the wall, Daryl wished Chuck was his big brother. He immediately felt guilty and told God he didn't mean it, but he guessed the damage was already done because of what happened next.
He couldn't complain. He'd asked for it.
One day, Chuck found him crying in the back of a classroom during lunch break. Daryl sniffled and scrubbed his eyes when he saw the older boy come in, not wanting to look like a pussy and give Chuck reason to stop being friends with him.
"Hey, little man."
Chuck sat on the cabinet next to Daryl and put his arm around him, squeezing him tightly in a half hug. It was one of the reasons Daryl liked Chuck, because he was always happy to hug him or pick him up and give him a piggyback ride. Completely different to Merle, whose idea of affection was to not bruise his little brother when he punched him in the arm. Daryl was so touch-starved that he clung to Chuck like a monkey, even tried to hold his hand sometimes like a little kid, and Chuck just laughed and let him.
"What's wrong? Them kids been pickin' on you again?"
"Y-yeah."
Daryl was still young enough that crying left him stuttering and hiccupping for breath, and he hated it because he wanted to act like an adult. He was a big boy now, Ma said so, and he wanted to behave like it.
"Aw, D."
Chuck squeezed him again, rubbing his hand up and down Daryl's arm in a comforting manner. It made Daryl feel a bit better about crying like a baby, at least.
"You gotta tell me who they are, man. I'll get 'em to leave you alone."
"S'okay. S'just kids."
Rubbing at his eyes again, Daryl let his head rest on Chuck's shoulder, happy to be comforted when he was upset for once instead of being told to stop his noise.
The older boy kept rubbing his arm as he rested his chin on top of Daryl's head, and Daryl felt so secure he decided Chuck was the person to ask the question that had been running around his mind all day. Merle would probably just tell him he was stupid for not knowing already, but Chuck wouldn't make fun of him.
"Chuck, what's a faggot?"
The older boy's hand stilled, and Daryl was suddenly afraid that he'd said something wrong. After a moment, however, the soothing motion on his arm resumed and Chuck answered him.
"S'that what they call you?" Daryl nodded. "Why'd they call you that?"
"'Cause I don't wanna kiss girls. Merle said I'd wanna kiss girls when I got older, but I'm older now and I still don't wanna kiss 'em."
"Not at all?"
Daryl shook his head vigorously. Girls were gross.
"If you could kiss anyone, then, who'd you kiss?"
"Dunno. Maybe… Matt Paulson. He's nice. But Merle said boys ain't s'posed to kiss boys, so I wouldn't."
Chuck just nodded, and Daryl wondered if he was ever going to tell him what a faggot was or not. Maybe it was a stupid question after all.
"Y'know, I can tell if you're a faggot or not."
"You can?"
"Yeah, wanna see how?"
That was the second time Daryl kissed someone.
"Did you like that?"
And Daryl told him, yeah, he kinda did.
He wasn't sure about the whole kissing part, but he was close to someone he really liked and he felt safe for the first time since Pa last got out of jail. He thought Chuck was pretty, Merle said you were supposed to like kissing pretty people, so he figured that was the right answer.
"Oh, D."
Chuck's face fell, and Daryl felt like crying again.
"D-does that mean I'm a faggot?"
"Yeah, little man, it does."
And Chuck sounded so sad about it that Daryl burst into tears. Surely he wouldn't want to be friends with him anymore now, not if being a faggot was as bad as the other kids said. But to Daryl's surprise, Chuck only hugged him tighter and even pulled him to sit on his lap, like Merle hadn't done since Daryl learned to walk. Daryl clung to him because he didn't know what else to do, he was so confused.
"Shh, it's okay Daryl. It'll be okay, I won't tell anyone."
"You won't?"
"I won't, I promise. You're my little man, right?"
"Y-yeah."
"But you gotta do something for me, okay? You can't tell nobody we did this either, because then they'll all know what you are, and I won't be able to take care of you. Okay?"
And they shook hands on it, like real grownups did with deals. And Daryl felt safe again, because Chuck fixed everything.
Of course, Chuck's little tests didn't end there. Daryl didn't understand half the stuff he did, but he knew it made him uncomfortable and want to go home. But he couldn't go home, because Pa and Merle were always at each other's throats, and Mama was always sleeping upstairs, and Daryl didn't have anywhere else to go.
He couldn't say anything to anyone either, because then he'd have to admit that he was a faggot, and what could be worse?
Then the next year Chuck moved up to high school and Daryl didn't see him anymore, so what was the point of saying anything then?
Then Mama went up in smoke, and what was the point of saying anything at all?
*
(And if Chuck's body turned up in an alley the week after Daryl got out of hospital, minus his cock and balls, Merle sure as hell didn't know anything about it.)
*
He didn't write about when he'd overdosed in the back yard when he was fourteen. He couldn't figure out how to write it down right, so that Merle wouldn't feel guilty about not being there when Daryl needed him.
Although, he figured as he took another swig of whiskey, Merle might well have already thrown the letter on the fire by this point.
He moved on, because it was getting kind of hard to write straight the more he drank, and he needed to get this letter right. Prove he could do something right after all.
*
His first relationship was a disaster.
"What the fuck, Daryl? I told you my Mom doesn't care. She wants to meet you."
"You didn't tell her who I am, did you?"
"No." Jimmy laughed in disbelief, slapping his hand to his forehead in frustration and making his red hair stick up in sweaty, haphazard spikes. "No, I fucking didn't."
Daryl just sat nervously in the passenger seat and twisted his fingers, unsure how to proceed and looking at his lap. Next to him, Jimmy sighed heavily.
"So that's it? I'm just your dirty little secret?"
"Ain't like that."
"The hell it ain't, Daryl."
He slammed his hand against the steering wheel and Daryl flinched involuntarily at the bang and the raised voice coming at him in the confined space. He hunched in on himself instinctively, trying to make himself a smaller target. He knew it pissed Jimmy off when he acted like this, but it was as if his body did it before he could tell it to stop. It wasn't supposed to be a personal insult – Daryl didn't think he was about to get hit, rationally – but Jimmy took it as one.
"All we do is sneak around and fuck, and that's it. I'm not asking to hold your fucking hand in public, I'm just looking for some kind of actual relationship here."
Daryl would have broken into the one-sided conversation, but he couldn't think of anything to say. It was safer to not say anything. Jimmy continued his rant, aware he was making Daryl uncomfortable and no longer giving a shit.
"And you're fucking weird, Daryl. I mean, I like you a lot and all, but you're a strange guy. You're twitchy all the time, you're scared of your own shadow. We can't even have a fucking discussion because as soon as I get mad you just shut down. What the hell happened to you?"
Daryl still said nothing. Sighing again, Jimmy slammed his hand on the steering wheel once more, looking out of the opposite window and trying to get a hold of his temper. Glancing across at him through his hair, Daryl chewed his lip and knew he couldn't fix this. He didn't know how, didn't have the tools.
"M'sorry." He tried, softly. He knew he was the problem here, at least he could try and apologise.
Jimmy gave another short, harsh laugh and looked back at him. It wasn't until he saw Daryl's chewed and bleeding lip and his anxious eyes that his expression softened.
"Y'know what, Daryl, it's okay."
There was bitterness and frustration in his voice, but he took hold of one of Daryl's hands and squeezed it anyway. He really did like him, but this situation was ridiculous. Sneaking around with someone so closeted they would probably never come out wasn't what he wanted out of life, and this thing with Daryl was dead in the water.
"You're not ready for this, obviously. Call me if you ever work yourself out some, okay?"
And Daryl couldn't say a word.
Jimmy leaned over and kissed him, one last time, with affection that Daryl clung to with both hands because he didn't know how long it would be until he saw any again. Then Daryl got out of the car and Jimmy left him to walk the ten miles home, thinking about throwing himself in front of every truck that passed.
Not only was he wrong for being queer, but he couldn't even do that right.
Goddamn it.
*
Daryl couldn't get served at certain bars without his big brother there.
"I don't think so, hoss."
Daryl hadn't even managed to get a word out of his mouth before the bartender was shaking his head.
"What? I got ID."
The guy shook his head more firmly, looking uncomfortable and not meeting Daryl's eyes.
"Ain't nothin' for your type here, kid. Best find someplace else."
If he was with Merle, no one said a single damn word to him. They were too scared of the infamous Merle Dixon to fuck with his little brother right in front of him. Merle had put a guy in the ICU for looking at him funny once, or so legend went. Who knew what he'd do if anyone tried to mess with his brother when he could see them.
Better safe than dead.
Without Merle, Daryl might as well have had 'fag' painted on his forehead the way people reacted to him. He didn't know how they knew. Maybe one of the guys he'd fucked had got drunk and talkative, or maybe they could just tell that he wasn't right and guessed the rest, not knowing if they were correct or not. He'd thought he was slipping under the radar pretty well, but it turned out that was just wishful thinking.
He'd done everything he could to blend in. Bulked up, cut his hair off, fixed cars and got in fights. He stayed just as dirty and drunk and mean as every other guy in the area and it still wasn't enough. They could still tell he was wrong just by looking at him.
Merle made it worse, despite offering him some protection with his presence. Daryl tried to make himself Merle's shadow: staying behind his brother, staying quiet, staying out of his way, but Merle wasn't having that. Daryl couldn't even have a beer without Merle bringing over some chick he was supposed to try and fuck, egging him on and crowing when he took a girl home.
Often, the girls could tell he wasn't interested from a mile away. Some of them only realised later on and stormed off, leaving Merle to mock his brother for striking out. A few of them played along for Daryl's sake, sharing a conspiratorial wink or smile when Merle wasn't looking. Chicks always seemed more understanding of his situation than guys, probably because they weren't afraid he was going to hit on them.
One girl, Joanna, even got as far as coming back to his bed before she said
"D'you wanna just go to sleep, sweetie? I won't tell nobody."
And Daryl kissed her for that, because no one was ever that kind to him.
That wasn't the first time he'd kissed a girl, but it was the first time he'd ever actually wanted to.
*
Going into the city was a fucking mistake.
It wasn't that he got recognised. Hell, anyone who recognised him in this club would be from down his way: they would have just as much reason to keep their mouth shut as Daryl did. No, the problem was that going into the city showed him a slice of the life he could never, ever even dream of having.
These people were queer, and they were happy.
He made a few friends, when he first started going to gay bars in the city. Sweating uncomfortably in his prickly new shirt and borrowed shoes, he listened to people talk about their lives and began to realise that a lot of them were out. Not only out, but that the people in their lives were okay with them being the way they were.
They talked about introducing their partners to their parents, or crying on their mother's shoulder after a breakup; sharing their lives with their families without worrying that they would never speak to them again. Daryl got quietly drunk and didn't talk about himself, not wanting to bum people out when he'd only just met them. He soon stopped trying to make friends.
He saw couples leave the bar holding hands. He went back to guys' apartments and met their roommates in the morning. He discovered there was a whole other world where being queer wasn't a death sentence, and he hated knowing it because someone like him couldn't live in it.
In the end, he only went to the bars for as long as it took to find someone to fuck. Then he stopped going altogether, because the sight of couples who were happy and in love hurt too much for him to stand. That world was beyond his reach, and all seeing it did was make him more depressed about his own situation.
Every time he pulled up outside the rundown family house, Daryl put his head in his hands and took several deep breaths, composing himself and getting his head back to where it needed to be.
It was like every time he took his mask off, he outgrew it a little more until he could barely fit into it. Putting it back on got harder and harder every time he took it off, until one day when he got drunk and just couldn't anymore.
*
There was a lot of other stuff, but he didn't bother to list it all in his letter.
The comments about people they walked past, guys on TV, and insults thrown during drunken brawls. All of them leaving paper cuts on Daryl that were nothing alone, but started to cause real damage when they reached the hundreds.
The way he once broke a guy's nose because he was playing pool at the next table and called his buddy a fag about ten times in a row, and Daryl just snapped.
The way Merle would narrow his eyes and look at Daryl sideways if he ever tried to beg off going to the bar to pick up chicks, like he was suspicious. How the fear that look induced made Daryl have to duck out to the bathroom to have a panic attack in private.
How Daryl couldn't leave his bedroom without checking ten times that any magazine or photograph or piece of paper that might be connected to his real life was hidden away in case Merle came looking for drug money.
The number of guys he could have had a future with (4) if he didn't chicken out and call things off because he was scared someone would find out and tell Merle.
The way he had more nightmares about Merle finding out he was queer than about Chuck doing things to him when he was a kid.
There were a lot of things that Daryl still couldn't talk about, even at the end.
By that point, they no longer mattered.
*
Daryl regained consciousness looking at a cracked ceiling and listening to the beep of somebody else's heart monitor.
He screwed his eyes shut and wondered if it were possible to simply will himself out of existence with the force of his own self-loathing. He'd fucked up, again. Couldn't even do this right. He could try again once he got out of the hospital, get his shotgun out and not pussy around this time.
Hopefully Merle hadn't seen the letter. Daryl had no idea what kind of state he'd been in when he'd been found, and he sent up a fervent prayer that his brother would have been too distracted by the gore and the holy-shit-call-an-ambulance of the situation to notice it. He could grab it when he got home, burn it in the fire, and Merle never had to know about any of it. It was only fair to let Merle keep good memories of him after he was gone, and not taint them all the way his wrongness had tainted his whole life. He'd been a shitty excuse for a brother, he could at least do that right.
He just had to keep it together for a little while longer. Just a little—
"Hey there, little brother."
Fuck.