Chapter Text
The heat was fucking brutal. That’s the first thing Richard notices as his Chuck Taylors hit the sand. He took a few deep, cooling breaths and adjusted the tie around his neck.
He didn’t expect much less from Texas. Waves of warmth had been surging over him since his plane nose-dived an hour ago, the sunlight so vigorous he had to squint to see looking out of the glass. A lot different than home, but exactly what he had been looking for, because the big city was fucking suffocating, and Richard wasn’t going to get any work done. Hasn’t been getting any work done. And his draft is due in a month. So, if the heat was worth it in the end, he could bear it.
Probably.
The cab driver behind Richard coughed into his fist, and he realized he hadn’t even paid the guy yet. “Oh!” Richard started fumbling through his pockets and pulled out a few crumpled dollar bills to cover the bill as well as a grateful tip before passing them through the cracked window into his waiting palm. “Thanks again. Have a nice day!” He said politely, but only received a grunt in response before the yellow vehicle sped away. Dirt particles flew under the squealing rubber tires as he became smaller and smaller in the distance before disappearing.
Well, so much for that southern hospitality. Richard was left alone with a suitcase at his feet, a backpack slung over his shoulder, and the unforgiving Texas sun still beaming down on him, standing before his home for the next thirty days.
Home was a loose term. There was a massive house in the listing that seemed promising, and it certainly held up to that image. It was gorgeous, two stories or more, with a wrap-around porch and gate enclosing it. Richard could see an even bigger barn that, in its older condition, towered over it, definitely in need of an equal remodel. Not that it really concerned him — the ad had said this was a great place for tourists looking to farm or gain some experience seeing animals, but that wasn’t why he was here. He needed something private. Quiet. A change of scenery. And if it had to be far away from home, unlike anything he was used to, so that he could focus on writing instead of nursing a grieving heart.
Richard shook his head as if to erase the pain before it could stay for too long. He grabbed the handle of his suitcase and dragged it towards the fence. The cab driver had dropped him off at the end of a very long driveway, so in the meantime, Richard unlocked his phone. His mouth twitched into a frown when he saw the single bar, nearly the lack of service. He barely had a single bar. His screen was flickering with unread messages; they were mostly from his mother and sisters, who were sending texts of concern, nothing that Richard hadn’t heard before he left.
It’ll just be for a month, he insisted. Baby, we’re just worried about you, you don’t shut down like this, since when can’t you write? We just wish you’d talk to us —
Richard loved them. He really did, and knew they meant well, that’s why he shot a text to a groupchat with them stating, I landed safely. Service is crap. My phone will be on don’t disturb for a while. I love you guys! Before locking it again as he approached the gate.
He had spoken with the owner a few times through messages. The guy had explained there was a private bedroom and bathroom, but a shared kitchen, and promised they’d barely see one another. He gave Richard the gate code once the money had cleared. Didn’t say much else, other than he’d be working like normal, and that was that. Certainly not a chatty guy. Which brought Richard back to the whole southern hospitality thing likely being bullshit, and if he got murdered out here, there’s a ton of places to hide the body, but that’d make a better horror book than the romance one he had in mind, and a couple of friends back home knew the address, so.
Richard had just started to punch the number one when something soft scurried past his sneaker.
A soft “Aw!” Left his mouth immediately at the sight. A caramel-colored rabbit had skipped over his foot, skidded across the dirt to spin in a full circle, and planted both paws in front of itself as its dark eyes studied Richard wearily, like it wasn’t sure if it should trust him or not. If the house had a guard dog, this was probably it. Better than being nipped at the ankles, he supposed, though the rabbit didn’t seem far away from doing so.
Richard hadn’t wanted to spend much time around the animals or barn because he wanted to focus on writing, not because he didn’t adore them. But he could spare a few minutes, right? He hadn’t even started yet.
“Hi, sweetheart. It’s okay,” Richard cooed softly. He crouched to extend the olive branch of a peaceful hand. The rabbit’s nose twitched as curiosity took over. “It’s okay, I won’t hurt you. Aw, you’re just protecting your home, aren’t you? You sweet thing.” Richard’s heartbeat sped up in excitement as his hand was sniffed, but he was patient, allowing it to make the first move. The quivering nose nudged his fingertips, and he took it as an invitation, scratching his nails across its forehead. It lies its ears down, which Richard would’ve thought was out of fear if not for the way it started to grind its small teeth in a soft pur of contentment. Its eyes shut, and it nuzzled its way closer to Richard’s calves, paws slapping the ground like it was buzzing to jump.
“It’s so nice to meet you. My name’s Richie,” Richard whispered. He was filled with cuteness aggression because he just wanted to snatch the cute thing up and squish it against his chest, but knew better. He didn’t actually want it to pop.
Its fur was soft under his hand, and it purred again, lifting a large paw to Richard’s knee. “Aw, too bad you can’t tell me yours. Well, thank you for saying hi!” Richard drew his hand back as the soft creature lost interest due to the lack of touch and sprung past him. It squeezed between the bars of the fence and hopped away.
Although Richard’s heart was swelling with adoration at the sight, he refocused on finishing tapping in the code. It gave a soft beep to signal the latch popping open, and he swung the door, securing it behind him.
The ranch seemed colossal up close. Richard knew that was probably an exaggeration, but he was used to large buildings, just… Pressed closer together. And a lot more noise; beeping cars, people chatting, shoes stomping on concrete. The ranch was quiet, save for the soft chitter of animals he could hear from the barn. It made Richard’s gut clench with anxiety. He had to remind himself it was something he had asked for. This was always the plan.
Richard found the extra key where the owner said it would be — in a dish disguised as a rock by the porch steps. He let himself in and took time to admire the inside. It was just as beautiful as the outside, massive rooms, a chandelier in the dining room that hung over a long table surrounded by chairs, a living room big enough for two couches, and even the kitchen, to someone like Richard, who constantly ordered takeout, was stellar. The decor was modern, maybe even vintage. Maybe a little gaudy. He felt like the scenery had been plucked straight from a cheesy romance movie about cowboys and horses.
Anxiety would usually swarm Richard’s head right about now, but he had read the instructions a dozen times during his flight since he couldn’t focus on typing. The first staircase you see leads to the second floor. Your bedroom is the first door on the right. It has a lock on the inside. Don’t worry, nobody else is unsuspectingly staying, so it should be private. Mine is at the very end of the hall if you have an emergency. Which he had taken as don’t bother me in any way unless it’s through text.
The homestead was quiet. Richard assumed he wasn’t home. Maybe was working with the animals, doing, uh… Well, what is it cowboys on a farm exactly do? Ride horses? Pluck chicken eggs in the morning? Hell if Richard knows. He’s never seen one in person, much less worked on one.
His bedroom is perfect — also exactly like the pictures. A bed with a quilt neatly draped over it in the corner, a wooden nightstand and dresser, each with lovely designs carved into their drawers. Even better, the first question Richard had asked for before booking — a desk. It was by the window with a white chair balanced, a cushion over the seat.
Richard could feel the familiar itch of inspiration. He didn’t usually get them until it was four a.m. and the sun was creeping over where the sky met the ground, and he should be sleeping, but instead would find himself rapidly typing on his laptop or scribbling in his well-loved notebook. Sometimes Richard would wake up in the midst of a heavy sleep with a burst of energy that buzzed at the tip of his fingers, and it wouldn’t go away until he got the surge out. Other times, his head hadn’t even hit the pillow yet. He’d use the motivation like an energy drink, riding out the high as long as he could, until his ideas became a void again.
That’s what made the taunt of his laptop and notebook so much worse.
He tried to procrastinate taking them out as long as he could — unpacking a few outfits first, folding them, putting them away. Testing the quality of the quilt between his fingers, not that it mattered, he’d probably be slipping with the window cracked open for a nice breeze, but it was thick and heavy anyway. Probably homemade. Richard plugged in his phone and hoped for the best: a quick charge and a better signal inside. Then he saw the peek of his silver laptop and the leather notebook, held together with a thin chord.
They made a nice home on the desk. Richard knew, already as a published author, that the more time you revisited your work, the longer it took to finish. It was better to go back when you needed to. He still sat and peeked into his notebook first.
Everyone in Richard’s life said how messy his handwriting was. He’d write whenever he could — whether that was in the midst of a sleepy haze, walking to class, or just because he felt like it, it seemed like his handwriting was different each time. But he liked writing all of his ideas on paper as opposed to a screen, although he had to cave eventually and buy a computer. He’d end up with carpal tunnel sooner rather than later if he wrote everything in his notebooks, and he couldn’t really submit those to his editor. Richard smiled as he thumbed through the pages. He missed the spark of inspiration, the determination to finish what he started, even if it was years down the line. He’d like to argue with whoever made the rule that revisiting your writing and ideas so much was a waste of time.
Still, Richard was aware it was just a distraction as he plugged his laptop in and pressed the power button. The screen lit up and reminded him exactly where he left off on his document.
Torn open skin that curved past his eye and around his cheek. Another peeked out of the collar of his shirt, and when he took the material off, his breath hitched at the sight of longer, deeper ones.
Ray was used to an occasional bruise or mark from his soulmate. They’ve sent each other a few messages through their skin. He knew his soulmate was a man named Peter McVries, although he preferred Pete, and when he got an idea for a new song lyric, he would write it on the back of his hand in a messy scrawl of black Sharpie.
But this… This was new. Ray was terrified for a moment that he had lost his soulmate, but he brushed the thought aside.
It couldn’t be. He would know if Pete was dead.
He would just know.
There would be a massive hole punched through his chest the moment it happened. And although he was terrified for his soulmate’s well-being, because he was obviously somewhere hurting — that Ray felt — he knew he would’ve felt fucking dead too, so he had to be okay, he just had to be. That’s the way the universe worked.
Then Ray saw it. A small smiley face on the back of his hand, and he breathed easily again.
Pete was okay. He told him as much when he could through the whispers of their skin, using a pen that Ray had to bribe into letting him have, and read the poetic words on his skin as his heart thrummed a slow beat.
“Tell me the story about how the sun loved the moon so much that it died every night to let him breathe.”
Richard started chewing his thumbnail, a bad habit that his mama would bat his hands out of his mouth every time she caught him doing so, annoyed. But his anxiety hummed underneath his skin. His brain was swarming with the worst possible outcomes. Your audience is going to read this and leave a one star review, or worse, a three star. You’re not even half the writer you used to be. The voice in the back of Richard’s head used to be quiet. Or at least manageable. But now it’s the reason he’s struggled to close his book for weeks, and the deadline was creeping up.
Could Richard even be a great romance writer if he’s never settled down in a serious relationship? It was oddly different than his usual pieces, horror stories, science fiction, dystopian, the works.
He lowered his hand. Maybe it wasn’t the best time to write. Another piece of advice: don’t write when you feel like you’ve hit writer’s block. You’re just going to hate everything you write, because Richard was seriously rethinking that last line, even though his editor said it was beautiful to remind people that not even death could stop love.
It was a beautiful place, people get hit with inspiration when they find a way to cope, so why not explore? Even just for a few hours.
Richard hoped he’d run into something as cute as the bunny he saw earlier, but the little guy seemed eager to hop around his home, so he wasn’t holding his breath. He left his phone still charging and closed the bedroom door behind him, careful to remember to leave it unlocked so he could return later.
It wasn’t until Richard reached the porch that he realized how stupid this was.
Sure, the thought crossed his mind once or twice. He browsed Airbnb’s and nice hotels closer to home or a decent distance away before settling on flying across the country. The country wasn’t ideal — Texas wasn’t even on the board until the ad came up while he was thoughtlessly scrolling. A vast ranch, a huge acre. Total privacy. The perfect place to clear your mind. Need a break from work? The Major’s Farm was the place to do it.
Richard hadn’t met the guy yet. Was his name really The Major? He pictured some old guy, probably served the country, some giant hardass that ran his farm like a battlefield. It was probably an unfair assumption to make about a lonely old guy who took care of animals and did long, hard work every day. Richard may not know much about farming, but he knew it wasn’t easy. But hey, the guy called himself The Major. How else was a writer supposed to make presumptions?
The wooden flooring of the porch creaked under Richard’s sneakers as he gandered around. There was a nice porch swing that a slight breeze made rustle, a crocheted blanket, and pillows perched atop the rear of it. A few flower pots and plants were scattered around. Richard fondly held the stem of a flower still as a monarch butterfly struggled to land on one of the petals.
Sometimes it was hard to be reminded of the real beauty of the world when you’ve seen the worst. Writers usually knew that better than anyone because those they’ve loved and lost never really die.
“Bear?”
That definitely wasn’t Richard’s name, but the stranger still called it like one, so he still lifted his head. The voice was deep with a slight nasal tone to it, like the guy was holding his nose or breath before speaking. Richard didn’t expect that, although the southern accent wasn’t a surprise. They were vaguely close, yet he still couldn’t see them when he released the flower to crane his neck around the house.
“Bear? Here, Bear, it’s almost dinner time,” the voice softened, followed by a few clicks of his tongue, and then Richard saw him.
He had predicted an old man — maybe one who couldn’t let go of his war uniform, standing straight and rigid like a soldier, on the lookout for his… Bear? God, Richard hoped not, prayed it was some ironic nickname; however, the thought flew from his head in that second.
Not an old guy. Definitely not a Major. A cowboy, Richard thinks, and then cringes at the cheesiness behind that, because he wasn’t in one of those stupid movies, even if this guy looked like he walked out of one.
Tall and blond. Richard noticed that first. Probably natural, the hair that is, since the curls poking out underneath his western hat weren’t bleached-colored. His height, too, jesus. It wasn’t hard to be taller than Richard, most people were, but he easily towered well over a foot over him, and Richard was the one on the porch. Built like Adonis, hard chest and rippling, swollen arms underneath a flannel, thighs thick with muscles covered by clad jeans, and a strong, square jaw. He had a frustrated hand on his hip, one knee bent that rose the hem of his pant leg, exposing a well-loved pair of boots.
Turn around, Richard silently pleaded, I don’t even know you, but turn around—
And he did.
The wind was knocked out of Richard’s lungs. He white-knuckled the frame holding the porch together so his trembling knees didn’t cave. He always had a weakness for blue eyes, even if they were unsettling. And he was so handsome, unfairly so, definitely not an old man.
The gaze softened, and for a moment, Richard considered it was because of him, but then something soft dashed in the grass that parted the green blades, catching the pale eyes. “Bear,” he sighed in relief, and Richard blinked, because was that—
He opened his arms and squatted. The rabbit Richard thought of fondly upon arriving dove straight into his embrace. Could a man well over six feet and looked capable of hauling bales of hay around all day, be described as adorable as his pet bunny? Because that’s what Richard’s heart told him.
He had to blink a few times to refocus as he was suddenly being approached. Fuck, you’re getting distracted, Richard cursed at himself and loosened his grip. He came out here to be free of them. That was the promise in the ad.
“You must be Richard.” His voice is still smooth, evidence of his southern heritage still lingering, and Richard didn’t realize how much he’d like the sound of his name coming out of a Texan’s mouth until right about now.
“You named your rabbit Bear.”
Richard immediately grimaced at the words of observation he fumbled out. It sounded much more like a statement than a question. Granted, he could’ve sounded stupider if he tried.
A hint of a smile twitched on his pink cupid’s bow mouth. “I did. He’s my big, scary guard dog. You should see the foxes run in fear at the sight of him.” He smoothed his palm down the bunny’s long ears, who slowly blinked in content, and nuzzled into his flannel for warmth.
“He’s, um, really cute.” Richard leaned over the wood, balancing himself on his elbows. They were finally eye-to-eye at this level, given their height difference that he didn’t have to step off the porch to see. “You must be The Major—”
Just like that, the smile was gone. His face wiped a clean slate of any emotions. His hand even froze from where it had been stroking the rabbit’s forehead, who nibbled at the tip of his fingers in protest. The rest of Richard’s sentence (it’s nice to meet you, by the way, are you gay?) was lost in his throat by the cold expression. So not completely emotionless, he corrected himself.
“This is The Major’s Farm. I’m Stebbins. I just run it,” he declared, his tone just as frigid as his voice.
Richard, without a doubt, was getting off on the wrong foot. He hadn’t been messaging this Major the whole time — it was this Stebbins, who cradled his pet like a baby, and surely didn’t look like the type to even have one, and Richard, who didn’t travel here for a distraction but to work, had just ruined things by mentioning The Major.
He tried to come back from it. If they were going to be sharing a space for a month, better to make peace, so Stebbins wouldn’t murder him in his sleep (although Richard would probably thank him for it). “Oh! Uh, sorry for the misunderstanding.” He offered a hand, but Stebbins eyed it wearily, like he expected it to chase him down. “Richard, yeah, but you can call me Richie.”
Another beat of awkward quiet passed, the tension so thick the air could be cut. Stebbins’ shoulders didn’t relax, but he shook Richard’s hand with a firm grasp. “Stebbins. Billy Stebbins.”
A warm smile spread on Richard’s face. He could feel his full cheeks bump the ridge of his glasses. “It’s nice to meet you, Billy.” He reached to pet Bear next with a gentle caress, eyes softening, and cooing, “And it’s nice to officially meet you, Bear.”
Billy looked surprised to see Bear settle underneath Richard’s touch. “He usually doesn’t like strangers. Honestly, I’m shocked he’s taken a likin’ to you.”
“Must sense something good,” Richard suggested hopefully.
Billy was strangely quiet for a second. He readjusted Bear in his arms. “I suppose you can’t judge a book by its cover.”
If nothing else, that caught Richard off guard. He couldn’t decipher what Billy meant, and as an author, well, that was sort of embarrassing. Billy must’ve noticed the confused furrow of his eyebrows as he broke their locked gazes and commented flatly, “Lots of y’all have come here for quiet, you’re not the first.”
A light blush dusted Richard’s cheeks. He slowly pushed himself back into a rigid position. He rapped his knuckles against the wood, and willed himself not to babble again. He’s already ruined enough. “I guess I’ll get back to it. Thanks, for, um, the stay.” And left it at that.
It wasn’t Richard’s first brush with being in close quarters with an asshole, he thought as he raced back to his room at a speed Bear would be jealous of. Public school was full of them. He realized he was queer at a young age, and it was like others could sniff that out.
Richard’s dad sat him down long before he was six feet under, and gently broke the news that he could be queer, not queer, but he better learn to pack a good punch. He took up self-defense alongside creative writing soon after. One day, Richard could hit back as hard as he took, just as well as he could bleed words onto paper. The assholes never really stopped coming, one day it just became bearable when they saw him fight back.
Not to mention his roommate back in college, who was one of the biggest of them all, until he had Richard to mellow him. He paused as soon as he returned to his room and shut the door with a longing sigh.
He didn’t like to think about Barkovitch much. It was like opening a fresh wound and rubbing salt into it every time. Richard tried to include Barkovitch in his story, just once, envisioning he could write a version of his old best friend that was happy and comfortable with himself — but scrapped it just as fast, creating Ray and Pete instead. Because writing Gary Barkovitch was like taking a knife to the heart every time.
Richard sat at the desk and fisted his brown curls in his hands. He didn’t find it easy to make friends when he was a kid, so having him — he had been grateful for Barkovitch and their time as friends, even if it was shorter than their time as enemies. Were they ever really enemies? Richard didn’t bother with fights a lot. They got in the way of writing, hence his sad retreat back to his room when the hot stranger he was staying with got a bad first impression. Barkovitch picked a lot of them, though.
He used to remind Richard of a stray. He remembered the paper he wrote on Barkovitch with a sad smile — like a mutt, bearing his teeth, he couldn’t decipher whether my hand was a fist or an offer. Richard could still see the sneer Barkovitch would give him every time he was friendly. He had a face that was hard to forget.
Remembering so brought a familiar flicker to Richard’s fingertips. It brought his atoms to hum. He allowed his brain to empty as he reopened the tab he had previously closed, and he wrote until the sun had disappeared, replaced with a moonlight flooding his room.
─ ⊹ ⊱꒰☆꒱⊰ ⊹ ─
An eclipse was supposed to happen a few times a year, and just for a moment, for everyone to moon over. But once they collided, the rest of the world was a mix of black and sunlight, for neither the sun nor the moon would have to die again to let the other breathe for a moment. It was like each of their souls had woven together, sighing in content, oh, hello, again. It’s so good to have you back, to hold you. It’s been a long time since I last saw you.
And a part of Ray was terrified. Terrified because he still felt there were pieces of him missing, chunks that were left incomplete, and he was afraid of what it meant. Pete was more than enough for him — so it wasn’t a soulmate thing. It couldn’t be. Ray brushed it off as soon as the thought, as minuscule as it was, popped into his head.
Because maybe it was just him. Maybe he was the problem. Because when Ray’s rage came in waves of fire, as destructive as it was, it then burned out parts of him that were solely him. And that was the most frightening thought of it all. That Pete wasn’t the problem — Ray was just too broken to be properly loved.
Can something so broken be loved so properly?
Ray only asked Pete about it once. A whisper in the dark, safe for the stars to hear, because they couldn’t bear to see the sun sink for the moon again. He shut his hazel-colored eyes and prayed that this wouldn’t be the cost of loving someone more than your own life, because you would still find them, again, and again, and again. No matter how much it hurt.
Yet, the pain never comes. Only love. Unconditional love.
Just the soft grazing of Pete’s arm slinking around Ray’s waist as he pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. It caused Ray to feel warmer underneath the shared quilt. He sank into the touch and reached to curl their fingers together, feeling complete. Everything about Pete was gentle. Ray loved so much more than that, but Pete’s soul was one of the purest parts about him. He feared tainting it with the darkest parts of his own.
“I love you,” Pete whispered back. He squeezed Ray, just once. “You could be in a million pieces, and I’d hold each of them every single night. Just like this. My sun, my beautiful sun—” He scattered kisses across Ray’s skin like he was trying to kiss every freckle, like ashes from a conflagration.
Pete never called Ray sunshine. It was always my sun. Because Ray didn’t shine, he burned—
Richard woke with a scream tumbling from his throat, his head snapping off the desk. He fell out of the chair so fast that his heart did a full swoop, and he cried out as his elbow bashed on the floor in an attempt to save himself.
He kicked his legs in fear, only seeing the flash of something fuzzy, something that darted across his foot like a squirrel, maybe a fucking rat—
And the doorknob of Richard’s bedroom door twisted, before the wood flung open.
Richard could barely hear Billy over his scream of fear again before he finally had to stop to catch his breath. Billy’s blond locks were sticking up in ten different directions, his cheeks flushed, and his blue eyes almost bloodshot with sleepiness. His face was creased with worry. “Why’re you screamin’?! What is it?!” He could almost sound as panicked as Richard if he were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, or if he was screaming.
“There’s a — squirrel — bug — can they… They get that big?!” Richard stammered through the panting for air and thundering in his eardrums.
Billy’s nose wrinkled. He rubbed one of his eyes. “Squirrels can’t get in. I’ve insulated the house, Richard.” He took a few steps forward, bare feet slapping the shiny floor. “Let me see.”
He didn’t have to tell Richard twice. He writhed away with a few kicks of his feet, soles of his shoes dragging.
Billy crouched to peer under the desk before his shoulders slumped tiredly. “Bear, how did you even get in here?” He sighed and scooped a hand under — under Bear.
Richard would’ve felt a lot worse about Bear trembling with fright in Billy’s cradle if the little shit didn’t shock the same fear into him, just when he was starting to get such insight about Ray and Pete’s story while they were creeping into his dreams. Billy whispered reassurances to calm him down and hugged him against his white shirt as the surprise and fear died down, and something suddenly occurred.
“How did you get in? I thought I locked the door,” Richard asked. Better to be safe than sorry. He wasn’t looking to write a novel about his own attempted murder, but maybe that’d be his next claim to fame.
“Evidently not. I don’t have keys to every room,” Billy said flatly. He kissed Bear’s head. “The best offense is a good defense.”
Richard was sure Billy was telling the truth, at least about the lock, it sounded like an important step he’d forget to do, even if it was safe. Although why wouldn’t he have a key to every room in a house he worked in? It was a fine line to dance over of privacy and safety if he rented the place.
“Then — Then how did Bear even get in?” Richard repeated Billy’s earlier question.
Billy shrugged loosely. “Not sure. Would you like to ask him?” He held the rabbit up, and Bear kicked his feet with the urge to hop away. “I reckon he won’t answer, but I’m sure he’d speak in Wonderland. Lots of loopholes there.”
It was the first time Richard’s mouth turned into a frustrated frown as he narrowed his eyes at him. It wasn’t the first time he thought an asshole was attractive, it probably won’t be the last (read: it definitely won’t be), but it also wouldn’t be the first time he had to defend himself from said asshole either. Richard didn’t like to make enemies — not many artists did — but he wasn’t opposed to it either.
“What’s your problem? Look — I’m sorry I scared your pet—“ Richard stopped to take a deep breath. He’d apologize to Bear in a second, he still felt terrible for scaring him, even if it may have been justified. “But I paid to stay just like any other tenant. You don’t have to speak to me in riddles out of a kid’s book. Just because you work here doesn’t mean you can treat those around you like shit, like we’re a burden just for being here. I mean, the fuck happened to Southern hospitality?” He spit it all out in one long breath. It felt better once it was off his chest, less like a weight was crushing his lungs.
Billy didn’t reply right away. He was scratching Bear’s fur as he calmed down in his arms. Nothing on his striking face gave away that he was pissed at Richard standing his ground, no jaw clench, no flicker of rage in his eyes, and hey, no fist smashing in Richard’s nose. Not that he thought a guy who cuddled rabbits would end up punching him, but his wide arms with the crease of muscle were on display with the short sleeves. He’d pack a good one without even trying to put much strength behind it.
The blond tilted his chin up. He seemed impossibly taller than Richard, who realized he had to lean his head back to lock their gazes, so he spoke before Billy could. “And if you say something stupid like hold your horses or bless your heart—” He made sure to do his best southern drawl, which, admittedly, was shit, “—so help me, I’ll file a dispute with my bank, and find some other Texan ranch to finish my book.”
Richard had yet to see Billy smile, really smile, the way someone does when they’re so full of joy that their eyes just shine with it. But the one he gave him was pretty close. “You picked up on how to talk in Texas real quick, huh? Y’know, my ma used to call city boys like you sugar. I hope you have the same sweet tooth she did.”
It was said so smoothly that Richard couldn’t translate whether he was trying to rage bait him more or flirt with him — was there a difference? He kind of wanted to kiss or punch him for it, however, he settled for scratching Bear behind the ears. The sweet little rabbit nudged into the contact, and Richard’s heart warmed.
“Maybe a little.” He offered a small smile. Not a real one, like he’s yet to see on Billy, but it was a good start. A peace offering. Finding another quiet spot before his deadline and fighting with his bank for a refund check would be a pain in the ass, anyway. “Again, I’m sorry for the scare, to both of you.”
The tips of Billy’s ears burned crimson. Richard sort of wanted to tuck the stray, blond curls behind them so he could see the pretty blush better, but he scratched Bear again to fight the urge instead before Billy stepped back. “It’s no trouble. Have a nice night, Richard.”
“You too,” Richard offered, voice strained with self-control. Billy left, Bear still balanced gently in his arms.
He left and shut the door behind him. Richard didn’t bother with the lock this time.