salvation sequel [rafe x barry]

thieves with benefits

„I'm so sorry I said I love you when I was high.
But I'm sober now"

A morning so calm and gentle, it could be heaven and maybe that was just to show Barry what he'd miss if he sticked to the plan. Next morning, the cross would be melted and there would be no more heaven, but there would still be Rafe.

And what, besides him made this morning so heavenly, anyways? The cranky trailer heating up too fast, the broken AC? The black spots in the corner of the room, suggesting mold? The trashed beer cans on the floor? The rustling of a racoon, or rat, or squirrel somewhere beneath the floor? The old sheets Barry had had for years—if Rafe wasn't peacefully sleeping in them?

The sunlight painted a false halo onto his forehead and Barry kissed it gently. When he drew back, Rafe was smiling.

"I know you're not sleeping, Country Club", Barry murmured in a low voice.

Blue eyes shutting open to stare back. Who even came up with the whole blue eyes look like the ocean bullshit? If anything, the ocean looked like Rafes eyes, not the other way around.

"Really, huh?", Rafe grinned. "Didn't act like it just now, all over me, bro"

"Sorry", Barry made, sitting up to lean against the wall. "I didn't mean to.."

Rafe chuckled "Bro, you can touch me whenever, don't worry" The customary dirty smile on his lips.

Barry huffed a relieved chuckle and was quiet, staring at the ceiling. Sometimes, when he was high, he took the black spots for reverse stars and made up constellations. Isn't mold toxic? Rafe had asked when Barry tried to show him one. Big gator, my ass.

Sometimes Barry said things even when he knew they would warrant an insult from Rafe, sometimes, they sounded like something else.

In gentle admiration, Rafe scotched over and tapped onto Barry's chest, letting his finger travel lightly from scar to scar, softly circling the shot wound near his shoulder. He liked to do this, as if counting if the scars were all still where he left them last time, or if new ones had appeared, and everytime Rafe was done and drew his hand back with a slight blush of shame about his tenderness, Barry wished he had more. Thought he would be fine with being stabbed a thousand times, if Rafes fingers traveled the marks in the after math.

But he hated him for it now. Hated Rafe for pulling him right into his little mood swings, for making them a matter that was so painfully like anything else in Rafes life, for him to demand when he wanted it, and push away when he didn't, for dictating just how much intimacy was allowed for the moment, and cruelly pushing back when Barry overstepped any unspoken boundaries.

It felt like only a matter of time and mood until Rafe would cringe away from his touch, hissing something about business and making Barry feel stupid for not getting the memo. It was almost tiring in advance.

"Remember when you promised to trust me, the morning you left?", Barry asked and Rafe shook his head in the pillow.

"Whatever I said..doesn't matter, alright?", he explained. "When...when the two of us, like, happened, I was in a bad place, alright, and I was fucking high and drunk and...whatever I said man..I can't be held accountable to that, okay?"

Barry nodded slowly, looking down, trying to remember everything Rafe said at once.

"It's called diminished responsibility", Rafe said, turned his head at Barry and proudly smiled up at him. "It means you're not criminally lia-"

Barry sighed. "I know what it means, bro"

Rafe had been ecstatic finding out about the concept. That when you were high or drunk, and your mental functions impaired to a high enough degree, so was your responsibility for your actions. He tried to remember hard how many bong rips and beers he'd had before driving to the tarmac but now, the fact he couldn't pretty much spoke for itself.