salvation sequel [rafe x barry]

soggy joint repairs

„That sometimes human beings have to just sit in one place and, like, hurt."

Barry knew Rafe more intimate than anyone else ever had.

Not in the sense that he knew him vulnerable, and Rafe dared to show softness around him, letting go of concepts of manhood that he held onto so tightly, it sometimes seemed those were all that kept his fragile self together. And it wasn't about his weakness either, dark, low moments that Rafe hadn't invited Barry into, but he'd been the witness of nonetheless.

It wasn't sensual intimacy, and knowing sounds of pleasure Rafe resevered for just those special moments of ecstasy, it wasn't the sensitive parts of his body, that Barry had traced and worshipped with his lips.

All those things surely, required bravery and strength to lay down in front of someone, to offer up and strip naked, to allow yourself to be perceived in such detail, that no one was supposed to ever see.

And yet, it wasn't the most intimate. It wasn't knowing the deepest, the worst, the most vulnerable.

Barry had known that, long, long before he ever got his hands on Rafe for more than friendly touch, or Rafe offered secrets and sorrows he'd never shared before.

He knew the painful intimacy of his habits.

He didn't know why, or what was going on in Rafes life, hadn't known, at least, but he had known what he bought, how much, how frequently, noticed when he dropped by more often, followed by a time of almost no contact, knew when he leaned into weed or came back for coke every other day. After three years of knowing him, he'd even realized a trend. Christmas time (Bahamas time), May, and early fall, when his birthday inched closer, those had been regular patterns, along with other natural highs —most literally— of Rafes consumption...when he graduated, when he dropped out of college, when other things went on in his life that Barry didn't know about, just knew how they affected him.

His drug use told more than words or actions ever could. Told more than Rafe would ever be able to express in emotions, told everything about him, without a single word said, without the possibility of a lie.

Barry knew him in the most raw, and intimate way he could get to. Beyond his suffering, beyond insecurities and dark thoughts, he knew of him what his own mind couldn't even reach, his cravings, his need, his desire.

And he should've known.

He should've known that a life without was beyond imaginable for Rafe. It was, quite simply, as if telling someone to live without water from now on, and expect them to sit still about it, and accept the fact until the thirst reaches the point of death.

You actually don't die by not doing drugs. Quite the opposite, although there was a point of alcoholism that Rafe surley hadn't reached yet, where life without became literally, on the most cellular level, impossible without.

Rafe would've gotten around to find out. There was without. There was after. There was sober, and not only did it exist, there were advantages to sobriety a life in constant numbness couldn't offer; there was, at the very end of it, actual, real peace.

Barry had expected it to be hard, and went even harder therefore, knowing at least that, Rafe had to be forced, for sure. What he'd grossly miscalculated was Rafes love for drugs, and how it overweighed any other.

In a contest where his own was up against it, he couldn't help himself and root for the latter. It was desperate dream, it was hope, it was human, and Rafe not interested in any of that.

If Barry wanted to, he could be rough. Reeeal rough, even. Could paint new blue and purple kisses into his skin everyday. The pain didn't bother Rafe, it felt familiar and grounding in that way. And not the bruises either, since Barry had imprinted himself onto his skin in more permanent ways. They were need so raw and intensive it had physically manifested into his body to see in green, blue, and purple and Rafe didn't mind that. If it was up to him, they'd go on forever like this. They'd grow old.