"Manhunt" (Part 2)
(30 years earlier)
The rock struck the side of the little boy's head with a dull thud.
For a second, there was nothing but silence, no pain, no reaction, just the world tipping sideways as he stumbled, then crumpled to the ground. Then came the heat, the wet trickle of blood sliding down his temple, and the sound of laughter.
Harsh, ugly laughter.
The boy blinked, dazed, his tiny hands pressing against the dirt. He lifted his head just enough to see them standing over him, a group of older, stronger boys grinning down at him like a pack of hyenas.
"Look at him," one of them sneered.
"He's so scrawny," another chimed in, nudging Nate's leg with his foot. "No wonder his dad drinks himself stupid. Who'd be proud of this?"
The words hit harder than the rock.
The boy swallowed, his throat tight, his face burning with humiliation. He didn't say anything. Didn't look at them. He had learned the hard way that always made it worse.
"He's got his momma's blood," the first boy continued, his voice laced with something that made Nate's stomach twist. "That's why he looks so weird."
"Bet that's why his daddy's always at the bar," another laughed. "Wouldn't wanna go home to that, either."
The laughter rose again, louder, meaner, filling the small playground like a cruel wind. The boy pushed himself up, his body trembling. He turned and ran.
He heard them calling after him, more insults, more laughter, but he didn't stop. He didn't turn around. He ran past the rusted slide, the swings with their broken chains, and the old park bench where the neighborhood drunks usually sat but were thankfully absent today. His feet pounded against the pavement as he made it to the corner.
Only then, when he was sure he was out of sight, did he duck behind a trash bin, crouching low, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. His fingers touched his temple and came away slick with blood.
It stung, but not as much as the words.
His thin shoulders shook, his face crumpled, and finally, he let the tears come. This was just another day in this boy's life.
He eventually picked himself up and walked with his head down, his small fingers curled into fists, the sting of the wound forgotten in the face of something deeper.
The sidewalks were cracked, and the houses on the block leaned into each other as if exhausted. The convenience store sat at the end of the street, its neon OPEN sign slightly crooked. The door's bell jingled as he stepped inside. The cold air washed over him, carrying the scent of old linoleum, cigarette smoke, and cheap coffee.
His mother was behind the counter, stacking boxes of canned soup. She was small and graceful, with warm brown skin and dark curls pinned back. When she saw him, her hands froze in midair.
"Nathaniel?" Her soft yet urgent voice tightened his chest. She was at his side in seconds, her hands framing his face, her gray eyes scanning the wound on his temple. Her fingers were gentle but searching, brushing away the blood-streaked strands of hair. "Mijo, what happened?"
Nathaniel tried to shrug. "Nothing. Just..."
"Nada de eso," she interrupted, her voice low, thick with worry. "This is not nothing."
Her thumb traced his cheek, the same way she did when he had fevers or nightmares and something in him nearly broke. "Who did this?" she asked.
Before he could answer, a sharp voice cut through the moment.
"Nathaniel! Again?"
Mr. O'Shea, the store owner, came stomping from the back, his belly straining against his mustard-stained shirt. "I told you, boy. Quit showin' up here while your mom's working!" He waved a thick, stubby hand. "This ain't no daycare. She's got enough to do without you hangin' around, gettin' in the way."
Nathaniel flinched.
But his mother didn't.
She rose to her full height, small as she was. She had a way of making herself taller when she needed to. "He's hurt," she said, her voice even but firm.
"I don't care what he is," O'Shea barked. "This store ain't gonna run itself!"
His mother exhaled sharply. Then she crouched in front of Nathaniel again, her hands on his shoulders. "I need you to go home, corazón," she said softly. "Put some ice on this, okay? I'll be there soon."
Nathaniel hesitated.
"Listen to me." She lowered her voice even more. "Don't let your father see you like this. He'll just get upset, and we don't want that. Right?"
Something changed in Nathaniel's eyes then. The softness in him, the part that leaned into her touch, that wanted to crawl into her lap and let her hold him, hardened.
He nodded once.
His mother brushed a kiss over his forehead, right above the wound. Then she turned and went back behind the counter without another word, moving quickly as if nothing was wrong. As if O'Shea wasn't still grumbling under his breath about kids these days.
Nathaniel didn't say goodbye. He pulled his hood up, walked out the door, back into the dimming light, and headed home.
Their house sat at the end of the street, sagging against itself like an old man too tired to stand upright. The front steps were cracked, and weeds pushed through the concrete, but the door was clean, and the porch was swept. His mother always made sure of that.
Inside, it smelled of soap and something faintly metallic, like old pennies. The floor creaked beneath his small feet as he stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind him. The living room was neat, the couch covered in a crocheted blanket his mother had made, the coffee table wiped clean, though its edges were chipped. The lace curtains fluttered slightly in the breeze, slipping through a crack in the window frame.
Nathaniel let his backpack fall from his shoulder, landing with a soft thud near the door. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. He went straight to the fridge, his fingers gripping the cool metal handle. The fridge hummed when he opened it, its insides mostly bare, some eggs, half a loaf of bread, and a carton of milk with the date scribbled on it in marker so his mother would remember how long it had left. He reached for a pack of frozen peas, the plastic crinkling in his hand.
He padded up the stairs, each step groaning under his weight. The narrow hallway was lined with a few family pictures: his mother's graduation photo, a framed prayer card, and an old picture of him as a toddler, his face round and soft, sitting on his father's lap. He looked happy in the picture, but he wasn't sure if it had been true.
His room was small, just big enough for a twin bed pushed against the wall, a short dresser, and a desk that wobbled if you leaned on it too hard. The walls were bare except for one drawing he had made in school, a house with a bright yellow sun overhead, a stick figure version of him and his mom standing in front. His father wasn't in the picture. His teacher had asked him why, but he hadn't answered.
He climbed onto the bed, sinking into the thin mattress, pressing the frozen peas to the side of his head. The cold stung at first, then numbed the pain. He stared at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the paint with his eyes.
His six-year-old brain was restless.
He thought about the boys at the playground, their laughter sharp as glass. He thought about his mother's worried eyes, the way her hands trembled for just a second before she had steadied them, always steadying herself.
And then he thought about him.
His father.
The way the air changed when he was home. The way his voice filled the house, thick and slurred some nights, sharp and cutting on others. The way his mother moved quieter when he was around, careful, as if she were walking through a house made of glass, afraid of making the wrong step.
Nathaniel knew what it meant to have a drunk father before he even understood the word drunk. He knew what it meant when his mother whispered, "Shh, no hagas ruido," when they heard the door open late at night. He knew what it meant when his father muttered things under his breath about her being mixed, about them having nothing, about how she should be grateful.
Nathaniel squeezed his eyes shut.
He was six years old. Six years old in a clean but broken house, with a mother who loved him and a father who did not. The frozen peas numbed the ache in his head but did nothing to ease the one in his chest. He stayed like that for a long time, until the peas softened, until the cold was gone, until his body finally gave in, and sleep took him away.
*
Who knows how long later, Nathaniel stirred awake, his small fingers still clutching the now-warm bag of peas. His head throbbed, but something else had jolted him from sleep.
A sound.
A door slamming.
Then, heavy footsteps, uneven and slow.
Nathaniel's eyes widened. He remembered. He had left his backpack downstairs. He swung his legs off the bed, his heart beginning to hammer in his chest. He crept to his door, easing it open. The house had changed. It felt smaller, darker like something was folding in around it.
He moved down the stairs on silent feet, the way his mother had taught him. Be quiet, mi amor. Be small.
The living room flickered with the dull glow of the television, the sound of a baseball game rattling through the house. His father sat on the couch, his legs spread wide, a beer resting on his knee. His head hung low for a moment as if he might be asleep. Nathaniel could see his backpack just a few steps away by the front door.
He held his breath and moved toward it.
"I can see you, boy."
His father's voice was slurred, thick with alcohol, but the weight of it still sent an icy dread through the boy's bones.
Nathaniel stopped, his fingers inches from the strap of his bag. His father sniffed, rubbing his jaw before looking at him. His eyes were bloodshot, the emerald shadows beneath them deep, like bruises.
"Where the hell you been?" he muttered, taking another swig of his beer.
Nathaniel forced himself to stand straight. He knew how this worked. How his father worked. He had seen it before, on his mother, on himself. He had learned quickly that the best thing to do was not to give him anything to latch onto. No excuses. No reasons to get angrier.
"Upstairs," Nathaniel said softly.
His father squinted and shook his head. "No, no, no," he slurred. "I saw your bag. You came in late. Where were you?"
Nathaniel hesitated.
His father's lips curled. He smiled, but it wasn't a kind smile. It was something ugly, something that made Nathaniel's stomach twist. "You deaf, boy?"
Nathaniel swallowed. "I was at the playground."
His father chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "Playground." He let the word sit in his mouth like it disgusted him. "What are you, a little girl? Playing like some damn weakling?"
Nathaniel bit the inside of his cheek. He wanted to tell him the truth, that he wasn't playing, that he was running, that he had been hurt. But he knew it wouldn't matter.
His father took a deep breath, leaning back against the couch. "Your mother...she makes you soft." He took another sip, eyes flickering to the TV before looking back at Nathaniel. "Come here."
Nathaniel didn't move.
His father's jaw tightened. "I said come here."
Slowly, Nathaniel stepped forward, his stomach knotting tighter with each step. He stood beside his father, his little fists clenched at his sides.
His father studied him, eyes flicking over his frame. "Too damn skinny," he muttered. "Too damn quiet." Nathaniel didn't say anything. His father leaned in suddenly, his breath reeking of beer. "You scared?" Nathaniel shook his head quickly. His father smiled again, that same ugly smile. He reached out, grabbing Nathaniel's chin roughly. "Liar." Nathaniel gasped, trying to pull back, but his father's grip was tight. "Look at you. Frail little shit." His fingers dug into Nathaniel's jaw. "No boy of mine is gonna be this soft."
"I'm not..."
The slap came so fast that Nathaniel barely registered it. His head snapped to the side, the sting blooming across his cheek. His ears rang. His vision blurred for a second before he forced himself to focus. His father was watching him, waiting.
Waiting for him to cry.
Nathaniel's throat burned, but he held it back.
His father scoffed. "Damn, brat. You cry, and I'll really give you something to cry about." Nathaniel clenched his jaw, his small hands shaking. His father smirked, satisfied. "That's more like it."
Nathaniel wanted to run, to go back upstairs, but he knew he wasn't allowed to move yet. His father had to let him go.
The man leaned back on the couch again, taking another sip. Nathaniel didn't move. His father turned his head slowly, his expression darkening. The baseball game droned on in the background. His father acted as if nothing had happened. But Nathaniel didn't flinch, his face stinging, his little hands trembling beside his legs.
He didn't cry.
He didn't move.
He just stood there, waiting for it to be over.
It must have been at least a couple of hours before the front door creaked open.
Nathaniel hadn't moved. In fact, he was still standing beside his father's armchair. His little legs trembled beneath him, aching, the blood in them sluggish and weak. The baseball game had long since ended, and the screen was now playing late-night commercials. His father had fallen asleep at some point, his beer bottle rolling to the floor, its contents soaking into the carpet.
Nathaniel barely breathed. Until.
"Nathaniel?" His mother's voice was soft, almost too soft. Like she was afraid of what she would find. She stepped inside, and when she spotted him, she stopped.
Nathaniel saw it in her face immediately, the way her mouth parted slightly, the way her eyes scanned him, taking in the stiff way he stood, the slight redness on his cheek, the way his arms hung limply at his sides.
Her fingers twitched at her sides, her lips pressing together as she turned toward the man in the chair. "Daniel," she said, her voice controlled.
His father stirred, blinking heavily before groaning. "What?" he grumbled.
She took a breath. "Let the boy go upstairs and shower."
His father snorted, rubbing his face. "Are you trying to order me around, woman?"
She stepped forward. "Please."
He glanced at her, and Nathaniel tensed. His father's face twisted, his brows knitting together. "Don't please me, you fuckin' bitch," he spat, pushing himself up. "I come home, and where are you? Working. I sit here, and what do I get? A please?"
She didn't respond.
He stepped closer, his hands twitching like he was deciding whether to grab or strike her. Nathaniel's stomach clenched. "You're supposed to be home when I get here," his father sneered, voice thick with alcohol. "You're supposed to take care of things."
Her jaw tightened. "Like you do?"
Daniel's eyes flashed. Nathaniel flinched, expecting the worst, but his father just let out a cruel laugh. "Oh, you got a mouth on you today, huh?" His mother didn't respond. Daniel scoffed and turned his attention to Nathaniel, his lip curling. "Your boy's a fucking pussy."
His mother's fingers twitched again. "He's tired, Daniel. He's been standing there for hours..."
Daniel leaned in slightly. "So?"
His mother let out a slow breath. "Let him go upstairs."
Javier stared at her. He wasn't looking at Nathaniel anymore. He was looking at her.
Nathaniel knew what that meant.
His father finally exhaled sharply and shoved past them both, heading toward the bathroom. The door slammed behind him.
His mother turned to him immediately, her hands coming up to cup his face, her brows knitting together in pain. "Nathaniel," she whispered.
His throat felt tight. "I forgot my bag downstairs," he mumbled.
Her fingers gently brushed the red mark on his cheek, her eyes dark with something unreadable.
"It's okay," she said softly. She sighed, smoothing his hair before pulling him into a hug. He let her, pressing his face against her shoulder, taking in the scent of her, warm and safe, even here, even now. She held him tighter. "You don't deserve this," she murmured.
Nathaniel closed his eyes. Neither of them said anything else.
They just stood there, listening to the sound of the toilet flush, waiting for another night in that house to pass.
Later that night, well into the evening, Nathaniel lay in his small bed, curled up beneath the thin sheets, his eyes open and fixed on the wall. He could hear everything.
The moans from his parents' bedroom.
Not the kind from the movies, the type that made kids giggle and adults embarrassed. These were different. They were rough. Desperate. Angry. He could hear his mother's strained gasps, her muffled whimpers, and the creak of the bed frame against the wall.
Then, silence.
A door opened. Heavy footsteps moved down the hallway, down the stairs. Nathaniel squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to sleep, to sink into some deep, dreamless void where he couldn't hear the sound of his mother crying in the next room. He turned in his bed, burying his face in the pillow.
Then, the slow shuffle of feet. The soft creak of the bathroom door. The sound of the shower running.
Nathaniel didn't move.
A while later, the door to his room opened. The footsteps were light this time, careful. His bed dipped slightly, and a warm, soft hand settled gently on his back.
"Nate...?" his mother whispered.
He didn't answer. She stroked his back slowly, tracing small circles with her fingertips. Her breath hitched.
And then, she wept.
She tried to be quiet, covering her mouth with her hand, but Nathaniel could hear it. Could feel it. The way her body shook beside him, the way her fingers clutched at the fabric of his thin pajama shirt as if holding onto him would keep her from slipping away.
"I'm sorry," she murmured through her tears. "I'm so sorry."
Nathaniel stayed still, pretending to sleep. Her hand drifted from his back to his arm, wrapping around him as she lay beside him. She pressed her forehead against his back, her breath warm through his shirt, her body trembling against his small frame.
Then, softly, she began to sing.
A lullaby in a language Nathaniel didn't fully understand but knew in his bones. Her voice was hushed and raw, but it was beautiful. A melody she had probably been sung as a child. A song meant to soothe, to comfort, to promise a world that was kind and safe.
She sang it for him. But she was singing it for herself, too.
"Buenas noches mi amor
Cierra bien tus ojitos
Que la noche viene ya
Su canción te arrullará
Al dormir estarás entre nubes y flores
Que te invitan a soñar con su voz primaveral
Con un rayo de luz
La mañana estiba
Tan radiante y azul
En tu cuarto te esperará
Buenas noches mi amor
Con la música blanca
De la noche celestial
Duerme ya feliz en paz
Su canción es la voz
De la luna plateada
Luna buena, luna fiel
Que por ti brillando está
En sus alas de luz
Como un ángel de plata
por la aurora boreal tu carita se asomará
Duerme ya."
Nathaniel's fingers curled into his pillow, his throat aching.
She kept singing, her voice fragile but unwavering, holding them both together in the dark.
*
(Six years later)
The kid's nose was a bleeding mess.
Which didn't seem to bother Nathaniel in the slightest as he stood on top of him, fists driving into flesh and bone, feeling the satisfying crunch of knuckles against cheekbone, enjoying the way the kid's body flinched beneath him with every hit.
The other students circled around, their voices rising in excitement, a violent, feverish chorus of fight, fight, fight!
Nathaniel's hands were red, his breathing ragged, and his vision tunneled. He didn't hear the teacher screaming at them to stop.
Then, hands yanked him back.
Strong arms wrapped around his chest, pulling him off the kid beneath him, whose face was a mess of blood and snot. Nathaniel struggled against them, his body writhing, but they held him firm. "Enough, Nathaniel!"
The words finally cut through the haze. He stopped struggling, and the energy drained from his limbs as he realized what had happened.
Again.
One of the school staff dragged him through the hallway, his pulse still hammering, his knuckles raw and burning. The principal's office door loomed ahead. The same door he had seen too many times before. When they shoved him inside, the door slammed shut behind him.
"Nathaniel, sit." The principal, Mr. Cherof, sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose before sitting behind his desk. He was an older man, gray around the temples, with tired eyes that had seen too many kids like him. "This is the third time this month," Mr. Cherof said. "Third time, Nathaniel."
Nathaniel crossed his arms, his lip curling. "So?"
"So," the principal snapped, "you're on the verge of getting expelled." Nathaniel shrugged, glancing toward the door. Mr. Cherof followed his gaze and shook his head. "You think this is a joke, don't you?" Nate just sat there and said nothing. "Look, I know how things are...at home," the man continued, his voice quieter now, more measured. "I know about your father." Nathaniel's shoulders tensed. His jaw clenched. "But I also know you're not him."
Nathaniel let out a short, breathy laugh. "Last time I checked, I was him." He held up his bruised hands. "See? Got the fists to prove it."
Mr. Cherof's mouth pressed into a hard line. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "You're twelve, Nathaniel. If you go down this road, you'll end up exactly where he is. Drunk, angry, and wasting your life." Nathaniel turned his face away. "But you're smart," Mr. Cherof pressed. "Smarter than half the kids in this school. If you applied yourself, you could do something with your life. You could get out of this town, go to college, build something better."
Nathaniel scoffed, but something flickered in his eyes.
The principal observed him. "One day, you'll have your own family. And you'll understand...that not every family is like yours, Nathaniel."
That stopped him. The words hit something deep, something he hadn't let himself think about before. He could have a different life. A different family. For a moment, Nathaniel just stood there, staring at the principal.
Then, he finally muttered. "Can I go now?"
Mr. Cherof exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Go to the nurse. Get those hands cleaned up."
Nathaniel turned for the door, hesitating before slamming it shut behind him.
That afternoon, he left school and walked with his hands stuffed into his pockets, the sting in his knuckles pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
He should've gone straight home. Should've taken the usual streets back to his block, to the decrepit house with its peeling paint and cracked windows, to his father's slurred insults and his mother's weary eyes.
But his feet took him somewhere else.
The town's public garden stretched ahead, a patch of green in the middle of cracked sidewalks and dull gray buildings. It was peaceful here, a blob of damp earth and cut grass. A few people lingered: old women sitting on benches and a couple pushing a stroller. Nathaniel dropped onto an empty bench, exhaling.
Across the path, a man and a boy played with a ball on the open grass.
Nathaniel watched them without meaning to. The tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in a work shirt and jeans kicked the ball lightly to his son, who couldn't have been older than six. The kid laughed, clumsy and excited, his arms flailing as he ran after it. When he tripped and fell, the man immediately knelt beside him, brushing dirt off his scraped knees.
"You okay?" The father's voice was gentle and full of warmth. The boy sniffled but nodded. The man smiled, ruffling his son's hair before helping him back up. "Atta boy. Wanna try again?" The kid grinned, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and nodded. Then, the game continued.
Nathaniel felt something tighten in his chest.
He sat there, unmoving, eyes locked on them. The way the father laughed when his son scored a goal, sweeping him up into the air as the boy squealed with joy. The way he clapped him on the back told him he was proud. The way his hands were steady and sure, never raised in anger.
Nathaniel's fingers curled into fists in his lap.
He wanted that.
Not to have it, necessarily, but to give it.
A son. A child. Someone he could hold the way that man held his boy. Someone he could teach, someone who wouldn't flinch when he raised a hand. Someone who would never have to feel the way Nathaniel had felt his whole life. Small, unwanted, terrified.
The ache inside him spread, raw and deep. Nathaniel swallowed hard and looked away. He got up and left before the feeling could consume him whole.
But how could it not?
After all, he knew exactly what awaited him once he got back home.
*
(Present time)
Caleb was drowning inside a nightmare.
Darkness folded around him, thick and suffocating, pressing into his lungs until his breath came in sharp, shallow gasps. Somewhere ahead, he could hear footsteps, getting closer and closer, the sound crushing around him.
"Dad..." His own voice cracked, desperate. "Please...come back..."
A hand suddenly appeared, firm but familiar. A voice, low and warm, whispered against his ear.
"Hey, kiddo."
Caleb gasped, his eyes snapping open.
The world around him came into focus, the car's cracked leather seat beneath him, the windshield fogged with the chill of the early morning air. His chest heaved, his skin damp with sweat. His heart slammed against his ribs as the lingering whispers of his dream faded into silence.
Beside him, Ryan sat watching.
His blue eyes burned, quiet and steady, their weight pressing against Caleb like an anchor. He didn't speak, didn't move. Just watched.
Caleb swallowed, forcing himself upright, and the stiffness in his body made him wince. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, of Nate's voice still echoing in his head.
Ryan finally broke the silence. "Bad dream?"
Caleb didn't answer. He wasn't sure he could. Instead, he glanced at the road, the long stretch of empty highway vanishing into the horizon. He exhaled sharply, his head falling back against the seat. "How far are we?"
"Two days. Maybe less if we don't stop much," Ryan replied.
Caleb let that sink in, the thought of two more days trapped inside the car making his skin itch. "I can't," he muttered. "I can't sit in this damn car any longer."
Ryan snorted, stretching his arms before gripping the wheel again. "Yeah, well, we're not exactly on some relaxing vacation, nerd."
Caleb glared at him, but there was no real bite behind it. His body felt heavy and drained. He sighed, shifting to look out the window. "Let's stop in the next town. Get some food, stretch our legs."
Ryan was quiet for a beat. Then, finally, he nodded. "Fine."
Without another word, he veered the car toward the nearest exit. The town was small, the kind of place where the buildings all looked a little too old, the streets a little too empty. The only real sign of life came from a diner on the corner, its windows glowing a warm yellow against the early morning gray.
Ryan shoved his hands into his jacket pockets as they approached. "This place looks like it won't kill us," he muttered.
Caleb sighed. "Low bar you've set there."
Ryan ignored him, pushing open the door. The smell of bacon grease and coffee hit immediately, thick and familiar. The place was half-empty, with just a few truckers hunched over their breakfasts, a waitress wiping down the counter, a small group of young women, and the distant hum of a radio playing some old country song.
Ryan beelined for the register near the counter. "Gonna grab smokes," he tossed over his shoulder.
Caleb rolled his eyes and made his way toward a booth tucked into the corner. He slid in, sighing as he set his backpack down beside him. The seat was stiff, and the fake leather cracked, but it felt nice to be sitting somewhere that wasn't the damn car.
A minute later, Ryan dropped into the seat across from him, tossing several packs of cigarettes onto the table. Caleb's brows furrowed. "Really?" he said, crossing his arms. "You used our cash on that?"
Ryan scoffed, stuffing one of the packs into his pocket. "I didn't smoke once yesterday. Given the hell we went through, I think I deserve it."
Caleb leaned back, exhaling through his nose. "Deserve lung cancer, maybe."
Ryan flipped him off as the waitress appeared beside them, pen poised over her notepad. She was older, maybe in her fifties, with tired eyes and a skeptical expression. "What can I get you, boys?" she asked, voice raspy from what had to be a lifetime of cigarettes, probably the same brand Ryan had just bought.
They ordered. Coffee, eggs, toast, whatever was cheap.
As the waitress turned to leave, Caleb caught her looking at them. Something about it made him uncomfortable. He waited until she walked away before muttering, "I don't like how she looked at us."
Ryan arched a brow. "Relax. She probably just thought you were cute."
Caleb shot him a look. "Shut up."
Ryan smirked, reaching for his lighter.
Caleb turned to his backpack, unzipping it with one hand while pushing his hair out of his face with the other. He rummaged through it idly until his fingers brushed against something unexpected. A hardcover spine.
He stilled. Slowly, he pulled it out, his brows knitting together as he stared at the book in his hands. Ryan glanced up and immediately looked away, suddenly very interested in his cigarette pack.
Caleb turned the book over, flipping through the pages before gazing back at Ryan. "Did you put this here?"
Ryan exhaled, tilting his head back against the seat. For a second, he didn't answer. Then, finally, with an almost reluctant shrug, he muttered, "Yeah."
Caleb's grip on the book tightened. A heavy silence stretched between them. Caleb swallowed, glancing at the cover again before murmuring, "Thanks."
Ryan's fingers drummed against the table. "Whatever."
The waitress came back, setting their plates down. The conversation died as they ate in silence. The food on Caleb's plate was half-eaten and going cold, but he barely noticed. His stomach was tight, his hands restless. Across the booth, Ryan was watching him. He was not eating, not smoking, just watching.
Caleb's fingers drummed against the table, his pulse picking up. "What?"
Ryan tilted his head slightly as if debating something before finally saying, "You talk in your sleep."
Caleb blinked. Then scoffed. "No, I don't."
Ryan leaned back, crossing his arms. "Dude. We've shared a room for months. You do."
Caleb shifted uncomfortably, suddenly hyper-aware of how trapped the booth felt. "What do I even say?"
Ryan shrugged. "Most of it's just gibberish, but…" He trailed off, watching Caleb closely. "It doesn't sound pleasant."
A shiver ran down Caleb's spine. He knew Ryan was right.
He'd always had the same nightmare. For as long as he could remember. It always started with Nate's low, almost whispering voice. Shadows stretching toward him. And a hand, large and strong, reaching for him as he scrambled for something just out of his grasp. And then he would feel it. Nate's smell.
Caleb exhaled sharply, shaking his head, trying to rid himself of the image. He looked up, only to find Ryan furrowing his brows, studying him like he was trying to figure out what Caleb wasn't saying.
Something in Caleb snapped. "Stop looking at me like that."
Ryan raised his hands in mock surrender. "Fine." He brought his hands down, his fingers hammering the table like a drum. Then, after a beat, "We need to go out."
Caleb frowned. "Out? Are you crazy? We're literally running from the police, feds, or whoever the fuck they are."
Ryan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, and you're wound so tight, you're gonna snap in half if you don't vent soon."
"I need to find him," Caleb shot back. "That's all..."
Ryan gave a short, dry laugh. "Well, that might not happen any time soon, nerd. In the meantime, you need to breathe. We're going out."
Before Caleb could argue, Ryan was already on his feet. He turned toward a booth near the entrance, where the girls sat, giggling and stirring their drinks with lazy interest. Ryan approached them with the kind of ease that made Caleb want to shrink into himself. The confidence. The effortless charm. The way he leaned slightly against the table, flashing that half-smirk that made girls look.
Caleb lingered in the booth, his fingers brushing Edmund White's book, which Ryan had slipped into his bag. A small, stupid part of him felt something shift, something uncomfortable and unfamiliar. Ryan was just Ryan, right? Loud, annoying, reckless Ryan. Then why was Caleb suddenly watching him like this?
Before he could unpack that thought, Ryan was back, yanking the book from Caleb's hands and snapping it shut. "C'mon, bookworm. We're leaving."
Caleb glared. "Where?"
Ryan smirked. "It's a surprise."
*
Ryan leaned against the car. A cigarette hung from his lips, a slow ember burning at the tip. His black tank top clung to his torso, the faint sheen of sweat glistening the fabric. His tight jeans hugged his legs in a way that made him look effortlessly put together. He ran a hand through his sleeked-back raven hair, exhaling smoke into the air, his cerulean eyes flicking toward the public restroom entrance.
Then, the door creaked open.
And the world stopped.
Caleb stepped out, moving as if time had slowed to a crawl. His unruly curls framed his pale face, damp strands sticking to his forehead. His green eyes, sharp and unfocused, flickered toward Ryan before looking past him. The pearl-white tank top he wore shimmered, slightly sheer, clinging to the lines of his torso. And those denim shorts, short enough to accentuate his long, lean legs, seemed to elongate his frame even more.
Ryan's cigarette hung forgotten in his mouth.
Caleb walked toward him, utterly oblivious to Ryan's throat going dry, his fingers twitching at his side, and something stirring deep in his gut. He moved with the same effortless grace he always had, like he belonged to a different world, one too soft and sharp all at once for Ryan to fully grasp.
"Okay, let's get this over with," Caleb muttered as he neared, his voice carrying that familiar edge of exasperation, like going out was some chore he had to endure.
Ryan blinked, snapping out of whatever daze had overtaken him. He muttered something, he wasn't even sure what, before flicking his cigarette to the ground and grinding it out with his boot. Without another word, he climbed into the driver's seat while Caleb slid into the passenger side, tossing his backpack to the side.
Ryan gripped the steering wheel. Then, without looking at Caleb, he threw the car into gear and drove off into the night.
Ten minutes later, they were parking the car near a dock. The nightclub loomed ahead like an oasis of neon and thumping bass, tucked away on the outskirts of town. A place that smelled of spilled liquor, sweat, and something faintly illicit. Ryan walked with the same cocky stride he always had, his confidence cutting through the thick, humid air. Caleb, on the other hand, hesitated. The closer they got, the more out of place he felt, his pulse picking up. The group of girls Ryan had charmed at the diner stood by the entrance, their faces alight with excitement. One of them, a brunette with glossy lips and dark, kohl-lined eyes, grabbed Caleb's wrist and tugged him forward.
"Come on," she grinned. "You'll like it."
He doubted that. But the bouncer barely glanced at them before letting them in.
Inside, the club was a living thing, pulsing, shifting, swallowing them whole. The music was deafening, the bass vibrating through the walls, through their bones. Bodies moved together in a hypnotic rhythm, arms raised, hips rolling. Strobe lights cut through the darkness, illuminating flashes of open mouths, sweat-drenched necks, and fingers trailing over strangers' backs.
Caleb lingered near the entrance, staring. He didn't belong here. The heat of the place pressed in on him, thick and unrelenting.
"Caleb!"
Ryan's voice cut through the noise. Caleb turned to find him at the bar, surrounded by the girls and a few other stragglers, a lineup of shots waiting. With some reluctance, he pushed through the crowd and joined them. One shot turned into two. Then three. The liquor burned, but it did nothing to ease the tension in his chest. Ryan, on the other hand, was thriving. Caleb watched him laugh, talk, charm his way through the room like he was built for it. Then, an older guy slid into the mix. Tall, handsome, and confident. He leaned close to Ryan, whispering something in his ear. Ryan smirked, tilting his head in amusement, his fingers idly playing with the condensation on his glass.
Something twisted inside Caleb.
It made no sense. But the sight of Ryan, his easy charm, the way he leaned into the guy's space, and how effortlessly he could give himself to the night unnerved him. He pushed back from the bar.
Ryan caught his wrist before he could leave. "Where you going?"
"Bathroom," Caleb replied. Ryan's eyes lingered, but he let go. Caleb wove his way through the crowd, ignoring the heat in his chest and the tightness in his throat.
The bass was muffled inside the bathroom, but the energy still crackled in the air. Caleb stepped into a stall, relieving himself, his head spinning slightly. He wasn't as drunk as most people here, but there was a weight behind his eyes, a slow hum in his veins.
Then came a knock.
Caleb sighed. "Occupied." The door swung open anyway. It was Ryan. Caleb's frustration spiked. "Jesus, dude, what the hell?"
Ryan leaned against the stall wall, smirking, arms crossed. "You really need to relax." Caleb turned, mirroring his stance against the opposite wall, arms folded. They stared at each other, the air charged, thick. Ryan lifted a water bottle, extending it toward Caleb. "Drink."
Caleb narrowed his eyes but took it, chugging the water in one go. It was ice-cold, soothing against his burning throat.
Ryan watched him, something unreadable in his expression. Then, with a lazy grin, he pushed off the wall. "Try not to have fun now, nerd," he murmured before slipping out the door.
Caleb frowned. When he stepped toward the mirror, his reflection blinked back at him, eyes slightly wider, pupils dilated. He ran cold water over his face, shaking off the strange warmth creeping up his spine.
Behind him, a few guys glanced his way, subtle at first, then less so. Their eyes trailed over his body, intrigued, drawn in. He exhaled sharply and walked back onto the dance floor.
The moment his feet hit the main floor, something shifted.
The world brightened. Everything shimmered, edges blurring, turning soft, fluid. The air was heavier, wrapping around him like a thick velvet curtain. And the music, God, the music was everywhere. It sank into his bones, curled around his limbs, and took control of his body.
Caleb moved.
Through the haze, through the heat, through the bodies pressing in on all sides. The pulsing lights splashed him in flashes of gold and indigo, and for the first time that night, he stopped thinking. The music throbbed like a heartbeat beneath Caleb's feet, the bass winding through his veins, carrying him somewhere weightless. It was as if the universe cracked open, spilling light and sound into his bones.
Caleb let go.
His body moved without thought, without restraint. His arms lifted, his long, lean frame twisting, unfolding, bending. He was a creature of motion, a bird breaking free from its cage, gliding effortlessly through the air. His denim shorts clung to his thighs as he turned, his pearl tank shimmering under the strobe lights, his curls damp against his forehead. The moment swallowed him whole.
And the crowd noticed.
Bodies slowed, conversations hushed, eyes drawn, one by one, to the ethereal creature standing in the center of the dance floor. Caleb was pale fire, burning in rhythm, a strange and luminous thing among the neon haze. People moved aside, giving him space, watching, enthralled.
Across the room, Ryan sat at the bar, legs spread, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. The older guy was still there, leaning in, whispering, desperately trying to get his attention. But Ryan wasn't listening.
He was watching Caleb.
Really watching him.
Something in his chest clenched.
For two years, he had known Caleb as this spoiled, quick-witted, yet slightly aloof boy with narrowed green eyes. But this? This was different. This was the Caleb that had been hiding in plain sight. His movements were fluid, hypnotic. The way his body arched and turned, how his hands carved through the air, it was something pure, something unfiltered.
And it was fucking beautiful.
Ryan found himself smiling. Not a smirk, not the usual cocky curve of his lips, but something softer, something real. His fingers twitched.
Then, he stood up.
The guy beside him mumbled something, but Ryan had already started moving, slipping through the mass of bodies with singular focus. He stalked the dance floor's edge, circling, watching Caleb from every angle, enjoying how oblivious, wild, untamed, and lost in his own world he was. His head tipped back, throat bare, mouth parted as he let the music take him. The way the lights hit him, how the sweat gleamed on his skin.
It was like some fever dream Ryan never wanted to wake from.
Then Caleb turned, and for a split second, their eyes met.
Ryan didn't hesitate. But that was Ryan's nature. He never did. He stepped into the current, cutting through the bodies that separated them, slipping into the space beside Caleb. And just like that, they were dancing. No words. No hesitation. Just movement.
Ryan matched Caleb's rhythm, their bodies weaving in and out of each other's gravity, never quite touching but always close.
And soon, the rest of the club melted away. The crowd, the music, the flashing lights were all background noise to the reckless, raw energy between them. Caleb's fingers brushed against Ryan's wrist just for a second, but it sent something sharp through Ryan's chest.
Soon, the world was nothing but a blur of flashing lights, pounding music, and the sharp taste of adrenaline on Caleb's tongue. He hadn't even noticed them at first, the group of guys standing at the edge of the dance floor, their sneers cutting through the haze like a knife.
But Ryan had.
The first slur came low and mean, spat between smirks and cheap beer. Ryan tensed, his shoulders squaring, his blue eyes darkening with something dangerous. Caleb was still lost in the music, his body moving, unbothered. But then, another slur. Then another.
Until Ryan finally turned. "What the fuck did you just say?" His voice was sharp, slicing.
The tallest one stepped forward, grinning like he'd just been given permission. "Said you two are dancing a little too close. You faggots or something?"
Ryan tilted his head, smirking. "Jealous?"
That did it. The guy lunged. But Ryan was ready.
He caught the first swing, dodging to the side and slamming his fist into the guy's ribs. A second came at him, and Ryan twisted, throwing a brutal punch that sent the asshole stumbling back into the crowd. But there were too many. One of them, bigger, meaner, set his sights on Caleb. The guy swung. And Ryan moved without thinking. He stepped in front of Caleb, taking the hit meant for him. The impact rocked through him, a white-hot explosion of pain across his cheekbone, but he stayed on his feet, spitting blood onto the floor.
That snapped Caleb out of it.
He stood frozen for a heartbeat, his green eyes wide, watching as Ryan took on three guys at once, kicking, punching, and moving like a street brawler who had nothing to lose. Then, one of them grabbed Ryan from behind, locking his arms and driving him to the ground.
Just then, something inside Caleb shifted.
He moved before he could think, his body acting on instinct, on something old and buried. He caught the guy pinning Ryan and yanked him off, throwing him to the floor. Then he was on him, straddling his chest, his fists flying, one, two, three, four, relentless, fueled by something dark and unspoken.
Ryan, still gasping on the floor, stared up in shock.
He had never seen Caleb like this.
It was like seeing Nate.
He smirked through bloody teeth, then reached up, grabbing Caleb's wrist before he could throw another punch.
"Right," Ryan panted, watching two security guys moving around the back of the room. "That's our cue, killer." He hauled Caleb to his feet, their hands slick with sweat and blood.
The club was chaos, shouting, shoving, shadows moving in. "Shit," Ryan muttered. He grabbed Caleb's arm, yanking him toward the exit. They shoved through the doors, the night air hitting them like a slap. Behind them, someone was yelling, security, maybe, or the assholes they had just left bleeding on the floor. "RUN!" Ryan barked.
And they did.
They tore through the parking lot, side by side, their breath coming in wild, exhilarated gasps. The world blurred, the distant sound of music still pulsing from the club, the laughter bubbling up from their throats like something they hadn't felt in years.
Caleb looked over at Ryan, his sharp grin, his bruised cheekbone, the reckless glint in his eyes, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Caleb laughed.
A real, full-bodied laugh.
Ryan laughed too, breathless and free. They ran. Ran like boys who had never been caught.
They slammed the car doors shut, their chests heaving, eyes scouring around, making sure their followers had finally forfeited. The adrenaline still hummed in their veins, but their laughter, sharp and breathless, began to wane.
Caleb leaned his head back against the seat, eyes fluttering closed for a second, just breathing. When he opened them again, Ryan was staring at him. Neither of them spoke. Ryan's blue eyes flickered as if realizing the moment's weight, and he shifted slightly like he was about to pull away.
But Caleb moved first.
Slowly, effortlessly, he slid across the seat, straddling Ryan's lap, his tall frame looming over him. His legs bracketed Ryan's hips, his hands resting on the headrest behind Ryan, caging him in. Ryan inhaled sharply, his hands instinctively gripping the sides of his seat. His breath was hot and unsteady as he looked up, his eyes flickering between Caleb's face and the bruises blooming on his pale skin.
"You're bleeding," Caleb murmured, his gaze lingering on Ryan's split lip.
Ryan smirked, though it was weaker than usual. "So are you."
Caleb didn't respond right away. He studied Ryan, his green eyes flickering in the dark. Then, after a long pause, he asked quietly, "Why did you defend me?" Ryan snorted, the tension breaking just slightly. It felt like he wanted to answer, but he simply shrugged. "You could've let them hit me," Caleb said, his voice even, as if stating a fact.
Ryan rolled his eyes. "Right, and then Nate would kill me. I'd never hear the end of it."
Caleb froze. His expression darkened, his head tilting slightly, searching Ryan's face for something. "What do you mean?"
Ryan's smirk twitched, his shoulders tensing just enough for Caleb to notice. But instead of answering, he gave another small shrug, brushing the moment off. "Forget it."
Caleb narrowed his eyes. He didn't push, but he didn't forget, either. Instead, he shifted back slightly, his gaze dragging down to Ryan's mouth. Slowly, he lifted a hand, brushing a fingertip against the blood beading on Ryan's split lip.
Ryan went still.
With deliberate slowness, Caleb pulled his hand back and brought his finger to his mouth, slipping it past his lips. He tasted the copper tang of Ryan's blood, the intimacy of it curling something deep in his gut. Ryan's cock twitched, hardening in seconds. And he watched, transfixed.
Then Caleb did it again.
This time, he dipped his finger against his own wound, collecting the slick red, and reached out, pressing it against Ryan's mouth. Ryan's breath hitched. His lips parted slightly, and without thinking, without hesitation, he sucked Caleb's finger into his mouth, his tongue flicking over the metallic warmth of Caleb's blood.
The world outside the car didn't exist.
Only Caleb's pulse thrummed under Ryan's touch, Ryan's mouth closed around Caleb's skin, and their eyes locked in something raw and feverish. Slowly, Caleb pulled his finger free, his breathing shallow, feeling the reluctance on Ryan's tongue to let go.
He tilted his head, a smirk ghosting his expression. "Now we're bound by blood. Like...real brothers," he murmured.
"Nerd..." Ryan chocked.
"You know... there's something I've been meaning to ask you," Caleb rasped. "Was your dick hard...while he was fucking me in his room?" Ryan's eyes widened. He lingered there for a moment before nodding reluctantly. As if it pained him to acknowledge that truth. "Yeah, I figured. Cause I got hard too...when he was fucking you," Caleb admitted. "Why do you think that is?"
"I don't know..." Ryan groaned.
"I think you do," Caleb whispered, leaning in closer. "I've seen how you look at me," he provoked.
"Shut up, nerd," Ryan stuttered, his nose rubbing against Caleb's sweat-soaked tank top.
"Does my smell make you hard?" Caleb pressed, feeling Ryan's muscles tightening under him.
"No..." Ryan resisted. Pathetically so at this point.
"You're such a fucking liar," Caleb teased, grinding his hips against Ryan's crotch. Which, at this point, was hardly necessary. Ryan's dick was already throbbing violently under Caleb's ass. "Ryan?" Caleb whispered.
"What...?" Ryan exhaled.
"Put your hands on me," Caleb finally whispered.
Ryan's head shot up, their eyes meeting. Then, Caleb's lips slowly began to stretch, the slightest smile drawn on his lips.
He could feel it.
Ryan was nervous.
Just like Nate had been.
Ryan's blue eyes shivered briefly before the faintest glimmer overtook them. He fought the need to let his eyelids flutter, for he knew that if they did, Caleb would see. He would see the proof of his vulnerability finally revealed.
Ryan's hands came up so slowly they seemed to not move at all. Gently, they slid under Caleb's shirt, brushing against the soft skin of his lower back. The faintest moan escaped Ryan's lips, and Caleb felt his forehead sink deep into his chest. Almost reactively, Caleb grabbed the edges of his top and yanked it over his head, tossing it aside. Then he pulled Ryan's neck in again with one hand and slowly dove his other hand inside Ryan's raven hair, pulling his neck back and forcing their gazes to meet.
And at that moment, Caleb finally understood.
That was his gift. His nature. His power.
To peel away these men's anger. Their rage. Their pain.
Until there was nothing left inside their bodies but his love for them.
"You're gonna kiss me or what?" Caleb moaned salaciously.
Like a slingshot, Ryan's mouth lifted. Their mouths collided with a sharp inhale, their tongues immediately finding their way into each other embrace. A cacophony of groans and moans broke inside the car. Hitting the tight space's walls before ricocheting back, causing their lust to grow more potent.
"Finally..." Ryan let out, the words escaping through the tiniest crack of their locked mouths. A raw, unguarded word full of everything that had been tucked away inside his broken soul.
A yearning to connect. To finally taste that otherworldly magic that was uniquely Caleb's.
Their lips parted. Reluctantly. A string of spit tethering them together.
"Fuck..." Ryan groaned.
"I know...right?" Caleb replied, tilting forward as if suddenly, any slight distance felt unbearable. Their foreheads bumped gently, and as they did, Ryan's tongue began tracing the outer layer of Caleb's lips, drawing them to memory. Caleb slid his hand inside Ryan's pants. They felt ridiculously tight as he tried to reach his stepbrother's 7-inch prick, squeezed inside. "Get them off," Caleb ordered. "I want you to fuck me," he added with urgency.
What happened next was nothing short of extraordinary, although, from the outside, it may have looked like a very professional act of physical comedy by two gifted actors. Hips and legs started firing everywhere as they tried to undo their zippers and free themselves from the constraints of their clothes. Ryan's hips rose, his hands fumbling to slide down his tight jeans before they finally fell to the floor, coasting around his ankles. His cock catapulted up, slapping against his toned stomach. In the same breath, Caleb lifted both legs, pulling down his shorts before lifting his left leg and pulling the shorts out, undies with it, momentarily fumbling to get his shoe through it.
But as soon as Caleb's leg came back down and their bodies regained contact, they both moaned. It was almost impossible to separate the sounds. They merged flawlessly.
Caleb's hips were grinding almost immediately, Ryan's leaking cock rubbing against his sweaty crack. Ryan's eyes shot down, his mouth agape as he felt Caleb's shaft rubbing against his stomach. They locked gazes again and lunged forward together, their mouths locking, tongues diving inside each other's mouths. Caleb's left hand came down, and he pulled the small lever on Ryan's seat, causing the back to fall slightly with a sudden jerk.
"You wanna get fucked? Is that what you want?" Ryan growled.
Caleb didn't reply. He just nodded, his tongue too busy feeding off Ryan's mouth. He pulled back, feeling Ryan's hips thrusting into him. He smiled down, watching his stepbrother's blue eyes burn at him before stirring his hand into it. He leaned back and grabbed Ryan's cock, lathering it with his moist.
"Holy fuck, dude," Ryan muttered, his hands holding Caleb's hips, his fingers digging into his velvety skin. "You're so fucking sexy," he added, his voice cracking with rapture.
But Caleb was barely reacting, his attention focused on aiming Ryan's bloated tip into his puckering hole. He tried to push it in, but the moist was not slick enough at first. His sphincter felt rubbery, and he puffed with annoyance, finally turning his eyes to Ryan again. Ryan was smiling at him, his hand already coming up to his mouth. His jaw clenched for a moment before he pushed out the thickest ball of spit from his mouth. Caleb lifted his ass, letting Ryan's hand access the tight space under it.
Then, he felt it.
Ryan's finger entering him.
Spit now drizzled down his crack, the excess covering Ryan's cock. But his hole was already being entertained, clenching around his stepbrother's finger as he nudged it aggressively in and out. A jolt of pleasure coursed through Caleb, and all his muscles tightened. He was surprised when his teeth suddenly snapped shut, biting into Ryan's lower lip.
"Mother f..." Ryan protested, yanking his neck back. But his indignation was short-lived as he looked into Caleb's eyes and found nothing but disturbingly playful energy bubbling inside. His left hand reached Caleb's cheek, his thumb pressing lightly on the tender, swollen spot. Caleb stiffened immediately, struggling not to push further into Ryan's touch. He felt the warm sensation spreading across his skin, making him shiver with anticipation.
"Damn, dude," Ryan groaned. Caleb leaned in, kissing the tip of Ryan's nose before plunging himself hard against his cock. His hole's resistance was expected, but Caleb pushed through it with a gasp. He felt himself being stretched around the thick head of Ryan's dick as it breached him. The pain was there but bearable. More than that, it echoed a pleasure that seemed almost unattainable while sober.
"Fuck, dude!" Caleb groaned out, his grip on Ryan's shoulder tightening. But he didn't push him away. Instead, he clung desperately to the moment, the pain and the pleasure colliding in a crescendo of sensation.
Ryan's hips surged forward, driven by an urge that emanated from every nerve in his body. But Caleb seemed determined to take the reins, so he gripped Ryan's neck, anchored his feet on the seat, and lifted his ass. He began to fuck Ryan's cock with a fervor, moving up and down in a rhythm that was both relentless and passionate.
"Shit...oh fuck..." Caleb moaned, his pitch high, almost feminine.
For several minutes, Caleb rode Ryan, his stamina propelled by an invisible desire. A raw energy that felt both surprising and unpreventable.
With beads of sweat dripping down his forehead and his breath huffing in and out, he readjusted his position on the seat. He slid his knees back and leaned against the cold, metal steering wheel, raising his buttocks just enough to present himself to Ryan. The anticipation built as Ryan's thick, rock-hard erection nudged against the entrance to his core, teasing him with each slow thrust.
Ryan's hips gyrated with purposeful aggression as he drove deep into him, filling him up entirely with each aggressive movement. "Fuck, Caleb...I can't believe...how fucking good your hole feels," he uttered between sharp breaths.
His body language was all angles and thrusts, muscles flexing, and veins throbbing. The sensations were intense. Every nerve ending shouted in pleasure-seeking agony as Ryan's cock slammed against Caleb's prostate, sending waves of ecstasy coursing through both of them. Caleb's sphincter stretched and tightened around Ryan's shaft, nudging him into a raptured state of complete eros.
Then, after a few minutes, before Ryan's cock became too accustomed to leading, Caleb switched back. And just like that, he was riding Ryan again. It was a dance at this point. A push and pull of being led and leading. A joint stamina only two young men could produce.
"Ryan?" Caleb called, his ass bouncing on Ryan's cock as his own slapped against his stomach.
"Mhmm...?" Ryan growled, trying to hold himself in place as Caleb masterfully rode him all the way to ecstasy.
"What did he whisper in your ear that night?" Caleb moaned, teasing the answer out of Ryan.
"I...fuck...that feels good..." Ryan groaned, half present, half lost in whatever Caleb's insides were doing to his cock.
"Tell me...I wanna know," Caleb continued, swinging his hips back and forth, milking Ryan's truth out. Sensing his stepbrother's reluctance, he leaned forward, coasting his lips on Ryan's ear. "If you tell me... I'll let you come inside me," he teased, his movements steady.
Ryan's eyes came up, locking with Caleb's as he slowly increased the rhythm of his hips, sliding Ryan's shaft in and out of him until he felt it twitching inside him. But on the verge of release, Ryan stopped. He dug his fingers into Caleb, almost signaling his partner to stop. And with hefty breaths, he finally revealed.
"He...he told me..." Ryan stammered. His voice came layered with a fragility Caleb didn't recognize. As if he was ripping the words out of his chest. One by one. "He told me he'd kiss me if I knocked him down," Ryan cried out, his head falling on Caleb's chest, almost embarrassed.
Everything stopped. Caleb's sphincter clutched around Ryan's dick, holding its release at bay. Then, he looked down. He took his hands and lifted Ryan's head, searching for his eyes. They were layered with tears.
"He never kissed you?" Caleb asked. Ryan shook his head, his lips trembling slightly, two small pools of tears hanging on by a thread inside his eyes. "Have you...ever kissed anyone?" Caleb questioned, his emerald gaze narrowing. Ryan shook his head again, slower this time. "Was...was I your first?" he finally whispered.
Ryan blinked. With it came the gentlest nod. And all the tears stored inside his glistening blue eyes.
Caleb's hand came up, and his fingers brushed Ryan's face. It wasn't planned, just something he felt he had to do. A sense of gratitude washed over Caleb. An overwhelming honor that in the most dire moment of their lives, Ryan would grace him by granting Caleb the chance to peek into his true self.
A young man, desperate to be loved.
To be accepted.
To be fundamentally understood.
And Caleb did.
He did.
One single contraction of his sphincter was all it took. Seconds later, Ryan's eyes rolled back, a white layer taking hold of them as he began to shoot his load inside Caleb's hole. "Fuuuuuck!" he hollered.
Caleb closed his eyes, grabbed his dick, and stroked it three times before Ryan felt a thick, warm string of cum hit his chin. Then, his chest. And finally, his stomach, slowly trickling inside his bellybutton. Ryan's hips twitched and shivered, his hands gripping Caleb's lean stomach the best he could as he filled the tall beauty's guts. Over and over again.
Caleb collapsed over Ryan, his body covering him completely.
"Fuck, Caleb...that was..." Ryan panted, his breath resonating like a cat's purr.
Caleb slowly lifted his ass, allowing Ryan's still-hard cock to slide out of him before he let his cheeks land gently over the stud's lap again. "Inevitable..." he whispered into their cocoon, his intoxicating breath filling the tiny space.
"I...I don't..." Ryan stuttered.
But Caleb's soothing voice came swooping in, cutting him. "Shut up," he whispered. "I think...I wanna put it back in. While your cum is still warm," Caleb added.
His hand came around his back, and he grabbed Ryan's hard dick, still soaking in his cum and Caleb's moist, and slid it right back in. Then, his hips began moving.
Ryan just sat there, eyes closed, face buried in Caleb's chest, hoping whatever he felt would not end. Ever.
Ryan didn't say anything. Not one thing. For once in his life, he felt speechless.
*
Caleb stirred first, blinking against the light, his body sore from the cramped sleeping position. He shifted, wincing slightly, and that's when he felt Ryan's presence beside him, closer than he remembered.
For a second, Caleb just sat there, staring at Ryan's chest's rise and fall and the soft parting of his lips as he breathed. Then Ryan stirred, groaning as he stretched. His eyes flickered open, dazed and unfocused at first. Then they locked onto Caleb.
Something between them stilled.
For a brief moment, neither spoke. The night before hung between them like a heavy, unspoken thing, thickening the air and making it hard to breathe.
Ryan was the first to break the silence. "Morning, nerd." His voice was husky, rough with sleep, but his usual smirk was softer, hesitant, like he wasn't sure where they stood now.
Caleb didn't answer right away. He just turned away, stretching out his sore limbs. "We should get moving," he muttered, reaching for his bag. "We need to get to this guy." Caleb snapped, zipping his bag with more force than necessary. "We're wasting time."
Ryan studied him, his sharp blue gaze scanning for cracks in Caleb's abruptly placed armor. "You good?" he asked, trying to sound casual.
Caleb scoffed. "I'm fine."
Ryan didn't buy it. He shifted, leaning closer. "Listen, about last night..."
"There's nothing to talk about. We fucked. Felt good. Let's just...go," Caleb cut him off, his tone flat, final. He didn't even look at Ryan as he shoved open the car door and stepped out.
Ryan sat there, stunned for a second. The coldness in Caleb's voice wasn't like him. Last night, Caleb had been open, unguarded. And so had Ryan. And for what? Now Caleb was shutting down, throwing up walls Ryan didn't know how to climb.
Ryan swallowed the sharp sting in his chest and forced a smirk, even though it felt wrong. Their beautiful moment now felt like a distant dream.
And maybe it was.
For a fleeting moment, Ryan had allowed himself to dream. To feel part of something. But that something wasn't his. It never had been, Ryan thought. It was Caleb and Nate's. And he was just there.
Maybe people like Ryan were meant to wander alone.
"Right. Of course," he said before starting the car, gripping the wheel a little too tightly as Caleb slid into the passenger seat, staring out the window, avoiding his gaze.
"No sooner would such a temptation present itself than I would smother it. The effect was of snuffing out a candle, two candles, a row of twenty, until the lens pulled back to reveal an entire votive stand exhaling a hundred thin lines of smoke as a terraced offering before the shrine. In this religion hidden lights had been declared superior to those that glared. Somewhere I was storing up merit, accumulating the credit I'd need to buy, one day, the salvation I longed for. Until then (and it was a reckoning that could be forestalled indefinitely, that I preferred putting off) I'd live in that happiest of all conditions: the long but seemingly prosperous courtship. It was a series of tests, ever more arduous, even perverse. For instance, I was required to deny my love in order to prove it." in A Boy's Own Story by Edmund White
(To be continued...)
Casual Wanderer © 2025
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