He Acts Like We Never Have Met (I Don't Believe You) (THROAM!AU)

1

If I'm a faggot, I might as well act like one.

If I'm a faggot... I might as well act like one.

And I am. I am. And this is what happens. This is what we do.

We sit in the cars of strangers after sunset, watching them pay for a motel room at the reception. I clutch my bag tighter to my chest. Stare at the rear-view mirror to see him now walking along the long row of motel doors. "Wait here," he said and, "Come when I tell you." He stops outside door twenty-four. He's not bad looking – average height, average weight. Glasses and a moustache. A friendly face. He looks towards the car. Lifts his hand. Beckons with one finger.

We've been driving for two hours. Talking. Norman seems nice. He likes me a lot. He must like me. He'll take me home after this. He'll take care of me.

Okay.

I get out of the car with a deep breath. The chill of the night hits me instantly. I wish I still had that thick cardigan that Mother made for Christmas. Not this past Christmas, but the one before that. When I was still there.

The gravel crunches under my feet and I hang my head, feeling otherworldly as I walk over swiftly. Before someone sees.

"How about we go warm up, eh?" Norman says, an eager tone to his words. I flash him what is hopefully a confident smile. My heart keeps pounding wildly.

"I must say," a sudden voice comes from the shadows, causing me to jump. A tall, thin man I've never seen before is leaning against one of the cars in the motel parking lot, having been invisible to us both until now. He says, "I don't really see the family resemblance."

Norman's hand lowers from the motel room door handle. He looks confused. "Excuse me?"

The new arrival, who is still staring at us, is wearing weird attire: a pair of brown pants with flared cuffs, maroon shoes with inch thick soles, it looks like, and his jacket and vest match the pants, but the dress shirt's buttons are undone all the way to the V of the vest, revealing a stripe of pale skin like he's not cold at all. The moonlight catches something at his neck, maybe a chain of sorts. He must be from a big city like St. George or Ogden because no way would anyone wear something like that where I'm from. Norman seems to be taking in the man's odd choice of clothing as well, and we stare at the stranger for a second. I feel like I've been caught red-handed.

The stranger stands up straight. He looks angry. Indignant. Like he knows. Panic raises its ugly head inside me, a guilty boom and a string of words like 'filthy' and 'abomination' and 'disgusting' and 'unnatural', but I wasn't going to – I swear that I. And if he knows that about me, then he must think he's got the right to beat me to a pulp.

"Well," he says, "it's just that it's getting rather late. Saw you guys pull in from the interstate. Now, I see that ring on your finger, so you must be a married man, and since, by the looks of it, you're sharing a motel room, I just assumed that you two were related. But, like I said." The man smiles in a way that has no amusement in it. "I can't see the resemblance. So I'm left wondering."

Norman's pale as he barks, "Piss off and mind your own business." He pushes the glasses up his nose nervously.

I flinch and swallow hard. He was sweet in the car. He kept smiling at me. Then a hand on my knee. Travelling up my thigh. Now he's angry, and I don't know if I like it. If it's sensible to go into a room with a man with a temper this short.

"No. You piss off," the guy says.

Norman's hand is hovering towards the door handle again, then away, like he's not sure, and I try to make myself invisible. I wasn't doing anything. I swear. I swear, I swear, I swear to God. Just let me leave. I'll leave. Won't make a sound.

"I'm not telling you again," the stranger snaps, and it's actual anger in his tone now, and maybe Norman and this guy know each other from somewhere, maybe there's this whole thing I don't know that I have now gotten into, and god, Brendon, stupid, stupid Brendon, you were bound to run out of luck, fall into the wrong hands –

I hold my breath, shiver, try to remain calm.

Norman's hand drops to his side. He looks at me with a hint of remorse, that penetrating gaze that got me flustered when he pulled to the side of the road with a "Hey kid, where you going?" He swears under his breath, and looks humiliated, scared and angry as he quickly heads back to his car, ducking his head.

The man watches Norman go – clearly pleased.

I clutch my backpack tighter, still letting it dangle from one curled fist. I take careful steps away from the new man. "Stop," he says, not even looking my way. I halt. Panic. He looks at me, eyes dropping to my side. "That all you've got? No other bags in his car?"

I shake my head, lips pursed together. The engine of Norman's car coughs and wheezes and starts. I flinch. He speeds out of the motel like he's on fire. I shift my weight from one leg to the other. Plan an escape route.

God, I need to get out of here. God. God. God, are you listening?

The man sighs. "That's all you've got," he says, more to himself than me. He's got brown hair that's a bit longer than is proper, locks curling around his ears, and no one would have that haircut where I come from. Not back home, and no one had that kind of hair in Flagstaff either. I could recommend him a decent barber shop back there. He's twenty-something. Older.

Handsome.

The back of my neck trickles with embarrassed heat and my stomach drops in shame. He could pull out a gun and kill me, and this is what I pay attention to: his looks.

"I'm Ryan," he says, in this final tone like that's meant to mean something. Okay. Ryan. Ryan, Ryan, Ryan. That doesn't mean anything.

"Luke."

"Luke." His lips twist into a wicked smile. "A good, biblical name."

...Biblical?

"Look, I gotta go," I mumble, scared shitless and needing to get away from him. Before he starts asking questions about Norman and who and what, because then he'll find out, and I can't risk that. I think I might have just escaped one close call, and I want to hide somewhere and feel safe, wrapped up in solitude, calm down, not wonder where my dismembered body might have been found. Because that can happen, you know. The world's full of sinners, Father always said. Sinners like Norman – a married man. Sinners like – like me.

If I'm a faggot, then I should act like it. I was going to go through with it. Show that I'm not all talk. Do what we do. Norman seemed to know.

God, I bring shame unto my family.

Ryan keeps staring at me intently, and I flash an awkward smile at him and hurriedly back away – to nowhere, sleep outside if need be, it's spring, at least, it's getting warmer, it's not that bad.

"Wait," he says. Not stop, but wait. Softly. So I do. "When was the last time you ate?"

I fidget. "What?"

He stuffs his bony hands into his jacket pockets. Tall and lean. I like that in men. I think I do, anyway. "I asked when the last time you ate was. And no candy or crackers, I mean a proper, decent meal. And don't lie to me."

Humiliation makes my cheeks flare up – I feel the heat on them. Last week. It was last week.

"Come on," he says without waiting for me to reply. He nods to a seemingly random direction, but something – something in his tone. Or the way he looks at me. Like he would never harm me. "Let's get something to eat."

"But why would you want to buy me dinner?" I ask sceptically, not wanting to believe I've met someone who's just nice. Maybe he wants to lure me to a dark alleyway where his gang is, and then they'll show me.

"Because you look like you need it," he says simply, but I don't move. "Come on. Humour me. Trust me."

Trust him? I trusted Norman and can already see that I shouldn't have. And this Ryan, appearing out of nowhere with his weird clothes and knowing eyes – trusthim? When he looks at me – fondly. And speaks softly. No, it's a trap.

I take further steps back. Need to get out of here. Run for it.

One of the motel room doors behind me opens suddenly. I swirl around, the sound giving me a fright. A young guy walks out in a smart suit with neatly cut black hair and handsome features, lifting a hand our way and saying a cordial "Good evening." From the corner of my eye, I see Ryan nod in response. The guy gets out car keys and approaches a blue Buick Riviera, and maybe he could give me a lift, get me out of here. I keep backing away from Ryan, my eyes flying between him and the well-dressed guy now getting into a car.

"We've got one thing in common," Ryan then says. My eyes keep darting to the guy and his car.

"What's that?"

"Well," he smiles crookedly, "we both think that guy is kind of hot." He nods towards the car that's now backing out from the parking slot.

I stop. "What?"

Did he just call another man...?

Ryan looks surprised. "Didn't you check out his ass? I know I did."

I– don't know what to say. I didn't know you could say something like that. In public. Or in private. At all.

But he just did. I stare at him, and he smirks. Pleased.

* * *