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

2

I feel a lot younger than a month away from sixteen, sitting in the mostly hidden corner booth of the bar. The place stinks of beer and cigarettes and is full of drunken truck drivers and two tired looking waitresses, and Ryan sits across from me and smokes. We got stared at when we came in: his clothes. He didn't seem at all self-conscious, though. That was impressive. I am impressed. He's got magical powers, this Ryan: first getting me into the bar, the barkeep grudgingly saying that he supposed it was alright as long as I didn't drink, and, secondly, Ryan managed to get whatever leftover food the closed kitchen had.

My plate is a mismatched collection of mashed potatoes, a burger, French fries, and peas; and on the second plate I've got a slice of apple pie and a brownie. Abrownie. I want to go for it first, but then no. No dessert before you've eaten your food, and so I sneak glances at the brownie and start eating fast, before the goddamned food somehow disappears from in front of me.

'Goddamned'. I just swore. I've started swearing in general. It's caught on in the past... How long has it been now? I used to count the days. Then weeks. Now months.

I feel tense in the presence of Ryan. It's that weird feeling of him knowing something I don't. But he clearly knows a lot. He clearly... God.

I didn't think I'd meet one.

He's staring. I know this because I'm staring too, just a bit more subtly.

I say, "You're staring," and take a huge gulp from my Coke bottle and then focus on the food again. Or try to focus. But can't.

He flinches, like he was utterly unaware of what he was doing. "Sorry," he laughs. He's got a nice laugh. He's got nice eyes. "You just look so damn young."

I arch an eyebrow. "Well, you look like you're thirty."

"Twenty-six."

"Same difference."

"Snarky. Why am I not surprised?" He smiles good-naturedly, but the joke's lost on me. He keeps acting like we're not strangers, like he feels perfectly at ease in my company. Like we share something. He did say that. That him and I share something. Are alike. Brothers. Comrades. He insinuated it.

"Um," I begin, nervous and excited and petrified. "At the parking lot, you said that- you. You know."

He quirks an eyebrow, flicks the cigarette. Specks of ash drift down onto the table. "That I what?"

I feel embarrassed and my cheeks radiate heat. "Um... you know."

"Like having sex with men?" he offers. I tense up and instantly gaze around the bar to see who heard him and if they're getting their pitchforks out. But no one's reacting at all, no one's looking our way in disgust or horror. I glance at him anxiously. How can he just say things like that?

My hands sweat as I try to appear unaffected. "So you're a...?" I drift off again. Is he really?

"Sometimes," he shrugs. Like that's no big deal to him. Oh wow. Wow. "Often, really."

I rush out, "Do you know any others?"

He laughs and casts me an amused look. "We're hardly a dying breed." A bit of degrading arrogance, like I should know that. I duck my head and try to hide my excitement. He must think I'm an idiot. "Hey." His voice is soft and beckoning, and I glance up at him. "There are hundreds, thousands of guys like you, you know. Like us."

Wow. Wow, that's incredible. If it's true. Wow.

"I just haven't met very many," I explain, occupying myself with the food. Ryan's the first one who has said it out loud of the men I've met. Norman, well – he said as he pulled over that I should know that he's a normal guy. That he's normal. That he doesn't usually, but we'll have a good time, won't we? And then Sal in Flagstaff. He never said it either, we only kissed on his bed, and then we helped each other, hands shoved down each other's pants. He never said it, and he told me to piss off the next time he saw me, told me I was vile. Ryan is different. He's saying that he's like me. "So what do you do?" I ask curiously. He just looks bemused, and I say, "I mean, do you have a normal life?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because. You know..." I'm not going to say it. I shift in my seat, trying not to show that I don't know anything, and he knows everything, and I'm intrigued. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

"No."

"Oh." Maybe we don't get to have boyfriends.

"But some do. They just stay hidden, that's all. You don't even know they're there."

I frown. "Then how do you ever find anyone?"

He sucks in smoke, his cheeks hollowing. He looks really good as he does it. "I found you. Didn't I?"

He did. Somehow. By magic. I flash an uncertain smile at him.

He points at my food. "Eat up. You're too pale."

I'm torn between an actual, live gay man in front of me and proper, warm food, but then the food wins. I flex my fingers around my fork, somewhat clumsily scooping up mashed potatoes. Ryan's eyes narrow. "Your hand okay?"

"Yeah. It's fine."

"You're fumbling a bit there."

"It's fine," I repeat. Don't ask. He doesn't get to ask. No one does. It's still a bit weak, that's all. It's well enough for me to have worked in a barber shop, too, snipping at hairs with scissors, but sometimes my arm just gets tired. That's all. It's just a bit tired after a long day.

My hand trembles suddenly, and I drop the fork with a clinging sound. Ryan stares but says nothing. I start picking French fries with my good hand instead. Cover up my tracks. Ryan's cigarette is forgotten between two long digits. "What?" I demand because his staring is getting unnerving again.

"Nothing." He drops his gaze. "Never mind." He sighs.

He told the barkeep that I was his little brother. I think our resemblance is as identical as mine and Norman's was, but no one at the bar seemed like they wanted to get into it, his clothes and our relations. Hope no one's called the police. Hope no one's figured me out. And if the law enforcement is on its way, I wonder if I could get a milkshake before they get here. I wonder if this place even does milkshakes. They probably don't. It'd be nice, though. A milkshake. I haven't had one in months.

"So are you being nice to me because we're alike?" I ask, helping myself to the burger. He shakes his head, and I try not to be disappointed. "Is it a good Samaritan thing, then?"

"It's not about pity," he says, sounding distracted and straightening his vest. He still has the top buttons of the dress shirt undone. His skin is pale and smooth. Soft looking. I swallow hard.

"The, uh. The good Samaritan wasn't about pity. Pity isn't very Christian." I think it through, wonder what my family would say on the subject. "It'd suggest judging. God alone can judge us." I feel out my hand by flexing my fingers. Grab the fork again. God alone can judge us. Only God the Father. Only Father.

"Then it must be about love," he says. "The good Samaritan."

I stare at him suspiciously. "Are you one of those hippies? I've heard about you. I've heard that... some people like us are hippies too. Are you one of those? It'd explain your necklace."

This time he smiles wide, sucking on the end of his cigarette. He even laughs, the sound rumbling deep from his chest, making the hairs at the back of my neck prick up. "It's not a necklace. It's a chain. Call me crazy, but I thought you'd like it. That it looks like something you might even buy."

I scoff. "Hardly."

A necklace? I'm not a girl, even if I'm – Even if I'd take the place of a woman. No son of his, no son of his would degrade himself to the female role. I know I'm not a girl, but I know that the other person would be a man. It leaves me short of breath. The thought of a man touching me.

I eat the very last pea before I push the emptied plate away and eagerly pull in the dessert. I start with the apple pie – blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they shall be satisfied. Blessed are those who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

If I could find it in myself to forgive him and Him. If I could do that. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. If I could, but I just – don't know if I can.

I was never much of a son to him or to Him.

I tried, though. I tried.

Apple pie gone – a brownie. Oh sweet Jesus and Mary, Mother of God – a brownie. I fork off a corner. Lift it to my nose and inhale the rich scent of chocolate. Unable to contain myself, I greedily stuff the nugget of sugary goodness in my mouth. Oh God. Oh God. "This is," I manage to say, lifting my hand to cover my mouth – 'Manners, Brendon,' her stern yet motherly voice says in my head – and then I guzzle the brownie with inhuman speed. "That was really good," I say, eyeing the plate and trying to catch every crumb with the fork. I've forgotten Ryan's existence until his hand has reached over the table, his thumb slowly brushing over my lower lip to wipe away something invisible to me. The pad of his thumb is rough, his touch hot. I tense up and look up at him in surprise. His eyes are focused on my lips. My pulse skyrockets, my skin suddenly heating up.

His eyes slowly flicker to meet mine, and only then does he seem to catch himself. "Sorry." His voice has gone husky, and he pulls his hand back.

My mind draws a blank, and then I splutter out something like "yeah, I, you know, yeah." I sit still, feeling horribly self-conscious.

Not a good Samaritan. Not out of the goodness of his heart. Not out of comradeship.

I sit in the booth quietly, dumbfounded and horrified and flustered.

What do two faggots do when no one's watching?

"Let's get you to bed," Ryan says, and my brain cannot register. He stubs out his cigarette against the table. "You look like you could do with a good night's rest."

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