Harley D. Dixon 5
An amazing edit inspired by this story! (Cred to Cora_Line99)
Harley D. Dixon's Pinterest Board!
Harley D. Dixon's Playlist!
📖Chapter List.
Author's Note. This is our CDC chapter, so TW for mention of suicide in this one. It's a little graphic.
And it might be better to go in blind, but if you'd like the second TW, please check the first tag on this post.
Other than that, please enjoy reading!
Glenn exhales, "Would you look at that?"
The sun is rising.
Last night I was a dying dog and today I am Harley Dixon.
Me, Dad and Glenn are on the roof of the parked RV, watching the sky give birth to the sun, knowing that I got hundreds more sunrises waiting for me; that the worst is over, like Rick said. The morning is as fresh as peeled summer fruit, and it's all ours. I'm reminded of special breakfasts on our old porch, where my Uncle Merle and my Dad would be scooping burnt scrambled eggs into their mouths, and I'd be in Dad's lap, sipping on a box of orange juice. We had them whenever I won an award at school. I feel like I've won every award in the world.
Glenn is the one sitting next to us, now, in this new version of day-break. He fills the outline of where a ghost of a brother and an Uncle used to be. We're sharing a secret bag of old freeze-dried cherries, while everyone else sleeps. They're a small luxury, like the sun. We can make happiness out of anything.
It all feels right.
"One hundred percent mold free, this time. I swear," Glenn says, ripping the bag open and pouring me the first cherries.
"They better be," Dad jokes. "First time was free."
"Next time, you'll beat my ass?" Glenn guesses.
He looks like he's realizing his legacy is always gonna be the guy who can't make jerky.
"Damn straight."
We knock our plastic bowls together, smiling.
"To Harley."
"To Harley."
"To me!"
"What a mess this whole thing was." Glenn shakes his head, chewing. "I know I already said it, but... I'm really sorry."
"Ain't your fault you can't cook." I giggle.
"Gee, thanks." He laughs. "I guess I deserve that."
"Just learn to salt the damn meat, China." Dad says. "Then we can talk."
"Okay, okay, okay." Glenn puts his hands up, but he's still grinning. "I suck at cooking. I get it. Are Dixons always this mean?"
Me and my Daddy answer, yes, at the same time.
"Good to know." Mumbles Glenn.
"The night I got scratched," I muse, my fingers painted with crayon-red cherry juice. "You was the first person after my Dad to reach the tent."
I remember people saying that Glenn could outrun a cheetah if there were enough supplies behind the finish line. The thought makes me laugh again. When you ain't big, you gotta find other ways to elbow your way through danger. Sometimes a good brain and better legs are all you need. Sometimes people like me and Glenn get to win, too.
"I guess so." Glenn's smiling shyly. "But only because Rick was too busy reloading. And Shane was up the back. And, well, I guess— When we first got back to camp, people were saying that you were gone. That you were missing, or dead, or— We didn't know. Your Dad, he just took off into the woods. Just, vroom, y'know? Like, gone. I thought if I was gonna be like anyone, it should be him. So, I went running, too."
Dad leans over and grips Glenn's shoulder; shakes it. A gesture that says, Man to man, I respect you. Maybe even, Brother to brother.
It takes a lot to earn my Dad's respect, if you ain't his blood.
"You all looked like you was boutta faint." I snicker, 'cause it's funny now.
"W-we all thought it was too late." Glenn tries to laugh. It's been hard, I guess, bottling up that night until now. "When we first saw the tent."
I see flashes of wet eyes, and teeth, and spiders.
"I did too," I confess.
My Dad turns me around in his lap, then, and bounces his knee a little. "But I woulda never let that happen, chicken, y'hear? And I ain't never gonna let that happen. I'd have to be dead, 'fore a walker laid his hands on you." He frowns, looking me dead in the eye.
"I hear." I nod. "It was just really scary."
"C'mere, babe."
He pulls me down to his chest — his heart — and I curl up there, where I know nothin' will ever get me.
"For the record, I was about to faint." Glenn mutters.
I throw a cherry at him and he dodges it, grinning.
"I knew it!"
We all sit like this for a long while, with the sun and the rustling wheat as our friends, snacking on our sour fruit. Then they start talking again, a notch deeper, a notch outta my league. Adult to adult. I realize they must think I'm asleep — It is the ass-crack of dawn, after all — so I don't interrupt.
"I didn't mean it like that, you know." Glenn tells my Dad. "You can protect your own. I get that."
"Don't tell me what I already know, kid."
"I just..." Glenn starts, but then there's nothing.
In this long moment, I think Glenn is going to leave down the ladder, 'cause it's what anyone else would do.
People like me and my Dad — People who hoard supermarket coupons, and talk real nasty, and get called hillbillies — don't mix well with people like Glenn. People pretend there isn't, but there's an invisible cut-off on who deserves what in life, and it ends right after people who only gotta work one job. Glenn's smart, and he prolly ain't never had to go hungry to pay his water bills, not once in his life. He prolly ain't never been to jail, or snapped a squirrel's neck, or re-used the same bottle of hand soap forty times over. He's like the rest of 'em. Rick and Lori. Shane. The kids in my old classes. Their parents on parent-night. We can work well together but anything else is askin' too much.
But we're family now, right? I think Glenn might leave, but—
"Well, for what it's worth, I couldn't do it." Is all Glenn says.
He doesn't leave. In fact, I hear him settling further into his chair. It's what Uncle Merle would have done.
My Dad pauses. "Do what?"
"Look over my shoulder all the time. Worry about someone else every time I hear a gunshot. Walk around knowing I have that much to lose." Glenn sounds lost in thought, but then he surfaces. He ends his list with a simple, "Be a parent."
My Dad sighs, debating whether or not to go along with this.
"That ain't all there is to it." He eventually says.
"No?"
"Nah. It ain't some curse." Dad says. "I hear a gunshot? Sure, first thing I'm thinkin' 'bout is Harley. But that's the way it's meant to be."
"I just don't think I'd be able to handle it." I imagine Glenn gazing out at the sky. "These past few days have been stressful enough."
"Yeah, well that's why I got a kid 'n you don't." Dad's being a bit of a smart-ass. Then, he answers seriously. "You got a kid? You gotta be ready to die for 'em. But it ain't just sittin' around, waitin' to do it. It's the opposite. Every day I wake up, and I do it for her. I do everythin' I do for her. After that baby's born, who you were, what you liked doin', any plans you had — That's over. Suddenly, yer life ain't the most important thing you got, no more."
I've never heard my Dad talk like this. I wish our lives were worth the same, but I guess it don't work that way.
"And who were you?" Glenn asks, knocking back a cherry. "Before Harley?"
"A nobody. Drunk bastard with drunk-bastard friends." Dad scoffs.
"Well... That's good, then?" Glenn's guessing. "Sounds like she changed you for the better, man."
I can't imagine my Dad being anybody other than my Dad. The day I came into the world, so did he. There's nothin' before that.
"It's hard." Dad admits, prolly for the first time ever, to Glenn. "I love 'er, but it's hard as shit. Some days I wanna pull my damn hair out."
"You must have been going crazy during... everything."
"Oh, you think?" Dad jokes. "You ain't seen me fuck up that walkie?"
Glenn bursts out laughing. "It hit the RV when you threw it out the window. Scared the shit out of Dale."
I have to try really hard not to laugh. I'm meant to be pretend-asleep!
"You got any nieces, or anythin'?" Dad asks.
"No." Glenn answers. "My sisters were either too interested in their careers to have kids, or... Too young."
Glenn's sisters aren't here. Blood does everything it can to stay together. Dad taught me that. That means his sisters are both young and dead.
"That's gotta be tough, man." Dad sighs.
"No, it's alright. Sometimes I can pretend they're out there, together. Happy." He pauses. "What about you? Nieces? Nephews?"
Dad actually laughs a little. "Fuck no. Not from my side, at least. Guy like my brother ain't meant to spread his seed around. Ain't right."
Glenn starts laughing, too. "I guess not."
"Nah, Harley's my only girl." My Dad says. I feel him start playing with the end of my ponytail.
"You know, when you first showed up in camp, I thought she was Merle's." Glenn says, then quickly, "No offence."
"No shit?" Dad scoffs.
"No shit. I thought you looked too young to have a kid."
An unspoken joke makes them both laugh all over again.
"Yeah, well, I was real busy in my teen years."
I got no idea what that means, but it must be funny. Their conversation tapers from chuckling into a warm silence, and then it's just us and the sun again. It clips over a candy-colored cloud, and I can hear car doors opening and shutting, and loud yawns from down below. We're gonna be on the road again soon. I might not need a cure anymore, but we still need water, food, and walls, and the CDC's got it all. I hear someone shouting, alright, people, time to start heading out, and then a whole bunch of shuffling. The day isn't just ours, anymore.
My Dad stretches, groaning, and I pretend to be woken up by it.
He pinches my cheek. "Look who's here."
"Hey, Harley." Glenn smiles, packing up. "You enjoy the cherries?"
"Uh-huh," I smile back. "Thank you."
"No problem." He says. "There's actually some left over, if you want it."
He holds out the bag while I dig my hand into it.
I think it's funny how me, the man who made me, and the man who almost killed me are all friends, now. I learnt in science class that the more pressure you put on a rock, the more compact the molecules get. I think we're the molecules. It's bittersweet.
"Not too many." Dad warns. "You're still sick, remember? Don't want you messin' up my truck again."
"I remember," I promise, shoving a handful of cherries into my mouth. I also remember him sayin' he don't give a damn 'bout the truck.
Someone shouts out the radio channel again.
"Time to see this thing through, then." Rallies Glenn, but he looks nervous.
We say goodbye to the sunrise.
"Dad, is that—?"
"That's the CDC, alright."
We reach it by early morning. It's a monster of a building. It's like a big, white buoy in the middle of the ocean, saying, Come here, I'll keep you afloat. We ease to a stop and then we just look at it, 'cause it's all we can do. The CDC, right before our eyes. It's really there.
"It's bigger than I thought." I think aloud.
Dad just grunts, wary. "Stay close to me."
Our new walkie chimes, and Rick speaks to everyone when he says, "This is it, people. Leave your things. We're gonna walk up."
Why does the air feel so cold?
My Dad pulls both me and his crossbow out the truck, and then the whole group — one tired, beaten, hopeful force — are slowly making our way to the building. We walk through a silent field. I wish it could speak to us; tell us what it's been through.
We pass torn bags of sand and littered bullet shells. I think there's something here that we're not seeing, not yet, like a sleeping beast at the back of a cave, and when we find it, we're gonna be sorry we ever looked. We weave through big, black piles of clothes. The clothes are full, I realize. Full of hands, and legs; all white, all dead. They're bodies. They still have their human faces; they're still them, just dead, and they're studded with the bullets that the shells came from. The story tells itself, on behalf of the ghosts. They give their blood back to mother nature, dripping into the grass. I gasp. From head to toe, I go cold. My Dad shields my face, but I've already seen 'em. They're already nightmares.
Rick leads us. He leads us past trucks and barriers and blockades. Every sign the universe gives him to turn back, he ploughs through, chin up.
Maybe he's brave. Maybe he's stupid. Maybe he was designed to be both. Maybe we're walking to our deaths.
Nobody speaks. If they do, the bodies might wake up, and the graveyard we're intruding on will realize it doesn't want us here.
A crow squawks from its post on a dead soldier's helmet. If I spoke bird, I'd hear, Turn back.
We have to do this. It's what everyone's thinking, as they manage one foot in front of the other. Just one more step, and after that, just one more step. I take in the group, 'cause they ain't dead, and it's a little less awful to look at.
Morales, rifle up. Eliza, Louis and Sophia, three baby ducklings under their Mommas' shaking wings. Dale and Shane, polar opposites but in this moment, exactly the same; with their steely gaze and steady hands. Jacqui and Andrea, holding hands; two girls in women's bodies, walking through a world that wants to eat them. I catch Carl's eye. He catches mine, over the violence spread out before us. I watch him send me a thumbs up, which does nothing but turn me colder — colder than ice, colder than I've ever been — before my view is blocked for a second time, by Glenn. I'm sandwiched in; hidden, protected. I squeeze my eyes shut and hope I'll get to open them again. My Dad leads me by the shirt over the grass. I trust him.
My shoes hit something tougher, louder — Cement. Rock? Our footsteps echo, now. Are we really in a cave?
It goes double-dark, through my eyelids. Please don't leave us, I beg the sun nicely, We need you.
I squeeze my Dad's hand. He squeezes back.
Then I hear a rumble, like thunder, and I peek out from behind my Dad. It's Rick, banging on roller shutters. We all clench closer together, a fist ready to fight. Nobody does it on purpose, but me and all the other kids are pushed toward the middle. Rumble, rumble, rumble. Rick goes from one door to another to another, until he's shook down the entire row.
Guns are raised. We step back, together.
It's like knockin' on doors on Halloween. We don't know what creature's gonna answer. Maybe nobody.
"Anybody home?" Glenn mutters.
We stretch our silence for as long as we can stand it. There is no answer.
Newly determined, or maybe offended, or scared, or maybe all three, Rick beats down all the doors again like he hates 'em.
"Hey!" He calls out. "Whoever's in there, open up!"
"Nobody's here, man!" T-Dog shakes his head, but he ain't got no proof.
"Then tell me why you think all the damn shutters are down?" Rick snarls, and it's like we're in the parking lot again, and I'm scared.
And I should be.
"Walkers incoming!" Shane shouts.
Suddenly, my Dad and Glenn are whirling the other way, facing our new enemy. I grab onto the back of Dad's belt, and when I peer out between their elbows, I see one, two, six, twelve dead bodies lumbering to their feet, all dressed in military green, and dented helmets, and layers and layers of crusty black blood and loose skin. The other kids start to cry, but not me. I can't cry, 'cause I can't breathe. I hear a slicing fwip, and then one of the dead soldiers drop to the ground like the only thing holding him up were strings. An arrow marks his second deathbed.
"We can't fuckin' stay here, Rick!" My Dad's yelling. "You led us into a death-trap!"
I'm grabbing onto the back of Glenn's shirt, now, 'cause my Dad's stomping off to confront Rick and Shane. I hide my nose in my knuckles. Death-trap, I'm panicking, Death-trap. A week ago, I'd be standing here alone, but I got Glenn now. I don't know how I know that, but I do. I got Glenn.
"Glenn, I'm scared." I whine to him, and there it is, I'm crying. I think of happier things, like cherries and the sun.
"I— I know." Glenn puffs, 'cause he's scared, too. "I know."
He lets me grab his hand. It's what Uncle Merle would have done.
"Death trap or not, we're here for a reason!" Dale's arguing. "Rick made a call! We all did!"
"You want us to phase through the fuckin' doors, old man?" Dad spits. "We're stuck out here! My daughter's stuck out here!"
"Running out of time here, guys!" Jacqui's worrying.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Are those gunshots, now? Bullets are last resorts. Last resorts are only for when you're gonna die. Are we gonna—?
"Are we gonna die, Glenn?"
"No." He hurries to answer, gripping me tighter. "N—No."
"We need to leave!" A woman — Carol? — cries.
"She's right." Lori. That's Lori. "This close to the city? It's too dangerous!"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
"Fort Benning." Shane looks like he's 'bout ready to bolt, bouncin' from foot to foot. A trapped animal. "We can do it. It's still an option, Rick."
"Is it?" Glenn's shouting. "It's a hundred twenty-five miles away!"
"No fuel? Two sick kids?" Morales is shakin' his head, no, no, no. "It's impossible!"
What do we do? No, no, no. We can't leave, but no, no, no, we can't stay, neither.
"What do you wanna do, then?" Shane argues back. "What you wanna do?"
"That's it! We're done here!"
My Dad shuts the whole thing down with one angry shout, locking his hand around my wrist. He tugs me away, and for a moment, the group is tugging itself along behind us, back to the street and the cars. We're a unit again — in the wind, goin' anywhere; scared, flimsy. We take one step, and then two, and we make it all the way back to the grass, before—
"Wait!"
It's Rick.
He ain't budged. Brave or stupid? Is he nuts?
"The camera." He tells us, breathless. "It moved."
All three.
"You imagined it." Dale decides, 'cause he'll say anything to get Rick to move. "How could it have moved?"
It's a lost cause — a last-ditch attempt.
The arguing re-ignites. I hide myself again, 'cause I'd rather be anywhere else.
Rick's shouting that he saw it, he saw the camera move, and his voice hits the concrete and closes in on us, just like the field. Fwip. Bang. Bang. Bang. Each burst of noise is a ticking hand on a dyin' clock. The bodies are picking themselves up faster than we're dropping 'em. Glenn's got a knife out, now, and Shane's pleading with Rick, who's gone nuts, Man, listen, the place is gone, it's gone, it's gone, it's gone. Rumble, rumble, rumble. Fwip. Bang. Crying; shrieking, from me, from the other kids, from Lori, and Jacqui, and the air as it's cut in half by bullet after bullet after bullet. Please, we have two sick kids out here, someone's begging.
"You're killing us!" Rick tells the camera. "You're killing us!"
My Dad fists the back of my shirt and he's pullin' me away, stronger than before. I think he's saying, Fuck it, we can make it on our own; leave the bastard. This must really be rock bottom. We were on our own for weeks. He must be thinking that we can do it again. I can see Glenn struggling to decide whether he should stay with the group or follow his feet, which are already trying to run after me and my Dad. I see Jacqui doin' it, too, and then Andrea, and then Carol.
A body topples over in our path, arrow up its nose. This is chaos.
Cherries and sunlight. Cherries and sunlight.
Then—
Behind us.
A gentle rumble, rumble.
We all whip around.
The doors — They're opening. They really are.
Even Rick looks like he can't believe it. We watch them open, mouths agape, like a bunch of idiots — A portal, to another world.
At first, we think there's a catch. Nothing comes without a catch. Do we go in?
But then there's another bang, and we're reminded that we're as good as dead if we stay out here any longer. We're on the move again, but this time, we're walking into the big, white mouth of the big, white monster, praying, Please don't be worse than it is out here, please don't make us regret this. We stay close together as the doors roll back down, sealing us in. We can breathe again, but only slightly. Would I rather take my chances with the dead soldiers, or with the unknown? I'm not sure. Now it's really happening, I don't think any of us are.
"Electricity." Jacqui whispers in cautious wonder. Electricity is like a myth.
Rick nods toward an archway. "Let's keep moving."
We trickle into the belly of the beast — Down a hallway, and into a lobby with the tallest damn ceiling I ever saw. Papers are thrown all over the floor and the computers at the reception desk are all upturned, but it's pin-drop silent. It's like being in a museum for an old extinction event.
"Hello?" Rick calls out, and if there's a scary creature in here, I sure hope it eats him first. "Who's in here? Who opened the doors?"
The silence answers.
"I did."
I jump outta my skin. Dad gets himself in front of me, but I peek around his waist. There's a man at the top of the stairs. He looks like he's been here for a long, long time. Like those lonely boys in Lord of the Flies, where they'd been on an island for so long that they started going a little crazy. He's wearing a regular t-shirt. I wonder where his lab coat is, if he's a scientist. This is a building for scientists.
"What did you mean by 'sick'?" The lonely-crazy-man calls down to us. "You said you had two sick kids. Is anybody infected?"
The whole group hardens at this question. They all glance back at me. I can see our journey in their eyes.
Rick's smiling, and this time, it looks right.
"You don't know the half of it." He turns back around, chin up, like always. "No. Nobody's infected. Thank God."
Dad puts a hand my shoulder.
The scientist doesn't share the same enthusiasm.
"I'm not sure He's around, anymore." He muses, vaguely sad. Then, "Why are you here? What do you want?"
I've never been good at words, but Rick is, 'cause he comes up with the perfect answer. One he knows we'd all agree on.
"A chance."
And maybe some water. After all we been through, that can't be too much to ask. We must look like a pathetic, begging mess, 'cause that's what we are. I know I am. My hair's made outta knots and grease, just like Lori and Andrea's. We're covered in beatings from the road, like bruises from Jim's fists and eyebags from sleepless nights. We left our quarry for this. We left our fish, and our tyre swing, and we left Jim. This can't be for nothing.
The man, who stands high above us, a judging eye, takes us in. "That's asking an awful lot, these days."
All Rick can say is, "I know," and pray it works.
I think of wet eyes, teeth, and spiders while we wait for his decision.
"You'll submit to a blood test." The scientist tells us. "That's the price of admission."
A breath leaves us all.
"We can—" Rick's nodding. "We can manage that."
That's it? A blood test?
I find myself grinning, and I tug on my Dad's hand. We look at each other. He's smiling, too, just a little. We all are. The scientist doesn't know it, but he's just saved our lives. We're tired and we're dirty and we've been through Hell these past couple days, but a blood test — We can manage that. We can manage anything.
"I left one door open. If you have stuff to bring in, do it now." He says, from his perch. "Once these doors shut, they don't open."
We tell him we understand.
This place is like a magical castle.
After we give up our blood, the scientist takes us on a tour.
Jacqui was right. We got electricity. But apparently, we also got hot water.
If electricity's a myth, then hot water is a damn hoax. I can't wait to have a shower tonight. I used to hate showers, but that's just one of them things now that I can't believe I ever hated, like spinach. I been so hungry before that I'd dream about spinach. Glenn and Lori groan like they've bitten into a big, juicy steak when they hear 'bout the showers, and we all laugh. When I ask him, the scientist says that he isn't wearing his lab coat because he only wears it to make himself look cool. He says that now that we're here, he'll have to put it back on. It makes me giggle.
I run ahead with the other kids, and we all reach a long line of doors, where the scientist says we'll be staying.
The tour is complete!
We all pick rooms to stay in and then we unpack, like we're in a hotel, and it's exciting. None of us have been to a hotel in years.
"Hey, Harley!" Sophia pops her head out the next room over, holding a bar of soap. "Look! Soap!"
I hold out mine. "I got one, too!"
Behind Sophia, Carl pops his head out. "Me too!"
And behind him, like two little owls, Eliza and Louis appear. "Us, too!"
We dash back into our rooms. Me and my Dad's room got two double beds, and I ain't never had a double bed before, so I climb on it, and I jump up and down to test it out. It don't even squeak or nothin'. Dad watches me from where he's emptying one of our back packs.
As I try touch the ceiling, I tell him, "This place is awesome!"
"Harley, come down from there 'fore you crack yer head open." He orders, like a party-pooper.
I do what he says, 'cause I don't wanna ruin the day by getting spanked. "I'm gonna have a real-life shower."
"That's right." He shakes out the yellow shirt with the dinosaurs on it. He chucks it at my head, smirking. "Get ready, then."
I grab the brush that Sophia's letting me use first and a pair of purple pyjama pants from my Dad. I take myself into the bathroom. At first, the water's like straight lava on my skin, and I yelp. Dad asks if I'm alright, and then he comes in to fix the water for me. The lava settles back down, and I scrub and wash and sud myself up until I'm almost as red as a lobster. It's the best shower I've ever had. I was getting so sick of using baby wipes and river water to wash myself. When I step out of the real-life shower, the whole room is steamed up. I draw a smiley face into the mirror just 'cause I can, and then I brush out all my hair. I smell like strawberries. I dress in my cozy pyjamas and socks.
When I come out, my Dad re-does my buttons, 'cause apparently I did 'em all wrong. I stand between his knees while he re-orders 'em.
"He said there's a games room here." I smile.
"Maybe you can scope it out after dinner." Dad says. "You gotta be hungry by now, right?"
"Oh, I forgot 'bout dinner!" There's just too many wonders to keep track of in this place! "We gotta hurry!"
My Dad loops the last button.
"Come on, come on, come on!" I nag, pulling him off the bed and out the door.
"Damn." He chuckles. "People are gonna start thinkin' I ain't feedin' you."
"I bet there's gonna be steak!"
This is the best day ever.
We reach the CDC's little cafeteria, which is in total darkness to save energy, except for a spotlight above the biggest table. Makes it feel even more special. I hear clinking forks and plates, and I think these are the two happiest days I've ever had. Me and Dad take seats next to Carol and Sophia. As potato salad — Yes, potato salad. That's almost as good as soap — and greens and meat get passed around, I'm reminded of our fish fry. My Dad is here with me to enjoy it this time, and there are walls to protect us, instead of trees. We're clean. We're safe. We're alive.
"Just tell me when." Carol tells T-Dog as she pours him some wine, while everyone is getting settled in at the table.
Carol pours for a long time and T-Dog does not say when.
People start laughing.
T-Dog gives in and goes, "Okay, when, when, when."
"Thought I was gonna be there all night." Carol scoff-chuckles, sitting back down.
When I look around, I see one big family having dinner together, and I see people I'd almost forgotten about under all that dirt.
"Hey, after the past few days we've had, I think we deserve it." Rick's smiling, holding up his hands.
"I'll say." Lori snickers.
Dale suddenly stands, glass in hand. "How about we dedicate this meal to Harley?"
Rick puts down his napkin. "I think that's a perfect idea."
I giggle under all the attention as everyone rushes to agree, finding their glasses. I hide my face behind my Dad's arm. He peels himself away, smirking, and everyone's got something to say about my red face when I'm no longer hidden. I smack Carl when he tells me I look like a tomato, and everyone's doubled over with laughter, again. It's my favorite sound ever, I decide.
Before we can toast, my Dad butts in.
"Hang on. Old man, how's about that watch you carry around?" He asks. "It got a date on it?"
"I wish," Dale smiles, "But the battery died yesterday. Why? Is there something I'm missing?"
"I reckon it's almost July, right?" Dad looks around.
Is he gonna say what I think he's gonna say?
I start grinning.
Rick nods, "I reckon so. It's probably been about a month since everything went down."
"Harley was born in July. Twenty-second. Eight years ago. Ain't that right?" Dad ruffles my hair, and I giggle, 'cause I'm just so full of happiness that I feel like I'll never be anything else again. He raises his glass; wraps a hand around my shoulders. "Close enough, am I right?"
"Absolutely, that's close enough!" Lori shouts, clapping her hands; rushing for her glass. "My God, this is perfect!"
"We got ourselves a birthday dinner, here, people!" T-Dog whoops, raising his, too.
Rick lifts his glass above his head, and it's official. "To the birthday girl!"
"To the birthday girl!"
Clink, clink, clink.
More cheering. Two toasts in one day. I must be the luckiest girl in the whole, wide world. I bump my glass of water into Dad's glass on my right, and Sophia's on my left. After the scare with the scratches, this celebration means ten times more than a regular birthday would. There's no cake here, or number-candles, but I don't need any of that to make this moment special. I got Glenn singing an off-key Happy Birthday, and I got Jacqui giggling, God, shut that boy up, and I got Sophia hugging me, and I got another year and a whole lotta more days I get to live, with everyone at this table; with my Dad. And when Rick leans over the table, I even let him give me a high-five!
"Eight." Rick raises his eyebrows at me while he sits back down, pointing at me. "Almost double digits."
"You're almost my age!" Grins Carl.
"Good luck." Lori dramatically whispers to my Dad.
He gives me a look. "Listen to me, you ain't allowed to grow any more after this, okay?"
I can't help if I grow!
"Okay, Dad." I laugh. "I promise to be eight forever."
"Good girl." He says, gulping down more wine.
"Hold up." T-Dog sticks his palm out. "This is a birthday party. You know what that means, right? We need to hear at least one embarrassing story."
"Good idea." Jacqui gasps.
Dad makes a big show of scoffing. "Damn, which one you want? I got thousands."
What a traitor!
"I mean, we have all night, here." Shane shrugs, grinning like a little smart-ass. "I'm up for a story-time. How 'bout y'all?"
"Let's hear it," Morales gestures at my Dad.
"Alright." Dad sits back in his chair, crossing his arms. I try leaning over to cover his mouth, but he bats me away, and everyone is already laughing and the story ain't even started yet. "How 'bout— Okay. Okay. Damn, this is a good one. 'Bout when she was five, we bought Harley this skateboard—" Everybody's going, Oh God, 'cause they see where this is going. "Uh-huh. We took 'er down to the skatepark near our house, and there was a bunch of other lil' kids there — 'bout her age — and I'on know how she did it, but these kids were all convinced she was this master skater who was gonna show 'em how it's done. She was coachin' 'em, I think. Showin' off her new board. End of the day, she finally goes to show 'em a trick — 'Member, first day at this damn park — and everyone's watching and—" He claps his hands, smack. "Falls flat on 'er fuckin' face, in front of all of 'em."
Ugh, why'd he have to go and tell that story?
Rick covers his mouth 'cause he's trying not to laugh, 'cause I guess he values whatever dignity I got left but Shane, he's clappin' and trying not to spit his food out, 'cause he's actually a big smart-ass. I'm laughing behind my hands, like Sophia. Glenn's resting his forehead on the table, and he's shakin', so I guess he's laughing, too. When he sits upright, he's crying, and Jacqui's gotta beat his back 'cause he's choking a little bit.
"I'm alri—" He coughs. Then he keeps laughin', which makes it worse. "I'm alright."
"Hey, I ain't even fall that bad!" I defend myself.
He chugs Jacqui's water to save himself.
"Wait—" Lori's chuckling. "Five years old?"
"Yep," Dad goes back to eating. He's satisfied with the damage he's done.
"Pretty brave for that age." Lori tells me, putting on an I'm impressed face.
"Damn, that's pretty bad." T-Dog's shaking his head. "Sorry, girl, but I'm glad I asked, 'cause shit!"
"Leave the poor girl alone." Carol giggles, quietly.
Shane looks off into the darkness, pretending there's a crowd. "Anybody got a skateboard?"
"Oh, shut up." Andrea smiles. "Settle down, or Lori's gonna have to pull that photo out."
"May I ask a question?"
We're all so isolated in this pocket of happiness, celebrating the end of our troubles, that when the scientist speaks, I think we're all a little spooked. Smiles freeze and fade. Glasses lower. Heads turn. We're not the only people in the world, we're all realizing. We'd forgotten all about the reason we came here. That's what potato salad does to people, I guess.
The conversation dies off like a guillotine sliced it in half.
"What were you going to toast to?" The scientist asks, and his voice is like a soft, chilly breeze in a forest. I'm not even sure he was sitting there the whole time. Maybe he's supernatural, and he teleported. That makes me scared. "Before you figured out it was her birthday?"
And just like that, the dinner turns awkward.
Rick clears his throat. "Well, if I'm being completely honest, here, Harley is the reason we came out to the city in the first place. I know I told you that nobody here was infected, but there were a couple days where... we weren't sure. Harley got scratched. We left looking for a cure."
The scientist's eyes roam over to my face, but then they don't leave.
"Now we're on the subject," Shane decides to break the silence, frowning, "How about you tell us what exactly happened here, doc?"
Rick mutters, "We don't have to do this right now, Shane."
"Wait a second." Shane sighs. "You said it yourself, just now. This is why we came all the way out here, right? Figure out what happened? Put all our eggs in one basket, and uh—" He laughs a laugh that tells me nothing is funny here. "Instead we found him. We found one man, talking in riddles. Why is that, you think?"
The scientist tanks the insult. "When things got bad, people just... left, to be with their families. The rest bolted."
I remember just how shocked I was at the size of this building when I first saw it creeping up the windows. It's way too much space for one man. There must have been hundreds of scientists working in here, and now it's just a shell. A cave for a lonely monster.
"Every last one?" Shane whispers, squinting; disbelieving.
The scientist falters, for just a moment, and I can see old pains on his face. "No. Some couldn't face leaving. They... opted out."
The tables goes from quiet to silent. Opted out. I know what that means. It's another one of them things adults say to butter up the truth, and it means killing yourself. I squeak, then, like I've been kicked in the ribs. I hide behind my Dad, who cradles the back of my damp hair, but you can't hide from words once they're in your head. Suicide. Dead, but not an accident — On purpose, with pills, or a gun, or a— a— a bridge. Something snotty gets caught in my throat like a fish-hook, and I'm crying now, at my own birthday dinner. Somebody drops their fork in defeat.
"There was a rash of suicides." Mutters the scientist, immune to his own story; numb. "In a matter of days, I was alone."
"Why didn't you leave?" Asks Andrea.
Carl is crying too, now. I wish I could make him feel better, just for a moment, but I can't.
"I just kept working." Smiles the scientist, but it's not right— It's just muscles, pulling his droopy face upward. "I just wanted to do some good."
Good.
The word reaches up into the ceiling, and leaves us at the bottom, sitting in its echo.
"There is no cure here." The scientist says.
The dinner is over.
Everything comes crashing down as fast as it went flying up.
We were on top of the world just a few hours ago. We were invincible. We had the news that I wasn't going to die in our veins, and then we had hot water and soap and potato salad, and each other. We had hotel rooms and a birthday dinner. But now we just have a dead end and a long list of regrets. There is nothing here for us besides showers, lights, and ghosts. I feel like a trapped animal. I'm a hamster in a maze, going around and around and around, and I can't get out. A rash of suicides. That thing I thought was hiding somewhere, it's this, and it's out, and I'm sorry we ever looked. Please don't let it be worse than it is out here, I remember, Please don't make us regret this.
After what feels like hours, the hallways I'm running down end. I see the game room.
I run inside and corner myself under the table. A cloth hides me from the world outside, and if I pretend hard enough, I can take myself right out of here and into a nice, safe pillow fort, instead. Like the ones I used to make back home. I can be someone else. If I'm in my head, I'm not here.
But then I hear the door open, and it's just a wooden table again, and I'm in the CDC.
"Harley?" It's my Dad, 'cause of course it is. I moan into my hands, crying so hard I'm not getting enough air. "You in here?"
I don't want to be found. I want to be lost.
The cloth lifts.
"Baby, what's wrong?" My Dad asks, but I know he already knows. How could he not know?
There are lots of words that remind me of my Momma, like sunshine, and cigarettes, and the worst — Suicide.
"Get out." I tell him, using my feet to push him away. "Get out."
I should've learnt my lesson back at the quarry, on that night I hit my Dad, but I don't care. I just wanna hurt something. I'm hurting. A rash of suicides. I can't stop hearing it, and I can't stop seeing it — Over and over again, the night on the bridge. Opted out. Suicide. Killing yourself.
Pills, guns, ropes.
Bridges.
"Baby, I know." Dad's saying, grabbing my kicking feet. "I know. Come out. I don't want you thinkin' 'bout this, so come on out."
"I can't help it!" I sob, 'cause I really can't. Something that is too big for my body is happening to me, and I can't stop it.
"H— I know. Just come out." He's begging, and now he's not just holding my feet, he's pulling 'em; pulling me, out from underneath my hidey hole and into the world, even though I want to stay in here forever. He's trying so hard to bury something that's still alive; something that has teeth and jaws, and is eating me from the inside out. He don't wanna see it, and he don't wanna hear it, and he don't wanna deal with it. I wish he'd curl up in my make-believe pillow fort, and hide from the world with me. I wish he'd understand. "You don't gotta be under there. Come out, right now."
Some days I wanna pull my damn hair out.
He's getting angry again. He's holding himself back from something very nasty that lives inside him.
"No," I'm begging him back; begging him to just listen. "No, I don't wanna come out. I don't wanna—!"
I anchor myself to the table leg. We're an unstoppable force and an immovable object, colliding head on for the first time, ever, and it's a disaster. That night at the quarry was nothing.
Furious, my Dad rips the cloth off the table and boxes of puzzles go toppling over onto the floor, breaking into a million little pieces that used to be happily fused. Newly exposed, he easily ducks under and locks his hand around my wrist. I scream, and I close my eyes so I don't have to see my Daddy like this, 'cause it ain't him anymore. He pries my little fingers off the table, one by one by one, and ow, ow, ow, it really hurts. I'm yanked away, and then he's dragging me out by the ankles, shouting—
"Stop actin' like this. You ain't a baby." I hook myself onto a second leg, and he's wrestling with me all over again. "Stop! Mind yer damn father, girl!"
I'm not a baby, but I wish I was, 'cause we were happy back then.
"Stop!" I sob, kicking at him. "J— Leav— Just leave me alone!"
"I ain't leavin' you alone — You know why?" He's seething down to me. "'Cause you need a damn spanking. That's why."
I think back to an hour ago, when I thought I'd only ever be happy for the rest of my life. What a stupid thing to think.
Don't make it any worse, his voice is warning me, from all the times he's done this before.
But it can't get any worse.
In one big pull of strength, I'm forced out from underneath the table once and for all, where I felt safe and small and alone, into the light of the game room where I feel naked, again, for all to see. My face is raw and wet and hurt, and I think one of my buttons got torn off by my Daddy when he was grabbing for me, even though he was the one to fix them before dinner, and on that night in the RV, to show me he loves me. He yanks me to my feet by the armpits, 'cause I can't stand on my own no more, and he crouches to get in my face.
"This is your last fuckin' chance, and then I'm gonna have to take my belt off." He warns me.
"I miss Momma." I whimper.
His face softens, but it's gone so quick I'm sure I imagined it. "Harley," He grinds out, "Stop this."
"You killed her!" I cry, scared, but braver than I ever been at the same time. "You made Momma kill 'erself! You made 'er jump off that bridge!"
I tried so hard to be like my Daddy, but I can't. I can't hide things like he can.
I don't care if he belts me after. I just want him to know. I want him to know that I know, and that I ain't never gonna forgive him. I'd take a thousand beatings just so I could scream the same thing up at him, until my throat bleeds, until I'm nothin' but a voice, until my Momma comes back. People who kill themselves don't wanna come back, but maybe this time, if I was a good enough girl, she might want to. I'd get on my knees, and I'd beg her, and I'd say, Please Momma, I need you. Please Momma, please. Me and Daddy can't do it on our own. She didn't love my Daddy, and my Daddy hated my Momma. He never said it, but I always knew he did. I saw it when he dropped me off at her house; how he didn't wanna leave me with her. I heard people say my Momma was sick in the brain, and that she was a bad Mom, but I loved her.
My parents might be forever separated, but on my face, they are still together. I got my Daddy's flat mouth and my Momma's green eyes. I am proof that hate can create love. I don't feel so loved right now, though. I feel like I'm nothing. I feel like when my Daddy said he loved me, he was lying.
And there it is, my Daddy's hand going for his belt, 'cause I chose to say the worst thing I could think of.
I don't wanna get beat, but sometimes it don't matter what little girls want.
"I want you to think about the way you're speakin' to me." My Dad, the same one that was crying in my baby photo, shouts in my face. "I don't know why you gotta be like this, Harley. I don't know why you gotta make me do this. You were havin' such a good day."
"I'm sorry—" I'm sayin' now. "I'm sorry, Dad."
"You shoulda thought about that before you started bringing this shit back up again. After this, never again, okay?"
He pulls me down into his chest, yanking the back of my shirt up to the base of my neck. I wait for the whip, and the burning sting afterwards.
I can take it. I'll just close my eyes and wait for it to be over.
But before it can come—
"Woah! Hey!" A man's shout. "Hey, hey! Stop!"
The whip doesn't come. I can catch my breath.
Under my Dad's arm, the one that's in the air, poised to beat me, I see a man in the doorway. I almost can't make him out, but there he is — It's officer Shane. The room seems to slap him in the face, like he can't believe what he's just walked into. He's scared to step inside, in case the moment breaks and my Dad chooses to beat me, anyway. Shane's a bastard cop, and it's his job to save people. I never thought I'd be needing saved from my Dad. I still don't think I need saving. I brought this on myself. I wish he'd go away, so it could be over with.
My Dad stands up, his whole body clenched with muscle ready to punch.
"I'm gonna ask you put that down, man." This is the first time I'm hearing Shane's police-man voice. "And to step away from her, okay?"
I feel embarrassed.
I'm kneeling on the floor, grabbing onto the side of the sofa, tryna hide myself again. I don't belong here. I don't want Shane to see me like this. I wanna be the little girl he caught frogs with, not a ball of hurt and tears. Suddenly, this isn't a games room anymore. It's a wolf's den, and I got two of 'em right in front of me, circling each other, ready to bite. I scuttle further into the corner, like if I shrink myself enough, I can just disappear into the floor.
"You ain't askin' me shit, officer." Dad whispers, real nasty. "Ain't no rules, no more. Not so tough, now."
"I'm not gonna ask you again, man." Officer Shane warns, stepping very slowly into room.
He moves toward us, inch by inch, like a man inside a lion enclosure.
"You don't gotta." Dad spits. "Door's right there."
"You're hittin' on little girls, now, Daryl." Shane huffs that mean laugh again. "Sorry, buddy, but that's my business. Come on. Step away."
If Shane had his gun in his holster, his hand would be on it. But we left all our weapons in the bedrooms before dinner. He stretches his fingers; tilts his head. I realize he don't need a gun. He's gonna fist-fight my Dad if he don't do what he says. My Dad, sensing this, chucks his belt on top of the broken puzzles, and stretches out his fingers, too. They're one wrong word away from beating each other to a pulp.
I wanna beg 'em to stop, but my voice is burrowed somewhere deep inside my body, and I can't reach it.
"We don't have to do this, Daryl." Shane's half-way into the room, now. When did he get that close?
"Sure we don't." Dad snarls. "You gonna hit me? Go ahead."
Shane shakes his head. "That's not somethin' I wanna do, man. But you know I will. Step away."
A hiccup I didn't give permission to leave my mouth cuts through the room. Shane glances at me. I don't know who I'm supposed to root for.
"'Step away', huh? Step away from my own daughter?" My Dad scoffs.
Shane glances from me to my Dad, and I can see him start to realize that this angle won't work on my Dad. He holds out his hand. Something about the way he's looking at me is saying, You don't have to be afraid, but I am, and I don't wanna move. I feel like this is my fault. I watch as he flicks his fingers a little, brows raised. "How 'boutchu come over here, Harley, huh?"
Dad blocks me with his body before I can even think about it. "Hey, don't you fuckin' speak to her."
His eyes are back on my Dad. "Just tryna do what's best for everybody, here, Daryl."
My Dad cracks one of his knuckles. "Nah. Nah, I don't think you are. You got it all twisted."
"Don't think I do."
"Yeah?" Dad goads, and every second, I wait for one of them to swing. I can't stand it. "What is it you think you walked in on, then, huh?"
I think my Dad's waiting for the swing, too, 'cause he's so confident that he'll win that he wants officer Shane to try him. He wants to punish him. He wants to show him what happens when you insult a Dixon, 'cause protecting the name is more important than protecting his own body. I think about the way my Dad busted Rick's cheek; How Ronnie's Momma ain't recognise him when my Daddy was done with him.
Shane must be thinkin' the exact same thing, 'cause he starts goading my Dad right back.
"I think I walked in on you beatin' the shit outta your own kid, first of all." Shane shrugs, like it ain't his fault it's fact, and he keeps going when he notices my Dad's breathing get heavy. He's enjoying this. A smile splits his face. "I think we been worrying 'bout Jim this whole time, we been worrying 'bout the wrong man. How 'bout that? You wanted us to be so focused on him, we forget about the real monster."
"That right?" Dad side-steps Shane when he reaches the edge of the coffee-table.
"Sounds right to me, man." Shane says. "Lemme ask you this, Daryl. What is it you think I walked in on?"
I wonder where everyone else is. I wonder if at any second, one of them is gonna walk in.
"It don't matter what I think." Dad shouts, suddenly, and I shriek like I've been struck by the belt. "It's my damn business. It's my damn daughter."
"Yeah, I betchu wish it was." Shane huffs out a chuckle. "Don't want your secret gettin' out, right?"
Shane's like a wriggly little worm, needling my Dad where he don't wanna be needled.
My Dad's patience finally runs out.
He rears back to swing at Shane's head, and his fist is caught and twisted, and I hear Shane grunt in pain, and this is it, so I close my eyes—
Wait.
My eyes are open. That don't make no sense. Why is it so dark? Why can't I see?
I realize that the fight has stopped, and I feel like we've all forgotten about it and are waiting for something to happen.
There's a single murmur throughout the room.
"Was that the power?"
Author's Note.
Cliff-hanger! Mwahahha.
So, obviously, the last scene in this chapter is pretty brutal. I'd like to share why I made the decision to have Daryl act this way, because it could be a shock for some.
For starters, I think it's plausible for a number of reasons. Merle being a bad influence on Daryl, his unhealed childhood trauma and how that affects how he parents his child, and his unhealthy habit of bottling up his emotions, etc.
It's not pretty, I know, and I kind of hated writing that scene, but that brings up my second point. For the sake of the themes and arcs I want to give this story, it was necessary. This story just couldn't exist if it didn't have this scene. I've got, like, three different key subplots linked to it. Maybe you can even guess what they are, because two of them have been hinted at/set up already. They're only going to get more prominent from here on out.
So that's the explanation for anybody who wanted or needed it. You'll see all this play out in the coming chapters, anyway, but I just wanted to provide this in the mean time. :)
Rant over! Phew. Everybody take a sigh of relief.
On a more positive note, everything else in this chapter was a total joy to write! These poor guys deserve some happiness 😌
Hope you enjoyed reading, and as always, please consider sharing your thoughts! Sending love :)
46 notes
·
View notes
Let's talk about Namjoon who just wants to Feel Pretty.
[18+] Let's talk about Namjoon who might have a secret Pinterest board for lacy, delicate undergarments. Namjoon who spent a little too much time drunk and online, and buys a pretty, pink, lingerie set.
When it arrives in a discreet box, he hardly remembers buying it. He blushes red as he opens the lid and runs his fingers across the lace, the prettiest shade of pink he's ever seen.
He's momentarily mystified before swiftly closing the box, looking around the dorm, and running to his room. He throws the lingerie box on the bed and stares at it.
I mean, it’s already here. Might as well try it on.
So he shuts his bedroom door and clumsily strips, stepping into each tiny piece one by one, pulling the garters taught over the fullness of his thighs. Namjoon can’t help but look in the mirror and blush. The pink bralette is snug, pushing the soft curves of his pecs together. His dusky nipples barely visible and hardened from the rough texture of the lace. He shivers when the loose-fitting strap slinks downward over his shoulder.
He turns around to peek at the round swell of his ass, skin warm and golden against the pink garters, stockings a size too small, making the flesh of his thighs spill over the seam and kiss. He can’t help but chub up at what he sees as he turns back around. His shaft is straining against the lace, curving upward, his tip peeking out past the band, shiny and smooth.
He struggles to adjust the straps properly, and is so engrossed in the process that he misses Yoongi knocking and immediately barging in, a notebook in hand, “Joon-ah you left this in my—”
Yoongi drops the notebook.
Namjoon drops his hands to cover himself. Fruitlessly. “I’m so sorry, god, shit—I—I’m leaving…I'm leaving! Carry on!”
Yoongi steps back and closes the door behind him.
Namjoon is mortified.
Not one to leave things unsettled, he immediately grabs his phone.
NJ: hyung I’m so fucking sorry.
NJ: i didn’t mean for anyone to see that.
NJ: it was just something i wanted to try.
NJ: hyung, fuck, please answer me…
It’s a minute before his phone pings with a response.
YG: joon-ah it’s fine. i should’ve knocked. it’s my fault.
YG: i’m glad you’re trying things that make you happy.
Namjoon breathes a sigh of relief.
NJ: please promise you won’t tell anyone. i’m begging.
YG: joon-ah, have i ever shared your secrets?
NJ: no. you haven’t. i’m sorry you had to see that. i’m sorry.
An insufferably long pause lingers before the reply comes through.
YG: as long as we’re being honest here…i’m not.
Namjoon can feel his heartbeat in his thumbs.
NJ: you’re not?
YG: i’m not sorry.
YG: actually, wait. i am sorry for barging in. but you, wearing that fit? should never apologize.
Namjoon might fucking die. He tries to stuff down the panic attached to his long-held crush on his favorite hyung. Yoongi who is always quietly confident in his sexuality. Whose shy, lingering stares feel like 100 pounds on his chest. Another ping on his phone snaps him out of it.
YG: sorry that was forward.
NJ: no, it’s okay. really. thank you i think?
Yoongi is typing. Then stopping. Then typing again. Seconds pass that like feel like hours before more messages come through.
YG: you know…
YG: if you need help
YG: with adjustments, i mean. fitting…
YG: i can help you out. no pressure
The thought of Yoongi’s hands on him in this state send his blood rushing south. Sure, they’ve seen each other naked. It’s hardly avoidable. But like this? Delicate and pretty and /open/ from so many angles?
Never like this. Fuck it.
Namjoon’s hands shake as he types.
NJ: yeah. ok. that would be helpful
He throws the phone on the bed like it’s on fire, clutches his t-shirt to his chest, and waits. This time, the knock is almost silent.
“Joon-ah? Is it okay if I—”
“Yeah. Come in,” Joon croaks.
“Should’ve done that earlier, huh,” Yoongi blushes as he enters and closes the door behind him. “This okay? I just…noticed you needed a little help. This isn’t entirely new to me.”
Namjoon nods his head. “You’ve helped with lingerie fittings?”
Yoongi steps forward. Namjoon’s skin shivers at the first touch of his hands, slinking a finger under the bralette strap, dragging it across his skin as he slips it in place.
“Just my own,” Yoongi says shyly.
“Oh.”
Yoongi blushes, smiling softly as he pulls the straps taught, glancing up briefly to meet Namjoon’s eyes before looking down again. “It feels nice, doesn’t it.”
“Yeah,” Namjoon admits. “Feels different.”
Yoongi clears his throat, keeping his eyes lowered as he works, “Feels different…how?”
Namjoon’s skin is on fire but the adrenaline has him feeling heady, maybe a little brave.
“Pretty,” he says in a low voice. Throat dry. “Feels pretty.”
Yoongi nods knowingly as he bites his lip. He taps his fingertips on it as he contemplates. “Want me to fix the back too?”
Namjoon nods, still gripping the t-shirt as he turns around, revealing the thong snug between the soft curves of his ass.
He hears Yoongi’s breath hitch. “I’ll just uh…adjust the garter straps,” Yoongi breathes as if coaching himself, before Namjoon feels fingers graze his thighs.
Yoongi works silently, but Namjoon’s pulse is thumping loudly in his head, dizzy from the rush of his hyung’s hands on him. Those hands—pink and large, fingers knobby and cool against his warm skin. He’s willing his half-chub to go down and spare him an early grave before he notices Yoongi has stopped moving.
The room is silent.
“Hyung? …You okay?”
“Yeah,” Yoongi breathes. “It’s just…this really suits you, Joon-ah. You’re…you’re beautiful,” he says so close to Namjoon’s skin, he can feel the hot puff of air from his lips.
Namjoon’s every nerve is on edge, feeling so overwhelmed that he fails to hold back the soft “ah—” from his throat as he arches backward, just a hair.
Just enough for Yoongi’s lips to graze his skin.
“Mm sorry—”
“No. No, it’s okay, hyung. I…I like it,” his voice shakes.
Namjoon can feel the air practically vibrating between them, can feel Yoongi’s hands tremble as they return to his skin, grazing his knuckles over his broad shoulders and down the muscular curves of his arms. “Do you like to feel pretty, Joon-ah?”
Namjoon feels like the air has been sucked from the room.
“Yes,” Joon hiccups, just a trace of shame in his voice, but it feels so good to say it out loud. Yoongi presses a feather-light kiss to Namjoon's back. He can feel the wet seam of his lips against his skin, pillowy and warm. He feels kisses trailing across his shoulder blades, hands now running delicately over Namjoon's thighs, tracing the garter straps with his fingertips.
“…Do you want to be pretty for me?” Yoongi whispers.
Joon hears a soft whine before he realizes it’s coming from his own lips.
“I’m gonna need you to use words, pretty.”
“Yeah,” Namjoon trembles, choking on his words. “Wanna be pretty for you.”
“Fuck,” Yoongi hisses. Namjoon feels fingers dig into his hips, feels Yoongi’s forehead tip forward against his back.
“Can I look at you, Joon-ah?”
“Yeah,” Namjoon whispers, breathless as he turns around and starts to lower the t-shirt in his hands, the skin of his chest blooming pink. Yoongi takes the shirt from him and gently drops it to the floor.
“Fucking hell—” he groans as he runs his fingers down Namjoon’s collar bones, dragging downward and pressing his large palms to his chest.
He squeezes and massages the soft flesh, watching it swell over the lace. Namjoon’s head tilts back with a sigh and Yoongi leans forward to graze his nose against his neck. Namjoon jolts as the sensation of his hyung’s fingers sneaking beneath the bralette, seeking out his nipples and squeezing gently before groaning into his neck. Namjoon nearly loses his balance, and Yoongi takes a hand and wraps it around him, digging his fingertips into the flesh of his ass and pulling it forward.
“Ah—ah-” Namjoon whines as their hips collide and he feels the tip of his cock exposed, peeking through the lace, rubbing up against the soft cotton of Yoongi’s t-shirt. “Hyung if you keep going like this I’m gonna come—”
Yoongi gets on his toes, pushing forward to press his lips against Joon’s ear. “Want you to come. Want to see you all flushed and pretty for me, get your pretty panties all dirty—”
“Fuck—fucking shit—” Namjoon feels dizzy, losing his balance again and tumbling back onto the bed. Yoongi follows him down, urging him further onto the bed until they hit the pillows.
They stop to catch their breath, Namjoon smiling in embarrassment and covering his face. Yoongi is having none of it—using his nose to nuzzle away Namjoon’s hands and pressing their lips together.
And it’s…so soft.
None of the frantic energy from moments ago. Just dragging their lips together, Namjoon getting lost in the feeling and comparing the softness of Yoongi’s lips against years of fleeting daydreams. His senses are electrified, savoring every detail.
The deep sighs that escape Yoongi’s lips, tickling his ears. The way his lithe body fits against his, the way Yoongi’s long fingers thread through his hair hold him like something precious.
It’s so much more than he imagined.
“My pretty Namjoon-ah,” Yoongi whispers fondly as he comes up for air. He flashes a gummy smile before dipping down and gently kissing down his jawline to his neck. “Let me make you feel good?”
“I’m not gonna last long, hyung—I can’t—”
But Yoongi is already snaking downward, sitting on Namjoon’s thighs. He leans forward and nuzzles the lace wrapped tightly against his cock, a featherlight touch. Joon feels warm breath against his cock and he’s throbbing, peeking further from the lace, twitching at the sensation.
Yoongi works upward and parts his lips in a soft 'O', letting the wet, fleshy part of his mouth linger on the tip before snaking his tongue around the top. Namjoon’s balls draw up tight, “Hyung—I’m gonna—”
Yoongi begins to nuzzle the lace-covered shaft again. “Go ahead pretty,” he groans. “Come for hyung, do it—”
Namjoon snaps, body pulsing in waves, hips jerking, ropes of white shooting upward and pooling on his skin.
Yoongi leans back and watches in awe, slackjawed, lazily milking Namjoon with one hand, sighing gentle encouragements as he palms himself through his shorts with the other.
Namjoon takes a deep breath, returning to earth before looking at Yoongi fondly. He reaches out and pulls him forward by the arms with a slight jerk, leaning upward to kiss him hard.
“Hyung, want you to come on me,” he pants.
“Yeah?”
“C'mon,” Joon works frantically, pushing Yoongi’s shorts down and releasing his cock and god it’s gorgeous. Long and slim and pink and fits perfectly in his hand.
Yoongi's soft thighs trap Joon in. He cries out when Namjoon begins to work his cock, “Close Joon-ah, I’m so close—”
“Want you to come on my tits, hyung,” Namjoon says, delirious, breathing into Yoongi’s mouth, jerking him in long, deliberate strokes, hands wet with his own release.
“Been such a good hyung, made me feel so pretty, don’t you wanna come for me?” he says as he thumbs the tip.
And that’s all it takes, Yoongi’s voice cracks as he spills over the edge, falling forward against Joon's neck and dirtying the delicate lace of Namjoon’s bralette.
And then he laughs.
They’re both laughing, pressing their foreheads together. Giggling from the high of it all.
“You’re pretty good at that, hyung,” Namjoon chuckles.
“Well…the first one’s free. Further garment adjustments may cost you.”
"Ouch," Namjoon scoffs, before leaning forward to press their lips together.
“However, I am a man of business," Yoongi adds. "But for someone as pretty as you, I’ll offer a discount."
“Thank you,” Namjoon playfully bites his lip. “Hmm…maybe next time, we can both be pretty?” Namjoon asks as he raises his brow. "You know, if you want."
Yoongi laughs and covers his face, blushing and nodding bashfully.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay, baby. It's a deal.”
Namjoon lifts a hand to trace his cheek.
He thinks it's the prettiest shade of pink he's ever seen.
♡♡♡♡
twitter | ao3
64 notes
·
View notes