#this is also why I didn't elaborate on Rafe stalking Barry :(

[keyh0use]

I was hoping the suspense would kill you

Months after Rafe supposedly passes from an overdose, Barry starts seeing ghosts. TW: mentions of overdose, implied suicide. NSFW

Four months, sixteen days and three hours since the police were called and Tanneyhill was swarmed with first responders. Only seventy-three minutes after Rafe had been released from county jail and five hours after Barry put him there.  

The scale rattles off a number and Barry twists the baggie closed tight, tossing it on the table to sift through a pile of green bills. He fucking hates drugs. All of them. Continuing to deal makes his brain foggy with too many big emotions and the sight of addicts begging for their fix has his teeth aching, a steady tremor in his overworked hands threatening to reach out and shake them by the shoulders, plead with them to stop. 

Because Barry has. Cold turkey. 

It's comical, really, belly-laugh inducing that a kooks death is what knocked him off a path he's always been on, but it did. Barry has watched friends get their brains splattered on the walls from intentional and stray bullets alike—yet he still touts guns. Watched his own father drink until the old man's organs gave out—yet Barry practically exists off a diet of alcohol to numb the pain these days. 

"It's all there," Garrett comments, bracing himself on the table to hover in the dealers personal space. 

Rafe has always hated Garrett, right from their very first interaction. For months the kook would return to the trailer, only to find them lost in conversation after a deal, and would wear a look of betrayal for the rest of the night. And then one day Barry was shoved down on the ratty couch after greasy red hair had retreated, Rafe saying sweetly I don't want that guy here anymore, okay? once they were rutting shamelessly, cock buried to the hilt in his boys tight ass when he replied breathlessly: okay, baby, alright, without argument. Because no matter how much Barry liked to claim it was the other way around, he was Rafe's bitch.

He would've done anything for that boy. 

Throwing the wad of cash back down soundly, Barry wipes at his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger until they come together to pinch the bridge of his nose. This is all his life is now, monotonous and triggering, plagued with memories of what he had and lost.  Sucking in a deep breath to compose himself, Barry mumbles, "Yup, see that. Go on now." He almost has a heart attack when a hand settles on the nape of his neck.  "You know, Barry..." starts Garrett, ignoring the direct order in favour of shifting closer. "I heard something once about speeding up the grieving process." 

The change of tone isn't lost on Barry. He knows the touch of another might ease the loneliness for a pinch, offer comfort and warmth in his otherwise bleak and miserable life...but then when Barry tries to sink into the pleasure, if he can at all, he'll be snapped out of it by the sudden realisation that the hand wrapped around his cock lacks the usual cool tinge of too many rings and probably vomit.  It's too soon. A detailed suicide note, a missing boat and no body to beg forgiveness to. No answers, no sleep, or moment of peace for months. It's too fucking soon, too full on uncertainty and rapidly declining hope. Even considering it feels like cheating. 

"Get off me," Barry forces out, slow and careful. 

"Come on," Garrett flirtatiously continues. "You've heard the saying: fastest way to get over someone is to get under somebody else. Worth a shot, don't you think?" 

Yeah, Rafe always hated Garrett and now Barry realises he was naive to shrug the kooks worries off, so used to the all the jealous and possessive behaviour that it didn't even occur to him that this time all the insecurities could be valid. 

Barry remembers one night at a party neither of them really had any desire to attend in the first place, Garrett had shoved Rafe while mouthing off and three minutes later the dealer was cornered by his boyfriend, barely having enough time to utter a word before a tongue was shoved down his throat. 

Neither of them were into voyeurism, no matter how touchy Rafe could get. Yet Barry couldn't stop violent waves of arousal from crashing over him or a wet patch soaking through his basketball shorts as the boy sat directly on his dick, thick outline pressed snug under Rafe's ass through thin layers of cloth as his bulge was ridden. The room was dark and smoggy with various types of smoke, but Barry knew Garrett had seen the aggressive show of ownership before stomping away. 

Rafe was just like that; needing constant reassurance. It used to make the older man uneasy, worried about what their friends would think at the very public displays of affection and how the behaviour was infectious, Barry growing more territorial over time but fuck did he miss it now. 

If he could only go back and get another chance, no fucking way would he feel even a smidgen of embarrassment over having the hottest piece of ass on the island fawning all over him. He would be proud and receptive and appreciative. 

Yeah, Barry would do a lot of things differently. 

Barry opens his mouth to protest, but then there it is—a flash of flesh and blonde hair. Just like he's been seeing all over the damn cut for weeks. Barry freezes his readied insult to follow it along the treeline with sharp attention through the dirty window splattered with raindrops, watching as the figure stills. The image is distorted, like a seers vision or a midday dream, clear enough to assume but distant enough to question. The skin wrapped around Barry's tense muscles feels too tight and bile rises in his stopped-up throat, choking him with emotion.  Another slew of unimportant comments fall from Garrett's mouth, close enough to make Barry stumble half a step back in surprise before he's caught by the bicep. The sting behind his eyes builds until salt streams down his cheek to drip off his jaw. Barry fights against the hold with languid, uncoordinated movements, still focused on his baby standing out in the muddy yard. 

Rafe is gone, the rational part of Barry's brain screams over and over but it's futile because Rafe—whether a figment built out of guilt or a fucking ghost—is right there!  There's a pocket knife open on the kitchen table within reaching distance. Barry's fingers itch to curl around the black handle so he can plunge it right into Garrett's voice box, shut the bitch up forever for even thinking anyone could replace Rafe.  Heavy footsteps on metal rungs make both men startle and separate, Barry's back bumping the fridge as the door handle jiggles in a specific pattern to knock it loose, a trick very few people have had the privilege to learn. And then all the oxygen is being sucked out through the entryway as the barrier is thrown open, a walking corpse storming in. 

Tension crackles through the air as rain pounds against the metal siding, all three men standing stock-still, predator and prey trapped in the same small enclosure. In all the years of knowing one another, through all the pogue bullshit and family drama, Barry has never seen Rafe so full of anger—he's vibrating with it, hands balled into tight fists at his side's. 

"Thought you were dead," Garrett stutters out. 

Quick as a whip, Rafe spits, "You fucking wish, dickhead." 

"Rafe?" Barry calls brokenly, shaking his head in confusion. Because Garrett can see the illusion, too...can communicate with it, and it back to them. 

Rafe answers through clenched teeth, "He's not allowed to be here." 

"Go," the older man demands, shoving at Garrett's shoulder, who doesn't need to be told twice before rushing by Rafe to escape. 

The man standing before Barry is undeniably Rafe. Though this tall, sturdy figure seldom resembles the boy he lost a few short months ago. Rafe is donning a golden tan, broad shoulders squared and stance defensive. And blonde hair has been buzzed short, much like Barry's own. He remembers staring at his reflection in the mirror after a shower, curls dripping lukewarm water down his back and no slender fingers carefully untangling them and suddenly he didn't fucking want the reminder anymore. Barry wonders if that's what happened to Rafe. 

Brown eyes trail down over a ticking jaw until Barry can take in what the kook is wearing: loose fitted jeans and a button-up plaid shirt, looking dishevelled and damp from the weather. It takes Barry a long, long time to be able to tear his attention away from the foreign sight. 

"What? Nothing to say to me?" Rafe probes, bringing the dealer out of his trance. 

"You've been stalkin' me," mutters Barry in realisation. It makes him dizzy. "Messin' with my head, fuckin' haunting me..." But Rafe is alive! Rafe is alive and that's all that matters now. Not his lurching stomach or cloudy vision, just that Rafe is here with a beating heart. 

Rafe purses his pink lips, says with a careless shrug, "Maybe...or maybe it was just your conscience catching up with you. A little too late, but—" 

"Ya' don't know what this has been like for me," counters Barry in a rush. 

"I don't care," dismisses Rafe. It's almost convincing.  But Barry can hear a thousand echoes from previous arguments after Ward would go on some bullshit spiel to play on Rafe's fears; that dealer doesn't care about you, son. Time to give that lowlife up, he's only after our money. Do you really believe you're the only one he's doing this to? Probably has every naive rich kid in his bed, funding his lifestyle. And Rafe would come home with tears soaking the fabric of his polo shirt, seeking out hours of reassurance, Barry pressing gentle kisses into swollen eyelids and stroking soft hair.  Even though it was immensely selfish, Barry was desperate for those nights because it meant he was wholeheartedly wanted. Needed—just like he needs Rafe. 

And now, barging in to interrupt Barry with another man...it must mean Rafe still cares. That what they have isn't over. 

Barry asks, voice slow to enunciate every word, "You have any fuckin' idea what you've put me through? How much I've—" 

"Probably something similar to what I've been feeling since you betrayed me," Rafe fires back. "I was stupid enough to think you loved me or something." 

Barry wants to lash out, to beat on the kooks chest and hurl vile words until he feels better. Instead, he reasons, "You were gonna get yourself killed, probably me, too. That sound like love t'ya, boy? Hmm?" Some of the relief and confusion Barry has felt since the first sight of Rafe alive has drained, slowly being filled back up with rage. "I would'a never done this to you." 

Rafe has taken a threatening step forward, within reaching distance now and fuck, does Barry want to touch. "What you did was worse," he spits. 

Two sets of hands find purchase on the others body, knocking chests with an aggressive pull. There's so much between them, electric and addicting and it's the first time Barry's felt anything but sadness in too long, choking out something close to a sob. Rafe's hands—bigger and rougher than he remembers—cup his jaw, his own curling tight around the boys trim waist. 

Pushing, tugging, panting harshly...looking into bright blue eyes is like coming home, the trailer surrounding them nothing but a tin shell. 

Buttons scatter like the last remnants of Barry's sanity as the crisp shirt the kook wears is torn down the middle, feeling mad with want and disbelief. Their lips meet with a wet smack, not timid or gentle like a reunion kiss ought to be, all twisting tongues and nipping teeth. By the time the two stumble across the kitchen and into the bedroom, both are naked from the waist up, fumbling hands yanking impatiently at Barry's shorts.

And then Rafe jerks away like he's been burned, staring at a point over Barry's shoulder. An old chair sits tucked in the corner, taking up too much space in the small room, pastel clothing strewn about with right where they were dropped four months ago. 

Barry colours in embarrassment, every voice of support he had ringing in his ears telling him it's healthy to box everything up—something he couldn't bring himself to do. 

Blue eyes trail away from the chair to the far bedside table, still littered with gold pieces of jewellery and scraps of paper used to scribble Ward's rushed instructions on. Thirty minutes ago packing all this shit away felt like a task too heavy for Barry's grieving heart and now it just feels like a fucking shrine. 

"Did you think I was coming back?" Rafe asks, a mean bite to the question that's so foreign when directed at Barry. 

"No," Barry stammers, brows pinched as he scrambles for a way to salvage the mood. "I just...it was too...I missed—" 

Rafe unceremoniously shoves Barry hard, the older man stumbling back with a panicked shout before falling on the stiff mattress, gaping up at the ceiling. "I'm not coming back to you," the boy insists, toeing off his own shoes so he can drop his jeans. "I'm not! So don't think that's what this is." 

"Okay," Barry whispers in reply, swallowing around the lump of emotion that's once again found a home in his throat. 

"This is the last time we're ever doing this." Shorts are shimmied down to Barry's knees before Rafe crawls over him with determination, giving his girthy length a few dry tugs.  Barry wants to plead and cry, crush the boy to his chest and never let go, but instead all he does is nod in understanding. "Okay," he repeats on a whisper, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as precome is smeared over the swollen tip. 

If it hadn't been so long, the words surely would have wilted his desire. Instead, Barry keens at the harsh touch as Rafe stretches to retrieve the lube, left right where it was. It's a shock to the system when a cool stream of gooey liquid pours over the purpling cockhead, the kook paying no mind to Barry's shocked gasp. 

"No, no, hey," Barry breathes out, calloused hands untangling from the bedding to grasp tight around sharp hip bones, now straddling his own. 

Rafe insists, "I'm fine." 

"You're not, let me—" 

"Just shut the fuck up, lay there and do nothing," orders Rafe, positioning the leaky tip against his unprepared hole. "I mean, that's what you do, isn't it? Sit back and let me take the fucking fall while you get off scot-free?" 

Any response Barry could have come up with shrivels up and dies as the boy sinks down slowly, strong thighs tensing on either side of his body, grimace firmly in place. Relief floods Barry as he takes in Rafe's uncomfortable expression and quickly softening cock, all the confirmation needed to prove he wasn't being fucked around on during their time apart. He can't help but let warm, sure palms stroke up and down the lithe body, a familiar urge to comfort bubbling up inside him. 

It'll be okay, baby, keep goin'—he'd say, just like the first time Rafe took him like this. It'll feel good soon, once your body's trained t' know better, promise. 

Rafe's heedless act is dropped the moment he's breached, feeling uncomfortably stretched once the tip is fully inside, chest heaving and mouth slack. There's a nervous glint in his eye that Barry instantly picks up on—much to the kooks dismay—and soft-spoken praise is being muttered up at him, encouraging him to take the sizeable length at a leisurely pace. 

"Fuck that," Rafe spits, gritting his teeth to stop from crying out as Barry's cock fucks him open, wet shaft dragging along dry walls. "And fuck you." 

Barry's too busy focusing on not prematurely blowing his load to listen, stomach caving in with his effort. No matter how hard his fingers flex, digging painfully into Rafe's sides, the boy doesn't give him a moment to collect himself before starting to bounce.

Above Barry, Rafe winces every time he bottoms out, bracing himself against the older man's tanned chest. The stretch is bordering on way too much, more intense than ever before without being properly prepared, the kook scrunching his face up to keep quiet. 

There was never a time Barry wasn't eager to take full control in the bedroom—or wherever else they got into it—but this time was different. So different it's hard to stay erect, to stay in the moment. Barry wants to talk more than anything, despite his pulsating cock and pull behind his belly button begging for sweet release after weeks of denial, heart strings pulled too taut to get it up before now. 

But Rafe looks like this is what he needs more than anything else, grinding his ass down in Barry's lap with newfound vigour, distressed grunts giving way to needy whimpers. He's so beautiful and he's right here and he's alive, the dealer staring up at him in awe. 

All that shatters when watery blue eyes glance down to meet Barry's appreciative gaze. 

"This is..." Rafe gasps out between high-pitched moans, trying to school his cock-drunk expression into something more stern before continuing with, "The last time, yeah?" 

But Barry doesn't have half the mind to pretend anymore, shaking his head against the duvet beneath him, fucking up into his boys tight body with reckless abandon. 

Rafe warns, "Barry—" but it comes out breathless, wet tip smacking against him on every thrust, precome glistening on his abs. 

"No," the older man forces out. 

"Yes," Rafe hisses back. 

Barry plants his feet firmly on the mattress to ram into the bundle of nerves inside Rafe with precision, tough hands kneading the boys ass. There's no fight in him, now or maybe ever, overwhelmed with both bodily pleasure and relief. 

The new position knocks Rafe forward, catching himself on the bed next to the dealer's head, only inches between their ruddy faces, sweat pouring down his temples as he's fucked. Maybe it's to get the upper hand for once or maybe it's just to be mean, but Rafe forces himself through wanton moans to say, "I'm gonna find someone else." Beneath him, Barry's movements falter and the broken look that crosses the other man's face almost makes Rafe relent. Almost. "Someone better." 

Those words play on Barry's biggest fear: he's not enough. He's never been enough. 

They've never been into that sort of thing; teasing one another about cheating or leaving or both. If this were before, Barry would've pulled out the moment the sentence was uttered with a soft prick and direct threats. Before Rafe would have never said some shit like that. 

But that was before and this is now, and in the now Barry needs to prove himself. 

"Did you hear me?" Rafe whispers, ducking to nip at the other man's bottom lip. "We're done. I fucking hate you—" 

Barry can't look at him right now, just like Barry couldn't look at him on the marsh. 

A ragged sob wretches out of Rafe when the thrusting ceases without warning, barely registering he's being manhandled onto his stomach with a pillow shoved under his groin, Barry's slippery cock sliding back in from behind.

Its just a means to an end—Barry pulls out only to cram himself back in twice as hard, starting a punishing pace that makes the boy wail, pounding into the fucked-open hole like it belongs to a toy and not the love of his life.

Rafe needs to come, Barry resolutely decided. Then we can talk. 

The kook is a mess of whimpers and fresh falling tears on the bedding, absentmindedly squirming under the harsh onslaught against his prostate, stretched wide around the base and trapped under the weight of the older man, who doesn't let up no matter how much Rafe whines: too deep, too big, too fucking much. 

It may be too deep and too big and too fucking much but that's how Rafe liked to be taken, that had been abundantly clear from the first time Barry spread his legs open. 

Searing kisses are dropped along the column of Rafe's neck and he can't help but reach back, cradle Barry's head as bruises are sucked into his tanned skin. 

"I love you," Barry groans, for the very first time. 

Rafe tenses up, fingers digging into short dark hair to anchor himself as he comes against the flattened pillow with a cry of the older man's name.

Stilling his jerky hips to spill deep inside, violently constricting muscles milk every last drop from Barry, who's struck silent from the burning intensity, mouth gaping. Even though the orgasm was impending from their very first touch, it still takes him by surprise, nearly dropping the entirety of his weight on the kook while recovering. 

"I love you," he repeats quietly, nuzzling Rafe's nape as they come down from the high. "Missed you so much, baby boy—" 

The contentment Barry feels is interrupted by a sharp elbow to his ribs, causing him to pull away from the warm body beneath him and in turn, yank his flagging dick free from the sensitive hole with a pained hiss. 

Rafe snaps, "Get the fuck off me, what the fuck. Shit. Get off me!" And rolls off the bed without word, working quickly to locate his jeans before slipping them on along with his boxers, all while Barry watches in shock. No cuddling, no shifting sore hips to get comfortable or giggly complaints about come soaking the sheets. 

Any warmth between them, any sliver of a chance at this being a sign they could return to normalcy is getting torn to shreds as Rafe readies to leave, bending to tie his sneakers after slipping his socks back in place. 

This is it. This is really it. Rafe is leaving him. 

"We need to talk," Barry stammers out, panic settling in his chest. "Rafe, I—look, what I did was wrong, I was wrong...wasn't thinkin' clearly, aight? I messed up, but I want—" 

"You're right, you weren't thinking," Rafe cuts in with a scoff, crossing the floor to pick through his leftover belongings on the nightstand. "And now I'm going for good and you're going to regret it for the rest of your miserable fucking life, I count on it. Actually, it's the only thing that brings me any peace these days." 

Barry guesses, "Daddy gon' kill me finally?" 

"No." Rafe's jaw jumps at the assumption, avoiding the other man's pleading eyes. "Don't get me wrong, he would if he knew but I told him some bullshit cover story about how you played into the arrest to help me from the outside, said it again and again until he genuinely believed one of the pogues was the rat. Fuck, he still thinks we're together, can you believe that? Such bullshit." 

"It's not bullshit," insists Barry. He doesn't reach out to Rafe, but he desperately wants to. "I want that—to be together. Let me...y'know, try to win you back. I'll prove how serious I am, just sit back down and we'll talk." 

Rafe makes a grab for Barry's discarded shorts, fishing around the pockets until his fingers curl around the dealer's outdated phone. "Why don't you call Garrett?" he suggests, tossing the device down on the bedspread. "I'm sure your little boyfriend would love to come talk to you. I've got better shit to do." 

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. Rafe, for the first time in their relationship, isn't doing as told and not just because he wants to be punished. The bedroom door is left open as the kook leaves. The sound of footfall carries in from the hallway, then the kitchen, and then a lock clicks back into place as the front door is shut. 

Then it's just Barry again. 

The next morning, when Barry has no choice but to roll out of his rumpled bed, a pile of tear-soiled tissues on the side table and red swollen eyes making it hard to see, he goes through his daily routine on autopilot. 

Piss, brush teeth, tie up wild hair, get a bowl of cereal, sink into the couch, scroll through his shitty phone...

The name Cameron glares like a beacon in the night, Barry's thumb flying across the screen to click the news article linked, reading and rereading the paragraphs in disbelief. They tell of honourable Ward Cameron, not just a leeching business man but a doting father, speaking freely in support of his recovering son. The story goes; Rafe confessed to a harrowing struggle with addiction while in a very dark place, which led to his father taking initiative by checking him into a rehab centre eight hours away, the family booking an Airbnb in the region to lend support. 

There's a special section at the end on how thankful and apologetic Ward is for all the concern, claiming the whole family had stepped back from social media to lend their full attention to Rafe's betterment. 

The whole thing has Barry's entire body aching with fatigue. Plagued with how he wept for months, sick every time he caught sight of a pink shirt in a crowd or heard the familiar rev of a dirt bike speeding by. How Sarah and Wheezie—whom he loved like his own damn sisters after all this time—ignored every text, every call. And he deserves it for what he did, he knows that, still he aches. 

Barry tosses the phone screen-down on the cushion beside him, stewing with his racing thoughts for well over an hour, now empty bowl perched on his lap. He tries telling himself over and over again it's enough to know Rafe is alive, even if his boy isn't his anymore. He repeats the sentiment until it's almost believable.  

Yeah, it'll be enough. It has to be.