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@staygoldgoose
âłINSTAGRAM:Â @sinformiles posted to their story:
@goosewoodrow: DUDE why did she guess like so much about my life after knowing me for like three seconds is she psycho
@goosewoodrow: **psychic sorry donât hit me man iâm not trying to talk shit about your friend
âłINSTAGRAM:Â @partywitharty posted to their close friends story:
@goosewoodrow: dude are you gonna give me a free the nip speech if i say you have no shame posting this?
@goosewoodrow: hey how many people are on your close friends anyway
âłINSTAGRAM:Â @gordygoodrow uploaded a photo:
Ace says I should post more. Be more âwhimsicalâ or some shit.
@goosewoodrow: uhhh this isnât whimsical dude? whimsical means like⌠wes anderson. we can watch fantastic mr fox later and iâll show you what i mean.
âłINSTAGRAM:Â @goosewoodrow posted to their story:
Any day that wasnât spent working, Gordy was out looking for Goose. He knew his little brother didnât want to be found, but it wouldnât stop him searching anyway. He was relentlessly devoted to bringing him home, even though his heart ached something drastic each time he returned to Ace with his head hung low. Whoever the assholes were that said it got easier over time were obviously filthy fucking liars, too. With each day, it only got harder, but he wouldnât ever give up. Thereâd need to be a coroner's report in his hand for him to finally believe all hope was lost, and even then he didnât think heâd believe it.Â
Heâd be lying if he said there wasnât a slight spring in his step today, though. It was humiliating, and heâd been on the end of the most extensive grilling of his life when heâd stumbled in from work the day before. Ace had needled him better than any scummy cop couldâve dreamed of, and Gordy had ended up giving his brother a half-hearted shove to escape their ridiculous game of 21-questions over whatâs got Gordy Woodrow smiling so much? God forbid a coupleâa carrot sticks and jokes about space lift his spirits.Â
Heâd already agreed to meet Ace down at the site where he was working. His brother had gotten the go-ahead to clock off early, and Gordy had insisted they make good use of the daylight and see if they could find any new leads on their baby brother. What he hadnât been expecting, as he pinched his scruffy, beat-up denim jacket from the pristine coat hook by Flissâ door, was to come face-to-face with the boy himself, standing in the doorway.Â
âWhat?â Gordy whispered, voice cracked and broken as he stared across at what could only be a figment of his imagination.Â
Gooseâs face looked wrecked, to say the least. The soft lines of his face had hardened, his puppy face lost to a sharper jaw, the babyish features that Gordy had once quietly doted on now revealing a young man underneath. He wasnât a boy anymore, was he? But heâd always be Gordyâs kid brother. His gaze seemed to flit erratically across each freckle and each dimple, his stomach turning as he took in the sight of dried blood and freshly bruised skin. Whatever had happened, Goose wasnât looking for him, he was here for Fliss. He was looking for a safe space. Now wasnât the time for him to scare him off.Â
His coat slipped from his hand as he tossed it on the ground behind him, lifting his palms into a careful surrender motion. Gordyâs stance was that of a man trying not to spook a horse, doing his best to keep it at bay before it bounded off and left him in the dust.Â
âBaby, hey, woah,â he breathed. He was confounded, still at a loss for words, his voice lost to the din of his loud and messy thoughts. He hadnât called Goose baby in years, those dark nights where heâd tried to emulate their Ma, to soothe him through nightmares that he couldnât reach him in.Â
It had become clear to Goose that, somehow, his brothers were staying with Fliss. Fliss who was supposed to be Gooseâs friend, but was apparently just a no-good traitor whoâd probably sold him out to Gordy and Ace the minute she could. Heâd blocked his brothers online and unfollowed Fliss for good measure, but he was still plagued with the knowledge of Gordy and Ace being so close.
Coming here hadnât really been a conscious choice. But it was where Goose wanted to be, and he could play a whole game right now. He could step back from Gordy, he could turn on his heel and run, but none of that would counteract the fact that Goose had come here because the only person he wanted to see was his big brother.
He did take a step back. Automatic, cautious.Â
Staring at Gordy from across the way, he realised his brother hadnât changed a bit. Maybe heâd lost a bit of weight. He looked a little shorter too. But maybe that was just because Goose had taken a growth spurt and was nearly as tall as Gordy was now. He hadnât realised that had happened but Killian had growled something about how much pizza Goose put away on any given night and, before sheâd left, Amira had fondly commented on how much heâd grown.
He wondered if Gordy would still be able to tuck Gooseâs head underneath his chin like old times. You know, if it was even possible for that to be something they still did. Which it wasnât.
âI said donât be mad,â Goose tried again, as if he was searching for the reassurance that Gordy wasnât. His chin wobbled as he spoke, a sizable lump that hadnât been in his throat seconds ago suddenly thickening.
He could feel the stairwell railing press against his spine as he backed into it, his sneakers squeaking on the floor. Now would be a good time to run, he told himself. It was clearly a mistake coming here, especially with Gordy looking at him the way he was. Like Goose was some sort of ghost or something.
His brother had his hands up, the same way Ace had taught Goose to do when heâd taken him down to the field to see that horse heâd loved before the farmer went and sold him. Heâd told Goose to approach slowly, so as not to startle the animal. Aw shit, was Goose the freaking horse right now? He knew heâd sure acted like it when Gordy and Ace had first found him outside the movie theater. Heâd definitely bolted then, too spooked to stay still. But this time was different. Heâd come here and he just wanted toâŚ
He didnât know what he wanted.
Gordy knew what he wanted though. He always had. Gooseâs eyes widened the moment Gordy called him âbabyâ, a pet name heâd thought heâd never be able to earn again, not after everything.
The weight of the railing was gone from his tailbone when Goose threw himself forward. He collided harshly with Gordy, arms wrapped around his big brotherâs middle as he pushed his face into Gordyâs shoulder.
Tears pickled at the corner of Gooseâs eyes as he held on tightly, a loud sob muffled by Gordyâs shirt.Â
âI donât want you to be mad.â
Admittedly, it had been a while since Goose had been beaten up. It turned out they hadnât changed the rules, so even though he didnât necessarily welcome the rubbery feeling of a split lip or the tight feeling of his eye swelling shut, it wasnât like it was unfamiliar. Goose had been here plenty of times before.
Habit didnât account for the shaking of his fingers right now though. He curled them into fists, causing fresh beads of blood to bloom from the cuts on his knuckles. He wasnât in danger of swinging again, not right now anyway. Heâd gotten away. But even as heâd run, clearly outnumbered, a scrappy stray clearly overmatched by a pack of wolves, he was still being chased by the reason of why heâd started wailing on those guys in the first place.
Art had been wearing make-up again, bolder than usual. Goose kept trying to swallow back the nauseating feeling it created, turning his stomach over when his brain, moulded by the other small minds of Tulsa, told him everything about it was wrong. Boys didnât wear make-up and even though Art wasnât completely all boy, which was another thing Goose tried to wrap his head around despite thinking he was maybe doing alright with the pronouns stuff, his friend still looked like one. So when theyâd walked down the street together, a rainbow hue coating Artâs eyelids, people had stared. Some had glared. A bunch of guys smoking outside a bar had made comments.
Art had been cheery about it as he always was, blowing kisses to the men to taunt them. Even when heâd heard the slur, heâd barely flinched but Goose could see the way his eyes dimmed a little. Heâd eventually walked them home, muscles pulled taut and had avoided a goodbye hug. Heâd seen the way Art had looked at him, known they were filling in the gaps wrong. So when Goose had walked back the way theyâd come, he felt like all his body parts were glued together in the wrong formation and nothing would settle them again until he did something.
Heâd walked by the same bar. Heâd yelled a lot. His eyes had widened in horror when the same man thought his defense of a friend made him just like Art and - well, he wasnât. Goose wasnât.
Now, lip freely dripping blood and his eye throbbing, he tried to convince himself heâd thrown the first punch in Artâs honour and not because those guys had said he was just like him.
He limped up and down familiar streets, not all that jazzed about the prospect of going home to Killianâs dismissive coolness. Wraith would be there and sheâd be more of a comfort to Goose than his roommate would be, but he still wanted something more than that. Amira would have probably hugged him if she hadnât gone and left him behind. He didnât want Art to see him like this. He really just wanted his mom, but that wasnât an option either.
Maybe he had a concussion. He was actually kind of happy to blame his actions on that. There was something wrong with his brain right now, maybe some internal bleeding. That, combined with his only desire being to have his mom wrap him up in a hug, could be the only reason he was standing where he was now.
He stared at Flissâ doorway. How did she manage to make a door look rich? He stepped forward, fist raised, about to knock before he could talk himself out of it, only for the door to swing open before he came into contact with it.
Gooseâs step faltered as he stared at the figure on the other side. He dropped his hand at once and took an automatic step back, as if ready to run again, despite the fact that he had come here of his own accord.
âDonât be mad,â he blurted out, staring at Gordy. Like heâd just been caught snacking before dinner or sneaking out to meet Cole. Not showing up after nearly two years with a busted face and sorry attitude.
âłINSTAGRAM:Â @partywitharty uploaded a photo:
1 i prepared earlier đĽľđłď¸âđ keeping it prideful keeping it h o r n y
@goosewoodrow: dude i can see the timestamp i know you posted this during casablanca! i knew you weren't paying attention man!!!!
âłINSTAGRAM:Â @partywitharty posted to their story:
@goosewoodrow reacted to your story with đ
@goosewoodrow: WAIT
@goosewoodrow: i meant to do the fuckin applause react
@goosewoodrow: i swear
@goosewoodrow: aw shit what does it matter, youâre gonna just make fun of me anyway
âłINSTAGRAM: @killianford posted to their Instagram story.
@goosewoodrow: thanks for finally remembering to feed me. really appreciate not starving to death or anything like that.
âłINSTAGRAM:Â @gordygoodrow posted a photo to his story:
@goosewoodrow viewed this.
âłINSTAGRAM:Â @bemybeau uploaded a photo
creature in the wild
@goosewoodrow: you look cool as fuck, dude.
âłINSTAGRAM:Â @partywitharty uploaded a photo:
comment if u think i am a qt âď¸
@goosewoodrow: why's there a bruise on your face?
âłINSTAGRAM:Â @goosewoodrow uploaded a photo:
drew me n cherry đ
There was no point disagreeing or arguing with Goose. Not now, not like this. Art had seen this exact scenario play out countless times, and the last thing the other boy needed was for Art to goad him further. He was already hyperventilating as he pressed himself further into the edge of the sofa, desperately trying to rationalise his actions. Fear was a deadly, overwhelming emotion and Art had seen it destroy countless queer kids in irreparable ways. He wouldnât let the same thing happen to Goose, not on his watch.Â
âIt was the movie. Thatâs all,â Art agreed. They knew that wasnât the truth at all, but if thatâs what Goose wanted to believe then they would allow him to. Whatever journey Goose was about to go on, it already looked to be a painful one, and Art wasnât in any mood to make it more difficult for him.Â
The young athlete remained crouched before Goose as they tried to help him even out his breathing. Art didnât want to touch him in any way that might frighten him or make the situation worse, but he held his hands loosely at his side, ready to reach for the other boy should he need him to. If at any moment he thought Goose might be in trouble, heâd break shatter that invisible wall that separated the two of them. If that meant laying himself bare and being on the receiving end of a lashing from Goose, then so be it.Â
âThatâs it, baby. Easy does it. Iâm here, Iâve got you,â he whispered reassuringly.Â
It was a relief to hear Gooseâs breathing ease up. Though still a little ragged, he seemed to be regaining the full use of his lungs again. He was having a hard time looking at Art, but that was alright. It would take time for him to process what had happened â what heâd instigated â in a way that didnât immediately direct the blame at Art. They only hoped heâd let them talk him through it some day, when he wasnât so afraid.Â
Art blinked in surprise as he felt the gentle tug of his sleeve, gaze flickering to Gooseâs hand as he reached for him. That was a good sign, at least. He was looking to Art for comfort, and they would oblige as best they could.Â
âWeâre friends, remember? You and me. Just friends,â Art reminded Goose, hoping desperately that the casual label might help to calm his nerves. Â
He knew that the kiss theyâd shared had to have come from somewhere, and after getting to know Goose he couldnât even say he was overly surprised that heâd made the move in the first place. But right now, he needed a sense of normalcy. He needed a reminder that he wasnât the thing that seemed to terrify him so much, but just a normal boy hanging out with another boy.Â
âYou mind if I join you back on the sofa? We can just talk, or we donât have to do anything...âÂ
Goose kind of wanted to beg Art to stop calling him baby. It made him think about his mom too much. Sheâd always sit by Gooseâs bedside whenever he was sick (which, for a skinny kid who lived in the wrong part of Tulsa, was often, especially during wintertime), and sheâd stroke his hair and call him baby and heâd always end up feeling a little bit better.Â
After sheâd died, there had been one night where Gooseâs nightmares got the better of him and heâd woken up, screaming. Heâd spent what felt like way too long thrashing amongst his sweat-soaked bedsheets until the light from the hallway cracked over his face and suddenly he was being pulled into a pair of strong arms. Heâd burrowed his head into Gordyâs chest, tears spilling out of him as his big brother rocked him. Maybe heâd been imagining it, wishful thinking as he tried to liken the arms of his big brother to their momâs, but he thought heâd heard Gordy call him âbabyâ too.
Now, Art was calling him that same pet name and Goose didnât think he could bear to hear it. He didnât want to think about his mom or Gordy right now, because heâd just be reminded that neither of them were here. Goose was alone, had been for some time now.
As his breathing eventually slowed, Goose waited, eyes squeezed shut, for the embarrassment to sink in. He knew it was coming and he didnât know how to stave off the inevitable.Â
Thankfully, Art wasnât making him confront anything anytime soon.
âFriends,â Goose repeated, hoping his quiet mumble was as good a confirmation as any.
With his fingers still twisted in the material of Artâs sleeve, Gooseâs eyes widened in panic when he felt Art shift slightly, but the other boy was only asking if he could sit by Goose on the sofa. Inexplicably, relief flooded Goose, as if he hadnât just shoved Art away minutes before.
He gave Art a soft nod, using his free hand to rub at his own eyes, trying to discretely wipe away the wetness clinging to the hollowed-out shadows underneath them. Feeling the sofa cushion sink down next to him as Art settled back on the seat again, Goose let gravity take hold of him as he leaned into Artâs side.
His fingers slid from Artâs sleeve to their wrist, encircling it as Goose made a conscious effort to look anywhere but the other boy. Slowly, he turned his body so it was curled inwards, just like before, only this time he was curled into Art, not away from him. His forehead pressed against Artâs shoulder, his socked feet still pressed into the couch cushion, knees drawn up to his chest.
âDonât really wanna talk,â he said quietly, into the material of Artâs sweater.
Art wasnât angry, not by any estimation. He was just exhausted. Heâd danced this same dance over and over again with plenty of guys, and heâd suspected he might have to do it again with Goose. They didnât mind being the boy that other guys experimented with, and they could always turn a blind eye when closeted, self-hating queer guys lied about their sexuality even when they were several inches deep inside of them. What he would no longer abide by was being treated as though he was some predatory gay man, preying on other young men and forcing them into scenarios that they hadnât consented to.Â
Goose had kissed him first, plain and simple.Â
Only it wasnât that simple, and Art knew that. He watched on as Goose seemed to curl inwards on himself, hands frantically grasping for purchase, tears filling his eyes. In that moment, Art wanted nothing more than to close that gap and pull Goose into their arms and hold him near. There were no ulterior motives, no depraved need to take advantage of him while he was at his lowest, but a simple urge to protect him. He looked so small in that moment, face crumpled into a look of fear and horror, not unlike the one Artâs last boyfriend and teammate had worn mere minutes before heâd beaten Art to an almost bloody pulp.Â
Somehow, he didnât think that Goose was capable of that. Not in this context, anyway. Goose was terrified, but he didnât look like he had it in him to start swinging.Â
âI wonât tell a soul,â Art promised, his voice barely above a whisper. His features softened, as did his resolve, as he took a few tentative steps towards the sofa.Â
They wouldnât bridge that gap entirely, not until they felt sure that Goose wouldnât freak out even further, but they wanted to help all the same. It was becoming clearer by the minute that Goose was having a panic attack, and Art wouldnât simply stand by and let him go it alone.Â
âBaby, honey, youâre having a panic attack,â Art found themselves whispering. Goose had been candid in his disdain for those types of nicknames, but it was the last thing on Artâs mind right about now. Their main concern was making sure he could breathe.Â
Dropping low into a crouch, Art let his back hit the edge of the coffee table, situated in front of the sofa. He wouldnât breach the invisible boundary that heâd internally set. The rug that housed the sofa Goose was situated on jutted out several inches, maybe even about a foot, and it was enough of a clear line for Art to know not to venture closer. Instead, he just stared across at Goose and exhaled slowly, searching the other boyâs gaze in the hopes that he might mirror him.Â
âNothing happened, okay? Nothing at all,â Art lied, nodding reassuringly. If that was what it would take for Goose to remember how to breathe, then heâd continue to lie for as long as was needed. âNow, can you breathe with me? I need you to breathe.âÂ
âNo, Iâm not,â Goose argued stubbornly. He couldnât have a panic attack. Tough guys didnât have panic attacks. They took everything on the chin without batting an eyelid. If he hadnât had a panic attack when the rich kids in town cornered him with a knife outside the drugstore almost every day after school, then why would he have one now?
His fingernails bit into the exposed skin peeking through the holes of his jeans as he fought to get a breath in. Why was he acting like this? It was so stupid. It had just been a stupid move, brought on by that dumb fucking movie. He didnât know what the hell had possessed him to do that, to kiss Art. Itâs not like when he watched Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, he was suddenly grabbed by the desire to go west and be a cowboy.
Actually, his mind rationalised, somewhat helpfully, that had definitely happened.
Maybe heâd kissed Art as a confusing byproduct of watching a movie like that, of seeing Alan on the screen battle internally with whatever he had going on. It had nothing to do with Goose.
âIt was the movie,â he mumbled, more to himself than Art. But he wanted to convince Art too. He didnât go around kissing boys after every movie he watched, but this one had been different. It had messed him up.
He lifted his head to look at Art, who was reassuring him that nothing had happened, easily wiping their slate clean. They didnât look so angry anymore, which Goose supposed was a win. Heâd figured Art had been mad at him only seconds ago but now, as his friend gently encouraged him to breathe, he copied their breathing - in, hold, out, in, hold, out - until it felt like his heart wasnât about to crack through his ribs and gallop off.Â
Goose kept his eyes trained on Artâs face, at his delicate features, the long, thin, bridge of his nose, his wide eyes.Â
Beautiful. The word sprang into Gooseâs head completely unprompted and he screwed up his own face, quickly looking away.
The rest of his body didnât quite seem to get the memo that it was meant to be turning away from Art though. Before Goose could stop himself, his hand had slid across the sofa cushion and outwards, fingers tangling in Artâs sleeve as he hiccuped another breath.
Art wasnât remotely surprised by Goose launching himself to the opposite end of the sofa â it had happened like clockwork, a sight and feeling that was all too familiar to the runner â but that didnât mean he had to like it. His stomach still twisted in protest as he winced at Gooseâs harsh tone, Artâs hands meagerly dropping to his side, dejected. The last thing either of them needed right now was for Goose to think Art was trying to get their hands on him in any sort of creepy, predatory way. Goose might have been the one to make the first move, but Art had been with plenty of men like him before. It was the sort of behaviour that was usually followed by harried accusations of unwanted advances, the trademark of closeted men who had been taught to fear themselves.Â
Artâs palms lay flat against the sofa cushion, his chest rising and falling as he silently remembered the breathing techniques Teddy had taught him after his attack. Being a runner, Art had always had pretty impressive breath control, but nothing could have prepared them for their first ever panic attack. They werenât anticipating one now, but they knew that whatever Goose levelled at them next wouldnât be pleasant, and they wanted to brace themselves for the attack. Â
He shut his eyes momentarily, wincing as Goose yelled again, the question posed as though Art were the one to blame here. As if anybody could be to blame for feeling lust or desire in its purest form.Â
âI didnât do anything,â Art told the other boy, finally opening his eyes to meet his gaze.Â
Goose looked terrified. He was a dear in headlights, pressed to the arm of the sofa in a way that suggested he might pitch himself off it any second now. To Goose, it seemed a concussion was more favourable than the prospect of kissing a boy. Of kissing Art.Â
Exhaling slowly, Art pushed to their feet and placed more distance between them. In another life, he was braver, but in this one heâd always been a mat for others to walk all over. Whatever loud, brash and overly camp persona heâd built for himself, Art was always quick to back down in the face of any real sort of conflict. They didnât want to say or do anything to antagonise Goose further, knowing better than anyone how that might land him in a hospital bed with several broken ribs and a fractured jaw.Â
âIf you regret kissing me, Goose, just say so. Donât sit there and paint me a villain,â he sighed, feeling deflated. He liked Goose, he really liked him, and heâd be lying if he said he wouldnât jump at the opportunity for a second chance. But right now, the safest thing he could do for either of them was take several steps back.Â
Goose was panicking. His lips tingled and his whole body felt like it had been lit up from the inside by a lightning bolt. The tremors building up in the pit of his tummy did nothing to help matters, but neither did the way Art suddenly got up from the sofa, walking away and putting distance between them and Goose. The boy left shaking on the couch couldnât help but frown, confusion still managing to burst through every other rotten emotion he was battling right now.
âWhâ?â he began. Where are you going? He wanted to ask, but the words refused to come out, caught in his windpipe and sticking in the nasty, sticky-like substance that he figured had painted his throat.
It felt like nothing was coming out. Neither was it going in as he tried to draw in a breath without being obvious about it. He didnât wanna draw attention to the fact that it felt like all the air in the room had slipped out and so his fingers clawed at the knees of his ripped jeans as he pressed himself further into the arm of the couch, practically curling into a ball.
Eventually, at Artâs words, a noise did manage to leave Goose, though you could never get him to describe what it sounded like. His closest guess would be some sort of wounded animal that ended up being the kind of roadkill drivers deliberately swerved instead of just rolling right over and putting them out their misery. Although - his dad had been the type to keep driving straight, no matter how many times Goose had wailed in the backseat.
He shook his head the best he could in response to Art. He wasnât trying to paint nobody like a villain but it wasnât as if Art wouldnât have kissed him anyway, right? He flirted with Goose all the time. And heâd been the one to show Goose the movie and it had messed with his brain andâŚ
âYou canât tell anyone,â he choked out, vision blurring. A hiccuping breath shot down the back of his throat and he gripped his knees tighter. Nobody could know about this. Cole had been too damn loud about that very thing and look where it had gotten him. Six feet under with a face that would never heal, only rot away while the maggots arrived to finish off the job. Goose tried to swallow the rising tide of bile at the back of his mouth.
âPlease,â he begged Art, face screwed up in an undignified plea.
Why did you break up with Amira?
I could give you some self-deprecating, aggrandising answer like, "I wasn't good enough for her." but it would be a disservice to her. I don't think I could answer truthfully without wallowing, so I'll stay quiet.
Wait, what? I thought she dumped y'all? The fuck is goin' on?
