𝐵 𝑂 𝑅 𝑅 𝑂 𝑊 𝐸 𝐷 𝐵 𝑂 𝑁 𝐸
ch. 1/? explicit; angst; rafe cameron x ward cameron; pogue camerons au, father/son incest, implied childhood sexual abuse, child abuse, sex work, drug use, psychosis, rape, PTSD read on ao3 | companion playlist
Whippet (n.)
Small, fast type of dog, c. 1600, probably from whip (v.) in the sense of "move quickly" + diminutive suffix -et. Used earlier (1540s) in reference to "a brisk, nimble woman."
Semen gets cold so quickly. Rafe’s lamenting the change as he stares at the pearlescent splatter across his freckled chest and drags a spasming finger through the muck. It’s like schoolhouse glue at this point, smells like moldy icing. The guy, Rick or whatever, needs a better diet, but Rafe’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut. There’s rings around his wrists from where the handcuffs have bitten his skin red and papery, thin as blown-up bubblegum. It’s an ache like any other, less of an annoyance and more like a song stuck in his head, background noise he tries to tune out.
Sitting up, Rafe sucks in a wince, the fucking batton that Ranger Rick’s currently washing in the en-suite sink having left a phantom impression through his colon. It’s routine at this point, but that doesn’t clean the blood off the sheets. Twisting his arm back, he feels for the welts slashed between the nubs of his spine like the bastard was aiming. He can’t quite reach, but the twinge is there, sharp and throbbing. It’s enough to leave him dizzy, but most things do.
Rafe’s gotten very good at seeing double.
Shaking the noise out his ears, Rafe moves his shoulders one muscle at a time, acclimating to the sting licking up his back and blooming from his backside. Bend. Twist. Bend. Twist. Rick’s getting braver, eager to test the limits of anatomy. If Rafe didn’t find it so fascinating himself, he might mind. Reaching the moth-bitten and smelly scrap of fabric that was once considered a t-shirt, but now could be legally defined as a biohazard, he tugs it overhead. Be a man, you’ve swallowed worse. Dad’s voice in his head, that whiskey-slick purr that slides past his ear all syrupy. You’ll heal, son. Bones grow back twice as strong. Stretching his arms feels like acupuncture with knives, so Rafe has to bite back a whine as that nasty anger of his slugs up his throat like bile.
Rick comes into view and he’s laughing. Rafe can’t hear it, but he feels it, watches as the man’s expression contorts in a howl. It’s only a second, a flash that doesn’t match what comes after, but he can’t shake it, can’t help but feel like Rick the trick is trying to take what he didn’t earn.
“You owe me an extra twenty,” He croaks, sounding weaker than he expected. Breathless, like someone else is speaking for him. Rafe’s always like this for a while after, still hanging around on the ceiling somewhere. Only the pain lancing his joints and flaying his skin has any hope of lassoing around his ankle and yanking him back down to the world of the living.
The guy, Rick the slick, Rick the sick, Rick with his heavy black leather broomstick, is slipping his belt through the loops of his uniform. His thick fingers are like pale sausages and Rafe’s stomach turns at the taste of spoiled meat coating his tongue. “We’re already square, kid,” He says, and Rafe’s moving, throwing on his flannel and jeans. It’s everywhere, that anger, like someone had burst the veins behind his eyes. You don’t mishandle merchandise, it’s bad for business.
“The fuck we are,” Rafe snaps, rising to his full height. He’s wiry, spindly, and Rick’s got at least a buck-fifty on him, but there must be something in his face that makes the guy take him seriously, because Rick isn’t hitting him or laughing. Rafe had expected laughter. “My shirt’s sticking to my fucking skin. You went off menu.”
The slovenly face staring back at him is all butter, his bald head the only taut part of him. Rafe feels the urge to mush around the features, try and find something human in those black eyes like twin riverstones. Rick tuts before patting down his uniform, reaching into his right pants pocket. Rafe can’t help but salivate at the sight of the leather wallet presented like charity, some Pavlov instinct turning his tongue into a hungry proboscis intent on seeking sugar.
There’s a crisp twenty dollar bill and a small Ziplock with a couple lines worth of white powder pressed into Rafe’s palm. It’s like taking the Eucharist, like Saint Rick’s giving his blessing. Rafe nearly sticks out his tongue.
“For your trouble,” The satisfied customer says with a wink, like they’re old friends. In a way, they are. Ranger Rick was one of the first. An early bird that caught the worm.
Rafe’s already headed out the door, the smell of mildew and cigarettes clinging to piss-yellow wallpaper. He’s been to this motel so many times that he knows the layout by feel alone, doesn’t need to open his eyes as his hand grasps the knob. “And also with you,” He calls back, chipper as only a boy with cum stains on his briefs can be.
It’s easy to swallow anything when you’ve got nothing to lose.
Quick pit stop in the parking lot, Rafe pops open the baggie. The coke goes down smooth as he snorts a couple bumps off the side of his hand, his septum long-since-deviated making his nose run. Sniffling like a pup, Rafe’s thoughts burn a little clearer as the high turns his heart into a hammer, shooting his blood through every vein until his skin pulses. He imagines the layout, the hidden rivers that power his body spread out down his limbs, as he gets on his bike. It’s a piece of shit, thrown together with spare parts, but it beats walking.
It takes two tries for the engine to turn over, but then Rafe’s gone, narrowly avoiding smacking into the side of Rick’s cruiser before turning out the lot. It’s still early, so Rafe heads in the direction of where he goes whenever he’s got loose change or Dad’s allowance burning a hole in his pocket. It’s rare he gets extra, even if he knows the twenty won’t get him far, so he’s giddy. Excitement hums behind his ribs and maybe it’s the coke or the fact that it’s cloudy today, the air swollen with rain to come and the sun hidden behind a bluey-grey curtain that’s got him all riled up, but Rafe rides the wave. He leans into the vibration of his bike, cranks the accelerator until the wind whips his face.
He’s not alive yet, just undead. The living’ll come later.
The girl Barry plops in Rafe’s lap tastes sweet, like lead and lithium. She’s kind of eating his face, but he’s kind of too busy thinking about the party favors Barry said he’d throw in for showing her a good time to give too much of a shit. It’s weirder with girls, their hunger different. Rafe’s been digested plenty, but he still feels like he’s all hands whenever something with breasts and hips tries him on for size. They’re on the couch, surrounded by smoke and baseheads, and Rafe didn’t catch her name, wouldn’t remember it anyway.
When she pulls back, Rafe notices the murky green of her eyes. She doesn’t turn away as she reaches out to pick up her joint from where it’s been burning in the ashtray, her smile as slick as jellyfish. Instead of bringing it to her lips, she slips it between Rafe’s, letting him inhale like a suckling infant. She says something, but it's just whispering, constant whispering doubling and tripling over and over again until all Rafe hears is an uninterrupted buzz. It isn’t until she flicks him on the head that her question sinks in like a hammer to his skull.
“What sort of name is Whippet, anyway?”
Barry laughs, sorting through pills he’s got on the coffee table, piles all colors of the rainbow laid out like he’s moving into the confectionery business. Rafe tries to look over, but what’s-her-name pulls him back to her with a tug of his chin. He wants to correct her, his tongue loose and spongy behind his teeth, mouth hanging open with inhaled speech, but the Candyman cuts him off. “Dumbass here got caught huffing nitrous behind his elementary school, ain’t that right, Whip?” Barry says, the light glinting off his gold tooth. “Shit like that tends to stick.” Rafe tries to size him up, tries to decide whether to join in on the joke or feign embarrassment, but he’s all unglued, held together by the promise of payment and what’s-her-name’s claws currently digging into the meat of his arm.
She nips at Rafe’s bottom lip, the pop audible as it snaps back against his gums. “I like it,” She says, and Rafe figures that’s a compliment. Her greedy fingers spill under the hem of his shirt, tracing the bends of his ribs. She’s reaching back and back and back until Rafe gasps, nails scraping the hot, puffy wounds like tiger-stripes along his spine. Before he can tug himself away to safe harbor, what's-her-name snatches him by the shoulders and wrenches him forward like she's discovered cancer. Doubled over, Rafe’s got his face buried in her jean miniskirt as she pulls up the back of his shirt. She must see the damage, because he hears more mumbling he can’t decipher. There’s too much blood in his ears, like he’s underwater, but she doesn’t sound happy anymore.
“Christ, Whip.” Barry’s voice, slicing through the fog like lightning through thunderclouds. “You better not get blood on my damn couch. Here, get the fuck out.”
It’s either pity or the fact that Rafe’s gagging, but he feels a tied-off baggie hit his face. Rafe snatches it, shoves it in his pocket, shoves himself away from what’s-her-name’s milky sweetness and cloying perfume that's been giving him a headache the last half hour. She’s still calling after him as he stumbles towards the exit, past a group of lifers huddling together around a shared pipe.
A strong grip clamps down on Rafe's shoulder just before the carpet’s about to give under his feet, steadying him. Turning quick enough to make his stomach flip, he shrugs off the calloused hand that falls without fight and gapes at the startling handsome face before him. Tan and aged, flecked with grey stubble, they’ve never spoken, but their paths have crossed at Barry’s frequently enough that Rafe recognizes him.
“Get yourself cleaned up, kid,” Luke warns before turning back just in time for one of the walking corpses to pass him the pipe. Rafe watches with vague fascination as Luke takes a hit, the spinning glass catching his eye like a Fourth of July sparkler, before continuing on in his programmed direction, away from the stench of bleach and heat.
By the time Rafe makes it back to his bike, the blanket of clouds is beginning to crack open like fragile eggshells. He’s weaving down side streets and backroads in the hopes of beating the breaking light. The sun doesn’t like him, or he doesn’t like the sun, Rafe’s still not sure who started it. All he knows for certain is that he can’t trust the light, can’t stand the heat of it or look at what it reveals. It’s safer in the dark, hidden beneath shadows that obscure and blur away all the disagreeable details. Mom had died in the dark, and the shadows had been there to take her to wherever she needed to go. He’d been shielded from the blood all over everything and her limpid, slack face, hadn’t seen the gashes carved up her arms with the blade from Dad’s safety razor. All the moonlight coming in through the window had allowed him to make out was the inky water she lay in and the pale gold of her hair. If Rafe had just left it at that, maybe everything would have been okay. Maybe she wasn’t even dead until he flipped on the light.
The Cameron house is one of the larger shacks the Cut has to offer. Ward never made it past a year at UNC, but no one's forgotten his honor roll rank or SAT scores, the potential he drank away while managing, somehow, not to poison his intelligence. That could've-been-a-contender pride earned him a cushy gig supervising construction, and it had paid for the only home Rafe's ever known. From its flecking white exterior to the shudders Sarah had helped Mom paint green, the site of endless arguments and sleepless nights still filled Rafe with animal comfort. It was sort of like the beginnings of the flu and a little like the relief after the initial panic of a burn blends out into pleasure, but maybe that was the coke. Whatever the shit Rick gave him was cut with still has Rafe sniffling and breathing through his mouth as he dismounts his bike and wheels it around back.
He never uses the front door if he can help it. When Dad’s off, he’s always parked in the living room, a king supervising his domain from his brown leather La-Z-Boy throne, and Rafe doesn’t want to face him yet, doesn’t think he can take that look of his like staring down the barrel. Quiet as miasma, Rafe passes through the back door, skirting the house’s heart with his hand trailing along the wall. His clumsy feet are suddenly precise as he strays from every creaky floorboard, careful not to draw attention. There’s music coming from Dad’s stereo, George Strait’s croon leaking through the walls, and compulsively Rafe hums under his breath as he slips into Wheezie’s room.
They’ve got an agreement. Anything Rafe doesn’t want found, he hides here. He goes straight to her chest of drawers, kneels before the second-from-the-bottom tier. Riffling past Sarah’s old dolls, now missing limbs and most of their hair, school function t-shirts never worn, and various pre-teen baubles, he finds the metal box he’s looking for. The dinosaurs printed on the top yawn wide to show off their teeth and Rafe’s sure not to make eye-contact as he opens the tin and places the pills inside. Shoving it all away, he’s careful as he rises to his feet. His backside still aches from his neck to his thighs, while the front of him’s relatively numb. He needs a shower and probably some food, his stomach’s all knotted up, usually is.
Rafe can go days without eating, it’s a good trick.
He’s only a couple steps down the hall when Dad’s voice rings loud in clear, not in his head but in reality, the sharpness of it turning Rafe to stone for an instant. The music shuts off, an eerie silence in its wake.
“Rafe, don’t make me call for you twice.”
It’s something automatic, the way his feet move, like Dad twisted a crank or pulled a string. He follows the yellow glow of the living room light spilling into the dim hallway, steps into the room with unsure shoulders hunched. His fingers are restless, so he brings his thumb to his mouth, starts gnawing at the swollen skin around the nail. Sarah says it makes him look like a burn victim, like he dipped his fingertips in acid. Dad’s in his chair, chunky blue and white plastic cooler cup on the end table beside him. He’s gotta drink just to keep the shakes away, so by now he should be half a box deep in wine.
Rafe can smell it, that acrid tang hanging in the air like smoke.
Leaning forward, Ward waves his son over with one hand, runs the other down his beard. Always obedient, Rafe steps closer. He doesn’t wince as he gets down on his knees since his father can’t stand weakness, pokes at any fault till the blister pops. “Rick called me,” He says, some kind of feeling simmering beneath his surface that Rafe can’t quite make out. It’s not anger or disappointment, but something else all together. Envy, maybe. Shame? Rafe just stares up at him, fingers in his mouth like he’s teething. “Said he might have gotten a little out of hand. How out of hand?”
Looking away, Rafe shrugs, but the rawness around his wrist must give him away, because his father catches his arm and pulls him forward to examine the defects. Ward’s all furrowed brow, grumbling to himself before releasing the boy and motioning towards the couch. “Get over there.”
Rafe starts, his gaze flicking back and forth between his father and the sofa. “What about Wheezie and Sarah?”
Ward’s already gotten up, but he pauses to offer a confused look. “The girls are at school, you know that,” He says before turning away and slinking heavy-footed into the shadowed hall.
Shoving himself to his feet, Rafe blinks. He knows what’s going to happen, but it takes a moment to get his limbs to cooperate. Once his fleshy fingers get to moving, he starts to strip. Flannel, t-shirt, jeans, all of it gets peeled away until he’s in just his underwear. There’s a tremor in his hand as he folds it all neatly in a little pile on the coffee table, but that’s normal.
“On the couch,” Ward orders, carrying in his supplies, and the boy knows better than to be asked a third time.
It’s not Rafe that stretches out on the sofa, feet hanging off the armrest and stomach pressed to the cushions. It’s Whippet, blank eyed and agreeable, arms folded under his cheek. Ward sits on the edge next to Whippet’s thighs and opens the tub of Arnica, starts spreading the cold cream on the boy’s back. Whippet shivers, but the thick fingers making circles against his skin and smoothing out the sting puts him back at ease, especially when Ward places his free hand on the back of his neck, holding him steady. It’s nice, it really is.
“You gotta learn to say no, son,” Dad says as his fingers sweep across his lower back, no longer caressing, but kneading. Whippet’s sore muscles whine and the sensation pushes an easy gasp past his lips. “You give them an inch, they’ll take a mile. I vet everyone as best I can, but there’s always a risk. What’ll happen to us if you end up in a wooden box?”
Whippet stares at the wall, remembers how Mom used to polish the oak laminate with dizzying oscillations, until his eyes lose focus. He’s already in a wooden box. He’ll never leave it.
Ward sighs and Whippet flinches, can’t stand the disappointment on his breath. He wants to be good, needs to be. It’s as urgent as air in his lungs, but he’s drowning and Dad’s got his hand on his ass, briefs shoved away.
“There you go,” Ward murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of Whippet’s ear as he pushes and pulls at the tortured glutes one handful at a time.. “Easy now. Easy … Just let me check.”
Whippet squeezes his eyes tight, mouth pulled open as his father begins to probe, two fingers jammed inside him. He’s feeling for fissures left behind from Ranger Ricky’s baton and Whippet’s shaking, back arched and hips raised to meet Ward’s hand.
It’s what he knows best; how to allow your own murder.
Ward keeps shifting his hand back and forth, his touch deepening with every thrust until Whippet’s shaking. Rafe’s somewhere up there, watching the boy writhe with the indifference of angels. There’s no way to stop it, no way to run from the hand swallowing him from the inside. Not when Ward’s pressing against the spot that makes the cock pinned under Whippet’s belly twitch like a neglected pet.
There’s warmth on Whippet’s cheek, soft as feathers and twice as gentle, that eases his eyes open. The trick reveals itself as the sun comes into view, rays bursting from behind the window. Blinding white rips at Rafe’s vision, slaps him across the face with the force of a sledgehammer. He can’t get away fast enough, can’t escape the burning whiteness as he begins to kick, clawing at the arm rest as he lunges for safety. It burns all over, his sensitive flesh on fire, and he scrambles to get behind the couch, to hide, to shove himself into the dark where he can breathe again. Rocking back and forth, Rafe’s smacking at his cheek, desperate to carve the betrayal from his skin.
As quick as Rafe disappeared, Dad comes after him, kneels beside the kid doubled over and pressed to the floor. “Rafe? Jesus, Rafe, stop it!” He grabs at Rafe’s arms, tries to wrench them away, but Rafe’s crying now, wet, ugly sobs bursting from his lungs.
“The sun. The fucking sun,” Rafe’s gasping, fighting against the strong arms wrapping around him. It’s suffocating, the embrace, the stench of sweat and fermented grapes. It’s too fucking much, but it’s all he has. “It- It hit me. You saw it! It hit me!”
“Shh, son. It’s alright,” Dad reassures, cupping the back of Rafe’s skull as he pulls the boy to his chest like a wailing child. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
Rafe’s fight begins to give, exhaustion settling in as he clings to the sturdy frame of his father, bitten fingers clutching at his shirt. He’s shaking so hard his teeth are rattling, his tears hot and heavy as they roll down his cheeks to soak into Ward’s shoulder. “Where’s Wheezie?” He asks through frantic pants. “I need Wheezie, Dad. She can’t be out in the sun!”
Ward only holds Rafe tighter, squeezing the tears out of him like puss from a wound. “Your sister’s at school. She’s safe,” He says, stroking the back of Rafe’s hair over and over again. The buzzing’s back, humming in Rafe’s ear. Maybe it wasn’t the sun, but a bee sting. Maybe there’s thousands of yellow-assed insects making a home in his skull and drilling holes in his brain. That would explain what’s wrong with him, the malfunction that makes a papercut feel like a missing limb and a stab wound feel like a skinned knee. “Everybody’s safe, son. I promise.”
Shaking his head, Rafe bites his lip, tries and fails to calm his breathing. He can’t get in enough air, can’t expand his lungs and that fucking buzzing won’t stop. “Why can’t it leave me alone?” He asks, begging the only god he knows for answers. “Why can’t I just be left alone?”
Eventually, Rafe manages to come back down to Earth. Ward holds him through it, rocking him back and forth. It nearly puts Rafe to sleep, and he’s barely conscious as his father helps him to stand, guides him like a fellow drunk out the living room and down the hall. Rafe trips over his own feet, but each time he’s caught and set upright. The end of all things comes when he’s laid in bed, covers pulled up around him, because it’s only then that Rafe’s eyes focus enough to catch the look his father’s giving him, that sickly-sweet pity that always follows disgust.
It hurts as much as the punch had, but Rafe’s too tired to keep crying.
“Rest a little,” Ward says like all the tenderness has been bled out of him. It’s Rafe’s fault, he’s sure. If his father is bleeding, Rafe had to have created the wound. “It’s Sarah’s turn to make dinner.”
He’s left alone after that, wrapped up in cotton as he buries himself beneath his blanket. It’s cool and dark in his room, the towels he’s got thumbtacked over his windows having shut out the light. Every inch of him throbs like he’s run a mile, but he’s swallowed worse before. You’ll heal, baby, Mom whispers, her golden hair tickling his cheek as she presses a kiss to his temple. Bones grow back twice as strong.