Archive of Our Own

“Ain’t I hand you over to the cops or some shit, Country Club?”

Rafe doesn’t so much as flinch as he stomps across Barry’s swampy yard. He has that look in his eye, the vacant, lifeless one that gives Barry goosebumps.

Not good goosebumps, either. More like the kind you get when a predator is near, stalking you from the underbrush. 

Barry has only felt a chill like this in two particular situations in his life. The first situation was a one-off, when he was 13 and stupid and staring directly into the eyes of a gator waiting to swallow him whole as he fled into the swamp and away from the house he’d just robbed. He never made that mistake again.

The second situation is ever-reoccurring. The second is anytime he looks into the dead eyes of Rafe Cameron. 

“Dad confessed,” Rafe says simply, monotonous. He finally reaches Barry and slumps into the plastic lawn chair next to him.

Barry barks out a laugh, resuming whittling the stick he’d been aimlessly working on before Rafe strolled up. “Ain’t you mean lie?”

“Well, he went and blew himself up,” Rafe starts, his voice never wavering, “so I guess it doesn’t matter for shit, now, does it?”

There’s a long stretch of silence, the sounds of nature around them the only thing filling the dead space. Barry can’t say he’s surprised, necessarily. Ward Cameron is precisely the type of person to end his shit to avoid taking responsibility for his actions and going to prison.

Barry is surprised, however, that Ward took the fall for his son. Based on their relationship as Barry has seen it, Ward seemed like the type to drag anyone and everyone down with him, whether they liked it or not, including his precious (or perhaps not-so-precious, if we’re all being honest with ourselves here) eldest child. 

“So I guess… ” Rafe repeats, turning those empty, yet somehow still piercing, eyes towards Barry, “it was all for nothing. On your part.”

“Well shit, baby boy,” Barry snorts, his smile more of a grimace. “If I knew your pops was gonna save me all that trouble, I woulda just… you know what, nah. I still woulda thrown your stupid ass to the wolves.”

Silence falls between them again. Barry keeps whittling his stick, and Rafe keeps sitting. Until. Until. There’s suddenly a switchblade shoved under Barry’s chin, the tip just grazing his Adam's apple. 

“That what I am?” Rafe says thoughtfully, giving the blade a sudden press that almost seems playful, if not for the fact that the motion draws blood. “A baby boy? A child? A spoiled brat? Precious Country Club property?”

Rolling his eyes, Barry just swats the blade away. Rafe falters, but keeps the knife in his hand.

“If you was gonna kill me, Country Club, you sure as shit woulda done it already. Now get that shit outta my face, man.”

“Who’s to say you haven’t been on my list?” Rafe questions, twirling the blade between his fingers. “Who’s to say right now’s not finally the time?”

“‘Cause I got what you need,” Barry tells him simply. Knowingly.

Rafe laughs, and it’s a defeated thing. The blade goes limp in his hand, then drops to the ground carelessly. 

“Right. Drug supply. ‘Cause there isn’t any changing that, is there? You get to keep… keep slithering around like the slimy shit you are, because your supply is just about all that’s left in the OBX.”

Barry gives Rafe a sidelong look, one brow arched. “Sure, Country Club. Just the drugs. That’s all I got that you need.”

He doesn’t know why he says it, exactly. It just feels true. Barry can’t come up with any other reason as to why Rafe is always coming to him, always him, for everything. Not just drugs. There’s something else Rafe comes here for, and it isn’t drugs, or assistance with his criminal dealings. 

Barry is, like, ninety-nine percent sure Rafe Cameron is after his dick. Comes all the way here for it every time but falls short when he realizes he doesn’t quite know how to ask for it. Or just take it, for that matter. That seems more like Rafe’s style, anyway. 

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Rafe asks, and it’s the first time throughout this entire conversation that there’s feeling behind his words. Anger, or frustration at the very least. 

Maybe Barry struck a nerve. Forced Rafe to confront something he’s long been trying to bury. Or maybe Barry’s hypothesis has been wrong this entire time and Rafe is two seconds away from attempting to chop his nuts off.

Either way, interesting.

“Just sayin’,” Barry hums, then shrugs. “You sure do hang ‘round here like you paying rent or something. Ain’t you got friends to entertain your stupid ass in Kookland?”

“What’s your point?” Rafe asks. He’s defensive, looking at Barry while somehow also avoiding his eyes. “What’s that got to do with you ‘having what I need’?”

Rafe does air-quotes as he says it, snarky and animated in a way that Barry hasn’t seen since he first met the guy. 

“The point is, why the fuck you always knocking on my door, Country Club?” Barry fires back immediately, leaning in close and pointing his own knife at Rafe. It’s a safe distance away, not meant to be threatening, but Rafe eyes it anyway. “You got friends with the blow hookup, friends who back your dumbass up in a fight, friends who’d commit alllll sorts of felonies for you without question. So why’s it always my door you’re bangin’ on?”

Rafe doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. He’s just staring at Barry’s chin, his eyes wide as the words turn over and over and over in his head. 

“Because you have something I need,” Rafe says suddenly, after a long lapse of silence, his words coming out in a rush.

The next moment, Rafe is leaning over and his lips are on Barry’s and it’s almost vicious, the way he’s kissing him. It’s hardly even a kiss, more so just Rafe biting into his mouth, simultaneously ripping Barry’s hair from his bun so he can shove his fingers in it and pull.

Rafe breaks away to heave himself out of his seat and tumble into Barry’s lap, ducking his head to bite and suck at Barry’s neck. He digs his fingers into Barry’s shoulder with a grunt of frustration at his lack of response.

It takes another moment or two, but Barry responds. Finally. He shoves Rafe back, nearly sending him toppling off his lap before catching him at the last second.

“Fuckin’ hell, Country Club,” Barry chokes, trying to re-regulate his breathing. It’s hard to do with Rafe still squirming in his lap. “You just seen some shit, man. Give yourself some time before you start goin’ balls to the goddamn walls.”

Rafe looks confused for a split second, and then he’s rolling his eyes. And his hips.

Barry bites back a groan.

“You said you have what I need,” Rafe repeats, his breathing ragged. “So do you? Or do you fucking not, dickhead?”

It’s wrong and Barry knows it. Rafe is reeling from a significant loss, on top of the fact that he’s already damn well near lost his mind, if not completely. 

Hell, he’s been in a complete downward spiral for months. It’d be something of a miracle if he hasn’t already hit bottom and then some. But, Barry isn’t known for making good decisions either, mind you. He just happens to make better ones than Rafe. 

Most of the time.

“‘M not fuckin’ you in my front yard,” Barry tells him, grunting when Rafe gives a rough grind of his hips. “So getcho’ dumbass up and in my bed ‘fore I change my mind.”

The first time is rough. Barry somehow feels guilty enough about it to feel sick for a few days afterward. And not because he’d fucked a guy, because he’s been there and done that a few dozen times over. 

Barry feels guilty because Rafe wanted it to hurt. Had to practically fucking beg Barry to make it hurt. And look, Barry isn’t known for being a gentle lover or anything. He likes a rough, hard fuck and all, but what Rafe wanted was to be punished.

Barry should’ve seen that one coming from a mile away. He doesn’t know how he let Rafe convince him, but somehow, Rafe managed to get Barry to fuck him dry, not even with spit, no prep, nada. It’s a wonder Rafe hadn’t managed to convince Barry to ditch the condom too, but, well. Barry isn’t about to risk his own personal health on some dumbshit like Rafe Cameron. 

But Barry will hurt Rafe if he asks, apparently. And then he’ll feel sick to his stomach for three days afterward, trying to scrub the image of Rafe trembling beneath him from his mind, taking Barry and the pain with nothing more than soft hiccupped sobs. 

Feeling guilty because he did what Rafe wanted him to do, and guilty because he liked it.

Barry promises himself that it isn’t going to happen again. He gave Rafe some relief or whatever that shit was, but it was a one-time thing. He’d happily pound Rafe through the mattress any day of the week, that much he knows, but he’s not down with torturing the guy to help him cope with loss and his growing insanity or what the fuck ever. 

It happened once, and only once, and it’ll never happen again.

Until it does.

And then again, and again, and again, until Barry has lost count of how many times he’s fucked Rafe until he cries, participating in this fucked up cycle of punishment despite his promises to himself that it’d only be the once, the one time. Instead, it goes on for weeks.

Now, Barry slips out of Rafe with a grunt, not sparing the condom a single glance as he rolls it off and tosses it in the general direction of the trashcan. Rafe is still shaking as he rolls onto his back, taking in big gulps of air. Barry lights a joint, offering it to Rafe after taking a long hit.

Rafe just shakes his head, scooting up until he’s propped against Barry’s pillows. He grabs a dish off the nightstand that's dusted with coke, his hands trembling as he snorts a line. 

That’s another thing that’s gotten worse over the last few weeks. Rafe has been snorting blow like it’s becoming some limited resource that he has to savor while he can, when in reality Barry’s supply is never-ending and neither is Rafe’s flow of cash, suddenly. 

Barry knows Rafe is getting worse and not better. The guy is off his rocker, has been for a while now, but it seems like the only times there are any traces of Rafe are when he’s hurt or when he’s high. And that’s a problem. 

Because, look, it’s not like Barry cares, alright?  But he’s seen people go through shit like this before. And with the right help, they can heal. Recover. Or something resembling health and recovery. 

And yeah, maybe Rafe is different, because of the lack of empathy and general disregard for other living beings and whatever. But still, he doesn’t have to hurt, and Barry wishes he could say that but he can’t for the life of him figure out how. 

Shit, maybe Barry does care. He doesn’t know when the fuck that happened. 

“Gimme that,” Barry murmurs, not waiting for Rafe to comply before taking the dish.

Rafe watches with raised brows. “Thought you just sold this shit.”

Barry doesn’t answer. He simply dumps the remaining contents of the dish into the trash, ignoring Rafe’s protests.

“Are you insane? You better give me my fucking money back for that,” Rafe snaps, outraged. It’s kind of a cute look for him, even if he looks like he might gouge Barry’s eyes out. 

“Yeah, pipe dream, baby boy,” Barry drawls, shoving the joint into Rafe’s hands as he grumbles about refunds. “You gonna take a breather for a few days. Don’t fuckin’ look at me like that, Country Club. My house, my rules.”

“So I’ll leave your fucking house,” Rafe bitches, shoving the joint back at Barry before standing up and looking around for his clothes.

Barry just hits the joint and watches him, amused. “Good luck with that. I’ll be here when you come cryin’ for some sugar. Either kind.”

Rafe cuts him a dark look, yanking on his clothes without a word. He ducks out of Barry’s room without looking back, and a moment later Barry hears the front door click shut. 

Normally, Barry would be concerned. But that’s mostly reserved for when Rafe is here these days. Which is basically every day, at last count, and is in turn why Barry knows he doesn’t need to worry just yet. 

Rafe will be back. After all, Barry does have what he needs. When he’s back in Barry’s trailer, back in his room, in his bed, that’s when Barry will be concerned.

It takes approximately seven hours, forty-two minutes, and thirty-three seconds for Rafe to come barging through Barry’s front door again.

He’d managed to surprise Barry, at least. Barry had thought he’d be back in four. 

“They’re all over me, you know? It’s like they want to read my mind. Wanting to know what’s going on, where I am, what I’m doing who I’m doing what I’m thinking what I’m feeling what I’m- ”

Barry cuts Rafe’s frenzied ramble off with a kiss to his sweaty forehead. “That paranoia’ll get you. Your daddy blew his own ass up, so you gonna get questions. Better get used to 'em. ‘Specially from family. But they can’t read your mind, and they ain’t trying. Trust me.”

Rafe’s hand is glued to his forehead, looking shocked beyond belief. Then, his eyes narrow, and he points an accusatory finger at Barry. “What’re you playing at? What do you want from me?”

“I want you to get your stupid ass through this withdrawal is what I want,” Barry snorts. “Too damn coked up to know left from right, shit. If you ain’t got no one to take care of your dumbass then I’ll do it my damn self, a’ight?”

“Because you want something,” Rafe accuses again. His entire body twitches, and Barry can see the scattered scabs on his arms from where he’s been picking at his skin, looking almost like mini constellations.

“I want you to sober up so I can fuck you proper, Country Club,” Barry tells him. He rolls his eyes and starts to guide Rafe to his bedroom. “Shit’s gettin’ old, if you haven’t noticed.”

Rafe opens his mouth to protest. “You have been fucking me. For weeks.”

“I said fuck you proper,” Barry corrects, stopping them when they’re at the foot of the bed so he can plaster himself to Rafe’s back and mouth at his neck. “I sure as shit ain’t done that yet. You’ll know when I have, ‘cause you ain’t gonna have that damn poison up your nose.”

Rafe doesn’t answer and Barry suspects he won’t get one until the last of the coke leaves Rafe’s system. But Barry is no stranger to waiting through someone else’s withdrawal, or the recovery after that. 

He may not present as a patient man, but he sure as shit can do a lot of waiting, and then some. He was in the Army, after all.

The following three days are filled with nonstop bickering, paranoia, insomnia, and what Barry can only classify as tantrums. Rafe cries for drugs like a kid cries for their mom when they get lost in the grocery store. 

Barry doesn’t give Rafe what he wants. He does give him head every now and then to help him fall asleep, followed by a few Benadryl to give him the final knockout. It only keeps Rafe down for a few hours, but after the three day mark, Rafe doesn’t need anything but a flat surface and a sheet to fall asleep for ten hours straight. 

It’s at about the twelve hour mark that Rafe wakes up, looking bewildered and disoriented.

“How long have I been asleep?” He asks, and Barry looks at the clock on the nightstand.

“About twelve hours.”

“Fuck,” is all Rafe says before sitting up to crack his neck and back. “I feel like shit.”

“You want some blow?” Barry asks, just because he’s an asshole like that. Just because he can.

“Fuck off,” Rafe groans, flopping back onto the pillows. Barry glances at him, trying to subdue his smile.

He sure as fuck doesn’t need Country Club knowing he’s going soft on him.

“Why’d you do it?”

Barry looks over at the source of the question, finding wide eyes blinking at him with genuine curiosity, mixed with reservation. 

“You needed help,” Barry tells him, like it’s as simple as that. “Ain’t sayin’ you out here all cured or whatever, but you can get there if you stay clean. At least from snorting that shit.”

Rafe doesn’t talk for a long stretch. Long enough that Barry pulls out the book he’s been reading - some adventure novel - and gets through an entire chapter before Rafe speaks again.

“I think about killing people,” he says, and Barry freezes.

He knows that. He’s known that for a long time.

“You been killing people,” Barry points out, shutting his book and turning his full attention on Rafe. “So I guess what I’m tryna say is, the fuck is your point?”

“It doesn’t bother you,” Rafe asks, though it comes out as more of a statement. 

Barry shrugs. “I thought about killin’ people all the time when I was in the Army. Didn’t bother me none then, don’t bother me none now.”

“Yeah, but you had to,” Rafe argues, rolling over onto his stomach and looking up at Barry, chin resting in his hands. He looks almost earnest, which is pretty fucked up considering the conversation they’re having. “You had a reason. I just want to. It’s different.”

“Don’t always need a reason,” Barry answers quietly, meeting Rafe’s gaze. “I know we ain’t the same. But on some shit level? I get it.”

“Probably better than anyone else,” Rafe grumbles, but he doesn’t look nearly as put out about it as he sounds.

Barry suppresses a smile, tossing the book onto the ground next to the bed. “You want breakfast? I got like, eggs. Maybe.”

“You’re a lovely host, have I ever told you that? Five stars, really, it’s top notch,” Rafe snarks as Barry gets up to make the little shit breakfast, flipping him off as he exits the room. He hears Rafe snort as he leaves. 

It only takes Barry a few minutes to whip up some eggs and toast, and before long he’s back in the bedroom, serving Rafe like he’s king of the trailer or some shit.

“I tell you I want to kill people and you cook me eggs,” Rafe comments, taking a bite of his food.

“Speaking of, you like ‘em cooked like that? I forgot to ask. Not like I woulda given a shit, I only know how to make ‘em scrambled.”

Rafe puts his fork down, looking at Barry thoughtfully. It’s a calculating look, but Barry doesn’t flinch away from it. “It really doesn’t bother you?”

“You gonna kill me or somethin’, Country Club?” Barry asks, arching a brow as he smirks at Rafe over his cup of coffee. 

“I’m not currently planning on it,” Rafe says. “But I’ve thought about it. Not in a while, but. I have.”

Barry ponders that for a moment. It’s a fucked up thing to say, and Barry wonders if he should back away from this situation.

But he’s not afraid of Rafe Cameron. Like he said before, if Rafe really wanted to kill him, Barry's corpse would be rotting away somewhere at the bottom of the ocean by now. 

“Then no, it don’t fucking bother me, Country Club.”

Rafe narrows his eyes at Barry, putting his half-empty plate on the nightstand before crowding into Barry’s space. 

“Y’know, if you’re gonna fuck me proper, you better start learning how to call me by my name,” Rafe says coolly, taking Barry's coffee cup and setting it next to his discarded plate.

“If I’m gonna fuck you proper, you gonna have to shower first,” Barry bites back, but he’s grinning wickedly. “Get them pits clean and I’ll fuck you til’ you forget you even got a name.”

“Promise?”

Rafe says it like it should be some sort of cruel joke, with a smirk and all, but Barry can see it in his eyes - the need for reassurance. 

Barry doesn’t know if he should kiss Rafe, doesn’t know if he’ll get shanked if he does, which really should be the bright shining answer to his own hesitation. But. But. Rafe seems to influence Barry’s ability to make sound decisions simply by being in his general proximity. So.

He kisses Rafe anyway, risk of being stabbed and all, and Rafe kisses him back. It’s weird, but only because Rafe is actually kissing Barry rather than trying to repeatedly bite him until he bleeds.

When it really comes down to it, Country Club isn’t so bad at kissing. Barry had wondered what it’d really be like, kissing Rafe. He’d assumed it’d still be frenzied and messy, with little to no finesse. 

But Rafe Cameron is still full of surprises apparently, because Barry can’t remember ever being kissed so thoroughly in his life. When Rafe pulls back, Barry has to run his fingers over his own kiss-swollen lips, checking to see if it was real. If it really happened.

“You tell anyone about that, and I’ll kill you in your sleep,” Rafe says as he crawls off the bed, his voice taking on that flat, emotionless tone that has always settled uncomfortably beneath Barry’s skin. He turns blank eyes on Barry, a sudden shift from the passionate direction their conversation had just taken. 

Barry thinks he’ll take that risk. He’ll risk Rafe Cameron slitting his throat in his sleep if it means he gets to kiss him like that just one more time.

And that’s how Barry knows he’s well and truly fucked. 

Rafe showers in record time, but when he returns to the bedroom he smells like Barry’s soap and the stick of off-brand deodorant he’s had in the bathroom for nearly a year. 

It makes Barry want to crawl inside of him and make a home there. When Barry remembers he can do just that, he sits up, loops an arm around Rafe’s waist when he’s close enough to the bed, and yanks the little shit who now plagues his life down on top of him. 

The towel falls away from Rafe’s hips, and it’s like a feast has been dropped right in Barry’s lap. And he’s sure as hell fucking hungry. 

“Why you always hiding this from me, Country Club?” Barry asks, his voice a low rumble. He smooths a hand over the toned panes of Rafe’s chest, coming to rest on one of his pecs. 

Barry gives the muscle a harsh squeeze, and Rafe arches into it like a bitch in heat. But Barry feels like a bitch in heat himself, so he really has no room to talk. He surges up to kiss Rafe hungrily, a little sloppily, and Rafe responds in kind, tangling his fingers in Barry’s hair.

“Would you just quit it and fuck me already?” Rafe groans, like it pains him to wait for anything more than a rough, dry fuck, despite the fact that he’s still dipping down to get little tastes of Barry’s lips. 

Barry nips at Rafe’s bottom lip, hard enough to sting but not enough to draw blood. He shakes his head as he does, smirking against Rafe’s mouth.

“Nuh-uh. We ain’t doin’ that. Gonna fuck you proper, remember?” Barry questions, grabbing Rafe’s chin and forcing their eyes to meet. 

His hand is big enough that his fingers wrap around Rafe’s jaw, and that alone puts all sorts of ideas into Barry’s head. 

Rafe rolls his eyes, acting like it’s some exhausting ordeal for him, even though he’s rolling his hips into Barry’s with these little whimpers that basically drive Barry out of his fucking mind.

Fucking Rafe proper, right. That’s what Barry is doing right now.

That’s what he does. 

Barry flips them so Rafe is lying on his back and Barry is hovering over him. He takes Rafe apart piece by piece, bit by bit, until Rafe is a squirming, desperate mess beneath him, begging for it like his life depends on it.

Then, and only then, does Barry fuck him. He gives it to Rafe slowly, thoroughly, with all the finesse he can muster, because Jesus fucking Christ he’s wanted this for longer than he even knew and he’ll be damned if the first time he fucks Rafe Cameron - like, really fucks him - is a rushed, half-assed mess that leaves either of them unsatisfied. 

Barry rolls off of Rafe with a grunt after round one, trying to catch his breath. He feels boneless and satisfied, and from the looks of it, Rafe does too.

“Disgusting. Never doing that again. Can’t believe you even talked me into it,” Rafe bitches, but he’s still panting and has one hand grappling for some part of Barry’s body, finally grabbing onto his arm.

Rafe uses the arm he'd gotten ahold of as leverage to drape himself across Barry like a blanket, so that they're chest-to-chest, resting his head in the space where Barry’s shoulder meets his neck. He’s nuzzling the soft skin there, practically purring like a cat.

“Definitely never doing that again,” Barry agrees, snorting when Rafe’s head shoots up to look him dead in the eyes, glaring.

“Shut up.”

“Shit, baby boy, you said it first.”

“Well I didn’t fucking mean it,” Rafe snaps, but it’s only a little malicious. “Could’ve killed you like, seven different times while your guard was down. Decided against it when you delivered on your promise, so. Don’t make me change my mind.”

Barry doesn’t doubt that one single bit, and that should send him running for the fucking hills because he’s going soft on a guy who can and would literally kill him at any given moment, but all he does is laugh.

Rafe is too worn out to slit his throat right now, anyway. 

“At least wait ‘til we done with round two, Country Club,” Barry suggests, raking a hand through Rafe’s damp hair. 

Whether it’s still damp from Rafe’s shower, or sweat, or both, Barry doesn’t know. But he supposes it doesn’t really matter, anyway. He’ll have this little bitch of a boy undoubtedly covered in sweat by the time he’s done with him. 

“Round two?” Rafe asks, his interest piqued. He’s leaning into Barry’s touch, sighing contentedly at the nails raking gently over his scalp. 

Barry snakes a hand down to grab Rafe’s ass, giving it a smack and feeling ridiculously satisfied when it jiggles beneath his palm. 

“Oh, you in for it now, Rafe Cameron,” Barry answers with a nod, delighting in the little moan he gets from using Rafe’s name. 

Rafe rolls off of Barry, spreading himself out on the bed and looking over at Barry with one brow arched, challenging him.

“Well, get the fuck on with it then.”

Rafe’s stamina is only mildly baffling. He gets off two, maybe three more times before Barry is done with him, and by the time Barry has worn himself out, Rafe is a babbling mess.

“Shh, Country Club. I got you,” Barry soothes, hardly recognizing his own voice. He curls around Rafe like a cat, winding an arm around his waist and pulling him closer until they're spooning. 

Stupid messy feelings. Fuck.

Rafe falls asleep in Barry’s arms not even thirty seconds later. And again the next night, and the next, and the next, until a week of fucking, cuddling, sleeping, and repeating has passed, interspersed with a few drug deals here and there to other customers. 

At the end of the week, when Rafe has to return home at the request of his stepmother, Barry’s trailer suddenly feels both too big and empty, and too cluttered and small. Rafe’s presence apparently balances things out enough that Barry doesn’t notice until he’s gone.

Two days of radio silence go by before Rafe is barging into Barry’s trailer, fists clenched and his eyes wild.

“Give me some blow,” Rafe orders, his eyes flitting around the trailer like it’s unfamiliar territory. Like he’s never been here before in his life.

Barry looks up from his book, still lounging across his couch without a care in the world. “Sure thing, baby boy. You done earned all the blow you want.”

Barry winks and opens his mouth, waggling his tongue like a fucking idiot to demonstrate his meaning, but Rafe isn’t having any of it. Not today.

“You know what I mean, Barry,” Rafe snaps, shoving a hand through his hair. Little pieces of it stick to his sweat-damp forehead. 

“I know good goddamn well what you mean,” Barry tells him, disinterested in the direction this conversation is taking. He looks back down at his book, casually flipping a page without really reading anything.

Rafe’s subsequent actions do not, in any way, shape, or form, come as a surprise.

He rips the book out of Barry’s hands with what sounds like a snarl, launching it across the room. It lands with a thud on the makeshift coffee table in the center of the room, knocking off some various bits of clutter littering the surface.

“Don’t fuck with me today,” Rafe hisses, and he’s pointing at Barry with a trembling hand. “I’m not in the fucking mood. Do you have what I need or not?”

Barry sighs, silently cursing God for getting him into this shitstorm of a situation with this Looney Tunes boy who has half the mind to murder him every time he sees him. 

“Yeah, princess, I got what you think you need. But you ain’t getting it.” Barry finally sits up to look Rafe square in the eyes. “You can get my mouth or you can get the fuck out. I ain’t fueling your little suicide mission anymore. Don’t think I ain’t noticed what your goal is; I may be dumb, but I ain’t stupid.”

Rafe stumbles over his words, looking like he’s seconds away from completely losing his head. Then, his expression smooths over, and he gives Barry a smile, one that makes Barry’s skin crawl.

“Fine. Like you said, I have plenty of friends with the hookup,” Rafe tells him casually, then spins on his heel and makes a beeline for the door.

Barry rolls his eyes as he watches him go, leaning forward only to shout, “Oh yeah? Where they at then, Country Club? You put ‘em in your pocket for safekeeping?”

Rafe is out the door already, and Barry shouldn’t chase after him. He really shouldn’t. 

But, because he’s fucked up like that, he does.

“You ain’t snorting that shit no more,” Barry shouts across the yard, but Rafe doesn’t stop. 

Barry should turn around and go back inside. Shut the door and lock it and never let Rafe back in, because the guy is going to kill him one day anyway. Might as well lose the attachment while he can.

Clearly, what Barry should do is of no consequence to him, because he charges down the shoddy steps leading up to his trailer and barrels across the yard anyway. He manages to grab Rafe’s elbow before he can hop onto his bike and speed off into the sunset.

Or sunrise. Barry’s been consistently Snoop Dogg-level stoned for a few days now, so it really could go either way. 

“What?” Rafe snaps, yanking his elbow free from Barry’s grip with a grunt.

Barry doesn’t exactly know what to say, because he doesn’t exactly know why he’s here, chasing after Rafe Cameron like he’s some giggly schoolgirl with a stupid crush. Rafe is a fantastic lay, but that’s all he should be to Barry.

Operative word being should. Again. 

“I got what you need, remember?” Barry reminds him, searching for some trace of that soft, mushy Rafe that exists inside of him in minute traces.

He comes up empty.

“What you got isn’t enough,” Rafe mocks, and it shouldn’t sting so much, but Barry feels wounded to his core.

Again, stupid messy feelings. Fucking fuck.

“Yeah? You gonna get what you need from one of them rich boys down in Kook central? They gonna fuck you like I do?” Barry challenges. “You gonna beg ‘em for it like you beg for me? That what you gonna do, Rafe Cameron? ‘Cause I don’t think you gonna get very far with that.”

Rafe spins on his heel so he’s fully facing Barry, leaving his motorbike propped up in the dirt, forgotten.

“I’m going to fucking kill you, Barry,” Rafe spits, wild-eyed and looking very, very far away from himself. “I’m going to take you into your shit trailer and I’m going to put a fucking pillow over your stupid fucking face, and I’m going to smother you with it until you shut the fuck up and quit breathing, you stupid- ”

Barry cuts him off by slamming their mouths together, shoving Rafe backwards a step. One of the handlebars of Rafe’s bike hits him in the back, and Rafe gasps into Barry’s mouth at the unexpected pain.

But he doesn’t shove Barry away. In fact, Rafe presses in closer, giving as much as he gets. Barry doesn’t let him go until Rafe starts to get rough, that violent anger from before rearing its ugly head.

Rafe is pushing and shoving Barry as he kisses him, biting at Barry’s lips any chance he can get, trying to get Barry to push back.

Barry just takes Rafe’s jaw in a firm grip, separating their lips with a sigh.

“Calm down, Rafe,” Barry orders quietly, not budging as Rafe struggles against him. “I said calm the fuck down, Country Club, goddamn. You ain’t dying.”

“I want to,” Rafe breathes, stumbling away from Barry when he relinquishes his grip on his chin. Rafe nearly trips over his bike as he tumbles backward. 

Rafe rights himself before beginning to pace back and forth frantically.

“I want to die. I want everyone to die. We all die, you know? What difference does it make how it happens? Who it happens to?” Rafe rambles, bordering on nonsensical. He raps his knuckles against his head as he paces, squeezing his eyes shut. “There’s just. There’s too much up here. Do it, don’t do it. Snort it, don’t snort it. Kill it, don’t kill it. I can’t fucking- I need it to be quiet. I need to forget.”

Barry watches him with guarded eyes, witnessing the downward spiral in real time once again. Then, he catches one of Rafe’s hands, and Rafe surprisingly doesn’t resist being pulled close to Barry, slumping against him like he’s finally worn himself out.

“Lemme help you forget,” Barry murmurs, circling his arms around Rafe to keep him from leaping backwards. “You gonna let me do that, Country Club? You gonna let me help you?”

And that, ladies and gentleman, is how Barry ends up fucking Rafe on his living room couch, agonizingly slow and sweet simply because Rafe wanted it hard and fast and punishing. 

It takes some time, and then some more, before Rafe starts to seem like a person again. It’s when he starts keening under Barry’s touch that Barry knows he’s coming back to himself, and he can’t help the triumphant smile that crosses his lips. 

“Fucking hell, Barry, are you planning on actually fucking me anytime soon?” Rafe grouches, but he’s driving his hips down onto Barry’s cock with intention and, well. Barry has never been one to back down from a challenge.

So Barry lets Rafe goad him into pounding his ass into the couch cushions, until he reaches his peak and topples over edge, Barry’s name spilling from his lips in rapid succession. 

And then Barry does it again, and again, and again. Always again, as if Rafe’s stamina is never-ending and Barry’s body is ten years younger and able to keep up the pace.  

Somehow, Barry’s body manages. It always seems to whenever Rafe fucking Cameron is around. 

After, they stay sprawled on the couch, this time with Barry lounging on top of Rafe, peppering his chest with little kisses and bites that don’t really sting like they should.

“How do you do that?” Rafe asks quietly, after some time has passed. 

Barry looks up at him, the finger that was tracing meaningless patterns onto his chest coming to a stop.

“Most people think you gotta, like, get back into your own head to get shit straight,” Barry explains with a shrug, “but sometimes you gotta get the fuck out of it to come back, ya know?”

“No, I don’t know,” Rafe says, his voice soft and small and completely out of character. “Guess I’m glad you do, though.”

It’s not a permanent fix. Never will be. But it seems to work for Rafe, this pattern they’ve fallen into. 

Rafe’s moods never stop fluctuating. His hunger for taking a life never subsides. He still begs Barry for coke any chance he can get, and still lets Barry fuck the craving right out of him. Lets Barry fuck the crazy, psychopathic thoughts that float around in his head on the regular out of him, too.

Weeks go by, until they turn into months, which then turn into a year. 

They’re standing at the sink, Barry washing dishes and Rafe pretending to help, both of them having lapsed into some sort of fucked-up level of domesticity that Barry has never been able to achieve before.

Figures that a living, breathing, psychopathic murderer would be the one person to bring it out of him. 

Typical. 

Barry shoves a plate into Rafe’s hands for him to dry, and Rafe looks so affronted by the idea of even touching a dish he isn’t currently eating off of that Barry can’t help but tip his head back and laugh.

“I can’t believe you’ve done this,” Rafe says, mimicking the only Vine Barry has ever seen. 

It’s a small thing, but it makes Barry’s heart swell to know that Rafe bothered to remember. Barry hates it, it’s absolutely disgusting, and he never, ever wants it to stop.

“My house, my rules, remember?” Barry smirks, leaning in for a kiss.

Rafe puts a hand up to block him, narrowing his eyes. “I’m gonna kill you, you know.”

Barry just snorts, smacking Rafe’s hand away and finally roping him in for a bruising kiss. When they break apart, Barry presses a soft kiss to Rafe’s nose, then turns back to the sink full of dishes.

“Yeah, yeah. My throat’s good for getting dick and getting slit, blah blahblah blahblah.”

Barry does know, though, deep down. One day he’ll likely wake up to find a knife sticking out of his jugular and Rafe’s lifeless eyes boring into his. 

But until then, he’s going to take the time he has left on this earth to fuck a Rafe-shaped hole through his mattress and, if he’s being honest with himself, his heart. Barry hates that he knows for a fact he’ll enjoy every last goddamn second of it.

What Barry doesn’t hate nearly as much is the knowledge that his little garden-variety Country Club psychopath will enjoy every last goddamn second of it, too.