This is the first hopefully of a series chronically Raylan and Boyd's relationship, starting when they were 19 mining coal together. It takes place under the assumption that Raylan and Boyd are childhood friends who have been secretly seeing each other for months now. This is how I imagine the night Raylan leaves to go join the Marshall Service.

Boyd awoke with a start, and it took a moment for him to separate the pounding on the door from the pelting of rain on the roof. Disentangling himself from the ratty afghan his mother had made so many years ago, he rose and walked hesitantly toward the door. His cautious peer through the peephole had him ripping the door open to reveal Raylan, leaning on the door frame and breathing raggedly as if he'd run there.

"Raylan, what -" was all Boyd got out before Raylan was kissing him, his hands on the side of Boyd's face, mouth desperate and searching, body pressing him into the open door. Boyd fervently returned the kiss, but pulled back reluctantly after a few minutes, pressing his forehead against Raylan's.

"Come upstairs," he whispered roughly with what little breath he had left, his hand brushing lightly, casually over Raylan's cheekbone.

Raylan paused for a moment, leaning ever so slightly into Boyd's touch, then threw himself violently backwards and shook his head. "I can't. I'm leaving. Tonight."

"What do you mean 'leaving'?" Boyd asked, a heavy weight forming in his stomach as he quietly closed the front door and stepped out onto the porch to stand toe to toe with Raylan. "What happened?"

"My Mama..." Raylan's voice trailed off and he avoided Boyd's glance, but his trembling hands and red-rimmed eyes made it easy to fill in the blanks.

Boyd quietly took Raylan's hand in his and squeezed it. "I'm sorry," he said softly, and meant it. He knew what it was like to lose a mother.

They stood like that for a few moments, until Raylan released Boyd's hand and turned to look off into the distance, the expression on his face unreadable except for the undercurrent of pain running beneath it. He finally spoke, voice shaking only slightly, "It's been a long time coming. I promised her when she got sick that I'd stay until the end, but with that debt paid, I've got nothing keeping me here. Arlo's too broken up to give her a proper funeral, selfish son-of-a-bitch that he is. So I'm leaving tonight - no point in prolonging things that don't need to be prolonged."

"You're upset, Raylan - no use in doing something you'll regret just because you're feeling lost." Boyd tried to keep the fear out of his voice as he spoke.

"You think I'd regret leaving Harlan?" Raylan asked angrily, beginning to pace the porch like a caged animal. "I told myself first chance I got I'd be out the front door and across the state line for good. And here I am, 19 years old, mining coal, killing my lungs with black dust and my liver with whiskey. If I don't leave now, I never will."

"And do what, Raylan?" Boyd snapped, his temper cutting through his concern. "What are your employable skills? Mining coal? Talking like a smart ass? Looking good in a silly hat? What's a son of Harlan like you equipped to do in the big, wide world?"

Raylan hesitated before responding, "I'm joining the Marshall Service, Boyd. I sent in an application a few months back, and they accepted me last week. I'd been weighing what to do when," Raylan paused a little here, pushing down the lump forming in his throat, and finished quietly, "when Mama took a turn for the worse. It seemed like the universe was telling me something, and it would have been stupid not to listen."

Boyd felt like he'd been socked in the gut, but made his face carefully blank when he said, "Universe, huh? I always was kind of convinced she had it out for me. So this right here, this is you saying goodbye?"

Raylan's face softened, replying after a moment, "Doesn't have to be. You could join up. Marshall Service is always looking for good men."

Boyd laughed out loud at that, a sharp, bitter sound devoid of any pleasure, and said, "Oh wouldn't that be a pretty picture, me, a US Marshall? Sure, I could go gallivanting all over the country, then come riding back into Harlan on my white horse; then I could wave my shiny silver badge in my Daddy's face, show him how grateful I am to him for raising me! That'd be just swell, Raylan, where do I sign?"

Now it was Raylan losing his temper as he yelled, "So this is it, then, Boyd? This is all you ever want for yourself? What, mining coal until you're in position to take over your Daddy's drug empire, distributing poison to the people of Harlan for the rest of your days?"

"At least, I know who I am, Raylan!" Boyd was now screaming as well, "I never had an delusions that I would be doing anything other than what my family has been doing for a hundred years - digging coal and dealing drugs. You're the one with the big, shiny dreams, too big for this shithole of a town, too grand for the yokels of Harlan. Much too good for the likes of me."

"Bullshit, Boyd. You're staying here because you're afraid of doing anything else, of trying for something more and failing! And if I thought I was too good for you, why am I asking you to come with me?" Raylan shouted angrily back at him.

The heated exchange between them abated as they caught their breath, and it was Raylan who once again picked up the conversation, this time cajoling rather than yelling,

"This is a one-time offer, Boyd, and it's still on the table; I want you to come with me, tonight - throw some clothes in a suitcase, jump in the passenger seat of my Chevy, and go. You don't even have to join the Marshalls if you don't want to; just come with me. We could make something together...something good," Raylan finished, looking Boyd straight in the eyes, his expression having morphed from sad and angry to hopeful and nervous.

Boyd backed up quietly to sit on the front porch swing, rocking back and forth a few times and pondering the weight of what Raylan had just offered him: a life, with him, outside Harlan. His gut instinct was to kiss Raylan hard on the mouth, throw together the first few shirts he could find, and drive off into the sunset with the only person in his life who'd ever wanted anything more for him. The only person who'd ever believed, no - expected, him to be something more than a small-time crook. But he knew that couldn't happen.

"It's a mirage, Raylan," he said softly after awhile, not daring to look at the other man. "This future you're seeing for us? It's just a pretty picture shimmering on the horizon that will vanish into sand when we get close. It's not real, can never be real. Even if we get out of Kentucky, you think people are going to be okay with us being together? You think my Daddy wouldn't kill us both when he found out?"

Now it was Raylan's turn to ponder in silence. At last he said, "So I guess that's it then - this is a goodbye after all. Goodbye, Boyd.". He turned and strode quickly off the porch before Boyd could apologize, or explain further, or even just kiss him one last time. Raylan paused briefly at the door to his Chevy, and turned to address him: "Your Daddy, what people think? They're just excuses. Good excuses, maybe, but they're still just chicken-shit cover stories for the fact that you're terrified to leave this prison you've built for yourself. And some day down the road, when you're looking out the window and wondering where your life went, you'll regret being too afraid to stop me leaving tonight. And that's all on you." He opened the car door, got in, and started it up, pausing to add, "Good luck though, Boyd. I mean it," before tearing off into the night.

And before Raylan was even out of sight, Boyd knew he was right - he already regretted letting him leave. He still didn't know how they could have made things work, but Raylan had a way of talking that made it seem like anything was possible.

Boyd returned to the living room, shutting the front door quietly so as not to wake Boman or his Daddy - although truth be told they'd imbibed enough whiskey that night not to be woken by a freight train running through the house. He shuffled over to the couch and curled up underneath the ratty afghan once more. Somehow the room seemed twice as small as it had before his talk with Raylan; the shabbyness which was once homey now seemed rundown and claustrophobic. And as he turned on the TV on low to fill the silence of the little room, Boyd was struck with the crushing realization that he'd loved Raylan...and that now he was gone, probably forever. And he cried over that, really cried, for the first time in many years and the last time for many to come.