One week rolls into the other as Mitch slowly recovers. He spends his time at the farmhouse, spends time sleeping a little less, spends time considering what shade of white to paint the outside of the building.
Spends a lot of time thinking about John.
It's impossible to ignore that whenever the wounds are being checked. It's a blessing that the sessions are shortening given how Mitch heals without issue. It's a goddamn gypsy curse that his body anticipates the sensation of John's fingers brushing against his skin.
In the middle of all of this, John has been slowly blooming. He also leaves the farmhouse more often, conversing with Father James or picking up things from the store. There are times when the wild looks return, where he wakes up in the middle of the night and heads to the forest, but no one is getting thrown to the floor. Mitch remains forever curious about the wiring of the man's brain but he's happy to watch him adjust so well.
"You know, getting a break from work has been nice really. Like a vacation," Mitch looks up from the newspaper he's reading. The current page is typical tabloid gossip that doesn't interest him, but he might need something to talk about with some of the boys at the station.
John comes trudging down from the floor above as he has since moved into the other room. It took a while and some conviction until he decided to spend the week building another bed from wood pallets and two-by-fours.
But they are still missing a mattress. He heads to the dinner table where Mitch is sitting and puts his hand on the young man's forehead but swiftly pulls back when he notices a blush.
"Uncomfortable?" he asks.
Mitch rubs the spot between his brows. "I'm not used to people touching me there. Makes me feel like a little kid."
It's a convenient half-truth that John buys immediately with a snort.
"I'd reckon you are," he almost smiles and seems mightily proud of himself by the weird sound that comes from a flushing Mitch as he turns the page of the newspaper with a huff.
And freezes.
He draws a shuddering breath and reads the article about a man being murdered outside a pub in Walla Walla. A late-night shooting, people upset at the man, rumors of being different. Perceived difference. It makes Mitch's stomach churn. He skims the article and lifts his head, finding John again munching on an apple until he notices the worried look sent his way. Like he knows he's being summoned. John looms over Mitch's shoulder and peers down the newspaper, reading the article briskly. Whatever he thinks of it, his expression betrays nothing.
"What do you think of it?" Mitch asks and it suddenly strikes him that he can now see where John's tolerances go. But the man shields his expression and stands up with a muted look on his face, then chews on his apple again before asking; "The Order?"
Oh! Mitch hasn't noticed that part. He skims the article again and indeed, The Order is mentioned as a possible connection to the case. He sighs then looks up at John, a shiver running down his spine. "Some mysterious paramilitary group. Think the FBI put them on a watch list."
The topic ends with that as Mitch turns a few more pages, past more articles and adverts for carpet cleaning services – until his eyes rest on catalogs for summer homes in Idaho. Cute little houses with plants under their windows and picture-perfect little gardens which make for a great grilling location. And a thought strikes him.
"Should we get window boxes? I'm not a flower power guy so herbs?"
John's eyes brighten with excitement, and he takes a sound bite of his apple, nodding twice at the thought. His lips almost curl into a smile, maybe at the mirth practically radiating from the young deputy.
It's raining when Mitch rolls into work a few days later. An air of business fills the entire building. Deputies rush in and out of the doors, the sheriff is nowhere to be seen and the poor receptionist barely sits for five seconds before the phone chimes again. It's as if a whirlwind of activity has completely taken over the otherwise moderately sleeping police station.
Will comes trudging from his office, hat on head, hands on hips, and briefly stops in front of Mitch. His expression softens as he puts a hand across the young deputy's forehead and says; "You look and feel better. Go with Preston. We got some distress calls around the county, so we need all hands on deck."
It's fortuitous he doesn't notice the bandages. Then again, Mitch has fluffed his collar up today.
"Okay," he nods. He's been in the police station for less than twenty minutes before he heads out again with Preston following behind soon after. They head for the police car and soon drive through the traffic of Hope. Preston behind the wheel, Mitch in the passenger seat.
"So what's the deal today?" he asks as the distant shape of the motel appears further up the road.
"There's been some domestic dispute call. Witnesses allege screaming. One hell of an adventure, you're coming back to," answers Preston, slowing down just a notch as the car pulls to a stop in the partly empty parking lot.
The rain comes down harder to the point where it would drown out any conversation so Mitch bites his next question and just follows Preston into the downpour as they scurry across the wet pavement and up the stairs to the one room where yelling can be heard on the other side of the door. Mitch wants to knock but Preston just tries the door handle and finds it unlocked. Inside, it's one hell of a scene they walk in on; a man lays on the ground with a broken nose, another man stands over him with bloody fits and a woman lays by a door to a bathroom, softly crying. She's clutching the thin fabric of her dress, hands trembling.
"What the hell?" the man standing snaps his head to the two deputies, who instantly raise their firearms at him – which confuses him for some strange reason. "Why are you pointing at me? I'm doing the world a service."
Mitch swallows hard and stares the man down, searching for any potential signs of drug use. No sane person breaks a nose and asks why law enforcement sees him as a threat. No track marks, no diluted pupils, no white powder under his nose.
"Put your paws above your head, son. Keep 'em where I can see 'em!" Preston gestures with his gun and the man, sane of mind, huffs while he lifts his arms and puts his hands on his head. He shoots the deputy a sour glare as he's cuffed and dragged outside.
Partly outside the door, Preston looks over his shoulder and says; "I'll radio for an ambulance."
Which means Mitch has to be the one to calm the victims and figure out what the hell has happened. He draws a deep breath and tentatively goes to help the wounded man sit up with his back against the foot end of a bed. The woman has crawled to his side and clutched him like a child. She looks of age however and just as important, she looks unhurt. It makes this whole mess go down a little easier because Mitch can't quite stand the thought of women being hurt.
"Can I ask what happened, sir?" he searches through the pockets of his jacket for a pen and a crusty notepad.
The man pulls at the sheet until he can use a corner to rub his face free of blood. "He just barged in here and punched me in the face. Called me a freak and shit. Tried to hurt my girl."
"Do you know him?"
"I stumbled upon him over drinks a few nights ago. He bragged about beating some guy up in Walla Walla."
Mitch's blood runs cold as he writes. During the entirety of the conversation, the woman has quietly been sitting and simply observed. She hasn't nodded or shaken her head, which in turn arouses the curiosity of the lawman inside of Mitch. He observes a little and notes she looks a lot different than any woman he has ever seen. A lot to the androgynous side. Looking at her again, a thought crosses Mitch's mind but he finds himself treading water trying to decipher it.
"Ma'am, can I talk with you?" he asks as gently as he can instead.
The woman blinks like she's not understanding what she hears, then stares at the man with fear in her eyes before he utters something in a language alien to Mitch's ears. This causes the woman to relax a little but she does not say a word.
"Right," Mitch nods and scribbles down the notepad, listening to sirens howl in the distance. "We'll take the man into custody for interrogation. An ambulance is gonna come and pick you up. You might get called into court to testify depending on how the case goes."
The man translates it to whatever language the woman speaks, and she nods, clutching onto him like he could vanish into thin air. She trembles, looking so lost and vulnerable. One can't blame her after what happened but it strikes a weird note with Mitch, especially when she's tugged closer into a hug by her lover – maybe while he whispers sweet foreign nothings into her ear. Some of her falls across her wide shoulders that slowly stop trembling.
For a second, Mitch feels so uncomfortably jealous of her as he understands her plight. He'd like to know the feeling of having someone to safely embrace, to be treated tenderly despite his differences from what the world around him says is normal.
He swallows his loneliness and internally wishes the couple to be happy before he heads outside to check up on Preston, spotting the man standing by the police car with a sour look on his face. The arrested sits on the inside, screaming and thrashing like he's been possessed.
"Uh…" Mitch lets his gaze glide over to Preston, who dismisses the concern with a wave of his hand and deems it; "Tantrum."
Right. The young deputy nods but refrains from leaning against the wet car even as the rain lets up. The ambulance is taking its sweet time in getting here so silence fills the parking lot, albeit slightly undermined by the arrestee's thrashing.
"So how's the house?" Preston asks without looking at the person he's talking to.
"Time to paint the outside," answers Mitch, and relaxes just a notch at the faint sound of ambulance sirens howling in the distance. "But we might have to clean it first. It's just that we're two people so it might take forever."
Preston quirks a brow at this, a wide smile spreading over his face. "It was a brick house, yeah? If I bring some of the boys with me, we could help you out? We could make it a putlock and have fun with the whole thing."
For a moment, Mitch feels hesitation for the sake of the man currently residing at the farmhouse and wonders if it'll be another repeat of New Year's or John's arrest. His worries must have been quite apparent because he feels Preston's wet hand on his shoulder, feels it offers a squeeze of assurance.
"I'll make sure the guys behave themselves around the vet," Preston announces and smiles for the first time today.
Mitch chooses to nod. "I'll hold you to that."
The incident at the motel among a lot of things still rattles Mitch a little when he leaves for work in the early afternoon. Today has been long and tedious; paperwork, teletyping, handling files and documents for the court, the arrestee causing such a ruckus, Will has to slam a baton against the bars of his jail cell to quiet him down until Galt, unusually placid, has a cordial conversation with him.
They talked as if they knew each other but Galt just dodged the question when asked about it.
Mitch shakes his head and tries not to let his concern run roughshod too much. He sighs and pulls the vehicle to a stop outside the farmhouse but remains behind the wheel, staring at the barn. It occurs to him that the building is in rather good shape despite being abandoned for a few years. The previous owners renovated it before they left the property after all. But appearances can be deceiving; for all he knows, the inner beams could be moments from rotting away and it just reminds him that he hasn't actually set foot in the barn at all since he bought the place.
Anyway, it'll be the next project once they paint the house. They; him and John.
John who comes walking across the pasture with bags of soil over his shoulder. He stops briefly to look at the pickup truck then heads to the farmhouse but stops again with Mitch pops the door open with a genuine question leaving his lips.
"What are you doing, partner?"
Instead of giving a verbal answer, John points toward two boxes standing under the window on the porch. Because the farmhouse needs to be painted, they aren't attached. The realization makes Mitch smile. The consideration makes him blush. Dammit.
He gathers himself and closes the car door but rolls its window down to stick his head out. "We should buy the herbs then."
John nods but heads inside for a minute before he returns and hops into the passenger seat, hands clean, skin smelling of soap. Mitch's heart flutters while he ignites the engine and lets the pickup truck drive them back to Hope. He sighs deeply and opens his mouth when they wait for the stoplights to turn green.
"I should mention that some of the guys will come by on the weekend. You know, getting the house washed and painted. Gonna make it a putlock. I said yes because it's a lot if it's just us two. It's just so…well, I mean now you know so if you wanna leave, that's fine and all."
John says nothing as he turns his head and looks at Mitch in a manner that makes his heart do a summersault. Just as the light turns yellow, he nods and asks; "You want me to integrate with the town, right?"
"Y-yeah, that would be nice but not if it hurts you."
"I'll stay in the background," he says and the anticipation for the weekend's putlock goes down a little better.
It's a quiet ride, the memory of the motel incident vanishes and Mitch's heart beats fast. He swallows, eyes on the road, hands on the steering wheel. It's like he's holding his breath until the truck rolls to a stop outside Fields Department Store and they hop out to the drizzle of dusty rain. John's jacket has a hood that he pulls over his head while Mitch, without such luxury, has to bear it until they are inside.
Going inside the garden store, Mitch expects them to split apart and find a pot or two each. Rather than that, John follows him around to watch him closely to the point one has to wonder if he gets a kick out of Mitch flustering into a pot of unknown origin. His ears burn and he blinks at the pot to focus on something, anything but the man standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him. There's a moment's silence before John with bright eyes glances at the rosemary until Mitch gets the hint and swaps the pots, taking parsley with him. In total, they also settle for green oregano and lemon balm. And sorrel to be stored inside.
"We could get you a mattress while we're here," muses Mitch as they walk across the linoleum floors. Because it's a weekday, traffic isn't so bad, unlike the weekends. "I think they got some on sale now."
John hums with agreement. He's still sleeping on the couch despite the bed in the guest room, that's mostly just storage now. He scours their surroundings once again, visibly tense but not to the point of jumping someone. Mitch reckons that since heading to church alone, he's becoming better at going out and about between the unsuspecting townsfolk but having a friend along must be helping quite a lot. It feels strangely domestic going shopping with him, Mitch reckons. It occurs to him that it's also the first time they have done this.
There's something domestically wholesome about it that makes him think of going Christmas shopping with Anna and Will.
His heart flutters again but with it comes a wave of warmth that tempers any blushing. It helps that they have goals in mind. The furniture retailer is a nice distraction, especially with the array of pricy things for sale that makes his head reel. Mitch expects John to be similarly stunned by the commodities and luxuries surrounding them but rather, he's efficiently skulking through the rows of water beds and frames until he reaches the mattresses – then searches for the one with the lowest price.
He finds it but notices one that's about ten bucks pricier but looks ten times more comfortable. It arrests his attention to the point where he lets his hand press down on the display model like he's petting a dog he doesn't know. It's amusing to look at with the way his steely expression melts just a notch and he turns to Mitch, slightly wide-eyed.
"This one. Please?"
He says it so casually that it's like Mitch's inside turn to sludge.
"Got it," nods the young deputy, swallowing hard and drifting towards a salesperson to place an order, then to the registry to pay for it. He doesn't dare to look over his shoulder lest his face becomes beet red.
Weekend is a hesitant blessing that rolls around quickly to the point where the world slows down from lack of busy work. Early in the morning, Mitch sits on the steps to the porch with a cup of coffee in his hand, staring at how the twilight slowly brightens the sky and the sun ever so gently begins to climb over the treetops. It's a nice view really, easy to catch in the winter.
It feels like a calm before the storm.
His appetite is therefore a little shy this morning. In part to anticipation, in part to anxiety. He should be happy really; with a football team of people wandering about and washing, painting, eating, (hopefully not) drinking, getting that damn house painted should be over in no time. The forest is next door so John can quietly slip away and return to the wilderness like a caveman if the going gets too tough.
If he's harassed enough.
And it's just that Mitch doesn't know how far the word spread. He loves Hope, he really does but he's not sure he wants the entire town on his doorstep.
Preston didn't make the scale clear; then again, Mitch didn't think to ask.
He drinks the last sips of his coffee and returns inside to prepare. At times like these, he wishes the barn was cleared so they could gather there. Then again, it's still a little chilly outside. He's just not quite mentally able to process a whole host of people invading his house all at once, too comfortable with how quiet the days are here. He ain't got enough silverware and plates for a football team either, he realizes. Crap, he should have bought paper plates and plastic utensils when they went to Fields. Anyway, hopefully, people bring their own.
Movements upstairs cause Mitch to flinch for a moment because he's used to silence there at this hour. It's just as odd to not have John sleep on the couch, to not come downstairs and find the man up and about or actually unconscious. Mitch is getting used to watching him descend the stairs dressed and showered at least, used to the way his usually dark brown hair turns almost black when wet.
It looks a little longer too and Mitch is struck with the urge to touch it.
He shakes the impulse away before his cheeks begin to glow red and gets to wipe the dinner table, tidy the rest of the ground floor up, remove newspapers and magazines, books, and half-completed jigsaw puzzles. Until there is no sign of individuality.
Just in time for a few cars to come driving down the pathway half an hour later. Oh. They're coming early. There are around three cars that come to a stop outside the barn but at least twice as many people exit them. Preston and Shingleton with their wives. In Leroy's case, his adult daughter whom he raised alone. Driving with Preston are Ward and his girlfriend. Out of the women, she is the least practically dressed. She still helps them load off dishes and carry them inside to put them on the dinner table.
Thankfully, everyone has brought paper plates and their own utensils. Leroy hauls paint buckets, tools, and a ladder with Ward's help to the house. As well as a few ancient artifacts that are apparently meant to clean the brick house – by hand.
Introductions are made, plans are structured, and John quietly retreats to the porch, nodding to the people who dare to greet him. He's like a fly on the wall, a statue that simply exists. The people fill the ground floor so that's one reason why. He doesn't even take any of the food when the covers and tinfoil are pulled off. Suppose the reality of people present is just too much for him to not be on edge. Mitch can't help but pity him, so he gathers a plate of hash browns, eggs, sausages, bacon, and toast and heads out on the porch where John stands with his hands down his pocket.
"You have my permission to stuff your face, partner," Mitch hands over the plate, his heart about to rip itself out of his chest cavity when John's fingers accidentally brush against his during transfer. Mitch swallows, clears his throat then tries to throw an invitation out there as casually as he can. "You should mingle a little once we get painting. Makes cooperation a little easier."
John breathes through his nose and slightly nods, staring at the plate like he doesn't know what to do with it. But the way his shoulders slump makes it clear that he relaxes a bit by the gesture made for his sake. The world quiets for a moment when he lifts his head and Mitch's heart slams against his chest bone.
He can't stop the blush, he can't stop the trembling He can't stop the interruption that comes barging out on the porch like a wrecking ball.
Leroy's daughter comes trudging out of the house with a glass of apple juice, blue eyes darting around. She shoots John a lightning-fast glance before she hones in on Mitch with a wide smile on her face. She seems disproportionally happy to see him considering they have known each other for an hour.
Jenny is her name, isn't it? What is she doing again, a college student from Bellingham getting a nurse's degree or something?
Mitch tentatively waves at her, and she takes it as a sign to gently waft him inside, talking about everything but nothing while he looks at John briefly because they are back inside. Jenny seems like a sweet girl, very outgoing and energetic in a way that's completely opposite to her father. She's a tall girl, around Mitch's height, around his age. He wouldn't focus on her this much either if she didn't also stick to him like flypaper.
Truth be told, it's getting irritating, especially for the number of times when her fingers graze against his shoulders or she bumps into him "by accident." If anything, it makes him feel far more exciting than he thinks of himself. At some point, while she heads to the restroom, Mitch stands by the sink, drying off utensils and neatly organizing them – hoping that he has done it correctly so they can be picked up by the end of the day. The others are outside setting up for the paint job, so he feels a moment's reprieve, a moment to breathe.
The door opens and someone steps in; John, it turns out to be thankfully. He hangs his jacket on the nook, turns around, and looks at the young deputy with something akin to softness.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
Mitch swallows and quickly stares down the sink filled with soapy water. "Y-yeah, I'm fine. Just tired already and we haven't even begun."
It's a nice round of silence that follows. Feels like the house is theirs again. Theirs. Partly the only reason why Mitch takes up dishwashing duty. The moment of serenity is rudely interrupted when the door swings open yet again and Ward walks in with a plastic cup in his hands. He doesn't bother to take his boots off as he trudges inside towards the sink for water, then nudges Mitch with his elbow to the point where it becomes annoying.
"Look at you, Mr. Popular!" he's grinning widely from ear to ear.
Sighing, Mitch asks; "What are you talking about?"
"Jenny is really into you! Don't tell me, you didn't notice."
Mitch unfortunately has but getting it echoed back into his face leaves him with a very weird feeling that almost urges him to run and hide. He scoffs his fear and finishes up to dry his hands, heading outside. As he's standing on the porch, he looks over his shoulder and sees John follow behind like a shadow with a guarded expression on his face.
"So, are we ready?" Leroy announces to the crowd that's gathered outside and they nod. He assigns sections and tasks, barking orders much the same way the sheriff does albeit less bombastically.
Mitch finds himself stationed by the porch and scrubs the walls with Preston and John, catching occasional glances from Jenny. It's a bad distraction from the gratitude of these people showing up and painting his house for free. That's the thing, for free and he's very thankful.
"You really did something amazing, getting the crowd together and all. Thanks," he says once he's finished with his section of the wall.
Preston chuckles as he wipes sweat off the combover on his head. "No need. Figured you needed some love. Since you've been down under the weather after New Year's."
Yeah, that sounds about right. He could do without Ward, but the man is mercifully chaste today and is on the other side of the building so he's out of mind as he is out of sight. Mitch feels moderately at ease while he bends over to rinse his mop. In the meantime, Preston makes an attempt at small talk – with John of all people.
"You scrub good, son."
John hesitates but answers calmly. "…I used to wash cars at some point. Feels similar."
"It shows," Preston sounds almost proud. "Got a nice, meticulous hand for it."
"I don't know if it's anything compared to this."
"Same thing, ain't it?"
They talk a little bit more about handiwork and tools; Preston far more than John as the washing comes to an end and there's a break before the bricks are ready for the primer paint. John takes orders well but blooms just a bit in the presence of Preston and no one else. Doing housework with a dozen or so people helps the process along. It teaches Mitch a few things about primer and color palettes that go along with the stone porch. It becomes halfway a lesson as afternoon approaches and the second coat is applied. It becomes clear why they started so early.
It's done right before evening. The house will need the night to be fully dry but come morning, Mitch can wake up to a uniform white that has enveloped the entire building.
And because they got out here for him, he thanks them all individually.
It has long since gone dark when Mitch sits on the couch, knees against his chest, cradling a cup of tea while he takes in the peace and quiet. Next to him, with a seat in between is John, equally reticent. He's been staring off into the distance, mulling on today, mulling on the changes that have happened. Not surprising with the positive experiences he's beginning to collect. It's a pleasant moment that passes in slow stretches while the house slowly begins to feel like theirs again. Little by little, the smell of foreign perfumes dissipates.
"Wanna look through the barn before dinner?" Mitch asks, well aware that at this hour, they will not be done today. But it feels right to punctuate a day of endless productivity with more productivity.
A fire ignites in John's eyes and he leads the way to the building, opening its double doors. A waft of dust and metal comes flying out, revealing a trove of items after a flashlight passes over the interior. Curiosity trumps exhaustion and gets the better of Mitch and he skips past John to clean out equipment or scrap and neatly stashes the tools John has made for hunting. It would be good for the bike and the truck to get a place that shields them from the seasons.
As for the rest? It becomes apparent that John knows the difference between trash and treasure and sorts out more efficiently than Mitch between what is to go to the junkyard and what can be salvaged. All the trash ends up in the trunk of the pickup truck. They'll take it to the junkyard before church tomorrow.
It occurs to Mitch just how spacious the barn really is and how in good shape it is. The city boy in him dreams of Grandfather's farm, dreams of what could be while he keeps his hands and mind busy. Before long, there's more junk to be driven away and John impulsively decides to do it – which stacks up to three total runs.
A few hours past dinnertime, they are mostly done. Compelled by hunger, John has headed back to the house for leftovers from the putlock and beers while Mitch sits on the loft and rests his exhausted body against the wooden wall, shivering from the chill creeping into the building. He dreams but not quite until he's awoken by a plate of tepid cabbage rolls. They sit on the loft and quietly eat, taking in the absolute exhaustion and the silent agreement to skip service tomorrow.
"You plan on keeping livestock?" John asks once Mitch climbs the ladder back down from the loft. It's easy with paper plates as he has crushed them in his hand.
"A dog and poultry, maybe."
"Horses too?" asks John with a subtle gleam in his eyes that makes it very clear he's a horseboy.
Mitch shrugs and briefly wonders about John's life in Arizona. "Eh, I don't know."
"I can help."
"No, partner. It's fine. Wouldn't want to trap you here with me," Mitch tentatively smiles because he knows he'd not be too keen on equines when this partnership is over.
Because it's temporary.
Predictably, John softly objects to the implications. "I like it here."
Yes. It's very clear he does. But he has his life to live. He might want a wife, children, a family. He might want all those things in life when he's gotten the tools to mingle with civilians again. He might see the problems with the man in front of him. It's such a bitter, pessimistic thought that reminds Mitch of what abject heartache feels like.
It breeds a wish, a need for self-destruction.
"Until you might get sick of me," he mumbles under his breath.
And John raises his brow and takes a few steps closer. "…Why?"
He gets his answer when Mitch involuntarily jitters backward. He's perplexed but also a little…
"Because of that?"
"W-well…sort of," Mitch admits then trembles again when the distance between them is closed aggressively. "D-don't, please?"
John is puzzled but also a little hurt.
"I won't attack you."
"I-I know. I know, I know, I know. It's uh, cliché but it's me, not you."
"But it's because of me."
That…Mitch can't deny. Not even close. He swallows and, fuck it, he nods. He simply nods.
"It's not your fault. It's…" fear makes his words a mess. The fear of death, the anticipation of rejection. The pining to end whatever the hell is wrong with him. The urge to destroy what's good right now. Break it before it becomes a problem. "It's because there are things that you-I-I'm thinking of about you."
"Are they things, I should hear?" asks John in absent caution. With how placid he is, Mitch realizes that he's moments away from making a horrible mistake and he panics.
"N-no. You wouldn't want to either. It would destroy everything. You'd kill me."
"That's-"
"No, you don't understand. You would not! It's not normal!"
The words come out as a panicked wheeze as his chest tightens and he wishes he hadn't been so stupid! He's expecting John to just give up or talk about his rap sheet or something. He's not expecting him to counter with an equilibrium that's just as spontaneous.
"Who decides what's normal? The majority? The same majority protestin' me, spittin', callin' me 'Baby Killer', and all kinds of vile crap? The same majority currently splitting you apart right now? Who are they to decide what's normal? Why placate them when they don't care about us?"
It's the first time he's raised his voice. It's the first time he has opened his mouth wider than a growl or a low-note quip. It's the first time his eyes have stretched wide with outward, red-hot anger. It's shocking for animated it is, so much that Mitch stands and looks at him in stunned silence. This quote makes more sense to him than it probably should. He's trying to mentally process it. He really is. He lets it, whatever it is, sink in and his eyes begin to water.
Goddammit, he's crying now and he has no idea why.
"Fuck…fuck. I'm sorry," Mitch mumbles into his sleeve as they drag across his face, catching tears, catching snot, and stopping neither. "Dammit, I hate being such a pansy, ugh!"
John breathes long and hard through his nose, all the outpour from moments ago fading into nothing. He puts his hands on Mitch's shoulders, holds them firmly but gently, and says; "Whatever that wrong is, you're still you."
"It's because…there are things I want. Things I'm not supposed to have unless I want to die. The world doesn't like people like me."
"The world doesn't like me either. Same shit, different circumstances. You're not alone," answers John and smiles. Actually smiles for the very first time. It's a heartachingly beautiful, arcane thing to witness.
Mitch lifts his head again and his stomach actively summersaults. He's actively terrified yet much the same way, he wants to throw himself around John's neck and wrap around the man like jungle vines.
"I'm just scared of what will happen if I take what I want."
"There was a neo-Nazi in my unit," John says candidly. "A black man changed his view by saving his life. Point is I can handle it. I've seen a little bit of everything."
For a moment, it's completely possible to stop thinking.
The world turns so silent that it feels as if it stops turning entirely. Mitch, aware that he might be dead after this, throws his life on the line and leans closer, letting his eyes fall to a close. He's slow, terrified but he doesn't think, he can't think. He simply chases the warmth, the faint scent of odorless soap until he feels skin – lips and takes what he wants. John is surprisingly soft and patient. He doesn't move an inch. His stubble tickles and itches but it's such a blessed, blithe sensation. It's only when Mitch puts a shaking hand on his forearm that he reacts. He tightens his grip and slides down an inch. It's such a minuscule gesture that makes Mitch feel safe by a mile.
Until it all ends.
He can't look at John now, forcing his gaze down, forcing his hands down the length of his body, fighting with the urge to apologize and-well he gives in anyway.
"I'm sorry," he utters with such pathetic grain he feels like crumbling in on himself. He doesn't stop to watch John's expression and half-jogs out of the barn, wishing the earth could split in two and devour him.