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The summer heat sits on Raylan’s shoulders like a heavy wool blanket, even here in the shade of the clearing. Still, the birds manage to sing, chattering happily among themselves. Raylan doesn’t really have any desire to join them — can’t carry a tune in a bucket, can’t so much as whistle — and even if he wanted to, his voice is all choked up, caught in his throat. He’s pretty sure he knows why, and also pretty sure he doesn’t want to think about it.
A twig snaps next to him and he takes his time looking over, already knowing what he’ll see. His eyes trace their way up: scuffed boots, jeans, white undershirt with a red checkered shirt over the top, and above it all Boyd Crowder’s face, so solemn it might have been carved out of stone. He’s the same age as Raylan, nineteen years, but somehow he looks younger right now. Maybe it’s the futile attempt at a beard — Boyd’s stubble is patchy and uneven against his tan skin. Raylan can already grow a mustache, mostly.
Boyd sits down carefully, stretching out his long legs and leaning back on his elbows. He’s a good foot and a half away from Raylan, and the distance seems to simmer with more than the usual afternoon heat.
“US Marshals?” Boyd says, finally, after eighty-six tedious seconds of silence. (Raylan counted.) “You fixing to become a law man?”
“That I am,” Raylan says.
“Don’t think I have to ask how Arlo feels about that,” Boyd says, chuckling just a bit.
“Nah, don’t suppose you do.”
“But you’re leaving Harlan, then.”
Raylan nods. “For Glynco.”
When Boyd frowns, a tiny little vertical crease appears in his forehead between his eyebrows. In this heat, a bead of sweat collects at the top of it and drips down into Boyd’s eyes. “Where’s that?”
“Georgia,” Raylan says.
The silence builds again. A breeze wafts through the clearing, washing some of the mugginess out of the air and prickling the hair on the back of Raylan’s neck.
“You leave soon?”
“Tomorrow.”
Boyd turns and looks at Raylan full-on for the first time in the conversation. “Shit, Raylan, when were you planning on telling me?”
“Wasn’t.”
“Wasn’t—“ the crease between Boyd’s eyebrows is back, and there’s color rising in his cheeks. “Well why the fuck not?”
Raylan scrubs a hand through his hair. The strands stay right where his fingers push them, held every-which-way by sweat. “Didn’t think we had that kind of understanding between us.”
“Nearly died down a mine shaft together, didn’t we? We ain’t been the best of friends, but there were — good times.” Boyd’s voice jumps on that last phrase, and Raylan knows why. A cool night, no stars, the rubble of the mine settling behind them. Cool stone against Raylan’s back, the wonderful rush of clean air in his lungs… and then hot skin, panting breath, the taste of coal dust on the side of Boyd’s neck. Raylan closes his eyes, just for a second — he’d like to say he doesn’t go looking for that memory, but he certainly doesn’t try and push it away when it does come to him.
“I know,” he says finally. “I remember.”
“And you weren’t even going to come see me before you left.” Boyd’s voice is sharp with sarcasm, like barbed wire around the twinge of genuine hurt Raylan can pick out.
“Wouldn’t know what to say.”
“Who says you got to say anything?”
Raylan stares ahead of him for the moment, looking at the rays of sunlight blazing down through the trees. Then he lunges sideways, twisting around and covering the distance between himself and Boyd in a split-second. Boyd knew he was going to, obviously, opened his mouth before Raylan even got there, and his tongue is hot against Raylan’s lips. His hands clench in Raylan’s hair, and Raylan can feel his heart beating a mile a minute through his undershirt. Last time, Boyd tasted like smoke and desperation. Now the desperation is still there, but the smoke is gone, replaced by the clean taste of moonshine and apples and everything that makes Boyd Boyd. Raylan knows he could get lost in that taste, if he wanted to. If he stayed.
But he’s not staying, so he just kisses Boyd as deep as deep can be and pushes him down on the ground. The earth is cool where Raylan’s fingers splay on the grass, but the sun beats down on his back, and Boyd’s chest is like a furnace against his own, his fingers like licks of flame dancing at Raylan’s waistband. Raylan lifts his hips, lets those blazing-hot fingers undo the front of his jeans and shove them down, along with his briefs, returns the favor until they’re both half-undressed. Raylan’s dick jars against Boyd’s, hot and heavy as the humid summer air. Boyd reaches down and palms their erections, runs his thumb over the head of Raylan’s dick, smearing pre-come down his length. Now when Raylan moves his hips they slide together, smooth as oil. A moan rumbles deep down in Boyd’s chest, reverberating through Raylan’s body.
Boyd’s undershirt is plastered to his skin, going almost see-through against his chest. Raylan peels it back, grabbing at Boyd’s stomach, at his sides, as he rubs their dicks together. Boyd has a fistful of grass in one hand, the other hand holding hard enough to bruise on Raylan’s hip. Raylan licks the side of Boyd’s neck, a spot he remembers well from the last time they did this. Boyd gasps, the same way he did that time, and an electric shudder runs up Raylan’s spine. He licks again, sucks, bites, knowing Boyd’s going to have a hickey that’ll be damn near impossible to cover up in this summer heat. But Boyd is panting under him, hips bucking against Raylan’s, and Boyd’s future temperature-related woes are the last thing on Raylan’s mind. Raylan reaches between them to rub Boyd’s dick, fingers curling around the head, and Boyd spasms and comes. Raylan’s so close that the rush of Boyd’s release against his skin is almost enough to set him off, but he holds off maybe two more thrusts, biting Boyd’s neck one more time as he falls over the edge.
Boyd offers the hem of his shirt for cleaning-up purposes, and they pull their jeans back up. Raylan lies back on the grass, letting his breathing slow down until it’s back to normal.
“Think I might leave, too,” Boyd says abruptly.
Raylan turns to look at him. “For where?”
Boyd shrugs. “Army recruiter was hanging around the store the other day. They got plenty of jobs for boys who like to blow shit up.” He pushes himself to his feet, dusts off his dirt-stained hands.
“I’ll bet.”
“Just saying,” Boyd says. “Next time you come back to Harlan, I might not be around.”
“And if you are?” Raylan rolls onto his side, looking up at Boyd.
Boyd’s mouth twitches like he’s going to smile, or maybe smirk, but he doesn’t. “Maybe we’ll have some good times,” he says, and walks out of the clearing, leaving Raylan to stare at the trees and the blindingly blue sky.