Hey, Cowboy
by SalientLane
Chapter 2
Jonas woke with a start, his heart pounding before he realized it was just Roscoe's arm draped across his chest. The darkness in the bedroom was thick, broken only by thin strips of moonlight that slipped through the half-closed blinds. He blinked, trying to make sense of where he was, then felt the weight of the protective arm across his torso and the warmth of Roscoe's body next to his. The comfort of it sank into him like water into parched earth.
He lay perfectly still, afraid that any movement might cause Roscoe to pull away. Roscoe's breathing was deep and even, his face peaceful in sleep—a stark contrast to the angry determination that had been there earlier when he'd seen the marks on Jonas's back.
Jonas hadn't meant to fall asleep without a shirt on. His back was healing, the shirt he had borrowed felt like a straitjacket, and the welts across his back had been itching something fierce and wanted to breathe. He'd taken the shirt off without thinking, trusting the dark to keep his secrets. He'd managed to avoid their pool all summer, inventing excuses about cramps or sunburns. It was a new, higher standard of modesty he'd never shown before, driven by a terrifying shift at home. Since Jonas turned thirteen, his father's temper had turned meaner, targeting his bare back. Before this year, the old man had always laid into him below the belt. Now, he was expected to take his whippings "like a man," his father had said. And now, Roscoe finally knew. But instead of making him feel exposed or ashamed, that protective arm across his chest made him feel like he'd swallowed something warm.
A thirteen-year-old boy shouldn't have to feel this kind of relief just from being touched gently. Jonas knew that. He also knew that most thirteen-year-olds didn't have fathers who reached for a switch or belt when the dishes weren't washed exactly right or when someone spoke back in the wrong tone of voice. Most kids his age didn't go to sleep wondering if they'd wake up to shouting, or if they'd have fresh marks to hide at school.
But lying here now, with Roscoe's arm thrown across him like an anchor, Jonas felt like maybe he could survive it. Maybe everything—the beatings, his mother leaving, the emptiness of his house when his father was gone for days at a time—maybe it was all worth it to have this moment, this feeling.
Things were changing between them. Jonas had noticed it over the past few months—the way his heart beat faster when Roscoe smiled at him, the way he found excuses to brush against Roscoe's shoulder or lean into him. The way he'd started noticing things about Roscoe that he'd never paid attention to before: the small scar above his eyebrow from when he'd fallen off his bike at nine, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, how he smelled like grass and laundry soap even after he'd been outside all day.
It scared Jonas sometimes, how much he felt for Roscoe. It was bigger than friendship—that much was obvious—but he didn't have a name for what it was. Brothers? They weren't related by blood. Best friends? That didn't cover the half of it. He'd overheard his father call someone at work a "queer" once, his voice full of disgust, and the word had stuck in Jonas's mind. Was that what he was? Was that what he and Roscoe were to each other?
The word felt wrong somehow—too small, too mean, for what was between them. What he felt for Roscoe wasn't just about bodies or parts. It was about being seen, really seen, by someone who looked at you and decided to stay anyway.
Roscoe shifted in his sleep, his arm tightening briefly across Jonas's chest before relaxing again. Jonas closed his eyes and tried to memorize the feeling—the weight, the warmth, the simple rightness of it. He wished he could pause this moment, stretch it out like taffy, make it last forever. But morning would come, and with it, reality: his father might be sober enough to expect him home, or drunk enough to have forgotten he existed. School would start again in several weeks. Life would go on, with all its complications and dangers.
But right now, in this moment, none of that mattered. Right now, he was safe. He was loved.
The thought hit him like a physical blow: he loved Roscoe. Loved him so much it made his chest ache, like someone had reached in and squeezed his heart. He'd never said the words out loud—not to Roscoe, not to anyone. Maybe he never would. But the truth of it settled into his bones, undeniable and terrifying.
Why should that be wrong? Who decided that loving someone—really loving them, with your whole self—was something to be ashamed of? He'd seen the way some of the guys at school looked at each other when two boys sat too close together at lunch, the snickering and the names. He knew what people said about boys who weren't like the others. But none of that seemed to matter when he was lying next to Roscoe, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
Jonas shifted carefully, turning onto his side so he could rest his head against Roscoe's shoulder. The skin there was warm and slightly damp with sleep-sweat, the firm muscle underneath giving way just enough to cradle Jonas's head comfortably. Roscoe murmured something unintelligible but didn't wake, his body instinctively curving toward Jonas's.
The position brought back a memory from when they were younger—maybe seven or eight—and they'd fallen asleep watching TV on the couch at Roscoe's house. Jonas had woken up with his head on Roscoe's lap, a blanket tucked around them by Roscoe's mom. It had felt safe then, too, but different—simpler, without all the confused feelings that crowded Jonas's chest now.
Roscoe's arm, now draped across Jonas's stomach, was solid and real. His heartbeat, when Jonas pressed his ear closer to Roscoe's chest, was steady and strong. Everything about him was steady and strong—the exact opposite of everything in Jonas's life. It was like Roscoe was made of something different than other people, something that couldn't be broken.
Jonas closed his eyes and let himself sink into the feeling of being held. The welts on his back still stung when he moved, but even that pain seemed distant now, unimportant compared to the warmth of Roscoe's skin against his, the soft sound of Roscoe's breathing in his ear.
He'd been sleeping badly for weeks—jolting awake at every sound, his body tense even in sleep. But now, with Roscoe's arm around him and his face buried in the curve of Roscoe's neck, Jonas felt himself slipping into a deeper sleep than he'd had in days. His muscles, which always seemed to be braced for the next blow, relaxed one by one. His breathing slowed to match Roscoe's. His thoughts, which usually raced even in sleep, quieted to a peaceful hum.
The last thing he was aware of before sleep took him completely was the sensation of Roscoe's fingers, moving in small, unconscious circles against the bare skin of Jonas's back—careful, even in sleep, to avoid the places that hurt.
Morning light streamed through the kitchen windows of the Benjamin house, catching on the rim of Mrs. Benjamin's coffee mug and the syrup bottle sitting between two stacks of pancakes. The air smelled of butter and maple and the faint chemical tang of the Mr. Coffee machine that had been brewing since six. It was the kind of morning that usually made Roscoe's stomach growl with anticipation—his mother's Saturday pancakes were legendary in their neighborhood—but today, the food sat on his plate barely touched, the syrup forming a congealing pool around the edges.
Roscoe sat stiffly at the table, his fork pushing a piece of pancake from one side of his plate to the other without ever making it to his mouth. Across from him, Jonas was eating methodically, cutting his pancakes into perfect squares, his eyes downcast. They'd woken up tangled together, Roscoe's face pressed into Jonas's hair, but had separated quickly—a wordless agreement that whatever had passed between them in the dark was for the dark only.
Mr. Benjamin was reading the sports page, occasionally making comments about the Giants' chances this season. Mrs. Benjamin moved between the stove and the table, refilling coffee cups and juice glasses, asking if anyone wanted more. It was a normal Saturday morning in the Benjamin household—except for the weight that had settled on Roscoe's chest the moment he'd opened his eyes.
He couldn't stop seeing the marks on Jonas's back—the raised welts, some fresh, some faded to thin white lines. The pattern of them, too deliberate to be anything but what they were: evidence of cruelty. Evidence of a man who should have been protecting his son instead of hurting him.
And Jonas wanted him to keep it secret. To pretend he didn't know, to go on letting Jonas slip through his bedroom window with fresh wounds hidden under borrowed shirts. To sit across from him at breakfast and make small talk while knowing that by nightfall, Jonas might be back in that house with his father and his weapon of choice.
Roscoe's fork scraped against his plate as he stabbed at a piece of pancake with more force than necessary. He couldn't do it. He couldn't just stand by and let it keep happening. But what was the alternative? Jonas had made it clear that he didn't want Roscoe's parents involved, didn't want the authorities called. "They'll take me away," he'd said, and the fear in his voice had been real. "I'll never see you again."
The thought of Jonas being taken away—of not seeing his smile across the classroom or feeling the solid weight of him pressed against Roscoe's side when they watched TV—made something in Roscoe's chest twist painfully.
He loved him. The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. He loved Jonas—not just as a friend, not just as the brother he'd never had, but as something else entirely. Something bigger and more complicated than he had words for. He loved the sharp edges of him and the soft places, the way he could make Roscoe laugh even when everything else seemed hopeless, the stubborn loyalty that made him stand up for kids who couldn't stand up for themselves. He loved the weight of Jonas's head on his shoulder and the way his eyes lit up when he talked about the books he read when no one was looking. He loved him more than anything on this Earth, and the thought of anyone hurting him—especially someone who was supposed to love him—made Roscoe's blood boil.
"Roscoe?" His mother's voice broke through his thoughts. She was standing by the stove, spatula in hand, looking at him with concern. "Honey, are you feeling okay? You've barely touched your breakfast."
Roscoe looked up, suddenly aware that the conversation at the table had stopped. His father had lowered his newspaper, and Jonas was watching him with worried eyes.
"I'm fine," he said automatically, then cleared his throat when the words came out rougher than he'd intended. "Just—just not very hungry this morning."
His mother wasn't convinced. She set the spatula down and came to stand beside his chair, placing a cool hand on his forehead. "You don't feel warm," she said, frowning. "Did you sleep okay? You and Jonas were up pretty late."
Across the table, Jonas tensed visibly, his fork freezing halfway to his mouth. Roscoe knew what he was thinking—that Roscoe might tell, might break the promise he'd made last night in the darkness of his bedroom.
"We were just talking," Roscoe said quickly. "You know. About starting high school and stuff."
His mother's hand moved from his forehead to ruffle his hair affectionately. "Well, if you're sure you're okay..."
"I'm fine, Mom," Roscoe said, forcing a smile that felt like it might crack his face. "Really."
She studied him for a moment longer, then nodded and returned to the stove. The conversation slowly resumed—his father commenting on a story in the paper, his mother asking if the boys had any plans for the day—but Roscoe could feel Jonas's eyes on him, worried and questioning.
He couldn't look at Jonas directly. If he did, he was afraid of what might show on his face—the anger, the fear, the helplessness. And underneath it all, that other feeling, the one he was still trying to make sense of. The one that made his chest tight whenever Jonas smiled at him, that made him want to put himself between Jonas and anything that might hurt him.
From the corner of his eye, he could see that Jonas had stopped eating too. His plate was still half-full, the careful squares of pancake abandoned. His shoulders were hunched slightly, defensively, as if he was bracing for a blow.
Roscoe's heart ached. He knew what Jonas was thinking—that Roscoe was upset because of what he'd asked him to do. To keep quiet. To pretend. To carry the weight of knowing without being able to do anything about it.
And he was right. The knowledge of what was happening to Jonas—had been happening for years, apparently—burned in Roscoe's stomach like he'd swallowed something caustic. Every time he looked at Jonas, he saw the marks on his back, the careful way he moved sometimes when he thought no one was watching. The way he flinched at sudden movements, even from people he trusted.
But it wasn't just that. It was the way Jonas had looked at him last night when Roscoe had promised to keep his secret—relieved but also resigned, as if he'd expected Roscoe to turn away from him. As if he thought that knowing the truth about his home life might make Roscoe love him less.
If only he knew. If only Roscoe could make him understand that knowing the worst about Jonas's life only made him love him more—for surviving it, for still being the person he was despite everything.
The thought was so overwhelming that Roscoe had to look down at his plate, blinking hard. When he dared to glance up again, Jonas was watching him, his expression unreadable.
"We should go for a bike ride," Jonas said suddenly, breaking the tense silence that had fallen between them. "It's gonna be too hot later."
It was an olive branch—an invitation to get away, just the two of them, where they could talk without being overheard. Roscoe nodded, grateful for the out.
"Yeah," he said, his voice steadier now. "That sounds good."
Mrs. Benjamin smiled, apparently relieved that the strange mood had passed. "You boys be careful," she said. "And don't go too far—it's supposed to hit a hundred today."
"We won't," Roscoe promised, already pushing back from the table. He caught Jonas's eye across the table and saw the same desperate need for escape reflected there. Whatever was between them—this new, complicated thing that neither of them had words for—they couldn't figure it out here, with his parents watching and the weight of unspoken truths hanging in the air between them.
They needed to be alone. They needed space to breathe, to talk—or maybe not to talk at all. Maybe they just needed to be together, away from everything else, where the only thing that mattered was the two of them and whatever was growing between them.
They pedaled hard, standing up on their bikes to get more speed, the wind rushing past their ears and whipping their hair back from their faces. The suburban streets gave way gradually to fewer houses, then to empty lots overgrown with weeds, and finally to the scrubby edge of the desert that surrounded the city like an encroaching sea. Roscoe led the way, his larger frame cutting through the heat while Jonas followed close behind, his smaller bike bouncing over ruts in the hard-packed dirt road.
Neither of them spoke. There was too much between them now—too many secrets exposed, too many feelings neither of them was ready to name. The physical exertion of riding, the burn in their thighs and the sweat trickling down their backs, gave them something to focus on besides the weight of everything unsaid.
Roscoe turned off the main dirt road onto a narrower trail that wound between creosote bushes and prickly pear cacti. This was their place—a spot they'd discovered years ago, far enough from civilization that they could shout without anyone hearing, close enough to home that they could make it back before dark. The trail opened up into a small clearing surrounded by towering saguaros, their arms raised toward the cloudless blue sky like silent sentinels.
They dropped their bikes in the dirt and collapsed in the sparse shade of a palo verde tree, their backs against its slender trunk, shoulders touching. For a few minutes, they just sat there, catching their breath, watching a lizard dart between rocks a few feet away.
The desert stretched around them in all directions—sand and scrub and the occasional flash of movement as some small creature went about its day. It was the opposite of the claustrophobic feeling of Roscoe's kitchen that morning, with his parents' concerned looks and the weight of secrets hanging in the air between them.
Jonas broke the silence first. "What's wrong?" he asked, though they both knew the answer.
Roscoe picked up a small stone and threw it hard at a dead saguaro skeleton. It hit with a dull thunk and fell to the ground. "I just can't..." he started, then stopped, his voice catching. "I just can't stand by and let him hurt you."
The words hung in the air between them. Roscoe's hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw tight. He was a big bear of a kid. He was six inches taller than Jonas and twenty pounds heavier, all of it solid muscle from working on his dad's various home improvement projects and the odd jobs he did for neighbors. He had the kind of strength that made other boys careful around him, that made teachers look at him twice when there was trouble on the playground.
But right now, he looked like he was on the verge of tears—his eyes bright with unshed emotion, his lower lip caught between his teeth. There was a rawness to him that made Jonas's chest ache, a vulnerability that Roscoe showed to almost no one.
Jonas had always been able to see through Roscoe's tough exterior to the soft, tender heart underneath. It was like Roscoe was a book written in a language only Jonas could read—every flicker of expression, every change in posture speaking volumes about what he was feeling. It was part of what made their friendship work: Roscoe's steadiness balancing Jonas's impulsiveness, Jonas's perception making up for Roscoe's tendency to keep things bottled up.
"I know," Jonas said softly. "Let me think about it. We need to do this right." He paused, then added, "He's not going to kill me," though the words sounded hollow even to his own ears.
Roscoe turned to look at him, his eyes searching Jonas's face. "You sure about that?"
The question hung between them, heavy with implication. Jonas wasn't sure—not really. There had been times when his father's rage had scared him so badly he'd hidden in the closet until it passed, times when he'd wondered if the next beating would be the one that went too far. But saying that out loud, admitting that he was afraid for his life in his own home, made it too real, too impossible to ignore.
Instead of answering, Jonas reached for Roscoe's hand—a gesture that would have been unthinkable anywhere but here, in their private sanctuary far from judging eyes. Their fingers intertwined, Roscoe's larger ones engulfing Jonas's smaller ones, and something in Jonas's chest loosened at the contact.
It was the closest they'd ever come to acknowledging what was between them—this thing that was more than friendship, that made Jonas's heart race when Roscoe smiled at him, that made him feel safe in a way nothing else in his life ever had. They'd never talked about it, never put a name to it, but it was there in every glance, every casual touch that lingered a beat too long.
Roscoe's hand tightened around Jonas's, then suddenly he was pulling Jonas into a hug so crushing it almost hurt. Jonas went willingly, his arms coming up to wrap around Roscoe's waist, his face pressing into the solid warmth of Roscoe's chest. They'd hugged before—quick, one-armed things after victories on the basketball court or during scary parts of movies—but never like this, never with this desperate intensity.
"I can't lose you," Roscoe said, his voice muffled against Jonas's hair. "I can't—I just can't."
He was crying now, silent tears that Jonas could feel soaking into his shirt where Roscoe's face was pressed against his shoulder. The sight of it—big, tough Roscoe breaking down—made something crack open in Jonas's chest. He held on tighter, one hand moving up to stroke Roscoe's back in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.
"I'm not going anywhere," Jonas promised, though they both knew it wasn't entirely up to him. "I'm right here. I'm okay."
But they both knew he wasn't okay—not really. Not with the marks on his back, not with a father who reached for a switch or a belt when he'd had too much to drink. Not with the constant fear that lived in the pit of his stomach, the careful way he moved through his own house, trying not to make noise, not to attract attention.
What Jonas didn't say—couldn't say—was that the only time he felt truly safe was when he was with Roscoe. In Roscoe's bedroom with the door locked. In this clearing in the desert, far from other people. In moments like this, when Roscoe's arms around him felt like the only solid thing in a world that had always been shaky beneath his feet.
They stayed like that for a long time, holding each other as the sun climbed higher in the sky and the temperature rose toward the predicted hundred degrees. Eventually, Roscoe's breathing steadied, his tears drying on Jonas's neck. But he didn't let go, and Jonas didn't ask him to.
"We'll figure it out," Jonas said finally, when the moment had stretched almost to breaking. "Together. Like we always do."
Roscoe nodded against his shoulder. "Together," he agreed, his voice rough with emotion.
It wasn't much of a plan—not really. They were just kids, after all, with limited options and even more limited power. But there was strength in the word, in the promise it contained. Whatever happened, whatever Jonas's father did next, they would face it together. They would find a way through, the same way they'd found this clearing in the desert—by sticking together, by refusing to be separated.
As they finally pulled apart, wiping embarrassed hands across tear-stained faces, Jonas caught Roscoe's eye and saw his own feelings reflected there—the fear, the determination, and underneath it all, that other thing, the one they still didn't have a name for. The one that made his chest tight whenever Roscoe looked at him a certain way.
Maybe they didn't need a name for it. Maybe it was enough just to know it was there, real and solid as the ground beneath their feet or the hand Roscoe extended to pull Jonas to his feet.
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