Hey, Cowboy

by SalientLane

Chapter 7

Two days had passed since Aunt Stephanie's unexpected visit, bringing with her both answers and new questions about Jonas's past. The Benjamins' house had settled back into its comfortable routine—the waning days of summer, family dinners, weekends filled with the boys' adventures in the desert beyond town. Jonas had written a letter to his mother but hadn't sent it yet; some things needed time to find their right words. As evening turned to night, he and Roscoe lay side by side in their shared bed, the glow-in-the-dark stars they'd arranged years ago providing a soft constellation above them as sleep began to claim them.

Roscoe fell asleep first, his breathing deepening into the steady rhythm that had become the soundtrack of Jonas's nights. Jonas watched him for a moment, marveling at how different life had become—how the boy beside him had transformed from friend to protector to something deeper that neither of them had quite found the right word for. With a contented sigh, he turned onto his side and let his eyes close, trusting the familiar weight of Roscoe's arm across his stomach to keep the darkness at bay.

Sleep came quickly, but it brought no peace. Instead of the usual blankness or pleasant dreams, Jonas found himself back in his father's house, the air thick with the sour smell of whiskey and cigarettes. The living room was dark except for the blue-gray light of the television, the sound turned low as his father hunched forward on the couch, a crumpled piece of paper in his hand.

"Eighty-seven fucking dollars," Paul Hartley snarled, tossing the paper onto the coffee table. It landed beside an empty whiskey bottle, the glass catching the TV's glow. "Eighty-seven dollars for one month of electricity."

Jonas stood in the doorway, a half-made peanut butter sandwich in his hand. He'd been trying to be quiet, to slip into the kitchen and back to his room without attracting attention. He'd failed.

"That's more than last month," his father continued, his voice taking on the dangerous edge that Jonas had learned to recognize. "Way more. Wanna know why?"

Jonas shook his head slightly, knowing any answer would be wrong.

"'Cause of you," his father said, rising from the couch in a single fluid motion that spoke of muscle memory rather than conscious thought. "You, sitting on your worthless ass all summer, watching that goddamn TV, running the air conditioning with the windows open—"

"I haven't—" Jonas began, then caught himself. Interrupting was a mistake.

"You haven't?" his father mimicked, his voice rising. "You haven't? Then who the fuck has? The electric fairy?" He took a step toward Jonas, close enough that the boy could smell the whiskey on his breath. "You think money grows on trees? You think I'm made of it? I'm out there breaking my back while you're in here, living like a king, running up bills I can't afford to pay!"

It wasn't true. None of it was true. Jonas had spent most of the summer at Roscoe's, coming home only when he had to, keeping his time in the empty house to a minimum. The air conditioning was never on when he was there—he couldn't have afforded to run it even if he'd wanted to. But truth had nothing to do with what was happening now. This was about his father's rage finding its target, as it always did.

"Get your fucking shirt off!" his father snarled, his hand already reaching for the buckle of his belt.

Jonas knew the routine. He set the sandwich down carefully on the hallway table and began to unbutton his shirt with trembling fingers. His father watched, jaw working, eyes glittering with something that wasn't quite human.

"Faster," he demanded, then lost patience entirely. He lunged forward, grabbing the front of Jonas's shirt and yanking. Buttons flew, pinging against the wall and rolling across the floor. The collar caught under Jonas's chin, dragging across his throat before the fabric gave way with a ripping sound. A sharp pain bloomed along his ribs where his father's nails had dug in, tearing the skin.

Jonas swallowed hard, forcing back the tears that threatened. Crying would only make it worse. His father had rules for these sessions: no crying, no pleading, no sounds at all if you could help it. Break those rules, and the punishment doubled.

"Turn around," his father ordered, now holding something in his hand—not his belt, which was what Jonas had expected, but a brown electrical extension cord. It was doubled over, the plug-end dangling loose.

Jonas turned and placed his palms flat against the wall, arms stretched above his head, feet slightly apart. He'd assumed this position enough times that his body did it automatically, muscle memory taking over where thought left off. His heart pounded in his chest, his mouth gone dry with fear. The extension cord would be worse than the belt—thinner, meaner, the plug-end leaving its own special mark.

The first lick landed across Jonas's shoulder blades, the cord biting into his skin with a sting that took his breath away. He gasped but managed to choke out, "One."

The second came lower, across the middle of his back. The cord wrapped slightly around his side, the plug-end catching him under the arm. "Two," Jonas gasped, his voice already shaking.

Three and four came in quick succession, crisscrossing his upper and lower back. Tears leaked from the corners of Jonas's eyes despite his best efforts. His father never went easy when he cried—if anything, the tears seemed to fuel his rage—but sometimes the pain was too much to contain.

Five caught him across the shoulder blades again, overlapping the first mark. Six wrapped around his ribs, the plug-end striking his chest with a force that made him cry out despite himself. Seven and eight came so close together they blurred into a single wave of pain, the cord finding every inch of exposed skin, leaving fire in its wake.

When it was finally over, Jonas stood trembling, his forehead pressed against the cool wall, arms still raised though they ached with the effort of holding the position. Behind him, he could hear his father's heavy breathing, the soft clink of the cord being dropped onto the coffee table.

"Now maybe you'll think twice before running up the electric bill," his father said, his voice almost conversational now that his rage had found its outlet. "I work too hard for my money to have you wasting it."

Jonas nodded mechanically, not trusting his voice. His back burned as if he'd lain in the Arizona sun for hours without a shirt, each breath sending fresh waves of pain across his ribs where the cord had wrapped. He bit the inside of his cheek hard, using the new pain to distract from the old.

"Put your arms down," his father said after a moment. "And clean up this mess. I'm going out."

Jonas lowered his arms slowly, wincing as the movement pulled at the damaged skin across his shoulders. He heard his father moving behind him—the rustle of his jacket being retrieved from the back of the couch, the jingle of keys, the soft thud of the front door closing.

Only then, certain he was alone, did Jonas allow himself to slide down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around them as if he could contain the pain that way. He pressed his face against his knees and let the tears come—silent sobs that shook his thin frame but made no sound that could carry through the walls to curious neighbors.

He'd be okay. He always was. The marks would fade, the pain would dull, and life would go on until the next time his father's rage needed an outlet. He'd learned to take it, to survive it, to keep the worst of the damage hidden where no one would see and ask questions he couldn't answer.

In the bed he shared with Roscoe, Jonas thrashed against the sheets, his breathing quick and shallow, a low moan building in his throat. His movements grew more violent, arms flailing as if trying to ward off an invisible attacker. An involuntarily sharp jerk of his body sent his elbow into Roscoe's ribs, hard enough to wake the bigger boy from a sound sleep.

Roscoe came awake instantly, years of listening for Jonas's nightmares having trained him to alertness. He reached out in the darkness, his hand finding Jonas's sweat-dampened chest.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice still rough with sleep. "Hey, Cowboy, you're dreamin'. I'm here."

Jonas's eyes flew open, wild and unfocused in the dim light from the window. For a moment, he stared at Roscoe without recognition, trapped between the nightmare and wakefulness. Then something in his expression shifted, fear giving way to a relief so profound it made Roscoe's chest ache.

"Dad was whipping me," Jonas said, his voice small and broken in a way Roscoe hadn't heard since the early days after Mr. Hartley's death. "With the extension cord."

Roscoe didn't hesitate. He gathered Jonas into his arms, pulling him close until the smaller boy's head was tucked under his chin, his back pressed safely against Roscoe's chest. "He's gone," he murmured, one hand cradling the back of Jonas's head. "He can't hurt you anymore. I'm here. I got you."

He felt Jonas nod against his chest, a movement so slight it might have been a tremor. Roscoe held him tighter, rocking slightly as if Jonas were much younger—a child who needed to be soothed after a bad dream. In many ways, he was. The abuse had stolen pieces of his childhood that could never be recovered, had forced him to grow up too fast in some ways while keeping him trapped in others.

"I'm here, baby," Roscoe repeated, the words becoming a mantra. "I'm here, I'm here, I'm here."

Jonas's hand came up and clutched at Roscoe's bare arm, fingers wrapping around it as if afraid he might disappear. His breathing was still ragged, catching on half-formed sobs that he was trying desperately to contain.

"It's okay," Roscoe said, understanding immediately what was happening. Even now, safe in Roscoe's arms, in the bed they shared in a house where love was given freely and without condition, Jonas was fighting to hold back his tears—a habit formed through years of learning that showing pain only brought more of it. "You can cry. It's okay. I've got you."

Something broke then—a dam giving way after holding back too much for too long. Jonas's body went slack in Roscoe's arms, and the tears came in earnest, silent at first, then building to the kind of deep, racking sobs that came from a place beyond words. Roscoe held him through it all, one hand stroking his hair, the other making slow circles on his back, careful to avoid the places where the worst scars lay.

"I've got you," he whispered against Jonas's hair. "I've got you, I've got you, I've got you."

The words weren't just comfort—they were a promise, one Roscoe had made to himself the first time he'd seen the marks on Jonas's back. No one would hurt him again. No one would make him afraid. No one would take from him the sense of safety that was his birthright.

Gradually, the storm passed. Jonas's sobs quieted to hiccuping breaths, then to the deep, even rhythm of exhaustion. Roscoe continued to hold him, unwilling to break the moment even when he was sure Jonas had fallen back to sleep. The weight of the smaller boy against his chest, the trust implicit in the way Jonas had surrendered to his tears—these were precious things, hard-won and not to be taken for granted.

"I love you," Roscoe whispered into the darkness, knowing Jonas couldn't hear him but needing to say the words anyway. "Always have, always will."

Outside, the desert night stretched wide and empty, the stars cold and distant in the vast blackness. But in this room, in this bed, in the circle of Roscoe's arms, Jonas had found the one thing his father had never been able to give him—a place where he was wanted exactly as he was, scars and all. A place where his tears were met with kindness instead of rage, where his pain was something to be soothed rather than exploited.

It wasn't enough to erase the years of hurt—nothing could be. But it was a beginning, a foundation on which something stronger could be built. Roscoe hoped that it would be enough.

The morning sun slanted through the kitchen windows as the boys ate their breakfast in unusual silence. Roscoe kept his eyes on Jonas, watching for any sign of distress. The nightmare had left its mark—not just in Jonas's trembling and tears, but in the way Roscoe now moved through the world, alert to dangers real and imagined. He hadn't slept after Jonas finally drifted off, too keyed up from the sounds of his friend's whimpers, the jerks of his body as he fought off invisible blows.

Mrs. Benjamin glanced between them, her expression thoughtful as she refilled their orange juice glasses. "You boys have plans today?" she asked, her tone deliberately light.

"Probably just hang around here," Roscoe said, his eyes still on Jonas. "Maybe watch TV later."

Jonas nodded, pushing a piece of pancake through the puddle of syrup on his plate. "That sounds good," he said, his voice quiet but steady.

Mrs. Benjamin watched them a moment longer, then nodded. "Well, the laundry needs folding, if you're looking for something to do," she said, touching Jonas's shoulder briefly as she moved past him to the sink. "And the lawn could use a mow before it gets too hot."

"I'll do it," Roscoe said quickly. "Jonas can help with the laundry."

"We'll both do both," Jonas said, glancing at Roscoe with a hint of his usual defiance. "I'm not made of glass."

The exchange was so normal—so like their usual back-and-forth—that Mrs. Benjamin smiled, some of the worry leaving her eyes. "However you want to do it," she said, picking up her coffee cup. "I'll be in the living room if you need anything."

When she'd gone, the kitchen fell quiet again. Roscoe watched as Jonas methodically cut his remaining pancakes into tiny, perfect squares—a habit from his old life, when stretching a meal had been necessary. Something twisted in Roscoe's chest at the sight.

"You don't have to worry," Jonas said suddenly, not looking up from his plate. "I'm okay. Really."

"I know," Roscoe said, though they both knew he didn't believe it. How could he, after last night? After seeing Jonas thrashing and crying in his sleep, fighting off blows from a ghost?

"It was just a dream," Jonas continued, stacking the pancake squares into a neat tower. "Dad's gone. He can't hurt me anymore."

The words should have been comforting. Instead, they made Roscoe's throat tighten. Because it wasn't "just" a dream—it was memory, sharp and real and still living in Jonas's body, in the flinch he couldn't quite suppress when someone moved too quickly, in the careful way he sat to avoid putting pressure on his scarred back.

"I should have done something," Roscoe said, the words coming out before he could stop them. "When it was happening. I should have told someone, or—"

Jonas's head snapped up, his eyes suddenly fierce. "No," he said sharply. "Don't do that. Don't you dare feel guilty about something you couldn't change."

"But I—"

"You kept me alive," Jonas interrupted, his voice dropping so low that Roscoe had to lean forward to hear him. "You know that? Every time I thought I couldn't take anymore, I'd come over here, and you'd be waiting. And I'd think, 'Just get through today. Tomorrow I'll see Roscoe.'" His voice caught slightly. "So don't you dare act like you didn't do enough. You did everything."

Roscoe swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. He wanted to argue, to explain how the sounds from Jonas's nightmare had painted pictures in his mind—vivid, terrible images of what his friend had endured. How he'd lain awake afterward, imagining each blow of the extension cord, each tear Jonas had fought to hide. How he'd vowed, again and again in the darkness, that no one would ever hurt Jonas again—not while he was there to prevent it.

But the look on Jonas's face stopped him—that exact mix of stubbornness and vulnerability that was uniquely Jonas. So instead of arguing, he reached across the table and covered Jonas's hand with his own.

"Okay," he said simply. "No guilt. But I'm still gonna worry. That's not gonna change."

Jonas's expression softened. "I know," he said, turning his hand so their palms pressed together. "And I'm okay with that. Just... don't let it eat you up, okay? I need you here, not stuck in what might have been."

They finished breakfast in a more comfortable silence, Roscoe still watching Jonas but with less desperation in his gaze. Afterward, they tackled the chores as promised—Roscoe mowing the front lawn while Jonas worked inside, folding the mountain of clean clothes Mrs. Benjamin had left in baskets in the living room.

But Roscoe couldn't concentrate on the task. The lawnmower's roar faded into background noise as his mind replayed fragments of the night before—Jonas's cry of pain, the way his body had jerked as if the blows were real, the absolute trust with which he'd finally surrendered to Roscoe's arms.

Halfway through the front yard, Roscoe shut off the mower and headed inside. He found Jonas in the living room, methodically matching socks into pairs, his movements precise and economical. He looked up as Roscoe entered, a question in his eyes.

"I thought we were doing both together," Roscoe said, dropping onto the couch beside him. "You're way ahead on your half."

Jonas smiled—that crooked half-smile that made something in Roscoe's chest twist. "You were taking forever," he said. "I figured you got distracted by that lizard again."

It was a peace offering—a reference to their long-standing joke about Roscoe's tendency to stop whatever he was doing to watch the desert wildlife. Roscoe accepted it gratefully, picking up a t-shirt from the basket and beginning to fold it.

"Maybe," he admitted. "There was a pretty big one by the faucet."

They worked in companionable silence for a while, the rhythm of their movements falling into sync as it always did. But Roscoe couldn't shake the images from the night—the sound of Jonas's tears, the way his body had gone slack with relief when Roscoe gathered him close. It had been like holding something precious and fragile, something that might break if he held too tight or not tight enough.

"I meant what I said," Jonas said suddenly, not looking up from the sock he was rolling into a ball. "About you keeping me alive. I wasn't just saying it to make you feel better."

Roscoe nodded, not trusting his voice.

"I used to think about running away," Jonas continued, his voice carefully casual. "All the time. But then I'd remember that I'd have to leave you behind, and I couldn't do it." He glanced up, meeting Roscoe's eyes briefly. "So I stayed. And you were there. Every time."

The simple statement contained volumes—years of pain and fear and desperate hope, all centered on the thread of connection between them. Roscoe set down the shirt he'd been folding and put his arm around Jonas's shoulders, pulling him close in a one-armed hug.

"I'll always be there," he said, the promise as much to himself as to Jonas. "No matter what."

Jonas nodded against his side, accepting the vow without question. They returned to the laundry, but something had shifted between them—a new layer of understanding added to the complex tapestry of their relationship. They were more than friends, more than brothers. They were lifelines to each other, the one constant in a world that had been anything but reliable.

By lunchtime, they'd fallen back into their usual rhythm—bickering good-naturedly over who got the last apple, racing to see who could finish their sandwiches first, planning the rest of their day with the easy certainty of shared purpose. But Roscoe still watched Jonas when he thought his friend wasn't looking, still moved to stand between him and the door when someone knocked, still reached for him in his sleep.

Some habits, once formed, were too necessary to break. And keeping Jonas safe—keeping him whole—had become Roscoe's most essential purpose, written into his bones and blood and beating heart. Not out of guilt or obligation, but out of the simplest, purest truth he knew: Jonas was his to protect. His to love. His to keep.

And nothing—not nightmares or memories or the ghost of a man who had never deserved to be called "father"—would ever change that.

Afternoon stretched into the lazy part of the day, the time when the Arizona heat drove even the most active kids indoors. Roscoe and Jonas had migrated to the living room couch, half-watching a rerun of "The Six Million Dollar Man" while flipping through comic books. Roscoe kept glancing at Jonas, noting the slight crease between his eyebrows that hadn't been there before the nightmare. Despite Jonas's reassurances that morning, something still lingered—a shadow behind his eyes, a carefulness to his movements that spoke of old hurts not quite forgotten.

On screen, Steve Austin ran in slow motion, his bionic legs carrying him across impossible distances. Jonas watched with mild interest, but without the wide-eyed wonder he usually brought to their favorite shows. Roscoe set his comic book aside, an idea forming.

"Hey Cowboy," he said, using the nickname that had become precious between them. "Let's see if Mom will take us to Metrocenter Mall so we can see Star Wars again, want to?"

The effect was immediate. Jonas's head snapped up, the crease between his eyebrows vanishing as his eyes lit up. "For real? You think she would?"

"I don't see why not," Roscoe said, already standing. "Nothing else going on today."

They found Mrs. Benjamin in the kitchen, cutting vegetables for dinner. She looked up as they entered, her smile warming when she saw the barely contained excitement on Jonas's face.

"Mom," Roscoe said, getting straight to the point. "Can you take us to Metrocenter to see Star Wars ? Please?"

"We'll pay for our own tickets," Jonas added quickly. "And we won't ask for anything else. Promise."

Mrs. Benjamin set down her knife, wiping her hands on a dish towel. " Star Wars , huh? That's the third time you'd be seeing it."

"Fourth," Roscoe corrected.

She laughed, the sound warm in the sunny kitchen. "Well, I suppose there are worse ways to spend an afternoon." She glanced at the clock on the wall. "If we leave in about twenty minutes, we can catch the four o'clock showing. That work for you boys?"

Jonas nodded so vigorously that Roscoe was afraid his head might come loose. "Yes, ma'am! That would be amazing!"

Something softened in Mrs. Benjamin's expression as she looked at Jonas—a tenderness that went beyond ordinary fondness. "Go get ready, then. And Jonas?" She reached into her pocket and pulled out her wallet, extracting two five-dollar bills. "Consider this an advance on your allowance. For popcorn. And whatever else you might want."

Jonas stared at the money, then at Mrs. Benjamin, clearly not believing what he was hearing. "You don't have to—I mean, I didn't—"

"I know," she said, pressing the bills into his hand. "But I want to. That's what moms do, you know. They spoil their kids sometimes."

The word "mom" hung in the air between them—still new, still being tested for fit. But the smile that spread across Jonas's face left no doubt about how it felt to him. He clutched the money carefully, as if afraid it might disappear.

"Thank you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Really. Thank you."

Mrs. Benjamin reached out and ruffled his hair, the gesture casual but filled with affection. "Go on, now. You too, Roscoe. I'll meet you at the car in fifteen minutes."

They raced upstairs, nearly colliding in their enthusiasm. In their bedroom, they changed quickly—Roscoe into his favorite button-up shirt with the subtle plaid pattern, Jonas into the new jeans Mrs. Benjamin had bought him last week, still stiff with newness. They brushed their teeth without being asked, ran combs through their hair, and were back downstairs with three minutes to spare.

Mrs. Benjamin was waiting by the front door, car keys in hand. She smiled at the sight of them—Roscoe nearly vibrating with excitement, Jonas trying and failing to look casual despite the eager light in his eyes.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Yes!" they chorused, already moving toward the door.

The drive to Metrocenter Mall took twenty minutes—twenty minutes of the boys debating which parts of the movie were the coolest, which characters they'd want to be, which scenes they were most looking forward to seeing again. In the rearview mirror, Mrs. Benjamin watched them with a mixture of amusement and tenderness. There was something special about the way they interacted—the careful way Roscoe made sure Jonas was included in every exchange, the complete attention Jonas gave to Roscoe's every word. They were more than friends, these two. They were partners in a way that went beyond ordinary friendship.

"You know," she said as they pulled into the mall parking lot, "I still haven't seen it. Your father and I still aren't in on it."

Both boys turned to look at her, identical expressions of disbelief on their faces.

"Seriously?" Roscoe asked. "Mom, it's been out two months already."

Mrs. Benjamin laughed as she found a parking spot. "Well, I'm seeing it today, aren't I? Better late than never."

"It's going to blow you away," Jonas said, his voice filled with the a reverence reserved for things that had changed his world. "Everyone at school was talking about it before we got out for summer. Tommy saw it five times already."

"Well, today you'll hit four," Mrs. Benjamin said, turning off the engine. "Nothing to sneeze at."

They piled out of the car, the boys practically sprinting toward the mall entrance while Mrs. Benjamin followed at a more dignified pace. The afternoon heat hit them in a wave as they crossed the parking lot, but neither Roscoe nor Jonas noticed—they were too focused on the promise of air conditioning, of Star Wars , of an afternoon away from the shadows that had darkened their morning.

Metrocenter Mall rose before them, its white concrete facade gleaming in the sunlight. Even from the parking lot, they could feel the energy of the place—the distant thrum of voices and music, the sense of possibility that came with so many shops and people gathered in one place. For two boys from the outskirts of Phoenix, it was as close to another world as they were likely to get.

"Han blasts Greedo under the table." Roscoe asked as they approached the entrance. "That's my favorite part."

"No way," Jonas countered. "The trench scene cannot be beat!"

They passed through the automatic doors into the blessed cool of the mall's interior. The smell hit them immediately—popcorn and cinnamon pretzels and the distinctive artificial scent of the pet store, all mixing into the unmistakable perfume of summer mall shopping. Around them, other families moved through the wide corridors, teenagers clustered around the fountain, little kids dragged reluctantly from store to store by tired parents.

But Roscoe and Jonas had eyes only for the directory near the entrance, scanning quickly for the theater. When they confirmed it was out past the Sears entrance, they turned to Mrs. Benjamin with identical hopeful expressions.

"Go on," she said, laughing. "I'll meet you there after I check out that sale at Penney's. Remember, four o'clock showing. And Jonas?" She reached into her purse and pulled out another five-dollar bill. "For the album you've been talking about." She meant I Robot by The Alan Parsons Project.

Jonas took the money with careful fingers, his eyes wide. "You don't have to—"

"I know," Mrs. Benjamin said again. "But I want to. That's what—"

"Moms do," Jonas finished for her, the word coming more easily this time. He smiled—that real smile that transformed his sharp features and made him look his age. "Thanks, Mom."

The simple exchange—the gift freely given, the title willingly offered—contained everything that had changed in the past weeks. Jonas was no longer just the neighbor boy, the friend who spent more time at their house than his own. He was family now, in all the ways that mattered. And watching the two boys race off toward the escalator, as one, voices raised in excited debate about which scene they were most looking forward to, Mrs. Benjamin felt a surge of deep affection. Whatever challenges lay ahead, she watched the crowd swallow them up—shoulder to shoulder, shouting over the mall noise, entirely inseparable.

In the distance, she could hear Roscoe's voice, clear even over the mall noise: "I told you, the best part is when—" Then Jonas's laugh, bright and unguarded, cutting him off. They disappeared around a corner, still arguing good-naturedly, still utterly in sync despite their disagreement.

Some things, Mrs. Benjamin thought as she headed toward Penney's, were exactly as they should be.

Musicland hummed with the distinct energy of a Saturday afternoon—teenagers flipping through record bins with studied casualness, a clerk demonstrating fancy Koss headphones with a coiled cord to an interested customer, the soft hiss of static between songs on the store's sound system. Roscoe and Jonas made their way to the rock section, scanning the alphabetically arranged albums with the focused attention of serious collectors. Despite the summer heat outside, both boys wore their purchases like badges of honor—Roscoe with a new Star Wars t-shirt already stretched across his chest, Jonas with a Han Solo action figure carefully positioned in his pocket, its plastic blaster ready for imaginary battles.

"There it is!" Jonas said, reaching for an album with a sleek, futuristic cover—an alienated, metallic robot standing inside a glass-and-steel terminal. I Robot by The Alan Parsons Project. He pulled it carefully from the bin, handling it with the reverence usually reserved for sacred objects.

"Cool," Roscoe said, leaning in to look at the track listing on the hype sticker. "That's the song I heard the other night. 'Don't Let It Show.'"

Jonas nodded, already imagining how the record would sound on the Benjamins' stereo—rich and full, nothing like the tinny radio that had been his only source of music at his father's house. "It's five ninety-eight," he said, checking the price sticker. "We can split it, if you want. Three bucks each."

Roscoe considered this, mentally calculating his share. Between his allowance and the money he'd saved from mowing lawns, he had enough. "Deal," he said, reaching for his wallet. "But you get first listen when we get home." They would wind up listening to it together.

They paid for their purchase—Jonas carefully counting out three dollars in mostly quarters and dimes, Roscoe adding his share with a five-dollar bill—and left the store with the album tucked safely in a bag under Jonas's arm. The weight of it against his side was satisfying, a tangible reminder of this perfect day.

"Food?" Roscoe suggested, already steering them toward the food court. "I'm starving."

They made their way through the crowded mall, past Spencer's Gifts with its blacklight posters and lava lamps, past the arcade where the electronic sounds of Night Driver and competing pinball games created a wall of noise, past Orange Julius where a line of teenagers waited for frothy orange drinks. The food court was packed with shoppers taking a break, but they spotted an empty table near Hot Dog on a Stick and headed for it.

"You save the table," Roscoe said, already reaching for his wallet again. "I'll get the food. What do you want?"

"Corn dog and cherry lemonade," Jonas said without hesitation. It was what he always ordered—a luxury he'd discovered on his first trip to the mall with the Benjamins and now associated with special occasions.

Roscoe nodded and joined the line, leaving Jonas to claim their table. From his vantage point, Jonas could see most of the food court—families with tired kids, groups of teenagers laughing too loudly, older couples sharing meals while discussing their purchases. Six months ago, he would have felt out of place here, like an imposter playing at normal life. Now, with Roscoe's money in his pocket and the promise of Star Wars ahead of him, he felt like he belonged.

His eyes caught on a group of girls at a nearby table—four of them, maybe fifteen or sixteen, all with feathered hair and tight jeans. They were looking in his direction, heads together, giggling. One of them—a blonde with a Farrah Fawcett-Majors hairdo—caught his eye and smiled, a deliberate invitation.

Jonas looked away quickly, heat rising to his face that had nothing to do with the mall's aggressive air conditioning. Girls had never been part of his world—not when survival took all his energy, not when the only person who'd ever really seen him was Roscoe. He focused intently on the table's surface, tracing the wood grain with one finger until Roscoe returned, balancing two corn dogs and two large cups.

"Sorry it took so long," Roscoe said, setting everything down carefully. "Line was crazy." He dropped into the chair across from Jonas and immediately tore into his corn dog, closing his eyes in exaggerated pleasure at the first bite. "So worth it, though."

Jonas laughed, the awkward moment with the girls already forgotten. This was what mattered—Roscoe with mustard at the corner of his mouth, the two of them sharing this ordinary happiness. He picked up his own corn dog and took a bite, the salty-sweet taste exploding on his tongue.

"We should probably head to the theater soon," Roscoe said, checking his watch. "It's gonna be packed."

They ate quickly, discussing the parts of Star Wars they were most looking forward to seeing again. Neither of them mentioned the girls, who had moved on to more promising targets—a group of high school boys by the pizza place. It wouldn't have occurred to either of them that they might be the objects of similar attention. In their world, there was only each other—Roscoe and Jonas against whatever came their way.

The line for Star Wars wrapped all the way around the outside of the concrete theater pavilion, a snake of excited fans baking in the late afternoon heat, some with homemade light sabers, others carrying action figures still in their packaging. Roscoe and Jonas joined the end, falling easily into conversation with the kids behind them—a brother and sister who had driven up from Tucson just to see the movie under the big 70mm Dolby dome.

"It's my fifth time," the boy said proudly. He looked about Roscoe's age, with a missing front tooth and a Darth Vader t-shirt. "My dad says I'm gonna wear out the film."

"That's nothing," his sister countered. She was smaller, with two tight braids and a missing tooth of her own. "Rebecca from my class has seen it seven times. Her mom works at the theater so she gets in free."

"My brother's seen it three times already," Jonas said, the casual reference to Roscoe as his brother coming naturally now. "This is our fourth."

Roscoe smiled at the "our," at how easily Jonas had claimed him. They inched forward in line, discussing favorite characters and scenes with their new friends until they reached the ticket window. Mrs. Benjamin had given them money for admission—another gift neither boy took for granted—and they paid carefully, accepting their tickets with the gravity the moment deserved.

The theater was already half-full, the pre-show music creating a backdrop of anticipation. They found two seats in the middle, not too close to the screen but with a good view. Around them, other families settled in—parents with young children, groups of teenagers, a few adults alone with buckets of popcorn, clearly there for the movie rather than as chaperones.

"Perfect spot," Roscoe said, stretching his legs into the space in front of them. "You can see everything from here."

Jonas nodded, already leaning forward in his seat as the lights began to dim. This was the moment he'd been waiting for—the transition from ordinary life to the universe of Star Wars , where the rules were different and good, after struggle, always triumphed. He felt Roscoe shift beside him, then the warm weight of an arm settling across his shoulders.

The gesture was so familiar, so much a part of their shared experience, that neither boy thought anything of it. In the darkness of the theater, with the Twentieth Century Fox fanfare beginning to roll, Roscoe's arm around Jonas was as natural as breathing—a connection that needed no explanation or defense.

As the words "A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away..." appeared on the screen, blue and dramatic against the starfield, Jonas felt something shift inside him—a weight lifting, a door opening to a possibility he'd never dared consider before. Here, in this moment, with Roscoe beside him and adventure unfolding before them, the nightmare seemed very far away. His father's voice, the sting of the extension cord, the careful silence he'd maintained for so long—all of it receded in the face of this simple truth: he was happy. Really, truly happy.

Not because his circumstances had changed, though they had in the most dramatic way possible. Not because he'd been rescued or saved or granted a wish. But because he was here, with Roscoe, doing something that any normal kid might do on a summer afternoon. The ordinariness of it was what made it precious—this slice of regular life, claimed after so long without.

On screen, Princess Leia's ship raced across the starfield, pursued by the massive Imperial Star Destroyer. Around them, the audience gasped and murmured, caught up in the magic despite having seen it all before. Jonas felt Roscoe's arm tighten slightly around his shoulders, a wordless communication: I'm here. We're in this together.

And they were—not just in the darkened theater or the shared experience of the movie, but in everything that had brought them to this point and everything that lay ahead. Whatever challenges came, whatever joys awaited them, they would face them side by side. Not as victim and rescuer, not as broken thing and healer, but as Roscoe and Jonas—brothers by choice, partners by necessity, bound by something deeper than either had words for.

As the movie reached its climactic battle—X-wings racing through the Death Star's trench, Darth Vader in hot pursuit—Jonas found himself holding his breath despite knowing exactly how it would end. Beside him, Roscoe was equally caught up, his eyes fixed on the screen, his body tense with anticipation. When Han Solo appeared at the crucial moment, the Millennium Falcon roaring in to save the day, they both cheered along with the rest of the audience, caught in the shared belief that, against all odds, good could triumph.

And in that moment—surrounded by strangers united in collective wonder—the theater shrank down to the space beneath Roscoe's arm, warm across his shoulders. The galaxy on the screen was vast and loud, but Jonas's world had never felt so quiet, or so safe. Or so happy.

The drive back to the northern outskirts of the city was quieter, the frantic energy of the afternoon giving way to a comfortable, sleepy contentment. The sun had finally dipped below the horizon, leaving a bruised purple and orange streak across the wide Arizona sky.

When they reached the house, the cool, familiar hum of the central air conditioning welcomed them back into their sanctuary. Mr. Benjamin was in the kitchen, fixing himself a glass of iced tea. He looked up as the screen door clicked shut.

"Well?" he asked, eyeing his wife. "Did you survive the space movie?"

"Leland, it was spectacular," Mrs. Benjamin declared, setting her purse on the counter. "You're going with them for number five. I mean it."

While the parents laughed and gossiped in the kitchen, Roscoe and Jonas slipped down the hallway to their bedroom. Jonas set his paper bag onto the desk with meticulous care, sliding the vinyl sleeve out just enough to see the glossy sheen of the black record inside.

He looked toward the window, which was open just an inch to let in the scent of the cooling desert creosote. Right next door, his father's house sat dark, silent, and empty. A month ago, a dark house meant his father was out drinking, creating a ticking clock of dread until the front door slammed.

But tonight, the dark house meant nothing at all. The ghost had lost its power.

Roscoe walked over, his large frame blocking out the view of the window as he reached up to click off the bedside lamp. The room plunged into darkness, and above them, the plastic vinyl stars began to illuminate with their soft, green, familiar glow.

Jonas felt Roscoe's hand find his in the dark, their fingers intertwining effortlessly.

"Goodnight, Cowboy," Roscoe whispered, pulling him close against his side.

Jonas pressed his face into the curve of Roscoe's warm shoulder, letting his muscles relax completely into the mattress. "Goodnight, Cowboy," he murmured back.

He didn't have to count the seconds. He didn't have to brace for a blow. In the quiet bedroom, with his new record on the desk and his protector's heart beating steady against his cheek, Jonas closed his eyes and let himself sink into the deepest, safest sleep of his life.

The house had been quiet for hours when Roscoe stirred from sleep. He'd been dreaming—something about the desert and Star Wars combined—but something had pulled him awake. Not a sound exactly, but a sense of movement, a change in the familiar rhythm of Jonas's breathing beside him. He opened his eyes to darkness, his vision adjusting slowly to the faint light from the window.

Beside him, Jonas lay on his back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He'd pushed the sheet down to his waist, his chest bare in the warm summer air. Roscoe watched him for a moment, noting the careful rise and fall of his breathing, the way his hands rested flat on the mattress as if he were consciously holding himself still.

"Hey," Roscoe whispered, his voice rough with sleep. "You okay?"

Jonas turned his head, a smile ghosting across his face in the darkness. "Yeah," he said, his voice equally soft. "Just thinking."

"About what?" Roscoe shifted to face him, propping himself up on one elbow.

Jonas was quiet for a moment, his eyes on Roscoe's face. "Everything," he said finally. "Today. Star Wars . Us." He reached out, his fingers finding Roscoe's in the narrow space between them. "It was perfect, wasn't it? The whole day."

Roscoe nodded, squeezing Jonas's hand. "Pretty much."

They lay in comfortable silence, hands linked, the events of the day—the movie, the food court, the record store—playing back in their minds. Roscoe watched as Jonas's expression shifted from thoughtful to something warmer, his eyes taking on the mischievous gleam they'd had in the desert that day behind the boulder.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Jonas asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Roscoe felt his heart skip. "Depends," he said, trying to keep his tone light despite the sudden quickening of his pulse. "What are you thinking?"

Instead of answering, Jonas rolled onto his side, closing the distance between them until their faces were inches apart. His free hand came up to rest on Roscoe's chest, fingers splayed wide over his heart. "This," he said simply, and leaned forward to press his lips against Roscoe's.

The kiss was different from their first tentative ones in the desert—less surprised, more deliberate. Jonas's mouth was warm and sure against his, his hand sliding from Roscoe's chest to his shoulder, then to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair. Roscoe let himself be drawn closer, one arm wrapping around Jonas's waist, the other braced on the mattress to keep their weight balanced.

They broke apart eventually, both breathing a little faster. Jonas's eyes were dark in the dimness, his expression a mix of wonder and desire that made Roscoe's stomach flip.

"I've been thinking about it all day," Jonas admitted, his voice hushed. "About... continuing what we started. Out there."

Roscoe nodded, his throat suddenly dry. "Me too," he said. "Is that okay? Here, I mean? With Mom and Dad just down the hall?"

Jonas considered this, his head tilted slightly. "I think so," he said finally. "As long as we're quiet." His mouth curved in a smile that sent heat rushing through Roscoe's body. "Think you can be quiet, Cowboy?"

The challenge in his voice—that singular mix of teasing and intent that was uniquely Jonas—was more than Roscoe could resist. "I guess we'll find out," he said, and leaned in to kiss him again.

What followed was a careful, tender exploration—hands learning the landscape of each other's bodies, touches growing bolder as the darkness provided cover for their discoveries. Roscoe was endlessly careful with Jonas's back, his fingers tracing the scars with a reverence that made Jonas shiver. But elsewhere, he was less restrained—his mouth finding the sensitive spot where Jonas's neck met his shoulder, his hand sliding up to cup his face, his thumb brushing over the curve of his lower lip.

Jonas responded with equal ardor, his body responding to Roscoe's touch with a frank enthusiasm that was both thrilling and humbling. There was no self-consciousness in him, no holding back—just pure, honest desire channeled into kisses that grew deeper, touches that grew bolder.

"Like this?" Roscoe whispered against Jonas's ear, his hand moving in a way that made the smaller boy gasp.

"Yes," Jonas breathed, his head falling back, eyes half-closed. "God, yes."

They moved together in the warm darkness, the world beyond their shared bed falling away until there was nothing but this—skin against skin, breath mingling, the soft sounds they couldn't quite contain. It wasn't rushed or frantic, but a slow, deliberate pleasure built between them, each response building on the last until they were both trembling on the edge.

"I've got you," Roscoe murmured, feeling Jonas tense beneath him. "I've got you, Cowboy."

Jonas's eyes flew open at that, meeting Roscoe's with a clarity that cut through the darkness. "I know," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "You always do."

The trust in those five words—in the way Jonas surrendered to the moment, to Roscoe's hands and mouth and the safety they offered—made something wild and primal rise in Roscoe's chest. He held Jonas through the peak of his pleasure, then followed him over the edge, their bodies still joined in the most intimate way possible.

Afterward, they lay tangled together, legs intertwined, Roscoe's arm curved around Jonas's waist like a shield. The room was silent except for their gradually slowing breaths, the occasional soft sound of contentment from one or the other of them. Jonas had turned onto his side, his back pressed against Roscoe's chest, the older boy's arm draped over him, hand resting on his stomach.

"That was..." Jonas began, then paused, apparently unable to find the right word.

"Yeah," Roscoe agreed, his voice still rough. "It was."

Jonas laughed softly, the sound vibrating through both their bodies where they touched. "Eloquent as always, Cowboy."

Roscoe smiled against the back of Jonas's neck, pressing a kiss to the warm skin there. "What can I say? You leave me speechless."

They lapsed into comfortable silence, the events of the night settling around them like the sheet they'd pulled back up to their waists. Outside, the desert stretched dark and empty, the stars cold and distant in the vast blackness. But here, in this bed, in the circle of Roscoe's arms, Jonas had found the one thing his father had never been able to give him—a place where he was wanted exactly as he was, scars and all.

"Thank you," Jonas said suddenly, his voice quiet but clear in the darkness.

Roscoe tightened his arm slightly. "For what?"

"For this," Jonas said simply. "For you. For not giving up on me even when I gave you every reason to."

Something complicated and warm unfolded in Roscoe's chest—a feeling too big to name, too complex to categorize. He pressed his face against Jonas's hair, breathing in the clean scent of him. "Never," he said, the word a promise. "Not ever."

They drifted toward sleep again, bodies loose and satisfied, minds quiet for once. Jonas's breathing deepened first, his body relaxing completely against Roscoe's chest. Roscoe lay awake a little longer, watching the slow rise and fall of Jonas's ribs beneath his hand, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

In sleep, Jonas looked younger—the guarded watchfulness that usually lived in his expression completely gone. His lips were slightly parted, his dark lashes making crescents against his cheeks. Roscoe studied him in the dim light, memorizing this moment—this perfect, peaceful interlude between one day and the next.

Then, Roscoe closed his eyes and let sleep take him, one arm still draped across the boy who had become his heart's true home.

The nightmare began as it always did—with the living room of his father's house, the blue-gray light of the television casting everything in an underwater glow. Jonas stood in the doorway, watching as his father hunched forward on the couch, a crumpled electric bill in his hand. Everything was exactly as it had been in reality—the sour smell of whiskey and cigarettes, the dangerous edge in his father's voice as he complained about the cost, the immediate leap to blame.

Jonas felt the familiar dread settle in his stomach—the knowledge that he was the target tonight, that his father's rage needed an outlet and he was the only one available. He'd had this dream before, lived this moment in sleep a dozen times since his father's death. He knew what came next: the demand to remove his shirt, the careful positioning against the wall, the count as each blow landed across his back.

"Get your fucking shirt off!" his father ordered, already reaching for his belt.

But as Jonas's trembling fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, something different happened. A voice came from behind him—familiar and solid and completely out of place in this scene from his past.

"Leave him alone."

Jonas turned, disbelief flooding through him. Roscoe stood in the hallway, bare-chested and serious, his eyes fixed on Jonas's father with a determination that made him look years older. He was wearing only his sleep shorts, his dark hair mussed from sleep—exactly as he'd been when they'd fallen asleep together hours earlier.

Jonas's father's head snapped up, his expression shifting from anger to surprise, then to something uglier. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded, rising from the couch in one fluid motion. "What are you doing in my house?"

"He's my friend," Jonas said, his voice stronger than he'd expected. "He lives next door."

Something dangerous flashed in his father's eyes. "Your friend," he repeated, the words dripping with contempt. "And he just walks into my house whenever he feels like it? Thinks he can tell me what to do?" He took a step toward Roscoe, the extension cord now gripped in his hand. "Nobody tells me what to do in my own house. Nobody."

Jonas saw what was coming—saw his father's arm draw back, saw the cord whip through the air toward Roscoe's unprotected chest. He tried to shout a warning, but the words stuck in his throat. The cord made contact with a sickening crack, leaving an angry red line across Roscoe's skin.

Roscoe cried out—a sound of pure pain that tore through Jonas like a physical blow. He staggered back, one hand pressed to the welt already rising on his chest, his eyes wide with shock.

"Stop it!" Jonas shouted, finding his voice at last. "He didn't do anything! Leave him alone!"

But his father was beyond hearing. The first blow had unleashed something in him—something that needed more. He advanced on Roscoe, the cord whistling through the air again, catching the boy across the shoulders, then the stomach, then the chest again in rapid succession. Each blow drew another cry from Roscoe, each mark on his skin like a wound to Jonas himself.

Something broke loose in Jonas then—a rage so fierce and pure it burned away the fear that had lived in his chest for as long as he could remember. He launched himself at his father, no longer caring about the consequences, no longer holding back. His smaller body hit with surprising force, driving his father back a step, knocking the man off balance just long enough for Roscoe to breathe.

"Run!" he shouted over his shoulder. "Get out of here!"

But Roscoe didn't run. Despite the pain visible on his face, despite the welts rising on his skin, he stepped forward instead of back. "Not without you," he said, his voice steady despite everything. "We do this together or not at all."

For a moment—just a moment—Jonas's father looked surprised by their defiance. Then his expression darkened, the cord whipping through the air toward Jonas's unprotected back.

It never connected. Roscoe moved with unexpected speed, putting himself between Jonas and the blow. The cord wrapped around his arm instead, the plug-end catching him across the cheek. But instead of retreating, Roscoe grabbed the cord and pulled, yanking it from his father's grasp.

"I've had enough," he said, his voice low and dangerous in a way Jonas had never heard before. "We both have."

What happened next unfolded with the strange logic of dreams. The two boys moved as one, advancing on Jonas's father with a determination that made him back up, step by step, until he was pressed against the living room wall. There was no discussion, no plan—just a perfect understanding of what needed to be done.

Together, they pushed—not just with their hands, but with something deeper, something that came from the core of who they were together. And Paul Hartley... changed. First his expression, the rage giving way to confusion, then fear. Then his body, seeming to grow less solid, more transparent. And finally, with a sound like wind through dry leaves, he simply... wasn't there anymore. Gone without a fight, without a final word—just vanished as if he'd never existed.

The living room fell silent. Jonas turned to Roscoe, taking in the marks on his chest and arms, the line across his cheek that would have been a bruise in waking life. Without thinking, he reached out, his fingers hovering over the worst of the welts.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice breaking. "He hurt you because of me."

Roscoe shook his head, catching Jonas's hand and bringing it to rest over his heart. "He can't hurt either of us anymore," he said. "Not ever again."

In the dream, they stood facing each other in the empty living room, the blue-gray light of the television the only illumination. Then, as one, they moved forward, arms wrapping around each other in an embrace that contained everything words couldn't express. Jonas pressed his face against Roscoe's neck, feeling the steady pulse beneath the skin, the warmth that proved he was real, that he was here.

"I've got you," Roscoe murmured against his hair. "I've got you, Cowboy. Always will."

In the bed they shared, Jonas's body responded to the dream, his arms tightening around Roscoe's waist, his face pressing into the warm skin of his chest. He made a small sound—not quite a word, more a murmur of distress—as the nightmare reached its climax.

Even in sleep, Roscoe responded. Without waking, his body shifted, adjusting to accommodate Jonas's movement. His arm, already draped across the smaller boy's back, tightened, pulling him closer. His hand moved in slow circles between Jonas's shoulder blades, caressing the scarred skin, softly giving comfort.

"Shh," he murmured, the sound barely audible. "I'm here. Got you."

The nightmare began to recede, its hold on Jonas's mind loosening as Roscoe's physical presence anchored him to reality. In the dream, they stood together in the empty living room, the threat vanquished, the future theirs to shape. In reality, they lay tangled together in the warm darkness, their bodies finding the places where they fit best, their breathing gradually synchronizing.

Neither fully woke—the transition from nightmare to dreamless sleep too seamless to break their rest. But something passed between them nonetheless—a wordless communication more honest than any conversation. They were together, and would always be. Partners—equal in their vulnerability, united in their strength.

As Jonas's breathing deepened into true sleep, Roscoe's arm remained firmly around him, a barrier between his friend and the darkness. Outside, the desert night stretched wide and empty, the stars cold and distant in the vast blackness. Here, in this room, in this bed, in the circle of Roscoe's arms, Jonas had found the one thing his nightmares couldn't touch—a place where he was safe, where he was loved, where he belonged.

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Hey, Cowboy

by SalientLane

Chapter 7