[zapdragon555]

[This RP is COMPLETELY ALTERNATE UNIVERSE to Evelon D&D; the characters here have different personalities than they will in the D&D game, and relationships may or may not be similar in any way to the ones in D&D. They'll be renamed for this RP as well, taking the names Danny and Vernon rather than Dante and Virgil. Sorry for any confusion!
This RP will contain depictions of severe abuse and homophobia, at least in the first few posts after this one, and then will likely have sexual themes and drug use afterwards with nasty language abound. It's gonna be a rough ride, y'all.]

The deafening rev of the motorcycle had long since faded into a constant, pattering hum, uninterrupted against their ears. Like the buzz of some kind of enormous red wasp, relentlessly following the two boys every inch of long, straight road they traveled. The wind blasting against Danny's exposed neck and bare arms hardly mattered; the bright hot sun was absolutely stifling, and Vernon's tight hold around his waist provided a more comfortable, gentle heat to counteract the sweltering sunlight.

Suddenly Vernon's breathy voice was curling against the curve of Danny's ear, nearly lost behind the hum of the motorcycle. "Baby, we should stop somewhere. I gotta take a piss and get something to eat. Something that isn't Heath Bars," Vernon raised his voice slightly above the noise, and after no immediate response from Danny he frowned and thunked his head on Danny's back. God, Vernon needed a smoke...

Finally, Danny pulled off to the side of the road and put on the brakes, slowing to a stop and kicking the stand down. He brought his hands up to his helmet and pulled it off, blinking at the change in light and shaking out his dark red hair. Blond roots were starting to show, Vernon observed as he raised his head from Danny's sweat-drenched shirt. "Vernon, I think you're forgetting something," Danny said, his voice calm as always but holding a growing irritation behind it. He held up a finger in front of Vernon's face, who stared at it, a bit cross-eyed. "One," he began, twitching the finger to make a point. "Don't talk to me so suddenly like that. Nearly gave me a damn heart attack, all that 'baby' shit."

Vernon smiled inwardly, trying not to laugh at Danny's sour expression.

"Two," he continued, "We're in the fucking Great Plains. There ain't no pitstops. At least not for a little while. S'why we brought food."

"Heath Bars and flat Perrier..." Vernon countered softly, rolling his eyes until they stopped on the road, where he spotted a flattened, unidentifiable piece of roadkill a few yards away. He wrinkled his nose, which was a little sunburned, despite his cover of bangs and long hair--it had been awhile since he'd cut it--and constantly hiding his face in Danny's shoulder. The sun had its ways of finding Vernon's pale, boyish skin, and it attacked with a vengeance.

"Three." Vernon's eyes flicked back to Danny as the other boy began speaking. There was a small silence, before Danny lowered his hand, his face growing solemn as he turned back to face the front, picking his helmet out of his lap. "We're low on gas." He slipped the helmet on, the padded material inside brushing against Danny's ears and effectively blocking out the sharp intake of fearful breath coming from Vernon. He didn't want to hear it. He felt guilty enough already, for all of this.

Danny kicked up the kickstand and revved the motorcycle once to make sure it still had juice. Vernon was staring at Danny's back, at the grooves made by the older boy's spine, then finally let out a tense, heavy sigh. "Fuckin' Perrier," he whispered, a nervous kind of titter shaking his voice, and he made a little yelp of surprise as Danny's hand reached back to lightly bop him in the head.

"Watch your mouth, Ver. You already picked up on my damn smoking habit, I'm not having it."

"Fine..." Vernon murmured, squinting blue eyes at Danny before slowly resuming his previous position, arms wrapping around Danny's torso and settling his cheek on the nape of his neck. He wanted to draw some form of comfort from the other boy, whom he'd only known for two months, now. Just two months. Time flew far too quickly, and that was just the way Vernon liked it. The motorcycle lurched to life and picked up speed quickly, kicking up dust and narrowly avoiding the tangled mess of roadkill as it sped off towards the Colorado-Kansas border.

[zapdragon555]

- Around Two Months Earlier -

It was not the first time that Vernon had come to the university with bruises on his face and neck. He'd popped the collar on his dress shirt to try to hide the majority of the fingertip-shaped ones on his throat, but nothing could hide the dark purple shiner on his left eye that seemed to scream for attention every time he walked into a classroom. The bruises were like a minefield to navigate, to deal with, and Vernon was often caught between name calling of sissy when he covered them up with makeup he'd bought with his father's money, and truant when the Reverend Scarlett noticed on the car ride there.

Vernon was a sheltered waif of a boy with pretty eyelashes and a girl's build. He didn't know how to drive, because his father never let him get his license. Instead, he always drove him to college, and to church on Sundays, when Vernon was tied up in a stifling Sunday-best suit and tie that made him want to keel over and die. But a preacher's son always had to look presentable; even a 'scrappy boy, who got into too many fights for his own good; bless his soul.'

And Vernon would smile at the old woman at church who had shown such concern for the bruises and black eye, because it was funny. It was too funny, how well a preacher could lie through his teeth.

Today, however, he felt sick. Sicker than normal, sitting at his desk as his baby blue eyes darted over the young male professor scribbling chalk number sequences on the blackboard--they still used blackboards in this dusty old town--and chewed on the corner of his mouth. Last night's beating had been one of the worst, after the Reverend had suddenly come into Vernon's room at one in the morning to see why the light was still on, and found his son with a Playgirl magazine in one hand and the other down his boxers.

It had needed no explanation; his father had known about his orientation for a year, now. Of course, actually catching Vernon in the act of it was a bit different. Before that, Reverend Scarlett never mentioned it, never paid it any mind other than a simple, flat, 'That's stilly, Vernon. Of course you're not gay. No son of mine would be gay.' Last night, he'd snatched the magazine out of Vernon's hand and smacked him square across the face with it with a right hook that only Vernon knew his father was capable of; he'd grabbed Vernon by the nightshirt, then by the throat, shaken him, shouted in his face and cussed him out to high heaven and he was sober. That's what scared Vernon the most, so much he'd nearly peed himself and cried and begged for forgiveness, but instead kept quiet like the smart little shit he was.

He'd heard his father shredding the magazines in another room once he'd left Vernon bruised and stunned on his bed.

Vernon felt like he was going to vomit. Suddenly he stood up, his desk squeaking on the floor and startling just about every other student in the room, and promptly went out of the room. "Vernon? You alright?" the professor asked, knitting his brows together, and Vernon hated that. He hated that sweet voice, those kind words, how he used Vernon's first name instead of his last name like the other boys. Hated them hated them hated them--

"Yeah," he croaked out softly, running a hand through his short, choppy hair that his father had cut to his own liking. Vernon missed his long hair. He really did. Without another word he was out the door and running towards the bathroom, but got sick on the hallway floor before he could get there.

[zapdragon555]

There was something so poetically sinful about looking at another man's hands in church with what one would call less than completely innocent thoughts. Vernon's ears had long tuned out the droning sound of his father's sermon, his blue eyes flickering as he stared at Professor Kreisler's folded hands, neatly sitting on his crossed-over leg. The way they creased suggested he'd done more than be a bookish math teacher all his life. Perhaps he'd played a sport. Ridden horses or something of the like. The way Kreisler would gently pat Vernon on the back, the shoulder, the way he shook his hand on the first day in greeting and he'd called Vernon 'Scarlett' and Vernon had said, with a rueful smile, 'Just call me Vernon,' the gentle smile and gentler answer, 'Alright, Vernon it is...' it was intoxicating, comforting, and sure.

Vernon wanted to be touched by those hands.

He wanted a lot of things that had to do with the professor. Only nine years Vernon's senior, Kreisler was a gifted, young mind with a kind face and a body that Vernon appreciated from his front row seat. He spoke softly, confidently, and was engaging in every way. He always wore striped ties. Vernon had never seen a solid color on him, and today was no exception. Vernon hadn't known what possessed the professor to invite Vernon to sit beside him in the pew, but Vernon had been far too tongue tied by those soft brown eyes to object.

Reverend Scarlett suddenly slammed a fist on the pulpit to punctuate his fiery words, making Vernon jump and gasp out loud. Embarrassment flooded his face as a few people in the congregation turned to stare at him, but all of that seemed to wash away as he felt a gentle hand on his arm.

"Vernon?" a sweet voice whispered, and Vernon's eyes flashed to stare into Kreisler's, his own eyes lidding softly. "You're a little jumpy today. Everything okay?" Vernon nodded, because he didn't know how to do anything else when all of the blood in his body was centering right around Kreisler's gentle grip around his forearm.

The grip was so different than his father's.

It used to be gentle, he supposed. Long before Vernon could remember. If his father was telling the truth, and Vernon would have doubted it if it hadn't felt so real, Vernon had been left on the steps of the church when he was a baby. With strawberry blond hair and tiny, cold fingers, Vernon was a curse to his not-father from the day Reverend Scarlett picked him up off the stone and held him close. He'd been a cross for his father to bear, for the reverend was not only unmarried but had a vow of celibacy. 'This is my son,' he would tell people with a nervous smile. And they would stare.

Vernon had grown used to the sight of those same hands gripping a bottle of beer and knocking it back, spilling on the carpet little by little until the whole house smelled of cheap alcohol. The beatings had grown habitual, with the help of those bottles, because his father didn't know what he was doing. He didn't know. He didn't know...

At least that's what Vernon had thought, until three nights ago, and he'd thrown up that following morning on the hallway floor, and was found slumped and shaking against a wall and rushed to the infirmary for some ice with that steady hand on his back and those gentle brown eyes filled with concern. He hated it... he really did. He did. He kept telling himself that he did.

The sermon ended and the congregation rose to sing, and Kreisler held the hymnal for Vernon to look off of. Vernon didn't sing. Kreisler's voice to his left, singing with a smile, was too husky, soft, and warm to cover up with his own.

[zapdragon555]

"And so, as x approaches zero, it follows this asymptote here as indicated by the equation we took apart..." Kreisler's pencil carved smooth, sloping lines on the graph between the two of them, and Vernon watched with intent. "...so it comes from both sides, but the two lines will never touch. They just go on to infinity. That's the basics of yesterday's lesson. Got all that?" A warm chuckle and soft eyes addressed Vernon, and he blinked, looking up to stare at the professor.

"Yeah, I think I got it." Vernon didn't like math very much. It was rigid, and difficult, and the answers were always so black and white, which Vernon had a tendency to both resent and take a strange comfort in. Perhaps it was because he associated it with Kreisler, but he figured that was giving his subconscious too much credit. Vernon's absence for most of class on Friday meant an after school study session on Monday with Kreisler. Except no one else had showed up, on account of the other girl who was supposed to come was running terribly late. Vernon wasn't sure if that was luck or fate or an omen. "Thanks, this... helped a lot. Sorry for the trouble..."

Kreisler's eyes crinkled slightly as he smiled wider, and a small laugh escaped him. "Aw, that's great. No, don't apologize. I'm happy to do this for you," he said, eyes softening as he took in Vernon's appearance. The bruises were still there, but Vernon was wearing makeup this time. Even so, he could see the light purple shade peeking through the coverup. "You're a smart kid, Vernon."

Vernon's eyes flickered slightly, and the sudden damper on his mood must have shown. Kid. Kreisler blinked, catching himself. "A smart man," he corrected himself softly, then turned in his chair to face Vernon a bit better, looking at him levelly. "You're a capable, good-hearted man with a good head on your shoulders. And I think as long as you apply yourself, your life will be as great as you want it to be." The sudden serious atmosphere that had settled in the air made Kreisler smile in embarrassment, glancing away with what looked like a small flush. "Heh, got a little heavy there. But... I mean it, Vernon." He turned back to meet Vernon's blue eyes, which were wide now, his lips parted as he stared back at Kreisler. "I just... want you to know that I care about you. I'm on your side."

A quiet settled over the study room for a moment, Vernon's eyes locked on Kreisler's face, eyes, his lips as he talked... It was like a spell had been put over him. Kreisler... cared about him. To Vernon, the idea was revolutionary, and even though it showed in every action, to hear Kreisler say it...

Before Vernon knew what was happening he was leaning out of his chair and closing the gap between himself and the professor, his lips seeking and pressing against Kreisler's mouth before softening into a shuddering gasp, and for a moment the world was still, and beautiful, and his heart was beating so fast in his chest he couldn't hear... what was Kreisler saying...?

"Mmf--Ver--Vernon, wait!" Kreisler gasped, jerking away from Vernon's mouth, his face a dark red and eyes blank with shock. "Vernon," he breathed, then brought his hands up to Vernon's shoulders, and Vernon's eyes went a bit doey with a sudden, rushing need and the realization that Kreisler was pulling him closer...

"Jeremy," he whispered out Kreisler's first name and it just felt so good on his lips, here in the open and not in the quiet of his own bedroom as he moaned it into the pillowcase just one time, just one time and that had been it, he'd fallen in love with the image of his professor in his mind that night the first week of Sophomore year. Vernon barely lurched forward, trying to kiss him again, then realized the hands were not pulling him forward, but rather holding him firmly in place. Vernon's eyes refocused on Kreisler's eyes and his blood ran cold to find those kind eyes dark, Kreisler's brows knitted in a mixture of confusion, anger, and concern. "...P-professor...?"

"Vernon, I can't... do this. You... you must have misunderstood something," Kreisler began whispering, his voice cutting and harsh but still very much trying to remain calm. It wasn't working. In a sudden movement Kreisler shoved Vernon backwards and stood up, his chair rolling backwards slightly as he backed away from Vernon. "We can't do this. I'm not... you're..."

Vernon stared at Kreisler from where he was leaning on the table, his hand clutching the edge where he'd caught himself after being pushed so roughly. Slowly he could feel his resolve falling apart, the ground beneath his feet swaying. "I love you," Vernon's voice came out unbidden, as he moved closer to Kreisler. Their steps mirrored each other, Vernon's moving forward and Kreisler's moving away until the professor's back hit the wall and Vernon was pressing against the taller man.

Kreisler stared down at Vernon and stiffened with a sharp intake of breath as Vernon's hands moved to stroke along his sides, his chest, and Kreisler thought he was losing his mind because for a single moment he enjoyed the feeling of Vernon pressed up against him, touching him, staring at him like a dog stares at his master's food and oh god what was he doing--before Kreisler could speak, Vernon's lips were mouthing and sighing against his neck, and Kreisler shuddered, going limp against the wall as Vernon's attention sent shocks of fear and pleasure and horror and guilt through him. "I-I'm engaged," he choked out softly, his hands which had been trying to push Vernon away suddenly caressing the smaller boy's hips, sides, and arms.

"I don't care," Vernon whispered, his hips rubbing against Kreisler's and Vernon felt a rush of pride and excitement and a little fear as well as he realized he was getting Kreisler hot. "I don't care. Touch me." Vernon's voice was foreign to his own ears, low and steady and dangerous. He didn't know what he was doing, anymore. Later he would look back on this moment and realize it was the biggest mistake of his life, for a handful of reasons that Vernon wished he could forget had ever happened. But still his lips and tongue and teeth worked bruises into Kreisler's soft skin, not slowed by Kreisler's words, and certainly not slowed by the sound of footsteps nearing the study room.

"Stop, Vernon--damn it, stop... a-ahn...!" Kreisler gasped as Vernon's hands slipped between them to palm at the front of Kreisler's pants, and before he knew it Kreisler was a shaking mess, his breathing growing faster and faster, oh, Vernon wanted those pants off so he could just get on his knees and show Kreisler how much he really wanted him but all of Vernon's thoughts were suddenly knocked out of his head as Kreisler's knee came up and slammed into his groin, making Vernon cry out and stumble backwards to his knees, pain radiating up from between his legs. Vernon stiffened as Kreisler was suddenly upon him, grabbing him roughly by the arms and swinging him around to shove him into the wall, eyes blazing with a cold, quiet anger that made Vernon's heart stop.

"You... will never touch me again," Kreisler's voice was shaking, and all at once Vernon realized what he'd done. An enormous wave of remorse suddenly washed over the boy, tears springing in his eyes and rolling down his face. "Is that understood, Scarlett? Do you understand me?"

"Y-yes sir," Vernon whispered, his voice cracking as a sob escaped him. "I-I'm sorry... I'm sorry, I just... I thought you..." Kreisler stared at Vernon for a long time, his heart hammering so fast to think... how much he'd wanted Vernon, right in that moment, too. It scared him. It appalled him. "I-I thought you had feelings for me. Y-you acted like you did..."

Kreisler's eyes flashed for a moment, and he slowly let go of Vernon, then thought better of it and instead pulled the shaking young man into a tight hug, pinning Vernon's arms to his sides as he held him in place. "No, Vernon," Kreisler murmured, his voice softening and quieting with guilt. "I said I cared about you. I do. I still do, damn it. God, what am I supposed to think, when you come to class covered in bruises and cuts like you've been in a gang fight?" Vernon's shoulders shook in Kreisler's arms, little hiccuping sobs rushing out of him as he cried like a child into Kreisler's dress shirt. "I'm... I'm not gay, Vernon. I don't think I am, because I love my fiance very much, and we're going to get married in April."

Vernon cried harder, his wails muffled by fabric, and Kreisler sighed softly, staring at the place where carpet met wall. "I'm sorry I was rough with you, but I won't tolerate sexual harassment. You touched me without my permission, and I..." Kreisler closed his eyes for a moment, and took a steadying breath. He needed to be an adult. He needed to take care of this. "I can't let that go unpunished. I... I have to tell the schoolboard."

"No--god, no," Vernon's voice had risen to a level of panic as he tried to get away from the hug, and Kreisler's grip loosened just enough to let Vernon breathe a bit better. "No, no no no don't, please, I-I'll do anything. I'll never talk to you again, i-if that's what it will take. I'll transfer out of your class, I-I'll never talk to you again, I promise, I'll..." Vernon's rapid fire speech was growing less and less coherent as a sob mixed in, and Kreisler stared down at Vernon's head, his heart hammering. What to do, in this situation...? He knew nothing of Vernon's home life. He didn't know where those bruises came from, but he wondered... he truly wondered...

It wasn't his place to intervene. But... "Vernon," he said steadily, leaning away to look the boy in the eyes. "I don't want you to avoid me. I don't want you to get hurt, either. If... if me telling the schoolboard will get you hurt, then I don't want that." He licked his lips, trying to breathe evenly. "So... let's deal with this here. I still want to help you, and I like having you in my class. I don't want you to leave; you're a good student." Vernon's gasps hitched softly as he tried to control his sobs long enough for Kreisler to take him seriously and not look at him like a child, Vernon couldn't stand those kind brown eyes now, after all that... "If you promise to never mention this to anyone, I promise, too. And if you promise to never try something like that with me, or with any teacher, or student without their permission... then... then we can... let it go."

Everything Kreisler was saying completely went against his duties as a teacher. Kreisler knew that. But something deep inside of him just couldn't allow him to put the shaking blond boy in his arms into the hands of the devil, whatever those hands may be. "It's going to be okay, Vernon," he said softly, gently squeezing Vernon's shoulder as he often did when the boy left for lunch every day as a friendly goodbye. In retrospect, now... Kreisler supposed he was a fool to think Vernon would automatically assume it was just that. A friendly goodbye, and not a promise of wanting something more. "I promise, you're going to be okay."

Vernon raised his head to stare up at Kreisler with watery eyes, his face a mess from crying, and as he took in a breath to speak he stopped, as he heard a sudden rush of footsteps running away from the outside of the study room door.

[zapdragon555]

Word travelled fast in that dusty old town like a wildfire from the mouth of the girl who showed up late to the study session. She'd seen Vernon and Kreisler, together. She'd seen Vernon seduce the professor, seen the professor slam Vernon into the wall and hiss words into his face. Seen Vernon cry, heard Kreisler's gentle whispering, and she'd ran. There was no way she would be able to walk in on that. Inevitably, she failed her math test, and inevitably, she'd let it slip to her friends.

"Stupid fucking car, breaking down right in front of the school. I couldn't just leave it there, I had to park, right? So, like, I showed up late after I got Kyle to help me move it..."

"Session already over?"

"Hah, I mean, something like that." Her voice would drop to a whisper. "When I got there, Reverend Scarlett's son had Professor Kreisler pinned up against the wall, feeling him up like some horny pervert!"

"Holy shit!"

"Yeah! And Kreisler was just taking it and moaning like a little whore, before he went and slammed Vernon against the wall..."

"No, really?! ...Really...?"

Like a wildfire. If more than one person knew a secret in that southern California town, then everyone knew it. It didn't help that the population was so small and close-knit, that neighbors were so gossipy, that the school board was so easily swayed by word of mouth. The story that eventually was born was something about how Kreisler and the Reverend's son were having an illicit affair behind Kreisler's fiance's back during evening study sessions, and as it was far more interesting and scandalous and sinful, that was the story that stuck.

Vernon's eyes were still red when the Reverend picked him up from the study session. The car ride home was silent and tense, as it often was, but even more so this time because Vernon knew that his father noticed the evidence of his crying. He never did ask about it, and Vernon, as had been the norm as of late, was thankful that the Reverend was paying him little mind.

If the car ride had been bad, dinner was worse. As Vernon had come out of his room, shed of his school uniform and dressed in something slightly more comfortable, the sky outside had opened up and let loose a pouring deluge of rain that been held in all afternoon. Thunder rocked the dark house as Vernon tugged at the collar of his sweater, half-dreading being in the same vicinity as his father, but after a day like that day, he welcomed just about anything reeking of normalcy.

The kitchen was the sole illumination in the house, the fluorescent lights above the countertops casting a pallid glow on the edges of the living room. Vernon walked in with a yawn, more out of stress than exhaustion, and tried to make himself look small. "Anything I can do to help?" he ventured after a moment of silence, staring at his father's back as the Reverend flipped two meat patties over.

"Mm mm, I've just about got it done. You can get the ketchup and anything else out of the fridge," he said in the same breath, sounding chillingly... normal. Friendly. Calm. But then, Vernon had little to worry about. He was none the wiser about the rumors brewing around town, flitting through telephone wires and text messages until the whole town was ablaze with quiet, muted muttering about how they all saw it coming.

"Want cheese on yours?" Vernon offered, getting out a tomato and head of lettuce and setting them down on a cutting board. He already knew the answer, and was already pulling a knife out of the drawer when his father answered in the negative. Working in this separate way, the two of them eventually pulled together two not-half-bad-looking hamburgers that looked like just about the best thing in the world to Vernon's empty stomach right then.

Friendly banter--if one could call it that--finally over and replaced with silent eating, Vernon sat across from his father at the small, square table in the kitchen, going through great mental pains not to tear into his food. Eating was a test, Vernon convinced himself. In all things, Vernon knew his father's eyes were on him, judging everything he did. It was unfounded, maybe, but it was some fabricated proof that the Reverend hadn't completely given up on Vernon yet. Vernon wasn't quite sure where his own wishes stood, in that regard, but all the while he watched as his father took swigs off of a bottle of beer, the bright label staring back at him through the Reverend's fingers.

Lulled into a false sense of security by the steady sound of rain and the feeling of warm food filling his stomach, the sound of the landline telephone ringing jolted Vernon in his seat. The sound of the chair jerking on the linoleum made his father look up and stare at Vernon, then slowly put his food down and walk to the phone, muttering something about how rude it was to be calling during dinner. Vernon looked down at his half-eaten burger, staring at the barely-pink center, and suddenly, the atmosphere in the room was changing and a deep panic rushed through him, cutting off his appetite and involuntarily lowering his hands back down to his plate to release his burger, and all before the Reverend even said, "Hello?"

Vernon stared at his father's face, half-visible from where he sat, as he listened to the mumbling on the other line. "I... don't believe I have. What do you mean?" The Reverend's eyes narrowed, barely flicking to meet Vernon's eyes, and Vernon drew in a startled, confused breath, eyes flashing back down to his plate. There was too much ketchup on his burger, really... the plate was too red. He was being too morbid, god, what was he doing? It was only a phone call. It was only--

"Excuse me?!" Vernon flinched as his father's voice rose sharply in volume. "What--what? Kreisler... that professor at the universit... no, I..." Oh god, oh god oh god oh god--

"W-what's wrong with Professor Kreisler?" Vernon blurted out before he could stop himself, the words squeezing out of his tightened throat. He shrank back as the Reverend suddenly put a hand to the receiver and whirled around, eyes full of fire.

"Shut the fuck up, you little sh..." The Reverend trailed off, staring at Vernon with a red face and flaring nostrils, then returned his attention to the phone. "Yes. Has a report been filed? Yes... thank you. I'll... take care of this. Oh, yes, I... can't imagine what his fiance must feel. Yes."

Shit, no--

"Yeah--yes, no, this is the first I've heard of this."

No no no no no no no no no no--

"Oh, yes... I'm sorry, too. I feel sorry for the poor girl who had to see that."

Vernon was shaking, every bone like ice in his body and every ounce of blood concentrated on keeping his heart beating in spite of the deathly fear coursing through him. His hands tingled with cold as he listened to the pleasantries go back and forth, and as the receiver clicked and the phone was returned to its holster, his heart thudded in his throat and he felt he might be sick.

The Reverend was still, staring at the phone, the sound of his breathing hissing faster and faster in and out of his nose slowly rising above the hiss of rain outside, and before Vernon could register what was happening his father was snatching up the beer bottle and hurtling it at Vernon's head.

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Vernon yelled and ducked, crying out in pain as the bottle collided with his forehead and the sound of shattering glass met his ears. His vision spun and swam as he tried to stumble to his feet, scrambling to get out of his chair when his father's hand buried in his sweater and jerked him to his feet, then threw him back into the chair. "Sid'down, son!" his father said with a harsh smile, brows raised high and face red with rage. "You and I are gonna have a talk, see?!"

Vernon wanted to scream, to shout no and fight back and deny everything and run but he found himself rooted to the chair, his breath coming fast in his chest and eyes locked in horror on Scarlett's face. "U-uhuh," Vernon stammered, nodding his head dumbly. "I mean--dad, no, i-it's not--" Vernon cut off sharply as a heavy hand came across his face, and he lapsed into silence, breathing fast as the numbness began to leak out of his extremities and he finally noticed a sharp pain above his eye. He slowly reached up with a hand to feel of the spot, and when his fingers came away red, all of the color seemed to drain from his face.

"You're gonna tell me all about this little time you've been having with your teacher, Vernon. How long, huh?" Scarlett put his face in Vernon's, meeting Vernon's unseeing eyes. "How long've you been seeing him, huh?"

"I-I haven't! Never--just once! I don't know!" Vernon's voice cracked into a wail, blood dripping down over his eye, momentarily blinding him as another hand came across his face. He coughed, bile rising in his throat as his fear spilled over and turned any semblance of coherent thought to fight-or-flight survival. He felt heavy hands grab his collar and lift, and Vernon blindly lashed out with a whimper, his fists colliding on something hard that gave under the wild strike.

"Shit!" Vernon heard the Reverend's voice simultaneously with the crack of cartilage, and he tore himself away from the gripping hands, crawling along the floor to try to get to some kind of shelter to wipe his face off. Vernon cried out as he felt broken glass cut into his palms, and he frantically tried to skitter backwards, before he felt a shoe slam him hard in the back of the head.

He'd never know what kept him conscious, at that moment. By all odds he should've blacked out, completely at the mercy of a merciless assailant who had raised him with gentle hands for a fair majority of his life. It was fucked, all of it. Completely, utterly fucked, that there had to be some kind of guardian angel picking him up and hurling him towards the door. It had to be divine intervention that kept his legs moving, running and scrabbling at the doorknob, running out into the pouring rain with a constant scream tearing silent at his dry throat, in comparison to the near-constant thunder.

It had to have been God, because God was on the Reverend's side. And it would look pretty damn bad if the town found out the Reverend had killed his son.

It was weird, probably, that this was the one rational thought that kept running through Vernon's head as he stumbled through puddles down the driveway. That he could've died--would've died. Should've died, perhaps, but he'd defied it, was defying it for the time being. Vernon's legs slowly started to give; the adrenaline could only last so long, could only carry him so far, and already he was soaked thoroughly to the bone by the endless sheets of rain coming down. He stopped in the middle of the street, the sight of a bright light approaching from the end of the street not registering in his mind. It wasn't a car... and therefore, in its sluggish and abused state, Vernon's brain couldn't quite wrap around what it was that was coming towards him until it was too late.

Or, almost too late.

The red motorcycle swerved, hard, the moment the bright light fell on Vernon. "Christ!" the driver shouted as the vehicle's tires skidded against the curb, and he turned it in a sharp circle in attempts to stop it. The man practically tore off his helmet, red in the face almost bright enough to match the red dye in his hair, and threw the helmet on the grass to the side as he stalked towards the boy that had fallen down in the street. "Damn fucking drunk-ass kids, I swear to fuck I'm gonna wring your neck you piece of sh...it..." The man trailed off as he got closer, veins still pulsing with raw fear and anger--god, if he'd run over the guy, they'd both have been dead, one literally and one figuratively--but he could've sworn the guy was crying.

The rider stared for a moment, then fumbled for his phone in his pocket and turned on its built-in flashlight, squinting against the rain. He shined the light on Vernon, who whimpered and seemed to shrink away from the light like it was poison, and the rider felt his heart seize sharp in his chest at the disturbing amount of blood and bruises shining back at him. "Oh, fuck," he whispered, looking back at his motorcycle. He hadn't hit the guy, had he? He hadn't felt a thing--that was impossible. It couldn't have been... "Hey, h-hey, are you okay?" he yelled over the roar of the rain, bending down to try to hook an arm around Vernon's waist. "We need to get the hell out of the road, damn, this sucks," he whispered under his breath, a meaningless mantra as he tried to wrap his head around the sudden events. "What's a damn kid doing in the road, why's he in the road, huh...?"

Vernon listened with half-aware ears, exhaustion and pain starting to overtake him. He was faintly aware of being picked up and sat down like a limp doll on the motorcycle, the rumble from the machine's engine making him dizzier than before. He wanted to throw up--he wasn't sure he could manage it before he blacked out, though. Arms came from either side of him--these weren't his arms, he had to remind himself--to hold the handlebars, and Vernon allowed himself to slump back slightly against the body behind him as they drove through the rain at a pace that was probably considered slow for motorcycles, but felt like warp speed to Vernon's frozen senses. He never did lose consciousness, during the ride--the heat of another body kept him awake, alert as he could be, while the stinging rain in his face threatened to drag him under once again.

[zapdragon555]

Vernon was barely aware of the motorcycle rolling to a stop in the parking lot of a 7-Eleven on the edge of town. He felt the presence behind him move, and he moved with it, eliciting a soft, "Fuck, can't even sit up?" from his apparent rescuer, or kidnapper. Vernon wasn't sure which, nor did he fully care, as long as he wasn't in that house anymore. "Stay with me, kid. Alright?"

He let the man half drag, half carry him by the armpits into the convenience store, the chill from rain and aftermath of everything making him shake like a leaf. He listened dully to the curt back and forth between the man holding him and the woman behind the counter, and in a few moments he was being dragged over to the bathroom, the woman darting towards the ice machine with a plastic bag in her hands. Vernon was seated on a metal bench against the wall, colder still, and left there for a few minutes while the small convenience store momentarily came to life with movement. He looked at his hands, staring at the cuts and bits of glass that shimmered in the fluorescent light. The shaking was back.

"Okay, okay... easy now." The man's voice was back, too. Vernon raised his head a fraction of an inch to see a cup of water shoved at him with a bit more force than obviously intended. "Sorry--you can't hold this, can you. Alright. That's fine... fuck, it's not fine, what happened to your hands..." The man continued to murmur under his breath as he raised the cup to Vernon's lips, his other hand hovering slightly behind Vernon's neck as the blonde's head tilted backwards to drink. The sensation was too much for Vernon's throat. He coughed, water spilling in his lap, a curse spilling from the stranger's mouth.

"Does he need an ambulance?" The woman who'd been at the cash register was bringing the bag of ice over. She sounded worried, and kind. Vernon must've looked like a mess, he thought. "I can call one..."

"Dunno yet. Don't really think so. I can't afford that, anyhow. Maybe the kid's parents could..." Vernon winced as he felt the ice press to his forehead, hissing air through his teeth and trying to shy away. "Oh, now you can move yourself. Great," the man muttered under his breath, holding Vernon's head steady as he pressed freezing cold into the wound on Vernon's forehead.

After awhile, the sharp pain began to dull, and then numb. Vernon couldn't feel half of his face, it was so cold. The woman had returned to the register, looking at the two of them with concern in her gaze, painted nail scratching at old sticker residue on the countertop. "I'm going to get some paper towels," she suddenly said, standing up with a quick, agitated motion and running over to the bathroom. Vernon watched the man's mouth twitch into something that might've been a smile, had circumstances been different.

"I'm Danny," he suddenly said, as if small talk were necessary. It was quiet in there, save for the hum of air conditioning that Vernon wished wasn't there. He wanted warmth. He wanted a fire. A blanket. Something. "Can you talk yet?"

Vernon managed to rock his head back and forth in the negative, though he wasn't sure if he could talk or not. He hadn't tried and didn't want to.

"Alright." Silence returned, until the woman came in with handfuls of paper towels, some wet and some dry, and laid them down on the bench. She fidgeted her hands, and moved away, back to her post at the register. A cell phone came out, and she was still. Vernon felt a little better without her eyes on him. "Hold this for me, kid?" Danny asked, picking up one of Vernon's hands and moving it towards the bag of ice.

Vernon felt as though he blacked out, after that. Before he knew it the majority of the blood on his face and hands had been wiped away, the worst of the glass taken out (it hadn't been very much after all). He was still holding that ice pack, but it had changed hands, and he had a few bandaids covering various parts of his face and palms. Okay. He felt a little better, now, truth be told. Maybe an odd sitting-nap was all he needed.

"Aa--" Cough. Nope, that was still shot. His tongue felt like leather in his mouth. The noise had been enough to spook Danny into looking up at him, the man's brown eyes wide.

"Hey," he whispered, real concern in those eyes for a few seconds as he leaned closer. He jerked away and looked around, spotting the water cup from before, and picked it up. "You hold it, this time. Don't choke."

Vernon took the cup of water in his free hand, finding it hard to close his grip due to the bandaids, but tried anyway. He managed to take a few sips, his throat recoiling at any notion of liquid, but he forced it down without any more coughing. He tried to speak, and was surprised at how scratchy his voice was. "How long was I out?" he asked weakly.

"You were out?" Danny asked, a snort in his voice. "Never heard of someone passing out sitting up. Good on you, kid." The man, which Vernon could now properly see had a head of blazingly red hair (dyed, quite obviously, and blond roots were beginning to show) and arms full of tattoos. What a punk. Vernon wasn't sure he'd ever seen someone like that in this town. "Whaddya eat?"

The question didn't register right away with Vernon, so after a long pause he simply said that he wasn't hungry. Danny just shrugged and picked up a honey bun off the shelf, and walked over to the counter to buy it. He exchanged a few soft words with the woman there, who still looked distraught, though now her eyes were more on her phone than Vernon. The latter still felt as though he were in a fog, and a slow-clearing one. The numbness of body and brain was perfectly welcome, for the time being.