This Town Just Wasn't Made for Two (Part three)

[pinkichan]

When Jon arrives back at the train station both Brendon and Spencer are waiting there.

“Jon! There you are!” Brendon says as he rushes forward to meet Jon the rest of the way, Spencer following along behind him. “You left the store,” Brendon says and then he notices the painting tucked under Jon’s arm. “What’s that under your arm?”

“I couldn’t find you in the store, Brendon and this is a painting I bought from an artist down by the library.”

“I went in the dressing room to try on a suit and when I came out you were gone,” Brendon says, a slight pout taking over his features.

“That’s a pretty good painting, Jon,” Spencer notes, “How much did it cost you?”

“He wanted a dollar but took seventy-five cents.”

Brendon’s eyes widen. “Jon, Jon, can you afford that?”

Spencer reaches out and prods Brendon in the side with his elbow, Brendon looks over at the two of them before his eyes widen again and his mouth takes this little ‘o’ shape.

“Anyway, let’s get to the diner, I’m paying,” Spencer says.

“Oh, Spence, you don’t have to do that,” Jon says. Spencer waves his hand around.

“It’s on my father’s dime actually. He inked a deal with the men we came to meet.”

Jon gives in and Spencer leads them down the main road of the city. They pass by the more upscale restaurant that Brendon and Jon had taken note of when they were exploring the city. Spencer leads them about three blocks or so from the train station, he leads them to the diner built from red brick. Through the large square windows Jon can see people sitting inside in plastic booths and along the counter in little rounded stools.

Inside the restaurant smells like grease and coffee and its loud and busy; that country mouse feeling settles over Jon once again. Brendon is wide-eyed drinking in all the different people, people dressed like them or people in suits and dresses, people that are dressed up like Spencer.

The three of them squeeze into a plastic booth; Brendon and Spencer on one side and Jon and his newly purchased art on the other. They place their orders without much discussion and while they wait for their meals to come Spencer bumps his shoulder against Brendon’s.

“Let’s go look at the jukebox,” Spencer tells him. Brendon nods excitedly and the three of them head to the back of the restaurant where the rounded jukebox is sitting and glowing, the lights on it flashing sporadically. Spencer hands a beaming Brendon a penny, Brendon pushes it into the machine and hits buttons, making the music catalogue inside flap back and forth.

Spencer points out songs that he says Brendon would like and he smiles fondly at Brendon’s sheer joy over the jukebox. Brendon winds up picking a blues song; it’s smooth with pianos, horns, and guitars. Brendon grins so wide and infectious that Jon can’t help but smile along. Brendon plays two more songs before their food arrives.

“You liked it, Bren?” Spencer asks as they tuck into their meals.

“Oh, Spence, it was amazing. I wish we had one of these back home. It’s like; I can see the notes, the music, in my head.”

They continue eating their food and after awhile Brendon excuses himself to go to the bathroom; Spencer and Jon watch him until he disappears from their sight.

“Jon,” Spencer begins.

“Hmm?”

Spencer’s eyes are locked on his plate of food.”While you were lost in the city Brendon and I got to talking.”

“Oh?” Jon says and then, “I wasn’t lost, I was exploring.”

Spencer laughs. “Well regardless, I think... I think Brendon was trying to ask me to move in with him.”

Jon tilts his head and arches an eyebrow. Suddenly Brendon looking at cots in the grocery and asking Jon all those things about when he and Tom moved into together makes more sense.

“You think?” Jon asks.

“Well, he was being vague about it, like he was really nervous or wanted to feel me out about it before he really asked but I mean, it’s Brendon, he’s not the subtlest person around. I told him to talk to you about it before he goes inviting people to a house that isn’t his own.”

Jon wipes at his mouth with his napkin. “I haven’t even gotten around to tellin’ Tom about Brendon yet,” Jon says sheepishly. It’s not that he wouldn’t mind Spencer living on the farm it’s more an issue of space and possibly charging for rent. Spencer laughs but then Brendon’s walking back to the booth and so the two of them drop the issue.

The conversation carries on normally; Jon hears the bell above the diner jangle as a customer enters and he looks up to see Ryan Ross, the artist from the library coming into the diner. Ryan doesn’t notice Jon amongst the other patrons; he probably wouldn’t remember Jon even if he had noticed him. Jon ignores Brendon and Spencer’s conversation and instead focuses on Ryan whose standing at the counter, talking to one of the older waitresses.

Jon glances at his painting and the man who created it. He excuses himself from the table; he’s not sure why but he is fascinated by this man, Ryan Ross. Jon squeezes himself in next to Ryan at the counter.

“Mr. Ross,” Jon says with a smile. Ryan turns his head in confusion and then his eyes brighten up.

“Oh hello, Mr. Walker, isn’t it?” Ryan’s steady voice asks. Jon nods just as the waitress returns to Ryan.

“I’m sorry sir but you don’t have enough for the meal you ordered,” She tells him with no amount of grace or attempt at quiet. Ryan’s cheeks flush a bit and he glances at Jon before he messes with the brim of his newsboy cap.

“Well, what do I have enough for?”

The waitress sighs, she sounds annoyed at this whole situation. “A cup of coffee,” she snips at him. Ryan sighs, a deep rattle in his chest. His long fingers tap against the counter, knuckles black with what looks like it might be charcoal, Jon’s used to seeing Tom’s hands look the same.

“Alright, I’ll take it.”

The waitress rolls her eyes but nods and moves to go and pour Ryan his cup of coffee. Ryan looks embarrassed, he shifts restlessly in place.

“Not to be rude or speak out of turn, Mr. Ross, but I just bought that painting from you. That shoulda been enough to get yourself a meal.”

Ryan’s head is ducked but he can see that same pink flush that had stained Ryan’s cheeks now climbing up the back of his neck.

“It would’ve been had I not stopped off at the art supply store prior to this diner,” Ryan explains.

“You bought supplies over food? No wonder you’re as thin as a rail,” Jon chides, he briefly balks because he sounds an awful lot like his mother right about now. Ryan looks up at him with those deep dark eyes and he frowns, that only makes his face look thinner, more gaunt and sickly, Jon feels the beginnings of worry tug at his stomach. But Ryan doesn’t say anything, as if even he cannot defend his own actions.

“You’re right; it really isn’t your place, Mr. Walker.” Ryan’s words are lacking certain venom that Jon thinks normally should be there.

“I apologize. I am curious though; if you’re spending your last money on this cup of coffee then where are you planning on sleeping tonight?”

Ryan opens his mouth and closes it again; he looks a little uncomfortable, maybe he doesn’t tell people these kinds of things on a normal basis.

“I’ll find a place,” Ryan mumbles. That doesn’t sound very good to Jon; he pictures Ryan sleeping propped up against the outside of the library; blank canvases, tubes of paint, and sticks of charcoal sprawled out around him. “I’ll probably be moving on to a new city soon anyway,” Ryan adds.

“You know, I don’t live too far from here, in a little farm town ‘bout two hours from here.”

Ryan raises an eyebrow but then the waitress, with her bright orange curly hair is returning, carrying a chipped white mug and handing it over to Ryan. Ryan nods his thanks and blows at the liquid to cool it. Ryan sips at his coffee, making a face afterwards.

“I think I would’ve been better off starving.”

Jon laughs a little and then he feels a hand on his shoulder and he’s a little surprised at his own disappointment in it not being Ryan’s hand. Jon turns his head and Brendon and Spencer are standing there.

“Jon, the last train is leaving soon, we’ve got to go,” Spencer says, his blue, blue, eyes shifting between Ryan and Jon. Ryan drinks his coffee and watches the three of them with a careful heavy gaze.

“Ah, right.” Jon turns to Ryan and he finds himself not quite ready to leave this interesting character behind, “Mr. Ross, nice running into you again.” Jon offers Ryan his hand. Ryan keeps one hand curled around his mug and the other he offers to Jon.

“And the same to you, Mr. Walker, enjoy the painting.”

Spencer pays for their meals and Jon gathers up his painting, Brendon peers at Ryan from around Jon’s shoulder.

“Is that the artist, Jon?” Brendon asks as they’re leaving the diner. Jon throws one last look at the diner and he catches the faintest glance of Ryan sitting at the counter, head bowed and coffee in hand.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s him.”

Spencer’s dad is already waiting for them at the train station, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigar. They take the train back and Jon is quiet during the ride. He wonders where Ryan is really going to sleep tonight, if he’ll be able to have money for food when he wakes up. Jon shouldn’t be worrying about a person he met briefly but he can’t help it. He glances at the painting and traces a blunt finger over the curved line of the waves of an ocean Jon will probably never see.

Jon had thought that once he got home, got the painting hung up in his and Tom’s bedroom that his thoughts would be his own once again. Spencer leaves for home when they get back to town while Brendon and Jon return to the farm. Jon lies in bed and he feels the need to re-read Tom’s latest letter; he’s still just as excited about Tom’s impending arrival but tonight the excitement feels tainted. Jon folds the letter and lets it rest on his chest; over his heart and his eyes lock on the painting. If Jon stares hard enough he can see the black looping RR in the corner.

***

The next day after Jon’s work is done he sits down and starts writing Tom a reply. The house is quiet and still with Brendon in the horse barn with Spencer. Jon writes about how he’s excited to see Tom, how their room and bed is too cold, too empty. He mentions how he finally got to see an automobile for the first time and how they have a new farmhand staying with them.

Jon pictures Tom sitting in a train, cheek pressed to a cold window as Indiana creeps by slowly outside; Tom’s face dirty with soot from the train and his hands tucked into the pockets of his black pea-coat.

Jon seals up the letter and carefully writes out the address in Indiana before he tucks the letter into the inside of his shirt and goes outside to get on his bike. Outside Brendon and Spencer are nowhere to be found but Jon figures they’re messing with the chickens; Brendon had taken a shine to the fowls and Jon can easily picture he and Spencer in the coop petting the birds.

Jon bikes into town, it’s cooler out today; the wind pushing at his hair and face. The worry that Jon had had about Ryan from the previous day has ebbed away a bit and Jon feels normal again; he feels like himself. The town is quiet with few people milling around outside. Jon sets his bike up against the side of the post office and heads inside the building.

Greta is working behind the counter; she smiles big and bright at Jon as he comes inside but there’s another worker with her today. Pete Wentz is standing in front of the mail cubbies, pulling letters and stuffing them into his large canvas bag. Jon doesn’t see Pete much, save for when he’s delivering mail. Greta works inside the office, sorting letters into the cubbies and tossing packages and letters of untraceable people. Pete looks over his shoulder and smiles toothily at Jon.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Walker,” Pete says with a nod. Pete’s black shock of unruly hair is tamed by a white straw hat he’s wearing, his already tanned skin even darker with how much time he spends out in the sun.

“Afternoon, Pete.”

“How can I help you, Jon,” Greta asks lightly. Jon pulls his letter from the inside of his shirt and shows it to Greta, “Ah, a letter for, Tom? That’s some good timing you have, Jon. Pete’s collecting the outgoing mail right now.”

Pete turns from taking letters out of the cubbies and holds out a hand for Jon’s letter to Tom.

“He’s outta state, right?” Pete asks; Jon nods as Pete slides the letter into the bag.

“Hey, Greta,” Jon starts, “Do you have the schedules for the trains?”

Jon would like to say that he wants a schedule so he can determine what train Tom will wind up taking home but really, a little voice inside his head is urging him to find out when the next train to the city leaves. Greta tilts her head in confusion but she nods.

“Yeah, right here, Jon.” Greta turns away from him, her braid swinging out behind her. She takes a sheet of paper from a shelf on the wall and hands it over to him, smiling all the while. “You going somewhere?” she asks.

“Nah, well... I was thinkin’ of going out to the city maybe... tomorrow or something.” Jon really hates his brain right now and how it tells Greta of half formed plans that Jon thought up before falling asleep last night.

“Oh? You moving away on us, Jon Walker?” she teases. Pete snorts from the cubbies.

“Can you really blame him? Ain’t nothin’ here for no one, Greta,” Pete says. Pete doesn’t bother looking at them, just continues with his work.

“It’s nothing like that. I just have some business to attend to.” Jon pictures sullen eyes and gaunt cheeks, charcoal-covered hands. Greta lets the topic drop and instead chooses to frown in Pete’s direction. “Well, thanks for this,” Jon says as he waves the train schedule at Greta. “But I’d best be heading home.”

“Jon, wait!” Greta half-shouts the second Jon turns his back on her. Jon looks back over his shoulder at her. “You remind your farmhand, Mr. Urie; that I’m going to stop by and visit him soon.”

Jon smiles and nods, and Pete snorts again from his position in the room. Jon folds the schedule up and replaces it with the letter in his shirt pocket. He had considered going back to the city alone, going back specifically to talk to Ryan Ross once again, but if he goes, he really has no plan of what to do once he gets there. His plan so far extends only to seeing Ryan again.

Brendon and Spencer are in the house when Jon returns home. Brendon is at the counter, heating up the stove and making lemonade, and Spencer at the kitchen table with the latest edition of the newspaper spread out in front of him. Jon smiles at the two of them. He’s glad that the house is alive, that there’s someone to come home to until Tom is back. Brendon beams at him and hands over a glass of lemonade.

“Did you go into town?” Brendon asks. Jon nods.

“To mail off a letter to Tom.”

Jon thinks about the reasons Brendon wants Spencer to live in the house with them. Brendon is used to eleven people in a home; he’s used to sound and activity and life, and someone always being there. Jon figures dropping from eleven to two is quite a shock to his system. Jon often wonders if Brendon ever gets lonely up in the attic at night.

“Oh, Brendon, Greta wanted me to remind you that she’ll be paying us a visit soon,” Jon says. Brendon instantly blushes a light pink color and his eyes dart to Spencer. Spencer has his eyebrows raised, but otherwise, he’s quiet.

“Oh?” Brendon squeaks. “Well, um, that’s fine!”

Jon laughs. “You’re getting awfully worked up, Bren. Do you fancy Ms. Salpeter?”

Brendon grows an even darker shade of red and shakes his head. “No, I just -”

“Relax, Brendon, I was just foolin’,” Jon assures him. Brendon ducks his head and laughs a little, too high and too embarrassed, his cheeks still heated. It’s more than obvious that Brendon has never been with a girl in his life.

That night, Jon stares at Ryan’s painting as he attempts to drift off to sleep. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine himself there, off the Virginia coast; actually lying on the warm gritty sand, cool water crashing against his body and lapping at his skin.

Jon’s never been anywhere besides Nebraska and Kansas. Lately, he’s been thinking that that’s the reason he’s so interested in this Ryan Ross character. Ryan has traveled from Virginia to Nebraska, and Jon can only imagine the places he’s seen or the types of people he’s met. Jon wants to hear those stories or see art scrawled from memory. In a way, he wants to live through the memories Ryan is sure to have.

***

Spencer is over the next day for breakfast instead of his usual midday arrival. Jon’s feeling distracted and has been feeling this way since he woke up that morning, his eyes catching on the painting. He feels off, lost in a way, as if suddenly life as it is isn’t good enough. There’s this urge tugging at his chest; the need to go back to the city and find Ryan Ross, to make sure he’s still alive, still in one piece.

Brendon is cooking up griddlecakes; the sizzle of the batter against the pan is loud in the kitchen.

“Spence,” Jon begins. Spencer is drinking coffee and he looks up when Jon addresses him. “Would you mind taking over my field work today?” Jon knows it’s a lot to ask of Spencer, but it seems he just can’t rein his own mind in, can’t get himself to focus on much of anything. Spencer looks taken aback, but he nods.

“Sure, should be no problem, but why? Are you going somewhere?”

“I was...” Jon looks down at his hands before he looks back up at Spencer. “I was thinking of going to the city again.” There’s a clatter of metal pan against stove and Brendon is looking over his shoulder at Jon.

“You are? For what?”

Jon feels nervous under the two men’s questioning stares, but he reminds himself that there’s nothing wrong about what he wants or what he intends on doing. Wanting to go see Ryan once again isn’t wrong.

“I thought I’d like to go looking for art again. For something Tom might like.”

It’s a lie; Tom’s more interested in photography than he is brush and oil paintings and besides, Jon doesn’t even have enough money for a second painting. Brendon and Spencer accept the excuse, though and Spencer agrees to do the work. Jon checks the schedule he got from Greta; the next train out to the city is due to leave in an hour and a half.

It gives Jon enough time to drink his own cup of coffee, eat his breakfast, and prepare Clover to leave. The three of them had decided that it’d be smartest if Jon rode Clover to the train station; Brendon is still a little gun-shy around her since her injury. Jon will ride Clover and Brendon and Spencer will both ride Dylan, and then once Jon leaves, the two of them will take the horses back to the farm.

Spencer is leading Dylan. Brendon is wound around Spencer’s backside, his arms circled loose around Spencer’s waist for balance. They arrive at the train station with thirty minutes to spare. Jon doesn’t make Brendon and Spencer wait around with him; he lets them take the horses back and he tells them that he’ll just walk home on his way back. It isn’t that far of a walk and it won’t be much trouble.

Jon spends the majority of the train ride thinking of what to say to Ryan. Ryan kind of reminds Jon of Roosevelt back when she first started coming around the farm. She’d been skittish, hurt in the past, or at least that’s what Jon had assumed. She hadn’t wanted to let Jon touch her and she was thin, obviously starving. To solve that problem, Jon had begun leaving bits of fat and left over milk out on the porch for her, and slowly but surely, Roosevelt warmed up to him.

Jon really doubts that the milk trick will work for Ryan.

Jon feels a little less lost in the city the second time around. He follows the same main street that’s cluttered with people and bulky black automobiles. He goes past the shops and restaurants that he and Brendon had explored, his eyes peeled for a rail-thin artist. Jon rounds the corner that leads up to the library; as he gets closer to the building, his heart sinks slowly to his feet. There’s no sign of a lithe body pressed up against the stone siding. He keeps going; just because Ryan isn’t at the library doesn’t mean he’s skipped town completely.

As Jon grows closer to the library, his heart begins to beat rapidly, too quick and too loud in a way Jon hasn’t been used to since the day Tom left for work. Jon gets right in front of the library, a smile breaking on to his face at the sight of a long body settled on the granite steps.

Ryan is sitting on the steps with his elbows on his knees and his hands tucked under his chin. There’s a typical square of blank canvas next to him and a large dark brown cloth bag near Ryan’s foot. Ryan looks up at Jon, who’s now standing right in front of him; his eyes grow wide in surprise.

“I found you,” Jon says with a happy laugh.

“I wasn’t aware you were looking for me to begin with, Mr. Walker.” Ryan smiles crookedly. Jon shrugs. He can’t exactly tell Ryan that it was fear and worry that provoked Jon into coming back to the city, or about his rather spontaneous decision to hop the next train out to see him.

“I was wondering if you had any other paintings,” Jon lies. He can at least fake that his interest was in the art and not the artist. Ryan scratches at the back of his neck and Jon takes note that he’s wearing gloves today.

“Haven’t really found much worth capturing here. I’m thinking I need a change of setting.”

“And a steady place to sleep?” Jon offers. Ryan smiles.

“It’s always about where I sleep, with you. Where do you sleep, Mr. Walker?”

“Well, I sleep in a modest two-story farm house in Kearney.”

Ryan fiddles with the strap of his bag. “Is it nice there?” Ryan isn’t looking at Jon as he asks; he’s staring off into the distance.

“Real nice,” Jon says quietly. Ryan hums softly, a pleasant noise, before he rounds his gaze to Jon.

“What’s the real reason you came to find me, Mr. Walker?”

Jon fidgets. “You can call me Jon.”

“Alright. Same question, Jon.”

Jon bites back his nerves; he doesn’t even really understand why he feels nervous to begin with. “If you need a place to stay - a place where you don’t have to worry about where you’re sleeping for the night or where you’re going to get your next meal from - I won’t mind you coming home with me.”

Jon remembers once overhearing his father describing his three sons to his friend. He described Jon’s oldest brother as smart, with a good head on his shoulders and who would be good for business. He said Jon’s middle brother would make a good husband, a good farmer; Jon’s father intended on leaving the farm to him. When it came time to describe Jon, his dad called him sensitive, caring, and made a joke about how when Jon was a kid, he’d cry any time one of the animals had to be killed.

Ryan’s eyes sweep over Jon, calculating, sizing him up, like he’s trying to determine why Jon is offering this to him.

“It’s a nice thought, but no one gets anything for free. What do you want in return?”

“Nothin’ much. You can be my farmhand,” Jon says with a grin. Harvest is coming up, after all, and the hay will grow in and need to be chopped and roped up. Jon’s going to need help.

“You want me to do farm work?” Ryan asks, disbelieving. He doesn’t say it like he thinks the idea is a bad one, but he says it like he thinks Jon might be a tad bit touched in the head.

“You’re capable, ain’t you? What could it hurt just coming to check the place out?” Jon suggests. He’s trying to coax Ryan into coming with him. Ryan stands and shoulders his cloth bag, lifts up his square of blank canvas. Jon wouldn’t at all be surprised if Ryan walked away from him right now; he knows this is all very sudden. Instead, though, Ryan walks down the stone steps and stops in front of Jon.

“Alright, you have a deal,” Ryan says as he offers Jon his hand.

“Do you have any business to take care of here? Anyone you want to talk to? Or can we head out?”

Jon is just a little nervous at how suddenly he’s decided to include Ryan Ross into his life. Ryan shakes his head. “Nah, I’m ready.”

Jon doesn’t know how long Ryan’s lived in the city, but he’s still surprised that there isn’t one person Ryan wants to say goodbye to. Jon and Ryan sit opposite each other on the train ride home, with Ryan looking as nervous as Jon feels.

“So, do you live alone on this farm?” Ryan asks.

“Oh, no, there’s another farmhand: Brendon. He was at the diner with me the other day. He lives upstairs, where I guess you’ll be staying, as well.”

“You guess?” Ryan asks. He sounds nervous now.

“Well, yeah; admittedly, I haven’t planned this out fully, so we’ll have to get you a cot somewhere or you know you can sleep on the sofa.” Jon smiles sheepishly. Ryan laughs. “My friend Tom lives there, too, but he’s away working right now, and he will be for about a week, week and a half.”

“What about that other gentleman? The one who was with you at the diner? He lives there, too?”

“Spencer? Nope, he lives in town, but he’s over ‘bout every day.”

“Sounds like you’ve got yourself a full house already,” Ryan points out. Jon waves him off.

“There’s always room for one more.”

They settle into a comfortable silence in which Jon tries to decide if he should ask Ryan the questions that pour through his mind at night. Despite not knowing Ryan for more than a day and a half, Jon can already tell he’s the type that won’t offer up information. He’s not like Brendon, who’s an open book for those around him.

“I’m interested, Ryan, why’d you leave Virginia? What made you choose a life of traveling?”

For the ghost of a second, Ryan’s face lapses, and Jon fears he’s already stepped some kind of boundary that Ryan has set up, but then he shrugs.

“Life there wasn’t working out for me the way I wanted. Things got bad, so I got going and I haven’t looked back since.”

Jon feels like there’s a whole hell of a lot that’s not being said, but Ryan’s obviously got walls up, and Jon’s not the type to go busting through those kinds of walls, no matter how much he’s interested.

“Oh,” Ryan says when the train rolls past the wooden sign announcing their impending arrival to Kearney. Jon looks from the window where he’d been staring at the rolling fields, all the hay and wheat gold near ready for harvest. He turns his gaze to Ryan.

Ryan digs in the front pocket of his soft cloth bag and pulls out the same shiny tin cup that he had with him on the streets. Ryan digs into the cup with long spidery fingers and pulls back with some change.

“Here,” he says to Jon. “I want to pay you back for the painting.” Ryan holds out his hand, offering up the change. Jon shakes his head and waves Ryan off.

“That’s not necessary. I purchased it.”

“But you’re sharing your home with me. Take it, please,” Ryan says. Jon sees a kind of quiet plea for his dignity, so he doesn’t argue. Jon opens his hand and lets Ryan drop the shining coins into his palm.

“Well, what’s mine is yours now, I suppose.” Jon says with a smile.

***

The sky is purpling by the time Jon and Ryan get to town. It’s cooled down, and Ryan looks around at all the flat, green land. Jon stares at the back of Ryan’s head and wishes he knew what Ryan was thinking.

“It’s quiet,” Ryan says softly.

“Sometimes... yeah.”

Ryan turns so he can face Jon. “Quiet is good, sometimes. It lets your mind work in a way it wouldn’t if it were cluttered with people and noise.”

Jon carries Ryan’s square of canvas for him as they go back to Jon’s house. The road is dusty and it’s smearing over Ryan’s black dress shoes. Ryan’s clothes aren’t in terrible shape; they’re pretty nice, kind of like Spencer’s, and it makes Jon think that maybe wherever it is that Ryan came from, it probably wasn’t a farm town.

“I’m guessin’ you’ve never done farm work, Ryan?” Jon asks as they grow near the center of town. Ryan laughs.

“Just a bit; once someone explains something to me, I catch on pretty quick.”

They pass through town. The post office is closed, as are a few of the other shops, but the small bar down the way is just coming to life, filled with farmers or townsfolk who need to blow off steam. Jon nods to the right. “My place is down this way.”

Ryan’s body gets stiffer the closer they get to the farm. Jon can almost see him drawing back into his shell, closing himself off. By the time they get to the house, it’s completely dark and the lights in the house are on. It’s strange to see his house alive with neither Tom nor Jon inside of it.

“Nice place,” Ryan says softly, Jon doesn’t detect sarcasm, so he smiles in response and wraps an arm around Ryan’s shoulders, pulling him up onto the porch.

“Welcome home.”

Ryan smiles as Jon goes and pushes the door open. Inside the house are Brendon and Spencer, sitting at the kitchen table with a half-eaten apple pie resting between them. The two of them look up at the sound of the door and their smiles fall away to be replaced by confused looks.

“You’re home,” Brendon says to Jon, but his gaze is locked firmly on Ryan, who’s standing behind Jon.

“Brendon, Spencer, this is Ryan Ross, the artist from the city.”

Spencer stands and wipes his hands on his dress pants before he comes around the table and offers Ryan his hand.

“I’m Spencer Smith.”

Ryan shakes Spencer’s hand, and then Brendon is fumbling to do the same. They exchange pleasantries and Brendon laughs as he takes his seat.

“You left for a painting and came back with the painter.”

Jon smiles and pats Ryan on the back. “Ryan here is coming on as a farmhand; he’ll be living here with us, Brendon.” Ryan still looks nervous, but Brendon’s smiling and Spencer is surveying him warmly. “Set your things down here and I’ll show you around,” Jon says. Ryan does as he’s told and Jon leaves Brendon and Spencer in the kitchen-cum-living-room as he shows Ryan around the rest of the house.

Ryan is silent, big eyes scanning the different things Jon points out.

“You’ll have to sleep on the sofa for the time being. I hope that’s alright?” Jon asks. He really didn’t fully think this through; he didn’t really apply Ryan Ross to the house, to his everyday life; he just knew he wanted to have this man around him. Ryan nods, removes his hat, and pushes a hand through his hair before he sets it back on his head.

“It’s fine, really. Thanks, Jon. I don’t remember the last time someone was so kind to me,” Ryan says uneasily. For a moment, Jon can see the person that lies behind the walls that Ryan has up, but it’s gone before he has the chance to do much with it. Jon just smiles and claps Ryan gently on the shoulder.

“You hungry?” Jon asks. Ryan opens his mouth to say something, but Jon cuts him off. “No matter what you answer, I’m going to make you eat dinner with me; keep that in mind.”

Ryan laughs. “I could eat.”

“Jon, you missed Ms. Salpeter’s visit,” Brendon mentions once he and Ryan are back downstairs. Jon tells Ryan to take a seat as he stands by the counter.

“Greta came by? I shoulda known you didn’t know how to bake a pie.”

Brendon scoffs. “I could bake a pie! I could definitely bake a pie!”

Spencer rests a hand on Brendon’s shoulder. “Don’t go declaring that in town now, Brendon.” Spencer turns his gaze to Jon. “Ms. Salpeter was very upset that you weren’t here,” he adds. Jon rolls his eyes and turns to the icebox. Greta is the middle daughter of a school teacher and a farmer. Both her younger and older sister are married with children, and Jon knows from Greta telling him many a times before that her family often chides her on the fact that she isn’t married.

“Leftovers from dinner are in the icebox,” Brendon points out. Jon nods and sets to fixing him and Ryan plates of food.

“So, Ryan,” Jon hears Spencer start. “Did you live in the city?”

“I was staying there for the time being; I had been living there for a couple of months.”

“Were you born here in Nebraska?” Brendon says.

“Ah, no, I was born in Virginia. I left there when I was about eighteen.”

“How old are you now?” Spencer says.

“Twenty-two.”

Jon worries for a moment that Spencer will ask for the reason Ryan left Virginia, something Jon learned on the train that Ryan doesn’t like explaining.

“Have you ever been to New York, Ryan?” Brendon asks suddenly, excitement evident in his voice. Jon relaxes.

“One of the first places I managed to get myself to,” Ryan answers. There’s a sort of nostalgic fondness in his voice, and Jon’s just glad for a change of subject. Brendon spends the next ten minutes or so asking Ryan questions about New York, about the buildings and the people, and if he ever managed to go to the music clubs. The two of them only stop talking once Jon’s set a plate of food down in front of Ryan.

Much to Jon’s relief, Ryan eats like he hasn’t had food in days, and Jon’s suddenly that much surer about his decision to bring the other boy to his home.

After dinner, Spencer leaves, and Brendon blinks all sleepy-eyed and asks where Ryan is going to sleep.

“On the sofa for now,” Jon answers. Brendon hums softly and decides to excuse himself when he sees Ryan yawning. After Brendon goes to bed, it’s just Jon and Ryan out in the main room. Jon smiles at Ryan and Ryan scoops up his bag and his blank canvas, moving the items over to the couch. “Let me get you a blanket and pillow,” Jon says. He goes to the closet and grabs up the extra comforters and feather down pillows that he and Tom keep in the closet in their room until winter.

When Jon comes back into the main room, Ryan has stripped off his layers, and he’s wearing a simple undershirt and his dress pants. Ryan’s folding up his coat and shirt and putting them in a pile on the floor near his cloth bag and canvas; his shoes and hat topping the pile.

Jon hands over the pillow and blanket and Ryan fixes himself up a small bed on the shabby couch.

“I’ll show you ‘round the farm in the morning,” Jon tells him. Without his hat on, Ryan’s got all this dark hair, and it falls shaggy around his face, makes him look younger and, in a way, more feminine, but he smiles softly and nods and settles himself down on the couch, his long body stretched out.

“Thank you for this, Jon,” Ryan says carefully. Jon warms at the mention of his first name, at the real warmth in Ryan’s voice, and he’s smiling even as he bids Ryan a goodnight. He’s still smiling as he sheds off his own clothes and crawls into bed.

***

Jon didn’t sleep as soundly last night as he typically does. Maybe it’s because he didn’t do his farm work, so he’s nowhere near as exhausted as he typically would be. It could also be that he strained to listen for each movement from Ryan; the creak of the sofa as Ryan turned in his sleep or the sound of feet padding against hardwood floor in case Ryan needed to go use the outhouse.

He’s not tired when he wakes up the next morning, breakfast waiting for him on the table and no one in the house. Jon eats breakfast quickly. Ryan’s bag and stretch of canvas is still inside the house, so Jon doesn’t think he’s left anywhere, but he doesn’t want to leave Ryan alone for too long. He’s trying to build trust, here.

Ryan is sitting outside on the wooden steps of the porch, a piece of charcoal and a large pad of sketching paper in his lap. His fingers are stained black and his head is tipped down as he sketches. He’s dressed in the same clothes that Jon always sees him in and his hat is placed firmly back on his head.

Ryan looks up as Jon steps out on to the porch and he smiles. Ryan sets aside his sketch book and charcoal and is quick to stand up, dirty hands dragging up his pant legs. “Good morning,” Ryan says, and Jon mimics the greeting. From the porch, Jon can already see Brendon in the distance, bouncing around inside the horse barn. It doesn’t look like Spencer is over.

“You might want to take your coat off,” Jon suggests. Ryan looks down at himself before his long fingers are undoing the buttons on his dark coat and he’s slipping it off. Under the coat, Ryan is wearing a soft thin white button up; the first few buttons around his throat are undone.

Just by looking at him, Jon can tell that Ryan is definitely too small to carry the loads of water; his arms are thin and his shoulders and back are sharp. He’s got no fat on him, but with the lack of fat comes the lack of muscle. Some of the plants are ahead of schedule and have ripened a few weeks earlier than the harvest; Jon figures he can have Ryan do that.

“You don’t mind some harvesting, do you?” Jon asks. Ryan shakes his head; he’s got this look about him, bright and eager to show Jon what he’s made of. It reminds Jon of Brendon. Jon nods and slips back into the house, returning with the basket he uses to carry groceries. He hands over the basket to Ryan and leads him out into the field. “Some of the grapes are ripe, and the vegetables are, too. You’ll have to pick them and put them in the root cellar till harvest.”

“I can do that. No problem,” Ryan says and Jon grins and leaves him to the work so he can go and fetch the watering device. The day is unforgivably hot, and within an hour, the three of them lose their shirts. Ryan is bent over in the field a few feet up from Jon, plucking grapes. Like this, Jon can count all the knots of Ryan’s spine; can see all the sharp points of his ribs.

Brendon finishes up his work in the barn and he comes into the field to talk with Jon. Brendon’s once fair skin is light brown with the beginnings of a tan from outdoor work.

“Need some help?” Brendon asks Ryan. Ryan looks up and he looks unsure, skittish, and it reminds Jon once again of Roosevelt when she first started coming around the farm.

“Um, sure,” Ryan says, and Brendon beams and moves to begin helping Ryan. It doesn’t work too well, though; Ryan zigs, Brendon zags, and their hands bump together awkwardly. Jon can see Ryan shrinking back, closing up out of fear of messing up.

“Brendon,” Jon begins. “It’s mighty hot out here; maybe you should make us some lemonade?”

Brendon flashes a grin. “Sure, Jon.” He leaves the field to go into the house. Ryan looks more than relieved; he practically loosens up on the spot. Ryan turns grateful eyes on Jon and he rubs at his neck awkwardly.

“I’m still adjusting, I guess.”

“Brendon means well, but he can be a lot at first.”

“Has he lived here long?” Ryan asks.

“Nah, ‘bout two weeks or so, before you came along.”

“Were you born here in Nebraska?” Ryan asks after a moment. Jon perks at the question, at the fact that Ryan’s at least somewhat interested in him and his life here; he knows his stories will be nowhere near as exciting as what Ryan’s lived through, but it’s still a step in a direction that Jon wants to go in.

They spend their time in the field. Jon tells Ryan about his life so far. He had been hoping that maybe if he told his story, Ryan would tell more of his own, about what happened in Virginia that drove him to a life of traveling, or maybe he would tell Jon about how he became interested in art, how he learned to paint. But aside from commenting on Jon’s life, Ryan says nothing of his own. Jon tries not to feel too disheartened by that.

Once their work is completed, they go back to the porch, where Brendon has the sweating picture of lemonade sitting on the railing. He’s sitting on the steps with a long stretch of patchwork cloth on his lap, and he’s sewing; what it is, Jon isn’t sure.

“What are you working on, Brendon?” Jon asks. Brendon looks up briefly from his work before his eyes flick back down to the pink patch he’s sewing.

“Well, I figured since we have Ryan now, and Tom’s coming home soon, it’d be good if I learned how to make cots. Won’t be nothing fancy, but it’s better than sleeping on the floor, right?”

Jon hadn’t thought about that, about how once Tom comes home it’s going to be expected that he doesn’t sleep in the same bed as Jon. They’ll have to go on the lie that he and Tom take turns sleeping in the main bedroom while the other sleeps upstairs or on the sofa. After so long apart, Jon doesn’t think either of them will be able to handle the added distance. Inadvertently, Jon has ruined the safe haven he and Tom had created.

“Yeah, good idea, Brendon,” Jon mumbles, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach.

***

The days slip by and Tom is closer and closer to coming home. Jon is still excited; he’s beyond relieved to see his lover once again, but there’s a steeping undercurrent of nerves knotting up his stomach, and that undercurrent feels like it’s growing stronger every day. Besides that, things are fine around the farm. Ryan has finally gotten comfortable around Brendon; he smiles easier and he stays up with them, talking, still not about his own life, but that’s okay. Jon can wait until he’s ready.

This particular night, Brendon is upstairs, working on his cots, and Jon and Ryan are at the table. Jon’s gotten out the whiskey to calm his nerves, and Ryan’s sitting across from him with his sketch book propped against the table, turned up so Jon can’t see what he’s drawing. He can still see the graceful curve of Ryan’s arm turning as he draws, the quiet concentration etched on Ryan’s soft face.

“What are you drawing?” Jon asks, his thoughts just a little loosened by the cup of whiskey in his hand. Ryan peers at him from over the very top of the sketch book, eyes light and happy.

“Nothing, really, just the fields and your house.”

“Can I see?” Jon asks. Ryan shifts and shakes his head.

“It’s not finished.”

Jon takes a long drink of his whiskey.

“My dad’s drink of choice was whiskey,” Ryan mentions. It sounds offhand, but it’s also careful, something heavy lurking below the surface of his words.

“Oh?”

“The smell reminds me of him,” Ryan says. He still has the sketchbook in place, but Jon can tell that he’s no longer drawing.

“Did he drink it a lot?” Jon asks with as much tact as he can muster with a drink in him. Ryan laughs, shallow and harsh.

“The man was an alcoholic, drank every night when he got home from the coal mines, drank a bit before he left for work, too, and I suspect during his breaks.”

“I’m sorry. Was that the reason you left Virginia?”

Jon is quiet as he waits for Ryan to answer; he doesn’t want to upset the man. Ryan carefully closes his sketchbook, lays it on the table, and then folds his hands over the cracked, leathery cover.

“That wasn’t the reason. I was pretty used to his drinking by the time I hit fifteen. My father was a coal miner, just like his father was and his father before that. So naturally, when I came of age, my dad wanted me to take to the coals as well. I told him no and that’s what caused the problem.” Ryan speaks soberly, his eyes focused on his charcoal-stained fingers as they rap against the front of the sketchpad.

Jon pushes away his whiskey and tries to catch Ryan’s gaze. “He didn’t take too kindly to the idea?”

Ryan laughs that sharp laugh once again, “Hardly. I told him my desire to become a painter. He didn’t take to that, either; see, my mom was an artist and she ditched us when I was only almost two years old. I haven’t heard from her since. When I told my dad that I wanted to paint, well, he called me a queer and told me to leave if I was going to shame him, if I wasn’t going to carry on the family tradition. I took his advice, I suppose.”

It’s the back-story of Ryan’s life, the one that Jon had pondered time and time again, and even though he now knows, in a way he wishes he didn’t; he wishes he didn’t have to know that Ryan went through that kind of pain. Jon’s at a loss for words and a silent heavy tension fills the room.

“You mind if I have a snatch?” Ryan asks, gesturing to the whiskey. Jon shakes his head quickly and offers over the bottle, their fingers brushing warm and solid as Jon passes the heavy bottle. Ryan takes a long pull from the drink and he passes it back to Jon, their fingers brushing again. Jon takes the bottle and sips from it instead of his glass, the rim wet from the alcohol and Ryan’s mouth.

“You say your mom took off when you were a kid,” Jon begins. He takes a swig of whiskey and wipes his hand across his mouth before he finishes, “Is you traveling your way of trying to find her?”

“I’ve thought about it, but I’m not really interested in seeing her again,” Ryan explains. “I mostly just travel when I get bored of the place I’m in, of the people around me. You don’t ever get that feeling? That urgent tug on your body that tells you to find something new?”

“Hasn’t really happened yet. I guess I like the people around me.”

“Ah, you’ve found someone worth sticking around for,” Ryan says as if he’s figured out one of life’s great mysteries. They’ve been sharing the bottle for a while now, and Jon wonders how long it takes Ryan to get drunk.

“I suppose so, yeah.”

Ryan passes the bottle, but this time he grabs Jon’s wrist, keeps him from pulling back with the bottle. Ryan’s eyes are heavy and his mouth lax, and Jon feels a small thrill of something traveling up and down his spine.

“Is it that woman who came by while you were out? Ms. Salpeter?”

Jon laughs. “Nope. Greta is just a friend; a good friend, but a friend nonetheless.”

Ryan hums and releases Jon’s wrist. Jon can still feel the loop of Ryan’s fingers on him and his skin feels red-hot where Ryan touched it. It’s a feeling Jon’s not familiar with; well, no, that’s a lie. It’s a feeling he’s not used to having with anyone but Tom.

“Another woman then? In town?” Ryan’s eyes have a glassy glaze to them; Jon’s thinking he’s a bit of a lightweight.

“Nah, no woman.”

“Brendon?”

“He’s a friend.”

“What about Spencer?” Ryan presses. He’s got the bottle again and his drink is deeper this time, his mouth curling with the aftertaste.

“What exactly are you asking me?” Jon says. He has an idea but no … no, Ryan can’t be asking that.

“Tell me about Tom,” Ryan says instead. He hiccups as he pushes the bottle back to Jon.

“Tom is my best friend.”

“Then you stay here for Tom?”

“This is our house.”

“Seems kind of strange,” Ryan mutters, “To stay for someone who’s often away.”

“You sure do loosen up after a few drinks, don’t you?” Jon teases and Ryan laughs. “Tell me now, Ryan; tell me if there’s someone waiting for you?”

“There was a girl that I met in New York. Real nice. I almost married her,” Ryan says. Jon ignores the pang of disappointment in the fact that Ryan obviously enjoys the company of women. Why should he care who Ryan chooses to lie with at night?

“What happened?” Jon asks.

“Marriage isn’t exactly part of the whole traveling painter scene.”

“No one since then?” Jon asks. The whiskey bottle is at the dregs and Jon lets Ryan have the last drink.

“Figure it’s best not to leave a trail of broken hearts behind me. Who knows where I’ll end up? I don’t want to have enemies in every state.”

The whiskey is gone and they sit in silence for a long moment. Jon certainly learned a lot about Ryan tonight. When he lifts his gaze to Ryan’s face, he sees Ryan’s eyes are drooped closed, his hand lax around the bottle.

“Alright, Ross, time for sleep,” Jon murmurs. It’s been a while since he’s drank, so he wobbles a little on his feet as he stands. Ryan is gone, loose and pliant when Jon has to heft him to his feet, his hands tucked under Ryan’s arms, tugging him forward. Ryan mumbles something. The empty whiskey bottle tips over and clatters on the kitchen table, but Ryan doesn’t even open his eyes.

Somehow, Jon gets it in his head that Ryan should sleep in his bed and he’ll take the couch. Jon stumbles into his bedroom, dragging Ryan along and he loses his balance just as he’s about to turn and set Ryan down. Jon ends up flat on his back on the bed with Ryan’s frail body laid over his own, Ryan’s face cushioned in the crook of his neck. Jon can feel the gentle brush of Ryan’s breath against his skin.

Jon should move Ryan off of him, he really fucking should, but he’s missed this, the feel of a body lying on top of him, of the slow steady beat of another heart against his chest and the calm breathing of two bodies falling asleep. Jon thinks of Tom and guilt seeps thick and dark in his stomach. Tom’s coming home to him and Tom is most certainly not sleeping next to someone else right now.

But Jon can’t bring himself to move his own arms, and his eyes feel heavy. Ryan smells good and he’s a comfortable weight, the two of them sprawled on Jon and Tom’s bed, legs tangled and work clothes still on. Jon’ll have to wash the smell of sweat out of the sheets now, but as he drifts off to sleep, it’s not a huge concern.

part four