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The inside of Rafe's head is filled with bees.
No, not just bees.
Hornets and wasps and bees. Their noise is suffocating and his hands wrap around the banister of the balcony he's been pacing on, tightening, tightening, tightening, until his knuckles are white and the wood creaks beneath his palms. The bugs in his brain increase their buzzing and he feels sick.
Rafe needs to go, he can't be at Tannyhill for another second or he's going to blow the whole place the fuck up just the way Ward had blown himself to pieces. The buzzing only increases and his vision ebbs at the corners at that thought.
He needs to go.
Now.
When Rafe comes back to himself he's on his bike, stinging tears blurring his vision behind the visor of his helmet and Barry's trailer is coming into view.
He's not surprised that even with his mind nothing but blackness and buzzing, his body knew precisely where to bring him.
Rafe won't think of the trailer as home. Won't think of Barry as home.
He won't, he won't, he won't.
His hands shake violently and the buzzing is loud enough that if he opened his mouth he could probably hear it escaping from there too and Rafe is surprised when he manages to get himself across the yard, when he manages to fling open the door, when he manages to stumble into the living room.
Barry sits on the couch, stained coveralls hanging around his hips and his grey tank darkened with sweat. He's using a pair of Rafe's noise cancelling headphones, a book carefully marked on the coffee table, and he's carefully sharpening one of his many, many knives.
The noise in Rafe's mind lessens just a touch as he jerks to a stop and watches Barry's fingers move expertly, bottom lip between his teeth, knife and sharpening stone moving quickly enough to send a clench through Rafe's gut.
"Ayy, country club." Barry drawls as he notices Rafe lingering in the threshold and leans to place the knife on the table.
Rafe's eyes leave Barry's hands -a small miracle in itself- and focus on the blade. Suddenly it is not Barry's knife, but a pocketknife he'd found when he was twelve and figured out one way to quiet the buzzing that had happened even then. The cacophony in his mind gets so loud he has to close his eyes and grind his teeth and clench his fists and still his vision ebbs and his ribs strain against the weight and
"Hey." Barry's voice is sharp, almost as sharp as the grip he gets on Rafe's jaw as he jerks his face towards his. "s'goin on pretty boy? Aint it too early for this shit?"
Rafe doesn't need to speak, not anymore and he merely opens his eyes and slides his gaze to Barry's. Already, with the heat of Barry warming his chest and his fingers almost tight enough to bruise his jaw, the chaos in his brain is settling, but not enough, not nearly enough.
"Oh I see," Barry's voice once more is a molasses sweet drawl and Rafe shivers as Barry taps him on the temple. "Loud up there is it country club?"
Rafe nods and Barry jerks his head, silencing the buzzing a little more. "Use your words boy."
"It's loud," Rafe spits through his teeth, hands still clenched. "It's too fucking loud Barry."
Barry's hand leave his jaw and Rafe misses the contact but it's only a heartbeat before Barry's fingers are tangling in his hair and pulling. He leans closer to Rafe, and his words are hot against Rafe's ear and finally, finally, the noise lessens noticeably. "What do you want me to do about it country club?"
Rafe is too desperate, too feral and wild to try and fight Barry each step of the way, and it wouldn't make a difference anyway.
Barry always wins, Rafe always wants him to
"I want you to fuck me. And I want you to make it hurt." Barry's dark eyes darken further and his grip tightens in Rafe's hair, enough to make him groan.
"Use your manners boy."
"Please.”
Barry keeps his hand in Rafe's hair when he drags his face down, and his mouth is violent as it devours Rafe. Barry kisses like he does everything, loud and certain, with a confidence that makes Rafe tremble. He uses his tongue and his teeth and Rafe tastes blood as Barry backs them up towards the couch. Rafe scrambles to get both their shirts off, his cock straining painfully against his shorts and the buzzing in his mind quieting with each pass of Barry's tongue and each nip of his teeth.
"On your knees country club." Barry demands against his throat, and Rafe, knowing that Barry likes it and knowing it will get him in trouble, takes his time.
He presses his mouth to Barry's throat and drags his tongue along his collarbone, bites his jaw. Barry's hands are both in his hands now and when Rafe puts his mouth on each of the scars he passes on Barry's abdomen, his grip tightens deliciously. The high that comes off Barry's skin is so much fucking better than the blow Rafe buys from him, the silence that presses in on his mind is so much better than the beer they drink and the weed they smoke. Finally, Barry gets impatient and helps Rafe's knees find the floor as his coveralls do too.
"Atta boy," Barry croons as Rafe takes him in his hand and marvels at the quiet inside his head. There's no bees or wasps or hornets, just this, just Barry fisting his hands in Rafe's hair and fucking his mouth until Rafe nearly comes undone right there on the floor of the trailers living room. The noises Barry makes are just as holy as they are obscene and just as his thighs begin to tighten beneath Rafe's hands, he jerks his mouth off his cock.
A humiliating and pitiful sound comes from Rafe's suddenly very empty mouth and Barry grins like a demon. "Oh country club, you ain't think I was just gonna fuck that good lil mouth o' yours, did ya? Get up boy, and loose those stupid fuckin shorts. Hollister lookin' fuck."
Rafe does as he's told and rather quickly finds his back slamming against the mattress in Barry's room. He almost thinks of it as their bedroom, but he won't let himself do that. Before Rafe can get himself too worked up, Barry's hand is against his cheek, his thumb stroking almost gently. "Ya with me pretty boy?”
"I'm with you."
And then Barry's mouth is back on Rafe's and his hands are tight enough to bruise against his ribs and his hips and his thighs
He likes it when Barry leaves marks on him, bruises from his fingers and mouth, scratches and handprints. All the bruises and cuts left on his body before Barry had made him feel sick, but not these; these make him feel tender and safe. Treasured.
Barry flips Rafe onto his stomach and his callused hands grip his hips as his tongue drags down his spine and causes Rafe to whimper. Barry is not gentle as he lifts Rafe's hips, as he slaps his ass until Rafe knows he'll feel it every time he sits down for the next three days, as he adjusts himself behind Rafe. Everything is silent and right and good as Barry tells him how good he is as he fucks Rafe until the noises he makes are incoherent, until his entire body is tense and then blissfully loose, until stars explode behind his eyes and every insect inside his mind is dead and gone
The sun has begun to set by the time Barry is finished with Rafe, and there's not a single intrusive thought to be found as he and Barry collapse against the bed, limbs sweat covered and tangled together on the sheets
"Ya'll right country club?" Barry says, his dark hair a mess and his mouth swollen and his eyes content
It's the contentedness that makes Rafe's chest feel a little too tight, as the word home fills his still empty mind. "I'm good... I'm good.”
And as Barry smirks and draws Rafe's forehead against his own, he realizes that, for at least this moment, he is indeed good.
He is indeed home.