{Cary}

There were four missed calls from Kadee on Cary's phone. He drew his knees up on the step, blowing cigarette smoke out of the side of his mouth, looking at those notifications on the screen. He lifted his eyes to the yard, the yellow lamp mounted above the door of the barn barely holding back the dark. Above the barn roof, the sky rippled with more stars than Cary had ever seen in his life. He swallowed, tipping his face up to let their light fall on him.

He didn't have words left for Kadee, or anyone. He'd dug some up for Jon today, but Kadee would want more. He couldn't absorb any more words today either. He turned the phone off, sucking the last drink of smoke from his cigarette before stubbing it out.

Jon was a lump under the covers of the bed when he came in. He took the second set of pillows off the bed and a spare blanket to sleep on the floor, like old times. His body was pleasantly exhausted from the work in the barn, and on some level, he thought he could like it here— the quiet and the isolation and the physical hard work. All things he was good at.

He knelt on the floor beside his pillows, putting his hand over his face and taking a slow breath. Jesus didn't need words. He held the day in his mind—the parts he was grateful for, like the stars. He wasn't thinking about the rest.

It only took a minute. He rolled himself into the blanket, blurry with tiredness after the night in the car and two intense days. Sleep came for him immediately.

///

Cary was tall as a building, each stride sending him leaping over the distance, his body surging with energy like there was lava in his veins. His mouth tasted like ashes; his breath shot sparks from his nose and stung the skin on his face. He threaded between city buildings, taking the streets with giant strides until he found the building he was looking for.

Cary took the door off like the hinges were made of butter and made himself just tall enough to fit through the opening. He ducked past the chandelier and shoved open the door off the hall, his exhale flame-bright.

The study was warm and red. His father was reading at his desk and didn't see him coming until Cary was on top of him, his hand on his throat.

Conall met his son's eyes, his Adam's apple moving against Cary's grip as he swallowed, and his big hands spread on his desk. All his guilt showed in his face like the blot of ink on his index finger from his red marking pen.

"Give me back." Sparks hissed from Cary's mouth, and flames licked between his teeth. He laid his hand, hot as a brand, on Conall's chest, making his shirt char and crumble. "Give me all back."

Conall screamed—and Cary awoke with a gasp, thrashing free of the tangle of blankets and battering his arms against the wall until he found himself in the room. He collapsed back on the floor to suck in one breath after another.

An old radiator hissed next to him, pushing heat out next to his arm, and Cary jumped, making a small noise. He wrapped a hand over his mouth, closing his eyes to re-watch the images that were pulsing hot behind his eyelids. The dream had ended too quickly. He was shaking with adrenaline, and rage surged like lava under his skin; he wanted his father right here so he could squeeze his fingers around the muscles in Conall's neck and tear.

Cary shoved to his feet, trying to be quiet. If he had to speak, he thought he would erupt.

He went to his car to get his spare cigarettes, gingerly stepping over the gravel drive in his bare feet, then climbing into the passenger seat. The familiar smell of leather and nicotine and the feeling of being enclosed made him feel safer, less like he would go off like a supernova. His fingers shook as they fumbled the cigarettes, and then the flame flared brightly in the dark of the country night.

For a second, all he could see was the red brightness of flames licking out of his mouth and blood soaking the carpet crimson.

Giving himself a hard shake, Cary shut his eyes and dropped into the cave. Split-lip looked up from the fire, and his eyes dilated darkly. He came around, a looming shadow with the fire at his back.

"What did you do?" he asked in a low voice.

Cary tried to open his mouth to answer, but he couldn't. His breath puffed out his nostrils as he panicked, finding his lips sealed shut.

"Hold still," Split-lip said, and touched his lips. There was a stinging pinch, and then the staple lay in his palm.

Cary gulped a breath through his open mouth. He hadn't realized how thorough he had been when he'd stapled himself closed. Split-lip tugged the collar of Cary's shirt aside to see the rest of the staples holding the incision together. His sigh made a musical note.

Cary met his eyes. "You saw?" There was no point in hiding—he was sure Split-lip knew everything in his head. "I wasn't done," Cary growled. "I could kill him with my own hands. I want to." The empty space in his chest was hot and full, the lava of his anger pressing against the staples from the inside out.

Split-lip laid his hand on Cary's chest, lightly resting on the place where his heart should have beat. "And?" he asked quietly.

Cary crushed Split-lip's hand under his own, until they could both feel the blazing heat of rage radiating through Cary's skin. He was sure this wasn't what Split-lip meant to put back inside him. Cary's lips peeled back from his teeth. "And what the hell do I do with it?"

Split-lip tipped toward him, touching his cool forehead against Cary's feverish one. Cary shook, trying to breathe through the sparks in his throat, and Split-lip brought his free hand up to cup the back of Cary's head, stroking his hair softly.

An idea came into Cary's mind—a way he could release the darkness boiling inside him. He drew a breath and opened his eyes, then stuck the half-smoked cigarette between his lips to rummage under the seat. There was a drawing book there, and he felt a thrill of power similar to the feeling he'd had when he had torn the door off his childhood home and stepped inside, his head brushing the ceiling.

He started there. He drew it all, frame by frame. His father's face emerged on the page, his wide eyes and the lines of horror.

Cary slowed down, swallowing hot acid in his throat. He tore his father apart, limb from limb, the page nearly black with pencil as he stroked in the blood soaking the carpet of his father's study, spattering the bookcases. He drew the moment the light went out of his father's eye, his body gaping open and armless on the floor, his chest cavity a wet, red hole.

He lifted his pencil, stretching his cramping hand and rubbing his elbow. Dawn had broken, and the day was creeping in, soft and yellow, under heavy overcast clouds. Grey legs of rain walked along the horizon. Cary sagged back with a sigh. He felt like he had plucked out the staples, one by one, and the lava had surged out of him, filled the car, and flowed away. No one was harmed by its passing.

He sat for some time, looking blankly out the window at the grey prairie, thinking about the corpse cooling on the floor of his father's study. He didn't know what to do with that now, so he closed his eyes and crept back into the cave to make his way up the sandy tunnel to the pool.

Split-lip was seated on the cliff ledge, watching the sun come up, his arm hanging loosely around his knee. Cary leaned in the shadow of the entrance to listen to the low hum of his song. He was exhausted, covered up to his elbows in sticky, cold blood—and not a drop of it was his. He wasn't ready to face the day.

He said Split-lip's name softly, and he turned, morning sun picking a bright halo out of his hair. Cary couldn't see his expression for the brightness of that halo. "Come wash up," Split-lip said.

Cary bent his head and dragged his shirt off his back, dropping it with the rest of his filthy clothes on the ledge. His toes gripped the rough stone as he stepped down into the pool. He sighed at its warmth, pushing his hands through the water and watching the blood bloom around them.

He scrubbed his hands and arms, then stepped through the cloud of blood, moving deeper to dunk his head under the water. The warmth caressed his face, and then the early morning air was cool on his skin as he came up. He edged over to join Split-lip, sitting in the water up to his chin on a rock ledge in the pool.

Cary spread his arms along the damp lip of the pool, and Split-lip glanced at his chest. The gaping "Y" incision was closed, the thick, pink healing scars crossing his body. Cary followed his look and laid a hand against his own chest, where his heart drummed under his palm. He put his other hand against his belly, feeling the new fullness of his body.

Cary closed his eyes and sighed, sinking into the pool up to his cheekbones so that the breath from his nose rippled the surface of the water. He opened his mouth, filling it with warm, salty water and swallowed a bellyful of tears.

Back in the car, with the patter of rain falling over the prairie around him, Cary cranked the car seat back as far as it would go and slept.