The Last Stand of Haviland Dinwiddie

Chapter 14

By Dabeagle

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I thought about what Tony said off and on. He hadn't said anything about Rigby that I didn't already know, but I think I was still getting used to the idea. I just defaulted to thinking Rigby was straight; the evidence was there, and I didn't want to make things messy by glazing about someone that would have no interest. Besides, he was a great friend, so being attracted to him and being okay with that not going anywhere was okay. I've found people attractive before; it doesn't mean they destroyed my existence.

I also knew that Rigby was still adjusting, too. The more I know of him, the more I see when he's choosing to cover up to protect himself or get around a potentially embarrassing situation. A good example was me telling him I liked touching his skin when we were at Daphne's. He'd been straight up about saying touching him was fine with him – even expected. That was different from him asking if he should take off his shirt for me.

It made me think of the very weird analogy of frogs in a boiling pot. If the heat is turned up slowly, the frogs don't notice, and when it gets too hot, it's too late. I think the human brain works like that as a general rule. If things change slowly, so we can get used to it before taking another step, we feel better and are more comfortable. I’d say that's what Rigby's been doing. He's been giving us both an opportunity to get used to each other in a more intimate way – and he's been deliberate. He's forcing himself to see if he likes it as well, not just indulging the gay boy.

I was anxious about the idea of revealing anything to him about my body, though. My entire life had been about being covered up, to prevent my skin from showing anything but being white like my father. For now it seemed like it was a tomorrow problem; we changed alone either in the bathroom or with the bedroom door closed. The most I'd seen of his skin was when he wore tank tops, and I didn't even wear those. So far Rigby seemed content to play with my hair, rub my back or run his fingertips along my arm. I loved it all.

It did allow a dark whisper to start up in my head, though. I tried to ignore it, especially because I wasn't comfortable about putting myself any farther out there yet. I thought it was probably due to the things my father had said for so long, but that didn't make it go away. That voice, deep in the middle of my brain, would say the reason Rigby didn't ask for more was that he didn't want more, not from me. That this was just him getting his needs met from me, enjoying being in a relationship and getting what he wanted from me – love, the car rides, the emotional support and such – while not having to take any of the steps you might in a hetero relationship.

It wasn't so much that it was a bad thing, except that the part that stuck was that he just didn't want those extra steps with me. Because of my 'weak blood', the potential for my skin to darken if I didn't keep out of the sun. It was a spiral too easy to let consume me, building like a bubble that popped whenever Rigby distracted me, like he chose to do now.

“I was thinking about getting a tattoo,” he said as we lay scrolling through our phones. “My dad’s is kinda ick. But look at this one. I bet I'd be a rizzler with this, right?”

I glanced at the picture – a guy with a tattoo covering his shoulder and one pec with an intricate pattern that resembled armor.

“Mid,” I replied, looking away.

“E! Look at it again! That's fire.”

I didn't look. “I don't like it.”

“No? What, too big? I mean it'd be really expensive,” he said, looking back to his phone and scrolling. “Oh, what about this? A dragon snaking all the way down my arm?”

He poked me with his elbow, and I looked again, then back to my phone. “That's giving poser vibes.”

“So critical,” he muttered. “Okay, what kind of tat do you think I should get then?”

I ignored him, but he started poking me with his elbow and prompting me. “I don't think you should get one, loser,” I finally said.

He put his phone down and laid his head on my chest, looking up at me. “Why? I mean I might still get one, but why not?”

After a moment I put my phone down, but I didn't meet his gaze. “It's just my opinion, Rig.”

“And I want to know what you think.”

I pressed my lips together for a moment. “Part of it is just my own problem.”

He seemed determined to wait me out.

“Okay, I have two reasons,” I said, shifting my gaze to look at his face. “I don't really like tattoos. I know they're art, but...it's kind of like graffiti. I like buildings and their architecture. I like looking at what the architect designed – large blocks as a foundation, maybe with beveled cuts at the edges as an accent. Arched windows surrounded by smaller blocks. It has a design by itself.”

“And graffiti covers that up.”

“Right. Like...I like your shoulder how it is. I appreciate it the way it's designed, but a tat would cover it up. It's art, like the graffiti is, but just like the building...people's bodies are their own art, too.”

“Okay. Good for my ego to know you think I'm art,” he said with a grin. “What's the other reason?”

I shifted my head so I was looking up and closed my eyes. “It's just me, Rig.”

“Yeah, and I'm here with you. I want to know.”

I swallowed and kept my eyes closed. “My...my father had some tattoos. They were usually hidden under his uniform, but I saw them when he was home. I just...have bad memories to go with tats.”

“Oh. That makes sense, E.” I heard him shift, and then his hand was sliding between my head and the wall. I let him tilt my head forward and opened my eyes to meet his gaze. “Are you sure there are no tats I could get that would be sexy?”

I snorted, smiling and looking away. “You're such a shit.”

“Yeah, but you love me anyway,” he said. “I promise though, no tats.”

“You don't have to-”

“I know. My body and all that. I'm not going to be the guy that triggers bad memories for you, not if I can help it.”

I decided to shift away from my issues. “So Tony's pretty impressed with you.”

“Well, I'm very impressive.” He paused. “Why?”

I felt stupid now. “Well. Just how you're...the way your thinking is about us being together.”

He grunted. “You know what? It's low-key impressive to me, too. My first thought was no way, but the more it kind of rolled around in my head, the more I started to ask myself why not? See, I don't think the fact we're together is weird at all; I'm happy, you're happy. I love you, you love me. That all adds up. The part I think is impressive is how fast my mind went from 'no' to 'I want this'.”

I swallowed. There could be other things to say – like what happens when we go to kiss? Or is the relationship good as long as it doesn't go too far? Boyfriends kiss, hug and more. Kissing right now feels like the most dangerous exciting thing I can imagine, even though I know there's more to do. But we haven't done that, so is that part of why he's comfortable?

“Hey. Where'd you go?”

I looked down and put my fingers into his hair, tightened a little and pushed his head back. “I'm just in my head is all.”

“You going to tell me?”

I tilted my head and looked at him. “Not right now. But...I do love you.”

He appeared to study me intently. “Is there something wrong? I mean...you don't have to tell me everything, but you'd say if there was something wrong, right?”

“No, no. Everything's fine.”

He sat up. “Wait. I think I lied.” He shifted until he was cross-legged beside me. “I know you're not going to say every thought that comes into your head – nobody does. I don't, and everyone should be really happy about that.”

I snorted in laughter, and he smiled crookedly.

“E, this is new territory for both of us. I'm really happy. I know, only dating a little while, but we kind of got really close before we made things boyfriend/boyfriend.” He reached out, seemed to hesitate for a moment, then picked up my hand and held it in his. He laced his fingers between mine, and I closed my hand, feeling the warmth and strength in his grip. He pressed his lips together. “I turned the corner on this in my head kind of fast. I mean the big part – us being a thing. But I actually think what made it so easy to consider being with you was I knew you before. Like, take Mari. We knew each other like you sort of know everyone at school, but once we started to date I actually spent time with her and was like...meh.”

Quietly I said, “Maybe you're just not into seafood.”

“So funny,” he replied, poking my ribs. I jumped and rolled a little from him, but he didn't let go of my hand. “So when we got together, it was more like...I already knew you – like major things. Personal things that made you hurt. So making a decision to try to be with you wasn't really that hard.”

My face felt hot. “Okay. I mean.” I smiled involuntarily. “I'm glad about that. I...feel good that you're happy.”

“But,” he said, using our clasped hands to pull me back toward him. “It bothers me that you feel like you can't tell me something. I'm not going to push you to say what's bothering you, but I do want you to know that I want to know what's in your head.”

I let out an embarrassed little laugh and looked down at our hands. His fingers fit really well between mine, and we'd never held hands before. I looked at the veins in the back of his hand, the nails cut so short they could have been chewed. The tiny mole on the edge of his wrist, nearly on the bone.

“It's not strictly about you,” I said quietly. “I sometimes go in circles in my head. I think of it like a cement mixer, tumbling my thoughts and banging around with rocks inside. Sometimes I just get lost inside all that.”

“Okay. Can you tell me a little bit about it? I don't know if I can help, but I want to.”

I smiled at him hesitantly. “I love you. I mean that in a lot of ways. I worry...like, the same thing but from my side and from yours.” I closed my eyes for a moment before settling my gaze on him. Be brave, he wants to know. “So when I told you I liked...touching your...skin. On mine. You joked about taking off your shirt. And I...maybe because I have no experience, I almost feel like it's more than I could handle. I want to, but it also makes me nervous because...maybe you want me to take my shirt off too.”

He waited for a moment. “And if I did?”

I broke eye contact and looked out the window. “My....”

“What did your father tell you?” he said, his voice low and with a frustrated edge.

I cleared my throat. “He told me I had weak blood because of my mom's Latin family. And...I have to cover up or my skin will get dark from the sun, and he wanted me to be white.”

“E, that is so fucked up,” he said quietly, yet sounding angry, almost dangerous. My anxiety spiked, and I pulled my hand free, crossing my arms and drawing my legs up. “What? What's wrong?”

I glanced at him and then away. “I...some things are, like...triggers.”

He rubbed his face with both hands, then put them together, lacing his fingers. “Tell me what I did, so I don't do it again.”

I squirmed, the echoes of my father echoing in my mind and roiling my emotions.

“E.” He unlaced his hands and placed his fingers on my forearm. “Babe.”

I shuddered and finally moved my gaze back to his face. “It's not your fault.”

“Okay. I'm glad, but I want to know. I don't want to do something I can easily avoid that upsets you like this. It's not about blame, just...you know, being aware.”

I closed my eyes for a moment and then refocused on him. “You sounded angry. Like...dangerous.”

He smiled grimly. “I don't think anyone ever said that about me. Dangerous. I think I could be, if I met your dad.”

“Father,” I corrected quickly.

He nodded slowly. “Your father's an asshole. His son's pretty great, though.” He put gentle pressure on my arm, pulling it toward him. I relaxed enough to let him, and he placed his hand back in mine. “What else, E?”

I swallowed. “Just one thing I can think of. My father always used say he had to...make his point. I hate that phrase.”

He bobbed his head. “Okay. I promise you I'll do my best, and if I fuck it all up, I want you to do me a favor and remember I'm trying and I don't mean to hurt you.” He tilted his head, wanted me to react.

I swiped at an itch on my face. “Yeah. I'm sorry I-”

“Shh, shh, no. You've been through shit and have to heal and stuff. I just want you to get to do that is all.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

“Now. Keep going.”

“What?”

“Before I set you off, you were talking. Keep going.”

“Oh. Right.” I scratched the top of my head slowly, trying to figure out how best to say it without sounding like trash. “I guess...like, we're boyfriends, and I guess eventually we'll do more...boyfriend stuff. Maybe. I'm not sure...I....”

“You...said before you're not sure you're ready. Has that changed?”

“Not...exactly?”

He smiled. “Can you be more specific?”

I let out an embarrassed chuckle. “It's just...I've never done anything, and for me...where we're at is a lot. I know it's not for other people, but it feels like a lot right now. I mean that in the best way; I feel great. But...since you've never even...you're not gay, I don't know if you want...if you think about...and I'm worried that, even if you wanted me to, I'm not...taking off my shirt...not being white....”

“He really fucked with your head,” he said quietly. “I can't begin to tell you how mad that makes me. Like...my mother is who she is, and being 'mom' isn't in her DNA. Sure, she can reproduce, but she knows fuck all about being there for her kids. That kind of messes you up; my sister and brother are all the proof you need.”

“You seem like you came out okay.”

He crunched his lips together and shifted his jaw around. “Compared to them? Yeah, I think I'm in a better place. Like, I was about fourteen when Brock was getting these girls sniffing after him. Now I'd had a couple girlfriends, had some excitement feeling them up and stuff like that. But when he got the first one pregnant, it got me thinking harder about having sex.”

“Trying to avoid it?”

“You'd think!” he said with a laugh. “Nah, I thought I'd finally beat Brock to something and get someone knocked up younger.”

I stared at him with eyes wide. “Rig. You can't be serious.”

“Oh, I wish I wasn't,” he said with a shake of his head. “But I tried.” He paused and looked at me, an embarrassed grin on his face. “Her mother caught us. Oh, I got the reaming of my life from a woman who could scream louder than thunder can crack. E, she showed me pictures of her daughter being born.” He let go of my hand to make a circle with his hands and put them on his head. “Her head's trying to push out of her mother, and she's talking about how that hole isn't meant for things that big, and it was fucking gross.”

I started to laugh with amazement and disgust, and he started to giggle.

“I'm telling you, E. She scared me right off the whole pregnancy thing. Her daughter hasn't gotten pregnant either, so I guess maybe it worked.”

“That sounds like real trauma, but it's funny,” I told him

“It is now,” he said with a little laugh. “Anyway. What I think I'm hearing is you're worried about us going too fast, but also worried if I even want to do that. Kind of coming at this from both ends, E.”

“I didn't say it made sense,” I told him, feeling self-conscious.

“Actually, I think it kind of does. You want to know if I'm in this for you – like attracted. You said up at the falls that you can't learn to be attracted. But you're also worried if I want to get something off your chest, like your shirt, that I'm going to see you like the way your dad – father – made you see yourself.”

I blinked at him a few times. “Rigby, how...I mean, yeah, but how did you see all that?”

He reached out again, taking one of my hands into both of his. For a moment he just looked at my hand in his, then he started to move his thumb against the back of my hand. “I like where we are right now. I'm feeling good; happy. It makes me feel good that you want to touch me. I like having you close or laying on you when we spend time together.”

A ripple went through my chest, much like a bird fluttering its wings in a cage.

“So maybe it's important to say I want to go slow for both of us. I love you, E. But now that I'm opening my mind to being with you...I'm thinking about those things.” He lifted his gaze to my face. “Like, I've been thinking about taking my shirt off. I've been thinking about taking yours off you. I've been thinking about hugging...and kissing. I don't know if I'm ready, but it's on my mind. Does that...does that help?”

I let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it does. Makes me kind of scared, but in a good way, I guess.”

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

Saturday afternoon we picked up Ezra and took him out for a hamburger, then to this place that had an indoor playground. Rigby got in the ball pit with Ezra and horsed around with him, making Ezra squeal in delight. There were hanging rings that you could use to swing from one ring to the next. Rigby held Ezra up so he could swing without falling, since he wasn't strong enough to hold himself in the air. It was kind of fun. Eventually Rigby said it was time to go, and Ezra was tired but didn't want to leave. There was a little power struggle, but after we got Ezra in the car, he fell asleep on the way back to his dad's place.

We worked Saturday night and all day Sunday, but at least the store closed early on Sunday. When we got back up to the apartment, my mom was waiting with a list.

“I need you to run out for me before the store closes,” she said. “I have a list.”

“Uh, okay,” I said, going out being the last thing I wanted to do. “What's this for?”

“Well.” She hesitated. “Penelope, Daphne's mother, and I were talking. I'm going to go over there next week one day for coffee.”

I smiled gently. “I think that's great, Mom.”

“But you don't show up empty handed,” my mother continued. “So I want you to get these ingredients so I can practice making semita alta. You can taste test for me.”

“Yes! I like this plan!” Rigby said. “What's sem – what was it?”

“Seminta alta,” my mother said. “It's a kind of sweet bread. You can put pineapple inside it or another filling, in some versions; I'm going for something simpler and I like it better anyway. It's very tasty, but I haven't had it in years.”

Not since my father, I thought. “Okay. I'll go now.”

Rigby stayed behind to take a shower while I went to the store and wandered around locating everything she needed. It didn't take that long, and I hoped it wouldn't take long to make, as I liked baked stuff anyway. I was also happy my mom was comfortable enough to push herself to leave the apartment.

When I got back, my mother set things out on the counter and told me to shoo as she wanted to focus; she'd teach me how to make it later. Rigby was lying on the couch, and I got my stuff from the room and took a shower. While I was rinsing soap from myself, the bathroom door opened.

“Just me,” Rigby said. “Starting laundry so I wanted to grab your stuff.”

“Oh, okay,” I replied, feeling nervously excited that he was in the same room while I was naked just a few feet away. The door closed, but the feeling lingered, and I was surprised to find myself getting hard. It's not that I never got hard, but I think I'd been conditioned by my father enough that it wasn't that often I got a natural reaction to things that could turn me on. I didn't overthink the moment. I thought about Rigby in his tank top, the feel of his hand, touching his skin, and I was releasing, my knees jerking in time with my heart as I gasped from the feelings.

I finished getting clean and got dried off, but as I did I wondered if it would be plain on my face to Rigby that I'd just jerked off thinking about him. I know it's silly, but I felt like there would be a sign on my forehead: 'I'm a perv who jerked off thinking about Rigby Chandler'. I pulled on underwear and sleep pants, but looked down in confusion at my shirt. It wasn't my shirt; it was Rigby's. One of his tank tops.

Immediately I realized taking my clothes for the laundry had only been half true – if he'd even started laundry. He'd swapped my normal tee shirt for one of his shirts, but why? I stood still for a full minute just turning this over in my head. I could crack the door open and ask him where the hell my shirt was, but I knew Rigby. He'd tell me he must have accidentally put it in the wash. I was reasonably willing to bet if I asked him to get me a shirt from our room he'd tell me he'd put all of our shirts in the wash.

This also meant, despite my discomfort, he wanted to see me in a tank top. Or did he just want to be supportive and force me out of the boundaries my father had erected around me that I was now enforcing on myself? Or was he just pranking me? I struggled with that – does Rigby want this for him, for me or for us? I rubbed the material between my finger and thumb and then pulled it on. It felt odd feeling the material on my torso, but the air going over my skin at the shoulder from the overhead fan feeling...like I had no shirt on, I guess.

I cracked the door open. “Rigby?”

“Yo,”

“Uh, I think you picked up my shirt for the laundry.”

“Did I?” he asked, sounding very not innocent. I heard footsteps on the floor, and then his voice came through the crack of the door. “Did you try it on?”

“Uh.” I swallowed. “Yeah. Feels weird.”

He waited a beat. “Can I see?”

“Rig....”

He gave it another extended moment. “Please?”

I let out a slow breath and pulled the door open. Rigby immediately smiled and obviously looked me over. I felt silly and self-conscious “I feel...exposed.”

He gave me a lewd wink and it looked super corny. “You look like a Rizzler.”

“Stop,” I said, burning with embarrassment and yet not able to help smiling.

“No, no,” he said with a shake of his head. “Only fair. Now I get to put my head on your shoulder and see what this is you've been talking about.”

I rolled my eyes, still feeling anxiety pulling on my muscles randomly, like spasms. “Rigby. Come on. Give me a shirt?”

He held up his pointer finger from each hand. “How about...I get the shirt, but you wear the tank to bed?”

I covered my face with my hand. “Okay. Go get me a shirt.”

“Promise?”

“Rigby!” I hissed.

“Okay, okay!” he said, laughing. I felt him grab my bicep. “Someone works out.”

“Rig!”

“I'm going, I'm going,” he said, laughing as he retreated. It was so difficult to sort out my emotions. I was embarrassed to be dressed like this, but also thrilled with his touch and the way he'd looked at me.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I said under my breath, then forced myself out of the bathroom door.

“Oh. Someone's got muscles,” my mother said.

“Mom,” I whined.

“What? Get out of the way. I have to pee,” she said, lightly pushing my shoulder and closing the door behind her. Rigby was standing in the doorway to our bedroom, shirt in hand.

“Should I...put this back?”

Should I keep myself in the chains my father made for me? “Uh. Yeah. Thanks.”

My mom came out of the bathroom and told me to come eat. After dinner we watched an episode with my mom, and then I prodded Rigby into getting our homework done. It wasn't that I really wanted to or that I was trying to get Rigby to myself, it was that as hard as I was trying to fight against what had been ingrained in me, it was a struggle. Feeling the freedom of my exposed skin also felt like a judgment from so many years of conditioning, even if that judgment was only in my own head.

“Oh, my laptop's dead,” Rigby said once the door was closed.

“You didn't even look at it yet,” I replied.

He made a show, while looking at me, of opening his laptop and stating it was dead. He broke eye contact long enough to plug it in and then crossed over to where I stood. His gaze slipped from my face to one shoulder, across my chest and to the other shoulder before coming back up to my face. I shifted on my feet, thinking about doing something – anything – to break the tension I was feeling. He reached out with both hands and placed them on the tops of my shoulders and slowly moved his hands down my biceps and back up to my shoulders.

I shivered under the touch, my knees trembling like they'd done in the shower. “...what?”

“Do you...like that?” he asked, moving rhythmically.

I brought my gaze up to his face, studying him as he looked back at me steadily, his gaze flickering from his hands to my face. I closed my eyes, consumed by the gentle touch of his hands sliding up and down. “Yes,” I said softly, as if in a dream. He continued his gentle movement, up and down. I was thrilled with the feeling and filled with anticipation as he reached the end of each stroke, waiting for the feeling to start again. At the top of his stroke, with both hands on my shoulders, he pulled me close to him and ran his hands behind me, down through the large gaps at the top of the shirt so that his hands were on my back.

I was unable to hold in a gasp. He held me still for a moment and then slowly began to move his hands, his cheek pressed to mine. “I got you, E.”

My arms wrapped around him without conscious thought, and I squeezed him close. The feeling was as close to heaven as I thought I could get. I think I may have gasped into his ear. And on it went, his warmth slowly melting into me as we held each other, his hands moving across the skin of my back. Then, like lightning flashing through my skull, I wanted to touch his skin. I wanted to touch him like he was touching me.

“Can. Can I...tou...tt....”

“Of course, you can touch me, E.”

It took me a minute to relax my grip on him enough to move my arms. I quickly gave up trying to reach down his back like he was doing to me, so I ran my hands up under his shirt, across his ribs and to his back. I wish I could explain what it felt like to me, but I don't have the words. People in stories will say someone's skin was like silk or velvet – though that sounds like it would feel nearly uncomfortable to be so densely hairy.

His skin wasn't any of those things. Yes, soft, smooth, warm – just like his shoulder, and I got a lot of pleasure from that alone. This much skin was...it was like a small electrical current was humming under his skin and lighting up my nerves. Not just the ones in my hands or arms, but causing spikes in my brain and chest. At some point in all that I realized his charge was powering up my dick, and mortified doesn't even begin to describe it.

“I. I should. Um.” I didn't want to let him go. I should, I had to and yet my arms refused to pull back.

He turned his head in toward me, speaking into my ear. “I like tank tops on you.” Then he slowly stepped back. “Scuse me,” he said, turning around and reaching down his front to – oh shit. He was hard. He was probably pushing that into me, and I was so focused on my own weirdness that I missed it. He turned back around, his face flushed a deep red.

A funny expression crossed his face as he leaned forward and rubbed the top of his ear. “Ugh, sorry. Didn't mean to make that awkward.”

I partially covered my face. “I can't believe I'm going to say this, but I think you like me, Rig.”

“Shut up, E,” he said, laughing. “I wasn't the only one.”

The emotions had nowhere to go. Anxiety, sexual tension, the leftover bliss, the full on embarrassment that we'd just made each other hard – it all had to go somewhere.

So, I started to laugh. He started to laugh at my laughing, and then...it just didn't stop. We'd look at each other and just start going again. It was loud and cleansing and apparently enough to annoy my mother, who came to find out what we were doing. The fact we couldn't stop laughing long enough to form words, much less come up with an explanation just seemed to make it funnier.

“Come on out here, you two. The semita is ready,” she said with a roll of her eyes. We stumbled out of the room after her, wiping our eyes. “Oh, the buzzer just went off for the washer.”

“I got it,” I said, heading for the hallway. By the time I got to the washer I was down to a few giggles and starting to breath a bit.

What a story – we made each other hard and couldn't stop laughing about it.

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