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The rocks skitter across the pavement ahead of them, small and grey and useless, and Ruben kicks every single one he sees, sends them flying into the road or the bushes. He kicks them like he's got something against them, like each stone personally offended him sometime in the past and he's only now getting around to doing something about it. His trainers are scuffed to hell, the laces undone on one foot because he never ties them properly, and his hair is a mess, sticking up in the back from the wind.
Niall can't stop grinning. He knows he looks stupid, knows he's walking down the street with his face split open like a pumpkin, knows anyone who sees him is going to think he's off his head or simple or both, but he can't help it, can't make his mouth do anything except curve up at the corners, can't make his cheeks stop hurting from the effort of holding the smile in place. Ruben's grinning too, that sharp sideways grin that makes him look like he knows something you don't, like he's got a secret and he's not going to tell you what it is, and he catches Niall looking at him and his grin gets wider, something that makes Niall's chest feel like it's full of angry little bees.
"You ready?" Ruben asks, and he kicks another rock, this one bigger than the others, sends it flying all the way across the road and into the gutter on the other side with a satisfying clatter. "Ready to get your arse handed to you again?"
Niall shrugs, pretending he doesn't care, pretending he's not already feeling the phantom aches in his ribs and his arms and his jaw from all the times Ruben's hit him before. "You've not handed me my arse yet," he says, and his voice comes out bolder than he feels, braver than he is, and Ruben laughs at him.
"That's fucking rich, that is," Ruben says, and he reaches out and shoves Niall's shoulder, not hard, just enough to make him stumble sideways into the hedge that borders the pavement. "You've got bruises on top of your bruises, Bambers. I've been handing you your arse since the first day. You're just too stubborn to admit it."
Niall shoves him back, and Ruben lets him. The fields are up ahead, just past the school, just beyond the last houses where the pavement ends and the grass starts and the power lines stretch across the sky like lines drawn in pencil, thin and grey and humming with electricity you can't see but can feel somehow, in your teeth maybe. They jog the last bit, because Ruben gets impatient, because Ruben's never been good at walking when he could be running, because Ruben's legs are stronger than Niall's and he takes off without warning and Niall has to scramble to catch up, his backpack bouncing against his spine, his breath coming faster. The grass is wet under their trainers, damp from rain that fell earlier in the day, and it soaks through the canvas of Niall's shoes and makes his socks cold and his toes curl, but he doesn't care, doesn't care about anything except the way Ruben's looking at him as they run, that wild look in his eyes that means he’s about to teach Niall something.
The fields are empty this time of day, which is why Ruben likes them, why he keeps bringing Niall here. It's just them and the grass. Niall's excited. He's been excited all day, since Ruben mentioned it this morning, since Ruben looked at him across the kitchen table with milk on his upper lip and said Bambers, you need the practice, since Niall nodded.
Every time Ruben takes him here, Niall comes back home sore and aching and bruised purple from Ruben's gloves, his knuckles raw even through the padding, his muscles screaming at him every time he moves, his body a map of all the places Ruben's fists have found and all the blocks he failed to get up in time. But he's still excited. He's excited every single time, has been excited every single time since the first time, has been counting down the hours and the minutes and the seconds until the next session ever since Ruben handed him his own pair of boxing gloves and told him they were his now, a gift, something that belonged to Niall and Niall only.
He thinks about that day a lot.
He thinks about it when he's lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, listening to Ruben breathe on the other side of the room. He thinks about it when he's walking to school by himself on the mornings Ruben's slept in and Niall doesn't want to wake him. He thinks about it when he's supposed to be doing his homework or eating his dinner. The way Ruben had looked in the sunlight, smoke coming out of his
mouth, and Ruben laughing. And Niall had said yes to him. He'd said I loved it. and he'd meant it.
But thinks he loves sitting with Ruben there more than he loved anything that happened with Mona. More than the night the three of them spent together, more than the way Mona had looked at him with her half-lidded eyes, more than the way her hands had felt on his skin or any of the other things that had happened. He loved sitting with Ruben, lying on the floor, Niall following Ruben every time he sat up or moved. And he loves fighting with Ruben more than that.
He drops his backpack on the ground with a thud, the damp grass already seeping into the fabric, and he kneels down, unzips the front pocket where he keeps his gloves, starts digging through the mess of stuff he's accumulated in there over the past week.
"Come on, come on, come on," Ruben's saying behind him, and Niall can hear him punching at the air, can hear the soft thwack of his gloves cutting through the damp air, can hear his trainers scuffing against the grass as he moves, light on his feet the way he always is, the way Niall's learned to be too, at least a little bit, at least enough that Ruben doesn't laugh at him anymore when he tries to dance around the field. "You're taking forever, Bambers. We'll be here all night at this rate."
Niall's fingers close around the leather of his gloves, the familiar puffy softness of them, and he pulls them out of the backpack, holds them in his hands for a second. There's a small patched up tear on the left one near the thumb where Ruben caught him with a hook last week and the glove just gave way, couldn't take the force of it. Ruben comes up behind him and ruffles his hair, hard, the way he does when he's impatient, his glove rough against Niall's scalp, pushing his hair into his eyes and making him blink. "Hurry the fuck up, aye? We don't have all day. It's going to be dark in a couple of hours and I'm not fighting you in the dark, you're bad enough when you can see what's coming."
"I'm going, I'm going," Niall says, but he's smiling, can't help it.
"You're always so worried about mums wanting us back for dinner," Ruben says, and there's something in his voice, not mocking exactly, but close, teasing, like he finds it funny that Niall still thinks about things like that. "It's just dinner. They'll save us some. They always do."
Niall doesn't answer. He just pulls his gloves on, one hand at a time, feels the leather settle around his knuckles, feels the familiar tightness of the straps when he wraps them around his wrists. The gloves are a bit too big for him still, Ruben's hands are bigger than his. He stands up, turns around, and Ruben's right there, close, closer than Niall expected, and for a second Niall's heart does something stupid in his chest, something that feels like a bird trying to escape a cage, and he has to look away, has to focus on tightening the strap on his right glove.
They've been spending so much time together lately, him and Ruben. Sometimes they stay up so late that Niall's nodding off at school the next day, his head dropping toward his desk, his eyes closing without his permission, and Ruben will reach out from wherever he's sitting, if they're in class together or in the corridor or at lunch, and he'll slap Niall's cheek, just enough to make his eyes fly open and his heart start pounding and his face go red. Stay awake, Bambers, Ruben will say. You can sleep when you're dead.
And Niall will nod and rub his cheek where Ruben slapped him and try to pay attention to whatever the teacher's saying, but really he's thinking about the night before, about the way Ruben's voice had sounded in the dark, about the things Ruben had said that Niall wasn't sure he was supposed to hear, or things Ruben wanted him to hear.
Ruben’s a good brother, he thinks. Ruben's also a good fighter. Ruben's always been a good fighter. Ruben's a good fighter, Ruben's a hard lad, Ruben's someone you don't want to get on the wrong side of because he'll fucking end you and not lose a minute of sleep over it afterwards. He'd bitten a chunk out of some other lad's nose, bitten it clean off and spat it on the ground and smiled while the other boy screamed and bled all over the pavement.
Back then, before they were brothers, before they shared a bedroom, Niall was scared of Ruben. Properly scared. But Ruben wouldn't bite his nose off, Niall thinks now. Ruben might hit him, might bruise him, but he wouldn't bite his nose off. He wouldn't tear Niall apart the way he'd torn that other boy apart, the one who'd done something or said something or been something that made Ruben decide he needed to be taught a lesson. Niall knows Ruben's a good fighter because of how he bruised up that boy at school, too.
They looked at him different, looked at him the way they looked at Ruben. They knew that Ruben had bruised up that boy because of something he'd said to Niall, and they didn't know what the thing was, didn't know why Ruben had cared, didn't know anything except that crossing Niall meant crossing Ruben, and crossing Ruben meant getting bruised up so bad you couldn't show your face in public for a week.
Now Ruben's teaching him how to fight. Ruben's teaching him how to stand, how to move, how to throw a punch, how to block, how to take a hit and stay on your feet, how to give a hit and mean it. Ruben's hurting him so no one else hurts him. If Niall learns to fight, if Niall gets good at it, if Niall can stand up for himself the way Ruben's stood up for him, then no one will ever call him that word again, no one will ever look at him the wrong way, no one will ever think they can touch him. Ruben's teaching him to be hard. But Ruben says Niall's still a shit fighter. He says it all the time.
"You're shite, Bambers," Ruben says after Niall misses a block and takes a hit to the shoulder, stumbling backwards, nearly losing his footing on the wet grass. "Proper shite. I've seen corpses with better footwork."
Niall shakes his head, resets his stance, tries to ignore the ache spreading through his shoulder where Ruben's fist connected. "I'm trying," he says, and it sounds like an excuse even to his own ears, like something a wee boy would say, something Bambi would say, something that proves Ruben's point for him.
Ruben lowers his gloves for a second, just stands there looking at Niall. "Maybe Bambi needs me to win all his fights for him," Ruben says, and he's grinning. "Maybe that's just how it's going to be, aye? You and me. I do the fighting, you do the... whatever it is you do."
Niall knows Ruben's making fun of him. He knows Ruben's teasing, knows Ruben doesn't mean it the way it sounds, knows Ruben's just being Ruben, saying things to get a reaction, to make Niall's face go red, to make him stumble over his words. But he can't help it. He can't help the way something settles in his chest when Ruben says that. Because it's not a bad thing, is it? If Ruben wins his fights for him. If Ruben stands in front of him with his broad back and his good fighter fists and takes care of the people who would hurt Niall. It's not a bad thing to have someone who'll do that for you. It's not a bad thing to let Ruben be the hard one, the strong one, the one who bruises and breaks and bites noses off, while Niall does whatever it is he does. Stands there with his face burning and his heart pounding and his hands useless at his sides because Ruben's already taken care of it, Ruben's already fixed it, his brother’s fixed it.
Niall knows he should want to be different. He knows he should want to learn how to fight, should want to be able to stand up for himself, should want to be the kind of person who doesn't need his brother to fight his battles for him. Ruben's teaching him, isn't he? Ruben's trying to make him better, trying to make him harder, trying to beat the softness out of him with every punch and every block and every bruise. Ruben wants Niall to be able to protect himself, wants Niall to be a man, wants Niall to be someone who doesn't need Ruben to fight for him.
The only person he's ever tried fighting at all is Ruben. The only person he's ever hit, ever swung at, ever raised his fists against, is the one standing across from him in this muddy field, the one who gave him the gloves in the first place. Niall's never thrown a punch at anyone else. Not at the boys in school. He's never hit any of them. He's never even tried. He's only ever tried to hit Ruben.
And he's only ever hit Ruben when Ruben told him to. Niall's fists have only ever connected with Ruben's gloves, Ruben, Ruben. There's something about it that makes him feel sick and warm all at once. Ruben's the only one who's ever been hit by him. And it's not just fighting. It's everything. Niall's not a virgin anymore, and that's Ruben's doing too. Thank you, Ruben. I loved it.
"Your feet, Bambers, for fuck's sake," Ruben says, and he's got that edge in his voice now, the one that means he's losing patience, the one that means Niall's about to get hit for being stupid. "I told you about your feet. You’re crossin' them again. Look at you. Like a baby deer learnin' to walk. It's embarrassing."
But deep down, somewhere underneath all the wanting and the trying and the pretending, Niall doesn't think it's a bad thing. He doesn't think it's a bad thing to need Ruben. He doesn't think it's a bad thing to let Ruben be the one who hurts people so Niall doesn't have to. He doesn't think it's a bad thing to stand behind Ruben's broad back with his heart pounding and his hands shaking and let Ruben take care of everything, let Ruben make all the decisions, let Ruben win all the fights. Including the ones between them.
Ruben doesn't notice. He sees the mistakes, he sees every single one, and he calls them out, and he tells Niall how to fix them, and he assumes that Niall's doing his best, that Niall's trying as hard as he can, that Niall's just not very good at this and it's going to take a lot of practice before he gets better. He doesn't see that Niall's making the mistakes on purpose. He doesn't see that Niall's holding back, that Niall's pulling his punches, that Niall's leaving openings he knows how to close.
"Hands up, Bambers," Ruben says, and he demonstrates, bringing his own gloves up to show Niall what he means, tucking his elbows in, protecting his face. "You're leaving your whole head open. Someone hits you here—" he taps Niall's temple with his glove, just to make a point "—and you're done. Lights out. Goodnight."
Niall nods and brings his hands up, higher this time, the way Ruben showed him. "Like this?" he asks, even though he knows the answer, even though he knows exactly how it's supposed to look, because Ruben's shown him a hundred times and Niall's been paying attention, been storing it all away in the part of his brain that's supposed to remember things like this so he can use them later. But he asks anyway, because he likes the way Ruben looks at him when he asks questions, likes the way Ruben nods and says that's it, Bambers, just like that, like Niall's done something right, like Niall's made him proud.
"That's it," Ruben says, just like Niall knew he would. "Keep them there. Don't drop them this time, aye? I'm watching."
Niall tries to keep his hands up, he really does, for about ten seconds, for long enough that Ruben nods and starts circling again, starts looking for openings, starts getting ready to throw another combination. But his arms are tired, aching from all the punches he's thrown and all the blocks he's attempted and all the times Ruben's hit him and he's had to absorb the impact, and after a few seconds his hands start to drop again, just a little, just enough that his chin isn't properly covered anymore. He knows he's doing it. He feels them dropping, feels his arms getting heavy, feels the fatigue setting in the way it always does when they've been at this for a while. And he could fight it. He could push through, could keep his hands up despite the ache, could show Ruben that he's got stamina, that he's got heart. But he doesn't. He lets his hands drift down. Lets the opening appear. Lets Ruben see it.
"Your hands are dropping again," Ruben says, and there's an edge to his voice now, the way he gets when Niall's not improving as fast as he thinks he should. "I just told you, Bambi. Two seconds ago. Keep them up."
"Sorry," Niall mumbles, and he brings his hands back up, but he lets them be a little wrong, lets his right glove sit slightly lower than his left, creates a different opening, a different invitation. "I'm tired. My arms are proper killing me."
"You're tired?" Ruben laughs. "You've been fighting for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes."
Niall doesn't answer. He just stands there with his slightly-too-low hands and his slightly-too-wide stance and his heart pounding in his chest, waiting. Ruben circles him, eyes narrowed, looking for the weakness, looking for the opening, looking for the place where Niall's defence is thinnest so he can exploit it, so he can teach Niall a lesson, so he can hit him again. And then he throws.
It's a jab, quick and sharp, aimed at the gap where Niall's right glove should be but isn't. Niall sees it coming. He could block it. He could move his glove those few inches, could close the opening, could stop Ruben's fist from reaching his face. But he doesn't. He stays still, lets the punch land, feels the impact of Ruben's glove against his cheekbone, the sting of it, the heat of it, the way it sends a little shockwave through his skull and makes his vision blur for just a second.
"Ouch," Niall says, stumbling back a step, and the word comes out breathier than he meant it to, shakier, like the punch knocked something loose inside him.
"There," Ruben says, and he steps back, lowers his own hands, shakes his head like he's disappointed. "That's what happens when you drop your hands. You get hit. Simple as that. You don't want to get hit, keep your fucking hands up."
"Sorry," Niall says again, and he brings his hands back up, properly this time, because he doesn't want Ruben to get suspicious. "I'll try harder."
"You better," Ruben says, but he's smiling now, that sharp sideways smile that Niall’d do anything to see. "Come on, Bambers. Hands up. Feet apart. Show me what you've got."
Niall takes a breath. He sets his feet, wider this time, the way Ruben showed him. He brings his hands up, higher, tighter, the way Ruben wants them. He looks at Ruben across the space between them, at the sweat on his forehead and the mud on his jeans and the way his chest moves when he breathes.
He throws a punch. It's a bad punch, purposely bad, slow and telegraphed, the kind of punch that anyone with half a brain could see coming from a mile away. It's a punch that's designed to miss, designed to be blocked, designed to let Ruben counter and hit him again.
Ruben blocks it easily, of course, catches Niall's glove with his own and shoves it aside like it's nothing, like swatting away a fly. "That's the best you've got?" Ruben asks, and he's grinning now, enjoying himself, enjoying the way Niall's flailing. "My granny punches harder than that, Bambers. And she's been dead for years."
"Shut up," Niall says, but he's smiling too. "I'm trying."
"You're not trying hard enough," Ruben says, and he steps back, rolls his shoulders, stretches his arms above his head. The movement makes his t-shirt ride up, exposing a strip of pale skin above the waistband of his jeans, and Niall looks. "Christ, it's hot out here. Even with the rain. You're making me work too hard."
Ruben stops pacing. He reaches behind his head, grabs the collar of his t-shirt, and pulls it off in one smooth motion, the fabric peeling away from his skin, and Niall's breath catches in his throat, gets stuck there, won't come out. Ruben's chest is bare. HHis shoulders are broad, his arms are muscled, his ribs are just visible beneath the skin, and there's a thin sheen of sweat on him, running down his chest in little rivulets, catching the light.
Niall can't look away. He tries. They stay fixed on Ruben, on the way his muscles move when he breathes, on the way his skin look. Niall’s seen him shirtless a handful of times by now. It’s nothing new, but still.
Ruben tosses his t-shirt onto the grass, not looking at where it lands, not caring if it gets wet or muddy or ruined. He rolls his shoulders again, cracks his neck, flexes his hands inside his gloves. "That's better," he says. "Couldn't breathe in that thing. Must have shrunk in the wash."
"You're going to catch a chill," Niall says, and his voice comes out smaller than he meant it to. "Taking your shirt off in the rain. You'll be sick tomorrow."
Ruben snorts, rolls his shoulders, flexes his hands inside his gloves. "I won't catch a chill. I'm not you. I don't get sick. I'm made of tougher stuff."
"Everyone gets sick," Niall says, and he's not sure why he's arguing about this.
"Eyes up here, Bambers," Ruben says, and he's grinning, that sharp teasing grin, and Niall's face goes red.
"I wasn't—" Niall starts, but Ruben cuts him off with a laugh.
"Alright, listen," Ruben says, and his voice changes, gets harder, gets meaner. "Let's say you're walking home from school, right? It's dark. You're alone because you're always alone, because you don't have any mates, because you're weird and quiet and nobody wants to hang out with you. And some guy comes up behind you. Bigger than you. Meaner than you. He's got a knife, maybe, or just his fists, doesn't matter. He wants your wallet, your phone, whatever. What are you going to do, Bambers?"
Niall e knows Ruben's just talking, just making a point, just trying to scare him into trying harder. But the scenario plays out in his head anyway, vivid and awful, the dark street, the footsteps behind him, the cold metal of a blade against his throat. He sees himself freezing, the way he always freezes, the way he froze with Mona when he couldn't keep it up, the way he freezes every time something important happens and he doesn't know what to do.
"I don't—I don’t know, Ruben," Niall says, shakier.
"You don't know?" Ruben laughs, but it's not a nice laugh, not the warm one, it's sharp and mean and makes Niall's skin prickle. "You don't know? That's your answer? Some cunt's about to fucking kill you and you don't know what you'd do?"
"What would you do?" Niall asks, because he wants to hear it.
Ruben grins. "I'd fucking kill him, that's what I'd do. I'd take his knife and stick it in his throat and watch him bleed out on the pavement. But you're not me, are you?"
Niall knows Ruben's being mean on purpose, knows Ruben's trying to get a rise out of him, trying to make him angry enough to fight back. But instead of anger, something else blooms in his chest, something warm and sick and awful. He imagines the scenario again, the dark street, the footsteps behind him, the knife. But this time Ruben's there, Ruben's coming out of nowhere, Ruben's grabbing the guy's arm and twisting it and taking the knife and—
And Niall's heart is pounding, his breath is coming faster, and he knows it's horrible, knows it's wrong, knows he shouldn't be imagining Ruben saving him like some kind of hero in a film, shouldn't be getting this feeling from it, this tight hot feeling in his stomach.
"Well?" Ruben says, and he throws a jab, not hard, just a tap to Niall's shoulder to get his attention. "You still with me, Bambers? Or are you off in your own little world again?"
"I'm with you," Niall says, and he throws a punch back, tries to put some force behind it, tries to make it mean something. But it's still slow, still clumsy, still easy for Ruben to block, and Ruben shakes his head and clicks his tongue.
"Let's try another one," Ruben says, and he's circling again, his trainers squelching in the mud, his eyes never leaving Niall's face. "You're at a party, right? Some bloke's had a few too many. He's drunk and he's looking for a fight and he's decided you're the one. He shoves you. Calls you a few names. What do you do, Bambers? You going to fight him? You going to stand up for yourself? Or are you going to stand there with your face all red and your eyes all big?"
Niall swallows. His throat is dry, his mouth is dry, his whole body feels like it's made of sand, ready to crumble at the slightest touch. He imagines the party, the drunk bloke, the shove, the names. And then he imagines Ruben. Ruben stepping in between them, Ruben's voice cold and quiet saying he's with me, you've got a fucking problem with him you've got a problem with me. He imagines Ruben's fist connecting with this face, the crunch of it, the way everyone would stare, the way Ruben would turn around and look at Niall and say you alright, Bambi? It's horrible. It's awful. Niall knows it's horrible and awful.
"You think some guy's going to wait for you to wake up before he puts you on the ground? You think he's going to tap you on the shoulder and ask if you're ready before he cracks your fucking skull open?"
Niall shakes his head, tries to focus, tries to get his feet under him properly. The mud's making everything harder, slipping and sliding, and his gloves feel heavier than they did yesterday, and Ruben's moving too fast, circling too wide, coming at him from angles Niall's not prepared for.
"No," Niall says, and he throws a punch, a real one this time, puts some weight behind it, tries to show Ruben that he's trying. The punch goes wide, Ruben ducks under it easy, too easy, and comes up grinning.
"No," Ruben mimics, his voice high and mocking, and Niall feels his face go hot, feels the embarrassment crawl up his neck and across his cheeks. "That's all you've got? A little patty-cake punch and a 'no'? You're going to get yourself killed, Bambers. You're going to be one of those wee sad stories on the news. Local boy found in a ditch, couldn't throw a punch to save his life, more at eleven."
Niall lowers his gloves for a second, just stands there breathing hard. His arms are aching, his shoulders are burning. He looks at Ruben across the space between them, at the way the grey light catches the side of his face.
"How's anyone even going to attack me?" Niall asks, and his voice comes out more petulant than he meant it to. "On the way to school? Or on the way home? You're always with me, Ruben. You're always there. You walk me to school and you wait for me after and we walk home together. Every day. When am I even by myself long enough for someone to try anything?"
Ruben stops circling. He lowers his gloves too, just for a second, and he looks at Niall with an expression that's hard to read. The power lines hum above them, and the wind picks up a bit, rustling the grass, carrying the smell of rain that hasn't fallen yet.
"That's not the point, Bambers," Ruben says, and his voice is quieter now, less mocking, more serious. "Maybe I'm not going to be there every single second of every single day for the rest of your life. Sometimes you're going to have to go to the shop by yourself. Sometimes you're going to have to walk home alone because I've got something on. Sometimes—"
"But you are though," Niall says, and he knows he sounds naive. "You are going to be there.”
Ruben's eyes light up at that, a proper spark in them, and he lowers his gloves for a second, tilting his head like a dog that's just heard something interesting. The mean grin on his face shifts into something wider, something almost delighted, like Niall's just said the funniest thing he's heard all week.
"So you reckon you don't need to learn how to fight because I'm always there, aye?" Ruben says, and he's bouncing on the balls of his feet now, not aggressive, just excited. "That's your big plan, Bambers? Just stand behind me for the rest of your life and let me do all the hard work?"
Niall's face is burning, but he nods anyway, because it's true, because he's thought about it, because in his head it makes perfect sense. "Why not? You're better at it than me. You like fighting. I don't. So you do the fighting and I'll do the—I don't know—the other stuff."
"The other stuff," Ruben repeats, and he's grinning so wide now that his whole face has changed, lit up from inside, and he steps closer, close enough that Niall can smell the sweat on him, close enough that he could reach out and touch if he wanted to, which he doesn't, which he's not thinking about. "What other stuff, Bambers? What other stuff are you going to do while I'm off fighting your battles for you? You going to stand there and look pretty? You going to cheer me on from the sidelines?"
He's laughing, and Ruben's laughing too, that low rough laugh that he'd do anything to hear, that makes his chest feel like it's full of something warm and fizzy, like the bubbles in a bottle of Irn-Bru after you've shaken it up.
"Come on, Bambers," Ruben says, still grinning, still bouncing, still too close. "Tell me more about this plan. I'm fascinated, genuinely. So you're just going to... what? Hide behind me for the rest of our lives? Every time someone looks at you wrong, you're going to tap me on the shoulder and say Ruben, there's a mean boy, go and hit him for me, please and thank you?"
"Maybe," Niall says, and he's trying to sound serious, trying to sound like he means it, but his mouth won't stop smiling, won't stop curving up at the corners. "You wouldn't mind though, would you? Looking after me, I mean. You wouldn't mind."
Ruben stops laughing. He looks at Niall, really looks at him. "Nah, Bambers," Ruben says. "I wouldn't mind. You're my brother. You know what I'd do for you. You've seen it."
He steps closer. Ruben's bare chest is inches away, close enough that Niall can see the individual drops of rain clinging, close enough that if he leaned forward just a little, just a tiny bit, he'd be touching him.
"That fucker’s face," Ruben says, and his voice is low. "His face was bruised for weeks, aye? Purple and yellow and green. His own mother probably didn't recognise him. I made sure of that."
Niall nods. He remembers that face, remembers the way the boy looked when he finally came back to school, all swollen. Ruben did that. Ruben did that for him.
"I'd do worse," Ruben says, and his hand comes up, his gloved fingers gripping Niall's chin, tilting his face up, forcing him to look. "If someone's bothering you. If someone looks at you wrong. If someone even thinks about saying something they shouldn't. I'd do worse, Bambers. Much worse. All you have to do is ask. Just say the words."
Niall's heart is pounding so hard he thinks Ruben must be able to feel it, must be able to see it, the way his chest is moving, the way his breath is coming fast and shallow. He smiles. “Okay, Ruben.”
Ruben nods. “But that doesn't mean you shouldn't learn how to look after yourself too. What if I'm having a shit or something? You going to let someone beat you to death while I'm on the toilet?"
"I'll take my chances," Niall says. "How long are you going to be in the toilet, anyway? I can run. I'm fast."
"Fast?" Ruben raises his eyebrows, his mouth twitching. "You're not fast. You're slow. You're proper slow. I've seen glaciers move faster than you. You try to run away from someone, they're going to catch you in about three seconds and then you're done."
"I'll prove it," Niall says, and he's already backing up, already putting distance between them, his trainers slipping in the mud. "I'll prove I'm fast. You just have to catch me first."
Ruben's eyebrows go up, and that grin gets wider, meaner, more excited. "Oh, is that right? You're going to run from me, Bambi? You're going to make me chase you?"
"Maybe," Niall says, and then he's gone, spinning around and sprinting across the field, his feet sliding in the wet grass, his arms pumping, his breath coming hard and fast in his chest. The mud splashes up his legs, cold and dirty, and the wind whips past his ears. Ruben's footsteps, pounding through the mud, faster than Niall expected, faster than Niall remembered. Ruben's not even trying, probably, Ruben's just loping along, easy and effortless, the way he does everything, and Niall's running as hard as he can, his lungs burning, his legs aching, and Ruben's still gaining on him, still getting closer, still .
Niall's scared, suddenly, properly scared, the way he gets when Ruben has him against the wall, when Ruben's arm is across his throat and he can't breathe and he doesn't know if Ruben's going to let go or not. The fear tastes like copper in his mouth, like blood, like the memory of all the times he's been helpless and Ruben's been there, Ruben's been the one holding him down, Ruben's been the one who wouldn't let go.
He runs faster, but it doesn't matter, it never matters, because Ruben's right behind him now, so close Niall can hear him breathing, can hear the soft grunt of effort as Ruben reaches out and grabs the back of his shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric, yanking him back. Niall's feet go out from under him, sliding in the mud, and he's falling, falling, the ground rushing up to meet him, and then he's on his back in the wet grass with the air knocked out of his lungs and Ruben on top of him, Ruben's weight pressing him down into the mud.
Niall squirms, tries to get away, tries to push Ruben off, but Ruben's heavier than him, stronger than him, and he's laughing. "Settle, settle," Ruben says, still laughing, his weight shifting on top of Niall, his knees digging into Niall's thighs. "Settle down."
But Niall can't settle, can't breathe, can't do anything except squirm and push and try to get Ruben off him because his heart is pounding too hard and his chest is too tight and he doesn't know what he was thinking, doesn't know why he thought running from Ruben was a good idea, doesn't know why he thought he could ever get away from someone who's always going to catch him, always going to hold him down, always going to be there whether Niall wants him to be or not. Right now, he wants him to be.
"Hey," Ruben says, and his voice changes, loses some of its laughter, gains something sharper. "Hey, Bambi. Look at me. Settle down. I'm not going to hurt you."
Niall can't look at him, can't look at anything except the grey sky above them and the power lines humming and the clouds that are starting to get darker, starting to get heavier. "Bambi." Ruben's hand is on his jaw, gripping him, turning his face, forcing him to look. Ruben's fingers are warm even through the glove, and they press into Niall's skin the way they did that night with Mona, the way they did when Ruben held him up, held him together. "Look at me. There you go. There you go, Bambers. Just breathe. Breathe with me, aye? In and out. Nice and slow."
Niall breathes. Ruben's eyes are looking into his, and Niall breathes with him, in and out, in and out, until the shaking stops and the pounding slows and he can see again, can think again, can remember where he is and who he's with. "There you go," Ruben says, and he's grinning again, that sharp grin, but it's softer now. "See? You're fine. You're fine, Bambers. I caught you. But maybe no one's faster than me, aye? Maybe you're not slow, maybe I'm just fast. Maybe that's the problem."
Niall nods, his throat still tight, his voice still not working properly. "Maybe," he manages.
Ruben looks at him for a moment, something flickering. And then he shifts, his weight settling more firmly on Niall's thighs, and his gloved fist comes down, right in the soft part of Niall's stomach. Niall whimpers. The sound comes out of him before he can stop it, high and pained, and his body curls inward, trying to protect itself, trying to shield the tender place where Ruben's fist landed.
"You're tender here, Niall," Ruben says. "Right here, underneath your ribs. That's a vulnerable spot. Someone catches you there, you're done. You'll be on the ground, gasping for air, while they do whatever they want to you."
Niall shakes his head, tries to push Ruben's hand away, but Ruben grabs his shirt, the fabric of it bunching in his gloved fist, and he lifts it, pulls it up, exposes Niall's pale skin to the cold air and the grey sky and Ruben's eyes.
"See?" Ruben says, and he traces a line across Niall's stomach with the glove, right below his ribs, light enough that it almost tickles, light enough that Niall shivers and tries to pull away. "Someone could gut you right here, Bambers. Slice you open like a fish and pull your insides out before you even knew what was happening. That's how quick it is. That's how easy."
Niall shakes under him, his whole body trembling, and there's something happening in his stomach, something hot and tight and confusing, something that feels like fear but also like something else, something he felt that time Ruben choked him in bed, that time Ruben's arm was around his neck and Niall couldn't breathe and he thought he might die but then Ruben let go and held him, held him close all night.
He thinks about it now, lying in the mud with Ruben on top of him, Ruben's hand on his bare skin, Ruben's eyes looking down at him. He thinks about the way Ruben held him after, the way Ruben's arms wrapped around him and didn't let go, the way Ruben's voice whispered in his ear. He thinks about how he'd felt, how he'd wanted to stay there forever, how he'd wanted Ruben to keep holding him even though Ruben was the reason he couldn't breathe in the first place.
Ruben bends down, his face close to Niall's stomach, and he blows a raspberry right on Niall's skin, loud and silly and completely unexpected. Niall twitches, his whole body jerking, and Ruben laughs, that low rough laugh, and Niall would laugh too if he could breathe, if his stomach wasn't doing that thing, if Ruben's gloved hand wasn't still on his skin. “Ruben—”
"You're so sensitive, Bambers," Ruben says, grinning down at him. "One little tickle and you're squirming like a wee girl. How are you supposed to take a punch if you can't even handle a bit of—"
He hits him again. Right where Niall's already tender, already sore from the first hit, and Niall whimpers again, louder this time, his hands flying down to protect his stomach, to push Ruben's fist away. "I'm gonna piss my pants, Ruben, stop," Niall says, and his voice is high and desperate.
"Poor Bambi.” Ruben's hand moves on Niall's stomach, the rough leather of his glove dragging across the tender skin just below Niall's ribs. The friction is strange, almost burning, the way the glove catches on there, the way it leaves red marks in its wake, the way it makes Niall's breath hitch and his stomach clench and his whole body tighten. Ruben's not hitting him anymore, not teasing, just touching, just rubbing, his gloved hand moving in circles on Niall's bare skin like he's trying to warm him up, like he's trying to soothe the places he's just bruised. Niall's hard.
He feels it happening, feels the blood rushing south, feels his cock thickening inside his boxers, pressing against the damp fabric, impossible to hide. He's hard and Ruben's on top of him and Ruben's hand is on his stomach and Ruben's going to notice, Ruben's going to feel it, Ruben's going to know exactly what's happening to Niall's body and Niall will die, will simply stop existing, will sink into the mud and never come back up.
But Ruben doesn't seem to notice. His dark eyes are focused on Niall's stomach, on the red marks his glove is leaving behind, on the way Niall's muscles jump and twitch every time the leather drags across a sensitive spot. Ruben bends down, his face close to Niall's stomach, and he blows on the tender skin, a soft stream of cool air that makes Niall shiver, makes his hips buck up involuntarily, makes his cock press harder against Ruben.
"Sensitive," Ruben murmurs again, almost to himself, and his thumb traces the line of Niall's hip bone, the leather catching on the jut of it, and Niall squirms against him, trying to get away and trying to get closer at the same time. Ruben's hand leaves his stomach, reaches up, and grabs Niall's hair. His gloved fingers twist in the damp strands, tugging, pulling Niall's head back, exposing his throat to the grey sky and the falling rain. The sting of it, the sharp pull at his scalp, makes Niall gasp, makes his back arch, makes his hips press up against Ruben's again, and he can feel himself, and he prays, prays to any god who might be listening, that Ruben doesn't notice, that Ruben thinks it's just his hip bone or the seam of his jeans or something else, anything else.
"Birds like a boy who can fight, you know," Ruben says. His gloved hand is still in Niall's hair, holding him still. "Don't you care about that, Bambers? Don't you care about what the birds think?"
"I didn't think about that," Niall manages, and his voice comes out strangled, breathless, nothing like his own voice at all. He nods, because Ruben's looking at him, waiting for an answer, and Ruben's hand is in his hair and Ruben's hips are on his hips.
"Mona likes it," Ruben says, and his thumb traces Niall's jaw, the leather rough against his skin. "Likes it rough. Likes a boy who can put her in her place, you know? Not all soft and sweet like you. She wants someone who'll grab her by the hair and make her do what he wants."
Ruben's hand in Niall's hair tightens, pulls harder, and Niall's eyes water, his throat exposed. Ruben's hips are digging into his, pressing down, pinning him to the mud, and every small movement Ruben makes shifts that pressure, grinds it against Niall in ways that make his vision go blurry and his breath catch in his throat.
Ruben's so heavy on top of him. His hips ache where Ruben's pelvis is settled against his, his thighs ache where Ruben's knees are digging in on either side. Every part of him is aware of every part of Ruben, and his body is responding in ways he can't control, ways that scare him, ways that make him want to squirm and freeze at the same time.
"You'll find one," Ruben continues, and his voice is softer now, like he's imagining it, like he's picturing Niall with some faceless girl, doing the things Ruben's teaching him. "You'll find a bird who likes it too. Likes it rough. Likes a boy who can fight. You just have to learn how, aye? You just have to let me teach you."
Ruben stares down at him for a long moment, his k eyes moving over Niall's face, and then his hand leaves Niall's hair and his fist comes down again, hard this time, right in the stomach. Niall's body convulses. His back arches off the grass, he bites his lip hard, and the pleasure that's been building inside him, the tight coil of heat in his groin, suddenly releases, suddenly breaks, suddenly floods through him. He's coming in his pants, cock pulsing, hips jerking, his whole body shaking with the force of it, and Ruben's hand is still on his stomach, Ruben's weight is still on his hips, Ruben's eyes are still looking down at him, and Niall can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except lie there in the mud and shake.
Ruben laughs. and he doesn't notice, doesn't know what's happening, doesn't realize that Niall just came in his pants while his brother was hitting him in a muddy field under the power lines. He thinks Niall's shaking because of the hit, because of the pain, because he's soft and weak and can't take a punch the way he's supposed to. The mud is seeping through his clothes, through his hair, and there's something wet and warm spreading between his legs, and he feels sick, feels dizzy, feels like he might throw up or pass out or both.
But he feels good too. There's a warmth, a glow, a satisfaction that makes his body hum and his mind go quiet and his heart feel full. Ruben's hand is on his stomach, Ruben's weight is on his hips, Ruben's laughing at him, and Niall feels good. Feels like he belong, like he's Ruben's, like there's no place in the world he's supposed to be except right here, in this field, in this mud, with Ruben on top of him. And with Ruben as his brother.
Ruben's hand starts moving again, rubbing at the bruised skin on Niall's stomach, the leather glove rough and warm, and Niall watches his hand, watches the way it moves, and he wishes, for a second, that Ruben wasn't wearing the glove at all. He wishes it was Ruben's bare hand on his skin, Ruben's fingers, Ruben's palm. He wishes he could feel the heat of Ruben's skin instead of the dead leather, the roughness of his palm instead of the smooth stitching, the weight of his fingers instead of the padded knuckles.
Ruben uses the hand in Niall's hair to touch his face, the leather rubbing against his cheek, rough and scratchy and strangely gentle. Ruben's thumb traces his cheekbone, the line of his jaw, the curve of his lower lip, and Niall's breath catches, his heart stutters, his whole body goes still under the weight of Ruben's attention.
"Remember what I told you?" Ruben asks, and his voice is low, serious, the teacher voice he uses when he wants Niall to remember something important. "When ye've got some cunt right where you want him, on his back, under you, and you’re about to fucking wreck him, Bambi. What will you say?"
Niall hesitates. His mind is foggy, thick with pleasure and shame and the lingering aftershocks of what just happened in his pants. He thought it was over, the shaking, the trembling, the feeling of his body being pulled apart and put back together. But Ruben's hand is on his face and Ruben's eyes are on his mouth and Ruben's weight is on his hips and Niall's body is buzzing again, humming, waking up in ways he doesn't want it to.
"It'll—It’ll be over soon," Niall says, and his voice is barely a whisper, barely there.
Ruben nods, his eyes fixed on Niall's mouth, watching the way his lips move, the way his tongue touches his teeth, the way his breath comes out in little puffs of steam in the cold air.
Then Ruben blinks, shakes his head like he's clearing it, and the moment passes. He pushes himself off Niall, his weight lifting, his warmth disappearing, and suddenly Niall's cold, so cold, shivering on the wet grass with his shirt still rucked up and his stomach exposed to the sky. The rain falls on his bare skin, cold and sharp, and he wants to curl up, wants to disappear, wants Ruben to put his weight back on him and make him warm again.
"Christ," Ruben says, standing over him, looking down at him with that grin, that teasing grin that makes Niall want to hit him and thank him and never look at him again all at once. "You're shaking like a fucking leaf. Come on. Get up. We're done for the day."
He offers Niall a hand, and Niall takes it, because he always takes it, because he doesn't know how to say no to Ruben, because his body is shaking and his legs feel like jelly and he doesn't think he could stand up on his own if he tried. Ruben pulls him to his feet, and Niall stumbles, nearly falls, and Ruben catches him, one hand on his arm.
"You're freezing," Ruben says, and he looks around, spots his jacket where he dropped it on the ground earlier, a crumpled heap of dark fabric in the mud. He bends down, picks it up, shakes off some of the dirt and the wet grass, and holds it out to Niall. "Here. Put this on. You're going to catch your death, and then I'll have to explain to your mum why I let her wee boy freeze to death in a field."
Niall takes the jacket. His fingers are shaking so badly he can barely hold it, can barely get his arms through the sleeves, and Ruben watches him struggle for a moment before making an impatient noise and stepping forward. "Give it here," Ruben says, and he takes the jacket from Niall's trembling hands, holds it open, and helps Niall put it on. He pulls the collar up, adjusts the shoulders, tugs the hem down, and Niall wants to lean into him, wants to press his face against Ruben's chest.
The jacket smells like Ruben. The jacket is big on him, too big, the sleeves hanging over his hands, the hem reaching down past his hips, and it's warm, still holding the heat from Ruben's body, and Niall burrows into it, pulls it tighter around himself, lets it swallow him up and walk for him.