Chapter Text
July 14 - The Calm Before the Storm
The familiar rumble of his old truck over the unworn gravel path meant that Freddy was almost at his destination. His stepdad’s plot of land, abandoned after he died, was located in the middle of nowhere, near the intersection of Montana, South Dakota, and Wyoming. It was perfectly secluded; no one had ever complained about the screaming.
He was late, significantly, and Vincent would be pissed. That didn’t really matter, though, Vincent was always pissed. As Freddy pulled into the only open clearing on the forested ten-mile plot, he was blinded by the sun’s reflection bouncing off the old, decrepit RV parked at the end of the makeshift road. Leaning against its metal frame was Vincent. Mildly sunburnt, Vincent’s Italian genetics did nothing to ward off the blinding whiteness of his Irish complexion. The summer sun beat down on his red skin, and Freddy couldn’t tell if the squinted look on Vincent’s face should be attributed to the blinding rays or his tardiness. Pulling his truck up beside the RV, Freddy rolled down his window and smiled. Despite their long history, there was always a bit of awkwardness in the conversations they had before the hunt began. Freddy and Vincent only saw each other once a year, and they didn’t spend their time together catching up.
“Hi, princess,” Freddy crooned to his unimpressed companion.
“You’re four hours late. We’re going to have to start the hunt tomorrow,” replied a monotone Vincent. “The fuck were you doing?”
“I had to stop at Waffle House. I was hungry.”
Vincent met his gaze with an angry stare.
“Come on, it’s not that bad. We never actually take the whole week to finish; we can spare a day,” Freddy replied as he hopped out of his truck. As his boots hit the dirt, Freddy inhaled the all-too-familiar scent of lingering cigarette smoke, pine needles, sweat, and blood. A grin crept across his face; he’d been looking forward to this week all year.
“I got you something.” His grin turned into a toothy smile as the tall blonde walked over to the passenger-side door to retrieve a bag of Waffle House pancakes, bacon, grits, and a large, ice-cold cup of water.
Vincent grunted and took the bag. One stop for food didn’t explain a four-hour time lapse. What the hell was Freddy really doing? Did he have somewhere better to be? Someone better to be with? Vincent’s mind spun with jealousy, despite his own reservations about showing up to this year’s hunt. He felt a bead of sweat drip down his muscled back as he mulled over the internal conflict he faced every year. He loved Freddy; that was undeniable. More than loved, he needed him. As kids, they bonded over their lust for violence and distrust of others. The two were inseparable, and there isn’t a corner of his mind that Vincent hasn’t handed over to Freddy. There isn't an inch of his body that Freddy hasn’t seen. Vincent could never trust anyone so intuitively. But God, he hated himself for months after each hunt. Every drive home was an excruciating hour-long adrenaline crash, followed by regret and self-hatred. Every cross in his childhood home reminded him of who he disappointed. He spent every Sunday mass begging for forgiveness, but no confessional would rid him of the feeling that he’d be paying for his sins with eternal damnation. Whatever, it was no use. There was nothing Vincent could do to stop himself from seeing Freddy, and there was nothing he could do to ease the panging guilt he felt every day after.
“Come on, hotshot. Any beers left in the fridge?” Freddy’s arm bounced off of Vincent’s shoulder as he moved past him to open the RV door, jolting the bespeckled brunette out of his spiral.
“We shouldn’t drink. I want to be up before sunrise tomorrow.”
Freddy looked down at Vincent in disappointment before stepping inside and opening the hatch of the outdoor cooler that was haphazardly shoved into the cramped vehicle years ago. Pounds of raw meat sat frozen at the bottom of the icy box, but so did a half-finished bottle of vodka. Freddy pulled it out and took a swig before gesturing to Vincent.
“You really want to waste a full night? I can start a campfire.”
“Fine.” Vincent reluctantly pulled himself into the RV and took the bottle from Freddy before taking a half-hearted sip. After a second of reconsideration, he lifted the glass to his mouth and took a significantly larger chug.
“Good boy,” Freddy cooed tauntingly as he grabbed Vincent’s jaw and pulled him closer.
“Get off of me, dick. ” Vincent jerked his face out of Freddy’s grasp and sluggishly walked to the back of the vehicle to collapse on the tattered bed in exhaustion. Freddy followed, crawling over him and reaching his hand under his shirt, smirking.
“Maybe you should go ahead and take this off. You don’t want to get heatstroke before the big day.”
“Don’t fucking talk to me like that, Freddy. I don’t do that shit anymore-” Vincent trailed off, lifting the frozen-cold bottle of vodka to his sweaty forehead.
“What, I can’t touch you unless you’re tied to the bed? Unless you’re in so much pain that you’re nearly unconscious? Unless you can convince yourself that you have no other choice but to let me fuck you? Come on, Vinny, don’t you miss high school?”
Vincent’s eyes narrowed, and his eyebrows deepened behind his glasses. Beads of sweat rolled off his skin as his face contorted. With a swift kick to the torso, Vincent pushed Freddy off of him and into an adjacent dresser, sending the empty bottles perched atop the wardrobe crashing to the floor. Standing up in a furious huff, Vincent ripped his backpack open, retrieved a ball of clean clothes and his shower caddy, and promptly locked himself away with a slam of the bathroom door. Freddy heard the distinct squeal of the shower being turned on and smiled softly before changing clothes and crawling back into bed. He didn’t really mean to say it, but it was true. They only ever had sex on these hunts, drugged and bloody. They had always fought before fucking, but that was fun. Lighthearted sparring, more friendly wrestling than anything. It was different now. Exciting in its own way, but also cold and calculated and…cruel. There was nothing friendly about hunting.
…
A half-hour later, Vincent squeaked open the bathroom door and crept out. He chucked the now-soggy Waffle House leftovers into the microwave and ate them alone under the swinging yellow lighting that shone over the well-used dinner table. He looked over at Freddy, half-asleep and sprawled out on the bed, and blushed into his hands, thinking about what they’d done on that mattress. Blood, cum, and sweat stains still scattered the gray sheets, no matter how many times they’d been dunked into the lake and scrubbed with dish soap. The hunting rifle they used hung above the bed, menacingly. Vincent couldn’t count how many times he’d been beaten with it.
The first hunt, right after Freddy came back from his freshman year of college five years ago, was rough and muddy. They were drunk, and neither of them knew what they were doing. Gunless and aimless, the teenagers just chased each other around with knives for a week and fucked, desperate and hungry in the woods. Eventually they came to an agreement on a few core principles.
At the beginning of each week-long hunt, starting on July 14th of every year, a coin is flipped. Whoever wins the coin toss gets to use the gun to hunt the other down in the woods. The hunter is given a two-day supply of food, a flashlight, a hunting knife, a water bottle (with a filtered straw), and other hardcore camping equipment. He is also given a first-aid kit. And a gun. And tranquilizer darts, courtesy of Freddy’s sister and the veterinary sedatives kept on the family’s farm. She didn’t know exactly what Freddy used them for, but she had a sneaking suspicion that the yearly “hunting” trips he went on with Vincent weren’t quite orthodox.
The huntee, or prey, would get the same supplies, save for the gun. He would get extra food, but he’d be forced to carry a rudimentary GPS device that the hunter could use to track him. Now, instead of an all-out battle in the woods, both men had roles. One to hunt and capture, one to evade and out-maneuver; both with an express directive to incapacitate and overpower the other. The non-hunter would get a two-hour start on the afternoon of the first day, heading into the woods in hopes of finding a safe, hidden spot to set up for the night, far away from the other man. This year, due to Freddy’s tardiness, they’d have to start tomorrow.
It’s honestly a miracle that nothing went wrong in years one and two. Not only did Freddy and Vincent not have rules for the hunts, but neither of them had any sort of medical training. It’s only after Vincent received a nasty head wound in 2000 that they realized it might be a good idea to take EMT training courses. Online classes in basic anatomy, infection prevention, trauma care, and life support gave them the confidence to create their vague list of rules for hunts. The agreement was tacked to the front door:
- No mutilations that would require hospitalization.
- Both players must be given adequate supplies for surviving in the woods.
- The hunt will officially start with a coin toss and handshake.
- The hunt is OVER when the sun rises on July 20th. All handcuffs, ties, gags, or otherwise must be removed at this time to allow for adequate medical attention.
- No killing each other. Or yourself.
And that was it. Every other verbal agreement about the hunt was subject to change. The closest Emergency Room was at least a two-hour drive from the RV site, and it would take much longer to drag a body back to a truck from the middle of the woods. If anything happened out there, it was on them.
Vincent finished eating and debated just passing out right there at the table. No, he needed to get a full night’s sleep. He looked over at Freddy.
“You still awake?”
Freddy moaned halfheartedly, not wanting to scare Vincent away from joining him in bed. Reluctantly, Vinny crawled under the covers beside him. It was only 8 pm, but both men were beat; Vincent from the sun and Freddy from the long drive.
…
After about an hour and a half of trying to fall asleep, the constant rustling of the covers and the sweltering heat inside the cramped metal RV grew to be unbearable.
“Why don’t we just do the coin flip now?” Freddy mumbled after hearing Vincent groan and turn over in frustration for the fifth time. Vincent almost wanted to ignore him, but sat up anyway. His longer brown hair was matted with sweat, and his clothes were soaked. This summer was the hottest in years, and neither of them had ever slept in the RV so early in the night. After grumbling some kind of agreement, Vincent climbed out of bed and took another swig of the cooled vodka, hoping that the alcohol would both lower his temperature and calm his mind. As the icy liquid stung the back of his throat, Vincent looked over at his companion, now sitting on the edge of the bed.
At some point in the night, Freddy had flung most of his clothes off and was now wearing only a pair of bright white boxer briefs. That was nothing new; Vincent knew that Freddy liked walking around in as few clothes as possible during the warmer months. What was new was the fact that the boxers were now completely soaked, wet with sweat. The fabric clung to Freddy’s legs and turned translucent when in contact with his skin. Vincent felt himself lingering for too long on his groin, and tried to avert his eyes before Freddy met his gaze and stood up. He was unsuccessful.
Freddy smiled as Vincent looked away dismissively. Almost naked, he passed behind Vincent to enter the kitchen, placing his hand on Vincent’s side and squeezing through the walkway. Freddy paused behind him, a little too close for a little too long, before making his way to the dinner table. Vincent felt his hot breath on the back of his neck as he passed, Freddy’s lips nearly grazing his shoulder before moving on. What a dick.
Retrieving his wallet from a bag by the front door, Freddy pulled out a quarter and placed it on the table. The mere heft of his footsteps sent the overhead light swinging again, painting each corner of the RV in dirty yellow light. Vincent felt more sweat slide down his torso as he tried to ignore Freddy’s hungry gaze on the back of his head. Like a prey animal feeling a stalking mountain lion creep closer, Vincent could feel Freddy observing every breath, every sound, every glance. Satisfied with his drinking, Vincent turned to join the carnivore at the table. There were times when Vincent felt like an animal, too, but it was different than Freddy. When Vincent was angry, he could barely control it. Freddy’s was a cold, dead, calculated anger. He was calm in his fury. He always seemed ready to pounce on something. To…devour something. It was unnerving, at first. Now it's the only thing Vincent can get off to. That look of pure desperation. It was all-consuming.
“Ready?”
Vincent snapped back to reality as Freddy held the quarter in front of him.
“Do it.”
With a flick of his thumb, Freddy catapulted the coin into the air. He caught it as it fell and flipped it onto the back of his left hand. His right hand still covered the coin as he looked to Vincent.
“What are you hoping for?” he asked, eyes wide in excitement. Freddy looked as if he were a dog that just sat very politely in front of a man holding a piece of bacon. If Freddy had a tail, he’d no doubt be wagging it so hard he’d break it. “Vinnyy~,” he prodded with a song-songy intonation, waiting for an answer.
Vincent looked down at the deteriorating table and ran his finger along the cuts and notches in the wood. Last year, he got to hunt. Vincent’s a pretty good shot, and he managed to hit Freddy with a dart only a day and a half into the week. It would have been ridiculously difficult to drag him all the way back to the RV, so he had tied Freddy to a tree next to his campsite and left for about an hour to bring some supplies down. That was a mistake. He should have never underestimated the lengths Freddy would go to win a hunt. Somehow, probably through some sort of divine intervention, Freddy had gained the strength to dislocate his shoulder and wrist joints and slide out of his binds. Vincent took a rough beating that day. And the next. And the rest of that week.
“I think I have a pretty good shot this year,” Vincent replied offhandedly, still looking at the table with a half-assed enthusiasm, “I’ve got good aim.”
“Oh, princess, that’s not going to help you,” Freddy preened. He raised his right hand to reveal the coin. Heads. Freddy hunts.
Vincent finally looked up from the table to meet Freddy’s smirk. For the first time since seeing each other, Vincent smiled back. A devilish, freakish, coyote smile. “You couldn’t shoot an elephant twenty feet away from you. I think I’ll be ok.”
“I’ve shot you before, idiot.”
“One time. Standing still.”
“That counts.”
“Not really.”
The light banter continued as the two sat under the swinging light, taking turns sipping from the bottle of liquor. “You should start working out,” Freddy remarked, haphazardly sloshing the Vodka over to Vincent. “How long has it been since you got any pussy? High school?” The comment served as a painful reminder that Freddy slept with other people during the 11 months they were apart. Vincent didn’t like to think about it, but he knew that Freddy had girlfriends on and off during college. He always claimed that he broke things off before the summer, but Vincent doubted it. “Maybe if you spent a little time in the gym you’d finally find a fucking girlfriend, dude,” Freddy burped, stopping Vincent’s train of thought in its tracks. “Unless you really are a-”
“I have been working out, asshole,” Vincent sneered, interrupting him. A sober Vincent would have shrugged the comment off, but there was an energy coursing through his veins now that he hadn’t felt in months.
“Oh yeah? Doesn’t look like it. Your shirts are still a size too big.”
Riled up, Vincent took off his sleep shirt in a huff, showing Freddy the mass he’d gained since they last saw each other. In the last year, Vincent managed to put on just under 15 pounds of muscle and fat, thanks to the new construction job he started working (and the new chicken joint that opened up across the street).
It was hard for Freddy not to ogle. His back, still wet with sweat, glistened under the overhead light. As it swung back and forth, Freddy could make out every shadow and detail of Vincent’s torso. The manual labor gave his hands calluses, and every muscle had new definition. After Vincent’s lackluster showing last year, Freddy was almost worried that the fights between them were becoming too easy to win. It had felt…numb. Disengaged. It was a relief to see Vincent talkative and enraged, even if it was under the influence. Vincent staggered over to Freddy’s side of the table and looked down on him. It was impossible not to notice how hard Freddy was, what with his nearly translucent boxers. Vincent smiled and grabbed his jaw, just as Freddy had done to him mere hours ago. As he leaned in to whisper in his ear, Vincent’s hand slid down to Freddy’s neck, gripping his throat.
“I want to see you fucking cry, Frederick Cameron. I’m going to beat you and fuck you so hard you drop to your knees sobbing and begging me to stop. And then I’m going to keep going. And going. And going. You better watch your fucking back tomorrow.”
Freddy’s eyes darted to Vincent’s, a mix of hunger and fear and drunken desperation washing over his face. Fuck. This was the Vincent he remembered from high school. He felt all the blood in his face rush downwards.
“We’ll see.”
…