Don't Move Away

In the conservative town of Havenwood, Carter and Art navigate the suffocating tension of their unspoken feelings while renovating the town's gazebo, fearing exposure amidst watchful eyes until an unexpected moment changes everything.

Carter’s fingers brushed the back of Art’s hand, a spark in the dry afternoon air. Not static electricity, Art thought, but something else entirely. He’d been holding the strip of sandpaper, rough grit against the old, peeling paint, too tight. His knuckles white, aching. Carter was leaning over him, close enough for Art to feel the warmth radiating off his arm, smell the faint, clean scent of sawdust and soap. The world narrowed to that proximity, the hum of insects in the budding trees, the distant sound of Mrs. Patterson’s wind chimes, and the frantic thump of his own heart.

“Careful,” Carter murmured, his voice low, a gravelly vibration that Art felt more than heard. It settled in his chest, an unsettling warmth. “You’ll take off more than just paint.” Carter’s hand, larger, more calloused, gently closed over Art’s, guiding the sandpaper. The friction against the weathered wood, the insistent pressure of Carter’s palm, was a specific kind of agony. Art couldn't breathe right. His face, he knew, was probably flushed crimson. He hoped it just looked like exertion in the spring sun.

The gazebo stood at the center of Havenwood Square, an ancient, chipped monument to a bygone era. It was the heart of every town event, every Sunday band concert, every declaration. And now, under the guise of 'Spring Blossom Festival Revitalization,' it was their cage, their stage. Mayor Tomason had assigned them, two of the only boys their age not already tied up with farm work or football practice, to the task. "Good, honest work for good, honest lads," he’d boomed, clapping Carter on the back. Art had felt his stomach drop.

Every swing of the sander, every sweep of the brush, felt like a performance. The town was a network of eyes. Mrs. Harris, meticulously tending her prize-winning petunias across the square, her gaze sharp, always seemed to pause when their shoulders accidentally brushed. Mr. Dinkins, from the hardware store, would stop his truck, ostensibly to deliver supplies, but his eyes lingered, too keen. Art felt like a specimen under glass, every unguarded glance, every soft word with Carter, scrutinized, judged.

Carter, for his part, was infuriatingly calm. Or appeared to be. He moved with a quiet efficiency, his broad shoulders easily bearing the weight of paint cans, his hands steady as he measured planks. He barely spoke, yet his presence was a constant, solid anchor. A wall. And sometimes, Art caught a flicker in Carter’s eyes – a flash of something possessive, something deeply attentive, when Art stumbled, or when a stray strand of hair fell across his eyes. It was a secret language, silent, electric, and terrifying.

They were alone now, the late afternoon stretching long. The square was emptying out. A relief, a tightening of the knot in Art's gut. Being alone with Carter was both a respite and a deeper trap. Carter set down his tools, wiping sawdust from his brow with the back of his hand. He turned to Art, his gaze direct, unblinking. Art’s breath caught. He wished he could just look away, but it felt impossible, like being pinned under a bright, relentless light.

“You’re still red,” Carter said, his voice flat, but the corners of his mouth twitched slightly. A ghost of a smile. “Too much sun?” Art shook his head, a weak, almost imperceptible gesture. He felt heat crawl up his neck. “No. Just… hot. All this work.” He hated how his voice sounded – thin, reedy. He felt exposed, stripped bare. Carter knew. He always knew.

Carter stepped closer, not quite touching, but the space between them seemed to shrink, to vibrate. Art wanted to bolt, wanted to melt, wanted to lean in. He just stood there, rooted, caught. Carter lifted his hand, slowly, deliberately. Art flinched, a tiny, involuntary twitch. Carter paused, his eyes searching Art’s. A silent question. Then, his thumb grazed Art’s cheekbone, wiping away a smudge of paint, or perhaps, just tracing the line of his flushed skin. The touch was feather-light, yet it burned.

“Don’t move,” Carter said, barely a whisper. His eyes never left Art’s. It wasn’t a request. It was a command. A line drawn in the dusty air, a boundary that only existed for them. Art couldn’t have moved if he tried. His muscles felt locked, his mind a scramble of static. He could taste the metallic tang of fear, the sweet, earthy smell of the freshly tilled flowerbeds nearby. He knew, with a terrifying certainty, that this was it. Someone would see. Someone always saw.

But no one did. Not yet. Carter’s hand lingered, his gaze intense. Art felt himself softening, melting under that unwavering focus. All the fear, the tightly wound anxiety, began to loosen, replaced by something warm, something aching and vulnerable. He wanted to close his eyes, but Carter's stare held him captive. He wanted to say something, anything, but his throat was tight. He just stared back, his own gaze probably wide, too open, revealing everything he tried so hard to hide.

“We should finish the trim tomorrow,” Carter finally said, his voice a little rougher this time, dropping his hand. The sudden absence of his touch left a cold spot on Art’s skin. He felt a sharp pang of disappointment, a wave of confusion. Had he imagined it? All of it? He could only nod, mute. Carter picked up a canvas tarp, beginning to cover the partially sanded structure. The mundane action felt jarring after the charged silence.

The next day was a blur of sanding, then priming. The white paint was a stark contrast against the rough, untreated wood, making the imperfections starker before they disappeared. The festival was only a week away. The town square buzzed with more activity. Bunting appeared. Booths were erected. Kids on bikes zipped past, their laughter bright. Every eye felt multiplied. Art felt the pressure building, a physical weight on his chest. Carter, beside him, seemed to absorb it all, his movements precise, his expression unreadable.

They were painting the intricate railing when it happened. Art was reaching high, stretching his arm, brush poised, when his foot slipped on a patch of spilled primer. He swore, a small, choked sound, bracing for impact. He didn’t fall. Carter’s arm shot out, strong and steady, catching him around the waist. Art twisted, pressing against Carter’s chest, his hands gripping Carter’s shoulders. His heart hammered, not just from the near fall, but from the sudden, undeniable closeness. He could feel Carter's steady breath against his hair, the solid expanse of muscle beneath his fingers.

For a long moment, they simply held each other. Art’s face was pressed into Carter’s shoulder, the rough denim scratching his cheek. He could feel the warmth of Carter’s body, the faint thrum of his pulse. He smelled the lingering paint, the fresh spring air, and something uniquely Carter – a faint, clean scent of earth and something else he couldn't name, something that made him feel safe and terrified all at once. He heard a gasp, not from them, but from somewhere nearby. His eyes flew open.

Mrs. Harris stood at the edge of the square, her petunia trowel held mid-air, her mouth slightly agape. She wasn't alone. Pastor Miller and his wife, walking their poodle, had stopped. Mr. Dinkins was leaning against his delivery truck, watching, his face unreadable. A group of older women, setting up tables for the bake sale, had paused their chattering. All eyes were on them. Time seemed to stretch, thin and fragile. Art felt a cold dread seep into his bones, the suffocating realization that this was it. They had been seen.

Carter didn't release him. Not immediately. Instead, his grip tightened, a silent reassurance, a defiance. He straightened slowly, carefully, pulling Art upright, but not letting go. His gaze, still intense, swept across the square, meeting the stares of the townspeople, one by one. There was no apology in his eyes, no shame. Just a quiet, unwavering resolve. Art, still half-hidden by Carter’s shoulder, felt a strange surge of courage, a borrowed strength. He looked up, his own fear battling against a budding defiance.

Mrs. Harris, surprisingly, was the first to move. She slowly lowered her trowel. Her lips pressed into a thin line, not of disapproval, but something unreadable. Pastor Miller cleared his throat, a loud, awkward sound. The silence was deafening, heavy with unspoken questions, with decades of unspoken rules. Art braced himself for the whispers, the averted gazes, the shaming. He knew how Havenwood worked. He’d seen it before.

Then, a voice. Clear, firm, cutting through the thick quiet. “Well, aren’t you two just about finished with that lovely gazebo?” It was an older woman, Mrs. Dinkins, Mr. Dinkins’ mother, known for her sharp wit and even sharper tongue, but also for her surprisingly kind heart. She was a pillar of the community, respected and feared in equal measure. She walked towards them, her gaze direct, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “It looks beautiful. You’ve done wonderful work, boys.”

She reached them, not looking at their still-too-close proximity, but at the freshly painted wood. Then, her eyes met Carter’s, a long, steady look that held understanding, and something more. Approval. She glanced at Art, a softer, almost gentle expression. “Hard work, love. You must be tired.” She didn’t scold. She didn’t condemn. She simply *saw* them, in a way no one else in Havenwood ever had. And in her words, in her unwavering gaze, was an unexpected, powerful support.

Pastor Miller coughed again, but this time, it sounded less like judgment and more like confusion, perhaps even a hesitant acceptance. Mr. Dinkins, from his truck, offered a curt nod, a subtle gesture that spoke volumes in their tight-lipped town. The group of women at the bake sale tables began to stir, their whispers now turning into murmurs about the festival preparations, their gazes softening, or at least, moving on. The suffocating tension began to lift, slowly, like a heavy blanket being pulled away.

Carter finally released Art, his hand dropping to his side, but his stance remained protective, a silent barrier between Art and the world. Art felt a lightness, a dizzying relief he hadn't known he desperately craved. He still felt exposed, raw, but the fear had receded, replaced by a fragile, soaring hope. He looked at Carter, and for the first time, he saw not just the unwavering strength, but a vulnerability he hadn't noticed before, a quiet relief in his own eyes. A silent conversation passed between them, a shared understanding that transcended words.

The gazebo, gleaming white and fresh in the spring light, no longer felt like a cage. It felt like a foundation. A space for something new, something real, to finally begin. The town hadn't erupted in protest. It hadn't shunned them. Instead, in its own slow, quiet way, Havenwood had chosen to open its arms. And as the sun dipped lower, casting long, purple shadows across the square, Art felt Carter’s hand brush his, deliberately this time, a quiet promise in the gathering dusk.