mississippi delta 1890. hot as hell even at night. cotton fields go on forever, bugs buzzing loud, air thick like you can chew it. hackle—hes this strong black guy 25 years old, born right when slavery ended but it didnt really end you know? like they call it sharecropping now but its the same chains just invisible. owes more money every year for seeds and tools than he can pick cotton to pay back. folks call him hackle cuz he can fix anything with his hands—broken plows, wagons, even guns sometimes on the sly thats why they say gunsmith too. but hes got this fire in him, eyes that look right through you like he knows your secrets. scars on his back from whips when he was a kid, makes him walk tall anyway.
turnabout—thomas but nobody calls him that except papers. hes 21 white boy with wavy hair he slicks back, pale skin that burns easy in the sun, voice thats soft like singing even when hes mad. inherited this falling apart plantation from his drunk uncle who lost everything after the war. hates it all—the big house with peeling paint, the empty barns, the debt collectors knocking. walks the fields at dusk humming these dark songs about reapers and lost souls, watching the workers but his eyes always find hackle longer than they should.
first time they really talk its late summer evening. hackles out fixing a fence by the creek, shirts off cuz its boiling, sweat running down his back like rivers. muscles tight from work. thomas rides up on his horse, gray one thats old and slow, pretends hes checking the lines.
"that posts crooked hackle," thomas says, voice low not yelling but like testing.
hackle stands up slow wipes his face with his arm. "aint crooked sir. just bent like the rest of this damn place."
thomas gets off the horse steps closer. too close for a master and worker. hackle smells his fancy soap and whiskey. thomas eyes go over hackles chest the scars the way his pants hang low from sweat. hackle feels it burn like a match struck.
"you look at all your hands like that?" hackle asks bold, heart pounding cuz he knows he shouldnt talk back.
thomas smiles small dark. "only the ones that look back."
that nights the start. forbidden as hell. back then in 1890 south, jim crow laws everywhere—cant even sit together on a train, and touching? white man and black man? thats jail or worse. lynching. mobs with ropes and fire. but the want dont care about laws or mobs. it just burns.
they meet first in the old smokehouse midnight. doors barred. thomas brings a lantern low flame. hackle sneaks in quiet. they talk awkward at first—about the crop bad this year, fever that killed thomas mama when he was little, how hackle learned to fix guns from his pa before he got taken away. then quiet. thomas hand shakes a little reaches out touches hackles arm like its hot coal.
hackle dont pull away. grabs thomas wrist pulls him in. kiss is rough angry like they hate each other for wanting this. thomas presses hackle against the wood wall mouth hard tasting sweet from candy he eats. hackles hands in thomas shirt ripping buttons off. they taste salt sweat fear. hands everywhere thomas on hackles back tracing scars soft like hes sorry. hackle grips thomas hips pulls him close feels him hard against him.
clothes off fast. thomas coat vest shirt pale skin glowing yellow in the light. hackles pants boots kicked aside. they drop on old sacks dirt floor. thomas kneels first kisses hackles chest slow lower takes him in his mouth. hackle groans deep fingers in thomas hair pulling not gentle. "damn boy…" hackle says voice breaking. thomas looks up eyes full of want and guilt keeps going slow then faster till hackles shaking.
hackle flips him pins thomas down. kisses his neck bites hard leaves a mark thomas gotta hide tomorrow. hands explore hackles rough palms on thomas smooth skin thighs spreading him. they use spit cuz aint nothing else urgent no time for slow. hackle enters careful thomas gasps arches nails in hackles shoulders drawing blood. "more… please," thomas whispers like a beg. hackle thrusts deeper rhythm like the river nearby steady then hard. thomas moans into hackles neck legs wrapped tight around him. they move together frantic bodies slapping sweat mixing. thomas comes first spilling hot between them cry muffled in hackles shoulder. hackle follows buried deep pulsing like hes giving everything he got.
after they lay there tangled breathing hard. thomas fingers on hackles scars. "this cant keep going," he says quiet scared.
hackle laughs low bitter. "never could. but we here now aint we?"
they steal more nights. cant stop. in the barn loft during a thunderstorm rain pounding roof drowning everything. thomas sneaks hackle up there hay scratching their skin. they strip slow this time thomas kisses every scar on hackle like hes healing them. hackle lays thomas down in the hay mouth on him teasing slow till thomas begging "hackle… god please." hackle smiles dark takes his time then flips thomas over enters from behind slow deep while thunder crashes. thomas pushes back needy hands fisting hay. they go for hours switching thomas riding hackle eyes locked whispering stuff like "youre mine in the dark." come together shaking lightning flashing outside like the worlds ending.
another time by the river dawn mist rising hidden in tall reeds. thomas on his knees water lapping at their feet taking hackle deep while birds start singing. hackle behind him after thrusting while holding thomas mouth to keep quiet. feels like freedom for five minutes no eyes watching.
but dangers always there. whispers start in town. overseer sees thomas talking too long to hackle gives him a look. white lady at church asks why the young master looks tired all the time feverish maybe? thomas starts drinking more bottle hidden in his coat guilt eating him up at night. hackle gets quiet eyes haunted watches his back more.
hackle thinks about it all the time. how thomas looks at him like hes more than a worker more than black skin. how it feels wrong but right. scares him cuz he knows one slip and hes dead. but the pull is strong like the mississippi current. thomas in his head too—lays in his big empty bed thinking about hackles hands his voice rough saying his name. hates himself for wanting it but cant stop sneaking out.
one hot august night they meet in the cotton shed moon full. thomas shaky when he gets there. "theyre talking hackle. say i favor you too much. give you easy work. if they find out… rope for you tar for me."
hackle pulls him close kisses him hard. "then we run north. chicago maybe. or west. anywhere aint this hell."
thomas laughs sad tears in his eyes. "they hunt us down. you know that."
but they make love fierce like its goodbye. thomas pushes hackle down strips him slow kisses everywhere chest stomach thighs teasing till hackles begging for once. then thomas climbs on rides him slow eyes never leaving hackles whispering "i love you hackle love you like fever." hackle holds his hips thrusts up deep both chasing that high. thomas comes hard shaking nails scratching hackles chest. hackle flips him over finishes from behind buried deep groaning thomas name like a prayer.
after thomas cries quiet hackle holds him. "meet tomorrow. well figure something."
but tomorrow dont come easy. word spreads fast. posse shows up at the quarters midnight torches lit dogs barking. hackle hears them coming grabs his knife and runs through the cotton fields, he finds nothing until at night he hears a commotion, where he discovers KKK members dancing around a flaming cross wearing the skin mask of Hackle some other members are dancing around in skin masks also, turnabout pukes into a bush and runs away, months later he eventually drinks himself to death.