Archive of Our Own

Rural Georgia is no place for William— at the ripe age of 18, too cocky for his own good, angry and spitting at the world, forced to move to bumfuck nowhere— a small town called Seville, with a population of 200 people, max.

We’re getting a fresh start, is what his family told anybody who asked, Getting a fresh start, he tells himself, and it’s a joke, because what they’re really doing is running. Running from their financial straits, running from their failing marriage, running from the fact their child snapped at anything that came near, running from the judgmental faces that fell on them when somebody asked him where did those bruises come from? and when he gave them the straight answer, running from the schools that would no longer take him, the hospitals that knew him by name. 

Truth was, they couldn’t handle their failing reputation amongst the only community they had ever known— his father lost his cushy law enforcement job, and his mother’s parents cut her off from the family’s fund. They couldn’t stand the judgmental stares and whispered rumors when the truth started to slip out, so they ran. William has no choice but to run with them, despite the fact it’s clear they blame him for their downfall, and they pack what little they have left and cross the sea towards America.

The second they arrive in Seville, William loads all of his necessary belongings into his car and lives out of it like that, preferring to sleep in the driveway or parked at the curb. On nights where his father drinks too heavily, he drives 15 minutes and pulls into an empty field by the train tracks, sleeping in the backseat with the windows rolled down, listening to the sound of wind rustling and cricket’s songs in the uncut grass.

His car is ancient, a half-beaten up thing that had previously belonged to his father, painted a deep purple. The paint is beginning to chip at the edges, scraped off the bent metal from one too many drunk escapades and accidents his father had used it for. It’s way over the normal amount of miles for its age, and it’s honestly a miracle that the thing makes it all the way from England. 

One night he’s driving— closing in on the second week he’s been here in Seville— passing by seemingly endless fields at 90 miles an hour, barely able to see the road through the angry tears blurring his vision, windows down and music blaring and a voice in the back of his mind howling along, let me in, let me in. But his car is ancient and beaten to hell, and halfway through his race it decides to break down. He hears something like snapping, a loud metallic clang that echoes even louder than his blaring radio, and despite the fact he doesn’t move his foot from where it’s slammed against the pedal, his car begins to slow down on its own. It’s only when he hears the dying sputter of his engine and smoke begins to pour out from under the hood does he give up and pull over.

“Piece of shit,” William says, equally parts annoyed and fond as he lights a cigarette and kicks at the tires, perhaps not as concerned about the damage as he should be. He could call a tow truck and pay them to come out to take it, and then pay a mechanic to look at it and tell him what he already knows ( shit’s fucked ), and then pay for new parts and pay the mechanic to fix it. Except he can’t actually do that, not anymore— his parents still control his money, and if his father hasn’t spent it all on alcohol by now, he still doesn’t have hundreds of dollars to throw at his piece of shit car.

But Seville has this handyman, who’s approximately a several hundred years old and shows up at the edge of town once William’s been stranded out there for almost an hour, trying to decide what the fuck to do.

And the handyman says he’ll fix William’s car for free as long as William helps him out with it. ( “I’m getting on in years,” He says, and William blurts “Uh, yeah.” before he can stop himself, but the handyman just cracks a grin. )

William knows exactly what kind of place this is: everybody knows each other, everybody’s up in each other’s business, it’s full of gossiping ladies and bible thumping old folks and there’s probably a church potluck every month and one general store in a twenty-mile radius, and it’s basically everything William hates and everything William was hoping to get away from wrapped up in this cutesy little podunk town, but he isn’t really in a position to turn him down. It’s either that, or he goes home and asks his parents for help, which may as well be a death sentence.

William rides along in the handyman’s truck when he mentions Henry. “I’ve got another boy, about your age,” he says, “He’s staying with me as an apprentice, so don’t be startled when we get back.”

“Okay,” William responds, not sure what else to say.

“He’s a weird kid, but sharp as a whistle. Could probably teach you plenty about that ol’ car of yours for next time. Just don’t let him spook ya’ too much.”

Spook me? He doubts it, visibly grimacing at the idea of spending more than an hour with anybody in this town. He’s barely putting up with Old Man Smith ( “You want me to call you Old Man Smith?” William asks, incredulous, and apparently the answer is Yes, ) as it is, but he tries to act least act a little bit thankful.

When he does meet Henry, he’s not particularly excited or even caught off guard, really. He watches the young man wheel himself out from under another car, fingertips stained with oil and rust. He’s on the heavier side, dorky looking with fluffy orange hair and a surprisingly full amount of facial hair for another 18 year old, and wears these large gold-framed aviator-style glasses on his face. He immediately offers a stained hand and a large smile that reveals a gap between his two front teeth to William with a stereotypical “Howdy!” William briskly accepts the shake, just offering a curt nod of acknowledgement before wiping his hands on his pants.

He kind of expects the guy to walk away, but instead he shoves his hands into his pockets and hovers there awkwardly. “So, uh— I’m Henry! Uhm, I’m sure Mr. Smith told you that already, but…”

“He did.” William says shortly, before realizing Henry probably expects an introduction too, and manages to huff out a “I’m William.”

Henry blinks and finally looks up at him, visibly surprised at his accent. “Oh!” and then, “Not from around here, are you?”

“I’m from London,” William sighs, trying to shuffle away and out of the conversation. Henry, who’s still staring at him, wide-eyed, makes no inclination that he notices.

“Well, uh, w-welcome to Georgia, William—” Henry tries, and William just waves him off and dips out of the garage with the excuse that he’s tired before the conversation can continue, and immediately goes to crash on the couch.

The next morning, he eats breakfast with Old Man Smith and Henry at the nearby diner. He tries to shuffle off to his own table, but Old Man Smith claps his shoulder and pulls him back over, stating “You’re part of this town now, boy, you’re gonna need to make yourself some friends.”

And so, fine, he sits with them. At first he doesn’t bother to listen or contribute to their conversation, just slowly chewing through some surprisingly well-made french toast, but his interest changes when he notices Henry pull out a small book from inside his jacket and begin reading it, half-holding it under the table.

A book? He scoffs at first, assuming the other boy was probably looking through a bible for— he doesn’t know what, actually, do these people pray at breakfast? But he pauses, eyes landing on the cover of the book and the winged figure there— the portrait of a man, languid and gripping his own hair, two black, bat-like wings spread from his back, so, no, that’s no bible. He has to admit that he’s intrigued.

“What are you reading?” He asks, pointing his fork at the book, as if it’s not obvious what he’s referring to.

Henry’s eyes don’t move from the pages, but a smile forms around his lips. “Paradise Lost.” He says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

William glances at Old Man Smith for any sort of help, who offers nothing but a shit-eating grin at William before standing up. “Be right back, boys. Gotta run to the bathroom.”

Oh, come on now, he thinks. William grimaces at the prospect of being left alone with this kid, but— “What’s it about?” He asks, hoping for any kind of clarification.

“It’s an epic poem, about 12 verses long,” Henry explains, gently closing the book but saving the page with the flat of his thumb. He finally looks at William. “You’ve never heard of it before?”

“Oh. Um, no, I— Maybe? The name sounds familiar,” William says, trying to bite back the slight bit of annoyance he feels at Henry’s words, like he’s being judged, “So, what, it’s like… Shakespeare?”

“Shakespeare was more of a playwright than he was a poet.”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does,” Henry says, although he doesn’t sound annoyed by the prospect, just eager to explain. “An epic poem isn’t poetry how you’d think of it, it’s…” He pauses, scratching gently at the hair above his lips for a moment as he thinks, “It still comes in verses, like a poem, but it always tells some kind of epic, fantastical heroic tale, usually. Always a book’s length, too, sometimes more.”

“Okay,” William says, “So, what’s the one you’re reading about?”

Henry smiles sheepishly and flips the book back open, reading aloud from the page he had left off on. “Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay to mould me Man? Did I solicit thee from darkness to promote me?” 

“Um—”

“It’s a quote from Adam towards God after his exile from the Garden of Eden,” Henry explains finally, “It’s— It’s a biblical retelling of the fall of man. Adam is cursing God for punishing him when he never asked to be created in the first place.”

William has to admit he’s intrigued. “I swear I recognize that quote, but…” His words trail off, afraid of the question sounding stupid, but Henry’s eyes light up.

“Have you read Frankenstein? It’s the epigram in that book, you might remember it from there. The monster itself reads Paradise Lost and quotes parts of it to Victor, spurning him in the same way Adam does to God.”

“Yeah, I had to read it in Secondary Education, hated it. Can’t remember what the fuck happened, just remember it’s nothing like the movie.”

“Secondary what?”

“Uh, you guys call it High School, I think?”

“Oh,” Henry blinks, and then chuckles. “Not the type to read unless forced?”

William can’t help the way his lips curl up into a nervous smile despite himself. “I never found anything I liked, and whatever reading they assigned us felt like a chore.”

“I bet that can be changed,” Henry says, “You just haven’t found the right book yet.”

“You a literary nerd, then?” William asks, a bit dubious. He looks up and sees Old Man Smith finally, finally arrive at the bathroom doors and thinks, Jesus Christ.

“To say the least. The library here in town hates me, I don’t think I’ve returned a single one of their books,” Henry admits, finally closing the book proper and regarding William fully.

“Oh yeah? What else do you read?” William asks, having pretty much forgotten about the food on his plate at this point, resting his head on his open palm as he listens to the other boy speak.

Henry glances around the room, eyes darting between other guests of the diner, as if he’s worried about being heard. William catches himself watching the other boy’s hands as they wring together, thick fingers knotted together as if in prayer but shifting too much in some unconscious, nervous movement. 

“Well, gothic literature, mostly, but, um—” He pauses, then lowers his voice slowly, “But I do have a particular interest in the o-occult. Um, witchcraft bibles, bestiaries, tales of spirituality, the sorts.”

Something sparks inside of William. “Even in a town like this, he asks?”

That cracks a grin out of Henry. “What do you know about this town, City Boy?”

“Not much, I suppose, I’m just surprised they haven’t sent you to the pyre yet.”

Henry laughs, the sound a little bit louder than either of them expected. He immediately ducks his head a little bit, as if ashamed to bring the attention to himself. “Ah, well, I don’t go around telling just anybody ‘bout what I read.”

“Why tell me, then?”

“You don’t seem like the type who’d be, uh, spooked by that kind of stuff,” Henry tells him, smiling, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. He thinks for a moment, and then places the book down on the table and slides it over to him. For a moment, William’s confused, but Henry’s green eyes finally look up and meet his, shining and proud and expectant, “In fact, maybe you’d be interested in it?”

William catches himself off guard when the other man makes eye contact with him. For some reason, his stomach twists into something he can’t quite place, and he forces himself to ignore it and looks down at the book. He can see the bat-winged figure on the cover better now, clad in armor and with their gaze turned upwards, full of despair. Something tells him he knows who the figure is already. “You’re giving this to me?”

“If you’d like it,” Henry hums. “I… I’ve already read it a couple times, I don’t need it anymore.”

“I couldn’t make it through Frankenstein, but you’re recommending me an… epic poem?”

“Can’t hurt to try!”

“And when your townsfolk see me reading it, they’ll put me on the pyre?”

The startled look that comes across Henry’s look is almost endearing, in a way. “O-Oh— no! I didn’t mean— I don’t wanna get ‘ya in trouble or anything,” He stutters, “I’ll take it back, I just— I dunno, I just wanted t-to, uh, I don’t know— I-I think knowledge is much more fun to have when you have somebody to share it with, is all.” 

William doesn’t realize he’s staring. 

“Maybe it’s a bit stupid,” Henry says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Not many folk ‘round here are willing to give it a shot. If anybody here would be into this kinda thing, I thought it might be you—”

“It’s not stupid,” William blurts, surprising himself and pulling the book to his chest. Henry looks equally surprised, blinking up at him from across the table. The words begin to fall out of his mouth before he even realizes what he’s saying. “That’s actually— um— that’s actually really nice. I mean— it’s a nice sentiment. I was just— I was just messing with you, I do want to read it.”

Henry cracks a nervous smile. “Oh— You… You do?”

William chews slightly on his bottom lip. “Yeah. Can’t hurt to give it a shot, right?”

Both boys jump when Old Man Smith suddenly plops back down into his seat, grinning like he knows something they don’t. “Ah, I see you two have finally managed to strike up some conversation,” he teases. “What’cha talkin’ about?”

“I was telling him about Paradise Lost— or, uh, I was recommending it to him,” Henry explains, smiling sheepishly.

“Ah! Speaking of those darn books of yours, got anything new and exciting yet?” The old man asks, grinning toothlessly.

“Yes, actually!” Henry admits, tone excited but hushed, “I managed to find a copy of Sophia de Morgan’s From Matter to Spirit in an antique bookshop, like 30 minutes out of town— owner had no idea how valuable it actually was!”

“Is that one of them ghost stories?” 

“More like a guide on how to communicate with them,” Henry says, “One of the first, too! It’s actually one of the texts that started the whole British spiritualist movement in the 1800’s.”

“Now, don’t tell me you plan on talkin’ to ghosts, boy. You haven’t actually seen any yet!” Old Man Smith teases.

“I have,” William says, the words once again leaving his mouth before he thinks about them.

Henry looks up at him, curious. “You have?” He echoes.

“Ah, I— At least, I think I have,” He feels his face grow hot with embarrassment as soon as he says it, “I used to think the house I grew up in was haunted.”

“Oh, yeah?” Henry visibly perks up. “Why’s that?”

“Well, I— I used to… see things, as a kid,” He admits, wringing his hands together underneath the table, and, God, his parents would murder him if they found out he admitted this to somebody, “Figures walking around at night, or standing down the hallway, all the typical ghost shit, I don’t know.”

“You sure it wasn’t just your imagination there, boy?” Old Man Smith chimes in.

“Oh, It probably was,” William forces himself to laugh so he doesn’t wince, “There was this one, though, that seemed so real. I saw it multiple times—”

“What did it look like?” Henry asks, wide-eyed and fascinated.

Like me, He thinks. It looks like me.

“It’s— It was a shadow. But darker? I could see it even in the pitch darkness of my room. Honestly, it probably was just my imagination, y’know, your brain making you see shapes in the dark, but—”

“A lot of ghosts are described as blacker than black, sounds right to me,” Henry says as he examines William, “What did it do?”

What didn’t it do? William thinks. “I don’t know, uh, ghost stuff? Hid in the closet, stood behind me in mirrors, all the stupid typical shit. Once again, it was probably just my imagination, but—”

William can almost see the gears turning in Henry’s head before he speaks, a smile forming over his face. “I believe you, Will.”

Something about the way Henry says it catches him off guard, the feeling something close to a static shock, a small electric jolt— he feels his face grow a bit hot because of it. “Oh,” he says, and then, “You do?”

Henry nods, like it’s the easiest fucking thing in the world. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know, I—” William whispers, “Thank you.”

Later that day, Henry helps teach him how to fix his car. The two are stuck in the hot garage for hours, because Henry insists he learns how to do it himself even if William hasn’t the slightest clue about anything remotely related to his car— he’s never worked on one before, barely knows half of the terms coming out of Henry’s mouth and barely knows what half of the tools in the garage even do. Old Man Smith peeks out the door into the garage, checking in on them, seemingly deciding they’re doing fine on their own and closing it again.

“I’m going to be a business major,” William tries, desperately, standing there holding a wrench with no idea what to do with it as Henry pops the hood of his car. “Why do I need to know any of this?”

“In case your car breaks down again in the future, which I’m sure it will—” Henry responds simply, sounding amused, “—You can fix it yourself.”

“The whole point of a handyman is to have them fix it for you, is it not?” He mutters, peering down into the mechanics of his car. “I thought I’d— I don’t know, that I’d just pass the tools to you or something.”

Henry laughs and claps a hand on his shoulder, but catches himself and quickly pulls away. It grabs William’s interest immediately— he hadn’t moved away or made any inclination suggesting that he minded it, but Henry had pulled back on his own.

“I’ll walk you through it,” He offers, instead, placing his hands half into his pockets, smiling nervously. “It’s really not that hard.”

William can handle that, at the very least.

It takes him a good amount of time to figure it out, but he likes to think he gets the hang of it eventually. He learns plenty of new terms to describe the kind of fucked up his car is, terms like rich fuel condition or fuel injectors or the air flow sensor or the fuel pressure regular— all parts that could have possibly broken to make the stupid thing stop working. He learns that the whole deal with the black smoke coming from underneath the hood could be caused by the piston rings or valve guide seals, if they had snapped.

It’s like learning a new language, but Henry’s able to diagnose the problem pretty quickly, and they begin working on how to fix it. Henry walks him through each step of the process, offering expert guidance, slipping the proper tools required for the job into his hands, explaining everything in extreme detail and then explaining it again in layman’s terms when William doesn’t get it the first time. Several times he has to lean over and reach into the car, grasping onto William’s wrists and guiding his hand, the both of them getting spots of grease and oil along their fingertips and arms as they work, bouncing off each-other in tandem.

The work gets done surprisingly fast, and William feels a swell of pride in his chest when he turns the car on and no more smoke blows out. Henry joins him in the car as they pull out of the garage, making sure everything is in proper working order as William drives a quick loop around the dirt and stone of Old Man Smith’s driveway. He pulls back into the garage, turns the car off and steps back out, beaming.

“Bloody Hell, Henry, you’ve done it!” He grins. “I really didn’t think she’d survive this one!”

Henry steps out of the other side of the car, walking around the hood and meeting him in the middle. “I didn’t do anything. That was all you.”

William feels it again, that slight twisting and fluttering in his stomach. It makes him giddy, almost, riding the high of both the achievement and Henry’s praise. “No, you definitely—”

“Nope!” Henry insists, boyish dimples forming at the corner of his mouth as he smiles, “It was all you.”

He assumes Henry’s not going to let go of his one, so he lets him win. Their chuckles slowly fade into silence, and William remembers what his car being fixed means: I need to go home now.

Henry must have read his thoughts. “Well, you should probably get packed up and head on home, your folks are probably worried sick!” He starts, trying to break the awkward silence that fell over them.

William can’t help but to snort. “They’re probably glad I’m gone.”

A bit of concern flashes over the other boy’s face, like he’s already picked apart what William’s said, already realized what it meant. The look on his face mirrors William’s own, so—

“What about you? Surely you don’t live with Old Man Smith.”

“Old Man Smith?” Henry echoes.

William abruptly feels equal parts horrified and annoyed. “People don’t fucking call him Old Man Smith, do they.”

Henry tries not to laugh. Fails. Ducks his head a little. “He likes to mess with out-of-towners.”

William curses under his breath, but Henry continues talking, sounding amused. “No, No, I don’t live with him. I live nearby, it’s just— the house gets too loud sometimes, is all. Uh, four siblings, all younger than me, so it’s kind of impossible to focus with them running around. I come down here to escape.”

“Four little siblings?” William echoes, humming slightly. “I think I’d lose my damn head.”

“Ah, it’s not so bad. I love them, I do, but they do get tiring really fast.”

“I’m so glad I don’t have siblings,” William admits, sighing, leaning back against the hood of the car— not quite ready to leave yet. “I am not a kid person, I’d lose my temper so quickly.”

Oh, but don’t you? The voice in his head says, aren’t I your brother? William ignores it.

“Nah, man,” Henry counters, sounding fond. “I was a single child for too long, I wouldn’t want to go back now. It’s lonely.”

“Is it?” He asks.

“I think so,” the other man shrugs, “At least it was for me.”

William can’t entirely blame him. He can only imagine what trying to make friends in this town is like, especially for somebody like Henry. Don’t let him spook you, Old Man Smith had said. He was familiar with it himself, used to being the odd-one-out for circumstances beyond his control.

Silence falls over them again. William looks over at the other boy, who’s now looking ahead at nothing in particular, a sad, kind of soft look in his eyes.

You’re still lonely, aren’t you? William thinks. Like me?

“Hey,” He starts, voice growing quiet, “Would you mind if I stop by and visit in the future?”

Henry blinks, and looks up at him. “Huh? Why?”

He’s honestly not sure why, but he knows he wants to. “I… I don’t know, we could just hang out, um, you could tell me more about all those gothic literature books or whatever else you’ve got— if you’d like to, that is.” He offers. “Call it a fuckin’ book club.”

Henry’s eyes seem to light up again, all at once, twinkling like the stars in the sky overhead. “Really?”

“Really,” he confirms, another smile forcing itself onto his face despite himself. His cheeks start to hurt, not used to smiling this much within a day. “I think it’s pretty sick. I like, uh, spooky stuff.”

He thinks he sees Henry’s cheeks darken in color, but it’s not easy to tell in the yellowing light of the garage. “I… yeah! I’d like that, um, I’ll bring my favorites to the shop to show you!”

“Then it’s decided!” William pauses. “Uh, when will you be here next?”

“Well, there’s mass tomorrow, but I’ll probably be heading right back here after!”

“Oh,” William says numbly, and then, “That’s a church thing, isn’t it?”

“It is a church thing,” Henry clarifies, sounding amused. “Not a religious man?”

“Not at all. Parents were too busy to ever go— we were above it, or whatever. That’s what they say, at least.”

“Well, that’s where I’ll be,” Henry shrugs. “Only takes ‘bout an hour, we usually start around 8. You should be fine just to stop by the shop at, I dunno, 12 or so? I’ll have everything ready and gathered by then.”

“Oh. Okay!” William says, stunted. “See you then?”

“See you then, city boy,” he grins, finally pulling away from the hood of William’s car and out of the way. He gives the hood a small slap for good measure and heads for the door leading inside.

William watches him leave, not quite able to pry his eyes away and not sure why.

William drives home in silence, oil-slick hands gripping onto the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. All of the joy from earlier in the night is gone.

He says a silent prayer to no one in particular, hoping that his parents are already asleep by the time he returns home. He pulls up into the dirt driveway, a home far off the beaten path, and closes the door as quietly as he can before he heads inside.

The first thing he sees as he enters is his father, passed out in his reclining chair, head tilted lazily to the side, a bit of drool and snot dripping down over his face. There’s several beer bottles laying about, strewn every-which-way, all empty. William sighs, carefully stepping over them, precise and quiet as to not accidentally kick one. He makes it to the stairs before a voice huffs out his name.

“William.”

He sighs. “Mother.”

His mother’s face appears from the kitchen, looking more tired than usual. He almost feels bad for her, for a minute, the images of what his father must have done when he wasn’t around starting to flash through his mind all at once, but—

“You look an absolute mess,” she huffs, “What in the world were you doing? It looks like you were rolling around in the mud!”

“Something like that,” he mumbles.

“We’re starting over here, you know.” She approaches him almost cautiously, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair. He wants so badly to lean into her touch, but he won’t allow himself it. “Why not put some more effort into your appearance for a change? Perhaps I can cut your hair? It’s getting awfully long.”

“I like it like this.” William whispers, unconsciously curling his fists. 

“We’ll cut it,” His mother decides, and then, “I had hoped that starting over in a new town would have at least made you act more respectable. Remember what we talked about?”

“No more cigarettes, no more fights, no more boys, no more me— ”

Her brow furrows. “William.”

“I don’t know what you want from me, mama. I can’t just—”

“What I want,” His mother interjects, “Is for you to at least act civilized. To at least try. ” She pauses, and then, “I suppose I can’t blame you.”

“Because it’s in my nature, right?” He finishes for her, voice flat.

Her expression softens slightly, a sad kind of look. “It’s not your fault,” she whispers, tucking a piece of his hair behind his ear. “But try. We have a clean slate here. We can start over.”

He bites his own tongue to hold it, instead batting her hands away from his head, curling his fists at his sides. The anger swells through his chest like a burning fire, his own fingernails beginning to leave indents in his palm. He briefly imagines, not for the first time, picking up one of the empty beer bottles on the floor and shattering it over her head. He imagines her crumbling to the ground, blood pooling around from her hair, imagines—

“The local church has mass tomorrow,” She continues, quieter now than before, but still tinged with that oh-so-familiar mother finality, “You’re going with us, please straighten up for tomorrow.”

He imagines nothing.

“Fine,” He huffs, and hurries upstairs to his room. And, look, William’s not a religious guy, and he knows he doesn’t fit into this town as it is— can’t imagine how he’ll look sitting in a pew with in his ripped jeans and leather jacket and messy, uncut hair, surrounded by people in modest churchwear— probably bleeding from the nose again, as he does every time they try to enter a church— but he doesn’t want his parents to flip out, nor does he want the town to go all children of the corn on him, and he figures Henry will be there.

Henry will be there. It won’t be so bad.

Henry usually works as an eucharistic minister on Wednesday nights or fills in if one of the altar boys gets sick, at his parent’s insistence, so he doesn’t see William until he’s holding the ciborium bowl and administering the little wafers to members of the congregation lining up single-file in the aisle between pew rows.

His eyes flick from the ciborium up to Mrs. Madison, and then it’s entirely by chance that he glances past her shoulder over to where the next row is getting to their feet and filing out into the line. He sees the Jude family with their new baby, and Ms. Ruth with her new boyfriend, and then a familiar face— the same age as him, the same bright blue eyes with the bags under them and the same shaggy brown hair he’d seen as before— William, but he’s wearing a full suit— and something in Henry jolts. He watches as two older folks he doesn’t recognize, presumably his parents, shoo him out of his seat and into line.

Oh, no, he thinks. Why is he here? and then, Why is he dressed like that? 

He fumbles the eucharist and it manages to land in Mrs. Madison’s waiting palm, and he gives her a distracted, apologetic smile before he takes in a slow breath and pushes down all the thoughts threatening to flood him. Yesterday it was different— yesterday he wasn’t worried about the prettiest damn boy he’s ever seen and his british accent and his curly hair and his eyes, God, those beautiful eyes— the lightest shade of blue he thinks he’s seen, except for a single brown sliver in the right eye. Yesterday, he wasn’t worried about how interested William was in his hobbies, wasn’t worried about the way he had leaned over and taken William’s hands while fixing his car, but now he is, because there’s people around, and people tend to figure things out very quickly. 

Because here’s the thing— Henry grew up in this town, in this church, and since he was five he’s been warned by the priests and his parents and the gossiping wives about what happens to boys who like boys.

Henry keeps his mouth shut tight and pushes down every thought he’s ever had about another man, and now here in church on a Wednesday morning he smiles at the next member of the congregation waiting for communion and doesn’t do what he wants to do, which is blush, which is bolt, which is hide in the back room until William in his perfect looking suit leaves, He said he wasn’t religious, why is he here?!

When he was in Mr. Smith’s garage, he wasn’t as afraid— they were hidden, locked away from the world and its prying eyes. But here, standing at the center of attention in the church, watching his new friend dressed to the nines approaching him, he suddenly becomes very, very nervous. That oh-so familiar feeling of shame begins to creep in— one he was able to push down when they were hanging out at the diner or at Mr. Smith’s shop— but not here. Not like this.

But William finally gets to the front of the line, standing by his lonesome and severely overdressed for the occasion, craning his neck to see what the Jude family is doing in front of him.

He approaches Henry, and his hands aren’t in the right position to receive communion, which means he has no idea what he’s doing, which means he probably shouldn’t be receiving communion at all.

William looks down at his hands and then up at Henry and then smiles sheepishly ( and wow, Henry’s thinking, wow, and then, stop it ) and whispers, “Henry, I’m gonna be honest, I don’t even know what I’m doing right now, why are you guys handing out crackers?”

And it’s so blunt it startles a laugh out of Henry, and he’s pretty sure his face is red. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, but it’s not, “Just cross your arms over your chest next time so the minister knows you’re not receiving communion.”

William does it with a questioning look, but it’s wrong, so Henry shakes his head and reaches out with the hand not supporting the ciborium to move his arms into the right position.

Someone in line coughs impatiently.

William grins, says, “Thanks!” a little too loudly, and it’s not until he’s walked away that Henry realizes his heart is going triple time in his chest. He watches as William returns to his seat, offering a mocking scowl to his parents, his mother leaning in and not-so-subtlety beginning to berate him.

Henry plans to avoid William entirely while he’s here at church. He’ll gladly hang out again at the garage, but not here, God, not here. He’s not sure if he’ll show up for mass again on Sunday, but a pit of dread forms at the idea of people watching them interact. They’ll know, he thinks, They’ll know. They have to know. Henry’s content pretending he’s busy with the church’s services, content with making a wide berth around William for now, but of course that’s not what happens.

William Antoinette ( Henry learns his full name from the gossiping wives that always hover right outside the church ) approaches him outside after mass, the same sheepish expression on his face, and says, “Hey, there you are! Um, I didn’t realize you were, like, part of the church.”

Henry swallows hard. “Ah, It’s— It’s just a side gig.” He’s not sure what else to say, not sure if he wants to say anything else, but, “While I work with Mr. Smith, that is. The priest pays me a bit to help out.”

“Ah, I see.” William cocks his head slightly. “You don’t really come off as the overly-religious type of bloke to me.”

Shut up, Henry wants to say, Don’t say that, not here, but—

“I didn’t take you as the type to dress up for church, but I guess we’ve both been surprised.” He fires back.

“I’m not,” William huffs, seemingly becoming aware of the clothes he was in right there, visibly shrinking slightly and crossing his arms over his chest, like he was trying to hide it. “My family insisted that we make a good first impression, but if you ask me, we look like idiots.”

You look nice, Henry thinks, before he immediately shoves the thought back down into the deepest reaches of his brain.

“William,” a voice comes from behind them, approaching quickly. Henry’s racing thoughts come to an immediate stop as he looks up. A man approaches William and places a hand on his shoulder— his father, presumably, judging by the similar accent and rather uncanny resemblance. Henry can’t help but to notice the way William visibly tenses up under his grip, expression tightening, eyes glazing over. “Let’s go.”

The smooth voice Henry got used to hearing from him cracks under his father’s presence. “I’m… I—” He tries, nearly choking on his words, “I was going to stay with Henry for a while, actually.”

“Henry?” The man echoes, his gaze now falling on Henry, sending the hair on the back of his neck standing up. The smell of cheap alcohol reaches Henry’s nose, practically radiating off the man in waves, and he avoids meeting his eyes. “You’ve made yourself a friend?”

“Yeah.” William mutters.

“Is this who you’ve been running off to?” His father asks. It comes out sounding like a hiss.

Henry’s mouth falls open to say something, but he can’t find the words.

“No, not— not the entire time,” William manages to squeak out, trying to squirm out of his grip, “Just yesterday.”

The man looks back at Henry, judgmental, his grip not once leaving William’s shoulder, instead tightening as William tries to shift away. “Hm.”

Henry swallows hard, but manages to find his words. “We won’t be too long, sir. We won’t be getting up to any trouble, either.”

“Fine,” He huffs, finally releasing his son, who immediately takes a few steps away. “Me and your mother are taking the car home. Find your own way back.”

“Don’t wait up for me,” William mutters, sarcastic, and his father shoots him such a sharp glare that Henry himself flinches before turning and half-stumbling away. The two stand there in complete silence, just waiting until he’s out of earshot. William curses under his breath, running his fingers through his hair in what Henry can only assume is some kind of self-soothing movement, but he just displaces it every-which-way.

“I have a truck,” Henry offers quietly, and William’s unfocused gaze finally seems to fall back into reality, and meets his eyes. “I can drive you.”

“Oh,” William breathes, straightening out. “You do?”

Henry offers him a small smile. “Yeah! Um, we might have to stop by my house to pick up all my stuff, but I can take you to the shop and drive you home after!”

“Oh,” William says again, “Thank you,” and then, “Yeah, let’s do that.”

Henry motions for him to follow, trying to ignore the way he feels the other churchgoer’s eyes following the both of them, and leads William to his truck. He’s vaguely aware of the other man as he begins to feverishly search through his pockets, muttering angrily.

“You okay?” He asks as they reach his car. It’s only then he notices that William now has a cigarette clenched between his teeth— Henry has no idea where he got it from, never actually saw him pull it out, but just assumes he must have had it on him. Oh… he smokes.

“I can’t find my fucking lighter,” He hisses, turning the pockets of his fancy suit inside-out as he searches them. “I must have left it at home.”

After a few more moments of hopelessly digging through his pockets, he looks up at Henry expectantly. It takes Henry a good ten seconds to realize why.

“O-Oh. Um. I’m sorry, I don’t have one.”

“Goddammit,” William mutters, and then winces, says, “Oh, shit, sorry, didn’t mean to— what is it, take the Lord’s name in vain—”

“It’s okay,” Henry says, and it’s not, it’s not. “C’mon. I’ll give you a lift back to the garage after we pick up my stuff. Mr. Smith probably has one.”

William seems to take that answer and begins to relax, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and shoving it back into his pants pocket, walking around to the other side of Henry’s truck, opening the door and climbing inside. Henry follows suit, trying to pretend he doesn’t notice the way William’s hands have yet to stop shaking.

They drive in relative silence, Henry eventually giving in and reaching for the radio to ease the tension. Some twangy country song begins to play, and he can’t help but to snort  at the way William’s face visibly scrunches up in disgust upon hearing it. “Not a fan of country music?”

“I despise it.” William admits, leaning back against the seat.

“You’re gonna have to get used to it,” Henry tells him, amused, “It’s the only thing they play around here. That, or hymns on the other radio stations.”

“I’d rather gouge my own ears out,” William huffs out a bit of a laugh, “I bought all my cassettes down with me when we moved, I’m content listening to those for the rest of my lifetime.”

“Oh, yeah? What do you listen to?” Henry asks, genuinely curious.

“Stuff you’d probably consider satanic, church boy.” William counters, a grin pulling up over his lips. Henry thinks this is the first time he’s seen William fully smile since they first met, and notices for the first time that there’s a chip in one of his teeth, and the canine tooth right next to it is slightly out of position, crooked, like it didn’t grow in right— or was forced out of position. 

It looks like a fang, Henry thinks, trying not to think about how fond his inner voice sounds about it, so— “I don’t know. I think I could surprise you, city boy.”

William’s crooked grin grows even larger, the smile pushing slightly at the corner of his eyes. “Really now?”

Henry grins back at him. “Did I not surprise you with my other interests yesterday?”

“That’s fair,” He hums, and then, “I’ll have to show you them sometime, then,” William decides, leaning back and throwing his feet up over the dashboard.

They take a pit stop at Henry’s house. Henry isn’t entirely sure he wants William to come inside his home, despite how stupid it sounds— but by the time they pull into the driveway and park, William’s already hopped out of the truck and begun walking up towards the door.

It feels too personal to have this boy he just met the other night enter his home. This almost-stranger was going to enter his house, most likely meet his little siblings and his parents, ( they had left church early so his mother could rest ) and this near-stranger was going to walk around the house, and see his room and his life’s work there, the collection he won’t even let his own family see, strewn around the floor, and—

“This is your place?” William asks, sounding pleasantly surprised. “It’s big.”

Henry’s racing thoughts return to a normal speed as he catches up with the other man at the door. “What were you expecting?” 

“I dunno, I just assumed you, like, lived in a shitty little barn like everyone else here,” he shrugs.

“Shitty little barn?” Henry echoes, taking his keys from his jacket pocket and unlocking his door. As it cracks open, the immediate sound of laughter hits the air, and a group of four small children all pile outside and straight into Henry. Henry lets out a comical oof! as they crash into him, all giggling wildly, reaching to pull him into an embrace.

William looks startled, and Henry can’t help but to laugh at the expression as he leans down to scoop his little siblings into a large hug, squishing them all together. “Hey! You guys could’a knocked me off my feet!”

The kids giggle and squirm in his grasp, and he eventually lets them go. “We missed you!” They declare, voices all overlapping as they all try to talk at once but never quite manage to sync up.

Henry reaches out and messes the hair of his eldest, chuckling. “You all saw me at church an hour ago, and you know I was only at Mr. Smith’s!”

“Yeah, but we didn’t really get to say hi!” The eldest of his siblings, Joshua, says as he tries to brush his hair back into place with his hands. 

“Who’s this?” Danielle— only two years younger than Joshua— asks, curiosity in her voice as she motions to William, who freezes in place as she points him out. 

His two youngest siblings, Thomas and Mary, both shuffle back a few steps when they realize there’s somebody else here— shy, but curious, still peeking their heads out from behind their older siblings.

William’s eyes flick between all four children and at Henry and back again, and he sighs, resigned, and bends down at the knees so he’s not towering over the children. “Hello there,” he says, trying to lower his voice slightly, “I’m Will. Who are all of you?” 

Henry blinks, finding himself a little surprised at just how gentle William’s voice becomes.

“I’m Joshua.” Joshua says.

“You talk funny.” Danielle says.

Henry’s horrified, reaching down for her. “Danielle!”

William audibly snorts as Henry scoops her up. “Sorry, we, uh— we don’t get outsiders often, especially not from London.”

“You guys talk funny, too,” He grins, before he turns his attention back to the two youngsters. “And what about you?”

“I-I’m Thomas!” His little brother declares, thrusting an arm forward in William’s direction. William looks confused, for a moment, but he eventually reaches over to the child’s hand and shakes it. 

“An absolute pleasure to meet you, Thomas,” William says, playfully exaggerating his accent to sound even more posh, and then turns to the boy’s twin sister. “And you, Madame?”

“Mary!” She announces, also offering her hand out to William, who shakes it gently. 

William finally stands up, meeting Henry’s slightly shocked expression. “How old are they?”

“Joshua is ten, this brat here—” He pinches Danielle’s cheek, who playfully tries to slap away his hand, ”—is eight, and the twins are five.”

“Lunch’s ready!” A voice calls from further inside the house, not-quite yelling but not quiet either, and Henry places his sister down as the rest of the children seem to collectively lose interest in William and file back inside, one by one.

“I thought you said you didn’t like kids?” He asks, finally. 

William just blinks. “What?”

“You’re really good with them!”

He seems genuinely surprised by this information. “Am I?”

“You ever consider babysitting?”

William’s face flushes, like he’s embarrassed. “Oh, bugger off.” 

Henry chuckles at that but shrugs, stepping inside and holding the door open for William to follow. “Ma? Pa? I brought a guest, hope you don’t mind!” He calls out, not able to see his parents from the front door.

His father’s voice comes from down the hall, towards the kitchen— half-whispering and half-shouting again, “Henry, hush, your mother’s still sleeping!”

“Oh,” Henry grows quiet. “Okay,” he turns to William and motions for him to follow as he walks down the hall and into their living room. There’s giggling from further within the house, and the sound of plates being placed upon the table carefully, as to not be too loud with it. 

He rounds the corner and moves into the dining room, William trailing a few steps behind. His father is currently setting out plates to each one of the kids, sandwiches on each one. He looks up as they enter, an expression of surprise flashing over his face when he sees William. “Oh, our guest. And who might you be?”

“Uh… William, sir.”

“Are you the Antoinette’s boy?” He asks.

“The one and only,” William replies, just the slightest bit of bitterness creeping in through his words.

“You related to Marie Antoinette?”

“Wish I knew.”

Henry’s father finishes setting the plates down and regards him fully. “You don’t sound French.”

“Half— On my father’s side. Grew up in London.” William answers quickly, like he’s prepared the answers.

Henry’s father stares at him for a few moments before turning back to Henry. “Ah, well, it’s good that you’ve made a friend, Henry.” His father says, although he sounds a bit doubtful. “Just don’t be too loud until your mother wakes up.”

“We’re just stopping by to grab some books to bring back to Mr. Smith’s.” Henry says, trying to hide his immediate mortification at the fact his father reveals he has no friends. “I’ll be back to help out ‘round the house by 8 tonight, promise.”

His father seems to accept that answer, and wordlessly slides back into the kitchen. Henry begins to walk again, towards the stairs, and his siblings look up from their meals briefly to follow before losing interest and going back to their food. 

He makes his way upstairs, William only a few paces behind, and to his room. He pauses at the door and turns back to him. “Uh, just be careful where you step. It’s kind of a mess in my room right now,” he admits, and then lets himself in. He’s used to the mess, steps over the papers and books and clothes that are sprawled over the floor with relative ease, but William hovers at the door for a second, seemingly trying to mark his path out in his head before following him in.

“This isn’t a room, Henry. This is a witch’s hut,” William announces, motioning vaguely towards the stacks of books on the occult and various trinkets propped up along the shelves or in various corners— crystal balls and Ouija boards and only a few animal skulls— “Witchcraft is what you’re doing in here.”

He can’t help but to flush slightly. “I’m not— I’m not doing witchcraft, I just— I happen to collect things related to the subject.”

William seems more interested in everything strewn about than he does Henry at the moment, carefully stepping over to the desk where a few papers of half-scrawled notes are spread out. Henry begins scooping a few half-finished books off the floor and kicking clothes out of the way, clearing a space.

“Letters on demonology and witchcraft,” William reads aloud from the other side of the room, as if to prove a point, while Henry begins to relocate some of his favorite books into a cardboard box. He looks over his shoulder, where William is currently leaning over the desk, a single finger tracing over the lines in the now-open book. “By Sir Walter Scott, addressed to J.G Lockhart.”

He’s not sure why, but he’s embarrassed. No one has ever paid this much regard to his collection before, let alone with such a curiosity. “Yeah,” he manages to squeak out, “If you want, uhm, you can grab that book and bring it with us, I’ll go into more detail about it once we get to the shop.”

William only half-regards him, eyes not leaving the book. Henry’s stuck watching him, watching the way his eyes rapidly dart across the pages, seemingly absorbing as many details as he can. “I don’t know what half of these words mean,” he says, finally, shutting the book nearly and then moving to the next.

“A lot of them are written in an older form of English, it takes a lil’ bit to get used to.” Henry offers him, finally turning back to where he was gathering some spare papers and trinkets.

“And you can read it no problem? That’s pretty sweet,” William hums, picking up and moving the extra papers on Henry’s desk, rolling them up nice and neat one-by-one.

“It’s not that h— I thought you’ve read Frankenstein? Shakespeare?”

“Read is very different from comprehended,” William says, humming, and then Henry hears him make a curious sound, and— “Shit, is that a knife?”

Oh, shit, Henry remembers, immediately turning around.

It’s too late, because before Henry can even open his mouth to warn him against touching it, he hears the knife clatter to the ground. He knows exactly what it means, although he’s surprised he doesn’t hear William make any noise, because when he looks over, there’s a slice at the center of his palm, blood already pooling up and spilling out of the wound, leaking out and spilling onto the floor as little droplets.

His breath hitches in his throat. William’s standing there, wide-eyed, perfectly silent, one hand grasped around his wrist and holding his hand steady as it shakes. He’s staring at it, unwavering, as more and more blood begins to gush from the wound. It’s off-putting to say the least— the few times Henry accidentally sliced himself trying to sharpen it, he definitely made noise, and that was only his fingertips. This was a whole streak across his palm.

“William!” He cries out, the panic finally hitting him then as he rushes over to the other man’s side, “I’m so sorry, I forgot I left that there, I—”

“What’s the deal with it?” William asks, sounding breathless. His eyes have moved from the wound down towards the knife on the floor, and Henry assumes he must be in shock.

“U-Um, the place I got it from said it was used in a series of sacrificial murders, but I could never find anything to actually confirm that, so it’s probably just a tall tale,” Henry winces, reaching for William’s hand. “I’m so sorry. I should have warned you—”

William pulls his hand away from Henry’s reaching grasp, and Henry stops, startled. “Will?”

“What’s the inscription on it mean?” William asks, sounding amazed. His eyes are strange, unfocused, looking at the knife, but not really looking at it.

“I-I don’t know, my Latin is terrible— Will, you’re bleeding, man,” Henry tries again, voice growing shaky. He’s not sure if he’s more freaked out over the fact he just hurt William, or the way William seemed to be acting. “Let me take care of it.”

William’s eyes move finally, finally, from the knife to his hand to Henry. He seems to realize what’s happened, then, because he sucks in a sharp breath like the pain finally hit him, and offers his hand back out to Henry. He’s at least responding, but still seems to be a little bit out of it as Henry reaches in, careful, pressing his thumbs into the flat of his palm and applying a bit of pressure in an attempt to stop the bleeding, trying to ignore the warmth of it on his fingertips. William hisses with it.

“Shit, I’m sorry—” Henry says, again, desperately beginning to look around for any means of actually stopping the blood. “I’m really—”

“Don’t be,” William interrupts, and Henry watches with growing horror as he moves both of their hands up closer to his face, examining the wound. Henry can see something in his gaze, but he’s not sure what it is— the first word that comes to mind is Hunger, but that can’t be right. “That’s pretty cool. Nice blade, real sharp.”

“Cool ?” Henry echoes, incredulous. “You just—”

“It’s not that bad,” He says, softly, finally starting to move from his rigid position. He shifts, trying to keep his hand straight, and shrugs off his suit jacket. He sloppily uses it to cover the wound, creating a thick layer of cloth around it, and then turns to Henry and grins. He thinks William’s face is flushed, but he’s not sure. “See? It’s fine.”

“Uh, we need to take you to the hospital.”

William just scoffs. His eyes land on the knife again, still half-covered in his blood, and leans down to pick it up again— blade-first. Probably how he managed to cut himself in the first place, Good Lord— Henry moves, quick, and snatches it from him as carefully as he can, trying to ignore the way some of the blood smears over his palm. “What the hell are you doing, man?” He asks, panicked.

“What do you know about blood pacts?” He laughs, and Henry decides he’s delirious at the moment, and that’s all there is to it. He places the knife down on the table behind him and moves back over to William, grabbing him by the front of his stupid dress shirt and tugging him towards the bathroom, trying to ignore the way William’s breath audibly hitches under his grasp.

Pain like this doesn’t come often. He’s felt pain before, quite often, but not like this. He’s felt pain, sure, but this is different from the other times. This isn’t the constant, dull ache of his bones, the crack in his joints, the tightness in his lungs, the sharp shocks in his head. This stings and throbs and his hand feels hot, pulsing with the beat of his heart, and it’s new. Exciting. He can feel the way his own heart race picks up, feels the way his muscles tighten up on their own, the way his fingers twitch involuntarily under the pain of the wound, and it’s new and raw and he feels alive.

He doesn’t have much time to revel in it, because Henry drags him from his room to the nearest bathroom.

“Take the jacket off it,” Henry orders, looking frustrated, although he does seem to soften his expression a little as William hisses a little at the way his hand throbs when he releases the pressure from the wound. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” William asks, still not being able to focus on his words through the haze that’s fogged his mind. “It’s not that bad.” A good pain.

“You’re probably going to need stitches, Will— and… I-I don’t know, some kind of shot, God knows what kind of viruses a knife carved from bone has,” ( “What kind of bone?” William asks, and Henry can’t answer that, either. Part of him wonders if it’s human. Part of him wants it to be. ) He tugs at William’s sleeve, pulling him up and to the sink, and starts wiping away some of the excess blood best he can with a washcloth, and then douses it in antiseptic ( “This is gonna sting,” he mutters, and it does, ) and begins wrapping his hand with bandages.

They move away from the sink, Henry opting to kneel on the bathroom floor as he works, William sitting back down on the lip of the tub. “This’ll hold it for now, I think.” He breathes, “It’s what I do whenever one of the little ones cuts themselves on something.”

“Thanks, nurse,” William jokes, and then grins, “Gonna kiss it better, too?” Henry glances up at him, faint surprise on his face, and then he rolls his eyes before bowing his head again to smooth the bandage over William’s hand.

For a moment it’s quiet, a comfortable stasis where neither of them move, Henry’s hand cupping William’s injured one like it's the most natural thing in the world, and suddenly William wants to card his free hand through Henry’s hair, wants to pull him up and closer, wants to—

“I’m sorry.” Henry repeats again, stilting William’s thoughts right there. He stands, offering his hand to William, and William feels that jolt again when his uninjured hand meets Henry’s, a jolt like want, like realization.

The high of the pain, the good pain, has almost completely faded now, and he bites his lip. Get yourself together. “It’s— Henry, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

“I’ll drive you home.” He offers, but that’s the last thing on William’s mind right now.

“Really, Henry,” he insists, smiling as politely as he can at the other boy, “I’m fine. How about we just go back to your room and you can tell me about all the other things I shouldn’t touch?”

Henry seems to consider it for a long moment, but eventually gives in with a small smile. “Fine, if you’re so sure. But you have to promise to get it looked at when we’re done, okay?”

“I promise.” He says, lying through his teeth.

Henry seems hesitant after the accident, but William is patient with him. Henry confines him to the bed for a while, which is fair, but he’d very much like to get up and investigate every inch of the room himself. Thankfully, Henry seems to be able to pick out what he seems the most interested in and brings it back over for him to see.

Turns out, there’s a lot more strange trinkets scattered around— crystal balls, tarot cards, a jar with a two-headed snake inside of it, skulls of mice and rats and small birds, a single, supposedly haunted porcelain clown doll that, in William’s honest opinion, just looks kind of sweet. Henry gathers them up and shows them off, offering explanations to their origin or purpose and vehemently explaining each time that he does not participate with the purpose of these objects, just studies them, okay, think of it like a museum's curation— He holds up an old wooden planchette for William to see, but refuses to let him touch it. 

“What are those things even for?” William finally asks.

“They’re… well, it’s just a pointer, when it comes down to it,” Henry says, clearly trying to place his words correctly, “At least, nowadays they are. They were originally equipped with a pencil holder to try to facilitate automatic writing.”

William looks at him blankly. “So the ghost could write with it?”

“Not really… uhm…” Henry’s face scrunches up slightly as he thinks. He seems to get an idea, then, because he very gently places the planchette down and moves across the room to secure a piece of paper and a pencil— works the pencil through the hole at the top of the planchette, places it down on the paper, and places his hand on it. “It’s more like… the spirit would write through it? T-Through you, that is. They call it psychography — people would feel their hands being guided and start writing unconsciously, even if they’re in a trance.” 

William can’t help but to watch the way Henry’s arm stays still, taut, but his hand makes such a small, unconscious movement that he can see that it’s moved— enough so to start leaving marks on the paper. Henry pulls his hand away like it’s a hot iron. 

“Nowadays, um, they just use them as pointers, usually with Ouija boards, but they weren’t always.” He says. 

“Can I see it?”

Henry hesitates.

“It’s not going to cut me, is it?” He asks.

Henry ducks his head a little. “No, I suppose not,” he says, biting back a smile, and hands it over to William. “Just be careful.”

“You know, I heard that little glass circle in the middle is for peering into the spirit world or whatever, is that true?” William asks, turning it over in his hands.

“I… don’t know, I don’t think so? I mean, I’ve heard about it too, but there doesn’t seem to be any straight answer to that question.”

He hums slightly, lifting the planchette up to his face and aligning the glass with his eye. He peers through it, glancing around the room. “Mm. No spirits here, it seems,” He announces, “You’re safe.”

A small giggle escapes Henry. “Even the creepy clown?”

He turns his view to the clown doll sitting on the shelf. “Just looks like a doll to me.”

He turns back to Henry, still holding the planchette to his eye, and a cold shock of dread shoots through him. Placed upon Henry’s shoulders are two hands, familiar and pitch black with sharpened claws, twisting in further and running themselves across his shoulders, down over his collarbone and closing in on his neck. Is this your new friend? That familiar voice asks, practically a purr, Quite the big fella, isn’t he? Oh, imagine all the fun things we can do with him.

Henry’s voice is light, playful. “See anything?”

One of those terrible, dark talons traces itself across the crook in Henry’s neck. How about we slit his throat right at the seams? The shadow offers, and for a second, William can picture it perfectly— those claws raking across the soft flesh of Henry’s throat, the sound of it ( the same exact sound his palm made when it slit open underneath the knife, a perfect mockery ) imagines the white-hot pain and equally hot blood, imagines the red blooming there and catching on the darkened fingers of the shadow, dripping down. Imagines Henry’s green eyes widening in fear, the quiver in his voice, the sound of him choking on his own torn sinews. Wouldn’t it be lovely, William?

It isn’t. Normally, he would revel in these gory, fleeting visions— hallucinations of mutilating himself and others, of the shadow prompting him, i know you want to, all you have to do is let me in, but he doesn’t like this one. He doesn’t want to see Henry bleed, not like this. For once, it isn’t.

He drops the planchette like it’s burning him, and Henry’s still standing there, those green eyes staring expectantly down at William, although a slight expression of confusion forms over his face. He’s fine. The shadow isn’t actually there, of course not. It’s just his imagination. Always has been.

“You okay?” He asks.

“Yeah,” William says, despite the fact he can feel the cold sweat dripping down his back, “Didn’t see anything, though. Kind of disappointing, I was hoping to see some specters here tonight.”

Henry lets out a small laugh. “I think you’ve gravely misjudged what I’m doing in here.”

William tries to convince his heart to return to its proper place in his chest. “So, what, you collect all of this for nothing?”

“Not for nothing,” Henry says, running his hands through his hair in a little unconscious movement, “For— For study. For protection. Call it, uh, call it a professional interest.”

William can feel the smile twitching up at the corner of his lips. “Sure,” he says, and then, “Can we try that thing then? You know, from a professional distance and all.”

Henry’s eyebrow quirks up, and he follows William’s gaze to the Ouija board on the shelf behind him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea…”

“There’s no ghosts, right?”

Henry seems unsure. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then nothing will happen, right?” He gives Henry his best attempt at puppydog eyes. “Please?”

“Will, I dunno, it’s not— it’s not a toy.” 

“Why do they sell it at toy stores, then?” He tries.

Henry stares at him for a long, long time.

“Fine,” He sighs, grabs the board and then climbs onto the bed next to William, placing it between the two of them. “Just— follow my instruction and don’t let go until we’re done, okay? I don’t want— I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” William reminds him, pulling his legs up and crossing them, his knees brushing Henry’s, “You won’t hurt me.”

Henry swallows hard. “You know what I mean.”

William scoffs. “Besides, what’s the worst you can do? Break the board over my head?” 

That cracks a grin out of the other boy. Still, he reaches into the neckline of his shirt and pulls a necklace out from underneath, a small golden cross, letting it rest on his chest. “Worst-case scenario? You get possessed. Probably a bit worse than a cut hand.”

“I trust you won’t let that happen.” He says— and he’s joking, but the words ring something hollow in his chest, a realization that he can’t remember the last time he’s trusted somebody, and now he’s saying it to this weird kid he met only a few days ago, and that he actually does means it.

Henry takes the planchette from William’s lap and places it on top of the board, balancing it between their legs. “Use your pointer and middle finger to hold onto the planchette— and once they’re placed there, you can’t let go until we’re done, okay?”

William just nods, moving his hands into position. Henry takes a deep breath, makes the sign of the cross across his chest, then follows suit. William tries to keep his eyes on the board but catches himself looking at Henry again— he’s a bit tense, nervous, but there's an electric sort of excitement that seems to be radiating off him, a feeling William recognizes. You’re like me.

“Okay,” He announces, more to himself than anything, hands held ridiculously still on the planchette, fingertips brushing slightly with William’s own, his touch warm. “We— We are opening a line of communication for any presence who wishes to speak,” he says, “We will only allow an experience that is positive, or toward a higher good, and negative energies are not welcome.”

“Boring.” William drolls, immediately ducking his head a little at the glare Henry shoots his way, stifling his laughter.

“Ignore him, he doesn’t know what he’s doing.” Henry announces to the room, “If there are any positive presences here, can you please introduce yourself?”

William looks down at the board. Nothing. 

“My name is Henry Callow, and this is my—” He pauses for a second, as if to find his wording, “This is my friend, Will. Do you have a name?”

William doesn’t move his eyes from the board, from his fingers, making a conscious effort to keep them still. He doesn’t see Henry’s fingers move, either, but the planchette begins to shift ever-so-slightly.

“Stop moving it,” William whispers to him.

“I’m not.” Henry says simply.

“Well, I’m not either,” He’s sure his fingers are held steadily in place, but still, the planchette continues to rotate. “Somebody’s moving it.”

“Yes, Will, that’s the whole point.” Henry whispers back, a little incredulous. 

The movement comes to a stop. It didn’t move out of position, rather it just rotated in place, the point now pointed towards YES.

“Would you like to tell us your name?” Henry asks. “You can spell it out, all you have to do is move the planchette over the letters.” 

There’s a long pause. William’s not sure how long, but it’s only when Henry finally opens his mouth to speak again does it move. It’s a slow, painful crawl to the first letter, and then to the next, and the next after that.

D—A—V—E.

William feels his blood run cold. 

“Nice to meet you, Dave,” Henry says. “We just have a few questions for you, we won’t waste too much of your time.”

This is a different type of cold. He’s used to the cold— getting caught late at night in the pouring London rain, of the feeling of IV fluids being pushed through his veins, of fingertips and lips turning purple after an intense snowball fight, of the aching stone bench of a jail cell on a chilly night. This is cold. This is a cold that the body could never adjust to, no matter how many layers of blankets, no matter how many hot showers. He could feel it under his skin, in his bones, like an ache so hollow it feels as if you have always had it, that you will always have it. 

“Are you someone that me or Will knew while you were alive?”

He feels the planchette begin to shift underneath his fingers. He feels the shadow’s long, spindly hand placed over his own, just the slightest bit of pressure, guiding his hand, his own fingers prickling with numbness . It’s a cold like a pine-wood box under six feet of packed dirt, like the sweet embrace of death— It’s cloying, clawing, trying to consume him, it’s—

“Henry ?”

“Shit,” Henry hisses, starting to pull the planchette towards the GOODBYE, “Uh, I-I’m sorry, we have to end the session here, thanks for your time!” 

All at once, the warmth comes back. He didn’t see what it’s answer was.

“I thought you were headin’ over to Mr. Smith’s? What are you doin’ in there?” Comes the voice of Henry’s father, thick with a country accent but held almost at a whisper. 

Henry immediately jumps to his feet, swooping the board and planchette out of William’s hands and back onto the shelf in one swift motion. William blinks, trying to find his place in reality again, and buries his injured hand in his lap, and it’s warm, and it’s certainly not numb. He sucks in air through his teeth.

“Sorry Pa, just got distracted,” comes Henry’s voice from the doorway, “We’re gonna head out now.”

William can just barely make out the face of Henry’s father through the crack of the door, eyes narrowing. “You boys ain’t getting up to any trouble, are you? I heard a couple’a weird noises up here.”

“Dad, no,” Henry hisses, sounding embarrassed. “I was just showing him some of my collection while I was packing up for Mr. Smith’s—”

“Fine,” His father huffs, seemingly backing down. “Just— Be extra quiet when you leave, your siblings are down for naptime.”

Henry closes the door quickly, not even bothering to regard his father any further. He looks stunted. “Let’s get back to the garage, yeah?”

He’s not cold.

He stands up. “Shouldn’t you get my blood out of your carpet first, though?” 

Henry sucks in air through his teeth. Pauses, finds a random shirt lying on the floor and kicks it over the spot.

“Or that,” William chuckles. 

Henry offers him a shrug and a sheepish smile, quickly moving to scoop up a few more books, various trinkets— Ouija board included— shoving them into the cardboard box he’d been working on. “Alright, let’s hit the road,” He says, and the two of them quietly exit the room and make their way back to the car.

The next several hours fly by in what feels like only a few minutes. William’s not sure how it happens, but after they finally make it back to Old Man Smith’s garage, it’s only 11 in the morning. Henry relocates the contents of the box all to the nearest desk, while William finally finds a goddamn lighter for his desperately-needed cigarette. Henry continues working on the truck he’d been in the middle of fixing before William’s car was pulled in while William watches— discussing what little of Paradise Lost William read when he got the chance and devolving further into a long conversation about Dante’s Inferno that consists mostly of Henry trying to explain the plot and William asking far too many questions despite the book being in his hands. Later, it devolves into Henry relocating the contents of the box to various places in the garage while William asks a thousand more questions about every little object. Both boys nearly jump out of their skin when Old Man Smith slams open the garage door wearing only a nightgown and sans-dentures. “Do you know what time it is, you hooligans? What tha’ hell are you still doin’ out here, giggling like schoolgirls?”

They quickly discover that it’s closing in on 11 at night, and somehow they’ve been too absorbed in their conversation to notice the passing of time— Henry has to open the garage door to confirm that it is, in fact, dark outside.

“Fuck,” he says, and William thinks that’s the first time he’s heard Henry properly curse.

“Might as well stay the night, now,” Old Man Smith says, sort of spitting everywhere in the process. “I don’t want y’all on the roads this late, it’s deer season!”

“Fine with me,” William hums, but when he looks over at Henry, he seems broken up about it.

Old Man Smith doesn’t wait for Henry’s answer, just mutters out a Goodnight and slithers back inside, closing the door behind him. William hears him lock it.

“Time flies when you’re having fun, I suppose,” William offers. Henry’s face visibly softens when he hears it. “Can't be helped.”

“My dad’s gonna be pissed,” He says out loud to no one in particular, and then— “I have sleeping bags in the truck.”

William can’t help the grin that forms over his face.

Henry wakes up around 11 the next morning, which is considerably late for him— apparently not late for William, as the second he tries to shake the other man awake he just turns in his sleeping bag and mumbles something about a few more hours.

“I-I’m gonna head home, Will,” he tries, laughing nervously, “I was supposed to be back a long time ago.”

He had fun, he had to admit it— he had more fun than he had in a long time, the two of them bouncing off each other in tandem, William throwing out questions and Henry gladly giving him the answers, of which devolved to Henry showing off what other fantastical trinkets he had in his possession, of which involved batting William’s intact hand away from them about several hundred times as he tries to reach out for everything, lest he somehow manage to slice open his good one. He assumes William’s a tactile learner, and he hates the way his brain takes note of that and plops it down to bring back up as something else later.

William just lets out a groan, rolling onto his back. “It’s fine, just leave me here,” he drolls, voice low and just a little bit raspy as he’s only now starting to wake up— Henry doesn’t want to admit what that voice does to him.

“I’m sure you have to be home, too,” he pleads, “Plus, you said you’d get your hand checked out today, right?”

William’s eyes loll over to his hand, the bandages a bit looser now, a bit of old blood beginning to dry over the spot. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did,” Henry reminds him, leaning down to take a hold of his untouched hand and hoisting him up by his arm, to which William lets out an audible yelp of surprise in response. He seems to wake up pretty quickly after that. “Up ya go,” he says, amused, placing him back down on his two feet and letting go.

William stares at him in what he only assumes is amazement. “Do I weigh anything to you?”

“Not really,” Henry admits. “I spend a lot of time carrying around my siblings and car parts. Honestly, that box of books is probably heavier than you are.”

William coughs, like he’s trying to clear his throat, but it comes out slightly strangled and a little too high. “Right,” he says, quickly turning away to gather up Henry’s collection. Henry’s not sure what kind of response that was, but he’s not going to ask, instead joining him in tidying up. Henry opts to leave the box there— he’s been meaning to relocate half of its contents here for a while now anyways. They’re safer here, Henry thinks, out of eyeshot of his parents and of their friends from church visiting and snooping around. God knows his hobby has already been the subject of too many rumors in town, and he’d hate to draw more attention to himself, so here they’ll stay.

They hop back into the truck and William guides Henry to his house, which is about twenty minutes away and surprisingly off the beaten path. The house is pretty much alone in an empty field, up on the hill— it’s almost imposing, in a way. Henry recognizes the place, it had gone unsold for several years after the previous owners, an older couple, both died there. He’s wondered, a few times now, if it was haunted. The driveway looks a mile long, and surrounding them on either side is nothing but trees, a bit wilted from the Georgia heat and a lack of care. William insists that he just stop at the beginning of the driveway and that he’d get out and walk, and so he does, but stays parked there and watches William begin the trek up towards the house.

Once he sees him reach the door, he backs out of the driveway and heads home and thinks I hope I see him again soon.

He gets home, and his parents are waiting there by the door for him.

“Henry, where have you been?” His father asks immediately, tone accusing, “You said you’d be home by 8 last night!”

He looks at his mother, who says nothing, but has that classic worried expression on her face, expectant.

“I-I’m sorry,” he blurts, “We just lost track of time!”

“We?” His mother asks.

“He was hanging out with the Antoinette’s kid last night,” his father grumbles.

His mom’s usual tired expression lights up just a little. “Henry’s made a friend? Oh, that’s wonderful!”

“Mom…” He groans, helpless.

His father doesn’t seem as convinced. “I don’t know. I don’t like the look of that boy, he looks like trouble.”

His mother blinks. “I thought the Antoinette family had a girl?”

“Exactly.” his father mutters.

“You saw him for like two minutes, Pa,” he pleads, “Yeah, maybe he’s a little weird, but so am I!”

“You’re not weird, baby,” His mother coos, “You’ve just got your own thing! I think it’s nice that he’s found a friend, lighten up on him.”

“That’s the thing, Maurice,” his dad hisses, “I don’t think that boy wants to be friends. Just look at ‘im.”

Henry feels like the air is going to close in around him. “Pa, it’s fine—”

“Boy’s probably a faggot, or something. I don’t want him around Henry, Lord knows what he’ll put into his head—”

“Peter, don’t say that,” his mother hisses softly, “You don’t know that.”

His throat feels like it’s going to close up.

“Whatever,” his dad huffs, finally, and turns away from the door and begins walking down the hall. “Don’t let it escalate, Henry.”

His mother shoots him a sympathetic look. “Don’t listen to him, he’s just protective of you. I’m sure that Antoinette boy is a nice kid.”

Henry wants to believe her. He really, really does, for his own sake. “Y-Yeah.” He tries, not sounding all that convincing, and then— “You need to go lay down, Ma. You’re sick.”

“I’m fine,” she assures him, reaching out to usher him into the house. He lets her, patiently putting up with her questions on whether or not William is related to Marie Antoinette or why his hair is so long or what they got up to while hanging out, but the moment he can afford to slip away, he beelines it to his room.

It’s the first thing he notices when he walks in, still haphazardly folded and placed off to the side of his bed, a fair amount of blood still seeped into the fabric— William’s suit jacket.

He left it here, Henry realizes, not being able to help the way his heart rate jumps up. He grabs it, trying not to touch the bloody areas, and, I should probably wash this for him, he thinks, and then remembers the blood on both the carpet and the knife, I should clean that up, too.

He starts to turn towards the door, and his own train of thought nearly knocks him off his feet— I wonder if the jacket smells like him, he thinks, and then groans out loud at the audacity of his own thoughts. He quickly throws the jacket back down before any more thoughts threaten to come on up.

He imagines, then, his father’s voice. Don’t let it escalate, Henry.

His parents are too occupied in another screaming match to notice William arrive, which he’s endlessly grateful for. He slinks past them to his room, the world closing in around him as his racing thoughts take over, only focused on one thing.

Henry.

He was able to push down his other thoughts easily enough, to write them off as his own fantastical delusions, his own sick mind, but he can’t quite shake off his thoughts about the other boy, can’t pull his mind away from the way Henry had just lifted him to his feet using one arm, the way their fingers brushed together on the planchette, the way his hand held William’s own while he was patching it up— God, I want him to manhandle me. William groans, falling back onto his bed, running his aching, bandaged hand through his hair.

He remembers the wound then and shifts his attention to it, carefully unwrapping the bandages Henry had patched him up with. He feels just a little bit bad considering how guilty Henry felt about the whole thing, but he wasn’t going to admit he slit his own palm on purpose, on some failure of impulse control, not now, not when Henry fussed over him so sweetly like that. It’s still aching, the good kind of ache, and the wound is still very much open, but the bleeding has stopped, for now. 

William presses his finger into the gash in his palm, a hiss of pain escaping through his clenched teeth as he curls with the pain, and it’s wonderful. His abdomen tightens with it, and he doesn’t bother to fight it anymore, allowing himself to imagine for a moment that Henry’s fingers are the one digging into the wound instead of his own. He curls his fingers inside, pressing into the raw, exposed flesh, and it sends waves of burning pain all the way up his arm, causing him to curl up further in a terrible mix of pain and arousal, his whole body thrumming with it. He turns his head into his own pillow, trying to muffle the way he sputters and whines Henry’s name as he digs into the wound further. He does this until he physically can’t stand the pain anymore, until his hand shakes so bad he can’t control it, until there’s blood dripping from the gash all the way down his arm, over the fingers of his other hand. Only then, does the realization of what he’s done set in.

“Fuck,” he curses, voice hoarse, clutching his wrist to try to still his hand, trying to take his mind off the warmth in his pants, “Bloody fucking hell, cocksucker— god dammit,” he hisses, forcing himself to sit up. He can still hear his parents fighting downstairs, so it’s probably safe, but even then he doesn’t want to risk trying to make it to the bathroom to clean up— he’s panting, eyes glassy, obviously turned on and fucking wrecked, and if they saw him like this, he would have absolutely no excuse to get out of it. Still, he needs to fix this, so he stands and manages to half-hobble to the bathroom without getting blood on the floor, manages to clean out the wound a second time, and manages to pull out the stitches and needle and starts working on closing his own wound— something he’s done many times before— but what he doesn’t quite manage to do is send those thoughts back to where they came from.

He wishes Henry could be the one doing this, and imagines it vividly: the way Henry would hold his shaking hand steady, the way the thread and needle would look miniscule in his large hands, the way he’d work the needle through William’s skin, precise and careful and whispering words of praise while William whines through the pain of it. Imagines Henry breaking the thread in his teeth, imagines him wrapping the wound again, imagines his warm fingers running over his palm, and he imagines, imagines, imagines—

He gets a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror when he stands— hair mussed, pupils blown out, hands bloodied, looking like the scum of the earth. He catches sight of the shadow behind him, peering out from over his shoulder, so— “Nothing to say about this?”

There’s a low, rumbling chuckle from somewhere within his skull. What is there to say? This is pretty par for the course, isn’t it? 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Oh, don’t play dumb with me. You meet someone new, you obsess, you draw blood. It’s become terribly predictable. How long until you inevitably tear into him? A month? A week? Tomorrow? 

William shakes his head, reaching to open the cabinet behind the mirror so he doesn’t have to look at the shadow. “This is— this is different.”

Is it, really? 

William wonders, not for the first time, why he keeps allowing himself to engage with this delusion, despite everything the doctors had told him. He rummages through the cabinet— Aspirin, Valium, Librium, Arrestin, God dammit— 

Sure, you care for him. But what does that amount to? You cannot deny your nature, you will eventually leave your mark.

Chlorpromazine, William thinks, a little desperately, finally managing to procure the yellowing bottle of medication, struggling with the child-safety lock for a moment before emptying two little round orange pills into his palm.

Why are you so afraid of your nature? Or, perhaps, are you only afraid to accept it?

Swallow, a little, disjointed part of his mind tries to remind him— which he promptly ignores, crushing the tablet between his incisors and swallowing down the bitter dust, anything to be rid of the hallucination, anything— 

Oh, you wished for my opinion, and now you’re shutting me out again? 

“Precisely.” William confirms, waiting one-two-three-four-five seconds before he finally gets the courage to close the mirror-cabinet, praying to the God he doesn’t believe in that the shadow will be gone when he does. It isn’t. 

It cocks its head at him, tone playful. Still a few hours until those set in, William. Until then, I am more than happy to tell you everything I think of your new little boytoy.

“Oh, spare me.” William mutters, glancing out the bathroom door to make sure he’s not spotted before making the trek back to his bedroom.

No, I don’t think I will, the shadow laughs, leaving him with nothing but that familiar, cold chill down his spine.

It escalates, because of course it does, because Henry is weak, but he wishes he didn’t have to be strong, and he’s lived in this town all his life and he loves it, he loves it, he tells himself he loves it every day because he has to, but it’s so close-knit and close-minded he feels like he’s suffocating sometimes.

It escalates and Henry lets it happen.

It escalates, and the boys end up spending the odd end of the next three weeks together— mostly at Mr. Smith’s shop, but some days William will drop by unannounced at Henry’s house at random hours of the day. Henry’s not sure if it’s because he actually wants to spend time together, or if he’s just trying to get away— sometimes he’ll disappear, and after a few days of radio silence he shows up again, bruises over his shoulders or ribs, small circular burns on his wrists, even a black eye, once— Henry doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t need to. He already knows, he can tell by the way William tenses up even at the mention of family, or the way he speaks so bitterly about them, or the way he looks genuinely shocked when he sees Henry’s parents, embarrassingly, pull him in for a hug and a kiss every time he leaves the house.

Henry even stops by his home once to return William’s jacket, and William invites him inside, since his parents aren’t home. Henry can’t complain, since he finally gets the chance to see how William’s hand is healing up close, ( “Oh! you did go to the doctors!” He announces, pleased, as he notices the neat stitches holding the gash closed, to which William smiles and says “I promised, didn’t I?” ) Henry spots his copy of Paradise Lost still sitting at William’s bedside, the page marked by a receipt for cigarettes— he’s not as far into the book as Henry hoped he would be by now, but he still can’t contain his smile when he sees it. 

It escalates, and eventually, Henry’s meeting up with William almost every day.

It escalates, and Henry’s nights and mornings are juxtaposed in stark contrast with each other:

Night: William shows up and finally asks Henry to show him around town ( “I am so bored, man, please tell me there’s something to do around here,” ) and they end up at the lake where Henry used to swim all the time when he was a kid, right between Seville and its neighboring town. It’s pretty far away, but that’s what Henry needs right now— to be as far away from Seville as he can, just for a little while.

He thinks that William assumes that it must be nearby, because he hops into Henry’s truck without questioning it— it’s only about thirty minutes into the drive when he starts to get antsy.

“If I never see another corn field again, I think I’ll die happy,” William announces, slouching down in the passenger’s seat and glaring balefully out the window at the stalks of corn flashing by in a blur.

“Don’t worry, it turns into cotton fields soon,” Henry tells him, grinning when William groans and slouches down further. “Look, just lemme show you the benefits of being out in the sticks, city boy. Give it another hour.”

“We’re still gonna be surrounded by crops in an hour?!”

He has to drown out his own laughter with the radio.

Sure enough, after an hour and a half or so of driving, there’s still farmland, but it’s hard to see with the sun sunken below the horizon, far in the distance. William’s dozing off and on, lulled by Henry’s humming along to the radio and the low vibration of tires on the road.

He’s roused when the car jitters a bit, blinking and sitting up to see Henry pulling them up to a small trail on the other side of the corn fields. The trail gives way to a large, sprawling lake over the hill, and Henry parks the truck right at the peak.

“Is the part where you kill me and dump my body in the lake where no one will find it?” William asks, yawning and rubbing at his eyes.

“No, of course not.” Henry says, fond, “I’d bury you in the field. The plants would absorb the nutrients from your body, and you’d decompose faster.” He opens his door and slides out of the truck. It had thrown him off at first, William’s gruesome sense of humor— but then again, he had never been a stranger to the macabre. “C’mon, get out, stretch your legs. We’re here.”

William fumbles with his seatbelt and tumbles out of the car, visibly wincing as his muscles protest a little after being in place for too long. Henry’s already out and pulling the back door open and procuring a bag of popcorn from inside. William grins at him. “Even knowing that I hate those corn fields? How very cruel of you, Henry.”

Henry laughs, slamming the door closed, and walks back around to the front of the car, “Especially because you hate them,” he says, and hops up to sit on the hood of the truck, gesturing with his chin for William to join him as he opens the bag. “Now, relax. Enjoy the great outdoors.”

“It’s so great,” William intones, but he eventually settles next to Henry, their hands brushing every once and a while as they share handfuls of popcorn— William tries and fails to toss up individual pieces and catch them in his mouth, only really succeeds in covering both them and the truck and the ground with popcorn while Henry makes fun of him.

When he finally manages to catch a piece in his mouth, Henry interrupts his moment of triumph by bumping him in the shoulder and pointing up.

“Look,” he says, and William does.

“Well, shit. Look at that.” William breathes.

Henry can only assume what it was like back in London, the light pollution probably bad enough that William would be lucky if he saw more than a paltry handful of stars on an average night— and William’s already told him about the weather there. But out here, it’s like a show as dusk settles into night, the brightest stars blinking into existence first; smatterings of others popping up in quick succession as it grows darker, until the sky looks like God himself got a little enthusiastic with a bedazzler. 

“Bet you’ve never seen stars like that, city boy.” He teases.

He can almost see the reflection of them in William’s eyes as he stares upwards, smiling despite himself. “Alright, you’ve got me. This is pretty sweet.”

“Yeah. I thought you’d like it,” He says, fondly.

“What about the lake?” William asks after a few long moments.

“What about it?”

“You think we could swim?”

Henry has to snort. “It’s probably ice cold right now, Will.”

“That’s what makes it fun, isn’t it?” William asks, and Henry can’t argue with that.

They both slide off the hood of the truck in tandem, several pieces of popcorn scattering off William’s lap and onto the ground.

“Race you,” Henry says.

“What?” William sounds genuinely surprised. Henry bolts. “Wait, what? Wait!”

He hears William call something else behind him but doesn’t stop, sliding down the path on the hill. He thinks he hears William curse, and then the sound of pebbles and dirt being scattered everywhere, which probably means William’s running after him now.

He bounds down the hill, the cooling air brushing past his face as he runs, and he feels free for the first time in a long time, feels like a child again. He remembers racing his mother down this same hill before she became too sick to chase him, back when he was little.

He stops just before the edge of the lake, panting slightly, laughing triumphantly. “Hah! Beat you—” He starts, and then William slams into him, apparently not being able to stop himself in time. Despite his almost non-existent weight, the force of it sends them both tumbling backwards and into the lake, which is about as cold and startling as he expected.

He manages to get up a few seconds before William does— thankfully, the water isn’t super deep here, and his ass broke the majority of the fall, so he’s pretty much only wet from the waist-down. He sees William pop up from the water, having landed sideways and ended up completely submerged— his hair has fallen flat into his face, soaking wet, and he’s gasping for breath at the freezing temperature of the water. “Why didn’t you move?” He asks, voice raised a few octaves higher than normal.

Henry can’t help it, he starts to laugh— William reminds him, just a little bit, of an angry wet cat like this. “I—I was going to wait for you before I jumped!”

“Oh, bullshit. You were gonna stay there and just let me jump in by myself, weren’t you?” William accuses, before the largest shit-eating grin forms over his face. He moves quickly, grabbing Henry by the collar of his shirt and tugging him down. Henry yelps a little but manages to close his mouth before he hits the water.

He gasps as he pulls out of the freezing water, now equally soaked and cold as William. “You—!” He starts, and William laughs, loud and true, and Henry can’t stay mad at him like that. He opts, instead, to splash water in his direction, who’s laugh is cut off by a yelp when the water hits him.

It quickly devolves into an all-out war, the two of them shuffling further into the lake for easier access to the water. William very quickly gains an advantage in the fight, holding his nose and ducking back underwater only to kick up as much as he can in Henry’s direction. Henry doesn’t quite squeak when it hits him, but it’s something close.

“Bastard,” he says, sounding fond— and as soon as William breaches the surface he gives him a playful shove, immediately sending him back under. It’s only when William pops back up, still chuckling wildly and maybe spitting out a little bit of the lake’s water, does Henry realize his teeth are chattering.

William seems to realize how cold he is at the same time as Henry does. “W-We should get out of the water.” He announces, sounding breathless.

“Agreed,” Henry says simply, offering a hand to help hoist him out, and the two trudge back towards the lake’s edge.

“This may be a bad time to mention I can’t actually swim,” William says as they both slip out of their water-filled shoes and dump them on the ground.

Henry stops and stares at him, incredulous. “What do you mean you can’t actually swim?”

They start the trek back uphill towards the truck. “I mean, I never actually learned how to swim. Nobody bothered to teach me— not that it matters, really, I’ve never been in any body of water I can’t stand in.”

“Jesus, Will, you couldn’t mention that earlier? What if you drowned?”

William flashes him a crooked grin. “I trust you won’t let that happen.”

They’re both shivering and laughing in equal measure once they climb back into the truck, absolutely soaked to the bone— clothes and hair still dripping with lake water, getting all over the inside of the car. Henry can’t bring himself to care too much at the moment, opting to turn the vehicle back on and crank up the heat.

They both settle in comfortably as the inside of the truck begins to warm up, the shivering slowly coming to a close, but they’re both still grinning despite the fact the moment’s ended.

“You look ridiculous.” Henry laughs, still slightly breathless from the tussle and the hike back up the hill, motioning vaguely towards William’s hair— lying flat over his face, almost covering his eyes.

“No thanks to you,” He chuckles, trying to brush his hair back into position with his fingers, although it doesn’t work too well. “Believe me, you’re not much better right now, either.”

Henry tugs slightly at the collar of his own shirt, which is pretty much stuck to him. “Worth it.” He decides.

“Absolutely.” William hums in agreement, pushing his hair up and back over his forehead, a few strands that have dried faster than the rest falling loose. There’s a single little curl at the center of his forehead that Henry hasn’t seen before, and he can’t help but to wonder if William’s been making an effort to hide it this whole time. Henry wishes he wouldn’t. He wants to stare at William forever like this, not so rough around the edges, messy and wild and grinning, and looking back at him like he hung the stars in the sky.

In this moment, he’s not as afraid to think about these things. He’s still afraid, sure, but there’s no one here to see them, no one here to judge, and he feels more like himself than he has in years.

“Were your parents expecting you to be home soon?” William asks, and Henry can hear that little hopeful uptick in his voice.

Don’t let it escalate, his brain reminds him, but— “What, you wanna stay out here longer?”

“Just for a little,” William tells him, and Henry can’t blame him. He doesn’t want this moment to end, either.

They stay in the car under the blasting heater until they’re only halfway soggy, talking about nothing and everything all at once, just throwing words out and seeing what sticks. Henry still manages to be surprised when the topic of their parents comes up.

“I don’t think your dad likes me very much,” William points out, laughing slightly as he digs for the cigarette box he threw on the floor of Henry’s car as they left. “He seems so… suspicious of me.”

“He’s always like that,” Henry sighs, trying not to think about it— but then again, William’s been pretty generous with the descriptions of his own family the last few weeks they’ve spent together, so Henry figures he can get away with venting his frustrations for now. “He— He doesn’t mean it, he’s just overprotective.”

“A little too much, if you ask me.”

“In his defense, it’s not like I ever stood up for myself,” he says, slinking down into his seat a little. “He just assumes everyone in town is out to get me, and honestly, he might not be wrong.”

William’s gaze falls on him, suddenly focused, sharper— a bit more serious than what Henry’s used to— and it's off-putting, honestly. “Somebody giving you trouble? Cause if they are, I can—”

“No! No, nothing like that,” he says quickly, “I just— I was picked on a lot when I was younger, and I either didn’t realize it or didn’t do anything about it.”

William’s face softens. “Oh.”

He wrings his hands together. “I— I wish I could do something about it, but I just— I would just stand there and take it,” He says, frustrated, “They always asked questions, y’know, pretended they were interested in what I had to say, but the second I turned around they were laughing or talking or spreading rumors, and I just… It was easier to pretend they actually liked me? And then I keep doing that for years and years and now I’m—” He stops, catches his breath, and then, “Honestly, I’m just sick of being treated like a fucking freak, man.”

William smiles a little. “It’s not always a bad thing, being the freak.”

Henry snorts. “Oh, please. Enlighten me.”

“If you can’t get respect out of them, the next best thing is fear,” William says, starting to fumble with his cigarette box. “Show them just how much of a fuckin’ freak you can be!”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Even though you could easily beat the snot out of anybody in this town?”

“Even though I probably could win the fight, yes.”

“Is… cursing them perhaps more your style?”

Henry shoots him a look.

“Sorry,” William says, grinning, not seeming all that sorry at all. “Just throwing out suggestions.” 

He pauses, and then, “You know, at first I thought you’d be like them, too.” he admits.

William snorts, like he can’t fucking believe it. “Really?”

“Really,” he says, although he’s smiling a bit. “I may or may not have been testing you that day at the diner.”

William sits up fully now, looking a little surprised— mostly intrigued. “Testing me?”

“You look like bad news, Will,” he says, amused, “I kind of thought you’d be an asshole, so I was just… gauging your reactions?”

William pauses. “Okay, that’s fair,” he decides, and then grins a little, “Did I pass?”

“With flying colors.” Henry says, fond.

“I look like bad news,” William echoes, amused. “Is that why your father hates me?”

“Probably,” Henry shrugs, vaguely aware of the way William rolls down his window as he finally procures a cigarette from the box and lights it, hands cupping around the lighter just out of habit despite the lack of wind. “He’s like that with everyone, though.”

He tries not to stare as William takes a drag of his cigarette. Fails. Watches as he inhales slowly, surely, and then closes his mouth, opting to blow it out of his nostrils instead, half-heartedly leaning out the window so as to not get too much of the smoke inside Henry’s truck.

I want him to ruin me, he thinks, and then, God, shut up.

William must notice him staring, because he gives Henry a lazy grin. “Want one?” He offers, stretching the hand holding the lit cigarette out towards Henry, the thing dangling there haphazardly between his two fingers.

“Um,” is all Henry manages to get out.

“It’s not gonna kill you, Church boy,” William says, his voice low like a purr.

“No wonder my dad doesn’t like you. You are a bad influence,” he mutters, but takes it anyway, trying to ignore the way his heartbeat picks up. He’s not sure if it’s over William, or if it’s over the fact he’s about to smoke for the first time. “You’re corrupting me.”

“Corrupting you?” William echoes, letting out a startled laugh, “Did your father say that?”

Henry uses the moment to stall a bit longer, still holding the cigarette in-between his thumb and pointer finger, not really sure what to do with it. “Oh, he has a few choice words about you when you’re not over.”

“Like what?” He asks, tilting his head back against the headrest as he watches Henry, looking amused.

“I— I probably shouldn’t say.” Henry says through clenched teeth.

“You can’t just leave me hanging like that!” William says, amused, “How bad could it possibly be?”

“He… He, uh, he thinks…” Henry swallows hard, like the words are trying to force their way back down his throat, “He thinks that you may be, uh… h— homosexual?”

William sits there in silence for a few, terrible seconds, and then snatches the cigarette back from Henry’s hands. “If you’re not gonna smoke it, give it back,” he says, pulling it up to his lips immediately.

Henry’s terrified he may have upset him. “I-I— I told you I shouldn’t have said it!”

William takes his sweet time taking the next drag, breathing in slow and deep, tilting his head all the way back against the seat as he does. His eyelids flutter close as he exhales finally, the smoke curling around the edges of his lips. “And what would he do, if I was?”

Henry’s heart stops. “What?”

“What would you do if I was?” He asks, lowering his gaze and meeting Henry’s, silver-blue eyes piercing a hole into him. Henry’s reminded, briefly, of a predator staring down its prey right before it pounces. He watches the way William’s lips curl up into a cheshire-cat grin, the way a bit of smoke pours out between the gaps in his teeth.

His heart genuinely feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest. “That’s not…—”

The other man moves slowly, carefully and calculated. He shifts over just slightly, leaning onto the center console, placing his head in his free hand. “Would you think less of me?”

Henry almost chokes. “N-No!”

He sees William’s eye twitch just slightly, but his gaze doesn’t falter. “Is that so?” He says, finally, moving backwards. He presses his back against the door and leans against it, sitting half-off half-on the seat and facing Henry fully. He places the cigarette back in his mouth but doesn’t inhale this time, just chews on it.

Henry doesn’t realize, but he also moves, like he’s trying to put space between them the best he can, pulling his knees to his chest, socked feet pressing just slightly against the center console separating them. “It’s— It doesn’t matter,” He says, trying to convince himself more than he is anything else, “It… doesn’t bother me.”

“And why is that?” William asks, voice slow. “It bothers everyone else.”

“W-Why does it matter?” Henry squeaks, a little accusing. “Why do you need to know why?”

“Because I’m trying to decide if I should kiss you or not,” William says, as easy as ever.

Henry’s pretty sure he’s going to die right there, that he’s going to become one of the tales of the paranormal he’s so fucking fascinated with, but William’s voice pulls him back from the brink.

“I won’t if you don’t want me to,” He says, voice growing a bit softer, but still low, still dangerous. “But I really, really want to.”

He’s not even sure how he manages to voice it, considering his throat is dry, but, “Please.”

William doesn’t say anything else, just moves, practically jumping over the center console, and then he’s grabbing Henry by the collar of his shirt and hauling him over to kiss him.

Fully. On the mouth. With a bit of tongue. It’s a little dirty.

Henry wants to say he plays it cool, but when William finally releases him, he says nothing, because he’s lost all ability to speak or think or do anything besides stare at William, glassy-eyed.

William at least has the decency to look sheepish. “Sorry, got a little excited.”

“I can tell,” He wheezes, still not being able to think about anything other than the kiss, about the rough scratch of William’s facial hair and the soft, wet slide of his mouth, and— “Do it again.”

William’s eyes light up. “Really?”

“Yes,” Henry says, breathless, and William obliges happily.

Later, on the long stretch of road on the way back home, as they drive through the warm night air, William offers his cigarette again, ( “It’s not gonna kill you,” He says again, and it doesn’t. ) and their hands touch on the center console and don’t pull away, and Henry’s driving further away from the lake, but he’s pretty sure he’s drowning anyways. He lets William take control of the radio on the way back, and he spends a good five minutes fumbling through stations before finally settling on one.

“Finally,” he sounds exasperated, leaning back in his seat, victorious, “A song that doesn’t make me want to gouge my ears out.”

Henry’s curious, and turns the radio up a little bit higher. The words are slightly obscured by static, like it’s being picked up from far away, but he can still make them out.

My love must be a kind of blind love, I can’t see anyone else but you—

“The Flamingos?” He asks, surprised. William has shown Henry a few of his cassettes, bands like Black Sabbath and Coven and Witchfinder General, remembering with a certain fondness watching him headbang along in the passenger’s seat— this is nothing close. “This doesn’t really seem your style…”

Are the stars out tonight? I don’t know if it’s cloudy or bright, I only have eyes for you, dear…

William smiles at him like he knows something Henry doesn’t. “I branch out with my music taste every once and a while.”

Henry can’t argue with that, turning his attention back to the road, although he barely avoids choking and accidentally swerving off the road when William begins to sing along. He’s never heard William sing before, and he finds himself shocked at how good it is. His voice comes out smooth and rich, trained, and— “The moon may be high,” He sings, like it’s the most natural thing ever, like he’s most certainly memorized the words, “But I can’t see a thing in the sky; I only have eyes for you…”

Henry tries to focus on the white lines on the road, but when he glances over and sees William’s gaze fixed on him as he sings along, he’s pretty sure he’s going to have a heart attack. Thankfully, he manages to get the rest of the way home before he keels over.

“I want to do this again,” Henry says just before they pull into William’s driveway. “Um, soon.”

“How soon?” William asks, sounding fond.

“Tomorrow night,” Henry answers, ashamed at how fast he says it.

During the day: Henry sits in the front row pew, exhausted from getting home late, and holds the hymnal so tightly he rips a page.

He remembers when he was little— he had once asked his pastor if Judas had been in love with Jesus. He was promptly sent back to his mother with several slaps to the wrists and a note for her to “explain things” to him— he swears he still feels the sting sometimes.

Matthew 26:47 — he’s read the verse enough times to commit it to memory. Never quite managed to make sense of it.

He wonders, now, though, if this is how Jesus felt. So painfully aware of the inevitable betrayal, but doing nothing to stop it. Welcoming it, even. He wonders, now, if William will eventually kiss him in front of them all, and in doing so, damn the both of them. He wonders if he will allow it to happen— if he wants it to happen.

Night: They kiss in William’s car in the parking lot behind the church and William has to tell him no less than three separate times to “Stop shaking, It’s okay, do you want to stop?” ( Yes, Henry says, No, I don’t know. God. Oh, God, please just touch me, Okay, Please, Please. ) 

They stay there for a couple hours on end, and Henry discovers a few important facts about William in the time— discovers that this is not William’s first time doing this, not by a longshot. He asks William how many others he’s kissed before and can’t even get a straight answer out of him— too many to remember properly. He discovers that apparently William has the patience of a saint, never pushing Henry further than he wants to be at any point, stopping every time Henry has to pause to hide his face or to scream into his own hands or just process what he’s even doing— but pushing just enough, planting encouraging kisses over his jawline when Henry gets enough courage to allow his hands to wander, whispering little words of praise as Henry explores. He discovers that William, indeed, likes to learn with his hands, just like he thought. 

The two of them end up shuffling into the back of the car, and William sits in Henry’s lap as he straddles him. Their hands are both wandering— Henry trying to explore every inch of William, trying to learn his body, plants kisses across his collarbone, fingertips brushing against where William’s skin meets his bone, feels the ridges of his spine, feels the way his ribs press against his chest with every inhale and exhale, feels the way his own hands fit over his hip bones, sharp and protruding. 

“Honestly, Will, I’m afraid I’m going to crush you,” He admits, his hands currently resting on William’s hips.

William just laughs— a high, sweet sound, right into his lips. “God, I hope you do.”

He can feel the pale, raised skin of several scars dotting William’s body— fading scratches, small circular pock marks across his arms, a few strange slashes or half-crescent circles and, god, he isn’t sure he wants to know what caused them, but he thinks he knows anyways, and it only confirms what he fears: this boy is dangerous, and he wants it, he wants it, he wants it.

“Don’t be afraid,” William says, pressing small, teasing kisses across his cheek, his arms slithering around Henry’s neck and encouraging him to come closer, closer , “I’m not made of glass.”

He wants all of it— He wants William’s broken nose and his crooked smile, yellowing from one too many cigarettes, and he wants his split knuckles and his cut lips and the fading bruises over his ribs, worn like a warning sign, worn like a dart frog’s vibrant colors, like a dog’s bared teeth, like stay back, i bite. 

It doesn’t get much further than that. Henry’s content with that, he is, but another part of him aches for more, to wrap William into his arms and kiss him until he forgets his own name— but he can’t quite bring himself to do it. 

The minute he gets home he finishes himself off, imagining that in place of his own hand, it was William’s.

Day: Henry pounds hard at the center of his chest during the prayer of confession: Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault. 

He doesn’t remember when he became so terrified of death. He’s not even sure if it’s death itself that he fears, or what comes after. Did he fear losing his mother after her diagnosis, or did he fear that she would end up somewhere worse than here?

Therefore I ask blessed Mary ever-virgin, all the angels and saints, and you, my brothers and sisters—

Getting to Heaven always seemed so complicated— a never-ending cycle of guilt and repentance, of committing some mortal sin and only being able to hope for forgiveness— was there any way to know if you were truly forgiven in the eye of God, or would you only find out once you reached the pearly gates? 

He has so much to repent for. He’s not sure he wants to repent. He’s not sure if it even is forgivable. He’s not sure if it will make a difference: he won’t know until it’s all over. But somehow, part of him is sure he won’t make it into Heaven.

Perhaps that’s why he takes such interest in the afterlife, he thinks— there’s some comfort in the fact that perhaps, there’s a third option. If he had to choose between changing every last part of himself to get into the kingdom of Heaven, or burning in Hell, or sticking around the earth just a little while longer— he’d gladly choose the latter. 

—to pray for me to Lord our God.

Night: They sneak into the fucking church.

The air is thick and humid, heavy in a way that portends the sky opening up and unleashing a hot, wet summer storm. Henry breathes it in deep through the open window of his truck and wonders, not for the first time today, when William Antoinette managed to work his way into Henry’s head. Sink his fingers deep into Henry’s brain.

That’s the only reason, he reckons, why they’re here in the first place.

Because, “Where the hell can I get something to drink at this hour?” William had asked around eleven that night, to which the response had been, “Nowhere,” because the one place in town that sells booze is only open during normal business hours.

And William had groaned and put his feet up on the dash of Henry’s truck, and Henry had looked at him for a long, long moment, and—

And then William sank his fingers deep into Henry’s brain, that’s the only reason, he swears, why he even said it in the first place: “Actually. I know a place.”

And so where they end up is the church parking lot, where Henry feels his hands shake, like the church is a beacon of unease that radiates through the whole town and concentrates the strongest here.

And so Henry is terrified, and William is delighted, and Henry takes in a slow, deep breath before he pushes open the door of his truck. It seems to slam loudly even though he closes it gently, breaks harshly through the dark quiet of the parking lot and serves as just another visceral reminder of what they’re about to do.

William whistles as they walk to the back door of the church, hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans, smiling at Henry beatifically despite the looming threat of a storm.

William is beautiful like a punch to the gut.

William leaves Henry winded, breathless, powerless to do anything but be pulled inexorably into his orbit. William is Bad News, capital letters, for a variety of reasons, but Henry wants to be kissing him all the time, wants to touch William where and when he wants, wants to leave white-hot wakes on William’s skin with his fingers like William does to Henry’s thoughts with his eyes and smiles, prays to God despite the sick feeling in his stomach that one day he’ll get the chance to without feeling guilty, please, he’s begging, he’s sorry, amen.

It’s times like this where Henry wishes desperately that things were different. That circumstances were different. That he was different.

He thinks maybe if everything were different, he’d love William.

Henry fumbles for the key and wonders when, exactly, he fell so completely off the edge of the life he’s been living until William drove into town. “I’m breaking into the church,” he says, half wonderingly and half bemoaning it. “I’m breaking and entering. I’m committing a felony.”

“Nah,” William says casually. “Probably just a misdemeanor. And, I mean, you have a key. So we’re not really breaking and entering. Just entering. Which is totally legal.”

Henry snorts. Tries not to think about William’s use of we, how he always automatically pairs himself with Henry, makes himself just as responsible for everything they do. “Obeying the letter of the law if not the spirit?”

“You just described my life motto. As long as I’m technically not breaking any laws, you know, the show will go on.”

“Have I mentioned what a bad influence you are?”

“On a nearly hourly basis for the last couple of days,” William says cheerfully. “Now commit this felony, church boy. I’m ready to get absolutely pissed on communion wine. Cross that off my bucket list.”

“Getting drunk on communion wine is on your bucket list?” Henry asks, surprised, working the key through the rusty lock and finally pushing the door open. Hot, stagnant air drifts out in a slow, meandering, invisible tumble.

“I put it on my bucket list when you suggested it.” William pushes past him into the church.

Henry rarely comes in this way, into the back room instead of through the big double doors at the front, but he thinks that if he opened the doors and looked down and the rows of pews towards the altar it’d be like looking into the barrel of a gun, and he’d turn tail and get right back in his truck. Here, he can almost convince himself he isn’t about to steal communion wine from a house of God with the man he’s been fooling with.

“Fuck, it’s dark,” he hears William mutter, and there’s the sound of something clattering loudly before Henry rolls his eyes and fumbles for the light switch. William grins sheepishly at him in the tepid light of the bulbs hanging on the ceiling ( Henry’s pretty sure they’re the exact same lightbulbs that were hanging there when he was a kid, their light slowly going yellowed and flicker with time ) and picks up a stack of acrylic number tiles they put up on the signs on the walls near the altar to tell people which pages to turn to in their hymnals.

“Are you really that clumsy?” Henry accuses quietly, taking the tiles from William and setting them back on the counter. “You’re not even drunk yet!”

“Have I mentioned how proud I am that you came up with this idea completely on your own?” William asks, completely ignoring the subject. “Even I didn’t think about breaking into the church.”

“I have a key,” Henry feels the need to remind him.

“The student has truly surpassed the teacher tonight, and I’m just—” William breaks off, pretending to choke up. “I’m so proud.”

“Of course you’re proud of being the single force of corruption in somebody’s life,” Henry mutters, unearthing the wine and setting it down heavily on the counter.

“I feel like corruption is such a strong word,” William says, walking over to peer at the label curiously, then admits, “But probably not an inaccurate one.”

“Yeah. Let me know when you decide to start feeling bad about that.”

“Let me know when you decide to start complaining about it,” William shoots back, starting to rifle through the cabinets above the counter.

Henry watches him. “What’re you doing?”

“What, you expect me to drink that shit out of the bottle like a heathen? I’m looking for those fancy cup things.”

“The chalices?” Henry asks with a growing sense of dread.

“Yeah, the fancy cup things,” William reiterates, pulling two of them from one of the cabinets with a triumphant sound and setting them on the counter to fill them from the big bottle. “If we’re gonna drink communion wine, we’re gonna do it in the official cups. I take this corrupting shit seriously, Callow.”

The sight of the ornate wine goblets he’s so accustomed to seeing and handling every Sunday being filled by William with the communion wine that they’re stealing makes the whole situation hit Henry all at once. He stares at the chalice William holds out to him, watches how William’s smile fades, how concern makes his eyebrows knit.

“Hey, it’s just a joke,” he says carefully, and something in Henry breaks. He wants to say that it’s not a joke, that none of this is a joke, that this is his life, this is everything he’s ever known and William is changing it and he’s not sure how he feels or how he’s supposed to feel and he just wishes things could be easier, wishes every brush of their fingertips didn’t feel like ten thousand volts of bad and wrong, wishes this could be normal, that the way he feels about William could be okay, and wishes William had never come to town in the first place, and wishes, wishes—

Henry shuts his eyes against the thoughts before they burst out of him, before he ends up shouting them, screaming himself hoarse and letting William find out exactly how messed up he is. Instead, he takes the chalice, lets the weight of it ground him, and smiles when William toasts him sarcastically. It’s cheap wine, bitter on his tongue and heating him all the way down. William laughs when he can’t help but pull a face; he’s not used to more than a sip or so at a time.

They drink until a Henry feels warm down to his toes, until everything’s just a little softer around the edges, until William cuts him off and takes the chalice from him because “We’re not gonna make it home if you’re completely trashed, Henry, don’t look at me like that, you’re not even enjoying it.”

Henry kisses him then, realizes there’s a reason people call alcohol liquid courage, because he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t for the wine. William tastes like communion wine and cigarettes, which should be horrible, but the hot slide of his mouth and tongue more than make up for it. Henry wonders if kissing him will ever not feel like the first time, like a thousand electric butterflies. Henry finds his hands wandering again and decides he’s not going to let his chance slip away this time.

William’s hands catch his before they get too far underneath his shirt. “Allow me,” he hums, his gaze and hands drifting down to Henry’s belt, and then— “Can I?” he asks, and Henry nods without even knowing what William’s asking, eager and so hard his hair flops into his face.

William does that fond smile of his, and kisses Henry one more time before he moves, and Henry figures out pretty quickly what it is he’s planning to do.

And William’s said he’s not a religious man, but when he sinks to his knees Henry can’t help but wonder if religion has to coexist with divinity.

And, oh, William drives fast and kisses slow and moves mountains inside of Henry when he works his belt off, the leather sliding from the buckle with a soft, smooth sound that makes Henry’s hips jerk a little preemptively. Chuckling, William rucks up Henry’s shirt a little and thumbs the skin just above the waistband of his jeans, and doesn’t make a move to touch his zipper. “Slow,” he murmurs, smiling up at him. “We’ll take it slow.”

“Right,” Henry manages, and he’s already reaching back to grip the lip of the counter with both hands so he doesn’t do what he wants to do, which is sink his fingers into William’s hair, or touch William’s face, or just stuff his own fist into his mouth to muffle a scream about how he’s about to get blown in the back of the church. “Great. That way, when I cum in the next minute and a half anyways, it’ll be even more embarrassing.”

William laughs, low and rough and a little messy from the alcohol, and that sound plus the way he leans in to nose at the hair below Henry’s navel makes Henry go from zero to half hard in a pathetic few seconds. It should be illegal, how long it takes for William to unzip his jeans and pull them down, and there’s no way William doesn’t notice Henry’s impatience, how it leaves every muscle tight like the moment before the gun goes off, how his fingers grip the counter so hard the old wood creaks a little under his touch. His heart feels like it’s going to race out of his chest in some awful combination of anticipation and nerves and arousal and guilt.

“Let me know if you need to stop at any point,” William reminds him, gentle, and— Henry appreciates the concern, but he can’t even begin to comprehend the idea of stopping, not now. William waits until he at least gets a nod, then continues.

Henry lets out a rush of air when William presses his lips to his cock— still clothed in his boxers, in an open-mouthed kiss, and Henry damn near bites through his lower lip to hold in possibly the most pathetic sound he’s ever made.

William glances up at him with a wicked grin as he finally tugs Henry’s boxers down and says, “You can pull my hair if you want, you know,” and Henry sucks in a breath and then, nope, that’s definitely the most pathetic sound he’s ever made.

“You’re going to kill me,” Henry accuses shakily, and can’t quite manage a scowl when William just laughs at him. 

“I mean, hopefully I’ll at least get you to cum first, then,” he says, and Henry groans and gives in and pushes his fingers through William’s hair. William makes an appreciative sound at that, and then another when he finally gives his full attention to Henry’s cock, flushed and hard— and Henry feels a little self-conscious despite himself for a moment, but that starts to fade away when William takes Henry’s cock into his mouth completely, root to tip, in a single, easy motion. Henry finds himself surprised that William doesn’t choke on it.

Henry thinks, if he could get enough air, he’d be crying out. As it is, he just tightens his fingers in William’s hair and chokes out a barely audible, helpless noise as his knees buckle and his hips jerk forward. 

He manages to still himself, but none of it seems to bother William— if anything, he just seems to throw himself into his efforts harder, and Henry wonders, just for a moment, how many times William has done this, with how many people, in how many different places. ( He hangs on to the half-comforting fact that, at the very least, this is probably the first time William has given a blowjob in a church. )

William works up a relentless rhythm, the wet heat of his mouth making Henry’s lips part and his eyes screw shut, and he thinks that this is how he’s going to cum, having barely taken a full breath yet and spilling into William’s mouth in less than a minute, Christ alive— but then William slows, releases Henry’s cock as he brings his head up again.

Henry’s whole body thrums. He realizes he’s sent William’s hair into a hopeless state of disarray with his fingers and realizes, now that the room isn’t filled with the wet, bordering-on-obscene noises of William’s mouth on his cock, that he’s gasping, aborted little half-breaths that make him dizzy.

William has the fucking gall to grin at him.

“Doing okay?” He asks, lips red and swollen and, oh, fuck, Henry wants to kiss him more than anything, fuck where his mouth has been.

“I hate you;” Henry says— or means to say. In reality it comes out sounding something like ughhhAhaytchu, but he figures he should get points for being able to vocalize anything at all.

Predictably, William just grins wider. “Fuck, you’re doing so good,” he says, voice gentle despite the cocky look still tinging his expression, and all Henry can think about through the haze of please, please keep doing that is that William’s got it backwards.

When William doesn’t seem to be too eager to do anything more than trace teasing fingertips along his inner thighs ( which makes him squirm probably just as much as sucking him off had, to be fair, ) Henry groans and lets his head fall back against the cabinet doors with a hollow thud.

“So,” William murmurs, the pads of his thumbs dragging rough over Henry’s hipbones, and there’s a gentle amusement in his voice that makes Henry think oh, no. “I’m guessing this is your first t—”

“Nope,” Henry says loudly, and he’s proud of how coherently that single word comes out, despite the mortification in his tone. “I can’t think of anything I’d like less than talking about my lack of blowjob experiences, especially with your mouth inches from my dick— which is incidentally a talking point I am actually in support of, specifically, you going back to what you were doing before? Instead of finishing that thought? Please?”

William’s outright laughing now. “Oh, c’mon, there’s no shame—”

“William,” Henry says. He does his best to make his voice drop a little lower, twist it a little more desperately because he’s inexperienced, sure, but he’s not blind, he’s noticed what’s gotten William worked up these last couple of days and isn’t afraid to exploit it in times of need. “Please. Please, Will, I need it, I need you , please touch me,” He breathes in shakily, not entirely acting anymore, “Oh, God. Please.”

He’s a little proud of the sudden flush on William’s cheeks, of the way William’s throat clicks as he swallows thickly. Mostly he’s just helplessly, hopelessly relieved, because then William finally brings his mouth back down to the head of his cock. Henry shudders with it, babbles out a repeating, shuttering thank you as he cards his fingers through William’s hair again, more carefully this time.

And now William takes it slow, brings out a dozen little tricks with his tongue that make Henry’s head spin. He has enough breath to make noise now, and fuck if he doesn’t take advantage of it whether he means to or not. His breath leaves him in helpless moans and whines and choked sounds, and every time William drags the flat of his tongue slowly, heavily, deliberately up there whole length of his shaft, he shivers, just like he tightens his hands in William’s hair whenever William sucks at the head of his cock ( which he does frankly way too often for Henry to pass off as innocent, especially not with the way his eyelashes flutter when Henry pulls at his hair a little. )

There’s a few moments where he feels selfish, just taking what William gives him, but he figures out pretty quickly that his reactions are doing something for William just as surely as William’s mouth is doing something for him.

He’s looking down at William— as if he could look away from this— and so he sees when William brings a hand down between his legs, sees him rock against the heel of his hand without breaking rhythm. 

“Oh,” Henry breathes out, because he can’t not, because that’s easily the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

William’s gaze flicks up, and he winks, the fucker, and hums in satisfaction, muffled, around Henry’s cock. Henry’s not entirely convinced he doesn’t feel the resulting vibrations in his chest. He gasps something out, knees buckling, and it’s only half coherent to his own ears, so he tries again for William’s sake. “Please. I’m gonna— Will— You gotta—”

But William doesn’t back off— if anything, he speeds up, sucks him down completely again, twice, a third time, and then Henry’s crying out, hips jerking forward helplessly as he cums down William’s throat, body shaking with it. He can barely stay on his feet through it, especially when William licks his cock clean, makes him shudder and whine with oversensitivity.

Finally, William backs off, sits back on his heels as they both work to catch their breath. His legs are spread, knees much farther apart than when he’d started.

Gradually, Henry’s ears stop ringing. He feels weak, but more satisfied than he’s felt in— maybe ever, honestly, even if William’s grinning at him again like the cocky son of a bitch he is. Henry wants to haul him up by the front of his shirt and take him right there, but is barely managing to hold himself up without crumpling like a paper doll.

“You good?” William asks, getting to his feet and pulling Henry’s boxers and jeans up in a way that’s more caring and considerate than it should be, really, considering what they’ve been doing. His voice is really, really appealingly rough. “Did I kill you?”

“Yes,” Henry says, dazed, and William laughs, leans in to kiss him.

Henry tastes himself on William’s tongue, which should be awful, realistically, but somehow just makes him groan and press against William further, hands wandering freely. The inhibitions that couldn’t be washed away with the wine have disappeared in the wake of orgasm, somehow, and Henry’s not complaining.

“I want,” Henry says, not completely sure how to get the words from his brain to his mouth. His hands land on William’s belt buckle. “I want— will you let me, uh. Return the favor?” he manages, lamely.

William blinks, surprised, and then takes a moment to look him over. His smile goes soft, fond. “Next time,” he says. Teases, “When you have enough brain cells to rub together let me teach you how to do it well.”

“Excuse you,” Henry says, more on principle than anything else, and tries to ignore the way he throbs a little at the idea of William gently coaching him through his first blowjob.

William kisses him again, breathing a low, vibrating chuckle into his mouth, and places his hands over Henry’s, gently guiding him away from his belt. “Don’t worry about me, darling.”

Henry finds himself a bit surprised. “Are you sure?” He asks, “I feel bad just leaving you after— after that.”

“I’m sure,” William says, although he doesn’t sound it, “I don’t want to— don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it myself.”

“You don’t want to what?” Henry asks, trying his best to coax the answer out of him.

William pulls away, moving back to where they left the goblets on the floor and starting to pick them back up. He mumbles something, but Henry can’t make it out.

“Can you repeat that?”

There’s something to be said in the way William’s body language changes. “I don’t want to scare you,” He says, a little louder this time, sounding frustrated.

“Scare me?” Henry echoes.

“Yeah.” William says flatly.

He shifts, standing up on legs that still are still a little wobbly, moving over and gently tugging William back towards him. “Believe me, Will, there’s not much you can do to scare me anymore.” He says, amused. 

William pauses, studying Henry’s face over for a considerate amount of time. He sighs, turns to face him, allowing himself to lean back into Henry’s touch, “Sure, I’ll let you get me off— as long as you promise not to run out of this church crying blasphemy.”

Henry can’t help but to laugh. “Will, really? I’m not—”

He finally fumbles with the fly of his own jeans, leaning in and kissing Henry again to shut him up. Not breaking the kiss, he takes one of Henry’s hands in and guides it down. Henry gladly accepts it, but can’t help the soft, confused noise that escapes his mouth and muffles into William’s lips when his fingers alight soft skin and wet heat, and, oh, that’s not— Henry jerks his hand back at the sensation, a panicked, involuntary action that he silently curses himself for.

“How—” 

“Don’t even bother to ask,” William interrupts, gritting his teeth, and Henry quickly moves to pull him back in, pull him closer, a small, apologetic movement for jerking away like that— “I don’t know. Born like this— some kind of fuckup with my chromosomes, I think?”

“Oh,” He says.

“They, uh, told my mother that she had given birth to a monster,” William laughs, like it’s funny, and it’s not, it’s not, “I’m considered, uh, disordered. I was told not to talk to anybody about it. They actually did surgery when I was a baby, tried to fix it. Told my mother to raise me as a girl, and she just didn’t, so now I’m stuck like this—”

“Will—”

“I should have told you earlier, I know, I just— I know it’s not what you were expecting, you don’t have to—”

“You’re Rebis,” Henry says, louder now, interrupting him.

That gets William’s attention. His eyes shift back to Henry’s, but he says nothing, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “What?”

“Th-The end product, the— the magnum opus of alchemy,” The words come tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them, “They thought, uhm, they believed once one went through the process of both putrefaction and purification, that they’d become the perfect being. They’d have the united qualities of both man and woman— A hermaphrodite. Rebis.”

“Henry, what the fuck are you talking about—”

“You’re divine.” Henry breathes. 

William’s eyes widen for just a moment, and even in the flickering, tepid light of the church’s back room he thinks he can see his cheeks redden. “Oh, fuck off. ” he scoffs, but he’s not quite managing to hide the grin creeping up his lips.

“I-I’m sorry, that’s weird— that was a weird thing to say, wasn’t it? Let me try that again—”

William uses his free hand to cup the back of Henry’s head and pull him in for another kiss, and Henry doesn’t fight it. “Just touch me,” he says, and Henry does.

He allows his hands to wander down again, wasting no time— he’ll ask the important questions later, right now he can’t think straight past the alcohol and arousal. William helps him, pulling his pants down and past his waistline so he has more room. His fingers dip past and press inside, without much resistance, God, He’s excited, and the noise William makes into his mouth almost makes him dizzy. 

Together they get William off, bodies pressed together, William gently guiding him through it, encouraging him to move more, move faster, to curl his fingers, to press his thumb into his clit— his dick? Henry’s not sure what to call it and not sure if it matters— swollen and hard with need, to press little circles, just the way he likes it. Henry feels every hitch of William’s breath and feels him tighten when he cums, and it’s a miracle Henry only gets a little worked up through it all— God knows what cocky attitude William would turn on him if Henry got hard again just from that.

And so William buries his face in the crook of Henry’s neck when he cums on Henry’s fingers, hips twitching, and Henry leans against the counter as William leans against him, breathing hard.

“Fuck,” William murmurs. He doesn’t quite nuzzle against the underside of Henry’s jaw, and Henry’s stomach doesn’t quite do high-school-crush flips in response. They stay like that for a minute, the room so quiet in the aftermath that it’s half deafening.

“So,” Henry says, pushing down all the dark, coiling thoughts rising in him in favor of gently elbowing William in the side and smiling, maybe a little shyly. “Next time?”

William grins at him, a thousand watts that immediately banish every thought that threatens to ruin what’s become a pretty nice afterglow, and drags him up to kiss him again. “Next time.”

The moment doesn’t break when they separate, not really. William tucks himself back into his boxers and zips his jeans and they clean up— the wine and the chalices and their hands— and William flashes him a fond, easy smile, and Henry tries not to fall in love.

It’s storming, at last, when they leave. There’s a chill to the rain that signals the coming end of summer, inevitable and so close that it’s in the air. The threat of change and the storm should make Henry hunch his shoulders, duck his head.

Instead, he lets himself curl an arm around William’s waist as they walk back to his truck, the press of William’s body against his side a warm, comfortable presence he’s a little afraid he’s getting used to.

Instead, he turns his face up to the sky and lets the cold rain hit his cheeks.

Day: Henry sits in the confessional, swallows hard, says, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” and he both wants and doesn’t want to say it, for a long few moments can’t say anything, and then finally chickens out, murmurs, “I’ve been coveting.” He’s given five hail Mary's as penance by the priest and they ring so hollow it makes his chest ache. 

He wants to admit it so badly, wants to properly repent— but he remembers the stories they told him about the last boy who liked boys in this town, how they beat him to death and left him to bleed out and die in the cold, how his father now lives in the same empty house he shelters Henry in, still wrestling with the guilt of it all. How nobody speaks of him, aside from whispered warnings to their sons as to why they should stay away from sin. He thinks, again, maybe if things were different, he could confess. When everything is different. Until then, he’ll hold that sin— the loveliest damn sin he’s ever committed, that he’ll ever commit, that he’s going to keep committing— locked up tight in his chest.

William’s spent his last few weeks here with Henry, because, really, what else is there? He sits in Old Man Smith’s garage with him for hours on end, days on end, watching him work on cars and doing his best to help— mostly just mirroring what he watches, monkey-see, monkey-do. In-between it, William tries unsuccessfully to convince him to give the Ouija board another shot, but successfully manages to convince him to explain how the Tarot cards work, and even offers him a reading in return ( “Death,” William says, a little bit worried when Henry flips the card, to which Henry laughs. “It’s not literal,” he explains, “It signifies a major change coming in somebody’s life. Your concern is cute, though.” ) Other days he stops by Henry’s house a few times just to see him, a few times where he just couldn’t handle being alone, a few times when his father’s steel-toed boots against his ribs become too much. 

His nights and days become a swirling storm of emotions as the days and hours seemingly scream past him, all blending together until he forgets what memories belong to where, just a blur of the highs and lows, the dark and the light, which goes a little something like this:

Night: Henry drives him to a lake located at the exact center of bumfuck nowhere , and they sit and eat popcorn and look at the stars, and race down to the lake like oversized children, and when he accidentally knocks the both of them into the freezing water he can’t bring himself to care about the cold, not when Henry smiles at him like that.

He remembers the way they talked back and forth for a few hours, but doesn’t remember what it was all about— remembers threatening to fight anyone that gave him trouble, encouraging him to do it himself, remembers talking about Henry’s father, and then remembers kissing Henry for the first time.

He’d been waiting for the chance. At first, he pushed the thoughts down, because there’s no way, because not in this town, and he resigned himself to the idea that if he was ever going to find somebody else like him, it would be long after he left Seville. He pushed the thoughts down, but they always came creeping back up, electric shocks and butterflies and that warmth pooling in his stomach— and he began to notice things, just little things, just factoids of information picked out of their conversations, out of Henry’s expressions and reactions to everything he does, and allows himself to think maybe you are like me. He starts to allow his thoughts to wander more often— allows himself to imagine what kissing him would be like, what waking up next to him would be like, what crushing the air from his throat as he strangled him alive would feel like, or if he’d blush if William presented him with flowers. He allows himself to think all these things, because the more time they spend together, he thinks Henry might be thinking them as well.

And, so, when the chance falls perfectly into place, he pounces.

“Because I’m trying to decide if I should kiss you or not,” He says, carefully, casually.

Henry looks dazed, startled half to death, but he doesn’t say anything, so—

“I won’t if you don’t want me to,” He tries, softening his voice a little, trying to ignore that cold, cackling little voice in the back of his head, oh, now you’ve done it, jackass, you’ve really done it— now he knows! not only is he going to hate you, he’s going to be afraid, surely you don’t actually believe you had a chance? now you’re going to lose the only person you’ve ever cared about. it’ll be just you and me again, you and me. “But I really, really want to.”

“Please,” Henry says, to his surprise, and he does.

He kisses Henry like it’s the last time he’s ever going to kiss anybody, like he’s on death row, like it’s the end of the world. It’s everything he hoped it would be, like a stomach full of butterflies, like an electric shock, like relief, like coming home. He maybe adds a little bit of tongue to the kiss, just to see what it’s like, just to taste him— he’s not sure he’ll ever get the chance again. When he pulls away, his chest is tight, his stomach’s in knots, but— “Do it again,” Henry says, and he does.

Later, on the way home, he fumbles over the radio to find any semblance of music he likes— stumbles across the beginning of I Only Have Eyes For You and settles with it. If you had asked him before, he would have said he hated it ( too sappy for his taste, too quiet, too sweet ) but now, as he looks at Henry, the lyrics start to make more and more sense, and so he sings along, loud and proud.

Day: He sits with Henry out in the field by the train tracks, windows down, listening to the sound of the grass rustling and cicadas in the trees.

“You said your old house was haunted,” Henry begins, “That you’ve seen ghosts?”

William sighs, stretching out across the car seat with all the tense grace of a cat. “Yeah, I did. What about ‘em?”

“I just— It's kind of cool, honestly. Y’know, I read so many ghost stories, hear so many ghost stories, but never seen one myself— How many have you seen?”

Plenty, he thinks. He’s seen them in his old home, Victorian-styled and ancient, passed down in the family— he’s seen them wander the halls, wearing bustles and petticoats or wool suits and tophats, seen them standing in the kitchen in old green uniforms and helmets and carrying rifles, or wearing blazers and long skirts, neat and pressed, presentable, waiting for their husbands to return home from war.

He’s seen them standing at the side of the road as he tried to focus on the grass, tried to keep his stomach still as his father swerved wildly between the lines, the smell of alcohol still sharp on his breath— he’s seen them, alone, bones pushed through mangled limbs and bleeding from glass shards forever stuck in their skin, their presence only marked by a small weathered cross sticking out of the dirt— silent, sorrowful reminders of what might happen to him any moment with his father at the wheel.

He’s seen them in the hospitals, so many and so real, so visceral it became impossible to tell if he was talking to a real person or not. He’s seen them in the shape of wounded soldiers, riddled with bullet holes or missing limbs replaced with charred, black stumps— he’s seen them in the shape of nurses, tired eyes and shaking, gloved hands riddled with disease and the red cross plastered across their chest, mixed with the blood of those same soldiers they tried to save. 

He’s seen them in the form of asylum patients, just like him, wrapped in thin hospital gowns despite the cold seeping through every crack in the walls— wandering aimlessly in circles, sobbing and laughing and screaming in equal measure— some still dragging IV’s behind them, some with the thick, black tubes still hanging out of their nostril, insulin leaking in a steady drip onto the floor and pooling in front of them, others still standing in a steady line, tongues held out and lifted up so the doctors can check underneath. He’s seen them watching him, watching him with empty eyes and shaved heads lolled off to the side, blood leaking between the space between their eyeball and their upper eyelid. He’s seen them, sometimes, ice-picks still sticking out from behind their eyes, watching him, silent, voiceless, but pleading, join us, join us. 

“I don’t remember. A lot?” he guesses, “It’s all foggy, now. Uhm, lots of soldiers— post-war London, and all that. Sometimes just random people. Maybe family members who lived there before us?”

“What about the shadow thing?” Henry asks, his eyes wide, attentive. “What was it’s deal?”

He remembers the shadow in great detail. He remembers it the same way you’d remember a childhood friend; he couldn’t remember when he had first seen it, as far as he knew, it had always been there, always been at his side, always by his ear, always in his head.

“I mean, it was just a shadow, I could never really make out too much detail.”

He remembers its eyes and its wide smile, the only two discernible features on it— both stark-white and empty, peering back at him from his closet. It looked like him, or, at least, a perfect silhouette of him, the same hair and the same long, spindly limbs, the same kind of wild grin. He wasn’t scared of it, which is strange, the longer he thought about it— he was a fearful child, terrified of the dark and loud noises and thunderstorms, scared of the monster under his bed but not the one behind him in the mirror, looming several feet taller than him no matter how tall he grew. He was not scared of its embrace, freezing cold, colder than anything he had ever felt before but still warmer than his mother’s empty touches, still warmer than his father’s thrown punches. He remembers hiding in the pitch blackness of his closet, broken ribs and bloody noses and the tender touch of the creature holding onto his hand with its long claws and turning it numb, whispering, promising, one day he will hurt like you hurt. 

“Did it ever speak to you?” Henry asks.

“Yes,” he says, honestly. 

It spoke in whispers, voice always low, low enough that only he could hear, like its voice— always sounding exactly like his own— was a secret just for him. 

“What did it say?”

( What an exciting day, you and Mama have been waiting for them to hatch, haven’t you? “ Yes.” Aren’t they cute? “Yes.” They are magpies. When they’re older, they will grow their feathers, brilliant black and white, and they will swoop at people and try to claw out their eyes. You are very lucky I took care of the mother already, or you might be missing your eyes. “That’s not very nice of them.” No, it’s not, isn’t it? “ Why do they do that?” It’s in their nature. “What’s that mean?” They cannot help themselves. It’s instinct. “But I don’t want them to hurt people…” No, you don’t, do you? You can stop them, if you’d like, just let me in. There, just like that. Their bones are fragile, like this. They are hollow, so they can fly. They are so easy to break.

There you go, good. Now they can’t hurt anybody. Do you still want to show your mama? )

“Nothing too significant,” he says, shutting his eyes and tipping his head back against the seat, “It would ask about my day, about the friends I made at school, about my toys— I was still little then, y’know.”

The smile on Henry’s face makes his chest feel hollow. “It’s kind of sweet,” he says, “Like a guardian angel.”

“The shadow thing? An angel?” William forces a laugh.

“They were startling to most, if not outright scary! Fear not, for behold,” Henry begins, “I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.”

He’s not so sure.

“Did it have a name?” Henry asks after a few moments, his hand moving to rest on the center console, placed on top of William’s own. 

“If it did, it never told me.” He shrugs, allowing the warmth of Henry’s hand to ground him.

William had asked it, once. He was small, then, so small, as was the shadow. It didn’t speak, at first, only echoed his words, although it’s speech quickly outmatched his in time. He remembered the way he would say the silliest sentences he could imagine just to hear it repeated back to him in his own voice— it would always make him burst out into a fit of giggles, and the shadow would smile, like it was proud. It reminded him of a parrot— he had always loved all types of birds. He had asked for its name, after a few days, but it only repeated his words.

( “What’s your name?” What’s your name? “I’m William!” I’m William! “No, silly, you can’t be William— I’m William!” I’m William! ) 

He had paused, trying very hard to conjure up the perfect name for his new friend, since it could not decide for itself yet. Of course, he had been only three years old, so he settled on the very, very creative option of Dave . When he proudly announced this to the creature what its name would be, it nodded and smiled so wide it looked like its grin would fall off its face, and swept William into its empty, freezing embrace. William swore, just for a moment, that he could hear a slight rumble coming from the creature’s throat, like the hum of an engine, like a cat’s purr.

“Do you still see them?”

William entangles his fingers with Henry’s, his eyes staring steadily ahead at the train tracks in front of him, where a shadow stands, staring right back at him— wide eyes and an equally wide smile. This year, it has taken on the appearance of a rabbit— no doubt to mock him for the pet one he had to put down before he moved here. he’s too old, it had told him, he will not survive the trip. this is a mercy. It’s still shaped like him, of course, uncut hair and ribs poking through its shallow skin, but now it wears comically large rabbit ears, a small, fluffy tail and lapine-like paws. It wants to remind him. It wants to make it hurt. William tries his best to ignore it— after all, this is much better than the magpie songs that played outside his window each night.

“No,” he says, “I don’t.”

“That’s a shame,” Henry says, “It’s like a gift.”

“A gift?” William echoes, incredulous.

Henry nods. “Having the ability to see between life and death? To be granted such a beautiful, unique power? I think so.”

A gift, he thinks, wanting so hard to believe it, this is a gift.

Night: William’s never considered himself anything close to religious.

Catholic school was unavoidable in his youth, and William does remember it well— tight-lipped nuns and overbearing priests who taught lessons of the lord and savior that William couldn’t possibly care less for, who sang hymns that made his ears ring, who encouraged prayers that would cause his throat to burn. He remembers, in a much more vivid detail, being sat down in the principal’s office, the white-collared old man explaining as gently as he can to William’s mother that his expulsion is imminent as William grins around the blood in his mouth, as he tries to pick bits of a nun’s skin from in-between his teeth, saying, all i’m saying is that she shouldn’t have hit me with the ruler if she didn’t want me to fight back, with all the simplicity in the world. He was sent strictly to private schools, after that. 

He remembers when his grandparents had tried to drag him to church, having thoroughly scolded his mother for not keeping up with it. He remembers the moment he walked into that towering cathedral, rows of pews and stained-glass windows and precariously large chandeliers hanging above, and the moment his feet crossed onto holy ground, his nose began to bleed. And bleed. And bleed. And bleed. And bleed. And would not stop bleeding until he was finally escorted off the property, dress shirt dripping and sticky with red.

William’s never imagined himself anything close to religious, but sitting here in the back of his car behind the church, sitting in Henry’s lap and pressing kisses into every inch of bare skin he can find, he thinks he’s found the next best thing. 

Looking at Henry now, the pale moonlight reflecting off the orange fire of his hair, William’s sure he’s looking at an angel in disguise. That if he were to reach up and run his fingers through Henry’s hair, he’d accidentally rip the halo from his head. That with each peppered kiss upon his freckled shoulders, William would be plucking the wings from his shoulders— undressing his softness one feather at a time. 

Henry’s touch, then, feels equally as sacrilegious— hands that map a communion in the cradle of his hips, that kiss hymns up his sides. The prayer Henry nervously mutters under his breath, teeth grazing his collarbone, like William’s new gospel. The soft wet of his lips and the taste of his tongue, his holy water, his cherry wine, his altar. It hurts just the same as before, each word making his skull ring, each kiss clogging his throat with the taste of copper, each and every little agonizing touch of Henry’s fingertips hot like holy fire, and William’s never wanted to badly than to burn out.

Day: It’s two in the afternoon, and he needs a cigarette. 

His addiction started in someone else’s pocket— a pack stolen from a guard and shared in-between kisses with a girl in the asylum wards when he was 16, because he didn’t know any better back then, because he loved the thrill. It started with stolen drags, burning chemical cocktails while touching shoulders with strangers in the aftermath of things best left unsaid.

To his credit, he tried to leave it with him in London. A new start, he says, but the addiction has the gall to stick around— he supposes it didn’t help that he tried to quit cold turkey. He prefers lucky strikes, the taste like his childhood home nearly burnt to the ground, like his parents sleeping in separate beds, like the end of innocence. He managed to still it, for a while, but the second he gets to know Henry, the addiction comes back full-force. He leaves his smoke-soaked sheets behind every morning, washes the smell out of his clothes, out of his hair and teeth when he goes to see Henry again, but the cravings crawl back in every time he sees Henry smile or laugh, like an itch for death in his lungs.

The side effects of nicotine withdrawal, in his experience, include ( but are not limited to ) irritability, headaches, insomnia, and the constant, very obvious ticking in the back of his head reminding him how needs him a goddamn cigarette. He’s not sure if it’s the withdrawal that makes him miss Henry the second they separate, or if it's the other way around. He doesn’t know which option is more fucking pathetic. 

So, after only a day and a half of knowing Henry, he broke. He’s only human. As it is now, he drives his dinky purple car to the nearest convenience store, picks up a pack and tears into the cellophane and lights up with a stolen lighter in the shoulder-hunch cold of the approaching autumn winds, outside the store’s neon ‘OPEN’ sign, flickering like his stuttering heart.

There’s no relief in the first drag. Or the second. Or the tenth. Or after he chainsmokes himself sick and throws up behind the building, realizing with a slightly dawning horror that his craving may not be about the nicotine. He turns and goes to stumble back to his car, but there’s someone standing there at the end of the alley. He can vaguely recognize his face— doesn’t know from where, assumes it may be from the church, or just from around town in general— but the kid’s about his age, maybe a bit older. And judging by the way he’s staring William down, William knows he’s in trouble.

“I was just on my way to buy some cigarettes,” the man hums, “But I totally left my wallet at home. Wouldn’t happen to have one to share, would ‘ya?”

William doesn’t want to waste his time or precious resources on this guy, so he shoves the pack back into his jacket. “Sorry, mate. Just finished the pack,” he mutters, although he doesn’t sound too convincing.

“Aw, now, don’t be like that,” The man says, grinning like he knows William doesn’t. “Maybe you got some cash to spare?”

William ignores him and tries to squeeze past, but the guy holds an arm out to physically block him. William huffs, backs up and acknowledges him. “You got a problem?”

“Naw, man. You’re new in town, y’know, you’re not from here— so I figured I’d give you a little warning,” the guy’s voice drops, low, threatening. “We don’t take kindly to faggots here.”

“Excuse me?”

“I saw you and Callow last night,” he mutters, “Behind the church.”

His stomach churns in disgust at the idea of this guy watching them— he has no fucking idea where he was when he saw, but William had been a bit too preoccupied to really be on the lookout.

“Do you know what everyone did with the last fag that lived in this town?” He continues, a grimace forming over his face. “They beat the shit out of him. They kicked his poor fuckin’ head in. Killed the bastard.”

We’re here for a new start, he reminds himself.

“So if you don’t want me to do the same to you, I suggest you hand over some cash so I can get my goddamn cigarettes.”

“I’m not giving you shit,” William spits, unafraid. He’s familiar with this process, he knows how it goes, how these kinds of people play their game. He has no interest in partaking.

That seems to throw the man off, at least for a second. William watches as he opens his mouth to speak— We’re here for a new start. “Fine. Maybe I’ll pay Henry a little visit tonight, then.”

William knows they’re there for a new start, is the thing. Knows they came down to this terrible town in Georgia to pull away from their life before he had ruined it— he knows that if he does anything, he’d be throwing away their clean slate. 

But then the guy mentions Henry.

The guy mentions Henry, and William doesn’t think about their new start, about how his father will beat the shit out of him if the cops of this god awful town have to drag him home, how his mother will sigh and turn her head and blink back tears, how they’ll argue downstairs about sending him off to one of those fucking hospitals again, how this time they’ll shove that icepick between his eyes and he’ll float away to the line of spirits singing join us, join us.

What he does is throws his fist perfectly into the side of the guy’s head. William, although six-foot-six, has always been a scrawny little thing. The other man is massive, and although shorter, looks like he weighs at least three times more than William does, but he goes down like a sack of bricks. William hears the crack of his head hitting the concrete, and notices some blood begin to pool out from under his hair.

For a moment, William thinks he killed him.

He waits, watches. He knows he should be terrified of what this means, but there’s a nearly scalding heart somewhere in the center of his chest now that’s radiating out so hard he’s surprised the air doesn’t catch fire. He’s dead, William thinks, and he only wishes the man was alive just to kill him again, to draw out the process— William wants to rip the guy’s heart out of his chest. Wants to tear into his stomach, send his insides spilling out onto the concrete. Wants to do the damage himself, wants to inflict the pain that would come with his own two hands, to feel the blood dripping from them.

But there’s a quiet groan from the guy and the fire in his chest is replaced with an electric strike of joy and a little voice in the back of his mind, the one that sounds exactly like him but isn’t, it isn’t, singing let me in, let me in. i’ll do it, i’ll do it, let me do it. He won’t. This moment is his.

He kneels down, leaning over him, and he can’t quite help the way a grin forms over his lips. “I’m sorry, mate, must have misheard you,” he says, “Do you mind repeating what you said?”

The guy just sputters and coughs, looking up at him with wide, terrified eyes. It’s cathartic, really, seeing another person shake with fear under him. He wishes he could feel like this more often, wishes he could always be this fearless, and wishes he could always feel this powerful, wishes he could do this to every single person who had ever hurt him. so let me in. He won’t.

“That’s what I thought.” He hums, pleased with himself. He goes to stand up, but so does the other man— scrambling to his feet and groaning as he does. He watches as the other guy goes to reach into his jacket, stumbling slightly and clenching his teeth, and grabs onto something inside.

“You don’t want to do that,” he warns, and he can see the man visibly twitch under the ice in his voice. Still, he pulls a switchblade from his coat, gripping it hard for a moment before he flips it open.

“Motherfucker,” the man curses, and moves. He moves faster than William expects him to, as he certainly has a concussion at this point— and it takes him a few extra seconds to realize the knife’s ended up embedded in his shoulder.

“Oh,” he says, simply, as he looks over and sees it stuck there, poking out between the muscles in his shoulder. The pain doesn’t even register, and he simply takes the handle and rips it out of his own arm, much to the other guy’s surprise. He can feel both the cold rush of air hitting his exposed nerves and the warm gush of blood as it pools out, but not the pain. “Cool knife. Nice and sharp.”

“What… What the fuck is wrong with you?” The guy chokes, beginning to stumble backwards.

His fingers twitch around the handle of the blade, twitch with the desire to tear into another person. The desire spreads like a disease, the cold darkness that’s been brewing inside him since he was young, crawling under his skin, pulsing in his blood. He thinks of Henry, thinks about his not-so quiet obsession, thinks about the darkness creeping from himself over to Henry and imagines Henry getting hooked on it. Thinks about Henry’s choice in words— corruption. He imagines leaving the guy’s body at Henry’s door, letting the blood pool out over his porch, like a cat bringing home a dead bird for it’s owner, like a love letter passed in the back of a classroom, ink red and running, and here, look, I made this for you, I did this for you. See what I’ll do for you?

He flips the blade in his hand for a moment, studying it— it’s cold in his hand, so very cold, the same cold crawling up his spine, making him shiver in both excitement and anticipation— and then throws it. It’s a calculated movement, the knife whizzing past the man’s face, just close enough to leave a thin rivet of red across his cheek. The man shrieks, and before he has time to move or recover or flee, William grabs him by the front of his shirt and pulls him close. The man panics, breathing hard, almost gasping in fear as he struggles against it, but William’s grip doesn’t budge.

“You’re the luckiest man on the planet right now, do you know that?” He asks, voice dripping with malice.

The guy gulps. “W-What? Why—?”

“Because I’m deciding to spare your life right now.” He tells him, “If it weren’t for Henry, I’d gut you like a fucking fish— from your mouth and all the way down, ‘till your organs are all hanging out,” He continues, and the guy begins to try to tug away again, so desperate William can hear the fabric beginning to rip under his grasp, “So you better do him a fucking favor by keeping your mouth shut from now on, because next time I won’t be so generous. Do you understand me?”

The guy looks like he’s about to burst into tears, and William wants nothing more than to see them. “I-I understand! I got it! I won’t tell anyone— just— just let me go, you freak!” He cries, squirming like a pathetic child, tears finally spilling out of the corner of his eyes. William drops him finally as he sees those tears and the guy falls back, crumbling backwards against the side of the building.

“Good,” he says, pleased. “I’m glad we could come to an understanding.” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He picks the man’s knife up off the ground, pockets it, and steps past him. It’s only when he gets to his car and starts making his way back home does the pain of the wound begin to set in, the adrenaline leaving him all at once— he has to pull over on the side of the road for a moment to hiss and grip at his shoulder, the pain searing, burning, a good burn, a good pain, and then the laughter, you cannot fight your instinct, even if you wanted to, william.

He’s going to need something stronger than cigarettes for this.

Night: “You know it doesn’t bother me, right?” 

William looks up from where he’s hooked at Henry’s side, from where he’s pressed into the soft fat of Henry’s chest, half-asleep and still a little wine drunk, lost in the bliss of being in Henry’s arms and in his bed and in his mind— “Well, I’d sure hope so, considering the fact you jacked me off,” He mutters, “Would be fucked up of you to change your mind now.”

There’s a small huff of air from Henry, like both amusement and exasperation. “Will.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” William sighs, propping himself up with his elbows, “You want to talk about it.”

Henry’s hand meets his arm, squeezing gently, comforting. “Just a few questions, ‘s all.”

Questions. There’s always questions, and never any answers. William’s not sure how he’s supposed to answer if he doesn’t have the answer himself, but— “Yea, go ahead.”

William can hear the click of Henry’s throat as he swallows nervously. “You said there w— there was a surgery?”

“Two, actually,” William says, “One as a baby, one when I was four. To— I don’t know, improve on the first? To sterilize me, maybe?”

Henry looks a little pale. “Did it hurt?”

He shrugs. “I’m sure it did, but I really don't remember any of it anymore.”

“Aren’t you angry?”

Of course, William wants to say, Of course I am. They took something from me and I’ll never understand what. They took something from me and I’ll never get it back. They took something from me that was not theirs to take. They took something from me and I will never get to return the favor no matter how many times I imagine getting my hands on their scalpels and slicing off anything that they deem important— but, “They thought it was the best for me.”

Henry’s brows furrow. “Was it?”

“No,” William whispers. “It wasn’t.” 

“You—” Henry pauses, closing his mouth and trying to collect his words, “I’m— I’m not your first. How did that…?”

William finds himself subconsciously seeking Henry’s grasp, fingers twitching for his hand, and he forces himself to stop. He wonders when Henry’s become something like a safety blanket to him, and how he can smother out that feeling. “Well, most of the time they never got to see that part,” He tells him, “Y'know, most of the time I was just performing favors.”

“Favors,” Henry echoes.

“Blowjobs, Henry, do you really need me to explain that to you?”

Henry’s face flushes. “No, I know, I just— you’re really good at it, so I shouldn’t really be surprised—”

That manages to crack a grin out of him. “Practice makes perfect, Hen,” He says, humming, and then, “Uh, that’s not to say nobody’s ever seen me. Only people I really trusted, though.”

Somehow, Henry sounds doubtful, like he’s not worthy of it, like William wouldn’t give any part of himself up to him if he asked. “And I— I’m a part of that?”

William smiles despite himself. “You didn’t seem like the type to get spooked by that kind of thing.”

Henry snorts softly, leaning in to press a kiss into the very center of him. His hands find their way towards William’s hips, urging him closer, which William eagerly complies with until their bodies are flush, exchanging slow, lazy kisses that still hold the lingering taste of communion wine on their tongues. When they pull away, Henry’s silent for a moment, mouth falling open as he tries to decide what to say.

“What is it?” William asks, amused.

“Why not just— why not just raise you as a girl after going through all the trouble? I mean, wouldn’t it be… I-I don’t know, easier? Safer?”

“Mama said she wanted to spare me the pain of being a woman, whatever the fuck that means. Personally, I think she just wanted a boy.”

“Did you?”

William shoots him a questioning look. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“I— you know, is that what you want?”

“Yes,” William answers, quickly, too quickly, and then, “No— I don’t know? I don’t really think it matters. Not like I could change it at this point if I wanted to.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Hmm, let’s see—” William starts, sarcastic, “My shoulders are way too broad, I’m far too tall, I’ve got no ass, no tits, not to mention the amount of effort it’ll take to keep my voice raised—”

“So you’ve thought about it?”

William could be honest. He could tell Henry about the early years of his childhood, in the blissful, quiet moments when his father was away and his mother would indulge his harmless whims, would smile when he tried to fit into her heels, would clasp her pearls around his neck and twirl him around and they’d laugh with a volume they weren’t ever allowed to before. How sometimes the doctors would mistakenly send him to the female wards, where, mixed in amongst lonely grandmothers suffering from senile dementia and the overdrugged, exhausted housewives sent by their own husbands and the young girls deemed too promiscuous for polite society— how he’d hold tight to their hands as they waited for the doctors to take them away, how he’d allow the younger girls braid the flowers that grew in the asylum’s gardens through his hair, how he’d exchange kisses with the fellow floozies when the nurses’ eyes were turned away, how he felt more at home amongst them than anywhere else. How he’d spend his free days in the West End of London, in grimy underground bars and hidden away backstage amongst doll and drag queen alike, breathing their secondhand smoke and sickeningly floral perfume as they would paint his lips a brilliant ruby red, as they’d cover his eyes in shadow and glitter and throw their furs over his shoulders, ushering him to their brightly-lit mirrors, how they’d gently scold him about ruining his makeup when he cried tears of joy.

What he does, instead, is grab onto the nearest pillow and whip it at Henry’s head. “Oh, fuck off!”

Henry lets out a squealing sort of laugh, trying to block the attack with his arms. “Alright, alright, sorry! I was just curious!” 

William stares at him through squinted eyes for just a moment, still holding the pillow up for a second round of attacks, if needed. “I’m gettin’ real sick and tired of your curiosity,” he says, and Henry just giggles, joyful and innocent as ever. He decides against a second barrage and returns the pillow back to its spot. And, like clockwork, Henry opens his arms again, and William gladly crawls back into them.

It’s only once William’s settled back into Henry’s chest, listening close to the sound of his slowing heartbeat, does he speak again. “Wilhelmina.” He says.

Henry shifts to glance down at him, letting out a sleepy sounding Hmm?

“That’s what they were going to name me if I were a girl,” He whispers. “Either way, I’d still be Will, wouldn’t I?”

“Either way,” Henry echoes, smiling like it’s the most natural thing in the world, “I’d still love you the same.”

( Later that night— William won’t admit it, but he closes his eyes and pretends to fall asleep there in Henry’s arms, waiting until his breathing slows and he drifts off to sleep, if only to watch him like that, if only to admire him, peaceful and quiet in the embrace of the night. 

Instead, he listens as Henry takes a short breath, and then, Dangerous girl, seductive as the weather, shall I adore your snows and frosts together? he quotes, In your relentless winter shall I feel a kiss more sharp than that of ice and steel? and William feels more like herself than she has in years. )

Day: “Learn to take a hit like a man!” His father snarls as William’s curled up on the ground, arms raised to cover his face. “Stop crying, or I’ll give you something to really cry about!”

The pain that comes from this isn’t like the others. The pain of his cigarettes burning out against his arm or the knife cutting through his palm is a good one, a twisted kind of burning that causes his stomach to curl and his hands to shake in pleasure and his mind to sharpen, to focus, but the pain his father inflicts has never been that. When this happens, he feels like nothing more than a caged animal, desperate and wild and terrified and not being able to do anything more than howl and scratch and bite at any hand reaching for him. Even when the pain is done, even when he crawls into bed and his father passes out on his chair in the living room, it lingers with him, a constant, hollow ache underneath the bruises that lingers with him for days on end. The beatings come so often that he can’t remember anything besides the ache sometimes, dull and constant, in his ribs and his his lungs and his spine and his legs and—

Another blow lands right to his ribs from his father’s heavy shoe. He can already feel it beginning to bruise— the ones from before hadn't even finished fading— and they’re not stopping this time. He just curls in further, clenching his teeth and trying to force the tears to stop leaking from his eyes, tries to force his throat to hold back the choked sobs and shaky breaths— the sooner those stop, the sooner the pain stops.

“Bill, that’s enough!” His mother cries, and just for a moment, William allows himself to hope that she’ll stop this, that she’ll save him from it, just like she used to. He allows himself to hope that she’ll sweep him up and nurse his wounds like she used to when he was young, when she’d usher his broken and beaten body into the bathroom and hold an ice pack against his bruises, clean up his bloody nose, but— “You promised you’d take it easy. People are going to start asking questions again.”

Get up.

William can see his father round on her through the crack between his arms. “He still hasn’t learned his goddamn lesson,” his father slurs, waving a beer bottle around vaguely, “No one’s gonna say shit, and he’s sure as hell not gonna tell anybody if he wants to keep living—!”

Get up, you fucking coward, the shadow that sits upon his back hisses, fight back.

He groans and tries to sit up. This is your chance, move now, the voice says, claw out his eyes, tear his throat with your teeth, anything, but he’s not fast enough, because his father’s boot meets his side again and he collapses back down, wheezing, all of the air knocked out of his lungs.

“Stay down,” his father tells him, and he does. He can taste copper at the back of his throat and over his tongue, dripping down from his nose, and just shuts his eyes, imagining happier things, like hitting his father with a metal baseball bat over and over until his brain is nothing but mush, listening to him scream and plead and beg for mercy, and not getting it. He imagines his mother trying to run, her quiet disappointment turned to fear and sobs and wails, imagines doing the same thing to her when he catches her.

He imagines Henry, imagines seeing him later. Imagines the way Henry will look at his bruises and not say anything, won’t ask because he already knows the answer, imagines the way Henry will bandage up his wounds and nurse his bruises, how Henry will kiss him until he forgets everything except the shape of his lips.

“See? He’s stopped crying,” His mother’s voice comes again, quieter, “You can stop now.”

His father just huffs, kicking William over and onto his back just for good measure. “Pathetic,” he spits, before stumbling off. “I can’t believe I raised such a pussy.”

You’re weak, he thinks, or doesn’t think, he can barely tell the difference anymore, and then, Don’t worry. One day he will hurt like you hurt.

William realizes as he lays there, sprawled out on the floor, that he can’t stay here much longer before he loses what’s left of his mind.

Henry wakes up a small, sharp sound at his window. It’s not enough to fully startle him out of his sleep, just enough to shift him awake, and he groans slightly and moves to look at his alarm. 3 AM. The witching hour.

He sleepily rolls back over, and then the noise happens again. He turns to actually look at the window this time, squinting slightly in the darkness of his room, through the moonlight filtering in, but sees nothing there. He blinks, confused, and waits for a few more moments.

He sees it when it happens this time, a small pebble appearing from the darkness and hitting the window, and then bouncing off and disappearing again.

“The fuck?” He mumbles, sleepily, and starts to shift out of bed. He jumps when another one sounds, doesn’t quite see the rock that hits the window, but it’s larger, judging by the sound that echoes off the glass. 

Henry’s less concerned— mildly irritated, more than anything. He makes it to the window, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, and opens the window and shivers with the resulting gust of cold air that breaks the comfortable warmth of his room. It’s only just beginning to turn to winter, but it’s been particularly brutal, colder than most before, snow starting to dust the ground already— his father says it’s a bad omen.

Another rock flies past his face a moment later, just barely avoiding hitting him in the face, and scatters somewhere into the dark of the room. He hears a very familiar startled, barking laugh, and thinks, Ah.

Sure enough, when he peers out, William’s standing alone in his backyard, in the snow, head tilted up towards Henry’s window. He’s obscured under the darkness of the night, but Henry can just make out his silhouette against the moonlight. He thinks William is carrying something in one hand, but can’t quite make out what it is.

“Will, do you have any idea what time it is?” He whisper-yells out the window, incredulous. 

“Yeah. Are you gonna let me in, or not?” He responds.

And he shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows that William’s going to inevitably drag him straight into trouble again, and that his parents are gonna freak out over it, but— god, it’s not like he doesn’t love it. It’s not like he doesn’t want every part of it.

“Give me a minute, I’ll unlock my door,” he says after a long moment.

“No need,” William says, and Henry watches in slightly growing horror as William moves over to the side of the house, peering upwards. The side of the house is pretty much smooth brick, but there’s a single drain pipe leading up past Henry’s window— and he watches as William rolls up his sleeves and puts the vaguely square shape he’s holding back into his jacket’s pocket, and starts to climb.

And Henry has to at least give him credit, because it’s gotta be way harder than it looks, climbing is never as easy as the movies make it seem, and William’s far from the fittest person out there— but he manages to scale up the wall in what Henry can only assume is a practiced quickness. Henry steps back a little when William’s hand grips onto the windowsill, and then the other, and finally, William manages to heave himself up and through the window. 

It’s not the most graceful thing in the world, because the second he gets his upper half through he practically falls forwards and lets gravity carry him the rest of the way, slumping back onto Henry’s floor with a surprisingly loud thud. Henry hisses slightly through his teeth, hoping his parents are in too deep of a sleep to hear it, and goes to help him up.

And, like William could read his thoughts, he laughs breathlessly as he tips his head back and grins, and says “God, that’s a lot harder than the movies make it seem.”

Henry can’t focus on that, just stares, slack-jawed, because now that William’s in the room he can see him better, and— he doesn’t look great. There’s dried blood smeared across his nose and lips, and on his hands, on his shirt, like he had one hell of a fucking nosebleed and made some kind of desperate attempt to wipe it off before he got here. There’s a bruise under his eye that’s still healing, and Henry knows there’s probably a fresh set under his shirt, too. He pulls the small package from the inside of his coat, revealing a red-covered book from inside.

“I’m here to return your book.” He offers.

“What, did you have to fight somebody to the fucking death to get it back?” Henry demands, resisting the urge to cover his face with his hands and instead opting to fumble for the nearest light switch.

And it’s unfair, because William laughs like it’s funny, but it’s not. “No, that was my father.” and then, “I was the one who took it.”

“You— ” He stops himself, sighs, tries to get his priorities in place, “Come here. Let’s get that blood off you.”

William nods, tosses the book at Henry’s bed, and allows Henry to pull him off towards the bathroom— it’s become a familiar process, now, and it makes Henry’s heart ache. He doesn’t mind it, really, wiping the blood from his nose, cleaning out blood from cuts and gashes and split knuckles, checking the bruises on him to make sure nothing is broken, just wishes that it didn’t have to happen. He doesn’t mind, not with the way William seems to love the quiet, calm domesticity of it, leaning in to all of Henry’s touches, pressing kisses into his palm every time Henry’s hand meets his face— there’s a few times Henry catches him nodding off during it, eyes fluttering closed and looking more peaceful than Henry thinks he’s ever seen him. He just wishes he could have it without the hurt, first, the beatings sometimes so close together the old bruises don’t heal before new ones are put there.

Henry’s learnt a lot about William in the last few months, which is weird and great and confusing. William never seems to talk about his past or his history, at least in a serious way— mostly ends up dropping little anecdotes in conversation for Henry to try to piece together himself, but it’s fun in a way. 

He learns things, such as: William doesn’t have a sweet tooth, that he’s just never liked candy or chocolate or even cake or ice cream. ( “You’re a psychopath,” Henry had said when he discovered it, to which William had just laughed. )

Such as: He was in theatre for the entirety of his high school years, which suddenly makes a lot of things about William suddenly fall into place. Henry absolutely begs him for photos, and William regretfully informs him that there are none. Next, Henry begs him to tell him about all the shows he was in, and who he was cast as ( “I was in Hamlet, once,” he admits, and then, “I was Hamlet.” and Henry practically falls to his knees, pleading to see him recite the famous to be, or not to be soliloquy, and he does. ) Henry asks him if he’d ever consider doing theatre again, and William offers him a half-hearted shrug, which probably means No, but Henry holds onto the idea that he’ll maybe get to see William perform one day.

Such as: William constantly does things that are terrifying without realizing they are terrifying, like staring for long periods of time, purposely cracking his knuckles or hips or spine as loudly as he can, straight up not reacting to pain when he should, or holding kitchen implements or scissors or knives sharp-way up literally every single time he uses them, or the fact he walks so quietly that Henry never knows when he’s approaching and damn near jumps out of his skin every single time William appears behind him out of nowhere.

Such as: William’s frightened by a lot of things. Just little things, but a lot: of the dark ( he denies this one, vehemently, but Henry always notices how antsy he gets walking the town’s empty streets at night ) of corn fields and loud noises ( a car’s honk, pans clattering to the floor, a cabinet shutting too hard ) and thunderstorms, and he seems unsettled by birds ( ducking his head when he walks past phone wires with groups of them gathered, like he’s scared of them watching him ) and he practically jumps into Henry’s arms at the sight of cicadas and cockroaches and large spiders and a mouse, once— and he’s never seemed to like mirrors, always making a conscious effort to face away from them. He’s not scared of Henry’s things, of course, not at all thrown off by conversation of ghosts and specters and demons, of witch hunts and cults and exorcisms, not bothered by tales of hearts buried under the floor or facts about medieval torture methods or a rather extensive, passionate rant on The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.  

Such as: William’s shockingly good with children. He says he hates them, and reminds Henry of that every single time he visits Henry’s home and Henry's siblings start to crowd around, but he’s fantastic with them. He never seems to lose patience— lets Joshua explain to him the intricate details of his artwork, lets Danielle make fun of his accent every single time he talks, lets both Thomas and Mary cling to his leg as he tries to navigate the house. It’s when he finally manages to pry away from them does he start carding his hands through his hair or biting his nails or, occasionally, has to smoke out Henry’s window. “God, I hate kids,” he says, every single time, although Henry can’t help but to notice how fond he sounds about it.

Such as: For somebody who claimed to despise reading, Henry’s sure got him to do a lot of it— of course, convinced him to give Frankenstein another try, and he did. He’s a quick learner and a lot more of an academic than he ever expected— Henry’s pleasantly surprised, because he certainly didn’t look it at first. It really had surprised him, when this new boy in town with his uncut, shaggy hair and his ripped jeans and leather jackets and his bruised knuckles and his stay-back-i-bite attitude started asking questions about Paradise Lost. It still surprises him now, seeing that same boy who’s four hobbies included smoking, drinking, sex and breaking into places he shouldn’t to do the previous three activities— returning a book that he’d been missing for a while now to its proper place on his shelf while Henry brings him an ice pack for his ribs.

“I have been in love with no one, and never shall, ” He says as Henry approaches, grinning like he’s proud of himself, “Unless it should be with you. ”

“You stole my copy of Carmilla ?” He asks, incredulous, although he feels his face grow hot at William’s quoting of the book. “I was looking all over for it!”

“Darling, Darling,” He says, opening his arms in dramatic flourish and moving to sweep Henry into an embrace, and, okay, this just isn’t fair— “I live in you; and you would die for me, I love you so.”

“Put this on your ribs, please,” he sighs, pressing the ice packs towards him— not at all ready to admit what that had just done to him. “I’m worried about you, Will, it’s only been two days since the last one.”

William groans and takes the ice packs from him, moving to lounge across Henry’s bed and hold them in place. The look on his face is one of bitterness, and he only speaks after a long few minutes of sulking with the ice packs against his sides. “Holidays are coming up,” he says finally.

“I don’t follow?”

William shuts his eyes— he does this a lot, in a specific, distinct way, like he’s shutting himself away from a memory or into one, Henry can never tell. Like he’s somewhere else for a second. There are so many things Henry wants to ask. Where do you go when you’re sitting in front of me but you’re in another world? What the hell have they done to you to make you like this? Why does the dark in you seem so large when I know how bright the spark in your eyes can be? 

There are so many things Henry wants to ask but he can’t find the right words. 

William opens his eyes and meets Henry’s. “I was born on Christmas,” he says, letting out a hollow sounding laugh as he sits back up. “I, y’know, ruined it by being born, so they always get extra pissy around the holidays.”

He can’t find the right words, and he fumbles from confusion to frustration to helplessness, and when he finally opens his mouth to speak William cuts him off.

“Henry, will you run away with me?”

Henry’s learned a few things about himself in this time, too, like the fact he can’t quite bring himself to be guilty of what they’re doing, not anymore, not when William lights up the way he does every time Henry walks into the room, not when he feels exactly at home sprawled out on the local graveyard’s grass debating whether or not it’s haunted, ( “You’re telling me not a single ghost in graveyards? Not anywhere?” William had asked, sounding dubious.

And Henry had smiled, looking at William lying next to him, “It’s said spirits are only still here because they’re attached to something from their previous life— they’re going to stay with whatever they’re attached to.”

“They can’t be attached to their body?”

“The— the whole point of them being a ghost, Will, is that they’re not attached to their body anymore! They attach to objects, houses, people— not their own corpse!”

“Oh, that’s real fuckin’ rich,” William had said, gaze a little distant as he looked out over the graves, “Did your little books tell you that?”

“Several of them!”

“Well, they’re wrong,” William muttered, then, although he refused to clarify any further, eyes occasionally darting off at something Henry can’t place. Henry doesn’t ask, doesn’t need to, just thinks so you can still see them with a quiet smugness he refuses to show. ) not when William kisses him and it still feels like the first time, like a thousand electric butterflies. ( “God never makes mistakes,” his mother tells him one day while he’s come caring for her, and she’s said it before, but it sounds different this time when he says it. “If He didn’t want it to be so, it simply wouldn’t be.” And, so, how wrong can it really be if he loves William? )

He learns that there’s someone out there like him. He had always been lonely, he had always been outcast, pushed back from the crowd; the weird fat kid, the freak, the fairy, the faggot, the witch boy, satanist, devil-worshiper ( the list went on, and it was never very creative ) and he preferred it that way. He had always been lonely, but it was better than trying to force conversation with the same people who sneered and snickered at him, easier to fill the void with gothic literature and occult collections. Never enough to ever rise more than just a few whispers or rumors, never enough to make the bullying worse than a few shoves, never enough to have other parents calling his own, concerned, never enough that he could felt it was a sin ( there shall not be found among you – anyone who practices divination or tells fortunes or interprets omens, Deuteronomy 18:10 ) but enough he could keep himself entertained in the loneliness. But he’s learned, now, that there’s somebody out there who is just as passionate about his interests as he is, just as strange and odd and spooky as he is, just as outcast, just as lonely— but they’ll never have to be lonely again.

He learns that one day, he wants a family. A big one, even, a bundle of children to occupy his home. His father had always bugged him about it in the past, joking “So, when am I gonna become a grandfather?” Almost every time Henry spoke with a girl for more than a day on end, and he always dismissed it, always rolled his eyes, always thought he’d be satisfied with just himself and his parents and his little siblings, but as things have changed, he learns he wants more. He knows it’s unrealistic, and not physically possible— but he pictures a family of his own with William, in the future, when they no longer have to hide— pictures them standing side by side, his arm around William’s waist and watching his kids, their kids, running around their yard, pictures William pulling him in close and how he’d smile like he’s the happiest man on earth, how he’d kiss William, in front of all of them, he doesn’t care— and how their children would make fake Ick noises, embarrassed by their affection, and, god, he’s hopeless.

He learns that, despite the fact William’s only came to town a little more than half a year ago and proceeded to tear everything Henry knew to shreds within the span of a week, he’s in love with him, and, so, the words come tumbling out of his mouth— “When? Where are we going? You don’t know your way around this area, do you have a map? We should probably check your car before—” 

William gets to his feet and tugs him in and kisses him, grinning as he does. “I have a plan,” he says, amazed, “But I’m very glad to know you’d just hit the ground and run with me.”

Henry really can’t defend himself. “That’s not—” He tries, but William procures a pamphlet from his jacket pocket, folded twice-over to fit. The text at the top advertises some nearby university in big, bold letters.

“It’s a college of the arts, not too far from here,” William says, sounding hopeful, hovering by Henry’s side, “About a day or two away if we drive.”

Henry’s eyebrows furrow together as he opens the pamphlet, allowing William to rest his head on his shoulder, reading the description of the place. “Where’d you get this?”

“My mother gave me a whole bunch of pamphlets for different places as soon as we got here, said I should hop on the whole business major thing as soon as I can,” he admits, wrapping his arms around Henry from behind, “I forgot about them until I was about to come here, but…”

“You think we should go?” 

William beams at him. Henry can’t help the way his pulse jumps a little at the thought. All he’s ever known is this town, all he’s ever known is living in it, but he’s always wanted more.

“I can picture you as an English major,” William says, voice quiet but right in Henry’s ear, like an invitation. “They’re starting to accept new applicants in January.”

And it’s cold in here ( the window William climbed through is still pushed open ) but Henry can feel a bead of sweat run down the back of his neck. He realizes, desperately, how much he wants this, but at the same time he can’t imagine what it would be like leaving his church, his family, his mother— 

“I’ve done the math,” William continues, slow, careful, “You can afford it. I might have to pick up a job while I’m there, but it’s possible.”

Henry opens his mouth to speak but can’t quite get the words out when William starts to get a little exploratory, and he jumps a little bit when he feels the other man’s cold hands, ice cold, dip past his waistline. William plants small kisses into his neck, and Henry can feel him grinning against his skin, and— “Plus, if we board together, it’s cheaper,” he says, “And I’d have you all to myself.”

“Are you actually planning to become a business major?”

Henry can feel his smile against the crook of his neck. “I’ve heard they have a pretty decent theatre department.”

And, well, Henry’s sold.

It’s cold in his house.

It’s cold everywhere in Seville this December, William discovers, which is rare, which is an omen, according to the townsfolk, but the cold seeps into the very ground and concrete itself and creeps up through his feet and straight into his bones, and it doesn’t matter how much William fucks with the heat because he’s still walking around with a blanket draped over his shoulders. 

Old Man Smith’s house became a second home somewhere towards the end of December— him and the old man spending Christmas with the Callows, ( he drives nearly two hours out of town to pick up a book of Percy Shelley’s poetry and another creepy clown doll he finds at a thrift shop, while Henry, despite being told several times he didn’t want a gift, no, I don’t care that it’s both Christmas and my birthday, don’t fucking get me anything — buys him a polaroid camera, no doubt inspired by the fact he has little to no photos to document his life, and he loves it more than anything else. ) and he’s started to help with repairs and restorations for the people around town with him, who both teaches him and starts paying him a bit for it. Henry helps out, of course, although when they’re pitted together in the same room, they usually end up ignoring the cars in favor of making out or sneaking out to search the old, abandoned homes dotting the edge of town for ghosts.

William’s work spanned long, long hours, until Old Man Smith himself hauled in a small cot from god knows where after finding William asleep in one of the cars he’d been helping fix up for the last three days.

“I know things ‘ave been tough at home,” Old Man Smith says as he presents it to William, a tinge of sadness in his voice. William’s not sure if Henry had told him the situation, or if he’d figured it out on his own. “So you can stay here, if ya want.”

But he’s home, now, having crawled back last night for the sole purpose of robbing it blind in the morning, while his parents are both out. It’s cold in the house, stifling, and as soon as William wakes up he feels it underneath his skin and in his bones, and it aches when he moves. He’s sorting through boxes dragged from the deepest reaches of his mother’s closet, trying to find important documents— birth certificates, passport, social security, his goddamn cash that they’ve been hiding from him—

There’s a knock at the door. He’s expecting it. He stands, tucks anything important he found under his arm and walks towards the door, swinging it open, the blast of cold air from outside making him pull the blanket tighter over his shoulders.

“Hey,” he greets, simply. Henry never seems affected by the cold, although his nose and cheeks are slightly red— probably from the little amount of time it took him to walk through the snow and up to William’s house. He’s not wearing anything more than a long-sleeved shirt, jeans and slightly heavier boots than normal, unlike William, who usually walks outside in this weather wearing several hundred layers of clothing and still shivering like a small pathetic dog. It drives him slightly crazy, but he quickly forgets as Henry comes inside, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him into his side. William discovered over the last few months or so that Henry is a natural space heater, ( “It’s the fat,” Henry jokingly tells him one day, and William’s not sure if he’s allowed to laugh or not, “It keeps ‘ya alive through the winter.” ) and he’ll be damned if he doesn't take advantage of that when he has the chance. “Ready to get this show on the road?” He asks, gesturing to the stack of papers William has pressed to his chest.

William allows himself to sink into Henry, immediately relieved by the warmth he provides. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” He says, “I’ve managed to dig up my passport and birth certificate, but there’s a few more boxes to go through, just to be safe.”

He leads Henry back over to his parent’s room and they settle down like that, surrounded by a mess of paperwork and boxes, Henry beginning to rifle through them. They sit in a comfortable silence as they work together, knees and shoulders and hands brushing while William murmurs occasionally as to whether or not he wishes to hold onto something.

Henry gasps, loudly and dramatically. “Who is this?” He asks, sounding delighted, as he holds up an old photo of William, around ten years old, a massive rabbit tucked between his arms, almost as tall as he was. 

William feels his face flush a little with embarrassment. “That’s— That’s Bonnie,” he says.

Henry’s practically cooing at the photo now, gently making fun of the fancy clothing his mother had dressed him in and the wide-eyed expression on his face that matched the rabbit’s almost perfectly, ( “Were you just really tiny, or is that rabbit really big?” He asks, and, “Both,” William says, “He was a Flemish Giant. Mother didn’t realize what kind she got until it had already grown.” ) and maybe refuses to put it back, or hand it over, instead tucking it carefully into his pocket for keepsakes. William figures it wouldn’t be the best time to show him the comically large rabbit’s foot he’s got tucked away in his back pocket for good luck, the one he had cut from his beloved pet’s leg himself, swearing to himself that it was only because he wanted something to remember Bonnie by.

Henry finds himself distracted sorting through all the old photos of William that he can find, and, honestly, William’s surprised his family even held onto them.

“Who’s that?” Henry asks, holding up another photo for him to see. It’s a portrait of the family, one William remembers being taken fairly well— he was about eight, being forced to stand at his parent’s side while a photographer bustled around them, calling out directions and making adjustments to their clothing. He had never seen the finalized photo, never wondered why.

“Who’s who?” He echoes, leaning over to take a glance. Henry points to the space behind William, where a dark, blurry shape sits, its hands resting easily on his shoulders, where his parents loathed to touch. He expects the cold shock to hit him, but it never does. “I don’t know.” he says, finally. Dave, he thinks.

Henry squints, holding the photo closer to his face as if it’ll make a difference. “Some kind of exposure error, maybe?” He whispers, “Who else was with you that day?”

“Aside from the photographer, nobody.” William tells him, quiet.

Henry’s eyes light up all at once. “You don’t think—?”

A car door slams outside.

Both boys freeze in place.

“Shit,” William mutters, jumping to start pushing all of the boxes haphazardly back into the closet. “Shit, shit.”

“I thought they weren’t supposed to be home for a few more hours?” Henry whisper-yells, scrambling to gather William’s childhood photos into some semblance of order and scooping them up.

“They weren't,” William hisses, kicking the last of his mess back where it belongs and grabbing Henry by the arms, passing off his own pile of papers to him, pulling him out of the room and rounding the corner, practically shoving him up the stairs. “Go to my room, grab my bags and go out the window,” He says, quickly, “I’ll meet you at your car.”

“From the second story?” Henry asks, panicked, but at the sound of the front door cracking open he turns and disappears up the stairs.

“William?” His mother’s voice comes, and William scrambles to meet them by the door. “Who are you talking to?”

“No one,” he says, quickly, and then, “Just myself.”

Both of his parents look doubtful. 

“Is there someone over?” His mother asks.

“I’m talking to myself ,” He says again, insistent. 

“That’s not much better.” His father huffs, “Don’t tell me you’re going demented again, boy.”

“What, you gonna send me back to the fuckin’ loony bin?” He hisses, “Fuck off.”

His father’s nostrils flare. 

“Bill, it’s not worth it—”

He hears the resounding crack echo through his skull, first, feels his body hit the floor second. It takes him a second to register the pain, a sharp and red-hot explosion, like his nerves are all set on fire, all at once. It’s broken, he thinks, but barely has enough time to process the thought until another kick comes, quick and sharp, right to the center of his chest. The noise he lets out is some awful mixture of a rattling breath and a sob, instinctually curling away and throwing his arms over his head, trying to protect his face. He knows how this goes— tries to tense his body to lessen the blows, to dull the pain, tries to keep his eyes dry and his mouth shut, although with every pained cry that escapes him, his father berates him for it, and his steel-toed boots meet his ribs one more time.

It ends as quickly as it started. It stops, but he stays curled up until he hears the sound of his father’s footsteps storming back outside, until he hears the front door slam closed. He gets enough courage to peek out between his arms and finds his mother hovering there, expression tinged with a mixture of concern and disappointment.

“Get up,” she whispers, “Get to your room before he comes back.”

And so he does. He forces himself to his feet, his nose and his sides aching, familiar but never any less painful, and he hobbles up the stairs towards his room. He can taste the blood over his lips already, his nose so damaged that it bleeds at the slightest disturbance nowadays. He makes it to his room, slamming the door shut so hard the house nearly rocks with it, and starts working on setting his nose back into place— pressing both thumbs into the sides and snaps it back into position, groaning with the pain and the secondary cracking sound. 

It’s only then does he realize Henry’s still standing there in his room, and he practically jumps out of his skin. 

“Jesus fuck, Henry—!” He hisses, catching himself mid-defensive-swing, instead using the momentum to shove him in the chest, pushing him towards the closet and then inside, sliding in after him and closing the door, “I told you to leave, what the fuck are you still doing here?”

Henry says nothing, just stares at him with wide, horrified eyes. “Will…”

“Shut up,” He growls, “Shut up. I don’t want your pity, you know I hate that shit—”

Henry reaches for him and he flinches away, instinctually, a little wince he can’t quite control. The pad of Henry’s thumb meets his upper lip, gentle, trying to wipe the blood away. “I—I wasn’t going to jump from the second floor,” he whispers, “I wasn’t going to leave you. I won’t leave you.”

“How much did you hear?” He asks, voice breaking a little.

“Too much.”

The front door slams open again, and William ducks his head slightly. “Stay here,” he tells him, gently ushering Henry further back into his closet and standing up.

“Will, wait—” Henry tries as William gets to his feet and starts to step out, “William, please, lets just—”

William closes the door to the closet and moves over to his bed, tracking the sound of his father’s footsteps coming up the stairs, closer, closer, towards his room, until his door swings open so hard it nearly comes off the hinges.

He knows well what’s about to happen— just wishes Henry didn’t have to be here to witness it.

He pulls his knees to his chest, not even bothering to process his father’s words— it’s all the same, it always is, rants about his behavior and disrespect and his failure as a son, the demands for respect, the yes, sir, the thrown punches and then the yes, officer.

The closet door starts to creep open.

He immediately sits up, straightens out, and, what the fuck is he doing? He thinks, but his father must have interpreted the movement as a threat because he snatches William’s wrist and hauls him up, practically screaming into his ear now. Still, William can’t make out a thing, just focused on his closet door sliding further and further open, calculated, slowly, quietly. He can just barely make out Henry standing there, can just barely make out the shifting darkness behind him, hands curling around Henry’s shoulders, saying, would you look at that? saying, at least somebody’s not afraid to fight back, sees the beer bottle held upside-down in his hands, ( probably one of the ones he had stolen from his father’s stash, one of the ones he had chugged and chugged until he could do nothing but cry, knowing he was becoming his own worst enemy ) sees his eyes filling at the corner with spiteful tears, sees the blur of movement and hears the shattering of glass, struck across the back of his father’s head, hears the thump-thump of his head knocking into William’s bed frame, of his body hitting the floor.

“Oh, fuck,” Henry breathes, terrified, breaking the momentary silence that follows, the shattered remains of the bottle falling out of his hand, “Did— Did I kill him?”

William stares at his father’s body, limp on the floor. “Don’t know, don’t care,” He decides, and then starts scrambling to gather his bags off the floor, grabbing Henry’s trembling hand in his own, and then, “Let’s fucking go,” he says, and then they’re running.

They’re running, and they bolt out of his room and towards the stairs, where they almost collide with his mother. “Bill?” She’s calling, “Leave him alone, you already—” but they blow past her, down the stairs, and veer right towards the door. William starts to laugh, an involuntary noise, a wild, howling cackle of delight as soon as they exit his room, and he laughs all the way out of the house and to Henry’s car, parked around the back of the house.

He’s not exactly sure when they officially started dating, and he’s sure Henry doesn’t know either, but at some point it stopped being exploratory fun and started being a real thing. They never vocalized it, never needed to, but over the months they’d spend their days as friends, working and studying together, and spend their nights as a couple. They figured out how to hide it, how to make a thousand little excuses as to why they spend so much time together, how to stop feeling guilty every time their lips touched. Before this moment, though, the thought never hit him, but— William’s pretty sure he’s in love. Hopelessly and helplessly in love.

They almost crash into his car, not being able to slow their descent properly, stumbling, and William collapses, wrapping his arms around Henry’s neck and dragging him down into the cold with him, laughing and gasping in equal measure, and kisses him like it’s the last day on earth. “My God, Henry,” he presses another kiss into him, breathless, “I love you,” he says, “I love you so much.”

Henry still looks shell-shocked, but a weak chuckle starts to escape his lungs, right into William’s mouth, the soft, warm air pushing into his throat as William pulls Henry on top of him, lying in the Georgia dirt and snow.

They leave tomorrow.

Winter falls away and spring comes, and they both send in applications to the college at the same time, and both receive their answers at the same time.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Mr. Smith says as they both appear at his door with acceptance letters, grinning wildly, “It looks like you’ve both done and outgrown this town, haven’t ya?”

He takes them out to celebrate in the morning, out to the same diner they first started talking in, and they discuss all of the memories they have over pancakes and french toast. When they get back to the house, he claps them both on the shoulders and walks past them into the garage, rolling up his sleeves, “Looks like I’m gonna start havin’ to do my own work around here,” he jokes, and they laugh, but it’s bittersweet.

Henry’s mother is ecstatic when she gets the news and hugs him with a strength Henry didn’t realize she still had after so many children and so many rounds of chemotherapy, and then moves over to embrace William— his eyes go wide, and he freezes completely, clearly unsure how to react— and says, “You take care of my Henry for me, okay?”

William’s face softens and he allows himself to hug her back. Henry can see the sadness in his eyes. “I will, Mrs. Callow.” he promises.

His father is a little less excited at the prospect, but excited nonetheless, at least for Henry. He grabs him and lifts him off his feet, saying, “Go make us proud, my boy!” before he offers William a firm handshake, and looks twice as surprised at himself as William does.

William doesn’t tell his parents, doesn’t feel the need to, and they don’t worry about it. ( “What if they put out a missing person’s report for you?” Henry asks, and William just starts laughing. ) William has no desire to return to his house, so whatever belongings he may have forgotten the first time, sadly, will stay there. They load everything into the back of William’s car— Henry opts to leave his truck behind for his parents, figuring they’d need it more than he would. 

They leave tomorrow, and Henry agrees to help out during mass one last time. 

“So, are you going to ever let me participate in communion, or am I just going to have to watch you from the pews again?” William asks, the smallest of wry smiles forming over his lips as Henry prepares the wine in the backroom of the church, trying not to think about what happened the last time they were back here lest he get distracted.

“If you can promise to act normal during it, sure.” Henry fires back, pouring the communion wine into its designated goblets. 

“I can promise no such thing.”

“Then no.”

“Awh, come on, don’t I get a little taste of heaven before we go off to college?” William teases, watching Henry’s face flush, painfully visible even in the flickering yellow light of the back of the church.

“That’s not what communion is,” He tries, voice cracking just slightly.

“How am I supposed to know?” William says, closing the distance between them, “You won’t let me participate.”

“Take and eat, this is my body,” Henry says, more-so to himself than anything, capping the bottle and handing it off to William to place back on the shelf, to which he immediately uncaps it, takes a swig, and then places it back. “ Drink from it, all of you. This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for the many for the forgiveness of sins.” 

“I’m sure the Lord would want me to participate,” William hums, a small, rumbling sound, like a cat’s purr, “You’d deny me of forgiveness?” He teases, “Don’t you want to save my poor , poor sinner’s soul? Wipe my hands clean of my—” 

“Alright, alright, I’ll give you communion!” Henry blurts, face flushed an even deeper red, now, “I’ll do it, just shut up, good Lord—”

William grins, then, planting a kiss on Henry’s cheek. “Great,” He says, sounding awfully smug about it, “I’ll see you out there,” before he brushes past him and out the back doors of the church, no doubt going to circle back around to the front of the church as the rest of the congregation arrives.

William finds himself amongst the congregation, lining up single-file in the aisle between pew rows— it’s strange to think the last time he had participated, he had barely known Henry, that he had been just sitting at the back end of the church watching Henry as he administers out the body and blood of Christ ever since then. The church folk seem a little startled as he stands to join them, several eyes falling to him all at once, but he can’t bring himself to care, just smiling back at them as politely as he can manage, which isn’t very. 

He recognizes the pecking order— Mrs. Madison currently stood with Henry, the Jude family with their new baby, Ms. Ruth and her even newer boyfriend, and then himself. Although he’s watched this happen more times than he can count, now, he still cranes out of line a little to watch the placement of their hands.

As the person ahead of him steps off to the side, William comes face-to-face with Henry again. Whatever expression had been on Henry’s face prior to that moment suddenly melted away, seeming almost relieved that William was there with him.

When William moves forward, he instinctively begins to place his hands out in front of him, distinctly aware of the actual priest’s eyes on him, watching every move he makes. When he looks up to meet Henry’s eyes, however, Henry playfully narrows his gaze, giving a subtle shake of the head. William lets his hands fall.

“Forgive me, Father,” William whispers, only loud enough for Henry to hear, earning a sharp rise in his brow— and he knows Henry’s no priest, but he also knows how Henry reacted to that title the first time William jokingly called him it, and he’s maybe hoping to rise that reaction out of him again— “I’ve committed a mortal sin by… deliberately engaging in impure thoughts.”

Henry’s face flushes a deep red, but there’s a certain little mischievous spark that forms in his eyes. “Open your mouth, and I’ll absolve you,” he says with a particular lilt, keeping his tone low and willful, “And if it happens again, I expect to see you repent.”

William lets out a shaky breath as he licks his lips to part them slightly— not nearly giving Henry enough space to place anything between them. With the eucharist between his thumb and forefinger, Henry let the back of his knuckles brush against the exterior of William’s lips, coaxing them to open further. With a devilish smirk, William obeys, letting his tongue move forward just enough to contact Henry’s fingertips as Henry reverently places the eucharist upon it.

“The body of… Christ,” Henry says designedly, a bit of emphasis on the last word— more of an exclamation, than anything else, his own mouth hanging open absentmindedly as he watches William taste him.

“Amen,” William agrees in earnest, a muffled noise coming out thick around the wafer. From his left, the priest is starting to stare holes through his skull, which William blatantly ignores.

Taking the chalice into both hands, Henry holds it up to William’s face, keeping his hands planted there even as William tries to take it from him. As William takes a sip from the chalice, the wine now a familiar but bitter taste to him, he feels Henry’s fingertips ghost under his chin and tip it up.

“The blood of Christ,” Henry recites, his eyes unjustifiably focused on the movement of William’s throat as he swallows a rather greedy amount of sacramental wine.

“Amen,” William repeats, letting his mouth hang wide as he sweeps his thumb underneath his bottom lip, wiping away any drops of wine that may have been there. Henry’s eyes follow the whole movement fluidly. 

And then, before William was ready to let it be, the isolated moment was over. He shares a disappointed smile and a wink to Henry before returning to the now-empty spot in the pews where his parents used to sit. There’s a warm, wet feeling that starts to leak from his nose, and when his fingers grace the space between his lips and nostrils they come back covered in blood. He licks them off.

Later, when mass ends, William waits for him outside the church amongst the gossiping wives, who aren’t very subtle about their glances and whispers towards him. Henry practically comes peeling out of the church, sweeping William up with a hand against the small of his back, ushering him away from the doors and towards the parking lot, moving awfully quick.

“I knew you were going to pull something like that, I just knew it,” Henry mutters, face once again flushed red, voice low, “Do you know how hard it was to make it through the rest of mass like that?”

William laughs. “I just couldn’t help myself,” he says, then leans in a bit closer, whispers, “I suppose I have some repentance to do tonight, hm?”

Henry’s eyes meet his, somewhere between feverish and saccharine and wanting, and he opens his mouth to speak, but the words fall from his mouth and he stops, looking back ahead at William’s car, where a woman now waits, hands folded together in anticipation.

She seems to notice them at the same time they notice her, because she starts a little, standing up straight from where she was leaning against the car. “William,” she says, sounding a little breathless.

Henry’s hand moves in front of William, an instinctual, protective gesture, but William pushes past him. “Mother,” he says.

She stares at him for a long, long time, expression as unreadable as always, some awful mixture of fear and disappointment and dread and acceptance, before she finally speaks, voice so quiet he almost can’t hear her. “You’re leaving.”

He nods. “College.”

She nods, ducking her head a little. “Good,” she says, voice wobbling, “Good. I’m glad to hear it. It’s about time you left the nest.”

“You’re blocking the car.”

She swallows hard, looking back up to meet his eyes finally, digging through her coat’s pocket in a slightly frantic motion before she pulls out a wad of cash and offers it out to him. “Here. It’s— It’s yours. Whatever’s left of it, at least.”

That catches him off guard, but he moves in, reaching out cautiously to take it from her. “Oh,” he breathes, “Thank you.”

She hesitates there for a few more moments, shifting uncomfortably in the silence, before she reaches back and starts working on unclamping her necklace from her neck, a brilliant string of pearls that she never took off for anything, and curls it into his palm. “A-And this, if the cash isn’t enough.” 

He opens his mouth to say something. Nothing comes out. His mother inhales, a shuddering little breath, straightens herself out, and starts to walk past him.

She stops. Pauses. Turns and pulls him into an embrace. William still can’t say anything, the words blocked by a very sudden lump in his throat. She says nothing, either, just holds him tightly, one hand tangling through his hair, soft, soothing— and he towers over her, has for a long time now, but in this moment, he’s never felt so small.

“I love you, mama,” He manages, just barely above a whisper. He can’t remember the last time he called her that.

“I know, baby,” She says, soft, quiet, “I know.”

She presses a kiss into the side of his head, stunted and awkward, and just like that, the moment’s over. All at once, her hands fall away from him and she steps back, wiping her eyes, and starts walking away, only to pause as she passes Henry.

“You keep an eye on him for me, okay?” She whispers, and Henry nods solemnly, and then, “Don’t worry. It was only a concussion. He’s fine,” she tells him, although there’s a tinge of disappointment behind it. 

They’re left there in an unbearable silence, nothing but the sound of birdsongs and distant chatter and his mother’s heels getting further and further away, hurried, to fill it. 

“That’s one way to kill a boner,” Henry mutters. It startles a laugh out of William, and he’s glad it did, because if he didn't laugh, he’d cry. 

He shoves both the cash and the pearls into his pockets and reaches for the car door. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he says, and Henry smiles.

They leave tonight, and they’re at the lake again. The reflection of the moon is rippling, distorted on the surface of the freezing water, and it’s quiet, and Henry doesn’t admit it, but he’s scared. This is entirely new and he can’t even begin to think about what it might entail, but when William grips his hand in his own as they wade out in the water, as they promise to never be without one another, come hell or high water, all of his worries start to fade away.

He can’t bring himself to worry about the boy in front of him, not even when he pulls a familiar inscripted blade made of bone out from his pocket and slices open his palm, again, right over the scar that had been there from before.

“You do know what happens if you break one of these, right?” Henry asks, quietly amused. He can’t bring himself to worry if he’s looking at Judas or the serpent or the devil himself when William passes him the knife.

“Probably some kind of curse, I’m sure,” He responds, a certain kind of hunger in his eyes as Henry repeats the motion, the skin parting like petals underneath the blade, and Henry curses with it, “But I don’t plan to break it.”

They leave tonight, and Henry presses the cut in his palm against William’s, and, god, his parents would have a heart attack if they knew he was doing this, and, god, his past self would have had a heart attack if he knew he was going to be participating in a blood pact, of all things— but now it seems like the most natural thing ever— the two of them already so closely intertwined, body and mind and soul, he’s sure of it, he’s never been sure of anything in his life but he’s sure of this, and he just takes comfort in the fact their bodies are one, now, a part of him living in William, and a part of William living in him.

They leave tonight, but they only hit the road again once the sun is starting to come up. William’s car is littered in old receipts and cigarette butts and gauze, and Henry feels endlessly more home after five minutes in the thing than he has in eighteen-going-on-nineteen years in his hometown. William waits until they can’t see the lights of any buildings in the rearview, until it’s nothing but corn and cotton fields before he cranks up the radio, flashes Henry a blinding smile, and throws his head back and sings along to all the songs on his cassettes— one hand on the steering wheel, the other held tight in Henry’s own.

“I think I could die right here,” William murmurs, nestled into the warmth of Henry’s shoulder, “and be just fine.”

It’s the first thing either of them have said in a while, the long, quiet hours of the late afternoon stretching out like the limbs of a cat roused from slumber. It’s a Saturday and raining, gray droplets tapping a steady rhythm against the window of their shitty little motel room while they’re curled up in bed— they inevitably both regretted only starting their drive at the asscrack of dawn, exhaustion catching up with them by the afternoon, and so here they lay. William has his head resting on Henry’s chest, an arm slung around his middle. Henry has one hand in William’s hair and his nose in a book, his wire-framed glasses resting on top of his head. He doesn’t need them for reading, just for distance, and so he only ever takes it off when he’s relaxing, a sight only William is privy to now.

William has been watching Henry’s deep green eyes for a while now as they follow the strings of words on the page he’s reading, only ever straying to count and recount the freckles dusting his nose or to study the way his hair curls against his head. Henry seems used to his staring, by now, making amused comparisons of his little expressions of love to that of a cat’s.

The break in silence gets Henry’s attention, though, his gaze shifting from the page down to William’s face. He doesn’t set the book down, but moves it to the side, revealing a tender little smile on his lips, looking like what am I going to do with you?, of which William eagerly awaits the answer. He smiles back when Henry’s fingers sink deeper into his hair, running through it in soft, soothing movements.

Henry hums in consideration, and William feels it rumble against his cheek, content and comfortable. Then Henry takes a deep breath, tilting his chin up the way he does when he’s about to recite something.

“The grave’s a fine and private place,” he says, his large hand fitting around the angle of William’s jaw. “But none, I think, do there embrace.”

William’s heart flutters a little, and he glances at the cover of Henry’s book— Weird Stories, by J.H Riddell. He’s sure Henry wasn’t quoting the book just now, but he hasn’t the slightest clue. 

“Andrew Marvell, My Coy Mistress,” Henry whispers, putting maybe just a little too much emphasis on the title of the poem, instead humming it like an affectionate pet name. William snorts, swatting him away gently, but he still feels his cheeks grow hot, and he knows Henry can tell. Part of him wants to surrender to it; to roll over and have Henry whisper sweet nothings to him late into the night, poetry and praise huffed into the side of his neck between breathless moans. ( William made fun of it, at first, Henry’s habit of spewing prose in the middle of sex, but fuck if it doesn’t do more for him than the filthiest kind of dirty talk some nights. ) But William’s nothing if not a stubborn lover, and Henry isn’t the only one who can quote poets from memory and reduce the other to blushing putty anymore. 

William leans into Henry’s touch, dusting off memories of the years he spent in both theatre and English class. After a moment, he smiles and shuts his eyes.

“I will live in thy heart,” he recites, soft as a prayer, “Die in thy lap ,” his hand slides down the side of Henry’s body, smoothing a path from his rib to between his legs, “and be buried in thy eyes. ” He looks up at Henry, patient.

Henry is distinctly redder than before, but he doesn’t look away. It’s strange, William thinks, just how willing, just how content he is to lay here forever with him, simmering in this saccharine agony of want, but not moving to do anything about it.

“Shakespeare, of course. Much Ado About Nothing,” Henry says, amused, thumb brushing the ridge of William’s cheekbone, pressing a small kiss into the corner of his mouth. “Too easy.”

He pulls away, then, his eyes going back to pursue his J.H Riddell, which William finds unacceptable, so he snatches the book right out of Henry’s hands and snaps it shut, placing it down on the nightstand next to them, not breaking eye contact.

Now Henry’s gaze is less like a hearth and more like a brand. “Alright, you bastard,” he says, although he’s smiling, “Come here.”

William tries not to grin too much as he climbs into Henry’s lap. He loops his arms around his neck, and even though he’s been half on top of Henry for the better part of the afternoon already, he still feels like he’s missed him terribly. He leans in, cupping the sides of Henry’s face and trying to lap kisses from his mouth. It’s warm and pliant, parting under William’s own, and William thinks he’ll never get tired of the feeling. Henry’s arms wrap around his waist, secure.

One kiss ends and Henry starts to pull his head back, but William immediately follows him for another, not ready to give up the soft pressure of his lips just yet. He presses deeper into him and slides his fingers into Henry’s hair, his fingertips bumping against his glasses. He plucks them off the top of his head, fumbling blindly to set them down on the nightstand and making a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. He can hear and feel Henry chuckle at him, but when he nips at Henry’s bottom lip, he’s quiet again.

They kiss lazily for a bit, basking in the comfortable thrill of being close. Just when William thinks he’s gotten used to it, Henry will squeeze his hip or do something clever with his tongue, and suddenly it’s like William’s getting to know him all over again, learning the shape of his body blind. That coil of warmth low in his abdomen flares to life in intervals, Henry stoking it with every touch.

They have to breathe, eventually, and William feels a pulse of excitement through him when Henry pants desperately against the corner of his mouth. The room fills with the sound of their labored breaths and the distant patter of rain, and it’s not long until William has to kiss him again.

When he does, he slips his hands under Henry’s shirt, ghosting up his sides and over the hair on his chest. Henry laughs, low and breathy, and the kiss dissolves between their mouths. “I thought you were tired?” he asks, freckled cheeks flushing under the curious stare William gives him.

“There’s… more important matters at play right now,” He decides, realizing Henry’s already hard— William can feel him, stiff and hot through the soft fabric of his pajama pants. William rocks down against him slightly, the embers in his belly fanned into a steady, dizzying flame. Henry’s breath hitches.

Henry lets out a small hum of agreement, palming him through his flannel pajama bottoms— a pair of Henry’s own, way too large for him, the string pulled as tight as possible so it doesn’t fall past his waist— guiding him into slow, grinding motions against his lap, moving up to kiss him again. William groans into the kiss, feeling himself grow wet with every muted brush of himself against Henry’s cock, thighs splaying further and further apart.

It’s not long until Henry’s hands come creeping up so he can dip his thumbs under the waistband of William’s pajamas and underwear, William’s hips jerking up slightly in encouragement. Henry tugs the pants down as far as they’ll go, and William keeps his arms curled around Henry’s neck, both so he can keep his balance when he lifts one knee off the bed, and then the other, as he shuffles out of his pajama pants, and so he can guide Henry’s face to his collarbone and feel the hot, open-mouthed kisses he leaves there. He’s wearing one of Henry’s old shirts, too, and he practically swims in it, the collar hanging loosely around his neck, leaving him conveniently exposed.

He gasps when he feels Henry’s fingers between his legs, his clit swollen and beating in Henry’s warm hand, working to catch some of the wetness in his fingers.

“Hen,” is all he manages to say, but judging by the smile he feels pressing against the skin of his neck, it’s good enough. Henry rubs at him slow and steady, and William follows each beat with a roll of his hips. He hates it, just how easily Henry can make him come undone like this— while inexperienced at first, he made up for it with a surprising amount of enthusiasm and vocality, but now that Henry’s had the time to learn his body, learn every little way he likes to be touched, and still is equally enthusiastic, still as vocal— it's become a little unfair. When Henry sucks a bruise into the side of his throat, William tilts his head back, inviting it, letting out a low moan. He can picture it now; the deep purple mark that will brand him for days, tender to the touch.

Henry’s free hand slips under his shirt, cupping his ribs as he swipes his thumb against the head of his clit, and William’s breath quickens. “Don’t stop,” he whispers, grabbing Henry by the chin and tipping his head up for another kiss. Henry accepts it happily, biting on his bottom lip as he slides his fingers down and dips two inside, and William can’t help but to keen into his mouth.

“That good?” Henry asks, his smile audible. 

“I hate you,” William says, or starts to say, but any protest he might have made dies on his lips when Henry curls his fingers, pressing in deep. Henry’s fingers are thick but nimble and they work William open with a practiced ease, his free hand alternating between providing a steadying hold on William’s waist and playing with his clit. When Henry’s fingers slide into him at just the right angle, William’s head lolls into the crook of Henry’s neck, mouth hanging open as he whines, lifting his hips and rocking into Henry’s fingers, chasing that fleeting sensation of fullness, gripping the front of Henry’s shirt like a vice— probably stretching out the fabric, but not having it in him to care.

Henry’s hands are ceaseless now, quickening with the encouragement of William’s moans. He takes him apart and puts him back together in turns, the slide of his fingers causing consistent waves of pleasure that crash but don’t recede. The dull beat of rain against the window descends into a distant hum, the world outside the room, outside the tiny slivers of space between their bodies just evaporates into a fog, and the lighthouse guiding him through it is Henry’s voice by his ear, telling him, that’s it, just like that, die in my lap, darling, with such a tenderness that William could cry.

He cums onto Henry’s hand, shuddering, whimpering his name. He thinks, later, he’ll be embarrassed by now loud he allows himself to get, but as it is, Henry continues to finger through it, keeping them buried inside and curling against all his most sensitive spots until he can’t handle it anymore, until William releases his grip to bite at the back of his own hand, going boneless on top of him. William shivers again when Henry’s fingers slip out of him, whining into Henry’s neck.

“This just isn’t fair,” William announces after a few moments, breathing hard. “I can— I can only take so much, Hen. You’re gonna kill me. La petite mort, or whatever it is.”

Henry snorts and gently bats him with the back of his hand, sitting up and starting to shuffle out of his own clothing. “Do you know why they call it The Little Death?” Henry asks, like he’s quizzing him.

“Of course I do. It implies that the release of orgasm could be spiritual, that you die a little bit each time.”

Henry smiles like he’s proud, kicking his pants off fully and moving to crawl back on top of him. William opens his arms immediately, tempting him back into his embrace. 

“By the time you’re done with me, dear, there’ll be nothing left,” William says, soft against his cheek, into his ear.

Henry huffs out a laugh and leans down and gives him a quick kiss, and then another, and then another, and William pulls him in closer, closer, until their chests are flush. Henry’s kisses become a little heated, his pace more frantic, desperation kicking in, and— Henry’s sex drive, although tucked away in his mind under several layers of religious guilt, has proven to be relentless, a fact that William has never been more thankful for in his life— William sucks in a shuddering breath as Henry’s kisses move down, across his jawline and down to his neck just to nip at his skin, to leave more little purple marks across his throat. 

“How do you want me?” Henry asks, lips soft against the skin of his neck.

“I want you to ruin me,” William tells him, honestly. Henry lets out an excited hum at the prospect. 

Henry starts to shift, pushing at William’s legs until they’re open, until he has enough space to press between them. He feels as Henry reaches down and lines himself up and William throws his arms around Henry’s neck, encouraging it, closing the distance. He chokes on his own moan when Henry suddenly presses into him, a strangled intake of breath that leaves him in a cry. 

“O-Oh, God.”

Henry lets out a content sounding sigh, “There, all in.” he says, “You okay?”

“It’s so much,” is all he can manage, a little dizzy from the oversensitivity, still aching pleasantly from Henry’s fingers before. “God, darling, you’re perfect.”

“I know, baby, I know,” Henry coos, and William wants to be mad at how smug he sounds about it, but he grinds his hips into William, welcoming and hot and making him feel full, and William just whines pathetically with it.

He can’t help the way he flushes in embarrassment at the noises he’s making, the way he instinctively tries to look away from Henry, a wobbly, lovesick smile starting to form up over his lips— and there’s no way Henry isn’t acutely aware of just what it’s doing to him, either. He watches Henry’s eyes as they move, watches the way they scan over his every feature, careful, calculating, watches the way he smiles back down at him, and watches as Henry seemingly decides he’s adjusted enough, watches the spark go off in his eyes again just a second before he moves.

And now Henry doesn't waste time, just starts fucking into him quick and deep and rhythmic until William can barely take a full breath. 

Henry gets both hands on his hips, grip bruising, and it’s not long until William’s seeing stars behind his eyelids, until he has William moaning into his mouth, until William’s nails are starting to claw at his back— and he’s gonna feel bad about the marks he leaves later, he’s sure, but Henry’s never seems to mind them. 

His whole body is thrumming with pleasure, but he’s sure he can’t cum like this, not without a hand on his clit. Just when he's about to shift and reach to get himself off, Henry thrusts in so deep William whimpers, seeing stars, and then presses himself flush against William's chest, mouth down by his ear.

“Fuck, you’re so good, baby,” he murmurs, and that makes William let out a shuddering breath as he squirms, pinned between the bulk of Henry’s body and the bed, “You’re doing so good,” he praises, before he nips at William’s ear.

Henry's hips roll against him just enough to send little pulses of arousal straight to his clit, and somehow he manages to pull himself together enough to beg Henry to let him touch himself, for Henry to touch him, words jumbled and stuttered and ruined by desperation.

There's a part of him that thinks, for a moment, that Henry isn't going to, that he's going to be forced to cum like this or not at all.

But then Henry does, shifts a little to give them better access and William reaches down, hand hot, and rubs little circles into his clit in tandem with each thrust. William lets out a low, helpless moan as one of Henry’s hands cups his throat, fingers splayed out and digging. “How’s this for repentance, dear?” Henry asks, but it’s not like William could answer even if he wanted to. ( William thinks back to the first time he had asked Henry to do this, of that terrible softness in his eyes and the but I don’t want to hurt you, to which William had replied it’s a good hurt, it’s a good hurt. ) 

William doesn't cum until he's desperate for breath, until the lack of air has him feeling everything ten times more intensely as before. Henry, with his incredible timing and intimate knowledge of William’s body language, releases his neck so that William has just enough time to suck in a ragged breath before he cums on Henry's cock, body shaking.

Henry fucks him through it, chasing his own release, and there's a minute or so of sharp, sweet overstimulation that leaves William writhing until Henry’s quickened breathing turns into panting, and, “W-Will, I’m gonna—”

William pulls him in closer, arms around his neck and wet, trembling lips pressed against his skin, legs wrapping around Henry’s waste, encouraging him further, deeper, making a point to drop his voice a little, twist it a bit desperately, “Let go for me, darling.”

It’s enough. Henry cums, biting down hard at his shoulder to muffle a groan, and William’s pretty sure he feels just a bit of skin tear, and Christ, that’s gonna leave a mark, and feels Henry’s cock pulse and throb inside him, feels the warmth pool inside his belly, Henry’s grip on him so tight he’s pretty sure his ribs would crack.

William's ears ring in the aftermath, feeling Henry's chest rise and fall against his back as they both work to catch their breaths. 

“Holy shit,” is all William can think to say, and Henry laughs, high and exhausted, against the crook of his neck.

“That wasn’t too far, was it?” He asks, managing to pull away, reaching for the bite mark he’s just left in William’s shoulder. 

William just looks at him, incredulous. “What do you think?”

“I just want to make sure, is all…” He says, fingertips gently brushing around the outline of his own teeth. William can hear the smile in his voice. “Was it good?”

He’s pretty sure his head is still spinning. “It was perfect,” he admits, voice growing soft, “That— That was perfect, Henry.”

“Good, I’m glad.” Henry says, and helps him to his feet, and he aches with it, but manages to support himself on his two shaking legs long enough that Henry’s eventually able to let go of him. 

They stand there for just a moment, catching their breaths, and Henry gets a good glance in on him, and laughs. “You look a mess,” Henry says, and William can’t help the way he flushes under it. 

“No thanks to you,” he manages.

“You should probably go shower," Henry says, tone teasing.

“Wow, thanks, Henry,” He deadpans. “I had a great time with you, too—”

Henry gently whacks him over the back of the head, but he’s smiling. “Go get the water started, smartass.”

“And?” William asks, because with the way he says it, there’s definitely more to it than he’s letting on.

“And I’ll join you.”

William can’t really argue with that. If he’s being honest, he didn’t even consider that as an option, either— he was so excited to have Henry to himself on this trip, but the little things slipped his mind— finally being able to share a bed, to eat together, to shower together, all these little, domestic moments he’d never considered before.

“You have a lot of faith in my ability to not slip and end up with my knee making friends with your dick,” He says, only half-joking, pulling away from Henry finally and stumbling as he walks to the bathroom, kicking their clothing on the floor out of the way to clear a path. He’s not even sure there’s enough room in the shower for them both, but he can’t really find it in himself to care. 

“No,” says Henry, “I have a lot of faith in my ability to catch you when you inevitably fall,” and then he laughs, ducking his head slightly as he does when William flips him off from the bathroom door.

William turns on the water and lets it adjust for a minute before he steps in, hot water matting his hair down flat over his eyes. He lets the sound of the water devolve into white noise, vaguely aware of Henry grabbing towels for the both of them outside the curtain.

“We’ll be at university by tomorrow,” comes Henry’s voice, a little bit muted through the sound of the shower, but William can hear the fondness in his voice, “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” He responds, smiling as Henry pushes the shower curtain aside and steps in with him, their bodies nearly flush together in the tiny space. Thankfully, he doesn’t end up slipping during it, but there’s a decent amount of awkward shuffling as they move around each other, trying to swap places under the water every once and a while to stay warm. It’s awkward, cramped, but when Henry reaches up and starts washing William’s hair for him with all the tenderness in the world, starting to hum the tune of I Only Have Eyes For You without even realizing it, William wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

By the time they’re done the water’s starting to go cold and they have to stumble out to avoid it, desperately grabbing the towels they’ve hung on the door and wrapping it around themselves before they lose any of the heat. Henry insists on taking care of him, using William’s own towel and scrubbing it through his hair until it’s half-dry and sticking up every-which-direction, brushes it out for him— and makes him sit still until he can get a large bandaid over the bite mark he’s left, planting kisses on his cheek repeatedly the whole time. Later, they tumble into their combined bed and William pulls Henry into his arms and holds him properly for the first time, allows himself to get used to the feeling, just for now— allows himself to hope that he’s going to get to do this every single night, from now on. They don’t talk, don’t need to, just lying there coming down from it all, slowly drifting in and out of consciousness.

“Hey,” Henry mutters, clearly fighting to stay awake at this point, shuffling slightly to wrap around William more.

“Hm?” He asks, sleepily.

“I love you,” Henry mumbles, eyes fluttering closed immediately after. 

When he looks down, Henry’s already passed out, one arm tucked under the pillow and the other lazily resting over William’s side, his head pressed into the crook of his neck, his hair tickling the underside of William’s chin. He looks down, and every feeling that isn’t love or happiness or any of the million of wonderful things he never thought he’d deserve, let alone have, flees him when he sees Henry’s face.

“I love you too,” He whispers, so fucking sure of it.

They leave in the morning, and William can’t sleep. 

Georgia is no place for William, 19 years old, still too cocky for his own good but softening at the edges under Henry’s influence, but still searching for a new start, still running. It’s better with somebody else at his side, he thinks.

The air is cold tonight, but the rain’s come to a stop, and William lights a cigarette for himself under the flickering light outside their motel room, listening to the crickets and frogs in the distance. It’s dark, that small, tepid little light, the only one on across their vacancy, battling the darkness off from consuming him entirely. 

You can’t run forever, you know, the darkness says, I will always be with you. Doesn’t matter where you go.

“Sure I can,” he mutters around the cigarette clenched in his teeth. “You’re not real.”

Still, he finds his eyes looking up towards the darkness surrounding him, trying to catch any sort of movement within it— any roiling, twisting shape, darker than the rest that stands out to him, but he can’t place anything.

Oh, but you know that’s not true anymore, don’t you? It says. Your little firebrand made sure of that. 

“Fuck off.”

What happened to us? It asks. We used to be friends. Aren’t we still friends?

“You’re not real,” he says again, not sounding all that convincing.

Can’t we go back to being friends?

He can’t be out in the darkness anymore. He fumbles for the handle of the door and doesn’t quite rush back inside, but it’s close. 

You can run, it says, but I am your friend. I will always be with you.

He says nothing, not wanting to disturb Henry, still sleeping peacefully, a still-warm empty space next to him— instead, starts rifling desperately through his bag for the Polaroid he was gifted.

He practically snatches it out of his bag, heading towards the bathroom. 

If I weren’t real, you wouldn’t be so desperate to prove it otherwise.

He stops. Pauses. Holds his breath, tries to ignore the cold beginning to creep up his spine, and takes a photo of his reflection in the mirror.

He waits for the film to slide out. Holds his breath. Shakes it out. Holds his breath longer. Ignores the cold as it sends shivers through him, causes his hands to shake as he watches the photo develop.

He wants to be surprised when he sees the shadow there in the photo, but he’s not. It’s blurry and faded like it’s out of focus, it’s shape a perfect mockery of his own, wide grin and wide eyes, lapine ears so tall they scrape the ceiling. Its arms are wrapped around him from behind, its head resting on his shoulder like a lover’s embrace. He can feel it there, against his back, sending shocks of that awful, all-consuming cold through every nerve in his body.

How much more evidence do you need? It says, I am here.

“We’re not friends.” He whispers.

We could be. He swears he can hear that faint, happy rumble in his ear, like a car’s engine, like a purr. Just let me in.