Chapter Text
Normally he wasn’t this careless. His dad was supposed to be out late (some important Serpent business that needed tending to, likely followed by an even more important late night of free drinks at the Wyrm) which was why Fred was even invited over in the first place.
Forsythe Senior didn’t care much for anybody, but he held a special contempt for the youngest Andrews, and he certainly had no trouble making it known. Fred had always been a happy-go-lucky kid. A free spirit. A little… outside the lines of what was expected of boys his age, and Senior hated every drop of it. The fact that his own son had chosen to be so chummy with the pansy only served to fuel his hatred.
They were “too close,” he would say. Tried scaring FP with talk of what he could catch if he hung around with the Fred Andrews of the world. Warned him of the trouble he’d be bringing upon himself. Made sure to leave blotches of blues and purples on his skin to remind him.
FP could almost laugh at his father’s ignorance. He knew who he was, with or without Fred. Senior made up his mind long ago that Fred Andrews was some pariah sent to seduce and corrupt his son, but FP suspects he knows the truth deep down. Just doesn’t want to admit he raised a fag all on his own. Anything he can do to put the blame elsewhere… Which is exactly why FP learned quick enough that he could never let Fred and his dad occupy the same space. Not without witnesses. Even just stepping foot onto the South Side was too risky.
But Fred was never much for following orders. Or correctly estimating the level of danger he was putting himself in. Which is why when he got wind of FP having the trailer to himself for the evening, he decided to make an appearance.
They had a history report, Fred reminded FP as he snuck through his bedroom window. Totally innocent, though his face suggested otherwise. At the very least, it would be an easy enough cover to throw at Senior if he happened to stumble in early. That was the justification FP settled on in his head while he was staring down the big round puppy eyes Fred gave him.
But somewhere along the way Fred had started drifting in and out of consciousness (a lethal combination of too many baseball practices that week, history being his least favorite subject, and maybe the joint he and FP had shared).
They’d been sprawled out on FP’s bed, FP resting up by the pillows while Fred laid down by his feet. FP had tried to keep Fred up, would tickle his toes or try scaring him awake, but it was no use, and when Fred had yawned something deep from his chest, crawling up towards FP to nestle all snug against his side and tell him he just needed five minutes and “Take a nap with me, F” as he nuzzled his cheek against FP’s chest, how was FP supposed to say no?
“Five minutes and that’s it,” FP had asserted as he slung his arm around Fred’s shoulders and held him tight to his side.
“Five minutes, promise,” Fred slurred in return.
It was one mistake. One slip up.
“What the fuck is this?” Senior’s booming voice calls out.
The boys startle awake, instant recognition on their faces as they realize the hell they’ve just woken up in.
Fred jumps back from where he’d been peacefully resting on FP’s chest. He almost trips over his own feet trying to put distance between himself and the dark, looming storm that is FP’s father.
He watches FP in front him, arm stretched out like that’s going to be enough to shield Fred from his father’s wrath. Hears the start of a plea. ”This isn’t- We weren’t-” But FP gives up trying to explain. They’re past the point of explanations.
Fred doesn’t know what’s about to happen. Or, he can hazard a guess. He’s cleaned up enough of FP’s wounds to know what his father is capable of. But Senior’s never actually caught FP doing anything, even if it was something as harmless as sleeping, and he’s definitely never caught his son doing anything with Fred, and Fred doesn’t know what the hell that means for him, but-
“Fred, GO!” FP yells right as he’s charging the older man and body-checking him into the wall on the other side of the room.
Fred’s still frozen in place. The concept of fight or flight comes to him, but he can’t put either into action. It’s like he’s broken, malfunctioning. He’s supposed to do something, but he can’t.
There’s too much going on. Senior towers over his son, but somehow FP’s managing to hold his own. Fred doesn’t know if he’d necessarily call it winning - Senior’s landing blow after blow to FP’s face, his stomach, his ribs - but FP’s still on his feet. He yells between his father’s slurs and venom for Fred to leave again, and for some reason this time it takes.
They need help. FP needs help. Fred will just run to a neighbor, call the cops. Senior will get locked away and it will finally put an end to this nightmare FP’s been living with for the past 17 years.
That’s Fred’s train of thought as he books it towards the window, but he stops halfway out when he hears FP yelping and the sound of something dragging over the carpet.
Fred freezes in the window, one foot out and the other still planted in the Jones’ trailer. He looks over and sees that the sound he heard was FP’s feet dragging along the floor, kicking and trying to find purchase as his father pulls him along by his hair. FP’s screaming at him to let him go, is trying to scratch and claw at Senior’s hands to let him loose.
There’s no time for neighbors. There’s no time for cops. No one’s coming.
Fred’s foot catches on the window and he almost plants face first in his scramble to get back inside.
He finds them in the kitchen, FP’s on his hands and knees coughing up blood while his father looms over him, unrelenting.
“Get up! I said GET THE FUCK UP. FUCKING FAGGOT!” Senior’s screaming. FP tries, but he’s in too much pain to get a hold of himself, gets to one knee and slips back down. Fred watches as Senior brings his foot up just to slam it back down onto FP’s ribs, watches the way FP just drops like a load of bricks.
Senior grabs a fistful of hair again and is pulling FP up, and that’s when the other side of fight or flight kicks in, and Fred’s screaming and running at the older man trying to get him to stop. FP barely looks alive.
“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” he tries. Tries to get him to stop. Tries to push him out of the way. But it’s like Senior’s a cement block and no matter what Fred does it’ll never be enough.
Fred was never sure how much of the bible stories he was told in church he believed, but he knows now beyond a shadow of a doubt, looking into the cold, bottomless pit of Senior’s eyes, that the devil is real.
“You lettin’ some flamer fight your battles now for you, huh? This fuckin’ pussy?” Is all Senior says before suddenly his hand is encompassing the entire expanse of Fred’s face and shoving him back hard enough that he stumbles and hits the wall.
His head thuds with enough force to blackout his vision for a second and his whole balance is thrown off, causing him to slide to the floor as he reaches for the back of his head in pain and tries blinking his vision back into focus.
“F…” he tries, but he doesn’t know if his voice is actually coming out that soft or if his hearing’s just fucked. He squeezes his eyes shut, the stinging in his skull becoming almost unbearable, but when he opens them again he’s met with his worst fear.
Senior’s hunched over his son, hands so tight around his neck that Fred can see the veins popping out of his arms.
“FP!” Fred manages to croak out. He can hear his boyfriend struggling for breath, watches as his hands do their best to beat against his attacker, try to push him away, try to do anything.
Fred’s never felt so goddamn scared in his life. Still out of it from his collision with the wall, he clambers his way trying to find purchase on anything. His legs slip out from under him a couple of times before his hands finally find a counter, something to hold on to to pull himself up.
He grabs the first thing he touches, doesn’t even bother to look to see what it is. It feels like glass. An ashtray, maybe? It doesn’t matter. He’s running on autopilot now as he rushes the eldest Jones. FP’s arms go limp right as Fred raises his own up, letting out a guttural cry as he brings the blunt object down onto Senior’s head.
Senior goes down, falls off and away from his son, but Fred doesn’t have time to assess the damage. Doesn’t really care to.
He rushes to FP’s side instead, finds that he’s still breathing, but barely. He doesn’t know what to do. He thinks he should try CPR, but everything on FP’s face looks so fucking broken that Fred’s afraid to touch.
“Come on… come on, baby. You gotta wake up.” His hands ghost over his boyfriend’s face trying to find a safe place to land, but there’s nothing. He settles on pounding on FP’s chest instead. “FP, wake up. Wake up!”
There’s tears splattering onto FP’s cheeks, streaking the already drying blood, and it’s the first time Fred realizes he’s crying.
He checks over his shoulder briefly to see that Senior’s still down. Fred figures they’ve got some time before he wakes up, but he doesn’t know how much.
“FUCK, FP! WAKE UP!”
With one last punch to FP’s chest, he coughs awake, gasping for air as his eyes shoot open.
Overcome with relief, Fred falls on top of the other boy, holding him so tightly in his arms he feels like he might break him. “Jesus Christ you scared me,” he whispers against FP’s ear before placing a kiss to his hair.
FP doesn’t respond, but his arms are wound just as tight around Fred’s waist even as Fred pulls him up to a sitting position. Maybe it’s the shock of the situation - FP just trying to process it all - but there’s no time for FP to shut down. Not if they want to be as far away from the trailer park as possible before Senior wakes up.
“Come on, we gotta go.” Fred makes a move to stand up, tries taking FP with him, but he won’t budge. He tries again, slipping his arms under FP’s to pull him up, but still nothing. “Quit fucking around, FP, your dad’s gonna get up any minute!”
“I don’t think he’s getting up, Fred.” FP’s voice comes out rough and hoarse, a reminder of the ordeal he just went through. It makes his words that much more eerie.
“What are you- FP, we have to-” Fred’s throat closes as he follows FP’s line of sight and his eyes fall upon the pool of red gathered on the kitchen floor by Senior’s head. He didn’t think he had hit him that hard. He couldn’t have…
It doesn’t feel real. Even as FP’s gently moving Fred aside to get to his father, Fred watching as FP gives him a few nudges, checks for a pulse, gets nothing in response… it isn’t real.
“Freddie, he’s-”
“No! Don’t say it!” Like he’s reverting back to childhood, Fred clamps his hands over his ears and sits with his head between his knees. Thisisn’trealthisisn’trealthisisn’treal. This isn’t happening, this isn’t his life. He feels like he’s gonna puke…
“Fred!” FP’s voice, along with his hands on top of Fred’s, pull Fred out of his trance enough for him to snap his head up. “We have to clean up, get rid of the body-”
“Get rid of the...? The fuck are you talking about?” Fred doesn’t understand. FP just jumps from one extreme to the next. The fuck is he thinking? Hiding a body. Just like that. Like they’re taking out the trash.
“What do you want me to do? Cook breakfast around him?”
“Are you- have you lost your FUCKING MIND? WE HAVE TO CALL THE POLI-”
FP shoves his hand over Fred’s mouth before he can finish. “Shut the fuck up! You want the neighbors to hear you?”
Fred pulls the hand off his mouth, throwing FP’s arm away from him as he scrambles to get up. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“We are not getting the cops involved, Fred,” FP says as he gets to his feet, glaring at Fred the whole time. His tone suggests this isn’t up for debate, but Fred begs to differ.
“Oh, cut the South Side loyalty bullshit, FP. We’re way past that.”
It was the unspoken rule of the South Side: No cops. Ever. It was the reason brave (and stupid) North Siders came down here to pick fights. The reason drug deals were handled on this side of town.
The reason Fred was forbidden to tell anyone about Senior’s particular brand of punishments for his kid. The reason no matter how loud things got in the Jones’ trailer everyone minded their business.
“What do you think is gonna happen, Fred? They’re just gonna come down here, see a dead body on the floor, and let us go?”
“It was self defense! It would’ve been you lying there instead of him if I didn’t do something!” Fred reasons.
Shit was so twisted, but Fred knows right from wrong. Years of living on the South Side may have warped FP’s perception of the world, but how could he argue with Fred about this? There was only one right thing to do.
With his eyes shut, FP rolls his neck and lets out a bitter laugh. “Oh my God…” He rubs his hands over his face and through his hair before looking at Fred again, all traces of sardonic humor gone. “You know what’s gonna happen if the cops come down here? One,” he starts ticking off points on his fingers, “they’re already gonna be looking to arrest somebody. Two, despite the fact that nobody likes to talk about it, everybody knows my dad and I don’t exactly get along, so who do you think is gonna become prime suspect number one? And three, what the hell do you think is gonna happen when they go digging for information and find out about us, huh? Couple of queers sneaking around? A murder? On the South Side? They’ll be foaming at the mouth to lock us up. No one’s gonna give a shit what our story is.”
Blind optimism or sheer denial took over Fred, not even allowing the possibility for FP’s words to sink in. “No… no. No!” He shook his head profusely. “We tell them the truth and they’ll have to believe us because… because it’s the truth. And it’s what happened. And. And-”
FP slaps his hand on the counter in frustration, cutting off Fred’s rambling. “Dammit, Fred, I’m not letting you go to jail!”
It stuns Fred into silence, and as he stares into dark pools of FP’s eyes he sees for the first time how terrified he is. It somehow makes this ordeal feel even more real. Not that it wasn’t already, but now it feels tangible. Fred had always been one of those people who skated by in life. No matter what happened, he always managed to land on his feet without even trying. But now? It feels like he’s finally lost his footing.
He feels sick. Completely powerless. There’s no rewind for what he’s done, and the realization that Senior’s not waking up and they can’t go back is too overwhelming for Fred to even comprehend.
He looks down at the limp, lifeless body on the floor and quickly decides that’s a mistake. Bile rises in his throat that he has to fight to keep down as he looks the other way. “What do we do now?” He asks, voice hushed.
“Now we clean up. And then I’ll drive him out into the woods and bury him, and we forget this ever happened.”
FP sounds so methodical, so matter-of-fact, that Fred can’t help but wonder if he’s done this before. He almost asks, but decides against it. Maybe it’s just a thing all South Siders are born knowing; how to properly dispose of a body.
When Fred finally gets the courage to look up again, FP’s gone. He can hear some shuffling in the bathroom and a few minutes later FP returns with a torn shower curtain flung over his shoulder and a bottle of bleach in his hand.
He wastes no time getting to work, pushing aside the kitchen table and chairs so he can lay the curtain out on the floor. “This is all we have,” FP states as he gets on his knees behind his dad. “Don’t know if it’s big enough but.” He starts pushing, trying to get the body onto the plastic.
Fred immediately moves to help, kneeling down beside his boyfriend and using all his might to push.
Even with the help, FP’s putting too much strain on himself. The exertion combined with the trauma his body had gone through earlier makes him lightheaded and he stops, leaning over his father’s body to try and catch is breath.
“Hey, you okay?” Panic coats Fred’s voice as he scoots closer to FP, rubs a soothing hand up and down his back. “You don’t have to do this…” Fred doesn’t really want to be doing this either, but there’s really no choice now.
FP shakes his head. He takes a few deep breaths and sniffles into the crook of his elbow, wincing as he accidentally puts too much pressure on his tender skin, as he collects himself. “I’m fine. Just needed a second.” And then he’s back to the task at hand.
It’s a struggle, but they manage to get Senior rolled up in the shower curtain, even if his feet end up hanging out the end of it.
The blood’s an even bigger challenge. Somehow the more Fred scrubs at the linoleum, the more of that icky red seems to appear. It spreads everywhere, and Fred wonders if he’s somehow entered into hell and this is his penance - destined to mop up neverending pools of Senior’s blood.
Fortunately, the mess stops spreading after a while and the kitchen seems to be even cleaner than before, though Fred can’t help but double and triple check for any spots he’s missed. Feels like he might be doing that the rest of his life. The only thing stopping him from incessantly checking is FP announcing that he’s about to drive out to the woods.
“Wait,” says Fred as he stands up, wiping the sweat off his forehead. “I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t have to do this, Fred.” FP fiddles with the keys in his hand, eyebrows scrunched. Fred knows that look, knows that FP’s thinking about Fred’s virtue, his goodness. Knows how, since they met, it’s always weighed on FP’s mind that he’d somehow taint Fred by getting too close. And this? This was just about the worst case scenario.
Fred makes his way across the room to stand in front of FP, places his hands gently on either side of his jaw, forcing FP to look at him. “Hey. We’re in this together. Got it? Where you go, I go.”
Fred sees the protest in FP’s eyes, but he doesn’t voice them out loud. Instead, he holds Fred’s gaze, nods in agreement, and says “We gotta get him to the truck without anybody seeing.”
Fred doesn’t know how they’re supposed to do that. They’re in a trailer park. There’s neighbors everywhere, and there’s not exactly any spot for cover. Fred nods anyway, because what other choice do they have? He gets a brief flash of those old slasher movies FP always wants to watch. The gore of bodies being hacked up to bits… Probably more discreet than carrying out a giant log in a shower curtain, but Fred doesn’t think he has the stomach for something like that. He definitely doesn’t have the stomach for that. So he won’t mention it.
By some miracle they’re able to get Senior’s body in the bed of the truck with little commotion.
The drive to the forest is tense. Normally Fred hates a musicless car, but he thinks this time it’s called for. Doesn’t really seem appropriate to shimmy and shake along to the Beach Boys when they’re hauling somebody off to his final resting place, the tension even thicker knowing what’s in store if God forbid they get pulled over.
They had tried looking for a tarp or something to cover Senior, but found nothing. The most they could do was duct tape a towel around his ankles to cover up his feet. If they get stopped, there’s no denying what’s under the shower curtain. Not to mention the state of FP’s face, how they’re both still sporting obvious blood stains...
Fred doesn’t think he’s ever seen FP obey traffic laws so closely before.
It’s dark enough out that there’s some coverage, but it’s early enough that people are still out, looking for late night thrills. The main roads would be too crowded, which is why FP opted for the backroads. Long stretches of nothing with only the light of the moon and the truck’s headlights guiding them along. An odd car here and there passes, and Fred holds his breath each time.
If he’s being honest, he’s been holding his breath since they left. It’s not until they’re deep into the woods, parked in a clearing that Fred can finally get some air, and even then it feels like breathing through a straw.
FP’s out of the truck without a word, quickly heading for the back and grabbing the single shovel they could find. Fred thinks maybe he should go out, too, offer to help, but he can’t seem to move from his seat. Can’t seem to get his mind to wrap around the fact that he’s actually out in the woods about to bury somebody. Somebody that he killed.
He feels guilty. It’s worse than guilt. It’s something so deep and awful he doesn’t even think there’s a name for it. This whole night has been his fault, and he can’t even get out of the goddamn truck to help. This is his mess to clean up. Not FP’s. And FP hasn’t even asked which just makes Fred’s stomach twist up even more. Now’s not the time to be a coward.
He takes a deep breath (Or tries to. His throat still feels constricted) and reaches for the handle on the door to let himself out. His knees are wobbly when he stands, but he somehow manages to make it over to the shallow grave FP’s digging without falling. There’s a mound of dirt about a foot high near Fred’s feet, and FP’s not long on his way to being covered in the stuff himself.
“How deep are you making it?” Fred asks, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. It might be cold out, but he can’t tell. His whole body just feels numb.
FP stops digging, leans his arms on top of the shovel as he surveys his progress, shrugs. “Dunno. Waist deep? Don’t think we need to go the full six feet.”
Fred nods. He doesn’t know what he’s nodding for. Gravedigging isn’t exactly his area of expertise, but that seems right. He just hopes that’s deep enough to keep them from getting busted.
FP goes back to digging, gets a few more shovels of dirt over his shoulder before Fred catches him swaying, almost collapses before Fred jumps into the hole with him and catches his shoulders. “Shit, FP! You alright?” He wraps one arm around FP’s waist to hold him steady while his free hand holds FP’s head up in a futile attempt to check his face. Everything’s so fucking dark out here, the trees shielding any light from the moon. The truck’s headlights are still on, but FP’s cast in shadow.
“‘M fine,” FP slurs, tries to push Fred away from him. He’s too weak.
“You might have a concussion.” Fred tries checking FP’s eyes to see if he’s focusing, but he can’t see for shit. “You need a hospital.”
“No!” Whatever strength’s still left in FP’s body is being used to grip tightly onto the front of Fred’s shirt. Fred doesn’t need to see to know the panic on the other boy’s face, the seriousness of his objection. “I’ll be fine. Just need to sit down. No hospitals.”
Every instinct in Fred’s body is screaming to the contrary, but what can he do? He’s well versed in FP’s long history of aversion to doctors. God knows they’ve had enough fights about it. But he supposes maybe this time FP has a point. He doesn’t need to say it. Fred knows. Going to a hospital in this state will only lead to questions and they can’t afford that, especially now. But Fred’s also not willing to play God with his boyfriend’s life. He can keep an eye on him for the night, but the second shit looks like it’s taking a turn, his own life be damned, Fred’s getting FP to a hospital.
“Fine, fine.” Fred gently pries the shovel out of FP’s hand before leading him off to the side to sit down. “I’ll finish this up. You just… stay here.”
It’s a testament to how fucked up FP must be feeling that he doesn’t even bother to argue once he’s seated on the ground. It definitely doesn’t make Fred feel any better.
He’s left with the task of finishing digging the grave while simultaneously making sure FP doesn’t pass out, and there’s a point about midway through where FP scares the shit out of him, doesn’t respond to Fred calling his name. But it’s a false alarm, and Fred briefly considers hitting him with the shovel for raising his nerves like that.
”Dammit, FP. Don’t do that!”
“Sorry.”
By the time Fred’s finished digging he feels disgusting. Caked in sweat and dirt that he thinks will take at least three showers to rid him of. Though there’s already a part of him whispering that he’ll never really be clean again. Not after tonight.
FP’s got enough energy back that he can help Fred get the body out of the truck with minimal difficulty (maybe they drop Senior once or twice. Maybe it wasn’t entirely an accident on FP’s part).
Once he’s in the hole and the dirt is packed tight back in place the two teens just stand there and stare.
There’s an odd tingle prickling up Fred’s spine like he’s waiting for something to happen. Like the end of Carrie when her hand reaches out of the grave. He still feels dirty. Guilty. Wrong. He thinks maybe he should say something. That’s what you’re supposed to do at funerals, right? Say something about the deceased. Even if they were absolute assholes and you were the one responsible for ending their life…
He looks over to FP in hopes of getting an answer, but all FP does is spit on the dirt and turn back towards the truck without a single word, and apparently that’s all the answer Fred’s going to get.
The drive back is just as quiet as before, this time with Fred behind the wheel. FP sits in the passenger seat staring off into the dark. Fred can’t get a read on him the few times he takes his eyes off the road to glance over, but there’s a definite air of solemnity filling the space of the cab. Things have changed now, whether they want to admit it or not.
FP turns on the radio, keeps the volume down low, before slumping over onto Fred’s shoulder. It takes Fred a minute to place the song, some haunting melody coming through the speakers that he eventually recalls Gladys having been listening to last time they hung out. Kate Bush, he thinks the singer’s name is. It doesn’t feel out of place in the truck, and somehow that worries Fred even more.
He glances down at FP, sees his eyes are closed but knows he’s not sleeping. He’s got this crease in the middle of his brow that he only gets when he’s thinking. Fred wants to ask, but doesn’t want to break the silence. Maybe too scared to.
Instead, Fred keeps one hand on the wheel, places the other on FP’s thigh and gives it a reassuring squeeze. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.
After a moment, Fred feels FP’s hand slip into his. He squeezes back, and it feels something like thank you.