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The graveyard was quiet, which Ethan was thankful for. He had never felt so worn down before, but he knew that Heisenberg was waiting for him in his factory of twisted metal, and because of Rose his own needs and safety had been long forgotten.
The grime of Moreau's swamps still clung to him without reprieve. He felt rotten; stinking and dirty. He saw the warm flicker of candles and incense up ahead where the Duke's caravan was hitched, unassuming and welcoming - he was drawn towards it like an insect to the sun.
When he arrived, the Duke was smiling at him; an assured, knowing smile that said he had known Ethan was coming and that he, in all likelihood, was there for that reason specifically.
"You look like you've had some trouble, my friend," the Duke said cordially. "Please, have a seat and rest a moment, won't you?"
Two frayed and faded ornate rugs had been laid out on the ground in front of the wagon next to the usual crates and trinkets. Ethan was about to refuse the offer but the thought of resting for even a moment was suddenly too enticing a suggestion to say no to. He settled down on one of the rugs and his body thanked him.
They sat in silence for a while, the Duke sorting through his items and books, carefully and quietly, so as not to disturb; a busy habit that Ethan had somehow already become used to during his short time knowing the man. At one point the Duke pulled two cigars from his breast pocket and offered one to Ethan, which Ethan refused. The Duke tucked it back into his coat, looking vaguely disappointed. Feigning disappointment, Ethan thought. Still - being here made him feel comforted, somehow, even if the other man's true intentions alluded him greatly. Ethan looked up at him and the Duke smiled.
"You know," Ethan said, "you really are the closest thing I have to a friend in this godforsaken place. How sad is that?"
"Oh, I don't think it's sad, Ethan," The Duke responded. "Some might even view our newfound kinship as an act of fate. A little tit-for-tat in a world that's otherwise come unbalanced."
The Duke opened a ledger of some sort and began to read through it, his brow furrowed in concentration. More silence.
"It just hurts," Ethan said after a long pause. He had no idea why. It sounded so thin he could barely recognize his own voice.
"What does, Ethan?" The Duke closed the book carefully and placed it down on a pile next to him.
"Is it your hand? Or the fatigue, maybe. Have they wounded you elsewhere?" He leaned forward, one hand on his cheek, palm propping up his chin, concern smeared across his features.
"Everywhere," Ethan said. "It just… hurts everywhere." My body. My heart, he wanted to say. Deep in my gut. Like my soul is aching.
"Well," the Duke said, "I have been called a miracle worker before but I will admit, with much humility, that everywhere is a tough one to fix." He reached into one of the many small jeweled chests at his side and pulled out a delicate green tincture bottle and a metal tin. He snapped the top off of the bottle and held it out to Ethan.
"Here, drink this."
Ethan eyed it, not moving from his spot on the rug.
"Come now," the Duke said. "I've helped you out this far, haven't I?"
Sure, for a price, Ethan thought, but he reached up and took the bottle anyway. He sniffed it - it had a distinctly herbal smell, bitter and earthy. Realizing that he had nothing much left to lose, he tipped it to his lips and swallowed the liquid down in one gulp.
"Good," the Duke said, pleased. Ethan felt a tingling sensation spread through his body soon after, starting in his fingertips and trickling outwards. It was almost like downing a double shot of hard liquor as your first drink of the night. He watched the Duke unscrew the lid from the small tin he still held, his large hands managing the task with practiced effort; he set the lid aside and dipped two fingers into the pale beige cream inside. It looked thick and buttery.
"Come here, dear." The sentiment made Ethan's cheeks and ears flush with embarrassment, but it also felt warm, inviting. There was a gentleness in it that reminded him of home, even if deep down he could feel its lack of sincerity.
He pushed himself up to his feet and stood for a moment, his head spinning. He was impossibly tired, but some of the ache in his body had subsided, probably thanks to the Duke's medicine.
The Duke ushered him forward and Ethan stepped up onto the wagon, feeling somewhat like an intruder. The Duke shuffled some things around to make room for him in the crowded area. The way the man and his trinkets filled the small space suddenly gave Ethan an absurd thought, one that he couldn't shake, one that made his stomach turn - an image of the Duke as nothing but a puppet in a shadow box with some wicked puppeteer in the cavernous dark behind him, manipulating him, drawing Ethan in. His entire back carved out, a cavernous hole dripping with viscera. His spine exposed like a flagpole, a hand larger than reason reaching in to move him about. Up and down, back and forth - not much, but enough to mimic life. Moving to the base of his skull, making him talk, making him look at Ethan with those knowing, certain eyes.
Ethan settled down and the Duke took him by the arms and positioned him so that he was facing outward with his back braced against the other man, which Ethan let him do without resistance. His shirt, sticky with blood and grit and dirty water, was unbuttoned, and after a moment of settling in, the Duke’s large hands began working to rub the beige cream from the tin into his skin over his cuts and bruises. Ethan closed his eyes and put his head back against the man's soft shoulder.
The sounds around him were vivid yet distant: more small boxes being shuffled through, the pop of a bottle opening. Crows, wind, the creak of dead trees. Ethan barely registered any of it, his attention only on feeling. The Duke's hands were slick on him now, moving over his torso, massaging, touching sensitive places - the soft dip between his collar bones, the sensitive area at the side of his ribs. Ethan fell into the touch, sinking into the other man, sighing. He readjusted and felt that he was beginning to grow hard. The Duke acknowledged it, too, hands moving over his crotch and thighs, unbuttoning his pants.
His breathing picked up, and the sound of it cutting through the surrounding silence was almost ear-shattering; it made him feel more exposed than ever. He was vaguely aware that the whole village could be watching, or whoever was left, at least - Mother Miranda in her manor, Heisenberg in his factory - they had already proven that they had eyes everywhere. A soft, oiled hand slid behind the front of his jeans to wrap around his cock and he moaned.
"That's good, Ethan," the Duke said, "give yourself to it."
For all Ethan knew, the Duke played a part in what was happening to him; the everything; the ominous plot against him and his family that he had only begun to scratch the surface of. He pushed back against the other man's body and rolled his hips. The man - maybe he wasn't. A creature, perhaps; his size was similar to the Dimitrescu woman, and a creature is what he would call her. But human at one point, right? Maybe the Duke had more of the human part left in him than the others did.
The Duke's large hand stroked him almost lazily, but with a heavy, wide grip that felt all-encompassing, his other hand still roaming. The warmth and pressure of being touched all over his aching body was almost blissful. The thought of being watched was pushed to the back of his mind and with it his inhibitions; he bucked up into the Duke's hand and rolled his head back against his chest, mouth open, hands grabbing at clothing, blankets, skin, grasping desperately for any sort of anchor to keep him grounded.
When he came it was with a shout that devolved into an almost desperate whimper, his mind clouding over with ecstasy unlike anything he'd ever felt before. The Duke stroked him through it - stroked his stomach and chest and cock and arms, whispering to him, things that Ethan couldn't quite register. Words of encouragement, or endearment, or perhaps of omens and curses.
He slowly came down from the high of it all and the cold air prickled at his skin unwelcomingly.
"I'm sorry," he breathed, the reality of it crashing down on him like the crumbling houses and tombs around the village. "I don't know what came over me."
"You won't hear a complaint from me," the Duke said, his voice still as calm and even as ever. His hands moved deftly over Ethan, cleaning him off and buttoning his shirt, even as Ethan was still gaining his bearings, feeling his mind clear, the tingle in his limbs subsiding.
"I'm just happy to see you've still got that fire in you from when you first arrived. You're still reaching for that which gives you sustenance."
Ethan climbed down off of the wagon, the frozen earth crunching beneath his feet, making him feel revived.
"To hunger is to be alive, right?" he said, his voice not nearly as certain as the words.
The Duke smiled. "You've been paying attention."