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Arthur’s mother didn’t say anything when she died.
Her mouth only hung open, drooling from out the corner of her lips, head draped against her shoulder. Heaving quietly, her hands lying limp in her lap and peeling away at the skin of her fingernails. He was never allowed in her room after she got sick. For once, she was away, not standing behind him or beside him or anywhere close. He could sleep without waking in the middle of the night and shut his eyes and rest his head against his pillow easy. Thinking nothing of her as her body ate away at itself.
By the end of it she was a husk, the fever made her call out in the night for someone to put her out of her misery. Delirious, her voice hoarse and howling out to him like a ghost. Arthur would ignore her. Get out of bed and open his window to let the rain leak into his room just to drown her out.
For that he was guilty, for being so glad she was cooped up in her room and dying alone.
His father let him say goodbye when her time came around. It’s the only thing he can remember of her now, what she looked like as he stepped into her room. Her face blanketed by the shadows of her linen grave, covered in brittle, rose-colored lesions. Eyes half-open and fluttering with each of her ragged breaths, crawling back up into her skull to focus in on Arthur. She wheezed, struggled to keep herself from letting go, didn’t say a word. Hollowed out, more dead than a mother. He hadn’t remembered what he said, remembered crying, too frightened to touch her or hold her when she looked so pale and gone.
It was the first time he remembered his father hugging him, crouching down to his level and holding him, though the moment didn’t last long before he pulled away.
Everything was cold again. When he closed the door she gurgled out, her voice rattling in the walls, and that was it.
After she died Arthur’s father had sent him up to her room with a pail and a rag and told him to clean. He had shaken his head, sobbed, but after a hard slap to the face, then another, he shut his mouth and went upstairs. Sniffling back tears as he stood outside her door, waiting for her to call out to him again. Chewing at the skin of his lips, licking up the blood, bringing the pail up close to his face and breathing in the smell of milky honey. When he opened the door she was gone. The rotten stain of her body lingered over the sheets of the bed.
A part of him expected her to be there, to reach out to him. To run her clammy, dying hands against his own. Down his arms, up the back of his shirt so she could drag her pointed fingers over the rough, jagged edges of his spine. Leaning in close with her breath panting over his neck.
Planting her cold lips against his.
Tell me you love me, Arthur. She used to whisper to him whenever she did it, then cry when he couldn’t bring himself to.
He got down on his knees and scrubbed the floorboards until his back ached and his shoulders gave in. Then he stopped, huffed for a moment, trembled there, before he continued. Until his hands were raw and the wood was soaked in watery foam and the sweat dripped off his chin.
It never felt any cleaner.
No matter how hard he scrubbed the smell of her decaying flesh clung to him. And it felt like her touch was seeping underneath his skin, rummaging through every part of him.
Just wished you loved me like I loved you. Arthur’s body would always go rigid with just her words. Still and quiet with the hair sticking up over the back of his neck, and suddenly he couldn’t move or push her away. He didn’t remember the last thing he said to her as he sat down next to her dying body. Just the feeling of the sheets in his clasping hands, hanging onto the edge of the bed and begging God to be kind to her. He must have told her he loved her, he thinks, it’s what a son would say. Though Arthur was never much of a son to her. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t have heard him or seen him in her state, must have felt his presence but not his words, so there was no use ever thinking about forgiveness.
Don’t tell your father. Maybe a part of Arthur was glad his father died before he ever found out. Died believing his son was clean and untouched and the perfect image of him, growing into someone strong-willed who would have never let that happen to them. Better he die not knowing than force Arthur to live through all the tears and that shame and disgust all over again.
Maybe, in the deeper parts of Arthur’s stomach, he was glad his mother died so soon and so alone. Then there’s other, guiltier parts in him that wish he died instead of her. Wished he had done something, and maybe she would have never done those things to him.
When Arthur turned eighteen he had asked Dutch to take him home, to visit his parents. What was left of them, at least, buried in their shallow graves outside the yard. He always figured if he were to become a man then he should say goodbye to them one last time. Before he got swept up with this life and forgot about them.
Dutch refused. They had more important things to be doing, he had said. Arthur knew better than to beg, so he let it go. It was a stupid idea in the first place. Hosea talked him into it, told him that it’d be good for Arthur to let go. Told him that it’s what a father would do. That seemed to make Dutch change his mind, as much as it confused Arthur.
They took the train early in the morning. Now they’re headed east. They’ve been headed east for a while now, and if Arthur looks back he can see the sun setting under the clouds in a blur of red and orange mist. His stomach feels like it’s in knots. He hasn’t been home in years. He wasn’t sure if he could really call it home, or if he’d even be able to recognize it anymore.
Arthur had picked flowers from out of the grass before they left. They began wilting a long time ago, but he held onto them anyway.
He had held them tight in his hands back on the train as he looked out past the window. Held his head down with his hat hanging over his brow, trying to remember what he could of his mother and his father. Realizing, with a sick feeling tugging at his stomach, there wasn’t much he could really remember of them. Dutch had sat beside him and smoked three cigarettes after another, legs stretched wide, reading quietly. The smoke had settled well into Arthur’s clothes.
The horse they took from the station takes her time over the hill. She tries her best, old legs struggling to keep up with the snap of her reins. It’s darker now, windy. Cold, raining down on the two. Arthur has his cheek rested against the back of Dutch’s shoulder, chest pressed against him and holding on tight around him. With his hat pulled down low to keep the drops of rain out of his eyes. Falling in and out of sleep, trying to concentrate, afraid of letting go—squeezing tighter around Dutch whenever he’d feel himself slipping away.
There’s a tall oak tree standing over the small of a hill and Arthur shoots up, straightening his back. He calls out, and Dutch pulls away, makes the horse utter out a whine as he trails her toward the home. Arthur bites the inside of his cheek, sees what’s been left of it. Windows boarded up and white paint peeling off the sides. Weeds overgrown and competing with one another over the yard. It wasn’t much of a house anymore. Arthur wasn’t sure what he expected, but he didn’t think it’d be so bare, such a husk of what it had been.
“There. It’s up there.” Arthur tugs on Dutch’s side and hears him mutter something, but his heart is beating too fast to care so he nudges Dutch in the side again. “Down out past the tree, over the hill. It’s there.”
Once they get close enough, Arthur peels away and the saddle creaks with the shift of weight. He can feel the old, rotten wood of the porch dipping under him, creaking out quietly. Dutch is close behind, hitching the old horse and leaving her cold out in the rain.
“Feels like you’re back home again?” Arthur doesn’t move. He stands there for a moment, feels the wind combing through his hair.
“Well, I…” Not really. Feels more haunted than a home. But Dutch has taken him all this way so he doesn’t say anything else, lets him go for the door. It opens with a hard grate, makes the wind howl in through the windows and makes the foundation tremble underneath him. Arthur hesitates, steps forward. “I don’t…I don’t really much remember it.”
It’s empty inside. Looks like it’s been gutted.
Smells like dust and earth, like nothing. Arthur walks past Dutch. Stops and lingers by the entrance and looks up at the pictures hanging on the wall. His father and mother are standing next to each other. He squints, tries to make out the expressions on their face but there’s none. Blank, unmoving stares look back at him. He’s in the center, smaller, younger. Standing close to his father with his hands behind his back. There's a sideways, half-frown on his face and his eyes are looking at the ground.
His mother looks younger, healthier.
“That’s them.” He says quietly. Staring at them a little bit longer before looking over at Dutch. He’s looking at the photos on the wall like he’s studying them. He reaches out, places a hand on Arthur's shoulder and pulls him in a little closer.
Arthur bites his lip. Focuses on Dutch’s touch.
It’s strange seeing her like this, in her picture. With her cheeks full and her skin tanned with the sun and her hair tied neat behind her head. It doesn’t feel like her, not when Arthur only remembers her face red and sweating and covering in sores. Or the way her face looked in the dark at night when she reached under his covers.
“You’re growin up so fast.” Arthur can feel Dutch nudge up behind him. “She looks like you.”
“Think I look more like my father.” Arthur says quickly, defensively, and his voice comes out more cutting than he intended it to. He turns his head the other way, without saying anything else.
Dutch’s hand moves slowly down Arthur’s back and stops between his shoulders. Arthur looks up at him, tries to meet his gaze. He’s never looked at him like this before. Arthur quickly flicks his eyes downward, lingering on Dutch’s lips for a split second before he looks away again.
“What’s the matter?” He feels Dutch’s hands resting over the small of his back. “You can talk to me, I won’t say none to nobody.”
“Just feels like I shouldn’t be here.”
“Turn around for me, son.” Dutch reaches out and pulls Arthur in. Tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear, fingers caressing the back of neck, dipping under the collar of his shirt and holding him close. His thumb rubbing gentle circles into his skin, kneading him out. Arthur leans into his touch, feels warm, lightheaded. Feels wanted, humming with Dutch’s touch. Letting a quiet noise slip out from the back of his throat as Dutch leans in and rests his face against the crook of his neck. “My boy.”
Arthur’s heart is beating, thumping hard and fast enough in his chest that it makes him feel faint. He bunches forward and shudders, hands holding onto Dutch and afraid of what would happen if he let go. They want more. They’re tugging at his jacket, feeling up what’s underneath. Hesitantly exploring Dutch, as much as he lets him. He was larger, firm, filled out nice in his undershirt and Arthur liked how he felt in his hands.
“Your boy.” Arthur whispered. He liked the way it sounded over his tongue. Liked the way Dutch said it, low and drawn out in his ear, pressed up against him with Arthur’s back to the wall—with Dutch’s hands roaming all over his body, wherever he wanted. Liked the way the scruff of his stubble feels against his neck, with his lips hot against his skin and breathing him in. Arthur’s mouth hangs open, lets out a quiet gasp at the brush of Dutch’s thumb against his jaw. “Yours. I’m your boy.”
“That’s right, you’re my boy. My perfect boy. Always been good for me.” Dutch mumbles into his neck and Arthur lets out a heavy exhale. He works his hands slowly down Arthur, untucks his shirt, pulling away the fabric up out of his jeans and suddenly it all feels familiar again. Arthur feels like he’s lying in bed trying to go to sleep but he hears the door creak open. Letting in the cold air and making him go still.
“Wait.” His voice comes out in a quiet whisper, fraught and shaking. Dutch keeps going, hands working carefully with the buckle of Arthur’s belt. It smells like milky honey soap and it smells like her, like death. And he suddenly feels her standing over him, weeping into his shoulder, dragging her hands over the rough edges of him and begging him to love her like his father. His hands are raw, red and aching as he grabs Dutch’s wrist. “Wait.”
He keeps going. Slips his hand under Arthur’s pants and gets a weak, strained huff in return.
“I said wait, Dutch.” Arthur’s voice is louder this time, makes it crack and makes him feel like he’s a stupid child again. And Dutch does, stops and slowly pulls away a moment to look down at Arthur.
“What’s the matter?” He brings a hand up, holds Arthur’s cheek in his palm. Wipes the tears away from his eye with his thumb. Arthur rests his head in his hand, catches his breath. Breathing in slow through his mouth until he can feel his hands stop trembling. Dutch has a look on his face. Confusion, trouble, maybe a look of irritation hanging over his brow more than anything else—and suddenly Arthur feels sorry, but looking back at Dutch through the warm tears that have welled up in his eyes. “What’re you cryin for?”
“I don’t know.” It’s a lie. And he knows Dutch can tell. Arthur doesn’t know what else to say.
“Arthur, son.” Dutch’s voice is sweet like this. Sounds more caring, gentler, more than Arthur’s ever heard him talk before—it makes his chest shiver, makes him feel all warm. He’s always felt safe around Dutch, always trusted him with everything he had and gave him all he could. He’s always been softer when the two were alone. This was different, he’s talking to him like he’s his lover. “You know I’d never do anythin to hurt you.”
Arthur’s throat feels dry. “I don’t want her to see.” His voice is quiet, hushed. He can’t look Dutch in the eyes. “Not like this.”
His heart beats faster, shunting blood through his body like he can’t breathe.
“Her?” Arthur nods slowly. Yes, her. He wants to say. You can’t feel her standing by the door, can’t hear her voice in the walls? You didn’t hear her screaming in the wind and crying out to me? He wants to point, hold out a trembling finger. Wants Dutch to understand what he means even though he’s not thinking straight. She’s right here, looking beside me right now, whispering I love you.
“Want to go home now.” Is all he says. Arthur’s eyes flicker toward the bedroom door. They dart away, quickly, to the window. Then back to the ground, to his boots, to the small space lying between him and Dutch.
“She can’t see you. It’s alright, she’s gone now. It’s just me.” His voice is soft and low in his ear, it makes Arthur feel hot and makes him rut his hips up just enough to feel Dutch pressing against his groin. He rubs himself there, against Dutch’s thigh, lets him back on his neck. Ghosting his lips over Arthur’s skin so he can see him shiver with his touch.
He’s kissing Arthur’s neck like he’s hungry, starving for him, sucking in lilac-colored bruises and scraping his teeth over him. Tugging on him by the hair, exposing his neck, his collarbones, the base of his throat, every piece of Arthur he can lay his lips on. One hand is holding him steady by the waist, soothing him as if he’s patting a dog. Arthur’s head falls to the side, gives him the space he needs to lap him up. Leaves him feeling used and messy.
He keeps his lips pressed together, eyes closed, forcing himself from letting any noise slip through his mouth. Whining softly, tilting his head away from Dutch. “But, she’s—she’s…”
“She’s dead, Arthur. She’s been dead.” Arthur can feel Dutch’s voice humming against the dip in his throat. “I’ve got you now, it’s okay. I’m takin care of you.”
Arthur turns his head, presses his lips against Dutch’s own and they feel wrong against his. He chases him, pants and moans into his mouth even though he knows he shouldn’t. His lips are soft, pliable—he lets Dutch work his tongue in and whimpers at the taste of him. It feels dirty, wrong, and Arthur wants more, wants to feel every bit of him, wants him to drag his lips all over his skin.
“Mmh, Dutch.” Arthur moans, bucking his hips up, rubbing his hard-on against Dutch’s leg. “Touch me.”
Arthur places a hand to Dutch’s shirt and tugs on the fabric. Biting his lip, trying to get more, moaning breathy and desperate into his mouth. Dutch smiles against his lips, fingers working at Arthur’s pants and taking his cock in his hand. Giving a squeeze, a few short pumps, rubbing his thumb over his tip and smearing Arthur’s precum along his cock.
“Just close your eyes for me, son. Doing good for me.” Arthur feels like he’s slipping, whining into Dutch’s touch, mumbling nothing into his neck and clutching onto him as he begins to speed up and circle his hand around his cock.
He strokes him faster, testing him, teasing him with his hand just to feel him shudder forward against his chest.
He goes slow, and Arthur’s heart is racing at it, breathing slowly and trembling. Rutting into his hand with a quiet whine—it leaves him feeling hot, panting, like everything’s spreading through his stomach.
Arthur chokes over the saliva caught in his throat. “She’s—she’s…”
“She’s not here, Arthur.”
Arthur’s mouth hangs open, eyes half-lidded and a desperate look falling over his face. Moaning and gasping for Dutch over something that seems so simple for him. Twitching over every stroke. Arching his hips into his hand, needing more.
“You like that?” Dutch runs his thumb over the head of Arthur’s cock and gets a breathy gasp in return. “You touch yourself like this?”
“Think a’you when I do it, sometimes.” Arthur nods his head shamefully, and Dutch moves faster, working him up. He twitches thinking about it. All the times he’s spent in his tent with his hand down his pants and another clamped down over his mouth, mortified with himself, legs shaking. Thinking of Dutch holding him down, kissing him, leaving marks and bruises all over him just like this and having to hide them later on. With his voice all sweet and whispering in his ear. Giving Arthur something to remind him of his hunger and drag his finger against until it healed over.
“That right?” Dutch sounds pleased with himself. Arthur’s giving him the reaction he’s always wanted.
“Feels good.” He sniffles quietly, biting back the tremble in his voice.
He feels like he’s dreaming. His eyes flutter back. He can’t think. Swears he can see palominos dancing over the ceiling, floating one after another, galloping down the walls. Foals running wild with their mothers, tripping over their legs and sleeping in the grass.
Arthur’s head falls back against the wall, lulls to the side and he sighs low in his throat. Closes his eyes and sees the sun. It’s warm and hugging him like how Dutch is holding him close. Wrapping his arms around him and he’s safe there. His mind goes back, further, thinks of old times sat at the dining room. On the porch. On the steps. Seeing how far he could run over the hills. Watching the deer. Climbing up the oak tree in the yard and feeling the air move in his lungs. Falling, hitting the ground, nose bleeding. Tooth knocked loose. Getting back up.
“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Dutch voice is lingering over his lips, and Arthur leans forward to take him in his own. He closes his eyes, cock twitching in Dutch’s grasp. Everything else falls behind him and he forgets it all over again like it was never really there.
Dutch strokes him slow, teases the words out of him, forcing him to break away and breathe. “I’m…I’m…”
Something burns through Arthur’s stomach, leaves him hanging over the edge of release, leaking over Dutch’s fingers. “That’s it, let go for me.”
Arthur mutters something, then shakes his head quickly. “Closer. Come closer to me.”
“About as close as I can get without breaking you.”
“Tell me you love me. Please, Dutch.” Arthur whines, turning his head and struggling to find his lips. Moaning and panting into his mouth like Dutch is working on resuscitating him, like he’s bringing him back to life. His teeth skim Dutch’s lower lip, drawing blood, and Arthur can feel him smiling against his mouth—he can taste his blood over his skin and he laps it up, trying to breathe. “Please—just, I don’t care if you don’t mean none of it. Just say it for me, please.”
His body’s pressed so close it’s like Arthur can feel Dutch’s heart beating against his chest. He wants more. Wants to feel Dutch’s heart beating in his palm. With his hand closed into a fist and wringing out all the love he can give. But he can’t, so instead Arthur trails his hands over Dutch, uncertain, like he’s dipping into the shadowy depth that is him.
“You know I love you, son. Love every bit of you.” Dutch whispers, making him shudder, dragging his hand slowly over Arthur’s cock in circles and speeding up with every twitch and gasp. His stomach lurches, and Arthur feels like he’s spilling himself all over the floor into a big pile of nothing. Dutch moves faster, unravels everything that’s been building up in Arthur in quick, wet strokes. Arthur shakes, feeling himself release over Dutch’s hand with a drawn-out moan, quickly followed by a lewd, desperate whimper.
Arthur huffs, relieved and disgusted, slumping forward against Dutch’s chest. Crying, wiping away all his ugly tears over Dutch’s shirt with the shake of his head. He holds him there and steadies him, fingers over the nape of Arthur’s neck, massaging out the rigid mess in his shoulders. Arthur relaxed and let’s go. He thinks, for a moment, that he would sacrifice himself to Dutch if he had to.
“I don’t want to see their graves. Not no more.” Arthur clings to him like he’s been reborn and he can’t move on his own. “I just want to go home.”
Dutch tucks Arthur back in his pants for him, pulling up his jeans and flattening out his shirt until he looks presentable. Then he presses a kiss to the side of his head. “Let’s go home. Get you some sleep, that’s what you need.”
“Don’t know where my flowers went.” Arthur mutters.
“Don’t worry about your flowers.”
He was never meant to come back here. He should have turned the other way as soon as they reached the front door, shouldn’t have brought Dutch into all this. It would have been easier to forget if he stopped pretending like it didn’t happen. It goes quiet and Arthur isn’t sure if he should speak up.
“I miss her. All the things she did to me and I still miss her.” Is what he says. “Just makes me stupid, is all. I should hate her. I do hate her, I think. I don’t know.”
“You don’t got to know.” Dutch shakes his head. “Come on, now. Let’s go home. Get you washed up, some new clothes, Hosea’ll make you dinner and you can get some rest. You don’t ever have to think about this place again—we’ll always be here to take a’you, son.”