#repressed memory arc

[bates--boy]

by @kittyexplainings on tiktok

[bates--boy]

         He choked and choked and choked and through his choking he cried out “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry–” he’s sorry for loving that boy, and

         Wait, no... Please don’t take him back there...

February 1976

          “Mhm... hm... he did?!” His shoulders rose and fell in a deep heave of a sigh. He raised his hand to his face, likely to pinch the bridge of his nose, before planting that hand on his hip. “I am so sorry about that. Peter knows better than to do that! How is he doing?”

CW: semi-graphic/implied to graphic abuse. Allll the abuse. Disassociation. Neglect. Religion.

Arthur had his back turned to the breakfast table, but it was easy enough to read him, tone and all.

            Peter stilled in his seat, as if the way he jiggled his leg under the table and the way he swirled the mug of hot chocolate to watch the marshmallow swim created enough sound to drown out the news. He watched Arthur’s back; specifically, his eyes were trained on the phone cradled between Arthur’s head and shoulder, and the dry croak of Lisette’s voice that would be crackling out of the receiver. 

          “That’s good to hear,” Arthur replied, and the tension melted out of Peter’s tiny body. “That boy of yours is made of tough stuff, I must say. If it’s alright with you, I would like to send Peter back over to apologize, himself. Maybe Peter can do Andy’s chores while he’s staying there?” Though the tone was heavy on the teasing side, no one would be able to miss the serious suggestion underneath, especially when Arthur looked right over his shoulder at the child sitting on the table, scowling at the way Peter slumped back in his chair and rolled his eyes.

          “Yes, we can arrange that. Okay, I will have Peter over and we can renegotiate payment. Send my love to Andy, and again, thank you so much. Goodbye.”

            Arthur hung the handset in its cradle and stood by the phone, running his hands down his face. He turned and walked silently to the table, taking the seat across from Peter and folding his hands in front of his face, eyes cast down to the steaming mug of coffee in front of him. 

          “...I didn’t mean to do it,” Peter murmured, squirming in the heavy silence.

          “I know you didn’t,” Arthur replied. “But you still did, and now a little boy is hurt.” Arthur’s green eyes rose from his coffee to the child in front of him. They dimmed as Arthur’s mind seemed to wander. To what, Peter didn’t know; likely some long ago memory like Arthur tended to drifted back to.  

             His eyes closed. “For once, would it kill you to not cause me so much trouble?”

           Peter, who had raised his mug to his mouth to take a sip, lowered it halfway, looking into the beverage as something in his stomach went bitter. "We were just wrestling."

          “You’re too strong,” Arthur continued on, almost as if Peter hadn't said anything at all. “More than you have any right to be.”

            I’m a military fort, I’m supposed to be strong! Peter had wanted to point out, but when Arthur opened his eyes again, melancholy darkened them further, making Peter shrink in his chair. 

         “How many times do I have to tell you to be careful with people who are weaker than you?” Arthur scolded him. “I know you feel more connected to humans than with your fellow personifications. Nevertheless, you are still a personification who is stronger than your friends; they can’t recover as fast as you or come back from the dead if you do anything bad to them.”

         Peter bowed his head again, rubbing his thumb on the lip of his mug. He was going to have to learn to stop doing that, else he'd break a mug someday, but he needed some way to take the edge off as the vivid memory of his friend's agonized shrieking filled his head. “...I know.”

           “You say that, but you still get carried away,” Arthur continued to scold, and Peter wished he would be quiet, so he could push away the thought of Andy’s corpse, pale and marked and bloodied by Peter’s hand, and he could tell himself he wasn’t a monster in peace. But Arthur’s voice grew firmer, burning the imagined scenario into Peter's mind to the point of it feeling all too real. “Peter, I need you to promise me that you won’t get carried away with humans. When you go back to Lisette’s home, keep control of your strength before you do something even more regrettable.”

          Nodding, Peter murmured over his mug of cocoa, “Yes, Arthur.”

          “Good.” Arthur sipped his coffee and made a face at it. “When you’re done with that, we’re going to stop by a bakery. Since you know what that boy likes, you can pick out his apology gift.”

--

Peter certainly did not need anymore sugar in his system, but his mouth salivated over the sweet scent coming out of the pink box sitting on the boat-making kit he carried. He and Arthur took the path up to the little stone house, snow crunching beneath their boots. He hoped Andy will forgive him and even, maybe, be willing to share some of the treats with Peter, because there were some good stuff sitting heavily in this box, beautiful and sugary like they were made by fairies themselves.

          Up at the door, Arthur gave the wood a quick rap on its chipped red painting and squeezed Peter’s shoulder through his coat. When Peter looked up, Arthur was staring straight ahead, his face blank that made Peter wonder if he was planning on shipping Peter back out to sea after all, deliberating on whether the trouble of speeding up the departure date was worth the trouble and cost. Peter would have stomped his foot on Arthur’s if it weren’t for the fact that he maybe understood some of the stress Arthur was under, between the Olympics and some nasty little spat he was having with that Emil arsehole.

          The heavy locks clicked and ground, and the door’s groan snatched Peter’s attention away. He looked up and tried to force on a pleasant smile for Lisette.

          If he hadn’t been the one responsible for her most current stress, Peter wouldn’t have noticed anything different about the stocky woman before him: bright copper hair wrapped in a frizzy bun to keep out of her face, emerald eyes deep set and keen despite being weighed down with exhaustion. Those eyes sharpened when they descended upon the Sealander, causing him to purse his lips and straighten his back.

          Lisette tugged her cardigan tighter around her and glanced down at the bright pink box in Peter’s hands. She gestured to it with a nod, saying, “I suppose that’s for Andy,” and stepping out of the way to let the brothers in.

          “Thank you for having us,” Arthur gave his standard polite reply as he gently nudged Peter in first.

          “Is Andy okay?” Peter asked, forcing himself to not look around so he wouldn’t seem too eager to see his friend or too worried.

          Lisette locked the door. “He’s in the kitchen. Take your things off and we can have a sit; I was just making tea.” Taking the boxes from Peter so his hands would be free for undressing, Lisette led the two down the hall and through the living room, past the roaring fire that gave everything a homey orange glow, and into the kitchen where the kettle’s whistle grew louder the closer the three came.

          And there he was, sparking a smile that lit up on Peter’s face.

          Andy sat hunched over the table, a book with its spine broken so it would lie flat open in front of him. With his head bent, Andy’s auburn hair hung by the side of his face, floppy and full no matter how many times Lisette took scissors to it. The chunky white cast that lied on the table would have wrung Peter’s heart in the most wearisome guilt if Andy hadn’t raised his head to look at the newcomers, wide brown eyes immediately drawn to Peter and his lips spreading into a smile.

          Peter cleared his throat and straightened his sweater.

          “Hey, Pete!” Andy said, sitting up straighter and closing his book. He spotted the pink pastry box and grinned curiously. “Is that for me?”

        “It sure is,” Lisette said. She set the boxes down in the center of the table and continued on to the stove. She spooned black tea leaves with flecks of lavender into teacups.

        Arthur nudged Peter’s shoulder again. “Don’t you have something to say to Andy?”

        Peter nodded and walked up to Andy to deliver the apology in the way that he thought was proper. This close, Peter could see how the soft and gray sunlight from the window’s curtain caught in Andy’s hair, turning silver and giving Andy’s hair a shine like polished coins; he was reminded of the times he was caught staring at how soft it looked this way, and the jokes Andy would lob at him. Whydunyakissme, loverboy? He’d said once with mocking kissing noises. One time, yet it came back to Peter today, forcing a shamefully deep pink tint to his face.

          Peter glanced down. “I’m sorry I broke your arm.”

        “Eh, don’t worry about it.” Andy shrugged his uninjured shoulder. “The doctor gave me some pills for it. They taste like chalk, but I don’t feel a thing!” He waved his arm above his head in an exaggerated gesture, smiling wider as his great aunt sucked in air through her teeth.

          “Stop fooling ‘round before you end up back in the hospital!” Lisette set the tray on the table and gave Andy a slap on the back of the head. It might have been in jest, but that large hand of hers still had enough brawn to Andy a new sore spot.

         “Ow! Okay, Aunt Lissy, I’ll stop!” Andy winced and rubbed his head. When he met Peter’s eyes again, mischief twinkled in his own.

        Peter stifled his giggle and helped Lisette set up the table. Once the desserts were eaten and what remained of the tea started to cool, Lisette suggested to Peter, “If you boys are finished, how about you two head on up the stairs?” She handed the other box to Peter. “Play with this fancy boat kit you got after you clean the rooms, ya hear?”

        “Yeeeeessss, Aunt Lissy,” Andy droned as he rose out of his seat, with Peter following along. The two set their cups and saucers on the tray and left the kitchen, the talks of church and higher payments for Peter’s board far behind as the boys ran up the stairs.

          Although he was sore about having to do Andy’s chores in addition to his own, Peter still went to work straightening Andy’s bedroom, with Andy lounging in his chair as he watched Peter put away the books and toys and tuck in the duvet and sheets, before Peter left to clean his (thankfully less messy) room. Peter came back to Andy’s room, finding the other boy sitting cross-legged on the floor, reading the unfolded instructions.

        “Hey! Don’t start without me, you slag!” Peter huffed as he plopped himself on he floor in front of Andy.

        “I wasn’t, I wasn’t,” Andy mumbled, waving his cast dismissively. “Just reading the stuff. What model are we building?”

        “It’s the HMS Victory!” Peter leaned in as far as his crossed legs would allow. “Arthur picked it up for me at that new museum! It’s got it’s own seal and everything!”

        “Really?” Andy laid the instructions out and picked up one of the pieces to hold to his narrowed eyes. “It looks like cheap baby stuff.”

        “It does not! Arthur got it from the Queen, herself! And she gives nothing but the best gifts!" Peter pulled the box closer and rummaged through it until he found the gold foil card with the embossed official seal on it. He held it right in Andy's nose, pointing to the elegant black loops and swirls. "See! It has her signature and everything!"

          "Yeah, not like she has some poor maid to do all her signatures for small stuff for her," Andy pointed out. He picked up a wooden-looking piece and saved it in Peter's face. "See? Just'a bunch of ice lolly sticks!"

          Peter felt his face twist with too many reactions, his face reddening and jaw hardening yet trying to put on a detached façade. He snatched the wooden piece from Andy and dropped that and the gold card into the box. "Well, no need for you to build this boat with me if you're going to be a cunt about it!"

          "Oh, don't get your shit-streaked whiteys in a bunch, Pete! I was just messing with you!"

          As Peter started to fold the instructions for his kit, he craned his neck and hollered out, "Liseeeette, Andrew said a bad wo--!"

          "Shhhh shut up shut up shut up!" Andy started to press his good hand onto Peter's mouth, but Peter leaned back and jerked his face away.

          "And he made fun of my boat kit!"

          "Hey, I said shut up!" With more nimbleness than a handicapped boy had any right to, Andy pounced over the kit's box without sending anything scattering and landed on his friend, holding Peter down with his broken arm while he used the other to playfully jab his fist into Peter's side.

          Peter giggled and grunted as he pushed his palm into Andy's face. He would have welcomed another roll on the floor tussle (some unfinished business, Peter would have called it) but the bulk of Andy's cast pressed against his chest and when Peter glanced up, he caught Andy’s eyes twitching as he tried to hold in a wince.

          “Get off me, Andy,” Peter grunted. “I promised Arthur I wouldn’t be rough with you anymore.”

          “Why’s that, huh?” Andy’s voice was partly muffled in Peter’s palm. “Why not break both my arms? Get me out of school for a couple months!”

          “Fuck off!” Peter chuckled. He shoved Andy off and caught him by the shirt before he could land on his broken arm.

          “Alright, alright!” Andy crawled back to the other side of the box and unfolded the instructions again. “Let’s do your baby ship building then.”

          They arranged the kit around them on the floor to take inventory of the tools, stand, frame, glue, and paint that came with the pieces of the model boat. A couple times, Peter had broke his concentration on piecing the boat together to look up at Andy, noting with a sardonic smile that for all of the crap Andy gave him about the kit, he was also intently focused on the work, with his tongue poking out of his lips and eyes narrowed while he fit one piece into another with the tweezers, his shoulders with the promise of broadness now hunched over.

          They worked as the adults’ voices floated up the stairs, with tones of farewell, and the front door closed. The house filled with Lisette’s trudging, and pots and pans banging in the kitchen over grumbling. Peter set his current work down, the planks of the deck pieced together, and cracked his knuckles as he looked toward the door. “Hey, Andy?”

          “What?” Andy replied, starting work on the stern.

          “What’s going on with Lisette?”

          Andy frowned at Peter and looked back down at his occupied hands. “What do you mean?”

          “I mean,” Peter gestured, “what’s got her in a foul mood lately?”

          The frown on Andy’s face snapped into a lopsided grin, his eyebrows rising. “You’re joking, right?” he asked, raising his broken arm.

          “I mean before that,” Peter groused. He spoke in a lower voice, eyes darting back and forth between the door and his friend and ears listening for footsteps. “She’s been a little testy lately, hasn’t she?”

          “She’s always testy, Peter.”

          “Well, yeah, but I mean it’s worse, right?”

          Andy shrugged. “I haven’t noticed anything--”

          “Shhh, not so loud!”

          Andy rolled his eyes. “I haven’t noticed anything different,” he said more quietly, “but if she is worse, it’s probably because the church found a muff diver in the congregation.”

          Peter’s eyes widen, his jaw slowly dropping. “They what?”

          “Pffft, you heard me. Muff diver, beans and toaster eater without the toast, game of flats player.” Andy leaned in, one eyebrow cocked, his smirk so filthy as he basked in the scandalized awe lighting Peter’s face. “Total. Lesbo.”

          “Who was it?” Peter asked, his mind poring through the faces of the congregation, at least the ones he could remember from the few visits he took while on land.

          “I probably shouldn’t tell you, because it would break your heart and make you soooo sad--”

          “Tell me, you dummy!”

          “Diana Paisley.” Andy’s smirked ticked even wider as he watched the shock spread all over Peter’s face. He chuckled and went back to gluing the ship together. “Yep, Diana. Brother Kenneth found Diana making out with that tomboy Roberta behind the altar. Hands down each other’s knickers and everything.”

          Peter’s hands flew up to cover his flushed face. “Jesus Christ!”

          “I bet Diana was shouting the same thing.” Taking on a mocking higher pitch, Andy cried out, “’Oh, Jesus Christ! Oh, Roberta! Oh, Jesus Christ, oh, Roberta--’!”

          “Don’t be gross!” Peter shoved at Andy’s chest. “What did they do to the girls?”

          “Kicked them out, of course!” Andy sniffed. “Last I heard, Roberta’s family sent her to a nunnery under the pope’s suggestion.”

          “...And Diana?”

          “Kicked to the curb. And kicked out of the family.” Andy shook his head. “Didn’t even give the girl the chance to pack up anything to take with her. Her dad literally dragged her out by the hair and the rest of the family had a bonfire with her stuff and pictures. Poor girl was crying up a storm begging for their forgiveness.”

          “Wait,” Peter murmured as his stomach twisted. “You saw all of that?”

          “Yeah. Was really sad, watching that girl shiver in the cold and begging and hollering like that.”

          Peter looked down into the box, letting the scene that Andy so wonderfully painted play out in his head. Diana, her shiny strawberry-blonde curls ripped out by her father’s burly hands, her pretty heart-shaped face blotchy and soaked with tears, thrown onto the snow-covered concrete like everyday rubbish with nothing but her jumper to protect her against the elements. He stopped himself before he thought about the cries of agony she must have made, refusing to taint the memory of her angelic lilt in choir with such sorrow.

          Peter resisted the urge to wrap his arms around his knees, keeping his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap. “...That seems like a bit much for one tiny mistake, doesn’t it?”

          “Maybe, but what can you do?” Andy shrugged. “The Bible said not to do things like that.”

          “I know, but...” Peter found Andy watching him, silently waiting for more. Peter looked away and shrugged as well. “Never mind. Why was Lisette pissed though?”

          “'Cause Diana was her favorite, her little protege. She was the daughter Aunt Lissy never had, y’know? The whole thing made her drink all her fancy bourbon.” Andy snorted. “I should’a known better than to make jokes when Lissy has a bottle in her hand.”

          Peter narrowed his eyes, then gasp softly when it clicked. “That’s why you had that bruise on your shoulder?”

          “Yep. Lisette was so torn up about it. Even more than you.” Andy’s confused frown returned. “I thought your little heart would be broken by this, too. What happened to your little crush on her?”

          It was gone in a blink of an eye. To be more precise: Diana grew up in a blink of an eye, from the thirteen-year-old girl who was maybe still within Peter’s dating pool if he tried to be mature enough and impress her with promises of becoming his princess, to a fifteen-year-old young lady that budded everywhere, who was already looking into universities in Paris and Dublin, and had committed the ultimate sin: she read Peter’s love poem that he hand-delivered with a bouquet of roses and not laugh, not scoff, not sneer, but cooed. She said, “Awww” with the bubbly adoration one would have for their cute little brother. She patted his cheek and Peter knew that door was closed.

          But Peter didn’t want to get into that long-winded explanation, so he sifted through the box for more pieces. “I can’t do long-distance relationships.”

          “Ooooor, you know she won’t go for tiny little fellas like you!” Andy cackled. “Seriously, mate, drink some goddamn milk or something!”

          “Shut up, I’m trying!” Peter groaned. With the declaration of sovereignty and all the work his royal family had been putting into the fort, Peter thought he would have a major growth spurt beyond what he had now. But he didn’t, and no amount of milk and vitamins and exercise would rush his body to grow more. He was going to be stuck as a ten-year-old for the unforeseeable future.

          “Well, try harder,” Andy teased him. “If you keep being short like this, I’m gonna have to tell my other friends that my little brother has to tag along.”

          “Your friends know you don’t have a little brother!”

          “That’s because they don’t know about the one who lives in the attic~ The scrawny little bird we feed hard bread crusts and weeks-old Shepherd’s pie~! Ouch!”

          Peter poked Andy’s bad shoulder, and the boys fell into a fit of laughter. “Whatever, butt licker!”

          “Seriously, though, now that your one true love is gone forever, why aren’t you going after other girls?”

        “A better question is why are you so invested in my love life?”

        “Because you have a few girls already looking at you, but you don’t give them the time of day.”

        “Really?” Peter crossed his arms. “Like who?”

        "Like Katherine Wharton, who baked you all those cookies. Or Isabella Kingsley, who still takes care of that stray cat you two adopted together."

            "Captain Stinker is still alive?!" Peter asked.

            "And that Swedish girl, Delilah Erklund? She asked about you a lot! She wanted to take you to her school's dance and everything!"

            Peter blinked in surprise. "O-oh, I..." He rubbed the back of his neck that suddenly developed a certain type of itch. "I... Didn't know..."

        "You would if you get your big head out of your bum!" Andy rolled his eyes. "Seriously, you're the most dense person I've ever met, and I know a kid in my class who has to wear a helmet! Ugh. Anyways, which one would you pick?"

        "Pick?"

        "...Yeeeah? Woo and romance with your cute little romance poems and flowers you obviously picked from some old lady's garden? And please don't say Delilah, I kinda like her."

        "I mean..." Peter picked up one of the bottles of paint to turn over in his hand and read the label. "I don't think I want to pick any of them."

        "Are you kidding me?!" Andy's good hand started flying everywhere. "Many guys who actually went through puberty have to work to get girls to chase them, but you have three ready for you and you don't want any of them? What is wrong with you?!"

        "Fucking hell, Andy, lay off! You're being weird!"

        "Oh, yeah, I'm the weird one, says the guy who don't want any of the skirts tossing themselves at him!"

        "Maybe if you stop being a jerk-off, you'd have more girls coming after you! Girls can tell when even a good-looking guys is a creep!"

        Andy snorted. "Did you just call me good-looking? You really are weird!"

        "There's nothing weird about giving a guy a compliment!"

        "It is when the guy giving the compliment hasn't dated a girl in forever! I swear, Peter, sometimes I think you're...." Andy sighed and shook his head.

        Peter pursed his lips for a moment. "You think I'm a what?"

        "Nothing, Pete."

        "You think I'm a what?"

        "I said nothing! Never mind it. Shut up and me with this kit, wouldya?"

        Peter exhaled through his nostrils and watched the scowl tense up Andy’s face. Nibbling on his bottom lip, Peter picked up the section of the boat where he left off and mentally talked down the queasiness in his stomach. In the few minutes of silence that followed, Peter was starting to relax and hum a catchy jingle from some long-ago commercial when Andy groaned and set his parts down again.

            “You know what? I need to know: why don’t you have a girlfriend?”

            Peter threw his half-completed deck down. “For God’s sake, Andy, let it go!”

            “I can’t let it go, Pete! It’s weird! All of my friends are getting girlfriends except you! All you’re doing when you come ‘round is latch onto me, and I can’t have you doing that when I’m trying to get a girlfriend, too! Do you know how weird it is to have some boy--”

            “Stop calling me weird--!”

            “Hanging on to your every word and staring at you all the goddamn time!” Andy snorted in that derisive way that cut into Peter and made his cheeks flare. He scoffed, “It really is like you want to kiss me or something.”

            Peter should have said something. A cutting jab back at Andy and his goddamn arrogance, denial, anything but sitting there, his whole body flash frozen, the accusation ringing loud in his head and the silence festering between them until Andy’s eyes looked ready to pop out of his head.

          “...Holy, shit, you’re a queer.”

          “Don’t call me that!” Peter squeaked.

          Andy scoffed, then chuckled, looking away with the most aggravating smirk Peter ever saw. “Damn. I knew I was a good-lookin’ chap, but I didn’t think I’d be hot to lads, too.”

          “I promise you that you’re not!” Peter squeaked out once again through a tightening, drying throat. He knew what he sounded like, responding in this way to Andy’s jesting without outright denying it. But every time he tried to force that needed denial out of his body, it would stop right in the middle of his throat, digging its nails in and refusing to go any further.

        Worse, still, was that Andy refused to drop it. Instead, he tried to joke about it, dismiss it in his own way, but the humor was strained and awkward and the whole thing, for some reason, made Peter want to cry. He glared into the box, locking his jaw and ignoring the itch behind his eyes, Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up! Peter chanted in his head, feeling heat crawling up his neck and to his scalp.

        “Well, now that I know that you’re my admirer,” Andy kept on with his big fat punchable mouth (but at least he had the grace to speak softly so Lisette wouldn’t hear), “I think it’s time I get gifts like Diana! Where are my poems and flowers? No, wait, I want chocolates! Lots of it--”

        “I already gave you those desserts,” Peter interrupted. He picked up another wooden piece and worked it in his hand, wishing he could break it. Break them all, one by one, and even smash the progress they’ve made with the boat. But no, it was too expensive (for cheap ice lolly sticks) and Arthur would probably stop supply shipment to his fort as punishment.

        “Those don’t count. You got them because of this!” He waved that blasted cast in the air again. “I want chocolates and wine and candlelit dinners and jewelry. Lots and lots of jewelry! That’s the only way I’ll let you kiss me!”

        Again, everything went still in Peter, just the hitch of his breath to let him know that he was indeed awake, and he did hear Andy correctly. “W-wow, you... you sound like a prostitute.”

        “ I merely know my worth, is all~! And I know that you want to kiss me, so badly~!” Andy moved the box out of the way and leaned in closer, tucking his hands into his lap. His long lashes fluttered, his eyes closing halfway. “You do wanna kiss me, right, darling?”

        It was a dare. A stupid, joking dare because Andy did not know when to let things be or to stop giving people that punchable smirk. If Peter had his wits about him, he would have ignored the bait, Just pull the kit back between them and urge them on until dinner time or until Lisette needed them to do a chore. But Peter was hyperaware to the point of senseless.

        Just like Diana, Andy grew in the blink of an eye. Physically, he was almost a couple years older than Peter but was already sprouting. Almost two meters tall already, with the promise of broad shoulders and a lean build if he kept up with his cross country running; voice cracking with the beginnings of what was going to be the most melodious and rich deep voice to grace anyone’s ears, the stirrings of want that Peter was sure Andy had, otherwise he wouldn’t have those magazines tucked away in a secret pocket of his mattress. All of these things Peter was aware of with envy and something else, something painful, something that made his hands sweat and his heart beat and his breath hitching and going shallow.

        Something that made him incredibly aware of the softness of Andy’s jaw, the sweetness of his brown eyes no matter how much mischief glinted in them, the shape of his rosy lips, now pouting in feigned expectation. Peter was aware that Andy was still young and within his age bracket (what an awfully dry way to think about it!), but the window was closing, just like with Diana. He was aware that all of this was a joke to Andy, but he was also aware that there was the slimmest, almost minuscule, possibility that this could be real.

        And so, Peter cupped Andy’s cheek and kissed him.

        Peter has had his first kiss before; it was closed-lipped and polite, with a girl so embarrassingly shy -- barely more than a peck that would have been forgettable if the girl wasn’t extremely pretty. But this was a kiss that first kisses should be, the ones written in middle grade romance novels: summer time, thrilling, shocking, spreading all over the body and making hearts leap out of chests. Of course, Peter wanted more, one of those French kisses that he’s seen in movies that he was too young to watch. But Andy tore away with a gasp, ending the kiss that was too quick, but took many lifetimes.

        He stared at Peter that made everything inside Peter shatter.

        Eyes completely popping out, mouth hanging open, Andy leaned so far back that he was propped up on his good arm, the injured one held out in front of him like a shield.

        The words came swiftly, stumbling over each other. “Andy, I’m so sorry--”

        “Why would you do that?!”

        “Because you said--”

        “I was just kidding!”

        Peter wrung his hands uselessly. “I know, but--!”

        “Jesus Christ, help you, you really are a fag!”

          Peter wrapped his arms around himself, twisting his fingers into his sweater. He hated himself for how soft and fragile his voice sounded when he said, “Don’t call me that!”

          “Then what do I call you? Queer? Pansy? Brown eater?”

          “Shut up, Andy! For once, just shut the fuck up!”

          “What’s going on up there?!” Lisette called up.

          Peter’s head jerked up, his mouth pursed as he watched Andy, waiting for damnation to reign on him.

          Andy craned his neck and called back, “Just talking about girls, Aunt Lissy!” He gathered the kit’s items and dumped them all in the box as Peter continued to watch. He put the lid on and shoved it into Peter’s chest. “Get out of my room, Peter.”

          Peter felt himself withering under Andy’s stare, blank and so cold that it made him feel like he was burning. As Andy turned his face away with his lips curled, Peter rose to his feet with the kit tucked under his arm and left, going to his room. He locked the door, slid to the floor, and threw the kit across the room. He fell to his side and covered his face with his hands.

--

He knew he shouldn't have done it. Some would say that it's easier to think so in retrospect, but not for Peter, who stayed in his room well past dinner to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, hands folded over his knotted stomach. The tears of shame flowed ceaseless and hot down his temples despite his eyes going sore a long time ago. He stopped listening for Lisette’s stomping after a while, growing tired of being on edge; so tired of everything that all he could muster the energy to do was shed his clothes and leave them in a pile on the floor, lying in his undershirt. If Lisette was going to come for him, let her; he wouldn’t mind being tossed on the street if it meant being as far away from his mistake as possible. The issue would be finding a way back home by himself; would he be able to walk kilometers in the cold like Diana?

          Peter was positive he didn’t care about Lisette coming for him, until the tapping on the door came and he shot up, scrambling back to the edge of the bed and grabbing for the pillow for protection. But he realized that the knock was too gentle for an imminent barge in by a in her flight of fury, and then came the quiet voice:

          “Peter? You still up?”

          Peter set the pillow down as he eyed the door. “...Yeah.”

          “Meet me in my room in a few?”

          Peter sniffed and wiped his eyes. “Okay.”

          He listened for Andy’s departing footsteps and climbed out of bed. He took his time getting his pajamas out and dressing in them, his heart racing and the sour taste of bile floating up to the back of his throat. He tried to convince himself that whatever Andy wanted to talk to him about, or whatever he had planned, couldn’t be as bad as he felt it was -- the worst thing Andy could have done was tell his aunt, and as far as Peter was aware, he hadn’t done so yet. But rationalizing didn’t stop his hands from trembling or his mind running with imaginations of Lisette waiting in Andy’s room, thick arms crossed and glare as hard and cold as ice, or Andy waiting with some weapon to beat the shit out of Peter for daring to kiss him and trying to turn him gay.

          Except Peter wasn’t gay, because he liked girls. He just liked Andy as well, because... He didn’t know. He would have to explain how he didn’t know why he liked Andy, or what any of this says about Peter, or...

          Peter ran his hands down his face and groaned.

          He didn’t know exactly when Andy wanted Peter to meet him (or if he should go at all) but he figured five minutes was enough. He left his room and crept to the next door over, the hallway eerie as the distant sound of voices and laughter, probably from the television set downstairs, filled it. He tentatively knocked on the door. “Hey, Andy?”

          Andy opened the door and grabbed Peter’s wrist, pulling him in with such tenderness that Peter gasped. As Peter stood in the middle of the room, eyeing how dimly lit it was from the bedside lamp and the moonlight from the parted curtains, he heard the door shut and Andy sighing.

          “Sorry for making you wait,” Andy said, taking Peter’s elbow and guiding him towards the bed, “I had to try to sneak the rest of those pastries up without waking Lisette.”

          Said pastries sat on her tea set tray in the middle of the bed, the sight of them pushing Peter’s woes away and making room for his hunger, which he had successfully ignored until that moment when his stomach growled.

          Andy looked back at him with that smirk, that smarmy little wonderful smirk. “Yeah, I had a feeling that you’d be hungry. Come on...” He climbed into bed and leaned back on the pillows, patting the spot next to him.

          After Peter settled in next to him, he asked, “Why did you want to see me?”

          Andy reached for one of the pastries and held it out to Peter by its parchment: a chocolate torte with creme drizzle and raspberries. His favorite. “Just to talk.”

          Peter took the torte slice in his hand and picked at one of the raspberries. “It’s not about the... the gay thing, is it?”

          “Sort of.” Andy picked up a handful of madeleines and popped a whole one into his mouth. “I just wanna know: why do you like me?”

        Andy was giving him a sly grin while looking at him out of the corner of his eye, but he seemed genuinely curious, judging by the lack of snark in his voice. It was wildly different from the coldness just a few hours ago, and Peter didn’t know if it was supposed to be relieving or unsettling. He put a syrup-covered raspberry in his mouth and let the sugary taste soothe him.

         He licked the juice and creme off his thumb. “Um... I don’t know. Because you’re fun to be around? Your jokes are funny? You like a lot of the same books and shows that I like?” And no matter what smile Andy sported, from his infuriating smirks to his gentle small grins, they always get the butterflies in Peter’s stomach going, but Peter felt that that would be too much to mention.

        “Hm...” Andy bit into another madeleine. He lounged back into his pillows and looked up at the ceiling. “Alright. Does this mean that you want to be my boyfriend or what?”

          “Um...” Peter began fiddling with the fancifully cut out parchment paper, working a little tear into a corner of it. “I don’t know.”

          “I won’t get mad if you say yes.”

          Peter’s face flushed. “Yes. I mean, I hadn’t thought about it a lot, and, I don’t know, it was just a weird thing I only thought about maybe once or twice--” more times than he can count, a worryingly high number of times while he was on his fort, as he waited to be struck down for having such sinful fantasies, “--but yes. Why?”

          Andy shook his head. He turned one of the tiny fanned cakes around in his hand, then closed his fingers around it until they crushed it into a shapeless, crumbly mass. “I was just thinking about how hard it’s been to get a girlfriend, or keep a girlfriend for longer than a week, ha ha! I thought that there was just something wrong with me, or I’m gonna be like my Uncle Donny -- you know, the one who has a new girl every night? I thought I was gonna be a what’s it called? Casanova? Lothario? Anyways, I thought I was gonna be that until you kissed me, and now I’m wondering if it’s something about me that makes people think that I like boys.”

          Andy’s face started to go blank again, and Peter watched while nibbling on his dessert as a little bit of light left Andy’s eyes. “...I’m sorry.”

          “Don’t be. It’s actually funny more than anything.” Andy dumped the last madeleine back on the tray and looked at Peter, tilting his head. He dusted his hand on his pajama pants and reached up to brush Peter’s bangs from his forehead.

          “Andy...” Peter murmured, feeling like he was going to take flight from this simple touch.

           “Are you gay, Peter?”

          “I don’t know,” Peter breathed, because it was too hard to think about how much he liked girls when Andy’s soft hand moved to cup his cheek. His skin was so cool, like dipping toes in a creek during a scorching summer day.

          “Yes, you do know,” Andy said, and his brows pinched together before smoothing over again. He ran his thumb across Peter’s cheek, like he’s seen his older brother do with his sweethearts.

          And like his brother’s sweethearts, Peter was eating it up, leaning in to the touch and closing his eyes. “Maybe I am. I don’t know. Do I have to think about it?”

          “Yeah, you do. Do you want me to be your boyfriend?”

          That small window of opportunity opened. They would only have a year before Andy grew too old for Peter and Peter would have to say goodbye. And possibly not even that, with Peter having to disappear back to his fort every few months. But he was going to make every moment with Andy count: he will try that long-distance relationship thing he’s heard and read about, he will write Andy love poems and give him flowers if he wished, the sappiest love poems and the most fragrant and vibrant flowers. He will do that stupid “you hang up first” thing until one of them was lulled asleep by the other’s voice. Every letter he’ll get from Andy he’ll immediately write back, and eagerly count the days until Andy's letter came. He’ll even try harder to make Sealand greater, not to become a great empire like Arthur once was, but to grow just a little older and taller, and have that much more time with Andy.

          Peter opened his eyes, greeted by Andy becoming so soft under the moonlight. “Yes, Andy. I would love for you to be my boyfriend.”

          Andy chuckled. “Great. Come here.”

          Peter leaned down, pressing his lips to Andy’s waiting lips, sharing each other’s taste of sugary desserts and gentle romance, forgiveness and new opportunities. They’ll worry about Lisette later, but right now, Andy was his and he was Andy’s and finally Peter can experience what it’s like to be normal.

          They rested their foreheads against each other, Andy’s hand still cool on Peter’s cheek. “This doesn’t mean I’m gonna wear dresses for you.”

          “Like hell, it doesn’t!” Andy laughed. “I’m gonna be the guy in this relationship, so you do have to wear a dress!”

          “Nuh-uh!”

          “Yes-huh!” Andy pinched the cheek he was cupping, snickering as Peter hissed through his teeth. He snatched his hand away just as Peter angled his head to bite his palm. He moved it to Peter’s waist and tickled him. “Why don’t ya want to dress up for me huh?”

          Peter squeaked and swatted at Andy, falling to his side and trying to protect himself with his other arm. A mistake, as it opened Peter to be hovered over, which Andy did as his wiggling fingers found every exposed part of Peter to attack. “Andy, stop! I’m gonna pee!”

          “Whydunya put on a dress for me, huh?” He kissed Peter’s flushed cheek. “You’d look so pretty in a dress! You’d be prettier than Diana!”

          “No, shut up!” Peter was set to burst from the overwhelming joy flooding his tiny body, as Andy kissed Peter’s cheek and temple and ear, and threw a leg over the squirming and rolling Peter to climb on top of him. Then Peter kicked out, ending their fun as a loud clatter rang out. The boys froze, looking at each other and then at the door, waiting for their disgruntled matron to clamber up the stairs. No sound came, and the boys looked to the other side, over the side of the bed to the tray and food on the floor.

          “Aw, I was gonna eat that cupcake,” Andy whined.

          “Sorry,” Peter said.

          “Eh, never mind it,” Andy replied. He turned his attention back to Peter, hypnotizing him with his doe eyes. He shifted until he lied more comfortably on the physically younger boy and gave him a light, quick kiss. He pressed his lips in harder, twisting and moving it until Peter gasped and--

          Oh, the French kiss. It was... weird, and not at all as grand and romantic as Peter imagined it. He had wanted to try a deep kiss like this, but it felt like he was being gagged by a fleshy ball. Perhaps that spoke more of Peter’s inexperience than it did Andy's skills; Andy was the one of them both to have kissed more girls, and he explored with so much confidence and possession, with Peter following along clumsily and making an absolute mess of it. But Andy didn’t seem to mind, pulling away to press his lips to Peter’s neck.

          “Oh!” Peter squeaked. He pressed a hand to his neck, where Andy’s kiss was still wet.

          Andy half-grinned at him. “Did that feel good?”

          “I... I think so?” Peter smiled awkwardly back. Maybe it did give him a pleasant tingle, but it was still as weird as the French kiss Andy tried. He looked over toward the door; when it was quiet enough, he could hear the rumble of Lisette's snoring over the infomercial about vacuums. Andy moved his hand to keep kissing the spot on his neck, and Peter shifted under his weight, eyes still to the door. He gripped the edge of the edge to pull himself away as he tried to scoot out from beneath the other boy. "Andy, I don't think I--"

            "I want to try something," Andy whispered. His cool hand slid up Peter's shirt, cold like being slowly buried in snow. "Since you're my boyfriend now."

            Peter took Andy's wrist and pulled it away, turning it into a romantic gesture by locking their fingers together. "Ah, like...like what? And it better not be weird or I'll have to give you a purple nurple, ha ha!"

            "It's not, I promise." Andy lowered their hands. "Since we’re gay now, I want to try the thing Diana and Roberta did with each other."

            Peter shook his head. "Andy, I don't --"

            "Shh." He kissed Peter. "It's okay."

            Peter tried to snatch his hand away. "No, it's not okay!"

            "It is, I promise!" Andy held Peter's hand tighter, slipping it into his waistband and forcing it down deeper.

            "Andy, I don't want to!"

            "Not so loud! Listen, you do me and I'll do you, okay? Like boyfriends."

            And he guided that hand deeper, and...

            Peter sort of had fantasies about this, really heated dreams about this beautiful boy with his limited understanding and imagination of intimacy. The odd pamphlet he'd pick up occasionally while on the mainland said that it was supposed to be normal, changing bodies and flooding hormones and all that stuff. He didn't know what his hands did when he was sleep, but when he fantasized while awake, he kept his hands off himself, refusing himself that conscientious pleasure because a person can only test God's patience so much before he angered Him and was struck down.

              But none of the fantasies were like this, because it wasn’t supposed to be like this, feeling his body start to lock, his mind start to drift, watching Andy as the other boy's eyes fluttered close and his teeth sinking into his bottom lip while he made Peter feel too much skin--

            "Get off me!" Peter shoved against Andy's chest with his free hand. His fort pushed against him, nudging him, reminding him of his power. But Andy had to be joking, some small part of Peter hoped, and he pushed back against his fort. He could stop this without hurting Andy again. "Andy, I said no!"

            "Jesus Christ, Peter!" Andy's eyes snapped open, scathing and greedy. "You're a fag, you're supposed to like this!"

            "I SAID GET OFF!!" He ripped his hand out of Andy's pants and started to push harder. But Andy was bigger, pushing back, holding him down, pressing his pelvis down on Peter and biting at his neck and collarbone and trying to get his shirt off.

            "I didn't tell Lisette about you being a queer." His teeth snapped on Peter's ear. "You owe me!"

            Peter inhaled sharply. "AAAAAAGGH!"

            Peter butted his head into Andy's face. He didn't hear the other boy's skull cave in as he would like, but it was enough to knock Andy senseless. He took advantage and rolled their bodies so he was on top, pressing down on Andy's chest with all the force of concrete and steel his tiny body could muster. It would be so easy to rip this meaningless creature apart with his bare hands. Andy might be physically bigger, but he was still human, with human bones and skin and organs that can't regenerate. His arms and legs could be ripped off with a mere twist of Peter's wrist, like pulling legs off a spider. Peter cocked an arm back, air hissing through his gritted teeth as he panted, fist curled. One punch really could cave that pretty face in.

            But Andy turned his head away, holding his arm up over it.

            The cast, covering the broken arm that Peter caused.

            Because Andy was human, with easily breakable bones and fragile skin that can tear like paper, and organs that can't regenerate because humans...

            ...they can’t recover as fast as you or come back from the dead if you do anything bad to them.

            Andy peeked from underneath his cast, finding Peter hesitating with his fist still in the air.

            You're too strong. More than you have any right to be.

            Peter began lowering his fist, the shaking worsening as Andy lowered his arm.

            Keep control of your strength before you do something even more regrettable.

            Like killing his only friend in the world.

            Peter was gripped by the horror and loneliness he almost brought on himself, nearly bringing himself to tears again. He lost himself in the dull and grey world without Andy's companionship, unaware until it was too late, of Andy hooking his fingers into the waistbands of Peter's pants and underwear. Andy yanked down, exposing Peter.

            A choked yelp was all Peter said before he completely froze all over. He watched the cruelty and heat spreading all over Andy's face as the boy smiled from beneath him. The room started to disappear around him, furniture falling into an abyss and walls crumbling away, until it was just him, Andy, and the touch, the stomach-curdling touch. Until even Andy's punishing smirk started to fade, his cloyingly poisonous words -- See, I told you you’d like it. There’s a good boy. When I’m done with you, you do me, okay? -- and Peter’s own strained whimpers fading into the nothing. There was one thought Peter had:

            I did want this, right? Isn't this what boyfriends do with each other?

            And he was on his fort, curled up in bed, the salt of the sea seeping through the walls to fill his tiny room. The crashing storm outside was like a lullaby to him, music from the sea as he read Andy's letters I hate him I hate him I hate him over and over.

            He was an even younger lad, cradled in Marion's arm Marion, help me!, inhaling her fragrance of fresh baked bread and lemon cleaner, his cheek pressed into her chest as she hummed to him. Someone help me!

            He was a beautiful young man, dressed as a slut, cheerleader top cropped too high and pleated skirt too short, drugs burning through his veins wait this doesn't seem right and his cute little ass shaking in front of a camera why is the world flashing white? because this was how a man who has nothing who was this man?! and is nothing loved the humans who loved him in their own cruel way. This was how he belonged with them. Why is he, why am I, acting so lost in the world? This was how he belonged to them.

            The bedroom light switched on. "I swear, you boys are going'ta give me even more grey h--"

            The very air around them seemed to pause.

            Lisette dropped her hand from her eye that she was rubbing, just as her jaw dropped as her mind, slowly pulling away from sleep, took in her charge straddling her nephew, his body shaking with pleasure and his fist raised lazily in the air, cheeks flushed. Her nephew’s broken arm planted on Peter’s chest, trying to push him away. Peter could feel her eyes dropping to her nephew's other hand, which stopped abruptly.

            "Aunt Lissy!" Andy exclaimed.

            "Lisette!" Peter said at the same time, his voice higher and tighter as the sour bile floated up to his throat.

            The boys watched Lisette's face change, pale and stunned, pink and slack with embarrassment, and swiftly red and hard as she went blind with rage. Her eyes cut sharply to Peter as the words, raspy as if she had just went through dozens of cartons of cigarettes in one sitting, came out through grinding teeth, "Go. To your room. Now."

            Peter nearly toppled off the bed in his hurry to escape Andy. He rushed out of the room to the stint large woman, tugging his pants up and slipping into his guest room. He kept it dark, going by the slit of moonlight through the curtain to his bed, where he sat on the side of it and curled his fingers into the edge until the blanket bunches up in his grip. He stared at a spot on the carpet as the rest of the room spun, as Andy's hands still roamed all over him, cold to the point of burning and taking whatever he wanted of Peter and...

            Peter's body jerked, and jerked and jerked until his stomach rolled and his chest heaved. He lunged for the waste bin and snatched it up, setting it in his lap, his uncomfortably tight lap, and wrapped his arms around it and hung his face over it and, grateful that the wicker bin was lined with a little plastic bag, vomited. He heaved and wheezed and gagged long after his stomach was empty and hugged the fouled waste bin to his chest to weep.

--

It had been too quiet. All day, Peter waited for the hammer to come down, waited for Lisette to grab a fistful of his hair and drag him out to the road while screaming like poor Diana. But all day, they moved around each other like nothing had happened the previous night, with Lisette ordering Peter around to do chores. It was like being a ghost in this house, except for the times when Lisette turned her back in the and Andy brushed too close to Peter, rubbing his wrist and arm with gentleness that made Peter want to hide in the closet, to whisper in his ear, "You still owe me". Or Lisette busied herself with the tea with a small helping of bourbon and mumbled prayers, and Andy drew a circle around his crotch with his finger whenever Peter glanced over, mouthing My little faggot and smirking subtly as tears prickled behind Peter's eyes.

            When day was crawling to evening, Peter drifted around his room to collect his things, putting his clothes and whatever else he could in his holdall and checking his kit to be sure that everything was in there. He considered leaving the kit behind because Andy had touched all over it, but it was a gift from the Queen, herself. He'd be damned if he left any part of him in this hellhole for Andy to toy with.

            Lisette was going to take a bath, judging by the rumbling of water running through the pipes in the wall and the gush echoing in the bathroom. Depending on how long she was going to bathe, Peter was going to have enough time to sneak a phone call to Arthur and arrange a ride, or steal some coins to take to the nearest payphone if Andy won't back off. If he could get that phone call in, Peter hoped that it would lead to something; being situated in Iceland, Arthur couldn't obviously drive on over to pick Peter up, and being busy, he couldn't listen to Peter's complaints or get something immediately set up. But Peter had to try, because

            You're a fag, you're supposed to like this!

            You owe me.

            He couldn't be here. He couldn't take it, anymore. Peter couldn't breathe.

            The water pipes stopped rumbling. His blood pumped loudly in his ears as he waited. When enough time had pass in which he was sure that Lisette was in the tub, Peter left his bedroom and crept down the stairs, grinding his teeth at every creak and groan of wood.

            "Peter?! Is that you?!"

          Peter stopped, his knuckles going white as he gripped the rail. The polished wood started to crack, and Peter took a deep breath and forced himself to relax his hold. “Yes, ma’am.”

          “Come to my room,” Lisette called out. “We need to talk.”

          Run, Peter’s gut told him. Just run. Forget the bag, forget everything, and run. But Peter pressed his hand to his stomach and waited for the twisting to stop--

          “Get in here, now, boy!”

          and turned back to the hallway, hurriedly wiping his eyes. Lisette’s master bedroom was down the hall, making the walk both too long and too short; in this way, Peter understood what it felt like to be a dead man walking.

          For a master bedroom, Lisette’s quarters was pretty small, only slightly bigger than Andy’s bedroom or the guest room she offered Peter. The furnishings were simple like a bed and breakfast: crisp white sheets and pillowcases with a thick and quilt, antique lamp and bedside table with a polish worn off from age and touch; sunlight giving way to night through the doily-like curtains. It had a homey comfort to it, until Peter found Lisette sitting in her rocking chair, an embroidery project in her lap and a TV tray next to her, holding a half-empty bottle of bourbon and a glass tumbler with a film of the drink at the bottom.

          Lisetted pointed to the bed without looking up from her project. “Sit.”

          Peter perched himself on the corner of the bed and looked down at the faded pink and blue flower patterns within the aged-white blanket. He channeled the shaking from all over his body to just his hands, then sat on them. He waited in silence until Lisette found a stopping point for her embroidery and set it on the tray. She pulled the stopper off and splashed more bourbon into the tumbler. Watching her knock the glass back, Peter wondered why bother with it when she could simply drink from the bottle; it wasn’t like she would be able to share with either of the boys in her house, nor would she have any left to share with future company.

          She began to fill her glass again, and set the bottle on the tray when she had poured enough. When she finally looked at him, Peter found her eyes red and glassy and brimming with hatred as she looked him up and down. “Why’re you dressed up like you’re going on a school trip?”

          As someone who grew up around drunks, Peter knew that someone this deep into the bottle would be slurring and tripping on their words as they would their feet, but Lisette spoke with clarity like a school teacher, her back rigid and gaze focused -- a terrifying thing to witness. Peter swallowed and felt his fingers curl into the blanket beneath him. “I was, er... I want to go home.”

          Lisette’s eyes blinked open wider, and her mouth split into a smile. “Ah, just like a homosexual to disappear into the night after a good sodomizing.”

            Peter bristled. He could rip into the mattress with his fingers if he wasn’t careful. “No! I--”

            Lisette raised her palm. Peter’s mouth snapped shut, and she took a sip from her glass, a tiny and slow taste, belatedly pacing herself. She set the glass on the table and cleared her throat. "I wish you were gone out of my house, too--"

              "Then let me call Arthur --!"

              "Shut up, you goddamn rat! As I was saying, although I want you gone, I can't let you go. Your brother paid me good money to take care of you while he's away. That means spiritually, too."

              Lisette stood from her chair and crossed the small space to the bed. Her intoxication was again betrayed by her unsteady footing and the little hiccoughing burp that passed through her lips. Peter's eyes darted to the door, but the older woman snapped her fingers to draw his attention back to her. "We'll have new rules while you're here. First and foremost: you will stay out of Andy's room. You will stay away from him period while I'm not around. Second: you will do everything I say to be right by God again. Every morning and night we will have prayer, and every afternoon, baptism to cleanse your body of sinful desires."

              "Baptism...?" He wanted to protest this, as he saw no point in driving for over an hour to some church, or having a priest drive to the middle of nowhere, to help "clean” Peter for something he didn't even do. But Lisette reeked of her drink, and she was impossibly tall and broad.

              Lisette nodded and pinched the bridge of her nose, looking just like Arthur every time he proclaimed to be in need of a drink. She even glanced over her shoulder at the TV tray, where her glass tumbler shone like a large, expertly-cut diamond with a glowing ember inside. But she went to her vanity dresser instead, to take the heavy red Bible with its gold embossing that sat on the plain wood. Despite it looking ancient, it seemed to be taken care of like a priceless family heirloom. Though she wielded it like an axe she was going to swing down his neck.

            Peter hunched his shoulders as if protecting his neck from certain chopping when Lisette turned around. She raised the Bible, facing it toward him. “Leviticus eighteen verse twenty-two,” she stated. “Do you know what that is?”

            Even if Peter hadn’t had that verse drilled into his head throughout his years in church, it wouldn’t take much thinking to know what the verse is about. Still, Peter didn’t answer, too afraid to open his mouth and risk vomiting.

            Lisette’s eyes grew harder as she waited, until she realized that no answer would come. Her fingers flipped through the delicate pages. “’You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination.’ One of the easiest laws to follow, but you craven little sinners can’t seem to help yourselves. But as a daughter of God, I must forgive you and help you seek forgiveness from Jesus.”

            There were dozens of verses about forgiveness, so Lisette didn’t need to bother searching for one in her precious book. She closed her Bible and bent to Peter’s level. Gripping Peter’s shoulder to likely keep him from running away, Lisette instructed him, “Bow your head and confess your sins, child.”

            “No.”

            Peter felt just as much shock as had flooded Lisette’s ruddy face when the word flew right out of his mouth before he had time to think about it. But now that it was out there and filling the room like the echo of a bell, it shifted everything in Peter.

            “...Excuse me?” Lisette said coolly.

            “I... I said no!” Peter stammered, pulling his hands out from underneath him, turning them into fists that he pressed into the mattress at his sides. It was only last night that Andy had touched him, but ever since, it felt like a cycle, like Andy hadn’t stopped at all, days and days of hands going where they shouldn’t, taking from him. And here he was, accused of the horror he would never do to anyone else, being put right back in that bedroom, in that bed. Peter had to take deep breaths to stop his ears from ringing; he planted his feet on the ground so he’d know that the floor hadn’t fallen away, or to ready himself to lunge at this woman’s throat.

              You’re stronger than you have any right to be.

               He blinked until he stopped seeing red, and the desire to pop Lisette’s arms out of her shoulders went away. “I didn’t do anything wrong! I’m not going to apologize for...for...” For all the books Peter had read over the decades, none of them provided the word Peter needed for what happened to him. Or maybe he couldn’t bring himself to speak the right word, his throat becoming too tight for speech, the sensation of flies crawling all over him too much to describe. “For being hurt!”

             “Do you take me for an idiot?!” Lisette’s hand went straight for Peter’s face, gripping his jaw and jerking his head back. “Andy told me everything, you sodomizing little brat!”

            “Andy is lying!” Peter ripped his face away and pushed Lisette, ducking away from her to escape being trapped on the bed. He didn’t use much power, but Lisette was drunk enough that even a gentle breeze could have knocked her over. The Bible clattered to the floor, and Lisette’s hand flew to her mouth as another burp bubbled up to her mouth as if she was going to vomit. “I didn’t do a thing to him!”

            “So, I didn’t catch you on top of him?” Lisette asked as she picked up her Bible.

              It wasn’t what it looked like! Peter wanted to shout, but he knew that she didn’t believe him, and it brought that moment back to him when she opened the door and unwittingly rescued him: eyes darting between the boys, Peter on top with his fist raised, Andy holding him with his cast, the pieces coming together all wrong. “I was defending myself,” was his defense, and a weak one at that, because he didn’t know what Andy had told her, and he didn’t know how to tell her everything that happened. 

            Everything, including the tickling, the closeness of Andy lying on top of him, the eager way he’d agreed to be Andy’s, and the kisses. Andy kissing him. Peter kissing Andy first. How he couldn’t bring himself to fight back because losing Andy terrified him. Every way he saw it, he saw how he brought it on himself.

              Lisette’s lip curled. “Andy would never do such a thing."

              "He would! He did! Even when I told him no! I told him no!" Peter screamed this because he not only wanted Lisette to listen, but he wanted Andy to hear as well. He wanted Andy to squirm with guilt, to have some humanity and be ashamed. "He did things to me because your nephew is gay!"

              As the last sentence spilled from his mouth, Peter realized that it wasn't true. It was more than what Andy had said to him last night, the words coming back through the noise filling his head; it was wholly different than what Peter had felt for him, beyond desperation. It was angry and feral, a cat sinking its teeth into a mouse's neck. But Peter rode on that accusation nonetheless, feeling a meaningless triumph, but triumph all the same, as he watched Lisette's eyes, redder than her drink could ever make them, widened and lost some of their glassiness.

              "Andy was the one who told me to come to his room so he could do things to me! He’s a queer just like me and your precious Diana!"

              The Bible crashed into his face.

              It happened faster than Peter could see it coming, faster than he ever thought LIsette was capable of moving, being both big and drunk. Pain and stars burst in his head as he stumbled back, a piercing ring stabbing his ear as fell against the door. He pressed his hand against his bruised cheek, feeling the skin hot with abuse in his palm.

              “You think you can lie to me straight to my face?! Huh?!”

              Peter scrubbed his eyes and blinked away the spots that still flashed in his vision, finding Lisette looming over him. She lowered the Bible, the heavy book shaking in her grip, her shoulders rose and fell with the uneven breaths she sucked in through her teeth. Everything about her was bigger, as if she was the Angel of Death, itself, descended to deliver the final blow to the sinful little boy.

              All was still, until Peter spun and yanked the door open.

              He let out a choked yelp as Lisette grabbed the back of his shirt and ripped him away from the door, throwing him to the ground and slamming the door closed. The lock was a tiny click, but clanged in Peter’s ears like the bars of a jail cell closing. He tried to push himself back to his feet but Lisette charged at him and swung her foot right into his stomach. He coughed and gagged, tasting bile flying up his throat as he folded his arms around his stomach. “L...Lisette...” Peter sobbed, “Wait...!”

              “Get up, you goddamn slag!” Lisette grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up, getting him up on unsteady legs only to send him flying to her dresser. So far in his life, Peter has yet to have a fully broken rib, but he imagined it felt like it did right then when collided with the wood: like someone taking a saw to his side , the teeth of it digging in agonizingly slow. The collection of makeup and perfume Lisette rarely used knocked over to the floor, a tube of lipstick cracking under his foot as Peter tried to keep himself upright.

            He should kill her. He needed to kill her.

            Lisette grabbed him by the arm and held him up. Her fist flew into Peter’s face. The world flashed black, but Peter came to mere moments later, tasting tangy copper in the back of his nose as thick warmth trickled down to his upper lip. I have to kill her. The thought popped into his head as it lolled to the side. The gentle nudge of his fort reminded him of how easy it would be to snatch that wrist she was pulling back for another blow, just one squeeze of it would shatter her bones. Just one kick could shatter her ribs. If he dug his fingers into her stomach deep enough, he could grab onto her intestines and pull them free like --

          ... keep control of your strength before you do something even more regrettable. 

            He imagined Lisette’s corpse sprawled out at his feet, her guts spilled out all over the floor, her blood all over his hands, all the way up to his elbows. The stink of rot and exposed flesh, imaginary as it was, filled his nose and turned his stomach.

            The tears finally started to fall as the tether to his fort weakened.

            He couldn’t do it.

            His jaw seemed to pop when the back of Lisette’s hand struck it.

            “After everything I’ve done for you--!”

            She struck him again. When her hand drew her hand back, he could see the skin smeared with his blood.

            “After forgiving you for hurting my nephew--!”

            She struck him, and the world burst with white flashes and black dots. He kept his eyes away, unable to make himself look in Lisette’s face. Blood started to coat his inner cheek from a cut his tooth made.

            “After all this time we tolerated you--”

            She struck him, and he started to drift away again, falling into the comfort of his fort. Lisette’s voice was lost in the lulling crash of ocean water and the crackle of candlelight.

            But his scalp was soon on fire. Eyes snapping open, Peter cried out as Lisette tangled her fingers into his hair, her other hand still hooked around his arm as she dragged him to the door.

            “I’ll teach you to lie to a Daughter of God,” Lisette grumbled. She yanked, and Peter swore he could feel wet warmth in his scalp just like the one still trickling out of his nose. “Come on, you--!”

            “Stop! Stop!“ Peter grabbed and pawed at the hand in his hair. He choked and coughed and spat in his struggle to breathe, the world blurring through his tears.

            Lisette released his shirt to open the door. Underneath his feet, Peter watched the floor change from well-worn pea soup carpet to cold white and green tiles. He cried out as Lisette whipped his head about and pushed him to the cool porcelain edge of the bathtub.

            “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit...” Lisette prayed, releasing Peter’s hair and watching a dark red line run down his forehead and between his stunned eyes. She grabbed his shoulders and hoisted him up. “I rebuke this demon taking this young boy!”

            “No!” Peter tried to jerk his shoulders out of her hold to escape, but she pushed him into the waiting water.

            As a boy stuck out in the middle of the ocean, Peter had to learn how to swim. Take in a lungful of air before the plunge, pull by the arms and push by the legs, don’t fight against the current. Being underwater had become much of his entire life, he was so used to it as a seaborne entity. Being a part of the sea was an entire second life.

            But this was nothing like the life he’s built around being seaborne. As the bathtub’s water folded over him, Peter lost everything he knew about being underwater. Water gushed into his mouth, cutting down his throat to rip apart his lungs. It drenched his clothes and pulled him down down down, the bathtub becoming a bottomless pit even as Peter’s head knocked against the bottom. He was both weighed down and weightless in this way, his body locking with shock as the freezing water bit deep into his bones. And the most absurd thing about this? There was a second, as Peter looked up into Lisette’s face, warped by the lapping surface of the water, that the child welcomed it. He could stay in this watery hell and drown if it meant not a moment more being around Andy, that he could let the world go black as the air in his lungs bubbled out to the surface.

            The water pushed down against him, wishing to keep him in the freezing depth, as Peter was pulled up. Gasping and coughing, Peter shivered as terror flooded his body all over again. The air stung his wet skin, thousands of needles stabbing into his face and neck, as the colors in the bathroom flashed vibrantly, even the crystal green of Lisette’s eyes. Everything would have been so beautiful if Lisette’s breath hadn’t hit Peter with the smell of bourbon as she recited, “’Man shall not lie with man as with woman! Say it!”

            Forcing water out of his throat, Peter cried out, “Lisette, stop!”

            She pushed him back into the water.

            You’re going to die, you know, came a voice in Peter’s head. Peter didn’t know what was worse: that it sounded taunting, a sing-songy lilt to tempt Peter into letting some of his power trickle into his body, or that it sounded so matter-of-fact, as if the disembodied entity formed a hand to gesture at his burning lungs and defiled body, that this was what came from his paralyzing cowardice.

            You’re going to die, you know. The knowledge filled Peter’s stomach with sick and pain; it brought the sensation of bloat and delirium and foam and bile and he ripped himself away from it because no, not now, please not now! but it brought him back into this drowning tub and oh, God, he was drowning! She was going to kill him!

            He tried to breathe the forever-stinging air as she dragged him back out, blood and snot diluted by water spurting from his nostrils. She grabbed his lower jaw and jerked his head up to face her. “I’m sorry!” Peter begged. He closed his eyes, hot tears springing from his eyes and slicing down his cold cheeks. “I’m sorry!”

          “Leviticus twenty-one verse nine!” Lisette dug her fingers deeper into Peter’s cheek. “’And the daughter of any priest, if she profane herself by playing the whore, she profaneth her father: she shall be burnt with fire.’ Say it!”

            “I’m sorry, Lisette! Please!” Peter reached out to grab at her wet sweater. “Please, I -- I won’t do it again! I promise!”

            “In the name of Jesus, I rebuke you!”

          “No!” He lashed out, thrashing in the cold water, his arms hitting the stained porcelain, his lungs burning and filling with freezing water as she dunked him back in and held his head down. He flailed his hand out, trying to grab Lisette’s sweater again. He wondered if there truly was a demon possessed of him as he began to feel himself levitate from his body, his spirit fighting to stay in but watching himself splash water everywhere and collect bruises where his arms and legs hit the porcelain and the spout.

          Man shall not lie with man as with woman. The verse wove into Peter’s shivering body like the wriggling white maggots devouring a fresh corpse. Peter struggled against the pulling hold of the bathwater. He choked and choked and choked and through his choking he cried out “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry–” he’s sorry for loving that boy, and for kissing that boy, and letting that boy have his way with him, and being too strong to fight back against the humans that he loved.

--

He opened his eyes and he was on the bathroom floor, watching the tiles dance around him. His body came back to him in tiny, dragging increments: the bones of his limbs pulverized into fine and useless powder, his heart beating like the ticks of a slow clock, his temples pounding. He tried to move on his own, pushing himself up only for his arms to give out on him and his hands slipping on the pool of water surrounding his body.

          Peter closed his eyes, inhaled, and reached out for his fort. How convenient you would use it now, that disembodied voice mocked, but he ignored it as his bones found stability and his body found strength again. He rose to his feet and crept to the door.

          The clashing music that flitted up the stairs and thrummed through Andy’s door seemed to mock Peter as well when he made his way down the hall. Down the stairs he went, his wet socks squishing on the wood, teeth chattering to the point of chipping or falling out. He’d invite the possibility of slipping and tumbling down, and breaking his neck or cracking his skull for a few minutes of sleep, if the world he traversed in felt real. He finally arrived on the first floor, finding himself in misplaced normalcy. He could hear the radio going in the kitchen, and the chopping knife and running water and the smell of meat and spices that was too homey and comfortable for this prison.

          He went to the coffee table where a wicker bowl sat on a white doily. He sifted through the keys, lozenges, unpaired earrings, to pick the coins as quietly as possible so the woman who hummed pleasantly in the kitchen wouldn’t hear him. He didn’t count them, he simply had to hope that it would be enough. The coins bit into his palm as he clutched them tightly, the only source of warmth for him. He stepped outside.

          Down the cobblestone path and on the road. Snow and delicate ice crunching beneath his feet. Heavy flakes thumping against his back and shoulders. As he gazed down the long darkness ahead of him, Peter thought about skipping the phone call altogether and heading straight back to Arthur’s house. Back to his own bed in his tiny, safe closet room. There had to be an extra key hidden somewhere at the home, a location that slipped Peter’s mind because his head filled with the loud, slow drum of his heart.

          He inhaled the icy air, tugged on the tether to his fort, and kept on.

          No, he needed to find a phone booth. Peter could imagine that Arthur wouldn’t appreciate coming home to his little brother trespassing after all that money he already paid to Lisette for lodging and babysitting. And though his body was nearly indestructible, Peter knew that an hours-long walk through the winter weather would be too much for him; his shoeless feet had long gone numb and were starting to scream. With that, Peter rehearsed his phone call, the explanation he’ll give to Arthur and asking for a cab ride home.

          Peter didn’t know how long he’d been walking, just long enough that he was certain he would pass out in the middle of the road, but soon, he spotted the tall structure down the way, cast in half-shadow from the street lamp, a picturesque godsend. He could run to it, but there was too much ice to make it possible; if he slipped and fell, he probably wouldn’t get back up until morning, if he lived until then. He did try to quicken his pace, though, arms out to keep his balance.

        The inside of the booth was even colder, as if Peter trapped himself in a butcher’s freezer. He shoved the door closed, picked up the handset, and inserted almost all of the money he had as he followed along to the prompts for international phone calls.

        “You have reached the Embassy of the United Kingdom in Reykjavík,” the bored woman said on the other end, followed by a quick translation in what Peter believed must have been Icelandic.

        “Um, this is...” Peter took a deep breath. “This is Peter Kirkland. I... I need to talk to Arthur Kirkland.” And he gave her the emergency code. As he waited, Peter cradled the phone between his shoulder and ear and leaned against the wall, his shivering anew as the cold glass pressed against him. He hugged his arms around himself.

        Shuffling noises sounded in the receiver.  “Peter?”

        Peter focused on stopping his teeth from chattering. Arthur’s voice wasn’t the most melodious -- probably from the stress of the work -- but hope bloomed inside Peter like an angel had cradled him in their arms. His body even fooled him into feeling warmer. “H-hi Arthur.”

        “Peter, what do you want?” Arthur sighed. “I have to get back to work.”

        When Arthur stopped speaking, Peter could hear his “work” in the background, a soft buzz of people arguing in heated Icealandic and English. Whatever was going on over there would call for a long night at the pub; Peter hoped that Arthur would hold off on that for just a bit longer, just long enough to help Peter. “Arthur, I need to go home. I can’t stay at Lisette’s anymore.”

        “What?” Peter could imagine Arthur’s eyes narrowing, or Arthur pinching the bridge of his nose. Peter readied his explanation; he wasn’t sure he could tell Arthur what happened without wanting to rip his own skin off or bash his head against the glass pane until it shattered so he wouldn’t feel the ghost of Andy’s hand on him, but if it meant--

        “No, Peter.“

        If Peter hadn’t already felt broken, he would have fallen apart right then and there. “Arthur, please, I can’t--”

        “Look, I know that house isn’t ideal,” Arthur cut in, sounding distracted, “or Lissy’s still mad about the broken arm thing, I don’t know. Just -- yes, yes, I’ll be there in a moment, god damn it! I need you to behave yourself until I get back.”

        Peter’s legs started to give out; leaning heavier on the wall, he slid down, sinking until he landed on the concrete below. He thought there was nothing left in him, but he found his bottom lip quivering. He sniffed. “Arthur, please--”

        “Just for a week. For me, okay? I’ll call you tomorrow.”

        The phone clicked just as Arthur started his long slew of curses. The phone booth filled with the harsh, teasing dial tone that pulsed out of the receiver. The handset banged against the pane and dangled out of Peter’s field of vision. He drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them as he stared out into the swirling snow, down the path from where he came. The path he’d have to take once more, to return to...

          Or you could stay here, the voice offered. Dying wouldn’t be that bad.

        The voice was right, it wouldn’t be that bad. He could sit here and wait it out. From what he remembered, once hypothermia set in, his body would be swaddled with a pleasant warmth to carry him into a nice death, where it wouldn’t be different from falling asleep in a nice, cozy bed. He leaned his head on the glass, closed his eyes, and loosened his connection to his fort.

        Then the sickness settled into his stomach again.

        Peter opened his eyes and sighed, his last hope leaving his body in the cloud puffing out of his mouth. He stood and left the phone booth, black handset hanging by its cord and door open, and took the road back to hell.

        By the time he reached the door, Peter was hollow. Not even the warmth of the roaring fire in the fireplace reached him when he crept inside the home. His gaze fell to the couch where Lisette slumped, her precious Bible opened in her lap, her glass tumbler leaning precariously in her slack hand, a line of drool hanging from a corner of her lip. Her sleeves were still damp from the baptism, her cheeks redder and droopier. Peter skulked around the couch and made his way up the stairs to his room.

          He peeled off his clothes, a feat all in itself with the fabrics almost frozen solid and his fingers red and numb. He pulled his pajamas on, the fabrics rubbing against fresh bruises. He climbed into bed and tugged his blanket up to his shoulder and waited for the heat of the little stone house to seep into the empty shell of his body. He would have fallen asleep this way, if not for the creak of his bedroom door. His heavy eyelids popped open. In the window’s reflection, through the stirring flurry of white, Andy closed the door with the click of the lock. Peter pulled his covers over his head and pulled his cocoon tighter around him, but doing so did not stop the footsteps coming closer, or the shuffling of clothing that happened behind him.

        “You’re not supposed to be here!” Peter warned through the blanket.

        “It’s okay, Aunt Lissy’s asleep,” Andy said in a soft voice, as if that was supposed to assure Peter. He pulled at the covers until they were untucked and he could climb on top of Peter, who folded tighter into himself. He wrestled Peter onto his back and pawed at the drawstrings of Peter’s bottoms.

        “Stop...”

          Peter took Andy’s wrists with a grasp as weak as his voice. He shook his head, drawing on the last bit of strength from his fort for this final... was this a fight? It was all he had left, he was so tired. He was so, so tired. He couldn’t even cry as he looked into those blank brown eyes, begging for reprieve, feeling yet again too much of Andy’s skin through his pajama pants. 

           “Andy, please...”

          Andy looked Peter up and down, taking in the tiny shivering form, all the purple and red that marked his body. He then shrugged.

          Just let it happen, Peter told himself as Andy moved to press his body closer to Peter. Andy trapped one of Peter’s thighs between his own; he pressed his face into Peter’s hair, burying his voice and moans in the damp, ice-crusted nest. Peter waited for it to be over as he stared into the ceiling, so he could get some rest and followed the lapping of ocean water against concrete pillars...

--

Arthur didn’t call the next day, nor the day after that. Which meant Peter would have to explain why he was one pair of pajama bottoms short to Arthur’s face. Though he imagined, as he watched the pale, blinding wonderland roll by, that Arthur would be more curious about the ice bag Peter held to his eye. Or maybe Peter would be lucky and the injury would be completely healed over. He checked it in the mirror before he left to see that it was already healing from its horrendously swollen black to sickly green splotches among flaring red. 

          He hoped that his eye would heal because, as much as he knew that he would need to tell Arthur if he asked, Peter wanted to forget. He wanted to forget waking up to Andy that morning, the boy’s hand sliding into his waistband, his morning breath crawling all over Peter’s neck as he whispered, “Can’t wait to see you again." He wanted to forget Lisette dragging him out to the living room and forcing him to his knees, giving him the nastiest rug burn as he recited Lisette’s favorite Bible verses over and over. He wanted to forget the shocking cold of Lisette shoving his head into the sink of iced water, finding the bathtub too cumbersome for their routine.

          He wanted to go home.

          The car stopped in front of the stately manor. It looked magical covered in powdered white snow and shimmering icicles. Finally, Peter could breathe. 

        “Thanks,” Peter murmured as he unbuckled his seat belt and opened the door.

        “Wait.”

          Peter paused, hugging his holdall to his chest. He didn’t fully turn back to her, and kept his eyes low. He would have jumped from Lisette’s touch as the woman grabbed his elbow.

       “I know that my methods of healing you were... harsh,” Lisette said, “But it was my duty as a follower of Jesus to make sure innocent children like yourself weren’t led astray by earthly sin. Bad things happen to homosexuals. And as disgusting as what you forced my nephew to do, I am required to love the sinner and not the sin. And I still wouldn’t like anything bad happen to you.

        “When you come back, I hope you’ve found God by then.”

        “...Okay.” Peter climbed out of the car and shouldered his bag. He hurried up the concrete path, knocking on the door as he stood on the stoop.

          Arthur opened the door, and all pretense of hollowness left Peter because he could throw himself at Arthur’s feet, he could weep, he could climb into Arthur’s arms like a newborn infant and find shelter ans safety and goodness in the world.

          Arthur’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the injury that Peter realized hadn’t healed completely after all. He rubbed his forehead and groaned. “Dammit, Peter, you promised me you wouldn’t get into trouble...”

          Just like that, everything about Peter became stone, heavy and cold. He filled his lungs, held it, and let it out in a slow draw as he said, "I know. I'm sorry." Because apologizing was easier, he found during the past week.

          Arthur stepped to the side. "At least tell me that you didn't further injure Andy."

          "No, I haven't," Peter replied. Once he walked in, he let Arthur's voice drift away as he headed straight for his room. He dropped his bag by the door and collapsed into bed, shielding himself with the scent of ocean salt on concrete.

          He wanted to go home, to his refuge. His fort.

[bates--boy]

First came the scratching of pen on paper, then the steady clicking of the clock that hung on the wall. But loudest of all were the breaths that seemed to echo in Peter’s head, the soothing rhythm that Peter clung to.

           ...and exhale one, two, three...

         The grey skies, the dark waters, his very fort -- they all fell away. Eddie’s brilliant smile frozen in time, photographic and so beautiful that it could break hearts well into the end of a person’s life; Lady Celeste -- the star who glowed bright forever. The cruel burn of Andy’s hands, the hungry taste of his mouth, still lingered on places where they were never wanted. The angry cold of Lisette’s baptism -- Peter floated up and up. The bitter antiseptic that lingered in the back of his throat dissipated.

         ...your toes, and slowly up your calves...

         Peter wiggled his toes in his sneakers, pressing his feet into the carpet. He followed the sensation up his calves, to his thighs, to his stomach and up his back. His shoulders rose and fell with his chest, his breath circulating into his nose and out his mouth.

        “Lift your head and open your eyes.”

        Peter’s eyelids slowly opened. He raised his head and took a deep breath, coming into a world that was... brighter. Uncomfortably so; no matter how many sessions they hold together, no matter how many times Dr. Erickson coached him through his memories, Peter had never, and probably will never, be used to how vibrant and electric the world seems in those few minutes when his eyes and mind adjusted. It made the therapists sitting across from him unsettling, Dr. Stieg with his head bowed while writing on his handy little clipboard, Dr. Erickson plastering on a professional grin like a nurse greeting a comatose patient waking up for the first time in months. Even the air was different: cooler and drier than when he sunk into his memories.

          Dr. Erickson picked up his notebook and clicked a pen. “Alright, Mr. Kirkland, I’ve noticed some key things in this memory that I believe we should--”

        “No.”

         Both therapists’ head shot up from their work, the confusion on their faces subdued to a deliberate, professional blankness. “Pardon?” Dr. Stieg said.

         “I-I can’t. I can’t.” Peter’s eyes drifted to a point between the other two men as his shaking hands pressed : the only forms of movement of his hunched, frozen body. He took deep, futile breaths that still went down shallow in his chest. He wanted to curl into himself, draw his knees up and hide behind them, but it was just like he was still on that fort, a sickly, hungry child all over again: if he moved, his body would react horribly. If he moved, he would go into the black.

        Peter shook his head and looked toward the waste bin, the metal bucket that he had grew too familiar with throughout these sessions, as his hand pressed firmer onto his stomach and he swallowed back the sourness wafting up his throat. “I can’t do this. I have to go.”

         “But Mr. Kirkland,” Dr. Erickson said, “We have almost a half-hour left.”

         “I can’t!” Peter’s voice strained, just one push away from a full scream. “I can’t do it anymore! Please, I just want to go...!”

         Stieg and Erickson glanced at one other, Erickson looking for advice for his new client’s long-time therapist, Stieg drawing his lips into a thin line and shaking his head. Nodding, Erickson jotted down Peter’s refusal and said, “Very well, sir, we’ll stop here for today. I strongly advise that we have another session in the future whenever you can.”

         If the world hadn’t felt like it was tilting this way and that, and that one wrong move would have the world ripped away completely, Peter would have sprung from his seat and make his escape. Instead, he took his time standing, easing his weight on his legs to make sure they would carry him, and staggered away. At first, he had one arm out to catch himself in case he became unsteady, but he began touching things, the wall and desk and artwork, to keep himself there. He was alive. He was breathing the air that smelled like fresh paint. No darkness was eating at his vision, no illness ripping his insides. Still, he feared falling away.

        Until Naseem.

        That beautiful man, sitting in the usual chair in the lobby, head bowed as he toyed with his phone, texting Ashira or typinh out lyrics, one bleached loc falling down his face. He looked up, watching Peter’s amble, and stood and shoved the phone into his pocket as he went to meet Peter halfway across the room. He had his arms open and ready, and like after every session, Peter fell into them. The world stopped tilting and being frightening every time. 

        “Are you okay, baby?” Naseem murmured into Peter’s hair.

        “Yeah,” Peter lied once more, as if he wasn’t aware of how he looked like a scared animal being released to Naseem. “I am.” Every time Naseem greeted him like this, Peter had thought that this time, this time, he was going to break down in Naseem’s arms. This time, his body would be so weak that he wouldn’t be able to stand on his own legs, but instead of letting Naseem carry him out, he would have them curl up on the floor, rocking together, one man sheltering another during his breakdown. He didn’t know whether to be proud that it hadn’t happened, or terrified that it might be lurking deep within him.

        Peter cupped Naseem’s cheek and tilted his head down, pressing a kiss into those sweet lips that tasty like cinnamon and safety. “I just want to go.”

       Naseem nodded. Keeping an arm around Peter, Naseem led him out. “You’re out earlier than usual though. “Are you sure you’re ready to go?”

       No, Peter thought. But he couldn’t stay there, not when it felt like the ghosts of Eddie, Andy, and Lisette were wandering about, waiting to drag him under. “Yeah, I am.”

[bates--boy]

Rabbit

[Dead Dove, Do Not Eat]

A send-off, a stag night, a last hurrah. Peter hadn't known what to call it, but he felt that it had to be better than... this.

He looked up from the can of beer grasped in his hands -- mostly untouched, because the shit tasted like the bubbly broth of moldy bread that's been boiled and mixed with a tiny bit of sugar -- and into the clearing patchy with grass and tree stumps. There, the group of boys swigged their beers, getting too rowdy and too close to the bonfire they've built.

No... not boys, men.

Men, according to the law and to the military they've all enlisted in. They certainly looked like men, at least from afar: long legs, broad shoulders, voices deepened from the puberty Peter sometimes envied. But he couldn't stop calling them boys. It hadn't been that many years, yet Peter blinked, and they all shot up like weeds. It wasn't just that he remembered some of them when they still had soft faces and cracking voices, and awkward morning glories springing during sleepovers.

Watching a couple of them try to throw each other to the ground, with the rest hunched and huddled, hooting and waiting to take on the winner, draining their cans and going for another... they were scared. They were boys because they were scared. Whatever reason they had for enlisting, to get out of a shitty home life, or to travel, or to make money, they did not know what they were getting themselves into. They were getting shipped off for basic training for a few weeks, and maybe not all of them would even see combat, but clearly, they all feared this was their last night alive.

So, this was their "last" night together, which made Peter feel all the more awkward being thrusted into their care by Lisette. The crone was safe and comfy back at the house, still so much a raging powerhouse despite being along in years, but didn't want to deal with the "screeching, moody nuisance" so had sent Peter off. If Peter had the desire, he would have stayed put right there in the house, just to watch Lisette's hair fade from gray to white just from the stress of having him there. But--

"And the daughter of any priest, if she profane herself by playing the whore, she profaneth her father: she shall be burnt with fire."

"Say it!"

Peter blinked and inhaled sharply, feeling his body shiver and squeeze into itself. He forced himself to loosen up. He could tell his brother that the woman he's paid to babysit Peter during his visits wasn't doing her job, but... Arthur wouldn't care.

Distant squelching and cracking of dead leaves and twigs drew Peter out of his thoughts. He looked up to find one of the men sauntering to him, and Peter stilled the hands around the can of ale as the too-familiar, take-all stride of the man drew closer and closer. The young man had his head tilted back, draining the can of beer for every last precious drop, the bob of his Adam's apple becoming more pronounce the closer he came. The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tossed the empty can off to the side. He met Peter's gaze, his own eyes unfocused and hard from drink, yet still round and doe-like after all these years.

"What?" Peter tried to bark, grimacing at how low and strained his voice sounded.

Andy narrowed his eyes and matched Peter's frown with his own. "Get yer arse over there," he ordered through a belch, nodding toward the bonfire. "You ain't a goddamn wallflower."

"I'm fine here, thanks."

"I said..." Andy crept closer and bent, his breath hot and wretched with ale. "...get your arse over there. Now."

Peter fought a grimace, forced himself to stay upright and face Andy. Fear-laced thrill shot through him as he said back, "Fuck... off."

It suddenly felt like a mistake when, in the briefest moment, Peter caught an animalistic rage flash across Andy's face. He shot forward and snatched the back of Peter's head.

Peter felt Andy's long fingers tangle in his hair, the pain flaring from his tugged roots to throughout his body as Andy yanked him to his feet and dragged him away. It was too familiar, too much like those other times Andy pulled Peter's hair, late at night and early in the morning when no one would hear, when he was whispering wetly against the shell of Peter's ear and clawing at Peter's thighs and

Salt. Peter smelled salt. The brine of the sea and the rust of the platform carried in the wind and found their way into the cracked callouses of Peter's fingers, stinging them

It doesn't count, Andy would say sometimes, and Peter never knew what he meant by that. He never asked because he never wanted to know, he felt like filth all the same when he stops feeling Andy's hands and mouth and breath all over him, and felt pinned by the lingering hunger and hatred in Andy's eyes.

The threat that made him want to scream.

Lissette, help!

Arthur, help!

"-posed to see the damn thing in the dark?"

The pain suddenly dulled, from a stinging rip to a numb pound. Peter felt that Andy moved his hand from his hair to his shoulder, shoving the smaller boy forward for the last few steps. As he blinked and hurriedly dried his eyes with his sleeve, Peter looked up at the men surrounding him, their faces sharper in the flickering orange light of the bonfire. He reached back and combed down the tousled hair with fingers damp with spilled beer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Andy bending to grab another can from the ice crate.

"With your damn torches, you idiot!" One of them, the stocky, ruddy-faced one who was named either Patrick or Paul, (Peter was sure it was Paul) scoffed as he squatted next to a cage trapping a little spotted bunny. It twisted Peter's guts watching the poor thing shivered in a corner, to spot the teeth marks it made in the wires in its futile attempt to escape.

"A torch won't be enough, though," one of the others said, a pale boy who looked like sharp angles everywhere, including his hooked nose, called Jules. He flicked the tool on and off. "I bet a fox or owl'll get to it before any of us finds it with these things."

"There ain't no foxes or owls in these woods!" the pudgy man reached inside and lifted the animal out of the cage, holding it close to him in one arm. He and Jules exchanged long scowls, with Paul or Patrick ending it by rolling his eyes. "Rule amendment: we'll hunt the rabbit down for an hour and a half, and if no one finds the rabbit by then, we'll call off the search. No one gets slag mag."

Not like Andy needs any more, Peter thought, remembering the collection of magazines Andy kept under his mattress, with busty and slender women twisted and bent on the covers, the ones Andy "lets" Peter flip through sometimes as a reward after fondling, ones Peter has to pretend to enjoy, so Andy wouldn't get into a violent temper over how much of an ungrateful twat Peter was.

Paul struggled to keep the rabbit in his grasp. He looked everyone over. "A'right, make sure your walkie-talkies are working, and you got your hunting knives--"

"Wait! Are you going to kill the rabbit?!"

All eyes fell on Peter, but he could especially feel Andy's stare burning into his back. He briefly pursed his lips as the embarrassment crawled over his skin. He didn't even know why he spoke up: he's killed and eaten his fair share of small animals that he could catch on his fort, even ones that were cute enough to be pets. He had no room to talk, yet the thought of Andy's friends trapping and stabbing the poor creature squirming in Paul's arm did not sit right with him.

Someone came up behind him and ruffled Peter's hair. Peter had to fight a wince as the hand rubbed against the tender and throbbing spot. "Nah, we aren't going to kill the little thing," the soothing, almost patronizing voice that must have belonged to Christopher, assured Peter. "The knives are for us, to keep us safe from all the bad animals out there."

"Yep, yep! So, don't get yeh knickers in a bunch, kid." Paul waited until the rabbit stopped struggling in his hold, resigning itself to whatever fate it thought awaited it, then cradled it against his chest and pressed a hand down on the back of its neck so it wouldn't try to leap out of his more relaxed hold. He glanced back down at Peter, concentrating on the boy with a scowl. "Right, so usually, everyone plays this game by themselves, but we obviously can't leave the kid alone, so..." Congrats, Andy, you have a partner!"

"NO!"

Again, all eyes snapped towards Peter, and again, Andy's were particularly scalding with white-hot fury. Peter's protest rang out into the tree tops, into the open sky, and he wished that he had stopped himself before he said anything. He thought through what little options he had: return to the home and potentially face Lissy's drunken wrath, play the game while partnered with Andy, tell everyone here what Andy does to him late at night, or...

"I can play by myself, too!"

"Aw, are you a big boy?" Paul cooed.

"Yes!" Peters's cheeks flushed with heat as Paul and Jules shook with laughter. "I mean, I'm not a baby!" He knew how he sounded, petulant and whinging and demanding -- exactly like a baby. But the thought of creeping through the dark forest with Andy, alone and away from anyone, with no threat of anyone walking in on the two of them stopping Andy from touching and grabbing and stroking and grinding--

"Eh, let the fucking bloke wander by himself."

Peter finally glanced over to Andy, who met his gaze with surprising disinterest. Peter turned his attention back to Paul, pleading with his eyes.

"We can't, Andy," Jules said. "We don't have enough torches--"

"He can have mine." Andy yanked the heavy-duty thing out of his belt and tapped it on Peter's shoulder.

Some more beer sloshed out of the can and down the back of Peter's hand as he sharply turned halfway to face Andy. "Keep your torch. I don't want anything from you!"

He and Andy stared each other down, ignoring the baffled glances the rest of the group exchanged with each other.

"You are taking the torch, Peter," Andy said coolly, "or you are playing this stupid game with me. Or do you want me to take you home?"

Andy took a step closer, an eyebrow cocked. It was more than enough for Peter to pick up the threat and let it deflate him. With his gaze turned to the side, Peter took the offered torch and let it dangle in his hand at his side.

"Great," Paul said after a beat. "But now how are you going'ta see in the dark?"

Andy pointed up. "By the stars and the moon, friend. B'sides," he paused to belch once more. "I know this forest like the back of my hand."

Paul and Jules looked at each other, with Jules raising his hands and shrugging. "Right, sure," Paul said with an eyeroll. "Le's get this game started. We have a big day tomorrow. Again, the rules: give the rabbit a one-minute headstart, search for an hour an'a half, firs' to find it gets a year of slag rags."

Crouching, Paul set the rabbit on the ground. The animal immediately took off, bounding out of the circle of the dying bonfire's light and into the dancing shadows of the trees. Paul checked his watch and rose, giving every young man there a sloppy grin. He raised his can, the swishing inside indicating that it was already over halfway empty.

"For the Queen!"

The rest shot their cans in the air. Peter looked around him, and just for a fraction of a second later, he was swept up in this makeshift camaderie and raised his can, too.

"For the Queen!"

They all tilted their cans back, guzzling the drinks. Peter squeezed his eyes shut as the bubbly nastiness went down his throat, forcing the swallows in and trying to be one of the guys, and there was something there, there was something good in this yeasty, nasty mess that he tried to chase until--

The beer spurted out of the corners of his mouth, the foaming spraying out of his nostrils. "Pfffsssst! Augh!" Peter bent and cough, continuing to squeeze his eyes shut against the burning sting in every cavity in his head. Over his coughing fit, Peter could hear the men burst into laughter, and it set his ears blazing red.

One of the slapped his back. "Aw, I think you should wait until you get some hair on your knob before you try that again," he chuckled. Andy snatched the can away as Peter swiped his face dry and downed what little left there was.

Paul led the others in turning toward the trees in the direction the rabbit had escaped. He raised one hand, a foot planted in front of him ready to go, and kept his eyes on his device.

"Get ready... get set..."

Peter let out one final cough and shook his shoulders, weighted the heftiness of the long metallic torch in his hand.

Paul jerked his hand down. "Go!"

With feet pounding into the ground, the group set off, staying close to each other until they reached into the darker depths of the trees and started to fan out. The air felt so cool against Peter's hot cheeks as he flew through the trees, lightness ballooning in his chest. For once since he had gotten there, Peter could breathe easy, could put Andy and Lisette out of his mind. For once, Peter did not feel dirty.

And he chased that feeling, letting the light lift out of his chest into an ale-soaked laugh. Even when he looked around him and found himself utterly alone, even when he tripped and stumbled and cut his hand and face on bark and branches, he felt free.

When the fading light of the bonfire disappeared and the treetops grew denser, Peter slowed down and switched his light on. He swept the beam front to back and took deep breaths to slow his beating heart. He kept his ears open for... whatever rabbit sounds are supposed to be. Twigs snapping, maybe, or grass crunching as the little thing ate. Now that the rush of the run was starting to disappear, Peter was right back to fretting over the rabbit. There was a lot that he had hoped for: that the soon-to-be soldiers were being honest about not killing the rabbit with their knives, that Peter caught it before anyone else, or that if none of them caught it before time was up, that it would not be eaten by a wild predator lurking in the forest. Peter especially hoped for the second, his mind spinning with names for the little thing. Maybe he can name the rabbit after himself if it was a boy, and it would work because he would also be named after the bunny character of one of his former favorite picture books! Or Mindy if it's a girl; the name felt right for the brown rabbit with her white speckles. Or...

Oh, Brigadier! It can be his right-hand sentinel on the fort, fighting his nightmares as they cuddle at night. But he'll have to get a lot of carrots on the fort, somehow, maybe a carrot garden? Could he ask Prince Paddy to set up a little garden for Brigadier? Would Prince Paddy even allow Brigadier on the fort? Peter would have to give him a ring once he returned to Lisette's godforsaken house and--

A twinkle shone in the trees. Narrowing his eyes, Peter turned and followed it, creeping through tall grass and between the trees. The twinkling grew, stretching on and on until...

Peter stopped, the torch stilling in his hand. "Wow..." he gasped. His arm dropped to his side as he took in the lake, a blanket of midnight violet from the late night darkness. The reflection of the stars danced on its surface, the wind making ripples in the water and whispers through the grass. Switching the light off, Peter went to the lake's edge.

So, this was here the entire time? All this time, Peter could have come here instead of being stuck in that cottage, glued to the television or hunched over his boat models and waiting until something set Lisette off, or hiding in bed and praying that tonight Andy would not visit him. When he glanced down, he spotted Brigadier braced on the stony bank, head lowered to get some water. Peter went to it and sat down next to it, snatching it up and holding it close to him. He set the torch aside and dipped his cupped hand in the lake. "Here ya are," he cooed to the rabbit as he brought some water to its mouth. It took some coaxing, but the rabbit soon started to drink, and didn't protest when Peter sat it on his crossed legs and stroke him.

The quieter and stiller Peter sat, the more the scenic display opened to him. The hoot of an owl calling out into the air and the gentle splash of fish darting below the surface, the glitter of a shell as a beetle scampered over one of the lake's stones.

"You know what this reminds me of?" Peter asked the rabbit. "It reminds me of my fort. I live out in the middle of the ocean. Do you know what an ocean is? It's like a lake like this, but bigger. A lot bigger, so big you can't even see land from where I live. And the water's saltier." He could hear his home now in this lake, he could imagine the gentle burbling as the crashing crested waves and the sour earthy smell of the water as the sharp and salty oceanic tang. All he needed was the creak of his platform and it would feel so much like home. Like safety.

"Seawater wouldn't be good for you, though. We have a watermaker, though! And sometimes when that breaks, we get drinking water from the mainland. But you're a little guy, so you don't need that much water, right? You would need food, though. Most of the stuff we eat is dried and canned, but I can build a little garden just for you. You'll have lots of carrots and cabbage and grass and whatever you bunnies eat. How does that sound, Brigadier?"

"Who the hell is Brigadier?"

Run, the panic told him. Run, yet his legs remained locked in their crossed position. Run, yet all Peter could do was lift Brigadier to his chest and hug him close, siphon the warmth from the small creature into his cold body.

Peter kept his eyes to the twinkling black water, taking shallow breaths as he listened to the approaching steps and crunch of twigs, the cursing as Andy stumbled and slipped.

"I know you c'n..." Andy hiccoughed. "C'n hear me..."

God, he was an idiot for thinking that he would be safe just because he wandered off on his own.

Run.

Run!

He didn't know why his body hadn't listened when he had the chance, but he felt trapped when Andy's hand plant firmly on top of his head, like a prisoner sitting in the electric chair with the helmet fitted tightly around his brow. Nothing to do but meet his fate, even as his childish mind still hoped that if he wished it hard enough, Andy would simply disappear, poof, like smoke. But Andy yanked Peter's head back, forcing him to look up at the drunkard through eyes threatening to spill tears.

Andy's severe frown broke into a smirk. "Pffft, you named the bunny Brigadier? How cute."

"Please don't..."

"Aw, shut it with your whining!" Andy moved beside Peter and nearly toppled over trying to have a seat, landing heavily on his bottom. He drew his knees up and rested his arms on them, and let out another hiccough that ended in another belch, loud and large enough that Peter could smell even over the earthy scent of his new pet. Peter could pass out with how long he held his breath, waiting for the unwanted hands and mouth, his hopes crossing from praying that Andy would disappear to praying that Andy would just gey grabby and get it over with.

Andy stared out into the lake and wrung his fingers. "Ha, I'm going to war tomorrow..."

Peter pursed his lips.

"I bet you're really happy 'bout that, ain't ya? Real ecstatic."

Still, Peter didn't answer, because he did not know how to answer that. Andy was goddamn right that Peter was ecstatic! The first time Peter had heard that his tormentor had enlisted, he almost wept with joy, and had even fantasized about telling Arthur in the hopes that maybe, maybe, Arthur would whisper in someone's ear and services and favors were exchanged and, completely by random, Andy was unfortunately gunned down by enemy fire. More than that, Peter imagined what semblance of peace would come; Lisette was getting along in years and drowning whatever time she had left in the bottle, and most of the time all it took to avoid her wrath was to stay out of her way. But the same couldn't be said for Andy, who sought Peter out almost every night of Peter's stays, his presence announced by the creaking floorboard two steps away from Peter's bedroom door.

But what would happen if Peter was honest? Trouble, that's what, setting off Andy's foul and furious mood that matched Lisette's down to the animalistic emptiness in their eyes, like they had literally went blind with rage. That would mean lying, saying no, he was going to miss Andy! He cherished every single night of being pinned down and groped and ground against his will, and he certainly hoped Andy will survive the bullets and missiles so they could continue their little romp!

But fuck him! Fuck Andy! He did not deserve that appeasement. He was lucky that over the years, Peter hadn't--

You’re too strong, more than you have any right to be.

Peter took a deep, slow breath and lowered Brigadier back into his lap. It did not matter how he would have answered, anyway, because Andy sighed.

"You know, I think about that day a lot, when you first kissed me."

You mean the biggest mistake of my life? Peter wanted to say. "...What about it?" he asked instead, forcing himself to finally look at Andy out of the corner of his eye.

Andy shrugged and reached towards Peter's lap. He pretended to ignore the flinch and sharp gasp Peter made as he stroke the rabbit's head, though Peter could see hints of a smirk in the corners of Andy's mouth. "Over the years, I had a few girlfriends. Remember? Sylvia, Debbie, Susie." He waved his hand. "The rest of 'em."

"Uh huh..." Peter remembered those poor girls and how every short-lived fling they had with Andy ended with misery, with Peter watching a couple of them literally running out of the house crying after a nasty argument that could be heard through the walls. He remembered the shameful hope he had that Andy would turn his cravings onto them, that he wouldn't be alone in his suffering, and the guilty relief of knowing that they unwittingly fled unscathed.

"Of all the girls I'd been with," Andy continued, now grinning dryly, "none of them were really a good snog. At least, not as good as you are."

Peter turned his head sharply, glaring at Andy as repulsion rippled throughout his body. It was taking far too much of Peter to not puke his stomach out on the grass, and the beer he had, even the little bit of it he managed to gulp down, was not helping. Oh, how he hated this man! How he couldn't wait for Andy's body to blow to smithereens and his guts and limbs spread out all over the battlefield. And when Andy's grin stretch to that smirk that he had been hiding, like Peter fell for a practical joke, something just... tore inside Peter, a cut inside his chest that ripped higher and higher and reaching his head and burning his eyes --

No! He was not going to cry! He blinked back the tears and reached out to the side to pull away, holding the rabbit close to him as he moved. "Leave me alone, you arse!" He said, surprising himself at how much force was in his voice, the years of agony finally finding its outlet it seemed.

Andy blinked in mock surprised and let out a scoffing laugh. "Why are your knickers in a knot? That was a compliment!"

"I said, fuck off!"

But whatever righteous fury Peter felt was instantly swept away as Andy practically lunged at him. He moved so quickly that Peter had no time to react, or perhaps he hadn't reacted, his damned body freezing once more at Andy's closeness. The young man was looming over him, using one arm to both rest his weight on and trap Peter on side. His other arm jerked out, and it wasn't until Peter heard the splash and desperate splattering that he noticed his lap cool and empty.

Peter tried to scramble to the lake's bank. "BRIGA--"

Andy grabbed the front of Peter's shirt and wrenched him down on his back. "Here's the thing, Peter" he went on, his hand suddenly light on Peter's chest, the tenderness of his touch making Peter's skin itch. "Although I've been with a lot of girls, and they all wanted me, I never lost my virginity to any of them."

And there it was, the drop in Peter's stomach, the alarm bells going off in his head, the breaths coming in too shallow and too quick. Run run run run run run

"Andy -- Andy, come on." Peter tried to squirm away from him. "This isn't funny! Let me go!"

Andy tugged him back down and grabbed him by his jaw, holding his head down. Over Peter's whining, he said, "You're a war fort, right? Pretty much a veteran. Have you ever heard of 'deployment intimacy'?"

Kill him. Peter squeezed his eyes shut and felt the tears finally come. "No, Andy, please--"

"It's when a soldier and his girl shag before he's sent off to fight." Andy loosened his grip on Peter's jaw and rubbed his thumb along Peter's lip. "You can be my girl for tonight, can you?"

Peter felt the power of his fort trickle into his trembling body. Kill him!

You’re too strong, more than you have any right to be.

"Get off!" Peter shoved, his body rejecting the power and his hands pushing against Andy's shoulders. He knocked Andy back and turned onto his hands and knees to crawl away, but Andy recovered and pounced on him.

"Why not, Peter?! Why not?!" Andy struggled to grab Peter's wrists and wrestled them down. He put all of his weight on Peter, getting the tiny wrists in one hand so he could tug at Peter's shirt with the other. "I'm going to war tomorrow! For your queen! For your brother!"

Peter screamed through the grass jabbing into his mouth, "No!" He felt the jerk of Andy's hip, the fervent animosity hardening his attacker as Andy pressed himself onto Peter's body.

"You owe me this!"

Peter bucked and writhed and kicked about, managing to wrest one wrist free while Andy was distracted trying to undo his pants one-handed. He was a trapped animal attacking blindly, throwing his elbow and fist back to land on mostly nothing, then clawing at Andy's hand to free his other wrist, and grappling at the ground beneath him to pull away. And through all of this, Peter was fighting for both his and Andy's life.

It was a sickening wave of power washing through him, the rise and surge of power from his fort that he fought back against because

KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM

Because he could kill him. Peter could draw on his fort's military power and end Andy with one good punch to the face, and why shouldn't he? Why had he let Andy dirty him for so long? The power was right there; if he'd just stop fighting it, let it harden his body...

Peter felt Andy pressing down again, felt his mouth against his ear, the ragged, tired breaths. He cocked his arm for another blow and --

They can't come back from the dead if you do anything bad to them.

The elbow jab hit its mark. Peter felt the give of skin and bone as his elbow met Andy's face.

Yet

They can't come back from the dead if you do anything bad to them.

He pulled back. The power fled him as quickly as he had let it flood him. Instead of falling over dead, Andy flung back onto his heels, swaying and blinking and dripping blood through his purpling nostrils. The two stared at each other, and it felt as if even the forest around them grew still, as Andy patted his nose and glanced at the red smeared on his fingers and palm.

"Andy..." Peter said softly, shivering from the realization that, oh, god, he was going to kill Andy. He was going to kill this guy. He was going to kill his only friend.

Andy's wild eyes flicked back up to Peter. There was a moment of emptiness in his eyes, made darker by the dead of night. But like a spark of flint and steel.

"Andy, wait!" Peter held out his hands too late as Andy descended on him once more.

Peter had never encountered a rabid dog before, but it had to have been like this: the animal losing its mind, biting at whatever weak spots it sees, deaf to pleas or reasoning, driven only by anger.

Andy bared his teeth with the effort, slapping Peter until the boy's vision was pocked with black spots. "Shut up, shut the fuck up!" he grumbled over Peter's cries, batting away Peter's attempts at clawing his face.

KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM

They can't come back from the dead if you do anything bad to them.

KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL HIM

You’re too strong, more than you have any right to be.

Peter's fort tried to force the power back into him, sensing the panic spike once more. He was about to scream when Andy covered his hand over Peter's mouth. He pulled out a packet from his pocket and ripped a corner off with his teeth. Peter didn't know what it was, couldn't see the label behind Andy's hand. but the cruel determination in Andy's eyes filled Peter's blood with ice.

KILL HIM

Just as Peter knew that there was no other choice, and let the fort's power fill him once more, Andy managed to work Peter's shorts down. The cool night air hitting his bare genitals shocked Peter, and before he could act, Andy lifted one of Peter's thighs to angle his hip and stabbed his slick fingers in --

And Peter froze. He just... froze. His body locked in stillness, though his mind screamed, eyes wide and just as wild as Andy's as the man worked his fingers, preparing him, Peter now knew. Andy took out another packet, ripped that with his teeth as well, and drizzled the same substance on his weapon, which he then stroked to coat the substance all over it.

Move, Peter begged his body. Please, move... Do something! But all it could do was quiver and lie, waiting for it to happen. Peter tried to reach for his fort's power, but it was as if it was tired of being rebuffed, too little, too late, and that power was just out of reach behind an invisible wall. Peter took a shaky breath, starting to feel the pain and tension bloom in his lower back, his eyes staring blankly into the starry sky past Andy's shoulder. "Andy... please..." he tried weakly.

But Andy turned Peter onto his stomach and climbed on top. As Peter watched the surface of the lake dance with the gentle breeze, he felt Andy part him, felt Andy force himself in with a groan deep in his gut, and

And the world flashed white. The despair of being split open started to fade, giving way to the sting of

Sea salt in the air, the ocean's breeze brushing Peter's hair. The metal platform creaked with the familiarity of a mother's heartbeat, and Peter lied prone, a baby snuggled to his mother's chest. Each wave sweeping against the fort's concrete pillars felt like a caress on Peter's cheek, and

Peter gasped as he was pulled back to the forest, drawn in by the horrifying and new sensation between his legs, the nauseating tenderness of Andy's caressing hand trying to force pleasure onto Peter. Again, he felt Andy's breath on his ear, the moaning "Yes..." and "Oh, god..." between grunts carrying that nasty smell of

Well, Peter couldn't say for certain, but it did sure smell like butter rum chip cookies! And knowing Marion, she was going to bake a big ol' batch, so there was one thing for Peter to do! He needed to work up an appetite. Peeling himself from the platform, Peter started to strip to the swimsuit he wore underneath and went to the edge of the platform. He climbed over the railing, hung on as he bent his legs and planted his feet, and pushed off. He was suspended in the air, and for that moment, he knew what it was like to be a bird, those delightful creatures who took their freedom under their wings and glided through the bright blue skies, untethered from the world in a way Peter always wanted to be.

Suffocating, he was suffocating! He was choking on Andy's tongue, swallowing the yeasty belch and Andy's moans and his own screams for help as Andy grabbed the back of Peter's knees to bend his legs up, up to his chest, up too far it was so painful, and

But he was content with this, his body slicing through the water's surface, cutting down into the depths and scattering the colorful schools of fish. If the dive was freedom, then the sinking was security; as endless as the ocean's bottom seemed, he didn't fear it, not when he adored the water and how it felt like he was a little mouse gently cupped in someone's hands. With a twist and slow flip, Peter pushed up to the dappled light above him, and breached the surface. He lied back in the water, letting himself be bouyed, arms outstretched, eyes closed, and the life of the North Sea singing in his ears. The ocean's coolness melted away today's hard work from his bones, the sun's gentle rays lulled him. He was careful, though! Because Marion would hate for him to fall asleep in the water and drown or float away even if he would come back.

He opened his eyes.

Hollow. Peter felt hollow.

None of the aches throughout his body could reach that sunken feeling. Not the numb soreness in his lower body, not the burning dryness in his eyes, not the phantom sensation of fingers crushing his wrists and neck. He was going to have to move, because Lisette will call Arthur for being gone so long, but he couldn't. Peter lied there, gazing at the soft ombre sky as dawn came, listening to the lake in the otherwise silent forest around him. Despite his eyes feeling like they couldn't cry anymore, fresh tears spilled hot down his temples. Then, he hiccoughed, which became a sob, then heaves wracking his small, bruised, and used body as that emptiness began to fill with the memory of Andy's body, Andy's filth. Now, Peter's filth, deep in his skin that makes him nauseous and want to boil himself alive just to erase the night, just to feel clean. Normal.

Peter tried to push the night, the parts he can remember and the parts that he still felt inside him, out of his mind. He needed to focus, to get feeling in his legs again so he can go.

Brigadier, was the central thought that Peter allowed, the one he grabbed at and held on to. He pushed himself upright, wiped his eyes, and stared at his bare legs. Finger-shaped marks on his knees and ankles, bits of grass and crushed insects on his skin, sticky grossness caked on him -- semen. It was semen; Peter spent too many years being used as Andy's pleasure doll to not know what it was, or use little kid language for it. It was cum, Andy's and, devastatingly, Peter's, caked on his thighs and his chafed genitals.

Peter snapped his head to the side and wretched as bile splattered out of his mouth. It was quick and small, more like spittle, as his stomach had been empty throughout most of yesterday. He got to his feet and waited, testing the strength of his legs, waiting and breathing through the burning in his back, then glanced around, finding his shorts and underwear Andy had tossed carelessly to the side. He wanted to lie back down and let the grass grow over him and eat him, but... Right. Brigadier.

He set off to begin his search, but he hadn't needed to go far: just a few paces along the lake, Peter found his short-lived companion. He had swum to safety and managed to crawl onto the bank, but now lied there on the rocks and silt, mouth hanging open like something snapped his jaw loose, his fur dried into a matted mess. Peter wanted to pick Brigadier up, to cuddle him close and bury him and give him the dignified funeral he deserved, but the ants and flies were already making work of him, crawling over his legs and lifeless eye.

Peter opened his mouth, to say anything, to say "Goodbye" or " I'm sorry," but he shook with more sobs, and turned away.

Wandering into the trees, Peter hugged himself and looked around. He tried to look for landmarks to guide himself back, but all he saw were figures hiding behind trees and in the bushes, tall and lanky yet so strong, too strong for his own good, strong enough to pin Peter to the grass and strip and take, take, take. He walked faster.

Figures lunging at him, yelling at him, undressing him with eyes and then hands, pulling his legs apart and he ran. He didn't know when he had started running, but he broke into the clearing where the smoky remains of the bonfire filled the air with soot. Huffing and crying and coughing, Peter soon found Lisette's home, but made a break at an angle, taking to the road, instead. He was not going back in there, no matter if Andy had already left. He had no strength to face Lisette, who he knew would be able sniff out the ways Andy had ruined him.

He did not care if Lisette called Arthur about him being missing, because he was not going to see Arthur, either. He was never coming back, not when he knew that wherever he looked, Peter will always see that face...

[bates--boy]

1952

The clouds are grey. Endlessly, endlessly, grey; they make the days blend together and the nights so... closed in, tight, choking. For all the books Peter had read to break these grey days, he hadn’t learned the word claustrophobic,. All he knew was the feeling of it as he lied on the cold metal, feeling the crush and crash of water slapping against his pillars and into his bones, watching the thick clouds float and push against each other like smoke. He should stop watching them, but... he couldn’t move. 

          He was sick again.

          Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the scattering of bones from his catch earlier that day lying next to his head. The meat of it sat in his stomach, and Peter could feel it with every shallow, gargling breath he took. Could taste it from the thick bile that bubbled slowly out of the corner of his mouth.

         The clouds blur, like a haphazardly splashed watercolor.

          Peter couldn't move because his guts are on fire. He is melting from the inside, the fish pushing against his stomach, trying to force its way back up. He had spent hours trying to catch what little food came to him; moving would mean retching food he couldn't afford to lose.

          A droplet not soaked into his hair races down the side of of his burning forehead, down his throbbing temple. He can pretend that it’s raining, that God sent the clouds to cool Peter’s skin. Yes, it would mean a raging storm tearing at his fort; he would have to burn more books for heat and light. It would mean thunder and lightning ripping his limbs down to the tendons, and if he didn’t force himself to risk starvation and thirst by getting inside where it’s dry, then it would mean pneumonia.

        As if he doesn’t feel like his lungs are drowning already.

       But it would also mean that God has forgiven him. He knows that Peter was sorry for not offering more of his bounty at the little church altar, or praying the wrong way before he ate, or cursing against the only parent he knew, or, or, or...

         The sky darkens and the world swims around him.

          It’s not rain, it’s just sweat. Sweat coating his forehead, sweat drenching the armpits of his shirt, sweat sticking him to the rusting and groaning metal platform. Rivulets of sweat running down the sides of his head until the itchy pain behind his eyes, and the breaths that have become shaky in his chest, makes him realize that he’s crying. He needs to calm himself down, because God helps those who help themselves. He can sing himself a lullaby. As he reaches up to wipe the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, Peter tries to think of a song to sing to himself, one of the many he’s heard from mothers cooing to their children whenever he risked stepping on the mainland. Mothers cradling fussy babies to their chest, mothers bouncing chattering toddlers on their laps on the bus, mothers shepherding their little ones to a nice spot in the park for picnics. He wanted that. He wanted what those kids had. He even wants Arthur. He doesn’t want this. Not this life, this daily fight to survive, not the only thing he’s ever known.

        He takes a deep breath to sing.

        And his body seizes. His lung squeezes and his stomach pushes and Peter throws himself onto his side and coughs until greenish, scratchy thickness burns up his throat and spills from his mouth. It still burns the back of his mouth as he wipes his lips and hug his arms around his middle. He needs to get up, or pull himself away from the mess that is spreading and is close to touching him. But he’s... he’s so tired. The fort and ocean tilts this way and that, the clouds float slower... He just needs to sleep it off.

        The darkness eats away at the edges of his vision. Peter tries another breath, waits for it to ravage his body again, but after only a few coughs, he finds it safe to sing.

        He doesn’t know what song he’s singing, and if his mind was coherent, he’d realized that it was sing-songy rambling, a string of pleasant words that sounds vaguely comforting and some moaning, but he hums along to the whisper of the ocean as the darkness closes in.

[bates--boy]

He came to to the smell of bile, hugging the metallic waste bin to himself (oh, how fucking familiar this felt, right?) his face hovering over the mouth of it, inhaling the stench of sick as he breathed panic. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it anymore, not like this, with his body shaking and his stomach heaving and Andy’s hands where they didn’t belong. All this time, all this goddamn time, and his fingers still ghosted over Peter. The bruises, they still haunted his skin, the water still choked him, he can’t break surface, make it stop!

          "We need to stop!" Dr. Stieg warned next to him. Peter wanted to wrench his body out of Stieg's hold, because his hands on Peter's shoulder and back made the touch more real, brought it back from the decades Peter had caged it in, but this was the only way Peter was held together.

          Over his pathetic retching, Peter could hear Dr. Erickson leap out of his chair. "Of course! Peter, breathed! We’ll hold this off until next week." He placed his hand on Peter's other shoulder, just as Peter crashed into his next memory.

[bates--boy]

He clicked his pen out, keeping himself from indulging in his habit, clicking and clicking as he tried to say something that wasn't outright dismissive. Or without bursting into laughter. Because his client could not be serious.

"Peter, I..." Dr. Steig shook his head. "I'm not sure that I can recommend this on good faith."

Hypnosis. Of all the treatments they have tried and they could have tried, why on earth would this man want to try hypnosis?

Peter furrowed his brows together. "Why not?"

Because it's nothing more than a neat party trick for television magicians who picked out the most susceptible-looking guest, or an actor they paid off before the show.

But that was a tone he couldn't let his client pick up, so he set the pen on his desk, leaned in, and went with actual reasoning. "For starters: hypnotherapy doesn't work for everyone. From what I recall, only ten percent of the population are truly receptive to hypnosis. Another thing is that hypnosis is merely suggestion."

He knew that Peter had did his own research about it coming in, so Dr. Steig continued, "There have been successes, true, but mostly weight loss and masking symptoms of depression and anxiety. Psychological suggestion -- and that's all what hypnosis is, Peter: suggestion -- for possible repressed memories wouldn't be fruitful. Especially because memories can be rewritten."

Peter looked down at his folded hands, thinking Dr. Steig's argument over. But the therapist knew better than to expect Peter to see reasoning immediately, or to expect agreement at all no matter how much Peter looked like he was considering things. Sure enough, Peter looked back up from his hands. "What do you supposed I do about my repressed memories, then?"

"First, we have to establish whether or not you have repressed memories. How do you know that you've repressed something?"

"Because, Dr. Steig," Peter said, sitting up straighter in his chair. "I... I see things. And smell things. Like..."

He closed his eyes and Dr. Steig waited with pursed lips.

"I smell antiseptic, like hospital cleaner? And I... I hear screaming. I hear myself screaming. And then the cold..."

Dr. Steig folded his arms on his desk. "The cold?"

"Yeah, all over. Like I'm drowning. I'm seeing flashes of white and I'm drowning and I keep saying..."

"What do you say?"

"I keep saying that I'm sorry. My lungs burn but I keep saying I'm sorry."

Dr. Steig watched him open his eyes again. "And that's all you are able to recall?"

"On my own, yeah. That's why I want to try hypnotherapy, to try to get to the root of whatever's holding me back."

"Holding you back from...?"

Peter sighed. Dr. Steig could make out the tiniest smile on Peter's lips. "From being close with my partners."

"Your partners?" Well, that was certainly new. And plural. He knew that kids these days were experimenting with relationships, but Peter didn't exactly count as a "kid these days". Hell, not even from Steig's generation. "So you're in a relationship?"

"Yeah, I am." Glad for the brief break from talks about pseudoscience, Dr. Steig listened raptly to Peter, already seeing that this was going to be a moment of gushing. "I'm in a polyamorous relationship with this couple, Naseem and Ashira."

"The people who pushed you back into treatment?"

"The very same," Peter nodded. "It's been going on for a while, now, a couple months or so. But honestly? It feels like I've known them forever. Like... I haven't been this compatible with anyone since Georgie, and I trust them with all my heart. I feel so... So safe with them, you know? Like, I can start being myself around them, and... And I love them. I really, truly love them."

Hearing the word "love" was the last thing Dr. Steig wanted to hear from someone with a tendency toward hero worship, especially regarding a romantic relationship still in its infancy. It was a headache watching this vulnerable man looking away, smiling fondly, blushing lightly as he was probably thinking about this Naseem and Ashira couple.

"And I want to, you know, take the next step with them. But there's something about what I'm probably repressing that's making it harder for me to be more physically and emotionally intimate with them. They're so patient with me, but I'm getting impatient with myself, and I'm so done with being scared. So I want to try this treatment."

Dr. Steig resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Peter, those are pretty decent reasons to want to pursue your mental health issues, but I don't want you to have tried this and this ends up failing and wasting time. And there's a slim, almost non-existent chance--"

"So are you outright denying me this treatment, Dr. Steig?"

Dr. Steig closed his eyes only briefly. "No, I'm not."

"Then I would like to try hypnotherapy, sir."

Despite the red bloom of infatuation still on his cheeks, Peter looked completely stubborn, mouth and shoulders set and gaze steady and unyielding. Dr. Steig sighed, allowing himself this one bit of unprofessionalism, and turned to his computer. "I'll find a hypnotherapist to refer you to. But I ask that you please allow me to oversee the sessions as part of the treatment."

Peter grinned. "Thank you."