Archive of Our Own

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“Wanna see, who you are
Every inch, every scar

From your head to your toes

I would be there

From your bed to your clothes
I'm the air.” 
1
  Henry was twelve when he got the first gift. It was the baseball ball they had lost one summer ago and had never bothered to find after, muddy and torn but whole, waiting for him to come home by the front door. The haunting screams of a lone bird in the far distance broke the silence of the summer evening as Henry approached the house. The last of the sun rays had begun ghosting towards the trees rounding the farm, leaving the earth cold as they took their warmth along. The Bowers home was a haunting sight as day turned into night, lonely and crippled like a standing monument of grief and pain. It was easy to tell from the outside that the property lacked the touch of a woman and that it was neglected greatly by the residents left to haunt it. The house was humble and crumbling but as Henry approached it, his steps tentative and unhurried ever since he took the turn up the bare road, he felt as if it were looming over him, waiting to swallow him in its hungry mouth. But it wasn’t so much the house Henry feared as he did its owner. He knew Butch Bowers was waiting inside and it was his fists rather than the teeth of the house that scared him, walking up the porch. Henry knew he was late and he knew the trouble he would be in were Butch awake. It was something his father had not managed to beat out of him so far and it was how prone Henry was to misbehave and refuse to learn. Henry knew, for instance, that he should be home early and that if he wasn’t, he’d get punished. But it was the thought of meeting Butch as he staggered home from town, heavily intoxicated already and smelling of rotting corpses, that terrified him more. So Henry tended to avoid the rules with unmasked caution and he came home in fear each day. But now, as he came close to the door and his eyes caught a glimpse of the old piece of cloth lying in his feet, Henry stopped. He looked down puzzled at the baseball ball, picked it up and stared at it for a few long minutes. The wind kept him company as it rustled through the crowns of the trees. There was nothing but the ball there and Henry made sure to check carefully, stepping slowly from one side of the porch to the other, mindful of the creaking floorboards. He peeked inside through the windows – Butch was waiting for him in his armchair in front of the TV but if he could trust the view through the dirty glass, he also had to be asleep. His chest and belly fell slowly with each deep breath and if Henry were to listen closer, he would almost hear his guttural snores through the rustling of the leaves. He tiptoed inside and crossed the living room carefully, with the silence of a cat stalking its prey. Henry hid inside the room he and his father shared and he spent a good amount of time staring at the old ball in his hand, feeling its torn sides. Butch couldn’t have been the one to leave it by the door. So who could it have been? Henry hid the old ball in the dresser where his clothes lay in a heap, dirty and unfolded. He forgot about it after that and he never bothered to tell Vic and Belch about it. As weird as it was, however, the presence of the ball filled him with something he had never believed in before – security and confidence, courage. It being there, it being a secret he kept albeit insignificant, helped him through the sleepless nights he spent under Oscar Bowers’ roof. That is, at first. Come the end of summer and Henry forgot all about the ball. The object failed to protect him of his father’s wrath and it failed to save him from the pain and misery as he grew.  When the second gift came, Henry was sixteen. This time it was even more insignificant than the old baseball ball. It was a letter and there was one way to receive a letter – in the mailbox. Butch wasn’t home when he walked the path towards the house and Henry could tell by the missing truck his father drove. The realisation made him speed up his step and it was then that he noticed the white piece of paper sticking from the mailbox like a tongue out to wet nervous rusted lips. Henry stopped before it and, thinking it might be a bill that would surely enrage his father was he to find it first, opened the box to grab the white sheet. It wasn’t that white when Henry got a closer look at it. It was yellowing, old, stained and it smelled of mould as if it had been kept underwater for too long. It was folded in four and when Henry undid it to see what it could read, the simple message there made his skin crawl. ‘Turn around’, it read, followed by a series of X's. Henry did so, facing nothing but the thick growth lining the sides of the path. The only sound to be heard was the rustle of the leaves as the chilling wind rushed through the branches. “Who’s the fuck’s there?!” He yelled into the stillness of the impending evening, his voice echoing into the distance. “Get out of here right now, you hear me! Whoever’s there, I’ll shoot your flamer ass off if I catch you!” Henry stood there by the mailbox for a brief moment, waiting as if to see if some trickster, brave enough to come so near to the Bowers farm, would jump out of the thorny bushes after all. But nothing came, no matter how long he stood. He crumbled the note in his fist, the prominent veins crossing his arms bulging as his anger flared. Henry threw the ball on the ground by the mailbox and spat before storming off towards the house. Nobody could make fun of Henry Bowers and whoever had decided to do so today could only hope Henry wouldn’t catch him. His mind strayed towards the bunch of losers running through town, getting on his nerves…Them Henry would deal with but it still didn’t occur to him that the note he received today could be in any way linked to the baseball ball he found by his door that one evening all those years ago. Back home, Henry ate whatever leftovers he could find in the cupboards, stale bread, cans…Tomorrow, Mrs Davenport would bring over a casserole or a big pot of stew or beans and that would last them for the remainder of the week. Tonight, however, Henry would have to go to bed hungry. He couldn’t help but think about the note again; his eyes kept straying towards the dirty windows outside and he kept convincing himself he was looking out for Butch but honestly, Henry knew he was waiting to see the trespasser come out of the shadows. The unwanted fear chased him to bed and for once, Butch Bowers wasn’t the reason. Butch came home long after midnight and the loud bang of the door startled Henry out of his sleep. He no longer slept in his father’s room but in the back room where there was only a dusty mattress to rest on, where he had a single dresser to keep his belongings in and a window to look into the overgrown field outside from. Henry waited, curling under the covers, as Butch staggered down the hall, then the door to his room was shut with enough force to tear the wood off the hinges. The loud noise made Henry squeeze his eyes shut, fingers trembling around the cover around him as if Butch would come in any moment, belt in hand. He heard his father snoring minutes later but Henry couldn’t fall asleep again. Instead, he looked out through the window, his breath coming short as he stared blindly at the grim moonlight slithering through. Morning came with no further accidents and Henry managed to get up early, while the sun was still red and intimidating, like the sore white of a drunken man’s eyes. He crossed the hallway leading out with caution, eyed his father’s dirty pants once he walked past them. Butch had taken those off mid-hallway and the tip of a cigarette box peeked out of the back pocket. Henry wondered if he could risk stealing one cigarette or even the whole crumbled box without Butch noticing. He refrained. Even if there was a chance that his father might have lost those last night or smoked them all, if he saw them gone, his first reaction would be to blame Henry. Things always went bad when he blamed Henry. The crumbled note was still where Henry had left it, covered in dried spit in the grass by the mailbox. Henry walked around it as if it were a cursed object. He wanted nothing to do with it and just like last time, Henry told nobody of its existence. He kept quiet in front of Vic and Belch and though they could sense the tension of their leader, they didn’t run their mouths. Only once did Vic ask if he was okay. Henry didn’t reply and that was as far as either of them dared to go. School was a dull experience for Henry and it had been so since the first day he spent in the trap of the system. Not only was he a troublemaker in the eyes of the teachers but he lacked the attention and brains to go through school without some extra help or motivation. He’d flunk his exams, summer classes would follow almost every year, then more trouble with his father at home…Henry’s life in school and out of it was a solid routine. Things he should have found fun were not, girls walked around him and avoided him like the plague, friends were hard to come by with the reputation he now had and maintained. At sixteen, life was still relatively easy for Henry but what he couldn’t guess was that a few years were all that protected him from a lonely life shared with the madness of Butch Bowers. His father and his wild torment fuelled by his alcoholism and mental scars of a war gone by were all that kept Henry in the present, they were all that was real. Their shadow would haunt him surely a few years along and he would hardly be able to shake their influence off. But at sixteen, Henry thought of the future as little as possible; it was pointless wasting time on something that he might not even live to see. Butch might just decide to kill him early, Henry couldn’t know, so making plans for something as vague a concept as the future meant nothing to him. What did have meaning, however, was living through the day, finding something to eat, catching a twerp to torture and beat up whenever he felt it was justified. Violence was something pure that Henry always found reasonable. People could call him monster all they wanted and they could look at him with a bad eye and avoid him but who really was to blame? Had Henry lived in a different time, he could have gotten the help he deserved and maybe then things could have been different. But he couldn’t change his circumstances and so Henry remained their victim. Henry did not have the mind to comprehend that. Things were far simpler to him. If Butch scared him and won his obedience through a lesson learned then the rest could fear Henry just as much as he feared his father through the same methods. It was a simple solution and one that turned Henry into a guarded person, a private person and a very angry one towards the outside world he found even more hostile with its lack of understanding and compassion than the one he already lived in. The only people Henry had ever let come close enough were his friends and he had done that in a time when life hadn’t been that much about surviving than it was about actual living. Like Butch, Vic and Belch were a reliable constant and one which he would definitely choose over the terror of his father. The other bad kids he hung out with couldn’t ever be as close to Henry as Vic and Belch. He would never admit it and, naturally, he doubted that they were as dependant on him as he was but they were friends. What made a friendship bad anyway? Did it matter what they did together? Did it matter that they chose to beat up unsuspecting and defenceless kids instead of shooting toy guns and wasting their time? They could understand each other as well as any other friends could, without words even, just with a single look. And when Henry was mad, Vic and Belch kept quiet and offered their presence until he calmed down enough to talk if he wanted, when Belch needed help with his homework or Henry was too busy doing chores to do his, Vic would do it for them as best as he could. Once when an older boy made fun at Vic for his braces, Henry and Belch threw him in the languid waters of the river and when someone mentioned Belch’s deceased father, Vic broke his nose. What better support could any of them offer each other? Moose Sadler had landed himself a job and Peter Gordon was stuck with a girlfriend he claimed he loved, Gard Jagermeyer had followed the order of his overbearing mother and stopped hanging out with them altogether so when Patrick Hockstetter came along, the trio had been doing pretty much fine on their own. They hadn’t been looking for company either; they were very much in the process of skipping school when they heard Sally Mueller’s shriek, morphing into a high-pitched squeal of disgust by the end, come from the schoolyard. They were used to hear kids screaming because of them, not while they had nothing to do with it. Sally had already run off by the time they looked her way, furiously brushing her hair while she kept screaming. Her face bore a distinct grimace of deep disgust and it made her look funny. Behind her stood Patrick Hockstetter; he watched her retreating back, his expression smug and pleased, lips stretching slowly into a grin that could only be described as vile and predatory, before kneeling down to gather what appeared to be pens and pencils scattered around a fallen case. What he had shown her neither of them knew but it had to have been something a lot nastier than what his underwear and undone zipper kept under. “What the fuck is his deal?” Belch asked, laughing too when he, like Henry, noticed Hockstetter’s boldly undone zipper. “Nothing, he’s just crazy,” Vic said, nonchalant and at all not amused by the scene. “I heard his mom passed away recently. But he sure was crazy before that.” “So his mom…” “Well, it’s none of our business.” While the two bickered, Henry kept his eyes on Hockstetter. He gathered his things slowly, put them back in his box even slower, and when he zipped it up and began to stand up, their eyes met. Surprise and even wonder grazed his features – his face had become slender overtime as he grew and the baby fat that had filled his cheeks had disappeared – before the unsettling smile returned. He held Henry’s eyes as Henry waited to see if he would show him what was inside the box like he did Sally. And though Hockstetter was his age, he appeared out of place among the other students. He stood there, like a Lovecraftian monster, leering Henry’s way but as disturbing and greasy as it was, there was something unmistakably friendly in his alien presence. Henry wondered if he was the only one who could see it. To have gotten his attention seemed to have made Hockstetter immensely happy and it made Henry think that he had to be very dumb. Kids weren’t usually full of joy when Henry noticed them. Henry was blind and deaf to his surroundings for the briefest of moments while he watched Hockstetter and when he finally grasped at his surroundings again it felt much like taking a large gulp of fresh air after drowning underwater. “But his pants were on so he wasn’t showing her his dick or anything.” “Yeah, well I heard once he left a dead frog Carol Granger’s backpack before she moved.” Vic and Belch were still discussing Hockstetter when Henry found the strength to turn his back on him and continue towards the car. It was Belch’s pride and joy, supposedly he would never feel as proud of anything in his life as he was of the Trans Am. He had renovated the car himself throughout the previous summer and just a few months ago he was officially, legally capable of driving it. They hadn’t walked a single foot since. “Let’s go.” He urged them, eager to leave already and shake off the chills Hockstetter’s lingering glare left in him. Throughout the following week, shrieks and cries chased the gang and they never were prompted by any of them. This struck all three of them as odd and even unsettling, it was unnatural and very much confusing. But Henry was, above all, greatly disturbed to find out that each and every time he followed the cries of a girl or boy made victims to one form of mental torture or nasty sight or other, he found Patrick Hockstetter, looking, grinning – an expression so gentle it was almost loving. He was trying to get his attention now, by all means possible, and it was driving Henry insane, it was making him angry, furious even, and it was ruining his reputation. Secretly, it scared him. The day it all stopped was the day he cornered Hockstetter on his way home after school and punched him so hard in the stomach that his breath wheezed past his lips and his lanky body toppled over in his feet. It wasn’t that Hockstetter had done anything particularly bad, he had even been minding his own business all day. Sometimes he even made Henry laugh with how disgusting he was and he made fun of him, so loud that he could hear him and the boys laughing and jeering whenever he was around. Hockstetter never said a word, as though if it were Henry who talked about him, he would be joyous. But Henry wasn’t having any more of it and the whole queer bit had reached a dead end wall. He wouldn’t be letting it go any further. For Vic and Belch, turning on Hockstetter was like ganging up on any other kid. They grabbed him by the stupid tee-shirt when he tried to stand up and held him into the wall, waiting for Henry to land another punch in. Henry hadn’t wanted to, actually, he had believed at first that he would punch Hockstetter and tell him to bug off while he had the chance, but now he itched to hurt him again. Things at home had been spiralling out of control again lately, it was that time of the year when Butch Bowers seemed to be most aggressive, like an animal controlled by its hormones. Angry Butch meant hurting Henry, hurting Henry at home meant furious Henry on the street. He grabbed Hockstetter by the neck of the shirt and swung his fist at his jaw. His knuckles collided with his teeth and the blood gushed out from Hockstetter’s split lip like a fountain. “The fuck is your problem, huh?!” Henry shouted. “You fuck up, you flamer, what’s your damn problem?!” Hockstetter looked up at him and he appeared so unfazed, even amused, and just before he could smile, Henry dug his hard fist into his stomach again. He toppled over, falling to his knees in front of Henry. Blood poured out of his nose and stained the front of his shirt; Hockstetter brushed that off with the back of his hand and Henry pretended not to see the somewhat sultry and dirty way he ran his tongue across his bloodied lips. “You fuck up,” Henry said, spitting down at Hockstetter’s hunched frame and eliciting a round of crude laughter from the other two. Hockstetter peeked up at him, his face was blue, almost purple and his eyes were teary but Henry could tell he wasn’t as hurt as he appeared. In fact, there was a hint of enjoyment crossing Hockstetter’s face. He tried to ignore it. The next time Hockstetter came close to Henry happened soon after and this time Henry didn’t feel like punching him. Patrick offered him cigarettes, he lit one for him and he showed Henry how best to use a lighter to gauge a cat’s eye out. The beady orb had melted right into his fingers, like candle wax. By the time summer rolled around, the Bowers gang was one member larger and now, the reputation of the boys became even more intimidating with the quiet horror Patrick’s presence brought their victims. Odd, Henry would think many times, as Patrick had never really done anything. He rarely even gave ideas, participated in their regular bullying even less. The teachers never complained about his behaviour in class and though the other kids avoided him and trembled in his presence, struck by unexplainable chills, they never had to fear Patrick getting too physical in his abuse. Actually, what was up with Hockstetter anyway? Henry couldn’t tell, no matter how much he thought about it, that Patrick Hockstetter’s attention was all on him from the day he left the baseball ball by his front door to find – a childish peace offering.  Years passed and Henry Bowers found the routine crumbling, leaving him behind bare and afraid of the adulthood slowly pulling him along. He was left to graduate just so he would get out of the school and he was the only one. Vic’s grades were average if not good, Belch’s were passing. Patrick didn’t care but he was also smart, far smarter than he made it seem, and he made it with less effort than any of them. They found jobs, eventually, and Patrick hit the road as soon as school was over. Henry heard nothing of him for months to come and he never saw him in town. He was beginning to think he was dead in a ditch somewhere or worse, if there could be anything worse in Patrick’s case. But he reappeared, mid-autumn, and he acted as though nothing had happened. He offered them no explanation. Work on the farm went as always only now Henry had no excuse to be away from home. There was no other job to be found for the child of Butch Bowers in town. Vic and Belch drifted away from him, always busy building a secure future. They had no time for Henry, they had no time to hang out, to drink, to fight and curse at the passers-by they drove by on Main. That was the first year, three more and the gang was a distant remnant of a life Henry lost for good. When he received his third and final gift, Henry was twenty-one, and so was Patrick Hockstetter. It was no letter, no old toy. It was a drink, and it was a Polaroid he found lying among the trash in Hockstetter’s room. Henry did not care anymore and he had stopped caring a while ago what Patrick did and where he went. All he knew was that now with Vic and Belch gone for good or as distant as they could be, he was the only other person left who Henry could talk to. And that wasn’t a perfect arrangement. They had nothing to talk about. The awkward silence between them was different than the one between him and Butch and it made Henry wary. Patrick had changed over the years and so had the crazy spark in his dead eyes that turned oddly soft and gentle but nevertheless insane whenever he looked at Henry; like he was looking down at a pet, a cat or a dog – something whose life compared to your own had no meaning and that’s just what made you want to care for them more, to love them and cherish them while they were there. Henry had no power over anything anymore. He couldn’t change his circumstances, couldn’t change his position in life and after so long not only did he not want to try, he was afraid to. The longer he hung out with Patrick the easier it was to cope with the knowledge that it was pointless changing. Patrick acted the way he’s always had towards him and if it weren’t for the vague feeling of dread he felt, Henry thought it was all the same. He still had power over something, over somebody, albeit very little. Once they went to the movies together and when they propped their feet up on the seats in front and nobody came to scold them, Henry realised childhood was over. When Patrick invited him over for a drink, he did not buy juice and candy. Hockstetter’s home was, unlike him, usual. The façade appeared to be crumbling, the windows were dirty and like Henry’s it was obvious it lacked female touch. Art Hockstetter had moved out long ago, Henry realised when he stepped into the dusty crypt of a house, and he had tried to take Patrick along. That was one of the many reasons for Patrick’s monthly absence from town, or so Henry supposed. The inside of the house was cold; the air was stale and smelt of mould and dust. The floors creaked with every step and the carpets covering the faded floorboards that had once been deep chestnut in colour were unwashed. A cloud of white dust puffed into the air when Patrick sat down on the couch in the living room. Henry was too transfixed with the puzzling order that reigned in the house to follow his lead. “Welcome home, Hank,” he said, propping his feet up on the wooden table. Henry didn’t like his tone one bit. He uncapped the bottle of whiskey he had brought and drank, walking around the dark and dingy room and staring at the furniture, the books lining the bookshelf, the souvenirs and framed Polaroids. There were little Patrick’s round face and toothy smile, there was he in red shorts and a straw hat dipping his small feet in a muddy pond. There was Art Hockstetter, young and bright, holding in his arms the baby that would ruin his life with care and love Henry’s own father had never shown him. And here was Mrs Hockstetter, sitting atop a spread blanket by a picnic basket, chewing on a ham sandwich while she kept one arm around baby Patrick’s middle – his cheeks were covered in smears of cheesecake. Patrick was everywhere. Patrick was a loved child, a protected child…He was, or had been, a wanted child. Henry took another gulp of alcohol, feeling it sting the slowly healing cut across his lip, the aftermath of another fight with Butch. The man never seemed to grow older, he never seemed to lose his power to age…His fists hurt as much as they had when Henry was ten. His eyes strayed towards another picture. This one was one of a kind. In the centre of it wasn’t baby Patrick dressed in his pretty boy clothes, it was the family’s second bundle of joy. Mrs Hockstetter sat on the edge of a hospital bed, ready to leave, and her face shone brighter than the sun itself. Her lips stretched in a wide smile to show two rows of somewhat crooked teeth. In her arms she held a baby, its red and healthy face peeking through the blanket it was wrapped in. Art Hockstetter sat beside her, holding up little Patrick and that little child seemed distraught, its face contorted in a grimace of displeasure and eyes full of tears as it pouted at the camera. There was something in those eyes, something lurking. And it was that something that Henry saw in Patrick now when he looked at him, when he dared to look. He was still slouched in the couch, he hadn’t moved, and he followed Henry’s movements closely with wonder as if he was expecting to hear a question. “What was her name?” He asked, if only to force away the sudden silence. Patrick’s leer quickly turned into a smile, wide and loving, and he breathed in the nasty air of the house as if he could still feel his mother’s scent lingering years after her passing.“Wendy.” He said. His tone and features softened as he reminisced, long fingers running along the back of the couch. He sighed, feeling nothing but raw pleasure and endless adoration at the memory of his mother. “That was her name…” There was a spark of childish glee in his eyes when Patrick spoke of his mother and Henry didn’t like it. It didn’t feel like it had anything to do with only love, then again Henry had never known the love of a mother or if he had, he had long forgotten it. That was the single difference that put them both miles away from each other. But Patrick was as mad, if not madder than Henry himself, he wasn’t sane and that insanity had nothing to do with his life at home or with his upbringing. Then where did the reason lay, what made them so different and so alike and which one was really crazy? “Let me get you another drink, Henry.” Patrick offered sometime through the evening when the whiskey vanished. And while Henry was somewhat tipsy, Patrick appeared pleased to have him there, energetic as he moved to bring him whatever he wanted, fully sober. Patrick disappeared into the kitchen, taking along the empty bottle and a moment later, Henry stood up. He walked into the hall and up the stairs, movements sluggish and unhurried as he tried to find Hockstetter’s bathroom. He opened the first door on the left – a bedroom. The second on the right – locked. Henry jiggled that one’s handle, suddenly curious as to what could be behind the door but he didn’t care enough to be persistent and he moved on to the third on the left. The door creaked open, the white paint coating it coming down in flakes. It was another bedroom, bare, lifeless, nearly sterile. The walls were bland, covered in faded old wallpaper, there was a single bed. Heavy curtains covered the only window. In the corner stood a desk, above it on a wooden shelve there were books with yellowing pages and bent covers, beside them three, no, four wooden showcase boxes. There were old toys perched atop more shelves left of the door, stuffed animals and toy trucks… Henry frowned. Could the room be Patrick’s? If the sheets didn’t appear recently changed, Henry would have never guessed it. The desk wasn’t as dusty as the rest of the furniture downstairs which meant it had been used. There were papers scattered across it, bills, letters, notes…Patrick knew how to take care of himself, apparently. But as Henry, confused and courageous after the few glasses of whiskey, walked closer towards his desk, another thing caught his eye. He stumbled forward, reached out to take in his hand the old Polaroid he found lying beside everything else. The edges were yellow, curling in on themselves. His eyes narrowed and he blinked, trying to convince himself that what he was seeing was barely a game of his imagination. It was a picture of him, standing by the farm’s mailbox at sixteen. And despite the faded black and white colours of the picture, he could tell his face was flushed with impending anger and Henry knew, he could see it like the memory of an old movie, that he was a moment away from screaming at the… “Henry,” Patrick sang from downstairs and his voice was distant, as if it was reaching him from the depths of the sea, “Henry, do you want ice? Or anything else?” A sudden chill ran down Henry’s spine and he rubbed the back of his neck; his hand was cold, palm clammy. He looked down at the rest of Patrick’s papers, his letters…The paper was old, yellow, the handwriting barely readable and so very familiar. He dropped the picture and whirled around, ready to finally leave and not just the room but the haunting house altogether. It felt as if Henry was completely, quickly and very easily losing all grip on reality, on everything, and not even punching the lights out of Patrick would help him this time. He found Hockstetter standing at the doorframe when he turned around, two glasses of alcohol that Henry would be wary to drink at this point in his hands. He wasn’t smiling, he wasn’t frowning. Permanent surprise was etched into his face as he stared at Henry. His eyes were empty, a look so dangerous and haunting it made Henry incapable of moving. “Oh,” a soft sound left Patrick and though his lack of any other violent reaction should have comforted Henry, it startled him. “I guess you found it on your own, Henry.” Neither of them moved, neither spoke. Henry Bowers had just received his third and final gift. Patrick Hockstetter. Or was it the other way around?

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

"I breathe you in again

Just to feel you

Underneath my skin,

Holding on to

The sweet escape,

Is always laced with a,

Familiar taste,

Of poison"

2
  Rena Davenport came over the following Saturday and Henry was the one to open the door. He could smell the pungent stench of her rose water and hand cream even before he walked out into the hall. His father was in the living room, sat in his easy chair and dozing in front of the TV. Rena came every once in a while like a hurricane and her presence had always been either a good or bad sign for Henry, ever since his mother left. She’d fuel Butch’s frustration whenever she ran her mouth more than she should or she sometimes pleased him enough that Henry didn’t have to worry about his temper for the rest of the day or even the next. At eleven Henry had had the vaguest idea of what magic Mrs Davenport did on his father but as he grew older his childish dislike for her morphed into disgust and disappointment. Surely his own mother had to have been a better catch than Mrs Davenport. It was a cynical thought but an honest one. Mrs Davenport was an overweight woman, her face was covered in deep wrinkles and her skin had begun to sag with age and Henry supposed it wasn’t only her tongue that was loose anymore. How his father stood her presence he didn’t know and it baffled him to think that it had been ten years and she had never stopped coming. She made them lunch and they ate in silence, or, at least, Butch and Mrs Davenport ate. Like his father, Mrs Davenport was very much a slob when it came down to eating and her table manners were non-existent, not like Henry could know or judge. He barely touched his food, feeling uncomfortable in the other two’s presence. Usually, Henry ate in anyone's company rarely and in this twisted version of a family, he felt needless and out of place. He excused himself as soon as he gathered the courage to speak up and even then his voice was meek, looking his father’s way to wait for approval. One would expect that at such an age, Henry would be far too old to depend so much on his father’s word but Butch had taught him far too well what to expect if he didn’t. “Does Henry have a girl already?” He heard Mrs Davenport say as he crossed the hall towards the front door. “Is he engaged? You should probably think about that, Oscar, people might start talking…Or what if he gets messed up with some hooker from town?! God forbid he brings you some disease so you’d have to care about that…” “No woman smart enough would want that good-for-nothing for a husband,” Butch replied, his voice gruff and breath smelling of stale stew, garlic and alcohol. “He can’t do a single thing right, I bet he still thinks his dick’s only good for pissing. How’s he gonna find a woman, how’s he gonna make a kid?” He huffed an indifferent laugh, a cruel and disappointed noise that made Henry’s skin crawl, and Mrs Davenport hurried to say: “But, Oscar, people might start spreading rumours if they don’t see him with women at all.” “People don’t get to worry about my son being no fruit,” Butch warned, “If I knew or if I heard, I’d beat it right out of him.” Henry’s hand closed around the handle of the door and after another moment of gazing at the cracked wood in front of him he quietly slipped out. He walked down the path towards the road, putting one foot in front of the other and forcing his suddenly stiff body to move. Overcome by the overwhelming feeling of hopelessness, helpless in the face of the situation, Henry did the only thing he felt could help. He went to Patrick.  Henry was a man of instinct and he trusted the wave of fear whenever it came washing over him. He stared at Patrick, baffled and unblinking for only a moment, before trying to dash out of the bedroom. Unfortunately for him, Patrick had expected a similar reaction and was prepared.
 The two glasses shattered on the ground around their feet when Patrick let them fall so he could grab onto Henry’s forearms and push him back into the room. It surprised Henry how much strength there really was in those gangly limbs. Pieces of broken glass cracked under his boots while he made for the door again and this time he whacked Patrick good across the face. The last time Henry had really punched him had been the first – when he cornered him in the alley at sixteen.

He tried to shove Patrick aside while he was still apparently dazed but Patrick didn’t let him. His long arms wrapped around Henry’s middle and he tackled him down, caring very little for the class that could have easily sliced into the back of Henry’s neck. He climbed over him, grabbing onto Henry’s wrists while he trashed madly. Patrick was like glue, like a leach. Once he was stuck to him, Henry couldn’t shake him off. Not only did his frustration rise but also his fear, fuelled by the insecurity he felt. What was Patrick going to do? What did he want?

He shot up from the floor suddenly and his forehead collided with Hockstetter’s. That managed to surprise him more than actually hurt him and Henry had the chance to crawl out from under his weight when Patrick lost his balance. He tried to scramble away when his palm slipped along one of the shards and it dug deep into the sweaty flesh, cutting its way under until Henry felt the sharp jolt of pain coil in his hand. He smeared a bloody handprint across the floor and, distracted by the profusely bleeding injury, he was helpless to defend himself when Patrick’s fist got his side, bony knuckles digging into his kidneys.
 “Look what you did now, Hank!” Hockstetter jeered above him, coming over Henry again and trapping him between himself and the floor. He landed another swift punch to Henry’s jaw when he tried to struggle again before his hands latched onto his shoulders, pushing him down further. “Look what you did, Jesus…! You’re a mess, Henry, a real mess.”
 Patrick leered down at him, lips stretching to show two rows of pearly teeth that looked just a bit too big to be those of a human, or at least so Henry thought as he stared up into the crazed eyes of the monster that Hockstetter finally let him see. The thing that he caught lurking into the gaze of the five-year-old in the old picture was in full swing tonight. It was different than the monster that his father was. This one was vile and it was sleazy, slithering through life like a snake and praying carefully on its victims, playing with its food until it had it right where it wanted it. And when Patrick’s hand grabbed onto Henry’s injured one, his long fingers slotted between Henry’s and he pressed down just to feel the blood gushing and hear Henry screaming through his teeth as sharp pain shot through his hand, Henry thought it was going to kill him. Someone was going to kill him alright but it wouldn’t be Butch, it would be Patrick.

But Henry Bowers had been clinging to life for as long as he could remember. He had been putting one foot in front of the other since he was old enough to walk. And he had been down more times than he could count. Henry was too stubborn, or too stupid, to accept death. So when his mind began to spiral out of his body like it did whenever he took his beating from his father, Henry pulled it back and clung to whatever remained of his rationality. With his good hand he punched Patrick in the teeth and when he fell off him again he kicked against the floorboards to push his body as far away from the danger as he could.
 Henry grabbed onto the bedsheets, a bloody stain blooming where the blood rushed from the cut in his hand – more of those covered the floorboards in a morbid trail – and when Patrick stood up to grab him again, something peculiar happened. He inhaled deeply, air swirled in the very pit of his lungs, as cold as icy needles piercing the tissue, and then Henry screamed. Not only did he scream, but the guttural sound that tore out of his sore throat was a wail. His cheeks flushed with colour as he spat out his last bit of air. His wild, even afraid eyes stared at Patrick, like an animal caught in a hunter’s trap about to be gutted.
 And Patrick was stunned. He stared down at Henry, completely baffled by the outburst, as blood trickled down from his nose and mouth, staining his shirt much like the time Henry had punched him last. He definitely did not try to shove him down or get over him again and he kept his distance for which Henry was somewhat grateful. But it didn’t help one bit that he had no idea what Patrick had meant to do in the first place and he didn’t know what he would try to do now.
 As spontaneously as Henry had screamed, Patrick laughed. First, he grinned, then the breath wheezed past his teeth in a feral chuckle that grew into a breathy cackle. He held his stomach as he laughed, the noise like that of a hyena’s cry. If Henry had run for the door again now, he might have reached it in time to get away from him, but he was unable to move anywhere but closer towards the bed and away from Patrick.
 “Look at yourself, Henry,” Patrick gasped, “Look at yourself! You look so pathetic, so pathetic…”

He knelt down slowly and began to move closer towards Henry. And unlike him, Henry had nowhere else to run; his legs felt too numb to jump on the bed or run for the door.
 “Stay there!” He yelled. “Don’t come over here, you fag, you freak, I’ll kick your teeth out if you do!”
 “Don’t worry, Hank, I won’t hurt you.” Patrick soothed him kindly, though his dangerous smile never faltered. “Just let me see that cut. We don’t want you bleeding out, do we?”
 “I said stay away!”
 “Henry…”

When Patrick trapped his legs between his knees and reached over to take his wounded hand, Henry froze. Panic overwhelmed him when Patrick forced him to let go of the only thing keeping his mind anchored. He took it in his hands and Henry winced, despite the soft touch, when Patrick forced his fingers to spread and show the gash crossing his palm. The blood had begun to cloth around the edges of the cut but it was still too deep to stop bleeding on its own. Patrick stared at the bright red tissue Henry’s skin revealed, mesmerized and itching to run his fingers along it. When he heard Henry wince again and groan at the burning ache that remained, Patrick wanted to hear more, wanted to hear gasps, moans and whines of pain as he pressed his own palm into his hurt one again…

But if he did, he just might force Henry out of the daze his fear had bound him to. So he refrained and instead studied the bloody sight.
 “Let me clean that out, Henry,” Patrick repeated, his pleasure with the situation very much visible as he looked up at Henry. “Let me help you.”
 “I can do it myself…” Henry croaked, “I can…I gotta go home, I gotta…”

He tried to stand up but Patrick held him down. This time, it was with less force and maybe he had learned that if he wanted to keep Henry there, outright punching him would do less good than coaxing him into submission.

“You misunderstood me, Henry,” he said, “calm down. To be fair, you threw the first punch. You got what you deserved. You think you can keep hurting people and they’d just let you? Come on…”

He hauled Henry up and he stumbled somewhat. Henry stared up at Patrick and Patrick had never seen so much distrust and fear in the other’s eyes. Henry had always upheld his reputation of a mean and stubborn man in front of his friends and to see him so braindead and uncertain would have freaked Patrick out if he weren’t so pleased with the outcome.

He dragged Henry downstairs and sat him down in the living room. He disappeared into the kitchen again and came back with a glass of alcohol, a roll of old gauze and swabs of cotton. He offered Henry the drink but he didn’t take it, wary still, and so instead of wasting it, Patrick used it to clean out his hand. Faint tremors ran through Henry’s hand and fingers while he kept his palm towards Patrick, biting his lips and tongue so he wouldn’t make a sound. Patrick’s treatment was rough but unhurried, prolonging Henry’s discomfort. He was doing in on purpose.

“What the fuck, what the fuck, what…” And a series of curses escaped Henry’s lips in a shallow, emotionless mutter so weak and confused it made Patrick smile.

“Are you sure you don’t want more to drink, Henry?” He asked, trying to appease Henry and soothe him back to the tipsy state of calm he had been before…Well, before he found out what Patrick’s secret hobby for the past few years was.

“No, I don’t want a goddamn drink!” Henry shouted, finally coming back to his senses after the shock. The spark of rage brightened his otherwise murky eyes like a deceiving flame in the middle of a swamp and Patrick thought he’d stand up now, punch him again and storm out. Instead, he kept talking, barraging Patrick with questions, “What’s wrong with you, huh?! What the fuck is wrong with you?! What’s that picture doing here, Hockstetter? What the fuck’s it doing here?!”
 “Calm down, Henry.” Patrick said, his calmness a stark contrast to Henry’s anger, his heaving chest and reddened face. “It’s not what you think…”
 But he had no better way to explain it and Henry might have been dumb but not enough to believe any excuse he could muster. So Patrick’s gaze shifted again towards his bandaged palm where a bloody flower bloomed slowly through the yellowed gauze.

When Henry stood up to try and walk around him, Patrick quickly grabbed onto his clothes, pulling him back by the edge of the dirty shirt and belt.

“You can stay the night, Henry.” He said. “I won’t tell.”

“Are you some kind of fag, Hockstetter?” Henry spat, the words coming through his teeth as he stared down at Patrick with all the disgust he could manage. Though, after seeing him so afraid a few minutes ago, Patrick couldn’t be too fazed. In fact, the pitiful remnants of the reputation Henry had had and still kept to had completely faded in Patrick’s eyes tonight.
 “If it gets rough for you at home, Hank,” he said instead, carefully choosing each word and tone to lure Henry into the skeletal outer walls of fake security, “You can always come find me, you know?”
 He could barely contain his smile and biting back the impending laughter wasn’t an easy task but Patrick managed to do it and he watched a burst of emotions so alien for Henry cross his features, overpowering the disgust and rage he felt. It a was a flash of vulnerability so sweet that it made Patrick want to laugh harder than before, it was a sudden desire for something unthinkable and unfathomable for Henry’s poor mind. Patrick knew Henry couldn’t understand just what he was offering him though he heard the words and felt their meaning.

Accepting that Patrick was probably taking advantage of his silence, Henry uttered a quiet curse under his breath, something vile he’s heard from his father, and stumbled out of the house. All through the walk out of the living room and down the hall towards the door, he could feel Patrick staring at his back, like the first day they met, and this time he swore he wouldn’t come back. This time Henry ran and he never looked back, never let his eyes linger on the leer crossing Hockstetter’s ghostly face.
  But Henry was wrong. He did return to Patrick. He was weak again and he let himself be led by the vague feeling of need that burned inside him and made his body break out in cold sweat and shivers, like he had malaria. It certainly felt like Henry was dying and if he wasn’t after all, he’d be dead soon, as soon as his father found out what he felt and where he went and what he did… It happened not long after Henry left Patrick’s house that night after finding the picture. Body overwhelmed by the grizzly chill of the night, Henry refused to return home, fearing what his father would do were he to find him all bruised up and not fully sober coming home so late. He spent the night in Memorial Park, strolling up and down the lanes and itching for a smoke that he couldn’t afford. His thoughts never gave him peace throughout the endless night. Each time he heard the rustling of the leaves or the echo of his steps, Henry would look over his shoulder in fright, as if he’d see Patrick lurking in the shadows of the trees like a monster out of a horror movie trailing after him. But he was never there and that would ease Henry’s nerves until another soft noise caught his attention. The next days were nothing but a blur, countless seconds and minutes so alike that they blended into each other and disappeared completely once Henry forced himself to focus again. At day he worked in the farm under the hot sun of the late spring and at night he’d go into town if Butch was home or watch TV and drink along when Butch was in town. He’d avoid his father and come Saturday Mrs Davenport would come over with pans and pots of food…That’s how a whole week passed and Henry’s mind never could stray far enough from Patrick and what had happened that night at his house. Every time he felt the sting in his palm where, under the dirty gauze the gash was slowly healing, and every time he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror to see the bruises fading to an ugly yellow-green, he’d think of Patrick. There was nothing else to distract him now that his last connection to the world outside of the farm was seemingly deterred. Many times Henry’s mind would stray during the day and his father would scold him, yell at him or sometimes punish him physically until Henry started to listen again. But that wouldn’t be for long. And as he thought of Patrick his thoughts would also stray towards his words. If it gets rough for you at home, Hank, you can always come find me. Like the rest of his friends, Patrick knew enough of Henry’s home life and now that Henry thought about it, maybe he knew more than he wanted to be known. Sometimes, while their friendship had still counted, he would talk to Vic about it and he would rarely give him any reliable advice but he would always listen. That would be enough for Henry. God, how he wanted Vic there now, in Derry, not somewhere else, doing some other thing without Henry. How he wanted someone to tell about Patrick, about the fear choking him now. Fear was something Henry had grown well-accustomed to and many people tended to forget. It was the fear that had made him dig his own grave and it was the fear that was urging him into an early suicide in the embrace of a lead-lined casket. Or Patrick’s arms, deceitfully weak. The first time he succumbed to the need that had grown like a poisonous seed without Henry ever noticing he excused his weakness with the shock and mental exhaustion he was forced to suffer. The farm had become Henry’s prison for the next two weeks, two full weeks of counting the cracks in the paint or the stains on the wallpaper-covered walls. He would avoid Butch for long enough throughout the day and he would stay in his room the rest of the time, going into the kitchen in ungodly hours of the morning to grab a bite to eat before retreating into the remotely safe walls again. Butch usually left him alone and Henry knew to count that as a blessing. His luck ran out not long after, when his father returned home drunk. The time was half past one, the silver crescent of the moon hung hidden behind the thick veil of clouds. Henry had managed to fall into an uneasy slumber by the time he heard the front door be thrown open then shut, the sound lingering in the silence of the house like the crack of a whip; he had been running his thumb gingerly across the bandage and the length of the cut crossing his hand underneath to feel the soft sparks of raw pain. His eyes stared at his palm’s direction but also not. Patrick’s face swam out of the depths of his mind like that of a sea monster and he wasn’t leering, he was looking at Henry the way he had when he grabbed onto him before he left, he was talking to him in the soft tone he would coax a kitten from under a car with… When Henry heard the ruckus outside of his room, all pleasant thoughts left him and the warmth crossing his skin like shocks of electricity dissolved into maddening shivers of fright. That part of his life would never change, even if he turned thirty-one, fifty-one, a hundred years old. Even if Butch died, his ghost would forever remain to taunt him and Henry would never manage to sleep. He heard his father outside, his boots falling like hammers down onto the floorboards. He was drunk, judging by the slur in his voice when he spoke and the way he muttered curses. Each time he heard that voice, Henry could feel his muscles tightening under his skin; pain shot through his numb limbs and his lungs shrivelled like grapes under the sun. Was that how a heart attack felt like? Or was he going to pass out? “Fucking tramp…” Mr Bowers would groan, his voice like poison, “Fucking fruit, I’ll show…I’ll show them, I’ll burn them all down. Fags…Fucking flamers!” he screamed, “Nobody fucks with Oscar Bowers, you hear me?! You hear?!” Henry didn’t know who his father was talking to or what he meant but maybe Butch didn’t know either. A series of bangs and crashes was heard from the kitchen as Butch took his anger out on the cupboards and furniture there, looking for something to fill his empty stomach with or something to drink. Henry could tell which cupboard he was opening or closing by the sound of their creaks alone, he could tell where he was in the house by the sound of his steps; he had all of those little sounds memorized by now. He’s going to go to bed now, his tired mind promised and it’s a dull and empty reassurance that doesn’t help him at all. He’s going to pass out in his room or on the floor and you’re going to sneak out. He’s not going to get you, he’s not going to get you… And just as that thought creeps over him like the stroke of feathers, Butch hollers: “My gun! Where’s my gun?!” Another crash that Henry can’t quite recognise. His breath stuttered, throat clamping tight around the wheeze exhale. Henry’s good hand closed around the side of his pillow, fingers digging into the clumpy material, desperate and afraid. He thought that maybe he should go there and the brave thought of throwing Butch out while he was drunk and dazed, sending him off with kicks and punches like he deserved, crossed his mind…But it was so fleeting, so pointless that he forgot it as soon as it came. It was odd, Henry thought, how easily his father could suck the life out of the house just by crossing the threshold. How he could rob Henry of all peace just with being there, not talking, not moving, but just breathing. Existing. It wasn’t fair. It was never fair. Butch yelled out his rage and then he screamed the name of his ex-wife as if she were there to hear, as if she would come running. Maybe Henry shouldn’t have gone but his body moved, stiffly, joints popping and feet aching as he slowly got out of bed and crossed the room towards the door. His hand, trembling furiously, wrapped around the handle and he waited, listening to Butch scream and spit profanities. He wanted out. He didn’t want to be there anymore. Slowly the door opened, beyond all odds, and Henry found himself standing in the eye of the storm. A glass shattered in the living room, no, not a glass, the glass door of the old cabinet. Shards reined like a storm down on the floor and covered the faded carpet. The invisible muzzle around Henry's neck tightened and his heart threatened to stop when his feet took him slowly down the hall, hand braced against the wall, damp under his fingers. It was fake, it was disgusting, the feeling Henry felt, and a bolt of pain shot through his stomach. He wanted to throw up. “Where’s my gun…” Butch slurred when he saw Henry. But Henry wasn’t sure who just his father was seeing – was it him or was it his mother? “My gun…Where is it?” “Dad…” Henry said and his voice had never been softer, calmer, trying to urge Butch to at least keep quiet and not break the last standing piece of furniture in their living room. “Where the fuck’s my gun?!” Butch screamed again and like an animal in danger, Henry pressed himself into the wall. A few months ago the sheriff had confiscated his father’s revolver and that was the last firearm Butch legally owned. They had taken his double a few years back after he threatened a man from town with murder and ever since he had been bitter, growing even more so sick of his situation with time. He always took it out on Henry and now was hardly an exception. “Where the fuck did you hide it, you bitch?! Where the fuck did you hide it, give it here, give it here or I’ll…” He stumbled into the table on his way towards him and Henry tuned out his voice; it became a distant echo, a monstrous noise thundering from the depths of the ocean. He lowered his head, his eyes caught the distinct wet patch covering the leg of his father’s pants. He stank of piss, of alcohol and tobacco. His clothes were dishevelled, the stubble covering his face growing thicker appeared silver as he grew older. He was like a zombie as he walked through the room, stumbling dangerously, and if Henry had tried he could have easily overpowered him and ran. But Henry didn’t dare. He didn’t dare. Butch came dangerously close into his personal space and Henry could feel his rotten stench even better. The sudden fear that he would look a very similar way rattled him, struck him deep. Henry couldn't shake it off. “Speak up, speak up!” His father spat in his face before his tone became low and predatory, hissing the words through his teeth. Henry might as well have been a masochist, for having walked into his sight in the first place and for taking it all now. “You little shit, you rotten fag, you…” His fists dug into Henry’s side, just over the bruise Patrick had left and it tainted that touch, forced the old pain to spark up again…Henry thought of Patrick. “Worthless.” Another punch, to his unprotected stomach this time, and Henry could tell Butch had held back his strength just to make it worse, just to scare him more. “Pathetic.” His breath caught in his throat; he wanted to vomit so badly. He felt sick, aching, his blabber tight and knees shaking. “Scum…” Henry thought of Patrick again when Butch whacked him across the jaw and he fell down like a dry leaf of a tree branch in autumn. His hands felt the sturdy pieces of the shattered glass door of the cabinet. His cut palm ached as he tried to hold himself up. He thought of Patrick and the puppy love-struck look lingering in his eyes at sixteen, the reassuring comfort it had morphed into at twenty-one. He thought of Patrick and his leering mug, almost ugly until he looked at Henry like something precious. Fag shit. Flamer bullshit. “Dad, please…” Henry wheezed, gasping when he felt Butch’s foot dig into his stomach. The muscles there were taut and trained but that couldn’t stop the ache or soften the otherwise sloppy kick. His hands flew to his head out of instinct and he gasped again, “Dad, please…” It’s disgusting and it’s pathetic, just like them, the way Henry hides and moans like a sick dog. He doesn’t feel like he can cope anymore with anything and he doesn’t even want to let the lingering consciousness slip through his fingers like water. He thinks of Patrick when Butch kicks him and when he traps him against the wall and he thinks of Patrick when Butch slumps down and grabs Henry by the hair to get a look at his face, white with fear. Maybe it turns him on? Maybe he hurt her to get it up because he couldn’t? He looked up at his father’s face, demented and ugly, a contortion of wrinkles and skin and yellow teeth screaming curses in his face that he can’t really hear. It’s somebody else he sees and not Henry but the longer Henry tries to convince himself of that, the harder it becomes to believe it. Butch hated him. It was easy to believe that and it made it easy for Henry to understand just why he did this to him, just why he terrorized him. For Butch Bowers, Henry was a bastard failure of his own. Henry was his possession to do whatever he wanted to, like a dog. And that realisation made Henry think of Patrick again and the way Patrick had bandaged his hand like he would the wounded leg of a beloved pet and had crawled after him because he had wanted Henry to… His father forced his head into the ground and a stray piece of glass cut into his forehead but Henry barely felt it. His thoughts were elsewhere. Somewhere warmer, somewhere more confusing where things were too complicated for him to fully understand but enough to offer a paper-thin, breakable wall of protection from that horrible place, that living room, smelling of rot, decay, mould… Butch kept screaming, his raw voice echoing around them like they were in a crypt or a marble mausoleum. Where’s my gun, where’s my whore of a wife, why are you such a fuck up…and more and more, and Henry felt the bile rising in his throat, the taste of acid burning in the back of his mouth. By the time he felt the blood in his mouth beginning to dry and crust at the edges of his lips, Butch had shut the door of his room. The old wood had smacked against the frame before slowly coming open with a haunting creak. Then the sound of deceiving and thunderous silence overtook the house and Henry thought of Patrick’s home and the dust there and the pictures of baby Patrick and his dazzling, childishly charming smile. The Hockstetters must have been a very tortured family, he thought. Good people, loving parents, and look what they got. Those were the parents Henry deserved, that was the family he had to have, not Patrick, not that sick son of a bitch that had ruined the lives of two good people. Henry crawled out of the living room, stumbled out of the house as he was in his old jeans and tee-shirt. He could barely feel the chill of the night washing over him, warmed by the lingering adrenaline. He fell against the mailbox once, fingers trembling and convulsing around the rusted copper before he walked again, one foot in front of the other, slowly, carefully. Pebbles dug into his sock-clad feet but that hardly stopped him; blood oozed down the side of his face but Henry couldn’t care. When it’s all over, he thought on his way down the dimly lit street that looked like it had been taken out of a dream or mystery novel, I’ll get a hot dog. Or doughnuts, or something sweet and something spicy, and I’ll eat and eat and I’ll drink myself into oblivion, into pleasure and I’ll never sober up. Then maybe, he just might as well throw himself in the river. Henry tripped on the wooden steps leading towards the porch and the pain that had been fading bloomed again in his hurt kidneys. He wouldn’t be surprised if he started pissing blood tomorrow. His fingers were shaking, not as numb to the cold as Henry’s mind, when he reached out towards the doorbell. They missed it, knocking instead on the door, desperate and hurt and Henry only wants things he’s never been meant to have. It’s sad. And it’s sick and pathetic, so very much so. If Daddy only knew… He knocked again before collapsing against the door. He stared at the neighbouring houses where children slept in their beds, tucked away from the monsters; where loving parents made love to one another when they were alone in the dead world. Not Henry. He wasn’t warm, he had nobody and the loneliness left behind a longing he would never soothe, a burn, an ache he couldn’t understand. But Henry needed. He needed everything any other person did, because even Henry Bowers, for all the shit he’s done in his short life, is as much a human being as all the rest. A silent tear slid down his bruised cheek, leaving behind a hopeless trail that took along more pearly gems. Like the blood that ran in their veins, the tears that a person shed are the same as anyone else’s and it was those tears, that sorrow and that joy, that made them all the same… Henry grit his teeth, his chest heaving as the sobs came soon after, and he felt a dull ache in the back of his mouth where his father’s fist had got one of his teeth, rotten to the roots. He hurt and ached, from the inside out, and it was somewhat poetic but so very tragic. Behind him, the front door slowly opened and Henry found himself falling back into Patrick Hockstetter’s feet. The sudden appearance startled him; this late at night Henry had thought that maybe Patrick wouldn’t be awake and that he might have to freeze outside, die alone for Patrick to find tomorrow. Hockstetter might just be happy to. Henry stared up at him, blinking through a veil of burning moisture that dried in his eyes and left Patrick’s own face a splotch of colours he could only make out with the help of the light shining around him from inside the house. It enveloped him in a full-bodied halo and left the rest of his body a demonic shadow. He was looking down at Henry, not frowning, not smiling, but devoid of any emotion. There was no empathy in his eyes, no surprise. Henry wanted there to be something. He needed to see something, anything. “You look like shit, Hank,” Patrick said, after an endless moment of silence, and Henry sobbed again, biting his bruised lips to hold in the rest of the sounds threatening to spill if they found an opening. …you can always come find me… “A real mess…” Patrick tutted. There’s the word. Mess. You’re a mess, Henry. He almost expected Patrick to kneel down and hit him too, kick him off the porch and shut the door. His nose and the side of his jaw still bore the ugly bruises Henry had left on him the last time. But if Patrick hadn’t wanted him there he wouldn’t have opened the door. Still, Henry’s very much surprised and confused when he kneels down beside him and throws an arm around his heaving shoulders, coaxing him in. If spiders were so gentle, the poetic mind would speak, they wouldn’t need webs to trap their prey in. Words and a gentle hand would be enough. Patrick helped him up and only once he was inside did Henry realise just how cold he had been. The difference in temperature wasn’t that big and the house wasn’t as warm as one would find comfortable but it was still better than his own where a nearly constant draft would come from the upper floor where a window had been broken long ago and had remained broken, letting in the grizzly wind. He limped after Patrick into the living room and it looked even more intimidating now than Henry remembered with the heavy curtains drawn over the windows and the ghostly light in the hall chasing out the inky shadows from their hiding spots behind the furniture. Patrick let him sit down on the couch before going into the kitchen. He came back with cotton and alcohol and a white pill tucked away in his palm. “Did Daddy do this to you, Henry?” Patrick shamelessly probed, unfazed by the delirious state Henry appeared to be in. He traced the smear of crusted blood running down the side of his lean face, thumbed the cut on the side of his forehead and wondered if he’d be able to make it bleed anew if he pressed down hard enough…The thought made him lick his lips, transfixed with the sight of the small wound before he decided against it. Patrick realised well that he was walking down a thin line with Henry now. The less he agitated him, the longer he would be able to hold him in his control while he was this pliant and needy. “Poor Henry…” He tutted again, coating a ball of cotton with a generous amount of leftover gin. He cleaned away the bloody smear and then carefully, slowly, dabbed around the shallow cut. Henry barely even flinched; he stared at Patrick through his tears, like a child that has been told one too many times to be careful and had finally gotten hurt. “Poor, poor, Hank. He never lets you get a breather, does he? It must suck, right? Freezing outside like that ‘cause Daddy hurt you…” he shook his head, voice laced with mock empathy, “I wouldn’t stay there a single moment longer if I were you, Henry. But you’ve got no other place to go. Sucks to be you.” Henry reached for the bottle of alcohol and Patrick took it away. On a good day, he would’ve let him wash down the pill with alcohol just to see how bad the effects could be but they were already deep enough, Patrick could do that some other time as long as he got Henry good now. Henry didn’t protest when he took away the bottle and his sad eyes followed Patrick as he left again. He sank back into the couch, like a child hiding from the imaginary boogeymen lurking around, and it was in that shocked and pitiful state that Patrick found him in when he returned with something to cover him up. It was a duvet, warmed and used and Henry let it fall over him, tugged it just a bit closer. It smelled of Patrick, who had probably been sleeping under it just minutes ago as peacefully as Patrick could sleep, and that wasn’t a scent that could be easily distinguished as his. Patrick didn’t smell of anything in particular. He smelled of hospital and bleach with a touch of Windex. A shudder crept up his spine and shivers rolled across his skin in gentle waves. Patrick was quiet again, studying him carefully as he would a kind of peculiar new species of animal or a project that needed to be made perfect. He ran his fingers across Henry’s face, brushed away the few strands of matted hair from his forehead to feel the cut again, then cold fingertips grazed lower, over his furrowed brows and the bridge of his nose all down to the tip, ogling at the dusting of freckles made brighter by the summer sun. The feathery touch made Henry blink, scrunching his face and, caught between wanting to pull away but also not, he allowed the touch. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant but it was alien after the harsh way his father had handled him not long before. There was lingering tension in his sore muscles and tired nerves and Henry could only wait for Patrick to hurt him too. He didn’t mean to be so wary and it made him feel somewhat guilty to think such a thing of Patrick. He wouldn’t hurt him, wouldn’t dare, and the memory of last time goes completely unnoticed. “Don’t worry about that, Henry,” Patrick spoke and the emotion in his voice was so pure and honest that for faking it, he maybe deserved an award or a lead role in a Hollywood production. His thumb swiped lightly just under Henry’s eye where the traces of tears were still damp and the bruise was quickly turning purple and ugly. “I knew you’d come back.” His breath ghosts over Henry’s face and it’s warm but unpleasant and it makes him want to reel back. But he can’t. His eyes grow wide and fear, a different, confusing and tainted kind of sadistic fear, claws its way out of the depths of his mind to wrap around him and hold him down to see how far he can push him until he faints. Only this fear has a physical manifestation in the face of Patrick Hockstetter and it’s his hands that hold Henry’s arms, his fingers that dig into skin and muscles and hold him down while Henry’s breath stutters, heaves, while he chokes. And when their lips meet for the very first time, dry and cold, like chalk, Henry doesn’t do anything. He becomes a statue in Patrick’s hands, too scared to move. The fact that a kiss should never bring such terror and fright will never, ever occur to Henry. But many pleasant feelings have been tainted for him, forever. He doesn’t know how to live with a different perception. Patrick pressed closer when Henry didn’t respond, his lips touching his with a gentle, kind pressure. There couldn’t be much passion expected out of a dry, closed-mouthed kiss such as that but Patrick wasn’t in a hurry. He had enough time to make Henry want it, to make him beg for more on his own. He reached up, bracing one knee on the soft edge of the couch between Henry’s thighs, and took Henry’s face in his hands. His palms were surprisingly dry, cold. Patrick held Henry’s gaze with his own, staring into the wide pools of realisation, fear and hurt. He had heard once that hunting dogs while stalking the small game would hypnotize those animals so they wouldn’t move until they were close enough. He had thought that laughable then but now maybe Patrick could understand. The prey couldn’t know just what was happening but from the eyes of the predator…It made sense. Henry couldn’t look away and he remained limp, caught in place. Almost as if his mind had stopped working and only the shell of his body was left. It suited Patrick just fine. He moved slowly, like a surgeon making the precise first cut into his patient. With gentle force against his lower abdomen, Patrick made Henry scoot back into the couch, trapping him between himself and the backrest. He felt Henry’s hands come between them, as if to shield himself or protect himself from Patrick’s invasive movements. But they did very little else than hang in the air between them, weak and motionless. His eyelids began to drop, his eyes lost his focus and Patrick thought for a split moment that Henry was about to faint for good. Between them his fingers twitched, afraid to touch Patrick but also wanting. His body was rigid, the muscles almost painfully tight as if he’d been electrocuted. But the closer Patrick came and the quicker the seconds rolled by, the easier it was for him to lose track of what was happening. When Patrick’s tongue licked along his lips, drawn tightly shut, a small, almost tortured sound formed at the back of Henry’s throat. Punches he could understand, kicks he could take. But this was new and so very dangerous and it felt dirty. To have Patrick of all people do it to him made it even worse. One of Patrick’s hands left his face, his long fingers ran down the side of his face, his jaw, teased his neck and his palm made a slow descent across his chest. He could feel the steady, heavy beat of his heart – thump, thump, thump – against his hand, breaking through the muscles and giving away the pitiful plethora of insecurities. Finally, that cold hand found Henry’s, fingers laced with his and Patrick felt the dirty bandage around Henry’s hand as he held it. He slowly pulled it towards his waist, showing Henry what to do, and he forced his rigid fingers to come around his side as he inched closer. He angled his face to get a better taste of his lips, tongue lapping languidly while he waited for Henry to get the hint and open his mouth on his own. He kept his hand over his on his waist, to guide and teach, and suddenly, to Patrick’s great happiness and sadistic joy, he felt Henry’s other hand hold onto him too. He didn’t have to urge him this time. His fingers softened on their own, touching Patrick but not holding him still, moving when he moved but never directing him. His eyes were fully closed now and the muscles of his face relaxed; Henry’s face now held a sort of serenity Patrick’s never seen on him before and it was that childish look, calm and relaxed, that made him ache inside, made him want to tear it away and crush it just to see what happened or treasure it and make it so Henry was just as happy every day. Patrick didn’t know just what he wanted more and he didn’t want to think about it. He let himself enjoy the moment; the rest could wait. Henry’s lips opened with a sudden, soft exhale and now Patrick took the liberty of directing the kiss as he pleased. It had to be his first, he thought, because Henry wasn’t that good a kisser. He followed Patrick’s lead and he wasn’t as responsive yet. He moved his tongue wherever Patrick wanted and did nothing more, he didn’t pull him close, he didn’t make any noise aside from the few soft breaths and gasps. But it was okay, Patrick liked it that way, he liked having Henry like this and he knew that he was on the right track. Years of waiting and it all came down to this. Because he might not have been pulling him in for more but Henry wasn’t pushing Patrick away with screams and profanities either. The hand that had been holding Henry’s travelled up again before Patrick draped his arm around the back of the couch. Slowly he moved his body so he lay close to Henry’s side, his other hand guiding Henry along as they shifted without breaking the kiss or its slow, deliberate pace. Patrick was now on the metaphorical top of their relationship with Henry-kins perched in his lap, pliant and needy as he rolled into him. It was all as nice and slow as a Sunday morning… Patrick’s hands, now clammy and grabby, needing to touch and hold and possess, mapped Henry’s body through his clothes. He felt him shiver, small and concealed twitches of his muscles as he let his hands graze the bruises underneath the thin tee-shirt. His touch left behind chills and goosebumps and Patrick liked to feel those under his hands as he ran them along Henry’s naked arms, then lower, until they found a place to rest at his waist. He looked down as his fingers dipped under the hem of the shirt, like worms wriggling underground. The tee-shirt rose just a bit, revealing a mean bruise travelling up and becoming even darker as it crossed Henry’s side. Patrick wanted to see and the curiosity overtook him suddenly…What more beautiful marks did Henry keep under there? God, was that giant splotch of inky tissue a nightmare… Patrick couldn’t stop himself and Henry hadn’t even noticed how still he had become suddenly. He pressed down onto the bruise, feeling the skin taut and warm under his fingers. Henry immediately jolted in his lap, his eyes snapped open and he stared down at Patrick baffled, as if it had been all a fever dream. He tried to inch away but Patrick held him, not meaning to hurt him this time. Henry’s lips were shiny with saliva, his pupils blown wide and eyes glazed over. Another wave of tears had welled up there, threatening to spill, and his trembling hand found his side. It was childish and pure, the futile way Henry tried to shield himself from what hurt and what he knew now Patrick could easily take advantage off. And Patrick knew, he had always known, that Henry was a kid in many ways. He had been forced to grow up quicker than many but there was that part of him deep down, hidden from the world, that held onto the last remaining shard of innocent, infant good he had…And if he was the first to make it go away, then Patrick would be so happy. “Oh, Henry,” he cooed, licking his lips as they stretched into a very signature feline smile, “did that hurt? Do you want me to kiss it better? Do you want little ‘ole me to put a band-aid there?” His tone was teasing and his words derogatory and even though Henry wasn’t that gone to be completely deaf to either, he barely responded. A tired sigh wheezed past his windpipe. Patrick had always teased him, he had never stopped, but the problem couldn’t be solved now with denial and pain. Henry was too exhausted, both mentally and physically, and there was nothing more he wanted to do but just…disappear. “Don’t worry,” Patrick said, pulling Henry down in a surprising hug and though Patrick might have known how to kiss dirty, his embrace was awkward and somewhat stiff while he patted down Henry’s back, stroked his hair and held him there. But Henry didn’t know what a good hug was supposed to feel like, just like he didn’t know what a loving kiss was supposed to be, so he said nothing. “I’ll never hurt you. You never have to be afraid of me. You’re a good boy, Henry. You’re such a good boy, you know…” Henry laid his head on his shoulder, breathing in the scent of old soap and sweat lingering over Patrick’s skin. He closed his eyes for a second, just to feel the closeness to somebody else, somebody who would never hurt you, Henry, and at that moment he looked so small, so breakable, despite his body toned after the years of farm work, that Patrick had to bite his lip bloody to contain the desire to dig his fingers into every bruise until the skin broke and he bled rivers. His lips found the cut on Henry’s forehead and he planted a kind kiss there while he stared at the white pill and the glass of water waiting to be used on the table. It wouldn’t be long now, Patrick promised himself. Just a little while longer and he might do just that. After a while, he had to pull Henry off him when his body began to feel numb under the other’s weight. He urged Henry to take his pill like a good boy, Henry, and he took pleasure in the way his hand trembled furiously around the glass when he raised it to his lips. A few droplets ran over the edge and when he had a few gulps down to wash away the bitter aftertaste of the tranquillizer Patrick took it away. He covered him up – he could afford to be a bit gentle, at least, and it was only fit for a God to pamper his soon to be most devout worshipper – and kissed him good night and when Henry returned it without a question, positively out of it after everything that had occurred that night, Patrick left him to go to bed himself. But while Henry slept downstairs, his exhaustion keeping him in the darkness of a sleepless slumber, Patrick could barely keep his eyes shut. He was giddy, like a child waiting to hear Santa’s footsteps downstairs on Christmas Eve. He took down the showcase boxes from the shelf above the desk where rows and rows of dead insects waited to say hello, where there were butterflies of the most pretty ones and ugly roaches pinned down with horrid precision, and Patrick played with those while he stared at the Polaroid of Henry-kins. He couldn’t stop thinking of him, lying on his couch just downstairs, so different and vulnerable than the Henry he’s got staring at him in that old photograph…Or maybe Henry had always been vulnerable? All it took was somebody to show him there was nothing wrong in that. And Patrick wasn’t the right person for the job but he was the only one.  The familiar worry coiled in the pit of his empty stomach as Henry approached Patrick’s house and it wasn’t because of Patrick anymore, it was the thought of what his father would do f he somehow found out about what happened that made him want to fade away. Butch would surely kill him, this time he would kill him. But as he rang the doorbell and the door opened it ebbed away, replaced by the itch Henry now knew how he could scratch despite the overwhelming disgust and self-hate. When he raised his eyes to look into Patrick’s and when Patrick smiled down at him, knowing and bright, Henry didn’t have it in him to deny himself anymore, although he wanted. There was nothing more wrong than what Patrick did to him, wanted from him, nothing more humiliating and unnatural… “I knew you’d come back.” Patrick said, stepping aside to let Henry in. And Henry went, willing, his mind sober, his head clear. Patrick enveloped him in a tight embrace as soon as he shut the door, breathing in the distinct scent of another victim while Henry held onto him in turn, a quiet sigh leaving him along with the thought of his father. “Welcome home, Henry.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

3
 
All these delicate problems

I'm too tired to solve them
  Little things changed for Henry at home. He got up early each morning, did his chores and at night, he snuck out like a naughty child out of the window and disappeared before his father could come back home from town. Then he would go and sleep at Patrick’s on his dusty couch and that’s how the old bruises and scars eventually healed. His swells disappeared and so did the pain in his ribs and kidneys. Sometimes Patrick would touch the yellowing bruise fading steadily on his face or the little scar of new skin on his forehead and he’d smile, reminiscing the night Henry came to him. Henry didn’t stop him anymore when his hands grew rather loose and grabby and Patrick realised soon that he would also, very subtly, lean into the touch and would expect it whenever they sat together on his couch, drinking and watching old cartoons and late night TV shows. Henry had thought before the night Patrick first touched him that their relationship was becoming easy. Of course, Henry still had questions and he still had doubts and felt lingering guilt but he was growing used to it. Like a child, Patrick sought in him closeness and Henry obliged and indulged him. He was certain that he was doing Patrick a favour by keeping him company. And when Patrick’s hand travelled from its usual place by Henry’s knee up into forbidden territory, Henry wasn’t so sure anymore. They were sitting together in the living room when it finally happened, staring numbly at the TV where a black and white old movie played and a woman kept screaming in mock fear. The curtains were drawn and the only light came from the buzzing bulb in the hall; the living room was comfortably dim. Though it was late already, Henry didn’t feel tired and only his eyes, red and unfocused, betrayed his true need for sleep. Patrick rarely slept more than a few hours a night and Henry thought he had insomnia. Sometimes sleep wouldn’t come for Patrick for days and it had been so ever since his mother passed. His long fingers squeezed Henry’s knee once before his palm began its slow ascent up his strong thigh. His touch altered between strong and confident and soft and gentle, and only when Henry’s eyes flicked down to see what Patrick had in mind did it occur to him how close to his crotch his fingers were. The tips caressed his inner thigh and Henry shifted away, his legs closing a bit, like those of a shy girl being felt up. Sometimes he kissed Patrick, sometimes Patrick kissed and hugged him more often than not but the thought of this had never crossed Henry’s mind. Uncertainty and worry coiled in the pit of his stomach like the first time he had come to Patrick’s home and he had tackled him on the floor of his bedroom. He didn’t know or wasn’t quite sure what Patrick was doing but he knew it was bad and wrong and dirty… “Stop,” Henry said, grabbing onto Patrick’s wrist to push away his hand when he didn’t take it back. “Stop. What are you doing?” Patrick didn’t answer and it only fuelled Henry’s unease when he slowly climbed over him, pushing him into the couch again, just like when they… Henry’s mouth went suddenly dry as he stared over Patrick’s shoulder at the TV, where on the screen Larry de Bug was talking to Maurice Maggot now. Patrick’s lips were cold and dry when they left a kiss at the edge of his then trailed lower across his jaw and neck. A little bright mark was sucked into the tender skin just below Henry’s ear and a heavy shudder ran through him. Patrick felt it against his own body and it warmed his core with arousal and a twisted kind of love. “This is a true story,” Larry spoke from the trap of the TV box, “and it happened to a friend of a friend of mine.” Just because they never happened, Henry’s mind supplied bleakly just as Patrick laid a hand between his legs and rubbed, slow, forceful circles, doesn't mean they ain't true… He grabbed Patrick’s wrist again and raised a knee to push himself away. Had he not been kissing him for the past few days without protest, Henry’s reaction would have been more violent, more angry. He thought of his father and his words and he thought of the possible punishment that would follow if he let Patrick do this. Invisible eyes stared at him and invisible fingers pointed his way, invisible faces leered at him from the dark. “I said stop,” Henry said through gritted teeth, his other hand grabbing onto Patrick’s shoulder, fingers digging into the flesh and bone to keep him away when he tried to kiss him again. “Don’t…” “What’s wrong, Henry?” Patrick finally spoke. “It’s just us. Nobody has to know.” “But…” “I promise to make you feel great,” Patrick whispered the reassurance into the skin of his neck again, breathing him in and making Henry shiver. “Just be good and let me.” He didn’t want to be good; he didn’t feel good. Henry told Patrick that but Patrick was barely listening to him anymore, he had made up his mind and just like before, Henry had underestimated his strength. He stared at the TV and tried to pretend it was all a bad nightmare and that he would wake up soon on Patrick’s couch and Patrick would be in the kitchen heating up the dinner from yesterday for breakfast and not on him, touching him so, breathing down his neck like it was Henry’s hands on him so intimately and not the other way around. He undid the zipper of his jeans and the sound was like thunder. Patrick’s fingers moved again, caressing slowly and gently down Henry's abdomen where the muscles twitched under the tickling touch. They sparked warmth along their way and it rolled through Henry, like warm rain in spring. “Don’t…” He pled, once, and Patrick ignored it. It was over before Henry could do anything to stop it. Up, down, up, down, Patrick’s hand moved, palm becoming wet and smooth and gliding quicker then slowing almost to a complete stop. That happened more than once prolonging Henry’s torture. He’d lose track of his surroundings and of the time whenever Patrick’s touched eased and became almost non-existent and then those knowing fingers would tighten just the right amount so his hips rose off the couch and his own hands grabbed for the edge. Henry didn’t want to touch Patrick; he wanted to pretend he wasn’t there. Then a very familiar feeling but also very different from what it usually was – this one was stronger, it made Henry’s ears ring, made his hands grab for Patrick again to hold onto and his body feel like it was aflame – washed over him when Patrick finally finished him after the few long minutes of deceitful climax. The arousing scent of sex and sweat filled the air and Patrick breathed it in, took the sight of the dishevelled Henry and smiled. “You came, Henry.” He said, stating that fact with such joy, as if he’d won a prize. Probing cruelly at Henry’s wounded pride Patrick added, “And you came pretty fast…I was the first to ever do this, right?” “Just because they never happened,” Larry de Bug spoke, “doesn't mean they ain't true.” What had felt like hours had lasted just a single, short episode of Freaky Stories and it was fast, it was intense and it was above all something Henry would rather forget. Thick cum and pearly precum covered Patrick’s palm when he took his hand out of Henry’s pants. Henry could feel a damp stain forming at the front and it was quickly growing cold and uncomfortable. That and the lingering warmth and ache Henry felt in his abdomen were all proof that this story had happened and that it was true. Henry pushed Patrick off and though the force he used was very little, Patrick did move aside to let him get up from the couch. He had nothing else he wanted from Henry anymore. And as Henry stumbled out of the living room Patrick watched him with a wide grin, licking his lips as he eyed his broad shoulders, the wide back and toned thighs. He looked down at his dirty hand and raised a finger to lick the essence of Henry-kins off just as he heard the front door be shut. Patrick propped his feet up on the table and, to the thought of Henry, took care of his own sexual frustration. On TV, Larry and Maurice had just been replaced by Wednesday and Pugsley Adams.  They went to the movies the next Saturday to catch some new movie; it didn’t appeal to either of them and Henry found he didn’t have the appetite for the popcorn they had bought to share or the mood to prop his feet up and at least make fun of the dramatic plot. There would be a horror movie on the next day and Patrick promised to take him. Henry was heavily dependent on Patrick in terms of entertainment – it was Patrick who paid for the tickets whenever they went to the movies, Patrick who paid for drinks when they went to bars, Patrick who paid for food when he took him out for lunch…As the productivity of the Bowers farm lessened overtime, Henry and his father were a single step away from dying poor as a pair of mice. Butch apparently didn’t get that as he threw away whatever money they made as if he were the richest man. They walked out of the theatre together and as they strode down the street, Patrick very subtly directed Henry in the direction of the neighbouring alley. Henry followed him and though he might have appeared shockingly obedient, there was a struggle going on inside between his emotions and rationality. He still hadn’t forgotten the filthy feeling of last week and what Patrick had done to him. Nobody was looking at them and still it felt as if they all knew about that, they all knew what Henry had done and that his body had enjoyed it. Throwing a quick look around to make sure they were alone, Patrick pushed him into the brick wall. Henry was almost completely hidden by the shadow of the dumpster beside them and Patrick’s body. He stared down at him, not caring that they were out in public, and he relished the sight of Henry’s fright. “We’re in public.” Henry reminded him dryly, trying to appear stoic. His eyes were wild, however, looking from one side of the alley to the other frantically. Cold sweat formed at the back of his neck. “Stop. Not here and not now.” “Nobody’s watching, Henry,” Patrick said, leaning down to kiss his neck, sucking tenderly at the skin there. If Henry wanted to so much he could easily push him back but maybe he didn’t want to so badly after all. “Just relax, alright? I’m here. Nobody cares.” “I care.” “Then make me stop.” Patrick urged him, nuzzling his neck with the tip of his nose before trailing kisses up higher to whisper in his ear. The shell was growing nicely red and so were Henry’s cheeks. “Get me off, Henry. Come on. I thought you weren’t a fag…” He saw Henry bite his lip, his hands bowled into shaking fists…Maybe he wanted to punch Patrick but he wasn’t going to. Henry had never felt this helpless in the hands of anybody but his father and with this bit of resistance to his usual violent responses, it could easily be implied that Patrick Hockstetter was slowly becoming a being akin in power to Butch Bowers. And that was too dangerous a thing to admit. Patrick kissed him, coaxed the trapped lip from between his teeth and sucked gently on the irritated flesh. Usually, in terms of sex, Patrick was a hypocrite. There was a hidden animosity behind every kind gesture and gentle touch, a second Patrick that was a sure fetishist, a masochist as much as he loved to inflict pain in a sense greater than simple and erotic. That sexual fiend was not one Henry would ever come close to because the greatest pain Patrick could ever make him feel was the one masked as intense pleasure. The enjoyment and need brought shame and self-loathing and that made Henry powerless in his hands. It was the most sadistic sexual game Patrick had ever participated in. He ground his hips into Henry’s just as their mouths opened and the kiss deepened, becoming frantic, filthy. Desperate for the physical touch, Henry became almost instantly hard and Patrick could feel it against his own hip. He grinned – now how red would Henry’s face become once he was forced to walk across town like that? “See?” Patrick breathed, trailing feverish kisses down Henry’s chin and throat. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” His hand found the front of Henry’s jeans and he gave the hard flesh underneath a teasing squeeze, “Or was it?” Realising that the situation was now only playful, Henry finally managed to push Patrick off. He brushed the saliva from his lips with the back of his hand and fixed his belt before storming out of the alley. Patrick followed him, his step rather languid and unhurried, and soon when Henry slowed down he caught up to him and the two walked home. They never saw Rena Davenport ogling them from across the street, her fingers loosening around the plastic handle of the bag she carried. For a moment she tried to convince herself that she hadn’t just seen the obvious…And once it passed she ran for the nearest payphone to call Oscar.  The brightest memory he had of his mother was of the day at the lake. Patrick had been little, how little exactly he couldn’t remember, but it was not long after the Baby’s sudden death. The baby in question that all but his mother had begun to refer as such in time was – had been – his brother. Avery died one afternoon as he slept in his crib and Mrs Hockstetter was never the same since. Something in her changed. Not everything but something big. As if a part of her had been torn out with the death of the wriggling, screaming piece of pink meat that was the Baby and that had made Patrick resent it even more. They had been on a family trip to the lake that day when it happened and it had been a long time since Patrick remembered his mother so sweet and so loving. He had recognised the need to soothe her crying child so common for mothers as soon as it chased away the ever-present clouds in Mrs Hockstetter’s eyes. Patrick had gone for a quick dip in the water to find nice pebbles in the shallow ends of the lake and to bury his toes in the mud and when he got out his legs and arms were covered in large, pulsing creatures. They were aliens, slick and slippery like giant worms. They had bitten into Patrick’s skin and at first, he felt no fear but then he tried to shake them off his arms and they didn’t budge. They were stuck and no amount of waving his arms or stomping his feet in the shallow water could make them come off. Patrick’s breath picked up slowly, slowly, until he was hiccupping and gasping. A scream tore out of his dry throat and it was like a sharp knife piercing into the still air, like the haul of a siren. Art Hockstetter jumped away from the fire he had been building and dashed towards Patrick who held out his arms and stared terrified at the creatures latched onto them. He tried to calm him down as soon as he saw just what was wrong but there was no consoling the distraught Patrick as he hollered and cried. “Mommy!” He screamed. His voice was as thin as a girl’s. “Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy…!” Patrick began to jump in place as if he really needed to go to the bathroom, spraying Mr Hockstetter’s calves with muddy water. His round face was slowly turning blue the longer he screamed and not even Mrs Hockstetter could calm his hysteria when she threw her book aside and ran for him. Her shaking hands touched his cheeks and rubbed his back, trembling lips placed cold kisses to his forehead and her arms suddenly came around his head when she too began to wail, as scared as him and so very afraid for him when Patrick began to cough furiously, out of breath. The pretty scent of her perfume enveloped him and it chased away the fear of the creatures. Mommy was holding him again, kissing his head and telling him words, shielding him from the world. “It’s okay, baby.” Mrs Hockstetter was telling him, urging him to breathe in and breathe out as deeply as he could. “It’s okay, mommy’s here. Mommy’s here, sweetie. Mommy’s never going to leave you. Does that hurt, baby? Are you hurt?” Patrick snivelled, the snot and tears running down his face mixing together. He shook his head no in his mother’s embrace.  No, it didn’t hurt. With mommy there nothing hurt. “Those are just leaches, Pat.” Mr Hockstetter told him but Patrick was barely listening anymore. “It’s okay, you’re fine.” “For Christ’s sake, get those things off him, Arthur!” Mrs Hockstetter screamed and Mr Hockstetter raised Patrick from the ground and carried him over to the blanket they had been sitting on. His dad was right, the leaches weren’t so bad and they twisted in pain while he dumped salt over them – a trick that had Patrick mesmerised despite his fear – leaving behind angry red splotches over his legs and arms. Patrick stared at those and sadness overwhelmed him again. When his lip began to tremble and fresh tears welled up in his eyes, his mother took him into her arms again and Patrick snuggled into her. Mrs Hockstetter helped him get dressed again while her husband made dinner and by the time they could eat Patrick had relaxed. That was one of the very few times the motherly nature had woken in Mrs Hockstetter for her firstborn son after the death of the second and Patrick would never forget the fear he had seen in her eyes then. He would never forget the love she held him with and the warmth of her embrace, the strength a mother possessed when her child was hurt. Patrick believed he was robbed of such compassion. He didn’t need it from anybody and he didn’t find the need to show it back. Henry was an entirely different matter. When Henry came to the house, Patrick had been playing with his bugs although his mind was pretty much elsewhere. It was an odd feeling, to stare at your hands and still be unable to move them or command them to move even. It had to have something to do with the memory of his mother. The sound of the doorbell managed to startle him out of his daze and Patrick closed the wooden box carefully before going downstairs. The bell didn’t ring a second time and though there was only one person who would ever come to Patrick so late at night, it still surprised him to see Henry standing at his doorstep. No, he wasn’t standing. He was swaying, left and right, unable to hold himself up. His legs were trembling, knees bending under his weight as if it were unbearable for his bones to hold. For the first time in a very long while, Patrick Hockstetter found himself speechless. Henry stumbled into him just as Patrick opened his mouth to ask if he was okay, what had happened, and his arms came around him, holding him tight enough to leave bruises where his fingers dug into his side and arm. Suddenly, the memory of Patrick clinging to his mother that day by the lake flashed in his mind like the morning sun shining through the curtains at the crack of dawn. Henry was crying, he was wailing, muffling the hurt sound in his shoulder and leaving behind wet patches of tears and snot and blood to soak in Patrick’s shirt. His face was bruised, swollen. Blood dripped down his nose as he cried and even more crusted over his chin and neck. A cold damp stain covered the front of his jeans and Patrick felt it when he pressed into him. He raised his hands to hold Henry but one look down at him told him not to. Henry was a mess of bruises and blood stains covered the back of his shirt, crisscrossing and overlapping. Patrick didn’t know just where to put his hands without causing him any more pain. He reached out to push the door shut. In his arms, Henry was in a state of breathless hysteria, choking on every gulp of air, and Patrick recognised in him his own young self. Only he felt no spark of the need to protect and soothe Henry’s pain. He felt nothing of the thing that had forced his mother to kiss him and cry for him and hold him that one time. “Did he do this to you?” Patrick asked instead, knowing well that the answer would be positive. A trail of jumbled words and sounds came from Henry but they were unintelligible and he only clung to Patrick without trying to explain. Patrick could piece it all or maybe just half of it on his own. “Okay, Henry. Okay.” He tried to lead Henry into the living room and Henry stumbled, letting Patrick drag his weight along. When Patrick sat him down and knelt in front of him to take a better look at the damage done to his otherwise handsome face he thought of the leaches and the round marks they had left on his arms and legs. The bruises littering Henry’s face and what he could see from his arms weren’t like those round splotches. They were dark and painful – Henry looked almost like he had come out of a blender or gone a few rounds with a bear. His eyes were wide, unfocused, afraid. How he had gotten to Patrick’s home was a wonder and Patrick thought that maybe Henry didn’t know just where he was or what was happening. Patrick touched Henry’s cheeks, ran his cold fingers down the bruises, and a spark of recognition brightened Henry’s eyes like a bolt of lightning in a stormy sky. He leaned into Patrick and Patrick let him rest his forehead on his shoulder, holding him wordlessly in the silence of the large house. It felt as though Henry wasn’t even breathing anymore until Patrick tried to take off his shirt to see the damage done and decide if it could be helped. His shaking hands found Patrick’s wrists and his fingers locked around them like steel. This wasn’t just him trying to prevent an unwanted sexual advance without meaning to, this was Henry trying to protect himself from everybody and everything. This was Henry trying desperately to salvage his pride. “I’m just trying to help,” Patrick shushed him, raising a hand to run through his dirty hair, “I’m not going to hurt you, Henry. Nothing’s going to hurt, I promise.” His voice was purposefully soft, urging Henry to let him take off the stained shirt. Patrick removed the bloodied material slowly and with care, revealing inch after inch of bruised skin. A pained noise tore from him when Henry tried to raise his hands so Patrick could fully take off the shirt and his chest heaved. Patrick threw that aside and when he looked down at Henry he found a sight that couldn’t be farther from pretty. And when Henry tried to wrap his arms around himself, to hide his shame, Patrick made him put them down to observe the swollen flesh and the splotches of purple and black marring his skin. Red welts and inflamed gashes covered his poor back and Patrick thought it sad…He could have kissed that skin had Mr Bowers waited for a little while longer and he could have left gentle bruises, signs of lust and pleasure for Henry to hide later under those layers. Now though old scars and new ones marked him and Patrick felt furious that Butch had gotten there first. And what if he could never coax Henry into taking off his shirt ever again? What if that bastard had ruined the entire plan for Patrick? He was as angry as he was envious. “Hold on a moment.” Patrick said, as if Henry could hear him. “Do you want some TV, Henry? There might be something good on, do you want to watch?” Henry didn’t respond. He stared up at Patrick, as if he could hardly recognise him. Patrick did turn on the TV to another episode of Larry and Maurice and he headed into the kitchen before taking a sudden turn up the stairs. He went into the bathroom and from the drawers there he took towels, he took some old rags he could throw out later and he filled a small basin with hot water. He dropped there a sponge and from the cabinet above the sink he took out a bottle of painkillers. Maybe he should’ve gotten tranquillizers or something stronger but Patrick hardly ever relied on medicine. Those hadn’t worked on him since he was little; he hadn’t had so much as a headache since. Back in the living room, Patrick sat beside Henry and he contemplated how best to position them so he could clean him up. He was very much a stranger to giving any medical help and with how things were, perhaps what Henry needed most now was a shrink and not a surgeon. In the end, Patrick knelt down on the floor between Henry’s knees first and he began with his face. He carefully washed away the sweat and blood coating his skin like a second thick layer and the lukewarm water in the basin began to slowly turn pink with each dip of the sponge and towel. Freaky Stories were coming to an end in the background while he worked and soon the Adams Family opening rolled around. Henry was unresponsive, stuck in a state that was nearly catatonic and Patrick wondered what he would and what he had to do wasn’t he any better the next morning. There was only so much he could really offer. Patrick helped Henry off the couch when he was done nursing his front and he looked somewhat better. He made him kneel between his knees now and he let Henry rest his head in his lap. His fingers, still shaking and numb, grabbed onto his thighs and Patrick couldn’t help but run a hand through his hair again, like he would pet a dog, before reaching for the damp piece of cloth again. It was a bit of a struggle to squeeze out the water with Henry laying the way he was and when he did, Patrick began to slowly dab around the horrible welts, soaking up the crusted blood gathered where the skin had been broken. And among those red marks of lashes, there were dark bruises and cuts left by the buckle of Mr Bowers’ belt. At the touch of the damp cloth to his burning back, Henry came into consciousness with a heavy jolt. He tried to push himself away from the painful touches but Patrick held him still. His palm slid over Henry’s cheek, fingers dug once again in his hair and Henry held onto his wrist, bit his lip and buried his face in Patrick’s thighs while the tears flowed freely like a river after winter. “Stay still, Henry,” Patrick shushed him, “I’ll be careful, promise. Just don’t move now, okay? Don’t move. You know I gotta do this, right? He got you good, didn’t he? Be a good boy now…” But Henry couldn’t control himself or the shocks of pain that sparked into the otherwise inflamed skin each time Patrick stroked along his back. He struggled and he cried and Patrick held him down and shushed him with promises. He blew onto the irritated skin to soothe the burn and he laid his cold palm along Henry’s back to feel the muscles tighten each time he splayed his fingers over them. And each time Henry’s fingers tightened around his wrist the memory of his mother and the day by the lake would come to Patrick’s mind and he would frown and ask himself just why he was doing this and just how had his mother felt the day she held him the same way he now did Henry. Finally, he threw the cloth in the basin now full of cold pinkish water and he leaned down to drop a peck to Henry’s forehead. They were done. “Do you want to tell me?” Patrick urged quietly, his voice melting into the sound of the TV. Henry’s tears seemed endless and not only did he look like a little boy now, he might have been in the mindset of one. He was ten years back in time, alone and afraid at the mercy of his father and his emotions. And while he tried to imagine only a bit of that pain, Patrick couldn’t help but ask himself if Henry had called out to his own mother at least once during those nightmarish escapades with Butch. Henry didn’t answer him and Patrick decided not to probe any deeper into the matter. He let him cry and he stroked along Henry’s ears and cheeks with his thumbs while Henry held onto his wrists, afraid that if he loosened his hold Patrick would stand up and leave him or worse. Patrick had to admit, he wasn’t feeling too comfortable nor was he feeling the mood to be motherly and protective. He sighed through his teeth when Henry got worse instead of better and he propped his feet onto the table while he stared at the TV. He couldn’t even reach the remote to change the channel. They sat like that until Henry’s sobs became gasps and shaky exhales and Patrick’s back began to feel stiff. Very carefully, Patrick put his feet down and tried to guide Henry up again. And while at first he struggled and groaned, the ache in his body flaring up again with the simple movements, Patrick persevered. He tugged Henry in the direction of the stairs and with Henry’s weight now entirely in his arms, Patrick had to nearly drag him up each step, urging him with quiet and gentle instructions to walk, as if he were talking to a toddler. He might have been guiding Henry physically but he was also coaxing him out of the shell of the real-life nightmare that was now his mind. Patrick helped him lie down on his bed. Henry’s arms easily went around the pillow and aside from the usual breaths and gasps while he made himself comfortable he didn’t move. Patrick then took off his pants and his shoes and that was a struggle while he tried not to hurt Henry more. When that was done he carefully draped the cover over him and the cool sheet took a bit of the heat off Henry’s inflamed skin. Patrick sat on the edge of the bed beside him, staring down at the discomfort etched into Henry’s face along with the bruises. He touched his forehead with the back of his palm and it was burning. What if he needed another kind of medical care? Something Patrick couldn’t offer? Well, after all, if he died by the morning Butch would finally go to jail. But then again maybe Patrick wasn’t so keen on losing Henry this early. He brushed the sweat off his forehead and leaned down to press one cool kiss there. Then Patrick let him rest and he returned to his desk where his bugs had waited alone and ignored. Like before, he couldn’t quite concentrate on them and his thoughts kept straying to the memories of his mother, of Henry, his eyes kept looking at the Polaroid and then at Henry sleeping restlessly on his bed. There had to be a mistake. This Henry now couldn’t be the one he had caught on the picture all those years ago. That Henry then would have never let another see him so distraught and he would rage against the circumstances not break down so easily. This Henry now was a mess of emotion and it was a horrible change to see but it also made Patrick feel a bit of pride. He had done that, he had let it happen and he had shown Henry that he had more control over his life than he ever would. A smile tugged at the edges of his lips and he looked back at Henry-kins again. He didn’t budge an inch and he didn’t make a sound anymore. He was in Patrick’s bed, defenceless, bare. And when Patrick got in the bed with him he could not go to sleep, he could not shut his eyes and he stared at Henry’s back rise and fall with each breath until the first rays of the rising sun came through the curtains.  The pain had become a dull throb come morning and the warmth under the covers made the fading marks of the belt itch. Now it was Henry’s head that hurt – there was a horrid throb in the base of his neck, climbing higher and wrapping around his skull like a wreath of white-hot steel. His muscles ached badly and his face felt swollen. Like his mind was not entirely connected to his body, Henry felt like he was floating. And though there was nothing in his stomach, he felt the sudden, urgent need to throw up. That passed quickly and when Henry opened his eyes the bright light in the room made the pain in his head flare, almost as if a needle of ice had pierced his skull. He shut his eyes and hid his head under the covers. Suddenly the thought that he couldn’t be in his own bed and that those couldn't be his own sheets he was hiding under came to Henry along with the realisation that he was naked but for his underwear. He tried to sit up but the dull throb in his back became instant pain as the sore skin stretched across the muscles, like sandpaper. Henry forced himself to remain down and he slowly turned his head to look at the other side of the bed. As he sucked in a slow breath he lowered the duvet again and despite the bright light coming through the curtains, he forced his eyes to remain open. Patrick lay beside him, his back turned to Henry. He must’ve been asleep still and when Henry took a very cautious look at the part of the room he could see from his position, he realised with rising dread that he was in his room. The need to throw up returned, stronger than before, and Henry forced himself to breathe through it. He sat up in the bed, very slowly, and the duvet pooled around his waist. Patrick hadn’t moved when Henry looked at him again and then he looked down at the floorboards where… Oh, God. There they were, the bloody flowers, the beginning of a child’s finger painting. The blood had dried and it was now brown and not copper. Patrick hadn’t even cared to clean away the smears and droplets. “Where are you going?” Patrick’s voice, raspy and dry with sleep still, startled Henry and he quickly pulled the duvet up to cover his shoulders again out of innate fear. Patrick stretched, his joints popping like dry twigs one by one, and he sighed before looking up at Henry again. His expression was sour. “Hm? Where to?” “What the fuck happened last night?” Henry asked him, trying to appear less like a scolded child. The only thing now that could calm him was the visible fact that Patrick was dressed. “What did you do, what…” “Aside from…nursing you back to health? The question isn’t what I did, Henry, it’s what you did. And you came to me last night with your pants all wet and your face looking like a bucket of forest fruits.” He propped his head upon his hand and stared at Henry, waiting as if to hear words of gratitude. But those wouldn’t come. Henry was numb. “Let me get you some clothes.” Patrick said, sighing through his teeth. He got out of bed and his features darkened further as he sighed through his teeth. Henry could only stare at him, confused and lost. What had he done now? “Does your back hurt? I can give you a pill.” “What’s your damn deal?” Henry bit back. He was grasping onto the remains of his pride and like a stubborn dog, he wouldn’t let go. “What the hell are you talking about, Henry?” Patrick sighed again, acting as if Henry’s persistence was tiring him more than it really was. He chose a shirt that would fit Henry remotely well but he had no jeans or other pants to share. He threw the shirt at Henry finally when he got tired of searching. Henry took that with an expression which easily revealed his bafflement. “Don’t play dumb with me!” He snapped. “What the fuck, Hockstetter?” “Are you going to tell me what happened last night?” “…I don’t know.” Disappointment crossed Patrick’s face and he wet his lips while he waited for Henry to change his answer. And though Henry felt relatively courageous now, in the presence of Patrick, the bloodstains on the floor and the old stuffed animals watching them from the shelves with their beady eyes hidden among synthetic fur matted with dust, he felt the familiar feeling of anxiety creeping along his skin. His throat became dry and cold sweat dotted the back of his neck. A thick shadow crossed Patrick’s face while he stared at him and it was gone in the blink of an eye. He turned his back to Henry and quietly left him alone, stunned and lacking the important answers. Henry pulled on the shirt and the old material dragged painfully along the marks left. He couldn’t breathe right, Henry noticed when he tried to take a deep breath. His ribs hurt, bruised or broken, and the air wheezed past his teeth while he gritted them to stifle a sharp moan of pain. Downstairs, Patrick was staring at the empty inside of the fridge when Henry finally stepped into the kitchen. He was walking a bit funny still and his balance was off. Sometimes when they were younger Patrick would catch him limping or he’d refrain from punching anyone with his right hand so he wouldn’t have to use the bruised or broken wrist but now wasn’t similar. Now Henry could barely stand and Butch hadn’t meant to let him live, as it appeared, he had left him for dead in the middle of the damn living room. “I don’t have anything to eat.” “I’m not hungry.” Henry sat down on one of the chairs, happy to relieve his legs of his weight. His limbs felt alien, not entirely his although his mind commanded their movements. “Why’d he go and do that, Hank?” Patrick asked again and this time, Henry shrugged. He didn’t know and he didn’t know what to say. “I can’t go back there…” He said. “He’ll kill me if he sees me again. I swear, this time he’ll…” “And if I kill him first?” Henry appeared to not have heard him and it was only when his eyes widened in slow recognition that Patrick realised he had heard and he had been surprised by the proposition. He stared down at his hands and then he looked up startled at Patrick, a few moments too late. “What…?” “We can kill him,” Patrick said as if he were informing him about the weather. “And we can do it quick and clean, so nobody will ever know. Nobody’s ever going to be sorry for Butch after all. Nobody’s going to ask questions. Nobody’ll miss him. And most importantly, it suits him right, doesn’t it?” “He’s my dad.” Patrick raised a brow in question.
 Really, Henry?
 “He’s my dad.” Henry repeated stubbornly. He sounded certain and there was sure devotion in his voice when he spoke as if the same man he called father hadn’t degraded him, hadn’t tried to murder him in cold blood, without guilt, just the night before. “I don’t want to go to jail.” “The last thing you’ll ever go to jail for is killing him, Henry, you know it.” Patrick reassured him and he was right. It was that truth that Henry was very reluctant to admit. “Nobody will care.” “I’ll care.” “Why?!” The longer Henry persisted, the bigger Patrick’s thirst to see some blood became. Henry’s adorable reluctance was the last thing he needed. “He doesn’t…” Henry tried to say. “I…I did something wrong, he was just mad and things got out of hand. Just because he does it doesn’t mean he deserves…!” “And do you deserve it, Henry? Because you’re a very disgusting, pathetic masochist if you think daddy loves you.” A flash of anger brightened Henry’s eyes and for a moment Patrick saw the Henry he knew – the one angry, the one full of spite and piling up the shit until he couldn’t anymore. Patrick approached him slowly, his movements predatory, and he leaned into his face to stare into those restless, resentful orbs amidst the pools of ugly purple and swollen skin. “Nobody loves you, Henry.” He said through gritted teeth. “And he doesn’t care what happens to you. And if you’re a coward…” Patrick leaned in closer, brushing his lips along Henry’s ear, “you’ll let him do it again. You know that women do the same, right, Henry? They get beat up when they’re naughty and they come running right back when their men loosen their leashes a little. And you’ll run right back to daddy, ‘cause you’re a coward. Prove me wrong, Hank. Prove me wrong.” He laid his hands down on Henry’s shoulders and he stiffened when Patrick breathed in the lingering scent of sweat and tears and fear. It wasn’t as strong as it had been last night but it was enough to soothe him and spark up the longing in his veins. He decided that he wasn’t that mad at Henry. That’s what lovers did, after all. They had their downs and their ups and for them, everything would be alright soon. “He…He grabbed me,” Henry said suddenly and Patrick couldn’t see but he could hear the tears in his voice and the shame as he told him, “there. And he said…He said that he’d cut my balls off and…If he ever saw…” Patrick hummed, waiting for him to continue. When it became obvious Henry was too shaken to finish, he wrapped his arms around him and he tried to pull him into a kiss but to his surprise, Henry pulled back. “Can you not…touch me right now?” He begged and the look in his pretty eyes was too sweet to resist. “Sure, Henry,” Patrick said. He straightened up and ran a hand through Henry’s hair, gently, carefully, watching him just subtly lean into his touch before walking towards the door. “I’ll go get something to eat.” “Patrick…?” Henry stopped him, looking his way, and there was surely a question he wanted to ask but couldn’t force himself to. Do you love me?
 Are you going to leave me?

Thank you, Pat, thank you, thank you, thank...
 “Don’t worry, Henry.” Patrick told him, smiling at his struggle. “I still love you. Even when it’s obvious you don’t love me as much, I’ll keep loving you.” He left Henry-kins alone with his thoughts after that and somehow Patrick had the feeling that his mind would be full of him for days to come.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

4
 
We can get a little crazy just for fun, just for fun

Don't even try to hold it back, just let go

Tie me up and take me over till you're done, 'til I'm done

You got me feening and I'm ready to blow
 
 Henry came home not long after ten. The light of the TV filled the living room and the outlines of the furniture shone like ghosts. Butch sat in his armchair and his fingers were loose around the empty bottle. When he heard the door shut, he shifted and he began to stand up. Henry watched that process like he was witnessing a bear come out of its cave after a long winter. His father was a bit dazed, his eyes were glazed and unfocused and there were evil and rage etched into the frown lines of age.

Butch stumbled, grabbing on to the backrest of the chair to steady himself. He looked up at Henry and his eyes were dull, empty. They barely followed him as he crossed the living room; Henry’s back touched the wall and like a predator, his father stared him down. He couldn’t have been too intoxicated, otherwise, Henry wouldn’t be seeing the recognition he saw now. Butch was breathing like a mad bull.

“Where have you been?” He asked. His words were slow and deliberate and it was obvious to Henry that he was trying not to slur them too heavily on purpose. “Huh?” Butch urged when Henry kept quiet, “Where were you today? With who?”

“In town,” Henry answered and that whisper betrayed his lack of composure. “I was out in town.”

“In town…In town…”

Suddenly the bottle his father held in hand was flung his way. It shattered just a few inches away from Henry’s head and glass shards scattered around his feet as the pungent smell of beer filled his nose.

Henry didn’t try to question his father’s sudden outburst of rage and like a scared dog, he tried to curl into the wall as if it would make a difference. He didn’t beg when Butch whacked him across the face or when he dug his fist in his stomach. And this wasn’t like any other time, this time there was something else fuelling his father’s anger. Henry was too afraid to ask and when Butch called him names he didn’t make a sound, and when he spat profanities his way there was a metaphorical noose tightening around his neck and robbing him of his air.

Henry felt an unbearable pain bursting like a firecracker in his chest when his father landed a kick just below his ribs and whatever air was left in his lungs it disappeared with a single quick gasp. Once, when Henry had been very little and his mother had still been around, Butch had gotten mad, not mad as he was now, and he had lifted him off the ground like he were weightless. He had thrown his little body down and the air had rushed out of him then just as it did now. But Henry hadn’t cried. He hadn’t screamed, he hadn’t done anything and he hadn’t called out for his mother. He couldn’t have. And there had been two ways things could have gone then – he could have died or he could have broken his spine and become immobile which was the worst option of the two. Neither had followed. And neither followed now when Butch broke his ribs and while he landed kick after kick in his kidneys and stomach.

“Liar!” He screamed and spat in Henry’s face. “You fucking liar cunt! You disgusting miserable faggot, I know what you did!”

“Dad…” Henry rasped, not even capable of comprehending what Butch was saying. “Please…!”

“My son,” Butch said and his face was red and coated in sweat and those droplets fell off his stubbled chin like acid onto Henry’s face, “will not be a filthy fag, do you hear me? Do you hear me?!”

He knows, Henry thought and he wasn’t nearly as shocked or afraid as he had to be. He realised that with a touch of worry and fear, not of his father but of himself. What if he was growing accustomed to all of this? What if he didn’t care anymore if Butch killed him now or tomorrow, if he kicked him and if he degraded him? He didn’t care to know just how Butch knew and just how he had found out when he barely left the farm. All that mattered was that it was over and now that Butch knew, a heavy burden was heaved off Henry’s shoulders for good. He felt the odd sense of acceptance washing over him and relieving the pressure that had been put on his lungs so he could breathe again. He felt as free as a bird on a spring day, under the sun, in a place that was beautiful, and maybe that’s how Heaven felt like if Henry was even destined to see the golden gates.

Then he thought of Patrick and a warm trickle of something damp ran down the leg of his jeans as pain overwhelmed his middle and sides. It felt as if he was finally pissing razor blades and that would hardly change in the days to come; maybe Butch had finally raptured something important, a kidney or his liver, or maybe his intestines were finally going to come out to dangle wetly left and right as he went on with his day. It was a morbid thought and it suddenly became all the more real when the subtle thought of blood gushing down his pants instead of urine crossed Henry’s confused and overwhelmed mind.

“Do you want me to make you walk like that across town, huh?!” Butch screamed and his terror was far from over. Henry had done it now. This wasn’t like being held back in school, this was a public humiliation akin to a spiritual execution if Derry were to find out just what Butch Bowers’ boy did with other bad boys and how filthy it all was. And Henry did feel filthy; he felt filthy now and he felt filthy when Butch’s hand swooped down to grab his crotch in a grip too tight to be comfortable and too embarrassing when his pants were wet. Then Henry thought of Patrick and the security he had felt once made way to disgust and it unleashed fear and anger that warmed him and made him want to cry and to curse and to hurt himself more than Butch ever could.

“If you’re gonna be a motherfucking woman then I might as well chop this off and make you into one! Do you hear me?! Do you fucking hear me?!”
 There, was all Henry could think when he looked up at Butch and at his contorted face. There, are you happy now? It’s never going to feel the same, are you happy now? Does that help you get it up, old man?
 He was numb and his eyes were empty as he stared at Butch. His lack of response only made his father angrier and he snarled, and his damp hand went for his buckle. And now another memory crossed Henry’s mind, as old as the one where Butch threw him to the ground like during a wrestling match. When the buckle jingled Henry thought of the night Butch had made his mother’s head bleed – maybe he had forced her into the fridge or maybe he had punched her with his fist, he couldn’t remember – and then he had taken off his belt. And then silence, but it hadn’t been too silent, and as Henry, then six or seven, had hidden in the other room he had listened to his mother crying. She hadn’t been wailing, she hadn’t been screaming. She had just cried. Softly, waiting for the misery to be over.

The misery was never over for Henry. And whenever Butch took the belt off on him, he felt an overwhelming, sick hatred for that woman.

Every woman for that matter and when the buckle came down and then the worn leather crashed down like a whip, Henry thought of Patrick and he thought that nothing would ever be the same. He’d never allow it to be the same.
  Henry awoke with a start and then his fingers grasped onto solid muscles and bones and the cotton of a worn shirt. The scent of Windex replaced the lingering bitterness of imaginary beer. The early sun filtered through the thick curtains and as Henry opened his eyes to greet the dawn he realised how close he was to Patrick. Yeah, right, he thought dryly. They had slept like that. An unimaginable amount of time had passed now after their ill-fated conversation in Patrick’s kitchen and Henry had barely set foot back home after. But the memory of what had been still haunted him in his dreams and during the day when Patrick was away and there was nothing to occupy his sick mind. Sometimes it became too quiet and that’s when his thoughts became dangerous. The visible scars had healed but those etched deep would be harder to forget. He looked up at Patrick whose brows were slightly pinched between his eyes as if he were thinking. He lay still, however, and his arms remained loosely wrapped around Henry in a gesture of mock security. It did enough to ease Henry’s restless sleep at night and it erased the bad memories of the horrible touches that brought lasting hurt and ugly bruises. Patrick had never touched him without consent after and he was nice and he always asked if Henry was alright…And Henry found himself easing into the domestic comfort far easier than he believed it would be in the aftermath. “Another one?” Patrick said and his voice was still laced with sleep. Henry watched him smack his lips to rid himself of the taste of stale saliva and he raised a hand to rub at his eyes in a gesture he found charmingly childlike. Patrick was different when he slept and when his face didn’t give away the grim thoughts he might be having. Heaving a heavy sigh, Henry hid his face in Patrick’s chest; he inhaled again the smell of stale cigarettes which lingered lately over Patrick’s clothes although he himself rarely smoked. He didn’t want to be awake. Being awake would rob him of the only excuse he had to stay in bed and pretend it was all alright, pretend he wasn’t so dependable on Patrick’s presence and the situation. He could hide easier when he was asleep. Cold fingers trailed along his cheek and that touch was feather light, as if non-existent. When Henry opened his eyes to look up at Patrick again he found him looking down at him; he wasn’t smiling and he wasn’t frowning. His face bore a look of boredom and contemplation. He ran a finger down the side of Henry’s face, tracing the faded bruises, then he swiped his thumb along his bitten lip. Henry’s tongue peeked out to lick away the dry feeling the cold touch left behind as subtly as he could. They stared at one another quietly and for the first time Henry felt neither wary nor bashful to be this close to Patrick, and he wasn’t ashamed either of how things had gone. He felt content. “You look better,” Patrick said. His lips stretched in a smile so signature and eerie it made Henry lower his eyes to the wall across them. And Henry did look much better. He looked great. The bruises that Butch had left were now fading to a nasty greenish hue of yellow and his face was no longer swollen. His ribs and kidneys didn’t hurt. But the scars etched into his mind and the lesson learned a few nights ago would be a bit harder to heal. Just a bit. “Were you thinking about it?” Patrick asked, his voice a bare whisper and gust of hot air across Henry’s face when he leaned down. His lips trailed wet kisses across his prominent jaw and tender neck where the bruises healed. The IT in question was the single taboo topic they shared and that was the hypothetical murder of Butch Bowers that Patrick appeared to be actively planning behind Henry’s back. He wouldn’t bring it up in front of Henry unless he knew his words could have the wanted impact and sometimes they’d enrage Henry even more, sometimes the prospect of his father being physically gone, away from him and unable to ever touch him, made him listened to the promises Patrick’s gave…But it was all nothing but wishful thinking. Henry would never turn against his father, out of lingering affection, respect and plain fear. Patrick had been right. No one in their right mind would miss Butch, considering how rarely he showed his face in town and the trouble he caused, but no matter – a crime was a crime. And while he thought of how best to tell that to Patrick while using different words, Henry relished the warmth that ran through his skin when Patrick’s hands slid under the tee-shirt he had slept it. He rolled onto his back with remarkable obedience when Patrick crawled over him, his mouth lapping greedily on his neck still and his fingers trailing along his sides and leaving behind goosebumps. He could feel Henry steering in his pants as their shared arousal grew; Henry could always turn him on just by being Henry. Usually, Patrick would need something else, something more, to get himself going. The sexual fiend slept tight just under the surface but when it was Henry, the act became lewd enough without any added touches. Patrick liked it that way. With Henry’s unpredictable nature, with his aggression and his pliancy, he could turn Patrick any time. There was a reason behind his obsession, after all, and it had remained strong throughout the years. “Hmm, have you?” Patrick urged, mouthing along his shoulder. His waist ground into Henry’s…But with the conversation he was forcing him to have and the thoughts he was slowly planting into his head, Henry’s passion was quickly diminishing. “I said no, Patrick.” He said, closing his eyes and biting his lip when he felt the shivers and warmth wash over him when Patrick’s teeth closed teasingly around a patch of flesh. “We’re not doing it. We can’t.” “Alright, Henry.” Patrick agreed and considering the stubbornness with which he held onto the idea, Henry was rather baffled by the easy compliance. “Whatever you say.” He dug his fingers into Patrick’s hair and when he leaned up Henry tried to pull him into a kiss; maybe now Patrick would finally forget this nonsense and they would be able to enjoy themselves. But Patrick swatted his hand away rudely and he sat back, staring down at Henry’s surprise with cold carelessness. “I’ll be out of town for a while.” He let him know and Henry was stunned. “I’ll probably be gone for about a week. Just so you know.” “What do you mean you’ll be gone?” Henry snapped, overcome by irrational distress. He masked that with irritation and anger. “Where are you going? And why the fuck are you telling me about it now?!” “It’s none of your business, Henry,” Patrick said and with the same amount of nonchalance got out of bed to get dressed. He didn’t offer any kind of explanation…And Henry didn’t ask though he did show his displeasure. He voiced it throughout the day but in his fear of making it too obvious and showing Patrick just how used he had grown to him, he forced himself to adapt to Pat’s lack of care. He was having far easier than Henry and that made Henry wonder just how much Patrick truly counted on him. That was one dangerous thought to have. The day Patrick left, Henry returned home with the comforting promise that Patrick would leave a spare key under the mat if things with Butch got too out of hand while he was gone. Henry, however, would like to use it as little as possible. With Patrick away and with him knowing that he wouldn’t pop up from somewhere now, Henry felt lost. He went on a long walk that day, deaf and blind to his surroundings. He felt more like a ghost than a man. Patrick is gone, was all he could think about. Now what? Henry returned home late that night and he snuck in through his window. His father was sleeping somewhere in the house and so he managed to sneak out just as unbothered as before early the next morning. After their fight, Butch had been reserved and hostile towards Henry, more so than before. This time, he knew. Henry could tell whenever he looked his way or when their gazes happened to meet. Butch would make lewd comments his way and he would make threats and spit insults but those Henry could take. He would just have to put up with that treatment for a few more days until Patrick came home, until then he would keep coming home late and going out early and he would keep doing his chores to be a good boy for his daddy. Though Henry had long stopped expecting his father’s love and praise. To Butch, he would always be an insult to his very masculinity. And now that their secret was spilt to him, even more so. Which left Henry with the next pressing question he would ponder over while he worked. Whoever had seen them and had deemed it necessary to let his father know of his personal business? Whoever it had been, God keep them far away from Henry. He might have been scared of Butch and too dependent on Patrick to lash out but to the rest of Derry, he was still the wild troublemaker of a man, more so than before. The night Henry couldn’t take it anymore to not scratch the bothersome itch came three days later, three whole days without Patrick and his support and his odd kind of love. Nothing particularly bad had happened, Henry just didn’t feel like waiting up for Butch any longer with the knowledge that every second brought him closer to meeting the inevitable return of the intoxicated monster. He had grown rather used to sleeping in the comfort and warmth of Patrick’s bed and even the bloody prints left as a trophy on the floorboards had begun to bother him less. In fact, he rather liked them now. He liked the smell of hospital and the late night cartoons. Elation overcame him as he neared the house through the darkness of the unforeseeable night. It was a kind of childish joy akin to that of a child about to tear into the birthday gifts. Henry didn’t know the reason for it but he accepted it as something very pleasant and so very new. It appeared lately that the new things intimidated him but not now. Henry crossed the yard and the porch creaked welcomingly under his feet when he made for the door. He reached under the mat and his fingers dug excitedly around for the key… There was nothing there. With a bout of confusion and shock, Henry moved the mat. The floor under was bare and there was no spare key in sight. But hadn’t Patrick promised…? Struck by the sudden sense of betrayal, Henry tried the door, as if Patrick would be home, as if the door would be open for him. It was as locked as the day Patrick left. He walked around to check the windows – all were locked. There was no way in as if Patrick had locked him out for good on purpose. But Patrick had promised…He had no reason… Maybe he did, after all, and maybe Henry had done something bad enough to earn him such a cruel punishment. But he couldn’t guess what. Henry walked around the house again, feeling alone and rejected unlike ever before. His good mood had been forcefully taken from him. Around him, lovers made love to one another and kids slept, protected from the fears of reality. But who would love Henry, who would protect him? Having Patrick so far away filled Henry with longing different than any other. His presence charged him with a strong sense of belonging. Henry needed Patrick on a level far greater than physical and now…he was a single step away from admitting it to himself, to the world sleeping blind to his suffering. With his only option that of breaking a window to get in (which Henry found himself oddly against, he didn’t want to cross Patrick more than he might have), Henry felt his anger ebb away to make room to the regret and bitter insult. He shouldn’t have gone to the house. He had no place there. And what proof did he have that Patrick wanted him around at all? For all he knew he might never return, he might sell the house, he might rid himself of Derry and then…? With those poisonous thoughts in mind, Henry returned home. Home. To Butch Bowers, to the hurt and sleepless nights. Like a man being led to the gallows for his execution, Henry willingly walked the long way back. Home. And Henry thought, all the way there, of Patrick. Henry did not return to the house throughout the next days, living with the barest memory of Patrick and ignoring his need. He dealt with that the only way he knew how – with denial and anger. He was angry at Butch, at Patrick, at himself…His father would insult him daily and Henry had no reason to be away from home anymore, just like before. He’d be called fag, he’d be called bitch and all the worst words of the same feminine variety Butch was capable of. Henry never said a word. He wasn’t brave enough to. Rena Davenport came that weekend for lunch and as if feeling the tension between them, her eyes would shift from Butch to Henry. Henry could only scowl her way. She was avoiding him. Did she know too? “Did you do something about it, Oscar?” She asked his father when Henry excused himself. “I did enough about it,” Butch answered her around a mouthful of stew. The night he returned to Patrick’s hadn’t been one particularly bad and it had been oddly unexceptional. It was one of the few nights in which Henry found himself drinking, actually drinking, with the sole intention of getting drunk, of falling deep into the state of unawareness. He let Butch bully him and he took in the insults as a holy word and he felt no shame when he made him throw up in the middle of the living room after a particularly bad punch to the gut. Henry had always been rather resistant to his circumstances. Now, he embraced them and let them take him on a languid stroll through the memories. Henry let his mind wander to the years of his early childhood through the messy ones of adolescence and it came to him suddenly that his life was still stretching on ahead. There was more. More of the same, years and years of this, and oh, God, no more. Butch had gone easy on him and Henry hadn’t been as scared, in fact, he had barely registered his presence. The hurt was everywhere but not as strong and he could barely stand and see not so much because of the pain as because of the copious amounts of alcohol running through his system and numbing pretty much everything there was to numb. Henry walked out of home as casually as he would any other time although he stumbled and he walked the way into town where people slept. He was again the only one awake, the only one alive and it filled him with despair. Sitting down gingerly by the front door of Patrick’s home, Henry thought of one of the few times Butch had made him shed tears. He had been six, or five even, and his mind had yet to learn to rightly receive both physical and emotional pain. For the beginning of his early life, Henry had been a sickly child and he could vaguely remember his mother fretting, surrounding him with care which now felt as though it had been faked all along. And when after a bad night filled with nightmares of the creepies and the crawlies Henry had accidentally wet the bed, Mr Bowers had grabbed the back of his head and he had rubbed his face into the round damp circle while he had cried and until he was forced to throw up again, just like he had done earlier after so much alcohol and no actual food to vomit. And Henry had been little, he had cried, he had wailed until his father had hit him and then had hit his mother too for raising such a useless kid. He cried now, just like back then, and just like the rest of those embarrassing times. Later he’d say it was the alcohol and he’d know it wasn’t true. It was just about the time for a good cry. He was alone, after all, and it was kind of a good thing. Nobody could see his shame then; nobody could hurt him more than he could hurt them. With his face buries in his palms and his quiet sobs enough to mask all sound, Henry startled when he felt the first touch of a kind hand again his head. He looked up, ready to pounce on whoever had come to disturb his pitiful display and make him forget whatever he had seen, though Henry knew his own reflexes wouldn’t be the best and he would probably be too slow to even get up and run, hide. None of that was needed and as Henry looked up he saw Patrick, staring down at him with that wide, loving grin, with that kind and gentle look in his eye he gave Henry, the one that told him he cared… And Henry cried harder, crawling like a dog up to Patrick and wrapping his arms around his thighs as if he would never let go, as if nothing could ever force him away. I’m not alone, he kept repeating in his mind; not alone, not alone, not alone… “Jee, Hank, why are you such a slobbery mess?” Patrick whistled briefly, his voice quiet to honour the silence of the night. His words were mean but his tone was caring and sweet, and he let Henry’s tears and snot soak the front of his jeans. He let Henry hold on to him and he even cradled his head in his hands, as though he were precious, even if Henry was nothing but that right now and felt nothing like it. And when Henry was apparently calmer now to have Patrick there, when he was certain he wasn’t just a drunken hallucination, Patrick knelt down to face him and he let their forehead come together so he could look into Henry’s eyes, unfocused, sore and wet. “Did you miss me? Because it looks like you missed me.” Henry had no words to reply and if he did begin to talk now it would be nothing but a messy rant of stutters and unfinished thoughts. Patrick knew that and he only smiled, brushing away the damp smears over Henry’s cheeks with care so he wouldn’t press too harshly down on the bruises and cuts, most of them fresh. He held his shoulders, thumbs stroking circles into the sore muscles while Henry relaxed. There was a spark of emotion pure and flattering in his eyes and if Patrick could, he would have recognised it as blossoming love. “I told you I’d come back, didn’t I? I said I’d be back in a week and I’m here.” “The key,” Henry stuttered breathlessly, “there was no key under the mat. You promised you’d leave one under the mat, Patrick, there was no key…” Patrick didn’t explain and even if he had, Henry wouldn’t have understood. So instead he kept smiling and he pulled Henry into a tight embrace, breathing in the remains of hot tears. It was so good to be home and, apparently, the results of his trip were even better than Patrick imagined they would be. “You know,” he said, feeling Henry melt against him and soaking in his forgiveness, “I never call you anything sweet, do I? Hmm, do I? No…Sweetheart,” Patrick’s warm breath ghosted along the lobe of Henry’s ear before planting a quick kiss there. In his arms, Henry shivered. “Baby. Bunny. Teddy bear. Kitten. Sweetie...” A broken sob tore from the pit of Henry’s throat and his sobbed wetly into Patrick’s neck. Maybe he really was becoming a girl, maybe all of this really was bad…But it felt good, and any person would say the same, to be held and told nice things, kind things, from the only person who cared. He could remember vaguely Peter Gordon – he’d call his old girlfriend similar sweet things and she’d blush and laugh and it was so odd now to understand just why Henry felt the urgent need to hear them again and to feel their comfort. “Honey,” Patrick finished and he leaned away only briefly so he could find Henry’s lips for a kiss. It was wet, slow, rewarding. Nothing like the overwhelming style Patrick kept to and had taught Henry to accept. And while they kissed each other for the first time in so long, Henry finally felt as though he too was someone’s lover and he too had found a safe place to spend the dark and endless nights.  Henry woke up to the summer sun shining through the curtains, laying in a bed that wasn’t his under covers too warm to be his own. His fingers tightened only slightly around a handful of cotton and as he looked up, his eyes found Patrick’s face, lips parted as he breathed and face warm and bearing a healthy flush. Usually, Patrick looked just as much as a ghost as Henry had begun to feel; now he looked alive. Henry hid his face in Patrick’s chest and he held onto him, afraid that if he let go he would disappear. He breathed in the scent of hospital and mould and old soap. For a long time after Patrick was quiet and only when his fingers reached up to brush at Henry’s face, a gentle and loving caress, did Henry realise he was awake. “Another one?” He asked, clearing his throat. His other hand came up to rub away the sleep from his eyes… “It was a better one.” Henry let him know, his own voice soft and words muffled as he spoke into Patrick’s shirt. “Were you thinking about it?” Patrick sounded hopeful as he asked and Henry could tell he was waiting with great impatience to hear his answer. He knew just what IT he was referring to and he knew just what Patrick expected to hear with such excitement. Henry looked up at Patrick when he felt his fingers brush along a scabbing scar along the side of his forehead. He held his eyes as he answered. “I was.” Patrick urged him to lay on his back now and his lips met Henry’s in a lingering kiss; his hands held his face, thumbs brushed along his cheeks while his tongue delved into his mouth. It was a passionate kiss, one that screamed Good job, my good boy, and it left Henry gasping for more. His eyes opened and he couldn’t find the strength to close them again; he needed proof, one better than Patrick’s hands now climbing higher under his shirt and holding onto his thigh to pull him closer, that Patrick was real. That he was actually there, settling over him and that he really was awake. “What is it?” Patrick asked when he noticed Henry staring at him so dreamily and he even laughed at the love-struck expression. “Nothing,” Henry mumbled, pulling Patrick in to continue the more pleasurable experience. His lips met Patrick’s grinning mouth for a clumsy kiss and when he felt Patrick’s hand urging his prick to full hardness under his pants with a few expert strokes, his own hand went to find and tug at his belt, eager to return the gesture. This Henry knew how to do and he was learning to receive this peculiar and so very pleasurable form of affection and intimate love.  Oscar Bowers kicked the bucket the August of that year in what would be described as a tragic incident. On accounts of how many residents of Derry had seen him in town that ill-fated for the old man night, it would be safe to assume by the amount he had had to drink and the stagger in his step as he had gone home that, well, he had fallen into the river and drowned. Except he hadn’t. Oscar Bowers returned alive and well home. It was then that the thing they called tragedy occurred. Considering Henry’s reluctant behaviour prior to that fateful evening, Patrick set aside all plans but the obvious and had decided on a rather spontaneous approach. His only hope was that Henry wouldn’t decide to bail but on account of a little scuffle not long ago with Daddy Bowers Patrick guessed that the time when the cup would overflow like a river in spring was near, so near in fact that he was ready to make it even nearer and end this stupidity. Unlike Henry, Patrick had realised that he wanted to kill Mr Bowers a very long time ago. In fact, Patrick knew the first time animals stopped giving him the kick he desired that it would be Butch next. Every time Henry showed up with a new bruise he’d find it pretty and he’d be so jealous that it was Butch to leave those and it was him with the power to make Henry afraid. That wouldn’t last any longer. And if Henry resisted, then Patrick would finish the job and that would either bring them closer or ruin all the of Patrick’s progress. No matter, he’d just start from the beginning and he’d most definitely have a new thing to keep Henry close with then. They hadn’t planned the day out, it just happened. Henry came over not long after Butch walked out and he knew he’d have more than a few good hours on their hands. Patrick tried to get his hands on him while they were at his house but Henry was too tense, too nervous to even feel a single spark of sexual arousal. His stomach was in knots; he hadn’t eaten anything through the whole day, wondering if he should go see Patrick at all or not…But it was now or never, it’s now or never, Sweetheart, Bunny, Kitten, Honey… Henry left Patrick on his own in his room while he went to calm down. He washed his face in the bathroom, the cold water making him shiver while he held on to the porcelain basin covered in yellow stains. He didn’t feel like himself and he certainly didn’t look familiar when he looked into the cracked mirror above the sink. His face was pale, eyes were swollen, sore and inflamed…His chest heaved and when he frowned, he looked almost like an enraged animal. “Look what I found,” Patrick exclaimed when Henry returned and when he held up his hand, he saw the old baseball ball, the dirty one with the loose stitches. The one Henry had found by his doorstep years ago. Only now he knew its origin well. “Damn, Hank, you do love me!” “Why?” Henry asked him, not in the mood for any emotional outbursts and declarations of love. “Why’d you leave that here? Why’d you take the picture…?” Patrick’s predatory look softened to a much tamer version of the same as he forced the monster in its cave and took control again. “You know why, Henry.” He said. “Because I love you.” Henry hardly believed him, although the admission felt good, very good. And he knew from experience that that feeling was deceitful. “You do? You really do…?” He asked, his voice laced with longing and childish hope. He sounded even meek, so much so that Patrick couldn’t help but cross the space between them; he took his chin between his fingers and angled his face for a kiss. “You know I do.” “…Say it again.” Patrick’s grin quickly became a wolfish leer, “I love you, Henry. I love you so much. Do you think I would be doing any of this if I didn’t?” Henry didn’t answer though Patrick had to admit, with or without his consent maybe he would have ended up killing Mr Bowers or any other Mr or Mrs America for the fun of it. Maybe he would’ve killed Henry…? It was a tantalizing, explicitly vile and erotic thought, actually. They kissed wet and dirty and although Henry wasn’t in the mood for much but endurance, Patrick was ready to worship him, to breathe him in and have him any way possible. The thought of murder filled his senses with raw arousal. The image of hot blood rushing and gushing through a cooling body made his own boil until he was a hair away from cumming in his pants like a little kid. He refrained though, held back and summoned all his will to keep holding back from devouring Henry until he knew that all the obstacles along the way were overcome. There would be nothing stopping him from having Henry for himself then and, hopefully, nothing stopping Henry from accepting and taking whatever Patrick had to give him. Butch returned at the dead of night when Henry had been just about ready to fall asleep against Patrick. The boys had sat on his bed for most of the night, hands itching to touch but either too afraid to or stuck between the rock and the hard place of passion and self-punishment to dare. The sound of the front door shutting startled Henry out of his comfort. It was about to begin and that thought made him a little weaker, made his stomach hurt. He looked up at Patrick; he was awake, he appeared fresh and brave although his face showed nothing but a bare hint of excitement. They remained silent in their rising tension, hearing nothing but a few muffled grunts from Butch; Henry supposed he was struggling to take off his boots and jacket. When Patrick tried to stand up, impatient to start the show, Henry grabbed his arms and pulled him back. He didn’t give much of an explanation, expecting Patrick to catch up on his own. Drunk or not, it would be best to wait until Butch passed out for good on his own before doing anything else. Patrick would have disagreed – he would rather have him awake while he watched him go to hell. It was Henry who wouldn’t be able to stomach it. And thus they waited and as the seconds passed, Henry’s resolve began to crack. Patrick was the first to feel it as his hand grew tight around his own. Henry was beginning to struggle. He was giving him too much room to think and now his mind was beginning to wander to the more unpleasant possibilities and questions – what if they got caught, what if Butch didn’t die easily, what if, what if… Patrick let him fight his own morality, held his hand all through the might battle and then he looked at him with question, disappointment lurking under the surface. Henry wasn’t going to leave him, right? Right, Sweetie? Henry took a deep breath suddenly, the air whisking past his gritted teeth, and he grabbed onto Patrick’s hand again for courage and comfort. He got up from the bed suddenly enough to make the rusted springs creak and Patrick followed him, trying to contain the overwhelming feeling of happiness and elation. This was no childish game, this was a hunt. This was them becoming the hunters again. This was them winning. They walked into the hall, followed the light of the TV into the living room. Mr Bowers must’ve turned to a spontaneous channel because Beetlejuice was on, dancing in the air with Lydia. The sound was very low, just a whisper, and they could both hear Butch’s loud snores. Patrick took his hand away from Henry’s clammy palm and replaced it with his switchblade – a small thing but sharp and it fit right in the other’s palm as if it were made to be held by Henry. Let that be a present. Henry walked around his father’s armchair, stepping closer into the orbit of decay and feeling the putrid stench of human degradation radiating from him. He wondered if he felt any different to Patrick, looked his way then felt the sting of an odd kind of ache Henry had never felt before. His fingers held the knife tighter, thumb slid across the button and in a second the blade popped out like a rabbit out of a magician’s hat. He stared down at his father’s ugly mug, mouth hanging open to reveal the rotten teeth inside. His face was unshaven and swollen. He had no reason to keep himself clean; his very flesh gave out the odour of rot and dirt. Patrick’s eyes moved impatiently from Butch to Henry and when he saw Henry’s hesitance, he stepped behind him. “What’s wrong?” He hissed into his ear, grabbing onto Henry’s hand to hold the knife tighter. “Come on. Do it. Do it right there,” Patrick pointed towards Butch’s thick neck covered in rashes and stubble, “and he won’t feel a thing.” “I can’t…” Henry suddenly said and when he tried to step aside, Patrick wrapped a strong arm around his waist to keep him in place. He knew Henry wouldn’t dare struggle so he wouldn’t wake up Butch. The hand he held the knife with shook furiously and Patrick had to hold it tighter, almost painfully so he wouldn’t drop the knife. “Patrick, no…I changed my mind, I can’t…” “It’s too late, Henry.” Patrick persisted stubbornly, whispering harshly in Henry’s ear. “We had a fucking plan, don’t back out on me now. Come on, sweetheart, baby, honey. Don’t be scared, I’ll hold your hand for you.” “I said no.” “Henry,” Patrick said, almost threateningly, “it’s too damn late, babes. You have no other choice. Just do it quick and it’ll be over.” “But, Patrick…” “No buts. Think about how fun it will be, Henry. Think about how good it’ll feel to have him gone. To don’t have to worry when or how he’ll come home or if he’ll punch you in the face or not, or what kind of lie you’ll have to make in front of others for your face looking like a squashed tomato. Think about all the times he’s beaten you to a pulp, darling, think about all the times he’s made you cry. Or did you forget? Did you forget about the time he broke your wrist, or when he almost broke your rib and dislocated your shoulder? Did you forget how he made you piss your pants in front of the guys? Because I remember, Henry, and I know you want to do this. Please, babes,” he begged, breathing in the scent of Henry-kins, his rage and his fear and his shame while he held his hand in their crime, “Do it for me, baby, for us. Don’t you want to be happy with me? Don’t you want to feel good?” Taking Henry’s silence for compliance despite his near hysterical state, Patrick carefully urged the hand holding the knife to lift. He let go of it and he pointed towards a spot on Butch’s neck again. “Right there,” he advised quietly, his lips stretching into a feral grin of unimaginable joy, “just a quick stab here. He won’t feel a thing, I swear.” “How do you know?” Henry asked him. He had slumped so far into Patrick that it would seem to someone watching from outside the window that Patrick was by himself. “How do you know it’ll be quick? Patrick, I don’t…” “Just trust me, Henry. Trust me, okay? Don’t you love me? Don’t you want me to love you?” The memory of the week he spent away from Patrick pierced his mind and heart like a bullet and it shattered whatever doubt Henry might have had. Who was he to deny Patrick and what he wanted? Who would ever want him the way he was except for Patrick? If Butch was the only thing to ever stand between them, then… “Do it, baby.” Patrick urged frantically, wanting to finally see the blood gushing out of the well-placed stab. “Come on, sugar, lover, darling, come on.” His voice was laced with nearly sexual euphoria and his words filled Henry with a dangerous kind of courage. They brought back all the bad and the nasty times and things his father’s forced him to ever endure. The soaked mattress at five, the broken wrist at eight, the gashes and welts that would never disappear from his skin, the sleepless nights and the permanent rage and hatred for everything and everyone. The desire to die, the self-destructive tendencies, the addictions, the isolation. All his fault. It’s all your fault, daddy. He jabbed the knife with excessive force into the soft portion of fat around his father’s neck, right where Patrick had wanted. And immediately or almost so, Henry felt sorry. He felt so very sorry, the regret made his knees buckle, made him let go of the knife while his father awoke quickly and his hands flew towards the source of his dramatic pain clumsily. Oh, God, oh, dear God, what had he done? Now his father would be mad, so very mad; he would grab him and beat him bloody right in front of Patrick and he’d kill him with that same knife… The blood was like a fountain, gushing past the knife and soaking into Mr Bowers’ dirty shirt, into the armchair. It stained the front of Henry’s own shirt and leaked into his pants, coated his hands so heavily it was hard to see any bit of the skin underneath. He tried to run but his back met Patrick’s front and Patrick held him, grabbed his hands and guided the unwilling fingers back around the knife handle. His grin was wicked, feral, and his eyes possessed the kind of dead look only a madman, a true and evil madman, could have. Henry might have been afraid and regretful of his decision but Patrick was born for this. “Oh, God, Henry,” he gushed and exclaimed, like a child, “oh, fuck, look at the blood, Henry!” He laughed and the merry sound pierced Henry’s ears while he tried to push back and away from the bloody fun. His eyes, wide and terrified, stared down at his shaking hands as though they didn’t belong to him. He had forgotten how to breathe although the breath wheezed past his lips like the final bursts out of a deflating balloon. Henry Bowers was no stranger to blood and violence but there’s so much blood, daddy’s going to be mad about the carpet. “Henry, look, look,” Patrick said behind him, his hold on Henry tightening as his passion rose, “Look how red it is, Henry. He’s bleeding like a pig, Jesus!” He grabbed his chin with one bloodied hand to force Henry to look, leaving behind sticky smears. Henry could feel him faintly filling out the front of his jeans, his dick harder than ever before while they fooled around. The smell of blood hung around them, as heavy as melted sugar. It sprayed over them again when Patrick forced the knife out of Mr Bowers’ neck. The man was choking on his own blood and it gurgled in the pit of his throat. It was the sound of his life leaving him for good. His eyes bulged like that of a fish. Tears filled Henry’s eyes and he didn’t know what he was crying for. For Butch or for himself? Was he still scared, or was the overwhelming feeling that made his head spin great relief? He didn’t know but it was that feeling that made him take back the knife from Patrick’s hand and it was again it that forced him to grit his teeth and stab it into Butch Bowers’ chest. He was not sorry, his hands didn’t shake. The man deserved it and at that moment it didn’t matter that he was his flesh and blood, that he was his parent and the only family he’s ever known, Henry’s rage against him could carry on for infinity. A guttural cry of despair and anger tore from him and Patrick watched that gory scene with surprise and admiration; it had been such a long time since he had seen Henry this mad, this hot and sexy last. Henry dug the knife through his father’s chest a second time, then a third, and it went as deep as it could into his lungs and bones, until the tip bent and the handle left imprints into his clammy palms. His teeth were bared like those of an animal, his pupils were belated. He raised the knife and forced into his father’s chest one final, ferocious time, a last goodbye although the man was long driving down the highway to hell, when Patrick’s hands came around his. He intertwined their fingers, pulled Henry into him again and although he was panting, staring at the bloody sight with desire and happiness, he held Henry and soothed the shivers rocking his body. His thin arms wrapped around Henry and Henry held onto his hands while he screamed and cried. His knees felt weak, he wanted so desperately to sit down, just sit down… He felt Patrick urging him gently out of the living room and when Henry felt his legs again, he pushed him away and staggered towards the bathroom. He fell against the toilet and threw up. It was all stomach acid and sour liquids, burning his throat as he heaved. God forbid he fainted, he couldn’t faint, he didn’t want to. Patrick helped him up while Henry was still coughing and spitting away the foul aftertaste in his mouth. He led him to the sink and washed his face, let him have a few sips of water out of his hand and urged him to rinse his mouth. The colour had drained from his face, Patrick noticed with interest as he affectionately brushed away the hair from his forehead. The blood dried over his hands as the pinkish water whirled down the drain and he found the sight horrible arousing. “Baby,” he breathed softly, lips brushing the side of Henry’s forehead, “I’m so proud…You have no idea. You made me so proud.” A new wave of tears filled his eyes while Henry stared at his contorted reflection. What had he just done? None of this could ever be real. Had murdering the man been easier than earning his affection, his pride? Patrick’s arms came around his waist while Henry furiously brushed the wetness gathering in his eyes away. His chest was heaving and he sobbed brokenly while Patrick’s greedy hands slid down the front of his thighs, while his fingers dipped between them to caress higher. He rubbed against Henry, searching for friction, as he breathed in the natural scent of his hair. He could melt into the intoxicating feeling. They smelled of blood, so sweet and so bitter. “You were so good, Henry.” Patrick groaned into his ear and the sound of his voice was lewd and embarrassing. “Such a good boy…” Feeling like he would vomit again if Patrick kept touching him so shamelessly, Henry quickly tried to push his hands away. Patrick took them in his and held them though his mouth travelled down from his ear, to his neck; he licked the stray droplets of blood, sucked brave marks into the skin and relished in the feeling of a warm and pliant body against his. But Henry wasn’t pliant for long. He wasn’t in the mood and he doubted greatly that he ever would be in the mood after tonight. He wasn’t feeling well, his head felt full of cotton and his mouth tasted awful. No, he couldn’t do any more. “Stop,” he hissed, turning in Patrick’s arms and trying to shove him off, “I said stop! Back off, Hockstetter, you can’t seriously…” A frustrated groan left him as Henry’s eyes found the toilet again. There were bloody handprints marring the sides, his bloody handprints. He thought of those dried long ago on the floor of Patrick’s room and felt ill again. “What’s wrong, Henry?” Patrick asked, leering down at him and he knew, he knew all about what was wrong with him and what not. Frankly, Henry wasn’t sure he had any more right at all. “Not now!” Henry screamed when Patrick’s fingers hooked around the loops of his belt and tried to pull him closer again. “Get off me right now, Patrick! Just get off me…!” “But, Henry, you wanted it.” Patrick pointed out with little sympathy. “You’re the one who stabbed him, what are you yelling at me for?” Henry gave him a dirty look but it wasn’t worth much considering how full of tears his eyes were and how pale he looked. Now that his anger had left him, he was drained, he was ruined. And maybe he didn’t know just how turned on he got Patrick while he kept pushing him away so desperately. “But you…” He whined, “You…” “Come over here.” Patrick let him wrap his arms around him and hold on to him. Henry’s wet hands held the material of his shirt tightly and left dirty prints. He was sobbing again, unable to form any words. “You have to feel lucky, Henry,” Patrick shushed him kindly, “he’s gone. He’ll never hurt you again, he’ll never even touch you. It couldn’t be better, Henry, for you, for us. Aren’t you happy?” “What more do you want?” Henry gasped wetly. “I killed my dad for you…What more do you want from me?!” Patrick smiled. He ran his fingers through Henry’s hair again and took a brief moment to enjoy him clinging to him before slowly walking him out of the bathroom. Oh, Henry, the things I want from you. “I just want you to stay.” He said finally. “I just want you to love me, Henry, but obviously, Butch or no Butch, you’ll never love me.” “I do…” Henry swore pitifully, unable to utter the most powerful words. “I do, I just…I really do, Patrick, I do…” “I know, I know…” Patrick soothed him dryly. He led Henry down the hall but in the opposite direction of his room. And when Henry noticed the first thought he had was that Patrick would make him do something to the corpse again until Patrick pushed him towards a room on the left of the hall. The door was open and from where they stood only the edge of a bed could be made out but Henry didn’t need that to recognise it immediately. He had shared that room with Butch for years, he had had so many nightmares in that very bed. It was his father’s room. His body relaxed suddenly in Patrick’s arms and he dragged his feet across the floor as if he were being led to the electric chair for his execution. Henry didn’t want to go there, he didn’t want to be any closer to his father or his earthly belongings than he had to. “Please, don’t…” He begged hoarsely, "I don’t want to…I don’t want to!” “Jesus, Henry, calm down.” Patrick shushed him and although he found the ministration somewhat annoying, he couldn’t deny it made him all hot and bothered. There was always something good about overpowering Henry Bowers. To be the only one in Derry and the whole world to be able to do it was something exquisite. His fingers tightened around Henry’s shoulders as Patrick pushed him into the room. He didn’t even care to shut the door, why would he? Whoever could stop him now, whoever could see them anymore? The room was more spacious than Henry’s but it was just as plain. The floor was bare and old, the white walls were stained and ugly, the dirty window was conveniently hidden by thick curtains smelling of cigarette smoke. The bed was large but the covers were old, dirty, drenched in sweat and dust. There was a wide dent in the middle of the mattress left by the years of use. It served nicely to raise Henry’s middle when Patrick forced him down. When Patrick pushed him onto the bed the first thing Henry did was try to sit up and run. The situation reminded him greatly of the first ever time Patrick had tried to make an advance on him, that one night in his bedroom. But it was different now; now Henry knew what he wanted from him and he wasn’t as confused and naïve. Now he knew just how far things could go and he realised that with steadily rising dread. Patrick clambered over him and easily pressed him down while Henry kept trashing around the mattress. The springs were creaking incessantly under them, unhappy with the added weight. Patrick’s hands found his shoulders and he pushed him down; he angled his face so they could kiss and that was a dangerous manoeuvre. Henry could have easily knocked his teeth out considering how wildly he was shaking his head. Henry’s hands grabbed onto the back of Patrick’s shirt again, only this time he was trying to get him off. Thoughts of his father filled his mind as he was forced to breathe in the stench of the man lingering in the room. It wasn’t only the signature cigarettes and old alcohol, he could smell his skin, his existence, the natural odour of Butch Bowers. And it felt like he was alive still, like he was there with them, looking down at Henry with the disgust a man would look down at something particularly dirty and vile. They had murdered him, maybe, and maybe it had been deserved but that didn’t mean they could and had to do this in his room, among his possessions, in the sheets he had slept in a day before… The thought disgusted Henry but it brought Patrick mad desire. In this sacred room, their first time would become a memory. “You’re the first, Henry,” Patrick said despite the possibility that Henry wasn’t really listening. He let his body cover Henry’s and he felt his rapid heartbeat vibrating through his chest, into his own heart about to burst with excitement. “You’re going to be the first…How does that feel? How does it feel knowing you’re so special?” Henry wasn’t fully sure just what Patrick had found to babble about; certainly, he couldn’t be talking about the sex. Henry knew he hadn’t been Patrick’s first, in anything. His experience was well noticeable and he always managed to lead Henry into whatever abyss of pleasure he wanted. He couldn’t find the words to ask Patrick either and perhaps he didn’t want to. “Please, stop…” Henry begged and those were words he had never believed his mouth was able to form. He knew Patrick wouldn’t stop. If it were Henry doing that to someone else…Maybe he wouldn’t have stopped either. He shut his eyes and tried to think about anything else despite the overwhelming sensations keeping his mind prisoner. He tried to imagine being anywhere else but there. But Patrick’s greedy touches, his kisses left him dazed and breathless, unable to fully concentrate on the imaginary world he tried to run to. Henry felt him sit up and he opened his eyes to watch him take off his shirt; then went his undershirt and they fell somewhere by the bed. His chest and stomach were flat, not particularly toned, just bare. They had never undressed during any of this and Henry was again confused, again bothered by what was to happen. Patrick took his face into his hands again and for a moment Henry saw in him the kind gentleness he would sometimes look at him with until it was replaced by the darkness of the lurking predator before he could grasp on to it. They kissed again and Henry found he couldn’t quite keep up with Patrick’s eagerness. His tongue dipped into Henry’s mouth almost too quickly, slid against his and Henry thought that it couldn’t be too pleasant. It sure felt dirty to him, unlike other times. Patrick’s hands moved while he kissed him breathless and sloppy, fingers dug into Henry’s hair while a warm palm slid down his side and carefully fingers found their way under his shirt. The touch tickled; sparks of warmth spread across Henry’s skin as Patrick’s hand mapped his body under the shirt and the material steadily rode up to expose his toned stomach. A bright flush had overcome Henry’s cheeks when they parted and Patrick licked his lips when he caught the appealing sight. Henry was looking a bit more alive now, a bit better. Then again, to him, Henry would always look good. He had chosen him for a reason and Patrick had good taste. He leaned down again to kiss down Henry’s jaw, his neck, and his bites were harsher than the gentle nips Henry had grown to enjoy. The room was cold, their exposed skin covered in goosebumps. It was far easier to let things happen until Henry felt Patrick toying with his belt, long and knowing fingers undoing it while he covered him in brave bright marks. There was no Butch anymore to watch out for so Patrick could leave as many of those as he wanted, wherever on Henry he wanted. Growing impatient with the stubborn belt, Patrick looked down and undid it with both hands before undoing the button and zipper. He was a bit disappointed to find that Henry hadn’t reacted to anything at all so far and he would’ve felt insulted had the circumstances been different. No matter. He would make Henry want it. They were both but animals; arousal was a natural instinct. “What’s the matter, Henry? Too much?” Patrick asked playfully, reaching for the back pocket of his own jeans. “Is my sweetheart overwhelmed? You don’t have to be shy with me, baby.” He took out a rectangular piece of foil and in the dark Henry could only make out the shape despite Patrick waving it happily in front of his face for a moment. “Look what I have!” Patrick exclaimed quietly, setting the piece of foil on the bed beside Henry. “Because you’re special, honey. It’s a little something just for you.” Patrick had to be confident that Henry could tell what he had brought him on his own and Henry might have been a rather uncaring and uneducated boy but he was able to realise what the foil contained and he would’ve done so sooner wasn’t it so dark in the room. He knew that much. Realisation crossed his eyes before making room for the very pushy and incessant panic. Henry quickly tried to sit up again and scramble away but while Patrick kept his hips trapped to the bed all he managed was to roll over to his side and try to push and pull himself away from Patrick until his hands grabbed him again. “No…!” Henry cried out, trying to kick Patrick off. “I’ll kill if you try it, Hockstetter, I’ll kill you, you faggot!” And Patrick couldn’t help but laugh; Henry was all bark, no bite left. He turned him around again, got so close to him that kicking would be impossible and he slotted their palms together in a very familiar manner before pressing his hands down onto the bed. Each time Henry would try to wriggle away, he’d press his middle up into Patrick and he’d rub against him, making Patrick bite his lip to hold in the groans. He sure was enjoying this little rebellion although pliant Henry was just as nice to have. “Are you scared, Henry?” Patrick laughed when Henry fell against the bed, exhausted in all the ways possible. Then his voice lowered to a sensual whisper, “Are you scared of me? Hey, now…There’s no need to, you little cuddle-bug, you little teddy bear. See how nice I am to you? See how nice I am when you’re good? And you’re going to be good,” “Get off me, Patrick…!” “You’re going to be a good boy for me, Henry, and good boys shut their mouths and do what the grown-ups say, right?” Patrick’s voice took on a dangerous note by the end and Henry felt it. He stilled although unwillingly and his body never stopped shaking but not with arousal. Henry looked back at the rectangular foil lost somewhere among the sheets; no, he couldn’t do this. He’d be sick again if Patrick tried. Content with the nice result his change of tone received, Patrick leaned down to kiss Henry soundly again. This time he kept his needs under tight control despite not wanting to and he felt Henry grow even more pliant as their kiss became wet; quiet little gasps escaped his lips while he tried to mimic what Patrick was doing and their lips brushed against each other nicely now with the added saliva. Patrick took one of Henry’s hands, urged it to touch him in turn and he felt Henry’s fingers caress down his side timidly, almost afraid to touch, to press too harshly, to hold. This was okay, this wasn’t new and intimidating. This Henry could try to cope with. A quiet groan left him when Henry’s knuckles slowly brushed along his chest and the light touch made Patrick shiver. Shy fingers moved across his shoulder and held the back of his neck, an unspoken plea for Patrick to not move, to not end the kiss just now. Henry’s other hand tightened its hold on Patricks, desperate to feel him. And while this wasn’t just what Patrick was in the mood for, he could indulge Henry-kins all he wanted and there would be nothing and nobody to ever know and stop them. They could kiss all night long till the break of dawn, then under the dark rays of the early sun he could have him nice and slow, he could have him rough and fast and who would deny him? Henry sure wouldn’t. Patrick ended the kiss with a final short peck to Henry’s wet and reddened lips. He let their foreheads rest against each other and stayed close, not for Henry but for himself; he liked feeling Henry’s warm breath ghost over his lips as he panted and gasped, loved feeling him shiver as the aftershocks of their kiss subsided. “I love you, Henry,” Patrick said and maybe he meant it, maybe he didn’t…He couldn’t know but to Henry, it was an honest admission. His eyes opened, wide, hopeful and searching, innocent despite all the dirty things he’s ever done, despite the remains of blood covering his face and hands. He was an angel compared to Patrick in thoughts and actions. His cheeks became a little redder, his breath stuttered. “Do you know just how much…” “Yeah…” Henry sighed, staring up into Patrick’s eyes, and for a brief moment, it was just them and nothing else. “How much?” “A lot…?” Patrick felt the intense urge to pinch his cheeks; that went away rather quickly. He kissed him instead and his hands stroked down Henry’s face, along his neck and chest unhurried and confident. Patrick didn’t make Henry take off his shirt, maybe he wouldn’t have let him if he had tried to tear it off and right now they didn’t need any more emotional outbursts. Henry had just become pliant again, Patrick didn’t want to go back on that careful progress. Their position was becoming a bit too tiring to hold and it was harder to fully undress Henry while Patrick was braced over him so. He moved to lie on his side slowly and Henry followed him, not wanting to break the kiss so early. He moaned, softly, like an exhale, when Patrick slid his hand along his lower back and then down the side of his thigh, slowly bringing down his loose jeans. The material hung around his hips and it would go easily when it was time, for now, Patrick liked having it there. He felt Henry touch him again, his inexperienced hand gaining a bit of courage as he groped down his side curiously. Oh, the things Patrick could show him, how well he could train him in time. But it wasn’t the time now and it didn’t matter if Henry pleased him like this or not. Patrick would be getting enough personal pleasure in just a few moments. He was becoming impatient again, Patrick felt. And as much as he wanted to take his time and keep on making Henry pant like such a good little boy, he also couldn’t wait. It had been so long, years…Ever since he saw Henry first on the playground breaking that Tozier kid’s glasses, ever since leaving the baseball ball by his doorstep to seek attention and ever since he took the picture to indulge in countless sleepless nights where he’d make himself filthy to the thought of what this exact moment would feel like. It was time to get it on and experience it first-hand. He held Henry’s hips as he rolled to lay on his back fully now and urged Henry to take the more dominant position over him. Patrick knew it was safe, otherwise, he wouldn’t have done if he had known Henry might punch him and bolt. To his luck, Henry was too out of it to care how Patrick moved him. He melted right into him again and when Patrick’s hand found the front of his pants, he noted smugly that he was getting hard. Now that was going places, that was something nice. That’s how it had to be. Patrick palmed him slowly and with confidence, one hand holding Henry’s hip and thumb gently stroking along the edge of his underwear. The soft touch was enough to make Henry moan again, just a tad louder, and their kiss broke. His eyes opened and he stared down at Patrick through his lashes, as if he wasn’t even seeing him at all. The fucked-out look suited him damn well. “You like that?” Patrick asked knowingly, continuing with his ministration. He pressed the heel of his palm down just a bit before rubbing upward and Henry gasped, his fingers tightening around Patrick’s sides while his head fell to his shoulder. Patrick could feel just how hot the skin of his face was and he trailed his lips up the side, nosing the patch of soft skin just his ear as he spoke, “Yeah, I know you do. Just like that, Henry. Come on…Let me hear you, sugar.” Henry’s clammy palms ran up his torso, searching desperately for something to hold on to while Patrick jerked him off through his boxers. He was painfully hard by the time Patrick decided to give him a little break and Henry didn’t complain although he was mildly uncomfortable with how close he had been when Patrick stopped so abruptly. Patrick’s hands tugged down his jeans and he shamelessly groped along the back of Henry’s thighs, feeling along the warm skin, pinching and making Henry groan. The stifled noises felt good against Patrick’s neck and even better against his lips when he kissed him again. “Can’t we…Like this…?” Henry stuttered when Patrick took his place over him again. “Nu-uh, sweetheart,” Patrick said, staring down at Henry while he leisurely palmed at his own hard member through his jeans. He worked off his belt and set it aside for if Henry ever needed a reminder to be good and quiet, and he undid the zipper of his jeans, grinning when he found Henry following every movement of his fingers. “I’ve got some other plans now. Just sit tight there.” “But…” Henry tried to protest again, too embarrassed, too ill at the thought of what he would be doing in just a moment to form any proper explanation as to why he didn’t want Patrick doing it to him. “Henry, what did I say about the buts?” Patrick said and this time his tone was once again warning. He reached over for the condom and caught it between his fingers before setting it close again. “None of that. Be a good boy. You promised.” “But this is better.” Henry tried to convince him, pulling Patrick down for a needy, distracting kiss. It was sloppy and Henry wasn’t as good as Patrick so the sentiment was left meaningless. “Come on, just…I want this now.” “Later.” Patrick denied him, not especially touched by Henry’s whiny tone. “This’ll be much better.” “I don’t want it like that…” “Because you don’t know how good it can feel, babes. You don’t ever got to be scared that I’ll hurt you, Henry. You know that.” And while Henry still appeared apprehensive, Patrick smoothed out the wrinkles of his shirt and combed his dishevelled hair with his fingers, waiting. He looked like a doll. Patrick pushed his jeans down his hips but he never took them off fully, not because he was that disinterested in having them rolling in bed hot and naked but because having sex half-dressed seemed like a very appealing idea. He slid over Henry again, their naked skin touching. Patrick’s greedy fingers found the waistband of Henry’s underwear and he tugged the constricting material aside to find with annoyance that maybe he had given Henry too much time to think and too long a rest; he was growing soft again. Henry’s hands found his waist again and his fingers dug into his skin when Patrick touched him again, cold fingers closing around his heated flesh. A tortured sound left his lips and his thighs tried to close, trapping Patrick in place. Warmth shot through him and it coiled in the pit of his empty stomach along with the fear and worry, just like the first time Patrick had ever touched him so intimately. A bead of sweat rolled down his neck and Patrick followed it with thirsty eyes as he tugged his own briefs down low enough to expose his own straining erection. A guttural groan rumbled deep within Henry’s throat when Patrick ground down into him, the hot skin of his member sliding against his wetly. A sob followed a pitiful moan and Patrick wondered if he really had enjoyed it or if he was letting the shame and dirtiness of the act overwhelm him again. He kissed him, not caring to get an answer. His own body was buzzing with the pleasure of unearthly intensity and Patrick knew that it had never felt so good and it would never feel as good as when he was with Henry. Luckily they had their whole lives ahead of them to do it again and again, and… Henry stopped him again when Patrick tried to pull away and reach for the condom again, “Please, just…Just do it like this?” “Just be a bit more patient, doll,” Patrick promised, drinking in the look of uncertainty on Henry’s face like it was finely-aged whiskey. He kissed the side of Henry’s mouth, waited for those greedy lips to part chasing his before pressing two of his fingers past his teeth. “It’s okay, hon. It’s all good. Make sure to get those wet now.” A tear slid down the side of Henry’s face; he knew he wouldn’t be winning this argument. His chest heaved while he sucked tentatively at the digits in his mouth and Patrick watched him as his own lips mouthed along his jaw. He moved them back and forth when he thought Henry wouldn’t notice, the sloppy sounds filling their ears and leaving room for nothing else. A little pool of glistering precum formed over Henry’s abdomen and it smeared between them when Patrick thrust his hips up. Henry moaned and gagged then around his fingers, slobbering all over himself. He seemed to be embracing the situation a little better, just a little better… When he opened his eyes to look up at Patrick, for a brief moment Henry thought he saw his father’s shadow moving past the wall behind him. It was gone before he knew it but it left him breathless with panic as the memories of what they had done just a few minutes ago flooded his mind. He hiccupped around every breath and Patrick kissed him through it, thrust into him until all Henry could think about was the sticky warmth between his legs and how horrible and shameful the pleasure felt. “Sweetie, love, baby…” Patrick spoke and each sweet word was followed by an even sweeter kiss down Henry’s throat. “It’ll feel great, Henry. I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe with me, you know that.” His wet fingers trailed down Henry’s heaving stomach and he lifted his middle a bit to stroke along his dick, then just a bit lower south…That is, until Henry shot up suddenly and grabbed his wrist to stop the slow descent. He didn’t do anything but sit there though and so Patrick thought that whatever problem he had, he wouldn’t be too violent about it. “What is it, love,” he groaned, “make it snappy.” Henry wasn’t looking up at him; he was looking somewhere over his shoulder, at the open door maybe? Maybe he was looking for a way out? But that couldn’t be the right answer because unexpectedly for both of them his wrapped his arms around Patrick and he pulled him in for what had to be a…hug? Well, Henry had always been an interesting person but he still managed to stun Patrick like nothing before. Now, this is plenty off-putting. “What is it, Henry? You can tell me.” “I know you don’t love me…” Henry said after a deep inhale. He opened his mouth to say something else but the words wouldn’t come, no matter how long Patrick waited. If he had trouble saying them, then maybe they weren’t that important. This time when Patrick laid him down on the bed, Henry didn’t touch him and he didn’t kiss him back, and he didn’t open his eyes look at him…He pawed at the bed and he held on to the pillows and the sheets; his teeth worried his lip under Patrick’s unnecessarily careful touches. He was playing it mad, hmm? Well, Patrick wasn’t particularly touched. He fingered Henry open for the first time and he shushed him and cooed when his body resisted the stubborn intrusion. Spit didn’t make for a very good lubricant either but it was Henry’s discomfort while he worked that kept Patrick going. He spread his fingers, watched his mouth open as he gasped and winced, relished the way his body tensed and fingers shook around the pillow he squeezed so desperately. It had to hurt, for the first time and as slow as Patrick had decided to take it, he couldn’t help but thrust his fingers into Henry just a bit harsher every few moments to see him grit his teeth and squeeze his eyes shut. Patrick removed his fingers with a wet, dirty squelch and Henry took a deep breath. He had fought until now to remain deaf and blind to everything filthy Patrick did to him so expertly and he tried horribly to deny the spark of pleasure he could feel through the pain of having the invasive digits probing so deeply. Patrick gave him no time to rest; Henry was already half-hard and it wouldn’t be getting any better with what Patrick had in mind. He took the condom, put on a little show of tearing the foil with his teeth although Henry couldn’t and didn’t want to see. He rolled the latex on quickly, clinically, and somehow the lack of response from Henry’s side had made Patrick rather irritated and blind to the pleasure that had been rolling through him in hot waves. He took Henry’s hand – the one which bore a faded scar of so long ago - in his and Henry let him. When Patrick sunk into him finally with a slow roll of his hips, precum and saliva easing the way, his fingers squeezed around his hand and Patrick knew then that he might have been a bit bitter but he still needed the comfort in his pain. Because it did hurt, emotionally so more than physically, and it was an incessant sting and uncomfortable stretch, hot, wet and… “Stop…” Henry wheezed, looking up at Patrick for the first time, “Fuck, stop, please…” “You’re so good, Henry.” Patrick shushed him, holding himself back as much as he could from thrusting into the inviting heat without a care. His fingers tightened around Henry’s hand in turn, those of the other leaving a red print over Henry’s thigh. “So fucking good, you know…? You’re so pretty like this…” His messy bangs stuck to his forehead with the sweat and Patrick moved those aside, staring down at Henry as he panted. His flushed face, features contorted in pain and discomfort, his hair a mess, lips bitten and kissable… The blood on his hands, on his face, staining his shirt in messy stains. That was modern art, expressionism. It was better than any painting his father had sold or ever would sell in all his miserable life. God, Patrick might just try finding a place in the art business himself if it was all even half as beautiful and sinful as Henry Bowers was. That sweet little thing… The preparations for the actual act were the most interesting part of the mental struggle; the sex itself was rather boring, maybe because Henry stopped participating as soon as it began. He was out of it mentally, his body tensing whenever he heard the bedpost creak or the wind howl outside. To the sound of Patrick’s voice he would whine like a needy pet but not for more – he wanted him to stop. The blood was eventually what ended it, just like it had started it. Staring down at Henry’s distant gaze, Patrick took his hand and he ran it along his own body to feel the dry skin caress his. He linked their fingers, sped his impatient thrust a little, and as he stared at Henry’s pretty face and thought of what their shared life would be from now on, he took one bloodied finger into his mouth to try and savour the sweet taste of the dried blood. He came with a guttural growl muffled in the damp skin of Henry’s neck, his thrusts becoming wild and messy while he rode out the aftershocks. Never in his life had Patrick felt like this, so alive, so hot and bothered. The muscles of his abdomen tightened and he wanted more as he held on to Henry, relishing the feeling of his closeness as Henry had before. Patrick laid his head over Henry’s panting chest while he caught his breath. He ran his shaking fingers along Henry’s still clothed body, smoothing out his shirt once again and offering pitiful remnants of comfort. Inhaling deeply the prominent smell of sex and sweat, Patrick closed his eyes. He let himself feel Henry like he never could before and he listened to his wild, erratic heartbeat. His little heart beat into his palm and Patrick splayed his fingers over Henry’s chest to feel it best. He was alive, he was breathing… He was real. And Henry was there with Patrick like nobody else ever had been, in a way so special that Patrick never wanted to let him go before. If he had believed before that he needed Henry then now he didn’t just need him, Patrick wouldn’t be able to exist without Henry there. He would never let Henry leave, ever. Unlike him, Henry did not enjoy his first time with another. He came only when Patrick finished him with a few quick jerks of his hand and it was nothing like the way Patrick would do it usually, he didn’t edge him slowly and when Henry came the pleasure came in short, even forced bursts. He felt tired, worn out, and the spasms of his muscles as he reached his own orgasm brought more pain than gratification and satisfaction. It made him feel dirty again and as he let his mind slowly come back to the present, that feeling grew stronger. Patrick left him for a moment to go dispose of the condom and wash his hands, walking through the house as casually as he would in his own despite the recent murder its walls had become witnesses to. When he returned, Henry was quietly sobbing. He pulled up his underwear and stripped him off his dirty pants before straightening up his shirt and helping them both under the already warmed covers. Henry was unresponsive for the most part and while Patrick had expected him to crawl closer and perhaps – this he was left greatly disappointed by – cling to him while he fell asleep, Henry turned the other way and remained quiet but for the breathless cries and childish sniffles. Obviously, he was still going to act hurt…Well, as he wished. Patrick wrapped his arms around him, slotting his body behind Henry’s and keeping him prisoner in a tight embrace. And while Henry fought to perceive just what had happened between them, while he tried to chase away the chills crawling around not just over his skin but underneath where he couldn’t rub the filth away, Patrick kissed his forehead and took his hand. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” He promised, as if Henry wanted to hear that. Needless to say that Henry wasn’t able to sleep well the reminder of that long, endless night. Patrick was far too soon out like a light but he wanted to toss and turn, wanted to run and hide and for the earth to swallow him and his shame whole. The only time he managed to doze off for longer than a few minutes, nightmares chased him into wakefulness again and Henry awoke with a heavy start. He had imagined the very vivid sound of the front door opening then shutting as if his father had come home. But Butch would never come home again…Good riddance. Cold sweat drenched his stiff body as Henry panted through the fear the short nightmare had charged him with. His eyes strayed towards the door of the room, letting in the daunting darkness of the hall outside spill in. He could almost hear the distant echo of footsteps coming closer…A breathy sob tore from his bitten lips and with a shaking hand, Henry reached to turn on the bedside lamp. Thankfully, it worked, and the bulb buzzed to life to throw a soft glow around them. Henry took back his, wrapped his heavily shaking fingers around the pillow as he stared at the comforting orb of light. Patrick slept unbothered behind him and Henry could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. His warm breath ghosted across the back of his neck…Unable to shed any more tears, his eyes too sore and swollen to even consider crying, Henry slowly turned to face him. He had always liked how nice Patrick’s face appeared whenever he slept. It was certainly a preferred sight to the door. Shifting closer, mindful not to jostle Patrick too much and wake him, Henry shut his eyes again. This time when sleep took him under, there were no nightmares.  Patrick was the first of them to get up just an hour after Henry had fallen into a blissful, dreamless slumber. The sun had just begun to rise. He got dressed quickly, just as eager to begin cleaning up their mess as he had been yesterday to watch Henry do some heavy damage on his poor daddy. The TV was still on in the living room. And to Patrick’s great surprise, the mess yesterday had appeared bigger than it really was. Butch Bowers laid in his armchair, cold and dead, and aside from the wide patches of dried blood covering the armchair and carpet nothing else had been dirtied up. Henry’s clothes and parts of his had taken care to shield the rest of the living room from the gushing source of life. It took him some time, mostly because Butch was far heavier than him, for Patrick to drag his body out wrapped tightly in a few sheets and blankets he had found in Henry’s room. Well, his ex-room. Patrick and he would be making some good use of Mr Bowers’ bedroom from now on, hopefully, the man wouldn’t mind. Of course, he wouldn’t. Patrick was already panting by the time he dragged that heavy bundle of sheets as far out into a part of the backyard as he could, then he set out to take out the carpet and armchair. Everything touched by the blood had to go. He helped himself to an old rusty shovel he found in the shed by the house and he got to digging. The sun was already halfway up in the horizon when Patrick had a nice, wide enough hole at his feet where he dumped Mr Bowers, the carpet and the armchair after he made sure to hack it up to nice, flammable bits. He lit those up like fireworks for the Fourth of July and watched the nearly black smoke ascent towards the bright sky, carrying the pungent stench of burning flesh. Patrick let those sizzle and burn for about an hour, enjoying the smell of the smoke and the hungry tongues of the flames licking into the air, before manning the shovel again and covering up the hole. He was itching for a shower by the time he finished and his muscles ached after the hours spent working. The sun was becoming hotter, beating down on him until Patrick cursed it for its silent observation of the earth and his private business. When he walked back inside, Patrick was surprised to find Henry awake and waiting for him in the living room. He sat cross-legged and silent on the now bare floor, staring numbly at the TV screen where Tom chased Jerry. He didn’t respond to Patrick’s presence and that startled Patrick further. “Henry?” He asked, stepping closer towards him. Just now did Patrick notice that Henry held the old baseball ball in hand. He hadn’t showered either and his hands still bore the blood stains the colour of old rust. “Hey, babes,” Patrick called out, his voice considerably soft so he wouldn’t startle Henry out of his daze, “what is it?” “You don’t love me,” Henry began suddenly, his voice far too loud into the silence, “then what’s up with this?” He threw the ball into the wall behind the TV, only it didn’t bounce back. It fell to the floor with a heavy thump and stayed there. “Why this? Why the picture?” “I don’t understand you.” “Why are you still here if you don’t love me?” Henry clarified. “Why haven’t you left yet?” Patrick could tell by the tension he saw in Henry’s body that he was very afraid of the possible answer. It was flattering, really. He crossed the space between them and knelt down behind Henry. His arms came around him and now, Henry too sensed the stench of burnt flesh and sweat. It could become their signature scent. “You took all I had,” he said, “I can’t give you any more.” “I already have all I want, Henry.” Patrick soothed him, leaning into his body so Henry could feel his presence. He placed a lingering peck to his neck, covered in beautiful marks of passion. “Silly, sweetheart. You were all I ever wanted. Now we have each other, no distractions…” “You’re lying,” Henry stated, although he couldn’t help but want to believe him. “Then how about I show you?” Nudging his jaw so Henry turned his face towards his, Patrick kissed him. It was a soft kiss, a childish one – lips to lips and nothing but pressure. A simple brush. When they parted, Patrick smiled idly. “Yeah? How about I just show you?” “Okay.” Henry agreed with amazing ease. He wasn’t scared anymore. If he was to choose between dying alone and dying of love…He would much rather have Patrick watch it happen. 
 “I love you, honey.”

“…I do too.”