Lay Me Down (Kyle/Oliver) *WIP*
Story Title: Lay Me Down - Chapter Nine (*WIP*)
Author's Name: rhombus_
Pairing: Kyle/Oliver
Rating: R
Warnings: AU setting; historical inaccuracies; cliches; old timey racism
Summary: Kish in the Old West. Yep. That about sums it up. AU (of course).
Disclaimer: Characters ≠ mine.
Previous parts:
Chapter One - The Vow
Chapter Two - Our Own Place
Chapter Three - The Lesson
Chapter Four - This Land is Your Land
Chapter Five - The Hunt
Chapter Six - Bad Men
Chapter Seven - Life Lessons from the Undertaker
Chapter Eight - Birth
Lay Me Down
Chapter Nine - The Star
---
Lakeside Ranch, Montana Territory. 1879.
Kyle Lewis, age 16.
---
"Ey-a!"
Kyle stopped his mallet mid-swing and looked up. A man on horseback trotted up to him on the opposite side of the fence-a split-rail he was building around the perimeter of the grazing fields.
"Yeah?" he asked.
"You with the Fishes?"
Kyle wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve and nodded. It was a warm day, the air heavy and damp with humidity.
"And a Mr. R. Lewis?" the man asked.
"Yessir."
"Letters." The messenger rifled through his leather satchel and tossed over a handful of mail. Kyle caught them against his chest with one arm, dropped his mallet, and poked through the stack. Three for the Fishes. A normal haul. The one that caught his attention-and planted a seed of curiosity in him-was a folded letter on sky blue paper. Brown ink curled into thin, clean lines addressed the mail to his father. Kyle flipped it over and squinted at the tiny lettering in the red wax seal.
He thought he could make out the words Tabernacle and Joy. Which didn't mean a darned thing to him.
"Storm's coming," the man said before he flicked the reins and trotted off.
Kyle looked up at the sky. A shadow of gray clouds hung over the tops of distant mountains. He tucked the mallet under his arm by the handle and started jogging back to the main house. There really was no rush to get there; the storm was a ways off and the mail could wait the extra ten minutes it would take him to walk. It was just... he usually didn't get a chance to go by the main house during the day. Or ever, really. And that's where Oliver was likely to be.
He thought about the night before. About the barn. The birth, and Oliver's arms curled around him. He wished he hadn't fallen asleep so soon after they had delivered the calf, but he'd been working since sun-up, and the birth had taken the last of his energy. He'd woken sometime in the night and reached out a sleepy arm, only to come up with a handful of cold hay. Oliver had gone. Back to the house, to his room. The one place Kyle couldn't follow. But he knew Oliver couldn't be caught out of the house too late at night. He knew what Mr. Fish was capable of.
He popped into his own front door and left his father's letter on table. He was still curious about it, but it could wait.
At the main house, he took the porch stairs two at a time, then hesitated at the front door. He'd never been so close to it before. He ran a finger down one of the grooves. It was sanded smooth, silky as a feather. He'd been trying to get one of his own carvings that soft, but his tools were old and worn and inefficient.
"Salma?" he said in a hushed voice through the door. "Salma? You here? Got the mail."
He thought about leaving the letters on the porch. It's what the messenger would have done. But what if the wind came through? He looked out toward the horizon. Those dark clouds still hovered over the pale gray mountains. The storm could come in and wash the letters clear away.
He laid his hand flat against the door and pushed. It slowly creaked open.
"Hello? Anyone home?" He took a slow step inside. "Oliver?"
No answer, aside from the swing of the door as it closed behind him.
The house was smaller on the inside than it looked from the outside. He'd always imagined it as spacious-palatial, even. Maybe it was just from the way Mrs. Fish used to dress Oliver as a boy, in all his fine clothes. Almost as if he had been a little prince in his shiny boots and clean, long socks, his pressed pants and vests with smooth, ivory buttons that glinted in the sunlight. Kyle would look down at his own dirty shirts and wonder what kind of spell kept Oliver's so crisp and white.
But this house was no prince's castle. A thin layer of dust sat atop plain wooden furniture-dull and unpolished, like his own. Perhaps he and Oliver were not so very different after all...
He heard footsteps on the porch through a sudden gale of wind. Kyle darted into the kitchen. There was a servants' entrance there. He could sneak out of the house unnoticed.
But something kept him where he was. A vision of Oliver, entering the house with a book tucked under his arm, his round cheeks pink from walking. Kyle smiled to himself. He missed Oliver like breathing, though he'd just seen him the night before.
But the smile quickly vanished as a second pair of footsteps hit the porch, stringing a weight of lead around his ankles, stopping him in his tracks. Stopping even the beat of his heart for a moment as he heard the trilling, birdsong voice of Mrs. Fish.
"Please, George," she said. "This is important."
Kyle felt his blood freeze. Mr. and Mrs. Fish. If they caught him in the main house without permission... He wondered how quietly he could sneak to the servants' entrance.
"The last time you brought 'important' matters to my attention, my dear, I wasted an afternoon on the latest hat styles sweeping New York City."
"It's about Oliver!" Mrs. Fish cried. Kyle froze in place, the servants' entrance entirely forgotten.
"Is he hurt?"
"No."
"Then I don't see-"
"I fear for him, George." She sounded on the verge of tears. "For his eternal soul."
Kyle remembered those words. From the Bible. They made him shiver.
George sighed. "Whatever this is about, Barb, I don't have time for it."
"He's... he's in trouble, George. I saw him-" She stopped. Silence crowded all the corners of the house, thick and uncomfortable.
"You saw him what?" George spoke each word slowly and deliberately.
"It... it doesn't matter."
"That's what I've been saying," he said softly.
"Please, George, you have to help me save him."
"He goes to church. I see him reading scripture. What else do you want me to do? Call the priest out for an exorcism?"
"If you think that will help..."
George sighed again. Kyle peeked through the crack in the door and saw George rub Barbara's shoulders comfortingly.
"What's really going on here, Barb? What aren't you telling me?"
Barbara fell into his arms and sobbed.
"George! Oh, George!" she cried. "We have to save him from that boy!"
"That boy? Lewis's boy? What's he done now?"
"He's a devilish creature," she spat out. "Salma always said he had the demon in him. I didn't believe her. I didn't. But now-I see it, George. I've seen it."
"Seen what?"
Kyle had a sudden vision in his head. Oliver's shirt, lying inside the barn door. Moved from where he had dropped it. She saw.
"The whole family..." Barbara muttered against her husband's chest. "Cursed. Cursed by the devil. And the mother-!"
Kyle's fists clenched. If she dared insult his ma...
He heard the sound of paper crunching. The unopened letters were still in his hand, now crushed under his fist.
"They said she was a-" Her voice lowered to a whisper, but Kyle could still hear her. "-a mixed race. Oriental or something."
"You're being ridiculous. Oliver's wet nurse was a Mexican, for God's sake."
"That's probably why she died so young," Barbara said, ignoring the interruption. "Don't they say the mixed breeds are more prone to fever?"
Kyle couldn't stop himself from shaking. His blood ran hot all through him.
"Barb," George said, running a palm gently along the back of her head. "Oliver's not a boy anymore. And I'm not his jail warden."
Barbara pulled back, but her fingers still dug into his shoulders with a talon-like grip. "Send them away."
"What?"
"The boy and his father. Send them away."
"And why would I go and do that?"
"Because I asked you to," she said. "It's not as if they're irreplaceable."
George sighed again. "You think help comes that cheap around here? You don't know how lucky we are. The father works for bourbon and the boy for pennies. Less than that since he relinquished his wages to me." He shook his head. "I can't afford to let them go, Barb, demons or no."
Barbara's face crumpled like the letters in Kyle's hand. Tears streamed down her reddened cheeks.
A loud clap of thunder shook the walls of the house. It shook Barbara, too, and seemed to throw a sudden change over her. But it wasn't fear. She straightened her shoulders and removed a handkerchief from George's shirt pocket with her small tapered fingers, then dabbed the tears away from her cheeks. She folded the handkerchief neatly back into his pocket and stared into his eyes.
"Then Oliver must go," she said in a low, steady voice. "College. In the east. It'll cost less than his tutors." She smoothed down the front of her skirt in short, brisk strokes and looked up at George as if she had just asked him to fetch her an egg from the basket.
Kyle swallowed. And swallowed again. His throat had gone drier than dust. He closed his mouth. He was breathing too loudly. They'd hear him. They'd find him. He had to go. Another boom of thunder rocked the sky, he let the letters drop from his fist, and he was across the kitchen and out the door. His legs moved without command, running, running faster than he'd ever run before.
Rain pelted down on him from a blackened sky, but he barely noticed. All he could think about was getting home, getting to his room, pulling open his trunk and being with his things. With their things. Sitting on the bed that they'd sat on together. Running his fingers along the spines of Oliver's books, the ones he was able to leave with Kyle as gifts. Tokens of their friendship. And the drawing. The ranch they were going to have together, the life they were going to live together. Someday.
He needed those things. They gave him hope, even as the truth set in. Oliver's going away. Oliver would leave and Kyle would be alone. Totally alone. Again.
He paced his room in short, frantic steps. What to do? What to do?
They could go someplace. Run away together. Kyle could get a ranch job, one with actual wages, and Oliver... well, Oliver was pretty smart. That had to count for something. He could teach. He'd done a pretty good job of it with him, he thought.
Yes. They could do it. It wouldn't be much more than a meager living, but Kyle was used to that. He could show Oliver how to live on nothing.
His hands fidgeted. He grabbed the closest thing to him on the desk, just to have something to hold. To steady his trembling fingers.
It was the star. The wooden sheriff's star he'd been carving for Oliver. It was nearly done.
He ran a finger along the six points, testing the smoothness of each edge. Not quite as perfect as he wanted them to be. The top of the star was slightly shorter than the rest, and the wood had chipped on a few of the circular endpoints. And it was still so dull. Kyle imagined a gold one, polished and blemish-free, pinned to Oliver's shirt pocket. How happy that would make his friend. How large and bright and true his smile would be.
A sudden realization dawned on him.
Oliver had a chance now. He could get away from the ranch. Get out from under the thumb of his parents. College could lead him to the man he wanted to be. The man he was supposed to be. And who was Kyle to get in the way of that?
He was nobody. A drunkard's son from a questionable lineage. Just like Mrs. Fish had said. Oliver was meant for greater things. Kyle believed that.
He knew Oliver's dreams, and not a one of them included living like paupers in some strange country.
Kyle sighed, and resignation sank into his chest. Oliver was better off in college, far away from this place that was like a locked wooden cage surrounded by nothing on all sides.
---
"Psst!" Kyle gripped his legs tighter around the wet tree limb. One of the smaller branches dug into his thigh, but he wasn't sure enough of his grip to move even an inch. "Oliver!" he whispered, hoping his voice could be heard over the steadily falling rain.
Getting up the tree had been easier than he expected, but now that he was there, hugging one of the thick, outlying branches with his arms and legs, he didn't quite know what to do. Oliver's second story room was directly across from him, the shutters open and knocking against the side of the house in the storm. Stupid to leave them open in this weather, but Kyle wouldn't gripe about it, not when it meant getting the chance to see him.
If he was even in there. More rain fell on Kyle, soaking his clothes, and he started to feel as if maybe this wasn't the cleverest idea he'd ever had. But sitting around in his room doing nothing just wasn't cutting it. He had to get out of there, to find Oliver, to tell him-
To tell him what he didn't know if he should tell him.
"Oliver!" he whispered again, louder this time.
Oliver's head poked out of the window and his eyes went wide with surprise. "Kyle?!"
"Hey," Kyle said, a bit sheepishly.
"What are you doing out there?!"
"Climbing your tree," Kyle joked. Oliver didn't laugh. "I had to see you," Kyle said. A sudden sense of hopelessness and longing washed over him, and it was as cold as the rain seeping through his shirt.
Oliver leaned out the window. Raindrops hit his hair then slid down his face. "They're sending me away."
"I know." Kyle paused, not sure what to say next. "It's because of me."
"I know," Oliver said.
God. Kyle felt like crying. His fingers slipped on the wet branch. Oliver reached out a hand-though he was too far away to do anything.
"You should get down from there, Kyle."
But Kyle wasn't going to let a little nothing of a feeling like guilt distract him from the mission at hand. He set his jaw and steeled his shoulders. "Move aside, Oliver."
"What?"
"Move aside. I'm coming in."
He let go of the branch and stood very slowly. The tree limb wobbled underneath him.
"Kyle-!"
"I got this," he said, more to himself than Oliver. The ground looked much farther away now than it had when he'd been on his stomach. He swallowed, then held his arms out to the side to steady himself. The rain kept pushing his hair over his eyes, but he didn't dare lift an arm to brush it out of the way. With a deep breath, he leapt to the windowsill. His body slammed against the side of the house painfully, but his elbows were over the sill. Instinct kicked in and his arms locked, keeping him from plummeting. He scrambled up, bouncing his toes softly against the wood.
"A little help?" he managed through a clenched jaw.
Oliver rushed over, grabbed him under the arms, and pulled. With maybe just a little too much force, as Kyle's full weight came up and over. Their chests crashed together and they toppled awkwardly-and noisily-to the floor.
"Shh!" Kyle said. Oliver lay still underneath him, his eyes wide and black. Kyle thought he could feel the soft thump of Oliver's heart tripping, and it sent a quiver through his own chest. He breathed deep, but it didn't settle a thing.
There they were again. Lying on the ground, one atop the other. Just like in the barn.
It was the wrong time. Definitely the wrong place. But Kyle didn't know if he could stop himself. He'd been thinking about Oliver nonstop. All he wanted to do was kiss him. All the time.
But he held himself back, somehow. He couldn't chance it. Not when he didn't know what Mrs. Fish had told her son. Not when he didn't know if he'd ever see Oliver again. Not when it could ruin everything.
Still, those warm breaths on his lips... All he had to do was lean down and capture them...
"Get off!" Oliver whispered, shoving him by the shoulders.
"What the-?" All the air deflated from Kyle's chest as his back hit the floor and a silent curse ripped through him. He knew it was a mistake. His stupid, foolish heart!
Oliver hopped to his feet. "I hear something. Someone's coming."
Kyle scrambled up, turning in circles, desperate to find a hiding place. His eyes narrowed in on the bed.
"Okay," he breathed out. "Just act normal, Oliver."
"Normal?"
"Calm, you know? Like there's nothing strange afoot."
Oliver bit his lip and nodded. His eyes looked very far away. "Yeah. Okay."
"Okay?"
"Mm hmm."
Kyle slapped him on the shoulder in support, then quickly slid under the bed, tucked his hands under his chin, and watched Oliver's booted feet step toward the door.
There was a polite knock and then a soft voice came through the door. "Oliver?" It was Mrs. Fish. "Oliver, sweetie?"
"Yeah, Ma?" His voice trembled slightly.
"May I come in?"
Kyle held his breath and remained as still as a silo. The door creaked open slowly.
"What is it, Ma?"
"The storm. It's getting cold out. I brought you an extra quilt."
Silence held the room in its grasp. "Oh. Okay," Oliver finally said. "Thank you."
"Shall I put in on the b-"
"No!" Oliver squeaked. Kyle slammed his eyes shut in frustration. So much for calm and normal. But Oliver quickly recovered. "I can do it," he said. "I'm not helpless. I need to learn how to take care of myself, you know. At college."
"Oh," Barbara cried. "I'm going to miss you, my sweet little Oliver! My little boy!"
Kyle rolled his eyes. This coming from the woman who so coldly decided to send him away in the first place.
"I'll miss you too, Ma," Oliver said. His voice was muffled, as if his face were being pressed against fabric. "Ma?" he said. "Ma? Can you... can you let go now?"
Kyle heard her sniffle. Her skirts rustled and her small booted feet clacked against the wooden floorboards as she backed away.
"Goodnight, Ma."
"I love you, Oliver."
"Love you, too," Oliver said, and then the door closed. Kyle waited a few moments, just to be sure. He heard the quilt fall on the mattress above him. "Kyle?" Oliver whispered. He sounded unsure, as if Kyle had magically escaped the room while no one was looking.
Kyle grinned to himself. "Is it safe to come out now, sweet little Oliver?"
"Quiet you," Oliver said, laughing. Kyle crawled out and stood before Oliver. He looked paler than before, and tired. But he was relaxed, and seemed comfortable in Kyle's company.
Kyle pushed a length of wet hair off of his face that had fallen over his eyes during the fall and subsequent scramble to hide. He was surprised when Oliver reached forward and tucked a stray, damp lock behind his ear, too.
"You need a haircut," he said with a very serious expression, as if it were the most important thing in the world.
Kyle just tilted his head and stared at him. Oliver pulled his hand back and nervously tapped a balled fist against his leg. His cheeks bloomed red and he looked down at the floor, embarrassed. Kyle wanted to lift up his chin and tell him that everything was all right, that everything was going to be all right.
"When are you leaving?" Kyle asked instead, keeping his hands to himself.
"Tomorrow morning."
"What? So soon?"
"Father's in town now. He's sending a wire to my mother's relatives in Michigan. I'm staying with them until everything's settled with the school. The train leaves in the morning. They're both coming with me, to send me off. My parents. And Salma, too." Oliver looked at him with an apology in his eyes. It was a clear, unspoken message. You can't come. You can't say goodbye. I'm sorry.
So Kyle did the only thing he could think of. He stepped close, leaned in, and pressed his lips against Oliver's cheek, then he angled his face up, dragging it softly along Oliver's slightly fuzzy skin, and laid another gentle kiss on Oliver's temple, then another on his forehead. It felt different than how they'd been together in the barn. This was reverential, almost pious-Oliver the altar to Kyle's worshipful touch. He rested his forehead softly against Oliver's and took in his presence. The crinkle of his kind eyes, his smell, the way his body was so warm and magnetic, always drawing Kyle closer and closer, but never close enough.
Oliver's hands came up and cupped Kyle's face. They were so large, those pugilist's hands of his Kyle had always been so enthralled with. They were big enough to cover almost the whole of his head. Kyle felt safe in those hands. Protected.
He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath when he felt Oliver's own lips against his forehead.
There was no better moment. He had to tell Oliver how he felt.
"Oliver, I-"
He'd only ever said it a handful of times, and only to his family-years ago, when Rebecca and his mother were still with them. He hadn't ever felt that way about anyone else. But now?
Now, Oliver was his family.
"Kyle?" Oliver stared at him with those cotton-soft eyes.
Say it, you fool.
"I..." He felt it in his bones, in every inch of his body. He felt it so strongly. "I..."
But he couldn't say it. "I'll write to you," he said quickly. "While you're away."
Oliver smiled a sad, fleeting smile.
"And I'll cut my hair," Kyle added. It did the trick, turning that sad smile into a real belly laugh that sent vibrations all the way up to where their foreheads touched.
"Don't," Oliver said through his laughter. "Don't change a thing. Promise me?"
"Yeah." Kyle sobered. "I promise."
He pulled back and noticed a line of wetness streaking Oliver's cheek to his chin. He didn't know if it was rain or tears, but it didn't matter. He thumbed it away, rubbing Oliver's cheek a few extra times, just to make sure it was clean and he hadn't left any smudges.
He wiped his hand on the back of his pants and felt something in his rear pocket.
"Oh, I forgot," he said suddenly. "I, uh, I made this for you." He pulled out the wooden sheriff's star and thrust it clumsily at Oliver.
Oliver's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to say something... but nothing came out. He dropped his head and kicked the toe of his shoe against the floor. Kyle grabbed Oliver's hand and folded it around the star. He stayed there, his hand covering Oliver's for a few silent moments. He didn't know what to say. How to say goodbye. Just the thought of it made his throat ache.
"Here." He took the star from Oliver's hand and tucked it into his front pocket instead. "Keep it here, close to your heart."
Oliver nodded, but still didn't say anything. Kyle couldn't read his face, couldn't tell if Oliver was touched or confused or sad or maybe all three all mixed together. Maybe he didn't have anything to say. Maybe they didn't need to say anything else at all.
Kyle turned and slung one knee over the window, then gauged the distance to the ground. If he hung from the ledge, then dropped straight down, it wouldn't be too hard of a fall. He looked up at Oliver one last time. "Don't forget who you are and your dreams, okay?"
Oliver kept nodding, and then Kyle was out the window. His feet hit the ground and he was running again. Always running.
---
He threw off his rain-soaked jacket and went to the kitchen to find matches. His body shivered all over, but he could warm himself by candlelight. Oliver's candles...
His father sat at the table. His eyes were red-rimmed and wet, his mouth slack, his hair a shambles, as if he'd dragged his hands through it for hours. There was a jug by his elbow, but no cup.
"Pa?" Kyle said, taking a cautious step forward. "What's wrong?"
"Jin," he mumbled to the tabletop. His face was ashy and pale. "Your mother..."
Kyle sighed. Drunk again. Which wasn't a surprise. He lifted the half-empty jug of bourbon, provided of course by George Fish, and contemplated joining his father in drunkenness for the evening.
"Weeping in her grave now..." his pa muttered. "...weeping for your sister."
That was when Kyle noticed the opened letter on the table. Light blue paper, brown ink, red wax seal.
"Rebecca?" He lunged for the letter. "No."
No. No no no no no.
He skimmed it as fast as he could. There was a block in his brain. He read the words, but he barely understood them.
"Tabernacle of Joy...
... convent... Sister Rebecca..."
Kyle fell into a chair, his body rigid, icy cold. Completely numb.
"... run away... dangerous man..."
The letter slipped from his fingers and hit the floor.
"God forgive her wicked soul."
(...TBC...)
Chapter Ten - Seven Circles
Author's Name: rhombus_
Pairing: Kyle/Oliver
Rating: R
Warnings: AU setting; historical inaccuracies; cliches; old timey racism
Summary: Kish in the Old West. Yep. That about sums it up. AU (of course).
Disclaimer: Characters ≠ mine.
Previous parts:
Chapter One - The Vow
Chapter Two - Our Own Place
Chapter Three - The Lesson
Chapter Four - This Land is Your Land
Chapter Five - The Hunt
Chapter Six - Bad Men
Chapter Seven - Life Lessons from the Undertaker
Chapter Eight - Birth
Lay Me Down
Chapter Nine - The Star
---
Lakeside Ranch, Montana Territory. 1879.
Kyle Lewis, age 16.
---
"Ey-a!"
Kyle stopped his mallet mid-swing and looked up. A man on horseback trotted up to him on the opposite side of the fence-a split-rail he was building around the perimeter of the grazing fields.
"Yeah?" he asked.
"You with the Fishes?"
Kyle wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve and nodded. It was a warm day, the air heavy and damp with humidity.
"And a Mr. R. Lewis?" the man asked.
"Yessir."
"Letters." The messenger rifled through his leather satchel and tossed over a handful of mail. Kyle caught them against his chest with one arm, dropped his mallet, and poked through the stack. Three for the Fishes. A normal haul. The one that caught his attention-and planted a seed of curiosity in him-was a folded letter on sky blue paper. Brown ink curled into thin, clean lines addressed the mail to his father. Kyle flipped it over and squinted at the tiny lettering in the red wax seal.
He thought he could make out the words Tabernacle and Joy. Which didn't mean a darned thing to him.
"Storm's coming," the man said before he flicked the reins and trotted off.
Kyle looked up at the sky. A shadow of gray clouds hung over the tops of distant mountains. He tucked the mallet under his arm by the handle and started jogging back to the main house. There really was no rush to get there; the storm was a ways off and the mail could wait the extra ten minutes it would take him to walk. It was just... he usually didn't get a chance to go by the main house during the day. Or ever, really. And that's where Oliver was likely to be.
He thought about the night before. About the barn. The birth, and Oliver's arms curled around him. He wished he hadn't fallen asleep so soon after they had delivered the calf, but he'd been working since sun-up, and the birth had taken the last of his energy. He'd woken sometime in the night and reached out a sleepy arm, only to come up with a handful of cold hay. Oliver had gone. Back to the house, to his room. The one place Kyle couldn't follow. But he knew Oliver couldn't be caught out of the house too late at night. He knew what Mr. Fish was capable of.
He popped into his own front door and left his father's letter on table. He was still curious about it, but it could wait.
At the main house, he took the porch stairs two at a time, then hesitated at the front door. He'd never been so close to it before. He ran a finger down one of the grooves. It was sanded smooth, silky as a feather. He'd been trying to get one of his own carvings that soft, but his tools were old and worn and inefficient.
"Salma?" he said in a hushed voice through the door. "Salma? You here? Got the mail."
He thought about leaving the letters on the porch. It's what the messenger would have done. But what if the wind came through? He looked out toward the horizon. Those dark clouds still hovered over the pale gray mountains. The storm could come in and wash the letters clear away.
He laid his hand flat against the door and pushed. It slowly creaked open.
"Hello? Anyone home?" He took a slow step inside. "Oliver?"
No answer, aside from the swing of the door as it closed behind him.
The house was smaller on the inside than it looked from the outside. He'd always imagined it as spacious-palatial, even. Maybe it was just from the way Mrs. Fish used to dress Oliver as a boy, in all his fine clothes. Almost as if he had been a little prince in his shiny boots and clean, long socks, his pressed pants and vests with smooth, ivory buttons that glinted in the sunlight. Kyle would look down at his own dirty shirts and wonder what kind of spell kept Oliver's so crisp and white.
But this house was no prince's castle. A thin layer of dust sat atop plain wooden furniture-dull and unpolished, like his own. Perhaps he and Oliver were not so very different after all...
He heard footsteps on the porch through a sudden gale of wind. Kyle darted into the kitchen. There was a servants' entrance there. He could sneak out of the house unnoticed.
But something kept him where he was. A vision of Oliver, entering the house with a book tucked under his arm, his round cheeks pink from walking. Kyle smiled to himself. He missed Oliver like breathing, though he'd just seen him the night before.
But the smile quickly vanished as a second pair of footsteps hit the porch, stringing a weight of lead around his ankles, stopping him in his tracks. Stopping even the beat of his heart for a moment as he heard the trilling, birdsong voice of Mrs. Fish.
"Please, George," she said. "This is important."
Kyle felt his blood freeze. Mr. and Mrs. Fish. If they caught him in the main house without permission... He wondered how quietly he could sneak to the servants' entrance.
"The last time you brought 'important' matters to my attention, my dear, I wasted an afternoon on the latest hat styles sweeping New York City."
"It's about Oliver!" Mrs. Fish cried. Kyle froze in place, the servants' entrance entirely forgotten.
"Is he hurt?"
"No."
"Then I don't see-"
"I fear for him, George." She sounded on the verge of tears. "For his eternal soul."
Kyle remembered those words. From the Bible. They made him shiver.
George sighed. "Whatever this is about, Barb, I don't have time for it."
"He's... he's in trouble, George. I saw him-" She stopped. Silence crowded all the corners of the house, thick and uncomfortable.
"You saw him what?" George spoke each word slowly and deliberately.
"It... it doesn't matter."
"That's what I've been saying," he said softly.
"Please, George, you have to help me save him."
"He goes to church. I see him reading scripture. What else do you want me to do? Call the priest out for an exorcism?"
"If you think that will help..."
George sighed again. Kyle peeked through the crack in the door and saw George rub Barbara's shoulders comfortingly.
"What's really going on here, Barb? What aren't you telling me?"
Barbara fell into his arms and sobbed.
"George! Oh, George!" she cried. "We have to save him from that boy!"
"That boy? Lewis's boy? What's he done now?"
"He's a devilish creature," she spat out. "Salma always said he had the demon in him. I didn't believe her. I didn't. But now-I see it, George. I've seen it."
"Seen what?"
Kyle had a sudden vision in his head. Oliver's shirt, lying inside the barn door. Moved from where he had dropped it. She saw.
"The whole family..." Barbara muttered against her husband's chest. "Cursed. Cursed by the devil. And the mother-!"
Kyle's fists clenched. If she dared insult his ma...
He heard the sound of paper crunching. The unopened letters were still in his hand, now crushed under his fist.
"They said she was a-" Her voice lowered to a whisper, but Kyle could still hear her. "-a mixed race. Oriental or something."
"You're being ridiculous. Oliver's wet nurse was a Mexican, for God's sake."
"That's probably why she died so young," Barbara said, ignoring the interruption. "Don't they say the mixed breeds are more prone to fever?"
Kyle couldn't stop himself from shaking. His blood ran hot all through him.
"Barb," George said, running a palm gently along the back of her head. "Oliver's not a boy anymore. And I'm not his jail warden."
Barbara pulled back, but her fingers still dug into his shoulders with a talon-like grip. "Send them away."
"What?"
"The boy and his father. Send them away."
"And why would I go and do that?"
"Because I asked you to," she said. "It's not as if they're irreplaceable."
George sighed again. "You think help comes that cheap around here? You don't know how lucky we are. The father works for bourbon and the boy for pennies. Less than that since he relinquished his wages to me." He shook his head. "I can't afford to let them go, Barb, demons or no."
Barbara's face crumpled like the letters in Kyle's hand. Tears streamed down her reddened cheeks.
A loud clap of thunder shook the walls of the house. It shook Barbara, too, and seemed to throw a sudden change over her. But it wasn't fear. She straightened her shoulders and removed a handkerchief from George's shirt pocket with her small tapered fingers, then dabbed the tears away from her cheeks. She folded the handkerchief neatly back into his pocket and stared into his eyes.
"Then Oliver must go," she said in a low, steady voice. "College. In the east. It'll cost less than his tutors." She smoothed down the front of her skirt in short, brisk strokes and looked up at George as if she had just asked him to fetch her an egg from the basket.
Kyle swallowed. And swallowed again. His throat had gone drier than dust. He closed his mouth. He was breathing too loudly. They'd hear him. They'd find him. He had to go. Another boom of thunder rocked the sky, he let the letters drop from his fist, and he was across the kitchen and out the door. His legs moved without command, running, running faster than he'd ever run before.
Rain pelted down on him from a blackened sky, but he barely noticed. All he could think about was getting home, getting to his room, pulling open his trunk and being with his things. With their things. Sitting on the bed that they'd sat on together. Running his fingers along the spines of Oliver's books, the ones he was able to leave with Kyle as gifts. Tokens of their friendship. And the drawing. The ranch they were going to have together, the life they were going to live together. Someday.
He needed those things. They gave him hope, even as the truth set in. Oliver's going away. Oliver would leave and Kyle would be alone. Totally alone. Again.
He paced his room in short, frantic steps. What to do? What to do?
They could go someplace. Run away together. Kyle could get a ranch job, one with actual wages, and Oliver... well, Oliver was pretty smart. That had to count for something. He could teach. He'd done a pretty good job of it with him, he thought.
Yes. They could do it. It wouldn't be much more than a meager living, but Kyle was used to that. He could show Oliver how to live on nothing.
His hands fidgeted. He grabbed the closest thing to him on the desk, just to have something to hold. To steady his trembling fingers.
It was the star. The wooden sheriff's star he'd been carving for Oliver. It was nearly done.
He ran a finger along the six points, testing the smoothness of each edge. Not quite as perfect as he wanted them to be. The top of the star was slightly shorter than the rest, and the wood had chipped on a few of the circular endpoints. And it was still so dull. Kyle imagined a gold one, polished and blemish-free, pinned to Oliver's shirt pocket. How happy that would make his friend. How large and bright and true his smile would be.
A sudden realization dawned on him.
Oliver had a chance now. He could get away from the ranch. Get out from under the thumb of his parents. College could lead him to the man he wanted to be. The man he was supposed to be. And who was Kyle to get in the way of that?
He was nobody. A drunkard's son from a questionable lineage. Just like Mrs. Fish had said. Oliver was meant for greater things. Kyle believed that.
He knew Oliver's dreams, and not a one of them included living like paupers in some strange country.
Kyle sighed, and resignation sank into his chest. Oliver was better off in college, far away from this place that was like a locked wooden cage surrounded by nothing on all sides.
---
"Psst!" Kyle gripped his legs tighter around the wet tree limb. One of the smaller branches dug into his thigh, but he wasn't sure enough of his grip to move even an inch. "Oliver!" he whispered, hoping his voice could be heard over the steadily falling rain.
Getting up the tree had been easier than he expected, but now that he was there, hugging one of the thick, outlying branches with his arms and legs, he didn't quite know what to do. Oliver's second story room was directly across from him, the shutters open and knocking against the side of the house in the storm. Stupid to leave them open in this weather, but Kyle wouldn't gripe about it, not when it meant getting the chance to see him.
If he was even in there. More rain fell on Kyle, soaking his clothes, and he started to feel as if maybe this wasn't the cleverest idea he'd ever had. But sitting around in his room doing nothing just wasn't cutting it. He had to get out of there, to find Oliver, to tell him-
To tell him what he didn't know if he should tell him.
"Oliver!" he whispered again, louder this time.
Oliver's head poked out of the window and his eyes went wide with surprise. "Kyle?!"
"Hey," Kyle said, a bit sheepishly.
"What are you doing out there?!"
"Climbing your tree," Kyle joked. Oliver didn't laugh. "I had to see you," Kyle said. A sudden sense of hopelessness and longing washed over him, and it was as cold as the rain seeping through his shirt.
Oliver leaned out the window. Raindrops hit his hair then slid down his face. "They're sending me away."
"I know." Kyle paused, not sure what to say next. "It's because of me."
"I know," Oliver said.
God. Kyle felt like crying. His fingers slipped on the wet branch. Oliver reached out a hand-though he was too far away to do anything.
"You should get down from there, Kyle."
But Kyle wasn't going to let a little nothing of a feeling like guilt distract him from the mission at hand. He set his jaw and steeled his shoulders. "Move aside, Oliver."
"What?"
"Move aside. I'm coming in."
He let go of the branch and stood very slowly. The tree limb wobbled underneath him.
"Kyle-!"
"I got this," he said, more to himself than Oliver. The ground looked much farther away now than it had when he'd been on his stomach. He swallowed, then held his arms out to the side to steady himself. The rain kept pushing his hair over his eyes, but he didn't dare lift an arm to brush it out of the way. With a deep breath, he leapt to the windowsill. His body slammed against the side of the house painfully, but his elbows were over the sill. Instinct kicked in and his arms locked, keeping him from plummeting. He scrambled up, bouncing his toes softly against the wood.
"A little help?" he managed through a clenched jaw.
Oliver rushed over, grabbed him under the arms, and pulled. With maybe just a little too much force, as Kyle's full weight came up and over. Their chests crashed together and they toppled awkwardly-and noisily-to the floor.
"Shh!" Kyle said. Oliver lay still underneath him, his eyes wide and black. Kyle thought he could feel the soft thump of Oliver's heart tripping, and it sent a quiver through his own chest. He breathed deep, but it didn't settle a thing.
There they were again. Lying on the ground, one atop the other. Just like in the barn.
It was the wrong time. Definitely the wrong place. But Kyle didn't know if he could stop himself. He'd been thinking about Oliver nonstop. All he wanted to do was kiss him. All the time.
But he held himself back, somehow. He couldn't chance it. Not when he didn't know what Mrs. Fish had told her son. Not when he didn't know if he'd ever see Oliver again. Not when it could ruin everything.
Still, those warm breaths on his lips... All he had to do was lean down and capture them...
"Get off!" Oliver whispered, shoving him by the shoulders.
"What the-?" All the air deflated from Kyle's chest as his back hit the floor and a silent curse ripped through him. He knew it was a mistake. His stupid, foolish heart!
Oliver hopped to his feet. "I hear something. Someone's coming."
Kyle scrambled up, turning in circles, desperate to find a hiding place. His eyes narrowed in on the bed.
"Okay," he breathed out. "Just act normal, Oliver."
"Normal?"
"Calm, you know? Like there's nothing strange afoot."
Oliver bit his lip and nodded. His eyes looked very far away. "Yeah. Okay."
"Okay?"
"Mm hmm."
Kyle slapped him on the shoulder in support, then quickly slid under the bed, tucked his hands under his chin, and watched Oliver's booted feet step toward the door.
There was a polite knock and then a soft voice came through the door. "Oliver?" It was Mrs. Fish. "Oliver, sweetie?"
"Yeah, Ma?" His voice trembled slightly.
"May I come in?"
Kyle held his breath and remained as still as a silo. The door creaked open slowly.
"What is it, Ma?"
"The storm. It's getting cold out. I brought you an extra quilt."
Silence held the room in its grasp. "Oh. Okay," Oliver finally said. "Thank you."
"Shall I put in on the b-"
"No!" Oliver squeaked. Kyle slammed his eyes shut in frustration. So much for calm and normal. But Oliver quickly recovered. "I can do it," he said. "I'm not helpless. I need to learn how to take care of myself, you know. At college."
"Oh," Barbara cried. "I'm going to miss you, my sweet little Oliver! My little boy!"
Kyle rolled his eyes. This coming from the woman who so coldly decided to send him away in the first place.
"I'll miss you too, Ma," Oliver said. His voice was muffled, as if his face were being pressed against fabric. "Ma?" he said. "Ma? Can you... can you let go now?"
Kyle heard her sniffle. Her skirts rustled and her small booted feet clacked against the wooden floorboards as she backed away.
"Goodnight, Ma."
"I love you, Oliver."
"Love you, too," Oliver said, and then the door closed. Kyle waited a few moments, just to be sure. He heard the quilt fall on the mattress above him. "Kyle?" Oliver whispered. He sounded unsure, as if Kyle had magically escaped the room while no one was looking.
Kyle grinned to himself. "Is it safe to come out now, sweet little Oliver?"
"Quiet you," Oliver said, laughing. Kyle crawled out and stood before Oliver. He looked paler than before, and tired. But he was relaxed, and seemed comfortable in Kyle's company.
Kyle pushed a length of wet hair off of his face that had fallen over his eyes during the fall and subsequent scramble to hide. He was surprised when Oliver reached forward and tucked a stray, damp lock behind his ear, too.
"You need a haircut," he said with a very serious expression, as if it were the most important thing in the world.
Kyle just tilted his head and stared at him. Oliver pulled his hand back and nervously tapped a balled fist against his leg. His cheeks bloomed red and he looked down at the floor, embarrassed. Kyle wanted to lift up his chin and tell him that everything was all right, that everything was going to be all right.
"When are you leaving?" Kyle asked instead, keeping his hands to himself.
"Tomorrow morning."
"What? So soon?"
"Father's in town now. He's sending a wire to my mother's relatives in Michigan. I'm staying with them until everything's settled with the school. The train leaves in the morning. They're both coming with me, to send me off. My parents. And Salma, too." Oliver looked at him with an apology in his eyes. It was a clear, unspoken message. You can't come. You can't say goodbye. I'm sorry.
So Kyle did the only thing he could think of. He stepped close, leaned in, and pressed his lips against Oliver's cheek, then he angled his face up, dragging it softly along Oliver's slightly fuzzy skin, and laid another gentle kiss on Oliver's temple, then another on his forehead. It felt different than how they'd been together in the barn. This was reverential, almost pious-Oliver the altar to Kyle's worshipful touch. He rested his forehead softly against Oliver's and took in his presence. The crinkle of his kind eyes, his smell, the way his body was so warm and magnetic, always drawing Kyle closer and closer, but never close enough.
Oliver's hands came up and cupped Kyle's face. They were so large, those pugilist's hands of his Kyle had always been so enthralled with. They were big enough to cover almost the whole of his head. Kyle felt safe in those hands. Protected.
He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath when he felt Oliver's own lips against his forehead.
There was no better moment. He had to tell Oliver how he felt.
"Oliver, I-"
He'd only ever said it a handful of times, and only to his family-years ago, when Rebecca and his mother were still with them. He hadn't ever felt that way about anyone else. But now?
Now, Oliver was his family.
"Kyle?" Oliver stared at him with those cotton-soft eyes.
Say it, you fool.
"I..." He felt it in his bones, in every inch of his body. He felt it so strongly. "I..."
But he couldn't say it. "I'll write to you," he said quickly. "While you're away."
Oliver smiled a sad, fleeting smile.
"And I'll cut my hair," Kyle added. It did the trick, turning that sad smile into a real belly laugh that sent vibrations all the way up to where their foreheads touched.
"Don't," Oliver said through his laughter. "Don't change a thing. Promise me?"
"Yeah." Kyle sobered. "I promise."
He pulled back and noticed a line of wetness streaking Oliver's cheek to his chin. He didn't know if it was rain or tears, but it didn't matter. He thumbed it away, rubbing Oliver's cheek a few extra times, just to make sure it was clean and he hadn't left any smudges.
He wiped his hand on the back of his pants and felt something in his rear pocket.
"Oh, I forgot," he said suddenly. "I, uh, I made this for you." He pulled out the wooden sheriff's star and thrust it clumsily at Oliver.
Oliver's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to say something... but nothing came out. He dropped his head and kicked the toe of his shoe against the floor. Kyle grabbed Oliver's hand and folded it around the star. He stayed there, his hand covering Oliver's for a few silent moments. He didn't know what to say. How to say goodbye. Just the thought of it made his throat ache.
"Here." He took the star from Oliver's hand and tucked it into his front pocket instead. "Keep it here, close to your heart."
Oliver nodded, but still didn't say anything. Kyle couldn't read his face, couldn't tell if Oliver was touched or confused or sad or maybe all three all mixed together. Maybe he didn't have anything to say. Maybe they didn't need to say anything else at all.
Kyle turned and slung one knee over the window, then gauged the distance to the ground. If he hung from the ledge, then dropped straight down, it wouldn't be too hard of a fall. He looked up at Oliver one last time. "Don't forget who you are and your dreams, okay?"
Oliver kept nodding, and then Kyle was out the window. His feet hit the ground and he was running again. Always running.
---
He threw off his rain-soaked jacket and went to the kitchen to find matches. His body shivered all over, but he could warm himself by candlelight. Oliver's candles...
His father sat at the table. His eyes were red-rimmed and wet, his mouth slack, his hair a shambles, as if he'd dragged his hands through it for hours. There was a jug by his elbow, but no cup.
"Pa?" Kyle said, taking a cautious step forward. "What's wrong?"
"Jin," he mumbled to the tabletop. His face was ashy and pale. "Your mother..."
Kyle sighed. Drunk again. Which wasn't a surprise. He lifted the half-empty jug of bourbon, provided of course by George Fish, and contemplated joining his father in drunkenness for the evening.
"Weeping in her grave now..." his pa muttered. "...weeping for your sister."
That was when Kyle noticed the opened letter on the table. Light blue paper, brown ink, red wax seal.
"Rebecca?" He lunged for the letter. "No."
No. No no no no no.
He skimmed it as fast as he could. There was a block in his brain. He read the words, but he barely understood them.
"Tabernacle of Joy...
... convent... Sister Rebecca..."
Kyle fell into a chair, his body rigid, icy cold. Completely numb.
"... run away... dangerous man..."
The letter slipped from his fingers and hit the floor.
"God forgive her wicked soul."
(...TBC...)
Chapter Ten - Seven Circles