Chapter 3: The Bond
Silas drove with both hands on the wheel, eyes straight ahead. Timothy sat in the passenger seat and watched the farmland roll past. The sky was grey and heavy, and the trees along the county road bent in the wind. Neither man had spoken since the truck pulled out of the drive. Timothy's hands lay in his lap, and they would not be still.
He tried to press them flat against his thighs and the tremor just ran through his legs instead. He clenched his fists, felt the nails bite, and that helped for a breath or two before the shake found his shoulders.
Silas glanced over once. "You need a drink or something."
It was not a question.
"I need a lot of things," Timothy said.
Silas kept driving. The truck hummed over the pavement. A hawk sat on a fence post and watched them pass.
They reached the edge of town in under twenty minutes. Timothy lived above a shuttered hardware store on the west side, a narrow walk-up with warped stairs and a door that stuck. He unlocked it with a key from his pocket and led Silas inside.
"Nothin' much," Timothy said. "Don't judge."
The apartment was one room plus a kitchenette. A bed against the left wall, neatly made. A small table with two chairs. A sink with dishes drying on a rack. The windows faced the street, and the light that came through them was grey and thin.
"It's fine," Silas said.
Timothy closed the door behind them. He stood in the middle of the room and put his hands in his pockets, then took them out, then crossed his arms, then let them drop. He could feel Silas watching him, patient and steady, and that made it worse.
"I'll get you some water," Timothy said.
He moved to the kitchenette. His hands shook as he took a glass from the cabinet. The glass clicked against the shelf. He turned on the tap and filled it, and the water ran cold and clear.
"Do you want something to drink?" he asked.
Silas did not answer right away. Timothy watched the glass fill and the water rise toward the rim. He watched his own hand tremble, and he thought about the yard, the fire, the purple burning hole in the field, what it had taken to put Mark's bones into the ground the first time. He thought about the words said around a kitchen table that morning, and how none of them had anything to do with him.
He turned, glass in hand, and looked at Silas.
The man stood by the door with his coat on and his hands loose at his sides. The light from the window caught the side of his face. He was not big. He was compact and quiet and he looked at Timothy like he had all the time in the world.
Timothy's throat closed.
His heart was already pounding, had been pounding since the drive began, but now it went louder, harder. The glass in his hand shook. The water trembled and slopped over the rim and ran over his fingers, cold.
"Fuck," he yelled.
The glass slipped. It hit the floor and burst, water and shards spraying across the linoleum. Timothy stood there with his hand still open and empty, and he could not catch his breath.
Silas crossed the room in four steps. He did not stop at the mess. He reached Timothy, took hold of his wrist, and lifted the shaking hand. Timothy stared at him. The tremor ran up through his arm and into his chest. Silas held his wrist and did not let go.
"Breathe," Silas said.
"I told you." Timothy's voice came out cracked. "I ain't never killed nobody. I helped bury him, that's all. Tim dug the hole. I helped put him in the ground. But I didn't, I didn't, my hands are, I can't."
"I know."
"You don't know. You didn't see him. You didn't see Sera the night she, the way she looked, the thing she did, the way she stood over the body like it was nothing, like she'd done it a hundred times."
"Maybe she has."
Timothy's mouth opened. He stared at Silas and the words did nothing at all. Silas still had his wrist, and the touch was flat and firm, no judgment, no softness, and Timothy felt his body fight itself.
He yanked his hand free. He stepped back. The glass crunch crackled under his boot. He bent over, hands on his knees, and breathed in hard, ragged pulls.
Silas watched him.
"I'm fine," Timothy said. "Give me a second. I'm fine."
"You're not fine."
"I said I'm fine."
"You buried a body for your cousin. You dug him up this morning and watched him burn. You're not fine." Silas's voice stayed level. "You don't get to be fine after that. You get to breathe and then you get to sit down."
Timothy looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes.
"So what the fuck do you want from me?" he said. "You want me to tell you I'm fine when I'm not? You want me to pretend I didn't see what I saw?"
"I want you to sit down before you fall down."
A beat. Timothy's chest heaved. Then he pushed himself upright, stepped around the broken glass, and dropped onto the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.
Silas found a broom behind the door. He swept up the shards and the water, carried the mess to the kitchen, and dumped it in the trash. He rinsed the broom and leaned it back against the wall. When he turned, Timothy had not moved.
"You want to tell me what else is bothering you?" Silas asked.
Timothy laughed. It came out as a short, miserable sound.
"You," he said.
"Me."
"Yeah." Timothy raised his head. His eyes were still red but he looked at Silas now, sharp, angry, wrecked. "You. You been standin' there in that yard like it all makes sense to you. Like you seen a body burn before. Like you know what the hell is going on with that kid and that light. And I been standin' next to you, and I don't know a goddamn thing, and every time you look at me, I feel like I'm supposed to be somebody else."
"Somebody else?"
"Somebody who ain't scared. Somebody who's got his hands steady."
Silas stood by the kitchenette. He looked at Timothy with his head at a slight angle, and the light from the window put a grey edge on his silhouette.
"You think I'm not scared?" he said.
"Look at your hands," Timothy said. "You ain't shook. You ain't never shook."
"I shook the first time I saw the man I work for do what he does." Silas's voice dropped. "I shook so hard I threw up in a ditch. It didn't matter. The shaking wears off."
"Does it."
"It does." Silas walked over and stopped in front of Timothy. "You don't get rid of the fear. You get used to carrying it. That's different."
Timothy looked at his own hands again. They had gone still now, or nearly so. A faint tremor ran through the fingers, nothing like before.
Silas was close. The space between them was the width of one step. The room had gone quiet around them, the street outside muffled by the walls.
"Why'd you bring me here?" Silas asked.
"Fuck. You want to know?"
"I asked."
"Because I didn't know where else to go." Timothy's voice came out raw. "I was standin' in that yard and I couldn't think straight. Everything got loud. And you were there, you were just standin' there watchin' it all like it was any Tuesday, and I got it in my head that if I stayed next to you, I'd be all right."
Silas looked at him for a long moment.
"You're safe," he said.
Timothy laughed again, a broken sound. "Safe. That's rich. You, me, this town, that boy. Nothin' about this is safe."
"I don't mean the town." Silas stepped closer. "I mean you. You're safe with me. You hear me? You can shake. You can yell. You can cry if you need to. I ain't going anywhere."
The words landed. Timothy's breath caught. His gaze went from Silas's eyes to his mouth and back up, and he knew he was giving himself away, knew it like he knew his own name, and he could not stop it.
"The last time someone said that to me," Timothy said, "was my mom, before she died."
"Then it's been too long."
Timothy's throat worked. He stood up off the bed, slow, and the space between him and Silas closed to nothing. He could smell him, road dust and sweat and the faint smoke of the morning's fire. His body was screaming at him now, every nerve lit, his hands shaking again, and it was not fear.
"Don't look at me like that," Timothy said.
"Like what?"
"Like you know what I'm thinkin'."
"I don't." Silas's voice was low. "Tell me."
Timothy's chest rose and fell. He stood close enough that the front of his shirt brushed Silas's coat. His hands hung at his sides and his fingers twitched.
"Tell me," Silas said again.
Timothy reached out. His hand came up and closed over Silas's coat, fisting the fabric at his chest. He pulled him a half inch closer. He was shaking, hard, the tremor running through his whole body, and he read the question in Silas's face: whether to stop it or let it go.
Timothy's breath came out in short, ragged pulls, each one shaking in his chest before it left him. He held Silas's coat fisted in his hand, knuckles white, and he could not find the words. His mouth opened and closed, and the air in his lungs came in wet, unsteady gasps.
"I can't." The words scraped out of him. "I can't breathe when you look at me like that."
Silas did not move. He stood with the coat pulled taut across his chest, close enough that Timothy could feel the warmth coming off him through the fabric.
"Then don't look at me," Silas said.
Timothy let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob. "Too late. It's been too late since the goddamn yard."
Timothy let go of his coat. The heat drained out of his hands. He stood there for one long breath and saw the nothing in Silas's face, the same patient watchfulness he'd worn all morning, and it felt like a door closing.
"Never mind," he said. His voice came out flat. "It's stupid. You're right."
He turned and walked toward the bathroom.
Three steps. The floorboards creaked. The bathroom door was open, a slice of white tile and a towel hanging crooked on a hook. Timothy focused on it. He focused on the bathroom, on the towel, on anything except the man behind him and the heat still crawling up his neck.
"Tim."
Silas's voice came low. Not loud. Just a word, and Timothy stopped with his hand on the bathroom doorframe.
"I ain't going in the bathroom," Timothy said. "I just. I need a minute."
"You don't need a minute."
Timothy turned.
Silas had not moved from the spot by the bed. He stood with his coat still on, hands loose at his sides, and the grey light split his face down the middle. He was looking at Timothy with something in his eyes that had not been there a moment ago. Not rejection. Not patience. Something hungrier.
"You were gonna let me walk in there," Timothy said.
"I was waiting to see if you meant it."
"Did you want me to mean it?"
Silas's jaw worked. He crossed the room and stopped in front of Timothy, and the bathroom doorframe was at Timothy's back, and the distance between them was a hand's width.
"I wanted you to stop running," Silas said.
Timothy's breath caught. His hands had started shaking again, and he shoved one into his pocket, but the other hung in the air between them, tremoring, and he could not make it stop.
"I'm not running," Timothy said.
"You were."
"I was giving you an out."
"I didn't ask for one."
Timothy stared at him. The words sat in the space between them, and he could feel his own pulse in his throat, and the shaking had gone from his hands to his whole body. He was vibrating like a wire, and Silas stood there solid as stone, and the difference between them made him want to scream.
"I been alone a long time," Timothy said. His voice cracked. "I got Sera, but she got her own life, her own boy, her own demons. I got my trailer and my job and my hands that won't stop shaken. And then you show up, and you stand there in the yard like you own the weather, and I can't, I can't."
"Can't what?"
"Can't think. Can't breathe. Can't do anything except stand there and want you to look at me."
He said it. It was out. The words hung in the air, raw and ugly, and Timothy felt his face burn and his throat close, and he turned again, toward the bathroom, one step, two.
Silas caught his arm.
It was not gentle. It was a hand closing around Timothy's wrist, firm, and it pulled him around hard enough that Timothy stumbled, and he came back with his chest against Silas's shoulder and his breath ragged.
"Don't," Timothy said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't touch me if you're gonna let go."
Silas looked at him. The grey light caught his eyes and they were dark and steady and they held Timothy's like a hook.
"I'm not letting go."
Timothy went still. The words went through him like a current. He stood in Silas's grip with his heart hammering and his body trembling and the heat of Silas's hand soaked through his sleeve where the wrist was bare.
"You mean that?" Timothy asked.
"I mean it."
"How do I know you ain't just sayin' it?"
Silas pulled. He pulled Timothy in, and Timothy came off his heels, and he fell against Silas's chest with both hands fisting in the coat. Silas's other hand came up and closed on the back of Timothy's neck, fingers sliding into the hair at his nape, and the grip was possessive, firm.
"Because I'm still holding you," Silas said. "Now stand there and breathe."
Timothy breathed. He breathed in Silas's smell, road dust and smoke and sweat, and the shaking ran through him but he did not pull away. He stayed fisted in the coat and let the heat wrap around him, and the bathroom door stood open a few feet away, forgotten.
"You got no idea," Timothy said. His voice was muffled against Silas's shoulder. "You got no idea what it's like. Being around you. My body goes crazy. I can't sit still. I can't think. I held a whole glass of water and my hands near shook it to pieces."
"I saw."
"You saw me drop it."
"I saw you hold it together through a morning that would've broken most men." Silas's hand stayed on his neck. "You didn't run. You didn't lie. You buried a body for your family, and you dug it up and watched it burn, and you did it because you had to. That's not weak, Tim. That's the opposite of weak."
Timothy laughed, a broken sound in the quiet room. "Don't. Don't do that. Don't make me feel like I'm something I ain't."
"I'm not making you feel anything. You're standing in my arms shaking and you think I don't see what you're scared of?" Silas's voice dropped low. "You're not scared of the gate. You're scared of me. You're scared of what happens if you stop running."
Timothy went rigid.
"Is that what you think?" he asked.
"I know it."
"You're wrong."
"Am I?"
Timothy pulled back. His hands came up and pushed against Silas's chest, and Silas let him, stepping back one pace, two. Timothy stood in the middle of the room with the broken glass still glittering on the linoleum and his chest heaving and his body screaming.
"Fuck," Timothy said. "Fuck you."
Silas watched him. The patient look was gone. In its place was something flat and watchful, and it did nothing to calm Timothy's pulse.
"You want me to go?" Silas asked.
"No." The word came out too fast. Timothy's jaw worked and he forced himself to breathe. "I don't want you to go. I want you to stop being right about everything."
Silas's mouth twitched. It was not a smile, but it was close.
"I'm not gonna stop being right," he said. "That's not in my nature."
Timothy laughed again, wetter this time. He scrubbed a hand over his face and looked at Silas through his fingers.
"You're a piece of work, you know that?"
"I been told."
Timothy lowered his hand. He stood there in the grey light, in the middle of the room, with the mess of the broken glass at his feet and the man he wanted more than he'd wanted anything standing five feet away.
The shaking had slowed. His hands were trembling, but only faintly now.
"Come here," Timothy said.
Silas walked over. He stopped in front of Timothy, close, and the space between them was gone.
Timothy reached out. His hand came up and closed over the front of Silas's shirt, and he pulled him in until their chests touched. He looked up at Silas's face, the grey eyes, the hard line of his jaw, the mouth he'd been staring at all morning.
"If you're gonna kiss me," Timothy said, "kiss me. Don't make me beg for it."
Silas looked at him. One breath. Two.
Then his hand came up and wrapped in Timothy's hair, and he pulled Timothy's head back, and he kissed him.
Timothy made a sound, low in his throat, and his hands came up and grabbed at Silas's coat, pulling him in hard. The kiss was not gentle. It was a claiming, Silas's mouth working against his, insistent, the taste of coffee and road dust, and Timothy's knees nearly went out under him.
Silas broke the kiss just long enough to breathe. His forehead rested against Timothy's, and his hand stayed fisted in Timothy's hair.
"You want to slow down?" Silas asked.
"No." Timothy's voice came out rough. "No. I been slow my whole goddamn life. I ain't slowin' down for this."
Silas's chest rumbled, a low sound that might have been a laugh. He kissed Timothy again, and this time Timothy's hands got in, shoved the coat off Silas's shoulders, and it dropped to the floor with a heavy thud.
The shirt underneath was thin and worn. Timothy could feel the heat of his body through it, the hard plane of his chest, the muscle moving under his hands. He pushed Silas back toward the bed, and Silas went, one step, two, until his calves hit the frame and he dropped onto the mattress.
Timothy stood over him. His chest heaved. The light through the window put a grey edge on Silas's shoulders where he sat on the edge of the bed with his hands braced behind him.
"You got any idea," Timothy said. His voice came out low and wrecked. "How long I been wantin' this?"
Silas looked up at him. "As long as I been wantin' it, probably."
"Since when?"
"Since the yard." Silas's voice dropped. "Since I saw you stand there with your jaw set and your hands shaking and you didn't run."
Timothy's throat worked. He stepped forward, between Silas's knees, and Silas's hands came up and settled on his hips, hot through the fabric of his jeans.
"I been scared all day," Timothy said. "Scared of the boy. Scared of the light. Scared of what happened to Mark in that field. But I ain't scared of this."
"Good," Silas said. "Because I'm done waiting."
He pulled Timothy down. Timothy went, his knees hitting the mattress on either side of Silas's thighs, and he landed with his hands on Silas's shoulders. Silas kissed him, hard, and his hands came up and worked the buttons of Timothy's shirt open one by one.
The shirt fell open. Silas's hands slid inside, across Timothy's chest, and the contact of skin on skin made Timothy gasp against his mouth.
"Christ," Timothy breathed.
Silas's hands moved down, thumbs hooked into Timothy's jeans, and he tugged. Timothy lifted his hips and the jeans came down, and his cock sprang free, already hard, and the air in the room was cold against the head of it.
Silas looked at him. He looked at Timothy's cock, standing thick and heavy, and his eyes went dark.
"Been waiting for this since I saw you lying on that bed," Silas said. "Since I saw you sprawled out in your own sheets, shirt off, mouth open."
Timothy flushed. "You saw me?'
"I saw you." Silas wrapped a hand around the base of Timothy's cock and Timothy's whole body went rigid. "And I wanted you then, and I want you now."
Timothy's head fell back. Silas's hand stroked, long and slow, and Timothy's hips bucked forward into the grip. He was already leaking, slick and hot on Silas's fingers.
"Fuck," Timothy breathed. "Fuck."
Silas stroked him for a long time, working the length of him, thumb smearing the slick over the head. Timothy's hands were on Silas's shoulders, gripping, and his thighs shook with the effort of not coming.
Timothy's head fell back. Silas's hand worked him, slow and sure, and Timothy's hips bucked forward into that grip. He was close, so fucking close, the pressure coiling hot in his gut, and then Silas's hand let go. Timothy blinked down, opened his mouth to curse the man for stopping, and saw Silas drop.
Down to his knees. On the floor of the apartment. Between Timothy's thighs.
The air left Timothy's chest all at once. He stood with his shirt hanging open and his cock standing wet and hard, and Silas looked up at him from the ground with those flat grey eyes.
"Wha.. what are you doing?" Timothy's voice cracked on the words.
Silas's hands settled on Timothy's hips, thumbs hooking into the waistband of his jeans, pushing them lower. "What does it look like I'm doing?"
"Nobody's, I never, fuck." Timothy's hands came down and grabbed Silas's shoulders. His legs were shaking. His whole body was shaking. "Nobody's ever, I don't, I ain't ever let nobody."
"Let me," Silas said. Not a question.
Timothy's throat worked. He stared down at Silas, at the hard line of his jaw, the mouth he'd been watching all morning, and the thought of that mouth on him made his cock twitch and his knees go weak.
"I can't," Timothy said. "I can't, my hands, I'm shakin', I'm gonna fuck it up."
"You're not gonna fuck anything up." Silas's hands slid up Timothy's thighs, slow, deliberate. "You're gonna stand there and breathe. That's all I'm asking."
"I can't."
"You can."
Silas leaned in. His mouth pressed to the inside of Timothy's thigh, hot and dry, and Timothy gasped, hips jerking forward. Silas's hands held him steady, thumbs pressing into the muscle of his thighs.
"Just breathe," Silas said against his skin.
Timothy dragged in a breath. He held it. Silas's mouth moved higher, kissing up the inside of his thigh, and the stubble along Silas's jaw scraped against the sensitive skin there. Timothy's hands fisted in Silas's hair without his permission.
"Fuck," Timothy breathed. "Fuck, Silas."
Silas's mouth reached the base of his cock. Timothy felt the heat of his breath against the root of it, and he could not look away from the sight of this man on his knees, grey eyes tilted up at him, waiting.
"Last chance to say no," Silas said.
Timothy's jaw worked. He stared down at Silas and felt the whole morning crash into him, the fire, the bones, the light, the fear, and underneath it all this thing he wanted so bad it made his hands shake.
"Don't you dare stop," Timothy said.
Silas's mouth opened and took him in.
The heat of it hit Timothy like a wall. Silas's mouth closed over the head of his cock, wet and hot, and Timothy's whole body seized. His head fell back, a sound tore out of him, something between a gasp and a groan, and his hands clenched in Silas's hair.
Nobody had ever done this. Dozens of women, sure, he'd scratched itches, he'd fucked them in his truck and in his bed and never once let any of them near his cock with their mouths. He'd never wanted it. He'd never trusted it. It was too close, too intimate, too much of himself laid open for someone to take.
Silas took him deeper.
Timothy's knees buckled. He caught himself on Silas's shoulders, fingers digging into the thin shirt, and he stood there trembling while Silas worked his mouth along the length of him. The wet heat, the drag of tongue, the scrape of teeth just barely present, it was too much and not enough.
"Christ," Timothy gasped. "Christ, your mouth."
Silas's hand came up and wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking what his mouth couldn't take. He pulled off just enough to breathe, and the sight of Silas's spit-slick lips, the glisten on his chin, nearly undid Timothy on the spot.
"You taste good," Silas said. His voice was rough.
Timothy made a helpless sound. "Fuck you."
"Not yet." Silas's mouth closed over him again, taking him deeper this time, and the sound Timothy made was close to a sob.
Silas worked him with a steady rhythm, mouth and hand together, and Timothy's hips started to move, small jerks forward into that heat. His hands stayed fisted in Silas's hair, not forcing, just holding on like Silas was the only thing keeping him upright.
"I'm gonna," Timothy breathed. "Fuck, I'm gonna, I can't, Silas."
Silas didn't pull away. He held Timothy's hips and took him deeper, and the pressure built hot and fast in Timothy's gut. He tried to warn him again, tried to pull back, but Silas's hand locked on his hip and held him there.
"Silas, I'm gonna come, I'm gonna, fuck."
Silas hummed around him, a low vibration that ran up Timothy's cock like a current, and that was it.
Timothy came with a ragged cry, hips jerking, release flooding Silas's mouth. His body shook through it, wave after wave, and his hands fisted so hard in Silas's hair that his arms trembled. He watched Silas swallow, the working of his throat, and the sight of it made his cock twitch again.
Silas pulled off slow. His mouth was red, wet, and he looked up at Timothy from the floor with those grey eyes, which were now a bright crimson color.
Which were now a bright crimson color.
Timothy's hands went slack. He stood there with his cock still wet and his knees shaking, and he stared down at the red eyes looking up at him from between his thighs. The grey was gone. It had been grey a moment ago, flat and patient, and now it was the color of fresh blood, and it was looking at him like it could see through to the back of his skull.
"Silas," Timothy said. His voice came out thin. "Your eyes."
Silas did not move. He stayed on his knees with his hands on Timothy's hips, and the red in his eyes pulsed once, slow, like a heartbeat.
"I know," Silas said.
Timothy's body tried to step back. His legs locked instead. He stood there with his jeans around his thighs and his shirt hanging open, and the heat that had been in him a moment ago went cold and hard in his gut.
"What the fuck is that," Timothy said. It was not a question.
Silas rose. Slow, one knee at a time, and the movement put him at his full height in front of Timothy. The crimson eyes stayed fixed on his face. He did not blink.
"I told you I've seen things," Silas said. "I told you I shook the first time I saw what Elijah does."
"Your eyes," Timothy said again. His voice cracked. "They was grey. They was grey the whole time. I been lookin' at you all morning and they was grey."
"They go red when I want something." Silas's voice stayed low and even. "Or when I stop hiding it."
Timothy's throat worked. He took a real step back this time, and his jeans caught at his knees and he nearly went down. He caught himself on the edge of the bed and stared at Silas from the new distance.