Chapter Text
“Do you believe in Hell?”
The older boy paused in his shuffling, the echoes of crickets chirping and cicadas buzzing replacing what was the unpracticed flicking of cards. His brows furrowed as he dropped the deck on his makeshift table, an old chopped log, and a large rock serving as his seat. “In a way. Why? Ya pops say somethin' again?”
Fireflies surrounded them both, landing on their sweaty skin, the bright bulbs matching the stars above them. The skin on their legs and elbows itched where mosquitoes and ants had crawled and bitten, but neither cared.
The younger boy pouted, an expression that lasted barely a second before a mischievous smile sprouted as a firefly landed on his hand. He cupped his hands together, trapping the bug inside, and giggled. “No, no, he was out huntin’ all day. But, ah, old man, Mr. Brewer did.”
The older huffed. “What was his paranoid ass goin’ on ‘bout this time?”
The younger giggled at the swear. He skipped along the swampy grass, catching as many fireflies as he could between his small fingers. “He said I was gonna go ta’ Hell, an’ that I belong there. Old man wa’ spittin’ allova’ me.” He snickered. “You’re a curse, he said, born sinful! I’m a p—pl… like a sickness?”
“Plague?”
“Yeah! That I was some plague and needed to die, and la, la, la!” The boy rolled his eyes. “I chucked a rock at his window and ran home.”
The older boy’s jaw fell, an almost disbelieving laugh escaping his lips. “Jesus… he really is a loon. Did ya’ tell your Ma?”
“Course, not. ‘S not like she can do anythin’.” The boy’s round face turned pensive, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. “But he’s not tha’ only one sayin’ it. Do yo—Do you think I’m goin’ to Hell? That I belong there?”
“I thought ya’ didn’t believe in all that stuff?”
“I don’t.”
He expected the younger one to continue, but after a minute of silence, he realized the boy was waiting for his answer. “I dunno. I don’ think so, at least.” He frowned. “Outta the two of us, it’d most likely be me goin’ to Hell.”
Just the thought of such a thing happening kept him up at night. He was haunted by nightmares of the Devil’s smiling face, demonic laughter echoing as scalding flames licked at his skin, and all the hideous little imps torturing him for the wrong things he did in his young life.
The younger boy grinned a wide, toothy smile before rushing to plop down on the stone next to the older one, nearly falling back with a yelp. He kept his cupped hands, full of imprisoned fireflies, close to his chest as he practically sang. “We can’t have that, pal! If you’re goin’ to Hell, well then, by God, I’m goin’ as well!”
Was it as comforting as it should be if the other didn’t even believe in a Hell or a God?
“Seriously?” The older said incredulously. “Maybe they were right ‘bout you bein’ mental. You’re the real loon ‘ere. You’d risk damnation and bein’ tortured just for me?”
The boy nodded. His feet bounced up and down—rapidly like a rabbit—kicking at wet grass. Then, he moved his cupped hands between them and slowly opened them. With every bulb lit, the fireflies he had caught shot out and surrounded them. They watched in awe as the bugs danced, scattering in the night sky, and blending in with the stars.
“Husker,” the younger boy softly spoke. “I really do hope that when we die, you’re by my side, Heaven or Hell.”
The older boy’s face pulled into an awkward smile, something strange curling in his gut, clogging his throat. He slowly picked up his cards again, murmuring a soft, “I hope so too.”
.
.
.
Joseph awoke to banging against his door.
The tired drunk with a racing heart found himself draped over a torn sofa, bottles littered along the floor, and drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. The room was washed in darkness, and his eyes blinked blearily, attempting to adjust. The banging against his door grew heavier, and vaguely, he could hear a muffled call for his name.
With a groan and several bones popping in protest, he gathered his strength and slowly pushed himself up. The room felt as if it were spinning as he stood; his hands were shaking, and dark spots clouded his vision. The harassment against his door became more impatient, the knocks rapid, resembling something akin to a woodpecker.
“Alright, alright, I’m goin’.” He rasped. “No need to break my fuckin’ door down.”
The slow and painful journey to the door was made worse by the acidic taste crawling up his throat. He slumped against the wall, taking a merciful rest before cautiously reaching to turn the doorknob. Later down the line, when he’s older (and not exactly wiser) and staring at the bottom of a bottle, he’ll realize that the moment he grabbed that handle and the light from the Las Vegas street began to flood into his room, he had made the worst mistake in his life.
Alastor stood on the other side, hands tucked behind his back and shifting on the tips of his toes, which were clad in clunky black dress shoes. His awkward, slanted smile grew three sizes, showing off yellow, uneven canines. “Ah, Husker! Don’t you just look fantastic. Seriously, what a dashing fellow. Is this what dames mean when they gush about ruggedly handsome? It’s a lovely morning — or night, dependin’ on how your little pessimistic eyes see it — isn’t it? Now —”
His words were endless; not a breath taken in between. Joseph stood there dead-eyed, mouth parted (with drool dried in the corner) as Alastor’s words became muddled, going in one ear and out the other. His alcohol-riddled brain was mush. He couldn’t tell if he was still drunk or hungover. He silently concluded that it was probably both.
Alastor continued rambling, blissfully unaware. His thin, bony hand briefly ran through his hair before falling back down, and Joseph’s eyes centered on the movement. He rubbed his eyes, clearing the leftover drowsiness, and focused back on Alastor with clearer vision.
He realized, for the first time, how disheveled the younger man was.
His hair was messier than usual. Alastor had always kept his hair short and styled with a heavy coat of pomade in public; his curls were always strictly kept in order and neatly straightened out. Now, though, his hair looked longer without the product weighing it down, falling just above his eyebrows. His curls were more prominent.
His crooked-rounded glasses were missing, and his collared shirt was down a button. Alastor was the type of freak who buttoned his shirts to the top button for fun, never minding the choking sensation. (Joseph had an inkling the man even enjoyed such pain.) So, for one to be unbuttoned? Hell must’ve frozen over. Upon closer inspection, Joseph could spot crimson dots splattered along his collar.
He was kind of silently concerned.
“Husker?”
Husker.
That was another thing. Alastor never called Joseph by his name, not unless it was some ridiculous nickname, such as “Joey.” But even then, he was only referred to as “Joey” when Alastor was in a bad mood or a little pissed off at him. No, instead, Alastor has always, since the day they first met, called him “Husk” or “Husker.”
“Are ya’ even listenin’ to me?” Alastor snapped a finger near Husk’s ear, suddenly leaning way too close for comfort. “Are you drunk right now?”
He should probably stop gawking and answer.
“The fuck do you want?” He grunted, his eyes squinting as he sluggishly shoved Alastor away from him.
Alastor’s smile widened as he exclaimed, “Hm, my suspicions seem correct. Drunk as usual; the stench of it all burns my eyes! Alcoholism really is a nasty habit, y’know?”
“You’re the reason I drink.” Husk shot back, his voice delving into a slur towards the end, then grumbled under his breath. “‘M not a fuckin’ alcoholic.”
Alastor raised a brow.
Husk winced as his head throbbed. “Just … quit your damn yappin’ and get inside. You’re goin’ to get us shot with how loud you’re screamin’ out ‘ere.” He pushed away from the door before the other man could respond, leaving it wide open for Alastor. He carefully trudged to the kitchen, leaning against the wall for support and nearly tripping over himself. Behind him, he heard an annoyed huff, the door hinges squeak, and then a low creak from the couch.
Husk’s home wasn’t anything special.
Some might even say it was no better than the dump a couple of hours away.
The living room, if you could even call it that, was small. The wall was marked with small indents, some of which resembled the outlines of a fist, and the once-pristine paint job was chipped and peeling in the corners of the room. The infamous couch sat in the middle of the room, covered in questionable stains that Husk chose to never think about.
Alastor claimed the seat with the fewest stains (the fucker) and propped his legs up on the wobbly and uneven coffee table. Husk watched with a frown as the action caused some bottles to tumble over and thump against the carpet flooring.
In the opposite corner of the room, atop a wooden stand, comfortably sat a radio gifted by Alastor.
The kitchen was no better. Bottles of booze practically covered every inch of the counters, some full and waiting to be drunk while others were knocked over and spilled, leaving sticky stains on the once clean surfaces. Husk yawned as he grabbed a nearby trash bin and cleared the bottles, his stomach growling. He still felt so sick, just moving caused his head to swim.
When was the last time he ate?
The couch creaked as Alastor shuffled in place; it reminded Husk of when dogs spun around before lying down, and he threw one leg over the other like he was damn royalty.
“Still a dump as always, I see! I swear, old friend, if I didn’t come here to check up on you every once in a while, you’d be dead where you’re standing. It smells like a brewery here!” Alastor laughed.
“Al, seriously, shut the hell up before I bash ya’ head in,” Husk threatened. He pointed a cracked bottle at the younger man, trying to prove his seriousness. It failed. The quick movement brought a new wave of nausea over him, the bile in his throat rising before he, disgustingly, swallowed it back down.
“It’s rude to interrupt, Husker.” Alastor sang, either completely oblivious that Husk was about to vomit or just delightfully ignoring it.
“I have the worst fuckin’ hangover right now. I really don’ need to be dealin’ with whatever bullshit ya’ got yourself into at…” Husk trailed off, his gaze glancing down to his wrist, before realizing the watch he had on just a couple of hours ago wasn’t there anymore. With a pitiful groan, he slumped over the counter and buried his face in his arms, basking in the darkness. “Do you even realize how late it is? Why not just go to Rosie with this?”
She’d be far less annoyed with Alastor than Husk was.
“All the way across town? Ha! You’re hilarious, Husker. ‘Sides, you know I can’t walk into that neighborhood either way!”
“Ah,” Husk responded. Right. “Fine. Let’s jus’ get this over with. I want ta’ go back to sleep, and you’re lookin’ like a damn mess.”
Silence followed his words, and curiously, Husk lifted his head. Alastor’s cheeks flushed, most likely from the embarrassment of realizing how disheveled he looked. He always was so particular about his image. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to fix his curls and brushing his bangs back to recreate his usual slicked-back look. Husk averted his eyes from the scene, sparing Alastor the embarrassment of his fruitless attempt. The younger man eventually gave up and proceeded to fix the buttons on his shirt.
Alastor coughed, “It seems you are just as insightful as ever. Then again, it’s more surprising given your inebriated state.”
Husk didn’t bother responding.
“As for my reason being here tonight, well, that’s a bit complicated to explain. Hmm… how does one explain this?”
“Get on with it.”
“So impatient,” Alastor huffs, his hands patting against his thighs. He shuffles once more on the couch, a calm expression fitting his face and his tone firm. “Would you say you trust me, Husker?”
“Do I—what? Why the hell is you askin'?”
“It’s a simple question, really, since you’re so insistent on pesterin’ me about this. I need to know that what’s said here won’t be repeated, not even to Rosie or Mimzy. Now, we’ve known each other for many years and, I would say, have been through many things together. I’m just wondering, how far does that go?”
Him? Pestering? Alastor was the one who came to his fuckin’ door.
Husk rolled his eyes, crossing his arms defensively. “Fine. Yeah, I trust you, alright?”
“Good,” Alastor sighed with a small grin, and then, after a deep breath, he continued. “I killed someone.”
Oh.
…
Huh.
That…
“You… killed someone?”
Alastor nodded.
Husk felt his heart drop in his stomach as his body broke into a cold sweat. The headache from earlier rolled back tenfold, pounding so hard that blood rushed to his ears. “You —What?” Husk choked, but then his eyes caught the crimson spots on Alastor’s collar. “How—No, Why? What the fuck happened? Is the body…?” He could barely string together a coherent sentence. His hands seem to move subconsciously, immediately reaching for the nearest bottle.
Alastor didn’t scold his drinking for once. Instead, he simply sighed as if it were any other day, his eyes falling to the floor and his lips pursed in thought. “The… body is still in my home. As for what happened, well…” Alastor grew quiet. His brows furrowed, and his leg began bouncing, dully thumping against the carpet. “There was an incident after work.”
“An incident,” Husk scoffed. “Because that’s what fucking ends in murder , Jesus Christ, Al.”
Alastor ignored him. “Boss had me workin’ late again, unpaid, of course, so I hadn’t been able to leave until late this evening.”
“This why you didn’t stop by the bar today?” He took another drink, internally trying to calm his racing heart.
“Yes. I heard this… sound down an alleyway when I was walkin’ home. It was right near that clothing store, y’know? The one you hate so much. There had been some men who obviously drank a bit too much, and briefly, that’s all I chalked it up to. Just a couple of drunkards causin’ trouble.” His hand had returned to running through his hair, pulling lightly. “But… then a scream made me freeze. A woman. Husker , those men were atrocious to the young dame.”
Alastor rose from the couch, pacing and fidgeting with the buttons of his shirt. “I couldn’t just not do something. Those who take advantage of the innocent in such a way are scum.”
“They are!” Husk felt his blood rise. He shoved himself away from the counter and reached for the bottle again. “They are! I know they’re a sore spot, but shit, Al! I swear you just never fucking stop gettin’ yourself into shit!”
“Should I have just let them continue? Should I have just wished them a wonderful night and bid adieu? Maybe even enjoy the show while I’m there!” Alastor snarked.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Certainly sounds like it,” Alastor retorted, rolling his eyes. He took a few seconds of silence for himself before continuing, his fingers still fidgeting with the buttons of his shirt. “I confronted them. She ran when they turned to me. Long story short, words were exchanged and slurs were thrown, but in the end, they stumbled off.”
“So then why—”
“Imagine my surprise when, while making dinner, I get a knock on my door, and it happens to be one of those men.” Alastor stopped pacing, his eyes nearly pleading with Husk. “He barged into my home, put his hands on me, and you know me, Joey. You know my aversion to such contact. I didn’t even think about it. I didn’t even realize it, but the knife f–from when I was cooking was still in my hand. It was a reflex.”
Joey.
Husk let out a breath. He put down the bottle, silently pulling himself together. What was he supposed to do? His best friend just killed someone. But it was in defense, right? He was just defending himself. He was followed and attacked in his home.
But it didn’t matter whether or not he was defending himself.
Alastor was mixed. He wasn’t even passing. Just finding a damn place to live in the same area as Alastor was a chore because most places didn’t even allow him to live there. It was to the point they were homeless for the first few months they moved here. The police wouldn’t believe him for a damn second; they would take joy in throwing Alastor away and fuck it all.
Husk’s fingernail tapped against the bottle, his foot bouncing. “Where’d you say the body was? Your room?”
“Yes… on the kitchen floor.”
Jesus Christ, please forgive me.
“I think this is the longest you’ve gone without hurling crass language at me.” Alastor’s smile twitched, looking almost uncomfortable. “Perhaps, I should do this more often.”
Alastor is coping in his own way. Alastor is coping in his own way. Alastor is coping in his own way. There’s no need to get angry at him.
Too late.
“Alastor, do you realize how serious this is? They could throw your ass in jail! Not even that! Worse, they could kill you. They could start a whole lynch or mob or—” Husk tugged at his hair, his throat growing sore at the sudden use and his heart pounding. He rarely ever lost his composure like this. “One word gets out, and we’re fuckin’ dead, Al.”
Alastor had the decency to look slightly sheepish. His hands were clasped behind him, his spine straightened, and his chest puffed. The room was heavy with a tense silence.
After a moment, Alastor chimed, his tone apologetic. “You weren’t my first option. I tried dealin’ with it on my own. Wrapped the body in that old rug you hated and tried my best to clean up the blood. I only came here because… I—you have my trust, and I needed assistance in certain areas.”
Alastor’s words hung in the air, and after a minute, Husk sighed. “Okay.” He slowly lifted his head and ran his fingers through his hair, fixing the areas he tugged. “We’re fixin’ this damn mess.”
With his hands crossed over his chest, he walked out of the kitchen. Alastor followed behind in curiosity, a crease between his brows. “Fix this, how?”
There was one positive thing to note about their area—well, not entirely positive, but it was beneficial for this very moment. They lived on the sketchy side of town, most likely the reason the two of them were allowed to live there in the first place. Gang activity, drugs, sex work, and other minor illegalities ran rampant; this was probably the one time he was grateful for it.
“Look, the woods are only a couple miles from here. We’ll grab the…” Husk paused and shuddered. “... The rug, and then throw it in the back of the car before driving out there.”
Husk opened the door and was greeted by the night sky, the moon, and the dull street lights illuminating the desolate street—not a soul to be seen. Alastor and Husk hurried up the stairs, nearly tripping over the narrow and broken steps. As they made it to the second floor of rooms, Husk’s eyes scouted for the number assigned to Alastor’s door.
24, 25, 26
Bingo.
28.
Husk silently held up his hand, and Alastor tossed the keys to him. His hands lightly shook as the keys chimed against each other while he was unlocking the door. Once he heard that familiar click, his body relaxed.
He pushed the door open, the rusted hinges squeaking, revealing a dimly lit room, and the smell of blood hit his nose instantly. Alastor stepped in to follow behind, but Husk shoved him back outside.
“Stay out here and keep watch. Make sure it’s clear. I’ll grab the rug and signal from inside when I’m ready.”
Alastor reluctantly obeyed, his lips pursed, before standing with his arms crossed beside the door.
Husk cautiously stepped into the room, his heart pounding and blood rushing in his ears. The smell grew nauseatingly stronger as he walked further into the room, his nose wrinkling. Furniture was knocked over, and crimson stains were splattered along the wall. He clenched his fist and forced himself farther into the kitchen. He couldn’t get distracted.
The kitchen wasn’t any better. Alastor’s pot-filled dinner was knocked onto the tile, along with multiple shards of a broken plate. Blood was vividly splattered and pooling on the floor, mixing with the remnants of the ruined meal. His stomach churned at the sight.
That feeling worsened when his gaze moved to the seemingly innocent rolled-up rug in the middle of the kitchen. It was a shaggy old thing that he’d expect his grandma to have, with its dull brown coloring and red patterned flowers. From the outside, it didn’t even look like it hid a body—not an awkward lump in sight. There wasn’t any blood leaking through either, though Husk suspected it had to do with how thick the rug was.
Husk clapped his hands together, shuddered, and took a deep breath, which almost caused himself to gag.
This was going to hurt his back like a bitch.
He squatted down and picked up one end of the rug, hoisting it over his shoulder with a grunt of effort.
Holy shit.
His arms shook, and his biceps burned . He internally grew insecure about his strength but quickly threw that thought away. He used a nearby counter to help balance himself and fully stand up. As he stood, he felt a shot of pain hit his lower back, and he cursed.
When he finally found some semblance of balance and was about to leave, a glint caught his attention. Curiosity got the upper hand, and, awkwardly, he shuffled carefully towards the source. As he inched closer, he spotted the shiny kitchen knife sitting on the counter, tucked away but peeking out from under a pair of blood-soaked rags. There was no doubt in his mind that this was what killed the man he was currently carrying over his shoulder.
It lay there, shiny as ever, as if it hadn’t been plunged into a man earlier. There wasn't a specific reason to be worried. From the looks of the rags, it seemed like Alastor had tried his best to wipe the knife down; a couple of rinses and it would probably look as good as new. But… just the thought of Alastor using that same knife later to chop up food was revolting to think of.
He cautiously leaned forward, the rug wobbling a little over his shoulder, and grabbed the knife. He reached up and slipped it inside of the rug.
He would just have to buy Alastor a new one later.
Husk sighed and fixed the rug over his shoulder, checking to make sure the knife was securely hidden. He struggled his way back to the front door, knocking three times. Within seconds, two knocks answered back.
Husk grunted, swinging the rug to weigh down on one side of his shoulder so he could reach the doorknob. He quickly shoved the door open, and as he stepped outside, the cool night air hit his face, a refreshing contrast to the stifling atmosphere inside. Alastor stared at him with a tight smile, his eyes only glancing at the rug before focusing back on Husk.
“Hel— Shit —Help me with this,” Husk heaved. “He’s… heavier than I thought.”
Alastor snickered as he skipped behind the older man and took the other side of the rug. Husk nearly smirked when he heard a small grunt come from behind before the pressure on his shoulder grew a little lighter.
“F—From what I’ve seen, there isn’t much happening tonight. Of course, it’s a weekday, so there ain’t much of those pro-skirts around nor junkies.”
“Lucky us.” Husk scoffed. “The car ready?”
“Yep! Might I say, Husker, you are quite the level-headed man tonight. It’s quite a surprise.”
“Shut up.”
They struggled down the stairs, their arms straining under the weight of the rug. With each step, Husk could feel the rug scratching against his bicep, no doubt leaving a painful red rash. The two men were nearly at the bottom when suddenly Alastor yelped, almost dropping his side of the rug.
“Jesus Christ! What the fuck, Al?” Husk whispered fiercely. He readjusted the rug, his biceps now practically on fire.
Alastor winced, his gaze shooting to the last step of the stairs. “Broken step. It’s too dark out ‘ere. I couldn’t see it.”
“No shit.” Husk scoffed. “Where are your glasses?”
“Busted in the kitchen somewhere.”
Husk rolled his eyes. Problems on top of problems. “Whatever, we’ve gotten this far anyway. Go get the car door. Imma jus’ carry him myself.”
Alastor nodded, hiding his face as he hurried to the car. Husk rushed as best he could behind the shorter man. Alastor unlocked and opened the doors, stepping aside with a bow for Husk to toss the rug in the backseat. The rug landed with a soft thump as Alastor shut the door and the two of them climbed into the front seats.
“I think that went fairly well, don’t you?” Alastor tiredly laughed to himself. “Now!” He clapped his hands together. “How far did you say these woods are?”
“Just a couple miles from ‘ere,” Husk yawned. “It’ll be quick.”
“Hm, lucky us then.”
Husk started up the car and sped out onto the empty streets. The street lights grew sparse the further away he drove, leaving the world around him almost void. Silence settled between the two, but it wasn’t as tense. Alastor mindlessly tapped his fingers against his thigh as he stared out the window, while Husk grumbled to himself under his breath about directions.
For a moment, he could forget and think of all of this as a peaceful little road trip. But then a strong metallic smell would waft from the backseat and completely shatter that illusion.
The buildings gradually began to disappear, and the trees grew more frequent until finally they were surrounded by the forest. Husk glanced at Alastor, wondering if maybe he had fallen asleep because of how unusually silent the other man was.
Alastor’s eyes were half-lidded, staring into the scenery with a soft smile.
Husk couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy at Alastor’s ability to find solace in this moment. Meanwhile, he was strung tight as a bowstring, ready to snap.
“So, uh, how do you feel?’
Alastor’s gaze broke away from the trees as he turned to Husk with a curious questioning brow. “How do I feel? ” He mocked. “Who are you , and what have you done with Husker?”
Husk uncomfortably shifted in his seat. “ Asshole . No, it’s just… you killed someone. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not blamin’ you or anythin’. You were attacked and had to kill someone. Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, freakin’ the absolute fuck out?”
Alastor hummed thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’m not quite sure how I feel. At first, when it happened, the biggest thing I felt was relief. I protected myself. But now there’s nothing. I don’t feel guilty or remorseful. I feel fine. I killed someone, and that’s that. Is it weird to feel that way?”
That question sounded rhetorical.
“You’re tellin’ the truth?”
“Have I ever lied to you?”
Husk’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “I’m pretty sure you have. Just don’t, I dunno, suffer alone, I guess.”
Silence again.
It was only about a few minutes later that he deemed them far enough out before Husk turned the wheel, swerving off the road and directly into the woods. The rough texture of the forest ground was bumpy, Husk’s teeth clicked and Alastor clung tight to his seat so he wasn’t thrown out the window. The trees and their shadows swallowed their car in a welcoming embrace.
They drove for about half a mile before Husk stopped the car. Both climbed out, leaves crunching beneath his shoes as Alastor opened the back doors and dragged the rug out.
It was at that moment, that split second of the rug dropping onto the dirt floor, that Husk realized he forgot to pack shovels. You can’t bury a fucking body without shovels. He cursed under his breath. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palm, as he held himself back from taking that knife hidden inside the rug and just offing himself because what the hell were they supposed to do now?
“Any brilliant ideas now, Husker?”
Husk felt his blood boil and whirled around to point directly at Alastor. “Hold on the fuck on, you blue-nose mommy’s boy! Don’t get that damn attitude with me, like it’s my fuckin’ fault. May I remind you that you are the literal fucker that killed the guy!”
“You useless drunkard! You jus’ said you didn’t blame me. It was self-defense and should be blamed on the damned fool himself! We, quite literally , mind you, discussed this not even five minutes ago!”
Voices were raised, and insults were thrown. In the end, they decided to hike deeper into the woods and find a creek to dispose of the body. The tension remained palpable as the two tiredly trudged further into the woods. They manage to find a creek between two hills. Husk nearly felt like crying from the soreness in his arms as he carried the rug.
“Here,” Alastor panted out. “We roll the body out here.”
Husk dropped the rug like a sack of potatoes and collapsed onto a nearby rock, his muscles aching. Alastor kneeled beside him, his skin shining from a coat of sweat. Husk thought it pathetic since the younger man barely had any work to do, unlike Husk, who suffered carrying the hundred-something-pound weight of a dead man.
“So, what, we just leave him here?” Husk coughed.
“No, look over there.” Alastor shakily pushed himself up and pointed to some rocks near the edges of the hill and the creek. “We used to play in the woods all the time back in New Orleans; do you remember?”
Husk nodded.
“I would warn you about steppin’ on the rocks near the creeks because you could slip on ‘em. I did once and busted my head open. There was blood everywhere, I remember, and my father had to carry me home, and my mother had to give me stitches.”
“Yeah… I remember.”
He had been freshly thirteen, and it was Alastor’s eleventh birthday. He was the one who ran all the way home to get Alastor’s dad. He was sobbing and shaking so violently he was surprised he even kept up with them as Alastor was carried back, bloody and unconscious. Sometimes he thinks that the head injury damaged Alastor’s brain.
“So, what’s your plan?”
“Make it look like an accident. We throw him in the creek and let him crack his head open on the rocks in the currents.”
“Jesus, Al. Morbid, much?”
“Was my killing him not morbid enough for you?”
“No, it’s just… ugh, shut up. What happens if the coppers find his body and see the giant stab wound?”
“For one, it was multiple stab wounds. For two, we’ll probably get lucky enough that a hungry animal will come across the body before the cops do.”
“That’s sick.”
Alastor lightly kicked Husk in the shin. “It may be sick, but it’s helpin’ us now. Come on.”
Alastor stumbled to the rolled-up rug, and with the help of Husk, they dragged it towards the edge of the hill. Alastor went back to wipe some of the tracks they left, while Husk pushed the rug, holding onto one side to roll the man (and knife) out into the creek.
It was gruesome watching a bloody man fall into the water, his head smashing against the rocks, and then being viciously carried away by the current. Husk swallowed down the bile crawling up his throat.
“You finished over there?”
Alastor’s voice drew his attention away from the bloody rocks, and he nodded hesitantly in response.
“Excellent. Let’s be on our way then.”
They hiked back to the car, stumbling over awkward tree roots and stones. Alastor made sure to scrub away their tracks as they walked. When they finally reached the car, Husk threw the dirty rug onto the backseat and quickly got into the driver’s seat. Alastor climbed into the passenger seat, relaxing back with a sigh. Husk started the car and slowly drove out of the woods.
The lingering image of the lifeless man sent a shiver down Husk’s spine as he drove back. Dark hair matted with blood. White cloth dyed almost entirely in red. Husk shook his head. He wanted to burn that damn rug.
Alastor probably sensed his unease because suddenly the man said, “I… apologize for involvin’ you in this.”
“I can’t believe you’re actually strugglin’ to even say the word.”
Alastor playfully slapped Husk’s arm, then leaned back in his seat, his eyes drooping low. “Here, I was tryin’ to be comforting, but all I’m rewarded with is your snarky attitude.”
Husk chuckled softly, his grip loosening around the wheel. “Look, ‘spite what I said earlier and everythin’, I’m not… mad at you for this. Frankly, I probably would have done the same in the end.” Would he actually? “He deserved it. It’s just shitty it had to happen in the first place.”
Alastor hummed in response.
“Before you fall asleep, you can stay at my place tonight. Yours is an absolute pigsty, and I’m not lettin’ you stay there, not until we clean it up.”
Alastor snorted, making it more obvious how tired he was, but didn’t complain.
The ride home was filled with the wind whistling past them. By the time Husk arrived back at their home and parked, the sky was a dark blue. Nobody else seemed to be outside. He sighed, glanced at the rug on the backseat then looked over at Alastor. The man had passed out in his seat.
Two options.
There were two options to go about this. Either be an asshole and force him to wake up and walk all the way back to the room, or the pussy way, and just carry the man inside.
He chose the latter like a bitch.
Husk exited the car, gently enough for the door to make no noise, and walked over to Alastor’s side, carefully opening the passenger door. Alastor remained asleep, his head slumped to the side, and his face relaxed. Husk leaned forward, his arms wrapping around and under Alastor, gently lifting him. The man didn’t stir once. Husk kicked the car door closed and carried Alasor to the entrance of his room.
Husk struggled with the handle to his door, his balance wobbling for a split second, but the immense relief that hit him once he was met with the shitty smell of his room was worth it. Husk carefully laid Alastor on the worn couch and ran to the closet in his bedroom for extra bedding. His rummaging must’ve been louder than he realized because he heard light shuffling coming from the couch.
He grabbed the spare sheets and sped back into the living room to see Alastor stirring, his eyes softly fluttering open. “We’re back at my place, jus’ go back to sleep. I'm grabbin’ some sheets for you.” Alastor groaned. “Where ya’ wanna sleep? Couch or floor? You sure as shit ain’t touchin’ my bed tonight.”
Alastor’s dark eyes were glazed as he stared at Husk, despite it feeling more like he was staring through the older man. It took him a few seconds before he rasped, “Floor. Kitchen floor.”
“Kitchen floor?” Husk repeated it incredulously, his nose scrunching.
“Judgin’, Husker?”
“No,” Husk shrugged. “If that’s what you’re wishin’ for.” He made his way to the kitchen, spreading the sheet across the floor, throwing down the blankets, and grabbing a pillow from the couch. Husk gestured to the makeshift bed, and Alastor buried himself under the pile in exhaustion.
“Right. Uhm, night. Al.” Husk bid awkwardly. He spun around, hearing a low murmur in response, before slumping back into his room, praying he would even be able to close his eyes tonight. The prayer was unlikely, but it was the best he could do as he crawled into bed, the springs and wooden frame squeaking under his weight.