Chapter Text
Peter POV
“I'll be damned,” Phil snarled, and Peter's peace vanished with his words.
Peter followed Phil past the fences where dozens of cow hides had once hung and now were gone. Peter held back, listening as Phil galloped ahead of him to the barn. From within Peter could hear Phil throwing things, more angry than Peter had ever seen him. The last few days, when they'd been alone together, Phil had been so youthful and full of life and energy. It had been all too easy to forget that Phil couldn't always be trusted, and had a dangerous temper.
“Is something wrong, Phil?” Peter asked, hovering at the door of the barn.
“Wrong?” Phil demanded. “Every God damn hide is gone. Oh, she really put her foot in it this time.”
Dread pooled in Peter's stomach. It had been his mother, of that he had no doubt. She was different when she was drunk, and these days she was drunk more than she wasn't. “You think she did it? She sold them?”
“Bloody tootin'” Phil said. “Or maybe even gave them away.”
“Why? Why would she do that, Phil? She knew we needed those hides.”
But Peter knew. The rope had become a symbol of what tied Phil and Peter together. Rose surely couldn't have guessed what her son was coming to feel for Phil, but she resented and feared the connection they had. If they had no leather, then they could not finish the rope- or so the reasoning of a drunk might very well run.
“Because she was drunk!” Phil shouted, and Peter flinched back, both from Phil's fury and what he knew he must do. He'd very carefully planned for it, but now that the time had come he realized that all along he'd hoped it wouldn't come to this.
Whether she'd meant to or not, his mother had forced his hand.
“She was smashed! I'd think you'd know from those books your Pa left you that your Maw's got a... a whatchamacallit. An alcoholic personality.”
Peter narrowed his eyes at Phil, his own temper aroused when Phil once more flung his dead father in his face like it was a weapon. Phil could be so charming when he chose to be, but beneath that veneer of charisma he was sharp as a knife, and sometimes he chose to cut Peter.
“You're not gonna say anything to her?”
“Say anything? I won't say nothing,” Phil said, and for a moment Peter believed all might be well. “But sure as one good hell, brother George is going to.”
Peter turned away to hide his expression, knowing even he could not suppress the rising dread inside him. If Phil managed to turn George against Rose it could be calamitous. George had a weak character, and Peter feared what influence Phil would have on him if they were allowed to spend enough time together. It was one more reason it was only logical that Phil must die.
As though summoned, George walked into the barn, his face deeply lined with care. Peter fled, pushing through the back of the barn and out into the light. He left the door ajar so that he could hear as George tried to reason with Phil.
“Look at your face in the mirror! Is it that she could like? Or our money? Wake the hell up!” Peter went to the cracked door and looked within, and he thought he saw hurt on George's face. This couldn't be allowed. If Phil was able to get into George's head and convince him his mother was only here for the money, all might be lost for her.
When his father had killed himself, it had become Peter's job to take care of his mother. It was a job he'd taken as seriously as anything else he had in his life, and he wouldn't fail her now.
Peter walked out past the barn, towards the back fences where he'd been carefully drying his poisoned strips of rawhide. He paced in front of them, trying to work himself up to do what he must. He pulled out his comb and ran his thumbnail over the teeth so hard he broke one of them.
It seemed inconceivable how something so seemingly innocuous could snuff out a flame that burned as vividly as Phil's. Phil wasn't meant to die by poison. He was meant to die in the saddle, or from snake bite, or lightning strike, or trampled under the hooves of a spooked herd. He was meant to die with his boots on, as country folks liked to say, and the thought of Phil burning up with fever and illness was one that Peter's mind cringed away from.
“I needed them!” he heard Phil scream, and he thought he could hear the edge of tears in Phil's voice. He knew Phil had wanted to give Peter something to take with him back to school, to remember their time together, and God help him, Peter had wanted that too. He hadn't wanted to forget Phil, or even to leave him. He didn't know what he felt for Phil. He wasn't even sure he liked Phil. But he was twisted up in Phil in ways he couldn't explain to himself, and he knew that if he did this now, he'd spend the rest of his life wondering what might have happened if he'd spared him.
Peter bent at the waist, his head gripped in his hands as he struggled to think past the part of him that was screaming with protest. He'd planned for this all summer, hadn't he? Why waste this opportunity now? He massaged his temples and struggled to maintain control of himself. He was capable of murder, of that he had no doubt. He was not a thoughtlessly cruel person like Phil was, but he was not overburdened by guilt or empathy either. A human life was not so precious to him that he was unable to take it, if it meant saving his mother.
He couldn't help the feeling that if he killed Phil, however, the one he'd really be doing the most harm to was himself.
Peter stood up abruptly, looking up at the barn where he could just see the flicker of shadows as Phil prowled around, as anxious as a tiger in a cage.
He walked slowly, trying to compose himself. Phil stood in the middle of the barn, his head down. He looked so defeated, so sorrowful, that again Peter felt rogue emotions threaten to disrupt the calm sea of his psyche. The visible evidence that Phil cared this much about Peter soothed the feelings of loneliness Peter had felt as a socially isolated child. Peter was wanted here. Phil cared for him, and the knowledge was sweet, even if the man wasn't.
“Phil?” Peter reached out to touch him, and realized he still had on his gloves. He thought of touching Phil through the buffer of the leather, and the idea repelled him. He wanted to touch Phil, to feel that fiery life that filled Phil, and absorb some of it into himself.
Peter approached, pulling his gloves off. He stretched out his hand, watching his own arm as though it belonged to a stranger. Then he touched him, wrapping his fingers firmly around Phil's bicep and feeling when his muscles jolted in surprise. Peter had never done anything so intimate to another person before- had never even dreamed he would want to- and his whole body tingled with the rush of adrenaline and attraction.
Phil looked around at him, clearly as startled by Peter's forwardness as Peter was with himself. Peter gently swept his fingers in a caress so light it might have been mistaken for accident. “Phil.” He stared into Phil's day blue eyes, trying to convey all the things he didn't know how to say. If anything could change what would happen next, it all depended on Phil. Phil's desire for Peter had to be stronger than his hatred of Rose.
“It's better this way. I can come back to the ranch on the weekends to work on the rope. Wouldn't you like for me to come back?” Whatever it said about him, that he could care about a man like Phil, he didn't know. Perhaps no one decent could see past Phil's cruelty to find the potential for anything else, but then, Peter had never much cared about being decent.
“Come back?” Phil repeated, for though Rose had often entreated Peter to come stay at the ranch on the weekends during the school semester, Peter had never done so, and there had been no more talk of it as the new school year had approached. Peter could see that Phil was struck by the idea.
Peter's fingers drifted over Phil's sleeve, wishing he was touching skin. They were standing very close, so close that Peter's nose was filled with the scent of Phil's musky body, something that should have been more off putting than it was. “I could come Friday evenings, and leave on Sundays. You could teach me to braid the rope when we have rawhide. Or play the banjo, or whittle. You could teach me... everything,” he said, wanting him to see, to understand all that Peter wanted to learn from Phil.
Phil still wasn't speaking, but Peter thought his expression had grown wondrous, astounded even, by Peter's words. His eyes were boring into Peter's intensely and Peter held the gaze, letting Phil gorge himself on what Peter was offering.
“Phil, my mother is not well,” Peter said in a hurry, knowing he'd have to get this part out fast, while Phil was still stunned by Peter's offer. At the mention of Rose Phil's eyebrows immediately slanted down, loathing replacing the naked hope. “She needs to go to Herndon, where I can keep an eye on her. She and George.” That's when Phil's expression really darkened, because Peter was well aware George was the rope that was pulled between Phil and Rose, a metaphorical tug of war that would leave neither the winner until one was gone.
“They can live in Herndon while Rose recovers. George could come back once or twice during the week, and I'll drive the Reo back to the ranch every weekend.” Peter's voice was coming faster to get everything out before Phil could completely veto the plan.
Here Peter paused, not knowing how to put this into words. He knew he wanted Phil, and he hoped Phil wanted him too, but he had too little experience with this to be quite certain. It felt like a tremendous risk to be the first to initiate anything, especially with someone as unpredictable as Phil.
“No one would think anything odd of your nephew coming home on the weekends, to learn the ways of running a ranch, would they?” he said, staring down at where his hand still clasped Phil's arm, feeling stunned at himself for what he was implicitly suggesting. He might have gone to his grave never knowing the touch of another man, if circumstances hadn't brought them together, for he'd never felt this kind of attraction before. And if Phil said no, and Peter had to resort to the poisoned rawhides, all of this would be gone forever. For the rest of his life Peter would be left to wonder what could have been.
Phil stared at him penetratingly for several long moments, and then to Peter's overwhelming relief, Phil's face softened, the wrinkles fanning around his eyes smoothing out. His eyes glistened and he reached out to grip the back of Peter's neck. It sent a chill of titillation down Peter's spine and he felt his knees weaken. He pressed back into Phil's hold, allowing his big hand to warm his inner chill.
“You want that?” Phil asked, his voice nakedly yearning, and Peter nodded.
His hands moved from Phil's bicep to either side of the sturdy man's ribs, just lightly touching but ready to circle around his back in an embrace at the slightest encouragement.
“Yes, I want that,” he said, not having to feign his sincerity.
Phil smiled tremulously and gripped his neck tightly. When he spoke his voice was a little choked, and he was obviously fighting to control his emotions. “We could get another car,” he said. “Hell, George has been wanting a Pierce Arrow for years now. You could have the Reo. A young man needs an automobile these days, or so I've heard.”
Peter felt a stab of alarm pierce through his burgeoning hope. Phil had to agree to the whole plan for any of it to work.
He glanced back through the open barn door, but of course there was no one to be seen. Everyone else knew better than to hang around Phil when he was in one of his tempers.
He was afraid, because he had so much to lose if he was wrong, but Peter knew when the time to risk it all had come.
Peter's hands slipped around Phil's ribs a little more firmly, his palms coming into full contact with Phil's warm body, and he nudged in even closer to the older man, so that they stood close enough Peter could feel Phil's moist breath against his mouth. Though Peter was an inch or two taller than Phil, he angled his head to the side slightly, leaving himself open and receptive to Phil if he wanted to kiss him.
“Please, Phil. This is the only way. We'll have the house to ourselves,” he finished in a whisper, and looked up shyly from where he'd been self-consciously studying Phil's shirt collar.
And there it was. Peter was no expert, either at seduction or reading faces, but he was almost certain that what he was seeing was desire in Phil's eyes.
“You want that, Pete?” Phil asked again, eye flicking over Peter's shoulder at the open door before looking back at him.
“Yes, Phil."
Phil's face was almost heart breaking to see, for even Peter could clearly see the disbelief and joy in his expression. Phil had been lonely and unhappy for a long time. Peter had been lonely too, and the thought of holding Phil's heart was a greedy, powerful feeling.
“I'll tell you something,” Phil said gruffly. “Everything's gonna be plain sailing for you from now on.”
Peter gave Phil one of his small, rare smiles and Phil sucked in a harsh breath that sounded like it was covering a sob. And then Peter did what he'd feared to, he wrapped his arms around Phil's back, and when he didn't protest Peter ducked his head and rested it on Phil's shoulder so that his mouth was almost touching his neck. Every hug Peter had shared since he was a small child had felt almost unbearably uncomfortable, but this was something different entirely. Peter breathed out shakily onto the tanned and creased skin of Phil's neck, his fingers clutching at his shirt to keep himself from allowing his hands to roam over Phil's body.
Phil wrapped his arms around Peter as well, and Peter sighed as their bodies pressed firmly together. He could feel a heavy warmth in his groin as his prick began to harden, reacting to the charged intimacy of the moment and the physical contact. He squirmed a little, unsure if Phil would want him to move away, and that only made it worse. He knew when Phil felt him because Phil stiffened, rearing his head back to look at Peter's face.
“Phil. I- I'm sorry,” Peter said, wondering if he'd managed to completely misread everything that had happened between them. Peter feared physical violence in a way he'd never feared words.
But Phil only cupped the side of Peter's head, holding Peter's jaw still so that he could study his face. Whatever he saw there seemed to please him, for he smiled. He brushed a thumb against Peter's bottom lip, almost a kiss, then he let Peter go.
“I'll speak to brother George,” he said and strode out of the barn towards the house with every bit as much determination as Phil did everything in life.