A/N: 1. This piece is actually titled Cocksucker, but FanFiction has this policy about G-rated summaries and titles. 2. Forgive that this piece lacks the metaphoric flourish of a lot of the great pieces in this archive. I'm a story teller at heart and don't have a drop of poet in me. 3. I usually double beta everything I post before I post it, but I really wanted to get this is up before tomorrow's episode. Any errors are my own.

Disclaimer: American Horror Story belongs not to me

Warnings (entire work): adult situations, non-graphic sexual situations, language

Cocksucker
The Split

Tate sat at the top of the stairs with his eyes squeezed shut, plucking at threads that had come loose from the sleeve of his sweater. The hem was ratty, the lining completely separated from the striped outer layer, and there was a hole through which Tate could stick his thumb.

Something shattered in the kitchen. Tate curled his legs to his chest and pressed his face into his knees. He covered his ears with his sleeve wrapped hands. His mother shrieked wordlessly. Tate whined.

They'd been shouting at each other for nearly an hour now, something they'd been doing a lot lately. Tears leaked out the corners of Tate's eyes. The kitchen table raked across the ceramic tiles with a harsh screech. Tate pressed his palms tighter to his head, hoping maybe he could crush his skull or at least pop his ear drums.

He worried his bottom lip with his teeth, chewed his tongue, shook his head back and forth until the denim of his jeans chafed his nose. "Shut up," he murmured into his thighs, so quiet he couldn't hear the words himself. "Shut up, shut up, shut up," he said, each time increasing in volume until his voice was an audible whisper. He kept repeating it, a little louder and a little louder until he was speaking normally, not that it was loud enough to be heard by the couple fighting in the kitchen.

Tate picked his head up. His eyes and nose were swollen red; his cheeks were chapped with tears. He wiped his nose with his sleeve and glared at the wall opposite him. "Shut up," he said, but he was disappointed with ragged sound of his voice. The words came out choked. He cleared his throat, and said it again, "Shut up." This time the words were clear and calm, but still not spoken loud enough to carry into the kitchen.

Tate steeled himself to say it even louder, shout it, scream it even. He straightened himself and gripped his knees to keep his hands from shaking. He visualized himself doing it. First he saw the way his face would contort, the way his nose would tense and creases would form at the corners of his eyes and on his forehead. Then he saw his parents, freezing in mid-sentence, his mother with a vase to smash poised in her hand. He sucked in a deep breath, filling his lungs with angry steam.

His lips parted, but before he could make a sound, the screaming in the kitchen stopped. He heard his father stomping through the entry hall, and Tate moved to stand up and bolt for his bedroom, but the steps were moving away from him. The front door flung open so hard it hit the wall and then slammed shut, leaving the entire house silent.

Tate's cry was still lodged in his throat, choking him. His whole frame began tremble.

"Tate?" his mother called. Her voice wavered. She sniffled before saying again, "Tate?"

Her heels clipped more softly on the wood paneling of the hall than his father's shoes.

Tate couldn't move, unable to decide if he should go to her or lock himself in his room, so he was stuck sitting on that top step half-way between the two.

The house was so quiet, Tate actually heard the sweep of his mother's fingers along the polished wood of the stair rail just before she took the first step. "Tate, my dear, where are you?" she said gently.

Tate raked his fingers through his hair and breathed harshly through clenched teeth, and that's how Constance found him, crying with his hands tangled on top of his head.

"Oh, Tate, my baby, my poor, poor baby." Constance adjusted her skirt so she could squat beside him on the stairs. She took his wrists and plied his fingers from his curls, carefully so as not to tug his scalp. "Shh." She wrapped her arms around his head and cradled him against her bosom. "It's okay. We'll be okay without him. We're okay."

Tate cried harder. It was involuntary, but his hands came up to grasp at the padded shoulders of his mother's dress.

"Shh." Constance stroked his hair. "Shh." She held him until his sobs subsided, and when his cries had quieted to sniffles, she leaned away from him and picked up his head with fingertips under his chin. "There now," she stroked his cheek, "that's better." She smiled, corners of her eyes crinkling, and tipped her head to the side, just staring at him for a moment.

"You look so much like your father," she left her hand holding his face. "Such a handsome boy." She trailed her fingers from Tate's cheekbone to the v-neck collar of his sweater.

Tate leaned away from her, and swiping his sleeve across his face, said, "I wanna go to bed, now."

"Of course you do, sweetheart."

Tate clutched the stair rail, using it both to pull himself to his feet and away from his mother. His knees quaked. "Goodnight."

"Sweet dreams."

HHH

She came into his bedroom long after he turned the lights out, but Tate hadn't yet fallen asleep. She smelled of stale cigarette smoke and bourbon and she hadn't yet changed into her nightgown despite the late hour.

Tate slept on his side, facing away from the door. He closed his eyes that much tighter when his mother's hand stroked his hair off his forehead.

"Tate," she whispered, "are you asleep?" There was a slight slur to her words.

Tate held his breath.

She waited a moment for him to answer, and when he didn't, she sighed. Tate felt the blanket at his back lift and the mattress shift under her weight when she climbed into the bed behind him. She pressed close to his back, draping her arm around his waist and burying her face between his shoulder blades. Her palm rubbed circles on his stomach.

Tate didn't sleep that night. He kept his breathing shallow so as not to jostle the hand on his abdomen and stared out his window, willing the light behind the curtain to brighten. By the time the sun crept between the blinds, Tate's left arm was numb. His neck was stiff, and he had a sore spot where his right knee had rested atop the side of his left thigh. His eyes felt dry and his head ached.

Even so, he didn't move when his mother's hand stroked across his stomach and rubbed his hip. He closed his eyes just before she leaned over him to kiss his cheek, and he counted to sixty after he heard the door close before throwing off the blankets.

His knees protested when he tossed his legs over the side of the bed, so before he stood, Tate yanked his sleep shirt over his head. The cotton smelled strongly of smoke and his mother's perfume when it dragged over his face. On the shirt's back were smudges of makeup, two blue-black smudges of eye liner and a smear of nude lipstick. Tate balled up the tee and threw it in the trash can by his desk instead of the laundry hamper. He wriggled out of his sweats without standing and then folded them on his pillow.

He wanted to change his sheets because they doubtlessly smelt the same as his shirt, but he needed to shower for school. The sheets would have to wait. He grabbed his bathrobe off the hook on the back of his bedroom door and pulled the thick terrycloth tight around him over his boxers. He nuzzled the fluffy collar, relishing the comforting softness for a moment before leaving the safety of his bedroom and walking to the bathroom.

He was scrubbing his hair when the bathroom door opened.

"Tate?" Constance sounded like she'd had her coffee. She'd self-medicated for her hangover with caffeine. "Is my razor in there? I can't seem to find it."

Tate wiped the shampoo bubbles out of his eyes and scanned the shelf hanging from the shower head. "No, Mom, I don't see it."

"Are you sure? Here, let me look."

Before Tate could protest, Constance had flung back the shower curtain, poking her head with its pink curlers wrapped in her hair, into the shower.

"Mom!" Tate's hands flew down to hide his crotch.

"Oh, hush, it's not like its anything I haven't seen before," Constance chided, looking him over from head to knees before searching the shower shelf. "Huh… you're right… I wonder where it could have gone." She started to back out of the shower, but before she closed the curtain, she paused and said, "My, what a handsome man you have grown into."

Tate stood under the shower spray with his eyes closed until the water ran cold. He couldn't name the feeling sticking to his skin, and he couldn't wash it away either.

HHH

When Tate got home from school, there was a plate of cupcakes on the table. He could see multi-colored spots in the cake through the paper wrappers, and there were bright colored candies mixed in with the frosting. They were his favorite kind, but his mother hadn't made them for him since his sixth birthday.

As if on cue, Constance sashayed in from the living room. She smiled when she saw Tate admiring the cupcakes. "Go ahead," she said, "have one, but just one." She looked down her nose at Tate with a twinkle in her eye. "Wouldn't want you to ruin your supper. I got the most delicious sounding recipe for corn dogs from scratch from one of the ladies at book club this morning."

Tate blinked. Never before had his mother even suggested cooking something so fattening, something that might broaden her figure, pristine as it was for her age. "Uhm, thanks," he said.

Constance beamed. "Did you have a good day at school?"

Tate shrugged. "It was alright."

"What classes did you have?"

"Mom, I need to do homework…"

Constance pouted. "Well, at least sit at the kitchen table and do it. Keep your poor mother company while she cooks dinner."

Without saying anything, Tate pulled out a chair and flung his backpack onto the table. He picked a cupcake and peeled off half the wrapper so he could take a bite before unzipping his bag and pulling out his math textbook and notebook.

"Just one, now," Constance reminded.

Tate nodded without looking up from his book.

HHH

Tate expected his mother to make herself a salad for supper, but she sat across from him at the kitchen table – another thing that had never happened before; Constance always insisted they eat in the formal dining room – and put two greasy corndogs on her plate and poured herself a puddle equal parts ketchup and mayonnaise in which to dip them.

She ate the corndogs just like Tate did, picking them by their wooden stick and biting the ends. She didn't use a fork and knife when she'd eaten down far enough that the stick got in the way, just scooted the breading and hotdog further up with her fingers. The only difference between Constance and Tate at the dinner table that night was that Constance wiped her hands delicately on a cloth napkin while Tate wiped his on his pants' leg.

"How does it taste?" Constance asked.

Tate barely swallowed before saying, "Delicious."

"Good. I may have to get more recipes from her… I mean, I always did think she was kind of a pig of a woman, but what is it they say? Something about only fat people knowing good food?" Constance sighed.

Tate shrugged and took another bite of corndog. He ate another three, and it was the most food he'd ever eaten during a meal at home.

Constance didn't even finish her second, but she waited for Tate to finish eating, watching him with her chin resting in her palm.

"My goodness," she exclaimed after Tate had finished his last corndog. She leaned down to look under the table before standing. "What do you have down there? A hollow leg?" She picked up the dishes from the table and set them in a pile in the sink.

Tate began collecting his books into his bag so he could take them upstairs to finish his homework, but instead of beginning to wash the dishes, Constance said, "Let's watch some television before you go to bed."

"I still have homework to finish."

"Oh, come now. You can take a thirty minute break to watch TV."

Tate sighed. "Just thirty minutes, I guess."

Constance smiled. "Good."

Tate followed her into the living room, and sat on the couch while she turned on the television. Tate was surprised she knew how to work it, and he was even more surprised when she turned on the cable box and found the channel on which Jeopardy was playing instead of putting in a movie. She sat down on the couch close to Tate, even though there were two cushions that he wasn't occupying, and then she tucked herself under his arm, snuggling against his side. Tate started to flinch away, but Constance wrapped an arm around his back such that her fingers held his hip. She brought her other hand up to rest on Tate's chest.

"My, what a strong boy you've grown into," she said, fingertips idly drawing patterns through his sweater.

Tate swallowed hard and fixed his eyes on the TV screen. Usually he knew more than half the answers, but every time his mother asked if he knew one, he found himself bumbling something incoherent long after the contestant had responded.

When the first line of credits inched up from the bottom of the screen, Tate launched himself off the couch. Constance nearly tipped over.

"But there's another episode coming on," she said.

"I've got a major exam tomorrow I need to study for." Tate didn't wait for his mother to answer. He grabbed his backpack off the kitchen floor and jogged upstairs.

HHH

Tate decided to sit awake at his desk all night. He dreaded that if he climbed under the sheets and closed his eyes his mother would crawl into bed behind him, press herself against his back and keep him from sleeping, and if Tate was going to pull another all-nighter, it was going to be doing something he actually liked. He flipped to the next glossy page of his new book and traced the edges of a soaring swallow's wings with the tip of one finger.

Sometime a little after midnight, his mother came in without knocking. She was wearing her nightgown, and she looked surprised to see Tate not in bed.

"I saw the light under the door and thought you'd fallen asleep with it on," she said in the way of an explanation. "Why haven't you gone to bed yet?"

"Told you," Tate said, "Major exam to study for." He tapped the open book on his desk knowing his mother couldn't see its pages from the doorway.

"Oh." Constance paused. "Well, get to sleep soon. Sometimes a good night's rest is the best kind of studying."

"Thanks, Mom." Tate waved her back out the door.

HHH

Tate woke the next morning face down on his book with a crick in his neck. There was a wet smudge blurring the paragraph about the mating rituals of the American goldfinch where he had drooled. Tate rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked at his alarm clock. He still had time to shower before catching the bus, and he toed off just his shoes before heading for the bathroom.

He should have locked the door. He thought about it right after he stepped under the shower spray, but he didn't want to leave the warmth of the steam to hop across cold tiles.

Constance came in before he'd even picked up the soap. She didn't give him any verbal warning this time before opening the shower curtain, and when Tate blinked the water from his eyes he saw that she was naked.

"There's something wrong with my shower," she said. "There's no water pressure, and I have a brunch date with Ms. Liddie." She stepped over the edge of the tub and pulled the curtain closed behind her.

Tate averted his eyes from her skin, sagging only slightly with age, faint stretch marks on her stomach the only evidence of her multiple pregnancies. He stuck one arm out of the shower and fumbled blindly for his towel hanging from the rack. "Gimme just a sec, I'll get out."

"Oh nonsense, you've got to get ready for school."

"Mom – " His voice cracked, cutting him off, when he felt her hands on him, massaging soap onto his chest and shoulders.

"It's been so very long since I bathed you myself, Tate. Indulge your mother just this," she said, voice longing and saccharine.

Tate cried. Cried when she scrubbed his back, cried when she made him duck his head so she could wash his hair, cried when she got down on her knees between his legs, and he sobbed when he came in her mouth, but she didn't recognize her child's cry of distress and the shower water hid his tears.

HHH

Tate stood at the bathroom sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His cheeks were sunken and there were dark purple bags under his eyes. He thought it would end when his father came back, thought the kisses and touches would stop as soon as Constance had someone else to lavish her attention on. The hope got him by for two sleepless weeks of showering at strange hours of the morning and making up excuses to stay late at school and eating dinner out.

And then Tate realized his father was never coming back. Constance had removed every trace of him from the house that morning, hauling bags of his clothes to the curb and plucking his books from the shelves in the library and tossing them into the fireplace. Even pieces of jewelry he'd given her were collected in flat boxes and stacked on the table by the door to be taken someplace to sell. Artwork he had chosen for the study Constance carried next door and gave to the neighbors as gifts. She was meticulous, his mother was, carefully erasing his father from the house one room at a time.

She forgot only one thing, an old straight shaving razor of his father's which Tate found dust covered in a back corner of the cabinet under the bathroom sink. He rinsed it lovingly with warm water before dragging the blade from wrist bone to the other.

A/N: Constance's relationships with her children are just unorthodox enough that I really wouldn't put sexual abuse past her.