A/N: I'm so sorry please don't hate me
CW: Character death, homophobia, dubious underage kisses
Eight years old, he waits by the window and watches a carriage stop by. His father meets it at the end of their paved walkway to walk the wanderer out of his carriage and take a look around. He remembers feeling queasy as he hears the large man, twice his age, stand outside their door and speak in a rough, harsh voice, too broken in English for his young ears to understand.
His father takes him inside and shows Alfred to the man, patting his shoulder, whispering, "Say hello to our new neighbor, Alfred, he's going to be apprenticing in town to Mr. Winter."
All he manages to spit out is a smile and a shy wave.
The foreigner struggles with his English, "Thanking you to be- I mean… You are much kind. Nice to meeting you, malchik."
He doesn't recognize the foreign words, or even the ones that he knew should be familiar, but he just smiles and hugs close to his father.
His father so often sends him into town with care packages for their neighbor, setting baskets on the shelf at the forge on hot days with ice and fresh milk from the cows. He always admires the foreigner's filthy hands, full of soot under the fingernails.
The foreigner leaves dusty black fingerprints on his hand when he thanks him for the gift in his gruff English.
Thirteen years old, he stops by the forge every day on his way back home, teasing out a treat for the foreigner with every visit. He saves one bottle of milk for him at the end of the day, passing it over the counter like an illegal trade.
"I never thank you for gifts," the foreigner says, pulling up his smock and hanging it on the hook against the wall. Alfred finds his eyes tracing over the contours of his muscles, his thick arms and the blond curls on his chest. "You very kind, bringing me gifts everyday. Father says it all okay?"
His father doesn't know about the stolen bottles of milk he slides across the counter every other day. He smiles, shoulders taut as he hoists up the basket to heft home. "Don't worry about it, he doesn't mind."
The foreigner touched his hand and smiles. Alfred pulls his lips back in a shy grin, teeth peeking through. He looks over his shoulder, just as the foreigner leans in to press his lips to his cheek. Alfred goes home with his face red and hands sweaty.
That night at dinner his father has the weekly print clutched in his newly scrubbed hands, making a disgusted face. "'Nother lynching happening this week. They keep finding homosexuals in this damn town."
He doesn't tell his father about the milk.
Fourteen years old, the old blacksmith is dead. The foreigner runs the forge, little burns and scars all over his back. Alfred watches him from across the street where he sells the milk, desperate for the ache in his chest and loins to be soothed.
He waits until dark in the winter months, when the streets are empty cold and only the light of the hot forge illuminates the street. He puts a bottle of milk on the counter, and the sweaty, grimy foreigner greets him with a kiss. It burns up his face down to the very tips of his toes like the fires of hell licking at his heels.
"You come tomorrow morning, I make breakfast."
"I can't, I have to tend to the animals."
"You come tomorrow morning. I make breakfast."
Breakfast tasted better than the mortal sin on his sweaty palms.
Fifteen years old, he takes a break from selling milk behind an old brick building, hand down his pants. He thinks about the foreigner's dirty, sweaty hands over his hips and his nose buried against his thighs. A tear slides down his cheek, hands filthy as he finishes.
There is a sick wet spot at the front of his pants and his fingers are sticky.
Alfred sits behind the stall, looking across the street to the fiery forge with shame across his cheeks and sin on his hands. The foreigner looks up from speaking with a customer and catches his eye, waving. Alfred disregards the crinkle of his smile.
The summer sun sets late and Alfred is already too late to catch a carriage that runs by his home. The foreigner touches his hand and offers him a lift home, "But you must be waiting for now. I must finish work."
He watches the foreigner's broad shoulders tense over the anvil and his loins awaken to the thick sweat dripping from his neighbor's sinewy biceps.
He doesn't arrive home that night.
Sixteen years old, he lays in a bed that is not his own. Alfred nestles his nose into the cotton pillow, breathing in the scent of the foreigner's sweat. He watches his bedmate roll out of the sheets, feet on the cold, wood floor.
A cold stone settles in his gut as the foreigner stretches his arms above his head, a band of sunshine from the tall window striping his pale back; he is free of soot and grime and Alfred wants to touch the divot between his clean shoulderblades.
"I find fresh eggs." The foreigner is about to leave him and he reaches out to touch his thick arm.
"Wait." Alfred's fingers curl around his lover's muscle. They meet in the middle and his heart thumps under his ribs as those filthy hands grip his chest. His nose bumps against the foreigner's and he's not sure what to say as he ties his fingers into ashen hair.
The foreigner tugs on his crucifix and Alfred lets him pull it over his head. He wonders if it burns him to the touch; never once has he heard the foreigner utter a prayer. Alfred's mind goes blank as his lover's heathen touch heats his loins, legs tight around his waist.
His crucifix lay forgotten on the rocking bed, the Lord's name on his tongue.
Eighteen years old, he looks in the mirror. He is covered in bruises from the latest beating. The foreigner promises to take him away some day, where no one will know them. Alfred's father had convinced the town not to lynch him.
He touches the yellow and purple skin, as if that would heal his ailing flesh.. Alfred brushes away a tear and sucks in a harsh breath as the foreigner holds him from behind, filthy hands splaying across his waist.
"I will take you away from here." Alfred doesn't say anything, turning and meeting the foreigner's lips with his own.
"Go to work." His sinful lover sucks in a breath against his lips and he regrets his words. He is left alone. Alfred stares at the sooty handprints on his hips in the mirror, sinking to his knees.
As often as he scrubs, he can't erase the sin.
Nineteen years old, he is hanging from the tree in the fields behind his old home. He cries as he hears the angry voices shouting for his blood. In his anger he rips the crucifix from his neck and drops it into the mud.
He does not bother to hide the sooty lip marks on his cheeks, or the handprints on his arms. They are evidence against him, but only atop the pile that has been mounting for years. The foreigner's promise of whisking him away like starcrossed lovers feel hollow.
"You're going to burn in hell," someone sneers at him.
As they string him up he can't help but think he deserves to.