2018 - 2 days after the funeral (cont.)

"No. Absolutely not." Patrick folded his arms.

He was the only one standing. Chad and Tate, in his child form, were both seated on the sofa in the living room. They were both looking at him.

"Why not?" asked Tate, confused. "He thinks it'll work."

Pat looked at Chad, who raised his brows.

"Well," Chad said, smoothing a hand back over his black hair. He looked at Tate then back to Patrick. "I think it should be Tate's choice. They're his dreams."

That was not what Pat wanted to hear. Knowing what he knew, he thought Chad ought to be siding with him. He flexed his arms absently, releasing pent-up anxious energy. Ben's plan for dream therapy didn't sit well with him at all.

Tate drew his knees up to his chest. He felt pressured. He didn't like that feeling. Tears welled up but he tried to blink them back. "He's just going to teach me how to know when I'm having a nightmare so I can stop having it."

"Sure he is," Patrick said, unbelieving. He paced a couple of steps. He came to a quick decision. "Fine. But one of us is going to be staying in there as long as Ben is. I want to know what he's doing."

Chad pressed the fingertips of his hand to his temple. "That won't be awkward."

"He's not going to do anything," Tate said, on the verge of tears again. He found Patrick's behavior odd because he didn't understand its root. He didn't know about Ben's visits as Rubber Man. "He's just going to sit there and tell me when I'm dreaming."

"Yeah," said Patrick. "We'll see." He left the room then, in a bad temper.

Chad and Tate looked at each other.

Chad smiled dryly. "He took that well."

...

But that wasn't the end of it. Once Tate was in bed for the night, Patrick followed Chad to his room. His bad mood was a palpable thing. For Chad it was like being followed by a storm cloud.

"I'm guessing you're not here to wish me goodnight," he said. He pulled open his pajama drawer.

"You know this is just Ben's excuse to start creeping around again," said Patrick.

Chad poked around in his drawer, pretending to decide what to wear. "Could you act more like a jealous boyfriend? I don't think Doctor Harmon has seen quite enough to label you a pederast yet."

Patrick's jaw set. "Don't even go there. You know that's not what this is about."

Chad pushed the drawer shut hard without getting any clothes out of it.

"Bull. Shit." He turned to the taller man, meeting him glare for glare. "You don't care about what happens to that little psycho. You just can't stand the thought of sharing your toy with another man."

Pat scowled. "Tate's not my toy. You're the one who acts like he's some sort of pet."

"Oh." Chad put a hand on his hip. "So you're telling me you're not fucking him?"

The conversation halted. They stared at each other for a long moment. Then Chad looked at the floor. He pursed his lips and a put a hand on the dresser to steady himself. He wanted to cry but he wasn't going to. Not in front of Patrick. The elephant had been in the room for a while. Nothing had changed.

When he finally looked at his estranged spouse he saw a touch of sympathy in Pat's expression, mingled with a whole mess of unhappier things. The last thing Chad wanted was pity from him. It just made him angry all over again.

"Maybe you should make an appointment with Doctor Harmon for yourself," he said airily, pulling his dresser drawer open again. "I'm sure he'd love to explore your weird fetishes with you."

Patrick didn't respond. He just left. Chad put a hand over his eyes. He tried to tell himself that he wouldn't cry.

It didn't work.

...

Patrick should have gone to his room after the argument but he didn't. In fact it was because of it that he went to Tate's room instead. He was already suffering the consequences for crossing that line; there was little to lose by crossing it one more time. Chances were Chad expected him to anyway. So why the hell not?

If the boy had been asleep when he entered the room, Pat might have turned away. But he wasn't. Tate sat up a little when the door opened. He didn't say anything when the door closed again. He made room in the bed when Patrick slid under the covers.

"Age up."

The words were an insistent whisper in Tate's ear. Hands were already on him, pulling at his clothes. He shifted to his older form and then Patrick was kissing him, deep and demanding. The teen didn't understand the urgency but fed into it anyway, not realizing he was throwing gasoline on fire.

Their sporadic sexual encounters had been a rough but rewarding source of pleasure he thought he understood. He couldn't anticipate the level Patrick would take it to that night. It hurt so bad and felt so good at the same time. The pleasure-pain was so intense, Pat had to keep both hands pressed over Tate's mouth to quiet his tortured cries. He was silenced but his tears flowed freely.

Several times Patrick paused to ask if he wanted to keep going. It gave Tate the illusion of control; Pat knew exactly what he was doing and just how close to orgasm his partner was each time he stopped. To answer Tate had to nod since the older man didn't lift his hands to let him speak. It went on like that for nearly an excruciating hour. When Patrick finally let him cum, he also released him from the restrictive tucked-up position he'd held him in, into a more intimate missionary one. Then he kissed it all better as he worked toward his own climax.

Once upon a time Patrick had been straight. He'd learned a lot about the male body since then and he used that knowledge now in a deliberate attempt to influence his young lover. He did it with touch, he did it with body language and with soft murmurs of praise. He preyed on what he knew Tate desired and rewarded him with it.

It was all sinfully manipulative and ruthless. Patrick felt somewhat guilty laying there afterward. Not as guilty as he might have thought, considering it was arguably his lowest point. The fight with Chad felt much further away but his animosity toward Ben remained. It was ultimately Ben's fault that things were happening the way they were.

He felt Tate stir. Pat draped an arm over him and pulled him close, a move that was possessive more than tender.

...

It was still dark out when Ben went down to the front room in the early hours of morning. Vivien had left the bedroom to go rock the baby so she didn't see him leave. He wasn't sleep-walking but he wasn't entirely in control of himself either. He was along for the ride, unresisting. He went over to where the black rubber hood had been forgotten by Chad and Tate. He picked it up. Then he carried it up to the attic.

He went directly to the shadowed corner where the rest of the rubber suit hung. He didn't know others had tried to get rid of it so it being there wasn't a surprise to him. It would have surprised him if it hadn't been there.

As he stared at the sinister suit he knew what he needed to do next. He could see the plan roll out like a clearly-marked map. He reached for the black rubber outfit.

...

A few minutes after one in the morning Jeremiah rose from the couch and went out onto the front porch. Thunder rumbled in the distance. He could see a light in one of the upstairs windows next door. A strong gust of wind whipped down the street, carrying leaves and debris with it. He felt like he was dreaming but he knew he wasn't.

He put his hands on the rail of the porch and closed his eyes. He could see the blight reaching for him, curling over his hands and pawing at his feet. It was everywhere. He opened his eyes, unaware of the way the shadows blacked them out. He put his hand over the pendant he wore beneath his shirt.

"O Lord, they are multiplied that afflict me," he said quietly. "Many are they that rise up against me. Many say to my soul: there is no salvation for him in his God. But thou, O Lord, art my protector, my glory and my savior. Amen."

He pulled the chain from his shirt and pressed his lips to the seal of Samael. He could feel the opposing energies receding before he even got the pendant back under his shirt. But they didn't retreat far. Just enough to give him his space back and allow for clearer thought.

When he looked back toward the house next door, the light was gone.

xxx

Author's Note:

That's it for Episode 4. Still with me?

Oh, good. I'd hate to lose you. I don't want to deal with this nightmare alone.

BTW, if you don't know who Samael is, you may want to check out Wikipedia's entry on him. Just don't believe everything you read.

Next Episode we'll be wandering all over the house and timeline. Less psychological squickiness, more angst and anger. Lots of ghosts. Keep an eye out for American Horror Story Season 1.5 - Episode 5: Ghost House.

This episode scored a Bram Stoker on "I Write Like...". Woo! I'm totally all right with that.