Chapter Text
Dusk is near, ashen over the expanse of crooked mountains.
The wind whips by, hissing like a rattle snake prowling in its territory.
Tim had heard the gun shots, he cries old tears.
( three years earlier )
Armand is gone with the wind, the sheriff of this old rust bucket of a town has an eye and a word out for him.
Tim hears all kinds of tell; that he’s off prowling around brothels on the edge of the desert, or he’s down betting coins on horse racing. The worst one, Timmy loathes to wonder about.
That of course is actually the issue at hand.
“Stealin’ cattle with the old Guilder boys again?” Officer Reeds drawls in a hushed tone and thick grimace, this town had been made a fool of once again.
Armand bucks proudly against the dollop of a hood that sheriff has, a whistle on his lips as he tilts his head towards the sky. Tim had never seen anything like it, the display of class a very permitted thing.
He was handsome and awfully darling, Timothée didn’t know what to call or make of the giddy knots that filled his stomach, or later, the tragic moon awakening of who he is, late at night, deep in his withered sheets he smelt of fervor and wet heat.
He had gotten his moon call, his being, he was what anybody begged the heavens not to be. He was a mistake.
He didn’t see that boy again for a couple dog days, when he does it’s at the mini bargain shop that miss Anne, the town nun runs, it’s particularly full of ripened fruits and home made jams. Timmy came for the milk and eggs, his ma sent him to fetch it with a hand made shiv tucked under his belt loop, he could never be too careful now that he had presented. Unwed alphas could get extremely assaultive with little regard to the law or omegas consent or well being, so it was standard to bring protection.
The boy, Armand was tall, tall like a bean sprout.
Timmy suddenly was very much into that.
He tried to make it not obvious, made sure to gaze over the lemons once or twice while he passed him. The hot flush of coal in his cheeks scorched its awakened flame as the alpha brushes past, his head leering inches, gracious inches past Timmy’s at his fullest height.
He fumed with embarrassment and pheromones, he was soiled.
The wind torturously blows its soft gust, the alpha quirks a brow, head cast down, eyes caressing the view, then, unfortunately, landing on Timmy.
Time to abandon the wagon. Time to pack the four decent blouses he owns and move cross country.
The alpha just gives him a gentle, curious look, and it’s the safest Timmy’s felt since he’s presented.
“You are,” Armand says.
“Omega,” Timmy replies.
“I see, first in the village?”
Tim nods, shrinking in on himself at the title. He’s the one, the only.
Armand hums.
( Two moons later )
“You like it out here?”
Tim wrinkles his nose, eyeing the sky as fat fumes of musky thick flames invade his nostrils.
They are surrounding a hand made, pile of sticks fire they’d built alongside the woods on the edge of the back of town.
Armand hadn’t had properly asked him to go out, just sent the old flying tale of a rock to Tim’s bedroom window, good thing his pa was out, knocked out cold with a bottle of wood whiskey at his feet. He was not too keen on the way the town boys eyed Timmy growing up, and especially not now with new even stronger reasons.
“Here?” Timmy whispers, curious on Armie’s intent behind the question.
Armie grips the gin they had borrowed from his uncle’s dingy saloon, it was cheap and the malt didn’t taste no better than moon shine but it was getting the job done.
Tim hears Armie burp, watching him tilt his head back in the flickering moon light, the bob of his bulbous Adams apple kissing the night air with goosebumps.
“Yeah like,” Armand trails off, looking almost cautious in his wording.
Armand settles back, pressing a hesitant hand to Tim's bony knee.
“D’ya wanna make a livin here? Never trail off some place else, just get knocked up and live the American dream?”
Timothée would laugh if Armand didn’t sound so serious, his voice gravelly and still like the river just feet into the trees.
“I never thought about it,” Tim whispers, croaks even, voice dry, he’ll blame it later on the fire.
( Two weeks later )
Timothée let’s Armand make love to him on a half moon.
It happened at fire side.
Armand had built the fire, gathering mossy but dried, hollowed sticks for the decorative little thing. It was just for the heat, he and Timmy had already had supper for free thanks to stopping by a long the way at Timothée’s grandma’s little cottage right next to the main Street.
They hadn’t gotten to talking about too many things, just the small standard drawl on town arrests and who’s ma is cheating with who’s pa.
It just took a comment, which turned into a couple questions, which then turned into something Timmy will pray he’ll never regret.
“My ma had me when she was thirteen,” Armand chuckles dryly, his comment towards the topic they’d been discussing on how young is too young to wed.
Timmy’s heart stutters, “and she didn’t regret it?”
Tim realises how it sounded, but Armand refuses to be offended, his face a calm thoughtful one as he pokes st the fire.
“Not that she ever told me,” he hums, looking away into the brush.
Tim fiddles with his blouse, the tinge of fall weather not stopping the heat from creeping up his shoulders as his eyes caress Armand’s loose trousers.
“I am, a um, you know,” Tim coughs, it’s awkward and caught in the still air.
Armand doesn’t blink, doesn’t move.
“Oh?”
Timmy shrinks, “yes.”
( Twenty minutes later )
“You’re going to have to climb back down when you leave,” Timothée stresses, tugging on the over sized giggly alpha above him.
He crawled through the window, chucking his filthy boots off at the corner of Tim’s room.
Timothée can tell Armie doesn’t realise it, but Tims dad has a shot gun.
“My dad will kill you,” Timothée hisses as Armie’s second boot slipping off makes a loud clang.
Armie shushes Timmy by an unsuspecting kiss, then an insistent stroke of his firm, searching fingers up Timothée’s unclothed thigh.
His dad would’ve called him the filthiest names for wearing those silk dress shorts, he was an omega, that didn’t mean he couldn’t choose his own dressing in the dawn.
( One week later )
Timmy stretches out awkwardly, wringing his hands together so he doesn’t look desperate.
“Haven’t seen you round much,” Tim whispers, looking away into the breeze to deflect the curious stare Armands giving him.
Armand tosses another bail of straw, “been busy,” he huffs, yanking up the sleeve of his overalls with one hand and wiping the grease off his fore head with the other.
“Are you doing alright?” Tim tries again, beginning to feel weak kneed. A nasty itch developing in his tummy.
“Er,” Armie ponders, looking round, “yeah, Timmy, I’ve been alright. Now ya better get back home before dusk sets in, I heard tell of a new comers moving this way soon.”
( An hour later )
“Pa, how do you know if you, say, knocked a omega up?” Armie hesitates awkwardly, choking on his dry beer as it hits his throat.
His pa is wrinkled with years of alcohol abuse and age, he glances at Armie with a heavy look, grabbing his own beer to steady himself.
“You ain’t asking for your old man I’m guessin?”
Armand shudders, shaking his head.
“You smell em, if they smell sweet, sweet like yours, than they are.”
Tim smelled sweet.