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He doesn't want to know the answer, so Nixon doesn't stop to ask whether he's ignoring his mother's figure on the distant porch, calling his name as night falls and the house begins to glow with electric light. Actually, the answer's rather obvious—a big, fat, ear boxing "Yes," is the answer—but to ask would spoil something. And things are spoiled enough. He wisely keeps his mouth shut and follows Dick wherever he'll lead.
The scent of molasses-thick silage from nearby farms floats thick on the evening wind, sweet and almost musky in his mouth. It's growing dark in blue-gray shades, and only the tops of the trees and the sea of cornstalks catch the last color of the sun. They cut through the cow pasture, heading out in the opposite direction of the horse farm.
"Does this stuff ever end?" he mutters as the sea of corn spreads along the horizon. Against the darkening sky, the moonlight on the corn and the clouds almost makes Nixon dizzy to look at, each massive and silver and running seamlessly together at the ridge of the horizon. Another seamless thing to comprehend. Between that and the guide—and all that he means, this Dick Winters of summer sunlight and red hair and full, warm meals—he'll never get any peace.
Dick laughs. "You really are a city slicker."
Nixon socks him in the shoulder without any real animosity. "What was that?" Dick turns and looks back at him with one hand clasped over the supposed wound.
Besides the crickets chirping rapidly, his voice sounds loud and isolated, like it's the only damn one left on Earth. Either they've gone too far to hear, or Dick's mother's quit her useless calling. Crickets, grasshoppers and unlit fireflies chirp, jump and buzz about in that absence. Nixon can damn near hear the blood pulsing beneath Dick's skin and his already lanky bones stretching and growing, this country quiet is so pervasive. So damn quiet, like all there is is this cornfield. He hates it. But he follows on and tries to ignore the formidable knot forming in his stomach. Thankfully, a breeze kicks up and the dry, scratchy thrush of the stalks swaying and clacking muffles the unnerving quiet.
"Where are we going?"
"Here," Dick answers, and he steps through the growth of toothy grass and weeds skirting the field. Looks back at Nixon when he doesn't follow. In fact, Nixon plants his feet and balks at the insinuation, shaking his head like some spooked colt. "It'll be fine. Come on. Trust me, if there's one place you go when you don't want to be found, it's here."
A little, incredulous scoff escapes him. "Don't people get lost in cornfields?"
"Lew," comes the good-natured response, "only an idiot could get lost in a cornfield. They're planted in straight rows. You only have to keep walking to get out." Nixon notices Dick shifting his weight and casually looking about to avoid laughing out loud. Once the urge is successfully smothered, he lets one a corner of his mouth into a rare, honest smile and looks Nixon in the eye. "I'll make sure we don't. Come on."
Nixon carefully counts the moments he spends staring blankly, and there are a lot—half of his shock is from the idea of plunging into that endless sea, half at how willingly Dick stares back. And there's a certain color in his eyes, so open, so dark, so blue, that something like nausea rises up in him. Love, and utter nausea. Dick waits patiently. When he finally seems to return to himself, Dick reaches out and takes Nixon's hand.
The ripe corn stalks stand as a (mostly) silent audience, their warped leaves dancing crooked overhead. If they weren't so waxy to the touch and scratchy at the edges, Nixon could almost imagine they are fingers tracing over his arms. Looming high overhead, in the dimming light the stalks looks like a deep, unending forest. He occasionally feels the swipe of corn silk on his face as he ducks around a clothed cob jutting into the narrow aisle. For being planted straight, it's hardly a stroll down the promenade. The earth beneath Nixon's feet flows to a rhythm he's never learned—it's rutted, uneven, and thick with weeds. He's following as carefully as he can behind long-legged Dick Winters, gripping his hand like a guide rope.
He glances upward as he walks and sees the last color of daylight go dark. Hundreds and hundreds of stars are coming into focus, and Nixon feels himself squeeze the hand wrapped around his. Dick pauses and glances back at him. It's getting dark enough so Nixon has to blink and adjust to see.
"We can go back if you want."
"No," Nixon shakes his head. "On with the expedition, my Captain."
A corner of Dick's mouth tugs happily and he continues quietly forward. Even the faint pulse of blood Nixon fixates on beneath his skin seems to resonate the quiet night noises. Wouldn't surprise Nix if that heart ever pounds faster than the earth's sleepy, steady beat—he can't remember if it did in memory of mornings in empty bedrooms and at the dock, his own thundering too much to hear. Eventually, after what to Nixon could have been miles of dense, whispering forest—full of grasshoppers and lots of other buzzing, invisible things heralding their arrival—the row ends and they step into the open. Dick doesn't let go of his hand and Nixon doesn't ask him to.
"Is this where you say, 'Ta-dah'?"
"Ta-dah," Dick says with a smile, but without any of the requisite bravado needed to make a grassy irrigation lane in a cornfield impressive.
Nixon's eyes have finally adjusted to the dark, and he can see the edges of the horizon on all sides edged with the jagged silhouette of tassels. The sky's cleared of clouds, as well, and he can see the red tinge of Dick's hair under the nearly full moon. The ground slopes inward where a stream must run between the halves of the field—a currently dry irrigation ditch, where thick, soft grass grows instead. Nixon closes his eyes when Dick steps close and lifts his chin to press his mouth to Nixon's temple in a lingering kiss. Closes them tighter against some seamless emotion tugging at him, feeling the dry edges of Dick's mouth on his skin press fast until they touch soft, warm, wet.
"Are you alright?" he asks, tilting his head down as Nixon bows his, avoiding that all-knowing gaze.
"Fine," he answers, not sure whether it's really a lie. "Hungry, though." And that's definitely the truth. "Please tell me you planned for provisions on this little excursion."
"I did." He turns around and lets go of Nixon's hand—and the industrialist's son feels compelled to press it behind his back, lest Dick notice some twitch that attests he already misses it.
Dick goes up to a fairly large cob on a stalk, and, after a moment's consideration, curling away the first few layers of green, wraps his hands around it and pulls down hard. The stalk shudders violently as it breaks free with a dry, crunchy snap! Slowly sways back into place, and Dick quickly severs a second for himself, and returns to a highly skeptical expression. He blinks a few times in the face of Nixon's mouth pressed uncertainly together and one eyebrow digging low. "What? It's sweet corn. It's perfectly fine to eat," he says. When the silence continues, above a soft din of crickets and unlit fireflies buzzing by—he sighs and shakes his head. "Lew, don't give me that look."
"What look?" he says, though the expression remains unchanged. "Shouldn't it be, I don't know—cooked?"
"It's fine to eat raw. Actually, I think it's better straight off the stalk. Very sweet."
"Sweet corn is sweet, huh?" Nix mutters absently, now gazing at the proposed dinner only with uncertainty. He glances up and sees Dick arch one eyebrow at him. "Alright, alright. I'll eat it. I trust you. Whether or not that's to my advantage, though, is yet to be seen."
They sit side by side in the grass and rip into their makeshift dinner. Dick's practiced hands work quickly and there's soon a pile of shed cornhusk beside him, the freed silk scattering about in the breeze. Already picking clean the tiny threads still clinging between the cool, rubbery kernels and ready to eat. He nearly bites into it before glancing over and seeing Nixon still struggling to find and remove the silk in the dark. He's hunched close—unaccustomed to seeing in the dark—squinting and muttering as he's met with difficulty. Cutely contorting his face as if translating some dead language, not just holding a corncob, the green husk scattered in his lap. He catches Dick watching him, and grimaces. "All in time," he says in his defense.
"Need some help?"
Nixon smirks, waves it off—manages to shoo some annoying mosquito away from his ear at the same time. "I've got it." As if to prove it, he takes a bite. Dick wonders whether he's ever eaten it straight off the cob before, and cannot resist a little twitch of arousal to see his lips close around the cob, wetted with the juice of popped kernels. Nixon chews it a little before he tastes some of the silk still not removed against his teeth, getting stuck. Dick watches the tip of Nixon's tongue flick out and wipe his lips clean and he grimaces. Starts to shift uncomfortably, attempting to tongue the stuff out from between them. Looks a lot like a horse trying to spit out a mouthful of medicine. Makes a little grunt of displeasure, too. "Okay, maybe I didn't get it all."
"Here," Dick says, and commandeers it, though Nixon willfully hands it over. As Dick smiles to himself and cleans the cob of all the remaining silk stubbornly hiding in the seams, he spends the time picking his teeth clean again. Once finished, Dick hands it back and Nixon hungrily reclaims it. "Pretty good, isn't it? My mother always preferred it straight out of the field to cooked. Probably inherited that taste from her."
"Along with everything else about you," Nixon comments, smiling despite his mock-serious tone. "You've both got the same look to you. Like you know anything and everything. Insufferable know-it-alls you are. Blindingly redheaded, to boot."
"Takes a know-it-all to know one," Dick says, and the smile catches, grows into a grin.
Nixon hums in agreement, and keeps gnawing hungrily. Chews down to the fleshy white cob inside, cleaning it of nearly every kernel, even the shrunken ones at the tips. The finished cob looks like a coyote-stripped bone as it drops into the grass and leafy pile of husk. Dick is amazed how quickly he's gone through it, and that he stands up and looks down at him once he finishes. "Want another? I'll go get you one, too. 'Cause I don't know about you, but I'm still starving."
"Sure. Thanks," Dick says. Another husk, another silk cleaning, and another set of finished cobs only a few minutes later, and the Lancaster native turns to look at Nixon and smiles. Picks one up and brandishes it. "Bet I can throw farther than you."
A grin immediately consumes his face. "Oh, you think so? You're on, country boy." His brows draw together in a wicked expression, as he allows Dick to take the first shot. They both stand up, and Dick pushes his sleeve up, winds up, and lets the light cob fly.
"Goddamn, it's too dark for this…I can't even see where that went."
"Over to the left a little. Landed by that elm tree. That's the distance to beat, city slicker," Dick challenges.
"Hmm. Not sure I agree with you—but I'll have to trust you on that." He smiles and jabs a finger in Dick's direction. "Again, an advantage or not, I'm not sure…"
"Come on, throw it," comes the half-admonishing response, standing shoulder to shoulder, close enough that Dick can nudge him with the smallest effort. Nixon returns the favor with an irreverent flash of tongue and steps backwards to wind up. Feels those blue-green-gray eyes settle on him with a spark of something makes his heart wallop against his ribs, watching him, and lets fly. Immediately Dick watches the trajectory through the dark—Nixon, who sees only dark blurs and silver in the distance, simply hopes for the best—and watches it land just a few feet ahead of his mark, veered slightly right.
"Hey!" Dick says happily, turning to face the victor. "Looks like the city slicker put this country boy to shame."
Nixon laughs. "Jesus, don't act like it's such a big surprise! You might insult me," he says. "So, what have I won?"
"Whatever you want."
Maybe it's the endless sensation from being here, miles from the smoky industry of home and the far enough from the warm simplicity of the Winters farm that prompts his naked answer. A seamless space from the dirt to the sky and around again, so thick with tiny, swaying, chirping, breathing sounds no unwanted ear, human or otherwise, would hear him. He looks up at Dick and says, one corner of his mouth pulling back in a grimace-laugh, "I want to stay here." Pauses, pulls the opposite corner back in a nervous tick and stares at the grass in the dark. "I want to stay here with you."
Nixon feels Dick quickly cross the gap and grab him up in a fierce embrace before he can begin to feel his composure (goddamn fooling myself if I didn't think I was going to be a mess in front of him) drop out beneath him, before he does or admits something truly humiliating. Presses his face desperately into Dick's bony shoulder and clamps his hands onto his back, feeling the familiar lanky landscape of his still-growing body all too comforting under his fingertips. Simmering hot beneath his thin cotton shirt, still solid and there.
It's probably the only occasion he's honestly glad about the few inches of height Dick has over him—provides a hiding spot from those Winters-trademark knowing looks that always penetrate bone-deep. Almost too deep. And then he's shuddering as Dick's lips press hot, enthusiastic kisses over his head and neck, pausing every few touches to say, "I know, I know," and "Me, too." Arms clutch tight, and Nixon shivers despite the August humidity when all the heat of Dick's body unites flush and something cold drops in his stomach. "Lew," he whispers, "I know. But I can't give that to you—"
Nixon can't stand this anymore. He hates knowing the end is here, hates how readily he'll follow this kid, how awfully he suddenly needs him, how awfully pained Dick sounds in kind. Hates how he'll smell horseflesh or blood in his nose and instantly remember. His hands move to Dick's shoulder blades and clutch him close. He rushes to kiss Dick before something too breakable is said—and to ask is to spoil something and things are spoiled enough.
Nixon kisses him fiercely, unafraid of accidentally biting him in the process. He tries too hard to make Dick understand in one motion, and Dick surfaces for air, holding his face in his hands. Already his half-pursed lips are swelling, tinging a dark berry pink in the dark. Tongue flicks out, licks away a dark spot of blood where arousal became carelessness.
"Lew, it's alright," he says softly. Strokes the ridge of Nixon's cheek. Kisses him chastely, as if breathing life into him. "Slow. Slow. We have time, right now. As much as you need. Whatever you need," he promises in earnest, and his eyes are inky-dark as well.
Nixon returns the chaste kiss and presses his forehead against Dick's cheek, clutching his back. It burns unbearable hot, flushed with excitement. Rolls his hips forward to prove how impatient he is, already aroused and dizzy, drunk with it, feeling Dick growing hard in kind. Another savored roll of his hips and Dick lets out a sigh-gasp, a quiet, erotic noise. They silently agree that time is precious—Nixon, biting lips, rushing his tongue along teeth, creating a blind-man's photograph of Dick's smile, easing the taller boy to the ground, shucking clothes with far more skill than cornhusks; Dick, moaning quietly into Nixon's mouth, running his tongue along Nix's reaching one, threading skinny fingers through thick, dark hair, pressing hot pressure points of erections together through fabric, nurturing a powerful electric circuit.
Dick arches his head against the ground, overwhelmed with the hot circle of Nixon's mouth attempting to kiss every inch, reiterate every freckle along his neck, shoulder, chest, navel. It's as much teenage rutting, as much love making as it is memorization in every medium. Anticipating actions they'll never have the chance for again, forecasting combinations of lips, fingers, and blood-saturated skin too numerous to try but trying anyway. Nixon says nothing, absorbs it all, and Dick gives everything, silently knows every unsaid thing. Thankfully, though, Dick's chosen the secluded location well, because Nixon wants to do anything but sleep and bring tomorrow any damn closer than it already is.
He does, eventually, after making Dick so spent—comes at a shout the first time, Nixon for the first time deep within him, a low, but very exhausted whimper the second, at the mercy of that always-grinning mouth, and too content after that to try again. Nixon's finally feeling so light and tranquil, with his hair in an opposite state and littered with grass, he can't keep his eyes open. He groggily pulls his shucked clothes close, ignoring the coat of grass and silk, half-assedly pulls on his jeans and balls up his shirt to lie on. Dick's already lazily dressed himself, but currently curled up on the ground, pillowing his head on his arm.
That blindingly red hair—he sees it again, coppery beneath sun, short and vibrant against his pale skin—is ruffled and hangs over his forehead, as dirty as Nixon's. He smiles hazily, and crawls up next to him. When he affectionately runs his hands over his head and down his back, rubbing through his thin cotton button up, Dick squints one eye open and quietly raises his arm. Nixon positions his pillow so he can lay front to front with Dick, feeling the heat of his body radiate where the buttons are undone. A kiss lands on his nose and Dick murmurs something sweet, but a sleepy slur consumes it, and Nixon quickly follows after, huddling up under him like slow breathing shelter.
When Nixon slowly wakes a few hours later, he's got his feet pressed up against Dick's to keep warm and his one arm under his neck and the other over his waist. Dick's breath—still sweet with the sugar of just-ripe corn—washes slowly over his temple from his nose, closed lips still pressed against Nixon's brow.
Now the hard part.