utage

it’s an easy job -- as if lucius doesn’t plan everything out to the point where they’re all easy, anyway. there’s never any room for error. he doesn’t let himself leave room for error.

so: the victim had shown up at the right place at the right time.

so: lucius had found him.

so: lucius knew how to draw him off of the street.

so: lucius knows the nameofhiscompany, knows the namesofhiskids, knows theworkhedoeshiseverydayschedulehisfavoriterestraurantthecarthathedrives --

and he had weighed all that against the lives of the investigation division and the scale had spoken. the heart was heavier than the feather. he will play the role of ammit the way he has time and time again.

it’s an easy job because it always is. lucius is breathing heavily. his cheek smarts from where the man had lunged at him, god knows where he’d found that shattered bottle on the ground, broken glass, he needs to get it disinfected, his shoes are wet with -- fuck, he shouldn’t have backed away like that, it was so avoidable. it’s an easy job, lucius steps back, expects the nonexistent shadows to catch him. it’s an easy job -- because it always is, he makes sure it is, but --

“On your own?” Nikolai marvels.

“Yes,” Lucius says. He’s not sure what else to say. His fingers twitch. He forces himself still. There’s something awful in what he’d just done but he feels worse, somehow, feeling Nikolai’s hand burn like a brand against his cheek. His fingers linger a moment too long; they come away stained in red.

Nikolai stares at his hand. He holds it up to the hallway light, watches the blood gleam in the light. There’s a pleased expression on his face; he wipes them off on the edge of his untucked shirt, dark smears streak across the fabric. Without his coat, in the warm glow, he looks so much -- smaller, really, than what Lucius is used to seeing. Nikolai has to reach up, just slightly, to touch Lucius’s bangs.

The hallway is silent. The two of them stand there, nearly still. Nikolai is standing there, brushing Lucius’s bangs out of his face with the back of his hand, his knuckles leave fever in their wake. Lucius is standing there, blood on his face, it’s going to dry in his hair, his streaks are going stain red and sticky and he’ll never be able to truly wash it all out.

“Congrats,” Nikolai says. He tilts his head to the side. The top button of his shirt is undone; the movement bares his neck, his pale hair falls over his skin like water. He smiles: slow, lazy, venomous. “Congratulations.”

“For what?” Lucius says, frostily. Stop touching me, he thinks. He doesn’t move. We’ve already done this a million times. What is there to congratulate me for?

“You did it yourself,” Nikolai murmurs. He drags his thumb under Lucius’s eye, again, wiping away the still-dripping blood. Lucius grabs his wrist, forces it down, Nikolai’s smile sharpens into something that Lucius is more used to seeing painted on his face. “And then you came back -- to me.”

“I didn’t come back for you,” Lucius spits.

“Sure,” Nikolai agrees. His hand is limp and pliant. Lucius wonders why did I come and why am I here and he can’t find an answer to either of his questions in the shadow of Nikolai’s silhouette.

“I need your shower,” he tries, again.

“He was closer to...?”

“It was closer to you than to me,” Lucius says. He can see it -- in his head. “Two streets down. Near the intersection. They won’t --”

“Well, don’t confess to it now,” Nikolai says, bemused.

Lucius pushes past Nikolai, at that, and doesn’t wait for Nikolai to close the door behind him before he starts taking off his shoes. He’d wiped them down three times over, he isn’t tracking blood, he knows this but he checks anyway and still expects to see red on his soles. He takes off his coat in one swift motion, lets it fall over the arm of Nikolai’s couch, forces his fingers through the knot of his bowtie, pulls the ends out as quickly as he can, his breath is short, why is he here, he still can’t find an answer.

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” Nikolai asks, simply. The door swings shut.

Lucius throws his tie and his gloves on top of his coat. He clenches his eyes shut. He breathes in sharply enough for his chest to hurt.

“It’s always harder on your own.” The heavy click of the door lock, accompanied by a twisting feeling of finality welling up in Lucius’s stomach. He can almost believe that Nikolai’s being sincere. “I know it is.”

Lucius opens his eyes.

Nikolai’s picked up his coat. He’s examining it with a surgical eye, a dull look on his face, the kind of expression Lucius only sees him make when the two of them are on their own. He turns languidly to Lucius, tosses him half a smile.

“You missed a spot.”

it’s messy, it’s so messy, it was over and it’d been an easy job but it’s so messy, he forgets how messy it is without an extra set of hands, lucius grits his teeth. bodies get heavier when they’re dead and when there’s only one person carrying them. hands under cold arms ground rough under his feet it catches on every rock and every crack and every pit in the earth almost like its a living thing struggling against lucius’s grasp almost like it’s still alive.

lucius’s coat slips from his shoulders. he curses; he uses a bloody hand to pull it back up so that it doesn’t drag on the ground for any longer than it has to. his cheek smarts. it feels deeper than he knows it is. it should’ve been over sooner. he should be -- cold, in bed alone, moonlight pouring through his windows like water. he should be -- with an extra set of hands.

He’d missed two spots, actually.

First: there’s blood on his collar, a smear of dark red where his fingers had dug into his lapels. Drops of red trace the edge of the right jewel on his collar chain, where the cut on his cheek had trickled blood as he’d walked down the street.

Nikolai’s leaning over the sink, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing at the stains with soap and hydrogen peroxide. Lucius can’t help but notice -- Nikolai’s nails are short, the skin around them picked raw. Lucius’s cheek stings. He idly wonders if Nikolai’s fingers feel the same way.

Second: blood’s soaked into the ragged ends of his coat, those frayed edges that Lucius never bothered to clean up or replace. It’d somehow touched the ground for a split-second too long. The wrong place, the wrong time, just like everything else.

Lucius’s scissors strain against the thick fabric; he holds his hands under them, catches the stray strings of falling cloth before they can hit the ground, throws them away as he cuts. He looks up. Nikolai’s face is concentrated. The easy smile he normally wears is replaced with something almost genuinely relaxed. It’s compelling -- in an almost repulsive way. Revolting in how quickly Nikolai can switch it out for a grin the second he catches Lucius watching him.

“What?” Nikolai asks. He turns his head away. “I’m doing what you asked for.”

“I didn’t ask you to do anything.”

“You said half of it yourself, partner.” Nikolai motions towards the bath. “Start warming the water.”

Lucius doesn’t bother to respond. The bathroom is too small; the dingy yellow ceiling light makes it look older than the rest of the building, somehow. Nikolai’s faucet is always -- stuck. He has to push it too hard, tilt it upwards to get it to move.

The sound of running water fills the room. Lucius casts a sideways glance at Nikolai. He starts unbuttoning his shirt, half-wonders if Nikolai would offer to do that for him, too, knows that Nikolai’d be all-too-willing to peel Lucius’s skin off right alongside his clothes.

“It’ll dry soon,” Nikolai comments. He holds Lucius’s coat up to the light to make sure the stain it gone, before hanging it on a towel hook and sitting himself down on the stool next to the shower. He holds his hand under the faucet. “Well? What do we say?”

“The water’s still cold,” Lucius says, instead.

“A please or thank you would be nice.”

“You were the one that offered.”

“After you knocked on my door,” Nikolai says -- his voice is cold, for a brief second. He turns his hand over. The sound of the water changes. His tone sweetens, alongside it. “Come on. By the time you get your clothes off, it’ll be warm.”

“In front of --”

“We’ve seen each other naked before,” Nikolai interrupts dismissively. A beat -- he looks back at Lucius, passes him a sly smile. “And anyway, what if you miss a spot?”

“Get out,” Lucius says, tiredly.

“I’m not going to kill you in my bathtub.”

“And I still don’t want --”

“And even if I did want to get rid of you, it wouldn’t be in my own apartment.” Nikolai’s smile widens. “Doesn’t that feel a bit too personal?”

Lucius finishes unbuttoning his shirt. He doesn’t look at Nikolai. He steps out of his slacks, pushes the pile of clothing to the side, pretends that Nikolai isn’t dissecting him with just his eyes to try to find out what lies underneath his skin.

“Sit,” Nikolai says, beckoning him over. “I’ll help.” The unspoken words are obvious: since I couldn’t help before.

The ceramic is cold; the water is too hot, Nikolai always showers with water that’s too hot. Lucius tilts his head back, lets his hair soak under the stream. Steam fogs up the cracked mirror over the sink. Nikolai’s fingers comb through his hair. Lucius nearly bristles at the feeling of it; his scalp stings from where Nikolai pulls too hard, working his hands through tangles and knots that Lucius would’ve ignored if he was on his own.

“How was it?” Nikolai asks, softly.

“Fine,” Lucius replies. Stray locks of his hair fall out of Nikolai’s hands. Drops of red spill in the bath, pool around the edge of the drain. He’s sure it’ll stain. Blood always stains. He’d scrubbed at his fingernails three times over before he knocked on Nikolai’s door, why had he come, blood always stains.

“Without me?”

“I can plan things on my own.”

“I’d like to think that I make things easier.”

“You don’t,” Lucius snaps, immediately. “If anything, you make things worse.”

“I’d have helped you carry the body, at least.” He can hear the teasing smile in Nikolai’s voice, his fingers at the back of Lucius’s head.

Maybe the dark rust around the drain is previously-dried blood. It can’t be. Nikolai’s not that careless. Is he? “I didn’t need you to.”

“I’d have made sure that you weren’t hurt.”

“You’d rather do that part yourself, anyway.”

Nikolai laughs. His voice bounces around the room, sharper than the sound of the water splashing against the sides of the tub.

“You think I would?” Nikolai asks. “Really?”

Lucius tilts his head forward; the water is hot, he wishes he could drowse in it, Nikolai’s presence makes him feel like he has a rock in his stomach that makes it impossible to relax. “Of course.”

Nikolai pulls back on Lucius’s hair, sharply -- Lucius’s head falls back, he gasps, he can’t help himself -- he whips around, tearing his hair out of Nikolai’s grasp, his face burns.

“Maybe you’d like that,” Nikolai suggests.

“Get out,” Lucius says, lowly, pointing to the door.

“Oh, come on.”

“Out,” Lucius spits.

Nikolai raises his hands, all fake compliance, his smile gleaming in the yellow light. “Anything you say, partner.”

The door clicks behind him -- Lucius gets to his feet as quickly as he can, rakes his own hands through his own hair, scrubs as hard as he can to get the feeling of Nikolai’s fingers off of his scalp. As if Nikolai would ever -- it was stupid to think that he wouldn’t.

Lucius doesn’t let himself think about it. He schools his eyes on the drain; strings of blonde hair, almost too-light to be seen against the white tub, are trapped in the grate. His movements are mechanical: soap, water, turn off the water, the mirror is foggy in the heat, towel off, put on the same clothes he’d come in with, check on his coat. He’d leave when his coat was dry. He’d leave when his coat was dry and he could take it home. He could leave before his coat was dry, let it dry at home -- and hell if Nikolai would stop him.

he wants to put his jacket on, he’s sure that the blood and dirt and the uneaten remnants of the man’s heart would stain his sleeves red if he got too careless and he’s edging close to it, he’s on the border, he’s getting too careless. nobody’s eyes are on him to stop him from being too careless. he’s cold and quick and to the point and there’s no care in his work, he wants it dead and that’s that and --

“where’s the art to it?” his shadow asks. “wait, don’t end it too quickly. watch.”

and lucius reaches over to take his hand, twist the knife, it’s harder than he expected. the body is nearly bloodless, it’s been dead for too long. he sighs in relief. he seems almost -- disappointed, but he guides lucius through the process, separating skin from bone from flesh, splitting the human body into easily-digestible pieces, cut by cut by cut by cut by cut.

“You can confess to it, really.” Nikolai smiles. “I only stopped you because we were in the hallway.”

Lucius --

-- doesn’t have his coat.

He didn’t expect himself to. There’s a routine to it. They play out the same scene, time and time again.

“There’s nothing to say,” Lucius responds, tiredly. Nikolai beckons Lucius over to the bed to sit; he’s lighting up a cigarette already, the window slightly ajar to account for the smoke. Lucius’s hair is still wet. It’s uncomfortably cold in the room; he wonders if Nikolai feels it, if the natural warmth that always spills from his skin is reflected in his core.

“Nothing?”

“I was on my own.” The implication: you weren’t there. The other implication: I didn’t have you. “And it’s not like it ever changes.”

“Everyone’s a little bit different.” Nikolai snaps his fingers; fire bursts from his hand, lighting up the dim room in a shower of short-lived sparks. Lucius watches him put the cigarette between his lips. A deep, aching hunger suddenly courses through him -- he hasn’t smoked since work hours, God, he needs one, he’s sure Nikolai knows that he needs one.

“A body’s a body.”

“The result is the same.” Nikolai exhales; the smell of ash hangs like a guillotine in the air. “The way that we get there never is.”

Lucius pushes himself off the wall, stalks across the room, plucks the cigarette out of Nikolai’s fingers and takes a drag of smoke. Nikolai’s staring up at him, his yellow eyes gleaming in the light, an odd look on his face.

“How’d they get you?” Nikolai asks. He points to his own cheek.

“Broken glass,” Lucius says, shortly.

“And you...?”

“Knocked him out.”

“With?”

“The back of my gun.”

Nikolai’s mouth drops into a faux-frown -- or a real one, Lucius is never sure. He beckons Lucius closer; reaches up for the cigarette, Lucius indulges him and actually lets him take it, he’s not sure why he does. “You’re an awful storyteller, for what it’s worth.”

“I didn’t come here to entertain you,” Lucius says, coldly.

“But you are, aren’t you?”

“I can leave.”

“And you won’t.” Nikolai offers him the cigarette. Lucius leans down to accept it. His fingers brush against Nikolai’s.

I won’t, Lucius thinks. He can’t explain why. There’s something in the ritual of it all, a shadow haunting his steps, he can’t leave until --

“Was it the same?” Nikolai asks. He leans forward, resting his chin on his hand.

“I already told you --”

“Not to have an extra set of hands.” He’s too close; his spare hand hovers above Lucius’s waist. “Or an extra set of eyes.”

“I can watch out for myself.”

“I’m not saying you can’t.”

“I killed him myself. I’ve been protecting them since before -- you, anyway.”

“And I’m proud of you, for that.”

“Don’t be,” Lucius snaps. He stubs out the cigarette against the wooden nightstand; it leaves a charred black circle on the oak, Nikolai’s eyes narrow at the sight, Lucius can’t tell what expression he means to convey. “It’s not something to be proud of in the first place.”

“I think it is,” Nikolai replies. “To have the resolve. Nobody else has that kind of willpower -- except for --”

Not us, Lucius thinks.

Nikolai doesn’t finish his sentence, he doesn’t need to. He puts his hands on Lucius’s, pulling him down, Lucius leans over him and blocks out the ceiling light and casts his face in dark, harsh shadows.

You weren’t there, Lucius doesn’t say. We can’t be doing this. It’s too late. I came to your apartment but you weren’t there. Why do I let you do this?

“You did well,” Nikolai sighs, his breath warm against Lucius’s mouth. “I can at least say that much, right?”

Lucius is the one to close the gap.

he’s standing at the edge of the sidewalk.

no weapons. no partner. he’s scrubbed his fingernails three times over, wiped his shoes down until they’re polished clean. he tilts his head backwards, opens himself up to the chilling, accusatory glare of the moon, the sky is empty of stars, there are no eyes on him, he’s used to having at least two.

the silence doesn’t answer him because he doesn’t call. lucius feels the weight, heavy around his shoulders -- hands around his neck, scorching fingers at his cheeks, a stranger that he knows too well. the missing feeling of pride, approval, murmured praise; there is the too-little too-late feeling of a mouth on his own, he’s not sure why he lets it pass --

[ * * * ]

“Fuck off,” Lucius gasps. His head’s spinning; his thoughts feel fuzzy.

“We’re sleeping in this bed,” Nikolai shrugs. Lucius doesn’t bother to mention the smears of dark blood staining the pillowcase underneath him.

Nikolai half-sits up, forcing Lucius to half-stand. He wraps his hands around Lucius’s neck, pulls their faces close to each other. Lucius almost thinks that Nikolai’s going to kiss him but he just laps at Lucius’s mouth with his tongue, sucks at Lucius’s broken lip, his teeth are stained red and Lucius is shocked still for a moment before he can even register what’s happening.

A wave of revulsion rushes through him. He pushes Nikolai backwards. Nikolai’s laugh is hollow -- it breaks the silence of the room like a stone through glass -- Lucius wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, the heat in his stomach is gone, all he can feel is cold disgust and his lip pulsing with blood and it hurts and fuck, he never wants to do this, he keeps doing this.

Blood’s smeared across Nikolai’s face like shitty lipstick. He looks -- awful. The bruises on his neck bloom like mottled flowers. Lucius is sure that Nikolai can remember where every one of them came from.

Nikolai holds his hand out. “Smoke.”

“They’re in my coat,” Lucius replies.

“I’m not getting up.”

“Then we’re not smoking,” Lucius says, tiredly. He sits on the bed, pushes his hair out of his face, a wave of exhaustion washes over him and he can’t -- it’s not the sex, it’s not even the murder, he’s just -- tired, why do I keep doing this, goddamnit, fuck.

Nikolai stares at him, for a few moments.

His movements are mechanical. He strips the bloody pillowcase off, uses it to wipe himself off. He leans over to Lucius, folds it neatly in half, cleans him off as best he can. He leans back, folds it in half again, presses it against the bite marks left in his neck. They’ll scar. It’ll take a while for them to fade away. Both of them know that much, at least.

“Leave it on the floor when you’re done,” Lucius says. He feels like he’s speaking through a layer of static.

“Blood is easier to get out when it’s fresh.” Nikolai smiles, tilts his head to the side. “But -- yes, I was planning on it.”

“I’ll stay.”

“I know you will.”

“Don’t say that.” Lucius presses his hands to his temples. He’d known since the beginning. Nikolai’d known since the beginning. It’s something that doesn’t have to be said.

“Fine,” Nikolai says, simply. He moves towards Lucius; Lucius lets him pull his arm over, maneuver him into lying down. Nikolai sits over him. His shadow blocks out the ceiling light. He brushes Lucius’s still-wet hair out of his face with a gentleness that Lucius doesn’t think he’s ever treated Nikolai with -- not in a long time, at least.

He drags his thumb under Lucius’s eye. It comes away wet with blood.

“This won’t scar,” Nikolai says. “Just don’t keep reopening it.”

“I wasn’t worried about that.”

“Sure,” he says. His fingers are warm; he cradles Lucius’s cheek in his hand, Lucius doesn’t want Nikolai to touch him, he doesn’t make any effort to move. Two sets of hands to hide a body are better than one. Why did he think that? He needs his coat. He needs -- to get dressed, again. He needs to leave.

“You can confess to it, now,” Nikolai murmurs. “Was it easier?”

cold night, movement forward, if he stops he’ll drown, body in pieces he’ll never see again, he didn’t even let his shadow commemorate it he didn’t let him do what he wanted thank god, thank fuck, thank god.

Lucius’s mouth parts, on its own. He’s done this on his own.