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“I hate you! If you show your face around here again, I’ll kill you!” Alfred’s shout reverberates through the walls.
The look in his eyes is not one Arthur is used to. Electric. Wild. Dangerous. Intimately familiar. Arthur doesn’t flinch as the door is slammed in his face. He turns around. Walks down the front path, towards the street.
Christmas lights already wind around the streetlamps, despite it being early November. They glitter brightly in the evening. Almost enough to blind. There are still plenty of people making up the crowds near the centre of town. Arthur navigates them easily. He keeps his gaze straight ahead, hands shoved down his pockets. He forgot his scarf, so he nestles his chin into the collar of his coat as he slips between a windswept family of four and a couple admiring the jewellery shop’s displays.
After a few more minutes, he turns away from the bright street, down a darkened alley. If he listens closely, he can hear quiet footsteps behind him. The person is trying to match their stride to his, though they slip up whenever Arthur changes it up. When he hops over a puddle. When he hesitates as a bird flies out of the nearest tree. When he walks along the curb and loses his balance and has to step into the street. Their footsteps always line up within three steps, until the next time Arthur changes the tempo.
The alleyway leads to a park. There are less streetlamps here, and no Christmas lights. The church steeple spears the sky, pitch black against indigo. Halfway down the path, the park turns into a cemetery. Arthur stops at a bench right beside the first tombstones and sits down. The footsteps are gone.
He closes his eyes. In the distance, he can faintly hear the bustle of the street he left behind, but overall it’s quiet here. He likes it. It’s not often that he can just sit and be still. Goosebumps prickle up his arms and thighs. Even in his pockets, his fingertips start to hurt from the cold, but he doesn’t move.
At some point the sky brightens, and Arthur looks up to see the clouds have skirted to the side to reveal the moon. It’s nearly full, with just a sliver missing from the left side. More footsteps fill his ears, this time coming from the cemetery. Two women pass by him, their arms linked. They barely glance at him, but he watches them until they’re gone from sight.
After fifteen more minutes there, he stands. Stretches, feeling his back and knees and wrists pop. He shakes out his spine to loosen it and starts home. There are less people out now. A few of the shops have shut. The Christmas lights still twinkle merrily. Warmly. Arthur shoves his nose deeper into his coat collar.
He pauses only for a moment when he reaches the front path. Their house is small for the rest of the block, but not the smallest. Different, but it doesn’t stand out. So far there’s one row of Christmas lights along the lower gutters. It’s all Alfred had time to do. Within the next week, there will be more lights strung from the second story gutters and the bushes out front and the fence. Perhaps he’ll let Alfred buy a pair of LED deer this year.
The goosebumps crawl up his back. He approaches the door. Doesn’t knock. It’s unlocked, so he lets himself in. The warmth from inside rips through him, sets fire to his fingertips and he clenches them until his body has adjusted. He closes the door and kicks his shoes off.
There’s a drop of blood against the hardwood floor. Arthur smears it away with a socked heel and strides deeper into the house. Alfred is in the kitchen, at the sink, washing dishes from their dinner. Two plates, two glasses, two forks, three knives. A steaming cup of lemon tea sits on the breakfast bar. Arthur slides onto the stool nearest it and places his fingers against the ceramic. A shiver travels through his body as the goosebumps recede.
Alfred doesn’t speak until he’s placed the last of the knives onto the drying rack. “Is it cold out there?”
As if he doesn’t know himself. “Not too bad.” Arthur lifts the cup to his throat. It burns on the way down. He takes two more large sips before lowering it again. “That was quite the performance, love. I was scared.”
“Liar,” Alfred says softly, and walks over to kiss his hair.
There’s still a hardness to his eyes, one Arthur knows won’t go away until tomorrow. He smiles and reaches for Alfred’s hand. Still warm from washing up. He presses a few kisses of his own to Alfred’s skin. Alfred takes the mug from his hands and pulls Arthur to the couch. The living room is dark, but neither one of them bother to turn on the lights. Arthur eases Alfred out of his coat and once it’s gone, Alfred shoves his hands under Arthur’s shirt.
Both of their hands wander as they slowly lose their clothes. Wander over cloth. Wander over hair. Wander over skin. Wander over scars. Alfred’s hands are warm and big against Arthur’s side, but his touch is gentle. Reverent. Arthur resists the urge to roll his eyes. Alfred is always like this afterwards. It’s one of the few things he knows to be true.
Alfred called him a liar, but they both are. Alfred is a high school substitute teacher. Arthur is a librarian. Lies. The salaries of a substitute teacher and a librarian can buy a nice house in a nice neighbourhood in a small town in New England. Lies. Alfred grew up in a small town in Colorado, while Arthur lived in London before moving to the States when he was sixteen. Lies. They met at university. Lies. They’ve been together for eight years. Lies. They had a beautiful fall wedding two years ago. Lies. Alfred stayed at home while Arthur was out. Lies. Neither one of them has ever killed. Lies.
Arthur doesn’t know what Alfred really does. Alfred doesn’t know what Arthur really does. No, those are lies too. But at the same time, they aren’t. There are so many layers to their house of lies that Arthur sometimes has a hard time keeping things straight, but there are four truths he will never doubt.
One, Alfred loves him.
Two, he loves Alfred.
Three, Alfred will do anything it takes to keep him safe.
Four, he will do anything it takes to keep Alfred safe.
It’s better if he doesn’t think too hard about the rest.
Arthur tilts his head back and moans as Alfred’s mouth latches onto his neck. He doesn’t know why someone was after him earlier. He has his suspicions, but he never cares to follow them up. He doesn’t know where Alfred left the body for pick-up. He doesn’t know if this will be the last walk he takes this week. He doesn’t know if Alfred will have to take one while he does his own job. He doesn’t know when this will end. There are many things he doesn’t know. But he doesn’t care.
He doesn’t care that Alfred has to threaten him sometimes. He doesn’t care that they have to put on a show. He doesn’t care that Alfred has killed before. He doesn’t care that he has killed before. He doesn’t care that this house isn’t really theirs. He doesn’t care that the story they spin is just a story. He doesn’t care about the thousand and one lies that make up his life. One day it will end and it’s going to be a bitch sorting through lies and half-truths to figure out the rest of their lives, but he doesn’t care. He’s happy now.
As long as he can have moments like this, with Alfred between his legs, he’ll lie through his teeth and kill as much as anyone wants.