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The sky had gone dark while Gerry played and the summer heat faded just slightly from the air, leaving the street pleasantly warm and full of multicolored light. He sat on the steps, eager to be home, watching the reflection of a neon sign in a puddle across the street. He was still a little high from adrenaline. The words sat still in his mouth, quiet now but familiar and good as always.
The man interviewing him coughed softly, and he broke his attention away from the dancing red glow in the water and back to his face. “Sorry?”
“Your lyrics,” he clarified. “A lot of people have been wondering about the metaphors in them, because, you know …” he laughed a little awkwardly. “I mean, your own lover’s not much of a vicious one. Are you … singing about wanting a more exciting relationship?”
The man sounded hungry for gossip, something to feed the favored rumors of discord and dissatisfaction in Gerry’s love life. He briefly considered responding with what metaphors? — really making good on the unspoken request — but only laughed softly. “Nah, I’m fine.” He hadn’t been certain whose blood had ended up on the kitchen counter the night before, but Michael had pinned Gerry to the same surface and kissed him senseless and Gerry was not entirely convinced he hadn’t tasted the same blood on his lips. There was plenty of excitement to go around.
“Well, what then?” asked the interviewer. “Could you delve more into your lyrics for us? Really unpack the symbolism?”
“Not tonight,” Gerry said, grinning. He’d just spotted a familiar tangle of curls down the street, and he had nothing to say to this man tonight when the symbolism was walking toward him. “I like my listeners to have the freedom to interpret them as they wish,” he added with a wink, rising from the stairs. The energy he was always left with after a show still hadn’t mellowed and he was itching to have Michael near him again.
When they reached each other he could see the spark in Michael’s eyes like a reflection of his own, but Michael, ever the performer, played his role to perfection. “Gerry!” he said, voice light and warm and a little giggly. Gently, his hands cupped Gerry’s face, tilted it up to press a kiss so softly to his lips. “How was your show?”
“Went as well as ever, darling,” murmured Gerry, throwing an arm around Michael’s waist with practiced nonchalance. “Come help me pack up?” Michael nodded eagerly and with a last wave to the gathered fans — Gerry’s relaxed, Michael’s shy — they vanished through the door of the venue, where the lights had been dimmed for the evening and everything lay half in shadow.
Michael caught him as soon as the doors closed, pressed him up against them and kissed him with such intensity Gerry felt his heart skip a beat, everything suspended for a moment in the feeling of Michael’s mouth on his, Michael’s hand on his jaw, Michael’s hips keeping him in place against the door. Still, he buried his own hands in Michael’s hair, tugging him closer still. He loved this: Michael still strung electric from the kill and Gerry with music in his veins, kissing so that the world stopped spinning and then started again more noticeably when they pulled away.
Gerry stayed leaning against the door for a moment, catching his breath, and Michael brushed the hair out of his face with a giggle. “And how are you, my sweet?”
“Good,” breathed Gerry, blinking up at him. “I take it it went well, then?”
“Brilliantly,” mumbled Michael. He leaned down to press another kiss to the corner of Gerry’s jaw, a trail down his neck. Gerry shivered. “Shall we pack your things?”
Gerry nodded, let Michael lead the way over to his guitar case, the bundle of speakers and wires and the microphone, its stand collapsed and easy to carry. It would take two trips to get everything to the car, but that was fewer than it would’ve taken Gerry on his own, and he was glad to have Michael’s help. He still wanted to be home.
It was ritual, on their drives, for Michael to have his turn in the spotlight. Gerry watched the colors of the nighttime traffic play over his face — white light, red light, warm yellow and brief snatches of blue and green — while he did his best to describe the night’s murder beautifully, using words Gerry could twist into song. Gerry had tried to assure him he didn’t have to, that making it sound good was his job, but Michael had insisted. “I like helping,” he’d shrugged; “this might make it a little easier for you, and besides, you deserve to hear … pretty things too.” He’d flashed Gerry a grin, and Gerry had smiled back quietly because it was quicker and easier than telling Michael he was all the beauty Gerry craved.
And he did like listening to Michael’s descriptions. He’d wondered once or twice whether Michael had insisted because he knew he had a way with words, but for all his intensity Michael undervalued himself in most things, so it seemed somehow more likely he didn’t even realize. He was a good storyteller, and the words spilling carmine from his lips painted images in the air between them that were gorgeous in their violence, nearly delicate in brutality.
Gerry drank them in and spun them into melodies, painted Michael in sanguine glory on the inside of musical notes, splashed blood along the lines of the staff and let it drip off and pool in the bassline.
Michael slaughtered. Gerry wrote. They rinsed scarlet knives in the kitchen sink and piled the instruments and equipment in a corner; Michael tugged off his sweater and there were bloodstains on his arms; Gerry cooked dinner and pulled him in again to kiss after, still humming with affection and energy.
“Come here,” said Michael, pulling him toward the sofa. He was strong and Gerry knew not always gentle, but he had never shown him anything but care, never forgotten to pause and raise an eyebrow or murmur a request for permission before pushing Gerry into the couch cushions and kissing him until they were both sleepy, the high soothed finally into contentment.
“Should really clean up,” mumbled Gerry, idly tracing his fingers over the dried blood on Michael’s upper arm.
Michael hummed his dissatisfaction, tightened his embrace just a fraction. “But I’m so comfy right now.” His voice somewhere between a murmur and a complaint.
“If you leave the house in the morning looking like that … I think you have a little on your face, too, you’re lucky nobody noticed —”
“Mhm, I know, I know,” whispered Michael, but he was kissing Gerry’s forehead now and didn’t seem to be listening much.
Gerry breathed a laugh and let Michael relax, run a hand up and down his back, and the motion was so soothing he nearly fell asleep. But after a while he was restless again, so he carefully disentangled himself from Michael’s hold and gathered him into his own arms.
“What’re you doing?” The trace of a giggle in the question, though it was mostly lost in sleepiness.
“Helping you get to the bath. So we don’t get blood on our sheets, and so you don’t out yourself to the world tomorrow morning as my favorite, most thrillingly literal muse.” Gerry set him down as he spoke, started running the bath while Michael examined himself in the mirror.
“A fair point,” he conceded. “I do look like … that one song of yours where you describe …” his tone was turning playful, and Gerry knew he’d start teasing soon about the way Gerry described him in music. A bit of an avenging angel. A vision. It was how he looked on nights like this, but Gerry didn’t need to hear it quoted back at him. A distraction, then — he helped Michael out of his clothes and into the bath.
Michael let Gerry wash the bloodstains from his arms, his temples, the places where red had bled through his shirt and stained his skin. It felt good to help him, to listen to his quiet sighs, the unobtrusive hitch in his breath when Gerry idly kissed his shoulder or the inside of his wrist. He stayed still while Gerry washed his hair, switched places to do the same for him while the conditioner sat.
It was a marvel, Gerry thought, how Michael’s fingers could be so gentle running through his hair and along his scalp when he knew they’d been holding a knife (or an axe, or a sword, or whatever Michael had chosen to get the job done this time) just hours before. He was delicate, cautious always not to pull or be anything other than soft with him. By the time the bath was draining Gerry was exhausted in the best way, ready to sink into bed and sleep and dreams where the flowers that grew from the ground were red and played low quiet music that he could feel in his bones.
Michael usually rose earlier than Gerry, in no great hurry to rise but wide awake at once, looking forward to the rest of the day. He stayed in bed for a few minutes regardless, propping himself up on one elbow to watch the morning light play across Gerry’s features, the crooked curve of his nose and the slight smile on his lips. He was lovely. Peace looked strange on him — even after so much time it still surprised Michael to see him like this, not high-strung with energy, itching for an instrument or a kiss or a tale ten times more bloody than it had any right to be.
Michael brushed an errant strand of hair out of his face to stop it brushing against his eyelashes and rose at last, leaving Gerry in bed with a kiss on the shoulder, a touch to his messy hair.
Gerry’s concert was in the afternoon today, which gave Michael an interesting challenge. Killing in broad daylight was always a little harder, but he welcomed the thrill; and if he timed it right, he could stop by the florist on the way to Gerry’s venue and bring him flowers.
Breakfast was made and the day already starting to grow warm when he heard Gerry begin to stir and made his way back to the bedroom in time to see him stretch, blink his eyes open and focus unsteadily on Michael, smiling sleepily. “Hi,” he mumbled.
“Morning, sunshine,” said Michael, leaning down to caress his cheek. “Sleep well?”
Gerry hummed. “Dreamed you killed someone,” he mumbled, “and about poppies. Think I’ll write another song about it.”
“What else is new?” Michael sat down on the edge of the bed, and Gerry dragged himself upright, if only to drape his arms over Michael’s shoulders a moment later, pressing his face into Michael’s hair, the crook of his neck, most distractingly — even half-awake there was an intensity to his affections that had Michael suppressing a shiver, letting his eyes fall closed and his head tilt back to rest against Gerry’s.
“You ready for today?” asked Gerry, and Michael mumbled his assent. “They might ask you to interview with me, it sounds like the …” his hands, in front of Michael’s chest, gestured vaguely “ … relationship discord rumors are starting up again.”
Michael grinned. “That’s
fun
.”
He couldn’t see Gerry rolling his eyes but he was certain he was . “If you say so,” he murmured. Endearment in his every syllable. He kissed Michael’s neck and stood at last to get dressed.
He wondered what Gerry might sing about this afternoon. Michael had always been creative, and he’d only gotten more so after Gerry had started turning his little projects into songs. He wondered if he overused knives.
“Gerry,” he called into the kitchen, “do you think I could murder someone with an old elastic? This scrunchie is wearing out.”
Gerry’s laugh, clear and familiar and still Michael’s favorite sound. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”
Grinning, Michael pulled his hair up in the scrunchie instead, let his eyes skim over the few knives he’d left out on the vanity, the more ornate sword leaning in the corner.
It was broad daylight. The knives would have to do.
Gerry knew Michael’s rhythms — or, really, knew that he didn’t particularly have them. He was as good with an ambush as a long game, and Gerry could never help but wonder which he’d chosen as he started his own song, too often written after some kill gone by.
The song he closed with tonight started slowly (and somewhere, Michael stood in the sun and smiled and closed his fingers around a knife) and dragged itself, summer-slow, through the notes (and Michael put a hand on the shoulder of the man in the woods and rambled idly about the birds he hadn’t seen) — only to build all at once (the man was on the ground and Michael’s knife at his throat, his heart, searching for the place to bite in) and end on a crash of drums and a ringing chord and a harsh final note and Gerry stood, out of breath, exultant, and Michael felt blood on his face and breathed out, lucid, his thoughts calm.
Gerry waited for him after the audience had filed out, sat swinging his legs on the edge of the stage until he heard steps behind him from the green room door. Even then he was still, let Michael come to him and trail his hands down Gerry’s arms, tangle their fingers together and kiss the underside of his jaw when Gerry automatically bent his neck to allow it. “How was your show?” Michael mumbled, pressing another kiss to his throat.
“Lovely. Your —” a hitch in his breath — “your kill?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart,” said Michael lightly, letting go of him. “I brought you flowers.” Gerry turned around, caught the mischievous smile on his face and returned it, took the offered hand to pull himself up.
“Shall we go face the curious hordes?” he asked.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
The reporters in the next room certainly seemed to draw breath at Michael’s appearance — shy, sweet, elusive Michael Shelley, who clung to his rockstar lover like a drifting otter and blinked wide-eyed and smiling, dazzled, at anyone who paid him attention. He was never seen in attendance at any of Gerry’s concerts, though frequently before and after, carrying bouquets of pink and white flowers or kissing Gerry goodbye with such delicate care and attention that it might have been his first time doing so.
“Michael,” asked the first reporter, “why don’t you ever attend your boyfriend’s concerts?”
Gerry felt Michael tense next to him, draw a quiet breath, and knew the fear wasn’t genuine and loved him for it. He played his part so beautifully, with such unnecessary attention to detail, and it always made him feel strangely honored to see and feel even the tiniest motions he made building his façade. “Oh, well.” Michael giggled nervously. “Well, you know, to — to be honest, I mean, I’ve seen recordings and they’re just so intense, you know? Already. So I’m really not sure if I could manage to actually be there.” He sounded just a little regretful, a little guilty, and Gerry’s half-endeared, half-worried smile was also only half-faked. He held Michael’s hand just a little tighter between them.
“Do you like his music?” shouted someone else, and Michael offered his same hesitant giggle.
“I do! Or, I mean, to be honest, it’s a bit harsh for … for my tastes. But he’s so good at what he does and if it makes him happy, it makes me happy, you know? Even if the lyrics are a bit much for me sometimes.”
Such sweet earnestness in his voice. Gerry could nearly feel the effect it was having on the crowd — endearment, amazement that Michael was so sensitive and that their relationship seemed to work even so. He glanced over at Michael, realized he was even blushing , and pressed a kiss gently to his cheek, watched its color darken just a little.
“Gerry,” called a third reporter, “how do you feel about Michael’s reaction to your music? Do you feel undersupported?”
Gerry feigned alarm, turned first to Michael and clasped his other hand too, shaking his head in reassurance. “Of course not,” he said, turning back. “Michael inspires me.” He heard Michael laugh quietly beside him and wondered whether that at least was entirely genuine.
“Inspires you?” called someone in a tone of considerable alarm. “ Inspires you?”
“Oh,” said Gerry, pretending only just now to have realized what he’d implied. “No, no — he’s just so loving and supportive, he — he makes me feel good and … creativity follows.” He shrugged, lighthearted. “Honestly, what did you think I meant?” He was playing with fire now, but he’d given up on playing things safe the first time he kissed Michael and tasted blood.
But the rest of the evening went smoothly — the questions became less fun to answer and more generic, and by the time Michael had begun to lean tiredly against Gerry’s shoulder those gathered were sympathetic enough to let them leave, Gerry supporting Michael gently as they waved goodbye.
That night they sat crosslegged together on the living room floor and Michael showed Gerry the knife he’d used to kill his victim that afternoon, tilting it so the dried blood caught the light. Rhymes came easily to Michael, and rhythm to Gerry, and as Michael spun the images of his kill Gerry put them to tune, pausing every now and then to let Michael fill in the end of a line or gift him an internal rhyme for the middle of a phrase.
And after a while it became too much to watch Michael’s lips form such pretty words, to see his hands looking so elegant and sure of themselves against the knife.
“You’re so wonderful,” Gerry mumbled, almost without meaning to. He climbed into Michael’s lap, cupped his face in both hands and looked at him through half-open eyes. “Will you kiss me now?” Michael was giggling when he wrapped his arms around Gerry and pressed him close without a word, tilted his head up to kiss Gerry like it was only the continuation to the words he’d been helping him spin a minute before, blood and violence resolving naturally into lips gone crimson with kisses and Michael’s nails down Gerry’s back.
The knife lay forgotten somewhere to the left of them. Gerry worked the tired scrunchie out of Michael’s hair and combed the curls loose with his hands. The sun set scarlet outside.
There was much to be done in the morning. They were expecting a photo crew that afternoon — some special in a national magazine on how your stars live — and the house, as it tended to be mere hours before these things, was in disarray. Still, they had time, and there were worse ways to spend the morning than wandering room to room, collecting knives in various states of ensanguination from countertops and chairarms, the axe that leaned against the bedroom wall and the one over the door, the sword laying haphazardly over Michael’s knitting basket.
When they’d gathered a pile on the kitchen floor and Gerry had opened the cupboard where they’d claim, if asked, to be storing cleaning supplies, they sat down together — Michael by the cabinet, Gerry by the pile of weapons — and were quiet or talked idly while Gerry passed Michael knife after knife after hatchet to stow away.
Mostly, Gerry was happy to listen to Michael. He’d laugh softly looking at a dagger or hum and ramblingly recount the last murder it had been accessory to. The gentle lilt of his voice and the quiet clinking of metal on metal had been the soundtrack to so many of Gerry’s lazy afternoons by now, but he never grew tired of it. If anything it had only become more soothing as the thrill of loving such a person had faded to a comfortable familiarity. Everything faded eventually; intensity waned, and not unpleasantly. Michael’s fingers brushed his as he took a railroad spike and the flow of his story paused for a moment when it scraped against Gerry’s palm and Michael bent to kiss the reddened skin.
By the time the photographers arrived the house was still and quiet save for Michael baking in the kitchen, and Gerry nearly regretted their arrival. He’d been comfortable, lounging on the sofa and remembering the details Michael had recounted just earlier, scribbling half-lyrics and snatches of choruses in a pad.
But he was hospitable at heart and enjoyed the game too much to send them away, so he wouldn’t even if he could have done so without damaging the image they worked so hard for. “Let me know if they irritate you, darling,” Michael said, voice low and quiet, before Gerry opened the door, and the obvious threat in the words sent a shiver through him that he knew Michael saw. He opened the door and saw Michael bend to hide his smirk by checking the oven.
“Hi,” said Gerry, stepping aside to let the guests in. “Welcome. Michael’s just making brownies, done in a minute.”
Michael straightened up from behind the stove at that, every trace of danger lost, his smile gone blithe and sweet. The heat of the oven had made his cheeks pink, his hair just slightly frizzier than usual, and he was beautiful and radiant and the irony of his curls haloing his face in gold was not lost on Gerry, who barely suppressed a laugh.
“Please feel free to help yourself once they’ve cooled,” said Michael. “Or I can bring them to you, whatever’s easier. We weren’t sure if you want just Gerry for the shoot or …?” He looked bashful even to have implied that they might want him as well.
“No, please,” said the woman holding the camera. “If you don’t mind, of course — your relationship is such a … fan favorite, funny as that sounds. I think it’d be sweet to get some domestic shots.” She glanced over her shoulder at her partner, who shrugged and nodded.
Smiling, Michael set the brownies on the stovetop and made his way out from behind the stove to join Gerry, taking his hand and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“Where to?” asked Gerry, and the woman shrugged a shoulder and said they might as well just walk around the house and see what struck them. Michael and Gerry had no will to resist and the shoot went well — so well that Gerry wondered whether he ought to ask for copies of the photos. He and Michael sitting on the sofa, lost in each other’s eyes, the light falling over half of each of their faces. Michael with his knitting, looking giggly and proud of the half-finished sweater in his lap. Gerry at his writing desk with Michael perched on the sill nearby, listening to Gerry’s lyrical ideas with a look of awe and mild affront. Michael feeding Gerry a brownie in the late-evening light of the kitchen.
Only once did something nearly go awry — the long scar across the back of Michael’s hand that he usually kept hidden under overlarge sweaters, the result of a fight with a victim gone bad.
“Where did you get that scar?” asked the man.
“Oh,” said Michael, his eyes wide. “This?” he laughed sheepishly. “I cut myself with a knife this one time, making almond croissants. Gerry,” and he reached for Gerry’s hand, cast him a fond smile, “was so kind. He held my hand the whole way to the hospital for stitches.”
He was feigning softness perhaps too exaggeratedly at this point, but the look behind his doe-eyed sweetness was so playful that Gerry couldn’t resist. “He was so brave,” he offered. “And he did eventually finish the croissants and they were delicious.” Michael had come home tasting of blood that night, and Gerry’s next song had featured the image, repeated again and again in chorus, of a victorious killer licking his victim’s blood from his lips.
The sun was rising. They’d been out so late it was early and there was little point in trying to fall asleep by now. Michael had blood on his hands, blood on his arms and face, and he’d met Gerry late without bothering to wash it off. He was a pretty image. Gerry wanted him in a song and he wanted him in his arms, and he could have the latter without patience so he reached out.
They’d stumbled, perhaps imprudently, home through the streets and then the side paths through the woods, relying on the darkness and the trees to hide Michael’s state from any other night wanderers. Neither of them was a hurried traveller and they lingered long in the forest especially, pressed against trees, the taste of blood in Gerry’s mouth as he kissed Michael’s throat.
But even such pleasant delays couldn’t keep them forever, and by the time the sky had lightened to dark grey they forced themselves to break the treeline and hurry inside before the day could dawn properly.
Gerry sat against the edge of the bath while Michael cleaned the last smudges of blood from his skin, scrolling idly on his phone. The photographs from the home shoot had been released earlier that night and now his tag was flooded with reposts and fan edits revelling in their quiet domesticity and the contrast between the two of them.
“Gerry Delano and his bf are #couplegoals,” said the caption on a heavily-edited copy of the picture of Gerry at his writing desk. Gerry snorted and passed the phone back to Michael, who giggled slightly hysterically and blew the photograph a kiss.
“Sometimes I think it would be really funny to kill one of them,” he sighed.
Gerry raised an eyebrow. “You almost did that one time, remember?”
“When?”
“Y’know … when they came knocking. Uninvited.”
“Oh, right.” Michael’s voice had trailed off into a mumble, and Gerry knew how it sounded when he was losing himself in a memory. That night it had been later than was decent for callers and Michael had been very occupied with kissing Gerry senseless and wordless, and the teenagers who had come to the door had been looking for the artist whose music “spoke to them.”
“He’ll speak to you at the next concert,” Michael had said, so sweetly, but Gerry had seen his eyes dart to the knife he’d left out on the table just inside the door. There was poison in his voice. Gerry knew him, and knew what he was thinking, and he was endeared but also thought it best not to have a scandal — not here, not at this hour. He was relieved when the callers left unscathed and Michael returned to him, busied himself again with Gerry’s lower lip between his teeth, his hands in his hair.
Now Michael rose from the bath, dried himself, and, when they were both clean and changed, opened his arms to Gerry from bed, inviting. Gerry sank into the embrace gratefully — it had been a long day, and Michael was warm, and his curls were still damp but sweet-scented, spilling over the pillow for Gerry to bury his face in.
Sleep came easy.
The last interview of the night was drawing to a close, and Gerry was flagging. He’d all but collapsed into Michael’s lap, and he couldn’t see his face but he was certain Michael was smiling indulgently above him, the smirk at the corner of his mouth barely noticeable save for the shadow of the dimple in his left cheek. One of his hands was resting over Gerry’s shoulderblade, tracing back and forth, occasionally just pressing gently like there might be something to soothe.
“What does your typical date night look like?” asked the reporter — standard late-night questions when things had become, at least on the surface, relaxed and sleepy.
Gerry held back a chuckle, burying his face more closely in Michael’s sweater for a second. It still smelled faintly metallic, and he wasn’t sure if the dark red fabric was hiding a stain or if the shirt underneath might be bloodied. Last time it had been Michael’s turn for a date night, he’d taken Gerry to watch him make a kill. It had been very inspiring.
“Oh, tea often,” Michael was saying. “Sometimes Gerry just likes to watch me work. Isn’t that right, hon?” His curls brushed Gerry’s forehead, and when Gerry glanced up there was the soft press of lips to his temple.
“Mhm,” he mumbled.
“Oh, he bakes for you?” asked the reporter.
Gerry thought of Michael’s skill with a knife, his long fingers wrapped around the hilt. The insistent workings of his hands tying twine or rope, pressing dough or some hapless neck into the shape he desired. “Something like that.”
Those same elegant fingers stilled for a moment where they were caressing his back, tapped him lightly — in caution? in affection? — and resumed their dance. “Gerry’s patient,” said Michael’s quiet lilting voice from above him. “I like that he thinks my creations are pretty. People … used to just call them messy.”
Definitely affection, then.
“Oh, but I saw your brownies in the article the other week,” protested the reporter. “They were picture-perfect.”
“Yes, well, I have honed the skill over the years. It just takes time. And a lot of practice!”
He’d certainly had that. The cheer in his voice was familiar; he’d enjoyed every minute, and Gerry had enjoyed watching Michael enjoy himself. The constant shifting of his expression, from concentration to delight — the way his movements and strategies had become more confident and sure of himself over the years. He said it was due in large part to Gerry’s music, and it felt nice to believe him — Michael inspired him, and he trusted Michael not to lie when he said the feeling was mutual.
The night was winding down, their little game coming to a close. The reporter thanked them for coming, and Gerry nodded sleepy assent while Michael managed something more coherent. He was sure the magazine would report on that tomorrow: the shy, gruff rockstar and his amiable lover.
For now, though, he was happy to let Michael lead him out of the concert hall. The lights glittered blue and red and Michael’s hand was tight in his, comforting and also quietly insistent. The night was still young, and he was tired but Michael was eager, and Michael’s enthusiasm had always been so very infectious.