Archive of Our Own

I followed the boy down the alley, making sure to stay far enough behind that he didn’t notice me. I felt like a lion stalking my prey through the dense grasses of the savanna. I felt powerful. I felt alive.

The two of us were nearly alone. It would be easy to just do it now, to get it over with. But… it wasn't the right time. He wasn’t occupied. And besides, how would I go about it?

No, no, it wasn’t right now. This was just a reconnaissance mission. Just the preparation for the real job to come.

John set the books down on the old oak table, calling out into the small apartment. “Frank,” he yelled, “I’m home.”

A muffled voice emerged from the room adjacent to the hallway John stood in, the closed office door making the words hard to make out. “In here,” it called, “I just need to finish up this letter. I’ll be right out. Start some tea up, will you?”

John did as his friend asked, filling a kettle and setting it on the stove, fetching some tea leaves from a pot. He pulled two well-worn cups from the cabinet, snatching a biscuit from a jar as well. He set two napkins on opposite ends of the table, placing the cookie on his own. He didn’t bother trying to give his friend one, he knew how he disliked sugary treats.

Francis emerged from his workroom a just moment later, dark hair tousled and hanging in his eyes. It was unusually short, he kept it differently than the popular fashion, about shoulder length, instead shearing the back almost to his scalp and letting the locks in the front run wild.

It was certainly more fun to play with, John supposed. He had spent countless hours running tiny braids through the front bangs, weaving them together and together again. Of course, his friend always took them out before presenting himself in public. He would be quite the fool otherwise.

At least, that’s what he always insisted.

The water boiled, the pot whistled, and John stood to pour the tea over the leaves. For five long minutes it steeped in silence, not a word passing between the two of them. When it was finally done, John brought the cups over, placing Kinloch’s in front of them, then taking a seat.

“So,” he blew on the liquid before taking a tentative sip, “who were you writing to?”

“No one,” Francis took a sip from his own tea, only wincing slightly at the heat. “No one of any importance, that is.”

“Alright.” John sipped from his cup as well, feeling the scalding liquid burn the roof of his mouth. He quickly spit the disastrous drink back into the cup, pressing his tongue to his poor burning mouth, wincing in pain. Francis chuckled from across the table, and John shot him a glare. His friend smiled cheekily in return, and John shook his head in his direction.

“You find pleasure in my pain, do you?” he asked, his tone accusatory but light-hearted.

“Only because your pain was caused by your own foolishness,” Frank teased, standing and taking a long sip of his tea without flinching in the slightest. John raised an eyebrow at him. He walked over to his friend’s own seat, perching himself on the table next to the scalding cup of liquid.

“Don’t you pity me though,” the blonde rested his elbow on the table, placing his chin on top of his hand and staring up at his friend with longing puppy-dog eyes, “a poor boy who can’t even drink his tea correctly?”

“Oh, a poor boy , really.” He reached his hand to touch John’s head, running it through his hair.

John leaned in, feeling the strong supportive pressure of Francis's hand. The two boys- for that’s what they were- boys, not quite men, shared a heated stare, full of questions and answers and mystery and deep throbbing longing.

“I think you’re going to kiss me now,” John breathed out, voice low, “and I think I’m going to like it.”

His friend’s only response was to do just that.

I sat alone in my tavern room, pen scratching furiously against the paper. I was writing a letter to him , one I knew I would never send, but one I wrote anyway.

My dear,

I know what I have done is wrong. I know you can never forgive me for it. Yet I hope, I pray, that one day you will be able to look past my actions and see the reasoning behind them. For though I know what I will do is wrong, what I have done, if you, my love, are reading this, I know no other way. I am a desperate man, sick with love, and incurable disease as you well know. It is true that I will feel no remorse, that I now feel no remorse, but that should not matter to you. For you know me. You know my insides, my outsides, every inch of my soul. You love me. Or at least, you once did.

Forever yours...

I picked my pen from the paper, shaking my head. No, no, this would never do. It was weak. Pathetic. I was not weak, anything but pathetic.

I slowly lifted the damned letter to the candle lighting the room.

It burned as quickly as his love had.

“And that means, by the very nature of the law and the social expectations of human dignity, one who murders simply cannot be acquitted, rather it is paramount that they are tried in a court of law…” Francis leaned over his desk to John’s neighboring one, as the tiresome professor’s voice droned on in the background, nudging him with his elbow.

“Want to go?” he whispered, raising his eyebrows.

“What?” John hissed back, pushing his friend’s arm away, “No! For god’s sake Kinloch, we’re in the middle of a lecture! I don’t ‘want to go.’” He shook his head at the sheer foolishness it took to ask a question like that. “Besides,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “where would we go anyways.”

“I know a few places,” he whispered in return. “Heard Peter Menway was having some guests over.”

John contemplated the suggestion. It was a Friday evening, and it was their last class of the week. And not really even a class, just a seminar on criminal justice. Not even close to John’s favorite subject. How much could one old professor miss them?

He glanced around the lecture hall. It was only half as crowded as it usually was, probably due in part to the rather miserable timing of it. There were clusters of boys spread around the room, most first years. Groups of four or five chittered and laughed together quietly, pairs and trios scratched messages to one another on scraps of paper, and the occasional loner either took dubious notes or snored softly.

They could easily slip out the side door he supposed. A few had done it already, and the man up front hadn’t seemed to mind.

But no. He had signed up for his class, and he would take it too. He needed to follow through with his commitments. Not to be a quitter. At least, that’s what his father always told him.

His father . What would his father think of his preferred course of studies? Not law, but medicine, or drawing. What would his father think of the way he took care of his brother, Harry? Not spending every spare hour with him, but leaving him with the relatives, only seeing him on the weekends. What would his father think of his… extracurricular activities? Not women… but men.

Well, he could guess what his father would think of that. And what his father would think would be wrong.

A slow smile spread across John’s face.

“Fuck my father,” he whispered, Francis giving him a confused look before he continued. “Let’s go.”

I walked through the soggy streets, puddles splashing beneath me. It smelled of mold and decay, of sickness and gloom. The mist didn’t help any, that was for sure.

London was a miserable place.

I contemplated going back to my warm room at the tavern in the nice part of town. It would certainly be more enjoyable there, I could order a drink, maybe take a warm bath.

But this was an integral part of my plan. I couldn’t do it without someone to make sure he was in the right place at the right time. 

The person I hired, they had to be right. It had to be someone who wouldn’t ask questions. Someone who owed me something.

Andrew Earstur was perfect.

John ran, panting, trying his best to keep up with Francis. Their exit from the painfully boring seminar had gone surprisingly well, only twice did the professor shoot them dirty looks. Well, John supposed he would just avoid signing up for classes with him.

But there was no time to think on the matter now. Francis turned another sharp corner, heading down a residential tree-lined street. John almost ran right past the turn, the sky was dark and it was hard to see with only the occasional street lamp.

“How… much… further…” he panted, speeding up slightly to run right next to Francis who seemed to be having no trouble breathing whatsoever.

“Not long,” he replied smoothly, annoyingly composed, “in fact,” he came to an abrupt stop, “we’re here.”

John smashed, nose first, into his friend’s back, both of them yelping and jumping away at the collision. John rubbed his nose as Francis rubbed his back.

“Don’t do that mate,” Francis chastised, “one of these days I swear you’ll get me killed.

“I’ll do me as well while I’m at it,” John grumbled, turning to the door of the house. The windows were lit with a warm glow, and soft sounds of laughter emanated from the building. “Now let’s go have us some whiskey.”

The two walked up to the door, pushed it open, and entered.

The door jangled as I entered the shop, the sweet smell of sugar surrounding me.

I winced slightly at the disgusting scent. I never did like sweets. Even as a young boy dashing around the South Carolinian countryside I couldn’t stand even a pinch of sugar in my tea.

I walked briskly to the register, speaking forcefully to the older woman puttering about behind the counter. “I’d like a pound of your finest candy if you please.”

The woman looked me up and down with kind workworn eyes. “Gonna try to impress the to-be wife's siblings?” She asked, shuffling over to a large barrel, “Or is this for your own little ones?”

I huffed out a laugh, handing her a bright red velvet bag in which to store the treats. “They’re for a friend’s brother. He loves sweets.”

She grabbed the bag, setting it on a scale and scooping a large handful into it. “The friend or the brother?” she asked.

I pondered the question for a moment, settling on the true answer. “Both, I suppose. Though these are for the brother.”

“Well then,” she finished filling the bag, closing it up and handing it to me, “I do hope he enjoys.” She grabbed another candy from the barrel, handing it to me. “And one for your travels, Mr...” she came to a stop, leaving me to fill the silence.

I smiled sweetly, placing the sweet into my pocket, knowing I would just throw it to the curb as I left. “Kinloch. Francis Kinloch.”

John awoke early the next morning, head pounding from the previous nights’ excessive amount of drink. The sun had just begun to peek through the blinds, painting thin pale lines of light on the wood floor. He carefully extricated himself from the covers, trying his best not to wake Francis in the process.

He padded silently across the floor, large feet making no sound. He shed his nightshirt quickly, donning a pair of breeches. He sat on a chair, pulling on long socks.

The covers rustled, and John looked to meet Francis’s surprisingly alert, very open eyes. He blushed deeply, turning his bare chest away, fumbling for a shirt.

“How long have you been up,” he asked, not finding the top where his breeches had been.

Where could it have gone…

“Long enough,” the brown-haired boy sat up in bed, looking John up and down. “For god’s sake fellow, why so modest?” John turned around to stare at him.

“How do you mean?” The blush deepened

“We share a bed . And yet it’s a sin for me to see you shirtless?”

“Everything we do is a sin,” John grumbled under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought so. It’s over here, by the way.”

“What?”

“Your shirt.”

“Oh. Yes.”

John walked quickly over, snatching his shirt from the floor and throwing it over his head. Finally decently covered, he moved to sit at his friend’s feet.

“Listen Frank…” he trailed off.

“I’m listening.”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something. Something important.” John fidgeted with his hands, cracking his knuckles one by one. A nervous tic. “I need…  I need…”

Francis scooted closer to him, taking his hand into his lap. “Whatever it is,” he started, “you can tell me. Anything.”

John breathed out, a long sigh. “Alright then. I need to leave Geneva.”

I looked down to my watch, nervously tapping the sole of my shoe against the ground. Almost 9 in the morning.

Andrew, the one I hired, would be on his way to his house. On his way into position.

It was all part of the plan I had so carefully constructed. Hour after hour had been spent scribbling ideas onto scraps of paper, arranging them, saving out the ones that worked, burning the rest.

I reached into the rich velvet bag I held in my hands, extracting a single, perfect candy. It would work. It had to work.

“Yes, and I don’t see why that changes anything!” Kinlock threw the stack of notes he held to the floor, stomping his foot in a child-like manner.

“Love,” John reached up, massaging his brow, “we’ve had this discussion before. The day I told you, then the next and the next and- well here we are. What can I say to convince you that I’m not changing my mind? I need to go back. It’s what my father wants, and more importantly, it’s what my family needs. I have sisters, you know. Another brother as well!”

“But that shouldn’t change anything,” he retorted, “am I not as good as family to you? Better, even?”

“Fran- That’s unfair. You know you are. But that doesn't change the fact that I haven’t seen Jemmy in- well I can’t even remember the last time I saw him!” John crossed the room, grabbing Kinloch’s hand from his side. “The boy needs a strong male role model in his life- and you know what shit my own father is at all that.”

Francis pulled away, stalking over to order the papers he had thrown down. “So that’s why you're going back?” he asked over his shoulder, “For this Jemmy of yours?”

“God, I don’t know!” John threw his hands in the air, pacing back and forth. “Yes! Is that what you want me to say, Frank? Is that what you need to hear? Yes, I’m going back to London for my brother. Happy?”

Francis scoffed. “Happy. Happy indeed.”

I placed the candy down onto the roof right below my feet carefully, straightening my back, being careful not to mess up my precocious balance.

I traced the trail of sweets I had created with my eyes. It started in the backyard of his house, curved around into the alley, and snaked up the side of the building. All the way to where I stood now. The roof.

Wind blew my bangs into my eyes, but I didn’t push them away. Wind. Wind was good. Wind would help.

I picked out the last sugary morsel, the only one left in the bag. I only had one toss to get this right.

I balanced on my toes, bouncing slightly, swinging my arms just a bit.

Three… two… one…

I tossed the shiny orb, hearing a soft thunk as it landed on its intended target. The window sill. The one leading to his study.

Now everything was in place. There was no further waiting, no more delaying.

I gave the signal, putting the operation into motion. There was no stopping it. It was happening.

Francis and John stood outside the door of Francis’s flat, a light rain coming down around them. Francis held his friend’s well-worn leather trunk, passing it between his hands.

“So.” Kinloch looked directly into John’s eyes. “This is it.”

A pained expression crossed the blonde’s face, and he reached out, grabbing Francis’s hand. “Not forever, love. I’ll be back to visit, I swear. And we can write in the meantime, of course.”

“Of course…” Kinloch shook off John's hand, putting the handle of the trunk into it instead. “Do say hello to Jemmy for me.”

“I will.” Francis turned away, but John quickly reached out a hand, placing it on the other man’s shoulder. “Hey.” Kinloch turned. “I love you. Always. Never forget that, alright?”

Francis turned away again, mounting the few steps to the door, mumbling as he went, “I won’t.”

John stared after his friend, his lover, his only source of light in the entire world. A tear dripped down his already wet cheek, masked by the rain, but there nonetheless.

Of course, he couldn’t see Kinloch just behind the door, back pressed up against it to keep upright, shedding a few silent tears of his own.

He couldn’t hear the whispered reply.

“I love you too. Always.”

Jemmy Laurens heard a knocking on the door and quickly jumped up from where he was playing with his wooden blocks.

A knock on the door! That meant someone was here! And maybe that someone was for him! True, it was more likely that it was for his brother… or just the milkman, or the mailman, or some other mundane guest…

A voice in the back of his head whispered words of caution, you know what John and Papa and everyone always tell you, don’t talk to strangers , but Jemmy, still a young chap, ignored it. 

The milkman, the mailman, they weren’t strangers. And anyone just stopping by must know someone in the house! So there was really no harm in opening up the door, was there? Seeing who it was? No, there couldn’t be.

Jemmy reached the door, twisting the lock and pulling open the door to see… a large strange man. Not one he had ever seen before. With a crooked nose and stringy tangled hair, he certainly wasn’t a welcoming sight.

Jemmy stood in silence for a few seconds, just staring up at the gargantuan figure. He was even bigger than his brother! And that was saying something.

Finally, his manners snapped back to him, prompting him to extend a hand and, in a small squeaky voice, introduce himself.

“Good afternoon, sir! I’m Jemmy Laurens. Can I help you?”

The man ignored the small boy’s hand, instead stepping past him into the house. “Jemmy, aye?” he asked, voice low and gruff.

“Aye!” the little boy replied enthusiastically.

“Well then. Jemmy. I’d like for you to go fetch your brother for me. John. Tell him that I'm Mr. Andrew Earstur, here to speak to him in his study. Can you do that for me?”

Jemmy nodded, “I very well can! Anything else I can do for you?”

The man, Andrew, Mr. Earstur, grunted. “Just one more thing. When you’re done, I want you to go play outside.”

Jemmy’s smile widened at that. “Oh, I’m very good at playing outside! I’ll go get John for you now!”

He skipped off down the hall.

The head of gleaming golden hair from down below caught my gaze, soft ringlets bouncing as the little boy walked.

No, not a little boy. A horrid monster, the one that had ripped him from my arms, from my life.

Jemmy Laurens. The one who had taken John .

From all appearances, he looked just as an angel would, small and innocent, perfect in his naive nature. But I could see the truth. I knew the devil that lay just beneath his skin. And I knew how to purge it too.

I watched as he spotted the first candy, as he plucked it from the ground, as he popped it into his mouth. I watched as he saw the second one, just a few feet away, ran towards it, and put it into his pocket. I saw the cycle repeat again and again, drawing him further away from the house.

I split my attention between the ever-climbing boy and the window ledge just across the street. A figure- no, two, appeared through the glass. I recognized them both.

One was large, stocky, dark hair and a dark coat to go with it. A brooding figure, one that always spelled trouble. Andrew.

The sight of the second man brought on a much more complicated response. Tall, not as tall as the other one, but muscular enough to make up for it. Long blond hair was pulled back neatly, framing a sharp jaw and icy eyes. A smart waistcoat covered a starched white shirt, the bright clean color glimmering in the summer sun. John did look rather gorgeous.

But I wasn’t here for him. Andrew walked over to the window, catching my gaze and giving me a slight nod. All was good on his end.

I looked back to Jemmy, now on the second of the three landings. He was attempting to climb to the third fire escape, jumping in vain, but he wasn’t quite tall enough. He stared longingly at the candy, so close yet so tantalizingly far.

Shit. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. This wouldn’t do. I had to get him up here. I just had to.

I wavered for a moment, contemplating my choices. If I didn’t go down, it would very well fail. If I did, and it failed anyways… well, I didn’t want to imagine that scenario.

It would have to work. I had to go for it. I stood from where I had been seated on the tip of the roof, balancing carefully, walking even more so. I came to the fire escape quickly, jumping down to the one parallel to the top of the roof, craning my neck down to catch a glimpse of the small boy.

I swallowed the rage deep in my gut. This was the evil being that had taken away my John , this was the worst of the worst at its worst. I put on a cheerful smile instead, the emotion just as convincing as a plaster mask.

“Little boy,” I asked, “would you like to join me up here?”

He nodded, a bright smile alighting on his slightly chubby cheeks, bringing my blood to a boil. “Please, Sir, I would like that very much.”

I swung a leg over, then another, perching on the outside. I crouched down and reached out a hand.

“Grab on.” He did, climbing up on the railing of his balcony to do so. I lifted him slowly but with ease, raising him enough so that he could grab the platform as well. He did, scrambling through the wide gaps in the metal bars as I climbed back over, plucking the candy off of the landing. He stuffed it into the already overflowing pocket of his breeches, patting it down to keep it in place.

“You wouldn’t happen to have seen any more of these, would you?” he motioned to the sweets in his pocket, and I smiled.

“Yes, in fact, I have. A few are up on the roof, I believe.”

He flashed me another toothy grin. “Oh, good!” He clambered up the roof, pulling himself with just his arms, then planting his legs and restarting his search. I followed him, careful not to intervene.

He picked up two more, then came to the very edge of the roof, surveying the street. Slowly, he turned back around to face me. “There’s no more,” he stated solemnly, but I didn’t let my joyful pretense drop.

“Oh, I think there is.” I got right behind him, pointing to the window sill to his brother’s study across the narrow street. “Look.”

His eyes followed my finger, catching the light reflecting off the shiny surface of the plastic. He gasped softly, nodding vigorously. “One last one,” he said, almost to himself.

“Well,” I lowered my voice, “you certainly can’t leave just one. You must finish the job.”

He turned back to me, small eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “You mean… you mean to say I should go get it? Now?”

“What’s the harm?”

“Well, I would have to jump.”

“You’re a strong lad.”

He considered this, a slow smile rising. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I am.” Just as quickly as it had lightened, his face fell once again. “But my brother always tells me not to do ‘stupid’ things. Things like jumping off roofs.”

I nodded, leaning into him with a conspiratorial air. “Can I tell you a secret?” He nodded, and I continued. “I’m actually a friend of your brothers. A very close friend, from school. And do you know what your brother told me about you?” He shook his head, and I tried to tamp down the bile rising in my stomach. “He told me that you, Jemmy Laurens, are a strong, strong little boy, and you can do whatever you put your mind to. Do you believe your brother?”

Jemmy nodded again.

“Good. Now turn around. Take a deep breath.” He did as I instructed, and I motioned to the window behind his back. Andrew, positioned so he would see me, saw the signal, taking the opportunity to point John to his brother standing on the ledge.

It all happened slowly after that, as if time moved through molasses.

Jemmy inhaled.

John spotted us.

I counted down.

“Three.”

Jemmy exhaled.

John rushed to the window.

I lifted my hands.

“Two.”

Jemmy bent his knees.

John waved his arms at us.

I placed my hands on the boy’s back.

“One.”

As Jemmy took off, I pushed him, his trajectory changing. He flew at the wall, missing the ledge, hitting it with a loud thud.

Then. Then he fell.

“Fly little bird,” I breathed as his body smashed into the ground. “Fly home.”

John rushed down the stairs, taking them two, three, four at a time. He wasn’t totally sure of what he had just seen. A small boy, one oddly similar to Jemmy, up on the roof, a larger one, a man, dark hair, face obscured by the setting sun, pushing him.

John shoved the door open, stepping out onto the empty street.

He spotted a mangled body laying on the cobblestones. Red seeped from the head.

The doctor in him confirmed what he could see plain as day, even from a good 10 yards away. Whoever it was, they weren’t going to make it. The arms were twisted, a leg as well, and though the spine was straight, the blood…

It was clear.

Slowly, he approached.

It was the curls that worried him first. The pale tight ringlets. Then the size. Small. Childish. With each new detail, his shuffle sped to walk, then to a jog, then to an all-out sprint, until he stood directly over the body.

His body.

Jemmy’s body.

The body of his little brother.

He fell to the ground, soaking his pants in the blood on the street, letting out a guttural cry. He looked his poor baby brother up and down with swiftly dampening eyes, trying to find some source of hope, some bright side, no matter how small.

But there was none. He could hear the shuddering breaths coming from the damaged boy’s lungs. He could almost feel the pain he was sure his brother felt. A horrible blanket coating every square inch.

He stroked Jemmy’s bloody head, fingers barely grazing the skin. “Sleep,” he whispered, “sleep now.”

But the small boy did not, eyes instead opening slowly. Agony filled them, pain more potent than a vessel that small should have to bear, but they did not close.

He parted his lips, once, twice, finally keeping them open on his third try. “Your friend…” he gasped, and John shushed him, but he continued, “your friend from school is not very nice.”

He chuckled lightly, and his eyes flickered closed for just a second. “But…” he breathed in, a heavy shuttering gasp, “I brought you a present.” His right hand flicked by his pocket bulging with candy. “I know how much… how much you love them.” His eyes closed again, the bright blue blinking out.

“I love you, John.” He breathed in once more, deeply. His last breath. “Don’t let me go,” he exhaled.

John hugged the corpse in his arms. He hugged it, and he cried.

Months later, when Francis Kinloch looked back on that terrible day, he would see John’s form in the window, John’s arms waving frantically. He would see the desperation in his eyes.

While he would not think back with remorse, there was also no sense of triumph in the actions he had taken. He would tell himself he had done the right thing. The thing that needed to be done.

He would never admit, not even to himself, the wrongness of his action.

He would never- could never- admit the truth.

Months later, when John Laurens looked back on that terrible day, he would see the figure that stood behind his brother on the roof. He would see dark hair. The oddly long bangs in the front. The lack of length in the back.

He would attribute it to wind, to an odd angle, to anything. He wouldn’t allow his conscious mind to consider the other possibility.

The truth.

So together but apart, in perfect synchrony, both men lived lives of lies. For that was what they were. No longer boys. Men.