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The jacket slid off his shoulder and exposed a rip in his dress shirt underneath his otherwise perfect looking attire. Perfect, at least in the dark of the hallway. Farfarello pulled the keys out of his pants pocket and opened the door. Once inside, his perfectly kept clothes revealed their actual state. Half dried blood covered almost half of the fabric of his dress shirt. The buttons around his collar were ripped and the cuffs of his jacket gone.
It was quiet inside. Only the faint light coming from the living room told him he wasn't alone.
Brad was probably sitting in his usual armchair. Legs crossed over, his right elbow resting on the chair's arm. An amber colored Whiskey in a short, bulky glass. One ice only.
Did he know? Did he see it before and still send him there?
Farfarello felt anger rise in him again. His hands instinctively reached for his knives but they came up empty for a second time. He instantly missed the cold metal his hands would wrap around. The familiar heavy weight that always grounded him. Maybe it would even put a stop to this annoying, floating feeling that had taken a hold of his mind.
No matter how much he shook his head, it wouldn't stop.
If only he had his daggers with him tonight. He could have put a stop to it. The sharp edge of his favorite dagger could have driven deep into him. It would have calmed his frayed nerves within seconds.
The satisfaction at the sight of blood oozing out of a lifeless body would have stopped his body from trembling so hard, he didn’t even feel himself falling to the ground before the cold from the cement seeped through his clothes.
Maybe, if only he had them with him now, he wouldn’t still feel so damn afraid.
Pathetic
Farfarello bent forward and wrapped his shaking fingers methodically around the end of the shoelace. With a light pull, he opened first the bow, then the knot. Freeing his foot of it’s tight compartment.
“Hello handsome,” Mr. Hayakawa said as a way of greeting and a shiver went down Farfarello’s spine. Something wasn’t right with this man. He could feel it from the beginning.
Farfarello' fingers twitched.
A foreign hand touched the inside of his leg. Briefly at first, almost like an accident, if it wasn’t for the lustful glint of it’s master's eyes. Then firm and demanding. Moving upwards. Making him feel sick.
Fafarello slipped out of his black dress shoes. He set his too hot feet onto the cold floor of the hallway and spread his toes apart.
He was cornered. No way to run. A heavy body pressing into him. He couldn’t move. Lips, hot and moist pressed onto his own. Freezing the blood into his veins to ice. His mouth was forced open -
Farfarello blinked rapidly, his hands reaching out to seek guidance from the wall as his world began to swim in front of his eyes.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t breathe.
His knives weren’t there. He was all alone. Helpless.
He sank to the floor.
He felt the nose break under the force of his fist before the cracking sound reached his ears.
Did he do that? He couldn’t remember.
He heard Hayakawa's feet shuffling backwards.
“Farfarello?”
"You Bastard!" Hayakawa screamed, his voice muffled by the hand covering his broken, bleeding nose.
“Farfarello!”
"You didn't know, did you?" Farfarello whispered, desperation clinging to words. His voice was almost as raw and broken as the skin on his knuckles. He hated it. He was so pathetic.
"I wouldn't have let you go." Brad insisted, kneeling down next to Farfarello. Close, but not as close as to touch.
"I killed him." Farfarello lifted his head. Eyes looking directly into Brad's. A wild, almost manic laugh at his lips."With my bare hands."
Farfarello lifted his hands up for Brad to see.
"I know." Brad said, his voice the same whisper now.
Pathetic.
Useless.
Monster.
Broken.
Afraid.
Home.
Farfarello let his head sink onto Brad's shoulder. It felt hard and sturdy under the gray fabric of his ever present suit. He buried his face deeper into it.
If only he could sink through the layers of clothes and skin. Sink so deep they would become one. Just for a moment. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so scared anymore.
Farfarello closed his eyes, inhaling the still air between their bodies. Under the uncanny smell of day-old cologne and too expensive Whiskey, layed the faintest smell of just Bradley Crawford.
He was home. Safe. He chuckled quietly at that thought. Maybe, it wasn’t the knives he needed the most. Maybe it was Brad after all.