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Kremy loved spending time with Gideon. They had an easy kind of friendship where they practically knew what the other was thinking. The thought of having a cigarette would cross his mind, and Gideon would be there, flame flickering on his thumb, ready to light it. When they were together, just drinking or smoking or playing cards or hotwiring a vehicle, things were good. Better than good, really. Practically perfect.
Then Gideon would go and spoil it all by trying to chase after some girl, or mention some girl he’d chased after. And Kremy would wish that he couldn’t talk to, or even see girls, at all.
It wasn’t that Kremy wanted him to be unhappy, of course not. He was just saying that if Gideon came down with a bad case of agoraphobia, he would happily stay inside with him for as long as it took for him to get over it. Even if he never got over for it. In the really dark, quiet hours when he was being honest with himself (and as a conman, he very rarely was), he hoped he’d never get over it.
Whenever Gideon abandoned him for the evening (or afternoon, or morning) for the latest skirt, he’d force himself to get busy cooking or organising various documents or even his wardrobe, huffing and puffing to himself.
“No jury in the world would convict me, Gideon Coal,” he would mutter murderously to himself. “No jury in the godsdamn world.”
This would then result in fantasies of going to court and being a tearful defendant in the stands, pleading the case as a wife cruelly and callously neglected by her husband. Who could possibly resist the allure of one so often stepped out on by the one who had been bound to them, however ironically, in marriage?
It would be a court case for the ages, of course. A flurry of media attention, crowds of journalists and photographers lining outside the court to get the latest on the case of Lecroux vs Coal.
Perhaps he’d even faint during a particularly stirring testimony, black dress falling up his thighs to reveal a baby-blue garter belt and lace-top stockings, like some ingénue in a major picture. If that happened, though, he’d want his good-for-nothing husband to be in the stands. So he could look at that thigh, that garter, and really feel sorry for stepping out on him. The fact that Gideon was his husband was inconsequential, really.
Anyway, if Gideon was going to be in the stands, then perhaps he wouldn’t have killed him over some floozy. No, Kremy could admit that he was smarter than that, more conniving than that. No, he would frame him for murder instead.
The ‘who’ of the murder didn’t matter so much, really. It was a big world out there, with so many people that needed to be murdered. He was almost positive he could find one, although he had to admit the framing would be difficult. Kremy was talented in many ways, but he could admit that he would never be able to punch someone so hard in the body that they died. Still, the Baron provided, and he reckoned the Baron would find the theatrics amusing.
So, he’d frame Gideon for murder, and he’d be kept safely locked up and away from any girls he could be chasing. He’d probably get a little restless, but, since Kremy was such a good friend and ironic husband, he could help out with conjugal visits. Like a bro, a pal, a good buddy would.
It was at this point in the fantasy that Kremy would quite violently shake his head, as if to dislodge the thoughts and send them on their way. He would never actually want to send Gideon to jail, especially considering the fire genasi’s history with imprisonment. While he was sure Gideon would appreciate the theatrics of a drawn-out legal case, it wouldn’t feel right if he didn’t get off in the end.
So, he’d go back to cooking up his latest con and try really hard to not think about Gideon in a prison uniform, taking his hand across a table in a visitation aread and sneaking him away to somewhere private…
Sometimes, though, the fantasies would be softer. Instead of leaving to go sleep with someone, Gideon would have done something to piss him off while he was cooking, and Kremy would whirl around to whack his knuckles with a wooden spoon.
“No jury in the world, Gideon Coal.” he’d hiss, narrowing his eyes. “You remember that now.”
“Oh, sure, darl’.” Gideon would roll his eyes. “Like you wouldn’t break me back out in less than a day.”
“Tsk, it’d be the longest damn day of your Baronforsaken life you ingrate.” Kremy would grumble.
“O’ course it would be, it would be a day without you.” Gideon would grin in that crooked way Kremy had seen him turn on women so many times, but at him this time, and then Kremy would walk away from the stove and lean in and…
Again, these fantasies would come to an abrupt end as Kremy violently shivered, shook his head, or dropped whatever he was holding. He tried hard not to slip into these fantasies, not wanting to court questions from Frost. Or Gricko. Or, Baron forbid, Torbek.
Kremy tried not to think about what the fantasies meant. Surely it couldn’t be more than annoyance that Gideon, his best friend, was abandoning him for some girl. Obviously.
He tried to resolutely ignore that in dreams, these fantasies sometimes went further. That he’d wake up, gasping, the sensation of fiery kisses burning in his mind as he tried to regain his composure. That sometimes there’d be the scent of rum, a hint of jazz music, a deep chuckle on the wind. Like the Baron was trying to tell him something he was absolutely determined not to hear.
They were just fantasies, idle thoughts. It’s not like they meant anything. And even if they did, it wasn’t like Gideon had any of his own.