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“Bloody Mary for the bloody mess,” the fourth or fifth devil Kouyou’s seen in the last two minutes says, pouring a ladleful of vodka and tomato juice into a see-through plastic cup. A shame – they’ve run out of the themed ones. He doesn’t even get a little spider for garnish. Double shame.
Kouyou sips at the concoction. Winces, then chugs it down and hands the cup back to Satan for clean-up. The guy’s lanky arm reaches out to take the trash from him by sheer reflex before he frowns and lets the cup fall to the floor.
And Kouyou saunters off.
Weaves through the thick crowd, dodging wings, tails, metres of gauze and cardboard edges of self-made costumes, too high on adrenaline to care. Unsure if he’s looking for someone to fuck, or just someone to talk to; someone to bum a cigarette off, or someone who’d try to pick a fight with him.
All options seem equally appealing.
He heads towards the central stairwell. Prime location. Sits on the steps and studies the blood staining his shirt, more brown than red, chuckling to himself, when a pair of polished boots stop in front of him.
“What are you supposed to be?” a man’s voice says, louder than the music. Kouyou’s gaze crawls up the ten-eye boots. Black leather turns to tight-fitting cargos turn to a brown sheepskin jacket, and now Kouyou’s staring up into the stranger’s face.
First impressions – he’s handsome. Hot. No horns or halo in sight, just a head of black hair that skims his sharp cheekbones and a wicked smile on his lips that grows smug-fuck-wide as he basks in the attention.
“Leon Kennedy, right?” Kouyou says.
Maybe he’s the one. The guy’s in good shape; clean-cut, could pack a punch.
“The name’s Yuu, actually.” Crickets. Kouyou watches him fix the shearling lapels. Brush off invisible dust. “But yeah. Not the best costume, really; I tried to—”
“It looks good on you.” It does. Really does, but it’s time to inspect the goods. “You must be sweating under all that leather, though.”
Kouyou’s eyes, they dart from Yuu’s face to the sea of people around them. Then back to Yuu’s tactical gloves, to the plastic knife strapped to his thigh, then to his crotch – promising – and Kouyou, he needs another upper or more booze, but he’s shit out of luck.
There’s no way the devil will fix him up another Mary, is there?
Yuu eyes him for a moment. Then, switching his drink from one hand to the other, he shrugs the jacket off and hangs it on the newel. Good boy. Shows off more of his body in the tight black tee and reveals a shoulder holster equipped with a must-be-fake gun.
Sweat stains his armpits. Makes the top cling to him like second skin, highlights the contours of his chest, his tight waist, and Kouyou can hardly drag his eyes away from the sight.
“Better?” Yuu says, low. Pleased to have regained Kouyou’s attention. “You here by yourself?”
A nod. “You?”
“Likewise.” All nonchalant, Yuu, he leans on the railing, the banister. His face right by Kouyou’s face, he says, “You never answered me. What’s your costume?”
“I’m a serial killer. A sex-crazed maniac.” Kouyou picks at a spot of dried something or other on his jeans. “Obviously. Hence the blood.”
Yuu studies his shirt, chin on his folded arms. “I will say, the blood’s done really well. The spatter is consistent across your whole body. And the colour, too. Super realistic.”
“Well, I tried.” Kouyou leans in and sneaks a mouthful of the vodka-tomato slop in Yuu’s hand, the cup too close to his lips to resist. “Like, if you’re gonna commit, commit, you know? Do some research.” Petty, pointed, Kouyou frowns in vague distaste at the vampires and zombies around them, any skin on show covered in a careless mess of red goo.
Yuu joins him in people-watching. Them versus the world. The occasional boy-girl, girl-girl, boy-boy duo squeezes past Kouyou on the way up to a bedroom, a bathroom, scoring coke or cock or some combination of the two, but the only person here Kouyou’s interested in right now is Yuu.
“Anyway,” he says, eyes on his handsome profile. “You sound like you know a lot about this stuff.”
Flattered, Yuu says, “I’m a blood spatter analyst.” Of course he is. “For work, I mean. Like, actually. No kidding. The blood on your clothes, your chin – it’s in an arc, like an arterial projection. Whereas, I don’t know, the chick over there, the redhead”—he extends his half-empty cup towards a group of girls not too far from them—“it’s all completely random. So obviously special effects.”
“You must be fun at parties,” Kouyou murmurs, mesmerised by the shape of Yuu’s lips. The way they move. The teen-angst piercing scar there, and how precise his features are.
He’s got to be a good lay. Bet your money on it.
“I’m a riot.” Despite his wry tone of voice, Yuu doesn’t appear embarrassed whatsoever. “Was I getting carried away?”
“No.” Not at all.
Unable to resist the temptation, Kouyou, he creepy-crawls his hand up Yuu’s arm. Itsy-bitsy, the spider leaps, and its spindly legs land on Yuu’s mouth. One leg dragging down his bottom lip, another sliding across the fleshy inside of it, Yuu, he just watches him, slack-jawed.
Then, he bites.
Kouyou laughs, his finger caught between Yuu’s teeth. The slide of his tongue and the huff of his breath as he, too, laughs – it tickles. It’s cute.
“But I sure wouldn’t mind if you were,” Kouyou says through the laughter. Their laughter. “Getting carried away, I mean.”
Yuu’s eyes, they’re black. Pitch black, and his mouth lets go of Kouyou’s fingers just for his gloved hand to take hold of them next. A true gentleman, he presses his lips to Kouyou’s knuckles, saying, “But you only just got here.”
The warm light of the chandelier poised above their heads softens their disgusting PDA. Makes it romantic instead of weird, looney-baloney, and Yuu’s different.
He’s special.
Special, special, special, and he leans in close. About-to-kiss-you kind of close. “I was watching you. I saw you come in, and I—” Yuu pauses, scanning Kouyou’s face. “I knew I’d be kicking myself if I didn’t come talk to you.”
It can’t have been more than five minutes of them eye-fucking each other. No more than ten since Kouyou had crashed the party, just so happening to pass the place by, before he says, “Let’s get the hell out of here, then.”
And they do.
And the sex is great.
So fucking great, in fact, that Kouyou’s halfway to forgetting how he even ended up here, his nude body spread out on Yuu’s bed. Face pressed against the pillow, same as it’d been when Yuu fucked him. On his knees, hips up. Face down. Arms behind his back.
Kouyou’s cock, spent as it may be, reacts to the mental image, and he rolls over to find Yuu sat on the edge of the mattress, watching him.
He’s got the prettiest spine. Prettiest smile.
Yuu, the cheat, he kisses the pretty-o mouth of the bottle of whiskey he’s picked up from the bedside table. Swigs. Generous lover, he passes it over to Kouyou. Says he’s gotta take a piss, be right back, and gets up.
Whatever. Fucking whatever.
Go piss, girl. Kouyou takes a burning mouthful of the whiskey. It’s good. Strong, decent for a buzz, but he needs a beer. Needs to concoct a cocktail with the acid and the cum sploshing around inside his stomach, and he crawls out of bed.
Kicks aside his jeans. His belt. Finds his shirt by the fridge, this treasure trail leading him to jackpot, and the kitchen’s lit solely by the moonlight.
Aptly Halloween.
Stood in Yuu’s pretentiously sleek, all-black kitchen, Kouyou pulls open the fridge door.
Eggs. Eggs. Dozen different condiments. Decapitated head. Another decapitated head. Some prime cuts of beef. Leek, or maybe celery. A can of coke, which does tempt Kouyou for a moment, but the buzzkill’s back from his piss, pissed off, so he’ll have to forgo it.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Just wanted a beer,” Kouyou says, slowly inching the fridge closed. Real goddamn slow, like you do as a kid, trying to catch the light switching off. “Whiskey’s not cutting it.”
Yuu’s in his face two seconds later, slamming the fridge door shut. All puffed-out chest, all intimidating, and the look on his face is delightful.
He’s waiting for Kouyou to run. Fight or flight or freeze or fawn, but he’s about to be sorely disappointed.
“You could’ve asked,” Yuu says, sounding stone-cold sober.
“I’m not a very well-mannered guest,” Kouyou returns, the corners of his lips lifting with each syllable. He glances at the fridge. “Halloween decorations?”
“They’re props. For work.”
Tsk-tsk. “I mean, isn’t that the dude? The cop, I don’t remember. I saw him on the news.” Kouyou tries to pry open the door for another peek, but Yuu’s got to be resting his whole weight on it. It won’t budge. “Just get me a beer. Come on. Worst fucking host I’ve ever—”
Yuu wrenches the fridge open. Eyes on Kouyou, gunmetal sharp, he grabs two beers and slams the door shut again. Uncaps each bottle with the bottom of the other, hands one over, and empties half of his in a single go.
It is the cop from the news, by the way. For suresies.
And there’s no fucking way Kouyou just got his back blown by the same guy who’s been muddying his modus operandi for months. “They think I’m you, you know? Or— or that you’re me, or that we’re the same person, or whatever.”
“What the fuck are you talking about,” Yuu says. Each word properly enunciated, full-stopped, he’s so tense, so bristly, so un-himself that Kouyou might have to be the one throwing that damn punch to knock some sense into him.
“The killings, dude.”
“What killings?”
Kouyou licks a bead of condensation off the neck of the bottle. “The body in the creek. Six months ago. Then the one last winter they found in that foreclosed flat.”
Yuu keeps on staring at him. “What of them?”
And Kouyou, he just rolls his eyes. “Turn on the news tomorrow. Don’t know what they’ll call it. Halloween massacre would be cool – y’know, a Texas Chainsaw Massacre kind of vibe, but it’s just one body again. I mean, is it a massacre because it’s bloody, or because of the number of people? Or would it be a slaughter?”
Yuu’s eyes briefly dart to Kouyou’s once-white button-up by his feet. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“Fucking with me—”
“I’m really not,” Kouyou interrupts with a laugh. “I just can’t believe that out of everyone I could’ve pulled tonight it ended up being you. Because of your buddy over here”—Kouyou elbows the fridge—“I’ve been steering clear of cops. Just so there’s no pattern. But you were too hot to pass up on.”
Yuu’s brain’s clearly bursting. Screws flying, pinging off, he says, still eyeing the shirt on the floor, the jeans, Kouyou’s face, “That’s real blood?”
“Yup.”
He regards Kouyou’s throat. Then gets all up in his biz, his personal space, and Yuu’s mouth is on Kouyou’s neck. It’s on his jaw, licking a line up the side of his—
“Blood.” Yuu pulls back, tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth. “Actual blood.”
And here Kouyou was, thinking this curious little encounter couldn’t get any hotter.
“See? I told you. Can we just go back to bed now?” he says, laying his wrist on Yuu’s shoulder. The cold glass of the bottle pressed against Yuu’s bare back, Kouyou can’t think straight. He’s making bedroom eyes, making fuck-me eyes, desperate for reprieve, but Yuu, he won’t budge. Uptight fuck.
Kouyou taps his forehead.
“Whatever the fuck you’re thinking, I don’t care. I’m not gonna rat you out unless you rat me out,” he says, counting on his fingers. Number one. Two: “I really don’t wanna kill you. And I’d rather not die either.” Three: “This is good. Us crossing paths. In every sense of the word.” Four: “When I wake up, I’m gonna be starving, okay? So the fridge – you gotta share. Not the heads. The steak.” And five, the back of Kouyou’s hand almost smacking Yuu in the face, all five fingers extended: “Why keep the heads, anyway? Like, seriously, dude.”
Yuu’s lashes flutter in six or seven or eight consecutive blinks. “You’re insane. You’re actually insane.”
Hence ‘crazed’, hence ‘maniac’. What is it with people focusing on the ‘sex’ part?
“But,” Yuu continues quietly, under his breath, “The heads, I— the hands and feet are in the freezer. I dispose of them separately. Makes identification a lot harder.”
“Alright. Gross, but alright.” Kouyou presses up against Yuu’s body, arms wound loosely around his neck. He looks him directly in the eye, just so Yuu knows he’s about to say something real important: “If you don’t take me to the bedroom right now, we’ll have to fuck on the floor. I’m serious.”
Finally, Yuu laughs.
It’s a genuine, baffled sort of laugh that escapes him, and he lets go of his beer bottle. Still half-full, mind you, and he grips the backs of Kouyou’s thighs and picks him up. Gets Kouyou to wrap his legs around his waist, safe and secure, and Yuu, he carries him back to the bed, saying, “Do you have any idea how hard they’re trying to pin us down? The forensics department is in fucking disarray.”
Kouyou flashes him his million-billion-trillion dollar smile. “Good.”
And when Yuu tosses him onto the mattress and begins to tie him down to it a few moments later, Kouyou – he realises he’s fallen for him.
Head over heels. Ass-backwards.
And hard.
It’s neither morning, nor afternoon. At least it doesn’t feel like either.
On the TV, a woman’s voice says, ‘If anyone has any information pertaining to this crime, please dial—’
“See?” Kouyou shrugs, scarfing down the juiciest, most succulent piece of meat he’s had in his life. Not human, he hopes.
Yuu sits back in his chair. In the brisk, cold light of November, he looks a little older than he’d done last night. Even hotter, somehow. More interesting, despite most of the drugs in Kouyou’s system having finally worn off.
Kouyou rolls up his sleeves. It’s one of Yuu’s shirts he’s got on. White, tight, and Yuu studies his face.
“I think we can make this work,” he says, somewhat shyly. Smiling to himself as he refills their wine, and it seems as though he’s made his decision.
So giddy he can hardly sit still, Kouyou clinks their glasses together. “To us, then.”
Yuu, the handsome fucker, he has no idea who he’s just given himself over to.
“To us.”