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He smells the same.
The first time he met Larry he was playing pretend.
In a seedy bar, practicing delivering lies to strangers until he could believe them as they left his lips. He was losing a game of darts to a woman with a scar cutting into her top lip, more focused on his survey of the room than his aim. When Larry pushed through the door, his jacket collar pulled up high like he didn’t want to be seen, it felt like people shifted around him. Freddy thought he seemed like the kind of guy people knew not to fuck with. It wasn’t because he dressed a certain way or even carried himself like a tough guy, but because the people who seemed to recognize him moved out of his way.
He lost darts. Paid the money he’d bet, trying to gauge the woman’s reaction as he thanked her for the game. That was all he could ever do, then, ask himself if he was passing. Do I seem like the real thing? He asked it in the office as much as he did undercover.
He slid into a seat at the bar and ordered another watery beer. Not his taste, really, but he was pretending. He wasn’t Freddy Newendyke, he was… someone else. Someone who drank beer, and played darts, and didn’t let his eyes linger on the obvious deal happening in the booth in the corner.
The beer slid across the bar the same time his hand did, cash between his fingers like a cigarette.
“I got it,” He told the bartender, who nodded. Freddy didn’t know how to act. He hadn’t considered how this character would act when someone bought him a drink. He must have looked startled, and Larry smiled.
“You new around here, kid?” He asked. Freddy thought his smile seemed real, like he really did want to know. There was something about him that Freddy couldn’t name. Later, he would call him charming in an official police assessment. Then, he could only think of him as endlessly compelling. His eyes were a melting hazel, and he smelled clean and warm, and Freddy was possessed with the incredible urge to know him.
“Something like that,” He managed, remembering faintly the story he’d been selling all night. “Just coming back from-”
“Yeah,” Larry, a stranger then, had said. “I’d have remembered seeing you the last time I passed through here,”
Freddy swallowed hard.
“You smoke?”
It was as simple as that. He forgot himself. Or, the character he was playing was just as much of a fool as Freddy Newandyke. He followed Larry out into an alley like a puppy.
Larry smelled like sandalwood and ginger. Freddy thought he tasted a bit like that, too. He fucked mean. Freddy’s head swam with it, sandalwood and spit and sweat. He had Freddy’s hair in his fist when he asked his name, and Freddy told him.
It was the first lie he told on record. He said that he’d been recognized. He didn’t mention Larry.
He never went to that bar again.
Larry’s hands in his hair, adjusting his grip again and again like he can find a way to make him comfortable. He isn’t going to be comfortable. He’s dying. He’s dying, and Larry’s running a comb through his hair, and he smells the same as always.
He didn’t see him again for a long time. In a bar, with Joe Cabot, lying through his teeth. He watched Larry watch him. He waited for him to say something. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for, but he knew the jig was up. And then it wasn’t.
They never said anything about it, but it was there.
When Larry laughed at the story, their eyes met and it was there. Every time they went out, every time Larry picked him up, every time they sat close. It was always there, unspoken.
It was easy to fall into bed together again. Always at Larry’s motel room, always without talking about it. He could trust him, he thought. Every day that passed without Larry telling everyone his name was another reason he could trust him. Another reason not to hesitate to do a line in the bathroom and crawl across the dingy motel carpet on his hands and knees, mouth open wide. It was easy. It was safe, just doing what he was told. It made his fingers stop twitching, his mind stop racing. He’d let him do what he wanted with him, to him, and he liked it. He liked the way it made him feel kept, almost contained, held together. He liked the way it sounded, and tasted, and felt.
(The rush of the coke and the sear of a palm across his face and fighting for breath against the cock in his throat. The press and the burn and the warm. So much pleasure in a bit of pain.)
After, he’d lie where he was left. On the ground or at the foot of the bed, just catching his breath until Larry threw a towel and cigarette at him. He’s not sure when it shifted. He thinks he was shaking, when Larry and sort of tugged him up to lie on his chest. He thinks he ran his fingers through Freddy’s hair, asked if he was okay.
That was easy too, then, and then something was different from before. He fell asleep like that sometimes, wrapped in the smell of Larry’s cologne, listening to his heartbeat slow. Sometimes he woke up and Larry had brought him a coffee, or a sandwich. Sometimes he woke up and Larry was still asleep. His face softened in sleep. It made him look younger. Sometimes they woke more or less together. Sometimes they kissed. Still, they didn’t talk about it. If they didn’t talk about it, it didn’t matter. If they didn’t talk about it, they could go their separate ways after the job. If they didn’t talk about it, Freddy wouldn’t love him.
“Say the goddam words! Say it!” Larry’s holding onto his hand too tightly. It would hurt if his fingers could find traction, but instead they’re slipping in the blood. They slide across the back of Freddy’s hand, pushing across tendons and bones. They have only held hands like this once or twice. It has always made him worry. It makes him worry when it feels like love.
“I’m okay,” He sobs. It comes out of him like a death rattle. Like a final exhale. Every breath feels like letting go. He hurts so badly. There is so much blood. It is on his face. It is on Larry. It is in his mouth. He can taste it. He can smell it. In the car, it is all he can smell. The iron of his own blood.
“Correct,” Larry tells him, and Freddy knows by now how he looks when he is lying. He’d looked the same, days before, saying ‘and that will be goodbye’ like it meant nothing to him.
“I’m okay,” Freddy says again, and Larry squeezes his hand. Freddy knows he is dying. As he dies, Freddy holds onto Larry like it might keep him alive.
“Sorry, kid, looks like we’re gonna do time,” He doesn’t say his name, but then again he never has. Always kid. It’s what he’s always called him. It’s felt like love for a long time now, really.
“I’m a cop,” Freddy doesn’t know how he manages to say the words. He chokes on them as much as the blood. He chokes on the lie he’s held onto for so long. Maybe that’s why he is dying. He deserves this.
Larry is crying, he thinks. He doesn’t want that. He just wants to hold on to him. He wants to bury his face in his chest one last time. His breathing is getting shallower. He knows this because he smells him less each time. He knows that he is dying as he loses that warm, sweet smell.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” He is crying, too, now. He thinks he is crying. He can’t feel much anymore. He can’t feel the tears but he knows he must be crying. He’s fucked this up. He’s fucked it all up. He’s been fucking it up the whole time. Larry is holding a gun to his face and he is not afraid.
“I-” He wants to say it. At least once, he wants to say it. A truth. He thinks they deserve a truth. He cannot speak anymore. Larry is still holding him gently even as he presses the gun to his skin, and Freddy cannot make him mouth work to tell him he loves him, he’s sorry, he understands. There is a loud sound, and then there is the shot, and then there is nothing.
As they die, Freddy holds onto Larry like it might keep him alive.