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There was a large, calloused thumb stroking the side of Leon’s neck. Four fingers and a palm rested over the dip in his clavicle and up towards his throat. It would only have to move a little bit for it to become a chokehold.
He knew it was Krauser. Krauser never gave a damn that Leon hated it. Hated his throat being touched. Anything coming near it made his chest squeeze uncomfortably and sent his pulse racing. Leon had realized after some time that that was exactly why Krauser kept doing it.
It traced a line, side to side. It was a caressing touch, the rough surface of the thumb stroking, scraping, gentle and painful, marking the soft, fragile skin of his throat. Back and forth across the same inch and a half or so.
It woke him up. For once, in a long time, he had been in a deep, dreamless sleep, and the touch had woken him up with his heart in his throat.
Leon lay on his side and looked into the darkness of the bedroom. It was almost pitch black, but he saw the familiar shape of the lamp on his nightstand and the dark shadow of their dresser against the wall. The shapes moved around, soft and fuzzy in the darkness. He closed his eyes again and focused on the touch on his neck.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth on the same patch of skin.
And then it stopped, the hand withdrew, and he was left with cold air filling the space where it had just been.
Then, perfectly in the middle of the line the thumb had been drawing on his neck, there was something cold, sharp, like a shard of ice pressed into his skin. It drew a warm drop of blood from him that trickled down across his throat, painting a wet line from one side of it to the other. It would stain the white bedsheets. He hoped the discoloration would come out in the wash.
Leon recognized the prick of a knife when he felt it. Krauser had bested him more times than either of them could count in their training, and more often than not, Krauser would prick him with the knife, just enough to make him bleed, just a little bit. A mark to show who had lost.
Leon never liked it—the knife against his throat. But he could tolerate it, if Krauser was touching him elsewhere at the same time. His hand down the front of Leon’s pants, or his hand in Leon’s hair and his tongue in his mouth, his cock being thrust into him. He could tolerate it then.
Now there was just the knife. Not even the warmth of his hand on Leon’s chest. Cold, cold, sharp.
He tried to gasp as the knife bore through his throat; it went through sinew and muscle, and trachea and came out on the other side. He felt the vibrations of the tip scraping against the pillowcase underneath him.
Blood flooded into his throat, down to fill his lungs, and up to fill his mouth. It flowed out and soaked his t-shirt and the bedsheets. He gaped and gasped, but he couldn’t draw air; instead, blood poured out between his lips, warm and nauseating.
He panicked—lungs cramping and vision fading at the edges.
Instinct made him grab for the weapon buried in him, it was rigid and cold and almost unyielding, sticking out of his warm and soft flesh. He couldn’t remove it, even if he had wanted to, leave sharp objects inside the wound, stabilize the object until it can be removed under circumstances in which any vascular injury can be controlled. He would never get that far, he knew that. There was nothing but fear left.
He used the last of his conscious thoughts to twist around to get a look at his murderer. To look Krauser in the eye and see that he understood what he had done.
But it was not Krauser who looked back at him.
It was Chris.
Chris was looking down on him with a slight crease between his eyebrows. Serious, but just watching. Observing the scene in front of him without much emotion.
A scream built up inside of Leon, but it had nowhere to go and got stuck on the inside of his mind.
The fear was gone, and in its place was sorrow.
The shadows of the lamp on his nightstand and their dresser— their dresser—danced around and covered the entire room—ate up the entire world, but Chris’ face stayed clear in front of him.
Leon got swallowed up by the darkness.
The eggs were burning. Sunny sides up and blackened underneath. The edges around them were hard and crispy, and probably completely inedible by now, but he couldn’t stop staring at them. They were hissing and sizzling in the pan. Making a fuss about being fried.
He wondered how long it would take for the yolk to turn black.
“Want to talk about it?”
Chris stepped in beside him to fill his cup with coffee. He looked warm and soft in his pajama pants and t-shirt, covered up by the moss green night robe Leon had bought him for Christmas last year. No socks. His toes curled against the cold tiles.
Leon blinked. His dry and exhausted eyes making a little clicking sound. “Nah, just a bit tired.”
Chris looked at him with his pretty, brown eyes for a while. Leon knew he was thinking—wondering whether to push the subject or not. It made something twist in Leon’s stomach.
“I think they’re done, bud.” Chris gestured toward the eggs with his mug.
Leon sighed, turned off the heat, and removed the pan from the burner. Maybe they were still edible.
“We’ll give them a try,” Chris said, as if he had read Leon’s mind.
They set the kitchen table and sat down like they usually would on a day off. It was a nice morning. A light-yellow sun was up and streaming in through the windows. A bouquet of purple hydrangeas and rhododendron flowers that Chris had stolen from outside the fence of someone’s garden, stood on the table and emitted a pleasant scent when the kitchen didn’t smell like coffee and fried eggs.
Chris looked down at his plate, overflowing with mouth-watering breakfast foods—and burnt eggs. He looked up at Leon again, winked at him, and started the attack on the food.
Leon brought the fork with the egg towards his mouth, wondering just how much like coal it would taste. There was a flash of light bouncing off a knife, and Leon dropped the fork. It clanged first onto his plate and then to the floor.
Chris had a knife. Chris had pulled a knife.
Leon got up so fast that he toppled his glass of orange juice, and it poured all over the table. Blood pouring out of his neck, into his mouth, into his lungs.
He knew it. Something felt wrong, so something was wrong.
His chair stood balancing on its hind legs for a second, and then it crashed to the floor.
Chris stared up at him with his mouth full of food, a fork in one hand, and a knife in the other. A completely normal dinner knife. Not sharp at all. He could barely do any damage to the crispy egg on his plate with it.
“What’s going on?” Chris asked with worry written all over his face. He kept looking at Leon while trying to chew through the food in his mouth.
“You killed me with a knife last night,” Leon said, his heart still trying to settle in his chest.
“But you fell asleep before me. I thought you finally got a good night’s sleep.” Chris sounded almost hurt.
“Yeah, I did, until you stabbed me through the neck.” It wasn’t Chris’ fault, but Leon couldn’t help the venom in his voice.
After Leon woke up, in reality this time, he had laid in bed listening to Chris’ deep, steady breaths and occasional snoring for hours. He should have gotten up. He knew that, maybe even woken Chris up, but he hadn’t wanted to look him in the eye. Just in case he would see that cold, uncaring stare again. He wouldn’t. He knew he wouldn’t. Chris had never looked at him like that, but as he lay still and frozen in their bed, and the shadows flitted around as he moved his eyes, he wasn’t quite sure about anything anymore.
“Oh, Leon.” Chris sighed through his nose. He put down his knife and fork, dusted off his hands, and stood up, the chair scraping across the floor as he did so.
He held his empty palms out as he approached Leon.
“It’s the fucking nightmares. I can’t sleep.” Leon was shaking. It was very noticeable when standing next to calm and solid Chris.
“I know,” Chris said, and pulled him into a hug.
Chris put a large, warm hand on the back of Leon’s neck and pulled his face down onto his shoulder. Leon was so tired he could throw up. He was so tired, it felt like he was rotting on the inside. It felt like he could fall asleep like this. Resting against Chris’ big frame, in his arms. Leon took stock. One hand on the back of his neck, and the other… nowhere to be found. The arm reached behind Leon’s back, but the hand wasn’t touching him. It was holding something. A weapon. A knife. It was cutting the air behind him and making the skin between Leon’s shoulder blades freeze down the center, a thin line prickling where the blade would go in. He was keeping Leon from looking. Easier to get away with when Leon wasn’t watching. But he wasn’t going to get him, not this time.
Leon was quick when he ducked down and out of the grip holding him in place. In the same movement, he punched—straight into Chris’ nose, blinding him momentarily and stopping him in his tracks.
Chris yelled out in pain as blood poured out of his nose, eyes closed, hand going up towards the place that hurt, still acting on instinct. Leon took advantage of it and grabbed his neck, grabbed the back of his knee, and pushed in, sending him to the floor on his back with a huff. Leon got down on the floor with him, wrapped his arm tightly around his neck from the back, locked it in place with his other arm, and hugged him close.
No one would ever stab him again. Leon would not let it happen. He would not be murdered by someone he would give his life for.
There is no room to play nice.
“Leon,” Chris choked out. Leon was putting pressure on the arteries in his neck, and he would be unconscious in 6 to 15 seconds. Leon counted 1, 2, 3…
“Drop it,” Leon growled between his teeth.
“Leon!” Chris sounded more strangled the second time. He was fighting, trying to buck Leon off, trying to brute force his way out of the hold, but Leon had wrapped his legs around him and was stuck like a leech.
It’s kill or be killed, and be killed is not an option.
4, 5, 6…
He lasted a good while. Leon knew Chris was strong, but he was tiring out. He also knew he could hang on for longer than Chris could fight. The attempts to get out of the hold got slower, weaker.
7, 8…
Chris crouched in on himself and then threw himself backwards, and this time Leon was smashed against the kitchen counter. Stars exploded before his eyes as the back of his head connected with the hard surface. It was just enough for Leon to loosen his grip—just a little bit—but in the second Leon lost focus, the enemy slipped out. He grabbed Leon by his arm and his shirt and threw him to the ground on his back so hard the air left his lungs. Then a large shadow hovered over him. Leon was going to buck his hips and send the enemy flying onto his face, but before he got that far, a heavy weight lay down on him. Leon was going to gouge his eyes out, but his arms got caught in an iron grip, holding them fast between the two of them. He was pinned down, he couldn’t get out, his arms were stuck, his legs were stuck, and he almost couldn’t breathe with this weight on him. He was stuck, and he was going to die.
“Leon, stop! You are safe.”
He was not safe. Knife in the ribs, knife in the heart, knife in the throat. All these places were vulnerable now, and he couldn’t do anything about it.
Leon sobbed with the little air he could get into his lungs.
Leon didn’t want to die. He had hydrangeas and rhododendrons on his kitchen table, and a dresser he shared with someone who stole hydrangeas and rhododendrons for him. For so long, he hadn’t cared whether he would live to see the next sunrise. Just rolling with the punches until the inevitable bloody end, that never seemed to come. But now he did care. He was supposed to go to the store today, to get more coffee, as they were almost out, and Chris wanted coffee in the mornings, Leon did too, but Chris wanted coffee, and Leon couldn’t go to get coffee from the store if he was dead.
His eyes stung and stung, and tears ran down his temples and into his hair, but he kept them tightly shut. He didn’t want to look. He didn’t want to look at Chris with the cold eyes. He didn’t want to die by his hand. He didn’t want a knife in him.
“I love you, Chris,” Leon said. It was shaky and breathless. It was a last-ditch attempt at staying alive. At least it would be the last thing he said if it didn’t work.
“Leon, please listen to me. You are safe. I’m not trying to hurt you.” Chris spoke softly and gently, but Leon could hear some sort of urgency behind the words.
“I love you,” Leon repeated.
“I love you, too. Please look at me, Leon.” He couldn’t. He couldn’t look. He would see the weapon killing him, then. A shiver went through Leon’s neck, and he pulled his jaw to his shoulder to protect his throat.
“Don’t!” Leon drew a ragged breath. “Please.” He couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t take it, not again. Because Chris had married him, he had kissed him, and held him for many nights and many days, and then he had killed him—stopped his heart with a knife the way he always thought Krauser would do it. In the end, it had been Leon who had stopped Krauser’s heart with a knife. In the end, it was Chris who…
“Leon, listen to me, I am not going to hurt you. I’m just holding you now because I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret, okay? You’re just defending yourself; I understand. I’m not mad, and I won’t hurt you.”
“I love you,” Leon said. It sounded torn, and it felt torn. He believed Chris’ words even though they were lies, and Leon loved him.
“I love you, Leon.” Lips pressed against Leon’s cheek. “Lover, please look at me.”
Leon looked. Over him was Chris’ face—he didn’t look indifferent or cold at all—he looked about as terrified and heartbroken as Leon felt. His eyes were wet and staring. Blood was smeared around his nose and over his lips. A red drop fell and landed on Leon’s cheek. Chris let go of one hand and wiped it off, then he sniffed.
“Are you with me, buddy?” Chris asked, squeezing his hand.
It all flooded over him.
Chris hadn’t hurt him. Chris would never hurt him. But the same apparently couldn’t be said for Leon.
“I’m sorry,” Leon sobbed. “Chris…” His voice broke, and it was pathetic. He was pathetic.
“It’s okay, Leon.” Chris rested his forehead against Leon’s.
Leon just kept sobbing. It was not okay. He was losing his mind, and Chris was suffering for it.
“I think you got a bit confused.” A rough hand dragged across Leon’s face, wiping away the tears.
Leon took a deep breath, finally calming the sobs. “I am insane,” he said soberly.
“You’re not insane.” Chris pulled away and got off Leon, but he kept holding his hands, not tightly anymore, just keeping the contact.
Leon let them go, got away, sat up, and leaned against the wall. “Pretty sure trying to kill your husband is insane behavior.” He put his elbow on his knee and his head in his hand.
“How is your head? It took a real hit back there.”
Leon dragged his hand to the back of his head—no blood, just a little sore.
“It’s fine. It’s the inside that’s fucked.” Leon sighed. “I’ve got scrambled eggs for brains.”
Leon felt Chris’ gaze on him.
“Leon… I’ll never hurt you. I’ll never pull a knife on you.”
Leon let his hands fall to his lap. He opened them and looked at the white line crossing his right palm.
“Ashley Graham stabbed me,” he said, down towards his hands. “When she was infected with the plagas. She would never pull a knife on me either.”
Chris was silent for a long time.
“I’m not infected with the plagas parasite, Leon,” he said evenly.
“No, and neither am I, but here we are.”
There was a sucking feeling in his stomach. Leon had just tried to kill Chris.
“I’m sorry,” Leon said again. Then a string of swears tumbled out of his mouth. He swore and cursed—he wanted to say sorry over and over again, but all that came out was swearing. “God damn it!” he ended the rant.
“It’s not your fault, Leon. You’re trained to survive attacks that can come at any time. I’m the same.” Chris sighed. “Okay, maybe you are a bit insane, but so am I. It’s all a bit of a mess, isn’t it?”
Leon dared a look up again. Chris was sitting with one ankle under his other leg and looking at Leon, not caring that his nose was steadily dripping blood onto the tiles, forming a small puddle on the floor by his knee.
“Fuck. I’m sorry.” Leon reached out and touched Chris’ face, and Chris scooted forward, dragging his robe through the blood on the tiles.
“You just need sleep.” Chris rubbed his thumb over a spot on Leon’s cheek. Maybe he hadn’t gotten all the blood off it earlier.
“I just need…” A new brain, perhaps. A new life. No, he didn’t want a new life. He would never have met Chris in another life. And that was what he needed—even with their blood-stained tiles, and blood-stained faces, and blood-stained pasts, he needed to have met Chris. But he also probably just needed “...sleep.”
Leon’s heart clenched in his chest as the memory of him trying to squeeze the life from Chris washed over him again. His eyes burned. “I’m so sorry.”
“We’re getting through this too.” Chris cupped Leon’s face in his hands and made him look at him. “Today you needed help, maybe tomorrow it’s me.”
“Nah, it’ll probably be me tomorrow too.”
Chris laughed, and then Leon laughed.
“That’s okay, even if it’s tomorrow too, and the day after that, and the day after that. For the rest of my life… You hear me?”
Leon heard him, he believed him, and he loved him.
“Can I hold you?” Leon asked, and Chris reacted so quickly it seemed like he had been waiting for a sign. He put his arms around Leon.
“Forever,” Chris said.
“Forever.”