Like a Moth to a Flame

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The flattering smiles disappeared again, though not in an instant like last time. It was far more gradual, coinciding with the time it took for him to understand what he was being asked to really do. All his life, he had learnt expertly to manipulate people into believing what he wanted, to trusting him and going along with what he said. Obviously, he turned to murder if it failed. That was the logical point to now turn to, in his mind. Timothy was being difficult and failing to understand; failing to go along with what he wanted, so killing him would make things far more easy.

Though, his own logic was battling against his heart, and his love for Timothy - the first time he had loved since his childhood dog was around. Thus, it was incredibly precious, and he didn't want to just let Timmy go so soon.

"...You're acting like an asshole," the grumpy man groaned, his lips twisting into frowns and scowls. "You love me. You fell in love with me while believing I could be the murderer, didn't you? I'm not a different person, and I think I hide what I do pretty fucking well. You won't have a clue-- you're not going to change your mind, are you?" He finally exhaled, sitting up from the bed rather ominously. "...Shame, really. I liked you, Timmy. I wanted to meet your father, charm the future dad-in-law and stuff..."
 
"Alex, we... we could still work this out. I want you to meet my dad, I want you to marry me, a-and for us to be happy. I don't think I can be happy if you keep doing this..." he reminded slowly, before turning to face the other carefully, pursuing his lips.

"I'd be able to ignore this all of you did this. Why can't you just do that for me?"
 
"Because you don't understand, and I can't be with someone who doesn't understand me. Don't you see? You're asking me to stop doing something that's a fundamental part of my identity now. If I stop, I'll crumble away into nothing-- you don't get it, I don't know why I'm explaining. You know, death's kinda beautiful? I think I'm helping these people, just like they're helping me. It's a symbiotic relationship. We're helping one another," he explained, though even he noticed how batshit crazy it sounded. He wasn't insane or mentally unwell. Far from it, really, which was how he quickly realised how mad it sounded aloud, outside his own head.

"...I still believe it. It sounds insane, but I... I know what I mean, and it's not as bad as it sounds, not in my head at least," he quietly shrugged, fumbling in his drawer with a faint hum under his breath. If he was looking for a weapon, his broad shoulders would be tense in anticipation, so the fact he was relaxed was a good thing for Timothy, really. Eventually, he sat back down with a few tablets, swallowing them back in one gulp.

"Look, I was really contemplating knocking you out and leaving you out on the street, to be honest. I'm not doing that. I'm just going to go to sleep and wake up in the morning with you by my side."
 
"Please just consider, Alex. I don't want you to get in trouble, but I don't want you to just go down the street tomorrow and stab someone." He insisted, before reluctantly laying back in the bed and locking his eyes on the wall, a frown donned on his face.

"I love you, Alex. I just... it makes me concerned that you were going to knock me out, too." He grumbled.
 
"If it helps, I would have hit you too hard, and I wouldn't have bruised your face. Just a sturdy knock to the head, and then I'd have left you hidden in some alley so no drunkard could get you. Gosh, give me some credit. I'm not doing that, obviously. I'm far too tired," he grinned, his jovial, joking (and far less intimidating) personality appearing almost out of nowhere. Since he had come back with the food, he had been tense and threatening, flocking between enjoying the moment and dreading what he could do to Timothy.

Now, he was happy to drop it all and act like himself-- or at least, the version Timothy knew best. He had manipulated his personality to suit people so much that even he wasn't sure who he was when he was alone. He didn't like dwelling on it much.

"Hey, look at me, don't be so down," he chuckled again, moving to sit on top of him, his legs either side of his hips, just to be able to tilt his boyfriend's chin so they could lock eyes. "I promise you, regardless of what I do, I'll never lay one finger on you, or anyone you care about. Trust me~"
 
Fearfully staring up at the other, his gaze did soften from the kind words that followed. Nonetheless, he did look away eventually, wanting nothing more than be left alone. Instead, he had a confessed murderer over him, acting as if everything was fine.

"You promise? You promise you won't hurt my dad? I swear to god, i-if you do, I will flip shit."
 
"Hey, I bet I'll love your Dad! I can't wait to chill out in the summer with him, you know? Try and win his approval with some beers and a good barbecue or something. I think I can charm him enough for him to like me. I'll have to meet him soon," he decided absently, seemingly choosing to ignore the other's fear. It did genuinely offend him that Timothy would assume he'd target his father... though deep down, he knew it was a valid concern. He just preferred not to answer it, because he couldn't keep going on about being a killer without getting angry at Timothy for not understanding him.

Instead, he moved down to press a few loving kisses to his neck, before rolling back off him. He wasn't going to force him into some hot and heavy makeout session, even if he wanted to share some kisses with him. He was aware that he had landed a pretty major bombshell on Timothy, and all they needed was a good night's sleep.
 
Holding the other's neck during the kisses, he remained quiet as he watched the other roll off and flopped besides him casually. Once seeing him curl up casually, Timothy moved to carefully wrap himself Alexander's arm, oddly enough, though not only to stop the conversation, but to comfort himself a tad. If he just pretended he wasn't holding onto a killer, he could sleep somewhat peacefully.
 
By morning, Alexander was nowhere to be seen. He had purposely set his alarm for a ridiculously early time just to be able to get up and out his flashy apartment without alerting the man at his side. He knew that even if he told Timothy he was heading out for the most innocent of reasons, he wouldn't be believed, and some tense argument would just take place, one he could definitely do without. Of course, he was concerned that, without him being there, Timothy would wake up and run straight out-- which was why he had Sandra trudge herself into the apartment at 5 in the fucking morning, under the belief that Timothy was incredibly ill and needed someone to help fetch him drinks and the like.

By 7, with Timothy obviously not calling out for things to help him sleep (as Alexander had made out would happen), Sandra was pretty pissed off. She had interrupted her sleep and walked the street at a stupid hour to take care of her friend, only to find he was sleeping perfectly without any issues-- and Alexander had been gone for two hours, not the twenty minutes he had promised he'd be.

Eventually, she traipsed into the large bedroom to nudge her friend awake, all sympathy out of the window. "Hey, dummy. Can I go home now? I-I fucking swear, you and Alexander must have had a right laugh at me, huh? 'Let's see how obedient Sandra really is'-- well, I'm tired and angry, so can I go now?"
 
Buried underneath the blankets, Timothy initially thought that he was waking up to his boyfriend, to be told that everything that night was just a nightmare. Instead, he peaked an eye out to see Sandra, and almost instantly did he spring awake, especially once remembering what had happened that night.

"S-Sandra?! Are you okay?! Has... Alex done anything to you? Oh my god..." he began to babble, while scurrying out of the bed. The mix of both fast food, wine, and the traumatic events of last night led to a lovely cocktail of vomit, which he did when he reached the bathroom.
 
Before her anger could continue, the woman's face immediately arranged to one of concern, rushing after her close friend and, to offer any bit of helps he could, proceeded to quietly pat his back while he threw up his guts into the toilet. After the worst of it was over though, the angry and irritated frown made its way back onto her expression.

"Alexander called me at five in the morning, no less, to come look after you. Said you were sick. If I knew you just had a hangover, I'd have told him to fuck off," she admitted with a tired grunt, even though she soon took full notice of the words she had bypassed seconds before. "...Why would he have done something to me? That's a dumb thing to say."
 
Rubbing his mouth clean of the duck, he sat on the bathroom floor in silence for a moment, if only to get himself together. After some heavy breaths, he locked eyes with her.

"Sandra, Alex... Alex told me he's a murderer last night. He told me he was the reason those fashion people have died, a-and I'm scared. I don't know what to do, a-and..." he babbled on, while holding his stomach to force back another urge.
 
Staring at him for what seemed an age, her immediate reaction was to laugh and shake her head. Granted, his clear fear was concerning, and he didn't seem to be joking, but she couldn't believe him. She had known Alexander since she was 17, had worked for him for six years straight. Surely, if anyone would know he was the murderer, it was her. She knew him more than he knew himself -at least, that's what it felt like- and she once contemplated he would do something so horrific. Some of the details of the murders had been released, and none of them really died... quickly. Alexander didn't have it in him to sit back as someone screamed in agony in front of him, so of course she didn't believe Timothy.

But it was difficult to brush his words aside when he was tearful and shaking.

"...Don't be daft," she weakly smiled, shifting her weight from left to right. "This is Alexander we're talking about. He probably made a joke you took too seriously. You know what he's like, his humour is weird."
 
"I thought it was a joke, Sandra, b-but... but he was threatening me and h-he insisted it wasn't a joke. Look, I... I was keeping a secret, and I guess he thought it was a good idea to tell his. I just -- I need to call the cops, Sandra, but I'm afraid that something bad would happen. He insists he won't hurt me, but how can I trust that? I mean, he's already killed people, and told me it was to get rid of competition. How fucked up is that?!" He insisted, while stumbling to his feet.
 
"I don't believe you, Timothy. You're hungover, clearly. He was joking around, it's pretty obvious. Unless he showed you w-weapons, and gave you details, I... I refuse to believe he's done anything wrong. This is a man who once spent an hour helping get a cat down from a tree. I... I don't... want to think of him doing anything horrible, like you're suggesting," she hissed, her eyes stern and posture cold, though beneath that there was just the... tiniest smidgen of doubt. She hated the fact it was there, but she had grown to trust Timothy just as much as she trusted Alexander - he wouldn't say something like this unless he was absolutely certain of it.

"...Come on, come get back in bed. I'll... make you something to eat," she decided quietly, offering her hand with a tight-lipped smile.
 
"Why would I lie to you, Sandra?" He whimpered, though did reluctantly trail after him. The more the other blatantly ignored what he was saying, the more his hope to find someone to believe him was fading. If one of his best friends wouldn't listen, no one would. So, holding that feeling, he climbed into the bed before tucking his knees into his chest.

The whole scenario reminded him of how he was treated at work, though instead of being looked down upon by coworkers over a messed up file, he was being looked down upon by his best friend in relations to a serial killer. It certainly was a knock to his already low self-esteem, not to mention his growing feeling of loss.
 
"...He definitely told you he was the murderer? I mean, if it's a joke, it's hardly a funny one. If it's not a joke, then-- it has to be, Timmy! I know him, he's one of my best friends, besides you. I'd know if he was... up to stuff, you know? And when Melanie died -one of the makeup artists he knew- he was devastated! He cried and he spoke at her funeral, but ended up breaking down and-- he wouldn't have hurt her," she firmly stated, even if her conviction had taken a major knock the more she thought about it. Not only did Timothy seem certain, but, with her excellent memory, Sandra was recalling more odd things about Alexander the more she thought. There hadn't been anything glaringly obvious, but little things he'd said that, when examined in this context, really did stack her belief against him, and in Timothy's favour.

"Get up. Quick. We'll... go to my apartment, alright? Before he gets back," she quickly smiled, throwing him the jeans and jacket in a pile beside his bed, while casting nervous glances over her shoulder. She wasn't vocally saying she believed him, but clearly she was starting to - her nervousness pretty much spoke for her.
 
"What if he finds out I'm gone and he tries to hurt you?" He questioned, though did hurry into his clothes nonetheless. "I'm not letting him hurt you, Sandra. You're too important to me."

Amongst his hurrying, he paused to stare at the woman, before tugging her into a tight hug, one he had needed for hours. He didn't keep it too long, in fear of bursting into tears.
 
Caught off guard by the hug, because neither of them had really had a touchy-feely friendship, she did stay frozen for a few seconds before being glad to return the affection. It at least consolidated her belief in Timothy, and if she now believed that Alexander, another dear friend of hers, was indeed this killer... then god, she needed the hug as much as Timothy did.

"He won't, I mean-- he's never been to my apartment, so he won't find us. Like hell am I going to back to work while he's still there. We'll have breakfast, calm you down a bit, then go to the police," she nodded confidently, slightly taken herself by surprise by how quickly she had taken the situation in her hands. She didn't think she really had it in her. She had always been someone who stayed in the background by choice, so her taking charge and making these plans was as much a surprise to her as anyone else. Though, she reasoned it was because she felt so close to Timothy. Had he been a stranger, she would have stood back and shrugged fearfully.
 
"I don't want to get hurt, Sandra." He admitted, as he stepped back and stared at the mirror to avoid just how awkward the hug was. "I love him, you know? I want him to get help, a-and knowing the guys at the station, they'll probably toss him in a cell and have him rot. They'll probably boast and brag that they got some 'houty-touty snob' and... I don't want that. I just want to, I-I don't know, have him see a doctor? He can't be sane if he's doing this. He keeps saying he is, and that he's doing 'for the sake of the business' or whatever, that isn't what a sane person things."
 
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