alas poor yorick Who: A motley crew of three: Abel, Chad, & Rafael. Then an appearance by Gabe. What: Abel dispenses with our resident creep in a very unsavory manner. Where: Rafe's apartment. Poor Rafe. When: May 31. Notes: Trigger warning for cutting, staged suicide, and murder.
Abel understood the blessings of opportunity. He was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, not when it presented itself so readily.
Chad Anderson leaned on the empty concierge desk, clearly waiting for either Stephan or Rafe to wander by so he could have a target for his harassment. Since neither were making themselves available, Abel decided to make it up in their stead. His pocket jingled slightly; he'd found a set of keys in the mailroom. Unbeknownst to him, they had formerly been owned by one Brittany Bernard, who, in the course of distancing herself and her friends from their sudden foray into the lobby storage closet, had dumped them in the garbage can of the concierge's desk.
Stephan had found them. And, under orders, Stephan had placed them just so, exactly for Abel to find and collect them, realizing at once just what they were and what they were for. This had all happened a few days ago, and now here was Chad.
Surely this all couldn't be a coincidence.
"Looking for someone?"
Chad perked up from scrolling through his phone, looking like he was five seconds away from calling someone. He frowned, displeased to be interrupted, but that true expression was quickly painted over like a highway billboard. A wide grin appeared under his strange-looking mustache, and his head bobbed as he slid his phone back into his pocket.
"Hi, yeah, actually; I'm Chad, Chad Anderson, do you know when your concierge will be back?" He stuck out his hand in a friendly manner, his swagger apparent as he lifted off of the desk and walked the few steps toward Abel. Abel had made sure of that; he'd stayed in place, forcing a reaction from Chad, unconscious or otherwise. He smiled in return, a far more tempered expression, and gripped the other man's hand in return. He shook his head.
"No, Stephan has a mind of his own. He does what he wants," Abel said, teasingly. "Maybe I can help?"
Annoyance tinged Chad's eyes, making them narrow just so, but his smile never wavered. It was the practiced smile of someone who was used to making nice with all types, forever looking cheerful even if it mean his eyes were going to start bleeding. "Uh, sure, I mean, you live here, right? I'm looking for Rafe. Rafe Atala?"
"Ah," Abel nodded, the image of Rafe bound with his shirt pulled over his head immediately springing to mind. The thought made him half-hard, but he had enough control to prevent any unwanted bodily social gaffes. "I do. And, actually, I was about to head over there," he ad-libbed, pocketing one hand around the keys that had been so neatly presented to him. "Since you're a friend, do you want to come and just wait with me?"
Where he was going with this was really anyone's guess -- Abel had never been so bold before, had never done something like this outside the comfort of a very controlled environment. He had no idea where Rafe was, only that he was certain the man wasn't home, and no timeline to work with. And yet something like that only made this whole scene even more exciting. His pupils widened, heart picking up a little, but Chad saw none of these would-be obvious signs.
"Well, hell, sure," he replied, his mouth widening as if he were getting ready to swallow Abel down. This rube, that smile said. This idiot. If only everyone were as stupid.
If only you could recognize the wolf eyeing the dog, Abel thought, clasping an arm around Chad's shoulders.
"Then let me lead the way," he said in reply, the two suddenly jovial and well-acquainted as Abel walked the porn producer down the hall to 104. He removed the contact upon arriving at the door, and, with one quick twist of a set of keys, the decision was made.
Abel steered Chad inside the familiar space of Rafe's apartment; even if he hadn't been there before, he would have walked inside with the same swagger, the same ownership. Chad moved out in front of him, eyes immediately moving over the unit possessively, as if knowing each object intimately would give him some sort of power over their owner. Abel hung back, watching this, slowly closing the door behind him.
"You know, I never asked -- How do you know Rafe?"
Chad didn't turn around from his perusal, walking forward to put a fingertip to the mast sail of a little toy boat carving set on Rafe's kitchen counter. "We work together. And I never caught your name?"
Abel shrugged, moving toward the other man on slow, quiet steps. "That's OK -- you don't need to know it."
That brought Chad's attention around; he looked up to find Abel standing suddenly very close. He started, trying to move back, but found himself trapped between Abel's figure and the counter.
"What the fuck, man?"
"Nothing," Abel replied, his hand snatching out whip-fast to grab the back of Chad's lapel, securely holding his neck to slam his face down onto the counter and stunning him. Abel did it again, and again, Chad's hands swinging wildly for either some kind of purchase to pull himself away from his attacker, or for a weapon, or anything. But Abel was fully in control; he pulled a disoriented Chad toward the bedroom and, in passing the bathroom, changed his mind. He pulled Chad inside, shoving him down onto the toilet.
"You know, I really hate to do this," Abel started, watching Chad's reflection in the mirror as the other man tried to make sense of his throbbing head. Abel pulled open the medicine cabinet, eyes widening happily as he noted a razor. He took it out, closing the cabinet, finding Chad exactly where he'd left him. "I have to admire your tenacity; someone says no, you just punch right through it, don't you?"
"What?" Chad blinked, his ears suddenly filled with the sound of running water as Abel turned the bathtub facet on, filling the tub.
"I have to wonder how many others you've got under your thrall, or is it just Rafe?"
"Just...what the fuck are you talking about?" Chad tried to stand, but Abel grabbed him, again, this time by the throat, and slammed his head against the toilet tank cover. Chad was out like a light.
"Wow, that's unfortunate. I really wanted to talk methods, but..." he shook his head, making a tsking sound. "So hard to get people to really listen these days." With careful hands, he lifted and placed Chad, still fully dressed, into the now three-quarters of the way full tub. Removing the razor from the handle, he pressed it delicately to Chad's wrists, cutting lengthwise, unzipping the flesh to reveal large blossoms of red that immediately ran over Chad's pale skin to color the water quickly rising around him. "But I think this'll be fun, don't you?"
He dropped the razor in the water after wiping his fingerprint off with a towel; he carefully saw to the toilet tank lid as well. Pausing inside the room for a few moments, he watched the blood ooze out of Chad with a slow menace not unlike the man himself. Pleased with his work, he left the bathroom door slightly ajar, lingering in the apartment for a few moments longer. Curiosity got the better of him and he wandered around, eventually coming upon a betta fish in a small, square plastic tank. Abel tapped the plastic walls, making the water and everything inside tremble.
The fish gaped at him, as it probably did with everything else; it ran when he reached inside, splashing water around, lowering the level just an inch as he grabbed the thing, holding it by one flopping fin in the air outside of its natural habitat. Lifting it up, he only wished he could see Rafe's reaction to all of this implanted chaos; and then he swallowed Mr. Fishy whole, the slick, oily taste of the fish lingering in his throat for a long moment.
The sound of the bathtub continued; it sounded like Chad had come to, and was trying to scramble out of it. Abel waited, listening, watching the door to see if his latest victim might emerge like some water-logged sailor from a sunken ship, but just as soon as the splashing had started, it stopped. He heard Chad slip back down into the depths, and then there was nothing except the water.
Smiling to himself, Abel showed himself out, careful to clean up any other further messes that might leave incriminating evidence.
An hour passed, and the apartment's tenant came walking down the hall. After a long solo shoot and a brief interview, he was ready indeed to be home and comfortable, with no obligations for several days out. His keys chimed like little bells where they dangled from his hand. He let himself into the apartment, a smile on his face, singing a quiet song to himself to match the rhythm of steps and keys. Rafael shut and locked the door behind him, then tossed his keys to the countertop as he passed.
He nodded toward the fish tank in the corner of the living room. Mr. Fishy was nowhere to be found, but over time the betta had taken to hiding behind the little balsa wood ship Rafe had placed beside the tank. Thinking little else of it, he stripped off his shirt, folding it neatly as he headed to the bedroom to change. Once comfortably wrapped in tee shirt and board shorts, he shuffled barefoot to the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar, as it always was. He covered a yawn with his hand as he flipped the light switch, and his already crumbling world fell completely apart.
The usually white tile of the tub and shower was awash in red; the floor was soaked with water, the faucet still running. So much blood, it looked like it couldn't have come from one person. A lily-white faced Chad lay in the tub, feet propped up near the faucet as though he were prepared to take a relaxing bath; with the small exception of a vacant-eyed stare, his head slumped to one shoulder, he might have been asleep. One arm hung limply over the side of the tub, red pooling in its palm to leak down fingers onto the floor. The other was propped up length-wise along the seam of the tub and the wall, a long, horizontal cut prominent to show where all the bodily fluids were coming from.
It seemed, in the midst of committing to this act, he'd changed his mind and tried to stand; handprints trailed down the tile, sliding, telling a story of regret as he'd tried to climb fully dressed and clearly still fully in control of himself out of the tub; but between the blood loss and the water, which was still warm to the touch, he'd slipped and fell, splattering more blood-laced water all over the small bathroom. His white shirt was soaked up to the collar, the rest of him bent and distorted through the fish-eyed lens of the tub's filled surface. He seemed to stare at Rafe, as if asking why, though why what was unclear.
Rafael staggered backward, his back striking hard against the wall across from the bathroom door. Then his legs gave out and he slid down to the floor, crumpling beneath the weight of what he saw. No part of this made sense; his mind seemed to see it in fractured pieces, one slashed strip of flesh at a time. He was a child again, back home in the maze of the favela, one hand crushed to his mouth against any cry over what he had seen. He was shaking; his face was damp. He did not know when he had begun to weep, but dimly he registered that he had.
"I'm sorry," Rafe said. He understood neither the words nor their meaning, but they slipped free of him all the same. "I'm so sorry…"
After a time, Rafael tried to stand. This failed as completely as his earlier efforts to regain control. His hands shook as he reached for his cell phone. He stared blankly at the screen for an indeterminate length, deciding whom to call. Three names flashed quickly through his thoughts, and he wept anew at each, knowing there was so much that had to be done first. So he dialed 911, answering the operator's questions through choked, halting sobs, and waited for the police to arrive.
gabe please come down the cops are coming preciso da sua ajuda é uma emergência
Gabe blinked down at his phone, mind slowly wrapping around the text Rafe had shot him. He'd been in his study, writing, his phone off and in the kitchen to minimize all distractions. Rafe's text had been sent nearly a half hour before, and Gabe's stomach sank like a stone. He grabbed his wallet, immediately dialing the other man as he walked out his front door. Pressing his phone to his ear, he turned while the phone rang, locking his apartment door. The second Rafe answered, questions flooded out of Gabe's mouth.
"Anjo, I'm so sorry, I just saw your text -- are you all right? Are the police still here? What happened?" He turned, all but running down the hall to the elevator.
"They're still here," Rafael said. "The door is open." His voice was even but rough. The tears had long passed, and he was left with only a bone-deep exhaustion. "Chad… they say Chad killed himself? In here. While I was at work. But I don't know, I don't understand…" His voice grew briefly distant, muffled as though something covered the phone.
"Thank you, officer. Yes. Okay, I… yes, I will."
Rafe sighed, and the quiet sound caught in his throat. "I might have to go in," he said. His voice broke. "Where are you?"
"Upstairs, in my apartment. Was working," he offered, jabbing the elevator button as though that might make the machine move faster. He eyed the stairs. "I'm coming downstairs right now. Do you want me to go with you to the police department?" Gabe jabbed the button again, then finally gave up and headed for the stairwell. He knew he could use the exercise, and either way would have him down on the first floor just as quickly.
The door slammed open and closed over the sound of the phone, Gabe's breath hitching a little as his footsteps pounded the stairs. Rafael tried to collect himself as he listened to his friend's approach, already fumbling for what he would say upon his arrival.
"I… no, it might be later. I don't know. They say he killed himself," he repeated. "I was at work. I have witnesses, so. Not really a… a suspect or anything, I just…" His voice went thready, breaking to pieces again. The sound of poorly stifled tears carried all too easily over the phone.
"OK, OK, look, we're..." Gabe rounded another floor, heading down the stairs as quickly as his feet would take him without tripping. "Do you want to go out? We'll get some food. No, no, I know," he quickly recounted. "I want you to come back upstairs with me, OK? I'll order out, and you can stay with me for awhile. I'll help you pack a bag. I'm sure..." He didn't want to call Rafe's apartment a crime scene, but surely the police might want it for a little longer than they had it. Even then, he couldn't imagine Rafe wanting to go back there, at least not for some time.
"You know I've got the spare room, and...Christ, I should not have gotten something on the eighth floor," he panted, his heart fit to beat out of his chest. He was on the fifth floor, almost halfway down. "And you can stay for as long as you need to. I can even get a spare key made."
In that moment Rafael would have agreed to anything. "Okay," he mumbled. "Okay. Thank you. I have a bag in the bedroom…" Which would of course mean walking past the bathroom. There was no body there anymore, but enough blood to vividly recall the one that had been there. Rafael's stomach churned. Bile rose in his throat. With some difficulty he swallowed it down. "I think they'll let us past. Or I can ask the officers to help…" A small sigh escaped him as he settled down onto the living room couch.
"Mr. Fishy is gone," he said, apropos of nothing. He laughed, ragged and raw. "Weird, right? Left by my director and my fish."
Gabe smiled at the thought, his brow furrowing. What on earth could have happened to Rafe's fish?
"Well, Spot is a pretty big cuddler, if you think that'll make up for it. I think he thinks he's a lap dog, but he never got the memo that he grew out of it," he said. He huffed and puffed his way down two more flights. "What do you want for dinner? Burgers? In 'n Out is pretty good, or we can do something less greasy." He kept steering the conversation away from what had happened, trying to focus Rafe on other things. He hit the second floor, rounded down to the first floor lobby, still breathing hard. Rafe could probably hear Gabe's echoing voice slightly muffled by distance in the hall. "Maybe sushi, instead?"
"Sushi," Rafael repeated, and barked another laugh. "Sure. In memory of Mr. Fishy."
The mere thought of food had Rafe's stomach lurching once more, so he turned his attention to the sounds coming down the corridor. They were subtle, and difficult to hear over the relative din in his apartment, but they promised aid and safety all the same. His smile, small though it was, was almost sincere. "I can cook," he said, "if you want. Probably something simple. But it might be good." If my hands will stop shaking, he thought, but did not add. "Keep me busy."
"If you want, anjo," Gabe replied, keeping the sigh from his voice. It wasn't a bad idea to give Rafe something to do, and he internally winced at his mention of sushi. "I'm outside." And he was; the doorway to Rafe's apartment was wide open, a uniformed police officer standing outside. Gabe paused, speaking with him, explaining that he was a friend of the tenant who lived in the unit. Despite that, the man still wouldn't let him inside.
"Rafe?" Gabe peered into the apartment, looking for his friend.
Rafael rose from the couch, his thumb sliding up beneath his mouth, cutting off the call. He tossed his phone behind him; it bounced on a couch cushion and clattered to the floor. "Please," he said, reaching out to touch the officer's shoulder. "He's my friend. He's helping me pack and I'm going to stay with him." He gestured behind him, toward the bathroom outside which two other officers stood. "They have this covered. I just want to leave. With him."
The young man frowned, but after what seemed a long hesitation, at last stepped aside. Rafe greeted Gabriel at the door the instant it was clear. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed with too many shed tears; his color was drained away, his hands still subtly shaking. He reached for Gabe the moment he crossed the threshold. Gabe wrapped Rafe up in his arms in the same moment, holding the other man close; one hand rubbed up and down his back, while his mouth murmured soothing sounds meant to impart some semblance of calm in the wake of recent events. The police officers looked away, less due to the male on male display of sympathy and more the simple recognition of a private moment.
Gabe didn't let go, instead finally speaking, quietly, after several long minutes. "Tell me where your bag is, and I can get it. We'll go right upstairs, OK?"
Rafe nodded. He did not trust himself to speak; tears still gathered in the base of his throat, ready to spring forth at the first opportunity. In a small, rasping voice he answered. "The bedroom," he said. "I'll go with you. Just… don't look in the bathroom." Gabe opened his mouth to disagree, that he wanted Rafe to stay here and be ready to leave, but Rafe's motions stopped him.
Taking Gabriel's hand, Rafe led him down the short hallway. His grip tightened when they passed the bathroom door, still standing wide open, exposing the passersby to the whole of the gory scene; Gabe couldn't help himself as curiosity got the best of him. All he saw was red, red everywhere like someone had decided to recolor the bathroom and had gone about it in a very strange fashion. He blinked, the image seared into his vision even after he pulled it back to the back of Rafe's neck as he followed the other man into the bedroom. Rafe's gaze remained steady on the bedroom ahead. In truth it was no longer the safe space it had once been, either; Rafe rushed to the closet, where an overnight bag had been half-packed with mismatched clothes.
"I started to pack," he said, "but you called, and…"
"OK, it's OK," Gabe hushed him, following behind him; his hand was on Rafe's back, keeping a constant connection with the other man. "What else do you need? How can I help?" His free hand reached forward, looking through the clothes. "I have toiletries you can borrow, or I can run out and get whatever you need, anjo. Whatever's missing, I'll get it for you."
Rafe's face fell. In the chaos since his arrival home, he had not for a moment considered all his toiletries were now evidence, the whole of his bathroom now a crime scene. "I didn't…" His shoulders slumped. He leaned back into Gabriel's hand. "I didn't think about that. I have some clothes though. And I'll get some shoes…" He padded over to the closet, bare feet shushing over the floor. "My phone is in the living room, my charger is by the bed. And if you'll get my laptop from the bedside table… that should be everything, I think." Gabe nodded, giving a small, verbal assent as he left Rafe's side to retrieve the asked-for item, holding the laptop carefully between both hands.
Rafe returned from the closet, a small pile of shirts and underwear in his hands. Each article of clothing was neatly folded; he put each into the bag atop the bed, zipping it more slowly and carefully than was required, working hard to keep his body and mind occupied. That done, he slid the bag's strap over his shoulder, and stepped into a pair of sandals. Then he returned to Gabe's side, pressed so close his shoulder brushed Gabe's. Gabe's own hand came up to cup Rafe's elbow, the constant contact seemingly needed between the pair of them.
"Ready?" He took Rafe's far side, better to cover up the scene in the bathroom and keep Rafe's eyes and thoughts away from it. They started away from his bedroom, Gabe carefully keeping quiet conversation going. He felt wholly ineffective in the situation, unsure of what to do or say or offer. He'd never dealt with anything like this before. "Spot needs a walk, so we can do that, or you can just lay down; we can watch a movie, or like I said, dinner..." He started in on offering Rafe some of the wine he still had in his fridge from Rafe's last visit, knowing his friend could probably use something stiffer than that. "I think I've got some rum, somewhere in my cupboard."
Rafael only nodded. They'd reached the living room, back to where the police still lingered; Gabe wasn't sure if there was anything else Rafe needed to do with them, or if they were free to go. Just thinking that sentence made him feel upset; there was no way Rafe could have possibly done anything wrong.
A similar sinking feeling roiled in Rafael's gut. He left Gabriel's side only briefly, discussing his departure in hushed tones with the officer in charge. A few gestures toward Gabe, an exchanging of business cards, and the officer nodded and gestured for him to be on his way. He sidled up alongside his friend once more, and took his hand as they left the little apartment.
Rafe held his silence as they walked through the lobby. His teeth had sank into his tongue hard enough to draw blood; he did not notice. Stephan was not at his post, and Rafael, lost in his thoughts, did not notice this, either. He did not speak again until they were safely inside the elevator. Gabe positioned himself close to his friend as he tapped the button for the eighth floor; his hand came up to brush Rafe's arm again, the one across from where his bag sat, eyes behind framed glasses carefully watching Rafe's countenance as if he could glean some direction from it.
"I told them we'd argued," Rafael said. "But he argued with everyone. And I have witnesses. An alibi. But Gabe, I…" He swallowed back tears. "Um. So we'll walk Spot, and I'll cook something for you. Us. That rum would be nice, too, I think."
"Whatever you want, anjo," Gabe murmured quietly in reply, nodding. Part of him wanted to ask further as to what had happened, why and how Chad had ended up dead inside Rafe's apartment, but it was clear that Rafe was on the edge. Gabe had no desire to push him over it, to needle when it was uncalled for. But part of him wondered if Rafe needed to talk.
"Do they know... How did he get into your apartment?"
Rafe gave a single firm shake of his head. As much as he clearly wanted to avoid the topic, his mind kept racing back to it. And more, this was a question Rafael had already turned over and over in his mind. "He doesn't have a key. No-one does, except me. But the lock wasn't forced." He looked to Gabe, a plea in his eyes. "Stephan wouldn't have let him in. Right?"
Gabe shook his head, his mouth a firm line. "No, I can't see him doing something like that. He takes his job pretty seriously." His hand cupped around Rafe's elbow, drawing the other man toward him for as much his own comfort as Rafe's. Rafael leaned into him, his shoulders softly slumping.
"Hopefully they'll switch your lock out. Until then, you can stay with me for as long as you like. I know Spot will enjoy the extra attention since I ignore him half the time while I'm writing."
An unsteady smile crossed Rafe's lips. Eshan's name briefly weighed on him, but Chad's corpse and his blood-spattered flat quickly pushed that would-be guilt aside. He curled a hand around the zipper of his bag. Inside, buried beneath tidily folded clothes and a second pair of shoes, was what remained of his most recently acquired stash. Already he itched to indulge. His tongue flicked out over the seam of his mouth.
Gabe didn't notice Rafe's movements, instead perfectly content to bask in the smell and close proximity of the other man. "Oh, hush." Before he could say something more, the elevator doors opened and spilled them out onto the eighth floor. Gabe threaded his fingers through Rafe's free hand, tugging him toward his apartment.