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Kayne was in the Butcher’s head, and, stubbornly, refused to leave.
The Butcher thought of him when he killed a man, leaving the body hidden in a rosebush. The flowers were red, so red that the blood hardly showed on the petals as he stood back, wishing someone was there to congratulate him on his job, his masterpiece.
Had he thought of the deaths as a masterpiece before Kayne came along? He couldn’t remember.
The Butcher thought of him whenever he saw blood, which was altogether too often with a profession such as his.
He thought of Kayne when he heard someone laugh. It sounded genuine, happy, nothing like the sharp sounds Kayne would make when he laughed. It grated on the Butcher’s ears. He hated it.
It all came to a head, of course it did, after that damn dream the Butcher had.
Even though it had all been a blur once he was awake, a few details remained branded in his mind; Kayne’s smile; a bloody shirt; hands on his chest; blood, thick and red, running around the edges of his vision; and an unrelenting heat that followed even after the Butcher had woken up, sweaty and confused in a mess of twisted hotel sheets.
He tried not to dwell on that too much, but those flashing images had followed him for days and days until he figured something should be done about it.
He just had to get over whatever stupid spell Kayne had put on him and forget about the man(?) for good.
He just needed… to clear his head. Or something.
~
The Butcher downed his third glass of whiskey and set the glass back down, wiping his mouth. It wasn’t nearly enough to get him completely out of his mind, but the pleasant warmth that came with a good drink was just starting to buzz through his veins.
He signaled for the bartender to pour him another.
“Well,” someone said, and the Butcher felt a light touch at his shoulder, gently trailing down his arm, “who are we drinking to forget tonight, hmm?”
The Butcher’s first instinct was to reach for his concealed knife, but he held himself back; he turned to see someone slip into the seat beside his.
Dark suit. Dark hair, falling elegantly over a pair of curious dark eyes. A coy smile that was a touch too familiar for someone talking to a stranger. No blood to be seen.
It wasn’t Kayne.
Of course it wasn’t, the Butcher scolded himself, violently tamping down the disappointment in his chest as he turned back to his now-filled drink.
He was there to distract himself, not to be reminded of that damned man (or creature, or god, or whatever the fuck Kayne was supposed to be).
“You presume a lot,” the Butcher scoffed as he took another sip of whiskey, trying not to be angry at the stranger.
He hadn’t done anything. He was just… not Kayne.
The Butcher wished his brain would shut up about Kayne. He was just here to—
“I know the look.” The man in front of him shrugged, fingers skimming the bartop as he eyed the glass of whiskey. He glanced back up. “So tell me, who? Runaway lover? I can’t think of anyone who’d want to end up on your bad side.”
He slid his gaze over the Butcher’s arms, his hands where he gripped his glass. The Butcher scoffed. He wasn’t wrong about that.
Before he could answer, the man sitting beside him raised a hand to call to the bartender. “I’ll have what he’s having. And his next drink is on me.”
“Thanks.” The Butcher said, glancing at the man with a little suspicion. But, hey, a free drink wouldn’t kill him. “But I think telling you about him defeats the purpose of ‘drinking to forget’.”
The stranger laughed as another glass was put down in front of him. He lifted it to his lips. “So it’s a ‘him’, then?”
The Butcher looked away and took a drink instead of answering.
“Not to worry,” the stranger said, “I’ve got a ‘him’ of my own. And besides, we’re all looking to forget someone in a place like this. No one really cares who.”
The Butcher glanced back at him as he drank. “And why would you care about my problems, anyway?”
The stranger looked at him over the rim of his glass, considering him for a second. He put the glass down. “Well,” he tugged on his tie to loosen it a bit, leaning over on the bar with a lazy smile, “I was hoping I could be of use to help you… forget a little better. What do you say?”
The Butcher looked at the man. He was handsome, sure. And… he couldn’t deny he reminded him a bit of Kayne. He didn’t have the same predatory glint in his eye, the jagged edge to his smile, the air of controlled danger around him, and of course no blood— but the tilt of the head, the little challenge in his words— maybe it would do the Butcher some good to pull off that dark suit and occupy his mind for the night.
“… Why not.”
The stranger smiled, again, and finished off his drink. “I’m glad you agree.”
~
The stranger made a low, pleased sound as his back hit the wall.
He’d said his apartment was just down the road— and it was— there had been a few more drinks, an invitation, and quickly enough the Butcher found himself pressing the man back against his own door, hands slipping under his jacket as the other pulled at his shirt, drawing them closer.
(Neither had asked for a name, and the Butcher didn’t think the stranger wanted one anyway.)
They kissed, fast and hard, and the stranger tasted like whiskey. It didn’t feel quite right (Kayne would taste like blood, the Butcher just knew it) so he lowered his head to mouth at the man’s neck instead.
He didn’t seem to mind, tilting his head back and sliding his hands up the Butcher’s sides under his shirt. “Ah.” He sounded a little breathless already. “You can bite, if you like.”
(Would Kayne have let the Butcher do… that? A memory rose to mind, sudden;
Kayne’s hands on his waist, the two of them much too close; Kayne leaned closer.
“… I could just take a bite out of you.”
The Butcher swallowed. “Would you?”
“Mm.” He leaned in even further. “I could just…”)
The stranger didn’t seem to care that his thoughts were wandering— Hell, he was probably thinking back to his own ‘him’— as he slipped one hand out of the Butcher’s shirt to tug at his belt buckle.
And then the hand paused, bringing the Butcher abruptly back to the present.
He pulled his head back to look at the man, whose eyes were closed, his head still pressed back against the wall. He’d just stopped moving.
He wasn’t… he didn’t seem to be breathing?
A hand grabbed the Butcher’s collar and pulled, making him stumble back a few steps, his back falling against another man’s chest. A chin hooked over his shoulder while two hands made their way around his waist, smearing his shirt with blood.
Blood?
“Mm,” Kayne said, much too close to his ear, “is this how you get your fun, darling?”
The reaction in the Butcher’s body was instantaneous; he spun around and grabbed a fistful of Kayne’s bloody lapel, his knife making its way into his hand.
He paused, even with the thrum of danger buzzing through his veins alongside the leftover warmth of the alcohol. Kayne was looking at him with a small, sharp smile, completely ignoring the knife inches from his face. But the smile was— too sharp, like a razor on its thinnest edge, something violent and quiet.
Kayne looked pissed.
“… It’s you.” was all the Butcher could think to say.
“I’d ask if you missed me,” Kayne said, glancing coolly over the Butcher’s shoulder at where the stranger must have still been standing, “but it seems you’ve kept plenty busy without me.”
The Butcher couldn’t help but snort. “What do you care?”
“I don’t,” Kayne huffed, crossing his arms. “I couldn’t care less what you do in your free time.”
Behind the Butcher, the stranger drew in a heavy breath, then started to make deep, harsh choking sounds.
The Butcher went to turn his head, but Kayne caught his jaw and didn’t let him, his hand cold on the Butcher’s skin. “Hey. Look at me, doll. Not him.”
The Butcher raised an eyebrow, but complied. He let his grip in Kayne’s jacket loosen. “I thought you didn’t care.”
Behind him, the stranger was still wheezing, and a heavy thump indicated he’d fallen to the ground. The Butcher didn’t look back.
“Shut up,” Kayne hissed, looking almost embarrassed. “You don’t really care about him, either. Do you?”
“I don’t,” the Butcher admitted. In a moment of weakness, he leaned his head into Kayne’s hand, seeing the other’s eyes widen a fraction.
The stranger had fallen silent behind the Butcher.
“I did miss you,” the Butcher said, curious about the kinds of reactions he could pull from Kayne. “You asked— and I did.”
“Oh.” Kayne looked genuinely surprised for a second, before a smug look overtook his features. “Did you now?”
“Course. I just said that, didn’t I?” The Butcher dragged his knife down the front of Kayne’s suit, collecting the blood that seemed to be always present on him. “I missed your stupid smile. And your creepy fuckin’ laugh. And all the blood.”
“Aww.” Kayne smiled, then caught the Butcher’s wrist in his free hand and lifted it to press a kiss to the flat of the blade. “You always know just what to say, my love.”
The Butcher gave an experimental tug on Kayne’s jacket, trying to pull him closer, but the man wouldn’t budge, so he sighed and stepped closer himself. “Kayne…”
He leaned in, only to be stopped by Kayne manoeuvring his hand so that the knife prevented their mouths from meeting. The Butcher’s lips met cold metal and he glared at Kayne when he pulled back.
“What is it?” He huffed.
Kayne smiled innocently (or, as innocently as someone like him could). “Why did you need to use him?”
“You serious?” The Butcher nearly rolled his eyes. “You’re really jealous, huh?”
“I’m not jealous,” Kayne said sharply, his grip on the Butcher’s wrist tightening. “I just want to know why you were going to fuck him while I’m right here.”
“I didn’t know that,” the Butcher snapped back. “All you’ve done is show up, act like I’m some fun new toy for you to play with, and disappear just when it looks like you’re finally going to do something to me. Maybe I got tired of waiting for you to show up.”
Kayne’s mouth parted in what looked like genuine shock. His eyes fell to where the stranger was most likely lying (dead?) behind the Butcher.
“I really don’t— didn’t care about him,” the Butcher said, honesty heavy on his tongue, “it’s you I really want. I don’t have a damn clue why, but. Yeah.”
Kayne didn’t answer, his face unreadable, but he lowered the knife and his other hand curled to the back of the Butcher’s neck.
“Are you going to kiss me,” the Butcher demanded, mortified to feel a flush of heat creep up his neck, “or do I have to do everything mys—”
Kayne tugged him forwards, and the Butcher’s sentence ended somewhere between Kayne’s teeth as they kissed.
Kayne, it turned out, did taste like blood.
They separated when Kayne pulled the Butcher’s neck back, looking at him with an interesting mix of frustration and want.
“You can’t just say things like that, darling,” he snapped, his eyes slipping between the Butcher’s own and his mouth. “You don’t even…”
“You’re the one who killed a man because he was touching me,” The Butcher smiled, then turned his head to press a kiss to Kayne’s arm where it rested on his neck. The cloth of the dark jacket was soft, but the Butcher wished he could put his mouth to skin instead. “Almost like you care or something.”
“He wasn’t just touching you,” Kayne pouted, “he kissed you. He was getting his hands all over you, it was… annoying.”
The Butcher laughed, and Kayne looked even more annoyed. “You can just say you were jealous.”
“Darling,” Kayne said, tugging him closer, “shut up.”
The Butcher complied. His mouth was put to much better use pressed against Kayne’s, anyway.
He ignored his knife falling to the floor, the stranger’s silent body behind him, and he let Kayne kiss him again and again.