Just Like Animals

№ 18

With a soft groan, Chris scooted even closer to the edge of the bed, trying to give Ricky a bit more room and saving himself from the constant kicking and elbows to the ribs. It wasn't any later than four in the morning and even though he was exhausted, no matter how tight he shut his eyes, he couldn't sleep.

Ricky rolled over, nearly pushing Chris off the bed and that's when Chris decided it would be better if he just got up. As carefully as possible, he shifted his weight and lifted the blankets, tucking them back in around Ricky.

As expected, Ricky stirred ever so slightly and squirmed, moaning a bit before going limp again. Based on this, Chris estimated he had an hour before Ricky was actually awake.

For once, the house was peaceful. Things had been so hectic - Chris being pulled in one direction by Ricky's incessant needs and in another by his normal duties and responsibilities.

Being honest with himself, Chris could recognize that he pushed Ricky too far. But Ricky always bounced back. He didn't know where the breaking point was and he certainly didn't expect that threshold to be so low.

It was far more enjoyable when he was ruling with an iron fist - able to decide when he saw Ricky and what the extent of the interaction was. And now he didn't even have a moment to himself.

He walked around the furniture, the old floors creaking underfoot. Before stepping through the doorway, he looked back, seeing Ricky still soundly asleep, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He was likely having a nightmare, but it would be best for his recovery if Chris let him ride it out.

Going down into the kitchen, Chris navigated by the cool glow of moonlight. He put the kettle on the stove and set his Looney Tunes coffee mug on the counter beside it.

With the cabinet open, Chris could see the cookie jar. The one that held everything he swiped off of Ricky's body the first night he was there. With a bit of hesitation, he pulled it off the high shelf and dumped the contents out before him.

Keys. Keys to the car that probably had a dead battery after not being used for a month.

More keys. Keys to the house where Jaime lived alone now.

Cigarettes. A crushed paper box with two flattened cigarettes and an empty lighter. A habitual security blanket that served no real purpose.

Wallet. Just a thin leather cardholder with a cloudy plastic sleeve on the front that obscured a shitty DMV photo of Richard Allen Olson.

Cellphone. A phone that was more of a paperweight than anything else. A paperweight with over a hundred unanswered texts and an equal amount of missed calls.

How long could he keep it up? How long could Ricky just be "missing"? When would Jaime reach out to Ricky's parents? When would the police get involved? How thoroughly would they question Chris? How long would he be in prison? Would anyone claim his body? What mass grave would they dump his ashes in?

The kettle began to whistle, Chris removing it from the hot burner and cleaning up Ricky's belongings before making his coffee.

He went to the den, making a small fire in the fireplace before taking a seat and turning on the television. There wasn't much on, just some infomercials, religious programming, and reruns of shows that most people had forgotten about.

He watched the weather. It was supposed to warm up later in the week. Bodies decompose faster at warmer temperatures.

He switched to Full House. He used to watch it a lot when it was first airing. Maybe it was because there was no other shows that depicted men cohabiting and living a healthy domestic life together. Maybe it was something he could have in another life.

"Can I come in?" Ricky asked from the doorway, his hand shaking as he reached up to push his hair out of his face and wipe the tears from his cheeks.

It was almost five, so Chris had estimated correctly.

He passed his coffee cup to his other hand and pat the sofa next to him, allowing Ricky to sit before wrapping his arm around him.

They sat for just a moment before Chris spoke up, "do you want to talk about it?" Ricky never wanted to talk about it, but he always offered.  He couldn't expect Ricky to want to discuss his nightmares with the person that haunted them.

The two sat, Ricky's head against Chris' chest as they watched the television with only their eyes.  The sun was just starting to rise when Ricky turned to Chris, "will they be mad at me?"

Chris knew what he was thinking about. "No," he responded, letting his hand trail down Ricky's arm and holding his hand softly.  He couldn't help but stare at the collar on Ricky's neck - the way the loop swayed ever so slightly.

Ricky took hold of Chris' wrist, guiding his fingers up to the form of bondage and breathing a deep sigh of relief as he felt Chris take hold.

Their eyes met and for just a second, Chris was nearly lost in Ricky. Without thought, he pulled at the collar, becoming entirely lost in Ricky when their lips met.

How long could he keep it up? Could Ricky just be "found"? Could they live in peace together? Would Ricky willingly stay with him? Would Ricky lie to the police for him? When would people forget about all of this? How long would it last? Would they grow old together? Could they be happy?

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