REESE

- -

           Red.

           Red.

           Red.

           The otherwise-white surface was stained red, adding an extra, an unneeded layer of  unease to an already unnerving mask, but was soon returned to its normal state via. Roman and a wipe. <OK...> Roman paused, his eyes locked on the blood-soaked wipe. <...OK.> Chucking the wipe into the trash, Roman set the mask on a shelf in the closet before turning his attention to the cloak, which had been washed prior; the water had turned red. 

             Red.

             Red.

             Red.

             Billy and Stu had returned the costume to Roman that evening, the murder weapons and the voice changer stashed in a pre-planned spot until further notic -- wait. Roman could kick himself. What was he even, even thinking? Damn. Damn. Damnit to Hell. Damn. What was he even, even thinking? Roman could kick himself. Roman took a deep breath, raked a hand through his hair, and re-directed his attention to the trash can, the mistake as obvious as obvious can be, nagging him... taunting him. 

               Red.

               Red.

               Red.

               That damned wipe -- the entire trash can -- would have to be attended to before it could cause any real damage. The last thing that The Trio needed, let alone wanted, was to be ruined by a slip up of any kind; they were nowhere near done. Roman got to work right away.

                 *          *          *

                  Stu chomped down on a Twizzler, "What about her?"

                  "What about her?"

                  "What are you gonna do about her?"

                   With not a verbal and/or non-verbal warning in sight, Billy burst into a fit of laughter, clutching his now-aching ribs as the tears slipped from his eyes and onto his broad, bare chest; Stu wasn't sure what to make of it. <MINE!> Billy regained his composure about as quickly as he'd lost it. <SHE IS MINE!> Stu... was dumbstruck... to say the least. 

                     Awkward.  

                     The only sound to be heard was the sound of rustling plastic as Stu absentmindedly, absentmindedly fished around in that bag on his lap for another Twizzler, his eyes still, still on Billy. The man in question's otherwise warm, deep-brown eyes were almost black with lust, the pupils seemingly, seemingly lost in the void -- ... demon. Having become painfully, painfully obvious that Stu wouldn't be getting another word out of Billy, Stu turned his attention to his Twizzler.

                         Scenario after scenario played within the deep, dark confines of Billy's mind, equal parts pleasure and pain, riling him all up to the point where his fly struggled to stay put, the tent now growing more and more noticeable by the minute. Billy... had to get out of here. Stu, oblivious to Billy's predicament, didn't even, even notice as Billy grabbed his keys and made his way to the front door, his walk more of a waddle; of all the times for this...? The only sound to be heard was the sound of rustling plastic as Stu absentmindedly, absentmindedly fished around in that bag on his lap for another Twizzler, his eyes now still, still on the TV.