These Paper Pages

et je m'envole [jarlo]

John doesn’t hesitate. In one fluid motion he grabs the man with his right hand, the bones creaking as he crushes his arm when he pulls him down to meet the dagger in his left, ramming it straight through his throat and across. The body drops, the dagger clatters. The echo of heavy footsteps resound in the eerie silence of the room until the deafening sound of gunshot fills the void. Another body drops, the footsteps continue. 

Arlo doesn’t flinch when the bullet misses him by a hair’s breadth before it lodges into the skull of the man behind him, blood staining his suit. 

“You’re buying me a new suit.” He blandly remarks as he shuts the leather book in his hand, giving the body behind him a cursory glance over his shoulder before returning his gaze at John. The man in question simply shrugs his shoulder, posture relaxing as he lowers his gun, sliding it back into the holster strapped around his waist. 

“You’re way richer than I am, besides, can’t you just toss it in the laundry?”  

Arlo graces him with no answer as he takes out a handkerchief from the pocket of his pants and wipes away the trickle of blood dotting the side of his face. 

"Call the cleaners, we're done here." He says, clicking his tongue when his left leather shoe slaps against the bloodied floor. Arlo makes a mental note of getting it cleaned later. 

John watches the way Arlo moves with fluid grace, navigating through the sea of bodies lying before him as he leaves. John traces the shape of his shoulder imposed against the scant lighting, watches as the curls of his blond hair bounces as he melts into the darkness of the hallway. Then he turns away and shifts his attention to his surroundings. The room strewn with bodies is a morbid sight, but when one lives by the gun then it is their fate to die by it. Arlo and himself, neither of them are exempt from it; it is the undeniable truth of the lives they lead in the veils of the city, in the shadows of the light. Everything pays in blood.

Sighing quietly, he does as he's told. 

_________

John is viscerally aware of the metaphorical leash Arlo has on him, not that he's complaining. The blond is his tether to his own humanity, the gravity to his weightlessness; he steadies him when spins out of control, teeth gnashing and his blood singing for carnage. So when Arlo uses him as a much needed distraction from his work, John complies and bends to his will. 

Arlo is beautiful, he always is, but John finds him even more appealing when he's flushed red against him and the only thing he knows how to say is his name. He traces the strong lines of his jaw with his thumb, tilting it up so he can press butterfly kisses down the length of his exposed throat. He wishes he could keep him his for a moment longer but Arlo is cruel as he is beautiful, so when morning comes he's left alone in bed and missing the warmth of the body once there. He doesn't linger on that thought, John knows he yearns for it but never lingers because that's not him and it never will be. 

He is the planet to Arlo's sun, he gravitates around him because he is his centre, his tether; but that does not mean he is not his own person. He belongs to Arlo, yes, but he belongs to himself just as much. So when Arlo leaves, he picks himself up from the bed and faces the dawn of a new day. John never lingers because if he does, then surely the weight of his sins will drown him in their depth. 

_________

"We're not in love." John says when he sits down with Arlo on the table, cradling a steaming mug coffee in his hand. Arlo's gaze flickers towards him, an eyebrow raised in question. 

"Don't say such obvious things." Arlo's tone is flat and his body language remains strong and firm, but John knows Arlo a little better than he should. His eyes are always the most expressive thing about him, and Arlo's eyes are studying him, picking him apart. 

"You're right." John says, sipping his drink as he turns away from him. "I shouldn't." 

They lapse into silence. 

It's love, but at the same time it isn't. John loves Arlo the way he loves ruin, morbid and damning but so utterly tempting and beautiful in its own way. It's neither sweet nor bitter, neither happy nor painful—the love he holds for Arlo is a quiet, understanding thing, a kind of love that knows that it never will be anything more than it is now. 

"Do you regret it?" Arlo asks, his tone surprisingly soft that it startles John from his musing.

John stares at him, eyes tracing over the sharpness of his features and sinking into the melting ice in the planes of his blue eyes. Perhaps he could have given him a more concrete answer, but too much time has passed from the present to the time he wanted something more than what they have now. 

"It's too late to ask me that." And that is the truth. There is a time to ask such questions and that time has long passed them. Asking if he regrets it now, John doesn't have an answer for him because it's too late to think of such things, not when they've come this far. 

"I see." And the resounding silence speaks more than they'd ever care to say. 

____________

John has every right to hate him, that, Arlo knows. The beginning of their story is not a fairytale, it's not a luxury a person who dreams in the shadow can afford. The beginning of their story starts with a tragedy that morphed itself into a form of salvation that eventually turned into something between hatred and affection, between sin and sense. Arlo needed a soldier, he needed every advantage he can get to take the place that is rightfully his so when he meets John, he pulls him apart and stitches him back together. 

John is a monster he created. Arlo took his humanity and crushed it beneath the soles of his shoe because he needed a soldier, a monster, one who would kill for him without questions asked. He saved him and then damned him and to Arlo, that was the best decision he has ever made. He feels no remorse or regret, he made his choice and he will live with it. He never was the kind to do half-measures. 

Arlo looks at him and feels fierce pride blossoming in the spaces between his ribcage. He knows the power he has over him and that no matter how much John tries (wants) to resist, he will always bend to Arlo's will because while he made him a monster, he made him a loyal one. He made sure of that.

When John loses sight of himself, he becomes the guiding light that leads him through the dark, winding path of madness. He is the moon to his tides, the cooling balm to his caustic nature, the other side of the same coin. Arlo loves him the way he loves starting fires; it burns him inside out but he revels in the flames of its destruction—at first at least. 

Loving John at the start was like swallowing the flames of hell; painful, fiery, and toxic. It burned and ravaged and destroyed, but even so Arlo continued. He saw it as a challenge, a puzzle, one that seared his skin and branded his heart. It wasn't easy, nothing ever is when it comes to him, but he tried and tried and let the flames burn brighter. He started the fire and John doused it in gasoline, together they watched it burn because they never wanted to let go. 

Now— 

Arlo looks at John sitting across him, mind elsewhere as he gazes at the waves lapping at the shore. 

Now that they're older and perhaps a little wiser, the flames that once burned so bright that it hurt to look dulled. A forest fire dwindling away into a sea of ember. Arlo loves him but it's a kind of love built on fragile foundation threatening to give way. He does nothing to change it, there's no point in doing so, because Arlo ( and John as well ) finds comfort in knowing that certain things will never change.