The midday sun stood proudly at its highest station in the sky. A gargantuan streamliner barreled down the tracks in a symphony of clashing metal and rapidly spinning wheels, heading south.
Anthony relaxed, alone in his assigned sleeper car, staring out the window at the scenery streaking by. His eyes traced the rolling mountains out in the distance, seeming to remain firmly fastened where they stood as everything else flew by in a blink of an eye. It was peculiar, his eyes captured in the sun's rays, they seemed to lose their blue luster, looking a crystalline ice—shining like clear glass.
After the riling confrontation with his brother, it took many grueling months before his father granted him another job in New Orleans. He did every feasible act within his power to get on his father's good side, obeying whatever he was ordered without conflict; performing any odd jobs demanded of him. The copious amounts of toeing-the-line and ass-kissing left the prideful mobster sick to his stomach, but in the end, it was all worth it to earn back that southland city.
The rumbling tremors of the train careening across the tracks shot up through the car floor and ascended his legs, which were comfortably crossed as he reclined in his rented room. Nearing the half-way point of his cross country journey, he was beginning to grow vehemently weary. Despite the amenities provided to him, he found out long ago that the train cars were far from a comfortable place to sleep. Luckily, he had ways to entertain himself when sleep eluded him.
A pad of paper lay flat on the table before him, the blonde scribbling across it with a lead pencil. The simple delineations began to resemble the detailed shapes of the roaring mountains he was peering out the window at. With his adeptness in forging writing and signatures, sketching came rather easily to the young mobster, who would often delve into his artistic tendencies to alleviate stress.
It had been—by far, the longest amount of time since he had seen his cajun lover, and although they exchanged frequent letters, the distance was starting to wane on Anthony's sanity. He missed Allen dearly, and with that, he was already halfway out the door before his brother even finished relaying the offer of a New Orleans job from their father. The lack of sleep he garnered during the journey weighed heavily on him, pulling a fatigued yawn from his lungs, but he was unperturbed. He intended on sleeping soundly in the arms of his lover tonight. No worry of Allen's governing parents; without the constraint of time that came with them circumventing conjecture. Just the mere envision of that unbounded freedom sent an excited jolt through his body, that brief complexity of sensations traveling further down to his trousers. Nothing arose from it—thank god.
A small radio sat perched on the table he was sketching upon, a light tune bouncing through the speaker. Anthony hummed the jovial tune to himself as he focused on the developing drawing before him, until he heard the song slowly fade out and a familiar voice came through the radio speaker.
"That was I Got Rhythm performed by the astounding Ethel Merman. And to you, ladies and gentleman, I bid you my humblest of gratitude for tuning in on this beautiful day. You see, today is especially important to me, my sweet is visiting me from out of state." Anthony's heart panged in his chest, his drawing ceasing as he looked to the small box, "darling, if you are indeed listening, here is a nice little ditty to welcome you back to this little town by the bayou. I present to you: Fred Astaire's, The Way You Look Tonight."
With that, a new, starkly slower tune erupted from the speaker, just as instantly as the blushing grin that spread across the blonde's face. He bit his lip slightly to contain a flustered giggle, leaning his cheek against his knuckles as he stared longingly at the playing radio.
He received word via letter regarding Allen's success at finally landing his radio show a few months prior, mailing him in return an abundance of support and praise for his accomplishment. It was rather challenging to get the radio station his lover performed on in New York, but every chance he got, he would show his support by listening to Allen's work. Allen truly thrived on air, coming to life as he relayed his fascinating anecdotal stories and exciting news reels, interwoven with his well-rounded and tasteful choice of swinging jazz music. His charming and witty personality was quickly garnering attention, and with it, his number of faithful listeners. The young up-and-comer was quickly becoming the talk of the town, and the blonde had every intention of celebrating his lover's new found success once he stepped foot off this train.
Checking the watch strapped to his wrist, he groaned. The earliest the train was scheduled to arrive was late in the night, several hours of travel still left to go. Frankly, it felt like an eternity away. He huffed to himself at the long wait, going back to his pass time doodle, hoping to distract his mind to make the hours fly by.
The sun was quickly pulled beneath the horizon, the night's overcast stretching across the lively town. With it being a Saturday night, the party central of Louisiana was filled to the brim with partygoers, celebrating the weekend after a long week of work. A mere mile away, the bright blue Edwardian house stood proudly amongst the rest of the estates that lined the New Orleans neighborhood streets, no one aware of the events occurring within its walls.
A frantic woman bolted down the hallway, shrieking in fright of the looming attacker in close pursuit. She clutched a deep wound to the side of her hip, blood spilling from the tear in her dress, staining the material.
Don't accompany an unknown man home, no matter how charming he may be, her mother's warning echoed in her mind. Foolishly, she had thrown that caution to the wind after spending a charming evening out, her common sense subdued under the weighted throw of heavy liquor, and now, her mother's warning started to sound more like a chastised taunt for the grave mistake she had made. How right you were, mother, how right you were, her thoughts raced with that admittance. Her heart leapt in hope as she reached the front door, tugging the door to open it—it didn't budge.
The fleeing girl found the door sealed tightly, locked closed with an array of padlocks. Tears streamed down her face over the hopelessness of her situation; she was trapped. No one knew of her whereabouts; no one would be coming to rescue her. Suddenly, she felt his presence behind her, his maniacal aura driving the hair on the back of her neck to a stiff stand. His overhanging form blanketed her in an overlay of charcoal shadow.
"Leaving so soon, my dear?" His voice was eerily calm, "what a shame, I was having a marvelous time."
She turned to look up at the looming man, gazing upon his wickedly wide smile. His hand came up quickly, tangling into her pinned up hair and pulling down to expose her neck. Before she could scream out, he plunged his knife into her throat, pulling it back rather messily. He held her head up to better see her life deplete in his grasp, her soul slip through the parts in his hand; her eyes soon void of any expression. Once the show was over, he callously let go. The empty husk collapsed to the ground with a hollow thud, deceased.
Allen sighed, a bit disappointed at how quickly her body had given in without a fight. He preferred his victims to at least put up a bit of a battle when it came to holding on to their slipping lives. That was, at least, half the fun.
He rather regardfully picked her limp body up and carried it down the hall, out the back door, and down into the cellar, his activities sheltered under the overcast of night. With a clamour, he shut the heavy doors above him to keep out the prying world, and continued on into the room, resembling that of a hospital room straight out of the depths of anyone's nightmares.
Sitting in the stark center stood an ominous silver table, cleaned and polished, with an array of tools the brunette would need to dismember the corpse he held. The floor was carefully lined with plastic, making his clean up rather quick and painless afterwards. He laid the body flat across the table, slipping into a pair of rubberized gloves.
Craft on par with a surgeon, he made quick and easy work of dividing the corpse into smaller pieces; thanks to his skillful knowledge of anatomy.
A blazing furnace roared in the corner of the room, as if it was calling out to garner the man's attention. He chuckled and turned to the loud combination of metal and fire.
"Yes, yes, I know." The fire's glow from within turned green in anticipation for the sacrifice as Allen approached, clutching his latest victim's head in his hand, dangling by the hair in his entangled grasp. With indifferent motility, he unfastened the iron casted door, discarding the listless cranium onto the welcoming flare. With the nudge of his knee, he shut the furnace door, meandering back to the table to pack the rest of the body away.
Piece by piece, he considerately wrapped them and packed them away in the cellar ice box, safely preserved until he would find a use for them. He combed the entire room for any residual fragments of the crime committed, cleaning up anything he'd find along the way. Pleased with his thorough deterge, he imprudently removed his gloves and set them aside, before hurrying back up the stairs and out of the cellar, locking it tightly, then back into the house through the kitchen side door. Gathering the necessary cleaning supplies, he planned to clean up the mess of spilt blood in his home's entryway before his guest arrived.
Upon his parents' impromptu leave from this world, through his blood right, he had gotten everything: the house, the vehicles, all his father's abandoned bank accounts, everything he needed to continue functioning in lavish comfortability. In the last few months since he had gotten away with the offing of his parents, he had truly come into his own as a cunning criminal, shadowed in strict secrecy. Playing the role of the grieving son, it was almost too easy to stray suspicion away from himself. He shed the counterfeit tears, dramatized his mourning, of course careful not to make it seem too overzealous, observant of his accuracy. Always a pillar of docility and right-mindedness within his community, no one even thought to accuse him of such a vile act, especially not with his father's forged confession plainly written for all to see. All the better; Allen came to the austere conclusion, for him to uphold his social standing, exploiting it as some sort of guile masquerade.
The budding fame procured the young up-and-coming radio star with an onslaught of attention around town, from gentlemanly congratulations and career opportunities from show-biz fat cats, to more flirtatious propositions from eager, young women, pining for the handsome and successful bachelor.
Women—preferably out-of-state and unaccompanied—were the most unchallenging of prey, easily gullible in their star-struck state. Not to say he didn't target a few men here an there, but with Allen's charms and jocular conversation, it wouldn't take long for a wayward girl to be strung around his finger. After a marvelous evening of being wined and dined, they would heedlessly accompany the charismatic gentlemen home, under the assumption of spending a randy night with him. Boy, were they in for a stun once those fateful doors closed behind them.
Perceptivity kept Allen in check when he selected his victims. Too rash of a decision and his true self would be exposed, laid out for the world to see. Distrustful, no one would come to know of his true identity, unless they were destined to meet their end shortly thereafter. Well, other than...
Allen jumped in his wing-tipped shoes at the tall silhouette standing in the front corridor, suitcase in hand. A fedora blocked his vision from meeting the face of his house guest, who was looking down to the pool of blood splattered across the floor—scattered blonde hair peeked out from underneath the brim.
"Ya' really need to be more careful, babe." He looked up, a haughty smirk plastered to his pale face, "I got in no problem." Allen relaxed and chuckled, approaching the blonde as he removed his hat from his head, placing it on the rack.
"It isn't polite to enter one's home without granted permission, my dear." Allen playfully reprimanded, the blonde, who continued to make himself comfortable as he removed his coat, hanging it just the same as his hat.
"Well this is gonna be my home too, or did'ya already forget?" Anthony quipped back, setting his overnight suitcase at his feet. He turned, bending ever-so-slightly to catch those Cajun lips in his, quickly kissing him as a gentle hello.
"Of course not, darling." He swooped Anthony's hand in his. After such a long time apart, he missed the feel of his warm hand encircled in his own, oddly soft, absent of any calloused skin, despite his career. Bringing his knuckles up, he kissed them softly. His thoughts sprang from his lips the moment he pulled back from his hand, "I missed you."
"Awww~" Anthony pulled his hand away, instead bringing the brunette close for a tight hug, smushing the shorter man's surprised face into his chest with an umph, "I missed ya' too, ya' big baby." A muffled sound of protest vibrated against the mobster's pectorals, and he released the momentary captive. Allen adjusted his disheveled glasses on his pointed nose, clearing his throat. He gestured to the suitcase discarded on the floor, trailing his hand up to the stairs.
"Please make yourself comfortable and unpack, my dear, while I clean up this mess." Anthony nodded as he swooped up his bag, hopping over the crimson puddle and traipsing up the stairs, heading down the hall.
With his welcoming hospitality, Allen graciously offered to house the blonde during his visits, all with the intention of moving him in permanently once he reached legal age to do so. Only a few more months left until that threshold was met, the light finally appearing at the end of the tunnel.
Since Allen had taken over the household, he had alluded—through the letters he had sent—to the rearranging he had done. Instead of walking down the hall into Allen's room, he abruptly turned into the master bedroom, where the brunette had indurately moved his parents' things out, replacing them with his own. Vivid remembrances for the moment he carried Allen's dying mother into this very room remained fresh in his mind—now they would be sleeping together in that same room tonight.
It would be the first time they'd be able to sleep side by side, what with his controlling parents finally out of the way. A churning flutter erupted in pits of his stomach at all the unencumbered activities they could partake in now with their newfound freedom. He set his bag at the foot of the bed, rustling through it. He pulled from it a discreet envelope, the contents within it bulging in the paper confines. He placed it on the neatly made duvet, continuing on in his unpacking.
Allen entered in quietly behind him, noticing the peculiar package. Curiously, he picked it up, surprised to see an abundance of cash within it. He eyed the blonde, who was in the midst of contently distributing his belongings about the room. Anthony's father would often provide his son with a subliminal amount of money, just enough for him to pay for a hotel and food while he was out on a job; never before such an exorbitant amount as this.
"You're father certainly overindulged his generosity this time..." Allen commented as the mobster returned to his side, finished in his unpacking. A puckish smirk stretched across his lips as he took the envelope from Allen.
"My pops didn't do shit, babe." He chuckled, "I've been pickin' up extra jobs in the organization and skimmin' a bit off the top." Raising a finger to his lips in mock secrecy, he winked at his lover. Allen's eyebrows furrowed in concern of the dangerous game his lover was playing.
"Darling, that's a bit reckless don't you think?" Anthony's smile fell at Allen's unsettlement.
"Well, when I get outta there, I'm gonna have to lay low here for a while, which means, no job. Will prolly need to change my name too." He shrugged with a depreciative sigh, "I figured I'd get togethah' as much money as I can now, so I can help with the bills until I can start workin'." Weaving around his concerned partner, he sauntered over to the nightstand, opening the drawer and placing the envelope inside, "I may be alotta things, but I ain't a freeloader." Allen was quiet for a minute, displeased by the statement made.
"Of course you're not a freeloader." He couldn't quell the emphasis that peaked his tone, placing a comforting hand against Anthony's back, "my dear, you needn't worry about such frivolous financial matters. What matters most is your safety." Anthony kept his back to Allen, his eyes glued on the drawer he placed the money in. In spite of his avidity, a tinge of penitence still managed to ensnare itself within his chest. Growing up in a life of needing to 'earn one's keep' branded a permanent sense of resilient self-sufficiency within Anthony, a perception that conflicted heavily with the idea of dependency. Anthony looked back as he felt Allen's firm hand grasp his, gaze falling upon his comforting smile.
"Come with me." Anthony perked as Allen led him out of the room and down the hall. They trudged back down the stairs, through the corridor to a closed door. Allen paused, looking to his quizzical partner. In an excited gesticulation, he swung the door open, flipping the light on.
An empty room, freshly cleaned out and dusted. An odd piece of furniture stood solitarily in the corner, a white sheet draped protectively over it. Anthony's surveyed the barren room.
"What's this?"
Allen strode into the room, placing his hands to his hips in confidence, pleased with the cleaning he had done. "It's a room you can do whatever you wish with." He raised his hands in emphasis, gesturing about the room. His smile grew to bare his teeth as he looked over his shoulder at the surprise written across the mobster's face, "I figured you should have a space here that is solely yours." In a few short steps he was at the odd tarp, whisking it off in one gallant swipe. Anthony's jaw nearly hit the hardwood floor.
It was an art desk, skillfully crafted from furnished wood. The level of craftsmanship applied to the piece of furniture certainly left an impression, that of quality and expense. Allen looked back at his astonished lover.
"Of course you don't have to use this as an art room, but I know how much you enjoy your sketching." He released the fabric from his fingers, the sheet dropping to the floor as he walked back up to Anthony, who still remained plastered at the door, "I know it's certainly a big change, but I for one think this is going to be the best kind of change. Don't you think?"
Anthony remained silent for a moment, eyes tracing every detail of his gift. He sucked a bit of his lip beneath his teeth as he felt a smile involuntarily perk up, a gentle thrum of elated vibrations rattled through his body. Looking down at the brunette, who was eagerly awaiting his response, he brought up his arms to pull him into a grateful hug.
"Yeah, I do..." He felt Allen's arms lock around his waist, returning the embrace, "I love it."
"And I love you, my dear." Allen quipped playfully, earning a quiet titter from blonde.
"I love ya' too."