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London 1890. The piss-stained capital plays home to the fearful, the damned, the reckless, and everyone in between. A certain four-letter name continues to haunt them, whilst Arthur Kirkland awakes in a police cell, naked as the day he was born. A rough woollen blanket has been supplied for cover, a lumpy old cushion supports his head, and a cold cup of tea is a stone's throw away.
Silly coppers, Arthur smiles. The tea tastes shit, he spits it back out. He’s had better sleep in the gutters of a brothel, curled up snug with the nipping rats, but the ache in his head is all the same. A heavy night has blurred his memory, and only three things can be said for certain.
Firstly, his clothes have vanished. This has already been made apparent by his nudity, but what Arthur means is that they’re thoroughly gone. Not even folded neat by his side.
Secondly, he’s not alone. He can hear a man through the cell door snoring. Another inmate, maybe.
Thirdly, and most importantly, Arthur does belong in a cell. Years of pickpocketing taught him a trade, gave him light feet and swifter hands still, and once he mastered the art of disguise, every citizen’s identity became his. Another tool in his escapades. Put these together and you have the man -not that one, heavens no- but the second-best scourge of London: A conman and thief who continues to thrive.
Arthur takes just enough, and does so often. He targets men who raise fists to their wives, men who exploit and deserve to be punished. He doesn’t kill them, for that would be kind, and what they deserve is to be ruined otherwise. Drained of their money, note by note, until they come to learn the error of their ways.
According to the papers, Arthur is a villain. No one considers the orphanage he saved, or the women he has helped find shelter, but then the city papers have failed to find the link. They can’t tell that the man they condemn on page 1 -and the unknown saint they praise on page 4- are in fact one and the same.
Silly coppers, Arthur repeats in his head, wrapping the thought in a wonky smile. He takes another sip of the hell-brew-turned-cold, remembers why he spat it in the first place, at which point a door from afar is unlocked. Footsteps approach and stop by his cell.
The door’s porthole is opened with care. The eyes beyond are likewise gentle. “You alright in there, lad?” someone asks. “Awake now, I see.”
Arthur slips on the mask of an innocent young man; a new persona he has yet to name. “I am sir, but-” he looks around. He doesn’t have to fake the confusion, at least. “I don’t understand why I’m here. What have I done? And my clothes-”
“Worry not.” The door creaks open, and a smart, moustached officer enters. He holds out a shirt and a pair of trousers. “Pop these on, they ought to fit. We’ll take you upstairs when you’re ready.”
“Cup of tea? Or something stronger?”
Arthur turns about in his chair, a nice dark wood piece with intricate carved arms, and green padded leather to cushion his bum. He surveys the office in all of its splendour; sees the chalkboard with its clipping and notes, hefty files stacked up in the corner, and a storage unit which looks very expensive. Custom made for the office, no doubt.
“Come now boy, there’s nothing to fear,” says a voice from across the desk. “My name is...”
Detective Inspector Richard Wood. Arthur’s seen his face in the papers several times, a bloke who worked his way up the ranks like a good boy, and now oversees one of London’s police stations. He’s been charged with finding number two on the capital’s hit list. Tasked to find a man who sits before him right now.
If only the poor soul knew.
“Call me Dick,” the man insists, fetching two small glass tumblers from the unit just behind. He’s liberal with the whiskey as he pours, and slides a cup in Arthur’s direction. “You’re not on trial, be at ease.”
“Perhaps not,” Arthur entertains conversation, pretending to wince when he takes a sip. He’s decided his persona is new to alcohol, or at least finds spirits a step too much. “But with the greatest of respects, sir... anyone would be shaken in my situation. No one finds themselves in a cell for good reason.”
“True enough,” Dick replies. “But it was the best we had at the time.”
Arthur nods. “I understand.”
He doesn’t understand in the slightest. Was he involved in a drunken brawl? Detained for indecent exposure or- no, Arthur swallows. Dick is readying his pencil and paper, eyeing Arthur and then the blank page. A lesser rank would’ve dealt with those crimes, meaning Arthur’s here for something bigger. Something worse.
“I know this might be rather unsettling,” Dick announces in due course. “But I need your help for the good of our city.”
“Why me, sir?”
Dick pulls at the skin around his mouth. It looks leathery and wrinkled from age. “You’re not local, are you boy?”
Arthur hasn’t planned his character that far, but he’ll take the assumption to build his foundations. “I’m afraid not, sir. Is that a problem?”
“Nah,” Dick waves a hand, appears to scratch something from his mental list, and sets the pencil aside for now. “What’s your name?”
“Edward,” Arthur lies. “Edward Gibson. Aspiring writer and artist.”
“That so?” Dick’s face lights up. “You in work?”
Arthur sips his whiskey and pulls another face. “I pursue the arts, good sir. I am rich in mind and nothing more.”
“You’re definitely a wordsmith!” Dick laughs too loud, slapping a hand to his generous belly. “Alright Ed- I can call you that, can’t I?”
“By all means.”
“Cheers.”
The pencil returns. Dick scribbles his name and occupation, and from his desk grabs a wad of newspapers. “I’m after a man, dangerous fellow, in this city.”
Arthur’s horror is faked to perfection. “You... you mean him?”
“No lad. Another man who’s just as cunning. He’s swindled hundreds of pounds from men in our streets, no rhyme or reason- a reckless prick.” Dick points to an article Arthur’s already seen, for he keeps the clippings as tokens of success. “We can’t pin his methods either, unfortunately, but then we get you-” he nods to ‘Ed’ “-brought to our station in the dead of night by a panicked stranger. No money, no clothes, no nothing. I hate to say it but...”
“You think I’ve become another one of his victims?”
“It’s highly likely,” says Dick. “So I’ll need you to think back, if you can. What were you doing last night?”
Arthur frowns, this time for real. “I had been out most the day looking for work,” he begins, a smooth lie. “I’m currently paying for lodgings from personal savings, and family contributions. They didn’t want me to live on the streets.”
“Of course not,” Dick nods and takes notes. “Though tell me about the evening, specifically.”
“R-Right, apologies,” Arthur plays the flustered card. “I hadn’t done very well, you see. And I...” he gazes into his whiskey, swirling the liquid around his glass. “You could say that I succumbed, like the best of men, to the pull of a pub on a dark, chilly night. I fancied a drink to patch the wounds to my pride.”
“Understandable,” Dick’s face smacks of pity. A man who’s been down the same rough path many times. “And then, Ed? What next?”
Arthur stumbles, again, for real. A cold sweat pricks his forehead as he recalls the noise; a screeching woman entertaining some men, a game of cards was happening, and music-
“Steady now,” Dick’s voice calls out. “It’s alright, don’t rush.”
Edward 'Ed' Gibson has retired for now. Arthur Kirkland is legitimately worried, and presses a half-closed fist to his mouth. He was alone, he’d started alone, but then there was someone... yes. Somebody joined him. Someone with a smile alarmingly bright, and eyes the same colour and potency as absinthe. He arrived as soon as Arthur purchased his third drink, nowhere near enough to get him drunk, and yet his memory from there had been wiped. Smeared like the old notes upon Dick’s precious chalkboard; faint murmurs of a questionable past.
“I hate to say it, Detective Inspector,” Arthur forces a shuddered breath. “But I fear I have abused your station’s kindness.”
“What do you mean?”
Arthur sets the glass down, feigning fear and shame. He can’t tell Dick about the stranger, so he’ll have to settle for something else. “... I met some men, we played cards-”
“Ah.”
“Forgive me.”
Dick proceeds to rub his forehead, and slips fingers through thinning hair. “They made a fool of you, lad.”
“And I’ve wasted your time,” Arthur mumbles. “For that offence I do deserve a cell, I’m so sorry-”
“All’s forgotten.” The pencil retreats. Dick scrunches up the paper and hurls it to the fireplace. Fodder for the flames later on. “I thought you might provide a clue, and please, don’t be hard on yourself. It’s my fault for getting my own hopes up.”
“Be that as it may-”
“I’m just like a dog,” Dick laughs, trying to lift the mood. “I follow any scent in case it’s a lead. Nine times out of ten I find nothin’.”
Arthur smiles briefly. “... So, what now?”
A rap on the door, unbeknownst to Arthur, is about to answer that one. Upon Dick’s gruff come in a young officer enters, takes off his hat and nods to them both.
“Afternoon sir, and sir,” he grins at Arthur. “A minute, if I may?”
“Be quick,” Dick orders. “What is it?”
“The chap from last night has returned. He wanted to know how our guest is doing.”
Dick’s face changes into one of mild intrigue, as if his faith in humanity has been (slightly) restored. “Well, how about that?” he directs the comment to Arthur. “You can thank your saviour in person. Go now Ed, off with you.”
“I can leave?” Arthur asks for good measure. “We’re all finished here?”
“That we are,” Dick confirms. “Just be careful next time, alright?”
Arthur follows the young officer through the station. He takes note of the other departments, how many men are inside etc. saving the knowledge for future reference. They head past rows of benches which serve as a waiting room, where a number of citizens await police support, and then at last - Arthur’s freedom is close. Once he’s through those double doors he’ll vanish. Farewell short-lived Edward Gibson, farewell Dick, farewell-
“Hello,” the young officer beams, talking to someone else. Arthur’s already forgotten about his supposed helper, readies false niceties to begin conversation, then loses it altogether.
Standing by the open door, bathed in a rare flash of London sun, Arthur sees the very same man from last night. He sees absinthe eyes, that charming smile, and an all too familiar ensemble.
The bastard is wearing Arthur’s clothes. He’s already dirtied Arthur’s boots (or perhaps he did that himself last night), and looks far too snug in his favourite long coat. The only thing which isn’t Arthur’s is the faded black baker boy’s cap, which sits upon a head of warm brown curls.
“Good afternoon, and what a relief!” A hand extends in polite greeting. “I was so worried when I found you last night, but here you are alive and well!”
“We took good care of him, as promised,” said the officer.
Arthur cautiously takes the hand, stares a fellow liar dead in the eyes, and fights every single urge to scream. His ‘saviour’ is a beauty indeed, clearly hailing from a better land, and his mind is (almost) as sharp as Arthur’s.
“Thank you,” Arthur forces the words out, and would much rather throttle that pretty neck. “Whatever would I have done without you?”
“Who knows?” the other laughs. “But- oh, we’re taking up this gentleman’s time. Perhaps you and I could go for a walk?”
“A good idea,” Arthur concurs, bowing to the officer in turn. “Please extend my thanks to all of your men.”
“Will do sirs, have a good one.”
“And you.”
The supposed helper is already leaving, and Arthur is quick to tail. They march through the crowds, neither choosing to speak, not until they’re safely cocooned by alleys; the dwellings of any good cheat. The people are fewer in numbers here, partly due to the infamous killings, but it’s fine in Arthur’s opinion.
“So, you,” he calls out first, just a step behind the angel-faced fox. “Nice clothes you’ve got there. They look familiar.”
“Oh? Do they now?” the man looks back, sparing a moment to flash a grin. “What can I say? I keep up with the trends.”
“Trends my arse!”
The pace has quickened. The other man has broken into some kind of speed walk, squeezing through a pair of respectable ladies who giggle when Arthur is next. He has to coax them aside, nice and gentle, and jogs to close the gap once more.
“Oi, you!” he shouts. “Come back!”
The man doesn’t listen. Of course he won't. Arthur vows -when he’s caught the damn nymph- to strip him naked and dump him in a cell. He’ll make a great fool of the man who fooled him, he’ll give him what for and-!
Without warning the man has stopped. He turns on a heel, slow and considered, whilst Arthur grinds to a halt. They’ve reached a dead end, he’s found his chance. He rolls up the sleeves of his borrowed shirt. Perhaps he will bargain when he’s tackled the man. He doesn’t want to become the villain that they-
“Oh, is this the one?”
“That he is,” the man replies.
Arthur whirs. He’s a second too late. A blow to the head turns London to black.
“... next par- ... think?”
“... time- .... gi-”
Arthur’s head feels worse than before, and he’s roused from slumber by a series of murmurs. He finds the ceiling stretching up into a point -he's sitting in a loft room, no doubt- attempts to move and there he falls short. His hands are bound to the back of an armless chair, legs strapped to chair legs accordingly, whilst cloth has been fashioned into a gag, and turned damp in Arthur’s mouth.
It’s not the worst, or a first, for Arthur, but he confesses the knots are tight. Someone clearly knows their ropes, and that someone is staring from their own chair opposite, one leg neatly crossed over the other, and hands clasped inside his lap. Arthur’s coat and boots are gone, replaced by the prick’s own clothes it seems, but why the outfit change in the first place...?
Arthur hasn’t the foggiest, nor possesses the will to find the answer either.
“Good afternoon, again.”
Arthur attempts to reply fuck you, but the gag makes a mess of the job. He hears a laugh, a wonderful sound, and- Arthur, get it together. This man has tricked you! He’s a scheming, wicked-!
“Aha, the prisoner is awake.”
Enter Idiot Number Two, Arthur scowls behind his rag, staring at the figure who emerges from behind, and pulls up an unused chair. From top to toe they’re dressed the same, the second man sits exactly the same, and the sight invites a strange pang of dread. Arthur spots a little mole beneath their left eyes, barely visible in the shade of their caps, and when one man shifts the other follows. A creepy mirror act they maintain too well.
“He looks annoyed,” the second man laughs, looking to his partner in crime. “We’ll get no conversation at this rate. Especially if you keep him gagged.”
“Maybe not,” the other considers, tapping a finger to his chin. “But I don't mind the view.”
“Oho... I see.”
The mood flips before Arthur’s eyes. The bane of his life folds arms and glares, thoroughly unimpressed by the other’s response. “It’s not like that. I’m not like you.”
“Like hell you’re not,” the second man mocks. “Shall we tell our little captive about last night? About how much you enjoyed stripping him down and- hey!” he ducks a slap just in time, laughing madly as his chair rocks as well. “You’re precisely the same, you lusty bastard! You loved every moment!”
“Shut up!”
Arthur finds himself lost for words. And just as well, all things considered. The first man starts sulking (how cute) and rubs the mole beneath his eye. It leaves a dark smudge upon cheek and finger -make up, Arthur realises- which he then smears on his cohort’s face, resulting in a fresh batch of slaps and swears.
“Get off! My mole is real unlike yours!!”
“Serves you right!”
“Serves me right? Are you sane? You’re the one who started all this!” the second man whips off his cap, letting dark waves tumble freely past his shoulders. “I said we should go back home, but no! You saw this guy in the pub, and you chose seduction over safety!”
“You cannot criticise me about flirting.”
“Well I just did!” the second man rose, tossing his cap at his partner’s feet. “It’s thanks to me you’ve even caught him, so there!” he hesitates, clearly losing his train of thought. “Fuck it, enjoy your new pet, Santo António. You’re gonna’ have to free him eventually, and I won’t be around when you do.”
“Oh c’mon, don’t be like that-!”
“Goodbye!”
Arthur gives the second man points for dramatics. Long hair is flicked back in a show of defiance, he heads for the door over Arthur’s shoulder, and pats his head along the way.
“Try not to kill one another,” he jibes. “Blood is messy. Annoying.”
“Go away.”
The door slams, the sulking resumes. The man gets up to approach his prisoner, tugs the gag from Arthur’s mouth, and lets it hang about his neck. After all of that nonsense, Arthur’s stunned. He manages a dry laugh-turned-cough, before he asks: “What the hell just happened there?”
“I’d love to say I understand,” Arthur sighs. “But I really don’t understand.”
“What’s so difficult?” his ‘companion’ asks. “I’m Antonio, that other guy is João. We’re brothers who dress up the same and go around swiping people's belongings. It's pretty useful when making escapes.”
“Good for you,” Arthur deadpans.
Antonio has turned his seat round mid-explanation, and rests his arm against the back of the chair. There’s been no attempt, or implication, that he will release Arthur just yet, and his prisoner can only laugh.
Antonio really must love the view.
“So what about you?” Antonio asks, in a tone so flat it contradicts his curiosity. “I’ve told you everything about myself-”
“You have not,” Arthur accuses. “My day’s been a nightmare, and it’s all your fault! You did something to me last night, what was it? Was it the drink? Some kind of food or?”
“What would you like it to be, Edward Gibson?”
Arthur’s hairs stand on end. He turns cold. He only spoke that name one time. To one man, in one place alone. “You were spying on me,” he gasps. “For how long? The entire morning?”
Antonio’s boot stamps against the floor, a physical warning as he leaves his chair. A weapon reveal is anticipated, but instead Antonio paces forward, one foot in front of the other, and Arthur’s blood begins to boil. Strong thighs are spread, they straddle his lap, whilst arms drape lazily about Arthur’s shoulders. Antonio comes closer, their foreheads touch, and as a second warning -just a little something- Antonio grabs the gag around Arthur’s neck, and gathers the fabric until it’s snug. A damp collar which can strangle, if he wants.
Antonio’s breaths are heavy in want. To Arthur’s embarrassment, he’s doing the same. Antonio turns so that their noses brush, and lips are agonisingly out of reach.
“Tell me,” Antonio tightens the cloth briefly. “Your real name, what is it? Even last night you gave an alias -David something- and then you-” Antonio falters. A flicker of hurt can be seen in his eyes. “You do know why I approached you in the tavern, right...?”
Arthur swallows. He’s got no idea, and oh, if only he could squeeze those thighs in his palms! He's conflicted in every respect, and decides to get back to the topic at hand. “I have absolutely no reason to trust you, and your supposed brother made it all pretty clear. You wanted to flirt and flirt you must have done-”
“So you don’t remember.”
“I remember,” Arthur stumbles. “I remember your eyes. Not much else.”
“So you don’t know.”
“No I don’t,” Arthur huffs. “Tell me, Antonio, what exactly am I supposed to remember?”
Antonio isn’t offended that time. He takes a much-needed breath, exhales, whilst fingertips play with the hairs on Arthur’s nape.
“First of all, it is Antonio. João really is my brother-”
“And thirdly?”
Antonio stares, expression unreadable. He examines Arthur’s face. “... You’re the man they’re looking for, aren’t you?”
“Not the murderer,” Arthur scoffs.
“I know, I didn’t mean him. You’re the conman and the saint.”
The latter statement throws Arthur off-track, and Antonio drinks in the small victory. He smiles sweetly and releases the cloth, cupping Arthur’s cheeks in both of his hands. “I’m smarter than the police, don’t you think? It’s kinda’ obvious you’re the same people.”
“But how...?”
“It wasn’t me,” Antonio interrupts, looking Arthur in the eyes. “It wasn’t me who hurt you, I promise. I saw the barman tamper your drink when you weren’t looking, but I-... I couldn’t say a thing. Nor could I stop you from drinking.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s the truth!” Antonio replies. “I wanted to speak to you anyway, but then I saw what happened and I had to come over. I stayed with you all night until-”
“Until you stripped me down and stole my money? Even the key to my lodgings is missing!”
“It’s all here,” Antonio sighs. “But you can’t go back there, not now. Someone’s been closing in on you, they almost had you.”
Arthur’s tongue feels heavy, and the revelation is difficult to stomach. It’s not impossible that someone was watching, he’s made plenty of enemies to warrant an attack, but facing the reality... to think it almost happened?
“You need to stay with us,” Antonio instructs. “I managed to hide you away in the station, and nobody followed us here. You’re completely safe, I promise.”
“This is absurd.”
“You have to trust me!”
“Alright!” Arthur snaps without thinking. A blurted sorry comes to soothe the blow. “This is a lot, you understand? I was minding my own business last night. I was happy and- ugh, forget it,” he groans, head supported in Antonio’s hands.
In the end, there’s only one way forward.
“... My name is Arthur,” he surrenders. “And I’m not lying either.”
Antonio’s shoulders relax. He smiles. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Arthur.”
“Likewise,” Arthur snorts, and with that the tension is gone. “Have you held men hostage before?”
“No, actually. You’re the first.”
“You’re not half bad.”
“João planned it,” Antonio confesses, head tilted and eyes geared towards the roof. “Like I said, I’m not the same as him. He did all the knots and the rope business.”
“That’s worrying,” Arthur laughs. “He’s pretty-”
“Toni!!”
The pair jump in their seat. Antonio’s attention darts from door to Arthur, back again. “I’m really sorry,” he gives Arthur a quick kiss. “There’s a lot we still need to discuss, but for now I need you to-”
“H-Hey! Wait a second!”
“I can’t,” Antonio winces, tying the gag back into place. Arthur’s complaints are muffled by the fabric, Antonio stands up and puts his palms together, forming something between a plea and a prayer. “I’m really, really sorry, okay? Just sit there a little bit longer and I-” João calls him again, Antonio rolls his eyes and continues: “I’ll speak with my brother about the restraints. Maybe we can compromise!”
“Mm!”
“I’ll be back!” Antonio promises. Out of sight, out of room, door slammed. The thumping of boots trails down the stairs, leaving Arthur no choice but to wait.
Suffice to say, Arthur’s mind is kept busy. Not only is he trying to wriggle free (and failing, João truly does tie a good knot) but Antonio kissed him before he left. Was that sign? Should he read into that?
No, says the sensible self. Antonio did it for fun, or something.
But he also confessed about last night, recalls Arthur. He wanted to see you regardless, and I- oh for the love of bloody everything Arthur Kirkland. You have been kidnapped, one way or another. Your life is in danger wherever you go, and right now there’s-
Thump.
Arthur lifts his head. He finds a small table off to the left, covered in various (useless) bits and bobs; old wine corks, a few nails, and a tiny wooden box. On the right there’s a similar table currently covered in piles of books, whilst straight ahead there’s window and a man.
A window, and a man.
Arthur’s muscles seize. He dare not breathe. The man’s stare is cold, relentless. He opens the window, silent as the grave, slips one leg in then the other and ducks. That’s the only occasion in which eye contact breaks, the only chance Arthur has to inhale, before the man hones in once again.
The man is huge, a fellow blond, but bloody huge. Arthur takes no delight in the way he comes near, working the floorboards as if he’s been here several times, and knows precisely where the wood will creak. Arthur’s presence appears to be a bother, and sure enough he stoops to grab Arthur’s chin. A flash of silver catches Arthur’s eye.
“Don’t make a sound,” the man warns. A blade rises up to emphasise the point. “I didn’t come here for you.”
Then what? Arthur frowns in response, and lucky for him the invader speaks eyebrow. In fact he’s fluent, a great fortune indeed, and the knife is quickly returned out of sight. He retreats one step to survey Arthur in full, mapping details with an eye too sharp for anyone’s liking.
“You’re around their height,” the man observes, straightening all fifty-something feet of his great body. The quiet boast is a definite stab, and Arthur refuses to indulge the taunt. “You must be Antonio’s taste, or else you’re a threat who’s just been caught?” the man pauses to weigh up his thoughts. “Perhaps you’re a nuisance they want disappeared...?”
Arthur shakes his head as fast as possible.
“M’ joking,” the man responds, but even that doesn’t sound too convincing. Fortunately however, the table of books has stoked his interest, and so he sifts through -leaving Arthur tied up- and plucks out a book with a thoughtful ah. It disappears inside his thick woollen coat, and from the same place he retrieves a pressed flower, which he brings to Arthur in due course.
“I need you to look after this,” he instructs, placing the bloom on Arthur’s leg. “They’ll understand when they see it so no-” a gloved hand fists in Arthur’s hair. “You sit still. I won’t ask twice.”
Arthur whines behind his gag, an accident. The hand lets go and he sits. He sits well. Arthur has no plans to let this dry flower fall, in fact he shall sit like never before! He will be very good so this giant goes away, and Arthur shall be spared from a gruesome end.
“That’s better,” the man mumbles, stepping back. His exit is likewise sleek, deathly quiet. The window is closed on the way out -such good manners- and Arthur is pleased to see him go.
Antonio’s good spirits last seconds, at a push, when he returns to the loft-turned-makeshift prison. Arthur is tied, as ever, in the chair, but he’s at least five shades paler and eyes are wide.
“What’s wrong?” Antonio worries. He searches the room by ways of a glance, and makes quick work of removing Arthur’s gag. “Has something happened? Tell me please.”
Arthur’s spit is thick in his throat. He forces it down and rasps for air, then nods to the pressed flower upon his thigh. “We had a visitor. Giant bastard. Scared the ever-lasting shit out me. He had a knife but then mentioned your name and...” Arthur’s distracted when Antonio dives in, retrieves the bloom, and wordlessly inspects both sides. Behind his gaze there is something unfamiliar; not quite rage, but neither too serious. There's a half-hearted urge to kick a man, or otherwise scream until their ear drums burst.
“Excuse me for this, Arthur.”
“For what?”
Antonio strides to the door, hauls it open, and bellows an almighty: “João!”
“Has the aching worn off?” Antonio asks in the kitchen. “And what about the food? Do you like it?”
“Your cooking is divine,” Arthur replies. “But can we please address the situation?”
Antonio chooses to play the sweet fool, cocking his head and maintaining his stance. “What situation? You’re safe.”
Arthur sets his spoon inside his bowl, abandoning the hearty stew for now. “Antonio, don’t do this. I beg you. A literal goliath snuck in through the window, threatened me with a knife, and now your brother has disappeared?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I beg to differ,” Arthur counters. “Who was he?”
Antonio stands in his well-used apron, flicks a tongue across his serving spoon, and dips it back inside the cooking pot. “Abel. That’s his name, the big guy.”
A decent start, Arthur accepts. “But what is he to you?”
“You’re asking the wrong brother,” Antonio jokes. For a minute he delays any further information, and settles for gazing into the pot. “Abel is like... how should I say...?” he tips his balance from foot to foot, and pops his hips out to display his arse. “He’s a bit like a cat, in some respects. He likes to come in whenever he pleases, and leaves us all kinds of things.”
“Like the flower?” Arthur asks the fine bottom, before recalling the owner’s face. “Pressed flowers though? Really? All the time?”
Antonio’s expression conveys truths unspoken, alongside those better left that way. “That’s one of the nicer things we’ve received. Sometimes there are ‘problems’ we need... removed. Abel’s good at making people disappear. We tend to get a token when the job is done.”
A lumpy helping of stew sits on Arthur’s tongue. The gruesome imagery makes it difficult to swallow, and suddenly Abel’s question from before makes sense. If Arthur had agreed to being a problem, he’d have been hung out the window for certain. Abel would’ve removed some body parts no doubt, and on that grim note Arthur needs to know more.
“Where are those tokens now?”
“No idea,” Antonio shrugs.
“Isn’t your brother concerned at all?”
Antonio shows even less care this time. “Abel’s madly in love, and João is madly in denial. They’ve been running in circles for years, pretending nothing’s going on when there’s clearly something, and right-” Antonio raises an index finger. “The flowers are kinda’ like a courting invitation. João knows precisely where to meet him just from those.”
Arthur pulls a face and dribbles his dinner. “That sounds impossible, and strange.”
“It’s them through and through,” Antonio laughs, joining Arthur at the kitchen table. For a rare minute or two no exchanges are made; Antonio leaves the starving man to his meal, watching intently as all manners cease. The same haste is applied to drinking. Ale is finished. Arthur asks for another. This one largely ends up down Arthur’s chin, he coughs and splutters and thumps his own chest.
“Easy now,” Antonio chuckles. “It’d be a shame, after all that’s happened, if you died from choking on a pint. You’ve got so much promise, potential...”
Arthur looks up from his bowl, caution tightening his jaw and brow. “You know,” he announces shortly after. “I have a pair of names- three names, and a vague idea of what you do to make ends meet and-” Arthur stops himself there, finding guilt where he least expected. Antonio slumps, elbows rest on the table, fingers weave tight and thumbs slowly circle. His fingernails are blunt, chewed down to the skin, and his hands are adorned with old scars. It’s something Arthur’s failed to notice at this point.
Antonio smiles dryly. It doesn’t suit him one bit.
“I wanted to be a performer,” he explains. His voice is barely above a whisper. “Music and song- I was good. Still am, maybe.”
“You came to the city to pursue your dream.”
“Like any other fool,” Antonio sneers, glaring at a spot on the table. “We couldn’t even get through a theatre door. No foreigners, they said, unless you’re a woman. Poor things have many uses in this shithole. Very few of those uses are good.”
The truth tastes bitter. Arthur gulps his ale. He bids Antonio to go on with a nod, and the man is keen to oblige.
“So there we were,” the story continues. “Pair of brothers with some coin, but not much. We walked the city looking for jobs, and only the factories would have our sort.”
“And that’s where you stayed,” Arthur notes his skin. “For a number of years, judging by those scars.”
“It was awful,” Antonio chokes out. “I once saw a man stumble on the job. He fell into the machine and that was it. A day’s worth of work stained red, blood splattered. His skull had been crunched and I can hear it-”
“Alright,” Arthur comes to his aid, gripping trembling fingers in his own. “It’s okay, don’t think anymore.”
“We had to mop him up,” Antonio inhales. “Which is when we met Abel. He worked there too. Poor guy had no luck when it came to making friends, but somehow the three of us got on that day, and he...” Antonio falters, looking to Arthur in quiet respect. “I know very little of his past, to be truthful, but we learnt very fast of the things he could do. He made the worst men in that factory pay, and then we fled in the dead of night. We came to the opposite end of the city, and here we’ve been ever since. We are free.”
“And no one’s ever come to look? Not even coppers?”
“Some have,” Antonio answers. “Which is where Abel’s talents prove useful again. I told you before, he can make them vanish. Any threat on our lives disappears, come and gone like the fog in the streets.”
“That’s scary.”
“It is!” Antonio laughs, gradually returning to his happier self. “But we have nothing to fear, I promise. There’s a peculiar gentleness inside that large frame. Abel wants what’s best for us.”
“And where does that leave me...?”
Antonio spits syllables, but can’t string a phrase. His hand feels clammy in Arthur’s own, and he holds on as if fearing he might fall. As if the floorboards will betray their trust, and swallow them up in the grain. It takes a gentle press from Arthur to get him talking, and even then Antonio’s uncertain.
“The fact that we are here... that I wasn’t locked away when I entered that station, means you lied to the police, didn’t you?” Antonio tilts his head. “You never told them that we met.”
Arthur nods, slow and steady. “That’s correct. I said I’d been gambling, hence my state of undress.”
“And so I trust you,” Antonio beams. “This place is your home, if you’ll call it so.”
“You what?”
Antonio appears wounded, but laughs it off. “It’s sudden, I understand. But I... last night. This morning. And the kiss upstairs earlier on... Surely you grasp my meaning, don’t you, Arthur?”
Arthur grasps it quite well. He’s flattered. “And you said Abel was the cat in this place.”
“What do you mean?”
“You toy with your prey,” Arthur smirks. “And indulge me, if you will: did you truly enjoy removing my clothes?”
Antonio’s hand whips away and he glares. He can’t be angry if he tries, not for long, and quickly resorts to the usual sulk. “You’re as bad as my brother.”
“Then it’s true?”
“Are you staying here, or not?” Antonio asks, rising from his chair with a scrape. “Only I can have Abel remove you, if I must!”
“It would be my pleasure,” Arthur responds, leaving the table as well. He takes a step out to the side and turns, soon holding hips he had admired during dinner, and enjoying a second kiss. “It continues to baffle me,” he speaks between pecks, “how our paths somehow crossed last night.”
“Are you complaining?”
“Not at all. But it’s quite funny.”
Antonio supposes it is. It had been chance that they passed the pub, went in for a nose and considered a drink. It was chance that Antonio spotted the barman, and Arthur the unknowing victim, and it was chance that after months of admiration -months of scanning the papers for news- that the conman he adored wound up in his home, tonguing him deep and grasping short hair.
“A-Arthur,” Antonio blurts, stopping the kiss against both of their wishes. “Before we take it further, you must know something.”
“Yes, love. What is it?”
Antonio pulls a face. Something like a child who’s been caught misbehaving. “Inside my bedroom,” he begins, toying with the buttons of Arthur’s shirt. “There is a wall. A... collage, if you will. It’s got all of your stories from the papers, good and bad. Thought you should know in case... you know.”
Arthur’s own expression is gloriously vague. The cogs are practically whirring inside his skull, and yet he doesn’t push or curse or flee.
Instead, the smug bastard grins.
“So you’re a fan?”
“Obsessed, João says.”
“Oh no,” Arthur feigns his surprise, mustering a low, far too sensual voice. “My little kidnapper is a scary thing indeed. You must’ve been delighted when you realised who I am.”
“Don’t tease,” Antonio huffs. “I am quite capable of taking you down.”
“And I’ll take you by that wall,” Arthur declares, guiding Antonio to the nearest door. “It’ll be a thrill for us both, don’t you think? Shagged by your idol before his own shrine?”
“I-”
“Let’s hop to it.” Arthur nips at an earlobe, inwardly pleased to find the skin burning hot. He grabs -at long last!- that fine arse in his palms, and coaxes Antonio to bend to his whim. “Your brother shall return fairly soon, no doubt with his admirer in tow, and I want you several times before he does.”
After that fateful day, the cons end. Dick Wood’s investigations come grinding to a halt, but once in a while he spares a thought for dear Ed. How did that strange boy fare in the end? Did he find work as a writer, or an artist? Or did he return to his family home?
“Are you sure you don’t miss it?” Antonio asks, staring at the yellowing papers on the wall. Arms loop his waist and cuddle from behind, Arthur kisses his nape and breathes in deep, surveying the newspapers clippings.
“It was fun, for a while,” he murmurs, brushing lips to Antonio’s shoulder. “But I have what I want right here.”
“You’re so charming.”
“I try.”
“And modest too,” Antonio snorts, rolling to face Arthur and embrace him back. “João’s been talking about moving, you know. Down to the seaside, the four of us.”
“That sounds nice.”
“I agree.”
Arthur hums. It’s far from the life he once saw for himself, and to be honest, it’s for the best. He’s become a solid part of this curious family, having moved in several months ago, and there’s only so much smog one can take in their lungs. The fresh ocean air shall do them all good.
“Are we buying a house together?”
“That’s the plan.”
“One with nice windows?”
Antonio pauses. A brow arches up in question. “Are windows that important to you?”
“Just thinking of Abel,” Arthur chuckles. “Old habits die hard. I’m sure he hates doors.”
“That was one time.”
“And I’m still traumatised!”
“Well then,” Antonio hums, coming to cup Arthur’s throbbing need. “We shall have to remedy that somehow, won’t we?”