《Will I?》 PROLOGUE Four bodies. Four bodies was a pretty good starting line. Grandad could name every British and American politician under the sun, he could even dabble in the French government from time to time, but disappointingly he wasn¡¯t smart enough to notice his peppermint tea tasted just a little bit like poison. Mother could cook a delicious feast for the entire village in a single afternoon, three courses and all, yet confusingly didn¡¯t spot that one of her expensive Japanese knives had gone missing, not until it turned up in her carotid artery at least, spewing blood all over her newly polished floors - a shame, truly. Father could recite every verse from the Bible by heart and would willingly do so every chance he got; over dinner, on a hike, once even in the shower. It¡¯s fitting, really, that he died by the crucifix just like his saviour, even if it wasn¡¯t quite by way of the same method. I¡¯m sure Jesus would understand that a brass effigy of his crucifixion driven straight through the eye and into the brain was the best a boy could do, given the resources. Older brothers are trickier, sly, they always seem to see things coming. Incredibly annoying, except, of course, when said brother ever so clumsily takes the wrong medication. He never even noticed when the small, round, white pills our parents don¡¯t know he takes every night turned into little yellowish capsules. Poor thing was too busy stuffing them down his throat and waiting for the brain-altering clarity of his school mate¡¯s Ritalin to seep in so he could perform at his best. I did him a favour, honestly, he¡¯s lucky to have me. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. So you see, Arlo, my family''s carelessness with their lives was never my fault. Their need to force me into a cage and morph my brain and body into something unrecognisably horrific made them ugly and hostile. They saw who I was, they got their jaws around me and they bit. They ate away at me until there was nothing left. And what do you do with old dogs who bite? You put them down. CHAPTER 1 The noon light pours through the thin curtains and onto Elijah¡¯s sunglasses that are still perched crooked upon his nose from last night¡¯s migraine. The sound of guests bustling through the hotel corridor on the other side of the wall brings him out of his groggy state and back into the world of the living. He needed to get out before the cleaning crew found him in this unbooked and supposedly uninhabited room and called security. This wasn¡¯t the first time he¡¯d stolen a room keycard to avoid the ugly fate of sleeping rough on the streets - it wasn¡¯t even the fiftieth - he had become quite the connoisseur of sneaking into places he shouldn¡¯t be since he¡¯d been orphaned and left homeless, penniless, and starving at the age of twelve. He doesn¡¯t bother to check his reflection as he passes the mirror, knowing exactly what he would see; his long, ashy-brown hair that touches his shoulder blades and curls back up ever so slightly at the ends scattered with grey strands almost everywhere you look. Cutting it seemed wrong somehow, perhaps this was his one last act of defiance against his painfully conservative family who assumed the church would come to crucify them if they allowed their son¡¯s hair to grow past his ears. Or perhaps he just liked the way it looked on him. The dark circles around his eyes from the rough nights and the sickly paleness of his skin were just more reasons to not look in the mirror. If he was going to go about his day, he was going to do it acting like he¡¯s the sexiest man on the street, ready to stun eligible bachelors and break hearts, rather than this weak, run-down version of himself. Despite life not exactly turning out ideally, Elijah was ever the optimist, even when nobody could see. He would have his moments, sure, like last night when he had to hotwire a car, drive out into the middle of nowhere and dump a body, he was a little miffed, but only because he could have been in his free hotel room watching reruns of Kitchen Nightmares and raiding the mini-bar for crispy M&Ms. Straightening his plaid, button-down shirt, he silently slips out of the door and joins the parade of people hurriedly dragging their suitcases and poorly-packed bags toward the only working lift in the building. With the stolen keycard clutched in his hand, he makes a quick left just before he gets to the rowdy hotel crowd and takes the many flights of stairs down to the lobby. Nobody suspects that he didn¡¯t belong, why would they? Most of the staff in the lobby are underpaid and overtired, they¡¯re not paying attention to him in the slightest. Not to mention, the fact that checking out merely requires you to deposit your keycard in an unmanned box and leave the building makes exiting unseen incredibly easy. The sun is almost too hot to bear and Elijah briefly considers ripping his clothes off and waltzing through town in his underwear to combat the unavoidable heatstroke. Pushing the urge aside, though, he heads off in the direction of the nearest tea shop to spend the loose change he found last night in the purse of a young woman who had so clumsily left it in his peripheral vision. He counts out the coins. ¡°¡ê4.48, looks like someone¡¯s getting a muffin with his tea today,¡± he laughs to himself gleefully. The English countryside had no shortage of independent tea shops and cafes to choose from, so Elijah rarely had to show his face in one twice, which helped when things got a little bit messy. He had never settled in one place for long enough to have anybody remember or recognise him, a fact that worked in his favour considering the complications he usually caused. He walks aimlessly along the cobblestone path until he stops in front of a cosy-looking mint green building with cute chalkboard menus holding the promise of tea and cakes. Perfect for today¡¯s only goals of a mug of peppermint tea and a lemon drizzle muffin. ¡°Is that everything for you?¡± Asks the employee behind the till, wearing a pink pastel apron and a minimum-wage kind of smile. ¡°That¡¯ll be it!¡± Elijah responds with such alert optimism that he swears he could see the employee physically take a step back and roll their eyes as they turned away to serve another person. Elijah was always aware that others tended to find him just a bit ¡®too much¡¯, but he always lacked the capacity to care. He was happy. It wasn¡¯t his fault that no one else was. He was simply happy. He could have easily spent the entire day in that little tea shop, eavesdropping on the various couplings and families that came in and out, being nosy at a web designer¡¯s laptop when he left it unoccupied to go to the bathroom, picking at his lemon drizzle muffin as if it was his last meal and he had to somehow make it last lest he starve to death by dinnertime, but the women on the table behind him seemed to be hell-bent on disturbing his peace. There were three of them, Elijah could see their reflection in the glass in front of him so he didn¡¯t have to ogle at the table to know that two of them were in a relationship. ¡°This has to be some kind of a joke.¡± The third woman. Older. Spiteful tone. Mother. ¡°You¡¯re not a dyke! You¡¯ll meet a nice man one day, have a little patience.¡± She thinks she¡¯s talking indiscreetly, but in reality at least half of the tea shop just heard her disgusting intolerance toward her daughter and her girlfriend. Disappointingly, yet predictably, that same half are also bound to do absolutely nothing about it, because if it isn¡¯t their business, they don¡¯t care, they never have. ¡°This is why I haven¡¯t spoken to you in six months, mum. Why can¡¯t you just be happy for me?¡± Why, indeed. That¡¯s the big question, isn¡¯t it? Why can¡¯t people just be happy for people? Why is there this incessant need to contradict? To fight? To look someone you¡¯re supposed to love unconditionally in the eye and say, ¡®you¡¯re living incorrectly¡¯? ¡°How are you and this woman going to give me my grandchildren?¡± ¡°We could adopt, we could-¡± ¡°I will NOT raise a grandchild that is not mine, that¡¯s absurd!¡± Her voice has risen to a shriek at this point and Elijah decides he¡¯s heard enough. That feeling, that damn feeling was crawling back up through his chest just threatening to burst out of him. He felt like he was going to explode from the blood pounding in his ears and his brain screaming. Screaming at the woman, screaming at his family, screaming at the passerby on the street who gave him one of those ¡°I know what you¡¯re hiding¡± type looks. He was happy, he wanted to be happy, but people just kept getting in the way. He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and feels the small, glass bottle he¡¯s been carrying around for years. He didn¡¯t always use it - sometimes it was broken glass in the alley, sometimes it was his bare hands, once it was a gun, but the bottle was always a safe option to go back to. He didn¡¯t really know exactly what it contained, just that it was lethal. He had stolen it from his grandfather¡¯s special ¡°hunting¡± cabinet twelve years ago. Whether or not the things in there were actually used for hunting wildlife or something else remained to be discovered, but that hardly mattered any more. He would wait for the couple to leave and for the shrew to go to the bathroom and then spike her tea with the poison. Yeah, that sounds plausible. He sighs. That wouldn¡¯t work, what if the couple didn¡¯t leave first? What if the mother doesn¡¯t leave her tea unattended? He had a conundrum and seemingly no solution. He sits for a while longer, hand still clasped around the bottle, woman still shouting abuse at her daughter despite the other diners complaining to the staff. But the staff doesn¡¯t get paid enough to confront a volatile homophobe on an intolerant tirade, no one does. Elijah begins to accept that there¡¯s no good window of opportunity when a sudden loud noise from the front door startles him out of his concentration. The door swung open so violently that the little bell almost flew straight off its hook, ¡°Everything from the cash register, in this bag, now!¡± There are three of them, no more than twenty years of age, trying to rob an innocent independent tea shop. You could shake a bag of coins and get three higher-class criminals than these boys, and most of the sample pool in question is pushing seventy. The leader of the group has a pistol that he¡¯s waving around in a lame attempt to scare the customers under their tables, which is working for the most part, except Elijah hasn¡¯t yet finished his peppermint tea and has absolutely no intention of being bullied to the floor. One of the boys rounds on him, ¡°Under your table, right now.¡± The boy¡¯s fixing Elijah with a glare so ludicrous he almost laughs right in his face. Instead, he takes a sip of his tea. ¡°Nah.¡± The boy blinks, hesitates, and readjusts his stance. Clearly no one prepared the baby criminal for this particular response. He clears his throat and his glare becomes even more intense. ¡°On. The. Floor. Pretty boy!¡± ¡°You flatter me. It¡¯s the hair, isn¡¯t it? Don¡¯t worry, it gets everyone, you¡¯re not the first man to call me pretty because of it.¡± Elijah shoots him a dazzling smile, winks, and takes another sip of his tea which, of course, drives the boy into a complete fury. He reaches for Elijah¡¯s hair and pulls on it so hard that he slides right off his chair and his head hits the floor. ¡°Whew, take me to dinner first, Jesus Christ!¡± He laughs a little, dizzy, and mutters to himself, ¡°Manners, manners, manners, so hard to find in criminals these days.¡± The one accosting the employee for the money turns to flag down the others, ¡°Come on boys, we¡¯re almost done here.¡± Elijah just can¡¯t help himself, he never could. He begins to giggle and the robbers slowly turn to look at him on the floor with pure anger and confusion in their eyes. ¡°I¡¯m sorry boys,¡± he gasps out between giggles, ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, I don¡¯t mean to diminish your whole ¡®tough guy¡¯ act, I know this is a big moment for you, but I just think that if you want to pursue a life of crime, you should probably invest in a real gun and not that fake piece of shite.¡± The boy clutching the gun looks absolutely furious and perhaps even ready to fire it - if it were real, of course. ¡°I¡¯m just saying, if the goal is to be accepted into the big boy mafia - or whatever it is that criminals hope to do one day - you¡¯re probably not going to want to walk into a top secret evil lair with a gun-shaped novelty lighter.¡± Elijah grins at them as their poorly-masked faces turn increasingly more red. One of them opens their mouth to speak when there¡¯s another sound and all their heads whip around to the road. The sound of sirens starts faintly and then reaches a deafening crescendo as two police cars pull up outside the tea shop. The chaos that ensues next is nothing short of, well, chaotic. One of the three robbers yells ¡°SCATTER!¡±, and they go sprinting down the road at top speed, two police officers in pursuit, meanwhile, the other people in the shop are emerging from under their tables, some angry and yelling, some frightened, some in fits of nervous laughter, and almost all of them hustling toward the door to leave the residence as quickly as they can. None of them are successful though, due to the fact that two more policemen are now entering the shop, attempting to calm everyone down and regain the peace, much to no avail. One of them bellows for silence and the crowd reluctantly obeys. ¡°We know you¡¯re all a bit rattled, and if you¡¯d like to leave then by all means you may do so quietly. But if anybody saw a face or has any information on those people just now then I ask you to please stay and let me or my partner know. Thank you.¡± The officer sounds annoyed, a bored glare stuck to his facial features. Almost everybody decides to leave. Elijah contemplates leaving too, just for a second - he had no interest in providing a witness statement for a small-town tea shop robbery, especially with a bottle of poison in his pocket that he was just about to spike a woman¡¯s tea with - but something stops him in his tracks. Behind the large, loud-mouthed, glowering man he had made the snap-judgement to dislike, he sees the other officer illuminated by the sun in the doorway, scratching the back of his hair nervously. It was clearly his first robbery, possibly even his first day altogether. He stood as if he were ready to sprint away at a moment''s notice, and his eyes kept darting around the room, all too readily scanning for threats. Elijah couldn¡¯t determine if it was nervousness or eagerness making the officer seem quite so jumpy, but whatever it was, he found it rather endearing. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. There were just three people left in the tea shop. Elijah, the employee behind the counter, and an older man who didn¡¯t care in the slightest that a gun was just being waved around, he only wanted to finish his crumpet. ¡°No, I don¡¯t have any bloody information for you, leave me or lose it, copper!¡± Typically the police force probably would have called that a threat, but Elijah supposed the system wasn¡¯t about to crumble under the angst of one eighty-year-old and his newspaper. The larger, louder officer leaves the man and turns to speak to his partner who¡¯s still stood, fidgety, by the door. ¡°Maxwell, go help that man up off the floor and question him.¡± In all the commotion Elijah had forgotten to get back up onto his chair, and instead was sat cross-legged right where he had been thrown. ¡°I¡¯ll question the employee, and then we can leave. I¡¯d like to get back to the precinct and onto a real case rather than this babysitting gig ASAP.¡± The nervous officer - Maxwell, apparently - makes his way over to Elijah and gives him a genuine, if not shaky, smile. ¡°Hi, sir, my name is Detective Maxwell, may I ask you a few questions?¡± He stutters a little, which Elijah finds absolutely adorable and makes him beam in response. He¡¯s too busy playing I-Spy with the detective¡¯s freckles to answer his question right away. After a few seconds Maxwell hesitates and then crouches down to Elijah¡¯s level, ¡°Sir?¡± ¡°Is this your first case?¡± The sudden response seems to catch the detective off guard. ¡°Uh, yes. Yes it is, sir. If you could just answer some-¡± ¡°Sit down with me.¡± Maxwell hesitates, looks cautiously over his shoulder at his partner, and swallows. After what feels like centuries of deliberation - although it couldn¡¯t have been more than about four seconds - he sits cross-legged across from Elijah. They make the most fleeting of eye contact before Maxwell clears his throat and pulls out a small notepad and pen. ¡°So, um, what¡¯s your name?¡± ¡°Elijah Asher.¡± ¡°Thank you, Mr. Asher, and what-¡± ¡°Eli.¡± The detective¡¯s head shoots up from his notepad at the sudden interruption, ¡°Call me Eli, Detective, not Mr. Asher.¡± Elijah¡¯s expression shifts for a split second, ¡°Please.¡± Maxwell¡¯s eyes seemed to be searching for something across Eli¡¯s face. There was a shred, just a shred, of suspicion about this guy, a nagging feeling that Maxwell couldn¡¯t seem to shift, but nothing strong enough to overpower the charming smile Eli was flashing at him, so he let it go. ¡°Okay, Eli, what can you tell me about the robbers?¡± Elijah dives into a full recount of the events of the afternoon down to the very last detail. His memory was pristine; he could remember the licence plate number of the very first car he stole, the very first sentences of the letters he sent to all three of his ex-lovers, and the exact cookie recipe his mother invented to win over the neighbours, so recounting a crime that had happened mere minutes ago was childsplay. Whilst Eli was talking, Detective Maxwell was hurriedly scribbling down every single word he uttered, relevant or not. Elijah periodically slipped in ludicrous metaphors and anecdotes just to see if the detective would write them down. He did. Ten minutes and a handful of nonsensical metaphors later, Maxwell finally puts down his pen. Boots appear by his side and both boys look up at the intrusion of Detective Loud-Mouth. ¡°Having fun on the ground, are we? Get the hell up, Maxwell.¡± Maxwell wastes absolutely no time in doing as he¡¯s told, clearly intimidated by his partner. He scratches the back of his hair again sheepishly and shrugs his shoulders - a nervous tic that Elijah doesn¡¯t suppose will ever get any less cute - and clears his throat one last time. ¡°If you think of anything else please call the precinct and ask for either myself or Detective Torres here. Thank you for your cooperation Mr. Ash- uh, I mean, Eli.¡± Torres walks briskly out of the tea shop as Elijah and Detective Maxwell share one last warm smile. Elijah clutches the small scrap of paper with the precinct¡¯s phone number written on it tightly. ¡°Bye, Detective.¡± ? Arlo follows Detective Torres out of the tea shop and back into the police car. His first ever case as a junior detective and he humiliates himself by having floor time with a witness. Sure, it was just a minor robbery, but the look on Torres¡¯ face told him exactly how bad of a decision that was. He scratches the back of his hair and tries to act nonchalant. ¡°So, got anything good from the employee, Mateo?¡± If looks could kill, Arlo would be six feet under. ¡°Did I say you could call me that?¡± Arlo shifts uncomfortably in his seat. ¡°I¡¯m ¡®Detective Torres¡¯ to you, got it? We are not friends.¡± ¡°Got it.¡± Arlo responds quietly. This isn¡¯t how he imagined his first partnership to be. He pictured precinct antics and camaraderie, not passive aggression and feeling like he was back in school. He had wanted to be a detective for as long as he could remember. He would often think about how lucky he was that his lifelong dream had never changed, that he passed the exam, that he got a place in his precinct, but he couldn¡¯t help feeling just a tad ungrateful that he got the partner from hell. Torres probably felt the same. The drive back to the precinct is long, tedious, and silent. Arlo passes the time by flicking through his countless pages of, admittedly mainly useless, notes. He flips back to the first page. Elijah Asher. He¡¯s known people before to have preferred names, to insist on nicknames, but there was something about the way Eli reacted to being called ¡®Mr. Asher¡¯ that Arlo just couldn¡¯t shake. The expression that shadowed his face in the moment was¡­ disgust? Shame? It was only momentary but Arlo noticed, and it bothered him. The precinct, as usual, was hectic and rowdy. Too many detectives and not enough space - nothing new there. Arlo and Detective Torres push their way through the police force and their respective piles of paperwork until they get to the Captain¡¯s office. As it was Arlo¡¯s first case, the Captain wanted updates on everything they did. He couldn¡¯t figure out whether it felt more like surveillance or good old-fashioned babysitting. Torres knocks on the glass door. ¡°Come in.¡± Captain Huxley spins around in her chair and shoots them both a friendly yet authoritative smile. ¡°How was your first excursion into the big bad world of crime, Detective Maxwell?¡± Arlo grins, recognising her teasing manner. For all the bad partners he was bound to have, he was grateful that he had such a pleasant Captain. He was well aware, of course, that she also had the capacity to fatally maim him if he so much as missed a comma in his write-ups, but it wasn¡¯t in his plan to see that side of her any time soon. Arlo and Torres fill Captain Huxley in with all the details of the robbery and are swiftly dismissed. Exiting the office, Torres looks at Arlo and scoffs, ¡°It was only a pansy-ass tea shop robbery, you don¡¯t have to look so bloody proud of yourself.¡± Arlo¡¯s content smile is replaced with something a lot more sombre, and Torres stalks off somewhere, assumedly delighted that his babysitting road trip is finally over. ¡°Wanker.¡± Arlo breathes, when he¡¯s sure that Torres is out of earshot. He returns to his assigned desk and puts his head in his hands, taking a moment to recover from the bizarre day he¡¯s having, when he feels his phone vibrate shortly in his pocket. sup mofo how''s the big shot detective life? arrest anyone yet??? Cara. He forgot to call. Cara Maxwell, Arlo¡¯s irritatingly successful twin sister, was truly a force to be reckoned with. For all the pouring over law books for days on end Arlo did, Cara was having the time of her life programming software to rival Microsoft by the time they were sixteen. If you think being the sibling of the genius kid was torture enough, try being the twin of one. Arlo was proud of and loved his sister just like any other brother would, but he couldn¡¯t say that moving so far away from her and the rest of his family was a mistake, per se. It worked. It got a little lonely at times, but it worked. Despite the differences they so obviously had, though, Cara adored Arlo, there was no doubt about that. no arrests yet, but i did cosy up to a witness on the floor of a tea shop in front of torres like a fucking idiot ¡°Why were you on the floor, and with whom?¡± Cara didn¡¯t even bother to say hello when Arlo picked up the phone. He sighed, ¡°There was this one guy who witnessed the robbery and he wouldn¡¯t get off the floor so I just kind of¡­ sat down with him.¡± ¡°Let me get this right. You sat on a dirty cafe floor with a stranger?¡± ¡°Mhmm.¡± ¡°You?¡± ¡°Yep.¡± ¡°Arlo Maxwell, the socially anxious germaphobe, sat on a dirty cafe floor with a stranger?¡± ¡°Was there a reason for this call apart from asking me the same question twenty times? Also, I¡¯m not a child anymore!¡± Arlo rolled his eyes. ¡°You don¡¯t outgrow ¡®anxious germaphobe¡¯, my guy. Was he cute?¡± ¡°Uh, sorry?¡± ¡°The guy on the floor, was he cute?¡± ¡°I- he-¡± Arlo was spluttering annoyedly at this point, ¡°What does that matter?!¡± ¡°Calm down, it¡¯s okay, I¡¯m just teasing!¡± Cara was giggling and Arlo couldn¡¯t help the small smile that began to spread on his face. ¡°Seriously though, was everything okay? Torres didn¡¯t run you ragged for it?¡± Arlo put his head in his hands once more, ¡°He wasn¡¯t exactly happy with me, Cara.¡± He hears her sigh. ¡°I don¡¯t see what the big deal even is. Is sitting on the floor, like, some kind of taboo in the police world?¡± Arlo chuckles lightly, ¡°Torres told me to help the guy up. Instead I just dropped to the floor without even bothering to try. It was just humiliating, I guess. Unprofessional. I want to impress him.¡± ¡°I get that. Sorry mate, I really hope it gets better for you soon.¡± ¡°Yeah, me too.¡± ¡°Listen, I have to get back to work, but text me whenever, okay? Promise, Arlo?¡± Arlo squeezes his eyes shut. He hates promising to text, he never actually does. ¡°Yeah. Okay, Cara.¡± The siblings say their goodbyes and Arlo hangs up the phone, undecided on whether it¡¯s made him feel better or worse. He sits for a moment, trying to tune out the ruckus happening on every side of him, then suddenly he whips his phone back out. Opening the browser, he types in ¡®Elijah Asher¡¯ and waits for the page to load. Photos, social media, LinkedIn pages, websites, everything that could possibly pop up, popped up. Turns out Elijah Asher isn¡¯t the most uncommon name in the world, but nevertheless Arlo set to work sifting through the mountains of different people to find something, anything that linked back to this mystery man. He shouldn¡¯t be so sceptical over somebody who was absolutely none of his business, but he was an itch. He was an itch that had yet to be scratched. Fifteen minutes passed. Thirty. An hour. Nothing. CHAPTER 2 After the events of the tea shop, Elijah found himself wandering aimlessly around the streets, completely devoid of ideas on how to pass the time. He couldn¡¯t stop his mind from replaying his entire interaction with Detective Maxwell over and over again, each time overthinking more little things he said or did, to the point of obsession. There was just something about him that Elijah couldn¡¯t shake. Perhaps it was his freckles he spent so long observing, or maybe that cute way he scratched his hair when he was nervous, or even the way his dark hair looked as if it was glowing blue when he was in the sun. Whatever it was, Elijah was going a little crazy over it. This was nothing new, of course, he had a tendency to go full fairytale when he so much as glimpsed an attractive man walking past him on the street. Some would call him a romantic, most would just see him as he was - alone. He fidgets with the scrap of paper Maxwell gave him as he walks, and considers his next move. He had nowhere to sleep - going back to the same hotel would be too risky, the room wasn¡¯t likely to be unbooked two nights in a row. He had no money left, and, quite frankly, he was bored as hell. People-watching from a park bench, then. A dull and all too common plan B. Hours pass as Elijah enters a sort of meditative state on the uncomfortable wooden bench. He watches as groups of friends rush past him in a noisy haze, jumping up and attempting to swing on tree branches that would never hold their weight, giggling and cheering when their friends inevitably fall flat. Elijah secretly craved that kind of friendship and fun that he so bitterly missed out on in his tormented childhood. Instead of parties and sleepovers it was homeschooling and beatings. Instead of birthdays at the cinema it was bible verses and Catholic guilt. Whenever he would let slip any kind of indication that he liked boys more than girls - as he well knew for as long as he could remember - his father didn¡¯t hug him and tell him he loved him anyway, not even close, his mother cried and his grandfather locked him in the basement for three days, forbidding his brother from speaking to him. Elijah lays down on the bench, brings his knees to his chest and rolls over so he¡¯s facing the backrest. Reminiscing about his family was the last thing he ever wanted to do, but the mind is a cruel machine, and the memories plague him more often than he¡¯d like. He squeezes his eyes shut and hopes for a little quiet in his brain. Elijah startles awake. He must¡¯ve dozed off at some point, because the sun is setting and he can smell alcohol in the air. The barely-of-age drunkards from the nearby pub had started their nightly migration to the park, where they could lay in the grass and piss in the bushes - by far the most fascinatingly stupid way to waste one¡¯s youth in the 21st century. He can feel somebody loitering in his general area so he remains still for a while longer. Pretty soon his suspicions are confirmed by the sound of the mystery figure accepting a phone call and slurring, ¡°Hello?¡±. Elijah struggles to grasp most of the conversation as half of it is drunken nonsense and the other half is belching, but of the snippets he does hear, he can piece together the context. It¡¯s certainly not a conversation he particularly wants to be listening to. If he was to take a guess, he¡¯d say that the person on the other end of the phone is a friend - most likely also completely hammered - who has a brother who¡¯s expecting a baby with his husband, but drunk guy number two quite clearly seems to disagree with his brother¡¯s decision, leading him to phone drunk guy number one because assumedly he¡¯s the first person he would think would participate willingly in his homophobic rage, evident by the sheer amount of discriminatory language being hurled across the park right now. Ain¡¯t friends grand? So supportive. That red hot feeling is back. It starts in Elijah¡¯s stomach and fizzles up his throat as if his body¡¯s threatening to throw up molten lava. He can feel his face heating up and his fists clench. He doesn¡¯t want to do this, he really doesn¡¯t. He wants to calm down, to ignore it, to be fine, to be happy. He blinks, the world spins, and the next thing he knows he¡¯s snatched the phone out of the drunk¡¯s hand, hung up, and flung it to the ground. He hears nothing but ringing in his ears as his arm locks around the man¡¯s neck and he drags him behind the bush line. The man is screaming something whilst he kicks and thrashes against him, but Elijah can¡¯t hear it. He can¡¯t hear anything. The world¡¯s gone mute, his mind; blank. Peace, at last. He pulls the drunk to the ground and straddles him, pinning his arms to the ground with his knees. Before he knows it, he¡¯s giggling, knowing what this would look like to any passerby who decides to interrupt them. Two men, behind the bushes in the park, under dusklight, one on top of the other - the irony of the situation wasn¡¯t lost on him. It was only for a second, though, because by the next one Elijah was already forcing the man¡¯s mouth open and pouring a drop of the liquid from that little glass bottle into it. He doesn¡¯t dare move until the man stops convulsing and lies still, pulse gone - dead. Elijah breathes heavily, still pinning the man, until the fizzling in his throat subsides and his hearing returns. He didn¡¯t want to do this, he didn¡¯t. He looks down at the man and feels a pang of¡­ guilt? Well, of course he felt guilty, that¡¯s the correct emotion to feel when you kill someone, isn¡¯t it? Elijah didn¡¯t know. He scrambles to his feet and his eyes dart around for the man¡¯s phone. He had to make sure he tied up any loose ends before destroying it - standard practice for an impromptu park murder. He sends out a quick text to all his contacts with some manufactured story about needing some time away to recover and heal from the pain that lead him toward alcoholism, and smashes the phone to pieces with a jagged rock. It¡¯s not the most elegant solution, Elijah admits, but he was in public, he had no time for a more thought-out story. As luck would have it, the park ran directly alongside a canal that looked deep enough to hide a body, at least for a little while. Elijah sets to work stuffing the man¡¯s clothes and pockets with the heaviest rocks he can find, checks the coast is clear, and then grabs the man by the feet and drags him the short way to the canal, staying behind the bush line for as much of the journey as he can. He rolls the body into the (thankfully) murky water, praying that there¡¯s enough weight on the man for him to sink to the bottom. Once he sees the bubbles cease and the body disappear, he takes off sprinting in the opposite direction. That wasn¡¯t guilt he felt. It was nostalgia. By the time Elijah slows down, it¡¯s pitch black. His only means of sight; flickering street lights, not even the stars had bothered to come out that night. He doubles over, hands on his knees, and attempts to catch his breath. His legs burn and he has a painful stitch in his right side, he must¡¯ve been sprinting for at least an hour. He looks around, searching for some kind of indication of where he¡¯s ended up, but he seems to have run so far out of town that all he can see is rows upon rows of dimly lit, tall, Victorian-style houses. ¡°Shit.¡± He breathes heavily and then quietly begins to laugh to himself, ¡°That¡¯s my exercise done for the year. Now, where the fuck am I?¡± Thinking hard, Elijah turns in circles, trying to figure out his next move. He squints and just about manages to make out the outline of a telephone box in the distance. He still had the number of the precinct crumpled up in his pocket. Should he? Was it even a remotely good idea to call a police precinct after you had just committed a murder? Probably not. But Elijah was lost in the night, had no other resources, and certainly wouldn''t mind talking to one dark-haired, freckled detective again. Besides, good judgement was never his strong suit. Jogging up to the box, he prayed he had enough change left over from the tea shop to make a phone call. He pulls what¡¯s left out of his pocket and sighs. Providing the telephone box took five pence coins and didn¡¯t spit anything back out, he should be fine. He deposits his last three coins - one ten pence and two fives - and thankfully the dilapidated machine takes them with no trouble. Uncrumpling the paper, he dials the number. Elijah swallows, suddenly nervous. ¡°Hello?¡± ? The rest of Arlo¡¯s shift went so slowly he could¡¯ve sworn he was at his desk for three days straight. Witness. Paperwork. Interrogation. Paperwork. Criminal. Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. Piling up and up on his desk, the ever-growing stack of files never seemed to go down. His eight-year-old self would never have guessed that being a detective would include filling out so many forms. If he¡¯d have known, he probably would¡¯ve followed his dream of being a dinosaur-tamer instead. Despite the tedious data entry and the unsavoury partner, however, there were some highlights to Arlo¡¯s day. Most notably, Officer Sophie Lake, whom he had met in the break room and had spent a full hour with being shown photos of her various dogs. He looks up at the clock and watches the second hand meet the minute hand at twelve. ¡°Working overtime, Maxwell?¡± Speak of the devil. ¡°It¡¯s eight already, go home.¡± Arlo looks up at Sophie with her motorbike helmet under her arm and smiles. ¡°I didn¡¯t even notice. I¡¯d probably just be working at home anyway. Reports don¡¯t write themselves.¡± He chuckles lightly, a sort of sad chuckle that he was sure Sophie would¡¯ve picked up on had she not just received a text. She sighs. ¡°God damn it.¡± She breathes, barely audibly. ¡°Everything okay?¡± Arlo asks. ¡°Huh?¡± She quickly looks back at him, ¡°Oh! Yeah, no, everything¡¯s fine, my wife¡¯s parents are just coming to dinner. They¡¯re not exactly the most tolerant of people so we eloped instead of having a big fancy wedding and apparently they¡¯ve just found out.¡± She rolls her eyes and shoots Arlo a sad smile, ¡°Family drama, never boring.¡± Arlo returns her sad smile with his own and nods slowly, ¡°I know what you mean. My parents still haven¡¯t really come to terms with me either, just one more reason I moved here.¡± ¡°Oh, you¡¯re¡­?¡± ¡°Pan.¡± ¡°Oh, nice.¡± ¡°And demi, which makes the whole family approval thing extra complicated.¡± ¡°Oh Jesus, I can¡¯t even imagine.¡± Sophie looks at Arlo sympathetically. ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s a tough one. I mean, how do you tell your mother who¡¯s always wanted great grandchildren that her son¡¯s never met anyone he¡¯s loved enough to¡­ well, love, and that when he finally finds that person, it might not even be a woman?¡± He takes a breath, ¡°If he finds that person.¡± He amends. After a moment, he looks up, slightly embarrassed at his outburst. Sophie, however, doesn¡¯t seem fazed. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. ¡°Don¡¯t you have a twin sister?¡± She asks. ¡°Aromantic and asexual. Mum¡¯s not getting any grandkids there.¡± Arlo replies. Sophie nods and gives a small ¡®ah¡¯ in understanding. ¡°Well, hey, this just means that one of you is going to have to get a pet.¡± Arlo laughs, ¡°That¡¯s not a bad idea, Soph, any recommendations?¡± ¡°You seem like a cat kinda guy.¡± ¡°I¡¯m allergic.¡± ¡°Coward.¡± She grins at him and puts her bike helmet on, ¡°I¡¯ll see you tomorrow, Maxwell.¡± ¡°See you tomorrow. Good luck with the in-laws!¡± Arlo¡¯s smiling long after she¡¯s gone, whilst he¡¯s getting himself ready to leave. It was nice to have a new friend he could be honest with. He had spent so much time lying about his sexuality and his life to everybody that, when he moved away, he swore he would do his best not to carry on the same way. Cara knew, of course, and his dad suspected he was some kind of queer by the fact he caught Arlo hugging another boy on their doorstep, and when asked about it, Arlo turned all shades of red and almost had a panic attack, but this was the first time he had ever purposefully come out to anybody, and it felt better than he had expected. Still in the highest of spirits, Arlo leaves the precinct and calls a taxi. The drive back to his flat is dark, drizzly and uneventful. The cabbie¡¯s playing what sounds like an 80s hits playlist on the lowest possible volume which is driving Arlo insane. He can just about make out the familiar hook of ¡®Video Killed The Radio Star¡¯ but can¡¯t hear enough to know how far through the song is. The cabbie makes some idle conversation about the weather, as expected, and Arlo gives some half-baked, polite reply. They then sit in silence for the rest of the journey. When they pull up outside Arlo¡¯s block of flats, he wastes no time in jumping out of the cab, unlocking the front door and starting the trek up the four flights of stairs to his floor. Moving out and starting a new job at twenty-four meant living cheaply, and living cheaply meant perpetually broken lifts and tiny flats on fourth floors. It was a less-than-ideal arrangement, but now it was home. Arlo was no stranger to decorating either - he had changed everything he reasonably could to shades of gunmetal silver and blue, a shift that had turned a once old and dingy looking apartment into a classy and mature home base for a modern detective. It made him feel like he should produce a bucket of ice from under the kitchen counter and pour himself a glass of whiskey, which would¡¯ve been much less suave than he was imagining considering all his glasses were colourful and mis-matched due to them being one of the many things Arlo supplied his flat with from a nearby charity shop. He drops his keys on the coffee table and falls into the sofa, face first. The thought of falling asleep right there occurs to him, but as he considers it, his stomach lets out an almighty growl and he groans into the sofa cushion. Reluctantly, he makes his way over to the fridge and opens it, flinching at the bright light that attacks his eyes. Nothing but milk and the day-before-yesterday¡¯s take-out. He sniffs the box of leftover chicken and immediately recoils in disgust. Apparently an extremely second-hand fridge doesn''t always, well, refrigerate. He tosses the chicken and reluctantly sniffs the milk. Still okay, thank god. Cereal for dinner it is. Arlo¡¯s mind wanders as he pours the milk into a bowl of mini chocolate-chip Weetabix. He looks around at his new home and wonders if it¡¯ll ever feel less cold and lonely than it does right now. Thinking back to his conversation with Sophie, he exhales and scratches the back of his hair. Truth be told, his love life had been a bit of a disaster. He had grown up around friends and classmates that had loved to talk about relationships; in primary school they¡¯d have play-dates and get married under the monkeybars, in secondary school they would giggle about who was sleeping with who, nervously ask each other out at the prom and get caught making out in music rooms, hell, in university, two of his classmates were already married. Arlo had had a few crushes, but pursuing them felt like too much, too fast. He simply couldn¡¯t fathom the idea of being that intimate with a stranger, or even a classmate, and celebrity crushes were a completely foreign concept to him. He knew he wanted a big, sweeping love story, he could fantasise about a crush for days, but he figured he probably just wouldn¡¯t be able to handle the pressure of one. Every time he thought about the closeness he was supposed to have with a partner, he got a lump in his throat and he began to panic. Once, when he was eighteen, he thought that perhaps he could feel that way about his best friend, and so they went on a date, a horribly silent, uncomfortable, tense date that ended with an awkward hug on a doorstep. That same night, after crying for what felt like forever, Arlo researched and researched until, at 6am the following morning, he anxiously knocked on his sister¡¯s door and confided in her that he was demipansexual. After the initial shock of being awoken at such an ungodly hour, she embraced and comforted him for a while, before coming out about her own sexual identity, and they spent the rest of the day in that room talking about anything and everything. If one good thing came from losing his best friend that night, it was that he finally bonded with his sister in a way they had never managed before, which, in his mind, was a worthwhile trade-off. Arlo settles on the sofa with his bowl of cereal, kicks his feet up to rest on the edge on the coffee table, and grabs the tv remote. Flicking through channels, he settles on a food network showing reruns of Kitchen Nightmares and sinks into the sofa cushions, officially done for the day. Empty bowl by his side and one foot on the ground, Arlo begins to snore lightly. His capacity to stay conscious when watching tv on the sofa was shockingly inadequate, Cara always used to beat him with pillows until he¡¯d wake up whenever he dozed off during her favourite movies. Typically, he was impossible to rouse, ¡°sleeps like the dead¡± his father used to say, but this time something woke him very abruptly. His phone was vibrating on the kitchen counter, the sound echoing around the walls. He looks at the clock on the wall, drowsy and confused. Who on earth would be calling him this late at night? He walks over to his phone buzzing along the counter and peers at the screen. [UNAVAILABLE] Curious, Arlo hesitates for a second, then picks up the phone and presses the round, green button. ¡°Hello?¡± He says, cautiously. The person on the other end of the phone makes a surprised sort of sound and takes a moment to respond. ¡°Oh, uh, hi there. I was told this number was for a police precinct, is that right?¡± Arlo¡¯s hit with a wave of realisation as he recognises the lilting Irish accent on the other end of the phone. He didn¡¯t really think he¡¯d call. He meant to write down the precinct¡¯s number, it was too late before he realised he¡¯d written his own instead. The nerves had gotten the better of him on his very first case and he had made an extremely embarrassing mistake. ¡°Eli?¡± There was hesitation on the line. ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°It¡¯s Detective Maxwell.¡± Arlo was trying to sound professional, but he had his head in his hands and was practically melting from the heat radiating from his face. ¡®Embarrassing¡¯ may have been an understatement. ¡°Oh, Detective!¡± Eli sounded happy to hear that it was Arlo - scratch that - Eli sounded absolutely delighted to hear that it was Arlo on the other end of the phone. ¡°How are you?¡± Arlo furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. ¡°How am I?¡± He asked, his head swimming with disbelief and impatience, ¡°Eli, why are you calling this number this late? If you have more information about the robbery you can-¡± ¡°No, it¡¯s not that.¡± ¡°Then what is it?¡± Silence. ¡°Elijah?¡± ¡°I seem to be, um, lost.¡± Arlo blinks, waiting for more of an explanation. He hears Eli exhale and shuffle around and wonders if he might be drunk or high. ¡°Look, I was¡­ walking around, and I got lost. I was hoping that the precinct could send a car to come pick me up or something. You know, track the telephone box with their super duper technology? Pick me up via helicopter? Something a little action-movie-esque like that?¡± A certain tone in Eli¡¯s voice tempts a smile out of Arlo that he manages to suppress. ¡°Just find a street sign and call a taxi, Elijah, calling me this late is so unprofessional.¡± ¡°Hey, you¡¯re the one who gave me your number. Besides, I can¡¯t call a taxi, I have no money and no phone.¡± What kind of person these days walks around at night with no money and no phone? The suspicions about this man just kept piling up in Arlo¡¯s head. There was something, he could feel it. He opens his eyes and sighs, he¡¯s just had a very, very stupid idea. ¡°Stay on the phone. I¡¯m coming to get you.¡± ? Elijah was sitting on the pavement on the outside of the telephone box waiting for about forty minutes before Detective Maxwell arrived to get him. He had had to try and explain everything he could see; street signs, buildings, trees, whatever, just so the detective knew where he might¡¯ve been. Luckily it was a fairly small town, and both of them were currently in the residential area, but it was still a bit of a game of hide-and-seek. Elijah begins to hear some fast-paced, anxious footsteps echoing against the rows of houses and quickly scrambles to his feet, straightening his shirt. Maxwell¡¯s silhouette appears from around a corner and he can¡¯t stop the small smile that spreads across his face. The street lights are illuminating him, giving him an ethereal aura of light that entrances Elijah, and he stares, unapologetically. Amidst his enchantment, though, he can¡¯t help but notice the detective looks different. Less shy, more irritated. Still anxious, but now also conflicted. Not on high-alert, just tired, as if he¡¯d just woken up. He was no longer in his police uniform, instead he wore a grey t-shirt, blue jeans and beat-up trainers, nothing special, and yet, to Elijah he was stunning. ¡°Hi.¡± His charming British accent made Elijah¡¯s heart do a somersault. ¡°You found me.¡± A grin spreads across the smitten Irish-man¡¯s face that remains unreflected on the detective. Maxwell puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs his shoulders, rocking on his feet. ¡°Come on then, we should get you somewhere safer.¡± ¡°Lead the way, Detective Maxwell.¡± Elijah¡¯s ever-enthusiastic mood gave the detective pause. ¡°Just¡­ call me Arlo.¡± He spins around on his heel and begins walking back the way he came before he can see the look on Elijah¡¯s face. Under his breath, he mutters, ¡°This shit¡¯s about to be so incredibly off-the-record anyway.¡± He hears Elijah¡¯s footsteps behind him quicken to match his pace, and his anxiety spikes momentarily when he falls in step beside him. ¡°Can I ask where we¡¯re going, Arlo?¡± He could feel Elijah¡¯s eyes boring into the side of his head. Arlo hesitates, then makes a small throat-clearing type sound and lifts his head. ¡°My place.¡± CHAPTER 3 The walk back to Arlo¡¯s flat is awkward and wet. The light summer drizzle that had started earlier in the evening had turned into a full-blown rainstorm that had soaked the boys through. Elijah laments the fact that he doesn¡¯t have a jumper or jacket to offer the shivering, underdressed detective beside him, instead, he offers the warmth of friendly banter which, suffice to say, is not received particularly well. For the entire duration of the walk, Arlo was struggling with what he was doing; meeting with and taking home a witness in an ongoing case was bad enough - not to mention it was his first case and he was being highly monitored at all times - but to also only be doing so because of the tiniest of gut feelings about him was borderline insane. After about fifteen minutes of zero reciprocation, Elijah gives up his witty attempts at friendship and walks quietly the rest of the way. Approaching the block of flats, Arlo breaks the silence, ¡°This is my building. I¡¯m afraid I live on the fourth floor and the lift isn¡¯t working, so I hope you¡¯re prepared for some exercise.¡± Elijah groans and chuckles. ¡°I just swore off exercise forever after my long-ass run today.¡± ¡°You run?¡± It was the first time Arlo had looked at him since he found him and it made Elijah¡¯s ears blush. Thank god for long hair and the cover of night. ¡°Sometimes.¡± He stutters a little, and he can almost swear he sees Arlo crack a tiny smile before he looks away again. Climbing the four flights of stairs is largely uneventful, apart from Elijah tripping, almost falling flat on his face, and Arlo trying and failing at coving up a laugh. They pass a twenty-something year old girl on the second floor rifling through her bag to find her flat keys, holding a phone between her ear and shoulder. Elijah thinks he overhears something notable, but Arlo¡¯s walking too fast for him to slow down and process. They finally reach the fourth floor and Arlo pulls a key out of his pocket to unlock flat 4C. Watching the detective walk in and drop his keys on the coffee table, Elijah stands in the doorway, still dripping wet. ¡°You can come in.¡± Arlo says over his shoulder, sensing Elijah¡¯s hesitation. ¡°Um, your floor-¡± ¡°Will dry. Just avoid the rug. I¡¯ll find you a towel or something.¡± Arlo disappears into the only other room in the flat - the bedroom, Elijah supposes - and reemerges with a large grey towel. ¡°Here.¡± He says, passing the towel to Elijah who takes it readily. ¡°Thanks.¡± Elijah replies, scrunching the ends of his hair into the towel. ¡°I¡¯m going to go change, I¡¯ll see if I have anything you can wear while your clothes dry. Make yourself at home.¡± As Arlo disappears back into his bedroom, Elijah takes the opportunity to look around the small space he had been brought back to. The shades of grey and blue in the room did well to hide the small breaks in the facade, but, looking closer, Elijah could make out the bright colours of the Monopoly and Operation boxes hidden behind a half-closed cabinet door, and the magical glint of the small glass dragon statuettes pushed too far back on the very top shelf of the bookcase, which also hid a pristine copy of Alice¡¯s Adventures in Wonderland amongst the countless dark and gritty crime novels. Elijah runs his hand along the back of the old leather sofa but doesn¡¯t dare sit down. His jeans felt three times heavier than usual because of the waterlogging, and he was sure that Arlo wouldn¡¯t appreciate a soggy settee. He moves to the kitchen, making note of the exact type of coffee Arlo drinks, and stares at the refrigerator. There¡¯s a single item stuck to the front of it with a touristy London skyline magnet, and it makes Elijah¡¯s heart ache. A photograph of four people, two adults and two children, huddled together in front of the London Eye. They¡¯re all dressed in brightly coloured raincoats and their red faces are smiling and joyful despite the thunderstorm that¡¯s clearly taking place. A beautiful family moment in the midst of what looked like a shitty day, just like a diamond in the rough. The ache in his chest refuses to shift. Elijah frowns and tries to think back to the last time he had a family photo on the fridge. It was Christmas of 2011 and he had just finished helping his mother decorate their tree. Father had just put the angel on top when he called for everyone to take a photo around it. Mother set up the camera on a timer and kept running back and forth, checking the photos were coming out alright. ¡°This one¡¯s too blurry. This one¡¯s too high up. Luke, for Pete¡¯s sake, you blinked. Keep your children under control, Michael!¡± On and on it went, it felt like the twelve days of Christmas were spent solely in front of that camera. Eventually, though, she got a photo she was happy with, and it was printed and put on the fridge right between the electric bill and the weekly shopping list. Elijah spent a lot of time staring at that photo that night. His grandfather looked half asleep and his brother still blinked in the end, but it brought him some comfort, even if it was a lie. The photo didn¡¯t stay on the fridge for long, it mustn''t have even been twenty-four hours, now it burned a hole in Elijah¡¯s pocket, where it hasn¡¯t been unfolded, or even glanced at, for twelve years. Elijah¡¯s train of thought is abruptly interrupted by Arlo once again reentering the room, this time dressed in black sweatpants and a burgundy Sherlock Holmes t-shirt, barefoot and hair still damp. They lock eyes momentarily before Arlo averts his gaze anxiously, scratching the back of his hair in his usual nervous manner. ¡°I¡¯ve left some old clothes in the bathroom, you can go get changed and hang your wet clothes up on the shower rail to dry.¡± Arlo says, motioning toward the bedroom. Elijah smiles warmly, finding the other¡¯s sheepish disposition quite charming, and obediently walks past him into the bedroom. He was surprised to discover that this room mirrored the last. He had hoped that where Arlo slept would be a more personal reflection of his true self, but all Elijah saw was more grey, more blue, and more facades. Scanning the room for the door to the en-suite bathroom, he notices the detective¡¯s badge and gun discarded on top of the dresser. It was nice to know that he wasn¡¯t seen as that much of a threat since Arlo didn¡¯t have his firearm glued to his hip. Although, some may have called that poor character judgement. There was a small pile of neatly folded clothes on the side of the bathtub; some grey jogging bottoms and a lilac t-shirt with a rather faded retro gaming pattern. Laid on top of the pile were also a fresh pair of black socks that Elijah was amused to find had tiny images of bunnies printed on the sides. Quickly changing into the dry clothes, he finally looks in the mirror and examines the dripping, scruffy reflection that looks back at him. His brunette hair had gotten darker due to the moisture, his greys now practically invisible, and the wavy, curly locks he had woken up with were now straight and tangled. He twisted his hair between his hands and rung out as much of the residual water as he could into the sink. He runs his fingers through his hair, combing the tangles free to the best of his ability, and sighs at his reflection. Deciding that the image isn¡¯t going to get any neater, he leaves his wet clothes hung on the shower curtain rail, and exits the bathroom. Arlo¡¯s boiling the kettle when Elijah reemerges. He looks over his shoulder at the now-dry stranger in his living room and briefly considers admitting that this was all a huge mistake and kicking him back out onto the street. He¡¯d be lying if he said he hadn¡¯t been thinking of every possible way this scenario could backfire from the moment he invited Elijah in, but he was always a curious sort, and the mystery surrounding one Mr Elijah Asher was just too tempting to discard so carefreely when he had been presented such a perfect opportunity to potentially solve it. Arlo catches himself staring a little too long and quickly turns his head back to the kettle. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°Coffee?¡± He asks, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet above his head. ¡°Got any tea?¡± The smile plastered on Elijah¡¯s face whenever he was around Arlo was evident in his voice, every word sounded so pleasant and comfortable, as if they had been having chats over tea and coffee their whole lives. It made Arlo feel a mix of emotions he couldn¡¯t seem to untangle and analyse, so he ignored it. ¡°No, sorry, I don¡¯t drink it.¡± ¡°How very un-British of you, an incredible disappointment, truly.¡± Elijah closes his eyes and pulls a face in mock disgust which coaxes a small smile out of Arlo. Opening his eyes, he sees Arlo still looking at him somewhat expectantly, and mirrors his smile, ¡°I¡¯ve never had coffee.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve never had coffee?¡± Arlo splutters in response, clearly taken aback. Once again turning back to the kettle, he sets to work filling both of the mugs with coffee grounds and milk. ¡°There are a lot of odd things about you Elijah Asher, but that takes the cake by far.¡± ¡°Eli.¡± The tone of Elijah¡¯s voice has shifted so quickly that it sends a shiver down Arlo¡¯s spine. ¡°Just Eli, please, Arlo.¡± Hearing Elijah use his first name for the second time that night makes Arlo hesitate before taking a deep breath and carrying the two mugs over to the coffee table. He looks at Elijah¡¯s face and instantly he¡¯s hit with a pang of regret. His usual optimistic demeanour seemed to have been replaced with one much more exhausted and sombre. It was the same expression Arlo had seen flash across Elijah¡¯s face in the tea shop, only now it lasted longer than just a fleeting moment. ¡°I apologise, I¡¯ll do my best to remember.¡± They exchange small, sad smiles and Arlo scratches the back of his hair. ¡°Come, sit.¡± As Elijah joins him on the sofa and cradles his mug in both his hands, periodically bringing it to his lips and gently blowing the steam away, the pounding in Arlo¡¯s chest and that familiar churn of anxiety in his stomach starts to ease. He finds himself examining Elijah in excruciating detail, mentally cataloguing every aspect of the mysterious stranger he had brought home. He had, of course, already done this to an extent when they had met for the first time at the tea shop, but that was Arlo¡¯s job, that was merely observing a witness. This? This was curious, intimate, like analysing a particularly compelling photograph of a legendary beast in the rural outskirts of northern Scandinavia. Needless to say, Arlo was more than a little captivated by Elijah. Needless to say, it was not unreciprocated. Arlo¡¯s thought process, however, is interrupted by a sudden spluttering from across the sofa where Elijah was grimacing and holding his tongue between his teeth, clearly disgusted at the taste of the liquid in his cup. Arlo presses his lips together and the corners twitch up briefly as he stifles his laugh. ¡°It¡¯s, um, interesting.¡± Elijah says as he sets his mug back down onto the coffee table. ¡°And now the truth?¡± Arlo¡¯s still examining Elijah¡¯s face, amused. Elijah grins sheepishly. ¡°I would rather drink puddle water.¡± ¡°Well,¡± Arlo cocks his head toward one of the windows, ¡°it is raining.¡± They share a bemused grin for a mere second before Arlo hurriedly averts his gaze and busies himself with his mug of coffee. Breaching the topic of who on earth Eli even was was a more difficult task than Arlo had first assumed; the possible outcomes were building up in his mind and the majority of them weren¡¯t great. As the anxiety pounded in his ears, he could hear Eli babbling on about something. Maybe tea? He didn¡¯t know, he wasn¡¯t listening. Finally, he spoke, ¡°Why don¡¯t you have a phone?¡± Elijah stops, mid-sentence, and affixes Arlo with a slightly confused stare. A few awkward seconds go by and there¡¯s no response. If there was no other outcome to this conversation, Arlo at least now knew how to finally shut Eli up. He swallows the lump in his throat and continues, ¡°Why don¡¯t you have a wallet, or any money?¡± By this point, Eli isn¡¯t even staring at Arlo anymore, it¡¯s almost as if there was a big hole in his head and he¡¯s staring right through him. A few more seconds go by, ¡°Elijah?¡± ¡°Eli.¡± His sudden growl takes Arlo by surprise. Everything in him says to back off, but instead, he sits straight and holds Eli¡¯s now-steely glare. ¡°That. What¡¯s that about?¡± More silence. Arlo takes a deep breath and rethinks his approach. Softer, he says, ¡°You are in my house because I¡¯m guessing you had nowhere else to go. I¡¯m risking my career and my reputation just bringing you back here, let alone having coffee with you. I think I deserve some kind of answer.¡± The expression on Eli¡¯s face softens. Arlo can immediately pinpoint a certain sadness in his eyes and he swears he can see him start to tear up. Eli adjusts his posture and finally looks away, into his lap. ¡°My family weren¡¯t very nice people.¡± He¡¯s quiet, quieter than Arlo had ever heard him before. It was almost terrifying. ¡°Weren¡¯t?¡± ¡°Weren¡¯t.¡± Eli nods slowly before continuing, ¡°I haven¡¯t seen any of them since I was twelve.¡± Arlo blinks slowly and tries to mask the immense feeling of dread pooling in his chest. ¡°So you¡¯ve been alone since-¡± ¡°Since I was a kid, yes.¡± ¡°And you don¡¯t like your name because¡­ it reminds you of them?¡± A whisper of a smirk appears on Eli¡¯s face, but that, still, was shrouded in despair. ¡°Are you religious?¡± ¡°I, uh-¡± Arlo stutters, clearly taken aback by the seemingly left-field question, ¡°-I was raised Christian I guess, but we only ever went to church once a year, and I¡¯m pretty sure that was just because my dad wanted the free food at Christmas mass, and-¡± Arlo takes a breath and feels a quiet sense of relief as he hears a slight chuckle from across the sofa. He smiles sheepishly and recomposes himself. ¡°No. I¡¯m not really religious. Not any more.¡± ¡°Well,¡± Eli starts, the brief lightheartedness fizzling away and being replaced once again with melancholy, ¡°my family were extremely Catholic; Church every morning, bible study before bed, Jesus on pretty much every wall in the house, you get it.¡± Arlo gives a small nod in acknowledgement and Eli continues, ¡°One day, at Sunday school, we learnt about marriage and how love only exists between a man and a woman, blah blah blah, all of the standard stuff you desperately need to know at seven years old, of course.¡± Eli rolls his eyes, ¡°That same lesson got drilled into us again and again for years, and I never understood it. Why on earth did I have to marry a girl when boys were just so much prettier?¡± At that sudden declaration, Arlo realises he¡¯s staring at the ends of Eli¡¯s damp hair, watching them slowly curl, and hastily averts his attention back to his coffee mug, desperately pretending there was no subtle flush upon his face. ¡°So that¡¯s exactly what I asked my priest.¡± Arlo halts, mid sip, and his eyes shoot back up to Eli¡¯s in horror. ¡°You told your priest you were gay?¡± Eli¡¯s sad smile is all the confirmation Arlo needs. ¡°I was only nine. He called my father right there and then. I didn¡¯t understand why it was such a big deal.¡± Arlo hesitates, terrified to ask the question bubbling in his mind as he was certain he already knew the answer. ¡°What did your father do?¡± The pain in Eli¡¯s eyes was too much to bear. The question felt damning coming out of his lips and the regret welled up in his chest. Eli¡¯s eyes shine with the threat of tears as he attempts to formulate an answer. ¡°When I got home that afternoon he¡­¡± Eli trails off as he chokes back a lump in his throat and then straightens his back. ¡°He was a really violent alcoholic, let¡¯s put it that way. My brother stopped speaking to me and my mother decided that I¡¯d be better locked away in the attic so that I didn¡¯t infect the whole family with the plague of homosexuality.¡± Eli scoffs amusedly through his tears that were now trailing down his face. Arlo couldn¡¯t help but admire his relentless ability to put even the tiniest of witty spins on the darkest of conversations. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you play along to save yourself the pain? Pretend you were ¡°cured¡± and play straight until you could leave?¡± Eli¡¯s eyes finally met Arlo¡¯s once again. ¡°Why should I have to?¡± The question hung in the air leaving a piercing silence between the two for what felt like an eternity. Eli was the first to break it. ¡°Anyway¡­ when I turned twelve I overheard my parents planning to send me away somewhere for conversion therapy. I ran away a few days later.¡± ¡°I¡¯m¡­ so sorry.¡± Arlo felt like his heart and stomach had hit the floor. Suddenly he wasn¡¯t so suspicious of this poor man sitting in front of him. All he felt was heartbroken.