You're Only Dead

by Jack Parker

  Emery's sympathetic hand on his forearm burned.

  "I would do anything for you," Kurt said. "But learning that it didn't even matter…that you were supposed to be killed regardless…I could have shot him before he ever entered that house if I'd only known."

  "Yes, but you didn't know," Emery said, gripping his arm. "You were a victim. A prisoner. You weren't accountable."

  "I'm accountable for everything that I do. And everything that I don't."

  Emery 'tsked' loudly. "Bollocks, you don't get to tell me to stop blaming myself so you can turn around and do it yourself. Kurt, I never understood why you think that you were some awful sort of person before you met me. You really think that you're just borrowing my morality? You're honestly afraid that two years ago you wouldn't have even minded these sorts of things? Well that's rubbish, because two years ago you were the sort of man who reached out of your own accord to help a naïve kidnap victim when he was so clearly in over his head. I remember those first few nights that we spoke. You tried to shut me up to keep me safe. You tried to warn me about what Sheridan was like. And when I didn't listen, you held my hand while Victor wrenched a tooth from my mouth with a pair of pliers. You cleaned me up. Nursed me back. You didn't have to be kind about it, but you were. I didn't influence you to do any of that—those were your choices. Things you did because deep down, past all your walls and your distrust and your anger, that's who you really are."

  Memories surfaced gradually. As he looked at Emery's face he could still vividly recall a broken, miserable wreck of a young drunk who had poured out his hideous secrets, unconsciously begging for help. How it had ripped at his heart, even then, and in doing so reminded him that he still had one.

  "You had it wrong. When we met I didn't see you for what you could be. I didn't fall in love with someone I invented," Emery finished gently. "I fell in love with someone who was there all along. The one you were hiding."

  Kurt didn't know what to say. He leaned down and touched his head to Emery's, who nuzzled him back. Then arms wound around him in a tender embrace and he felt blessedly calm.

  Emery pulled back after a moment and rubbed Kurt's upper arm as the door to the patio opened again and they looked over to see Victor emerging, mobile in hand. He observed them carefully as he stood with one foot in and one foot out. "Am, uhhh, I interrupting something out here?"

  "No," said Emery. "It's alright. What is it, Victor?"

  Victor nodded and slid his mobile back into his pants pocket, closing the sliding glass door behind him. "I just thought you'd wanna know. Loretta called."

  Emery quickly stepped forward. "And?"

  Victor folded his arms. "Dave woke up. He's gonna live."

  Kurt looked over to see Emery swell up with joy. Then he sank back against the railing with a sigh. "Thank god. Thank you, Victor."

  "He'll be bedridden for a while and on a shitload of drugs, but he'll recover. Perforated stomach…shit man, I can't believe he pulled through." Victor wiped a hand over his face. "That's gonna be a hell of a medical bill."

  "I think the least I can do is see to that," Emery said as he sagged back. Kurt set a hand on his shoulder to steady him and Emery smiled brightly at him in return.

  Victor looked out over the balcony and stepped closer to them. "Well that makes one of us who's out of the woods. Christ, just when I think things can't get any worse." His eyes flickered between Kurt's and Emery's. "Do you think this is legit? That he's really been alive this whole time?"

  "It would appear to be the case," Kurt admitted.

  "Well he's got to be powerless," Emery said, looking to Victor. "Otherwise wouldn't he have found you out?"

  Victor shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know. I mean before this all made sense, but now it's…it's just weird. Right?"

  Kurt nodded.

  "I guess we'll find out tomorrow," Victor relented. He turned to Emery with a pensive frown. "Hennessey is gonna be a massive drain on your bank account, man. Are you sure this is a partnership you wanna start?"

  Kurt could see Emery swallow a scoff. "The Eaton fortune might as well do something good for once. Or at least something other than sitting in a vault. It isn't my money to begin with; I don't give a damn where it goes as long as it helps."

  "Sure, but don't think that when this is over Hennessey's just gonna shake your hand and disappear. You're valuable. Even someone as stupid as he is can see that."

  Emery shook his head and looked away. "Don't worry about me, Victor. I've been being used for one gain or another since I was a boy. I've slipped every chain that's ever held me—I'll slip this one, too. Somehow."

  "Of course you will," Kurt agreed, looking at Victor. "We'll make certain of it."

  Victor met his gaze, then looked back at Emery and nodded enthusiastically.

  The night wound down quickly. Ludkov returned to wherever he was currently hiding out when the streets seemed deserted enough and the rest of them, keenly feeling the fatigue of a stressful day, decided to turn in save Victor, who posted himself as a sentry. Kurt remarked that he would join him only to be shut down, waved off by Victor at one end and tugged away by Emery on the other. It had been some time since they had slept in the same bed together, Kurt thought as he followed him into a bedroom and shut the door. It seemed outwardly silly to be thrilled by the prospect of simply being able to lie unconscious next to another body, but that didn't stop him from eagerly anticipating the privilege. He shed most of his clothes and slid under the covers next to Emery, who immediately made it known that sleep was not his intention by kissing Kurt's mouth deeply.

  Naturally while gone Kurt had missed the urgency, the passion, the raw pleasure of carnality, but the worst loss of all had been the intimacy of love. The way sex could be a slow, joyful ache culminating in euphoria of the soul as opposed to a mere physical act that sanded off a few days of mental stress. A few minutes later he was on his back, panting quietly, pinned where Emery was straddling him and slowly riding Kurt's cock while his skin burned pleasantly and every breath brought him closer and closer. Emery looked down at him through a gaze obscured by the hair falling into his face a bit, strong hips rocking intently. He was so beautiful. Kurt wanted this slow. He wanted to enjoy every second of what he missed, what he needed, and what he thought he might never have again. He wanted to remember every inch of Emery's skin, every groove of his body, every sort of vocalization to accompany every sort of touch. Deep down he knew it was because of how possible it was that this could truly be the last time they ever made love. Soon they may well be dead.

  Kurt tried to keep his control as Emery began to move a bit faster but he was trembling, sensitive, too aroused to last this way. This position made it too easy. He grabbed Emery's hips suddenly, stilling him just as he was about to come, groaning in frustration and shuddering against the sheets as he reined himself back from the edge. His cock throbbed heatedly for a few seconds before the sensation dissipated and left him properly unsatisfied. He breathed a small sigh of relief and looked up at Emery, who had stopped obediently to look down on him with a confused face. "Hop off," Kurt instructed.

  Emery did as he was told, carefully extricating himself and moving aside as Kurt sat up. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing," Kurt said, maneuvering to position his lover to his liking. "Face the wall. There. Like this." Kurt moved behind him, taking Emery's arms and setting them at the headboard of the bed so that he was up on his knees bending himself forward a bit while Kurt leaned over him. For a moment he let his own hands lay over Emery's on the headboard, pressing against him and kissing his neck. Then he pulled back and widened his stance, easing himself back into Emery's body and reveling in the bitten off moan that it provoked. He knew this position felt better for Emery. It was easier to assume control this way, to let him relax and please him as he saw fit and all Kurt wanted to do was please.

  Emery kept his hands clutching the headboard like he was told. Kurt placed his hands at the swell of Emery's hindquarters and bega
n to smooth them up, slowly kneading the flesh of his back from his buttocks to his shoulders in a deliberate massage. Emery whimpered softly and swore. How he loved to be touched like this. Kurt happily obliged and began to add slow thrusts to his movements.

  It wasn't long before Emery was shivering and sweating, hands gripping the wood tightly and head bowed. After paying thorough attention to his back Kurt leaned over him to rub his chest, his stomach, and then let his hands wander down to grope at his scrotum with one and caress his steel-hard cock with the other. He could see that Emery was completely entranced. His knuckles were turning white and his cheeks red, his eyes closed, lips letting out a continuous string of whispered moans to accompany each thrust in a way that made Kurt's heart race. "Kurt…"

  Kurt began to thrust a little faster and pull Emery's slicked erection with purpose. "I love you," he replied in his ear.

  "I'm coming," Emery warned breathily, and then he was. His shoulders went rigid, head down, heaving and gasping. Kurt could feel him contract deep inside and clutch his cock tightly. His thrusts were suddenly difficult and the added tension raked pleasure down his spine. Emery sat back, up on his knees with his body straight as he pushed away from the headboard and leaned his head back over Kurt's shoulder when he began to empty himself. Kurt adjusted the angle of his pumping hips and buried his face into Emery's neck before he came in a shockwave of sensation. He gripped Emery's body desperately as he rode it out. It consumed him, devoured his flesh, lit his nerves aflame until they burned away, until he was numb and the panting in his ear and the wetness of Emery's release sliding through his fingers were all he could feel. Then he slid his arms around the body before him and hugged hard.

  The sound of breath striving to be caught was all that could be heard for some time as they remained there in the afterglow of completion. Worry and suspicion and gloom had drifted away for the night. All that was left within Kurt's heart was devotion. Emery was the king he served, the god he revered. No one had ever loved him the way that Emery did. Selflessly, devotedly, generously and mercifully. No one else had ever made him feel like he held singular importance. No one else had ever seen more to him than what he chose to show, more than what he himself knew was there. It had taken Kurt thirty-two years to feel like he was a part of this world, but now that he did, he would prove himself a worthy participant. He would do what was right. He would make Emery proud. He would see to it that by tomorrow's end, all of the villains in this plot were every bit as dead as that bastard Keller.

  * * *

  Emery could feel the heat of the fire. It was roaring hot in the little brick fireplace at his right where he sat on the sofa of a small living room, a mug of cocoa in hand, but it was a silent flame. There was no crackle or pop of roasting wood to be heard. He edged closer to it and sighed. It was good to be home again.

  "Emery?"

  Emery turned his head towards the kitchen from which his mother had called him. "Mum?"

  "Do you want any biscuits, love?"

  Emery could feel himself tear up, looking down into his steaming mug and swallowing. "No, Mum."

  "Alright then. I'm only letting you stay up until your father gets home, you realize. Then it's off to bed."

  "Yeah…" Emery agreed distantly. Suddenly it hit him all at once. His mother was here. She was back. He could see her. He jumped up, clacking his mug down onto the coffee table and making his way to the kitchen quickly. "Mum, you're—" he stopped short, surveying the empty kitchen. A kettle sat heating on the stovetop but the person who placed it there was nowhere to be found. A package of Lotus biscuits sat unopened on the countertop as if they'd just been set down when he denied the request. He looked around, crestfallen. "Mum?"

  There was no answer. The only thing he could hear was the water in the kettle beginning to simmer. Of course. What was he thinking? She was dead. Emery slowly reached out and picked up the packaged biscuits, opening a high cupboard and tucking them away. Overwhelming loneliness took hold of him as he shut it up. He leaned his hands down on the counter for a moment and tried to combat his tears before straightening back up. He pulled his mobile from his pocket. No missed calls.

  The sound of the front door opening caught his attention. He listened intently for a long moment. The way the footfalls were heavy and enthusiastic. How he could hear the ruffling of cloth while someone removed their jacket. A jingling thump as a messenger bag was set down. Then the door shut and the footsteps moved into the adjacent room. He looked again at the kettle, which had yet to boil, and carefully crept back into the living room. The fire had gone out now. The one who had doused it was leaning over it, back to him. "Dad…?" Emery uttered numbly.

  The man who turned was not Emery's father. It was Hunter Eaton. He regarded his stepson with his typical smile and held out his arms. "Emery, sweetheart. There you are."

  Emery reared back, anger ignited. That this man could be in this house was such a perversion, such a violation. The only place in his mind he could go to feel safe. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

  Hunter dismissed this question with a quiet laugh and reached for him again. "That's a silly question. I'm here for you."

  Emery stepped back. "No. Get out."

  Hunter blinked curiously. "What?"

  "I said get out," Emery repeated, pointing to the door. "This is where my father lives. My real father. This is my home! You cannot be here!"

  Hunter's countenance fell in clear, poignant heartbreak, as if Emery had just told him something completely devastating. Perhaps he had. He watched as Hunter backed off, arms falling to his sides, eyes scanning the floor as he slowly sank into an armchair. "But…but your father's dead."

  Emery shook his head. "That doesn't mean I replaced him. I can't just do that and I wouldn't even if I could. You never understood."

  "No," Hunter agreed quietly. "I never did."

  Emery was full of such anger, such hatred, such guilt that he didn't even know where to begin. He kept his eyes on Hunter's form warily but allowed himself to gradually sit on the furthest sofa across from him. "…I don't know what you want from me."

  Hunter shook his head. "All I ever wanted was for you to love me."

  "But all you ever did was hurt me."

  "I didn't mean to."

  "It doesn't matter," Emery said firmly. "It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. If you loved me then…then maybe you would have protected me from yourself. But you didn't bother—you just took what you wanted. I can't forgive you, Hunter. I can't. Don't you see that?"

  Hunter nodded solemnly.

  Emery bowed his head in frustration. "I should have told you no that first time. I know that now, but I didn't know it then. It wasn't as if I could have expected it. No boy expects his stepfather to suddenly…" He closed his eyes for a moment before painfully pushing on. "I just wish it never happened. You don't know how badly I want that."

  "I understand now, Emery," Hunter assured. Then he produced a gun and held it to his temple. "I'll have no more."

  Emery jerked forward. "No, Hunter, don't—!"

  Emery scrambled to his feet as the trigger pulled and a spray of blood burst over the mantle, staining the row of pictures that sat atop it. He looked on in horror as wet lumps of brain matter slid down his family's Christmas portrait. The kettle began to boil from the kitchen, but instead of a whistle it was a hysterical, human shriek. Emery clutched at his hair and backed away in terror. "Kurt…" he managed in budding panic. He tripped over himself trying to avoid Hunter's corpse as he made for the front door. Once there he wrenched the handle open and leapt into the light to flee from the maddening screech.

  Outside he found himself on the streets of Montreal. People were hurrying by him, knocking into him, turning him around. Where was his flat? Where was home? He looked around desperately.

  He needed to find Kurt. Finding Kurt was all that mattered. Someone had taken him and left Emery stranded here with his heart ripped from him. Some source, some lead, something, anything. E
mery turned down the street and ran. Buildings blurred around him. He rushed down an alleyway and it was suddenly nighttime, the back door to some deserted night club hanging wide open before him. Emery hurried inside, down the steps, through the hall, into an open space. Still no one was there. He looked around frantically before spotting the hooded figure on the ground. There. He lunged to his knees and yanked away the hood to find Victor…but he was too late. Victor lay limp in a pool of blood, a steady stream pouring from his lips and his eyes closed.

  "No!" Emery cried. "Victor, Victor, no, no, no, please don't…" he grabbed the dead man by the shirt and shook him. "Please don't leave me, please don't do this!"

  Silence greeted him.

  Feverish sobs worked their way up. "You bloody bastard, I promised you I wouldn't let you die! …Please…Victor, I need you…I can't do this without you…I c-can't….can't…" Emery bent over Victor's body and began to hyperventilate.

  The next thing he knew he was plunged into blackness. Someone had gotten the jump on him. He grasped at the hood that was suddenly covering his head with his hands but he was being dragged back, suffocating, kicking and twisting to no avail. He could hear people laughing, yelling, his mother was crying his name. His father was singing him a nursery rhyme, oblivious to her desperate shouting. Arms snatched him from every angle, hoisting him up. He felt himself being shoved into a chair. His arms were yanked behind his back and tied together before he was left sitting there in dead silence. Then the hood was snatched off. The light stung his eyes, but then they adjusted, and he was staring directly into the face of a man with an easy smile seated a few inches away from him. Casey Sheridan. The man in question casually held up a hunting knife, running his thumb along the blade. "How ya doin', kid?"