Nicolas searches his memory, but there is nothing there, it is blank. He tries, he really tries, but there is nothing—years that are just empty. “I got away, Anders found me, he saved my life,” he says, but the words feel hollow. He knows it’s a lie, but this is his life, the only life he knows. And Anders is a father figure, a mentor, an occasional lover, and Nicolas knows how fucked up that all is—but he has nothing else.
“You didn’t get away, Nicolas. I didn’t want to have to show you this,” Theodore says, “but I can see that I need to.” He pulls his phone from his pocket, fingers swiping across the screen before he hands it over to Nicolas.
A video is playing of a blonde boy of about sixteen shackled to a wooden board, shivering and sobbing as he gasps for breath before a cloth is lowered over his face, water poured over it. Anders stands at his side, a hand on his shoulder, a smile on his face.
Nicolas passes the phone back, his head spinning, nausea curling in his stomach. He knows the boy is him, and for the first time, he is glad he can’t completely remember. There are flashes sometimes, headaches that torment him. But the memories are incomplete. “There's more,” Theodore says, “they filmed it all, how they drugged you, tortured you, turned you into a killer.” He looks down at the phone, pressing another key and holding it up so that Nicolas can see. He is older in this one, hair longer, still a teenager but more a man than a boy now. Nicolas watches as his younger self glances into the camera, uncertainty clouding his eyes, a gun in his hand. A hooded figure sits at the opposite side of the room, hands bound, his face obscured. Nicolas watches himself take aim, watches as the figure slumps back into the chair, blood splattering across the room.
“Enough,” Nicolas says. He feels like he’s going to crumble. He walks over to the window, looking out at the gray London street. He feels Theodore’s hand on his shoulder. “Why did you keep looking for me? You should have just accepted I was dead.”
“You know why, ” Theodore whispers. “I know that you remember me, that you're still in there. Look at me. I know this is not who you are.”
“Yes, it is. And you’re no different to me, not really,” Nicolas says, “you think that because your orders come from the government that it means it isn’t murder? We both kill people for men more powerful than ourselves; the only difference is you get a fucking medal at the end of it. What do you want from me?”
“I don’t want anything. Sometime after I found you, I was given my latest operation—to destroy Rogan’s organization. To kill you—the one person in the world I could never harm. So you can kill me now, if you want to, Nicolas. I have nothing left to lose.” He reaches for his weapon, placing it in Nicolas’ hand, their fingers touching softly.
Nicolas looks into his eyes, dark and pleading. Maybe who he used to be is still buried somewhere, he can feel the fringes of it now, looking at Theodore, those familiar eyes. But Nicolas doesn't want to remember. Because remembering this man means remembering a myriad of other things. It means laughter on a summer afternoon, the sun shimmering on the surface of the swimming pool, it means the sound of his mother's voice, the scent of her perfume. It is remembering himself when he was free, when he had no blood on his hands. More than anything, it means remembering those first stirrings of attraction, aged fourteen on a long afternoon in the late nineties, the nerves that rattled through his body as he kissed his best friend for the first time.
Nicolas has taught himself not to think of those things and has no intention of opening the gates now. Instead, it is easier to look into those brown eyes and give Theodore what Nicolas knows he wants. He's an expert at reading people; it's easy to spot weakness when you have such strength yourself. He places the gun on the table and presses his lips to the corner of Theodore’s mouth, planting hard, angry kisses that Theodore tries to back away from. Nicolas doesn't let him, invading his personal space, tongue sliding across Theodore’s bottom lip. It doesn't take long until Theodore is responding, cupping Nicolas’ face, fingers combing back through his hair. Nicolas can't help but moan at that, feeling his control of the situation wrenched away from him.
He needs to regain it. He knows this game; he's played it so many times before. He turns Theodore around roughly, pinning his wrists to the wall above his head with one hand, the other sliding around his body to unfasten his jeans. He licks at the shell of Theodore’s ear, sucking and biting at his neck. His jeans fall to his ankles, Nicolas shoves his boxers down to his thighs and strokes his cock, he's hard and ready. Once inside he grips Theodore's hands, their fingers curling around each other against the wall as Nicolas presses inside him, thrusting harder whenever Theodore moans his name. After, Theodore turns in his arms, and Nicolas lets himself be kissed, deeply, languorously. He finds himself kissing back with a tenderness he doesn’t want to feel, with a softness that he thought had left him with Emma’s dying breath. He ignores it. It's easier that way.
Nicolas doesn’t know why he stays the night; he doesn’t want to delve into his own motives.
Theodore watches him sleep in the gray light of the morning, his face pressed against Theodore’s chest, an arm thrown carelessly around him. It’s easy like this, to pretend they are not who they are—men who live in the shadows, hunting and destroying. Like this, they are just them, just Theodore and Nicolas. But Theodore knows that they can’t go back. There is no place for them to exist as anything more than enemies now. And yet his whole life has been about Nicolas, about clinging on to a childhood fantasy of being happy with the only person he has ever loved. It is hollow and fake, and Theodore knows that there was no emotion in what happened the night before, not for Nicolas. For him he was just a means to an end. He tries telling himself it’s the same for him.
“I want you to help me bring Anders in,” Theodore says, later, as Nicolas steps out of the shower.
Nicolas pauses, thinking, adjusting the towel around his waist. “Okay,” he says, “I’ll do it.”
***
A week passes, the two of them dancing around each other in Theodore’s apartment, formulating ideas while trying to avoid any meaningful conversation. The Christmas lights get strung up along the streets below; Nicolas bumps into Theodore’s neighbor dragging a tree out of the elevator. He hates the holidays, just another reminder of the world that everyone else lives in, a world that he doesn’t know how to inhabit.
Nicolas doesn’t look at the files again, but they are burned into his mind whenever he closes his eyes, his inability to remember is always taunting him. The two of them drink whiskey late into the night. They fuck because it’s easier than talking. Nicolas pretends he doesn’t notice the way that Theodore looks at him, the tenderness in his eyes as he whispers endearments, stroking Nicolas’ hair back from his face as he comes down from his orgasm.
***
Nicolas takes a sip of his martini, looking around at the grandeur of the hotel bar. It doesn’t sit comfortably with him, the opulence, the wealth flaunted by the people who come here. He wonders if they would still hold money in such high regard if they had experienced what it feels like to take another life, to watch as the light fades out of their victim’s eyes—to wield so much power. Theodore may think this isn’t who he is, but Theodore is wrong. This is who they both are, they fuck, they kill, and they leave. It’s the only life they know, even if Theodore wants to pretend he’s doing it all for some greater good.
The plan is simple, Nicolas is wearing a wire; they have plenty on Anders already, all Nicolas needs is for Anders to confess to killing his parents and then he can get out of there so that Theodore and the rest of his team can bring Anders in. That’s what Theodore thinks is going to happen, anyway. Nicolas fingers the stem of the glass, thoughtfully, barely even looking up when he feels Anders slip into the seat next to him, ordering a drink from the bartender.
“I trust you enjoyed your recent trip to London,” Anders says, “the job is done I take it?”
“Why did you kill my mother, Anders?” Nicolas hears himself
say.
“Ah. So the job is not done.”
“Tell me.”
“Alright,” Anders begins, “you and your mother were not supposed to be there that night. It was business, your father stole something precious from me, and I couldn’t let him get away with that. I’m sure you understand that.”
Nicolas, tenses, fiddles with the small vial in his jacket pocket.
“You and your mother were not supposed to be there. It was unfortunate for her, I admit.”
He feels the anger bubbling up in his chest, threatening to destroy his composure.
“Your father took something from me, so I took something from him—you. I’ve grown fond of you, Nicolas. My finest achievement. Our time together has been most enjoyable. It’s a shame; I take no pleasure from killing you. But you should know that you won’t make it out of here alive. Look around you.”
Nicolas glances around the room, men stationed in various corners, some of them he recognizes. It’s going to be harder to get out of here than he thought—but actually, he didn’t come here with the intention of getting out alive, only to get the job done, he doesn’t care what happens to him after that. He doesn’t deserve to live.
“You won’t make it out alive either, Anders,” Nicolas says, with a smile. “In about twenty-five seconds time the Digitalis I just slipped into your drink will start to take effect. You’ll start to sweat; your heart rate will increase, you'll be dead in less than five minutes.”
Anders’ eyes widen.
“You taught me well, but you made the mistake of thinking I still need you,” Nicolas says, as he slides off the barstool, making a run for the staircase at the back of the bar. He senses that he is being followed. He knocks the first couple of men unconscious without much effort, but he is outnumbered, and they are quick, on him quicker than he can fight them off.
He feels the pressure of the first bullet tearing through his flesh, a warmth that spreads through his chest. This is how it was always going to end, he realizes, and he wishes Anders had killed him years ago, that he'd died in his childhood home with his parents. He wishes Theodore hadn't wasted his life trying to save him; he isn't worth saving.
Nicolas feels himself falling, everything fading into a blur. His name is called as if from far away, and he looks up into brown eyes, strong arms grip him before everything becomes distant.
Brown eyes fade into blue, Emma’s face before him, so close that he can almost touch her, yet when he reaches out his hand, she seems to get further away, fading into the distance, like the illusion that their life together was. He calls her name, but he knows she isn't real, that this is a dream or the beginning of dying. An illusion, just like his Emma was. She had crept under his skin and blinded him with love, before betraying him, before leaving him. He was prepared to walk away from it all with her. He had sat in the hotel room in Venice, finalizing their plans, when he discovered her betrayal. The money he had so carefully retrieved was gone, delivered straight into the hands of the organization he had been trying to destroy. Nicolas had looked into Emma’s eyes as she made the decision to die, as she locked herself into the elevator and threw away the key as the building started to crumble into the lagoon. He had tried so hard to get her out in time, to save her, the only thing he’d ever had that was worth living for. But it was too late, he knew, as he dragged her from the water and out into the piazza, trying to breathe life back into her drowned lungs. It was too late, and he doesn't know how to forgive himself.
Her face fades, changes, until the eyes he is looking into is his mother's. It is too much to bear, and Nicolas hears himself screaming. He hears Theodore’s voice, soothing and calm, until everything becomes dark.
***
Nicolas wakes in a shabby room, the glass in the window is cracked, letting the piercing air whistle in and loud euro-dance music filters in through the paper thin walls. He wonders whether he did die and this is some cruel purgatory. The pain in his chest throbs, but it’s a dull ache now, his body feels fluid, light (morphine, he guesses). Theodore stands to the side of the window, looking out at the rainy afternoon, the TV Tower looming down on them. Nicolas groans, shifting slightly in the bed.
“How long have I been out?’ he asks.
“Almost a full day” Theodore replies, turning to face him.
“You should have let me die,” Nicolas whispers, voice hoarse with a lack of use.
Theodore ignores that. “I should have known you wouldn’t stick to the plan,” he says, instead.
Nicolas tries to shrug but ends up wincing with the pain. He runs his fingers across the jagged marks on his chest. “I see the British government doesn't give very thorough sewing classes,” he remarks, rubbing over the stitched up flesh.
Theodore rolls his eyes. “I save your life, get you here and take out the bullets, and all you can do is bitch about it. A ‘Thank you, Theo,’ wouldn’t be out of place.”
“Sorry,” Nicolas murmurs.
Theodore moves and sits on the bed at his side. “We need to go soon; Martin will be looking for you. Do you think you’re up to it?”
“Yes, this isn’t the first time I’ve been shot, I can deal. Theo?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.” Nicolas looks into his eyes for a long moment; there is tension between them. He presses his lips to the back of Theodore’s hand, and when Theodore leans over to carefully embrace him, the warmth of his arms feels almost like home.
“I need you to trust me,” Theodore says, holding Nicolas’ face in his hands as he brushes their lips together. Nicolas feels his resolve melting with the soft pressure of Theodore’s mouth against his own. He tries to think of the boy he used to be, before innocence was destroyed. It is too painful to imagine the life they could have had.
“I’ll try” he whispers against Theodore’s skin, “but I can’t make you any promises.” It’s the best that he can do.
***
They stand on the platform at Alexanderplatz, the December rain darkening the afternoon. Nicolas’ face buried in the newspaper, his own image staring back at him.
‘Wanted terrorist and British Intelligence officer suspected dead in shootout,’ the headline reads, two bodies found in the aftermath of warehouse explosion.
He skims through the article, before closing the newspaper, keeping his head down.
“Are you sure about this?” he had asked Theodore the previous evening, thinking of what the Brit was leaving behind.
“There’s nothing left for me to go back to,” Theodore had said, “nothing at all. I don’t expect you to stay with me. When we get out of Berlin you can leave me if you want, I won’t try and stop you.”
Nicolas had nodded in agreement, feeling oddly lost. He doesn’t know how to be anything but alone, yet the days they have spent together have become almost routine, like Theodore has filtered into his life and occupied a space that he hadn’t even realized was empty.
***
“Where will you go?” Theodore asks that evening, lighting a cigarette and leaning forward against the railings. He takes a long drag and exhales slowly, smoke puffing up into the cold December air. They watch as a plane rumbles up into the sky, the ‘Departures’ sign glows above the sliding doors to the left of them. It feels like the gateway to the end of the world.
“There’s a girl in Jamaica I always promised I’d visit.” Nicolas says, “other than that I don’t know for sure, keep moving I guess.”
Theodore nods in agreement, or distaste – Nicolas can’t tell which.
“Stay with me,” Theodore asks, finally, crushing the remainder of the cigarette underfoot. “I have no right to ask, but—”
“I’m not who you want me to be.”
“There’s something between us,” Theodore says, pointedly. “We could go to the mountains, start again.”
“Haven’t you wasted enough of your life on me?”
“I don’t think of it that way, no,” Theodore says, turning to kiss him, brushin
g their lips together gently, almost chastely, as if they are teenagers again, kissing each other nervously for the first time. Nicolas responds, despite the rational part of his brain telling him not to. He pulls back after a moment, resting his forehead against Theodore’s, looking into his eyes. “I’m no good for anyone, and I work better alone,” he says, “you’d stand a better chance without me.”
Theodore doesn’t try and counter the statement, just remains standing there, his hands at Nicolas’ waist, the pure wool of his coat soft against his fingertips. Theodore tilts his head for another kiss, this time sliding his tongue into Nicolas’ mouth, exploring insistently, passionately, as if it’s the last time.
Nicolas is breathless when they part, pupils dilated. The pain in his shoulder throbs, aggravated from how he had pulled Theodore close to him.
“Stay with me,” Theodore asks, again.
The answer is on the tip of Nicolas’ tongue.
All he has to do is take a chance.
THE END.
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About Ella Primrose
Ella Primrose is an emerging author with her hands in all kinds of sexy romps and romance stories. Stay tuned because you’ll be hearing more from her. That is, if you follow her on her author profile. Follow Me On Amazon.
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