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First it was a watch—nice one, too. Then a pair of gold cuff links, then a tie bar with a flower stamped on the end, then a thin gold bracelet. Noel can’t wear that shit; aside from the obvious, he can’t in good conscience wear what was bought with blood. Even if he could, the other detectives would immediately notice. He’s on thin ice as is.
“What else am I gonna spend my money on?” the Butcher asks, after the second set of cuff links sends Noel on a bit of a tear. Noel spends a good quarter hour listing stuff he could buy instead, and he never asks again—but he doesn’t stop. Next is a thick-banded gold ring that Noel refuses to wear, and that sits ominously in his sock drawer, glinting up at him every morning and evening like clockwork.
The jewelry collects in a graceless pile on his dresser. Noel doesn’t know what the hell to do with it. Sometimes, the Butcher asks him to wear it, and then he does, because, hell, what else is to be done with it? There’s no denying the thrill that runs through him when he buttons his sleeves with the Butcher’s golden cuff links. Wearing something he never would, gleaming under lights, some obscenely decorated bird. Bit by bit his resolve weathers away. The watch gets compliments. The bodies are all long-buried. He might as well enjoy it.
Par for the course, the Butcher takes it too far. He makes a big to-do about it, insists on taking Noel out to dinner. Noel swears he spends the money because it’s grotesque, because every last penny rubs Noel’s nerves raw. But, shit. The food’s good, and Noel has nothing better to do, and when he lets go of all the rest of it, he really does enjoy Collins’ company. They work—if he ignores the hundred thousand ways that they shouldn’t.
“D’you know what today is?” Collins asks, halfway through supper.
Noel does some quick math. This time last year was a bit of a blur, but: “We came back to New York?”
“Close. It’s our anniversary. Or so I like to think.”
Noel freezes. That’s—he doesn’t like that. Anniversary—like this is something real, and not just one protracted bad decision—like this is tenable, something with legs, and heart. His body’s gone hot. He doesn’t know what to say. “Huh. No shit?”
Collins smiles. He knows he’s rattled Noel. “Thought you’d be dead by now, didn’t you?”
Noel scratches his jaw and laughs. “Yeah. Guess so.” He’s dreading going home; this won’t be the end of it. Collins will have some gift. Charlie’s never asked him how much he makes per head. It’s probably a fair enough price. Charlie’s seen firsthand how cheap a man’s life really is—hell, he probably overcharges, by military standards.
But they can’t stay at the restaurant forever. Collins isn’t impatient; he lets Charlie walk, and walk, circling his apartment. He whistles in the silence and keeps his hands in his pockets. “It ain’t that big of a deal,” Collins finally says.
He’s right. It really isn’t. Charlie’s still fuming when he finally leads them inside.
The Butcher’s on him the second the door’s closed, kissing and pawing at him, just as frustrated as Charlie is. “Never thought you’d let me in.”
“Might still kick you out,” he says. There’s no way in hell. He yanks the Butcher between his legs—a year of this—a year, and Charlie’s heart still races as soon as Collins’ hands are on him. It turns him stupid. All he wants is more; he’s starving for the Butcher’s violence and excess and theater. Collins refuses anything but brutal honesty, and because of that, Charlie is always free when he’s with him.
It’s the Butcher who pulls away—too excited about his gift. He can fuck Charlie any day of the week. This is something special. Charlie catches his breath against the door as he pulls several black boxes out of Charlie’s cupboards. He must’ve stuck them there while Noel was at work; Noel would’ve noticed those. The Butcher lays them out on the kitchen table. Four black jewelry boxes. Charlie stares.
“Please,” the Butcher says, gesturing.
Charlie moves like he’s in a dream. He opens the biggest box, first, the centerpiece. Inside is a pearl necklace, with many strings tightly cascading down—a choker. A collar. Charlie’s mind can hardly process it. The Butcher leans over and opens the other boxes, one by one. Pearl bracelets, matching. A set of dangling pearl earrings. Charlie touches his ear. “I can’t—“ He stops short. He’s not sure if the King in Yellow’s holes have closed over. “This is…c’mon.”
“The money’s spent,” the Butcher says. He lifts one of the bracelets; it’s heavy with pearls.
“Handcuffs woulda been cheaper,” Charlie spits, backing away. “This is—you are so fucked in the head, you know that?”
The Butcher rolls his eyes. “Charlie.”
“You think I don’t see what this is?”
“Charlie.”
“No. No way in hell. How much did that cost? Are you sick in the fucking head?”
“Most people would say thank you,” he says. “Take off your coat.” When Charlie doesn’t move, he sighs. “How much do you think it cost?”
Except Charlie doesn’t actually want to have this argument. The more he knows, the harder it is to ignore. And the pearls are beautiful. And Collins called it their anniversary. None of this is right; none of it makes sense. None of it matters, either. He lets the Butcher approach him. He swallows. “It’s a trick question, isn’t it? You stole them.”
“You wound me,” he says. “Off. Go on.” As Charlie shrugs out of his coat, Collins unlatches the bracelet. “I thought we agreed to not talk money.”
Charlie lifts his wrist. They have. It’s a conversational dead-end; there’ve been one too many arguments that ended with the two of them screaming and hurling shit at each other.
“Say thank you,” the Butcher says, latching the bracelet.
Charlie swallows. “Thank you. But—you have to realize…” He turns his wrist, letting the pearls catch the lamplight. It’s a snug fit. “I’m never gonna…” The Butcher isn’t listening. He’s turning Charlie’s other wrist over.
“There,” he says. Something is loosening inside of Charlie; his anger can’t catch hold of any one thought, and so disperses, bit by bit, as his wrists register the weight of the bracelets. “That’s it, just let me. Always fussing over the wrong thing. Aren’t you?”
“It’s really been a year?” Charlie asks. He sits hard on his couch, staring at the pearls on his wrists, thinking of John, of all things. And Arthur. It’s been a year, and nothing. Two more MIAs.
He lifts his head and lets the Butcher undo his tie. It’s something he’s done countless times before, and which he can never do without tightening it first, just a winch, just enough to keep Charlie’s pulse high and body expectant.
“Aye.” He undoes Charlie’s top two buttons, then abandons the task. “And I’m still not bored of you.” He lifts the necklace, cradling it between his hands. “Go on, let me. Let me see.”
A year. So it’s been over three since Charlie last wore a collar. God knows the Butcher’s tried to fit one on him before. Charlie’s not sure why this is different. It isn’t. Even though it isn’t, he turns away, exposing the back of his neck. Collins hesitates. Maybe just taking it in. If anyone can appreciate what Charlie’s doing, it’s him.
The pearls are cool on Charlie’s throat. Uniform and heavy. Charlie’s body knows what to do. It relaxes. It’s not so bad, though it’s not what he expected. In fact, he doesn’t feel much at all—he thought he’d go ballistic, or panic, or…something. But his breath is even and his heart quick and light, and the King in Yellow is three years behind him. He’ll never see him again, except in dreams. He turns back to the Butcher.
A year. A year? What’s Charlie done with that glut of time? While Arthur and John—no. He’s not going to circle that particular drain. They’re dead or they aren’t, and either way he’s no help to them here, and so there’s no use worrying about it.
Collins has stepped back. Wants to see the effect. Charlie leans back, throws his elbows back on the couch, spreads his legs, and tilts up his chin. Fine, then. Happy fucking anniversary, doll. This is easily the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for Charlie, and the only reason it’s not also the most fucked up thing is because the Butcher’s already taken that crown ten times over. Whatever else his faults, he loves Charlie. He wants to spoil him. He wants to keep him.
And he wants, someday, to kill him. Might be today. Charlie doesn’t intend to roll over and let him.
Something wild comes over the Butcher as he gazes at Charlie, and the pearls, and the open V of Charlie’s unbuttoned shirt. Something possessive and unrestrained, the eagerness of a leaping flame.
Charlie runs a hand through his hair and cocks his head. “Shame you don’t got your camera,” he says, though there’s no way in hell he’d let the Butcher take a picture. He won’t chance it landing in the evidence locker, to be ogled and laughed at by grotesquely curious rookies. “Is looking all you’re gonna do?”
The Butcher makes an aborted movement, like he wants to rush Charlie, but catches himself. “We ain’t done yet,” he breathes.
“I’d hope not,” Charlie says. But he forgot about the earrings—as soon as the Butcher crosses to the table to fetch them, he remembers, and anxiety seizes in his chest. No—no. The necklace is one thing—he wears ties all the time, likes the pressure at his throat, likes knowing where it’s come from, but—
“Here.” The Butcher sets a knee between Charlie’s legs and leans in. The earrings flash in the light. “Let’s see if those holes have closed up, hm?”
Charlie means to fight it. He’s been meaning to fight it for over a year. But the Butcher walks free. He’s already lost this particular battle of wills, and loses it again and again every day. He swallows, then sets his hands on the Butcher’s waist. “Fine,” he says. He licks his lips and catches Collins’ eyes. “Happy anniversary,” he says, and means it. To many more.