Post-Coital Panic

a/n: So, I totally forgot I hadn't posted this here. I think I was saving it for another double chapter, but I've been severely unmotivated and everything's since come to a halt. Someone just commented on the last chapter and was like "I've been waiting for months" and when I looked at the end of Ch.03, I was fully expecting to see the end of this chapter. Smh. Anyway, no real smut, mostly plot and introspection. You should know my chapter routines by now.

TW's: Graphic-ish descriptions of violence.

"I'm headed there right now, man, hand to God! Wha--? I'm religious

enough!

Henry, seriously, I know where it is, I'm

coming.

Yes, yeah, I know. I know, I'm sorry!"

I appreciate anything that disrupts the banality of a day, whether its impact be negative or positive. Depending on the life a person curates for themselves, everything becomes banal after enough repetition. Rearing children, a career born of passion, hobbies, drunken revelry, sex, violence. People are remarkably adaptive if there's habitual exposure to the same stimuli, which is why growth hinges on change. Newness and rarity are invaluable, and I've become a collector in that broad category. Anything can be new or rare, regardless of a fictitious number it's been assigned. Both tangible objects and--

"I'm so fucked." Kit's earlier enthusiasm over the Performante is nowhere to be found. He raps the butt of his phone against his forehead. Mild self-flagellation. His friends are disgruntled by his continued delay.

"Your friend?" Pointing out the obvious is enough for Kit to be forthcoming. Were I anyone else, even that wouldn't be necessary. With me, he feels the need to wait for conversational cues. Unless he's irate.

"Nah, what makes you think that?" It's a lighthearted barb, and he often relies on them to deflect. This one is followed by a genuine answer. "Henry. I was supposed to get off the boat with them this morning."

Henry Lionel Puckett, twenty-eight. Graduated 'summa cum laude' from Harvard Law as of one year ago, engaged to Sarah Mabel Canady for that same length of time. This is his bachelor's trip before their autumnal wedding. What can't be gleaned off social media can be bought or dug up in other, more complicated ways. Fortunately, a troupe of Americans on holiday don't require the latter. Kit's in attendance out of pure obligation to his closest friend.

He's deeply terrified of open water. Regularly seasick as well. Those details were discovered through organic interaction, which is more rewarding. Even more rewarding than that, when Kit deigns to share it himself.

"Генри очень важен, раз вы сели на корабль ради него."

I denote Henry's importance, since he was willing to board a ship at all for his sake. It can be taken a number of ways, but given Kit's general hotheadedness, he latches onto an imaginary slight, that I could be suggesting he's anything other than strictly heterosexual with his lifelong friend. When embarrassed, the top of his ears flush.

"He's my

friend."

He stresses the platonic nature of their relationship. "Best friend. He's getting married, and this is a

bachelor's trip.

It wasn't his idea. We were supposed to go hiking, camping at Yosemite. His fuckbuddy from Harvard put this stupid shit together. I can...deal. I'm

fine."

Yesterday evening, Kit's eavesdropping revealed to him my purpose for being aboard the ship. Far less frivolous than a bachelor's trip. Learning of a plot to end anyone's life, let alone an influential member of parliament, would usually warrant...melodrama. The likes of which require cleaning up. Instead, less than an hour later, I found him wooing a socialite at one of the onboard lounges. He'd made no moves to expose an imminent crime, nor did he seem particularly bothered to be in the proximity of one. Carrying on as normal. While he grew tense at my appearance in the elevator, bursting with nerves on the forced march to my room, he didn't express any true fear until the terrace.

In the presence of a recently discovered killer, Kit was more terrified of something as timeless and insensate as water. A sea that's only crime is existence, unaware of the innumerable civilizations birthed and deceased at its border. The sea doesn't kill, man just often fails to survive it. I, on the other hand, do kill. I do it with intention. I'm good at it. Realizing that meant next to nothing in the face of Kit's blind, primal fear was refreshing. He's an oddity in many ways, and instead of feeling written off, I appreciated the newness of it.

That's all to say, 'fine' might not be as true as he wants it to be.

I was undecided on how to proceed, as he'd become a potential leak. There was no logical reason to let him live, and I should have done exactly as he feared. Except, what a tremendous waste it'd be. Kit's generated more activity in a withered limbic system than I've experienced in months. Whereas a shiny, new toy loses luster in a matter of hours, my interest in him hadn't yet dimmed. There was too little I knew, and what I did know, those idiosyncrasies hooked into me like ten fishermen casting in the same puddle. When he braved the terrace, shaking and green in the face, it was difficult to rationalize his death as merely plugging a leak.

"I don't care what you do."

To preserve their life, anyone can say anything. Babbling pitiful, nonsensical things. They swear on their silence, promise tripple what I'd already been paid, or fumble out the names of estranged children and a neglected spouse. Kit's declaration was flat, a toneless fact. He wasn't trying desperately to convince me of it, nor was he bartering for another breath. He really, truly didn't care so long as he believed himself safe, which he did at the point of saying it. His subsequent actions and behaviors upheld that.

Kit is upbeat, reactive, and headstrong. It was surprising to see such apathy from him. Normally, that genre of person would care very much. I expected him to be loudly, recklessly moral.

"Прекрасно? Have you managed to digest a single meal while aboard the boat, or they've all been regurgitated?"

Rephrasing, Kit

can be

reactive, but not always. He's adept at forcing himself to take such comments in stride, calculating a response instead of blurting out an angry, defensive refute. Now is one of those moments, as a sly grin spreads across his face. His smiles are always marked by a flash of even, clean teeth. Bright eyes crinkle winsomely at the edges.

He slides his tongue between said teeth, curling it suggestively, "hey, I kept your dick down, didn't I?"

Objectively, not accounting for personality, Kit's pleasing to the eye. Young, symmetrical, and fit. Checking those three boxes are enough to deign a person attractive, give or take some cultural standards. Golden skinned. Cognac eyes thickly lashed, a slit running through the tail of his right brow where a childhood folly developed into scar tissue. Bronzey, shagged hair that seems to settle in a style whether he means it to or not. Depending on preference, his personality is intense enough to either repel or magnetize those around him. He reminds me of the yappy, affable Spitz that subsisted off the Khrushchevka residents' hospitality. Nipping at the ankles and gouging up the shoes of those who bestowed it any attention, though endearing enough to largely avoid reprimand.

"That you did."

Subjectively, I'm taken.

For me, it doesn't take much to become so, but that feeling is all too quick to fade. In this case, it's not so much fading, but escalating. Kit feels strangely untouchable. It's taken him such little time to accept and settle into a dynamic he's unaccustomed to, and in becoming comfortable, the scale tips in his favor. While my interest grows, his seems to wane. Outside of sex, I hold no weight in his world. He's absurdly laidback, content with the impermanence of this experience.

I've never dealt with blatant disregard from a sexual partner. Let alone a partner that knows as much as he does. No matter that it's disrupting the banality of my day, it's

unpleasant.

More than unpleasant, I detest it.

"You can just drop me at the front, those pricks are already inside."

The Monte Carlo Casino, a hotbed for tourists.

"Do you need some pocket money?" It's half in jest, half a genuine offer I know he'd never accept.

Kit laughs, then appears startled at himself for doing so. Brows up, he lights with that wide, cheeky grin again. "Nah, then I'd feel like a prostitute. Nothing against it, but I take my loads to the face for free, like a real man."

He's incredibly casual about the sex he was mortified over only three days ago, going so far as to sneak off and take shelter in his suite for a majority of the following day. I wonder how he doesn't give himself whiplash. Of course, there's a very fresh memory in what he'd said, and it's one I'm not unaffected by. Kit was the picture of hedonism less than two hours ago. Damp, toned back adhered to the passenger door's gaudy paint. Shirtless, shorts trapping his knees together. He'd committed yesterday's lesson to heart, snaking his tongue around my cock as though he were operating on a lifetime's experience.

The first time, he was tormented by embarrassment. Now, he makes it a priority to find my eyes. To make certain I'm watching. I can't say if it's a proclivity he's always had or one he's recently discovered, but the concept of an audience electrifies him. With the dull roar of oncoming traffic descending around the bend, grinding on the opposite side of the Performante, Kit would flinch and shudder. He'd pinch off the head of his cock to try and keep from ejaculating prematurely, back twisting against the car's door. With his head tipped back, the detail in his face was worth remembering: pink in the plateaus, mouth wide, eyes unfocused and heavy with desire.

Painted in cum, there's never been a prettier picture.

Debaucherous. Breathtaking, and it frothed a violent appetite in me. His body's as sensitive as his temperament, and to become so excited over the mere idea of being seen, it was a matter of extreme effort to keep from escalating our roadside tryst. Should I fix him to the Performante's hood like a gilded ornament, chest searing against the superheated polymer, I can imagine all the ways he'd shatter with each passing motorist. He'd be so deeply ashamed of himself. Perhaps he'd cry, yell, or plead with me not to take it that far.

But, his body wouldn't mind any of it. Pinned in place, my cock bruising the back of his navel, he'd be helpless against riptides of pleasure at the screech of brakes, the grumble of an engine, the swoosh of something large and fast barreling by. Perhaps there'd even be an orgasm per witness, and I'd absorb them all like his steadfast lightning rod. While I don't doubt he's had no prior experience with men, it's sometimes difficult to believe.

Unfortunately, our 'morning after' is at its end. The Casino Square opens up between multistory monuments to the era of Bella Èpoque. Curvilinear forms chiseled from bone-white marble and granite, mortared together for the sake of those too affluent to appreciate it. Weeping palms, water arching dramatically from a fountain, and a roundabout that winds in front of Kit's destination. There's only the tedium of work once he departs.

"Oh, shit!" He squawks, attempting to make himself smaller in the seat. "Can you, uh, let me off around the corner, actually?"

Under one of the pavilions, a number of Kit's companions are standing. One of them, his dearest Henry. Another is Charles Jonathan Kaiser, the aforementioned 'fuckbuddy' who'd planned and paid for this venture. It isn't clear if they've been waiting for his arrival or had stepped out for unrelated reasons, but he's not divulged a single truth regarding his lateness or whereabouts. Appearing in a car as conspicuous as this, with a man none of them have met, will prove challenging to explain. Which is why I ease the Performante to a rumbling stop in front of said pavilion, feigning ignorance.

"This is where you're expected, is it not?"

Kit isn't fooled, snapping through his teeth, "you

asshole.

See if I ever blow you again."

"Shall I get the door for--?"

"No! God, no." He unsnaps the belt, pushes the door ajar, and seems as if he's about to throw himself at the curb without another thought or backwards glance. Though, before he goes, he traces reverent fingertips across the swooped script centering the dashboard. One of Lamborghini's many, many logotypes printed, engraved, and stitched all over the car, as if it could be mistaken for anything but.

"It's been fun, baby."

I'm expecting that to be his final farewell, parting words withheld from me out of pettiness. He continues to astound, however: "Ah, good...luck?"

With the murder of Herr Bauer, he means.

Of everything, it very nearly earns a full laugh. He joins the trio waiting under the canopy without looking back, and I endeavor to do the same, avoiding the rearview mirror as the car tugs away from the curb. Doing so when he hadn't would only add to his side of the scale. The Performante was a prop to invoke a reaction from him, and I'd say it pulled thrice its weight. Kit likes cars. Kit likes many things, more than he dislikes. He's very transparent on social media, active enough to build a decent profile.

Kit Carrington. 'Kit' isn't the shortened version of a longer forename, and he was given no middle name. Twenty-seven. Resides in Bend, Oregon as of five years ago, born and raised in Iowa. College educated, though coming out with certifications in lieu of a degree. He works in the fitness industry as both a trainer and nutritionist. Technically freelance, he outsources his service to several facilities in his city, as well as providing regimens and recipes to those online clients that can't or won't attend a gym. Reviews assert he's good at his job. His body asserts the same, and he's shameless in posting it.

It's the product he's selling, after all.

In twelve years worth of posts, he's never shared the name or face of any romantic partners. Only friends, usually large groups. He goes out frequently, and alcohol is present more often than not. Social events, but outdoor excursions as well: climbing, camping, hiking, surfing. The only exception to his mastery of the natural Earth is anything that requires being more than a mile from land. There are no pictures of him on a boat without the shoreline or a dock clear and present in the background, and even then, he looks uncomfortable.

He likes animals, but doesn't keep pets. He likes people, but doesn't keep many close. He has a lot of interests and hobbies.

None of which are traveling abroad or scholarly in nature.

This begs the biggest question, one I've not yet found an answer for: where does his broad umbrella of knowledge stem from? Why has his Russian improved from basic comprehension and broken simplicities to near fluency in less than five days? At the poker table, as well. He had an edge, but I was unable to discern what it was. With an exceptional mind, there are markers in a person's life to reflect that. With Kit, there are none. All of his documented achievements are physical ones. He's never sought higher education or won awards. He isn't navigating the career path of a prodigy. While I'm not one to deal in whimsies, whenever his eyes fall upon me--

...it's as if my picture is being taken. Kit's attention is what it feels like to be recorded or photographed. Even before we exchanged a single word, it was impossible to miss that unsettling sensation. Through the lowlight of the ship's steakhouse, and again between polychrome bursts at a nightclub. In searching for the source, I found the click--shutter of his gaze. It took some time and investigation to reassure myself that's all it actually was. 'Why' and 'how' continue to elude, however.

Confirming that it was Kit, not an entrapment effort by local law, the sensation was no longer unpleasant. Now, it's another rarity to be collected.

How exciting.

I've never been so greedy for the spotlight, for another person's wholehearted focus. Simply by existing in his field of view, my presence becomes something permanent, as if Kit will have to carry it around for the remainder of his life. He's aware of it too, keeping his eyes turned away all too often. There's been more than a few times I've had to restrain myself from snatching him by the face and forcibly turning them back, seizing his attention by whatever means I need to. Look at me more,

only at me.

Forcing anything is never as satisfying as winning it, and it's that ideal to stay my hand every time. Every time, it proves worth my patience.

Kit isn't the only one with an active line, unfortunately. After suffering an incessant buzz against my thigh for the last half hour, I withdraw the device from my pocket and answer without confirming the caller. Borislav is the only one who'd call so many times in a row. It's not my favorite quality of his.

"Говорите."

He's able to squash the ire in his voice, and he doesn't dawdle in getting to the point.

"Я понял."

I'll be arriving at his location in ten minutes, which would put me an hour and thirteen minutes behind our scheduled rendezvous. I'd like to say 'these things happen', but I'm not one for tardiness. I don't tolerate it from others, nor myself. Borislav knows better than to mention it, but he's displeased. He's of the uptight sort to begin with, but currently, he's muling an expensive and illicit substance. It was easier to make contact with a seller at one of the many ports of call versus attempting to smuggle it on during the initial boarding. Given the number of prominent passengers, security's strict.

This close to the trip's end without incident, it tends to slacken.

Every job requires effort, some more than others. My client requested Herr Bauer's death be as discreet and believably natural as possible, meaning he can't simply up and vanish. Neither can he be found with a slashed jugular or full of holes. It's not that I prefer those messier methods, they're just easier. Cheaper, far less time consuming. Fortunately, Emir Bauer likes to drink. He likes it so much, he's finished out every day of this trip blind drunk and belligerent. He's had multiple incidents with staff and other passengers, including his wife, as he drinks well past the point of conducting himself civilly.

Almost any death is believable in a drunkard's case.

Myself and my two partners are, as far as he's aware, in Herr Bauer's employ as hired security. That's proved to be the biggest headache, as it publicly attaches me to him in some capacity. Should there be an investigation, witnesses can place me in his frequent proximity. Getting hired at all was also tedious, requiring the fabrication of a company that doesn't exist. But, if not us, he'd have hired others. A team of men who'd more than likely do the job they were contracted for, which would be an awful nuisance. No one but Herr Bauer is aware of our role, however. Not even his wife.

He's ashamed of the need for protection, but aware enough to know it's necessary.

That pride of his has reduced the workload in many ways. When inserting myself as a candidate for his security detail, he was the only man that needed convincing of our legitimacy. Of everything he's been told, Herr Bauer only knows my face and that I hail from some ambiguous corner of Россия. He met me as Ivan, the 'John' or 'Mohammod' equivalent. Whether they're a target or not, it's the name I give to almost everyone.

It would be exactly everyone, but the idea of Kit begging for anything from 'Ivan' in the midst of sex put a foul taste in my mouth. With previous partners, it's not been an issue. More than a leak, giving up my name was a gaping, spewing hole. That, too, was worth it.