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“What the hell is wrong in that fucking psycho mind of yours?!”
If Niklas hasn’t heard the sound of the front door being unlocked from outside – did he let him keep a set of spare keys? – he cannot miss the bang it makes when his former bassist and boyfriend slams it shut.
“And good day to you as well, my dear.”
“Not in the mood, Nik.”
“Okay. Let me at least say happy birthday then.”
Christian stands in front of Nik who has not even gotten up from the ugly dark green IKEA chair he spends half of his awake time slouched in.
The younger man is a sight to behold. Tall and slender, though less emaciated than last year when he was still in the band – Niklas notices because he likes the feel of protruding bones right under the skin but a little extra flesh to grope and grab can be useful and fun too. Christian’s long straight blond hair cascade down his shoulders all the way past his elbows. It’s probably an inch longer than last time he saw him. Large hands and long fingers anchored on his narrow hips. He’s staring at Nik, fuming. Anger and exasperation color his eyes, making them a few shades darker, as if he needed to look any hotter.
“You sick dirty bastard…,” Christian hisses.
Nik cocks his head to the side and rubs his scruffy chin.
“Oh, yeah, talk to me dirty… You’re getting me hard already.”
Christian is not amused.
“Shut up!”
Niklas pouts and tries to look innocent. He fails miserably, especially when he spreads his legs a bit and reaches for his junk. Not his fault. An upset Christian gets him going every time.
“You’re… Impossible! And Insane! You know what I just spent two hours doing?”
It’s a rhetorical question. Christian doesn’t wait for another smartass answer from Niklas.
“I spent two hours cleaning up the entrance lobby and mailboxes of my apartment building. Because there was blood that dripped down on four different mailboxes and the floor.”
Christian passes a nervous hand in his hair.
“Three of my neighbors wanted to call the police. My landlord is already aware of the mess and has received at least 15 pictures of the crime scene. And of course, the whole building is going to meet tonight at Mrs. Johansson’s ground floor flat to discuss the ‘situation’ and whether I need rescuing or counselling to get out of whatever weird Satanist cult they think I might try to escape from.”
“Sorry it leaked. I should have used a Tupperwear.”
Christian’s eyes grow wide and for a split second he thinks he misheard. But no, he didn’t. He shakes his head and laughs out of desperation. It’s brief and doesn’t make him feel better but he tried.
“You kidding me, right? No, you shouldn’t have used a Tupperwear, nor a metal lunch box or not even a radioactive waste container. What you should have done is not, and please take notice that I emphasize the not in my sentence, so you should not have put a bloody animal heart in a cardboard box on top of my mailbox. And please tell me it was an animal heart.”
Niklas winces. Christian’s voice is not angry anymore. He sounds exhausted. This is much less sexy. Unless he would be exhausted from panting and screaming under him. Then it could still have its little effect but not now.
The older man finally stands up and stretches.
“Pig.”
“Pardon?”
“It was a pig’s heart.”
Christian lets out a huge internal sigh of relief. Clearly, it wasn’t a human heart. It couldn’t have been… Right?
“You put a pig heart all bloody and disgusting and… In a carboard box on top of my mailbox. For my birthday,” Christian recapped.
“Did you read the card?”
Christian’s long arms fly up above his head.
“Shit, no! Damn, there was a card? I wish I had seen it.”
“It was in the box.”
“I threw the whole thing away without a further look! What did you expect?”
“You didn’t see the symbolism into all this?”
“There is nothing symbolic. You’re insane. Clinically and certified.”
“I wrote a few lines of poem on the card. Might have been shitty, though. I don’t really recall. I was drunk when I wrote it.”
“How considerate.”
“Christian, my heart bleeds for you. Everyday since we parted.”
Christian ponders for a moment whether he should leave now. Talking with Niklas is inevitably going to lead to more insanity, cursing, guilt, pity and hopefully nothing else but Christian is never really sure.
“I need coffee,” he says and walks away towards Niklas’ kitchen.
The good old coffee maker that used to be on the counter in the corner next to the white toaster has disappeared. Instead, there is a brand new fancy looking black and grey espresso machine with a mini shelf stacking Nespresso pads of various colors next to it.
“What the fuck?,” Christian says when he notices Niklas followed him in the kitchen.
“My sister got it for me last Christmas.”
The fact that there is a new modern espresso machine in Niklas’s kitchen seems to piss Christian off to no end. Neither of the two men could explain why but nevertheless, Christian puts a coffee capsule in the machine and proceeds to make himself a lungo forte, whatever that means.
“Listen, Chrissy,” Niklas starts but cannot finish.
The look he gets from Christian is murderous. That’s already much better, according to Niklas’s tastes.
“What? We’re starting over. I’m trying a new cute nickname for you.”
“We’re starting over? What ? How? Says who?”
Niklas tsks him.
“I can’t live without you.”
“We never lived together.”
“Figure of speech. I want you back. I am not happy when we’re not together.”
“You’re perpetually depressed and suicidal. It wasn’t different when I was in your bed.”
Christian picks up the cup and blows on the hot liquid before taking a sip to see if he’ll burn his tongue or not.
“Not true. You made a difference. My therapists said they saw the difference after you left.”
Christian rolls his eyes and walks out of the kitchen.
“Okay, no more nickname in the outside world. I call you Christian. Except in bed, where I hope I can still call you bitch. Baby, please?”
Christian manages not to completely choke on his lungo forte.
“I am not having sex with you anymore. We are done. For good!”
“You have someone else?”
“None of your business.”
“Come back in the band then. At least. I need to see you. Regularly. You keep me sane,” Niklas admits.
“You have another bass player.”
“Not a problem. He’s fired.”
“It’s so easy?”
“Yes, it is.”
“What if he makes a scene and doesn’t want to leave?”
“I don’t know. I will kill him… We’ll see. Let’s not get lost in the details.”
Christian squints his eyes. Not, he’s not serious. But he won’t take a chance anyway.
“No, thank you. Let the guy live. I have a music project of my own.”
“You need a singer?”
“I sing,” Christian replies.
“Oh. Okay. You have a nice voice. You can scream over a few octaves,” Niklas confirms.
“Where’s your cat?,” Christian asks.
Although Niklas is batshit crazy, Christian trusts him for never harming the little fluffball that shares his life.
“Probably in the bedroom.”
Christian finishes his coffee and leaves the cup on the table in the living room.
“I have to go. I need to sort out the mess with my neighbors and I have to call my landlord to try to explain… I don’t know what I’ll say.”
“You want me to call him to explain?,” Niklas suggests.
“No, please don’t.”
“You do something for your birthday tonight?”
“I have plans, yes.”
Niklas nods. Nothing more from Christian. It’s clear he’s not invited and the young man is not feeling sorry for him.
“Well, it was nice to see you and catch up a bit,” Niklas says while patting Christian’s shoulder.
“You’re… Nevermind. I’m going.”
Christian walks out. No door slamming this time.
Niklas gets back to the living room and sits in his favorite green armchair.
He gets his cell phone out. Christian was really pissed. That was the idea. Get something out of him at least. Some reaction. He didn’t want him to have problems with his neighbors, though. He had not really thought about all that in the spur of the moment. But if they got upset about the blood… Probably he should cancel the delivery of the ten dozens of rotten roses he had ordered to be dropped in front of Christian’s apartment building for the evening. Now hopefully Niklas can find back the phone number of that florist…