Young Writers Society

Edited to make more sense =D 4th Aug

Nicotine and Spice

Part One: Before the Murder

It's a long walk home, the entrance of the night is scary.

Jaice had slept, interminably, for days. His awakening was unpleasant; he remained sitting still and staring dully for as long as possible before waking up properly. The apartment, never beautiful, was tangled in clothes and empty ready meal packets, flung haphazardly around the living room. The walls peeled with dry paint, a result of the terrible heat that had descended over the city the summer before. His kitchen was clogged up with dirty plates and cutlery; the sink piled so high and so stinking with rotting food that he had long ago given up any hope of resurrecting its use. The place exhausted him, so he slept to escape from it, drugged up on sleeping pills, pain killers and sedatives. He had been woken this time by the doorbell, miraculously still functioning. It rang again, longer this time - someone was impatient. Jaice knew who it was anyway so he took his time answering, only momentarily feeling ashamed for the mess and the smell of neglect. There were only two people who came by his apartment: the landlord, who hammered on the door and yelled “rent!”, and Adrién, who was a tolerated presence for all his faults. Adrién was a man who was hard to dislike, his foul mouth and irritating stubbornness were both balanced wonderfully by impeccable taste and timing. It had taken Jaice less than a week to fall in love with him; it would probably take him a lifetime to stop.

“Jesus, shit, Jaice you asshole. Take your fucking time,” Adrién swept past him, picking his feet up in distaste. Jaice always found it funny to hear the swearwords coming out of that mouth, an accent still liltingly French despite the years, his English learned half from school textbooks and half from American gangster movies. “How do you live like this?” He asked petulantly, glancing around the room, taking in the squalor.

“I manage,” Jaice muttered coolly, slumping back down onto the sofa and waving vaguely for Adrién to take the space beside him. Adrién, eying the brown canvas of the seat suspiciously, elected to stay standing.

“Jerk, why ‘aven’t you called?”

“I’ve been sleeping.” Jaice answered, avoiding Adrién’s eyes. He felt himself being studied critically.

“For two weeks? Jesus. This place needs fumigation. When did you last get into the air? Your skin is yellow!”

When Jaice turned to take a look at Adrién’s expression, he saw concern beneath the exasperation. It was a real inconvenience, having someone always checking in on him, Jaice reflected. And what made it more annoying was that Adrién was actually good company, and incredibly attractive. He had dark hair that Jaice had coveted, back when he had cared enough to regard his own appearance, and soft, pale skin that set off his dark eyes and long lashes. He took good care of himself too, honest-to-God manicured nails and muscular arms and shoulders. It had been two years since he’d been held in those arms, and Adrién still insisted on coming over, rubbing it in.

“Why go out? There’s nothing to see out there. Fucking Eiffel Tower, again? Boat on the Seine? Or I guess I could just walk around and get mugged for being a tourist.” Jaice's voice came out bitter.

“You’re not a tourist, jackass. You’ve lived here for how many years?” Adrién pulled a face, three years and he had known Jaice since the first day he set foot on French soil. He’d been so lost then; maybe even worse than now, still reeling from the destruction of his makeshift family in America, he had turned back to France as a last resort. His passport still had him down as a French national though he had not lived there since he was six years old, it had seemed somehow easier than finding himself a visa for some other place.

“No Frenchman has red hair.” Jaice replied, lamely. "They can spot me a mile off."

Adrién snorted dismissively and before Jaice could dodge he had the back of his hand against his forehead, cool and gentle.

“You look like shit, you smell like shit, your head is a pressure cooker and you’re coming for a walk with me.” The hand transferred to his wrist, pulled him up. Jaice’s stubbornness was overcome by weakness and resentful adoration.

----

The air was crisp and autumnal - was it autumn already? – And Adrién kept a slow steady pace, his arm strong around Jaice’s shoulder. He felt ridiculously skinny and pale, too much of a mess to be seen in public.

“People are looking at me,” he muttered, and Adrién laughed at him, greeting a couple walking past with a polite ‘bonsoir’.

“Why would they look at you when they could look at me? I’m much easier on the eyes.”

They sauntered for what seemed like a very long time; Jaice felt as though his legs were made of nothing and hardly touching the floor. He didn’t recognise the area of the city either, it had merged into an endless stretch of streets and buildings and cars. Paris had kept its charm despite the constant attention from governments trying to make it more modern, less of a damned fire hazard. That’s what had brought him back there, though his memories of the place were tied up in death and misery, somehow it had remained a home to him. The narrow streets, old-style street markets and outdoor cafés reminded him in an almost pleasant way of his parents, of his life before their deaths.

“Jai,” Adrién said softly, “I worry about you.” Jaice was too tired to be sullen, only whispered back:

“Yeah, well I’m alright.”

“You’re not alright, though. Who lives like you? You can’t sleep through your life.” Adrién had stopped them walking. He forced Jaice to look him in the face, tipping his head up with his knuckles beneath his chin. “I want you to come and stay with me for a while, so I can look after you. And I’ll get someone to fix your place.”

Jaice was sure that it was a stupid idea, all he wanted was to go back home now and curl up on his bed and take something to make everything else disappear. But somehow, suddenly, the idea of forcing his door open past all the stuff on the floor, breathing the staleness and the rot, wrapping himself up against the cold, had become huge and horrible. He knew Adrién’s place was nice. They’d worked together once, before Jaice had dropped everything for a simpler life of sleep and squalor, tapping away on keyboards to keep the city running. He made good money, enough for two floors of a block far, far away from the disruption of the suburbs. He could stay for one day, maybe two, let Adrién cook him proper food for once, sleep under clean sheets. He allowed himself a small nod, embarrassed that he needed this and yet relieved, deeply relieved that now his problems were someone else’s too.

----

Adrién’s apartment was nice, amazing in fact. All cream carpeting, glass shelves and coffee tables. Jaice felt too dirty to go inside, as though his very presence would sully the obsessive cleanliness of the place, but Adrién tugged him through the door. Through the large window taking up one wall Jaice could see the city, street lights blinking on and sparkling against the increasing dark.

“Could I take a shower?” he managed. When had he last taken a shower? He had lain, soaking and freezing in a cold bath three days before, but a shower was different. Real hot water, rejuvenation of the soul. Adrién showed him to a bathroom, the same spotlessness combined with sparkle. There was a razor on the top of the toilet that he was given permission to use, a new bar of soap wrapped up in paper and stuck with real wax. High class stuff. It seemed that Adrién had planned his arrival in advance. He turned the shower on first, stepping uncomfortably out of stained t-shirt and cotton trousers. He stood under the spray. His head jangled dizzily as hot steam filled the small room, forcing him to sit down. It was blissfully quiet, far enough away from the centre to be safe from the unceasing hubbub of night clubs and party goers. Jaice revelled in it, the calm and the warm water on his skin, his face, in his hair. This was something he could appreciate. Adrién had known just what he needed. He washed his hair, shaved, went to take a towel from a rack and saw to his surprise a little pile of clean clothes laid out for him. Either Adrién was a really amazing host, or he had had similar thoughts about the state of Jaice’s trousers and his white leather sofa. They were obviously Adrién’s clothes, a little too big, expensive and well made; they felt soft and comfortable against his skin.

----

When he emerged from the bathroom, looking a little less Neanderthal, Adrién had headphones in his ears and his head resting against the back of the armchair he was sitting in, his eyes closed. Jaice went and sat awkwardly on the sofa at right angles to him, tucking his knees into his chest like a child. Adrién must have sensed his presence and put down his music, smiling like the Buddha, all calm and compassion.

“Feel better?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m gonna have to burn those clothes,” he laughed, “You’re a disgrace, man. Don’t you have a washing machine? Not that you could get to it past all that crap. I called in the cleaners to your place, they’re starting tomorrow.”

“But ... my stuff?” Jaice was gripped with sudden fear, what about his pills, his computers?

“They’ll keep that shit in storage. You know those warehouses.” He waved a hand dismissively and Jaice put his head into his hands.

“This must be so expensive ...”

Adrién shifted places, moving to sit beside him, blowing air through his nose in amusement.

“I have money. Anyway, this is as much for me as it is for you. I don’t like having to go to your place when it’s so smelly and dirty. Right?”

“Right.”

“Listen, I know how hard it is for you. I just want to help, honestly. Don’t worry about it. Are you going to sleep?”

It was only then that Jaice realised how tired he was, how pathetic, to be exhausted by standing, walking, showering. Adrién must have seen that, stood and took him by the arm.

“Sleep, then. I will show you your room.”

Pressed against clean cotton pillows, Jaice watched as the electric alarm clock beside the bed switched numbers. 10:20, 10:21, 10:22, when he looked again it said 10:50 and then he couldn’t see it at all, only a blur of red light against the darkness of the room, reflecting dully on the white sheets. He became aware, vaguely, after some time had passed, of a presence close to him. A hand touched his hair and he thought he heard a sigh, or a whisper. He didn’t look up, only snuffled a little into the pillow and brushed his own fingers through his hair, feeling someone else’s skin against his. Calmed by the familiar scent of Adrién’s washing powder, or maybe aftershave, he slept again.

Just a start =] discovery of the body coming soon! I just love these characters. I hope no one minds their sort-of mxm relationship! I haven't written a murder mystery for ages and ages, I'm quite excited =D

This story goes with a rare Placebo song called Miss Moneypenny (I put the lyrics in my blog =] weblog_entry.php?POST_ENTRY_URL=22637 )

Link to part two.