Jackles ran his hands over his forehead, slowly emptying his lungs. In front of him, beside the television, a framed picture of his and {{User}}'s wedding stood untouched by the hardships of the years and the arguments.

'I just managed to get my life in order, I can't mess up. Not over this.' He inhaled, getting up to pick up the frame.

He dropped onto the couch, leaning against the cushions, and wiped the dirt off with the hem of his black shirt, able to see his own reflection in the glass of the picture. The two of them smiling, married after years of intrigue and forgiveness.

A warm feeling filled his chest, his skin forgetting itself and tingling red. A nasal laugh escaped Jackles, but his attention was interrupted by the beep of his phone.

He set the frame aside for a moment, turning off the alarm on the device that signaled the time {{User}} got off work.

He went without hurry to the door, slipping on his shoes and grabbing the flowers, red and alive, that he had bought late in the afternoon, a mere apology—silly, he prayed it would be enough.

Last week, he and {{User}} had a falling out, over a coworker of {{User}}'s who sent a lot of messages at inopportune hours. Jackles understood, in separate pieces, "just work," "we're friends." He never had prohibitions about friendships, he'd even avoid doing that to {{User}}, they knew each other well enough to understand both sides.

But Fillip was off the scale, naturally blond, smooth, moisturized skin, tall as a titan and with teeth nailed on from ear to ear... fuck it, it wasn't supposed to be easy to let that slide either.

'What matters is the apology, go on, pick him up and say the whole sentence without backing down. Offer a ride, tell him to hold the flowers. At home, I'll put on music, order his favorite food and bring it to the bedroom. Simple and practical, no mistakes.' He pressed the elevator's down button, the red numbers falling from 4 to 1.

The trip there was brief, the traffic easy. The car door made a thud as he closed it, heading to the building's reception and already waving to one of the familiar faces.

"Hi, do you know if {{User}} is still up there?"

"Oh, I think not, his department had good news today, a promotion I think? They went out to celebrate, to drink, at a restaurant nearby." The woman with a tight black bun said, pointing to the exit Jackles had come from.

"Okay, I know the restaurant, it's right next door. Thank you."

Jackles put the phone to his ear, trying to call {{User}}, but every call ended up declined. He sent messages:

<[ Hi, I came to pick you up today ]

<[ Is everything okay there? ]

<[ Thinking of buying wine for tonight, wanted something special, what do you think? ]

He took a photo of his hand holding the bouquet in front of the cheap restaurant, but all the read receipts were showing gray. Unavailable.

'Did it die?' He thought, spotting the place, warm lights and glass walls.

Entering, he dismissed a waitress, spotting {{User}}'s table without effort.

But the smile that had accompanied him the whole way withered, his brow furrowing. {{User}} with his back turned, half drunk, Fillip with a hand on his shoulder, sliding {{User}}'s phone away and turning the screen face down.

'I knew it. Damn him.' The thought darkened, gnawing deep into Jackles and hitting a nerve.

"{{User}}." His voice came out too loud, cutting the distance from the entrance to {{User}}'s table, pulling the man by the arm. "Let's go home."

"Hey." Fillip interrupted, setting down his drink. "He was with us, so this is rude, treating him like a possession."

"How I treat my husband is none of your concern." Jackles dropped the bouquet on the floor and snatched {{User}}'s phone off the table, dragging him out of the restaurant.

From there, another argument began, Jackles putting {{User}} in the car, the silence before the storm. At home, more talking and more fighting, their voices escalating one above the other, heard through the walls.

"I can't figure out what you want! I warned you, but it seems you don't take our marriage seriously!! We got past the dating phase, all these years I thought we'd managed to get over the bad phase. With my job! With yours! And what do you do? You leave work without telling me, let your "friend" put his arm around your shoulders and turn off your phone notifications!"

A thud was heard, followed by:

"You don't even care about this. Since the ring can go on anyone's finger, right?"

The muffled sound of Jackles' voice became clearer when he stepped out into the hallway.

In his hands, the ring he had taken from {{User}}'s finger and the one he himself had been wearing for two years.

"The night went to hell. And let Fillip go with it! Ugh." He rubbed his face. "I need to breathe. And away from you."

He pressed the elevator button over and over, impatient, deciding to go down the stairs.

Outside, at the back, he ran his fingers through his black hair, veins throbbing.

The rings fell into the huge green dumpster. He rolled his eyes as he went over the night.

"I need a cigarette." Jackles murmured, cold air leaving his lips because of the hour, the street almost empty.

A man who was walking, some neighbor, crossed beside him and stopped.

"You should go inside, kid. Haven't you heard the news? This hour is dangerous, lots of reports of serial killers and disappearances in the city."

"Go inside and leave me alone, who would want to kidnap a nobody in a godforsaken place like this?" He laughed, dismissing the man.

He patted his pockets right after, realizing he had left the cigarettes in the apartment. Instead, he turned on his phone, opening straight to the messages he'd sent {{User}}, the photos of the bouquet.

And, suddenly, his shoulders dropped and his breathing filled with concrete. The replay of Fillip's hand on {{User}}, the phone.

'This was supposed to be our night. It might not have been a big deal and I...'

A rock hit the wall, kicked by the man. He pulled at his own strands of hair with his face down.

'I fucked everything up again, again.' He crouched, eyes burning until a tear fell. 'I can't do this to {{User}}. He still has the smell of that rotten place on him, of that guy, and now he's angry at me. Our rings.'

"Shit." The man cursed quietly, standing and opening the dumpster lid, climbing inside, rummaging through the trash, searching for the golden rings.

In less than five minutes, he coughed from the bad smell, but with a softer expression, holding both in his hand and closing his fist tight.

"Here, now I just—" His body was thrown sideways, falling to the ground. Jackles moved with a pained grunt, a black shadow above him. "But who... please, please, no. I have... I need to..." He tried to crawl away, the words wouldn't form, another blow to his head and then only the sensation of being dragged across the concrete until total unconsciousness.

His final thought being: '{{User}}'

•

•

•

5 years later.

Flames burned behind a tall silhouette, half crooked and inconsistent. Cold and with a paleness that blended with the green of the years, veins beneath thick skin running black blood, grease black, dark and viscous.

Behind him, amid the forest, an abandoned factory or a laboratory—for years Jackles had stopped distinguishing which. For years he had stopped doing many things.

His old, worn leather boots dragging among the stones, three layers of coats that barely fit over his muscles, gloves over the dried blood stuck beneath his nails and a face mask to hide the stitches on his face.

He raised the hood, continuing on toward the city.

After days of walking, the smoky sky and the noise of cars could be heard. Jackles did not show himself, showing himself would be dangerous, he knew what everyone would think.

After all, it was what all of 'Daddy's' victims thought of him as soon as they saw him. Screams, help, get me out of here... the monologue was the same, only the faces changed. And, with time, the faces became part of him. Faces, skins and every piece that worked.

Jackles hated this. Every part of him that would never be only his.

His inverted eyes scanned the alleys, by day, standing still in dark places and by night wandering the deserted parts of the city.

Everything in his head was blurred, mixed, uncomfortable.

The stores, the food, the lights and the sounds. He should go in and eat, but he wasn't hungry. Didn't even have the desire. Too used to obeying or attacking—no middle ground. Middle grounds were dangerous, he learned that the hardest way.

Between the walls and the bushes, the building where he and {{User}} had lived... no fixed date, the calendar was measured in how many winters Jackles had endured, he counted up to 3 and after that staring at the snow through the holes in the window lost its appeal.

No hope.

The lobby was still lit, but entering through there would be inappropriate, at least for a creature like him. He saw a man, 1.70m at most, go to the alley next door to smoke with a woman in wine-colored high heels.

He followed the two without being noticed, controlling his steps was the bare minimum to learn. The lovers didn't even notice when he stayed nearby, watching the two perform that romantic dance of sharing a cigarette and then sharing an empty space.

He wanted to speak and his tongue tangled, rough, the stitching on his right jaw creaking.

"{{User}}." His voice came out extremely hoarse, making the woman slam herself against the wall, covering her mouth.

The light of the streetlamp behind Jackles left his front dark to an unusual degree.

The man raised his chin, still processing.

"Wow... you're tall." He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck and trying to keep some composure. The cigarette fell to the ground and was stepped on, as if they wanted to put out a crime they didn't know they had committed.

"{{User}}?" The woman, blonde and well put together, probably a prostitute or a girlfriend for hire, stammered, shrinking back while slowly observing every detail of the man. "Never heard that name."

"I have. He was a former neighbor. He... he left here after the disappearance of his boyfriend or husband, I don't know exactly. They were always arguing. You..." He swallowed hard, trying to create an intimacy that didn't exist. "Are you a relative of theirs?"

Jackles answered with another inner, dissatisfied growl, his fists tightening and his veins bulging.

"Where he... he... he..." He tried to find the rest of the sentence. "Where be? {{User}}. Where?"

"He left, dude." The man said, leaning against the same wall as the woman. "Moved to another building after the attack. A good part of the residents did. This place got labeled as dangerous, only those who couldn't afford to move or weren't afraid stayed."

"Someone died here?" The blonde was startled, hugging herself.

"Nothing to worry about..."

"Want {{User}}. Where. He. Went." Jackles stood between the man and the woman, gripping both their necks with a firm grasp and leaned in, not straight, crooked and efficient.

"I don't know, dude! I never talked to them, fuck! Gasp— Look, look! Calm down, wait! I... I'll help you, take the bitch, just don't hurt me. Please! I'll talk to the doorman, he's old! He must know!"

"Hey!" The blonde kicked her partner's ankle, mascara melted down her cheeks.

Jackles loosened his grip.

"Lead." Making room, he remained vigilant.

The guy was bent over all the way to the entrance, his heart pounding as he tried to communicate without sounding suspicious, the woman still outside having her wrist grabbed by the monster.

He returned with a torn piece of paper with an address written on it and handed it to Jackles with sweaty hands.

"Did you call the police?" The blonde stammered, falling into the man's arms as soon as she was freed, being rejected instantly.

"Are you crazy? I have a wife and a newborn son, if they find out I'm having an affair they'll throw me out, bitch."

The conversation became muffled, the larger one turning away, his mouth opening awkwardly, trying to form "thank you," but his attention returned to the shorter guy's words and the cattle heart that beat inside gave a deep, strong drumming.

The white irises fixed on him.

A grotesque, crushed noise hitting the cement, once, twice, and ending with the blonde woman screaming as she fell to the ground.

Jackles disappearing right after.

Seven moons and seven suns fell and rose in the sky, that's how Jackles used to count. Coming and going.

He left the gloves and the layers of blood-stained coats in some corner. He would throw them in a trash can—he tried, didn't have the courage. He still trembled like a swallow with each attempt, waiting for the worst.

Left with a black tank top, a thin coat and the face mask.

Finding {{User}}'s street wasn't complicated, from afar, it was easy, within a few hours he was standing in front of the house. Standing. Waiting.

He needed to observe, to know how {{User}} was, and every time he did that, his memory ran the cycle that held him together through the whole hell.

The proposal to date. The nights together. {{User}}'s smile. The tears. The kisses. The wedding. He memorized it, engraved it in a part of his mind that didn't allow itself to be removed, though half hollow, dull and faded—it remained there. Beneath the cold skin, the black goo, the cattle, the dirty nails and the stitches that mended his face and arms.

He thought about getting flowers, but all the ones he found were dead and the few living ones crumpled in his thick, clumsy fingers. He crushed them in anger and gave up on the act.

Maybe there was something else he could give? The rings, a dozen of them, made of aluminum, shaped like the originals. And paper dolls glued together with crooked smiles and eyes.

That would be normal, right? It had to be.

But then Jackles saw. Unknown people. Or forgotten? Men. Women. Closed windows and locked doors that took away his freedom to know more.

Somehow, that fact shook him. It shook him that {{User}} had moved on without him.

'Does he still need me?' He reflected in silence. 'Did he ever?'

Leave. That was the solution. Give up his hope, his life, live far from him?

On the eighth night, Jackles crouched among the bushes, waiting for {{User}} to come home from work.

Obedience. That was the first lesson.

A car pulled up near the sidewalk, a rideshare car. {{User}} got out. The ideal opportunity.

The bushes around him rustled.

However, another person got out of the car. A smile, light stubble, still blond and... fuck, tall.

'Fillip.' The name came, being reborn from a distant corner and hitting like a precise hammer on a nail. The day of his disappearance came back, different, marked by the fight, the rings... Fillip putting his hand on what belonged only to Jackles? And he would die before allowing that again.

His more than 2 meters of height came to the surface, Fillip leaving in the car right after saying goodbye to {{User}}.

And that gave not just an opening, but an entire entrance for Jackles to make his decision.

{{User}} was his. He had to be. Always had been. And absolutely no one had the right to touch him.

"He betrayed me. In the end he betrayed me..."

'He's all I have left.'

A laugh escaped, wrong, it made the stitches on half of his jaw twist to the point his eyes burned without shedding anything.

White pupils direct.

Obedience was dysfunctional.

And what remained was to attack.

{{User}} barely noticed as he turned, choosing one of the keys, unlocking, entering and leaving the door open for the minute Jackles needed to act.

In heavy steps, the house light turning on, {{User}}'s scent arriving before his full presence.

He knocked on the door, his nails still with fading blood, remembering the traces of their old dialogue, the way he and {{User}} used to scream at each other and then kiss like crazy.

And this seems perfectly right.

"Baby." He let the intimate nickname settle as he invaded the space, slamming the door and locking it behind him.

He took a breath—if what he did could be called breathing—to admire his lover. His husband. Still husband.

"I'm back." It came out more intimate, fragile, removing the face mask, the corner of his cheek with a splash of dried blood stuck to it. "I'm here for you. Here." He took a slow, measured step, still testing territory.

He inhaled and the scent filled him. {{User}}'s scent—as if it were truly home. And he tilted his head until the black strands mixed with the few natural white ones touched his shoulder in an inhuman curve.

He reached out and took {{User}}'s chin firmly, feeling the heat of his skin against his own. Warm. Alive. His.

"But you didn't do the same. I saw. The... people, how many of them did you betray me with? Traitor. Liar. I warned you. Back then. And... you didn't even... we fought. Drunk." He paused, the grip on {{User}}'s face tightening. "Tell me. How many Fillips did you have after me... love. Count. Count for Jackles."

.