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There’s sweat on his palms.
Which is ridiculous. He’s earned this. They wouldn’t have selected his art if they didn’t think it was good.
But this is John’s first big show. The first time he’s been able to show off more than two or three pieces at a time.
Peggy, a pretty sculptor with hands like magic, smiles at him- offers him a bottle of water. It’s okay, she says, to be nervous. She was nervous her first time too. It’s better to play it cool, collected. Be ready to answer questions about the artistic process, about his muse. Smile pretty, offer a sob story if he has one.
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A small crowd is forming to one side of the gallery, and that's where John notices him.
The man is the most beautiful person John has ever seen.
Smooth, curly hair pulled up high into a ponytail, silver stud in his left ear. He’s wearing a purple suit, tailored to show off his frame. There’s a silver watch on his wrist, it glints as he talks- hands waving to make a point.
Unlike John, he looks like he belongs here.
When he realizes that the man he’s been stealing glances at is coming towards his table, John does his best to wipe his palms without it being noticeable.
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“How much?”
They’ve been talking for two hours. Lafayette, as John has now learned his name, had commanded the room earlier. Spoke in a way that made people listen, has a voice like...
There’s no comparison that John can actually make. John has never been this close to wealth or power before, but he thinks, maybe, it’s like wine.
If nothing else because he could get drunk from listening to it.
Suddenly it occurs to John that he’s supposed to be saying something right now. Something has been asked, he shakes his head, apologizes for being unsure what Lafayette said.
Lafayette looks amused, repeats his question.
John flushes. “I, sorry, which one were you interested in?”
“Ah,” The man takes a slow look across the expanse of Laurens’ work, then turns back to him, smiles. “I could not simply pick one. It would not... do justice to your work to split them up. I know it must be hard to part with such masterpieces, but I shall pay handsomely for the pleasure of having the set.”
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It’s the biggest payday John’s ever had.
He pays his rent, buys groceries, spends the rest on new art supplies. There’s so much work to be done.
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Peggy sets him up with a bunch of small businesses that will take up to three pieces at a time for their walls. They only ask for a percentage of the profit when the piece sells.
Within two weeks, everything has sold.
John can barely breathe when it happens again. .
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“Ah, John Laurens, is it not?”
John turns from where he’s sketching a small turtle at the local park. Smiles brightly when he sees Lafayette on the trail, looking just as polished in jeans and a layered top as he had in his suit. Today his hair is free, bouncing as he walks towards John.
John has never been into portraits, but he can’t help but wonder what it’d be like to ask Lafayette to sit for one.
“Mr. Lafayette, I didn’t think I’d see you again!” John sets his sketchbook to the side, stands to shake the man’s hand.
Lets out a surprised meep when Lafayette uses his grip to pull John in and press a kiss to either side of his face.
“It is a pleasant surprise to come across the artist at work,” Lafayette says once he’s released him. “Do you spend much time here? At the park?”
It’s a struggle not to reach up and touch his face, but John does his best to appear normal. “I uh, not before now. But I was able to leave my old job and I’ve been searching for inspiration for new works.”
A moment passes between them, and then Lafayette glances back towards the rest of the park. “Have you ever been to the Sonnenberg Gardens?”
John blinks, shakes his head.
“Allow me to take you, John Laurens, there is much inspiration to be had.”
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The Sonnenberg Gardens are beautiful.
John spends two hours curled on a bench in the sub rosa garden, sketching away. It’s rude, he realizes, to do so, but once inspiration has struck he can’t seem to stop himself. When he’s through, he apologizes to Lafayette.
Who proceeds to wave off the comment entirely. Instead brings the focus to the fact that there are more gardens to explore, and while they cannot see them today- Lafayette would be delighted to escort him again.
The dinner afterward proves Laurens’ instincts right. Lafayette’s voice is white wine, like the one he orders for John. It makes everything feel floaty around him, especially when Lafayette laughs.
When John asks to pay him back, Lafayette asks for his number instead.
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It becomes a ritual of sorts.
Once a week, during the week, Lafayette takes him to a garden. John’s sketchbook overfills. Not every drawing makes it way to a canvas, but enough do. He’s making more money than he had working at the grocery store, more money than he ever expected to make.
Every other weekend he spends with Lafayette. It starts out as a Friday evening thing. Dinner, a club. Lafayette exposes him to a lifestyle that John had previously only dreamed about. Takes him wine tasting, to listen to the orchestra, to Broadway.
A month in and he invites John to go with him to a bed and breakfast, invites him for stargazing and brunch, to a moonlight tour to view flowers that only bloom at night. All in the name of inspiration, Lafayette insists.
Only ever accepts payment in the form of original pieces.
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Two months in and John finally works up the courage to ask Lafayette to sit for a portrait. He’s drunk on mimosas when he says it, leaning against Lafayette for support as they walk to the park. Tries to take it back immediately. After all, Lafayette knows he specializes in nature pieces.
But the idea delights the Frenchman too much, and he insists John allow him the pleasure. Says he’d be honored to be a part of such an experiment. Promises that he’ll love it no matter what.
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Lafayette, it turns out, is excellent at sitting for portraits. Has no problem sitting still for long periods, doesn’t complain when John stands up and tilts his head, or brushes back a strand of hair.
When John’s finally through with his preliminary sketch, Lafayette strokes it with his fingertips, careful not to smear the lines.
Strokes the sides of John’s face with a similar reverence.
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Lafayette considers John’s screams music. Wants to record the sound of him panting and moaning so that he can listen to them all day.
Blissed out, John consents to his picture being taken, stretches languidly to allow Lafayette the shots he desires. It makes him feel important, especially when the man shows the final product to him, fingers caressing the edge as he calls them art.
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“I’m sorry, Officer- I really don’t recall-” John stumbles over his words, does his best to answer the questions that he can. Promises to drop by the station later.
Across the table, Lafayette tilts his head to the side, drinks his tea. John appreciates the fact that he doesn’t push for details, doesn’t ask what the call was about.
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There’s been a string of murders over the past month, the cops assume it’s a series of burglaries gone wrong. Except, of the items stolen, there’s one thing that has popped up suspiciously often.
Pieces of John’s art.
John swears he’s never met these people, tells the officers about the places he sells his paintings. Gives them a full list of everyone he remembers selling to.
The police tell him they’ll be in touch. Not to leave town in the meantime.
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“Well, if it isn’t John Laurens.”
The familiar voice grabs John’s attention, and he laughs when he looks up. “Alex! I didn’t know you were in town. What brings you back to New York?”
“There was a conference about Police Brutality cases this week. I’ve actually been looking for you- you changed your number. I’m only here until Sunday- didn’t know if you wanted to catch up?”
They’d dated for three years. Three beautiful years, back before Alex moved to DC to be a Lawyer. Before Alex fled his past in search of greener pastures. John tells himself he’s not bitter about that anymore. After all, Alex had been the first one to really encourage John to take his doodling seriously.
John considers the offer, chews on his bottom lip and then references for Alex to take a seat across from him at the table. “Let me text Laf, I was supposed to meet up with him tonight- but I’m sure he’ll understand. Especially since you’re only here for the weekend.”
Especially because it’s been two years since Alex stepped foot in New York.
“Laf, huh? Is that the new boo?” Alex finally sits, stretching out to fill the space as much as he can.
It stings a little, to realize how much the man hasn’t changed. Always self-conscious about his short stature. Hurts, even more, to realize that the quirked eyebrow is most likely because Alex had meant to catch up in more ways than one.
“No one says boo anymore, Alex,” John says instead of answering the question.
The truth is, he doesn’t know what Lafayette is. They haven’t discussed it, and Lafayette seems more interested in his art than dating him. John stares down at his phone for a moment longer before deciding that he should still probably try and respect whatever it is that they do have. The man does take him out twice a week, after all.
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Not that Alex gets the memo.
They’ve barely made it out of the bar when Alex pins him to the wall, kisses him. “Do you remember how you used to paint on my back when you didn’t have a canvas? Would you like to do that again?”
There’s no paint in Alex’s hotel room, but they’re able to grab a pack of cheap markers at the corner store. By the time they part ways Sunday morning Alex is covered in intricate scenery, elongating the tattoo that John had drawn for him soon before the breakup. John is covered in swirls and hickeys. He makes a note to make sure he stays clothed when Lafayette takes him to the garden next.
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On Tuesday, Lafayette takes him to the Stonecrop gardens. Holds his hand as they walk up the trail, lets John sit between his legs as he draws. For the first time, he doesn’t draw what’s in front of him. The page is not covered in small bugs or flowers, there are no waterfalls or stones.
Lafayette kisses along his jawline, tightens his arms around John’s waist. Murmurs ‘mine’ as he watches John sketch out loose doodles of Lafayette from memory.
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The police call on Wednesday.
Alex didn’t show up for work on Monday.
John was the last one to see him.
They’ve confirmed at this point that John can’t be responsible for the robberies. Has John received any strange letters or gifts recently? Noticed any vehicles following him? Had any suspicious interactions in the last month?
Is there anyone he can stay with?
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They’re supposed to go to a concert Friday night, and John hesitates to call him. Doesn’t want to overstay his welcome, but the cops insist and John…
John doesn’t have anyone else.
Not really.
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Lafayette’s house is impressive, especially for New York.
Old money, the man explains, even though John doesn’t ask. Something about being from a long line that dates back to French royalty. It’s the most Laf has opened up about his past, and belatedly, John realizes it might be to try and make him feel more comfortable.
That Lafayette is trying to take his mind off of everything that is happening.
Gives him a tour of the house. Lafayette’s bedroom, where John is welcome to stay, the bathroom, the linen closet, the spare bedroom that John is also free to consider his own. John’s pleased to realize there’s even a bathroom attached. There’s a living room, a kitchen, so much more than John’s little studio apartment.
At the end of the tour, Lafayette pauses for a moment. Says it’s probably a silly thing to mention, but that John shouldn’t go up in the attic. There’s an infestation up there that Lafayette has been meaning to handle, but hasn’t gotten around to yet.
Asks if John would like to lay down before dinner. If there’s anything specific that he’d like to eat. If there’s anything he needs Laf to grab from the store for him.
By the time that John is curled up in the spare bedroom, he can’t help but think of how lucky he is to have Lafayette.
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John doesn’t leave the house unless he’s with Lafayette, and even then, their trips are growing fewer and farther in between. Which is fine with John, really, because even though he feels safe with Lafayette, there’s still someone out there who might be killing for his art. Who might have kidnapped his best friend.
It’s terrifying when he thinks about it for too long. So he tries not to, focuses instead on creating more art. Every week Lafayette brings him more supplies, offers to take what he’s finished to shops for him. Sometimes he leaves for hours at a time, comes back with pictures of the gardens for John to look at, with stones, leaves, and shells for John to play with.
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“There’s a nest of birds up there,” Lafayette tells him when John glances towards the ceiling. There’s been strange noises all day, and John nods, glad to have confirmation that it wasn’t just his imagination playing tricks on him.
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Lafayette brings home wine, apologizes that they couldn’t go somewhere more romantic for their sixth month anniversary.
The wine glass in his hand is cool, and John tries to remember what specific event happened six months ago. Doesn’t want to come off ungrateful.
Vaguely he feels like his first gallery was six months ago, shakes his head because that can’t be right. Lafayette’s probably using one of the garden trips, or maybe even the day John drew him as a starting point.
Time just flows so weirdly these days.
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At first, John thinks it’s the birds again. But the noises coming from the attic are too loud, and there seems to be a whining noise. He worries that some small creature has gotten itself trapped. Remembers, vaguely, Lafayette telling him not to mess with the attic.
But Lafayette isn’t going to be home for another three hours and the whimpering is upsetting. John searches the house, feels triumphant when he finds a first aid kit with a medical mask in it. This way John can go into the attic without having to breathe in the mold. He can stay safe and still check out the mysterious noise.
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There’s no mold in the attic.
No scared, trapped animal either.
John sways on his feet, grips the wall for support as his entire world comes crashing down on him. As things slowly start to piece themselves together.
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The attic is filled with pieces of John’s work, but it’s what’s in the center of the room that is most horrifying.
Alex’s wrists and ankles are tied to the corners of some contraption.
It takes him a moment to realize what it’s meant to be. A frame. Lafayette has framed Alex. Specifically, his back, where John’s faded doodling and tattoo are on display. There’s a tube taped into his mouth, a bucket beneath his feet.
John is going to be sick.
But first, he needs to get Alex down.
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John’s just finished getting the tape off of Alex’s mouth, his friend leaning against him heavily for support, when he hears it.
Looks up to realize that Lafayette’s standing near the entrance to the attic, disappointment clear on his face.
“Naughty, Naughty John Laurens. And we were having so much fun.” Lafayette sighs, advances toward him, blade in hand.
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He’d tried. He really had. To run past Lafayette, to get Alex to safety. But Alex hasn’t walked in months, probably hasn’t been fed more than the bare minimum to be kept alive.
There’s a struggle, it ends with John thrown against a wall and Alex in Lafayette’s arms.
John glances towards the ladder, tries to calculate his chances of escaping.
But Lafayette seems to know what he’s thinking, taps the knife against Alex’s throat. “You’re free to try- but he’ll be dead by the time you dial the last one.”
“What do you want?” John asks.
Lafayette hums, amused. “Silly John Laurens. You know what I want.”
And then, when John doesn’t appear to get it. “I want you.”
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The door to the spare bedroom locks from the outside.
It’s not something he’s noticed before, blames himself for not seeing it sooner. For not recognizing the stolen art on Lafayette’s walls. For taking his interest in John as… attraction.
Lafayette has Alex.
John can hear Laf talking to him. Cooing as he supposedly feeds Alex. ‘Open wide, Little Alex’ he sings, ‘John Laurens is being So Good for you.’
Later that evening John’s door opens briefly, dinner pushed to him. It’s his favorite.
John can’t bring himself to eat it.
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The plate disappears sometime in the night. Lafayette brings him breakfast in the morning, looking unamused as he leans against the door frame.
“If John Laurens does not eat, neither does his art. And little Alex is already so thin.”
When John clears his plate, Lafayette pats his cheek.
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“Now we make art,” Lafayette says one afternoon after John has finished his lunch.
John doesn’t feel like it.
He also doesn’t want to know what happens to Alex if he doesn’t.
Picks up his pencil to try and sketch something from memory.
.
Lafayette, at least, keeps his word. So long as John eats, Alex eats.
It’s been a month, or at least, John thinks it’s been a month. He’s been trying to scratch hatch marks into the wall to keep up with time, but it’s so hard. But- John thinks it’s been a month when Lafayette lets him see Alex again.
Eyes glazed over, crawling on the ground, leash around his neck.
“If I let you hold him, will you paint me a picture, John Laurens?”
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Once John starts painting again, Lafayette starts letting him spend more time outside of his room. They eat dinners together, John and Laf sitting at the table, Alex at Lafayette’s feet. Collar and leash an ever-present reminder.
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They fall into a routine.
Lafayette wakes him up. They eat breakfast.
John is locked back in his room.
Before lunch, he’s made to shower. After lunch, he paints.
If he’s been good, if Lafayette likes his work, he’s allowed to cuddle with Alex on the couch afterward. Neither are allowed to speak during it. But he traces sweet nothings into Alex’s skin anyway.
Dinner is eaten together as well. Lafayette likes to hold his hand during it. Likes to press kisses along his cheekbones before sending him to bed.
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The growing awareness in Alex’s eyes is a mixed blessing. It means he’s eating well enough. It means he has to see what’s becoming of them.
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It takes two days of shivering for John to build up the courage to say something.
He does it as casually as possible, over dinner, Lafayette’s thumb stroking his palm. “Winter’s coming. It’s getting colder.”
Laf tilts his head. “It is.”
“Is there,” John starts, then shakes his head, tries again. “He needs clothes, Laf. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
There’s a terrifying moment, while Lafayette looks Alex over, that John thinks he’s going to tell him no. Lafayette doesn’t say anything at all, not at dinner.
But he pauses before putting John to bed, strokes the sides of his face. “Tell me you love me, John Laurens.”
“I love you.”
.
He says it at breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Says it before he’s put to bed.
“I love you, Lafayette.”
Repeats it like a prayer.
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Two days later, Alex is wearing sweatpants and a hoodie.
When Lafayette grips John’s chin, John leans into the kiss.
Grateful.
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The morning that John kisses him first, Lafayette rewards him by letting Alex paint with him. Even allows Alex to stand and walk around during the time. Uninterested in watching them the whole time, a gag stretches Alex’s lips except during meal times, reinforcing their silence.
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Lafayette tells them when to sleep, when to eat, tells John what to draw, what to paint.
John does as he’s told, watching Alex’s ever steadying frame.
Knows he’d do anything for him. After all, if it weren’t for John, Alex wouldn’t be here. John’s the one Lafayette wants- not Alex.
Maybe if he’s good enough, Lafayette will let Alex go.
Repeats himself four times a day.
‘I love you, Lafayette.’
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After lunch, Lafayette locks Alex away in John’s room. Pets John’s cheek when he looks at him with wide eyes.
“Do not worry, mon amour,” Lafayette coos, “Today is only a special day. Today is our anniversary.”
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As a gift, Lafayette shows him the photo album. There’s John talking to Peggy at the first gallery, pictures of him at the coffee shop, at the gardens, at his home. Some of them he remembers Lafayette taking, most of them he doesn’t.
John sits curled into Lafayette’s side as he shows off his work, watches the hands that he’d once called beautiful stroke each one.
Says nothing when they move to stroke him instead.
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When Lafayette takes him, he calls it art.
“Listen, John Laurens,” he says the next day, during lunch, “Music.”
The house fills with sounds of his screams.
John pretends not to notice Alex’s crying.
Lafayette does not.
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“Paint me a sunset,” Lafayette tells him.
With shaking hands, John dips his brush into the bowl of red he’s been provided.
Tries not to think about it too much.
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When Lafayette goes to put him to bed that night, John surges against him. Drags Lafayette’s hands to his body, begs him to make him beautiful.
To make him art again.
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“Paint me a field of flowers.”
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“Paint me a lady bug.”
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“Paint me-”
Whatever Laf says, he does.
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When he runs out of red, John approaches Lafayette. Holds out the empty bowl. Extends his own palms when Lafayette takes it. A quiet offering.
Lafayette tuts. “How will you make beautiful art then, John Laurens?”
Presses the knife against John’s throat instead. Carves his name along one collarbone.
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John’s woozy on his feet, but Alex is healing again.
It’s a worthwhile trade.
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Alex isn’t allowed to attend meals anymore.
Lafayette strokes the sides of John’s face, promises he would never starve a piece of John’s art. He just finds that Alex ruins the ambiance. Alex, clearly, doesn’t appreciate beauty the way they do.
And besides, if John does as he’s told, he’s still allowed to see him at night.
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For their two year anniversary, Lafayette turns him into art.
Hangs him in the frame that he’d tried so hard to save Alex from.
John’s just grateful that the knife is small, the lines not too deep.
When he’s through, Lafayette drags a pillow and blanket up the stairs, curls up beneath John so that the blood still dripping from his wounds splatter across his clothes and skin.
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There’s something happening.
Sounds all around him, but John can’t find it in himself to open his eyes.
He’s just so tired.
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Someone is pulling him down from the frame.
John expects it to be Lafayette, expects to be taken again, to be forced to make more music.
Instead, he’s settled on the ground, a smaller body curls around him.
It’s just wrong enough to make him open his eyes.
Comes face to face with Lafayette’s unseeing gaze, allows his attention to drift lower, to the slit throat, to the scalpel on the floor.
To the mess of hair on his own chest. When he reaches up to stroke it, Alex looks up, blood still clinging to his cheek.
Whether it’s John’s or Lafayette’s, John’s not sure.
Doesn’t realize he’s laughing until Alex joins him.
And even as he loses consciousness again, he can’t help but think that no-
Lafayette was wrong.
This is music.