Helter Skelter Romance

For the next several weeks, Dexter had appeared just the right amount of saddened at work. He garnered just enough sympathy from LaGuarta to have her keep her guard-dog, Doakes, away from him. He did everything as well as he normally did, he didn’t slow down on his piles of reports and he kept an eye on Debra. She was put down, alright, but there was something about the way she kept moving that told her brother she wouldn’t wither up and die.

She blew off news-reporters, flipped off adoring ‘devotees’ and down right ignored The Miami Herald’s publications. The Ice Princess was not interested in taking her exalted throne beside her Ice Prince though her memories of him were frozen to stills of his hand sliding that ruby ring onto her finger. He had betrayed his promises to her but even when he had told her that she was ‘part of his plan’ she had seen something else in his eyes.

Dexter noticed that of late, more than ever, people liked to talk to him about their feelings. Even more than ever he couldn’t tell them how he really felt about the situations. He wanted Dearly Disturbed Debra to feel better, he wanted her to be able to accept this and move on because he was fond of her.

Instead, she kept that ring that she had almost broken her finger pulling off. She opened the letters from his admirers, the ones that asked how they had fucked and the ones that cursed her for leaving him when he ‘needed her most’. She kept those in a pile beside her bed that contained his Institutional records. She did it because even though she hated that sorry excuse for a man, she loved him. Dexter was sad he knew a little bit of those feelings; for once, he didn’t want to be able to empathize.

At home, he cared for Brian and watched him come to terms with his missing limbs. He was fast at learning; no doubt from perverse knowledge of the situation. He threw himself at the walls, and dragged his body towards were he wanted to go. Dexter found a prosthetic for ‘The Prosthetics Man’ and helped him wrap gauze around his stump to fit it better. Now he walked to where he wanted to go in the apartment and Dexter helped him dress every morning.

Tonight they sat together on Dexter’s couch; Brian snuggled cozily up against his chest, listening intently to the beating of his sibling’s heart. He was a good firm weight against his sibling and Dexter liked to stroke that dark warm head of hair, pulling a curl straight now and then.

The news was on but had become only a dull hum in the background that they both ignored. Brian spoke, a low rumble against his brother’s throat, his face so close and teeth so perfectly threatening against a bare defenseless neck. The conversation had started out in a manner which Dexter would have dubbed ‘light’.

“My hands hurt.” Brian had whispered in greeting when his brother returned home; darkness evident in his eyes even from his spot on the sofa. Dexter had swallowed awkwardly and hung up his keys, locking his door behind himself. This didn’t seem like a likely scenario to him but who was he to doubt the master of their plans. “I don’t think they do, Brian.” He had finally suggested, trying not to look at him like he was being silly.

There was an angry near sexual snarl to Brian’s voice and he swallowed in that panting loud manner that told Dexter he felt aggressive. He felt like such a child around his brother when he was confused, like it was an obvious answer that was staring him in the face. He moved forward to his friend then and settled beside him on the couch, taking the stumps in his hands. They were even and smooth and ridiculously delicate ways to end the strong arms that were above them. The skin wasn’t hot and the bones of his wrists weren’t pressing harshly against the skin. It was all an added phantom to his already warped mental state.

Brian had looked, with such an expression that Dexter could understand heartthrobs, at his brother. In those eyes he could feel acceptance and understanding and even in the back of his mind, something like love. Dexter had rubbed at his arms and wrists and brought sensation away from missing fingers and back into his arms. That had moved them finally into a warm tight hug that was full of so many memories. Then Brian had started to speak and now his brother was trapped, warmly and intimately trapped, but caged in and unable to escape none the less.

“How is Debra?” Brian had asked, looking intently up into Dexter’s eyes. Behind that tender, poetic stare there was a brief flash of something like desire. He still wanted her, in whatever way he had to begin with. Dexter cleared his throat when he thought about it and wrapped his arms around Brian, squeezing tight enough that his sibling gritted his teeth together. He didn’t relax against him in defeat at the grip however, he tensed instead. “She’s doing pretty well, all things considered.” Dexter lied; he cared about her enough to not share her pain with someone who would get off on it.

But Brian wanted to talk about feelings; he was that type so he ignored the pinching grasp. Even with Antisocial Personality Disorder he was too much of a poet for Dexter’s comfort but maybe that was to be expected out of an ‘artist’ of his caliber. After all, he had to be able to charm his victims enough to follow him home; Dexter just had to find them alone. “I wonder…” He had mused; lips close against the warm pulse of the beating heart under his friend’s skin, teasing him in that awkwardly intimate manner. “Do you think her heart hurt like mine does?”

“I doubt it.” Dexter interjected less than helpfully; his tone laced with no sarcasm or even irony. It seemed unlikely that their hurt feelings could be compared. After all, Brian was a physcopath, wasn’t he? His advice was entirely ignored by the look on the other’s face; obviously this was more of an introspection than a conversation. Either way, Dexter wanted the killer in him to shut up because he knew the tone too well; The Ice Prince still wanted his Princess. It excited him.

“She looks like Mom.” Brian reminded Dexter, staring off into the nothingness that would be replaced by his few happy memories. There was something in the shape of her face that triggered those thoughts and then there was something in her sashaying cocky movements that triggered the memories of her walk. “She even smells like her; that cool soft sweet scent. Her hair stains the sheets with it like floral tears.” He whispered and Dexter couldn’t really disagree because he didn’t remember any scent but copper. She was little more than blood and horrors to him while to Brian she was a distant dream of the notion of love.

He couldn’t ask him to be sorry; he wouldn’t ask him to apologize. Their relationship was built on a foundation of truth without the usual layer of judgment. Brian wouldn’t have meant it if he had anyways; it would be easy enough to let those words slip from his lips. That would have bred ill ease between them. He couldn’t force his brother to feel different, he couldn’t ask him to be sorry for his nature but he could ask him something else. “Don’t call her.” Dexter demanded.

No comment followed, only stillness and then Brian pressed his warm slips to his brother’s neck, feeling his heartbeat under his skin. He nibbled there against the other man’s Adam apple, teeth scrapping enough to be uncomfortable. Then, in a gentle tone, the killer offered his own form of consent. “I lost my mother long ago but it was my brother I came looking for.”

To be continued…