above all (m×m) ✔

34) a liar

part three
o n e  c h o i c e

"Look, let me put it this way:
with me, you're number one and
there isn't even a number two." 
– Charles Bukowski –

The Smith & Wesson M&P was heavy in Treyton's hands, as he turned it over and over. He was acting out of anger, setting aside all his careful planning. It was the big scream, the one that had been building in his chest for years now, just waiting for the right moment to emerge. Ever since Treyton found out He had moved in with his new boyfriend, there had been little room for rational thinking, and all the room for reacting.

The anger was overtaken by disdain, when Treyton stared down at the slumped figure on the floor. His mouth was gagged and his hands and legs tied so tight it was a wonder he still had any circulation left in them. His black hair was disheveled, falling onto his forehead. Rivulets of sweat ran down his face, all blotchy and red, and his eyes were so wild and panicked he looked like a rabbit caught in a trap.

"You didn't seriously think Vanity Fair would take interest in you?" Treyton sneered, wiping his own forehead dry with the back of his hand, the one still holding the gun. The weasel, that goddamn parasite, winced when Treyton waved the gun so carelessly. "It's bad enough that Delilah sees potential in you, because I'm the only reason you've gotten so far."

Treyton sat down on the edge of a settee, shifting the gun from one hand to another while he thought about how easy it was to blend in as long as you had the money. For months now Treyton had been stuck with having to suck up to that idiot, to make him feel like there was something special in him, just to gain his trust. 

You could bribe even the police to overlook pretty much anything, not to mention what the underground workers specialized in false identities will do with cold money and contacts to powerful people. It's not just something that happens in movies, there's actually a growing need for new identities for people who needed or simply wanted to disappear.

Treyton Holbrook wasn't allowed within 100 yards of Brandon Moore, but Rio Hayes was free to go wherever he wanted. The weasel never questioned where his new photographer had come from, but just blindly believed all his compliments like the self-assured narcissist he was. By then, Treyton was sick of his ugly face and dry jokes.

In some ways, being in the prison had been easier, because he could still convince himself He was out there waiting for him. Treyton gave his head a shake, wondering why he was losing his mind over someone who didn't even care to think about him. How was it fair that He could move on while Treyton was stuck in the past? The weasel had gone quiet, just staring at Treyton with those wild eyes. He probably thought that saving his energy could save him and his boyfriend. Perhaps it would.

Perhaps it wouldn't.

When the elevator button started to glow, Treyton brought a finger to his lips and made his way to the weasel. He was there just in time as the elevator doors slid open, and he pressed the barrel of the gun against the side of the weasel's head. Treyton didn't even consider what he would do if it were someone else and not Him, that would have required way too much rational thinking.

His eyes didn't go up to meet Treyton's, but the ones belonging to that.. that parasite. Anger exploded in Treyton's head, bright and all-consuming like a supernova. He slammed the barrel tighter against the weasel's temple, and He cried out, shaking His head furiously. He took a step forward, faltering when the weasel started thrashing against his restraints.

"No, Trey." His voice held firmness, which was so unlike His tiny, pathetic mouse pleads that Treyton almost dropped the gun right there and then. But who was He to bark commands at Treyton like he was just some ill-mannered cur?