The Ugly Not-Truth

Who: Rey and Rafe
When: mid-morning
Where: the Delacourt house

Rafe was sprawled sideways across his bed, on his stomach, the black-out curtains parted just enough so that a sliver of light fell across his back. He frowned reflexively in his sleep, eyelids moving rapidly with dreams that would drive the sane mad. The furry tail emerging from the small hole in the back of his loose flannel pants twitched restlessly. His mother, he was ... searching for his dark-eyed mother. It was too fluid to find her, there was nothing but blood-ribboned water. Too much water. He grunted and rolled, curling into the fetal position on top of the bunched-up comforter, lost and oblivious in the first real sleep he'd had in a couple of days.

For days now, Rey had been waiting. He'd tamped down his eagerness for this torment as long as he could, and when he'd finally felt like he could no longer? The story had hit the paper. All the details Rey had hoped for were there. Beyond Chelo's death itself there was mention of the missing blood, the spattered paint, the obvious robbery. He'd thought it out, deliberately planning ahead as he considered how best to twist his brother, to bind him closer.

And now? Now that it was out for the world to see, Rey could reap what he'd sown. He was lingering outside his brother's doorway, listening closely to the soft grunts and murmurs of fitful sleep as he waited with the newspaper clenched in hand. Summoning a careful fury to his features and holding it, Rey snapped Rafe's door open, letting it bang off the wall loudly before he spoke. "Rafael!" he snapped at the sleeping form, concentrating on the anger instead of the urge to smile.

Rafe's body jerked violently at the sudden rush of noise, and he sat bolt upright in bed, too disoriented to do anything but stare wildly for a second or two. Had it been any voice but his brother's, he might've attacked out of instinct, but decades together had imprinted That Tone of Rey's into his brain, and he knew it was nothing to trifle with. Rafe mumbled something unintelligible in Spanish, looking around the room before turning the startled-stare back on Rey. The place didn't seem to be burning, he wasn't being dragged out of bed and rushed downstairs ... "What?" he asked a bit breathlessly, still too out of it to even be angry.

He took his time with it, letting a twitch into his brow and cheek as his eyes burned down at his little brother. Rey probably would've made an excellent actor if he could ever let go of his refined view of life, but as it was he still managed to tremble faintly with feigned rage. "What have you done?" he murmured, snapping forward in a rush of steps. He hurled the newspaper down at his brother, abruptly pushing Rafe down into the bed with his free hand. "What have you done?" he repeated in an angry yell as the pages settled around them both.

Rafe's eyes filled with even more confusion, if it was possible, and even looked a little wounded. He was in trouble for something, he'd ... done something? He didn't remember doing anything. Painting, walking by Chelo's house, more painting ... he'd eaten a few times, he thought ... The thrown newspaper hardly even registered. He didn't resist the push, laying back on the bed under his brother's hand and anger, too lost to flash back yet. "What have I done?" he repeated in Spanish, because he certainly didn't know the answer Rey was looking for.

Rey's tail was taut around his leg, squeezing in delicious enjoyment as he let go of Rafe, turning with mad energy to grab discarded pages. He tossed them aside in turn, throwing away anything immaterial until he grabbed the front page section. Oh yes, front page. Rey was particularly proud of that detail. He thrust the paper into Rafael's face, fingers knotted tight on it. "Did you think I would not know?" he snapped chastisingly, "Did you think the authorities would not? Could you not... contain the urge?" Rey spat the last bit out, tossing the page at Rafael's bare chest and striking his cheek with his free hand, taking a step back with a disgusted sound and dropping into an anxious pace.

Rafe's eyes had hardly focused on the black and white print in front of his face, and was trying to process Rey's angry words at the same time when the crack of pain flashed across one side of his face. Both cheeks flushed a splotchy red and he turned his head back into place slowly. But his attention wasn't on his brother, it was on the newspaper. Rafe picked it up with a tremor in his hands and smoothed it across his legs. He was awake now, and felt like he might vomit at any second. The story was easy enough to find, and his dark eyes scanned over it once, twice, three times. Chelo Espina, a local flower merchant, found dead, drained of blood, robbed ... things started to blur, but he saw 'paint', and knew what Rey was raging about.

She was dead. She'd been so alive, and now she was apparently dead. Small town newspapers didn't falsify such information. "No," he murmured without even realizing it. "No." She couldn't be dead. They weren't done. He wasn't done with her. He'd only been getting started. "No," Rafe said again, with more strength, his breath coming quicker, more shallow. "No, no no no nonononono it's not right, it's not done nonononono --" He stood up abruptly, and started tearing the paper in his hands to bits.

"Rafael!" Rey snapped again, lashing out to backhand his brother's cheek. He didn't hit too hard, but hard enough to vy for his focus again as he immediately stepped in close, grabbing Rafe's jaw to hold his face steady. Rey loomed close, his grip and his stare suggesting clearly that Rafe not fight him for control. "What. Happened." he demanded in low tones, "We can solve this as we have before, brother, but you must tell me. Did she see your tail? Did she spurn you?" Every word was a subtle reinforcement of what the paper said, of the idea that Rafe could've done it. The paint was just the first step, but Rey couldn't rush himself here. He'd hide the bits he'd stolen around Rafe's room and studio, let his brother find each one at his own pace.

Rafael wasn't ready to focus. He couldn't breathe, and Rey was striking him again and his jaw hurt. He wasn't supposed to fight this, he knew that somewhere, but the pain was too big. The disappointment, the suffocating loss. He hadn't loved her; a creature like him would be hard-pressed to ever accomplish that, but he'd wanted her, to possess her, to paint her, to eventually fuck and kill her, and now it was gone. It had been stolen from him. By himself, apparently. He didn't even remember it, there was no joy in that. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, and he struck out at his brother blindly, trying to twist away at the same time. "No," he growled in a drawn-out irrational denial. He would not accept this, and it would go away.

The nice thing about a blind swing was that it rarely hurt, and this was no exception. Rey let his brother swing futilely at him, even giving the small concession of releasing his grip on Rafael. The play of emotion on his face was exquisite, a symphony of anguish and confusion, something Rey would look forward to invoking regularly in the days ahead. Really, he knew it was skewed, but this was every bit as engaging for him as Marguerite had been. "No?" he echoed incredulously, "It was not you? Someone else broke into her home at random and smeared her corpse in paint?" Rey's voice was at once accusing and concerned, deftly balanced in a role he'd played for decades now. "Someone else restrained her tight enough to bruise? If... if I went into your studio, what would I see? Her? Her dead and bruised?"

Rey's voice was hypnotic and repulsive at the same time, working it's way into Rafe's mind until it sounded to him like it was coming from his own mind. Painted and restrained and bruised and dead and it had to have been him, right? But he didn't remember. With a strangled sound of pained rage, Rafe pivoted and swung an arm out to sweep everything that had been carefully placed on top of his dresser off of it. With newspaper still clutched in it, he threw the other fist into the mirror, cracking it into spiderwebs. His tail lashed back and forth, and he wanted nothing more than to tear the whole fucking house apart. "No it's too soon, it's not right!" he roared, slamming his knee into the solid oak drawers. Had he painted it? Had he killed her, painted it, and then, purged, slipped into blissful sleep?

With this sort of display? Rey was content to watch for a moment. If Rafe's room hadn't been close to his personal gallery for real art, he would've just let his brother rampage around the upstairs of the house. If he was wounded physically and emotionally? So much more dependency to turn to Rey with, so many more feelings he would confide in his older brother. "Enough!" he finally barked in Spanish, grabbing Rafe by the shoulders and hauling him back into a wall. "Enough, Rafael! Breathe, brother, breathe deeply..." He stepped in close again, hands gentle this time as they restrained Rafe. "You have forgotten, no? That is all, you have forgotten..."

Rafe was panting, his eyes wild and full of unspilled tears. His knuckles were bleeding, but he paid them no mind. He shook his head at Rey, then nodded, because that was the right one. Yes, he'd forgotten. He'd forgotten, and cheated himself. Spent for the moment, his back slid down the wall and sat. He bent his head and leaned forward, so that the dark curly top of it was resting against Rey's thigh. "I don't remember," he confirmed verbally, in a miserable mumble. She was so beautiful, her death was going to be so delicious and perfect ... and he didn't remember. He'd bruised her in a fit of ... something, marred her, and he could never do it right now.

Reflex was a funny thing, and Rey almost laughed at himself for a flash of annoyance as Rafe leaned in against his leg. These pants are worth more than your tears, brother, he thought down at Rafe as he contrasted the thought with a light smoothing of Rafe's hair and soft, soothing sounds of reassurance. "We shall find a way past this," Rey assured him quietly, "Trust me, dear brother, we shall. Do not trouble yourself over it, I will see to everything. They will not separate us..." Though who 'they' was in Rey's mind was quite different from who he implied with his words. 'They', 'them', the women he obsessed over to death, literally. They could not come between Rey and his only kin, he would do Rafael's foul work for him before he let that happen.

He had faith that Rey would take care of it. He would see to it that whatever the police had found wouldn't lead back to them. That faith was blind and unshakable, and always had been. He wouldn't have survived as long as he had otherwise. But the mortal authorities was not Rafe's primary concern. He just didn't have the energy or cohesion of thought to say so. Everything was jumbled and barbed, and he was tired again. Fruitless dreams were currently much more appealing than consciousness. "I don't remember," he muttered again, in English this time. Rafe slumped sideways, laying down on the carpet. He opened one hand in front of him and looked down into the crumpled newspaper. "Too soon, no good, don't remember."

"I know, I know," Rey purred as he lowered into a crouch, steadily smoothing back Rafe's hair. In truth, he'd banked on that fact; Rafael forgot whole chunks of time some days. How easy would it be to make him 'forget' this? Apparently, very easy. "It will return to you, I am sure. Remember the dancer in Moscow? Irina, I think her name was?" He knew Rafael didn't remember much of Moscow, but the woman there? He'd hopefully still remember her. Rey did, if only because he'd been amused by how easy it was to dispose of a body over in Russia. "Your details were hazy then as well, but they always return," he went on in a promising tone, easing the paper back from Rafe's field of vision.

A small frown-line appeared between his eyebrows. Moscow, did he remember Moscow? Tidbits. Snow and the round-topped golden buildings. And ... Irina, yes, that had been her name. He remembered her, all big doe-eyes and gangly limbs. He'd made direct contact with her only twice. She'd had a strange honking quality to her voice, but he hadn't cared at the time. That had been ... another mistake. He hadn't intended to kill her himself, it was messy. He'd been planning something beautiful for her, but she'd ... called him something, he couldn't remember now. Maybe it had even been in Russian. But she'd ended up dead, and Rey had taken care of it. So his killing Chelo ... it wasn't out of the question. He rubbed his face with his now-empty hand. "Was she raped? Does it say?" he murmured.

That detail would've been a nice one to work in, but Rey knew how detailed forensic science could be. It could lead back to him, or tell if he'd used foreign objects, and he'd been somewhat rushed in his work. And no matter how cruel he could be? He wasn't about to rape a dead body. It's uncivilized. "The papers lacked that detail, perhaps in the hope that they could follow genetics to her attacker. They will not," he promised easily. Really, it'd all be pointless if Rey was sloppy enough to be caught. "But there are details on a memorial service sometime soon, if you wish to attend," Rey went on, deciding it'd be nice and twisted if he took his brother to see the woman's burial. "I will accompany you, if you care to go."

Rafe didn't know enough about how things like that were investigated to realize that his genes weren't anywhere on record, but he took Rey at his word that it didn't matter. Even if he had had his way with her before she died ... gods of the pit, he just wished he could remember. He curled tighter on the floor, hands moving to fist in his hair. "I must, I have to see her again," he murmured, not hesitating over that detail even for a second. Maybe if he saw her, he would remember. Have something to relish, for at least a moment. One fleeting moment among so many already gone, gone, gone. But she'd been so perfect.

It wasn't entirely an answer Rey liked to hear, but it was one he'd expected. He'd hoped against decades of precedent that Rafe would just move on, but of course he would want to see her corpse. And as long as Rey could keep his brother from causing a commotion, he'd happily grant that request. The lack of memory would only push Rafe further into dependence, and this time there would be no vixen to sway or lure him away. Even if there was, Rey finally understood that he had options. "The exact date of her burial has not been announced, but I will watch for details," he promised, slowly rising from the crouch he'd shared with Rafe. It was time to shift tactics, to turn off the rage and become the caring brother. "Are... are you hungry, Rafael? You do not need to dress for the day if you wish to linger here, I can prepare us a meal."

"Yes, please," Rafe said, not because he was actually hungry, but more because he wanted to be alone. To lie still just for a few moments and let the knowledge that Chelo was dead and gone and stolen from him far too soon sink in. Not to mourn, but maybe try to remember. He knew himself well enough to know that if he didn't bear it in mind for long enough, he would wake up the next day with hopes of seeing her. He stared at the cuffs of Rey's slacks, willing him to just go away. He cursed himself for being so foolish, for letting whatever happened rush him.

Rafe got his wish; Rey regarded him where he knelt for a quiet moment before turning on one heel to leave the room behind. He allowed himself a satisfied smile the moment his back was to Rafe, forcing it away as he glanced back. "Rafael..." he trailed quietly, "You know I will always support you. Please, if you need me? I will be here." Which wouldn't happen. But all Rey would need to do is wait a bit and sneak a peek at his brother's studio if he wanted to gauge Rafe's moods.

Rafael frowned in his place on the floor and moved his arm so that it covered his face up more. Rey had stated endlessly that Rafe needed him, and he couldn't argue with it, but he didn't think it had ever been ... a question like that. Not that he could remember. Not that he could remember much in the first place. It didn't take very long for his older brother to cease to exist for him, however, as his mind spiraled away with vivid imaginings about what Chelo's death could've been like. What he had exacted without remembering that he had. However it had happened ... it had to have been beautiful, and he was going to paint it. Once he had the will to get up again.