Summary: You don’t know what your boyfriend does when he’s not with you.
Warnings: Implied murder, manipulative behavior.
Author's Notes: N/A
Chrollo was home, the sound of the front door was barely a sound at all, and he was standing perfectly still by the coat rack. He was just looking at his hands, turning them over slowly under the dim hallway light as if he were checking for a smudge on a pair of new gloves.
"You're late," you teased as you were leaning against the door frame.
He looked up, and the warmth flooded back, that gentle, dorky crinkle appearing at the corners of his eyes.
"I'm so sorry, darling," he said, his voice softening into that easy, boyish charm you loved. "I took the stairs to work off some extra energy tonight."
He finally began to unbutton his coat. As he draped it over the hook, you stepped closer to help him with his scarf, but he caught your wrist—his grip surprisingly firm before he let go with a graceful flare of his fingers. And you didn't notice the stiff way he held his shoulder, or the faint of something sharp and antiseptic clung on him.
"I'm a bit damp from the rain," he said quickly, offering a small, apologetic smile. "I wouldn't want to get it on your sweater."
"It's just water, Chrollo. I'm not that fragile."
"I know you aren't, I just like keeping things clean," he replied. He reached out and tucked a stray hair behind your ear. His touch was light, but his fingertips felt strangely tacky, leaving a faint, cooling sensation on your skin. "Besides, did you manage to get some rest while I was out? You've been working so hard lately, I was worried you'd still be at your desk."
"I was waiting for you," you admitted, leaning into his palm.
"That's the best thing I've heard all day," he murmured. "Why don't you head into the kitchen? I thought I saw that bakery you like was still open on my way back—I might have a little surprise for you in my bag once I've scrubbed my hands."
It was just his typical way of being. He's the boyfriend who notices when you're low on milk before you do, the one who leaves little handwritten notes in the margins of your books, and the one who always lets you have the last bite of dessert. He's even the one who makes it a point to water your dying succulents with a spray bottle every Saturday morning.
Honestly, you see him as a bit of a nerd. You've come to realize that taking him into a shop with a "Rare Books" section means you won't see him for at least three hours. Even now, standing there with the city's grime on his shoes, he was probably thinking about the 15th-century historical drama you'd watched last night. He was the only person you knew who would pause a movie just to tell you the background characters' armor was from the wrong century—that usually made you roll your eyes and kiss him just to shut him up.
You met him in the most painfully ordinary way possible, too.
It's Tuesday night at the all-night laundromat nearby. The fluorescent lights are buzzing, and you're battling with a jammed coin slot on a dryer that's already eaten five of your quarters.
He had been sitting three chairs down, eyes buried in a worn-out paperback with a spine held together by tape. He just looked up, noticed your frustration, and walked over with a gentle, "May I?"
He'd tapped the machine in just the right spot with the heel of his palm, and when it finally roared to life, he'd given you a small, apologetic shrug. You ended up talking for forty minutes while your jeans tumbled in the heat. He told you he worked in archival restoration—a job that sounded just boring enough to be genuine. But by the time you were folding your warm towels, you were already charmed by him.
Because he started as a regular at a laundromat. He was exactly the kind of person who would never, ever have a reason to lie to you.
"By the way, I brought you something," he said, as he reached into the pocket of his coat, which lay draped over the arm of the chair, and pulled out a small, leather-bound volume. The edges were worn, and the gold lettering was nearly rubbed away. "I remember you mentioning this poet last month. I happened across a first edition on my way back."
"Chrollo, this must have been so expensive," you whispered, your heart swelling as you traced the antique cover. "You’re always doing things like this."
"It cost me very little. The previous owner... well, they truly had no use for it anymore," he replied.
He pulled you into his lap then, tucking your head under his chin. It was the perfect boyfriend gesture.
"You look tired, darling," he said softly. "Why don't you go back to bed? I'll join you once I've tidied up."
"Tidied what?"
He gestured vaguely toward his coat. "Just a few things from the day. Nothing for you to worry about, I promise."
As you turned to head back to the bedroom, you missed the way his gaze dropped to the floor. There, near the leg of the armchair, was a single, dark droplet that had missed the rug. Chrollo reached down with a handkerchief, his expression one of mild annoyance, and wiped it away with a single, practiced stroke.
Outside, somewhere far off, a police siren cuts through the night.
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