It was summer. And like most summers Arthur had lived through, that one was no exception. It was hot, and the air seemed heavy, hard to breathe. He hated the heat. He hated being sweaty. In any other circumstances, he would've turned on the air conditioning and drink some iced coffee.

Arthur King didn't like spending his summers on yachts. He enjoyed the occasional trip abroad, the expensive shopping sprees, the museums, and the beach. But not yachts.

In that particular summer, Arthur had found his way into a small house with one, surprisingly dead front yard. And in that same house, Arthur had learned that even a high school dropout could cook meth. James, or Jamie, or Jay wasn't much older than he was, maybe twenty-six or so. He was what Arthur liked and didn't like.

He liked his arms, yet he hated the cheap tattoos he had. He loved his thighs, but he hated the way he walked; the I want and I can fuck you up kind of walk, shoulders pushed forward, arms way too far from the body, feet pointing too much to the exterior – he resembled an angry duck. Arthur liked his eyes and lips and face but hated his smirk and frown.

Arthur had decided that sex wasn't a good enough reason to date and tolerate a lousy drug dealer, who, on top of everything, couldn't tell the difference between a Monet and a Rembrandt. Arthur felt personally attacked when James called one of Dali's most famous paintings - The Persistence of Memory – a "freaking Picasso."

Arthur walked into the small kitchen. He avoided touching any of the cabinets since he was sure none of them had been cleaned in a while. He watched James trying to measure how much meth to put in bags.

"Hey."

James ignored him.

"Dude." Arthur kicked his chair.

"What?!" James looked up, his eyebrows knitted in the middle. "Can't you see I'm fucking busy?"

"No, you're not," Arthur said. "I want to talk."

"It can wait." It sounded like an order, and Arthur had issues taking orders. He also had issues when men talk to him like in that tone.

"No, it can't," he said, voice calm. "Actually, you don't need to talk. I'll talk. You can listen."

James looked at him, uninterested, and Arthur had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that stretched out through his body until it reached the back of his neck. It was the need to grab James by the back of his head and smash his head on the table. He wasn't going to do that. He was better at talking than fighting.

He dragged his tongue over his teeth and took a deep breath. He had to control his voice so that it came out pleasant.

"I think we should talk about us." He took James' hand.

"You can't break up with me." James wasn't the brightest bulb in the world, but he had his moments.

Arthur clenched his jaw for a moment. "I can't?"

"No," James said and pulled his hand away from Arthur. He reached over the table and grabbed him by the chin, pushing his fingers into his cheeks. "It don't work like that."

Arthur smiled. "Of course," he said and touched the man's arm. He made a mental note to maybe break his legs. Nobody touched him like that.

James shoved him and continued his work.

The room smelled like acetone or paint, Arthur couldn't figure it out. All he knew was that it gave him a headache. The walls were filthy, the table was filthy, and he would rather cut off his pinky than walk barefoot around there. Shame. James was an attractive man.

"I'm going home," Arthur King said while standing up. He did it slowly as if he was expecting a reaction.

"Why?" James asked.

"I'm bored," Arthur said. "Of this place. It smells like…nail polish remover."

"Go to the living room." It sounded so much like an order that Arthur had to bite the inside of his cheek. Not because he was about to say something nasty, but because he wanted to do it.

"I'm bored with your living room." He walked around the table and placed a hand on James' shoulder. "And honestly, I'm bored of you." Arthur moved the tips of his fingers over the skin on James' neck. "We're done, honey."

It took a while for James to finally get it. The understanding came with a wave of anger, and James pulled out his gun. He wasn't known for his kind temperament. He started swearing, gesturing with his pistol like a madman. The gun went off.

Arthur couldn't describe the feeling. At first, it was nothing. Maybe shock. It was wet, and it stained his shirt. He liked that shirt. The pain came after. He remembered people comparing it to electricity. Arthur thought it was more similar to something burning through his flesh.

He looked at James. The man was glaring at the wound, gun dangling from his hand. Arthur kept telling himself to be calm. You always had to be calm when in these situations, that's what his father had taught him. He placed his hand over the wound to try and stop the bleeding, but it didn't do much, and it felt disgusting. He didn't like blood.

"James." Arthur started, voice trembling just a bit. It wasn't fear. He was furious, raging. He took a step towards James. The other flinched, confused, then lifted the arm. The gesture seemed unconvinced, as he had no idea if he should keep threatening Arthur or not.

Arthur approached him slowly, like a cat, and touched his arm.

"Jamie. Put down the gun," he said. "I know you didn't mean to. It's ok."

James lowered his weapon, and Arthur wrapped his fingers around it. He studied the pistol for a moment. A Luger, semi-automatic, 9mm, ugly, and poorly kept.

"It's a pity," Arthur said. "It's truly unfortunate."

Arthur lifted the weapon, placed it between James' eyebrows, and shot. James' body dropped on the floor hard, lifeless.

He put the pistol on the table, wiped his hand on a kitchen towel, and called his future brother in law.

"Hey, Sammy." He pulled a chair and sat down. "It's me, Arthur King. I've been shot, and there's a body on the floor. I'm fairly sure you can help me."