• It had been a rather eventful day in the tailors’ Lukas worked in, and though it was a summer evening the sky was already showing signs of darkening as he stepped out into the crisp air, giving his boss a nod goodbye as he slipped his coat over his shoulders and set off. By the time he arrived at his extensive Fontainebleau house, the sun had almost fully set, clouds blanketing the bruise-tinged sky. For some reason, as he shunted open the door with his heel and called to his lover that he was home, Lukas became aware there was something terribly wrong. For one, it was deathly silent – at the least, Orlan would have started to make dinner, and the sound of pots bubbling was absent from the hush of the house.
    “Orlan? Tu es là?” he called once more, his hackles now raised. Then, inevitably, something caught his attention as he slipped off his shoes in the hallway – a smear of scarlet, almost unnoticeable against the cherry-stained oak of the door. In the sitting room, the room lay in a state of disarray, both chairs tipped over, the table shoved to one side, the contents of the mantelpiece strewn across the floor.
    Frantic now, he dropped his bag where he stood, almost flying up the spiral staircase, yet fearful of what he might find. All the while he was trying to find an alternative to the scenario currently running through his mind – he could have tripped over, cut himself on an ornament and rested his hand on the door before going out, or something along those lines – but visions of a bloodied, mangled Orlan refused to cease.
    “Orlan? Orlan?” he cried, slamming their bedroom door open with his shoulder before freezing, suddenly rooted to the spot at the sight in front of him. There lay Orlan, sprawled across their bed, motionless. Lukas close to threw himself across the room to his side, the colour draining from his already-pallid face as he took in the state of his beloved, trembling with disbelief. The once soulful, chocolate brown eyes were wide open and glazed, his porcelain skin bruised and cut, his lips swollen and bloodied, slightly parted, his entire face screwed up with agony and fear. There was no doubt about it – someone, or something, had killed him. Biting back tears, he finally remembered to breathe, and as the cool air found its’ way into his lungs it felt like fire consuming him from the inside out. He pressed a shaky palm to a china-white cheek, its coldness shiver-inducing as he cupped Orlans’ face.
    As sobs began to wrack his body, his chest heaved and struggled, a single salty tear sliding past his nose and dripping off his chin. Even in death, Orlan was beautiful; his doll-like features made him seem even more angelic. “Mon ange,” he mumbled through trembling lips, pushing a stray hair from Orlans’ face. “Tu n’as pas le droit d’être mort; j’ai trop besoin de toi!” he whispered, tears now blotting the silk bedspread. Kissing his forehead, Lukas glanced at the rest of his body, trying to find what killed him. Bruises adorned his neck like a choker, and were those – teeth marks? Scattered across his throat like crimson lovebites, punctures the size of dressmakers’ pins paired up in a trail from his chest to his chin.