cyanide sweet tooth suicide
cyanide sweet tooth suicide | suarez-centric, gabe/travis
warnings: graphic character death. sensitive material.
if you're a pussy, don't click the cut.
tastes like sugar but it's novocaine.
Alex keeps telling himself that an overedited plan is a horrible idea, and that he shouldn't have come up with it at all. He's combining the first few ingredients to make tiramisu, measuring and adding powder to liquid with the help of his blender. The capsules, sizeable and a happy shade of green, sit on the breakfast bar in their tiny plastic bag. How ironic, their coloring, he hinks as the last of the cream cheese is shoved into the bottom of the blending pitcher. Like his decision, the process of making this dessert is scientific: Once the first few ingredients are mixed, they get folded with fresh-made whipped cream. He hates folding; it takes steady hands that he's never had before. Fortunately enough, he's calmed down quite a bit today, so it's not that great of a pain to do that part. The choice to do what he's going to do today, from the initial invitation to a peace-offering dinner to the underground purchase of the cyanide caplets that are now in his kitchen, have been equally as methodical. There is a reason, an order and an expected outcome, as well as several variables and hypotheses as to how things will go during the process of the event taking place. There's even an estimated time of completion. He's quite proud of himself for all of this.
When the first row of ladyfingers has been carefully arranged in the bottom of the bowl and the mid-layer mixture is in the fridge chilling itself, he looks around the kitchen while wiping his hands on his apron. What to do, what to do -- he knows he's forgotten something. Oh, right -- the almonds, which have been sitting for about twenty minutes waiting to cool so that they're safe for handling. He carefully sets to work slivering and crushing them. All the while he's imagining what it might be like to sliver that dark skin or crush those strong bones. He doesn't believe it would be nearly as nice and warm as the toastiness of the almonds are beneath his careful fingers, though the thought of the screaming he'd hear as he skinned Travis alive are a nice enough fantasy to make his cock twitch a little bit.
Much better than the thought of stalking Gabe until he could get him alone and profess his love (which was his initial thought when he found out that Gabe and Travis were dating) is the thought of pulling Travis's body apart piece by piece until there is absolutely nothing less. The texture of skin, kissed by ink and scars, underneath his roughed hands would be more than enough to send him spiraling into ecstasy, but the thought doesn't stop there. No, then he imagines what it might smell like to have the man's blood caked underneath his nails, to have to look for a place to hide whatever remains he doesn't throw into his brand new fireplace. His dick gets harder with every new image that pops into his head until finally he just can't take it anymore, and has to hop up on the counter opposite where he's making this evening's dessert, pulling his pants down around his ankles as he goes. He doesn't mind the lack of sanitation in any of this; it's his kitchen and he has to eat out of it, after all. Everyone else's needs are secondary.
The bowl in which he'd just whipped his cream is set in the stainless steel sink beside him and it still has gobs of white in the bottom of it. He scoops a few little bits up with his fingers, smudging the cream against his palm and braces himself back on his other hand. When he leans back he can feel the tickle of knife handles against his arm, his back, and that just adds to the sensation. So he begins, calculated and calm and so ready to lose complete control, wrapping his hand around the base of his cock and giving it a gentle pump, all the while smelling in his mind what Trav's hair would smell like as it burnt to a crisp in the hearth. As he began to pick up rhythm he could hear the pleading in the back of his head, the begging for mercy and salvation: "Please, Alex, don't do this...I'm so sorry for hurting you..." And while this happens in his grandiose vision, Gabe is clung to his side, watching with wide, terrified and not knowing what Travis has done to deserve this though it must have been absolutely horrible to earn this sort of punishment.
Alex's elbow bumps against the cold metal of the refrigerator as he jerks himself into a stupor, head tilted back and mouth wide open as he mumbles the curses and the 'this is what you get's.
On his lips he can taste the sweet but frightened kiss coming from the one he's doing all of this for. Yes, Gabe, he thinks, the name reverberating in his head over and over again, like a chant meant to bring him to the brink. As the Travis in his head is fried up, strip by strip, in a pan he and Gabe sink to the hardwood floor of the kitchen entangled in one another, a mesh of mouths and limbs. The taste of tears on his tongue are the sweetest, he decides as Gabe clings to him and asks why repeatedly, though the expression on his face clearly reads that he doesn't want or need a reason, not really. When Gabe shudders under his touch, breathless and horrified and physically ecstatic, that's more than enough for Alex, and he snaps back to reality as he feels the hot trickle of come spilling down his fingers.
Unapologetically, Alex hops down from the counter and rinses the mess from his hand and his now spent dick, occasionally leaning forward to catch himself falling over. He is not nearly the same person in truth as he is when he's alone, but if he's honest with himself he knows that he'd much rather have it this way. When he's clean he realizes, disappointedly so, that his kitchen is not. It's a good thing that tiramisu has to be started early in the morning, or else he wouldn't have time to take care of anything else. Especially not, he thinks with a grin and a private joke, especially not himself.
*~*
That night when Travis and Gabe come over, happy and quite happy to smell dinner in the air, Alex is waiting. In his mind he is perched, watching, wanting his opportunity to hurry and arrive. However, he knows that good things come to those who wait patiently, and so he doesn't make any physical note of the fact that yes, Travis is in his apartment alive. It's okay, he thinks to himself, the man will be leaving suffocated in a body bag soon enough, and Gabe will love him and everything will be right. The hearth is roaring with a beautiful fire -- it's downright frigid in New York in the middle of January, and all three of them agree on this much (agreeing with Travis makes Alex nauseous to the point where he imagines ripping out the man's vocal cords and esophagus, cubing them and cooking them up in a nice Crockpot stew before going out and feeding the homeless with it). Unfortunately for Alex, burning Travis is not a part of the original plan and will have to be nixed from the fantasy he'd brought himself to orgasm over earlier in the day. However, he thinks as he's busied in the kitchen slicing bread and smearing it with his own special brand of garlic butter, it doesn't hurt to reflect positively on the idea.
Travis is in the kitchen with him while Gabe is off doing something, of which neither of them are quite sure. They exchange small words, their obvious disdain for one another hanging in the air between them, but they're pleasant enough if only because they know damn well that if they start fighting now, the jig will be up and Alex won't get what he wants. His eyes keep glancing over at the tiny drawer that sits in the corner of his cupboards, where he keeps his spare knives that don't have a place in the knifebox and the beaters for his blender. That's where the bag with the pills sit, and he continually resists the urge to take them out and make damn sure that nothing has happened to them since he shoved them out of sight. They whisper his name, encourage his plan, and he can feel the quivering of Gabe's skin underneath his fingers. That alone makes all this worthwhile -- all the planning and conniving to get him to this place in time. It's proven to be profitable for him, personally, and for that he finds himself truly grateful.
When there's a lull in the conversation, Gabe seems to pick up on this as he bounces into the kitchen area and plants a kiss on Travis' cheek. "I love you," he says quietly, almost in a tiptoeing way, one eye focused on Alex intently.
That's all it takes for Alex to lose his focus on the second loaf of bread he's been cutting into, and he slices open his palm. It gushes a gorgeous shade of overcooked, oversugared strawberry, and while he'd like to stop to admire it more fully, Gabe and Travis are staring right at him bleeding all over the bread. Instead of staring at it with adoration in his eyes, he quickly shoves his hand under the faucet, asking Gabe to hand him a towel from one of the bottom rows of drawers so that he can apply pressure and, hopefully, stop the bleeding. Fortunately for him and his plans, the cut is shallow enough that there won't be any trips to the emergency room tonight, and if anything goes wrong at least it can wait until the next day. Provided there is one, of course, he corrects himself as the white terrycloth of the dishtowel starts to turn crimson under his pressuring hand.
"Are you okay...?" Gabe asks, rushing to his side to look at the wound. Alex nearly faints; it feels like it's been eons since he's had his best friend this close to him, and more importantly than that, it feels right to have them both in this sort of proximity. Alex glances over his shoulder and shrugs. "I'll be okay. I've done worse to myself before." Then he laughs, nervously so, trying to mentally will the bleeding to stop.
Dinner goes off without a hitch -- Alex has cooked his favorite vegan gnocchi. With that he's paired cubes of ciabatta bread, baked in olive oil and rosemary, and he serves them white wine that he spent hours picking out down at the winery. Tonight has to be perfect, he tells himself as he converses with the two of them. Tonight has to be as perfect as it possibly can be or else he'll melt down and say everything that he has never in his life intended to say. It would be so much easier if Travis would just drop dead of his own accord, because the sound of the cyanide in the drawer calling out to him is starting to get to him. He's close to breaking when they finish their meal, both the other men complimenting Alex handsomely. Travis looks like he's in a far better mood than he had been when he'd arrived, which pleases Alex to a great degree. When he collects the plates, they thank him again. He just smiles and tells them to wait until they get a load of dessert. It's going to be spectacular, he says to them, grinning widely, something they'll never forget.
The tiramisu is in a large baking dish, and when he pulls it from the fridge he chuckles quietly to himself. His hand sticks in the knife drawer as he sets the pan down on the counter, pulling out not just the fine cake knife but the bag in which the pills have been gasping for air and begging to be released. When at long last he drops them onto the counter, they scream at him, curse him. He tells them, in his head, that they need not make themselves look suspicious. Before cutting into the dish, he takes a long inhale of its almond scent, and it's more than enough to make his mouth water. Whether that's because of the idea of what comes next or the dessert itself, he's not quite sure but when it comes down to it, it doesn't really matter, does it? He pulls out the dessert plates and forks from their appropriate places, then cuts the first slice and lifts it very carefully onto a plate. The layers are seperate enough that he can pull this first one apart without making it look messy. So he does just that, breaking the caplet into the cake and sprinkling the powder inside. It makes the scent of almonds just that tiny bit stronger, but that's okay, he figures. It will be all okay so long as he never has to hear Gabe say that he loves the bastard again.
He marks each dessert, once they're cut, with a candle, the one with the poison being a red-tinted one, then lights them all and brings them out to the dining room. He's careful to set the right plate in front of the right man, saving the blue one for himself. He asks if anyone wants coffee before they start eating, prays that they say no because damnit, he absolutely has to watch this moment. They do say no, thank God, and he takes a seat and watches Travis' chest heave up and down with every breath he takes. Soon enough, he tells himself with a small little smirk, soon enough it'll stop. Then he and Gabe can crawl off to the bedroom and leave the body to rot. Alex thinks he might actually like the smell of the corpse falling to bits in his dining room, so long as it means he gets what he wants. He won't mind anything at all, especially not consequence, so long as that son of a bitch doesn't take another breath while he's around. Anticipatory, Alex holds his own breath as Travis takes just one bite of the cake. Apparently it's delicious, and the man tells him as much as he sinks his fork into another bit. Piece by piece he shovels his demise into his throat, all the while completely unaware of just what's about to happen to his body. Alex, though -- Alex knows everything, and the tension is just killing him.
A few short moments after they have all finished their desserts and are exchanging words about them, Travis' head falls forward, propelling his torso so that his entire upper body is laying on the dining room table. Gabe shrieks, horrified, eyes wide and rushes over to shake his boyfriend with nothing other than concern. He asks what's wrong repeatedly, tries to figure out what just happened. Alex assists feebly, not sure of what to do, or so he presents himself. He asks if he should call an ambulance, but Gabe is apparently torn between worrying if anything is going to happen to him and wondering hysterically what just happened to Travis. He shakes the man at the shoulder again, brows raised and voice loud, tells him to wake up and that this isn't funny. Alex is mentalizing the stages. First comes the blackout, then the deoxidation, which is happening quite nicely -- Travis seems to be hyperventilating, trying to get air. For a moment Alex ponders what it must be like in there, not knowing why he can't breathe. Of course he doesn't really care, because to him this whole thing is kind of funny, save for Gabe losing his everloving mind. As he watches with worried eyes as his friend, his best friend's boyfriend, gasps. He seems to seize each time, the intake of breath shorter each time until it stops. That's the end, Alex thinks with a satisfied feeling washing over him. Cardiac arrest. That's how it ends.
He's stopped doing anything other than watching Travis not move, not breathe, not make a single sound. It's everything he can do not to laugh long and hard at the situation. Gabe is sobbing on his knees, hands gripping the back of the dining table's chair. Now Alex is torn, whipping out his cell phone and dialing 911 just in case it's what Gabe wants. The man doesn't actually seem to notice as Alex speaks to the operator and calls some professionals to the scene, though, just sits there crying until he, too, blacks out. For a moment Alex worries, if only because this isn't ending how he thought it might. So he carries his friend to bed and tucks him in, kisses his forehead gently and only goes to sleep when the paramedics have carried Travis' dead body out of the apartment. When he rests, he does so on the couch, fights the urge to jack himself off right there in the dark. He's succeeded. He's killed Gabe's boyfriend, and now no one stands in his way at all. So when he sleeps, he does so alone and with a grin wide across his face.
warnings: graphic character death. sensitive material.
if you're a pussy, don't click the cut.
tastes like sugar but it's novocaine.
Alex keeps telling himself that an overedited plan is a horrible idea, and that he shouldn't have come up with it at all. He's combining the first few ingredients to make tiramisu, measuring and adding powder to liquid with the help of his blender. The capsules, sizeable and a happy shade of green, sit on the breakfast bar in their tiny plastic bag. How ironic, their coloring, he hinks as the last of the cream cheese is shoved into the bottom of the blending pitcher. Like his decision, the process of making this dessert is scientific: Once the first few ingredients are mixed, they get folded with fresh-made whipped cream. He hates folding; it takes steady hands that he's never had before. Fortunately enough, he's calmed down quite a bit today, so it's not that great of a pain to do that part. The choice to do what he's going to do today, from the initial invitation to a peace-offering dinner to the underground purchase of the cyanide caplets that are now in his kitchen, have been equally as methodical. There is a reason, an order and an expected outcome, as well as several variables and hypotheses as to how things will go during the process of the event taking place. There's even an estimated time of completion. He's quite proud of himself for all of this.
When the first row of ladyfingers has been carefully arranged in the bottom of the bowl and the mid-layer mixture is in the fridge chilling itself, he looks around the kitchen while wiping his hands on his apron. What to do, what to do -- he knows he's forgotten something. Oh, right -- the almonds, which have been sitting for about twenty minutes waiting to cool so that they're safe for handling. He carefully sets to work slivering and crushing them. All the while he's imagining what it might be like to sliver that dark skin or crush those strong bones. He doesn't believe it would be nearly as nice and warm as the toastiness of the almonds are beneath his careful fingers, though the thought of the screaming he'd hear as he skinned Travis alive are a nice enough fantasy to make his cock twitch a little bit.
Much better than the thought of stalking Gabe until he could get him alone and profess his love (which was his initial thought when he found out that Gabe and Travis were dating) is the thought of pulling Travis's body apart piece by piece until there is absolutely nothing less. The texture of skin, kissed by ink and scars, underneath his roughed hands would be more than enough to send him spiraling into ecstasy, but the thought doesn't stop there. No, then he imagines what it might smell like to have the man's blood caked underneath his nails, to have to look for a place to hide whatever remains he doesn't throw into his brand new fireplace. His dick gets harder with every new image that pops into his head until finally he just can't take it anymore, and has to hop up on the counter opposite where he's making this evening's dessert, pulling his pants down around his ankles as he goes. He doesn't mind the lack of sanitation in any of this; it's his kitchen and he has to eat out of it, after all. Everyone else's needs are secondary.
The bowl in which he'd just whipped his cream is set in the stainless steel sink beside him and it still has gobs of white in the bottom of it. He scoops a few little bits up with his fingers, smudging the cream against his palm and braces himself back on his other hand. When he leans back he can feel the tickle of knife handles against his arm, his back, and that just adds to the sensation. So he begins, calculated and calm and so ready to lose complete control, wrapping his hand around the base of his cock and giving it a gentle pump, all the while smelling in his mind what Trav's hair would smell like as it burnt to a crisp in the hearth. As he began to pick up rhythm he could hear the pleading in the back of his head, the begging for mercy and salvation: "Please, Alex, don't do this...I'm so sorry for hurting you..." And while this happens in his grandiose vision, Gabe is clung to his side, watching with wide, terrified and not knowing what Travis has done to deserve this though it must have been absolutely horrible to earn this sort of punishment.
Alex's elbow bumps against the cold metal of the refrigerator as he jerks himself into a stupor, head tilted back and mouth wide open as he mumbles the curses and the 'this is what you get's.
On his lips he can taste the sweet but frightened kiss coming from the one he's doing all of this for. Yes, Gabe, he thinks, the name reverberating in his head over and over again, like a chant meant to bring him to the brink. As the Travis in his head is fried up, strip by strip, in a pan he and Gabe sink to the hardwood floor of the kitchen entangled in one another, a mesh of mouths and limbs. The taste of tears on his tongue are the sweetest, he decides as Gabe clings to him and asks why repeatedly, though the expression on his face clearly reads that he doesn't want or need a reason, not really. When Gabe shudders under his touch, breathless and horrified and physically ecstatic, that's more than enough for Alex, and he snaps back to reality as he feels the hot trickle of come spilling down his fingers.
Unapologetically, Alex hops down from the counter and rinses the mess from his hand and his now spent dick, occasionally leaning forward to catch himself falling over. He is not nearly the same person in truth as he is when he's alone, but if he's honest with himself he knows that he'd much rather have it this way. When he's clean he realizes, disappointedly so, that his kitchen is not. It's a good thing that tiramisu has to be started early in the morning, or else he wouldn't have time to take care of anything else. Especially not, he thinks with a grin and a private joke, especially not himself.
*~*
That night when Travis and Gabe come over, happy and quite happy to smell dinner in the air, Alex is waiting. In his mind he is perched, watching, wanting his opportunity to hurry and arrive. However, he knows that good things come to those who wait patiently, and so he doesn't make any physical note of the fact that yes, Travis is in his apartment alive. It's okay, he thinks to himself, the man will be leaving suffocated in a body bag soon enough, and Gabe will love him and everything will be right. The hearth is roaring with a beautiful fire -- it's downright frigid in New York in the middle of January, and all three of them agree on this much (agreeing with Travis makes Alex nauseous to the point where he imagines ripping out the man's vocal cords and esophagus, cubing them and cooking them up in a nice Crockpot stew before going out and feeding the homeless with it). Unfortunately for Alex, burning Travis is not a part of the original plan and will have to be nixed from the fantasy he'd brought himself to orgasm over earlier in the day. However, he thinks as he's busied in the kitchen slicing bread and smearing it with his own special brand of garlic butter, it doesn't hurt to reflect positively on the idea.
Travis is in the kitchen with him while Gabe is off doing something, of which neither of them are quite sure. They exchange small words, their obvious disdain for one another hanging in the air between them, but they're pleasant enough if only because they know damn well that if they start fighting now, the jig will be up and Alex won't get what he wants. His eyes keep glancing over at the tiny drawer that sits in the corner of his cupboards, where he keeps his spare knives that don't have a place in the knifebox and the beaters for his blender. That's where the bag with the pills sit, and he continually resists the urge to take them out and make damn sure that nothing has happened to them since he shoved them out of sight. They whisper his name, encourage his plan, and he can feel the quivering of Gabe's skin underneath his fingers. That alone makes all this worthwhile -- all the planning and conniving to get him to this place in time. It's proven to be profitable for him, personally, and for that he finds himself truly grateful.
When there's a lull in the conversation, Gabe seems to pick up on this as he bounces into the kitchen area and plants a kiss on Travis' cheek. "I love you," he says quietly, almost in a tiptoeing way, one eye focused on Alex intently.
That's all it takes for Alex to lose his focus on the second loaf of bread he's been cutting into, and he slices open his palm. It gushes a gorgeous shade of overcooked, oversugared strawberry, and while he'd like to stop to admire it more fully, Gabe and Travis are staring right at him bleeding all over the bread. Instead of staring at it with adoration in his eyes, he quickly shoves his hand under the faucet, asking Gabe to hand him a towel from one of the bottom rows of drawers so that he can apply pressure and, hopefully, stop the bleeding. Fortunately for him and his plans, the cut is shallow enough that there won't be any trips to the emergency room tonight, and if anything goes wrong at least it can wait until the next day. Provided there is one, of course, he corrects himself as the white terrycloth of the dishtowel starts to turn crimson under his pressuring hand.
"Are you okay...?" Gabe asks, rushing to his side to look at the wound. Alex nearly faints; it feels like it's been eons since he's had his best friend this close to him, and more importantly than that, it feels right to have them both in this sort of proximity. Alex glances over his shoulder and shrugs. "I'll be okay. I've done worse to myself before." Then he laughs, nervously so, trying to mentally will the bleeding to stop.
Dinner goes off without a hitch -- Alex has cooked his favorite vegan gnocchi. With that he's paired cubes of ciabatta bread, baked in olive oil and rosemary, and he serves them white wine that he spent hours picking out down at the winery. Tonight has to be perfect, he tells himself as he converses with the two of them. Tonight has to be as perfect as it possibly can be or else he'll melt down and say everything that he has never in his life intended to say. It would be so much easier if Travis would just drop dead of his own accord, because the sound of the cyanide in the drawer calling out to him is starting to get to him. He's close to breaking when they finish their meal, both the other men complimenting Alex handsomely. Travis looks like he's in a far better mood than he had been when he'd arrived, which pleases Alex to a great degree. When he collects the plates, they thank him again. He just smiles and tells them to wait until they get a load of dessert. It's going to be spectacular, he says to them, grinning widely, something they'll never forget.
The tiramisu is in a large baking dish, and when he pulls it from the fridge he chuckles quietly to himself. His hand sticks in the knife drawer as he sets the pan down on the counter, pulling out not just the fine cake knife but the bag in which the pills have been gasping for air and begging to be released. When at long last he drops them onto the counter, they scream at him, curse him. He tells them, in his head, that they need not make themselves look suspicious. Before cutting into the dish, he takes a long inhale of its almond scent, and it's more than enough to make his mouth water. Whether that's because of the idea of what comes next or the dessert itself, he's not quite sure but when it comes down to it, it doesn't really matter, does it? He pulls out the dessert plates and forks from their appropriate places, then cuts the first slice and lifts it very carefully onto a plate. The layers are seperate enough that he can pull this first one apart without making it look messy. So he does just that, breaking the caplet into the cake and sprinkling the powder inside. It makes the scent of almonds just that tiny bit stronger, but that's okay, he figures. It will be all okay so long as he never has to hear Gabe say that he loves the bastard again.
He marks each dessert, once they're cut, with a candle, the one with the poison being a red-tinted one, then lights them all and brings them out to the dining room. He's careful to set the right plate in front of the right man, saving the blue one for himself. He asks if anyone wants coffee before they start eating, prays that they say no because damnit, he absolutely has to watch this moment. They do say no, thank God, and he takes a seat and watches Travis' chest heave up and down with every breath he takes. Soon enough, he tells himself with a small little smirk, soon enough it'll stop. Then he and Gabe can crawl off to the bedroom and leave the body to rot. Alex thinks he might actually like the smell of the corpse falling to bits in his dining room, so long as it means he gets what he wants. He won't mind anything at all, especially not consequence, so long as that son of a bitch doesn't take another breath while he's around. Anticipatory, Alex holds his own breath as Travis takes just one bite of the cake. Apparently it's delicious, and the man tells him as much as he sinks his fork into another bit. Piece by piece he shovels his demise into his throat, all the while completely unaware of just what's about to happen to his body. Alex, though -- Alex knows everything, and the tension is just killing him.
A few short moments after they have all finished their desserts and are exchanging words about them, Travis' head falls forward, propelling his torso so that his entire upper body is laying on the dining room table. Gabe shrieks, horrified, eyes wide and rushes over to shake his boyfriend with nothing other than concern. He asks what's wrong repeatedly, tries to figure out what just happened. Alex assists feebly, not sure of what to do, or so he presents himself. He asks if he should call an ambulance, but Gabe is apparently torn between worrying if anything is going to happen to him and wondering hysterically what just happened to Travis. He shakes the man at the shoulder again, brows raised and voice loud, tells him to wake up and that this isn't funny. Alex is mentalizing the stages. First comes the blackout, then the deoxidation, which is happening quite nicely -- Travis seems to be hyperventilating, trying to get air. For a moment Alex ponders what it must be like in there, not knowing why he can't breathe. Of course he doesn't really care, because to him this whole thing is kind of funny, save for Gabe losing his everloving mind. As he watches with worried eyes as his friend, his best friend's boyfriend, gasps. He seems to seize each time, the intake of breath shorter each time until it stops. That's the end, Alex thinks with a satisfied feeling washing over him. Cardiac arrest. That's how it ends.
He's stopped doing anything other than watching Travis not move, not breathe, not make a single sound. It's everything he can do not to laugh long and hard at the situation. Gabe is sobbing on his knees, hands gripping the back of the dining table's chair. Now Alex is torn, whipping out his cell phone and dialing 911 just in case it's what Gabe wants. The man doesn't actually seem to notice as Alex speaks to the operator and calls some professionals to the scene, though, just sits there crying until he, too, blacks out. For a moment Alex worries, if only because this isn't ending how he thought it might. So he carries his friend to bed and tucks him in, kisses his forehead gently and only goes to sleep when the paramedics have carried Travis' dead body out of the apartment. When he rests, he does so on the couch, fights the urge to jack himself off right there in the dark. He's succeeded. He's killed Gabe's boyfriend, and now no one stands in his way at all. So when he sleeps, he does so alone and with a grin wide across his face.