anyone lived in a pretty how town || William

[DAVID WINTERS]

Technically speaking, he shouldn’t have been here. He should have been at a nice little restaurant, a corner place with an awning and a soup of the day, and he should have been with Emma. And he did feel guilty about it. Not that he was standing her up—he wasn’t, and he wouldn’t, if they’d made plans—but that he was going behind her back—which he was, and he had been, on those days when they didn’t plan anything. It was cruel and there were occasions when it really did wrack him with guilt, the kind that woke him up at night and begged for him to call her up and confess the truth. He hated liars. Sometimes, he hated himself.

Richard was different than Emma, though. He understood. They couldn’t be together in the open, where people might see and whisper and wonder and eventually publish articles speculating about him and the man he was spending so much of his time with who didn’t work with him or know him from childhood and made him smile in a manner that looked a bit like a small Labrador puppy, all paws and tail-wagging and that big tongue and—God, he was pathetic, wasn’t he?

They’d met a little over a month ago. It’d been at a charity event—David’s, and so the proceeds had gone exactly where they ought to, thank you very much—and they’d talked. And then Richard had lost his wallet in the parking lot and David had helped find it and driven him home (entirely innocently, thank you) and he’d learned that the quiet man with the timid smile had been an artist. So, naturally, they’d exchanged numbers. David liked art. Richard made art. It was simple enough, no underlying suggestions in the action, and David certainly hadn’t tried turning the paper over and over again in his hand until the ink had smudged slightly before he’d finally worked up the nerve to pick up the phone and dial about three days after the whole thing. That would have been ridiculous.

David was, on occasion, exceptionally ridiculous.

Anyway, the secret was out now. Between them, it was fine. Richard knew, and he understood, and so it was safe for David to come see him. He wouldn’t tell. David trusted him. David trusted easily. He was usually right about people, though, and he never second guessed his decisions, much to the exasperation of some of his colleagues; but there were always other things to worry about. More important things, like the fact that he hadn’t seen Richard in a week or talked to him in upwards of three days, when they’d planned this meeting. His own fault, he knew. He wouldn’t blame the man, if he was mad at him. It wasn’t fair. It’d only been a handful of weeks, and David was already wondering why Richard bothered putting up with him; he wouldn’t put up with him. But he tried not to worry. He did a fairly good job of it, too.

David shuffled his feet a little when he reached the door, knocking three times before he stuffed his hands back into his jacket pockets and looked down. Rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, he whistled softly to himself, listened for the sound of the lock clicking, a small, somewhat sheepish smile spreading over his face when the door opened. “Hey. You still free?”

[WILLIAM WEBB]

"Lord, what fools these mortals be..."

Reclining on the shitty little couch in one of about four rooms in the dinky studio apartment where "Richard Allen" was to live, William stared idly at a spider crawling across the smooth white plaster of the ceiling and laughed.

It had been so, so easy. What an expertly tangled web he had woven around David Winters, into what a flawless trap he had cooed and wiled and lured the dear young politician. Too trusting, that was what he was. Too trusting, and William was simply too convincing. He'd broken into the minds of men far more guarded than Councilman Winters, broken into their minds and then their hearts and then their beds. So had he done with dearest David, so had he wound the handsome young candidate so slowly and lovingly around his little finger.

Oh, it was cute, the way David looked at his Richard, like a puppy begging for unadulterated love and attention, so achingly eager to please, tail wagging, ears perked, eyes shining. It was cute, indeed. Cute and hilariously pathetic.

You have him just where you want him,[/i] the Spider crooned in his deep gentleman's voice, the sound of honey with the resonance of a cello, soothing, reassuring. William smiled, his dark eyes blinking faintly with red as the Spider stirred contentedly in his subconscious.

Showtime, William.

He got up off the couch in a sudden whirl of movement. Off came the black Westwood suit. Into the closet it went, far away from where David would ever find it (because what starving artist could afford such a suit?). Off came the glossy tie and the pristine white dress shirt. On went the Star Wars t-shirt, hiding the spider necklace that sat snugly against his breast, on went the old red hoodie. He threaded his fingers through his black hair, ruffling it, styling it subconsciously to look fundamentally unbrushed. On went the gray beanie. Off went the shoes and the socks. On went the skinny jeans splattered with acrylic paint. He grabbed the white Ray-Ban knockoff sunglasses off an end table as he passed, nestled them into his hair just above the rim of the beanie.

In bare feet he padded into the studio and raised his eyes to the canvases lining the walls, some finished, many unfinished, all of them crowded with twisted shapes and blending colors. He smiled again, that tiny, sinister smile that didn't dare approach his empty eyes. He'd painted them. All of them. Out of necessity, of course -- he didn't often waste his time on such large art projects. Richard, on the other hand, did.

Richard, Richard, where's your voice, my dear...

He coaxed the character from the depths of his consciousness, slipped into him easily, let his tortured innocence screen the untempered blackness of William Webb. His posture changed, relaxed shoulders drawing closer to his ears with Richard's typical level of neurosis, straight spine curving slightly, hands slipping into his pockets.

William smiled. Richard smiled.

Then the knock came on the door. David.

Richard perked immediately, all but running to the door, grabbing a paintbrush and holding it between his teeth as he unlocked it and pulled it open.

Immediately, his dark brown eyes softened at the sight of the man on the threshold.

The paintbrush came out of his mouth, into his left hand. "Wh--uh, hey, didn't--" He coughed nervously. The way his words were shaped had transitioned from his natural Scottish lilt to a Seattle-sounding accent. "Didn't think you'd make it. Yeah, I'm--I'm still free, c'mon in." He bit his lip and smiled, a signature Richard expression. Then he ducked back into the little studio apartment, trotting into the room with the paintings, wetting the brush in some turpentine and playing with the paint on a still-wet oil painting, as if he could not bear to leave his work unfinished.

ooc: outfitttt

[DAVID WINTERS]

Of course he hadn’t thought he’d make it. David had cancelled more often than he’d been over, and every time it made him feel like worse of a person, especially when the person he’d been cancelling on was Richard, who was so nice and shy and constantly surrounded by acrylics, David assumed, more often than reality. Maybe that was what was so charming about him. That or the way he held his paintbrush in his mouth when he opened the door, or the moderately floppy lack of styling of his hair, or the way he bit his lip, or the slightly muddy hue of his eyes, like he’d managed to actually paint his irises. Or maybe it was just all that wrapped up together. Either way, David liked him quite a bit.

His smile turned into something more of a grin as Richard stepped back into the apartment, and his hands pulled themselves out of his pockets.

“I’m really sorry I didn’t call again,” sincere in his apology, he shut the door behind him, following the man into the apartment. “I just…Well, there’s really not an excuse.”

Amazed as ever by the sheer number of paintings lining the walls, David walked in a small circle around the room, mouth slightly agape in a manner that was, once again, entirely normal for his visits here. He had one of Richard’s paintings at home. A smallish one, it hung in the kitchen where he could see it every morning without needing it in his bedroom. It made him feel guilty. Not about Emma, but the man in front of him. The one with his back turned, the one playing with the paintings he worked so hard on but remained unappreciated. He’d take him out to dinner, if he could. A real one, with steak or something, or lobster, and then when they were walking home, he’d press him up against the side of a building in the middle of the street with people around and he’d kiss him, hard and hungry and fast like they sometimes did when they were alone. If he could.

As it was, he could admire his artwork. And he could kiss him at home. And David supposed that was good enough, as it certainly wasn’t Richard’s fault, any of it, and maybe the secrecy made it all a bit more special. He wasn’t really sure, but he liked to tell himself so. Careful not to touch anything in case he managed to turn around and knock it all down at once, David turned back to face Richard, taking the two steps needed to stand behind him, and just a little to his right. Far enough away to watch without interrupting.

“This one’s new, right? It must have taken you forever…” His eyes widened a little as they made their way over the canvas. He laughed a little, shaking his head. “God, you really don’t sleep at all, do you?”
He paused for a moment, Richard's hand as it moved the brush, the paint as it swirled on the canvas, and then he looked up at Richard again, rubbing the back of his neck as he gave an apologetic smile to match his tone. "Listen, if you want to work, I can go. I don't want to bother you or anything, if you were busy before I got here..."

[WILLIAM WEBB]

Maybe it was because he'd never wanted to be his old self in the first place, maybe it was because he had always been inventing new personalities and histories for himself since he was five years old, but it was so painfully easy to slip into the character of Richard, to step into the shoes of that shy and tortured little artist, that pure and loving soul. It was so unlike his own. Of course, there were fragments of truth in Richard, as there were fragments of truth in any writer's characters -- but on the whole, William Webb and Richard Allen were not even close to being alike.

Of course, David didn't know that.

In all likelihood, he never would.

"It's, uh, no, it's okay, I don't mind, I know you're busy," he murmured, biting his bottom lip as he played the paint over the canvas. "Really...really busy, and, um...the press...a-and yeah, it's okay." He looked back at David and smiled an endearingly awkward little smile. Richard was so crushingly shy and unassuming.

Building Richard's character had been an interesting process for the mastermind. He had, of course, had to gather information on David Winters first, get an idea of him as a person so he could create a persona that would attract and appeal to him. He knew, of course, that David Winters was not as heterosexual as he pretended to be in public. He also knew the power of sexual repression...and the unwavering influence of a good mistress.

He'd had David wrapped around his finger the moment they'd met, and since then, he'd only been winding him more and more tightly.

He could hear David's steps behind him, and Richard was filled with the sudden desire to lean back into him, make contact, anything. But he was too shy to initiate something like that. It was too soon in their relationship, for Richard. He didn't feel secure enough yet to make such a bold move, regardless of the fact that David had already bedded him.

A nervous laugh escaped him. "Thanks...and I do. Sometimes. Usually on my feet." He threw a mischievous smile over his shoulder at David. "No, it's okay, I was just finishing up..." Inspecting his work, then tilting his head and checking from another angle, he dropped the brush in turpentine and turned around, smiling timidly up at David.

"I'm all yours."

[DAVID WINTERS]

David couldn’t help but feel guilty. He never could, when he was around Richard. It wasn’t fair, what he was doing. It wasn’t right and it certainly wasn’t kind. The truth, of course, was that he liked Richard more than Emma—in the bedroom sense of the manner, as people they were both perfect in most every way—and he would, if he could, gladly walk down the street holding his hand only to turn round a corner and pull him close and plant a kiss on his lips when he least expected it and keep holding him even if people on the street decided to stare.

But he couldn’t. It wasn’t that he cared what others thought of his sexuality; he didn’t, not really. A long time ago maybe, but not now. The fact was just that it was easier, better, and simpler to be straight. Well, maybe not easier. But certainly better, as far as politics went. He could support gay rights and be heterosexual, and he could appeal to most of the city with that alone. He wasn’t manipulating anyone. It wasn’t a game. It was life, and he’d made a few potentially cruel sacrifices in the interest of doing what he’d always wanted. This was just one of them.

Not that it was ever that easy. When he heard Richard’s voice, or saw his sad, puppy dog eyes or his unkempt hair, David knew he was quite possibly the cruelest bastard on the face of the planet. He couldn’t ask other people to keep his secrets for him. Couldn’t ask them to live them out.

He frowned slightly, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he watched Richard paint, guilt riding a slow current down his throat and into his stomach as he swallowed and cast a glance at the floor. He hated what he did. Richard didn’t deserve it, any of it. It had to be horrible, he knew, dealing with him. All the secrecy.

Still, David raised his brows a bit at Richard’s smile, finding a good mood creeping back to him with the look. That was, after all, why he liked him so much. The smile. It was by far a person’s best feature, in David’s opinion, and Richard’s was exceptional. The sort someone might write poetry about, if they were so inclined. David hadn’t. But he could.

He watched in relative awe as Richard finished, taking in the painting with eyes wide and childish with amazement. He’d always admired artists, and specifically their ability to create something out of nothing. David was a people person. He could work with what he was given, see good things others sometimes couldn’t or refused to, and go from there. Always, though, he needed a foundation.

“You know,” he said as he took a step closer to Richard, “I don’t really get the chance to tell you how grateful I am that you…well, that you’ve stuck around, really. I know…it’s gotta be hard. And I’m probably not easy to deal with, half the time.” He took Richard’s hands gently in his own and pulled him the remaining step closer, eyes searching his earnestly, needing to know that he wasn’t letting him down, that he wasn’t making him worse off with all of this. “But I want you to know that I…if I can make it up to at all, even a little, in any way…all you have to do is ask, okay?” David looked at him for a moment longer before he leaned in, utterly sincere in both his promise and his guilt, and kissed Richard lightly on the lips as though to seal it all completely.

[WILLIAM WEBB]

David Winters had been such an easy target.

Politicians, they were interesting. Many of them had hearts nearly as cold as his. They were so consumed in their own games, their own war for power, one over the other over the other, stepping on each other's hands and feet and heads. Half of them didn't even have their own concrete beliefs; they just said whatever they thought their voters wanted to hear. And it was cute, how people so often believed them, when it was revealed time and time again how corrupt they could be.

But David wasn't like them. He wasn't a coldhearted son of a bitch. He was a bleeding heart. And that had made this whole thing tragically simple.

David trusted too easily. He had this mindset of wanting to fix things that were bad for people, make those who were special to him know they were loved, know they were important. So William had given him something to fix. He'd given him Richard, sweet and friendly but broken and haunted and insecure. And David had fallen for him in the space of a month.

Perfection.

And God, it did help that his victim was hot as hell. William might have been incapable of feeling anything towards another human being emotionally, but physically, it was an entirely different story. And frankly, he'd seen David with his shirt off. The man had a stomach like a washboard. Sex with a piece of ass like that wasn't all that bad. Not bad at all, in fact.

Richard, of course, had fallen for him hard, and that was what explained his allowance of David's secrecy. Richard was private, quiet, shy -- he wouldn't have wanted a public relationship anyway, although going out to dinner a few times wouldn't have been so bad at all. Still, he was able to handle the idea of being David Winters' mistress, since he couldn't be his boyfriend. It wasn't like he went out very much, anyway, or had any friends.

His seclusion was rather like his creator's, who rarely left wherever it was he was staying except on business. But David didn't know that.

Richard bit his lip gently as David approached him, looking down shyly, a blush creeping over his cheeks. (William had always been proud of his ability to make himself blush.) "You don't...I mean..." A slight awkward laugh escaped him, still unable to meet David's eyes until the taller man took his hands and drew him closer. The blush on his cheeks intensified. "It's fine. You don't have to thank me..." He shuffled his feet, timid and unassuming as usual. "I-I mean...I'm...lucky to have you. At all. S-so, um." He seemed adorably awkward in David's grasp.

The question, of course, the statement, was exactly what William wanted to hear. Anything he wanted, he just had to ask. Yes. Yes, yes, that's what he'd wanted, all this time. Good. Good.

He had complete control now.

Returning the kiss, Richard looked away modestly. "Don't say that," he mumbled. "I only need you..." He looked back at David again, smiling weakly, lovingly, before leaning up to plant another, firmer kiss on his lips.

[DAVID WINTERS]

Were it possible to shatter someone’s soul with a smile, Richard Allen would long ago have reduced David Winters to nothing more than a pile of broken heartstrings. He didn’t love him. He wouldn’t say that unless he meant it, and while he wasn’t one to spend time with people he didn’t like, David had neither seen the point in telling people lies. But he did like Richard. He liked him a great deal more than he’d ever liked anyone before, and maybe that sounded a bit adolescent of him, but it was also wonderfully, woefully true. Richard moved him. All people moved David—that was true, it was why he’d gotten into politics in the first place—but none quite like Richard. Richard, who for lack of a better word, shattered him.

David was no poet. He would never claim to be. It wasn’t in his nature to write things down. More to feel them and let them pass and then let them ache, or to take another’s aches and make them his own and to strap them quite sloppily to his sleeve, still bleeding and oozing and broken, but no longer a part of the person he’d taken them from. Some called it fixing. Others said it was stupidity. David shrugged, and said it was life. He wasn’t smart. He’d never call himself so—but he knew people, and he knew how to help them, and he liked to do just that even if it meant hurting himself. And besides, it never hurt that badly. He wasn’t a good enough person to be hurt that badly. He didn’t think so, anyway.

“No, no, I do,” David nodded, voice soft as a smile crept over his lips at the sight of Richard’s blush. The man he held in his arms was, if nothing else, adorably awkward. And David did nothing more than love him for it. Not despite it, not because of it, simply for it. David was a lot of things and naïve was probably one of them, but he’d always found the awkwardness in people to be among their most endearing qualities. There was something about blushing and smiling and feet-shuffling and the general roughness of it all that he couldn’t help but smile about. And he blushed a little himself. “Don’t say that…” Or he could, if he liked. David only minded a little bit.

It was nice, maybe, to be the charm for someone’s luck.

They kissed. It was soft and stolen, the kind of kiss that was unassumingly urgent, masked in a gentleness that said they had all the time in the world when clearly, their lips knew better. David wasn’t a romantic. Or, rather, he was, but only in the sense of his being—there was a general softness to him, a sort of blurriness around the edges that seemed to sharpen a bit when there were lips to feel and tongues to taste. He grew firmer. More solid, somehow, like he knew definitively who he was.

And still he pulled back from Richard and the blurriness returned and he smiled, and cupped the man’s face in his hands and kissed his forehead in a manner that was not at all fatherly but loving and tender and intimate, and certainly not the sort of thing he did with Emma, public though they were allowed to be. “Well,” he nuzzled Richard’s nose, pulling him up tight and close as he kissed him again and the firmness returned to his person, knowing he was helping somehow. He laughed a little. “You have me. But I’ll still say what I like, because it's true…”

[WILLIAM WEBB]

Whatever there was in William that could have appreciated this moment of tenderness had died in him years ago. There was no softness to him now, no appreciation for vulnerability. He loathed with all his blackened heart the idea of being fallible, accessible. To open oneself to another, to show to them one's weaknesses, was stupid, plain and simple. William made a habit of trusting no-one, of keeping everyone at arms-length. His characters could love and seduce and smile and tell secrets, but they were just that -- characters. They would not and would never be William Webb, or the shattered boy who hid in the darkness of his psyche.

No wrong he is not hiding he's dead he's dead and that's that dead dead dead dead dead I killed him and he's gone

But it was safe for Richard to be vulnerable, because Richard was not William. None of his secrets were William's, not exactly, not completely. Sure, David had seen the suggestions that Richard had been beaten as a child, as William had been. But the story he had crafted for Richard and his own experiences were different, namely in that Richard's paled in comparison.

But again. He didn't think about any of the things that happened before the Spider stirred in his consciousness and gave him his purpose. Well--no, sometimes he thought about Cambridge. But everything before that was wrapped up and stowed, away in some locked room with solid steel doors gilded with caution tape, screaming unheard behind two feet of metallic alloy.

Now wasn't the time to think about himself, though. He was Richard now. He was acting.

A shy laugh escaped him, and he hid his face in David for a moment, in the crook of his neck. "It's...I..." He ran a hand across his chest and sighed. "It isn't something I want to be thanked for...need to be...thanked for. I just, uh..." A little cough. "I just like being with you...s-so, er. Um. Sorry, that sounds...really--I'll just stop now." He squeezed his eyes shut and drew back, running a hand down his face. "God, I sound like I'm fourteen. I'm sorry. I'm such a mess." He looked back up at David and smiled that little puppy-cute smile of his.

God, Richard was all too conscious of how short this visit would have to be, and his body ached all over for David. He needed every scrap of time with him he could get. It was pathetic, William mused as he moved effortlessly through the motions of Richardhood. Disgustingly so.

But that was humanity. Something he would never possess.

Richard was a human disguise sewn by a monster.

David drew him closer, and Richard felt their hips brush. A thrill seemed to run through him. He shivered, blushing harder and kissing David back again with all the need he could muster.

"I won't stop you," he mumbled against his lips, eyes closed. "I'll keep it in mind, then..."

Oh, yes. He would.

[DAVID WINTERS]

Self-confidence, David believed, although never something he’d possessed a whole lot of, was definitely what had gotten him so far. It was the way he carried himself, maybe, like he didn’t necessarily know where it was he’d end up but by God, he’d get somewhere eventually. He didn’t like thinking about tomorrow. About the possibility that he could lose the election (which, honestly, was the single unavoidable thought constantly poking about behind his eyelids, but he did try to ignore it as much as humanly possible), or the idea that people might find out about Richard—that his girlfriend especially might find out about Richard—or that Richard might wake up one day and find some sense knocked into him and realize that maybe David was just about the cruelest person in all the world, for shutting him away from his life like this when really, he meant a lot to him.

But David didn’t like to think about bad possibilities. He trusted easily, maybe a bit blindly, and so things tended to go along much more smoothly if he could just imagine life to be exactly how it was meant to—good and solid and kind—and then who knew, maybe one day he’d wake up and find it to be truthfully, exactly that. He liked to imagine that happening quite often.

David held Richard to him as he spoke, a small smile playing his lips at the mumbled, jerky way of speaking. It was sweet. Everything about Richard was. And David nuzzled into his hair and kissed him, not caring that he was pushing the hat further back on Richard’s head. He bit the inside of his lip a bit as Richard pulled back, trying to conceal the amused little grin that was spreading over his face, having already taken root in his eyes.

“Stop that,” he laughed a bit as he pulled Richard closer, their hips just now touching, pressing lightly together. David liked closeness. “You sound fine…”

He felt Richard shiver beneath his kiss and for a moment, David considered pulling away, asking if something was wrong because there was no way on earth a man or anyone could possibly be as fragile as he. But it felt sort of nice, too. So he wrapped his arms around Richard’s waist and kissed him again, a bit softer now, and he closed his eyes as he did so and pulled him even closer.

“I can stay for a while, you know…Today. I’ve missed you…” He didn’t think before he spoke, didn’t think about the fact that he technically had plans he ought to call and cancel or time he should have been spending somewhere else, with somebody else. The truth was that he wanted to be here, in Richard’s studio apartment with the paintings hanging all around and no one to knock on the door or barge in and tell him this wasn’t right, and he wasn’t supposed to be here. And Richard thought he was acting fourteen.

He kissed him again, a little firmer, apology written into the kindness and closeness and slight longing in it. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around so often…”

[WILLIAM WEBB]

In the faraway world of William's past, he remembered a time where he would have craved this, would have craved any gentle touch, begged for it, pleaded for just a kind word or an affectionate glance. He had been starved as a child, not of food but of love, and it had made him cold. The warmth of David's arms around him, the pleasant flutter it might have brought to Richard's stomach, did not reach the ice at the impostor's center. William's ice fortress was impenetrable.

But there was a part of him a very small part that wished he really was what he had told David he was, a sad and fragile and lovable artist that a kind man could take in his arms and love, but it was dangerous to think that way, it was dangerous to think in a fashion anything close to human because he was not human, not human and he didn't need love because it wasn't real

Richard's eyelids seemed to flutter as David drew him closer, slender hips bracing against David's, and he received the kiss with a content hum. "I don't know how you put up with me," he mumbled. "I'm such a weirdo..."

Oh, David had no idea.

A smile spread slowly over Richard's face like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, and he kissed David again, more eagerly this time, arms sliding around his neck. "Good," he murmured, eyes fluttering closed, hips pressing into his just a bit more decisively as his fingers tangled in David's hair. "I missed you too..."

The man's guilt was endearing. He was being surprisingly sweet, too, considering Richard was essentially functioning as his mistress. William had been The Other Man countless times, had seduced married men and women alike, had wrapped them around his fingers like twine, and never had he met a victim who was so considerate of his secret sexual partner. There was an extraordinary humanity about David Winters, deliciously flawed, begging for acceptance that Richard provided but that William would not. He had no patience for insecurity, in reality, but Richard, teeteringly insecure himself, did.

"It's okay...really, it's okay..." Richard's head fell again to David's shoulder, nuzzling his jawbone and placing soft kisses under his ear. "I'm glad to see you at all. I am...I miss you so much when you're gone..."