He hadn't killed in over a month.

Which was good. Not good enough. But considering his recent record, a month of no killing was good.

He'd been capable of not killing anyone for months. He was capable of restraining himself, ignoring that stubborn urge to slit someone's throat. Moving to different motels, planning alternate routes, figuring out new identities kept him busy and distracted. But he could still feel that urge, like a dark, billowing storm constantly hovering behind his head, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

He wasn't sure if fucking Luke helped or worsened it.

When he would wake up in the morning and see him sleeping peacefully next to him, he knew what he had to do, or rather, what he couldn't do.

Killing him wasn't an option anymore. Leaving him wasn't an option either.

He had to find another option soon because that storm was bound to catch up.

***

Luke didn't seem to appreciate that Damien was not a loving, doting boyfriend. No holding hands while they drove across the vast, empty American plains, no cute games of footsie during stops at old, grease-stained diners, no romantic strolls along dusty, cracked sidewalks.

When they were out in public, they kept to themselves. When they were alone, it was a free-for-all. Luke probably saw it as mixed signals, but Damien saw it as common sense. They couldn't afford to mess around or be a couple or whatever the fuck Luke wanted. It was an arrangement that worked for Damien, but apparently not for Luke.

***

It had been over two months since they ran away. They were staying at another motel, sleeping in two rooms again. They had been sleeping in one room over the past few days to save money. One room obviously didn't leave much privacy for them to do what they wanted, so when he and Luke finally had a separate room to themselves, Luke saw it as the perfect time to voice his complaints.

"Do you want to do something?" Luke asked.

Damien shook his head, not looking up from his laptop.

"So you're just gonna sit there for the rest of the day?"

He shrugged, still not looking up from his laptop.

"Oh, you're gonna sit there until you've decided it's time to fuck."

He sighed and rolled his eyes. "We don't have to if you don't want to."

"That's not the fucking point!" Luke snapped.

Damien finally looked up to stare disapprovingly at Luke. "Then what's your point? You're feeling neglected? You're not getting enough attention? I'm not your babysitter. I'm not here to make you feel better."

"Fuck you! Why are you such an asshole?"

Damien responded with another shrug and returned to his laptop.

"Stop!" Luke shouted. He yanked the laptop away from him and tossed it aside. "Could you stop being an asshole and talk to me for one minute?"

Damien glared at him. "Fine. You have my undivided attention."

Luke exhaled shakily. "Why are you like this? Why do you just fuck me and ignore me?"

"Is that all you think I'm doing?"

"I wouldn't fucking know! You only talk to me when we're fucking!"

"You don't seem to want it any less than I do!"

"Yeah, but I don't like being used!"

"How could you be of any use to me?"

Luke jumped up from the bed and covered his face with his hands, probably trying to gather his thoughts, maybe trying to regain control of himself. After a heavy sigh, he turned around and stared intently at Damien, barely blinking, barely moving.

"I like being around you, Damien. I really do, despite whatever the fuck is wrong with you. But I'm not, I am not—" His voice seemed to get louder with every word, "—gonna keep dealing with your bullshit!"

Damien laughed, darkly, sarcastically, and stood up. "Bullshit? I'm a psychopathic serial killer—"

"I already know that!" Luke practically screeched, throwing his hands in the air, clenching them as if he were about to punch him. "You've already said that—"

"Let me finish," Damien interrupted, his voice tense and threatening. "You can keep complaining about my bullshit, you can keep pretending that I could be better, but I will always be a killer."

Luke frowned. "You keep saying that, but I'm not worried."

"Why not?"

"I'm just not. I can defend myself."

Damien scoffed. "With what? A gun with no bullets?"

Luke paused. "What?"

"Your gun has no bullets."

"It's empty?"

Damien could picture Luke with the gun, his arms shaking, his eyes shining. Luke didn't know, did he? He really thought that he would shoot Damien.

"Do you understand now?" Damien continued. "Do you understand what you're dealing with?"

Luke's face twitched. His glare softened, his frowned relaxed. "No, I don't understand. Why are you still here? Why haven't you left already?"

"I can't leave yet."

"Why don't you just get it over with? Just fucking killing me and leave." His voice was starting to waver.

"I can't do that."

"Why not? If none of this fucking matters to you, why not fucking kill me?" His voice cracked at the end of the sentence, as if he were moments away from crying.

"I . . . didn't say that," Damien mumbled, not sure what to say, not sure why he needed to defend himself, or keep Luke from crying.

"Then tell me why you ignore me. Tell me why you pretend to like me. Better yet, tell me why you act like you care about me."

"I do . . . care," Damien mumbled, even quieter.

"Then fucking show it, for god's sake!" Luke yelled with a shakiness that proved that he wasn't just sad, he was also scared.

And that fear, that worry that shone in Luke's eyes, it was enough to push Damien over the edge, right into the storm that followed him around.

"I don't need to show you anything," he muttered before stepping out.

He should've stayed but it was too late.

***

It was almost too easy.

She was nineteen-years-old. She had run away from her abusive family.

"I've been gone for weeks," she told him. "Nobody gives a damn about me."

They were at a bar. Nobody was around, the bartender wasn't paying attention, and there weren't any cameras in the parking lot.

"I'm sure somebody cares about you," he said to her.

He could've counted himself as someone who cared about her, but he cared about her for entirely different reasons than she might've expected.

Whatever it was that he said to her, it made her trust him.

It was just too damn easy.

He had found the perfect victim under the perfect conditions in the perfect environment. It was like the universe was asking him to murder that day.

She bled a lot, too much, in fact. If he had planned it through, he wouldn't have worn a white shirt, but he didn't mind the bloodstains. They reminded him of how much she screamed when she saw her own blood streaming out of her.

***

When he got back to the motel, he forgot that Luke would be waiting for him inside. It was late at night, but he doubted that Luke would be asleep.

He stepped into the room as silently as he could, but Luke immediately turned to look at him. Damien walked across the room wordlessly, his jacket zipped up and his hands in his pockets, hoping that Luke wouldn't see any trace of blood.

"Where'd you go?" Luke asked before Damien reached the bathroom.

"I took a walk."

He went into the bathroom before Luke could ask another question, but he doubted that Luke would ask another question anyway.

He spent nearly an hour in the shower. Most of that hour was spent desperately trying to scrub the blood out of his shirt. He knew he couldn't scrub off the stains and he knew he was going to throw it away eventually, but he didn't want Luke to see any of it.

When he finished, he stepped out of the bathroom to find Luke lying on the bed, just staring up at the ceiling.

It was silent. An unbearable, tense silence.

"I'm sorry," Luke eventually said, still staring at the ceiling.

"I should be sorry," Damien replied, stepping closer to the bed.

"Yeah, well, we're both sorry then."

Damien sat on the bed beside him.

"I meant what I said though," Luke added. "I just didn't mean to piss you off."

"Yeah, you're right. I have been treating you like shit. But you can't expect me to treat you nicely if I'm in the middle of something important."

"You could at least talk to me!" Luke snapped. "Have a fucking conversation with me!"

Luke sounded like he was ready for another argument, but Damien was too tired for that.

"Okay, you're right," Damien sighed out. "I shouldn't ignore you. I should be . . ."

"Less of an asshole?"

"Sure, less of an asshole," he finished with a nod.

Luke finally looked at Damien with a small grin on his face. Like he won a fucking battle. If anything, Damien was the one who won because Luke finally looked at him without any anger or frustration. But of course, the grin eventually faded.

"What should we do about the gun?" Luke asked.

"We need to get rid of it."

"Oh," Luke responded, almost disappointed.

"We need to get rid of anything that ties us to that town."

"Right." He still seemed disappointed.

"Is it your uncle's?"

"Yeah."

"You have sentimental ties to your shitty uncle's gun?"

"No, but what if we needed it?"

"You mean, what if you needed it?"

"I don't know, maybe."

"Haven't you tried shooting me already?"

Luke rolled his eyes. "Alright, shut up, we'll get rid of it."

Damien leaned closer to him. "I really am trying to be less of an asshole."

Luke couldn't fight the grin that returned to his face. This time the grin didn't fade as Luke sat up and pulled Damien into a kiss.

The storm had subsided for now but Damien still felt that growing pressure behind his head.