Lisa went limp in Paul's arms as John bled out. He ran a hand through her hair, shushing her sobs and pleas.
"Don't do this, please, I don't want to die," Lisa whimpered.
"No, no one does," Paul cooed. He stroked her cheek and she jerked forward, unable to break out of his grasp.
Panting, Peter pulled out the handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his forehead. He eyed Lisa up and down, resting his gaze on Paul's hand at her throat. Paul smirked. Peter really was too easy.
"You all right there, Tubby?" he asked softly, tracing the flesh of Lisa's neck with a finger.
"It's four-fifty," Peter said, stuffing the handkerchief away.
"Plenty of time to have some fun." Paul grinned, skimming his hand down Lisa's collarbone, neck, arm. She shuddered against him, threw her head back.
"You evil motherfuckers," she choked. "You're sick, you're fucking sick."
"I know," Paul murmured into her ear. "We're a couple of real sickos. I mean, killing people? Not very well-adjusted of us."
Peter was decidedly not in a playful mood, which was both incredibly irritating and unfortunate for him, as Paul was always in the mood for games.
"But tell me, Lis," he continued, "you think there's any hope for us to be normal?"
Peter kept his gaze down at John's corpse.
"Cause, you know, between you and me, Peter's been thinking of packing it in. I know." He released her and shoved her to the ground, where she stayed. "He wants to go back to school; can you believe it?" He stepped over John's body, shoe squishing into the blood, eyes on Peter. "College, for goodness sake! I mean, isn't that—" He grabbed Peter's chin and wrenched his face up, but the coward closed his eyes. "Isn't that an absolute riot? Whatcha gonna study, Beavis? Psychology?"
"Get off," Peter gritted out, smacking away Paul's hand. "Why are you telling her, she doesn't care."
"I want Lisa's opinion. I want to know if she thinks you can do it. Cause, I mean I'm your best friend. We need an objective opinion. What do you say, Lis?" He crouched down next to the shaking woman. Unexpectedly, she raised her head, looking him in the eyes furiously.
"If he got rid of you, I think he could do anything," she spat.
Paul smiled, patted her on the cheek "That's real cute." Peter kept his face neutral when Paul looked up at him. "You hear that, Tom?"
Peter nodded, tapping the bloody knife against his shorts.
"If you think you're the first one to try that," Peter said, looking back at Lisa, "you're mistaken. They're always someone misinterpreting Peter's politeness as weakness. What, you think I make him do this? Please. He loves it.
"I will say, most people don't try to turn him right in front of me. That's pretty rude, actually. Besides," Paul pushed up off his thighs and stood up, facing Peter, "you would never really leave, would you, Peter?"
"I-I'm tired," Peter whispered.
"Tired?" Paul sneered. "You think Lisa's not tired? You think I don't get tired? You're so selfish."
"I just… want to sleep. I can't do it anymore."
"Yeah, why don't you go lay down? I'm real interested in if ghosts can dream."
"Stop it."
"Or maybe you'll drift off and quit existing. Are you sure you're really done?"
"Stop it!" Peter shouted, raising the knife.
Paul paused, cocked his head to the side and stepped closer. "You gonna cut me, Peter?"
"Just stop." Peter's breath shook.
"Kill him!" Lisa shrieked, and Peter jumped. "Stab him!"
"Yeah," Paul laughed. "Kill me." He took another step, the tip of the knife pressed into his shirt.
Peter inhaled deep through his nose, staring hard into his partner's eyes.
"C'mon. Don't you want to see the blood? I know it's your favorite part." He leaned close to Peter's ear and the knife penetrated his shirt. Peter winced but remained still. "Maybe I should finally get a taste of my own medicine."
Lisa shifted in his peripheral vision, crawling then stumbling on all fours to door.
"Let her go," Paul said. "Fuck it. We're done, right?"
The back door in the kitchen clicked open then slammed against the outside of the house.
"Please," Peter whispered.
"You could kill me. You could tell the police I made you do it. You and I are the only ones who know that's bullshit."
"I don't want to kill you," Peter hissed angrily. "You fucking asshole. You know I don't."
"No, I know. You want to fuck me."
Peter's hand jerked forward, the knife breaking Paul's skin, tip sticking into his gut. Paul grunted, breathed out a long "haaaa." His lips spread into a huge grin.
"Well am I wrong?"
Outside Lisa was screaming. Peter swallowed, a choked noise bursting from his throat.
"Should we go get that?" Paul asked. "You're the boss, Beavis."
Peter scoffed. "Since when?"
"Since you got a knife stuck in me."
Peter blinked slowly, looked down at the knife. He pulled it out and Paul hissed. A red spot bloomed on his white shirt. Peter brushed it with the fingertips of his free hand.
"Does it hurt?"
"No shit, it hurts."
The implied but unspoken "Good" hung in the air between them. Peter cleared his throat after a moment and said, "I just want to finish this."
Paul pried the knife from his partner's stiff fingers and walked out the door to fetch Lisa.