NOVEMBER 1993, PART TWO

In the weeks following our reunion, it became obvious that things were changing with Tate.

School was going on break soon, and we would soon be heading into the supposedly-stressful preparing that came before senior year. It was strange to think of; I'd met Tate when I was 15, we'd been together almost the entire time I was at Westfield, and he had been the defining center of my high school life. But soon high school would be over, and then what? Neither of us was exactly looking forward to college, although I'd begun my application for several schools in the area, so we ignored the idea. We went on as though nothing happened.

Until the Harvey's presence in Murder House became one we couldn't ignore.

Lawrence Harvey was a tall, pale man with the darkest hair I'd ever seen; his wife, Lorraine, was quiet and seemed sweet; and their two young daughters were incredibly adorable. So, of course, Constance wasn't keen on any of it. The moment she had seen a susceptible idiot of a man moving in next door, she'd sunk her claws into him and refused to let go.

Their affair had started off slowly. Tate and I would be up late watching a movie in the living room, with both Addie and Beau already long asleep, and "Larry" would be sneaking up the stairs acting like he didn't see us. Or Constance would disappear in the middle of the afternoon, only to return smelling of cheap mens' cologne with her hair ruffled.

We figured Lorraine had to know what was happening, but she never stood up to her husband. She did, however, seem to cry a lot. Tate and I had often been sitting at his open bedroom window, blowing smoke out into the already-dirty air, and seen her having a series of small break-downs. She'd be sweeping up the driveway, or tending the roses in the garden, or walking down to the mailbox; then suddenly, like a guitar string, she'd break. Dropping the broom, the watering can, the magazine subscriptions, Lorraine Harvey would cry. Right out in the front yard of Los Angeles' most notorious house, where everyone could see, she would break down on an increasingly frequent basis.

It upset Tate to no end to see what his mother was doing. Despite his upbringing, or perhaps because of it, Tate had vowed to me long ago that he'd never betray me like that. We had stopped talking about it when I had betrayed him that one July night, again choosing to go on like nothing had happened.

I think what got to him the most were the two girls, Margaret and Angie. They were too young to even understand, but one day they would, and they'd feel like Tate had his entire life growing up with Constance.

But regardless of the reason, Tate's gloomier personality had begun to manifest itself physically. We went on as though nothing happened when I discovered the fresh cuts on his forearms, too.

And then, just a few weeks before Christmas, the fire came. Bright and blazing throughout the sky, so sudden we didn't even understand what had set it off until we saw the ambulances arrive.

Upon hearing clear confirmation of her husband's infidelity, from the man himself, Lorraine finally stood up for herself. Gasoline and dollar store matches sent her down in a shock of horrific glory. And she took her two young daughters along for the redemption.

It came as somewhat of a relief to me, as sick as that may sound. At least they were better off in the afterlife or the ether or wherever, anything was better than life with the lying bastard they called a father. Anything was better off than living every day with the sick knowledge that their family was broken, and continuing to fracture, with no one even looking up from the wash line to deal with it.

Tate was a different story. Upon realizing that the glowing flashes shining in through the windows, illuminating his bedroom walls, were those of fire, something inside of him broke, too. He raged – flinging books across the room and breaking records, slamming his fist into the wall over and over and over again until his bloodied knuckles stained the paint. I'd never been truly frightened of him before until that moment, helplessly watching him break into destruction.

And then he ran.

He stormed out of the house faster than I had ever seen him move outside of a track meet, shouting at Addie to go back inside as he jogged across the lawn. I followed him, of course, and stood beside him as we watched the building burn into a funeral spire. We waited until the flames died down, half-way to burning out, before we walked back toward our refuge inside. That was when we noticed Constance – ever the picture of statuesque content, watching as a fire squad soaked her old-soon-to-be-new-again home in stagnant water from the street. And I thought Tate was going to yell at her as we approached, going to scream or kick or spit at her like he so wanted, but he didn't. He just glared in her direction like one might think a child would, though it had become quite clear that he was no silly adolescent boy anymore.

Neither of us spoke when we re-entered the house. In stark silence, we simply walked up the stairs and laid down beside one another in his bed, stepping over the broken pieces of his earlier fit. He reached into his bedside table, producing a pair of cigarettes and lighting both before handing one to me. I took it without question, puffing on it like part of a life support system.

As we smoking in the dying light, I felt Tate's hand grab hold of mine in a vice grip. I looked over at him in questioning, unsure of how to approach a topic that included the murder/suicide of a neighbor, but he didn't spare me a glance in return. He simply stared upward at the pale ceiling as I watched tears glisten on his face through the darkness.

I knew then, as my darling boy locked his sadness away from me, that we would never approach the topic of the fire. I knew that we would simply go on as we lately had and pretend nothing had happened, even if it meant pretending while we watched all the furniture leaving the house for next door. In the new world Tate and I had somehow created, the one full of strange doubt and insecurity, that fire would just be another one set beneath the mantle.

Lorraine, Angela, and Margaret Harvey all died that night in Murder House. Next door, in the inconspicuous two story, I watched in equal horror as a part of Tate Langdon died in return.

Chapter Title: Deluxe - Better Than Ezra - released November 1993

A/N: I'm the worst for posting this on Mibba a hundred years ago, but never posting it here. I'm really really really sorry. 3