Lost Memories: Cat and Mouse

"Woohoo! I'm rich!!" 

Jacques lay sprawled across the stiff mattress of a dingy motel bed, his arms stretched out, fingers grazing the scattered bills surrounding him. A smug grin tugged at his lips as he lifted a handful of cash, letting the crisp notes rain down over his face, the paper brushing lightly against his skin. 

Money. So much of it. Enough to keep him alive until he figured out what to do next. Of course, this wasn't the first time he had stolen someone's vehicle and sold it on the black market. He had done the same in the previous timeline when he was Byron, a man who lived without law. 

He remembered how, back then, he traveled from place to place, hustling from job to job. But he didn't have the patience to wait for a monthly paycheck. So, he stole—cars, motorbikes. Sometimes, he'd just take a side mirror. It was worth a small fortune—enough for gas money and food.

His actions were caught on CCTV, and soon, a bounty was placed on his head. Visiting the brothel was no longer easy, as Detective Charles Baxter had begun sniffing around, determined to arrest him. 

Once, he was nearly caught in the brothel—Detective Baxter had been hiding inside a cabinet, waiting for the perfect moment. Just as things were heating up between Byron and the prostitute, Baxter stepped out, gun in hand, aimed directly at him. 

"Get dressed and come with me," Baxter ordered, holding up a pair of handcuffs. The sight of the gun pointed at him instantly ruined Byron's mood—but certainly not enough to stop him from climbing to his climax that is still far away.

"Can you wait until I'm done? Still hard and stiff down here. You sound like you've never gotten laid before, Detective," Byron smirked mockingly.

Baxter gulped. He clearly wasn't used to situations like this, but he managed to keep a poker face. "No. Put the handcuffs on and come with me. You're under arrest!" 

Byron grinned. The way Baxter said it almost made it sound like a kink. 

"Babe, get out of here," Byron murmured, pressing a kiss to the prostitute's forehead. She hurriedly gathered her clothes, casting fearful glances at the two men before bolting out of the room. 

Now, completely naked, Byron stood on the bed, staring down at Detective Baxter as if he were far more interesting than the woman who had just left. 

"What are you looking at? Put these on!" Baxter snapped, throwing the handcuffs onto the bed in front of him. But Byron barely spared them a glance, his smirk deepening as he locked eyes with the detective. 

Baxter knew the fugitive wasn't cooperative, but there was something unsettling about that smirk—something he couldn't quite place. And another thing… No matter how hard he tried to focus, his eyes kept betraying him, flickering downward to Byron's fully exposed body. It was impossible to ignore. Too damn distracting.

Byron noticed, of course. "I'd bet all my money that you're a virgin, Detective. So..." 

He took a step closer. 

Baxter stiffened, his composure slipping as he instinctively backed away—only to hit the very cabinet he had been hiding in. 

"...why is that?" Byron kept advancing, his amusement growing at how flustered the detective had become. This was unexpected. 

Baxter was the one holding the gun. He was supposed to be in control. And yet, he was the one being pushed back. 

Step by step, Byron invaded his personal space, and before Baxter knew it, he had backed straight into the cabinet again. 

Byron didn't stop. 

The moment they both entered, the gun was knocked from Baxter's grip, clattering to the floor outside. His usually sharp blue eyes faltered, struggling to maintain the illusion of control. 

"I guess we found out why," Byron murmured, reaching behind him to close the cabinet door. 

Trapped in the confined space, Baxter—who had always been so determined to catch Byron—couldn't resist anymore. His stoic composure shattered, and whatever fight was left in him melted away. 

He surrendered to Byron's kiss.

That night, they set the room ablaze—not with fire, but with something far more dangerous. Byron was about to turn Detective Baxter's life and career upside down. After this night, Baxter would question everything he thought he knew about himself. 

Not only did he discover why his life had always felt so dull, but he was also tapping into a part of himself he had spent years denying. He had always assumed he was asexual, never once imagining himself capable of the things his coworkers talked about so casually. 

This frigid king had been thrown into the flames—and he loved it. 

He loved the way Byron undressed him, lifted him up. He just wanted to hold onto Byron, to be slammed onto the bed, his limbs controlled and positioned into submission. In that moment, Baxter finally understood—how intoxicating it felt… to be dominated. And don't even get him started when Byron wrapped his fingers around his neck, pinning him down as he moved his hips.

By someone he was supposed to catch? 

Even better!

Even when he had woken up in the brothel's bed, handcuffed to the headboard with Byron nowhere in sight? 

Yeah, that pissed him off. Humiliated him, even. 

But if he were truly honest with himself… he kind of liked it. 

And that only poured fuel onto the fire, making his desire to catch Byron burn with an even greater passion.

Jacques jolted awake, his heart pounding from a dream—no, a memory—from his past timeline. 

He wasn't sure how to feel about it. There was still a fire burning in his chest, a lingering yearning for Charles. As he sat on the edge of the bed, he found himself wondering: should he go back to Charles? Could they have a better chance this time? 

Because with Charles, everything always seemed to go wrong, always ending in pain. 

And yet, the fire between them had never burned hotter. At one time, Jacques had wished he could live just one life with Charles—without drama, without a bad ending. 

A phone hung on the wall. All he had to do was dial the number, say "hello," and maybe things would start working out from there. 

But a heavy tiredness settled over him, a weary knowing that it wouldn't end well, just like it always been. He might not remember everything, but he remembered how badly they fought, only to reconcile with passion, trapped in an endless cycle. It's like being loved by torture, or tortured by love, Jacques can't decide. 

Jacques shook his head. "No... enough of that. I'd rather be alone than go back to that double-edged sword." 

He gathered all his money, double-checking to make sure he hadn't missed a single bill before stuffing it into his bag. Going to a bank wasn't an option, but he needed something better than a rundown motel. 

Where to go from here?

As his fingers diligently organized a wad of cash, his mind drifting.

Mojinko? No. That place had nothing for him anymore. His mother was dead. Her siblings—if they ever acknowledged his existence—sure as hell wouldn't welcome him back. Returning there would be walking into a dead end, a nostalgic mistake leading straight to a cell or a grave.

So where, then?

One thing was certain—Jacques needed a device to navigate his route, access his contacts, and browse the internet for information. But Hank's mini-market had nothing of the sort.

Tracing his finger over the map, he searched for the nearest city.

Beckronn. That was the one.

A two-kilometer walk south would lead him to a bus shuttle. From there, a ride to the city, where he could find exactly what he needed.

***

--Lost Memories--

Byron feels very positive after that heated night with his pursuer. He always knew that Charles Baxter had some surpressed thing hidden beneath his stoic and stubborn attitude. Whenever he chases Byron, it always feel like this man is too stiff he need to losen up a little. Sometimes Byron imagine if he should take Charles to massage therapy to make himself more chill and relaxing. 

But he never thought that Charles was actually gay.

He probably surpessing his feelings because the environtment he was coming from. Even though LGBT is already way advanced than years ago when the world starts to accept LGBT relationship and marriages, but the numbers of people who afraid of them still in large amount. 

Perhaps LGBT was meant to be that way; eternal villain.

Byron felt incredibly positive after that heated night with his pursuer. He had always known that Charles Baxter had something suppressed beneath his stoic and stubborn attitude. Whenever Charles chased him, it always seemed like the man was too stiff—he needed to loosen up a little. Sometimes, Byron even imagined taking Charles to a massage therapy session just to help him relax. 

But he never expected that Charles was actually gay. 

He was probably suppressing his feelings because of the environment he came from. Even though LGBT rights had advanced significantly over the years—especially with widespread acceptance of same-sex relationships and marriages—there were still large numbers of people who feared or opposed them. 

Perhaps LGBT people were always meant to be seen as eternal villains. 

But didn't that, in a way, make them stronger? Once they stopped seeing themselves as victims and made peace with who they were, they could become the strongest people in the world.

However, isn't it makes them stronger? Once they stop the victim mentality and make peace with themselves, they are going to be the strongest person ever.

You can't break broken people, right? 

And a phoenix will always rise from the ashes. 

Byron kept rewinding the moment when he had the detective under his dominance—it just felt so satisfying. 

He had assumed Charles would give up chasing him, especially now that he had discovered something unexplored about his sexuality. Perhaps he would want to make a different choice? 

However, it was rather amusing that Charles Baxter, once again, pointed a gun just a few inches behind Byron's head while he was resting in a coffee shop, casually enjoying his lunch—paid for with money he got from stealing someone's motorcycle. 

Byron slowly turned his head and smirked upon seeing Detective Baxter standing behind him, gun aimed at his head. 

"Hey, babe. I thought you quit the job." 

Charles smacked the gun against Byron's face—hard. The sudden action sent the other customers into a panic, causing them to flee the shop, thinking someone was about to get killed. 

"Watch your mouth, rascal. You might have escaped that night, but don't expect me to see it as a defeat!" 

Detective Baxter struggled to pull out his handcuffs, but they were stuck. 

"Need help?" Byron teased. 

"I'm good!" Charles lied. If Byron helped him, he'd surely do something ridiculous to manhandle him again and escape. No—Charles had to do this himself. But damn it, the handcuffs just wouldn't cooperate!

Byron felt utterly amused watching Detective Baxter struggle—it was like something straight out of a comedy show. He almost felt sorry for Charles, who was on the verge of ripping his pants just to pull the handcuffs off his belt. But at the same time, he couldn't lower the gun from Byron's face. 

Shaking his head, Byron reached for Charles's belt with both hands. 

"H-Hey! Don't make any mov—" 

Before Charles could even finish his sentence, Byron had already pulled him forward, making the detective land right on his lap. To keep his balance, Charles had to plant one knee beside Byron's thigh, while one hand landed on Byron's head—making them look like they were about to do a lap dance. 

Byron smirked as he try to remove the handcuffs from Charles's belt. But it really got stuck in Charles's belt.

"You know, the problem is that they were actually stuck on your belt. I have no idea what you did to get them tangled like that, but…" 

Without hesitation, Byron unbuckled Charles's belt. 

Charles immediately flustered. "S-Stop! Forget the handcuffs! You're coming with me to the car!" 

The detective quickly removed himself from Byron's lap, tightening his grip on the gun. 

"After I finish my meal." Byron took a sip of his cappuccino, but before he could even taste it, Charles smacked the cup away. Coffee splattered onto the floor—a mess the waiters would have to clean up later. 

"Now!" Charles barked. 

Well, better to listen to the man with the gun. With a casual shrug, Byron got up from the sofa, raising both arms in surrender as he walked ahead—fully aware of the weapon aimed at his back.

Charles pointed to the back seat, but Byron didn't follow his order. Instead, he turned around and asked, "Back seat? Really? And my hands are completely free. Can you imagine what I could do to you while you're driving?" 

Charles hesitated, realizing Byron had a point. With a sigh, he directed him to sit in the passenger seat instead. 

"You know, I can do something from here too—" 

"Not while I have a gun pointed at your face!" Charles growled. 

"Shoot me in the face? Really? I thought you liked this face." Byron leaned against the car, slipping both hands into his pockets as he flashed a flirtatious smirk.

Charles found it annoyingly attractive.

"Flirt with me again, and I'll smash your face into the car!"

"No one flirts with you," Byron lied.

"Get in!" Charles commanded, gun pointed at Byron's face.

Instead of obeying, Byron leaned closer, pressing his neck against the barrel, challenging the detective with an infuriating grin. "No. Kill me instead."

Charles's hand trembled slightly. He realized—he couldn't pull the trigger. Frustrated, he raised the gun, about to strike Byron with it again, but before he could, Byron grabbed his wrist, twisting it behind his back in one swift motion.

With a strong push, Byron pinned Charles against the car, his body pressing against the detective's back.

His lips brushed against Charles's ear.

"Why don't we ride off together on my motorcycle? Leave that boring life of yours behind? Maybe I can shower you with love day and night... and maybe," he murmured, "we can see what we could be?"

Charles struggled, but it was futile. Byron was bigger, taller, and undeniably stronger. Now, with their bodies pressed together, Charles's heart pounded faster as memories of the night before flashed through his mind. A part of him wanted to be pinned down again—against something, anything—but another part screamed at him to wake up. He was on duty!

Before he could react, Byron made his next move. With a swift click, the handcuffs snapped around Charles's wrist—secured to the back of his own belt.

"Fuck!" Charles cursed, realizing he was trapped.

Byron didn't waste a second. He leaped onto his motorcycle and revved the engine.

Charles aimed his gun, ready to shoot, but when he pulled the trigger—nothing.

"Shit!" he swore; Byron had already locked the safety.

With a smirk and a teasing wink, Byron maneuvered his motorcycle and sped off, disappearing as he turned at the intersection.