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For days, Bim had been hiding in the Host’s room, letting Dr. Iplier and the Googles take care of Darkiplier and Wilford’s argument. An argument between them inevitably meant the destruction of someone’s room, blood and glitter on the walls, and/or the disappearance of Will and/or Dark.
The walls of the Host’s room shook around them, reverberating with the shouting and stomping upstairs. The door held tight, thanks to the Host’s narration, but it didn’t stop Bim from flinching each time something dropped above them.
Bim had come to the Host for the comfort of his presence. The Host had rarely, if ever, spoken to Bim, but sat with him in silence for a while. It was when Bim started to fidget uncomfortably that the Host had offered him one of the Author’s own books. Bim, eager, had thanked him before reading through the whole thing in a matter of hours.
The Host, tearing himself away from his Braille typewriter, talked to Bim. No one else in the building had read his books, and no one else had ever been stuck in a room with him for so long. Slowly, gradually, his third-person narration dropped. They spoke eagerly about the Author’s books, until–
“Host, what book comes after this one, in your series? I want to read all of them!” Bim was bouncing, beaming, and the Host could feel his desk shifting. Bim stopped abruptly, seeing the Host’s expression, and the desk stopped moving. A distant yell came from elsewhere in the building.
“Host, what’s wrong?” Bim’s voice was suddenly hushed, and the Host recoiled from what he felt was pity.
“The book that Bim is currently holding is the last book in the series.”
“But– but it says ‘To Be Continued’ on the back page…”
The Host turned away from Bim, back to his typewriter, his shoulders tense.
Bim looked, lost, from the Host to the book in his hands. “Danger In Fiction by: The Author,” the cover read.
“The Author is dead,” the Host whispered, voice hard.
Bim reached out to the Host, making to lay a hand on his arm, but the Host flinched away.
“Who was the Author, Host?” The words slipped out of Bim before he could stop them; sad, overwhelmed by curiosity, he watched the Host shake in the low light of the room. The walls shook with a muffled bang from upstairs.
“Y-you don’t have to answer that,” he said, blushing deeply.
“…no,” the Host muttered, and Bim wasn’t sure that he heard.
“H- Host?”
“No. The Host feels that Bim– that someone– deserves to know the truth.”
Bim held his breath as the Host sighed, adjusting himself in his chair. Shouting, stomping, was above them, but Bim could barely hear it. The Host and him were, for all intents and purposes, alone.
“The Author was someone who had fame, success,” the Host started, and Bim could already feel the narration take over him, the Host’s words playing like a movie in front of his eyes. “He could have done anything, and he did quite a lot. The Author… the Author did too much.” He trailed off into silence again, and Bim sat with him, quiet. An echo down the hall rattled the door.
“What happened to the Author?” Bim’s words were quiet enough that the Host could’ve ignored them, even in the silence of the room.
The Host took a deep breath, and Bim tensed. The bat– his eyes flashed to it, leaning against the wall; was the Host about to throw him out, for asking too much? On second thought, Bim wouldn’t blame him.
“The Host ‘happened,’“ he said, voice shaking.
Bim waited, listening, hanging on the Host’s words.
“The Host– I– killed him.”
Silence, broken only by the shaking ceiling. Dust drifted down, dancing in the light of the Host’s low lamp.
“The Author did too much,” the Host repeated, seemingly collecting himself. “His power ran away with him– He took advantage of those who were susceptible enough. Eventually…”
His voice broke, and Bim looked away.
When the Host spoke again, it was with deep, cruel bitterness. “Eventually, someone took advantage of him. Broke him. Used him for his power. And when the Author, finally, finally realized–”
Bim put a hand on the Host’s arm to stop him, before he could move away. “Host,” Bim whispered, seeing him shake, “you don’t–”
The Host ripped his arm away, almost snarling, and stood up, grabbing the bat. Bim felt like he was shrinking. “The Host was the Author, until he– until I realized.” The Host held the bat in whitened knuckles and stalked away from Bim. Bim breathed for a moment, before the Host slammed the bat into the nearest bookshelf with a metallic clang.
Clang. Clang. Clang. The sound repeated, the Host bashing in the side of an already battered shelf. The floor shook with the force of it– or was that from the screams upstairs? Bim threw his arms over his head, worried, scared.
Out of breath, the Host shuffled back over to Bim. He dropped the bat, then himself, back into position at the desk. “The Host, ah, apologizes.”
“It’s alright,” Bim said, looking over the Host. His chest rose and fell rapidly, almost hyperventilating. Almost crying. “Are- are you okay?”
The Host turned his head sharply towards, Bim, who blushed. “D-dumb question.”
The Host sighed, relaxing, finally slowing his breathing.
Bim had another question on his tongue, but bit it back. Now was not the time to press deeper, even if the curiosity was eating him alive–
“The Host would request that Bim would ask his question while the Host is feeling up to sharing,” he said, mustering a smile.
Surprised, Bim stuttered. “I-I didn’t want–”
The Host turned his face fully towards Bim, who felt his face flush. Had it not been for the bandage over the Host’s eyes, Bim would’ve sworn that the Host was glaring at him.
Bim fell silent, fidgeting, dropping his eyes to his lap. He spoke, voice small, and the Host was taken aback by the question.
“Did you…like him?”
“Like–”
“The Author.”
It was the Host’s turn to fall silent, thinking, as Bim felt panic rise in his throat. He swallowed hard, but the Host seemed calm.
A low rumble came from the Host’s throat, coinciding with a rumble above them; Bim looked up, relieved, to see the Host chuckling, if a little sadly.
“The Host enjoyed being the Author,” he said. “He was arrogant, attractive, acclaimed.”
“You still are, Host.”
He was lost in his musings, and it took a moment fro the Host to register Bim’s words. “Hm?”
“I mean, you’re still you, even if you’re the Host. The Author’s brain is still in there, right?”
The Host shook his head, sadly. “The Author,” he said, voice deep, “is gone.”
“But you were him. You knew him.”
“The Host would like to remind Bim that he never knew the Author.”
“But you miss him.”
“The Host–” he stopped, voice heavy, “–I miss someone I never knew.”
They sat in silence again, and Bim reached for the Host’s sleeve. The Host didn’t pull away, but allowed Bim to rest his hand on the Host’s arm. Comfort, he thought. Something he hadn’t had for a long time.
“Has the Host written any books?” Bim spoke hopefully, changing his tone with the subject.
A beat, a final, shuddering thud from above, and–
The Host smiled. “The Host wonders how well Bim can read Braille.”