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The air is thick with dust and moisture; the room is dark. The master is sitting at the bar, still in his out clothes. He sits, holding a drink, staring into nothing.
"Such a romantic idea, it was," he says, eyes on the window. "How pretty, and red." The sky is grey.
They can't look away, from the other man's face, his throat. The man swallows, and his face is pale, his eyes dull, his skin paper thin.
"Not so romantic up close. Like the consumption, I suppose; as much as poets love to rhyme, reality ain't so pretty." He swallows again, roughly. His hand doesn't move from the bar, holding his glass. They both know he won't drink.
He takes in a breath, through his nose, lids half closing. They know what he smells; mold, rot. He licks his lips dryly.
"It's not romantic, not at all." His eyelids flutter, but he doesn't take his eyes off the window, doesn't blink. "Not at all. Just hungry."
They don't move, staring the same, at the master. Don't move, don't blink, don't breathe. They don't smell the rot anymore. They haven't left the manor, not like the master does at every reasonable opportunity; they know they are more grey than the master. Finally, the man looks away from the window, to them.
"It takes all it can. I look in the mirror, and I don't recognize the man in it." His half lidded eyes rest heavy on their person, on their sagging clothing. Their suit hasn't fit in months.
"I leave, I talk, I eat. Yet..." He swallows again. "I can see the stars, it hasn't rained in months. Why is the sky grey?" He stares at them. They know what he sees. "If I were to bleed, would it be red?"
His hand is white knuckled around his glass. The glass is covered in dust. The bar is covered in dust. Their shoulders are covered in dust.
The master still doesn't blink. "I leave and and come back, I live in a world with colour, but my mouth tastes of ash. My world is still grey. When was the last time you left this manor, butler?" He breathes, shallow. Like he's afraid to disturb the air, the dust. "I wonder, would you bleed at all?"
His glass creaks; the master lets go before it cuts him. They both know that neither of them want the answers to his questions. They both don't have much more they can lose. They move to take his glass, and turn to put it away, busy themself. They try to ignore his eyes on their back.
"... I've found myself forgettin', at times." He says. They pour out the wine, dry the glass with an ash coloured rag. They fill the glass with something stronger, and the alcohol burns their nose like it only does when the master is around. They don't acknowledge it. They turn around.
The master is staring at their face, now. He doesn't look away when they place the glass infront of him, but his hand curls around it anyways. He swirls the golden liquid almost lazily.
"I forget to sleep, sometimes," He says. His eyes are tired. "I forget to breathe." He glances down, to their chest, before his eyes are dragging back up to their face. "I'm told I smell of mildew, but I haven't seen rain in months. I haven't bathed; haven't even had to."
He stares at their chapped mouth, at their sallow skin. He stares at their grey eyes. The masters eyes used to be red, they think as they stare back at him. They aren't anymore.
"...Food tastes of ash, so I don't eat," His master mutters. "I haven't eaten, even when my plate is full. I haven't eaten, not in months." They don't mention how the freezers are full of rotting food; he probably already knows. He runs a dark tongue along jagged teeth. "I'm hungry-" they are hungrier, "but not dead. I'm pretty sure." They aren't so sure.
The master pauses. Taps nails on his glass of untouched liquor. Doesn't look away. He takes in another breath, surely breathing in the musty air they vaguely remember.
"Butler, I cannot even check. My hands are mostly numb." They know, they can see the vines crawling from beneath his sleeves. "I don't know if I have a pulse." Their fingers are cold, but they are nimble where he isn't, they have to be. The master pauses.
He lifts his chin. "Would you check?"
They look at him, unblinking. His arms stay where they are, his chin stays raised. They wait, just for a moment. Just in case.
But he doesn't look from them as they slowly raise a hand. He keeps his relaxed eyes on their face as they gracefully lean forward, their untrimmed nails gently grazing across his neck. He doesn't move as they press a thumb against his pulse point.
They feel nothing.
They shake their head, and he sighs. They feel it brush across their skin, warmer than they ever remember; he doesn't move, eyes finally closing. They pull back, and though their fingers ghost along his chin, he doesn't acknowledge it.
"That answers that, then." His lips quirk, but he just looks bitter. "I guess that explains the smell." His eyes flutter open again, and he's looking at nothing again, before he glances at his glass, then to them. He gently places his glass down, and pushes away from the bar. Standing up, he glances out the window again. He begins to walk back towards the door.
"I have something to attend to, in town." They listen, following him. "A new group of busy bodies, tired from moving around so much." He smiles back at them, teeth hidden from view. It's his business smile. "Might appreciate a quiet place to spend the night." They nod.
And as the master sweeps his way out the door, and as the pit in their stomach deepens, and as the cold seeps in like it always does when he is away,
As they prepare for guests, and as they feels the horror that always creeps in if they think to long, as the rot and mildew and chill lingers and sticks to their flesh,
And as they wait, despite themselves, they feel anticipation. They wait for the only thing they live for. They wait for the only colour, the only warmth they will ever have; for the man to come back.
They wait.