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Waylon Park, fresh out of hell, sits on the weirdly clean steps of Mount Massive, while the man he basically led to his death does what any man just shot a hundred times and possessed by a swarm of who-the-fuck-knows-what would do: smokes a cigarette.
Waylon fights the urge to stare and wait for smoke to curl out of the numerous bullet holes adorning Miles’ body and instead clears his throat.
He does it anyway, and it earns him a hard look that sends a shiver from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet.
“Sorry,” He says, like an idiot, because he just can’t stop staring. All of that is his fault, he thinks.
In the back of his mind he wants to limp back to the Jeep and find the nearest hospital before anyone can find out what happened and start pinning his patient jumpsuit and bloody appearance to the fucked up little asylum in the mountains.
It took every last ounce of his courage to stumble out of said Jeep when he saw the form the Walrider had taken, and how horribly familiar it was.
Dumb luck, maybe, that he wasn’t just torn to pieces right then and there for that decision. But Miles is no idiot. Not anymore.
He’d stolen numerous packs of cigarettes from dead guards during his journey traipsing through what a normal person would call hell, but what the Walrider kept repeating as home in the back of his mind.
Now, as he sucks down his second light, he wonders vaguely if Waylon smokes.
He sneaks a glance to his left and decides that no, he probably does not.
Waylon, the dumb, shy-and kind of cute-little programmer who got him into all this mess, sits like the embarrassed nerd he should be, trying not to wince when he shifts his wounded leg every now and then.
Miles doesn’t reply to his stupid apology. Instead he flicks his cigarette in his left hand and fiddles with the space where his missing index finger used to be on his right.
“You know I’m right handed?” He says, showing Waylon his mutilated fingers.
Waylon swallows, eyes locked on the exposed bone. “Me too.”
“Fucking stupid. Fucker cuts off the one finger I really need. Could’ve taken any other ones. Can’t type for shit with no index. Haven’t lifted a pencil since, but I can’t imagine it’s any better.”
“What about your ring finger?”
The brunette laughs, blinks once, twice, and then realizes Waylon isn’t joking.
“Fuck off, Park,” He says, voice still as light as it can be. “Marriage was never an option. Isn’t now as much as it ever was.”
Waylon doesn’t say anything more. He wants to ask why, but something tells him that the only explanation he’ll ever get is the one he just got.
This…small talk, happening between them is all he can manage right now.
He’d limped back to the asylum, back to the swarming mass of…whatever the fuck Miles is now and collapsed on the stairs, letting the brunette stare at him until he feebly croaked out how he was the one who got him into this mess.
It was a stupid idea, for sure. Miles could have torn him to pieces just like he did Jeremy without moving a finger, just because he could. And he deserved to.
Instead, he sat himself down next to the blonde, opened a pack of smokes, and let the poor thing cry out all of his emotions while blubbering out an apology every few seconds while he explained everything Miles already knew.
He seemed like a sweet guy, you know? His face was too pretty to have it smeared onto the concrete like some sick children’s finger painting.
He has these sad lips, big stupid eyes that still well with tears every time they made eye contact. He’s fidgety, good leg bouncing while they watch the sun rise.
Hell, if Miles wasn’t currently trying to figure out how to re-enter society as a dead man walking, he might’ve asked a dork like this one out on a date at some point.
He likes you, the Walrider says in the back of his mind. Although, to the naked ear, it just sounds like buzzing.
When the Walrider had taken possession of him, his wounds weren’t exactly…healed. The were still there, but the pain was more of a dull ache that made him more annoyed than anything.
It felt funny when he stuck his fingers in the bullet holes, though. Regrettably, it was one of the first things he did while the Walrider tore apart the dumb motherfuckers who did it to him in the first place. He laid on his side, flicking bullet casings out of his body while his new best friend splattered the walls with gore.
They get along okay. Miles is the host, Walrider gets to feed on dead people. That was the deal they made, however terrible.
“You know, you never really told me what happened to you in there, besides the fact that you tattled on your boss and got put in with the crazies because of it.”
Waylon winces. Miles cocks his head to the side.
“How’d you fuck up your leg like that?”
The shock of meeting the man behind [email protected] in person took Waylon by storm.
Yeah, he cried, like the idiot he is, when he saw the extent of Miles’ damage. He cried because it was his fault, he cried because God, it looked fucking awful and he can’t imagine how it felt to have your fingers sliced off and forced to continue through an asylum dirtier than a public gas station bathroom with an open wound on each hand.
And Miles had sat there, cigarette in hand, and stared at him like he was fucking crazy.
And somehow, Waylon felt, he might be right.
“Uh,” He says. “I fell. Off a roof. Trying to escape.”
Miles lets smoke fall from his lips.
“Damn,” He says. “You know I got thrown out of the fucking window like ten minutes after I got here? Landed right about where you were when I tore up Mr. Bossman.”
Waylon pulls his knees up to his chest.
“Thanks for that,” He replies weakly.
Birds chirp around them. Funny, seeing life actually thrive in a place like this. The view is so gorgeous. In a way, Waylon would’ve loved to stay in a place like this, deep in the mountains, surrounded by nature and all these beautiful things.
Vaguely, he wonders if Lisa thinks he’s dead by now.
And even deeper inside his head, he wonders if it should stay that way.
“So are we gonna sit here and gossip like some fucking girls or get the hell out of here, Park?”
It takes Waylon by surprise. He finally turns his head, making eye contact with this being so much greater than him.
Dark eyes, ghostly skin. Black oozing uncontrollably from bullet holes and finger wounds and Miles’ nose.
He sniffs.
“What? You think I can’t go out looking like this? You’re not exactly wearing your Sunday best right now, pal.”
Waylon’s mouth opens and closes as he searches for the right thing to say.
Miles flicks his cigarette-which Waylon now notices is coated in the same black tar oozing out of the brunette.
“I can look normal,” He says. “Probably. I’m still testing everything with this dude, you know? He’s got this little monologue inside my head, never shuts the fuck up.”
As if by its own will, Miles’ free hand jerks and smacks himself in the face.
“Also does shit like that,” He grunts, rubbing his cheek. “God, you’re such a baby.”
It was weird, seeing a man argue with a swarm of genetically engineered nanobots that have the power to bring him back to life but also explode a human being from the inside out.
“Anyway,” Miles continues, crushing the butt of his cigarette under a blood-stained boot. “What d’ya say, Park? I’m driving this time, though. Don’t need your bum leg fucking up my car.”
Waylon frowns. “Why do you call me that?”
It’s not that he doesn’t like it. It’s that he didn’t want to hear himself be called by his last name from someone so pretty.
Even as a fucking revived corpse, Miles couldn’t help but catch Waylon’s attention. He was still handsome, even covered in blood and that weird goo. He’s the type of man who makes Waylon squirm in his seat and wonder if he actually is straight or not.
Damn journalists.
Miles rolls his eyes.
“Well, what’s your first name? I can’t read minds, dumbass. When I first met you, your name was anonymous email.”
Oh.
“Oh,” Waylon says. He never thought that Miles simply just never knew. He could have sworn he stuttered it out whilst pouring out his entire story to him.
“Um. Waylon.”
Miles narrows his eyes.
“Waylon,” He says, as if testing the name out on his lips.
“Waylon.” He annunciates different vowels, as if deciding whether or not he wants to waste the time saying his full name or not.
Eventually, he shrugs.
“S’an alright name, I guess.”
He claps his hands together, successfully making Waylon start, and hoists himself to his feet.
“You comin’? Dunno about you, but I’m tired of looking at this fucking dump of a building.”
Waylon struggles to stand, face heating up with embarrassment when Miles extends a hand down to him.
“Thank you,” He mumbles, but Miles doesn’t let go.
Instead he stares with those emotionless black eyes, and Waylon can almost see his every muscle and bone through his ghostly skin.
Damn, he’s still pretty, though.
“You like guys, Park?”
Waylon sputters.
“Wh-What?” He asks, eyes widening. What the hell kind of question is that? Not that he didn’t know the answer or anything…
Miles narrows his eyes for a few seconds, then lets go of his arm, shrugging.
“Nah, never mind.”
He trots off towards the Jeep, humming as if nothing ever happened.
Waylon limps behind him as quick as he can, scared that he’ll get left behind or something if he doesn’t keep up.
Gingerly, he lifts himself into the passenger seat of Miles’ Jeep, and hears the brunette groan.
“You got fucking shit all over my seats? My leather seats? What even is this, blood?”
He slides into the driver’s side and elbows Waylon when he sees the mortified look on the blonde’s face.
“I’m just messin’ with you, man,” He snickers, and a glob of black blood falls onto the center console.
Waylon deflates, sliding down into the seat with a defeated sigh.
“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that. Look at me, Way.”
Way?
No one ever calls him that. Not even Lisa.
He meets Miles’ eyes again and sits up warily, feeling a bit more annoyed than anything at this makeshift god and his stupid jokes.
“Can I show you something?” Miles asks, cocking his head to the side, like a dumb dog.
Waylon doesn’t reply.
“Promise I won’t eat you or anything. No joke.”
He nods, hesitantly, and gets pulled over the center console by the fabric of his jumpsuit, gasping before his breath is stolen from him.
Surprisingly, Miles’ lips don’t taste as bad as one would think.
Cigarette smoke is the first thing Waylon registers, but then his mouth tastes like clean, untouched skin. Like new life, in a way. It’s a weird, indescribable feeling that leaves him wanting more in ways he never thought existed.
It’s weirdly counterintuitive, and he’s not sure what’s more shocking-the taste of his lips, or the fact that the owner, Miles Upshur just pulled him into a kiss after coming back to life with twenty bullet holes in his chest and a four-fingered hand twisted in Waylon’s jumpsuit.
“I think you’re hot,” Miles says against his mouth, and for a split second he looks normal-no blackened eyes, no pale, translucent skin. For a second it’s just two guys kissing in a Jeep outside of the funny farm.
Miles raises his hands in a defensive manner, smirking.
“No homo I guess though, if you’re like that.”
Waylon swallows thickly, heart beating through his chest.
“You’re a very forward man,” He says, and though it sounds shaky, he’s the one that closes the gap between them again.
You’re insane, the voice in his head tells him. You’ve lost it for sure, now, Waylon Park.
Ah, well, he replies, calf aching as he climbs over the center console with the taste of cigarettes burning on his tongue.
At least I’m having fun.