Chapter Text
It was actually a nice night for once, Miles hadn't had many nice nights since he got home from that place but tonight was nice.
His flatmate, that he'd been living with for maybe 3 weeks- time is really weird for both of them lately so unless they'd look at a calendar to check, neither Miles nor Waylon could know how long it's been- made food for the both of them.
And for the first time, they had a real conversation while eating. Normally, both of them ate separately in their rooms but today they sat together.
The talk wasn't about anything super deep or interesting, just chatting. Chatting about Miles's cat, whose name is 'Kitty' or 'Fucker' depending on who's calling her. Chatting about Waylon's leg and how his pain medication makes him nauseous sometimes.
After they both finished their food, Miles did the dishes while Waylon fed Kitty and they both said 'Good night' and went to their rooms. An overall nice evening.
Miles knew he wasn't going to sleep, he had work after all. Some time went by and Miles just got done researching a case and was ready to start typing when he heard the door that is across from him in the hallway- Waylon's door- open loudly followed by the bathroom door slamming open. This was unusual, as Waylon usually was very polite with being quiet in the night, so Miles got up and went to check.
'Waylon?' He called not too loud, as to not scare him. Maybe he just had to shit reallllyyy bad or something.
However, when he got no reply after calling for his friend and knocking on the bathroom door multiple times, a shiver went down his spine. Any normal person would have slammed the door open to check on their acquaintance, obviously, but Miles expected the worst. He knew about Waylon's suicidal history and the last thing he wanted to see was a dead body. He'd seen the scars on his neck and tho he never asked, he assumed it was from an attempt to hang himself.
Miles knows it's wrong to think of this man that he considers a friend as nothing more than a 'body' but when you have PTSD, you sometimes have to put your own mental safety before others. Or maybe he's just trying to justify his own selfishness that he's had his whole life.
Fuck how long has he been standing there not helping?
For a moment he thought he heard something from inside and when he paid attention properly, he definitely heard something. Yelling.
'MILES- FUCK THERES' is all Miles had to hear to rush through the door, where he was greeted with an- alive- but very visibly distressed Waylon.
This time, Waylon spoke quieter and more breathy- as if he had just run a marathon.
'There's-... Fuck it's in my- in my room'
He was laying on the floor next to the Toilet, hugging himself and caressing his own arm like he was simulation a hug. His face was covered in tears and maybe sweat? It's hard to tell but it wasn't exactly pretty. Well, a mental breakdown usually isn't pretty and Miles knew this too well.
'Calm down- are you hurt?? What's in your room?'
'In my room-... Fuck- ah...'
This is the first time in his life that Miles had to comfort someone he actually kinda cared about. When he used to be a bartender he'd heard quite a lot of sob stories of pathetic drunks that didn't have anyone else to talk to but this is different. This isn't a random idiot that Miles didn't give a shit about. He actually kinda gave a shit about Waylon and seeing him like this sort of hurt.
After standing there for a few moments and listening to Waylon's incoherent stuttering, Miles kneeled down before him and hesitantly placed his hand onto the other's shoulder.
'DONT FUCKING TOUCH ME' Waylon yelled as he pushed Miles's hand off of himself and crawled further into the corner he was already laying in.
'I'M NOT YOUR-... I'M NOT YOUR WIFE!' he cried as he gripped his own leg. After a few seconds, he gasped sharply and looked at his hand that had just been on his now healed scar. 'blood' is all that the other man could understand in Waylon's unclear muttering.
Miles was still shocked by the way his friend spoke, as he had never heard him yell like that. Waylon was usually a very soft-spoken, polite man so this was certainly surprising. But after some moments, and a lot more mumbled whispering from Waylon, Miles managed to say something.
'What's in your room, Waylon? Should I go check?' He was trying to sound reassuring, it came off more as angry.
The room was silent beside Waylon's heavy breathing and crying for what felt like 4 minutes until Park managed to announce
'Corpse'
That's all he said. And it's enough to take Miles all the way back to September that same year. After another painfully long moment, Miles got up and stepped away from the man on the floor. Shakily he went towards Waylon's bedroom, where he stood before the door for a few seconds, bracing himself for what he might see. Logically, he knows there is no way there's an actual dead body in there, how the fuck would it even get in there?
How do I know that he's not just some crazy psychotic? Is a thought that Miles instantly felt bad for. He doesn't know exactly what Waylon went through, but he knows that he was a patient for some weeks so they definitely did all kinds of fucked up shit to him. Another thought he quickly brushed off, as to not imagine it.
His grip on the door handle got tighter and after a few deep breaths, he opened the door to find absolutely nothing. No corpse, not even an animal cadaver, just Waylon's messy bed, and some plants.
Miles stood there for some time, scanning the room for anything that might've upset his acquaintance this way until he heard his name being called just loud enough so he noticed.
Obviously, he rushed back to the bathroom where Waylon was now gripping onto the toilet seat, trying to lift himself. His wounds on his legs are completely healed but they still hurt like a bitch and he often complains about his pain medication not being strong enough.
Hesitantly, Miles grabbed the other's hand and lifted him up, to which Waylon fell into his arms and hugged him.
'What the fuck happened I- I checked your room there's nothing there??' Miles splurted out, again sounding more angry than reassuring.
'I don't-...' Waylon was still breathing heavily and he tasted the metallic taste of blood in his mouth that he knew so well
'I don't know-... I'm sorry -I'm sorry- I'm so sorry I think I need sleep'
Miles didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. He just stood there and held Waylon up. Looking down he realized that the blonde wasn't standing on his legs properly and most of his weight was hanging onto Miles- which in turn made him realize how fucking underweight he still was. Maybe it's genetic, it's not like they knew each other before Waylon was starved for weeks.
The night ended with Waylon taking his prescribed sleeping pills and sleeping on the couch since he was still terrified of going into his room, and Miles not getting any sleep at night trying to wrap his head around wtf happened. And how he's supposed to treat his friend the next day. On one hand, he doesn't wanna treat him any differently so to say Hey! I don't think you're crazy. But on the other hand, wouldn't acting like nothing happened be worse?
Well that's a tomorrow morning problem and this is a oneshot so the end.