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“ Darling! ”
Waylon staggered around the corner as fast as he could on his injured leg. He couldn't have been running for long but who knew anymore, really? Weeks could have passed in that damn asylum and he doubted he'd even notice. The hallway up ahead was blocked off where it turned away to the left – a makeshift barrier thrown in place by panicked workers – so Waylon opted for ducking through one of the open doors. If he was lucky, there would be another door further down that he could escape through – or at the very least, there would be a place to hide.
“When I was a boy my mother often said to me: Get married son and see how happy you will be...”
The programmer cringed as he picked his way along the floor, sure he'd hate that song for the rest of his natural life.
The room itself used to be one of the art rooms which meant there wasn't much in terms of decent hiding places unless he cared to shove himself under a desk and hope. The door further down the wall didn't look to be shut all the way, though. It'd be a lucky break if he could reach it.
Waylon had a decent lead on The Groom so he stopped near one of the tables, bracing his hands on the worn surface, breathing too hard. If Gluskin would just give up for five minutes, he could regroup but it felt like every time he turned a corner, there he was.
“You don't need to run from me,” Eddie said in that distressingly calm tone, from nowhere near far enough away. “I only want to love you.”
Waylon almost laughed at that but managed to bite down on his tongue before he did. Oh, for the love of God – just get the fuck away from me!
“There you are, Darling!”
Spotted. Great.
Eddie always sounded so damn ecstatic too, grinning ear to ear at the sight of him. Waylon cursed and spun around, doing his level best to run, though it really only amounted to a kind of sprawling, limping gait he was sure wouldn't hold up if Eddie decided to run after him.
He scrambled and fell against the door, catching himself on the splintering wood. Unlocked and open about three inches. Somebody up there must like him.
But, like all strokes of good luck in Waylon's life right now, this one looked to be over as soon as it started. He stumbled into the hall, backing up to the edge of the barrier. The shadows were darker there. Maybe he could just stay and hide for a while – just a couple minutes, just enough to get his breath back.
And then someone's hand was on his arm, pulling him sideways and through an uncomfortably small gap between an old, rusted bed-frame and a few filing cabinets. Had he been slightly less panicked, he might have thought to fight, but instead he let himself be drug along, mostly because whatever was about to happen on the other side of that barricade couldn't possibly be worse than staying with Eddie.
He hit the gritty tile on the other side with a dull thud and briefly considered just lying there like a dead dog. If he was about to die, that was fine by him so long as it was quick.
Before he could make sense of things, though, whoever risked their arm to drag him through that gap set a hand down on his shoulder, making a quiet shhhh sound. Waylon didn't relax – he'd learned not to relax in this place, even before all hell broke loose – but at the very least, whoever this was, they didn't seem intent on killing or mutilating him.
“Easy,” they said in a tense whisper, the scent of blood and bile heavy on their breath. “You're all right.”
Not a patient. Waylon blinked, trying to make his eyes adjust to the low light behind the barricade, focusing in as the man took his hand back, resting his forearm on a jean-clad leg. Clearly not a patient.
He looked young, maybe mid-to-late twenties, with short, dark hair. He stayed crouched just to the side of the gap and Waylon shifted to get a better look at him. Light eyes, wiry frame, in street clothes. Not a bad-looking man if you could get past the bloodstains.
Waylon took a deep breath, nodded, and waited for his mind to catch up. He wasn't dead. He was away from Eddie, he wasn't dead, and he might even have an ally. He tried not to hope, but damned if there wasn't a pesky glimmer of it somewhere off in the distance.
Then there were footsteps on the tile and Waylon shifted back enough to press his spine against the wall, putting a hand over his mouth. He doubted Eddie could get though that gap to reach them but he didn't feel like taking stupid chances.
“Darling, where are you?” The Groom called as he stepped into the hallway. Waylon heard him sigh, plainly annoyed, and curled in on himself. “Now, now,” Eddie continued, his voice fading just a little as he moved away. “Let's not be ridiculous. Just come out and let's talk about it.”
Waylon clenched his teeth behind his hand, feeling panic twisting behind his ribs again, sinking fangs into his lungs. Leave. Just fucking leave already.
They waited there, crouched in the darkness just behind a partial wall of rusted metal, with Waylon staring hard at the chipping paint on the baseboard. After several long moments, Eddie wandered off down the hall, murmuring 'You crazy bitch' just loud enough to be heard. Waylon didn't consider them safe though, even when Eddie was around the corner and out of sight. You were never safe in Mount Massive.
“Please...” he said, just in case, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I'm not a patient. My name is Waylon... Waylon Park. I'm a software consultant.”
“Ah,” The man turned to look at him then, shifting and setting his left hand down on the tile. “So you're the guy behind that email.”
Waylon paused, looking him up and down, finally noticing the camera... and the missing fingers. “Mr Upshur,” he said, feeling sick. “God, I am so, so sorry.”
Miles just shook his head. He looked almost like he wanted to laugh. “Yeah, well, so am I,” he said around a sigh. “But, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not actually die here. Who's your friend?” he asked, standing up.
“My...? Oh... Eddie,” Waylon moved to get his legs under him, watching Miles slip the camera back inside his jacket. “They used to call him 'The Groom'. He's, uh... looking for his bride.”
The reporter cringed and Waylon wondered if he'd guessed the extent of that search but he thought it was best to leave it alone. Eddie wasn't exactly his favourite topic.
“Come on,” Miles reached down to help him up. “It's probably better if we don't hang around.”
His voice clung to a quiet rasp, and a faint English accent worked its way through on certain words. Waylon caught himself thinking it was pleasant. This was quickly followed by a wave of guilt at the thought of his wife, his Lisa, probably worried sick with their boys back home.
He laughed in a kind of nervous way – or maybe he was just exhausted – and grabbed his wrist, using the wall to push himself back to his feet. He might have been fine if he hadn’t made the mistake of looking up at Miles from just those few inches away. The reporter was warm against the chill of the asylum, and in the better light of the hallway, Waylon could see every scrape and bruise, the long line of drying blood that ran from near his hairline down to his jaw, the pale blue-gray of his eyes.
“Why did you help me?” he asked, not quite letting go of his hand. “You couldn't have known who I was.”
Miles shrugged, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “No idea. But you didn't look like a patient to me,” he said. “You just looked like you were in trouble. You're too... together to be a patient.”
Still young enough to be reckless...
Waylon blinked at him. He wasn't together at all. And then his hand was in Miles' shirt collar and he was pulling him forward, leaning up to kiss him.
Later, Waylon wouldn't be able to say what exactly possessed him to do it. Maybe it was just the simple fact that he wasn't alone in this hell-hole anymore. Somewhere in his mind, he expected to be shoved away and cussed at so it was a dull shock when he felt Miles relax against him, tipping his head, even kissing him back.
But that was when he started losing track of things. Miles tasted sharply like copper and salt and sanity, and it scrambled every rational thought in Waylon's mind. Things blurred around the edges and his hands slid into Miles' hair, and then up under his jacket, and far too long passed before he realised what he'd done.
He broke the kiss a little slower than he probably should have and waited until he could hear over his own pulse again before he tried to speak. Lisa's gonna kill me... “Don't read too much into that,” he said, carefully edging Miles' hand from the side of his neck.
“Kinda difficult not to.” Miles grinned when Waylon turned a lovely shade of pink all the way to the roots of his hair.
“It was an 'I'm grateful to be alive' kiss,” he said, letting go of the reporter and making a point out of walking away. The effect was marred somewhat by his using the wall to avoid tipping over.
Behind him, Miles exhaled in a way that sounded vaguely like a laugh. “Apparently, you have a lot to live for.”