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“That hurts, y’know.”
His voice is small and timid and afraid, but it escapes anyways, forever unable to be unsaid.
Natalan looks over at Roier to see what he’s talking about, and sees that his hand is curled tightly around his wrist, hard enough to bruise.
“Whoops.” He lets go nonchalantly, going back to organizing his chests.
“I didn't say you had to stop.”
Natalan turns to look at him with a confused scowl.
He continues. “It’s okay if it hurts, as long as you’re happy.” He holds out his yellowed wrist, and Natalan can tell he’s nervous by the way he looks down at his lap.
Slowly, painfully, he takes his wrist and watches as Roier bites his lip when he squeezes, and as the corners of his mouth lift when he strokes over the marks with his thumb.
He lets out a disbelieving breath. Roier is unreal. Natalan has never met someone so devoted, so selfless, so foolish. He presses down harshly just to watch him squirm.
It's such a surreal feeling to know someone will still be there after you hurt them over and over.
-
Natalan doesn’t see Roier romantically.
It's a simple, unchangeable fact about their relationship—should he say “friendship?”—and both of them have accepted it. Roier still treats him like a significant other because it means something to him, and Natalan has never been good at saying no to being pampered.
Roier’s constant need to be needed comes in handy when Natalan is having trouble or simply too lazy to do something on his own. He's always at Natalan’s beck and call, kneeling sweetly at his feet like a maiden, ready to do whatever he’s told.
He calls him from across the house, knowing Roier is waiting for him somewhere.
“Nat?” Roier appears in the kitchen like a phantom, smoothing out his shirt like he has someone to look nice for.
“Cook dinner,” Natalan says. It’s not a question or request; it’s a demand. “I'm tired from working on our damn house all day.”
“Sure,” Roier says. “Want anything in particular? We basically have everything in our pantry.”
It’s not until Roier says it that the ugly word “our” starts to stand out. Natalan leans forward and puts his head into his crossed arms, lying against the counter.
“Anything's fine,” he decides.
Roier nods, and then opens the cabinets to take out some pans and utensils. “How's pasta sound?” He smiles up at Natalan like he’s expecting something.
He figures he just wants approval, to feel like his choice matters in the long run. “Sure, sure.”
He beams as if Natalan has told him the greatest news of his life and gets to cooking. He boils the noodles, mixes a sauce that Natalan has never seen before, and brings out some vegetables to chop up as well. He has to admit that Roier makes a great chef. The smell of the food makes Natalan’s stomach growl.
As he watches Roier from behind, he imagines that he’s a girl, his wife. He imagines that he’s living a normal life: one where he doesn’t have a lunatic always chasing after his affections, two dead children, and a doctor convicted of malpractice threatening to demolish his home to build a restaurant. None of that exists right now. Right now, he’s home after his nine-to-five and watching his wife cook as their bratty kids run around in the backyard, knocking their teeth out on the pavement or playing tag.
He stands from his stool and walks over to Roier, hugging his waist from behind. He feels the other stiffen under him.
“Hey there,” he says, sprinkling a bit of this and that into the sauce. “What’s, uh— What’s up?”
Natalan sinks his face in Roier’s hair— soft, like a childhood memory. “I wish we were normal.”
His illusion was shattered the moment Roier spoke, and all he could do was lament that he ever had such a thought. It was never going to happen, not for the two of them. They were destined to keep eating each other alive the moment they met.
Roier turns off the stove. “What do you mean?”
“You’re..”
Roier is what? Helpless? Naïve? Weak?
“We shouldn't be like this,” he finally says.
Roier bats his arms away to go and strain the pasta, but he gives Natalan a frown. “You’re being weird, Nat. Stop it.”
But Natalan doesn’t know how to stop. His temper, his violence, his words all act of their own will when it comes to Roier.
“Your bruises haven’t gone away,” he points out, mostly to himself.
Roier looks down at his wrist as if he hadn’t noticed before. “Uh, yeah. They.. haven’t.” He looks up at Natalan as he takes the sauce off the stove too. “Are you okay? Do you feel sick?”
He blinks. “I'm fine.” Natalan goes to sit back down and sets his gaze on the countertop. He shouldn’t have said anything. He only makes it all worse.
“Go to bed early tonight,” Roier suggests, setting a plate and fork down in front of him. “You might feel better if you sleep.”
Natalan looks up at Roier eating his own food in front of him. It feels like they’re on a date.
“Do I have to be sick to care about you?” he asks.
Roier swallows his bite, furrowing his eyebrows. The look in his eyes is conflicted, like he wants to admit to a lie but can’t. “No,” he concedes. “I just think you’re being a bit strange. You’re not very, uh, affectionate with me.”
Maybe he is sick, because Natalan now has a horrible pit in his stomach. He takes a bite of pasta and hopes it’ll go away.
Roier must think he’s insane, more insane than he is himself. Natalan can’t even tell what he’s trying to achieve by bringing Roier into this fantasy where they’re happy and care about each other beyond necessity. He doesn’t think about Roier romantically, and it has always been that way.
“I try not to be,” he confesses, because it’s true. He doesn’t want Roier to interpret what he feels the wrong way. They’ll never be the innocent pair of friends they used to, and Natalan has to adapt to that.
Roier doesn’t reply. He takes another mouthful of pasta and doesn’t look at Natalan.
He wonders if an actual married couple sit in this much silence, and how they don’t kill themselves because of it.
-
Roier is a physical person. He likes hugs, cuddling, kisses, and subtle touches. He loves letting people put their hands on him, because it feels like adoration.
This is no assumption on Natalan’s part, it’s what Roier has told him between the various times Natalan has caught him sneaking into his bed.
He’s not stealthy at all. His loud, eager footsteps betray his arrival and he takes his time when he tries to get comfortable under the covers.
Natalan always pretends he’s still asleep. He can’t be bothered to get angry when he’s tired. There's no point in yelling at Roier to leave when he wakes up early and hurries to his own room in the morning to make it seem like he never snuck in anyways.
His body is warm against Natalan’s, and the faint breathing that caresses his neck in rhythmic strokes only makes it feel hotter. His soft, shirtless torso is so pale compared to the sheets.
“Y’know, I wish we were normal too,” Roier whispers. His arm wraps around Natalan’s middle, and he leaves a kiss on his collarbone. “But I know you only keep me around because it’s convenient. And that’s okay. I like helping you, and I know better than to expect anything in return, but sometimes.. I don't know. Whatever. You can’t even fucking hear me.”
Roier hides even deeper within the crook of his neck, and the chirp of the crickets outside is all that follows. Natalan places a hand on Roier’s hip, doing his best to make his movements seem sleepy and natural.
“Goodnight, Nat,” Roier murmurs.
Natalan bites his tongue in order to not say it back.
-
The missing posters on every street corner make Natalan stop and stare despite seeing them hundreds of times. He knows the chance of finding a child after even an hour decreases significantly. He wonders how low the chances are after two weeks.
Sally was very young. He only stood at half of Roier’s height, had messy brown hair, and dark eyes that Roier had said looked just like his own. The last day he was seen, he was wearing a white t-shirt, khaki shorts, and tennis shoes. Natalan forgets more and more about him each day.
He’s a horrible father, there’s no doubt, but he never wanted to be one. The role was thrust upon him because he was stupid enough to fall for Roier’s clumsy, inexperienced charm and give into the urge that ran through the marrow of his bones.
Who knew a single night would turn into the paper boy staring back at him now?
He begs to be found, but Natalan can’t help him. No, he can’t even help himself.
-
Natalan’s hand finds the small of Roier’s back when he joins him on the couch. “Hey, what’re you doin’?”
“Watching the news,” Roier answers, eyes not parting from the screen.
Natalan sighs and turns Roier’s chin towards him. “Stop that. You’re making yourself anxious.”
The other bites his lip. “Maybe, but I can't help it. It's been weeks. Everyday I just get more scared.”
When Roier meets his gaze, Natalan feels his stomach sink once more. Ultimately, he still sees somebody very young and unaware of the evil in the world, even if it’s sitting right in front of them. Roier is still immature and probably can’t even grasp what it’s like to be thirty. Natalan isn’t much older, but he can’t deny the gap in their maturity is wide.
The statistics are indisputable, but logic tends to hurt the hearts of those that love as deeply as Roier.
Natalan pulls him closer instead of saying anything.
-
“I hope we don’t have another kid,” Roier tells him as he entangles their legs under the sweat-soaked sheets. Autumn is still early and the heat hasn’t quite disappeared yet. The friction of their skin doesn’t help either.
Roier had been overjoyed at the thought of children not so long ago, but perhaps the pain of losing two had ruined his view of raising them.
“Still not over Sally?” he asks. He figures he didn’t need to tell Roier the statistics to get across what he means.
Roier sighs, so heavy and shuddering, like the reminder of his son had turned him cold. “It's not that,” he says. “I just know that you don’t want them. I'm enough of a handful.” He punctuates his sentence with a chuckle.
“I think I'm the handful here,” Natalan says, sinking his head into his pillow.
There's nothing funny about his statement, but Roier giggles into the kiss he places on Natalan’s jaw. “I don’t mind. I love you anyways.”
Natalan shoots upright, and Roier flinches, holding up his arms to defend himself.
“I'm sorry,” he says, looking as though he’s bracing himself. “I'm sorry. I didn’t know, I—“
He cuts himself off as he watches Natalan gathering his clothes off the floor, hastily pulling up his pants and throwing on his shirt.
“Wait, Nat—“ Roier whines.
“I don't wanna hear it,” Natalan mutters. He hopes it hurts more than a regular insult. Their relationship isn’t supposed to go like this. They’re supposed to use each other and live with hesitance and fear and distance. God, why had he closed the distance?
“Nat, I dunno why you’re angry.” Roier is putting on his clothes too now, stumbling after Natalan in the hallway as he ties his shoelaces. “Can we just talk for once? Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
“You’re what’s wrong,” Natalan says. He's not loud, and he is not quiet, but Roier freezes.
There’s a pause. “What?”
“Ever since I met you, my life has been getting worse and worse. Don’t tell me you forgot everything you did to me.” Natalan scoffs, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.
“Why are you bringing this up now?” Roier asks. His eyes shine with unshed tears, and he gnaws at his lip.
Natalan shakes his head. He can’t control the disdain he feels seeping into his body. “To remind you that I don't feel that way about you. I never have.”
The teardrops that fall down Roier’s cheeks don’t make him any less attractive. Natalan reaches for the tissues on the table nearby, but he draws his hand back. He can’t give in again.
As Roier sniffles, Natalan continues. “We should keep it simple. You want me, and I need you. That’s it.”
“Yeah.” Roier’s voice is cracked and warbling when he speaks. “Sorry that I.. said that. I didn’t know.” He wipes his face on the sleeve of his sweater and walks past Natalan for the tissues.
Natalan can hear Roier blowing his nose as he walks out the door. He needs some fresh air.
-
The house is silent when he returns.
The moon is bright and unmoving in the starless sky, and the light shines through the open window of Natalan’s empty bedroom. He had expected to find Roier sleeping peacefully inside, but he couldn't find a trace of the other.
It's not until he walks by the kitchen that he sees a figure sitting in the backyard.
Sliding the door open, he’s met with Roier, sitting on the grass, tinkering with some of his gear. It's been awhile since he’s seen Roier’s armor and weapons. He's typically at home taking care of the household, so they’ve been kept in one of the chests for a long time.
“Hey,” Natalan says to let Roier know he’s with him. “What’re you doin’?”
“I decided to clean while you were gone,” he replies. “I found my stuff and realized I hadn't cleaned or sharpened any of my tools for a long time.”
Natalan walks across the grass to sit down beside Roier, hunching over to observe how his delicate, calloused hands polish the flat of his axe.
Roier has done so much in his short, miserable life. He can tell by the scars that line his arms and the bags under his eyes that he still hasn’t managed to sleep away. He doesn’t know how long he’ll survive if he continues the way he is right now. How long will it take until he stops wanting Natalan and starts caring about himself?
He shakes his head, sighing. “I'm sorry,” he says. He's not sure what for.
“Don't be,” Roier says, putting down his axe. “You’ll do it again.”
Natalan finds Roier’s hand and entwines their fingers, feeling at home despite the nighttime draft.
In the corner of his eye, he can see Roier smile as he leans his head on Natalan’s shoulder.
The night doesn’t say a word.