Chapter Text
There’s an array of shouts when another room is deemed cleared.
The sound of footsteps echoes against the floorboards upstairs. Furniture is being moved around, something is knocked over. The front door must be left open too, and Fit could hear the crowds of people and trucks driving by out on the streets.
All the while, Fit remains dead still, back pressed up against the wall. The entrance to the basement should be completely hidden. There is no way they’re finding him, but it’s still not enough to stop his heart from racing with the adrenaline.
He taps his finger against the wooden top of his gun, making sure his breathing remains leveled and calm. He stays there, even when hours have passed since the door slammed shut for the last time. Only a few days later, does Fit dare to leave the safety of his makeshift bunker and return upstairs.
With his gun raised, and a gas mask covering his face, he creeps out on his driveaway, still on high alert for any sign of people. Fit stands there a good while before reaching a conclusion. The streets, the houses, the yards, they’re all completely empty. Not a single soul in sight.
No military trucks, no more demands for evacuation, and not a sound besides the wind casually passing by and Fit’s shallow breaths.
It’s just him left.
Fit exhales and slips the mask off. He cracks his knuckles before clapping his hands, and rubbing his palms together.
“Let’s get down to business.”
The veteran hops into his truck, the motor coughing from disuse as he rolls out on the empty streets. He fishes out his grocery list from his pocket, honestly carrying more similarities to a robber’s hitlist, before proceeding to drive to the first stop of the day.
The town isn’t that big and with it being evacuated, getting what he needs is a breeze. He casually smashes windows of shops, and hops in with no trouble except for the alarms blasting holes in his eardrums. There are no cops, no employees to stop him. Fit takes what he needs and heads out, loading his truck until it's full, then repeating the process.
The military’s power grid goes out real quick. Fit isn’t even halfway finished with his own generators when it shuts down, leaving the town in the pitch dark. A few days pass when he has to freeze his ass off during the nights, but soon enough he gets it all up running. It ends up producing just enough electricity to supply his house with the essentials.
For food, he uses his limited knowledge of growing the basics. Potatoes, carrots, tomatoes, and even a few green grapes, hanging from the ceiling. One of the neighbors had a greenhouse already set up in his backyard and Fit takes full use of it. It’s not like the guy’s going to use it anyways.
He’s only reminded that it wasn’t always his when he looks out the window early one morning and half-expects the old man to be in there like always. A smile on his face, head swaying to music, as he cares for his plants with as much love you would show a child.
Even on the day of the evacuations, he had still been there to care for them one last time. A bit silly, considering the guy must have thought they would die anyway. What was even the point?
Regardless, Fit still thinks about him sometimes when goes out to water the crops in the morning. At least the old man’s efforts wouldn’t be completely in vain.
As the weeks pass by, Fit gradually stops any upkeep with the outside world. At first, he tuned into the radio once in a while, but that quickly became too dull and too morbid for him to bother with. The world is what he always guessed anyway. People tearing each other apart, with or without the help of the infected. Fit still feels more than justified in taking himself out of the equation. He doesn’t need the daily reminder as to why.
One evening, Fit makes himself dinner like usual. He cooks the meat from the deer he caught the day before, chops the vegetables from his garden, makes the sauce from scratch, not those shitty package ones, and plates it all until it looks like it belonged in a restaurant.
He sits on one of two chairs by a table next to a window in the dining room, pops open a bottle of whiskey, and pours himself a glass. He eats and the food is good. No shocker there. After he’s done, he does the dishes, realizes the tap isn’t working well, and puts it on his ever-growing to-do list. Fit doesn’t linger downstairs and just goes up to take a shower.
The brown eyes staring back at him in the bathroom mirror are blank, intrusive, and Fit avoids looking at them too long. He just quickly dries himself off, from his bald head to his scarred hands before heading to bed.
It’s not windy like the night before, or loud like when an owl had perched on the tree outside. No cars or people talking, drunk after a late night out. It’s quiet and peaceful, everything that would promise a good night’s rest.
Fit falls asleep and it’s easy.
The next day he will repeat it all again. And the day after that. For weeks, months, or years. For however long he possibly can.
Surviving, eating, and sleeping. Repeat.
Surviving against all odds in a world that always wished he was dead, even long before the outbreak. Fit lets that vengeance drag him out of bed as he goes through the motions of his new life.
Today was no different from any other day. Fit had just gotten back from an afternoon walk around the perimeter, his electric fence that circles the small town, and decided to have a quick check on his feed in the basement.
His basement is equipped with a basic security system, able to display his several cameras on the property all at once. It was one of the first things he installed after shit went down. Being a one-man army meant either you grow more eyes, or you rig the hell out the place with security cameras. Fit had one covering every entrance and every trap, even down to the smallest ones.
Fit prefers to be able to do things other than being on constant patrol. At least, that’s what he likes to tell himself. His paranoia still pulls him in regardless. There’s no telling how much time he ends up spending down in the bunker, idly watching hours and hours of security footage.
In Fit’s defense, every now and again something would happen. Like an infected stumbling into one of his freshly set traps. Bonus points if it was one of the explosive ones. Explosives always promised a show, even if it’s a messy one he would inevitably have to clean up afterwards.
He doesn’t remember what else he used to do to entertain himself, and frankly, it doesn’t matter. The evening rolled around fast and the morning even faster. As days flew by, any way of passing time eventually lost its charm. Fit chose to be content with the occasional surges of dopamin from his security footage.
He sinks down into his office chair, spins around and puts his feet up on the desk. The rifle rests in his lap, ready to be used if need be. His gaze lazily jumps between screens, making sure nothing is moving on there. He doesn’t expect much, considering the past few weeks had been especially silent. Not a living creature for miles except for the occasional deer or other wildlife.
Then, an indicator starts flashing red on one of the cams. Fit immediately straightens up.
“The hell?” He mutters. He leans forward and quickly pulls up the camera the indicator corresponds to. It appears to come from a trap that’s set up south of town right outside the walls. The motionsensor appears to pick up on something, but the angle is fucked and he can’t spot anything over the edge of the hole. That’s definitely something he needs to fix and fast. But one thing at the time.
First Fit’s gotta deal with whatever hellspawn has ended up on his doorstep.
The trap is only a short walk away, one that Fit makes quick work of. He only stops briefly to make sure his weapons are all fully loaded before continuing. However, he’s pretty sure it’s a quick in and out. He only ever catches infected or the occasional animal.
Nothing so far has led him to believe that today would be any different.
The first thing he’s met with as he approaches the trap is a shuffling sound. Sporadic and restless, like shoes kicking up dirt. Fit sighs. Yup, it’s an infected, alright.
He points his rifle to the hole, prepared to make quick work of the disturbing creature. The top of a head flashes into view and he’s just about to pull the trigger when a shrill yell just barely stops him.
“Espere! Espere aí! Wait, wait!” An unfamiliar voice calls out. Fit blinks in surprise, lowering his gun only slightly.
Okay, one thing he knows for sure is that the dead don’t talk.
So, it’s a person? It’s extremely rare that anyone comes through here. He doesn’t do trades and the vacant town is in an incredibly awkward location, far from points of interest for any traveling groups. The only things walking out here are either dead or crazy.
But still, there is a man, living and breathing it seems, mental state still to be determined. Down there. Stuck in his trap. Lucky for this guy it happened to be one of his cruder contraptions that doesn’t just kill you on the spot. Unlucky for Fit, if he turns out to be infected waiting to turn.
He doesn’t exactly take pleasure in putting people out of their misery.
Fit narrows his eyes and step by step approaches the edge to get a closer look, finger still hovering on the trigger. The man appears to be in his thirties, maybe a few inches shorter than himself. He has a slim build, but the muscles underneath his faded jacket allude to his strength. He has a tan complexion and his dark hair is loosely tied to the back of his head, a few stray strands glued to his forehead with sweat and dirt.
His brown eyes are equally as frightened as relieved and his hands are suspended in the air from Fit holding him at gunpoint.
“The fuck are you doing down there?” Fit asks, baffled.
The stranger blinks, then looks around as if inspecting the place.
“Oh, just looking around, you know? It’s a nice trap. High walls, hard to escape. Is it yours?”
Fit sighs impatiently. “Look, I’m not in the mood for bullshit. Answer me straight. I’m not above just putting a bullet in you and getting on with my day.”
The man huffs, annoyed, shooting Fit a glare.
“Alright, fine! I fell! I didn’t saw your stupid trap and I fell in. Happy?”
“Thrilled.” Fit replies, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Got any bites on you?”
“No. I’m clean.” The answer is quick and certain, no obvious telltale signs that he’s lying out of his ass. He eyes the man up and down, but doesn’t spot anything to trigger any alarmbells. Yet.
“Where’s your group?”
The man taps his foot restlessly, but remains calm as he answers Fit’s questions.
“They’re not here. I’ve been traveling alone for over a month now.”
“Huh. Convenient. You sure they’re not just hiding in the bushes, waiting to get the jump on me?”
“Listen,” The man sighs. “You can check my bag. I’m out of food, no water. I haven’t eaten in over two days and now I’m stuck in this hole. If I wanted to ambush you there’s thousands of other ways to do it than starving myself down here. I even have a map of my route and a- uh, journal I’ve been keeping if you really want to be sure.” He rambles on in a thick accent, the syllables clumsy and slow from exhaustion.
Fit takes note of the dark bags underneath his eyes, the dirt clinging to his black cargo pants and covering his hands and nails from what probably were numerous failed attempts to climb out of the trap.
Everything Fit has seen so far appears to confirm the story. There’s no real reason for him to not play along, other than to appease Fit’s general distrust. However, lucky for this guy, he still had some speck of humanity left in him.
Fit grunts in response to the man’s words. He lowers his rifle, leaving it hanging across his shoulder.
“Wait there.” He mutters.
“Not going anywhere.” The reply is not without some sass to which Fit just scoffs. He leaves and when he comes back five minutes later, the man is sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor, playing with an empty bottle that he throws into the air with a spin then swiftly catches before it hits the ground. He only lifts his head and stands back up when Fit begins to lower a ladder into the hole.
The stranger pulls himself up in a few easy heaves, but Fit frowns when he notices how he avoids putting too much pressure on his left leg. When he reaches the top, Fit has already readied his rifle. But before he can say anything, the guy catches on and pulls up the hem of his pants, revealing a metallic prosthetic.
Something about the action is practiced like this is a common occurrence for him.
“Like I said, clean. But my leg hurts from all the walking.”
“Oh.” Fit croaks, the tension slowly leaving his shoulders again. Seems like he really isn’t being lied to. Then again, he could never be too careful. Nonetheless, he accepts the explanation and gestures to the woods with the barrel of his gun.
“Alright, go that way and you should eventually reach a trail. Now, get the fuck out of my territory.”
“Hold on- um,” The stranger hesitates, hands fidgeting, half raised into the air. “Do you have any extra supplies? I-I don’t have much to trade but I’m a licensed mechanic. Or I guess, was licensed. Anyway! I know machines and tech. This I can offer.” There’s a level of desperation in his voice. Fit looks at him with a blank expression.
“I don’t have anything that needs fixing.”
The man falters.
“Oh.”
Fit’s eyes trail the sunken cheeks and the pale gray consuming his otherwise easy-to-look-at face. The hope leaves his eyes like a creek pouring into a desert. It’s like the brief human interaction fueled them, but with the threat of it leaving, Pac’s gaze seems to lose its spark.
Fit looks away and off to the side.
“But,” He begins.
“But!?” The man echoes, swinging his head up in excitement. Just as quickly, he clears his throat and mutters an apology in a deeper voice, looking sheepish under Fit’s surprised stare. Fit slowly shakes his head in disbelief before starting over.
“But, as I was saying, I guess I could offer a meal before you go. But your ass better be out of my sight before nightfall.”
The guy looks at Fit like he just handed him heaven on a plate. He lights up with the power of a thousand suns and nods feverishly.
“Sim! Yes, that sounds amazing! Thank you-um” He offers a hand for Fit to shake. Fit takes it after a moment's hesitation, a little dizzy from the intensity of the man’s displays of joy.
“Fit.”
“Thank you, Fit. My name is Pac.” Pac smiles and its genuine glow throws Fit way off.
Who the hell smiled like that in this day and age? Especially towards a total stranger. Even if there may not be any ill intentions, this guy definitely has more than a few screws loose. Fit forces himself not to dwell on it and moves on.
“Give me your things, gun included.” He gestures towards the handgun sitting in a holster attached to Pac’s hip. Pac frowns, clearly not too happy about the request, but he still complies, probably lacking other options. He reluctantly hands over his backpack and his gun, then a swiss knife that Fit completely missed, kept tucked away in a hidden pocket off his dark-blue denim jacket.
“What a gentleman to carry my stuffs.” Pac comments, probably in an attempt to diffuse tension, to which Fit only mutters something vague under his breath, too busy checking the backpack for anything out of the ordinary. An awkward silence settles between them and Pac eventually sighs.
“Want to check my pockets too?” He asks impatiently and holds his arms out as if Fit is going to pat him down. Fit picks up on an odd tone to his voice and slowly turns towards him, finding that Pac’s eyes are narrowed. Almost like they’re challenging him on something.
Fit swallows dryly, feeling like he’s just chugged a mouthful of sand, and throws his chin up.
“Not necessary.” He responds, avoiding Pac’s amused stare as if it's the plague itself; afraid the heat crawling up his neck will accidentally spill onto his face. “Trust me, you don’t want to try any funny business with me.”
“I won’t.” Pac smiles, but not without a hint of mischief, and casually cracks his knuckles. “I don’t bite the hand that feeds me. That’s how you say this?”
Fit cocks an eyebrow at that. “I mean, kind of a strange time to use the expression, but I guess it gets the point across.” He responds, having finished checking Pac’s things, and throws the backpack over his shoulder.
“After you. We’re heading to that gate over there.” Fit instructs and Pac nods, walking off in the direction he was pointed to with an odd amount of pepp in his step for someone who’s just had all their stuff taken and left at somebody’s mercy.
However, Fit figures being left to the elements without food or water would make anything else seem like a good time.
Pac was having a wonderful time.
As if being invited to dinner wasn’t enough already, Fit had even offered Pac a chance to clean himself up. Pac cannot hold back the delighted sound that leaves his mouth when he opens the tap and feels hot water against his sore fingers.
He could kill for a shower, but out of fear of pushing his already conditional welcome, he settles with washing and scrubbing at the dirt clinging to his face, his hands and underneath his nails. That is until he hears a gentle knock, then seconds later the door to the bathroom is slowly pushed open. A hand with a towel and a clean set of clothes on top reaches into the space. He hears Fit clear his throat.
“With clean yourself up, I meant- um, like, uh, a shower. I have hot water. You don’t have to, of course, I just-” Fit’s voice sounds uncertain and Pac finds it kinda cute, considering his offer is wonderful and absolutely impossible to refuse.
“Really? I’d love to! Muito obrigado, thank you so much!” Pac gasps, words leaving his mouth in a rush before Fit changes his mind. He happily accepts the towel, wondering if he’s already dead and in heaven. A warm shower? That sounded too good to be real.
He spends perhaps a moment too long in there, but the silence outside hopefully suggests that Fit doesn’t mind. After he’s done, he feels better than he has in months. After some food in his stomach, Pac could finally die a happy man.
Fit is waiting for him as he exits the bathroom. Called it escorting, but Pac knows Fit is just keeping an eye on him. Making sure he doesn’t get up to no good or steal anything. Not that Pac would have anywhere to stow anything major away. Except, maybe, for a thin inconspicuous tube of toothpaste. That he may or may not have successfully hidden on his person.
Now, toothpaste should be considered a low priority at the end of a societal collapse, but after not having it for a good while, and experiencing the bad breath that comes with eating nothing but canned beans, he could not resist the urge to take it.
Either that or Pac worries he will soon end up toothless. It will make him a crap infected once he passes, sure, but it will also greatly hurt his ego while he is still here. Going by the assumption that he’ll survive a little while longer, he chooses to commit a bit of thievery when necessary.
That or blame it on old habits. At least no one could send him off to prison again.
Pac makes sure to give Fit a grateful smile as he closes the bathroom door behind him, confident there’s not a hint of his crimes on his face. However, there must have been something else there, because Fit stares at him long enough that it could not be entirely without reason.
Pac casually rolls his thumbs as he waits for Fit to return from the kitchen. Pleasant smells are beginning to fill up the dining room and it takes immense willpower for Pac not to start drooling.
To distract himself from his growling stomach he looks around the space from his seat by the table. The decorating is very sparse and the wallpapers are practically coming apart at the seams. It’s an older house for sure, but the general structure is nice. A big airy space with lots of windows.
Pac can’t help wondering what some paint and love would do for this place.
Eventually, Fit returns from the kitchen, nudging the door open with his side. He has changed into a simple brown shirt, over loose washed-out jeans, tucked into a pair of brown boots. He carries two full plates, one in each hand.
Pac would have lingered longer at the dreamlike sight, a handsome man having cooked for him at the end of all things, but the food quickly steals any and all attention.
His jaw drops. “Meu Deus.” He mumbles, among other incoherent things that would not make sense to anyone, no matter if they spoke Portuguese or not. He pulls his hands through his hair, struck with awe as Fit sets down a plate before him. It’s a kind of steak, paired with mashed potatoes and a brown sauce with an array of vegetables on the side.
Pac was already feeling kinda bad about the toothpaste. Now it may as well be made out of pure gold.
“This is- wow.” Pac stutters as a wide grin spreads across his face. He breathes a laugh, looking up at Fit, wide-eyed with disbelief. He finds the man avoiding his gaze, cheeks having taken on some color. Fit just quietly serves the food, and even pours Pac a glass of wine.
“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t cooked for anyone but myself in a long time.” He says like he hasn’t just served something out of Pac’s wildest dreams. A far cry from the canned nonsense he has been living off of for weeks on end.
“What are you saying? Caraca- you crazy man!” Pac shakes his head in disapproval. He catches the stoic man choking back a surprised chuckle at his outburst and Pac can’t help but feel a surge of pride.
He has to force himself to be polite, waiting for his companion to fully sit down at the table across from him before digging into the meal. It ended up tasting just as good as it looked and smelled. Pac is not fast enough to swallow the moan that forces itself out of his mouth. He leans back in the chair, head thrown back and eyes closed. The array of tastes mingles perfectly on his tongue and choirs of angels may as well be singing in his head.
He eventually gathers himself, opening his eyes to look at Fit. The man in question is staring, this time with a more obvious flush of red scattered across his face. Pac has enough decency to look embarrassed, but still cannot wipe the flimsy grin off his face.
“Do you do this for every man that falls into your traps, Fit?” He asks and it takes a second for Fit to answer; Long enough for Pac to worry that maybe he pushed his luck. His smile falters and he opens his mouth to apologize when Fit finally glances at him from his plate.
“Only the nice ones.” He huffs and Pac looks up with a laugh, relieved.
“Oh, so this happens a lot?”
“Sure, all the time.” Fit says unconvincingly and Pac smiles, this time a bit more timidly before proceeding to scarf down the rest of the delicious meal. He commits every part of it to memory, not knowing when he will ever get an opportunity like this again. To be honest, he probably wouldn’t.
Tonight he would be back on the road, alone, cold, and inevitably hungry again. The thought makes his stomach churn, so he doesn’t dwell on it. Instead, he tries to remain in the present, enjoying the closest thing to normal he has had in years.
The time after dinner is somehow even stranger than the dinner itself.
Pac had insisted, almost begging him to help with the dishes, even with Fit’s assurances that he didn’t have to. Nevertheless, he eventually caved and the man had followed him into the kitchen. Now, Pac was leaning over his sink, carefully doing the dishes while Fit was put on drying duty.
It’s an oddly domestic scene for two people who are nothing more than strangers. Fit doesn’t know what to make of it, nervously fiddling with the towel in his hands while he waits for Pac to hand him another piece of silverware.
Pac had his sleeves rolled up, revealing his nicely toned arms, tattoos going up and along the skin. Fit allows himself a few glances but never dwells for longer than a second, not sure how to explain himself if caught.
As they stand there in silence, Fit becomes acutely aware of the severe blow his social skills have taken. He doesn’t know how to carry himself nor what to do about the stranger’s weird comments or looks that pierce right through him. Fit doesn’t remember what he’s supposed to do about any of it.
It doesn’t help that Pac is weird. Very weird. He’s not like the other occasional survivor that Fit’s encountered over the years. Either high-strung and confident, or silent and brooding, both types equally as obnoxious and always dangerous. No, Pac doesn’t seem to fully fit either category. Dangerous still for sure, judging by the muscles that hint underneath the sweater, the scars that line his face and hands, and the sharp edge that appears on occasion in those dark eyes.
A force to be reckoned with if that fact that he made it this far is anything to go by, but for some reason Fit doesn’t feel threatened by his presence. Maybe he’s become more naive with time. Or maybe Pac’s generally attractive appearance, Fit isn’t blind after all, and quick-witted charm lowered his guard more than he liked to admit.
Either way, here he is. Lost in a situation he has no clue on how to navigate.
Not that it mattered much. Their deal was for Pac to stay for dinner. Nothing more, nothing less. In no time would Fit resume his usual schedule and this ordeal would be nothing more than a silly memory for him to look back on.
Pac soon finishes washing up and turns to Fit, drying off his hands on the towel still in his hands.
“Uh, thanks for the help.” Fit mumbles and Pac scoffs.
“I’m the one who should be saying thanks here. Thank you, Fit. It was all amazing. Food and the company.” Pac sends off another charming smile like it’s nothing and Fit finds himself in yet another stun-lock. He opens and closes his mouth, but not a single word makes it out. Luckily, Pac doesn’t seem to notice, or at least doesn’t mention it.
Pac is shifting in place, tapping his fingers on his thighs.
“Well, I guess it’s time for me to go then.” He says, a hint of hesitation in his voice.
“Yeah, guess so.” Fit responds awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. They both leave the kitchen and enter the living area on their way to the hallway.
Fit’s living room is barren by most standards. There are a couple of shelves with books and random trinkets he once found interest in, a plant of some kind in the corner; a lone fighter that survived Fit’s lack of green thumbs where houseplants are concerned. There’s a green, worn sofa sitting in the corner, but he rarely finds himself ever using it.
The main selling point of the space is by far the grand piano, placed at an angle in the right-hand corner. It had been a bitch to get into the house, but Fit likes the look of it. He always had an unexplainable fascination for old instruments, despite not being particularly musically inclined. It fills the space with some kind of sound again, especially needed since his television kicked the bucket and Fit wasn’t bothered enough to fix it.
Once Pac enters the room, Fit flinches at the delighted gasp that escapes the man. He all but dashes to the instrument, running a hand along the woodwork, gentle and careful as if it’s the most precious thing in the world. Fit tracks the soft movement with his eyes, an odd want swirling around the depths of his soul; one that he shuts down as soon as it emerges.
“Oh, Fit. This is beautiful. It still works?” Pac asks and Fit nods dumbly.
“Can I?”
“I guess, if you want.”
Pac’s fingers sweep across the piano keys, eyes wide in wonder as he slides down into the dark leather seat by the instrument. He tries pressing a few notes before playing something out of memory, a melody that even Fit recognizes. The evening glow searches its way through the curtains lining the window across from him, embracing the man in a kind, orange hue. It frames his face nicely, like it belonged in one of the paintings on the wall. Fit would be convinced he was dreaming up the whole thing if it wasn’t for one tiny detail.
This guy couldn’t play for shit.
Fit covers an amused smile with his hand while watching Pac struggle. He doesn’t seem to remember how the song goes, having to restart over and over again. It doesn’t seem to bother him though as he giggles and cringes dramatically anytime he presses the wrong key.
Without a word, Fit walks over and sits down beside him, their shoulders brushing together briefly. Pac’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise as he looks at him, blinking owlishly.
“Can I try? I think I might know this song.” Fit asks before he’s able to stop himself.
“Oh, please.” Pac snorts with a relieved sigh, raising his hands in defeat.
Fit clears his throat, trying not to shrink under Pac’s expectant stare. He cracks his fingers to try and quell their shaking before settling down on the keys. He tries the chords first, making sure they’re right, before starting for real, soft as a whisper, but gradually gaining confidence as the song progresses.
Then, he begins to sing.
“Love will abide. Take things in stride. Sounds like good advice but there’s no one at my side.” As Fit sings, a realization dawns on him. He had just chosen the first song that sprung to mind without much thought, but it ended up hitting closer to home than he intended. It’s too real to not lean into the words, to reveal a vulnerability that not even Fit realized still bothered him. He considers backing out, to stand up and leave the scene entirely.
But when he glances to the side, he sees that Pac’s gaze is soft like he’s admiring, just following along with his fingers as he plays. The sight is somehow enough for him to continue.
“And time washes clean love’s wounds unseen. That’s what someone told me but I don’t know what it means.” Fit’s breath hitches when Pac's knee bumps into his own under the piano. Still, he continues.
“-’Cause I’ve done everything I know to try and make you mine. And I think I’m gonna love you for a long, long time.”
The room falls into silence as the final chord trails off. When Fit finally dares to look at Pac again, he freezes at the sight.
The brown eyes are blown wide, glossy with emotion, and filled with mysteries that Fit has no clue how to solve. A couple of silent tears escape them, but it takes Pac a while before he realizes and shoos them off with his sleeve.
“Que lindo.” He breathes and Fit’s face burns, his amazed voice clueing him in on what was said. Fit looks away, gaze burrowing into the keys, suddenly feeling like he will come apart if he doesn’t.
“Who are you singing about? A girl in your past?” Pac asks him. The question is charged with something that Fit haven’t had to face in years. An issue that he thought would stay buried, dead and long gone. It takes him several, agonizing seconds before Fit finally musters enough courage to face it again.
“No one, really.” He mumbles and caves inward, slowly rubbing his arms to try and rid himself of stress. “But not a girl, that’s for sure.”
A silence settles between them, tension simmering just beneath the surface. It’s unbearable but Fit cannot bring himself to break it and remains frozen to his seat.
Then all of the sudden, he feels a touch, featherlight against the edge of his jaw. Calloused fingers gently guide him to turn and Fit swallows thickly as his gaze jumps up to meet Pac’s.
It’s just like looking in the mirror.
Those same lonely eyes are staring right back at him through Pac. Sometimes you don’t truly realize how awful something looks until somebody else wears it well.
When he doesn’t say anything or pull away, Pac’s hand cups Fit’s cheek with more confidence, still light but intentional. Fit knows he must look terrified, like a scared child thrown into the deep end. His heart races with vigor like he’s about to go into cardiac arrest any second. He’s a wreck, an instrument out of tune, and expects all of it to put a stop to whatever is happening.
However, Pac looks far from deterred. There’s no judgment or reservations to be found anywhere in those dark eyes.
Fit remains still as Pac inches closer. Closer and closer until there’s no space left to be taken. Soft, slightly chapped lips press up against his own. The kiss is chaste, light and quick, but in its wake Fit finds himself changed.
A flame flickers to life inside of him. Thin and fragile, but there nonetheless.
Fit is surprised by the dusty things he finds still waiting in the depths of his chest, flickering back into view after having been hidden by shadows for so long. He had been so sure it all withered away from disuse. Fit’s hand shoots up to grab at Pac’s sleeve, suddenly scared it will all slip away if he doesn’t hold on.
“You-” Fit begins in a trembling exhale. “You don’t waste any time, do you?” The words fall clumsily off his tongue. Pac’s cheeks are flushed red, but he doesn’t look away from Fit, determination masking any insecurity that might be hiding on his face.
“There is no time to be wasted.” He says with a tiny smile, almost like he’s reminding himself rather than telling Fit. Pac’s thumb gently brushes along the scar that sits underneath Fit’s eye. “I see something nice and I go for it. I don’t want any more regrets.”
I have too many already.
It goes unsaid, but Fit hears it all the same.
“Something nice, huh?” Fit repeats and Pac nods, eyes half-lidded and inviting.
“Yes. Sim.”
“How do you know for sure it’s nice?”
“I don’t, but I have this feeling, you know?”
“You’re crazy. What if this is nothing but trouble?” Fit mumbles, Pac hovering a breath away from his lips.
“I’m not scared of some trouble.”
Another kiss led to another, to wandering hands, to an awkward stumble up the stairs, to them ending up in Fit’s bed, both already out of breath from the process of getting there.
Fit cannot recall a time he has ever done this, even as a teen without the pressure of the world falling apart all around him. Funny enough, at the end of everything, when he had nothing, he found it easier to give in and be swept away by the surging flood that is Pac.
Every touch the man gives out so generously fuels the fire inside him until he’s addicted. Only when Pac withdraws from Fit’s mouth to shed his clothes, is he allowed to breathe, already missing the warmth.
“Is this a bad time to tell you I tried to steal from you?” Pac asks as he’s undressing and Fit frowns, cocking an eyebrow. As Pac’s sweater comes off, a tube of toothpaste is revealed, having been tucked away in the hem of his jeans.
Fit snorts in disbelief before dissolving into laughter. A real laugh, deep and genuine, grown unfamiliar to Fit’s ears. Pac’s eyes light up at the sound of it, hungry like he wants more.
“Keep it. I admire the effort. Dentists worldwide would applaud your dedication.” Fit says as Pac crawls back into bed, hands landing on either side of Fit’s head. The nerves are back in an instant, pooling in the pits of his stomach. Pac catches it and stays there, eyes alight, but attentive, mindful of any sign that Fit wants to slow down.
A kind sentiment, but even with the fear placing roots in his heart, Fit doesn’t have it in him to stop now.
He’s already taken the plunge, bait, hook, and sinker. Pac makes it look easy with his disarming words and easy smiles. Everything that shouldn’t have survived this far. Yet, there it is. Just a breath away. Even if it’s just for this night, just this one moment of his quiet life, Fit doesn’t want to let this go.
It’s the first time he’s wanted something in a very long time.
“Hey, Fit.” Pac hums, luring Fit back out of his own head.
“Do you mind if I stay for breakfast?” He asks as if the question isn't a hundred steps too late and Fit chuckles.
“I think I could live with that.”
That night, sleep did not come easy for the first time in months.
There’s a light snoring in his ear, hands looped around his waist in a way that had Fit too anxious to move. Crazy is what it is, to let himself be restricted in his own home and bed. His mind isn’t silent anymore and his heart is agitated and jumps at every new sound.
It should all drive him nuts, remind him of why he distanced himself from the world in the first place. How it wasn’t worth it, how he already longed for the comfortable peace he had built for himself.
But, despite it all, Fit feels warm. From the tips of his fingers to the depths of his chest.
His body is light, despite the weight pressing against his side. Pac’s breathing settles his spiraling mind gently over time, unlike the silence that only serves to numb.
Sleep doesn’t come easy,
But Fit finds he doesn’t mind.