Chapter Text
How long has it been since you’d decided to return to the other world indefinitely? You’re not entirely sure. Time is hard to measure here. You sleep when you are tired and you eat when you’re hungry. You’re at least certain you’ve slept many times since then. Sometimes you wonder whether decades go by as you remain here, among ghosts and monsters.
If you’re entirely honest, it isn’t so bad. You can massacre whoever you please and nobody bats an eye. There’s no need to hide bodies, build alibis, get rid of evidence.
Yet, at the same time, with every new set of hallways and decaying rooms, you begin to sympathize more with the likes of Mr. Stitch and Mr. Machete. You’d once wondered why someone would give away clothes for free or play hairdresser in this world. Now you find yourself yearning for something similar, a purpose or at least a way to pass the time.
At least you aren’t alone. Mr. Gap has become an expected presence in every crevice, hole and gash you gaze into. He’s still a mischievous little jerk, of course, but there is comfort in knowing someone nonthreatening is at your side at all times. And he keeps your boredom at bay sometimes.
One day (or perhaps night), you’re walking through the maze of hallways and rooms of the Other World, searching for a way to entertain yourself. You hope to encounter a new face. Or perhaps an old one. Part of you still hopes you’ll run into Mr. Crawling or Mr. Chopped again, as unlikely as it may be.
Room, after room, after room, you walk. Until, eventually, your legs grow tired and, with a long sigh, you lean against a wall. Mr. Gap’s face appears in a nearby hole.
“What wrong?” he inquires.
“Bored,” you confess.
“Me fun. Give your heart.”
You scoff. “You not fun.”
He shoots you a disgruntled look of disbelief, which begrudgingly makes you snicker. He thinks too highly of himself if he believes constant demands for body parts is considered entertainment. Messing with him on the other hand…
You set your crowbar aside, then curl your palms in the shape of a heart, which you then present to Mr. Gap.
“What you do?”
“This is heart.”
“That is hand.”
“No, this is heart. Above world heart.” You grin mischievously.
He looks entirely unimpressed and partially confused. “That not heart.”
“This heart humans show when lots of like someone.”
He goes quiet for a bit, still staring at your hands like they’re an unsolvable riddle. Then he stares at your face, even more confused. “You lots of like me?”
Oh. You hadn’t considered that’s how the explanation would come across. You were only trying to poke fun at him. How do you talk your way out of this one? Would he get mad if you said no? Would it even be true to say no? You don’t think you’re ready for that type of introspection.
“That…” you search for the right words in the very limited vocabulary of the Other World’s language. “Not… know…” you finally force out.
“Why this heart show?”
Now it’s your turn to grow frustrated with him. “Why you want heart?”
He’s already given you an answer to that question in the past. Because it’s fun. Something you failed to comprehend. Perhaps the same way he failed to comprehend your idea of “like.” So before he can answer, you grab your crowbar and march off.
Unfortunately, the question pops into your mind again as you continue to wander aimlessly. Can someone like you fall in love?
You've taken so many lives, simply because it was fun or convenient or you got sick of their attitude. You've done the same thing in this world.
The hunched over figure of Mr. Crawling pops into your mind. Then, the smiling face of Mr. Chopped. And, eventually, Mr. Gap's annoying grin. Those are people you wouldn't kill. They are people you want to keep around. Perhaps people you would kill for instead, if needed. But does this attachment go deep enough to be called love?
Perhaps you aren't sure of what that feeling is anymore than Mr. Gap and it’s all feigned knowledge.
Your feet are hurting by the time you finally find a proper place to rest. You've lost track of time.
Though your body is tired, your mind remains restless as you set aside your crowbar and sit on the bed. This is a far cry from the entertaining activity you’d hoped to find.
“What wrong?” a familiar voice inquires beneath the sheets. You lift them up to reveal Mr. Gap’ face once again.
How do you even explain your issue to him?
“Feeling not know.”
He goes quiet for a bit. “Teach me lots of like?”
Is he saying he wants you to explain love to him? How do you even begin to do that? Perhaps you can narrow it down to romantic love at least.
“When lots of like, person special. Say nice words. Want to protect. Want to follow. Do special touch. Help person when need.”
The limited vocabulary makes it especially hard to put it into words. You aren't sure how well you'd explain it to another human either.
As expected, Mr. Gap looks puzzled. “Nice words? Special touch?”
He's focusing on the more romantic aspects, it seems. You prop your head against your hand, thinking. “Nice words not have here language. My language have nice words.”
“I see…” he murmurs. “Show special touch?”
You pout at him. “Why?”
“Want to know.”
So he's just curious. Or, knowing him, he heard the word “special” and decided he wanted it to be about him. He does have a bit of a big ego, always taking pride in startling you, often shoving pages of articles about him in your face. You cross your arms and turn your back to him.
“What wrong?”
“You bad. Me need help, you want heart. Me need help, you want hand, you want head, you want leg. Me not show special touch.”
“Me nice,” he says, sounding offended. You don't have to turn around to know he's giving you that astonished look he makes whenever you criticize or baffle him.
You laugh mockingly. “Not. Goodnight.” And with that, you shove down the sheet, blocking him from view. He's always poking fun at you, it's about time he got a taste of his own medicine.
. . .
When you wake up, Mr. Gap is nowhere in sight. It isn't entirely unusual. He has moments when he's off doing his own thing. Deciding to do the same, you take off in search of something interesting to occupy yourself with. Preferably not another mind boggling question.
Hours pass, probably. Residents appear every once in a while, some friendly, some hostile. None of them scare you anymore. You only interact with them to pass the time. Until you eventually come to a stop in a room full of debris and objects from the human world. There, you sit down and begin to search for anything worthwhile. Maybe something to read.
To your luck, you gather several magazines and books. Your arms are full by the time you feel a tremor shake the room. Another earthquake. You waste no time getting out of there with your new haul.
But as you stop to set everything down, you realize you've left your crowbar behind, in the now collapsed room. A few curses rush out under your breath.
“Hello.”
You turn around to find Mr. Gap peeking out of a hole in the wall. “Want attack tool?” He waves the tip of your lost crowbar around. “Take, take.”
“Take? You not want heart?”
“Not want!”
Huh. Maybe he took your criticism yesterday to heart. You grab the crowbar and mutter a “Thank you.”
That wide, unnerving smile of his spreads over his face before he fades off into the darkness. What is he planning now?
For the next few days, he continues to go out of his way to bring you things, take you places and fulfill any requests you might have without demanding any body parts in exchange. Relying on him almost becomes a habit. However, you have a slight suspicion he's not doing this out of the goodness of his heart or because he felt particularly sad about your accusations. These nice gestures must be leading to something.
And surely enough, at some point, during one of your breaks from wandering, he appears before you, looking particularly delighted.
“Me nice. Show special touch.”
How typical. You narrow your eyes at him.
“No?” he asks, the smile fading from his face.
Part of you wants to lecture him on doing all that to prove a point. The other part suspects it won’t do much.
“Okay okay. Me show,” you give in. Maybe this will make him act nicer overall. You can't deny the fact that he's helped you a lot lately.
“Thank you.”
You position yourself directly in front of the hole in the wall and then point at him. “Hand.”
He blinks. “Not give my hand.”
Of course he thinks you want his severed hand.
“Me touch your hand,” you clarify. At that, he finally understands and sticks one of his hands out.
His palm feels cold and damp to the touch when you press yours against it, but his skin is oddly soft. You interlock your fingers. His own remain limp in the air for a moment. Then, upon observing what you're doing, his fingers press down against the back of your palm, mimicking yours. It's not an unpleasant feeling.
Are his nails naturally black or does he paint them, you wonder. The image of Mr. Gap painting his nails makes you snicker internally.
“This one touch,” you explain. “Human person do this with special person.”
He stares at your interlocked hands, intrigued. “You know more?”
Naturally, you do, but you hesitate as the next gesture comes to mind. Your own curiosity is beginning to kick in, ushering you to try it. Will it awaken anything in you?
Driven by that curiosity you say: “Yes.” Then, reach into the opening in the wall with your free hand.
His cheek is just as cold and damp as his hand, perhaps the effect of dwelling inside crevices and hollows all the time. Gently, you tug him towards you and he follows, gaze flickering between your hand and your face. You lean closer as well.
His lips are dry against yours. And you feel no breath from him. Whether it's because he's holding it in or he never breathes to begin with, you aren't sure. You don't linger for long, but something odd stirs your insides for the brief moment you spend kissing him.
How suitable, for someone like you to be exploring love with a sinister void dweller who knows even less about it than you do. Oddly enough, you don't dislike it.
“This lots, lots special,” you explain after you've pulled away and let go of his hand.
He uses his now freed hand to touch his lips. A smug look is slowly overtaking his face. This arrogant little jerk.
“Me special,” he concludes.
“Not,” you argue. “You ask. Me show.”
You have a bit of a staring contest between your glare and his smug grin.
“Me want your heart,” he says finally, still with that smug look.
“Oh, fuck you!”
It's going to take a long time if Mr. Gap is to become anything akin to a lover.