Chapter Text
His fingers quiver as he tightly grips the hem of his sweater. This is as vulnerable as he's capable of being; he's exposing the very essence of his suffering to you—a hermit who simply homed him. He has no soul to bear—it shriveled and died long ago—but this is pretty close.
He's too trusting.
Conversation between you two is average and holds inquiries intended to dig into his past—not to mention assessments that are downright invasive to determine his status as a person or visitor. Truthfully, there's little reason to reveal his darkest secret and place it under your scrutiny.
To soothe his nerves, he rationalizes the decision. He's endured your awkward treatment and check-ups out of respect. Despite your clear aversion to developing interpersonal relationships, you've allowed him space in your abode. Never put him out of his misery, even as the corpses and saccharine stench of decay continue to pile with the passing of each night.
He never intended to hurt anyone, but his heart—if there was ever one to begin with in the dark void nestled between his chest and abdomen—has grown cold after several instances of rejection and abandonment. His life is worth little, but he refuses to out himself because he still has the tiniest sliver of hope left to believe that things could be different this time. Your tolerance of his presence has to constitute for some degree of closeness.
And at this point, he's desperate for any semblance of warmth. The stretched, marred skin beneath his coat sleeves prickle at the thought. The sun is too daunting—but he discovered lighters and hot water had little effect on his state. The sensation of burning on his surface is incapable of satiating the cold emptiness he constantly feels inside.
He slowly begins to lift the bottom of his sweater. The toasty air of the living room still tickles his lower belly, causing his body to shiver harder; goosebumps speckle his blue flesh. He maintains unsteady eye contact with you during the process. Your gaze is concentrated, and the way your hands tighten around the shotgun in your grasp hints at how antsy you are, but you haven't brought up the firearm yet.
His slow, delicate breaths are beginning to quicken. He can't watch your reaction. He so very badly wants to believe you're different, and he thinks he might lose it if he witnesses your disgust and hatred in real time. He gulps and turns his head up to stare at the stained ceiling above him. This is it.
He doesn't have to see the aftermath of his choice to recognize the pain he's caused. He hears the wet squelch of bodies rupturing. The metallic scent of blood wafts up his nose as it splatters across the surrounding walls and ceiling. He tastes the acid of a little bile surging up his throat out of repulsion. Within seconds, the drunkard perched on the couch and the elderly woman nestled in the armchair became another pair of casualties to weigh on his guilty conscious. But you, inconceivably, survived. Now you understand why he's afraid.
"No... N-Not again."
You're shell-shocked. Your shaking arms struggle to lift the shotgun to point it directly at him as he shoves his sweater back down. He timidly peers up at your face, ashamed, and winces at what he sees. Your eyes are as wide as saucers and covered with a glossy sheen of wetness, pupils dilated and gauging whether to react with fight or flight. He can see how your irises shake, trying hard to not glance at the visceral mess behind him. Eyes truly are a window to Hell.
"What did you do?" The suddenness of your voice makes him flinch. It's fragile, as if the slightest misstep could abruptly send you over the edge. He can tell you struggled to push the syllables out to confront him by the way you tense your throat. You aren't one for conversation when you're upset.
He regrets ever showing you the true extent of his being. Remorse hangs heavy in the recesses of his mind. He yearns to be curled up on the couch again, hands interlocked protectively over his head as he listens to the lanky man beside him sip a cold beer in contemplation. He'd even suffer the awkwardness of lifting his arm again for your inspection if it meant you'd quit staring at him with such severe contempt.
"I didn't m-mean to." He pleads, holding his hands out, dry palms facing your direction. Whether it's to keep a safe distance or beckon you closer is lost on him. "I thought it would be d-d-different here. It n-never is. I didn't w-want this. I swear I d-didn't." His voice is weak and slurred. He'd be crying right now if his reflexes weren't so impaired due to his condition. He brings his shaking hands back to conceal his face in despair, as if to hide from your judgment at his atrocities. The bloody tips of his fingers ache as he clutches his stringy hair.
And then you drop the gun.
It's a relief that a shot didn't bolt out of it the moment it touched the floor. He peeks between his fingers to stare at the weapon, and then at you. You're shaking. "I can't take this anymore." You say aloud, and he can't tell if you're admitting that to yourself, him, or whatever spectral being cursed this planet to suffer.
Have you reached your breaking point? Have all the deaths you've failed to prevent—the loss of vulnerable people you agreed to shelter—accumulated in your psyche to destroy your logic? Truth be told, he's grateful.
He stumbles back as soon as you take a step toward him. Are you going to shove him out of the house? Strangle him with your bare hands to ensure his death is unhurried and agonizing? Honestly, he can't bring himself to be petrified or defensive. What had he expected the outcome of his choice to be? He deserves this for his ignorance.
He closes his eyes and tries to still his figure—tiny tremors make him shudder regardless—in anticipation of his retribution. Your arms hesitantly snake around his waist, as if you're readying to break his spine in half. He has no reason to seek change anymore. This is mercy for a slayer like him—a creature incapable of exchanging affection.
The relief of death never arrives.
Instead, there's a light pressure resting on his shoulder. He opens his eyes, concerned, and is befuddled by the sight before him. Rather than enacting vengeance for your lost allies, you cradle him closely, your hands caressing his back and the dip between his shoulders. He realizes the wetness trickling down the crook of his neck are your tears. You had to have been severely disturbed to want consolation from a killer.
Unsure of how to react, his arms hover behind you, uncertain. "Stay here. You can have the bed tonight." Your voice is raw with emotion. He was right; there is zero chance your thoughts are clear right now. The better decision would be to shove you back—to take that shotgun and stick it under his chin himself—but he was never a great person. He's too ravenous for contact to reject this.
His hands settle on your back, initially cautious, but his hold swiftly tightens; you're practically crushed together. His sweater shifts against the hole in his abdomen under your weight, and the soft fabric brushes the dark flesh inside. He's tempted to make another metaphor out of it. One about how the warmth of an embrace could compensate for the emptiness inside his heart. He resists for your sake.
For the first time in potentially ever, he almost feels full. Like there isn't a constant void within him that has deprived him of everything and everyone he desires. It isn't quite enough to heat him from the inside out, but it signifies a new beginning, and he thinks he could find meaning with you by his side.
"O-Okay. I won't l-leave."