Chapter Text
When a tall man steps over the threshold of his house, a new nickname sticks to his skin for good, depersonalizing him forever. He enters the new times with a new name.
"Homeowner." Arguing at this hour is the last thing he wants, so instead of a retorting label, bordering on caustic insult and possibly consisting of nothing but swear words, he offers the best he can muster:
"Call me whatever you want."
In response to accepting the new nickname, he gets a smirk and a slam of the door — the guest chooses where to settle himself, leaving him to deal with the newcomers alone.
The first guest, who staked out a spot in the living room — the only space big enough not to choke him — uses all the benefits and rights granted to him to the fullest, including the form of address. That's why the master of the house hears the almost teasing nickname in every phrase. It's even offensive: the word turns him from a person, however flawed, into a set of functions. "Look," "open," "check," "shoot"—no one commands directly, but the hint is obvious. The fates of others within these walls are decided by his hands in any situation that demands it, and the entire burden of responsibility falls on him, while people and creatures resembling them get comfortable in the rooms. After some thought, the owner concludes that he isn't called Judge or Executioner, and for that, he can already be thankful.
And overall, if you think about it, the Tall One isn't wrong in his words: he really does automate everything that helps them survive. Every morning begins without those quintessential "morning" traits: no coolness, no freshness, no early birds with their melodious songs—only the news broadcasts with their bleak reports remain the same. The sun, barely peeking over the horizon, instantly scorches surfaces, dries the air, and burns everything that lacks the wit or strength to hide from its rays. Instead of a routine coffee, right after waking from a fitful semblance of sleep, the Homeowner starts his "shift," carrying out those very functions that everyone now expects, even demands, of him. He fusses over others' mouths, hands, and eyes, confronts others' irritation and grief, trying to protect those he promised shelter. It becomes a habit he adheres to for as long as his patience holds out.
Fear, as they say, has big eyes, so convincing himself of someone's innocence sometimes requires special effort—doesn't everyone deserve a second chance? Nevertheless, there are a rare few he trusts unconditionally: he didn'r have heart threaten with a rifle the guy ranting about lunatics in pubs, nor the girl immersed in her grief for the one who now lies like a dead weight in the bathtub — he certainly wouldn't bring himself to raise the barrel at them. But most, of course, have to fight to defend their place, not under the sun. And frankly, many have frayed nerves.
He feels it in himself, too. At first, his psyche wobbles timidly from the realities where you must try not to fall asleep at night, acclimating to a new schedule. The "nocturnal" schedule isn't unknown to the Homeowner; it even seems somewhat enticing in a way, just not under the current circumstances. Late bedtimes and wake-up times, no matter how you slice it, are more enjoyable when there's no need to peer into the darkness through a tiny peephole searching for solid proof that what's outside isn't a Guest, but an ordinary person. He stops distinguishing where insomnia ends and madness begins. The constant tension makes his temples ache, and his eyes sting as if sprinkled with that damned sun.
It seems it can't get worse, but there's no limit to perfection — the new world has a bottomless imagination for torment. He completely loses it on the fourth day, when he has to face the truth and actually shoot the fearful, lanky girl in the face, the one who endlessly found excuses for her Visitor-like signs. He locks the storeroom tightly then, so no curious child would peek inside — the sight of the splayed body, whose blood splattered part of the shelves, induces vomiting even in an adult who's seen plenty of cruelty. Shaking off the shock with ice-cold water, the Homeowner takes a place in the emptying kitchen, leaning his shoulder against the refrigerator, and smokes right there, washing it down with beer that's already becoming sickly familiar. Before, for this bad habit, he would have stubbed the cigarette out on his own hand — no need to emulate someone distant and "older." Once upon a time, there was room for petty self-punishments in his life—now there's no strength left to scold himself: he's exhausted, wrung out, saturated with fear and indifference in equal measure. All he can do is stand and drink, poison himself against everyone feigning compassion, stare into the void, and listen to the ash falling on the floor. He doesn't give a damn about cleanliness, doesn't give a damn about himself—doesn't give a damn about anything or anyone. Except, perhaps...
A conversation with the tall man, who crawled into the kitchen looking for a brew, distracts him a little and doesn't even push him over the edge. Listening to how someone looked into the bottom of a bottle and imagined himself a prophet is at least amusing — not because it's genuinely funny, but because it's absurd, almost hysterical even. His interlocutor smiles too: wearily, without a spark in his eyes, but in this forced emotion, he looks a bit more alive than before.
It doesn't last long, alas: the laughter dies, words get stuck, grow heavy. In further tales, his tone carries pessimism and detachment, but, despite the other's sharpness, the Homeowner clearly reads a specific plea for moral support. And so it happens that he, who vowed not to play psychologist for anyone, breaks that promise to himself. He himself reaches for the other's pain—not out of kindness, but maybe out of self-preservation, to avoid drowning in his own. His consolations are clumsy, they don't always pass the approval check of his newly-found comrade, but he is thanked for every attempt, no matter how pathetic. At least with one person in this house, he manages, albeit in a specific way, to bond. They cement their "friendship" in their own way too—with two pairs of hands, without much ceremony, they bury the one because of whom the Homeowner fell into such a vulnerable state.
Meanwhile, the days fracture into local catastrophes, seasoned with the news from the TV. Conversations in the kitchen, in the living room, on the porch at night — all roll into the abyss of hopelessness and despair, becoming longer and more frank. There's palpably little time until the end of the world — mere days, it seems — and so it's much easier to lay a tormented soul bare for a near-stranger to judge than ever before. Everything will be carried to the grave, a role which the entire Earth will assume, where everyone will lie without exception. There's no shame in telling anything now. No shame in admitting one's weakness and all-consuming anguish. Sometimes they look at each other too intently, and unusual guesses and speculations swarm in their heads — and these become the few things the Homeowner and the Tall One don't speak of aloud. They just greedily await these exchanges of glances, filled with strange emotions, as confirmation of something — if only they knew what.
The cure for loneliness finds them on its own and is shared between the two of them. As befits a panacea, it evokes mixed feelings—it's pretty vile, but it works. In the moment, it's bitter on the tongue, but then a sweetness spreads through the mouth—it even feels a bit easier, sort of.
They discuss how they stooped to this, and the past crawls out with ugly details, begging for pity. In the evenings, the kitchen turns confessional: the table instead of an altar, mugs instead of candles, beer instead of wine. The Tall One talks about his former self, about drunken and sober exploits, about grudges against life; the Homeowner crumpledly divulges the inside story of his childhood, fears, and unfriendliness. Seemingly different, but about the same thing—about being unneeded by others, endlessly and hopelessly.
The beer warms, cigarettes burn down between fingers, the air thickens. They sit closer than usual. Shoulders near—first by accident, then on purpose. The closeness stops being irritating. The air smells of tobacco, then of sweat, of iron—like all living things. The Homeowner doesn't have a single holy thought in his head when he suddenly notices how his interlocutor's neck glistens with heat, how his own lips grow dry. It's a riot: the world is on the verge of death, but the body still remembers what desire is and strives for it unconditionally—it's even kind of disgusting. Maybe it's just instinct—a thirst for warmth, touch, any confirmation that they are both still human.
And there's nothing right about trying to lose himself in his own bed with a human whose sins he listened to just fifteen minutes ago—to hell with that rightness. The world is hurtling into Tartarus, and if there's still something to take pleasure in, you have to grab the chance by the tail. Heat blinds, overwhelms, torments him to the point of trembling, and in the moment, he truly doesn't give a damn that tomorrow they'll have to look each other in the eye again and whine about the past. Perhaps tomorrow everything will miraculously return to normal, and they will part forever, remaining in each other's memory as a strange, comforting pastime? Perhaps tomorrow simply won't come, and there will be nothing and no one to be ashamed of?
But relief doesn't come—despite the release, it only gets worse with each day.
The psychological ugliness isn't reflected in the mirror, the blood doesn't stay as pigment spots on his hands, but it's stuck fast with the Homeowner. With each time, it's scarier to miss: mimicking better and better, the Guests easily pass off wishful thinking as reality, displaying crooked yellow teeth, white calm eyes, impeccably clean hands; while trust in ordinary people with their stories and objective reasons to have signs of the strangers grows less and less.
Any moment now, he'll make a mistake. He'll shoot the one who unfortunately whitened their teeth just before the nightmare, cried all night until their capillaries burst, tore themselves to a bloody mess under their nails from nerves.
And what will happen then?
He could make a mistake on purpose now, so there are no problems later—and if there are problems, they won't be his. A preemptive measure will dot all the i's.
His chin fits perfectly into the muzzle, as if that's its place and his whole nasty life has only led to this very moment.
But the moment, like that nasty life, shatters—the hinges behind him creak in a high voice. Someone enters the very conditional shelter silently, closing the door behind them, and the Homeowner doesn't even turn his head towards the uninvited guest—God forbid he messes up his aim and can no longer comfortably position the weapon against himself. Besides, it's perfectly clear who has the audacity to act so proprietarily—technically, he himself gave him that right.
"Get out of here," the Homeowner's voice sounds muffled, and there's not enough force in it for the demand to be taken seriously.
And it isn't. The Tall One takes slow, warning steps towards the figure whose flesh the rifle is pressing into. They've discussed this topic more than once—started from the very first day, because it was just too pressing—so it was a matter of time before one of them would head for the noose, and the other would intend to raise the lead levels in their body.
"You hear me?" this time, a live note tears through the host's voice—irritation, a drop of poison. He wants to believe he's already decided everything.
"I hear," comes the quiet reply, stopping two steps away, as if afraid to spook the prey. "Have you finally lost your damn mind?"
Look who's talking.
"What's it to you?" he turns and hisses, as if forgetting everything that happened over the week. "Decided to catch the final show? No surprise, it's even free. Go grab a beer and take a seat in the front row—here's your bread and circuses."
The barbs cut, but not to the point of deep offense—the Tall One just frowns, but isn't in a hurry to leave the room. His gaze slides from the face opposite to the rifle, lingers on it for a moment, and returns to the gloomy eyes.
"Boring show," he states, and his voice holds neither mockery nor reproach. "Predictable ending. And a stupid one."
"And what's interesting?" the Homeowner smirks, and the hoarseness tearing from his throat is bitter, strained. "'And they lived happily ever after'? In our reality, that's not just unpredictably fucked, but also unfeasible, you know."
"No." With a crunch of his own bones, the Tall One slowly sinks onto the edge of the bed, giving him a chance to react. Not being driven away, he continues: "I don't know. But I know that if you do this, I'll have to stay up nights myself, run to the door at the first knock—nowhere to go, but I'd kinda like to live. And I," he clears his throat, "I'm not good at this. I'll make a mistake. I'll let in the wrong one. Or I won't let in the right one. And everyone who's here… Well, I don't need to tell you."
No pleas, no tales about everything getting better. He simply appeals to those very functions that the Homeowner has come to hate, but which were the only thing still holding this fragile little world together. To his responsibility.
"They'll find another fool," the Homeowner retorts listlessly, yet his hand trembles. The muzzle under his jaw no longer feels so familiar.
"Will they have time?" the Tall One scoffs, quite reasonably doubting the others' ability to find a better protector. "I doubt it."
The Tall One doesn't move from the edge of the bed, doesn't try to take the rifle. Instead, he looks at the familiar back of the head, at the sunken cheekbones, at the tense line of the shoulders under the fabric. He raises his hand slowly, giving a chance to flinch away, dodge, curse him out. But the Homeowner freezes, as if paralyzed—let him strangle me, whatever, it's all the same now. But violence doesn't occur—except maybe the moral kind. A broad palm lands on his back, just below the shoulder blades, and then tentatively moves up and down—the stroking is soft, completely out of sync with the general circumstances, and feels unusual.
The sensation lasts a moment—then it, too, switches off, no longer seeming significant behind the dark veil that washes over him. His body is racked by a large, uneven tremor, as if the last cable holding everything in place inside him has snapped. He doesn't sob, no—he's wrenched inside out by a dry, wrenching rasp. A total breakdown.
One thing—to kiss raggedly and a bit fiercely, to stain and crumple someone else's sheets, gifting ephemeral calm and stability that way; another—to try and comfort in the conventional way a man who previously bore all burdens with a grim demeanor, but without hysterics, and is now seized by rasps, by dry crying.
The Homeowner folds in half, elbows on his knees, face buried in his own palms, shoulders heaving violently. He tries to restrain these wild spasms tearing their way out, to clamp his mouth shut, but it only gets worse—the rasp becomes wheezing, painful. He finds himself in someone else's embrace completely spontaneously, not even tracking the specific moment—he belatedly realizes he's encircled by arms and pulled against a chest. Not tightly, not suffocatingly, but just enough to be held back from complete disintegration.
The broad hand moves again over the blue pilling of the sweater, and under such a palpably awkward touch, he feels like stretching out on the floor and dying anyway—but at least dying peacefully.