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The homeowner had developed an inexorable distaste for FEMA over the recent days.
When all of this started, he’d been indifferent. He’d felt slightly appreciative of the fact that there were at least some people trying to maybe do something.
But now, he was sick of them. Every sign they uncovered was another unreliable thing to check, another thing making the line between human and Visitor awfully hazy. They’d taken one person against his will, and then another, and most recently—two. And there was barely anything he could do about it.
When he looked through the peephole of his door, his heart sank. He didn’t need to lose another person.
“We need more people. It's the only way to avoid a catastrophe.”
The homeowner felt anger surge in his chest.
“Where. Are. The. People. You. Took?” he asked. The FEMA agent tensed up.
“CUT THE BULLSHIT. THE WORLD IS ABOUT TO END,” the worker shouted at him. The homeowner briefly considered this.
“Keep playing games, and we'll take everyone in this house,” they added.
The homeowner gritted his teeth. They couldn’t threaten that; they couldn’t possibly do that. Not after giving useless announcements and dragging people away, never to be seen again.
“What the fuck is the point of your agency if nothing you're doing is working?” he barked.
The agent took a step back.
“...”
The homeowner was moments away from asking a similar question when the worker spoke.
“I'm out of patience. I'm not arguing with you. Either we break the door down and clear out this whole damn rat's nest, or you hand over two people right now.”
The homeowner felt scared. He hated that he felt scared. He only did because he knew he had no power against it. He was one man, one rebellious, angry man against a whole organization. It was pointless.
“You're not the first to try and resist us. We dealt with them. We'll deal with you, too,” the FEMA agent said with a chilling coldness.
He felt close to ill. This was dystopian; this was not right. In the end times, when people should be coming together to face a threat or face death, they were being torn apart. Threatened by a government that no one had the heart, time, or chance to fight back against.
“I'm not handing over anyone else,” he says, voice more unsteady than he’d like. He knows that it’s no use.
“It's like talking to a fucking wall... here's what's gonna happen if you don't cooperate.”
The homeowner sighs. Short, hopeless.
“We break down your door. Take everyone. We leave you behind to die alone. So we're taking two people. NOW. And then we'll be on our way.”
The homeowner would rather they not break in. So he opens the door.
The agent comes in. It’s the same process as always. They go into a room, spend a minute or more in there, and come out empty-handed. That, or they’ve found something wrong, and usually, some sort of argument starts. Whoever they want to take will likely try to put up a fight, verbal or physical, but they always lose. The homeowner never intervenes; he could risk even more lives, including his own, if he were to make the situation more complicated.
First, they check the bathroom. Two people reside there. A widowed woman, who came as a two-for-one package with her late husband. The homeowner feared disease infecting his home, but that was already a concern with the Visitors. He couldn’t turn her away. A grieving woman who just needed a place to rest. He understood her.
Along with her was some super-baked dude. He hadn’t been checked much, and the homeowner felt slightly uneasy leaving him with the widow. Even if he wasn’t a Visitor, the homeowner was sure she didn’t appreciate him being… a bit of a nuisance. But, he could only assume so much, and he had no good reason to throw either of them out. For all he knew, the widow might appreciate his company.
The homeowner watched through the open door as the FEMA agent investigated both of them. They stepped away from the widowed woman. They approached the stoner. Within minutes, he was asked to leave with them. He argued, saying he wasn’t “one of them zombies” and that they were “killing his vibe.” He stayed stubborn, not threatening but just unyielding. The agent grew annoyed by his stubbornness and said they’d come back if they couldn’t find anyone else.
Next was the living area, where another three people resided. An old woman and a tall man who had been kicked out of a bar… and a fatally wounded firefighter. The old lady gave the homeowner a sense of discomfort. He was unsure as to why, because she appeared as a harmless grandma who had done nothing to threaten him. He tried to discard it. The firefighter posed no threat to the homeowner or anyone else; he just wanted some peace, it seemed. He was already suffering, weighed down by burns and guilt. And the tall man was someone whom, deep down, the homeowner hoped wouldn’t get taken by FEMA. They had their disagreements and… unkind words shared between them, but there was an unspoken trust in each other.
The FEMA agent didn’t even speak to him. The worker eyed the firefighter, who shrank away from his gaze. They then spoke to the old woman. She spoke softly, just like she always did. The agent grew hostile, eventually telling her to step out of the room. The homeowner watched her comply with a tight expression on her face. He wasn’t sure how he felt. She lingered by the door as the FEMA agent inspected the other rooms.
The office. A girl with a tube top and a caffeine addict stayed in there, along with three members of a cult that lingered outside of the home. The homeowner hoped they would be left alone; he did not want to start anything with the leader of their weird group. The caffeine addict paid the agent no mind, and he wasn’t spoken to. The girl with the tube top spoke cruel words at the FEMA agent, but they didn’t seem surprised. They moved past her and left the room.
The kitchen, where only one individual resided. A bearded man, one had apparently lost his rifle while out in the wilderness and since fled. He seemed to respect the FEMA agent, though grew defensive. The homeowner realized it was because they were saying they might take him away. They left, saying they might come back.
Finally, they entered the storage room. The homeowner wished they hadn’t. One other person resided in his home. A foreigner who had been there for a week. The homeowner had grown… fond of the man. Despite their language barrier, they talked to each other more than anyone else. There were nights when, despite nobody knocking on the door and the house being quiet, the homeowner would sit in the hall and just think. The foreigner would sometimes join him.
The homeowner had always preferred solitude, at least he thought so. When the cataclysm started, he began accepting people into his home. But despite the crowd within his walls, he felt a growing loneliness that worsened by the day. Many of these people, Visitors, whatever—they didn’t connect with him. It was hard to expect connection in the current state of the world, but the homeowner still felt a lingering ache in his chest. Now and again, he wanted some way to expel this stress, this need to relate with someone.
And the foreigner… he seemed to care, despite the circumstances. He offered quiet support or a listening ear. And sometimes, he’d talk, a lot, despite his injuries. And sitting there and paying attention, understanding a few words, and trying to learn new ones, it was a nice distraction for the homeowner. Not to mention that they’d had… questionable encounters. Where both of them got caught up with each other, touching, doing things the homeowner hadn’t done in a long time. The homeowner wasn’t sure if the foreigner just needed something to take his mind off the present day, or if there was something there. Nonetheless, it felt like a crime, even if it was just kissing, just touching. It felt like it meant something, along with the other shared memories they had together.
Those comforting moments made him question what he’d thought of himself for so long.
The foreigner had been left alone by FEMA three times now. The homeowner stayed a couple of feet from the door. He watched the agent try to communicate with the man. His heart was racing as he was hit with the realization that he didn’t know what he’d do if the foreigner was taken away. He watched, panic growing in his chest. The agent lingered there, watching as the foreigner backed away while still trying to communicate with his hands.
The homeowner considered intervening. But it would risk too much. The foreigner looked past the FEMA agent and at him. He knew he probably looked distressed.
A minute passed. The FEMA agent let out a sound of annoyance when the foreigner again didn’t understand their words. The homeowner’s breath hitched.
They finally left the room, and the homeowner stepped forward so they wouldn’t slam the door. He let out a heavy sigh and watched them storm back into the kitchen, call the old woman over, and head towards the exit. They stepped out onto the porch with the two on their tail. The homeowner followed them to the doorway.
They didn’t say goodbye. The homeowner shut the door as quickly as possible.
He was just grateful that the agent hadn’t taken the foreigner. He hoped never to see the worker again; he couldn’t bear going through that process one more time.
The next bit was a blur. The weird cult leader came by and was satisfied that his weird cult members were fine. The vigilante also showed his face again and asked to check the homeowner to make sure he’s not a visitor. He showed his hands to the man. His nails were clean of dirt. The vigilante swore at him and said he’ll “check him properly next time” before leaving.
The homeowner rejects the couple of people who show up at his door. Finally, when it seems that no one else will be coming, he tries to release the tension in his shoulders and recover his grip on reality.
He swallows. The house has settled from its unease. When FEMA comes in, there is a general anxiety in the air. It has passed, but… the homeowner still doesn’t feel calm. He wonders if the foreigner realizes how worried he was, how worried he still is. He doesn’t like how much he cares, but he does, whether he wants to or not. He would like to think that the foreigner shares a slight affection for him.
He needs to calm down. He walks absentmindedly to the storage room. He opens the door slowly, carefully. The foreigner is wide awake, sitting down, and leaning against the shelves. He looks up at the homeowner.
This isn’t the first time he’s walked in late at night. One of those times, the homeowner fell asleep sitting beside the man. Another, they ended up asleep together in the homeowner’s bed. Nothing more than kissing had happened, and yet waking up next to the man was an overpowering, intimate feeling that the homeowner never imagined experiencing again.
He closes the door behind him and takes a seat next to the foreigner. He takes a deep breath. So many crazy thoughts, so many complicated feelings—they’re suffocating him, and he can’t even get them across if he wanted.
“I was scared they would take you,” he mutters. The foreigner recognizes worry, but not what he is saying. The homeowner isn’t sure what to do to communicate what he means. “FEMA,” he says, having mentioned them before due to their repeated appearances in the neighborhood and at his house. “Here.”
The foreigner nods, seemingly understanding.
“Bvh, FEE-MA, gsv nzm dzh sviv ztzrm,” he says.
The homeowner points at the other man, then back at himself. He knows he has a … frightened look on his face. He doesn’t like losing people; most people don’t. But this feels awfully vulnerable, awfully sudden.
He returns his hands to his lap, and his gaze meets the floor.
“It felt like they were in here forever,” he breathes. “I was sure they would try to bring you to quarantine.”
“Gszg nzm dzh uivzprmt nv lfg,” the foreigner huffs.
The homeowner brings a hand to his face, covering it as he chokes up. He doesn’t know what to feel. After everything, is this attachment unreasonable? Is it just attraction? Is this wrong?
“I don’t know what to feel,” he murmurs.
“It’s oh-kay.” The foreigner brings a hand to the man’s shoulder.
The homeowner moves fast, hugging the foreigner.
“I’m so glad they didn’t take you,” he says. The foreigner relaxes into it, humming in agreement. He probably doesn’t even know what the homeowner said. The latter pulls back, unsure if this is okay. The foreigner looks at him with wide, knowing eyes and kisses him on the cheek, a hand reaching to hold his face.
The homeowner furrows his eyebrows.
“I—I’m glad you’re here… here, with me,” he stammers. He points at the foreigner, then at himself. He bites his lip, unsure of himself. “Glad,” he says again, gesturing to the foreigner and then pointing at the ground.
The man nods, pointing at the ground.
“Hee-er,” he repeats. “I’m here,” he says.
The homeowner gives a small smile, trying to communicate the emotion that is… gratitude.
“Uh… glad, I’m glad you are here,” he tries again, emphasizing his weak, positive expression.
The foreigner snickers. His thumb rubs over the side of the homeowner's face, brushing the edge of his lips.
The homeowner leans forward, lips a few inches from the foreigners. The other man closes the gap; maybe this is a better way to communicate his affection.
Both of them melt into it, and the homeowner’s anxiety seems to drain away. The foreigner is here, within his grasp, giving him nothing but trust, patience, and empathy. Things he never asked for, things he didn’t realize he wanted so badly.
His hands drift to hold the foreigner’s waist. They are cold, and the man lets out a short gasp at the touch.
Despite the emotions in the air, the homeowner is gentle. He knows from experience that if he is too harsh, the foreigner’s wounds may reopen. They’ve been healing well, but he doesn’t want to stunt that. So he is careful, sometimes kissing the edge of his mouth. The foreigner’s other arm wraps around the homeowner’s neck, pulling him closer. He shifts, climbing partially atop the foreigner. Their legs loosely tangle as they lean against fragile shelving.
Neither take it a step past that. Not this time, not now. The homeowner doesn’t want the foreigner to think that’s all he wants from him.
The kissing slows. Eventually, it’s just the soft lock of lips. The foreigner runs a hand through the homeowner’s short hair. He backs away, instead laying his head against the former’s chest. He can hear and feel the quick strums of his heart.
This is far too vulnerable. This is far too emotional. And yet, the homeowner closes his eyes. He lets himself breathe. He listens to the foreigner hum some jazzy tune as the minutes tick by.
If FEMA had taken him, the homeowner would never have gotten this. Nothing like it. But he got it, he had it, and he wasn’t sure how he would bear letting go of it now.
There is a tiredness setting in. From the heat, maybe from other things, it didn’t really matter. The homeowner yawns, blinking hard.
“I should… get some sleep,” he says, shifting away. The foreigner tilts his head, snapped back to reality.
“I’ll be going to bed,” he adds. The word bed was an established one, from a … previous interaction.
The foreigner nods. The homeowner stands, brushes off his turtleneck, and steps toward the door, but he hesitates with his hand on the doorknob.
He sighs. He turns around, gesturing for the foreigner to come with him. He tries to make it look like a suggestion, not a demand.
The foreigner doesn't spend even a few seconds considering. He just stands and steps forward. The homeowner feels a rush of fondness somewhere deep in his chest.
They leave the storage room quietly and slip into the homeowner’s bedroom. The last time this happened, it was awfully … passionate. This time, it feels similar, but there is a lack of intensity. Instead, it's a calm comfort, an almost usual, easy support.
The homeowner just lies on top of the covers. It’s too hot to sleep under them nowadays. The foreigner takes the jacket off his neck and sets it at the edge of the bed before joining him. He is sitting up. The homeowner imagined that this would feel awkward. But it doesn’t. It feels oddly correct, natural even. Maybe the heat is really getting to him.
“Gsrh rh mrxv. R szevm'g yvvm zyov gl hsziv gsrh prmw lu nlnvmg drgs zmblmv vohv rm z olmt grnv,” the foreigner speaks softly. He lies down, turning to face the homeowner.
“R drhs blf xlfow fmwvihgzmw nv. R dlfow yv zyov gl gvoo blf gszg R'n zohl szkkb gl yv sviv.”
The homeowner sighs. He wants to get the most out of this, but he’s… nervous.
The foreigner shifts closer.
“Rg dzh mrxv gl szev blf ivozcrmt ztzrmhg nv vziorvi. Blf hvvnvw xzon,” he says. His voice is so soothing. The homeowner notices him gesture towards himself after a few moments. He gives up on his internal struggle and turns to lie against the man. The foreigner hums, seemingly pleased by this, and places a hand against the back of the homeowner’s head.
Usually, the homeowner has trouble falling asleep. But not tonight. The soft caresses of his hair let him relax better than he has in ages.