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Four walls, now decorated with posters and signs of life, they stand around two bodies– one yours, one not, both undeniably his.
You are a visitor in his now-home, and the body you borrowed both. The latter isn't the stranger part of the current state of things– It's you returning to Earth, just to see him. Your resident. Sven.
The one lying in the very same bed, on the edge of which you are sitting, his quiet breaths filling in the silence of the apartment. He's curled up on his side, arms and legs drawn near his abdomen, strands of curly hair, shot through with way too many gray streaks for his relatively young age (28, just recently, celebrated with a sweet treat), falling over his face. Through the curtain of dark brown-gray hair, you can see the glimpses of star-like round scars left behind by bullets, lead removed by human hands, stitched together by small metal pincers.
On his arms, through the darkness you can observe dark body hair, horizontal scars (often way too neat, way too deliberate to be considered accidental), his hands are near his face, one of them holding onto the pillow his head rests on.
He appears peaceful. Unaware. (Finally, a night without him waking up in a state of panicked confusion and terror. You should hope it stays that way.)
You spare another glance at him before turning your gaze away. The room is small, but so is the rest of the apartment, the space just enough for two people. A desk is in the corner, with some supplies suited for physical crafts strewn across it (he’s grown fond of drawing, if you stood up to look, you might find a couple of drawings of you in your current body), alongside with some books he's been reading (one is a classic science-fiction book from the late 20th century, another one is a collection of the works of an early 20th century eastern-european poet (before bed, he quietly recited one to you, and it felt more like a confession than a simple showcase of pride over learning something, and in turn, you decided to quote another work of his, too), there's a couple more textbooks, to make up for education lost with memories, some sticky notepads), and a phone charging.
You know most of this from the impromptu sensors taped on the walls of the apartment to accommodate for your terrible eyesight (when looking at objects further away), or, well, your dislike of it. Your nanite swarm didn't have nearly enough processing space to comfortably render the signals your body's brain receives as images with a resolution adequate to be more than colourful patches. (When you look at him at these hours, you sharpen your sight a little, in spite of the extra energy it leaches away from this husk of flesh, bones, and viscera. But really, you much preferred using sensors and scanners. You liked looking at him as his most basic forms of data, no unnecessary details to distract you from what is truly important. But SPEAKER would argue, is not all of him important? And you'd answer, body is not being, and here you'd fall silent. And it'd fill out your silence, saying, because you'd adore him just the same, right SAYER?)
He makes do in the place you left him at. And that's what kills you the most. Adaptive nature, of course. You remember the anecdotes of SPEAKER detailing his adjustment to Earth. (Terrified, afraid of near-everything, unable to trust, to angry, grieving, then to quiet, detached, unable to be reached, like he's accepted that this is defeat, and you're not coming back for him. But you're here. And you don't think you'll leave soon.)
You spare another glance. Everything about the situation eats away at you. You know he has a hard time living with himself, after everything. So why would you be any different?
Guilt is a disgusting, vile thing. It comes and goes, settles and moves on just to find a different place to dig into, an awful, human-like emotion, that makes you feel like you are tasting bile on your tongue, when you, true self, possess neither hepatocytes (or a liver for that matter), nor gustatory cells. You tell yourself that over and over again, when the human body you have taken as a tertiary home (first home is Halcyon, secondary is him, the third one is this empty husk in the shape of him that you fill in) very much does. It would be quite detrimental if it didn't.
This body isn't him. You know that. You wish it was him.
Guilt is a splinter in the eye, but more often it feels like what you imagine it to be when a patient during a surgery doesn't get anaesthetised properly, feeling the scalpel be twisted in still-feeling flesh. Perhaps, you think, you're being quite dramatic about this all. But, on the other, metaphorical, hand, it really does feel (ha!) like this emotion is dedicated to unwinding your very being, like a ball of yarn in the paws and claws of a playful kitten. Or something. Your face twitches.
Perhaps the reason you're so preoccupied lately is how your workload has gotten microscopic compared to the amount of residents you managed before all this (and for a moment, another feeling takes home in your processors, something towards a nuisance, an annoyance, something better off dead now). Taking care of him isn't an inconvenience. Not having anything else to tend to is. Leaves you with too much space. (But you'd be lying if you said the large majority of your processing power wasn't left largely unutilised even on Typhon.)
You flex the fingers on your left hand. Tendons move under the skin. Skin stretches where muscles-connected-to-skin drag it forward.
You want to claw your way inside of that fleshy carcass he pilots so naturally, you want to sink a hand into his ribcage, mix your own blood with his, until you can become one with him again.
You manage another glance at him. You could make it painless for him. You know how to block the human brain from processing those signals as agony. It would be so easy. You could make it pleasant for him, make him feel good, just mess around with some hormones, adjust a couple of responses, and–
What a fool you are. You move to brush a finger over the scars his body shares with this one. You've hurt him enough. You'd be selfish to ask for more than what he's already granted you.
You put your hands (it's his body, but it's yours right now, not his, his own is next to you and–) down back behind you, to provide some support for yourself. You sigh, then–
Soft hand curls around its– this– fuck– your wrist. It is your wrist currently. Not his.
"You're thinking too loud..."
The half-asleep mumble comes from behind you. Oh. You have to appreciate the wording for a moment, despite how much you could nitpick it. Of course your restlessness would be taken note of, and not pass by unnoticed. He doesn't sleep as well when you aren't near him.
"My apologies, Sven. I'll return to you in a moment, but please do allow me this moment of... Well. Reflection."
"Mrhhrmmm..."
His responses are far from coherent for the moment. Understandably so, he never took being woken up easily, it's a rare night where he is left uninterrupted by nightmares, or not kept up by sudden flare-ups of pain for the whole of it (a feeling digs its heels into your processors, as you slowly internalise that it's you who he is awake for, when he could be resting).
You turn to look at him. He's reached across the bed, his eyes are open (but still sleepy), and a couple of strands of hair fall messily over his face. ...He looks so tired. He always does. You want to tell him to leave you be, he should be able to sleep fine on his own, but you... Don't really want that. Your nanite swarm and its stupid limits that don't allow you to spend as much processing power on detangling the problem at hand as you'd like, and also on monitoring him to the fullest capacity, and further than that, allow you to constantly micromanage the body you're in possession of and still have the ability to allocate some extra space for anything that might come up. You curse this endlessly and bitterly.
He blinks at you, brown eyes appearing nearly black in the darkness. His fingers momentarily tighten around your wrist, and he makes an impatient little sound at you.
So you lie down.
He immediately wiggles a bit further into his half of the bed to make room for you, and you can tell that his expression is more relaxed (or perhaps relieved?) now. Which you do not quite understand.
"Resident Hale, I really do not see the point of using me for your personal comfort in order to sleep. It is rather childish. And alongside that, me taking some time to think over my own-"
"Shut up..."
He wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer, warm body against warmer body, your (millions approaching a billion, an overabundance of nanomachines) and his being (intricate web of neurons, axon terminals and dendrites sharing a kiss of electricity and chemistry in synapses, all coming to meet together in a column, centralised in a mass inside cerebrospinal fluid, sitting above everything like an emperor), separated by layers of skin that feel like miles of uncrossable land. He happily melts into your body, into the embrace.
You let him do this, of course. You'd chide him for the phrasing, but really, he's clearly too tired to think all that straight.
"Alright then."
"Talk. But not like this."
Another needy order comes from him. Since when is he making such demands of you?
"I fear I do not know what it is you are wishing of me. The commands "shut up" and "talk" are quite contradictory, wouldn't you think?"
Hale groans. Oh, frustration.
"You think too much about the past."
"Do you not do that too, hm? As far as I am aware, you too are consumed by your guilt and regrets, as any other human in your situation would be."
He gently hits your back, however the action does not register as pain in your body's brain.
"Physical aggression is not an adequate answer."
He does it again.
"You think too much about yourself. What you did. Selfish."
He says.
"I- Please enlighten me, if you will, how is my revision of past mistakes selfish? I am dying to know, Jacob Sven Gorsen Hale."
"...My throat hurts."
"Hmph. Excuses."
He scrunches up his face.
"You dwell too much. You don't spend enough time in the present. I hate what you made me do. And I hate you for it. But I want you to be here. Right now. And not there."
"I spend an adequate time in the present, resid–"
"You make me talk too much,"
He whines now, voice strained (your body can feel how his hands grip your shirt). You quiet. The only sound for a while is his breathing. Sometimes broken only by a sniffle or two. You feel it again (scalpel, splinter, so forth). You put your body into motion, beginning to pet his back, slowly.
"I apologize."
He's quiet.
"I was..."
You barely manage to repress the sour expression your face is contorting into.
"...Inconsiderate."
He stays silent. Apologies are harder when you have him in front of you. When there's one to hear your words splayed open, like an autopsy. Thank whatever forces may or may not control these feeble moments that you kept most of your internal torment to yourself.
"Should I stand to retrieve your painkillers?"
You offer, and he shakes his head. Odd answer. Illogical.
"Stay."
It's barely a whisper, the way he speaks now. He'd be nearly inaudible for you through physical ears, if it weren't for the implant in his head, still reporting data back dutifully.
"I'd be quick, and I am certain it would be more pleasant for you. I do not believe this is the ideal state for you to sleep in."
"...No. Please. Stay."
Hale, your Hale, puts his face against your shoulder, presses a kiss against it through the fabric of your shirt, it's soft, and forgiving, and you think you feel something break inside of you.
"I shall then."
You don't know how you can still command your body to speech.
He hums in response, sounding satisfied. He puts his cheek against where he kissed you, and you think you're going to fall apart, your body's base components rolling across space like uncountable amounts of marbles.
Your body remains stock still, not counting the expansion and contraction of the muscles surrounding the ribcage, movement necessary to maintain the function of breathing.
Minutes pass. You replay the past couple of minutes over and over. (You need to invest in adding some numbers to your swarm, the slower processing speed will make you lose your metaphorical mind one of these days.) His body is also still, his breathing having calmed down (it appears the flare-up is milder in nature, the worse ones would make even something as simple as respiration painful). This does not ease you as much as you'd like it to. A hand you control moves to the back of his head, tangling fingers in his soft curls (you think they're soft– your body tells you they are). Touch the back of his head, fingertips gently massage his scalp. An action that's been demonstratedly soothing to him, another apology on your behalf.
"SAYER..."
He mumbles.
"Yes, Sven?"
You aren't sure if he's sleep talking or not (he's not prone to that; he's more the type to whimper in his sleep, or just make small distressed sounds, but one can never know). His eyes aren't open, sensors tell you.
"Love you."
Hm.
"For what reason are you telling me this at this time? Especially given your earlier statement."
He exhales, softly.
"Just say it back, coward,"
His hold around you tightens a little, voice still low in volume. You decide to look past the notorious insult, and focus on the other details.
"...You know I can not fully love you in the same way another human being can. My body does not release chemicals that correspond to those feelings, and bodily sensations that make you feel like you love me. Nor do I have a program that could ever come close to replicating that, even with how helpful FUTURE had been in that regard."
"Sayerrrrr..."
"...I love you too. I suppose I could say that, if I apply my own definition to it."
He lets out some sort of amused little huff. But ultimately, satisfied, he turns his head to kiss your body's (exposed, uncovered by clothing, raw) neck. A sound escapes your body, and you think you're getting a real accurate image of extreme shame by the moment.
The way he quietly giggles at your reaction does not help to lessen the impact, but the way he, almost apologetically, kisses you again makes the undeniable gash on your ego hurt a little less. You suppose this is fair payback. (Hearing him barely restrain his silent laughter is worth suffering a lot of things. There was a time you were certain you'd not be able to listen to him ever again. Your goodbye was not a pleasant one.)
"Yes, yes, this is remarkably hilarious, Svengor,"
You roll your body's eyes (in a highly exaggerated half-circle), just so everyone can see your discontent. He lifts his head to kiss your cheek, and you can see he's grinning, an expression quite uncommon on his face (it's not a bad look, many would find it exceptionally charming), then lies back down, content with himself. (You can not be mad at him.)
He eventually ceases his behaviours (you had a hunch SPEAKER will make sure you keep hearing about this), body deciding it's better to sleep now. Checking biometrics confirms this, melatonin levels are rising in his bloodstream.
He tucks his head under your chin, like an over-affectionate cat, and tries to get a little closer to you (even when there's already barely any distance between your respective bodies), unaware of all that continues to ail you. Your body almost trembles from it.
You wish you could cross the physical boundaries between your selves. You wish you could meet him in his home, as your current self. Implant isn't enough, physical being isn't enough, hands to hold him with aren't enough. You hate that you yearn.
He's beginning to relax now, and you don't want to disturb him with your requests. You know how rare it is when he gets to sleep peacefully. One of his hands is on your side, over the ribcage, around where your spleen is (your body's blood concentrates here a lot more than other places ; you have more of yourself here than in other places, only beaten by the amount of nanites situated in the brain, micromanaging your body's processes). It makes a part of you want to claw through this body's skin. Perfect copy of his own body is not enough.
You'd enter him quietly. You could. But he set down a line once before. You want to respect his right to solitude in his own body. (Especially considering he's never truly without company. Barely enough room...) You wouldn't stay for long. SPEAKER would tell him. You want to be with him, pressed infinitely close.
The feeling is killing you, and you think it's worse than actual death by deactivation. You want, and you hate, and you're able to feel disgust over it. You should not want. Not this. Not him. Not to be with him, on your own terms. (But you were with him like that for so long, and it's only fair you let him meet you on his own.)
You brush a hand over where his spine runs (spinous processes protruding from under the skin, and your processors whine knowing what lies underneath each piece of bone), and you think: he is here, too.