Chapter Text
The tall man was stretched out, puffy eyelids heavy, late at night on a couch that wasn't his -- at least, as stretched out as he ever was, which meant that his knees were stiff from being bent for hours, and his back was sore from tossing and turning trying to fight the sweat that gathered between the upholstery and his skin. The air was thick and stale, but he didn't move to find a window. He knew it was just dismal outside, which wasn't a good enough trade-off to warrant the danger of letting anything, or anyone, inside by mistake. Gone were the placid summer nights spent dozing with the curtains open, breathing in the sweet smell of plants and the sounds of animals. Now, the only things the breeze carried was the smell of rot, and the howls of dogs that tore at the things left rotting.
He wiped away a bit of wetness on his face with a large fingertip, unable to tell if it was sweat or drool threatening to dart off his cheek and into his ear. He hadn't meant to wake up, though that seemed to be the routine he was falling into. Wake up in the morning, fuck around to kill time, try to sleep through the hottest part of the afternoon, wake up again for some semblance of dinner, and then he'd drink himself to sleep until he was jostled awake by someone slamming a fist against the door a few thin walls away. Never enough sleep to feel rested, always enough to feel drowsy. If the schedule wasn't leaving him fighting his eyelids, the heat and the alcohol would. It was getting hard to keep track of the days. He was pretty sure it was day three here, or maybe four. Five? One of those.
He heard the vigilant footsteps of the homeowner thud down the hall, dragging himself and his gun to the door, just like every night. The tall one wondered how he managed to keep it together, talking to all the weirdos that showed up at the door every night, pulling himself out of the respite of sleep to be slapped with the world's bullshit all over again.
The tall man had stopped trying to keep track of who was here. He took his meals alone, under the pretense that his elbows could knock a fork from someone's hands from all the way across a dining table, and as such, had just about no contact with anyone else. Aside from that very off-putting lady that had seemingly vanished earlier, the living room was, unofficially, his; the people that walked in looking for a place to stay left of their own accord quickly. Whether it was from fear that he was one of those monsters, or just because the room was stuffy and dark and smelled like shit, he didn't care. Either way, it left him on his own. All the more time to think and sleep unbothered.
There was some mumbling from outside bleeding through into the room; in his half-awake stupor he almost tried to smack it away like a fly. He grumbled, but supposed he had to be thankful that it was at least quiet tonight. Sometimes nutcases showed up yelling through the door like they had dogs nipping at their heels. Sometimes, for reasons he couldn't understand, the homeowner would let them in, and the volume would double and rattle around in his skull all day and night until they left. Luckily, people seemed to filter in and out pretty often. Some of them left of their own accord, some of them got thrown out, and then, there were the days where there would be shouting and a loud pop, and the nights where the house would slowly fill with the smell of something ripped apart, and that was it. Whoever that was, they were gone. He was always waiting for when it would be him in a heap on the floor, getting tied up in bags to be tossed the next chance everyone got. So far, though, he was still kicking -- despite his best efforts.
There was a timid little turn of the doorknob, and the tall man squinted at the vague shadow of a person in the doorway. Slowly, joints popping and shifting like an unoiled machine, he pulled himself rather unnaturally to a sitting position. Usually that was enough to make someone reconsider their choice of room, but whoever this idiot was, they stayed standing there. He waited a second for them to say something, and then coughed a little to try to spur them on.
"S... Sorry, I didn't-t realize anyone was in here. Didn't mean t-to bother you."
He already knew the stammering was going to piss him off. With his voice still creaky and phlegmy, he groaned out, "You're not the first."
The new guy closed the door behind him, and the room settled back into darkness. The tall man could feel eyes on him, even when he couldn't see them. He waited for the guy to move, but he seemed to be staying entirely still, except for a weird shuddering.
He gestured to the rest of the room, and then it occurred to him that nobody could see it. Stupid.
"There's a chair to your right. Do whatever you want."
"Oh. Yeah, th-thanks."
He heard him slowly walk over to the chair, fumbling blindly in the dark. For some reason, he could still feel him staring, even when he knew the man had to be facing the wall. Once he assumed the guy had settled in, he laid back down, grimacing at how the brief bit of air on his back had made him forget the sweat that had soaked into the couch. The other guy was still making that noise, almost like he was hushing himself as he breathed out.
"How long are you going to stay?" The tall man prayed it wasn't long.
"Just a l-little while. I just wanted a place to rest f-f-for a bit."
Yeah. Him and everybody else.
Here, the guy said something that made the tall man furrow his eyebrows. "H-have you got a blanket I could borrow?"
Now what the hell did he want that for? Here they were, in a room so hot and disgusting that he swore he could feel sweat pool every single place his skin creased, and this lunatic wanted to be hotter. Maybe this really was one of the crazy ones after all. Maybe it was to put underneath him, if he decided to skip the chair and sleep on the floor? But if that was the case, he'd be more comfortable with his face on the hardwood -- at least that might be cool.
Baffled, but trying to avoid some kind of discussion about it, he grabbed the blanket draped over the back of the couch and tried to gauge where the guy was sitting.
"Catch." There was a little grunt, and a mumbled, "Thanks," and that was that.
The tall man rolled over to face the wall, trying to ignore the weird foreign smell that other people's furniture always had, and slipped back into a dull, dumb sleep.
When he pulled himself back into consciousness, head already aching before anything even happened, he sighed. Another day. What a blessing. He rolled over, trying to ignore how sticky everything felt, and was about to lift his hands up and rub at his eyes when he stopped in his tracks. There, in the chair somewhat facing him, was the new guy.
He was wrapped in that blanket like it was the only thing keeping him alive, and the only things sticking out were the hood of what seemed like a winter coat, and a face that looked half dead buried in it. He was shivering still, even in his sleep.
"What the fuck..."
As he leaned in to get a closer look, a muscle in his neck tweaked funny, and he had to ease himself back into his previous position. He supposed he wasn't really in a place to judge anyone on the bodily functions they had going on. Still, even as he got up and started to get dressed (which mainly consisted of him putting his shirt back on), he couldn't help but stare a bit. Cold, as a concept, felt so far away now that seeing someone complain of it felt like seeing a unicorn.
The man found himself looking both ways as he pulled the door open, as if he was about to step into traffic. It wasn't that he felt unwelcome, per se, but, well... there were so many new people. New people every night, now. And with new people came the same questions as always, and he had woken up tired too many days in a row to answer them all again. He would rather save his strength for something that mattered, not that he had anything to dedicate energy to anyway. It seemed like the sun had just come up less than an hour ago, and the light already felt oily and smothering as it stuck grimy fingers through the old blinds. If he could've slipped into a coma through willpower alone, he would've in a heartbeat.
But he was awake, for however long he was going to be awake, and thought he might as well do something with the time. Whatever he could.
He hated how the floor creaked as he moved to the bathroom. He hated everything about this place. It felt like he was living in a fucking shoebox. In a coffin. If he stretched out both his arms, he could plant his palms on both the walls of the hallway at once. On one of the first days here, he was doing his best to make small talk. Someone asked him where he'd go, if he could go anywhere he wanted. He reached for a normal response -- to some beautiful part of nature, to some big famous city, to a house he called home -- but the way he hesitated answered it for him. He didn't care. He just wanted out. He wanted to be done.
Fuck this house. Fuck the low ceilings and the creaky floors and the fact that he was inside it. It all felt like a sick joke, and as usual, he was the butt of it.
He ran the towel over his wet hands, not even bothering to dry his face. It would be wet with sweat again in five minutes anyway. Here, he was thankful that the house was so opposed to him -- the less he saw himself in the mirror, the better. He didn't even want to know what he looked like after however long he had been in here.
From that point on, he started his daily routine. Go to the bathroom, try to clean up a little bit in case he got spotted in the hallway, maybe hit the kitchen, and then trudge back to the living room to do fuck all until he passed out again. What a life!
There was someone slumped over at the kitchen table. At this point, he barely even cared. He did spare a quick glance to see if they were breathing or not, which, thankfully, they were. No bodies today, it seemed. There wasn't anything worthwhile in the fridge. He just sighed and closed it again, the same way he did yesterday, and the day before that.
When he wandered back into the dark and stuffy living room, the crazy guy had woken up. He was on the couch, seemingly trying to sit on all his limbs at once to keep his hands and feet warm. It felt just as ridiculous as it did earlier. When the guy noticed that he was no longer alone, he tried to wave a little, but quickly stuck his hand back under him like he was risking frostbite. The tall man just grunted a little and nodded. It was the best he could spare at the moment. He found himself pissed off that someone was sitting on his couch, despite the fact that it wasn't his couch at all. He wished someone else was in the room to break the silence and keep this weird fucker occupied, but it seemed like they were the only two awake for the time being. Lovely.
To his surprise, the man in the coat didn't turn out to be incredibly talkative. Usually people were trying to talk his ear off by now. They spent a while in silence, sparing the occasional cough or turning of a page in a book. And, of course, the shivering -- can't forget that. It was a bit unnerving to catch the movement out of the corner of his eye, after sitting alone in the room for so long. It reminded him of those weird little dogs, the ones that just shake and yip all the time, even when nothing is happening. Aside from that, though, he kept an ear out to catch the house waking up. When the heat got to his brain and the words on the pages of his books blurred together, he'd tilt his head back and try to guess how many people were inside with him. He picked out at least two other voices -- beyond that, he wasn't sure. It was hard to keep count. It was hard to keep track of anything now, not that it really mattered anymore.
Eventually, he had dozed off, something he only came to realize when he blinked himself awake with a crick in his neck. He hated doing that; nothing made him feel ancient quite like falling asleep sitting up on the couch, book in his lap. Glancing around for witnesses, he realized that the guy in the coat hadn't moved. Whether he had gotten up and just sat back down in the same place, or if he had been sitting there twiddling his thumbs the whole damn time, he wasn't sure.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he asked, "What time is it, do you know?" to which the guy in the coat responded by flinching like someone had just slapped him. He stared at the tall one with a weird expression. Had he forgotten he was there?
"I... I'm not sure exactly, b-but I heard someone say they were making dinner."
"Mm. Wonder what they're scraping together in there."
Across the hall, he could hear some kind of pots and pans banging together. It was almost homey -- entirely out of place here.
"I d-don't know if I'll have any."
"Why not? Every meal someone else cooks is a couple minutes you don't have to spend standing over the stove, having a heat stroke."
"I just- I don't know. I'm not hungry like th-that."
"You will be eventually. A man's gotta eat."
The jacket guy got quiet for a minute, leaving time for a long arm to stretch over to its carton of cigarettes.
"D-do you think there are Visitors in here with us?"
"Maybe," he flicked his lighter a couple times unsuccessfully, "part of me feels like it's all bullshit."
"You d-don't think they're real?"
"They might be. I dunno. But I think all the stuff they're saying on the news is just to make people crazy. Distract them from something bigger, maybe."
He hummed. "Well, they've- they have to do s-something. The people, I mean-n."
"Mm. And maybe it's real. Maybe we are fighting something. Or, they're setting something up to see if we'll actually snap and kill whoever they tell us to. Evidently," he gestured to the house, ribbon of smoke following his cigarette, "we will. It's a shitshow."
"They h-have to do something, I guess," the guy in the jacket repeated. "To feel like they're fighting-g it. That th-they can do something."
"I just... I don't like it. Something feels sinister about it. I'm hoping that jackass has a good head on his shoulders. He seems to, at least."
"The man with the gun? Y-you think he'll keep us safe?"
"He'll do the best he can. He doesn't seem as trigger-happy as some other guys I've seen around."
"Well," he whispered, "what if he's w-wrong?"
"I'll admit, all the signs he's looking for are bullshit. It's all things you could fake or hide or show a false positive for. But he has some sense in his head. He doesn't seem to take it lightly."
"Are you afraid?"
Something about that question rubbed him entirely the wrong way. What was he trying to imply here? That he looked monstrous enough to catch a bullet?
He handed him a non-answer. "Who isn't afraid nowadays?"
The cold one got quiet again for a little bit. He was shivering worse now, and breathed like he was fighting all his muscles to get them to move steadily.
"What do you think it f-feels like?"
"What?"
"Dying-g."
Taking a drag, he replied, "I don't know. Hope it's better than living."
"Mm."
Smoke spun around in ballet circles up to the ceiling. "We'll find out soon enough, I guess."
He watched as the coat boy pulled his hands away from his body to examine them, turning them over in each other like he'd figure something out through it.
"I'm afraid-d," he said.
"Only natural, I guess."
"I'm af-fraid that it's cold. Colder."
Long fingers twisted over to the ashtray. "I always took it more figuratively."
"Hm?"
"When people say that death is cold, in a- in a poetic sort of way. I always interpreted it as meaning, you know, cold as in... unfeeling. Unable to be reasoned with. Inhuman."
There was a quiet little click-click-click as the trembling guy started to pick at the skin on his hands with his chattering teeth.
A puff of smoke filled the room again. "I don't know. Take it any way you want -- the beauty of language is ambiguity. I hope whatever's after this is nice, but it might not be, and it's probably just fucking nothing."
"Noth-th-thing?"
"Mm. What do you think?"
He folded over, bringing his head to his knees. "I just-t hope it can't get any worse."