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The lock on the bedroom door clicks, and the entire house falls into a lull of silence.
Everyone inside is asleep, peacefully resting with the comfort of knowing that no one had died the previous night, and hopeful the event will repeat. It will not.
Only one remains awake, who silently slithers out of the room he’s resided in and slips undetected into the hallway that’s bathed in soft moonlight. The fate of his victim had already been decided when the house was scoped out during the day.
He’d spotted the older man alone in the cramped little closet after already meeting the residents of the other rooms, and believed he would be the choice that created the least amount of guilt. Upon gathering more information about the man, it was discovered that he hadn’t had a home at all prior to the cataclysm, and thus no one would notice his absence if the apocalypse comes to an end. It’s a cruel thing to think, and a cruel reason to choose by, but in comparison to the others inside the house, it didn’t seem absurd to decide the oldest member was the best.
If it were his own decision, he wouldn’t be doing this at all. But he can no longer stand the pit burrowing in his stomach, aching with appalling desires and begging him for some sort of relief. It burns with hunger, worsening as the days pass and he continues to feign ignorance to the violent urges in an attempt to blend in. He can’t bear to neglect them anymore, and would selfishly do anything to acquire solace from the hole that feels as if it’s begun stretching itself even further beneath his clothing.
In the morning, the owner of this house will discover the grisly scene he leaves behind tonight. If he discovers the culprit and decides to take action, he will not plead. He may even be hoping for such a thing.
The steps he treads to the closet are weightless, and the usual creaking of the hinges nonexistent as he nudges the door open slowly. An unwanted eagerness seeps into his heartbeat upon entrance. The old man is huddled in the corner with his belongings beside him, dead to the world.
He takes a slow step into the closet, not wanting to disturb the man, but stops suddenly. A soft sound comes from within the depths of the cramped room, and it isn’t from the one his eyes have been set on since the door was cracked open. Something isn’t right.
He squints, trying to locate the source, and spots the wrench in his plan he’d somehow missed in his tunnel visioned pursuit. A silhouette veiled by shadows curls in on himself on the floor, prying anxiously at his mouth with desperate fingers. The noises coming from him sound like choked, or maybe muffled, sobs.
He certainly can’t carry out anything with a bystander to lay witness and call for him to be shot in the mouth come morning. While he wouldn’t mind the homeowner’s gun being the object to take his life, he’d like to at least die with the dignity of being discovered naturally, and not through self sabotage.
The man in the coat blinks, feeling a semblance of humanity and overwhelming shame flood through his entire body. Whether it’s due to his plan ending short in failure, or trying to carry out the scheme at all, he can’t be sure. While the aching still plagues him, laying eyes on the closet’s second resident has allowed him to shove it away for just a bit longer, redirecting his focus.
He momentarily contemplates how to continue on from here. He doubts the man has noticed his arrival yet, but he doesn’t think he’ll manage to exit unseen if he tries to leave now. So he allows his curiosity of the man’s troubles to veil his initial intentions, and slips further into the closet.
He was correct, the other man is sobbing. His fingers frantically tear at bloodied lips, tear tracks staining his cheeks through drying crimson. The other can’t see exactly where the blood has come from through the darkness and the man’s constantly moving hands. Cold moves to stand before the man, and when his view is shadowed, his unfocused eyes fearfully shoot upward, before he scrambles up onto his feet. In one abrupt movement, he grasps Cold’s wrist through his thick sleeve.
The expression painted across his face is flooded with anguish, his eyes pleading and vulnerable. His brows arch in distress, and with his free hand, he wildly points at his own mouth. Cold squints through the darkness, shifting to catch a glint of moonlight streaming in from the hallway, and finally makes out the source of the other’s dismay — thick wire is strung through various points in his lips, messily and maliciously. He exhales in surprise at the sight, now properly viewing the blood and bruising surrounding the wounds. At another point, the sight may have caused him to squirm out of the room with a lazy excuse. Presently, it doesn’t.
The stranger is still staring at him with panic and muffled sounds he can assume are intended to be pleas. While the homeowner has allowed this man to enter, he clearly has had no will to assist him tonight, and it sparks Cold’s own unexplainable desire to help him.
“O-Okay, okay, j-just breathe,” his teeth clatter together as he whispers, and he hopes the words come out to be comforting. It appears to have some effect, as the man – temporarily, and perhaps even cruelly nicknamed “Wireface” in Cold’s mind until he gains more information on him – allows his hands to fall to his sides and chokes on another strained cry.
He doesn’t know much else to do to comfort the other, so he doesn’t try to just yet. Instead, he hesitantly slips his fingers around Wireface’s wrist, careful to not startle him with the movement or temperature of his own skin. He returns to staring at Cold for a moment with wide eyes before he’s quietly guided out of the closet. With one final glance to the man sleeping in the corner, a look that sparks more remorse than he’d have imagined, he closes the door and directs both of them towards the bathroom.
He expects the stoner that’s been occupying the room since his own arrival to protest their entry, but the man is nowhere to be found. The bathroom is thankfully empty, allowing him to evade explaining his reasoning for still being awake.
It isn’t until Wireface sits down on the edge of the washing machine with anxious eyes that Cold realizes how much he’s out of his depth. He has no medical experience whatsoever, and even to someone with the needed qualifications, the circumstances seem unusual. He has no idea how to help with the situation this man has been through — he doesn’t know what the situation is, exactly.
“J-Just give me a s-second…” he murmurs nervously. He turns his back to the stranger and begins rummaging through the homeowner’s array of medical supplies. He’s unsure himself if he’s actually looking through them or simply stalling until he can figure something out.
He was meant to be taking a life tonight, not potentially saving one. That is, if the man’s wounds are severe enough to have the possibility of becoming so dangerous — even with his limited knowledge on the subject, he’s aware that an infection in this case is of the highest risk, both in probability and danger. Though anything past that is unknown territory.
He properly scans the supplies, taking a pair of medical scissors and gathering any bottles that mention disinfectant properties. An unused roll of bandages is added to his array with the intention of soaking up any spilled blood. If the homeowner has an issue with the usage of his belongings, he’ll take the complaints come morning.
He returns his focus to Wireface, suddenly feeling nervous over the responsibility he’s burdened himself with. The other’s tears have ceased falling, though his expression still mirrors Cold’s own, uneasy discomfort plastered across his face. One of his legs anxiously bounces against the floor. At least his gaze is less unfocused now.
“I d-don’t really know how to d-do this,” Cold admits, avoiding the other’s eyes as he speaks. “But I-I can try, and if anything h-hurts too bad, just stop me, okay?”
The other man gives no response other than what he believes to be confusion and a hint of veiled disappointment, and Cold feels a pang of what he believes to be pity. He isn’t sure why he feels so much concern – or maybe even care – for this stranger. The idea of it shakes him, and he hastily picks up the scissors and tries to brush off the idea. He moves to stand in front of Wireface, and shows the tool off before actually beginning to use it. The man uncomfortably leans backward at the sight of them, and Cold sighs.
“Y-Yeah, this is probably going to h-hurt. I’m s-sorry,” he mutters, and gently grasps Wireface’s chin with his free hand. The other flinches, and if it’s from the touch or the temperature, he’s not sure, but he does his best to shift his hold into something more tender. It isn’t something he’s familiar with doing — his hands aren't normally meant for care. With their difference in height, and the taller man's elevation, Cold has to ease him into craning his neck downwards for him to properly reach.
His fingers tremble as he brings the scissors upwards, and he thinks he must be the least qualified person in this house to perform this makeshift surgery. The others may have no experience with this either, but at least their hands are steady, and there’s no risk of accidentally snipping skin.
The thought makes him shudder, and he puts more effort into ensuring the blades move in the intended direction. He wishes for this to go smoothly enough that no one will awaken to perform a noise check if he messes it up. He can’t deal with more than this right now.
The first piece of wire is snipped off and tugged out in quick succession. There’s an immediate reaction following – Wireface makes a pained sound, jerking backwards and bringing a hand to his mouth. Cold flinches back as well, gritting his teeth.
“I-I’m sorry, really,” he repeats, gently easing down the other’s hand to take his face in his own again. Wireface looks at him with tears welling back in his eyes, and he feels a twist of guilt. He really should’ve just slipped out of the closet when he had the chance. He doesn’t want to injure this man any more than he already has been, hell, he probably could’ve done this better on his own, he’s only made this worse—
Wireface blinks a few times, before giving a shaky thumbs-up to the other man and motioning for him to continue. Cold stares at him for a few moments, relieved and impressed by his quick recovery. He nods wordlessly, and brings the scissors back up, hoping to finish the procedure as quickly as possible.
The removal of the remaining wire goes about the same. Cold maintains a steadier, but gentle, hold of his chin, and Wireface stays as still as he can manage. Hasty apologies are whispered after each muffled sound of distress, comforts being muttered as the wire is tugged from each of the holes punctured in the other man’s lips. Cold works as swiftly as he can without creating any additional damage, and when he’s finished he presses the fabric bandages against the open wounds with a request for the other to hold it there. Blood is oozing from each point of entry, and he doesn’t want any more to join the drying collection already formed around the man’s mouth.
Cold hurriedly searches the bathroom for a rag, and once located he soaks it with water and substitutes that for the bandages that are already coated in red. The dried blood is wiped off carefully, earning a flinch with each movement. Despite being immediately replaced with more from the leaking wounds, it feels like the correct thing to have done.
He searches through the collection of disinfectants he’d dug out, and the other man remains silent all the while. He can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not. It can be easily blamed on to the pain likely pulsing around his mouth, and it’s really a good thing he’s not moving it yet, but a part of him he thought he’d lost worries that he’s somehow discomforting the stranger, and is currently facing his judgment. When he spins back around to look at Wireface, no such thing is seen behind his eyes. The unspilled tears have disappeared, and they’re instead full of gratitude instead of displeasure. Cold finds that he doesn’t want to face that either, and promptly turns around again.
Chemicals are sprayed onto the rag, and he warns Wireface before beginning to smear it across the wounds. He worries that with his mouth now usable, Wireface may yelp at the stinging, but they appear to share the concern over disruption. He only hisses through his teeth and clenches his eyes closed as Cold utters more apologies, not a single one of them hollow. As it settles in more, and Cold spreads it across more skin, he feels the other’s hands dig into his coat, gripping onto him for support. It causes him to falter for just a moment in surprise, but he doesn’t fully stop until he’s brushed the rag across every small wound set into the man’s lips. The bleeding appears to have stopped in the process as well, though not without staining the rag likely permanently.
Once finished, the rag is tossed aside in the vague direction of the sink, and Cold holds up his hands, taking a step backwards.
“A-All done,” he assures, wishing he could muster up a smile to accompany it. “You should c-clean it again in the morning, and make sure it doesn’t get infected. I-I’m sorry for how badly it p-probably hurts.”
Even with the man now able to speak, Cold doesn’t press for information regarding how he ended up with stitches in his mouth. The other has been through enough today, and it wouldn’t feel right to press him for an explanation so soon. If he’s allowed the chance later, he’ll reconsider.
Wireface reaches a hand up to his mouth, lightly brushing a finger over the wounds and wincing at his own touch. He moves his lips around a few times, opening and closing his jaw before clamping a hand back over his mouth.
“Wznm, gsrh ivzoob sfigh,” he mutters to himself, and despite barely catching the words, Cold is hit with realization. (Damn, this really hurts.)
Ah. Wireface hasn’t been able to grasp a single thing he’s said this entire time. The looks of confusion weren’t out of judgment, but lack of understanding. His comforts and apologies went without comprehension, and he has no idea what language it is that the other is speaking. He supposes he won’t be learning more about this man after all. For some strange reason, he feels disappointed.
This does grant him a bit more confirmation on his previous speculations — what was done to this man was done purely out of malevolence, and he can take a guess as to why. It’s sickening to think about, and he wishes he wasn’t unable to learn who’s responsible. It causes him to feel even more sorrow for the situation the other has been through. It sounds nightmarish to experience the end of the world in a place full of people with mutual misunderstanding.
All of a sudden, Wireface — he feels even worse about the nickname now that he knows it’s all he’ll be able to call him — removes his hand from his mouth, and looks at Cold with appreciation behind his eyes. A wide smile spreads across his lips for a moment, and he cringes immediately after, presumably from the pain the movement had sparked.
Even though it was brief, Cold feels an unusual accumulation of emotions forming in his chest from the expression that had been aimed his way. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, but not one he immediately brushes off. He instead pins it on pity, as the wounds are once again spilling blood, though that goes unnoticed by the other.
“Ls! Gszmp blf hl nfxs!” Wireface exclaims. “R dzh hl dliirvw R'w szev gl urtfiv lfg sld gl wl gszg nbhvou! Gsrh rh hfxs z mrtsgnziv…” (Oh! Thank you so much!) (I was so worried I’d have to figure out how to do that myself! This is such a nightmare…)
Cold can only stare blankly back at him, unable to catch anything being conveyed aside from the emotions the other is feeling. Wireface seems to figure this out himself as well, and sighs, standing still in contemplation for a moment. Cold opens his mouth to express yet another apology, but isn’t allowed the chance to get the words out before the other envelops him in his arms. He freezes at the touch.
It doesn’t last very long, and Wireface returns to incomprehensible rambles once they separate, oblivious to the unfamiliar sensations he’s stirred within the other man.
Cold isn’t sure of the last time he’d experienced a hug. It felt comfortable, and somehow, he could completely understand the emotions and gratitude the man was attempting to convey through the action. More importantly, Wireface was warm. Warm enough he could actually feel it, and he wants to feel that even more.
“Y-You need to g-get rest,” Cold interjects the chatter streaming from the other’s mouth. Despite not knowing what was said, he quiets anyway. “I’ll h-help you get b-back.”
It’s an excuse, not that Wireface would have any idea of it. It’s simply comforting to Cold, and only him, a distraction from the whirling thoughts now racing through his mind when he looks at the foreigner. He wraps his fingers back around Wireface’s wrist, and points to the bathroom door. His eyes flick from the doorway back to Cold, and he nods, slipping his own fingers down and between the others and trusting him to lead the way.
Wireface enters the closet first. Cold misses the warmth of his palm the second the connection is severed. Hesitantly, he follows him inside. His eyes flicker to the man sleeping in the corner, lingering on the figure that hasn’t moved a muscle since their departure. Unlike previously, he feels no desire at all to take any action. The ache in desperate demand of relief has disappeared, the hole in his stomach now feeling smaller.
Though it still claws at him, somehow, there’s something more important to turn his attention to now. He’s not sure he’ll feel such urges ever again, and tries not to dwell on how quickly this stranger and his odd radiation of warmth – both physical and not – have seemed to spin him around.
He takes a seat beside Wireface on the ground, and no objections are raised.
“Gszmp blf, ivzoob. R drhs dv xlfow fmwvihgzmw vzxs lgsvi,” Wireface sighs wearily. “Rg'h mrxv gl urmw hlnvlmv dsl xzivh rm gsrh ufxpvw fk dliow.” (Thank you, really. I wish we could understand each other.) (It's nice to find someone who cares in this fucked up world.)
His head falls against Cold’s shoulder as exhaustion threatens to swallow him whole. After the day he’s experienced that Cold can only make assumptions about, he can’t blame the man for his tiredness. He’s not sure if it was a movement he was conscious of, but he doesn’t shove him off. Instead, he leans into him and the warmth he provides.
When the homeowner enters the closet in the morning, Cold will sluggishly blink at the man and state that he wanted to ensure the foreigner would be okay in this house, and that he wouldn’t suffer from his injuries worsening overnight. He will choose to believe this reasoning himself, until he returns the following night to do the same, despite having a perfectly comfortable spot in the living room saved for himself. He will disinfect the other’s wounds and make an effort to push emotion into his tone and actions in a hope to comfort the other, and it will be effective. He will spend his free time during the day trying to communicate as well as he can with the foreigner, and continuously learn a more about the man who will gradually become less of a stranger. He will become more adjusted to his touch, and the other will stop shivering at his own. He will repeat all of this day by day for as long as he is able.
He’s aware it’s a horrible idea to become attached to anyone in his situation. He’s aware with the circumstances, of both the world and with himself, there isn’t a sizable chance of this ending well for both of them. He’s aware that the chances of this ending in a way he’s familiar with are much greater. But those aren’t things to concern himself with tonight. Tonight, he only worries about the man next to him. He only worries about right now. And right now, he is sleeping peacefully.