Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The photograph is… confusing, to say the least. To be honest, I still don’t know what constitutes a “black patch” in these pictures. It doesn’t really feel reliable. But this is still strange: I can see his silhouette, curled in on himself slightly, arms crossed, and in the middle of his person there’s a sort of… black hole. I’m not even sure what to do with this. I suppose it strictly does meet the criteria for being a visitor, but it just looks so… natural? It’s not a black patch around him, really. It looks more like it’s a part of him. Does that matter?

“Did you see something?” His voice brings me back to reality. I don’t actually know how to answer. “Sh-show me.”

Without thinking, I hand the photograph over, letting him investigate it for himself. He gets a strange look on his face before looking up at me and muttering, “C-can I keep the photo? No one’s ever t-t-taken one of me before… Feels n-nice.” 

He genuinely seems to have never had a friend before… It makes me a little sad. He looks so small, standing in front of me like that. I know I should pull the gun out, interrogate him, make him explain, but I watch as he runs his fingers along the edge of the picture and hear the quiet chattering of his teeth as he shivers and decide I can forgo the threat, just this once.

“I’ll check on you again later.” I walk out without looking back and try to put it out of my mind, quietly hoping this won’t end up being a mistake.

Chapter Text

A sudden choking sound can be heard from the other guests in the room before they collapse, the blood streaming from their orifices painting the furniture a horrible shade of red. 

“No… N-not again…”

Again?! I look up at his face for a split second, then stare at the scene behind him uncomprehendingly. A second ago, everyone was alive, then he pulled up his sweater… and now… 

“What the fuck…” It comes out as a whisper, a pathetic question with an even more pathetic answer.

“I didn’t m-mean to. I thought it would be d-d-different here. It n-never is. I d-didn’t want this. I swear I d-didn’t…”

He has an expression on his face I can’t quite place, but I give him the benefit of the doubt and assume it’s guilt. Two people dead, just like that… My hands unthinkingly go towards my shotgun and I steady myself against the wall. The image of his stomach, that vast, empty void, is burned into my mind. This was… incomprehensible, even for a visitor. I had thought they were supposed to be virtually indistinguishable from humans. So what was he?
The stench of iron and rot slowly begins to feel the room and I snap back to reality, the consequences of this… incident… finally clicking in my mind. There had been eight of us in the house. One died as we slept. Two are dead now and unfortunately, they are two I had practically cleared of suspicion the other night. Five of us are left now, including myself. He’s a visitor. Or at least he’s… something. That means there’s another one. 
He is shivering again and staring at me unblinkingly. For some reason, I don’t point the gun at him.

“Wait here…” I choke out, beginning to feel sick from the ever-unfamiliar smell of death. His expression changes slightly but he silently complies, sinking to the floor by the door and resting his head on his knees. I leave the room as a sort of panicked rage begins to bubble up inside me. My shotgun is already loaded. “And- and don’t do that again, please…”

The ‘surgeon’ lies dead at my feet. It was him, I’m certain. A doctor surely would’ve kept his hands a little cleaner, right…? I try to push the thoughts of all the lives I’ve ended in the past week out of my mind. You had no choice, I tell myself. You had to kill them to protect yourself. I’m breathing heavily and shaking a little as I stalk back into the living room, still waving the gun around and trying to wipe the gunpowder off my hands. He peeks at me through his hair, eyes landing on the weapon I’m still holding.

“Maybe… that’s for the b-best.”

“What?” The softness in his voice blindsides me. I realise slightly late that he thinks I intend to shoot him too… but I look at him all curled up on the floor shivering and I remember the hope in his voice when he’d stuttered out “maybe n-not this time” just an hour ago. He looks… harmless, he really does. It’s so difficult to reconcile the trembling form before me with the destruction in the rest of the room. The others hadn’t deserved that; they were supposed to be safe here (though in all honesty, I’m not certain if anyone ever actually believed this house was safe, considering everything that’s happened lately). I think for a moment that I could just shoot him right there, get it over and done with before I can start doubting myself. But if I kill him now, will it absolve me of my guilt? Will it finally make me a good man? My head is spinning. He’s breathing shakily, looking up at me. There’s just something different about him, and it’s not just the gaping void where his stomach should be. He screws his eyes shut, waiting for me to shoot. 
I don’t.
“You told me you weren’t a visitor when you were at my door. Did you lie to me?” I try my best to keep my voice level.

He shakes his head, “No… I d-didn’t know, I r-really didn’t… I knew I was d-d-different but I didn’t th-think…” He rocks back and forth slightly, struggling to finish his words.

“Get up.” It’s harsh. Harsher than I would’ve liked, really. His frail body trembles as he stands. “If you stay, will more people die?”

“I-I don’t know… I’ve never k-killed anyone on purpose, I s-s-swear.”

I really should’ve known the moment he walked through the door: those slits for eyes, his bloodied, nail-less fingers, his perfect teeth… I’d found him unthreatening and admittedly a little captivating. He was a strong contender for the most interesting person in this house. I find myself strangely unable to think of him in any other way. In fact, I think he’s gotten more interesting now that I actually know what his “secret” is. Against my better judgement, I put down the gun. It would at least be safer if he left, I know, but I just can’t bring myself to ask him to. I’m almost used to having people around now. I fear I’d begin to feel that hopeless sense of loneliness again, losing five of my guests in one go. Besides, what good would it do? I know visitors cannot kill alone, and if he is the only one left then there should be no imminent danger. If I make him leave now, it’s no better than putting a bullet through his skull. 
I have faced death too many times for one morning, and right now I cannot bear the thought of killing him too. Not when he’s like this. I try to convince myself this is more than a selfish desire. I try.

“Go into my room. I need to clean this mess.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, clearly nervous. It feels strange, knowing that the first person I’ve let into my room is a visitor. I sit beside him, keeping my distance a little — I can feel his coldness even from here and it unsettles me slightly. 

“Why did they die but I didn’t?” I venture, still struggling to process what I saw earlier.

“I-I don’t know… Sometimes p-people survive… but then they h-hate me for k-killing their f-friends… I c-can never tell…”

I sigh. I don’t hate him; I try to be civil with my guests but I can’t imagine many of them would consider me a friend. I know anyone could die at any second, from the heat, from visitors, being dragged away by FEMA… It’s best not to make friends at all. 

“Were you… always like this?”

It seems that question was a mistake, because he looks away and tears begin to form in his eyes. He doesn’t seem to be able to speak and just silently nods, curling up and softly beginning to cry. Almost instinctually I put my arm around his shaking body and rub his shoulder, though I’m not sure he feels it much beneath all the layers he has on. He hides his face in his hands and sniffles. We stay sat like that for god knows how long before he speaks again.

“My p-parents were human… at least I th-think they were. I don’t know w-what happened to me. Th-they all hated me, I think. I ran away to k-keep everyone safe. Loneliness is all I’ve e-ever known.”

I don’t know how to respond. I pity him, I really do. He looks so vulnerable, curled up beside me like this. Just a few hours ago he had seemed perfectly resigned to the idea of taking a bullet to the head. No, worse — he’d wanted it. The night he arrived he’d asked me to shoot him before I even opened my door. It makes me sad to think of how a man could even reach such a state, what people must’ve done to him to make him so utterly convinced he deserved death and nothing more. The very thought of hurting him suddenly makes me feel a little bit sick. Before I can figure out what to say, there is a knock on the door. Sighing, I get up.

It’s been a very long day. Half of my guests have died. That weird-looking fellow came to ask if I was alone again; I dread to think what he’d do if I said yes… I’m terrified that someone will die again tonight, all because I’ve insisted on letting this man stay knowing full well what he is. Well, I’m not sure I do know, to be honest. I don’t even think he does. 
I open my bedroom door to see him sitting on the floor in front of my nightstand. He seems to have moved from his usual position on the living room couch. I suppose I did invite him in earlier…

“I lock this door when I sleep” I state, matter-of-fact. The follow-up question are you still staying? remains unsaid. He nods slightly. I climb into bed, frankly excited to put this day’s events behind me. He stays sat on the floor beside the bed, almost entirely motionless. Every so often he sniffles and I can’t tell if he’s just cold or crying again. I think for a moment that I’d give anything to remember what it felt like to really, truly be cold. It slowly dawns on me that I’d give anything to cry again, too, to feel anything as strongly as I used to. I can still hear his teeth chattering softly as he rests his head on his knees again.
I don’t know what possesses me to make me say the next thing that comes out of my mouth:

“There’s space in the bed, you know.”

I watched two people choke on their own blood just from being in the same room as him. It’s clear as day that he’s a visitor. I know that. But the very fact of knowing seems to put me at ease a little. He doesn’t want to hurt me. Hell, he didn’t even seem to want to hurt them. He silently gets under the covers, coat still on, as far away from me as he can possibly manage without falling off the edge of the bed.

“You know… w-when you put your arm around me earlier… it was n-nice. Almost… warm…”

I glance at him, once again unsure of what to say. After a few seconds I decide to simply say nothing. I close my eyes and sleep quickly overcomes me.

Chapter Text

The kitchen table is littered with various bits of food and drink, all equally unappetising. The three of us sit in near silence around it, eating breakfast together. It’s become like a ritual now, a silent confirmation that we’re all still alive. A fortune teller, a gravedigger, and a paranoiac: a strange caricature of a family that would be humorous if the circumstances weren’t so depressing.

“So… it really was that doctor.” She seems to actually want to make conversation. It’s a shame there isn’t anything else to talk about. Always visitors, always death.

“Yep…” I gulp down another mouthful of cold coffee; it tastes awful.

“Where’s he?” The gravedigger asks, voice rough and slightly accusatory.

I can’t lie, can I? “He’s in my room. He was feeling… lonely…”

They both turn to face me now, the questions visible on their faces. I really don’t want to explain myself to them…

“You let him into your room?”

“You let him into your room?” 

I don’t respond. I find myself wishing the man in the coat would come sit with us too — I’m not certain what he’s afraid of when the worst case scenario has already been and gone. An uneasy silence falls again.

“Visitors kill in pairs, don’t they?” She speaks the question into her meal, but I know it’s directed at me. I can see exactly where this line of questioning is going, but I’m powerless to stop her. “So… who’s the second one, then?”

I know exactly who it is. I suck in a breath, suddenly feeling nauseous, though I try to convince myself it’s just because of the shitty coffee. “I don’t know. The signs are so vague and inconsistent, it’s never possible to be certain.” It’s only partially a lie.

“So, you think it could be any of us?” He sounds less accusatory now and more frightened. He seems to be studying us both, as if trying to figure it out right then and there.

“Does it matter? They can’t kill alone, anyway.” It’s completely illogical, nonsensical even, especially coming from someone who has shot people for a single arbitrary sign, even those that I knew could’ve had an explanation. I look at them as if begging them not to inquire further, to let me have this, just this once.

“If it were any of us, would we even know?” Her voice is quiet, the question rhetorical. The three of us look at one another, the two of them exchanging glances that say more than words ever could. Is it you? each one asks. You wouldn’t kill me, would you? The silence falls for the last time. 

I come back into my bedroom. No one else died last night, so he really must be the only one left. That means he could stay. Unexpectedly, I find myself wanting him to stay. I remember the bitter regret I feel every time I kill a visitor, and the same thought that crosses my mind every time: I wish I didn’t have to; I wish I could’ve helped. Maybe this time I can help. Maybe just this once, things can be okay.

“Everyone survived the night. We’re safe. As long as you’re the only… one… in the house I think we can stay that way. You wouldn’t hurt us… right?” I can’t help but keep my guard up a little. If worst comes to worst I know he’s going to have to go, and I have to admit the thought makes me a little sad.

“I’ve n-never… I didn’t know I w-was-”

I cut him off, “I know. But there’s still something about you that seems to make the others start to kill. I only need to make one mistake now for people to start dying again. I don’t want you to go, but if I feel that you’re a threat… if anything happens…” I trail off, unsure of if what’s coming out of my mouth is actually making any sense.

“I can go.”

“No!” I spit, a little frustrated. “I just want everyone to be safe…” It’s funny, really. He needs to stay so he can be safe, and I need him to stay to convince myself I’m still alive, to feel like I’m doing something right at last. It’s a bizarre, dysfunctional attempt at connection, but I can tell we both want it to continue, if only for a little bit.

“Here,” I pass him a bowl of dry, slightly stale cereal. There’s no milk left. “You need to eat something.”

He locks eyes with me as if trying to discern my thoughts from the look on my face. He sits back down on the edge of the bed, head in his hands once more. I turn to leave before swivelling back towards him, suddenly aware that I may have made some kind of visitor faux pas. “You… do eat, right?”

His straight eyebrows raise slightly. “Of course…” He says it as if it should be obvious. Of course he eats. What do I think he is, some kind of creature with a gaping abyss where his stomach should be?

“Of course.” I echo, a little embarrassed. “My mistake.”

Chapter Text

It’s his third time sleeping (does he actually go to sleep when I do?) in my room now and he still lies, quivering, at the edge of the bed. I find myself wishing I could make him warm, somehow — the blankets don’t seem to do anything. 
He turns towards me and I take the time to actually take in his features for the first time, undefined though they are in the dark room. His narrow irises are pitch black, like his… I’m not sure what to call it. Black hole? Any name I try to think of for it ends up sounding vaguely suggestive. It’s just his stomach, I suppose. His jowls stand out to me as unusual for a man so young; it’s hard to believe I didn’t notice anything was off about him earlier. I notice now for the first time that his ears are stretched. His skin is strangely tinged blue, as is his hair. It’s long-ish, falling over his face in a way that makes him look… cute? An image appears in my head of him standing in front of a bathroom mirror, piercing his own ears and dyeing his roots that dark shade of blue (though knowing him I figure his hair probably just grows that colour). It’s quite endearing. It makes him seem so… human. He’s huddled in on himself, his perfectly white teeth almost constantly knocking against each other. 
Him being a visitor doesn’t seem to unsettle me so much anymore.  I suppose I kind of see myself in him — alone, afraid, unable to stop himself from hurting those around him, no matter how much he may want to. What is the difference, really, between us? Are we not searching for the same thing? A connection, an understanding, someone to look past the (quite literal) skeletons in our closets. His eyes catch mine, and something stirs within me. I almost want to…

“The other night you said you almost felt warm when I hugged you. Was that like… metaphorical, or…?”

“No.”

I breathe in a little before whispering, “Come closer, then.”

He looks slightly surprised but does as I say. His face is inches away from mine now, his arms still pulled close to his chest. 
I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately. I briefly think that I understand what it’s like to be so lonely, so cold… not physically like he is, but I understand it. In a strange way I think I need this as much as he does — some sense of closeness, something, anything. 
I bring one of my arms around his waist, only mildly surprised that my arm doesn’t seem to go straight through him. I suppose the… hole… is contained within him in some way, and it’s not just an absence of an abdomen. I don’t want to think about how that works right now (it doesn’t). I rub his back, putting my hand between his coat and his sweater. God, he’s so cold… A soft shiver goes through him and he looks at me with a look in his eyes I don’t think I’ve seen before. He buries his head in my chest, interlocking his legs with mine. I am suddenly starkly aware of the fact that I am in such intimate of a position with a visitor: some cold, inhuman creature. It should feel wrong, it really should… but it doesn’t. I don’t want this to end. I don’t want him to go or be taken away. The world’s on fire, and if he happens to be the only man — if you can even call him that — I can find comfort in right now, then everyone else can mind their own fucking business. I pull him against me slightly and fall into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

It’s happened again. After a few days of relative safety, someone has died. Clearly my checks weren’t thorough enough. I’m beginning to feel a sort of sense of closeness with my guests, and the thought of being wrong about who the visitors are scares me a lot more than it used to. I had considered killing strangers a necessary evil, a mere fact of this new life. But killing a friend? That’s something I don’t want to risk… 
At least now, knowing who he is, I can tell it must be one of my newer guests. The house had survived multiple days with one visitor in it and this only happened last night, after I let three new people in. I feel an odd sense of relief from this fact. It shouldn’t be too hard to narrow it down now. Perhaps more of my friends won’t need to die.

When I go into my room, he’s stood up, right beside the door. He looks mildly surprised to see me. 

“Where are you going?”

“A-away,” he stammers. “Then y-you’ll be s-safe…” He pushes past me through the bedroom door. I freeze in my tracks, taking a second to register what he’s said.

“Wait. I don’t want you to do this.” 

“I-I’ve hurt you enough.”

I grab him by the shoulders without thinking, “You don’t understand. Because you were here, when everyone else survived I knew they were all human. I have certainty for the first time since this whole… thing… began. You don’t know how important that is to me. I know what you are, and you’re not a threat. You going won’t solve anything.” I realise I’m pleading with him. I’ve never pled with anyone in my life.

“You won’t h-have to k-kill anyone if I go…”

“Listen, I let someone die last night by not checking everyone who came in properly. I’m going to shoot the visitor or visitors directly responsible for this death. That’s at least two people dead because of me. If you go and I don’t shoot anyone, that’s still two people dead. If you go and I do nothing and then it turns out two, or god forbid, all three of them were visitors, your death hasn’t solved anything and someone else will die tonight. Not because of you, but because of me.”

He deflates a little. 

“Where would even you go?”

No answer.

“Me letting you leave is a death sentence. I can’t bolt the door and force you to stay, but I’m asking you not to be rash. If you feel you have to… please just tell me before you do.”

He steps closer to me. I wrap my arms around him again and his head falls against my shoulder, his hair brushing my neck slightly. It feels… softer than I’d expected for someone who never seems to wash. I pull away after a minute or so to check my new guests once again.

Chapter Text

I open my door to find the man in the hazmat suit again. Ever since I’ve started feeling certain about who (or what) everyone in my house is, I’ve been dreading this visit. I used to think they might know something I don’t, but I am now certain that they’re pulling all this out of their asses. I’m certain they can’t even tell who the visitors are — they completely skipped over the man in the coat last time they were round. They’re guessing, fumbling in the dark and letting the innocent die to assuage their paranoia. I think bitterly that I know what that’s like, and it’s not pretty. I can’t help but resent them a little.

“Two again?”

“Yes.”

He could’ve at least been a bit friendlier. I decide to take a risk, especially since I know he’s going to force two people out whether I want it or not. 

“There’s a man in my bedroom and a woman in my bathroom. I know what they are.” It’s not a lie. “There are seven other people aside from me. Take whoever you want but please leave the two of them alone.” 

“Why?”

“I just told you…” I’m frustrated, but even more than that, I’m deathly afraid. One of those people is a visitor, and I’m knowingly covering for him. The widow, I just can’t help but feel sympathy for. I can’t imagine how it would feel in her last moments, having to die the same way her husband did… “I can tell you who to take but I can’t tell you who to leave alone? This is my house — they’re my guests!” I’m practically shouting now, blinded by rage. “Who do you think you are? I could kill you where you stand, you know that?”

He just stares at me, though I can’t actually see his expression. After a maddeningly long pause, he speaks again. “Fine.” 
He stalks past me, avoiding the bedroom and the bathroom and going straight into the kitchen. The nerdy-looking conspiracy theorist is dragged out, practically kicking and screaming. Then the blind one, who moves slowly and silently, face towards the ground. I feel a pang deep in my chest: I had really quite liked them. And I knew, damnit. I knew what they were. I knew they meant no harm. FEMA always tells me they’ll bring them back if they find nothing wrong, but I know they won’t. They never have. I shout after my guests (my friends?) and my voice breaks slightly.

“I’m so sorry! I-I’ll be waiting for you!” I’m lying to them and I think they know that too. I turn my attention back to the man in the hazmat suit. “Don’t fucking come back here, do you understand? Everyone in this house is human, you morons. They’re harmless! I know — you don’t! Next time you knock on this door…” I gesture with the shotgun in his general direction. He doesn’t respond. The second the door is closed, I sink to the floor and for the first time god knows how long, I start to cry.

I don’t even notice him until he’s sat down beside me, cold arms around my shaking shoulders. He must’ve heard the commotion. I bury my head in the crook of his neck and neither of us dare to speak.

Chapter Text

It’s strange to think that I might be getting used to living like this. It’s almost become routine now. The news broadcasts, the gunshots, the strangers at my door and in my home. They’re beginning to feel less and less like strangers the more I talk to them. I’ve found myself becoming more and more curious as to who they actually are; what brought them here, what made them into the people they are now? Do they have something to go back to ~when~ if this ends, or are they all just as lonely as I am? Part of me hopes they are. My thoughts eventually turn, as they often seem to, to the man on the bed shivering beside me. The enigma, the walking contradiction. Loneliness itself come to life. My curiosity finally gets the better of me.

“Can I see it again?” I turn towards him. There’s something almost comforting in the knowledge that whatever it is doesn’t seem to be able to hurt me.

He stares at me, tilting his head to the side slightly, eyes wide. I imagine this is the first time he’s been asked that. “What if…”

“I didn’t get hurt last time, did I?” 

He’s looking behind me, towards the door. “C-can you lock it? I don’t want anyone to s-see…”

I’d almost forgotten what that black hole did to other people… I lock the door quickly and turn back towards him.

Slowly, he obliges, looking away from me and pulling up the hem of his sweater to reveal the vast emptiness in his chest. The room is silent. For a second I think I can feel the cold emanating from the void. Now that I’m looking more carefully, I notice his skin is warping a little at the edges as the black hole swirls. His ribs are sticking out a little, the blue tinge to his skin more prominent on his chest. It’s as if the universe itself is contained within him, pulsing with sparks of life and yet so empty, so cold… It looks infinite, like a vast, starless sky just before the sun rises — it’s almost… 
I let out a bitter laugh at that thought — not at the thought itself but the absurdity of the situation I find myself in. The world as I know it is on fire and this man who never takes off his coat sits in front of me baring his physical impossibility of a stomach to me and I find myself… attracted to him, to the swirling void in his chest. There’s a bizarre comfort in the fact that I can still think like this; it makes me feel alive again, if only briefly.

“W-What’s funny?” He whispers.

“Nothing, nothing…” I say a little too quickly. “It’s just… for a moment I thought it was actually… quite beautiful, in a way. This living, breathing nothingness…”

His expression sours, if you can call it that. “I didn’t t-take you as the kind to make c-cruel jokes…” He looks as if he may cry again.

“No, no, I’m not joking.” I really don’t want him to cry. “I just… found this whole situation slightly absurd, that’s all. The fact that I can still have thoughts like that at a time like this. I’m not laughing at you, I promise.”

“W-what is wrong with you?” 

The question catches me entirely by surprise. If anyone else had said it, I’d think it an insult, but he sounds as if he’s genuinely concerned.

“Sorry?”

“You’re l-letting me stay here knowing that I-I’m dangerous, that me b-being here makes them violent. No, you’re asking me t-to stay. You w-want it. You let me s-sleep in your bed and say things like “b-beautiful” and “harmless” about me. Y-you are the only person who’s ever sh-shown me kindness. It will g-get you killed.”

His expression is uncharacteristically stern and he’s looking me dead in the eyes. I open my mouth to speak but can’t quite articulate my thoughts. He seems to take that as a cue to repeat himself.

“There m-must be something wrong w-with you.” He sounds confident for the first time. Something is shining behind those long, narrow pupils; it makes me a little happy.

“The world is ending.” I reply, blunter than I’d initially hoped to sound. “Of course there’s something wrong with me. Isn’t there something wrong with all of us? I let people into my house and then proceed to invade their privacy, harass them, threaten them, and shoot them if I get even slightly paranoid. I’d hardly describe that as normal behaviour, and I sure as hell wouldn’t describe it as kind. You might kill by accident, but I have pointed my gun at people who begged me to let them live and still pulled the trigger, only to find that I’d gotten it wrong and that they were innocent after all. And you know what the worst part is? I can live with that…” I’m not sure why I’m saying any of this, what I’m trying to prove. I just can’t shake the feeling that he needs to hear it, “My kindness should not be strange to you, my cruelty should. I can only wish to be as kind as you seem to think I am.”

My next words leave my mouth before my brain has the time to catch up: “You’re a better man than I am.”

And suddenly neither of us can look at each other. Tension hangs thick in the air as I register the truth of what I’ve said. We make a fucked up pair, don’t we. If someone had told me, even a week ago, that the only person I’d take comfort in since my wife’s death would be a visitor like him, I probably would’ve shot them on the spot. Funny how things can change. For the first time, he reaches out to me, putting his freezing hands on my wrists. I take in a sharp breath, the contact taking me by surprise.

“I’m s-sorry.” I don’t even know what he’s apologising for.

“Don’t be.” A silence falls on the room. We lie down beside each other again and he keeps one of his hands on mine.

“I meant it, you know. I do find it- you beautiful, in a… dark sort of way…” I stare at the ceiling, unable to meet his eyes. I realise my words sound a little stupid, but I’m not sure how else to phrase it.

“And I find you k-kind. In a d-dark sort of way.” Did he… make a joke? Is that what that is? My mouth falls open slightly and I turn to look at him. There’s a sincerity in his eyes and he seems to be… smiling? I can never quite tell with him. Whatever it is, it’s endearing. It’s cute. I crack a slight smile myself.

Chapter Text

Neither of us can sleep. There’s no real reason for it, really, since everyone has been safe for the past few days now. I think we will board up the doors and windows soon and lock ourselves in here, alone together for however long it takes for… something to happen. Though we lie entangled with each other, there’s still something unspoken between us. I suppose I have to be the one to say it.

“Do you think I could… touch it? Have you ever…?”

His eyes meet mine. I can finally discern the expression on his face, because it’s one I’ve seen from him a few too many times now: fear. “It’s just c-cold. Cold and e-empty. I don’t know if you c-can even…”

“May I try?” He hesitates a little before nodding almost imperceptibly. Then he does something entirely unexpected: he takes the coat off. He lies back down on his side in just his sweater and I reach my left hand towards him. I still sort of expect it to hurt me (who wouldn’t?) so I try just the tip of one of my fingers. It’s freezing, like putting my hand into a bowl of ice water, except not wet. It doesn’t really feel like anything, actually. Just cold…
I pull my finger away to inspect it. It looks fine. A little cold, as expected, but fine. I put about half my hand in this time, moving my fingers around a little. There seems to be so much space within him; trying to make sense of it makes my head spin a little. Though I don’t think I’m actually touching him, this suddenly feels so much more affectionate, so much more personal than I’d expected. I try my best to push that thought to the back of my mind.
He gasps slightly and his eyes latch onto mine.

“Does it hurt?” 

“No… it feels… warm, I think.” I look at him — his shivering seems to have lessened. I realise he’s never felt real warmth, not once. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with it. “It’s nice… feels a lot less lonely…”

Emboldened by this, I stick my hand even further in, still waving it around slightly, trying to find anything to touch within the void. Again, I find nothing, but he gasps again and grabs my arm, leaning in towards me and burying his head in my chest. He must trust me a lot to allow me do this to him.

“My hand feels a little numb,” I let out a quiet laugh, wondering in the back of my mind just how I’d ended up like this within mere days of meeting this man, and why it all felt so right. 

“Stay a bit longer, please…” He suddenly sounds so desperate that I can’t help but oblige, sticking my arm slightly further into the abyss in his chest, beyond where his body seems to end. I choose not to think about the physics of it right now. “No one’s ever… loved me before.”

My breath catches a little at the word “love”. Is that what this is? Am I showing… love… to a visitor? I meet his eyes — they seem to hold the silent answer to my question: Yes, yes you are.
I can feel his breathing against my chest now. He’s squirming a little beside me, but he doesn’t look to be in pain. Quite the opposite, actually. I can’t hide from the intimacy of what I’m doing to him anymore. I’m elbow-deep inside another man(?), for fuck’s sake. I take a deep breath.

“Have you ever been… touched…?” Even as I the words leave my mouth I can’t quite believe what I’m asking, but it seems like the only sensible thing to say at that moment, though truth be told, I already know the answer.

He looks at me, studying my body and my arm which is now even further inside him (and feeling even more numb than before), before his gaze lands on my face again. “What do you think?” he asks with a hint of amusement in his voice. I can feel my lips quirk upwards at his response.

“Would you like it if I did?”

His expression looks serious again and he nods a little, pushing himself towards me. 

“My arm really is losing feeling…” I say breathlessly. “I’ll warm you up again, I promise. Can you just give me a couple minutes?” He looks disappointed but seems to understand. His soft shivers begin again as I remove my hand and let the blood flow back into it. I bring my other hand to his face, touching his hair lightly. It really is soft. I’m almost jealous.
I lean towards him, softly pressing my lips to his. He’s a little unresponsive at first, seemingly confused by the gesture of affection. I kiss his cold lips for the second time and this time he pushes back slightly, his grip on my arm tightening a little. I wrap my slowly warming left hand around his waist and I hear a soft whimper escape his lips. My god, he’s pretty. I feel so alive again; I never want this to end. I lace my fingers into his hair, eliciting another muffled sound from his lips.

“It f-feels… nice…” he mumbles against my mouth. His shaking occasionally makes his pretty white teeth clink against mine. It feels almost wholesome. If the world finally ended right now, I’d die a happy man. I like to think he would too.
I move my other hand further upwards, touching his chest gently. He fully moans this time, his head tilted back slightly. I take this as an opportunity to put my lips on his neck, softly nipping at his (now slightly less) blue skin. When I pull away, his neck and jaw are dotted with darkening love bites. His long, narrow pupils are blown wide now and there’s what I’d almost call a happy look on his face. Almost.

“Th-thank you.” he whispers, and I can feel his cold breath against my face. He’s so wonderfully sensitive and I’m certain now that at least some of his shivers aren’t just from the cold. I look down at his trousers, suddenly wondering for the first time what he actually has down there. I mean, the man’s got a black hole for a stomach; I can hardly assume I know what’s going to be in his pants. But I do see what looks like an erection straining against them, which I suppose is a good start. 

“Sit up for me.” He moves quicker than I’ve ever seen him move before, backing up against the wall with a pillow behind his back. I straddle his hips, aware for the first time of my own hardness, but so caught up in wanting to make him feel good that I decide to ignore it entirely. I grind my hips against his slightly more roughly than I intend to, but he seems to like it because a breathy whine escapes his lips.

“Fuck-”

“You’re beautiful.” I’m not holding back anymore. He is beautiful. His sweater is pulled up, exposing his swirling expanse of a stomach a little, and his usually expressionless face is noticeably twisted in pleasure and has more colour on it than I’ve ever seen before. The blue tinge to his skin is much less prominent now.

“Y-you-” His breathing is heavy. “You mean it?”

Oh god… I’m almost dizzy with need. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this. “Yes… of course I do.” I grind against him again, bringing one of my hands back to his upper chest, wondering if I’ll be able to feel his heartbeat. I can. Fast, hard, exactly in the place I’d expect it to be. He seems almost physically identical to a human man, aside from, well, the hole. This is it, I think to myself. I’m going to fuck — no, that’s too crass — make love to a visitor. There’s not a single hint of fear left in my mind, only want. Hot, desperate, pulsing want. I just want to make him happy, make him feel warm and loved. My other hand finds his waistband and I realise his boxers are thick and woollen. Seems appropriate.

His hands grab mine and I search his face for permission to go on. 

“I-I’d like to keep them on…” He looks embarrassed, unable to meet my gaze. I assume he’s either simply too cold, or just not ready for me to see him like that. That’s alright. 

“Whatever you like,” I give him a soft smile, pushing my hips against his one last time before I move to sit beside him. His head falls against my shoulder.

My fingers venture below his waistband and he gasps, turning towards me to hide his face a little. It’s adorable. His skin feels incredibly smooth, though I can feel a little bit of hair under my fingers. It almost makes me forget he isn’t human, not that I particularly care anymore. I feel his hardness in my hand and I wrap my hand around it and slowly begin to stroke him. Touching his cold body like this doesn’t feel nearly as strange as I’d thought it might (and I have to admit I had thought about it). He lets out a small squeak, then what sounds more like a sob than a moan. It’s only after I give him a few more strokes that I realise it might actually be a sob. I angle myself towards him and whisper in his ear:

“Let me see you, please...” I feel almost as desperate as he looks. His eyes meet mine and I can actually see his tears now. They’re sparkling in the light, wetting his cheeks in a way that makes him look so goddamn beautiful I almost think I might come just by looking at him. “You’re okay, yeah? I’ve got you.”

He lets out another sob as I speed up slightly. Why did the word “love” bother me earlier? I struggle to remember. My eyes are drawn to his stomach again, and I have an idea. I shift a little to get the angle right before I bring my other hand towards his waist.

“You want to be warm again?”

He moans and his eyes flutter shut, and I take that as a yes. My hand slowly reaches into the abyss in his chest again, swirling around in the void, hoping with all my being that it will give him some semblance of warmth, of comfort.

“O-Oh my god-” His eyes are wide open again, locked onto mine with desire, with need. I move my hand around a little more, smiling to myself as he seems to come more and more undone in my arms. “You’re so warm… It’s so good…”

“You’re beautiful,” I repeat. It seems to make him happy. I catch myself wanting to say more, but he’s already crying quite a lot and I’m a little scared of what it might do to him. 

“Please…” he chokes out. He’s squirming against me, his hands grasping desperately at the blankets. “Please.” I’m not sure even he knows what he’s begging for. His voice breaks a little as I reach deeper into the void. 

“How does it feel?” It’s a stupid question, really; the answer is so obvious. But I want to hear him say it — I want to know what this is doing to him. I want to know that he’s feeling the same way I am. I need it, need him.

“I’m finally warm… I’ve never felt this way before… I need it. I need you. Please. Please.” I can’t help but groan a little at his words. He has what is distinctly a smile on his face now (or as much of a smile as he can physically muster) and seeing it makes me feel a little giddy. We’re leaning into each other hard now, trying to get as close as we can, to feel as much as we can, to make years worth of loneliness finally go away. I can’t tease him any longer.

I reach as deep as I can into his stomach, like I’m searching for something in there. The cold running up my arm feels so supremely unimportant now. My other hand speeds up again and he gasps. The gasp quickly turns into a high-pitched whine and a shiver seems to run through his entire body. I can’t tell if he’s shaking from the unfamiliarity of the pleasure or because he’s crying. Perhaps it’s both. I whisper to him, slightly surprised by how much emotion I hear in my own voice:

“You’re alright, I’m here… Now, come for me.” He sobs one last time as he convulses in my hands, head thrown back in bliss, hair falling over his face in a way that I think looks just a little bit like a halo. It’s as I have that thought that I feel it happen — his orgasm seems to last forever, tearing through his body as he whimpers and twitches, before finally collapsing into my arms and resting his head in my lap. I pull my hands out of his trousers and the emptiness in his chest, stroking his hair as his tears slowly die down. I’m still terribly aroused, almost painfully so, but that doesn’t matter right now. Nothing else in the world matters but him.

“Are you okay?” I’m a little afraid it’s all been a bit much for him, considering that this was his first time being touched in any way at all. He wraps his arms around my stomach, seemingly searching for the warmth he’s just lost.

“Yes… thank you so much.” I can feel the last of his tears wetting my trousers a little. It’s cute. I take a slight risk and decide to say it — that he needs to hear it, if only once, before the world ends completely.

“I love you.” I lie down beside him again and my hand dips back into the void, gentle and slow.

He curls up against me, wet eyes meeting mine. His head falls against my chest and our legs interlock. He can’t say it; I understand that. I pull him in as close as I can, electing to ignore the growing numbness in my hand for the sake of his warmth. He falls asleep before me for the first time, his breathing shallow and soft against my chest. I have the sudden realisation that he’s still in the same trousers and boxers, which must surely be stained now. That’s a problem for tomorrow, I suppose. Perhaps tomorrow will never come. Perhaps this moment of happiness will last forever. I don’t know. For those next few minutes, as I’m slowly losing consciousness with this beautiful visitor pressed up against me, the world is no longer burning. I am alive; he is warm. Everything is okay.