“Dark?” Host murmurs into the darkness, hands folded on his stomach. His head pounds, his narrations flowing through his head so loud he can hardly hear himself think. “Yes, Host?” Dark’s voice comes from somewhere nearby, soft and lulling. “I’m tired.” Host whispers, voice sounding feeble and pathetic even to his own ears.
There’s the sound of a sigh followed by the soft creaking that always accompanies Dark when he makes a proper entrance. Host listens as the man approaches his bedside, relaxing when a cool hand gently smooths the hair back from his forehead. “Then sleep, Cecil.” “They’re too loud.” Host says, and Dark hums. The bed dips as Dark sits down, another cold hand finds Host’s arm.
“I will quiet them for you, then. Are you ready?” “I am.” Host whispers, tensing as Dark’s aura gently eases into his mind. He relaxes as the harsh chill warms to something more akin to a gentle breeze in his head. His narrations quiet, powers being pushed back until Host’s mind is nothing but his own thoughts. Quiet.
“Thank you.” “Of course, Cecil.” “Will you stay?” Host asks, reaching out to grab Dark’s hand. Silence follows his question, but eventually Dark stands.
“For a little while.” Dark promises, and Host nods his head sleepily. Dark doesn’t leave until Host is fast asleep.
Five years ago today, the Author was born. These days, the Host has learned not to expect a proper celebration, but that tingle of hope in his chest simply refuses to be suppressed…
It’s late and Dark is exhausted as he makes his way down to Dr. Iplier’s clinic. Papers in hand, he runs a hand through his hair and knocks on the doctor’s office door. There’s a pause before the silence is filled by a grunted, “one second,” and some shuffling. Dark waits as patiently as he can for the doctor to finally open the door, eyes blankly set on said door. “Doctor,” Dark says as the door opens, shoving the stack of papers at the other man. “The bills for the clinic.”
Doc accepts the papers with a frown and a raised brow, looking from them to Dark for a moment before speaking. “Where’s Cecil? Shouldn’t you be with him?” Dark frowns, shaking his head slowly. “No, no. I left him with Google.” “You left the Host with someone very easily distracted? Not to mention he’s sick and dead-set on following you everywhere.” The doctor sounds disapproving, and Dark forces himself not to roll his eyes. “Doctor I am certain they’re both fine. Now, I’ll be going. Goodnight.” Dark leaves without waiting for the doctor’s reply, hands running over his suit to try and calm his mind.
When he returns to the room he left Google and Host in, he finds Google rebooting and Host nowhere to be seen. Damn Edward for being right, Dark thinks bitterly as he turns on his heel and leaves the room. He makes a call to the other Googles to start looking for the Host on the security cameras, ignoring them when they ask why it is they have to find Host at all. I shouldn’t have left him. I’m his brother, I should be watching him at all times when he’s ill. Dark’s thoughts don’t treat him well, but he doesn’t have time to wallow in self pity. His brother needs him.
He finally finds the Host outside, dazed and rapidly narrating on the ground. Dark curses to himself, moving over and kneeling down in front of the other ego. “Host?” “Please don’t do this-” Host whispers, and Dark frowns in confusion. “Don’t do what? Host, you aren’t in the right mind. We need to go back in and get you back to bed-” “I won’t let you.” Host says next, and Dark watches in dismay as Host throws a poorly aimed and very feeble punch at him. There’s silence, Host stills and quiets, and then he speaks again.
“Dark?” “Yes, Cecil. It’s me.” “I hurt.” “Well that’s what you get for going outside while ill, Cecil.” Dark sighs, climbing to his feet and gently pulling Host up with him. Host grunts, wobbles in his arms, and finally slumps a bit lifelessly against him.
When Host is finally tucked safely away in bed, Dark relaxes. His brother is quite the handful when he wants to be.
The clock read 12:01AM when Dark slipped into the bedroom.
All the lights were off, but as his eyes adjusted the entity could just make out the shape lying on top of the covers. A smudge of tan and crimson against the black.
He knew instantly who it was.
“Host,” he said quietly, hovering near the door. “Our good doctor told me you would be here.”
He only got a soft groan in response, but it was all he needed.
He approached the bed, careful to keep his footsteps silent, careful to be gentle when he leaned down to lay a hand across the Host’s forehead.
His skin was feverishly hot, as it often was after the visions that reduced him to a quivering wreck, unable to do more than lie in the dark, drifting in and out of a haze of heavy sedatives.
“Can I help you undress, at least?” He regarded the Host’s tattered, blood-stained trench coat with disgust. Why the Host chose to live- and the word here was live, since he almost never took it off- in that coat was beyond him.
Still, he waited for another, softer groan to slip from the Host’s lips before reaching for it and unbuttoning it.
The Host’s body trembled beneath Dark’s touch as he helped him sit up, and his head bobbed forward as the trench coat was eased off him.
“How bad was it this time?” Dark didn’t mean to ask, but the question escaped before he could stop it.
“They’re getting worse,” he continued a moment later, voice hushed, tone neutral. He folded the trenchcoat and set it onto the dresser.
He hesitated before turning around.
The Host’s head continued to nod, like he was fighting to stay awake. Other than that, he was still as a statue, as silent as one, too. His bandages were clean. Dr. Iplier must have changed them.
Dark sighed, a sound that rattled through his chest. Then he went over, and the bed dipped and creaked as he eased himself onto it.
“You need to rest now,” he said, raising a hand to trail pale fingertips down the Host’s face. “You are useful to me. I can’t have my most valuable asset reduced to incompetence.”
The Host leaned into his touch, gave a faint nod. Whispered, “stay.”
Dark nodded. “I will stay.”
Together they lay down on top of the covers, Dark drawing the Host close, wrapping his arms around him, allowing him to rest his head on his chest.
The Host seemed to take comfort from Dark’s frigid hold; he gave a great, shuddering sigh and Dark felt him relax. Not long after, the Host’s grip on the fabric of his suit slackened and he fell asleep, fell back into the thick fog brought by the painkillers Dr. Iplier had given him.
“Rest.” Dark murmured to no one in particular, his words drifting through the still, dim air of the bedroom.
Warnings ahead for implied nsfw, blood, implied stabbing
Prompt 149: “Since when have we ever been friends?”
“Dammit, Author!” Dark slammed the newspaper down onto the table, his gray face set with rage. “Look at the mess you’ve made. I’m not here to clean up your blunders, Author. And I’m not here to put you back together.”
The Author scowled down at the paper and bit back a scathing retort about how, technically, he’d put himself back together. He’d stitched up the gash in his arm himself, taken care of the stab wound in his chest himself.
His dark eyes glittered in the candlelight as he skimmed the headline: Mysterious Man Prime Suspect in Stabbing.
Just below that was a black and white photo of a hunched, fleeing figure. And while the photo was blurry and not of good quality the figure was undeniably him.
Figures. He knew he’d heard the shutter-click of a camera as he’d retreated into the woods, but he’d convinced himself he couldn’t do anything about it. Couldn’t do anything but stumble blindly over sticks and rocks and into branches, all the while pressing both hands over the wound in his chest in a desperate- and futile- attempt to staunch the flow.
“Well?” Dark prompted, crossing his arms and fixing him with a cold glare. “Care to explain yourself?”
Hot fury rushed through him and the chair grated across the uneven wooden boards as he stood, ignoring the pull of the stitches and the hot spike of pain that jammed itself into his chest like he was being stabbed all over again.
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he spat, and with a dramatic flourish he swept the newspaper off the table, sending the pages fluttering to the floor. “My characters are my characters, and I do with them as I please. Why the *fuck* do you even care? You never gave a shit about me. Why start now? Since when did we become friends?”
When he finished his rant, he expected Dark to lash out. To be angry. To rage. But instead, there was silence. Dark just stared at him.
Then he laughed.
And the Author could only blink in disbelief as Dark tipped his head back and laughed, like the Author’s spiel was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
Then his hands shot out and he seized the Author by his shirt.
The Author just barely suppressed a half-surprised, half-pained yelp as he found himself mere centimeters away from Dark.
“We’ve never been friends.” The words came out barely more than a hiss, but then Dark’s eyes drifted down, to the Author’s lips, and the Author swore he saw a flicker of something there. Longing? Lust? He wasn’t sure.
“But,” Dark added, continuing to stare at his lips, “that little rant of yours was hot. You’re very … endearing … when you get worked up like that.”
The Author’s breath hitched as Dark leaned closer, brushing their lips together. His mouth was cold, just like the rest of him.
Despite himself, the Author found he didn’t mind.
So when Dark leaned in again, crushing their lips together and kissing him like he was starving, releasing his shirt in favor of reaching up to wreath pale fingers through his hair, in favor of clutching him closer, the Author closed his eyes and reciprocated in kind.
emptynarration 