Host leans against Dark as he runs his hands over the pages of his book, reading a rather good story. Dark makes a sound in the back of his throat, shifting a bit to readjust and get comfortable.
“Have you ever heard of personal space?” Dark grouches, but Host knows he’s not genuinely upset so he grins cheekily back at Dark. “The Host has no idea what that is.”
Dark rolls his eyes with an amused snort and Host returns to his book. Two brothers and two stories, one happy afternoon.
Wilford has just finished packing up after a rather successful interview when he hears shuffling behind him. He blinks, turning and jumping in surprise to find Host standing in the studio looking rather lost. “Hosty-boy! What are you doing here at this hour?” Wilford barks out cheerily, hopping off the recording stage to make his way over to Host. He slows when he notices Host’s body trembling, his hands fumbling with a button on his coat. “Host is- The Host needs- he is-” The Host stammers, and the more he does the deeper Wilford frowns. “I need help,” Host says with a sudden sob, “I’m not okay.”
Wilford lunges forward to pull him into a hug as the Host’s legs give out beneath him, a sob wrenching its way out of the smaller man. Wilford holds him close, holds him tight. “What happened, Host?” “The Host has not slept, he has not eaten- his visions and narrations are tormenting him.” Host admits, voice trembling with his tears. Wilford frowns, gently rocking from side to side as he holds Host as close as he can. “They’re getting bad again?” Wilford asks, and it seems like a dumb question but Host nods his head anyway.
“Horrible.” “Well, good ole Wilford Warfstache has just the thing for that.” Wilford grins, wrapping his arm around Host’s shoulders and suddenly they’re in Wilford’s bedroom. Host reels when he realizes he’s no longer under Wilford’s arm, but instead a giant teddy bear’s. He tries to summon up the strength to use his narrations to find Wilford, but stops the moment he hears a soft crash and the man cursing.
“BLANKETS,” Wilford shouts, crashing down onto the bed beside Host. Host lets out a startled grunt, clutching the giant bear beside him closer. Wilford huffs out a doofy laugh, and Host can’t help but shakily smile in response. Wilford is adorable, how could he not smile? “We are making a fort…?” Host asks hesitantly, and Wilford hums approvingly. “Of course we are! If you’re active your mind won’t have the time to turn on you! I’ve even invited your favorite people aside from myself!” “Dark, Doctor, and Google?” Host questions softly, and Wilford nods so excitedly Host can hear it.
“Indeed!”
Host smiles, wiping the blood off of his cheeks. He’s not okay now, but with his friends’ help he knows he will be.
“How do humans do it?” Blue grumbled, thunking the book down onto table with a huff. “How can they say ‘let’s have a baby,’ and then just go and procreate?”
“The Host doesn’t believe it works that way,” the Host tilted his head, tapped his fingers against the table as he thought about it. “Statistically speaking-”
“I know the statistics.”
A smirk, and the Host was leaning forward on his elbows. “Then why is Blue asking?”
“Because it is ridiculous,” Blue scoffed. “The chances of successful procreation the instant the human couple in question decide that they would like an infant are hilariously low. This sorry excuse for literature does not illustrate how many attempts it would take for the human female to become impregnated.”
The Host chuckled, then reached across the table to take the book, smoothing down the pages. “The amount of intercourse required is not a major plot point. The child is what’s important here.”
“The plot is absurd and this book is badly written.”
The Host slid the book back across the table. “The Host requests that Blue continue reading.”
Blue sighed, the sound closer to that of a soft hum than an actual sigh. He took the book. “Of course, love.”
Host was tired. The day had worn out it’s welcome, and it wasn’t even six o’ clock. Memories, unwelcome ones, were grabbing at him. The wrongs he had done, the nights spent playing god, the mornings where he left Edward all alone in the bed they now shared every single night. Even then, he missed his sight. The respect. He missed being the bat wielding god of stories some days, back before he knew he was simply a host to his guest, to the magic in his soul.
And he was stronger than ever. Losing wasn’t a defeat- it was eye opening. It strengthened him. The loss of his eyes and his bat weren’t welcome losses, but god knows what he would’ve been if he had kept them. The losses were heavy things to carry, though. Each open ended future, each what if, made his hands and voice shake as he narrated the open book in his lap to himself, remembering a time when he could simply look at the book and read in peaceful silence.
He’d told Edward about the days where he felt like he had lost it all, the last time that everything was too much, too heavy.
Edward kissed his hand and said, simply,
‘You haven’t lost me.’
Which made him think about the times he had left him in bed, or kissed without a second glance, all the awful things he had done to him. The Author had thought he was so fucking glorious, so magnificent. A past he was happy to bury, despite the high cost.
His eyes. His respect. His writing. God knows what else he’d lost. All that for more magic. More power that he kept chained up only because he knew what it did to him. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, and Host knew what that type of magic could do to him.
There was a knock at the library door, and it was with a quivering voice that he said to come in. It was Edward, he knew it because of the narration, and a part of him wished he could still be surprised by things. When the world was an open book, it was hard not to read it.
“Pumpkin? I have the rest of the day off. I’m going to bed, do you want to join me?”
The Author would’ve shooed him away, gone back to reading without a care in the world, seated like a king even in the armchair of the library.
The Host, however, nodded, and stood.
He stumbled his way over to Edward and practically fell into the man’s arms, knowing that Edward knew exactly what he was thinking, because he payed attention. The world was an open book to Host, and Host was an open book for Edward. The one thing he hadn’t lost, his prince, his Edward.
Soon enough, they were in the safety of their room together with the soft bed and warm blankets. Host took off his coat, laying it on the pile of blankets as he always did, and let Edward unbutton the buttons of his shirt before sliding it off, then his pants, and soon enough the Host was pulling back the blankets, Edward following fast behind.
Host tucked himself close to Edward, burying his face into his chest, but he couldn’t shake the guilt from the Author.
“Prince? The Host wants to ask you something. Why did you never leave?”
Edward ran a hand through his hair, and Host couldn’t help but sigh at the touch.
“Because, I care about you. Always have, and I always will.”
Host smiled, and felt the guilt shrivel away. He clung to Edward, and soon enough he was asleep. Safe, warm, and dreaming peacefully next to the one thing that he could still call his.
He’s already forgotten how it all happened when he really begins slipping. He’s forgotten how he ended up here, bloodied and in pain and so, so alone. He tried to get help, he recalls that much, but everything else is beyond him. Host wonders if this is his fate, to die alone. After spending his entire life as the Host surrounded by a family, after so much time dedicated to keeping them happy, his fate was to die without any of them. Hell, even Wilford would be a comfort now.
He whimpers against the pain, feebly warbles out another cry for help that goes unheard. Silence replies, gentle but constricting. He tries not to cry, but he ends up crying anyway. His tears run hot down his face as his strength wanes, leaving him with every shed tear. The Host, in his very last moments, hears them. Off in the distance, their screams. He even hears the doctor, the ever so quiet doctor, yelling for him.
As he goes, he regrets never telling the doctor how he felt. As the doctor falls to his knees by the limp body of the Host, he regrets the very same thing.
emptynarration 