The Host loved thunderstorms. He would sit for hours- unmoving, unspeaking, like a statue- just listening to the hard drumming of the rain against the roof, the deep rumbling of thunder in the air, all the while tuning everyone and everything else out.
The Host loved walking in them, loved the cool rain on his feverishly hot skin, soaking through his clothing. Loved the sharp crackle of energy that meant lightning. He could never quite remember what it looked like- the Author never bothered with trivial things such as watching lightning- but he took comfort in imagining it all the same.
Tonight was different.
The rain wasn’t welcoming; it was shockingly cold as it struck his skin. And he winced as the rolling of thunder threatened to burst his eardrums. Sticky globs of mud and frigid water splattered his pants and shoes with every step he took.
He could feel the eyes that tracked his every move, burning into his back, belonging to monsters from a realm that wasn’t his to rule any longer. That hadn’t been for years.
But he didn’t turn back. Not when a wet branch smacked him in the face. Not when lightning struck a tree not ten feet from him. Not when the person following him- that had been following him since he left the facility- finally spoke.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Dr. Iplier’s voice was muffled by the thunder, twisted by the tears that ran in rivers down his face.
The Host stopped, but didn’t turn. “Go home, doctor.”
“Whatever’s waiting for you, will you survive it?” Footsteps, coming closer. A tentative hand on his shoulder. “Will you come back?”
The Host hesitated. All the futures in which he returned to the Author’s cabin were riddled with uncertainty. He couldn’t see to the end. Couldn’t even see past the moment he was in.
Finally, he sighed. It was sucked into the wind. “The Host doesn’t know.”
“Don’t go.” Dr. Iplier stepped around to stand in front of him. He took his hand, squeezed it tight, held it up to cup his face. “Why are you even doing this?”
The Host could see him in his mind’s eye, through the soft descriptions that left him of their own volition: the doctor’s hair, soaked and plastered to his forehead, his mouth, those pretty lips pulled into a grimace, his eyes, squeezed shut as he clutched the Host’s hand like it was a lifeline.
But then he saw the Author. He saw the twisted grin on his face as he wrote to life creatures of unimaginable horror, as he warped the other egos into the shapes he wanted, bending them until they snapped.
Thunder boomed again and the rain picked up, battering them.
The Host didn’t bother to answer Dr. Iplier’s question, merely leaned down to kiss him, gently pulling his hand from the doctor’s grip. “Go home, doctor.”
Dr. Iplier sighed. “I love you,” he murmured, “but I shouldn’t have married you.”
His presence was gone, then, his footsteps fading away. The Host shuddered at the cold space that was left in front of him.
Host was in a big and scary place. He didn’t like big and scary places. So of course he wandered off immediately, walking through the halls of this big scary place to find the exit.
He heard people sometimes. He hid when he heard them, because strangers meant danger, and he didn’t like danger. Danger wasn’t nice. Usually, danger hurt. As did a lot of things, actually, so he was hoping he could get out and find a safe place.
A gunshot startled him, making him squeak and run. No no, this was a terrible place, it was big and dark and scary, and he wanted to go home. Even if home wasn’t much better either.
While running, he was spotted by someone who called out to him. But he didn’t care, here were bad people, so he continued to run. And he managed to get outside, where he continued to run until he couldn’t see the building anymore he had been trapped in.
Now he was in the forest, and he looked around as he walked. He liked forests. He liked trees. It was cool here, which made it good he had this weird long coat on. It was far too big, and he had almost thrown it away while running because he nearly tripped a couple of times. But since he hadn’t, he was glad he had the coat still. It did drag through the dirt though.
“Squiwwewl!”, he spotted a squirrel, following the fuzzy little creature. It was so cute! He loved squirrels! It didn’t take long and he walked into something -or something into him?- making him fall back and plop onto his butt.
“Oh!”, an adult was looking down at him. Was it an adult? The man looked young, and had peanut butter all over his face! He wore a crown too, and a pretty cape! “Greetings, young one!”, the king greeted with a smile. Host just looked up at him in awe. “It appears you have found your way to my kingdom! And I welcome you! I am the king of the squirrels. Who are you?”.
“Uh- ‘m Hosht.”, Host replied, content sitting on the ground and looking up at King. He seemed surprised to hear that though, but after a moment smiled. “It is nice to meet and see you Host! Let me help you out, hm?”, King helped Host back onto his feet, and rolled up his sleeves. He tried to get the coat a bit shorter too, advising Host to be careful.
Host listened with a smile, nodding along. King was really nice! And he was the king of the squirrels! He loved squirrels! And they were climbing all over King, which made him giggle, which in return made King smile! He was very happy here.
“I’m dead. I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead.”, he mumbled quietly to himself, chewing on the pad of his thumb. His head was in a bad place, and he thought about the Author, and how he should be dead, but wasn’t. Which confused him, and he couldn’t make sense of anything anymore. Which he hated.
Wilford was the one who found the Host sitting alone there. He draped his arms over the other man’s shoulders, startling Host out of his thoughts. “If you were dead, why do you feel things?”, he said, which stunned Host a little. He felt things, he thoughts things. He must be alive.
“Let’s go bake some cookies.”, Wilford said with a smile, nuzzling into Host’s hair, before stepping back and pulling the other to his feet. The Host smiled lightly and nodded, walking with Wilford to the kitchen, where the mad man had already set out the necessary ingredients and cookie cutters.
While Host wanted to try and weigh everything they needed, Wilford decided that was no fun. So he grabbed the bag of flour out of Host’s hands and made a puff of flour come forth from it doing so, which dusted Host’s face white and make him cough.
“The Host didn’t think about making a mess before. But it seems like Wilford has different plans.”, Host said, and of course he was right. Because Wilford was grinning widely and scooped out flour from the bag to throw it at Host with a laugh.
Host squeaked when he was hit, before giggling lightly and grabbing another bag of flour. War was about to happen, and it wouldn’t be pretty.
It was pretty funny though, as Host and Wilford threw flour at each other, sometimes trying to dodge the attacks. Most usually though they rubbed flour into each other, Wilford rubbing flour into Host’s hair, Host rubbing flour all over Wilford’s cheeks.
They were covered in flour, as was the kitchen, but both of them were laughing and dropping their empty bags of flour.
It was so loud. Screaming at him, demanding his attention, and it was so loud, and it hurt, and he couldn’t concentrate on anything but the noise in his head.
Host was clutching his hair, curled up on his bed. It was so loud, it hurt. Futures unraveling in his mind’s eye, too many options that could happen, would happen, may happen. Simple options like a yes or no, and a whole new reality came forth from it.
Seeing the possibilities of egos dying, killing each other, protecting each other, threatening each other, so many things that could happen. And it was loud, it wanted out of his head, and he was talking, but he wasn’t fast enough to get everything in his head out.
He violently flinched back when Dark touched him, raised his head by his chin. So many possibilities of what could happen -Dark could kiss him, could hit him, could talk, could stay silent, could- “Silence.”.
Host shut up, knowing, though unable to grasp the thought about it, that he was talking. Dark pulled off Host’s bandage, soaked with blood. He was saying what he was doing, and what he was going to do. And it calmed Host’s head, because if he knew what would happen, and not what could happen, he didn’t need to narrate it all.
So Dark cleaned Host’s face, and his hands, and re-wrapped his eyes. Talking all the while what he was going to do, before doing it.
In the end Dark was sitting with Host, holding the blind man close to his chest. Carding his fingers through Host’s hair, not commenting on it’s ungelled state, showing its curly nature. Telling him what there would be for dinner later, and what they’d do after. And Host’s head quieted down, until it was a pleasant background noise.
Dark noticed when Host had fallen asleep, sighing softly. The man slept too little anyways, and he was glad to have been able to help at least.
Everything hurts. His head, his arms, his legs, everything. He hurts and he just wants it all to stop. His breaths are sharp as he clambers his way into the library, grip on his cane so tight his knuckles have gone white. It doesn’t help.
He falls into his chair, shaky hands rubbing his chest in a feeble attempt to alleviate the burning and the aching. He sucks in a breath and when he lets it out it’s in a sob. The Host cries, a mix of true tears and blood as he scrambles to try and keep his composure.
The door to the library creaks open and the Host puts a hard stop on his emotional breakdown, trying to calm his breathing. When a familiar pair of hands gently cups his face, though, he breaks again.
Wilford takes him out of the library and to his bedroom instead, cradling him to his chest and letting him cry out his pains. When they reach the bedroom, Wilford gently settles Host onto the bed. He disappears and reappears with a warm washcloth, gently peeling away Host’s bandages to clean his face. Host whimpers and quivers, but revels in the careful attention.
Finally, Wilford rebandages his face and climbs into the bed with him. Host clings, presses close and breathes in the sickly sweet scent of sugar and gunpowder that is Wilford. Wilford has said very little, surprisingly, but the Host is honestly grateful because for once he wouldn’t know how to reply.
Instead he enjoys having Wilford’s arms around him, snuggles closer as the pain slowly settles to something manageable enough for sleep. Wilford hums him a tune, and the Host is at peace.
“Hosty? Are you here, darling?” Wilford’s voice takes him out of his thoughts, and the Host hums to confirm his presence. Wilford grins, bouncing in and towards his boyfriend. “Hellooo my dear!”
“Hello, Wilford.” Host murmurs, tilting his head back in time to catch a kiss from Wilford. He smiles at the cotton candy flavor that always comes with kisses from his lover, reaching his hand out for Wilford to take and hold. “What brings you to my humble little library?” Host asks, smiling pleasantly back at Wilford.
Wilford hums a tune before gently tugging on Host’s hand until he stands up, then pulls Host into a slow dance. “I missed you,” he explains, “so here I am!” “Here you are indeed.” Host chuckles, resting his head against Wilford as they dance slowly in a circle.
“I love you.” Wilford whispers, feeling Host’s smile against his skin. “And I love you.” Host whispers in return.
Wilford laughs in his happiness while their dance continues. Happiness comes when they’re together, and they intend to keep this happy little moment for as long as they can.
emptynarration 