The Host appeared in his office with seemingly no warning, his arms crossed his chest as he frowned down at the man sitting at the desk.
Dr. Iplier jumped, dropping his pen. It rolled under his desk, reappearing on the other side. “Jesus, Host! Don’t creep up on me like that.”
The Host stooped to retrieve the pen, rolled it between his fingers as he stood back up straight. He didn’t give it back. “It’s time for the doctor to cease in his work.”
“Host …” Dr. Iplier rubbed at his forehead. “I have too much to do.”
The Host’s frown deepened. He tapped his foot, muttered a few things under his breath.
“I hope that’s you talking about giving my pen back,” Dr. Iplier said, arching an eyebrow.
The Host continued to fiddle with it. “The Host is not giving the pen back.”
“Host. I have work to do.”
“Work that can wait until Edward gets some rest.”
A sigh. “And you’re so sure about that, are you?”
“Edward’s attitude indicates that he knows the Host is right.”
Dr. Iplier couldn’t help but give a half-irritated, half-amused chuckle. “Of course you’re right. But I’d rather have it done now.”
The Host slipped the pen into his pocket. Then he reached across the desk, took one of the doctor’s hands, pulled him up from his chair. “The doctor’s work can wait. He needs to rest now.”
Another sigh. Then a resigned smile as he finally accepted that the Host wouldn’t be giving up anytime soon. “Okay.”
The Host smiled and raised Dr. Iplier’s hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss there. “The Host knew he would come around.”
Sometimes Wilford looked at the Host and he remembered the Author.
Remembered bodies buried late at night and the drinks they’d gotten after. Remembered arrogant grins and passionate kisses shared during the heat of a high-speed police chase, red-blue sirens flashing at their backs.
Sometimes Wilford looked at the Host and wondered if he kissed the same.
So he followed the Host to his library, flashed him his brightest show host smile, pulled him close, and kissed him.
His lips were soft, tasting of copper. Just like the Author’s. And for one second, one blissful, eternal second, Wilford forgot that the Author was gone.
That second passed far too quickly and as Wilford pulled away he was left with a ragged feeling in his chest. A sad feeling.
“Wilford?” The Host’s pretty lips pulled into a frown. He reached out to touch him, but his fingers only found empty air.
Wilford had already left.
Markus was fifteen. His parents, the king and queen, had to go out and travel somewhere, and of course planned to take their youngest child with them. His older brother Arthur -who was nineteen- was out of the kingdom, having wanted to go to the next one. See how it was, how it worked. Explore, and write stories. Markus had really wanted to go with them, but he had gotten sick that morning. Laying in bed with a fever, he slept most of the time, and felt terrible the rest of the time. His parents still had to leave though, so he was left alone.
He woke up to loud arguing. The voices faded, sounding blurry as Markus had just woken up, and felt sick to his stomach. After a while longer, someone entered his bedroom, looking sorry and sad and mournful.
He didn’t understand until he was told. His parents were dead. Murdered. The carriage they had been inside of having been set aflame; driven out by the the flames, they had been brutally killed.
Markus was shocked, and speechless. He was left alone, and then he cried. He sobbed, and screamed until his voice was sore. His parents were dead. He had been supposed to be on that carriage. He should be dead too. He cried and sobbed, mourning the loss of his parents all on his own. Not even his brother was here.
Arthur arrived two days later. He ignored Markus completely, and the sick boy overheard him yelling a lot. He didn’t want to be king. He didn’t want to be trapped in this kingdom. He didn’t want to rule over this kingdom. He left three days later, and had not once spoken to his younger brother.
Markus knew he was being talked about while he laid sick in bed. He needed to become king. The kingdom needed a ruler, and he was the last royal family left, now that Arthur had simply left with saying to never wanting to return here. He was too young though, he wasn’t even considered an adult yet. He hadn’t learned most anything of the things a king needed to know.
A week later, he was healthy again. A month later, and he was being crowned. Announced the new king.
His life was a lot more busy, and a lot more stressful. Not knowing much of anything, he couldn’t rule on his own. He felt like everything he did were mistakes, that he was stupid and needed to know things even Arthur hadn’t at his age. He wasn’t allowed to be a child anymore, and had to very quickly grow up. He had to study every day, he had to sit and talk with -or rather listen to- adviser, had to travel the kingdom to meet the people and assure them he was ready, he would be as good as his parents.
No one ever bothered to let him properly mourn. He hid away from everyone when he couldn’t bear it any longer, when someone talked about his parents, compared him to them, anything. He broke down crying a lot, and depressive thoughts nestled into his head.
No one was ever bothered by how quickly he had to grow up. That this was far far too stressful for him, that there was too much for a young child like him to handle. He had barely any time at all for himself, and that time he usually spend having depressive episodes or having panic attacks.
Years passed, and Arthur never showed up, or let Markus know he was alive. Markus’ condition never got better, situation never having changed.
(This is some early Host and Dark right here, cutie pies…)
“Take them off.”
The Host’s hands are shaking. “Dark, please…”
“When has begging ever gotten you anything? Take them off or we’ll start all over again.”
He doesn’t want that. They’ve been at this for what feels like hours, and the deeper into future possibilities that Dark wants the Host to go, the more Host feels like his brain is going to explode. But there’s nothing he can do to make this stop except give Dark what he wants. So he reaches behind his head and begins to untie his bandages.
“You think that if you hide behind those things that you’ll have some kind of dignity.” Dark laughs. “But I know the truth. Shall we go over it again?”
The Host pulls his bandages away from his eyes, pulling some of the scabs and freshly healed skin with them. The cold air of Dark’s office hits the wounds hard, and the Host hisses in pain as tears slip down his blood-stained cheeks. “You’re the reason why I’m like this.”
Dark steps closer, and the Host flinches. “And?”
“I owe my existence to you.” The Host bows his head, but Dark grabs his chin and tilts his head back up.
“And?”
The Host feels a catch in his throat but grits his teeth. “And I live to serve you.”
“Exactly.” Dark brushes his fingers over the Host’s cheek and then the wounds around his eyes, causing the Host to curl back in fear. “Now… let’s get back to work.”
Dark’s fingers drummed against the polished wood of his desk as he glanced from the clock to the door to his work then back again, his frown deepening and his aura seeping further into the room, sucking from it all the color and all the life.
The Host knew damn well how important this assignment was, and he knew damn well he had to be in Dark’s office on time.
Another minute- another eternity- passed before a faint knock came at the door.
Prompt 36/66: “You’ve shown me what love can feel like.” / “Why me?”
Even the Host, with his enormous power and incredible abilities, could be felled.
Google Blue realized this as he slammed the heel of his palm into the Host’s chest and heard something snap as the ego was sent flying back.
But not easily. The Host regained his footing, his lips moving silently as he reached behind him and grabbed the bat that hadn’t been there previously.
As Blue went to strike him again the bat was there to block him, and there was the clang of metal hitting metal.
“I have to do this, Host,” he said through gritted teeth, and his joints clicked as he threw a punch, aiming for the Host’s face. The ego side-stepped it just in time. “I cannot disobey an order.”
He received no response beyond the jumble of narrations that spilled from his mouth and a burst of pain as the bat connected with his side.
“Host!” A quick scan indicated that he’d fractured two of the Host’s ribs, that he was favoring his right side and that there was a strong chance he’d strike from the left.
And he was right. The bat came arcing for him, right at the left side of his head.
Seconds before it hit he snatched the weapon, tore it out of the Host’s hands.
Then, he hit him with it.
Not even the Host’s words could save him this time as he hit the ground, his head cracking hard against the floor, but in between the droplets of blood that spilled from his lips he managed to choke out, “why me?”
It took Blue a long time to answer. Lingering touches and soft whispers burned at the back of his mind. Time spent where Dark wouldn’t see. Where no one would see.
“Because you’ve shown me what love could feel like,” he said finally.
That brought a wry smile to the Host’s lips. It looked more like a grimace. “And so we must be punished.”
Blue nodded, knuckles turning white around the handle of the Host’s bat. They’d been foolish to assume that Dark wouldn’t see them.
“You’ll be back,” he offered. The fans loved the Host far too much. He would reappear before the week was out.
“The Host will be back,” he agreed weakly, “but he won’t be back for Blue.”
The bat fell to the floor with a clatter and Blue knelt beside him, smoothed back the sweaty, blood-slicked strands of hair from his forehead. It felt like his core was being wrenched in two.
Still, he could not disobey an order. “No. You won’t.”
He brought his other hand up to the Host’s face, cupping his cheek, tracing the pale skin with his thumb. The last time he would ever be able to do so.
Then with both hands he took firm hold of the Host’s head and twisted it sharply to the side, snapping his neck.
Host was cold. He was always cold. He was underweight and had anemia, of course he was cold. So it was no wonder he always wore his coat, huddled in it as if he was freezing. Now that it was approaching winter, he was freezing. He knew everyone would look weird at him if he wore hats or something alike inside the house. So he didn’t, and continued to be cold.
But besides Host, there was someone else who was cold. Dark. Not having a heartbeat, nor any other working organs, his body temperature was much colder. It was why he was never hot in his suits, even in hot weather. He wasn’t as affected by the cold weather, but it was getting pretty cold even for him.
It was late in the evening, as everyone was already getting to bed. Dark strolled to Host’s broadcasting room, wearing a thick fluffy sweater, and carrying another. He smiled lightly at Host when he entered, being silent as he listened to the end of the other man’s show. Once he was done, Dark spoke up before Host could.
“I got a warm sweater for you. Come on.”, he said, giving the sweater to Host. He helped him out of his coat, and then into the sweater. He gently took Host’s hand, knowing the other was touch-starved anyways. He always was, so he tried to provide comfort.
He brought Host to his office, having a cuddly place by a large window. He had prepared lots of blankets and pillows, and hot chocolate. Host smiled softly as he murmured his narrations, letting Dark pull him into the little nest he had built. Dark let Host cuddle into his chest, wrapping a blanket around the two of them. He gave the Host a mug of hot chocolate, and grabbed his own, drinking in silence. It was comfortable like this, though.
Host was always cooped up in his room. He sometimes left for food, of course, but otherwise he didn’t interact with the other egos. The only one he talked to a lot was Google, since he helped him with his broadcasting equipment and such, but it was just work.
He could feel the loneliness heavy on his shoulders. Craving another person’s touch. Whenever somehow someone managed to brush their hands against his, shivers rolled down his spine. He craved touches, any human contact. But he wasn’t exactly friends with anyone, and he didn’t like to go to anyone either. He didn’t even let Edward help him out with his bandages, other than getting fresh ones.
It got too much for him, sometime. Sometime meaning in the middle of the night, after his broadcast was over, and he was drowning in the loneliness of not having anyone. So he got up and left, to wander through the halls. There was no one he could go to at this time of night, there was no one he could go to any time of the day.
It was Dark who was in the kitchen, making coffee. Unable to sleep, like many nights. He looked somewhat surprised seeing Host, though not really. “Darkiplier watched the Host shuffle into the kitchen, not knowing what to expect. The Host rarely slept well, Darkiplier was aware, though he hadn’t expected to see him here.”, Host was mumbling his narrations as always. “The Host is incredibly touch-starved, and is in search of someone… anyone to help him out. He is aware he has no friends to speak of, and he has no idea what he had hoped to find wandering the halls either. As Host talks, he doesn’t notice Darkiplier approaching him, only when his arms wrap around him does he-”, Host stopped talking as he felt Dark hug him.
Host was smaller than Dark, noticeably so. Slowly, he leaned against the cold man, starting to tremble. He hadn’t been touched since he became the Host, he was pretty sure. Being hugged felt incredible, and he clung to Dark like a helpless child, taking shaking breaths. Dark gently rubbed Host’s back, leaning his cheek against Host’s hair. Silently holding him, comforting him and giving him what he so desperately craved.
emptynarration 