Archive of Our Own ^beta

"It's not bad, really."

Fantastical indifference revs above him, swashing a sip of caffeine. The winsome one clears their head of worries. How stupid. He digs for every minuscule "pro" passing in a cesspool of cons. Often they aren't convincing in the slightest, and nonsensical for emphasis. He stretches over the couch head for the jumpy's ear.

"Live a little. No work, no solicitors; on your end, no human interaction."

No more. Leave me alone. I'm not okay. Shut out the noise with polyester barrier.

"We're close to running out of stock, though."

The compelling, smooth baritone glides around and into the room.

"Our main concern is starving."

A moment spared for another considerate gulp.

"Shipping business is trending, no doubt. Too bad they can't cherish the same gift as us."

You don't know anything.

"Oh, but I do."

A groaning weight shifting on the opposite seat.

"I see the bright side, always."

We'll die in here.

"Well with that pessimism that idea doesn't look too far-fetched."

I can't breathe.

"Not with this."

Bright, eyes flutter a tick. He dangles the squat pillow by a tip.

"If you can't climb out of this hole you dug, let me throw in a rope."

Ushering fingers muttered for his legs to scooch. Legs locked for security, repelled by touch. The world is the table, couch, and barred outdoors, no man pending to ram him off his designated spot. Their hard chest to back followed-down to the torso, hips, molding every contour of his roommate, all grappling the taut weight of his own. His phone's gone.

"I'll show you."

An arm stretched out before them both, shielding the last inches of rays their protection gave. There it is. A quick thumb cracks it open with disturbingly annoying ease. Pale flash strains his pupils. Scriptures revisit from where he last searched on Wikipedia in a psychological meltdown.

"Oh, you don't have to be so pathetic."

A half deprecating drawl followed-up with a sly chuckle.

"Saves me the trouble, anyway. Look."

Text is pushed up by bold headers until everything stops at bullet points.

"Nausea, headaches, fever..."

Slowly and consecutively he lists. The scared one isn't stupid --- nor deaf. Finally strength other than scratching flared into scorn.

"Slight disorientation, sore throat, diarrhea, eugh."

Stop. You have no well-meaning.

"Numbness, exhaustion, redness,"

Quit it.

"Dizziness, blindness, tumors,"

Stop.

"Loss of limbs, schizophrenia, depression,"

Like I haven't had that already. Seriously, why can't you just leave? Do you want to see me squirm in this hell? Do you get it off jerking under my skin?

"Okay, one, I live here, and two, maybe I do, maybe I don't... it would ruin the fun to spill it."

A click and the phone walks back into darkness. His attention is elsewhere.

"Always so hidebound, never imaginative in benign ways..."

Arms wrap around his roommate in faux parody of affection.

"Y'know, I think I speak for the both of us when I say I can help soften you up."

He wanted to shout, wanted to repel, wanted to sedate, and let the statutory stand up to escalations, but couldn't. For a moment.

A sly snake's scales purr against his clothes in domesticated tabby fashion. The salesman spiels and negotiates for every secret inscript in bone and bonus goods. The centipede's antsy touch wriggle and march to leave no sweet spot left behind. Come his package beating the couch until it scrapes wood to flee. He only swallows it as music to his party.

Undettered he teases and reaches, no pushback nor cry rippled his waters. And the reclusive one knows he's chained in what should be his home. Suddenly, unfortunately, he'll spend his days in silence and psychological warfare with Mr. Clingy Brown-Nose and himself, and what he could remotely consider as him. He makes it to the loo, but the cheeky one's dark melody trails underway without their conductor. Another voice in what should be his mind.

He'll consider showering in the meantime. For now he'll converse with amygdala, consulting why bleeding eyeballs and peeling fingernails sounds appealing compared to living alongside Taboo himself.

"You," --- accusatory finger --- "if you're going to 'move' in," --- an off-putting pseudo-smile for irony --- "We'll need to get some run-through."

The new neighbor tucked away the ability for words.

"U-um, do you want...?" 

"We're going to need to inspect you."

A hot flash of a warning glare and the unshakable charm came forward.

"What he means is, we need to know if you're not carrying any of that," clicks his tongue, snapping fingers in careful contemplation. "Stuff damning the world to being under the weather."

"O-Oh I assure you --- I don't have ---"

For such a magnificently sized man he shivers like a cornered hare.

"---  They all say that."

Imposing yet skimpier and shamelessly keeping physical distance.

"Don't mind him, my friend. He's a bit histrionic."

Knuckles bleed white. Be cool, just regulate your heart; just focus on your lungs; just calm your nerves; fuck, is that my liver?

"I'm reacting just perfectly."

There's a stiff, puppetry manner in which he walks. One single thought piloted the wheel. He ushered the suspect to the kitchen completely on autopilot. Their pack clanks and clatters to every step. Scrambling feet knocked against his like a startled dog. Roomie's own sturdier footsteps clambered closely behind. All they could do was sit back and watch him rush around in a clustered, nearing hysteric haze for tools.

"Bathroom," he muttered out loud. Hasty legs did as told.

"Um, please, make yourself comfortable," he overheard the warm chastity as he clipped into the tiled room, and how curt, as if trying too hard. Honestly, if he treats anyone like that he must be itching for something on the table. The medicine cabinet was raided for simple tests; thermometer, flashlight, toothpick. Cabinets gave way for ultra circumcision, just in case he's missing anything. He kept the items tight to his hip, making his way down the curving stairs.

Overhead is the two where he left them, except a kitchen stool sat in the center. The house guest perched on it. Perfect, what he needed.

"Move," bulldozes past his housemate.

"Can a man be a charismatic houseowner around here?!"

He didn't blink, scowl or even scoff. He snagged the desk lamp from a nearby counter, fixing it atop the marble countertop.

"Need as bright as it can get," he murmured to himself again. The slimy one's contours strained in a barely stable grin.

"Now, now, you can't be scaring off visitors."

His focus broke a tick, eyes flicking up and away. He screwed the lamp's neck to create a makeshift beam. Subject convulsed from the abrupt ray, blinking rapidly. Good.

"Oh, good lord..."

Grumbling voice, obedient and resigned, switches off the ceiling light bathing them all.

"Tell me if this hurts."

He was sure to stretch on some latex gloves before acting, in case the hound bites. He shrugged off the jacket latching to their shoulder, exposing fair skin beneath. It's swiftly ruined by the toothpick's prick (he sharpened them beforehand a good time ago). Red sprouts, grabbing the light's reflection as it did.

"Yes --- it does."

Eyes in the distant dark loll in their head arrogantly.

"He's fiiine!"

"Shut it, Oppy."

New voice; "Oppy?"

"You too."

Scurries over and jams the flashlight in their mouth, clinking against teeth. Ditch of poppy walls came to view as he searched and researched. Unyielding fingers take hold on their hair, tilting their neck back and at him.

"No swelling, no sores, the uvula is fine... Okay."

The bulb licks the man's tongue on its way out.

"Is all of this really necessary?"

The eyebags somehow sank deeper, echoed by the slink of their eyes. 

Taunt; "You're lucky I haven't bound your wrists with rope."

The worst of the many worst fantasies blew past his mind in a flash. It grazed his nose, taunting and deadly. Shock erupted in his arms. His limbs rattled and he was suddenly exasperatingly clumsy. He gulped the hard sting in his throat building to bubble.

"Take this."

He paces the few feet of distance efficiently, surging from the patient to counter. Perpetual pin of eyes observed in engrossing dim all the while. Judgemental scrutiny boiled the skin tucked beneath his garbs. They hardly stood on common ground. They're mistakable for good friends, hell forbid family or any form of relative.

"Have you had any symptoms recently? Headaches, nausea, holes?"

"I wouldn't have come here if I knew."

"Great, good to know there's some common sense left."

"Aaand do you have any hives? black mold in your ears? Bleeding eyeballs?"

His own tossed in his head from the quacking mental groan. That man -- useless man -- relished in and obsessed with poking fun in every tapestry. He could have been born with sarcastic wit clinging to his umbilical cord.

"So, doctor, is he free to go? Pop the lolly in his mouth."

"I still need--" a forceful grip, finally cracked, snapped to his wrist turning for the thermometer. It's like blinking magically teleported them to his side.

"Do you have a fever, sir?" they ask, clicking their tongue.

"... No."

"There, see? Everything's dandy. There's really not much to break our minds over."

He swallowed his heart, its body beating in his nape. In perfect sync his dictator released him as he angrily snatched his arm back.

"Still, I don't think he can stay."

He truly couldn't care less if he's being overheard and quoted. Too many things fell off the rocker, he's an incarnation of ramshackle, and this beaming idiot is mouthing bombs in open air.

"Oh, come on! What the hell do you mean?"

"Fucking hello? Have you lost your mind --- we can't afford another person in this house!"

"Ah, I wouldn't say we. Remember where the hierarchy stands here."

A sharp tsk.

"What makes this all the more irritating is you know exactly what I'm talking about --- you wiseass imbecile!"

Then predictably, all they knew was to chortle, soft and deep; an unsaid insult.

"Well then, we can act like levelheaded adults and discuss this in the meantime, because for now, he has nowhere to come back to. And if he did, do you really want to send him back there?"

An organ lags.

"Outside?"

Someone is suffering in the bitter arms of cold.

"Alone?"

A woman spills out in her home, in her bed.

"To actually get sick?"

A broken man's longing stare sheaths him in contrition.

The void ebbs across the floors and ceiling, consuming furniture, then the lamp, then his retinas.

"Fine. Fine -- fuck --- he can fucking stay! For now."

Cracks his neck to the elephant in the room so no funny thoughts worm in their brain. He opens his mouth and all but his voice comes forward.

"There's a guest room upstairs and to the left. You can't miss it. Make yourself at home, smell the roses, we'll just discuss the qualifications of your stay in due time. Now, carry on, off with you!"

He flaps a playful wave to their clambering visitant fidgeting with his bag as if it were ice. They splutter in unintelligible praises before fading awkwardly into the background. His foot taps recklessly onto sleek floorboard. He senses a shift. It's strong, omnipotent, but too hidden. What is it?

"Loosen up, will you? Maybe the friendly reminder of your tax oughtta clear your head."