Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I need to test you.”

The man standing in the closet, who had recently ripped out the wires in his mouth, turned to face him. He had grown accustomed to those mixes of sounds - in fact, he heard whatever he was saying everyday - and today, it was directed to him.

“R wlm'g fmwvihgzmw. Dszg wl blf dzmg uiln nv?” (I don't understand. What do you want from me?)

Unbored with wiping the tears from last night, his were clammy, remotely damp. The homeowner - he didn’t bother to catch a name - pointed to him, and then his own ears. That’s it, he wanted to check his ears. Careful to not mat it more, he pushed his purple strands behind his ear.

“Gsvb ziv hrnkob vzih.” (They are simply ears).

Fingers with dried blood touched his bottom lip. It was more comfortable than the top one, who had more holes drilled onto it. He pulled and pinched, eyes on the homeowner. They occasionally glanced over at the shotgun resting on his other hand, a finger instinctively on the trigger. He watched as the man’s face, the one who had been nice enough to let him in, twitched and furrowed his brows. He then nodded, and the other man smiled, only sorrow making it exist.

“Zm vziirmt uiln nb wvzi uirvmw.” (An earring from my dear friend).

The man stayed quiet, staring intently at him. Well damn, was he that hard to look at properly? Only now, staring at his face, he had noticed he was at least a few years older than him. The eyebags under his eyes seemed natural enough for a man in his early thirties, even when the world went to hell.

And then he picked up the gun. Pointed the barrel at his face. The other man clutched his neck tighter, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Zmw gsvm dszg?!” (And then what?!)

The owner seemed indecisive. Truly, he had no thoughts in his mind. He seemed to be doing this by pure force of habit. The other reached one of his hands - the one closer - to his earlobe. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes as he manhandled the earring.

“R dlfow trev zmbgsrmt gl hvv srn ztzrm. Nrhh srn hl nfxs.” (I would give anything to see him again. Miss him so much).

Maybe a tear or two fell down his eyes, but it’s not like the two of them cared. The barrel faced the ground again, and the homeowner eyed him strangely. Like he committed some type of moral mistake.

“DSZG, wlvh gsrh nvzm hlnvgsrmt?” (WHAT, does this mean something?)

“I have no idea about what you’re saying. Wait a minute.”

And he disappeared. He was alone again. Silently, with his back against the shelves, he let them hurt him as he slid down painfully slowly.  When he was sitting, he kept his arms in the same shape. One on his neck, one on his ear. He softened the grip on the silver earring, but fiddled with it still, nonetheless.

The storage door creaked open again. He looked up, the other man down. He held… school supplies. Well, not exactly, but it was literally what kids used to draw in kindergarten.

“The little girl let me borrow it.”

He said flatly, and sat down beside him. Their legs didn’t touch, and they were far enough that the owner didn’t crinkle his nose at the smell of dirt and sweat and tears from him.

He placed the papers on the floor, and opened up the simple box of colored pencils. Silently, he began to draw. A stick figure, the other recognized. He picked up purple and waved it on the thing’s head. The younger man pointed at himself, to which the other nodded. He then drew an ear, or what resembled an ear, and picked up the gray pencil. A circle on the lobe. Beside it, he placed a question mark.

The black pencil was thrown onto his lap. Wait, what? What did he want to know? Where did it come from? Why it’s important?

He picked up the pencil with a shaky hand, trembling from holding onto metal with such force, and pressed it onto the paper. In the space available, he drew two sticky figures. An arrow to the first figure, and pointed to one of them.

“That’s you,” the owner said, pointing to him. Clueless, the other nodded.

After that, he picked up another pencil - he didn’t bother with the color, his friend was probably a visitor or long dead even if he didn’t want to accept it - and at least tried to emulate his shoulder length straight hair, even if it was red and not exactly the color it really was. He then picked up the grey and drew circles on the red haired guy’s hand. Oh, right.

Sv mvvwh gl pmld R orpvw gsv vziirmt… 

He needs to know I liked the earring, he thought. So, he drew a smile on his own little character.

Shyly, he handed the pencil back to the older man. He grabbed it with his eyes still on the paper, only to place it on the floor. He picked up the well-worn red and drew an arrow to the first figure - himself with purple hair - and then did a curved line.

He did the same with every other bright color he could find. One on top of the other, like some messy, childish rainbow of sorts. Is he colorful? Is that some kind of flag…? That’s a country the tourist never heard of, and certainly not his.

He made a confused expression to the homeowner. “R wlm'g tvg rg.” (I don’t get it).

The older man sighed heavily and turned the sheet around. Two symbols filled the top of the page. Male and Female. The exact ones from the ID cards back home. Under it, he placed two question marks.

“Oh.” He said. Honestly, the only thing the homeowner was able to understand until now.

He picked up the black from the other’s hands and circled the male symbol. But he’s clearly a man, he has all the features, so below the question marks, he drew hearts. The male symbol got a tick. The female one an X.

His throat closed. He just told a stranger he was gay. With a gun in the room. He could be a bigot… If only he just lied-

The older man picked up the red pencil, turned the paper around, and drew a heart between the two figures the younger one drew. Then, the beloved question mark.

Unable to look away, he nodded. It was shameless. It was still fucking illegal.

“So your boyfriend gave you that?” The owner asked curiously.

“Rg'h uiln nb uirvmw.” (It’s from my friend).

“Uirvmw,” The other imitated poorly. He made a heart with his hands.

Oh, how much he wanted that. If only he could have his dear friend, only friend, kiss his lips at least once. To get a taste. Closure with what he couldn’t have.

he should’ve just asked before the world went to hell, the man he loved disappeared, and his mouth was stopped from moving. He could never kiss with lips like that. They were cracked like his heart. 

He stared at the owner. Then, pointed at his own lips. Shook his head.

“Dv mvevi prhhvw.” (We never kissed).

“What? They’re not disfigured, just bruised.” 

He puckered his lips for a moment, shame filling him, and when he relaxed, he shook his head once more. The older man looked at him confusedly, trying to figure out some kind of solution. Only one came to mind, the one he should avoid under all circumstances.

He leaned closer. The younger one froze. Another test? What now, his teeth?

“Like this?” He asked, before closing the distance.

Fuck.

They were kissing.

When it’s illegal.

The smell of cheap, watered down shampoo mixed with sweat, but they didn’t mind it at all. They were too focused on staring at each other’s eyes as their lips touched. When they broke apart, silence filled the room.

All he ever wanted.

From a stranger.

Tears formed on his green eyes. He let himself fall forward, his decorated ear up, as the empty one laid on the man’s lap.

“R'n hliib…” (I’m sorry…) He said hushedly, curling in on himself.

A push, a yell, was to come. Definitely. He was laying on a man’s lap. A complete stranger, who was just trying to know him, and knew his biggest secret.

But gently, calloused fingers pulled the locks over his ear back. An exposed sanctuary, now. But then they traveled to his lips, and brushed the old blood away and onto its fingers. Finally, they slid to his wet cheeks, and wiped a tear that was to come.

He was being fucking comforted. Silently loved, at least this seemed like it. Somehow he was more than a presence for the moment… Like dirt who became filth, more noticeable.

Chapter Text

Nothing came of it. He didn’t yell, didn’t push, or in the worst case scenario, pointed the gun. When the man laying down sat up again, his face buried in his bloody hands, too terrified to look at who wiped his tears away.

“Ovzev.” (Leave). He croaked. Maybe his voice sounded like that due to the shock, the crying, or the fact that it went unused for too long.

The homeowner furrowed his brows. So that’s how someone apologizes in that language? It made sense. He wasn’t the first one to feel guilty over things out of his control. 

“OVZEV NV ZOLMV.” (Leave me alone). 

Under the darkness and warmth of his palms, he didn’t pay attention to the storage door opening and closing. Coloring pencils lay scattered on the wooden floor, along with a blank sheet of paper and the useless memories of his past life. Throwing everything to the wall across him was tempting. It was blank, white… peaceful. But before his rage came his guilt. This wasn’t his. Nothing was. Sure, he owned what he was wearing, but things didn’t go further than that. The metal wires on the bathroom’s trashcan weren’t his. Some suited guy had them first. His heart belonged to some corpse. Even his blood was on some guy’s lips.

Things stayed dark. A little wet sometimes. Mostly quiet.

When he looked at the floors again, everything was dark. A sniffle echoed. Through the cracks of the door, nothing happened. Some things were clinking, what seemed to be glass, and a door slammed shut. A woman’s voice - soft, a little hoarse, traveled from room to room, and she was talking to the owner of the house. He wondered when the turn of the storage room would be.

He heard Russian. He couldn’t understand a word of it, but from the tone of the conversation, he was asking her to do something. She was protesting it, and then it sounded like she caved in.

“If it means you’ll go away, I’ll do it.”

Low and behold, it happened right after he thought it. She - he assumed - didn’t knock. He didn’t really hear knocking anywhere. The door creaked open, and a woman held the doorway with soft, sweaty palms. She looked like she wanted to dart out of there as soon as she could. He gazed at her face - red eyes, her lips cracked like his, but not bleeding. The bags under her eyes were astounding.

“Are you coming? There’s food ready.” She said, her voice tired and, in fact, soft. Her request sounded impersonal, almost clinical, like some nurse with her patient.

He kept staring at her like a statue. She sighed.

“The guy told me to eat with you so we could talk. Guess we both prefer to starve.” She smirks, though there’s no happiness to connect it with.

“R wlm'g fmwvihgzmw blf.” (I don’t understand you). He told her. It sounded softer than he intended. Her smile fades as quickly as it showed.

“I forgot you know less than a blank wall when it comes to Russian.” She teased, though it fell on confused ears. Her eyes fell on the ground, at the coloring pencils staying still around him. Then at the drawing he hadn’t touched. “We could try drawing, but I’m too tired to think about shapes right now.”

She left the door half open before stepping in. With a sigh, she sat beside him at a respectful distance. Her knees bended, one arm rested on her folded torso while her other hand cradled her head. She glanced at the drawing, saying nothing for a minute. He stared at the drawing, and said nothing either. The tears running down his cheeks told her everything. The two stick figures, one purple and the other red - both at the head - and the heart between them. The love of her life was dead, floating in fluid, but still in her vision. His? Memories.

She patted his shoulder, and pointed to herself.

“Jena,” she murmured. She pointed at him with a shaky, tired hand.

His name, he figured. She was asking his name.

“Matthew.” The man replied, his accent thick.

“You don’t look like a Matthew, but whatever. I expected your name to be a little more foreign.” Jena commented, a poor attempt of complaining at the circumstances. Then, she folded her other arm across her torso as well, to look at him better. There were punctures in his mouth, blood all around it, and in it. “I think that hurts.”

His eyes were blank towards hers. Green, wide. She wondered what the fuck happened for this to be happening. His face is a mix of sad and mortified, he’s awfully quiet and gripping the neckline of his clothes, like he needs to rip them off but can’t. What could the homeowner have possibly done here, that she needed to step in?

She sighed. Keeping busy was probably better than sitting beside that bathtub and dwelling in grief. She was already so exhausted, but sighed in preparation. She was gonna have to pull some strings to get this guy to understand. Her hand gripped the drawn-on paper, and her other hand formed a pointing position. The heart. He followed her hand with his eyes, now tearing, as his face began to flutter in his mind’s eye.

“Dszg ziv blf vevm wlrmt…” (What are you even doing…) He managed to mumble. She paid him no mind, instead making a thumbs up with the pointing hand in the moment.

“It’s legal now,” she told him, looking directly into his soul. Her face was blurred. When he blinked, a tear fell down his cheek and she came into focus again. “But I don’t know how to signal that. And I’m guessing it’s not in your country.”

Jena bit her lip in thought, her hand creeping to her mouth to chew on her nails before a coherent line of thinking came into play. They have literally been talking through fingers right now. Two helpless idiots trying to talk. Then as if she remembered the answer of an exam question, her finger jumped and tapped on the heart. Then at the two guys. A circle on the ground - like it was a country - and a thumbs up. Then she pointed at herself, and gave another thumbs up.

“I’m fine with it,” she reinforced, something rather useless but the need to reassure her beliefs was overwhelming. “I don’t know if the owner of the house is, though. I wonder why you shooed him away. He called me in to give you a pep talk or something. Because you have a dead man in your memories too. But I don’t know what to tell you - we have to talk through our hands, and I’ve never seen a man through the eyes of another man… Right, I have to signal that.”

She placed the drawing on the floor. Then patted her chest, symbolizing the sweater, and tapped at the blue pencil. Blue sweater. Pointed backwards, okay. The homeowner was who she was talking about. Then she pointed at him and shrugged. He frowned at first, then his face relaxed again. His eyes became far off.

Jena knew that look all that well. Those were the types of eyes that stared at her in the mirror. Dissociated, as if nothing was real. As if his mind was begging him to forget everything.

She was asking what happened. And even if she wasn’t going to understand shit of what he was going to say, just saying the words out loud felt like a crime punished by death.

“R nrhh srn.” (I miss him). Matthew mumbled, a pathetic, blended mess of feelings washing over his body. Guilt and regret were the most present. When she looked at him, it was like looking in the mirror again. Maybe that’s why she was here. “R wlm'g pmld ru sv'h wvzw. Gsvb gllp srn zdzb uiln nv.” (I don’t know if he’s dead. They took him away from me).

Guilt faded, replaced by some kind of hatred.

They were so alike, it put her off a little.

He grabbed the pencil - yellow - and the blank paper. He drew a stick figure, and did scribbles of harsh yellow in the torso and head of the figure.

“FEMA,” she recognized. His eyes seemed to light up at the familiar sound. “Those… Those fuckers. Ruining the lives of everyone.” She frowned deeply, and blinked back the tears. A glimpse of the corpse in the bathroom sprinkled in her thoughts. She shuddered. He probably felt so alone right now.

“R drhs dv szw prhhvw... Yfg gszg tfb xznv rm sviv zmw wrw rg rmhgvzw. R uvvo hrxp.” (I wish we had kissed... But that guy came in here and did it instead. I feel sick.)

“You talk just like me. I guess it’s just what grief does to people.” Jena told him, before sighing and getting up. He stayed in his spot, but looked up to meet her eyes. Without a warning, she stepped off the storage room, closing the door in the process. "I'm done. I need to rest. Do what you want." She told someone, sighed, and disappeared completely.

Chapter Text

"I'm done. I need to rest. Do what you want."

She said it, and walked off. Even as the sunset dragged on and on, the sunlight that came through the cracks of the door faded away like Jena did. She was gone from his presence. Completely. Like the flowers he wanted to give him since this hell started. He is gone now, what about it? There was nothing anyone could do. What words could anyone say to comfort him, if he only understood what was used for the threats? And that, barely.

Silence contaminated the house. People were out of sight, finally. Everyone would try to sleep now, with their stomachs half full. The owner always drank a beer before spending the rest of the evening sleeping. That's what he noticed, joining people for "dinner" these past few days. He tried a beer once, but the alcohol made his wounds a hell to even breathe in. He just drank water from the faucet now. It tasted like lead and limestone, but anything is better than that terrifying burning in his gums and lips, and dehydration.

Matthew thought about him. Not the man who drank to sleep, but about the man who drank to wake up.
He always said it was good for work, so he could be with those "awful, annoying people", as he called it.
Matthew thought about carding his fingers through his hair one last time. He'd always chuckle and tell Aleksi, his sweet Aleksi, that his hair was messy. Then he ran his fingers through it, as all he wished for was for him to get the damn fucking hint - he wanted to be held, desired, kissed until he couldn't breathe.
He stared down at the drawing. The tears came back.
He couldn't remember what color it was.
But it wasn't red.
Fuck, he was pathetic. If Aleksi saw him right now, he would call Matthew utterly pathetic. He always had to judge the situations he saw others in as if he was God almighty, and give his stupid advice no one but Matthew cared about.
He tried picturing him again. Back when dumbasses in yellow suits knocked at their door and dragged them away. His arms rested on his bended knees, hands clasped together now. Aleksi in his baggy blue shirts, no shoes on and he had slept in his jeans after an evening of too much catching up, answering the door. The last thing he remembered was slipping to the bedroom to grab an earring from the nightstand. He preferred not to imagine himself being dragged away.

Matthew wanted to be a girl. Live the life he always wanted. But he couldn't. All he could achieve was a place at the hate crime statistics.

So much thinking, that he didn't notice who was hovering over him.

"You're just going to keep rotting away in here?"

The tone was accusatory. Matthew looked up, his eyes bloodshot and half lidded. He didn't need to have a filter to talk to anyone here. But even if he needed, it went out the door the moment Jena came in. He uttered a bitter chuckle. Nothing about this was funny: only stupid.

"Blf dvriw nv lfg. Blf prhh nv, slow nv zmw mld rmhfog nv? (You weird me out. You kiss me, hold me and now insult me?)" Matthew rasped, not pulling away from the homeowner's eyes.

The older man ignored the poor attempt at shooing him away again. He leaned against the blank wall, facing the guy he just pressed his lips against a few hours ago. Silence stretched for a few minutes. Usually, Matthew would break it, but not tonight. His mouth felt filthy. Talking means making it move, and that's disgusting. The owner visibly clenched his jaw, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"What am I even supposed to do with you?!"

It's loud, it's frustrating, it's everything they both didn't want it to be.

"R wlm'g gsrmp R zn hfkklhvw gl zmhdvi gszg, ru R pmvd dszg blf hzrw. (I don't think I am supposed to answer that, if I knew what you said.)" Matthew uttered back, though much softer. "Zmw blf'iv kilyzyob xzoormt nv hlnvgsrmt. Wlm'g. Blf hgzigvw gsrh. (And you're probably calling me something. Don't. You started this.)"

The shotgun wasn't with him. Maybe that's what made Matthew stand up.

"Don't- Don't think that meant something. I'm not a fa- Fuck." He cut himself off, giving Matthew a look before looking at the door, and murmuring to himself again. "...I'm not gay."

He nods. Accepting something he's not quite sure what it is. There's nothing to agree with.

"Gszg'h sld rg tlvh. Gsvb wlmg fmwvihgzmw blf, gsvb uvzi blf, zmw gsvb... (That's how it goes. They don't understand you, they fear you, and they...)" He trailed off, hands on his neck again, and sighed. He didn't look sad, like he was about to cry.

Because there was nothing to cry about.

""R hslfowm'g hzb zmbgsrmt vohv, yfg tllwmrtsg. (I shouldn't say anything else, but goodnight.)"

The homeowner watched as he opened the closet door and left it open when he stepped out. He turned left, and that only led to only one place.

Outside.

He watched. Still and straighter than the sticks he used to whack the grass with. It was only when the doorknob did its usual creak when pushed down, that he snapped out of the trance.

"Don't leave," he said firmly. Nothing happened for a few seconds. Then the door opens.

As quickly as he walked in there, he walked quicker to the front door. Things were dark from the night and blurry from exhaustion, but he managed to catch a wrist, the only part of Matthew's body that wasn't out yet.

"Ovg nv tl. (Let me go.)"

Things are blurry. He's not sure if he's crying. But this guy's quivering lips tells him he's trying not to.
The homeowner yanks him back inside like a thread. The miserable wind is enough to make the wooden door click shut. It was softer than their footsteps and the slam against the wall.

Matthew's eyes were wide open. He had nowhere to go. He was cornered. This man was constricting him to a door, for hell's sake.

"Are you crazy?! Do you want to die out there?!"

Matthew looked at the ceiling. "Nzbyv R hslfow wl gsv hznv gsrmt zh Qvmz. Urmw Zovphr'h ylwb zmw tl hlnvdsviv, (Maybe I should do the same thing as Jena. Find Aleksi's body and go somewhere,)"

The homeowner paused.

"How the fuck do you know my name?"

"R wlm'g pmld dszg gszg dzh, yfg rg hlfmwh orpv hlnvgsrmt R hslfow pmld. (I don't know what that was, but it sounds like something I should know.)" he mumbled, his shaky hand pushing one of the other's arms away. "R'n tlrmt yzxp gl gsv xolhvg. Tllwmrtsg. Gifob, gsrh grnv. (I'm going back to the closet. Goodnight. Truly, this time.)

Behind the homeowner, the door to the storage closet opened and closed.
The guy's name was Aleksi. But it wasn't himself he was talking about.
Aleksi was long dead.

As he turned back to try and make it to his bedroom, a sound suggested that Jena was probably watching it all. The bathroom door doesn't make those weird sounds when closed shut.