Work Text:
The bungalow was empty. Quiet. Dark. There was no creaking of the steps nor was their shuffling in the blankets. It was so silent, so dark, so desolate, that one may even consider it to be dead.
There were no stirrings from inside. The coffee maker did not drip, steadily or randomly, and the window panes did not shift at the slightest breeze. An alarm never went off, a window never broken, a footfall never heard.
Because the bungalow was inexplicably empty. Frighteningly so - the kind of frightening that made people’s breathing rise, if they did such a thing, that made their pupils dilate, if they had such a thing, their hearts begin to race, if such things applied to them. Not the quiet where you think something might jump out at you - and while in the dark that fear remains it is not the prominent one, that one that stands out.
The house is so quiet that you need something to jump out. The small bungalow with it’s tidy lawn and front door and windows that have grown dusty over time. A completely, utterly, silent space might cause the mind to make sounds up. Was that a footfall, the creak of a bed, the rustle of a blanket? A moan, perhaps, a kiss, an embrace so tight you can feel the air leave the lungs.
It’s a terrible silence that, when wandered through, makes the mind search. Was that really a sound I heard, or just a ghost of a memory that wanted itself known? Something dead coming alive as things tended to once certain things tended to happen. The mind wanders further - what was there before this? Why is it so silent? Abandoned houses aren’t silent unless a real silence lays over it. The kind that spread between friends, ones who argue and grow too scared to talk, relationships gone haywire, their expectations higher than the clouds until suddenly one of them is six feet under, too far to reach or to even try.
This bungalow was not a good bungalow. It was too silence, too scared, too terrible, and too much. Too much silence for one, or even two, to hold on their shoulders. Even if their shoulders were warm enough to take the cold or cold enough to take the warm.
It was of this bungalow, the one he lived in, that Kieren Walker always thought about. It was so very empty, and it had been, since long before Amy had moved in, he was sure of it. He thought about what it meant often, and not just because he had walked through it so many times, but, too, because the bungalow was a rather scary thought. It was an expectation. Because things - things did not last forever. Not even he and Simon Monroe’s lives, not really - because as soon as they had enough, it wouldn’t take much more than a weapon to the brain. It would not take much at all.
But more than that, Kieren thought about why. Why would he want to, feel the need to, stab himself in the head? He had killed himself once, he could do it again; it was less the fear of killing himself than the reason behind it that frightened him so. Because, at this time in his second life, he felt like he had a purpose. And his name was Simon Monroe and it was something to stay undead for.
Kieren still worked at the bar in town, and it was nice, having a real job. And it wasn’t much fun, the way people looked at him, like he shouldn’t be there, like he was just a blemish in the bar, but it was better than nothing. He needed the money, not desperately, but he really he did.
It was better, though, when he got home. Because there Simon would be waiting - maybe reading a book he had already read dozens of times, watching television that didn’t hold his attention too well or, more than likely, waiting at the door for Kieren.
Usually Kieren would walk right into him, straight into his arm’s. He was never sad or afraid, unless Gary had been in the bar and slurred until Kieren had to leave, just get out, and go home - but then Simon would always know because he’d be home earlier.
But, no, every night he’d move right into his arm’s, whatever warm sweater he was wearing, and bury his golden hair into his chest, setting his chin on Kieren’s head. And he’d wrap his arms around him like a lifeline, ends of his sweater over his hands, contrasting with his pale skin.
But then they’d kiss and everything would change. It would be warm, just like the hug, and it would be soft, just like the hug, but their were different kinds of sparks there. Simon let him in, allowed, protecting. And Kieren head on to him like a lifeline. So much had changed but when their lips met it didn’t matter.
That was what Kieren had to live for. And though he thought about it often, so often it almost bothered him, but he knew it didn’t matter - he didn’t think he’d ever feel that cold again. Not when Simon’s lips were so warm against his. Now that they were now.