Chapter Text
A quick few snapshots are all Lyle needs, then he can continue on his trek up the stairs, hopefully satisfying the constant nagging in his head for the next day or two. He’d been meaning to go up to the roof, take some pictures of the city skyline -- at least, that’s what he keeps telling himself. No, the real goal of these nightly excursions with his camera have always been apartment 33, the pull of capturing more stills of his obsession, Sam , too hard to overcome.
Sneaking around has become less and less necessary for him these days. He even passes by someone in the hall, likely heading in to work early to beat the morning traffic. They don’t even bat an eye in Lyle’s direction, shuffling past him wordlessly. Lyle pauses just outside the doorway, digging in his pocket for the spare key that Sam had foolishly left in such an obvious hiding spot across the hall. Good thing Lyle had found it a few months back, he can’t imagine what some weirdo would do if they’d gotten their hands on it.
As he presses his ear to Sam's front door, his heart pounding, Lyle doesn’t hear the telltale noise of the game system, so Sam is likely asleep. Ah, maybe he'd get some cute photos of him passed out on the couch? The apartment key in his palm is warm, and it trembles with excitement as Lyle inserts it into the lock.
Click.
Lyle can’t help the ecstatic shudder that rocks through him. No matter how many times he does this, he never gets used to the thrill. Or anxiety. However, the pleasant tingle begins to grow stronger, the hairs on the back of Lyle’s neck standing on end. The hinges are exceedingly loud in the quiet hours of the early morning, but Lyle knows Sam is a heavy sleeper. It made things easier when Lyle got a little sloppy in his intrusion, like forgetting to turn his camera’s flash off.
The pestering, itchy feeling doesn’t stop, even as Lyle takes his first step into the apartment. Is the neighbor watching him? He can still play this off without anyone asking Sam about his intrusion -- confidence is key in these situations. Too bad Lyle is anything but confident, anxiety draining the color from his face and making cold sweat bead on his face. He hesitantly looks over his shoulder, exhaling shakily in relief; the slice of hallway bordered by the doorframe dark and empty.
Confusion wipes away the pallid panic on Lyle’s face as he sticks his head back out into the hallway. Instead of a neighbor skeptically watching him from down the hall, he only sees their form silhouetted in the almost-too-bright light pollution between the slats of the blinds covering the window at the end of the hall. No, they’re far more preoccupied with something going on outside to notice him. Right?
Lyle takes one last glance over his shoulder, just to make sure the neighbor wouldn’t be a problem. He almost jumps out of his skin when they turn abruptly towards him, Lyle locking up, panic clawing its way up his throat. Shit, he can still make an excuse, right? Other people had seen him at Sam’s door before, no doubt assuming him to be a sneaky midnight hookup instead of a burglar. The person begins moving towards him with purpose, slow and steady, all of Lyle’s instincts telling him to shut the door . Before he can listen to common sense, Lyle sees that something is wrong with the approaching neighbor; that just can't be the person that passed him, because humans only have two eyes .
" AUGH -!”
Lyle yelps, the creature abruptly speeding up, upon him in seconds, knocking him on his back into Sam's apartment, door swinging uselessly in its frame. The monstrosity claws at him with distended fingernails, massive, unblinking eyeballs staring holes into his skull. The photographer's shriek is far louder than the door hinges, and if it wasn't for the noise, he could’ve heard some shuffling from the adjacent wall from a neighbor who didn't sleep like the dead, wondering what was going on.
Lyle isn't a frail guy in the slightest, he's six foot two and pushing 200 pounds, but the thing lays him flat on his ass, the air knocked briefly out of his lungs. He frantically grabs for anything to defend himself with, his hand finding an empty beer bottle under the couch. With another shout, he smashes it against the monstrosity’s largest eye, sending broken glass and vitreous goop all over Sam's carpet.
Lyle’s breathing is ragged, he’s panicking, he knows he's being loud, but he's being attacked, and what if this monster attacks Sam too? With the broken neck of the bottle, he slashes at the creature and kicks it back, ignoring the pain of glass shards burying themselves in his palm. He needs to get out, he needs to get this thing out, because if Sam sees this, sees him --
Sam is already awake, not due to the noise outside of his bedroom nor his unchecked insomnia, but due to his neighbor, Sybil, peeking through the crack in the wall, whispering for him to look outside , before quickly refuting her own advice. Before his neighbor can explain further, Sam hears the crash and the shriek from his front room, so he quietly, quickly , steps over to the door and closes it tight.
Break-ins aren't uncommon in this part of the city, and Sam values his life just slightly more than the TV and three video games he owned. For extra security -- the yelling and thrashing isn't stopping outside his door -- he wedges his makeshift desk chair, one of the chairs from the dining table, underneath the knob as a jerry-rigged lock. He doesn't have any weapons on him, nor would he even know how to use one to defend himself in this situation. Palms sweating, he peeks through the crack between the door and the frame, unable to make out very much.
"Fuck, fuck --!"
Still panicking, Lyle grapples with the monster, the hypnotizing eyes making a wave of dizziness rock through him, his knees going weak. It slams him up against Sam's bedroom door, leaving deep gashes in Lyle's arms, and thanks to the hasty barricade, the door manages to hold fast. On the other side, Sam flinches back, eyes wide with fear, the shitty plywood visibly dented inwards from the weight of the intruder getting crushed against it.
The body slam rattles Lyle back to lucidity, shaking his head as he uses the flimsy door as leverage to push back against the monster and wrench his arms free, driving his makeshift weapon into where the thing's neck ought to be. There's blood on the carpet, blood on the wall, blood on Sam's door, and the monster finally falls with a horrible thud, Lyle quickly backing away.
"O-oh, oh shit- fuck-"
He whispers, and now Sam can catch a glimpse of him through the thin sliver, the unfamiliar man covered in even more blood. Lyle is frozen with shock, glancing towards the open front door. Should he run? He can't just leave a dead body in Sam's apartment, but what is he supposed to tell him? Self defense or not, Lyle had just murdered something in Sam’s living room.
The muffled, indecipherable whispering of the unfamiliar blonde leaks through the door, Sam’s brow furrowed as he sees the fresh, bloody stains everywhere, a bit of it seeping beneath the crack at the bottom of the door. Sam's mouth is dry, his fingers slowly closing into fists, his nails digging into his palms. Of course, Sam can’t even call EMS: his phone is in the living room, and he hasn’t paid the bill in months anyway. Fucking dumbass.
Lyle glances towards Sam's door. There’s no way he'd slept through that, right? For once, Sam is the unseen observer, Lyle hesitantly making his way closer. Even in the silver of the living room Sam could see, it's obvious that Lyle is pretty terrified, gashes on his arms making it fairly clear that whatever had just been killed was far more dangerous than the panicking intruder.
Lyle does spy Sam's phone on the coffee table, quickly scrabbling for it, taking it in his bloodied hands to call EMS himself. He could just say that Sam's apartment door was open, he'd been chased inside by the thing , and taken care of it. Right? The dial tone rings out, but... nothing. No signal. Lyle looks down at the corpse on the floor, his stomach churning. He'd never killed anything before. Even bugs in his apartment were carefully shooed outside. This... this isn't normal. None of this is normal. The front door is still open, and Lyle hastily runs over, slamming it shut, locking it.
Lyle has gone out of sight for Sam, the sound of the front door closing giving him the misguided belief that he’s alone again, a sigh of relief involuntarily coming out. Sam supposes he should check out the mess, now that the surviving stranger is gone. He carefully slides the chair out from under the doorknob, easing the door open, grinding his teeth at the squealing the hinges produced, and peeks out into the main room of the apartment.
Lyle hears the door open too late, panic surging through him again when he sees Sam there.
"D-don't look--!"
He tries to warn, but it's too late, the monstrosity's corpse in full view. It's a twisted, alien thing, with too many eyes and dull, purple skin, Lyle's blood dripping from its claws, mingling with its own on the carpet.
"S-Sam! This- this isn't --" Lyle stammers, definitely realizing how incriminating this looks for him, "-It attacked me in th-the hall, I-I didn't mean to- your door w-was open and-- and I panicked -!"
His sputtering is definitely convincing, at least to the fact that he didn't mean for any of this to happen.
"I t-tried to call the cops, b-but--"
Sam's eyes are glued to the thing on the floor, Lyle's words hardly registering in his mind until the big guy drops the broken glass bottle in a panic, which shatters further on the tile lining the entryway, Sam's eyes flicking up to the only vaguely familiar man in his house.
"... What the fuck ."
He mutters, putting a hand over his cheek, dragging it down. That's it, he’s dreaming. Of course he is, because the thing on his living room floor is definitely not real, and he doesn't fully recognize the large blonde guy blubbering about what just happened. You pinch yourself if you think you're in a dream, right? Sam does that. Unfortunately, he does not wake up.
"I'm s-so sorry."
Lyle considers just fleeing, but that thing came from the halls, and he isn't keen to run into any more of them. This had gone so bad, so fast, probably the worst things had ever gone for him. Karma had to catch up with him sometime, right?
"I-I can clean it up, I- just don't-- don't touch it-"
He stammers, the gashes in his palms aching as he bends down to pick up the broken glass, trying to wipe up his own blood with his sleeves. He can fix this. Everything would be fine, maybe Sam wouldn't think he was trying to rob him or worse. The inhuman thing dead on the ground gives Lyle a pretty convincing alibi. Nobody in their right mind would just lay down and die if that attacked them. Lyle stumbles over to the trash, clumsily brushing the broken bottle bits in, pulling a few out of his palms with a hiss of pain.
"Don't-" Sam cringes as the sort-of-stranger tries to clean up broken glass with his bare hands- "I have a dustpan- a-and a first aid kit, let's just- let's just... take care of you, first..."
Damn your bleeding heart. It’s a miracle you haven’t had to file any restraining orders yet. He gingerly eases over towards Lyle, careful not to step on the broken glass or the bloodstains on the carpet, and pulls him by his sleeve to the bathroom. Yeah, dealing with cuts and scrapes seems like a much easier task than coming to terms with whatever this guy had just stabbed to death in the living room. He motions for Lyle to sit on the toilet seat cover while he digs out an old first aid kit. Honestly, Lyle had probably just saved his bacon, Sam can’t imagine trying to defend himself from that if it came into his bedroom.
Lyle shuts right up as soon as Sam grabs his sleeve, the big blonde obediently following as Sam leads him to the bathroom. Oh. Sam is touching him. The corpse in the living room suddenly seems like a much smaller problem, Lyle's eyes trained on Sam's hand until he lets go.
"I'm... s-sorry for breaking in. Pro- um, probably would've died otherwise..."
Lyle isn't really sorry for breaking in, but he is sorry for letting the monster break in with him. The gashes on his arms are pretty deep, the photographer wincing as he gets a better look at them in the light. He can't tell if anything vital has been slashed, but he's still bleeding, so he awkwardly holds his arms half-up, trying not to drip on the bathroom floor. He hasn't gotten to talk to Sam face to face in a while , so he's a bit shy, nervously licking his lips as he stares up at the older man. Sam looks cute like this, sleepy and perturbed, worry lines creasing between his brow.
"What... what was that thing...?"
Sam asks, digging around in the messy first aid kit. There’s a pair of unused tweezers in there along with several little packets of gauze and medical tape. He sets them onto the sink countertop, pauses, then grabs some alcohol wipes from the kit as well. Lyle isn't doing a very good job at keeping the blood from dripping off of his arms, Sam beginning to think he should have told the larger man to staunch the bleeding with a towel.
There’s an awkward pause before Lyle replies, lost in Sam's eyes. He never got to stare directly into them, so he’s just noticed the splotch of blue in Sam's right iris. Lyle wants to take a proper headshot photo of him now, highlighting all these lovely little details that he'd failed to capture before.
"Uh... I-I don't know. It just started coming at me from down th-the hall..."
Lyle isn't technically lying, but Sam doesn't need to know what he'd been doing before getting attacked. He can’t know. Lyle manages to tear his eyes away from Sam, seeing that he's dripped blood on the pale floor tiles.
"... I-I'm not, uh, dreaming, am I?"
Lyle faintly asks, though he knows he's not. His arms sting and ache, and Sam's hand on his sleeve had felt so tantalizingly good.
"... What?" Sam's brow furrows again as he wets a rag and starts wiping the blood away from Lyle's wounds. Lyle looks far more awake than Sam does currently, and the shorter man already had come to the conclusion that this isn’t a dream.
"Th-that was a joke. This hurts too much to be a dream..." Lyle admits, holding up his arms for Sam to tend to. Sam looks at him with tired, pained empathy. Yes, he also wishes this was a dream, there wasn’t a corpse in his front room, and a big twitchy blonde bleeding out in his bathroom.
"... Never mind, uh- what's... your name? Also, this... is probably gonna hurt."
Sam doesn't remember, he only knows that the man before him looked just a tad bit familiar, but he can’t quite place his finger on where he'd seen the guy before. As he held the rag to one of the larger man's arms, he tore open an alcohol wipe packet with his teeth.
Lyle is entirely focused on Sam's mouth as he rips open the alcohol wipe, the big blonde drinking in the sight of his plump lower lip, the flash of teeth, the way the corner of his mouth creases. The pain is worth it for Lyle, because Sam is touching him again, tenderly caring for his wounds. The twisted part of Lyle's brain wonders if he could hurt himself more to get attention like this.
"Oh! It's Lyle, we- ah, we worked together at the convenience store. You had a different shift than me, though..."
The one right after Lyle's. The photographer had taken to storing his camera in his locker, just to sneak some pictures of Sam as the shorter man clocked in. His camera is still hanging around his neck, the lens cap still splattered with blood, and Lyle twitches, resisting the urge to fiddle with it.
Sam’s memory is a little fuzzy, but he doesn't seem to be bothered much by it. He must remember Lyle in passing, maybe on the bus, maybe just when they were switching shifts, either way, he doesn’t seem surprised. He leans over to get the tweezers, pulling the little rubber cap off as he lets the wet rag sit limply on Lyle's arm. He holds the other man’s palm open, studying it for a moment before starting to get to work, pulling out the larger pieces of glass he can see.
Lyle's fingers twitch in Sam's grasp, and he's glad it actually does hurt a bit, because his shaky, pleasured exhalation can easily be dismissed as a pain reaction. Sam's hands are so warm, and he's so gentle, even though Lyle is barely more than an acquaintance to him.
"Hnn... Th-thanks. I... I really am sorry for, uh, m-making a mess."
Lyle is just glad he'd killed it before it had a chance to go for his precious Sam, and he’d lived to tell the tale. And get his wounds tenderly cared for.
"What do you think it was? I-I've never seen anything like that, and it at-attacked me on sight..."
Lyle chews on his lip, his crooked canine peeking out. Being so close to Sam is like taking a tab of molly, Lyle feels almost giddy. It could also be from blood loss. Either way, Lyle's face is flushed, and he's twitchy, relishing each painful brush of Sam's diligent fingers.
"I... didn't get a good look at it..."
Sam is trying to block out the obviously inhuman features on the corpse in his memory. He cleans up Lyle's other hand, then wraps his palms with the gauze and tape before he moves onto the deep scratches in his arms.
"What were you doing, out this late...?"
Sam continues the line of questioning, trying to change the subject, not wanting to dwell on the monstrous body in his living room.
"I, um, couldn't sleep."
Lyle lies, scrambling for a better alibi. He eases his shredded sleeves up to his elbows so Sam could bandage his forearms without his undershirt in the way.
"I take walks through the building when--when I can't, and take pictures of whatever inspires me. I was headed up to the roof, b-but I usually kind of walk the halls to tire myself out."
Most of the pictures Lyle took were of Sam, though he’s got a gallery of bugs, interesting lighting features, and lonely stairways.
"Sorry for waking you up."
He flashes an awkward, lopsided grin, glancing down at his arms and Sam's handiwork, trying to lighten the mood.
"H-heh, you're good at that. Have you done this before?"
Sam blinked and looked away when the big blonde smiled at him, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck.
"Uh- just in video games."
A video game collection that he'd been slowly selling off to make rent for these last few months. He stands and washes his hands and the tweezers, watching Lyle’s blood spiral down the drain. The rag is completely ruined, a dark maroon color now, so Sam doesn’t bother trying to wring it out, tossing it into the trash. He wets another cloth and tosses it on the floor, kicking it around to clean up the drips on the floor. The living room would be significantly harder to clean.
"H-here, let me."
Lyle kneels and finishes cleaning up his own blood, wringing out the rag in the sink before dampening it again.
"Uh, I'm not exactly sure how to clean the carpet in your front room, but I can get the blood off your walls..."
Plus, he still needed to deal with the corpse. Lyle reluctantly peeks back out into the living room, wincing as he sees the dead creature still laying there. Sam grimaces as well. He isn’t sure if he even wants to look at it again, still trying to keep himself blissfully ignorant to its inhuman nature. But he’s going to have to leave the bathroom eventually. He holds his arms close to his body, hesitating before pushing the door open a little bit more.
"...Do you think we should just... put it in the hall?"
Lyle weakly asks, not really expecting a response from Sam.
"...We should c-cover it with something. Um..."
Lyle sometimes used trash bags to cover his tables in the darkroom to prevent the chemicals from damaging anything.
"Where do you keep your bin bags?"
True crime isn't exactly one of Lyle's interests, so the best he can really do is cover up the body and hope someone else takes care of it before it starts to decompose.
"Just- uh, under the kitchen sink- what are you planning on doing with it...?"
Sam has no clue how to hide a body either, nor did he think he could really lift it, and this was an apartment complex, it wasn’t like there were many places to hide something like that. Hopefully it would be recognizable as a monster when it was inevitably found, though. Probably.
"I- I don't know, I hav-haven't done this before!"
Lyle is honestly a bit squeamish now, sidling out of the bathroom to go retrieve the heavy duty black plastic bags. He cautiously approaches the corpse, wondering if they could just... stuff it into one of the closets in the hall. He doesn't really want to leave Sam's apartment, though, especially not with the potential for other things like this to be prowling around. Lyle shakes the bag open, though it's obvious that he couldn't exactly just shove it all in. Sam chooses now to flick on the light, exposing the monstrosity in full, crisp detail. He regrets this immediately, turning away with a hand over his mouth.
"Oh, Christ..."
It's even more gruesome in the light, dead eyes still staring blankly into nothing, bulbous body limp and unwieldy. If Lyle wanted it to fit in a bag, he'd either have to use multiple and tape them together, or cut the body up. One of those sounds much better than the other, and Lyle decided to opt for the former, ripping one of the bags down the side, wrapping it across the creature's torso.
"I-I think I'm just g-going to drag it... out."
Lyle legitimately has no idea what to do with it otherwise. He does notice a crack in the wall as he wraps the flimsy plastic around the body, stiffening when he sees an eye looking back at him.
"....Sam, there's-- something's looking through-"
Lyle points, reaching for one of the bigger shards of glass still laying on the carpet, his bandaged fingers protecting him from its sharp edges for now.
"That's- uh, that's my neighbor..."
Sam murmurs, though he’s scrambling to remember her name, her introduction earlier lost to the commotion of Lyle’s struggle.
"... Sybil."
The eye fills in the blank, narrowing slightly. It’s a feminine voice, sounding a bit hoarse and muffled through the drywall.
"O-oh."
Lyle seems relieved that it's presumably a human that owns the eye in the wall, though he doesn't love the feeling that she can just look through to Sam's apartment. Hypocritical, sure, but Lyle isn't doing any self reflection right now. The eye -- Sybil -- squints at Lyle suspiciously, then darts over towards the body.
"What is that ?"
She at least recognizes that the thing isn’t human, alarm raising her voice an octave.
"I don't know, uh... d-do you want me to drag it over so you can look at it? Do y-you know what's going on?"
Lyle asks, still struggling to cover it in plastic so it isn't bleeding into Sam's rug anymore. The carpet was probably a goner regardless. Maybe the stain could be covered with an area rug?
"Absolutely not-" The eye quickly barked, "it's enough seeing the blood from here..."
She takes in a breath and sighs, remembering that she hadn’t finished her warning to Sam in the first place.
"There's been reports of some unusual weather phenomenon, and the news said it was important not to look at it... I think they said it'll pass in two weeks. So it's probably better just to hunker down until then. As for that thing you murdered...” she squints at the corpse “...it must be the reason why they say not to look outside. I did, and I’m not sure what it did to me... but I feel weird. I might be hallucinating."
"I-It's semantics, b-but I think it counts as manslaughter, not murder. E-ehm, or, self defense."
Lyle mumbles as he finishes wrapping up the corpse, beginning to wipe up the walls, and the apartment starts to look a little better. Except for the giant bloodstain in the carpet. And the ominously covered body.
"I g-guess it’s... good that this thing attacked me? I-I was going up to the roof to take pictures...”
Lyle reasons, trying his best to find a silver lining. It’s half assed at best; most of his brain power is devoted to figuring out where the fuck he’s going to drag this corpse to. Maybe that would be a problem for later. He does have an idea how to clean the carpet, he has one of those handheld rug steamers stowed in his closet. He walks over to the entrance, looking through the peephole, opening the door when he's sure it's clear.
“I appreciate the positivity.”
Sybil replies dryly, listening for any sounds of movement outside.
"Uh, a-actually, I th-think I have something that might work for the rug, I'll-- I'll be right back."
"Wait, Lyle--" Sam hesitates, "uh- are- are you sure you want to go by yourself...? If there's more of those things out there..."
Not like Sam would be much help if there are, neither of them have weapons, but at least Lyle seems to be... sturdy? Sam isn't at all. He could be moral support, though, probably.
Lyle's cheeks get a little pink. Sam is worried about him.
"Oh-- uh, right. Y-yeah... yeah! We should... probably stick together f-for safety."
Lyle can't help but jump at the chance for more time with Sam, even though their situation is anything but ideal.
“Wait--” Sybil interjects, “if you’re really going to go out, I think maybe we should talk daily. If it’s really as bad as they say, we’ll be isolated here for two weeks... Also, you should probably take a weapon of some sort. Just in case...”
“Uh... sure. That’s actually a pretty good idea.”
Sam reasons, figuring having someone to check in with would keep him sane, assuming Lyle would be hunkering down in his own apartment once he finished cleaning up his mess.
“Good. I’ll check in on you tomorrow then, and you too, Lyle, if you’re here.”
Sybil seems satisfied with that, and her eye withdraws from the small crack, leaving nothing but empty darkness behind.
In the meantime, Lyle grabs the large chef's knife from the kitchen, Sam nodding with silent permission to carry it for now.
"I p-probably won't have to use this, but just in case, l-like Sybil says..."
Lyle doesn't seem too confident handling it, which would probably be a small relief for Sam, knowing that the big blonde wasn't a serial killer, and truly was defending himself.
"... Right."
Sam breathes, not wanting to dwell too much on the fact that they might have to use it.
"You don't, uh, live on this floor, r--"
Sam isn't given the choice to not think about what they might have to do with the knife, a very large blood trail passing his door, going as far as the eye could see in the darkness.
"... Was this... here before...?"
Sam asks Lyle, pointing towards the stain on the wood paneling outside. Lyle nervously adjusts his grip on the handle of the knife, palms already starting to sweat.
"N-no. It wasn't."
He admits, looking the other way down the hall, just to check and see if anything is lurking.
"You--you don't think someone else got attacked, do you? W-we should go help, isn't there a family with young kids on this floor?"
Lyle isn't the bravest person in the world, but he isn't a monster, he doesn't want anyone else to get mauled by a cousin of the monster he'd killed, especially not any kids.
"Ye-yeah, they're... just across the hall."
Thankfully, it doesn't seem like the blood leads into the family's apartment, or any apartment near Sam's.
"... Should we... follow it?"
Part of Sam just wants to get to the stairwell, it’s the closest, and likely the fastest way to whatever floor Lyle lived on. The other part knows that the right thing to do is to check on his neighbors.
"You sh-should probably stay behind me, just keep an eye out and make sure nothing sneaks up on us."
Lyle stammers. He doesn't want to put Sam in danger. At the same time, if someone was bleeding out, maybe they could save a life.
"If-if someone is hurt, we should help them."
Lyle points out, taking a tentative step into the hallway.
"Get the first aid kit, jus-just in case? And if th-things get hairy, you should just r-run."
"Good idea."
Sam tears his eyes from the blood trail, retreating back into the apartment to get the first-aid kit. He doesn't want to say that it looks like far too much blood to lose for someone to still be "okay" afterwards. He isn't sure how much good either of them could really do. Sam also grabs a backpack he used to carry his lunch when he was still employed, stuffing the kit in there and throwing it on his back for any future looting that they might have to do. Zombie games had prepared him exactly for this moment. Kind of. He isn't actually materially prepared, but mentally? Eh, sure.
Lyle has done a quick poke down the hall by the time Sam meets him at the door, satisfied that at least the hallway was empty for now.
"H-hey, smart."
He mentions when he sees the backpack, fiddling with his camera for a second, flicking the flash up. There should be a setting to... With a soft click, the flash turns on in a steady glow, dimmer than it would be for taking a picture, but enough to at least light the area ahead. The battery would run out quicker, but it would be better than going in blind.
"I w-wonder if this is how people in those zombie apocalypse games feel."
Lyle mentions, on the same wavelength as Sam. He'd observed the older man play them before, though the shutterbug hadn't exactly absorbed any of the game's contents, far more enthralled with the man playing it.
"Is--is that too morbid to say?"
"At least in the zombie games, the survivors pretty much know what's going on..."
Sam murmurs, following the weak light down the hall. With the flash active as a dim flashlight, it’s obvious that the blood leads to one of the apartments, just not one who’s occupant Sam knows the name of. The door is left ajar, a flickering glow from the television reflecting on the door.
"I'm n-not sure knowing what's truly going on outside would make this any better."
Lyle admits, lowering his voice as they approach the apartment. No, as curious as he is about why this all is happening, what the hell that monster was, he doesn't think that would change their current circumstances. Which, honestly, could be worse. Lyle was pretty happy to be stuck with Sam, though he could do without the life or death circumstances.
Sam shrugs, pushing the door open on squeaky hinges, though it looks like the place was abandoned, aside from the blood leading into the bathroom. There wasn't much in terms of furnishings, aside from the TV, some flipped chairs, and a table with a baseball bat lying conveniently against it.
"Uh- hello...?"
Sam calls out, keeping next to Lyle, as he’s quite unarmed. He’s already calling "dibs" mentally on the baseball bat there, since Lyle already had a knife -- even if it was one of those shitty four dollar ones from the supermarket. Lyle locks eyes with Sam and nods towards the baseball bat, relieved that now Sam could at least defend himself with something.
"I-is anyone in there? Are you hurt?"
The shutterbug grabs his camera with one hand, shining it around the room for a better look. He carefully steps towards the bathroom, praying that they wouldn't find a corpse. Or a monster. Or both. Lyle lets the camera hang again, getting his knife at the ready before approaching the bathroom door. As Sam goes to get the bat, Lyle hears a muffled reply from inside.
"Yes- oh, yes, I-I'm vvvveryyyyyy hurt...”
That doesn't sound convincing, but it sounds human, and god knew the thing that attacked Lyle earlier wasn't capable of speech. Sam tosses the bat between his hands, testing its weight. He hasn't even held one of these things since grade school and he isn't even sure if he'd be particularly effective at using it as a weapon. Still, better than just shadowing Lyle like a damsel in distress.
"Uh."
Lyle hesitates, definitely not convinced, but unwilling to leave someone injured alone to bleed out.
"A-are you bleeding? We have bandages, we're here to help."
He motions for Sam to get behind him, pushing the door open. There's a figure standing there, looking very much human, staggering at an odd angle. Lyle shines the camera at them, hissing with empathy at the many gashes in the stranger's shirt. The unknown neighbor squints in the light, taken slightly aback, but that’s quickly wiped away with a toothy, bloody grin, the man staggering forward and nearly slipping on his own blood.
"Come here... I'll- I'll show you..."
He catches himself, just barely enough to not fall over, the glare of the camera light reflecting off of a dripping red kitchen knife that’d been hidden behind the stranger's back. Sam gasps as the stranger starts stabbing himself in the lower stomach, carving upwards towards his sternum, the wound opening slowly and letting an enormous, bulging eye reveal itself, lodged where the stranger’s guts would be. Lyle can only watch in horror as the stranger vivisects himself, momentarily stunned into inaction.
"I saw it... I'll show you, too...!"
The stranger cackles almost maniacally, lunging forward towards Lyle with the bloodied blade.
"AGH--!"
Lyle yelps, belatedly reaching forward to try and stop the knife as the stranger lunges. Lyle... is getting stabbed a lot today. Thankfully, the bandages already wrapped around his hands protect him from too much damage, the photographer grappling for control. He manages to maneuver the attacker back into the bathroom, turning so their back was to Sam, scrabbling on the slick, bloody tiles. The eyes within the stranger's body stare holes into his soul, Lyle desperately trying to kick his attacker's legs out from under him.
"Shit-"
Sam feels his stomach turn, hesitating before bringing the baseball bat down on the stranger's head, causing him -- it -- to become stunned for a moment. He kicks the thing off of Lyle, connecting again with a sickening crack of wood against bone.
Lyle flinches, gripping his knife in both hands before plunging it forward, gouging the largest eye, a jelly-like substance mixed with blood splattering onto the floor, the blade of the knife snapping off from the handle, remaining inside the attacker. The shutterbug feels nauseous, reeling back with his fist, socking the thing as hard as he can. It crashes into the sink and slides to the floor, sending more blood gushing across the tile like spilled paint.
"Is- is it dead...?"
Sam heaves, standing back up straight and leaning against the doorway. The stranger doesn't move, horribly still against the unforgiving bathroom tile. Sam definitely had a hand in killing this one, and this one was definitely human at some point. He presses the back of his hand to his mouth, trying to fight off the swooping nauseous feeling at the back of his throat.
Lyle decides that a better knife is probably a good idea, the broken handle of Sam’s shitty kitchen knife still in his hand, snatching the stranger’s weapon off the floor, backing away from the corpse. Well, good news, they could just put the other body in here. He also spies a small padlock key in the pool of blood, gingerly plucking it from the viscera, pocketing it. You never knew when you might need a spare key.
"I-- yeah, it-it's dead."
Lyle squeaks, hastily leaving the bathroom, leaning against the wall in the main room.
"I th-think, uh, this... is a different apocalypse from a zombie one." Lyle mumbles, shaking his arms to try and get the gross combination of ooze and blood off of them.
"Couldn't have come with a week or two warning, could it...?"
Sam replied weakly, examining the baseball bat. It has a decent sized crack down the length of it, and it would only get worse with use. He’s... going to have to use it again, isn’t he? He swallows, shoving his dread to the back corner of his mind.
"... I suppose now is a bad time to say that I haven't gone to the supermarket in a while..."
Not like Sam could afford much, anyways. His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of wood splintering on the opposite side of the main room, the second door bursting open, another one of those mangled humanoids that Lyle had fought earlier lurching out from the shattered frame.
"Christ, we have to go-"
Sam grabs Lyle's shirt and tries to haul him up, but Lyle is a bigger guy than he is. Thankfully, Lyle shoots to his feet without much effort on Sam’s part, surprisingly agile for such a large dude.
"R-Run!"
Lyle picks up one of the plates on the table, hurling it at one of the mangled humanoids as a distraction, sprinting after Sam, slamming the apartment door shut as a heavy body thuds up against it. Not wanting to stick around and find out if those things could open doors, he books it after Sam, beelining towards the safety of the older man’s apartment.
As soon as the big blonde trips past the threshold of his door, Sam closes, locks, and deadbolts it, though nothing comes to try and break down the door. Sam gasps for air, leaning his weight on the apartment door, his exhausted, labored breathing turning into wheezing, nearly hysterical laughter.
"We are... so fucked..."
He huffs with a smile that absolutely does not meet his eyes. Lyle isn't nearly as out of breath as Sam is, but he's still panting, the new, bloody knife trembling in his hands.
"O-okay. Okay, no more following bloodstains into strangers' apartments."
He sputters, taking a look out the peephole again, only seeing the empty hall stretching out on both sides.
"Th-there's gotta be others in the building that aren't... like that, right? It can't all be mutants and--and crazy people?"
Lyle tries to reason, but so far he’s two for two on getting stabbed by monstrous strangers.
"A-as for, uh, food, I-I have some, as well as some supplies, we just need to make it a floor down... wh-which... uh..."
Lyle isn’t optimistic about that right now. At least most people seemed to be staying in their respective living spaces, even the monsters. Right?
"O-okay... okay. Just... let’s take a second."
Sam practically slides down his front door, sudden exhaustion making his bones feel like lead. It might actually be more ideal to hole up at Lyle’s for the long term; it’s bigger and has more supplies.
"Oh, sh-- Lyle, your hands-"
The bandages are sliced to ribbons, and Lyle’s previous cuts have opened, sluggishly bleeding alongside the fresh ones, some nasty cuts on the heel of his palm where he'd grabbed the stranger's knife.
"Maybe, uh, we should... just take it easy until morning."
Maybe he could spend the night here. Lyle feels his stomach flutter, and he fiddles with the ragged ends of the gauze, shifting bashfully on his feet.
"Uh, m-might be a little much to ask, but c-can I crash h-here for the rest of the night? I don't think it's r-really-- safe to be out right now. Ob-obviously."
"Yeah, ‘course you can..." Sam glanced over to the body that was still covered by two trash bags. "... We should... probably get that out, though."
Right. The proverbial elephant in the room. Lyle peeks through the peephole once more, flinching as two of the monsters shuffle past, making their way towards the stairwell.
“Y-yeah, let me, uh, take care... of that."
“Be careful, uh, do you want me to-?”
“N-no, no, just give me a-a second.”
Lyle doesn't look confident, but he could probably just drag the corpse out without alerting anything, right? He adjusts some of his bandages so he isn't actively bleeding, taking a deep breath before hauling the corpse over to the door, practically chucking it to the side before slamming it shut, his heart rattling against his ribcage.
"Ca-can, um, I use your shower?"
Lyle asks once he stops feeling like his lungs are trying to squeeze his organs to death. He's absolutely covered in the viscera of two eyeball creatures now. Sam had managed to avoid anything more than a couple of splatters, but Lyle had gotten up close and personal.
"Yeah- uh, go ahead."
The older man murmured, figuring he can use a spare sheet and throw a blanket over the couch to make a temporary bed for Lyle, if the other man could even get any sleep after what they'd just been through. There isn't much “night” left anyway, it's close to 4 am.
“Are you two okay?”
Sybil’s voice rings from the wall, Sam flinching as he remembers his neighbor’s promise to check in on them.
“Define “okay”. We’re alive, but...”
He replies, watching Lyle shuffle to the bathroom.
“...What did you see out there?”
She sounds concerned, her eye tracking the blonde as he moves out of sight.
“You really weren’t joking when you said not to look outside...”
---
Lyle unwinds the bandages from his arms, the wounds still sluggishly oozing. He knows where the first aid kit is, but he could definitely get Sam to bandage him up again. First, he needs to shower and rinse his shirt out. He shuts the bathroom door behind him, taking a slow breath.
Only now does he let his obsession truly consume him. Oh, he's spending the night in Sam's apartment, alone with him, as an invited guest. He’s trusted , Sam is letting him into his space, his home, his life. Yes, the whole world is falling apart, but Sam is here, so close and so... interactive , something Lyle isn't used to in the slightest. This had always been a one-sided affair before, Lyle as the voyeur, Sam as his unaware obsession. Lyle had been satisfied with that, with the pictures, with taking the little pieces of Sam's life that he left behind. Now, Sam had touched him, seen him, reaching back through the aperture of Lyle's lens to view him back. Lyle knows he can never go back to being the silent watcher, separated from Sam by a curved lens.
Lyle lingers by the towels, the overwhelming urge to be a shameless pervert washing over him. He'd never get another chance like this. Careful to not get any blood on it, Lyle brings Sam's towel to his face, an unreadable expression darkening his eyes and bringing color to his cheeks. It smells like Sam, and Sam's soap.
Sam is kind of oblivious, but he's not stupid. He'd definitely picked up on Lyle's slightly weird behavior. Not bad weird, but... Sam finds it hard to believe that those lingering touches and longing gazes while he’d been bandaging Lyle up were for him , of all people. Occam's razor, though. Nothing else could explain it as simply. Lyle... has a crush. What the hell he sees in Sam, a washed up, middle aged NEET, is beyond him.
It's at least 15 minutes before the shower starts running, Sam finishing setting up the makeshift bed on his couch. Lyle is probably cleaning up his arms before getting in, right? Sam's towel is a little more rumpled, now. All things considered, Lyle takes a pretty short shower, most of the time spent trying to get the bloodstains out of his shirt, which he hangs over the shower rod to dry. By the time he exits the bathroom, most of his injuries had stopped bleeding, preventing anything from staining the towels.
He's draped the scratchy piece of cotton over his shoulders like a cape, trying to cover most of his torso. It's not very effective, Lyle is a big boy, and Sam only has small, shitty bath towels. While Lyle is far from ripped, he's certainly got a powerful build, solid meat under a thick layer of fat, soft blonde fuzz on his stomach disappearing below his waistband. He looks like a hockey player, actually, though sports aren’t his interest.
"U-uh, will you b-bandage my arms again? Please?"
Lyle asks, looking sheepish. He could definitely do it himself, but it would be shittier than what Sam had done, and also, Lyle wants the older man to touch him again.
Sam isn't so sure if he should ask Lyle about the weird behavior, the crush, to waltz right into an uncomfortable conversation regarding feelings that Sam might not even reciprocate. Or, feelings that Sam is misreading. He doesn't actually know, he hadn't particularly thought he was into men before this, though how his eyes were drawing down to Lyle's shirtless torso said otherwise.
"Uh-" He blinks, shaking his head- "sure- uh, you weren't cut anywhere else, were you?"
Sam fumbles, dragging his eyes up to Lyle's face, though they just keep wandering down . Obviously not, but it's an excuse for the staring, if a lame one. He opens up his bag and fishes out the first aid kit from before, pointing for Lyle to sit on the couch.
Lyle turns a bit pink in the face, Sam had been staring at him , the shutterbug unused to being the one on the receiving end of a prying gaze.
"Phhf- uh, n-no, I don't think so."
He sputters, realizing it had been a long, awkward pause of him not answering, shuffling over to the couch and plopping down, moving the towel to rest over his head, like the hood of a cape. Wow. The whole face-to-face thing is really, really different from what he was used to when interacting with Sam. His camera is resting on the kitchen counter where he'd left it before showering, the shutterbug itching to flick through the candids he'd taken previously.
Sam lets out a small grunt as he sits down next to Lyle, digging out a roll of gauze and medical tape once again. With Lyle's flustered reaction, he should probably quit staring before he encourages something he isn't sure he's ready for. He carefully wraps the big blonde's hands and forearms again after a brief wipe-down with some alcohol wipes. It’s much quicker than before, now that Lyle isn't actively bleeding everywhere.
Lyle really isn't slick. Now that they're out of an active life or death situation, it's pretty damn obvious to see that the guy has it bad for Sam, any doubts Sam had about who wiped away by Lyle's lovey puppy-dog eyes, the shutterbug trying not to fidget as his arms get wrapped up again.
"Okay, I, uh, I think that's good?" Sam rips the medical tape and tosses the rest of the roll back into the kit. There isn't much left in it after treating heavy wounds like that for a second time.
Lyle peeks out from under the towel, drinking in Sam's closeness, his touch, trying to keep the absolutely fucking smitten look off his expression. He fails.
"H-heh, uh, yup, un--unless you want to kiss them better too."
He blurts out before his brain can scream STOP at him, the big blonde pressing his lips closed immediately after, the pink in his cheeks tuning to a strawberry red.
"Hah--ahHAH, uh, that was a j-joke, uh--"
Sam snorts, shakes his head, and stands up to put the first aid kit back. That’s a "no," to the kiss, it seemed. Sam definitely knows it wasn't a joke, though he isn't sure what he’s supposed to do about it. It feels... nice, he figures, to be wanted.
Lyle grips the towel and pulls it tightly over his head, burning with embarrassment. "St-stupid ." He mumbles to himself, leaning against the arm of the couch. Trust him to have fucking foot in mouth disease as soon as he gets close to his crush.
“Uh... I know it's a weird time, but are you hungry?”
Sam doesn't really know what else to ask. He’s never hosted anything here, and guests were usually just his nieces and nephews for last minute childcare by his siblings. He stuffs the first aid kit back into the travel backpack. He doesn't exactly have anything... great in his fridge either, the sad TV dinners and frozen pizza bites all he could really get.
It takes Lyle another moment to register Sam's question, the shutterbug relieved that Sam had played along with the ""joke"", even if it blatantly wasn't that.
"Y-yeah, if you are." He answers, his voice cracking, the big blonde clearly still dying of embarrassment. He pulls himself together and stands, stepping lightly over to the kitchen, grabbing his camera for now. He's shockingly quiet on his feet.
"An-anything I can do to help?"
"Most stuff here is just- microwaveable, so..."
Sam doesn't need help. He closes the freezer door and nearly jumps out of his skin to see Lyle there. Quiet is an understatement, Lyle was fucking silent .
" Jesus -" Sam held a hand over his chest- "give me a heart attack, why don't you...?"
He huffs, tossing a bag of pizza rolls onto the kitchen counter. The only people that ate these at four in the morning were stoners and people who had lost control of their life. Which Sam definitely has. Lyle flinches as Sam startles, his finger twitching on the capture button of his camera. The flash goes off, capturing an accidental photo of Sam and the pizza rolls.
"S-sorry! Uh-- I'm a big guy, I-I just got used to walking qu-quietly..."
He admits, curiously looking at the photo he'd just taken.
"Oh- pfft."
He snorts with a little grin, Sam's perturbed face looking adorably startled. Lyle flips the camera around to show Sam. It's pretty funny, it looked like someone had just caught him stealing pizza rolls.
That gets Sam to crack a bit of a smile, too, though he was very quickly reminded of, well, the apocalypse, the smile disappearing as soon as it appears. Sam practically empties out the entire bag onto a plate and shoves it into the microwave. He doesn't really know what to talk about, he isn't sure if there’s anything to talk about, aside from the obvious.
"How are your hands feeling?"
He asks, gaze not wavering from the humming microwave. Lyle turns the camera off for now, preserving the battery. It'd been useful in their excursion, so until they could make the schlep to Lyle's apartment, he'd need to be sparing with the usage. At least he'd gotten a cute Sam photo already.
"They're... sore. Didn't really th-think I'd get stabbed twice in one day."
The shutterbug admits, leaning back against the counter.
"If I h-had a nickel...?"
He tries to joke, but it falls flat. No, the obvious apocalypse is making it a little difficult to be jovial or make small talk.
"What, uh, video games have you b-been playing?"
Lyle already knows. Sam had been playing that old classic, Super Jumplad. Lyle hadn’t quite gotten the appeal, but then again, he’d been more focused on Sam’s face than whatever was happening onscreen. Regardless, it’s something to talk about that isn't the end of the world.
"I mean, you can go look, there's only a handful left..."
Three. There’s three. Sam had narrowed it down to two games he couldn't bear to get rid of and the one he hadn't played yet.
"Used to have more, but... rent."
Lyle knows that too, he'd watched over time as the games on the shelf next to the TV dwindled down to near nothing. The microwave makes a weird sound for a moment, but continues humming.
"I can get you some- uh- Tylenol, if you want."
Sam offers, but Lyle shakes his head.
"N-nah, uh, you should probably save that in case we run into someone hurt worse."
He could bear the ache, and the pain meds would wear off. Better to save them.
"Th-thanks, though."
Lyle heads over to Sam's game shelf, sighing sadly at the empty spaces. Sam had looked so happy playing some of those.
"I-I like watching people play games in-instead of playing th-them myself, my hand-eye coordination isn't the greatest with screens."
Lyle comments, a half truth. He likes watching Sam play, and was always far more taken with the older man's face than the game. The way he said it was more likely to be interpreted as watching let's-players, though.
"I think- I think I have a few movies kicking around here, somewhere, if... if you wanna watch something."
Sam can only imagine the news is running on every channel right now, reporting on whatever the hell is outside. Unfortunately, though, Sam isn't nearly as organized with his movies as he was with his video games, the cases stacked haphazardly on the lower shelf.
"Sorry- I know- I know I'm probably not the most entertaining host in the world..."
Sam apologizes sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. He really has no idea that Lyle thinks he’s the most fascinating thing on the planet. Lyle crouches by the collection of movies, flipping through a few. Nothing really catches his interest.
"Ca-can I watch you play a game instead?"
He asks, picking up the case for the game he knows Sam is already playing.
"A-and you're the best host I've visited, honestly."
Lyle pauses, thinking for a second.
"Hehe, uh, the only host, too. Never r-really went to any parties or anything..."
No, Lyle had been a social outcast for as long as he could remember. In grade school, he was skinny, short, and the punching bag for every bully in the place. When he finally hit his growth spurt, gaining a foot and a half and at least a hundred pounds, sure, bullies avoided him, but so did everyone else, and that hadn't exactly changed until Lyle had moved in here and started meeting new people.
"Oh. Even if you got stabbed twice today...?"
Sam remarked with a dry laugh.
"If it t-takes getting stabbed twice to ha-have my first sleepover, I should probably get used to being stabbed."
Lyle replies, finally taking the towel off of his head, now that his hair was dry. It was a bit chilly, but Lyle's shirt was still wet and vaguely bloodstained. He'd pick up a new one if they made it to his apartment.
"I'd hardly call this a sleepover." Sam admitted, a slight smile playing on his lips.
"Best sleepover I've had yet." Lyle returns Sam’s smile with his lopsided, goofy grin.
"It's also the only one you've had..."
Beep, beep, beep.
The pizza rolls are done, and scalding hot. Sam wraps his hands in a kitchen towel and pulls the plate of ridiculously hot Totinos out of the microwave, setting them down to cool off, pulling his hands away from the plate as soon as he’s able to, hissing through his teeth. Yeah, hot.
"... Are you sure you want to just... watch me play? I don't think- I don't think anything I have right now is really fun to watch."
Sam isn’t used to entertaining guests over the age of maybe ten. Even while babysitting, the kids never stayed in the apartment overnight, and really, he couldn't blame them, the place was pretty shitty, but it was what Sam could afford. But he can't anymore.
"I'm sure, d-don't worry about it. It'll be nice to relax."
Lyle stands and heads to the kitchen to pick up the Totinos for Sam, since his bandaged hands also protected him enough from the pizza roll heat. Lyle does make sure to actually have footsteps this time, purposely shuffling his feet on the carpet so he doesn't jump Sam again.
In the meantime, Sam rummages around in the fridge for a couple of cans of store brand soda, bringing them over to the coffee table, rings on the wood showing it’d suffered through years of coaster-less drinks. No, it doesn’t seem like either of them would be sleeping for the rest of the night.
"... What do- uh- what do you usually take pictures of...?"
Ah, it was only a matter of time before Sam asked something like that. Lyle had mentioned something about the roof, but considering the photographer had made a detour from the stairwell and away from the roof access, it’s better not to dwell on that subject in particular. Lyle wipes the condensation off the rim of the can before cracking it open, wincing as his fingers protest the move.
"Ah, uhm..."
Lyle is glad he'd turned the camera off.
"It-it depends. I like taking photos of insects, b-but that requires a special lens for the small ones, so when I just have the Nikon, I-I uh, most of my pictures are, like, scenery. City sprawl and junk. A-and sometimes candids, of-of the people at the park."
Lyle does seem passionate about photography, though he's dancing around a very sensitive subject.
"Sp-spiders are my favorite bugs to take pictures of, they're always so... elegant in the webs, you know? And the little fat ones, the jumping spiders, those are really cute. Th-though, they're not insects so to speak, they're arachnids, but, semantics. Y-you'd call a spider a bug, and so would I."
Sam plops himself down on the couch, cracking open his own can, leaning forward to power on the game console. Sam doesn't seem so interested in the bugs, in fact, he looked, well... as most people would when talking to someone who just really likes insects- and not just the pretty ones. He doesn't interrupt Lyle, though, since the older man was the one who asked about it. At least it seems like talking about insects makes Sam want to drop the topic- or refrain from asking to see any of Lyle's saved photographs in the camera.
Lyle does seem a little disappointed when Sam doesn't engage with him about spiders, but that's nothing new to him. He knows his interests aren't exactly normal, and it’s better for Sam to think he's a freak for arachnids rather than a freak for him . Which, Lyle definitely is. He kind of trails off in the middle of his sentence, studying Sam's profile with the glow of the TV reflecting off his skin. Pretty.
To Sam's credit, he does try to maintain a conversation with Lyle while he plays, though he pauses a lot, and sometimes he forgets where he’s going with a sentence. Eventually, he gives up, focusing more on the game, which is more than fine for Lyle, it makes his staring less obvious to the older man.
The shutterbug makes a mental note to get a picture of Sam from this angle, if possible. All of his gaming snapshots of Sam are from over his shoulder, so a side profile would be new and interesting. He studies the way Sam's eyes flick across the screen, the way they narrow slightly when he's concentrating, the way Sam pushes out his lower lip and the tip of his tongue during particularly difficult maneuvers. Lyle really, truly, loves it all. He'd display a gallery of just Sam, if he could.
The few hours until sunrise pass like that, Sam concentrating on the game, while Lyle concentrates on him, the photographer in a dreamy state, the colors dancing on Sam’s skin hypnotizing him. Lyle wonders if the world has already ended, or if he’d died during one of the encounters, and this is his brain’s last hurrah before he gets sucked into death’s oblivion. The idea bothers Lyle less than he thinks it would. He’s happy.
Then, there’s a quiet knock on the door, just as the clock ticks over to 6:30, both men startling out of their respective flow states, glancing towards the entrance to the apartment.