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Apartment
When they got the news they would be sharing an apartment, they didn't know how to react. Miles resisted a little, but he didn't have the strength to say no. There wasn't a choice in the matter - this was the only way their therapy could be carried out.
They were both struggling, but at least this way they could see that they weren't alone.
Bracelet
"What is it?" Miles asks.
"A friendship bracelet," Waylon answers, voice soft and creamy in the blue afternoon light. After a moment, when he feels his response wasn't enough, he tries to compensate for it: "My therapist wanted me to give them to everyone in my support system. So I can have a visual reminder."
Miles looks down at the beads tied onto the string, loose and pale. When he makes no move, again, Waylon feels the need to babble, "You don't have to wear it, really..."
But after he's walked away, Miles slips it on.
It feels right on his wrist.
Cold
Waylon gets sick a lot. Miles doesn't.
Maybe it's the Walrider, somehow cleansing Miles, keeping him safe: [what's the good of a sick host?] Or maybe Waylon's immune system had given up completely, finally, like the rest of him.
Either way, every time Waylon would stay curled in bed with red cheeks and red nose and red eyes, Miles would be there with a cup of coffee and some Advil.
Dishes
It was incredible that something so domestic could hit so deep.
Most of the time, they ate takeaway, but when Waylon did cook, it was always good. And watching him gently scrub the dishes in the sink, haloed by the window before him was the most peaceful thing Miles could do.
East
The sun always rose in the east. At least that was constant.
Miles' room had a south-eastern window, so if he stayed in bed long enough, the warm morning rays would find his face. This should've been getting harder and harder to do - each day, the sun rose a minute or two later, but he could never seem to find the energy to get out of bed early anymore. He had once been prolific - it had been the nature of his vocation - but he'd lost his purpose now. All he had to do was get up, take his pills, suffer through the day and crawl back into bed early.
Miles sometimes thought of his room like a church. Oriented to face the morning sun, housing God. [Miles had died for Murkoff's sins.] Waylon wasn't a religious man, but sometimes he would come crawling to the alter that was Miles' bed, murmuring softly of his sins and begging for forgiveness, from Miles, from Lisa, from anyone who would give it to him. These extraordinary moments of weakness were something that Miles kept close, and although he knew it was immoral and wrong, he would sweep Waylon up into his bed and act like he had the power to save Waylon's soul.
Still, it was nice to roll over in the early morning and find Waylon to his east.
Face
Miles often felt like a blind man. It was as if Waylon was moving in another language, one that Miles was far from fluent in. The planes of the blond's face were an foreign substance to Miles; he didn't understand the pitch of the eyebrows, the twinge of the lips and the flicker of eyelids. Not yet.
So the journalist fumbled his way around, words serving as a cane while he tried to decipher the figures laid before him. All he wanted was to touch Waylon's face, to be the reason those soft lines shifted.
But he wasn't ready yet.
Waylon was patient.
Guilt
Waylon heard Miles cry.
It wasn't a one-time thing, but the first time it had happened, Waylon had been frightened. Miles was the strong one: he'd dealt with depression before, it wasn't his first time having a therapist. The thought of him reduced to strangled sobs in the middle of the night broke Waylon's heart.
He knew it was his fault. He'd sent him in to Mount Massive with little warning, no warning, really, and then made his job irrelevant by escaping on his own. Miles was filled now, clogged up with something visceral that neither of them could see. Waylon had been part of that too - even if he didn't understand it all, he knew he was part of the reason the Morphogenic Engine was up and running.
But it was too late now. Miles wished that Waylon could harbor some hate for him, instead of just that pathos-stricken guilt that always overcame him. Miles never asked to be someone's pity case.
But the pain in Waylon's soul never ceased.
Headache
in my head and in my blood and in my brain in my head my head my head myheadmyheadmyhead -
Being the Walrider's host is hard.
It hurts Miles a lot - that kind of pressure is more than any human should have to endure. Neural receptors at the height of his spine, rewired and twisted into something he didn't know. His body, metamorphosed into a hideous factory; an experiment with no one to monitor its progress. He doesn't realize the power his habitant holds.
So all he can do is try to tell Waylon he's fine and lie down, hoping for the hanger-on to go back into hiding.
Imitation
Waylon and Miles could pretend to be normal, sometimes.
It was cute, how they could blend so easily into a crowd. Even if it was just a façade, the public didn't recognize them. They could do such mediocre things - grocery shopping, lunch in a café - pretending they hadn't a care in the world. Living lives that were fake, a mockery of what they really had to go through. But when they were outside, Murkoff didn't exist, and nor did Lisa or the Walrider or any of their sources of horror.
Sometimes they held hands. Miles liked having them hidden in his pockets - the fingers were a bit of a personal issue - but Waylon would get lost in the sea of people otherwise. They looked like a perfectly normal couple, and the journalist found some irony in that. He could fool people into thinking that he'd obtained the one thing he could never truly have.
He was sure Waylon didn't see it that way, but he didn't mind pretending.
Jacket
They left Leadville with the clothes on their backs.
Miles had been unconscious, scavenged up by some rescue squad, found passed out in the front entrance. He looked like a civilian, so they saved him. He was in the hospital unconscious for a few days, and he couldn't remember much in the beginning. A few weeks after he'd moved in with Waylon, he got back everything he'd had with him at Mount Massive - his clothes (someone had gone through the liberty of washing them, although their condition wasn't great) and shoes, his journal with all of his notes and records of the documents. Not his camera, though, it was probably lying broken far beneath the asylum, left to fester with everything else in that godforsaken place.
Waylon watched him unpack the parcel, lifting his jacket slowly and turning it over. It had fared a lot better than most of Miles' other belongings, although the sleeves would be permanently bloodstained. His mother had given him the coat as a gift before he went off to college and it had seen him through thick and thin; he was glad it had made it out of Mount Massive in one piece.
He's never told Waylon this, but he can tell through Miles' mannerisms how much this means to him.
Kiss
Only in the dark of night. Accompanied sometimes by soft words, or else by silence. Key board strokes would slow, bodies would lean together, stomachs would knot. Hot breath was stolen from lips. Hopes were kindled before being snuffed out.
Always kept quiet the day after.
Losing
This was a game, Miles knew that. A game that he was bound to lose. But it was worth it, still.
He'd been too late to the starting line, that was it. Lost to a woman he'd never met. Lisa, he knew Waylon's words, Lisa loves me. He wasn't trying to be selfish, but it was hard to lie to himself when he felt Waylon's lithe frame leaned hard on him. Waylon wasn't likely to agree with him - surely, he would always favor his wife over Miles.
They were nothing - two broken men trying to get their lives back together, that had been forced into proximity. Miles had never asked for any of this, but now that he was in, he wouldn't get out again.
And oh, how he hated losing.
Midnight
In the darkness before the dawn, slow movements were made. Nightmares would fade, pulses would slow, lips would mouth silent assurances, repeated over and over again.
You're alright. You made it out. He's dead, he's gone. You're safe. You're alright. It's over.
But when words weren't enough, they would sneak, quiet as a mouse, down the hall, just to see that they were not alone.
Skin looked milky in the moonlight, no matter whose it was.
Nap
Sleep was a luxury that Waylon and Miles could hardly afford. Nights were infinitely long, and hardly ever spent sleeping. Nearly every afternoon, they would be drained, ready to crash. Even closing your eyes for ten minutes could make a difference, or so it seemed.
Sometimes Waylon would come home after therapy and Miles will have nodded off on the couch, nose buried in a pillow, TV playing quietly in front of him. [Often the travel channel, Miles liked pretending he could get away.] Waylon would lower the volume and the blinds and step as lightly as he could into the next room.
Or sometimes it would be the other way around - the technician would work on his laptop at the table until he passed out, hunched forward awkwardly, head resting on the space bar. Miles wouldn't just leave him like that - most times, he'd find the strength in him to lift the other man, even if it was somewhat haphazardly, and carry him down the hall until he was nestled safely in the tangle of blankets on the bed.
They both knew how bad they needed it.
Obvious
When Miles got drunk, he couldn't watch his words as carefully as he usually did.
However, if he was drunk to this point, Waylon was often much farther gone. But although the journalist's tolerance was higher, sometimes he would drink alone, and Waylon would be left to watch him descend into unconsciousness, slumping around the apartment with an unlabeled bottle filled with dark liquid. He'd drunk until he passed out a time or two before - Waylon understood it kept the nightmares at bay, but it seemed a hefty price to pay. But it wasn't his place to cut in, so he sat on the couch, watching his consort dull his brain with strong liquid.
Miles was a sloppy drunk - his mind would loosen to the point that words would slip out, stupid words that he didn't necessarily mean. Most of the time, it was nothing bad: he would stumble over to Waylon and hoarsely tell him things he would never admit to in his right mind.
But even if he didn't say these things when he was sober, it was becoming obvious.
Prism
Waylon had gotten a little gemstone somewhere. Miles never found out exactly where, but one day when he returned from a therapy session, it was there, perched before the window. Pale purple, translucent. Every morning, when the sun shone in, little shards of refracted light would dance through the stone. For the brightest part of their day, the apartment would be permeated with tiny rainbows.
The first day this had happened, Park had been sitting in a chair with a computer placed on his lap, and a tiny sliver of color had fallen right over his heart.
Quarrel
The fights (when they happened) were bad.
Sometimes they forgot that they had been strangers one day and roommates the next. Worse than that, Miles had reason to host wrath towards Waylon - after all, he was the reason the journalist only had twenty six years of quiet sleep and a full set of fingers. There wasn't much use arguing over who had it worse, because it had been bad for both of them. But Miles had something inside of him now, something neither of them could fathom.
They would argue. There were things that they did that irked the other to no end. Usually it was Miles instilling the battles, but it was never anything too bad. They knew how to fight, they knew how to leave certain things unsaid. The attacks were never personal, and even if things said stung at first, they never stayed mad for long.
Rush
Miles was always ready. Waylon was not.
There was no rhyme or reason behind it, Waylon just always seemed to be running late. Someone with his degree of education must have half-decent time management skills, or so Miles thought, but he still found himself glancing at the clock every other day and reminding Waylon, "Hey, doesn't your therapy start at 1:30?" And he found himself smiling as tawny eyes widened and the blonde whirled around gawked at the time, ripping back the blanket over his legs and struggling to find a coat.
But Miles never minded.
Smoke
Waylon had never liked the smell of smoke before. Always found it clogging, sticking to the inside of his nose and trachea. But there was something rather endearing of seeing his roommate leaning out the window late at night, a cigarette perched between two fingers.
Waylon learned to like it.
Tee
The laundry hasn't been done in a long time. It's cold around the apartment, and Waylon only brought a few sweaters with him, all of which are in the wash. He's wrapped himself in a blanket on the couch, wondering when the cycle will be done.
Miles comes out of his bathroom, dressed for the day, pills in one hand and water in the other. "Park?" he asks, seeing the smaller man swaddled tightly. "Are you alright?"
"Just a little cold," Waylon tries to dismiss him, pulling his laptop a little closer.
But Miles can't stand to see the technician shivering like this in just a tee shirt. He is clement in the morning and turns back to his own room, returning a moment later with one of his own sweaters in hand, tossing it to Waylon. He looks stunned for a second and Miles blatantly says, "Take it. I don't want you to freeze."
He's out the door before Waylon can say anything more - probably off to get breakfast or whatever he does most mornings - and the blond looks down at the garment in his lap for a second before slipping it over his head.
It smells like Miles.
He never gets it back.
Umbrella
Autumn was the rainy season in Leadville. It was cold rain, too, falling down on the far side of the mountain. The weather was indefatiguable: you'd think it would let up after a week of constant precipitation, but it didn't seem that way.
It was depressing, just staying around the apartment. It got the both of them down, watching rivulets shiver down the panes day after day. It was their therapist's recommendation to get out, too - even if they got soaked, it would clear their heads.
Waylon's atmosphere was darkened to blue with the mood the weather set. He'd say he was going out to get some groceries and come back soaking wet, freezing cold and empty handed. He'd sit there and shiver until Miles forced him into a hot shower.
The next time he said he was going out, Miles followed with an umbrella, walking close enough for their arms to brush.
Vain
Vanity was a luxury Miles could no longer afford.
Waylon noticed this. At the beginning, the journalist had been well-dressed, well-groomed, well-rounded. He'd seen his image on his website - Independent Journalist Miles Upshur.
But that man was gone. The first time they'd met, he was almost unrecognizable.
The clothes that he'd brought in were mostly nice - crisp jeans and slacks and pressed dress shirts. Two boxes of extra contact lenses. More pairs of shoes than most men possessed. But all Park could do was watch as Miles slipped - hair going unwashed for near weeks, a scruff of a beard residing on his face, dressed in sweatpants two sizes too big for him and an untucked dress shirt with too-few buttons done up.
But Miles was still handsome, even if he couldn't see it.
Whisper
Miles is silhouetted in Waylon's doorway some time in the wee hours of the morning.
"Park?"
"... What?"
"... Are you alright? I... I heard you yell."
"I'm..." A long pause. "Yeah. Just a nightmare."
Miles doesn't want to go back to sleep. He's been restless all night. "... You didn't take your pills tonight."
Waylon takes a long time before answering: "I - I thought I didn't need them."
There isn't much Miles can say to that. He stands there for what feels like centuries. Waylon probably just wants to go back to sleep - bury his face in his pillow and smother away the thickness of the outside world. But the journalist stays there, looking like the lonely shadow that he knows he is. Finally, his voice leans out to Waylon, a little hoarse: "You're sure you're alright?"
"I'm alright."
And even if nothing more comes of this late night back-and-forth, it warms Waylon's heart to know that Miles cares.
XXX
There was a muffled grunt and a, "Don't stop..."
They couldn't remember how it had been initiated. It had been a long time coming, at least in Miles' eyes, but he'd never been sure it was going to happen. It had began on the couch, he thought, and once they'd started, Waylon couldn't stop.
Miles had been nervous - more than he should've been, probably - he didn't want to do something that either of them would regret. He knew too well about Waylon's family; that wring on his finger felt cold every time they held hands. But, to Miles' complete surprise, it was Waylon whose hand started on his thigh, it was Waylon who leaned over and pressed his lips to Miles', it was Waylon who crawled onto Miles' lap, pulling at his hips with want.
It wasn't fair, but god, was it good.
The bed creaked below them, Miles' bed, skin was hot on skin, and Miles' breath was hot on Waylon's back. The blonde's face was pushed into the mattress but he wanted to see Miles, he wanted to know who it was granting his pleasure. It was Miles, Miles, Miles, wringing through his head enough to make him dizzy. The heat between his legs, the sounds coming from behind him, the feel of Miles' front on his back - it was all too perfect.
Miles never wanted this moment to stop. It wasn't that he was only interested in fucking Waylon (the night and morning after was incredible, too. He could get used to waking up with Waylon naked in his arms...) but it was so good too. It had been so long... Miles couldn't remember the last time he'd slept with somebody but it definitely hadn't been like this.
It was Waylon's first time with another man, for sure, but he was loving every second of it.
Yellow
That was Waylon's color, Miles had decided long ago. The color of his hair and his clothes and his eyes in the soft morning light. His essence, chiseled down to the pure elemental form. It was blinding, every time Miles looked at him. It filled his senses, it rushed through his veins right to his heart.
Yellow was sometimes soft, intelligent, friendly and warm. Miles could bask in the light because when Waylon was happy, he shone. That rich yellow hit Miles' eye's nerves before any other color, heating him from the inside out.
But yellow could also be a warning. When the tone got too bright, to concentrated, and Miles could understand that he'd done something wrong. Waylon voicing his discomfort would be a prodigious feat, and Miles didn't like the game he was playing. There would be no way to tell if this yellow was warning him or if it was just matrixing, if his eyes needed to refocus to get the clearer picture.
Waylon left a big blueberry stain on Miles' vision when he went away; it changed the way Miles saw things.
He shouldn't have held that much power.
Zero
It was all over too fast. Days had blurred together, routines had become habit. They seemed to think that Waylon was well enough to go home now. And Waylon seemed to think he was ready for that. After all, he still had his lovely family, waiting to welcome him back with open arms.
So he was prepared to just up an leave. Had Miles just been a source of recourse, nothing more? Their weeks together, their months, were swept into the dustpan and forgotten over the course of the afternoon.
Miles knew this was the inevitable, but it still felt like a shock to him. He'd gotten so caught up in the inertia of it all; having Waylon just a room away was natural.
But now he was gone.
Leaving Miles with nothing.