Chapter Text
Waylon lived like some undiscovered cavern creature. A blind salamander, hiding underneath rocks in the dark and navigating through the inky black depths with wandering, unseeing eyes. All of the blinds were closed, every window was sealed, every door was locked. If there were any lights on at all, it'd be from the lamps scattered about the house, or from the bathroom, cool light leaking out into the hallway of the endless night of Waylon's home. Or the TV early in the a.m., the news, stark pictures illuminating the living room. Or Waylon's phone lighting up his sunken eyes and cheeks, texting to Miles, 'Could you pick up light bulbs for me?', or the infamous, 'I think there's someone in the house'. Waylon wasn't verbal. He didn't call anymore, didn't really talk anymore. He was content that way. Alone in his home. Safe. Quiet, with the only heartbeat being his.
It was another one of those days. Then again, every day was 'one of those days'.
A sufferer of waking nightmares, Waylon was subjected to staring into the darkness, fearful of the horrors he couldn't see, and terrorized by the ones he could hear. There were moments when he had thought about shoving something long and sharp into ito his ears, puncturing his eardrums. That way he wouldn't have to see what the light brought to him nor hear what the silence wanted to say to him. And as he sat up in bed, breath short and strained, his eyes swimming in the dark, he thought about it again. If he did that to himself, then surely Miles would step in, because eventually, he would find out, and use the moment to force him to go outside. To a hospital. Maybe the police. It didn't matter. It wasn't his house, either way.
The gentle whispers of his delusions grew erratic as he turned towards where he knew the covered window was.
Outside.
The world beyond his bubble. An ocean he used to understand how to navigate, now nothing but uncharted land in his eyes. Someplace vast and filled with unseen dangers. Someplace unknown, the ether. Someplace that wasn't meant for someone like him to explore.
Bzzt, bzzt.
Waylon's phone lit up his peripherals. His pale hand trembled as it reached for the device. Miles had texted to him,
'i'm outside'
Waylon bristled. He could hear the word in Miles' voice in his head. Every syllable, with the sound of people talking and cars rolling by in the distance. More messages came in.
'fuck, sorry'
'sorry'
'i'm at your door'
'ignore what i said before'
'i have all your favorites'
'and more light bulbs :)'
Waylon let out a deep breath that he'd been holding in. The promise of goodies always led him to the front door after Miles' slip ups. He knew his house, every turn, where every creak in the floorboards were, which enabled him to walk around in the darkness. No fumble or trip, straight to the front door, where the tiniest amount of light peeked in through the peephole. Like an eye, burning a hole into Waylon's face. He stared back. It seemed to wink. But as he watched the white eye, he noticed that, there was actually a shadow moving behind it. As he's done numorous times before, he carefully crept up to the door, pressed his body against it, ear hovering centimeters away.
"Miles...?" His voice was broken and cracked, but carried through to the other side.
"Hey," A gentler, smoother voice came back. "It's me, Way. Open up?" Waylon paused and strained to hear if the shuffling only belonged to Miles.
"...are you alone?"
"I always am, Way." His tone didn't break patience. The stagnancy stretched, Miles waiting for the moment Waylon determined it was safe. He unlocked all five locks, screwed his eyes shut and opened the door. His face was turned away so that not even the natural light could seep through his eyelids. Miles quickly slipped in and closed the door. The lock clicked. "Hey, dude. How do you feel? It's dark in here..."
"I'm... okay. Here," Waylon grasped Miles' upper arm and led him into the kitchen, where he turned on the light over the sink.
"Ah! There he is." They faced eachother, Waylon's ghastly appearance, and Miles' life-filled one. His smile was sad, but genuine, the sink's soft light filling up half the kitchen and his face. He even smelled like outside.
"Hey, I... Thanks for the stuff." Waylon's gaze drifted down to the bags in Miles' hands that he sat on the island counter.
"Shush. You're my best friend, Waylon. Don't thank me. I want to help you." It was unsaid, but still hung in the air, the fact that without Miles, Waylon would be as good as dead. He watched him pull out food and snacks, and light bulbs. The thing he had one of the most vehement love/hate relationship with. That and... and...
Waylon saw something flicker in the corner of his eye. Green dots, flashing in the darkness of the living room. He slapped his hands to eyes with a ragged breath.
"Way?" He listened to Miles' footsteps come towards him. His soft hands gripped his wrists.
"There's someone else in here..." How could they have gotten in? He listened and listened, and Miles was alone...
"What are you—"
"I'm turning off the light."
"Waylon." He pulled his hands away and strode over to the sink light and shut it off. There it was. The comfort. Like the darkness was warm, and hugged him constantly, yet it brought whispers with it, brushing against his ears. Then he wanted to do it again. Jab something long and sharp, right into his eardrums.
"I'm sorry, Miles. But thank you for coming. I owe you so much." He turned back, hands out to hold his friend's shoulders. Footsteps creaked from the living room. Waylon's heart picked up, his breath becoming shallow. "I... I don't want you to get hurt..." He started to push, and Miles stumbled.
"Waylon, hey! What are you doing, man?" Waylon didn't stop, pushing him all the way back to the front door. He yanked open the door with his shut eyes and shoved Miles out before slamming the door and locking it again. "Waylon? Listen, there's nobody in there. It's just your head fucking with you. Remember?"
"Remember what?" Waylon spat, his body heating up as his lip curled. Subconciously, he remembered. Perfectly.
"Please, Waylon." Miles' muffled voice wavered. "Let me help you. And I mean help you. You need to—"
"I'm fine." He scratched his nails against the wood of the door. "It's safe in here. I just... I just need to.... need to figure out how to get him out of here..." He struggled, trying to rationalize his own behavior.
"For fuck's sake, listen to yourself, Waylon!" His previous, patient approach dissolved. "You're torturing yourself in there!"
"Oh no, Miles. This is nothing like torture. Nothing." In that moment he could feel hands on his hips and legs, lips to his ear, the familiar word forming against his skin, but no sound coming out. He hated that fucking word. "Go away, Miles." His voice shook. "Please." The side that would usually feel bad, couldn't. He was too wrapped up in his apparitions that he couldn't even see that he was pushing away the one person that was literally his life support. Maybe he didn't care, if Miles one day decided he wasn't going to fight for him anymore, and let him waste away. Silence wedged itself between them. He could feel the tension squeezing him till his lungs felt like they'd give out.
"Okay, Waylon." His footsteps echoed from the front porch and down the steps, then where Waylon couldn't hear them anymore. He stood there as his body cooled off, leaving him glued to the door like hardened candle wax. He needed to go back to bed. After prying himself away from the door, he went back into the kitchen to put everything away. Then he realized... Miles had bought something else for him. The light came on briefly for him to see what it was. Pens, notebook, and a sketchbook. His throat closed up. When was the last time he'd written anything... The days bled together, he had no use to keep a diary, and didn't care to keep the lights on long enough to write, or even draw. But the sentiment was... it made Waylon's eyes burn. He didn't cry much anymore, coupled with the sink light. He switched it off, sniffling softly. He was such a dick. Quickly, he ran to his bedroom and pull out his cellphone. His thumbs hovered over the screen.
'I'm sorry, Miles' Waylon bit hard into his lower lip to stop himself from crying any further. He waited...
'Thank you for the gifts. I'm sorry.'
Nothing. Waylon knew he deserved it.
The nothing. And more nothing. And more nothing. And more nothing. Until he was staring back at the glowing green eyes in his hallway again.