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Yesenin's arm hung slightly off the couch arm, hearing the quiet ticks of a clock- it was long past even when Nikolai went to bed, and he still found himself awake. Every part of him aches, forced to sleep on a couch that had no comfortable place to lay. He wouldn't complain about it thought; not like anything could be done, it was still better then laying on the floor.
His thoughts were interrupted as the sounds of footsteps went above the ticking clocks, and the door to the living room was slowly pushed open. He raised his head, a low questioning tone from his throat as a man stood there; sunburned skin with clear lines from the glasses he wore. He normally felt bad for the poor bastard; came at the wrong time.
He didn't say anything when he came in, silently stepping towards him. "Yeah?" Yesenin questioned, raising his head more, "Tired of the bathroom?" Silence. Not a word as he continued closer. Yesenin straightened up, ready to ask more- until suddenly the man lunged at him, climbing on top- and his hands wrapped around his throat, nails digging into the side of it.
Yesenin squirmed beneath him, hands grabbing at his wrists, trying to pry him off- to no avail, it didn't do a damn thing, his strength was near inhuman. Looking into the mans eyes, who's looked almost dead, it was clear- he isn't human. He was a visitor; and Yesenin was going to die.
He scratched at the hands that only pressed harder on his throat, the only sounds he could make being struggling gasps; he couldn't scream, couldn't call for help. He never thought he'd be murdered; in a way he thought when he died it'd be with a rope around his neck, for once his feet not touching that ground. That he'd decide when he died.
He was wrong.
And it was terrifying.
His vision began to blur, feeling blood trickling down his neck from where the nails dug in, the pain from the press on his throat. For a moment it seemed like this man- this things face would be the last he'd see.
That was, until he could faintly hear the door slam open, and in a swift movement the butt of a gun was brought down, slamming on the mans head and sending him to the ground, blood splattering partly on Yesenin's face from the hit. He gasped sharply, hand going to his own neck as he coughed; and heard the sound of the gun right next to his ringing ears.
He looked to the man, the one who let him in, the one he could never understand how he could take a gun and shoot a person-
But seeing that look in his eye, he understood. The way his hands were trembling, the blood that had splattered onto his turtleneck, the body he shot now laying still; he was terrified, and this was exactly why.
The homeowner slowly raised his gaze, and let it fall on the man. He stared for a long second, before walking out of the room in silence. Yesenin's eyes slid to the body, blood staining the floor, his head gone; the force of the gun having insured that. He felt like he could throw up.
He tore them away, curling his body up further, one hand covering his mouth while the other stayed on his neck; feeling the warm blood that still flowed from where the nails had dug in.
Eventually he heard steps again, eyes darting that way- to find the homeowner, now without his gun, other things in his hands he couldn't make out easily in the dark. He flicked the light on and stepped over, putting his hand- that had a wet rag in it- on the mans knee. "Show me your neck," he said dryly, his eyes near unreadable.
Yesenin hesitated, until the man repeated himself- and he begrudgingly gave in. The homeowner leaned closer, eyeing the skin that had already begun to bruise, still able to hear the hoarseness in his breaths. One hand went to Yesenin's chest, the other dragging the rag over, ignoring how he tensed and partially tried to move away. Red quickly stained the rag, and he knew he couldn't get it to stop bleeding easily- but none the less it let him see the wound better. "I don't have anything to cover it." He didn't have anymore band aids; he'd just have to clean it up.
The homeowners eyes dragged up, to the mans face. His face had turned pale, eyes still wide; still seeming to be processing what happened. He raised the rag to his face, the man jerking back- before the homeowner grabbed him by the jaw some, "You won't like what you see in the mirror. Let me get the blood off."
Yesenin was quit, before finally forcing himself to speak as the homeowner ran the wet rag over his face, "Know from experience?" All he got in response was an affirming hum. The homeowners gaze was focused, enough so many would shrink under it; to hide from the way he looked at them.
Yesenin bit his inner cheek a bit as the homeowner pulled back, the rag partially red- and he looked back to the body. The homeowners foot tapped, before eyes flicked back to Yesenin; before he sighed through his nose, tossing the rag back at him, "…You can go stay in my room." He spoke flatly, "I need to clean this up."
Yesenin stared a long moment; they both knew the stains of blood wouldn't leave the floor; or their minds. Yesenin slowly rose up- and hand hesitated before finding it's way on the homeowners shoulder, "…Thank you, my good man." For the invite? The saving? Maybe all of the above; but he needed out of that room.
He made his way out with slow but long steps, hand moving to the wall to keep himself up as swung by the kitchen, taking one of the mans beers; he hoped he didn't mind, but he needed something in his system.
Dragging his feet to the bedroom, closing the door behind him- but even a closed door didn't feel safe, not after that. He fell to the bed, holding the cold beer to his forehead and dragging the rag over his neck, letting in a pained breath as tears began to go down his cheeks-
He still didn't know how he managed to do it; but he was damn thankful for the man. Yesenin wasn't sure he could have done the same, to hold a gun to another persons head and shoot-
He pitied the man now, that he has to go through that. He could hear the shuffling outside, the opening of a trash bag- by morning, they'd be bagged up. After sundown, the bags would be gone; Yesenin never bothered to ask what he did with them. He still didn't want to know.
Fuck, he felt sick.