Chapter Text
Noel guarded his eyes from the sunlight that streamed in through his window. The spattered glass left freckle marked shadows on the room, dizzying him as he blinked through his early morning haze. It was a Tuesday. There was work to be done on Tuesdays.
His routine - he hobbled out of bed, keeping his shaky limbs stable with a heavy hand on his furniture, then, cane in hand, he fed the cat. She was spoiled rotten, but a good cat. Turned the stereo on. Ran the kettle for tea. Two mugs. One, an old one made of enamel, and another, slightly newer, made of ceramic, with a friendly dog painted on the side. He filled the mugs. Two sugars in each. A bit of cream in his own. Brought them back to the bedroom on a tray for delivery. Never a thank you in return for his labor. Not that he ever minded.
Then, he turned on the radio, its sound crackling to life in their bedroom. They had on some pop shite, Madonna, maybe, but his brother didn't seem to mind, so he left it on. He let it play, the hum of her voice glowing in the cramped room. His tea was too hot today. It scalded his tongue as he rested again on their bed, his tired limbs not able to keep up with him anymore.
He got up, slowly, to feed the chickens. They weren't too picky, they ate up whatever leftovers he's had from the week. A boy glided by on a bike. He was running late for school. The bike was red.
Red, red, red.
Enough of that.
The little village he'd grown up in grew thrice the size of what he'd remembered it being. Houses were closer now, his father's farm long taken over by new houses of middling size. People averted their gaze from his own house, though, and he was never sure why. He was friendly, he said hello, he smiled, but maybe they saw it, too. They saw the rot eating it up inside.
Tuesdays were important because Tuesdays were for cleaning.
So, Noel cleaned. He scrubbed the walls for as long as he could stand then he scrubbed the floors for as long as he could kneel. A thick grained bristle brush and a bucket of harsh soap followed him as he dug deep into every crack and crevice of his little house. He took a heavy cloth and wiped the windows, splitting the oceans of deep dark film that coated their glass. It was methodical. It was maddening. But it had to be done, even when his vision wobbled between his tears. He scrubbed, and kept scrubbing. But it always came back. That stuff, the blackness that oozed from every pore of the house like it was alive and afraid of dying. Never touched his brother. Never would let it touch his brother, who was so innocent, but it burnt a circle around his bed. That sickness, that blackness that hid in their walls, was his alone.
He'd had countless renovations, practically rebuilding the little hut from the ground up over decades of him living in it. The floors, once just existing as plain dirt and stone, were now hard wood panels, their interlocking pieces still too slippery to him, sometimes. The walls had been redone, the roof replaced, and he'd gotten electricity installed, albeit through a lot of griping, some ten years ago.
The goal was selling it. That goal had gone neglected for a long time, with Noel having grown tired of hearing the same empty promises from strangers with posh accents and reptilian smiles. He was born in this house, so he'd die in this house, ta very much. And besides, the muck that dug its claws into the very foundation of the little house would never retract. Surely it'd haunt whoever lived here next. Surely it wasn't Noel. It wouldn't follow him. It wouldn't follow him.
He lit a candle. Its hazy vanilla scented glow sat atop the table as he set it for dinner. He cooked simply, never having bothered to learn how to prepare anything more complicated than bangers and mash, so he fried twin eggs and plated them easy. Their yolks oozed that rich sunflower color.
Nausea threatened him in every bite. He sputtered as he forced himself to swallow the last of it, throwing his fork on his plate in protest after. It clattered lamely on the plate in the silence of the kitchen. He coughed back a wet sob, and the tears burned his throat as he coughed harder, harder, 'till it wrecked his whole body, twisting his throat and tightening his lungs.
The mildew, that sick, had finally sunken into him, too, had burned holes into his skin and ate him from the inside out. It didn't look how it did on his father. His father, so full of rage, had been red and shining when he was sick, his skin tight and thin over his skull as if it were held back with a clasp. No, in Noel it looked closer to mold, the skin around it dry and crackling. Bruising black and gray swatches enveloped the soft parts of his flesh, climbing through him. It didn't hurt. That was the strangest part. The blooming mold over his skin never hurt. Noel wondered if death was meant to hurt. If he was so far from human that the most human thing, death, was wrong for him, too.
The stench of death hung heavy in his house. Try as he might, he could never quite cleanse himself of it. He bathed three times a day if he could help it, twice if he couldn't, and still the stink of rot, so familiar to him, now, still it was over him, heavy and suffocating. He wore perfumes, some nice ones that smelled of flowers, but it was there, tugging the lavender smell down.
After the scrubbing, he settled into a chair, facing the bed. Facing his brother. He cracked open a journal, pulling out a pen and starting slow, again, as he did every day. It was a recommendation from an old friend, for him to to write his thoughts like he were talking to someone. His thoughts were mostly scattered bits of information. Big drifting clouds of memories that dripped out of his pen and onto the paper, quickly smeared by his hand because he's long given up on keeping the pages clean.
When he wasn't recalling days that had long passed, he'd write letters. Love notes. Simple phrases of affection and devotion that would only kiss the empty air in his mind had he not written them down. They stayed in his journal, bound with leather and tied after, to sit on his nightstand until the next time his thoughts were too big for his mind.
Then, his guitar. He played for himself, little tunes of joy, and he sung over the notes in his broken voice, clouded by age. He could sing of pain. He'd had plenty in his life. But this isn't where he poured his pain, this is where he poured his joy. Pain couldn't serve him. It didn't do him well to ruminate for too long. His voice wasn't all that powerful, especially not any more, and it was nothing like his brother's.
He coughed again as another note failed to escape him, and descended into another fit, dizzying him. The guitar fell to the floor, a cacophony of sour notes ringing out from its old strings as he pulled back his hand and found little droplets of blood.
Red, red, red.
He took his cane in hand and made his way to the bathroom. Coughs continued to harass him as he walked, he nearly fell, they rattled him so hard. More blood, in the sink now, big crimson spots congregating in the ceramic bowl. He withered at the sight of little webs of black climbing out of the sink's throat.
A cough wracked his body again. He could barely stand as he choked out a thick gag and spat another gob of blood into the sink. Suddenly, he felt very light headed and dizzy. Tiredness overwhelmed his thinning bones. He took his cane in hand and, slowly, made his way back to bed. Just wanted a little lie down.
He tucked his cane back up against the night stand and eased himself onto the bed, its springs complaining under the weight. God, he was really so tired. He laid back, his head on his pillow, and curled himself around his brother.
Just a little kip. Then back on his feet, had to - had to feed the chickens, was it? No, had to… till, maybe. No, no farmland anymore. Had to - had to sleep. Had to sleep, just for a bit.
He closed his eyes, and peace kissed him for the first time in decades.
Back in his brother's arms.