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DEATH was often eager to catch his accursed soul in its tender embrace, its arms outstretched as the blades of Hatred Incarnate sunk into his back or a chainsaw ripped through his flesh in a brilliant eruption of red, red, red.
It never became easier—dying. Knowing that his deaths weren’t permanent didn’t ease the fear that gripped his heart each time, didn’t soothe the human instinct to avoid death out of fear of the unknown that lie beyond. Guest had never bothered to count the number of deaths; he knew it would begin to drive him mad as the instances grew and grew, with no end in sight. Now, weeks into the endless cycles of the so-called Spectre’s games, he’d found his hope faltering—flickering like a candle burning by an open window, threatened with each lick of wind.
What was the point?
He’d torture himself with this question after a failed round, surrounded by the defeated faces of his fellow survivors—his friends, brothers-in-arms, lover. Guest could accept his own deaths, freely exchanging his life in the hopes that someone else could survive. He would salvage inspiration from the corpses of his comrades strewn about the map, force himself to play aggressively so each and every effort meant something. But there was always a moment—one where he’d stumble across Elliot’s body—and his heart would sink to his stomach, an anchor into the fathoms of a toiling sea. And for a moment, his hope would wither, for what was the point if he couldn’t protect his partner when he’d needed it most? What was the point if they’d have to watch each die over and over again, bleed out in each other’s arms, stuck in a fickle cycle of life or death…?
Tomorrow.
That burning desire for another tomorrow, another memory to be made, another chance to spend at each other’s side… That, coupled with the dream of escaping this torment, was what drove Guest in his darker moments. When succumbing felt like the easier choice, it was this that made him take one more step, even if that step directed him to this familiar path once more.
“Guest—!”
It pained him to be the reason that Elliot was making such an expression—perhaps even more than the claws piercing through his body.
Red binary code floated in his vision, dancing with the black corruption spreading from the wound. John Doe had always been brutal with his methods of extermination, but Death often came swift—a small mercy, he liked to think.
“R—” The word was expelled from his mouth on a gush of crimson; his second attempt reached for Elliot’s ears, a strangled plea: “Run.. Elli…”
It was his own fault. Poor stamina management and skill cooldown: the main causes of survivor deaths. His only option to protect Elliot was to use his own body as a meat shield; the others needed him more—depended on his pizza to bounce back from the brink of death. And Guest… It was never in his nature to stand by and let someone get hurt.
Elliot seemed hesitant to leave, his logic demanding that he obey his partner’s dying plea while his emotions begged him to stay.
“GO!” His gruff shout drew another blood-laden cough. “I’ll wait..for you…”
John Doe forced Guest to his knees, pressed the sole of his foot into his back, and pried his body from his claws. A soulless performance, lacking in joy despite the smile etched permanently onto his features.
Darkness crept into the edges of his vision as he laid upon the grass, each blade and grain of dirt greedily soaking up the growing pool of his crimson. Through the muffled ringing in his ears, Guest could hear the thundering steps of the killer fading into the distance…
His hands felt cold as he began to lose sensation in his fingertips, his eyelids growing heavier with each blink, languor pressing his eyes shut. With each shallow breath drawing closer to his last, a memory reached for him—a familiar touch caressed his bloody hands with a tenderness belonging to only one.
“Your hands—they’re freezing.. Maybe you should hang out by the fireplace, warm up a bit?”
Elliot often pointed out how cold his hands were. He would take Guest’s in his own, using it as an excuse to lace their fingers together, or to gently blow on them and dust his knuckles with butterfly kisses. Elliot’s hands were always warm, a result of constantly working in the kitchen he assumed. They were smaller than his own, fingers slender and with callouses in odd places or tiny old scars from where he’d cut himself on a pizza slicer or dicing veggies.
“Trying to get rid of me, hm?” Guest tugged Elliot into his arms, embracing him from behind and burying his face into soft, golden hair. “I have a perfectly good handwarmer right here.”
Even without seeing him, he knew that Elliot had rolled his eyes. Vengeful, Guest slipped his ice-cold hands underneath Elliot’s hoodie, earning a shudder and a reprimanding “hey!” in response.
“Play nice, or I’m kicking you out,” Elliot took Guest’s hands and shoved them into his own hoodie pocket instead, “I’d rather you keep me and these cookies company. They taste better when shared, you know?”
“Of course,” he pressed a chaste kiss to Elliot’s crown. “It’s probably all of the love you put into them. People can taste that kind of thing.”
“I’ll put extra in yours,” he promised, turning his head to return the affection upon Guest’s chin.
“I can’t wait, love.”
They had shared in each other’s company that night, Elliot baking cookies—something that had come as a pleasant surprise the first time—and Guest soaking up his warmth. They hadn’t spoken much once Elliot had started preparing the batter, but the words weren’t necessary. There had been no hurry to finish anything or get anywhere, no pressure to train or prepare, nothing but a steady companionship—a silent promise that neither of them were going anywhere, that it was just them.
It was only a slice of time, but it had been theirs, wholly and completely. Such domesticity in spite of the horrors they faced daily… In the moment, Guest had hoped it would last forever—that he and Elliot would be able to live like normal people, worlds away from this.
Maybe it was a pointless thing to hope for—a dream that could never become tangible. Not in this place.
And yet, as Guest drew his last breath, he felt those warm hands caressing his own once more, and a familiar voice beckoning him to the same wooden ceiling he’s woken to countless times before.
“Welcome back, love.”
This tomorrow had been worth the sacrifice.