NICKY GREEN WAS DEAD. 

No matter the ID's and the long expired psychology license and the clothes just worn that weren't quite ready for the laundry, Nicky Green was gone. No matter the half-eaten food not yet gone bad, or the water bill routinely paid for a shower drier than the glasses of water long since evaporated that sat on a desk devoid of any and all technology, Nicky Green wasn't here. No matter the TV hot enough to burn, that buzzed infomercials on a constant loop, the only light in the otherwise pitch black room, Nicky Green hadn't survived.

No matter the steady beat of his long broken heart, Nicky Green was dead; and he was never coming back.

The midmorning sun was no match for the blackout curtains that couldn't remember the last time they had been drawn, and the darkened room had to wonder if the overhead light would even know how to work if it were to be turned on; it hadn't been since the stranger had moved in, and that had been a long time ago.

The TV had long since become used to the painful song and dance whenever the stranger went to sleep, and there was seldom a calm moment whenever the stranger went to sleep, always fearing he would wake up and have a fit he couldn't calm from, even with help, having to let it run its course until it was over, leaving him worse than when he had gone to sleep.

That night, he didn't stir, not completely, at least. There had been false starts, and the TV had to wonder whether that was due to the lower volume it had been placed on; it had been lowered for some time, but after so long of constant noise, it was strange to have soft whispers rather than dull roars.

By the time the stranger began to wake for real, his body reacting to the time in ways his mind hadn't in far too long, every part of the small world he called his room was holding its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Just when things had been getting better, they had gotten so much worse, and it was as if they were back to the first months after the stranger had moved in; though, fortunately, not as destructive. It was the little things.

The stranger shifted on the bed, making the little sound he always did, starting to stretch. There was always a moment—just a brief whisper of a moment—when he woke without worry or reason, where the stranger knew and remembered nothing. Nothing of who he was, where he was, what was happening. Nothing of what had happened and who he had once been. 

Just pure, blissful nothing; but only for a moment.

Then it would all come back, not like a wave or a ripple, but in an instant—like a snap or a blip—as if there had never been the nothing at all, only ever the knowledge and the truth, as if he had never been given the small glimpse of hope to begin with.

It would be then that he would flinch, curl in on himself and tense, as if trying to block out the world more than he already did, as if squeezing his eyes shut would make the blackout curtains hide more than just the sun, but the rest of existence, leaving him alone in the small room he tried so desperately to make safe; but the only safe place wasn't in this world, or another, so all he could do was try.

But this time was different. He still flinched and curled and tensed, still squeezed his eyes shut and hid under the covers, hiding from the world the way a child hid from the dark. But this time was different. For the longest time, he feared he would be right, that when he opened his eyes, he would be forced to accept that his mind hadn't lied, that it wasn't all a bad dream.

Now, he feared he would be wrong.

This was not a brand new fear, but new enough for the room around him, who had known nothing but his old fear for years. It was as new to him as it was to them, and it was understandable that he had yet to let himself believe in it.

He began to shake and cry, eyes still squeezed shut, curled so tightly it was a wonder his bones didn't break, so tense that the headache he had gone to sleep with returned in full force, all buried under the blankets and away from the rest of the world.

Except for one.

"Hey," a voice began, still groggy from sleep, alert, softer than the volume of the TV, "Hey, wake up, baby, wake up. What is it, another bad dream? Hey, hey, listen to me, I'm here. Open your eyes, baby."

The stranger shook his head furiously, hands fisted in the front of the shirt belonging to the voice—a shirt he only wore so the stranger could cling to it during his fits—openly sobbing, eyes still screwed shut and stinging.

"I'm here," the voice repeated, shifting himself and the stranger so they were sitting up, the stranger in his lap, "Baby, please look at me, I promise I'm here. You're not dreaming, I promise."

The stranger pulled his right hand away from the shirt, fisting it even tighter in his left, shaking as he struggled to grab hold of the top of his opposite hand, pinching the skin and twisting, stifling his sobs to search for the pain, desperate to feel.

"Stop that," the voice said, pulling the stranger's hand away with his own, lacing their fingers together, "Baby, please."

"I didn't get to feel it," the stranger sobbed, finally speaking, and the voice could only sigh, looking around the room, as if he could find an answer just beyond the bed.

"There are ways to tell if it's a dream besides hurting yourself," the voice said firmly, taking the stranger's other hand in his own, pressing a kiss where the skin had been twisted, "You said clocks don't work right in dreams. Look at your clock."

"No," the stranger sobbed, knuckles white, "I can't look yet. Please, just let me feel, it's not even that bad, please."

He was twisting and turning, and if he could, he would have been scratching his arms and tugging his hair, legs kicking every which way, and it didn't take long for the voice to crack; the pain he felt watching was nothing compared to the pain the stranger himself was feeling, and he didn't need to pinch himself to know.

"Okay," he whispered, his left hand empty as soon as he released his hold. 

He watched the stranger push up his sleeve, bending his arm before grabbing the flesh near his joint and twisting, eyes fluttering slightly at the pain. He did it two more times, though he hardly held on for even a second for each, then finally let go. His hand rested idly in the air, debating where to go, but the voice took it back in his own before the stranger could make a decision.

"I'm right here, baby," the voice whispered, his right hand still entwined with the stranger's as he moved to stroke his cheek, "Open your eyes."

It took half a minute of deep breaths, three false starts, and multiple flutterings of still-closed eyelashes before olive green eyes finally met with dark brown. Green eyes flitted across the voice's features that oscillated between concerned and comforting, looking up from the shadow of a smile to rest back on the voice's eyes that were fighting against tears.

The voice himself didn't stray from the stranger's eyes, unsure of what he was searching for, but unable to look away. His hand raised once again, his thumb tracing over the deep-set crows feet where there used to be none. His thumb trailed down the stranger's cheek, ghosting over the laugh lines that hadn't seen action the way they were supposed to; it had been three months and the voice had yet to hear the stranger's laugh.

According to others, the stranger didn't have a laugh, only an imitation of the one that had died with half the population.

There was another term for laugh lines, but the voice refused to acknowledge it; he refused, because the moment he did, he would have to face another potential truth, and he wasn't about to accept that one without proof.

The stranger didn't need to ask for the voice to know what he wanted, it was clear enough with the way he was swaying and how restless his eyes were; he had a headache and he needed to lie down.

The voice reached out towards the floor to grab the bottled water and ibuprofen, handing over the two pills and the open bottle, cap still in his hand. The stranger made a face, though it translated as nothing more than a twitch of his left eyebrow—years earlier, when he actually could, it would have been a raised eyebrow, a grin, and rolled eyes—but took the pills anyway. 

The voice held up his hand before the stranger could pull his lips from the bottle, and the stranger's shoulders slumped ever so slightly before he proceeded to drink half the bottle, though it took a good deal of effort. 

Years earlier, the sigh would have been an extreme, fully body experience, the sound filling the room, face contorting into different expressions as he downed the bottle with practiced ease.

But whether the stranger had tried to do that and failed, or if he didn't even bother, he drank the water and handed it back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and that had, for the most part, yet to change.

The voice guided them both down, lying sideways on the bed, tangling their legs together with an instinctive ease; it could have been described as practiced, had it not been years since they did just that.

He wrapped an arm around the stranger, his other hand coming up to cup his cheek, both their eyes falling closed as they leaned forward to press their foreheads together, breathing in unison, slow and deep, the stranger's hands moving to mirror the voice's and do the same.

The stranger opened his mouth, but the voice cut him off, eyes still closed. "Don't even say it."

"But—"

"Don't," the voice intoned, opening his eyes and taking the stranger's hand in his, squeezing, "Don't even think about saying 'I'm sorry,' you don't have to and never will. Not for this. Not for anything like this."

"But what about—" the stranger began, but the voice held firm.

"We'll cross those bridges when we get there, and we'll both know when we do. For now, just—Just don't. Please." The voice's eyes were pleading now, and the stranger could do nothing but agree, his sigh as deep as his breathing.

"Are you going anywhere today?" the stranger asked, moving back to trace voice's features with his thumb, his other hand drawing patterns into the voice's back, though neither knew what the drawings were of.

"No. I'm not gonna see Sarah for a bit, things are still settling down, and there's nothing they need me to do right now," the voice replied, glancing down at his shirt when he spoke of 'they,' his shirt advertising the Air Force, worn and faded.

The stranger worried on his lip, and the voice waited for him to gather his thoughts and worries and speak; the voice had endless patience, at least in regards to the stranger, and it served to make the stranger feel both infinitely better and astronomically worse.

"Could you—I mean, would you want—" the stranger huffed, face contorting into a fierce grimace before relaxing, exhausted almost instantly, "Are you staying here?"

The voice's expression softened, and he shushed the stranger before he could begin to ramble; the stranger too tired to ramble well, but he would if he felt he needed to; fortunately, he didn't need to, not with the voice.

"I am staying here," he said, leaning forward to press a kiss to the top of each of the voice's cheekbones, just below his eyes, "There's nowhere else I'd rather be, and I know I'm free to leave whenever I want, but I won't."

He didn't mention that he would leave whenever the stranger wanted, or ask if the stranger even wanted him there; they both knew the answer, and there was no reason to get the stranger riled up for nothing; the voice knew what they both needed, and the stranger didn't have enough in him to try and hammer out specifics.

The voice could be trusted, and the stranger needed to rest, so pretenses, pleasantries, and proper people practices were foregone and forgotten until further notice.

Time didn't exist in the room, though the stranger glanced at the clock regardless, because the voice had told him to, and because he wanted to know. Whatever he saw had him sighing and hiding his face, his heart beginning to race, and the voice could only try to help.

"Hey," he whispered, running his rough fingers over the most sensitive part of the stranger's face and hands, trying to ground him, "It's okay. There's nothing to worry about, you don't need to do anything today. Everything can be sorted out. Just breathe."

The stranger did as he was told, though he still writhed and kicked, restless under his skin. "I know, I just—Rhett and Terran aren't allowed to know anything because it's a security risk, so they're just as clueless as we are, and it's stressing me out, and the work with the complex is even harder now that everyone is back, and until things get sorted Nat's not allowed to come and help us, so we're trying to pick up without her, and we don't even know how she's doing and—"

The stranger was shaking now, and the room wondered whether he had started crying again or had just never stopped, and the voice rocked him gently in his arms, shushing him between the light kisses he pressed to his temples, cheeks, and hair.

"I was getting better," the stranger sobbed, jerking forward once he did, as if all that had been keeping him together suddenly disappeared; it wouldn't be the first time.

"I know," the voice whispered, heart aching, "I know. And you were doing so well, I know you were, they all told me. You were just starting, I'm so sorry this all happened—"

"No!" the stranger cried, and it was like he'd been shot, "Don't say that, it's not because of that, it's not! You didn't—I never want to go back—This is what I wanted, but I just—"

"I know, baby. I know," the voice soothed, because he did know; the rest of the world was in the exact same boat.

The voice watched the clock as he whispered sweet nothings and gave feather-light kisses, clutching the stranger to his chest. It took half an hour before the stranger finally calmed, though it was more due to exhaustion than genuine reprieve, though it was enough to keep him sated.

The voice gave him another fifteen minutes before he finally broached the subject. "How about we take a shower, princess, okay? I can make us breakfast and we can just lie in today. Maybe load the dishwasher?"

He bit his tongue when he felt the stranger stiffen, and he rushed to compensate. "But that's not important. Forget I said anything, just...shower and breakfast. Does that sound good?"

The stranger hesitated a moment before giving a tentative nod, avoiding eye contact. He glanced up when the voice smiled, tongue peeking through the gap in his teeth, and the stranger tried to offer a smile of his own.

The voice refused to think about the smile. He let himself look, admire, love, but he didn't let his mind wander. Didn't think about how there was only a hint of the smile in his eyes, how the edges of his lips trembled at the strain, too unused to even the smallest of smiles, how it would have fallen instantly if he hadn't made an effort to keep it.

Didn't think about what that smile used to be like.

Instead, he adjusted his grip on the stranger, moving to brace his feet on the ground before standing and making their way out of the room. Neither tried to show their surprise when the door opened and the loft wasn't waiting on the other side, instead turning right and making their way down to the door at the end of the hall that led to the bathroom.

Neither commented on the different shower knobs, or the curtain rather than a sliding door, or how their shampoo was in a cheap metal basket instead of on a built-in marble shelf. They didn't think of how the space of the shower had never been an issue because no one had expected more than one occupant at a time.

They didn't think of what it meant that the expectation had been accepted at all.

"Just lean back," the voice commanded, taking the shampoo bottle out of the stranger's hand.

"I can do it," the stranger protested, though there was no heart behind his words, body already leaning back against the voice's chest.

He had been struggling to keep hold of the bottle, fingers heavy and numb, struggling to open the cap, and the weight on his shoulders and arms was too great for him to even reach the top of his head if he wanted to, ready to lie down at any moment.

He wasn't proud of himself, but he was too tired to argue against help.

The voice hummed to fill the silence, and the stranger sighed as shampoo was lathered and massaged into his scalp. He shivered and tried to relax as the voice picked up the bath soap and continued down, massaging his shoulders and rubbing his arms, pressing kisses to the side of his neck every so often, hands steady and secure when the stranger began to sway.

"Just relax...just relax," the voice sang, and the stranger choked back a sob, fresh tears springing instantly, and he trembled as the voice held him close, leaning to kiss away the tears that fell.

"It's okay, princess, I'm here. It's okay," the voice whispered, moving them back under the shower head, "Close your eyes."

The stranger pursed his lips to fight back his sobs and gasps as the voice's fingers carded through his hair, rinsing him off, and the voice tried not to think of how long it had been since the stranger had been properly held, what it was like going from constantly touched to nothing at all then tightly held so long after.

Neither spoke when the voice stepped out on the rug, drying himself off quickly before taking the other towel and wrapping it around the stranger as if he were a child, lifting it only briefly to get rid of the stray droplets in his hair before fastening it tightly.

"Can I go get our clothes?" the voice asked, though they both knew what he was truly asking: "Will you be okay by yourself if I leave? Will you break down before I get back?"

The stranger nodded, not trusting to speak, and the voice pressed a kiss to his temple before rushing to the room, leaving the door open. His footsteps were purposefully loud, opening the bedroom door with a flourish and making a racket as he searched for clothes.

The stranger would sob if he knew he wouldn't fall.

Instead, he turned his attention to the mirror. He wiped the fog with a shaky hand, staring blankly at the face that reflected back.

Olive green eyes highlighted by the perpetual dark circles of chronic insomnia and the raw, red rims of one who continued crying long after the tears had run dry and dehydration was more than a distant fear. Wrinkles and lines long since set and hardened, lips chapped with dried blood from cracks and peeling. A nose that had seen three trips to the E.R. and a fresh bruise on his cheek from an altercation he refused to disclose.

He raised a hand to his jaw that was still sore from a different altercation, and for all he tried, he couldn't help but remember what people always said to him, what people always noticed when they saw him.

"You're just not made to frown," people would say, "Your jaw was made for smiling."

Even back then, it had hurt to hear. But back then, he had been able to smile much easier. Whether there was love in his heart or pure hatred, he always knew how to smile. How to crinkle his eyes to make it seem genuine, how he had been able to fool everyone in his life, sometimes even himself.

But he couldn't anymore, and hadn't for years, and no matter how hard he tried, how much strain he put, how many pencils he clenched between his teeth to even try and trick himself, there was no finding that smile.

Now, his smile was as much of a stranger as he was himself.

"Sam," he called, hating the desperation that clawed at his throat as it tightened, wondering how much time had passed since he had last heard a sound from his room, "Sam!"

"I'm here," the man called, all but crashing into the door, still hopping into his sweatpants, another set of clothes in one hand, "I'm sorry, baby, I got distracted, I'm sorry. Here."

The stranger took the clothes, mumbling apologies while cursing at himself, hating the fierce burn of his face and the debilitating fear he had felt, avoiding his reflection as he chucked the towel and pulled on his clothes, harsher than necessary but purposefully cruel.

"Hey," Sam whispered, moving to stand behind him and take his hands, resting his chin on his shoulder, "Don't do that. You know it's not fair. I said I wouldn't let anyone be mean to you, and that includes yourself."

The stranger sighed, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, too tired to even cry. "I'm just..."

"I know," Sam replied, pressing a kiss to his ear, "But we'll get through this. Now, c'mon, let's go make pancakes."

He pulled away carefully, fingers brushing over skin before he separated himself entirely, giving him a pointed look before heading back the way he came, passing by the bedroom to the other end of the hall to the kitchen, living room, and front door.

The stranger continued to stare in the mirror. Tried to find some familiarity in the face staring back, but he couldn't even describe what he was seeing; not a shell, not a mask, not even a shade. Just a stranger. 

Then Sam. "Nicky! Come on, princess, I'm not doing all the work."

The stranger blinked, sparing himself one more glance before heading out, heart weighed with validation and conflict. He still didn't know how to describe the man in the mirror, or who that man was, but there was one thing about the man he knew for certain.

The stranger in the mirror was not Nicky Green. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE

( 03.29.21 )

So this is not the most conventional of first chapters, I must say, but I honestly had no idea how I was going to start this (choosing the first sentence was more difficult than choosing what university I was going to) but I don't hate it and it did what it needed to, so it's fine.

I initially was gonna have Sam be "the man" rather than "the voice" but I described his first line with "a voice" so I thought I might as well describe him as such, because it's also more interesting than "the man," but it doesn't have as much weight as Nicky's "the stranger" does, but that's fine...

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!