I can never get comfortable here. ‘Here’, as in out on the balcony, and ‘here’, as in this flat. Half the time I'm expecting Emile to come bursting up the ladder to the balcony and through my window, and the rest I'm restless for one reason or another, jumping between problem after problem in my mind until I exhaust myself. Yet I still blame the environment when I should be blaming myself. It’s not the fault of my flat that I can’t sleep, or the fault of the quiet that I can’t think, it’s my fault for enabling those tendencies in myself in the first place. If I didn’t get so dependent on Emile’s presence maybe I would be fine right now. Maybe I would be able to do my fucking job. Maybe I wouldn’t be so disgustingly into all of the danger he gets himself and me into, and maybe, just maybe, I’d be a tiny bit more normal. Fantasising wasn’t something I even did before I met Emile, but now whenever he’s gone, I can’t help but imagine all of these stupid things about him and me. It makes me feel sick afterwards how I could ever enjoy thinking about it, but I come back to it time after time like an addict chasing some fucked up high.

Chasing a distraction, I take a cigarette from the packet I keep in my coat pocket for nights like these and my lighter, and I let the flame burn away at the ends of the rolled up paper. I’m not a regular smoker by any means, but it’s something to keep your hands occupied and your mind steady. And if nothing else, it helps me breathe a bit less shallowly. As I take a drag I watch the smoke pool into the air in wisps of foul smelling smoke and I immediately regret my decision to do this. I really don’t enjoy it. If it weren’t so late maybe I would go and do something else, something more productive, but sleepless nights like these don’t have much of a remedy besides distraction, even if said distraction makes me feel sick.

I sluggishly put out the disgusting nicotine stick and breathe out a big, long sigh trying to return some fresh air to my lungs. Suddenly, as I do this, I hear the clink,clink, clink of bootsteps coming up the service ladder connecting to the balcony. Doing a double take I peek over the railing to see a mass of blonde hair and the scarlet red of a loose shirt flapping in the gentle breeze, whipping softly around who could only realistically be… No, he’s all the way over in Lincolnshire. He couldn’t have made it back already, could he? “Hey!” I call in a whispery shout, straining my eyes in an effort to confirm what's being hidden by the dark.. “You’re, um. Not really meant to be climbing up that!” “Oh, come on, Frances. Since when did you actually care about me droppin’ in like this?” His smug, chesty voice, carried up by the wind, finally registers. Emile clambers over the railing and sits himself in my other deck chair, one I set up for when he decided to make his surprise visits via a needlessly dramatic entrance. I can’t suppress a slight grin-grimace making its way onto my face. “Hello.” I breathe through slightly gritted teeth. Smiling wide and proud, Emile adjusts himself in his seat and half-whispers, “Hey, darling.”

Leading Emile inside I head directly for the kitchen to turn the heating on, listening as he rambles about whatever interesting things he saw on his tourist trip. “They ‘ave the most beautiful cathedral, Y’know,” He called through the room. “That’s one of the few places I didn’t steal anything from. Not worth the money.” I chuckle as I finish with the heating and go to turn the kettle on, making us both some coffee. “You, feeling too in awe to steal? Who are you and where’s the real Emile, hm?” Warm laughter fills the room as I bring our coffee to the sofa. Emile takes his mug and inhales deeply, taking in the rich scent; I’ve always bought the more expensive brand between us so he always takes his time to appreciate that it’s significantly better than the cheap shit he buys. I take a slow sip before putting the mug down. I immediately notice Emile’s hand on my thigh. “Not gonna ask why you’re up this late,” He sympathised, gaze locked on my eyes. “But if you need anything, I'm here.”

As much as I hate to admit to needing the help, I’m not going to complain at such a generous offer. Company would be nice… “Well, a distraction would be… helpful.” I mumble back, half embarrassed despite the many years of needing said distractions, but the embarrassment all but dissipates when I see Emile’s eyes light up. I can practically see all the ideas going through his head as he inches closer to me. In the build-up to these evenings any disgust I might feel at myself for the kinds of things we’ve done disappears. “So,” he whispers deeply and softly in my ear. “What were you thinking?” Suppressing a shiver I know would be telling, thread my fingers through his hair and lean back into the sofa to make up for how weak my legs go. God, how am I meant to speak when just the lowering of this man’s voice sends me speechless? “I… don’t know. Do you have any ideas?” I feel his laugh against the side of my face, making my hairs stand on end. “Tons. Maybe I could go through ‘em. See what you’re… in the mood for.”

Christ.

“Well…” I stutter out, feeling the heat creeping into my cheeks. “I wouldn’t exactly, um. Protest that.” Emile smiles, amused. “Alright. Well, there’s always me doin’ all the work, since you’re oh so tired.” He teases, making me immediately sober from the blushing mess I was becoming. I laugh despite myself. Emile jokingly glares at me and gently pats me on the cheek, then snugly wraps his arms around me. “Okay then, you lazy bones, you do all the work and we’ll see where it goes.” Trying to wriggle out of his aggressively affectionate grasp, I can’t help but cackle a bit at the absurdity of being called a lazy bones by a known murderer. I don’t have much time to dwell on it before he starts softly pressing kisses to my neck. I laugh even more at how his lips tickle. That lovely bastard. “Oh, is that funny, Frances?” He manages through his own giggling, chasing my lips until I’m on my back and struggling to catch my breath. “Hah, Emile - this is so unfair-” I begin, but it’s seconds between the words leaving my mouth and his fingers interlocking with mine, pinning me. He pants softly with a prideful grin on his face as he watches my cheeks and ears turn scarlet red.

I watch as his eyes scan over my face searching for any hint of hesitation, and when he finds none he leans down and presses his lips to mine. It doesn’t take long for me to reciprocate. He’s gentle, careful and slow and it makes my head spin and my whole body relax as his grip on my hands loosens in favour of knotting them delicately through my hair instead. It feels like someone’s replaced Emile and taken over his body, kissing me with his lips but with a softness he’s never possessed. As soon as I start to believe I could stay here forever, Emile abruptly stops, and he looks conflictedly at me with his auburn eyes. His gaze and the sudden ending to that moment send me into a bit of a daze. “You sure…?” He whispers, barely audible above the buzzing of the fluorescent lightbulbs. Whatever TV show we were going to watch plays on forgotten in the background. Breathlessly I blink myself back to reality and the world slowly fades into existence again. I whisper back, willing myself to remember the English language, “I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.”

As Emile nods silently I tilt my head. “Are you sure?” I whisper and cup one side of his face with my hand, tracing his rough skin with my thumb. “Yeah, you just… you weren’t feelin’ great, I don’t wanna rush-“ I feel myself go rigid at the reminder, limbs tensing involuntarily. After such a lovely moment I desperately do not want to go back to that again. I need this to last. Before he can do anything, say anything, ruin this with his concerns, I lunge forward and roughly kiss him, dragging his face down to my level harshly. Just the way I know he likes it. Our lips clash, all tongue and teeth, and it takes a moment for Emile to reciprocate. He bites after my lips for a couple of seconds before forcing himself to pull away in shock at himself and in awe of me. “Ah.” He mouths as best he can with wide eyes and gaping lips, any thoughts he may have been having entirely forgotten. Blush spreading over his face, Emile tries very hard not to let his eyes, or his hands, wander. With a newfound confidence I let my hands manoeuvre up the back of his shirt and I watch smugly his expression shift, eyes slipping closed seemingly involuntarily. He closes his mouth and refuses to open it as I slowly run my fingers up to his shoulders, briefly digging my nails in gently.

“You’re awful…” Emile murmurs through gritted teeth and a terribly suppressed smile. “If I’m so awful, then what does that make you?” My hands reach his chest and this makes his legs give, and he sinks down to my level, his weight pressing into me and his head resting right by mine. I go in for another kiss, ready to spend the rest of the night like this, and-

Bzzt bzzt.

The sound of my phone ringing, set to the noise of an old rotary phone like the one in my childhood home, brings me completely out of the moment. Emile all but launches up like he’s been caught on a heist, muttering a disappointed “Seriously…?” Under his breath. Sighing I sit up as well and let it ring on and go to voicemail. I check who it is, just for it to be a ‘friend’ from work. Why the hell is he calling me so late? Emile slumps down to rest his head on my shoulder. “You know some weird people, y’know.” I nod, picking up my phone to check the time. “Well, we have been here longer than I thought. I need to be up in… an hour, give or take.” Emile glances towards my window, registering the sound of the early morning traffic. A faint light shines in from the many cars driving past.

“That was Jason, by the way.” I stand up, stretching my arms to ward off the ache I’ve accumulated over the last few hours. “You met him last time you came in for a…” I trail off, not entirely sure how to soften my language around someone being brought into custody for being a repeat offender. “Visit?” He helpfully finishes for me. Looking far too smug, he leaps off the sofa and struts towards the balcony. I narrow my eyes at him. “Use the door. Seriously, getting in and out like that is really suspicious.” Chuckling, he walks back over to give me a quick kiss on the cheek before his departure. “Too ‘Romeo and Juliet’ for you?” I huff, swatting him away with my hand and smiling softly as he blows me a kiss from the door. “No, you’ll get arrested. Again. Now get out of here before I turn you in.” “Fine, fine.” Emile opens the door, flashing me a wink which just makes him look a bit stupid. For all of his charms, Emile can’t wink for the life of him. “See you later?” He asks as more of a statement than a question, and before I can even answer he gently shuts the door, the sound of his boots echoing back down the hallway.

My smile fades as I’m left alone again in my flat, only the quiet noise of the TV and the roaring of the traffic outside keeping me company. The cold doesn’t return, though. Instead, it’s replaced by a calming warmth as I look at the discarded mugs of coffee on the table, signs of more life than just me having been here. It’s a lovely thought to know that, unconventional as it is between us, I’m not completely alone, and I won’t be for a very, very long time.

Michael’s frustration only grows, and I feel him grasp my hand tighter as he listens to her, trying to stay as calm as he can. His face betrays him in every way possible. She looks guilty for intruding. She says she’s sorry, and Michael disrupts her “I don’t care that you’re sorry. Look, just- give me and Isaac some privacy for a minute. Please.” He doesn’t sound like himself when he’s angry. He sounds like hot coals rather than a blazing flame. Antasia leaves, and we’re left alone again. I look at Michael and he looks at me. “Isaac… I know you didn’t mean to,” he speaks in that soft tone of voice I know him for. “But I need you to be more careful. If you ever get like that again, just stay away from doors.” He’s being reasonable. He’s being too reasonable. He should be annoyed, or angry, but… he refuses to be angry with me. “I’m sorry…” I mutter. “I thought… it was you. Thought I was in another room…” He hugs me. He is burning me alive. “I know.” He whispers so quietly, then he lets me go. He takes the tea from my hand. “That’s burning you, isn’t it? You need to stop doing that.” I nod, and press my face to his shoulder. “Maybe… she could stay… just for a bit. They can’t see her… and she said she needs help.” Michael glances down at me, muttering sarcastically, “Aren’t you being considerate today…” He shakes his head. “Sorry. But you know that’s not safe.” I nod. I glance at Antasia through the doorway. She’s pacing, looking so guilty, moving her hands in elaborate motions to herself. “But… it’s kind, isn’t it…?” Michael looks at me like I’ve just opened his eyes. He sighs, running his hand down my arm, gentle and light. “Yeah. It would be kind.” He stands up and walks into the hall, and he says something to Antasia that I can’t hear. But she looks relieved. I guess we have a new roommate.

There’s a knock on the door.

I don’t answer. I won’t answer. I want to be left alone. I stay sat on the floor, my eyes closed and the curtains drawn. The door is locked. He can’t get in, no one can, and I won’t let them.

There’s a knock on the door.

Again. He won’t leave. Why won’t he leave? Why does he want to be near me so badly. I don’t understand him. I know he can see me through the door, see me turning away from it. He knows I want to be left alone, he always knows, but he ignores it every time. He speaks to me when I can’t understand, holds me when I can’t even feel him, stays with me when I want to be around no one. And he never tells me why.

There’s a knock on the door.

I’m starting to get tired of that sound. That repetitive knocking, mocking me in a pattern of 3 sharp sounds. Maybe I should just answer… that way I can tell him to leave me. Yeah. That’s a good idea.

There’s a knock at the door.

I answer it.

It isn’t Michael. It’s someone I’ve never met before. I thought I was opening my bathroom door… but this is the front door. Oh my god. I answered our front door. Standing in front of me is a woman with so many scars it hurts to look. She has no eyes. But she has been crying. I can tell. And she can tell I have been.

Michael comes over to me, looking the woman over. He whispers to me, “Isaac… what are you doing…” I can’t answer, before the woman speaks. “Oh my god, I’ve been looking everywhere for you two! You need to help me, I-“ She looks behind her, her smile of relief being replaced with a frown. The sky is staring directly at her, with all of its eyes. Michael drags her inside, closing our door shut and locking it. He looks at me with wide eyes, and I look back with an empty gaze What did I do…?

Michael knows me so well it’s unbelievable. Though he never looks into my head, yet he’s figured out almost everything I’ve sworn to keep hidden, everything I would never have let come up to the surface without him around. In a way, it’s healing. I never had to say a word, but I’m still not alone in my problems. That was something I’d always dreamt of before we met. He gently pokes me on the cheek, muttering, “Still with me?” It’s then I notice I’ve gotten distracted. I shake my head. “Yeah… still with you…” though it doesn’t come out very convincingly. I feel him frown as he presses his face against my neck. He’s so close to me… “We’ve been through this. you don’t need to pretend. I won’t be upset.” Michael whispers in that gentle tone of voice he only ever saved for me. I don’t feel so cold when we’re like this. “Want me to keep talking?” He asks, combing through my hair with his hand. He keeps catching knots with his fingers. I nod silently in response. “Did you know… my first ever job was in an archive.” Michael mutters. I can see him doing that. Researching and studying is exactly the sort of thing he likes. “Yeah. I helped out the head archivist with her work, followed up on things for her. She was… an interesting woman.” Head archivist… where have I heard that before? Has he talked about this before and I’ve forgotten? “This is the first time I’m telling you… don’t worry…” He speaks like he’s reading my mind. I can’t feel him doing that, though.

He trails off from speaking and just holds me close, pressing soft kisses to my neck. He doesn’t know quite how much I love this, spending late nights together and blocking out the world. It’s so easy to forget what’s going on outside when it’s the two of us. Or maybe he does, and he just hides it well from me. He could probably hide anything he liked from me. But he doesn’t. He just talks to me. And we ignore the world out there for a couple of hours, ignore his visions and my fog. And we just… exist together. I would say it’s beautiful. But I’m too tired for that…

But then, Michael got braver. He took more chances, tried to find more joy in the mundanities of our little town. He stopped crying with me, and started crying for me. He tried to bring me into his inferno, warm me against the freezing sea air. It didn’t work, of course, I know now that it never would have. I’ve always been far too connected to the sea and the rain to ever become as bright as him, too cold to even start to try. But this was when he started to blaze so bright that it hurt to look in his eyes. He could cast aside all of his horrible, torturous visions of pain and anguish, all for one afternoon at the park, one evening spent watching the sunset and gazing up at the stars.

I never saw any of this, though. I didn’t see the point in seeing any of this. Why leave my ways when they were so imbedded in who I was, so rooted in who I presented myself as? Why try if it was so likely I would fail and end up right back in the fog, staring aimlessly out to the ocean without a thought? Michael has tried so, so hard to make me see what this means. It means I’m giving in, I’m actively letting myself freeze when theres so many ways to melt the ice. But there’s always one thing he doesn’t take into account. Maybe I’m just… okay with that. Maybe it doesn’t bother me.

It wasn’t long before this all began that I found myself at the shoreline. I sat far enough that the ocean couldn’t touch me, but close enough that the spray of the water could sting my eyes. It was a cold, cold day, and it was so foggy that I didn’t even see when Michael ran over to me. He asked me, his voice shaking, “Isaac, what the hell are you doing?” And I answered, “I don’t know…” Slowly and precisely I tried to force the words from my throat. It hurt. It really did. The sea air was almost choking. Michael didn’t make me leave. He sat next to me, he held my hand and he tried to see what I could. He stared out to the ocean, and he tried to see into my confused, messy head to figure out what was wrong. And when he looked… “You… really don’t…” He muttered under his breath. “You… don’t know why you’re here…” And when he said that, I felt a sense of understanding I’d never felt before. No one had ever understood, felt the intensity of just doing something because it calls to you, because it screams your name through muffled sobs, because you feel like something will happen if you do. No one, except Michael.

He kept hold of my hand, looking at me with gentle, concerned eyes. They were blue… just like the sea was that day. Bright, deep, ocean blue. “Can you see me…?” He whispered, his voice barely making it over the sound of the crashing waves. “No…” I mumbled back, “But… I feel you… you’re… so warm…” He sighed at that, moving to grip my shoulders from behind, as gentle as he’d always been. I don’t remember how long we sat like this. It could’ve been minutes, or it could’ve been hours. All I remember is the silence between us, the sounds of the waves, of the sand crunching under us, the wind picking up. But I know that, after that strange, timeless experience… I opened my eyes. I saw where I was. I saw my hands shaking. I saw Michael. And I know that I cried, for a long, long time.

Michael drove us home, the windows closed and the heaters up as high as they would go. We didn’t speak, but we didn’t need to. He knew why I had come here, even when I didn’t. But he still hasn’t told me. I think he’s scared of upsetting me, he thinks it’ll be too much for me. Maybe it will. Maybe it’s better I don’t remember that day, aside from hazy images and foggy memories. It probably is. Because I’m not there now, I’m in my cabin, with my dearest Michael. And the sea doesn’t even exist anymore.

They say curiosity kills the cat, because it is true. Michael ’s curiosity did kill him. As he opened to the first page, he began to read, a flurry of words which fed his hunger for knowledge in a way he’d never experienced. It was insatiable, never satisfied with the small children’s books he had been bought, the larger ones he had stolen from his parents study. But this was different. Its pages let him gorge himself on everything he had ever wanted to know, to see, to experience, and it was incredible. And that hunger only grew as he continued flicking the cursed pages of his new holy book, each sending an electric feeling of excitement through his mind. The horrible tales of gruesome ends, murderers, cannibals, vampires, demons, creatures that could take your face and wear it… it fascinated him in a way he never knew he could be fascinated before. It fed him like a 12 course meal, and still left him wanting.

It was only when my dear Michael reached the final page that he stopped to look up. It was dark out. The sun had set hours ago, and the house was silent. He was alone, with his book and his thoughts. And the final page spoke of his eyes like they were to be worshipped. They would be worshipped. Just as long as he spoke 3 small words… Vigilo. Audio. Opperior. And he spoke them, ever so quietly as if reciting a prayer for his lord above. And then… nothing. But the silence was so loud. My dear Michael flipped back through every page. What did I do wrong, he thought, where did I mess up? But then… a surge of pure pain shot through his eyes, as if they were being gouged out and stomped on and bled. Michael screamed. He screamed until he couldn’t hear another sound. He screamed until the lights came on downstairs and the sounds of worried footsteps hurried up the stairs. He screamed as his mother looked upon him, and then ran, her own muffled sobs echoing throughout the hallways of his old home. He screamed until the pain subsided.

Michael opened his eyes. Were they his anymore? Or were they someone else’s? He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. He didn’t feel that insatiable hunger anymore. He didn’t crave another story or tapestry for his knowledge. He… knew. He knew everything he could’ve ever hoped to know. And it hurt. The splitting pain that filled his mind alongside horrible images and stories and knowledge hurt so terribly. He could see all that was terror and dread and fear and pain and suffering. That knowledge is not made for the mind of an overcurious child, such as my dearest was.

And now Michael lays beside me. He has nightmare after nightmare of the world that was created by his patrons, the ones I forsake in his name. But he loves them as much as he despises them. This horrible knowledge gives him a sick, twisted sense of relief that we are not suffering. That knowledge is for him what the fog is for me. I hold his hand as he calls my name in his sleep. ‘I’m here’, I whisper ever so quietly. ‘I will never leave you.’ Because I never will. I could never leave my dearest flame.

Michael can. Ever since he saved me from the realm of the fog and the sea he has been able to look right into the eyes that watch. And when he does, he burns ever so bright. He watches outside of our walls just like the eyes would and he stares directly into the sun that is our world. He embraces all that is terror and fear and makes it apart of him. He sleeps with his eyes open. He never stops watching. He is just like those eyes. But he is so much more beautiful than our sky. He sees past my fog, he sees past our walls, he sees into every place where humanity still resides, and he takes in their terror and their fear and their pain like it’s keeping him alive. He terrifies me. But that terror is so beautiful to me and I would have no one else to call my own than him.

I am in love. That much is obvious. I am in love with someone with so much more depth than I will ever have. And in a way, maybe this means I am in love with the eyes. Without them, I wouldn’t have my beautiful flame. He would’ve died with the rest of humanity or been cursed to live beyond our walls. And I would’ve stayed in the fog, sitting by the ocean and waiting for it to take me away. I would be trapped, alone and cold with nothing to warm me, and the spray of the salt water soaking into my skin.

No. I am not in love with the eyes. I am in love with the person they made. They watch for enjoyment. Michael watches for survival. And he has never enjoyed, not once, anything he has spoken to me of his visions. He does not find joy in the suffering, only sadness and pain. There are times he cries in his sleep, trying to hide under the covers, trying to close his eyes, but he is never able. So I hold him, my icy breath melting on his boiling skin, and I talk of anything but what he is cursed to watch. I talk of stories, where people find love and saviors and enemies. I talk of whatever I can remember, if anything at all, and If not I create a life for myself that is so full of joy that he smiles in his sleep. His smile is not often seen. It’s like staring into the sun.

The eyes have made him this burden, and I will forever forsake them for that. But they have given me the brightest flame I have ever seen. The way his eyes light up, the way he speaks with so many little breathy pauses and how he holds me in his arms. He is so perfect, so whole. I hope to be that way someday.

He puts the tea bags in a pair of mugs, then once the kettle finishes boiling he pours the steaming water into them. He accidentally spills some on his hand but he doesn’t even flinch. There’s no sugar or milk, so once they’re done we drink them black. We sit on our sofa. We sit in silence.

There’s a question brewing in Michael’s mind. I can just tell, from the way he stares at his tea, drinking it slowly, no worry for how it burns his throat. Maybe he doesn’t feel it. Maybe his own warmth is just that strong. I can barely hold my own mug as it burns into my palms, but I hold it regardless.

I look at him, not caring for how it feels like it’s blinding me. He knows. He always knows. And he asks, ‘Isaac… have you ever thought about… leaving?’ He, for once, refuses to look me in the eyes. His light feels so much dimmer when he’s not looking at me. But I have to think… is he crazy? Leaving? ‘No… never. Never.’ I respond, my memory failing me yet again as I repeat my words. He takes note of it, as he stares down at his knees. For once, he’s not holding me. Michael sighs. He expected this answer. He knew what I’d say, but he asked anyway. ‘But, Isaac… doesn’t it feel too perfect here? Like… it wants us here.’ It… the eyes that watch us. Do they want our comfort? Do they envy his clarity? He wants me to question this. But he knows I won’t. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think-‘ I begin, stopping myself from repeating the same sentence. ‘They want pain, right? That’s what you told me.’ Michael’s expression changes, his eyebrows furrowing. He’s annoyed. Not at me, but at the fog. ‘Yeah, but- that can’t be it. I know it’s hard for you but… just try and think… this isn’t right.’ He pleads with me, but all I’m thinking about is how my mug burns my skin.

I stare at him. It’s the way he always stares at me. But he won’t look. ‘Michael…’ I wrap my free hand around his. ‘What do you want to find out there…?’ He shivers at my touch, and he flinches at my question. He didn’t know I was going to ask that. He, instead of answering, mutters, ‘You’re cold…’ I sigh, looking away and responding in a hushed tone, ‘You’re warm.’ The conversation ends. We sit in silence again.

Michael eventually looks back at me, a softer look in his eyes. ‘We have 1984, right? The book.’ Such a mundane question, compared to our usual conversations. ‘Yes. I think so.’ I let go of his hand and put down my mug, searching through our old bookshelf. I pull out the book in question and give it to him. ‘It’s… so much like what’s happened, isn’t it? Constant surveillance…’ His voice is shaking. I know he’s seen something out there.

After a moment, I pry the now lukewarm tea from his hand, and I place it on our coffee table. Sitting next to him, I wrap my arms around him. He shivers, but he presses his head to my chest and lets out a shaky sigh. He knows what I want to ask. ‘I saw… a kid, only 10. He’d gotten lost. And… this thing…’ He nuzzled impossibly closer to me, and I held him, my breath icy on his boiling skin. He shivered like I was freezing him. ‘I know… I know…’ I mutter back. And we sit there. Because how are you supposed to answer that?

This all started for a reason. A man we do not know chanted a rhyme I will dare to speak aloud. Because we can’t make things worse. It went,

‘You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right. Come to us in your wholeness. Come to us in your perfection. Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies. Come to us. I open the door.’

Hearing it made me feel violated. Like the deepest reaches of my soul were torn out and spat on the ground, left for the eyes who watch us from the sky to judge and mock.

Yet I know this will all slip away from me. This peace of mind will only last some time. That is why Michael is telling me now, rather than later. I will forget again and I will fall. It’s been that way for a long time now. But for the time being, while I can think clearly, I latch onto every word Michael speaks and I hold onto his burning body like a lifeline. He rests his hands in my hair as he plaits it, and speaks about everything and nothing all at the same time. And I can make out the words.

I don’t know how he knows these things. How he can see past the walls of our cabin. I don’t know why I still can’t, with my clear head. Michael just knows things. Little things, big things, and he whispers them gently to me without a thought. He’s so gentle… a gentle flame, with so much knowledge and so much clarity that he is in pain. The things he sees out there are less than right. He should never have looked.

But I listen. I listen to every word he speaks of how the world has changed, every piece of pain and anguish he has seen beyond our walls. He describes the eyes to me. They look into his heart and he stares right back into them. He feels everything the people outside feel, and he sees everything the people outside see. He knows there are people out there. We aren’t alone, not completely. But I don’t think I’d want anyone else here now. I think I’d like it to stay just me and my burning flame. God, I love him… he loves me. But I can feel the fog creeping back into my thoughts. I’ve learnt not to fight it. It only makes it worse, only makes the memories and the thoughts fuzzier. So I let my mind drift as he speaks. He knows. But he carries on anyway.

Michael knows all of this. He knows me, however little I decide to tell him. He knows what’ll make me cry and what’ll make me smile. He knows my connection to the rain, but I don’t. All I know is that it is me. Somehow, somewhere, the rain knows me like he does. And that comforts me.

He rests a hand on my cheek as he looks me in the eyes. I can’t see him properly, but I can feel him staring. He talks, and talks, but it’s all just noise. And he knows this, but he does it anyway. I lean into his burning hands and I close my eyes and I feel all the warmth that makes up his existence. And I listen to the rain as it drowns out the sky. He can see, so why can’t I? His sight is so profound and meaningful. He sees past all the defenses I build us, all my attempts at ignorance to the outside world. He sees past it all, and he sees me instead.

I hear small parts of his words as he holds me ever closer. ‘Isaac’, he speaks my name, ‘you’re cold’, he mutters in my ear. He knows I can’t tell what he’s saying, but he tries anyway. I love listening to his nonsense. I love hearing the rain. All I could want aside from that is to see past the fog and dust and dirt that coats my brain, the frosty glass which covers my eyes and the water clogging my ears, muffling every sound.

He’s burning. Burning so bright and so beautiful. He’s so different to me, such an opposite force to everything I am. I am the cold and the rain and the ice and the snow. He is the warmth and the sun and the fire and the day. He is so much more beautiful than I am and he loves me. Michael has the clarity I dream of having, and the fire I don’t think I ever will.

When the fog fades, I hope to see him again. Hear his nonsense clearly, see his flame become brighter. But for now, I keep my eyes closed tighter shut, I feel his hands, so gentle, against my face, and I hold myself close enough that he can’t let go of me. His voice passes through my ears as he rests his face near them. I can’t remember what he sounds like, even as he speaks. I feel cold. When did I start feeling cold? Why does he make me feel warm? How did we get here?

We’re in the cabin. Michael is on fire. The world is ending. I am forgetting. The fog is heavy. I am… falling.

Wait. No. That’s not right. I’m in my bed, and Michael is holding me. It is raining.

I blink myself awake to see Michael sleeping beside me, but his eyes are wide open. It's taken a while to get used to that. I was worried at first, thinking he spent every night wide awake, plagued by all of his thoughts, but when I asked he was just confused. I didn’t have the heart to tell him in the end. He deserves some peace. God knows he doesn’t get much. From all the time I’ve known him, even before the world went wrong, he has a constant narrative playing in his mind. It doesn’t matter what it’s about as long as it keeps him thinking, keeps him feeling alive. That’s another thing i’ve learnt, actually. If he’s not thinking, he doesn’t feel alive. He tried to explain it to me, once. I didn’t understand.

That doesn’t change much, though. Nothings actually alive, anymore. We’re all fueled by something, and we don’t know what. All we know is it’s changed us, and that the sky is always watching. We live in this cabin, just the two of us, and we wait, and wait, and wait. For what, we don’t know. But there’s a thick fog outside, obscuring our vision. I think it comes from me. Because since this all started I’ve felt cold. And whenever Michael holds my hand, touches my face, hugs me from behind, he shivers like he’s touching ice. He’s changed too, we both have. But this chill in the air… he doesn’t feel it. In contrast, touching Michael feels like touching the blazing sun. Like a ray of light is being burned into your skin but it’s too nice to back away, or to run. It’s like I’m a moth to a flame, whenever he’s around. I can’t help but stare.

I’m broken from my thoughts by the sound of Michael stirring beside me. His big, blonde curly hair spread itself out behind his head as he turned to me. I don’t look back. He’s too bright. ‘Isaac… it’s late.’ He mutters under his breath. I must have woken him. I stare intently at the ceiling as I whisper, ‘Sorry… couldn’t sleep. You know how I get when…’ I trail off, but he nods knowingly, gently holding my hand to his chest. It feels like he’s burning through my skin, but I can’t pull away.

We stay like this for a while until he speaks again, ‘Isaac… I know you don’t want to think about what’s out there. But it’s… the not knowing is keeping you up like this. That, and… I know your memory isn’t…’ I interupt sharply, now pulling my hand back to my stomach, ‘I know.’ He just sighs, rolling back onto his stomach, muttering in an almost defeated tone of voice, ‘You don’t, though…’

I’ve always hated when he’d do this. Act like I don’t know any better, because of all the fog and dust that coats my mind, makes it hard to think, to remember. He thinks I’m fragile. I know he does. I roll over, turning my bedside lamp off. Wait… I don’t have one. We’re in the cabin. Michael’s still on fire. The world’s ending. And I keep forgetting… ‘Goodnight…’ I mutter to Michael. He had watched my mistake closely, though he pretended not to see. I refuse to look at him as he whispers, half asleep, ‘Love you…’ He says that every night. He thinks I forget that too. But how could I ever, when he burns as bright as the sun itself? ‘I love you too, Michael.’ I whisper back to him, still not daring to look at him. I stare at where I thought the lamp was, trying to remember… when did we have one? Did we ever have one? Or am I making things up again? The harder I try, the thicker the fog in my mind seeps into every corner. No. I’m still in the cabin. Michael is still on fire. The world is still ending. And I will keep forgetting these things, for as long as we both live.

I steal a glance at Michael. He’s asleep again. His eyes are wide open, staring right back into the ones which make up the sky. I don’t know how he can see them through our roof, how he can look into their intense gaze as he dreams of everything that is past the fog which I’ve made, which keeps us ignorant. I do love him. I really do. I just don’t know how.