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You sit on the couch beside the guy from the bar. Wordlessly, you give him a beer. It would be nice to drink on the porch if it wasn’t unbearably hot even after sunset these days.
Since you both reached the tentative agreement that you weren't going to kill each other, you've picked up this ritual of sharing a drink every night. He barely talks more than you do. It’s why you like him.
Your shotgun rests against the arm of the couch with the barrel pointed down, close to your left hand. Just in case. You trust him. It's the others you don't.
He pointedly avoids looking at your weapon. That's all right. That makes you trust him more. Maybe... it even means he trusts you, as much as anyone is capable of trust these days.
Through the night, as you sip from your cans, he slowly leans forward, as if something is on his mind. Finally he clears his throat.
"Forgive my forwardness, my good man. I couldn't help but notice we have something in common."
He sets down his can and holds his hands out next to yours, fully extended. You both have rather long fingers.
"So?"
"My height comes with more challenges than being intimidating to people. Joint pains and back problems and lots of other depressing nonsense I won't bore you with. And I was always told not to do anything that would strain my heart. If we survive this big fucked-up mess by some impossible miracle, my body will shit out sooner than later anyway.”
You don't know what you're supposed to say, so you don't say anything.
"Don't mind me. Wallowing about how pointless this all is doesn't change anything. I don't mean to suggest... It's probably nothing. A coincidence. It's just... rare... that I meet someone with—"
"My body's never felt right."
You don't know what made you say that. You wish immediately you hadn't, because now you're doing this, whatever... this is.
The bar guy waits silently. You could leave right now. For some reason you don't.
You stare intently at a spot on the floor as you force words out.
"I don't really remember when it started. I just could never run as fast as other boys. Couldn't climb as fast. Couldn't swim as fast. Couldn’t hit as hard. Couldn’t take a hit.” You sip and slightly shake your head at how stupid this all is. "The one thing I was always good at was hiding."
The sound you make is something between a humorless laugh and a tiny huff of the anger that broils deep within.
“As I got older it only got worse. Survived thirty-odd trips around the sun and the only thing I get is more tired every damn year. I don’t know why. Never bothered with a doctor who wouldn’t do shit but tell me it’s all in my head, just like my—”
You drain the rest of your can. You should shut up right now but you don’t. It’s something about the man who sits next to you. He has the same quiet bitterness and isn’t afraid to show you his own bad side. He’d tell you to shut up if you should, in no uncertain terms.
"My dad... didn't like... that I was bad at things." As you speak each pause is emphasized by your fist hitting your thigh. "It wasn't even one of the biggest reasons he was an asshole. In fact, it was the part of my childhood where he showed the most concern. He thought he could teach me to be stronger. To be more of a man. Toughen me up. That was his way of caring."
You crush the empty beer can and throw it across the room.
"I'd have been better off if he didn't fucking care at all."
Your ears ring in the silence that follows. Your chest heaves as you struggle to catch your breath, to slowly come back to yourself. It's like you watched someone else do and say all that. Your heart races.
Your drinking companion, to his credit, barely shows a reaction. He takes a slow sip of his beer and then looks at it like it repulses him. "It seems we've never stopped hiding. I hide in the bottle. You hide in this house."
You cross your arms so he can’t see your hands shake and pointedly look away from him, up at the ceiling.
Over your heads on the couch hangs that old cross. The irony makes you roll your eyes and huff out another sharp not-laugh.
"My grandmother said to keep praying and I'd get better. Funny how that didn't do shit. I’ve always been broken. No divine intervention could change that."
You hunch further into yourself and glower at a spot below the empty armchair. "I used to pray to not have a father. I wonder if he prayed to not have a son. If all this shit happened twenty years ago, I'm sure he would've called me a Visitor and I'd have been dead like those kids the teacher had. No son of his could be so... weak."
The bar guy makes a sympathetic noise but doesn’t try to touch you. It’s why you like him.
You wait for him to offer his own story, to talk about how much worse he's had it than you, to tell you that you shouldn't complain when there are people with real problems. He doesn't say anything, though. He's not the same as anyone you've talked to about this before.
"For what it's worth, I don't think you're weak," he says at last. "Fucking crazy with that gun, but not weak."
You glance at the object in question. “...Thanks.”
“If you’re broken, we both are. And that’s the thing about this shitshow. It’s a great equalizer. Everyone who hasn’t been killed by the Visitors or the sun yet is broken now. You and I, we just have more experience. That’s why we’re sitting here, still alive. ...You know, I think we might just all die soon.”
He finishes his drink. “May I give you a piece of advice?”
You shrug. You wish you still had a can, not to drink, but to do something with your hands.
“Be... careful with your heart. Not in the sentimental sense. This... fear... that grips all of us, it makes the old ticker race all the faster to the grave. I get out of breath just hearing a gunshot and you’re the one pulling the trigger. I can’t imag... It’s all so fucking exhausting.”
You both stare at the floor, hunched and tired and refusing to look at each other. You set a hand on the couch beside his, and you feel a slight shift in weight and heat as he sets his beside yours without touching you.
You stay like that for a little while. In the stillness, your heart slows and the rush fades from your ears until you only hear the clock ticking its way down to another day. How many more ticks does anyone have left, you wonder.
You feel like you should say something more. "Uh. If you... ever... want to talk about... all this bullshit... I dunno..."
He holds up a hand to stop you. “That's enough for tonight. Now for the love of all of us, go to bed, my good man. The days only get longer. No one wants the guy with the gun to be sleep deprived.”
The sound you make is the closest thing to a real laugh you’ve managed in months.
“I’m serious. Get the hell out of here.” He playfully shoves at your shoulder to make you get off the couch, his bed. “I don’t feel well. I want to sleep.”
A blunt and easy escape for both of you from whatever this is. It’s why you like him.
You pick up the can you threw, leave without another word, and go to the bedroom. You’re as quiet as you can be; the little girl is already asleep on the other side of the bed, curled into herself like a little bird. The pillow under her face is soaked. You gently pull a corner of the blanket over her legs.
You sit on the edge of the bed, squeeze a pillow to your chest, brace yourself with your elbows on your knees, and clench all your muscles until you feel like you’ve won a fight with a ghost.
Before the sense of tiredness can flee, you throw yourself sideways into your pillow and will yourself to sleep before you can experience emotions.