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Paper	By : Xel Category: +S through Z > Silent Hill Views: 1896 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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A/N: Originally written as a birthday present for
Elendraug (StarWolf the Insane on ff.n), who finally gave me her blessing to
unleash it unto the world. X3 A spinoff of �Ghost Town,� which all of you
should also read. Nudge nudge, wink wink.
---
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�� It�d been
about a week already, or at least what approximately passed for a week. In
truth, it was difficult to put any sort of parameter on the amount of time that
had passed: could�ve been even longer, or could�ve been a day or a minute or
maybe he just got here. �Course he wasn�t alone, because regardless of whether
this was Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory, he could think of plenty of people who
belonged here a lot more than he did.
�� He still
didn�t have his damn gun. Not like he needed it, since nothing had been as bad
as it�d been on that night, one month ago. Week. Whatever. None of those
freaky-ass ape-men with empty sockets for eyes and no gunning through the
rooftops across the street and no night. Didn�t make sense for the sky
to hang there, white like an infinitely stretching hospital gown over the
earth, never changing� but if ever it had changed, he just couldn�t
remember. It almost would�ve been better with the monsters, because the stillness
was what really got him.
�� Something
like yesterday he�d stepped outside his room for the first time since that
night, over the thin-skinned hallway floor and, somehow, out through the
boarded doors. Damned if the super wasn�t gonna get a piece of his mind once he
got this urge to move out of his system. Or so he thought at the time, but he
hadn�t left his apartment once since then.
�� So
white out there. Like fuckin� Christmas or something. He had marched across the
empty street and up the nearest fire escape he could find, glowering darkly
into the spindrift of violent noises that spewed out at him from somewhere
beyond the washed-out edifice. They came on in strange, distorted ways, deep
and grotesque like a cassette tape slowed to its extreme. A crowbar lay
abandoned in a nearby junk pile. He�d taken it with him.
�� He glanced
at the corona-stain of tea inside the cup on his coffee table before concluding
that he wasn�t really thirsty or in need of the gratification that going
through the motions would bring. And there was that hot sting again, prickling
around both his wrists as he recalled all this. Damned if he knew why, but he
wished it would stop.
�� That
Townshend guy, and Eileen Galvin with the nice ass: both had walked below at an
unnatural, crawling pace, as if underwater. Eileen�s shriek sounded more
like a man�s than anything, the sound wrung out of her and floating to him like
some very fucked up molasses through the cold, bright air. Their bodies
had accelerated to a normal speed just long enough for Townshend to draw his� his
gun, the motherfucker. �
�� He�d fallen
once; he could jump. And he had, just as someone hit fast-forward on the two
below. Then they slowed again, and when he walked around to Townshend�s other side
to step clear of his aim, he seemed a little� surprised to see him.
�� Hey.
That�s my fucking gun you got there.�
�� But then
the speed returned to normal, Eileen hobbled up, and that was all she wrote.
Crazy bitch beat him down with a riding crop, of all things. He�d
followed them a few hours more, but they always managed to get away. It was
enough to make a man feel unwanted. Wrists on fire, he gave up and went home.
�� But now�
now he knows he was right; he�s not alone. Never was. Nothing to do but stand
with hands on hips in the South Ashfield Heights entryway, gazing out into the
light.
�� I still
want my damn gun back.�
�� If I knew
where it went, I�d give it to you,� Henry replies dreamily, his back pressed
flush to the outside wall. �You asked me before, remember?�
�� Richard
doesn�t remember. Instead he frowns and rummages around for a cigarette he
doesn�t want and doesn�t have, blinking in mild surprise when a breeze begins
to blow and snow drifts down from the clear silver sky. Henry colors visibly at
his side.
If anything ever happens around
here it�s because Eileen wants it, and because Walter Sullivan can�t say no.
And because they�ve been fucking since she and Henry showed up here, and everyone
knows it. Especially Henry.
Without a word, he turns and stalks
back inside the dark, musty apartment building, and Richard follows after a
protracted silence, a diapause of sorts. Up the stairs, the wood and walls
cracked and curling because Eileen hasn�t asked Walter to fix them yet,
detouring prematurely into the second floor hall and not the third. Not the
third, with Schreiber poking hesitantly around a pristine 302 as two murmuring
voices helix one another and ooze out from under the door and through Henry�s
old peephole one room over. Richard hears Henry�s shoe scrape over ruined tile
with a gravelly sound, sending marbled, papery flecks of enamel arcing out onto
the stained linoleum. That�s the last thing he sees before he turns and
vanishes into room 207.
It�s hard to hold onto the anger he
carries so close to him before it gets swallowed away� the building fury that
swells up at the memory of Henry�s hands on his gun and pain lancing through
his body and apes without eyes. It�s hard to keep it from flooding out in a
sticky rush when the path of least resistance opens up, and that�s just what
Henry does and is with his lips crushed against Richard�s and sucking in
whatever ugly things pour out. His hands hit the wall overhead with a bang,
gripped white-knuckled at the wrists by Richard�s.
Somehow they�re in his bedroom and
a nebulous cloud of dust explodes from the mattress when Henry�s body hits it
hard, face-down and stripped to t-shirt and pants pulled down enough to bare
one cotton-covered half of his ass. It collects, the dust, in tiny gray piles
in the corners of the window, mirroring the accumulation of white outside. No
matter how many times they do this, the cloud always comes. Richard palms the
revealed flesh roughly, greedily, fingertips digging into its yielding warmth
as Henry�s spine twists against the hand between his shoulder blades with an
accompanying raspy exhalation and a line between his eyebrows.
He can�t take his eyes off the
snow. Not even as Richard yanks jeans and boxers away and exposes ass and cock
to the air, not even at the intrusion of his (trigger) finger and something
wet, cold, that makes him tangle his hand in the sheet and heat creep
swiftly up his neck. Richard looms above, reaching down and flicking mousy
bangs off one of Henry�s narrowed eyes before an electric flare of wrath spears
up inside him and he grins a dark grin and thrusts� sharply�
The bed squeaks appropriately.
Henry meanders free of Richard�s heavy press, rocked into rumpled sheets as his
feet move restlessly in their fruitless struggle for solid ground. There is a
thick frosting of snow on the green trees, and Henry is breathing in a soft,
ragged, wrenching manner with teeth sunk sporadically into a red bottom lip
that Richard finds pleasing through his haze of coital apathy.
Richard bends almost completely over Henry�s prone
form, hissing out hot things into his ear that he�s sure not to remember in a
second. He grasps both sides of his ribcage, sliding flat palms over his back
and the vague stickiness of implied sweat just underneath the heated cotton.
This body tenses after a second, jerks and shudders once, twice, three times
with a feeble groan and says no more.
They do this because there is no reason not to. They
do this because there is
Absolutely.
Nothing.
Better.
To do�
Henry closes his eyes.

~fin
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