Domestic Lie

by ChingKittyCat

It's the night before the rocket launch.

Fulbright was never lonely, but his apartment was always empty. To replicate some of the noise of people, he'd always leave his television on before going to sleep. In the past year, he stopped. The aquarium filter humming was good enough white noise. It was low and quiet, nothing like a noisy television.

It was getting late. The crux of the time he'd fall asleep. The rigidity of the schedule meant his body would always shut down at the exact same time, every day. Yet, here he was, sitting on the edge of his bed. He wasted away his precious eight hours of sleep, staring out at the hallway between his bedroom and the rest of his apartment.

His hand was pressing down on his left leg. It's with enough force that he makes sure it doesn't bounce. He blinks, becoming conscious of each one. Each singular moment his vision is taken for that split second, so he can try to discern the darkness of his home.

Furniture. Walls. Nothing. There's no one there. No one would be there. He's looking, looking for someone to fit a silhouette. An intruder, someone, anyone. They know someone is in here, looking for them. They know someone is hunting them. They know someone is watching them.

Him. Looking for him. There's only Fulbright, tonight.

They can't keep deluding themselves. Oh god, what? What sort of thought is that? Isn't it obvious how fake it all is? Wouldn't it be obvious to anyone by now? They've spent a year in this life, yet no one has come for them, no one has whispered a word of suspicion about them.

It is so obvious. It's painfully obvious. They are not Fulbright, and they never will be. They don't feel anything. Isn't it obvious? Obvious to any outside observer?

They grasp at themselves. Their hands. They take their gloves off, even though they know they shouldn't. They trace at the false skin. How it reaches all the way past their wrist and across their body.

It's comfortable. It's nice. Underneath this skin is other skins, other tones, other people. All bandages, walls, between him and them. Fulbright is on the very top, but at the bottom, if there is a bottom to this abyss, there is something that reminds them.

Tomorrow.

The rock. The stabbing. The paper. The murders. The coverup, the seven years, the waiting, the waiting, the waiting, and the waiting. The horrible waiting, sitting here on the edge of someone else's bed, scratching at their hand, thinking of their blood, being reminded that they are mortal and some form of human.

The wound. The scar. The stitching, they remember. They remember the punishment they faced. They remember the isolation that followed. Not that they cared for the company of other people.

That's why they turned the television off. That's why they looked for someone, down that hallway. They don't want visitors. They don't need visitors. They're not human, like anyone else. Humans bother themselves with the folly of friendship and 'understanding.' They're beyond that. They're a refined, perfect void. Nothing.

Or maybe that makes them less than human. Oh, it does.

There's a gnawing darkness under their skin. One that was pierced, and burns, constantly, in their mind. On their skin. Like an ache, like a rash you can't help but pick at.

They can feel the pulse in their chest. It must be their heart, but on some pretentious level, they want to say it doesn't exist. It's hammering. It's thrumming against their thoughts, reminding them of something they had no words for.

Their expression is flat. Their movements are smooth. Their legs are still. Their heart, it won't stop. It overlays the noise of the filter. It drowns out the tinkling of water. It pushes past the sound of evening cars.

They squeeze at their wrist, hard enough to make it hurt, and that's where the noise stops. Their thoughts center on the pain, but why are they doing it? Distracting themselves? They're running, running from something.

Why would they need to run?

Tomorrow.

It comes to a head tomorrow. Where no one… No one would be there to help them this time. The thought stretches over their consciousness like a mountain's dramatic shadow. There is no one but themself this time.

And Fulbright.

Fulbright will be there.

Their heart. Again. They would be annoyed if they could feel annoyed. Maybe Fulbright is annoyed. Maybe that's why he hisses through his teeth and. And.

Fulbright rushes into the bathroom and heaves dryly over the sink. He coughs and sputters, whimpering to himself. He does it again, and again, and then finally he collects himself, staring down at the basin.

He looks up into the mirror of the medicine cabinet. A miserable expression, laden with the agony of nausea of that level. His hair is still perfect and his skin is free of sweat, but his eyes are red.

Their eyes are red.

Is this really Fulbright's nausea? It has to be. He would… He would do something like this because… Because of…

They stare into their own eyes, keeping steady contact. The longer they stare, the deeper the tunnel of thoughts is bound to go, but… They can't think of anything.

How human are they?

Anything but that, please.

They swallow any bile that made its way to their tongue and splash Fulbright's face with some cold water. They wet the back of his head and neck. The neck especially. The water would help to clear up some of this. Whatever this is meant to be.

While they're in there, they brush Fulbright's teeth and take care of his skin. They take his medicine and drop it down the drain, one pill at a time. Then, they turn off the light, and head back to his bed.

They stand there, next to it. Trying to get into it, but they simply can't. They stand there, stupidly staring at the blankets and pillows, until they sit down again.

They run a hand through Fulbright's hair, then put it back down on his leg. It's bouncing. They force it to stop. The pressure. Just focus on the pressure.

They know tonight will end in one of two ways.

They sleep, or they push through tomorrow with none.

As the number of days crept down, they've lost more and more. Not that they're sure why. Fulbright must've been feeling some kind of way that caused him to stay up all night. It's not normal for them.

It's not.

It's the pressure of the job. He was asked to lead security detail tomorrow. It's the responsibility of such a great task when there's such a fantastic threat out to get him. To stop the bombing, to plant the bomb, to keep the rock safe, to destroy it, to make sure everyone gets out okay.

To make sure everyone was okay.

He was nice.

What they wouldn't give to turn back time. Back to that car ride, back to that conversation. Back to that fumble, where… They're not sure. They're not sure what came over them.

Fulbright was so nice.

Stop.

So they did. They don't have any particular feelings for what they just thought about. Fulbright was nothing. His life was nothing.

There's someone knocking on his apartment door. They suck in a breath. They stagger and get up, pushing on his face with their hands. As he crossed into the entrance hall, the knocks came again.

They look through the peephole first.

"Who's there?" Fulbright asks, even though they know.

"Just me, Bob." Gumshoe says.

Fulbright unlocked the chain and the bolt and opened it for him. Gumshoe's dressed in what he can only assume is his pajamas. It's a loose t-shirt and some sweatpants. Suppose that's the best one can do when your paycheck is so low.

"I was just about to go to sleep. Did you need something?" Fulbright smiled, friendly.

"Um… Yeah." Gumshoe scratched the back of his head. "I was hearing some weird noises and I wanted to see if you were alright."

They're stunned. Fulbright blinked, his eye contact breaking as he looks at the wall behind Gumshoe instead of directly at him.

"Sorry." Fulbright squeaked.

"Oh, no, don't be sorry. Are you okay?"

What noises? Oh, the heaving. It must've been that. Yes, that does make sense. Fulbright gave a bashful and embarrassed smile, which faded into a grimace.

"Was just feeling a bit sick, that's all." Fulbright explained, sheepishly. "Did I wake you up?"

"Nah, you go to sleep a lot earlier than I do. I'm not due to hit the sack for a couple more hours."

"Sorry for worrying you!" Fulbright smiled.

Gumshoe looked at him. It's an expression they suddenly lose understanding of. The emotion behind it, the meaning of the way his eyes are locked on them. On… Them. On Fulbright. Nothing. They feel nothing for it.

There's a flicker of something blooming in their chest, starting out from the center and creeping across the rest of them. It's gone into their throat. Into their hands.

Their hands.

"Do you mind if I come in?" Gumshoe asked, suddenly.

"N-No, not at all." Fulbright said, because there's no reason he'd refuse.

He shut and locked the bolt behind Gumshoe, leaving the chain hanging. Fulbright turned on the light, revitalizing the living room for his guest's sake.

"Do you want something to um, to drink?" Fulbright whisked over to the fridge. "I've got juice, milk, soda, beer… I mean, I know you don't drink, but I still have it."

"Nope, I'm alright. Hey, Bob?"

"Yeah?"

Fulbright turned his head, seeing Gumshoe already sat on his couch. He's leaning forward, hands clasped like he's some important business man.

"I feel like… Sorry, this might be a bit personal." Gumshoe prefaced. "I feel like, well, uh, you haven't been really honest with me."

"Wh-what?" Fulbright stammered, quickly turning back to open the fridge. "Sorry, uh. I don't know what you mean."

The kitchen. It has a knife block.

They knew someone was hunting them down, and they should've known it was him. He was close to Fulbright, as close as a neighbor and coworker could be, and Fulbright was obsessed with the man. When the obsession stopped and lessened, he must've caught on.

"I don't know." Gumshoe admitted.

"Don't know?" Fulbright repeated.

"It's just like, y'know… We've gotten a little distant, I guess. I know we're still good friends even though, but it just feels like… I don't know, like you're not honest with me?"

"How so?"

"I don't know, I'm not good at this, Bob."

"I'm not good at it either."

A silence flushed the room.

They're staring into the open refrigerator, like it'll answer anything. They scanned over each thing inside, like it'll tell them how to escape.

"I just feel like you're keeping everything inside." Gumshoe spoke again, shocked by his own revelation. "There, that's it, I think? Like you don't want to bother anyone? I know you just said you were sick, but..."

"I still feel sick, yeah."

"You can tell me if something is wrong, Bob."

Their hand tightened around the door handle. They shut the refrigerator.

"Nothing to tell!" Fulbright smiled and shrugged. "Really, really nothing to say. I was just- well, I am still sick. Maybe I ate something or caught something, but I'm fine. Really."

Gumshoe's face had that same expression again. The one they can't bear to look at. He's not even looking them in the eyes.

"Are you sure?" Gumshoe asks, again.

"Really sure." Fulbright had started to become irritated, being babied like this. "Are you sure you don't want anything?"

"Yeah."

Fulbright stares at his neighbor. Gumshoe can't bear to look at him.

"You must be nervous for tomorrow." Gumshoe said, plainly.

The feeling in their throat. In their hands. Their chest. Suddenly it's in their stomach. Their hand clasps over their mouth. Nothing happens. They breathe in, deeply, and play it off like they were just idly wiping his lips.

"It's a big deal, yeah."

Fulbright sat on the couch with him, a comfortable distance away. He put his hand on his leg, forcing it down before it can even start.

"I've never really had to do something like this before, it's really going to be… Something." Fulbright admitted, chuckling at the end.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Silence. Clawing at their mind. They waited for Gumshoe to pick it up, but Fulbright was not the sort to let it linger.

"I just feel like…" He grasped for something. "Like, I don't know. It's a big deal, it's a lot of responsibility. There's a lot that's going to go on, and what if, you know? Like, what if?"

"Hey, I'll be there to support you, Bob."

"I know you will, and I'll have a bunch of other people to help me too, but it's just… Everything feels so… Important. Tomorrow feels so important. There's so many moving pieces, so many things I have to keep an eye on."

Tomorrow. The moon rock. The rock. The blood. Their identity.

"I just feel like," his voice says, "if I fail, then it's all over. And I've… I've had so many chances, and if I fail now, if I fall now, then it's all... I can't fail, but, I… So many times, I've… I've failed so many times. I've failed so many times, it's like it's all I know how to do."

"What are you talking about? You're not a failure, you're going to be a leader for this because everyone trusts you."

The heat in their throat.

"I know everyone trusts me," his voice continues, "I'm glad they do, it makes everything a lot easier. It's just… The actual job, all the stuff I have to do. There's so much riding on my shoulders, and if I slip up even once, even once, then… There's not going to be anyone who can help me. I'll be responsible for everything that happens."

"Bob, you're not alone. People will help you."

"I…" It's only his voice. "I don't know. If I fail, I..."

There's no one here. No one here would help them if they- they? No, it's him who's talking. He wouldn't… People would help him. Why would he say this? There's no reason for him to be saying this.

"You need to have some confidence in yourself." Gumshoe paused. "I know that's easier said than done, believe me, but hey, they chose you to lead it for a reason. They want the launch to go well, so they picked you as head of security because they know you'll do a good job."

"What if someone dies?"

"What?"

"S-Sorry, I… I can't stop thinking about it. If… If I fail, it'll be my fault. My fault someone is dead."

"Bob, no one is going to die."

"I don't want anyone to die. I-I don't want to kill anyone. I can't kill anyone. I can't. I can't kill anyone!"

"You're not going to- look, no one is dying tomorrow. Okay? No one is going to die."

"What if I end up killing someone?! Who's going to come help me then!? What if it's my fault someone is dead?! If I fail, if I-"

"No one is going to die!" Gumshoe has this emotion that is incomprehensible at the moment. "Bob, no one is going to die. It's alright. You're going to do fine, and no one is going to die."

"S-Someone is going to die, and it'll be my fault. I know it'll be my fault! People will know it's my fault, then- then I-I'll go to jail and die! I'm going to die! Everyone is going to know I'm a murderer and kill me! They'll-"

"Bob, focus on me. I need you to breathe in and out."

Their thoughts come back to them. No longer consumed by the immediacy of dialogue, they snap back into Fulbright's body with the full whiplash of being totally conscious of everything.

Their breathing is erratic, they notice. Why? They were fine just a moment ago. There's no reason it should be that way now. Nothing happened. It was just a heated conversation between their identity and Gumshoe.

Oh, it was just part of it. Their heart is hammering. That's just part of it too. They must've wanted to kill him, because their hands are shaking. Actually, it's their whole body. Fulbright's body. Fulbright is shaking, not them. Fulbright is under so much pressure. Fulbright.

They're taking deep breaths, but his voice croaks occasionally through it. He can't help but steal some extra wind, to gasp and wheeze. Eventually, he's breathing through his nose instead of his mouth.

Gumshoe's close to him.

"Do you mind if I hug you?" He asks.

"Please." Fulbright's voice says.

Gumshoe brought him in. His arms were bigger than Fulbright's, and he always felt like a bigger presence even though they were the same height. His arms, his closeness, it felt like he was consuming them with his being.

There's nothing but the heat of his chest and the feeling of his hands rubbing their back. He has these big hands and fat fingers, the sort of hands you'd expect for a hard working man like him. Despite how much stronger and capable Gumshoe was, he was gentle. He was someone who told others how much he loved them through things like this.

Loved. Immobilized.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… To dump all of that on you." Fulbright croaked. "I don't know why I said that. Sorry."

Gumshoe stayed quiet. Fulbright's face twists and his eyes shut tightly. He cries freely all the time, so what's the problem now? Why's he trying to stop himself?

Fulbright starts gasping and whimpering again, and finally, he returns the hug properly. He grasps onto Gumshoe with none of the gentleness that the other gave to him. Like if he were to leave, Fulbright would take chunks of him.

Through busy lips and various wheezing coughs, Fulbright spittles out a barrage of apologies for acting so sadly.

Gumshoe sits there in silence. Maybe it's because he doesn't know what to say, or maybe it's because he knows he should just let him tire himself out. He's so tired. His eyes are so red.

Their eyes are so dry. Their mouth is so dry. It's all so dry. Their throat already feels like it's scratchy. Yet, the pain of sobbing is nothing compared to the sensation of being here with another person.

They don't feel anything for it. The way Gumshoe loves Fulbright is not for them. It's not. No part of it is directed towards them, and even if it was, it wouldn't make them feel a thing.

They can't let go of him, no matter how much they tell their fingers to.

They're so tired. They can't their shoulders to stop bobbing, or their legs to stop shaking. They tell their body to act how they want it to, but it refuses to listen to them. Fulbright had taken control of everything. It was just Fulbright.

"Please stay here tonight. Please."

Fulbright.

"Oh, um. Sure. I'll just get a blanket and sleep on the couch."

Gumshoe is still rubbing their back. The movement of Fulbright's pajama shirt, the radiating heat of his palm, the smooth caress. It's all comfort. It's nothing they feel anything for. Comfort has always… It's not for them. It's not.

Fulbright needs to stop crying.

They make him stop crying. He's done. No more. So, he stops. He stops now. Now.

"It's alright, bud, let it out." Gumshoe encourages, patting their back. "Just keep breathing."

He needs to stop. They're trying to make him stop, but he's refusing. How does an identity they control refuse to stop? It's not their tears, it's not their stress. This isn't their voice, their body.

"I-I want to stop," they rasped, "I can't stop."

It's not them. No, Fulbright said that. Fulbright. Tomorrow will hurt Fulbright, it's Fulbright who hates tomorrow. It's Fulbright and only him. They have no stress, they're not capable of feeling pressure, and they are not crying because of it.

Fulbright is emotional. It's him. It has to be him. He's the one causing all of this. He's making them do it. He's making them. It's him. It's not them. It's not.

"Why am I- why can't I-" they suddenly start coughing.

There's a chill on their spine. It feels like there's someone teasingly rubbing their neck like they were about to be strangled. It feels like there's goosebumps everywhere on their body. It feels like there's no way out. It feels like. Like.

They're whimpering. This grotesque feeling, this embarrassment, this terrible place. They put themselves here and now they can't leave.

Gumshoe doesn't do anything to keep them from their fate. He lets them face it, but in his arms. It's theirs. This is theirs. This experience is theirs. No! It can't be, it has to be Fulbright's! Fulbright is the one who's scared, not them!

No, no! They're not scared! They can't be scared! Why would they be scared?!

It's Fulbright's! It is! It is his! It has to be! There's no reason, no reason at all for them to be scared! They can't! It's not possible! They're inhuman, they're a beast! Monsters don't get scared! The abyss can't weep!

Gumshoe pat their back, and they focus immediately on the strikes. The slow, repeated strikes. They realize how hard they're gripping him once again. It seems so desperate. The contrast between the two is so stark even they realize it through their haze of false despair.

They can't stop. Their body is locked. Any control is far beyond their reach, and the feeling is so wholly alien that only now did they realize they were stripped of all their emotional agency. They'd had it taken from them. They can get it back, and they know how. It's basic.

Focus.

Just focus on him. Listen to his heartbeat. The feeling of his shirt, of his heat. Just focus on being there with another person and this'll stop. Just focus.

He's kept them here. In his arms. He's here because he loves someone. He's here because he's nice. He's here because he cares for other people. He's here because he wants to be, not because he has to be. He continues to be here for the same reason. He was instructing someone because he wants them to be happy and for misery to subside. He wants to help others. He wants to save others.

A new feeling simmers lowly. Something much more sickly and creeping. One they've felt before, over and over again. One that heats their cheeks and churns their stomach. One that is very inconvenient. One that they've felt regarding him. Regarding some of Fulbright's other friends too. It's a revolting feeling, and it's worse to know what the outcome would always be.

It's manageable and doesn't get in the way. It's so much more preferable. Not that they have any opinion on it. That isn't an opinion, it's just a fact.

They wonder what his expression is right now. They can't see it. It's probably some mixture of compassionate and neutral. Maybe halfway annoyed.

He has a rather square face, and he's always very open about his feelings. He's like Fulbright, in some ways. An open book. Easy to read, so long as they're in their right mind. Which they always are.

Finally, their fingers loosen. Their breathing is stable again. Their heart is still pounding, but it's fine. Their eyes are still dry, but it's fine. They're dehydrated and the fuzz is slowly buzzing around their head, but it's fine.

Gumshoe is holding onto them.

Him. Fulbright.

"Sorry." Fulbright says.

"Don't apologize." Gumshoe finally speaks up.

"Well, this is just… It must be coming out of nowhere for you, and I don't mean to put all of this on you. It's not your problem, it's mine."

"I mean, what are friends for?"

"What are they for?" They ask.

A pause.

"I didn't mean that." Fulbright speaks again. "I mean… What are they… Um… Look, sorry, I just didn't mean that. I… didn't really have a lot of good friends. When I was younger, I had to keep everything to myself, so."

Keep everything to yourself. All the emotions, all the pent up sadness, anger, fear, happiness… Fulbright had kept it all in. It exploded tonight in a wild fashion, under pressure and when confronted with comfort from another person.

Comfort.

This is more of a cuddle than a hug.

"That makes a lot of sense. I mean, you're always out helping other people, but you never really talk about how you feel." Gumshoe is still rubbing their back. "I think I noticed that recently, and that's kinda what I was on about earlier. With the whole not being honest thing?"

They can control their emotions. Fulbright can't. All he can control is who he gives his dark, inner secrets to.

Gumshoe loved Fulbright in the way a neighbor did.

He wanted to save Fulbright from his misery.

Why are they circling back to this? Why does the thought allure them? It's like a vacuum, trying to suck them in the more they focus on how Gumshoe pets them.

"I don't want…" Fulbright's voice stops and then starts again. "I had problems going to sleep. I can't stop thinking about tomorrow and if everything goes wrong."

To be saved… To be saved from this?

"Nothing's going to go wrong. We're all behind you."

"What if it does?"

"That doesn't change anything."

"What will you do, if I get called a murderer?"

"You're not going to, Bob."

"Please."

Gumshoe inhales deeply, "I'll be on your side."

"What if I'm guilty?"

"I don't think you will be."

"I… It'll be my fault. If it happens, I know it will be."

"Well, if they find you guilty, then I'm going to get it overturned."

"Will you?"

"Yeah."

"Sorry, I know it's a stupid thing to ask."

"Don't be. You're just worried."

Worried.

Wanting.

What do they want from Gumshoe tonight? They don't want. They don't need. What Gumshoe has given to them isn't even for them. What he's done is already enough. More than enough. It's more gentle and relaxed than they know what to do with.

"I should get to bed." Fulbright says, suddenly.

No.

"Okay."

Gumshoe lets go and Fulbright sits up properly. He wipes his face and gives Gumshoe a smile. Gumshoe. His face. His emotions. It's a mystery. They don't know what it is. Something about it is mystifying. Hypnotizing. Looking at him.

His face, his skin… His personality. His soul, through the windows of his eyes. They can't describe it. They're too dehydrated. They're too nauseated. They're too sick. They don't want to try.

Want.

"I'll get you a blanket. I've got an extra." Fulbright got up.

"Gotcha, pal."

They wanted to think that Gumshoe would save them.

For tonight, he tried to.