A Swig of Toxin

Hush, hush, the world is quiet,

Hush, hush, we both can't fight it,

It's us that made this mess,

Why can't you understand?

The weight of all the responsibilities are slaying him. He can feel his own mind unraveling, strewn all over the grassy dirt, messy as can be. He's surprised he hasn't tripped over the film of his memories. Yet he isn't crazy. He's well aware of all of his decisions; everything that passes his vision is still analyzed with his photographic "third-eye", and his common sense hasn't dared to take a vacation. For now, at least. He has a vague idea mentioning to Eileen how he's breaking down isn't a great ice-breaker, and most definitely not something to respond with referring the insane circus of a murderer's head. Common sense. So Henry decides, well, what the hell? He excuses himself to the built-in hole carved into the wall by the destroyed orphanage, his gaze averting as the injured woman's eyes grow wide with panic and fright. He needs one night. A few hours, in the least. Just some time, to recollect himself before the axe he's wielding ends up dug deep in soft brown hair and pretty, feminine eyes.

The photographer crawls through the hole, and when he awakens in his bed, he contemplates on abandoning the warm covers under his body. It's been god-knows-how long he's had a decent night of sleep, and this could be the thing that will heal his brain. He stretches, hearing the familiar sound of bones cracking, and as half his face buries farther into the pillow, his eyes flit over to the desk for his photography. It's still empty and barren of real work, mainly from the fact that Ashfield doesn't have many beautiful sights to capture. The whole town is gray and lifeless; it's missing something that would make it less weird. It reminds him of a child who dislikes sugary sweets, or an adult pretending to be an eight-year-old once more. Something's strange with this place.

And as the brunette flips over to his other side, he narrows his eyes at the main reason for all of this displacement. A bleak picture of the living Walter Sullivan is framed by the bedroom door. Nearly gray eyes twinkle with mischief, staring right into his soul, those thin lips tugging upwards in a self-satisfaction smirk. It makes Henry want to rip it down in frustration and keep it up in fascination. Not that he enjoys eying his "future" killer, but the emotion built up and hidden behind the demon's face, the eyes hinting at what's to come, the whole picture swelling up so many puzzling feelings in the brunette that for a few seconds, he feels as though he might vomit. Licking his dry lips, letting the sensation pass, Henry stumbles out of bed, and ignoring the migraine from Hell as he staggers out into the corridor, he manages to find the kitchen.

The bloody animal from a few hours ago is long gone, but the refrigerator still reeks of death and rotting flesh. He should be growing accustom to such a scent, but it doesn't fail to creep up and down his spine with unwanted shivers. Treating the small problem by breathing through his mouth, the photographer jerks the fridge door wide open, his eyes fixing on the first item in his face. Perhaps the only item standing – or the only one willing to take a brilliant green hue – is the wine Henry had bought a few days prior before this nightmare began. He had saved it for the celebration which he would host with himself on another year of being terribly alone, and had intended to down the whole bottle fast enough to intoxicate himself early in the night. Now that he thinks about it, today could technically be his graduation ceremony day, from years back. The date and time escapes him, so he'll have to use his imagination and convince himself that today, seven years back, was initially the last time he spent hours with a fair-haired beauty and geeky nerds.

Just thinking about it ruins Henry's resolve.

Snatching it in his clammy hands, the brunette slams the small door shut and carries himself into the living room. He doesn't even hit the couch before the cap is screwed off and tossed somewhere on the floor, laying and waiting patiently for the photographer to stomp on it and curse to the high heavens. He shrugs off the hostility he knows he'll be experiencing laterand collapses on the ratty old sofa, some of the chilling liquid sloshing droplets on his shirt. He doesn't care; his eyes are in slits as he glares at his apartment. The clock is ticking like a metronome, fast-paced and seeming to intensify with every millisecond clicking by. If the brunette cared more about lighting, he would have noticed the lights right by the laundry room faltering slightly. Every part of his rent is maddening to watch.

With bottom's up, Henry chugs his salvation.

Thirty minutes pass, or possibly an hour. Henry doesn't care enough to keep count of seconds. The wine doesn't last long; in face, he finds himself empty of his resource in less than ten minutes. The brunette considers going out to purchase more, or corner that one stalker, the weirdo who's all eyes for the nurse of the complex to spare a few drinks. He mutters angrily to himself when he remembers the door is chained shut, but secretly sighs in relief. Deep inside, the photographer knows he would never have enough courage to approach a complete stranger and demand alcohol, wasted or not. In his fuzzy brain, common sense is drowning, but he recalls the television still doesn't work, and returning to his bedroom would result in painful, unnecessary headaches. So he curls up on the couch and rants complete nothings to himself, not so much thinking of the words tumbling out of his mouth, more or less focusing on how in the hell he's so socially awkward.

Damn his parents. Homeschooling up until high school is a grudge the brunette will never let his parents live down.

As he settles himself into the journey to nostalgia, rude raps on his door interrupt his selfish thoughts. Henry blinks, not registering the sound until three seconds after. His head raises, startled at the sharp sound against the monotone buzz of the hauntings. His eyebrows knit up together as his brain attempts to figure who is at the door before his body can react. His mind draws blank, and his legs swing off the stiff cushions as a substitute. To say he stood and trudged as graceful as a ballerina to the entryway in the corridor would be a flat-out lie. A few times, the photographer lost his balance, the outcome turning out to be him leaning all his weight against the counter and wall, but he arrived in front of the chained door unharmed. The visitor awaiting on the other side hasn't stopped knocking, and it's working on Henry's nerves. He growls something even himself doesn't fully understand, and squinting with mushy vision, he adjusts himself to look through the peephole.

Familiar, greasy blond hair greets the brunette. A pleasant smile painted on scruffy cheeks, with a few drops of crimson to spice up the image, is a thin frame of wood away – and those eyes. Those eyes. The same damned colour as the wine bottle Henry has been desperate to reunite with, piercing into his own orbs like an electrical current. He knows he should be feeling concerned, nerve-wracked, and even horrified, but it would all be in vain. Instead of any of those reactions, the most he can muster up is irritation. Pure annoyance at the calmed features; light rage at the unkempt strands of hair. His motherly instinct urges him to tut at the killer, not sure how he knows the man on the other side of the door will hear him, and scold for such filth. Handsome features being masked by a marked sheet of grime is saddening.

"Henry... Townshend..." Walter whispers. Is that amusement or impatience in his tone? Henry can't make out the difference, and he doesn't find himself yearning to linger on it. He scowls – god knows he loathes his bland name – and despite wanting to reply with childish name calling or threats, he wobbles backwards until the counter assists in steadying his movements. He can hear his name being hissed again, and a voice buried in his mind inquires how he can even make out the blond's words, what with the low volume and blaring white noise in the background. He shrugs it off, tossing the blame at absolutely nothing and everything. It's not like it matters. What's up front in his mind is the urge to carry a garbage can by the couch and curl up with a scratchy, rough pillow. The photographer is reminded of a few times of being intoxicated – in the middle of the night, he's going to wake up with an unearthly need to rid the bile in his throat.

Henry disregards the knocking that has started up once more, and watches with glazed eyes as his own feet tumble into the kitchen. Shaky hands tug the cabinet under the sink wide open, and the rubbish can is jerked to his chest. It seems, at that very moment, the distinct sound of chains rattling against each other rumble into the walls. The noise lasts for a few seconds, and everything becomes silent. He doesn't care to investigate – it's another fresh haunting that he has probably forgotten about, and he'll be damned to start panicking at such insolent ghosts. Switching his focus back to his main task at hand, the brunette takes one step at a time. A hand hugs the plastic can to his side, whilst the other is flailing about, near desperate to grasp onto anything solid. He manages to catch hold of an object, stumbling into it, the realization that he doesn't own any furniture with blue trench coats delaying his shock. Henry furrows his eyebrows and looks up. Fiery green eyes spark into his own.

"Wh... What th' hell...?" Henry slurs, squinting at the blurred figure leering over him. It looks like Walter Sullivan, but the murderer is outside the front door. The chains had ensured that no one could break into his home.

"My, my, Receiver..." The baritone voice elicits anxious goosebumps over the photographer's flesh. "I can smell the alcohol on your breath." A wrinkle of the nose. In disgust?

Without restraint or thought, the brunette retaliates rather slowly, "No' as bad as killin' people..." He pauses, the murderer's statement sinking in, then adds in a more defensive tone, "'m not drunk." He feigns sobriety to prove his point, trying his best to appear less wasted than he's really letting on. His eyes widen a bit, as if to clear the glazed, dumbed look in his eyes. He straightens his posture and his hand that he idly noticed had been holding the blond's forearm releases. To give him credit, the brunette held his own weight up for a solid five seconds, before the world surrounding him stirred and spun. He staggers sideways, landing with a soft yelp right into the tough blue cotton shielding the killer's bare chest. The man's like a brick wall! Henry muses, seeing as Walter didn't even falter in the slightest.

The photographer must have voiced his exact thoughts subconsciously, because the blond raises an eyebrow but says nothing of it. He seizes the brunette's wrists and peels the drunken man off. Henry complies without taking action at all, exceeding in his quest to become a sort of boneless doll. He watches as the killer huffs in agitation and, right before the brunette can protest that he can stand perfectly fine without any needed help, an arm with an iron grip hooks around his hips and he finds himself being tipped backwards. The living room set he had been facing decides to jerk downwards and smash into the floor, whilst the ceiling becomes the new wall. The colours mess together at lightning speed, and Henry groans, squeezing his eyelids shut and pressing his lips into a firm line. If he's fallen, he should be feeling the impact the earth slapping against the back of his head, but on the contrary, his whole frame is weightless.

The brunette reluctantly allows his eyelids to flutter open, taking a few priceless seconds to apprehend what's happening. He's being hoisted in the same style he's seen those Disney princesses being manhandled. Walter Sullivan is supporting his weight bridal style. His eyes narrow and he presses his palm against the blond's chest and applies pressure to it. He is absolutely positive the killer can't even feel it, and opts for verbal communication to draw attention.

"Lemme go..." Henry whines, struggling feebly against the vice-like grip. Walter hums in response, footsteps clear as day echoing in the brunette's ears. "Where ar'we goin'?" After no reply being given, he frowns at the act of being ignored and peers upwards.

The first thing he notices is that the killer's breath smells like nothing, which strikes him odd for a few seconds, before allowing the fact to be swallowed in his empty thoughts. He veers his gaze onto the thin, pink lips, side-tracking slightly as he fantasizes what that mouth would feel against his own. The faintest hint of an aftershave forms over the murderer's cheeks, which draw more inappropriate ideas to birth in his thoughts. He shifts his stare higher, having enough sense to avoid eye contact and instead studying the messy blond strands on the top of his head. Standing far away, the hair seems to be much of an eye-sore, but up close, Henry wonders why it isn't as oily as he had imagined. It must have been his surroundings; he can recall hints of his whereabouts, though it's hard to recognize the distant worlds resigned in his sober mind. Lots of shadowed trees and gritty bloodstains has to make everybody look uglier than they are portrayed.

The photographer concludes that the man carrying him is undeniably beautiful, almost to the point of being sexy. Can killers be sexy? He figures murderers are people, thus proving that they can posses to-die-for features.

Being slow to process every action taking place around and to him, he's startled to realize he's been plopped in his bed. Blinking gradually, the brunette notes that his object of desire is turning back to the door. Henry jolts up and shoots both his hands out, taking anchor around the blond's arm. Walter twists around, seeming shocked for a second or two, before narrowing is eyes. "What?" He snaps. The photographer doesn't heed the cruel tone being thrown at him, and without planning out the scene, he jerks the killer off balance and onto the one-person mattress. He crawls onto Walter and, whilst the extent of the alcoholic spell finally reaches full power, he plants a rather sloppy kiss on the blond's lips.

The touch is foreign, but the photographer doesn't relent. His mouth melds into the other's, his tongue rebelling without being ordered and forcing entryway to poke and stroke the murderer's own slick muscle. One of his hands that had been on either side of the psychopath slip under his head, fingers entangling themselves in messy blond strands. He yields after a few more seconds, making a move to shift himself in a more comfortable position above the unresponsive killer, but his motions are shot down on sight. A hand that isn't his own clasps around Henry's throat, fingernails and all tightening painfully, the oxygen the photographer needs falling short on supply. Tearing away from the contact and slapping the offending grip away, he rolls off the killer, coughing and wheezing and holding his head to steady his already tipsy world.

Henry, finally taking into account that the murderer lying next to him is dangerous, attempts to sit up and flee, only to be shoved onto his back. He groans, straining to defend himself from what he can imagine could be brutal attacks, but both his forearms are captured and slammed above his head, enforcing dominance. A clothed knee probes the space in between the brunette's spread legs and, without warning, grinds hard against his most private area. A traitorous moan emits from his wet lips. Everything pauses a moment later. The photographer is undeniably aware of Walter watching him. He can sense the eyes of a predator boring into his face, scrutinizing his features and responses. Returning the stare, both their eyes battle each other, both holding a hint (more than a hint, in Henry's case) of hunger and lust. The killer speaks with huskiness ebbing into his tone, "Why did you kiss me, Receiver?"

A/N: What on Earth and Hell am I writing? :I The idea that Henry gets shit-faced and comes onto Walter came from the song, "Mr. Brightside", by The Killers, which may I say only has suggestive undertones of this actually happening. I didn't even remember Valentine's day was within the same week as me writing this document, which might I say proves my subconscious adores this pairing too much. Oooo the lyrics above make no sense as well, but I was all like, well, what the hell. ( Animal - Neon Trees)

And words. :c FFFF- I am so fucking sorry if I use repetition. You don't know how many times I've had to read the whole damn thing and slap myself for using "blah blah blah offending blah blah. Offending blah blah blah offending blah blah." SO. MANY. TIMES.

P.S: I'm terrified to write slash all of a sudden. :U If I could just get past the goddamn sex, then I'd be able to finish the story.