Chapter 18
It was hard to tell morning from night in this building.
Even if they hadn’t pulled the curtains tight to block the dizzying, disorienting view of drifting endlessly through space, it wouldn’t have made much difference.
The entire building felt cloaked in shadow.
The hallways had a faint ambient glow from the generators, but inside his apartment, there was nothing but the weak, flickering light of a few constantly burning candles.
Now, as he slowly blinked awake, he realized those flames had guttered out.
Darkness pressed in from every corner. It wasn’t total—his eyes could still just barely pick out the edges of the furniture, the vague shape of the door—but only because he’d memorized the space by now.
Even Mads, lying directly in front of him, was little more than a faint silhouette against the black.
Lionel shifted, sinking back into the pillows with a quiet breath.
He watched Mads for a long moment. He’d fallen asleep so quickly last night, Lionel had felt almost embarrassed by it, but it seemed Mads had passed out just as fast. Lionel found himself wondering if there was still blood dried on his arm, hidden under the blankets and skin and sleep.
He sighed after a while. The worst edge of his insomnia had finally worn off, and now his limbs thrummed with the wrong kind of energy. Not adrenaline, just restlessness; that itchy, pacing feeling like he should be doing something.
Carefully, Lionel slid out from beneath the heavy duvet, moving as quietly as he could so he wouldn’t wake Mads.
The man had fallen asleep half on top of him, and Lionel had to gently extricate his arm.
Once free, he sat on the edge of the mattress, flexing his fingers as sensation returned.
Pins and needles buzzed unpleasantly under his skin, and he shook his hand a few times to get the blood flowing again.
He decided to leave the clothes on the floor and go into his closet for something new instead. The soft feeling of a new sweatshirt and pants made him feel far cleaner even without being able to take a shower.
Lionel walked as quietly as possible over to the kitchen, his stomach suddenly feeling emptier than it had in the last few days.
He glanced over his shoulder at Mads, who was tucked so far under the duvet he could only see his head of white hair.
He smiled slightly to himself and turned back to their bags of food.
If this were a normal morning after bringing someone home, he would have put together some sort of breakfast from whatever he had in his kitchen.
If he had known Mads before all of this, maybe he would have even taken a few extra minutes at the grocery store to pick up eggs and pancake mix.
But, he was only able to fish out two slices of nearly-stale bread and the bottle of olive oil he’d had sitting on his counter for probably months at this point.
He swore he’d been to a fancy Italian restaurant once where they gave them just bread and oil, and it was supposed to be delicious. Lionel thought butter tasted far better, but this would have to do.
Lionel lit the candles and grabbed the biggest one, setting one of the pieces of bread on top of it to see if he could toast it at all, or at least warm it. He was so tired of room-temperature food.
He had just finished pouring a little cup of oil and flipped the bread over when he heard Mads shifting around in his sleep.
Lionel couldn’t help grinning when Mads sat up, a bleary, confused look on his face when he spotted Lionel. His hair was sticking up from where it had been buried in his pillow, and he rubbed a hand over his face with a groan.
“Good morning,” Lionel laughed as he grabbed the plate and walked over to him. He stooped down, putting the makeshift breakfast onto the nightstand. “I made toast.” He wasn’t sure if scorch marks could really count as ‘toast,’ but he tried at least.
“Toast?” Mads questioned, voice slightly hoarse. It was then that Lionel’s gaze found the faint bruising around Mads’ pale, white throat. His eyes widened as he moved forward, cupping Mads’ chin and tilting it up to look.
“Fuck,” Lionel breathed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to— you didn’t say it hurt, are you—”
Mads’ fingers looped around his wrist, a smile playing on his lips. “I bruise easily, Lionel. You didn’t hurt me.”
Lionel didn’t feel entirely convinced, but didn’t push it. Mads pulled away from his grasp and picked up the bread, turning it every which way and looking at the burn marks on it. He looked over at the candle sitting on the kitchen counter. “Creative.”
Lionel wanted to apologize for not being able to give Mads something better for breakfast, but Mads was taking the little cup of oil and dunking the bread in it before Lionel could open his mouth. Mads chewed the bread thoughtfully, nodding to himself.
“Not terrible.” He shrugged. “Better than the cold soup, at least.”
Lionel laughed. He didn’t really think about it before he was leaning forward and pressing his lips to Mads’.
Mads made a small noise of surprise, but Lionel’s hand came up to pull him forward.
He could taste the slightly burned flavor of the bread on Mads’ mouth as he swiped his tongue over his lips.
Mads pulled back, eyebrows raised. “I’m trying to eat.”
“So am I,” Lionel murmured before pressing forward again.
It was a while later that the two of them got up, toast forgotten.
Lionel rummaged through his closet and found fresh clothes for Mads to wear, even if the sleeves and pants were a bit short on him.
“We should probably go find more food,” Lionel said as he helped straighten out the sweater and reached up to pat down Mads’ bedhead.
“Are we running out?” Mads asked.
“Not entirely,” Lionel said. “But if I have to eat one more bag of trail mix, I might puke.” Mads laughed under his breath but followed Lionel to the door.
As they reached it, Lionel grabbed the gun they kept stashed nearby just in case they ever needed to run without warning.
The metal was cold in his hands, comforting in its familiarity.
He loaded the rounds with practiced ease, the click of each one sliding into place oddly soothing.
It hit him, then, how routine this had become.
This quiet, mechanical readiness. Every supply run was a trek straight into danger, and yet it hardly raised his pulse anymore.
The act of preparing for the worst felt no different than tying his shoes or brushing his teeth.
That should’ve scared him more than it did.
He cracked the door open and peered out.
The hallway was still. They hadn’t heard much movement since the thing Mads had killed the night before—no scratching at the walls, no guttural sounds or panicked cries.
On the surface, it seemed promising. But Lionel knew better by now.
The silence wasn’t safe; more often than not, it just meant the monsters were hiding.
He gritted his teeth and reached back, grasping Mads’ hand in a silent signal. “Alright,” he murmured, “let’s go.”
They slipped out of the apartment, moving fast but quietly, hugging the wall as they made their way down the corridor.
On either side, Lionel tried the handles.
Most of them were locked, cold metal unmoving beneath his fingertips.
Still, they checked each one. Occasionally, he pressed his ear to a door, listening for anything on the other side.
“Here,” Mads said suddenly, voice low but firm. He had stopped in front of one of the doors, fingers wrapped around the handle. “This one’s open.”
Lionel rushed over, raising the gun instinctively. Mads nudged the door inward, and it creaked softly on the hinges.
“I’ll go first,” Lionel said, slipping past him and entering the apartment.
The place was eerily still, dust motes hanging in the air like suspended time. Lionel swept through each room quickly, gun raised, clearing corners and closets out of habit more than panic. After a few tense moments, he came back to the front and gave Mads a short nod. “Clear.”
“It looks like we’re not the first people who have been here,” Mads sighed as he opened up the cabinets. They were mostly empty, with only perishable things left behind. Lionel peered over his shoulder, scanning what was there.
Lionel reached past Mads, grabbing a half-crushed bag of potato chips from the middle shelf.
It was already torn open, with greasy and curling edges, and most of the chips inside were stale and broken.
Still, the first bite hit him like a revelation.
The salt exploded across his tongue, the crunch satisfying despite its limpness, and he nearly groaned aloud.
He shook the bag and held it out to Mads, who hesitated before plucking out a small handful. The chips crumbled in his fingers as he ate, and Lionel caught the faint twitch of his nose in distaste.
“These would’ve been trash before,” Lionel said, voice muffled as he chewed. “Forgotten behind ten boxes of cereal and a jar of expired mustard.”
“Mm,” Mads replied. “Now they’re gourmet.”
They sat on the floor beside the cabinets, legs stretched out, knees bumping occasionally.
No words were exchanged as they passed the bag back and forth, chipping away at the contents until only crumbs remained at the bottom.
Despite the salt stinging the small cuts on his lips, despite the way the oil clung to his teeth, Lionel couldn’t remember the last time something had tasted this good.