Chapter Two:

to have and to hold

Yifan stood by the drugstore counter, idly leafing through the pages of a newspaper he had pulled from the stand nearby.

As he read at his own leisurely pace, he became slowly aware of a presence that came to stand next to him, a dark figure dressed all in black, completely swaddled by the clothes he wore.  Peering curiously from his corner, he could only see the dark fringe of hair that covered the stranger's eyes, the face mask and baggy hoodie hiding the rest of him from sight.

Sparing no more than a few seconds of thought on the curious stranger, Yifan turned back to the words in his hands, flicking the newspaper taut once more.

The man slid an armful of snacks across the counter, the plastic wrapping crackling noisily as the cashier rang him up in contrasting silence. 

"That'll be $25.82."

Yifan heard nothing from the man for the next few seconds, only the rustling of clothes as the man pulled his pockets for change.  He couldn't help but flick his eyes up, staring as the man pulled out a few wrinkled bills from that huge jacket, dropping them onto the counter like crumpled balls of paper.  The cashier stared, pulling the bills open as he laid them onto the bright white counter.

They all looked down, individually counting up the bills in their heads, only to come to the same conclusion.

"Sir... you're short six dollars."

Yifan waited with the cashier in silence for the man to react, but the man said nothing, staring down at the snacks in front of him with a strange look.

The stranger’s stomach grumbled.

Making a quick grab for the food, the man stuffed them into his large pockets, slamming the doors open and flitting between them as he dashed away.

The cashier leapt across the counter to point at him as he made his getaway, all the while screaming at Yifan.

"CATCH HIM!"

Yifan didn't need to be told twice - he was already up and running – slipping out from between the slowly closing doors to give chase. 

The hood had flown off of the man's head, revealing a mop of jet black hair, swept back as he tried to get away.

Feet pounding the pavement behind the younger man, it didn't take him long to catch up - although the man was fast, Yifan was faster, his slightly longer legs and wider stride making all the difference as he reached out, grabbing the man by the seams of his clothes and reigning him back.

He jerked the man around and slammed him against the nearby telephone pole, waiting for him to finish catching his breath, an act that took noticeably longer in the thin air of the city.

When the man had finally finished panting, however, Yifan pinned with a disapproving gaze. 

"You fool.  Why the hell did you do that?  Do you want to get reported to the police?"

The man remained ever silent and Yifan sighed, growing quickly frustrated.

He shifted his paper under his arm, reaching out with his other hand to grip the other’s shoulder.

"Say something -"

For the first time, the figure glanced up, meeting his gaze with a pleading, desperate one of his own.

Yifan froze.

Although the man was hidden in his clothes, he saw the dark eyes that stared back out at him from beyond a score of blue and purple marks.  They dug underneath his face mask, curled around the nasty black eye the man was sporting.

Taking in the other’s frightened countenance, the way he seemed to shy away from touch… Yifan knew. 

The marks that surely existed on the man's body could have only matched those on his face, and it wasn't a conclusion he liked coming to.

Rather than the hard body of a criminal, he felt the bony shoulders underneath the clothing, far too skinny than was normal for a man of his age and height.  He stared down at the pouches of food, still sticking out from the other’s bulging pockets.

He knew that he could have just turned around – walked the man back into the store and wiped his hands clean of the whole affair – but a part of Yifan just couldn’t let the sight go.

So instead, keeping a hand on the other's arm at all times, he slowly took his own jacket off, throwing it over a shivering form as he began to pull the stranger along with him toward the parking lot.

"Come on.  My car's this way.  You can stay over at my house for the night."

Although the man dug his heels into the concrete, reluctance and fear still shining in those bright eyes - he pulled the green military jacket around him tighter, wrapping himself in the other's still lingering warmth.

If anyone was still out there at all anymore, the last convoys had long since left, abandoning them just like the officials had their posts, the news anchor their broadcasts.  The last sounds that had played over the televisions before the power finally cut out for good - a long playing error message, a dial tone that played over the multi-colored static.

And their country was a country no longer – borders meant nothing in a barren wasteland full of crumbling towers, remnants of the times when men stood as kings.

Through the concrete desert he walked, a solitary figure without a single thought in his mind, only the raw grief that rang in his mind like the screams that had torn from his throat that day. 

The day the world fell apart around him, revealing to him slowly a hellish landscape of urban decay, danger lurking around every corner. 

He could have cared less, really, whether he died here and now, victim to the cannibalistic monsters that roamed the streets, or victim to a slow starvation dragged out between months. 

Because really, where was the point in self-preservation?

The only reason he had ever had to care about living at all had died in his arms, and it was so hard - to have finally had everything he could have wished for, only to wake up in the dead of night, clinging to the empty space beside him, panting and gasping and yearning for something he had lost. 

Every night, when he curled on his side, shivering and alone in the dark, he wondered why it was that he could suffer every physical pain in the world and yet still, he felt nothing at all.  Because what hurt the most wasn’t the hunger, wasn’t the pain - what kept him awake with tears in his eyes - it wasn't even a feeling he could begin to describe.

So he kept it to himself as he aimlessly wandered, stumbling with a hand covering the eyes that refused to dry, blind from the acid in the air and the pain in his heart.

....but unbeknownst to him, from somewhere far behind, something was steadily catching up, following the tracks he had left behind in the dirt and ash, eyes focused on the only image it could still remember, buried deep within the recesses of its muddled mind.

The months might not have treated him well, but somehow a man with a heavy limp and a broken heart had survived where others hadn't, living reluctantly in the memory of another who had loved him.

His thin, spidery fingers clutched at his worn green jacket, trying to burrow deeper into it as he struggled not to shiver. 

Breathing heavily into his face mask, a gaunt face twitched, turning sharply into an imagined sound with overly bright eyes.  When the perceived threat ended up being nothing being nothing but a faded paper advertisement -  ‘Park's Auto Services!  10% off any repair!’  - fluttering through the wind, the man slowly wound back down, turning back to his task.

Leaning heavily onto his good leg, Zitao grunted as he lifted the lid of the dark green trash receptacle, flipping it up and back.

Lifting himself over the ledge, he peered in, pushing through the rotten piles of garbage with his hands in search of anything he could use.

With keen eyes, Zitao reached in, pulling a few dented cans and stuffing them into his pack.  With no shame, he reached in again, this time wiping a few squirming maggots from a slightly soft and fermented, but otherwise still edible apple.

Zitao couldn't help but to pull his mask down and dig in, too starved from days with little to no food to show restraint.  Putrid juice dripped down his chin and Zitao moaned, tasting nothing but wonder in that one half-rotten apple.

Rasping in a sudden coughing fit, he forced himself to stop, freezing in silence as his ears began to pick up a sound in the distance.

He paused, listening closer this time.

There it was again - soft shuffling, coming from somewhere down the street, making its way unmistakably in his direction.

Zitao's breath hitched, almost blanking if not for the advice that had been ingrained in his mind since the very first day.

'Stay quiet, stay hidden.  Please, don't be a hero.'

Zitao carefully heaved himself up and into the garbage receptacle, reaching back over it to grasp for his rifle.  Pulling the lid quietly down over him, he settled into the garbage just in time, eyes bright and focused on the single line of light that remained from the crack between the lid and the lip of the trash bin.

Sure enough, the shuffling grew quickly louder and louder, until Zitao was sure that the monster was right on top of him.  His only line of sight suddenly grew dark as something passed by, blocking the light. 

The shuffling paused.

Zitao slowly put a hand to his mouth, forcing himself to hold his breath.

He could hear heavy breathing, the squeak of leather shoes across the pavement as the thing shifted, searching for the source of the noise that he was sure it must have heard. 

Something was brushing against the lid of the trash receptacle, and Zitao clenched his eyes tightly shut, trying his hardest not to whimper.

But instead of the lid being flung open, forced to come face to face with a monster, instead... instead there was just another moment of silence, a clatter of something strangely metallic next to him - and then the shuffling began anew, this time slowly away from him.

He had grown to be paranoid, waiting for a few suffocating minutes more before he finally felt safe enough to lift the lid cautiously open, discovering nothing outside waiting for him at all - just the cold fog that embraced him as usual, chilling him to the bone.

Brushing rotten food from his clothes, he carefully climbed out of the trash, still looking in both directions in search for whatever had walked by, but seeing nothing.

He did discover the source of the strange metallic noise - the lid of a nearby trash can now lay on the ground, upended by the monster as it had passed by.

To his astonishment, on closer inspection, there were unopened cans of food in perfect condition, waiting there just inside for him. 

Rather than question his good luck, he looked around just once more before quietly picking the cans up, pocketing them with tired, unsteady hands.

For whatever reason, when the fog was heaviest, the zombies seemed to mob the streets, grabbing people when they'd least expected it, only to disappear back into the mist.

Back when there had still been scores of survivors left in the city, Zitao had witnessed the phenomenon firsthand, learning quickly from experience that it was best to travel during the day, when the fog was thinned by the pale sunlight - even better to travel during the rain, when the fog grew weak.

On that particular day, it was late afternoon (on which day, Zitao could never remember - he'd long since lost his sense of the weeks and the months), the sun already beginning to dip beyond the horizon, occasionally blinking in and out of sight from behind the towering, abandoned skyscrapers that jutted out from the ground.

Weighed down by his bags and the limp that forced him to lean heavily onto the rifle at his side, it was becoming more and more urgent for Zitao to find shelter before the night fell.

Stay hidden.

Stay quiet, stay hidden, don’t be a hero. 

Shifting his bags over his shoulder, his eyes scanned his surroundings, pinpointing on something in the nearby distance.

Sewer tunnel.  That would work, wouldn't it?

Yes, his broken mind provided him, prone to filling in for him the gaps of unbearable silence that stretched on-and-on.

Yes, that would do just fine.

The padlock was already broken - by whom, Zitao had no idea.  But it was obvious that someone had lived there very recently.  There were still leftover supplies - kerosene, an oil drum still full of rags, wrappers left behind from food.

But although Zitao called out, both warning and pleading for his entrance, there was no return of an answer back to him.

He couldn't help but be a little disappointed.

It would have been nice to have some company for once, Zitao lamented, locking himself in and reluctantly barricading the room with a heavy shelf.  He hadn't seen or heard anyone in weeks.

Still, he survived as he always did, settling in for the night.

Later, when the fire crackled in the oil drum, casting flickers of brilliant light and shadows onto Zitao's face and the concrete enclosing him, he sat slumped on the wall, eating some beans from a can and watching the fire burn.

To be warm and fed for the first time in days gave him some comfort, but at the very same time, he felt nothing at all.  For although he would live to see another day - there was no one to see him succeed, no one who cared whether he did or didn't.

No one to remember him for all he had struggled, all he had endured.

But still, Zitao thought, staring at the red embers.

Still.

The first time he had almost given up, it had been just hours after Yifan's death.

It had been too soon - too raw - Zitao had wandered the streets with blistered feet, eyes dull with the tears that had fallen for days.

The Changed man that had attacked him had come out from the alley, surprising him in the middle of his grief.

All spittle and black bile, it snarled at him with a mouth that lacked lips.  Zitao had let it push him down onto the ground, falling onto the gravel with no sound at all.

He stared up at what would have been a quick death for him, imagining what it would feel like - to let teeth tear him apart, to feel himself become disemboweled, to welcome death with open arms.

It would have been preferable, really, than the prospect of living life alone, lost in the memories, the what-ifs. 

But when Zitao happened to lay his hand on a cold aluminum bat sticking out of his pack, he remembered the man who had bought it.

They used to play in the old park, you see, holding small games on the grey concrete, just the two of them.  Zitao hadn’t been very good – terrible, really, but he had to admit, it had always been worth it to see –

Yifan was grinning bashfully back at him, shyly scratching the side of his cheek, holding the bat over his shoulder...

Zitao rolled his hand over, finding a tight grip on the bat beneath his hands.

With a thousand-yard stare that would eventually become permanently ingrained on his face, Zitao killed his first man in cold blood.  He would feel no remorse.

Zitao woke, wracked in a fit of shuddering coughs that had his thin frame shaking, bones rattling underneath his stretched skin.

When the fit had finally passed, he placed a hand on the cold concrete, using it to pull himself shakily up.  Tearing his mask off, he observed the yellowed color of the filter, stained and old.

Reaching over to rifle through his pack for a new mask, Zitao sighed, leaning back when he discovered nothing of use at all. 

What lay beyond the doors he had entered the previous day was something Zitao had not been expecting at all.

Next to a strange, inexplicable trail of dead wild grass that lay by the door - there was a dead man.

Not a dead Changed - but a dead man.  When Zitao stumbled onto him, he discovered the stranger lying in a pool of his own blood, eyes still wide open with an expression of shock on his face.

He looked young - a bit younger than himself, with rare, naturally tan skin, and smooth, handsome features. 

What struck Zitao as odd was that unlike most corpses he had discovered, this one was mostly intact, the only thing missing was the chunk from the back of his head, the telltale sign of teeth indented into the soft, pink flesh of the man's brain. 

Still - if it had been one of those things as Zitao was sure it must have been - why had it only taken such a small piece?  Why had it left its meal so quickly?

The drip of water against the pipes made him tense up, tightening his grip on the rifle in his hands.  Zitao looked around, finding no trace of the thing that had killed him, only darkness.  It was more than a little unnerving. 

Still, Zitao thought, turning back to the corpse, perhaps it was for the best.

He eyed the man's pistol which remained tucked in his waistband. 

This one didn't look as if he would have been too friendly.

He flipped through the man's wallet briefly, more out of curiosity than anything - money was useless anyway - pulling from the worn leather an old driver's license.

Kim Jongin.  The faded picture of an unsmiling man stared back at him. 

The name meant nothing to him, nor did the face, so he dropped the card back on the body.

Hesitating for just a second, he reached out and took Jongin's things for his own.

He tossed the wallet in the trash and dragged the body out, leaving it to decay by an old dumpster to be picked away at any monster that might come sniffing.

Unsettled by the other survivor's death, Zitao decided against staying another night, combining his own pack and the supplies he had taken from the Jongin's and heaving them all over his already aching shoulder.

Under the cover of light rain and grey sunlight, Zitao made his gradual way down the streets, ducking into the nearest gas station after a quick check to make sure that he was alone.

Setting his things down behind the counter, Zitao took a basket, shaking it clear of the broken glass that lay in it.  He went down, aisle by aisle, grabbing what little was left on it that he would need - matches, gloves, extra socks, bars of soap, bottles of clean water.

There just one box of smog masks left in the entire store.  Enough to tide him over for a few weeks if he made careful use of each one - but not quite enough to last the month.  Zitao frowned, but placed it in his basket anyway, sighing as turned to return to the counter.

As he passed by, he brushed against something plastic, making a loud sound that pulled his attention.  He glanced back at the source of the noise, eyes catching on unopened bags of snacks that sat tantalizingly in front of him.

They were probably stale, but Zitao tore into them anyway, ducking behind the counter with his bounty as he popped open the first bag, quickly emptying the first handful into his mouth as soon as he had pulled his mask down, marveling at the wonderful taste of salt that burst on his tongue.

He slid down the linoleum counter, giggling almost hysterically as he quickly emptied the first bag, his fingers clean before pulling the second bag open with a satisfyingly loud noise. 

So focused on his task he was that it took him much longer than it really should have, to realize how familiar the moment was.

It wasn't until he was on his third, a bright blue bag of Chex Mix, that he slowed down, lowering his hand from his mouth.

Something about the way the bags lay scattered around him in that abandoned gas station, something about how the lottery tickets behind the counter were hanging in pieces, something about the newspapers lying faded and brown on the stands.

Something about the man who had stood by the counter with a newspaper in hand.

Zitao found himself staring down at the small shapes of pretzels and biscuits in his hand.

When they came, he muffled his sudden sobs with another handful of junk food, shoving it into his mouth even as his tears trickled down around them.

Zitao had stayed there for far too long, lost in his thoughts.  When he finally roused himself, he finally heard the sound of a clatter behind him.  Things were being knocked off of the shelves.

Which could only mean one thing - something was there with him, listlessly wandering. 

He slowly reached over, quietly picking the rifle up and holding it in his arms as he slowly sat straight.

Unlike what had been there the other day, this one sounded... different. 

It kept making wet, choking sounds, as if its mouth were clogged, the noise a person made right before they threw up.  It made Zitao's own gag reflex itch, his own skin crawl, but as soon as the noise had started - all of a sudden, it went quiet once again.

…was it gone, just like the other had been the other day?

Zitao wondered, waiting a minute more to be sure before slowly turning, placing careful fingers on the countertop before slowly pulling himself up.

When he lifted his head, he stared straight into two black holes, where eyes had once been, leaning forward into him. 

For some reason, Zitao had the mind enough to look at it clearly, taking in the differences in its body to all of the Changed he had seen before.  Whereas the Changed looked so distinctly human, if not bloodied and broken - this one - this one looked much more like a monster than the rest.  In place of hands, it had wicked claws, instead of skin, something grotesque was growing off of its body, thin, black, and leafy. 

Oh. 

This one's ugly.

Zitao barely managed to duck the black bile that was spat in his direction with an accompanying shriek, the tar-like matter sticking to the wall and melting the plaster behind it with a sizzle and a pop.  Zitao stared at the wall with eyes that widened in horror, whipping around with his rifle, only to find that the monster had already jumped the counter, coming down on top of him and knocking his weapon out of his hands. 

Zitao fell hard, gasping and clutching at his leg before he felt something whip against his face, sending him flat against the ground.  He struggled to get to his feet, but the monster was inhumanly fast, already straddling him before he had a chance to sit up.  He was forced to hold his hands out, barely able to keep the monster’s mouth away from him even as it snapped its distended jaws at him, shifting his own head just in time to scarcely avoid the drips of acidic black that dripped from its lips.

Preoccupied with keeping its head away, he watched it lift its claw, unable to let a hand go to stop it.

The only thing he could do was to cry out helplessly, his breath breaking in the cold air as he teared up, clenching his eyes in preparation - and then it all went black.

For some reason, the world had flipped upside down.

Blinking slowly, he remembered only the screeching of the tires, the sound of his own terrified screams.

The uncomfortable feeling of vertigo kept him trapped in a half state of consciousness, and he could feel something in his leg pounding vaguely, but couldn't find the energy to bring his head up from his twisted position to look.

Hands locked beneath him, trapped by the seatbelt that kept him half in his seat, Tao could feel the drip of blood from his mouth, his own raspy breathing. 

The feeling of restrained, labored breath and the ceiling that rose up to meet him only made his claustrophobia worse.  Panic began to quickly set in, and Tao began to sob.

After what felt like hours, he heard the scrape of metal on metal briefly before air came flooding in, filling his lungs with the smell of burning rubber and gasoline.

He struggled, barely able to turn his head to the figure that suddenly blocked the light, bending in to reach for him.

A horrified scream of his own name.

Zitao.  Zitao!  ...ZITAO!

"...YIFAN!"

Zitao sat up, knocking the sheets from his form as sweat dripped from his body, heart racing as the images in his mind still painted themselves so sharp, so clear.

Taking a few shaky breaths, Zitao ran a trembling hand through his sweat-slicked hair, staring down at the thin blanket that barely covered his thin legs.

He didn't have to look to see the oil drum, still blazing next to him, the bag that rested on his right.

Just a dream.  It was all just a dream.

Zitao moved sluggishly, out of energy and breath as he slowly repositioned himself onto his hands and knees, digging through his pack for a drink of water.

When he brushed against a single, brand new pack of filtered smog masks though, he paused.

Like a bucket of cold water, realization set in. 

Zitao took in a quick breath, whipping his head around him as he examined his surroundings - it was definitely the shelter he had been in the previous night – but when had - how had he gotten back here?

Zitao's heartbeat began to race faster when the next question rose in his head -

Who had known to bring him back here?

There were many reasons that Zitao didn't trust other survivors.

In a world where there was no law to protect citizens, no religion to preach kindness and respect to others, it was the surviving members of the human race who were the most deceptive and conniving, at times even more cruel than the monsters he had met.

That’s why Zitao pulled his gun first, and asked questions second.

He made his way out of the room, leaning up against the walls as he slowly slid forward.

It was nighttime apparently, judging from the faint beams of moonlight that streamed down from above into the darkness. 

Zitao cursed, waiting for his eyes to adjust as he kept his rifle trained ahead, limping as quietly as he could, and leaning past the corridor to stare at what lay beyond.

When his eyes finally began to fill in the holes in his vision, Zitao paused, almost for a second missing a man who was standing there in the darkness, unmoving.

From the way he was standing, it was hard to tell really whether this was another survivor, or a Changed in a rare, passive moment.  Either way, the man's back face toward him, his front turned toward the sole entrance to the sewers, as if standing guard.  

Zitao in a breath, praying for his own success before cocking his gun audibly, making his way out from behind the corridor.

"Hey… hey, you!  Were you the one who saved me?" 

The man twitched, reacting to the sound, but otherwise remaining as he stood.

Zitao lifted his rifle, making sure the man could hear him doing so.

"Sorry to be paranoid but... who are you and why did you help me?"

Again, no reaction.

Zitao had to admit he was a little unnerved by the other’s silence as he tightened his grip on the gun, his lips as he aimed down the sights at the man.

"I... I'm asking you a question!  If you don't t-turn around, I'll shoot before you have a chance to speak!"

Finally, the words seemed to register in the other man's head as he slowly began to turn on his heel. 

Zitao kept his eyes squinted, fingers on the trigger, ready to shoot should the man make any sudden move.

He hadn't even turned halfway, when Zitao began to recognize features, seeing half of a handcuff that clung loosely from his wrist, swaying with the movement.

Zitao suddenly lost his breath, pulling his gun down with a look of stunned recognition.

It was Yifan. 

I’ve finally gone crazy.

It was Zitao's only explanation for the hallucination that now stood in front of him, one which wore a smile he'd seen a thousand times before.

And if Zitao hadn't held the man's body in his arms, long after it had grown cold, he could have closed his eyes, dropped his rifle, and believed that what stood before him was Yifan - although his gaze floated past his face to stare at the space just above the left side of Zitao’s face, the man's eyes were clearer than most, standing tall, straight, and still where the others presented with their telltale sway.

But for as much as the man in front of him looked like his husband, his husband had never been this deathly pale - he'd always had a warm, youthful looking skin.  And there was so much red - clothes that were splattered with flecks, fingers permanently stained - a smiling mouth smeared with blood...

"No... no... th-that's impossible..."  Zitao began, picking his rifle back up and aiming it toward not-Yifan-not-Yifan-not-Yifan who began to walk toward him slowly, taking a step forward with every step that Zitao took back.

"Stay b-back!"  He shouted, holding his gun in shaky hands.

It paused for a second, cocking its head.

And yet, despite himself, he couldn't take his eyes off of the sight in front of him, drinking in the sight of the love that had been stolen from him too soon.

The same figure that had haunted his worst nightmares, his best dreams.

It took another step forward.

Zitao began to hyperventilate, gritting his teeth tight.  He took aim, watching as his vision began to swim in front of him.

nothimnothimnothimshoothim

Zitao began to squeeze the trigger.

At the last second, he closed his eyes, twitching the muzzle away.

The shot ricocheted harmlessly off the floor nearby. 

It was raining heavily. 

The moonlight was just barely peeking through the heavy gray clouds.

He didn't know how he found the energy in his weakened state to do it, but Zitao vaulted over the fence of the baseball field as soon as he could, falling harshly into a puddle of dirt, water and sand with a cry of pain.  Scrambling to his feet, he began to run forward as best as he could, using the grip he had on the torn and ripped fence beside him to drag his leg behind him.

The thing took a hurried pace, following him as closely as it could from the other side of the fence. 

Meters later, Zitao's leg finally gave on him and he collapsed to the floor, clinging desperately to the chain link fence.

He watched with a feeling of dread and deja vu as it slowly appeared, coming up to the hole in the fence and sinking down slowly onto its feet. 

For minutes, there was silence, the two of them staring each other down. 

It stared at him with nothing but a gentle smile.

It would have been so much easier – if not for the fact that it acted and looked so human, so similar in mannerisms to his Yifan.  In all those months, he had never seen a monster who seemed to remember – and yet here it was, remaining close to Zitao as if it remembered the love they had shared.

But that was impossible, wasn’t it?

Zitao wanted so desperately to believe that there was still something of Yifan in the monster that stood before him.

Just the thought of there being nothing left was - it was unbearable –

Trickling down his cheeks, Zitao wasn’t sure if the liquid was rain or tears.

"What are you?"  He whispered, staring at the figure that remained separated by crisscrossing pieces of hard metal. 

"…how dare you use his body?"

The monster pressed its face closer to the fence, and yet while Zitao should have been scared, he found that he couldn't bring himself to pull away.

Slowly, keeping his eyes on the figure in front of him, he condemned himself willingly, sticking thin fingers through the holes to trace at the pale flesh with hesitant fingers.

Ice cold.

"Are you going to eat me now?"  Zitao whispered weakly, the breaths barely forming white clouds in the air. 

There was no response, only that same damned stare.

He pushed his thin wrist through the fence, offering up to the monster the fleshy underside of his arm, brushing it against its face.

“Here… take it – if it’s you… if it’s you, i-it’ll be okay.  Please - I’m begging you, just do it – …do it already!"  Zitao screamed, pushing his hand against the other's bloodied lips, closing his eyes and waiting for the pain to settle in.

He flinched at the next soft touch, of hot air being breathed onto his wrist - but when nothing happened, Zitao opened his eyes.

Although his expression remained unchanged, still blank and quiet, the monster was nuzzling gently into his touch, the strange smile even more heartbreaking than ever as he did so.

Something in Zitao broke at the sight.

Not caring if he would be eaten alive, Zitao choked back a sob, stretching his hands forward.

As the rain began to clear, he let the creature pull him out from the hole in the fence. 

Staring out from between water-soaked bangs at the thing that wore his husband's face, he wrapped his arms around a stiff arm, holding onto it tight as he was led slowly away into the fog.