Pest Control, page 9
As he bit his bottom lip harshly and clenched his eyes shut, Rhys tried to imagine anything else to will himself to go soft again and reminded himself about how being attracted and actually wanting to act on attraction were completely different things. And later that night, he had to remind himself yet again when a sleeping someone’s hand rested on his inner thigh.
But as he was busy spending all his energy remaining faithful to their platonic relationship, he didn’t notice he was neglecting something else, something more important, until it was too late. He was in much too deep to escape from being attracted to Everett emotionally, not just physically.
Rhys realized his grave mistake when Everett was engrossed in reading a book out loud for the first time.
It’d been an easy read, one of the few poetry books Rhys had stocked in his library. Despite it being almost a hundred years old, he had read the compilation of poems all of the way through at least twenty times. He was glad he’d decided to impulse buy it years ago at a thrift store because of the beautiful, hand-painted watercolor of the very forest he lived in on the cover. The author was unknown, yet the way they stitched together just a few lines of simple words into images and emotions made Rhys feel as if he’d known the person all of his life, or as if he were them, seeing through their eyes.
He had fallen in love with it a while ago, but as Everett read it aloud in that husky, deep tone of his, curled up together next to the fire, Rhys found himself falling in love a second time.
It didn’t matter that Everett was still quite new at reading—his stuttering and pauses enhanced the poems in a way Rhys couldn’t ever hope to explain in his own words.
“The b-bear steps out into the wintear—winter,” Everett narrated, an index finger underlining the words as he read to keep his place. It was the longest of all of the pieces, and Rhys’s personal favorite. “Snow rushes to…to…cover its tracks.”
While Rhys should’ve been focusing on how quickly Everett had learned to read in the span of only a month or so, he found himself instead staring at the mole below his lips as they formed each word so carefully, as if caressing them, just as soft as his hands always were with Rhys. Everett’s thick brows furrowed when he got stuck on a word, his bottom lip sticking out in a pout. When he turned the page, Rhys’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of Everett’s smile, dimples making themselves known at the watercolor of a brown bear cloaked in snow. The small grin was contagious, causing Rhys’s weak lips to twitch into one as well. He was grateful for the lack of sufficient light in the cabin, or his blush would have been very easily visible.
“…Rhys? Did I pronounce that right?”
The same deep tone that had lulled Rhys into a sense of sleepy longing jerked him back into reality, his smile dropping as quickly as it had appeared.
Everett’s was gone, too, replaced with a concerned frown that had Rhys’s heart aching for the loss. “Hey, are you okay?” he asked slowly, reaching up to feel Rhys’s forehead. “You zoned out a bit there.”
“Uh, y-yeah, sorry, I’m just…er…tired?” Rhys mumbled, biting his lip nervously and averting his gaze. He hadn’t realized he’d stopped listening to the poem. “Sorry, what were you asking me?”
A soft chuckle filled the room, one that sounded fond. “Were you falling asleep on me? If you’re tired, you can just tell me, you know. Should we call it a day and go to bed now, hmm?”
“N-no!” Rhys blurted, voice a little too loud. “No.” His croaky voice softened as he waved his hand dismissively. He definitely was tired as all hell, but he would much rather let Everett finish this last poem. “It’s okay. I’m okay. Keep going.”
Everett quirked an eyebrow, as if to protest, but then he shook his head with another smile and went back to reading quietly. Once again, he easily entrapped Rhys back into the hypnosis of his voice. This time, it was made all the better when Everett pulled him into his lap, letting Rhys’s back rest against his chest, bearing his small weight.
Rhys sat there in surprise for a split second before he registered what had just happened with wide eyes. He went to flop off of Everett’s lap, but Everett was quick to wrap an arm around his waist, holding him there.
“What the—” Rhys hissed, straining to look up at his face.
“Shhh,” Everett purred into his ear, his chin propped on Rhys’s shoulder. “This is more comfortable. We can both get a good view of the pictures this way.”
Indeed, Rhys could see the pages better from here than where he’d previously been leaning against Everett’s side, but now he couldn’t focus on the pictures or the words, not when he could feel the rumbling vibrations from Everett talking as well as the gentle beat of his heart. They’d spooned plenty of times before, but this was different, more intimate. He wouldn’t be able to fight it even if he wanted to, which he decided he really didn’t want to at all, not when he felt more at peace here than anywhere else in the entire world. The forest itself couldn’t compare, hold him this tightly, speak this sweetly, warm him this well, nor take care of him in the way he’d only dreamed about before.
Couldn’t love him this way either.
Love. Love. It was love emanating from everything Everett did and was. Surprisingly, the this didn’t scare Rhys. He’d never been truly loved before, nor had he loved anyone in return, but there was no denying the connection between them. It felt right somehow, just like the first time he’d stepped into the forest. Like he belonged here in Everett’s arms, cherished and cared for, something precious and irreplaceable. He wasn’t quite sure if he deserved this level of affection. But he knew for certain Everett deserved every single ounce of love Rhys could’ve ever hoped to give him, even if he didn’t have much he could possibly offer.
And so, as all the other creatures of Earth had done, Rhys ran on pure, wild instinct—the instinct to reach out toward that which he so strongly desired.
Only love guided Rhys when he interrupted the final words of the poem. Only love guided him when he closed the book and set it to the side. Only love guided him when he turned around in Everett’s slackened grip. Only love guided him when he silently pressed a gentle hand against Everett’s soft, warm cheek, his thumb mapping the sharp line of his jaw. Only love guided him when he leaned in, closer, closer, and closer still, until he was so close he pressed his face against Everett’s chest to feel the stuttered heartbeat in his soul, matching his own.
Only love guided him when he opened his lips, ready to whisper the words—but before he could manage to, a pair of lips pressed atop his head, so gentle that it made his own heart swell almost painfully behind his ribcage.
Love, fuck, he was so in love he thought he might die from it before his flu could take him out first. That was a death he wouldn’t mind, one where his last breaths would be swallowed by Everett’s kiss, where he wouldn’t feel the cold sting of death, only the warmth of his love holding him close, where the lullaby that emanated from Everett’s heart would lull him into eternal slumber.
That night, he didn’t ever say the words that tried so desperately to be let out and heard. But it was okay because the kiss he pressed to Everett’s heart in return was enough.
For now.
★
As Rhys’s love strengthened, his body only weakened. It was almost as if he’d made a trade, a deal with the devil gone wrong, love for life.
In reality, Rhys knew that that wasn’t the case, though he swore every time he saw Everett’s blinding smile aimed at him, or heard his squeaky laughter filling the cabin with joy, he lost minutes off of his life—like eating a piece of bacon or smoking a cigarette indulgence. Instead, if there had to be someone to blame for his condition, he might’ve turned to curse Mother Nature to hell.
She seemed to have some sort of grudge against Rhys, despite his attempts over the years at living in the forest and respecting all of the animals and plants he came across. The only thing he thought he could’ve possibly done wrong was killing the animals to sustain himself, but that couldn’t be it, not when the lack of hunting for food was the reason Rhys was caught up in this mess.
He and Everett were starving, plain and simple.
As expected, the fish didn’t last them long, only two weeks or so, nor did the blizzards give them a second to safely go ice fishing again. If it was possible, the storm outside seemed as though it had grown even stronger, more violent, the winds swirling with hail so quickly one might’ve mistaken them for a tornado. They’d run through the last few remaining stacks of firewood as well, forcing them to turn to breaking apart various pieces of wooden furniture and cabinets to feed the waning flames. This they rationed, too, only warming the cabin enough to keep frostbite from eating them alive.
However, there was nothing to stop their own stomach acid from eating away at their intestines. Combined with Rhys’s ever-present flu, he’d become a skeleton of his past self, ribs sticking out and once-soft cheeks sinking in on themselves. Everett wasn’t much better, but he was still significantly stronger without having the flu—though that wouldn’t last much longer.
Rhys absolutely loathed how concerned and downright frightened Everett seemed—hated that he was the cause of such distress. They now spent their days wrapped around each other almost twenty-four seven. Everett only moved to tend to Rhys’s needs, such as forcing him to drink—water wasn’t filling at all, but it was all they had—holding his limp body up even though his own shook from the effort.
The coughing fits grew longer and louder, causing Rhys to collapse backward onto the furs after the sudden bursts of hacking, usually after drinking. Everett panicked every time, asking over and over again if he was okay, to which Rhys nodded weakly, trying his best to put on a smile for his sake, even though it hurt. His fever returned with a vengeance three days into not eating, leaving him groaning in constant discomfort. He assured Everett he was fine, but it was clear he wasn’t buying it a single bit.
They both knew he was going to die, and soon.
During the fifth day of his illness, Rhys barely had any moments of lucidity, in and out of fitful moments of sleep, silent sobs of pain ripping through his chest. He clutched Everett’s hand as hard as he could, barely strong enough to even lace their fingers together. Scorching to the touch, yet shivering like mad, and so feverish he was sent into seizures.
He was incredibly terrified of dying and leaving Everett alone without anyone to comfort him in his last moments as he’d done for him. And even now, with Everett’s eyes filling with tears and throat raw from his begging screams, Rhys still saw love in his eyes, in the tears that landed on his face, and in his words. Love surrounded him.
Love was a powerful thing, but it could never be enough to stop death. It could never be enough to quell the insurmountable grief of losing a loved one either, though Rhys hoped his final words would at least bring one last smile to Everett’s face.
“I love you,” he whispered quietly, like how a feather might sound. Everett whipped his head up from where it rested on Rhys’s chest, eyes wide in disbelief.
“Wh-what?” Everett said just as softly, leaning in close. “What did you just say?”
Rhys was running out of energy, but he somehow found enough to speak again. “I love you, Everett. L-love you so much; you know that, r-right? Please tell me you do—”
Everett sniffled, tears falling again, though he was smiling, the corners of his lips shaking. “Y-you do?”
Rhys answered with a small nod and a matching smile. Only warmth surrounded him at his love’s embrace, so tight yet so gentle.
“Remember me when I’m gone,” he murmured into Everett’s hair. “Always remember that I love you, okay?”
“No.” Everett sobbed, shaking his head violently. “No, shut up, you’re not dying! You can’t, Rhys, you can’t die on me! I won’t let you—”
“Shh,” Rhys whispered, smiling when Everett pulled back, letting him see his face again. He reached up to wipe away a tear on his cheek with his thumb. Everett leaned into the touch, whimpering, his own hands coming up to clutch Rhys’s. “Just let me go. It’s my t-time.”
Everett took a sharp intake of breath, shaking his head again as if steeling himself for something.
“No,” he said forcefully, standing up suddenly, leaving Rhys to whine pathetically at the loss of his touch, his warmth, reaching out for him as he walked away toward the door.
“E-Everett, where are you going?” Rhys panicked, crying dry tears as he helplessly watched Everett pull on his winter boots. He was going outside. Rhys’s weak heart picked up the pace in pure panic. “Everett, no, what are you doing? Why are you going outside? You’d die out there!”
Everett had the gall to smile—that son of a fucking bitch—as he opened the door, letting a violent, freezing whir of snow and wind inside. He took one step out, then another, ignoring Rhys’s hoarse screams, only turning back to utter a single phrase.
“I love you too, Rhys.”
And with that, he closed the door and disappeared into the swirling snow, purpose unknown, taking Rhys’s heart out into the cold with him.
Chapter Ten
Rhys softly hummed a nameless tune under his breath to the beat of his wooden knitting needles clacking against each other dully. He’d been working on the blanket for a couple of hours now, having not been able to sleep all night. After a while of tossing and turning, he’d given up, instead deciding to use the time productively in a way that wouldn’t risk waking his slumbering love.
The project idea had been sparked a few days ago when Everett complained about the temperature at night. It was still a bit cold, only a month or two into spring, but significantly warmer than winter had been. All of the furs Rhys had stocked were thick and warm, too much so for the season. Remembering that he had a few large skeins of wool yarn, he’d come up with the idea to knit a blanket that would be comfy but wouldn’t trap a lot of heat from their bodies pressed up against each other. He hoped Everett would love it, especially the light-pink hue that matched the little wildflowers that had begun to pop up around the garden beds.
It was also the same soft color of the sky when the sun eventually rose and filled the cabin with warm light filtering in through the linen curtains. The birds awakened with the sun, chirping and trilling a sweet, happy tune that almost harmonized with Rhys’s. He was so glad winter was finally over, the long-awaited spring here to bless them with plentiful prey and the fields with bright-green grass and blooming flowers. Even after all these years, winter was still hard on him—spring could never come fast enough.
Every so often, he glanced up from his work and across the room to where Everett lay so peacefully on his side, his back to Rhys. Only his feet were visible, sticking out from underneath the thin fur blanket draped over his body. Rhys hoped his toes weren’t getting cold from the slight chill in the room, or he wasn’t overheating with his head under the blanket.
Movement from the corner of his eye brought his fond gaze over to the window in the kitchen. A blue jay had landed on the windowsill and peeked through the small opening between the two curtains. It flapped a wing as if in greeting, to which Rhys replied with a wave. Its wings were so pretty, a dazzling, vibrant blue. He’d never seen this species here before, since birds like these usually didn’t stray so far from warmer climates, especially in this season. The old wooden chair groaned as he stood up to hurry across the room, eager to wake Everett to see this beautiful specimen. Though Rhys was hesitant to ruin his sleep, it was morning anyway, so it was only a matter of time before he would’ve woken up naturally from the light shining through the blanket.
“Everett,” Rhys whispered with a smile on his face, hands reaching out to pull the blankets off of him. “Wake up, sleepyhead, there’s a blue jay—wh-what the?”
Instead of Everett blinking sleepily up at him, his eyes were already wide open, unblinking, irises covered by the same thin layer of ice that covered his entire body like some sort of sick rendition of a cocoon. But Everett wasn’t a butterfly, nor was he even fucking alive, his heart silent and still when Rhys checked for a pulse. Blue tinged his skin as if he’d been out in the cold for too long. But that was impossible. He hadn’t been outside; he’d been here in bed the whole time. This couldn’t have happened; there was no way Everett was dead.
“Everett!” Rhys screamed hoarsely in horror, hot tears falling onto his love’s frozen face. The icy coating turned into sharp shards that dug into Rhys’s palms as he hysterically grabbed at Everett’s body—though it didn’t hurt. He couldn’t feel it, not when his heart was in way more pain. “No, Everett! You can’t be—wake up! Wake up, Everett. You can’t die. You can’t leave me. You can’t, you can’t, I won’t let you!”
He shook Everett’s rigid body as if it could awaken him from a deep slumber, as if that was all this was, just any other normal morning. But it wasn’t, far from it. It was a living nightmare, Rhys’s worst dream come true. How long had he been knitting so peacefully while his love lay dead? How had he not noticed before?
“Everett!” He sobbed violently, collapsing to the floor with Everett’s body falling with him, on top of him. “No, no, no, no!”
A drop of water fell onto his face, then two, then three. The ice was melting, as if Everett was crying, too, sobbing just as hard as Rhys was, mourning the loss of himself. Rhys sputtered when the drops kept coming, landing on his eyes, in his mouth, everywhere. It was too warm, wasn’t even cold, and all he could see were Everett’s frozen irises, so cold and dull and lifeless—
Rhys’s own eyes snapped open.
For a moment, it was too blurry to see anything more than a vague, smudgy shadow looming over him. A muddled haze covered the whole world as if the ice on Everett’s eyes had taken over Rhys’s as well. No longer was he holding Everett’s body in his arms, but something else was on top of him, holding him down, a heavy weight that had him panicking because he couldn’t fucking move. He couldn’t even voice his hysteria, throat choking on nothing, barely able to breathe. It was as if someone were sitting on his chest, knees pressing into his lungs, suffocating him. He blinked rapidly, the only part of his body he could control, his irises frantically darting back and forth, unseeing.
