People in the town don't realize just how much they depend on each other.

They know that they live together, in the house once occupied by the mayor and his family. Most gossips just assume that this is out of familial obligation; a combination of duty to each other and survival instincts coinciding in cohabitation. The world has dealt each of them considerable damage over the years, so it is understandable that neither wants to live without conversation, care, or contact with another human being. When it comes up in conversation, people often disagree about which one is taking care of the other.

 They remember Eric's funeral. How he stood stoically, his arm wrapped tightly around her, holding her head against his shoulder as she cried. The way he stayed by her side the entire day, and how neither of them was able to talk most of the time as the tears ran down their cheeks.

 They remember the day his mother died, how he sat in a chair, his head in his hands, refusing to talk to any who approached, turning everyone away. Except her. They recall how she sat beside him, one arm protectively draped over his shoulders, one hand resting on his forearm. It was strange, but not that difficult to understand. They were two broken pieces of a puzzle, the last members of a family trying to throw themselves together and face the unkind world without being alone.

So it isn't difficult to fathom the way they walk together around town, jumping to each other's defence, silently communicating, a united front against adversity that always manages to come their way. Usually, when someone comments, it is about how sad they are. These two lonely souls, who have lost their better halves, lost their family, forging a quiet existence all alone with each other in that house.

These people do not know that it is the time in that house that is his favourite part of the day. There is no one in this house who will ask anything unfair of him. No one who will try to burden him with any more than he can handle. No one who doesn't understand exactly how he feels. All there is here is her. She sits quietly by the fire, staring into the flames with a faraway look in her eyes. She doesn't turn when she hears him approaching. He puts the bowl of soup into her hand as she reaches up. There is rarely an unnecessary word spoken between them. She shifts over on the blanket. He squats down to sit beside her.

They sit, their arms and shoulders gently leaning, eating in silence. He slurps his soup only because he knows it will bring a small smile to her face. He can see it now, out of the corner of his eye. Then her eyes are shining. Just a little more than they would normally, in the fire light. He knows she's thinking it again, Eric never slurped his soup like this. Someone else might be afraid, walk on eggshells to avoid getting this reaction. He understands that she wants to remember. He continues to slurp.

She knows the game he's playing. They've done this many other nights. It makes him feel useful, whatever else he's done that day, however many people he hasn't saved. She gives him the reaction she knows he's trying to incite. She chuckles softly, and finally takes her eyes away from the fire to glance over at him. He has a small piece of noodle on his chin that he hasn't bothered to wipe away. She rolls her eyes, just as he hopes, and reaches one hand to gently fleck it away. He closes his eyes at her touch. She always wonders if he's imagining it is someone else laying a hand on his face. She knows her touch isn't Heather's, or Emily's. It's been so long since he imagined either of them, and he has long accepted her touch in all its truthfulness, but she still wonders.

He puts aside his bowl. He is finished, but not full. He has long given up on food to provide any kind of satisfaction. They eat to survive, not for any kind of enjoyment. The same is true of most things they experience now. The few opportunities to feel, they take. Her arms are still occupied, holding a soup bowl and a spoon. He rests a hand on her knee instead, his thumb idly tracing circles.

She feels this, but continues to spoon hot soup into her throat. It will be gone soon; he will be beside her much longer. It might once have surprised him, that she wasn't as easily swayed by his charms as the dozens of girls-next-door whose fawning over him had once been a part of his life he took for granted. What had surprised her was that she wasn't as immune to his charms as she'd once thought. She had imagined at first she was just helping out a friend, that things between them were just a plain and simple favour they were providing each other, like fixing someone's sink or watering their plants while they were on vacation. His hand travels up her thigh, spreading warmth underneath his fingers. She had to admit to herself long ago that it was not a mere deal between friends. 

He leaves his hand resting as she shifts, turning to place her bowl on the floor beside her. She tosses her hair as she turns back towards the fire. Smiling at him out of the corner of her eye, she lets her own left hand drop to his knee. This is another part of their game. They wait to see how long they will sit there, comfortably silent, their arms overlapping, their legs tingling underneath their hands. It is the game they have played since this all began. How long would they lean on each other, comfortably, quietly, before it would lead to something else.

He doesn't remember how long it took them. He doesn't worry over it. There isn't much he is certain of these days, not much he even knows to be true for a second. She is knowable. Every night, her skin is there underneath his hands, her solid form moves at the same speed his does. He sees all that she feels, and somehow, it gives credence to all that he feels. For a few hours, she quells his fears that he is a solitary being, hiding out in his own mind.

She knows exactly how long it took them. She remembers that first night their hands brushed together in the dim light, how they put aside their supper bowls, the directness with which their eyes met. The overwhelming desire that suddenly overpowered every sensible thought. Though she doesn't often dwell on it, she remembers how the next morning, she hadn't felt any regret. Regrets were for another world. This one was empty of so many things, and sometimes she felt as empty as the rest of it, facing one gray, weightless day after another. He kept her nights from being empty. He was a living, breathing, warm body to reach for and grab onto, and he was a thinking, feeling presence, filling her nights with that one joyous confirmation, that she wasn't as gray and weightless and empty as the world around them.

He is the first to fold. He reaches for her hair, brushing his fingers through the curls. Many of the older women in town still try to set him up with a 'nice girl', not realizing that the world no longer operates on old aunts' matchmaking, tisking to themselves about how lonely he must be. She is his delightful secret. Those in town who pity him don't know this one small but all-important truth, that he is not alone, his nights are not the lonely black holes they imagine. In the horror-filled moments he often faces during his days, he thinks of these nights.

She lets out a triumphant sigh and reaches her hands to grasp either side of his face. She pulls him to her, connecting his mouth to hers as she breathes in. She rarely worries about what others would think of their secret. She forgets it herself during the day. She has long given up pondering to herself what it is that they are, what it is that they do, and what his mother and brother would have thought. The reality of her days is simple- she makes alcohol and runs a bar. The reality of her nights is just as plain, and too mundane for words or pondering.

She leans back and pulls him to the ground with her. He reaches quickly for the skin under her shirt. She tugs at his until he absently pulls it off his shoulders. Her hands cling to his back. His mouth travels down her neck.

In front of the fire, like so many nights before, they depend on each other to bring out the life they no longer feel during the day.