Keeping Count

-=-=-

Following the series of events that took place seventeen years ago, it would have made the most sense that Michael Kaufmann would have died a horrible death once Lisa (the bitch, the NERVE) dragged him down below into the depths of the ungodly (haha, deities) hell. It would have made sense. He has no illusions about the life he's led; it's not idealistic, it's not moralizing either. It was simply for him to do with as he deemed, for himself, and no one else.

It would make sense that he would die a gruesome death, never to be seen again. End of the tale, never seen or heard from once more. Get pulled down, see Harry run for the damned light without even looking back.

Makes. Perfect. Sense.

Nothing about Silent Hill makes sense; that he's known for awhile. The cult, the magic -- none of it mattered to him. Power makes sense, curiosity, science; all those things do and did. Did and do(n't). Everything he's believed in (little to nothing) and held onto doesn't matter here anymore; dying made sense.

Which is why he's not dead.

For the following days weeks months years almost two decades, he's counted. Counted every bit of it, and he's lived. Barely.

It could be a giant taunt from this entire place, which makes the most sense. Occasionally, he'd find a scrap bit of food, and scarfed it down like a homeless dog. And even though the only company he's known in this place have been broken memos and beasts that only become more grotesque over time, he's lived. He's lived through every single bit, even though he's even sure he's tried to escape with the help of a handgun, only to wake up on a gurney bench chair bed and still so very alive.

Seventeen years later, and he's a bit on edge. One could hopefully understand why.

The place never stays the same, but it's never completely different for him, either. Not entirely. Locations, in general, are still the same. He knows how to get to Lakeview Hotel, when the streets haven't apparently collapsed, and he knows the way to Ann's Bar so he can get trashed to try to forget how mauled his leg is right now and how long he's been here. The interiors will shift, it'll get uglier, sometimes impossible to navigate, but generally. It's the same.

Which is why he's a bit surprised, while dragging himself along, to find a door. A door he's never seen, in all of his time here. A door that looks so normal that it almost hurts to study it. A plain wooden door with a banged up handle that's made of glass, a way to try to seem elegant but terribly cheap in reality. The same kind of door probably stuck in a lot of apartment buildings everywhere. Trying to be elegant but never quite matching up.

He considers the possible consequences of opening the door for about ten seconds; he could die (which wouldn't really be that bad), get tortured (again), get maimed (again), or all of the above, and in retrospect, what was the worse that could happen besides the worse?

So he opens the door.

The interior is so painfully normal that he almost collapses. This doesn't happen very often; usually, it's the rusted appearance, fans turning, monsters following, something twitching in the corner, is that monster doing what I think it's doing. Here, it's different. It's a bedroom. A plain, ordinary bedroom of someone tasteless enough to enjoy detective novels, ranging from Sherlock Holmes to Nancy Drew.

The only thing that stands out in the room (but would not in Silent Hill) is the bed.

There's obviously a body underneath, the way it's shaped under the sheets. Dying flowers plucked in a hurry were left on the corpse, and it seems fresh enough, what with how it's bleeding through the cloth.

It takes him about ten minutes to thoroughly observe everything but the body; there's not much to the room. There's the dull sunset in the window, looking normal outside, absolutely normal. Books and books and a typewriter and nothing. Useful. Just a normal room with a dead body.

It's so damned refreshing.

It's almost disappointing when he hears sudden rustling of sheets, hearing a gasp and a cough; Kaufmann turns and looks at the body, seeing it start to move.

Well. Maybe it's not as dead as he thought.

It's no doubt going to be a regretful action, but it's performed regardless; in spite of logical concerns, Kaufmann's simply set aside those matters (as they, really, don't matter anymore). He reaches forward, grasping the sheets in a fist, giving one firm yank and throwing the bloodied things aside.

The man body thing is coughing, turning over onto his side and covering his mouth. From his chest, he oozes blood, a gaping wound that should suggest his death. It's a man, it's a man he should know.

Kaufmann doesn't move. He just turns his head to the side, as if to give it a good thought.

It doesn't take much. The jacket, more than anything else, serves as a reminder. Brown and leather and a little more worn than Kaufmann recalls, but he knows it, because it's the last thing he really saw before Lisa pulled him down below the grates. For a moment, he feels anger, but just as it comes it passes.

"Harry."

He's still coughing, blood dribbling out between fingers. He's bleeding so much that he really, really should be dead, but he isn't (or maybe he is hell if anything makes sense). Harry can barely glance up, pale and weak and pathetic (bumbling moron usually looked stupidly hopeful back then).

The key part is that this is someone else. Someone. Not a monster, not something trying to tear him apart, or leaving just enough of him to survive and pull himself together gradually.

Someone.

A fucking person.

He reaches out, grabbing Harry by the hand, pulling him to his feet. For a moment, Harry slips in the mess of his own blood, stumbling and unbalanced. Kaufmann grumbles; the author never really was a man of much grace. He grabs him by the shoulder as well, trying to help him find his feet. Blood smears across the floor as the doctor helps him find his way to the exit.

Finally.

Another person.

Another

just

someone.

"Where--" Harry mumbles, coughing and shuddering.

Kaufmann cuts him off. "I don't even know how long it's been," he says, lying, voice crackling, so old and dry. "But I never found a way out. I tried everything. Everything."

"Guess that means I have all eternity to figure this out." Harry smiles wryly, eyes tired.

Like he could pass out at any moment.

His head droops and Kaufmann pulls him along.

-=-=-

60 seconds to a minute.

60 minutes to an hour.

24 hours to a day.

365 days to a year.

-=-=-

There's no where to determine reasonably safe in Silent Hill. If Kaufmann were to even consider somewhat familiar territory to return to, he couldn't even pick it; the hospital is the last place one would ever want to be at now. Either of them. The asylum even less.

Riverside Motel is, sometimes, reasonably calm.

As soon as Harry lays down on the bed, he's out. Sometimes, when Kaufmann glances at him, he's not sure if he sees breathing. He's not sure if he's looking at a corpse or if Harry is just sleeping that deeply. It's hard to say; he hasn't bothered with questions yet. Hell, he's got quite a few of them for the writer.

He's not sure how angry he feels just yet. Justifiably speaking, Harry had a little bundle in his arms when he fled that place (nowhere), so going back for anyone wouldn't have been an option, but he didn't even look back. (Not that, logically, Harry is capable of malicious actions, and probably didn't even consider the consequences. Five minutes of talking to Harry Mason, and you know the man, because he's an open fucking book.) Granted, Harry's already saved his life at least on one occasion, still.

It was years ago, but all he has here to keep count.

Now he has company.

The hell is he supposed to do with that? This is one of the few things so far that hasn't ended up being some kind of horrifying trap in this place.

He isn't sure if he wants to be grateful. On one hand, people are a pain and he's always done better on his own. Why start now, after all--

Then again. Then again, he's had nothing but monsters and personal demons for company for the past several years.

Count your blessings.

Kaufmann snorts at the thought.

It's been approximately seventeen minutes since they got back and Harry is still out. It occurs to Kaufmann that, possibly, the author's wounds should be checked.

The doctor grumbles, annoyed; he turns Harry over and begins to dig around in one of the desks in the room until he manages to find one of the first aid kits he's been stocking. It's not the best equipment, but it'll have to do.

Harry doesn't even budge. Kaufmann watches him carefully, even while he lifts the writer's shirt.

No breath of air.

He waits.

After two minutes, the writer coughs again and turns his head to the side.

Alive enough, he supposes; Kaufmann sets to work.

It comes naturally enough to him. To be honest, he'd never become a doctor because there was joy in helping people. He was smart and good at what he did, and he liked the pay. Climbing his way up the ladder and finding uses for White Claudia had eventually just become part of it all, the entire Order matter being a scientific curiosity gone awry. Power, he liked power, he liked having control over everything.

Although, if anything, this place has torn away all matter of control and power, leaving him far more helpless than he'd ever been. There was nothing to dominate when getting stuck here, because there were monsters and the town just loves to fuck with you.

What does it mean to suddenly have Harry here?

(Logic aside, he still blames him.)

The wounds are sewn up as much as he can manage with what he has, cared for in precision. Cleanliness he couldn't promise, but by the looks of things, Harry is lucky (ha, luck) to even be alive (if he is).

He doesn't assist because there is personal concern, but because there's no one else here with Kaufmann. Being alone never bothered him before all this.

Being alone with nothing but this town--

He'd never admit to being frightened, but that's not a terror he's looking forward to facing again.

There are beats, inconsistent. He counts the seconds and minutes in between Harry breathes once, then stops breathing. It's as if he can't decide to stay dead -- or perhaps life is slowly seeping back inside.

Difficult to say.

Still, it's something else to see a breathing body. And gradually, it becomes more consistent, albeit trembling, as if struggling for air. But breathing, nonetheless.

It's been a long time since he's seen anyone else. Seventeen years, at least, since he's last spoken to another human being or even heard one.

His fingers curl into his worn pants, tight enough to nearly tear the weakened threads.

But of all people to show up here in front of him, it had to be Harry Mason. In spite of logic, knowing that spite is just something that this man before him cannot harbor, Kaufmann still harbors that grudge of being left behind to die.

Before he decides anything, he's standing. He does not like being without control, but it's out of his hands, and he hates this man for that too. The doctor wraps his hands around Harry's throat, not quite squeezing.

He only stops when the writer opens his eyes and stares back at him. It doesn't matter how much older Harry looks; that clueless look on his face is the same as ever.

It's quiet for a moment as they stare down at one another, as Harry takes a moment to figure it out (takes ninety-four seconds).

"Kaufmann," he finally recognizes him.

The doctor doesn't say anything, his fingers tensing, tempted.

They're both quiet again, for one minute and forty-seven seconds.

"I wouldn't blame you."

That's not something Kaufmann would expect anyone to say to him of all people; granted, no, he did not know Harry long, but it's usually not hard to understand a man so blatantly honest like him. The writer just looks at him, guilty.

"I thought about it, for so long. And it wasn't just you; there's Cybil -- and Lisa. I screwed up. I--"

There's no satisfaction in this. No satisfaction if he already feels this sorry.

Kaufmann gives him a cold look and removes his hands. "You always talked too much."

Harry winces a little. "Sorry."

"You left me to die," the doctors mutters bitterly. "You didn't look back, even once."

Harry sighs. "No," he agreed tiredly. "I didn't. I..."

"You might as well have shot me."

Harry glances away, quiet.

Kaufmann tenses. Angry. (Hateful) "Did you hear me, Harry? You might as well have shot me."

"I know." Harry winces. "I know. I... what can I say other than I'm sorry? I had... I had to get out of there."

"I'm not even dead, and I might as well be -- I sure as hell wish I was. Thanks to you."

"Kaufmann, I had... I couldn't just--" Harry looks up, almost helplessly. "I had to get out, I was..."

For a writer, he stumbles over his words all too much. It just annoys the doctor.

Kaufmann pulls away, scowling. "Just shut up and get some sleep."

The doctor stands and forces himself to leave the room.

He hopes Harry isn't there when he goes back.

(He hopes that he is.)

Check again in ten minutes and sixteen seconds.

-=-=-

Seventeen. Not quite two decades. Approximately 6205 days, more or less.

17. 7. (just turned seven)

Seventeen damned years and now this.

-=-=-

One hour and fifteen minutes later, Harry is sleeping again, so deep that he might as well be dead, but this time Kaufmann can see him breathing. Like an assurance that he's alive (not that Kaufmann ever searches for assurance).

Eventually, it's enough, and Kaufmann forces him up and out of bed, on his feet, and they're walking.

He doesn't know about Harry, but he himself is still, amazingly, human and hungry.

They don't speak; the writer is walking not quite beside him, his head bowed forward, likely still sunken into guilt and whatever memories he's swimming in.

Not long after they've stepped out of the hotel (eleven minutes), Harry dares to speak (and when Kaufmann gives it thought, it's a little rougher than he remember seventeen years ago, obviously with age and worn with whatever he was doing for the past several years):

"So-- are. This is going to sound strange," the writer tries, rubbing his forehead. "Are you alive?"

There's no doubt in Kaufmann concerning this. He gives Harry a flat look before responding (did he forget already?). "Yes."

"All this time?!" Harry sounds mixed, like he's not sure if he should be terrified or amazed.

Kaufmann snorts. "Not all of my doing."

If it was at all possible for Harry to look any more miserable than before, he's doing a fine job of it now, and the doctor has no regret or sympathy.

As they walk, the town stays eerily silent; it's not unusual, but typically, something usually writhes up about now. At the moment, their only additional company is the fog and--

Slowly. Snow starts to trickle down.

That's not terribly unfamiliar.

"What are you doing here anyway?" Kaufmann makes sure to show his contempt in his voice, how displeased he is to have Harry with him.

"Murder."

The way he says it, so calmly, accepting what has happened. Harry is glancing down at his own chest, frowning.

"I'm not sure what I'm doing here -- maybe I was supposed to go to Hell for everything -- but she killed me. Had me killed, anyway." Harry tilts his head, as if trying to remember something. "Her name -- Claudia. Claudia Wolf."

Familiar. Kaufmann is sure to keep a vivid memory. There was a little girl who had been friends with Alessa. A little girl who also showed potential. She was Claudia, Dahlia told him, daughter of Leonard Wolf.

"I don't know her," Kaufmann says.

"She was part of the Order, I think. Said it was revenge."

The doctor glances at him, scowling. "I said I don't know her."

In spite of how much, obviously, Harry has been looking guilty, he's frowning suddenly and giving Kaufmann a dark look. "I feel bad about all that's happened, but sorry if I don't exactly believe you."

It's almost difficult to believe that someone like Harry, in the past seventeen years, has managed to grow a spine -- but then, one can hardly expect that things could have kept the same after so long. There is a part of him that would like to refuse it, and yet he knows himself that time has changed him, even if it isn't much.

Still, that hardly means that he has to cave in and confess everything to anyone, much less Harry Mason.

"Anyway, it doesn't really matter if you knew who she was or not. It doesn't change anything now," Harry mutters.

It changes things for Kaufmann a great deal -- but no, he seriously doubts that it'll change Harry's fate, to live amongst those left behind and dead in Silent Hill.

Although it's a bit of a curious thing as to why now of all times Kaufmann is able to see another person that isn't out to torment him.

Or maybe this is enough of a torment, making him indecisive on what to do with the other man, Indecisiveness had never really been an issue in the past for Michael Kaufmann, yet now.

Now.

Oddly, the streets stay quiet, even as they push further in meager exploration. Harry simply looks as though he's dreading the familiarity he's being shoved into, as no doubt he hasn't been back here in several years, given the choice. These are steps they both know.

They stop outside one of the convenience stores. There's the instinct to check the door (all the doors), but it's obviously locked.

Harry gives him a helpless shrug.

Kaufmann smashes the glass of the door with his briefcase.

"Oh. I guess that's one way to do it," Harry comments under his breath, as if the thought to break things down never occurred to him (which it probably didn't). "You still carry that thing around?"

The doctor steps through what once remained of the glass of the door, then pauses to look over his shoulder. He lifts the briefcase up faintly. "This?" Harry nods, which leads to Kaufmann snorting faintly.

He doesn't explain why, but the items inside -- one of these days, it could prove useful. That, and it's been his only company that hasn't rotted away, that serves to remind the world outside of here. It hasn't kept sanity (if there is any left) but it's his and that's all that matters. It's his. It's Kaufmann's.

He hears Harry following him, shoes crunching on broken glass. Kaufmann doesn't request his help, and really the only point of this is to find previsions. It doesn't matter much, if he's tried to kill himself a few times, and this place won't ever let him die. Starving to death or however it is.

It keeps him alive. Barely.

There isn't much on the shelves; most of the things are useless or spoiled, but he takes the time to shift through it all, finding a few cans without labels that will exist as mystery meals. He shoves what little he can find into a shopping basket that's seen better days, and takes a moment to think curiously.

Would a dead man like Harry Mason need to eat here?

He snorts. Unlikely. And Kaufmann would never promise to share what he has, anyway.

He doesn't make note to or pay attention to whatever it is that Harry may be doing; Kaufmann is preoccupied and couldn't give a damn anyway. Still, he pauses once he hears the sound of snarling to left of himself, down the aisle.

Kaufmann hasn't seen monsters for awhile. Just now they decide to crop up?

Slowly, he glances to his left. It's crouched. One of the dogs he's so used to seeing, but this one looks... a bit different. Its eyes are gouged out, and frankly it looks a little more wolfish than the others. Bigger, some strands of hair or fur on various parts of the body. It's a subtle difference, but with all the time that Kaufmann has spent here, he takes care into the details.

The damned beast is leaping at him, and Kaufmann doesn't quite have the time to drop everything and dig out his pistol. He's not looking forward to the injury this will cause.

There's a hand grabbing the back of his collar, fingers hooked into his tie as he's abruptly thrown down the floor less than gracefully; the monster ends up missing him this way, but tackles down the person who threw him to the floor.

Kaufmann turns over with a grunt; he severely dislikes to even think of his age, but he's certainly no where near as young as he used to be. He still manages to turn enough to see the beast tearing at Harry's throat violently, causing the writer to gurgle blood while trying, no doubt, to express severe pain.

It's a curious thing. What does a dead man do about injuries here?

Harry grows an expression that simply does not belong on his features; it's dark and there's a grin, in spite of his flesh being torn by fangs. He's reaching up with both hands, pressing them down to either side of the monster's skull before turning it sharply. It does cause the wound on his throat to gush more blood, but also the canine's neck to snap with a loud crunch of bones.

It goes limp as Harry shoves it off.

Kaufmann is getting up, peering over the author, contemplating. Leaving him would be the smarter thing; a wound like that would kill a normal man, and the blood is simply an attraction to the damned beasts in this place. That, and he really has no desire to keep Harry's company.

(On the other hand, a dead man here is no normal man, and he suddenly dreads what might occur should he no longer have someone else's company, even if it is Harry Mason.)

He feels no obligation, even though this isn't the first time Harry has saved him. Really, he doesn't care about that; it's the personal need to not be alone again that probably drives the ridiculous action of pulling Harry to his feet (all the while grumbling) and investigating the wound briefly.

It's a mess, skin torn into by teeth, blood spilling out.

Harry tries to cover his mouth as he coughs and gasps.

It doesn't change. He doesn't become a corpse. But obviously in pain.

This grabs his curiosity, and Kaufmann is fine with blaming his actions on that alone. Curiosity.

"Come on," Kaufmann growls at him. "We're heading back."

-=-=-

365.

-=-=-

Taking care of the wound was far too difficult and convinces Kaufmann that Harry won't last. But then again, it's difficult to say, considering the unusual circumstances. The neck wound isn't getting any better, but Harry hasn't stopped struggling for air, and his pulse is there, faintly.

As Kaufmann finishes bandaging him, doing all that he can with his limited supplies, Harry is dead asleep again.

He sits to watch him, briefly. Harry is still bleeding, and it shows through the bandages, but his body still shudders for air as he breathes, coughing and sputtering up more blood.

It's a bit fascinating to study, Kaufmann admits.

For now, he supposes he should try to eat while he waits.

-=-=-

Second day. Twelve hours and forty-nine minutes have gone by.

Kaufmann's chosen not to leave the motel room for now. He hasn't slept, and he isn't sure when the last time he slept was (yes he does, it was three days and two hours and six minutes ago), and he highly doubts he's about to start sleeping now. Not while he's studying Harry.

He's checked the chest wounds. They still dribble out blood, in spite of the fact that Kaufmann has sewn them shut. No signs of healing yet. The neck wound is far worse off, still oozing blood, and Harry is still coughing.

The only note is that Harry has yet to wake up. He's sleeping pretty damned deeply.

For awhile (one hour and thirty-two minutes) Kaufmann paces. He isn't up to exploring outside yet, and so far the Riverside Motel has proven to be safe enough in comparison to the rest of the town. He has enough stocked up to survive on for a few more days.

No hurry.

He watches his subject curiously.

Harry is struggling a bit less to breathe, his head turned to the side and mouth open faintly. His body still quivers as he fights for air, but it's not as violent as before.

He watches a little more intently.

There's a pulse in the lower pit of Kaufmann's stomach he doesn't appreciate.

-=-=-

The next day, Kaufmann decides it's better to step out.

If Harry is dead or gone when he returns, well.

Well.

-=-=-

When he returns with a better supply of bullets for his pistol and better medical supplies, Kaufmann makes the mental note that monsters still have not been lurking so much. As if there's a beginning of a new, clean slate for later horror.

A strange thought, but it's the one that feels appropriate.

Harry is still there, and Kaufmann breathes. Not out of relief; he'd simply like to further explore what keeps Harry as himself.

(Even the moments in which Lisa has been able to torment Kaufmann, she's not completely human. Not completely of herself, although he's certain she's angry enough to share.)

Harry is a bit more unique.

Kaufmann wants to know why.

The writer is still sleeping, body trembling as it exists. He's positioned in the same way. Mouth open, just barely, head turned. He's limp, and completely vulnerable.

Completely.

Kaufmann pauses.

Temptation isn't out of his grasp. He's followed through on urges, because they are what he wants and he doesn't consider anything else to be any other way. Previously, he felt he had the chance to have the world in his palm. He's been more than humbled since.

Beliefs, should you call them that, have not changed much.

The pulse is there, and he lets it be. He justifies it well enough; it's been several years since a simple conversation, since touch or basic desire. Besides, he supposes, he has no pity for Harry's circumstance.

Touching the other man would be more than wanted; the thought disgusts him, and he's fine on his own. He's a bit surprised, of course, at his own personal hunger, but it's understandable. Seventeen years depraved does well to cause him to almost forget to want, yet at the very same time, what the monsters do to each other sometimes, it's a filthy reminder, a scorn, all thrown back at you to watch.

Right now, this is him and himself.

This is not something he's above or below, and been awhile since it was familiar, but that hardly matters. Perhaps this is the point of the other man being here, to taunt him -- it would make sense, Kaufmann sourly thinks. There's no attraction, he doesn't take enjoyment out of men, but pathetically without another human and the overbearing monsters in this place defiles what is normal for him. Normality is gone, and all that's left is this.

So he studies intently, the mouth just parted, a helpless body.

The doctor only watches, because, yes, touching him would too intimate and he doesn't want the man. He holds himself, almost surprised at how rough and callused his hands have become over the time being here, scabbed in some spots. (Always getting hurt but never killed because this place just. Won't. Let him. DIE.) Movement isn't slick, but harsh as he strokes, almost bitter, terribly appropriate for the kind of world he's been stuck in for years (seventeen) now. Keeping count, always keeping count of everything.

Even this.

Six pumps, and he starts to forget to care about defining the whole matter, and what's the point really when this damned town tears meaning away from you? Harry is still asleep, even when Kaufmann permits himself to groan to himself, and he wonders what in the hell would even wake up the author at this point.

Eleven in, and he shivers and lets go of sensibility, lets himself drown a little in just. Watching. As he jerks off, because that's hell of a lot more than what he's gotten for years and it'll do.

Seventeen, he has the thought, at least, to turn away and finish. It's a mess easier to clean, become as impersonal as possible again. Keep the wall between them.

When he cleans (in a matter of four minutes and thirty-two seconds) and looks back at Harry, the man has turned over, but still asleep.

-=-=-

The next three days are like the previous. There's no problem lying to himself; take it, do it. This is all he can do, get off by just watching the helpless, sleeping man in front of him. Once he'd even edged closer, enough that he could feel the shuddering breath from that mouth and that was enough. He was careful enough to clean his own mess and was sure he didn't leave any indications -- not that Harry would know, asleep as he is.

It does make him wonder, down further to a level of logic. Why now? He dislikes the man. He isn't attracted to him. He doesn't want him. But something in Kaufmann rises up anyway. Is it just desperation alone? Possible, he supposes, but is that enough?

Is it this town affecting him differently? No, he doesn't think so. This place just taunts him, torments, laughing behind its veil of fog and the beasts it creates. It doesn't change Kaufmann directly as such.

So what is it?

When he finishes taking care of any sign of what's been done, he gets to work.

The chest injuries -- from what looked to be from getting stabbed -- are completely gone. How does a dead man recover from such wounds? He isn't sure. He isn't sure of the logistics of any of this. It makes him pause and scowl, look at the unmarred flesh. There aren't even any scars.

The body under him shudders, breath less like stammered wheeze and more just struggling through pain. Determination.

It shifts, unintentional or completely so; Kaufmann hasn't decided what to convince himself of which it might be, but he's not ignorant to the position he's in, looming over a body that he can't be sure of being alive or dead, but it's moving, so what? Onto his back, and Harry's legs are limp that they're falling apart from one another almost like mindless invitation, but he knows that's impossible because the writer is still asleep. So it's a taunt, yet another taunt.

There's only a brief consideration of the consequences of what could be and how much invasion of space he's truly going to do. He's still certain that he's not attracted to the other man, yet the doctor is pressing his hand between the writer's legs, almost analytical. Just how much can a dead man feel, anyway?

The thought process is almost less of desire and more of simple curiosity of this dead man's state of being.

Kaufmann squeezes his hand, and a little too hard makes the body under him instinctively make a discomforting noise in spite of the fact that Harry is sleeping. He's shifting just a bit, and the doctor continues to press his hand, slowly but surely starting to really feel a reaction, organ hardening under bloodied slacks. It doesn't make much sense on why a dead man can be aroused, but Kaufmann isn't completely sure there's a logic to anything about Harry right at the moment.

It takes a little while, he notices, for the body to react appropriately for him. It could be that Harry is dead, or that he's cold; to be honest, Kaufmann's not even all that sure. But he continues touching, squeezing, probing, looking for responses, carefully studying this subject. How his chest constricts, breath shudders more than usual, and Kaufmann is almost impressed by how deep of a sleep Harry is in.

A hand reaches up, pinching a nipple; the sleeping body arches just faintly at the nerves being played with, skin starting to turn flush and warm up finally. Almost like Harry is alive.

(It's a taunt. A game. Always been. For seventeen years.)

Kaufmann doesn't fumble, he never. Ever. Fumbles. His hands are careful when he unbuttons Harry's pants, unzips, reaches down to experiment further. The body trembles at the touch, a tight stroke, rough hand continuously moving. He can hear his project shuddering and shivering in breath.

He's never chosen to take advantage of another man before. (Women are weak, easier, pathetic.) A sleeping, dead man no less. But he can put reasoning into it, say that Harry owes him anyway. It's an experiment, a project, a test, why not, it's been too damned long anyway, and that's why. That's why he.

A hand reaches up and grabs Kaufmann's wrist.

In the midst of watching, he failed to notice Harry sitting up, awake, staring at him. He's breathing hard in spite of his injured throat, eyes wide, body sweating.

Harry is debating; Kaufmann can see that. Let him finish this (as Harry is hard enough that it probably hurts now) or stop (like a sensible, moralistic man that Kaufmann knows Harry to be).

After a pause (forty-three seconds) Harry lets go of his wrist and lets out a hiss, likely disappointed in himself.

The doctor jerks his hand, earning a gurgled groan from the other man; this is different than touching a sleeping body, better reactions. Harry is jerking his hips, reluctantly giving up control (control Kaufmann can appreciate that) as he rocks towards him. Kaufmann digs in his jagged nails (nail biting habit developed four years ago hates it) as he moves his hand and presses his thumb against the tip. Harry bucks into his grip, panting, closer to writhing and yes, Kaufmann can deal with this. He can deal with being in control like this.

It brings him almost back to his normal senses, having power over someone else again. The way someone involuntarily begs for him, and he gives just a bit and a bit and never truly gives too much.

He strings him along, for as long as he's able, until Harry moans and comes into his hand.

The writer lays there, panting, holding his forehead with his eyes shut; the doctor is prepared enough, taking out a handkerchief to wipe off his hand.

That was unusually satisfying.

The thought passes, as Harry is sitting up again, reaching out to grab Kaufmann by the throat, pulling him in close. There's an expression unfamiliar to Harry's face, something Kaufmann did not predict. Utter fury, the way his brows are knitted and he's seething.

His throat hasn't healed completely, as obvious by the way his voice struggles and gargles as he speaks, but it puts in an eerie edge to it that almost bothers Kaufmann.

"If you. Touch me again. I'll make you pay. For it," Harry says lowly to him voice stilted, needing to pause to swallow due to his injury. "Don't think. That I can't smell you. What you did. Know what you did, Michael. Three days. Keep count. Right?"

Words like that don't usually mean a damn to Kaufmann; he's never had any reason before to fear someone like Harry Mason, who's too stupidly kind and gentle and naive and he can't stand that kind of person. But at the moment, with the anger, the unforgiving tone, there's a look that somehow pierces Kaufmann (just like the way the town does it to him).

It's a look of judgment.

(unforgiving)

He's let go at last. Harry lays back and curls onto his side.

Kaufmann doesn't check to see if he's sleeping.

-=-=-

And he's sure to not touch him (or himself) again after that little incident.

(there was no control after all)

-=-=-

"It's better."

A week later. Kaufmann is mystified; the tear in Harry's throat. It shouldn't have healed so easily, but it has. No scarring. Still tender flesh, but nonetheless, it has been healed and quite well.

Harry raises his hand to touch his neck, but Kaufmann immediately swats it. "Leave it alone," the doctor growls at him. "Give it a day or two. I want to examine it."

The writer sighs. "Fine." He glances down, towards the floor. "This is nuts; how does any of this make sense...?"

"It doesn't." Kaufmann is throwing away the bandages, tearing off latex gloves. "You were dead when I found you. You're still dead, or should be."

He's had the thought briefly. Maybe Mason is like Lisa now, alive but not alive, but there's something also significantly different -- so the theory was discarded. Harry is dead and alive and he's trying to figure it out.

"Um." Harry cuts into the doctor's thoughts with a stammer. "This is going to sound weird, but... I'm kind of hungry. I shouldn't be hungry, should I?"

"Could be habit. Doubtful, considering everything else." Kaufmann stops when he realizes Harry is looking at him, giving him a ridiculous hopeful look. The doctor lets out an annoyed sigh and stands up, managaging to not wince at the creak of his knees. "Fine. Wait a moment."

There's nothing that works in here to heat anything up, so everything is cold. He hasn't had the luxury of a hot meal for ages. It takes some shifting and looking through cans in annoyance until he comes upon cheap chicken soup by a grocery store brand; he finds a spoon, and he returns with the two items.

Harry takes them as Kaufmann says, "I'll get the can opener--"

The top of the can tears off when Harry yanks it with his teeth.

"...Well," Kaufmann mutters.

The top of the can is dropped to the floor, although Harry is obviously confused (not unusual for him). "Did I-- how did...?"

Interesting.

"Eat," Kaufmann tells him gruffly.

It's something to analyze; he thinks briefly of how Harry looked before he snapped the monster's neck. The man has been so frail after death that sudden strength wouldn't make much sense (not that a whole lot does in this godforsaken town). A part of Kaufmann would like to just pass the whole thing off as the town messing with him (maybe messing with both of them) but it's not that simple.

It isn't so random.

It needs to be studied.

Seventeen minutes later of the discomforting sound of Harry trying to eat cold soup, the can is disposed of and Kaufmann settles with the idea (this is my project, this is my subject, nothing else); going outside to explore today will not be an option unless they are forced to.

"Who was that baby you were running away with?" the doctor asks suddenly.

Harry's head jerks up to look at Kaufmann. "You mean way back--? To be honest, I'm not entirely sure myself. I..." He frowns. "I'm pretty sure she used to be Alessa and... and Cheryl. The cult never stopped looking for her. One even showed up at my doorstep years ago."

But all this time, Harry's managed to avoid them. In spite of being a bumbling naive man, Harry's been smart enough.

"I bleached her hair and we changed names. It worked for awhile, anyway." Harry shrugs. "I really don't know what to make of Heather, but I know she's what they were after. I saw signs, sometimes -- usually she had bad dreams, and she'd react to things like fire. Cheryl never--"

Harry is rubbing the bridge of his nose, struggling with something, no doubt pertaining to a personal issue. Kaufmann doesn't care about that.

"She never showed signs of power?" the doctor wondered.

"You think I bothered to check?" Harry replies angrily. "I wanted her to grow up as a normal kid -- as Alessa should have. Not that you give a shit about that."

The tone is accusing. Any other time, any other person, it wouldn't mean a damn to Kaufmann, yet now, with the judgment from Harry, it cuts in and Kaufmann has no idea why. He doesn't care. So why should Harry's opinion do anything to the doctor? (As if Harry could cause him a worse fate than this place.)

Someone like Harry could never--

Could he?

"Anyway, that woman named Claudia showed up. Talking about what happened years ago, what I did, and about Alessa. She asked where Heather was." Harry scowls. "I guess if I helped her, maybe I would have lived; hard to say. But I refused. Dying was better than letting them get to her."

"Coming home to a corpse was a better idea," Kaufmann says flatly. "Oh yes, very brilliant."

"Heather's stronger and smarter than her old man. If Claudia succeeded, you and I would be in big trouble by now." Harry gives him a wry smile, unusually confident. "I know she's going to be okay."

True. If God was finally called upon, then they would have been even worse off by now.

Still. Doesn't hurt to ask. "Their God--" Kaufmann hates the term; entirely unscientific. "--was placed into Alessa. It should have been in... what did you name her, Heather?"

"I remember on my trip here with Cheryl, I found some very strange red liquid that I kept." Harry is giving him that look again. That judged look. "I found something similar in Annie's Bar. You remember that, Michael? I didn't figure out what it was for until it was too late for Cybil and..." He sighs, holding his forehead; no doubt old guilt cropping up. "I kept it. I put it inside of a pendant I gave to Heather. Like I said, she's not like me -- I know she must have figured it out."

Twice. Kaufmann wants to laugh, but it doesn't come up; still, he's amused and a little amazed. That's twice Harry Mason has stopped the coming of this town's ridiculous sense of God.

Is that why he was here? To be punished?

Or was it something even deeper?

-=-=-

It's the next day. Kaufmann almost forgot to count.

This time, Harry is coming along, any appearance of having injuries gone. He still looks withered, worn, all too tired, but he insists to follow.

As since Harry has arrived, the town has seemed more... abandoned than usual. Too damned quiet, not a soul, not even something to terrify him. (It's been all about Mason) It's a sea of fog as usual, and snow dusting the sky, but other than that, there haven't been any monsters lately that Kaufmann has noticed.

It's mostly a matter of exploration and collecting supplies. Harry seems to have a bit more strength in him now, and that makes it easier; why not, have another pair of hands carry what needs to be carried.

They don't speak much as they go. Their conversations have mostly been of attempting to determine as to why Harry was here, why Harry was. So.

Unique, is the word that comes to mind, but everything here is "special". Still, Kaufmann's never come across something like this. A dead man that was so very lively began to make Kaufmann question if Harry was dead at all.

Eventually, the town almost seems to
wake

up.

In the way that when they turn a corner, the street simply stops, is nothing but a cliff-side.

"Great," Harry mutters.

Kaufmann just grumbles.

As they turn corners and find more blockades or just gaps, it begins to settle in for Kaufmann where the town is guiding them. It's a hell of a walk, and they twist around, incapable of retracing their steps and going back (there is no going back). Eventually, as they pass Annie's Bar (Kaufmann notices sourly), they approach it.

Lakeside Amusement Park.

"I don't want to be here," Harry mumbles sourly. "I don't--"

"We don't have a choice," the doctor cuts him off sharply.

Harry glares at him. "I did something terrible here."

"Should I be surprised?"

"Don't you start--" Harry begins angrily.

Silent Hill is a place that Kaufmann has gotten to know far too well. He has a general idea of where things are or should be in the town, where the school is and where the hospitals are.

That's why he knows it's not right when he hears church bells ringing.

The ground is tearing away under them, the sky darkening and the fog muffling. Harry is screaming and clutching his head, dropping to his knees. (not that he cares but) Kaufmann kneels down, taking the other man by the shoulders. It's odd; the bells aren't bothering him and--

It was. Always a siren that changed the world. And it hasn't changed for sometime now. Not since Harry arrived.

(Everything is changing because of him?)

Kaufmann is wise enough to have taken a flashlight along; he turns it on, and the fog has thickened. The snow is coming down harder, more like sleet than anything. It's colder. The smell of blood and rust is more apparent now, an unfortunate familiarity to him. The fence is barely held together, more dangling than anything. And something is

lurking

in the amusement park.

When Kaufmann looks back, there's no way to return. A giant wall, lines of CAUTION scrolled across like a mess of a spider's web.

Impossible; they can only go forward.

"Harry." The writer doesn't respond at first. "Harry! Get up!"

Eventually he looks up, terrified. Absolutely terrified.

"We can't get back," Harry says quietly.

Kaufmann grumbles. "No."

"No chance--?"

"No."

Harry sighs. "Yeah. Just great."

The doctor pulls him to his feet.

No where to go but forward.

It's not so much that Kaufmann walks with confident as he does with living with the knowledge that he cannot turn back now, but embrace the horrors inside. He can hear Harry behind him, following, but his steps reserved and hesitant. The ground is littered with the annoying and unsettled costumes of the mascot, Robbie -- blood splattered across the bodies.

Harry is distracted by them, glancing behind; Kaufmann doesn't stop, but glances over his shoulder to see the writer trying to peer through the eyes, see what's behind the mask (idiot). The moment he does, Harry jerks away and hurries to catch up with the doctor.

"What did you see?" Kaufmann asks, not so much curious as he is trying to keep the air as ... not silent as possible.

But Harry doesn't answer; he just cringes.

It isn't much further until it comes into sight; the carousel. It isn't moving. But Harry is wincing, going still in his steps.

"Get over here," the doctor snaps at him. When Harry doesn't budge, Kaufmann gives an irritated sigh. "What is it?"

"Cybil." Harry glances away. "When I was here seventeen years ago, she helped me. But I had to shoot her."

Kaufmann briefly wonders how many bodies Harry has caused -- directly or indirectly -- in the mess of also stopping a God at least twice already. Almost a curious thing; all these actions performed by a man who just wanted a vacation in a lousy resort town years ago.

(But not without guilt)

"Sh--!" The writer flinches, grasping his forehead. "What...?!"

Two steps towards Harry are taken, but shortly afterward Kaufmann has to stop when he hears a snarl.

On the other side of the carousel, he sees the creature; it's new, something he's never seen before. It's large, hulking, skin sickly pale and sweating and rotting. It walks slowly on all fours like a beast, a snout like a dog. Although its jaws are bound up partly with filthy bandages, the doctor can still see its twisted fangs as it approaches them. Its eyes have been gouged, dribbling blood, but the nostrils flare to follow a scent, no doubt.

The only word the comes to mind, for some reason, is wolf in this case.

The most curious thing about this beast is what is on its back; tied to the monster is what looks like an examination table burdening it with its weight. There's what looks, at first glance, to be a corpse on top, but a closer view reveals that it's a mannequin, impaled in the chest, pinned to the table.

This isn't Kaufmann's personal horror.

He looks at Harry, whose expression is utter terror.

"Get up," Kaufmann hisses at him.

The author stumbles to his feet, and neither of them have to say a thing; they're both bolting in the same direction.

He can hear it, the monster (Wolf) chasing after them, growling as it follows. The ground practically shakes the way it's stampeding after them, jaws snapping and gurgling sounds just behind them. It's almost like it's practically nipping at their heels.

(If this is the end, Kaufmann would welcome it, but he doubts this place will let him go that easily.)

"C'mon!" Harry is grabbing onto his wrist, pulling to away to the right suddenly; they're heading down beyond the roller-coaster, and the thing is still chasing after them.

They're turning again, and a chain-link fence is in their way.

"Excellent job--" Kaufmann starts to snap at him, but Harry is letting go of the doctor and curling his fingers into the fence, and pulls, suddenly.

It tears right out of the ground.

(What in the hell.)

Harry is turning around, throwing the fence suddenly at the Wolf (seems appropriate of a name); it doesn't kill it, of course, but it yelps and it's slowed down for just a moment. Just long enough; Harry is grabbed onto Kaufmann and leading the way again, to a pillar belonging to the roller-coaster--

Why. Is there a door on it?

The writer is throwing the door open, pulling the both of them inside, and shutting the door.

It slams closed.

The interior of this place is... illogically, a long hallway. Decorating the ceiling is a mess of parts, and it only occurs to Kaufmann, belatedly, that these are parts to a car. A red one, naturally.

Harry is panting, crouching down. "Ah... damn it."

"What is it?" Kaufmann asks, and not due to concern. Curiosity.

"Tired. Hungry," Harry mumbles.

"Of course." The doctor doesn't hide his annoyance, but he's helping the writer up anyway, supporting his weight (unusually light) by placing an arm around his midsection. Harry is stumbling along, trying to walk with him. "We're hardly safe here. We should keep moving."

"Yeah," the writer says quietly, exhausted. "You're right."

(As Kaufmann studies the ceiling, he's becoming more convinced of it; this place is warping to Harry's mind. But why his?)

"How did you pull that fence out?" Kaufmann asks him, filling the silence almost desperately.

"Mm?" Harry's brows knit, as if struggling to remember. "I don't... I don't know. I just felt like I could. Felt like I had to go this way. But I'm still not strong enough..." His head droops down. "Still not strong enough. Too dark."

What the hell does that mean? "Harry--" Kaufmann stops, noticing that Harry is passing out. "Wake up! I can't carry you!"

Too late; the other man is slipping down, sitting abruptly on the floor and leaning against the wall, unconscious.

"Great," Kaufmann growls.

The smarter idea, as always, is to ditch him. Leave him behind and save himself.

But Kaufmann knows, there's no saving himself from this place, and it's increasingly settling in to one fact:

If there's any hope of getting out of this damned place, Harry might be his only chance.

So he can't be left.

"Damn it." Kaufmann sighs and resigns to himself, looking back and forth down the hall. No monsters. Yet.

-=-=-

Two hours, forty-seven minutes.

"Hungry," is the word that slurs out from Harry.

But Kaufmann doesn't hear another thing from him.

-=-=-

Twenty-eight minutes later, Kaufmann belatedly notices one of the damned roaches crawling on the floor. Too big to be natural; made by this place.

He raises a foot to smash it.

Harry's hand grabs it before he can do it; the author's eyes are wide open and there's that smile not quite right on his face that does not belong to Harry at all. He's shoving the roach into his mouth, biting down; something dark and liquid dribbles down his chin and he's licking it up.

(Kaufmann wonders, briefly, if he's still looking at Harry Mason)

"Better," he murmurs, slowly standing up.

"Harry?" the doctor asks (he doesn't want to admit it but) hesitating.

"Hm?" Harry is looking up, confused. As if he doesn't realize what he just did.

"Never mind." Kaufmann scowls at him. "Let's go."

-=-=-

In due time, Kaufmann starts to get hungry, too. The difference is that he's starved before. Starved without dying, because Silent Hill does not let him die, for that would be a luxury. So, hunger isn't a concern. Just a discomfort.

But he has no intention of feeding on roaches.

Harry is becoming more and more of a mystery; an excellent subject to study. This place is definitely twisting to his mind; the hallway is ongoing and the car parts are still strewn across the ceiling, slowly crawling down the walls the further they go. It all belongs to Harry.

Five hours' time, weariness settles in.

It's still entirely strange to see it again, after all this time; seventeen years ago, Harry looked hopeful in spite of his confusion.

Now, he looks the same suddenly as he turns to Kaufmann and it annoys him.

"Better rest for now. Okay? I'll keep an eye out," Harry tells him.

There's a part that'd like to argue.

There's a bigger part that prefers to sleep.

-=-=-

He wakes up, periodically.

Harry is sitting across from him, looking down the hall.

"I really am sorry for leaving you behind," the author says, quietly.

Kaufmann just grunts, to signal that he doesn't really want to talk about it.

"I screwed up a lot. I can't fix anything."

That's Harry's biggest weakness, aside from his stupid naivete and confusion -- it's his guilt.

(Kaufmann is confident he deserves it. Sometimes not, when thought out logically.)

-=-=-

He wakes again.

"As much as I'm sorry, it'd... kind of suck if I was stuck down here with you forever," Harry mumbles.

It comes out before the doctor can stop it; he
manages to

laugh.

It's dry, brittle; like an old branch ready to break under someone's careless foot. But it's there.

Harry smiles a little.

"Yeah, I'd hate it, too," the doctor agrees.

It's no doubt the first time they've agreed on anything, really.

-=-=-

Time almost becomes blurred. Around someone else, Kaufmann almost forgets to keep count in this damned place, but he's certain it's almost been a week since they've been in the hallway. Occasionally, they luck out and find a can of cream corn or something to eat. It's not much, but it's easier than the discomfort of starving. (And sometimes, Kaufmann sees out of the corner of his eye that Harry is grabbing a roach and--)

Eventually, they reach a fork in the hallway, two exits before them.

They're both surprised, enough that they almost don't know what to do.

"Hey," Harry says quietly. "Point your flashlight -- to the left. Could you?"

Kaufmann shrugs. He moves the ray of the light over a bit--

Down the left hallway, he sees it. A creature not belonging to Harry, but to this town, because he's seen it before. It stands there, slouching, head twitching; a blood-stained smock and a warped head with lips on the side of its skull. Symbols on its shoulders.

Slowly, it turns, and places its hands onto the wall, and begins to crawl down the hall.

"Stay here!" Harry tells Kaufmann, turning and starting to go after it--

He doesn't know what possesses him to do it, but the doctor grabs onto his arm. "What the hell are you doing?!"

Turning a bit to look at Kaufmann, Harry knits is brows. "We have to split up for now."

"Are you an idiot?!" the doctor snaps at him. "Do you even know what that thing was? They call it Valtiel!"

Harry shakes his head. "I'll be fine. But I feel like I need to go after it. Look, give me fifteen minutes, I'll come right back for you."

"I find that hard to believe," Kaufmann says darkly, letting go of him.

"It's okay. Where else can I possibly go?" Harry tries to offer a smile to him, but it looks too tired and without confidence. "Just stay here. I'll come right back. Keep count, okay?"

Kaufmann watches him go into the darkness after Valtiel.

-=-=-

Thirteen minutes.

Too soon.

But Kaufmann doesn't know why he feels on edge. Being alone probably isn't something he wants. Having company wasn't so bad.

Too soon.

-=-=-

Fourteen.

-=-=-

Fifteen minutes.

Kaufmann grits his teeth.

-=-=-

Seventeen.

-=-=-

Forty-nine minutes go by.

Nothing.

Just stay there; Harry will come right back.

Kaufmann snorts.

Not that he cares.

(don't leave me behind again)

-=-=-

Time goes on. It becomes four hours and sixteen minutes and still nothing. Whether Harry has really abandoned him or not becomes irrelevant. Kaufmann can't stay here.

He gets up. Goes down the left hallway that Harry chased Valtiel down.

Four minutes of going down, and there's a wall there.

The only reaction Kaufmann has is laughter. (I knew it)

He turns and takes the other hall.

-=-=-

Harry never returned.

Kaufmann doesn't care.

(YOU LEFT ME BEHIND AGAIN I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU MASON)

-=-=-

365.

365 can be considered a holy number -- applying to heaven.

Kaufmann carries on.

Keep count.