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voidsnarrator · 2 years ago

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This is my second time ever writing a songfic, so I hope it's good!!!

I LOVE this song, it's been stuck in my head ALL WEEK, and it just made me think SO HARD of Author/Host who's in a relationship and JUST WOW IT HURTS HUH

Yea anyways I hope you'll like this !!! :D

[Listen to the song here]

Waking up in shades of blue

I don’t know where I am or how I got to you

Try to reach out but I can’t move

I’m like a broken instrument, so out of tune

Oh woah

The bed was soft beneath him, the same bed he had slept in for years. The same bed he's been sharing with his love for so long. He was facing the sleeping man next to him, his forever blinded gaze lingering on the soft features of the other. His narrations spoke of the soft skin, the rounded cheeks. Slightly parted lips, a little chapped, thin and able to form the cutest smile. Brown messy locks hanging into his face, eyes closed in a peaceful slumber. Host craved to reach out to him, to know he was real and here with him. He knew he was. He knew the other was right there. The dip in the mattress, the gentle sound of breathing. He was there, and yet, he felt a million miles away from Host.

Why won’t they listen to me anyway?

I want to be and I’m not gonna say I’m sorry

Just so you’ll let me stay, no

Whatever you think of me, leave it alone

I don’t wanna live in the shade of her throne

When he had first come to the others, he had tried. He wasn't the Author anymore, he wasn't the same person anymore. He wasn't the same violent murderous man, killing innocent people for his own sick and twisted amusement. Why didn't they listen to him? Why did they not let him explain? They cast dirty looks his way, cursing him beneath their breath. Not calling him Host, not caring what had happened to him. They expected an apology, for Host to beg for forgiveness for all that he has done.

He quickly decided it didn't matter to him. He wouldn't apologize for past actions he didn't feel connected to. What did it matter what they thought of him anyways? It didn't. He had never needed them as the Author, and he wouldn't be needing them as the Host either. Returning to his cabin in the woods, forever stained in the Author's blood, the place he had called a home for years and years. He was the Host, now. The Author was dead, and it didn't matter anymore. Not to him, at least. He would not mourn who he once was, because he had died cold and alone, thoughts of the person he loved swimming through his mind. Until the Host was born, replacing Author. The same, but different.

I keep hearing pieces of a melody

Playing in my head

Fragments of a past that it won’t let me forget

Someone that I used to be hanging on a thread

A blurry silhouette

I wonder…

If Host had to describe himself, he would say that he was a mosaic. The picture that had once been Author, shattered into pieces, just to be put together in a new fashion. The Author had always loved coffee. He had always used sugar, never milk. He still didn't add milk, though he added more sugar than before. He liked his coffee sickeningly sweet. The Author had tortured his characters, and broken them mentally just like he had physically. Doing so simply for his own amusement, writing books to turn a profit he didn't really need. Host still took great pleasure in torturing characters. But now, the characters were fictional -and if not, they deserved their fate. The Author had fallen in love with the cute doctor looking after his injuries. The gentle smile, the cute exasperated sigh when Author didn't look after himself. The bright and loud laugh, the silly puns the doctor enjoyed so much. The Host loved him the same. He loved his chubby belly, his extremely soft hands, the way he always took such gentle care of him.

In his dreams, he'd see the Author. Nothing but a blurry silhouette, something he used to be, still hanging on by a thread. He was still there, and always would be, because the Host is the Author, no matter what he does. It's him, and he can never forget that. No matter how hard he tries to deny it, that those golden eyes haunting him were not his own.

When you look at me who do you remember?

Broken memories, time we spent together

Tell me honestly

Do you recognize my voice?

VOICE

Host was watching Edward, sitting at the kitchen table as the other made them coffee. He mumbled his narrations to himself, watching as Edward put milk and sugar into his own cup, before putting sugar into Host's. It was the perfect cup -for the Author. He accepted the cup with a smile, hiding the pain he felt in his chest. Edward's gaze never settled on his face anymore. Host stayed quiet, letting Edward talk about work, not muttering a word of narrations. He knew how Edward's brows would furrow, a crease forming on his forehead. He knew how Edward would glance at his bandages, before looking away. He knew how his hands would grip his cup tight, how his jaw would clench.

“I love you”, the Host would say, giving Edward a kiss as the man got ready to leave. His voice was soft-spoken, his hand gentle on Edward's cheek. He'd smile, gentle and loving, and think of all the time the Author had not seen Edward off for work. All the times Author would kiss Edward hard, demanding, holding him tight and unwilling to let him leave. “I love you too”, Edward would say, his eyes not looking at Host's face. He'd give him a smile, maybe he'd take his hand and give it a kiss. “Don't overwork yourself.”, he'd tease him, and Host would feel the pang in his chest. He'd huff, gently nudging Edward, assuring him he won't while Edward left. Thinking of the times Author would laugh, the times Author would have rolled his eyes, the times Author would give a cheeky grin and say “no promises”.

Sometimes, Host wondered if Edward still saw the Author. If he lived in a delusion, telling himself Host was still the Author, was still the same selfish man he once had been. Sometimes, Host wondered if Edward even recognized his voice.

Thin air, so hard to breathe

The wall that I’m facing is just too cold and too lonely

Wish that I still can feel

Still can feel the things that back then I used to fear

All I ever wanted was to be accepted by you

Wish that you and I still

laugh and say that someday we will

Sitting alone in his study, his old writing desk long since converted for his radio show, the Host would stare at the wall in front of him with an empty feeling in his chest. He couldn't help but miss what he once had had. He couldn't help miss Edward, miss his gentle touch, miss his soft kisses. He missed when Edward would look at him, and see him. In those moments, he wished he was still scared and confused about romance. That he didn't know what romantic attraction felt like, the weird stutters of his heart when Edward smiled at him, the incredibly light feeling when Edward would laugh. The confusing conflicting emotions when Author thought of Edward's gentle nature, while Author was torturing others so cruelly.

He's only ever wanted Edward to love him, and accept him as he was. He wanted Edward to love the Host, and not Author. He wanted Edward to want him like he had wanted Author. To need him like he needed Author. To hold him close, to tell him he loves him, fantasizing about their future together. It was too much to ask for though, wasn't it? To hope that someday they would laugh together, be in each other's arms. To be what they had been, once.

Why won’t you listen to me anyway?

I’m gonna be and I’m not gonna say I’m sorry

Just to save face

Whatever you think of me, leave it alone

I don’t wanna live in the shade of her throne, oh

He tried to talk to Edward. “The Host is not the Author!”. He was desperate, he was in pain, crying his bloody tears as Edward refused to listen to him. Refused to accept the reality they were living in -that the Author was gone, dead, and only Host remained. That yes, he had once been that man. But he no longer was, and he wanted Edward to know, to see, to accept. “You do not love the Host. You love who he was, you love the man who is gone. You do not care for me.”. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, and still he said it. Still, he cried, he yelled, he clenched his hands into the shirt on his chest, shaking as he spoke words he didn't want to be true. “You're mourning me, and yet, here I am.”. His voice, tiny, broken, hurt.

Edward did not look at him. He did not face the Host, he did not glance even vaguely in his direction. He left.

I keep hearing pieces of a melody

Playing in my head

Fragments of a past that it won’t let me forget

Someone that I used to be hanging on a thread

A blurry silhouette

I wonder…

His fingers moved over ink-stained pages, tracing the shapes of letters even he himself couldn't always read. Nothing he had ever written had he discarded. It was all still here, journals stuffed full with words, pages stained with ink and blood. The Author was in every inch of the cabin. The many ink and blood stains, forever staining the wood of the cabin and its furniture. The still broken door, unable to stay closed no matter what you tried. The collection of books in so many shelves. The heavy lighter from the time he used to smoke. The countless black button ups, and various jeans. Everywhere, he remained, his presence lingering. A constant reminder. You are him. You were the Author. He is you. No matter how much Host's appearance changed, it was never enough. Host was the Author, the Author was the Host. No matter what he tried, how long his hair grew, how much he hid his body in too large clothes. The Host was unmistakably Author, forever.

When you look at me who do you remember?

Broken memories, time we spent together

Tell me honestly

Do you recognize my voice?

VOICE

Edward would often make coffee for Author when he was so focused on writing. Would bring him a freshly brewed cup, would remind him to take a break. He'd make sure he would eat, and would eventually take his hand to gently guide him to bed. Edward would often ask Author for a hug, never needing words. Letting the taller man embrace him, hold him close. Author's hand running through Edward's hair, gently holding him, Edward's head resting against Author's chest. It never mattered why he sought out a quiet hug, because Author would be there for him. “I love you”, Edward would tell Author, and it would never fail to fluster him, to throw him off-track. It effectively shut Author up no matter what he was saying, always taken by surprise when Edward said those words so freely.

“I love you”, Host said it as softly as Author did. He smiled the same gentle smile, would hold the same hands so gingerly in his own. Would give the same soft squeeze, lifting those hands to press a feather-light kiss to their knuckles, the same as Author would. It was still him, he was still that same man, even when he tried not to be. Still, Host didn't think Edward knew the difference. He didn't think Edward loved the Host as he loved the Author. The man was chasing after someone long gone, someone who would never come back.

It looks so off to me

The picture you paint of us

I don’t need to remember

Let me be, take me just as I am

When Edward spoke of the two of them, it left a bad taste in Host's mouth. Often, Edward would talk as if he was talking to Author. Like he was imagining the Author when he planned dates, like he was thinking of Author when he got gifts. Host knew the man was hurting. He knew Edward was grieving Author, was denying that it was now Host, not accepting what had happened. He knew, and it felt horrible. All Host wanted was to be loved by Edward. To hear his name fall from the lips he wanted to feel against his own again and again. To be looked at with the same love and adoration that Edward had once given Author. It wasn't that much to wish for, was it`? To just be loved like he was now?

As everything disappears

I shout to heavens above

Please let him be. Please love him. Please accept who he is. He wanted nothing else. He only wanted his partner back, with him, for him. He just wanted to be his own person, to not be the Author. He wanted to be the Host, because that was who he was now. Just let him be. Just accept him. Please, please, please.

Bloody tears soaking into his bandages as he sobs, as he tears at his shirt, grips his hair tightly, sobbing and screaming. He was hurting, all he wanted was to be himself , and no one wanted that. No one accepted him, no one liked him, no one wanted him. The only thing that mattered was Author, and he was gone. But no one saw it like that.

Let me be, take me just as I am yeah…

I keep hearing pieces of a melody

Playing in my head

Fragments of a past that it won’t let me forget

Someone that I used to be hanging on a thread

A blurry silhouette

I wonder…

When you look at me who do you remember?

Broken memories, time we spent together

Tell me honestly

Do you think that I could ever find a voice to call my own?

Maybe one day, the Host would be accepted. He would have Edward's gaze on his, smiling at him like he would at Author in the past. He'd tell him he loved him, and Host would reply with a smile and a kiss, echoing his words to him. One day, Host would be able to speak with Edward, and the man would not hear the Author anymore.

VOICE, VOICE

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