Dead EndChapter 11

”Can we play a game?” Jordan asks about four hours later. He’s settled in front of the TV, having spent the last couple hours watching mindless sitcoms requiring absolutely no thought on his side. And while it has calmed him down some, made him feel more at home, it doesn’t erase the restlessness that has befallen him.

Because the world has effectively ended. Because it’s the goddamn fucking zombie apocalypse and there is not a damn fucking thing that Jordan can do about it. keQE8W

There are less people on the streets now, not that Jordan spends a lot of his time looking out the windows. He doesn’t want to see the carnage—not when his imagination is already horrible enough. The world has ended, and Jordan is sitting snug as a bug under three blankets (it’s very warm, he’s kind of regretting it) watching sitcoms, and isn’t that just the worst thing he can do in this situation?

Sebastian has finished sorting through the boxes in the kitchen now, and has stacked them out of the way so that the table is usable. Last Jordan saw, the kitchen had just become even narrower from all the boxes, but at least there were more surfaces to cook and eat at now. Which is some kind of progress, Jordan guesses.

Story translated by Chrysanthemum Garden.

”What kind of game?” Sebastian asks, putting down his book and turning to face Jordan on the couch. The sitcom is still playing on the flatscreen TV.

We’re sorry for MTLers or people who like using reading mode, but our translations keep getting stolen by aggregators so we’re going to bring back the copy protection. If you need to MTL please retype the gibberish parts.

Jordan shrugs and picks at the loose thread from the topmost blanket. It’s black, the color slightly faded and turning almost gray at places. Somebody laughs on the sitcom. ”A card game, I guess,” he finally says, frowning a little at how unsure he sounds but uncertain as to how to fix it. 8jRB H

Sebastian hums, ”I’ll get the card deck, then,” and stands up, putting the book on his seat on the armchair as he goes. He has to waddle carefully around a precarious pile of boxes to get to the drawers lined up with the wall. He pulls open a couple of different ones, Jordan’s eyes slipping back to the sitcom while he waits for the other man. Eventually, Sebastian lets out a pleased noise and holds the deck up for Jordan to see.

Jordan smiles, a quick motion that somehow manages to surprise him. Sebastian grins at him, his cheeks reddening slightly from the force of his smile, and Jordan snorts at that, unable to resist. After some more waddling, Sebastian drops back down on the armchair beside the couch. He pours the cards out onto the coffee table and begins to mix them. ”What do you want to play?” he asks Jordan, his eyes glued to the cards as he diligently mixes them up.

”Go fish,” Jordan answers. 

Sebastian doesn’t look up, doesn’t say anything like isn’t that a little childish, or shouldn’t you play more grownup games, something more complicated. Doesn’t even ask him why he wants to play that game. (And maybe Jordan’s experience isn’t a universal one, but he still feels like there’s a certain point where people will look at you funny if you say you want to play the same games you did as a child.) No, Sebastian merely nods and begins to split the cards between them.

It’s fun, is the point. And if he thinks about the zombies roaming the world outside it feels like a betrayal to all mankind, just sitting in here playing card games, and so he doesn’t. Sebastian goes along with it, playing game after game with him, and he never looks at him funny when Jordan asks, ”One more game?” time and time again.

Finally, after another hour or two has passed, Jordan can no longer ignore the rumbling of his stomach, the ferocious beast demanding sustenance. Jordan huffs and lays down his cards, putting them flat on the table. For a second, his hand doesn’t move. He stares at the cards. Then he takes a deep breath and leans against the backrest. 

”Hungry?” Sebastian asks when Jordan’s stomach growls again.

”Surprisingly so.” d3go8N

Sebastian hums again. He gathers the cards in a pile before he stands up and walks to the kitchen. Soon, Jordan can hear the pans clinking and the fan turning on. He turns the TV back on and hits play on the remote control, restarting his mindless sitcom binge. He must have seen this one fourteen times over the years, old as it is. But the familiarity is comforting.

”Fuck,” Jordan whispers to himself. He turns the volume up until he can’t hear anything from the kitchen, and presses a hand over his eyes. 

He pushes his hair back and curls up tighter on the couch, piling on the blankets on top of him. Uncaring of the sweltering heat this leaves him in, Jordan stares at the TV as the laugh-track comes on again. He didn’t get the joke. He’s never gotten this joke. 

But the familiarity still makes his lips twitch in a weak smile. 1Q3rYi

It doesn’t take long for the scent of food to start permeating the air, and Jordan very carefully doesn’t move. He continues to watch the TV and the family shenanigans going on, continues to keep his eyes carefully peeled away from the windows because he doesn’t want to see. There’s nothing he can do because the world has ended and so no matter how much a betrayal it feels like, Jordan stays still and waits and breathes.

”The food’s ready,” Sebastian says an undeterminable amount of time later, his hand soft on Jordan’s shoulder. 

Jordan takes a second to process the words, his mind miles away. He twists his neck and bobs his head in understanding, waiting until Sebastian has let go (and suppressing the need to chase that warmth) before he stands. Everything is already ready when he enters the kitchen, Sebastian looking at him as if to say behold, see what I have made for you, pride evident in his bearing, and Jordan very nearly falls onto his chair.