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The change in air from the door to his bedroom opening brought him to full wakefulness in an instant. He could not see the figure standing framed by the light from the front room of his living quarters, but he knew it stood there, could hear the sound of breathing, slow and deep. He lay, unmoving, breathing as if sleeping, waiting for an indication of attack.
Even here, now, he had to be watchful. He had been to careless, before, trusting too much to large displays of armaments to protect the house and the boys. And himself. Now, even here, where he should feel safest, he slept uneasily, but well protected.
The uncertain cough and the shuffling of feet made him relax his hand from around the grip of the pistol hidden between his mattress and headboard.
"Yes, Nathan?" Charles asked, not bothering to turn over or face the hulking form, still standing in the doorway. Another hesitant shifting of feet came, but nothing else. Inwardly, Charles signed, then rolled over and pushed himself up into a sitting position. He didn't bother with his glasses: in the dark, enclosed space of his room, his vision was decent enough.
"Yes, Nathan?" He repeated himself, looking into the doorway where the lead singer stood.
"We, uh, need to talk." Well, that was a surprise.
"At three in the morning?" The shadow blocking the doorway didn't move. "Nathan, can this wait until later?"
"No." The tone was flat, not giving Charles any leeway or purchase. Or any clue what this was about.
"Well, Nathan, unless -"
There was suddenly a hand on his throat, suddenly a weight on his bed, on his body, pinning him in place. The sentence hung, barely begun, in the air. In the half light, Charles could see the outlines of Nathan's face, but not well enough to read the emotion written on it.
Charles always seemed to forget how fast Nathan could move, given how large he was. In a single motion, Nathan had gone from flat footed to vaulting - pouncing - onto the bed. Even after more livers than should be humanly possible, and more junk food than a human should be able to eat, the singer was still mostly muscle under the padding of fat age had added to him. Years ago, he had been the muscle alone, without the padding. The years had only added layers around it, not diminished it.
The physical closeness made him want to squirm, to try to escape, but he tried to calm himself, to relax, to fight his instincts to fight. Charles was suddenly painfully aware of his state of mostly undress, though why that mattered, he couldn't rationalize. He had killed people while wearing less than this. But the shear physical mass of Nathan brought panic surging up in his mind. Charles knew he could - probably - get out from under the bulk weighing him down without causing either of them serious injury, but he was still cautious about exerting himself. And, more importantly, didn't wish to risk hurting Nathan badly in the process. At least, that's what he told himself.
The silence seemed to stretch out, a palatable thing in the dim light. He swallowed, licking his suddenly dry lips, trying to think of anything other than the hand around his throat. He could feel the rough callouses on Nathan's fingers and palms, feel the occasional twitch that made the hand close tighter, just for an instant - an instant longer than he wanted to think about. It wasn't cutting off his breathing, it was merely holding him in place, but that was enough.
"You left us." The words were an accusation, or at least, they felt like one.
"I said there was a reason, I had to -" Why did that sound so panicked? Charles knew there were pieces of this puzzle he wasn't grasping quickly enough, but there was nothing he could do about it. His mind was tumbling over itself.
"No. Shut up and listen." The hand twitched, the bulk shifted. Charles could feel the sweat on the palm, the edges of the nails, rough with dead skin around their perimeter. He closed his mouth, and waited.
"You left us. Alone." A pause. "You left me, alone. I thought you were dead. You were dead." Something in the facial expression shifted, but it was still unreadable in the dim light. "I had to bury you."
Another pause, this one - longer: it seemed to stretch out again, seconds feeling like hours. Charles was suddenly keenly aware that, amid the smell of Nathan's body, a familiar scent was missing. He wasn't drunk, he hadn't been drinking anytime recently at all. If that thought was comforting, it didn't feel like it.
"Don't ever - Don't ever do that again. To me. Ever." The fingertips twitched, just slightly.
"Nathan, I -"
"No. Not done yet." In the dimness, Charles could swear he could see the green of Nathan's eyes, inches away from his own.
He expected more of the lead singer's stumbling sentence fragments. He expected some attempt to explain the emotions, whatever they were, that were churning behind that angular face.
He did not expect the fist that hit the side of his face hard enough to make his ears ring. His head snapped to the left, his neck screaming at the torsion between the blow and the gripping hand.
Nathan let his throat go, let him fall to the bed, his head hitting the headboard and pillows equally. He was dazed and tasting blood from a cut inside his cheek, but already trying to assess his situation. But Nathan still loomed over Charles, pinning him in place even without the hand on his throat. And now, looking up through slightly fuzzed vision, he could clearly make out Nathan's face. It was walled, the flat, stony look Nathan got when he was fighting for control over himself. This, thought Charles distantly in his own head, may be very bad.
Options tried to filter through the ringing in his ears. Either he could come up fighting, and risk injuring Nathan, - and likely getting himself injured quite badly in the process - or he could wait and see what Nathan would do next, likely getting himself injured further. Neither was a good option, but the latter was likely to have the least serious repercussions.
He looked up at Nathan, waiting for whatever was going to happen next. The dim light from the next room framed his bulk, outlining and highlighting Nathan's face in a strange way. Charles cursed to himself, hating this. If you were anyone else Nathan, anyone else, this would be so easy.
And then Nathan was rising, moving, and gone through the doorway before Charles could process what was happening. Nathan fled, the sound of boots on carpet jarringly loud until the sound of a slammed door cut them off. Charles only lay there, looking up into the space that had just been occupied in front of him, confused and more than slightly alarmed, listening for any sound other than the pounding of his own heart.