vecna | ☣️ midwestern mayhem inbox.

[ sharply, though not shrilly—sharp the way a lion's paw is sharp, not a needle— ] I am not ashamed. I am fucking furious.

[He sighs, then shifts to lie on his back, staring up at the shadows splayed across the ceiling.]

You can be both, Sprezzatura.

[ who is this person talking to her? reaching into her for her shame when all she wants to hold onto is her anger? this isn't the Henry she thought she'd glimpsed after the death race—this isn't even the Henry she met as a pitiful girl.

shame will paralyze her, destroy her insidiously, make her foundations crumble until she's small and helpless as Eunoia and Selcouth want her to be. too meek to be a danger to them; too guilty to build herself up to be something again. why would he, so emphatic of grasping her anger then, want her to admit to that seed of contrition now? has death changed him so completely? but... why not her, then? why did he find love when all there was for her was more hate?

why could he eat and, in that, feel a connection, when for her, there was only her hunger all the more keenly?

it's not fair.

the colour of the room is... cold.

thump. her tail against the bedframe. Sprezzatura exhales long and painful, too, lowering her face into the cradle of her knees. don't cry. don't. ]

Maybe... you do waste your time. [ just a croak ] I can't have answers for you.

[Because his anger feels rotten inside of him now, in the wake of happiness. How long since he’s felt that way? How long since he’s loved anyone? That game gave him the one thing he desired the most in the world, more than even breaking it, and now it’s gone. He feels shame, too — this is just another reach for connection.

In time, the anger will solidify. Become like tempered steel again. But for tonight, he just feels molten and weak, and trying to tell her that much seems to only drive her further away. He doesn’t understand. He wishes he was better at this, sincerely and innately, without having to delve into her mind. In a way, that frustrates him, too.

But chancing a glance at her, her face obscured by her legs, sounding the way she does, saying the things she does, Henry thinks that right now, maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe he’s missed the point of her even coming to visit him. Isn’t that her… reaching out, in her own way?

He sits up, back against the headboard, too, and extends an arm out to wrap around her and gently draw her back in. If she allows for it.]

No. It’s not a waste, I’ve decided. You don’t need to have any answers for anything right now… I just want to be close to you tonight. Will you let me have that?

[ his arm around her. it's suffocating— ]

[ s...

it's... suff... it's. it. ]

[ turns and crawls into his lap like the child she refuses to be anymore, hunched and haggard and wringing his nightshirt, claws digging in so hard they hurt. he'll feel her crying before he hears it; they way she shakes. ]

I was not even allowed to be frightened...!

[Just like that, she’s in his lap and clawing and crying, and his heart thumps hard in his chest, aching a little at the sight. And maybe that younger version of himself hasn’t completely shriveled up and died, because he wraps that arm around her without thinking, keeping her secure and close.

He barely registers how she fists into his shirt, how her claws prick against his skin through the thin fabric.]

None of it was fair. Especially to you. [The heart.] I hate this place for putting you in that position.

[He lifts up the hem of his shirt, though, to gently catch at the tears that make their way down to her chin.]

I failed you, too.

[ she particularly hates that gesture, the infantilizing dabbing at her tears, and turns her face harshly away, though she can't quell them any sooner than she could shout down a hurricane. ]

You, also? So concerned how my choice is reflecting on you, Mammon—it was never about you, or Vil, or any of Pride!

Edited 2024-06-18 05:01 (UTC)

[He lets his shirt fall, then, brow pinched together.]

I don’t care what anyone else thinks about me. You know that. I just felt guilty. I felt helpless.

[Maybe she doesn’t know him well enough to know how big of a concession that is for him to admit.]

Tell me, then. What was it about?

[Maybe he should just let her speak. His consoling never hits the mark.]

I wanted it to be my choice!

[To go out on her own terms.]

Something you could control.

My choice that I would die, and how, and who among!

[And she was granted all of these things. But then the hunger and the devotion made them devour her.]

And there was nothing wrong with that. Just like there was nothing wrong with being afraid. Or being furious now.

I— I didn’t mean to say that you weren’t allowed to feel that way. I’m sorry if it came across… like that.

[ but she wasn't allowed to be afraid, because she held that branch. she wasn't allowed to choose how, because in the end, she was still eaten. the way she's obsessing over that, those small minute details that make her feel like her decision was bastardized... isn't entirely fair, but it's the only way she can rationalize the pain she's in. if she did have full control, then why does it still feel this way? ]

This all feels like nightmares I can't wake myself from.

[He knows they took part of that agency away. But he's not even thought that Vil's kindness could seem as though she, too, was not allowed to choose to keep her fear. Maybe he'll see that eventually, as well.

Nightmares that she can't wake from. In the early days in the lab, he felt like that all the time. Wanting an escape but finding none. He would have done anything to have someone close to him like tonight.]

So what can we do? To make ourselves feel better tonight, to keep the nightmares at bay for just a few hours? Tell me, and I'll do it for you. Anything.

[ crawls off him on shaky limbs, on the opposite side this time so she's on the furthest side of the bed from the door. Henry in between.

the tears have dried up as fast as they came. ]

Just let me rest here.

[Almost as though he’s keeping her partitioned in his own room. He doesn’t mind it.]

You can stay here as long as you want.

[Lifts up his sheets so she can tuck herself beneath them if she likes.]

Let me lie close to you?

[Just let him be near, if he can do nothing else.]

[ she doesn't want to be beneath the sheets, so just shakes her head and tucks them down around her back as she once more curls down on her side, like an old dog seeking somewhere to rest. ]

Do what you like...

[He looks at her, still aching for how much she hurts and how little he can do to help. Hates how he felt like he was better at this when he was younger, and so was she.

...

For some reason, he recalls Wrench telling him to keep trying. "Keep being weird." Well. What better time than now?]

[Henry grabs two tiny items from off his dresser, groping a little in the dark for them. He then turns around and ushers the blanket at the foot of the bed—having been nearly kicked off when he transformed from tiny demogorgon to human—to rise and lift. It hovers over them with his telekinesis as he lies on his side, facing her, encasing them like a little tent. A secret place.

Click. A tiny light comes on. It's a worm light from their hard-won sewing kit; made to attach to a sewing machine, but he's simply stolen it away for his own purposes. The second item is held in his palm, obscured. Hard to tell what it is, but it seems rectangular.]

Hey. Let me share a secret of mine before you try to sleep.

[ she is so, so wearied that whatever he's doing first prompts this overwhelming sense of exhaustion, I don't have the energy for this, but it does carry also the sense of secrets shared. innocence. it certainly makes her feel more childlike.

her dark, lambent eyes slide down from the light--in which Henry can make out the rare ring of her irisis amongst all the violet black--to the item held in his hand. ]

I like secrets.

[A little bit of interest. It's the best he could hope for. He smiles, faint, but the way one does when they are about to share a secret.

Of a sort.]

I don't let many people know this, but I'm...

[He sets the item down between them, then fans it by drawing his palm languidly over its top. The shape of them is unmistakable -- it's a pack of tarot cards, spread slightly, face-down.]

...a renowned fortune-teller in my world. [His "secret" is just a bit of childlike fun. Something to distract her, maybe to ease even slightly her pain.] Every future I predict is fated to come true. And I sense good things for you, Sprezzatura, even now. Pinpricks of light in the mire.

[He meets her eyes. Hers are so dark, always so deep.]

Why don't we see what the cards have to say for you? Three is enough to divine plenty.

[ ah, so it's all a joke. but, still, what a gentle joke it is.

maybe, in another life... this could have been real. Henry Creel, the seer, for whom life in a cold, sterile box would never have been.

smiles, too, equally faint. ]

Why not.

[Oh. A smile. Maybe he should have started with this instead, something lighthearted and easy. The simple pleasure of being in someone’s company, a mindless activity for fun. He’s a fool; but he’s glad to see her lips take that shape all the same.]

Okay, let’s begin. Just a little bit of focus, and…

[His powers slowly pull out a card at random and flips it over. It’s The Magician.]

The Magician. This is a card of potential — which I think suits you pretty well. You’ll gain the means and energy to see your desires through to the very end, to learn and grow. That’s a boon in a place like this. Despite the all of the pain and darkness, the trials and tribulations only make you grow stronger. You’ll learn to take control, able to make change happen via your willpower… and your own physical efforts. The passage of time grants you knowledge; studious as you are, that’ll always translate into strength.

Not a bad start, right? Maybe this card should be called “The Wizard.”

[Heh.]

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