Note: As always, thanks for reading my stories! Lethality is the slowest burn in the entire world, but we're finally moving on with it as we should. I appreciate your patience! The wait time in between chapters should start shortening in the near future! Thanks again!
"We need to talk," wasn't something that Henry heard very often. In fact, he only heard it a total of three times in his entire life thus far.
The first time was when he was a child. It was one of those few memories he had of before: before the orphanage, before the wolves, before the arcane magic. Before his parents abused him to the point of breaking, before his world became drowned in darkness in every sense.
It was his mother who told him "We need to talk," in a voice that was more ice than it was sound. It gave him chills, turning the blood in his veins into frost and the thoughts in his head into snow. It was a strong, powerful, and unforgettable vice that held him in its grip to this very day.
She told him that what he was doing was wrong. It wasn't normal to be so close to animals the way he was, and it certainly wasn't normal to have things spontaneously set themselves on fire the way they did around him. He was once involved in a carriage accident, where it barreled off the side of the road and crashed into a nearby ditch, leaving him overturned but completely undamaged all the while. That wasn't normal at all. And there were so many little instances in Young Henry's life where he should have died, stayed dead.
The fact that he looked up at his mother, completely alive, with mismatching blue-and-black eyes wasn't normal, either. His snow white hair in a family of raven shades wasn't normal, either.
He wasn't normal, and the words "We need to talk" were spoken to remind him of such a fact. Days after that conversation (if it could even be called that, since Henry didn't get a single word in edgewise) had passed, his parents began their cruel streak, and engage in the abuse that would lead to their eventual abandonment, alongside the last vestiges of Henry's true innocence and frailty in the world.
The second time he heard "We need to talk" was under much better circumstances. It happened only a few years ago, when he still marched underneath Gangrel's banner. On that day, Henry was called over by one of his militaristic superiors. It wasn't the first time he was summoned like that, because despite all initial appearances, the Plegian army was full of the family types: Vasto with his endearing little mother that loved to sew, Mustafa with his sons and daughters who all would have been fighting in the trenches with him if given a chance, and Campari with his selfless heart that would build houses for people, birds, and monsters if he could—if it meant giving them a chance.
But at the time, it wasn't any of them that Henry spoke to.
The one to say those words "We need to talk," again was none other than the beautiful, fierce, and deadly General Rianne herself. That point in Henry's life was unremarkable: he joined the army in hopes that doing so would make his boring life more interesting (and bloody) but he was barely involved in a skirmish up until then. He heard nothing but stories and accounts about Ylisse's "Shepherds", but hadn't seen a single one with his own two eyes.
So it was Rianne who tried her best to set him apart from right and wrong. She had long, flowing, pitch black hair, and deep blue eyes that could pierce even the coldest of hearts. But just as she could pour liquid introspection into another person with her curves and poise alone, she could run through the toughest soldiers with the sharp end of her lance, and hack the strongest foe into pieces with several swings of her savage war swing.
That day, she smiled at him so gently that Henry felt wronged, somehow. Like he should have done something to prevent her from seeing him in such a state.
It was rather disappointing to hear what felt like the world's longest lecture, because she went on and on to talk about youth, aging, death, and war: and the tolls all of those things took on people. She admonished his recklessness, and told him that in order to survive the next day, he had to be more cautious.
He needed to be frugal, careful, and considerate, as well. Yet every time he walked on the battlefield, he was anything else but that. He threw around spells like they were stones, and even though they cost him some part of his soul and energy to cast, he did it if it meant causing mass destruction. Even when the enemy begged for mercy, and even when it was clear that this boy was incapable of holding himself back, there was something about the way that Henry smiled before killing someone that set him far apart from the others.
For someone that was so young, he didn't really do his best to try and live. Instead, death seemed to be his domain, and while that was something all Plegians could relate to, there was something sad about seeing him become absorbed in such self-hazardous despair.
"I don't want you to waste your youth," she said, sternly. "More than you already have, that is."
"I don't really get it," he admitted. "But sure."
"Seriously, Henry. You took out a lot of enemies—and I'm grateful for that—but just understand your limits, because one day you'll find yourself at the edge of them, and it may or may not be the last thing you experience."
"Alright, whatever you say, General!" And the words were as hollow as they sounded, but neither of them could do anything to rectify that. She tried to get through to him—tried to explain why it was bad to be so careless instead of simply saying it was—but her words went through his ears like the static air between them. She dismissed him at once, and he left her tent without truly understanding her words.
When she was skewered by an Ylissean commander in the next battle—and when he was simultaneously dismissed from service following King Gangrel's fall—the words still rang empty, and his chest ached dully with faint pulsations of vengeance.
Then, those four simple words resurfaced yet again, although this time it was unlike any of the other times before it.
This time, the words were sent from an angel-on-Earth himself, except not at all because the man in question was the farthest thing from an angel that Henry had ever seen. This time, it was Gaius who spoke those words, and each syllable that he breathed was like a tiny spell being cast, because Henry soaked in every single sound, and wrapped his mind and heart around the idea that anyone wanted to talk to Henry after all the things he did.
Gaius wasn't an angel, but Henry basked in the warm glow of his light, anyway.
.
.
.
He realized it was Gaius' finger pressing into his forehead, and Gaius' figure looming over him like a shadow, that night. He realized it was Gaius who was bent over him just then, an unreadable expression set into his face as the stars simmered quietly in the sky behind him.
Henry saw Gaius, and heard him utter a handful of words he hadn't heard in what felt like the longest time in the world until now. The way that Gaius' lips parted to say the word "talk" was far more intriguing than it should have been, and Henry didn't know if looking away would perish the thought or not.
He kept his eyes locked on the other anyway, unafraid to keep them open and exposed under the watchful gaze of the night sky. "Well, okay. What's up, Honeybuns?"
Gaius frowned. Did he hate the fact that Henry was using his nickname for him in a seemingly serious situation like this? Or was he expecting a completely different reaction from the other, considering Henry all but avoided him up to this moment? Nevertheless, he tried to appear less displeased than he actually was, and it showed when he moved silently—eventually taking up residence next to Henry atop the grassy hill.
Henry observed Gaius, an unreadable expression on his face. He stayed silent as the other had said: "I want to talk about what happened a few days ago."
"Good luck with that," Henry teased. "I feel like I've been cursed. I can barely remember what happened yesterday."
"Then I'll refresh your memory," Gaius offered. "Besides, there's other stuff involved with that, too."
"Is there?" Henry murmured, and he picked at some stray skin on his fingers. "Alright. Do what you want."
"Okay."
It grew quiet again. Even though he was the one that said they needed to talk, Gaius was less chatty than he'd been in the past. Henry wondered if it was because he ran out of things to say (something Henry could never fall victim to—he'd repeat himself a thousand times over if it meant keeping something meaningless like small talk alive), or because he just didn't know how to say it. Either way, it didn't bode well for the two of them, since Gaius was one of the slickest, most silvery-tongued people that Henry had the (dis)pleasure of knowing. If Gaius of all people was speechless, then the situation had to be really dire.
Just as the sorcerer was about to open his mouth and say something, the assassin intervened. "Do you remember what happened two days ago?"
"Well, the sun rose, Frederick ran the soldiers like a cattle herder, and Tharja frowned."
"I—"
"And then the sun set at the end of the day. Am I right?" He smiled widely, the tiniest hint of sarcasm dredging itself in his voice. Gaius felt exasperated already, but he did his best to hide it.
After all, it was saying things like I don't understand you and Why are you like this? that drove Henry to desperation in the first place. And if there was anything that Gaius didn't want, it was to have that madness repeat itself a second time.
"Mostly," he agreed, begrudgingly so. "But I meant more specifically. Do you remember what you were doing two days ago?"
"..."
"Henry?"
"I had those 'painkillers'," he said, curling his fingers into air quotes. It was a newly learned gesture and exaggeration—something he'd seen Robin use a lot, in particular, but the other Shepherds as well. He hoped he used it in the right way as he continued to say: "Those pills that don't actually kill pain but just make it go away for a while. So it's all a lie, really."
"And what happened after that?"
"I'm not sure."
"Really?"
Henry blinked once, twice—the motion so unfamiliar in Gaius' eyes since he was so used to seeing the other's eyes closed—before he answered. "I think you were there, too. I dunno why, though. The medicine's not sweet so I don't think you'd be interested in it."
Gaius sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Even though he was trying to be the patient one, here, there was just something about the way Henry did and said things that made him feel so irritated at times. The impatience rose out from him like steam, and he was thankful that the night air was cool and crisp, because he might have exploded otherwise.
When did he get so temperamental, anyway?
"I was there. It was pretty ugly, actually. And, you know, I really wish you didn't take the medicine in the first place."
"I—"
"I think you're stupid for trying to hurt yourself. You do remember hurting yourself, right?" Gaius' voice shook, but it lacked any semblance of fear or hatred. Every wave and discordance within him resonated with anger, spite, and guilt, instead. "I wish you would have told me, or Bubbles, or anyone instead of trying to hide yourself away like that."
"Oh."
"I'm being honest, here. Of course, I did my best to patch you up. And I told Bubbles about it, too."
"Yeah, I figured," Henry mumbled. He didn't know why his voice got so small, or why he wanted to curl up on himself, but he couldn't fight the urge as it came. "But Robin didn't punish me or anything. Maybe they should have? So what gives?"
"I told them not to," Gaius explained. "But they weren't going to do anything, anyway. Even if they didn't understand the situation completely, I think they just knew." He paused before adding on: "I knew, too."
"If you knew, why didn't you stop me?" Henry asked. He sounded less curious than usual, but not entirely. "Or did you want all the dramatic stuff to happen first?"
"When I say I knew, I don't mean that I knew exactly what you were up to. It's just, I could tell something was bothering you."
"Something's always bothering me," he insisted. "I'm haunted by, like, fifty different ghosts, so—"
"I could tell that I was bothering you."
Quiet. Only this time, it was Henry who was a loss for words. It was a bit tricky to steal the words right out from him, since he could talk a person's ears off their damned head if he tried hard enough. But Gaius was a thief, after all. It was no surprise that he could steal anything he set his mind on: jewels, gold bullions, weapons, important documents.
Words.
And even breath, Henry wagered. Because it felt like he couldn't breathe then, as his chest collapsed on itself, and his throat constricted over hesitation unswallowed. He had a hard time focusing on inhaling air when the back of his widening eyes stung bitterly, and something deeply piercing stirred his insides into grey-red mush.
He couldn't really breathe, let alone think, so all he could do was remain quiet. Quiet as his brows furrowed slightly, quiet as his mouth twitched but remained in an unreadable expression (too straight to be a smile, too curved to be a frown), quiet as the world seemed to gasp and sputter from Gaius' simple sentence.
Yet Gaius looked just as surprised as Henry was. He didn't anticipate that of all things he planned to say tonight, I could tell that I was bothering you would be the one to send Henry's mind into a tizzy. But maybe it was what the boy needed to hear, since up to now he was utterly self-absorbed in the most selfless way possible.
Did it never occur to him that Gaius felt hurt by all of this, too?
"Henry?"
"Gaius, I…"
"Listen, I don't mean to snap at you, okay? I know that I've been pretty sour myself, lately, and it doesn't help when I take it out on you."
"But—"
"I did you wrong, Henry, and for that, I'm sorry," Gaius confessed. The words spilled out of him too easily, but part of him was happy to know that even Henry could be rendered helpless at times like these. A small smile crossed his face as he said: "You remember a couple weeks ago? When you said that you didn't mind being closer to me? I never actually answered you after all this time."
"Um," Henry struggled to say. And it was weird, because it was still Henry—dark, twisted, Plegian Henry—but when he spoke he sounded like someone else. His voice was too soft, his eyes too wide, his body too stiff. This was hesitance, uncertainty, and fear all rolled up in one. This was something that normal people felt on a daily basis, so maybe Henry felt it, too, but there was a large difference between him and everyone else.
He never knew what to call the things he felt, and he never knew what to do in those rare moments where everything became too much. And right now, everything was too much. He didn't know how to voice his thoughts well in this instance, or if he even had thoughts to begin with. His head said things like, It wasn't your fault that I took those meds, and Actually it is your fault that I did that stuff but you shouldn't sweat it, and But wait it's fine actually I promise it's fine because everything hurts and feels weird right now and this pain has been with me ever since I met you and I don't know what to do about it, I don't know what to do I don't know what to I don't know what to do—
"I guess...you didn't…" Henry spoke slowly, each syllable parsing itself into nanoseconds of sound and color that reverberated brightly in his ears. "...answer me."
"Right," Gaius agreed. He was being strangely soft, too. His eyes too kind, his voice too patient, his body too relaxed. Henry wanted him to yell at him right now, or hurt him, or tell him things like I don't understand you and Why are you like this? just as he did before. Because those negative things—that hatred and misunderstanding—were things he was all too familiar with.
Everything they were doing right now was new, unspoken, unheard of. And it hurt him in more ways than one.
He wanted him to stop.
Gaius kept going.
"Well, it took me a while to think about it, but...I agree."
"Huh?"
"You said you didn't mind if we had that kind of relationship," Gaius reminded him. "If we were boyfriends." He counted off his thumb. "Or lovers." Index finger. "Or married." Middle finger. "Or, like you said, 'whatever'." Ring finger.
Henry watched as Gaius curled his other fingers back into his fist, leaving only his pinkie finger exposed. And normally, Henry wouldn't know what a pinkie promise was, but it was one of those little things that Ricken taught him when they first met. "You're supposed to lock pinkies like this," Ricken once said, hooking his smaller finger with Henry's. "It's solidarity, you know? A promise. It's a nice gesture, more than anything."
And back then, Henry just nodded and agreed with him, despite not having any idea what all of that truly meant. Even now, he wasn't sure why Gaius extended his pinkie finger to him, but he didn't have to know in order to understand.
"I wouldn't mind, either," Gaius finally said. "We can be anything we want to be. All I'm asking is that we're anything but this." He gestured to the distance between them, something that increased since Henry instinctively backed up earlier, at some point in the conversation where everything turned on its head. He didn't even realize he moved farther away, but he couldn't muster the strength to move closer to Gaius.
The night sky was dark and oppressive above them. The earth hardened yet broke apart, and the once-cool night air stung Henry with its icy edges. Everything seemed to melt and disappear at the same time, and he felt like he was falling through the surface of the world, but that was impossible since he was clearly grounded—and clearly stranded—next to Gaius.
His pinkie finger had stuck out, too, but he hadn't interlocked it yet. He simply stared at his own defiled nails while the other continued to talk—the words flowing more freely, now. "So, yeah, that's what I really wanted to say. Sorry for being miserable this whole time. And forget all that drug stuff while we're at it."
"And," Gaius added on swiftly, "if it's okay with you, I really want us to get closer. And move on from all this. Together." The word fell heavily on both of them, bodies visibly slouching in response. But Gaius kept his head up as he finally, finally, finally asked: "So, what do you say, Henry?" He stretched out his pinkie finger again, and for the first time since meeting him, Henry witnessed Gaius do something nearly miraculous.
He saw Gaius smile. That is to say, Gaius smiled, only it wasn't like the devious smirks or sly grins he was known for having, and it wasn't an awkward expression made by the atmosphere of a tense room. Rather, it was a kind, sweet, and genuine smile. The way his lips curved upward, charming angles made by happy movements, the way his eyes shone, like smaller versions of the stars above them, the way that his handsome face looked more cute than it ever did before—it was the realest, purest, most tangible thing that Henry had ever seen.
And that pinkie was a promise, held out for him and no one else but him.
Henry curled his pinkie around Gaius', hesitantly at first as their skin ghosted each other, cool callouses rubbed against spindly warmth. He curled his finger around the other's, softly at first (afraid that this was a dream and holding too tightly would wake him up), then firmly (because he didn't want to let go even if it was fake) at last. He locked their fingers together, fortified their promise to each other, and initiated the process of moving on, once and for all.
He learned many things as everything froze itself in that moment. First, there was this: the stinging sensation in the back of his head, his tightened chest, and his struggle to breathe weren't the results of some misaligned curse. Rather, those were normal bodily sensations that one experienced right before they were about to cry.
And in the first time in a long time, Henry cried. The tears slid out silently, fat and salty after being repressed for years on end. They ran down his face, trickled down his cheeks, and faded from view when they fell to the earth, servants to gravity like anything else was. The tears fell and fell and fell, and Henry didn't make a noise.
But when he glanced at their interlocking fingers, and when he saw Gaius' smile become twice as sincere in spite of everything, the noises that accompanied crying reared their ugly heads, too. Henry's voice was quiet, small, and unassuming until now, but those muffled notes turned into louder rhapsodies as he veritably gasped for air, and whimpered so softly that Gaius felt wronged by being in his presence, somehow. Yes, as Henry cried, he started sobbing and became so overcome with feelings that his body shook and trembled, like winter leaves in the quickened wind.
Only, as the leaves rode the current of air, the winter turned to spring around it, and flowers bloomed in a myriad of colors: orange, purple, blue, red, black, and white. It was spring and everything was bright, fresh, and new.
It was spring and Henry cried, sobbed, and wept until he had no choice but to bury his face in Gaius' shoulder—his pinkie finger still locked with the other's all the while.
When he finally came back up (and his face was reddened and smeared, with snot and tears and embarrassment altogether), he rubbed slowly at his eyes, and laughed weakly at the whole situation they were in. For once, Gaius was silent, and kept his mouth shut as Henry rode the vestiges of a true shed of human emotion in his life.
Then Henry traded Gaius' pinkie in place of his entire hand, interlocking fingers and skimming their skin against each other, remembering their hands—of bladed calluses and dried out patches, with crusted blood that lingers even when the ocean crashes over—as everything falls together.
As everything falls into place.
"Sorry," Henry muttered against his tears. "I'm still getting used to this, I think. But in case it wasn't clear yet, my answer is yes."
.
.
.
"So, why'd you do it?"
"Huh?"
"The drugs."
"Heeey," Henry whined. "What happened to 'forget all the drug stuff', hmm?"
"I just wanna know. But if you don't feel like saying anything, then you don't have to."
"Well, it's because I hate pain. Ever since we got back from that cave, my chest has been hurting, and there's ringing in my ears."
"There is?"
"Yeah. Sometimes I don't notice it, though, so there's that."
"Then, how about this? Next time, we actually talk to one of the healers before you go off and try to do things on your own. I don't ever want to see you like that again, okay?"
"Okay."
"Good," Gaius murmured. His voice was barely audible over the rain, which had just started to fall. The two of them took refuge underneath the sloping awning of one of the tents, and watched as the world around them became soaked with water and static.
During the deluge, Henry carefully leaned against Gaius, because his right side hindered from a minor injury in a recent battle—causing him to lean sideways for support. He didn't know if Gaius would hate that or not, since what he did or didn't like seemed to change on the spin of a dime. But he risked it when he weighed his head against Gaius' shoulder, and found himself pleasantly surprised when Gaius actually leaned back—sighing softly into the air as the two of them settled for balance.
It was moments like these that made the noise in Henry's ears (and head) disappear; moments like these that silenced the rattling in his chest and ceased the shaking in his bones. It was hard to believe that he was so unsettled before this, or any time before this, because this just felt natural. It felt right. It felt as good and easy as the magic surging through his veins, and as familiar and righteous the spells soaring in his heart. It felt as sweet and tantalizing as all the treats in Gaius' stash, and then some more, after that.
It felt amazing.
And hours passed with the two of them watching the rainy sky, waiting with bated breaths as a lonely sun peeked over the cloudy horizon. But when the dawn broke through—when the violets and blues above melted away into light pinks and oranges—they couldn't help but smile at such a mundane and beautiful part of their world.
The rain had cleared by then, and it was as if the walls of a steel fortress had finally, finally, finally come down.
Henry reached for Gaius' hand with his own.
Gaius grabbed it without a second thought.
Neither of them let go.