Hello, what do you you need from me?

Good day, Mr. Grantz!

I'd noticed you staying near the walls lately, as if avoiding someone. This is hardly to judge, of course! Though, if you ever need to talk to someone, I'm always here to listen to your worries or offer any advice you may need.

It may seem curious that I'm reaching out through a letter, I know, but I have my reasons. I'm sure with how you tend not to speak, it may be easier for you as well?

Feel free to reply whenever! Taking care of deliveries on top of everything else must be quite a lot, I don't expect immediacy. I'm quite busy myself, after all. I'll always be ready to lend an ear, though. Or an eye, as the case may be.

Your fireman,

Florian Brand

( @miraculous-combustion )

Oh god.

This was a problem.

Logically, Victor knows Mr. Brand is very well liked by most of the residents of the manor, and refusing to interact with him is an awful idea, especially now that he's noticed Victor's avoidance.

But Victor's brain had never run particularly well on logic. It was always much more nervous of people than Victor's job ever wanted it to be. Oh, he just had to be trapped with a brain that made him want to retreat at a high speed whenever somebody even slightly loud was nearby, didn't he?

Florian is much more than that. He's terrifying.

He's deaf, making every word he says louder to compensate and ruining the privacy of any conversation you could try to have, he's sociable, meaning people are often swarming near him, and he must have some goddamn invisible spotlight he carries with him at all times, because anybody who dares look in the wrong direction and catches his interest gets all eyes on them even if nobody but Florian is around.

That's why Victor has avoided him. Is still avoiding him, because Florian's fucking letter has rotted in Victor's room for at least a month, Florian seems even more intent on talking to him than before, and he's has barely had the courage to leave his room (at this point, it seems like the whole manor is in on the fact that the two are playing cat and mouse) let alone respond to Florian's letter in a professional way.

Maybe, he thinks, if he writes something small, something blunt, something polite, Florian will leave him alone. It will stop. Victor won't feel like his life is on the line about a simple conversation anymore. Maybe. Maybe.

[a note (for it could in any way be called a letter, in as rough a state as it is) is shoved rather callously through the letter slot late in the evening, when most of the manor has gone to bed. It's crumpled note paper with no decoration.]

He does what he can to smooth the paper, narrowing his eye for a closer look.

Oh dear. This was not good at all.

If he has to stay away, if he is the one being avoided, what can he do? And besides, he doesn't even know why! The emphasis on "please, god" worries him, too. There has to be something more here. He has to make it right, he has to help. What else was he supposed to do?

========

But naturally, that idea was stupid, and Florian has come for him at the exact moment he takes his mid-day break. Of course Florian would have figured out when Victor would be by himself. He should have known.

But no amount of hindsight stopped Victor from jumping out of his skin when Florian slammed his fist into the door, and no amount of planning will stop him from mutely shaking in terror behind the wood.

Victor glances at all five locks holding his room's door shut. For now, they do their job to keep Florian safely outside, but if he knocks with enough force that Victor is certain he'll make a dent in the wood, Florian could likely break his way in regardless of how many latches and keys the door usually needs.

Thankfully, he's gone over this plan many many times in his head already.

He loads his gun, turns off his lights, and sits patiently in the dark, facing the door. If that door comes down, Florian goes with it.

Victor Grantz, surprisingly, is not a man who is used to writing letters. He didn't find it that odd when he first came here, but one day someone had asked him for writing advice and he'd stared at them like a deer in headlights. Apparently, when you work with letters, you are supposed to know how to write them, too.

That would make sense if they knew Victor read the letters (god, the thought makes him shudder) but, going off of what a Postman should be doing, Victor should have never read a letter in his life.

And, to be quite honest, reading other people's letters doesn't even help!! There are so many different tones and styles for him to daydream about, that he's convinced the platonic ideal of a letter doesn't actually exist.

Why is this a problem? Because Victor needs to write a birthday letter. A mortifyingly late birthday letter. Not only had he never written one of these before, but Victor, for all his punctuality, had apparently forgotten the birthday of his best (and possibly only) friend, and only realised half a week later.

He hadn't meant to, honestly!! Birthdays were rarely something he kept track of anyway, and he'd been so busy the last couple days (He'd made it a habit to do as much as he could these days, between his occasional deliveries he got to do.) that he'd only looked at the calendar for this month today.

Where "Aesop Carl's birthday - May 11th" looked back at him with conviction.

So now he's sitting at his writing desk, anxiety pooling in his gut, trying to anticipate how much he has to make up for this. Does Aesop think he doesn't care? (God, his lack of work must be causing a lack of punctuality, he's sure of it...)

Maybe Victor should lie? Pretend that he's misremembered, and when his guilty glances gave him away pretend he'd only just checked the date and realised?? ......No, that would feel wrong. He shouldn't lie in a letter. Or to Aesop.

But on the other hand he didn't think he could handle telling the truth in one either, because the last thing anyone wants from a birthday letter is grovelling about how badly he fucked up. If it even counts as a birthday letter anymore. It's been days. And-

Oh. Oh, people usually give presents with their birthday letters, don't they? Damn it, Victor has nothing!!! He hasn't planned for this at all!! Think, think, what do people usually give on birthdays??

Victor was usually gifted more writing utensils (and sometimes a break), but Aesop definitely wouldn't, and honestly Victor has no idea what Aesop even likes, besides from flowers and coffins...

Wait, he could give Aesop cake! People have cake on their birthday! Victor can make cake! He can bake!! He can be useful! If Aesop likes cake, that is. Does he like cake? Will he eat cake?

Should Victor just get on and write the damn letter already before any more time passes? Probably.

---

[The letter is within a yellow, flower-patterned envelope, a bundle of balloons drawn in the corner of the matching paper inside. The seal is silver, stamped with a present box.]

[Dear Aesop,

I wholeheartedly apologise for the.... Lateness of this letter. I truly do not mean to offend, or come off uncaring, I was just so distracted the last few days that it slipped my mind. Please forgive me.

That being said, if you have the time to spare, may we bake a cake together? Today would be ideal, since I know nobody will be using the kitchen today, but whatever time is up to you, whether immediately or otherwise. Take all the time you need, just please notify me whenever you intend to come to the kitchen. Or if you're declining the offer, of course. Though I'm not sure why you would.

I do hope that you . . . Had a wonderful day, and I again apologise for not being here before. By the way, if you have any cake preferences, please do not hesitate to tell me.

Your friend, V. Grantz.]

It's been a month, since that letter arrived. It's been a month, since that letter was opened, read yet not comprehended. A lateness spoken of that he didn't realize existed, a request to meet for something he's sure he doesn't know how to do, a preference question he couldn't answer. He read it repeatedly, but nothing became clearer. Eventually, he told himself he would respond when he had a better idea what to say.

The look in Victor's eyes those first few days sank into his gut much too deep. He was worrying his friend, his silence was the source of this pain. And even as he knew the pain would grow if he noticed, he couldn't stop looking. Even once Victor stopped, it didn't get better. If anything, it made him more afraid. Afraid Victor no longer wanted him. Afraid he'd thrown it all away through his lack of knowledge, lack of ability to just say something. Afraid he was hated once more.

He unfolds the letter once again, thumb sliding under the envelope, before his finger traces down the page, line by line. He keeps wrinkling it, with how he holds it too tight trying to make sense of a thing where nothing seems to connect in his mind. Slouched over the desk, he can't help but wonder if he should bother. If writing this is worth it. Victor already must be sick of him, right?

...but he has to write back, right? It's rude to leave something pending, especially for so long. Besides... even if it makes no sense to him, Victor would understand, right?

===

(The letter is in Aesop's standard setup: gray envelope, gray paper, yellow rose stamp. The penmanship looks rushed, though, lines too thin here and too thick there.)

To Mr. Grantz:

I... do not understand what lateness you are apologizing for, but I suppose I should be the one doing so. I... had so much trouble figuring out how to respond, wondering why any of this was sent or what would cause any of this, and I know writing allows time to put things into place, but... even this is time sensitive, I suppose. I deeply apologize.

As for your request... I truly do not understand why cake, or why such a thing is so imperative. Really, I... cannot bake. I doubt I could manage such a task, and I would only make it more difficult for you, I'm sure. Though... I do not imagine 'no' is an answer you want to hear, as concerned as I am for what may happen... I wouldn't be able to tell you a preference even if I had confidence in my abilities.

I imagine that whatever day you were hoping to meet me on, would have been all right. It's... more than okay. The days become a blur all too easily, I should know. It's... strange, to have holidays and events punctuating the time here. I never really... had such celebrations, growing up. Things just... went on the same as they always did. I have no room to blame you.

Even worse, Aesop seems to have forgotten what that original letter was for, leaving Victor to take the walk of shame that is explaining his mistake, a feat that would have taken at least half an hour of agonisingly slow word-picking for his letter in any other situation.

But this letter is very, VERY late, and the sooner Victor gets this entire situation over with the better. He doesn't think he can wait another month for the next correspondence (the stress will eat him alive), and Aesop is probably waiting on him as he stands there wasting time like a fool.

-- -- --

[the letter is clearly rushed. The envelope is plain, the paper inside is clearly the first thing Victor could grab, the writing is messy, and it was delivered 45 minutes after Aesop's was sent. There was also the matter of him audibly running to Aesop's room and probably sounding out of breath as he put the letter through, but he hopes Aesop didn't notice that.]

It w

Dear Aesop,

Apologies for the mess this letter is, I am once again running late. I apologise for that as well.

It was your birthday, that I had forgotten. There's no need to apologise for the late correspondence, I get it, that said I would prefer a response slightly faster next time but that isn't your fault.

Cake is a birthday thing, hence the suggestion. I don't know think I know how to make cake very well either but there's recipe books in the kitchen, we can have a go at it. Doing it now would be ideal. I understand you may want to wait and I'm fine with waiting but I'm afraid the stress is getting to me so now would be perfect if you could?

It's similar for me, the days do blur here, but that's a conversation we can have later

He understood so little, and look what happened because of it.

===

[The letter, while on its usual paper for the writer, is written with rushed penmanship, words hastily crossed out and rewritten, smudges at the sides making matters even harder to read. Clearly the writer is stressed.]

To Mr. Granz Grantz:

You are hardly late, considering my own mistake lateness failure. Truly, I should be the one apologizing. I should have told you sooner how I didn't understand what was happening. I still do not get it I... did not notice my own birthday passing at the moment or any moment after until you mentioned just now. It... is not something I have... done much for not now, not ever. It is simply another day, where I have the same responsibilities as any other. Really, my birthday doesn't matter, why are you doing any of this?

With how stressed I have made you, of course I should apologize. Of course it would be my fault. I made you wait for so long and led to so much worry because I could not give you an answer...

I... I most certainly do not know how to bake such things either, and... I have not been inside the kitchen apart from a brief few times. Nothing in there makes sense to me, however. Still, I can meet now. I don't know if I can handle thinking about doing this The sooner, the better, especially for you, I imagine.

When our days are all the same, it is hard to tell one from the next. There is no need to pretend that my birthday is important.

Except, as he thinks ahead to how he may have to make up for Aesop's lack of baking skill, there's the creeping realisation that he may have to teach Aesop these things. Is that something Victor can even do? He's not opposed to the concept at all, don't get him wrong, it's just that Victor... Has never been very good at conveying things at all, even when he's speaking to Aesop.

And here, in the theoretically-public (though generally unused) manor kitchen, outside of the safety of his room's locks and latches, the thought of doing that makes his throat want to close up almost immediately. He didn't even realise his heart was racing. (Damn it Postman, focus. You're nearly there.)

Once the two are somewhat safely inside the kitchen, Victor takes a tense minute or two to survey the room for any danger, doing his best to appear that he's just walking around for entirely non-terrified reasons. Soon Victor sighs in relief slightly, satisfied with them being alone, before beginning the next step. He slides an unused ladle through the handles of the double doors to lock them together, before placing some more items he's certain they will not need in front of them to keep them shut. Just to be sure.

Victor Grantz, surprisingly, is not a man who is used to writing letters. He didn't find it that odd when he first came here, but one day someone had asked him for writing advice and he'd stared at them like a deer in headlights. Apparently, when you work with letters, you are supposed to know how to write them, too.

That would make sense if they knew Victor read the letters (god, the thought makes him shudder) but, going off of what a Postman should be doing, Victor should have never read a letter in his life.

And, to be quite honest, reading other people's letters doesn't even help!! There are so many different tones and styles for him to daydream about, that he's convinced the platonic ideal of a letter doesn't actually exist.

Why is this a problem? Because Victor needs to write a birthday letter. A mortifyingly late birthday letter. Not only had he never written one of these before, but Victor, for all his punctuality, had apparently forgotten the birthday of his best (and possibly only) friend, and only realised half a week later.

He hadn't meant to, honestly!! Birthdays were rarely something he kept track of anyway, and he'd been so busy the last couple days (He'd made it a habit to do as much as he could these days, between his occasional deliveries he got to do.) that he'd only looked at the calendar for this month today.

Where "Aesop Carl's birthday - May 11th" looked back at him with conviction.

So now he's sitting at his writing desk, anxiety pooling in his gut, trying to anticipate how much he has to make up for this. Does Aesop think he doesn't care? (God, his lack of work must be causing a lack of punctuality, he's sure of it...)

Maybe Victor should lie? Pretend that he's misremembered, and when his guilty glances gave him away pretend he'd only just checked the date and realised?? ......No, that would feel wrong. He shouldn't lie in a letter. Or to Aesop.

But on the other hand he didn't think he could handle telling the truth in one either, because the last thing anyone wants from a birthday letter is grovelling about how badly he fucked up. If it even counts as a birthday letter anymore. It's been days. And-

Oh. Oh, people usually give presents with their birthday letters, don't they? Damn it, Victor has nothing!!! He hasn't planned for this at all!! Think, think, what do people usually give on birthdays??

Victor was usually gifted more writing utensils (and sometimes a break), but Aesop definitely wouldn't, and honestly Victor has no idea what Aesop even likes, besides from flowers and coffins...

Wait, he could give Aesop cake! People have cake on their birthday! Victor can make cake! He can bake!! He can be useful! If Aesop likes cake, that is. Does he like cake? Will he eat cake?

Should Victor just get on and write the damn letter already before any more time passes? Probably.

---

[The letter is within a yellow, flower-patterned envelope, a bundle of balloons drawn in the corner of the matching paper inside. The seal is silver, stamped with a present box.]

[Dear Aesop,

I wholeheartedly apologise for the.... Lateness of this letter. I truly do not mean to offend, or come off uncaring, I was just so distracted the last few days that it slipped my mind. Please forgive me.

That being said, if you have the time to spare, may we bake a cake together? Today would be ideal, since I know nobody will be using the kitchen today, but whatever time is up to you, whether immediately or otherwise. Take all the time you need, just please notify me whenever you intend to come to the kitchen. Or if you're declining the offer, of course. Though I'm not sure why you would.

I do hope that you . . . Had a wonderful day, and I again apologise for not being here before. By the way, if you have any cake preferences, please do not hesitate to tell me.

Your friend, V. Grantz.]

It's been a month, since that letter arrived. It's been a month, since that letter was opened, read yet not comprehended. A lateness spoken of that he didn't realize existed, a request to meet for something he's sure he doesn't know how to do, a preference question he couldn't answer. He read it repeatedly, but nothing became clearer. Eventually, he told himself he would respond when he had a better idea what to say.

The look in Victor's eyes those first few days sank into his gut much too deep. He was worrying his friend, his silence was the source of this pain. And even as he knew the pain would grow if he noticed, he couldn't stop looking. Even once Victor stopped, it didn't get better. If anything, it made him more afraid. Afraid Victor no longer wanted him. Afraid he'd thrown it all away through his lack of knowledge, lack of ability to just say something. Afraid he was hated once more.

He unfolds the letter once again, thumb sliding under the envelope, before his finger traces down the page, line by line. He keeps wrinkling it, with how he holds it too tight trying to make sense of a thing where nothing seems to connect in his mind. Slouched over the desk, he can't help but wonder if he should bother. If writing this is worth it. Victor already must be sick of him, right?

...but he has to write back, right? It's rude to leave something pending, especially for so long. Besides... even if it makes no sense to him, Victor would understand, right?

===

(The letter is in Aesop's standard setup: gray envelope, gray paper, yellow rose stamp. The penmanship looks rushed, though, lines too thin here and too thick there.)

To Mr. Grantz:

I... do not understand what lateness you are apologizing for, but I suppose I should be the one doing so. I... had so much trouble figuring out how to respond, wondering why any of this was sent or what would cause any of this, and I know writing allows time to put things into place, but... even this is time sensitive, I suppose. I deeply apologize.

As for your request... I truly do not understand why cake, or why such a thing is so imperative. Really, I... cannot bake. I doubt I could manage such a task, and I would only make it more difficult for you, I'm sure. Though... I do not imagine 'no' is an answer you want to hear, as concerned as I am for what may happen... I wouldn't be able to tell you a preference even if I had confidence in my abilities.

I imagine that whatever day you were hoping to meet me on, would have been all right. It's... more than okay. The days become a blur all too easily, I should know. It's... strange, to have holidays and events punctuating the time here. I never really... had such celebrations, growing up. Things just... went on the same as they always did. I have no room to blame you.

Even worse, Aesop seems to have forgotten what that original letter was for, leaving Victor to take the walk of shame that is explaining his mistake, a feat that would have taken at least half an hour of agonisingly slow word-picking for his letter in any other situation.

But this letter is very, VERY late, and the sooner Victor gets this entire situation over with the better. He doesn't think he can wait another month for the next correspondence (the stress will eat him alive), and Aesop is probably waiting on him as he stands there wasting time like a fool.

-- -- --

[the letter is clearly rushed. The envelope is plain, the paper inside is clearly the first thing Victor could grab, the writing is messy, and it was delivered 45 minutes after Aesop's was sent. There was also the matter of him audibly running to Aesop's room and probably sounding out of breath as he put the letter through, but he hopes Aesop didn't notice that.]

It w

Dear Aesop,

Apologies for the mess this letter is, I am once again running late. I apologise for that as well.

It was your birthday, that I had forgotten. There's no need to apologise for the late correspondence, I get it, that said I would prefer a response slightly faster next time but that isn't your fault.

Cake is a birthday thing, hence the suggestion. I don't know think I know how to make cake very well either but there's recipe books in the kitchen, we can have a go at it. Doing it now would be ideal. I understand you may want to wait and I'm fine with waiting but I'm afraid the stress is getting to me so now would be perfect if you could?

It's similar for me, the days do blur here, but that's a conversation we can have later

If Aesop had not, perhaps, deposited that letter to nobody in the postbox so that Victor would have something to do, if Aesop had not written far too much while realizing too late he forgot to place his own name on the back after hastily crossing out Victor's own, maybe he would be a little more well-kept. But all of that has happened, all of the past is inescapable, and he cannot hide from it. Only wait for everything to crash down.

And how terrifying it is to wait.

He needed to write everything down anyway, and he would not be surprised if he burned his words once they returned to him. They just needed to be out, and what better way to move them apart from him than to write them and seal them away? He knows the dangers, yes. And if he made a grave mistake, if every bit of goodwill he has scraped together crumbles away, he can only say that it was inevitable. Anyone who found out would do the same. If convincing does not work... but that isn't enough this time, right? Not when death means nothing.

He hasn't bothered to put up his ponytail or get his mask on this morning, not after the sleepless night before. The letter has not been returned. He doesn't know what could be happening, and the terror, the possibility that he's destroyed it all, looms close behind him.

===

(The letter—or would it be better called a ramble, a confession?— is wrapped in a plain, sturdy envelope, such that he hopes it isn't anything that would stand out. Unfortunately, his handwriting is clearly recognizable as his own, rendering the whole point moot anyway. The envelope bears the first few letters of Victor's name, written several times and crossed out on all of them, but the lack of another addressee is notable. The text's shape and unsteady pace betrays the emotional tension in the writer.)

I'm sorry.

I don't even know what I'm sorry for. For going against that faith you had in me? For taking matters into my own hands and hoping you would never find out? For trying to relieve you of burdens but only trying and failing to soothe my own? You were already asleep, there was no need—

I came here to continue my duty. To free more people. But you were never truly free, you kept returning and I could only grow more ashamed, more unable to face you. If you did not have to wake up, if you were safe and never had to be afraid again... but it doesn't work like that. Not anymore. (I still would not leave you.)

Is it selfish that a part of me... doesn't want to succeed? That I want to have your warmth, your voice, all the things I can't preserve the way I can so much else? If you are comfortable, and happy, does it matter if it happens because you are finally at rest?

I know I have always been here to help. I know it is my duty to reach those meant to die, those who are in too much pain to keep going. (Even now, I wonder if I have reached those who need me the most.) But... I know that you wouldn't see it that way. Nobody does. Mr. Carl, too, knows that this mission is a solitary one. Being able to convince someone to let me guide them is ideal, yes, but... it has, in practice, been impossible. You would not be different, I'm sure. Even if I wish you were, if you ever found out that it was me bringing you to dreamless sleep all those times, I... I would understand if you wanted nothing to do with me anymore. Even as I wish to have your company, I have destroyed your trust, I am sure, and tried to bring you to the other side long before you were ready.

If you would allow me to ask this... please do not tell anyone. I do not know what would happen, and I am already... no, it's not worth thinking about. You will do what you decide is right, and who am I to decide what that is? I have hurt you, have I not? All I wanted to do was make things better for you, and yet...

Once again, I apologize. For everything.

Victor Grantz has been dying, recently. Not in matches, like normal, no. Outside of them, daring to close his tired eyes for a moment before waking up in his room, consumed by a blind panic of where am I what happened oh god— Are They back?? Nobody stole anything, right? Why did they let him revive in his room??

Safe to say, he was on extremely high alert after the first time it happened. But even if he wasn't, he's sure he'd have noticed the look on Aesop's face. The way Aesop wouldn't meet Victor's eyes at all. The way Aesop fiddled with his hands. The way Aesop was, very obviously, guilty.

Something clicks into place, then. So now the question becomes why. And, paranoid as he is, he can't trust it's actually Aesop.

Although, god, if anyone is killing him he hopes it's Aesop. As weird as that sounds. You see, there's no real reason for Victor to be dying. It'd be one thing if his bag was searched, another if his room was, but neither are true. He's made sure of it. (The keys are still in his pocket when he revives, and ordering the letters in a way only he knows leads to the order being perfect afterwards.) It's not torture either, he's certain it's not meant to be.

The only other reason for someone to kill him is... Concern. Worry about him neglecting himself, choosing to reset his body and take him straight to bed rather than argue with him about whether he's okay.

And that is why he hopes it's Aesop. Because that is absolutely something he might do, and it would make him much more at ease.

But he can't just ask Aesop if he's killing him. That likely wouldn't go down well, especially if Aesop isn't the murderer. So he experiments instead.

- - -

He'd pretended to be unconscious on the dining room table. Late enough he knew nobody would walk in on them, and close enough to both of their rooms that it'd give Aesop confidence to solve the mystery for him.

And, well... If the gloved hands and the click of the case didn't give it away, Aesop speaking, quiet and shaky through his mask, definitely did. Victor wills his pounding heart to stop beating so loud. Aesop will catch on to his ruse, surely...

Aesop does, in fact, catch on... Partially. Thank god, he didn't seem to realise what it meant. He asks about a nightmare, though seemingly remembering victor can't answer him. Victor is given reassurance that it'll be over soon, anyway.

He's given a lot of reassurance, actually.

A little scolding, though more concerned than anything else ["You really must take care of yourself better..."],

a few admissions of attachment ["if only you knew how much I care for you..."],

and many, many apologies.

Victor's heart starts to relax from it all, and he wonders if he might actually fall asleep here... before there's a sharp prick in his arm.

Cold floods through him, and it's too heavy to struggle. He falls unconscious within minutes.

He wakes up back in his bed. Nothing is out of order. Well, at least that's calmed most of his nerves...

[this goes on for weeks. Somehow, he finds himself more relaxed each time.]

= = =

The next unusual thing happens with the letter.

Victor would recognise the handwriting anywhere by now, especially when it's addressed to him. Sort of.

Even if he wasn't mildly addicted to reading and pretending people's letters were for him, he'd still itch to open that seal. There's absolutely no address, besides his own, half formed and shaky.

He can't be blamed if he doesn't know where to go, right? He's just being diligent, right? [He burns with curiosity, taking the letter into his room as subtly as he can, so he can pore over every detail.]

There is no name here, either. But what he does get is so much more... Fascinating, in a sense. It's a terrible thing, he knows, but he can't stop himself from being entranced at the pure emotion dripping off of Aesop's every word.

It's a secret. Just for him.

+ + +

If not for the subject matter he'd be feeling both sick and rather giddy at the chance. (At the moment he just feels the instinctual crawling nausea of something to hide from Them. He swats it away.)

It's funny, how mere weeks ago he thought Aesop was like Them, but it's even clearer now that he's not, and never will be. Victor doesn't see what Aesop does, but Aesop happens to have painted a very easy picture for Victor to see.

It's love, above all else. It's guilt, it's apology, it's longing, it's protection, it's caring. Victor understands Aesop better than anyone else, and this only proves it. He can connect with that emotion, hold it in his hands and press his face against it to feel the warmth.

Nobody else will understand. It's his secret to keep. But unfortunately for Victor's desire to stare at it for hours, this is still technically supposed to be delivered.

He puts the secret back in its envelope, not bothering to re-melt the wax like usual, locks up his room, and walks to Aesop's door. (If it had been back then, he would have been punished for not being punctual. But, they tended to give exceptions to unclear delivery instructions...)

× × ×

"Mr Carl?" He speaks quietly into the wood of the door. "Is this letter yours?"

Victor's heart flutters a little when Aesop droops. It's a sign of surrender, yes, but it's also... Vulnerability. This moment is rather intimate, isn't it?

Victor wonders if he could have had more moments like these if Aesop had been there when he was working under them as a Postman. Logically, Aesop would have been shot, or Victor would be so paranoid they'd never even get this far, but he finds himself imagining regardless. Maybe they could have ran away together, uncertain and terrified but oh so free.

That is the type of connection Victor longs for, truly. Someone who's like him, someone who's close enough to know what he's thinking at a glance, someone who will understand the fact that he does not want to die. Not now, not ever.

Aesop is getting there. Victor knows it. And Aesop knows that Victor knows.

"ah, I don't w-want it to ssound like I'm... forcing you i-into anything..." He means it. Lonely as he is, he wants to stick to as many boundaries as he's able to. Whatever Aesop's comfortable with, Victor will attempt to adhere to. ...However, when what he's comfortable with are the words of his horrible father, the boundaries have to be pushed, though it pains him. "I-if you don't want to- to stay with me, I understand..."

"I- I want you t-to do what...ever makes you happy, if you're a-able to without... hurting anybody." Aesop droops further. Victor can feel his own sharpness of mind slipping, purely from how much comfort the gesture of trust brings him. He fights to stay on top of it, though. He's not done yet. "I- I understand why... You did - did those things. Even if they're- they're not right, I ... understand. I love you, regardless."

["I have to make up for what you aren't given, don't i?"] It echoes in his head, and he can't stop himself from wincing slightly. He imagines that they'll let him get back to doing his job eventually, (or at least give him errands so he's not pacing the manor aimlessly), but it occurs to him that he stopped getting praised for the work he was doing at least a month before he finally broke. Hell, that's probably what pushed him over the edge.

"of course- of course I'll stay with you, Aesop... I do-don't have... the heart, or... the desire t-to abandon you..." It hurts, that Aesop is the only one who won't look at him with concern, the only one who will praise him like this anymore. It hurts that he wants to cling to Aesop like a lifeline, desperately seeking some kind of love. He worries that the man will suffocate in the embrace.

"you- y-you want to stay?" Aesop can probably hear the way he beams at that. It's such a relief, truly. He holds Aesop ever closer, listening intently for anything else Aesop wants to say. Aesop's a man full of uncertainty, so it's not that simple. He knows that. And yet he's sure they're almost there.

"of c-course nothing w-will hurt us...! I'm here, r-right? And i-i've told you what I'm c-capable of... And f-father won't c-come for- for you. I promise."

The rational part of Victor's brain is sure they'll be alright. He knows that even if they knew where he went, and even if Big Daddy was still alive, somehow, they still wouldn't care to pursue him, since every Postman was easily replaceable. (He'd found that fact out quickly.)

Everything else, however, screams that Victor will die if he ever, EVER lets his guard down. It's not logic that dictates whether he feels safe when he's alone at night. It's not logic that made him put so many damn places to hide in his room. It's not logic that drives the pit in his stomach when Aesop refuses again.

"selfish...? Why- w-why would it be selfish-?? I-i'm currently begging you to, I- it's no-not like you're d-doing this when I don't—?" Hes shaking suddenly, with emotion. God, can he ever get himself straight? (Calm down.You're nearly there. Don't fuck it up. ) "S-sorry, so sorry- I don't want to- to make you d-do anything. B-but I want you to be warm. And I-if it's coming down - down t-to what I t-think, i-if you're so unsure...... You're allowed to accept. Please."

He inhales sharply, and despite himself the words continue spilling out of him.

"there's nothing you can do for anyone else, n-no - no quota to reach in order to deserve it- i-it's not like i-it matters what- what anyone else wants, right?? Y-you said you were happy with this, y-you said it felt safe!! I-is that not a good enough - enough reason to you??? W-we know they- they hate us anyway, out there, so you d-dont need to care a-about them, why d-do you still insist on being alone!?"

His voice is barely above something people would consider "quiet", in truth, but his head feels so loud that he finds himself dizzy with apologies anyway.

"...please, don't think that you're forcing me. This is... what I want, I'm sure." He wants to be safe. He wants to have someone who will listen to him and tell him it's all right. He wants to give someone comfort. (Even if boundaries were crossed time and time again, would he notice?) Victor does not see things the same, and yet he is still soft, still loving. "Thank you for... understanding. And don't... don't worry. I'm happy here."

"...I'm glad. I... truly hope that I can be someone worth staying for... someone comforting, someone helpful, someone kind." He drinks up Victor's words and turns them around slowly, lazily. It would hurt both of them if one left. It does not matter if this embrace suffocates him, not when the air is not meant for him anyway. "It... it would be awful if we had to go back to loneliness, now that we know we can have each other..."

Both of them know it is a good thing that Aesop wants to be with Victor, even with all the fears, all these reasons he can't understand. The postman seems confident, as he talks of how he will keep them safe. Even so, Aesop cannot help but feel the deep seated tensions stirring, stirring. "...you... you have said. Even as I don't trust myself to be able to do the same... And... I know Father is gone. I know, when it was... my hand that led him to the other side." The invitation that Jerry would not return from was one he remembered well. And still, Aesop would get to him in the end.

He just had to say his other fears, didn't he? And look where it got him. Look what he did. "I—I'm sorry... I was... even as it is, there's more than the two of us in the world... if I leave everyone behind, what will that say of me, that I stopped helping when peace was given to me alone...?"

You're allowed to accept.

That's the first thing that he thinks when he hears Aesop speak, attempt to placate an irrational man, one who's been loud and stressful and scary several times tonight.

His voice comes out quiet, and completely exhausted.

"w-wait, I-it's.. I - I need you to underst-stand, I-I'm not angry, it's not anger, it's just— I'm so sc—" He forces himself to shut up. Yes, Aesop has scared him, at least a little, all night, but he needs comfort, not guilt. "...i-it's just... All too much, today... I'm not us- usually like this, I'm so sorry.."

He loosens his hold on Aesop so as to not suffocate the poor man (though something in him itches to get ever closer, closer, closer, until neither of them can breathe). Leaning back for only a moment to take a breath, he's soothed by the fact that at least if Aesop looks up to see him now, he'll just know Victor truly isn't angry.

But only a fleeting few seconds in time pass before he's clinging to Aesop again. Aesop is struggling to hold himself up, Victor realises, and he shifts them so Aesop can depend upon Victor fully to hold him up.

"t-this... Is what you want..? Truly?" His voice glitters with tentative hope, though he doesn't let himself get happy just yet. After all, it came crashing down on him mere moments ago. (I need a yes. I need a no. I need anything confirmed. Please. ANYTHING.) "please- please d-don't lie, i-if you happen to not be..."

Aesop is a man easily swayed, and Victor can't help but feel like he's just making it worse through his own desperate loneliness, though he doesn't know where Aesop's thoughts end and his begin. (After all, are Victor's thoughts even his own? They could easily be his employers'. He tries not to think about that part.)

"I- I don't w-want either.. of us to be alone..." Despite himself, he is the one swayed by Aesop's words in that moment. He understands. They're almost the same, right? (His head is a little foggy, now. Bad Victor. You shouldn't be sleepy yet. It's not even midnight, right?) "I-it'd... be awful, truly... You're correct..."

Victor ignores the comment about Aesop's father (which, in all fairness, Victor was the one to bring up) in favour of the more... Pressing issue, with what Aesop's saying.

Aesop speaks as if being loved by Victor is a privilege, not something that Victor is at this point, however unintentionally, almost forcing onto the man. And that's ignoring the fact he apologised for Victor's outburst.

(There's only one place you could have learned that, Aesop.)

"...ah, did your father t-teach y-you to... ap-pologise when people - people snap at you..?" Victor finds himself asking, though he quickly attempts to change the subject. The less Father, the better. "Ah, it could hhave been... any- anyone in your life, really.... It's not important, now..."

"b-but... A-are you really, t-truly happy to stay? I-if it's just because... You feel guilty, then... I-it would feel wrong, to keep you." Victor blinks slowly, voice going quiet and trailing off. "Though... I-if you really w-want to stay with s-something like me... I'd be so hhappy......"

if Aesop says yes, it'll be this warm forever. He'll always be this happy.

He is barely able to look up, if only because of the surge of anxiety forcing him to keep himself up, the stumbling step in reaction to the postman moving away to keep himself from landing completely face down. How fortunate, that he is caught, once more. How fortunate, that he is allowed to be so pitiful. Even as it eats at him how little he is able to do.

"I... this is what I want, yes. I may be afraid, but... I have no reason to be. Maybe that can go away, too, if I stay a little longer. I just know... I can't stand to hurt you. And... saying no, or abandoning you... would do that. Even worse than I already have. I... do like what we already have, but... if this is what you want, as well, then..." He doesn't know which he'd prefer. Which would be better for both of them. To keep as they are, having periods between their meetings, or to never part again.

Aesop's thoughts may as well be a small part of his own mind, pushed and pulled as they are by everyone around him and their own ideas and wishes and beliefs. He doesn't know which are his, but at the same time, he can't say that the thoughts that come because of his wishes for others are not his. He can't say that the decisions made because he places a need other than his own first is not one he made, is not his. They are all his, wherever the root came from. After all, the final call was his.

It's comforting, when Victor is comforted by his own words. Lazily, Aesop smiles, eyes barely hanging open. "...we don't have to be. Even if we are apart, we can read each other's letters. We can remember each other from the smallest of things. And when we are together... we give more reasons to remember, to care. When we're together, we know once again... we aren't alone. And we won't be thrown away. Right...?"

Ah. He did apologize just now, didn't he? And... come to think of it, it was for Victor's outburst, even if it was for his behavior causing it. Though... "...really, I wasn't exactly taught it anywhere. It simply worked well enough whenever I did it, even if I needed to apologize multiple times in school for things to finally stop, and... I see no reason to change something that works."

He does his best to keep himself sturdy, even though his legs are starting to protest. Aesop isn't even heavy, but it feels like Victor is slowly turning into a pool of wax, which as it turns out, is not very sturdy. (The mental image of them both toppling over like bowling pins is, while funny, definitely not the ideal situation.)

He settles on moving the two to rest on the bed, taking the gun (which is now in the way) and placing it casually in the beside table drawer. Now, Victor is half-sitting, half-laying under Aesop, fully oblivious to how they're practically cuddling as they attempt to make themselves comfortable. (He's glad he took his shoes off when he'd finished making Aesop's bed earlier. Doing so now would have been rather awkward.)

As Aesops words burrow into his mind, some self aware part of Victor bubbles to the surface to say that he, too, will obey anything that is asked of him. But the rest of him is well trained to drown it until he forgets, and so he runs automatically. Like a... good Postman, right? Right.

"I.... S-suppose, you're right... A-as long as you- you're happy, w-we can do anything... that you want. I-i- I am happy, with what we have already... " He sighs fondly, laying back. He's still in uniform, a reminder that he shouldn't be so relaxed right now. He should, ideally, have work to do. But it's not like he does, and it's warm here. He doesn't want to protest.

"Ah... I g-guess what I- I truly want is... a promise. I - I need to clarify... That it's a bit of an exaggeration to s-say I want to never be alone. I w-wouldn't want to smother you, after all, and I imagine we'll b-both need space..." Victor lets his gaze drift to the rather nondescript ceiling above, tracing patterns with his eyes. He knows Aesop well enough to understand that it would make Aesop nervous. He should have phrased it better... "T-that's... What y-you're... Nervous about, right?"

(it feels like there's something he's forgotten. But it's not important now. He's too tired.)

When was the last time he's been like this? Warm and tired, curled up with someone he loves? Back there, he doubts he would have gotten this privilege. He can't bring himself to muster hate towards them, now, so he simply clings closer to Aesop like they could take him away again. But they won't. He's sure.

"r-rightt... N-no, you'll... never throw me away..." A-and I won't get rid of you, either... Yes, yes we'll... Understand..." There's a smile in his voice. Words are failing him, by now. Though, he's astounded in the realisation that he hasn't really struggled, at least compared to how he goes mute at the first sign of trouble in any other case.

Ah, he doesn't need to argue with Aesop's justification of his apology, simply humming in response. No need to question it. Aesop can say whatever he wants, now, Victor's given up on caring for the night. But still, no matter the subject, Aesop's voice is soft in the Postman's ears.

"y-you... You want t-to stay... I- I love you, t-too.." It's awe. Reverence. He's finally not alone anymore. "Of course, of c-course..." He repeats to himself, a fuzzy attempt to never forget Aesop's words even as they're spoken. Victor laces one of his hands with one of Aesop's, smiling as his eyelids grow heavy.

When they wake up, he feels like they won't be the same people they started with. Maybe they'll forget themselves again. Maybe they'll be lost forever. Maybe they'll never wake up, not truly.

If Aesop had not, perhaps, deposited that letter to nobody in the postbox so that Victor would have something to do, if Aesop had not written far too much while realizing too late he forgot to place his own name on the back after hastily crossing out Victor's own, maybe he would be a little more well-kept. But all of that has happened, all of the past is inescapable, and he cannot hide from it. Only wait for everything to crash down.

And how terrifying it is to wait.

He needed to write everything down anyway, and he would not be surprised if he burned his words once they returned to him. They just needed to be out, and what better way to move them apart from him than to write them and seal them away? He knows the dangers, yes. And if he made a grave mistake, if every bit of goodwill he has scraped together crumbles away, he can only say that it was inevitable. Anyone who found out would do the same. If convincing does not work... but that isn't enough this time, right? Not when death means nothing.

He hasn't bothered to put up his ponytail or get his mask on this morning, not after the sleepless night before. The letter has not been returned. He doesn't know what could be happening, and the terror, the possibility that he's destroyed it all, looms close behind him.

===

(The letter—or would it be better called a ramble, a confession?— is wrapped in a plain, sturdy envelope, such that he hopes it isn't anything that would stand out. Unfortunately, his handwriting is clearly recognizable as his own, rendering the whole point moot anyway. The envelope bears the first few letters of Victor's name, written several times and crossed out on all of them, but the lack of another addressee is notable. The text's shape and unsteady pace betrays the emotional tension in the writer.)

I'm sorry.

I don't even know what I'm sorry for. For going against that faith you had in me? For taking matters into my own hands and hoping you would never find out? For trying to relieve you of burdens but only trying and failing to soothe my own? You were already asleep, there was no need—

I came here to continue my duty. To free more people. But you were never truly free, you kept returning and I could only grow more ashamed, more unable to face you. If you did not have to wake up, if you were safe and never had to be afraid again... but it doesn't work like that. Not anymore. (I still would not leave you.)

Is it selfish that a part of me... doesn't want to succeed? That I want to have your warmth, your voice, all the things I can't preserve the way I can so much else? If you are comfortable, and happy, does it matter if it happens because you are finally at rest?

I know I have always been here to help. I know it is my duty to reach those meant to die, those who are in too much pain to keep going. (Even now, I wonder if I have reached those who need me the most.) But... I know that you wouldn't see it that way. Nobody does. Mr. Carl, too, knows that this mission is a solitary one. Being able to convince someone to let me guide them is ideal, yes, but... it has, in practice, been impossible. You would not be different, I'm sure. Even if I wish you were, if you ever found out that it was me bringing you to dreamless sleep all those times, I... I would understand if you wanted nothing to do with me anymore. Even as I wish to have your company, I have destroyed your trust, I am sure, and tried to bring you to the other side long before you were ready.

If you would allow me to ask this... please do not tell anyone. I do not know what would happen, and I am already... no, it's not worth thinking about. You will do what you decide is right, and who am I to decide what that is? I have hurt you, have I not? All I wanted to do was make things better for you, and yet...

Once again, I apologize. For everything.

Victor Grantz has been dying, recently. Not in matches, like normal, no. Outside of them, daring to close his tired eyes for a moment before waking up in his room, consumed by a blind panic of where am I what happened oh god— Are They back?? Nobody stole anything, right? Why did they let him revive in his room??

Safe to say, he was on extremely high alert after the first time it happened. But even if he wasn't, he's sure he'd have noticed the look on Aesop's face. The way Aesop wouldn't meet Victor's eyes at all. The way Aesop fiddled with his hands. The way Aesop was, very obviously, guilty.

Something clicks into place, then. So now the question becomes why. And, paranoid as he is, he can't trust it's actually Aesop.

Although, god, if anyone is killing him he hopes it's Aesop. As weird as that sounds. You see, there's no real reason for Victor to be dying. It'd be one thing if his bag was searched, another if his room was, but neither are true. He's made sure of it. (The keys are still in his pocket when he revives, and ordering the letters in a way only he knows leads to the order being perfect afterwards.) It's not torture either, he's certain it's not meant to be.

The only other reason for someone to kill him is... Concern. Worry about him neglecting himself, choosing to reset his body and take him straight to bed rather than argue with him about whether he's okay.

And that is why he hopes it's Aesop. Because that is absolutely something he might do, and it would make him much more at ease.

But he can't just ask Aesop if he's killing him. That likely wouldn't go down well, especially if Aesop isn't the murderer. So he experiments instead.

- - -

He'd pretended to be unconscious on the dining room table. Late enough he knew nobody would walk in on them, and close enough to both of their rooms that it'd give Aesop confidence to solve the mystery for him.

And, well... If the gloved hands and the click of the case didn't give it away, Aesop speaking, quiet and shaky through his mask, definitely did. Victor wills his pounding heart to stop beating so loud. Aesop will catch on to his ruse, surely...

Aesop does, in fact, catch on... Partially. Thank god, he didn't seem to realise what it meant. He asks about a nightmare, though seemingly remembering victor can't answer him. Victor is given reassurance that it'll be over soon, anyway.

He's given a lot of reassurance, actually.

A little scolding, though more concerned than anything else ["You really must take care of yourself better..."],

a few admissions of attachment ["if only you knew how much I care for you..."],

and many, many apologies.

Victor's heart starts to relax from it all, and he wonders if he might actually fall asleep here... before there's a sharp prick in his arm.

Cold floods through him, and it's too heavy to struggle. He falls unconscious within minutes.

He wakes up back in his bed. Nothing is out of order. Well, at least that's calmed most of his nerves...

[this goes on for weeks. Somehow, he finds himself more relaxed each time.]

= = =

The next unusual thing happens with the letter.

Victor would recognise the handwriting anywhere by now, especially when it's addressed to him. Sort of.

Even if he wasn't mildly addicted to reading and pretending people's letters were for him, he'd still itch to open that seal. There's absolutely no address, besides his own, half formed and shaky.

He can't be blamed if he doesn't know where to go, right? He's just being diligent, right? [He burns with curiosity, taking the letter into his room as subtly as he can, so he can pore over every detail.]

There is no name here, either. But what he does get is so much more... Fascinating, in a sense. It's a terrible thing, he knows, but he can't stop himself from being entranced at the pure emotion dripping off of Aesop's every word.

It's a secret. Just for him.

+ + +

If not for the subject matter he'd be feeling both sick and rather giddy at the chance. (At the moment he just feels the instinctual crawling nausea of something to hide from Them. He swats it away.)

It's funny, how mere weeks ago he thought Aesop was like Them, but it's even clearer now that he's not, and never will be. Victor doesn't see what Aesop does, but Aesop happens to have painted a very easy picture for Victor to see.

It's love, above all else. It's guilt, it's apology, it's longing, it's protection, it's caring. Victor understands Aesop better than anyone else, and this only proves it. He can connect with that emotion, hold it in his hands and press his face against it to feel the warmth.

Nobody else will understand. It's his secret to keep. But unfortunately for Victor's desire to stare at it for hours, this is still technically supposed to be delivered.

He puts the secret back in its envelope, not bothering to re-melt the wax like usual, locks up his room, and walks to Aesop's door. (If it had been back then, he would have been punished for not being punctual. But, they tended to give exceptions to unclear delivery instructions...)

× × ×

"Mr Carl?" He speaks quietly into the wood of the door. "Is this letter yours?"

Victor's heart flutters a little when Aesop droops. It's a sign of surrender, yes, but it's also... Vulnerability. This moment is rather intimate, isn't it?

Victor wonders if he could have had more moments like these if Aesop had been there when he was working under them as a Postman. Logically, Aesop would have been shot, or Victor would be so paranoid they'd never even get this far, but he finds himself imagining regardless. Maybe they could have ran away together, uncertain and terrified but oh so free.

That is the type of connection Victor longs for, truly. Someone who's like him, someone who's close enough to know what he's thinking at a glance, someone who will understand the fact that he does not want to die. Not now, not ever.

Aesop is getting there. Victor knows it. And Aesop knows that Victor knows.

"ah, I don't w-want it to ssound like I'm... forcing you i-into anything..." He means it. Lonely as he is, he wants to stick to as many boundaries as he's able to. Whatever Aesop's comfortable with, Victor will attempt to adhere to. ...However, when what he's comfortable with are the words of his horrible father, the boundaries have to be pushed, though it pains him. "I-if you don't want to- to stay with me, I understand..."

"I- I want you t-to do what...ever makes you happy, if you're a-able to without... hurting anybody." Aesop droops further. Victor can feel his own sharpness of mind slipping, purely from how much comfort the gesture of trust brings him. He fights to stay on top of it, though. He's not done yet. "I- I understand why... You did - did those things. Even if they're- they're not right, I ... understand. I love you, regardless."

["I have to make up for what you aren't given, don't i?"] It echoes in his head, and he can't stop himself from wincing slightly. He imagines that they'll let him get back to doing his job eventually, (or at least give him errands so he's not pacing the manor aimlessly), but it occurs to him that he stopped getting praised for the work he was doing at least a month before he finally broke. Hell, that's probably what pushed him over the edge.

"of course- of course I'll stay with you, Aesop... I do-don't have... the heart, or... the desire t-to abandon you..." It hurts, that Aesop is the only one who won't look at him with concern, the only one who will praise him like this anymore. It hurts that he wants to cling to Aesop like a lifeline, desperately seeking some kind of love. He worries that the man will suffocate in the embrace.

"you- y-you want to stay?" Aesop can probably hear the way he beams at that. It's such a relief, truly. He holds Aesop ever closer, listening intently for anything else Aesop wants to say. Aesop's a man full of uncertainty, so it's not that simple. He knows that. And yet he's sure they're almost there.

"of c-course nothing w-will hurt us...! I'm here, r-right? And i-i've told you what I'm c-capable of... And f-father won't c-come for- for you. I promise."

The rational part of Victor's brain is sure they'll be alright. He knows that even if they knew where he went, and even if Big Daddy was still alive, somehow, they still wouldn't care to pursue him, since every Postman was easily replaceable. (He'd found that fact out quickly.)

Everything else, however, screams that Victor will die if he ever, EVER lets his guard down. It's not logic that dictates whether he feels safe when he's alone at night. It's not logic that made him put so many damn places to hide in his room. It's not logic that drives the pit in his stomach when Aesop refuses again.

"selfish...? Why- w-why would it be selfish-?? I-i'm currently begging you to, I- it's no-not like you're d-doing this when I don't—?" Hes shaking suddenly, with emotion. God, can he ever get himself straight? (Calm down.You're nearly there. Don't fuck it up. ) "S-sorry, so sorry- I don't want to- to make you d-do anything. B-but I want you to be warm. And I-if it's coming down - down t-to what I t-think, i-if you're so unsure...... You're allowed to accept. Please."

He inhales sharply, and despite himself the words continue spilling out of him.

"there's nothing you can do for anyone else, n-no - no quota to reach in order to deserve it- i-it's not like i-it matters what- what anyone else wants, right?? Y-you said you were happy with this, y-you said it felt safe!! I-is that not a good enough - enough reason to you??? W-we know they- they hate us anyway, out there, so you d-dont need to care a-about them, why d-do you still insist on being alone!?"

His voice is barely above something people would consider "quiet", in truth, but his head feels so loud that he finds himself dizzy with apologies anyway.

"...please, don't think that you're forcing me. This is... what I want, I'm sure." He wants to be safe. He wants to have someone who will listen to him and tell him it's all right. He wants to give someone comfort. (Even if boundaries were crossed time and time again, would he notice?) Victor does not see things the same, and yet he is still soft, still loving. "Thank you for... understanding. And don't... don't worry. I'm happy here."

"...I'm glad. I... truly hope that I can be someone worth staying for... someone comforting, someone helpful, someone kind." He drinks up Victor's words and turns them around slowly, lazily. It would hurt both of them if one left. It does not matter if this embrace suffocates him, not when the air is not meant for him anyway. "It... it would be awful if we had to go back to loneliness, now that we know we can have each other..."

Both of them know it is a good thing that Aesop wants to be with Victor, even with all the fears, all these reasons he can't understand. The postman seems confident, as he talks of how he will keep them safe. Even so, Aesop cannot help but feel the deep seated tensions stirring, stirring. "...you... you have said. Even as I don't trust myself to be able to do the same... And... I know Father is gone. I know, when it was... my hand that led him to the other side." The invitation that Jerry would not return from was one he remembered well. And still, Aesop would get to him in the end.

He just had to say his other fears, didn't he? And look where it got him. Look what he did. "I—I'm sorry... I was... even as it is, there's more than the two of us in the world... if I leave everyone behind, what will that say of me, that I stopped helping when peace was given to me alone...?"

You're allowed to accept.

That's the first thing that he thinks when he hears Aesop speak, attempt to placate an irrational man, one who's been loud and stressful and scary several times tonight.

His voice comes out quiet, and completely exhausted.

"w-wait, I-it's.. I - I need you to underst-stand, I-I'm not angry, it's not anger, it's just— I'm so sc—" He forces himself to shut up. Yes, Aesop has scared him, at least a little, all night, but he needs comfort, not guilt. "...i-it's just... All too much, today... I'm not us- usually like this, I'm so sorry.."

He loosens his hold on Aesop so as to not suffocate the poor man (though something in him itches to get ever closer, closer, closer, until neither of them can breathe). Leaning back for only a moment to take a breath, he's soothed by the fact that at least if Aesop looks up to see him now, he'll just know Victor truly isn't angry.

But only a fleeting few seconds in time pass before he's clinging to Aesop again. Aesop is struggling to hold himself up, Victor realises, and he shifts them so Aesop can depend upon Victor fully to hold him up.

"t-this... Is what you want..? Truly?" His voice glitters with tentative hope, though he doesn't let himself get happy just yet. After all, it came crashing down on him mere moments ago. (I need a yes. I need a no. I need anything confirmed. Please. ANYTHING.) "please- please d-don't lie, i-if you happen to not be..."

Aesop is a man easily swayed, and Victor can't help but feel like he's just making it worse through his own desperate loneliness, though he doesn't know where Aesop's thoughts end and his begin. (After all, are Victor's thoughts even his own? They could easily be his employers'. He tries not to think about that part.)

"I- I don't w-want either.. of us to be alone..." Despite himself, he is the one swayed by Aesop's words in that moment. He understands. They're almost the same, right? (His head is a little foggy, now. Bad Victor. You shouldn't be sleepy yet. It's not even midnight, right?) "I-it'd... be awful, truly... You're correct..."

Victor ignores the comment about Aesop's father (which, in all fairness, Victor was the one to bring up) in favour of the more... Pressing issue, with what Aesop's saying.

Aesop speaks as if being loved by Victor is a privilege, not something that Victor is at this point, however unintentionally, almost forcing onto the man. And that's ignoring the fact he apologised for Victor's outburst.

(There's only one place you could have learned that, Aesop.)

"...ah, did your father t-teach y-you to... ap-pologise when people - people snap at you..?" Victor finds himself asking, though he quickly attempts to change the subject. The less Father, the better. "Ah, it could hhave been... any- anyone in your life, really.... It's not important, now..."

"b-but... A-are you really, t-truly happy to stay? I-if it's just because... You feel guilty, then... I-it would feel wrong, to keep you." Victor blinks slowly, voice going quiet and trailing off. "Though... I-if you really w-want to stay with s-something like me... I'd be so hhappy......"

if Aesop says yes, it'll be this warm forever. He'll always be this happy.

If Aesop had not, perhaps, deposited that letter to nobody in the postbox so that Victor would have something to do, if Aesop had not written far too much while realizing too late he forgot to place his own name on the back after hastily crossing out Victor's own, maybe he would be a little more well-kept. But all of that has happened, all of the past is inescapable, and he cannot hide from it. Only wait for everything to crash down.

And how terrifying it is to wait.

He needed to write everything down anyway, and he would not be surprised if he burned his words once they returned to him. They just needed to be out, and what better way to move them apart from him than to write them and seal them away? He knows the dangers, yes. And if he made a grave mistake, if every bit of goodwill he has scraped together crumbles away, he can only say that it was inevitable. Anyone who found out would do the same. If convincing does not work... but that isn't enough this time, right? Not when death means nothing.

He hasn't bothered to put up his ponytail or get his mask on this morning, not after the sleepless night before. The letter has not been returned. He doesn't know what could be happening, and the terror, the possibility that he's destroyed it all, looms close behind him.

===

(The letter—or would it be better called a ramble, a confession?— is wrapped in a plain, sturdy envelope, such that he hopes it isn't anything that would stand out. Unfortunately, his handwriting is clearly recognizable as his own, rendering the whole point moot anyway. The envelope bears the first few letters of Victor's name, written several times and crossed out on all of them, but the lack of another addressee is notable. The text's shape and unsteady pace betrays the emotional tension in the writer.)

I'm sorry.

I don't even know what I'm sorry for. For going against that faith you had in me? For taking matters into my own hands and hoping you would never find out? For trying to relieve you of burdens but only trying and failing to soothe my own? You were already asleep, there was no need—

I came here to continue my duty. To free more people. But you were never truly free, you kept returning and I could only grow more ashamed, more unable to face you. If you did not have to wake up, if you were safe and never had to be afraid again... but it doesn't work like that. Not anymore. (I still would not leave you.)

Is it selfish that a part of me... doesn't want to succeed? That I want to have your warmth, your voice, all the things I can't preserve the way I can so much else? If you are comfortable, and happy, does it matter if it happens because you are finally at rest?

I know I have always been here to help. I know it is my duty to reach those meant to die, those who are in too much pain to keep going. (Even now, I wonder if I have reached those who need me the most.) But... I know that you wouldn't see it that way. Nobody does. Mr. Carl, too, knows that this mission is a solitary one. Being able to convince someone to let me guide them is ideal, yes, but... it has, in practice, been impossible. You would not be different, I'm sure. Even if I wish you were, if you ever found out that it was me bringing you to dreamless sleep all those times, I... I would understand if you wanted nothing to do with me anymore. Even as I wish to have your company, I have destroyed your trust, I am sure, and tried to bring you to the other side long before you were ready.

If you would allow me to ask this... please do not tell anyone. I do not know what would happen, and I am already... no, it's not worth thinking about. You will do what you decide is right, and who am I to decide what that is? I have hurt you, have I not? All I wanted to do was make things better for you, and yet...

Once again, I apologize. For everything.

Victor Grantz has been dying, recently. Not in matches, like normal, no. Outside of them, daring to close his tired eyes for a moment before waking up in his room, consumed by a blind panic of where am I what happened oh god— Are They back?? Nobody stole anything, right? Why did they let him revive in his room??

Safe to say, he was on extremely high alert after the first time it happened. But even if he wasn't, he's sure he'd have noticed the look on Aesop's face. The way Aesop wouldn't meet Victor's eyes at all. The way Aesop fiddled with his hands. The way Aesop was, very obviously, guilty.

Something clicks into place, then. So now the question becomes why. And, paranoid as he is, he can't trust it's actually Aesop.

Although, god, if anyone is killing him he hopes it's Aesop. As weird as that sounds. You see, there's no real reason for Victor to be dying. It'd be one thing if his bag was searched, another if his room was, but neither are true. He's made sure of it. (The keys are still in his pocket when he revives, and ordering the letters in a way only he knows leads to the order being perfect afterwards.) It's not torture either, he's certain it's not meant to be.

The only other reason for someone to kill him is... Concern. Worry about him neglecting himself, choosing to reset his body and take him straight to bed rather than argue with him about whether he's okay.

And that is why he hopes it's Aesop. Because that is absolutely something he might do, and it would make him much more at ease.

But he can't just ask Aesop if he's killing him. That likely wouldn't go down well, especially if Aesop isn't the murderer. So he experiments instead.

- - -

He'd pretended to be unconscious on the dining room table. Late enough he knew nobody would walk in on them, and close enough to both of their rooms that it'd give Aesop confidence to solve the mystery for him.

And, well... If the gloved hands and the click of the case didn't give it away, Aesop speaking, quiet and shaky through his mask, definitely did. Victor wills his pounding heart to stop beating so loud. Aesop will catch on to his ruse, surely...

Aesop does, in fact, catch on... Partially. Thank god, he didn't seem to realise what it meant. He asks about a nightmare, though seemingly remembering victor can't answer him. Victor is given reassurance that it'll be over soon, anyway.

He's given a lot of reassurance, actually.

A little scolding, though more concerned than anything else ["You really must take care of yourself better..."],

a few admissions of attachment ["if only you knew how much I care for you..."],

and many, many apologies.

Victor's heart starts to relax from it all, and he wonders if he might actually fall asleep here... before there's a sharp prick in his arm.

Cold floods through him, and it's too heavy to struggle. He falls unconscious within minutes.

He wakes up back in his bed. Nothing is out of order. Well, at least that's calmed most of his nerves...

[this goes on for weeks. Somehow, he finds himself more relaxed each time.]

= = =

The next unusual thing happens with the letter.

Victor would recognise the handwriting anywhere by now, especially when it's addressed to him. Sort of.

Even if he wasn't mildly addicted to reading and pretending people's letters were for him, he'd still itch to open that seal. There's absolutely no address, besides his own, half formed and shaky.

He can't be blamed if he doesn't know where to go, right? He's just being diligent, right? [He burns with curiosity, taking the letter into his room as subtly as he can, so he can pore over every detail.]

There is no name here, either. But what he does get is so much more... Fascinating, in a sense. It's a terrible thing, he knows, but he can't stop himself from being entranced at the pure emotion dripping off of Aesop's every word.

It's a secret. Just for him.

+ + +

If not for the subject matter he'd be feeling both sick and rather giddy at the chance. (At the moment he just feels the instinctual crawling nausea of something to hide from Them. He swats it away.)

It's funny, how mere weeks ago he thought Aesop was like Them, but it's even clearer now that he's not, and never will be. Victor doesn't see what Aesop does, but Aesop happens to have painted a very easy picture for Victor to see.

It's love, above all else. It's guilt, it's apology, it's longing, it's protection, it's caring. Victor understands Aesop better than anyone else, and this only proves it. He can connect with that emotion, hold it in his hands and press his face against it to feel the warmth.

Nobody else will understand. It's his secret to keep. But unfortunately for Victor's desire to stare at it for hours, this is still technically supposed to be delivered.

He puts the secret back in its envelope, not bothering to re-melt the wax like usual, locks up his room, and walks to Aesop's door. (If it had been back then, he would have been punished for not being punctual. But, they tended to give exceptions to unclear delivery instructions...)

× × ×

"Mr Carl?" He speaks quietly into the wood of the door. "Is this letter yours?"

Victor's heart flutters a little when Aesop droops. It's a sign of surrender, yes, but it's also... Vulnerability. This moment is rather intimate, isn't it?

Victor wonders if he could have had more moments like these if Aesop had been there when he was working under them as a Postman. Logically, Aesop would have been shot, or Victor would be so paranoid they'd never even get this far, but he finds himself imagining regardless. Maybe they could have ran away together, uncertain and terrified but oh so free.

That is the type of connection Victor longs for, truly. Someone who's like him, someone who's close enough to know what he's thinking at a glance, someone who will understand the fact that he does not want to die. Not now, not ever.

Aesop is getting there. Victor knows it. And Aesop knows that Victor knows.

"ah, I don't w-want it to ssound like I'm... forcing you i-into anything..." He means it. Lonely as he is, he wants to stick to as many boundaries as he's able to. Whatever Aesop's comfortable with, Victor will attempt to adhere to. ...However, when what he's comfortable with are the words of his horrible father, the boundaries have to be pushed, though it pains him. "I-if you don't want to- to stay with me, I understand..."

"I- I want you t-to do what...ever makes you happy, if you're a-able to without... hurting anybody." Aesop droops further. Victor can feel his own sharpness of mind slipping, purely from how much comfort the gesture of trust brings him. He fights to stay on top of it, though. He's not done yet. "I- I understand why... You did - did those things. Even if they're- they're not right, I ... understand. I love you, regardless."

["I have to make up for what you aren't given, don't i?"] It echoes in his head, and he can't stop himself from wincing slightly. He imagines that they'll let him get back to doing his job eventually, (or at least give him errands so he's not pacing the manor aimlessly), but it occurs to him that he stopped getting praised for the work he was doing at least a month before he finally broke. Hell, that's probably what pushed him over the edge.

"of course- of course I'll stay with you, Aesop... I do-don't have... the heart, or... the desire t-to abandon you..." It hurts, that Aesop is the only one who won't look at him with concern, the only one who will praise him like this anymore. It hurts that he wants to cling to Aesop like a lifeline, desperately seeking some kind of love. He worries that the man will suffocate in the embrace.

"you- y-you want to stay?" Aesop can probably hear the way he beams at that. It's such a relief, truly. He holds Aesop ever closer, listening intently for anything else Aesop wants to say. Aesop's a man full of uncertainty, so it's not that simple. He knows that. And yet he's sure they're almost there.

"of c-course nothing w-will hurt us...! I'm here, r-right? And i-i've told you what I'm c-capable of... And f-father won't c-come for- for you. I promise."

The rational part of Victor's brain is sure they'll be alright. He knows that even if they knew where he went, and even if Big Daddy was still alive, somehow, they still wouldn't care to pursue him, since every Postman was easily replaceable. (He'd found that fact out quickly.)

Everything else, however, screams that Victor will die if he ever, EVER lets his guard down. It's not logic that dictates whether he feels safe when he's alone at night. It's not logic that made him put so many damn places to hide in his room. It's not logic that drives the pit in his stomach when Aesop refuses again.

"selfish...? Why- w-why would it be selfish-?? I-i'm currently begging you to, I- it's no-not like you're d-doing this when I don't—?" Hes shaking suddenly, with emotion. God, can he ever get himself straight? (Calm down.You're nearly there. Don't fuck it up. ) "S-sorry, so sorry- I don't want to- to make you d-do anything. B-but I want you to be warm. And I-if it's coming down - down t-to what I t-think, i-if you're so unsure...... You're allowed to accept. Please."

He inhales sharply, and despite himself the words continue spilling out of him.

"there's nothing you can do for anyone else, n-no - no quota to reach in order to deserve it- i-it's not like i-it matters what- what anyone else wants, right?? Y-you said you were happy with this, y-you said it felt safe!! I-is that not a good enough - enough reason to you??? W-we know they- they hate us anyway, out there, so you d-dont need to care a-about them, why d-do you still insist on being alone!?"

His voice is barely above something people would consider "quiet", in truth, but his head feels so loud that he finds himself dizzy with apologies anyway.

If Aesop had not, perhaps, deposited that letter to nobody in the postbox so that Victor would have something to do, if Aesop had not written far too much while realizing too late he forgot to place his own name on the back after hastily crossing out Victor's own, maybe he would be a little more well-kept. But all of that has happened, all of the past is inescapable, and he cannot hide from it. Only wait for everything to crash down.

And how terrifying it is to wait.

He needed to write everything down anyway, and he would not be surprised if he burned his words once they returned to him. They just needed to be out, and what better way to move them apart from him than to write them and seal them away? He knows the dangers, yes. And if he made a grave mistake, if every bit of goodwill he has scraped together crumbles away, he can only say that it was inevitable. Anyone who found out would do the same. If convincing does not work... but that isn't enough this time, right? Not when death means nothing.

He hasn't bothered to put up his ponytail or get his mask on this morning, not after the sleepless night before. The letter has not been returned. He doesn't know what could be happening, and the terror, the possibility that he's destroyed it all, looms close behind him.

===

(The letter—or would it be better called a ramble, a confession?— is wrapped in a plain, sturdy envelope, such that he hopes it isn't anything that would stand out. Unfortunately, his handwriting is clearly recognizable as his own, rendering the whole point moot anyway. The envelope bears the first few letters of Victor's name, written several times and crossed out on all of them, but the lack of another addressee is notable. The text's shape and unsteady pace betrays the emotional tension in the writer.)

I'm sorry.

I don't even know what I'm sorry for. For going against that faith you had in me? For taking matters into my own hands and hoping you would never find out? For trying to relieve you of burdens but only trying and failing to soothe my own? You were already asleep, there was no need—

I came here to continue my duty. To free more people. But you were never truly free, you kept returning and I could only grow more ashamed, more unable to face you. If you did not have to wake up, if you were safe and never had to be afraid again... but it doesn't work like that. Not anymore. (I still would not leave you.)

Is it selfish that a part of me... doesn't want to succeed? That I want to have your warmth, your voice, all the things I can't preserve the way I can so much else? If you are comfortable, and happy, does it matter if it happens because you are finally at rest?

I know I have always been here to help. I know it is my duty to reach those meant to die, those who are in too much pain to keep going. (Even now, I wonder if I have reached those who need me the most.) But... I know that you wouldn't see it that way. Nobody does. Mr. Carl, too, knows that this mission is a solitary one. Being able to convince someone to let me guide them is ideal, yes, but... it has, in practice, been impossible. You would not be different, I'm sure. Even if I wish you were, if you ever found out that it was me bringing you to dreamless sleep all those times, I... I would understand if you wanted nothing to do with me anymore. Even as I wish to have your company, I have destroyed your trust, I am sure, and tried to bring you to the other side long before you were ready.

If you would allow me to ask this... please do not tell anyone. I do not know what would happen, and I am already... no, it's not worth thinking about. You will do what you decide is right, and who am I to decide what that is? I have hurt you, have I not? All I wanted to do was make things better for you, and yet...

Once again, I apologize. For everything.

Victor Grantz has been dying, recently. Not in matches, like normal, no. Outside of them, daring to close his tired eyes for a moment before waking up in his room, consumed by a blind panic of where am I what happened oh god— Are They back?? Nobody stole anything, right? Why did they let him revive in his room??

Safe to say, he was on extremely high alert after the first time it happened. But even if he wasn't, he's sure he'd have noticed the look on Aesop's face. The way Aesop wouldn't meet Victor's eyes at all. The way Aesop fiddled with his hands. The way Aesop was, very obviously, guilty.

Something clicks into place, then. So now the question becomes why. And, paranoid as he is, he can't trust it's actually Aesop.

Although, god, if anyone is killing him he hopes it's Aesop. As weird as that sounds. You see, there's no real reason for Victor to be dying. It'd be one thing if his bag was searched, another if his room was, but neither are true. He's made sure of it. (The keys are still in his pocket when he revives, and ordering the letters in a way only he knows leads to the order being perfect afterwards.) It's not torture either, he's certain it's not meant to be.

The only other reason for someone to kill him is... Concern. Worry about him neglecting himself, choosing to reset his body and take him straight to bed rather than argue with him about whether he's okay.

And that is why he hopes it's Aesop. Because that is absolutely something he might do, and it would make him much more at ease.

But he can't just ask Aesop if he's killing him. That likely wouldn't go down well, especially if Aesop isn't the murderer. So he experiments instead.

- - -

He'd pretended to be unconscious on the dining room table. Late enough he knew nobody would walk in on them, and close enough to both of their rooms that it'd give Aesop confidence to solve the mystery for him.

And, well... If the gloved hands and the click of the case didn't give it away, Aesop speaking, quiet and shaky through his mask, definitely did. Victor wills his pounding heart to stop beating so loud. Aesop will catch on to his ruse, surely...

Aesop does, in fact, catch on... Partially. Thank god, he didn't seem to realise what it meant. He asks about a nightmare, though seemingly remembering victor can't answer him. Victor is given reassurance that it'll be over soon, anyway.

He's given a lot of reassurance, actually.

A little scolding, though more concerned than anything else ["You really must take care of yourself better..."],

a few admissions of attachment ["if only you knew how much I care for you..."],

and many, many apologies.

Victor's heart starts to relax from it all, and he wonders if he might actually fall asleep here... before there's a sharp prick in his arm.

Cold floods through him, and it's too heavy to struggle. He falls unconscious within minutes.

He wakes up back in his bed. Nothing is out of order. Well, at least that's calmed most of his nerves...

[this goes on for weeks. Somehow, he finds himself more relaxed each time.]

= = =

The next unusual thing happens with the letter.

Victor would recognise the handwriting anywhere by now, especially when it's addressed to him. Sort of.

Even if he wasn't mildly addicted to reading and pretending people's letters were for him, he'd still itch to open that seal. There's absolutely no address, besides his own, half formed and shaky.

He can't be blamed if he doesn't know where to go, right? He's just being diligent, right? [He burns with curiosity, taking the letter into his room as subtly as he can, so he can pore over every detail.]

There is no name here, either. But what he does get is so much more... Fascinating, in a sense. It's a terrible thing, he knows, but he can't stop himself from being entranced at the pure emotion dripping off of Aesop's every word.

It's a secret. Just for him.

+ + +

If not for the subject matter he'd be feeling both sick and rather giddy at the chance. (At the moment he just feels the instinctual crawling nausea of something to hide from Them. He swats it away.)

It's funny, how mere weeks ago he thought Aesop was like Them, but it's even clearer now that he's not, and never will be. Victor doesn't see what Aesop does, but Aesop happens to have painted a very easy picture for Victor to see.

It's love, above all else. It's guilt, it's apology, it's longing, it's protection, it's caring. Victor understands Aesop better than anyone else, and this only proves it. He can connect with that emotion, hold it in his hands and press his face against it to feel the warmth.

Nobody else will understand. It's his secret to keep. But unfortunately for Victor's desire to stare at it for hours, this is still technically supposed to be delivered.

He puts the secret back in its envelope, not bothering to re-melt the wax like usual, locks up his room, and walks to Aesop's door. (If it had been back then, he would have been punished for not being punctual. But, they tended to give exceptions to unclear delivery instructions...)

× × ×

"Mr Carl?" He speaks quietly into the wood of the door. "Is this letter yours?"

Aesop is still asking to kill him. It itches under Victor's skin, now. Even after everything??

Aesop speaks like he doesn't know any better. God, he probably doesn't. Victor's hands start to shake as Aesop rests his head on his shoulder. It's anger (not at Aesop, at those who shaped him), it's fear (...alright, that one is of Aesop), it's a whirlpool swirling in his head and he needs to get out of him.

"I think he lied to you."

He cuts off any response Aesop tries to give. He knows the man will argue. He's his son, after all. "I... have questions for you. Rhetorical ones. Some will sound... judgemental, some will sound unrelated, but I hope they can help you understand... My perspective, a little... Please try and answer each one in your head."

"Your mother. How- how do you know she was... unhappy? How old were you when sshe died? Were you old enough to rememb-ber what... she acted like?" He talks slowly, shakily, deliberately. Stressing every question with plenty of time to think in between. "Did- did she deliver that letter of hers? Do you know hher handwriting? When were you t-told that she wrote this letter?"

"Miss Eliza must have be-been a friend, yes? And -and your father... killed her, presumably. Why wwould he t-take your friend away? Why would he make - make you wait for her t-to come? Did he ever tell you... how death helped her?" Victor pauses, before making an educated guess. "Was she the - the only adult... in your life, besides your father? And if sso, would there b-be a reason your fa-father only wanted you... to listen to him?"

"You killed him because he was in pain, because he - he was suffering, right? Would those - those bruises have healed with time? And even - even if not, would yyou saw your foot off if you sprained your a-ankle? Would you cut off so-someone else's foot, if they sprained it? Yes, they've uused that leg ffor... years, but a mo-moment of pain calls for an extreme measure, by- by his standards, right? You c-can't feel an ankle that isn't th-there, even if you can't walk, right?"

Victor takes a deep breath. His voice cracks a little. His questions have been coming out more rapidly, more desperately.

"i-i mean this - without offense, I really d-do, but why on earth would he choose ssomeone like you to "save" people? Someone so... anxious? He must-t have known so many people you could-dn't... "save" would weigh on your - your mind every s-single day, so why f-force you to do... that??? Why alone? If his ideas are so... sound, why wouldn't he g-get a group of people to... Fuck, I d-don't know, spread out and do more??"

It's then Victor realises how much he's shaking. He can feel Aesop moving to respond, turning to him, and he cuts off the man's reply by grabbing him by the shoulders.

"If- if we were out there, and - and i tried t-to shoot you, you wouldn't... just stand t-there, right? B-because you have things to - to live for, don't you? Why do- do you think th-that absolutely nobody else... has their own reasons to live?"

Tears are pricking at his eyes, and he's too hopped up on adrenaline to even think about the fact he's staring into Aesop's.

"And I- Aesop, w-why the fuck would someone care about- about what happens t-to their corpse?? Especially when you're... the one killling them??? How- how can you protect so-something you are hurting?? Why w-would they, or their family, want y-you anywhere near the body you desecrated?? How th-the hell can someone feel safe... when they h-have no consciousness to- to perceive it, and the - the last imprint of their existence is a painful death???"

There's something between venom and anguish in Victor's voice. Tears are rolling down his face now, and his shaking hands pull Aesop into a hug without thinking. His tone softens to a hoarse whisper.

"i-i'll- god, I'll answer my own fucking questions, this is because of your father, Aesop. This is a-all because of him. He killed your - your mother, he killed Eliza. From the- the sounds of it, they were the only... people you knew, besides him. Sso, when all you know is your f-father, you trusted him, be-because you were a child. Do you know h-how fucking easy it is to convince a-a child of something?? Especially when it's yours??? T-think for a moment, Aesop, why would a killer outright say to their child they're a bad person when... they can just... lie? S-say they're the angel helping all the sick people who - who "deserved to die". What does that... even mean, Mr Carl? Was your father a s-seer? W-why would he know that? and- and he said that the afterlife w-was good, was real, he told you this, yes?? Your - your father? Tell me, Mr Carl, had he ever died b-before you killed him? How could he know it's better... than reality?"

"I... think he lied to you..." Victor says again, defeated. "I... God, if you... don't und-understand now, I don't know what I can do to help you but..."

He's still shaking. He only hopes his hold is somewhat as comforting for Aesop as it is for himself, but he knows what this sounds like.

[He needs to be professional. He needs to remember his mission. That he is only here to help. He can find a way to convince Victor, the closest to understanding. He does not know how, but... he has to.]

One by one, questions trickle in. The letter from his mother arrived the birthday after she passed, and Elisa delivered it. (Elisa, who is no longer here.) He doesn't remember much, he cannot say he knows her handwriting, not with how young he was when everything happened. (He was old enough, at least, that he could read most of the letter himself.) He... wasn't told when she wrote it, but he had an idea. After all, she mentioned how Jerry was there, to 'help her collapsing soul find relief'. It was close to her time, then, right? So how didn't he know? (He never could stand burdening her further with how he was treated at school day after day.) He thought she expected not to make it, but that line. "I wish I would have the chance to tell you in person." She wanted to see him, but it wasn't certain that she would. He always thought that it was enough. That the letter was more than enough. (It was more than he could imagine any other giving him.) She called herself a coward, but she went forward into the afterlife. In his eyes, she was braver than anyone else. But how could he tell her? How could she hear?

Elisa was a foggy memory. He knew there were other adults than her, before he was gone from school, but... Elisa treated him more kindly than any of them ever would have, let him be something. Elisa did not see him as a problem to be fixed. (He hopes that is not what Victor is seeing now that he knows the deepest parts.) She was supposed to wait for Aesop. But he was the one waiting. Waiting for something he didn't know could never come, within walls of rose bushes and foliage and fences. Jerry guided his eye to the yellow rose bushes, something he knew would comfort Aesop. (No reason was mentioned. No reason is needed. After all, someone who is meant to die, painful as it is, should be given the best care in the final moments.) (He's sorry he couldn't at least make it to her.) (...why was there blood? He knows the roses have thorns, yes, but the red in his memories is too great for that. And bromine hydrate is not a method meant to cause bleeding. So... why? Why was blood necessary? He was taught a specific method, why was that not used? If she was meant to die, did she not die in peace? Oh, god. Oh, god, he's sorry. He could have done better. He could have given her a death much kinder than that. Something much less sharp and terrifying and messy.) (If a whole body at peace is required... why?)

Eyes stare right into his own. His shoulders are grabbed onto tightly, before he is embraced. He can't breathe. He's too scared to. He doesn't understand a thing. Not when the voice has such a familiar poison to it. Such a familiar anger. When he finally speaks, when words finally fall out, it is obvious he is trying and failing to keep intact. "It... it wasn't about the bruises. I know that's what I said, but... I didn't know how to say what was there, not without—not without remembering too much, without speaking far too long. Nothing of him was solid anymore. Everything was so soft, so unable to hold together, it might have been molded by a touch. Even the bones were... That surely could not have recovered. I... still know how he groaned in his final breaths. It was all he could do. I regret not making it earlier. And—and fuck, no! All that is, is trading one pain for another! Not only that, but... to pass on, the whole body needs to be at peace. If... if I do that, I can't manage that, can I?"

"I—I never saw Mother writing the letter, and with the things she mentioned, it must have been shortly before she... I—I don't remember much, but I remember enough. She was kind. She was nowhere near as cowardly as she claimed she was. Elisa delivered that letter, but does it matter?"

"Being meant to die was the reason. I... there were teachers, before I could no longer attend school, but... they did not like me. They did not see me as worth listening to. Unlike Elisa. Unlike Father. And... he did not make me wait. She told me she would wait for me, and then... I didn't know where she was. It... it did hurt, at first, but the roses are comforting her, I'm... I'm sure." He pauses, drawing his spine upward and looking up, trying to blink away the tears that form in his eyes. "Death is the way to help, in itself! There doesn't need to be another! I... don't understand why I remember there being blood... The method I learned does not use it, and the prick of a rose bush... definitely does not draw so much... but sometimes when you help, you have to use what you have, right? So then... why do I feel like it must have been so painful?"

"I was...he took me in after Mother passed, I do not know if that was planned before, but...I had to be useful to him, right? I... do not think he would have chosen to raise someone on his own. If it wasn't me... it would have been no one at all. I remember the way he looked at me the first time I accidentally called him "Father"... how he seemed so... warm. He told me I was his son more than I thought, and how proud he was. He was strict, but... he loved me. He told me I did well whenever I saved someone. He reassured me when I was rejected once again. He protected me, keeping me in the graveyard, where it's quiet, and safe, and I don't have to worry about anything. I doubt he could stand a group of people, much like myself. How could he teach people who already have their minds set? How could he teach too many at once, when the skills are so deliberate, so careful?"

Would he just stand there? Does he have something to live for? "I... I don't know. I've... I've never felt like the living, with all the things I can't do, can't be. But I know better than to think I am already a corpse... I can't help but wonder how all the ways to die feel, but knowing that only one will stick, that nobody will be able to give what I have to so many... I don't know what to do about it. I don't know."

"What do you mean, desecrated? I do everything to make sure the body is intact as it can be. That the death is not painful. As for how I can do that, people find beliefs in their own afterlives, and I have read about several. A Christian burial is the most common one I've done, but I have worked with more than that, and the families guide me to what the one passing would want. Besides, they do not know it was me who sent their loved one to the other side."

Again, that assertion. Jerry broke him. Jerry lied to him. Jerry hurt him. (He will never be whole again, in that case.) God, he doesn't know what it means to deserve to die, to be meant to die, and he doesn't know how soon to show up so that death does not have to be a mercy too late delivered. "...He did not. But why do you think my life was kept inside the graveyard, Mr. Grantz? He wanted to keep me safe. He wanted to make sure I did not have to face the world's pains the way he did. He loved me. But... but grief finds its way in wherever you are, however high the walls. Even if it is a nothingness, hearing what I do, I... of course it has to be better than what you all go through. Of course it has to be better than breaking yourself to make it a few more days."

Victor decides to trade in his anguish for about as sweet of a tone as he can muster up right now. Thankfully, his stress makes the shift less unnatural.

"I- I really apologise, Aesop... I didn't mean to blow up in front of you... I-it's just... We're both so stressed, you understand, right? I'm not angry. I could never be angry at you." He lets out a shaky exhale, holding Aesop tighter. "I s-suppose I should do... what you've d-done for me. I'll try and see through... your eyes.".

He twitches internally at the notion. Is he really sweet talking his way out of this?

Yes, he is.

"t-trading one pain for another..." He muses under his breath, thinking. He doesn't speak this next part to Aesop, rather around him, but he quietly hopes he hears regardless. "But it would... be a much d-duller pain, right..? Why is that..." He does not actually question it. He is simply hoping Aesop does.

He needs to play into Aesop's reasoning more. Be empathetic.

"She was n-never cowardly." Victor repeats Aesop's words back to him. "Why would... she d-describe herself as such? Was she... afraid of dying? Or of facing reality? But she- she had a wo-wonderful son to take care of... and protect... so that can't be the one..." He pauses, wondering how to word his next statement without making it sound like an insult. "I- I question your father's convincing, if... if she was scared, up until the end."

Victor hums.

"N-nobody liked you, not... not even yourself, it seems... Of course y-you'd get attached to your father, I understand that, I do..." Victor runs a hand along Aesop's shoulder. A comfort. Both out of genuine care, and the fact that Aesop, from what he knows, responds to it quite well. "It is strange, that... he never at least tried t-to spread your ideas...? Two or three can't have been that - that much of an issue, surely? Oh, but... I suppose he'd have to implant th-the seeds at a young age... if they were t-to grow properly, wouldn't he? And you - you were so alone back then... (...it's not like you had other friends to teach...)"

Victor pauses in his motions, suddenly. Like he'd just realised something.

"....Eliza. You... said there was blood? That can't... be right...? That - that shouldn't be right?? I mean, I be- I believe you, very much! But unless.. Father had gotten violent...? It's strange. Did- did your father always use bromine t-to kill, or was... that only in certain places?" He continues his comforting motions again. If he can pretend hard enough that he isn't incredibly angry with "Father", Aesop will be more accepting of his... Questioning.

"You are a drop in the ocean, Aesop. As much as it pains me to say it, I feel I'm the only one who would miss you... Does it matter, really, how many you've saved? It can't have been hundreds, you're merely one man. And though we have all the time in the world, you'll never be able to save another... Is it worth stressing yourself over?"

"desecrated... I apologise, again, I really lost my head there... I'm sure you gave them a lovely burial... God, what was I thinking... I'm glad the families were lied to, though, some things are better off going unheard..."

"I just... don't see why... why you were kept insside a box for your whole life, Aesop... We learn how to - to talk to others when we're young, and you're... yyounger than me, and yet - yet you never got to learn, until you were tr-trapped in a manor with people that scared you?" He almost absent-mindedly pets Aesop's hair. Almost. "You never... got to learn how to make friends, or learn what b-bad people are like, or what it was like to be loved... I feel sorry for - for you, really, I do... I just don't undersstand why your father would deprive you... of that."

"I'm h-happy here, ar-aren't I? I escaped them, at least for now. A-and a l-lot of the - the others are similar.... After rain... there is sun. Just - just because it hhurts a lot doessn't mean it will last forever.. I don't... think I could stand the - the thought of never g-getting to be w-warm and comfortable again... Could you?" Victor smiles as kindly as he can. Internally, however, he's praying that Aesop will start to see the truth in Victor's words. That the honey will trap him, that the softness will put his brain to sleep. Mr Carl could manipulate a child, but Victor can certainly manipulate an adult.

Victor's voice softens in an instant, and Aesop doesn't know what to do. It could be false, true, anything in between. But at the same time, when he is held so tight he can hardly move, hardly breathe, when Victor states he could never be angry at Aesop in what the embalmer is only certain is a falsehood and yet leans into anyway because it's all so familiar, when his heart beats far too loudly in his chest and he tries to cling onto the warmth that is near him before it inevitably fades too soon, he knows there isn't anything he can do. It's terrifying, yes, but when all the things Aesop heard from Victor before were so kind, when he doesn't know if Victor means it when he says he'll stay forever no matter what, he clings for both the chance that it's true and the fear that it's not. Everything is changing so rapidly that he cannot do anything but cling to the moments that make sense, try to keep his head from spinning so fast it leaves him behind.

"It's okay. Even if you are angry..." He does not add the 'and you probably are' that drips into his mind. "...I do not mind. Pain makes it harder to talk and think clearly. For both of us."

Is it duller, to trade sprain or fracture for amputation? Either way, the same tasks are impossible. Either way, there is a constant awareness that something in the body does not behave as it needs to. But there is not the feeling of sharp, biting pain whenever the affected area is moved wrong.

"I... I never understood that, myself. I couldn't... I never wanted her to see how school was really going, so I doubt that was contributing... unless she knew despite what I said... I think... she reached her limits. She wanted to see me grow up like the man she married, but... but so much happened to her. I... I know she mentioned that Father was there to raise me, and hoped it would make up for... whatever her sins were. I never understood that, either. She must have arranged that before her passing, right?" Aesop closes his eyes, shutting out as much as he can. "...she doubted herself so much... but why...?"

"...it really isn't like I had any other peers I could explain to..." He opens his eyes barely, his arms wrapping further around Victor, just a touch. "Even if they could have liked me, I was out of school not long after I was taken in... I know what you will say. It was not because of him. I had problems, they said. Er, autism. Which... led to problems. The point is, I was no longer allowed to come back. Considering how I was spoken to most of the time... I am lucky, that Father could give me a way to help people, even still." The pain sears his voice, he's holding on tighter than he realizes. "...he wasn't interested in getting close to people. I think... he only took me in and kept me due to his agreement with Mother. I doubt I would have even met him, otherwise... he never liked noise."

He is not facing up, and yet he can imagine Victor shaking his head ever so slowly, giving him that look that Aesop can't stand, the one with a mix of pity and disappointment and shame. It's such a vivid image in his mind, and he hates it, and despite himself, he buries himself further into Victor's shoulder.

Victor mirrors the fear and worry that churns in his stomach, and Aesop has to pretend that it isn't making his own concern grow and grow until it consumes him whole. "There... was. I know it was there... it was too dark to simply be a shadow or the color of mulch. He—he told me that he, too, always used bromine... just as he taught me... how could I ask about the blood? He knew better, right? I was... much younger. A child doesn't know what's best for someone, he said. I would understand one day, he said. But... I don't. If we have a method that works... why did he not use it?" There was no answer to the question that little boy posed. He thought there had been, but words can be empty. What is not to fear about empty words? He shakes within Victor's hold.

"..." He wants, so badly, for his work to matter. To do good, and to know that such a thing is recognized. But he cannot do what he knows, he cannot be understood when he tries to help. It is painful, that he knows Victor is right, when he says nobody else will mourn him. Who else that gave him the time of day is still around? "...it was a little under thirty. And... I know the number is small in the grand scheme of things... but if I cannot help people... then what can I do? It's all I know. It's all I can be... maybe that makes me selfish, to want to help to remind myself that I am able to do such a thing."

"...I did my best. And... we both know quite well there are things others should not know. Father taught me that when one does something kind, you do not talk about it to the world. You know that you did it. And that is enough. Then again... we both knew that with how badly the people I tried to help took it... he gave that same smile and that same advice, though. Nobody needed to know. It's like a treasure box of the knowledge that you did something for someone."

"I was out of the box, before I could no longer attend school... it gave me ample reason to want to stay inside." He smiles, almost sadly, as if trying to comfort Victor and say things are not so bad as the postman thinks. "There are things that could not be taught, but... I learned many others. Outside, I learned how to make myself small, so that even when I was thrown around I would not alert anyone unnecessary. I learned that if I tried to keep everything down and bite my tongue, things would be over sooner. They would be back the next day, yes, but... it would be fewer bruises to hide. Inside, I learned how so many things fade over time. I learned everything I know about my trade. Maybe I never learned how to make friends... but how could I have? I doubt I would have been allowed to learn, when that requires people... willing to be friends with me."

It's purgatory, it's limbo, and yet it is home to people like Victor. And yet it is warm, and safe. And yet it is love. "...I... took for granted that I wouldn't... know what warmth felt like... I came here to continue my, and Father's, mission... and I can't even do that..." He lets out a shaky breath. "...I already accepted that it was impossible. Like many things, really. But... this... I think I felt warm, when you reached out to me. I didn't realize it was warmth I felt whenever Mother looked at me, or when Father told me he was proud of me. I... I'm scared of losing that warmth. I think I always have been."

He trusts Victor... And it's starting to become noticeable how he doesn't quite remember his childhood clearly...

Victor could lie. Victor will lie, if that's what it takes. After all, he's already weaving a web of honey-coated words, would there be harm in it?

(Something in his mind stirs. A fleeting moment, of two children surrounded by golden flowers. A dream he had once. This will work as a basis for his story.)

"I'm... n-not angry... But- i-" He starts, voice wavering. The plan is in action and already it's tying him in knots. "I- y-you... I.... Knew... you. Before. I-i- I realised, a week or two ago.... and j-just didn't.... Know- know how to... bring it up... Yet. I-i'm sorry! I just- we were talking about the oth- other thing a-and I didn't know-!"

He finds genuine distress in his own excuse. Maybe it's the lying. Maybe it's the fact he's no better than them. Why is he so sure he can pull this off??

(Remember the dream. Remember the dream. You can feel the coolness of shade, dew on your skin. Remember the dream. Remember anything.)

"...I... Remembered... sitting with- with you, n-near the golden flowers... D-do.. you remember, h-having a friend, even- even though m-most turned you away...?" Victor finds himself almost sick with worry. This is why they always hated him, back in the post office. He always felt things too strongly. "You... You n-never were a problem, to me. Ah, y-you still... had darker hair, back thhen..."

He chuckles. An educated guess, one that, somehow, he's sure isn't risky. Maybe it's just common sense, or the few subtle strands of Aesop's hair still clinging to life, or the dream.

"that's why... Why I'm- I'm so... Sad, Aesop. I saw... A lot of it. I - I don't re-remember everything, most... of my childhood is a- a blur, but... I remember your father. T-too... too well. That is why I hate him so." Victor holds Aesop tight. "I-i always hated- h-how he looked at- at me. Like... I was... intruding. It wasn't noise, you know how quiet I am. I was a pest. I think... he was glad, whenever I wallked back home.."

(An image in his mind. A man, elderly. Eyes. Badly hidden hatred. So vivid he winces.)

"there was... That day, y-your friend..."

He hesitates. Maybe he shouldn't be talking about something so personal, did he even know what he was on about?

(Red. So much red. A dress, stained in it. Hiding in the bushes. From him. He watches, as his friend is told this is okay. He's much too close to the body. He's going to die here.)

Victor suddenly feels rather lightheaded.

"o-oh god, I-i'm sorry, I shouldn't- I shouldn't have tr-tried to remember..." It's overwhelmingly vivid. Much too vivid to be a dream. He wishes he'd realized before. "H... H-he stabbed her... If you'd like that- th-that information..."

He rocks Aesop, unconsciously, swaying side to side. Trying to soothe both of them. Back and forth. Back and forth. He doesn't want to remember anything anymore. He's had enough. This is punishment for lying, surely...

"you can help people by... I- I don't know... Being kind to them...? There's ways t-to hhelp, that..." He breathes. Focus. Focus. You're alive. "Y-you can do here. Easily.. Even without p-playing matches..." Victor knows Aesop hates doing that. He doesn't blame the man. Nobody taught Aesop how to play until they were so pissed off at his poor performance they dragged him into training. "You m-must be able to make people happy... B-because that's... What I........." Not anymore. Not after they tried to "help" him. He's making nobody happy anymore.

"you learned... t-to become a doll, to survive, like... Me. P-placid and compliant a-and empty. But y-you were a child. I hadn't- I hadn't e-even met them yet. Isn't that... Sick, t-to you?" Victor shudders. "People d-don't fucking deserve to- to have a friend like y-you, if they'll- they'll just reject you for something you c-cannot control!!" He's crying into Aesop's clothes again.

He doesn't know what Victor's talking about. But... at the same time, maybe it does make sense that there was someone out there who didn't hate him, even if he couldn't remember. Even if he didn't find out. But Victor is so stressed, he cannot bear to bring up his own confusion, his own lack of certainty. "It's okay... it's okay. I think... this conversation is filled with the things we've left unsaid, right?"

"I... I believe I did, yes... though... I don't remember..." The yellow roses could be guessed from how he lingered next to them in the garden, how he stamped them on his envelope. But he didn't say they were around him for so long. And he would not expect someone to know about how his hair used to be darker. Victor shouldn't know this if he weren't there. So why does Aesop not recall? (He barely remembers those days. The memories are foggy, as if they would pass through his fingers if he were to reach out for them. They're malleable things, though.) "I... I only remember sitting in the flowers with Father... I have so many memories of Father, and none of you... I'm sorry. Really."

They are both quiet. They always have been, haven't they? And yet, the two most important people to Aesop could not be further driven apart. It hurts. He can't stand it. "...He—why would he... I never saw..." Breathe in, breathe out. Take some time to form those half-shaped thoughts. "...I... I know he's been cold to me at times, and there were days where he would ignore me entirely, but... he never hated me... he couldn't hate you, right? You're just like me, so... he couldn't. There's no way. And... even if he did... I never will. I... hope you know that."

Victor starts to bring up what happened with Elisa, and mentions her cause of death (accurately, much to his concern), though Aesop can tell the postman is hurting. It hurts him, too. "...you're okay. Remembering can be hard. It... usually is." He lets himself fall into the repetitive motion that Victor brings the two into, holding on loosely.

"...I want kindness to be enough. I want people to be happier because of me." He buries himself into Victor's shoulder, his hold tightening. "I don't want to be blamed again. I don't want to be left behind again. I don't want to be shut out again. But... it's going to happen, right? I mean... I can still try, but... I'm scared. I know what happens if I'm not good enough."

Neither of them had met the people who would change their lives. And yet Aesop still knew what he had to become. Victor says it's sick that he had to be this way. But the anger falls on ears caught off guard. "...this is all I've ever been. If anything... it's better for me. Father liked me because I was able to be quiet and obedient and not complain, mostly. It was one person, but... someone liked me. Maybe I was not always like this... but I don't remember anything else."

Aesop feels Victor shuddering, sobbing into him. He rubs circles into the postman's back, trying to hold back his own tears as he explains his own thoughts. How it's fine. "...really, I know how much I struggle with. I... do my best to keep that from getting in the way, but... it does. I'll take whoever is willing to have me. As long as someone is willing to see me as a friend... I'll do what they want. So they don't leave. I know how hard it is for me to find someone, so if I get anyone... I have to take the hardships with the warmth and kindness. If I am rejected... it is not the first time. It won't be the last. I... I have to be fine with it. It won't stop." He finally cannot stop the tears any longer. "...how lucky I am to be with you."

"You- y-you shouldn't... Have to be t-the one to ssoothe me..." He gasps out, almost on instinct, as Aesop's hands touch him gently. To try and calm his irrational state. God, it feels like he's too far gone. "But... T-thank you... Any- a-anyway..."

He still rocks the two of them. Like a hammock. Like his mother, before she left. Aesop's mother seems like the type of lady to do it for him too.

back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...

"I - I can't re-remember mosst things, either... I don't... I don't mind that... y-you don't remember me... It's hard- it's hard for both of us..." There's enough pressure in his head that it feels like he could faint. That he could be consumed by the roaring in his skull and die. God, does he ever stop shaking? "But j-just know I loved you- you then, and I- I do now, o-okay?"

Maybe, after all of this is over, they could rest together. Aesop's in nightclothes, after all. Soft, against Victor's grasp. Comforting, meagerly.

"h-he loved you, and y-yet.... Yet he ignored you, s-still... Y-you've had to change yourself so much... N-not just for him, but for e-everyone." For Victor, too. It pains him, to say the least. "I- even if i-it's all you've k-known... You're like me. I-if you ask ffor help, you feel sick. If you're... a bother, at- at all, you feel sick. If you disobey, y-you feel sick." Victor has seen how Aesop reacts to things, to people, to him. He knows the feeling too intimately. "Y-you shouldn't... Have to learn t-to do that, to have a knife to your throat....... You... You were a child."

"The people here... s-see you in - in a similar way t-to how they see me. Favoured or not, they're wrong a-about- about even the basics of you. Of us. About e-every little thing." He hates them, today. He hates asking for affection from people who see him like one of them, and thus treat him as such when he doesn't want it. "Th-they will n-not understand, but w-we'll still be kind to them, right? Most... Of t-the time, they don't mean to st-stress us."

Victor closes his eyes for a moment, resting his head against Aesop's shoulder. He's close enough to Aesop's ear to let his tired voice drop down to almost a whisper.

"Wh-whoever... Is willing to have you, right? You'll... 'do what they want'. T-that's... what you said. Sso... C-could you..." It feels strange asking the question so clearly. But that's not all of it. It never is. Victor holds Aesop tighter. Just how much does "do what they want" apply? Selfishly, Victor will find out one way or another.

"...but I should be. If... if you need someone, should I not... care for you?" It doesn't matter what he's going through. What matters is that he can help. What matters is that he is useful. What matters is that he can love someone, and that love is understood and returned.

Victor is still shaking. Even as Aesop gets the sinking feeling that this is something he is powerless to do anything about, this is something that runs deeper than he can reach, he wants so desperately to take all that fear and worry from Victor. Maybe it hurts, that Victor doesn't mind how Aesop remembers nothing of him. Maybe it hurts, that Victor will love him, no matter what. Maybe it hurts, that Aesop knows he would do the same. "...even if I can't... prove you were here... you shouldn't have had to see so much..."

"If I am honest... I don't understand my own memories. Father was always busy. With our work, with keeping the house neat and organized, there was always something he had to do. But... still, I remember him walking me home before I could no longer attend school, sitting with me in the gardens. He was allowing time for me, even when he was so insistent on keeping to himself, keeping busy, keeping his work going. But he told me to walk myself back. Like I always did. So... why do I remember him bringing me home?"

Of course he's had to change himself. But with what it has resulted in, can he not say it was worth it? "...not always. The moments where he praised me, were... I knew he loved me, in those times most of all. I knew he couldn't stand inconvenience... if I hadn't learned so fast I wonder if he would have kept me... but I had, and he did. And... yes, I was a child, but... it was hardly a knife to my throat. You were in... much more danger. Besides, if my life is still like this, if people still expect these kinds of things of me... isn't it best that I learn early?"

"...I want them to be wrong about me. Sometimes, they aren't. Those are the words that hurt the most." He knows he can't be useful. He knows he can't be the person he was trained to be, the person Jerry wanted him to be. He knows nothing he knows works here. And it breaks him. They call him useless, and they're right. "...right. They... they don't mean it. They don't mean to hurt when they get so upset... I've made so many upset by showing too much, but... to see people upset before they know even that... it's like I'm back in school again. I have to do better, for them. I don't know what I'm doing wrong... but even if they tell me, I don't know if I'll understand." He's shaking now, against Victor's form. His head is all too close to the postman's. Easy for the two to drop to whispers.

"I-i'm the only... one that - that knows what your misssion is. Nobody w-would see anything different in you, if you stopped t-thinking." Their breaths are syncing, matching each other in rhythm as victor continues to sway. Back and forth and in and out and back... "I- I've done it before, forgotten myself, become nothing at all... Y-you're barely older than I was when I b-became a Postman, so... It's not - not like it's impossible, even slightly..."

Victor smiles. It's a nice thought, somehow. If Aesop's so stuck in his irrational ideas, Victor will pluck his words from his own. At least a Postman's training is not centered around hurting people... It's just about learning to do whatever you're told. If Victor hadn't been held to impossible standards and had a gun to his back, he'd have been completely happy, after a while.

"you d-don't need... To have something so... So stressful driving you, Aesop. Y-you just want to- to make people happy, right? That's your - your goal, even if it'ss been distorted..." Victor wonders if one of them would break in half should they both hold tighter. It's the only thing stopping him from doing so. The closer they are, the safer he feels. It's warm... "T-that's... All I've ever wanted, t-too. Though... I think it's.. f-for a more selfish reason..." He hiccups a little as he remembers the tears on his cheeks, feeling himself flush from embarrassment. He's never admitted this before, as far as he remembers. "I- it's mostly... for praise... That's all I-i exist for... There's no - no harm in you doing the same...!"

"you... You're the - the only one who loves me, really... I d-don't mind b-being cared a-about- by you alone... I'd hope that.. doesn't make me... less worth it, to love." Even the tears are warm. Maybe this warmth will swallow them whole, but does Victor care about that, really? When it makes his worries so intoxicatingly quiet while he's cared about like this?

"Y-you love me, e-even when I am not- ...up to standard. You hold me, keep me safe, k-keep me happy. I- i just want you to.. be happy too..... Y-you know I don't... want to hurt you."

Just follow my lead. Forget yourself, like I have. It's even easier, when you have nothing to worry about.

If Aesop had not, perhaps, deposited that letter to nobody in the postbox so that Victor would have something to do, if Aesop had not written far too much while realizing too late he forgot to place his own name on the back after hastily crossing out Victor's own, maybe he would be a little more well-kept. But all of that has happened, all of the past is inescapable, and he cannot hide from it. Only wait for everything to crash down.

And how terrifying it is to wait.

He needed to write everything down anyway, and he would not be surprised if he burned his words once they returned to him. They just needed to be out, and what better way to move them apart from him than to write them and seal them away? He knows the dangers, yes. And if he made a grave mistake, if every bit of goodwill he has scraped together crumbles away, he can only say that it was inevitable. Anyone who found out would do the same. If convincing does not work... but that isn't enough this time, right? Not when death means nothing.

He hasn't bothered to put up his ponytail or get his mask on this morning, not after the sleepless night before. The letter has not been returned. He doesn't know what could be happening, and the terror, the possibility that he's destroyed it all, looms close behind him.

===

(The letter—or would it be better called a ramble, a confession?— is wrapped in a plain, sturdy envelope, such that he hopes it isn't anything that would stand out. Unfortunately, his handwriting is clearly recognizable as his own, rendering the whole point moot anyway. The envelope bears the first few letters of Victor's name, written several times and crossed out on all of them, but the lack of another addressee is notable. The text's shape and unsteady pace betrays the emotional tension in the writer.)

I'm sorry.

I don't even know what I'm sorry for. For going against that faith you had in me? For taking matters into my own hands and hoping you would never find out? For trying to relieve you of burdens but only trying and failing to soothe my own? You were already asleep, there was no need—

I came here to continue my duty. To free more people. But you were never truly free, you kept returning and I could only grow more ashamed, more unable to face you. If you did not have to wake up, if you were safe and never had to be afraid again... but it doesn't work like that. Not anymore. (I still would not leave you.)

Is it selfish that a part of me... doesn't want to succeed? That I want to have your warmth, your voice, all the things I can't preserve the way I can so much else? If you are comfortable, and happy, does it matter if it happens because you are finally at rest?

I know I have always been here to help. I know it is my duty to reach those meant to die, those who are in too much pain to keep going. (Even now, I wonder if I have reached those who need me the most.) But... I know that you wouldn't see it that way. Nobody does. Mr. Carl, too, knows that this mission is a solitary one. Being able to convince someone to let me guide them is ideal, yes, but... it has, in practice, been impossible. You would not be different, I'm sure. Even if I wish you were, if you ever found out that it was me bringing you to dreamless sleep all those times, I... I would understand if you wanted nothing to do with me anymore. Even as I wish to have your company, I have destroyed your trust, I am sure, and tried to bring you to the other side long before you were ready.

If you would allow me to ask this... please do not tell anyone. I do not know what would happen, and I am already... no, it's not worth thinking about. You will do what you decide is right, and who am I to decide what that is? I have hurt you, have I not? All I wanted to do was make things better for you, and yet...

Once again, I apologize. For everything.

Victor Grantz has been dying, recently. Not in matches, like normal, no. Outside of them, daring to close his tired eyes for a moment before waking up in his room, consumed by a blind panic of where am I what happened oh god— Are They back?? Nobody stole anything, right? Why did they let him revive in his room??

Safe to say, he was on extremely high alert after the first time it happened. But even if he wasn't, he's sure he'd have noticed the look on Aesop's face. The way Aesop wouldn't meet Victor's eyes at all. The way Aesop fiddled with his hands. The way Aesop was, very obviously, guilty.

Something clicks into place, then. So now the question becomes why. And, paranoid as he is, he can't trust it's actually Aesop.

Although, god, if anyone is killing him he hopes it's Aesop. As weird as that sounds. You see, there's no real reason for Victor to be dying. It'd be one thing if his bag was searched, another if his room was, but neither are true. He's made sure of it. (The keys are still in his pocket when he revives, and ordering the letters in a way only he knows leads to the order being perfect afterwards.) It's not torture either, he's certain it's not meant to be.

The only other reason for someone to kill him is... Concern. Worry about him neglecting himself, choosing to reset his body and take him straight to bed rather than argue with him about whether he's okay.

And that is why he hopes it's Aesop. Because that is absolutely something he might do, and it would make him much more at ease.

But he can't just ask Aesop if he's killing him. That likely wouldn't go down well, especially if Aesop isn't the murderer. So he experiments instead.

- - -

He'd pretended to be unconscious on the dining room table. Late enough he knew nobody would walk in on them, and close enough to both of their rooms that it'd give Aesop confidence to solve the mystery for him.

And, well... If the gloved hands and the click of the case didn't give it away, Aesop speaking, quiet and shaky through his mask, definitely did. Victor wills his pounding heart to stop beating so loud. Aesop will catch on to his ruse, surely...

Aesop does, in fact, catch on... Partially. Thank god, he didn't seem to realise what it meant. He asks about a nightmare, though seemingly remembering victor can't answer him. Victor is given reassurance that it'll be over soon, anyway.

He's given a lot of reassurance, actually.

A little scolding, though more concerned than anything else ["You really must take care of yourself better..."],

a few admissions of attachment ["if only you knew how much I care for you..."],

and many, many apologies.

Victor's heart starts to relax from it all, and he wonders if he might actually fall asleep here... before there's a sharp prick in his arm.

Cold floods through him, and it's too heavy to struggle. He falls unconscious within minutes.

He wakes up back in his bed. Nothing is out of order. Well, at least that's calmed most of his nerves...

[this goes on for weeks. Somehow, he finds himself more relaxed each time.]

= = =

The next unusual thing happens with the letter.

Victor would recognise the handwriting anywhere by now, especially when it's addressed to him. Sort of.

Even if he wasn't mildly addicted to reading and pretending people's letters were for him, he'd still itch to open that seal. There's absolutely no address, besides his own, half formed and shaky.

He can't be blamed if he doesn't know where to go, right? He's just being diligent, right? [He burns with curiosity, taking the letter into his room as subtly as he can, so he can pore over every detail.]

There is no name here, either. But what he does get is so much more... Fascinating, in a sense. It's a terrible thing, he knows, but he can't stop himself from being entranced at the pure emotion dripping off of Aesop's every word.

It's a secret. Just for him.

+ + +

If not for the subject matter he'd be feeling both sick and rather giddy at the chance. (At the moment he just feels the instinctual crawling nausea of something to hide from Them. He swats it away.)

It's funny, how mere weeks ago he thought Aesop was like Them, but it's even clearer now that he's not, and never will be. Victor doesn't see what Aesop does, but Aesop happens to have painted a very easy picture for Victor to see.

It's love, above all else. It's guilt, it's apology, it's longing, it's protection, it's caring. Victor understands Aesop better than anyone else, and this only proves it. He can connect with that emotion, hold it in his hands and press his face against it to feel the warmth.

Nobody else will understand. It's his secret to keep. But unfortunately for Victor's desire to stare at it for hours, this is still technically supposed to be delivered.

He puts the secret back in its envelope, not bothering to re-melt the wax like usual, locks up his room, and walks to Aesop's door. (If it had been back then, he would have been punished for not being punctual. But, they tended to give exceptions to unclear delivery instructions...)

× × ×

"Mr Carl?" He speaks quietly into the wood of the door. "Is this letter yours?"

Aesop is still asking to kill him. It itches under Victor's skin, now. Even after everything??

Aesop speaks like he doesn't know any better. God, he probably doesn't. Victor's hands start to shake as Aesop rests his head on his shoulder. It's anger (not at Aesop, at those who shaped him), it's fear (...alright, that one is of Aesop), it's a whirlpool swirling in his head and he needs to get out of him.

"I think he lied to you."

He cuts off any response Aesop tries to give. He knows the man will argue. He's his son, after all. "I... have questions for you. Rhetorical ones. Some will sound... judgemental, some will sound unrelated, but I hope they can help you understand... My perspective, a little... Please try and answer each one in your head."

"Your mother. How- how do you know she was... unhappy? How old were you when sshe died? Were you old enough to rememb-ber what... she acted like?" He talks slowly, shakily, deliberately. Stressing every question with plenty of time to think in between. "Did- did she deliver that letter of hers? Do you know hher handwriting? When were you t-told that she wrote this letter?"

"Miss Eliza must have be-been a friend, yes? And -and your father... killed her, presumably. Why wwould he t-take your friend away? Why would he make - make you wait for her t-to come? Did he ever tell you... how death helped her?" Victor pauses, before making an educated guess. "Was she the - the only adult... in your life, besides your father? And if sso, would there b-be a reason your fa-father only wanted you... to listen to him?"

"You killed him because he was in pain, because he - he was suffering, right? Would those - those bruises have healed with time? And even - even if not, would yyou saw your foot off if you sprained your a-ankle? Would you cut off so-someone else's foot, if they sprained it? Yes, they've uused that leg ffor... years, but a mo-moment of pain calls for an extreme measure, by- by his standards, right? You c-can't feel an ankle that isn't th-there, even if you can't walk, right?"

Victor takes a deep breath. His voice cracks a little. His questions have been coming out more rapidly, more desperately.

"i-i mean this - without offense, I really d-do, but why on earth would he choose ssomeone like you to "save" people? Someone so... anxious? He must-t have known so many people you could-dn't... "save" would weigh on your - your mind every s-single day, so why f-force you to do... that??? Why alone? If his ideas are so... sound, why wouldn't he g-get a group of people to... Fuck, I d-don't know, spread out and do more??"

It's then Victor realises how much he's shaking. He can feel Aesop moving to respond, turning to him, and he cuts off the man's reply by grabbing him by the shoulders.

"If- if we were out there, and - and i tried t-to shoot you, you wouldn't... just stand t-there, right? B-because you have things to - to live for, don't you? Why do- do you think th-that absolutely nobody else... has their own reasons to live?"

Tears are pricking at his eyes, and he's too hopped up on adrenaline to even think about the fact he's staring into Aesop's.

"And I- Aesop, w-why the fuck would someone care about- about what happens t-to their corpse?? Especially when you're... the one killling them??? How- how can you protect so-something you are hurting?? Why w-would they, or their family, want y-you anywhere near the body you desecrated?? How th-the hell can someone feel safe... when they h-have no consciousness to- to perceive it, and the - the last imprint of their existence is a painful death???"

There's something between venom and anguish in Victor's voice. Tears are rolling down his face now, and his shaking hands pull Aesop into a hug without thinking. His tone softens to a hoarse whisper.

"i-i'll- god, I'll answer my own fucking questions, this is because of your father, Aesop. This is a-all because of him. He killed your - your mother, he killed Eliza. From the- the sounds of it, they were the only... people you knew, besides him. Sso, when all you know is your f-father, you trusted him, be-because you were a child. Do you know h-how fucking easy it is to convince a-a child of something?? Especially when it's yours??? T-think for a moment, Aesop, why would a killer outright say to their child they're a bad person when... they can just... lie? S-say they're the angel helping all the sick people who - who "deserved to die". What does that... even mean, Mr Carl? Was your father a s-seer? W-why would he know that? and- and he said that the afterlife w-was good, was real, he told you this, yes?? Your - your father? Tell me, Mr Carl, had he ever died b-before you killed him? How could he know it's better... than reality?"

"I... think he lied to you..." Victor says again, defeated. "I... God, if you... don't und-understand now, I don't know what I can do to help you but..."

He's still shaking. He only hopes his hold is somewhat as comforting for Aesop as it is for himself, but he knows what this sounds like.

[He needs to be professional. He needs to remember his mission. That he is only here to help. He can find a way to convince Victor, the closest to understanding. He does not know how, but... he has to.]

One by one, questions trickle in. The letter from his mother arrived the birthday after she passed, and Elisa delivered it. (Elisa, who is no longer here.) He doesn't remember much, he cannot say he knows her handwriting, not with how young he was when everything happened. (He was old enough, at least, that he could read most of the letter himself.) He... wasn't told when she wrote it, but he had an idea. After all, she mentioned how Jerry was there, to 'help her collapsing soul find relief'. It was close to her time, then, right? So how didn't he know? (He never could stand burdening her further with how he was treated at school day after day.) He thought she expected not to make it, but that line. "I wish I would have the chance to tell you in person." She wanted to see him, but it wasn't certain that she would. He always thought that it was enough. That the letter was more than enough. (It was more than he could imagine any other giving him.) She called herself a coward, but she went forward into the afterlife. In his eyes, she was braver than anyone else. But how could he tell her? How could she hear?

Elisa was a foggy memory. He knew there were other adults than her, before he was gone from school, but... Elisa treated him more kindly than any of them ever would have, let him be something. Elisa did not see him as a problem to be fixed. (He hopes that is not what Victor is seeing now that he knows the deepest parts.) She was supposed to wait for Aesop. But he was the one waiting. Waiting for something he didn't know could never come, within walls of rose bushes and foliage and fences. Jerry guided his eye to the yellow rose bushes, something he knew would comfort Aesop. (No reason was mentioned. No reason is needed. After all, someone who is meant to die, painful as it is, should be given the best care in the final moments.) (He's sorry he couldn't at least make it to her.) (...why was there blood? He knows the roses have thorns, yes, but the red in his memories is too great for that. And bromine hydrate is not a method meant to cause bleeding. So... why? Why was blood necessary? He was taught a specific method, why was that not used? If she was meant to die, did she not die in peace? Oh, god. Oh, god, he's sorry. He could have done better. He could have given her a death much kinder than that. Something much less sharp and terrifying and messy.) (If a whole body at peace is required... why?)

Eyes stare right into his own. His shoulders are grabbed onto tightly, before he is embraced. He can't breathe. He's too scared to. He doesn't understand a thing. Not when the voice has such a familiar poison to it. Such a familiar anger. When he finally speaks, when words finally fall out, it is obvious he is trying and failing to keep intact. "It... it wasn't about the bruises. I know that's what I said, but... I didn't know how to say what was there, not without—not without remembering too much, without speaking far too long. Nothing of him was solid anymore. Everything was so soft, so unable to hold together, it might have been molded by a touch. Even the bones were... That surely could not have recovered. I... still know how he groaned in his final breaths. It was all he could do. I regret not making it earlier. And—and fuck, no! All that is, is trading one pain for another! Not only that, but... to pass on, the whole body needs to be at peace. If... if I do that, I can't manage that, can I?"

"I—I never saw Mother writing the letter, and with the things she mentioned, it must have been shortly before she... I—I don't remember much, but I remember enough. She was kind. She was nowhere near as cowardly as she claimed she was. Elisa delivered that letter, but does it matter?"

"Being meant to die was the reason. I... there were teachers, before I could no longer attend school, but... they did not like me. They did not see me as worth listening to. Unlike Elisa. Unlike Father. And... he did not make me wait. She told me she would wait for me, and then... I didn't know where she was. It... it did hurt, at first, but the roses are comforting her, I'm... I'm sure." He pauses, drawing his spine upward and looking up, trying to blink away the tears that form in his eyes. "Death is the way to help, in itself! There doesn't need to be another! I... don't understand why I remember there being blood... The method I learned does not use it, and the prick of a rose bush... definitely does not draw so much... but sometimes when you help, you have to use what you have, right? So then... why do I feel like it must have been so painful?"

"I was...he took me in after Mother passed, I do not know if that was planned before, but...I had to be useful to him, right? I... do not think he would have chosen to raise someone on his own. If it wasn't me... it would have been no one at all. I remember the way he looked at me the first time I accidentally called him "Father"... how he seemed so... warm. He told me I was his son more than I thought, and how proud he was. He was strict, but... he loved me. He told me I did well whenever I saved someone. He reassured me when I was rejected once again. He protected me, keeping me in the graveyard, where it's quiet, and safe, and I don't have to worry about anything. I doubt he could stand a group of people, much like myself. How could he teach people who already have their minds set? How could he teach too many at once, when the skills are so deliberate, so careful?"

Would he just stand there? Does he have something to live for? "I... I don't know. I've... I've never felt like the living, with all the things I can't do, can't be. But I know better than to think I am already a corpse... I can't help but wonder how all the ways to die feel, but knowing that only one will stick, that nobody will be able to give what I have to so many... I don't know what to do about it. I don't know."

"What do you mean, desecrated? I do everything to make sure the body is intact as it can be. That the death is not painful. As for how I can do that, people find beliefs in their own afterlives, and I have read about several. A Christian burial is the most common one I've done, but I have worked with more than that, and the families guide me to what the one passing would want. Besides, they do not know it was me who sent their loved one to the other side."

Again, that assertion. Jerry broke him. Jerry lied to him. Jerry hurt him. (He will never be whole again, in that case.) God, he doesn't know what it means to deserve to die, to be meant to die, and he doesn't know how soon to show up so that death does not have to be a mercy too late delivered. "...He did not. But why do you think my life was kept inside the graveyard, Mr. Grantz? He wanted to keep me safe. He wanted to make sure I did not have to face the world's pains the way he did. He loved me. But... but grief finds its way in wherever you are, however high the walls. Even if it is a nothingness, hearing what I do, I... of course it has to be better than what you all go through. Of course it has to be better than breaking yourself to make it a few more days."

Victor decides to trade in his anguish for about as sweet of a tone as he can muster up right now. Thankfully, his stress makes the shift less unnatural.

"I- I really apologise, Aesop... I didn't mean to blow up in front of you... I-it's just... We're both so stressed, you understand, right? I'm not angry. I could never be angry at you." He lets out a shaky exhale, holding Aesop tighter. "I s-suppose I should do... what you've d-done for me. I'll try and see through... your eyes.".

He twitches internally at the notion. Is he really sweet talking his way out of this?

Yes, he is.

"t-trading one pain for another..." He muses under his breath, thinking. He doesn't speak this next part to Aesop, rather around him, but he quietly hopes he hears regardless. "But it would... be a much d-duller pain, right..? Why is that..." He does not actually question it. He is simply hoping Aesop does.

He needs to play into Aesop's reasoning more. Be empathetic.

"She was n-never cowardly." Victor repeats Aesop's words back to him. "Why would... she d-describe herself as such? Was she... afraid of dying? Or of facing reality? But she- she had a wo-wonderful son to take care of... and protect... so that can't be the one..." He pauses, wondering how to word his next statement without making it sound like an insult. "I- I question your father's convincing, if... if she was scared, up until the end."

Victor hums.

"N-nobody liked you, not... not even yourself, it seems... Of course y-you'd get attached to your father, I understand that, I do..." Victor runs a hand along Aesop's shoulder. A comfort. Both out of genuine care, and the fact that Aesop, from what he knows, responds to it quite well. "It is strange, that... he never at least tried t-to spread your ideas...? Two or three can't have been that - that much of an issue, surely? Oh, but... I suppose he'd have to implant th-the seeds at a young age... if they were t-to grow properly, wouldn't he? And you - you were so alone back then... (...it's not like you had other friends to teach...)"

Victor pauses in his motions, suddenly. Like he'd just realised something.

"....Eliza. You... said there was blood? That can't... be right...? That - that shouldn't be right?? I mean, I be- I believe you, very much! But unless.. Father had gotten violent...? It's strange. Did- did your father always use bromine t-to kill, or was... that only in certain places?" He continues his comforting motions again. If he can pretend hard enough that he isn't incredibly angry with "Father", Aesop will be more accepting of his... Questioning.

"You are a drop in the ocean, Aesop. As much as it pains me to say it, I feel I'm the only one who would miss you... Does it matter, really, how many you've saved? It can't have been hundreds, you're merely one man. And though we have all the time in the world, you'll never be able to save another... Is it worth stressing yourself over?"

"desecrated... I apologise, again, I really lost my head there... I'm sure you gave them a lovely burial... God, what was I thinking... I'm glad the families were lied to, though, some things are better off going unheard..."

"I just... don't see why... why you were kept insside a box for your whole life, Aesop... We learn how to - to talk to others when we're young, and you're... yyounger than me, and yet - yet you never got to learn, until you were tr-trapped in a manor with people that scared you?" He almost absent-mindedly pets Aesop's hair. Almost. "You never... got to learn how to make friends, or learn what b-bad people are like, or what it was like to be loved... I feel sorry for - for you, really, I do... I just don't undersstand why your father would deprive you... of that."

"I'm h-happy here, ar-aren't I? I escaped them, at least for now. A-and a l-lot of the - the others are similar.... After rain... there is sun. Just - just because it hhurts a lot doessn't mean it will last forever.. I don't... think I could stand the - the thought of never g-getting to be w-warm and comfortable again... Could you?" Victor smiles as kindly as he can. Internally, however, he's praying that Aesop will start to see the truth in Victor's words. That the honey will trap him, that the softness will put his brain to sleep. Mr Carl could manipulate a child, but Victor can certainly manipulate an adult.

Victor's voice softens in an instant, and Aesop doesn't know what to do. It could be false, true, anything in between. But at the same time, when he is held so tight he can hardly move, hardly breathe, when Victor states he could never be angry at Aesop in what the embalmer is only certain is a falsehood and yet leans into anyway because it's all so familiar, when his heart beats far too loudly in his chest and he tries to cling onto the warmth that is near him before it inevitably fades too soon, he knows there isn't anything he can do. It's terrifying, yes, but when all the things Aesop heard from Victor before were so kind, when he doesn't know if Victor means it when he says he'll stay forever no matter what, he clings for both the chance that it's true and the fear that it's not. Everything is changing so rapidly that he cannot do anything but cling to the moments that make sense, try to keep his head from spinning so fast it leaves him behind.

"It's okay. Even if you are angry..." He does not add the 'and you probably are' that drips into his mind. "...I do not mind. Pain makes it harder to talk and think clearly. For both of us."

Is it duller, to trade sprain or fracture for amputation? Either way, the same tasks are impossible. Either way, there is a constant awareness that something in the body does not behave as it needs to. But there is not the feeling of sharp, biting pain whenever the affected area is moved wrong.

"I... I never understood that, myself. I couldn't... I never wanted her to see how school was really going, so I doubt that was contributing... unless she knew despite what I said... I think... she reached her limits. She wanted to see me grow up like the man she married, but... but so much happened to her. I... I know she mentioned that Father was there to raise me, and hoped it would make up for... whatever her sins were. I never understood that, either. She must have arranged that before her passing, right?" Aesop closes his eyes, shutting out as much as he can. "...she doubted herself so much... but why...?"

"...it really isn't like I had any other peers I could explain to..." He opens his eyes barely, his arms wrapping further around Victor, just a touch. "Even if they could have liked me, I was out of school not long after I was taken in... I know what you will say. It was not because of him. I had problems, they said. Er, autism. Which... led to problems. The point is, I was no longer allowed to come back. Considering how I was spoken to most of the time... I am lucky, that Father could give me a way to help people, even still." The pain sears his voice, he's holding on tighter than he realizes. "...he wasn't interested in getting close to people. I think... he only took me in and kept me due to his agreement with Mother. I doubt I would have even met him, otherwise... he never liked noise."

He is not facing up, and yet he can imagine Victor shaking his head ever so slowly, giving him that look that Aesop can't stand, the one with a mix of pity and disappointment and shame. It's such a vivid image in his mind, and he hates it, and despite himself, he buries himself further into Victor's shoulder.

Victor mirrors the fear and worry that churns in his stomach, and Aesop has to pretend that it isn't making his own concern grow and grow until it consumes him whole. "There... was. I know it was there... it was too dark to simply be a shadow or the color of mulch. He—he told me that he, too, always used bromine... just as he taught me... how could I ask about the blood? He knew better, right? I was... much younger. A child doesn't know what's best for someone, he said. I would understand one day, he said. But... I don't. If we have a method that works... why did he not use it?" There was no answer to the question that little boy posed. He thought there had been, but words can be empty. What is not to fear about empty words? He shakes within Victor's hold.

"..." He wants, so badly, for his work to matter. To do good, and to know that such a thing is recognized. But he cannot do what he knows, he cannot be understood when he tries to help. It is painful, that he knows Victor is right, when he says nobody else will mourn him. Who else that gave him the time of day is still around? "...it was a little under thirty. And... I know the number is small in the grand scheme of things... but if I cannot help people... then what can I do? It's all I know. It's all I can be... maybe that makes me selfish, to want to help to remind myself that I am able to do such a thing."

"...I did my best. And... we both know quite well there are things others should not know. Father taught me that when one does something kind, you do not talk about it to the world. You know that you did it. And that is enough. Then again... we both knew that with how badly the people I tried to help took it... he gave that same smile and that same advice, though. Nobody needed to know. It's like a treasure box of the knowledge that you did something for someone."

"I was out of the box, before I could no longer attend school... it gave me ample reason to want to stay inside." He smiles, almost sadly, as if trying to comfort Victor and say things are not so bad as the postman thinks. "There are things that could not be taught, but... I learned many others. Outside, I learned how to make myself small, so that even when I was thrown around I would not alert anyone unnecessary. I learned that if I tried to keep everything down and bite my tongue, things would be over sooner. They would be back the next day, yes, but... it would be fewer bruises to hide. Inside, I learned how so many things fade over time. I learned everything I know about my trade. Maybe I never learned how to make friends... but how could I have? I doubt I would have been allowed to learn, when that requires people... willing to be friends with me."

It's purgatory, it's limbo, and yet it is home to people like Victor. And yet it is warm, and safe. And yet it is love. "...I... took for granted that I wouldn't... know what warmth felt like... I came here to continue my, and Father's, mission... and I can't even do that..." He lets out a shaky breath. "...I already accepted that it was impossible. Like many things, really. But... this... I think I felt warm, when you reached out to me. I didn't realize it was warmth I felt whenever Mother looked at me, or when Father told me he was proud of me. I... I'm scared of losing that warmth. I think I always have been."

He trusts Victor... And it's starting to become noticeable how he doesn't quite remember his childhood clearly...

Victor could lie. Victor will lie, if that's what it takes. After all, he's already weaving a web of honey-coated words, would there be harm in it?

(Something in his mind stirs. A fleeting moment, of two children surrounded by golden flowers. A dream he had once. This will work as a basis for his story.)

"I'm... n-not angry... But- i-" He starts, voice wavering. The plan is in action and already it's tying him in knots. "I- y-you... I.... Knew... you. Before. I-i- I realised, a week or two ago.... and j-just didn't.... Know- know how to... bring it up... Yet. I-i'm sorry! I just- we were talking about the oth- other thing a-and I didn't know-!"

He finds genuine distress in his own excuse. Maybe it's the lying. Maybe it's the fact he's no better than them. Why is he so sure he can pull this off??

(Remember the dream. Remember the dream. You can feel the coolness of shade, dew on your skin. Remember the dream. Remember anything.)

"...I... Remembered... sitting with- with you, n-near the golden flowers... D-do.. you remember, h-having a friend, even- even though m-most turned you away...?" Victor finds himself almost sick with worry. This is why they always hated him, back in the post office. He always felt things too strongly. "You... You n-never were a problem, to me. Ah, y-you still... had darker hair, back thhen..."

He chuckles. An educated guess, one that, somehow, he's sure isn't risky. Maybe it's just common sense, or the few subtle strands of Aesop's hair still clinging to life, or the dream.

"that's why... Why I'm- I'm so... Sad, Aesop. I saw... A lot of it. I - I don't re-remember everything, most... of my childhood is a- a blur, but... I remember your father. T-too... too well. That is why I hate him so." Victor holds Aesop tight. "I-i always hated- h-how he looked at- at me. Like... I was... intruding. It wasn't noise, you know how quiet I am. I was a pest. I think... he was glad, whenever I wallked back home.."

(An image in his mind. A man, elderly. Eyes. Badly hidden hatred. So vivid he winces.)

"there was... That day, y-your friend..."

He hesitates. Maybe he shouldn't be talking about something so personal, did he even know what he was on about?

(Red. So much red. A dress, stained in it. Hiding in the bushes. From him. He watches, as his friend is told this is okay. He's much too close to the body. He's going to die here.)

Victor suddenly feels rather lightheaded.

"o-oh god, I-i'm sorry, I shouldn't- I shouldn't have tr-tried to remember..." It's overwhelmingly vivid. Much too vivid to be a dream. He wishes he'd realized before. "H... H-he stabbed her... If you'd like that- th-that information..."

He rocks Aesop, unconsciously, swaying side to side. Trying to soothe both of them. Back and forth. Back and forth. He doesn't want to remember anything anymore. He's had enough. This is punishment for lying, surely...

"you can help people by... I- I don't know... Being kind to them...? There's ways t-to hhelp, that..." He breathes. Focus. Focus. You're alive. "Y-you can do here. Easily.. Even without p-playing matches..." Victor knows Aesop hates doing that. He doesn't blame the man. Nobody taught Aesop how to play until they were so pissed off at his poor performance they dragged him into training. "You m-must be able to make people happy... B-because that's... What I........." Not anymore. Not after they tried to "help" him. He's making nobody happy anymore.

"you learned... t-to become a doll, to survive, like... Me. P-placid and compliant a-and empty. But y-you were a child. I hadn't- I hadn't e-even met them yet. Isn't that... Sick, t-to you?" Victor shudders. "People d-don't fucking deserve to- to have a friend like y-you, if they'll- they'll just reject you for something you c-cannot control!!" He's crying into Aesop's clothes again.

He doesn't know what Victor's talking about. But... at the same time, maybe it does make sense that there was someone out there who didn't hate him, even if he couldn't remember. Even if he didn't find out. But Victor is so stressed, he cannot bear to bring up his own confusion, his own lack of certainty. "It's okay... it's okay. I think... this conversation is filled with the things we've left unsaid, right?"

"I... I believe I did, yes... though... I don't remember..." The yellow roses could be guessed from how he lingered next to them in the garden, how he stamped them on his envelope. But he didn't say they were around him for so long. And he would not expect someone to know about how his hair used to be darker. Victor shouldn't know this if he weren't there. So why does Aesop not recall? (He barely remembers those days. The memories are foggy, as if they would pass through his fingers if he were to reach out for them. They're malleable things, though.) "I... I only remember sitting in the flowers with Father... I have so many memories of Father, and none of you... I'm sorry. Really."

They are both quiet. They always have been, haven't they? And yet, the two most important people to Aesop could not be further driven apart. It hurts. He can't stand it. "...He—why would he... I never saw..." Breathe in, breathe out. Take some time to form those half-shaped thoughts. "...I... I know he's been cold to me at times, and there were days where he would ignore me entirely, but... he never hated me... he couldn't hate you, right? You're just like me, so... he couldn't. There's no way. And... even if he did... I never will. I... hope you know that."

Victor starts to bring up what happened with Elisa, and mentions her cause of death (accurately, much to his concern), though Aesop can tell the postman is hurting. It hurts him, too. "...you're okay. Remembering can be hard. It... usually is." He lets himself fall into the repetitive motion that Victor brings the two into, holding on loosely.

"...I want kindness to be enough. I want people to be happier because of me." He buries himself into Victor's shoulder, his hold tightening. "I don't want to be blamed again. I don't want to be left behind again. I don't want to be shut out again. But... it's going to happen, right? I mean... I can still try, but... I'm scared. I know what happens if I'm not good enough."

Neither of them had met the people who would change their lives. And yet Aesop still knew what he had to become. Victor says it's sick that he had to be this way. But the anger falls on ears caught off guard. "...this is all I've ever been. If anything... it's better for me. Father liked me because I was able to be quiet and obedient and not complain, mostly. It was one person, but... someone liked me. Maybe I was not always like this... but I don't remember anything else."

Aesop feels Victor shuddering, sobbing into him. He rubs circles into the postman's back, trying to hold back his own tears as he explains his own thoughts. How it's fine. "...really, I know how much I struggle with. I... do my best to keep that from getting in the way, but... it does. I'll take whoever is willing to have me. As long as someone is willing to see me as a friend... I'll do what they want. So they don't leave. I know how hard it is for me to find someone, so if I get anyone... I have to take the hardships with the warmth and kindness. If I am rejected... it is not the first time. It won't be the last. I... I have to be fine with it. It won't stop." He finally cannot stop the tears any longer. "...how lucky I am to be with you."

"You- y-you shouldn't... Have to be t-the one to ssoothe me..." He gasps out, almost on instinct, as Aesop's hands touch him gently. To try and calm his irrational state. God, it feels like he's too far gone. "But... T-thank you... Any- a-anyway..."

He still rocks the two of them. Like a hammock. Like his mother, before she left. Aesop's mother seems like the type of lady to do it for him too.

back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...

"I - I can't re-remember mosst things, either... I don't... I don't mind that... y-you don't remember me... It's hard- it's hard for both of us..." There's enough pressure in his head that it feels like he could faint. That he could be consumed by the roaring in his skull and die. God, does he ever stop shaking? "But j-just know I loved you- you then, and I- I do now, o-okay?"

Maybe, after all of this is over, they could rest together. Aesop's in nightclothes, after all. Soft, against Victor's grasp. Comforting, meagerly.

"h-he loved you, and y-yet.... Yet he ignored you, s-still... Y-you've had to change yourself so much... N-not just for him, but for e-everyone." For Victor, too. It pains him, to say the least. "I- even if i-it's all you've k-known... You're like me. I-if you ask ffor help, you feel sick. If you're... a bother, at- at all, you feel sick. If you disobey, y-you feel sick." Victor has seen how Aesop reacts to things, to people, to him. He knows the feeling too intimately. "Y-you shouldn't... Have to learn t-to do that, to have a knife to your throat....... You... You were a child."

"The people here... s-see you in - in a similar way t-to how they see me. Favoured or not, they're wrong a-about- about even the basics of you. Of us. About e-every little thing." He hates them, today. He hates asking for affection from people who see him like one of them, and thus treat him as such when he doesn't want it. "Th-they will n-not understand, but w-we'll still be kind to them, right? Most... Of t-the time, they don't mean to st-stress us."

Victor closes his eyes for a moment, resting his head against Aesop's shoulder. He's close enough to Aesop's ear to let his tired voice drop down to almost a whisper.

"Wh-whoever... Is willing to have you, right? You'll... 'do what they want'. T-that's... what you said. Sso... C-could you..." It feels strange asking the question so clearly. But that's not all of it. It never is. Victor holds Aesop tighter. Just how much does "do what they want" apply? Selfishly, Victor will find out one way or another.

If Aesop had not, perhaps, deposited that letter to nobody in the postbox so that Victor would have something to do, if Aesop had not written far too much while realizing too late he forgot to place his own name on the back after hastily crossing out Victor's own, maybe he would be a little more well-kept. But all of that has happened, all of the past is inescapable, and he cannot hide from it. Only wait for everything to crash down.

And how terrifying it is to wait.

He needed to write everything down anyway, and he would not be surprised if he burned his words once they returned to him. They just needed to be out, and what better way to move them apart from him than to write them and seal them away? He knows the dangers, yes. And if he made a grave mistake, if every bit of goodwill he has scraped together crumbles away, he can only say that it was inevitable. Anyone who found out would do the same. If convincing does not work... but that isn't enough this time, right? Not when death means nothing.

He hasn't bothered to put up his ponytail or get his mask on this morning, not after the sleepless night before. The letter has not been returned. He doesn't know what could be happening, and the terror, the possibility that he's destroyed it all, looms close behind him.

===

(The letter—or would it be better called a ramble, a confession?— is wrapped in a plain, sturdy envelope, such that he hopes it isn't anything that would stand out. Unfortunately, his handwriting is clearly recognizable as his own, rendering the whole point moot anyway. The envelope bears the first few letters of Victor's name, written several times and crossed out on all of them, but the lack of another addressee is notable. The text's shape and unsteady pace betrays the emotional tension in the writer.)

I'm sorry.

I don't even know what I'm sorry for. For going against that faith you had in me? For taking matters into my own hands and hoping you would never find out? For trying to relieve you of burdens but only trying and failing to soothe my own? You were already asleep, there was no need—

I came here to continue my duty. To free more people. But you were never truly free, you kept returning and I could only grow more ashamed, more unable to face you. If you did not have to wake up, if you were safe and never had to be afraid again... but it doesn't work like that. Not anymore. (I still would not leave you.)

Is it selfish that a part of me... doesn't want to succeed? That I want to have your warmth, your voice, all the things I can't preserve the way I can so much else? If you are comfortable, and happy, does it matter if it happens because you are finally at rest?

I know I have always been here to help. I know it is my duty to reach those meant to die, those who are in too much pain to keep going. (Even now, I wonder if I have reached those who need me the most.) But... I know that you wouldn't see it that way. Nobody does. Mr. Carl, too, knows that this mission is a solitary one. Being able to convince someone to let me guide them is ideal, yes, but... it has, in practice, been impossible. You would not be different, I'm sure. Even if I wish you were, if you ever found out that it was me bringing you to dreamless sleep all those times, I... I would understand if you wanted nothing to do with me anymore. Even as I wish to have your company, I have destroyed your trust, I am sure, and tried to bring you to the other side long before you were ready.

If you would allow me to ask this... please do not tell anyone. I do not know what would happen, and I am already... no, it's not worth thinking about. You will do what you decide is right, and who am I to decide what that is? I have hurt you, have I not? All I wanted to do was make things better for you, and yet...

Once again, I apologize. For everything.

Victor Grantz has been dying, recently. Not in matches, like normal, no. Outside of them, daring to close his tired eyes for a moment before waking up in his room, consumed by a blind panic of where am I what happened oh god— Are They back?? Nobody stole anything, right? Why did they let him revive in his room??

Safe to say, he was on extremely high alert after the first time it happened. But even if he wasn't, he's sure he'd have noticed the look on Aesop's face. The way Aesop wouldn't meet Victor's eyes at all. The way Aesop fiddled with his hands. The way Aesop was, very obviously, guilty.

Something clicks into place, then. So now the question becomes why. And, paranoid as he is, he can't trust it's actually Aesop.

Although, god, if anyone is killing him he hopes it's Aesop. As weird as that sounds. You see, there's no real reason for Victor to be dying. It'd be one thing if his bag was searched, another if his room was, but neither are true. He's made sure of it. (The keys are still in his pocket when he revives, and ordering the letters in a way only he knows leads to the order being perfect afterwards.) It's not torture either, he's certain it's not meant to be.

The only other reason for someone to kill him is... Concern. Worry about him neglecting himself, choosing to reset his body and take him straight to bed rather than argue with him about whether he's okay.

And that is why he hopes it's Aesop. Because that is absolutely something he might do, and it would make him much more at ease.

But he can't just ask Aesop if he's killing him. That likely wouldn't go down well, especially if Aesop isn't the murderer. So he experiments instead.

- - -

He'd pretended to be unconscious on the dining room table. Late enough he knew nobody would walk in on them, and close enough to both of their rooms that it'd give Aesop confidence to solve the mystery for him.

And, well... If the gloved hands and the click of the case didn't give it away, Aesop speaking, quiet and shaky through his mask, definitely did. Victor wills his pounding heart to stop beating so loud. Aesop will catch on to his ruse, surely...

Aesop does, in fact, catch on... Partially. Thank god, he didn't seem to realise what it meant. He asks about a nightmare, though seemingly remembering victor can't answer him. Victor is given reassurance that it'll be over soon, anyway.

He's given a lot of reassurance, actually.

A little scolding, though more concerned than anything else ["You really must take care of yourself better..."],

a few admissions of attachment ["if only you knew how much I care for you..."],

and many, many apologies.

Victor's heart starts to relax from it all, and he wonders if he might actually fall asleep here... before there's a sharp prick in his arm.

Cold floods through him, and it's too heavy to struggle. He falls unconscious within minutes.

He wakes up back in his bed. Nothing is out of order. Well, at least that's calmed most of his nerves...

[this goes on for weeks. Somehow, he finds himself more relaxed each time.]

= = =

The next unusual thing happens with the letter.

Victor would recognise the handwriting anywhere by now, especially when it's addressed to him. Sort of.

Even if he wasn't mildly addicted to reading and pretending people's letters were for him, he'd still itch to open that seal. There's absolutely no address, besides his own, half formed and shaky.

He can't be blamed if he doesn't know where to go, right? He's just being diligent, right? [He burns with curiosity, taking the letter into his room as subtly as he can, so he can pore over every detail.]

There is no name here, either. But what he does get is so much more... Fascinating, in a sense. It's a terrible thing, he knows, but he can't stop himself from being entranced at the pure emotion dripping off of Aesop's every word.

It's a secret. Just for him.

+ + +

If not for the subject matter he'd be feeling both sick and rather giddy at the chance. (At the moment he just feels the instinctual crawling nausea of something to hide from Them. He swats it away.)

It's funny, how mere weeks ago he thought Aesop was like Them, but it's even clearer now that he's not, and never will be. Victor doesn't see what Aesop does, but Aesop happens to have painted a very easy picture for Victor to see.

It's love, above all else. It's guilt, it's apology, it's longing, it's protection, it's caring. Victor understands Aesop better than anyone else, and this only proves it. He can connect with that emotion, hold it in his hands and press his face against it to feel the warmth.

Nobody else will understand. It's his secret to keep. But unfortunately for Victor's desire to stare at it for hours, this is still technically supposed to be delivered.

He puts the secret back in its envelope, not bothering to re-melt the wax like usual, locks up his room, and walks to Aesop's door. (If it had been back then, he would have been punished for not being punctual. But, they tended to give exceptions to unclear delivery instructions...)

× × ×

"Mr Carl?" He speaks quietly into the wood of the door. "Is this letter yours?"

Aesop is still asking to kill him. It itches under Victor's skin, now. Even after everything??

Aesop speaks like he doesn't know any better. God, he probably doesn't. Victor's hands start to shake as Aesop rests his head on his shoulder. It's anger (not at Aesop, at those who shaped him), it's fear (...alright, that one is of Aesop), it's a whirlpool swirling in his head and he needs to get out of him.

"I think he lied to you."

He cuts off any response Aesop tries to give. He knows the man will argue. He's his son, after all. "I... have questions for you. Rhetorical ones. Some will sound... judgemental, some will sound unrelated, but I hope they can help you understand... My perspective, a little... Please try and answer each one in your head."

"Your mother. How- how do you know she was... unhappy? How old were you when sshe died? Were you old enough to rememb-ber what... she acted like?" He talks slowly, shakily, deliberately. Stressing every question with plenty of time to think in between. "Did- did she deliver that letter of hers? Do you know hher handwriting? When were you t-told that she wrote this letter?"

"Miss Eliza must have be-been a friend, yes? And -and your father... killed her, presumably. Why wwould he t-take your friend away? Why would he make - make you wait for her t-to come? Did he ever tell you... how death helped her?" Victor pauses, before making an educated guess. "Was she the - the only adult... in your life, besides your father? And if sso, would there b-be a reason your fa-father only wanted you... to listen to him?"

"You killed him because he was in pain, because he - he was suffering, right? Would those - those bruises have healed with time? And even - even if not, would yyou saw your foot off if you sprained your a-ankle? Would you cut off so-someone else's foot, if they sprained it? Yes, they've uused that leg ffor... years, but a mo-moment of pain calls for an extreme measure, by- by his standards, right? You c-can't feel an ankle that isn't th-there, even if you can't walk, right?"

Victor takes a deep breath. His voice cracks a little. His questions have been coming out more rapidly, more desperately.

"i-i mean this - without offense, I really d-do, but why on earth would he choose ssomeone like you to "save" people? Someone so... anxious? He must-t have known so many people you could-dn't... "save" would weigh on your - your mind every s-single day, so why f-force you to do... that??? Why alone? If his ideas are so... sound, why wouldn't he g-get a group of people to... Fuck, I d-don't know, spread out and do more??"

It's then Victor realises how much he's shaking. He can feel Aesop moving to respond, turning to him, and he cuts off the man's reply by grabbing him by the shoulders.

"If- if we were out there, and - and i tried t-to shoot you, you wouldn't... just stand t-there, right? B-because you have things to - to live for, don't you? Why do- do you think th-that absolutely nobody else... has their own reasons to live?"

Tears are pricking at his eyes, and he's too hopped up on adrenaline to even think about the fact he's staring into Aesop's.

"And I- Aesop, w-why the fuck would someone care about- about what happens t-to their corpse?? Especially when you're... the one killling them??? How- how can you protect so-something you are hurting?? Why w-would they, or their family, want y-you anywhere near the body you desecrated?? How th-the hell can someone feel safe... when they h-have no consciousness to- to perceive it, and the - the last imprint of their existence is a painful death???"

There's something between venom and anguish in Victor's voice. Tears are rolling down his face now, and his shaking hands pull Aesop into a hug without thinking. His tone softens to a hoarse whisper.

"i-i'll- god, I'll answer my own fucking questions, this is because of your father, Aesop. This is a-all because of him. He killed your - your mother, he killed Eliza. From the- the sounds of it, they were the only... people you knew, besides him. Sso, when all you know is your f-father, you trusted him, be-because you were a child. Do you know h-how fucking easy it is to convince a-a child of something?? Especially when it's yours??? T-think for a moment, Aesop, why would a killer outright say to their child they're a bad person when... they can just... lie? S-say they're the angel helping all the sick people who - who "deserved to die". What does that... even mean, Mr Carl? Was your father a s-seer? W-why would he know that? and- and he said that the afterlife w-was good, was real, he told you this, yes?? Your - your father? Tell me, Mr Carl, had he ever died b-before you killed him? How could he know it's better... than reality?"

"I... think he lied to you..." Victor says again, defeated. "I... God, if you... don't und-understand now, I don't know what I can do to help you but..."

He's still shaking. He only hopes his hold is somewhat as comforting for Aesop as it is for himself, but he knows what this sounds like.

[He needs to be professional. He needs to remember his mission. That he is only here to help. He can find a way to convince Victor, the closest to understanding. He does not know how, but... he has to.]

One by one, questions trickle in. The letter from his mother arrived the birthday after she passed, and Elisa delivered it. (Elisa, who is no longer here.) He doesn't remember much, he cannot say he knows her handwriting, not with how young he was when everything happened. (He was old enough, at least, that he could read most of the letter himself.) He... wasn't told when she wrote it, but he had an idea. After all, she mentioned how Jerry was there, to 'help her collapsing soul find relief'. It was close to her time, then, right? So how didn't he know? (He never could stand burdening her further with how he was treated at school day after day.) He thought she expected not to make it, but that line. "I wish I would have the chance to tell you in person." She wanted to see him, but it wasn't certain that she would. He always thought that it was enough. That the letter was more than enough. (It was more than he could imagine any other giving him.) She called herself a coward, but she went forward into the afterlife. In his eyes, she was braver than anyone else. But how could he tell her? How could she hear?

Elisa was a foggy memory. He knew there were other adults than her, before he was gone from school, but... Elisa treated him more kindly than any of them ever would have, let him be something. Elisa did not see him as a problem to be fixed. (He hopes that is not what Victor is seeing now that he knows the deepest parts.) She was supposed to wait for Aesop. But he was the one waiting. Waiting for something he didn't know could never come, within walls of rose bushes and foliage and fences. Jerry guided his eye to the yellow rose bushes, something he knew would comfort Aesop. (No reason was mentioned. No reason is needed. After all, someone who is meant to die, painful as it is, should be given the best care in the final moments.) (He's sorry he couldn't at least make it to her.) (...why was there blood? He knows the roses have thorns, yes, but the red in his memories is too great for that. And bromine hydrate is not a method meant to cause bleeding. So... why? Why was blood necessary? He was taught a specific method, why was that not used? If she was meant to die, did she not die in peace? Oh, god. Oh, god, he's sorry. He could have done better. He could have given her a death much kinder than that. Something much less sharp and terrifying and messy.) (If a whole body at peace is required... why?)

Eyes stare right into his own. His shoulders are grabbed onto tightly, before he is embraced. He can't breathe. He's too scared to. He doesn't understand a thing. Not when the voice has such a familiar poison to it. Such a familiar anger. When he finally speaks, when words finally fall out, it is obvious he is trying and failing to keep intact. "It... it wasn't about the bruises. I know that's what I said, but... I didn't know how to say what was there, not without—not without remembering too much, without speaking far too long. Nothing of him was solid anymore. Everything was so soft, so unable to hold together, it might have been molded by a touch. Even the bones were... That surely could not have recovered. I... still know how he groaned in his final breaths. It was all he could do. I regret not making it earlier. And—and fuck, no! All that is, is trading one pain for another! Not only that, but... to pass on, the whole body needs to be at peace. If... if I do that, I can't manage that, can I?"

"I—I never saw Mother writing the letter, and with the things she mentioned, it must have been shortly before she... I—I don't remember much, but I remember enough. She was kind. She was nowhere near as cowardly as she claimed she was. Elisa delivered that letter, but does it matter?"

"Being meant to die was the reason. I... there were teachers, before I could no longer attend school, but... they did not like me. They did not see me as worth listening to. Unlike Elisa. Unlike Father. And... he did not make me wait. She told me she would wait for me, and then... I didn't know where she was. It... it did hurt, at first, but the roses are comforting her, I'm... I'm sure." He pauses, drawing his spine upward and looking up, trying to blink away the tears that form in his eyes. "Death is the way to help, in itself! There doesn't need to be another! I... don't understand why I remember there being blood... The method I learned does not use it, and the prick of a rose bush... definitely does not draw so much... but sometimes when you help, you have to use what you have, right? So then... why do I feel like it must have been so painful?"

"I was...he took me in after Mother passed, I do not know if that was planned before, but...I had to be useful to him, right? I... do not think he would have chosen to raise someone on his own. If it wasn't me... it would have been no one at all. I remember the way he looked at me the first time I accidentally called him "Father"... how he seemed so... warm. He told me I was his son more than I thought, and how proud he was. He was strict, but... he loved me. He told me I did well whenever I saved someone. He reassured me when I was rejected once again. He protected me, keeping me in the graveyard, where it's quiet, and safe, and I don't have to worry about anything. I doubt he could stand a group of people, much like myself. How could he teach people who already have their minds set? How could he teach too many at once, when the skills are so deliberate, so careful?"

Would he just stand there? Does he have something to live for? "I... I don't know. I've... I've never felt like the living, with all the things I can't do, can't be. But I know better than to think I am already a corpse... I can't help but wonder how all the ways to die feel, but knowing that only one will stick, that nobody will be able to give what I have to so many... I don't know what to do about it. I don't know."

"What do you mean, desecrated? I do everything to make sure the body is intact as it can be. That the death is not painful. As for how I can do that, people find beliefs in their own afterlives, and I have read about several. A Christian burial is the most common one I've done, but I have worked with more than that, and the families guide me to what the one passing would want. Besides, they do not know it was me who sent their loved one to the other side."

Again, that assertion. Jerry broke him. Jerry lied to him. Jerry hurt him. (He will never be whole again, in that case.) God, he doesn't know what it means to deserve to die, to be meant to die, and he doesn't know how soon to show up so that death does not have to be a mercy too late delivered. "...He did not. But why do you think my life was kept inside the graveyard, Mr. Grantz? He wanted to keep me safe. He wanted to make sure I did not have to face the world's pains the way he did. He loved me. But... but grief finds its way in wherever you are, however high the walls. Even if it is a nothingness, hearing what I do, I... of course it has to be better than what you all go through. Of course it has to be better than breaking yourself to make it a few more days."

Victor decides to trade in his anguish for about as sweet of a tone as he can muster up right now. Thankfully, his stress makes the shift less unnatural.

"I- I really apologise, Aesop... I didn't mean to blow up in front of you... I-it's just... We're both so stressed, you understand, right? I'm not angry. I could never be angry at you." He lets out a shaky exhale, holding Aesop tighter. "I s-suppose I should do... what you've d-done for me. I'll try and see through... your eyes.".

He twitches internally at the notion. Is he really sweet talking his way out of this?

Yes, he is.

"t-trading one pain for another..." He muses under his breath, thinking. He doesn't speak this next part to Aesop, rather around him, but he quietly hopes he hears regardless. "But it would... be a much d-duller pain, right..? Why is that..." He does not actually question it. He is simply hoping Aesop does.

He needs to play into Aesop's reasoning more. Be empathetic.

"She was n-never cowardly." Victor repeats Aesop's words back to him. "Why would... she d-describe herself as such? Was she... afraid of dying? Or of facing reality? But she- she had a wo-wonderful son to take care of... and protect... so that can't be the one..." He pauses, wondering how to word his next statement without making it sound like an insult. "I- I question your father's convincing, if... if she was scared, up until the end."

Victor hums.

"N-nobody liked you, not... not even yourself, it seems... Of course y-you'd get attached to your father, I understand that, I do..." Victor runs a hand along Aesop's shoulder. A comfort. Both out of genuine care, and the fact that Aesop, from what he knows, responds to it quite well. "It is strange, that... he never at least tried t-to spread your ideas...? Two or three can't have been that - that much of an issue, surely? Oh, but... I suppose he'd have to implant th-the seeds at a young age... if they were t-to grow properly, wouldn't he? And you - you were so alone back then... (...it's not like you had other friends to teach...)"

Victor pauses in his motions, suddenly. Like he'd just realised something.

"....Eliza. You... said there was blood? That can't... be right...? That - that shouldn't be right?? I mean, I be- I believe you, very much! But unless.. Father had gotten violent...? It's strange. Did- did your father always use bromine t-to kill, or was... that only in certain places?" He continues his comforting motions again. If he can pretend hard enough that he isn't incredibly angry with "Father", Aesop will be more accepting of his... Questioning.

"You are a drop in the ocean, Aesop. As much as it pains me to say it, I feel I'm the only one who would miss you... Does it matter, really, how many you've saved? It can't have been hundreds, you're merely one man. And though we have all the time in the world, you'll never be able to save another... Is it worth stressing yourself over?"

"desecrated... I apologise, again, I really lost my head there... I'm sure you gave them a lovely burial... God, what was I thinking... I'm glad the families were lied to, though, some things are better off going unheard..."

"I just... don't see why... why you were kept insside a box for your whole life, Aesop... We learn how to - to talk to others when we're young, and you're... yyounger than me, and yet - yet you never got to learn, until you were tr-trapped in a manor with people that scared you?" He almost absent-mindedly pets Aesop's hair. Almost. "You never... got to learn how to make friends, or learn what b-bad people are like, or what it was like to be loved... I feel sorry for - for you, really, I do... I just don't undersstand why your father would deprive you... of that."

"I'm h-happy here, ar-aren't I? I escaped them, at least for now. A-and a l-lot of the - the others are similar.... After rain... there is sun. Just - just because it hhurts a lot doessn't mean it will last forever.. I don't... think I could stand the - the thought of never g-getting to be w-warm and comfortable again... Could you?" Victor smiles as kindly as he can. Internally, however, he's praying that Aesop will start to see the truth in Victor's words. That the honey will trap him, that the softness will put his brain to sleep. Mr Carl could manipulate a child, but Victor can certainly manipulate an adult.

Victor's voice softens in an instant, and Aesop doesn't know what to do. It could be false, true, anything in between. But at the same time, when he is held so tight he can hardly move, hardly breathe, when Victor states he could never be angry at Aesop in what the embalmer is only certain is a falsehood and yet leans into anyway because it's all so familiar, when his heart beats far too loudly in his chest and he tries to cling onto the warmth that is near him before it inevitably fades too soon, he knows there isn't anything he can do. It's terrifying, yes, but when all the things Aesop heard from Victor before were so kind, when he doesn't know if Victor means it when he says he'll stay forever no matter what, he clings for both the chance that it's true and the fear that it's not. Everything is changing so rapidly that he cannot do anything but cling to the moments that make sense, try to keep his head from spinning so fast it leaves him behind.

"It's okay. Even if you are angry..." He does not add the 'and you probably are' that drips into his mind. "...I do not mind. Pain makes it harder to talk and think clearly. For both of us."

Is it duller, to trade sprain or fracture for amputation? Either way, the same tasks are impossible. Either way, there is a constant awareness that something in the body does not behave as it needs to. But there is not the feeling of sharp, biting pain whenever the affected area is moved wrong.

"I... I never understood that, myself. I couldn't... I never wanted her to see how school was really going, so I doubt that was contributing... unless she knew despite what I said... I think... she reached her limits. She wanted to see me grow up like the man she married, but... but so much happened to her. I... I know she mentioned that Father was there to raise me, and hoped it would make up for... whatever her sins were. I never understood that, either. She must have arranged that before her passing, right?" Aesop closes his eyes, shutting out as much as he can. "...she doubted herself so much... but why...?"

"...it really isn't like I had any other peers I could explain to..." He opens his eyes barely, his arms wrapping further around Victor, just a touch. "Even if they could have liked me, I was out of school not long after I was taken in... I know what you will say. It was not because of him. I had problems, they said. Er, autism. Which... led to problems. The point is, I was no longer allowed to come back. Considering how I was spoken to most of the time... I am lucky, that Father could give me a way to help people, even still." The pain sears his voice, he's holding on tighter than he realizes. "...he wasn't interested in getting close to people. I think... he only took me in and kept me due to his agreement with Mother. I doubt I would have even met him, otherwise... he never liked noise."

He is not facing up, and yet he can imagine Victor shaking his head ever so slowly, giving him that look that Aesop can't stand, the one with a mix of pity and disappointment and shame. It's such a vivid image in his mind, and he hates it, and despite himself, he buries himself further into Victor's shoulder.

Victor mirrors the fear and worry that churns in his stomach, and Aesop has to pretend that it isn't making his own concern grow and grow until it consumes him whole. "There... was. I know it was there... it was too dark to simply be a shadow or the color of mulch. He—he told me that he, too, always used bromine... just as he taught me... how could I ask about the blood? He knew better, right? I was... much younger. A child doesn't know what's best for someone, he said. I would understand one day, he said. But... I don't. If we have a method that works... why did he not use it?" There was no answer to the question that little boy posed. He thought there had been, but words can be empty. What is not to fear about empty words? He shakes within Victor's hold.

"..." He wants, so badly, for his work to matter. To do good, and to know that such a thing is recognized. But he cannot do what he knows, he cannot be understood when he tries to help. It is painful, that he knows Victor is right, when he says nobody else will mourn him. Who else that gave him the time of day is still around? "...it was a little under thirty. And... I know the number is small in the grand scheme of things... but if I cannot help people... then what can I do? It's all I know. It's all I can be... maybe that makes me selfish, to want to help to remind myself that I am able to do such a thing."

"...I did my best. And... we both know quite well there are things others should not know. Father taught me that when one does something kind, you do not talk about it to the world. You know that you did it. And that is enough. Then again... we both knew that with how badly the people I tried to help took it... he gave that same smile and that same advice, though. Nobody needed to know. It's like a treasure box of the knowledge that you did something for someone."

"I was out of the box, before I could no longer attend school... it gave me ample reason to want to stay inside." He smiles, almost sadly, as if trying to comfort Victor and say things are not so bad as the postman thinks. "There are things that could not be taught, but... I learned many others. Outside, I learned how to make myself small, so that even when I was thrown around I would not alert anyone unnecessary. I learned that if I tried to keep everything down and bite my tongue, things would be over sooner. They would be back the next day, yes, but... it would be fewer bruises to hide. Inside, I learned how so many things fade over time. I learned everything I know about my trade. Maybe I never learned how to make friends... but how could I have? I doubt I would have been allowed to learn, when that requires people... willing to be friends with me."

It's purgatory, it's limbo, and yet it is home to people like Victor. And yet it is warm, and safe. And yet it is love. "...I... took for granted that I wouldn't... know what warmth felt like... I came here to continue my, and Father's, mission... and I can't even do that..." He lets out a shaky breath. "...I already accepted that it was impossible. Like many things, really. But... this... I think I felt warm, when you reached out to me. I didn't realize it was warmth I felt whenever Mother looked at me, or when Father told me he was proud of me. I... I'm scared of losing that warmth. I think I always have been."

He trusts Victor... And it's starting to become noticeable how he doesn't quite remember his childhood clearly...

Victor could lie. Victor will lie, if that's what it takes. After all, he's already weaving a web of honey-coated words, would there be harm in it?

(Something in his mind stirs. A fleeting moment, of two children surrounded by golden flowers. A dream he had once. This will work as a basis for his story.)

"I'm... n-not angry... But- i-" He starts, voice wavering. The plan is in action and already it's tying him in knots. "I- y-you... I.... Knew... you. Before. I-i- I realised, a week or two ago.... and j-just didn't.... Know- know how to... bring it up... Yet. I-i'm sorry! I just- we were talking about the oth- other thing a-and I didn't know-!"

He finds genuine distress in his own excuse. Maybe it's the lying. Maybe it's the fact he's no better than them. Why is he so sure he can pull this off??

(Remember the dream. Remember the dream. You can feel the coolness of shade, dew on your skin. Remember the dream. Remember anything.)

"...I... Remembered... sitting with- with you, n-near the golden flowers... D-do.. you remember, h-having a friend, even- even though m-most turned you away...?" Victor finds himself almost sick with worry. This is why they always hated him, back in the post office. He always felt things too strongly. "You... You n-never were a problem, to me. Ah, y-you still... had darker hair, back thhen..."

He chuckles. An educated guess, one that, somehow, he's sure isn't risky. Maybe it's just common sense, or the few subtle strands of Aesop's hair still clinging to life, or the dream.

"that's why... Why I'm- I'm so... Sad, Aesop. I saw... A lot of it. I - I don't re-remember everything, most... of my childhood is a- a blur, but... I remember your father. T-too... too well. That is why I hate him so." Victor holds Aesop tight. "I-i always hated- h-how he looked at- at me. Like... I was... intruding. It wasn't noise, you know how quiet I am. I was a pest. I think... he was glad, whenever I wallked back home.."

(An image in his mind. A man, elderly. Eyes. Badly hidden hatred. So vivid he winces.)

"there was... That day, y-your friend..."

He hesitates. Maybe he shouldn't be talking about something so personal, did he even know what he was on about?

(Red. So much red. A dress, stained in it. Hiding in the bushes. From him. He watches, as his friend is told this is okay. He's much too close to the body. He's going to die here.)

Victor suddenly feels rather lightheaded.

"o-oh god, I-i'm sorry, I shouldn't- I shouldn't have tr-tried to remember..." It's overwhelmingly vivid. Much too vivid to be a dream. He wishes he'd realized before. "H... H-he stabbed her... If you'd like that- th-that information..."

He rocks Aesop, unconsciously, swaying side to side. Trying to soothe both of them. Back and forth. Back and forth. He doesn't want to remember anything anymore. He's had enough. This is punishment for lying, surely...

"you can help people by... I- I don't know... Being kind to them...? There's ways t-to hhelp, that..." He breathes. Focus. Focus. You're alive. "Y-you can do here. Easily.. Even without p-playing matches..." Victor knows Aesop hates doing that. He doesn't blame the man. Nobody taught Aesop how to play until they were so pissed off at his poor performance they dragged him into training. "You m-must be able to make people happy... B-because that's... What I........." Not anymore. Not after they tried to "help" him. He's making nobody happy anymore.

"you learned... t-to become a doll, to survive, like... Me. P-placid and compliant a-and empty. But y-you were a child. I hadn't- I hadn't e-even met them yet. Isn't that... Sick, t-to you?" Victor shudders. "People d-don't fucking deserve to- to have a friend like y-you, if they'll- they'll just reject you for something you c-cannot control!!" He's crying into Aesop's clothes again.

If Aesop had not, perhaps, deposited that letter to nobody in the postbox so that Victor would have something to do, if Aesop had not written far too much while realizing too late he forgot to place his own name on the back after hastily crossing out Victor's own, maybe he would be a little more well-kept. But all of that has happened, all of the past is inescapable, and he cannot hide from it. Only wait for everything to crash down.

And how terrifying it is to wait.

He needed to write everything down anyway, and he would not be surprised if he burned his words once they returned to him. They just needed to be out, and what better way to move them apart from him than to write them and seal them away? He knows the dangers, yes. And if he made a grave mistake, if every bit of goodwill he has scraped together crumbles away, he can only say that it was inevitable. Anyone who found out would do the same. If convincing does not work... but that isn't enough this time, right? Not when death means nothing.

He hasn't bothered to put up his ponytail or get his mask on this morning, not after the sleepless night before. The letter has not been returned. He doesn't know what could be happening, and the terror, the possibility that he's destroyed it all, looms close behind him.

===

(The letter—or would it be better called a ramble, a confession?— is wrapped in a plain, sturdy envelope, such that he hopes it isn't anything that would stand out. Unfortunately, his handwriting is clearly recognizable as his own, rendering the whole point moot anyway. The envelope bears the first few letters of Victor's name, written several times and crossed out on all of them, but the lack of another addressee is notable. The text's shape and unsteady pace betrays the emotional tension in the writer.)

I'm sorry.

I don't even know what I'm sorry for. For going against that faith you had in me? For taking matters into my own hands and hoping you would never find out? For trying to relieve you of burdens but only trying and failing to soothe my own? You were already asleep, there was no need—

I came here to continue my duty. To free more people. But you were never truly free, you kept returning and I could only grow more ashamed, more unable to face you. If you did not have to wake up, if you were safe and never had to be afraid again... but it doesn't work like that. Not anymore. (I still would not leave you.)

Is it selfish that a part of me... doesn't want to succeed? That I want to have your warmth, your voice, all the things I can't preserve the way I can so much else? If you are comfortable, and happy, does it matter if it happens because you are finally at rest?

I know I have always been here to help. I know it is my duty to reach those meant to die, those who are in too much pain to keep going. (Even now, I wonder if I have reached those who need me the most.) But... I know that you wouldn't see it that way. Nobody does. Mr. Carl, too, knows that this mission is a solitary one. Being able to convince someone to let me guide them is ideal, yes, but... it has, in practice, been impossible. You would not be different, I'm sure. Even if I wish you were, if you ever found out that it was me bringing you to dreamless sleep all those times, I... I would understand if you wanted nothing to do with me anymore. Even as I wish to have your company, I have destroyed your trust, I am sure, and tried to bring you to the other side long before you were ready.

If you would allow me to ask this... please do not tell anyone. I do not know what would happen, and I am already... no, it's not worth thinking about. You will do what you decide is right, and who am I to decide what that is? I have hurt you, have I not? All I wanted to do was make things better for you, and yet...

Once again, I apologize. For everything.

Victor Grantz has been dying, recently. Not in matches, like normal, no. Outside of them, daring to close his tired eyes for a moment before waking up in his room, consumed by a blind panic of where am I what happened oh god— Are They back?? Nobody stole anything, right? Why did they let him revive in his room??

Safe to say, he was on extremely high alert after the first time it happened. But even if he wasn't, he's sure he'd have noticed the look on Aesop's face. The way Aesop wouldn't meet Victor's eyes at all. The way Aesop fiddled with his hands. The way Aesop was, very obviously, guilty.

Something clicks into place, then. So now the question becomes why. And, paranoid as he is, he can't trust it's actually Aesop.

Although, god, if anyone is killing him he hopes it's Aesop. As weird as that sounds. You see, there's no real reason for Victor to be dying. It'd be one thing if his bag was searched, another if his room was, but neither are true. He's made sure of it. (The keys are still in his pocket when he revives, and ordering the letters in a way only he knows leads to the order being perfect afterwards.) It's not torture either, he's certain it's not meant to be.

The only other reason for someone to kill him is... Concern. Worry about him neglecting himself, choosing to reset his body and take him straight to bed rather than argue with him about whether he's okay.

And that is why he hopes it's Aesop. Because that is absolutely something he might do, and it would make him much more at ease.

But he can't just ask Aesop if he's killing him. That likely wouldn't go down well, especially if Aesop isn't the murderer. So he experiments instead.

- - -

He'd pretended to be unconscious on the dining room table. Late enough he knew nobody would walk in on them, and close enough to both of their rooms that it'd give Aesop confidence to solve the mystery for him.

And, well... If the gloved hands and the click of the case didn't give it away, Aesop speaking, quiet and shaky through his mask, definitely did. Victor wills his pounding heart to stop beating so loud. Aesop will catch on to his ruse, surely...

Aesop does, in fact, catch on... Partially. Thank god, he didn't seem to realise what it meant. He asks about a nightmare, though seemingly remembering victor can't answer him. Victor is given reassurance that it'll be over soon, anyway.

He's given a lot of reassurance, actually.

A little scolding, though more concerned than anything else ["You really must take care of yourself better..."],

a few admissions of attachment ["if only you knew how much I care for you..."],

and many, many apologies.

Victor's heart starts to relax from it all, and he wonders if he might actually fall asleep here... before there's a sharp prick in his arm.

Cold floods through him, and it's too heavy to struggle. He falls unconscious within minutes.

He wakes up back in his bed. Nothing is out of order. Well, at least that's calmed most of his nerves...

[this goes on for weeks. Somehow, he finds himself more relaxed each time.]

= = =

The next unusual thing happens with the letter.

Victor would recognise the handwriting anywhere by now, especially when it's addressed to him. Sort of.

Even if he wasn't mildly addicted to reading and pretending people's letters were for him, he'd still itch to open that seal. There's absolutely no address, besides his own, half formed and shaky.

He can't be blamed if he doesn't know where to go, right? He's just being diligent, right? [He burns with curiosity, taking the letter into his room as subtly as he can, so he can pore over every detail.]

There is no name here, either. But what he does get is so much more... Fascinating, in a sense. It's a terrible thing, he knows, but he can't stop himself from being entranced at the pure emotion dripping off of Aesop's every word.

It's a secret. Just for him.

+ + +

If not for the subject matter he'd be feeling both sick and rather giddy at the chance. (At the moment he just feels the instinctual crawling nausea of something to hide from Them. He swats it away.)

It's funny, how mere weeks ago he thought Aesop was like Them, but it's even clearer now that he's not, and never will be. Victor doesn't see what Aesop does, but Aesop happens to have painted a very easy picture for Victor to see.

It's love, above all else. It's guilt, it's apology, it's longing, it's protection, it's caring. Victor understands Aesop better than anyone else, and this only proves it. He can connect with that emotion, hold it in his hands and press his face against it to feel the warmth.

Nobody else will understand. It's his secret to keep. But unfortunately for Victor's desire to stare at it for hours, this is still technically supposed to be delivered.

He puts the secret back in its envelope, not bothering to re-melt the wax like usual, locks up his room, and walks to Aesop's door. (If it had been back then, he would have been punished for not being punctual. But, they tended to give exceptions to unclear delivery instructions...)

× × ×

"Mr Carl?" He speaks quietly into the wood of the door. "Is this letter yours?"

Aesop is still asking to kill him. It itches under Victor's skin, now. Even after everything??

Aesop speaks like he doesn't know any better. God, he probably doesn't. Victor's hands start to shake as Aesop rests his head on his shoulder. It's anger (not at Aesop, at those who shaped him), it's fear (...alright, that one is of Aesop), it's a whirlpool swirling in his head and he needs to get out of him.

"I think he lied to you."

He cuts off any response Aesop tries to give. He knows the man will argue. He's his son, after all. "I... have questions for you. Rhetorical ones. Some will sound... judgemental, some will sound unrelated, but I hope they can help you understand... My perspective, a little... Please try and answer each one in your head."

"Your mother. How- how do you know she was... unhappy? How old were you when sshe died? Were you old enough to rememb-ber what... she acted like?" He talks slowly, shakily, deliberately. Stressing every question with plenty of time to think in between. "Did- did she deliver that letter of hers? Do you know hher handwriting? When were you t-told that she wrote this letter?"

"Miss Eliza must have be-been a friend, yes? And -and your father... killed her, presumably. Why wwould he t-take your friend away? Why would he make - make you wait for her t-to come? Did he ever tell you... how death helped her?" Victor pauses, before making an educated guess. "Was she the - the only adult... in your life, besides your father? And if sso, would there b-be a reason your fa-father only wanted you... to listen to him?"

"You killed him because he was in pain, because he - he was suffering, right? Would those - those bruises have healed with time? And even - even if not, would yyou saw your foot off if you sprained your a-ankle? Would you cut off so-someone else's foot, if they sprained it? Yes, they've uused that leg ffor... years, but a mo-moment of pain calls for an extreme measure, by- by his standards, right? You c-can't feel an ankle that isn't th-there, even if you can't walk, right?"

Victor takes a deep breath. His voice cracks a little. His questions have been coming out more rapidly, more desperately.

"i-i mean this - without offense, I really d-do, but why on earth would he choose ssomeone like you to "save" people? Someone so... anxious? He must-t have known so many people you could-dn't... "save" would weigh on your - your mind every s-single day, so why f-force you to do... that??? Why alone? If his ideas are so... sound, why wouldn't he g-get a group of people to... Fuck, I d-don't know, spread out and do more??"

It's then Victor realises how much he's shaking. He can feel Aesop moving to respond, turning to him, and he cuts off the man's reply by grabbing him by the shoulders.

"If- if we were out there, and - and i tried t-to shoot you, you wouldn't... just stand t-there, right? B-because you have things to - to live for, don't you? Why do- do you think th-that absolutely nobody else... has their own reasons to live?"

Tears are pricking at his eyes, and he's too hopped up on adrenaline to even think about the fact he's staring into Aesop's.

"And I- Aesop, w-why the fuck would someone care about- about what happens t-to their corpse?? Especially when you're... the one killling them??? How- how can you protect so-something you are hurting?? Why w-would they, or their family, want y-you anywhere near the body you desecrated?? How th-the hell can someone feel safe... when they h-have no consciousness to- to perceive it, and the - the last imprint of their existence is a painful death???"

There's something between venom and anguish in Victor's voice. Tears are rolling down his face now, and his shaking hands pull Aesop into a hug without thinking. His tone softens to a hoarse whisper.

"i-i'll- god, I'll answer my own fucking questions, this is because of your father, Aesop. This is a-all because of him. He killed your - your mother, he killed Eliza. From the- the sounds of it, they were the only... people you knew, besides him. Sso, when all you know is your f-father, you trusted him, be-because you were a child. Do you know h-how fucking easy it is to convince a-a child of something?? Especially when it's yours??? T-think for a moment, Aesop, why would a killer outright say to their child they're a bad person when... they can just... lie? S-say they're the angel helping all the sick people who - who "deserved to die". What does that... even mean, Mr Carl? Was your father a s-seer? W-why would he know that? and- and he said that the afterlife w-was good, was real, he told you this, yes?? Your - your father? Tell me, Mr Carl, had he ever died b-before you killed him? How could he know it's better... than reality?"

"I... think he lied to you..." Victor says again, defeated. "I... God, if you... don't und-understand now, I don't know what I can do to help you but..."

He's still shaking. He only hopes his hold is somewhat as comforting for Aesop as it is for himself, but he knows what this sounds like.

[He needs to be professional. He needs to remember his mission. That he is only here to help. He can find a way to convince Victor, the closest to understanding. He does not know how, but... he has to.]

One by one, questions trickle in. The letter from his mother arrived the birthday after she passed, and Elisa delivered it. (Elisa, who is no longer here.) He doesn't remember much, he cannot say he knows her handwriting, not with how young he was when everything happened. (He was old enough, at least, that he could read most of the letter himself.) He... wasn't told when she wrote it, but he had an idea. After all, she mentioned how Jerry was there, to 'help her collapsing soul find relief'. It was close to her time, then, right? So how didn't he know? (He never could stand burdening her further with how he was treated at school day after day.) He thought she expected not to make it, but that line. "I wish I would have the chance to tell you in person." She wanted to see him, but it wasn't certain that she would. He always thought that it was enough. That the letter was more than enough. (It was more than he could imagine any other giving him.) She called herself a coward, but she went forward into the afterlife. In his eyes, she was braver than anyone else. But how could he tell her? How could she hear?

Elisa was a foggy memory. He knew there were other adults than her, before he was gone from school, but... Elisa treated him more kindly than any of them ever would have, let him be something. Elisa did not see him as a problem to be fixed. (He hopes that is not what Victor is seeing now that he knows the deepest parts.) She was supposed to wait for Aesop. But he was the one waiting. Waiting for something he didn't know could never come, within walls of rose bushes and foliage and fences. Jerry guided his eye to the yellow rose bushes, something he knew would comfort Aesop. (No reason was mentioned. No reason is needed. After all, someone who is meant to die, painful as it is, should be given the best care in the final moments.) (He's sorry he couldn't at least make it to her.) (...why was there blood? He knows the roses have thorns, yes, but the red in his memories is too great for that. And bromine hydrate is not a method meant to cause bleeding. So... why? Why was blood necessary? He was taught a specific method, why was that not used? If she was meant to die, did she not die in peace? Oh, god. Oh, god, he's sorry. He could have done better. He could have given her a death much kinder than that. Something much less sharp and terrifying and messy.) (If a whole body at peace is required... why?)

Eyes stare right into his own. His shoulders are grabbed onto tightly, before he is embraced. He can't breathe. He's too scared to. He doesn't understand a thing. Not when the voice has such a familiar poison to it. Such a familiar anger. When he finally speaks, when words finally fall out, it is obvious he is trying and failing to keep intact. "It... it wasn't about the bruises. I know that's what I said, but... I didn't know how to say what was there, not without—not without remembering too much, without speaking far too long. Nothing of him was solid anymore. Everything was so soft, so unable to hold together, it might have been molded by a touch. Even the bones were... That surely could not have recovered. I... still know how he groaned in his final breaths. It was all he could do. I regret not making it earlier. And—and fuck, no! All that is, is trading one pain for another! Not only that, but... to pass on, the whole body needs to be at peace. If... if I do that, I can't manage that, can I?"

"I—I never saw Mother writing the letter, and with the things she mentioned, it must have been shortly before she... I—I don't remember much, but I remember enough. She was kind. She was nowhere near as cowardly as she claimed she was. Elisa delivered that letter, but does it matter?"

"Being meant to die was the reason. I... there were teachers, before I could no longer attend school, but... they did not like me. They did not see me as worth listening to. Unlike Elisa. Unlike Father. And... he did not make me wait. She told me she would wait for me, and then... I didn't know where she was. It... it did hurt, at first, but the roses are comforting her, I'm... I'm sure." He pauses, drawing his spine upward and looking up, trying to blink away the tears that form in his eyes. "Death is the way to help, in itself! There doesn't need to be another! I... don't understand why I remember there being blood... The method I learned does not use it, and the prick of a rose bush... definitely does not draw so much... but sometimes when you help, you have to use what you have, right? So then... why do I feel like it must have been so painful?"

"I was...he took me in after Mother passed, I do not know if that was planned before, but...I had to be useful to him, right? I... do not think he would have chosen to raise someone on his own. If it wasn't me... it would have been no one at all. I remember the way he looked at me the first time I accidentally called him "Father"... how he seemed so... warm. He told me I was his son more than I thought, and how proud he was. He was strict, but... he loved me. He told me I did well whenever I saved someone. He reassured me when I was rejected once again. He protected me, keeping me in the graveyard, where it's quiet, and safe, and I don't have to worry about anything. I doubt he could stand a group of people, much like myself. How could he teach people who already have their minds set? How could he teach too many at once, when the skills are so deliberate, so careful?"

Would he just stand there? Does he have something to live for? "I... I don't know. I've... I've never felt like the living, with all the things I can't do, can't be. But I know better than to think I am already a corpse... I can't help but wonder how all the ways to die feel, but knowing that only one will stick, that nobody will be able to give what I have to so many... I don't know what to do about it. I don't know."

"What do you mean, desecrated? I do everything to make sure the body is intact as it can be. That the death is not painful. As for how I can do that, people find beliefs in their own afterlives, and I have read about several. A Christian burial is the most common one I've done, but I have worked with more than that, and the families guide me to what the one passing would want. Besides, they do not know it was me who sent their loved one to the other side."

Again, that assertion. Jerry broke him. Jerry lied to him. Jerry hurt him. (He will never be whole again, in that case.) God, he doesn't know what it means to deserve to die, to be meant to die, and he doesn't know how soon to show up so that death does not have to be a mercy too late delivered. "...He did not. But why do you think my life was kept inside the graveyard, Mr. Grantz? He wanted to keep me safe. He wanted to make sure I did not have to face the world's pains the way he did. He loved me. But... but grief finds its way in wherever you are, however high the walls. Even if it is a nothingness, hearing what I do, I... of course it has to be better than what you all go through. Of course it has to be better than breaking yourself to make it a few more days."

Victor decides to trade in his anguish for about as sweet of a tone as he can muster up right now. Thankfully, his stress makes the shift less unnatural.

"I- I really apologise, Aesop... I didn't mean to blow up in front of you... I-it's just... We're both so stressed, you understand, right? I'm not angry. I could never be angry at you." He lets out a shaky exhale, holding Aesop tighter. "I s-suppose I should do... what you've d-done for me. I'll try and see through... your eyes.".

He twitches internally at the notion. Is he really sweet talking his way out of this?

Yes, he is.

"t-trading one pain for another..." He muses under his breath, thinking. He doesn't speak this next part to Aesop, rather around him, but he quietly hopes he hears regardless. "But it would... be a much d-duller pain, right..? Why is that..." He does not actually question it. He is simply hoping Aesop does.

He needs to play into Aesop's reasoning more. Be empathetic.

"She was n-never cowardly." Victor repeats Aesop's words back to him. "Why would... she d-describe herself as such? Was she... afraid of dying? Or of facing reality? But she- she had a wo-wonderful son to take care of... and protect... so that can't be the one..." He pauses, wondering how to word his next statement without making it sound like an insult. "I- I question your father's convincing, if... if she was scared, up until the end."

Victor hums.

"N-nobody liked you, not... not even yourself, it seems... Of course y-you'd get attached to your father, I understand that, I do..." Victor runs a hand along Aesop's shoulder. A comfort. Both out of genuine care, and the fact that Aesop, from what he knows, responds to it quite well. "It is strange, that... he never at least tried t-to spread your ideas...? Two or three can't have been that - that much of an issue, surely? Oh, but... I suppose he'd have to implant th-the seeds at a young age... if they were t-to grow properly, wouldn't he? And you - you were so alone back then... (...it's not like you had other friends to teach...)"

Victor pauses in his motions, suddenly. Like he'd just realised something.

"....Eliza. You... said there was blood? That can't... be right...? That - that shouldn't be right?? I mean, I be- I believe you, very much! But unless.. Father had gotten violent...? It's strange. Did- did your father always use bromine t-to kill, or was... that only in certain places?" He continues his comforting motions again. If he can pretend hard enough that he isn't incredibly angry with "Father", Aesop will be more accepting of his... Questioning.

"You are a drop in the ocean, Aesop. As much as it pains me to say it, I feel I'm the only one who would miss you... Does it matter, really, how many you've saved? It can't have been hundreds, you're merely one man. And though we have all the time in the world, you'll never be able to save another... Is it worth stressing yourself over?"

"desecrated... I apologise, again, I really lost my head there... I'm sure you gave them a lovely burial... God, what was I thinking... I'm glad the families were lied to, though, some things are better off going unheard..."

"I just... don't see why... why you were kept insside a box for your whole life, Aesop... We learn how to - to talk to others when we're young, and you're... yyounger than me, and yet - yet you never got to learn, until you were tr-trapped in a manor with people that scared you?" He almost absent-mindedly pets Aesop's hair. Almost. "You never... got to learn how to make friends, or learn what b-bad people are like, or what it was like to be loved... I feel sorry for - for you, really, I do... I just don't undersstand why your father would deprive you... of that."

"I'm h-happy here, ar-aren't I? I escaped them, at least for now. A-and a l-lot of the - the others are similar.... After rain... there is sun. Just - just because it hhurts a lot doessn't mean it will last forever.. I don't... think I could stand the - the thought of never g-getting to be w-warm and comfortable again... Could you?" Victor smiles as kindly as he can. Internally, however, he's praying that Aesop will start to see the truth in Victor's words. That the honey will trap him, that the softness will put his brain to sleep. Mr Carl could manipulate a child, but Victor can certainly manipulate an adult.

If Aesop had not, perhaps, deposited that letter to nobody in the postbox so that Victor would have something to do, if Aesop had not written far too much while realizing too late he forgot to place his own name on the back after hastily crossing out Victor's own, maybe he would be a little more well-kept. But all of that has happened, all of the past is inescapable, and he cannot hide from it. Only wait for everything to crash down.

And how terrifying it is to wait.

He needed to write everything down anyway, and he would not be surprised if he burned his words once they returned to him. They just needed to be out, and what better way to move them apart from him than to write them and seal them away? He knows the dangers, yes. And if he made a grave mistake, if every bit of goodwill he has scraped together crumbles away, he can only say that it was inevitable. Anyone who found out would do the same. If convincing does not work... but that isn't enough this time, right? Not when death means nothing.

He hasn't bothered to put up his ponytail or get his mask on this morning, not after the sleepless night before. The letter has not been returned. He doesn't know what could be happening, and the terror, the possibility that he's destroyed it all, looms close behind him.

===

(The letter—or would it be better called a ramble, a confession?— is wrapped in a plain, sturdy envelope, such that he hopes it isn't anything that would stand out. Unfortunately, his handwriting is clearly recognizable as his own, rendering the whole point moot anyway. The envelope bears the first few letters of Victor's name, written several times and crossed out on all of them, but the lack of another addressee is notable. The text's shape and unsteady pace betrays the emotional tension in the writer.)

I'm sorry.

I don't even know what I'm sorry for. For going against that faith you had in me? For taking matters into my own hands and hoping you would never find out? For trying to relieve you of burdens but only trying and failing to soothe my own? You were already asleep, there was no need—

I came here to continue my duty. To free more people. But you were never truly free, you kept returning and I could only grow more ashamed, more unable to face you. If you did not have to wake up, if you were safe and never had to be afraid again... but it doesn't work like that. Not anymore. (I still would not leave you.)

Is it selfish that a part of me... doesn't want to succeed? That I want to have your warmth, your voice, all the things I can't preserve the way I can so much else? If you are comfortable, and happy, does it matter if it happens because you are finally at rest?

I know I have always been here to help. I know it is my duty to reach those meant to die, those who are in too much pain to keep going. (Even now, I wonder if I have reached those who need me the most.) But... I know that you wouldn't see it that way. Nobody does. Mr. Carl, too, knows that this mission is a solitary one. Being able to convince someone to let me guide them is ideal, yes, but... it has, in practice, been impossible. You would not be different, I'm sure. Even if I wish you were, if you ever found out that it was me bringing you to dreamless sleep all those times, I... I would understand if you wanted nothing to do with me anymore. Even as I wish to have your company, I have destroyed your trust, I am sure, and tried to bring you to the other side long before you were ready.

If you would allow me to ask this... please do not tell anyone. I do not know what would happen, and I am already... no, it's not worth thinking about. You will do what you decide is right, and who am I to decide what that is? I have hurt you, have I not? All I wanted to do was make things better for you, and yet...

Once again, I apologize. For everything.

Victor Grantz has been dying, recently. Not in matches, like normal, no. Outside of them, daring to close his tired eyes for a moment before waking up in his room, consumed by a blind panic of where am I what happened oh god— Are They back?? Nobody stole anything, right? Why did they let him revive in his room??

Safe to say, he was on extremely high alert after the first time it happened. But even if he wasn't, he's sure he'd have noticed the look on Aesop's face. The way Aesop wouldn't meet Victor's eyes at all. The way Aesop fiddled with his hands. The way Aesop was, very obviously, guilty.

Something clicks into place, then. So now the question becomes why. And, paranoid as he is, he can't trust it's actually Aesop.

Although, god, if anyone is killing him he hopes it's Aesop. As weird as that sounds. You see, there's no real reason for Victor to be dying. It'd be one thing if his bag was searched, another if his room was, but neither are true. He's made sure of it. (The keys are still in his pocket when he revives, and ordering the letters in a way only he knows leads to the order being perfect afterwards.) It's not torture either, he's certain it's not meant to be.

The only other reason for someone to kill him is... Concern. Worry about him neglecting himself, choosing to reset his body and take him straight to bed rather than argue with him about whether he's okay.

And that is why he hopes it's Aesop. Because that is absolutely something he might do, and it would make him much more at ease.

But he can't just ask Aesop if he's killing him. That likely wouldn't go down well, especially if Aesop isn't the murderer. So he experiments instead.

- - -

He'd pretended to be unconscious on the dining room table. Late enough he knew nobody would walk in on them, and close enough to both of their rooms that it'd give Aesop confidence to solve the mystery for him.

And, well... If the gloved hands and the click of the case didn't give it away, Aesop speaking, quiet and shaky through his mask, definitely did. Victor wills his pounding heart to stop beating so loud. Aesop will catch on to his ruse, surely...

Aesop does, in fact, catch on... Partially. Thank god, he didn't seem to realise what it meant. He asks about a nightmare, though seemingly remembering victor can't answer him. Victor is given reassurance that it'll be over soon, anyway.

He's given a lot of reassurance, actually.

A little scolding, though more concerned than anything else ["You really must take care of yourself better..."],

a few admissions of attachment ["if only you knew how much I care for you..."],

and many, many apologies.

Victor's heart starts to relax from it all, and he wonders if he might actually fall asleep here... before there's a sharp prick in his arm.

Cold floods through him, and it's too heavy to struggle. He falls unconscious within minutes.

He wakes up back in his bed. Nothing is out of order. Well, at least that's calmed most of his nerves...

[this goes on for weeks. Somehow, he finds himself more relaxed each time.]

= = =

The next unusual thing happens with the letter.

Victor would recognise the handwriting anywhere by now, especially when it's addressed to him. Sort of.

Even if he wasn't mildly addicted to reading and pretending people's letters were for him, he'd still itch to open that seal. There's absolutely no address, besides his own, half formed and shaky.

He can't be blamed if he doesn't know where to go, right? He's just being diligent, right? [He burns with curiosity, taking the letter into his room as subtly as he can, so he can pore over every detail.]

There is no name here, either. But what he does get is so much more... Fascinating, in a sense. It's a terrible thing, he knows, but he can't stop himself from being entranced at the pure emotion dripping off of Aesop's every word.

It's a secret. Just for him.

+ + +

If not for the subject matter he'd be feeling both sick and rather giddy at the chance. (At the moment he just feels the instinctual crawling nausea of something to hide from Them. He swats it away.)

It's funny, how mere weeks ago he thought Aesop was like Them, but it's even clearer now that he's not, and never will be. Victor doesn't see what Aesop does, but Aesop happens to have painted a very easy picture for Victor to see.

It's love, above all else. It's guilt, it's apology, it's longing, it's protection, it's caring. Victor understands Aesop better than anyone else, and this only proves it. He can connect with that emotion, hold it in his hands and press his face against it to feel the warmth.

Nobody else will understand. It's his secret to keep. But unfortunately for Victor's desire to stare at it for hours, this is still technically supposed to be delivered.

He puts the secret back in its envelope, not bothering to re-melt the wax like usual, locks up his room, and walks to Aesop's door. (If it had been back then, he would have been punished for not being punctual. But, they tended to give exceptions to unclear delivery instructions...)

× × ×

"Mr Carl?" He speaks quietly into the wood of the door. "Is this letter yours?"

Aesop is still asking to kill him. It itches under Victor's skin, now. Even after everything??

Aesop speaks like he doesn't know any better. God, he probably doesn't. Victor's hands start to shake as Aesop rests his head on his shoulder. It's anger (not at Aesop, at those who shaped him), it's fear (...alright, that one is of Aesop), it's a whirlpool swirling in his head and he needs to get out of him.

"I think he lied to you."

He cuts off any response Aesop tries to give. He knows the man will argue. He's his son, after all. "I... have questions for you. Rhetorical ones. Some will sound... judgemental, some will sound unrelated, but I hope they can help you understand... My perspective, a little... Please try and answer each one in your head."

"Your mother. How- how do you know she was... unhappy? How old were you when sshe died? Were you old enough to rememb-ber what... she acted like?" He talks slowly, shakily, deliberately. Stressing every question with plenty of time to think in between. "Did- did she deliver that letter of hers? Do you know hher handwriting? When were you t-told that she wrote this letter?"

"Miss Eliza must have be-been a friend, yes? And -and your father... killed her, presumably. Why wwould he t-take your friend away? Why would he make - make you wait for her t-to come? Did he ever tell you... how death helped her?" Victor pauses, before making an educated guess. "Was she the - the only adult... in your life, besides your father? And if sso, would there b-be a reason your fa-father only wanted you... to listen to him?"

"You killed him because he was in pain, because he - he was suffering, right? Would those - those bruises have healed with time? And even - even if not, would yyou saw your foot off if you sprained your a-ankle? Would you cut off so-someone else's foot, if they sprained it? Yes, they've uused that leg ffor... years, but a mo-moment of pain calls for an extreme measure, by- by his standards, right? You c-can't feel an ankle that isn't th-there, even if you can't walk, right?"

Victor takes a deep breath. His voice cracks a little. His questions have been coming out more rapidly, more desperately.

"i-i mean this - without offense, I really d-do, but why on earth would he choose ssomeone like you to "save" people? Someone so... anxious? He must-t have known so many people you could-dn't... "save" would weigh on your - your mind every s-single day, so why f-force you to do... that??? Why alone? If his ideas are so... sound, why wouldn't he g-get a group of people to... Fuck, I d-don't know, spread out and do more??"

It's then Victor realises how much he's shaking. He can feel Aesop moving to respond, turning to him, and he cuts off the man's reply by grabbing him by the shoulders.

"If- if we were out there, and - and i tried t-to shoot you, you wouldn't... just stand t-there, right? B-because you have things to - to live for, don't you? Why do- do you think th-that absolutely nobody else... has their own reasons to live?"

Tears are pricking at his eyes, and he's too hopped up on adrenaline to even think about the fact he's staring into Aesop's.

"And I- Aesop, w-why the fuck would someone care about- about what happens t-to their corpse?? Especially when you're... the one killling them??? How- how can you protect so-something you are hurting?? Why w-would they, or their family, want y-you anywhere near the body you desecrated?? How th-the hell can someone feel safe... when they h-have no consciousness to- to perceive it, and the - the last imprint of their existence is a painful death???"

There's something between venom and anguish in Victor's voice. Tears are rolling down his face now, and his shaking hands pull Aesop into a hug without thinking. His tone softens to a hoarse whisper.

"i-i'll- god, I'll answer my own fucking questions, this is because of your father, Aesop. This is a-all because of him. He killed your - your mother, he killed Eliza. From the- the sounds of it, they were the only... people you knew, besides him. Sso, when all you know is your f-father, you trusted him, be-because you were a child. Do you know h-how fucking easy it is to convince a-a child of something?? Especially when it's yours??? T-think for a moment, Aesop, why would a killer outright say to their child they're a bad person when... they can just... lie? S-say they're the angel helping all the sick people who - who "deserved to die". What does that... even mean, Mr Carl? Was your father a s-seer? W-why would he know that? and- and he said that the afterlife w-was good, was real, he told you this, yes?? Your - your father? Tell me, Mr Carl, had he ever died b-before you killed him? How could he know it's better... than reality?"

"I... think he lied to you..." Victor says again, defeated. "I... God, if you... don't und-understand now, I don't know what I can do to help you but..."

He's still shaking. He only hopes his hold is somewhat as comforting for Aesop as it is for himself, but he knows what this sounds like.

If Aesop had not, perhaps, deposited that letter to nobody in the postbox so that Victor would have something to do, if Aesop had not written far too much while realizing too late he forgot to place his own name on the back after hastily crossing out Victor's own, maybe he would be a little more well-kept. But all of that has happened, all of the past is inescapable, and he cannot hide from it. Only wait for everything to crash down.

And how terrifying it is to wait.

He needed to write everything down anyway, and he would not be surprised if he burned his words once they returned to him. They just needed to be out, and what better way to move them apart from him than to write them and seal them away? He knows the dangers, yes. And if he made a grave mistake, if every bit of goodwill he has scraped together crumbles away, he can only say that it was inevitable. Anyone who found out would do the same. If convincing does not work... but that isn't enough this time, right? Not when death means nothing.

He hasn't bothered to put up his ponytail or get his mask on this morning, not after the sleepless night before. The letter has not been returned. He doesn't know what could be happening, and the terror, the possibility that he's destroyed it all, looms close behind him.

===

(The letter—or would it be better called a ramble, a confession?— is wrapped in a plain, sturdy envelope, such that he hopes it isn't anything that would stand out. Unfortunately, his handwriting is clearly recognizable as his own, rendering the whole point moot anyway. The envelope bears the first few letters of Victor's name, written several times and crossed out on all of them, but the lack of another addressee is notable. The text's shape and unsteady pace betrays the emotional tension in the writer.)

I'm sorry.

I don't even know what I'm sorry for. For going against that faith you had in me? For taking matters into my own hands and hoping you would never find out? For trying to relieve you of burdens but only trying and failing to soothe my own? You were already asleep, there was no need—

I came here to continue my duty. To free more people. But you were never truly free, you kept returning and I could only grow more ashamed, more unable to face you. If you did not have to wake up, if you were safe and never had to be afraid again... but it doesn't work like that. Not anymore. (I still would not leave you.)

Is it selfish that a part of me... doesn't want to succeed? That I want to have your warmth, your voice, all the things I can't preserve the way I can so much else? If you are comfortable, and happy, does it matter if it happens because you are finally at rest?

I know I have always been here to help. I know it is my duty to reach those meant to die, those who are in too much pain to keep going. (Even now, I wonder if I have reached those who need me the most.) But... I know that you wouldn't see it that way. Nobody does. Mr. Carl, too, knows that this mission is a solitary one. Being able to convince someone to let me guide them is ideal, yes, but... it has, in practice, been impossible. You would not be different, I'm sure. Even if I wish you were, if you ever found out that it was me bringing you to dreamless sleep all those times, I... I would understand if you wanted nothing to do with me anymore. Even as I wish to have your company, I have destroyed your trust, I am sure, and tried to bring you to the other side long before you were ready.

If you would allow me to ask this... please do not tell anyone. I do not know what would happen, and I am already... no, it's not worth thinking about. You will do what you decide is right, and who am I to decide what that is? I have hurt you, have I not? All I wanted to do was make things better for you, and yet...

Once again, I apologize. For everything.

Victor Grantz has been dying, recently. Not in matches, like normal, no. Outside of them, daring to close his tired eyes for a moment before waking up in his room, consumed by a blind panic of where am I what happened oh god— Are They back?? Nobody stole anything, right? Why did they let him revive in his room??

Safe to say, he was on extremely high alert after the first time it happened. But even if he wasn't, he's sure he'd have noticed the look on Aesop's face. The way Aesop wouldn't meet Victor's eyes at all. The way Aesop fiddled with his hands. The way Aesop was, very obviously, guilty.

Something clicks into place, then. So now the question becomes why. And, paranoid as he is, he can't trust it's actually Aesop.

Although, god, if anyone is killing him he hopes it's Aesop. As weird as that sounds. You see, there's no real reason for Victor to be dying. It'd be one thing if his bag was searched, another if his room was, but neither are true. He's made sure of it. (The keys are still in his pocket when he revives, and ordering the letters in a way only he knows leads to the order being perfect afterwards.) It's not torture either, he's certain it's not meant to be.

The only other reason for someone to kill him is... Concern. Worry about him neglecting himself, choosing to reset his body and take him straight to bed rather than argue with him about whether he's okay.

And that is why he hopes it's Aesop. Because that is absolutely something he might do, and it would make him much more at ease.

But he can't just ask Aesop if he's killing him. That likely wouldn't go down well, especially if Aesop isn't the murderer. So he experiments instead.

- - -

He'd pretended to be unconscious on the dining room table. Late enough he knew nobody would walk in on them, and close enough to both of their rooms that it'd give Aesop confidence to solve the mystery for him.

And, well... If the gloved hands and the click of the case didn't give it away, Aesop speaking, quiet and shaky through his mask, definitely did. Victor wills his pounding heart to stop beating so loud. Aesop will catch on to his ruse, surely...

Aesop does, in fact, catch on... Partially. Thank god, he didn't seem to realise what it meant. He asks about a nightmare, though seemingly remembering victor can't answer him. Victor is given reassurance that it'll be over soon, anyway.

He's given a lot of reassurance, actually.

A little scolding, though more concerned than anything else ["You really must take care of yourself better..."],

a few admissions of attachment ["if only you knew how much I care for you..."],

and many, many apologies.

Victor's heart starts to relax from it all, and he wonders if he might actually fall asleep here... before there's a sharp prick in his arm.

Cold floods through him, and it's too heavy to struggle. He falls unconscious within minutes.

He wakes up back in his bed. Nothing is out of order. Well, at least that's calmed most of his nerves...

[this goes on for weeks. Somehow, he finds himself more relaxed each time.]

= = =

The next unusual thing happens with the letter.

Victor would recognise the handwriting anywhere by now, especially when it's addressed to him. Sort of.

Even if he wasn't mildly addicted to reading and pretending people's letters were for him, he'd still itch to open that seal. There's absolutely no address, besides his own, half formed and shaky.

He can't be blamed if he doesn't know where to go, right? He's just being diligent, right? [He burns with curiosity, taking the letter into his room as subtly as he can, so he can pore over every detail.]

There is no name here, either. But what he does get is so much more... Fascinating, in a sense. It's a terrible thing, he knows, but he can't stop himself from being entranced at the pure emotion dripping off of Aesop's every word.

It's a secret. Just for him.

+ + +

If not for the subject matter he'd be feeling both sick and rather giddy at the chance. (At the moment he just feels the instinctual crawling nausea of something to hide from Them. He swats it away.)

It's funny, how mere weeks ago he thought Aesop was like Them, but it's even clearer now that he's not, and never will be. Victor doesn't see what Aesop does, but Aesop happens to have painted a very easy picture for Victor to see.

It's love, above all else. It's guilt, it's apology, it's longing, it's protection, it's caring. Victor understands Aesop better than anyone else, and this only proves it. He can connect with that emotion, hold it in his hands and press his face against it to feel the warmth.

Nobody else will understand. It's his secret to keep. But unfortunately for Victor's desire to stare at it for hours, this is still technically supposed to be delivered.

He puts the secret back in its envelope, not bothering to re-melt the wax like usual, locks up his room, and walks to Aesop's door. (If it had been back then, he would have been punished for not being punctual. But, they tended to give exceptions to unclear delivery instructions...)

× × ×

"Mr Carl?" He speaks quietly into the wood of the door. "Is this letter yours?"

Finally, the question is processed, he looks at the all-too-familiar envelope, with unmistakably scratched out names. It hangs open, ever so slightly.

Fuck.

Victor puts the letter in his bag as soon as he's given permission to, before looking Aesop up and down. He.. well. Victor doesn't quite know how to phrase it.

"you look t-terrible, Aesop.... Is everything ok-ay?" His tone is sweet, almost uncaring about what was in that letter. (He does care, an awful lot in fact, but... probably in the opposite direction than Aesop imagines.)

There is nowhere to run. Not when his room is the only place he has, when he is trapped by obligation. Victor speaks to him, sweetly as ever, and a part of him wants to be reassured.

Aesop appears absolutely sickened, and Victor can, unfortunately, understand why. It's certainly eerie to be confronted about things you've done, particularly by someone who was never supposed to know. (Perhaps that is why Victor finds Aesop's despair so enthralling.)

"w-why wouldn't I.... Be worried? You've d- done - done so much for me... You don't get tto suffer now..." He smiles, as normal. Well, perhaps a little softer, a little more lifelike than normal. There's a drop of pity in his eyes as they wander along the strands of Aesop's tousled hair. Part of him hopes he is reassuring.

"do - do you... Rea-really have that... little fa-faith in my ability... to keep ssecrets, Mr - Mr Carl?" Aesop's words linger in the air, so Victor finds himself speaking up again, puffing out the smallest of laughs as he does so. What good is a mute who cannot keep a secret? What an absurd idea. "N-nobody else - else knows, it's... alright. I wwouldn't d-do that - that to you."

"as- as for how I know," He begins, doing his best to pretend like this entire concept is a perfectly standard thing for a man of his perceived personality to do, "I-i wouldn't make... a mistake like - like that more than o-once. N-not after th-the fright it gave me..."

He glances up and down the hallway they're conversing in. Nobody is allowed to hear this other than them. But soon he is satisfied, so he continues.

"D-do you know how much I hoped it was you? I co-couldn't let my - myself take... the risk without kn-knowing what would hhappen." He fiddles with his collar, trying to figure out how to phrase his explanation. "Even... though it - it seemed I was... in ssafe hands, I had t-to make ssure. And then I... Di-didn't really stop."

Victor finds it funny, perhaps, but Aesop only sees a failure of trust, a failure of explanation. His words come out hasty, stressed, somewhat choked back. "Ah—it's not that, it's just—it's just that... I doubt that such a secret is one where people would... choose to keep it to themselves. If you told whoever you could, I would... truly understand." The sorrow, the guilt, the worry that falls into him as he speaks grows more obvious, and inside there is a loneliness that Aesop still does not know how to address.

All he can do while Victor checks the hallway is wait, and try to understand exactly which mistake Victor meant, exactly what he was afraid of. But finally, Victor speaks again, Aesop's voice bubbles up before he can stop himself. "I'm— I'm sorry, again— I... I shouldn't have scared you like that... even if I was sure there was no way you would agree to such a thing... you should not have had to go through that... I'm sorry..."

So he leans into the feeling. The pitying side of himself.

"of course... I'll bur-burden mysself. I-it's my job, isn't - isn't it? I need... to re-p-pay you. Haven't you done - you done too much... for me already?"

Aesop's words are so shaky, so apologetic... Victor understands, naturally, but that doesn't mean he knows how to respond to them. To take them out of Aesop's mouth and lock them away, where they won't infest the poor man's brain for a while.

"a s-secret is... a se-secret. I have to keep it ssafe. No matter what - what it is." He finds himself looking Aesop up and down. Lord, how has Victor only noticed now how dishevelled he is? His mask is off, his coat's undone, his hair is down, his shoes are untied... Victor itches to fix it. What if someone sees Aesop in that state? So many questions, that's what.

"it's perfect - perfectly underst-standable! I mean, you thought I... would t-tell, didn't you? ....though y-you still wrote... to me. It only took - took a whille t-to explain, I really don't - don't mind." He needs to get Aesop somewhere safer. Somewhere where he doesn't have to be scared. There are eyes everywhere. The room is a sanctuary.

"you... You would - would never hurt... me. You've k-killled me, yes, but it wassn't torture. You w-wouldn't....." He hesitates. "You wouldn't d-do what... they did to me. But - but anybody elsse would. I tr-trust you more... than anyone."

He takes a barely noticeable step forward.

Victor examines him, and Aesop is once again keenly aware of how awful he looks, how obvious it is that something is wrong. He covers his face with a hand on instinct, glancing away. "...thank you. For... keeping that secret... for not telling anyone... Even if I cannot understand how you still... still care for me." This isn't how it works, after all. Someone finds out, they protest, Aesop subdues them and doesn't have to deal with the problem further. But in a manor where permanence means nothing, where the anger and hatred and confusion certainly would not stop... he's lucky to be understood, listened to at all.

Why did he write to Victor, even through the fear? It stings to think about. It stings that the answer is on the tip of his tongue so quickly. "...to tell you the truth... I didn't know if those words would actually reach you, even if I was writing to you. But... I needed to write down what was in my head, when it all became too much. And... there were so many things you deserved to hear, even if I knew I did not have the courage to say them."

Victor speaks to him once more, and Aesop immediately realizes that the postman gets it. He knows what Aesop is truly trying to do. When the embalmer looks up, his eyes are wide, full of fear and hope and trust and so many emotions at once, a smile spreading past where his hand can cover. "You... oh, God, you understand. I... I never want to hurt you. You're safe with me, I promise. I... do not know who they are, what they did, but... I hope you do not have to remember their actions in the ones I take."

Victor is the one to ensure it's locked, taking the opportunity to breathe before turning back to Aesop. It strikes him that the man is swaying, just a bit. How tired he must be...

It's probably best if he takes over the thinking for a while, so he occupies himself with looking through Aesop's wardrobe as he begins to respond to what was said outside.

"there's.. n-no way I - i would posssibly tell an-anyone about this, I can a-assure you! After - after all, this issn't much... comp-pared to... What I've b-been made to - to keep be-before!"

Aesop's clothes are organised by how they fit together, so it's easy to pick out a folded set of night clothes. (They're soft, which is both good for Aesop right now, and perfectly on brand for the man.) Victor gingerly hands them to Aesop, before turning his attention to the bed.

"I- I understand.. what it's like t-to - to not know hhow to say things. Th-that's why we- we write, isn't it? To talk... without words...?"

Victor sets the pillows back in their proper place. He remembers how to make a bed quite easily, even though he rarely makes his own. Find one corner of the long side, then the other... One in each hand...

"as for.... Them......." His voice goes quiet, drowned out by the rustling sheets. Once he finishes his handiwork, he glances to make sure Aesop has fully changed before moving forward and scooping up his day clothes.

"Nevermind, a-apologies, I'd rather not... But you don't - don't remind me of thhem very much!" He says as he returns from placing the clothes in the washing basket. "I understand... what you want t- to do. Now I do, at least."

"Though i-if it had been - been any other situation... we were in, well, I-i'm rather capable of blud-dg-dgeoning ssomeone." He chuckles to himself like it's funny. It is to him. "I've- had to - to do it... a few times, as a Postman. Thhe less blood... I need to wash ou-out of my stit-tches the better."

Victor takes off his bag and hat, moving a little closer to Aesop's shaky form. He wants to give a shoulder to lean on, if needed.

The lock clicks regardless, and he does not realize with how he has not moved that his posture, keeping his feet positioned right next to each other, does him no favors, ensures that the adjustments he makes to his balance are painfully visible, noticeable to all but himself.

As Victor sorts through Aesop's wardrobe, the embalmer feels anxiety at what the man must be thinking, what he could find, what further opinions he could form, and yet he is unable to make himself move. If he gets too close, would he not just scare his friend? Would he only make everything an irreparable mess?

Victor says he's kept worse, as he delivers a set of pajamas to Aesop's arms that were not waiting previously but stiltedly move to catch them regardless. (Aesop does not know how to respond, only able to offer a stifled noise of alarm and an "I... I see." in his surprise.) He cannot just... change in front of the postman, but leaving in the middle of a conversation is rude, isn't it? He'll just hide somewhere. He makes his way to a corner out of the bed's line of sight as he notices Victor starting to make it, aligning corners of sheets and blankets.

"...I... I think there's a lot of reasons to write. Giving more chances to read and understand what's been said... taking the words and making them less easy to lose in time... though that is a blessing and a curse..." He looks down.

Once Aesop emerges, fully changed, day clothes in hand, he peeks out, hearing Victor mention Them in that certain way he does. Victor plucks the clothes out of his hands, dropping them in their receptacle before Aesop has a chance to do such a thing. Curse his hesitation.

"...That is good, at least." The emphasis on "now" is noted. He did not understand at first, but he stayed until he did anyway. "...I'm glad that you chose to try to understand... I know how hard it is to do."

And then, the softness is interrupted with what should have been humorous, if Victor's laughter is any indication. Yet Aesop freezes where he stands. Anywhere else, and none of this would happen. None of this grace, none of this understanding. With how he says he's had to do it before, too... Why is this different? (It sounds like quite a painful way to go. Why must Victor have had to learn it? And why does he talk so casually about the inconvenience of blood seeping into his stitches?)

Victor's stomach twists as he thinks of how he could possibly explain his fear of death. Aesop is strangely oblivious to human instincts, isn't he? (Who made him like that? He can't have forgotten something as simple as "killing is bad" on his own, surely...?)

"....before now, be-before.... This, I-i was a Postman. An- an ordinary one. Like all the others." He starts, slowly, shakily. It's like telling a story, just pretend you're someone else for a while... "And then, then I-i... wasn't. B-before the manor, I mean. Ssomeone else...... "hired me" doesn't sound - sound fully right. It's not l-like there was an interview, I just... stumbled on a letter... from one of their associates..."

Wick did, technically but it's still Victor's fault. He didn't need to return it himself. He didn't need to read it. He didn't need to follow the dog to his master.

"...and I got too - too curious for my own good. Sso I became theirs." There's a shake in his voice as he says that. Maybe there's been one the whole time. He traces the stitches on his arms, hands starting to pull on them in some attempt to soothe his own nerves as he corrects himself. "I-i am theirs. Still. I am still - only a Postman after all. I cannot... be anything else. P-physically, it would be wrong."

He needs to focus. He breathes, a raspy weak thing, as he turns his face away from Aesop as much as he can while facing forward. Just tell him about the death. Focus on why you're being so vulnerable.

"I have - th-they made me - it was four people. Directly. That... "stained my clothes." Two were... W-with this," He doesn't want to say that he killed directly, and yet he continues. Hypocrite. He pulls his bag towards him by the strap, rummaging through it until he finds what he's looking for. He lays the revolver in his lap. "I-it's unloaded, to be c-clear... M-more of a scare t-tactic now, I can't... have it going off on accident..."

"I had a fr-friend once. She was c-curious too. Like me. Sshe was a poet, she p-played music, and yet- and yet she w-wanted to stay with... me. She - she learned too much, I think... They never told me... why." He turns the pistol in his hands. "It's all a blur now, what h-happened after i... I j-just rememb-ber grieving for- for weeks. I don't even r-remember her name, now."

"it only takes a second, but I-i don't want to be at the o-other end of the b-barrel... And I would have been, too, but I was just.... G-good at my job. Good enough t-to be useful, good enough to - to be alive, good e-enough to get away with - with only scars..." He runs a finger under his eye, feeling the burn there. "I-i can't count on my hands how - how many narrow escapes I had...."

"I don't - I don't know where I'm going with this....... I think I've said too much already... But I- I can't describe to you how many times.... I have fought, and I have...taken down several of them, because t-thhey would have done the- the same to me in a heartbeat..." He inhales, and his next words come out just as shaky as they are certain. And they are very, very certain. "You would be no different, no m-matter how you sugarc-coat it. Sweet... words are n-nothing, wh-when you... Aim to kill...."

Victor gags on his own words, curling in on himself.

"s-sorry, s-so so sorry... I j-just want you to u-understand.... D-death is not a mercy when y- you break yo-yourself trying to- to escape it... And we - we all do, one way or- or another. I j-just want peace, not to- to be nothing at all..."

The danger is over. No more them to talk about. He breathes.

".........is there any- anything I can d-do for you, now?"

If Aesop had not, perhaps, deposited that letter to nobody in the postbox so that Victor would have something to do, if Aesop had not written far too much while realizing too late he forgot to place his own name on the back after hastily crossing out Victor's own, maybe he would be a little more well-kept. But all of that has happened, all of the past is inescapable, and he cannot hide from it. Only wait for everything to crash down.

And how terrifying it is to wait.

He needed to write everything down anyway, and he would not be surprised if he burned his words once they returned to him. They just needed to be out, and what better way to move them apart from him than to write them and seal them away? He knows the dangers, yes. And if he made a grave mistake, if every bit of goodwill he has scraped together crumbles away, he can only say that it was inevitable. Anyone who found out would do the same. If convincing does not work... but that isn't enough this time, right? Not when death means nothing.

He hasn't bothered to put up his ponytail or get his mask on this morning, not after the sleepless night before. The letter has not been returned. He doesn't know what could be happening, and the terror, the possibility that he's destroyed it all, looms close behind him.

===

(The letter—or would it be better called a ramble, a confession?— is wrapped in a plain, sturdy envelope, such that he hopes it isn't anything that would stand out. Unfortunately, his handwriting is clearly recognizable as his own, rendering the whole point moot anyway. The envelope bears the first few letters of Victor's name, written several times and crossed out on all of them, but the lack of another addressee is notable. The text's shape and unsteady pace betrays the emotional tension in the writer.)

I'm sorry.

I don't even know what I'm sorry for. For going against that faith you had in me? For taking matters into my own hands and hoping you would never find out? For trying to relieve you of burdens but only trying and failing to soothe my own? You were already asleep, there was no need—

I came here to continue my duty. To free more people. But you were never truly free, you kept returning and I could only grow more ashamed, more unable to face you. If you did not have to wake up, if you were safe and never had to be afraid again... but it doesn't work like that. Not anymore. (I still would not leave you.)

Is it selfish that a part of me... doesn't want to succeed? That I want to have your warmth, your voice, all the things I can't preserve the way I can so much else? If you are comfortable, and happy, does it matter if it happens because you are finally at rest?

I know I have always been here to help. I know it is my duty to reach those meant to die, those who are in too much pain to keep going. (Even now, I wonder if I have reached those who need me the most.) But... I know that you wouldn't see it that way. Nobody does. Mr. Carl, too, knows that this mission is a solitary one. Being able to convince someone to let me guide them is ideal, yes, but... it has, in practice, been impossible. You would not be different, I'm sure. Even if I wish you were, if you ever found out that it was me bringing you to dreamless sleep all those times, I... I would understand if you wanted nothing to do with me anymore. Even as I wish to have your company, I have destroyed your trust, I am sure, and tried to bring you to the other side long before you were ready.

If you would allow me to ask this... please do not tell anyone. I do not know what would happen, and I am already... no, it's not worth thinking about. You will do what you decide is right, and who am I to decide what that is? I have hurt you, have I not? All I wanted to do was make things better for you, and yet...

Once again, I apologize. For everything.

Victor Grantz has been dying, recently. Not in matches, like normal, no. Outside of them, daring to close his tired eyes for a moment before waking up in his room, consumed by a blind panic of where am I what happened oh god— Are They back?? Nobody stole anything, right? Why did they let him revive in his room??

Safe to say, he was on extremely high alert after the first time it happened. But even if he wasn't, he's sure he'd have noticed the look on Aesop's face. The way Aesop wouldn't meet Victor's eyes at all. The way Aesop fiddled with his hands. The way Aesop was, very obviously, guilty.

Something clicks into place, then. So now the question becomes why. And, paranoid as he is, he can't trust it's actually Aesop.

Although, god, if anyone is killing him he hopes it's Aesop. As weird as that sounds. You see, there's no real reason for Victor to be dying. It'd be one thing if his bag was searched, another if his room was, but neither are true. He's made sure of it. (The keys are still in his pocket when he revives, and ordering the letters in a way only he knows leads to the order being perfect afterwards.) It's not torture either, he's certain it's not meant to be.

The only other reason for someone to kill him is... Concern. Worry about him neglecting himself, choosing to reset his body and take him straight to bed rather than argue with him about whether he's okay.

And that is why he hopes it's Aesop. Because that is absolutely something he might do, and it would make him much more at ease.

But he can't just ask Aesop if he's killing him. That likely wouldn't go down well, especially if Aesop isn't the murderer. So he experiments instead.

- - -

He'd pretended to be unconscious on the dining room table. Late enough he knew nobody would walk in on them, and close enough to both of their rooms that it'd give Aesop confidence to solve the mystery for him.

And, well... If the gloved hands and the click of the case didn't give it away, Aesop speaking, quiet and shaky through his mask, definitely did. Victor wills his pounding heart to stop beating so loud. Aesop will catch on to his ruse, surely...

Aesop does, in fact, catch on... Partially. Thank god, he didn't seem to realise what it meant. He asks about a nightmare, though seemingly remembering victor can't answer him. Victor is given reassurance that it'll be over soon, anyway.

He's given a lot of reassurance, actually.

A little scolding, though more concerned than anything else ["You really must take care of yourself better..."],

a few admissions of attachment ["if only you knew how much I care for you..."],

and many, many apologies.

Victor's heart starts to relax from it all, and he wonders if he might actually fall asleep here... before there's a sharp prick in his arm.

Cold floods through him, and it's too heavy to struggle. He falls unconscious within minutes.

He wakes up back in his bed. Nothing is out of order. Well, at least that's calmed most of his nerves...

[this goes on for weeks. Somehow, he finds himself more relaxed each time.]

= = =

The next unusual thing happens with the letter.

Victor would recognise the handwriting anywhere by now, especially when it's addressed to him. Sort of.

Even if he wasn't mildly addicted to reading and pretending people's letters were for him, he'd still itch to open that seal. There's absolutely no address, besides his own, half formed and shaky.

He can't be blamed if he doesn't know where to go, right? He's just being diligent, right? [He burns with curiosity, taking the letter into his room as subtly as he can, so he can pore over every detail.]

There is no name here, either. But what he does get is so much more... Fascinating, in a sense. It's a terrible thing, he knows, but he can't stop himself from being entranced at the pure emotion dripping off of Aesop's every word.

It's a secret. Just for him.

+ + +

If not for the subject matter he'd be feeling both sick and rather giddy at the chance. (At the moment he just feels the instinctual crawling nausea of something to hide from Them. He swats it away.)

It's funny, how mere weeks ago he thought Aesop was like Them, but it's even clearer now that he's not, and never will be. Victor doesn't see what Aesop does, but Aesop happens to have painted a very easy picture for Victor to see.

It's love, above all else. It's guilt, it's apology, it's longing, it's protection, it's caring. Victor understands Aesop better than anyone else, and this only proves it. He can connect with that emotion, hold it in his hands and press his face against it to feel the warmth.

Nobody else will understand. It's his secret to keep. But unfortunately for Victor's desire to stare at it for hours, this is still technically supposed to be delivered.

He puts the secret back in its envelope, not bothering to re-melt the wax like usual, locks up his room, and walks to Aesop's door. (If it had been back then, he would have been punished for not being punctual. But, they tended to give exceptions to unclear delivery instructions...)

× × ×

"Mr Carl?" He speaks quietly into the wood of the door. "Is this letter yours?"

Finally, the question is processed, he looks at the all-too-familiar envelope, with unmistakably scratched out names. It hangs open, ever so slightly.

Fuck.

Victor puts the letter in his bag as soon as he's given permission to, before looking Aesop up and down. He.. well. Victor doesn't quite know how to phrase it.

"you look t-terrible, Aesop.... Is everything ok-ay?" His tone is sweet, almost uncaring about what was in that letter. (He does care, an awful lot in fact, but... probably in the opposite direction than Aesop imagines.)

There is nowhere to run. Not when his room is the only place he has, when he is trapped by obligation. Victor speaks to him, sweetly as ever, and a part of him wants to be reassured.

Aesop appears absolutely sickened, and Victor can, unfortunately, understand why. It's certainly eerie to be confronted about things you've done, particularly by someone who was never supposed to know. (Perhaps that is why Victor finds Aesop's despair so enthralling.)

"w-why wouldn't I.... Be worried? You've d- done - done so much for me... You don't get tto suffer now..." He smiles, as normal. Well, perhaps a little softer, a little more lifelike than normal. There's a drop of pity in his eyes as they wander along the strands of Aesop's tousled hair. Part of him hopes he is reassuring.

"do - do you... Rea-really have that... little fa-faith in my ability... to keep ssecrets, Mr - Mr Carl?" Aesop's words linger in the air, so Victor finds himself speaking up again, puffing out the smallest of laughs as he does so. What good is a mute who cannot keep a secret? What an absurd idea. "N-nobody else - else knows, it's... alright. I wwouldn't d-do that - that to you."

"as- as for how I know," He begins, doing his best to pretend like this entire concept is a perfectly standard thing for a man of his perceived personality to do, "I-i wouldn't make... a mistake like - like that more than o-once. N-not after th-the fright it gave me..."

He glances up and down the hallway they're conversing in. Nobody is allowed to hear this other than them. But soon he is satisfied, so he continues.

"D-do you know how much I hoped it was you? I co-couldn't let my - myself take... the risk without kn-knowing what would hhappen." He fiddles with his collar, trying to figure out how to phrase his explanation. "Even... though it - it seemed I was... in ssafe hands, I had t-to make ssure. And then I... Di-didn't really stop."

Victor finds it funny, perhaps, but Aesop only sees a failure of trust, a failure of explanation. His words come out hasty, stressed, somewhat choked back. "Ah—it's not that, it's just—it's just that... I doubt that such a secret is one where people would... choose to keep it to themselves. If you told whoever you could, I would... truly understand." The sorrow, the guilt, the worry that falls into him as he speaks grows more obvious, and inside there is a loneliness that Aesop still does not know how to address.

All he can do while Victor checks the hallway is wait, and try to understand exactly which mistake Victor meant, exactly what he was afraid of. But finally, Victor speaks again, Aesop's voice bubbles up before he can stop himself. "I'm— I'm sorry, again— I... I shouldn't have scared you like that... even if I was sure there was no way you would agree to such a thing... you should not have had to go through that... I'm sorry..."

So he leans into the feeling. The pitying side of himself.

"of course... I'll bur-burden mysself. I-it's my job, isn't - isn't it? I need... to re-p-pay you. Haven't you done - you done too much... for me already?"

Aesop's words are so shaky, so apologetic... Victor understands, naturally, but that doesn't mean he knows how to respond to them. To take them out of Aesop's mouth and lock them away, where they won't infest the poor man's brain for a while.

"a s-secret is... a se-secret. I have to keep it ssafe. No matter what - what it is." He finds himself looking Aesop up and down. Lord, how has Victor only noticed now how dishevelled he is? His mask is off, his coat's undone, his hair is down, his shoes are untied... Victor itches to fix it. What if someone sees Aesop in that state? So many questions, that's what.

"it's perfect - perfectly underst-standable! I mean, you thought I... would t-tell, didn't you? ....though y-you still wrote... to me. It only took - took a whille t-to explain, I really don't - don't mind." He needs to get Aesop somewhere safer. Somewhere where he doesn't have to be scared. There are eyes everywhere. The room is a sanctuary.

"you... You would - would never hurt... me. You've k-killled me, yes, but it wassn't torture. You w-wouldn't....." He hesitates. "You wouldn't d-do what... they did to me. But - but anybody elsse would. I tr-trust you more... than anyone."

He takes a barely noticeable step forward.

Victor examines him, and Aesop is once again keenly aware of how awful he looks, how obvious it is that something is wrong. He covers his face with a hand on instinct, glancing away. "...thank you. For... keeping that secret... for not telling anyone... Even if I cannot understand how you still... still care for me." This isn't how it works, after all. Someone finds out, they protest, Aesop subdues them and doesn't have to deal with the problem further. But in a manor where permanence means nothing, where the anger and hatred and confusion certainly would not stop... he's lucky to be understood, listened to at all.

Why did he write to Victor, even through the fear? It stings to think about. It stings that the answer is on the tip of his tongue so quickly. "...to tell you the truth... I didn't know if those words would actually reach you, even if I was writing to you. But... I needed to write down what was in my head, when it all became too much. And... there were so many things you deserved to hear, even if I knew I did not have the courage to say them."

Victor speaks to him once more, and Aesop immediately realizes that the postman gets it. He knows what Aesop is truly trying to do. When the embalmer looks up, his eyes are wide, full of fear and hope and trust and so many emotions at once, a smile spreading past where his hand can cover. "You... oh, God, you understand. I... I never want to hurt you. You're safe with me, I promise. I... do not know who they are, what they did, but... I hope you do not have to remember their actions in the ones I take."

Victor is the one to ensure it's locked, taking the opportunity to breathe before turning back to Aesop. It strikes him that the man is swaying, just a bit. How tired he must be...

It's probably best if he takes over the thinking for a while, so he occupies himself with looking through Aesop's wardrobe as he begins to respond to what was said outside.

"there's.. n-no way I - i would posssibly tell an-anyone about this, I can a-assure you! After - after all, this issn't much... comp-pared to... What I've b-been made to - to keep be-before!"

Aesop's clothes are organised by how they fit together, so it's easy to pick out a folded set of night clothes. (They're soft, which is both good for Aesop right now, and perfectly on brand for the man.) Victor gingerly hands them to Aesop, before turning his attention to the bed.

"I- I understand.. what it's like t-to - to not know hhow to say things. Th-that's why we- we write, isn't it? To talk... without words...?"

Victor sets the pillows back in their proper place. He remembers how to make a bed quite easily, even though he rarely makes his own. Find one corner of the long side, then the other... One in each hand...

"as for.... Them......." His voice goes quiet, drowned out by the rustling sheets. Once he finishes his handiwork, he glances to make sure Aesop has fully changed before moving forward and scooping up his day clothes.

"Nevermind, a-apologies, I'd rather not... But you don't - don't remind me of thhem very much!" He says as he returns from placing the clothes in the washing basket. "I understand... what you want t- to do. Now I do, at least."

"Though i-if it had been - been any other situation... we were in, well, I-i'm rather capable of blud-dg-dgeoning ssomeone." He chuckles to himself like it's funny. It is to him. "I've- had to - to do it... a few times, as a Postman. Thhe less blood... I need to wash ou-out of my stit-tches the better."

Victor takes off his bag and hat, moving a little closer to Aesop's shaky form. He wants to give a shoulder to lean on, if needed.

If Aesop had not, perhaps, deposited that letter to nobody in the postbox so that Victor would have something to do, if Aesop had not written far too much while realizing too late he forgot to place his own name on the back after hastily crossing out Victor's own, maybe he would be a little more well-kept. But all of that has happened, all of the past is inescapable, and he cannot hide from it. Only wait for everything to crash down.

And how terrifying it is to wait.

He needed to write everything down anyway, and he would not be surprised if he burned his words once they returned to him. They just needed to be out, and what better way to move them apart from him than to write them and seal them away? He knows the dangers, yes. And if he made a grave mistake, if every bit of goodwill he has scraped together crumbles away, he can only say that it was inevitable. Anyone who found out would do the same. If convincing does not work... but that isn't enough this time, right? Not when death means nothing.

He hasn't bothered to put up his ponytail or get his mask on this morning, not after the sleepless night before. The letter has not been returned. He doesn't know what could be happening, and the terror, the possibility that he's destroyed it all, looms close behind him.

===

(The letter—or would it be better called a ramble, a confession?— is wrapped in a plain, sturdy envelope, such that he hopes it isn't anything that would stand out. Unfortunately, his handwriting is clearly recognizable as his own, rendering the whole point moot anyway. The envelope bears the first few letters of Victor's name, written several times and crossed out on all of them, but the lack of another addressee is notable. The text's shape and unsteady pace betrays the emotional tension in the writer.)

I'm sorry.

I don't even know what I'm sorry for. For going against that faith you had in me? For taking matters into my own hands and hoping you would never find out? For trying to relieve you of burdens but only trying and failing to soothe my own? You were already asleep, there was no need—

I came here to continue my duty. To free more people. But you were never truly free, you kept returning and I could only grow more ashamed, more unable to face you. If you did not have to wake up, if you were safe and never had to be afraid again... but it doesn't work like that. Not anymore. (I still would not leave you.)

Is it selfish that a part of me... doesn't want to succeed? That I want to have your warmth, your voice, all the things I can't preserve the way I can so much else? If you are comfortable, and happy, does it matter if it happens because you are finally at rest?

I know I have always been here to help. I know it is my duty to reach those meant to die, those who are in too much pain to keep going. (Even now, I wonder if I have reached those who need me the most.) But... I know that you wouldn't see it that way. Nobody does. Mr. Carl, too, knows that this mission is a solitary one. Being able to convince someone to let me guide them is ideal, yes, but... it has, in practice, been impossible. You would not be different, I'm sure. Even if I wish you were, if you ever found out that it was me bringing you to dreamless sleep all those times, I... I would understand if you wanted nothing to do with me anymore. Even as I wish to have your company, I have destroyed your trust, I am sure, and tried to bring you to the other side long before you were ready.

If you would allow me to ask this... please do not tell anyone. I do not know what would happen, and I am already... no, it's not worth thinking about. You will do what you decide is right, and who am I to decide what that is? I have hurt you, have I not? All I wanted to do was make things better for you, and yet...

Once again, I apologize. For everything.

Victor Grantz has been dying, recently. Not in matches, like normal, no. Outside of them, daring to close his tired eyes for a moment before waking up in his room, consumed by a blind panic of where am I what happened oh god— Are They back?? Nobody stole anything, right? Why did they let him revive in his room??

Safe to say, he was on extremely high alert after the first time it happened. But even if he wasn't, he's sure he'd have noticed the look on Aesop's face. The way Aesop wouldn't meet Victor's eyes at all. The way Aesop fiddled with his hands. The way Aesop was, very obviously, guilty.

Something clicks into place, then. So now the question becomes why. And, paranoid as he is, he can't trust it's actually Aesop.

Although, god, if anyone is killing him he hopes it's Aesop. As weird as that sounds. You see, there's no real reason for Victor to be dying. It'd be one thing if his bag was searched, another if his room was, but neither are true. He's made sure of it. (The keys are still in his pocket when he revives, and ordering the letters in a way only he knows leads to the order being perfect afterwards.) It's not torture either, he's certain it's not meant to be.

The only other reason for someone to kill him is... Concern. Worry about him neglecting himself, choosing to reset his body and take him straight to bed rather than argue with him about whether he's okay.

And that is why he hopes it's Aesop. Because that is absolutely something he might do, and it would make him much more at ease.

But he can't just ask Aesop if he's killing him. That likely wouldn't go down well, especially if Aesop isn't the murderer. So he experiments instead.

- - -

He'd pretended to be unconscious on the dining room table. Late enough he knew nobody would walk in on them, and close enough to both of their rooms that it'd give Aesop confidence to solve the mystery for him.

And, well... If the gloved hands and the click of the case didn't give it away, Aesop speaking, quiet and shaky through his mask, definitely did. Victor wills his pounding heart to stop beating so loud. Aesop will catch on to his ruse, surely...

Aesop does, in fact, catch on... Partially. Thank god, he didn't seem to realise what it meant. He asks about a nightmare, though seemingly remembering victor can't answer him. Victor is given reassurance that it'll be over soon, anyway.

He's given a lot of reassurance, actually.

A little scolding, though more concerned than anything else ["You really must take care of yourself better..."],

a few admissions of attachment ["if only you knew how much I care for you..."],

and many, many apologies.

Victor's heart starts to relax from it all, and he wonders if he might actually fall asleep here... before there's a sharp prick in his arm.

Cold floods through him, and it's too heavy to struggle. He falls unconscious within minutes.

He wakes up back in his bed. Nothing is out of order. Well, at least that's calmed most of his nerves...

[this goes on for weeks. Somehow, he finds himself more relaxed each time.]

= = =

The next unusual thing happens with the letter.

Victor would recognise the handwriting anywhere by now, especially when it's addressed to him. Sort of.

Even if he wasn't mildly addicted to reading and pretending people's letters were for him, he'd still itch to open that seal. There's absolutely no address, besides his own, half formed and shaky.

He can't be blamed if he doesn't know where to go, right? He's just being diligent, right? [He burns with curiosity, taking the letter into his room as subtly as he can, so he can pore over every detail.]

There is no name here, either. But what he does get is so much more... Fascinating, in a sense. It's a terrible thing, he knows, but he can't stop himself from being entranced at the pure emotion dripping off of Aesop's every word.

It's a secret. Just for him.

+ + +

If not for the subject matter he'd be feeling both sick and rather giddy at the chance. (At the moment he just feels the instinctual crawling nausea of something to hide from Them. He swats it away.)

It's funny, how mere weeks ago he thought Aesop was like Them, but it's even clearer now that he's not, and never will be. Victor doesn't see what Aesop does, but Aesop happens to have painted a very easy picture for Victor to see.

It's love, above all else. It's guilt, it's apology, it's longing, it's protection, it's caring. Victor understands Aesop better than anyone else, and this only proves it. He can connect with that emotion, hold it in his hands and press his face against it to feel the warmth.

Nobody else will understand. It's his secret to keep. But unfortunately for Victor's desire to stare at it for hours, this is still technically supposed to be delivered.

He puts the secret back in its envelope, not bothering to re-melt the wax like usual, locks up his room, and walks to Aesop's door. (If it had been back then, he would have been punished for not being punctual. But, they tended to give exceptions to unclear delivery instructions...)

× × ×

"Mr Carl?" He speaks quietly into the wood of the door. "Is this letter yours?"

Finally, the question is processed, he looks at the all-too-familiar envelope, with unmistakably scratched out names. It hangs open, ever so slightly.

Fuck.

Victor puts the letter in his bag as soon as he's given permission to, before looking Aesop up and down. He.. well. Victor doesn't quite know how to phrase it.

"you look t-terrible, Aesop.... Is everything ok-ay?" His tone is sweet, almost uncaring about what was in that letter. (He does care, an awful lot in fact, but... probably in the opposite direction than Aesop imagines.)

There is nowhere to run. Not when his room is the only place he has, when he is trapped by obligation. Victor speaks to him, sweetly as ever, and a part of him wants to be reassured.

Aesop appears absolutely sickened, and Victor can, unfortunately, understand why. It's certainly eerie to be confronted about things you've done, particularly by someone who was never supposed to know. (Perhaps that is why Victor finds Aesop's despair so enthralling.)

"w-why wouldn't I.... Be worried? You've d- done - done so much for me... You don't get tto suffer now..." He smiles, as normal. Well, perhaps a little softer, a little more lifelike than normal. There's a drop of pity in his eyes as they wander along the strands of Aesop's tousled hair. Part of him hopes he is reassuring.

"do - do you... Rea-really have that... little fa-faith in my ability... to keep ssecrets, Mr - Mr Carl?" Aesop's words linger in the air, so Victor finds himself speaking up again, puffing out the smallest of laughs as he does so. What good is a mute who cannot keep a secret? What an absurd idea. "N-nobody else - else knows, it's... alright. I wwouldn't d-do that - that to you."

"as- as for how I know," He begins, doing his best to pretend like this entire concept is a perfectly standard thing for a man of his perceived personality to do, "I-i wouldn't make... a mistake like - like that more than o-once. N-not after th-the fright it gave me..."

He glances up and down the hallway they're conversing in. Nobody is allowed to hear this other than them. But soon he is satisfied, so he continues.

"D-do you know how much I hoped it was you? I co-couldn't let my - myself take... the risk without kn-knowing what would hhappen." He fiddles with his collar, trying to figure out how to phrase his explanation. "Even... though it - it seemed I was... in ssafe hands, I had t-to make ssure. And then I... Di-didn't really stop."

Victor finds it funny, perhaps, but Aesop only sees a failure of trust, a failure of explanation. His words come out hasty, stressed, somewhat choked back. "Ah—it's not that, it's just—it's just that... I doubt that such a secret is one where people would... choose to keep it to themselves. If you told whoever you could, I would... truly understand." The sorrow, the guilt, the worry that falls into him as he speaks grows more obvious, and inside there is a loneliness that Aesop still does not know how to address.

All he can do while Victor checks the hallway is wait, and try to understand exactly which mistake Victor meant, exactly what he was afraid of. But finally, Victor speaks again, Aesop's voice bubbles up before he can stop himself. "I'm— I'm sorry, again— I... I shouldn't have scared you like that... even if I was sure there was no way you would agree to such a thing... you should not have had to go through that... I'm sorry..."

So he leans into the feeling. The pitying side of himself.

"of course... I'll bur-burden mysself. I-it's my job, isn't - isn't it? I need... to re-p-pay you. Haven't you done - you done too much... for me already?"

Aesop's words are so shaky, so apologetic... Victor understands, naturally, but that doesn't mean he knows how to respond to them. To take them out of Aesop's mouth and lock them away, where they won't infest the poor man's brain for a while.

"a s-secret is... a se-secret. I have to keep it ssafe. No matter what - what it is." He finds himself looking Aesop up and down. Lord, how has Victor only noticed now how dishevelled he is? His mask is off, his coat's undone, his hair is down, his shoes are untied... Victor itches to fix it. What if someone sees Aesop in that state? So many questions, that's what.

"it's perfect - perfectly underst-standable! I mean, you thought I... would t-tell, didn't you? ....though y-you still wrote... to me. It only took - took a whille t-to explain, I really don't - don't mind." He needs to get Aesop somewhere safer. Somewhere where he doesn't have to be scared. There are eyes everywhere. The room is a sanctuary.

"you... You would - would never hurt... me. You've k-killled me, yes, but it wassn't torture. You w-wouldn't....." He hesitates. "You wouldn't d-do what... they did to me. But - but anybody elsse would. I tr-trust you more... than anyone."

He takes a barely noticeable step forward.

If Aesop had not, perhaps, deposited that letter to nobody in the postbox so that Victor would have something to do, if Aesop had not written far too much while realizing too late he forgot to place his own name on the back after hastily crossing out Victor's own, maybe he would be a little more well-kept. But all of that has happened, all of the past is inescapable, and he cannot hide from it. Only wait for everything to crash down.

And how terrifying it is to wait.

He needed to write everything down anyway, and he would not be surprised if he burned his words once they returned to him. They just needed to be out, and what better way to move them apart from him than to write them and seal them away? He knows the dangers, yes. And if he made a grave mistake, if every bit of goodwill he has scraped together crumbles away, he can only say that it was inevitable. Anyone who found out would do the same. If convincing does not work... but that isn't enough this time, right? Not when death means nothing.

He hasn't bothered to put up his ponytail or get his mask on this morning, not after the sleepless night before. The letter has not been returned. He doesn't know what could be happening, and the terror, the possibility that he's destroyed it all, looms close behind him.

===

(The letter—or would it be better called a ramble, a confession?— is wrapped in a plain, sturdy envelope, such that he hopes it isn't anything that would stand out. Unfortunately, his handwriting is clearly recognizable as his own, rendering the whole point moot anyway. The envelope bears the first few letters of Victor's name, written several times and crossed out on all of them, but the lack of another addressee is notable. The text's shape and unsteady pace betrays the emotional tension in the writer.)

I'm sorry.

I don't even know what I'm sorry for. For going against that faith you had in me? For taking matters into my own hands and hoping you would never find out? For trying to relieve you of burdens but only trying and failing to soothe my own? You were already asleep, there was no need—

I came here to continue my duty. To free more people. But you were never truly free, you kept returning and I could only grow more ashamed, more unable to face you. If you did not have to wake up, if you were safe and never had to be afraid again... but it doesn't work like that. Not anymore. (I still would not leave you.)

Is it selfish that a part of me... doesn't want to succeed? That I want to have your warmth, your voice, all the things I can't preserve the way I can so much else? If you are comfortable, and happy, does it matter if it happens because you are finally at rest?

I know I have always been here to help. I know it is my duty to reach those meant to die, those who are in too much pain to keep going. (Even now, I wonder if I have reached those who need me the most.) But... I know that you wouldn't see it that way. Nobody does. Mr. Carl, too, knows that this mission is a solitary one. Being able to convince someone to let me guide them is ideal, yes, but... it has, in practice, been impossible. You would not be different, I'm sure. Even if I wish you were, if you ever found out that it was me bringing you to dreamless sleep all those times, I... I would understand if you wanted nothing to do with me anymore. Even as I wish to have your company, I have destroyed your trust, I am sure, and tried to bring you to the other side long before you were ready.

If you would allow me to ask this... please do not tell anyone. I do not know what would happen, and I am already... no, it's not worth thinking about. You will do what you decide is right, and who am I to decide what that is? I have hurt you, have I not? All I wanted to do was make things better for you, and yet...

Once again, I apologize. For everything.

Victor Grantz has been dying, recently. Not in matches, like normal, no. Outside of them, daring to close his tired eyes for a moment before waking up in his room, consumed by a blind panic of where am I what happened oh god— Are They back?? Nobody stole anything, right? Why did they let him revive in his room??

Safe to say, he was on extremely high alert after the first time it happened. But even if he wasn't, he's sure he'd have noticed the look on Aesop's face. The way Aesop wouldn't meet Victor's eyes at all. The way Aesop fiddled with his hands. The way Aesop was, very obviously, guilty.

Something clicks into place, then. So now the question becomes why. And, paranoid as he is, he can't trust it's actually Aesop.

Although, god, if anyone is killing him he hopes it's Aesop. As weird as that sounds. You see, there's no real reason for Victor to be dying. It'd be one thing if his bag was searched, another if his room was, but neither are true. He's made sure of it. (The keys are still in his pocket when he revives, and ordering the letters in a way only he knows leads to the order being perfect afterwards.) It's not torture either, he's certain it's not meant to be.

The only other reason for someone to kill him is... Concern. Worry about him neglecting himself, choosing to reset his body and take him straight to bed rather than argue with him about whether he's okay.

And that is why he hopes it's Aesop. Because that is absolutely something he might do, and it would make him much more at ease.

But he can't just ask Aesop if he's killing him. That likely wouldn't go down well, especially if Aesop isn't the murderer. So he experiments instead.

- - -

He'd pretended to be unconscious on the dining room table. Late enough he knew nobody would walk in on them, and close enough to both of their rooms that it'd give Aesop confidence to solve the mystery for him.

And, well... If the gloved hands and the click of the case didn't give it away, Aesop speaking, quiet and shaky through his mask, definitely did. Victor wills his pounding heart to stop beating so loud. Aesop will catch on to his ruse, surely...

Aesop does, in fact, catch on... Partially. Thank god, he didn't seem to realise what it meant. He asks about a nightmare, though seemingly remembering victor can't answer him. Victor is given reassurance that it'll be over soon, anyway.

He's given a lot of reassurance, actually.

A little scolding, though more concerned than anything else ["You really must take care of yourself better..."],

a few admissions of attachment ["if only you knew how much I care for you..."],

and many, many apologies.

Victor's heart starts to relax from it all, and he wonders if he might actually fall asleep here... before there's a sharp prick in his arm.

Cold floods through him, and it's too heavy to struggle. He falls unconscious within minutes.

He wakes up back in his bed. Nothing is out of order. Well, at least that's calmed most of his nerves...

[this goes on for weeks. Somehow, he finds himself more relaxed each time.]

= = =

The next unusual thing happens with the letter.

Victor would recognise the handwriting anywhere by now, especially when it's addressed to him. Sort of.

Even if he wasn't mildly addicted to reading and pretending people's letters were for him, he'd still itch to open that seal. There's absolutely no address, besides his own, half formed and shaky.

He can't be blamed if he doesn't know where to go, right? He's just being diligent, right? [He burns with curiosity, taking the letter into his room as subtly as he can, so he can pore over every detail.]

There is no name here, either. But what he does get is so much more... Fascinating, in a sense. It's a terrible thing, he knows, but he can't stop himself from being entranced at the pure emotion dripping off of Aesop's every word.

It's a secret. Just for him.

+ + +

If not for the subject matter he'd be feeling both sick and rather giddy at the chance. (At the moment he just feels the instinctual crawling nausea of something to hide from Them. He swats it away.)

It's funny, how mere weeks ago he thought Aesop was like Them, but it's even clearer now that he's not, and never will be. Victor doesn't see what Aesop does, but Aesop happens to have painted a very easy picture for Victor to see.

It's love, above all else. It's guilt, it's apology, it's longing, it's protection, it's caring. Victor understands Aesop better than anyone else, and this only proves it. He can connect with that emotion, hold it in his hands and press his face against it to feel the warmth.

Nobody else will understand. It's his secret to keep. But unfortunately for Victor's desire to stare at it for hours, this is still technically supposed to be delivered.

He puts the secret back in its envelope, not bothering to re-melt the wax like usual, locks up his room, and walks to Aesop's door. (If it had been back then, he would have been punished for not being punctual. But, they tended to give exceptions to unclear delivery instructions...)

× × ×

"Mr Carl?" He speaks quietly into the wood of the door. "Is this letter yours?"

Finally, the question is processed, he looks at the all-too-familiar envelope, with unmistakably scratched out names. It hangs open, ever so slightly.

Fuck.

Victor puts the letter in his bag as soon as he's given permission to, before looking Aesop up and down. He.. well. Victor doesn't quite know how to phrase it.

"you look t-terrible, Aesop.... Is everything ok-ay?" His tone is sweet, almost uncaring about what was in that letter. (He does care, an awful lot in fact, but... probably in the opposite direction than Aesop imagines.)

There is nowhere to run. Not when his room is the only place he has, when he is trapped by obligation. Victor speaks to him, sweetly as ever, and a part of him wants to be reassured.

Aesop appears absolutely sickened, and Victor can, unfortunately, understand why. It's certainly eerie to be confronted about things you've done, particularly by someone who was never supposed to know. (Perhaps that is why Victor finds Aesop's despair so enthralling.)

"w-why wouldn't I.... Be worried? You've d- done - done so much for me... You don't get tto suffer now..." He smiles, as normal. Well, perhaps a little softer, a little more lifelike than normal. There's a drop of pity in his eyes as they wander along the strands of Aesop's tousled hair. Part of him hopes he is reassuring.

"do - do you... Rea-really have that... little fa-faith in my ability... to keep ssecrets, Mr - Mr Carl?" Aesop's words linger in the air, so Victor finds himself speaking up again, puffing out the smallest of laughs as he does so. What good is a mute who cannot keep a secret? What an absurd idea. "N-nobody else - else knows, it's... alright. I wwouldn't d-do that - that to you."

"as- as for how I know," He begins, doing his best to pretend like this entire concept is a perfectly standard thing for a man of his perceived personality to do, "I-i wouldn't make... a mistake like - like that more than o-once. N-not after th-the fright it gave me..."

He glances up and down the hallway they're conversing in. Nobody is allowed to hear this other than them. But soon he is satisfied, so he continues.

"D-do you know how much I hoped it was you? I co-couldn't let my - myself take... the risk without kn-knowing what would hhappen." He fiddles with his collar, trying to figure out how to phrase his explanation. "Even... though it - it seemed I was... in ssafe hands, I had t-to make ssure. And then I... Di-didn't really stop."