Tokiya (sesshy_is_sexii) wrote in shslash,

fic: More (SH4; Walter/Henry)

Another repost |D

Title: More
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Silent Hill 4: The Room
Character(s): Walter Sullivan, Henry Townshend
Warnings: Allusions to violence (non-graphic)
Notes: Written for kink_bingo, kink: emotion manipulation.

He is doing this for Mother, all the blood and dirt under his nails, the screams of men, women, and children echoing in his ears, all for her. He's spent so much time waiting and asking and doing, for her to come back to him. It's been an awfully long time, she is always first in his thoughts. And yet, Walter has found himself intrigued by one who is also close to her.

His name is Henry.

Henry Townshend, tall, broad, brown haired, and olive skinned, he is so different from all the others and Walter finds it so interesting. His face shows so little emotion (just like a statue) and his movements are so stiff and odd, they resemble a corpse more than anything else. He doesn't wonder what made him this way, only what's left inside and does it ever come out?

There are moments when his curiosity gets the best of him and Walter just wants to see.

It starts with a brief look through his peephole, the room still, silent, and gray. Henry fits in perfectly, mouth drawn in a thin line while he breaths in through his nose. Five days since he was locked in his apartment, five days spent flipping switches, pushing buttons, trying to force his windows open.

It all begins to blend together until one morning when Henry comes into sight, footsteps outlined with grime behind him and tension in his hands, gripping thin air before the side of the counter top in front of the door. The faint siren of an ambulance cries out in the background and Henry squeezes his eyes shut.

After Henry begins to find his way into the new worlds, Walter is much busier. His visits are briefer but just as rewarding as before.

There is the time when Henry is sitting frigid in his chair, eyes trained towards his kitchen, nose unconsciously turned up and sniffing the air.

When he is cold and trembling and his hands rub up and down his arms, pacing the hallway between his bedroom and the living room.

When he bites his lower lip, flinching when trying to rub ointment into the burn on his hand.

When he does not see Henry at all, only to hear the loud crash of something breaking right before he leaves his apartment door.

It's later, in the hospital with his hands deep in the patients chest that he hears the thud of a body only a few feet away from him on the dirty tile floor. He takes his time moving around the curtain, the light casting his large shadow over Henry when he turns.

Unlike before when he was just the man in a long coat, Henry knows now, knows to be afraid and the fear as he looks up, no glass holes or wooden doors between them, manifests so brightly in his eyes Walter can feel something akin to a match light along his insides, heat running through him hot and simmering.

It's so much better this way, so close, so close, he can finally see the blood matting down his hair, shirt ripped, damp, and stained. The tiny numerous puncture holes and tears in the long legs of his jeans when he stands slowly, watching Walter watch him.

One step closer each time, Henry is so tall and broad but he hunches down, almost as if he makes himself small he can hide, hide from Walter and when his lips part softly to let out a shaken breath unconsciously, Walter wants to see more, just for a moment he wants more.

If he were to reach out and snatch his wrist, would he cry out, scream, shout, make any kind of noise? Would he tug away at the feel of Walter's cold fingers, nails digging into the skin to bruise?

At the warm syrupy feeling that continues to make up his insides (more), what if he moved slow, slow and steady, hand hovering over his skin, would he become flush and break out into a sweat, eyes go glossy, and lips press tightly together. Make himself small, smaller, a little ball on the floor curled up, head between his knees, still save for the faint tremors in his hand when his fingers press against his burn.

Walter lifts his chin, eyes trained on Henry in silence and a beat later Henry moves, turns and flees, door to the room creaking shut behind him.


Maybe next time.
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