( @yellow-rose-embalmer )
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 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?"
It's selfish of him, but he can't wait for the reply.
