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Hugo's room isn't particularly large, Sylvia notes. There's a large window framed by curtains the colour of ferns, mint green walls and a collection of cyan cushions upon his bed. Hugo's always been taken with the shade, ever since they were young.
His side of the room is far messier than Sylvia had anticipated, but in retrospect, the clutter makes sense. An untidy living space makes for an untidy mind, and Hugo's is more tangled than almost anyone else she's met's. Someone's dragged tape across the middle of the carpet, dividing it into two even halves.
The other side is decorated in shades that remind Sylvia of the sun. Every surface is clean and clear, a stark contrast to the paperwork and music sheets strewn about Hugo's side, the bed perfectly made and a collection of comics lined up neatly on a wooden shelf. That must be the clone's space, she supposes. That one's name isn't worth her recollection.
Sylvia's never hurt Hugo in here before, but this will only be quick, she's sure. She'd expected her conversation with Ivy to quell the thirst for blood that had buried its way back under her skin, but the encounter had just been so unsatisfying . What's the point in destroying a body if its owner is apathetic? Sylvia craves reactions , and Ivy's have been downright disappointing.
Still, it has taught her a little more, and Sylvia does love gaining knowledge. Letting time stretch on as she leaves her cousin in anticipation for what's going to happen, she decides to have a little fun with what she's learnt.
"You know," Sylvia's tone is conversational, but Hugo tenses nonetheless as she speaks. "For all you say that you despise Ivy, you have a lot more in common with her than you might think," she says offhandedly. Sylvia's well-versed in elegantly slipping important details into conversation. Doing so just then is a breeze.
Hugo's brow furrows just as it always does when he's perplexed, his eyes narrowed and searching like he's anywhere near smart enough to figure out what she's trying to do. It's laughable that he still believes himself capable of outwitting her.
"What do you mean?" He asks, that same cautiousness as always infused in his tone alongside his unimpressed disbelief. It's wonderful knowing that even just her presence invokes a heavy deal of wariness. Sylvia's fingers itch to grip hold of her knife more more tightly and feel it draw another's blood, Hugo’s blood. She resists, keeping her expression seamlessly placid and smug.
"I mean ," she continues, lazily slipping the blade in front of her. A finger runs down its edge, and she relishes the reminder of how much control she wields. Her finger presses hard enough to leave a temporary dent, but she's held one often enough that preventing herself from being cut is nothing more than second nature. "You both want to be hurt. You enjoy it."
Hugo scoffs, arching an eyebrow at her. He hasn't dared do that around her in months. She wonders why Ivy of all people is capable of making him act so different. "Ivy doesn't enjoy pain," he shakes his head, something bitter in his voice. "Why would she? She's a model, she cares too much about how she looks to let anything leave a visible mark. It's not like my parents would let anything but them hurt her anyway."
"Oh? " Sylvia's head tilts ever so slightly, her finger pausing in its motions. How interesting . She steps closer, and Hugo's eyes slide back over to her knife. That won't do. Her blade may be her instrument of pain, but it does nothing without her command. Sylvia is the threat here. It won't do to let Hugo forget that. "What makes you say that?"
"Ivy had a chance to get away from being hurt, and she took it." Hugo says flatly. "She's famous; adored by the public. She goes all over the world. If she enjoys pain, why not stay here where she has a chance to be hurt all the time? Besides, it's hardly as though Father's ever targeted her in particular. Ivy's suffered no more than the rest of us have."
Sylvia can't help but laugh at that. It's a harsh, cruel sound. Her laughs always are, these days. "You don't think Ivy gets hurt ?" She rolls her eyes, a patronising smile on her face. "Oh, Hugo, you have no idea. " Sylvia waves the matter aside for a moment, enjoying how stricken he looks. "Besides, are you saying you wouldn't run away if given the option?"
Hugo hesitates. "I..." His voice trails off, just as Sylvia knew it would. He's an open book. That's another matter he and Ivy have in common. They're so easy to manipulate.
"It's a shame Ivy's already gone. Otherwise, we could have gone through her box," Sylvia tells him casually, moving her hair back over her shoulders.
"...What box?" Hugo enquires. Sylvia's smile widens, shark-like.
"You mean you don't know ?" Delight dances across her silver irises, mock-surprise injected into her voice. Of course he doesn't know. Nobody knows. Except for Ivy, and except for Sylvia. She does so love being the bearer of so many secrets. "I'll simply have to show you. You see, Ivy has something of a... Collection. She's been gathering evidence."
Hugo pales. "Evidence of what?" The question is pointless. Sylvia can tell he already knows the answer.
"Your father's treatment of her, of course. She's hoping to turn it into the police... One day."
"Wh-- that's so dangerous !" Hugo splutters, caught off-guard. "Surely she knows that! If Father knew--"
"She's aware," Sylvia cuts him off, her voice still light. "Your sister simply doesn't care what he does to her anymore." She watches Hugo's reactions intently, a too-wide grin stretched across her face. "Why look so horrified? I thought you despised her as much as she loathes you."
"I-- I do," he defends, but it's half-hearted at best. "What Ivy does isn't my business, Sylvia. If she's putting her neck on the line, then--"
"What an interesting phrase that is," she interrupts again. "You know, Ivy's neck was against something else less than an hour ago today." Warmth blooms in her chest at the memory. "I really don't believe she would have cared if I killed her."
"What?" Hugo breathes, eyes widening. "No. Ivy doesn't want to die, she's-- no. You're lying." He takes a step back, running a hand through his hair. "That's all you do. I'm not... You're not going to convince me Ivy wants to be hurt. That she would want you to--" That time, he cuts himself off, inhaling sharply through gritted teeth. "No."
"A liar I may be, but this is nothing but the truth," Sylvia twirls her knife in her fingers. "Yes, you ask me to hurt you, but Ivy demanded that I slit her throat. I wonder if your father would've brought her back, had I adhered to her request." She pauses, as though thinking over the matter. "I think he would have. After all, he brought someone as pathetic as you back to life, and Ivy's actually worth something to him."
Finally, gratifyingly, Sylvia's knife meets skin. Her hand grabs Hugo's wrist, the other pressing her knife against his palm. Nowhere visible, he likes to remind her. But Sylvia hardly thinks he's in the state of mind to reaffirm such a thing just then.
"Do you want to die, Hugo?" She hisses at him, and watches hungrily as he flinches away. "Ivy does. I wonder if she knows how much it hurts. Isn't it selfish of her to wish death upon herself? Doesn't it make you furious?" The knife digs in, drawing a thin line of blood. "Do you think she'd come to me too, after death? Still, you didn't want to die, hmm, Hugo? Perhaps she'd just try again, and again, until her father gets the message. Don't you want her to suffer ?"
Hugo shakes his head, something akin to desperation in the movement. "I don't-- Ivy and I don't get along, but I'm-- she doesn't deserve that. Nobody does."
"But she wants that," Sylvia reminds him, pressing the knife in deeper still. Hugo's mouth twists in a familiar attempt to hold back his hiss of pain. He can't hide anything from her. "Ivy wants to stay dead and buried, and leave all of you behind. Would you go to her funeral? You should be dead, too. Maybe the two of you can go together. Identical ceremonies; the only mourners your family. How tragic . Then again, Ivy would be furious if she was forever laid to rest beside you . Anyone would be, really."
"Wanting to die isn't the same as enjoying pain," Hugo grits out, refusing to meet her eyes. "I'm not suicidal. Ivy doesn't need to bleed to know she's alive. I don't-- neither of us enjoy you hurting us. I just... There isn't... Ivy's..."
"You hardly complain, though," Sylvia points out. "You seek this out. Something's wrong with you, Hugo. Normal people don't ask to be hurt. Normal people would acknowledge that their 'life' is nothing more than a pathetic facsimile of what it used to be, and just end the charade."
"I don't want to die," he tells her. She has to strain her ears to hear it. "Not again."
"We all do, one day," Sylvia's smile is macabre, her words nonchalant. "You already have once. Dying isn't so bad, I'm sure. Coming back wrong sounds much worse."
She lets the knife trace over the cut she's made, then raises it to his throat. It's a wonderful mirror of the position she'd placed Ivy in what feels like mere minutes prior. His pulse picks up, the blood draining further from his face.
"If I told you she was already dead," Sylvia murmurs, watching as tiny droplets of scarlet bead on pale skin. "Would you believe me?"
It takes a moment for Hugo to respond, but when he does, his voice is definite. "Not after that spiel," he says firmly, doing all he can to hide the waver at the blade against his skin. "Why would you tell me she wants to die if you'd already killed her?"
Sylvia sometimes forgets that Hugo's typically regarded as intelligent. She's sharper than he is, of course she is. She's sharper than every imbecile in the manor. But there are, of course, rare occasions when they prove themselves a little smarter than she remembers.
Then again, he hasn't yet moved to get away from the knife at his throat, so he's hardly that intelligent. Sylvia lets her knife linger, gaze fixated on the crimson trail she's forming. "I wonder," she says, her voice dangerously soft. "If I killed you right now, would you do anything to stop me?"
It's not uncommon for Sylvia to threaten Hugo's life, but he never fails to respond in the most delightful manner.
He doesn't say anything aloud, but that doesn't hide the way his eyes grow round with fear. Still as a statue, he remains in place even as nothing blocks the space behind him. His face is pasty, he's biting his cheek in a way Sylvia presumes to be painful, and his hands are clenched far too tightly at his sides.
Reluctantly, she moves the knife away again. "You're pathetic," she reminds him, and he deflates a little in relief. It's funny that he thinks she's done toying with him already. Sylvia's barely drawn any blood yet. "Ivy is too. You're lucky I'm here to help."
Hugo nods numbly, a hand drifting to his throat. Sylvia fights the urge to roll her eyes again at his wince when it touches the wound. Of course prodding it is going to hurt. He's actively bleeding.
"Maybe wear turtlenecks this week, mm?" She suggests lightheartedly. "It wouldn't do to have your lovely siblings ask any questions."
"Right," he says, his tone hollow and detached in the way it goes when he starts to ignore her. Hugo's no fun when his mind is a million miles away. "Thank you." He makes to leave, only for Sylvia's voice to stop him in his tracks.
"Where are you going?" She asks, an obvious challenge in her tone. He freezes. "We aren't done, Hugo."
"But..." He begins to protest, coming back to himself to argue with her. How infuriatingly Hugo of him. "Sylvia, we just..."
"You're the one who asked me to do this. If you want me to abide by the deal, you do too," Sylvia reminds him firmly. "We aren't done until I say we are. Understood?"
"...Understood." There's resentment in his voice, but it's an agreement nonetheless. Sylvia smiles, satisfied. Their meeting doesn't finish for another twenty minutes. When it eventually ends, Sylvia makes a mental note to call Ivy.
After all, she has plenty to discuss.