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His eyelids feel heavy as he lifts them. For a moment, his hazy vision leads him to believe mist seeped in through the window while he was unconscious. Whereas it fades clearer and clearer upon each slow blink, the evening light remains, painting every surface bloody in its unmistakable, unexplainable red tint.
His scalp itches around the stitches. When he raises an arm to scratch at them carefully through the bandages, his shoulder aches. The bridge of his nose is sore. The slash across his left side stings. His right calf throbs with pain. Last but not least, his mouth feels pasty and his throat is parched.
Unfortunately, he can't even do something as simple as getting up and getting himself a glass of water, thanks to his stupid broken leg, hidden beneath the blanket Ada tucked him in. He glares at the shape of his cast like it's a fetter chaining him to the bed.
As grumpy as it makes him to think about who is responsible for his injuries, fair is fair. He did trap Duke behind a wall for a drawn-out, hopeless death from lack of air, after all. As far as paybacks go, he got off easy.
Nonetheless, he gnashes his teeth. The plan was to weaken the opposing team and clip Lenore's horns by getting rid of her closest friend, instead it served him the perfect opportunity to manifest his spectre on a damn silver platter. They are stronger today than they were yesterday.
Annabel's words to him while he bled on the stairs echo in his mind, a chuff escaping his nostrils. "More dangerous to his allies than his enemies" indeed.
A sigh reaches his ear, so quiet that he would have missed it if it wasn't so close. He rotates his head and spots tufts of ashy brown hair and the familiar angle of Will's nose, slightly upturned, in a way that reminds him of a mouse sniffing out food. His eyes are closed, his temple pressed against the edge of the headboard, his legs sprawled on the floor.
With his neck craned like that, the collar of his shirt leaves it exposed. Even if there are any fingerprints marring his skin, the red light camouflages them.
Yet Montresor can't give it anything that lasts longer than a glance.
He feels a tightness in his core, as though his bowels have twisted themselves into knots. He would wager his gold tooth that it's the effect of his near-constant frustration with Will; if it were a card, he would have a full deck already.
Spineless, letting anyone and everyone order him around. That's why Lenore targeted him, pointed a gun at his head and berated him, chiseling him down to a puddle of tears. Why the memory of his sniveling still peals so loud in his mind he has no clue.
Loony, fussing over him like he is frail as a newborn foal. How ironic. That's why he got himself throttled, he must have come too close when Ada's gaze induced hallucinations in him. Maybe after that he will finally quit touching him.
Clingy, like he can't fucking function without a puppeteer to pull his strings. That's why he's sleeping on the floor next to his bed, some scrawny mutt that thinks itself a guard dog.
Everything Will does is insulting, unnecessary, annoying or a combination of the three. He is lucky he would rather have him with him than against him, his spectre's powers would be a peck of trouble to deal with if somebody who knew how to exploit them dug their nails into his gullible head.
«Will, wake up.»
Will doesn't stir, mumbles about a "nervous pudding". It drags a snort out of him; it's an accurate self-description and he already imagines himself calling him that in the future. He flicks his middle finger on his forehead.
It takes several flicks before Will's eyebrows crease and a couple more before his irises pop into view, their grey barely discernible in the red glow. He leans off the headboard and massages his temple in circles with two fingerpads, pouting.
«Got yer beauty sleep?»
«Mmmmyheadhurts...»
Montresor chooses to believe Will's voice has still a bit of a croak to it because he just woke up. «Aw, poor thing,» he says, devoid of empathy. His gaze lingers on his face and forearms, on the bruises like blots of ink on paper.
Once Will wipes his eyelids with the heels of his palms, he appears more awake. «Oh, heh, sorry. Shouldn't really be complaining about a headache while you... uh, y'know. How're you feeling?»
«M'fine.»
«Good, good! Aces!»
Montresor watches him cover the back of his neck with a hand, like he does whenever he's anxious or awkward. And he is always anxious or awkward. It's a mystery how he hasn't rubbed the skin off his scruff, not in the afterlife nor when he was alive, if the lack of scars is any indication.
«How long was I out cold?» Montresor asks, busy producing an oil lamp and a matchbox from the nightstand between his bed and Prospero's.
«Oh, uh, it's been a while! I mean, it's dark outside!»
He sends him a deadpan look, the flame that flickers to life inside the lamp reflected off his black irises. «No kiddin'.»
«Dinner should be ready by now!» Will chirps, immune to the sarcasm. He trots to the door and is bathed in the gold-orange firelight from nearby lanterns. He swings his head out, from side to side, then back toward him. «Yep, everyone's heading to the dining hall! You hungry?»
He hums, suddenly ravenous. «Matter of fact, I am. Fetch me whatever they got, I'll eat anythin'. Hankerin' fer sumthin' sweet too, so don't forget dessert. An' the tallest glass o' water ya can find, throat's drier than a desert.»
«Gotcha! I'll be back in a jiffy.»
«Don't fuckin' drop anythin'.»
Will nods, leaving the door ajar as he scurries out, as if he's afraid Montresor will die from starvation if he doesn't hurry. For his part, his concern is the integrity of the food, what with Will having been born with two left feet.
He lets the back of his head sink into the pillow and stares at the ceiling. He scratches lightly around his stitches again and growls when pain latches onto the itch, forcing him to stop and endure both of them without resistance or relief. So, with nothing better to do and in dire need of a distraction, he begins the tedious shift into a sitting position, airing his lungs and grunting throughout.
By the time he hears the scuff of Will's shoes, his shoulder blades have brushed the headboard and his frustration has increased. At the sight of the tray in his hands, carrying various foods and a glass filled to the brim with water, the frown his facial muscles have warped into slackens and saliva pools under his tongue.
Will pushes the door shut with his rear. «Sssooo... I know you said to bring anything, but I wasn't sure what, so I picked whatever looked close to your last meal—»
«Yeah, yeah, jus' give it here,» Montresor interrupts, waving him over.
Once Will approaches, he all but snatches the tray and plants it on his lap. Steam and aromas sweet and savory alike waft through his nasal cavities. First, he drinks the glass beyond half empty in a few gulps that flow pleasantly cool down his gullet. Then, fancying something hearty, he opts for the pork ribs and corn on the cob, digging in without bothering to pick up the silverware. His teeth rip a chunk of meat off the bone, a soft groan loosed at its juicy tenderness.
He arches an eyebrow at Will, who is standing idly like a stray waiting for scraps. «What're ya starin' at me fer? Not gonna eat?»
Will flinches. «Y-Yeah, sorry, I was just about to go and leave you to it—»
«Naw, stay, eat the rest. Too much stuff fer me anyway.»
Though Will perks up at the suggestion, he notices his hesitation, likely debating whether he should seat himself beside him on the bed or on the floor. Rolling his eyes, he scoots aside. «C'mere.»
Will sits gingerly above the blanket, legs bent, feet hanging limply off the edge of the bed. He helps himself to the unused silverware and a plate that contains fennel and some type of white fish drenched in a buttery sauce with capers. He nudges every single caper off the fish with the fork.
Montresor huffs in amusement. «Prob'ly the only things in there with any flavor an' ya set 'em aside?»
His shoulders rise in a defensive posture. «Th-They're a bit too salty for me.»
«Suit yerself. Careful with the fennel, though, might taste too strong.»
«Nah, it's alright, I'm pretty sure I've eaten it at some point. It's the fish bones I'm worried about.»
Montresor slowly turns his head toward him, his expression as inanimate as a doll's.
He blinks once, twice, thrice. «...Ooohhh, you were joking, weren't you?»
«Glad ya caught on 'fore the fish went bad.»
Despite his multiple grievances against Will, he has never considered him boring, which he assumes is the reason he invited him to stay. He has a knack for ruffling feathers, and when everybody around you is irritated by your mere existence unless you crank up your charm and decent person act, shit becomes predictable fast.
Will is an exception.
He doesn't seem to have a drop of cruelty in his bloodstream, yet he's eager to join in his schemes. He has been on the receiving end of his aggression, twice, yet he sticks to his side like a tick, seeks his company like he genuinely enjoys it.
It's strange, downright baffling, and it ignites a desire to learn everything about him, to crack his skull open like a walnut and examine the inner workings of his brain. That's why he keeps him around in the first place, at least until either of them kicks the bucket, or either of them grows tired of the other's antics and Montresor shoos him away or Will bolts like a yellow-belly, or only the two of them are left for the final showdown.
In case the latter turns into a reality, he hopes he has developed a spine by then, he wouldn't want to win too easily. The thought of his own hand sneaking beneath his shirt, fingertips poking and kneading to check for any vertebrae, gets swatted away like a pesky mosquito.
«Let's say ya get to be reborn. What wouldja do with yer new life?»
Will's chuckle rings hollow, feeble. «I don't know, I haven't really thought about it. It would take a miracle for me to get it, of all people, so... I guess I don't see the point. I'd probably waste it anyway...»
Somehow, he expected that kind of answer; Will hasn't exactly been subtle about being a coward, so the disinclination to fight for another chance to live is very in character for him. He wonders what happened to him that could reduce him to such a state.
«Ain't that a lil' grim?» he prompts.
«Yeah, I guess it is. Y'know, th-this may sound straight off the cob, — no pun intended, heh — but... I kinda hope you get it.»
Although outwardly he's nonchalant, the next morsel settles heavily on the bottom of his stomach. «That so? How come?»
«Because... well, everyone else would pretend to care about me, then stab me in the back as soon as it's convenient.»
A dirty blond eyebrow quirks up. «Ya think I wouldn't?»
«...Not in the back, at least. I don't blame you, it's normal to be out for yourself in a situation like ours. We may be pals now, but there's only one life at the end of the day, right? You've been upfront about it and I appreciate it, is all. Does... that make sense...?»
Montresor smiles to himself in disbelief; leave it to Will to be so committed to being a quitter that the ounce of grit he shows at the prospect of dying a second, permanent time he is none the wiser about, for he let it trickle so far down that his soles grind it finer and finer.
«It does. I'd prefer a stab in the front too.»
There is a lull in the conversation. He listens to a knife and fork skimming across porcelain, fennel crunching between teeth. Through his hair he peeks at the bob of his Adam's apple, remembers its curve and the vibrations from his constricted vocal cords against his palm. The knots in his bowels twist tighter.
Almost like he's dwelling on it too, Will clears his throat. «Sssooo... how would you spend your new life?»
«I reckon I'd wreak havoc everywhere I go,» he responds, smirking.
Will's chuckle rings truer this time. «You'd have tons of fun, I bet.»
Montresor's burp tastes of pork and corn. «Damn right. Woo any gal outta her dress with jus' a lil' smooth talk, rough up anybody who throws ugly looks at me. Be a real lady killer an' curly wolf wrapped in one.»
«Heh, wish I could be there to see it.»
That murmur so revealing coils around him, cold, restrictive, akin to a snake around his torso. He recalls a similar feeling after the Deans announced in a taunting vein that only one person can be reborn, with all the struggles it entails. Whereas he lashed out then, right now he is not in the mood for anything other than a respite, so he reins in his temper.
«What's that s'posed ta mean? Ya wanna see me ride a filly?» he quips.
For once, Will understands it on his own. He sputters and coughs as if he's choking on a fish bone, his cheeks a few shades darker. Montresor slaps his own thigh in cackles of laughter, doesn't allow them to be cut short by the twinge in his bandaged side.
Shortly after they finish their main course, it's while he sucks his fingers clean that his sweet tooth starts aching. «Whatcha got fer dessert?»
«Peach cobbler and cream puffs! They came in different colors, so I grabbed a bunch.»
One corner of his lips slides upward. «I'd better take the cream puffs, wouldn't wanna see ya fit to be tied.»
«Uh, what...?»
«Means angry.»
Will narrows his eyes, confusion unmitigated. «Why would I be angry...?»
«Ain'tcha crazy 'bout peaches? Yer last meal was a whole bowl of 'em.»
«Oh, that! True enough, but it's totally fine if you want the cobbler. Or we could share.»
Montresor clicks his tongue and passes him the plate. «Naw, jus' take it. Ain't like I can eat it with my hands, since a certain somebody fetched only one knife an' fork.»
«Thanks. Sorry.»
«'Sides, I'm curious 'bout the flavors. Lookit this one, why's the cream green?» he continues, pinching one of the cream puffs and holding it up.
«Could be pistachio!»
He bites into it under Will's scrutiny. The pistachio cream coats the walls of his mouth. He swallows it through a grimace, then rinses his pallet with a sip of water. «Gross.»
While other flavors greet his taste buds, sweet with undertones that range from bitter to rich to sour, he takes the occasional gander at Will. He munches with a childlike relish, dawdling to the point he is nowhere near done when Montresor runs out of cream puffs. He finds himself envying him for it, this apparent ability to experience such joy over something as plain as a slice of peach.
He finds himself also basking in it, the snake's coils growing a little warmer, a little looser, the squeeze a little closer to a cozy embrace.
He teases him and is awarded shrugs, meek chuckles, stutters, blushes, confused head tilts, neck rubs. When out of the blue Will's hand slithers to the front of his neck instead, his eyebrows furrowed as though he's in pain, it hits Montresor like a horsewhip.
«Monty, can I ask you a question...?»
He craves a toothpick to chew on. «Shoot.»
Will avoids eye contact. «What did you see when Ada... y'know... used her power on you?»
Now he craves a toothpick to snap in half as Lenore's mockery sprints across his mind. He resists the urge to snarl like the rabid dog she compared him to. «Why? Yer sayin' I looked scared or sumthin'?»
«No, no!» Will squeaks, hands flailing. «It's the opposite, actually, you looked furious! I-I was just wondering!»
Montresor averts his glower. «Ain't nunna yer business.»
Will sags low enough that he senses it beside him, the marionette's strings torn. «M-My bad, I just— I respect it, is all.»
Endless is the list of ways anybody else, in Will's place, would have blown a gasket at his actions. Instead, he respects him. He ought to seriously question his sanity; was the bloodflow to his brain obstructed for too long, back in the cellar?
«Sounds weird, doesn't it? I can't help it, it's... really cool to me. Reacting, rather than freezing and shaking and... whimpering. I would've peed in my pants if I'd been in your shoes.»
The mental picture that the statement draws plucks a snicker out of his chest. «Oh, really? Whaddya reckon ya'd see if she did it to ya, huh? Yer own shadow?»
«N-No, but... to be fair... if you don't realize it's yours, i-it can be scary for a second...»
The flimsy excuse aids him in snickering louder. «A'ight, what is it, then?»
«Honestly, I dunno! Surely you remember how I was in the maze, so many things scare me!» he replies with a sheepish giggle, body canting a hair's width away.
«C'mon, why're ya bein' shy? 'Fraid I'm gonna use it against ya or sumthin'?»
Grey eyes aim downward. «N-No, it's not that.»
Patience thin, he gives him a smack on the upper arm. He catches his wince even though he's sure it was too mild to hurt. It occurs to him that it might have landed on a bruise shielded from view by the sleeve. He ignores the numbing tingle below his ribcage.
«Tell me,» he insists.
«B-Being unable to breathe.»
The reluctant confession jabs him like a scorpion's stinger, the venom burns underneath his skin. Whichever brain lobe that has long since rotted in his skull and always flips his emotions upside down flares up and he has to refrain from laughing away the discomfort.
Just his luck that he ended up saddled with someone pathetic enough to stoke the embers of pity and remorse in him. He hates it. He is supposed to be an abyss where no light thrives.
The silence that follows is as dense as it is liquid, mud and rainwater mixed together. It leaks into his ear canals in drips that denote each second that elapses, tickles them until it clogs them, deafening.
«Dust storms are my g-greatest fear,» clarifies Will, a syllable here and there quavering. «Chances are that's how I died, or m-maybe how someone I loved died. Either way, the idea of getting caught in one, a-all that dust in my lungs... i-it terrifies me.»
He plays it well, the role of a wounded puppy, Montresor decides. The whining is especially convincing, proven by the fact he wants to offer him a treat or put him to sleep forever, either method would work as long as he shuts up. He is inclined toward the former, admittedly; less effort to cheer him up than to put him down.
«After all the shit we been through, a dust storm oughta be the least o' yer worries.»
«Heh, yeah, can't argue with that.»
Black and grey collide and bounce apart, collide again and hold steady. Pupils shrink and dilate, crinkles across the brow flatten, breaths soften as the tension in the air, bit by bit, dissipates.
Eventually, Will hops off the mattress and volunteers to return the tray. He balances it on top of his shoulder as he fumbles with the doorknob.
The weight of a question unasked falls on Montresor's lower lip, fixing to tumble past, unstoppable. «Will, wait.»
He spins around to face him. «Yes, Monty?»
«Why was I stranglin' ya?»
His eyes widen, his shock on display, a stark contrast to his own concealed within. «Well, y-you were, um, sort of out of control, so I... tried to help.»
«...Shouldn'ta done that.»
«Sorry.»
And as Will crosses the threshold, Montresor can't figure out if the gentle reproof was directed at him or at himself.