Chapter Text
Horous pauses before the entrance of the Donnadieu mansion, inhaling the bone-chilling air before reluctantly taking a step ahead toward the gate. He was wishing for time to stop, even temporarily, so that he could have more reasons to linger outside and not have to enter, but he quickly dismisses the desire as he sees light in the first floor windows. It makes the mansion look more like a looming monster just awake and ready to feast, and Horous doesn't want to bet on his fate staying right at where the mouth may be.
He passes the gate, hearing his footsteps reverberating on the hard bricks. The whole place looks eerier in the dusk, when the dying rays from the post meridiem sun no longer reach even the front yard, and the faint light from the windows casts shadows from almost everything within its range, filling the grounds with overlapping haphazard patches, all shuddering and wavering like a dim reminder of hellbound entities. Although that shouldn't be anything out of the ordinary–the Donnadieu mansion seems dreadful even in the brightest of daylight–it still sends chills down Horous’ spine. He never likes the sentiment here, and yet he's kept coming home to it for longer than he ever expected.
He wonders how long it may last, and sighs at the realization that he, too, doesn't know the answer. It may have sounded hopeful earlier when Horous first came here, because not knowing when means not pinning his hope solely on the escape, hence sparing himself the severe disappointment later on if it didn't happen as he anticipated. Now the question's like a housefly trapped in the rhetorical room in his mind, buzzing, ongoing, constantly nudging Horous with a stark possibility that he may be stuck here for longer than he ever pictured himself, if not for the rest of his life.
As the scenario's dawning on him and slowly erasing his pathetic amount left of cheerful color, a voice calls for him from the patio, startling Horous and his train of depressing thoughts.
“Good evening, Mister Riverron.”
At first, he’s half-grateful for whomever that speaks, but his gratitude is flushed away as soon as he sees Crois Donnadieu standing there alone on his own. The man's slender, ghastly and almost corpse-like figure lurks inside the patio's shadow, blending well into the unlit patch beside the main entrance, unfortunately blocking Horous’ only way in. It seems like Crois’ in the mood for a short exchange.
Horous blinks with surprise, meeting Crois indifferent but scrutinizing gaze. He seems calmer than usual, his back leaning against the wall as if he was built in with the mansion in the first place, his left hand toying with the emerald ring on the other hand, but he never once casts a look down at them. His voice is dark, like ever, and crispier than the gust of early evening wind suddenly surging behind Horous. His words were merely a greeting, they contain no threat, and yet somehow, as they chase into the dusk-born shadows on the ground, Horous feels instantly alarmed.
He doesn't know how long Crois’ been standing there–he doesn't know if Crois has seen him dawdling like an idiot not to get inside or questioned about his manner, or worse, looked into him and started seeing through his resentment toward the Donnadieu mansion. The logical conscience of his mind tells him that Crois doesn't have that ability, but Horous’ instinct strongly disagrees with it. The man reminds him a lot of his friend Sedryk, and under no circumstance does Horous ever want to bet against one of her kind.
“Mister Donnadieu,” Horous clears his throat, swallows his surging panic, and smiles. “Good evening to you, too. It's…unusual to see you here.”
“It's my mansion,” Crois’ gaze runs through him like a bolt of thunder through the night, cutting sharp and hoisting whatever Horous tries to keep at bay up on the surface. “What's so unusual about me being in my mansion?”
“No, I mean,” Horous gulps. “Most of the time you're inside. I mean it's not like you can't be outside or what, it's just–it's,” he stumbles, “not frequent to see you, like, particularly on the patio.”
“Of my own mansion?” He repeats. There's hardly a change in his tone, and even if there is, Horous doubts that he can be dedicated enough to detect.
“That's not what I mean and I know it, goddamn it Mister,” Horous snorts. “I mean, I was tripping. Of course you can be in your mansion, anywhere for that matter. But I rarely see you standing so– so long on the patio. Like this. Even greeting me. Like,” he sighs, “call me an ignorant moron if you want, but it seems unusual to me.”
In a faint second, he sees the corner of Crois’ lips go up, forming a quick smirk. But before Horous can decide whether it's real or a scenario his freaked-up mind created in lieu of the expressions that should have been there (as it should be like in a normal conversation where one of them straight up calls himself an ignorant moron and spoon feeding the upper hand to the other), the man speaks up.
“I have a gift for you,” he nods at Horous.
“Excuse me?” Horous stares at him in disbelief. “A gift? For who?”
“For whom, Mister Riverron,” Crois fixes him with yet another stern tone. “And I've made myself quite clear. It's for you.”
“So that's why you are outside?”
“While it seems to me that this should be none of your concern," Crois shrugs, “I daresay you'd never give up asking if I don't give you an answer. I placed the gift in your room, then I figured that I should tell you about it, so that you won't knock it down by accident. It's rather pricey. I didn't find you anywhere in the house, but your precious lady said you were out for an errand.”
“So you waited for me?” Horous raises an eyebrow.
Crois shakes his head. “As much flattering as it sounds to you, no. I saw you from the window of my floor and came down to see you.”
“Ah, I see,” Horous nods, trying not to pout. What Crois said eases him a little bit, but he can feel more questions forming. It seems normal, like a nice gesture Crois finally shows Horous as the host of the mansion he's staying in. Horous appreciates that. Crois, still, resembles too much of Sedryk that Horous finds his appreciation a moronic move. He doesn't know what the man has in mind, and the worst thing about it is, he doesn't know if it's truly a good intention as he just made it sound.
“A thank-you should do,” the man reminds him. Horous feels his cheeks burn.
“I'm sorry,” he shakes his head to cast off the bizarre suspicion before it overwhelms his thinking pattern of a well-mannered, educated, and polite human being. “Thank you, of course, especially when the gift sounds like it cost you a bit,” he ponders, “quite further than what you normally pay, I assume. I didn't mean to be rude back then, I was just surprised, because it seems so–”
“Unusual,” the man finishes, and the faint crackle of smile Horous saw earlier flashes through his lips again, still fast enough to make Horous puzzled between reality and imagination.
“Indeed,” he nods. “Still, it's rude to question in such a manner and then not to thank. And I hope you have a lovely evening.”
He steps up on the patio, moving past Crois. Horous’ shadow shakes and quivers as he walks ahead. Crois remains where he is, his shadow hence stays still, his face blends well with the darkened night, and his posture keeps him highlighted like a statue made of ice. Horous keeps the questions in his head unworded–he isn't in the mood to be troubled with another no-answer. He feels a bit happy to finally have something nice to himself, despite the high probability of it being a trap.
It's indeed a trap set up by Crois Donnadieu, nonetheless. Perhaps it's already snapped and perhaps Horous’ already lost his only way out. Perhaps it's always been a detailed and highly dedicated labyrinth of mind game since the day Horous first stepped into the mansion–either puppeteered by Crois alone, or with the wicked touches of no one other than Horous' "precious lady," from within and outside to enhance and lord know destroy it. Either way, it's out of Horous' grasp. There's no point in suspecting it now. If he's walking around dumbfounded in a trap, at least he can be comforted with whatever the precious gift Crois gave him. For now.