Chapter Text
Ulysses meanders through the halls of the supposed “Eden’s Garden Academy”, notebook pressed against his side. He feels almost in a daze, his entire body disturbed, on edge. As if he’d been plunged into freezing cold water without a warning. It might explain the cold sweat on his fingers and forehead, the way he stumbles about.
He doesn’t want to go back to his room- Wenona’s room. It’s Wenona’s room, even if they share it. He can hardly say it’s their room, especially now. He doesn’t want to go there, regardless. Anything to not see her like this, anything to spare him some time alone to think. And think, he already is.
And it’s almost too much thinking, to the point of gross overanalyzation. He clearly isn’t in his right mind, and all of this- the killing game, the motive, the actions of the people around him- is making it worse. Why else would he doubt the one person who’s treated him well this entire time? Over one small, inconsequential thing, it just isn’t right. It isn’t rational.
Why would Wenona, of all people, do something just to spit in his face and put him down, when she’s the person who keeps lifting him up?
The grip he has on his notebook tightens as he unknowingly walks past his own room.
If it were anyone else, he’d only be bitterly used to it. Of course they did that, that’s the likeliest outcome, what reason would they have to do otherwise? But Wenona… she was his friend, she was.. someone he admired. Her work ethic and determination, her sharp tongue and cool demeanor, how easy it was for her to take charge. Her feats and accomplishments, no doubt, were incredibly significant to their countries recent history. She was an amazing woman, one of the best among their group. Even if that didn’t always equate to being the nicest; was being squishy really how you got the things you wanted in life? Wenona had been the one who told him it wasn’t okay to let people treat him like dirt. That he had a mouth and he could use it. That his brains backed it up, that he was capable. That she and him had power over the others. That together, they could do anything.
..And she likes him too, she must. He was just as important to Wenona as Wenona was to him. Why would she tell him those things at all if she didn’t want what was best for him? For the two of them, together? She listened to him, spent time with him, engaged him, gave him some direction in a life that had begun to feel meaningless and uncertain. They shared their wins. They shared a bed. The only thing they hadn’t shared was that stupid bread.
So, what is he to conclude? It… must be that she just hadn’t considered the implications. Hadn’t thought about it very hard, as simple as that.
Hadn’t thought about me? He briefly wonders.
But, no, that would be absurd. Assuming any of that about her was absurd. The entirety of the situation was absurd, yes? What she had done was barely anything to fuss about- a raindrop in the ocean. She told him to eat bread. Where was the problem in that, the logical reasoning behind how it made him act? It was far less harsh than anything she did to the others. And he wasn’t like the others- but it made him feel just as low as they must, even if it wasn’t comparable! He doesn’t understand why she did it, and maybe, right now, for once, he doesn’t want to.
He doesn’t know what he wants.
Expelling a frustrated puff of air from his lungs, Ulysses comes back into his senses. He- he’s spiraling. Overthinking, he knew as much, but now he’s really letting it get out of control. His chest is tight, his lips and throat dry, from how hard he’s been breathing. He clamps his mouth shut, embarrassed and looks around himself. None of the doors around him are his own... No, he’s walked up to Wenona’s door. God damnit. Force of habit.
With a significant amount of backtracking, Ulysses finally ends up in his own room. He’s rarely in there, nowadays, since Wenona had allowed him to stay in hers. Everything they have together stayed in there, including.. Well, most of the things that belonged to Ulysses, minus what he kept on his person. He thinks of his pile of papers taking up space on her desk, the small collection of trinkets he’d been given between her and Damon- all gachapon things, he was fairly certain-, the soft throw blanket he’d brought from his own room to keep on her bed.
This wouldn’t last long. He could give himself some time to rationalize and calm down, and then he’d go back. He’d apologize, and she’d forgive him. Because, no matter what the issue is, no matter what she may or may not think of him.. She still needs him. He’s a large part in their operations here; He keeps record of everything, he’s good at counting their money, and good at keeping other people in check, with his newfound sharp tongue.
In all honesty, the thought of going back to that doesn’t really comfort him like he thought it would.
He doesn’t turn the overhead lights on when he enters- his head is beginning to ache, which isn’t all that uncommon for him- and instead feels his way out to where his desk is in the dark. When his stomach nudges against the solid wood, he sets his notebook down and carefully bends over the desk. Straining himself, he waves his arm around and grasps for the pull cord of his desk lamp. If he was just a little bit…
Click.
Half of the room is suddenly lit up, and Ulysses sighs in relief. The bulb inside is warm, slightly dull, much easier on the eyes. It’s just enough that he can see everything he needs to.
The best thing he can do right now, he thinks, is write about what he’s going through. He’d need to record what happened today anyway, so it wouldn’t hurt to do so. If anything, it could help. Putting it into words, accurately describing what had happened, surely that would rid him of his hurt and confusion. There were facts about this, facts that wouldn’t align with his feelings. That pesky, all consuming bias of a man who couldn’t possibly be a good judge of what a “friendship” should be like. Once he’s able to read it all back.. Perhaps then, his head and heart will both realize how senseless this is.
He carefully takes his seat at his desk, and pulls his necklace off. It’s far easier to write on a surface with it if it’s unattached to him. Fingers slightly shaky, he begins to flip through his notebook in search of a blank page. It’s a marvel that the thing is still holding together, honestly, from how much use it sees. Without the pages pressed down, he can easily read the outline of writing on the back of the page before this one, and all the ones before that. As well as all of the things he’d stuck into the book over time… He smoothes out the pages in front of him, knowing it was better to start fresh and have no constraints on space than to continue his entry from earlier in the day.
It’s more difficult than he could even imagine to just start writing in that space, though. Where does he start, and how does he start it? Should he list out the facts first, or just write it all down as it came to him? All he really knows is that it needed to be more thorough than his usual entry, to find every detail and immortalize them. The best place to begin that search was undoubtedly in his mind, so he starts combing over the incident as he attempts to write.
He and Wenona stood, skeptical, over the loaves of bread that had been left on the counter. By all accounts, it was stupid of their classmates to leave them out to cool like this- but, people in such unfortunate situations as theirs weren’t typically the smartest.
It almost seemed like a trap, at first. But he couldn’t really confirm or deny it from any physical evidence, so.
Wenona’s arms were crossed as she studied the shoddy attempts they’d made at food. “Must have been baked in a hurry,” he heard her comment under her breath. She’d turned her nose up to sniff the air; slightly stale, but ultimately warm and sweet, she had described it as. He hadn’t noted anything in particular with the bread, other than that one looked.. Rougher, than the other. Slightly lopsided, lumpy, ugly compared to its more uniform twin. Wenona had to have noticed it as well. To pretend as if they were the same was to pretend that Ulysses’ complexion was anywhere close to Wenona’s.. to put it bluntly.
Their plans that they had with the two loaves, after determining they were safe, were simple: They would get rid of them by eating them, since there was no point putting food to waste- even if it looked slightly off.
Aside from that.. The implication that he and Wenona would get to eat the bread that they’d worked for in secret, to literally devour the other student’s tiny spark of hope, it seemed all too good. It would sting. It would disincentivize them from trying anything like this again.
Ulysses cringes at the thought of all of that. It sounded far better to him in the moment then it does to him now.
He takes a welcome break from thinking of his rather embarrassing past actions to remove his jacket. That cold sweat from earlier was starting to heat up, uncomfortably so.
Wenona had produced a bread knife from one of the drawers, after a moment of searching. She sliced one, two slices off of the nicer looking loaf, then two from the other, and for a moment he (foolishly) believed that she’d cut one for each of them.
He’d stood and watched in silence, unquestioning until she stepped aside, picked up a slice of the better looking bread, and gestured to the other loaf.
“Go ahead. Eat,” she’d commanded, bringing her own slice up to her mouth already.
Ulysses could feel her eyes on him as he’d slowly stepped towards the counter. For a moment, he was confused, but when he’d looked back at her for confirmation, it was clear. The “better” one was just for her, and she’d had no intention of sharing. Fully willing to let him eat the mess-up on his own.
Yet, still…
“Eat.”
He hadn’t said anything about it. He’d just picked up his slice, tore off a piece, and began eating, slowly.
And he couldn’t even finish the entire loaf like she had. He couldn’t eat more than half. The food in his mouth felt too tacky, nearly inedible. He’d honestly been chalking it up less to how it really was, and more his discomfort with the situation. The way that she monitored him, the slight shifts in her expression as he struggled to swallow. How wrong it really felt for them not to share, when they very well could have- when they should have, because they should have been equals.
But he never dared to speak up against her, even when she’d taught him to do so to everyone else. No, he only watched with a sense of impending doom bubbling up inside of him as she'd cut more bread for him. Expecting him to eat it. Expecting him to stay when he hadn’t. His excuse to leave was poor, his exit rushed. He didn’t give her the chance to say another word, to tell him,
“Stay. Eat.”
And, now… now he was here.
He withdraws his quill, staring down at what he’s written. The latter half is far more forcefully done, the lines dark and thick with his ramping emotions. But that wasn’t what he wanted out of this. Shouldn’t this be making him less upset? To see that it was such a simple action… but he can’t shake her tone, her watchful eyes as they both ate, the taste of it. It still lingers in the back of his throat the same way his words do.
Of course both loaves had to be eaten, he wouldn’t say they should have left the ugly one alone. It was just that, since they were working together, since they were both the top of the food chain, he thought they’d share it. She’d eat from “his” loaf, he’d eat from “hers”, and then there would be no distinction of whose was whose. That was how almost everything went between them. Technically, they were sharing their funds. They were sharing a room. They shared stories and secrets and gifts with each other. They had the same amount of power here. They were (supposed to be) equal. That was what Ulysses knew.
He’s conflicted. Was it really that small of a thing? Was it really that big of a thing? Regardless of its significance, he can’t deny that it's set something off inside of him. A fight between what he thought he knew, and what he was beginning to think. A fight between feeling bad for leaving her, and feeling bad over what she’d done. Feeling bad for misconstruing her actions as malicious, when… when all she had done was…
He rubs his eyes and reads it over again. And again. And again.
It seems too familiar, even if the exact situation has never happened before now. Like a formula, an unavoidable story structure. And the common link was always her, and those little things she did. Things he always kept tabs on, because he’d liked to know her in all the ways he could.
Wenona was always making him do something, and he was always listening to her. The most she did was stand and watch, intimidating, satisfied. She hardly subjected herself to speaking to the people that they “hired”, that was always his job. If a debt had to be collected on, he always went alone. He always spoke on behalf of her, not for the both of them.
..But he was happy to do that, wasn’t he? And he did that because she was better at coming up with the ideas, because he could never tell her what to do- he wouldn’t dare. Just as he hadn’t dared to ask “shouldn’t we share this?” Because even if he had a mouth, and the mind to back it up, he knew that hers was far greater. Hers was not to be questioned. Without her, he wouldn’t be where he was, in a lot of ways. Ulysses should always be grateful- and he was! And he was happy to pay her back for that, to work for that acceptance. He didn't expect it to be easy.
But he'd been happier when he thought they were finally getting to be on the same level. When he could pick out the moments they relaxed together, the conversations they’d shared, from the times when Wenona sent him on errands, spoke at him rather than with him. When people valued what he said as much as they did what she said. When the work had rewards. When that acceptance was in reach. Lately, it felt closer than ever; like Wenona, his friend, was closer than ever.
And it wasn’t true. Or, maybe it was, and she noticed as well. And like she always did, she'd found a way to keep him running after her.
This is such a little thing, though, that he can't believe it’s really the “tipping point”- the final straw that breaks the illusion. It was bread. Harmless, slightly ugly, bread. That hadn’t.. tasted very good. Or felt very good. Or been good enough for someone like Wenona to eat, so of course it would go to her forever second-in command, her silver medal plaything.
He can’t believe it’s true at all, that that raindrop had made ripples large enough to upset the balance of his entire life.
A wave of nausea suddenly hits him, and he instinctively cups his hand over his mouth. He’d hardly noticed how much he was physically deteriorating as he sat there. Every part of his body was aching, his stomach especially feeling as if it were being gored by a thousand and one knives. Scraping, pushing, stinging, stabbing. Making him feel weak in every sense of the word. He knows anxiety can often come with physical symptoms, but.. never this bad. Never to where he felt sick.
A groan passes through Ulysses’ lips as he shakily stands up. He needed.. water, from the bathroom, maybe. But he didn’t have a cup here, did he? Wenona kept one in her bathroom for him, so he wouldn’t have to disturb anyone in the night.. Wenona.. she can’t stay out of his thoughts very long, can she? A blessing and a curse.
“You’re hardly different from them, other than that you got lucky. Don’t forget that,” she’d told him once, as they were watching the other students bicker.
At the time, he hadn’t thought very deep into it. He was lucky. He was lucky to be her friend, or to at least think he was her friend. He was lucky to not be starving and angry and dirty. He was lucky. But what did she get out of reminding him of that? Especially when he wasn’t just lucky. He was putting in the work to deserve to be better than them.
He knew now, what it was. As much as he wants to deny it. As much as he doesn’t want to believe it.
Ulysses paces across his room, running a hand through his hair. His head aches, his heart beats against his rib cage, begging to be set loose. They both want to tear the other apart.
It’s nothing, it’s nothing. She meant nothing by any of that. Can’t you see? She never means anything by anything. But Wenona wasn’t an unintentional woman. She didn’t do things for nothing. He knows that. But he doesn’t want to accept that, he can’t, he can’t let all of this have been for nothing at all.
He hiccups, and a burning sensation suddenly creeps up the back of his throat. He presses his hands into his face, covering both his nose and his mouth. For a moment, he stops. He stands still.
But he still feels horrible, because he knows the truth. She’d been keeping him in check. It wasn’t that she was difficult to crack or to please, it was that she was impossible. She wasn’t letting him in on purpose. He was hardly a step above the people he was cheating and starving on purpose. Ulysses was a useful idiot. Idiot. For all his wisdom, he was a complete idiot. Letting himself be played for so long because he wanted a friend. Letting him forget who he was and his morals of all things! Lest he forget that any tyrannical being like the one he’d become always faced consequences.
What was he even doing with himself anymore? All of this, just to get to sleep next to someone who wouldn’t care if he lived or-
Once again, he hiccups, but before he can swallow it, the burning feeling comes out tenfold; in the form of a spew of vomit.
Ulysses curls inwards, shoulders hunching as he hurls violently. It doesn’t last more than a few short seconds, but it leaves him trembling and panting as he tries to process what in hell just happened. One moment, he was fine, and then next, he’s… He can only gag again as he stares at the mess in front of him, the thick, nearly black vomit that’s splattered onto his shoes. It doesn’t help him in any way, as the movement just brings up more vomit. Scraping, pulling, pushing, forcing everything and more out of him. His feelings and the food he’d eaten, the bile that lies low in his stomach.
He sputters and chokes as he coughs all of it up. His nose and throat burn, dripping with drool and snot and vomit alike. If he’d been shaky and weak before, he was completely spent now. He feels as if he could faint at any moment- But that would be bad, that would be really, really bad, actually. In a small moment of relief and cognizance, he takes the time to carefully get onto his knees, arms still clutching his stomach for dear life.
He can’t help but wonder why. Why any of this was happening to him, but especially this. He’d never vomited from anxiety. No, usually it was from some horrid cocktail of pills he’d been made to take. Or a particularly long car ride. But neither of that applied to him, not recently, and he’d barely even eaten, other than the bread.
It doesn’t take much for him to recall the taste, considering it was all over his mouth, only ten times as sour. It was disgusting when he ate it, and even more disgusting coming back up.
It had to have been the bread, then. Undercooked, or something other than that. Something much more sinister. He should have known. Should have listened to his guts before he had to spill them all over the floor.
Blinking away tears, he tries to breathe for once. In, out, focus. In, out, focus. But, more than a few times, he’s interrupted by the sudden need to vomit again, and again. In trying to hold it back, he only ends up making more of a mess on his hands and his clothes.
At this point, there’s no stopping the force of his tears, no will in him to hold them back. They flow out of him mercilessly, searing hot and soaking his cheeks and chin on their way. He’s terrified. He feels, for a second, like he might even die, as his head swims and vision blurs. Like the world is falling out from under his feet- or, knees.
He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to be alone.
In a moment of weakness, he calls her name. "Wenona," he whispers, between tears and gritted teeth.
But she doesn't come. Nobody is going to come for him. Wenona only cares if it means she can keep him wrapped around her finger. She hadn’t followed him when he left, hadn't bothered to seek him out- as he'd intended, unfortunately. And everyone else hated him, at this point. If they hadn’t liked him before, it was clear they despised him now, from the way they spoke about him. In front of his face, no less. They had no reason to like him, so he couldn’t really blame them. Nobody ever had a reason to like him, and he’d only made it worse. He knows that.
He knows he can only blame himself. He still doesn’t even want to blame Wenona. What a sick joke.
Would she laugh or cry if she saw him now?
If she suddenly came, answered his desperate pleas, would she feel bad for making him eat the bread at all? Would she only revel in his suffering? Would she turn her nose up and call him…
Wait.
Wenona had made him eat the bread. Wenona. Wenona, who liked to keep him in check. Who likely knew all the same as he did that they were getting closer. Who wouldn’t want that to happen, wouldn’t want him to see himself as anything but beneath her. Wenona who had connections, who could hand over a few tokens to make anyone do anything for her. He’d seen it so many times now. Who could make up a situation just to trick him, and know that he'd believe anything if she did too.
Surely, she wouldn’t go as far as to poison him though, right?
...Could he really put it past her now? Knowing everything he knows? If she really didn’t see him as a friend, what would make punishing him above her? Her love was hardly a step away from her hatred, after all. It could and couldn’t be all at once, and all he could do was assume. Something that made him feel sick to do to her. Even with proof, imagining her intentions as being so malicious felt wrong to him. None of it changes anything. None of it makes him feel vindicated, or less alone.
Pathetically, he imagines he might just have to go back to grovelling. He would just have to pretend he hasn’t realized anything, and come crawling back to Wenona, begging for her help. Giving in to her. Pleading for her shallow comfort, because it was the best he’d ever had. And she knew that was the case. It was all she made him think he had. She’d be satisfied by the outcome, knowing that what she'd done had worked. She’d let him back in; it’s not like anyone else would.
He shouldn’t, though. He knows it’s only going to hurt him more. But, for a moment, it would feel good, feel better than this. She always did, it’s why he couldn’t stop himself from staying. Couldn’t open his eyes and see that she could never really love him at all. Couldn’t.. Ever stop himself from loving her... When it only put him here, snivelling and crying on the floor, hardly able to breathe or think, surrounded by most of the contents of his stomach... alone.
Rejected by his peers. Rejected by someone he loved. Completely isolated. All his own fault, no matter what hand she had played in it. He'd done it to himself.
Ulysses is full on sobbing now, miserably burying his head in his arm as he makes an attempt to stand. He was a quiet crier, hiccupy and breathless even when he was in fits. His parents always did like that about him. As he stands, his glasses, already half-way off his face, clatter to the floor. Thankfully, out of the splash zone, but he honestly wouldn’t even care if they did land in the pool of vomit. He's already a mess enough, both physically and mentally speaking.
He swipes his inner arm across his face, in a poor attempt to stop his tears so he can try to see.
What does he do now?
What can he do now? He.. he knows he needs help. He isn’t blind to the concerning colour shifts in his vomit, the streaks of blood that run through it. He can taste it in his throat, metallic and disturbing. If he doesn’t do something.. he’s going to die. Who knows when or if he’ll start to throw up again, and how much more he can take of it.
Who can he turn to? What’s the best option when everything feels like it’s going to make a turn for the worst? When he can’t trust anyone or anything? When he can’t even think properly, for fucks sake.
Motivated only by his will to not die a horrible, pitiful death, Ulysses stumbles over to his door, fumbling a few times at opening it. For some reason, the doorknob evades him and his vomit-painted hands. Eventually, he gets it, but the far brighter light of the hallway nearly sends him back to the floor. His head throbs in agony, like his brain might just explode. But, painful as it is, he just tries to squint and bear it, grit his teeth if he must. What is more pain on top of everything else he’s dealing with? A drop in the ocean, with ripples to come.. Later.
And he isn’t even sure he’ll get a later if he doesn’t do this, so the only thing that matters to him is to start moving, and start now.
He only has the faintest idea of who to turn to.