Chapter Text
Riddle had never spent much time in a hospital before.
Despite his parents' professions, he’d been fairly…isolated in terms of any practical experience in the field. He had seen plenty of photographs, read plenty of textbooks, but the white sterile hallway was still unexpectedly jarring to stand in. It was quite different from the usually noisy infirmary at school, and even more so from the vibrant Heartslabyul, particularly the way the scent of antiseptic and death burned at his nose instead of the smell of sugar and bitter tea to comfort him.
But he wasn’t here for his own comfort. He did not deserve to feel comfortable right now. The discomfort, the urge to fidget unseemly, to gag, to close his eyes…they were all a part of the proper punishment he more than deserved.
The box he gripped in his hands (not too tightly, as to not crumple it; he had to remind himself, again and again, repeating the rule) was a small thing, but it weighed him down like an anchor. Its packaging (a vibrant red he now regretted choosing, no matter what Cater had suggested) was eye-catching against the mundane white and gray he was in the midst of.
It looked so innocent, packaged neatly and not very large, even if it felt huge in his hands, but the contents were not so simple. It was a gift, yes, but more accurately a part of his penance. He doubted Ace would forgive him, not today and not ever, but Riddle knew that even to hope he would, would be more than he could ever deserve.
What if Ace thought it was a cruel gift, that he felt it mocked his condition? It wasn’t Riddle’s intention at all. He simply wanted to get him something practical (as all gifts should be, in his opinion), and befitting of his style (which Riddle had needed help on…), and something that could possibly bridge the gap between them.
If it was even bridgable…but if he failed here, he would just have to accept it. In order to move forward, this was something he had to do. And not just for himself, but for Ace and all of Heartslabyul. Even if they didn’t want him, even if they avoided him in the halls, even if they looked at him with fear and scorn, he was still their dorm leader and would continue to act as such. He owed it to them.
Those who did not give up on him…and even those who did.
The hallway felt endless as he walked down it, white tile and white lights compounding the pulse of pain behind his eyes. His thoughts didn’t stray from the objective ahead, the person at the end of the hall he was going to see.
He knew so little about him.
Not his favorite color. Nor his favorite food. How he preferred to study, or if he had a career he was striving for. What club he was hoping to join. What his hobbies were.
Instead, he knew what his fist felt like against his cheek. The sound of his anger. The smell of his blood.
And so much regret.
He had to face him, even if the thought made bile rise in his throat. He had to. There was no other way forward for him, and not just because he was nearing the end of the hallway. The room he had been heading for, the number repeating on loop in his head in the nurse's pitying voice (surely she’d take a different tone if she knew it was him who had put her patient in that bed.) The door was identical to all its neighbors, clean and clinical, only the number plate and small sign with the name ‘Trappola’ on it indicating what lay beyond it.
He removed one hand from the package, tightening his fist so it would not tremble, and raised it to knock.
The silence that followed, however short, seized at Riddle’s thoughts and breath, stealing any calm he had mustered. What would he say? Would Ace let him in? Had Ace been properly informed he was even coming? Oh Sevens, why did he ever think this was a good idea…
“Doors unlocked.” A familiar voice called from behind the door, barely an invitation but a more graceful open hand than Riddle had expected. His voice sounded fine, a thin layer of fatigue coating it, but no overdue rasp or grit indicating any damage there. One thing to find relief in, he supposed.
He dropped his hand to the doorknob and let it tremble, just for a moment, before he turned it and swiftly pushed it open to face who was inside.
“Hey, Housewarden,” Ace spoke, sitting reclined in his hospital bed, tone oddly relaxed for someone speaking with their almost murderer, though Riddle could not and did not ignore the way he spoke his title and not his name. The title he didn’t deserve, surely, but he wasn’t surprised that Ace did not feel like speaking so personally to him. Even greeting him at all was a kindness, one he must repay.
He steeled himself and lifted his head to look Ace square in the face. It was the least he could do. No, it was only the slightest fraction of what he owed this boy.
Riddle stifled an immediate flinch at the sight.
Ace’s skin was pale, making the white bandages blend in, and the rest stand out. The gauzy eyepatch did not hide the rest of his sprawling injuries, lines still red and raw cutting grooves into his cheek and a notch in his ear. His hands lay still on his lap, thickly wrapped in bandages, only dread telling Riddle what could lie underneath.
The injuries had been extensive, and Riddle had briefed himself on every one. (The Rosehearts family was taking on the burden of medical costs for his treatment, the least they could do, as penance in Riddle's eyes and hush money in his mother’s. His mother kept a detailed list of every cost he racked up, and mailed it to him. He memorized it.)
Riddle could recite them all right now if he had to. He had burnt them into his memory.
Complete loss of the left eye. Abrasions and lacerations to the dermal and subcutaneous tissues of the facial region. Significant scarring anticipated. Significant trauma to the bilateral manus, including ligamentous tears and fractures of the fingers. Severe contusion of left ear cartilage. Auditory system damage unknown. Recommended immediate ophthalmologic and orthopedic consultation for recovery options. Physical therapy required to regain function in hands. Plastic surgery consultation for reconstructive purposes pending. Mental health assessment pending.
All the clinical, cold words that Riddle had grown up engraving in his mind, dedicating hour after hour, day after day to learning, now sat in front of him, in the pale, scarred flesh. It was so much more real than any diagram in a textbook, and so much more sickening that it had been done by his hands.
Hands that had been meant to heal, meant to write, meant to lead. Instead, he sullied them with blood and blot. And now they shook, holding a fragile gift box.
“Hello, Ace.”