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lostysworld · 10 months

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(tsh spoilers warning.)

one of the aspects of the secret history that makes it so timeless is the discussion of beauty, and how it alone is not sufficient in importance. valuing beauty above all else is a battle humanity insists on waging and never wins. yet, we continue to struggle with it quite obsessively. this destructive, fatal urge to be beautiful, to obtain what is beautiful, to only uplift and worship the beautiful. like richard, we do it at any cost, though we know better. it does not change anything. it never does.

because like with the book, even though we know at the beginning bunny's fate and that we are about to meet murderers, we still fall for their beauty. the gorgeous descriptions of fancy clothing, sophistication as formidable as a storm cloud. stunning intellect and striking features, from the princely to the angelic, inspiring devotion, conjuring awe.

and we fall hard. we fall for francis's countryside mansion, its surrounding nature and memories golden and ceaselessly warm. we fall for the sunday dinners in the quirky, welcoming home of the macaulay twins. the brilliance of henry winter. the allure of money and power and status; the comfort and freedom it inevitably grants, like some godly hand offering one the whole world. it enchants richard, making him believe he could have it, too. that he could abandon suburbia, its restrictive, monotonous curse; the abusive home, void of the vitality that this class appears rich with. we, like him, want the same otherworldly carelessness, liberty; that ability to only do what one wants to do.

but their beauty conceals cutting selfishness, and barbaric elitism that julian, their professor, only heightens. (you'll recall he even had a lecture where he says that the poor man and the rich man are not equal in any regard). suddenly "doing what you want" unearths a new meaning. like the greek gods they study, the class believes they are above the laws of common men. so they commit a murder to cover up a murder, displaying what georges laforge says at the end: "beauty – unless she is wed to something more meaningful – is always superficial."

because the beauty of the class was surface-level, unaccompanied by a greater love for justice or truth or compassion, the spoiled core living beneath pours out after the ugliness of what they had done. though their appearances saved them from the police and jail, providing social privileges, it rotted the foundations of their souls. they thought the worst fate was one of a prisoner, but they were wrong, as they realize too late, the worst thing to be is a murderer. (this is amplified by the allusions to "doctor faustus" in the epilogue). so henry dies, becoming a corpse, like the ones he created; francis suffers from intense anxiety attacks and tries to replicate on himself the deaths he witnessed; camilla turns into a ghost of herself; charles becomes an alcoholic and an abuser, as though housing the wrath of the dead. what once was beautiful decays, now horrific, hideous.

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lostysworld · 11 months

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Sedated – Henry Winter x original male character

Pairing: Henry Winter x original male character (Elliot Wood)

Warnings: none

Author's note: I've made something...I don't know. I just love Henry and want him alive.

Elliot visits Henry at his apartments, while Winter has his migraine

There is no other sound in Henry's apartment but deafening silence, so tense that Richard feels physically uncomfortable. This place always feels strange for him, but today is somehow special. The ticking of the clock in the living room, which he had never noticed before, is getting on his nerves.

Richard is awkward. Despite being as close as it possible to Henry, during his next migraine attack Peipen is afraid to move, although Henry has made it clear that he has nothing against his presence in the apartment.

If it was that simple, and Henry didn’t get worse every next time. Once again, he pushes Richard out of the bedroom after his another attempts to help him, muttering that he does not shoo him out of the apartment in this rain.

When Elliot's curly mop of hair appears in the doorway, Richard feels relieved. They don’t know each other well, but this guy from applied philology class is the only person who’s found some sort of special approach to unsociable Henry.

Richard waves him goodbuy one last time, silently wishing good luck, and disappears in a upcoming thunderstorm behind the door.

Elliot exhales, like before diving into the water, and steps into Henry’s bedroom. He tried to prepare himself for a moment of intimacy, whatever that means, but wasn't ready, that it would happen so soon.

The dark curtains are tightly closed as can be expected; in the semi-gloom through palpable air of the room, he distinguishes the silhouette of Winter’s bed. It smells like some kind of medication and loneliness. Elliot, barely grinning at his own thoughts, steps closer.

The fact, that Henry doesn't push him out, gives him confidence, and Elliot comes up to the bed and sits on the edge of it. Doubts that Winter was aware of his presence would never have appeared. He knows, that during his seizures Henry never sleeps.

– Your arrogance knows no bounds.

Elliot restrains himself not to flinch from a hoarse low voice. The voice, that he hasn't heard for more than two weeks.

– Richard is worried, - Henry winces a little. Is it because every spoken word stubs his temples like a sharp needle, or because the two of them dancing around him like he’s on his deathbed ? – He called me.

– I am the last thing Richard needs to worry about.

– That’s why I’m here and not him.

Winter glances at him from under his palm, that covers his sensitive eyes. Elliot is almost surprised at the honor he’s been given. Henry just sighs tiredly and lays his hands down. Any touch hurts him, and blackout curtains don’t seem to help him enough.

Henry really doesn’t understand what Elliot’s doing here. "Here" – is not in his room. "Here" – means next to him. Winter keeps strangers away from himself, so he still wonders how he managed to miss one.

He doesn’t know what to do with this guy. For several months the only thing, that Elliot has been doing is watching. He caught seemingly absent-minded glances in the library, though he knew that he remembered every detail in Henry. Winter does not usually go to the university library, preferring to buy the books he needs.

He himself did not notice the strangeness until Charles noticed the book in Henry’s apartment, which Henry was supposed to read at the beginning of their studying. Henry didn’t answer him, and for the rest of the evening, he tried to remember why he had taken it in the library and why he went there in the first place.

Hampden's library is a common place for all students here, and while nobody comes up to the greek class, when they're here, Henry learns, that Elliot, in his turn, has his own little spot there. Not that others didn't try to assign it to themselves, but after a couple of sullen glances from Wood and they forget about it.

Henry is convinced that Elliot notices every little thing in him. He is sure until he starts noticing the little things about Elliot.

Elliot draws. Between the pages of his textbooks are dozens of drawings of the campus and Henry. Winter is convinced that some of the drawings are there to divert attention from his portraits.

Elliot smells like overripe cherries and tobacco. Good one. Elliot doesn’t smoke, but his father often gets cigars as a gift. His mom grows a backyard garden, and protects it from her son’s attacks on its fruit trees. Henry doesn't know yet, but Elliott's fingers look so fucking good with dark cherry juice on them.

Only once Henry listened to Bunny, when he was chatting with twins, blabbing them everyone's secrets. That was the time, when Winter learned, that Elliot was afraid of cars. He abandons the only thought of even sitting in the car. Though, Henry didn't learn why was that.

Henry Winter and Elliot Wood are completely different. The first of them lost his connection with the family, the second one has family dinners on Wednesdays at seven. Henry may not work a day for the rest of his life, and Elliot is recruiting students to move out of his parents' house after college.

Elliot knows that he will still show up at their house more often than at his own apartment. Wood doesn't know yet that he won't do it alone.

Now in the semidarkness of the bedroom, the guy, carefully but confidently, is moving closer and reaching for Henry. Fingers are easily, as if playing, tracing out his forehead, passing through the temples, going down to the cheekbones. Henry is suffocated by this ineffable arbitrariness, but remains silent, listening to his own sensations. It strangely comforts him, though he will never confess it even to himself.

Elliot puts a little pressure on the area below the temple, where the pain should pass to cheekbones. Gently massages, adding the other hand to the opposite side.

He is suddenly stopped by Henry’s faint, painful groan, Elliot's fingers, shaking a little, halt, breaking contact with skin. Wood is ready to apologize and take his hands off, when his wrist is brutally grabbed.

– No. It's getting better.

Wood nods silently, though Henry does not see this gesture through his closed eyes. Silence envelops the two in the room, that it's not so tense for Elliot anymore.

– What's on your mind?

Seems, that Henry does feel better, if he descends to talk to Wood. From surprise, that Henry does this, the guy’s voice sinks to a whisper.

– Why do you think- ? – Winter’s mocking gaze glides over his face and he stumbles on half a word. Elliott's cheeks rapidly become of a light shade of pink, that is not seen in this light. – Nothing.

– They say, lying – is the greatest human vice.

– I’m surprised you know something about human vices.

An one-sided grin touches Henry’s lips and Elliot can’t help but mirror the gesture. Until he becomes that cold, frowning, withdrawing to himself Henry again, Wood reaches for him again, hastily but cautiously, and touches his dark tangled hair. Not to ease Henry's headache. Just for himself.

Winter shrugs. If he had not been lying without any ability and desire to move, he would surely have woken up.

In the dim light of the room, Elliot’s strangely shining eyes attract his attention. A strand of grey, cloudy light, passing through the loosely closed curtains, brushes his face whimsically.

– I know more about vices than anyone, Elliot, -

the boy smiles, silly and shy. – Did I say something funny?

He only shrugs his shoulders, bowing his head to his shoulder.

– You called me by my name. For the first time.

Henry forgets about someone else’s hand in his hair. He also forgets about a migraine that tore his head apart an hour ago.

– You are strange.

– Why?

Because. Can’t Wood understand this by himself? It’s obvious to Henry.

There’s Henry Winter. Unsociable, obsessed with Greek and the sanctity of his own personal space. But it’s been thirty minutes, and he hasn’t quoted a single Greek philosopher, he didn't even remembered about one. A stranger, who's sitting in his bedroom on the edge of his bed...he decided not to mention it.

There’s Elliot Wood. Honestly, Henry doesn’t know much about him. He just heard something from Bunny, but decided to ignore it. Elliot is mostly silent. Silent and looks at Henry. It can even be written into Elliot's "special skills" box.

Henry is trying not to be wrong about Elliot. Those people, who are used to watching the others like he does, are scary ones. And according to Richard, that’s Elliot’s normal behavior.

Elliot Wood is the best in his class. He has so many words and their historical variations in his head, necessary and useless facts, that he would compete with Francis. For some reason, Henry thinks they'd get along with each other.

– So why?

It was as if Winter was swimming out of his own thoughts, wondering why he let himself his guard down. His long fingers are still massaging Henry's temples on the side where it’s always been more painful. Seems Elliot feels it intuitively.

Henry slowly grabs the boy's hand without intertwining his fingers, but simply holding his palm.

– You are here.

Wood shrugs his shoulders. This gesture of his will soon be Winter’s favorite one.

– I suppose, I am, - rain is drumming on the windows. The distant echoes of impending thunder are heard. – If between you and the linguistic text analysis I chose you.

It's the first time, when Elliot has noticed that he and Henry are holding hands. He looks down at his own palm in other's one, slowly turns it over. Gently, as if Winter is made of fine porcelain, he swipes his thumb down the young man's wrist, where the veins run like blue rivers through Henry’s pale, thin skin.

Wood wraps his fingers around Henry's wrist, brings it to his lips until his unwitting companion seems to hold his breath from such actions. The soft touch of dry lips on the skin makes Henry gasp. For the first time in his life, his head is deliciously empty.

– If you could see the way they look at you, Henry.

Quiet, but bold whisper. The voice with a slight hoarseness. Winter thinks, he is lost in the senses, not minding the words much.

– You study the Ancient Greek philosophers, but you is a true god they worship.

Henry doesn't need to specify who Elliot means. He knows very well what impression he makes and what motives lie behind his every word and action.

There’s a strange pride in Henry of this boy opposite himself. It took him a few moments and a little effort to notice this, while some of their five students are still wandering in the mist.

– And you?

Elliot turns his eyes away from another one, dark and boring into his head. Winter changes the position of their hands, he caresses the bone on a thin wrist, brushes circles on the cold skin under the sleeve of Wood's sweater.

It’s so weird. After just 40 minutes in one room, Henry feels like he’s known him his whole life.

Elliot raises his glance up, does what he used to do. He's looking. This is not Richard’s look, the puppy-dog like, grateful that they have accepted him into the group, not Charles' one, distasteful or indifferent look that he occasionally throws at Winter. Camille’s and Francis’s glances are somehow similar, calm ones, they only see him as a friend. Henry doesn’t want to talk about Bunny's one.

Elliot looks at Henry as if he's a work of art, not as a slave to his master, but with some special expression inside the dark gray eyes. Wood looks at him as an equal. For him, Henry is not the one who can translate Homer all at once, nor the one Elliot would like to see as a role model of a perfect student.

For Elliot Wood, Henry Winter is the one he once snatched out of the crowd and couldn’t get out of his head. And he didn’t want to.

– So do I.

Elliot leans forward, touching Henry’s bridge pf the nose with his forehead, exhales tiredly, and closes his eyes. Winter, to his own surprise, doesn't even halt from a sudden contact. Only pits his fingers into Elliot's disheveled curls, pressing him closer.

An hour ago, Henry wanted nothing else, but to feel nothing as long as it possible. If only that crushing pain didn’t come back. But now he wants to feel everything. Because with Elliot his migraine is not felt so bad.

Ot fades into the background, while Wood boldly but purposefully, like a cat, lies down beside Henry's side. Elliot banishes his headache away with chatting in a low voice. Winter doesn’t have to answer, but he does sometimes put in a couple of phrases.

When the evening dark grey sky is cut open by a bright flash of lightning, everything around is strangely frozen. In one bedroom, two of them lay still.

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