Nepenthe

Disclaimer: As you probably realise, Konami owns Silent Hill and all locations and characters existing therein. I own nothing aside of my own fictional scenerios and my own twisted libido. If I owned Walter, I wouldn't have time to write smut.

Notes and warnings: This story is primarily PWP, for, although I greatly enjoy long and complex stories, I wanted one in which Walter and Henry just got to the sex...well, the almost-sex. This story does not contain any actual penetration. There is also a little plot thrown in just for flavour. I've tried to be as faithful as possible to the characters, although I like Henry to have a bit more of an edge, and I thought it'd be fun to write something in which he tops...at least, for a little while. I like my boys bloody.

This is set during the events of Silent Hill 4: The Room. It will include some minor spoilers if you have not finished the game, but nothing that's likely to damage your experience if you really want to read it (hey-- I'm not going to stop you).

A character's direct thoughts are in italics.

As for chapter two, plus signs (+) indicate perspective shift between Henry and Walter.

Beta was the talented Maiafay, to whom I'm very grateful. I should note that I have changed a few small details after her edits, so don't blame her for any of my mistakes. Also, please note that I, intuitively, tend to use British spellings, rather than American. It's simply my preference, but I hope you don't have any trouble with it.

Regarding Reviews: Like any author, I'd greatly appreciate them. As this is my first ever Silent Hill story, and my first slash in a few years, I'd really like to know if you enjoyed this...or if you did not. Critique is appreciated, although not requested-- I'm a poet who enjoys writing smut, and as long as what I write here is enjoyable, it doesn't need to be perfect prose. Feel free to give criticism if you feel it would be helpful, however.

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There had been no further trace of Walter Sullivan in the woods since their strange rendezvous. Henry had held his breath at every door, peering furtively around corners and squinting into hazy shadows, never certain whether the quickening of his pulse in those brief moments was the result of fear...or desire. Relieved when the killer did not reappear, he returned to an anxious Eileen Galvin to lead her deeper into Hell.

They followed a narrow staircase that spiraled endlessly into the darkness below. Eileen began to lag further and further behind. Time was running out. Henry felt a presence-- large and undeniable, waiting for them, down deep, close to the bottom of the world. It grew larger and more intense with every downward step they took. Sometimes, Eileen would whisper plaintively to herself; now and then the words he had thought he heard her say made him shudder with fear for her. She was falling under the influence of this place; her rattling, dragging steps began to sound more and more like those of the cursed creatures who stalked them constantly.

When they entered the marked door that returned them to the grim panopticon, she was barely cognizant; he knew her presence would endanger them both. He left her outside on the encircling ramp, armed with the heavy chain he prayed she still had the strength to wield, and a meager supply of the precious Holy Candles which seemed to temporarily heal her waning spirit. She did not even watch as he left.

He headed to the upper floors by ladder. He had climbed all the way to the third floor ledge by the time he heard it...footsteps, ascending the ramp from below. The origin of the fearless, steady clank was beyond mistake. Henry swung his legs over the ladder and slid down, dropping onto the platform on the second story. He listened.

He heard nothing this time save for the dismal rushing of the water below, licking at the stone foundations of the prison. He exhaled slowly and started down the ramp, readying the revolver in his hand.

Before he had time to cock the gun, one arm circled his neck from behind, slamming his back against an unyielding chest. The other held his waist tightly. "Receiver," his captor whispered, his breath stirring the little hairs on Henry's cheek.

"Walter." Henry replied forlornly, swallowing tightly against the pressure of the blue-sleeved arm. He stood stiffly in that imprisoning embrace for what felt like several minutes, the revolver impotent and heavy in his hand. It slipped clumsily from his cold, damp fingers when he lowered it to the leather holster on his belt, and he leaned his head back against the taller man's shoulder, his eyes closed. He was angry and terrified, but yet again, he felt that curious, languid, irresistible heat spread slowly through his body. "What are you doing to me?" He clenched his teeth and forced his eyes open, turning to look over his shoulder.

The blond looked at him thoughtfully, head canted, a little blood smeared across the arch of one cheekbone. Henry almost choked. He was strangely drawn to the very source of his suffering...and this was unbearable. Yet, he could not meet Walter's green, unearthly gaze without feeling his face grow warm. Had Walter been an ordinary man, an ordinary woman-- Henry would be happy to sink into this sensual delirium-- for it was undeniably pleasant. But Walter was not ordinary by any means, and this unwelcome lust licked at the bottom of Henry's lungs like tongues of hellfire. Could he really feel this carnal bliss from pressing so close...and yet, also feel a stab of despair so profound, that he wanted to sob? No one and nothing had ever affected Henry so powerfully.

The arms around him had loosened somewhat, and he might have fought or fled. He stood quietly.

"You’re so proud of your self-control, my Receiver," came the soft, smiling voice near his ear, "but you forget to feel passion. For two years, you waited there, and you did nothing-- I know because I watched you. No one came to see you, and you rarely left. You ate the same things every night, read the same magazines...not once did I see you stirred to laughter or to tears by anything. For a long time you have lived as though you were already dead...what is it, in your life now, so precious as to be worth this struggle?"

Henry merely clenched his jaw tighter, unconsciously pressing his back against Walter's chest; eyes closed for fear of seeing that voluptuous mouth move, and the effect it would have on his poor brain. The words themselves were lost in the febrile haze. He caught them again, mid-sentence.

"...wasn't there a time, before, when you truly felt? When you truly lived?"

Henry squirmed away, turning and suppressing a shudder of longing at the sudden sight of Walter's face, and the slender, scarred throat...the steady movement of a faint, irrational pulse beneath the pale skin almost drove him to distraction before he could speak-- which he did, in clipped, airless bursts.

"What the hell would you know...about living? Or...feeling, for that matter!?"

Walter almost laughed, running the tip of his tongue along his curved lips. Henry's eyes followed the movement as if drawn by magnetic force. "I know...enough."

Lust gave way to anger; the feeling perhaps directed as much towards himself as his enemy. Henry slammed his hand into the center of Walter's chest, catching him off guard and making him stumble back against the stone wall. In the instant Walter was disoriented, Henry's right fist connected with the corner of his mouth, drawing blood that ran in a slow, dark trickle down his chin onto the already blood-stained blue coat.

Rather than inciting pure fury, however, that momentarily startled expression and the glittering stream of crimson droplets that traced the side of his face, made Henry's stomach clench in lust. Even as the wound closed itself, he vindictively longed to tear it open again-- to lick the blood from Walter's dirty face, to bite him, cut him, make him bleed even more so that Henry could watch the subtle, delicious flickers of pain across his face. Walter was immortal in this form, or as close to it as Henry knew...he would survive the most grievous of injuries.

Henry groaned. This was a depraved desire, no matter whose pain he craved-- even Walter's. Was he, too, possessed by the malevolent spirit of this place?

As before, however, this desire was almost overpowering. Snarling, he pulled the gun from its holster again and brought the muzzle sharply across Walter's cheek, hard enough to have cracked the bones of a lesser being. But there was no nauseous snap, only a sudden burst of colour...first pink and angry, quickly deepening to purple that spread beneath the skin. There, a jagged little line where the edge of the gun had broken the skin, and red ran out, a narrower trickle than before. Walter's eyes flashed, but he did not move, other than to turn his face back from where it had been thrown against the wall with the force of Henry's blow.

Enraged by the lack of response, Henry wrapped his fingers around the other man's throat, squeezing, digging his nails into the fragile flesh. He scraped at the pale, raised scar-- and this did draw a sharp gasp of pain from Walter, who moved free and started to push him away. Henry shoved him back furiously, advancing on him, forcing him against the rough wall as he tangled his fingers in the long, dirty blond hair, jerking Walter's face down close to his.

"Is this passion enough for you, you son of a bitch?"

Henry leaned hard against the blond. Their mouths met with somewhat more tenderness than Henry had originally intended, and Walter was warm and responsive and just as intoxicatingly sweet as before. The added thrill of the slippery, coppery blood made Henry whimper and he bit lightly at the other's mouth.

Loosening his hold on Walter's hair to run suddenly gentle hands down his neck and covered shoulders, Henry wondered if perhaps he should stop resisting himself.

A soft moan from his companion made him draw a little away, looking dizzily at his own hands lingering near the collar of the coat, a puzzled frown on his face.

Walter, noticing this, peered down at him through half-lidded eyes, and smirked slightly. "Well, Henry, what exactly is it that you intend to-- ohh!"

Henry had started to draw down the zipper, slipping his hands inside and pushing the sides of the coat from its wearer's shoulders once there was space enough to allow it. The body beneath, covered only by a thin black shirt, was especially warm to his touch. Walter squirmed and gasped rewardingly as Henry, his hands shaking slightly, explored the curves of his sides and back, slipping the tips of his fingers beneath the hem of the shirt and rubbing them against the sensitive skin of Walter's waist.

"Henry...don't. . . !" Walter gasped, his hand on the brunet's shoulder, fingers pressing into his back in warning, as Henry drew the fastening all the way down. It gave a clicking murmur, and then the garment fell open with a soft sound.

He stopped for a moment, looking up at Walter's troubled expression, and let his arms fall to his sides. How he longed to forget everything for an hour, enough, maybe, to feel...passion. To be happy. Did it really matter so much, what made him happy? He had been so cold and so alone for so long.

"Do you really want me...to stop?"
+

Walter frowned at him, then exhaled, and shook his head slowly in response. He shrugged the coat off, and it slithered to a puddle around his feet. He waited, leaning hot shoulders against the cool stone, the tactile memories of Henry's recent touches still beating faintly against his ribcage like wandering moths. He had only a vague, clinical idea of what Henry was doing, and although it fascinated him, it also made him feel frighteningly vulnerable and lost, two things he generally most despised feeling.

Without the coat, he was naked, although the other man was dressed in only a simple white shirt and did not seem at all exposed. The blue coat had always lent a sort of nurturing comfort, divine protection against the immeasurable coldness and largeness of all worlds. But he was very curious about Henry's intentions, and he did not want to impede him, even if it meant being bereft of his armour.

Henry was busying himself removing the underlayer as well. Walter lifted his arms to accommodate him and wondered at the little white buttons on Henry's shirt. He wanted to see what was beneath it, to touch the faint, purple bruises that even now must be fading, as they did when the two of them were close. When Henry kissed him again, lightly, his tongue tracing the sticky trail of blood, Walter fumbled with the buttons, freeing them one by one. There seemed to be altogether too many of them.

When Henry noticed, he lightly pushed Walter's fingers away and finished removing his own shirt, pulling off the white undershirt beneath it in a single movement. He stepped back a little, a faint smile on his raw lips, and let Walter examine him. Walter was delighted to see that Henry was more beautiful this way than he could have imagined, had it even occurred to him to try-- and yes, there were the expected bruises, indigo shadows, paling and softening. He ran one finger along the pink mouth of a thin wound and watched as it closed. He had made this wound, drawn this blood, and then had unmade it with hardly a thought.

A hand lifted, capturing his wrist, and pressing Walter's palm flush against Henry's chest. The muscles were not quite so defined as Walter's own; Henry was slim and lithe, almost androgynous. Not really male, or really female, but simply...his. Walter would not have even dreamed he would enjoy such a thing so thoroughly.

He was lost in contemplation, almost desperate to know how this puzzling creature, his stoic Receiver of Wisdom, could be so terribly compelling in such a different way than he had planned. Nothing...neither pain, nor desire...not even all the mundane powers of mankind, had ever so much as distracted him from his sacred task. But this one mortal man had so clumsily touched him, and now he was all but overcome. . . .

He was sharply brought back to the present by Henry's anxious voice. "Touch me!" It was neither a request, nor a demand, but almost a prayer, as if he thought he might perish if Walter did not comply. Walter did, of course, stroking the soft skin slowly, bringing his arms around Henry's shoulders and pulling him against himself.

The brunet moaned at the contact of bare skin against his own, and let his head fall forward, nuzzling the hollow of Walter's throat, while Walter shallowly caught his breath, clinging to the smaller man's shoulders.
+
"You know," Henry whispered throatily into Walter's hair, "this really isn't the place for this."

Walter blinked and glanced at him, saying softly, "Miss Galvin is safe, Henry. Asleep, in fact. She will remain so for the time being."

Henry shook his head and smiled faintly. "I know." His voice was certain, but he was astonished by his certainty. He knew without a doubt that Walter was telling him the truth, but why he knew, he could not say.

"I only meant," he began again, trying to keep his words even, "that this metal grating will be very cold. . . ." He trailed off, biting at his lip and wiping his sweaty palms on his blue jeans, hoping further elaboration would not be needed.

Walter took his arm wordlessly and moved towards the heavy metal double doors. Henry stooped to gather the shed clothing and then allowed himself to be drawn into the dank, claustrophobic corridor. Water was rushing somewhere above, dripping down the walls.

Henry was led to one of the inner cell doors. "This was my room, once," Walter told him solemnly, tugging him inside. The door was shut with a dull clank, and they stood staring at one another for a moment, Henry shivering a little, nipples peaked in the cold, damp air.

"Doesn't it...doesn't it bother you, being here? In this room?"

Walter smiled. "No. You are in it, now."

Henry blushed and looked away, frowning. Carnality was strange enough, but sentiment from the killer, whose skin still showed in places, glittering flakes of drying blood-- was too much to contemplate. Walter stood half-naked, in a freezing, grimy, isolation cell as calmly as if he had been basking in summer moonlight in a garden. Yellow glow from the grating above gave his white skin a jaundiced glow and cast strange, compelling shadows in the hollows of his body. He did look almost archangelic now, holy, in a corona of dirty, subterranean light. Henry shivered from more than the chill.

Walter sat on the small bed quietly. "You are shivering...come here."

Henry nodded absently and sat on the bed beside him, inhaling a ragged breath when he was suddenly held close against hot flesh. Walter gingerly unwrapped one arm from Henry so he could unlace his shoes. Henry hastily imitated the action, hissing as his bare feet touched the icy stone. As he was pulled against the blond's chest again, a distant thought flickered through his mind, He's very warm, for a dead man.
+

Henry was so immensely, amazingly alive in Walter's arms...and Walter marvelled and was even somewhat terrified of the brunet's fragility. He was proud, for a moment, that he-- that Mother, had chosen so well the Receiver of Wisdom. He was heartbreakingly perfect; the greatest of all sacrifices. It would hurt so terribly to see him die...but what is sacrifice, without suffering? Henry would never truly die, Walter knew...only this mortal coil of him.

Henry’s movements interrupted his thoughts, and he felt a light touch at his waist, just above the hem of his pants. His thoughts were interrupted by Henry's movement, a light touch at his waist, just above the hem of his pants. Henry undid the metal button, and the zipper, and Walter heard him make a soft sound of amusement to discover that he was naked beneath them.

Yes, he would keep this one here with him forever.

Then Henry did something that made breathing rather difficult. He slid his hand down, under the heavy material and across the sensitive, over-heated flesh it had covered. When he tilted his face up, at last, fingers wrapping around the hard length, the electrical charge in his eyes meeting Walter's own was almost more powerful a sensation than the one between his legs. Henry carefully pushed the fabric down over the astonished blond's hips, and the sudden freedom made Walter realise how uncomfortable his clothes had become.


+

When Henry had looked into Walter's eyes before, he had felt such a surge of power run through him-- a mercurial, heavy amalgam of lust, and intimacy, and tenderness and...pride. It was a curious thing, to see Walter Sullivan this way, lying halfway across a dirty bed, mostly undressed, his mouth open and his eyes dark with pleasure. A ruthless serial killer, the Conjurer...almost a god, who would scarcely wince at the strike of a bullet, and yet who grew so pliable and thralled under even Henry's ill-practised touch.

And with that pride, came feeling of possessiveness. Watching the other man react to his touch, pushing himself into Henry's hand with that mesmerised expression on his face...most likely, no one had ever touched him even kindly, much less like this.

Henry clawed at his own jeans in irritation, grudgingly taking his hand away from Walter in order to remove them. Walter sat up slowly, flushed and with drowsy movements, watching Henry curse under his breath as he kicked off the offending garment.

He knelt on the floor, his hands on Walter's knees, delighted at how the other watched him so intently when he leaned forward, brushing his lips against the insides of Walter's legs as Walter's hand fluttered at the back of his head.

As before, something about Walter made Henry feel almost painfully hungry, and he wasn't sure if this vulnerable flesh inspired him to be gentle and tender, or to bite and raise bruises. He raked his nails along naked thighs hard enough to make Walter's fingers twist sharply in his hair and move down to scratch at his neck. He found that this pain, too, felt good.

The man under his hands was growing impatient. There was something frighteningly carnal about the muscular grip on his neck; it hurt. As much as he enjoyed watching the reactions his teasing provoked, it would not be wise at all to forget whom he was teasing, or what he might do if Henry made him impatient.

He pulled Walter's hips closer and licked his arousal, shuddering. He tasted so compellingly alien. Henry ran his tongue along the moisture leaking from the tip, so infatuated, that he hardly felt the hard hands that had moved to his shoulders...fingers making bruises, dirty nails cutting crescent-shaped wounds.

Henry had, at one time, enjoyed both male and female lovers, but very few of either. It had been years; his mouth should have been clumsy and untrained, but Walter didn't seem to mind at all.

When he opened his mouth and hungrily swallowed around the tumid flesh, the hands on his neck tightened into cruel talons. Henry was unable to free himself without also surrendering the very enjoyable position he now held. In surrender, he squeezed his eyes shut, and sucked hard, one hand between his own legs. He let the searing pain slowly transmute itself into a secondary pleasure. He lifted his eyes to see that the other man was watching him intently, open-lips half smiling, an insatiable fire in his eyes.

Just before the world began to dissolve into the molten euphoria of climax, every detail became unbearably pleasurable: the distant, warm tickle as thin lines of blood ran down his cold, naked spine...the glacial stone pressing his knees...warm, strong legs imprisoning his neck...and those strange, choked, increasingly urgent sounds Walter was making in his throat, his head thrown back against the wall now. . . .

Henry came, not quite expecting it, and only barely remembered to swallow. He lifted his head limply and then let it rest in Walter's lap, distantly comforted that the killer's hand had lifted from his torn and already knitting flesh to stroke his damp hair.

He was disturbed by a sudden sound which seemed to originate from somewhere inside his head.

Henry stumbled to his feet, licking his swollen lips, and was caught off-guard by Walter's stare. Walter was smiling again, a strange smile, bittersweet and sinister all at once. When the sallow shafts of light struck his eyes, they glittered like the wings of beetles. He seemed almost to be absorbing it. He was a seraph, whose halo was an event horizon; he drew power from the unseen and limitless wells of this world, and somehow, this world fit inside him.

Henry was breathless, stunned, and his knees felt weak. How-- ?

Walter stood with the merest whisper of sound, so they were face to face again, and Henry had to lean his head back to look into the other man's eyes. Walter's hands were suddenly on him.

His eyelids fluttered closed as one hand brushed his cheek, and with it, a soft, caressing sigh penetrated his thoughts. 'Receiver'.

Walter's mouth had not moved. Henry goggled at him, but Walter merely smiled further, perhaps a little more affectionately this time. His fingertips moved along Henry's face, touching as lightly as falling snow.

'So beautiful, my Receiver,' he said again, and it was Walter's voice, but somehow changed; when he heard it echo through his mind, he trembled, his spine a branch of a tree suddenly stricken by lightning. The most puzzling sensation flowed over him and through him, lambent fire beneath the skin, sliding through the dark passages of his arteries to find the chambered heart. That voice seemed to bypass his skin to touch directly at the centre of his being. It was sensual, yet spiritual, deliriously erotic and completely sublime.

Henry heard rather than felt himself make a faint, strangled cry, and saw suddenly that although Walter stood mostly in shadow, his eyes still gleamed, like twin green suns.

'You may know the flesh better than I do, Receiver, but no one save I,' he said, evidently enjoying the way that every articulated thought made Henry shudder in response, 'can do this to you.'

And Henry's legs did surrender then, and he fell against Walter, who caught him easily. "I...I...how. . . ." he attempted. Walter hushed him with a hand to his lips. 'Like this, Receiver.' These words insinuated themselves even deeper into his being, seeking some sacred place inside of him.

At the touch of that spectral sound, Henry felt himself responding with only three words, unfamiliar with that inner dialect. They were a burst of white light, a star exploding, something like psychic orgasm.

'Walter...my....God. . . !'

"...my...God," Henry gasped aloud, as consciousness left him. He sank, boneless, into Walter's arms, and the blond gently laid him on the small bed. Even in sound sleep, Henry shivered from the cold. Retrieving his adored blue coat from the floor where it had been dropped, Walter looked at it for a long moment, and then carefully spread it over Henry. It was not quite large enough to cover him completely, but it would keep him warm.

"I will be coming back for that," he said to the still form on the bed, smiling faintly.

As he slipped through the door, silent as a lizard, the last thing Henry had said passed through his thoughts. "Walter...My God". Walter smiled a bit more at this.

"I wonder if you know how right you are, my beautiful Receiver."