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 scenarios 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. I also like to make Walter a little more human than he's often portrayed.

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 seriously damage your experience if you really want to read it ahead of time (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 very talented Maiafay, to whom I'm 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.

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 think it would be helpful, however.

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Henry ran, stumbling, on bruised and wearied legs. He was half-blinded by the dense white mist as he plunged through murky woods, with the black, wet branches of skeletal trees striking his face like whips. His heart struggled, a panicked pulse like a frantic captive in the prison of his ribs. Among and beyond those loathsome trees, waiting, were monsters-- real ones, large and terrible, in the forms of looming shadows through the rheumy dark. He would face them soon enough.

For a moment, he was still, catching his breath, letting his weight rest on the damp trunk of a slender hickory tree with eyes closed, seeking the fragile sanctuary of the warm, inner blackness of his mind. The air here was thick and miasmatic, clinging to his lungs; suffocating. But...for now, he should be safe. He turned and leaned his back against the tree with a heavy sigh, ignoring the moist, soft pressure against his spine. If only his head would stop pounding for a little while. . .

And then, a little ways off, in the high fence that led to this acre of woods, he heard the soft creaking of the metal door. It opened, closed, and then came the muffled sound of agile footsteps along the dirt path. Henry's heart lurched in his chest, and he jerked to his feet, tightening sweat-slicked hands around the handle of the bloodied axe. No ghoul he had yet encountered here could pass between doors this way; this was not some demon dog coming close at the scent of his living flesh, nor was it some angry, restless ghost-- but something far more horrifying. Henry crept furtively between the trees, following the sound, this all-too-human sound...the approach of one who was not at all too human any longer. Walter Sullivan. A nauseous rush of fear and hate moved through him, even rocking in his blood.

His hunter had ceased his approach, listening, surely, for Henry's cautious movements. When the mutinous wind swept aside a sheltering shroud of mist, Henry saw him. Walter was watching him through the white haze, through the swirling shadow; that faint, perpetual smile was still painted on his pallid, harrowed face. Sharp eyes the colour of dusky rain-light watched Henry intently, unblinking, waiting with the patience of the infinite for the right moment to strike him down.

Henry turned, and ran. It was little use to fight. Even the heaviest of blows and the most powerful of bullets would scarcely bruise his fearsome adversary. Henry raced toward the impossibly distant opposite door, cringing, waiting for the sound of the hammer of the gun drawing back, the steely click that would herald his doom. It never came.

In confusion, he jerked to a stop, and turned to glance behind, when a strong blow caught him on the backs of his legs, behind his knees. Unwillingly, he went down...kneeling; falling; starting at the coldness and solidity of the earth that struck his shoulder and aching head.

Then, a weight pressed down on his heaving chest, a heavy, cruel foot-- and Henry blinked up through a coruscating cloud of sparks at a smiling face. Intense eyes caught the gloaming light and reflected it as eerie, visceral patterns across jade-coloured irises. The long, blond hair hung forward; the serpentine shadows merging with those that played upon the blue collar of a long coat. Darkness hid Walter's face so that his eyes and smile alone were prominent, and he resembled, to Henry's fevered mind, a predatory Cheshire cat. That smile never seemed to disappear quite; it hung in the air like a crescent moon turned upon its back.

Henry kept very still beneath that pressure, though his lungs cried out in pain for more oxygen. Would he die now, here, after all this, so foolishly, killed like a trapped animal with a single, well-placed blow?

"Please. . . ." Henry gasped desperately, although he knew it was pointless to beg, "...don't. . . ."

The weight on his chest lessened, and then was gone. The other man crouched beside him with a rustle of heavy fabric, watching him with great interest, his breathing deep and slow. "Henry Townshend," he whispered, his voice a warm, deadly rasp, the name spoken with a sort of reverence, soft and flat. A hand brushed curiously against Henry's face, making the prone man flinch and recoil.

"Don't...don't touch me!" Henry hissed, teeth pressed together. The blond laughed, softly this time, almost sorrowful.

"Receiver of Wisdom," he said, as if to himself, and he touched Henry's face again, his rough hand irritating to the sore cheek, where many blows had fallen before. Little stains of Henry's own blood dried and flaked away at the touch. Henry did not move away this time, but merely closed his eyes in resignation of his inevitable demise. What would it be, now? A merciful bullet to the brain? Or would he be dragged away into that loathsome forest, to some dank sacrificial chamber to languish in his torment...to remember again and again all the diurnal memories of his life...all that he had lost, merely because this man-- this monstrous, inhuman man, had inexplicably decided that Henry belonged to his own dark, demonic god?

Henry trembled, wanting to cry...Eileen...whom he had sworn to protect...Eileen, his beautiful, sympathetic, undeniably human and vibrant new friend. Now she was bloodied, weak and fighting for her life all alone by the burned, dark edifice of the orphanage, waiting and not knowing why he had abandoned her to die. Perhaps, right now, she was thinking of him. It hadn't been long. She might still have hope that Henry would return. . . .

At the thought of her, his eyes welled with tears, which he rapidly blinked away, determined, at the very least, not to let Walter see him shattering.

Walter stood, taking a step back from Henry's supine form. And then, Henry's hope leaped up from the dark depths of despair, forlorn, but eternally tenacious. He was just far enough away that Henry might have a chance at defending himself, of living a while longer-- of seeing Eileen again!

He struggled to his feet, clawing for the gun at his hip, preparing to aim, but Walter knocked his arm away as easily as he would have brushed aside a fly. The gun dropped to the ground with a dull and useless clatter. Henry leapt backwards, finding little purchase on the soft ground, and was just as easily pursued and captured, pinned viciously against the trunk of a tree. Walter had both hands on Henry's wrists, held against the bark above his head, one leg between Henry's unbalanced knees. Despite the painful pressure on Henry's wrists, it seemed that he were held captive not by hands or by tree, but by the electric, grey-green gaze that seemed to burn into his skull. The lunatic smirk had not even faltered for an instant.

"Be still," Walter commanded, his deep voice very quiet, but no less powerful. "It is not yet your time to die, Receiver."

Despite himself, a forlorn peal of laughter burst from Henry's throat. If killing him were not Walter's primary interest at the moment, why did the madman have him pinned to a tree? He might have just left him to flee, might have practised his aim a little using Henry's abused legs for targets...instead he had overtaken him and now was looking at him thoughtfully, head tilted a little to one side, like a raptor contemplating its prey. His proximity was paralyzing; Henry could feel warm, damp breath on his face. Walter had a strange scent, not necessarily repulsive so much as alien-- an amalgam of musky blood, turned earth, metal, and a vague, peculiar note that might be identified as something on the threshold between fragrant ripeness and cloying decay. This close to his face, it made Henry feel faint and delirious.

"I will let go of your hands, now, if you promise not to run. I will catch you if you do. And although I don't intend to release you from your flesh just yet, there are many painful things I can still do that would not kill you-- at least, not right away."

Henry shuddered, but nodded his head quickly. His hands were beginning to feel a little numb under the rough pressure.

He was released, but his captor did not move back. Instead, he touched Henry's cheek again, this time sliding his hand lightly over the other man's skin, trailing down his jaw and holding the tender throat as if it were the frail stalk of a flower. After nearly a minute of horrible silence, Henry whined softly, clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides. At once he felt completely overcome by everything that had happened over the past few days, all that he had held down inside himself with such force. He wanted to go back to the comfortable, safe, unhaunted apartment, in which he'd spent two years of peaceful idleness without ever knowing what the future held. He didn't want to fight, or to run...or even to care...he only wanted to be out of this large, dark, oppressive world. He wanted another chance to meet Eileen, to get to know her while she was whole and warm and friendly. If Walter had turned and gone just then, Henry might have simply crumpled to the ground, curled up, and screamed.

"What is wrong?" Walter inquired, frowning a little.

Henry wanted to shout at him, curse at him, ridicule him for being so unperceptive as to ask a man unwillingly in the close company of a deranged, immortal serial killer what was wrong. He couldn't. So great was his despair that he could only gasp out, in angry, tight, broken words, "I...I...want to go home, damn you."

He hardly noted the flicker of sympathy that crossed Walter's face. "Can't you see what's wrong? You've hurt me. You've chased me down with a gun, with...with a chainsaw...you nearly killed Eileen. Those people...you made me watch them die! And now Eileen is all alone, I've left her all alone...she can't defend herself in this hell, not broken and hurt like she is now. . . ." It occurred to Henry that he had forgotten to breathe, and he gulped air hoarsely, then let his head fall against his chest, pressing his fingers against his eyes before raising a clenched fist and swinging it blindly at the other man.

Walter caught it by the wrist, and it fell open as Henry sagged in defeat. The sleeve of his coat tickled the side of Henry's hand. He leant forward a little, so that Henry had to move his own head back, and it bumped against the resistance of the tree. The other hand returned to his neck, hard fingers drawing him forward.

"I will not do anything to you that you won't like, Receiver," he said softly, and there was a new tone to his voice, almost a catch in his throat.

Henry blinked unsteadily, licking his lips in nervousness. "What do you mean?"

"Surely, you know that you were not chosen by accident. You said you wanted to go home, just now. . . . She has nurtured you, protected you, and you came because you were as drawn to Her as She to you. You belong to Her, Henry, and so you belong to me, too. Your soul is pure. You are here because you wished to be, because you knew you needed to be, and it is true no matter how you resist it." Walter's face had taken on the serene look of a devoted religious zealot, reciting the dearest passages of his treasured esoterica.

"What?! Why the Hell would I--!? I want nothing at all to do with any of this! All that I want is to go home, and know that Eileen is safe and happy, and...just..." He groaned and covered his face with his hands again.

"You will feel better, Henry, if. . . ." Walter broke off, flicking his eyes downward for a moment.

"...if. . . !?" Henry snapped, trembling with fear and rage.

"...if you kiss me." There was a subtle hint of flush across pale cheekbones. The vacant smile had gone.

"...what?! No! Jesus! No!"

Walter sighed quietly. "If you do, I will release you and let you go for the time being. You will see Miss Galvin again soon. I promise."

Henry ground his teeth together, hissing between them. What was the killer playing at this time? Then again, this request, strange as it was, seemed less painful than what he'd been expecting. Walter had not asked for blood, or death. A kiss. Why would he want that, of all things?

He looked quietly at the blond man, feeling a faint shudder run through himself. Walter was, by most standards, quite attractive. His yellow hair framed his pale face becomingly; his eyes were a strange shade of green...sometimes muted; sometimes bright, pale, and unearthly. At the moment, they were a dark, clear emerald. He could have been handsome, but fear and hatred does something to one's perception. To Henry, he was just a monster, if perhaps a monster with very intriguing eyes. He could have imagined those eyes in the face of some crepuscular animal, lurking in the shadows of a damp cave.

Ahh...well...what the hell, he thought, What do I really have to lose?

"All right." He bent his head forward, eyes closed tightly, and brushed dry lips against the rough skin of the other man's jaw. Walter turned his face suddenly, capturing the startled mouth against his own. Henry would have gasped if he could have breathed.

To his surprise, the ache in his temples began at once to fade; the pain from the sundry throbbing bruises and cuts on his body subsiding and disappearing. His lips slackened in surprise, giving access to the warm, wet tongue that slid hungrily inside. It was a few seconds before he realised that he was responding-- that the taste and heat of his enemy's mouth was not repulsive-- but almost unbearably pleasant, a strange, but undeniably sweet nepenthe that flooded his mind and body, made him ache with something quite different than exhaustion. The other man's arms had moved, and were now loosely holding Henry's waist. Walter seemed clumsy, unlearned, probably having spent most of his life in fear of others, or in the pursuit of their demise. Yet, it seemed to Henry that this touch was more hypnotically pleasant than any kiss he'd shared with anyone.

When Walter drew back, breathing a little roughly, his mouth wet and slightly parted, pupils dark and heated. Henry's stomach tensed in irrational desire, and, still dizzied, he moved forward to taste him again. He hadn't been touched in a very long time-- unless, as over the past few days, it was a touch intended to wound or kill. This touch, inexplicably, soothed and nurtured him. He was thirsty now; he needed more. He moaned and threw his arms around Walter's back, clenching the fingers of one hand in the rough material of the coat, the other tangling in the long blond hair, pulling the other man against his chest. The strange, sanguinary smell of Walter's skin, which before had caused such tremors of nausea, now made him feel weak with longing, and he nipped greedily at the blond's soft mouth, delighting in the sounds he heard in reaction, and how the arms at his waist tightened around him possessively.

But then, the warm pressure was cruelly withdrawn, and Henry was held at arm's length. At this distance, panting between his flushed, damp lips, Walter was inexplicably but irresistibly appealing. How had he not noticed before the broad, muscular shoulders, the hypnotic quality of his eyes, the sensual mouth...and how radiant he was in his convictions? Could he be so passionate in all things? Growling in protest, Henry struggled against the maddening grip that held him away from the only thing in the world that occupied his present thoughts. "Walter. . . !"

"Hush," Walter whispered, between fevered breaths, "I did promise you your freedom, didn't I? Don't worry, my Receiver...there will be time for more later. All the time in the world!"

With that, he laughed softly, the sound a little too thick and slow for mirth, and briefly kissed Henry on the cheek. The smoldering ghost of that kiss would linger for some time, Henry would later recall, as if it had been a brand.

Walter took two steps back, letting his arms fall to his sides, and then he turned and was gone. The echo of his footsteps receded into the distance in the direction whence they had come, and Henry was left to the pregnant silence of the woods. Confused, frustrated-- even a little ashamed, he leaned against the tree, struggling to catch his breath. Something horrible howled in the distance. Henry lifted one hand to his face, and found wetness there. "I. . . ." he began, but there was no one to hear.