— 𝐜 𝐨 𝐧 𝐭 𝐚 𝐜 𝐭

[possessum]

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NOTE: I am forever backtag friendly and absolutely open to doing things from past events that won't really have an effect on things at any given time. For example, if you'd like to do something with Peter aged down or when he was his spider dream guide, etc.

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cw: religious themes / ideation of Hell and Heaven

[possessum]

[ The bed is warm, a fact Peter's strangely not even aware of at first — his senses taking their time returning to him, but now that he's sat somewhere quiet and still... at once his body remembers the chill of the ocean air, still attached to his clothing, skin, hair — unkempt, curls loosened. Skin ashen, dark circles like bruises beneath his eyes. Peter hardly looks the picture of first class disposition. He shudders, but doesn't actually pull the covers up round him yet. He just stays sitting upright, legs curled in, but not relaxed. Not yet. For now— his daze still has him.

He stares over at Will as though he's never quite seen him before. For a moment. And then, it... passes, slowly, gradually, like Peter's realising something. Whatever that may be goes unspoken, and perhaps the boy isn't even fully aware of it. But he's learning, in this strange situation that seems to have fallen into their laps, more about his cousin than he's ever known for all seventeen years of his life.

The offer... resonates in his mind. What it means. What it's saying. A place to come to, if he wants — or, more importantly for him, if he needs. And Peter's eyes grow wider, surprised by that offer, after what frightful things he's divulged to Will. Even if... his cousin had said he was not afraid of him. Peter wasn't expecting this, an invitation into his space. 'Whenever you'd like.'

It loosens something coiled tight in the younger's chest, and he dips his head suddenly, breaths soft and shaky. The wet film over his eyes returns, and he blinks against it, fists the covers still split on either side of where he's sitting up in Will's bed. ]

He's— patient. With me. With what's... wrong with me. [ The reality of this hurts. It hurts because he'd— skirted around his deep darknesses when explaining them to Will, had explicitly avoided betraying them for what they are: something unholy. He's...

Evil.

Isn't he? He's briefly wondered it, but timidly. Flinching back from the prospect like it hurts to think about, because it.. does, it hurts, and it frightens him, wounds him with how much it frightens him. His soul is surely damned, and if so, that means he must be damned for Hell as well. Doesn't it? It means— he'll not see his family again, even in the Afterlife, if there is such a thing. ]

He's not worried to be near me. [ Another shudder ripples through him, something deep and dark and wet, unpleasant. Peter's arms slip around his torso, hugging himself as though cold, shoulders hunching upwards. ]

...Do you believe there's a Heaven? [ Almost whispered, Peter stares down at the fabric of the luxurious bedspread, lids heavy, half-opened. He should feel terrible asking Will something like that. After what's happened. Guilt does gnaw at him, again, creeping its way from the deepest trenches of his gut, but out of everyone left in his world, it's only the opinion of his cousin that Peter wants to hear from on this sort of matter. ]

cw: religious themes / ideation of Hell and Heaven

[wontgraham]

[ With what's wrong with him. How often is something visibly wrong with Peter? Will's gaze sharpens and then blurs; he's staring at the side of Peter's face, attentive and hurt by the way Peter seems to hurt.

Outside the boundaries of Will's awareness, something shifts; he'd never been religious as he truly is, back home and back in Deerington. That means that this fabrication of himself, even if it might have been more historically accurate to shift his views...hadn't. Will is only as devout as he'd been back home.

Inside the boundary of Will's awareness, he hears the plaintive allegory in those words. In that question. In the metaphor of Heaven. Will swallows like the weight of it's suddenly resting on his sternum; he can feel the dread in Peter's voice like it's snuck into bed with them. ] I...believe that I could think of a better reward for me than living forever in a house I didn't build.

[ Blasphemous. If Peter were older, or had more social power than Will, Will wouldn't risk saying it. But this isn't like shocking a relative at a dinner party so they'll stop talking to you. This is Peter, afraid of something Will can't quite connect to, that Will isn't sure he even believes in, and Will feeling finally certain that the worst possible outcome isn't true.

Will shifts closer. Not enough for their knees to touch, even though Will crosses his legs and widens his stance that way, but it's enough that on a mattress, the movement is both sound and sagging motion. It's not easy to miss, and Will feels self-conscious followed by the rush of having been allowed to the last few times he's just reached out.

He carefully stretches his hand over to rest on Peter's shoulder. ] Is it actually heaven that you're worried about?

cw: continued ideation of Hell and Heaven, #FunSleepoverTopics

[possessum]

[ Peter gazes down at his hands now, fingers shifting, fretting against the material of Will's sheets. He's afraid of the answer — whatever it will be. It's such a weighted heaviness to ask, a demand of his cousin that Peter immediately regrets even as he knew beforehand that he would regret it.

'I...believe that I could think of a better reward for me than living forever in a house I didn't build.'

The boy glances back up at the older's eyes, a unique colouring; Peter hadn't quite noticed before. Difficult to really pinpoint the hue of them. Likewise, it's difficult to tell what nuance of his cousin's reply to follow, how to... absorb that.

He stares, silently, intently. It isn't a clarification one way or the other, towards belief or nobelief, but rather... something else.

The ambiguity to it unnerves Peter slightly, the part of him that's still childlike — seventeen but still so young, and all of that even further regressed by the loss of his family. That part of him seeks... certainties. "Yes" or "no".

....But certainties are no longer a luxury he can afford to cling to. Peter is changed, forever, and answers aren't something that can just easily be grasped in the palm of the hand. They slip through fingers, they change form as they do. The reply unsettles him and yet is also... appreciated. Because it isn't his cousin telling him something concrete to appease his fretful mind. This is... Will's honesty, isn't it? Even if difficult to read. Peter's still staring at him silently when the hand moves to his shoulder. The spell upon the boy breaks, he blinks, seemingly always on the edge of slipping away somewhere else. ]

...No, [ he admits, voice smaller than he means for it to sound. Here is another honesty of Will's presented to him, and the reality of the question sinks into Peter like the frosty chill of the night air all over again. But how to put it into words, what he's truly afraid of? Without saying too much? ]

I'm afraid of... not going.

[ He draws in a sigh, instead of releases one. A breath sucked inwards through his teeth. ]

I—I mean. What if... what if there isn't one? What if... when people die, they... just disappear?

[ He's thinking of his family. Of course he is — the thought of never seeing them again. That upset stirs in his eyes, but muted: he hasn't been able to start processing their loss, not really. Peter's throat clenches. ]

Or what if someone goes to Hell, instead?

cw: continued ideation of Hell and Heaven [ sleepover menu: hot cocoa and....existential despair ]

[wontgraham]

[ Will knows that the way he processes information isn't normal. He's known that since he was a child in class and realized he couldn't keep still when another student couldn't stop fidgeting, known it since he caught onto another's crying fit as if it were a contagious cough. Will's better at filtering himself now...but he remembers what before felt like.

And some of the ways in which he's structured himself to bear the load of so many minds and drives is...a perilous honesty. Probably not useful for bedtime stories, to announce that the classic idea of Heaven sounds more like a prison to you.

It's just never sounded personalized enough, private enough, to be appealing to Will.

Afraid of not going. Will was expecting the cut-and-dry Catholic answer - just afraid of going to Hell, afraid of eternal punishment. This is...more nuanced. Will's expression pinches, eyes on Peter's face. ] So this isn't just fear of not being good enough.

This is a fear of being...wrong. [ Peter said it earlier, 'Something's wrong with me'. Will assumes he's thinking of himself when he mentions Hell, even if 'what if they just disappear' sounds like it could easily be worry for his recently-dead parents.

Will shifts again, and this time he isn't afraid of letting his knee nudge Peter's. His hand moves over to Peter's other shoulder, his opposite one from Will's side, brings them closer together in a half-hug. Every movement is a careful thing, waiting for a sign Will ought to stop exploring boundaries they've never acknowledged before. ] I'd like to think something that powerful and infinite wouldn't punish people for being...confused. Or afraid. [ And this, right here, is where a switch is beginning to happen in Will...because this is wishful thinking. This is reassurance, triggered finally by catching on to Peter's worries (or so he believes) and from...sharing those worries, just a little. ]