Chapter Text
‘May 5th, 1989.”
The pan brushed against the sheet of slightly crumpled paper, leaving some words in a perfect, distinguished cursive. Nobody knew what will be written there next, neither did the man who was writing it. The days were always the same, no different from each other but it was somewhat comfortable and relaxing. The way the rain poured lately, staining the windows with its drops and knocking on the roof loudly; the same sophisticated smell in the air which was coming from the kitchen; the same textbook and the same pen writing down the summary of the passed day. It was always the same, too, just paraphrased with different words, sometimes with an addition of some not really riveting but still exciting for the writer information. What was the point of a stupid summary of a stupid alike to the others day? The writer had a tendency - writing 3 things about each day that made him at least a little bit happy. Or 3 things that he would praise himself for. He hasn’t decided what exactly he wanted to write yet.
'1. I bought a cassette tape with a song that Will has recommended me earlier.'
The pen made a brush again, causing a small smile on the writer’s face. It was always hard for him to remember the events of the day and collect his ideas, especially when he needed to. The memories were always looping in his head, though a predominent part of them seemed ordinary and somewhat mind-numbing, as if he has already written the same thing a dozen of times before. Except for that he actually has. With a sigh, the writer tapped his pen sundry times before starting to write again.
'2. I made a small bouquet of flowers while rambling near the field.'
He continued to write, a smile on his face widens even more. Most of his free time, especially in the evening, he spent rambling in the adjacent forests or fields, sometimes with his dog. It calmed him down somehow. Maybe he just found nature more trustworthy that the town with big crowds of people that made him anxious and apprehensive. Of course, being isolated for almost his whole life had a bigger influence that anything alse did. Contacting with people felt wrong and disturbing, though he tried to resist such state while being in the society. Sometimes, he wrote things that concerned him down too.
'3. I visited the cemetery.'
The smile disappeared from the writer's face abruptly. It wasn't a thing that made him happy, though he could praise himself for that. Every time he stepped there, his eyes became red and tears hurtled down his cheeks; therefore it was a great pain but an act of great courage too. His heart hurt for a second or more, before he averted his a little bit tearful gaze from the textbook and then closed it with a big force. The cover said: 'Henry Creel's notes' in the same perfect cursive with a same black pen. And the name of the writer.
Henry's devastation has been interrupted by a soft knock on the door, which made him come out of his vehement trance of painful memories, replacing it with a muffled "come in", that differed from the state he was in a second ago. The door opened with a creak and then the sound of footsteps filled the usually quiet room, sometimes facing his whines.
"Are you done yet?" You placed your hand on his shoulder gently, stroking it with utter tenderness, before it was covered by his. You have always loved watching Henry write down things or helping him to remember the details of the passed day due to your better memory. Nonetheless, you never wanted to disturb him, so he always had his personal space and time alone. But though, he didn't usually used it properly. Every 5 minutes he would call out for you, and when you came in, you always understood what was on his mind without even asking. It was a deeply natural connection, full of love and understanding, which you both found exceedingly unique, something that only two of you had.
"Yes, I think so," Henry's answer was simple, though he still didn't turn to you. His voice was coming out a little bit shaky, and you immedietly understood that there was something off about him. Without a second thought, you walked to him so now you were face to face to each other and you could see his completlely devasted state. Henry didn't know how many time he has spent sitting like this on his chair and zoning out, recalling the worst and most traumautizing moments of his life.
"God," you cupped his face in your hands, your thumb wiped a single tear on his cheek. Yes, you could say that you were absolutely used to finding him being in an oblivious trance or after it, comforting him every time. But it didn't mean that you weren't reacting to it like for the first time. "I'm here, it's okay, nothing's gonna hurt you, remember?" You uttered softly and gave Henry a small smile, on which he answered with a nod, before you pulled him in a tight, soothing hug. Hugs were a special thing for him, which helped to accelerate the process of him calming down. Especially if a hug was from you. He wasn't a resilient person even since the control of the mind flayer has faded fully. He was still blaming himself for everything he had done under the influence, visiting the graves of the victims, apologizing an uncountable number of times. Earlier, he claimed that he should've died with the shadow, that he didn't deserve forgiveness for his actions and deeds, even if they weren't truly his. Now, he was calmer. Not a lot, but still calmer. He was doing all of the things that he hasn't experienced before. Even the stupid ones: using all of his money to buy a big portion of terribly sweet strawberry ice cream and singing along with his favourite songs. And even the 'creepy' ones, such as watching children on the playground. But acctually, it wasn't a creepy gesture or action; it was rather caring. He watched them, making sure no one of them is in danger, like he was one time in his life, when he was just a little kid.
Although he still couldn't believe he was fully free from any control, thanks to you.
Wrapping his arms around you, he whispered a gentle "thanks", laced with a genuine gratefulness and love.