Chapter Text
A throbbing head, a twitching eye- the blood and black sludge that had been spattered across his coat during the game is gone now. Nothing physical from the matches remain, save for the temper so tangible his hands shake with anger- never does. It’s almost a shame. Scrubbing stains from the fabric until holes are worn into the threads sounds like exactly the catharsis he needs.
If only that would soothe even a fraction of his vexation.
The door slams unceremoniously behind him as Joseph enters his room, shedding his jacket and waistcoat, itching with the need to bring his sword down upon something.
But he’d lost that chance last match.
The fresh, raw memory of it flickers behind his eyelids every time he blinks and it fills him with a renewed rage each time. The image of the embalmer, dazed and confused, clutching his head and agony as he knelt on the ground, cornered. Only for him to slip through Joseph’s manicured claws, dissipating into nothingness. Into a black sludge that had clung to the lace on his sleeves, under his claws. A bitter, toxic waste, a fuck you would have been simple enough. That pesky coffin of his.
Joseph doesn’t like granting Aesop the gift of dying twice in the same game.
He would rather all four of them go free, if he’s going to lose anyway.
But sometimes, it’s the closest thing to victory he can get.
But sometimes, it’s just Aesop.
Out of everything Aesop expects to find- though, it is hard to expect anything in this place. The only thing that makes consistent sense within the manor are the four invitations to a game that appear mysteriously every morning, without fail- a second letter, tucked under the first, is not one of them.
The one on top dons the signature, red wax seal. The beck and call of the baron, a demand to participate in today’s game.
He makes it known among the other survivors, meekly informing them of who they have the displeasure of playing with today, and says nothing at the thick layer of distaste that settles in the air. Instead, he turns his attention to the second letter. The papers resting neatly in his lap, he is able to shuffle them around, fumble them open without anybody noticing because they’ve already moved on from the disappointment that is Aesop Carl.
The second letter, he finds, as his gloved hands hold it tentatively, bears a gold seal instead. The emblem, he does not recognize.
For a moment, for just a moment, he considers that the placement might be a mistake. That this message couldn’t possibly be for him. Surely, it must be for someone else. But he discards that thought as quickly as it had come.
Whoever this is from, it had been intentionally placed upon his plate- whether another survivor, whom they’ve all memorized each other’s seats by now, agreed upon mutually and silently to keep the seating chart consistent to avoid any confusion, or from the manor itself- how funny, the thought that a building could deliver a letter. How they’ve all come to accept that as truth. And the manor never gets it wrong.
So this must be for him.
His eyes flicker upward, scanning the room to see if there are any gazes directed his way- that maybe this is just a cruel joke on all of their parts. A prank. Waiting for him to tear open the envelope and have something unsavory like bugs and dirt spill out into his lap. Something to laugh at. Someone to laugh at.
He makes an easy target for those, especially now. His head is still sore from last night’s match, feeling like it’s stuffed full of cotton and clouding his thoughts. It tends to feel that way, when he has to use his coffin, even if the physical effects from the game aren’t supposed to carry over. There’s just something about melting into nothingness and being reborn again that will always throw him for a loop. And that’s why he knows it would be effortless, for them to catch him with his guard down today.
But nobody is watching. He is completely and utterly alone in this, a room full of people.
A finger deftly opens the letter, popping the seal and unfolding the paper in his lap. Shielded away by the tablecloth, there are no eyes to pry as Aesop begins to read the words neatly scrawled on the page before him
Aesop Carl,
The lengths at which I fail to understand you know no bounds. Even now, I am kept from sleep in this wretched place that the sun never seems to rise in. Every time I bring my sword down upon a survivor, for the briefest of moments, it is your face that flickers in my mind. Wishing. Wanting. I-
Oh.
Aesop tears his eyes up and away from the paper, suddenly registering the panicked flush that has spread across his cheeks, burning the tips of his ears-
Aesop Carl’s hands do not shake.
They can’t.
For his profession, they simply can’t. It takes one wrong brushstroke to ruin a canvas. A crooked swipe of eyeliner. A rushed pout of smeared lipstick. A flick of the wrist slightly too sharp that sends mascara in places it’s not supposed to be- Aesop Carl’s hands do not shake.
Which is why it’s so strange, when his eyes fall back to the paper and find it harder to focus on. Find that the words just won’t seem to sit still. If only they would cooperate, because despite how fast his heart is racing now, thudding erratically against his ribcage demanding to be set free, seized by the scorn directed upon him in the letter- despite it all, he is hopelessly and utterly hooked. He has to finish reading it.
I detest you. I detest how bizarre and illogical you seem. And I wonder if it is worth it, to make the effort to understand you. Would it matter? In this place, what is understanding between predator and prey, if nothing but a cruel joke? Would that not make it harder, when they throw us into our cage? With you running, with me chasing. We cannot escape the roles that we were given. I am meant to be harsh. Ruthless. Merciless. But I have grown weary of this endless game of tag. Wouldn’t it b-
So enraptured in the reading, it startles Aesop much more than it should when someone taps him on the shoulder and asks him to ‘please, pass the butter’. The light touch jolts him, ripping a full body jerk out from under him as unprompted contact always does, his neck snapping up to look frantically from the hand- Emily’s- to where she’s pointing. The small tray of butter sitting closest to him but just out of her reach.
It takes him a moment, always does, before he sputters to life, lifting the butter and passing it to Emily. His gaze only remains pinned on her long enough to watch her promptly pass the tray to Emma, making sure they don’t need anything else from him, before he slumps, eyes falling to his lap again.
He has to take a moment to collect himself, shaken, before he can go back to reading.
Not like there’s much left anyway, though. He finds his place in the paragraph, swallowing thickly.
Wouldn’t it be quaint, to be free of these roles, if only just for one game? A novelty, surely.
I am able to say with confidence that I believe any other survivor would appreciate a gift like that. But I cannot speak the same to you.
You, who possesses a strange fascination with death. Who smiles upon it.
What a loathsome little thing you are.
And what a pitiful thing I am, waiting for the day you prove me wrong- waiting to understand you- knowing it will never come.
To find this signature at the end of the letter, Aesop realizes, does not surprise him at all. No. It had been certain within his mind the moment he detected the poison and hatred laced within the first sentence. There is only one hunter in this manor with a sword just as sharp as his tongue.
Joseph.
He folds the paper back upon itself with practiced motions, thumb running along the preexisting crease, and tries valiantly to will down the rapid rate of his heart.
It would be great if it could stop entirely.
Aesop does not want to deal with this. This letter. Preferably ever. He has always felt the air thick with tension when tossed into a match with Joseph as the hunter- he’s not an idiot.
But what does this mean?
It is so hard to place. A… a peace offering? An olive branch of sorts? Joseph had expressed his desire to be rid of their roles, hunter and the hunted. Does he perhaps wish to lay down his sword?
Still. A rather odd way to offer. Riddled with insults, and philosophical questions. This, Aesop realizes… this is not unlike Joseph’s normal behavior.
“Mr. Carl!” A voice reaches through the frenzied thoughts swimming in his head, and Aesop looks up once more, folding his hands in his lap overtop the letters on the guise of polite behavior.
“Eh… yes?” He directs his attention toward Emma.
“What’s wrong? You’ve hardly touched your food!” she points out, speaking through a mouthful of food herself- bitten into the butter and jam she’s smeared on her bread for breakfast. “Eating’s important for the matches, yknow!”
“She’s right,” and Aesop whips his head around to the one chiming in now- Naib, who has slowly begun to make his way over, scrutinizing gaze narrowed on Aesop. “You better eat something. If I have to save you cause you got caught running on an empty stomach, I’ll be pissed. Got it?”
“R- right,” Aesop nods stiffly, picking one of his hands up to slide a few items onto his plate in hopes of appeasing them. Never very hungry in the morning, they only bully him into eating when they know he has a match that day.
He would prefer to go without it, really. But he knows it’s easier not to kick up a fuss, lest someone think he’s trying to stir the pot. They’re all so dearly, humanly attached to living. To saving their own skin. He’s not so foolish to assume them prodding about his eating habits is for his benefit, but rather it’s for their own, knows just how much of a drag it can be to win a game when one person isn’t even playing.
They’ve expressed their distaste for him, in one way or another. Most, but not all. Still he finds it too difficult to counter their false accusations when he opens his mouth and the words die in his throat. Because he’s never liked people. Never been good at talking to them. Never been good at being talked to.
People are confusing. Aesop prefers the comfort of the dead. And they all know how strange he is for it.
Every survivor in the room, Aesop included. In fact, Aesop guesses, every hunter knows it too.
Joseph certainly does, if this letter is anything to go by.
Once Aesop is finished clearing the meager portion he’d scooped onto his plate, he vacates the dining area wordlessly, escaping up to his room. The weight of Joseph’s words sit heavy in his hand as he contemplates what to do with it, before ultimately tucking the paper into a drawer for safe keeping. To come back to later.
They cannot question what they don’t see. They cannot criticize what they don’t see. They cannot poke and prod at him in the ways he so dislikes, if he makes himself as scarce as possible- like forcing food onto him, telling him it’s for the energy, that it’s a good idea.
Aesop knows it’s not.
Because the food in his stomach solidifies into dread, when he opens his eyes on the game stage a few hours later, and sees a camera to his left.
Going into a game with a purpose feels strange. With Aesop, it’s usually aimless. Knows he’s not going to win, usually won’t try very hard for it. At the very least, he makes good bait, the other survivors leaving him to scramble when he’s inevitably found by the hunter first and using that time to get done as much decoding as possible.
Because, even though Aesop enjoys the feeling of the blood draining from his body, prefers it even, to the rocket chair (the rocket chair makes his stomach lurch, dizzy and violent. But bleeding out is almost peaceful. Comforting. Slow and soft and enveloping in warmth, in darkness), that doesn’t mean he won’t make a run for it. He’s human, still, after all. The urge to stumble away in a chase seizes him without fail, every time his heart starts beating up into his throat.
But this time is different.
This time, he is the one doing the seeking.
It’s the only chance he’s going to get anytime soon to ask Joseph about the letter. The manor is fickle- doesn’t always let the survivors and hunters cross over to each other’s sides, even if that is their intention.
Aesop had run for what felt like hours once. The walls and doors had started to look the same until he couldn’t tell which way was up or down, hellbent on stumbling into the hunter’s den so that one of them could slaughter him for good amongst all the panic and confusion upon his initial arrival, told there was no escape. But he could never find it.
So, Aesop swallows thickly, it’s now or never. Now, lest the lesson so ingrained in him to avoid confrontation wins out over the overwhelming curiosity he feels in the moment.
His fingers fumble with the handle to his case idly as takes in his surroundings, standing still.
Admittedly, he isn’t sure how to approach this. The hunters are meant to come to him. Not the other way around. The change of pace throws him for a loop, and he can’t even bring himself to take a step, the silence of the map almost deafening despite becoming acutely aware of how heavy and hardened his own breathing sounds, behind the mask.
Distantly, he acknowledges that the cipher not too far from him has begun to shake, indicating someone has started to work on it.
He waits.
Normally, Joseph will take a photo as soon as possible, whenever a match starts. That is, of course, unless he’s already found someone to chase.
But the sound of a shutter never comes, and despite how warily Aesop eyes the camera next to him, the flash doesn’t illuminate the air.
Huh.
Aesop wipes the sweat from his brow.
It’s consistent with the tone of his letter- growing tired of his role as hunter. Tentatively, Aesop gains an inkling of confidence, that maybe this match won’t go down as brutally as they normally do.
And that’s enough to get him moving.
Steps cautious, Aesop surveys the area, letting his feet carry him as he wanders in that half hunched over way he does, has always carried himself that way, makeup case held close to his body and eyes alert. His footfalls are soft against the dry earth, letting his instinct guide him, weaving through the walls and pallets until-
His heartbeat.
It’s both a relief and the same sort of raw terror that always rips through him when the thrumming rhythm lets him know his life is on the line.
Hairs on the back of his neck standing up, Aesop tenses, frozen momentarily, before he pushes onward. His head swivels as he walks, ears strained as he tries to follow the beating of his heart.
Hasn’t even practiced what he’s going to say to Joseph. Hadn’t even known he was going up against him until the game had already been set into motion. Might not need to say anything. Joseph has the tendency to speak enough for two people, Aesop has noticed. Not that Joseph often makes conversation with him, per se, but he’s overheard it in the past, on the occasion he’s bold enough to wander close enough to where Joseph is camping a chaired survivor, monologuing about, well- Aesop doesn’t know.
His presence alone is usually enough to make Joseph stop mid sentence, nostrils flaring as he all but abandons camping and starts swinging his sword in Aesop’s direction instead.
It’s enough to pull him out of the memory when he spots the telltale red light shining on the ground in front of him, lifts his head up- and makes immediate eye contact with Joseph.
In that moment, he is as good as his photo copy. Unmoving, helpless to the whims of the world around him. His mouth opens and closes behind his mask, trying to find the right words.
But what is there to say, really? Even with meticulous planning, Aesop knows his speech would have still failed him-
What a loathsome little thing you are.
What is he doing?
Aesop feels the dread settle into his limbs, every fiber of his being as Joseph steps closer to him, gutted by the sudden realization of his own foolishness.
He can’t do this. He can’t do people. He can’t do confrontation.
Left gaping, Aesop reels as what looks like confusion flashes momentarily over Joseph’s features, and then the sword is brought down upon his head.
It spurs him to life, and recoiling from the hit, he turns tail and runs, driven by a panic so blind he doesn’t even think to throw pallets down behind him, doesn’t trust his shaky legs to vault through windows. So it is no surprise at all when Joseph quickly catches up with him, swings his blade again, and Aesop is sent to the ground.
As he polishes his saber, Joseph scoffs, standing over Aesop who is clutching his temples- and Joseph shakes his head. And Joseph walks away.
What happened? What was that?
How stupid, Aesop thinks, as stars burst behind his eyelids. How stupid Aesop had been to think Joseph wanted a truce.
What a loathsome little thing you are.
No, that letter had only been to mock him. A target for bitter words, and vile insults. How could it have been anything else?
Joseph doesn’t like granting Aesop the gift of dying twice in the same game.
He would rather all four of them go free, if he’s going to lose anyway.
But sometimes, it’s the closest thing to victory he can get.
But sometimes, it’s just Aesop.
An uttered swear tears from Joseph, and slamming his hands onto the small desk tucked into the corner of his room so harshly, it sends a few stray items toppling onto the floor. Joseph scowls.
Having to clean up his own mess only furthers his irritation. Though that can be chalked up to his fault and his fault alone. His eyes bore into everything he picks up, taken personal offense- a handful of photographs, a sheet of loose paper, a feather pen-
The stationary in question stares mockingly back at him. Joseph pauses.
And as he pushes up his sleeves, practically throwing himself into the desk chair, he lets out another unsavory swear. One he knows Mary would chew him out for, had she heard it, for being so distasteful.
But that is the furthest thing from his mind as his hand starts to move across the page, quill clenched in his hand.
He writes. He writes with a fury. He writes his anger into every stroke of the pen, every syllable, and when he is done, he twists the gold wax seal with the same sort of conviction.
It is done. The words are out. His chest is heaving.
The paper, pinched between two fingers, he stares.
Drops it as if it had burned him. Scorched with a sudden dread.
Joseph stuffs the letter into the back of a drawer he never uses, under a pile of clothes gone untouched for so long, the wrinkles may as well be permanent, resigned to never look at it again.
Which is why he doesn’t notice that the letter disappears.