((Percival Everest Thatcher’s character introduction/set up.))
((Warning: References to past child abduction/noncon/abuse, murder, suicidal tendencies.))
Percy scratched at the surface of his fingers, pulling at hanging skin, wishing for a file. His hands were dirty, grimy, stained with weeks of independence, of freedom. It was a nice look on them.
The scum caked beneath his once-manicured nails was thick and black and ugly.
What would Henry think of him now?
The school had been kind, Perce felt, all things considered. They’d found him with nothing but a cheap guitar and a threadbare knapsack, groveling at the feet of a woman too kind to truly be human at all. Full on her food, well on her medicines, the scout had discovered a young man indebted to some stranger’s grandmother whom wished for no compensation but his safety in years to come. They’d found a pathetic excuse for a human being, and to him they had given clothing, shelter, safety…
The Academy gave him a life unlike anything Percy had known in many years.
He didn’t deserve their kindness.
He didn’t deserve the opportunities, the liberties he had been gifted - gifted, not sold, nor loaned. He didn’t deserve the escape.
Percival looked into the mirror hanging against the closet door, so innocent in its placement. Like it was waiting for him to glance past the glare of the overhead light and into the depths of the reflection. Like the reflection wasn’t putrid in the least.
In that mirror, so delicate and pure, sat a shell of a man with spring-colored eyes so empty it was a wonder they were living at all. They were set in a sallow face still recovering from years and years of ”Don’t eat this; it’s loaded with carbs,” and ”If you fill your plate, you’ll be fat and undesirable, even to me.” Sometimes, Percival used to think that being undesirable might not be so tragic. He still did, at times. But then he remembered how Eloise grew and grew, and how she ran and ran, and how, in the end, she wasn’t desirable anymore.
She was disposable.
So, too, was Percival, now.
Had Henry already found another?
Another to bind? To beat and abuse?
Percy stared at the sagging man’s scarlet locks, still tumbling down his forehead in that careful lovely way. Except it wasn’t really lovely anymore, was it? Dirty, uncut, untamed… How ugly it was. How ugly it would be to Henry, if the man were there beside him. He would need to find scissors in the morning.
Percival continued to pick at his fingers, uncaring as a flair of skin gave way to budding blood. Instead, he roamed the reflection before him, mirroring his body and his failure in a way he couldn’t deny. Nose too large. Lips too thin. Eyes too small for his face. It was a mystery he was ever taken at all with a face like this. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about falling victim again, if only Henry could love him?
Only Henry, in the end, because Percy couldn’t love himself either.
Tears welled up in his mourning eyes but Percy refused to let them fall. It wasn’t good to cry. It was childish, immature, unattractive unless requested outright. It was pathetic, like him, and if Henry caught him sniveling like a child he would-
Except Henry wasn’t going to find him.
He was safe and away from the pain.
But he didn’t feel like he was.
A different kind of sadness surged in Percy’s throat and suddenly, he found himself unable to hold back the wetting of his eyes. It began with a single tear, tiny and perfect as it cascaded down his creamy cheek, completely solitary until another, and another soon joined it. Before Percival could stop himself, his face was a mess of ugly red, smeared across with salt and water, his lips trembling as he choked on his sobs. Percy caved in on himself, hugging his knees until he slipped off his bed, landing against the carpet without moving. He couldn’t. He couldn’t move at all, his own heart overpowered him so.
Mixed into his hatred of himself was a tragic sort of pride, so large it felt like a lion roaring even as its claws dug into his skin. Percy could feel it there, his accomplishment. It took a strength unlike anything the man knew he had to pick up his things and leave that horrible house. It took everything else he had to keep moving. His mind was clouded, then, with thoughts of Henry showing up at the last moment, the fire in the man’s brown eyes as he realized his wind-up toy was walking away on its own. There would be no second chances, just as there wasn’t for Eloise. As soon as Henry connected the dots, Percy’s end would have been as simple as a shotgun shell to the back of the head and a fabricated story of how the “nephew, Perce, went back to live with his mum.” He’d have been disposed of. In pieces.
And still, Percival ran.
He ran and he ran and he survived.
He made it.
He made it. He escaped.
Nine painful, screaming, outright dehumanizing years later, Percival Everest Thatcher was a free man, with no Henry to tie him down any more. There was a veil, now. A secret. No one could find him here… Not ever.
For the first time in a long time, Perce was safe. He was safe, and hidden, and away.
Hell, he was damn near in Neverland.
The man gazed once more into the mirror, dull eyes roaming over his reflection. Strong jaw. Broad shoulders. Eyes that saw everything and still continue to blink. A mind left beaten and ragged still managing to think. Lips, once torn, once cracked, once kissed and battered and bruised, still pink with life. Still able to smile and laugh and pull air into his tired lungs.
A sound of misplaced joy broke through Percy’s lips, a laughing sound, one so genuine and paradoxically vain it shocked him into releasing another, and another. Before long, his tears were replaced with heaving guffaws, scratching and pulling at the deepest parts of him. He laughed for the pain. He laughed for the pleasure. He laughed and laughed for all the times he’d picked up the knife, resolute to end his suffering forever, and watched it clatter to the floor nevertheless. He laughed for the risks he’d thankfully never taken, and he laughed for the one he did.
Eventually, Percival calmed, a little apathetic grin upon his lips as he rested against the floor. Slowly, slowly, his gaze wandered back to his reflection, and he met his own dreary eyes.
4:41 AM, and the dark circles made him look like a starved racoon.
The smile slipped away.
He should never have tried to escape.
Percy scratched at the surface of his fingers, pulling at hanging skin, wishing for a file. His hands were dirty, grimy, stained with weeks of independence, of freedom. It was a nice look on them.
The scum caked beneath his once-manicured nails was thick and black and ugly.
What would Henry think of him now?
The school had been kind, Perce felt, all things considered. They’d found him with nothing but a cheap guitar and a threadbare knapsack, groveling at the feet of a woman too kind to truly be human at all. Full on her food, well on her medicines, the scout had discovered a young man indebted to some stranger’s grandmother whom wished for no compensation but his safety in years to come. They’d found a pathetic excuse for a human being, and to him they had given clothing, shelter, safety…
The Academy gave him a life unlike anything Percy had known in many years.
He didn’t deserve their kindness.
He didn’t deserve the opportunities, the liberties he had been gifted - gifted, not sold, nor loaned. He didn’t deserve the escape.
Percival looked into the mirror hanging against the closet door, so innocent in its placement. Like it was waiting for him to glance past the glare of the overhead light and into the depths of the reflection. Like the reflection wasn’t putrid in the least.
In that mirror, so delicate and pure, sat a shell of a man with spring-colored eyes so empty it was a wonder they were living at all. They were set in a sallow face still recovering from years and years of ”Don’t eat this; it’s loaded with carbs,” and ”If you fill your plate, you’ll be fat and undesirable, even to me.” Sometimes, Percival used to think that being undesirable might not be so tragic. He still did, at times. But then he remembered how Eloise grew and grew, and how she ran and ran, and how, in the end, she wasn’t desirable anymore.
She was disposable.
So, too, was Percival, now.
Had Henry already found another?
Another to bind? To beat and abuse?
Percy stared at the sagging man’s scarlet locks, still tumbling down his forehead in that careful lovely way. Except it wasn’t really lovely anymore, was it? Dirty, uncut, untamed… How ugly it was. How ugly it would be to Henry, if the man were there beside him. He would need to find scissors in the morning.
Percival continued to pick at his fingers, uncaring as a flair of skin gave way to budding blood. Instead, he roamed the reflection before him, mirroring his body and his failure in a way he couldn’t deny. Nose too large. Lips too thin. Eyes too small for his face. It was a mystery he was ever taken at all with a face like this. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about falling victim again, if only Henry could love him?
Only Henry, in the end, because Percy couldn’t love himself either.
Tears welled up in his mourning eyes but Percy refused to let them fall. It wasn’t good to cry. It was childish, immature, unattractive unless requested outright. It was pathetic, like him, and if Henry caught him sniveling like a child he would-
Except Henry wasn’t going to find him.
He was safe and away from the pain.
But he didn’t feel like he was.
A different kind of sadness surged in Percy’s throat and suddenly, he found himself unable to hold back the wetting of his eyes. It began with a single tear, tiny and perfect as it cascaded down his creamy cheek, completely solitary until another, and another soon joined it. Before Percival could stop himself, his face was a mess of ugly red, smeared across with salt and water, his lips trembling as he choked on his sobs. Percy caved in on himself, hugging his knees until he slipped off his bed, landing against the carpet without moving. He couldn’t. He couldn’t move at all, his own heart overpowered him so.
Mixed into his hatred of himself was a tragic sort of pride, so large it felt like a lion roaring even as its claws dug into his skin. Percy could feel it there, his accomplishment. It took a strength unlike anything the man knew he had to pick up his things and leave that horrible house. It took everything else he had to keep moving. His mind was clouded, then, with thoughts of Henry showing up at the last moment, the fire in the man’s brown eyes as he realized his wind-up toy was walking away on its own. There would be no second chances, just as there wasn’t for Eloise. As soon as Henry connected the dots, Percy’s end would have been as simple as a shotgun shell to the back of the head and a fabricated story of how the “nephew, Perce, went back to live with his mum.” He’d have been disposed of. In pieces.
And still, Percival ran.
He ran and he ran and he survived.
He made it.
He made it. He escaped.
Nine painful, screaming, outright dehumanizing years later, Percival Everest Thatcher was a free man, with no Henry to tie him down any more. There was a veil, now. A secret. No one could find him here… Not ever.
For the first time in a long time, Perce was safe. He was safe, and hidden, and away.
Hell, he was damn near in Neverland.
The man gazed once more into the mirror, dull eyes roaming over his reflection. Strong jaw. Broad shoulders. Eyes that saw everything and still continue to blink. A mind left beaten and ragged still managing to think. Lips, once torn, once cracked, once kissed and battered and bruised, still pink with life. Still able to smile and laugh and pull air into his tired lungs.
A sound of misplaced joy broke through Percy’s lips, a laughing sound, one so genuine and paradoxically vain it shocked him into releasing another, and another. Before long, his tears were replaced with heaving guffaws, scratching and pulling at the deepest parts of him. He laughed for the pain. He laughed for the pleasure. He laughed and laughed for all the times he’d picked up the knife, resolute to end his suffering forever, and watched it clatter to the floor nevertheless. He laughed for the risks he’d thankfully never taken, and he laughed for the one he did.
Eventually, Percival calmed, a little apathetic grin upon his lips as he rested against the floor. Slowly, slowly, his gaze wandered back to his reflection, and he met his own dreary eyes.
4:41 AM, and the dark circles made him look like a starved racoon.
The smile slipped away.
He should never have tried to escape.