( Falco had, of course, been welcomed into the townhouse with opened arms and hearts. For however long he needed until the person he's living with otherwise returns — and any mentions of a name "Paul" will get no recognition from Peter, despite the fact that he actually has encountered that young man once before..... lost in the blinding haze of his own Corruption back in December, reduced to some vicious, snarling thing that only knew its name was Paimon. He'd attacked Paul from the highest shelves of the Archives, tried to break his way inside a slender young body that seemed familiar. Peter remembers none of this.
But Falco's welcomed here, safe here. Luna's made it so very safe, especially after the whole Maul Incident; the townhouse is a little fortress guarded with magic, wards. It's warm and cosy (and alongside those things, appropriately spooky, too..... One of its residents being a sleepwalking witch who at times has prophetic visions with cloudy-white eyes, another of its residents being very blatantly demonically possessed by something that behaves as though it's simply another roommate here... There's also a huge wolf-like dog, and a rabbit that sometimes talks, and a two-headed fish that Peter's demon once brought home.)
Theirs is a cursed, haunted home — really, Falco will fit right in.
...But that's perhaps not a good thing, ultimately; it's at once painfully clear how much is wrong in the boy, how horrifying it is for him. And that fact only shows itself more and more.
Peter doesn't like to lose sight of Falco for long. He tries to stay close, keep an eye on him, even though there's some discomforting part of him (and oh, how he's ashamed of it, keeps it tucked securely away like a secret) that wants to flinch away. It's— hard. To see it in Falco: how he shudders and jumps so wide-eyed, as though the slightest movement is a danger. Peter knows the feeling so horribly well; how every single nerve-ending is on alert, how there's never any reprieve from it, because no matter how many blankets you're wrapped up in or how many soothing words come from those around you, what haunts you is inside. You can't escape. You can't breathe, not without your lungs bumping against it, too. It's always there, it fills you up; it's something that shouldn't be there, cold and alien, and it's never going away.
Seeing Falco like this.... reminds Peter of those early days in his own possession, the aching, loneliest ones. Back before he even knew what Paimon was or that something else was truly there with him. It felt like being trapped in some fever-dream between reality and nightmare: never knowing what was real, what wasn't. Only knowing a cold sweat at the back of his neck and an icy frosted breath; haunted, haunted, haunted. At first he'd thought it was Charlie's ghost, appropriately tethered to him. By the time he ever learned it was something much worse, it was too late.
But then there are parts to it that are foreign, too. The... slime. It's worrisome and terrifying and Peter's horrified, doesn't know what to do, has to leave the room sometimes to stand against a wall and close his hot eyes and count to ten. He doesn't know how to help Falco and the nightmares close in on him, nightmares where the boy lies in the dark grass and he's in two pieces — his head's too far away from his body, and he bleeds and bleeds but it's not red. It's that blue-purple slime, and it's spreading out all around Falco's corpse, sentient and hungry—
Peter finds him one afternoon (a little breathless, something like panic setting in because he couldn't find which room Falco's in), tucked with his back against the wall and facing that open doorway, the headphones pushed against his ears. The older boy freezes— hesitates for a beat or two before moving quietly into the room. Closer to the muffled sounds of music, long legs crouching down a few feet in front of him; Peter knows to approach as carefully as possible, but even so there's that jolt of terror from Falco, and Peter swallows, hard. )
It's okay— it's okay. It's just me. ( Words soothing and quiet, the way Luna speaks to him on his bad days. Peter's trying to control his expression but he wants to cry as he looks Falco over: brow furrowed tight, the muscles of his face tense. He's noticed those reflective surfaces turned over, though he hasn't said anything about it. Even now, he doesn't like looking in mirrors, himself. )
Is that uh, Queen I hear? ( Peter finds the hint of a smile, tugs it forwards as he very slowly moves to a sitting position in front of the younger teen, folding his legs inwards. He tries to ignore that odd little prickle against his own spirit; Paimon is... extremely curious about their new houseguest and what ails him, but Peter's very much hoping he stays quiet. The last thing Falco needs is to be face to face with that. )
cw: all the possession business, mention of dead child, nightmare of decapitation, let's gO
But Falco's welcomed here, safe here. Luna's made it so very safe, especially after the whole Maul Incident; the townhouse is a little fortress guarded with magic, wards. It's warm and cosy (and alongside those things, appropriately spooky, too..... One of its residents being a sleepwalking witch who at times has prophetic visions with cloudy-white eyes, another of its residents being very blatantly demonically possessed by something that behaves as though it's simply another roommate here... There's also a huge wolf-like dog, and a rabbit that sometimes talks, and a two-headed fish that Peter's demon once brought home.)
Theirs is a cursed, haunted home — really, Falco will fit right in.
...But that's perhaps not a good thing, ultimately; it's at once painfully clear how much is wrong in the boy, how horrifying it is for him. And that fact only shows itself more and more.
Peter doesn't like to lose sight of Falco for long. He tries to stay close, keep an eye on him, even though there's some discomforting part of him (and oh, how he's ashamed of it, keeps it tucked securely away like a secret) that wants to flinch away. It's— hard. To see it in Falco: how he shudders and jumps so wide-eyed, as though the slightest movement is a danger. Peter knows the feeling so horribly well; how every single nerve-ending is on alert, how there's never any reprieve from it, because no matter how many blankets you're wrapped up in or how many soothing words come from those around you, what haunts you is inside. You can't escape. You can't breathe, not without your lungs bumping against it, too. It's always there, it fills you up; it's something that shouldn't be there, cold and alien, and it's never going away.
Seeing Falco like this.... reminds Peter of those early days in his own possession, the aching, loneliest ones. Back before he even knew what Paimon was or that something else was truly there with him. It felt like being trapped in some fever-dream between reality and nightmare: never knowing what was real, what wasn't. Only knowing a cold sweat at the back of his neck and an icy frosted breath; haunted, haunted, haunted. At first he'd thought it was Charlie's ghost, appropriately tethered to him. By the time he ever learned it was something much worse, it was too late.
But then there are parts to it that are foreign, too. The... slime. It's worrisome and terrifying and Peter's horrified, doesn't know what to do, has to leave the room sometimes to stand against a wall and close his hot eyes and count to ten. He doesn't know how to help Falco and the nightmares close in on him, nightmares where the boy lies in the dark grass and he's in two pieces — his head's too far away from his body, and he bleeds and bleeds but it's not red. It's that blue-purple slime, and it's spreading out all around Falco's corpse, sentient and hungry—
Peter finds him one afternoon (a little breathless, something like panic setting in because he couldn't find which room Falco's in), tucked with his back against the wall and facing that open doorway, the headphones pushed against his ears. The older boy freezes— hesitates for a beat or two before moving quietly into the room. Closer to the muffled sounds of music, long legs crouching down a few feet in front of him; Peter knows to approach as carefully as possible, but even so there's that jolt of terror from Falco, and Peter swallows, hard. )
It's okay— it's okay. It's just me. ( Words soothing and quiet, the way Luna speaks to him on his bad days. Peter's trying to control his expression but he wants to cry as he looks Falco over: brow furrowed tight, the muscles of his face tense. He's noticed those reflective surfaces turned over, though he hasn't said anything about it. Even now, he doesn't like looking in mirrors, himself. )
Is that uh, Queen I hear? ( Peter finds the hint of a smile, tugs it forwards as he very slowly moves to a sitting position in front of the younger teen, folding his legs inwards. He tries to ignore that odd little prickle against his own spirit; Paimon is... extremely curious about their new houseguest and what ails him, but Peter's very much hoping he stays quiet. The last thing Falco needs is to be face to face with that. )