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"We were middle class."

At least what a child thinks of such things. He can look back on it now with some clarity.

"My mother inherited money and a big home from her rich uncle," he explains. "So we moved to Hawkins. My parents thought it would help me. But it was just one home to another. I dont think we were rich as much as my parents were lucky."

Dorian nods, making a noise of understanding before continuing.

"Joining a yacht club wasn't the sort of thing one did in my childhood. But my parents were rich enough that I think they would." A pause before, "I can't say for certain. My father died when I was ten and my mother was institutionalized shortly afterwards."

He glances down to the water and dips his fingers in it, marveling at its warmth. "Who raised you after that?" People don't tend to leave children alone.

"My aunt and uncle," he shrugs. "They were fine. But you can tell they had no idea how to raise two children under ten."

He eyes the motor as it sputters slightly, but it seems to continue on uniterrupted.

"Two?"

Dorian nods. "I had a younger sister growing up. Isadora. She's dead now."

As the motor sputters, Dorian gives it a whack on the side. It sputters back to life for a moment but then slowly starts to die again. Hmm. Maybe he'll just take that as a sign that they should enjoy the scenery for now. It's probably just a little overheated.

Henry watches the fish underneath them, wrinkling his nose at that. "I had a sister, too. Alice. She and my mother are dead. And my father is institutionalized."

He can't help the twinge of disgust as he speaks about them.

"We're more alike than I thought," Dorian muses. And idly, he wonders if their sisters both died the same way. After all, Dorian murdered his darling sister.

He kind of wants to find out the details.

"How did she die?"

Henry's quiet for a moment, still trailing his fingers in the still water. He raises his eyes to the horizon, marveling a little at being back in a place with - no one.

No one except Dorian.

A small price to pay, really.

"I...freed them both," he answers, guessing that Dorian can see right through that answer.

Freed.

Right.

"What a coincidence," he dryly responds. "I killed my sister as well."

He sees your word choice, Henry.

Henry smirk, though he doesn't look at Dorian.

"Why?"

"She was in a situation where it would be better for the world if she died. It was a situation that I could understand, but some random person wouldn't. After all, nobody wants to be the one to actually murder an old woman. But she asked, and I decided that for once in my life, I should be a good big brother."

His tone is deliberately neutral, trying to not give anything away.

Henry doesn't always read the room very well. Not when he has the freedom to speak when he wants. But in this case, it's a hunch that maybe, just maybe, he shouldn't say what he's thinking.

"You killed her to save the world. How noble." He desperately wants to see, to dig in his head for it, but he doesn't want to waste the energy or the possible revocation of consent if he does.

"She was old. Close to her own natural death."

He does genuinely mean this to be a neutral statement. Not quite comforting, but not inflammatory. Empathy is hard.

"That doesn't mean it didn't hurt," Dorian points out, trying very hard to push down the hurt and annoyance in his voice. Because surprise Henry, it did hurt. Dorian adored his sister, even if they rarely saw eye to eye and hadn't talked for decades. He missed her. He loved her.

"In fact, that makes it a little worse. She could have passed away in her sleep, but no. Not now."

Henry leans forward, sensing that hurt. "That doesn't matter. Humans die. They live their lives tied to the same sort of dance. Unremarkable in the grand scheme of time."

"Dying and killing are two different things," Dorian points out, frown on his face. There's a pause before he asks,

"Do you know anyone who's died of natural causes?"

"No," he admits with no remorse. "Not personally."

Edited 2022-09-24 16:39 (UTC)

"Then you don't know what you're talking about," Dorian bluntly responds. "There's a difference between dying of natural causes and murdering someone. It's something that you'll only know if you've experienced both."

There's a complete lack of sympathy in Dorian's voice. As far as he can tell, Henry doesn't know what he's talking about.

"It doesn't matter," he huffs because death is death. "I've had enough of this. Let's go."

He waves a hand to the engine and frowns as it sputters but does not turn on.

"On the contrary, it does," Dorian points out. "And I suspect that's something you'll learn the longer you're here."

He reaches over to the motor to try and give it a pull, to start it up again.

And nothing happens.

Hmm.

"I find it interesting that the moment someone challenges you, that's when you decide the conversation is over," he says, as he tries (and fails!) to start up the motor again.

Henry just watches him blandly, ignoring his very accurate statement.

"I suppose you'll have to swim..."

"Yes, I suppose you will."

Dorian gives Henry a tense little smile. He's not getting in that water, thank you very much.

"Why are you scared of confrontation? Isn't everyone lesser than you?"

"So I refuse to engage," he explains. "Especially to someone who doesn't listen and is only here because he thinks I'm interesting."

He sits forward, waving his hand again. The engine doesn't respond.

"On the contrary, I'm here because you're my inmate. I'd be here, on this boat, with you, no matter what."

Dorian gives one more yank on the motor. And again, nothing happens.

"Hmm."

"I don't need to be pitied by you."

He watches with narrowed eyes. "Call someone," he finally tells him.

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