'' Repeating History ''

'' Confrontation ''

"You'd be wise not to let that name grace your lips again." He says, reaching out toward Bowie, watching them flinch away from his hand before his fingers bury in their curls.

They stare up at him, wide eyed, breathing hard as tears stream down their cheeks. Shaking with fear, they want to run but are practically caged against the wall, and his hand in their hair made them feel trapped.

In spite of their fear, the contact is rather soothing in a fucked up way. For this psychotic man to be touching them in a way that wasn't violent or threatening. It lended to a warm ache growing in the pit of their stomach, burning up into their chest.

The taller of the two would take notice of their odd behavior. Body relaxing slowly as their breathing evens out and they seem to almost lean into his touch.

"Okay. I'm sorry." They'd whisper, voice trembling softly as they look up at him, eyes relaxing into a low lidded stare.

He raises his eyebrows slightly, a bit surprised by their sudden shift in behavior. Though, this wasn't exactly a deterrent. He thought it may instead be rather useful if he could get them submissive at any given moment.

He gently scratches their scalp and smiles to himself as they close their eyes, seemingly starting to fall asleep.

"Are you truly so exhausted?" He'd question, pulling his hand away and tipping their chin up to look at him, their eyes struggling to stay open and focused on him.

They'd gag softly and he smiles slightly wider, releasing their jaw and instead taking their hand, caressing it softly as he pulls them out of the bathroom, guiding them to their bed and gently sitting them down.

"It would seem it's past your bedtime." He says, petting their hair and taking notice of how they've begun sweating. Given how physically cold they are, this makes him believe there's something physically wrong with them.

"Are you feeling alright, Bowie?" He'd ask, tone showing some minor level of concern for the individual he's meant to be seeing as a patient. Though that's yet to be set in stone.

They nod slowly, eyes drifting shut as they huff, a puff of white leaving their lips from how cold it is in their home.

"You're shivering. Shall I turn on the heat before I leave you?" He'd question, and they whine, shaking their head.

"No I. Can't afford the heating bills." They murmur, whilst simultaneously shuddering from the cold.

"I see. Where is your blanket then? I'd thought I saw you with one earlier." He says, pulling his hand away from their forehead at last, looking down at the gleam of sweat now coating his palm with a small frown.

"Living room." They'd reply, laying down and curling up into the fetal position, hands near their face as they shakily breathe against them.

The cannibal wouldn't reply, only leaving to collect their blanket and then return it to their bed, laying it over them carefully, as though they were a landmine set to blow at any moment; from even the slightest mistake.

They seem to ease up a bit. The tension in their body releases as they relax to some degree. Their hands now clinging to the blanket for dear life as they swaddle themselves tightly in the thick cloth.

The man would smile seeing them comforted by the embrace of their blanket, and turns, turning out the light and partially shutting the door to let them rest. He'd move through their house and turn out all the other lights, pausing in the hall as he catches a glimpse of something in the living room, barely illuminated by the light from the hall.

His hand slowly pulls away from the switch, slow, quiet steps moving for what had caught his eye. Flipping on the living room light, he moves over to the tv stand, picking up the small, framed photograph he'd spotted.

Upon closer inspection, he finds it's of a younger, happier looking Bowie, and two women. One older, likely their mother. The other much younger. Their sister. They're both blonde, so it's a wonder where Bowie got their dark hair from. Perhaps their father.

It looks to be that they were on vacation. Bowie could be no older than nineteen, and their sister likely closer to seven or eight. Quite the age gap. It's honestly a wholesome thought, that Bowie should adore his decade younger sibling so much. Their mother looks kind. But where should the father be?
Bowie had said the man was abusive. Though never specified if the abuse was isolated to just them, or if everyone in the family felt his wrath. Perhaps the parents were divorced at this point. And with how happy they seem, it may have been years since he left. Or they did.

Finding that he may be digging a little too deep into Bowie's past from a single photograph, he would snap himself out of this headspace, and set the photograph back down. Taking a brief look around and then turning to leave again, turning out the remaining lights, and leaving the apartment.