Chapter Text
He just wanted to help. He didn’t mean to fuck everything up. He didn’t want to be the reason all of them died. And yet…
Looking back on it now, he realizes the trial was a disaster right from the start. As soon as Renato saw the eerie clocks scattered around the realm, dread pooled in his gut like lead. Looking into the others’ faces, he saw the same emotion mirrored, but for vastly different reasons. His gaze lingered on Quentin specifically, but the small reassuring smile he received in response eased at least some of his worries, before they all scattered, in search of a generator to work on.
Renato despises facing Krueger. The experience of his body being forced into a sleeping state is always nauseating. Adrenaline pumping, scared and running for his life, and despite all that his brain feels fuzzy and slow, while the world around him blurs into a distant monochrome dreamscape. And just when he slowly gets used to the feeling of being a stranger in his own body, the pain of the hook piercing through his shoulder would startle him awake, starting the whole process again.
All of that pales, though, in comparison to Quentin’s reasons for hating the abhorrent killer and everything he stands for. Renato doesn’t know all the miserable details, and he’s secretly glad about that, but he knows that Quentin already has suffered enough under that monster.
So it was natural for Renato to step in, try and draw Krueger’s attention to himself and away from Quentin, especially when Quentin was so close to being sacrificed when not even three gens were completed. And when that didn’t work out, to linger near their chase, flashlight tightly clutched in hand. But when the time came… Renato fucked up. It must have been a malfunction. Nothing else made sense. He had never failed a safe like this before, and with Krueger facing him directly, this one was practically handed to him. It should have been easy as pie. So why was his hand shaking uncontrollably?
“You threw the whole trial!”
“I… I just wanted to help you.”
“You could’ve helped by sitting on a gen! You know that sick fuck would never focus on anyone but me. You wasted all that time by doing nothing!”
“I didn’t want to stand by and let you die.”
“Well, that’s exactly what you did, huh? Fuck, I really fucking tried, just so all of you could get out. And you had nothing better to do than take a stroll with your fucking flashlight.”
“...’m sorry.”
“Hope you enjoyed the show.”
And he can’t even fault Quentin for his anger. How could he have fucked this up so badly? And why is he even surprised anyway? The one person that has made an effort to get to know him, after what felt like an eternity spent in this nightmare, and of course Renato couldn’t help himself but turn out to be another disappointment to them. Childhood repeating itself. He would laugh if he weren’t already too busy with bawling his damn eyes out.
Fucking off to Ormond outside of trials every time things get too much has become second nature to him at this point. Renato hates the snow, melting and seeping through his clothes, shivers and shrinks into himself while the cold bites at his skin. No other place offers him this much privacy, though. Especially not the campfire.
Sure, there’s always the risk of stumbling across one of the Legion’s members, but most times he’s left to his own devices. Right now, Frank and Julie are seemingly torturing or fucking each other’s brains out somewhere in the resort. Their sounds echo through the whole realm, but after hearing them so many times now, Renato has moved long past the initial trauma. Joey is who knows where, as elusive as ever. And Susie is probably doing some sulking on her own, otherwise she might have joined him, as she occasionally does, chatting about nothing in particular, as long as it gets their minds off things.
But despite that he appreciates the privacy, some part of him wishes he didn’t leave the camp. He doesn’t want anyone to see him like this - all of the accumulated hurt running over his cheeks in fat tears - but he also wants Thalita to be here. To hold him, tell him that it’s alright. That there’s nothing shameful about trying, especially when he’s tried his best.
Hearing all of that would soothe some part of him. The rest would still be painfully aware that it’s not true. Nothing could undo his mistake. Nothing could take away the burning shame coursing through his veins.
Maybe some people are really just doomed? Eternal outcasts.
This line of thinking is painfully familiar - a remnant of times when he tried to claw his way out of that hole, to strip off the role of the weird kid that’s way more fun to bully or ignore rather than to befriend. Maybe it’s pointless.
He had really thought he’d gotten better. When Thalita had come home and they had been in the process of opening the kite shop, he was fine. Stable. Could all of that progress be wiped away in the blink of an eye? Could the hurt, the anger, really turn so… unbearable? So suddenly?
Rubbing his eyes furiously, he stares down at the pale lines covering his wrists up to his forearms and remembers how he used to deal with it back then. Enduring the summer heat in long sweatshirts. Letting kites fly on the beach covered in sweat, with stranger's eyes glued to him like he was crazy. No swimming. No showering in front of others. So much careful attention, just to convert the hurt into something physical - something he could grasp, something he could control. Only for Thalita to find out, shake him by the shoulders, scream at him while choking on her tears.
‘Never again.’
A promise. A hard one, but one he had never outright broken. Not really, at least. Just twisted beyond recognition.
So every time the world turns unbearable, he comes back here. Sits down in the snow and lets his body suffer for what his mind can’t endure. Sometimes he cries. Sometimes he scoops up some of the snow, rubs it into his skin until it’s wholly covered in goosebumps, red and angry, or hard and a pale grey when he pushes through the initial pain up to his breaking point. When it gets especially bad, he lays down, lets the ice engulf him whole, or scratches his arms until he can't take the burn anymore. From all options, he tries to hold off on that last one the most. Leaves the most traces, and consequently more risk for Thalita to find out. He's enough of a burden to her anyway. She doesn’t need to know.
But isn't it ridiculous? For someone to experience so much physical pain on the daily and yet he just aches to add more to that by his own hand? Something about it is so illogical, so contradictory, that it ties his stomach in knots, lets anger foam up like acid in his esophagus.
Through angry tears, he looks at the scars, traces the jagged lines with his fingertips and hates that he’s dumb enough to even have caused them all by himself. And when a voice, muffled by a mask and yet not any less sickly saccharine, disturbs the howling wind, Renato jumps almost out of his own skin, eyes shooting up while he drops his arm in his lap, wrist turned downwards.
“Well well well. Look who's a long way from home.”
The black holes imitating eyes and a mouth are so eerily large, Renato always feels like they may swallow him whole any second if he's not careful enough. After years of forcing himself to stare into people's faces, fighting off the discomfort coiled in his gut, he's now irritated to no end that it's pointless to do so; as hard as he tries, follows this long trained instinct to not miss any subtle expressions nor social cues, nothing tells him what's hidden behind that soulless mask. A complete mystery.
He doesn’t need to know anything to be sure he's in danger, though. He freezes, jaw tense. Doesn’t dare to raise his hands, even though his eyes are red and there are still tears rolling down his cheeks.
Scared to speak, he learns that he doesn’t need to, because Ghostface continues swiftly, even without Renato's input.
“Nawww, what are we crying about? Don't tell me your failed flashy safe got you this upset.”
The thick sympathy pushed into the killer's voice makes its fakeness painfully obvious, even though Renato wonders why the man doesn't just openly mocks him instead of making a show out of it. He can't focus much on that thought. Not when his brain is still stuck on the fact that the killer knows about his last trial.
“What? How do you know-?”
As if already waiting for this question, the killer reaches for something in his robe while he says, voice dripping with glee, “Oh, I'm so glad you asked.” And suddenly, he's waving a handful of polaroids in front of Renato's face.
Renato sits up, squints to see them clearer, but that barely helps. Maybe Ghostface realizes it himself, maybe he's annoyed by Renato's lack of reaction, in any case he stops his jittery motions and holds the polaroids closer.
The pictures are blurry and dark, owed to the everlasting night on Greenville Square, and yet they unmistakably show Renato. Clutching his flashlight to his chest behind the cinema. Crying. Hiding. When all hope was lost and he was so fucking scared to get back to the campfire, more so than of Krueger.
They're so shameful that Renato feels fresh tears burn in his eyes. His face heats up, his hands shake, even as he wraps his arms unconsciously around himself.
“You were there…?” He asks quietly, voice hoarse. Even though the polaroids are proof enough, his mind can't wrap around that fact.
“Don't worry your pretty head about it. A journalist has to be ready for the perfect snapshot. Always.”
Just as Renato's about to reach for the polaroids, Ghostface tears his hand away and pushes them back to where they were hidden before.
“You're such a pretty crier, you know? Can't wait to spread these among your teammates. Wish I had any way to copy them.” And he sighs, so wistful about that.
And Renato is just… paralyzed. It’s bad enough that most of the others have witnessed Quentin's and his confrontation, are more than aware of what a failure he really is. But for them to not only have physical proof of that fact, but to also realize the extent of his cowardice…
The words tumble out of his mouth before he can think about them.
“Please don’t. Don't show them around. I-I… They can’t see them.”
Ghostface stays quiet for a long time. Renato can't be sure the killer is watching him, but somehow he is, even more so when Ghostface tilts his head to the side, as if regarding him, studying him more intently. When he finally speaks, he leans down, uncomfortably close suddenly.
“Why not? You really think they would show them anything they don't know already?” The killer shakes his head, tutting softly. “I mean, at least you tried with that little save of yours, right? Sure, maybe you shouldn’t, when you can’t even hold a flashlight straight…” Ghostfaces mumbles, sounding pensive.
“I didn’t want him to die,” Renato murmurs weakly.
“Mhmm yes, that’s understandable. But wanting is a little different to actually doing something, mh?”
“I just wanted him to be my friend…” He doesn’t even feel like himself anymore. Suddenly, he’s that little boy again, who could only dream of getting invited to the beach by anyone but his sister, and it echoes in his voice. Quiet. Small. Lost.
“Damn, and in the process, you got all your other friends killed… Well, even if you’re not good for anything else, at least you’ve got courage. Gotta give you that, boy!” And he pats Renato on the shoulder, the cold leather of his gloves creaking.
Renato shudders under the unwelcome touch, but doesn’t shrink back from it. Not even when the hand stays on his shoulder and the killer’s thumb digs into the flesh. No, he barely notices it, too lost in his thoughts, spiraling even more uncontrolled now, fueled by the killer’s words. The urge to defend himself, justify his actions, still there, but the voice that tells him to do so is incredibly quiet, drowning in the cacophony of shame and self-loathing.
He’s angry, yes, but only at himself. Even though Ghostface might not have any right to judge him, the killer’s only saying out loud what anyone else has been thinking all along. And it hurts. And he’s so fucking tired.
“Ah, but they’re not even your friends, right? Sorry, forgot about that. The others seem so close to each other, hard to keep in mind that doesn’t apply to everyone.” Ghostface sighs, and Renato can’t withstand his stare anymore, lets his head hang low, eyes squeezed shut, arms wrapping tighter around himself. He doesn’t want to be here anymore. He can’t take it. It’s too much. Why can’t the killer just stop talking?
Ghostface squeezes his shoulder, trying to get his attention back. “You know… If you reaaally don’t want me to share those, we could make a deal. I have some others, instead, which I’m sure your lovely sister will really enjoy.” And once more his hand disappears into his robes.
At the mention of Thalita, Renato’s head whips up, eyes glued to the hand that’s digging up the other polaroids. Even before he sees them, he’s certain he won’t like them any better, and he’s right. His heart is clasped in an ice-cold grip, while his eyes frantically look over the pictures.
Once again, they’re snapshots of him, but not from a trial. No, they show him at Ormond, right where’s sitting now; at the bottom of the stairs of the chairlift. His eyes are red and puffy. It’s undeniable that he’s been crying for hours at the point the shot was taken. But that isn’t even the focus of the picture. No, the center of attention lies on his arms, covered in red angry welts, highlighting the small pale scars scattered all over his skin. He remembers that day, because it’s one of the few times he accidentally managed to draw blood from his frantic scratching, despite not remembering what had led to that specific breakdown.
He doesn’t even reach for them this time. Instead, the tears swimming in his eyes finally spill over and he can no longer hold back the sobs clawing their way up his throat. It’s pointless. Everything is.
“Aw, don’t think I ever moved someone to tears with my photos,” Ghostface coos, and he sounds so genuinely proud of himself. Swiftly, he lets the polaroids disappear once more, before he sits down next to Renato, patting him on the back.
“You’re not made for this life, huh?”
The question hangs heavy between them. Renato is not sure whether he means for life in this realm, or just… life in general. Somehow, he’s sure Ghostface wanted to achieve that exact effect, this ambiguity. He mulls the question over, considers both potential meanings, and realizes they may as well both be true.
Rigid leather encircles his wrist and he doesn’t pull away, lets Ghostface place his arm on the killer’s thigh, turn it around so his forearm is facing upwards. His fingers trace the scars so gently, and Renato is torn between wanting exactly that, some kind of reassurance, forgiveness, while his stomach churns at the sheer possibility, simply because it’d be so undeserved.
Why the fuck is he even so damn unhappy anyway? Because this place is hell? Because he's a failure? More than half of these people have experienced far worse, have the right to feel like shit, and even they don't let it show. They manage to act on it, work towards change, like real functioning humans.
Maybe he should actively do something about his pain as well, instead of throwing himself a pity party.
“You’re just aching to add on to these… Aren’t you?” Ghostface asks softly.
With the way the pale mask turns into his direction, Renato knows the killer is staring at him, gauging his reaction. Even though that small voice that constantly reminds Renato of his promise screams at him to disagree, to deny the truth, he just nods weakly. Painfully relieved he doesn’t need to lie. At least not now.
“Me too,” Ghostface sighs, and it sounds almost like a purr. Delighted. Aroused.
But Renato is too out of it, slipping off into a passiveness that allows him at least a temporary reprieve of the pain. He only comes back to himself when the cool leather against his skin is replaced by the touch of an even colder blade, dangling between Ghostface’s fingers. There’s barely any pressure; just enough for Renato to feel its weight, not its sharpness.
“Well, why should we deny us, then?” And he holds out the handle to Renato. “Wanna do the honors?”
Yes. Please.
But he doesn’t get the words out, even though he would like to show his gratitude, would go as far as begging for the damn thing. They stay lodged in his throat, wet and suffocating, yet not hindering him from reaching out and wrapping his hand around the handle.
The first cut is shallow. The blade barely nicks his skin, yet it's enough to burn, to let small bubbles of blood emerge from the tiny wound. He adds another right next to it, presses down firmer, but is still too hesitant to do any real damage. One more, and another, while his skin turns into a canvas of red strokes. Relief floods through his system, tentatively, and breathing becomes a little easier, but it’s short-lived - stopped as soon as he’s reminded of Ghostface’s company when the killer leans further in, scrutinizing the cuts.
“Is that all?” In his bafflement resonates impatience. Frustration, closely bordering on anger. “Crazy that you can’t even get this right. That’s pathetic.”
“Shut up,” Renato whispers, but there’s barely any heat to his words. He doesn’t really examine Ghostface’s words, just accepts them to be true. Of course they are. Hurting himself like this is pathetic enough already, and he doesn’t even manage to do that right. But it’s not too late to change that.
So he presses down harder on the handle, shakily breathes through the pain and focuses on the blood welling up as he slices through his skin. His heart beats wildly when he sees the amount oozing out of the wound, the deeper skin tissue laid bare. The soft click of a camera and the harsh flash illuminating the carnage stop any real panic from setting in. Ghostface leans in, going for a better angle, and he’s so much closer now; Renato can hear his breathing, heavy and unsteady, almost morphing into low moans.
“Perfect. That feels so good, right?” The killer asks and Renato is ashamed to admit that it does. Cathartic in a way. Finally, the pain he carries inside has a form. It's tangible. Maybe even easier for others to understand, at least he hopes so, irrationally, even though he knows it's not. Thalita didn't. And she wouldn't now.
Under Ghostface’s watchful eyes, he repeats the process, even when he can barely see his skin anymore and his fingers become slippery with blood.
“You know what would feel even better?” And Renato turns his head, vision blurring, a little lightheaded. The knife lays heavy in his hands, and he fears it might slip out any second now. “You know the pain’s never really gonna end, right? As many times as you do this… It will never go away.”
And Renato nods weakly. Fresh tears spill over his cheeks, and he finds it hard to believe his body is capable of producing so many. He doesn’t even question the sympathetic tone of Ghostface’s voice. Why should he, when someone’s finally saying what he’s believed for a long time anyway.
“But you could try one more thing…” And Renato’s eyes track Ghostface’s hand as the killer places his index finger on Renato’s wrist, only to trace the full length of his arm, dipping the leather in the fresh blood. “Just one more, and it might all go away…” Ghostface purrs.
A shudder passes through Renato’s body. Even though Ghostface’s words make sense, and he yearns for what he’s promising, to make it all go away, without having to care anymore, because he can’t keep going like this - he’s scared. Because this sounds final. Irreversible. The fear must show on his face, because suddenly Ghostface grabs his chin, forces his gaze away from his arm. Focus solely placed on him. “What do you have to lose? Come on. You don’t wanna be a coward now. Don’t disappoint me.”
What do you have to lose… Thalita’s face flickers in his mind, but the word coward burns the image away, reminds him of why he got to this point in the first place. Of why Ghostface is right.
So he grips the knife’s handle tighter, even as his hand shakes uncontrollably. When he tries to lead it to his skin, put it to his wrist, it threatens to slip out of his grasp after all, but Ghostface stops that from happening. In an instant, the killer’s hand covers his own; holding it firm, without applying pressure. With his grip secured, Renato pushes down and opens up his arm.
The pain is blinding, so much worse than everything before, but every time his conviction wavers and the sensation gets too much, Ghostface’s grip tightens, pushing Renato through the process. When it’s done, Renato can hear the blood rush in his ears. Black spots are dancing in his vision. When the knife falls out of his grasp, Ghostface is there to take it and slip it back into his robe.
So tired, Renato’s eyes keep falling shut. His head lolls around, far too heavy now, so he leans it against Ghostface’s shoulder. The cold feels like it’s buried itself into his chest, spread through every cell. More than ever, he wishes Thalita was here. To warm him, hold him, run her fingers through his hair. Why isn’t she here?
His grip on his consciousness slips. Distantly, he hears Ghostface murmur something, just before he’s pulled under.
“Well… Let’s see if we’ve finally found a way to escape this place. And if not, then we’re still gonna get some beautiful shots out of this.”