[FIC] This Connection We Share
Pairing: Henry/Amber, Henber
Rating: PG-13
Genre: slight fantasy elements
Summary: Amber shows Henry the meaning of empathy.
Warnings: mentions of drinking and self-harm
Word Count: 1,182. One-Shot
The snow is bitter and metallic, softening onto the cold asphalt. It melts like pieces of memory that are quickly forgotten, memories that are purposely suppressed and drowned in tears. Flurries sting Henry’s face, coat his eye lashes, as he bustles past the waxing moon above Myeongdong. His breaths come out in puffs, each time he breathes out, he exhales clouds. He bites his lip from the cold, his fingers are stiff as he crams them in the pockets of his parka.
He takes a tight left and makes his way down a dank tunnel of stairs, into a dingy-looking bar below street level. The basement atmosphere is musty, but the interior is more spacious than the narrow entrance suggests. Scratched, wooden tables and spindly chairs are mostly taken by listless strangers. They stare at him with weary eyes, silently assessing his appearance through their drinks as he passes by.
By the bar is a small wooden platform, on it a slim girl with short, layered locks, singing and playing the guitar. The sound of her voice was sorrowful, complementing the hollow, mellow chords she strums lightly. Her face was defined by distinct angles, with a strong bone structure framing her delicate nose and curved lips. She stops a moment to smooth out the wrinkles of her grey jeans and straighten her flannel shirt.
The music is hard to define in Henry’s ears. He is tired and weary, perches himself on the bar stool and orders a whiskey from the bartender. He drinks it straight, wincing at the burn of alcohol down his throat, and orders another without hesitation. Sipping this one slowly, he half-heartedly listens to the music, making no effort to undo his scarf or remove his jacket. The singing comes to a halt as she sets her guitar back in its battered case. The applause is scattered, neither perfunctory nor indifferent.
“That concludes my performance for tonight,” she says. “Some of you may have been bored, and for you, especially for you, I have something extra. I don’t do this all the time, so consider your selves lucky.”
She settles herself in center stage and takes out a candle from her guitar case. “Lights down please?” An assistant dims the lights to a dull fluorescent yellow. She deftly ignites a match and lights the candle aglow. “A little more, if you don’t mind.” The lights darken some more, and the glowering tip of the candle is far more pronounced in the darkness.
Hands shifting to adjust his collar, Henry leans over and watches her from the corner of his eye, waiting for what this mysterious stranger would do next.
She continues, “The concept of pain is universal. We have all experienced some kind of hurt in our lives, be it wounds of the body or wounds of the heart. I know I have, and that you have as well. Most of you will say that only you can understand the pain that you have gone through, but is it true? If, for instance, we see someone who is genuinely suffering, do we feel that suffering as our own? That, my friends, is empathy.”
She hesitates for a moment to adjust the candle, now dripping wax onto her fingers. The embers dancing off the candle wick reflects in her pupils, mirroring the deep wisdom in her soft eyes.
“The reason why I play music is to connect my heart to yours, to transcend these shells of existence that we are trapped in and reach a connection through sharing each other’s joy and pain. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not something we can do easily. But tonight, I want you to experience something simpler. A physical, rather than emotional, kind of empathy.”
The bar became silent, all eyes were fixed on the flame glowering in the dim room and on the mysterious stranger, whose face was half-shadowed by the sweeps of her raven hair. She looked up, staring into the far distance, lost in concentration. Then, she brought her right hand inches above the tip of the lighted flame. Little by little, she lowered the flat of her palm closer and closer to the fire, until you could hear the singing crackle and smell the distinct scent of burning flesh.
Henry could hear a soft moan and sharp inhales somewhere among the audience. A woman released a high pitched squeak, while the others watched, frozen in horror. Still, the girl endured the pain. Her face was pale, tight-lipped from the agony she must have felt, the flame sizzling through her flesh. Henry’s mouth instantly became dry. Why would anyone want to do such a stupid, senseless thing?
Slowly, she lifted her hand, removing it from the flame. She blew out the candle, set it on the floor, and clasped her hands together.
“As you have witnessed tonight, ladies and gentlemen, pain can burn human flesh.” Her voice was cool and steady, as it had been before. There was no trace of suffering left on her face, only a faint smile. “That pain that must have been there, you have felt it as if it were your own. As if it was your hand that was being eaten away by the flame.” She paused. “That, my friends, is the power of empathy.”
She took a low bow, and in one smooth motion, unclasped her hands. Opening her arms wide, she stretched out her palms to the audience. Her hands were unharmed, as if they had never touched the flame at all. A moment of silence followed, then wild applause. The lights came up, and the regular chatter replaced the tension that had permeated the room. When she thought no one was noticing, the stranger packed her guitar and slipped out the back door.
Before she could disappear, Henry shouts, “Wait!”
He stumbles off his stool, shoves past a crowd of heavyset old men, and races past the back exit. Whoever she was, he knew he had to find her, talk to her, see her face again. He catches a glimpse of her heel as she turns the corner, and he quickens his pace, heart pounding and breath choking to catch up to her.
“Stop! Please!”
Each of his strides concludes with a heavy ‘thump;’ he inhales and exhales raggedly as he finally is within inches of her. He reaches out to grab her shoulder as she turns around.
She looks at him strangely, as if she knows why he is here, and yet is slightly humored at his flustered face.
“Sorry,” he pants. “I just…want to know your name.” He finishes off pathetically. In truth, he wants learn more. What she likes to eat, what the hell did she just do at the bar back there, what she loves and hates…He has the urge hold her tight against his chest, release that dam that holds all his pain, and let his tears flow. But he doesn’t tell her that.
“Amber,” she replies.
She half-smiles at him knowingly, as if telling him that she could give him all that he wants, and more.
A/N: THIS IS LIKE...THE 3rd FIC I'VE PUBLISHED IN FOUR YEARS. Holyy shittt wahhttt it wrong with me :((( It must be...the power of Henber XDD yes it has to be