Depeche Mode-Stripped

Henry knew that there would be consequences after the Bacchanal. He accepted it humbly, because the idea and enthusiasm dominated his mind. For the first time in a long time, Henry felt alive instead of a cold marble statue. It was as if there had been frozen lead in his veins before, but now red blood was bubbling in them.

But there was something that haunted Henry after the Bacchanal. And it wasn't just the incident with the farmer that literally stopped Camilla from speaking. It was something he devoted dozens of pages to in his diary. It was Henry's feelings, written in black ink in the dead of night, when he saw you during the Bacchanal. And he confessed to himself that he would like to draw you if he could. Every time Henry closed his eyes, he saw you: pale and fragile, the chiton was sliding off your shoulder, exposing your thin collarbones, and the pupils in your almost deer-like eyes were dilated so that the irises were not visible at all. Henry almost went into a fever when he remembered how you hugged Camilla and how she kissed your neck. He was amazed at how organic you looked in this madness. In his eyes, you looked like a predator and a prey at the same time. It was like you could rip anyone apart, but you needed protection so badly. And when Henry touched you, his whole body was covered with goosebumps from how much he wanted to get under your skin. Henry was almost ready to pull Charles's hands away, which were reaching for your waist.

And even now, standing on the threshold of your apartment, Henry was ready to fall to his knees in front of you, because every cell of his body was begging for your scent. For the first time, Henry understood people who say that kissing is cannibalism. He wanted it so badly. He wanted to see you stripped down to the bone in the woods again, but it would be just the two of you and you would belong only to him.

So he raised his hand and pressed the bell.