Chapter Text
Seventeen-year-old Henry still wore the name like a curse: Horrid. It followed him down school halls, stuck to teacher comments, slithered between glances from parents, neighbors, even strangers. He was a punchline before he even opened his mouth.
Peter, now a polished teen with a smile like whitewashed stone, floated through life like he was born for it. Top grades. Prefect badge.
Classical piano. The kind of brother they whispered about proudly. The kind people pointed to and said, Why can't you be more like him?
But Henry? Henry was too much. Still loud.
Still fast with a comeback and a sneer. He laughed too loud, talked too much, acted before he thought. The world told him over and over: That's not what we want.
The dream didn't start out as a nightmare.
It was just weird and loud, hovering between chaos and nothingness. A school corridor of mirrors that twisted like a maze, flickering in and out like bad TV static. Doors opened into a blue sky above, and distorted laughter came from the walls.
His reflection follows him in each panel, warped but recognizably his. Sneakers thudded on the cold tile, and there's something off about the air; too still, like the pause of breaths right before something awful happens.
Then he saw himself.
At first, Henry thinks it's just his reflection, a trick of one of the hundreds of mirrors lining the walls. But this Henry doesn't copy his movements. He doesn't blink when Henry does. Doesn't tilt his head. Just stares.
This version stood still, back straight like he wasn't born with a slouch in his body. Same face, same shaggy brown hair, but that's where the similarities ended. This Henry wore his school blazer done all the way up, tie tight, shoes polished as if he was waiting to take a photo for head prefect.
His smirk was familiar, but colder. Calculated.
Like it had been practiced in front of a mirror a thousand times until it was just right. His green eyes held no warmth. They still had fire, sure, but the kind that incinerated, not the kind that warmed you. The kind that burned everything down.
"About time. Was wondering when you'd show."
Henry frowned. "Who the hell are you?"
The figure pushed off the locker, hands in his pockets. Walked slowly, deliberately. His voice was smooth and syrupy, but the kind that coats a knife. "Don't be stupid. You know who I am."
Henry laughs, awkward and dry. "What is this? Some stupid dream where I have to fight myself? Please. I'm not that deep."
Dream Henry tilts his head. His lips curl into a smile that doesn't touch his eyes. "Fight you?" he said softly. "Why would I waste my time fighting someone nobody wants?"
Henry snorts, and rolls his eyes. "Wow. Original. You read that off an emo Tumblr post?"
Dream Henry's smile sharpens. "Still hiding behind jokes, huh? That's all you really are. Noise. A punchline. Something to laugh at, not with."
Something crawls up Henry's spine. He backs away a step.
"What do you want?"
Dream Henry steps forward. "Just to talk. From one Henry to another. In fact, you can say I'm the person they actually want."
"Oh please. This is ridiculous, a stupid dream," Henry scoffs, rolling his eyes, but doesn’t take his gaze away from the figure in front of him out of wariness.
"But maybe it's not," the other him said, too calm. "Maybe this is your brain trying to tell you something you won't admit."
The temperature seemed to drop at his words.
"I'm the version they want," Dream Henry said, lips twisting into a smirk that felt more like a threat than a smile. "I'm what you'd be if you stopped being such a screw-up. If you shut your mouth once in a while. If you weren't so-what's the word?" He pretends to think for a moment, then snaps his fingers. "Ah, that's right. Horrid."
Henry flinched. Just a flicker. But the dream version noticed.
"You've heard it so much it's your name now," he went on, circling him like a shark. "Horrid Henry. It's not just a joke anymore, is it? It's who you are. And deep down, you hate it. You pretend you don't, but you do."
"You sound like my headteacher on a bad day."
"Maybe he's right. In fact, they all are." Dream Henry leans in like he was telling a secret. "You're not funny, Henry. You're not clever. You're just too exhausting. You take up too much space, laugh too loud, and you try too hard."
Henry's fists trembles and his throat tightens. "Shut up."
"I'm what they wish you were," he says. "I know how to shut up. I don't throw tantrums for attention. I don't sabotage friendships because I'm scared they'll see how pathetic I really am. I don't make people tired just by existing."
"Shut up!"
But Dream Henry just steps closer. There's no anger in his voice-just pity twisted into something colder.
"You think being loud makes you strong?" he whispers. "That being annoying makes you visible? It doesn't. You're not a rebel. You're not clever. You're just too much. And everyone's tired of pretending they like it."
Henry's fists clenched. "Screw you."
"You're not angry at me," the other Henry said. getting close enough for Henry to see the subtle lines on his face. "You're angry because you know it's true. You've always known. The world doesn't want you. It wants me."
"People like me," Henry snapped, louder now. "They get me. They laugh."
"They tolerate you. You're a clown. A footnote." Dream Henry stopped in front of him, face inches away. "They wouldn't miss you if you were gone. Not really. You think being loud makes you matter? You're not a rebel, Henry. You're a placeholder."
"You're not real," Henry mutters to himself, pulling at his hair to try and ground himself. "This is a dream. That's all. A stupid dream I'll wake up from."
"Is it?" Dream Henry said, voice silk-wrapped steel. "Then why do I feel more real than you ever did?"
The hallway began to stretch further, ripple like oil. The lights above them dimmed until only the space between the two Henry's stayed lit. Henry hated how still the room was. How his own breathing sounded like it didn't belong.
“I'm the one they'd choose," Dream Henry sneers. "I'm the Henry who gets taken seriously. Who plans, listens, executes. Quiet. Focused. Efficient."
"But that's not me," Henry said, voice catching.
"I know. I'm what you could be. Should be. The version people would actually want around."
"I am who I am, and so what? You think that scares me?"
"It should. Dream Henry said, tilting his head like he was actually sympathetic. "Every time someone sighs when you walk into a room. Every time your mum looks tired. Every time your mates don't text back. I'm there. I'm what they wish you were."
Henry took a step back, but the room didn't give. The walls felt closer than before. The ceiling lower. The void felt colder now. The whiteness pressing in.
Then the lights shattered, the cold seeping into Henry's lungs.
Dream Henry reached out, and before Henry could react, Dream Henry's hand clamped around his chin, thumb digging into the hinge of his jaw, hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to bruise.
Henry froze.
"No one would miss you," he said, voice low, deadly calm. "They'd breathe easier. You know it. You've always known it. You don't belong in the world they want. You don't belong at all."
Henry's throat worked, but no sound came out. He wants to scream, to fight, to prove him wrong, but he's paralyzed. The words cut like razors. And somewhere deep down, where he doesn't like to look, part of him believes it.
Dream Henry leans in closer. His breath is cold against Henry's cheek. "You're not hated Henry, that would mean they cared. You're worse than that. You're nothing. Replaceable. Forgotten five minutes after you're gone."
Henry tried to pull back, but he couldn't move.
"You're the version they tolerate until something better comes along. That's me." Then the dream smiled;, perfectly chilling, and whispered, "You should be afraid of waking up."
Then the mirrors crack. All at once. A sharp, splintering sound that drowns out everything.
Shards fall like rain, slicing the air.
Henry woke up gasping, sweat sticking his shirt to his back, fists still clenched in the sheets.
Outside his window, the sun was rising. Ordinary. Unbothered.
His room is dark. Sheets twisted around him like chains. His chest heaves. His hands still shake. His throat feels raw, like he screamed in his sleep.
He stares at the ceiling for a long time, heart thudding like a warning.
From his desk, his phone lights up. A message from Ralph. Where ru? u coming today or nah?
I'm what they wish you were.
He doesn't reply.
The weight of the dream lingers like bruises under his skin. A part of him wants to text back I'm fine. Another part wonders what would happen if he just... didn't show up. If Dream Henry was right.
He drags himself out of bed, one slow limb at a time. Catches his reflection in the mirror.
The skin on his chin throbbed like a phantom. He touched it. Nothing. No bruise. No mark.
But the ghost of the pain stayed.
And the words? The words echoed. They curled up in his chest and made themselves at home.
You're nothing.