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forgedwill​:

         “So I once believed myself; all possess a namesake -” a smirk, slight and susceptible to change as he quirks a brow, “Or are you simply being jocular?”

“Merely being frank, monsieur,” purrs the Count’s resonant laughter, “names are a custom long shed of my person--needless and meddlesome, so often I find them. A name serves me not at all. I am nowhere for so long that a name would matter.”

lovesake​:

“Quite an introduction, I must say. Not often do I hear any noble – a Count, no less – also call themselves humble.” A thoughtful hum, “Alucard Țepeș of Wallachia. The pleasure is mine, I’m sure.”

“Then it shames me to hear the gentleman is not accustomed to such courtesy from others of the gentry. One as lovely as yourself surely ought to be met with more grace than you have come to expect of us..” A smile politely hooks to the corner of his mouth. “A pleasure indeed, and a sorrow I have not chanced upon your company before today.”

notte-la-lagna​:

           He will offer him one better: to rejoice in brief that he would squeeze his hand, affirming, before removing it from being held there against the fine fabrics of Edmond’s attire. To shroud him with the arm instead, like the dark hiding a fearful fawn, beckoning him to welcome the illustration of peaceful, silent refuge. Life is, as always, a terribly formidable thing. Death arrives no easier, as Mathias knows this demon-made body shambles with desperation to cling to him with lying mouths and greedy hands. And Edmond’s life, though recreated, merely makes a kind of simulation of that would-be death. Slow, pained. Horrifically pained, that his newfound coven welcomes him taut and possessively, held to his person by the waist and side, making an example of comfort with fondling to seize and unwind the brain. His other hand joining with that effort to cradle Edmond’s face where it lays, tenderly affectionate in rubbing his cheek, in running fingers over the fine design of his jaw, cheekbone. In fanning his grasp to hold it there.

           “No sorrow will stretch unto gossip,” begins he, with that dulcet baritone as deep as the blue black ocean, “-for whatever you feel in expression is safe with me. I needn’t for some paper to declare my knowledge yours, nor neither my carer’s hands. Whatever must be bled, be bled; I will take it, reform it as a tonic for your well being.” A gentle promise. Though he has made himself a kind of guardian before, it may only serve to aid them that this would bear repeating. And repeating he does, purring to a tune of gentle persuasion. If he receives lone tears, it will itself be an immense success.

             Kneading, now, with his head bent once more against Edmond’s own.

And at the mercy of the other man’s tenderness, he feels as young as he does old; at war between the part of himself thinking itself too wordly for tears and terror and sorrow, and the part knowing he is no more than a shambling amalgamation of them all. Dressed in riches as he is in poverty--as how impoverished such a soul as Edmond’s truly is. That he quakes at Mathias’ kindness, that he burns to be touched and that his eyes jewel with wild, hot tears--how absurd. How childish. But Edmond feels in his own skin now nothing more than a boy long lost to time, seen for what he truly is before eyes too cunning to be deceived by titles and treasures and talk. Such eyes that drag him from the very dreggs of his grief until it opens the seams of him. And there is not time to feel shame when his tears scald down the curve of either cheek to meet that tender hand holding him tight.

Even for a man as himself, there do not exist words for the way that it feels to weep before such a one as this.

Far be it for him to hide now that he has already been seen down to the bones of him--where his head exhaustedly rests with the curve of Mathias’ shoulder, His Excellency weeps in earnest, eerie quiet as his body sinks heavy and lost upon the other man’s flank. His hands shake, with pain as with sorrow, as with the tremendously unknown sweetness of comfort as one grasps upon the hem of the doctor’s sleeve, as his cheek presses tighter to his shoulder under each kneading press of that head bent kindly against his.

lovesake​:

“If you have no name, then what should one call you?”

“The Count of Monte Cristo. A humble sailor, wanderer of stars, and charmed to be making your acquaintance. I should be delighted indeed to know of your name in return, monsieur.”

“I am only a nameless soul.”

notte-la-lagna​:

           It gets easier with time. That is, it gets easier to muddle a patient’s needs and desires to better serve in tender, restorative care. Only if Edmond allows him, and only if he allows himself the restraint to do so. Foretaste of relief promised in word, exercised in acts with the languid, casual caress of his strangely more human looking thumb. The man smiles, and so too does the Doctor. Reaffirmation, reassurance. Relinquishing the Hells of his mind for some other night’s occupation when the treatment of the victim presents itself with greater demand. So acceptance mentions itself somewhere with them, with Edmond laying his head to rest. The unusual, strikingly vibrant colors of his sea-like hair suddenly seeming a more perfect guise for masking agony. More so than before. And Mathias’… dark and coveting, half eclipsing his when the gesture is returned, ever so gently. Ever so only softly kneading his temple against Edmond’s weighted crown.

            That Leeching-demon-thing within him need not cause for greater misery. No - so it is that every sensation offered, every mirroring of repose, and all that of tranquility is kept within his own person.

The part of him that wishes even this moment to put on his fantastic facade as Count of Monte Cristo almost cringes at his own misery; for the loveliness and grandeur of his person, ever a spectacle made flesh, he feels crumpled, small, sweetly pathetic in his sorrow as he sits here before a well-treasured friend and wishes he were better company for him. But what is human still in Edmond’s slow-freezing heart knows better. Before Mathias, he is always no more than Edmond Dantes, somehow undead and somehow becoming more human with every moment they spend together. With every stroke of the other man’s thumb chasing over the cold of his gloved hand, with every echo of his heartbeat sitting somewhere on the edge of Edmond’s senses. With every stroke of the man’s temple kneading over His Excellency’s Hell-heavy crown. There is a purity to Mathias’ kindness that, as it often does, makes part of him wish to cry (as it would not be the first time the Count has lost the battle with the parts of himself still human.)

A sigh bleeds from Edmond’s throat, face pressing gently into the crook of Mathias’ neck as he clings to that comforting hand now pressed and held upon the fine, dark wool of Edmond’s coat, to the place where there still shudders a broken (stubborn) heart somewhere far below against the ever encroaching cold.

One more quiet little secret shared between them, trusting that it will find itself in good hands.

izonis :

do you know who walter bernhard is

“I regret to admit that I have never had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of such a one Monsieur Bernhard. You should forgive me my ignorance if I were to ask who he might be, I hope? Paris is so infinite in its hospitality and its gentry alike that shaking hands with each of the well-to-do is a rather...tedious affair to surmount, you see. There is not a doubt in my heart that this gentleman too would prove to be a most entertaining acquaintance to make indeed.”

@notte-la-lagna​ said: He does not need words for now. No, but a firm, reassuring grip of his hand alongside Edmond's will do.

And a gentle hand will find itself plenty beyond his deserving; the thought pierces through the veil of his solemn reverie with such sweet, sure clarity that Edmond nearly laughs at the squeeze of the other man’s hands. Nearly. Never quite. He manages for a smile instead, a gesture perhaps much better suited to the tednerness of this moment between them as weary eyes tilt back their golden lashes to look Mathias round and through--till they crease with the curve of his mouth in its quiet fondness. True enough. Words indeed seem ill-suited to a moment where touch speaks all (speaks more); Edmond answers him with the cold, curling grip of his silk-clasped hand and the press of his cheek on the elder’s shoulder as he sets his night-dark head to rest.

There is a thank-you somewhere in the silence that Edmond is sure does not need to be spoken.

silenceandmotion :

{Hot old man that’s up to something dot png}

undefeatablesin :

Painting practice with an old friend lmao

notte-la-lagna​:

        “You say revenant as if it were some foul occurrence; but was it not Christ that rose to prove himself a soul undying – is he not revenant?” Needless to mention the rhetorical nature of the example, though the Holy things had long been anything but rhetorical in Mathias’ mind. Nevertheless the mood is kept ceremoniously dignified, in that manner of ceremony that has become their sharing of indescribable pains. Fondling over where he touches that man with decision to ignore the hateful spirit seething inside, to those eyes garbing themselves with deep ache he instead looks over with sympathy. All allowances to let the mind wander. All to let the warm, warm flow of himself to seep inside. Canting his head, rifling through what he must to pierce past those irises and peer into the soul beneath. “And were we not once made within his image?”           And at last he sees it: the core, or what could be understood as the core, being the opal-esque shimmer of myriad a thing inside, discernible only to his own uniquely mutated gaze. Edmond speaks his peace, polite as ever in his own damning way. “You are convinced you are rot for the sake of your furthering this method of survival, Edmond; you are posed to be a Gladiator, but my friend, there are no men among chariots to encircle you, and only lions that have not ate in years await you in their cold cages.”

           Mathias stands to his feet, though half-knelt, invasive in that way which stirs the demon possessing his friend. The sheer energy alights his own eyes to shades of reds and blacks and grey, grey skies. A knee poised between the man’s legs, smoothing over the high of his prominent features before moving them downward. “You have found those rich with spirituality dissevered from the hands of cruel Gods. The beauty of humanity is that right to free will, the right to live and breathe bereft of the hands of a desperate ruler. In that, you need only rid yourself of your false paganism. You need a true God.”

            His throat is cut. Consent vocally given is most raw when derived directly from the beating heart. So Edmond bleeds swiftly (coldly) into the palm of Mathias’ hand. A wound easily seal as it is made, and Mathias is no later standing and taking his stride away from him. “We both are unique in the manner we were made,” towards a table, moving all aside and overturning his hand, dripping the blood onto the surface, “-unlike you, I was wonderfully crafted to be a balm for humanity. Something to aid and salvage, while you, initially, were meant for nothing more than a life of hard labor at the sea, with your bride by the sea, and your years spent hardening the palms of your hands to something so callous, nothing but the kiss of your wife could soften.” A scalpel is taken from a drawstring in his sleeve. Unbuttoning his shirt, his vest so that he too may pierce his own heart directly. Guiding and manipulating the blood to covet Edmond’s, a ritual of union is begun. Mathias, for the time being, remains quietly focused.

            “But,” as he breaks the silences after some time, “now you hold the capability to rewrite your own. Something Christ himself could not possess… so I must ask: what will you do with this chance?”

It is a danger to let him so near; the simplicity of that truth crawls upon him with a sordid reminder that he is possessed not of Mathias’ gentle hands, but the greed of something else entirely that hisses and revolts at touch so kind, so well-intentioned--so like an anchor for the one drowning to grasp upon that the demon all but shrieks inside the cold, dark spaces of Edmond’s mind. Till his ears rings. Till the eerie crystal of his frozen bones hum with pain. And he ignores it all no less. Indeed, forces it to quiet, remembering himself briefly as the man in control of it all, whatever the demon wishes or thinks or wants. Mathias’ hands are so deliciously warm in their offering of comfort--warmer even than his words as they fall over him like spring rain, stirring life thought never to be returned, stirring hope thought never to be returned. Edmond fears to cling to it, and clings anyway (finding it more comforting than the cold, cold hands of a monster hiding away inside the curtain of his flesh.) And so he is, for the longest time, speechless as Mathias looks him round and through, tilts his head to and fro, soaks him with the warmth of his skin that finds itself alien to flesh long poisoned with grief and change. Finds itself intoxicating to the parts of Edmond that are loneliness. The Count breathes deep, the sound tripping over the would-be strains of a sob that haven’t tears enough to become real. He clings to that arm, to these clothes, to this man. Like he has not clung to anything before.

“This is no godly picture, Mathias. The tomb is not sacred, nor the bones within it. If ever there was a man beloved by God’s eyes somewhere in its stones and dusts and dirt, he has ceased to be very long ago. What must you see when you look at me to imagine there is a thing so good and just and whole where a man as myself still sits? The lions, of every colour and kind, have eaten up my soul along with my body. Do I suppose I will get them back if I slit them loose of their treacherous lives? Do I...”

No. That cold stab of reality never hurts worse than it does in moments as these--where he says it out loud, knows it for the truth that it is, knows himself dying for a cause that will not bring him peace. Time isn’t much given to ponder his miseries though, which is another of Mathias’ many kindnesses. The man kneels in, closer than many dare, closer than perhaps even he should--and yet not close enough, for all Edmond wishes. He talks of Gods that come in truer colours--tells him he needs such a one. Edmond laughs, awkwardly quiet and painfully mirthless as his hands tangle away into the fabrics of the other man’s shirt. “A God like you, my friend? Am I to understand this to be your implication?”

His answer is a blade on his throat, clean and bright as it cuts him through and bleeds him out into cold, dark wells of red and bleeding him out too into the rough, hoarse scrape of a gasp as everything in him trembles. Not much with pain so much as with effort, to keep that which writhes beneath the surface quiet and still. The effort that ultimately distracts both from pain and from the fact the wound is gone as quickly as it were put there at all. Dizzy, His Excellency’s eyes follow Mathias to the table where the better part of his ritual is coaxed into life. Edmond finds it...performative. The gentleman bares himself to his scalpel in a way that is almost exquisite in its imagery of sacrifice, haunting in that it is one offered for Edmond himself. The union of their spoiled blood to make something that will brighten his pain to a sweeter feeling. Edmond blinks in his quiet awe, dazed almost to silence with it all, dazed by the question his dear friend poses most of all. “I...” Hesitance wrings his throat raw. “I wish to live again. Not as I do now. But as what I have since long ceased to be. A mere man. A fragile, ephemeral human.”

lus-a-chalmain​:

      “Walk the streets for money… You don’t care if it’s wrong or if it’s right!        “Roxanne….”

“I loved you since I knew you, I wouldn’t talk down to you, I have to tell you just how I feel--” A snicker joins the music of his voice, the expression of his wise old eyes indulgent. “I won’t share you with another boy.”

{We listen to A Sadness Runs Through Him by The Hoosiers, we think of His Excellency and frown}

notte-la-lagna​:

              Initial purpose for his unannounced visitation has been thrown by the wayside. Mathias can feel the strange thing that lurks beneath Edmond’s skin, that rattles and screams against all sound mind and thought alike. The ill… yes, terribly ill nature of this man sinks with a known intimacy that the Doctor himself finds he no longer denies within his company. It is a likened, known story, and he for all of the others’ musings allows him his pawing. A merciful allowance, canting his head to make room for his fiddling touch. Tilting his head in makeshift cradling of that wandering hand when his have found themselves solely comforting Edmond’s other. Mapping those equally strange marks and lines, though nonetheless silent in his gestures. Squeezing his hand and holding it as one would a lifeline.

              “It is your desperation for a bearable remedy that proves you, too, are far more kind than you pretend, Edmond,” a bittersweet smile shared then, “Your Excellency,” a teased correction, though one left alone for the better part of his mulling.               “I have come to believe that neither of us are so sorrowfully rotted as we once believed. As we once comforted ourselves with the lie. Though now I must wonder if I am too late to my consciousness of it to aid you - but I want to be wrong.”

                Another moment, choosing slowed speaking in his cautiousness. Reciprocating his touch then to bring the Count’s head upright, allowing the warmth of his skin to sink far beneath the cold surface of Edmond’s, “I can craft you something with my alchemy that will truly dull the ache. Something that will allow you clarity, but I require your explicit consent to perform the ritual.”

“And perhaps the part of me most feared is not the monster crawling through the bones and dust of the man once known as Edmond Dantes so much as Edmond Dantes himself; I fear the revenant of my humanity by far more than the evil that entombs it. It is my kindness that is more frightening by far, I think...” Whether that eases Mathias’ nerves or not is another story entirely, though Edmond today is far outside the business of pacifying others when he himself feels inconsolable. All the same, it bothers him in ways he wishes it wouldn’t to see Mathias flinch in his own subtle, minute ways at the roaring hiss of evils the good doctor can sense simmering below, to watch him eye and map out the lines of despair in His Excellency’s scar-touched hand--that Mathias clings to just gently enough to make Edmond’s eyes ache.

“You think so, do you?” The laugh comes out wrong, broken boned and bitter as his expression falls between mirth and despair. “I feel terribly rude to disagree, though find myself inclined to believe that I must. You have not known rot before you have beheld me, Mathias. All that I am anymore is rot, this and the last lingering part of me that wishes it were not. I am a paradox of decay through every lens, I am afraid.”

And Mathias, good, kind man that he truly is, of course speaks of the potential of relief. It gives Edmond pause to hear it, the hand upon the doctor’s shoulder growing tense with uncertainty--mindful all the same as it squeezes the breadth of it tight to answer that open palm brushing his face, tilting his head. His Excellency heeds him, dark head following his touch in a way both weary and comforted all at once. “That I am conscious of myself and my misery still means that you are not too late, my dear friend. I am not sure that pleases me, though. It never pleases me to know I am making a burden of myself.” That kindly hand is held tight to his cheek for the warmth it has to offer, for the gleaming reminder that he is not by himself in the dark of his misery. “I might well give you my soul, what few threads of it are left, if it would only mean you could put me to rest, monsieur. My consent is the most trivial thing I can give by comparison.”

notte-la-lagna​:

@dreamsworn​ said: your  muse  catching  my  muse  drinking  blood.

            Wonder held it for contemplation, time and time again; when, and how – if ever – he may find this man succumbed to the wonts of what possesses him. This other worldly demon leeching from him his humanity as much as his life. It is a somber image, knowing the heart of him to yet be pristine, to yet be something untapped, untainted and undiscovered. It is why Mathias makes himself known to him, resounding more than heavy paced clinks of his shoes against flooring. More than the hungered beating of his own heart, over-abundantly stimulated. Halting some minor space between them, brushing the backs of his fingers against the crook of his own arm.

              His voice is all-surrounding as thunder. As electric, as coursing in his study of the other, “It does not suit you, my friend. It aches differently than your heart, this hunger of yours.”

“...Desperation makes fools of us all, monsieur. When our senses tremble with the immensity of living, when we ache past what we can bear...we are very often powerless to what cusps of desire they drive us to in the search for that which makes our humanity bearable.” Funny word to be thinking of when his lips are red with the wine of someone else’s veins--whose is unclear, the body (living or not) nowhere to be seen, the chalice instead sat to one side drank down to its final drop. And His Excellency only looks wearier for it as he regards Mathias with such sombre eyes.

“And you...” A cold hand reaches, peculiarly soft as its knuckles drift the length of Mathias’ jaw before he opens his palm against the man’s cheek with a laugh both bitter and mourning. “You would deign to worry yourself with what does and does not suit a soul long eaten away with rot and shorn all of its worth? A man who is dead, forgotten, buried in his own scars?”

The doctor’s dark hair is swept tenderly behind one ear before the Count’s hand settles to the side of his neck instead as Edmond’s volcanic eyes vanish beneath his lashes. “You are...kinder than you pretend, Mathias.”