[It's also curious, because by virtue of that lift-and-spin move, Sypha has ended up rotated a hundred and eighty degrees from the direction she'd previously been, which is new and interesting and just slightly beyond her to properly appreciate at the moment. The fire used to be one way and now it's the other; she can still track it from its glow and its warmth, but it really shouldn't just move around like that when she's trying to watch it, because it makes it difficult to follow.
His arms are still supporting her, she observes, and so almost thoughtfully she finds control of one hand and lifts it until she's fairly certain the fingers are resting against his arm somewhere near the elbow, then painstakingly begins to follow it up toward his shoulder like a garden path because she's reasonably confident she'll find Alucard at the end of it.]
[Not now. Not for warmth of the fire, although that is a factor, but for the way that Sypha's hand travels up his arm. The way it finds his shoulder. He watches it all so very carefully, reveling in it.
Today, somehow, has been quiet. The week has been. It is as if the cold snap has settled everyone and encouraged them to take more than five seconds to calm down. It's almost as if his father was back in the city and order was properly returned. If this is a taste of what his life would be like with the three of them and no other responsibilities, then Alucard intends to hold fast and cling as long as he can.]
[Breaking contact with him for only a moment, she lightly flails her arm in the vague direction of where she thinks the fire is and curls her fingers into a grasping motion, sweeping it back in a clumsy and scattered pulling motion. It's the right sort of movement, recognizably so, but with absolutely no focused intent behind it, there's no magic — just a shift of the arm.
Which is probably a very good thing, so that she's not pulling fire around and throwing it places in her sleep.
When her arm comes back again, it lightly thunks against his chest instead of his shoulder, and she frowns a little while she feels around, making sleepy appraisal of the body beneath her fingers until she sort of figures out what it is she's touching.]
[It’s good that Sypha’s intent is waylaid by exhaustion. Alucard can’t imagine that her trying to really do magic while mostly asleep would end well. The only thing that can end well is how they’re piled together right now, Sypha all soft and warm and his own body trying to catch up. (He’s got the slippers on, which helps. Everything else is PJs and the bathrobe.]
You did. Thank you.
[He’s happy like this. Sypha’s hand on his chest (vampire tiddies aren’t Belmont ones, admittedly) is the last piece of perfection for the scene.]
[She is nothing if not helpful and eager to please, even mostly asleep. Her hand slips down a little, more just from being drawn by gravity and a lack of concentration on keeping it aloft, until finally it settles and she's back to drowsing, punctuated only by the occasional jaw-cracking yawn.]
Mmm. I was thinking.
[She's also forgotten she said that already, a minute or two ago. Maybe this time she'll remember to elaborate aloud, instead of in her head.]
You need to bird.
[...Well, she made it halfway. That last bit is just incomprehensible dream gibberish.]
[They should get to bed. Sypha's made that clear. But all her funny half-asleep talk is too endearing to not listen to, so Alucard delays it.
He loves holding onto her like this. She's warm, so warm, so gentle in these moments. It's his favorite thing about her. About both of them. They're harder than diamonds with the world. The hands that hold onto him now have done such feats. Trevor's too, but Trevor's hands are always rougher, they have more callouses. It's harder to forget with him. But here, with him, in these moments, there is only softness.
One day, perhaps, his father will return. Alucard will retreat from the world, have his reputation be nothing more than a fop of a princeling, living off his father's work by rutting with a Speaker and a hunter, engaging with the world so minimally that he ought not to be counted as a presence among Society. A dream. Impossible.
Except for these moments when it feels entirely possible. He smiles down at Sypha in his arms, and he kisses the top of her head. Breathes out a single word.]
Hearthfire.
[Because that's what Sypha and Trevor represent. Home. Home in all the ways that matter. He isn't the kind of man to revel in petnames. There are a million darlings and sweethearts, and it's patronizing besides. The world does enough of that to them. But he can murmur a few honest associations now and again.]
[That rouses her, a little. It's not enough to pull her back from the sticky strands of dreaming that have been wrapping around her like a web, but the word catches at her like a hook, less because of what it is in and of itself and more because of how he says it. Even half-asleep, even halfway to senseless, there's a part of Sypha that is resonant with Alucard, that knows to pay attention when it hears that rare tone of voice.]
...Where?
[She thinks that's the right answer, maybe. There's a fire somewhere. She lost track of it a while ago, or maybe it was only a minute ago, but it's there somewhere.
She blinks once, twice, with heavy lashes and eyelids that can barely stay open, and tilts her chin up just a little to try to find his face. Her gaze is unfocused and soft with sleep, but after a moment she seems to find him, and it registers that he's smiling.]
[He said that out loud didn't he? The embarrassment doesn't really show on his face for once, and he shifts just enough so he can stand with Sypha in his arms. He'll come back and put the fire out once she's in bed.]
Let's get you under the blankets.
[There's endless adoration on his face. No attempt to hide it. It radiates off him, ripping outwards.]
[She curls inward when he lifts her, snuggling up close against his chest as her fingers curl into the soft material of his robe. Presumably the way she compacts makes it easier to carry her, but it's also about as close to midair cuddling as it's possible to get.
About fifteen seconds pass before it occurs to her that she's forgotten a vital addendum, and she sleepily adds: ]
And Trevor.
[...Wait. That seems wrong. There's only two and that's not right, and she needs to fix it.]
[Very perfect. Alucard's laugh is more like a whisper on the breeze at those declarations, but the sound is there and he can do nothing more than whisk her off to their bed to ensure she's comfy and snug and can rest far more comfortably than she ever would on the couch.
(He leaves her there alone for a few minutes. Just enough time to see to the fire. Then he is in bed, both arms around her, pulling her nearly atop him, and resting.)
An early night. A late morning, because the world is cold and quiet still, and while snow does not happen so far south, the feeling of it can take hold from time to time. The sense that there is a warm blanket muting the world.
He isn't up until ten in the morning. Alucard stirs only slightly, eyes going to the clock that rests on one of the nightstands that flank the bed. There's a soft sigh, then he looks to see if Sypha's awakened before him.]
[Very rarely is Sypha ever up before Alucard is, and today is no exception. Granted, she'd woken up before he had, probably owing to the fact that she'd been dozing already before he'd put her to bed, and thus ran the necessary length of her sleep cycle before him. But in the course of the night they've shifted around, just from natural moving and rearranging, such that she's on her side facing him, trapped snugly between the wall and his body, like a barrier between her and the rest of the room.
She's still half-dozing herself, or at least lounging around in bed, but she's managed to find herself a loose section of his hair and has been methodically working tiny braids into it while he slept, each a slightly different weave — some three strands, some four, this one a herringbone, that one a rope, and all left unfinished at the ends, at risk of unraveling with the slightest jostling.]
[Alucard's voice is thick and very much struggling to the concept of being awake. It takes a few moments for him to even register how they've shifted over the night (the patterns are very different from when Trevor is home).
His hair's heavier than normal. Strange.]
Comfy?
[Because he can feel fingers in his hair, and that means Sypha is at a truly weird angle or she's found a nice way to do this and lounge at the same time.]
[Rather than bat the braid away, Alucard does nothing more than wiggle his nose. The braid slips out of place, falling to hang where it ought to. There's no move to undo it, but there is a move for Alucard to turn over onto his side.]
I did. You were barely awake on the sofa, and there was no point in letting you rest there. Your back would be very unhappy now.
[He is much comfier now. Lounging is best done like this: too many pillows to support his head. Side lounge. One arm under all of the pillows, and his free hand creeping to Sypha's side.]
[She laughs at the face he makes, reaching just enough to tug lightly on the strand of braid he's just repositioned. Then that in itself gives her an idea, and she picks up three of the braids she's already done and absently starts to weave them together in their turn.]
Let's see...I remember I was watching the fire, and thinking.
[That's a good start. She hums, as she continues to sift through her drowsy recollection of the previous night.]
You came in. I remember you seemed...so happy.
[Hmm. Her brow furrows, as she ponders a little more.]
[Too many, clearly. Alucard can't believe he slept through that much hairbraiding. He's impressed in a way, Sypha's touches have become defter over time. That or he needed more sleep than he thought, which is possible.
He listens though. Is quiet and then....very blushed, for his definition of it.]
Nearly this whole side. If I'd had some beads, I would have strung them on as well. Did you know in some cultures, important life events are commemorated by carved beads threaded onto braided strands of hair?
[She finishes off her plait, then gives that a tug for good measure.]
...I wonder if I dreamed it, then. Heartfire...
[Denying it may prove even worse than admitting to it, because now she's going to SOLVE THIS MYSTERY.]
...Hearth fire? Hmm. It sounds like a spell, or —
[Wait a minute.]
What do you mean, it's nothing? Then you do know what it is!
[The question is gentle, and if anything, Alucard's impressed. Sypha's fingers work fast, which he knows from other experiences anyway, but it's always worth marveling at talent, as well as enjoying it. There's a shift, a slight one, as Alucard gets comfortable.]
How big are the beads then? I can see people working at a small scale, but only just so.
[He'll have to undo the braids later. For now, they stay. Stay and watch Sypha solve a pointless mystery.]
Long enough. I tried to go very carefully, so that I would not disturb you.
[And she's clearly proud to have succeeded, even if god forbid he see himself in a mirror right now, with half his hair loose and the other half this braided monstrosity.
She raises a hand, though, making a circle with her thumb and forefinger about the size of a cherry or small grape.]
About this big. The carving is very delicate, and the material has to be lightweight so as not to weigh the hair down too much.
[...But.]
You realize I will sit on you and extract a confession, don't you?
[Maybe he'll shower first this morning. And make up for getting rid of all the braids by asking Sypha to brush his hair.]
I see. And it's all done with delicate tools as well, I imagine, otherwise the material would break. I'm sure the practice is ancient and...
[On one hand: oh no, don't throw him into the briar patch. On the other: this is a pretty dumb thing to be getting into briar patches about in the first place. So confession it is, soft and embarrassed.]
There's precious little I dislike more than patronizing names for you both. But that is, I suppose, how I see you at times like last night. It simply is not something I voice.
[For her. So that's what it was, then — her explanation, colored by his bashfulness, offered up in mitigation once she'd coaxed it out of him. A patronizing name, or so he calls it. A bit of affection, spoken, to go with the expression that she remembers him wearing while he looked at her.
Hearthfire. That's how he sees her, he says; that's the word that comes to mind when a moment passes between them like the one last night. As though she is the fire that warms his home, a light to make his shadows withdraw, burning red-orange in tandem with his own gold and moonlight white.
He always compares her to fire, doesn't he? And not just to flames in particular but to heat, to the sensation of being warm. Sometimes he teases her about it, with more unflattering nicknames than this one, but always he acknowledges her as the warm spot in the room, his foil when he himself is so often cold.
(It surprises her, a little, to consider that. In his worse moments, she sometimes perceives him as a deep well of sadness, withdrawn in a way that gives off a chill. It's never really occurred to her that he might harbor similar thoughts of her in return, perceiving her as the warmest place in a room, a burning flame that night moths couldn't help but be drawn to.)
His fire, but not just any fire. The one that burns in his hearth. The one that burns in his heart.
And he thinks such a thing is patronizing.]
Why don't you voice it?
[She's barely even noticed that her cheeks have flushed; now even her face is hot, further proving his point.]
There are many terms of endearment used. Thousands of others who response to all of the same ones. There is only one Sypha, same as there is only one Trevor. [There's a terribly large amount of Trevors, but that's not the point.]
Your names are yours and yours alone. Why would I use something else that is not fully you?
[At the end of the day, he cares about them being them. They mean the world to Alucard, he's shown that in all ways great and small. But they are unto themselves, people in their own right, and that is something too much of the world around them seems keen to forget or ignore. (Pets. He hates it.)]
[Is it possible for her to flush any redder? It turns out that it is, and she has to press her lips together, chewing on her lower lip because her mouth is aching with a smile that pulls unbidden at the corners of her lips.]
...Yes. But for me, there is only one Alucard to call me such sweet things.
[And she really does shift now, nudging the blankets aside just enough that she's able to climb on top of him, forearms braced on either side of his head so that she can look down into his face. If her hair were long enough, it would make a curtain around the two of them; as it is, it's too short to do her that courtesy, but given the way she holds his gaze, in Sypha's mind there's nothing else in the rest of the world but the two of them right now, anyway.
(And Trevor, of course. Always Trevor. He's always there as a part of them, even when he's not there in reality.) ]
And Sypha is my name that everyone has the right to use and to call me. But only you have the right to call me that endearment.
[Oh. Oh that's cute. Alucard may be very flustered about this, but the look on Sypha's face eases so much. He forgets that his Overthinking sometimes means he misses obvious things, like terms of endearment being something others like. Or that he can make Sypha smile like that with just a word.
He likes doing that last thing whenever he can, after all.]
All the same.
[He sighs, but then Sypha's climbed atop him. He's still on his side, so he shifts to change that. Make it easier for her to look at his stupid, embarrassed face. It's about as red as his face can ever get, although maybe sillier for all of those tiny braids.]
You'd get sick of it if I used it constantly anyway.
Well, yes. I like the sound of my name in your voice, too.
[She ducks down a little, stealing a kiss from the corner of his mouth, very lightly and very fleeting. What a pair they make, both red in the face for related yet differing reasons.]
But could you, just once? While I'm awake, so I can appreciate it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[It's also curious, because by virtue of that lift-and-spin move, Sypha has ended up rotated a hundred and eighty degrees from the direction she'd previously been, which is new and interesting and just slightly beyond her to properly appreciate at the moment. The fire used to be one way and now it's the other; she can still track it from its glow and its warmth, but it really shouldn't just move around like that when she's trying to watch it, because it makes it difficult to follow.
His arms are still supporting her, she observes, and so almost thoughtfully she finds control of one hand and lifts it until she's fairly certain the fingers are resting against his arm somewhere near the elbow, then painstakingly begins to follow it up toward his shoulder like a garden path because she's reasonably confident she'll find Alucard at the end of it.]
Are you cold?
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[Not now. Not for warmth of the fire, although that is a factor, but for the way that Sypha's hand travels up his arm. The way it finds his shoulder. He watches it all so very carefully, reveling in it.
Today, somehow, has been quiet. The week has been. It is as if the cold snap has settled everyone and encouraged them to take more than five seconds to calm down. It's almost as if his father was back in the city and order was properly returned. If this is a taste of what his life would be like with the three of them and no other responsibilities, then Alucard intends to hold fast and cling as long as he can.]
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[Breaking contact with him for only a moment, she lightly flails her arm in the vague direction of where she thinks the fire is and curls her fingers into a grasping motion, sweeping it back in a clumsy and scattered pulling motion. It's the right sort of movement, recognizably so, but with absolutely no focused intent behind it, there's no magic — just a shift of the arm.
Which is probably a very good thing, so that she's not pulling fire around and throwing it places in her sleep.
When her arm comes back again, it lightly thunks against his chest instead of his shoulder, and she frowns a little while she feels around, making sleepy appraisal of the body beneath her fingers until she sort of figures out what it is she's touching.]
I helped.
[She pronounces, tentative but satisfied.]
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You did. Thank you.
[He’s happy like this. Sypha’s hand on his chest (vampire tiddies aren’t Belmont ones, admittedly) is the last piece of perfection for the scene.]
Go to sleep. You’re nearly there already.
[Not that he’s moving either of them yet.]
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[She is nothing if not helpful and eager to please, even mostly asleep. Her hand slips down a little, more just from being drawn by gravity and a lack of concentration on keeping it aloft, until finally it settles and she's back to drowsing, punctuated only by the occasional jaw-cracking yawn.]
Mmm. I was thinking.
[She's also forgotten she said that already, a minute or two ago. Maybe this time she'll remember to elaborate aloud, instead of in her head.]
You need to bird.
[...Well, she made it halfway. That last bit is just incomprehensible dream gibberish.]
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He loves holding onto her like this. She's warm, so warm, so gentle in these moments. It's his favorite thing about her. About both of them. They're harder than diamonds with the world. The hands that hold onto him now have done such feats. Trevor's too, but Trevor's hands are always rougher, they have more callouses. It's harder to forget with him. But here, with him, in these moments, there is only softness.
One day, perhaps, his father will return. Alucard will retreat from the world, have his reputation be nothing more than a fop of a princeling, living off his father's work by rutting with a Speaker and a hunter, engaging with the world so minimally that he ought not to be counted as a presence among Society. A dream. Impossible.
Except for these moments when it feels entirely possible. He smiles down at Sypha in his arms, and he kisses the top of her head. Breathes out a single word.]
Hearthfire.
[Because that's what Sypha and Trevor represent. Home. Home in all the ways that matter. He isn't the kind of man to revel in petnames. There are a million darlings and sweethearts, and it's patronizing besides. The world does enough of that to them. But he can murmur a few honest associations now and again.]
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...Where?
[She thinks that's the right answer, maybe. There's a fire somewhere. She lost track of it a while ago, or maybe it was only a minute ago, but it's there somewhere.
She blinks once, twice, with heavy lashes and eyelids that can barely stay open, and tilts her chin up just a little to try to find his face. Her gaze is unfocused and soft with sleep, but after a moment she seems to find him, and it registers that he's smiling.]
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[He said that out loud didn't he? The embarrassment doesn't really show on his face for once, and he shifts just enough so he can stand with Sypha in his arms. He'll come back and put the fire out once she's in bed.]
Let's get you under the blankets.
[There's endless adoration on his face. No attempt to hide it. It radiates off him, ripping outwards.]
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[She curls inward when he lifts her, snuggling up close against his chest as her fingers curl into the soft material of his robe. Presumably the way she compacts makes it easier to carry her, but it's also about as close to midair cuddling as it's possible to get.
About fifteen seconds pass before it occurs to her that she's forgotten a vital addendum, and she sleepily adds: ]
And Trevor.
[...Wait. That seems wrong. There's only two and that's not right, and she needs to fix it.]
And me.
[Perfect.]
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(He leaves her there alone for a few minutes. Just enough time to see to the fire. Then he is in bed, both arms around her, pulling her nearly atop him, and resting.)
An early night. A late morning, because the world is cold and quiet still, and while snow does not happen so far south, the feeling of it can take hold from time to time. The sense that there is a warm blanket muting the world.
He isn't up until ten in the morning. Alucard stirs only slightly, eyes going to the clock that rests on one of the nightstands that flank the bed. There's a soft sigh, then he looks to see if Sypha's awakened before him.]
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She's still half-dozing herself, or at least lounging around in bed, but she's managed to find herself a loose section of his hair and has been methodically working tiny braids into it while he slept, each a slightly different weave — some three strands, some four, this one a herringbone, that one a rope, and all left unfinished at the ends, at risk of unraveling with the slightest jostling.]
Good morning, sleepyhead.
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[Alucard's voice is thick and very much struggling to the concept of being awake. It takes a few moments for him to even register how they've shifted over the night (the patterns are very different from when Trevor is home).
His hair's heavier than normal. Strange.]
Comfy?
[Because he can feel fingers in his hair, and that means Sypha is at a truly weird angle or she's found a nice way to do this and lounge at the same time.]
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[She finishes off another braid, this one another herringbone, and lightly tosses it so that it falls across his face up near the bridge of his nose.]
It's funny. I do not remember falling asleep in bed, and yet here I am. Did you perhaps have something to do with that?
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I did. You were barely awake on the sofa, and there was no point in letting you rest there. Your back would be very unhappy now.
[He is much comfier now. Lounging is best done like this: too many pillows to support his head. Side lounge. One arm under all of the pillows, and his free hand creeping to Sypha's side.]
What is the last thing you remember?
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Let's see...I remember I was watching the fire, and thinking.
[That's a good start. She hums, as she continues to sift through her drowsy recollection of the previous night.]
You came in. I remember you seemed...so happy.
[Hmm. Her brow furrows, as she ponders a little more.]
...What is 'heartfire'?
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[Too many, clearly. Alucard can't believe he slept through that much hairbraiding. He's impressed in a way, Sypha's touches have become defter over time. That or he needed more sleep than he thought, which is possible.
He listens though. Is quiet and then....very blushed, for his definition of it.]
It's nothing.
[HE'S A LIAR.]
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[She finishes off her plait, then gives that a tug for good measure.]
...I wonder if I dreamed it, then. Heartfire...
[Denying it may prove even worse than admitting to it, because now she's going to SOLVE THIS MYSTERY.]
...Hearth fire? Hmm. It sounds like a spell, or —
[Wait a minute.]
What do you mean, it's nothing? Then you do know what it is!
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[The question is gentle, and if anything, Alucard's impressed. Sypha's fingers work fast, which he knows from other experiences anyway, but it's always worth marveling at talent, as well as enjoying it. There's a shift, a slight one, as Alucard gets comfortable.]
How big are the beads then? I can see people working at a small scale, but only just so.
[He'll have to undo the braids later. For now, they stay. Stay and watch Sypha solve a pointless mystery.]
I've no idea what you're talking about.
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[And she's clearly proud to have succeeded, even if god forbid he see himself in a mirror right now, with half his hair loose and the other half this braided monstrosity.
She raises a hand, though, making a circle with her thumb and forefinger about the size of a cherry or small grape.]
About this big. The carving is very delicate, and the material has to be lightweight so as not to weigh the hair down too much.
[...But.]
You realize I will sit on you and extract a confession, don't you?
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[Maybe he'll shower first this morning. And make up for getting rid of all the braids by asking Sypha to brush his hair.]
I see. And it's all done with delicate tools as well, I imagine, otherwise the material would break. I'm sure the practice is ancient and...
[On one hand: oh no, don't throw him into the briar patch. On the other: this is a pretty dumb thing to be getting into briar patches about in the first place. So confession it is, soft and embarrassed.]
There's precious little I dislike more than patronizing names for you both. But that is, I suppose, how I see you at times like last night. It simply is not something I voice.
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[For her. So that's what it was, then — her explanation, colored by his bashfulness, offered up in mitigation once she'd coaxed it out of him. A patronizing name, or so he calls it. A bit of affection, spoken, to go with the expression that she remembers him wearing while he looked at her.
Hearthfire. That's how he sees her, he says; that's the word that comes to mind when a moment passes between them like the one last night. As though she is the fire that warms his home, a light to make his shadows withdraw, burning red-orange in tandem with his own gold and moonlight white.
He always compares her to fire, doesn't he? And not just to flames in particular but to heat, to the sensation of being warm. Sometimes he teases her about it, with more unflattering nicknames than this one, but always he acknowledges her as the warm spot in the room, his foil when he himself is so often cold.
(It surprises her, a little, to consider that. In his worse moments, she sometimes perceives him as a deep well of sadness, withdrawn in a way that gives off a chill. It's never really occurred to her that he might harbor similar thoughts of her in return, perceiving her as the warmest place in a room, a burning flame that night moths couldn't help but be drawn to.)
His fire, but not just any fire. The one that burns in his hearth. The one that burns in his heart.
And he thinks such a thing is patronizing.]
Why don't you voice it?
[She's barely even noticed that her cheeks have flushed; now even her face is hot, further proving his point.]
Am I not always that to you?
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Your names are yours and yours alone. Why would I use something else that is not fully you?
[At the end of the day, he cares about them being them. They mean the world to Alucard, he's shown that in all ways great and small. But they are unto themselves, people in their own right, and that is something too much of the world around them seems keen to forget or ignore. (Pets. He hates it.)]
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...Yes. But for me, there is only one Alucard to call me such sweet things.
[And she really does shift now, nudging the blankets aside just enough that she's able to climb on top of him, forearms braced on either side of his head so that she can look down into his face. If her hair were long enough, it would make a curtain around the two of them; as it is, it's too short to do her that courtesy, but given the way she holds his gaze, in Sypha's mind there's nothing else in the rest of the world but the two of them right now, anyway.
(And Trevor, of course. Always Trevor. He's always there as a part of them, even when he's not there in reality.) ]
And Sypha is my name that everyone has the right to use and to call me. But only you have the right to call me that endearment.
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He likes doing that last thing whenever he can, after all.]
All the same.
[He sighs, but then Sypha's climbed atop him. He's still on his side, so he shifts to change that. Make it easier for her to look at his stupid, embarrassed face. It's about as red as his face can ever get, although maybe sillier for all of those tiny braids.]
You'd get sick of it if I used it constantly anyway.
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[She ducks down a little, stealing a kiss from the corner of his mouth, very lightly and very fleeting. What a pair they make, both red in the face for related yet differing reasons.]
But could you, just once? While I'm awake, so I can appreciate it.
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