[ Some mornings, when he wakes up, he's in a thousand different places.
He's in a small room in Romania at the Transleithenian border, on a mattress that belonged to a lot of people before it was his, with a duty that belonged to a lot of people before it was his, and everything smells of leather polish and annointing oil and every door has a posy of liverleaf hung from the frame. He's in a boarding house in Bucharest, and he doesn't remember the last time he was sober and he has a bottle of- shit, he's forgotten what it is, but it's good for making sure that things stay that way. He's under the fucking earth, in a grave he dug himself, and if he pulls the taller, bonier man in his arms closer than maybe he'll escape frostbite for another night. He's at a worker's hostel in New Orleans with a broken wrist and no good reason to wake. He's chained to a wall and there's a stabbing pain in the side of his neck and he doesn't care.
It's harder to figure out which of those places is real when he can't look around.
The thing under his head is- something living. Ill, maybe, being so cold. (Arn? Is he going to be ill again? He's not sure he can manage another bout of sickness.) There's a weight to one side, something pulling down the mattress. (Not Arn, then. He took pride in never having slept anywhere but the earth beneath them.) It smells like the hold, almost, but he would never be lying with someone there. Even he isn't shitty enough to-
It's that self deprecation that brings him back to reality. Because of course it is. This is Alucard. Definitely Alucard, Sypha isn't so bony and certainly isn't so cool to the touch. And he's reading, by the sound of pages turning and the smell of old paper. Reading a fuck of a lot, if the weight on the mattress is anything to go by (It's not Sypha, that weight. Her weight moves with her breath). ]
...still hurts like fuck. [ He says eventually, unsteadily reaching out hands to figure out which part of the boyfriend he's lying on. Chest, apparently. How the tables have turned. ] In case you wanted an update.
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He's in a small room in Romania at the Transleithenian border, on a mattress that belonged to a lot of people before it was his, with a duty that belonged to a lot of people before it was his, and everything smells of leather polish and annointing oil and every door has a posy of liverleaf hung from the frame. He's in a boarding house in Bucharest, and he doesn't remember the last time he was sober and he has a bottle of- shit, he's forgotten what it is, but it's good for making sure that things stay that way. He's under the fucking earth, in a grave he dug himself, and if he pulls the taller, bonier man in his arms closer than maybe he'll escape frostbite for another night. He's at a worker's hostel in New Orleans with a broken wrist and no good reason to wake. He's chained to a wall and there's a stabbing pain in the side of his neck and he doesn't care.
It's harder to figure out which of those places is real when he can't look around.
The thing under his head is- something living. Ill, maybe, being so cold. (Arn? Is he going to be ill again? He's not sure he can manage another bout of sickness.) There's a weight to one side, something pulling down the mattress. (Not Arn, then. He took pride in never having slept anywhere but the earth beneath them.) It smells like the hold, almost, but he would never be lying with someone there. Even he isn't shitty enough to-
It's that self deprecation that brings him back to reality. Because of course it is. This is Alucard. Definitely Alucard, Sypha isn't so bony and certainly isn't so cool to the touch. And he's reading, by the sound of pages turning and the smell of old paper. Reading a fuck of a lot, if the weight on the mattress is anything to go by (It's not Sypha, that weight. Her weight moves with her breath). ]
...still hurts like fuck. [ He says eventually, unsteadily reaching out hands to figure out which part of the boyfriend he's lying on. Chest, apparently. How the tables have turned. ] In case you wanted an update.