Guad nåhd.

@guadnahd​  // Allen said:  “ it’s different for you and me. you study, you become enlightened; i study, i become confused  ” ( meme, not accepting ) 

Allen’s unexpected words yank an inelegant snort out of him, which morphs into a confused sort of laughter. study is not an activity many have accused him of ( for good reason ), and he cannot phantom what gave such an impression now.

for as certain as it is that Gellert can lose himself in a book until he absorbs it into himself, until each word is committed to his memory as if tattooed there ––––– it is just as certain that it is never a book he was assigned. he chooses for himself. it is a great fault of his, one that his more open-minded professors were quick to notice: to be able to absorb all material like a sponge, yet be so discriminate in his choices of study. 

( well if something or someone does not interest him, why waste his life on them? ––––– this misunderstanding of his character has often lead to undesirable consequences. did he care? not really. because he did it over and over again, chasing personal gratification rather than rewards he could thrust on a school shelf to collect dust.  )

he never cared about others’ opinions of him, anyway. 

         “ I ‘study’ enough not to have my fingers turned to bruises again. though I don’t see what is so confusing about it – it’s just so… boring, wouldn’t you agree? ”

Whatever the truth is, it remains that Gellert at least gives the impression of being studious. It’s enviable, even if it is - in part - a well-crafted facade. Allen himself isn’t a terrible student, but he finds himself stumbling where his comrade makes seemingly effortless strides. But maybe his perception is off. Maybe Gellert isn’t any better off than him.

Or maybe Gellert is just better at selecting his study materials. For a moment, Allen considers the possibility of borrowing his notes. Would that be impolite? He isn’t quite sure. He ruminates on this for just a moment, enjoying the sound of his classmate’s voice. Enjoying his laughter, the words that pour out of him.

“I wish I knew how to explain what is so... confusing about it,” Allen sighs. Truly, he is at a loss. “I understand the theory in... theory, but putting it to practice...”

A pause. He finally smiles. Finally laughs, though tentative.

“Oh, Irene, I...”

Couldn’t, he wants to say. Couldn’t burden her, couldn’t be a bother, couldn’t take up space any more than he already has. But the words catch in his throat, stuck fast as though some invisible force is hellbent on making him be polite. Be empathetic. Consider her feelings.

In a way, his lack of a presence in her life was more of a burden than any overnight stay at her home could ever be. He knows this, doesn’t need the voice in the back of his head to remind him of his past transgressions. He smiles, his tired eyes crinkling at the edges.

“Did you just come out of the closet?” He grins, entirely too pleased with his little joke. It hadn’t not been that long yet since jokes likes these were accepted and Marcus reveled in the opportunity to make them.

He didn’t move from where he was leaning against the railing. It wasn’t difficult to see that Allen was frightened and Marcus didn’t want to scare him away. “How are you tonight?” Manners were still important even if one of them was dead and the other witnessed a murder ( committed by the dead man, in fact ). 

“Can I come in? Or are you going to leave me out here in the cold?”

The only thing worse than being stalked by a murderer is being stalked by a murderer who made corny jokes. Allen groans audibly. Though it is hard to keep a neutral expression, he isn’t keen on the idea of giving Marcus the satisfaction of a smile. Not so easily, anyway.

He frowns at the question, practically ignores it with a cold stare. His frown only deepens when Marcus has the gall to make a request. Despite it being rather nice inside, he begins to shiver. His mind is blank.

His head cocked to the side at the request, but Marcus didn’t see a reason as to why he should keep Allen here any longer. Their connection was strong and he knew the young man’s name; that’s all he needed to find him again. Tomorrow, or maybe the day after, Marcus would visit him to ask all of the questions that were already brewing at the back of his mind. “Sure. But, Allen, you can’t tell anyone what happened here tonight. All of this stays between the two of us.”

With that he turned his back on the human and made his way back to his first victim of the night. The most dangerous means of exposure had been dealt with, but that didn’t mean he could just leave a body lying around. The last few hours of the night Marcus made sure that the corpse wouldn’t be found anywhere near this alley and when they did find him, it’d look like a mugging gone wrong, nothing more to it. It helped that the man was clearly homeless, the police never looked deeply into those cases. Once that was finished he returned to his haven to spend the day safely asleep.

No one. Not a soul, Allen thought; couldn’t quite say it aloud, but he thought it so intensely that it threatened to become gospel to him. A silent prayer. An inexplicable compulsion to stay on the straight and narrow path Marcus had just forged for him. He nodded. Marcus turned his back. Allen turned his, then began to walk away.

While Marcus disposed of the body, Allen wandered home - dazed, unsure, not quite all there. It was a dream. It had to have been a dream. He’d had vivid nightmares before. Visions so real that he awoke with scratches and bite marks that he swore weren’t self-inflicted. This could have been another one of those.

“It’d be a bit macabre to say that it’s a pleasure right now, yes?” Camilla quips, something like a smile appearing on her face. She feels far too calm for what’s happening right now. As the blood drips onto the floor, she is careful to not step in it. The last thing either of them need is bloody footprints, too. The scene here is all too familiar, vague images flashing in her mind. 

Funny, she thought that she had blocked all of Charles’ murder from her mind.

Letting out a breath, Camilla rolls her shoulders, the weight of the body heavier than she initially thought. At least someone is here to help her, right? She isn’t sure that she should’ve disposed of a fully intact body on her own. After all, Camilla is an academic, not an athlete. 

“I think we’re almost outside…then we can…do whatever. Bury it, perhaps? I’m not sure of what else there is to do…”

A bit macabre. As though he isn’t carefully maneuvering his way out of a party with a fresh corpse in tow, he smiles. “Yes, only just.”

Without Camilla’s delightful company, Allen might have found himself dry heaving and sobbing over the consequences of his ill-conceived conflict resolution strategy. Instead, with her there to help move things along, he feels sufficiently detached. At ease, even. Almost... giddy.

He allows himself time to revel in this feeling of schoolboyish mischief. He kicks the door open behind him, and - after peeking out just to be sure - awkwardly leads his companions out into the dark.

The scent of petrichor makes Allen’s nostrils flare. Steam rises off of the asphalt, still wet from recent but long-gone rain. Crickets chirp intermittently outside, accompanied by an occasional warm, gentle breeze. It’s a beautiful night to bury a body.

“Camilla, I want to be forthright with you — I’ve no idea what to do now,” Allen laughs softly, maybe a little unconvincingly. As they move the body across the parking lot, a peal of laughter resonates from nearby. Not too close, but not nearly far enough for his comfort.

Hannibal allowed Allen to pull away from him, taking his hand from his shoulder. He turned slightly to observe him. His expression was muted, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

“Not at all. I would be happy to play with you again, and perhaps teach you some of the finer differences between the piano and her predecessor,” he said evenly. He turned himself somewhat more, sitting astride the bench. 

“This may be a breach of our professional relationship but – I can think of no one more suitable. I am planning a dinner party and am in need of the entertainment. I have hired a quartet in the past, but a pianist would be a nice change. Would you be interested?”

Breach or not, the proposition was enticing. Enticing enough that he was willing to forego the ethical implications of this invitation for the sake of something to do. He enjoyed teaching. Truly, he did. However, lack of work outside of lessons left him feeling a little... claustrophobic. Confined. His eyes, though heavy with fatigue, lit up at the suggestion.

Camilla huffs out a breath as she lifts the corpse by its legs, grimacing a little. The last time she had done this, well, at least he had been in pieces to make things more manageable. The man helping her, well, at least he seems level-headed, and she certainly hopes that this will stay between them, but…

“What’s your name?” It feels only proper to ask, considering the circumstances. Nothing really feels real at the moment. The least she can do is try to bring a small amount of normalcy to an otherwise awful situation. “I’m Camilla.” And a smile, even with a body between them. “Should I thank you for helping me?”

The stiff isn’t particularly heavy insofar as the average weight of a human being goes. However, it is heaps more difficult to move a person who has no control over their muscles. Even someone being held against their will would be able to tense, flex and pull to keep themselves from sinking to the ground. The victim, unfortunately, is every bit as unhelpful and uncooperative as a corpse can be.

It’s a struggle to appear competent, but Allen’s pride outweighs the ache that settles into his shoulders as he fights to force the corpse to bend to his will. Its blood dribbles onto the plush carpet below, over the tops of his freshly polished dress shoes. He barely notices, nor does he seem to care. Though blood spatter is damning evidence in its own right, the body takes obvious precedent. And above that, his priority is the young and still living woman he’s assisting.

“Oh, don’t thank me yet. It’s bad luck to congratulate yourself before the job is done,” Allen smiles at her as they round a corner.

@guadnahd​ , A. S. said:  ❝ I hate him more than all the others. ❞

the cold slices him to the bone, then drills into his marrow. it’s only flesh screaming out, it’s expected biology, he tells himself, and it does nothing to soothe the ice that slowly settles into him. ( wool is an excellent insulator, and it is breathable, but for all its virtues it isn’t windproof. ) knowing reasons and facts does not erase the reality of the situation, or melts down winter into spring.

( if it were merely a matter of strength of will, then it could. but reality does not bend over backwards for him. not this reality, the reality of harsh nature and not of the human intellect. in the end, we are all but pieces of paper blowing in the wind. it’s a grave error for man to believe himself above the very thing that shaped him. )

he scoots closer to the fire. its dancing is hypnotic. warm. safe.

         “ tell me about him, ” he breathes without looking up ( and his breath dances before him before it, too, freezes ;  a grim premonition, if one believed in such things ), and although Mycroft’s voice is quiet, it still rings in the silence around them.

Allen used to measure luck in little frivolities: a missed note unnoticed during an audition, a bump in his semester average due to a clerical error, an excuse to cancel unwanted plans at the last moment. How he longs for those days, now. Days of pettiness, of normalcy. Food from a microwave, rest in a warm bed, a shower whenever the need arises. Perfectly mundane from sunrise to sunset.

Luck, as of late, is measured in the two cleaned and sectioned rabbits roasting in front of the fire. It’s measured in melted snow that miraculously didn’t make him sick for days after drinking it; in warm clothes he was able to wrestle from a frozen corpse; in the days he’s managed to survive since his stranding.

The cold is enough to cause Allen to forego all preconceptions of boundaries and proper behavior. The wind chill doesn’t bother him so much; he was prepared for a long trek through the barrens, as any capable outdoorsman would be. Still, insulated clothing only goes so far. Eventually, cold seeps in. A shiver sets into every muscle in his body, every heartbeat sharp and every breath harsh with frost. He doesn’t know his companion very well, but he knows their situation is dire enough that neither of them can discount the need for close proximity. He scoots in close, his split-second glance mildly apologetic. Desperate.

“If you’d like,” Allen responds, his gentle voice amplified by the deafening nothingness that blankets their surroundings. He isn’t quite sure how they got on the subject to begin with. Boredom, idle conversation, low spirits... anything and everything might have led them to this point in conversation. Its unpleasantness makes Allen grit his teeth underneath his scarf.

But... if they’re to die, he would rather his companion know him in his entirety. He sighs, a damp fog filtering through his face cover.

“He was my neighbor. He taught me piano without expectation of monetary compensation, which... well, it’s an enticing opportunity for an orphan in the foster care system. I... hadn’t realized that he expected compensation in some form, though.”

Allen is careful as he speaks. Guarded, if only to shield his friend from unpleasantness. If only to shield himself from being too open. He prods at the roasting rabbits with a stick, lifting them just enough to see if the undersides have seared.

“I thought he was attractive. Curly black hair, beautiful blue eyes, a square jaw... nine years my senior, so I never held out hope for a chance in Hell, you know? Ha.”

Allen laughs in a way that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s quiet, a little forced. He tends to the sparse meal cooking by the fire, deftly flipping the meat onto its uncooked side.

“I was... thirteen, and I didn’t know any better. I knew something... bad had happened to me, but I don’t think I understood exactly how it was bad. I’m Catholic. I thought it was... guilt. That I felt badly because I had committed a sin. I bore that guilt like it belonged to me, and I continued my piano lessons. I confessed, said my Ave Maria and moved on.”

He’s recalled this story so many times, it doesn’t quite sting the way it ought to anymore. The brittle cold that turns his blood to slush feels a thousand times worse to him, somehow.