There's a fever in my [heart] . . .

arthur doesn’t share the same ideals or history as any of the slaves in covaire. this is made more evident in every spare word given. especially in this idiot of a pup. he speaks with weird words and strange terms he’s never heard of before. he carries himself with an arrogance befitting a true slave of the wildes and arthur’s expression hardens further.

how could someone be so disgusting?

it was truly a pointless talent being skilled in something so impractical as bedding someone. yet covaire was an impractical city with impractical rules so the man before him fit in perfectly. either way, arthur can admire what’s before him and appreciate the raw physicality that exuded from the toned muscles down to the almost arrogant smile upon the other man’s lips.

at the bracelet and tag being shown he offers a grimace of a smile and lifts his hand to show the ring at his hand. it was an odd feeling (he did not belong to charles persay but he was not anyone else’s belonging).

“No—”

the words catch. he is surprised by her, and isn’t certain whether to tell truth or weave a lie. she is in his way, but arthur hasn’t the will to scold her on her behavior.

a tight-lipped smile is offered.

I know I can’t stop you from complaining, but tuning it down a few notches would be lovely, thanks.

“And if it were your nature I was commenting upon—?”

it’s recent, the cold calculating manner with which he regards the others within the city. they failed the doctor. all of them. they were the reason the house was void of songbird laughter. perhaps he is cruel to them, all of them, to make amends with the grief in his heart.

this boy was not sheltered from his displeasure.

It had.

Finding her not in her bed, no note, nothing to show her whereabouts, the doctor was furious, terrified, all emotions he hardly indulged in, but ones he could not help now. His basement was still in a state of decimation after he had unleashed the tornado of emotions upon his corpses, his specimens. None of that mattered now.

Skin tingles as he jumps at the warmth, so lost in the emptiness of the window scene he had not even heard the wolf approach. His sigh carries physical weight, he straightens as he exhales, sags when he takes a breath to speak.

“I need my daughter.”

He can cling to nothing concrete of Amelia’s, any touch, any interaction lessens the reality. The scents will dissipate, the clothes wear, so he clings to the only constant, the only real thing right now.  Fingers curl around fingers, and he feels the ring pressed against his hand, “I shall sleep when I can no longer stand to be awake.” Whenever that was, it was not now. Now, he stared at the front gate, hoping for a cascade of red hair to come flowing down the walkway. He does not acknowledge the tracks of tears dried on his cheeks. If he does not, perhaps they were only a bittersweet, salty memory etched onto his face.

A single tear slips free, one he had not realized he was holding back, as he gripped Arthur’s hand tighter still.

Amelia.

It cuts the wound anew and at first there is uncertainty in how to respond earnestly. A part, the small selfish bitter part is grateful. Now there is no need to share, no need for the doctor to ply his affections elsewhere. The thought curdles his stomach and his gaze drops to watch the human, his human.

Fingers brush away tears without a second thought.

He won’t dare to ask Charles to forget about her, not when the wound is fresh. Not when it is a pain they echo in the silent glances cast to the closed door. Not when there is no longer music wafting through the house from the study where the grand piano lay untouched by either of their hand. Yet the wolf understands many things, far many more than Charles, far many more than he dare speak. So he settles, curled about the warmth of thighs, forcing those eyes from the horizon and back towards him (away from ghosts and idle hope barbed in each twist of fiery red hair).

“So do it for her.”

How simple a phrase. For her. For Amelia. Be strong. Be at your peak. Mourn only when the reality set in and not a moment sooner. That was the North in him, steady even in the wake of grief. Arthur meets those eyes in the darkness, fingers twined close while his free hand sets to wipe the evidence of sorrow away. Never does he pull away, no, he merely finds a way to be near, to touch and hold from where he coils about the doctor prepared to devour his fears alive.

“She isn’t dead and neither are you.”

Fingertips adore the curve of the human’s jaw, the wolf’s gaze softening as he leaned close. Forehead to forehead there is the slightest nudge, the slightest brush of noses.

“When she’s home, set me loose upon them and I’ll bring you the hearts of those that have caused you pain,” it’s a soft promise between them. “But don’t waste away with grief of the impossible.” A pause, careful, gentle. Brows draw together and he watches the doctor’s face, keeps an eye upon his expression. Fingers damp with tears rest instead upon his chest.

A scent lingers in the dark over that of bile, of shit, of death.

Familiarity brings contempt and the Wolf is smiling as it regards it’s fresh prey. This one is weak, twisted up with human notions of right and wrong. Left to rot in a cage with the rest of the dead and dying meat. How it smiles, callous and full of disregard for the question posed. Yes? What did it want? What did it desire?

Blood.

The sticky sweetness of marrow licked clean.

The satisfaction of screams.

Listening to it’s prey drown in agony before the end.

Oh how the Wolf smiles as it comes to a halt and performs a grand feat to Arthur’s horror; the monster speaks, words dripping saccharine and dark. With a smile it addresses the meat behind the bars, eyes gone dark and crinkled with false mirth.

As the other wolf approaches, he takes a step back. Cautious not for his sake, but that of the other man. A shallow breath slips free and he shakes his head briefly. It would be easy to kill him, the Wolf contemplates with malicious smile at the back of his mind. Just a quick snap of bones.

Arthur swallows thickly and manages a smile.

He watches as Arthur’s own smile fades, concern etching into his features, “what’s wrong?”

“An assortment,” he echoes with a hint of a laugh. Ezra has been absent from the house, from having conversations with the doctor and in turn with him. Though he’s been absent of late as well. Something he dares not broach with the other man, his brows knit together and his gaze lingering upon the countless sheets of paper.

Ezra scent is distant in the lounge.

Arthur is somewhat distressed at that knowledge.

Thoughts jar violently as words bring him to the fore. Blinking, he gives a brief shake of his head, tries to laugh (and fails), and turns to face Ezra once more. Now his voice is caught, thick with the memory of bones snapping, the imagined heat of blood—

“I—“

There’s a tremor to his hand. He grimaces and glances away.

The apology only makes Sebastien’s head canter to one side, waiting for more as the slaves eyes remain on him and his violin, and he gives a scoff and a shake at the way he excuses himself. -”No need to run away. But an introduction might be nice. You have manners, don’t you boy?” Sebastien pushes himself up and walks to the slave, the violin in his hand -“Like to try?”

Manners. Normally he’d have taken time to do precisely that. To smile, to approach with caution. Where was his mind? Lately he seemed elsewhere. The wolf shrinks in upon himself as the vampire approaches and lets a shallow breath hiss free.

“Arthur, my name is Arthur, sir.”

Though he is seduced by the instrument, drawn in by it and feels an itch in his fingertips. To touch. To feel the smooth gloss. To remember the warmth of burnished wood. Swallowing thickly he utters a brief laugh before meeting the other man’s gaze.

Idly he toys with the ring at his hand.

“I don’t…I’ve never played,” the wolf begins, gaze lingering upon those long elegant fingers cradling the instrument. Something in his stomach lurches hotly at the sight. “It’s beautiful though, I’d be afraid of breaking it.” Dark eyes flit back to the vampire’s face and there’s a hint of a smile.

“— - And I ache to feel your lips as keenly as the summer’s warmth.” Laughter catches in his breath before he neatly folds the letter up to stack it with the rest. Meeting Ezra’s gaze there’s a certain warmth afforded the other slave. Lips curl and eyes crinkle with it. “These all are from one person? Or have you been causing more trouble?”

He thinks of his own absence.

Of the taste of blood heavy on his breath.

The smile falters.

Arthur’s gaze is fixed upon the instrument, upon the gentle curve of wood and the way it seems to fit with a certain beauty in the hands cradling it. Music was elusive. It was rare. Of course there were memories of strange instruments, of a life so distant almost forgotten amidst hills of ice and violence.

He remembers creating music from screams.

His features waver then, brows drawing together as his gaze snaps away, startled by his own mind. Swallowing thickly he takes a cautious step back and looks down, away from the violin and the man playing it.

“I— I’m sorry if I’ve intruded.”

Hushed words, rushed, edged with an air of practice. Arthur apologizes often (too much) for finding himself wandering. For losing track of his mind and idle fancies.

He thinks those hands look beautiful.