the rest is silence

He turns toward you, clearing his throat.

"In what capacity exactly?"

You let out a huff, pinching your cigarette between a kerchief, the dull ember fading out.

"Your notes here, in regards to weight distribution of the human body—there is no accountability for the weight of the soul."

He leans forward, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. He's intent on listening, even intrigued perhaps, but the way his lips twitch, you can tell he wants to laugh at your inquiry.

You've conversed about the morality of creating life where it ceases to exist, debated on whether or not the ability was divinely placed within our hands, discussions on where the soul might be stored, but this—this is a new topic for you both.

"Are you going to answer me, doctor? Or just attempt to bully your way through this one?"

Your voice is pert, causing a smile to tug at at his lips. He welcomes the challenge, and he says your name, scoffing as he does so.

"I would venture to say no, as there is no weight in the intangible. Even if the soul exists, it still has no physical weight. Some might argue it's weightless."

"But even atoms have weight, doctor."

"Please, call me Victor."

Your voice hums in your throat, a smile creeping across your lips.

"Victor," you test the word, "if there is no soul, that means we are not unlike the machines in that factory," you motion toward the textile factory beyond the window, "or a battery," you pick up one of the galvanized batteries strewn on the desk.

You observe him. His expression is pointed, dim light casting shadows against his cheekbones, ink-stained curls a tousled mess from running his hands through them for the hundredth time.

"I'm intrigued with where you're going with this," he muses. "Please, continue."

The chair screeches across the floorboards as you stand. You begin pacing, heeled boots clicking against wood, each step a thought you try to pin down.

"Well, if I am to believe we are not unlike machines, this would mean we are void of—or perhaps can separate—external stimuli from internal stimuli. For instance, if I touch you here," you extend a hand to his shoulder, "you feel that, correct?"

"Yes," he nods, "but the internal stimuli you speak of—do you mean simple nerve impulses, or are you speaking of the abstract, as in an emotional response?"

You mull over his words while running a finger along the collar of his shirt.

"Abstract—so you believe we have the ability to separate the two? An abstract, emotional response from a given external component?"

"I would say so, yes." His expression is unwavering, perhaps even more convinced of his own genius.

This, you can't help but scoff at. You straighten your posture and tilt your head slightly.

"Really?"

"Yes, I believe that I could separate the two."

"Alright, so if I touch you—here?" You place a hand on his cheek, cradling it.

"Again, I can feel flesh on flesh, but I don't feel anything. Emotionally, I mean.

"Victor, if this is your argument—given our history—I'm afraid it is paper-thin."

"Alright," he scoffs. "Prove me wrong then. You have the floor." He motions to the space between you both before crossing his arms indignantly.

It was difficult to tell when he was toying with you, as he seems to like these little games of wits.

A sly smirk dips across your lips. You lean forward, inches from his face. You can visibly see him swallow hard, the breath hitching in his throat.

Gaze unwavering, you slowly extend a hand down to his thigh, almost begging the question without uttering a word.

Victor's sternness drops instantly, eyes wide, making him appear younger, innocent even. He knows what you are doing, and he feels a coil tighten within his abdomen at the thought. He always revels in the thrill of your lips around him, palm gripping him firmly, squeezing ever so slightly.

You move your hand to graze him through his trousers, feather-light, yet you still feel him twitch beneath your touch.

A hum escapes you as you kneel before him, and he instinctively lowers the straps to his suspenders. His lips part as he grows increasingly more enlivened with anticipation.

"So, Victor," you begin, touching him a bit more firmly, "if I touch you here, you feel it, yes?"

"Very much so," he sighs. "But I'm still intrigued by your experiment. Please, continue."

You chuckle, feeling his anticipation, both in his voice and in your hand.

You undo his trousers and drawers, helping him shimmy them down past his knees. In the dim light of the apartment, he looks feral—raven black curls wild and unkempt, eyes wide and lips parted, an expression filled with expectations dripping across his face.

You grip him again and begin slowly running your hand along his length. His breath hitches, eyes fluttering shut.

"Hm," you muse, looking him over.

He can feel your breath dancing across his skin, and he bites his lip.

"Just a series of nerve impulses, hm?"

His eyes snap open as you descend on him. He looks down at you, nearly losing himself at the sight, and runs a gloved hand across his face in an attempt to regain his composure.

As some would say, Victor's passion bubbles over into other parts of his life. Often times when he faces an intellectual challenge. Or times when he develops a personal relationship with his assistant, swearing to himself he won't become attached or infatuated with her, regardless of how bewitching she is.

Or times like these—when he has you on your knees, red gloves gripping fistfuls of your hair as he, the distinguished surgeon, the heir to the Frankenstein estate, the Baron, comes completely undone.

Times like these—when he becomes putty in your hands. Hands that grip him and claw at his thighs. He likes it when you leave marks, little reminders.

His breath hitches each time you hold tighter; he looks down at your lovely face again and bites his lip, his last shred of control slipping through his fingers.

He chokes on your name, one hand reaching out to grip the mahogany armrest. His head tilts back, eyes shut, a moan escaping him as he unravels and shudders beneath your touch.

His eyes open, meeting yours. He's breathy, spent, and you—kneeling there with a look of satisfaction—eyes sparkling, a coy smile on your lips.

"Well, have I proven my point?" You ask and the question almost makes him choke.

A breathy laugh escapes him as he leans forward to grasp your chin, wiping your lip with a gloved thumb. "I think you may have."

Your smile widens as you exhale through your nose, pulling yourself to your feet. "Tell me, what do you feel?"

You watch as he tucks himself back into his drawers and readjusts his trousers in place, raven black curls falling over his eyes.

He looks at you, flipping the hair away from his face. His chin high, brow creased, lips forming into that sassy pout only be can pull off.

You hold his gaze, brow raised as you think out loud for him—"Thrill? Wonder? Affection…?"

The word pulsates in the air between you, Victor's expression softening once more.

Since having met you, he's begun to focus more on life than death. His mind often wanders to you more than he'd admit. The way you make him feel, not just in these intimate moments, but in the small space of the apartment laboratory, working at arms length in silence.

In an odd way it was fitting of him to find love—was that the word?—among the scientific remains of a charnel house.

Uncertainty aside, your theory has him feeling it may be time to stop denying himself, denying what his heart wants.

He stands quickly, his steps deliberate as they come toward you. You had since moved to look out the window, silently observing the city below. He touches your arm and you turn toward him. In the span of a beat, he cups your face with now ungloved hands, cradling you, and brushes his lips across yours. One born not of flippancy or lust, but for the first time in his life perhaps, of reverence and true affection.