#nobleduty

absurd, the whole of it. a sycophantic, self—flagellating display.

it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. something disturbing crawling along his spine. he sits upon the desk and listens to the music filtering from beyond and peruses the book that he had chosen at random and listens ( always, always, fucking always you’ll never rest peacefully will you ) for the footsteps that hurry past, to and fro. fading. building. quiet. overly loud. many. singular. confident and then ——— pausing. halfway through a step. tension ripples through his body and his jaw / tenses.

orange. golden. colors, in his periphery, and he knows without raising his gaze and knows without looking at him and his lip almost curls. instead : his expression remains neutral and fixated on the page and its words and he turns one, well fitted formal wear heavy on his shoulders. across his chest.

silence is an option. it’s always an option.    ❝    ——— what?    ❞

     what a terrible beast ferdinand finds himself face to face with. sharpened teeth ( dipped in only the most potent of poisons ) gleam in the light of a most dangerous promise / eyes burn at the intentions behind those fancily draped words. the finest example of nobility ; an upraising to be proud of! a sentiment sylvain couldn’t bring himself to share, unfortunately.     maybe that’s why he regards the offered proposition like an animal stalking their prey ; calculated, manipulative. the moment ferdinand approached him was the moment he’d trapped himself. and so sylvain revels in the glee of the catch.

     ❛  just one?  ❜ and escape is blocked by the snare that was an arm around the shoulder / his fangs are dangerously close now. ❛  no need to be so modest around me, ferdinand. feel free to take as many as you’d like.  ❜ distance between them shrinks as dares to give a taste / a tease. lips brush against the very corner of his mouth ; sweetened toxins on his tongue. ❛  but know that whatever you end up taking, i’ll claim double the amount.  ❜      a horrible smile is the last thing seen before mouth parts and teeth sink / encouraged by greed and hunger.

“   ——   von aegir. yes. yes, even though the blood will never be cleansed from my hands, i’ve been told. repeatedly. that perhaps seeing their commander taking care of himself would…boost morale. that, perhaps the luxuries that i thought i could not allow myself  —  it does not harm anyone. i did not think it mattered, and yet… “  dimitri’s tone is a little strained, a little forced, sounding absolutely exhausted. and the opposite stands in front of him. ferdinand is absolutely glowing, bright and makes no hesitation to approach. in fact, the bravery behind his approach is something to be applauded, along with the curve of a grin that touches ferdinand’s lips. dimitri’s gloves creaks softly, as his hand tenses, but finds himself meeting ferdinand’s gaze. his gaze isn’t distant, no longer looking at something over anyone’s shoulders; no longer looking like a cornered animal.

it’s a long moment of silence, of dimitri staring, arms crossing over his chest. trying to look somewhat intimidating, and he should reprimand him for speaking to him in such a manner. and yet. yet.  dimitri laughs, then  —  loud and full, shoulders trembling with it. it’s bright and weird in his mouth  —  he cannot remember the last time he had anything to laugh about, but he doesn’t try to stop it. 

“    your form is sloppy,  your guard is pathetic,  and you hold your weapon as if you’re afraid it will bite you.    ”    alucard criticized harshly,  golden eyes watching his student with sharp golden eyes.    “    tell me,  von aegir,  did your teachers give you lot any proper instruction before now,  or were you all simply allowed to play about and call it training ?    ”    he sighed like the most put - upon man in the world and clicked his tongue,  stepping forward and using his sheathed longsword to gently correct the young noble.    

“    keep your feet hips distance apart,  lower your center of gravity and bend your knees,  like this.  now try again and do make an effort this time.    ”

          “you seemed pretty interested in the white heron cup, last i heard. so, i’m curious –– is it about the traditional forms of dance, or is music just that close to your heart?” he supposes the truth could be both, so claude gives a thoughtful tip of his head that leaves room for a third option. 

ferdinand knocks on the door post, ginger tresses falling across his shoulders. ‘felix. it is late, and you are tired, though i know you likely will not admit it. if you will not go to bed, would you take a break and have a cup of tea with me, please?’ (2/2 :>)

how easy is it to lose track of time?

a trick question ———— and patently not.

time slips / fluid and an escape artist to the last and so very impossible and implausible to hold onto / inasmuch as he enjoys having the pretense of control to bolster him wholly and utterly therein lies the problem of it being A FUCKING PRETENSE and little more ———— a man well controlled and a warrior well regimented : splitting at the seams. with no one to bear witness but the shimmer of sunlight over the ocean ————

what? no. start again.

above the moon is poised to crack. full and whole and glowing, high in the sky and awaiting to die again and again and / again. the stars glitter alongside it, watching and silent and perishing, too. ( he hides from the moon. ) and as above : so below / which is to say that the moon is fit to bursting and the moon is him and HOW SO VERY ARROGANT TO LIKEN THE FRAGILITY OF MORTALITY TO THE SKIES ABOVE but then, he’s hardly one to care any one way or another, is he?

steel sings as it cuts through the air / and enemies crumble but these enemies make no sound but the clattering of wood and the crash as it hits the ground and his mind is silent. his mind is raucous. his mind is clamoring and all too still and when there is a knock and when that voice reaches him his hand tightens around the hilt of his sword / compulsive. reflexive.

there are an infinite amount of things he could say. i’m not tired rests on his tongue, a blatant lie ( one that they’re both aware of and he’s never been in the habit of lying, has he? ) that burns. it burns. the lie or the exhaustion? go away is much like stop bothering me is useless and pointless and fruitless and will achieve nothing / less than nothing / nothing at all / not in the least. i can’t think i can’t stop thinking i can’t ————

well. that’s too honest, isn’t it?

❝ i will take a break when i wish to, ❞ which is to say when he’s weary and worn and his mind is finally, finally, blissfully silent. truly silent. not full of white noise and screams and ———— a quieting silence. a breathing silence.

the statement is nuanced and barbed and carries with it the idea that he may never stop will never stop can never stop and inasmuch as he knows he cannot fight and fight and fight eternally he must. he has to. there’s nothing else and nowhere else and ————

( how fragmented and how disjointed and how almost sad and how pervasive the mind becomes and the rot becomes and the disintegration of bones and how strange it is : that he’s found him here. or perhaps the strangeness comes from that it’s him, of all people. )

somehow he has a feeling that ferdinand senses his double entendre. senses and furthermore knows and looks at him with raised brows and et cetera. waiting. waiting.

this is a reflection of the self so what does it mean when this place holds nothing? emptiness stretches all around him and he’s pacing in circles within the confines of his own ind and THERE IS FERDINAND : watching and waiting and expecting without expectation? perhaps. perhaps. perhaps. isn’t is always so? isn’t it always thus? he’s an infuriating man ———— something about the way which he carries himself and conducts himself and so on and so forth for all of fucking eternity, it seems / something that sets felix’s teeth on edge a great deal of the time and yet ————

is it that this circuitous route grows tiresome? is it that the moon is fit to crack and shatter above them, hidden from sight for now but its aches are his aches, awaiting its final moments all over again? is it that he’s tired to the very marrow of his bones and the body yearns to rest in spite of the mind’s protestations otherwise? is it that he knows, instinctive and damning, that sleep will not come tonight? is it all of these? is it none of these?

❝ ———— but i need to retrieve my archery set and move to the training yard, ❞ an excuse? perhaps. almost certainly. but his shoulder screams and there is an exhaustion about him and something not repulsive about having a single cup of tea with ferdinand ———— impressive, in and of itself.

and so he brushes past him : not bothering to wait nor stop nor hem nor haw. expectant and imperious and bones / creaking.

❝ one cup. ❞