#renward

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It was the 17th of August, and a torrid exhaustion hung over the asylum. It had been unusually hot the past several days, and humid; all the windows were open, but there was no breeze to move between them. Orderlies and nurses dabbed their necks with cool cloths in between their duties, and the patients acted out more frequently. One patient had to be treated for heat exhaustion. Seward felt the continued heat taking a toll on him, feeling himself growing more irritable and prone to mistakes with each sweltering day.

Evening was creeping nigh, and Seward was sitting at his desk, jacket discarded, collar loosened and sleeves rolled up to try to battle the oppressive warmth. Simmons knocked lightly on the door, and entered to tell him that Renfield had asked to see him. Seward nodded, rallied slightly by the thought of his mad friend lending something interesting to the day, and waved Simmons off, striding down the corridor by himself. 

He realized once he was nearly to Renfield's room that he was still half-undressed, his jacket left back at his room, but he didn't want to have to turn around. He tightened his tie and rolled down his sleeves, at least, flinching at the feeling of the sweat-dampened fabric against his forearms.

As usual, he knocked once and entered. He found Renfield sitting at the small table in the room facing the door, hands folded, back straight. The patient was affecting a look of extreme dignity in that moment, though the effect was of course spoiled by his pale blue asylum uniform, unbuttoned at the top. Seward's gaze lingered for a moment on the spangle of sweat against the man's neck, the way the evening light made a pool of shadow in the hollow of his throat. 

"Good evening, Dr. Seward," Renfield said solemnly.

Seward snapped his eyes upward, telling himself that he had not been staring. "Renfield," he returned, shutting the door behind him. "What can I do for you?"

Renfield didn't answer. He looked up at Seward with pale eyes, an expression that was difficult to decipher. Wistfulness? Regret? Condescension?

"I said," Seward repeated, with an irritable note in his voice this time, "what can I do for you?"

Renfield crossed his arms and leaned on them. His voice was dreamy. "I had thought to culminate my work in you, once."

Seward realized that he'd also forgotten his notebook; he felt naked without it. He tried to regain a professional air as he stepped toward the table. "What do you mean by 'culminate your work'?"

"My work of Life," Renfield said enigmatically. He had slumped all the way over his folded arms now, resting his chin on them and looking up at Seward as if caught in a reverie of nostalgia. "I had thought the zenith of my search for life would be devouring you."

This was certainly an interesting development. Seward raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying you intend to eat me, like one of your flies or spiders?"

"Of course not," Renfield said, lifting his head and looking deeply offended. "I am saying that I intended to eat you. But no more, no more." He shook his head, and glanced over his shoulder out the window before returning to look at Seward. Yes, wistful was perhaps the best way to describe his gaze.

Once again, Seward wished he had his notebook with him. "And what is the reason that you have changed your intentions?"

Renfield shook his head again, as if thinking of a tragedy that Seward knew nothing about. "We are out of time, out of time."

Seward debated between pursuing this new train of thought or doubling down on his earlier question. He at last chose the former. "Who are 'we?' There is all the time in the world."

Renfield grew still, his eyes focusing on Seward so pointedly that it was difficult not to squirm. Seward, refusing to be cowed, met his gaze, and didn't break it, even as Renfield slowly stood up, and stepped toward him.

Seward was suddenly aware of all his skin— the sweat-dampness of his body, the shift of his clothes against him, the sweaty smell overpowering his own cologne. Renfield, too, was damp with sweat— dark patches under his armpits, moisture along his temples— his body stirring the sweltering air as he stepped closer. His expression had shifted again, slightly: Seward tried to put a name on it, and only came up with hungry.

Renfield now stood directly in front of him, close enough they almost touched. Seward sometimes forgot how much taller his patient was, and he cleared his throat as he lifted his head so he could continue meeting Renfield's eyes, to show he was not intimidated by his mysteriousness.

Renfield did not move quickly; there would have been plenty of time to step back with a sharp word of reprimand. There would have been plenty of time to flinch away from the right hand raised to cup his face, the left hand slipped around the nape of his neck to caress him. There would have been plenty of time to avoid the tilted head and soft mouth, leaning down toward him as their eyes remained locked.

When Renfield spoke in a mournful tone, his lips brushed against Seward's own. "Oh Dr. Seward, I will not remember thee when I come into my kingdom."

Seward had a split second to try to decipher the Biblical allusion before Renfield kissed him.

He tasted and smelled like sweat, too. He didn't feel real. Nothing was real: not the light on the ceiling, not the warm lips working against his, not the silent press of their bodies. Not even his hands reaching out to grip Renfield's waist, to— to do what exactly? He didn't push him away. He heard a roaring in his ears, as he had heard once as a boy just before passing out. 

All at once, he felt cool air on his lips and across his head where Renfield's hands had touched him. Renfield was no longer holding and kissing him; he had moved away. Renfield wasn't looking at him at all, having turned to face the window. 

For what was probably a huge amount of time, Seward just stood there. Then he felt his own legs moving, taking him to the door. He felt his hand reaching out for the doorknob.

In a rush, he found himself back out in the corridor, blinking and gasping for air. He slumped back against the door, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to calm the sudden acceleration of his heart. He could still taste Renfield on his tongue.

With short, mechanical movements, he returned to his office. He briefly considered trying to make a recording of this event, but immediately dismissed the idea. Some things were best left unsaid. 

It didn't occur to him until hours later that Renfield had never answered a single question.