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[stabilimentum]

[A smooth, sedulous voice answers:]

You have reached Claude Faustus, butler to the Earl Alois Trancy. How may I be of service?

Comments

hell yes i'm crying forever.

[faking]

[The light-show of his own passion makes Alois' heart beat a little less oddly, but the oft-scorned and ever-wanted phrase gets it started all over again. As you wish, Claude says.

You say to God, ‘My beliefs are flawless
and I am pure in Your sight.’

Alois breathes.

Oh, how I wish that God would speak,
that He would open His lips against you

His forehead touches just above Claude's clavicle. Inhale: it's deep, reminiscent of gasping but with a sense of afterglow. Exhale: it's against Claude's skin, near where buttons meet.

and disclose to you the secrets of wisdom,
for true wisdom has two sides.
Know this: God has even forgotten some of your sin.

Claude had made Jim Macken bloom into Alois Trancy without the stray dog even realizing that there was passion. Alois had come alive and didn't notice it until he was reminded that being alive hurts very, very badly. Apathy into desire is uncomfortably accurate, and fingers like bird legs rub over scar tissue, above it onto smoothness, and then below it onto other smoothness. He touches Claude and it's like a blind child using his hands to read his favorite bed time story, a book that's been lost underneath his bed for too many insomnious nights. The blind boy must have been plagued by shapeless monsters in absolute and unending darkness. Alois feels like Bartimaeus under Jesus' hand, able to see again, liberated from creeping beasts (as he presses himself against another).

His hand goes flat against the scarred side of Claude's ribcage.] A Trancy butler, [he whispers. He's remembering to breathe, yes.]

I don't like this blanket. Cover me with another.

[That's a test. He doesn't give a damn about the blanket; what he wants to hear is—

The very real possibility that he won't get what he's after makes him shudder. In a strange way, Alois feels spent, like he's been tumbling about in sheets rather than sitting mostly stationary. It's nicer than it is unsettling. He lifts his head from Claude's collar and keeps his fingers inside pajamas. In Numbers and Joshua and Chronicles and Job, and even in King David's Psalms, it's made readily apparent that if you are unfaithful to God, you will be crushed as easily as that sovereign bond between Man and Maker. Is Claude getting off easy, this morning? Alois takes his hands away from his demon's pajamas, from his scar, and rests one thumb at the corner of each hellish, glittering eye. They don't press inward as he might've done to Hannah; he traces them out and away, instead, like a Pharaoh's elegant kohl. Pretty. Alois wants to paint Claude's face, but with his fingers and lips instead of brushes or colors.]

Cover me, [is his quiet repetition.]

let me be ridiculous at you for a sec here. 1/2

[stabilimentum.livejournal.com]

[Claude has never felt this much like he has a heartbeat of his own. Every irregular smack and stroke of his master's heart is being repeated inside his own chest, striking up more uncontrollable notes to knock about unholy hollows. When he said, As you wish, he intended it like a prayer; his tone would have fit with Agnus Dei. The notes are accompanied by soft-strange violin resonance, which Alois had noticed when they met again and confused for secret singing. As he lies here and lets the orders sink in, the music sinks even further through him, increasing in volume from pianississimo into fortondoando. The louder it gets for them, the more it resolves and reveals what it is: his love.

And nothing about this music is anything like those bullshit hymns that praise God.



Fuck no.

If he knew how many Biblical references were being used to describe their relationship, he wouldn't nearly look and feel so damn pleased with himself. He relaxes with Alois secure against him, letting his master's fingers go free, letting his own modestly curl up in the bedding. They aren't doing anything too physical, and yet he does feel like they're dancing at the hips to some sinful rhythm. His skin is slightly damp from emotional exertion, causing his scar to feel slicker and silky to the touch. Lævateinn's darkness distorted this flesh when it raced through his veins faster than adrenaline, leaving behind a bizarre scar as a constant reminder of what his indiscreet hubris got him in the end. The rest of him here, the remainder of his body with demonic eyes and black nails, is an even more enduring memento of what happened when he lost faith--or had faith in the first place--in the Father.

The Holy Bible is dripping in blood, Alois Trancy, but it's mostly a collection of legends--merely trivia for dealing with daily dilemmas. All this shit about Job and Bartimaeus and other miracles is founded on fallacy and historical revision. Your demon was there for what really happened, for as far back as mortals know. Claude can tell you that God was dipped in honey and sugar in even the Old Testament, by humanity desperate to believe in something. While Claude wasn't one of the first celestial beings, he was created to deal with the first and worst of God's many atrocities: the splitting of humanity from few genders into many. God tore them asunder in a paranoid fit, right down the middle, and separated the children of the sun, moon, and earth. The transition wasn't the easiest, needless to say; it wasn't like humanity wanted to forgive God for that. Having run out of ideas, God created a slew of new angels and told them to fix it.

If Sebastian Michaelis is the "originator" of hatred, then Claude Faustus is responsible for--]

As you wish, master.

[It was an ingenious solution at the time. Claude spun special threads out of light and used them to mercifully suture shut the God-given wounds, ending the screams of asymmetrical, bleeding, quivering beasts. He sewed love into every human being, straight up their backs like corset ribbons. Though he lost touch with it, even though he ended up hating it for a while, Claude will never stop valuing love and the hope it provides for a future. Not even God could imagine that for His People.]

If you have no preference... [Pale eyelids lower a subtle amount, long lashes catching sultry red and glimmering like a star-filled nebula.

He pulls aside the heavy velvet blankets before they can offend Alois any further. (He kind of wants to burn them, too, since nothing unwanted should come in contact with his master.) Before too much cold air can accost them, he grabs on to another blanket--a large afghan he idly crocheted right before Hannah arrived.

[stabilimentum.livejournal.com]

It's made from royal purple cotton yarn pulled into a spider web pattern, with shining gold stabilimenta in random places. Warm and smooth, but not as oppressive, the afghan slides on and around them, covering them both from the neck down.

As he tugs one corner into position, he murmurs and means,] Whatever you wish.

[faking]

[It's warm, and it feels like it should be perfect. Parts of it are, at least. Parts of all of this seem crystalline, and the picture's skewed only by lovely-cut facets. It's fantastic. Alois draws his limbs in and wants so badly to be right where he is.

It's when he thinks too hard on it that he finds the impurities. If he strains everything too thoroughly, or combs through with too-fine teeth, he'll hit the snags: he'll remember that such sacrilege isn't meant to be revered like this. He wonders if a love affair with an angel would leave him any less likely to rot, and then sets himself to laughter whilst his face goes hidden against Claude's collar bone, just underneath his shoulder. With this, Alois is certain that their sizes are perfect. Claude's body was made for him to nest against. (That's not really an exaggeration.)

There's an amount of greed, he finds, after having seen like demons do. Alois wants to know: how does he look to Claude? He wants to know: ]

What do you look like to you?

[Though blurted thanks to jittery impulses, this is asked quietly. His cheek, now, rests against Claude's finely tailored clavicle; both sets of fingers are curled loosely against the top of his pajama top. It's when he catches himself looking at nothing from underneath his eyelashes that he realizes he doesn't need to keep his eyes open, so he shuts them, and it's nice, and it's safe. Right now, he feels very safe. Despite having just watched a demon die, he feels like Claude could kill anything. It's a little like having your own throne in the middle of a lion's den. There's adrenaline in that, too. You can lay amidst the lions and still acknowledge what they're capable of with their teeth to your body. Alois knows that, and has the urge to bite first. There's a thrill in the thought.

He's glad he didn't ask Claude what he looks like through demonic eyes— he wants to know, but he's also frightened of how different they might look to one another. There are sayings about how love makes a person blind, or makes things more beautiful, and those sorts of things - illusionary, in essence, and Alois wants to be real to Claude but he wants to be embellished, too. He wants to be the best thing; he'd love for his banners to be brightest. For some reason - survival instinct? - his body still harbors signs of fear from the sensory shocks he'd experienced: like a little bead of water on a blade of grass, too heavy but unwilling to stop his clinging, he trembles. Despite it, he smiles, and isn't really sure why. Could also be instinct. He must just need to bare his teeth.

Like flowers closing for the night, his fingers curl more tightly. —Maybe his hands are more akin to flytraps. He wants to chew.]

[stabilimentum.livejournal.com]

[... it would be immeasurably easier to describe what Alois looks like to him. Despite the inherent complexity, Claude could actually quantify everything in appreciable human terms. First, he'd say Alois is not unlike a "living constellation," defined by the seven primary chakras that are located up and down his body. They're starry vortices of color and heat, some more distinct than others, shaped like flowers and unfolded fans. All of them are interconnected via rippling ribbons, forming the astral treasure known as Alois Trancy--he's part wind, jewel, secret, and spirit. Finally, his ribbons weave to and blend into the greater, grander Design, a system more infinite and beautiful (and sinister) than any spider web known to exist. Sadly, many connections go dark where they've been bruised and broken by contract contact with the demon.

Claude's own threads are silver-black, forming immense nets to ensnare Alois' stars. The nets glimmer with the energy he's stopping up and leaching away during every second his master lives. --How do you explain the spiritual equivalent of an embolism?]

Hmm...

[Stalling so he can think, Claude hums and tucks Alois against himself, and then the afghan against both of them. It is warm here, all thanks to Alois, whose body heat inspires inside Claude a certain sort of greediness. If he were allowed to, if it weren't self-destructive, he'd spread out this warm body beneath him and drive it to new record highs in temperature. There might be time for that someday, when he's dealt with the impediments, but for now he holds on to Alois platonically--aside from the slide of fingertips down his spine.

No reason to tremble, Claude thinks. No need to be so afraid. He is not going to fail again. He is not going to die again. He feels like he could take on Sebastian Michaelis right now--or anyone at all, even the Holy Father--for how strong he feels with this human to draw from. By the way, embracing a demon isn't about eternal damnation--it's giving up on hypocrisy; acknowledging your imperfections. Claude knows repentance isn't real, not really, not when you're damned if you do and damned if you don't. He'll act as the throne among lions, or something steadfast to bite on, or the sponge for every possible confession if it'd matter. He feels safe, too, holding Alois. Invulnerable. This is how it should be.]

Not so many colors as you, [he murmurs at last, his fingers creeping lower. He touches the tip of a chakra called Manipura.] And not nearly as bright.

[Manipura is situated on Alois' spine, directly behind his navel. To Claude, it looks like a downward pointing red triangle with a bright yellow circle around it. He teases the numerous black petals on the outside, listening to the ember-crackling of various vritti, or psycho-physical propensities, hidden in each. (Thirst is his favorite for this chakra, followed closely by jealousy. They're both on fire, in ecstasy.)

Shutting his eyes, he can still see how colorful and alive Alois is. His fingertips burn as he dips them deeper into Manipura--into the center of willpower and achievement.]

My light has already gone out.

[Extinguishment happened a long time ago, so he doesn't flinch to say it anymore. After a moment of lingering, his hand moves along and crosses over the lumbar region, searching for the highly risqué Swadhisthana at the tailbone. It contains unconscious desires, especially sexual desires, and can make or break the saints when they're facing temptation. Knowing better, he doesn't try to provoke it too much.]

[faking]

[That is somehow terrible to hear. Expected, entirely logical considering what Claude is, but it's terrible. It's easy to think, It's not fair. What had Claude even done to have God cast him out? (Is that how it went? Alois doesn't like to think about the distance between him and his servant— that he loves Claude so much yet knows really very little about him.) It must have been awful, whatever it was, to have his lights put out like that. Darkness is a cruel punishment.

The love churning around in his chest is enough to make him dizzy. It's really not fair.]

I'm right here, [he says, and then flushes and thinks it might sound stupid. But— if he is colorful and he is bright, then Claude shouldn't be missing anything at all. He hides himself, or tries to, but speaks again anyway: ] That's not what you look like to me, so that's not what you look like.

[Alois Trancy will be the one to define how exactly Claude's perceived, thank you very much.]

My eyes will find what needs to be done and then your hands will do it. It works like that, doesn't it, Claude? [And now he's squirming, restless against the soft walls of their warm cocoon, restless against how strong and real Claude is. With scrambling hands and a fluttering heart and a suddenly commanding tone, he says,] That's how it is. That's what you are.

[Alois' hands, in this case.

Limbs are rebelling. Alois' arms are over Claude's shoulders; his knees are moving from hips to the bed, and he's pressing all his weight forward. He wants to be able to push Claude over - he wants to be held up on top of the world. He's fierce again. He's refusing his own fright.]

Sebastian Michaelis - his light's going to go out. You can stand on his rotty fucking guts for all I care. You don't need color. [Not when I'm over you. Claude's fingers play him like strings. It's the same as stoking coals. He wonders briefly and very suddenly if he's crying, and hopes he isn't, but doesn't want to lift his fingers to check whether his cheeks are wet again. (They aren't, but his eyelashes are.)]

[stabilimentum.livejournal.com]

[I would begin here, Claude thinks. Right here. And right here is right at the basal end of Alois' spinal column in the vicinity of his coccygeal plexus. It's right below where Claude has slid a few of his fingers to explore and exploit the next chakra like spectral, free-flowering fruit. He pushes past the many petals of Manipura to tease bitterest, crimson Muladhara. Right inside is the foundation of Alois Trancy, where physical and psychic longing resides, where Claude would devour the flesh itself from the inside on out. Already soulless, Alois' body would sleep through it, oblivious, unable to feel pain. Blood simply tastes best when it's still moving, you see. And Claude saves the succulent soles and souls for the very last bites.

He's salivating when he says,] That's exactly how it works. [His voice is damp with it. He isn't trying to hide it.

Alois fights back against him with all his squirming--it's something instinctive; contracts reformed do mean meeting sooner ends. Claude really does enjoy the feel of a butterfly struggling, wrapped and trapped in silk. Their cocoon rustles with each movement, as if it might shift or slip off, which Claude knows is possible when Alois is (potentially) strong enough to get away. Claude allows himself to be pushed over, then, and brings Alois along with him, letting them settle with Alois perched above him.

That's enough upheaval for now. His master has done very well this morning--he has been a very good boy. For his rekindled passion, Alois deserves a reward, so Claude finally stops the intangible torment of jewel-secret-spirited nodes. Claude's hands travel back up the pretty nightgown, high enough to touch slender shoulder blades and then shoulders.

A reward. Yes.]

Thank you.

[From shoulders to neck, Claude keeps his touch gentle, even though it's so easy to break a human. He flirts with soft blonde hair until his fingertips curl where it's warmest behind Alois' ears, or the perfect place to hide for smaller forms. Thumbs are stretching and tracing over his master's nearly-a-year-older contours, thoroughly memorized by now, but no shame in checking.]

You are my most generous master, [he murmurs, going from ears to face in earnest to absorb tears before they can fall.] To give me whatever it is that I'm lacking. [The disturbing part is how he's not even lying anymore. He won't dwell on what his Father did to him, though, not now. He's victorious and he knows it; he's at least proud of himself.] I am not sure what I should do in return, for the opportunity to be a part of you. [And to make you a part of me.]

[faking]

[Right now, it's more difficult to breathe, but that feels nice. Alois doesn't know why the muscles in his lower back pinch when Claude's hands slide up, like they're trying to draw his fingers back, but it makes Alois shiver. Everything about Claude makes his spine want to move, though— his fingers, his eyes. Right now, Alois feels so wanted. He feels like he's dominating desire; like he's been bathed in red wine, ready to be tasted. Something inside of him recoils - it's that human instinct, the need to get away from what will devour him. That makes it more exciting, though. He tells himself he'll never move from this spot, atop Claude, hearing what he's always wanted to. His thighs shift eagerly; his hands search for Claude's clavicle.

Claude's words slip right inside. Alois chews on his own lower lip and nods a little. He is generous, right? He has Claude in himself, right? And Claude wants to serve him, so Alois should go ahead and tell him what to do. It isn't like livestock, says his own need to believe this. It's like asking something from a beehive full of sweets. Alois just wants that honey.]

Look at me.

[His blush seems angry. He can't really help that.]

I want you to look at me, Claude. To see me—

[Because he remembers the time that Claude and him moved against one another, minimal layers in between, Alois with his back against the bed and his hands scrabbling, and he'd fluttered his eyelashes open to look up at Claude's face, to meet eyes for one really warm moment - and he knew right then that Claude didn't see him at all.

He'd pushed Claude away and gone to bed early.]

Would you do that?

[He's trying to crush the other requests that would go along with it.]