Ran has been waiting for days, keeping watch over the mansion. No movement. For days. A voice in the back of his mind keeps telling him Trevelyan has moved away, maybe even sold the mansion. Or maybe something happened, and Trevelyan needs him (why, though, should he need him - and yet, the strength in his hands, the warmth of his skin...).
And Ran is here, and doesn't know whether he should just go and break his knuckles on the door until it opens, pretend entrance, or just leave and never come back (until next time) or even try, with his uncertain, hard worn new skill, trace a few letters on that door, a message for Trevelyan, a question. he taught him, after all, what more could be done with pen and pencils and brushes, apart from stealing your heart and soul for the canvas.
In his own very strange world, the last few days have felt stranger still.
The house that always felt like a shell protecting him feels like it is hemming him in, keeping him from something that is lurking out there, something that might be - probably is - a threat but that calls to him in a way he cannot resist.
So he's been doing some lurking of his own in the shadows outside the house, discovering the way after a day of sun the earth gifts its warmth to the night, along with its scents of rosemary and dry grasses, chasing shadows that might be someone or be just shadows.
Suddenly, Ran's skin gets cold. The wind is just a breeze, enough to gently shake the trees' leaves, a rustle of sounds in the clouded night.
And yet.
Something is not right.
Regretting the strong red wine of the evening will not help Ran clearing his head, or his senses. Lights in the house? No, just shadows.
Shadows everywhere. Surrounding him. He shouldn't have come here, he should know the way in which Trevelyan always twists his insides, his head, doesn't make him think clearly, makes him angry. Yes, angry. With wine, and loss, and need. Fury in his veins, mounting, fury at the shadows.
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Hand hovers at the scar at Ran's neck but doesn't touch him, just caresses the air above it.
Keep him safe, will you? For me.
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And Ran is here, and doesn't know whether he should just go and break his knuckles on the door until it opens, pretend entrance, or just leave and never come back (until next time) or even try, with his uncertain, hard worn new skill, trace a few letters on that door, a message for Trevelyan, a question. he taught him, after all, what more could be done with pen and pencils and brushes, apart from stealing your heart and soul for the canvas.
Reply
The house that always felt like a shell protecting him feels like it is hemming him in, keeping him from something that is lurking out there, something that might be - probably is - a threat but that calls to him in a way he cannot resist.
So he's been doing some lurking of his own in the shadows outside the house, discovering the way after a day of sun the earth gifts its warmth to the night, along with its scents of rosemary and dry grasses, chasing shadows that might be someone or be just shadows.
bouncebouncebouncebounce
Reply
And yet.
Something is not right.
Regretting the strong red wine of the evening will not help Ran clearing his head, or his senses. Lights in the house?
No, just shadows.
Shadows everywhere. Surrounding him. He shouldn't have come here, he should know the way in which Trevelyan always twists his insides, his head, doesn't make him think clearly, makes him angry.
Yes, angry.
With wine, and loss, and need.
Fury in his veins, mounting, fury at the shadows.
Reply
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