Fic: A Little of Any Emotion - Seal of Roses
TITLE: A Little of Any Emotion
RATING: PG
FANDOM: Seal of Roses
PAIRINGS: Mikhail/Francis
WORDS: 671
SUMMARY: If any of you have the chance to see the Takarazuka show Seal of Roses, do so. It is beautiful vampire crack of the best kind. Plus, Ayaki Nao as a deranged ex-monk cum cross-dressing spiritualist cum Nazi SS Officer is the most delicious evil thing in the world.
Also, this is technically part of the 1st Day Challenge for the word 'mad'.
_________________________
Mad and evil were two words frequently attributed to Mikhail.
As far as he was concerned, evil was relative. Stealing the most beautiful woman from beneath the eyes of the man who has worshipped her for years would be considered evil. In that case, Francis, dear, perfect Templar Francis, was evil incarnate.
Madness could be viewed the same way.
Mikhail leaned back against the console, gazing at the stasis pod. A madman would not have outwitted Francis as often as he had. A madman would have lost the battle centuries before, therefore Mikhail knew he was not mad. Unhinged perhaps, overambitious certainly, but definitely not mad.
Inside the thickened glass of the pod, Francis was shouting. Probably cursing. The Templar had always lacked restraint in manners. If there was one thing Mikhail could not abide, it was a foul-mouthed vampire, particular such a hypocritical goodie-two-shoes.
Of course, he couldn’t hear a word Francis was saying through the glass, though he had made sure Francis would be able to hear him.
“How many years has it been, old friend?” he said lightly. Francis slammed a whitened fist against the glass, baring his teeth. Mikhail laughed, spreading his hands. “It didn’t have to be like this, you know. I’m not the one who started us on this path.”
Francis shouted again and pointed threateningly, a rather moot gesture given he was contained in an impenetrable prison.
“Now, now,” Mikhail murmured, one side of his mouth curling up. “Losing your temper isn’t going to help anyone, especially not Jennifer.” He straightened up and approached the glass of Francis’s prison, touching his fingertips to the cool surface. “We were friends once.” He looked from his white fingertips to Francis’s dark eyes. “Weren’t we?”
They were.
Or at least, they had been, in the brief period before Francis had let himself fall for her.
Francis’s fingertips pressed against the glass, so close to his, and his lips shaped Mikhail’s name, and for a moment, Mikhail wondered why it was so hard to remember Lydia’s face. Whenever he thought of her, all he could see was the man before him.
“Shall I tell you something strange?” he murmured, pressing his palm against the glass, his eyes drifting back to watch his fingers splaying. Whatever the answer, it made no difference. He didn’t hear it and would have spoken anyway. “I find it difficult to hate you.”
A glance caught the roll of Francis’s eyes.
“Doubt me if you want to,” he said quietly, “but it’s true. You are an infuriating, self-righteous hypocrite who has spoiled my plans several times over, but you make it impossible to hate you.” He met Francis’s disbelieving gaze. “Who else knows me as well as you?”
Francis made a gesture that was both expressive and obscene.
With a sigh, Mikhail touched the control panel, sending icy jets into the stasis pod. He watched dispassionately as Francis sank to his knees in pain, his hands slipping down the inside of the glass, leaving bloodied smears from frozen fingertips.
The vampire’s pale face was pressed to the frost-coated glass, and his breath was visible, silver white.
The laboratory was silent for several minutes. Slowly, Mikhail knelt and placed his fingers against the glass, tracing the outline of Francis’s cracked and bleeding lips. What would he taste like, he found himself wondering. He could imagine the taste of Lydia clinging to him.
No. He could imagine it, but he knew he would not.
He looked through the glass at Francis’s pale ice-cold face, and saw the dark eyes staring back at him. He knew then that even though he could not hate Francis, Francis had no such compunctions. And yet, he mused with pained amusement, he - Mikhail - was the one who was called evil.
“Stay a while,” he suggested quietly, rising and adjusting the lapel of his suit.
He would keep him there, hold him forever if need be, for a little of any emotion, even if it was black hatred, was something.
RATING: PG
FANDOM: Seal of Roses
PAIRINGS: Mikhail/Francis
WORDS: 671
SUMMARY: If any of you have the chance to see the Takarazuka show Seal of Roses, do so. It is beautiful vampire crack of the best kind. Plus, Ayaki Nao as a deranged ex-monk cum cross-dressing spiritualist cum Nazi SS Officer is the most delicious evil thing in the world.
Also, this is technically part of the 1st Day Challenge for the word 'mad'.
_________________________
Mad and evil were two words frequently attributed to Mikhail.
As far as he was concerned, evil was relative. Stealing the most beautiful woman from beneath the eyes of the man who has worshipped her for years would be considered evil. In that case, Francis, dear, perfect Templar Francis, was evil incarnate.
Madness could be viewed the same way.
Mikhail leaned back against the console, gazing at the stasis pod. A madman would not have outwitted Francis as often as he had. A madman would have lost the battle centuries before, therefore Mikhail knew he was not mad. Unhinged perhaps, overambitious certainly, but definitely not mad.
Inside the thickened glass of the pod, Francis was shouting. Probably cursing. The Templar had always lacked restraint in manners. If there was one thing Mikhail could not abide, it was a foul-mouthed vampire, particular such a hypocritical goodie-two-shoes.
Of course, he couldn’t hear a word Francis was saying through the glass, though he had made sure Francis would be able to hear him.
“How many years has it been, old friend?” he said lightly. Francis slammed a whitened fist against the glass, baring his teeth. Mikhail laughed, spreading his hands. “It didn’t have to be like this, you know. I’m not the one who started us on this path.”
Francis shouted again and pointed threateningly, a rather moot gesture given he was contained in an impenetrable prison.
“Now, now,” Mikhail murmured, one side of his mouth curling up. “Losing your temper isn’t going to help anyone, especially not Jennifer.” He straightened up and approached the glass of Francis’s prison, touching his fingertips to the cool surface. “We were friends once.” He looked from his white fingertips to Francis’s dark eyes. “Weren’t we?”
They were.
Or at least, they had been, in the brief period before Francis had let himself fall for her.
Francis’s fingertips pressed against the glass, so close to his, and his lips shaped Mikhail’s name, and for a moment, Mikhail wondered why it was so hard to remember Lydia’s face. Whenever he thought of her, all he could see was the man before him.
“Shall I tell you something strange?” he murmured, pressing his palm against the glass, his eyes drifting back to watch his fingers splaying. Whatever the answer, it made no difference. He didn’t hear it and would have spoken anyway. “I find it difficult to hate you.”
A glance caught the roll of Francis’s eyes.
“Doubt me if you want to,” he said quietly, “but it’s true. You are an infuriating, self-righteous hypocrite who has spoiled my plans several times over, but you make it impossible to hate you.” He met Francis’s disbelieving gaze. “Who else knows me as well as you?”
Francis made a gesture that was both expressive and obscene.
With a sigh, Mikhail touched the control panel, sending icy jets into the stasis pod. He watched dispassionately as Francis sank to his knees in pain, his hands slipping down the inside of the glass, leaving bloodied smears from frozen fingertips.
The vampire’s pale face was pressed to the frost-coated glass, and his breath was visible, silver white.
The laboratory was silent for several minutes. Slowly, Mikhail knelt and placed his fingers against the glass, tracing the outline of Francis’s cracked and bleeding lips. What would he taste like, he found himself wondering. He could imagine the taste of Lydia clinging to him.
No. He could imagine it, but he knew he would not.
He looked through the glass at Francis’s pale ice-cold face, and saw the dark eyes staring back at him. He knew then that even though he could not hate Francis, Francis had no such compunctions. And yet, he mused with pained amusement, he - Mikhail - was the one who was called evil.
“Stay a while,” he suggested quietly, rising and adjusting the lapel of his suit.
He would keep him there, hold him forever if need be, for a little of any emotion, even if it was black hatred, was something.