Condonare (10/18) Warnings: murder, mentions of cannibalism, dubious morality, dubcon, language
anonymous
October 25 2011, 08:18:58 UTC
Erik shrugged. "Go on. Yes, of course I know those fairy tales. Die Brüder Grimm. I remember... I don't-"
Charles turned around in time to see Erik scrub at his eyes, looking a bit wretched. He was twenty-three, Charles knew.
"Forgive my accent," he said, turning on the bedside lamp. "It's been three years since I gave up on German."
"You're going to read to me?" Amusement was better than the wretchedness. Charles knew he wouldn't have seen it if Erik hadn't been so ill, anyhow. The lamplight glanced off the sweat that sheened his face and lit his fever-glassy eyes.
"Aschenputtel," Charles said. "Do you remember?"
"Of course I remember."
Charles was fairly sure he didn't. He sat on the edge of the bed and, self-consciously, started to read. He distinctly saw Erik's mouth twitch at some of the mispronounced words, but Charles stumbled along.
Erik actually fell asleep about one third of the way through, but woke up a few minutes later, even though Charles had lowered his voice. He looked vaguely embarrassed, and listened to the rest of it. He smiled and frowned in turns, although the only sign of it appeared on his forehead. His mouth, always, was quite still.
"That's not how it turned out," he said when Charles finished with a dramatic Ende. "It was horrible. I remember that it was horrible."
"Well, this is Aschenputtel as written by Raven Xavier," Charles said, and showed Erik the first page, where someone had written Raven Xavier in dark blue ink, where an author's name would have been under the title. "She was very determined that everyone should make up and be happy at the end. And that no one should have to cut off their feet."
"Is she like you?"
Charles thought about that. "How do you mean that?"
"Any way."
"She is less afraid of violence."
Erik was sleepy, but he was fighting to hold on- Charles could feel him fighting to hold on. "And how afraid are you?"
"I'm terrified," Charles said, and stroked the hard line of Erik's knuckles with his finger. "Go to sleep, now."
Erik kept his eyes on Charles as he slid back under the covers, minding his shoulder. He was still looking when Charles snapped off the light.
--
Hannibal made breakfast. It was exquisite.
Charles was there when, prior to calling Erik to the table, Hannibal unwrapped the gauze on the gunshot wound. There was the stink of disinfectant and illness, but that was the extent of it. Nothing necrotic. Charles fought not to turn his head away- he, too, had found his calling in the human body, and he was not squeamish of blood. But he was squeamish of pain.
Erik slurred something in German, and Charles only caught it... well. It's healing well? It's better now?
Hannibal did that thing again, brushing his palm widely over the upper slopes of Erik's face. Erik restlessly turned to it, butting against Hannibal's hand like a cat. Ask him how bad the pain is.
"How badly does it hurt?" Charles said.
"...Nein," Erik said, too exhausted to formulate a coherent response, and then surged, struggling, to full consciousness. He seemed to register where he was. "I mean- Not much."
"Are you going to give him drugs?" Charles asked Hannibal, who shook his head. "Then may I try something, Erik?"
"With your mind?"
"Yes."
"No."
Hannibal poked him.
"No," Erik insisted.
Do it. He is too stubborn.
So Hannibal trusted him.
The way Charles was going to do it, it would either help or do no harm. So he breathed in, focused, thought of himself at his best, and reached out, drawing on the wholeness of his own body to wipe away the jagged surface of Erik's pain- (just the surface, and this was important)
"Ohhh," Erik said, and slumped with relief.
Hannibal released a sound that sounded like hahh. He looked at Charles with approval, and Charles felt his stomach flutter.
Erik shrugged. "Go on. Yes, of course I know those fairy tales. Die Brüder Grimm. I remember... I don't-"
Charles turned around in time to see Erik scrub at his eyes, looking a bit wretched. He was twenty-three, Charles knew.
"Forgive my accent," he said, turning on the bedside lamp. "It's been three years since I gave up on German."
"You're going to read to me?" Amusement was better than the wretchedness. Charles knew he wouldn't have seen it if Erik hadn't been so ill, anyhow. The lamplight glanced off the sweat that sheened his face and lit his fever-glassy eyes.
"Aschenputtel," Charles said. "Do you remember?"
"Of course I remember."
Charles was fairly sure he didn't. He sat on the edge of the bed and, self-consciously, started to read. He distinctly saw Erik's mouth twitch at some of the mispronounced words, but Charles stumbled along.
Erik actually fell asleep about one third of the way through, but woke up a few minutes later, even though Charles had lowered his voice. He looked vaguely embarrassed, and listened to the rest of it. He smiled and frowned in turns, although the only sign of it appeared on his forehead. His mouth, always, was quite still.
"That's not how it turned out," he said when Charles finished with a dramatic Ende. "It was horrible. I remember that it was horrible."
"Well, this is Aschenputtel as written by Raven Xavier," Charles said, and showed Erik the first page, where someone had written Raven Xavier in dark blue ink, where an author's name would have been under the title. "She was very determined that everyone should make up and be happy at the end. And that no one should have to cut off their feet."
"Is she like you?"
Charles thought about that. "How do you mean that?"
"Any way."
"She is less afraid of violence."
Erik was sleepy, but he was fighting to hold on- Charles could feel him fighting to hold on. "And how afraid are you?"
"I'm terrified," Charles said, and stroked the hard line of Erik's knuckles with his finger. "Go to sleep, now."
Erik kept his eyes on Charles as he slid back under the covers, minding his shoulder. He was still looking when Charles snapped off the light.
--
Hannibal made breakfast. It was exquisite.
Charles was there when, prior to calling Erik to the table, Hannibal unwrapped the gauze on the gunshot wound. There was the stink of disinfectant and illness, but that was the extent of it. Nothing necrotic. Charles fought not to turn his head away- he, too, had found his calling in the human body, and he was not squeamish of blood. But he was squeamish of pain.
Erik slurred something in German, and Charles only caught it... well. It's healing well? It's better now?
Hannibal did that thing again, brushing his palm widely over the upper slopes of Erik's face. Erik restlessly turned to it, butting against Hannibal's hand like a cat. Ask him how bad the pain is.
"How badly does it hurt?" Charles said.
"...Nein," Erik said, too exhausted to formulate a coherent response, and then surged, struggling, to full consciousness. He seemed to register where he was. "I mean- Not much."
"Are you going to give him drugs?" Charles asked Hannibal, who shook his head. "Then may I try something, Erik?"
"With your mind?"
"Yes."
"No."
Hannibal poked him.
"No," Erik insisted.
Do it. He is too stubborn.
So Hannibal trusted him.
The way Charles was going to do it, it would either help or do no harm. So he breathed in, focused, thought of himself at his best, and reached out, drawing on the wholeness of his own body to wipe away the jagged surface of Erik's pain- (just the surface, and this was important)
"Ohhh," Erik said, and slumped with relief.
Hannibal released a sound that sounded like hahh. He looked at Charles with approval, and Charles felt his stomach flutter.
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