Trinity Blood fic: Inevitable Conclusion
Jul. 8th, 2007 09:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
narcasse1200 words, each paragraph a drabble and alternating perspectives per paragraph. PG for implied yaoi.
A detour from duty. William and Isaak; an inevitable conclusion.
Inevitable Conclusion
Disclaimer: Trinity Blood belongs to Sunao Yoshida, Gonzo and others.
++++++++++
He’d never asked for much in life; just a little recognition, some sympathy, maybe a modicum of power. Though the issue of power was hardly paramount.
Tea, he supposed was something he’d be quite pleased about. Tobacco too. Maybe the occasional new pair of shoes that he could spend hours polishing by himself. A reasonable barber within walking distance of his office. The odd sip of sherry when he fancied some, which wasn’t often anyway.
Just a quiet life.
He’d given up on his ambitions really.
Though he wouldn’t have said no to a night or two out in Londinium.
Somehow nothing had ever transpired as he’d planned it. There probably should have been a lesson in that somewhere, not that he could ever find it. He wasn’t so good at finding the meaning of anything anyway. Take life for instance. He’d never found the meaning of that.
Not that it mattered, he supposed.
A life measured out in champagne cocktails and early morning vodkas verses the silence of a half-smoked cigarillo. If he could have been bothered, he would have complained aloud that it was unfair.
There probably wasn’t even a spare bottle of Moët in the cabinet anymore.
Missions to Londinium were always the worst, especially when Hugue stood idly by and waited for directions. Invariably, he found himself navigating like a tourist, mentioning public landmarks and referencing matters half-heartedly to the more detailed map in his head. It wouldn’t have done to give directions via opium dens and clubs catering to a most dubious clientele, so instead he found himself spewing utter nonsense like some overly talkative tour guide.
It was better that way though, for him to babble inanities at Hugue who might or might not actually be listening than to admit that he missed… someone.
He could never decide which was worse; the sudden melancholy or the irrational rage. It wasn’t the fault of the city of course, rather than it being the issue of personal memory. And as if sensing his dangerous mood, of course Marionettenspieler wouldn’t shut up, even for an instant.
The city was full of too many tender memories, too many beautifully lost chances, too many broken dreams but at least it made Marionettenspieler finally fall silent when he looked up, eyes full of unshed tears.
It was all theatrics of course but who else would have recognised that except… him?
Accidents are the name given to something or other, so he seemed to recall. And calling it an accident seemed like an apt analogy. It was really, technically speaking.
Having lost Hugue somewhere along the side-roads of SoHo seemed like it should have been the start of a 1920s farce or at least a satire on the notion of the working classes as a concept in the public mind. But perhaps it wasn’t at all; perhaps it was the start of a romance that had never happened as it should have done.
Of course he’d picked up the fallen books.
Looking back on it, he’d probably claim that he’d been visiting some rare and hidden esoteric bookshop rather than off buying an eclectic mix of discounted texts somewhere instead.
At least the gentleman who’d bumped into him had manners enough to pick up his fallen purchases and offer an apologetic smile. That sort of gentility was rapidly expiring in the modern world and until now he would have sworn that the only real gentleman in Albion had vacated the city in favour of Rome.
Except somehow, possibly for the sole purpose of knocking said books from his hands, he’d returned.
For all that he knew that being beaten over the head with the now returned books was the most likely outcome; he couldn’t at all find it in himself to care. Wasn’t this the best way for a dilettante to confront death anyway? At the hands of a beautiful woman. Or at least at the hands of a man whose beauty transcended stereotypes.
It would be a fitting end to the tale after all. The best sort of end, beautiful melodrama to the last.
He hoped everyone would remember him fondly.
“Stop grinning, idiot, and help me carry these books.”
What ever had possessed him to say that, he’d never know because it had been ludicrous in the extreme. They weren’t at university anymore and William certainly wasn’t still jokingly offering to carry his books. Which didn’t at all explain why he was suddenly strolling down the street with only the lightest volume in one hand, while the other was wrapped comfortably round William’s arm. Just like an undergraduate couple.
It was the first time in many years that his mind was at a complete blank by way of plausible answers.
“I’m going to do something very foolish, aren’t I?”
It really had been far too long since he’d woken up on suitably sinful morning after.
As morning afters went this was going to be a particularly good one and he should know, being a fine connoisseur of a sort. Soft sheets, warm bed, mostly closed drapes. Ice bucket with empty champagne bottle upside down, clothes on the floor, reasonable room décor. Yards of black hair spread out on top of the coverlet…
“If we’ve missed check out, and I expect we have, we’ll probably be obliged to stay another day.”
A contented smile was the perfect answer to that.
Downstairs in the lobby, a petite young man smiled winningly at the concierge and leaned a little too far over the desk to glance at the hotel registry. Seemingly finding nothing to interest him in the list of names he sighed before smiling cheerily as he made his way outside.
Not long after, only a street or two away he tried the same again in another hotel lobby.
“Hi, could you help me? I’m looking for my elder brother…”
Several hotels later it still didn’t occur to him that the names of Charles Ryder and Sebastian Flyte were evidently false.
“…William Walter Wordsworth. He’s a priest.”
The blond man, who looked like he really could do with a bath, didn’t inspire anything like the sort of sympathy the hotel staff had had for young Dean Butler. And when he insisted that this missing Catholic must have checked in some time during the last week, they simply declined to look into the matter any further.
It had been a quiet week after all and the only arrivals had been a Mr Patrick Bateman and his friend Evelyn Williams, both of whom the concierge wasn’t going to trouble with such absurd enquiries.
It was a fortnight before Dean Butler and the begrudgingly introduced Father Hugue found themselves in the same lobby.
“I’m looking for-“
They both began, breaking off at the same time, eyes locked in cool appraisal before seemingly reaching some unspoken agreement to quietly take the matter outside.
The doormen hovered close by, ready to break up an undignified fight on the hotel steps, though there was no need, and the dubious pair had long departed by the time the tall Baron of Luxor and his companion, the ever so English, Duke of Tigris had returned from their shopping trip.
++++++++++
The quote William is reaching for is Wilde’s "Experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes."
William and Isaak seemingly gravitate towards places like The Howard hotel and the Savoy.
Charles Ryder and Sebastian Flyte are characters in Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited.
Patrick Bateman and his fiancé Evelyn Williams are characters in Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho.
A detour from duty. William and Isaak; an inevitable conclusion.
Inevitable Conclusion
Disclaimer: Trinity Blood belongs to Sunao Yoshida, Gonzo and others.
++++++++++
He’d never asked for much in life; just a little recognition, some sympathy, maybe a modicum of power. Though the issue of power was hardly paramount.
Tea, he supposed was something he’d be quite pleased about. Tobacco too. Maybe the occasional new pair of shoes that he could spend hours polishing by himself. A reasonable barber within walking distance of his office. The odd sip of sherry when he fancied some, which wasn’t often anyway.
Just a quiet life.
He’d given up on his ambitions really.
Though he wouldn’t have said no to a night or two out in Londinium.
Somehow nothing had ever transpired as he’d planned it. There probably should have been a lesson in that somewhere, not that he could ever find it. He wasn’t so good at finding the meaning of anything anyway. Take life for instance. He’d never found the meaning of that.
Not that it mattered, he supposed.
A life measured out in champagne cocktails and early morning vodkas verses the silence of a half-smoked cigarillo. If he could have been bothered, he would have complained aloud that it was unfair.
There probably wasn’t even a spare bottle of Moët in the cabinet anymore.
Missions to Londinium were always the worst, especially when Hugue stood idly by and waited for directions. Invariably, he found himself navigating like a tourist, mentioning public landmarks and referencing matters half-heartedly to the more detailed map in his head. It wouldn’t have done to give directions via opium dens and clubs catering to a most dubious clientele, so instead he found himself spewing utter nonsense like some overly talkative tour guide.
It was better that way though, for him to babble inanities at Hugue who might or might not actually be listening than to admit that he missed… someone.
He could never decide which was worse; the sudden melancholy or the irrational rage. It wasn’t the fault of the city of course, rather than it being the issue of personal memory. And as if sensing his dangerous mood, of course Marionettenspieler wouldn’t shut up, even for an instant.
The city was full of too many tender memories, too many beautifully lost chances, too many broken dreams but at least it made Marionettenspieler finally fall silent when he looked up, eyes full of unshed tears.
It was all theatrics of course but who else would have recognised that except… him?
Accidents are the name given to something or other, so he seemed to recall. And calling it an accident seemed like an apt analogy. It was really, technically speaking.
Having lost Hugue somewhere along the side-roads of SoHo seemed like it should have been the start of a 1920s farce or at least a satire on the notion of the working classes as a concept in the public mind. But perhaps it wasn’t at all; perhaps it was the start of a romance that had never happened as it should have done.
Of course he’d picked up the fallen books.
Looking back on it, he’d probably claim that he’d been visiting some rare and hidden esoteric bookshop rather than off buying an eclectic mix of discounted texts somewhere instead.
At least the gentleman who’d bumped into him had manners enough to pick up his fallen purchases and offer an apologetic smile. That sort of gentility was rapidly expiring in the modern world and until now he would have sworn that the only real gentleman in Albion had vacated the city in favour of Rome.
Except somehow, possibly for the sole purpose of knocking said books from his hands, he’d returned.
For all that he knew that being beaten over the head with the now returned books was the most likely outcome; he couldn’t at all find it in himself to care. Wasn’t this the best way for a dilettante to confront death anyway? At the hands of a beautiful woman. Or at least at the hands of a man whose beauty transcended stereotypes.
It would be a fitting end to the tale after all. The best sort of end, beautiful melodrama to the last.
He hoped everyone would remember him fondly.
“Stop grinning, idiot, and help me carry these books.”
What ever had possessed him to say that, he’d never know because it had been ludicrous in the extreme. They weren’t at university anymore and William certainly wasn’t still jokingly offering to carry his books. Which didn’t at all explain why he was suddenly strolling down the street with only the lightest volume in one hand, while the other was wrapped comfortably round William’s arm. Just like an undergraduate couple.
It was the first time in many years that his mind was at a complete blank by way of plausible answers.
“I’m going to do something very foolish, aren’t I?”
It really had been far too long since he’d woken up on suitably sinful morning after.
As morning afters went this was going to be a particularly good one and he should know, being a fine connoisseur of a sort. Soft sheets, warm bed, mostly closed drapes. Ice bucket with empty champagne bottle upside down, clothes on the floor, reasonable room décor. Yards of black hair spread out on top of the coverlet…
“If we’ve missed check out, and I expect we have, we’ll probably be obliged to stay another day.”
A contented smile was the perfect answer to that.
Downstairs in the lobby, a petite young man smiled winningly at the concierge and leaned a little too far over the desk to glance at the hotel registry. Seemingly finding nothing to interest him in the list of names he sighed before smiling cheerily as he made his way outside.
Not long after, only a street or two away he tried the same again in another hotel lobby.
“Hi, could you help me? I’m looking for my elder brother…”
Several hotels later it still didn’t occur to him that the names of Charles Ryder and Sebastian Flyte were evidently false.
“…William Walter Wordsworth. He’s a priest.”
The blond man, who looked like he really could do with a bath, didn’t inspire anything like the sort of sympathy the hotel staff had had for young Dean Butler. And when he insisted that this missing Catholic must have checked in some time during the last week, they simply declined to look into the matter any further.
It had been a quiet week after all and the only arrivals had been a Mr Patrick Bateman and his friend Evelyn Williams, both of whom the concierge wasn’t going to trouble with such absurd enquiries.
It was a fortnight before Dean Butler and the begrudgingly introduced Father Hugue found themselves in the same lobby.
“I’m looking for-“
They both began, breaking off at the same time, eyes locked in cool appraisal before seemingly reaching some unspoken agreement to quietly take the matter outside.
The doormen hovered close by, ready to break up an undignified fight on the hotel steps, though there was no need, and the dubious pair had long departed by the time the tall Baron of Luxor and his companion, the ever so English, Duke of Tigris had returned from their shopping trip.
++++++++++
The quote William is reaching for is Wilde’s "Experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes."
William and Isaak seemingly gravitate towards places like The Howard hotel and the Savoy.
Charles Ryder and Sebastian Flyte are characters in Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited.
Patrick Bateman and his fiancé Evelyn Williams are characters in Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-09 12:35 am (UTC)I like the format you chose for this one as well, though it took me twice to get everything in order. ...and I'll have to come back to this one someday in the future to pick up on some of the hidden things
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-11 08:11 pm (UTC)I actually meant these to be just two drabbles, one for each and then it just made sense to expand on it. I somehow couldn’t leave William as the washed up dandy and Isaak as the former Russian ‘it’ girl growing old alone.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-11 09:22 pm (UTC)Really? It worked very well.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-17 02:46 pm (UTC)What I liked most is the sensation of weariness that rises from William, a melancholy he's never find a reasonable way to fight, so he's just hiding.
It's like Isaak has planted the seeds of some malevolent flower inside of him, that'll make him sick untill the day he'll be able to face Isaak again - one way or another.
Romance or not, is just a corollarium. They're fated, and that's what I mainly like about their relationship and what I find excellently developed in your writings! :)
may I ask something really stupid? who are you whileyou imagine/write this?
William, Isaak or neither of them..?
(no subject)
Date: 2008-03-18 07:33 pm (UTC)That’s perfectly fine. If it just doesn’t work for you then that’s hardly a problem.
William’s a terribly put upon Victorian hero or at least so it seems to me. I’m too lazy to go look up any relevant quotes right now but I’m sure there are passages enough in several Sherlock Holmes stories that express a similar sort of vague resignation about things. William will be there to lend a hand if AX does get itself into trouble but when they don’t he’s just left there to while away his days with melancholia.
And yes, it seems that what he needs is some kind of catharsis involving Isaak regardless of whether or not that means killing Isaak or kissing him. Which makes me want to write something horribly anticlimactic for him now. William’s probably owed a reasonable ending at least considering I’ve already written his death via spectacular swordfight on Tower Bridge.
For pieces like this it tends to help me to switch ‘voice’ per necessary section so I get to sit there framing my thoughts to the effect of “If I was William and Isaak had just said this to me: how would I react?” and vice versa. It’s pretty much method acting really. Though equally things like the latest Radu drabble as an example, which was framed around the fact that I was sat up at my desk at a stupid hour of the morning shaking from fatigue and taking an iron supplement, or Isaak’s stomach ache elsewhere were also taken from real life.