Work Text:
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It is bad today, Bertuccio can tell. He and Baptistin step forward together as Monsieur enters the mansion, so that the moment the towering golden double doors close they can offer him two sets of shoulders to lean on. They remove his hat, his cloak, his boots, and set his cane aside; but then he staggers, falling against them. Bertuccio pales for a moment, but then clenches his jaw and gently lifts the Count like a bridegroom, carrying him to the subterranean apartments. A blue-nailed hand clutches Bertuccio's arm as they descend the stone steps, slicing through the leather, drawing blood.
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The maison's antique plumbing cannot provide the temperature of bath Monsieur requires on days like today, and so Bertuccio places floating laser tablets into the copper baignoire; when activated they glow like dire rubies. As they heat the water he unlaces and then gently eases down Monsieur's breeches, careful not to brush the deadly, sensitive skin.
"You're bleeding." The voice is infinitely weary.
"It is nothing," Bertuccio says as he unbuttons the silk shirt. He moves behind Monsieur to slide the garment down and away from the purloined arms, his breath catching, as always, at the sight of the eerie, crystalline bones, the transparent muscles.
The water churns, boiling.
"Now, Bertuccio," the Count says, and from behind Bertuccio grips Monsieur's elbows, steadying him. As always, Bertuccio's fingers are paralyzed by the cold as frost rime blooms on his gloves; but he has done this a thousand and one times, and his arms are strong. As Monsieur steps into the water steam rises, hissing, filling the small chamber with clouds and mist; his skin opaques, becomes pale blue milk, the ley-lines on his hands and arms darkening to indigo as he sits.
"You are too good to me, Bertuccio," the Count says, smiling faintly. He leans his head back against the edge of the bathtub, his hair a dark waterfall over the edge.
"Never, M'sieur," Bertuccio says. He strokes his gloved hand over Monsieur's forehead to brush the hair back from his brow, then takes an ivory brush and tends to the black mane until it is as smooth and sleek as a cascade of raven's feathers. He asks, "Will you dine?"
"Yes."
He puts the brush aside, rises, and silently brings the tray with the coffer, then watches as Monsieur swallows one of the glowing green crystals. A look, understood, passes between them as the coffer is closed; Bertuccio sets the tray aside and then kneels, removing his bolero to expose his shoulder and still-bleeding arm.
"Forgive me," the Count whispers as Bertuccio leans close to bring the arm to his mouth. "Forgive me, Bertuccio," he says as he presses his teeth to the wound, bites, and drinks.
Bertuccio tangles his free hand in the mass of midnight hair, while all around him the vast dark angels of the void sing kyrie, kyrie.
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~ The end ~
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Written for Kink Bingo round 3, card 1, kink 1,3: worship
AN: Yes, it's overblown, and yes, certain liberties were taken for stylistic purposes, but I had fun, so please put away the torches.
first post 24 August 2010; revised 12 Nov 2018