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There is the sound of a thump, and then glass breaking.
Bram opens his eyes, carefully, and spots a silhouette across the room. The light of a single candle flickers weak and erratic by his bed, the hot wax melted down to its very last legs. It does nothing to illuminate the shadow in front of the window.
Bram closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep.
There is a dagger hidden in his clothes, right by his hip, which he keeps for circumstances such as this. Encounters with self-proclaimed vampire hunters or religious zealots are, unfortunately, very common in this part of the country. His fingers scrabble to find the hilt underneath the sheets. If he cannot draw it in time, his bite will certainly do. But that’s messy. And Bram hates messy.
The intruder hasn’t made a single noise since the first, jarring one. Bram does his best to tune all of his focus into his ears, though their size is only a nuisance and won’t help him hear any better. Still, there’s no sound. He slows his breathing, hoping to lure the intruder into a false sense of security.
The rule of thumb for this kind of situation is as follows: Bram is tired, and if this person is smart enough to leave without taking anything or making an attempt on his life, they are free to go.
Heavy, wobbling, footsteps, as though they belong to someone unfamiliar with walking, make their way over to his bedside. Bram’s hand twitches on his weapon.
If they aren’t, he decides, they will be turned.
The footsteps stop. The intruder is right next to him—if there’s ever a time to attack, it’s now. Bram’s eyes suddenly snap open, and he lunges at the unlucky sap, fangs bared and dagger aimed at their neck. He is stopped by something large, and he finds that—ah, this is no stranger. He is face to face with Lovecraft.
“King Bram,” Lovecraft greets calmly, one hand placed firmly on his chest, the only thing protecting him from certain doom. His eyes are deep-set, tired-looking, and set atop a perfectly symmetrical face. He seems to suck out all of the light in the room, or maybe absorb it, like a living shadow.
Bram stops in his tracks, somehow both surprised and totally unphased.
“Lovecraft,” He returns, placing his knife back in its sheath. “I nearly killed you.”
Lovecraft, who has not moved his hand in the slightest, cocks his head to the side in that curious way that he does. “You couldn’t kill me,” He responds.
“You disturbed my sleep,” Bram says. “Who knows what I could do?”
“You wouldn’t,” Lovecraft says.
“I wouldn’t,” He agrees. Moves back, and crosses his arms over his chest. Lovecraft’s arm now hangs limply at his side, looking somehow lonely.
Silence falls over the room. Bram contemplates getting back into his warm bed and ignoring Lovecraft, putting this entire encounter in the back of his mind and forgetting about it until the next new moon. It hasn’t even started raining yet. Surely he can wait for a second.
Lovecraft, the absolute bastard, somehow senses his fatigue and informs him that it is indeed raining, and also he may or may not have broken one of his expensive vases.
Bram waves him off. “The vase isn’t an issue,” he says truthfully. Now that he’s listening for something that isn’t a potential threat, he can hear a soft pitter-patter sound outside the window that does sound terribly like rain. He buries his face in his hands for a short moment. Lovecraft is so, so lucky that Bram is incapable of sweating, and as such usually sleeps in his clothes.
He looks back up to see the man in question now standing at the other side of the room, cracking the window back open. He raises a hand and cups some of the rain with his palm. Drinks from it, like a horse. Okay.
Bram raises himself up to his full height with great effort, and cracks his neck a little bit before following him out the window and onto one of the lower roofs. He can easily get to the upper roof if he stands on his tiptoes, but Lovecraft is just short enough that he can’t quite reach. Bram jumps and swings his legs so that he’s on his hands and knees on the topmost roof, before taking Lovecraft’s expectant arms and helping him up. Overall, it takes very little effort to get to the highest part of his estate.
The rain has already plastered his bangs to his face, though its light enough that the rest of his hair is only slightly frizzy. Lovecraft, in typical Lovecraft fashion, looks perfectly at home in the water, even as his expensive clothing gradually becomes soaked and waterlogged. He stares at Bram intently for a moment, before leaning in and quickly dusting off the front of his shirt. He is very, very, very much in his space. Bram might turn a little bit red.
“There was mud there,” Lovecraft says as explanation, after leaning back.
“Hm,” Bram responds intelligently. He is suddenly very glad that he’s only wearing a flimsy nightshirt, unbuttoned all the way down to the chest.
A distant crack of thunder. The rain is falling especially hard now. Bram turns his gaze towards the horizon, where he can see clouds gathering in the distance, partially covering the moon and turning the sky an eerie grey-black color. The wind is frigidly cold as it rushes past him, ruffling his hair and making him wish he had brought a cloak.
Lovecraft, clearly loving the bleak weather, tilts his head up towards the sky and lets the rivulets of water carve tiny, trickling paths down the sharp planes of his face, closing his eyes in apparent bliss. Bram almost wants to laugh, though he is not the type to do such a thing. It’s just awfully funny to watch someone of Lovecraft’s size and stature angling his head like a cat waiting for pets, and enjoying himself so openly while doing it. He watches him for a moment, just taking in the sight.
“Why do you do this?” Bram blurts, surprising himself.
Lovecraft slides his gaze down from the heavens. “Do what?”
“This,” He says, gesturing to the great isolated roof, the forest around them, the soft light of the village in the distance. “Why do you come out here?”
Lovecraft seems to mull it over for a second, before shrugging. It is a tiny gesture, just an uptick of the shoulders, made large by the fact that he’s clearly unpracticed. It’s highly likely that he’s never shrugged before. Body language isn’t his strong suit.
“I don’t know,” Lovecraft says, painfully honest, before tilting his wrist so that his hand is open, palm facing up. It’s a peace offering if Bram has ever seen one. As if he knows already that he hates partial answers like that.
He looks down at Lovecraft’s large, pale hand for a few seconds. It’s calloused, and slightly knobbly, with stubby fingernails. So unlike Bram’s hands, thin, delicate, and clawed.
He reaches out and twines his fingers with the hand in front of him. Exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Even in the most annoying circumstances, it’s impossible to stay angry with Lovecraft.
Lovecraft inches a little bit closer, probably hoping that Bram won’t notice. He does, of course, all senses attuned to the other man. He tilts to the side so that he’s leaning on his companion, propping his cheek on his head. Lovecraft’s hair smells like salt and brine, like the distant ocean. Bram thinks he wouldn’t be adverse to visiting the sea someday, if he ever has the time.
Something cold starts gently combing through his hair—a tentacle, likely. He’s not a huge fan of the tentacles, finds them somewhat creepy and slimy. He still purrs happily at the sensation, allows it since he’s wet and dirty anyways. Bram looks out into the distance as clouds move lazily around the moon, blurring the horizon like paint smears in the sky.
The rain beats down, heavier than ever.