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Quietly, a melody carries through an open window as Ludwig approaches the house. The tune is almost hidden under the sound of a bustling city, Yharnam moving on with its day as it always does. Church clerics and other hunters alike passed him by with polite smiles and tired but no less fond greetings. It was around noon, the warm sun on his back coaxing him into drowsiness.
It was for that reason Ludwig had wanted to go home. The night’s Hunt had long since finished at dawn, where he’d led his hunters through the gates before joining them himself. There, he’d met with Laurence, a routine they’d seemed to find themselves in for every morning. Ludwig would close the gate behind him, hearing the others move ahead, chatting excitedly about the night despite their aching bodies. The sound of their laughter was reassurance—that they had lived through another Hunt, and that he had kept them safe, just as he does the city. And then, he would cross the plaza to where the doctors were, ready to administer blood to those of them who needed it.
Laurence always seemed to glow in the pale light of a sunrise, standing with his doctors and other assistants. He’d be wearing the same clean, white robes he always did, gold-lace glimmering. They often didn’t say much to each other when they met in the morning, outside of an inquiry on how his Hunt had gone, or a hurried “go wash off, you’ve viscera in your hair,” though it was never said with any actual displeasure. But Ludwig looked forward to it, every night, without fail.
After that, they’d both go their separate ways to attend to their own duties. Laurence was a busy man, and Ludwig himself always had people to speak with in the morning, to ensure that they’d been safe in the night. But now, he was finished with all that, and utterly exhausted. It was an odd thought, that the home he opened the door to now, of which the faintest sound of a violin carried from, was one he could share.
The house is older, wooden floors dark and well-worn beneath him. Ludwig finds himself quieting his own breath as he unlaces his boots, straining to hear the music. It wasn’t often that Laurence played, never really having time to amongst all his work, but whenever he did Ludwig always found himself completely entranced. Laurence was good, incredibly so, playing the instrument quick and precise. As if the violin’s bow acted as an extension of himself. He would lose himself to its melody, one of the few times the Vicar looked completely at peace.
Ludwig makes his way up the stairs, having shrugged off his heavy overcoat and feeling far better than he had when he’d first walked in. The music grew louder, finding its way out Laurence’s office door and washing over Ludwig. He recognised the song, the lyrics swimming to find purchase in his tired brain.
—Low to our hearts Love sang an old sweet song;
And in the dusk where fell the firelight gleam,
Softly it wove itself into our dream.
He leans on the doorframe. The other hasn’t yet noticed him, and Ludwig doesn’t want to interrupt, so he watches. Laurence cradles the violin to the crook of his neck, deft fingers moving along the strings as he plays. Ink black hair is pulled away into a messy half-bun, wayward strands still finding a way to fall over his face, backlit by the window behind him. He is nothing short of elegant, with the way his clever hands work the bow. Again, words of the song come to Ludwig.
—Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low,
And the flickering shadows softly come and go,
Though the heart be weary, sad the day and long,
Still to us at twilight comes Love's old song.
Suddenly, Laurence stops with a gasp. For a moment Ludwig is confused, until it dawns on him that he’d sung the words.
“Ludwig… I hadn’t realised you were home.” Laurence sighs, relieved that it was only him. He fumbles with his violin, letting it fall from where it sat on his shoulder. Ludwig takes a hurried step forward. “No, no! Don’t stop because of me. I’m sorry I frightened you.”
In truth, he’d hardly registered the lyrics leaving his mouth. Or at least, not until Laurence stopped playing. Gently, Ludwig places his hands on Laurence’s, moving them back to the position they’d been in before.
“Please, I love listening to you.” He says it quietly.
Laurence looks up at him, a blush high on his cheeks. He swallows before nodding.
“Then, I ask that you sing for me.” His voice is low, barely above a whisper. Ludwig tries not to make the hitch in his breath obvious, taking a step back.
“Of course.”
And then, Laurence starts again. His hands dance along the violin’s strings, slow movements leaving Ludwig transfixed. His fingers are lithe and capable, so well-practised in what he does. He can’t help but find it incredibly attractive.
Ludwig starts to sing, though quietly at first. He remembers the words from somewhere, having heard the song years ago, but the more he watches Laurence the easier they come to him. He looks… angelic. Like he is the night and the stars and the moon all at once, bound together in the form of a man with raven hair and soft touch. Laurence does not look at his violin, instead focusing on Ludwig himself, sharp blue eyes watching him. If he isn’t mistaken, there’s some eagerness behind his gold glasses, intrigued by the way Ludwig’s lips form the words.
—Even today we hear Love's song of yore,
He meets Laurence’s gaze as he sings, thinking not of how his voice might sound, and only of the way the music blooms warm in his chest.
—Deep in our hearts it dwells forevermore.
Footsteps may falter, weary grow the way,
Still we can hear it at the close of day.
So till the end, when life's dim shadows fall,
Love will be found the sweetest song of all.
In the moment, they are one. Laurence plays him as he does the violin, and Ludwig is a voice to his music. He is content to let him, allow him to do away with all the tension in his sore and battered body, as he has always found a way to do. Ludwig keeps his eyes on him.
—Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low,
And the flickering shadows softly come and go,
Though the heart be weary, sad the day and long,
Still to us at twilight comes Love's old song,
Comes Love's old sweet song.
Laurence finishes the song with a final flourish, pulling the bow away and placing it with his violin on his desk beside him. In only a few quick steps, he makes his way over to Ludwig, though he does not touch him.
“I never knew it was a love song,” a small smile graces his features. “I’ve known how to play it for years, but the words have always evaded me.”
“I could teach you.” Ludwig says without thinking, wanting to slap a hand over his mouth the moment he says it. They are so close, and it’s taking everything he has not to kiss Laurence. To pull him in close and card his hands through his hair.
Laurence laughs, a fleeting sound, but no less beautiful. “You are the songbird, Ludwig, I’d hardly expect you to do such a thing.”
He looks up at Ludwig like he's asking him a question. Testing his resolve.
“I want to.” To hear you sing, Ludwig thinks, though he does not voice it. Only twice before has he heard Laurence sing, and it had been no more than a quiet mumble. But by gods had it been a sweet sound. He aches to be privy to it once more.
The other does not say anything, only bringing his hands to hold Ludwig by the waist. He shudders, throat dry.
"Then, sing the words to me again." Laurence averts his eyes then, cheeks pink, as if he's only just now realised what he's been doing. "Ah… if you wouldn't mind. I like hearing your voice."
Ludwig hesitates. Without music, he's suddenly very conscious of his voice. Regardless, he breathes in deep, moving his hands to rest at Laurence's arms as he does. He repeats the words, allowing himself to revel in the sound. Sure enough, Laurence starts to sing after him.
He's much quieter, in fact, Ludwig is sure he wouldn't be able to hear him were it not for how close they were. It doesn't change how his heart swells at the sound. Much of the words Laurence does not follow, only rising in volume on the lines he knows, but he tries to keep pace with Ludwig nonetheless.
They begin to sway slightly, holding onto each other, almost like a slow dance. The lyrics float in the space between them, voices mixing into one. By the last verse, Laurence is singing at almost the same volume Ludwig is. He sounds like a blessing, delivered unto him through song, and Ludwig swears he's never heard anything quite as pretty.
—Comes Love's old sweet song.
The last words hang in the air for a moment, before he hears Laurence laugh. A giggle turns into more giggles, until he's shaking in Ludwig's hands with his head against his chest.
"Is everything—?" Ludwig looks at him, confused.
“Fine. I’m fine! I just…” Laurence tries to catch his breath, snickers peppering his voice. “I feel silly, that’s all. I don’t really do this sort of thing.”
He tilts his head, looking away with a flush. There’s a pause in which he still breathes heavily, and Ludwig brings his hands up to cup his face. “You should, you’ve no idea how gorgeous you sound.”
“Oh, enough. You don’t need to lie just to flatter me.” Laurence meets his eyes again, but Ludwig means what he said. It baffles him that Laurence does not hear himself. How, he wonders, doesn’t he realise that with every word that passes his lips, Ludwig wishes he could have it written in gold.
“I’m not.” He says, and he feels the press of a kiss to his hand. Then, Laurence slinks his arms away, only to bring them around Ludwig’s neck. He leans up to kiss him with a sudden desperation, like he thinks he might lose him.
Laurence always kisses like this, hard and messy, with his hands in Ludwig’s hair. But there is love in the mess, and there are sentences he cannot bring himself to say painted on his lips. It’s a language completely unique to him, and Ludwig finds he is still learning to translate it. This is all still so new. To have someone who wants him, someone who trusts him to understand. It’s uncertain and it’s shaky but it’s love, and Ludwig isn’t sure how he’d lived without it.
Of course, there is still the lingering fear that one day he will not be good enough. That one day Laurence will grow tired of him, or that Ludwig mightn’t be able to give him what he needs, but he thinks Laurence knows of that. It’s why he kisses him like he does, to reassure him. It’s why, when they part, they both breathe unevenly.
Laurence looks at him with lips red and eyes glossy, and Ludwig thinks of him as nothing less than the cosmos. Here, in his arms, stands the most beautiful man he’s ever met in his life.