Chapter Text
A bubbling brook, a golden stream- the sound of a lark flitting through the trees. A grand, old manor built of red brick and vine. It stood proudly bathed in spotted, golden light, its presence a testament to a centuries’ old victory, its owner crowned by the peoples’ adoration. The sweet smell of honeysuckle wafted from the gardens, greeting anyone who happened upon the estate, welcoming and bright. The gardens had once been his favourite place to be. In years long past any activity there could have turned hours into mere seconds, friendship into something far more… From where he stood, Maxim could make out Lydie and Juste laughing over tea, their expressions’ free and unburdened. They sat at that same little white table, decorated by delicate lacy doilies and over-sugared tea. Maxim didn’t need to have a sip to know how it tasted, he was already overly familiar with Lydie’s tastes. An assortment of cakes and other dainty sweets sat about, untouched and pristine in presentation. They were waiting for someone before they began.
Nothing had changed after their time at Dracula’s Castle. The house hadn’t changed, Lydie hadn’t changed. Juste hadn’t changed . They both acted as if nothing important had transpired over the last year, but Maxim wasn’t like them: he had changed. He hadn’t wanted to, but fate was cruel, and Juste crueler yet. Maxim bore shackles now, shackles that hung from his wrists, from his ankles, from his mind . No matter how he wished to remain within his own home, as far away from the Belmont Estate as he could manage, Juste’s letters were as unceasing as the man himself. While he might have been able to use sickness and previous engagements as an excuse, come Juste’s sixth letter it would be far too obvious what was actually occurring: Maxim was deliberately avoiding him.
So now here he was, having finally returned to his friend’s old estate, hiding like a thief as he delayed his entry by loitering about unseen. He truly had nothing against Juste, not anymore. His jealousy was long dead, replaced by something far stronger and far more malignant- something within himself that festered like an incurable disease, growing worse with each passing moment.
Maxim looked up suddenly as movement caught his eye and, quite belatedly really, realized Juste had left his seat. The silver-haired Belmont was nowhere in sight. Maxim let a reluctant smile flit across his lips. He would greet Lydie, relieve himself of the wine-bottle he had brought as a gift, and claim he had something come up and take his leave. He would be able to wait five more letters before deigning to visit the Belmont Estate again, or at least gain a month to figure out how to feign normalcy in front of his friends once more… Maxim sighed as a heavy gaze bore into the back of his head. He felt his shoulders sag and risked a look behind him, his skillfully made plan dissolving into nothingness.
Juste stood behind him, tall and poised, a gloved hand to his angled chin. He raised a questioning brow, his lips pulling into a familiar smirk and silver eyes alight with amusement.
“Enjoying the garden, Maxim?” Those silver eyes flitted over him, his gaze piercing and sharp as if he was looking through him, at his thoughts, at his downfalls. Maxim didn’t like his gaze, he decided, and pushed past him.
“Q-Quite the contrary, actually. I think the place has been overcome by too many weeds,” he replied, walking openly towards Lydie and the lovely table. That was how he had spoken before wasn’t it? With teasing words and jaded comments? In the least, he hoped Juste couldn’t tell the difference. “I hope I didn’t keep you two waiting too long.”
“It's only been so many weeks, Maxim!” Lydie exclaimed, examining him with a tender gleam in her eye. She placed her small pale hand atop his and squeezed his hand gently, her warmth and friendship still so readily given despite the time spent apart. Her touch burned him, light and delicate as it was; a small part of Maxim wanted to flinch at the contact, he wanted to gawk at how happily she still went about everything despite her overshadowing past. He forced his smile to mirror hers. “Look at you, having bought your own house! Juste tells me you’ve been restoring it and neglecting your health, and us…It's good to be busy, but you mustn't forget about these things!”
Lydie pouted slightly, looking toward Juste as if to encourage him to join her in her scolding, but the Belmont simply cut into a slice of cake and tilted his head toward her in agreement. It was apparently all she needed to feel justified in herself.
“I had no intention to ignore either of you,” Maxim muttered, averting his gaze and sighing deeply within his heart. It had been one of the earlier letters that he had sent, that detailed his business of painting his little cottage of a home. It had only been painting, but both his friends had seen the run-down house and assumed he was restoring the entire thing… Really, the only reason he had even purchased such a place was to be as far away from this estate as possible, but he couldn’t say all of that to them. Maxim suddenly looked up warily, meeting both of his friends’ gazes. He had been silent far too long. “It was just that the house really required a lot of care and time. Juste, you must understand that at least?”
“I understand dedication,” Juste agreed. “Though, I fail to see why you didn’t have me over. I really do have an eye for decorating.”
Maxim bit his tongue with force in order to keep his facial expression under control. He remembered Juste’s affinity for decorating. The man had been so leisurely in Dracula’s Castle, the castle that had nearly killed them all that was, that he had taken to decorating a spare room. How could Maxim forget? It was practically a slap in the face to anyone that had been within those cursed halls and struggled.
“Well, considering that everyone is well-acquainted in what I’ve done, might I ask what you two have gotten up to these past few months?” Maxim asked, choosing to look at Lydie. It was a good choice on his part, she smiled happily at the question, her lilac eyes crinkling prettily.
“Oh, I’ve been so busy, Maxim. You’ve been gone for too long! My cousin is going to get married within a few days! I’m going to head back to Erlangen tomorrow in order to help her prepare!” Lydie clasped her hands together, joy radiating from her face. Maxim felt a real smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I was going to bring both of you with me, but unfortunately it seems both of you are too busy to come.”
“The church prefers to have me nearby in the case of an occurrence ,” Juste said, disappointment evident in his gaze.
Maxim nodded in false-understanding. It wasn’t like there were any other folk capable of battling monsters aside the current Belmont… Perhaps such a spiteful thought meant he was still jealous to a degree. It was as if every time he was near Juste he discovered some other terrible, negative thing about himself. It was this very line of thought that had driven him to those two years of solitude, those two years of calamity.
“So you’ve kept the church company during this time then?” Maxim inquired off-handedly, finally finishing his tea. It was much too sweet for his liking, but he downed the contents anyway.
“Yes, though it's much less interesting than it sounds,” Juste admitted, leaning forward and folding his hands. “I mainly pray over children and give out blessings… While I enjoy the benefits of a handsome wage, I often feel rather underwhelmed .”
"What do you think, Maxim?" Juste suddenly asked, straightening his posture, that annoyingly handsome smirk back on. "Do you think you could provide a challenge?"
Maxim knew why Juste had asked him, why he had levelled him with that specific gaze. He wanted to spar, of course. Juste wanted to partake in a friendly, one-sided beat down, but Maxim hadn’t drawn any sword since Dracula’s Castle. He hadn’t thought about wielding a blade for anything, not after he had drawn one with the actual intention to kill another human- one of his closest friends at that. That single thought alone could have haunted him for a thousand nights.
Maxim gave him a hard glare.
“Well, you two enjoy the exercise. I need to return home and pack.” Lydie said, already rising. Oftentimes their exchanges went like this, so of course she couldn’t see the silent plea in Maxim’s eyes. She would walk away without a second thought. “Juste, make sure to be gentle, okay? Maxim really does look like he lost weight since we last saw him.”
“I can only be gentle if he permits it of me,” Juste laughed, shrugging and moving to stand on his own two feet. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and began to walk her back to her carriage, untroubled.
“I’m only sitting right in front of you…” Maxim muttered darkly, his fists unconsciously clenched at his side. He knew Lydie meant well with her comment, but he couldn’t help but feel overlooked by her words. He stabbed into one of the tiny, flowered cakes and ate the entire thing whole whilst scowling. It didn’t matter who you were, if you were to stand next to Juste Belmont of course you would be overlooked. That thought did little to comfort him.
When Juste returned he carried a wooden-practise sword as well as a standard leather whip. It seemed he didn’t care what look Maxim was going to give him so long as he got his way. It had only been like this for the entirety of Juste’s life so it would be unfair for Maxim to hold it against him, but he couldn’t help the bitter taste of resentment that clung to his throat. He would beat the Belmont as much as he could, and flee back to the safe confines of his cottage to stew in his inexplicable feelings. This was hopefully a plan he could hold steadfast to.
In one swift motion, Maxim took the sword and brandished it before himself, flexing his fingers. It felt right to wield a sword, to feel the rough wood against his skin, the familiar weight a comfort in his hand. There had been a time in his life when he wouldn't have gone more than a day without drawing a sword and practising some form of sword play.
It felt too long since those easy days.
He spun the weapon around in his hand a few times before pointing it straight toward Juste and nodding. He hadn’t wanted to fight him in any manner, but things felt different with a sword clasped in his hand.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you more at ease today than with that sword clutched in your hand.” Juste commented, raising a brow. Maxim didn’t think to grace him with an answer. He simply lunged forward, blade at the ready.
It was only a few seconds before they had already exchanged more than ten blows. Maxim had taken the offensive, using a flurry of forward-strikes to try and push Juste back. The Belmont didn’t seem phased by his onslaught however, instead he seemed thrilled by the challenge. With every attack, Juste seemed to be lighter, to move faster; his whip the barest of blurs even in an expert’s vision, but Maxim knew how precise each movement was. For every strike, Juste would just lightly tap the edge of Maxim’s blade with the edge of his whip, never enough to injure or move him, but always enough to allow him space to just narrowly dodge the oncoming assault.
It was an exhilarating exchange, but at such a rate Maxim was no closer to victory than Juste was. They were stuck at a standoff.
In a single decisive moment, Maxim leapt forward, brandishing his sword anew and moved forward to strike him, only for Juste’s whip to latch around the blade of his sword and pull Maxim forward. Truth be told, Juste most likely would not have used such a move in a real battle- Vampire Killer was best used mid-range, not too close- but something else seemed to have possessed the man as he too grabbed Maxim’s wrist, pulling him ever closer.
The momentum forward wasn’t necessarily a bad thing for a swordsman, though Maxim personally liked to keep a swords-length distance between himself and his opponent, being close had its advantage. However, before he could force Juste’s strength and release his sword, the man did so himself, dropping both his wrist and the whip, allowing it to coil at his feet pathetically. Maxim blinked twice, stumbling, and knocked into Juste’s chest as he failed to right himself in time. He looked upwards only after he managed a decent distance between them. Juste’s eyes were glossed over, his lips pursed and expression unreadable.
Maxim returned a questioning gaze towards the man, his sword a dead-weight in his hand.
“You…” Juste’s voice was soft and kind, as if he was carefully choosing what to say next. “You’re displeased with me, aren’t you, Maxim?”
Maxim almost scoffed, but the sound caught in his throat. A droplet of water fell onto the burning skin of his wrist and Maxim looked up toward the sky before looking down at his arm and realizing his mistake. He had forgotten to wear his bracelet. He had come all the way to the Belmont estate, hoping for his encounter to be as non-confrontational as possible, only to go and forget the most important item he owned. And of course, Juste, perceptive as he always was, picked up on it. Leave it to the Belmont to notice all of his short-comings. Maxim let out a puff of breath as another droplet hit his face and then finally, truly looked towards the sky. What had once been a beautiful blue, was now wholly covered in angry, dark clouds. It was almost comical how wrong everything was turning out the one, single day Maxim had decided to go out.
“Did you conjure this storm with your magic?” Maxim asked, despite knowing he had not. Juste furrowed his brow at the statement, finally realizing just how ‘displeased’ Maxim really was, and moved toward him, his hand outstretched. Maxim deftly dodged it. “No, Juste, I’m not displeased. I’m leaving. Thank you for the invitation. The weather is souring and it's best I leave before it gets worse.”
Along with each of his words another droplet would fall with more frequency until it was no longer just singular drops that fell, it was something more akin to a deluge pouring from a mourning sky; Maxim might have enjoyed the sight had he not been caught within its chilling cold. A firm hand caught his shoulder, not allowing him to walk any further. Maxim turned wearily to meet its owner’s expression.
“Maxim, you fetched a carriage to the city and walked to my estate from there. Even if you were to walk back, you would sooner catch a cold and be sent back here, incapacitated, for recuperation. I have plenty of clothes and rooms, don’t be difficult-”
“Why would I be sent back here ?” Maxim asked, shaking his head as he dislodged Juste’s hand from his shoulder and continued his trudge through the slickened-grass. “And anyway, I’ll sooner catch ill standing here, talking to you in this downpour than walking for a few minutes out towards the city.”
A large strike of lightning flashed across the sky, dividing the grey in a mosaic of fragmented pieces. What followed was a clap of thunder that shook the heavens themselves, a clash of fury and passion right above their heads. Maxim couldn’t stop the grimace that came unbidden to his lips.
“You don’t need to stay the night,” Juste finally consented, giving him a hard look. “Wait for the weather to calm down, then you can be on your way.”
Maxim glanced back at the traitorous heavens, and sighed, lowering his eyes.
“I suppose I can stay for a bit longer.”
They walked back towards the Belmont Manor side by side, each silenced by his own thoughts. Upon entering the house, Maxim couldn’t help but exhale with a shudder, the cool air prickling his wet, dripping skin. It had been years since he had last stood in this residence, but neither beauty nor grandeur had escaped its halls; it seemed the Belmont Estate only became more magnificent as time passed. Rows of unlit candelabras beckoned their entry, reaching with their embellished arms toward them in welcome. The darkness unnerved Maxim, reminding him of another Castle he couldn’t have been more glad to escape.
This place had its own difficulties to overcome.
“Your manor no longer has attendants?” Maxim asked, searching for any sign of movement. While still beautiful, the house had an eeriness that had seemed to settle about it- a sort of disquiet that made the chill in the air all the more present.
“The church requires my presence at their central cathedral. The trip is nearly two weeks round trip so I figured they could all return to their own homes and take the following days to themselves.” Juste explained, wringing his hair out as they walked. The silky strands seemed to spill from his lithe fingers carelessly, dripping onto the plush rugs and marring the red-wood floors. “As of this moment, we are the only two within my home.”
Maxim paused, his mouth slightly agape as he pondered how much more he could take. Every detail Juste seemed to recall only worked in making the situation unfavourable for him. It was as if fate itself was determined to make this day one he would think back on and regret .
“I hope you haven’t thought me to be a bad host, Maxim,” Juste joked, stopping to turn and face him. Maxim nearly bumped into him, consumed in his thoughts as he was, and caught himself mere centimeters from the other man’s face. Juste’s eyes crinkled at the edges, mirth glittering brightly even in the low light. His lashes stuck together giving the illusion of a soft, pleasing gaze, but Maxim couldn’t be fooled. It seemed like the displeasure Juste had taken so seriously earlier was nothing but a faint idea now.
“I got you wine. As a gift,” Maxim blurted out, suddenly nervous and disgruntled in ways he hadn’t wanted to be. Juste looked slightly taken aback by his sudden statement. That was a good thing. Keep the Belmont on his toes. “I left it in the garden- you can go ahead and, uh, change, start the fire. I’ll just go and collect it. Bring it inside.”
Before Juste could protest, Maxim had retraced his steps all the way back to the manor door, fleeing as soon as he had it opened. No, it couldn’t be said he was fleeing, for that would imply he was a coward. Maxim was making a tactical retreat, and only a temporary one at that. He would return to the battle after a nice walk in the pouring ice. What better remedy could he request?
After retrieving the bottle and returning to the manor, Maxim finally felt himself relax a bit. Juste had finally lit the main hearth, illuminating the house in a warm, golden glow. The lavish looking couches with their silken threads and impressive chandeliers, alongside all the other splendor that had been shoved into the opening room could all be openly admired now- all whilst Maxim dripped a modest sized puddle on the entry rug. He didn’t feel particularly inclined to call for Juste, nor did he have any intention of destroying the fine woodwork with his current state. That left him idling near the door, like he was still thinking about leaving and heading back to town. The truth was, the idea had never left his mind.
“Maxim, you’ve returned,” Juste said by way of greeting. He had changed into a white poet’s shirt that billowed about his arms like wings. The front lacing of his shirt was undone as if he had arrived in a rush to greet him, and tucked hastily into a tight pair of dark, cotton trousers. Maxim kept his eyes glued to his face. “There was no need for you to fetch the wine immediately, but now that you’ve returned perhaps you’re more interested in changing into something a bit warmer?”
Unlike Maxim, Juste made no attempt to hide the way his eyes raked across Maxim’s wet form, tracing every visible contour with his gaze. Maxim felt his throat go dry suddenly, and tossed the wine bottle carelessly toward him. The Belmont had no trouble catching it out of the air, blinking his starry eyes repeatedly as if he had been possessed just seconds before. Maxim wanted to quip at him, or say something teasing, but all he found was an empty mind.
“I’ll be changing then,” Maxim muttered, walking past him in enough haste to send tiny droplets of water every which way. Ordinarily, he would pursue much more caution when walking through another’s home, but at the moment the only thought on his mind was excusing himself from Juste’s presence. He nearly slammed the room door shut in his haste before collapsing against it in exhaustion. “I’ll be a moment.”
Maxim couldn’t hear Juste’s response, if he had even offered one, and instead turned his focus back to the room. Juste’s room. The place hadn’t changed at all; like the rest of the manor it seemed to be frozen in time, just as his memories beheld it. Juste’s room, despite his ardent love for decoration, was bare. The most lavish thing was his canopy bed, which was a staple in every residential room within the manor. A swathe of gauzy, silken material draped over the two, gold columns, each of which was engraved with a different angel- a different blessing to keep the Belmont safe at night. Maxim ran his fingers over the carvings, remembering how he had done the same as a child. The motion couldn’t have been more different now.
Aside from the bed, there was only one other thing that made Juste’s room personable: it was the picture on his bedside table. It was a photograph framed in that same engraved gold, depicting Juste, Lydie, and Maxim at a younger age. They had still been in their youth when the sketch had been drawn: a roundness to their cheeks and a brightness in their eyes. Both Juste and Lydie had found that light even after the castle, they had each found some unfathomable good that could bring back that gleam that had been lost… Or perhaps it was that they had never lost that light, they had retained it, even in the darkest recesses of Hell. Perhaps it hadn’t even been the castle that had taken Maxim’s light , perhaps he had lost it himself, somewhere long before that.
Instead of focusing on his dark thoughts, Maxim grabbed at the towel Juste had left for him and stripped, leaving his layers of soaked clothes in a miserable pile near the unlit hearth. He briskly dragged the towel through his dripping tresses and then roughly down the remainder of his body, desperate to rid himself of the cold that clung to his skin. The ribbon that had held his hair in place fell sullenly to the ground, abandoned, and when reaching to retrieve it, Maxim caught the eye of his own reflection for the first time in months.
It had been much more than his mind that had changed, his appearance had too- an unmistakable degradation of the vigour he had taken so many years to cultivate. He stood wan and gaunt, the gold of his skin diminished, the strength of his posture a mere memory. Even his hair hung limply around his thin face, long and unkempt like twisted string. He looked every part as the Dracula Wraith had intended him to: a pathetic puppet with its strings cut, a man no longer bearing a will of his own. What had Lydie thought when she set eyes on this new, deplorable look of his? What had Juste thought?
It took effort to rip his gaze from the mirror’s hold, to turn away and dress himself before the cold seeped into his bones. He wore three layers of Juste’s fine clothes, all picked without a single look in their direction. A few years back, he wouldn’t have donned any shirt at all, even in the chilling spring, but such confidence was lost on him now. He lived now, not only in Juste’s shadow, but in the shadow of the man he had once been; someone mighty and carefree, someone with the strength to do as he pleased.
Maxim sighed, tired of his own company, and opened the door suddenly feeling more ready to face Juste than his own incriminating thoughts. The thought was so far-fetched, he recalled it the moment the door swung open to reveal the man standing before him, his hand raised and ready to knock while the other clasped a mug filled to the brim with mulled wine. The warm scent of citrus and spice nearly overcame him with its familiarity and comfort, but Juste’s presence made sure he didn’t become too at ease.
“I was just going to check on you since you seemed to be taking a bit,” Juste explained, a quick smile falling onto his graceful lips. Maxim felt a frown readying itself in reply. “I was hoping we might be able to talk a bit while we wait out the weather.”
Talk? Speak to one another? That was the last thing Maxim wanted to do, but having entered the Belmont Estate and having already spent an overlong amount of time dressing, not even the bathroom could prove a successful escape. He would just be delaying the inevitable. He glanced upwards at Juste through his drying hair and smiled as if his delayed response was intentional.
“Well, aside from the unpredictable weather, if it's my home you wish to discuss, I can very easily tell you that the restoration process is going rather well.” Maxim began, accepting the mug from Juste’s warmed hands and moving to sit in a chair that allowed him to look in a direction opposite the man’s face. “While I know it may not suit your ‘fine tastes’, I’ve come to appreciate the rustic simplicity a cottage brings about.”
Juste sat across from him, his silver gaze never leaving Maxim's profile despite his efforts to look away. He crossed his legs as if he knew the conversation wouldn’t be a short one, as if he was already expecting a certain outcome.
“Maxim, you know this wasn’t the subject to which I was referring to,” Juste started, his tone as gentle as it was patronizing. Maxim despised that tone, that look- he detested the man himself too for everything he was, and perhaps for everything Maxim wasn’t.
Instead of answering outright, Maxim took a large gulp of wine savouring the burn as it traveled down his throat as well as the warmth it filled him with. Liquid courage was the one thing he could thank for providing some aspects of his lost demeanor, for providing some facade of arrogance he could no longer convey while completely sober.
“You want to speak about Lydie then? About the lie you still refuse to right?”
Juste pressed his eyes shut then, his brows furrowed and lips thinned. They had both discussed this topic a myriad of times. It had become something of a common recurrence with Maxim’s inability to keep his guilt at bay, and Juste’s inability to accept he was in fact wrong at times. The conversation never ended as either man wanted it to go despite its frequency; it usually only ended when Lydie herself came in, chastising them for always arguing. It was truly an endless, vicious cycle Maxim wanted nothing more to do with, but he couldn’t escape from it either.
“Lydie does not need to bear the burden of the castle. By omitting the truth from her, we protect both her safety and happiness,” Juste declared, his voice flinty and cold. Maxim didn’t hold back a sardonic laugh.
“And who’re you to decide her happiness?”
“This wasn’t what I intended to discuss.” Juste said with finality, taking a sip of the spiced wine from his own cup. A pale rose colour had appeared, unbeckoned, on his pale cheekbones, dusting his face with a pleasant splash of colour. Maxim almost immediately drew his gaze back toward the ceiling, displeased with himself.
“Then what topic have you intended, Juste? Unless the topic is guessing, you might as well speak plainly lest we go at this for the next few hours.” Maxim murmured, finishing the last of his drink and finally taking the time to recline on the cushioned lounge chair. With the heady warmth of alcohol blurring his thoughts, his nerves had practically melted away, leaving naught but a pleasant sort of giddiness in their wake.
“I wish to discuss your well-being Maxim. Or perhaps it would be better said, the lack thereof.” Juste said, his voice no longer containing the gentility Maxim had cursed earlier.
Sobriety made such a ruthless return, Maxim nearly flinched as he hastily grabbed at his fleeing thoughts, desperate to maintain his facade and keep the horrors of himself locked far away from the prying eyes of others. No, just to keep his horrors hidden from Juste.
“I’m completely fine.” He replied quickly, too quickly. Juste would surely realize his mistake and slowly pick the truth from him, like a vulture picked at carcasses until the white, clean bone showed through. He made a hesitant glance toward the Belmont’s expression and visibly shivered when he realized how right he had been. Juste’s eyes had narrowed, sharp and dagger-like in their intention, his full lips pursed in displeasure.
Even in irritation, Juste looked so beautiful. It was only in his drunken state that he had allowed himself to admit it. The Belmont had pleated the fine, silvery strands of his hair into a long braid, some of which dipped into the open collar of his sheer shirt. Maxim couldn't help but let his eyes trace the exposed curve of his chest, imagining having beautiful, perfect Juste beneath him. That milky expanse of skin his to mark, those smirking lips his to claim…
Maxim shuddered, the nature of his thoughts alarming him more than the topic of conversation. What had he been thinking? What had he allowed himself to think, and of his best friend no less. He reached for his glass, and frowned, finding it hopelessly emptied. How much wine had he finished, and in so short a time? He was making a disaster of things himself. Why had Juste even served wine in the first place?
Maxim frowned and risked a look at Juste only to find the man's expression completely unreadable. His cup was still near full as well, which meant he wasn't even half as inebriated as Maxim was. That was never a good sign for someone of his own standing.
“Why did you serve wine, Juste?” The question fell from his lips, before Maxim could stop it, its rhetorical edge lost on Juste's sincerity.
“You gifted wine,” Juste reasoned, his previous expression replaced by that same sharpness Maxim had worried over. “What else is there to do, aside from drink it?”
“You could bathe in it,” Maxim quipped, regret overwhelming him as his mind conjured images to match his words. He rose with neither grace nor speed then, only desperation, as he reached for Juste's glass, took a final swig, and then coughed as it burned its way down his throat. “Spirits aside, it was, hn, wonderful talking with you, good day. We'll speak again in hopefully more than three months from now, and no sooner.”
Juste nearly gawked at his lack of pretense, and then stood himself both quickly and gracefully. Maxim rolled his eyes, disgusted.
“We're still in the midst of speaking, Maxim. You've put this off for far too long, that's not even mentioning the fact you're in no state to travel-“
“The state I'm in, is the state I'll remain, thank you,” Maxim murmured, eyeing the distance between the entry door and his lounge-chair. He could never outrun Juste, even wholly sober, but that wouldn’t stop him from trying- not when he could so easily establish a headstart for himself.
Maxim leaned down, reaching for Juste's cup once again, and feigned a loss of footing, prompting the Belmont to swoop toward him in that chivalrous manner he could never seem to escape from. In that moment, Maxim swiftly righted himself, dodging Juste's outstretched arm, and instead used the momentum to launch himself over the lounging chair and straight towards the door. While he was indeed drunk, he was still a Kischine in both deed and name; even if such a feat was far beneath him, and even further below Juste.
Within a second of his deranged-dash, Juste had caught up with him, successfully grabbing ahold of his arms and pinning his wrists above his head as if he was subduing a writhing monster rather than a drunken friend. Maxim struggled against his hold momentarily, until he let himself fall limply against the pillar Juste had pressed him against, the fight leaving him in a single breath.
"Why do you feel the need to flee so keenly?" Juste questioned, wrapping a strong arm around his waist to provide him the support to stand. Maxim scowled, suddenly angered by the motion. Even after the entirety of his insufferable visit, Juste still didn't understand- he never would.
“For the same reason you desire so badly to always be in control,” Maxim whispered, his breath ghosting over Juste's parted lips.
Juste had his eyebrows drawn together, his silvery eyes clouded with that same, unreadable emotion. Maxim didn't care to identify it, instead he pushed forward, slotting their mouths together as desire pooled in his stomach, hot and needy. The Belmont gasped at first, but only moved to deepen the kiss, neither the rejection nor shock Maxim had expected displayed. Juste released his wrists then, and used his free hand to better tilt Maxim's head backward, nibbling at his lips before thrusting his tongue in with fervour enough to send a heated, ruddy flush up his olive complexion.
Time seemed an unimportant thing as they pressed together, their bodies flush as they greedily explored each other with heated touches. Maxim could feel the hard ridge of muscle pressed against himself, he could run his fingers through those star-coloured locks without a regret. They fought against each other even here, Juste assailing his lips with a sultry onslaught Maxim could have never hoped to resist.
A small, pleasurable sound escaped past Maxim's mouth, an eagerness he had masked for too many years, surfacing in a single moment. In response, Juste chuckled against his lips, the sound deep and gratifying, and moved his hands to pull at his hair to elicit some other forsaken sound Maxim had locked away. It had all felt so right, so sensual, so humiliating .
Maxim shoved hard against Juste's chest then, their shared euphoria dissolving as regret made its cold, dead entrance into his ailing mind. As they parted, both gasped for breath, their passions preserved in the saliva that still connected them, in the desire neither could erase from their face. Maxim hastily brought his arm to wipe at his bruised lips, his desire to erase that connection, that testament to what had just occurred, far greater than any lingering affection. He couldn't even bear to look at the Belmont, couldn't bear to be pressed against his heated body for any longer.
Maxim stumbled away, his knees unstable and flimsy under his weight after the encounter. He felt like a foal, unsure of even its own few steps.
“Maxim-” Juste began, but his voice evaporated into the loud pounding that sounded from the door.
Maxim didn't need to be prompted, nor did Juste move to stop him, he threw open the entry door and relished in the biting frost that whipped his hair into a frenzy. The sky was further darkening now as the sun set, yet despite all odds the storm still had yet to let up.
“Who's there?” Maxim called out into the darkness, his voice a foreign sound to his own ears.
“Me! I'm here!” A small voice rang out, and before Maxim had realized it, a young child, less than half his size, had scurried into the house and shut the door himself.
Maxim blinked a few times, suddenly taken aback. It didn't truly matter who was standing before him, the distraction they had caused at this moment was the saving grace he needed all throughout the day's woes. He would devote his life to this child regardless of their identity.
“'Me', as in…?”
The child ripped off his cloak and tossed it near the door, standing proudly before them with his chest puffed out and hands on his hips. His hair, coloured a fresh cedar, stuck to his rounded cheeks, still dripping despite his efforts.
“Richter Belmont, at your service, and your families'!”