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Howard Phillips was considered a strange man by his peers. He was a man that mastered the art of the quill and set off to sea; he was a man considered gloomy, pessimistic, not very ‘light’, every town he visited saw him more as a ghost than a sailor.
However, Howard Phillips did not care. In fact, why would he? His fellow human companions were of no interest to him, he believed they watched his every move to watch him fail, and when he did not, they scowled and hissed like the seething wrathful beasts they were. He was not fond of any human companionship, any human near him would freeze as if he were the embodiment of winter itself. So why should he wait for them to thaw out, when he could explore the waters no one else would dare to? Why should he wait, when he can prove these companions who whisper about him as if he were a hex, that he is better than them?
He is not a patient man, he never will be. Not for himself, not for men, not for women, not for humanity.
The ship he called his abode shifted slightly as waves gently brushed it, as if it were a fly on someone’s shoulder. The smell of the ocean filled his senses, and while he was never particularly fond of it, it was tolerable. Mainly the smell of seaweed was what he disliked, it was too strong and too troubling to withstand. His ship had no particular name, the vessel itself had gone through many by the past owners; and if he remembered correctly, the previous owner had named the beauty ‘The Demeter’. He didn’t really care if people called that it or not, he simply called it his abode, because that’s all the vessel was to him, honestly.
He’d stopped at villages to retrieve food and stock up on supplies, but after that, he was a lone wolf at sea, bending to mother nature’s will, and allowing it to overpower him or change his plans. You’d think this would aggravate him, but truly, it didn’t. Mother nature was one of the only things he liked in life, he’d listened to birds chirp as he drew ink onto his trusty quill, he’d watch deers run and graze the verdance that covered almost the entire world, and well, once he learnt about the ocean—he couldn’t keep himself away from it. It was a blue, unknowing beast, and he loved it.
Many times, he had close calls with nature’s fury; see the maelstrom he’d narrowly avoided days before, it was dark in the night and he would’ve never seen it without the moon’s aid. Many appreciate the sun, he noted, but not the moon, even though it seemed to be the puppeteer behind the waves and movement in the water.
Wood creaked as Howard leaned back in the chair he was in, staring at the scroll he’d begun to write on, none of the words were flowing like a river, they were following as well as a snail on a cloud—see, key detail: snails cannot be on clouds, and also cannot move, which would end in them dying.
Ink dripped down onto the planks that made up the vessel’s build, and Howard sighed. He’d need to replenish that, which meant, reluctantly, he’d have to dock The Demeter into a town, and he’d then have to do an awful thing, socializing, to retrieve ink that he’d eventually have to replace. Perhaps, if he had enough money… he could buy enough to last longer, therefore let him stay on the sea for longer, but who knows. He should really get back into the habit of fishing, it’d help him gain plenty of money, he’s sure, which meant he could possibly stock up so well that he’d never have to leave the sea’s side again.
(Here’s another key detail: Howard is not patient. This would fail miserably. He also hated fish, despite being a sailor, can you believe that?)
Howard finds himself beginning to write out his thoughts onto the paper, and he clicks his tongue to remind himself what a bad habit that is.
(Key detail: Howard may not be fond of his fellow human companions, but he does hear what their whispers are about. He doesn't like wasting ink for such silly things, either.)
Howard should stop writing key details.
He set his trusty quill down, tapping the wood of the desk that was placed within his quarters. He’d brought it onto the vessel himself, crafted by a kind carpenter he knew well—due to family ties—most of the furniture he owned was not furniture he bought. No worry, though; he was no lowly thief, not like a few children who tried to sneak onto his ship to steal some fish, to sell probably, but fortunately for Howard, he had no fish. To say the thieves were more so concerned, and or terrified of Howard, was an understatement. The children’s parents had excused their attempt at thievery—making a comment about how a sailor having no fish truly was the actual problem here—Howard thought they were dumb and stupid. He even said it to their face.
Safe to say, he managed to learn how to avoid a man with a knife that day.
He also made sure to note to never visit that town again, especially if that family still lived there. None of them were brave enough to follow him onto the sea, but he was sure they’d try to sabotage him if they ever set eyes on a gloomy ghost like him again. Many people would like to pierce something through his heart and make it stop, he believed, he had many foes unfortunately, which just showed how cruel humanity could be to a man as simple as him. He didn’t even bother the fish. Can’t some people have standards, at the very least? Because Howard is sure he’d never fit into any.
In his opinion, he was a fly that people made too much of a fuss over. And Howard didn’t even like flies himself! Especially the noise they made! This was saying something!
…To be fair, Howard didn’t like most things, including himself.
Hm. There seemed to be a specific string of events that kept recurring… no matter, it did not bother Howard Phillips. Of course it wouldn’t, it wasn’t a slimy fish, a noisy fly, a nosy human companion, or anything else that fit on that list.
He placed his quill in the inkwell, picking it up and squinting at how much more ink, trying to figure out how much he would need to replenish it, before opening a drawer in the desk and putting it in there, closing it and rolling up the scroll. Most of it was nonsense, obviously, but he tossed it into a pile of other scrolls that had become victims of his accursed thoughts.
If he were an exhibit, he was sure people would love to read those scrolls, but since he was not, nobody would dare buy them, so he didn’t bother.
Howard stood up, the creak of the wood being easily mistakable for maybe one of his bones cracking. See, Howard Phillips had another few things that made him viewed as odd and strange by his human companions. For one, he was not the healthiest, which may be why he was compared so much to a ghost—it was not that he had many physical problems, beyond a slightly more arched spine that caused him to hunch constantly, but his mind was considered too different, too unknown to the townsfolk. Howard, however, loved the unknown, so he saw no problem in this. He did see a problem in his strangely-arched spine, as it caused him uncomfortable pain a good portion of the time. Now, two, Howard did not get much sunlight, he had pale skin that had been whispered about plenty, and while he liked the sea’s unknown parts, he mainly stayed in his quarters, which did not allow any sunlight in. Three, Howard was very tall, a strange amount so, even with his strangely-arched spine, and some believed him to be a beast born from the sea. Howard did not see that. He was not a fish nor shark.
His gloomy eyes skim the barren vessel, eyes landing on a map displayed on top of a crate. He slowly walks over, the creaks and sounds of the ocean merging into a tune as he placed a skinny finger on it and looked at the nearest towns. He’d have to, unfortunately, head to a town known for its fishing and fish-buried meals (key detail: this is what Howard called food with a lot of fish), and Howard was not a fan. He’d either starve or deal with the slimy taste of fish in his mouth, those were his only two options. He’d also run out of ink if he didn’t stop by the town…
Oh, pity, he’d survive long enough until the next town came by. He wasn’t ready to let the ocean be his valediction just yet. He slipped out from his quarters and onto the deck, looking up at the night sky and the stars that adorned it, not to mention his eyes found their way to the moon.
The moon was as gloomy as him, it seemed to almost be grieving; as if the sea were its tears. It could be, for all he knows, he’d let its sorrow drown him, he thought that, too. It’d be strange if he didn’t think it, it was his own mind after all.
Howard took a deep breath that night, letting the breeze be the only thing that accompanied him on this journey.
Town. Tomorrow. Yes. That was the plan.
Tomorrow.
Howard did not arrive at the town tomorrow.
Instead, he encountered a fellow vessel on the sea, and somehow, it’d drifted out of his mind his original plan—and instead, he opted for following this stranger—to a completely different town, mind you. Fortunately, this one had no fish, unfortunately, this meant the growling from Howard’s stomach was hard to ignore at this point. He had food, yes, but not all of it sustained him, especially with how low it was running.
The stranger he met was kind. Too kind, as if they were a gift from the heavens themselves. He is not exaggerating this, mind you. The stranger was a part of a crew on the boat, all of whom called themselves ‘misfits’, though not in a way that made it seem as if that title had been stamped onto them, they had given themselves that name. The stranger was also a sculptor, a sculptor with stunning red eyes that reminded him of the blood that came from fish’s scales, a sculptor who had long silver hair that seemed blue in the light, a sculptor who was beautiful.
He was good at catching attention, that’s for sure, and he said that Howard would fit right in with the crew; however, unlike many other people, he was not forceful about it, nor did he brag, he simply talked, and Howard could only help but listen.
“My name’s Bram Stoker, stranger. What’s yours?”
That is how he greeted Howard.
That is the one polite greeting Howard had been given in a long time, and he felt his cheeks warm.
“I am Howard. Howard Phillips, if you fancy.” He felt at ease as he introduced himself, no eyes in the dark watching him, only those red ones, red ones that made him not hate the color of fish blood as much.
“Howard,” Bram repeated, “I like that name. Howard Phillips, you seem like the kind of man to let the sea guide you.”
“I am.” A smile tugged at Howard’s lips.
“Good. I am too, but I let the stone guide my hands.” The sculptor gave him such a sneaky smile, one full of mischief. “And I don’t let anyone tell me what I can and can’t do with my work.”
“How admirable.” Howard wished he could sail that sea of bravery the same way he sailed the moon’s tears.
“Give yourself credit, Howard. You’ve survived by yourself on a vessel. I think that’s an achievement too, was the moon your companion?”
“Of course it was.”
This sculptor, Bram Stoker, was the only one who understood the enigma that was Howard Phillips.
Bram Stoker was Howard’s first experience feeling the soft, fluffy feeling that was ‘love’, even though it really wasn’t fluffy, but a wave of joy and understanding flooded over him when he talked to the man, and he couldn’t help but inquire more and more about this stunning sculptor.
For once, he stayed in a town for more than a day. Outsiders would have their mouths wide and their facial expressions littered with aghast details, but Howard did not care, this one time.
(Key detail: Howard was with someone that influenced him oh so greatly, that he couldn’t help but ignore such unimportance, and only focus on the time he was spending with this sculptor.)
Bram Stoker taught him how to spot small details that’d save him more money than he would’ve, small details that made him not despise as many things as he had before, small details that changed everything in Howard Phillips’ eyes. Apparently, this town was where Bram Stoker had lived for a period of time, and he knew it as if a map of it had been carved into his very hand. Howard wouldn’t be surprised if actually was, maybe in his heart, he knew his way around, the same way Howard knew his way around the sea within his own heart.
Bram Stoker may be a sculptor, but he had an eye for all art, as he inquired of Howard about some paintings he recognized within The Demeter. He knew just the right supplies, the appropriate prices, if Howard dared to say, he was a perfect man. He was not irritatingly judgmental and brutal, he was honest but in a more polite way, he was as gorgeous as the ocean itself, and he treated Howard like a fellow companion. Howard’s honesty was something he loved, and Howard loved… him.
He’d never heard a tale of two men falling in love, but little did Howard Phillips know, he’d find himself in one.
Bram had a different mind from Howard’s, he believed, it was a mind more open to the world than just nature. People talked to him and did not scowl, people admired his work and did not question it, people praised him for giving them a generous amount of money when he learnt they needed it. He was kind hearted. He was not like Howard, who seethed with hatred every time a stranger tried to touch—or even talk to him—he wasn’t sure why, or how he could be as polite as Bram. The two were very different from each other, perhaps it was their minds that were vastly different, as if there were a cavern in between them, and no bridge connecting them.
He wondered how this man could be such an enigma, when he wasn’t even a cruel monster like Howard was?
Howard had decided to inquire about it, curiosity getting the better of him. “Bram, what do you find so intriguing about… accompanying me to places, and showing me around the town? I don’t see myself as a good companion.”
“I think you are, why do you think you’re not?” Bram tilted his head. “Howard Phillips, give yourself credit.”
“Everyone I have met over my years of voyage always say I am strange, odd, and a monster.”
“You are not.” Bram’s response was fast, faster than the time that man pulled out a knife on him. “You are a man who speaks his mind, that is all.”
Howard felt hesitant about that answer. “I am a man who hates humanity, too.”
“Don’t we all, in some way?”
“It’s rotten work to even be around me, Stoker.”
“Phillips, it’s not to me, not if it’s you.”
Howard could only find himself stunned.
He’d also find out over the next few days—which consisted of him remaining at this town alongside Bram and his crew, he would discover that Bram Stoker was just as much of an enigma as Howard was. Despite how his view of himself and Bram was
so
contradicting, and how, logically, Bram should be an open book. Yet he wasn’t. That interaction had almost completely changed his view on the sculptor, not in a bad way, as his adoration for Bram only
grew.
Bram had dragged Howard out in the middle of the night, being careful and knowing which plank creaked and which not; his crew would not notice the pair’s absence, not unless they were gone til morning. Howard had no clue what Bram had planned, but Bram guided him through the sleeping town, the only noise being their footsteps against the earth and the sea’s faint tune.
“Bram?” He tilted his head. “Where are we going?”
Bram looked at him, giving him a smile that reminded Howard of a crescent moon, before pulling him off the streets off the town, and onto a dirt path that climbed its way up a hill. The dirt would ruin his shoes, but he couldn’t care less—allowing this sculptor to carve his way even further into Howard’s heart. The night was their blanket that allowed them to see the world when all others couldn’t.
Bram sat down at the top of the hill, patting the spot next to him and gesturing for Howard to join him. Howard is not one to turn down such an intriguing invitation, and he made himself comfortable, looking up.
He has seen the night skies many times, but not on land; he never thought he’d admire it from land, as he saw the sea as the only place he could truly cherish it, however… Bram opened his eyes to this peaceful moment. It was just them, the sea, the breeze, the stars, the moon, nothing else. And he wouldn’t want it any other way.
Bram let out a sigh of relief, lying down, and Howard was confused why at first, but he supposed he wouldn’t want an aching neck either, especially when his back already bothered him. So, he joined Bram in lying down in the grass. Maybe he’d care about his clothes being dirty later, he always hated the feeling, but at this very moment, it was no bother to him. He would not care if bugs tried to make their home on him, as long as he was with Bram, nothing could bother him, and he’d fly free like a bird.
“Did you know some people named the constellations of stars in the sky?” Bram asked. It was a strange question, admittedly, but Howard couldn’t help but answer.
“I don’t believe humans should be allowed to name things that aren’t theirs.” Howard hadn’t hidden his discontent for humanity at all, yet Bram didn’t seem to mind, his gaze focused on Howard instead of the stars. “They are nature’s, we should call them what name nature gives them, not what we assume.”
“Right. I can agree with that. It’s interesting to see what some assumptions are though, is it not?” The sculptor hummed a tune that birds wish they could mimic. “Some believe the stars represent vital creations of the world, others believe it is something of their own mythology, so many different minds that think in varying ways that you can’t help but listen at times.”
“...I suppose you’re correct.”
Howard found that he made exceptions sometimes, especially for Bram.
It wasn’t his fault, if he had a pocket watch, he was sure hours would fly by when he was with Bram. Time flowed like a river, a river that Bram had made with his own hands; his hands that were rough from working on stone, his hands that made such beautiful statues that Howard just wished he could have on his voyage, yet he knew how his heart would shatter if any of them broke.
That night, however, he wished time would stop flowing. He wished the river would be redirected, he wished it would go back the way it came, he wished this night would last forever. Maybe it was Howard’s impatience, maybe it was the impending confession that he knew Bram would tell him that night, maybe it was the real reason Bram took him out under the guise of night and stars, Howard would never know.
“—I’m afraid we’ll be parting ways after tonight, my crew and I are leaving tomorrow.”
It struck Howard like a stake driven through his heart.
“Ah. I see.” Howard nodded, though his tone was that of a wilted flower. It was weird. He’d never felt like this before, and he found himself placing a hand over his heart, as if he felt a stabbing pain in it. “That’s unfortunate.”
“Yes, it is.” Bram sighed, not one of relief, one of dismay. “I inquired about which route we are taking, and I doubt our paths will cross again after this town.”
“Oh.”
The stake was shoved deeper into his heart. Howard didn’t know what he expected, the world deemed him a monster; so of course they would take away his first love.
The stars seemed sympathetic for the two, as if they’d enjoyed watching the journey of their blossoming companionship, as they shined almost as much as the moon itself. Perhaps the moon was crying once more, as the waves were still calm, but on the brink of crashing against anything it came in contact with.
The two were staring into each other’s eyes, Howard couldn’t help it, those red eyes hypnotized him, and maybe his own gloomy gaze was beautiful in Bram’s mind.
Bram then glanced at the sky, suddenly grasping Howard’s hand and pulling him close, his voice quieter than the breeze itself, even though it was just the two of them. “Look.”
Howard let the man guide him once more, and he watched as white streaks raced across the sky; he’s heard of them before. Shooting stars. Stars that plummet towards the earth, letting themselves burn in a dramatic performance. That sounded like nature alright.
He then looked back at Bram, who was smiling at the stars as if he were a phase of the moon that caressed them, and his gaze soon returned to Howard’s, too.
There was a silent question.
Neither needed to ask, they both knew.
That night, Howard had his first kiss, and appropriately, it was with his first love.
As they pulled apart, Bram cupped his face, and Howard gently melted into it as if he were a statue that Bram could study and cut as much as he wanted.
“Let's meet again, Howard.” The bright, red piercing eyes that looked like the scarlet that many would bleed met with the dark gloom that was Howard's gaze.
“Alright.” And Howard agreed.
Maybe this one time, he'll be patient.
He wished to be more patient that night, after all, so at the very least on his lonely voyage he will return to after this night, he’ll know there is a sculptor waiting to meet him again, to embrace him like that night, to gaze upon the gifts of nature while holding his hand.
Even if it takes centuries, even if it takes lives—even if it ends in a different life than the one it began with; whether it is not about a sailor and a sculptor, whether it is not about two men who exchange greetings at a masquerade, whether it is about a horror from the depths and a bringer of darkness and consumer of blood—no matter what life, maybe this one time… a tale can have a truly, happily ever after.
(Key detail: This may not be a fairytale, however Howard Phillips and Bram Stoker would meet again, and again, and again.)