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Exhaustion dwells in the delicate curve of his eyelids and the purse of his lips. The normally carefully-maintained sweep of his hair has fallen ever so slightly out of its braid: a subtle flaw in his armor.
Hugo had spent his lifetime building walls and cultivated twisting hallways of mirrors to fill them. His impressive collection of masks lined the gilded rooms, each decorated with the glittering finery expected of one of his caliber. These were the rooms open to the public. The corridors in which most walked during his day-to-day interactions.
There were the rooms in which souls never stepped, however, and those were barren, and cold, and dark. The closets were filled with skeletons, and the closed curtains hid ghosts. In the dark of the night, Hugo spent much of his time in these rooms, in his lonely, towering fortress. If he had to envision it, in the times that his mind felt it worthwhile to imagine, he supposes it would look like that dreadful mansion. The fact he could so readily recall that house of horrors when he could scarcely remember the faces that dwelt within it stung at him, somehow. Most were not even worth remembering and, yet, the fact that he could not conjure their scornful features to mind bit away at him. Over a decade of torment and yet the only perceivable evidence of it that remained was an entangled, faceless mass in the pit of his stomach: like a cancerous tumor. Invisible, yet insidious.
With a terse sigh, Hugo tips the half-full glass of wine towards his lips and drinks deep. Abandoning regrets and “accepting the worst of yourself” was truly easier said than done. For all that he’d quipped to Lycaon that he was rather apt at the substance-induced psychological therapy he evidently wasn’t quite an expert. The lingering thorns still caught at his skin and ensnared his heart.
Ridiculous. Wretched, in fact. He despised not being good at something he was fervently trying his hand at.
Excellence was a skill he’d cultivated out of necessity. Jack—that brilliant fossil—had had something of a point regarding flowers that bloomed in the dark. Every petal that comprised the bouquet of Hugo’s self had been carefully seeded and maintained in the interest of survival. Survival of the fittest; survival of the wittiest. Every facet of him, interwoven into the rosebush that drew blood when held too closely. But, perhaps comparing himself to such a romantically-aligned flower was a bit too cliché.
“Ugh,” He snips, to the empty air. He was getting nowhere, chasing these thoughts in circles. Like a dog chasing its tail. Speaking of which –
Reminiscing on the multicolored collection of his flaws and the dilapidated framework of his past brought another thought to mind. For now, he decides to shove aside the tangles of his delightful trauma and do something more worthwhile with his evening. After the most recent events, Lycaon had, with an air of awkwardness so thick it was nearly tangible, offered his contact information. Hugo had yet to use it, of course. For all his emphasis on self-betterment, he was allowed to stubbornly cling to some of his unsavory qualities. Mainly, in this case, his pride. Rather, he’d contented himself to the occasional treat of ruining Lycaon’s perfectly-maintained day.
Most recently, he had stolen a painting. Of Lycaon. Presumably painted by the unpracticed hand of one of his colleagues. Hugo hadn’t bothered to fact check the artistic style against the individuals in question. That would require far more effort than simply swiping the damn thing and hoping it was a decent enough emotional hostage.
With a final sip of his wine, he snaps a picture of said painting and opens his phone to the direct message window. The sole message was one Lycaon had sent, likely to ascertain whether Hugo had given him an actual, working number. Hugo queues up the picture and sends it along with a single addition: 🫢
The silence following the cheerful chirp of a successful message sent hangs in the air like a pinprick. Normally patient, Hugo waits with a level of anticipation he attributes to his desperation for some manner of distraction. The fingers of his unoccupied hand tap restlessly on the expensive upholstery of the chair he’s currently lounging in. When a trio of ellipses appear in the message window, stuttering in what Hugo hopes is baffled staccato, he sits forward in the chair and waits with bated breath.
“Where did you get that.” An inane initial question. A tittering laugh tugs at the edges of his lips despite himself. Before he can even begin to type back a reply, another message pops up. “Why would you take something like that in the first place?”
Truthfully, it was partly motivated by the sheer hilarity of it. It was a ridiculous painting. It certainly was not on the level of the collectibles Hugo Vlad normally coveted. Still - it was a flimsy enough cover that Hugo would be caught purposefully in a lie, and sometimes that was the point.
After waiting just long enough to drum up the anticipation—and Lycaon’s impatience—Hugo fires a message back: “Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s a charmingly accurate rendition of the dopey look you sometimes get on that face of yours. As a collector of fine things, it’s only naturally I’d want to have it.”
A few seconds pass and, driven by some abrupt, wild impulse, he follows the message up with, “If you truly want it back that badly, you’re welcome to try and retrieve it from me.”
This time, the silence thereafter feels more akin to waiting for the other shoe to drop. Despite himself, despite his dedication to remaining thoroughly unruffled by one such as Lycaon, Hugo finds himself plucking up his wine glass and taking another furtive sip. Finally after what feels like an eternity spent feeling the knot of rejection—ridiculous—form in the gnarled burrow of his stomach, Lycaon responds.
“And how am I meant to do that?”
Hugo nearly scoffs at his phone. So they’re playing that kind of game. Settling back against the plush pillows, he deliberates. He’s well-aware of what Lycaon is doing. An olive branch, of a kind, is being extended. An opportunity. Hugo could either dash both their hopes and close off the conversation entirely or he could do something dangerous. He could extend his hand in kind and invite Lycaon into his space. Turmoil churns. The rest of the wine is downed in an artless gulp.
“Must I do all the work for you? You have a perfectly functioning nose.” His fingers pause over his screen. “But, fine. I’ll acquiesce to your incompetence just this once.”
As soon as he sends the location, he tosses his phone to the other end of the couch. Like an overwhelmed, skittish teenager. Ugh.
Stoppering one wound by opening another. So be it. Hugo had spent the last however many years of his life dragging around a body riddled with cracks. In fact, he had grown intimately used to the feeling of dissatisfaction, to the edge of frustration and the exhaustion of his many burdens. Adding another lash to his broken back for the sake of a moment’s respite was not so terrible a thing. And besides, it might even be fun: briefly. So long as Lycaon wasn’t the usual stick in the mud about it. Standing from his seat, he considers pouring himself another glass of wine. Not for courage, because he was certainly no coward… but to dull whatever potential blade this encounter might have hiding in wait. Ultimately, he decides against it when he initially misses the armhole to his jacket when attempting to shrug it on. He was tipsy enough for an ill-fated jaunt against his former-foe former-partner. Instead he pockets his phone and exits his residence with the painting tucked under his arm, hoping the cool nighttime air would frost away some of the heat of the anticipation.
He arrives at the second floor of the coffee shop situated at the edges of Lumina Square. Once, he had brought the proxy here and made some mischievous quip about gadgets and tools of the trade. Though he had been playing up the stereotype of the phantom thief before, he hadn’t been lying about having a multitude of tricks up his sleeve. Those same tricks would be important, come the time of Lycaon’s arrival.
Which… given his laughable propensity for punctuality, Hugo was, frankly, surprised that Lycaon had yet to arrive. A niggling fear coils in the back of his skull. Was Hugo the fool in this – arrangement, of theirs? Had he been naive, wretchedly hopeful, to expect Lycaon to play some sort of ridiculous game with him? Abruptly, the blood pounds in his ears. Shame, its heat overwhelming the pleasant warmth of the wine, burns at his face. Asinine. Stupid –. The feeling is so overpowering that he doesn’t notice the presence of another until it’s nearly on top of him.
“Hugo.”
The timbre of Lycaon’s voice nearly startles him out of his skin. The wolf Thiren is standing at the bottom of the stairs, watching him. The moonlight turns his snowy coat into a resplendent white that is almost enough to blind Hugo. Caught off-guard, adrenaline jitters under his skin. Tension knots through his body immediately, and he makes a token effort at best to hide it. He was supposed to be composed. This was supposed to be his game. Being taken by surprise while wringing his hands in trepidation? It makes his tongue sharp.
“So, you decided to show your face after all. Given your strict adherence to timing, I was almost under the impression you’d decided to stay hunkered away with your tail tucked. I don’t know whether to be pleased to be proven wrong.”
There’s sweat on his palms. Wildly, he wonders if Lycaon can hear how his heart-rate jumps when he advances up another step. In turn, Hugo edges closer to the railing, voice clipped. “Come to retrieve your likeness? I thought you weren’t the type to be reeled in by such contrived bait.”
There’s a tension to match Hugo’s threading through Lycaon’s body. Or – no, it wasn’t quite identical. Lycaon, peering at him with a searching gaze, seems more poised to grab him than the painting. In fact, as Lycaon crests the top of the stairs and stands on equal ground on the landing, Hugo is forced to grapple with the distinct feeling of being cornered. After all his machinations, his dedication to being nearly impossible to catch, it, quite frankly, pisses him off.
“You were the one that invited me here, lest you forget.” Lycaon’s voice is almost infuriatingly steady. Like he’s cajoling a child, or trying to coax in a small animal.
The petty part of Hugo, that has truly never fully been tamed, bristles. “I shouldn’t be surprised that a dog would come when called, I suppose. If you think I’m simply going to hand over this travesty, however, you’re sorely mistaken.” With his free hand, he levels his index finger directly at Lycaon. The swell of his voice takes on a distinctly theatrical cadence; he invites adversity with the sharp curl of his mouth. “If you want this painting back you will have to take it from me. Just as I said on the phone. If you fail in your endeavor, either by the light of the sunrise or through your own admission, I will be keeping it.”
A part of him anticipates Lycaon outright rejecting the idea. He waits for the pinched nose. For him to turn and retreat back down the stairs, abandoning this foolish pretense. Instead, Lycaon’s singular eye seems to sharpen. “And…” The pause hangs, pregnant in the twilight air, “I am allowed to take it by any means necessary? You won’t balk if this game comes back to bite you?”
The mere suggestion prompts a bark of laughter to leap from Hugo’s mouth. When he speaks next, though, it is a manufactured purr; the challenge drips his tongue like poisoned honey, saccharine-sweet. “Is that a threat, Lycaon? I guarantee that whatever banal method your mind conjures, I can handle. And that is only if you catch me in the first place.” Hugo sniffs haughtily, fully draped in the confidence of his role. “Which you won’t, of course.”
Inviting danger. Flirting with it, even. They were like this before, the push and pull, but time and adversity had sharpened the edges of their banter. For all Hugo wore the air of elegance like a cloak, he was just as wild behind the satin mask. That would never change. And Lycaon was his equal in that regard, even when he made the effort to put up a refined front.
The crimson of Lycaon’s eye reflects the light of the moon. A beat passes, frozen in time. In the next, with an explosive howl of well-oiled mechanics, Lycaon lunges forward to close the distance. Bait taken. Hugo’s heart soars with a feeling, indescribable in the immediate moment, that leaves him giddy. With the quickness of a whip he vaults over the edge of the banister and to the ground below. Ever-graceful, even under duress, the leather of his shoes barely creases as he lands. As soon as his toes have hit the pavement he streaks off into the night with his prize securely tucked under his arm.
In an outright foot race, Lycaon would out-pace him even prior to having his prosthetics. Hugo was quick, but the laws of nature had gifted Lycaon with the strength and speed of a beast. Hugo also knows, in the back of his mind, that relegating this chase to merely a race would wear out his stamina far quicker than it would Lycaon. Diversion, trickery, and ingenuity would win him his victory today. Despite this, he spends the first thirty seconds of their game allowing himself the simple pleasure of sprinting across sidewalks with the sound of Lycaon’s pursuit ringing in his ears. It felt primal and, for some reason, that heightened his enjoyment. For a split second, in this delirious moment, they were both simply animals.
Of course, that moment could not last if he wanted his victory. Hugo rounds a corner and ducks into an alley. Maneuvering his briefcase of tricks was a hint more difficult with the painting still tucked under his arm but he manages. One second is spent in the hush of the alley and with the next he is vaulting onto the nearest, dizzyingly tall rooftop. In the space he leaves behind he hears the telltale whistle of air and knows, intimately, that Lycaon had come dangerously close. Unbidden, a wild, high laugh bubbles to the surface. With no reason to quell it, Hugo allows it to tumble free like rending silk.
“You’ve gotten slow, Lycaon!” He can’t resist the urge to crow regardless of how slim his escape had been. Adrenaline soars in his blood, and it is an intoxicating cocktail. He doesn’t allow Lycaon the chance to snarl out a reply as he dashes away, running across the surface of the rooftop with practiced ease. He also, pointedly, does not chance glancing over his shoulder even when he does not immediately hear the telltale sounds of pursuit. As an experienced escape artist Hugo knew to not gamble on a win too early on in the chase – especially not with a pursuer like Lycaon.
So Hugo runs. He flits from rooftop to rooftop and heads in the familiar direction of his home. His hunter, as he’s so sarcastically deemed him in his head, only comes close again a handful of times. After a particularly close call Hugo drops down from the roof entirely, slipping into another dark alleyway. For as much as this chase has been a success thus far, Hugo cannot help but feel as though Lycaon is doing a shoddy job. Had he truly lost his touch in the time spent eating from the mayor’s palm? Had his time in the light, practicing his curtsy, dulled his edge in the night? Hugo shakes the thought from his head with an exhale that scrapes from his screaming lungs. Though he had recovered well enough from the trials and tribulations as of late, there were some things that could only truly be cured by rest… and this was a laughable opposite of rest.
Against his better judgment, he pauses.
Flattening himself against the alley’s wall and allowing the chill of the brick to cool the heat from his burning body, Hugo tries to catch his breath as quietly as possible. Despite the fact he could not hear anything but the buzzing of streetlights and his own stuttering breathing, he knew better than most that silence did not always mean safety. In the most inopportune of times, though, his mind comes alive with vivid memories. The two of them, vaunting between buildings. Conquering the night. In the past, in the wildfire of their unquenchable youth, they had felt untouchable. They had the world at their fingertips, at their knees, and they had idealism hot enough to keep them warm even on the coldest of nights. Something equally hot blooms through Hugo’s body, something that wasn’t quite nostalgia, and he closes his eyes briefly before it could bring him to his knees entirely.
The distraction nearly costs him. The click of metal is deafeningly loud in the dead of the night. Hugo holds his breath before he’s even consciously aware he’s done so. Acting on pure instinct, he starts to skirt through the alley at a half-crouch, quick as he dares. The blood sings in his ears; his fingers twitch, as tremulous as his breathing. He can’t pinpoint Lycaon’s exact location but he knows he is near.
This - thrice-damned wolf. Stalking the shuttered halls of his memories in the same breath that he stalked the streets, prowling for Hugo. Hot-blooded impulse demands that he throw himself to the wolves, so to speak, even if only to give the Thiren a hell of a fright. Instead, Hugo peels himself away from the wall and into the night, heading in the direction of precious sanctuary.
In the end, he arrives at the door to his penthouse uncontested… and feels, strangely, disappointed. Restlessness buzzes beneath his skin as he leans against the door. He hasn’t bothered to open it yet. The painting is set down, and aside, as he lifts both sweaty palms to drag nailed lines through his loose hair. Both eyes close again as he catches his best and tries, in vain, to settle himself.
The next few seconds seem to crawl and leap in equal measure. From the shadows, a presence emerges. In the time it takes for it to close the distance between them, Hugo has whipped the knife from his belt and brandished it. Before he has the chance to do anything of substance with it Lycaon has snagged his wrist and pinned it to the door.
Hugo forgets how to breathe. His heart, regrettably, does not forget how to beat. It rabbits, pinned beneath the wolf’s one-eyed stare.
The air between them crackles with electricity, but without noise. Finally, eventually, right before Hugo’s heart felt nearly ready to burst from his chest, Lycaon leans into his space. Further, actually, as Hugo abruptly realizes how close together they truly are. The rumble of his voice, bordering a growl, feels as though it thrums directly into Hugo’s bones.
“I caught you.”
Synapses fire behind Hugo’s eyelids and bloom into bursts of color. His mouth feels dry. It takes longer than he would like for him to wet his throat enough to respond and he’s vividly, intimately aware of how closely Lycaon’s eye tracks the bobbing of his swallowing. “So you have.”
His voice sounds weak even to his own ears, never mind how he can see how Lycaon’s twitch even in the barely-lit hallway. Hugo clears his throat. Tries again. Wills his voice to be anything but a wilting flower, delicate and shivering, “Were you simply toying with me, then? Allowing me to feel assured enough in my victory that you could stalk me back to my home?”
Lycaon’s gaze finally tears away from his to flick upward toward the door. Some clarity seems to return and, with it, unexpected sheepishness. One ear angles backward as if in wordless confession even as his mouth says, “Not… entirely. Not consciously. The closer to your destination you became, the more your guard dropped. I, simply… took advantage of the presenting weakness.” It’s his turn to clear his throat. “As you would have if you were in my position, I’m sure.”
For some reason, the admission tickles him. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the close proximity, or the ridiculousness of the situation. Maybe it’s the wine. Regardless, Hugo laughs in Lycaon’s face. In the wake of it, bright and breathless and a hint too honest, Lycaon seems momentarily baffled.
Instead of recoiling and prowling off in the face of what most would likely consider outright mockery, Lycaon presses closer. Nearly entirely enveloping Hugo, he tightens his grip on the wrist still clutched in his hand and snarls, “Shut up.” There’s a heat there that isn’t entirely anger and it suffuses Hugo’s body like candlelight.
“Mm,” The sound leaves his mouth before he can bite it back. When he wets his lips with his tongue he does not miss how Lycaon’s eye tracks the movement. “Make me.” It’s a toothless provocation in comparison to his usual. Hugo Vlad could weave fanged tapestries with the sharp coil of his tongue, invite men to ruin with his practiced song, and yet there was something about this man that tied him in knots. Reduced him down to his baser parts, the parts that would scrabble for purchase and heat and never be fully sated. Even in shade, the tense flick of Lycaon’s ribboning tail is visible. Provocation at least partly successful, then, Hugo’s mind smugly supplies.
“You’re ridiculous,” comes Lycaon’s steadying growl. And, yet, still a growl. Something barely bitten back. Bound to his propriety even now, with the world at his fingertips. “And don’t know what you’re asking for.”
Despite everything, Hugo feels offended first. How dare he imply that anything Hugo did hadn’t been pored over in exhaustive detail? In fact, how dare he deign to try and take away the majesty of choice of ruining his own fucking day with this ill-advised, most-definitely-planned decision?
So: “I resent that,” Is the first snipped thing he says. Lycaon’s face seems to sag with a world weariness brought on solely by the affronted sound of Hugo’s voice. For the briefest moment, the Thiren’s eye reels towards the ceiling as if in a desperate plea to some higher power.
“I know it’s been some time, but you and I both know I at least have the wherewithal to think before I leap. Besides, you were the one who began this little chase of ours by talking about taking by any means necessary. Or are you truly more bark than bite?”
If this were some gauche romance movie laden with clichés, this would be the moment the thread of composure snapped. Both fortunately and unfortunately, they were not nearly as young, or reckless, as they had once been. Even with the brimming tension, Lycaon looks at him with a strange expression and a question in his stare. There was no disdain there,—and perhaps it would have been easier to bear if there was—but a level of wretched hesitation. Lycaon knew better than most, especially after their escapades of late, how quick Hugo could be to turn the red-hot iron to his own skin. Be it in search of results, or to spare another the pain he knew he could take. Of course, after everything, Lycaon would make damnably sure this wasn’t some exercise in flagellation.
Frustration boils over. In some feral bid to get Lycaon to stop looking at him like that, Hugo flashes his teeth and seesaws his entire body forward to bite the side of his nose, hard.
Hugo’s teeth might not be as generous, or nearly as long, but his canines were still sharp. Pinpricks of blood bead beneath the thin surface of fur on Lycaon’s nose. The Thiren hadn’t yelped in the vain way Hugo had hoped he would but the incredulous look on his face was more than enough to make up for the hair in Hugo’s mouth. When Hugo smiles, there’s just enough blood to render it a sharp slice of red.
Lycaon looks at him like he’s grown two heads. Maybe even three. In his befuddlement, he’s even released his hold on Hugo’s wrist. Taking the opportunity, Hugo punches in the code to open his door and, in one smooth motion, pushes it ajar, snatches up the discarded painting, and tumbles backwards into his residence. He even makes a theatrical effort to kick the door closed in the momentum.
“Ah –,” Comes the expected sputter from his now-house-guest. Lycaon had stopped the door from swinging shut with his leg. The expression on his face is still just baffled enough that Hugo laughs at him. In the wake of his mirth, he sweeps away with his stolen prize tucked against his chest. Prolonging their little game. “Hugo!”
The films of the old civilization had told sweeping tales about vampires needing to be invited to gain entry. Hugo, in all his resplendent creativity, had simply decided to turn the myth on its head. Why invite a vampire into your abode when you could invite a werewolf?
This time, Lycaon does not even try to make his pursuit quiet. He trails after Hugo huffing and puffing and that spurs the laughter onward and upward, until Hugo almost starts to feel lightheaded. This was fucking ridiculous. The realization, at the moment, does nothing to prevent him from guiding Lycaon into the largest room in his penthouse, the most defensible position: his bedroom. A coincidence.
When Lycaon stalks into the room so bristled he’s beginning to resemble a cotton ball, Hugo’s laughter reaches new heights. He skirts around the edge of the bed and puts the whole length of the mattress between them, clutching the painting still.
“You’re ridiculous.” And isn’t someone starting to sound like a broken record? Except the cadence is different than before. Less all-suffering. Dangerously close to amused. “Give that here. I won’t ask again.”
Something on Hugo’s face must give away his intent because Lycaon heaves a sigh that seems to unfold from his very core. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Lycaon vaults across the bed in lieu of going around it, shattering Hugo’s expectations. Startled, Hugo somehow manages not to yelp. Whereas normally his reactions would be rapid fire he instead finds himself rooted to the spot for the time it takes Lycaon to snag him and unceremoniously haul him down onto the bed. Reflexive outrage at being manhandled drags a hiss out of Hugo. He twists at the waist to scramble out of reach, out of the bed, but the warm weight of Lycaon’s palm is like a brand and a restraint both against the curve of his flank. Despite himself, Hugo’s breath catches in his throat. It’s as if Lycaon’s touch has stolen the very oxygen from his lungs.
“Enough.” Maintained claws pluck at his side. Despite himself, again, Hugo can’t help but squirm. Lycaon’s other hand pulls the painting free of Hugo’s weakened grip, which he had subconsciously hoisted to mask his face. Lycaon’s face swims into Hugo’s vision, eye locked on his with an unwavering intensity.
Instead of doing legitimately whatever normal thing Hugo could have possibly been expecting in this saucy, tension-filled atmosphere, Lycaon instead drags the flat of his tongue up the side of Hugo’s face. It continues its unceremonious, wet path up into the messy whorls of his hair and leaves it thoroughly mussed, stuck together with saliva. Hugo is left so positively aghast that the very air around him almost seems to chill.
“What –,” Hugo’s voice is thready with astonishment. His brain hasn’t quite caught up to the moment, yet. Lycaon is staring at him again with the very tip of his tongue peeking out beneath his top lip, looking unabashed. “What the, actual,” a deep breath, shivering with bewildered fury, “You, incorrigible – unrepentant –.” The accusatory finger he points into Lycaon’s face is practically trembling. “You beast. You wretched animal. What the hell?”
“I warned you,” intones said incorrigible, wretched animal, with the solemn air of one who has done his duty. Hugo, however, does not miss the telltale thwack of Lycaon’s stupidly fluffy tail against his tangled sheets. He was happy, the fool. And not even trying to hide it!
In righteous rage, Hugo leans forward in the blink of an eye and chomps down on the side of Lycaon’s neck as hard as he possibly can, just above the leather strapped around his neck. And promptly gets a mouthful of fur for his efforts. At the very least, Lycaon makes a stuttering sound of surprise to soothe Hugo’s frayed nerves. He valiantly refuses to spit out the hair in his mouth as he hisses, haughty and incandescent, “Leave! Now! And take your absurd little portrait with you!”
Lycaon, right back to staring at him with the same bewilderment as earlier, flops off him almost bonelessly when Hugo shoves at him. The beast’s tail is still giving cursory little flicks to and fro when he shoves him the rest of the way out the door, painting in hand.
The doorframe groans in protest when Hugo slams it shut behind him, finally giving in to the urge to start sputtering and dragging fur out of his mouth with his palm. Disgusting. Awful. Now he was going to have to wash his mouth out and take a shower – and a cold one, at that, given Lycaon’s insistence on boxing him in on the comfort of his own bed!
With a bitten back groan, Hugo stalks back to the main room of his penthouse and pours himself a generous glass of wine. To survive through the arduous task of swiping clean every last remnant of that damnable butler from his home and his body without tearing his own hair out, he was going to need it.