Chapter Text
Somewhere in London.
Year 1XXXX
Even in the dim candlelight, he was able to see and trace the lines with an almost innate perfectionism, as if the paper and his hand were one, but his mind was the one that held the information in a burning fire, under strict custody. As if someone could steal the image. As if he would let it disappear.
He moved his thumb over the charcoal to shape the shadows of the face he was drawing. A face that haunted him for endless nights and days.
Even though he had been avoiding him with all his might.
His eyes behind his dark glasses blinked slowly, his lips twisting into a concentrated grimace as he moved the pencil toward the arch of his eyebrow, descending into those eyes, bright eyes that burned beyond him, too deep, too intensely.
He captured that intensity, balancing it with those long, delicate eyelashes, which gave him that sweet, soft touch, before lowering them to his lips.
Those lips that had captivated him with their different curves. Amusement, confusion, modesty, curiosity...
He lightly touched the lacy hair that fell over part of his shoulder-length face. A strong and delicate beauty that held nothing delicate about his personality.
He had surprised him all this week by approaching him. At first, politely, because he was the son of one of the guests at that great court, for the celebration of the daughter of the lord of the territory.
They had greeted each other, and each had gone their own way. Although he caught that turn of his head, that slight bow, and blue eyes full of curiosity.
He seemed to have been disappointed when he thought he wasn't looking at him, because his dark glasses covered his own gaze, which was too obvious.
Oh, but that didn't mean he wouldn't look at him.
On the contrary, he himself hadn't been able to resist searching for him with his gaze, always from a distance, always from a point that couldn't be discovered.
A selfish and twisted way of feeding his need. He had worked hard to focus on his duties, to push him out of his mind.
And yet, during those days, Lyor had found his way to him.
Never obvious, never intentionally. But he knew, he knew how capricious fate was being, how much it was pulling the string, watching for the moment he would lose control.
And he had tried so hard...
To move away, to avoid him, only glances, only fleeting images to silence those whispers that faded into the tips of his fingers, that gave him restless tingles, that didn't end even if he squeezed his knuckles.
It wasn't enough.
That's why he needed to capture it, to draw him, to have something of him that he could take with him.
Tomorrow he would leave, with no exact destination.
The most remote place possible.
It didn't matter, really, anywhere was a place, but he knew perfectly well he had to leave as soon as possible.
It wasn't as if he didn't want to stay. Oh...he longed for it. Just a little longer, just a little while longer. To find himself looking through one of the hat shop windows again, like that pair of blue eyes and parted lips that opened when he was caught staring, as he happened to stroll through the small town.
How Lyor participated in the hunts, riding a horse with a rifle in hand, the air moving his blond hair and sweat running down his neck, where those freckles were always exposed. How he turned his head to try to see someone in the audience, finding him hidden among the trees in the shade.
He would smile, thinking he didn't see him. But he did.
As if his whole hope was for him to see him. To recognize him.
And he saw him. He always saw him; he was too bright not to look at.
They had never had the time or the opportunity to get close, but he saw how Lyor tried.
How, after finishing his duties, or his social conversations, he would always move away from the crowd to look for him.
But he would always leave before that happened.
A game of cat and mouse.
How painful it could be, that longing, that denial of his own being, of indulging in just a few minutes of seeing him, sharing more than that brief moment of his introduction.
And he would have to leave.
With a silent sigh, he stood up with the drawing in his hands, caring for it as if it were made of glass. Fragile, precious. To him, it was. It was his way of keeping him close when distance would kill him inside.
But this time...he would get it.
However, he felt the hairs on his neck prick up, that electric shock passing through his entire body, to his fingertips. He didn't need to see him to know that Lyor was there.
He covered the drawing with papers, clutching them to his chest, before raising his hand to adjust his glasses.
His lips curled into a grimace, his fingers tightening over the documents. He had wasted too much time sitting here, and he had allowed fate to mock him again. Pulling the string again.
The sound of the door closing behind him told him what he feared most.
He was already here.
He peered between the shelves, following the candlelight, as if he hadn't expected to find Wesker there. He stopped and seemed to catch his breath. Even with his back turned, he could hear his lips part in surprise, how he stepped back and seemed to want to hide, or flee, and it was too late for that.
Perhaps this was a final twist of fate, perhaps a benevolence before his departure.
He wanted so badly to believe that.
That's why he couldn't resist turning his head slightly to speak in his baritone over his shoulder, firm and knowing it made him shudder.
"Good evening, Mr. Scott."
"...!?" This seemed to take him by surprise, and after a second of hesitation, he dared to emerge from his hiding place among the shelves. Speaking softly, but curiously. "Lord Wesker... How did you know it was me?"
Oh, sweet, innocent creature...
His lips gently curved upward as he ran a hand over the wood of the table, his fingers almost scratching.
"Your perfume is too strong to ignore," he replied simply and amusedly, already seeing the other man's confusion over his shoulder.
He even lightly reached for his own shirt to smell it, instinctively, not realizing that he was too adorable for doing so, wondering if it really was too strong.
His cheeks tinged slightly red in embarrassment.
"My apologies, I didn't mean to bother you. I just came to drop off the books Lord Graham lent me." His eyes shifted to the body of the black-clad man in front of him, always so enigmatic. He couldn't control the question, even though he knew he shouldn't ask, that there wasn't that kind of trust or closeness of social standing that would prevent him from being taken for a prying eye. He simply couldn't help it. "What are you doing here so late at night? And..."
Wesker heard boots approaching from behind, closing the distance.
His nostrils flared, breathing in his scent long before it naturally reached him.
He shouldn't have turned around. He shouldn't have. He couldn't. He clenched the documents in his hand.
Control Yourself...
"Why do you always wear glasses? It's not daytime in here," he commented, leaning slightly to look at him, placing the books on the table as a weak excuse for getting closer. "I don't mean to sound offensive, just--"
"You and your curiosity are a combination worth studying." Even if he wanted to turn his back on him, he ended up moving his body to face him when the proximity was too daring. His body was already tense, his jaw clenched.
But those eyes were already disarming him. The blush on his cheeks, moving to his neck, exposed with those freckles too adorable to resist touching. To feel that racing pulse that he could already hear from this distance.
His expression turned shy and embarrassed.
"I really didn't mean to sound offensive. I'm sorry." He touched his hair, brushing some away from his forehead so it fell back like a cascade of blonde. "It was just curiosity, I'll keep it at bay."
Oh, if only it were true, though it wasn't something that bothered him. He knew where this was going. His own pulse quickened slightly as he looked at the sky on the dark horizon, then at the hands of that old clock. He wasn't sure of the time, or how long he'd been drawing, lost in his thoughts, but the sooner he got going, the better.
"Don't worry, Mr. Scott, I'm not offended. You should go to your quarters now; tomorrow is a big day for you, isn't it?"
Lyor's eyes widened slightly, a mixture of surprise and almost innocent, brilliant excitement.
"Oh, you know about my birthday? Who told you? No, it doesn't matter, it really is an honor that you remember it! You'll stay for the party, right?" Perhaps he had sounded too enthusiastic, too hopeful, but finally, after weeks of trying to find this mysterious, captivating man again, who had haunted his mind from the very beginning, he had found him so he could get to know each other better.
He wanted Lord Wesker to be there for his birthday so much, so they could talk more, not just cordial, short conversations. He wanted to hear him speak. His thoughts, his tastes.
People spoke of him as if he were a scholar, with a brilliant mind, with admiration and fear in equal measure. He arrived there overnight and in a short time, he made a name for himself, recognized by all and admired as a genius ahead of his time. Even the clergy of the church kept their distance because his influence surpassed even the laws of God. So great was Lord Wesker that Lyor felt he had begged for sanity by wanting to be under his gaze for a few moments.
In an illogical and almost magical way. As absurd as that was.
Without realizing it, he'd shortened the distance, causing the man to tense, not out of fear, but something more. Something unspoken, something charged between them. Then, when Lord Wesker moved, something fell from among the papers he was holding.
Lyor's eyes glanced down, meeting a charcoal drawing. A drawing of him.
His breath caught in his throat as he bent down to pick it up, his eyes wide and bright, something inside him already burning with warmth that was hard to hide. He looked up at the blond man in front of him, his lips parted in a near-smile.
"Have you...did this?"
Wesker seemed hesitant to answer that. He considered what he should say, whether to snatch that drawing from his hands or indulge the object of his obsession that was gnawing at his mind. He didn't feel the strength to take it back. Lyor's smile disarmed him with the ease of a seasoned swordsman.
That's why he answered.
"Yeah, one..." he seemed to think about it, before slumping his shoulders and giving a slightly tilted smile. "A little something for your birthday."
It was pure whim, telling him, to delight in that sight. The surprise, the blush growing from his neck to his ears. His cheeks were covered in a pink that was too flattering, just as his eyes shone with flattery and shyness.
"That's amazing, thank you very much. Really!" He looked into his eyes again, bravely daring to take a step closer. "Why did you do it? I mean, it's not that I don't like it, I love it! But why? We haven't had a chance to talk since Lady Graham's party. I'm not... I'm not worthy of this gift!"
Wesker already felt on the edge of sanity, so close and so difficult to control his hands from touching him. From cradling that face between his fingers.
To erase that aberrant doubt from his mind, to remove any trace of believing he was less than worthy.
But he leaned closer nonetheless, allowing himself to drink in the scent that wafted through his nostrils, slipping down his throat and riddling his brain, memorizing it.
"I'm afraid I have to leave before midnight, and I wanted to give you a gift for your big day, Mr. Scott. Even though we haven't been able to spend more time together, does that prevent you from receiving a gift?"
He gently tilted his head, and Lyor seemed to follow his movement, staring down at the drawing for a moment before looking up and tugging at his own lips in a soft smile.
"Not at all." They stared at each other for moments that seemed countless, neither wanting to break the warm atmosphere that had settled between them. The space was limited, their toes almost touching.
It was then that Wesker didn't anticipate how Lyor stood on tiptoe and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. He tensed, his eyes wide behind those dark glasses, the hands resting at his sides tensing and retracting, controlling himself. Barely.
Actually, he didn't want to control himself.
He moved them to take Lyor by the arms, keeping him at this distance, their bodies practically pressed together, his face moving to brush against the other man's nose.
Their breaths touched, their breathing slightly ragged, their eyes staring at each other with something heavy between them, like a fuse before it explodes. They both knew it, they both wanted the same thing and were about to do it.
Until the sound of the grandfather clock projected a loud sound, echoing in the room, and on Wesker's skin.
He quickly glanced at the clock to make sure the time was right.
He sighed in relief to find he still had an hour to go.
"Now it's officially my birthday, Lord Wesker..." Lyor had murmured, still touching the man with one hand on his chest, the other holding the drawing.
That earned the taller blond a quick turn of his head, who frowned, his skin tingling again, an old, familiar alarm in his being that extended to his very core.
His voice raspy, he asked.
"What did you say? It's not midnight yet."
"Oh..." He seemed surprised and somewhat embarrassed by this abrupt change of atmosphere, as he had planned something more intimate. Then he cleared his throat, blushing. "Th-that clock is slow, Mr. Graham told me the other day. Didn't you know?"
Wesker's pulse quickened, and his features hardened, his jaw tense, his teeth clenched. He took a step back, running a hand through his hair. He began to curse under his breath; there was no escape now. No matter how hard his mind tried to make plans, he quickly discarded them because there was no room for error!
Time was running out...
And the worst part?
His eyes moved to Lyor.
No... it couldn't be... Fate was playing tricks on him again?! Was he doomed to this twisted joke?!
Lyor didn't understand his change of attitude, of course. The sweet creature approached him again, reaching out to touch his arm, trying to reassure him.
"Hey... is something wrong, Lord Wes-..." The words died on his lips when his eyes suddenly opened as he saw a spark of blue fire ignite in his hand. It spread throughout it, burning his clothes, skin, and bones. Fear flashed in his eyes, and he looked back at Wesker. "Lord Wesker?! What the hell is going on?! My hand!! My arm?!! AAAAAAAAHHHggHHh?!!!!"
He panicked, seeing how even his feet began to burn, how these flames appeared and began to consume him as he screamed in pain and fear.
Wesker wasted no time, taking his face in both hands, holding him close, making him look at him. Watching those eyes shed tears filled with pain and fear.
"Lyor...Lyor, please, look at me...I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I should have left sooner...!" he said in a dejected, sincere voice, brushing under his eyes to wipe away the desperate tears. "Shh...shh...I have you...it'll pass...I have you, Lyor...!"
He pressed their foreheads together, wrapping his arms around him, while he himself felt a different pain. The fire didn't burn him, but Lyor's screams echoed in his head. His arms held his body, which was writhing in search of relief and freedom, tightly wrapped around him.
His poor voice died away into a bitter, pitiful murmur, his name on his lips, which disappeared.
Wesker didn't close his eyes.
He didn't want to leave him alone in this. He didn't want him to suffer alone. He looked at him, held him close, as if he wished the flames would take him too.
His breathing labored, barely allowing himself the luxury of tears, feeling a single tear escape as he tried to remain composed.
When the voice fell silent, when the only thing he held in his hands was Lyor's skull, engulfed in bright blue fire, like the rest of Lyor, evaporating in sparkles amid the flames.
Until the skull too turned into that stardust, until the flames stopped dancing in the air, and he left the castle library in silence.
The half-burned drawing on the floor, where a dark stain was the only proof that anyone had ever been there.
Wesker slowly lowered his arms to his sides. He raised his head to the air, and remained calm.
He was gone. He had lost him again, trusting that fate would be benevolent.
For believing he'd have a chance if he treated the world better than it deserved.
He took a slow breath before bursting into a fierce, beastly, unhuman scream. He unleashed his anger and sorrow, throwing the table and chairs against the walls. Knocking over the bookshelves.
At some point, the books and candles fell to the floor, causing a fire to burst forth and spread through the room and beyond.
Wesker didn't care.
He left that room, that castle, breathing heavily, clenching his knuckles as if he hadn't yet had enough to stifle his anger and sadness.
Not even the screams in the background as the castle began to burn were enough to drown out the voice in his head that demanded blood and pain. Something that would make him feel even a second of what he had just lost that night.
He advanced along the brick path, following the trail to leave the castle grounds, going against the flow of the services that were rushing to try to put out the fire and evacuate the people inside.
He just kept moving forward.
He had no choice.
He had nothing else.
He could only move forward.
And quench his thirst with the souls of those who weren't guilty, causing another night of terror in that small town. He had helped them as much as he could.
He had tried to change things, and yet this was his reward.
Well, it wouldn't be like that. No...
His eyes shone redder than ever, like two burning rubies, as he walked almost erratically, enraged, with emptiness in his chest, dripping only anger and pain.
Because if he couldn't breathe right now, because of his sadness and anger, his immeasurable loss, then no one in that village would.