Work Text:
10 months.
It had been 10 months.
10 months since Hudson has been gone.
10 months of silence, but only 1 month of that damn smell.
Absalom couldn't take it anymore. With a heavy heart, he tossed the corpse of his boyfriend out of the train they used to share, slamming the rickety door, as if they had had an argument. He tried not to cry, to not show any emotion at all. The vampire figured it'd be easier that way. After that, he never saw the mans uncharacteristically pale, crimson stained skin again. Usually it was tan, kissed by the sun and black lipstick, before he drank a majority of his blood, ripped him apart, and feasted on his muscle, 10 months ago. He couldn't stop himself from keeping the cowboy hat, though. The smell from it wasn't nearly as bad, in fact, it was familiar.
Then, following his almost instinctive need for normalcy, he kept living. As if nothing happened, as if Hudson was never a person, he lived. Unstable, gathering bad habits like poker chips, but living.
Absalom found himself awake again. Lying on the rough floor of the train bed, he quickly sat himself up on his elbows. He had no memory of the night before, but judging by the smear of blood he could feel and smell around his lips, he figured he had caught another victim.
"Mmgh," Grumbling, he sat up and stretched his joints, earning a pleasant pop from most.
The man stood up, staring at the moon through the dusty train window. It illuminated his pale skin nicely, giving him an almost ethereal look, when he was nothing of the sort. Gaze shifting, he focused on his reflection instead. Or, lack of reflection. He simply stared where it should be. Tried to imagine his appearance, how his expressions would contort and change as he scrutinized his face and body. The man was always handsome, this he knew, but he couldn't help but wonder if he had any differences on him now. There's no way that one could look the same after everything that happened.
Slowly but surely, the idea began to make him sick. Sick of what, he wasn't sure, but sick. Maybe it would be his eyebags, his untamed hair, or the dried red around his lips that had disgusted him. Maybe it was how, for a moment, he imagined that he looked the same as his lover did, 10 months ago.
Turning away from the window, he ran a hand through his hair and searched for his crown. His fathers crown. He thought of him, what he might think of him now. His father's face was completely lost in his memory, now nothing but a splotchy blur whenever he tried to remember. Similar to Hudson. At least he could remember some of Hudson's features... The only viable memory of his father was how he could always find something to scrutinize, always find a way to be cruel.
Absalom put on the crown, fixing his hair around it. Then he found his usual clothes—a red sweater with a white button up underneath, a black jacket, jeans, and a corset. As he tightened the corset, he pulled the strings harder than usual, until he felt his ribs crushing in on his lungs.
There was no time or need for his usual makeup, because his only plans today were to get as drunk as possible. Drinking was a habit he'd had since even before he met Hudson... of course, it only got worse. Much worse in the last 10 months. At least with Hudson, he had someone to stop him.