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Summary
Perhaps it was because Alastor was sure that Vincent wouldn't remember any of this. Perhaps it was because he was seeing his mother’s face, fevered and twisted in pain, when he looked at the man laying on his couch.
He saw the shadows on the wall run against the edge of his vision, and fought bile. The house was playing with its food.OR
Vincent comes to Alastor's door with a fever. What was Alastor supposed to do- turn him away? His brain knows he should, his heart? -too often goes against his will when it comes to this most pathetic devotee.
guys this is a shameless sick fic with a haunted house that turned into that cannibalism/consumption as a metaphor for love bs. read at your own discretion mwahaha
