#STEALINK lizas formatting. yoink

[zweicurious]

The Hunter's Chapel (1.2K words)

Have this chapter excerpt from my big ol (very heavily) bloodborne inspired story tentatively titled "Sanguine and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Hunt"

heres hoping it's at least half parsable

He awoke from a dreamless sleep. A funny thing it was, as he could not recall closing his eyes. It was disorientating, being back in the ruins of the stone chapel; the familiar dusty scent of ivy layering the memories of months past overtop the present. The smoke--always the tang of smoke--lingered around him, but as if coals of the firepit were stomped out, crushed, and sifted. Looking up, the moon shone brightly, streaming in through the broken lancet window. Sanguine squinted, used to the harbor haze that hung low in Carbrunne and cloaked the moon gently at night. Only a moment passed before the memory of when Lorcan first had taken Sanguine to this hunter's sanctuary overtook him.

Beyond the smell of ash, there was the stench of that horrible perfume from within Lorcan's locket. It was something Sanguine had noticed once before; and only when it was opened. But as the last of the beast blood worked its way through him, he could smell it through the silver. Perhaps if Lorcan had not been as close as he was, stitching up a wound on Sanguine's shoulder, he would not have been able to smell it at all.

As it was, he couldn't feel the sting of the antiseptic, and felt no more than a dull throbbing spreading through his collarbone. He couldn't see Lorcan-- or much of anything-- without his glasses, but he squinted anyway, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. His heart pounded, and he felt his blood hot underneath his skin. Lorcan was trying to talk to him, or he thought he was. The roaring in his ears drowned most of it out, so he just nodded and winced as the needle pierced his skin. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend it was the tide of the sea, washing him over with warmth.

"Sanguine," 

"Huh?"

"Why do you do this?" Lorcan's usual gruffness was absent, but Sanguine could not name what took its place.

"It's not," Sanguine took a moment to swallow, not realizing how dry his mouth had been. "how I've been intending to perform."

"It makes you reckless, you know." His voice was even, but he pulled on Sanguine's stitches a little too sharply as he tied them off. "There won't always be someone to pick you up and put you back together."

"Then why do you do it?" Sanguine asked. "Pity is no substitute for love."

"Not for pity, but not for love, neither."

Sanguine groaned. "Oh, don't tell me that, you'll ruin all the ideas I had about you."

"What, that I pity you?" Lorcan was focused on the wound, and yet Sanguine wondered why he couldn't spare a glance his way.

"I can find pity in abundance," Sanguine said, gesturing with his hand, the one he could feel. "No, that perhaps you like me after all."

Lorcan snorted at that. "It's just a favor I'm doing, that's all." The words registered on some level, and Sanguine silently gave thanks to the blood for both the numbing of the mind as well as the body. The distant sadness itched under his skin, but he was able to dismiss it easily.

Dawn light broke over them, and with it came a morning chill that left Sanguine shivering in his sweat stained undershirt.

"There," Lorcan said, slapping Sanguine on the arm casually, either not noticing or not caring about Sanguine's grimace of pain. "All finished."

"It's fucking cold." Sanguine chattered. "Where's my coat?"

"It won't do you any good, as shredded as it is. You're better off by the fire." Lorcan huffed, wiping his stained hands. Sanguine reached out an arm for support, and Lorcan sighed, grabbing Sanguine's waist and letting him toss his good arm over his shoulder. Sanguine clung to him and let himself be led, exhaustion weighing him down. He didn't struggle outwardly, but Lorcan's limp became more noticeable as he shouldered the bulk of Sanguine's weight. He held him close anyway, and Sanguine let his head fall on his shoulder, catching another hint of that repugnant perfume.

His stomach lurched as Lorcan set him down, the heat of the fire stinging his skin as he tried to warm himself up. He lay on his side, cradling his wounded arm, and watched the flames sputter to life as Lorcan fanned it. He fed it two logs, and sat down next to Sanguine, the two of them watching the fire climb up the wood slowly.

A hollow ache sat heavily on Sanguine's chest, unlike the pains he was accustomed to, brought on by illness. He knew what the name for it was, the emotion that plagued him. It made him wonder what it would feel like for Lorcan to touch him softly, different from the rough contact, born from the necessity of the hunt. He was close, perhaps closer than usual, and it would be so easy for him to brush a calloused hand against Sanguine's cheek. He was too tired to stop himself from thinking about it, as he often did. Longing for that closeness, he reached his hand out to the fire, feeling the heat as close as he could before it burned his fingertips.

"I should be heading back," Lorcan said, cutting through Sanguine's thoughts and grounding him in harsh reality. Though he left out the word home, Sanguine felt its implication. All the other hunters had headed out some time late last night, while Lorcan had stayed with him to stitch him up.

"You couldn't stay longer?" Sanguine cringed as he said it, his voice thick with the dejection of an infatuated child.

Lorcan shook his head. "You'll manage. And the blood will keep you alive anyhow."

Sanguine was at a loss for words; he couldn't tell him exactly why he should stay, or why Sanguine wanted him to in the first place. 

Instead he said, "The fire's burning low." It was a desperate plea, and Sanguine knew it. He just hoped that it wasn't as apparent to Lorcan as it was to him.

"I'll build it up for you," and he did, arranging two logs parallel and vertically, and then two logs on top of those, laid horizontally. He did this twice more with smaller pieces of wood, and fanned it one more time. Sanguine watched him work, hanging on to the precious few moments he could steal. Disappointment stung him as he slowly came to terms with Lorcan's leaving.

He finished stoking the fire, and Sanguine stared into it, dread making him unable to meet Lorcan's eyes as he picked up his axe and his hat. He stepped through the threshold, into the cold, dark morning, without so much as a goodbye. Sanguine waited, unsure of the exact reason. What he wanted was a hopeless thing; for Lorcan to turn back around, and lay Sanguine's head in his lap, talking to him in a low voice until he drifted off. He wanted him to reveal a gentleness Sanguine had never known him to possess. He chided himself, knowing well Lorcan could never choose him over the life he lived outside the hunt. And yet the wanting left him sick, and deluded him into making his fantasies sound almost reasonable.

As the warmth of fire lulled him to sleep, Sanguine thought absently to himself that he preferred pity to obligation.

#STEALINK lizas formatting. yoink #oc