Chapter Text
He doesn’t sleep much anymore. Only when it creeps up like an assassin, drawing a veil over his senses until everything fades away. He’s rarely in a bed when it occurs, unless he’s managed to drink himself into a stupor. He doesn’t do that often. It lets him find rest before unconsciousness overtakes him, but it also shows him more of the ghosts.
He’s so tired of the ghosts.
Some days, it feels like they’re around every corner. He walks into a parlor and sees his father reading; he walks into his mother’s workshop and sees her examining a vial. He walks into his childhood bedroom and sees his younger self, playing with a set of blocks. He knows they aren’t real, and neither are the other shades that haunt his steps, the ones he always sees out of the corner of his eye, their necks dripping a steady red torrent onto the floor. But what does that matter? They’re real enough to condemn him.
When sleep does claim him, he dreams of blood and bones, strewn around the castle in an endless wasteland. He wanders it alone, searching, though he never knows what for. Again and again he sees his mother burn, impales his father, sees Belmont and Sypha torn to bloody shreds by night creatures, kills Taka and Sumi. It repeats until he wakes, throat raw from screams, more exhausted than before he slept.
He doesn’t sleep much anymore. He goes through the motions of living (eat, train, drink, wander the halls, nightmares), but he knows this isn’t living. It used to hurt, weeks ago, but even that fragment of emotion has abandoned him. He tells himself that’s probably for the best. He will be the monster in the castle. He has nothing else to be. (Are you the Alucard? he hears an eager voice echo through the corridors.) But God, he wishes he could at least dream of something other than death.
The button-eyes of the dolls sitting on the kitchen shelf stare at him every time he enters. He hasn’t talked to them in weeks (what would you say?). He hopes their living equivalents are safe. He hopes they’re happy. He hopes the nightmares where he watches helplessly as night creatures feast on their flesh don’t portend some ill omen for their fates.
Still, he prefers those nightmares to the other ones, the ones that don’t begin as nightmares. They begin with heat against his bare skin, lips warm upon his own, and two sets of blue eyes (one pair like the ocean and one pair like the sky) gazing fondly down at him. The dream never turns on him immediately; he has time for their touches to ease the guilt, promising a relief he scarcely dares imagine, before they take out their knives.
Sometimes their faces stay the same after that. Sometimes they shift into a different pair of people altogether, the ones he’d failed, the ones who’d tried to kill him. He’d almost let them do it, let them end it all, but he knew Belmont wouldn’t have wanted his family’s knowledge in the hands of those who only wanted it for power. So he’d slit his salvation’s throat, watched the blood pool on the bed, and remained within the silver bonds until they burned almost to the bone.
He’d hoped he could make this place penance for his failures, use Belmont’s bequest for good, perhaps train others to defend themselves against the monsters of the night. But he’s accomplished nothing. Nothing except creating another tale to scare the children of Wallachia, as the spikes of bones grow in number outside the castle’s front door (he warns them; he always warns them to stay away, leave me alone alone alone, but they don’t always listen). Perhaps he was a fool to think he could be anything else.
It's fine, he tells himself. He’s carrying on a legacy, in a way. The Alucard. The days pass and the nights pass and they blur into one another; he’s not a true vampire and it matters little to him whether the sun is out or not, save that sleep rarely finds him once the night arrives.
He doesn’t sleep much anymore.
*
He hears the wagon outside before he sees it, the uneven thump of its wheels audible to his ears through the castle’s stone walls. He sighs, holding out a hand for his sword as he walks, and it flies into his grasp. This time, perhaps, they'll heed his warnings, and he won't have to use it. As he reaches the top of the stairs, he sees two figures standing in the shadows, each with one twisted hand outstretched toward him, their mouths open in silent accusation.
He ignores them. There will be time enough for ghosts once the intruders are gone. His feet skim above the floor as he descends the staircase. The sooner he gets this over with, the better.
He pulls the door open, stone grinding ominously against stone, and points his sword at the people on the castle's threshold. Leave, he means to say, or join the ones outside, but the words die on his lips as he catches sight of two faces he'd never thought to see again.
A man, tall and muscular, scar across one eye, a whip coiled at his side. A woman, dressed in blue robes, with short blond hair and sky-blue eyes, now widening at his version of a welcome.
Belmont.
Sypha.
He freezes.
"Alucard?" Belmont asked, a frown creasing his face. He glances from him, to the sword, to Sypha, and back again.
"Why—" he begins, but his voice falters. When was the last time he used it? A week ago or more, when the last visitors arrived. He swallows once, trying to clear his throat. "What are you doing here?"
"We," Sypha says, and stops. Her hand stirs briefly at her side, but he can't tell who the faint twitch was meant to aim for—Belmont, for comfort, or him, in self-defense. He watches her gaze flick side to side, at the first two bodies he'd staked up to flank the door. The weather has stripped them away to skeletons by now, but he can still see their eyes, alive and staring through the bleached bone.
"We thought we'd visit," she finishes. There's a question at the end of the phrase, or perhaps a request, but he's too tired to piece out its meaning. How long has it been this time, since sleep last overtook him? Two days? Three?
"Oh." He lets the sword drop, its point tinging dully against the castle's stone steps. Visit. He feels laughter bubbling up inside him, sharp and frantic, and bites his tongue to stave it off. Visit. As though he were some neighborhood acquaintance or old friend, an ordinary man with no corpses arrayed outside his door. That man, the friend, would say come in, or welcome, but the words flit through his mind like sunlight dappling across water, and disappear into the depths. Instead, he simply turns around and retreats inside the castle, leaving the door open.
The footsteps following him are tentative, the heartbeats pulsing behind him quick. He wonders if they're afraid of him. He wonders if he minds.
"What the fuck happened?" Belmont asks. His voice echoes through the empty hall, ringing against the stone ceiling. At the sound of it, the silhouettes standing at the top of the stairs, blood pooling at their feet, turn silently and depart, their feet padding noiselessly on the runner carpet.
"Nothing," he says, and an ache twists his chest so badly that he nearly collapses. He stops at the foot of the stairs, one hand digging into the banister, and catches his breath. "Nothing."
"Nothing?" Sypha's voice pitches higher, a rapier-point aiming for him. "Nothing? There are dead bodies scattered across your—"
"Sypha," Belmont says, hushed and warning, and she hisses in a breath.
When she speaks again, it's softer. "Did someone attack the castle?"
He nods. He reconsiders. He shakes his head.
"Are you all right?" she asks. He feels a hand graze the fabric of his shirt at his elbow, the heat radiating from it searing his skin, and he flinches away. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the hand pause in midair, then drop back to her side.
"I'm fine," he says, and the two of them aren't stupid; they must know that it's a lie, but (small mercies) they don't challenge it.
Belmont shifts from one foot to the other. "So…do you mind if we stay here, then?" The tone is uncharacteristically hesitant.
Go away, he almost snarls, an wave of panic washing through him. They can't see this. They can't see him like this. But the thought of chasing them away turns the wave to ice, gripping around his heart, and he can't force his selfish tongue to form the words.
"Stay if you like," he says. He doesn't look back as he starts up the stairs; he keeps his feet on the ground this time. "Pick any bedroom you want."
He doesn't wait to hear their response, and they don't follow him. The thrum of their heartbeats, remaining stationary in the entry hall, recedes as he turns down the western corridor, letting the castle absorb him.
*
They stay. He knows they stay because he can hear them moving around the castle, wandering its halls. He knows his home's layout far better than they do, and so he has no trouble avoiding their paths, vanishing into hidden passageways and down sequestered stairwells if he hears their heartbeats get too close.
He finds a bedroom the night after they arrive and tries to rest; he doesn't want to risk them finding him collapsed in the hallway. He makes sure it's far enough away from the one they chose that they won't hear him screaming.
He sleeps. It doesn't last.
For the next few days, he makes a game of it, seeing how closely he can weave his movements around theirs without making contact, like a child darting his hand in and out of a flame. Too late, he remembers the dolls on the kitchen shelf, and goes to hide them (what would they think of being made into cloth for your benefit?), but the shelf is empty. After a swift, panicked ransacking of the kitchen, he finds them fallen beneath the cupboards. He leaves them be. They're as well hidden there as they'd be anyplace else.
He sees the signs of their presence, of course—food disappearing from the kitchen, books moved around in the library, a tousled quilt on the bed in the easternmost bedroom on the second floor. Unlike the other ghosts in the castle, these ones are tangible; they leave behind a trail. He adapts what routine he has around them, though he knows, from the methodical patterns of their movements, that they're looking for him. (Why? Why bother?) He learns their habits, draws warm water in the baths before the time they tend to bathe and leaves a cooked meal waiting in time for them to eat. He would hate to be a poor host.
Sometimes he hesitates, almost lets their paths cross, but when the pulse of the heartbeats grows louder, he always departs (running away). They don't spend all their time together—Sypha often spends her afternoons in the library; Belmont in the courtyard or venturing outside the castle to the archives underground—but when night falls, both heartbeats return to the same place.
Sometimes he lets himself see them. There are many vantage points in the castle where one can observe unseen. He watches Sypha examining the paintings on the walls, Belmont having a drink in the dining room. Close enough to call out to, if he wished, but every time he has the thought, the pain in his chest steals his breath away until he retreats.
He tells himself that at least they don't seem to see the ghosts that follow in their wake, the bloody prints smearing into the indents their feet leave in the carpets.
*
On the night of the fourth day—he'd started keeping track of days, again, somehow—he hears water running in the baths. Not an unusual sound, but an unusual time for it—and the heartbeats are faster. Had they been injured? In danger? He'd been keeping an eye out for more visitors, more night creatures, but the roads had remained clear, or so he'd thought. His feet carry him toward the baths before he can think, one hand clutched tight around his sword.
The door to the room is closed, steam billowing out from under it, but no sounds of battle from within. He pauses, laying a hand on the carved stone, and tries to quiet his sparking nerves to listen. Two heartbeats, too fast—
And then, amid the splashing of the water, he hears a breathless sigh and a ragged groan. The timbre of it, low and satisfied, resonates through his bones; it feels as if it's splintering them to pieces, splintering him to—
The heartbeats in the baths slow, and the only one left thundering in his ears is his own. (Idiot, what danger would they be in here besides from you?)
He flees. No pretense of steps on the ground, not for this; all he wants is to be away from the baths, away from the pleasure resounding within—you knew they were doing this—of course he does; he's seen their casual caresses and embraces as they go about their daily business—but overhearing it makes him feel as though he's been sliced open, every nerve torn asunder and exposed to the open air.
He collapses in a room at the top of the castle's western tower, a bedroom overlooking the forest below. His sword clatters to rest at his side. They haven't seen him once in all the days they've been here. They won't miss him.
They won't miss him.
A desperate ache, too intense to even breathe around, throbs between his legs. He leans his head against the cool stone of the wall, trying to piece himself back together, but still it clouds his mind, growing into the all-consuming miasma of need that he thought he'd strangled dead weeks ago. He knows all too well where it leads, and still he can't stop himself from undoing his trousers, laces snapping against his shaking fingers.
He hisses in a breath as his hand closes on his cock, pressing insistently against the fabric, and pulls it free. He strokes once, up and down, shuddering at his own touch, and closes his eyes.
Imagines.
Hands caressing over his skin, one pair tracing over his chest and another pair along his thighs (God oh God it's so warm; they're so—). One of the figures settles behind him, pulling him down to rest against her breasts; the other kneels before him, spreading his legs apart with one hand. The him in his imaginings tips his head back to meet Sypha's gaze. Her hand trails down, caressing along his chest and stomach, and the ghost of it meets his own hand on his cock, stroking his length with delicate, practiced fingers. Belmont—Trevor, he moans out loud, Trevor—slides a hand under his back, and he wraps his legs around Trevor's hips. (Take me take me take me—)
Trevor thrusts inside him, cock filling him up until he can hardly breathe, as Sypha's strokes quicken. Even the thought of it is enough to make him buck against his hand, mewling a wordless plea—and for one brief, blissful moment, a rush of ecstasy swells in him and he thinks that finally—finally—
They turn their heads in unison to stare, two pairs of blue eyes turning black as pitch as the ghosts appear behind them, reaching out their hands for him. Pain sears across his arms and legs, the agony of silver etching itself into his flesh. Sypha and Trevor vanish into shadow, leaving only him and the ghosts and the taste of blood—
He flings himself away, his body colliding with the bedpost on the other side of the room. The impact drives the breath from his lungs, but brings him back to his senses. He chokes, shuddering, digging his fingers into the carpet to feel something solid beneath him. His ribs are going to have a vicious bruise. No matter. He heals quickly.
His cock hangs limply in his hand. He lets go. There's no point trying to start again; there never is. It's been so long, so goddamned long since he's had any release (the shame of his desperation turns to ashes in his mouth), and he's pent up enough to hurt—but he can't—he can't—
He curls into himself on the floor. Heat wells up in his eyes, and he doesn't try to hold it back (no one to see you here), just lets the sobs of agonized frustration wrack him hollow.