The Tragedy of 1856

The Last Act

a quote by mark twain (1) and James Joyce (2)
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"What is he doing?"

Harry sits on the windowsill. He had been looking out into the darkness for a while now, squinting his eyes when he thought he saw a shadow, his face unconsciously getting closer to the glass, fogging it up to the point where he let out a frustrated groan and quickly wiped over it with the lace ruffles at the end of his sleeve.

YN, however, had been calm as ever as she tiptoed through the room in her silk nightgown, trying to get everything together and finally get ready for the night.

He, on the other hand, has already been in the clothes Diavol gave him since early dawn. The tight leather trousers fit his crotch like a glove — real gas pipes — and flare to the bottom to swing gracefully with each hurried step he took to get here. The Count apparently has a liking for ruffles on him, as the note on the pile of clothing on the bed in his new chamber said, which led to Harry being adorned with one of the most delicate blouses on his skin.

And because Harold likes to be flamboyant in every aspect possible, although he's very, very shy and gets flustered often — that doesn't keep him from liking being drooled at and lusted over —, he even dared to leave all the buttons down to his navel open, being risky and outrageous, a whole tease, with giving just a peek of his pale skin. A spark of silver is inconspicuously resting between his pecs; a fine chain and pendant that Diavol took off his own neck and lay around the bruised skin of Harold's neck after his transformation. For protection, he said, he would need it from now on. Right after they held him for a while, stroked his hair, and kissed his temples and cheeks.

But he figured people, or rather walking corpses, would not exactly mind a bit of skin with the appetite built up over years or perhaps centuries.

The leather frock coat with glimmering golden buttons littering the seam and falling a scant over his buttocks is a bit tight around his shoulders and ends too soon down his arms, his wrists free and naked. The blouse is a bit wrinkled by now though. He has been in these clothes a long time; the span from one dawn to the other. Walking up, down and through the castle without the shiver-running-down-his-spine fear that normally accompanied him when he travelled through the dark hallways and narrow corridors feels supremely liberating to him. Another burden that has been lifted for the exchange of his soul. Although Harold sensed the shadows creeping around him and eyes from the paintings following his figure, the newly gained power running through his veins deterred even the evil spirits from coming too close to him.

Instead, they curl away from him in fear.

Being undead is odd.

The boy knows he should be frightened and scared of the unknown, of the change that overpowered his mortal life, of the thought of having to exist through hurting people. But he can't help but enjoy himself. The few days, that is, where he doesn't have to be anxiety-ridden by every little sound and every fleeting movement. No, he is feared, and while he had been searching through the whole library in need of answers to all of these questions knocking around his skull, because the Count kept short with that, he was also hiding from the one thing that he is certain won't be afraid of him.

Professor Hallewell will know the second he'd lay eyes on the boy. And he won't hesitate to get that stake and mallet ready and impale him right through the dead muscle protected by his rips.

His forehead gets sweaty when he thinks about having to face his old companion again.

But Harry looks pretty and so strong, and that is the only thing that matters for tonight. At least from what he could see when he glanced down his body and what YN whispered after he stood in the doorway and she gasped, running towards him and patting his jaw lovingly.