ph_logs | December TL -- A Triptych

December TL -- A Triptych

Who: Pyotr Stamatin and players like you <3
What: Open post for those who would like to meet Artemy and Daniil's castmate!
When: December
Where: See below
Warning(s): Depression, alcoholism, and suicide ideation, including references to a successful attempt pre-game.

Panel One -- The Oak & Iron

A new ghost has come to Pumpkin Hollow.

His heart may beat, his skin feels warm, but he is a ghost all the same, one with clenched jaw and burning, agonized eyes. Coming here was a mistake; he'd opened his veins in anticipation of oblivion. Finding himself in a mundane office instead so bewildered Pyotr that he'd participated in the following conversation by rote, agreeing to everything the strange woman said so he could get away. And now he's stuck here, in a place where he can't die.

Nothing could be worse -- except for the fact that he's also sober. No, even worse than that: he feels healthy, in a way he hasn't since boyhood. Steady hands, clear eyes...if he cut himself open he'd probably find his liver fresh and regular in color, free of the cirrhosis that used to fret Andrey so until he rejoined Pyotr in architecture.

His thoughts follow one after the other in steady procession, without interruption or pause. Agonizing. Intolerable -- and he knew from long experience that wine would not be enough to soothe his soul, but it would make a fair enough anesthetic. If he could just stop thinking...

A ghost in the shape of a man sits down at the bar at the Oak & Iron, looking no higher than the level of the counter as he orders a bottle of wine.

Panel Two -- The edge of the woods

Eventually the noise of the bar gets to be too much for him. All those people coming and going, and even when they do him the courtesy of ignoring him he struggles to do the same. There was a reason he always avoided the Broken Heart...

No surprise, then, that he eventually walks out in search of a little quiet. He winds up on a track leading west out of town, through a thin patch of wood that opens out into farmland. There by a wooden fence, an interesting sight at last: a fallen kite, built in the shape of a bird out of colored paper and sticks. He turns it over gently and finds one of its wings crushed beneath the body, its bones snapped in twos and threes.

"Don't be sad," he tells it softly. "A bird can live quite well without its wings, so long as it takes care to avoid the cats."

Panel Three -- The Temple

The Cathedral was a loathsome sight, a great dead block of stone with neither love nor the will to seek it. He'd never understood Eva's infatuation with the cursed place; he'd boarded up all the windows in his flat that faced that side of town, so he wouldn't see even a speck of it by accident. The Temple...is not like that. Even standing outside, he can tell: this is a building with a soul.

Possibly four of them, if you listened to the locals.

It makes him sick, the way these people talk about their goddesses. Like they're people who can be just walked up to and touched --! It's not the first time Pyotr's wondered how much simpler his life might have been -- if he'd born one of the Kin, for instance -- but now the question burns him like a stomach full of coals. If he'd been born in a world like this...

What is he even doing here? Do these goddesses long for death? They could have satisfied themselves with Burakh in that case; he's the experienced god-killer. Pyotr Stamatin's talents lie more in the area of divine maiming. And besides, his useful days are over for everyone. What did they bring him here for?

Supposedly, he might be able to just walk right in and find out. Supposedly...

Fuck it, he's freezing his balls off out here. Pyotr pushes the heavy door open ahead of himself, passing through -- and immediately loses his nerve, sitting down on one of the nearest pews. This is fine.

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And that's how Pyotr wakes, squinting his eyes against the weight of sunlight sneaking in past the curtains. His chest rises and falls under the far more welcome weight of Erik's head -- at least until he recalls the substance of his own anticipations. He was promised peace and time as a formless ghost; he recalls nothing of the sort. But the bloodloss, his body's current weakness...

It couldn't be that Erik cheated him, could it?

"Hey," he says hoarsely, putting a hand on Erik's shoulder to jostle him awake. "Hey. Erik. Wake up."

Erik's body goes from the rigidity of a corpse to sudden wakefulness in the space of a breath. His eyes snap open and almost instantly he's sitting up. Fuck. He fell asleep?? What was he thinking? What is he doing?

"My apologies," he says stiffly, rising from the bed and straightening his rumpled clothes. "Your blood intoxicated me more than I anticipated. How are you feeling this morning?"

Okay, it's a little hard to stay suspicious when Erik looks that guileless in the morning sunlight. Like a mastiff tripping over its own feet.

"I feel fine," he says slowly, feeling out the spot on his forehead where his skin no longer splits. "Better than fine, honestly." It's a little disappointing. He narrows his eyes.

"What happened after I passed out?"

"That's to be expected. What good would dying do if you didn't come back healed?" Now that his wits are back about him, the lie flows from his tongue as smooth as silk.

"After? I hardly remember much myself. I thought I would just rest on the bed for a moment and then take my leave, but as you can see that plan did not quite pan out." And that part is the truth.

"I thought I was supposed to become a ghost, though?" Instead everything went black, like the deepest sleep imaginable...honestly, he thinks he might actually prefer it this way. And then there were the things that happened just before...

"I apologize if I sound ungrateful," he says, staring directly in Erik's eyes. "I promise I'm not. After all, you gave me everything I asked for." And then he raises a hand to Erik's cheek, carefully tucking a few strands of his sleep-mussed hair behind his ear. "I wonder if there's anything I could do to make it happen again..."

Ah, yes. He regrets letting that part slip now. "Perhaps your own mind rejected the notion of becoming a ghost. Most people who die here aren't quite so desperate for it as you were."

Erik's thin brows knit together in concern as he meets Pyotr's gaze. He barely knows what he should feel from this and startles into dead stillness as the man tucks a lock behind his ear so tenderly. The suggestion hanging between them feels like a forbidden fruit. Dare he reach up to pluck it?

He plucks at Pyotr's wrist, instead, stroking his thumbnail suggestively over that spot he'd bitten just last night. "The first thing you'll have to do is drink more water and less wine."

"So you don't pass out again?" Pyotr smirks slightly. "I suppose I can't blame you for that, although I wouldn't have expected a member of the undead to be such a lightweight."

His first overtures accepted, he begins to grow bolder, his free hand rising to stroke Erik's face and gently feel out the contours of his teeth through the layers of muscle and skin. "What other limitations do you have? In the film, the vampire faded away in the morning sunlight -- clearly that stricture doesn't apply to you. If I throw a handful of rice or beans over my shoulder, will you be compelled to stop and count them?"

"Yes," Erik answers flatly, in contrast to that smirk. "I was also still recovering from a stab wound, if you recall."

He does nothing to stop Pyotr's touches, but he doesn't respond to them much, either--that is...until the man starts feeling for his teeth through his lips. Erik catches that other wrist now, too, and holds both out on either side, as if he's threatening to pin Pyotr down on the bed.

"Most human superstitions are woefully inaccurate. A stake through the heart won't kill me and neither will cutting off my head. The sun doesn't scorch me, religious iconography does not bother me, I can enter any place I please uninvited, garlic tastes delicious, rice nor beans stop me, and for the love of all things holy, I do. not. Sparkle. Does that answer most of them?"

His heartbeat quickens in his chest, suddenly enough that Pyotr feels a bit lightheaded. The bloodloss, perhaps? So not all his injuries could be healed by death.

He grins and asks, "So what about your strengths? You can clearly overpower me, but that means nothing. Could you have overpowered Burakh, if you'd needed to? Can you heal yourself, as you offered to heal me? What else can you do?"

His eyes are wide and blown out, like starving mouths. His own brother might not recognize this hunger in him, but then...Pyotr rarely meets someone so interesting.

What on earth is he hearing? The man's pulse has shot up and his eyes look like he's been drugged. Just what the hell kind of person is he dealing with? Why all these questions?

"I could lift the roof off of this house, and I could do it quicker than your eyes can see. I heal most wounds in a matter of minutes, as I did with that stab, but I require blood to replenish what I lose. My senses are vastly improved compared to yours. That includes my sense of smell. If you touch alcohol, I will smell it." So he better keep his bargain.

"Why are you so interested?"

"Is it not obvious?" He isn't as skilled in the language of flirtation as Andrey, but he'll do his best to make his wishes clear. Pyotr leans closer, straining against the grip on his wrists. They don't move at all, despite the awkwardness of the angle, and his face warms with autonomous arousal.

"I'm fascinated by you," he says bluntly. "How you conceal so many miracles, so much strength, while seeming so human. How you are filled with so many contradictions. You took a knife for me, and then drained me dry. I want to see more of that juxtaposition, the conflict between your kindness and your cruelty. I want to see how much of a monster you can be. I want you to hurt me -- and I want to take you apart and study your inner workings. I want to make art out of you, both from paper and your flesh. I want to see what you can make of me."

It was obvious. Or, it should have been. Some part of him held out hope that this wasn't going exactly where he feared it might be. Damn his ego. Even now, the praise and interest draws him as a moth to flame. To be adored in such a way is enticing, he cannot deny it. Even the way Pyotr tests the strength of his grip causes a new kind of hunger to rise.

One thing bothers him, however. "Understand this," he says coldly, "I have spent one thousand years resisting my inner monster, I will not have you steal my control. I can be cruel upon request," indeed, his grip tightens as he says it, until the sharp points of his nails prick at Pyotr's skin, "I can be your muse if you wish it, my body is eager to be your canvas, but you may not touch my soul. Is that clear?"

It's only a trifle, but even trifling things can count for a great deal in the right moment. For whatever it might be worth, Pyotr stops pulling on Erik's grip to consider his words, head tilted slightly to one side in a careful study of his face.

"May not be allowed, or may not be capable?" he asks quietly, and then shrugs in dismissal of his own musing. "Either way, I can accept that. It would be no great hardship to study your soul at a remove; I used to be an architect, you see. I don't need to touch something to appreciate it's structure." His mouth runs away from him; before he can stop himself, he blurts out, "And it will be safer for you too, if you keep me at arm's length."

Erik's expression is a cool mask but not completely. Anxiety rims his eyes in small wrinkles that pinch the seams where his lashes meet.

"I've had my soul touched once before and I did not enjoy the experience." It's true. Valdis pulled him to his knees by the soul the first time they met. This doubles as a warning against trying.

An architect? That might be useful in town, especially for those seeking greenhouses. This could be a boon, so long as he can get the man to cooperate...

"Safer? Why is that, Pyotr? What do you worry you could do to me?"

"I already got you stabbed, before we'd even been properly introduced," Pyotr points out, trying to evade the question. His gaze skitters away from Erik's, and this time when he tugs on Erik's grip it's a feeble, half-hearted attempt to get away.

"I don't know what might happen," he finally admits. "It's not like I want anything to -- to happen, I have no interest in hurting you in any way that would actually matter. It's just, with my history..."

A history Erik doesn't know about, one Pyotr is loathe to discuss in any detail. It was one thing with Daniil, who he thought knew about it all already, he'd just forgotten...but telling someone the entire story from scratch...It makes him feel a little lightheaded.

No wait, that's because he's starting hyperventilate. "Hey, can you let me go for a minute?" he asks urgently. "Just -- I'm sorry, I just -- I need some space to breathe --"

There's something more to this. He knows that now, from the look of panic in the man's eyes as they dart away. One can only imagine what dark things lay in his past. Alas...the man is about to hyperventilate himself unconscious again. That never bodes well. Just what is Erik getting himself into? It's too late for doubt. He sees too much of himself in this pitiful man.

"Shhh," Erik soothes quietly as he finally releases his grip. "There. You're free. Breathe deep for me, Pyotr. And, please, don't worry over me like this. It was for Artemy's sake that I let myself be stabbed. Believe me, I could very easily have avoided that blade. All the same, you have died and been reborn now. History does not have to repeat itself."

"But I still remember it," Pyotr groans, bowing his head. He sinks his fingers deep into his own hair, pulling on his scalp. Breathing hard, he wheezes, "I know I don't deserve the peace of forgetting, but it hurts so much to remember...I drank to drown out the pain. Being touched by you was even better; I was wholly focused then, on a singular crystalline concept. It was beautiful -- until you asked me to think about my past."

He looks up at Erik with desperate, grief-stricken eyes. "Please don't ask me to think about it again," he begs. "It's too painful... I really can't bear it."

It takes a lot of restraint not to tut. Truly, this man is as pathetic as he claimed. Drinking away the past does nothing but put a man under the soil instead, but he supposes that may have been the idea all along. Still, Erik cannot help thinking this pour soul could have easily been him, alone in the dark, not even a friendly voice for relief. For days. For months. Simply wishing for the torment to quiet, for the storm in his chest to finally pass.

"Very well. We all have things best left buried. But, you will have to moderate your vices if you wish my touch to continue. Eat well and take care of your health and I will let you hone your focus on me as you wish."

"Yes, alright," Pyotr readily agrees. Too readily; he has no real conception of what Erik expects of him. A lifetime of indolence and co-dependence will do that to you -- and sure enough, his mouth curves in a small smirk.

"I wasn't expecting to find a new brother in the afterlife." His shoulders rise with a breathless huff of a laugh. "Much less one who'd want to stop me from drinking. But you're just as bloodthirsty as Andrey...and far more good-looking...so I guess you'll do." He grins briefly before offering his wrists to Erik again. "What do you want of me?"

Edited 2025-01-01 22:26 (UTC)

Erik's tone is a little too sharp when he says, "I am not your brother." That's one thing he cannot abide. He would never do these things with a sibling. Not the first time, not now.

Erik takes the man's wrist and lifts it to his lips teasing at more, only to gently kiss the unbroken skin and say, in an authoritative voice, "I want you to clean yourself up and go down to have more water and a meal. You've only just come back to, and my lust for blood is still sated from last night."

"I was speaking poetically, of course," Pyotr insists (but was he? Was he really?). He watches, rapt, as Erik raises his wrist to his mouth, a shivering going all the way through him when he's let off with a simple kiss.

"If those are your conditions, I've no choice but to obey," he gives his consent, eyes shining and closer to lively than they've been since his arrival in Pumpkin Hollow. "But you will have me again soon, won't you? Andrey once told me that the body begins replenishing blood within 48 hours -- I know I'm not in the healthiest shape, but if the point is to drain me dry anyway..."

"Of course," Erik says with a tight smile.

It does his soul some real good to see the brightness returning to Pyotr's eyes. If this is what will give the man some zest for life again then, so be it. The arrangement isn't really that disagreeable at all. Except for...

"Yes. Soon. But must I drain you dry? I could drink you until you're weak and dizzy and let you experience that for an entire night. Is it really death you crave or balancing on the knife's edge?"

If Erik's question was meant as a distraction, it works to perfection: Pyotr immediately turns thoughtful, tilting his head with a quiet hum. "That would be interesting," he softly agrees. "Like drunkenness or a drugged lethargy, but brought by the sacrifice of a piece of my body instead of the addition of chemistry...We can try that next time, if you wish."

There's a good chance he'd let Erik do almost anything to him, if only it involved touching him, hurting him somehow...

It's working just as intended. If he can talk his new client down from death, it would be far more palatable. Not to mention more convenient.

"There is a similar euphoria that can occur, yes. I'd like to see what you look like in the throes of it." He smiles with a little extra teeth, just to sweeten the offer.

"Since you are so new, it seems your body has returned in the same state in which you arrived. That won't do; you'll hardly be able to nourish me like that. Besides, I suspect there will be some fall-out from the disturbance last night. I'll need to see that it's been taken care of first. Be patient for me, won't you?"

"I will," he agrees eagerly, his wide eyes locked on Erik's teeth. "Let me prove myself to you. I swear you won't have any complaints."

Whether or not that's actually a promise he can keep, Pyotr is at least sober, upright, and freshly-bathed when he delivers himself to Erik's front door several days later, his hair wind-mussed and sticking to his face as he waits to be allowed inside. At some point he conceded to the demands of the flesh and purchased a heavier coat...he still doesn't have a hat or a scarf, though. Or gloves...it's fine, though, right? He doesn't go outside that much anyway.

December TL -- A Triptych

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cw: suicidal ideation

cw: vaguely incestuous subtext (which is only subtext but just to be safe)

cw: incestuous subtext (a little less vague this time)

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