Dylan & Algernon 43
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Dylan & Algernon Masterlist
CW: emotional distress, captivity, blood, injury, accidental self-injury, anxiety, fear response
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The next two nights passed peacefully enough, but Dylan still wouldn't have gone so far as to say things had returned to normal.
During that time, Algernon never left the villa and—while that wasn't unusual in itself—the young man had the feeling he'd had the vampire around more than usual. In fact, he realized that his jailer hadn't disappeared to take care of his usual household chores around the villa even once.
Another sign that he still hadn't fully recovered from that horrible wound, Dylan concluded.
And despite that, Algernon had continued to seem inexplicably cheerful.
That was why the young man couldn't help but notice that, tonight, he seemed vaguely troubled instead. After turning over and over in his mind what he might have done to upset him, Dylan could no longer bear the growing anxiety and finally found the courage to ask, "Is... is something wrong?"
At the other end of the couch, the vampire looked up from the book in his hands—a book whose page he hadn't turned in several minutes—and shifted his gaze to him, mildly surprised.
"...Oh. No. It's just the rain," he replied before Dylan had time to regret opening his mouth. "I can't stand its constant drumming."
The young man found himself a little surprised as well, but... yes. Even with the boarded-up windows muffling most sounds from outside, he could still hear the rain pouring down. It must've been coming down in sheets that night.
And really, he thought, it must've been difficult for the silver-haired monster to ignore a sound like that, with the absurd hearing he possessed.
It was a strange thought. Strange to think that the very ability that allowed his jailer to hear everything Dylan said and did from any corner of the villa—stealing yet another small fragment of freedom from him—could also cause him discomfort.
But it wasn't the first strange thought Dylan had had about Algernon during those last strange nights.
"Do you want to t-turn... the TV on?" he found himself asking before he'd even thought it through.
The chatter from the television might at least partially drown out the sound of the rain, right? And if it helped the vampire relax, that would be a good thing for Dylan too, considering his entire fate depended on the creature's mood.
That was what the young man told himself, as though he needed to justify such a small and simple suggestion.
Algernon glanced toward the old television and seemed to consider it for a moment.
Then he looked back at Dylan with a smile that—for a change—seemed to promise trouble.
"Do you like music?" he asked.
And the young man had the feeling he kinda knew where this was going. More or less. Probably.
Not wanting to commit himself too much, he replied "Music... is a little vague...?"
The first image his mind supplied was that of his jailer sitting at a piano and beginning to play some classical piece.
Yeah, maybe with a white mask covering half his face...
What nonsense.
At the same time, though, he couldn't exactly imagine the vampire pulling out a smartphone and a Bluetooth speaker.
"There's an old record player in the attic," Algernon explained then, wearing the conspiratorial expression of someone about to reveal a great secret. "And a box full of vinyl records."
And that seemed... appropriate. Yes. A reasonable middle ground. Maybe leaning just a little toward the vintage side.
Besides, the simple idea of placing a record on the turntable, lowering the tonearm, and hearing music—whatever kind of music it might be—fill the villa that was usually so silent, had something incredibly appealing about it.
And apparently his expression betrayed that thought despite himself, because his jailer's smile widened and he suggested "Shall we go look for them?"
He sounded like a child proposing a treasure hunt.
"Mm," the young man replied, lowering his head and trying to appear less eager than he actually was.
So the two of them left the living room and headed upstairs, then into the cramped little space where the wooden ladder leading to the attic was located.
And there they were once more, in the graveyard of abandoned objects where the last traces of a life Dylan had never known had been left behind.
A life belonging to someone Algernon had killed.
That thought would never truly stop making the young man uncomfortable, and even now he couldn't shake the feeling that what they were doing was wrong. Like a kind of theft.
The vampire—who clearly had no such reservations—immediately began looking around with purpose.
And Dylan realized it was the first time they'd come back up here together since his jailer had given him permission to sit there and look out through the one window that hadn't been boarded up. That single small opening through which he could glimpse the outside world and reassure himself that something really existed beyond the villa, which somehow seemed to stand outside of time itself.
"I'll look for the record player. You check those boxes, alright?" Algernon told him, pointing toward the area he wanted him to search.
"A-ah, uhm, y-yes—!" the young man was torn from his thoughts.
So he turned his back on the silver-haired monster and hurried to do as he'd been told, eager to leave both the place and the unpleasant thoughts it stirred in him.
Up there, the sound of the rain was impossible to ignore as it battered the roof relentlessly.
Dylan glanced toward the window as he passed it, but saw only his own distorted reflection and the raindrops sliding down the glass, illuminated by the weak lightbulb hanging from a beam. Beyond that, there was nothing but darkness.
Yes.
Better hurry.
The young man began opening some of the boxes scattered across the floor. The first contained curtains that smelled strongly of mold and were clearly of no use whatsoever to his jailer. The second appeared to contain old photo albums, and he hurriedly closed it again.
Looking around, Dylan's attention was drawn to several smaller boxes stacked on a wooden shelf. He walked over and began checking those instead.
He didn't find what he was looking for on the lower shelves, and he mentally cursed the vampire—whom he could hear moving and rummaging around on the other side of the attic—for never bothering to label anything.
The young man stretched an arm toward the upper shelves. A sharp pain immediately shot through it and he jerked back. That turned out to be a terrible idea: he must've caught himself on a nail protruding from the wood, and the sudden movement drove it deeper into his flesh, tearing it open and drawing a pained sound from him.
Gritting his teeth, Dylan bent his arm and turned it slightly, already worried about what he was going to see.
And sure enough, an ugly, ragged gash ran along his forearm, blood already trickling down toward his elbow. It looked awful.
Suddenly, icy fingers closed around his wrist and gave it a slight tug, forcing him to turn until he found himself face to face with his jailer, who had appeared behind him.
The cry he was about to let out died in his throat when he saw the intensity of Algernon's stare fixed on the wound. His eyes were the same color as the blood flowing from it.
Algernon, who still hadn't fully recovered.
Algernon, who hadn't fed during the last two nights.
Algernon, whose mouth—whose fangs—were now only inches away from his bleeding arm.
Dylan should've apologized. Immediately. No—he probably should've begged for mercy.
But when he tried to force himself to do so, all that escaped his lips was a pathetic whimper.
And then something inexplicable happened.
The vampire's gaze darted up to meet his, and he released Dylan's wrist at once, almost as if he'd burned himself.
A long, strange moment followed.
They stared at each other. Both silent. Both motionless.
Then Algernon... sighed.
"How on earth did you manage that?" he asked with a crooked smile.
And the young man—almost as though he'd suddenly snapped back to himself—quickly pulled his injured arm away and finally managed to stammer "I-I'm s-so—! S-sorry..."
His jailer let out a snort.
"Sorry, you say... you're clumsy, if anything. And to a frankly concerning degree."
But Dylan barely heard the words. His mind could focus on only one detail: the vampire hadn't drunk his blood. Again.
So he gathered every scrap of courage he could find and asked "W-why... don't you want to drink my bl-blood...?"
Algernon looked surprised at first.
Then he frowned, immediately making Dylan wish he'd kept his stupid mouth shut.
"This," his jailer began, glancing toward the forearm Dylan was now holding tightly against his chest, "wasn't intentional... was it?"
"N-no!" the young man hurried to assure him.
"...Good," said the vampire and then he fell silent for a long moment, as though he had nothing more to add.
"I won't drink your blood because you're not food," he explained suddenly, in the tone of someone stating the obvious "Compartmentalization, I think it's called."
Dylan lowered his gaze and pressed his lips together.
That wasn't... enough.
"And... then wh-what am I?" he insisted, forcing himself to meet Algernon's scarlet eyes once more.
At that, the silver-haired bastard actually had the guts to smile at him.
"My clumsy housemate," he replied, amused "And now, how about we go get you patched up?"
An answer that answered nothing, as usual. But this time... the young man couldn't help wondering whether he could simply believe it.
Whether it really could be that simple.
And the desire for it to be hurt far more than the wound on his arm, and frightened him far more than any blood-drinking monster ever could.
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