There was a terrible rumour among the peasant girls. Rumours, of women awakening with peculiar marks on their neck, memories gone and skin pale. They looked to the strange Count, a foreign man who watched from his isolated castle but was rarely seen, and said it was him. Dr. Fitrei knew better. The marks on those silly girls’ necks were just bites from stray insects, and she would prove it.
As the first frost of winter lays a sparkling blanket upon the Transylvanian countryside, the doctor travels to the castle, determined to prove him a man, not a monster. But as she is welcomed into the vast, echoing halls of the Count’s home, a heavy snow begins to fall. What was supposed to be a visit of only a few nights will see her trapped there for the winter, and she may soon learn that she has b i t t e n off more than she can chew...
[Inviting Koda and Suvi home for Christmas had been completely spontaneous, though in the weeks between extending the invitation, and them actually flying back to Romania, he’d had time to think about a lot of things. He’d already explained to Koda that he was going to have to introduce him as Constantin’s ‘friend’, because he just wasn’t ready to have that particular conversation. He’d also explained that while Suvi was there, his mother would absolutely pester her at all hours for her thoughts and opinions and readings on things.
One thing he’d failed to mention, was the Christmas traditions celebrated in Romania. Having spent the last few Christmases in England, he realised that Romanian Christmases were extravagant in ways English Christmases simply weren’t.
They’d arrived a few hours ago, and true to form Constantin’s mother, Byni, had made them extremely welcome -- she’d showed their guests around the modest house, taken them for a walk around the farm, stuffed them full of food, but had now ushered Constantin and Koda away so that Suvi could read her cards in peace. That was nice, Constantin thought. They were getting on well. The two women barely spoke a word of the same language but it wasn’t stopping them.
With the sitting room taken over by fortune telling, and Constantin’s father preparing dinner in the kitchen, Constantin and Koda retired to his room. They were sharing it, because the Lupei’s had no spare bedrooms and Suvi was getting the sofa bed in the sitting room. Koda was going to sleep on the air mattress on Constantin’s floor -- so Byni believed, anyway.
His room hadn’t changed much since he was a child, because in many ways Constantin hadn’t changed much. The walls were painted sky blue, and extensively papered in posters featuring stars and planets and various space related things. There were glow in the dark stars stuck on the ceiling, which he’d just never bothered to take down. Out of the window, there was a view of the farm, with a few pigs snuffling about in the mud, though it may soon freeze over as a few pale snowflakes drift through the air. He perched on the window seat that his father had built, gesturing for Koda to sit on the bed. He wanted to take this opportunity to let Koda know what the next week or two would entail, because there was going to be a lot going on. And he knew Koda wouldn’t really mind at all, but he was just... a little worried that it was going to be too weird for Koda.
‘Too weird for Koda’... alright, not terribly likely, but he’s worried anyway.]
Just so you can know, Christmas here is not exactly like in England. For one thing, ve are take the singing very seriously. Everyone go out tonight, and every night all veek because ve must visit every house in village before Christmas. [He’s working his way, slowly, towards the pig sacrifice, because that’s the thing he’s really worried about, but it’s also one of the most important traditions for the families in this village.]
Ugh, God, he knew he shouldn’t have let his father convince him that self-driving to his hotel from the airport would be a ‘good learning experience and chance to embrace your independence in an exciting new city’. Fee could almost throw up a little in his mouth a little just thinking about it now, and he’s sure the expression on his face reflects the resentment and disgust.
To his ears now, it sounded stupid and cheesy and so not the Felix-Tee way, but his Dad had been so insistent that Felix would have so much more fun making this trip different from the others. He’d said it’d be “unique” and “more memorable” and something about the way he’d up-sold the whole, independent, away-from-home-in-a-new-city vibes had just... worked, somehow. Miraculously. It’d taken a long time to wear Felix down, of course, but at some point, his father must have been able to get Felix in just the right position with his back against the wall, or caught him at just the right level of exhaustion to make it all sound like sort of a good idea. Like something Felix would actually want and be keen on.
Which was bloody ludicrous to imagine now, because of course he’d prefer not to do something himself that he could just have someone else do for him, especially when it involved risk and learning new things and personal effort, like driving around in an unfamiliar city in the bloody winter, when it’d been snowing not two days ago. The roads were fine tonight, just as everyone had assured Felix they would be, but... it was cold and Felix hated the cold and the snow. He’d never been around snow before in his life, mind you, but he’d known just from the concept of it and the look of it on the telly that he’d hate it. And now, having experienced it up close and personal and seeping into the seems of his five hundred dollar designer boots, he was really quite bitterly smug that he'd been right. Not that he’d ever doubted his right-ness. But to all the doubters, and the people accusing him of being ‘dramatic’ and that he’d had to ‘just give it a chance’—Hah. Bloody proved them wrong, didn’t he? Because he did hate it, after all. It was cold and wet and unnecessary and inconvenient and now that his rental car was sitting in the middle of a dark, wooded and creepy winding road out in God Knows Where with a flat tire, well—snow was just officially the worst now.
He wasn’t sure what had caused the flat, really, and though snow itself seemed like an unlikely culprit, he was choosing to blame it, anyway. Because he’d nearly skidded off the road when the tire blew, it’d scared the living daylights out of him, and he was sure it was a miracle the whole bloody vehicle didn’t flip into a ditch and kill him right then and there. Surely articles would soon be writing about how The Felix Tee had narrowly escaped death this Christmas, and what a miracle it was he’d not been stolen from this earth so prematurely, in a fatal, tragic accident.
And to think that back home right now, it was 43 degrees and the middle of bloody summer. Ughhhhhhhhhh. This guest role better be bloody worth all this trouble. He’d of course been thrilled when his agent had told him about the invitation to send in a tape for the minor ‘model bombshell with an accent’ bit part in one of the international streaming market’s current quickest grossing episodic series, ‘The Canopy Institute’. And when he’d actually booked the gig, to think his first major chance to get television exposure outside of commercials and talk show appearances would be this three week trip abroad? Over the Christmas holidays, no less? Yes, it did sound like something fabulous and cinematic, and maybe that’s why his father’s whole ‘independence and opportunity’ speech had actually worked.
Whatever the reason, Felix was full of regrets now, and was currently formulating a told-you-so speech for his father in his head, as he stared at the flat tire in a blank, and immobilized (gay) panic. Pulling the coat tighter around his neck to protect against against the wind chill, Felix bit his lip hard enough to distract him from his desire to cry. Oh, this was just the absolute worst.
He was just taking out his mobile to call his father so his father could tell him what to do (was he supposed to call a tow company? The rental car place? A cab? Were they even tow companies in this country? Did they work differently? Or did they have people you could just... order out to come change a tire? Ugh, he had no experience with any of this, and how the hell was he supposed to know what number to call? There were about a million different results that came up on Google... ugh, it was just all too overwhelming), when headlights came around the corner and slowed. Then pulled over. Felix turned and squinted into the blinding lights, clutching his phone (which was currently ringing) to his ear, and reaching into his coat pocket. The car door opened, and a figure who Felix couldn’t see properly because of the lights, stepped out.
Felix took a step or two back. He wanted to be relieved, if this person was here to help, but he’d heard plenty of ‘pretty boys stranded on the side of the road’ horror stories. “Oh my God, can you help me? But if you’re a rapist or a murderer, I have pepper spray, a very protective father and a distress button on my phone. One finger on me and the FBI will be all over your ass, I promise you that.”
HOLIDAY CHEER || ethan & charlotte [ office party au ]
@the-original-charley
Hey. Thank god you’re here. [[ Ethan gravitates to Charlotte’s side, as he always does and has done since they were children. He’s got a red plastic cup in hand, decorated with cartoon sprigs of holly, but judging by his expression he doesn’t relish the contents. ]] I was already pushing the ‘fashionably late,’ but you had to go and be even more fashionable, huh? [[ Truth be told, they’re both looking exceptionally fashionable in the literal sense; it’s the Williams way, or at least it is in their immediate family. Except maybe Owen.
Owen and his fucking cargo pants.
Not the point. Ethan’s just being cranky. They’re at the department VP’s home -- which department, Ethan doesn’t remember. That isn’t really important, either. What’s important is the fact that, even though they’re off-site at the man’s needlessly swanky D.C. penthouse, he’d fed them some line about it still being a ‘work function,’ so alcohol would be inappropriate. At a holiday party. ]]
Chad’s as cheap as we were worried he’d be. [[ --is Ethan’s assumption, anyway, swirling the punch in his cup and taking a drink. It’s not bad, but it’s way too sweet.
He’s about to say as much to Charlotte but pauses as he turns to her, finally taking a proper look at what she’s doing. ]] … are you spiking the punch?
[Unbelievable. After the week Caelan had just had, he really felt like this was the last thing he deserved. He’d still not figured out how to tell his parents he’d gotten fired from his internship, but he figured it would at least be easier to do it face to face rather than over the phone. One thing he’d say in favour of his bigoted bastard of an ex-boss is that he’d timed it well. Caelan had been due to fly back to Ontario anyway, so he could go home for a couple of weeks over the Christmas break.
He’d already sent all his stuff back separately, since he wasn’t going to be coming back here. So he’d arrived at the airport with just a small backpack, filled with a couple of books and his laptop so he could kill time on the long flight. But there wasn’t going to be a long flight, because they’d all been cancelled because of the stupid snow.
The employee that had told him the bad news had gone above and beyond to help him when his face had fallen -- Caelan was pretty sure they thought he was a high school kid, not a twenty one year old uni student. They’d offered to help him find a hotel, but how the fuck was he going to afford a hotel? He’d spent all his money transporting his stuff back home. And he couldn’t go back to his old flat, because his replacement flatmate was moving in already. At a loss, when the sun went down he just stretched out across three seats in the quiet terminal, and dozed off. Maybe there’d be more flights in the morning.]
What. [His lips barely moved as he mumbled out the syllable. Someone was standing over him, and he wasn’t interested in opening his eyes. If they asked him to stop taking up so many seats, he was either going to cry, or hit them.]
[He doesn’t know why he does these things... he very easily could have kept his mouth shut when the subject of getting a real tree from the, quote, unquote, “real live nature” came up, but Alexander Donovan has a ‘helpfulness’ complex, apparently—and it’s going to be the death of him.
His mother had been really big on Christmas when he was a boy, so maybe he’ll blame it on her. He doesn’t feel especially festive, ever, but maybe it’s some sort of residual holiday spirit from his childhood, clinging to him like the scratchy short hairs under his collar after a trip to the barber’s. Or like bad tan lines from a summer wedding he’d never wanted to attend in the first place.
Or maybe it’s just guilt because his mother is spending yet another Christmas in the cozy confines of the New York State Prison.
Regardless the reason, he’s here now, plodding through four feet of snow towards the private Christmas tree farm just outside the city, an axe swinging at his side. The whole thing is frankly fucking stupid, in his opinion—paying for a fucking permit to go onto private lands where there are farmed trees to imitate ‘real nature’ so that stupid American-Festive people can waltz in and chop down a tree “authentically” and “like they did in the olden days,” only there’s nothing authentic about it, because these trees were farmed for the very purpose of taking the money out of the pockets of dumb, overly whimsical white Americans who want to feel as though they have a culture, when they really don’t.
But he sighs—because he’s trying very hard to keep the thoughts to himself. He’d agreed to help because he’s a good friend (or something). And because his foolishly sentimental mother had really gotten under his skin over the years, apparently.]
Did you take any measurements, by the way? I assume you’re putting this in the living room?
The light pooled, vibrantly violet, in a gutter. Cambie stared at it. It was fractured here and there by raindrops but she could see a mocking reflection of her face and the shocked expression on it.
People hurried past her, scarcely giving her a glance. Collars turned up against the rain, faces buried in the glowing screens of phones, they were an anonymous crowd with no time to notice if anything stood out. Usually, it suited Cambie down to the ground. Today, it might be the end of her. She wondered, absently, hand clutching her thigh, if she’d turned invisible. When she was on the stage she was nothing but a breathing pirouette, and when she was off it, she’d spent so many years perfecting the art of being unseen. Maybe she’d forgotten how to be seen. How to be heard.
Stumbling forward, a horn blared its warning loud enough to send her teetering back to the sidewalk. As it screeched past, the car threw a sheet of water at Cambie; she scarcely noticed. She’d been shivering anyway. She thought she’d forgotten how to be afraid -- her employers wouldn’t let her feel fear. It didn’t matter to them that she never asked for the job, nor even wanted it. The only thing that mattered to them was that she was indebted to them, and she’d dance on their strings for as long as they told her to.
It had hardened her, that work. She’d learned how to close her eyes and her heart to the terrible things she did. But today she felt neither hardened, nor fearless. She felt like a little girl, dancing alone in her room -- only she’d twisted her ankle, and now her daddy wasn’t here to pick her up. With teeth gritted to guard against both tears and groans, she limped to the nearest building. She just needed something to lean against. The open air restaurant, protected by a network of thinly connected wires overhead that emitted a faint puddle of blue light from which the rain was repelled, was packed. Dozens of people outside, waiters weaving between them, submerged in a haze of savoury smelling smoke.
Cambie leaned against the rail, waved for the attention of one of the waiters. “Hey!-- hey, do you have a--” she began, desperately clinging to the rail. It was just about the only thing keeping her upright. But before she could even ask for a first aid kit, he shook his head and sauntered away. He spoke to a broad, shadowy figure in the doorway, and Cambie decided to make her exit. She couldn’t deal with a bouncer. God knows what he thought of her, but apparently it was nothing good.
It was stupid, really. She always had a first aid kit with her. At least the bones of one: alcohol spray, suture kit, tweezers, bandages, adrenaline patch. But she’d had to dress up for the hit tonight, having been instructed to cosy up to the target at a gala event to earn his trust, and there was nowhere inconspicuous to keep a kit. He was a cautious man, apparently, always surrounded by guards except when he could get a pretty woman up to his room. Too cautious, as it turned out. Cambie had been sussed, and one of his guards had shot at her.
She was lucky to have escaped at all, but she didn’t feel lucky. She felt exhausted from darting through backalleys as the blood trickled relentlessly from her leg, she felt frightened and exposed, she’d had to abandon her shoes when one of the heels snapped, and if her boss only killed her for failing tonight, she’d be fortunate.
With a low groan that was swallowed by the cacophony of rain, conversation, and the 48 foot wide screen overhead blasting a technicolour ad for god knows what, she slunk into a narrow alleyway. It was mercifully dark, oddly quiet. The building towered into the sky, roof so far away Cambie couldn’t see it, but it stood only a few feet from the one next to it. If the night sky was visible tonight, and not hidden by the haze of light pollution, she couldn’t see it from here. Her teeth were chattering now, her fingers numb. Both hands were wrapped around her thigh, ‘pressure’ being the only level of first aid available to her.
She needed to find somewhere warm. She didn’t have a jacket, having left her fur shawl at the gala when she’d fled, and the silk of her black dress did nothing to protect her from the weather. Glancing behind her, again and again, Cambie couldn’t shake the fear that she’d been followed, that her bloody footprints hadn’t been washed away by the rain and traffic. She stumbled, and barely made it another step before almost keeling over.
Fuck. Cambie swore under her breath. She really might die out here. Hospital wasn’t an option; they’d ask questions. Home wasn’t an option; her boss would be waiting. And she didn’t have friends, not any more. So Cambie took the only option left to her. There was a doorway set two feet into the building, offering the barest modicum of shelter. Maybe she’d die there, and go down as another faceless statistic of the homeless epidemic. Maybe not. But there was nothing else, nowhere else, so she stumbled into that doorway. Her shoulder thudded against it, and she cursed, hoping the sound of the rain would drown the noise out from any tenants inside.
Her good leg drawn up under her chin, her bad leg sticking out in front of her and dripping its steady supply of blood onto the ground, Cambie leaned her face against her knee and bit down hard on her tongue. She wasn’t going to cry. She was not going to cry.
The lights hovering over the bar are blinding, reflecting over every other bottle on the shelves behind the counter and catching her eyes. She sighs, a wistful sound, as she taps long nails against her short glass of whiskey, only for the satisfaction of the quiet sound. It's much too cold tonight, and much too late. She's worn to the bone, exhausted enough that her toes have already gone numb inside the pretty shoes squeezing her feet.
It doesn't take long for a familiar presence to join her. Anaya doesn't have to look up to know it's him, and her lips curl into a delighted grin as she delivers,
"What's a nice man like you doing in a place like this?"
Constantin humours her with a chuckle, one hand bringing a bottle of beer over as the other adjusts a stool next to hers so he can join. The wooden countertop where her arms lean on is too polished, too shiny. When he sits, they're pressed together from shoulders to elbows, forearms diverging to meet their respective drinks.
"Tired?" He asks in a whisper, and by the way his accent catches on the word more than it normally does, he is, too.
She nods, her smile something softer, her eyes a slow blink. His eyes flash with concern for a brief moment, but he knows better than to say any more than that now. Instead, he presses his shoulder into hers roughly in an attempt to jolt her awake, or make her laugh. It's a successful mission either way, a muffled chuckle ripping from her throat again.
"Don't you think it's actually freezing in here?" She asks, and her head ducks closer to him to keep their conversation private.
"Stopped feeling my body three hours ago," he jokes, and his head ducks closer, too, so he can be quiet. "Are you cold? Do you vant my jacket?"
This is a dance they're used to. This is the part of the day she looks forward to -- despite the exhaustion, despite the cold, despite these lights that are too harsh. Here, they can sit together, and she can steal some of his warmth, and they can trade whispers and make each other laugh.
"Rain check on that one," she murmurs, but she gives him a grateful push of her shoulder. Her legs are frozen because of the skirt they convinced her to wear, and it would actually be heavenly to have a jacket to throw over her knees right now, but it wouldn't be fair to him. She changes the subject, just to keep conversation going. "Beer tonight? Didn't take you for a beer man."
"I always have beer," he protests, picking up his bottle to clink it against her glass before he takes a theatrical swig. She suspects it's just another attempt to make her laugh, and she bites her tongue not to give in, though her efforts are mostly in vain. He nods her head towards her glass. "You have whiskey?"
Anaya shrugs, glances down at the amber-coloured liquid thoughtfully. "Think so. Fancy a trade?"
"Always," he answers, and there's mischief behind the grin he flashes her way.
She slides her glass over and he moves the beer towards her, and their hands meet somewhere in the middle. They're so close they're practically hunched over each other now, whispering and giggling like two kids at the back of a class, their hands joining in a well-practiced meeting that neither of them are very aware of anymore. It's just second nature, to play with each other's hands whenever they're this close, cracking jokes and hiding their laughter.
"CUT!"
The booming voice echoes around the set and Anaya sits up straighter, wide doe eyes searching for the director and finding the big burly man staring right back at her.
"Will you two cut it already?" His voice is too tired to be sharp, but he looks mildly stressed. From somewhere behind the cameras, their producer sighs in despair. Every other head in the set turns to look at them. "You're supposed to just be background chatter for this scene, why are you doing all that?"
He gestures towards them vaguely.
They're both frozen in place, fingers still half-intertwined, shoulders still pressed together. Anaya avoids looking at Constantin because she knows one glance at his current poker face and she'll absolutely burst into a fit of laughter that she cannot control. She's having enough trouble holding herself as it is. God, she's a respectable actress and all that, and a fairly important side character in this show. She has fans who care about her storyline. Getting yelled at while she's being a background extra in a scene should be embarrassing.
Somehow, it's only hilarious.
"Sorry! Sorry," she calls out, regarding her other castmates with an apologetic wince. Everyone is tired and they shouldn't be ruining a scene for the sake of talking and giggling, but come on. They were being quiet!
"You guys can't be doing that. You know people are gonna pick up on it," the director continues, his hands resting on his hips. He's respectable, but not threatening in the slightest. This feels like getting called out by the fun teacher in school -- you feel a bit guilty, but you know there's no bad blood. "You're ruining my shot by getting all handsy with each other in the background. I don't want twitter to be losing their minds over this."
Anaya's shoulders slump in defeat, and she can hear Constantin snickering by her side. "You know the fans would love to see it," she points out.
"Okay, we don't even know if your characters end up together," the director argues. "So you don't get to decide which fans to service, Dolmen."
"Oh, come on," she shoots back, borderline pouty about it, but it's clearly not a proper argument when she doesn't have anything good enough to follow that up with.
Costin leans his forehead into her shoulder and muffles his laughter, and she has to pinch her lips together to physically keep from bursting into a fit herself. She doesn't want to look like she's laughing at anyone, she's really not. It's just hard to keep it together when Constantin is around. They have too much fun. They're a nightmare to this crew, really, and she makes sure to apologise and make up for them on most days like this. The director glares at her for a lingering moment before he tells everyone to get back to their marks to restart the scene.
Reluctantly, they have to pull away and stop being nuisances. Anaya switches their drinks back to how they started, and Constantin walks back to his mark, which is in a booth three steps behind her spot on the counter, with other cast members and extras.
She vaguely remembers her script notes saying something about her character sulking, now that she thinks about it.
Costin leaves with one last bump to her shoulder, everyone is getting ready again and Anaya sighs as her finger circles the rim of her glass idly. It's late. She's tired. Her legs are freezing. She loves her job.
Before the director has the chance to call action, she hears Constantin whistling to get her attention. She looks over her shoulder, and has no time to prepare for collision as his jacket comes flying towards her face.
They both splutter with muffled laughter again as she fumbles to catch it, and she drapes the material over her exposed legs hastily, before anyone can accuse them of stalling the scene from starting. It's not like her legs will be in this shot anyway, so she knows they can get away with this. She gives him a grateful grin over her shoulder and he winks in return. The director calls action.
They end up having to do another take because she can't stop grinning to herself in that one.
