#mnemoniics

[ostiinati]

@mnemoniics said → "i mean to learn what it's like to be free." ( louis to mycroft ) ( src. // accepting )

Not for the first time, Louis James Moriarty surprises him. Mycroft does not consider himself an easy man to surprise— not by any means. Indeed, it has long been the source of his disillusionment with social interaction. Is anything worth conversing about when he can glean the answer himself without nearly as much ado?

Yet, this man— the current ‘M’, as Mycroft declared him in the aftermath— has never fallen into the painfully predictable lines. Since the moment they met, though no introduction was made by the youngest of the three Moriarty brothers, Louis has stood out like a beacon in Mycroft’s mind. It was plain to see, even then, that there was much more to him than the shadows in which he stood, yet what that ‘more’ was lay obscured from even Mycroft’s scrutiny. It was more than likely that even Louis himself did not know the extent of his own potential. It was…intriguing. And even now, he still retains that intrigue in a way other people so seldom do.

Mycroft is not an emotionally driven person— at least, he has trained himself to avoid such things when possible. He does not offer Louis the head position of MI6 out of courtesy. It has nothing to do with the fact that they both now shoulder the sins of their family lines, nor the fact that both of their greatest wishes have fallen like stones into the Thames. (Unwilling as he is to think on that in any circumstance other than the cold isolation of his own home, with nowhere left to put those thoughts but at the forefront of his mind.)

Mycroft offered him this place because he believes in the unknown he has glimpsed lurking in this man. He believes that Louis will not let it go to waste— a belief that has not, thus far, been disappointed. There is a determination in the man, despite his inexperience in the spotlight, and in spite of everything, Mycroft is looking forward to seeing where that determination will lead.

It’s today, as the recent debriefing comes to a close that Mycroft surprises himself. Instead of the usual ‘Well done, M. You are free to take your leave.’, he reaches for further conversation. He asks a question that he doesn’t already know the answer to.

What is it that you mean to do in this life, if I may ask?

There is nothing more unexpected to him than Louis’ answer.

I mean to learn what it's like to be free.

When he considers it from the perspective of all he has seen of Louis, the declaration suits him— yet it was an unfathomable response to Mycroft all the same. After all, he had never associated the life he lives— the life he is inviting Louis to live— with freedom. No matter the eventual benefits that came along with every scrap of power common-born Mycroft Holmes was able to sink his claws into until he held it all, it was always a cage— a chain he had fashioned to suit himself, rather than the life he would have chosen, had he been granted any other option.

Even now, he is not free. He never truly will be.

However, it is thanks to that first proper meeting with the Moriarty brothers all that time ago that he was ever even given a taste. For the first time, a choice had been presented to him— a choice only he could make. In that moment, he decided what he would do— on no one’s decree but his own.

Perhaps that is what this is to Louis, now. Perhaps here, he sees a way forward into the beginnings of a change— one that lies entirely in his hands. Perhaps he does not yet know what it will look like, but perhaps the ‘freedom’ is in the finding out.

“I see…” For the first time since the fall, Mycroft’s voice lacks the subtle despondency that often (more and more often these days) takes root within it. There is a life that sparks into being, understated and sharply controlled as it may be, in the deep notes that give shape to his interest. He sits straighter behind his desk, hands folding on its surface, as his eyes sweep over Louis’ face— not searching, not scrutinizing, but something… else. Wondering, perhaps— as unfamiliar as it feels, it must be.

The clock ticks over the hour silently in the corner of Mycroft’s office, its chime having long been disabled to preserve the sanctity of his own peace, and with a soft exhale, the embodiment of the government rises to his feet to begin gathering his things. It’s late— it is always late by the time he takes his leave, and there is no doubt in his mind that he’ll be working on something at the manor for many more hours to come.

And yet his eyes linger, unbidden, on where Louis stands, and still he doesn’t dismiss him.

“…Such a thing would suit you.” He states instead, matter-of-factly, as if any words of conversation from him are not exceedingly rare— let alone those of such a personal nature. “I must confess that I look forward to seeing what answers you are able to find. I would… not be opposed to further discussion with you.”

[ostiinati]

@mnemoniics said → "never any guns when you need 'em." ( moran to fred ) ( src. // accepting )

Surveying the situation they’re in, Fred finds himself in agreement with Moran’s frustration. Knowing the man as he does, it’s safe to assume that he does have at least one gun on him— he does at all times, Fred has noticed. Even at home, his favored pistol is always well within reach. It’s not something Fred can disparage— or would for that matter. There’s a knife that’s never far from his own hand, after all.

(Old habits aren’t easy things to kill. These people have become the closest thing Fred has ever had to a family— one that looks out for him just as much as he looks out for them in turn. They’re all uniquely suited to this life in their own ways and threatening them at home would be no mean feat… but that doesn’t mean they’re untouchable. He thinks Moran must be scared of the same thing as him, even if it is in his own way.)

Unfortunately, considering the fact that they’re out here gathering reconnaissance for the sake of formulating a plan rather than in the process of executing one, all Moran has on him is likely that pistol— and it doesn’t give them much of a chance to settle unexpected things like this quietly.

There’s a gang of men down the side alley just ahead of them— watching and waiting for the right unfortunate soul to pass through their reach. It’s far from original— up there with the oldest tricks in the book. Fred had to learn young to be wary of thick shadows— of ‘grab points’ in the streets— until he learned to use those shadows to his own advantage. He catches the slightest glint of streetlamp against the crude edge of a knife, the smell of anxious sweat and cigarette smoke on the breeze, the anticipatory tension that winds into the night.

They’re amateurs, looking for an easy score out of someone else’s pockets. They usually are. They’re no danger whatsoever to himself or to Moran— who’s comment about guns was more than likely spoken under the intent to frighten them away from their place without getting involved rather than killing them outright. One well-placed shot from an imperceptible distance is all they’d need to scatter them— but if they tried that under these conditions, they’d draw too much attention.

Right now, they don’t have that luxury. Logically thinking, they could ignore it. Fred knows that the pair of them do not fall into the category of passersby that a group like this would dare to target. They’d take one look at Moran, at the least, and slink back into the dark to wait for them to pass.

But Fred can’t just look the other way.

There’s no risk of them being targeted, no direct trouble that this gang presents to their directive, but if not them, then it’ll surely be someone else. Someone far less equipped to turn the tables on a coordinated attack.

“…I can get myself closer.” Fred wraps his scarf around his neck in such a way that it hides the lower half of his face— it conceals his identity, yes, but more importantly, it hides the few sharp angles that his face grants him, making him appear younger— softer. His eyes flit up to Moran before locking back onto the dark maw of the alley before smoothing his palms over his hair to partially tame the mess and buttoning up the front of his coat. It’s simple, slipping into the skin of some naive kid of the middle-class— an easy target, one with enough pocket change to be worth the grab, but not enough importance for the Yard to push for.

“I know we’re tailing the target, but—” Fred stuffs his hands into his pockets, fingers curling tightly into fists. “Four men: two to make the grab, one to hold the knife, one to loot… I can make it quick. Even quicker, if you’d be willing to come in to back me up— but… I understand if you…”

Rather than finishing the statement, Fred trails off, indicating the path they were meant to be following with a nod of his head.

[ostiinati]

@mnemoniics said → "i tried to remember how nice it had been a long, long time ago." ( louis for will ) ( src. // accepting )

Will is pulled from the dark mire of his thoughts by Louis’ voice reaching out to him. Amidst the distant sounds of shouting and roaring flames— a backdrop to the matched pace of their footsteps upon Whitechapel’s uneven cobble— it’s almost lost on the wind. Will latches onto it though— that avenue his brother presents of the same place at a different time.

It’s familiar— despite being somewhat directionally challenged, Will still recognizes every dark alley, every bend in the road like the back of his hand. He’d procured maps of the area for the purpose of the plan, of course, but for once he hadn’t needed to spare them a glance to devise the optimal escape routes for his family once their parts in the chase had been played. There is history here that, despite its hardships, he is dearly fond of.

And now, it too, is painted in blood.

But Louis— Louis speaks and William’s vice-grip on his cane eases, allowing the circulation past his knuckles and back into tingling fingers.

“…It was just the two of us, back then,” Will replies, summoning a smile up past the ash in his throat. “Those were hard days, but…they were nice, in their way, weren’t they?”

Perhaps most people would not consider scraping and scrounging for survival in the streets or taking shelter in the rotting bones of places long-abandoned by all others to be nice. They were dangerous, cold, uncomfortable— but there’s a brightness in them to Will’s eyes even now, though this puts quite the shadow over them.

Things were simple. It was him and Louis, before the illness, before the fear and urgency. No graves were dug, no blood was shed. In their own way, they were happy and that was worth something— even when they had nothing else.

“I always think back on the library.” William maintains the subject, selfishly clinging to the warmth that it fans back into life in his chest. It’s growing more and more difficult these days. “The way it felt as if the rest of the world stopped after the doors closed for the night— just us, wandering in all that infinite possibility…As lovely as the people at the school were, I’ve always missed it.”

Even with a certain lightness in his reminiscence, William cannot bring himself to turn his face towards his brother. Scarlet eyes remain low, following the cracks in the ground as they move through the alleys towards the meeting point.

“…I’d like to go back, sometime soon.”

Just the two of us. While I still can. Do I deserve that? May I ask it of you anyway?

“And you, Louis? Might I ask what’s on your mind?”

[ostiinati]

@mnemoniics said → "i'm doing this for you." ( moran for will ) ( src. // accepting )

“I know—”

The reply is punched from Will’s lungs in a whisper, breathless and weak like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. He may as well have, with the way his chest stings right down to where his contradictory heart races, trapped tight in its cage. He doesn’t let himself look away from the anguish in Moran’s face. He shouldn’t be allowed to— it was he who put it there; he who’s actions have kept it there for the last three years.

The two of them have never been in such contention before, but with things as they are, it's hardly uncalled for. He knows that this transition is difficult for Moran— perhaps the hardest thing Will has ever asked of him— and he knows that he has no right to ask it, now. Moran doesn’t know how to leave the battlefield. He never learned— and William, even with his bleeding heart and good intentions for the world (and the love he bears the man, himself), has played the biggest role in allowing him to remain there.

To ask him to step away now, after everything they’ve done, borders on unreasonable. It must be torture for Moran to be here, at home with him and no idea what to do with himself— but for his sake, Will feels that he has to ask it of him, anyway. He has to try.

The last thing he has ever wanted for Moran was for him to destroy himself.

“I know,” William tries again, meeting Moran’s eyes properly with the one he has left. His voice comes out more pronounced, but tender like a bruise, weighed down by a plea he doesn't put words to. “I’m grateful— and I’m sorry. I’ve already asked so much of you, but I cannot let this go. I agree with Louis, I don’t think you should be out in the field any more than I should be. Not yet, at least.”

It’s the most logical reasoning for his insistence, but not the one that beats in his chest when he looks at him. William doesn’t have to ask to know what his death did to Moran— the man practically shouted it every chance he got before the final problem. He’s repeating it now, too, as he tries to convince Will to let him go back to his most familiar waters.

I’ll kill for you, I’ll die for you.

Moran thinks so little of his own life, and so Will’s fall cut the line on Moran, too.

And now they’ve both been brought back from the brink. Will has had his time to steady himself, to step back from the edge and learn to breath into this new life— but Moran is only just beginning and Will fears that if he stands down, the colonel’s grip on his lifeline will slip.

“…You must be going out of your mind with stagnation here, and I don’t mean to trouble you, but I—” His voice catches on words he should have said before. Words he should have made certain that Moran understood a long time ago.

“I don’t want that from you… I want you to live.”

[ostiinati]

@mnemoniics said → "you're gonna have to come and get it." ( sherlock for albert ) ( src. // accepting )

Normally, Albert stands well and truly above petty provocation. His composure is forged steel, the same as the weapons his brothers wield. Its edges are honed masterfully to keep him seamlessly in control, even while choking back the revulsion that often threatens to crawl its way out of his skin.

That composure seems to have one particularly persistent weak point, and his name is Sherlock Holmes.

It’s not that Albert fails to maintain the pleasant smile on his face, nor does the even keel of his voice falter when he speaks— as the first-born son of the illustrious and tragic Moriarty family, he has endured far greater impositions into his space and far more egregious violations of his preferences than what this detective brings into play. Outwardly, he remains measured in all the ways that would usually matter.

The difference is that Sherlock Holmes is in no way usual. His interceptions of Albert’s days are not born of thoughtlessness or an insidious desire for self-advancement— the man has no use for the things that Albert is so often sought after for— not his title, not his resources. Meeting him aboard the Noahtic and then watching him handle Jefferson Hope has made Albert all the more certain of that.

While William is of the belief that Holmes sets himself apart from them in what he is willing to do for his goal, Albert knows that his brother is mistaken. What Sherlock Holmes wants is not the answer to the mystery— it is the mystery itself, and the satisfaction of unraveling it without aid. For the purpose of their plan, this miscalculation is not an issue, so Albert keeps it to himself— but in terms of his interactions with the man, it touches on something that is… difficult to ignore.

Albert has caught the detective’s interest, for better or for worse, and now in-between sharing his thoughts on his favorite case— their case— the man is testing him. As if he is a puzzle to be solved, Sherlock’s every action is accompanied by a check of Albert’s reaction. It is a dangerous line to walk, and yet the tightness Albert feels winding in his nerves while the man stands across from him in his London office is not revulsion.

He cannot even name it something as simple as irritation.

Despite the precarious position interlaced with their back and forth, there is something…exhilarating about it. A feeling that he strives not to show, but one that he sees reflected in Sherlock’s unrestrained expressions whenever he bounds into the room, as if Albert had invited him in. (He hadn’t.)

Unsurprisingly, today is no reprieve from their ‘game’, but Sherlock does decide to try something he hasn’t before.

Albert watches him as the detective closes the distance between himself and his desk. Sherlock Holmes is all unruly hair and calculation disguised as nonchalance as he lowers a hand to pluck a book off of the surface, thumb through it, and tuck it under one arm rather than returning it to its proper place.

He’s disturbed Albert’s things before, moved them here and there, all out of place, like a windstorm rolling through. Albert can always feel his jaw tighten when he does it, his eyes focusing a touch too intensely on the items that now sit out of place until he can right their wrongs in the aftermath. It would be absurd to assume that Holmes hadn’t noticed.

Yet, he takes it a step further even so.

Albert realizes belatedly that he’s stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence, their discussion cutting a sheer drop into silence as verdant eyes remain pinned to the cover of the purloined novel. Trying to cover his tracks gracefully, the eldest Moriarty brother clears his throat and smiles, requesting the book be returned to its proper place with a cordial, “Mr. Holmes, if you wouldn’t mind…”

You’re gonna have to come and get it.

Against all better judgement, Albert rises— just a hair too quickly— from his seat, rounding his desk to follow the detective’s lead. He exhales a short laugh that most would assume to be polite, if slightly exasperated amusement, used to indulge the other man in his childish antics.

“Very well, have it your way. I suppose this is as good a reminder as any to get up and go for lunch. I would invite you…” Albert feigns a thoughtful tone as he reaches for the spine of the book. (He’s hesitant— tense, even— as his hand enters into Sherlock’s personal space, thereby inserting Sherlock into his own in turn. There is great care taken in the attempt to touch only the book.) “But it seems you’re quite preoccupied with your newfound career in thievery. Perhaps I should ask someone else.”

[ostiinati]

@mnemoniics said → "i know what my weaknesses are. probably better than you do!" ( kou for teru ) ( src. // accepting )

Each time they clash like this, Teru hates himself more than ever for being the one to bring the burden of this lesson down upon Kou.

He’s well-aquatinted with Kou’s boisterous passion and the overwhelming goodness of his heart. Being two of the traits that shine the brightest in his brother’s soul, they’re no surprise to Teru— and so, the path Kou is sticking himself to now shouldn’t be either. Teru has known for a long time now that the kindness that warms Kou’s heart would be his greatest weakness when facing their purpose. He wouldn’t be able to reconcile the true ruthlessness of their existence. He’d look for ways around it, struggling for dear life against a cold he is ill-equipped to accept the way Teru has.

He’d seen it all coming from the start, and yet it scares him anyway.

His little brother wants to change things. He sees the duty of their blood as an opportunity, rather than a burden— a chance to carve a better way where every generation before him failed— and in a world kinder than this one, Teru thinks he could have supported him in that, if for no reason other than breaking the chains he’s lived in all his life before they can be latched around his siblings in turn.

But the world isn’t kind— and Kou, as stubborn as he may be and as much as Teru loves him, isn’t strong enough to change it.

To judge good from bad— to decide when to raise his weapon and when to set it aside— Kou would have to be able to guarantee that he would never choose wrong, and failing that, would have to be strong enough to ensure that he could mitigate the consequences of doing so. It’s a task that seems impossible from where Teru stands. Inherently, the supernatural is a danger to the living— there is no apparition that can truly be trusted among them, for the moment something goes wrong, most humans will be helpless in the face of it.

There’s no such thing as a good apparition, Teru tells him, when what he means is Telling good from bad is worthless when compared to the risks of being wrong.

All beings are corruptible. All things are capable of rotting.

This sticking point of Kou’s could get any number of people killed— and worse than all of that, it could get Kou killed. At this point, Teru can see that changing Kou’s mind is unlikely— just as unlikely as convincing him to give up being an exorcist altogether… but Teru can’t back down from where he stands either. Not with that in mind.

In the end, Teru’s greatest weakness will always be Kou.

Kou, who he’s known since his little brother took his first breath. Kou, who he’s watched grow up all this time, still genuine and loving throughout every last one of their hardships. Kou, who wants to be strong enough to save the living and the dead alike.

He says he knows his weaknesses even better than Teru does, but those weaknesses haunt him like a second shadow, threatening to snuff out that all-important light.

These days, Teru finds himself incapable of fearing much— but all of what he does fear revolves around those weaknesses; Kou’s, as well as his own.

“I know you believe that,” His words feel heavy on his tongue. His gaze never leaves his brother’s, locked as they are at their impasse. Last night’s lack of sleep burns uncomfortably at the edges of his eyes. “And I know that you believe this is what’s right— no matter what I say. But it isn’t so easy.”

Teru’s hand twitches at his side, wanting to reach out— to pat messy golden hair, to comfort, to be there, as he’s always tried to be. But he holds back. His hands remain at his sides and he and his brother remain at odds, both unwilling to be the one that bends.

“If you know your weaknesses so well, you should know that. What are you going to do if you misjudge one of them? If someone dies because of an apparition you spare? How are you going to protect them— protect yourself— when you can’t even beat me?”

The harshness of the words makes Teru wish he could bite clean through his own tongue. It’s for the best, he tells himself, it’s for his own good.

“…I don’t mean to hurt you, Kou— I wish you had something better to look up to. This life doesn’t suit you. You’ve always been too kind for it. If you can’t abide by the way things are done, you should just leave it to me— all that’s waiting for you down this road is pain, and I don’t want you to have to meet it.”

[gunskulls]

@mnemoniics asked: [  👊  to  help  my  muse  in  a  physical  altercation.  ]  from  mira!

          What  a  pickle  I've  gotten  myself  into.

          An  accidental  shoulder-check  has  earned  JAKE  the  ire  of  a  man  who  looks  a  little  too  old  and  slightly  too  short  to  be  in  this  kind  of  position,  but  the  red  in  his  vision  and  the  fire  in  his  belly  blind  him  to  his  obvious  disadvantages.  Luckily,  JAKE ENGLISH  is  a  man  of  honor  and  integrity,  so  he's  been  spending  the  last  five  minutes  talking  the  fellow's  ear  off  in  an  attempt  to  defuse  the  situation,  which  is  going  about  as  well  as  one  could  expect.

          That  is  to  say,  not  well  at  all.

          ❝ Now,  now,  I  can  assure  you  there's  no  need  for  that!  Listen,  compadre.  I  like  a  good  fisticuff  as  much  as  the  next  gent,  really  gets  the  blood  a-pumpin'  and  the  heart  a-poundin',  but  I  can't  say  this  is  exactly  what  I  had  in  mind  for  today.  Not  only  that,  but  I  don't  think  it  would  be  a  fair  fight.  No  offense,  you're  just…  well,  you're  quite  frail  and  tiny,  and  I  don't  feel  right  whaling  on  someone  who  can't  fight  back  proper.  Furthermore,  I  have  somewhere  to  be,  so  how  about  we  take  a  deep  breath  and  go  our  separate  ways  and  just—  GHRK—?! ❞

          A  quick  blow  to  the  face  leaves  JAKE  sputtering  out  the  last  words  of  his  sentence,  a  look  of  shock  flitting  across  his  features.  Speaking  of  blood,  a  decent  flow  careens  from  his  nose,  something  that  doesn't  really  bother  him,  but  the  act  of  an  unwarranted  (and  quite  frankly  underwhelming  now  that  he's  processed  it)  attack  does  irk  him  a  bit.  Nevertheless,  he  manages  a  grin,  which  only  pisses  the  guy  off  more,  not  that  JAKE  pays  him  any  attention.

          ❝ All  right,  you  old  codger,  I'll  let  you  have  that  one.  Caught  me  bumping  my  gums  and  aimed  right  for  the  kisser!  I  see  you.  I—  whoops! ❞

          The  elder  man  throws  another  punch,  something  JAKE  sees  coming  this  time  and  manages  to  side-step.  He  winces  as  the  gentleman's  fist  makes  contact  with  the  brick  wall  behind  them,  grin  growing  sheepishly  wide  as  he  rubs  the  back  of  his  neck,  putting  some  distance  between  them.

          ❝ Ohhh,  that's  unfortunate.  Is  your  hand  OK?  Maybe  you  should  get  that  checked  out.  Anyway,  like  I  said,  I've  got  to  run.  Good  luck  with  your  future  endeavors  and  whatnot!  Fucking  prick. ❞

          The  last  part  JAKE  mumbles  under  his  breath,  untied  tennis  shoes  swiveling  on  their  heels  to  carry  him  off  to  better  places.  What  JAKE  doesn't  realize  is  behind  him,  the  man  has  brandished  a  knife  and  tends  to  employ  it.  However,  before  he  can  do  anything  with  it,  someone  else  startles  him  so  badly  that  he  forgets  the  interaction  entirely,  taking  off  in  an  entirely  different  direction. But that someone remains.

          Someone…  or  something  more…  demonic.

[ostiinati]

@mnemoniics said → "victory awaits with the dawn." ( arsene for erik ) ( src. // accepting )

The phrase suits him, Erik thinks in the moment, entirely unbidden. Arsene Lupin always looks like he belongs in the light of dawn— bright and golden like he might bleed sunlight if one were to cut him. Of course, to cut him one would have to catch him first— and that’s about as likely as closing the dawn in one’s fingers.

A simpler man in Erik’s place might be likened to Icarus, but the Phantom is uniquely well-suited to his place at the thief’s side. The night cannot be scorched by the day, after all. Victory may await with the dawn, but much of their work is accomplished in the dark— whether for practicality or for theatricality, Erik has not bothered to ask. Both reasons are acceptable. Furthermore, regardless of reasoning, it allows him to make greatest use of his own talents.

Arsene does not need those talents, but he wants them. And what a curious, terrifying, unsteady thing it is to be wanted. Though Erik was once a piece of the man’s plan for obtaining the Penultimate Night, the famed Gentleman Thief is more than capable of plying his trade masterfully without a dedicated partner. He could have just as easily cast him away after that initial caper went sideways— and just as easily, Erik could have left.

Yet here they are— a slightly messy getaway, the choosing of a new target, and one long drive into the English countryside later— and neither of them have shown any sign of altering the terms of their companionship.

Erik cannot help the fact that some part of himself is waiting for the plot to twist— for this thread between them to snap, like his every other connection to the world— yet each and every expected cruelty that he’s grown used to in all his years of life have gone entirely unobserved by the man who ‘stole’ him.

Even now, Arsene looks upon the Phantom’s unmasked face without so much as a flinch, his eyes dancing with the glittering splendor of his latest scheme falling into place. Arsene gets closer to him, as he always seems to do and he looks at him— smiles at him— in a way that Erik has never seen before he encountered him. Before he was stolen away from the opera house and proclaimed to be a jewel in the man’s collection. Ironically, it makes Erik want to cover his face almost as much as the revulsion or abject horror he’s used to seeing always has. At least that he knows what to do with.

Like this, he feels…at a loss.

“Celebrating early, I see.” Erik replies, as if the last several moments weren’t filled with thoughts that unnerve him too much to look any deeper into. His brows raise, lavender eyes watching Arsene’s movements as closely as Arsene watches him in turn.

It’s not a surprise. To say that Arsene Lupin is a confident man would be an understatement— and he never fails to back up that confidence with competence. It is little wonder to Erik how a man like this seems to sweep away just about anyone he pleases— an impromptu dance partner who pulls one into the steps so naturally that they find themselves following his lead before they even know it.

He turns his face away, white hair falling like snow against his disfigured skin. His gaze finds the walls, the windows, the world just beyond them. Blessedly, they don’t look back. Disturbingly, he feels some incessant tugging at the back of his mind to glance at Arsene again. Does he still look at me like that when I look away?

Erik isn’t sure which answer he’d prefer.

“…Everything is already in place,” The Phantom cuts through his own thoughts with a reserved approval. “I can’t say there’s much else to do with what remains of the evening.”