Vincent Nightray (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nightraysewerat) wrote2011-09-04 07:42 am
nightraysewerat) wrote2011-09-04 07:42 am
Dream 1: Snip
Dream effects: Melancholy leading up to euphoria, ending in calm, an almost satiated feeling.
Warnings: Gore in Vince’s thoughts, spoilers for recent PH chapters
The scissors feel lighter in his hands than they did as a child, though they have the same ornate handles, the same very sharp blades. He holds them more easily, fitting better in his palm, bounces them a little as he considers what he will cut with them, this time.
His eyes are slitted, nearly closed, and for a moment all that can be seen is darkness, but a rather textured darkness, not quite pure black, not quite still or unwavering. What is lacking in sight is made up for in sensation, as his fingers slip along the cool metal of one blade, and then brush against that textured curtain, revealing it to be course strands of hair that part under his fingertips almost reluctantly, clinging.
Then skin, warm and precious and thin, barely covering pulse and life and flow of blood, barely concealing everything that would flow out so easily. It’s so easy to trace the spine downward, to press fingers and the side of one wicked blade against the nape of the neck, to scrape with a nail as if considering what it would be like to cut.
"Vincent."
The voice is a warning, but it sounds as if it comes from far away, and it’s not in the voice of this person before him. It’s entirely the wrong voice, and Vincent frowns, as if something is broken by the wrongness of it, as if the fact that tone is indisctinct to the man himself destroys something.
"My apologies."
His own voice is wrong too, far too sincere, more sincere than it should ever be, open and revealing too much. The scissors are too light in his hand, lighter than when they first drew blood, lighter than when they pressed against eyeballs, squishing them deep into the sockets before they finally burst and crushed and became nothing but frail balloons spewing vile jellies. Lighter than when they rent flesh from flesh, failing to spill blood from corpses already cold.
They’re too light, and what he intends to cut with them is too light as well, the strands falling away so simply and without any real difficulty at all.
Snip.
Snip.
Snip.
Dark hair littering the ground around his feet, and he keeps his eyes on the back of the boy’s neck, fixed on a collar that’s slightly crooked, half turned-up, messy. Messy like the hair that is clinging to Vincent’s shoes, messy like the turmoil of thoughts swirling in Vincent’s mind as he gets closer and closer to his goal.
Then there’s that second, that last moment where he steps around before the young man, where he snip-snip-snips those last few times and then he’s reaching one gloved hand out, he’s parting those last few strands in order to find...
Vision becomes nothing but a blur of brilliant white, and there’s a clatter as the scissors hit the ground. Did they fall? Or did his hands simply float away from them, light as he is light now, as if the weight gone were from his own head, not someone else’s. Light, everywhere, and a smile touching his own lips as he speaks, finally.
"There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Master."
Warnings: Gore in Vince’s thoughts, spoilers for recent PH chapters
The scissors feel lighter in his hands than they did as a child, though they have the same ornate handles, the same very sharp blades. He holds them more easily, fitting better in his palm, bounces them a little as he considers what he will cut with them, this time.
His eyes are slitted, nearly closed, and for a moment all that can be seen is darkness, but a rather textured darkness, not quite pure black, not quite still or unwavering. What is lacking in sight is made up for in sensation, as his fingers slip along the cool metal of one blade, and then brush against that textured curtain, revealing it to be course strands of hair that part under his fingertips almost reluctantly, clinging.
Then skin, warm and precious and thin, barely covering pulse and life and flow of blood, barely concealing everything that would flow out so easily. It’s so easy to trace the spine downward, to press fingers and the side of one wicked blade against the nape of the neck, to scrape with a nail as if considering what it would be like to cut.
"Vincent."
The voice is a warning, but it sounds as if it comes from far away, and it’s not in the voice of this person before him. It’s entirely the wrong voice, and Vincent frowns, as if something is broken by the wrongness of it, as if the fact that tone is indisctinct to the man himself destroys something.
"My apologies."
His own voice is wrong too, far too sincere, more sincere than it should ever be, open and revealing too much. The scissors are too light in his hand, lighter than when they first drew blood, lighter than when they pressed against eyeballs, squishing them deep into the sockets before they finally burst and crushed and became nothing but frail balloons spewing vile jellies. Lighter than when they rent flesh from flesh, failing to spill blood from corpses already cold.
They’re too light, and what he intends to cut with them is too light as well, the strands falling away so simply and without any real difficulty at all.
Snip.
Snip.
Snip.
Dark hair littering the ground around his feet, and he keeps his eyes on the back of the boy’s neck, fixed on a collar that’s slightly crooked, half turned-up, messy. Messy like the hair that is clinging to Vincent’s shoes, messy like the turmoil of thoughts swirling in Vincent’s mind as he gets closer and closer to his goal.
Then there’s that second, that last moment where he steps around before the young man, where he snip-snip-snips those last few times and then he’s reaching one gloved hand out, he’s parting those last few strands in order to find...
Vision becomes nothing but a blur of brilliant white, and there’s a clatter as the scissors hit the ground. Did they fall? Or did his hands simply float away from them, light as he is light now, as if the weight gone were from his own head, not someone else’s. Light, everywhere, and a smile touching his own lips as he speaks, finally.
"There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Master."
no subject
Tell me.
Everything.
no subject
[It's a test, you see? And he doesn't think you're going to pass it.
With Elliot there, you're not his Leo.]
no subject
[Don't test him. He can't deal with this he can't hecan't--]
Why not?
no subject
[It's not just a childish taunt, it's the real reason.
Leo isn't really of any use to Vincent, like this. And Vincent has to figure out how to make him so.]
no subject
If you know something, I need to know, master Vincent. No one else does.
[And he's scared that it's so unknown. Don't make him do anything drastic.]
no subject
[He's not going to make this easy, at all.]
no subject
[Well. If we'll be that way.]
Fine.
[And abruptly he ends the call. If Vincent is used to him being his master...
Asshole.]
no subject
no subject
Then he'll just have to think of Vincent as a servant, and not a Nightray household member. He needs to know what happens, and most importantly anything about the voices and even if he's not sure Vincent actually knows anything about that, this is the only lead he has right now because Oz can't tell him anything.
He'll do whatever it takes.]
Vincent.
no subject
Yes?
[That tone. It's almost there. It's almost where he wants it.]
no subject
But.
Damn it, this isn't the time. Answers are right here in his reach and he's not about to let some stupid fear overtake them. He needs--]
Put those things away.
[His voice does tremble a bit, but it still holds an edge, a demand. Getting this fear shoved at him does make him, well, pretty much dangerous, murderous.
It's not something you want to try too recklessly.]
no subject
Then again, there is such a thing as too far.
So Vincent slowly sets the scissors aside, and then stands, his eyes focusing on Leo's form. He pauses for a moment, and then speaks, slowly.]
My master looked me in the face squarely. Can you?
no subject
Aside from the desire to know already.]
...squarely?
no subject
[Vincent steps closer, reaches out his hand, letting it hover just short of touching the edge of Leo's glasses.]
Can you?
no subject
Don't touch me.
[He shouldn't be feeling the need to breathe heavily just to get air. Damn it--]
How would it benefit me? Do I need to be your "master" in every way for you to tell me anything?
no subject
[It's petty, so very petty. But he's never claimed to be otherwise. And he just wants to push and push and keep pushing, now.]
Are you that frightened?
[He holds his hand against his chest, as if it were injured, cradling it, despite his calm tone.]
no subject
But he doesn't say so. Vincent has a point; why would he listen to someone who only looks like his master? It really is such a weird thing to think, that he, Leo, is anyone's servant, even less someone like Vincent.
How much has he changed...? He's not sure he wants to know, fully. But apparently, he has decided to face things. Somehow.
And so, he takes a deep breath and grabs his glasses, slowly pulls them off. He tells himself that if Vincent has already seen, it really doesn't matter much. What does he have to hide, in that case? Nothing. And he tells himself that he needs to know for Elliot's sake too, not just his own.
He needs to know how dangerous it is. How dangerous he is.]
no subject
[And it's not the euphoria of the dream, not quite, but there's an excitement to it, something that could overwhelm him if he'd let it. It's pretty clear in the way his hand almost trembles, as he strips a glove from it, reaches up, again stopping just short of touching, this time Leo's hair.
He waits, poised there so close to that contact, to brushing the hair back from the boy's face.]
You know who you are, don't you?
no subject
Hearing those words again gives him the creeps.
This time he only takes a couple of steps away, however, even if he feels like he's trembling all over. But he doesn't look away, and even though his eyes may be mostly covered by hair it's still quite obvious he's looking at Vincent squarely alright.]
Who I am?
no subject
[Vincent steps forward, just once, though he does let his hand drop. It's enough, he thinks, for now. Later, later, he'll deal with this hair. Later, he'll turn Leo into what he needs to be. Somehow.]
You've always heard him, haven't you?
no subject
[Vincent knows about that, he knows about Glen, he must have answers then, right? Must have.]
no subject
[He keeps his eyes on Leo, stands there with both hands at his sides, as if to keep himself from reaching out again. That hair is bothering him, so much.]
Watching you, so close to my brother that way, can you imagine? I did everything I could for him, though, as did you, didn't we? And yet afterward... well. That's the part you don't know.
no subject
Then tell me. What does it mean that I hear him?
[Why was it hard for Vincent to see him near Elliot? His throat feels so very tight, because if he really is dangerous....
He doesn't want to be. He just wants to be with Elliot without hurting him...]
no subject
[He's the worst of men, truly, to say such things, to ruin the boy's happiness, here in this place. He's the worst of men, anyway, has been for so very long.
But he has his reasons, so it's all right, isn't it?]
He's there, inside you, with you. He has been all along.
no subject
[Glen Baskerville's soul? That's.
That's so much bigger than he ever imagined? Far from what he expected, if expected anything in particular at all. He doesn't know.
But finally things are beginning to fall into place. He has never really questioned why he hears things, but now that he knows what it is he realises that he has always wanted to know. But before he can ask what it means that he sees all these lights, there's a more pressing concern.]
What does that mean? Where will that lead me?
[Another soul inside of him. He could never have imagined it to be something like that. Is that why he's so confused? But he doesn't want to be anyone else...
"You're yourself. With the voices or without, you choose who you are."
Is it really that simple?]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)