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littlewitty · 1 year

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"Sweet panforte"

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Word count: 4355

Time: No specific time nor route, the only thing that matters is that MC came to the mansion and happened to meet Michelangelo

Summary: Michelangelo explains to [MC] what The Highest Government is to vampires, but the way she treats his stories push his mind towards Vlad and his idea of what humans are really like.

Notes:

If you don't know Ikemen Vampire it will still make sense.

Michelangelo is a pureblood living in Vlad's castle. It's hard to call these two friends yet their closeness couldn't be described otherwise. What draws them towards each other is more of fascination and the desire to understand how the other's twisted mind think, but none of them wants to show too much to the other. It's their eternal play - manipulating each other into revealing secrets. The question stands - if they revealed too much, would they still stay by each other's side? Michelangelo is a weaker of these two. Emotional and soft if his heart is shaken too much and Vlad loves to see that, loves to use that. Michelangelo used to hide himself from Vlad, but with time, he stops caring about Vlad's games and even starts to enjoy them.

OOC Vlad (Most probably because I saw him in-game like once)

“You continue to surprise me,” said Michelangelo, setting down an exquisitely ornamented fountain pen he cherished since he had received it from a long-gone precious friend. “To look for me all around the city, only to put on a question so ludicrous. Haven’t I recommended you turning away from such matters?”

“Yes, you have, but I’m a curious little creature,” a new friend replied joyfully, bringing a chair closer to the artist, “and you’ve told me so much already. Why don’t you want to share another little secret with me?”

“Why have I shared any of them, I ask myself,” the pureblood thought.

With a grimace, he stood up from the intruded work, intending to close a window, too old to oppose, a fresh, storm wind that brought it near shattering on a wall. The castle Michelangelo inhabited out of kindness of a friend saw less storms than he had, yet still manifested expressions of the same decay. His mind was rotten and weak, brought down by the ages just like the wooden, stone and metal parts of the building. They cracked and trembled with gusts of drought, fell apart in showers together with thunders, grated with use, howled and creaked. The lord, Vlad was his name, held special attachment to the place and never allowed any lowly workers wander there for renovations. Even if an entire wall fell, he’d be too haughty to let anyone in his nest. It filled Michelangelo’s heart with a worry to know this recent friend sneaked into the wilting castle only to chat about a new hobby of hers.

He sighed, his gaze landing on the excited, young woman.

“Are the friends of le Comte not versed enough? Why to chase me especially and find yourself here?”

[MC] wondered, overlooking the hassle she brought in.

She was a good child, but an inattentive one, as it often comes with those of the purest will. She ignored dangers of the past world that she traveled to by no one’s will. Goals she had chosen required someone to look after her and Michelangelo happened to stand on her way on her first night in Paris. Overwhelmed with her brightness, he found himself loosen his guard, even getting attached to the young human he had yet to understand. Before he realized he should have withdrawn, he had told her everything she wanted, trapping himself in the obligation to watch over her until the day of her return to her time.

“Um, I... honestly don’t know the answer,” she admitted. “Am I bothering you, Michael?”

“On the contrary!” he replied, gleeful unduly, and rebuked himself for another sentence spoke out thoughtlessly.

“Really? Then why the long face?”

She watched him as he leaned out as much as he could on the dirty windowsill to look at the garden below. He watched roses flutter as the sky covered itself with a coal-black dress surfeited with azure bumps reflecting the setting sunlight. In blue-grey illumination, noticeable was that Michelangelo lacked sleep. He only kept dignity as long as his mind wasn’t hazy, but night hours approached, and he particularly avoided staying awake late. Times he stopped to taste the night on his own will could be counted on the holes of a palette he used for painting. That was an abandoned art for him that some tried to awaken.

Standing now in the middle of the workshop, barely holding his ground as a familiar migraine sneaked inside of his head, he pressed his hands against his temples and mumbled.

“I hate the rain,” he claimed, walking towards the bed where a few white pigeons that he owned, curled up in a pile. “Today’s weather makes me drained. Don’t pay too much attention to me. I must say, when I looked at myself in the mirror this morning, I could barely recognize myself. Bags under the eyes, sleep wrinkles, dropped eyelids and untamed hair. I could say I look like a man twice my appearance-age. Forties would it be? Don’t laugh! I’m being genuine. In my position, it doesn’t feel right to look as such. I held off a meeting with a rich sponsor, making a cheap excuse that I’ve been blessed by the muse of poems, but he insisted to show him the work when I’m done. Now, I must think of something instead of sleeping as intended.”

It was hard for [MC] to hold back laughter as Michelangelo curled next to the pigeons, which moved closer to him. He shivered, putting a heavy, woolen blanket made from Austrian wool around his freezing person, what startled the birds although they quickly landed on him once again. Creasing one fondly, he closed his eyes and put an arm over his eyes. A long-forgotten feeling of homesickness pulled on him and played with his imagination.

Oh, how he wished he could be in Tuscany again! To run on the warmed cobblestone streets heading for a meeting with young inventors whose novel ideas confused him, but pleased as well; to eat sweet pastry, desserts tickling one’s tongue with variety of flavors; to attend public arguments with artists of as heated disposition as his in his youth; and work at peace until dusk in an open workshop, enjoying the breeze, street noise and smells that twisting both pleasure and bewilderment, instead of being locked in a white and grey cage with nothing but his birds and dead, colorless seedlings. He was, however, tied down to rainy and dirty Paris, which he silently hated. Obviously, he could never express it. French loved his work too much and here being honest or trenchant was painfully far from adored. Time, he has spent away from Italy, mitigate him, that brought scads of anger. Without doubt, the only place he didn’t hate was his homeland where hatred was accepted.

“Maybe I could help you with it?” Michelangelo made a sound implying that he missed the objective [MC] aimed at. “I mean the poem. Back in high school, I read a lot of poetry and novels written by famous authors all around the world. Maybe some of them will give you an idea. I’m not the best in creative writing, but as a traveling agent I kept a few interesting stories. It can be a source of inspiration, I think.”

“That would be... much appreciated,” he said giving [MC] a wary gaze. “I’d owe you my life, thus you want something in return, but if you-”

“Tell me about the origins of vampires!” She smiled as sweetly as a panforte — an Italian, chewy desert he adored, which his father had been bringing him from Siena, a town neighboring to his birthplace. “You don’t have to make up excuses. I see you’d prefer to hide it from me, but, Michael, please, you’ve told me so much already.”

“That was a mistake on my part.” He reached for a lavender oil in a dark bottle he’d bought from a merchant he hoped was an Italian, but to his dolor only conveyed oils from the peninsula, and inhaled it with an audible relief. “Not mentioned it’s an unfair trade.”

“I can’t sleep missing this one final piece of information,” [MC] continued, “you know me. I won’t tell a soul. It’s like a bedtime story to me. Hey! Mumbling ‘coercion’ under your nose won’t help you. I’m your only option to escape from that chap chasing you.”

“God, have mercy or tell me why you punish me this way.” He creased his face with his harsh hands then pointed at a rocking chair close to an unlit fireplace. “Very well. Take a sit over there. Don’t worry. It just sounds like it’s going to fall apart. I’ll bring some wood and then tell you as much as I can, but after that you’ll help me with the poem, then go back home before the storm starts. Nod if you understand. Good. Don’t leave the workshop without me.”

As ordered, [MC] took a seat, setting the chair into gentle movement as she looked out through, the least dusted with marble, window. The courtyard bathed in the gloom, and so did the sky put in the blackness everything it had in its reach. It didn’t matter if it were houses, fields, pubs, nor the tall castle [MC] found only thanks to help of a coachman she saw with Michael a few times when they parted ways in the evenings. Everything turned into a dark mass that made recognizing shapes impossible, not even scrupulosity detailed sculptures of people she didn’t know, works of her dear friend, which now seemed like haunted shades of people who once stood in their place. Coldness wrapped itself around [MC]’s reddish skin, and she wrapped her arms around her legs which she picked up to her trembling chin in response. No answer reached her ears when she called for Michelangelo, so she hummed a melody, which Amadeus played that morning, to fill the silence.

She hated the nineteenth century storms, which, though invariably beautiful, have been sending a dread down her spine as they ruled the sky free from skyscrapers. The winds were pulling trees at full force, scratching off roof tiles and abducting unguarded items of daily usage; buckets, pots, cans. Papers flew around, thunderbolts crossed the celestial vault in their full glory, one of them sending the woman jump on her place.

In the bleakness of the atelier she, indeed, felt unwelcome in the past, but not because of people, who’s hospitality she considered truer than of those in her time, but by Nature which raged in her highest disapproval, sending harbingers of exile on Moon’s crescent day. She wondered if she sneered of her, waiting for disappearance of the weed.

[MC] walked down to the main hall, still wearing but her twenty-first century clothes, and searched for the butler, but he was nowhere to be found. On a Turkish carpet, edged with false golden filaments, wet with boots of two, stood men - one she had yet to get to know. The first of them, a familiar, the owner of the house, talked with a tall, young-looking gentleman of blond curls, drenched and matted. From afar, they looked like birth brothers, but as she approached them, many differences revealed themselves such as the earthly-black eyes, framed by eyelashes darker and longer than her own, watching her with a curiosity that she saw only in the eyes of children, which had yet to lose their innocence.

There were moments, when lying in a gifted bed, in the mansion she had to call home, she drew curtains to hide from storms. It ached her greatly as the performances of rain and thunders she used observe at home, lightly lit with colorful LED lights, giving her an awe and delight as she leaned over a windowsill with new, yet already well-used heater caring for her, now became an enemy haunting her dreams. She blamed her imagination for granting an awareness to a brainless phenomenon. Nevertheless, the restlessness guided her actions mingling with her natural composition. Too many conditions varied from what she knew.

On the night of her arrival, a tempest rampaged like in the manner. Paris drowned in rivers of water, Seine was close to pouring out, endangering the surrounding, labile buildings. The mansion stood proudly on a hill within a forest, not far from the city, but even in its garden the water have created numerous, large pools.

Le Comte introduced his friend, Michelangelo, who did not live with them. He only came to return an item borrowed: damp “The Dawn of Astronomy”. The host invited them both to the drawing room, where they talked of the future until dawn. She learnt how unwilling to stay late Michelangelo was, yet his interest in her was too great to pass on an opportunity he did not know would reoccur. In the morning, she also found out about the malevolence between the newly met friend and Leonardo who happened to wake up early by the scent of wet ground he enjoyed. The wrangle they caused made two more residents, Napoleon and Theodorus, lend their hands in holding back the two Italian artists. To her surprise, it was the kind Michael who started the discourse, but as soon as he was brought to his senses, the man she enjoyed the long conversation with apologized to the owner, [MC] and the residents for the trouble caused, excluding the one he bantered with in whose direction he sent another paragraph of bitter insults.

“Are you listening?”

“Oh, you’re back! What is it in your hands? I can’t see.”

“Snacks, naturally,” he smiled. There was a faint scent of yeast on him. “I thought you might be hungry. Here, take these. One of my ‘lessers’ made them. Did you hear any what I’ve been saying?

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well then, let me start again.” Michelangelo set the tray aside onto a table. “You should realize by far that the mythical origins of humans are buried in as many stories as many cultures there are on this world. We too wrote countless of them either based on our elder’s stories or religions we hold a faith in, but the truth stated by science remains unknown.”

“Aren’t purebloods immortal?” she questioned, her mouth full of tasty biscuits.

“We are,” he confirmed, getting back onto the bed.

“Can’t you just ask the first of your kind?”

“None is sure of who it could be, nor we can’t find truly old vampires. Stories float that some disappear, but we can’t consider those dead, can we? We don’t know where they are, nor what happened to them. Most of us don’t want to learn the truth, afraid we could find something we’d regret. Ignorance in our society is a common phenomenon.”

“What about the council you mentioned when we were strolling back from one of your sponsor’s house last week? Aren’t they the oldest?”

“It seems to be the most logical solution, but I know the people in the council changed at least twice in my life and no scandal arose. They must have been related to the old members, probably trained to take their elder’s place. I’ve never seen those ever again. Did they retire? That I cannot say. Some theorize the government knows the secret of mortality, but I do not think of it as true. It’s a fool’s hopeless dream. There’s no way to end our lives, I can guarantee you that.”

“And how do you know it?”

“Do I need to show the proof of my beliefs?” the sculptor said sharply. “I’ve seen and endured things I don’t wish to describe. For humans they may not be just unspeakable, but too hard to imagine, nor to understand.”

“If it is that important to you then I won’t push you to tell me,” [MC] answered, scared to enrage him. “The things you tell me are weird, but it’s the first time you get so heated over anything. Is it still okay for me to ask?”

“Yes.”

“You sound mad.”

“Do you want me to reject you?”

“No!”

“You don’t have the need to care of my moods then.”

She pursed out her lips, not sure what to answer. After a moment, she spoke quietly.

“How far back can you track vampires?”

“I’m not versed in history, but maybe six thousand years?” He wondered. “A friend mentioned she saw some documents speaking of someone like us from the beginning of the Ancient Egypt, although she also couldn’t tell for certain. It’s hard to define how old are those. At least, that’s what I remember from her lectures. I’d have to ask her again, but she’d suspect me of some mischief if I suddenly got an interest in her little obsession.”

“Is she one of those who aren’t ignorant?”

“You could say that, but she, in my opinion, is just highly interested in that era itself, not exactly our part in it. Whatever she learns, she remembers and documents in her books, which she does not publish for obvious reasons. Sometimes it takes her decades to make any progress on that topic and people would grow suspicious of working with her. So she gathers the information and shares it only with close friends. Moreover, the government wouldn’t be very glad with a pureblood sniffing around things they have already stated to cut the leftover curiosity.”

“To cut the curiosity? Why? And what do they say?”

“Excuse my language, but it has been like a century since I last listened to their bullshit and I honestly don’t remember what do they want us to believe in. I don’t know a single person that trusts them anyway, so I doubt it’s important. Hmm... Maybe I do. A certain idiot or a couple of them. But we all believe in what we want anyway.”

“If you don’t agree with the government, why don’t you destroy it? French hadn’t that much of a trouble with that. A few crazy leaders and you should make it go.”

“Ignoring the bloodshed that happened because of the revolution, you could be right. Keep in mind, vampires don’t want to disturb humans. The government just takes our money which most of us can get very easily and many of us are willing to help those with financial problems. They also monopolized medicine. Our organization skills are inferior. No one is lively enough to actually do something about them. We are wary of them and respect the law they uphold. All the sane ones will tell you any rebellion is pointless or too risky. They are dangerous, but purebloods have better things to focus on than carrying about a bunch of dandies, which doesn’t really affect those who understand the logical rules. Additionally, they are responsible for granting us Rouge and Blanc speaking with the countries’ authorities. We do not wish to destroy the stable state.”

“Sounds like you’re just too comfortable to care about the changes.”

“You’re right.”

“And you’re really fine with that?”

“Me? Yes, of course. Why would I not? Not to mention, I heard stories of so called The Blinded Age when many of us tried to make a change, but instead the humans called us monsters and took away our lesser vampires, which we treat like children. People say the government enslaved the purebloods who rose and exposed themselves to the humanity. It’s the reason why some think there is the secret to mortality.”

[MC] wondered. “You said some of you disappeared it seems like the right solution. But why would they want to feed someone they hated forever?”

“You think they would feed them?” Michelangelo laughed. “We’re immortal. We don’t need to eat to be alive. We don’t need warmth, blood, nor air. We recover too fast to die. They probably crushed the rebels with a rock or buried them making their existence a hell on earth.”

“So that’s how the stories of zombies we’re created?! Someone freed a pureblood, which was imprisoned!? That’s even worse! And you can live when your body is destroyed? Now all the stories about weirdly shaped monsters have sense! Haunted houses? The moans are of the vampires buried in the foundations.”

“I have no idea what are you talking about, but I think you’re getting ahead of yourself. Now when I look at you, at your brightened face, and hear your attitude, I fear you really don’t take this seriously and think of it as of a cheap entertainment.

She ignored his plea. “You can see me?”

“Obviously I can see you. Why, can’t you see me in the dark?”

She shook her head to test him.

“Really? Not even the shape of me like I see you and all the objects here?”

“No. I don’t have a night vision. All I see at this moment is a black space. I could see the room when the lightnings were present, but now I can’t see a thing. I had to touch everything around me to know where did you put the biscuits. It makes sense why didn’t you turn on the light then, but I thought it was just because you had your hands full and then were too busy talking.”

“Oh,” he realized, “so that is why humans are always so awkward and don’t hide their nude body in the darkness.”

[MC] burst out into laughter thinking how innocent he sounded by saying that the way he did - with a quiet tone full of abashment.

“You didn’t know that?” she asked.

Michelangelo elevated on his elbows and looked her directly into the eyes. “And tell me, how many occasions could I have to talk with humans about these things if I have to hide the fact I’m a vampire?”

She was looking in his direction, but too high to connect their gazes. It became clear to him she was indeed just following his voice, not being able to spot his face and the expression on it.

“Not many, but it’s so obvious, Michael!”

“Me being able to see in the dark is also a very obvious thing to me,” he mumbled.

He used to read people perfectly, but throughout the years missed a simple fact, he could see so clearly now. The awkwardness, unfocused eyes, the fear of darkness and countless stories telling of monsters awaiting them within it, they all made sense now. Lesser vampires acted similarly at night, unless they were drawn by blood-lust.

“Fine, fine! I’m sorry. But why don’t your eyes glow like animals’ then?”

“Mine are too dark, I assume. I’ve never experimented with that. But if you saw Vlad in the dark that would be a rather scary sight. Two red dots hanging without any body attached to it? Even I’d get worried. The vision of not being to spot what’s around you quite terrifies me. Is this why my elders called the time of hunts ‘blinded’? To speak of the darkness enveloping those who failed?”

“Why don’t we ask him?” she suggested with a smile, again ignoring his worries. “I think I heard his voice when I was in the entrance hall, asking that nice pianist where could I find you.”

She got up and marched towards the door of the workshop, holding edges of whatever she found on her way.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, [MC],” Michelangelo said severely. “And you should be going home too. The rain stopped for a while.”

A marble ball fell from one of the statues hands as she fell into it, startled that his voice came from right next to her. She went down on her knees and touched the ground around hopelessly, but found Michelangelo’s boot instead of the broken piece.

“I’m sorry! You scared me. I’m really sorry, I’ll find it in a second.”

“It’s broken, so no need.” He caught her arm and picked her up, leading to the exist. “You don’t have to worry about it. I’ll make another. I didn’t like this attempt.”

“But what about the poem?”

Something touched his heart when he looked down at her. She was small in his grip, laughing, making him nauseous. Gleeful eyes reminded him of a fly’s. He grimaced, glad she could not see his face. He led her down the halls, trying to get her away from him and the place no human should consider safe. His head spun in confusion as he considered his feelings towards her. He both cared for her to return to safety and hated her presence. Indeed, her lack of tact towards the story of his people angered him, but did he truly consider her a friend? Or maybe just an empty shell he could speak his mind to, sure she will disappear once the month is over. And he foolishly believed he thinks highly of her! He smirked at his own stupidity. Vlad was right all along. Humans are unable to understand them. Not that he ever shared anything significant with her. He talked about his work, his kind to only entertain her. Curiosity had blinded him.

He bid her goodbye and sent home from the nearby carriage station. At home, Vlad welcomed him in the drawing room, lying on a sofa.

“Dear Angel, what is it that troubles you? Is it that human you just led out of our home?”

“It is,” he confirmed and sat down next to Vlad, but on the floor.

“Why don’t you tell me what she has done?” He put his palm onto Michelangelo’s shoulder then smiled when he looked at him with a tired gaze. “You poor thing. She mingled with you! I’ve been telling you this for years: humans are nothing, but trouble. They gain our interest then disappoint us with their moods and lack of stability. They turn into jokes everything they find troubling, treat us as toys if they find out about this, because a fool has decided to tell them the truth.”

“What should I do now?”

“Nothing. Or rather, nothing with her. Let her forget you.”

“It does sound reasonable.”

Vlad worried for once. He got off the furniture and sat beside him, pulling his hair. Michael looked at him.

“No matter how many of your thoughts you want to lay onto a human, they won’t be able to comprehend it.”

“But why did I want to keep her though she enraged me so?”

“That’s what humans do. They make it hard to get rid of them. It’s their survival tactic they are not aware of.”

“Am I drawn to her blood?”

“Do you think you are?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then you aren’t. There would be no doubts in your heart if you were. It’s a good thing you aren’t attracted to her, just curious, for whatever reason. It will be easier for you to get her off your mind. She will disappear at some point and won’t trouble you anymore. You heard me saying this many times. Humans are problematic creatures. They do not deserve the right to be above us and we should never come to close touch with them.”

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