in hushed whispers ; cygnus & holt

[[nyte]]

h o l t   f i e r

He likes Cygnus. Not for any reason that’s easy – his pretty face or that pristine smile. In fact it’s quite possible that Holt likes him in spite of all that. He tends to go for guys with lips that look like they’ll bruise. Those who bare their teeth as a threat and a promise. It’s lucky then that Cygnus has something they don’t – another secret to collect.

The Alcotts and the Fiers have hated each other for longer than Holt’s been alive. It’s a stuffy old rivalry that’s only fun because it makes for more rules to break. He hadn’t expected Cygnus to play along, stifling his too-loud whispers with his lips because Holt talks too much even in the midst of breaking and entering.

Every time since the first, Holt tells himself that it will be the last. He’s played this game long enough now that he’s due to lose interest. (”Be seeing you.”) He’ll whisper through kiss-bitten lips, yet another promise he intends to break. It’s only a matter of time until he follows through.

Not tonight, though, not yet.

The story plays out like it always does. Holt waits until the house and its occupants fall into an uneasy stupor, gets the flashlight out from under his bed and hauls ass through the passage way because it always feels like something is watching him down there. He blames the goosebumps trailing his forearms on the draft because Holt Fier isn’t scared of anything.

The Alcott mansion grounds feel hostile, like it’s holding its breath the minute Holt breaks through the barrier. It’s part of the reason he keeps coming back. He retraces the steps he’s worn into the halls at this point, giving Cygnus’ door one sharp knock.

And he waits.

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

C Y G N U S   A L C O T T When it came to ghosts, Alcott Manor had more than its fair share. They came in many shapes and sizes: faces with dull expressions staring lifelessly back at him from the paintings in the foyer, shadows yawning across the walls and reaching out along the floors like unfurling fingers, the curtains billowing out of the corner of his eyes and falling silent by the time he noticed them. And then, especially, the names. The endless flood of them, scribbled next to ages and dates of execution and the bullets used to end a life. Each file was so much like the one before it, and yet so inherently different. He did often find the researching a bit procedural, but each file was a story he could simply flip through and read and they went on as far as the tower itself did. Floor after floor, an endless windup of targets successfully eliminated. It was a trophy room with either too much shame or too much self-righteousness to call itself as much. He locked the door behind him and checked twice to ensure he'd done everything correctly before he finally turned to leave. He'd studied well into the night again, so everything was coated in a silvery-blue filter that forced him to squint to make out details beneath the full moon. The air smelled as it always did at the manor: a faint perfumed sweetness. Currently, the scent was a mixture of mowed grass and chamomile tea wafting from the open kitchen window with a minty afterbite coming from the storehouses down the way. The lights were off in the main building, so he relied on his wits to make it back to his quarters. Cygnus quite liked his room. He'd really done a lot to make it feel like his space, leaving the balcony window open unless there was going to be rain, insisting on an entire wall of ivy and climbing roses to be planted so that they grew around hanging fairy lights. He hadn't watered the plants a single time since having them installed in his room, but his parents paid a gardener for a reason. He stepped into the walk-in closet and shrugged off his shirt and pants in favor of a giant sky-blue cotton sweater. The moral dilemma was getting old, frankly. He was tired of asking himself if he was a good person, but maybe that's because he didn't like the answer. The secrets he kept- the people he kept those secrets from- they weren't of the sort a good person would have. And if that was true, and he kept calling attention to it, then it inevitably circled back to this: No. He was not a good person. And Cygnus Alcott liked for people to think he was as good as he could possibly be. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and his eyes flitted from the curtains to the darkness beneath his bed, to the light still illuminating from his closet and- a knock, quiet as a mouse but deliberate as a knife wound. He could always feel the ghosts before he saw them. At some point, he decided he enjoyed being haunted. He slid out of his bed and tossed the book he'd been reading onto his nightstand before making his way over to the door. He knew exactly what would be standing on the other side of this door and, like many of the spirits that followed him around, Cygnus was never too sure how, exactly, he came to be. They had a wall surrounding their estate that was as old as the rivalry between the two houses, and a security code at the only entrance in or out. He hadn't ever asked, and he probably never would. Instead, he just opened the door and draped himself against the doorframe, resting his forehead against the back of his hand. "Well, well, well..." he said in a sleepy, whispery voice that was typical of him, "Here you are, walking into enemy territory yet again-" his eyes fell to Holt's hands, then his hips, then his legs- all for multiple reasons, the most excusable of which was this: "-entirely unarmed." He backed away from the door without breaking eye contact with the boy looming before him. Holt was a burning heart with the molten features and the tragic stare to prove it. And he likely hadn't brought a weapon because he didn't need one. He was as good as any blade. Cygnus smiled. "You better come in quick... Someone might see you."

[[nyte]]

h o l t   f i e r

The Alcott Mansion has eyes - that's the first thing Holt had discovered in his nightly ventures onto poisoned ground. There's always a gaze burning into the back of your neck, nestled unseen in these grand halls that stretch onto eternity. It's perfect and pristine and always smells vaguely sweet. If not for the way it whispered to him he'd doubt anything could live somewhere so suffocating.

It's stark in contrast to the place Holt considers home. Not the Fier house itself but the room he'd hollowed out within its gaping maw. There the curtains are a grey-and-red patchwork of clashing patterns, so thick the only light let through comes from the gashes Holt himself had torn with his switchblade. The walls are adorned by weeping spray paint, a collage of vulgar words and pretty things in various states of melancholy.

As he waits for Cygnus to open the the door he runs his hand over his hair in a desperate bid to make it somewhat presentable. Anticipation sends a thrill up his spine, cold as the boy he wants so badly to burn. There's no trust between Cygnus and he - only unasked questions and answers they've no intention to give.

In spite of himself, his breath catches when Cygnus answers the door. His heart gives a painful thud, gaze slowly crawling up his body as his companion devours him in turn. There's something muted about Cygnus' beauty, bleeding out along the edges like drying ink. It beckons Holt closer, a quiet challenge to memorize the lines of him with more than just his eyes. An impulse Holt has never hesitated to indulge.

He remembers to start breathing again when Cygnus smiles. "Are you sure about that?" His voice is rough as the calluses on his palms, a low staccato that is as much of an acquired taste as its owner. "You could pat me down, just to be safe." He follows Cygnus into his room without a second thought, waving off Cygnus' warning with a roll of his eyes.

A part of him realizes how dangerous this is. This is no petty conflict, it's drenched in enough blood to paint the entire neighborhood red. Still, he's yet to ever feel truly afraid. That's what makes this all so exciting. Holt does what he wants, consequences be damned. He learned that if you don't linger it's a lot harder for those to catch up to you. Holt doesn't even entertain the possibility of being caught - that'd be far too much of an inconvenience.

"No one's gonna see me." He walks forward as Cygnus steps back until there's nowhere left for Cygnus to retreat. Half of a smile settles on his lips as he drags his hand up along his neck as soft as someone like Holt can be. When his fingers reach his jaw he grips it gently, tilting his head back to get a better look at him.

Stunning. He can't tell if that thought escaped on a low exhale, but certainly hopes it didn't.

He hadn't closed the door behind him, it taunts them from across the room ever so slightly ajar. The added danger has spikes his pulse until its thundering against his chest to the point of painful. It's almost enough, but only just. "You're the only one who knows there's a Fier in here, sullying Alcott land." He leans down as he guides Cygnus' face up.

It would be a kiss if not for the stubborn distance he keeps between them.

"Unarmed, like you said. Defenseless and right in front of you." His smile broadens, "So what're you gonna do about it?"