birdwithoutasong | We're facing the ceiling

We're facing the ceiling

Who: Valentine Wolfe and Stefano
Universe: who even knows
What: villains being villains together
Warning: violence, reference to murder, possible gore

Valentine considered himself a connoisseur of the finer things in life, and there were plenty of finer things to be appreciated. He couldn’t be much bothered by what other people did to themselves or others, unless it was interesting. Although he’d heard of certain rumors lately that seemed to be worth looking into.

He knocked at the door and when it answered, he held the newspaper ad calling for models in front of him.

“I’d like to submit an application,” Valentine said. He had pale skin, black hair, and bright red lips, and went more for a specific look. He didn’t look much like he’d make for a typical model.

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"Oh, it isn't?" There is some amusement beneath his words. But he still can't shake off the feeling of danger that penetrates deep into his heart. Like he shouldn't do anything, like he should listen to the faint warning.

"Unfortunately, I've already decided that you shall become my next masterpiece. And then, the world shall come to appreciate the beauty I see before me." He takes a step forward and feels hesitation building up along the base of his spine, settling on his shoulders. Stefano doesn't understand it. Why is there such a call of panic and danger?

It's thrilling, but unwanted in the creation process. So he lifts the blade with the intent of bringing it down into soft shoulder.

Valentine is entirely still, as the knife plunges into his flesh. It parts his clothing and the skin underneath, and Valentine's blood spills out, garish and red.

Valentine reaches up for the hilt of the knife.

"I thought it would be a sublime shade, and--"

He cuts himself off when Valentine reaches to grab onto the hilt of the knife. He cuts himself off when he notices that there isn't a change in the other's expression. It causes something like a cold sweat to start to run down his neck.

"--what?"

Valentine curled his fingers and pulled the knife out of him.

The cloth that had torn stayed ripped. The skin did not, knitting itself back together until after just a moment there was nothing left of the wound Stefano had made.

"Did you want to try something else?" he asked, voice calm.

"That's not--"

The word "possible" hangs in the air as he takes a step back. He looks at the knife itself and it still is dripping red, but when he looks to the wound itself -- it's gone. Stefano wonders what most would do in this situation. Would some start driving the blade into the chest over and over to prove that the person can die? That would be the panicked response, and he feels the urge as he tightens his hold on the hilt of the knife.

Ultimately, he decides to ask, "How is that possible? Are you some vampire, perhaps?"

Valentine laughs, watching Stefano's face.

"Made a deal with a devil," he says, which has the advantage of being true on a metaphorical level, rather than the literal.

"But if you're asking me to drink your blood I could give it a try."

"As we all do." So he adds with a hint of a nervous smile. The blood on the knife drips on the floor -- too soft to be heard over the sound of the ticking of the clock down the hallway. But Stefano feels like he can hear each drop, as it reflects the state of his suddenly anxious heartbeat.

"Ah, but would become of my work if I can never step out into the light of day?" A beat. "You could tell... couldn't you? The way I wordered my advertisement what I was seeking. Yet you came here. Why?" Some sort of supernatural avenging angel? He wonders idly, and to his credit, he doesn't point the bloody knife at Valentine in accusation.

No, he merely stays frozen in place as he asks his questions.

If Valentine is meant to be an angel, then he's one who's plunged himself downwards, rather than simply falling. He doesn't make a move for Stefano or the weapon.

"I was curious and I wanted to see it for myself. To see if you had it in you to be great."

"To see--"

He breathes out half a laugh. "Are you saying that you don't recognize my genius? My legacy has been painted in flesh, blood, and silver nitrate." His hand raises to gesture toward the frames lining the hallway.

"I am more than capable of becoming great. I'm halfway there!" His anxiety and fear fade away as his ego bloats.

Valentine waved a hand, dismissive.

"You're relying on the shock of it too much. I agree that you still have to go again as far as what you've done already."

"You're sounding like those critics."

He stomped his foot and ignored the absurdity of his annoyance. Here he yelled at a being that cannot be killed easily because his pride as an artist was injured.

"They're beautiful. They're true art. There is so much beauty in destruction and that is what I am attempting to convey. How is that you can only see the shock of it?"

Valentine, on the other hand, was content to discuss this like a distanced, academic topic, as if Stefano hadn't tried to kill him for the sake of the art they were discussing, as if many others hadn't been killed.

"Because the shock is most of what you're doing. Take that away, and what do you have, truly?"

"It's not about the shock!"

With one hand, he strangles the air while he continues to tighten his grip on the dagger with the other. "There is beauty in death, and there is beauty in the destruction of the body. They all shy away from it like--"

The dagger is thrown but at the ground, like a line in the sand between them. "They can never understand the meaning behind it all. Every last one of them afraid and disgusted rather than looking at the broken bones and shattered skull... looking at them and seeing just how gorgeous the body looks at that moment when death embraces it."

"And is that the most beautiful thing, in your mind? The freshly dead?"

Valentine considered that, dismissed it. "There's potential in the living that can't be matched once they're dead."

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We're facing the ceiling

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