Reunited [Donovan/Ask]

Julian could not help but feel anxious. He had not seen Donovan in...in... damnned it all if he could remember when. Sanity was a fickle thing, and the only thing that let him keep it was the company provided to him by spiders. If he had ever been a social person, he just couldn't...quite....recall. Those tiny fragments had been beaten out of him long ago, and what remained was something less than human. Perhaps not beyond vampiric, but certainly not human. Not humane. Heels clicked the pavement, and the glances at his features did nothing to disturb him. He knew he was beautiful; not in the conventional sort of way, but in the intresting way. His features were feminine, yes, and he had mastered the female walk some time ago. Still, there was something slightly off about his appearance, and most could not figure out exactly what it was. Julian blamed the lack of curves on his body, but still, he was something special.

The black dress adorning his figure was entirely too short – or perhaps not short enough. Fingers held down the edges, bothered by its tiny hem. Of course, the dark-red jacket was long enough to cover the dress and his indecency, but he was still bothered by it. At least his nails were well done. Julian chewed anxiously on his lip – would Donovan remember him? It was a stupid question, but he still worried that somehow, he would mean less to Donovan now. Julian could not forget the man however, not even in his dreams. Perhaps it was the true meaning of being oathed to the man, and perhaps it was simply Julian's fantasy. Either way, it didn't matter. The most pleasant of Julian's dreams could never be realized.

The moonlight shimmering off the water did much to calm Julian's nerves. Had it not been a night like this that he'd met Julian? Not that he'd ever seen much of the outside world, trapped within the confines of the council chambers. The world had much changed, but it was not a bad change, merely different to the world of blood, walls and darkness that Julian was used to. He had known that the world would change – how could it not? If he had remembered his human life, he would know that the place he was born no longer existed, lost to Britian and renamed to Paris. It did not matter in the end. He was in Venice, and Donovan was his aim.

Nerves overcame him as he reached Il teatro di anima. Had the council sent word that he was arriving? Julian's lip bled as he continued to chew on it. Donovan couldn't have forgotten him, right? Yet...Julian's legs did not seem to want to move from where the stood, even though outside was far scarier than being inside the theatre. How would he greet his master anyway? A hug was inappropriate, wasn't it? Julian would've liked a hug though. Had they hugged before, or was that a hallucinated memory?

Letting go of the hems of his dress, Julian moved to the door of the theatre, wanting very much to sneak past the lycanthrope guards but deciding against it. Social protocal was still important, wasn't it? “Donovan...” Julian said, his voice wipsy and almost non-existant. He'd forgotten to feed in his haste to get there – it wasn't as important as being reunited. “I'm here to see Donovan. Please.” Blue eyes were earnest, near pleading to the shifters. They did not look swayed, and sent a third to Donovan himself. Nerves; damn Julian was nervous. He shouldn't have come.

“I must be mistaken. Sorry.” The words were rushed, and he turned around. Donovan wouldn't want to see him. He needed to go back to Paris.

Julian had not seen or sensed Donovan – perhaps because he'd given up already. He was nothing less than startled when he saw the familiar figure before him, the voice unrecognizable to his ears for several moments. Donovan? Could that deep musky voice possibly be...his master? Julian knew it was – for how could it be anyone else? No one in Venice yet knew who he was, aside from those with strong connections with the council, and even then, Donovan's voice was immistakable. Julian could not forget the voice that had shown him a kindness, despite the fact that he could not remember what exactly that kindness was, or if it had even happened. He did not exactly have the best memory; he hadn't for a long while.

Words were lost to him as he stared at his master, unsure still of what protocal he was supposed to show. Did he bow to Donovan? Or just stand there like some sort of paralyzed idiot? Julian would've bowed to anyone else; he just...didn't know what he should expect. What had happened last time he'd seen Donovan? The desire to close his eyes and try and figure out such things in his mind was overwhelming; instead, he nodded and answered his masters question the best he could. “I think it has; I don't remember. I'm sorry.” In truth, Julian did not want to think about how long it had been – it had been far from pleasant.

Still, his eyes brightened considerably at Donovan's words that he had been expecting him, that small happiness crushed at the mention of the council. The mention on its own was enough to silence him completely, yet he was nothing but compliant as he followed Donovan into the theatre. Eyes could not help but drift to the smooth curve of his masters back; then to his masters thighs and upwards. It had been so long since he had set eyes upon Donovan, and Donovan had not become any less beautiful in their time apart. If anything, Julian found him more attractive somehow – perhaps it was the air of power that seemed to surround his master by stance alone, or perhaps it really was the ardeur. Julian was not even sure if he cared if it was the ardeur – Belle Morte had used it on him on the very odd occasion, and he did not reject or fight the euphoric feelings it created. He had not been beautiful enough for her bed, not in comparision with others from her line. Still, the rewards for his good behaviour had been...something good. Something terribly good.

Why was he thinking of Belle Morte anyway? Sharp teeth returned to his bottom lip as his heels clicked on the floorboards, eyes cast downwards now. The tunnels were remembered – Julian needed to remember how to get to his master. He didn't particularly like the idea of being unable to find Donovan again, not after being seperated for entirely too much time. Damnned it all, he wanted his master to provide some sort of comfort but he couldn't ask. Julian's lip was bleeding again; healed over only to be broken by gnawing fang. Terrible. He could not help but admire the rich, textured floorboards as he followed Donovan, unable to fully look at his master without that cursed desire rising in him – he knew that Donovan could sense it. Belle Morte had cruelly told him as such. It was humiliating; but far less humiliating to what he had been subjected to. It was livable.

Julian nearly jumped at being addressed once more, attention hardly remaining on the situation. He hardly wanted to be seen as a nusiance. Surely Donovan would have some use for him; Belle Morte had found plenty. Still, ten thousand concerns ran through Julian's mind, all of which were forgotten and remembered several more times. Then, Donovan's words registered in his puzzled mind, and he was forced to stop in his tracks. “Vous voulez que je reste?*” French had always been his preferred language. There were no ill feelings towards Donovan, despite the fact that Belle Morte had very much desired to pit him against her. How could he hate a man that had....that had...done...something?

Julian wanted very much to cry; and perhaps it was the more feminine part of his form that allowed him to shed a tear before dabbing at his eyes with the edge of his jacket. Curse his stupid dress, he should have dressed up better for Donovan. He should not have felt so stupidly insecure, so out of...himself. But he was now in a place that had yet to serve him a dish of torture and death. Surely, it was only a matter of time, wasn't it? Then again...Donovan had never been that cruel, had he? Julian did not know. Could not know.

“I am...pas moi**. I...should return to Paris, but I cannot bare the thought of...” Julian trailed off, finishing his sentence by gripping the edges of his jacket. Had Donovan always had this effect on him? There were so many endings to his sentence, and yet Julian could not find one that he found suitable. How, how could Donovan look at him so calmly? Perhaps it was his own irrationality that had led to such things in the first place. “I do find myself starved, and I would feel greatly gratioutious for a chance to sate my hunger.” At least talking of his hunger did not make him feel like he was painting a thousand emotions on his face.

*You want me to stay?
**Not me

Julian represented a rather significant problem for Donovan; the ancient vampire was not entirely sure how to handle the broken man. It was rather like being landed with a younger relative when one had no affinity for children; Donovan was not compassionate by nature, though he could attempt to portray such feelings when it suited his overall plans and needs. Julian ultimately confounded Donovan; just as the rotting vampire was unsure as to how to treat Donovan, the Master of the City was unsure as to how to treat his short-statured underling. Loyalty was an admirable trait in a subordinate but Julian was pushing the boundaries of devotion, verging on a fixation. It couldn’t possibly be healthy. Then again, how much of Julian was ‘healthy’ was up for serious and lengthy debate.

Thankfully, Julian was at least as awkward as Donovan was uncomfortable; the tiny vampire looked positively lost. Julian also appeared to baulk slightly when Donovan had mentioned the Council, as though the mere mention of that shadowy hell was enough to make him cringe. The ancient vampire supposed that it was a rather cruel form of teasing, a little like kicking a puppy, that almost failed to elicit even a sliver of compassion. Donovan had left Julian in that... place when he had been ordered into England, and for that he felt a shade of shame. Belle Morte could certainly be blamed in part for whatever horrors she had inflicted upon Julian but Donovan had left him there and an adequate portion of responsibility lay at his own feet. As master, Donovan was supposed to have protected Julian or at least have him extracted from the Council as soon as possible but he had abandoned him to Belle Morte as soon as freedom presented itself. How positively selfish.

Donovan was used to being obeyed but Julian was unusually subservient. Not that Donovan was going to complain. A obedient underling made for a surprising change; not that his vampires were disobedient but they were very much individuals, whereas Julian had the servile quality that often accompanied the broken. When compared with Aubrey, Selma and China-Rose, Julian appeared to be far more childlike and in need of more authority. In truth, Donovan was not sure what Julian would do if left unsupervised or without instruction. He could feel the younger vampire’s eyes on his back as they walked, a feeling that would have normal put the older vampire on edge. Giving someone your back implied trust or disrespect, and Donovan felt neither for Julian; not trust because Julian was broken and unstable, and not disrespect because he had done nothing to lose Donovan’s respect in the first instance. “Stop biting your lip, Julian. You are bleeding and it is unseemly.”

Donovan looked over his shoulder at Julian, a slight frown creasing his brow, “The question, Julian, is why would I not want you to stay?” If the ancient vampire was bewildered and confused before, then he was baffled beyond reason as Julian began to tear up. Why was he crying? It was slightly alarming to have him welling up for seemingly no reason at all; it appeared to be a very human thing to do. Was Julian pining for something? For someone? Donovan spun on his heel, concerned and greatly confused until Julian partially explained himself, “Why should you return to Paris, Julian? I fear you have lost me.” He nodded his agreement to Julian’s request for food; pointing at a door, Donovan indicated where Julian’s quarters were situated, “I think you will find your quarters adequate enough. My own rooms are located deeper within this maze. Come amant de la douleur, let is find you something to eat.”

[sorry it took me so long!]

The instant Donovan had told Julian to stop biting his lip, Julian had done exactly that. Stopped mid-bite, closing lips in favour of tugging the edge of his dress in his hands. Nervous habits were hard to break. “Oui, mon maître.” To stop the bleeding, Julian sucked on his lower lip – being unseemly upset Donovan, and Julian could not have that. When Donovan asked his question however, Julian wanted nothing more than to gnaw his lip to pieces. Julian could not even begin to explain his own anxiety whilst in the clutches of Belle Morte, and he wanted so badly to ask why Donovan had not tried harder to levy him out of the council's hold. Julian already knew the answers to such questions, and it was a stupid part of him that wanted to ask anyway. He ignored those urges...he could not question Donovan. He hadn't been allowed to question Belle Morte...but Donovan wasn't Belle Morte and...

Julian's mind pained him. Searching for memories that either didn't exsist, were imagined or had never been. Julian dug nails into the palm of his hand, listening to Donovan's second question. Lost? How had he lost Donovan? Surely it was his master who had been thinking such negative thoughts of him in the first place? Julian couldn't help the twitch of his lip, his teeth clenched firmly shut as he contemplated his answer. So badly he wished to part that skin. So badly. “I was told that...you did not need nor desire my company. That I would be better off with my purpose serving...” Julian choose not to state the name of a certain council member. “I...do not know why I am here, save for perhaps...my uses to her are...gone. I do not understand, not really.”

His voice was deadpan, emotions well hidden for the first time that night. He'd been better at that game when his heart wasn't beating a hundred miles an hour, and when the beginnings of a blush hadn't been at the base of his neck. Also, it was never difficult to hide emotions from victims – they perceived whatever they wanted whilst they screamed. At Donovan's indication, Julian moved to the quarters that had been assigned to him, unable to stop the suprise from showing on his face. “This is too...” Julian wanted very much to explain that he had become accustomed to sleeping amoungst piles of rotting corpses and worse – the rotting should sleep with the rotting. Julian found his head hurting once more, causing him to squeeze his eyes tight shut before looking back to Donovan with a definate blankness in his face. “I can not repay you for this.” Julian closed the door, trailing a hand down the elegant markings with some small wonder.

The mention of food, however, had him jerk away from the door with unseen enthusiasm, a soft blush on his cheeks at the alias Donovan called him by. He had not fed in a long time. In truth, he did not even know how to hunt for himself. The council had always owned many pomme de sangs, more than enough to sate all his hungers. Of course, anything beyond blood was merely a novelty but...Julian enjoyed seeing eyes that were purely white as he rotted and drunk from his victims. It was a fact that he had neglected to mention to Donovan, mostly because Julian did not believe it mattered what he did to a pomme de sang. His food had always been hand-picked by Belle Morte. Punishment for those would try to resist her. Delicious punishment.

Tongue slid out to wetten his lips as he thought of the taste of warm crimson sliding down his throat. The thought of being denied such a meal was maddening now. “After I feed...can you show me to your quarters? I need to know where they are. I do not ever wish to be seperated again.”

It seemed that if Julian could not indulge in one nervous habit then he would simply create another; it was a very human thing to do, in Donovan’s mind. Not to say that he disapproved as such; tugging on the hem of clothing was much more preferable to chewing ones own mouth. He had to wonder, however, why exactly Julian was apprehensive. Was the younger vampire uncertain of seeing him after all this time or was he afraid of Donovan himself? While Donovan did not want his underlings living in terror of him, a little fear went a long way toward making sure his orders were carried out. However, he did not think that Julian would have been scared of him - more likely he was in awe or some such thing. The young vampire looked up to him somewhat and that puzzled Donovan more than a little; why should Julian hold him in such esteem was odd though flattering, in a way.

As the tiny monster tried to explain himself and his presence, Donovan carefully noted the way that he had deliberately left out the name of his tormentor, as well as the traitorous twitch of his lip; his mind latched onto the ‘she’ that Julian had been serving. Was it simply a slip of the tongue? Meaningless? In any case, it seemed that Julian was not completely ineffectual as Donovan had initially thought; he seemed determined to protect this unnamed individual, though the ancient vampire would have wagered a large sum of Belle Morte herself. He was almost certain of it, and he was suddenly filled with purest loathing. While Belle Morte had demanded and received his respect and obedience for centuries it had not stopped Donovan cultivating his distaste and utmost dislike for his previous sourde de sang, whilst schooling his face into blankness. The abhorrence that filled him when he thought of Belle Morte was not visible to the outside world.

“You were mistaken, Julian. You should know that Paris is wallowing in lies and deceit,” Donovan paused and spoke his next words clearly, “and you are here because I want you to be here.” It sounded like a simple fact: you are here because I willed it so. It was how Belle Morte often spoke; as though the very idea that anyone might question this logic and reason. Donovan was also slightly perplexed by Julian’s reaction his room; it was much the same as the ones used by the other Kiss members, though it lacked the personal touches installed by others in their own rooms. Donovan’s own quarters were sadly lacking in much personal décor since he preferred a more spartan living area. However, Donovan did not want to tell Julian that it was merely a room and that he was being childish over a trivial matter so the ancient vampire compromised with himself. “It is a gift Julian, and gifts are not to be repaid.”

He also had to wonder if he had perhaps underestimated Julian’s sense of attachment; would he turn jealous, for instance, if Donovan brought others back to the lair? It was something to ponder over; he was not used to be referred to in such a possessive manner; ‘I need’. It was practically a demand. Belle Morte had merely treated Donovan like furniture, rather than a coveted object. However, there was no reason not to show Julian where his quarters were, though he thought that perhaps they ought to move quickly; Julian now had the predatory look of a hungry vampire in need of nourishment. “Very well. Do you have a particular... type, Julian? Male, female, young, old?” Donovan began walking back up toward the upper level of the theatre, intending to make his way onto the streets of Venice. After all, there was always a plentiful supply of willing donors loitering around after sundown. He would much prefer to find a willing donor for Julian and bring them back to the theatre.

Julian wanted to say so badly that it was not just Paris that was wallowing in lies and deceit, that it was the world and everyone contained in it. Lies, as they say, make the world go around. It had become so bad in Paris, however, that Julian could not deceipher truth. Or rather, could not believe in the truths he was told, unless they were of negative meaning. As much as he desired, he could not chew on his lip. Donovan's next statement however, made more sense than the logic he had heard. Perhaps it was simply the tone of Donovan's voice. Julian did not make the connection between that very tone and Belle Morte's own voice, but it was something that moved that obedient side of himself. Julian contemplated those six words; “I want you to be here”. Could it be some sort of...subtle...hint of...admiration? The corners of Julian's lips twitched, a warmth filling his body to form an idea. Julian's ideas...were dangerous.

Nodding at the words of a gift, Julian simply watched Donovan with renewed interest. A gift. Why would Donovan give Julian a gift? Gifts were for..lovers and...partners. Julian struggled with the urge to giggle, though the thought of blood sobered him quickly. He was starving. The thought of choosing his victim however, was near unheard of. A...type? Julian drunk from whoever Belle Morte chose to give to him. Screaming was not the most terrible noise that could leave anothers lips. Something dark slithered across his angellic blue eyes as he contemplated the question. He needed to answer the question.

“Mon maître...I do not descriminate amoungst victims. They are all the same, they all feel fear and pain like any other. I do not have a type, and I would feed on whoever you wished me to.” Darkness danced behind his eyes, the smile on his face becoming eager. Too eager. It was an expression Belle Morte enjoyed on his face; it meant his victims would receive something particularly...unpleasant. Julian assumed that Donovan desired to see the same. He could not remember the fragments of his mind to say anything to the contrary. Heels clicked on the floor as he followed Donovan's movements, forgetting temporarily that he had asked to see Donovan's quarters. There were some things that were so exciting to Julian, that the rest of his thoughts simply disappeared.

“Lead, and I will follow. I do not care for the type, so long as they are still able to feel.” Julian finally let out that stiffled giggle, his hands clasped together in glee.