princelycannibalfiction - Tumblr blog

princelycannibalfiction · 3 years ago

Text

01 W A X S E A L S - l o v e s i c k

chapter one of W A X S E A L S, experimentally crossposted on WattPad.

Radcliff Academy is known for three things- rich alumni, racism and, one day, murder. Long before it's doors are shut, Caphis Abrams there in the middle of the biggest scandal of his school's history. All he wants is to graduate and have a nice friends to lovers story with his best friend, Victor, but now it's either solve a murder of go down for it. Caphis is not going down today.

Radcliffe Academy, ancient and dark, sat on more land than it knew what to do with, surrounded by fields surrounded by woods surrounded by the affluent north of some country or another where children are sent away to boarding schools at age nine to learn to be the kind of men who worked in law or politics and sent their children to boarding school. It was, despite it’s token insistence otherwise, the kind of school that prioritizes connections and appearance and business over actual school work, the kind of school with a network of alumni so rich it almost made up for years of pain of the students who weren't able to make it out.

One day, the Academy will be closed down for good. One too many scandals, a grisly murder, a minority being allowed on campus, whatever will do. And when the Academy closes, when it is abandoned and empty, any lingering warmth from it’s centuries of schooling leached from the wood and stone, four souls will still walk through it’s halls, trailing in snow and chill with thick coats and heavy bags, the only light between them a cigarette.

“We could burn the place down, no one would care,” one would say, spitting on to the unwashed hardwood as he walked, shivering and curled in on himself, dark hair in his face as he glares around the building, “We could have done it back then, too.”

“I would care,” the shortest of them speak, white eyes flicking between them, walking smoothly, strangely, hair moving around him against the breeze. "What would happen to me? To him?"

"We wouldn't do that to you, Hecky," The tallest would come in, face lit by the cigarette glow as he passed it to another, dark around the eyes, serious faced, "Either of you. Nile’s and I bought up the land."

The last of them would stay silent through their visit, arm hooked around the tallest's shoulders, taking in the remains of the school that took nine years of his life along with the last of their shared cigarette. He wouldn't say much as they walked through the dorms, the library, the dining hall, the green houses, the classrooms and offices that created the things that made him who he was, but he would leave a trail of smoke all the same. He smiled as though any of this were easy for them, for him, but he kept moving.

The massive back windows of the Radcliffe Academy library were overgrown with vines and moss, fogged by grime on the outside and dust on the inside. The light that came from these windows was oddly tinted and dull, but you were still able to read and write by it, grow accustomed to it. And you had to grow accustomed to it, really, the lights in the back of the library hadn’t been replaced since the area was roped off four years prior, so the sunlight was all you had. The problem came on cloudy, foggy days.

Now, cloudy, foggy days are nothing new- most are in their area of the country- but still, Caphis found himself cursing the weather for insisting on ruining his good day. He had come to the library late after a club meeting, ready to get work done and perhaps write a few letters, but the sun had already passed the point of usefulness and his light was gone for the night. He frowned, scratching lightly at the paint dried onto the desk. He brought his good fountain pen for nothing.

“You have a light,” He felt a pen tap against his back, “You can’t complain every time you come late if you have one with you anyways.”

And oh, how could he ignore that?

“What need have I for artificial light,” Caphis turned to his friend, looking up at him through unwashed fringe, smiling despite himself, “When your gaze alone could light my way through the dark?”

Victor looked at him for a long moment from his perch on the wooden desk, frowning in a way that should have looked serious and severe, not adorable. “I will turn on my flashlight if you. Shut. Up.” He said in a smooth, clipped voice, far more pleasing than it had right to be. He pulled out his phone, placing his moleskine notebook down on the chair he rested his feet on. He had just unlocked it when Caphis pulled it out of his hands, grinning.

“I would rather write a letter by oven light,” He pocketed the other’s phone, standing to pack away his things. He obviously wouldn’t be getting any work done, not like this, “It’s not the same, ruins the experience. The aesthetic.”

“If you had come before, you wouldn't have missed out on your precious sunlight,” Victor watched him move, collecting his various pens, pencils, and mixed school assignments and thick, textured paper, eyes tracing after him as though he hadn't just stolen his phone for the umpteenth time that week or like he wasn’t the most annoying person he knew.

“We had an important discussion today in art club, I’ll have you know,” Caphis buckled his bag closed as he threw everything in, the sound of everything clacking against each other bouncing off the windows and bookshelves around them. “It was about dead things in art, but like, the ethics of showcasing the dead; if it’s exploitative or fetishistic and all of that.”

He threw his bag over his shoulder, throwing an arm around Victor and pulling him closer to him, leaning up into his hair to smell the apple shampoo he used over the weirdly hospital-like school soup. “The light here is all wrong, why don’t we move this party somewhere else? Head up to my dorm or something.”

“Stultus es,” Victor’s elbow dug itself into his rib, pushing Caphis off long enough for him to grab his journal and his bag and to fix both their chairs, “I’m not risking being seen with you just to hang around in your trashcan of a dorm.”

It may have been true, but he didn’t need to phrase it like that.

"Well, all I need is a reason, yeah?" Caphis felt the corner of his mouth flicking up, "Maybe we go out and get you sick, make me have to stay up in your dorm to take care of you?"

"Oh, yes, that’s when I’m at my best," Victor rolled his eyes, “Vomiting up my lunch and sweating through my sheets.”

“I don’t know, I think you’d look just as beautiful, lying prone and consumptive under my care,” He could imagine him, pale and flushed, tight, serious face smoothed by exhaustion, sharp tongue dulled by the rasp of his throat. He'd look lovely, just like always.

"And I suppose you'd look after my experiments while I'm incapacitated? If I knew you were feeling Romantic today, I wouldn't have come," even as he pushed him away, Caphis could see pink tint the tips of Victor's ears, "I thought your Gothic kick would last a few more days.”

"I'm always a romantic, Victor. It's a plague," He draped himself across his friend, wrapping around him loosely, "Have mercy on the sick, why don't you?"

"I thought I was meant to be the sick one here," He shoved Caphis away, "TB doesn't really fit your aesthetic, anyways."

He bit his lip, leaning towards him, "It's the Romantic Disease, of course it does. I can't help myself, y’know?" He moved to grab onto him again, but Victor moved away before he could.

"That's the problem," He grumbled, walking away, just slow enough to show he wanted Caphis to catch up to him, "Touch me again and you'll be my next subject."

It hurt him a little, but still he followed after Victor. He knew not to tease him too much, tried anyway, but he couldn’t help himself. He would do anything to see his smile, his flush, a glint or twinkle in his eyes. Victor had been too serious the last few days, stressing over some new translation or an upcoming exam or some other third thing that Caphis absolutely cared about when he told him about it, but couldn’t bring himself to remember otherwise.

He felt like Victor was withdrawing from him whenever he paused his unending stream of distractions, but couldn’t tell if he was just being paranoid or not. So, to play it safe, he tried his best not to shut up, to keep Victor talking and reacting and sharing himself with him. Caphis wanted to convince himself it was all to keep Victor from shutting himself in but he knew that any time he strayed away from him made him feel as though he was starving. A day without Victor was a day without breathing.

Well, it was only Thursday. They still had tomorrow.

***

“Reputation be damned, I just want to be with him,” Caphis grumbled into his hands, “I want to hold onto him, to treasure him. The one spot of goodness I have in that disgusting school.”

“Have you tried just shooting your shot?” Niles offered quietly, knowing she wasn't going to get much of a say in this conversation. "Maybe he'll say yes and put you out of your self-inflicted misery. "

“And ruin his reputation?” He looked up at her, “Just being seen with me is a social death sentence.”

“Did he decide that? Or do you think you’re protecting him?”

“It was a,” he sucked in a breath, remembering their early meetings, “mutual understanding. As long as people think he's just a boring stick in the mud, they won't question where he goes or why he doesn't play sports or talk to people.”

“And as long as no one knows your a queer with a soft spot for dangerous loners, you won't get expelled or targeted.” She rolled her eyes, “Still seems like you've got the short end of the stick. Seems cruel.”

“O, Niles, my love is cruel,” he stage whispered, continuing on like he hadn't told her to her face that he was perfectly content playing dirty little secret for the rest of his schooling career. “He sings his haunting siren songs and I beg desperately for an encore, forced apart from him by jagged rocks.” They hadn't been drinking for long and he'd already blown half of his drink budget for the week.

“And what siren songs does he sing?” She stage-whispered back, resigned to her fate, signing to the woman at the bar for another beer.

“Niles, Niles, he sings of anger, of bitterness, of dark deeds I can't speak,” he whined, a smile playing at his lips, taking a moment to finish his pint, “and I want him all the more for it. I could drown in him and still ache.” Whether the heat in his cheeks was from the drinks or his thoughts was beyond him.

"Get your little Romeo to a booth, Delisle," The woman at the bar, Natalia, told her, passing them two more mugs, "It's nearly the witching hour and I don't need any night owls seeing two teenagers at my bar."

Delisle lifted him off his stool, though they both knew he wasn't too drunk to stand, bringing Caphis to their usual booth in the corner, moving to sit across from him. He sat and rambled, waxing on about victor, Victor, VICTOR.

"As much as I love hearing you wet yourself, Caph," she pet his hands with a smile, "Why don't you put your pretty words to good use?"

"I am an artist, not a poet. My words are good for getting me in and out of trouble, writing letters and little more," he sighed, "I can paint a pretty portrait, and that's about it."

"It doesn't have to be poetry, just tell him how you feel."

"I've tried! I tell him everyday how much he means to me," He wallowed dramatically, "but he's never said anything about it. It's like he doesn't believe me."

"I mean. Do you say it seriously?" She asks, though she knows the answer,"Or do you wax poetic with that stupid grin of yours?"

He smiled, "I can't help it when he's around."

"I see him in class, where I can't talk to him, and he looks so," He took a deep breath, biting his lip, “He looks perfect. Like, a model student, I mean. He’s smart, put together, sticks to himself, never talks out of turn. Everyone thinks he’s boring,” Caphis felt like he couldn’t breath, the heat on his face trailing down into his chest, “But I’ve seen him. I’ve seen the things he reads, I’ve heard his wishes and dreams. I’ve seen the secrets and ideas he writes in those journals, hidden in the dead languages that drip from his mouth like honey.”

He’s silent for a long moment, gripping his mug like a lifeline. The alcohol may make his head spin, but Victor, the thought of what he’s capable of, his threats and sharp tongue, what he does to him, it’s intoxicating. He’s rambling like an idiot, like he always does on nights like this.

“You’ve worked yourself up again.” Delisle smiled at him softly, “Usually it takes you another hour.”

“I’m sorry, you barely got a word in,” He really is, this happens more often than he would like to admit.

“Don’t worry about it, Caph,”, she drank down the bottom of her beer, “We can get out of here, blow off some steam, if ya like?”

"Tempting, but not this time," he stood, ignoring the wobble in his knees as he grabbed his bag, "I should be getting to my dorms."

"A ride, at least?" She stood with him, "It's two miles to the gates and another half into the building."

"I think I could use the walk. See you in a few days, Niles."

“Good night, Caphis. And take a shower.”

#cannibal.me #prose.me #wax seals #dark academia

3 notes · View notes

princelycannibalfiction · 3 years ago

Text

🍂 Warming 🍂

[A short story from a collection I’m writing! I’ve already shown a few friends and I’m really proud of it, so I thought it would be a nice first real post :) ]

"Aggy."

The light is warm, coming in wide streams through the window, blunting the chilling air. There are birds outside, singing songs that fade into the back of your mind, distant and quiet. Your darling comes to your bedside, running her hands over your shoulder. Your hand is being taken and held so gingerly, it's as though you've been touched by the wind. She takes your hand in hers, but doesn't pull, waiting for you to look up to her.

"Aggy," She smiles so warmly, "Will you come with me?"

She raises you up, steadying you when you waver on exhausted legs. When you look to face her, there are feathers in her hair from tending to the chickens. She doesn't stop you by the tarnished mirror or take you into the bathing room, but straight to the sweet smelling kitchen of your small home.

She sits you down at the table and runs soft hands through your hair, separating the bed tangles and undoing your sleeping braid. There's a large bowl of berries on the table, shiny and freshly washed. She hums so sweetly, laying your dark hair against your shoulder, making you painfully aware that you're still in your nightgown, while she's been dressed for hours, choring and cooking in her honey orange dress, copper hair braided and pinned up in a bun. You make to say something, to apologize, when she walks away. You hope your hair covers the flush in your cheeks.

You watch her rummage about, grabbing jars and plates to set on the table. She brings the honey and jam, plates and forks for you and her, and finally, a small woven basket lined with fabric. She lifts the lid of the basket and laughs as steam plumes in her face, waving it away. She lifts a plate from the basket, piled high with griddle cakes, making the whole room just a bit warmer.

"The eggs from the other day were about to go off," She explains, as if she needed to explain, laying a short stack on each plate, "And those boys from the valley came up to see if we wanted any of their strawberries, so I thought I would make something sweet to go with them."

You nod, understanding. You had heard her answer the door, it felt like hours ago while you laid in bed, though you couldn't make out what they had said.

"Did-" you croaked, quickly closing your mouth. You swallow, trying to wet your throat so you could speak, "Did they want anything in return, Dorothy?"

"Oh, no," She smiles, moving back into the kitchen to get your mugs and the water pitcher, "They were quite adamant that the berries were a gift, but I insisted they come to me next time they need clothes mended."

You nod. She's so kind.

"Oh, they asked about you, Aggy," She pours you a drink, whisps of hair falling into her face, "They asked about your lovely garden and if they could take a few clippings."

You smile, taking a sip of water. You remember tending the garden in the summer, how the boys from the valley would walk up to their hill to talk and trade honey and fruits. The taller one, Edmund, would ask for clipped leaves and flowers to preserve in his books.

He could talk for hours about the beautiful blooms and would sometimes bring up his notebook to show her sketches he had done of his own garden, comparing the two. His partner, William seemed more interested in the worms peeking their little heads out from the soil.

"I know you like to indulge him, so I said he could," Dorothy's voice shakes you from your thoughts, "I hope that was alright."

You smile, nodding, and you both tuck in to eat.

***

"Agnes."

You look up from the garden, the sounds of the world fading back into your mind. You realize you've been staring at a bee on a daisy, not yet beginning to wilt. Dorothy smiles at you, warming something inside you didn't realize was cold. Her lips are stained pink from the strawberries and jam at breakfast.

"I'm to deliver some mending and letters to the general store," She gestures to the basket in her hand, "Will you come with me, Aggy?"

You look down at your hands, the dark soil under your fingernails and between the wrinkles in your palms. You finished your work already, though you couldn't say how long ago.

You stand, ignoring the way your face flushes and you waver, knees buckling after kneeling for so long. You dust your hands on your dress, frowning at the brown smudges now staining the fabric. Dorothy had made this dress, she liked to give you clothes as gifts. You worry your lip, suddenly scared she would say something, tell you to go change or to wash up before you go, that she would rescind the invitation and leave you alone.

She grabs your hand as though you haven’t stood there silently for a good minute, staring at your thighs. "Are you ready?"

You nod, and she leads you up out of the garden and past the small fence you had put up last spring to stop the chickens from running loose over the hill. She zig zags through the untamed grass, taking care, as she likes to do, to not step on any wildflowers. Your eyes wander down to your linked hands, how her fingers are stained with berry juice and ink. Further down, you watch the hem of her skirt move along with her steps, perpetually discoloured from kneeling in the chicken pen and rolling in the wildflowers and suddenly you feel so silly for worrying about your dirty hands.

“I’ve written to a woman in the other valley,” Dorothy speaks, “We met at the market not last week. She seemed interested in learning to tend to bees, so I thought I would help.”

You’re not sure what to say. You open your mouth but nothing comes of it, so you just nod, smiling.

“She was trading fig preserves, Aggy,” She looks at you, light in her eyes, “I don’t even think I’ve ever had a fig before.”

“Well, I-” You clear your throat, “Maybe you could get some? Next time you go down to market.”

“I think I will!” She thinks for a second, shifting your hands so your fingers interlock, “She told me some figs have wasps in them, did you know that?”

You shake your head and get ready to listen to her talk about figs all the way down the hill.

***

You come to the general store, a building you tend to avoid, and she pulls away from you gently, leaving you to stand by the door while she goes to the owner. You watch her, how she pulls the basket up to the counter, smiling up to Mister Clement, unpacking the freshly mended pants and undershirts. He takes them and gestures to the sweets, offering whatever she chooses as payment, and you know without looking that she’ll choose to take a bag of candied petals and a square of bitter chocolate (the same as she always does.)

Clement bags the sweets, placing them into the basket while he and Dorothy chat, something about his young son, Henry and the piles of falling leaves around the back of the store. He doesn't pay you any mind except a polite wave when you walked in (and even then, it seemed mostly from politeness).

You wait by the door, already expecting that your darling will take some time to get her catching ups out of the way, but as time goes on and you stand alone by the door, you feel yourself wilt. The warmth in your chest from the walk down begins to fall, leaving a chill to breeze through you. You don't say anything, even as you feel something in you fall like a stone into your stomach, uncomfortable and heavy.

Your eyes fall away from Dorothy, peering down at your dirt brushed skirt and hands. You feel dirty. You feel like you shouldn't be there, that you should have stayed home. Maybe you made a mistake going out, maybe you shouldn't have gotten out of bed at all.

Your mind swirls with doubt and dull pain, eating up your thoughts until it’s the only thing going around your head. You feel like you're going to be ill. You want to leave, more than anything, but you can’t bring yourself to interrupt Dorothy’s conversation. You don’t want to be a bother.

“-ggy,” You hear her sweet voice fading into your attention, “Aggy?”

You look up to her, standing in front of you with such clear care in her face, and you feel horrible to have worried her. You become suddenly aware of the mist of tears forming in your eyes, telling and embarrassing. You try to wipe them away quickly, hissing when you get dirt in your eyes.

"Agnes." She takes your hand from your eye, rubbing the gathering tears away with her thumb. "Are you alright?"

You nod, not trusting your voice. You don't know how to explain to her that you're fine, you were fine, that for some reason your mind just sunk and you don't know why or how to fix it. You don't understand why you're like this.

She holds your face in her soft hands and smiles so warm and so sad, "Stay here for just a moment, and we can be going."

You don't argue, but you feel a dagger in your chest, knowing that she went through all the trouble of bringing you out with her and you ruined it.

She goes up to the counter, handing over the letters and asking Clement something you can't hear. He nods and goes to the back for a moment, coming out with a large bag he puts into the basket. She thanks him and turns to leave, coming to link her hand with yours before you leave the store.

“Let’s be going, Aggy,” She smiles as you walk into the sunlight.

***

“Oh, Agatha,” You hear her voice from the doorway, so sweet and light. She comes to your bedside, carrying a candle to see you in the dark.

When you arrived home from the general store, you had drifted to the bed room, Dorothy trailing after you to help you remove your dress, corset and drawers. She laid you down in bed, hushed away your quiet apologies and wiped your tears. You don't know what you would do without her.

"Aggy," She rubs at your shoulder, warming you just slightly, "Will you come with me?"

She takes you up, allowing you to redress yourself before bringing you to the kitchen. The house is dark, shadows cast wide around every room, only pushed away by the light of the candle. The sun is nearly set.

Instead of sitting you at the table, she goes to carefully lift the basket on it, steam rising barely visible in the low light, and pulls you into the back yard. You walk with her past the chickens and the bees and the low vegetable garden, freshly replanted for the autumn, down to a patch of fog grass among the wildflowers, half down the hill, facing the sun. There's a blanket laid in the grass, pinned down by your water pitcher and two bowls.

She places the basket down and goes to sit on the blanket, urging you to follow with a soft smile and a pat on the ground. You go to her, as if you had a choice, and take the candle from her hand, placing it down in as stable a place as you can find. Her eyes sparkle in the light, a pretty honey brown in the day darkened to near black. They suck you in, as they always have, and you can't help smiling back.

"What is this, Dory?" You ask, eyes flicking to the basket and bowls.

"Well, I figured it's been so nice out today, we should try to enjoy it before the chill really begins to set in," She lifts the basket lid, pulling out a large dish, "I forgot how long it takes to make potato soup though, so it got a bit dark."

She uncovers the dish, and the heat and smell of the soup hits you immediately, making you realize just how hungry you are. Your stomach growls and you almost hide your face in your hands.

"Well, I suppose we should start right away," She laughs, spooning healthy portions into both of your bowls, handing you one.

You both dig in, Dorothy blowing on your bowl with a smile after you burn your tongue. The soup warms you from the inside, the soft touches she gives you warming your skin and something deep in your chest until you can't tell you had ever felt cold.

Between bites, she talks about little nothings, how the chickens chased around a beetle instead of filing into their pen, how the wood for the fire had popped along with her humming for just a moment while cooking but oh, how it felt magical. You listened intently, taking in her words and voice, so sweet.

You're done before you realize you've hit the bottom of the bowl and it's being refilled before you can ask. Dorothy pulls away to reach for the basket, pulling out two rolls, warm from the fire and being set next to the soup. She breaks one open, passing half of it to you and dipping the other in her soup.

"What's better than this?" She asks, taking a bite of her roll, "a warm meal, a beautiful view."

"A pretty girl," you mumble, cheeks warming when she looks to you, red faced. "I- I mean-"

She pulls herself up and places a kiss to your lips, quick and soft, and you feel like you’re spinning. You smile despite yourself, leaning over to press your forehead against hers, both of you leaning against each other.

Dinner is finished slowly, peppered with laughing, one sided conversations and stolen kisses, and ends with Dorothy laying with her head in you lap, laughing up at you with tired, smiling eyes. She had taken the final bag from the basket, the candied petals and chocolate square. When she looks up at you, mouth open, you give her a petal and in return she breaks you off a piece of chocolate. It's cool, hard and bitter, but it melts on your tongue all the same.

You feel, laying in the dying sun with your darling, that you've never felt so light.

#cannibal.me #prose.me #short story #cottagecore #cozycore #wlw cottagecore #creative writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #i am not a lesbian but i hope and pray a lesbian reads this and smiles for a second

11 notes · View notes