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seasons-of-ceres · 4 years ago

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Something About Killers and Hands

A/N: I have Castlevania on the brain so this happened because I need closure and comfort. The formatting is likely all over the place but I wanted to post this because post s4 fluff is all I want right now.

An offhand comment catches Trevor off guard one morning weeks after the final climatic battle. Reclining against the stairs of Dracula’s Castle, watching the former residents of Danesti village refurbish and repair the old Belmont manor, Trevor hears something about the immediate impression of the castle and its lone resident, about bodies swaying on posts. It is not an uncommon practice, displaying corpses on pikes as a deterrent, in fact it spells things out quite clearly that those who try anything bad would meet the same grisly fate. But staking humans up the arse had been a Dracula thing, not an Alucard thing.

Trevor sighs. Can he truly make that claim? Since discovering the dhampir beneath Gresit, Trevor has learned three things about the Sleeping Soldier: Alucard is a relentless master of the blade, a practitioner of simple magic, and a someone with a willing and compassionate heart. For Trevor, there is something undeniably soft about the third learned truth because humans were judge, jury, and executioners, nay, murderers, in the false trial of Lisa of Lupu. They condemned her to burn alive and stood by as she begged both husband and son to forgive those who were killing her.

Trevor was a child when his home was burned to the ground. He was forced to watch as his family shrieked and writhed in torment, and the scar upon his face remains a grim reminder that even those who are strong, those who have done absolutely nothing to deserve death can and will always die.

Yet Alucard, son of murderer and martyr, put faith in a young prophecy, in a scholar and a hunter. Humans both. So why would he whom the children of Trefi affectionately call “Father” kill and stake two humans? Something happened, something Alucard will not speak of or even hint at, and sure, it is past now and everyone is striving towards a bright and weirdly happy future, but not knowing makes Trevor uneasy.

He noticed it days into his return, in the first moment of peace where the original trio sat in silence in one of the many lonely rooms of Dracula’s Castle. The bed was simultaneously too big and not big enough for them all, so they all sat before a roaring fire on furs and capes.

Sypha took Alucard’s hand between hers, smiling, before lifting and pressing it against her cheek. She and Alucard shut their eyes and laughed about it, about how gentle they were despite the wrath both could easily unleash. Then Trevor, fumbling through a moment’s hesitation, walked his fingers up Alucard’s open palm to clasp his arm. He wanted to impart so much, a promise he would never run away or deliberately place himself in danger, that he cared, in his own way, about Alucard’s well-being.

That he loved him.

It had been a small reaction, but Alucard had flinched and snapped his hand shut. His face, immediately distressed, had quickly smoothed out once recognizing Trevor’s shock, then Alucard placed his own hand against Trevor’s neck, smiling like nothing had happened. Two things had come to mind in that moment: a jolt of rejection because, after all, Trevor had technically killed Dracula twice and Lisa once. Maybe Alucard hated him for that. Second, that truly, in comparison to Sypha, Trevor was more of a killer in Alucard’s eyes than Sypha. Trevor investigated the supernatural, slayed monsters, defended the weak when the coin was good and when it wasn’t, but he killed plenty of people along the way. Corrupt priests, servants of corrupt priests, drunkards and bastards, abusers and rapists. Most deserved it, fuck all of them did, but the loss of life is still regrettable. Perhaps if those poor sods had any empathy, any compassion, their lives would have turned out decent. But no, selfishness, greed, wrath, perversion—these things will continue to fester. Someone needs to deal with that.

Debate upon the nature of humanity aside, other things about Alucard caught Trevor’s attention. The dhampir did not appreciate when two people would touch him at the same time unless he initiated contact. Unbidden touches frustrated him, and most chalked it up to unease with new people, but these reactions happened even between his closest confidants. There was flinching. Narrowed eyes. Tight smiles where his fangs would show prominently, stay away from me or I will hurt you. His voice, always quiet, reached Trevor’s volume and more. Furrowed brows. Protecting himself under his cloak. Hiding beneath the careless waves of his white-blond hair. His general aloofness. Alucard has always been a bit of a cold spot, but this felt… wrong. Like he was bracing for an attack or escaping before it could happen.

Asking Alucard directly would be stupid, Trevor decides, because the bastard will never concede to an all-encompassing answer. It will be noncommittal, said in that airy tone of superiority Trevor loathes. Something trite like, “we had a difference of opinion, and they forced my hand.” Or worse still, “it is none of your business, Belmont.” And the use of his last name will irritate Trevor to the point of dropping the matter entirely because outside of battle where “Belmont” has the same meaning as lover, friend, and equal, others have used his last name is a condemnation closer to murderer, idiot, brute, ingrate, and worthless. Oh, how the list grows. Trevor knows nothing, will never knowing anything much less understand what he may or may not know in the first place. There are skulls of dhampir children in the Hold, Belmont. Your relatives killed children, Belmont. Had we met anywhere else, you would have killed me, Belmont.

Belmont. Belmont. Belmont.

So, Trevor seeks out Greta. He seeks her often as her personality can be as crass as his own, and yet has all the temperance of women twice her age. Her wisdom, unlike Alucard’s, grows from positive experiences not the absence of them. She is a woman of the people, like Sypha, and does not take up arms to kill but protect.

Fuck, he thinks privately, what use are killers in this world? Why am I still here?

“Should you really be out of bed given the beating I gave you yesterday?”

Trevor scoffs and raises an arm to shield sunlight from his eyes. Like Alucard, Greta’s ability to emerge seemingly from nowhere is both gift and curse, and yet he relaxes beneath the shadow she casts over him. Her sword and hammer are still belted to her hips, still wary of possible attack, but the hand she offers is no weapon. He takes it and allows Greta to pull him upright, letting her other hand stabilize him.

“Not like you crippled me.”

“Thought about it.” She grins. “Still thinking about it. You worry Sypha with your wandering around this place.”

“Just getting used to the sound of it.” Trevor groans. “Trefi. Ugh.”

She laughs at him, her warm brown eyes shimmering like gold dust. “Really though, is something the matter that you’re constantly checking our defenses?”

“Just curious about some…” Trevor picks at a scab on his chin, “lawn ornaments you may or may not have disposed of recently.”

Greta frowns and raises an eyebrow. “I may know something about that.”

Trevor sighs. “Well. Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Why do you want to know? I thought the three of you would have discussed what happened by now.”

“So, you know.”

“An edited version, yes.” Greta folds her arms. “He joked about it. Not an uncommon way to deal with things, I suppose.”

“You don’t sound sure.” Trevor grunts, pausing to sweep his gaze around him. Alucard’s hearing is notoriously good, especially at inopportune times.

“He’s hurt, Trevor, and I’m sure he would rather you hear it from him than me. When he’s ready.” She shakes her head. “No, that’s not right. He probably wouldn’t want you to hear it. Wouldn’t want to repeat it.”

Trevor sighs again, heavily. “We should have come back sooner.”

The relationship between fathers and sons is hardly universal, and the death of fathers always conjures up mixed feelings. At least Trevor thinks so, many of the Belmont fathers since Leon hardly led idyllic lives. His own father, Gabriel Belmont, had been stern to the point of cruelty and proud without being entirely righteous. His happiness shone more on his daughters than his sons, but on those good days when the nobles weren’t on his ass about killing monsters and the Church wasn’t up his ass about punishing pagans, Gabriel had been kind. He whittled an ark for Trevor’s eighth birthday complete with bright orange tigers and funny giraffes, proud lions, rotund hippos, beautifully carved peacocks, and more. Although his anger was terrifying and legendary, he endeavoured only to use it when necessary. Everything was a lesson, much affection had to be earned. He was complicated, not a good man but a sometimes-nice man, never bad.

Trevor should have known better than to leave Alucard in his childhood room with the just murdered remains—ashes really—of a father who at one point must have loved his son very much. Handmade toys, hand painted room. Not Dracula the vampire, scourge of Wallachia, but Vlad Tepes, loving husband and father.

“Just… what did you see?”

“You mean the bodies?” Greta looks over her shoulder. “We buried them far from the castle, but I think I remember the spot.”

“Just point me in the general direction.”

“Nonsense. You’re injured.”

Trevor huffs. “I’m just going to poke around.”

“Great. I’ll grab a shovel.”

~//~//~

Foreign clothes were found within the castle belonging to no one Greta had seen with the refugees. Stowed in a chest and locked in a room where clearly two people had slept, the straw hats and cloaks were rotten with maggots. A bow and sword were discovered, reminding Greta of the vampires who had stormed the castle in long robes with deep sleeves, painted white masks and straight black hair. Stumbling upon these things felt like disturbing an ancient, unmarked tomb where those who were buried needed to be forgotten, for good or ill, Greta could not say at the time.

“What are you looking for exactly?” Greta asks, leaning on the shovel as Trevor sinks into the pit, shoving corpses of night creatures away. “He didn’t drink from them.”

Trevor grunts and waves flies from his face. “I know that.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” Trevor says through his teeth, turning over a frightful beast with five arms. He spies the first human body, dirty with decay and emaciated, and the second crushed beneath it. “I’m looking for… that.”

He bends down and drags them out, gesturing at the androgynous corpses. Greta watches as Trevor plucks a knife from his belt and carefully parts the dried seam across one of the corpses’ necks, both recognize the slash as coming from a long, thin blade. It sliced cleanly through flesh and muscle, cutting but not crushing the vocal cords, and stopped short of severing the spine.

“See that?”

Greta makes a face. “Efficient. Looks like our Alucard.”

Trevor grimaces at that. “Yes. But what else do you see?”

Greta leans off the shovel and drops into the pit, moving to stand across from Trevor. By her guess, the blade was the sole instrument of death here. Animals and night creatures tore flesh and broke bones for access to the internal organs, but there appears to be no other obvious signs of death. Oxidized blood, like dried rivers of rust, has hardened over the dirty nightgowns both corpses wear.

“From what he spoke of,” Trevor says with a slight tone of impatience, more so of exhaustion, “does something strike you as odd? Out of place?”

Greta folds her arms and palms her chin thoughtfully. “Clothing them, I suppose.”

Trevor nods. “And what does that tell you?”

“It wasn’t about indecency, but I can’t say I wouldn’t clothe my victims. Something would feel strange.” Greta catches Trevor’s eye. “But you mean something else.”

“These are his shirts, Greta.” Trevor wipes a hand down his face. “I won’t ask you what you know, but you can’t tell me that isn’t fucking pathetic.”

He makes a face when Greta cocks her head at him with a dubious look.

“Alright, alright. Fine. Not the right word.” He pauses. “.. it’s fucking painful, isn’t it?”

~//~//~

Greta and Trevor return before nightfall, but the vampire hunter avoids everyone in favour of slipping into his room. The burns on his arm throb, his body aches, and his heart is heavy inside his chest. He had asked Greta about the Hold and she said an artifact was missing—a pair of anointed silver rings called Draupnir. Not meant for fingers, Draupnir was to be set upon the wrists of prey where it suddenly multiplied and bound the wearer head to foot—it could further sew them to a wall or chair depending on the user’s tastes. Trevor did not care if the artifact ever returned to the Hold, but he and Greta agreed to keep an eye out for it.

Trevor flops face first on the bed and rolls onto his side, clasping his right arm. Navigating all this makes him anxious. A tightness in his chest leaves him breathless, and he tries focusing on the things he can clearly see. Sunlight, Morning Star coiled on the edge of the bed, the slip Sypha changes into at night, Alucard’s cloak hanging over a chair, the bed. A supremely soft bed. If he ever leaves this place, he supposes he might miss the bed the most. He can hear laughter outside, birdsong, the creaking of the mattress as he shifts, his breath. Everything smells clean, but he scents the salt of his own sweat on his clothes, the dirt. The bed is soft beneath him, and he feels air coming through a hole in his boot. He tastes blood.

“Trevor?” Sypha pokes her head into the room and allows herself inside. “We missed you at dinner.”

“Oh.” Trevor says faintly. “Sorry. Went for a walk.”

He grunts when Sypha rolls him onto his back, going boneless as her fingers gently probe the complex matrix of burns scarring his fingers all the way up to his shoulder. She is safely beyond the first three months of her pregnancy, Trevor can start to feel the swell of her belly when he holds her at night, quietly freaking out because in a matter of months he will be a father. The last Belmont born in the manor was tiny Thomas, and he lived four days. This child, his child, would live for much longer.

“Are you in any pain?” Sypha asks, searching his face. “You look a little—”

“I’m fine, Sypha.”

“I’m not sure I believe you.” Sypha says. “Alucard?”

Sypha leans away as Alucard glides to her back, peering over her shoulder at Trevor with an unreadable expression. Was Alucard born in the castle? It does not seem like a warm place to be born; how strange will it be for a Belnades-Belmont to be born here?

“He looks like he always does.” Alucard says with a hint of a smile. “But if we wait a while longer, I’m sure we’ll hear gears begin turning in his head.”

“Oh, shut up.” Trevor groans, “and sit down. Clearly you both came in here to torture me for my absence, so get on with it already.”

Sypha laughs and climbs onto the bed beside him, Alucard hovers with his hands over her waist. She flashes him a sincere grin Trevor accurately translates as reassurance, she can move well enough on her own right now, there is no need to worry. She wiggles between Trevor’s body and his left arm, tucking it around her so she can rest easily over his good shoulder. The tickle of her breath along Trevor’s jaw makes him whimper a little, and the brush of her eyelashes against his skin has him weak in many, many ways.

Alucard, on the other hand, perches on the edge of the bed.

Oh, for fucks sake…

Everything inside Trevor tells him to make a rude comment but he resists, instead he raises a hand and lets it drop palm up over the mattress, expectant. Alucard follows its movement with his eyes, unmoving as stone, and he quirks an eyebrow.

“Need something, Belmont?” Ah, there it is. The softest of tones, reserved for these private moments, not the heat of battle.

“I’m giving you an invitation, Alucard. Take it.”

Alucard’s eyes widen a fraction, and he regards Trevor’s hand like it might take on a life of its own, detach from Trevor’s wrist, and furiously jerk him off.

“For Christ’s sake…” Trevor groans. “I’m not propositioning you.”

“I rather think you’d skip the pleasantries of such a transaction.”

“… will you please just take my hand?”

“Why?”

Something about this entire exchange has put Alucard in a wonderfully good mood, his smile is a near-permanent feature of his face. Even his fangs are showing, and usually Alucard is quite careful about those being seen.

Trevor flexes his fingers impatiently, desperately resisting the need to sit up and forcibly wrap Alucard in his arms and pull him down on top of him. To him, Alucard is a kite or a wisp of cloud the wind will steal away. A ship without an anchor. Yet the thought of being tied down must terrify Alucard on some level now that he is responsible for more than just a drunk exile/last of his kin and a Speaker. He has a village. A terribly named village, but a village all the same. To think Trevor was not entirely opposed to tying Alucard down and assaulting him with kisses. Now that feels almost out of reach.

Sypha picks up on Trevor’s discomfort.

“Something is bothering you.” Sypha sits up. “Tell us.”

Trevor groans and forces himself upright, unable to think straight when both of his loved ones look down on him. He gathers his hands into his lap and stares down at them, his mouth eschews as the right words get caught in his throat. He reaches for one of Sypha’s hands, stroking his thumbs over her smooth skin. He is a little light-headed, he just needs a moment to think.

“I know something happened.” He says, voice slow and low. “And I need to know if this is still good for you. Will be good for you.”

Trevor meets Alucard’s eyes and sees Sypha reflected in them, the confusion but also the concern in her face. Alucard shuts his eyes briefly, purses his lip.

“And don’t lie to me.” Says Trevor. ��Tell me to fuck off or mind my damn business, but don’t lie.”

Alucard frowns. “Not sure I understand what you want to hear, Belmont. Would that you need more ammunition to self-flagellate yourself at the altar of your failings, perceived or otherwise. It is done.”

“Like fucking hell it is.” Trevor growls, and the lump in his throat nearly chokes him. “Do you honestly believe I’m that stupid to not notice you recoiling from us as if we’ve burned you?”

Alucard hisses and does recoil when Sypha seeks to sooth him. His expression is regretful, angrily regretful.

“You left.”

“And you apparently paid the price for our mistake.” Trevor does not yell, but his voice strains itself, it is on the cusp of giving out. “And it makes me sick knowing we were not here to defend you. Protect you. Because I know what loss does to someone, how easily it hides other peoples’ intentions. How much you want someone to… to be there. To lift you up.”

He is not going to cry. There are no graves for Gabriel and Sonia Belmont. For Jacob and Constantin, Lucy, Elena, and Maria. Even Thomas who was buried, could Trevor find that tiny mound of dirt now?

“So, I need to know what they did to you. Because if I don’t know then how will I…” Trevor takes a breath. “How will I prove that no one will ever take advantage of you again? Not here or anywhere else.”

It puzzles Trevor how he was somehow allowed to live, all those years ago. Maybe because he had been playing in his favourite tree, only recognizing the danger when the sky bled red and stunk of ash, the sounds of screams carried south on the wind. He ran until his lungs dried up, screamed until his voice gave out. He took the scarring of his face with no tears, no fear, just wrath. Were he older, stronger, the men who held him back would have died then. He would have stormed the manor, cut the hands holding torches with a flick of his wrist, his whip shooting forth like a cobra.

“You are so loved, Alucard.” Trevor exhales. “And I… don’t know how to show you without fucking it up. Because I will. It’s what I do.”

“Did.” Sypha cuts in firmly. “It is what you did. Things are different now. You have me.” She chances a look at Alucard’s face, a silent plead for him to say something.

Neither man can look at each other.

Trevor presses a hand to his stomach, he might throw up, his eyes are watering, and it feels like something is clawing its way up his throat. Maybe its his heart. Would that not be a true declaration of love, his heart bleeding in his own hand for someone else?

“Yes.” Trevor rasps. “And every fucking day I learn Vlad Dracula Tepes and I have more in common than I thought. I think I might actually go mad if anything happened to you two.”

Sypha blinks.

“Really. And honestly, why shouldn’t I? You two have made this place home. The castle, the manor. Everything. Why shouldn’t I kill anyone who wants to destroy that? What am I if not,” Trevor laughs, “Trevor fucking Belmont? Last of House Belmont, slayer of monsters and demons?”

Alucard blinks.

“Oh God,” gasps Trevor, looking at Alucard. “I’m starting to sound like you. Making this place my tomb, wallowing in all my self-loathing. Kill me now.”

He drops back onto the mattress and shuts his eyes. Why am I still here? What was the plan, Saint-Germain, keeping me alive just for all this…?

He scoffs. Like he ever had a plan beyond finding the next alehouse, killing some creature on the road for enough coin to get a roof over his head. Better than sleeping in frost-bitten grass or wet hay. What was he going to do with his life beyond survive?

“You’re serious.” Alucard murmurs, dumbfounded.

“Yes, I’m fucking serious.” Trevor hauls himself upwards, the light-headedness carries him endlessly onward until he smacks his head against Alucard’s shoulder. “I just make a declaration of love to you, you bastard. When I say you are loved, I am telling you I love you.”

“You could also be delirious.”

Trevor lifts his head enough to glare. “Why can you never just take what I say and believe it? And don’t tell me it’s because I only spout bullshit because we both know you’re lying.”

“Yes.” Alucard says indulgently. “I would be lying but…”

“But what, Alucard?”

Alucard breaths out, the tips of his fangs visible, and his eyes slowly move to lock on Trevor’s hands. Instinctually, Trevor flips them palm up and he keeps still and quiet and patient. Alucard chuckles, perhaps sensing how much Trevor want to be seen as non-threatening, and that makes him weirdly happy. Trevor is just barely shorter than Alucard with a penchant for wearing cloaks to give him this sort of fluffy broadness, tricking people into assuming he is of a larger stature. Watching him hunch forward makes Alucard think of a stone gargoyle trying to look harmless.

“If I tell you what happened, what then?” Alucard rolls up his sleeves, pale and unmarked, and stares at his arms. “There is nothing to see, nothing to heal. And those responsible are dead.”

“I know they used Draupnir. That tells me more than enough.”

Alucard clasps his arms, squeezing his eyes shut.

“But to use that,” Trevor heaves a breath. “Means you would have—”

“Consented to it?” Alucard’s eyes flash. “You are on precariously thin ice, Belmont.”

“No.” Trevor says firmly. “It means you trusted them.”

Alucard’s eyes shimmer and his mouth drops open, he folds his arms more securely over his chest and looks away, causing a curtain of wavy hair to shade his face.

“So, what I’m asking is… can you trust us? We’ve hurt you too.”

“Yes.” Alucard murmurs. “And no.”

He had wanted to be alone in the beginning, Alucard. It would be painful to explain the agony of murdering a parent, of watching the horror of Dracula’s face liquefy into ash, of those few seconds of lucidity where he recognized he was killing his son. Dracula’s voice, so broken and worn, will haunt Alucard forever. He had wanted to be alone, to process all of that. He did not want to burden anyone with his own strange regret. His father threatened the entire human race, he could not be pitied to mourned.

The loneliness ate at him. His own personal vampire, loneliness drained the life from him, the drive. Alucard went through the motions of living until Taka and Sumi arrived, though even now he realizes he was always aware of them watching him. Studying him. How pitiful he must have looked. He was grateful for the banter, for the opportunity to teach a new generation of hunters, and in his grief, he neglected to see the red flags.

“I could not ask you to stay with me then.” Alucard says softly. “But I… you will need to be patient with me.”

And he tells it slowly. He tells it while weeping, grimacing through Trevor’s colourful interruptions of “shit”, “fucking hell”, and perhaps most insightful “give me a minute, I need to throw up”. Somewhere in the all too clear recollection and nausea, Alucard finds himself holding both Sypha and Trevor’s hands. The contrast between Sypha’s smooth skin and the callouses of Trevor’s make him feel safe somehow. Sumi and Taka had bled together, their touches were perfunctory, not true acts of love, and Alucard finds that is what makes him weep more.

“Oh, come here.” Trevor says gruffly, pulling Alucard into a hug. “You were better off without us here.”

“What?” Sypha’s eyes widen. “You’re kidding, right?”

Though he cannot see Trevor’s face, Alucard feels a shudder shake the vampire hunter’s frame.

“Wouldn’t done more than slit their throats and shove sticks up their asses.” Trevor takes a breath and leans back, only to press his forehead against Alucard’s. “God, forgive me.” He pulls Sypha into the hug. “I’d redefine murder.”

“It’s alright now,” the Speaker smooths, a fondness in her voice which makes Alucard melt even when the comment isn’t directed at him. “We’re all together now.”

“And not leaving me?” Alucard says teasingly.

“Never.” Trevor mumbles, missing the joke. “You’re stuck with us now, Alucard.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

#Hex Writes #trevor belmont #sypha belnades #alucard #greta of danesti #where everyone loves each other in their own ways #where everyone is weirdly happy #fluff and comfort #I am not going to be super critical about dialogue no not me #just give me forehead-to-forehead contact #and copious amounts of hand holding #lame and lazy title #opps #caslevania netflix

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