reposing | a world without logos

a world without logos | stoneup

The conclusion of the mission in the heart of Paris had finished by Alucard's lone hand -- technically, in any case. The building in which Millennium was inhabiting and running tests, evidently, had already seen its blood bath from someone else: one of their own, more or less. Alucard returned to the Hellsing manor with the blonde-haired vampire, covered in dried blood and wearing clothes that don't fit him, scrubs and a lab coat -- and a giant scar on his chest that he could not hide.

The vampire's name is Adrian. Beyond being a pet project, he doesn't remember anything else outside of a life of Millennium. It begins there, and ended with circumstances Alucard only described in a laugh and a Don't interrupt his reading time.

The elusive new vampire is not seen for another day. Then, as if he has always belonged in Hellsing manor, he walks the halls with a regal elegance, fully dressed this time and certainly much more put together. There is almost always a suspicious look in his golden gaze, skeptical as he looks at most people, but significantly less lost than when he'd first arrived.

Reluctantly, he does approach one Trevor Belmont, a book under one arm.

"Alucard has instructed me that I should be introducing myself to the rest of the organization," Adrian says, sounding bland and distant.

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Curious and curiouser. There aren't many people who speak Romanian outside of the country, at least -- willingly, with the ease of a native speaker. Trevor blinks, visibly startled, but replies carefully, "S-ar putea să fiu puțin ruginită. E mai bine decât francezul meu."

The words feel strange in his mouth, heavier than he remembers them being. It really has been some time since he's spoken it much.

"Sună bine."

It feels... natural to speak it. Despite how many years around the Germans, Adrian doesn't have their accent, and he is familiar with all three languages. Yet, there is an anxiety in him, that he knows this but doesn't know why.

"Belmont isn't very Romanian."

His gaze flickers to Adrian's face once the vampire switches back to English. He won't comment on it, really, but there's something -- softer, then, about the way he speaks. He smiles, something more genuine that just touches the corners of his lips.

"Well. My family went to Romania from France, a few generations back." Retrospectively, probably a poor move. Things hadn't exactly gone well for them there.

"Well. At least you have any knowledge of your family," he says a little wryly -- or rather tries to sound as such.

"I suppose I've asked you a fair amount of questions, but I doubt I have anything interesting to tell you. But you can ask, if you want."

"It doesn't matter much if you know about your family when they're dead, if you ask me."

He -- sounds less wry than Adrian, but at least he's trying to move on from that downer of a statement quickly. Trevor nudges the vampire with his knee -- more intentionally, this time -- and chuckles.

"Well, we could always just get drunk." He's only half-joking. He doesn't expect Adrian to to carry on a conversation about himself that's guided by questions he asks, especially when he's already put his foot in his mouth once (that's a difference between this Trevor and the usual one).

"I wouldn't know. I suppose I can't miss something if I don't remember it."

Though he does pity Trevor a little, he is a little envious as well. He doesn't remember even being a child. He only remembers the labs, the tasks, the tests -- maybe his entire life was always Millennium. That's what it feels like, anyway.

The nudge makes him jerk slightly, then he's absently rubbing his fingers over the pages of his book.

"I've never done that either. Though I think I prefer the wine," he remarks. "Well. I know why the Wild Geese are here. How did you join them, though? That, I do not know."

Trevor knows that's probably not true -- that you can miss something you don't remember, surely -- but he doesn't want to dwell too far on that. There's that jerk again with the nudge of his knee, and this time he's close enough that he doesn't bother to suppress the urge to reach forward and touch Adrian's hand, callused fingers against the back of his hand.

"Mm. I'm sure there's some wine kicking around here," he points out, but then Adrian's asking him about the Wild Geese, and ...

"Oh, that one's easy. Pip's grandfather bailed me out of jail."

It's-- not actually bad. He notices, first of all, that Trevor's hands are very warm and a bit rough. Adrian's always hated being jerked around and pulled to different places in the various labs he'd been in, but that's not how Trevor touches him, not like he's an object.

"Probably," he says, unable to hide at all the blush creeping onto his face. Alucard often drinks wine, so there is probably some in storage.

"Terribly generous of him."

"Well, it turns out that he believed my story about beating the shit out of a bunch of locals because they were cultists."

He spots the blush creeping up onto Adrian's face and it only spurs his desire to continue the attention. He lets his thumb brush over the inside of Adrian's wrist, careful.

"We could find some wine, somewhere that's a little ... quieter." More private.

Any attention he has to Trevor's origin with the rest of the mercenaries quickly flees his mind. The contact is almost tender and it's-- tempting, yet also frightening in a way. He isn't certain what to do, exactly, but he likes it.

"I have my own room?" he offers tentatively.

"Then I'll be back shortly." Trevor leans in, chancing a light peck to the vampire's cheek before he heads back into storage.

As suspected, a quick glance into the storage area produces a bottle of red wine -- Trevor brings it back out into the common area, complete with glasses.

He has some tact. He's not going to suggest Alucard drink an entire bottle of wine to himself after he's polished off two beer in short succession, both because it's contrary to his own plans and because it seems -- a bit presumptuous, anyway.

"Ready to go? Unless you've changed your mind."

Oh.

Adrian doesn't even have a chance to react more than feeling his face burning. Which is ridiculous, he thinks he's had to deal with so much worse than this, being flirted with and now kissed on the face, but as soon as Trevor is gone he is definitely shoving his face into his book cover.

This is definitely not what Alucard probably had suggested for him, but he doesn't get the idea that he'd care either, wherever it goes. Even if it's-- nothing. And Adrian genuinely doesn't know.

He very nearly snaps his book in half when he hears Trevor, his head jerking up.

"No, it's fine." Adrian stands up stiffly and hurries by Trevor to take lead, heading toward the elevator.

Trevor thinks briefly about making a comment about the fragility of the spines of books, but he really has no fucking idea about that kind of thing -- so he keeps his mouth shut about it.

He does note the stiffness with which the vampire walks, though, the general caginess to his entire demeanor. It's something he's been trying to work himself around, to not be too rude about, but it's a little difficult given how flustered he's feeling, too. A vampire from Romania wasn't unheard of, but ... something about it felt odd. He pushes that thought down with a shake of his head, following Adrian to the elevator and leaning against the wall with what he hopes looks like practiced ease while they wait for the lift.

There's no attempt for conversation from Adrian. When the lift is ready, he slips inside, waiting for Trevor before he presses for the lower levels.

He's never had his own room before, not really. There would be cells, sometimes he had a crate, but never anywhere private. And it feels... strange to invite someone into it. Someone that isn't Alucard, Seras, or Walter. Not that Integra can't go where she pleases either, but she's usually quite respectful.

When the doors open again, Adrian murmurs, "This way." He's brushing by Trevor, giving him a glance before he's heading down the dark, stone hallway.

There are no windows down here, safely dark for any creature of the night. He turns down the hallway, then opens one of the doors.

The room inside is sparse, as one might expect. A humble collection of books on a quaint desk, two chairs, and a coffin. It certainly is very private.

Even just that light brush against him is enough to confirm to Trevor that the reckless action of following one of Hellsing's damned vampires downstairs is actually not a bad idea.

He shouldn't be surprised that Adrian's room is sparse, without windows -- or even that it has a coffin in it, honestly -- but he is, for some odd reason. The desk is, at least, close enough that he can easily deposit the bottle of wine and the two glasses down on the top of it, letting his gaze flick to Adrian's face curiously.

He's interested to see how he'll act now that he's on his 'home turf', so to speak, so he gives him a little space before he offers, "Should I get you a glass?"

Finally setting his now crooked book onto the desk, he glances over to Trevor and gives him a considerate look. The man isn't unattractive, and he knows he's already decided that; he's scruffy, bit of a ruffian, but he isn't unpleasant either.

"Yes, please," Adrian requests, shrugging off his coat to drape over a chair. "I'd apologize for not having much in my room, but I presume you understand my circumstances enough."

Trevor just shrugs his shoulders. He lives a mercenary's life, which means that most of the things that he owns he can pack up within a matter of minutes and crate off to whatever part of the world he's being sent to next.

He gives the book a pointed look, but fixes a glass of wine for Adrian without further comment. He stands to pass the glass to the vampire, taking the opportunity to again brush his hand against Adrian's. Again, it's soft -- careful, even. If Millennium had punished him for doing anything wrong, it was entirely possible that any sort of touch made him skittish. Maybe that's what all the flinching had been about, earlier.

There's a brief pause at the contact. This time, he doesn't jerk, but he does look at the hand warily before he takes the glass. Unfortunately, he reacts much the same toward others, halfway expecting to be tricked or harmed for doing something untoward. But he tries to remind himself that he isn't there anymore.

And in his way, Trevor is charming.

"Thank you," he murmurs, appreciating the wine and its taste much better than the beer Trevor had been drinking. Slowly, he settles more, then hesitantly touches the ends of Trevor's fingers.

"Sit with me?"

It's odd to be so careful with someone that he knows could so easily tear someone limb from limb (all right, he did read the dossier on Adrian), but ... he seemed sheltered, in some ways.

For now he allows Adrian to set the pace of things, turning his hand palm-up when the vampire touches his fingers and makes that request of him.

"Lead the way." There's only so many places that they might sit, but the point here is to let Adrian be the one to make the decisions on things for a bit -- to be patient, even if just the light contact with the vampire's hand sends pleasant sparks through his body. Being a mercenary is, when it comes down to it, largely solitary work. Moving about didn't exactly lend itself to a steady partnership.

As uneasy as Adrian feels, he does recognize Trevor's patience, that he waits for him to reach out and lead. With a bit more confidence, he slips his hand into the mercenary's, pulling him toward the two chairs he has in the room.

"Why did you decide to come down with me?" he asks, though he's certain he knows the answer anyway.

Once Adrian takes his hand, he lets himself be guided toward the chair and seats himself easily -- although he doesn't drop the fingers slipped in his.

He lets out a soft chuckle, dropping his gaze down for a moment. "Honestly? Because there's..." And he trails off, bringing his other hand briefly to the back of his neck, "...something interesting about you." His pretty face might've been the thing to make him stop and actually listen to the vampire, but it had been the places their brief conversation had touched on that made him willing to want to know more, to not just try and push things into what might've been an easy casual fuck.

"You don't know anything about your time before Millennium, but you speak Romanian like a local. The familiarity was ... nice."

Their hands remain loosely held and it feels... nice. Warm, comforting. He has a better idea of the details of the tips of Trevor's rough calluses. Years of use, years of fighting, but the warmth underneath. A curious thing indeed.

And he listens, watching Trevor curiously. As he speaks, Adrian drinks more wine, but stops at the mention of Romanian. That had been a startling revelation, even to himself.

"I worry that I was made by them," Adrian confesses softly. "But then there are details like that. Details I shouldn't know, but I do. And other things..."

He trails off, then finally slips his hand free. After finishing his wine glass, he makes a decision. Wise or unwise, it seems irrelevant. Perhaps the alcohol, or maybe the decision to share himself with someone that wouldn't be miserable.

"Let me show you something, Belmont."

Adrian stands after setting the glass down. With his coat off, it makes it all the easier to peel off his shirt. It might seems like a sexual invitation, but the truth of it is that he wants to show the scar on his chest.

"This has been here for as long as I can remember."

His eyes track Adrian carefully as he stands, as he peels off his shirt. Indeed, he'd probably have spent more time admiring the lithe, well-muscled form if it wasn't for the glaringly obvious scar in the middle of his chest, the words that come from the vampire's lips.

"They didn't make you."

He knows this story. He'd never thought he'd be in the same room as anyone involved in it, though -- and it's that idea that fuels him to pick up the already-opened wine and take a long swig from the bottle. Uncouth, maybe, but he needs something to quench the sudden dry mouth that he has.

It gives him just enough impulsive stupidity to join Adrian in standing, to walk over to him and lay his hand flat against the scar, oddly reverent.

"Do you want me to tell you how you got it? This scar." He brings his other hand up, brushes it over the sharp angle of Adrian's cheek and down his jaw.

It sounds so oddly confident from Trevor. How would he know that they didn't just make him? Adrian looks at him, his brows knitted in confusion.

And he holds his breath, perhaps unnecessarily, when he feels Trevor's hand on his chest, but his words catch Adrian's attention more than anything. He can't even be concerned about (a) how close they are and (b) how much Trevor is touching him.

"Do you know?" he asks, almost pleading. "Tell me, please."

It's confident because he's confident, now. Things fall too perfectly into place for it to be anything but exactly what he's thinking of.

"Your father." He's still touching the scar, the contour of it across Adrian's chest. "You tried to stop him from doing something monumentally idiotic, and he nearly killed you. Or that's what you told Leon, at any rate." He's not accusing Adrian of lying, but hiding the whole truth from someone wouldn't be unheard of.

He mentions Leon's name only because he wants to see whether it jogs -- anything in Adrian's mind, his gaze scanning that pretty face of his.

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