When he had first arrived at the noble's manor, his footsteps creaked cautiously across the dust cloaked floors, leaving ugly footprints. So he cleaned and cleaned, made sure every surface was spotless, blank, so when he walked, he was a passing ghost who left no trace of his existence.
At least now, the manor suited its ever pristine occupant. Time seemed to be at a standstill around him, so that dust stayed perpetually suspended in the air. Raizel watched the seasons pass from his window, but he himself was forever winter, as silent as snow.
Frankenstein stared at his lonely back from his seat on the couch as if he could will the seasons to transition. After a while, he sighed, then left the room; the house wasn't going to stay clean itself.
Summer into fall into winter, and Frankenstein was starting to become tired of the scenery, tired of seeing his own face reflected on the same surfaces he polished every day. He was initially hesitant to bring in new decor-they would just be another part of him to leave behind when he left-but decided that a reprieve from the droning monotony was worth it.
Kneeling before his new master, time seemed to stop within Frankenstein. He forgot where he was, forgot how to breathe. It was an endless spring in which all the flowers paled in comparison to the being standing before him, wrapped around him, resting inside of him. Frankenstein was frozen beneath warm waters. He let the ocean flood his lungs, opened his mouth in a silent plea to be full of nothing but Raizel. He wished time really would stop, keep everything else in the world dull and far away. In that moment, Dark Spear and humanity were merely distant echoes, and nothing but Raizel mattered.
It was then that Frankenstein realized Raizel was all the seasons all at once, and they were all beautiful. His soul was an ocean of warm, glittering sand, and when Frankenstein sifted it through his fingers, it caressed his skin like coy cherry blossoms. And the autumn red blood that dyed his hands only looked more tragic against freshly fallen snow.
Frankenstein both consumed and was consumed by something as dangerous and toxic as Dark Spear. It burned him just as much, but these flames were a brilliant red. He threw himself into them, embraced them and ingested them as if he had been starved all his life. He was ruined, but he couldn't care. It forever poisoned his mind and soul in a way Dark Spear never could. It was something thick and sickeningly sweet, something that stained his actions, words, and thoughts. It challenged the very fires of Hell yet rung more beautifully than the choirs of Heaven.
Love.
It was love, Frankenstein realized, and he loved that it was love.
Neither of them had once said "I love you," because how could words possibly begin to convey how they felt? If Frankenstein tried to convey his affection with just those words, he would have surely gone insane, because even if he repeated them with every breath he took from the moment he was born until he died, it would still not be enough. It was something too grand and sacred to be uttered.
So he made tea and sweets and clothing. Filled Raizel's home-their home-with nice things: flowers, lights, books, the scent of warm food. Filled it with himself, because he never wanted to leave his master even when he was physically away. Frankenstein did not leave footprints or fingerprints, but he had left an impression on the once lonely mansion. A different kind of quiet drifted throughout their home, like joyful ghost children looking into every room they could find only to run away giggling. They were no longer old, tired apparitions with lungs full of dust floating through the hallways, because they had no other way to spend their lonely eternity.
And then, he disappeared. The snow melted, the flowers uprooted, and there was nothing. Frankenstein had filled their home with reminders of himself, but Raizel had left not even a mark on the window sill he stood by year after year. Frankenstein stood by the same window his master stared out of and took in the scenery. There was nothing to see. So he closed his eyes and searched deep within himself for a ghost's whisper, for dust. And he found it. Tucked away in a far corner, the fleeting heartbeat of his master's soul. His master was still there and would return to him eventually. Frankenstein would wait and watch. Spring, summer, fall, winter. Over and over again.
So, I have a fanfiction account now. Not sure how much use it'll get, but this was fun.