"When we... met," Vladimir begins, considering the words he means, "did you mean to call out for me?"
Karthus glances up, from the features of Vladimir's jaw to his inquisitive stare, with a thoughtful one of his own. The skeletal hand he has against Vladimir's neck moves up, thumb finding his jawline and gently - if rather rigid - touching him. He mirrors affection that he has learnt from Vladimir himself - the acts themselves long lost on his memory, distant in time for him.
The Song no longer lingers in Vladimir's thoughts, as it sings around him in the Mist instead. It is like a mourning veil that follows Karthus, as the moon follows the cast of shadow. Yet still, Vladimir recalls when it lingered deep inside of his mind, an echo that filled the silence of his home in Noxus. A song distant, woven into the hum and sigh of mist - far off like a horizon, a setting sun. It sat inside of him. It lingered. It drew him in the direction of the Isles, and to silence it, he had to follow.
"The Mist's arrival to Noxus was not in your name," Karthus speaks, slowly, working through his thoughts. His voice sounds - thin, like it is filtered through that shadow that he speaks in. "I only came upon you when I arrived."
"That isn't what I mean, necessarily." Karthus' hand, though skeletal and cold, is still a comfort on his jaw. Vladimir leans into his hand, reciprocating his attempts at romantic gestures. He is warm in hisbintent only, but that's enough for Vladimir. Like candlelight. "Rather - when you saw me. Or were around me, whatever had put the Song in my head. Did you mean to do that? Did you want me?"
Karthus' expression is unreadable, some sort of surprise and thoughtful question. He is intending his words. "You had interested me. Often, I judge the mortals I am in the presence of rather easily. I wished to speak to you."
"You didn't recognize me when I arrived, though."
"I did not see you when I had met you. It was as if I had recognized your spirit. I had the Choir search for you." Karthus reaches forward into the hood, to the back of his throat. Vladimir notes that's what he does when he touches Karthus himself. He bites back the smile pushing at his mouth. "As well, you were hooded."
"Search for me," Vladimir repeats, "So you did want me."
Karthus' expression neutrals to something affectionate. He draws Vladimir closer, arm over his waist. The hand on his neck draws to the front, tipping Vladimir's chin up to look at Karthus closely. A possessive act. He is his - held close in the arms of death. "Yes. I wanted you. Yet, in doing so, I did not anticipate that I would have you as I do now."
Vladimir draws his fingers through the threadbare robes over Karthus' shoulders. He smiles something warm, and laughs, lowly. "Darling," he tries, feeling the heat in his throat as he says that. He draws his finger over Karthus' chest, tracing a shape where his dead heart would be. It's much easier to embrace him when he is without those antiquated pauldrons and that steel plate. Perhaps he will tell him this sometime "You are very romantic, I'll have you know."
"Am I?" he asks, tipping his head to the left. "I have made a great attempt to learn. I wish to earn your favour, dearest."
Vladimir watches him for a moment, before leaning forward, kissing him deeply. "You already have."