DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

AND Dracula – Bram Stoker

CASTLES IN THE AIR

FIVE

16 JUNE 1897

Tell me of your family," Vladimir said as we walked the moonlit forest, his hand tucked into the curve of my arm.

I gladly complied with stories of my childhood, making a vignette of my rural upbringing, which made him laugh. It was not unlike his in geography, only in contemporary context. And it was not as upsetting for me to recount it with so many years of distance between myself and that hopeful, unschooled boy I had once been.

"I would often hear my mother remark to my father upon my personal improvement, and feel very proud for it," I said, "though, her words were always received—considered, perhaps—but never answered by my father. He was never prone to conversation, like I.

"From the ages of ten to fourteen I was in training for heroism," I joked. "I read all adventure works available to me in order to supply my memory with quotations for my own expeditions, then I would concededly recite them in the vicinity of anyone with ears to listen. My fellow farm-hands would always suspiciously disappear whenever we had free time to talk, and it took me an embarrassingly long time to understand why.

"My mother scorned these works for all the ungentlemanly words they taught her impressionable son, which exchanged ignorance for a kind of innocent curiosity in me, I suppose."

An innocence I lost soon after.

My passions evolved with the help of a round-cheeked cousin of my neighbour's, whom, if not beautiful, then was very near to it, and with whom I had spent my fifteenth summer, yielding the last of my innocence. It was the first and last time I had ever been brave enough to speak plainly of my desires, without metaphors or the cover of darkness to protect me; no night time gambles or poisonous drink to blame for misunderstandings. That sweet smiling boy had been the first and last whom I had ever confessed my feelings to—until Vladimir, of course. But I did not tell Vladimir that. My evolution from childhood ignorance to adult awareness is not something that I will ever share with anyone. It is too intimate a part of what makes me whole. No one else needs to know how I came to be what I am, and no one else needs to accept me for it. No one, except for myself.

There are some secrets that we keep even from ourselves; and other secrets we know, but lock securely in our hearts, not because we fear their existence, but because they are not truths or untruths, but feelings without words. Some secrets simply cannot be explained and that is what makes them so precious.

"Boris," Vladimir said, for I had fallen into silence.

I smiled to reassure him, and gave his hand a light squeeze. I was grateful for his presence, and more grateful for his discretion, that he did not pry into my feelings. I would have tried and failed to confess them to him if he had only asked, but he did not, and I was glad. He never asked for more than I offered, just as I never asked more of him. We accepted what the other gave, and appreciated it all the more for the trust shared between us. Vladimir seemed to instinctively know my heart, but, rather than speak of our harmony, he showed it in action.

He leant closer to my body, hugging my arm, and matching my pace, conveying the simple feeling of: Here. I am here.

I resumed my narrative with confidence:

"My mother's reprimands were forever winded on a sigh of concealed affection for me. She worried, as her station as matron requires, but she never boxed me sternly, only cuffed my head in reproach when I did something wrong. And I did many things wrong in my youth. Many things to merit a proper beating, but I was always saved and spoiled by my mother's love.

"My father," I continued after a pause, thinking of how best to describe our feeble relationship, "pretended not to hear when I spoke of anything unsuitable. He pretended not to hear me more often than not, I think. We spoke very little to each other, and never of anything personal. I sometimes wonder if he wished for another child more alike himself, but nor do I think he dislikes me. He is disappointed in me, but resigned to the fact that I am his only son and so he must love me or love no one. Not that he's ever said the word love out-loud, not even to my mother. He is a quiet man. It is my mother who taught me to talk about anything and everything, and to never leave a silence unfilled."

"Then she taught you well, indeed," Vladimir teased. "I've never heard anyone talk for so long about rocks."

"It is the science of the earth, itself, which is called geology," I corrected, but he quickly covered my mouth.

"No, please—!" he feigned distress. "I cannot listen to your rock-talk again!"

"Oh, but it is so fascinating!" I pressed, grinning in malicious delight while chasing him in a circle. "There are igneous rocks, and sedimentary rocks—"

"Stop it! Oh, stop it, you wicked scientist-man!" Vladimir laughed. He kissed my mouth to silence me, and I could not fault his tactic, nor his skill. "I do not care for rocks unless they sparkle."

"A most popular opinion," I assured him.

He took my arm again and we continued our walk in the moonlight, making a circuit of the castle like ladies of leisure make circuits of drawing-rooms. This time, I spoke of my time in university. I told him of my professors and the classes I took. I told him of my classmates and the trouble we got into. I told him how I filled in for a member of the rowing team once and was subsequently begged to join. "I wonder why?" Vladimir purred, laying his head against my bicep. I told him of the public-house I frequented, where one friend played the piano, and another friend cheated at billiards. I told him of the old man I bought bread from every morning, and how I spent so many late-nights in the university's library that I was eventually entrusted with a key.

"I can see that you are very beloved," Vladimir concluded. "Such a clever, helpful, and handsome young man, how could you not be?"

I shrugged, a little embarrassed.

"No more or less than any other man who isn't a scoundrel," I said.

"Affirmation was always very nice when given to me, but I learnt early never to depend on it," I explained. "I have always been satisfied with my lot of public attention. I am lucky to be of a likeable disposition, otherwise I fear my betters would have encouraged my reputation as a reprobate. I am neither praised nor ignored in a crowd, and I am happy to accept as many invitations as I decline.

"But you must understand it, my love—?"

I smiled down at Vladimir, thinking that he must have been much more beloved than I in his life. But he surprised me—reminded me—with a shake of his head.

"No, I do not. I was always despised," he replied, and then turned away so that I could not gauge the depth of his sorrow.

Another silence settled between us, and I berated myself for forgetting his unhappy experience, which was so much worse than mine. I realized then that I felt guilty for it—for having had a relatively secure and happy childhood, with friends and relations tolerant of my afflictions, if not accepting of them; and a reputation good enough to rescue me from my many misadventures. I did not have to hide my truths for self-preservation until late in my youth, and by then I was capable of defending myself. I could not imagine what Vladimir had suffered: to first be despised for your fragile mortality, and then to be endangered because of your immortality. Had no one ever appreciated him simply for himself? Perhaps the vampire had, his sire. Perhaps he—

I stopped myself, for I did not want to explore the relationship between sire and fledgling. Vladimir had only been a child when he was taken—adopted—by the vampire, but they had lived together in isolation for six years. It was enough time for Vladimir to mature to adulthood, becoming the beautiful man I now knew and loved. Had Vladimir's sire once loved him the same? A part of me really hoped he had, for Vladimir's sake. But a bigger part of me hoped he had not.

"Your sire—?" I asked, trying to withhold my jealous feelings. "He couldn't have despised you."

"I do not remember what he felt for me," Vladimir replied, oblivious. "It was so long ago, and we had so little time together. He liked my gentleness, I think. I remember the first time he took me hunting. I was seventeen and yet I cried. He should have scolded me. He had already overindulged my sensibilities by leaving my education so late, but instead of anger I remember forgiveness, maybe even fondness. It was such a very long time ago," he repeated tiredly.

"My mortal father did not like to see me gentle though, and that I do remember," he added scornfully. "I was never the son he wanted, which was the one thing we ever had in common, because I never wanted him for a father."

"My father does not like to see me gentle either," I shared, cautious of upsetting him. "But he is not a violent man and only ever struck me when deserved. He has always been an uncomplaining man, who believes in precisely three things: farming, religion, and private business, in precisely that order. I believe he is confident in himself and satisfied with his lot, but he's never been proud. Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves, he used to say, and would glare chastising at me if ever he saw the stirrings of pride in me."

Vladimir stopped, pulling gently on my forearm. I was afraid that I had failed in my purpose and had hurt or offended him, but he faced me directly.

"I like your pride, Boris."

Had he dismissed my words, or lied and flattered me with a denial, as expected, I think I would have been disappointed in him and myself. But, instead, his honest compliment of my very worst vice made me want to kiss him.

So, I did.