Hidden Spaces

Teatime steps quietly through the halls of his crypt, looking for the fool of a jester. Upon entering the main hall, he's nowhere to be seen. And through the eerie silence, no longer can he hear the sweet sounds of Cicero's maddening murmurings.

A sharp sort of panic settles deep within Mr Teatime's chest. Months ago, he used to fear that Cicero would simply disappear again… just as he did after that incident with the old covenant.

Run from me… has he? His poor undead heart sings in dismay, nearly bursting into flames. A rather nervous hand runs through curly, cherub-blonde locks as the other grips the handle of his dagger for dear life. The blade glows red with vitality drain. "Fuck…" He mutters. His normally cool and calculated mind just can't take this.

Teatime steels himself, realizing he should actually check the crypt before getting his smallclothes in a sorry twist. He sighs in determination, closing his right eye. His blue eye burns.

Using this sight, he peers through the hidden spaces. He glances over the lair, past his grand libraries and onto the central living area. Soon enough, he finds his target.

Cicero has apparently taken it upon himself to enjoy the red velvet cushions of Teatime's large sleeping coffin. He rests in nothing but a maroon night tunic, a pair of autumny braies and some red striped jester socks. Teatime can see parts of his thighs exposed to the air, and other areas covered in black and red. The jester holds a pillow to his chest, clutching it tightly.

The assassin's mouth turns up in a sly smile, to his immense chagrin. It's not like Mr Teatime to be this preoccupied. He has to be a siren, or a demon… surely. As lovely as the sight truly is… he must be cautious. He can't imagine why Cicero chose to hide there of all places.

What sort of trick is this one, huh? He sneaks up carefully, cautiously. The jester may be a fool… but a dangerous fool nonetheless. Mother's hand has guided him far…

He hovers over the edge of the coffin, thinking about his next move. Tsk tsk tsk… Now, now. Why so quiet?

As he leans in closer, Teatime can hear a faint sobbing emanate from the inside. He couldn't be… actually crying… could he? Cicero starts to murmur to himself once again. He must still be oblivious to the other's presence.

Something's not right about this… The rogue thinks to himself idly. It's just that Cicero's never been so distracted before. Despite the blonde's heightened stealth, he should have at least sensed something minutes ago.

The assassin listens carefully, catching the faint words which escape the jester's thin lips. "Cicero isn't alone… he isn't. Mother didn't leave him all alone, after all! She brought him the listener! But… we still feel so terrible… What kind of a keeper, am I?"

The rogue stills, trying to remain as quiet as possible. My, my. Poor Cicero… He thinks to himself idly, Still so lonely after everything that's happened. Have I neglected you, somehow?

The keeper's murmurings linger on, the truth pouring from his lips like wildfire. "Listener… oh, listener. Strangest eyes… always fleeting! One of sapphire and light, another the essence of night. Oh, angel. May Cicero drown in your gaze before sunrise…"

Teatime's stomach turns. A single bead of sweat perspires on his clammy face, dripping towards the blonde curls at the base of his neck. W-what… what was that again?

"Weak… such weakness. If I'm to be judged for this depravity, please let it be by your swift and polished blade! Madness is merry, and merriment's might… Oh, how my lover would come calling with his knife in the night." His oddly poetic words are followed by aching sobs. Out from him pours an ocean of tears, those of which have surely soaked into that poor satin pillowcase already.

The elven dagger, previously secure in Teatime's sure grip, now clatters unceremoniously to the ground. His hands feel weak. So this is what he's been hiding… and after all this time. Oh, no.

Almost as soon as the metallic noise sounds, he hears a solid thump from inside the coffin… shortly followed by a pathetic whimper.

"Cicero, Cicero…" Teatime tries to soothe, though he sounds more menacing than anything. He places his hand on the surface of the coffin. He's not sure what to say, or even what to think… but he has to say something.

The jester startles out of his mood for a moment, anxious words muffled by coffin walls. "L-listener! D-don't tell poor Cicero you've been listening this whole time! T-that would be rather embarrassing, you know! Heh heh heh…" His sentence ends in a nerve-wracking giggle… a sound that's not altogether reassuring.

Teatime rolls his eyes, placing a hand on the coffin door to open it. As the lid opens up… he can see the jester's strong, yet lean figure huddled up against the far side.

Cicero's reddish auburn hair, free from the confines of his hat, falls messily over his neck. Dark brown eyes stare back at Mr Teatime, fear and madness lingering there. Tears still flow down his face, their end seemingly out of sight.

He sniffles, screwing his eyes shut as he mumbles, "P-please, just get it over with… perhaps the dread lord will accept me with open arms, no? Too hopeful?"

Teatime just stares at him, his mind wrapped up by the tantalizingly pathetic display before him. This kind of vulnerability… well… he'd never expected to see anything like it from Cicero. If it really is his listener which holds this admiration… then Teatime has to know.

The looming assassin raises a finger to his own lips, saying, "Shhh…" before slipping off his night shoes and climbing into bed with the distraught jester. He grabs the handle from the inner coffin lid, raising it over the two of them and pulling it tightly shut.

Cicero glances upwards, seeing the vague outline of Mr Teatime right beside him. One blue eye glows at him from the darkness, giving him the sharpest of chills.

"L-Listener? W-what are you-" The blonde puts a hand to the man's perfect lips, saying, "You do know my name, don't you Cicero?"

The jester eyes widen, a look of surprise on his face. Suddenly he bites Mr Teatime's hand, teeth digging into his fingers. Cicero bares his teeth with fervor, showing off some jagged canines. The action hurts, but doesn't draw any blood. The jester finally relents. Teatime just shakes off the pain with a delighted groan, ghosting his thumb over the keeper's lips and teeth possessively. That emotion is quite clear on his face by now.

Cicero frowns slightly, a rather complex look on his face… like a mixture of confusion and guilt. With a sheepish laugh he says, "Haha… as if faithful Cicero could forget your name, Mr Teatime." He swallows nervously, trying to conceal the turmoil boiling away inside.

Teatime narrows his eyes, a look of wonder and curiosity bleeding through him as he stares at Cicero. He got it right. The blonde rogue leans in close, bumping his pointy nose against the other's. "Everyone calls me Teatime. You, though… you can call me Johnny."

"Ooh! L-listener! T-that tickles!" Cicero shivers with a sudden delight, turning away nervously. "J-johnny, of course. You honor me, dearest friend!" His mood shifts slightly, though he still seems nervous.

The cherubic assassin smirks, his expression highlighted in the darkness by pale glowing blue. He places a steady hand along the side of Cicero's tear stained face, caressing his cheek. The jester whimpers, rubbing his face against Mr Teatime's hand affectionately.

They've never interacted like this before. Sure, they've exchanged simple handshakes & whispered secret plans, but they've never done something like this. So touch starved… Teatime thinks to himself idly. His fingers tingle pleasantly, electrifying his senses. Really… he should've caught on to all of this so much sooner.

Teatime hones in on Cicero, eyes thoughtful and hungry. He says, "I'm not a peeping tom, you know. But my ears defy me, and I hear too much. Things that… might just make a man like me go crazy."

"Crazy? Crazy once was I-" Just as Cicero's impulsive line begins, Teatime silences it with a shush. "Not now. I'm being serious, you fuck."

The keeper's face flushes with heat, embarrassment finally starting to catch up with him. He's all alone with his listener in a dark, enclosed space. The only light provided is the warm candlelight slipping through the cracks and the shine of Mr Teatime's blue eye.

And for whatever dreadful reason, Cicero decided he wouldn't need his proper clothes if he were to be discovered. And what with how busy the man has been for the last few hours, he was almost sure that wouldn't happen anyhow.

So wrong, was I… he thinks gloomily. Dread lord, spare me…

Teatime gathers a lock of Cicero's ruby-red hair, tugging and twirling it teasingly. In a rather pigeon-toned, hysterical voice he begins, "Cicero. Are you going to tell me what's wrong…" He stops for a moment, leaning into the jester's space even further… their lips mere inches away. The vampire continues, "…or not?"-