Set Yourself On Fire, somewhere in Europe :: Percy&Hamm

[+Grendel Hammerschmidt]

Somewhere, in a land far far away, where rolling hills are covered by ice and snow, there is a shack. It is made of ancient rotting wood, heavily embedded into the frozen hillside. From the outside, it is not intimidating, it looks small, shallow. Some hermit’s place of rest before moving on. Those who look will barely look twice before passing on, should they pass by they may feel a chill. The area feels just a few degrees colder than the rest of the world. Rabbits, colored white to match the snow, twitch their noses at it from feet away, but they pass it over. Even the white foxes go no closer, for things that Are Not Right And Do Not Follow The Natural Way take place.

Inside the shack, it is not a shack, but a dirt staircase carefully molded to take one deep into the earth. It is framed by candles, though today the candles are out, and all is black inside the cavern. Further down, in a walk that may feel like miles to a stranger but is only five minutes at average pace, there is a room. And this room is lit.

You would not realize, remember, you were underground at first glance. This room is large, well furnished, and at one side, stretched over the legs of a great chair, there is one boy holding a book. He’s dressed warmly and lavishly, and his face is one set in stone. A thinker, curious, gathering knowledge from the thick, dusty thing held in his lap. To read over his shoulder would be to see a framed image, a town that looked less than spectacular, and far less than even close to worth his time.

me to play

In distaste, he wrinkles his nose, and speaks aloud: “They say some power is gathering here, but I can’t imagine why. This Charlemont looks like just the dirtiest little place.” He needn’t speak too loudly, his voice carries in this place, the other would have heard him anyway.

He needn’t speak at all: to the other he’s been relaying images and quick bursts of negative thought for some time now that Percival has certainly heard every bad name he could call the town without Hamm having to even open his mouth. But Hamm, the bitter one in the chair, felt that sometimes the mental discussion wasn’t enough. To solidify these things, to make sure everyone knows his opinions on everything: Hamm speaks out loud.

He also speaks out loud for other reasons.

Even his mind won’t admit.

In this place, when you speak, the room echoes, and you are everywhere. Urging the other on so they may come by, fill the place with chatter when work has bored you beyond tears. With his hands splayed across the pages of the book, he speaks to draw the other’s company closer to him. Admitting this means admitting he’s a mere human, and admitting this means that he really does need the other’s company. For more than just a release from boredom.

“I can’t believe one of them would be hidden here, your source must have been lying. To get us off track. Worthington itself, it just sounds like a shithole,” when he speaks, his words are clear, crisp, said with a flourish. He is proper, and enunciates well. Even if he knows he won’t be misunderstood, not by this one, force of habit creates this tone.

That and his insane air of confidence to the point (actually, beyond the point) of cockiness. He lifts his nose to the air when he turns his head, looking to catch the shimmer of gold from beyond the back of his chair. Looking for the other.

old endgame lost of old

Your move.

Moving yet?

Moving yet to me?

No? Another flash, gone from his mind, the image off the page sent to the other. “What self-respecting creature, even a vampire, would move such a precious artifact to a place like that?” Moving yet to me? It works this way, yes, go.

White to black. Below the earth.

Moving yet?

[+Percival Harris]

No. Not yet.

But he'll come. He always comes.

Have you seen where we live?, the voice responded at once, in the place of the thick, difficult silence. And following the voice, a lonely view of the shack half-covered by snow, and then a montage of the things they have collected that were housed inside. A small collection, yes, but all very precious, although some were truly expensive, priceless, while others were worthless to everyone but the two young men who lived in that cavern underneath the earth.

That silence again.

And then, I wouldn't drag you there if I didn't think it was worth it.

Did Hamm felt it? The need for kind of go-to-the-wall approval that came with the words? How the voice, kinder than his, gentler, sought for him to understand how this was important? But if a choice was to be made, between Hamm and the quest...

There was no choice.

There was a sigh.

And this sigh wasn't just a voice in the head, but audible, the strange acoustics of their home drawing out the sound so that it whispered throughout the length of the room. It carried itself to where Hamm sat, where he held the book, where he looked at the pages, before it moved to the dark stairway leading out to the frozen landscape that passed as their front yard.

A minute later - one very long minute - Percival Harris stood up from where he sat and went to stand where Hamm could see him without having to turn his neck. Tall and distinguished, though he was dressed more simply than his friend: a loose shirt with the sleeves turned up, dark jeans, and - curiously enough - a long flowing robe, his presence nevertheless completed the scene. Two elegant young men, in an elegant room. Because of their link, there was no disguising that he was deeply exhausted.

A sudden thought, both ugly and frightening, flashed through his mind. Because of their link, he was unable to hide it from Hamm.

So he doesn't hide it. "You don't have to go," he said. "You can stay here and I'll come back in a few months. You know I'll come back."

The words died away in echoes on earth and stone.

[+Grendel Hammerschmidt]

His lips purse, and he seems to sink down deeper into his seat. The book on his lap stays strangely still, in place, his hands holding it perfectly in place. In this room, lavish yet gray, there are no secrets that can be easily kept. Still, Hamm seems to be trying to keep his movements down, never has he been so uncomfortable with a thought thrown around before. Not a thought from Percival (his, his Percival). But, here secrets cannot be easily kept.

The truth is hard to miss. Even to his cold eyes, unseeing to things he does not want to see. He needn’t look around. Nature has forgotten us.

(But, if he was right and this place was gold, then it wouldn’t forget anymore. It wouldn’t be able to. They, together, could be a hurricane of event. The likes of which the earth would not soon--would not ever--forget. The force of which could not be buried in history, but would instead become past present and future all in one. Nature could not forget them, would not forget them when they were through. And neither would anyone else. There would be riches.)

Not jewels or gems or gold, but power and respect that spread from the House of Priory to the rest of the world. The history books would not forget him (them) at the end of this. At the end of his (their) life.

He has big plans, our Hamm.

But, he needn’t speak out now, or even speak inside. These were thoughts that came loose with sleep and embrace. These were thoughts that, when unhinged, went freely to his friend and, Hamm believed, carved themselves upon the walls of a skull.

He needn’t move or speak, he only need wait until the footsteps come. Your move. Until Percival Harris stood beside him; tall, thin, and tense. Hamm’s eyes had flickered up the form of his friend and, not bothering to conceal it, a slow, small smile started to form on his lips. Why? You’d be leaving me just the same. (it’s something of a whisper, he attempts to visualize the question elegant like smoke, in a thin graceful line). Would you survive without me there?

Knight forward. Bishop to play. Hamm holds his hand out, looking for the other to take (these moves shouldn’t be predicted or forced, but with their connection, it’s hard not to cheat a little, push a little). “I won’t have you leave me that easily.”

And of course, he couldn’t do this without Hamm.

Or, Hamm didn’t want to believe that he could do this without him. (Impossible! Not my heart!) His features relax, and the book finally shifts from his lap.

“I never said I wouldn’t go.”

[+Percival Harris]

Percy's relief comes in the form of a smile. A very imperfect grin.

He would survive, there was no question about that -,

You’d be leaving me just the same.

- but he would have been lonely. He said as much, his thought reaching out the span between them even as he opened his mouth to speak.

"Yeah?", he asked. He ducked his head, to hide the physical evidence of his joy, although he knew Hamm felt it well enough. When he looked up again, it's shown he failed miserably at looking cool. "You'll love it, I know. I read up all these things - well, you know that."

Yes, Hamm should know.

Partner-in-crime, best friend, lover, heart's keeper; Grendel Hammerschmidt was the person who was there every step of the way, watching Percy pursue his mad dream and cleverly twining it with Hamm's, so that where his dream ended, Percy's began. He knows it all, the excitement that springs while researching some obscure clue and the desperation when there comes a dead end. There's never been any choice. Linked as they were, it's a given.

Besides, there's that calm certainty that every move he makes is of paramount interest to the world (Hamm). Percy has never learned to shut up. He liked to share whatever he learned, like a boy who wished to find an audience who would clap their hands at his genius.

He had been born with a gift, and from an early age had soberly, meticulously sought to honor it. He’d studied, often in solitude, practicing his art, learning its scope.

Barely giving time for Hamm to agree, he was soon walking back to his desk, where books and scrolls were scattered on the whole surface. Some has already spilled over to the floor. The fire crackled in the grate as Percy searched for the piece of paper he needed to show Hamm (- for the ninth time this week? The hundredth time this month?). When he found it, he smiled. The firelight cast shadows on his young face.

"You'll see, Hamm," he promised, as he came forward again, this time with the paper in his hand. His eyes quickly read again words he already knew by heart, before handing it back to his friend. "It's there. Power."

It'll be dangerous though.

That thought dimmed the excitement somewhat. They've face vampires before; the many adventures they've had meant a brush with one or two was inevitable, but a town full? Could they handle that? Percy hesitated.

[+Grendel Hammerschmidt]

Before he even read over it, his fingers slid over the page carefully.

Before he read it over, he reached back and saw in his mind’s eye: himself reaching back. Through Percy’s eyes, located his lover’s hand and took it. The words went without saying, without even thinking, in that it was no longer a combination of words at all. Just a feeling, one hand in the other, simpler than the words Hamm would usually speak. He wasn’t so great with words.

The book fell from his lap onto the floor, and closed on it’s own. Front cover at top. And then he looked it over, placing it to memory as best he could.

Blueprints of the school, the ins and outs and the secret corridors and the places no one knew about. The places even the designers, long dead or long left behind care for the school, wouldn’t know of or remember or be around to tell the vampires who’d taken it over. He knew very little about the school, about the town, besides what he’d read in the fallen book. For now, though later he’d feel the opposite, he cared very little for the outline.

The notes though, in Percy’s familiar scrawl.

Research written along the margins with arrows and lines that pointed to where it needed. They were placed close together, to make room, but still neat. Outlining the blueprints well. It was obvious he’d put a lot of thought into this. That he believed in Charlemont.

The place where vampires gathered and somehow kept peace with humans. Even the Houses disbelieved it, chose to inspect for themselves. So why not them? Why let the other sectors have all the fun?

“When are we going then? Now, later?” His hand slipped up the other’s arm, tight and holding.

Now?

[+Percival Harris]

“In a week,” Percy answered. “We’ll leave in a week. There are papers to forge, charm, things we do.”

Percy was thinking so fast, his words couldn’t come fast enough. It was such a relief to know Hamm would miss nothing. He gave a small smile, and hesitated. His gaze slipped over the younger boy, seeing him again in that slightly new light that seemed to come more often now. He thought again of the dangers and his stomach felt cold, hollow. Keeping his hold on Hamm’s hand, he put one arm across his chest. He scoffed at his fears, but it wouldn’t leave, did in fact called his bluff. “Damn, Hamm,” he said, and the thought reached Hamm faster than the words.

I fell in love with you and (I hope) you with me, and I worry it’s fragile, breakable. Move house. There will be others there. Priory. Break the spell./That creeping sense of alteration. Some mirror shattering. Some distant echo.

He knelt in front of him, carefully keeping his hold on the hand Hamm had placed on his arm, but using his other hand to steady himself as he lowered himself on the floor. The stone floor was warm. He reached forward some more, and when he was in the right position, he put his hand forward on Hamm’s knee, resting it there.

This thought was for Hamm.

We won’t break. We’re not that fragile.

Two-sided emotions; the push and the pull.

[+Grendel Hammerschmidt]

While the other talked, talked and touched and thought, Hamm closed his eyes.

It was always easier that way, to more clearly hear someone’s thoughts, and the feelings that went along with it. Someone like Percy, whom he had buried and burrowed into, who’s heart was already his and open, and the only one to whom Hamm’s was open as well. It was easier with skin contact, lidded eyes and a murmur, no matter what the situation. He’d found this to be true with time.

He’d never admit it aloud, but felt Percy already knew, sometimes Hamm experimented with his lover as well. Would sometimes spark a small tiff, a mini battle where they would sleep alone to see how that felt after time. Would sometimes tease, try to connect further and pull away. Would test his limits with Percy’s mind and lay there in bed or in this chair, exploring and pushing and prodding and seeing where it got him. And it had gotten him here, an underground room and a connection he was shutting his eyes for.

You’re worried for us? His head, closed eyes, followed Percy as he moved. He thought, it’s almost as good as seeing, to feel the thoughts as they move closer to him and rest a hand upon his knee.

(Would it have been the same if he moved a different way?

left instead of right

And had never met this one. And had found this cavern on his own and had made it his own and had been here alone in his corner waiting until he was the last one on the board.)

He laughed. What a fun thought it was: one little black chess piece on the very end of the board. We’re not fragile. Never been fragile. Always have been– what? (Laying in bed near the other and pushing as hard as he could, starting fights just to see–breaking? Breaking wasn’t an option. Hamm would fucking thread as fast as he could, sew them and mend them, if it ever got too close.)

Moving his hand to the side of the other’s head, threading through the hair and pushing it aside, Hamm pressed his lips to Percy’s forehead. We'll be safe there too. “Just don’t get too jealous when all the stupid, pretty American boys flirt with me.” And then leaned back, smirking and looking haughty.

He exaggerated a yawn.

“We can plan tomorrow then. I can get us in, I know how.” Nothing can stop me.

(He believed it.)

[+Percival Harris]

That

the words spoken
the sentiments thought

brought a smile.

"You're assuming you're going to be more popular," he teased back, trying to lighten the mood.

He was still tender, his smile so sweet, but his words had a hint of wariness. "This plan of yours won't hurt anyone? I mean, I know vampires are fair game, but -," Percy gives a wry grin at that part. One day there won't be a difference between the world they walk and the world they dream. But he worry at the casualties. Worry of the means to the end. And he can't always be the angel that will sit, smiling softly, and wait for the next move.

He doesn't dwell on this fact a lot but he worry about the black and the white. Of the lines drawn between good and evil. Hamm was not entirely a snake oil salesman, but about some things, (Percy thought, with a bit of regret) he is.

The fire crackled in the hearth, and a piece of burning wood broke in two, sending bright specks of flares towards them. Percy wondered about omens.

[+Grendel Hammerschmidt]

He needn’t worry.

Or he need worry, need worry a lot at the glimmer or look of pure disappointment in Hamm’s eye when he comes back and there’s blood on his face and his hands.

He needn’t worry about Hamm’s plans and ideas to get them in. He needn’t worry that Hamm’s ideas were not always, if ever, very safe for anyone but the two of them. All that mattered was the two of them, right? Percy would understand that in the end, anything done would be done for the greater good. Anyone who died would be dying so that the two of them can move up and move forward in order to seize the world and make it that much better. Everyone was fair game at this point, look at what we stand to gain or lose if we don’t do our very best.

About to promise this, his fingers already roaming Percy’s face, he stopped and drew away when a spark touched his arm. Shifting on the chair, Hamm pushed himself off the side and landed with a deep sigh. Don’t worry, was all he promised.

Grendel Hammerschmidt does not believe in omens.

Especially if they’re posed against him.

Don’t worry, is the repeated mantra, but Hamm stays silent as he bends to pick up the book on Northern Michigan he’s dropped to the ground. He started to search, looking for the page he’d left off on, the one he’d found that marked the short yet strange history of Charlemont and the idea that caught his eye.

always the glimmer in your eye when you see

“What do you think of carnivals, Perce?” he finally asks, waving off his lover’s wariness with his own boyish excitement.

[+Percival Harris]

"Love them," Percy replied. And then, "Are you okay?"

It would be easy to follow Hamm's line of thought, to find out what he has cooked up. No doubt it wouldn't be about some silly dates - it never was. It would be about Charlemont. About their desire to gain what strange magic that kept the small, seemingly inconsequential town so safe for every vampire that stayed within its borders. But there was, after all, more important things in life than secrets and power.

The fire crackled again, and Percy turned to it with a frown. He doesn't mind the fire, not really. In his chosen field, it was sort of normal for him to get burned. But he thought of Hamm, not him. "Where's that blasted screen..." he muttered.

[+Grendel Hammerschmidt]

Quickly, he reached out and held Percy by the sleeve.

He thought fast. And it would all go to Percy in images, better than he could ever speak, though his ego wouldn’t let him admit it. One with his vocabulary shouldn’t rely on images so much, but with Percy there were always images. Sometimes without meaning them, flashes of past present and future, of fantasies. This time, of a flier and the words highlighted in his mind of Charlemont, Michigan, USA. Of a child with long blonde hair clinging to a woman who could have been Hamm’s twin sister. Vampires and dances.

He‘d accidentally set that nice little bit of his childhood into the main message of: they’re going to Charlemont. Percy knew of the Fair, Hamm wouldn’t believe he didn’t. Halfway through the flicker of images, half he wasn‘t trying to share, Hamm stopped.

“Nothing to worry about,” he said late, nonchalantly. “Anxious, maybe. Are you okay?”

Riding a horse, his mother holding him up while he pouted and scowled. Ferris wheels that screeched in pain. Tarot cards on her lap.

That wasn't the move he'd meant to make.

It was more embarrassing than anything, really.

[+Percival Harris]

The answer was quick, and one Percy couldn't have been able to mask, though he wanted to.

The answer was no.

"I worry." He lowered his eyes, tried to think better, happier thoughts. But it doesn't come and now Percy felt he must used words, spoken words, to make it right again.

"Remember when I said before - when I read somewhere that we make our choices and we live with them?" He was trying to remember as carefully as he could, drawing from just his memories and not Hamm's, not wanting to be influenced, "And in the end, we are those choices? I want -," he paused, as he thought of what to say.

Hamm's hand was covered with Percy's own. Power and temptation, he thought, and the words reached Hamm: power and temptation, and he was holding it just as it held him.

-by the sleeve

-by the heart

"- know what? Doesn't matter. You're right." You are. It's good. He pulled his hand away to run it in his hair. He summoned a smile. "I want to be a roustabout. I think I can pull that off."

[+Grendel Hammerschmidt]

It wasn’t a move he liked.

A frown took him for a moment. Hamm was struck with worry, and his heart ached for Percy to be in this as much as he was. Words, once said, were hard to forget, and the pull of his lover’s mind wasn’t something he would resist. Doesn’t matter, but that was hard to believe. Not with the way Percy always wore his heart on his sleeve. It worried Hamm, and for a moment he stared at Percy, waiting for some foul truth. Silly, he told himself, I love you, he reaffirmed, and you love me, no room for question.

One day, a series of movements would place them a chessboard apart. And Hamm didn’t know what to think about how that may happen, though it hurt his heart--head--to worry so much. Life was more than black and white, after all.

He nodded.

He pulled his hands to his lap and nodded. Summoned a smile and hid it when he leaned up to place a kiss on Percy’s cheek. Moving to stand from his seat and slide away, he said, “We should start preparing.”

A moment, and smirking he added, “What about me?” A fool?

No, never a fool.

[+Percival Harris]

It's a relief to go back to talking like normal people.

He smiled at the thoughts that came to him, but his smile was distant. Hamm hadn't really needed to spell it out for him. Percy loves Hamm desperately and wildly and passionately. There was a time in his life when he wished he didn't, but that time has passed.

Shaking his head, Percy answered the question, but not the joke. He tells a joke of his own instead. "Why don't you tell fortunes? Be the pessimistic one who give nothing but bad futures? Anyway, let's prepare tomorrow? I didn't realize I was this tired. Let's have an early night."

[+Grendel Hammerschmidt]

He sighs, and it’s neither bad nor good but normal and in-between.

(Sometimes it’s hard for Hamm to decipher between his mind and Percy’s mind. Where one starts and the other ends. Sometimes its frustrating, but sometimes delightful, because he likes this, he likes feeling like this, and he always hopes and believes Percy likes it too. He always worries that Percy will tire of him, and tries not to think if he shows signs of that Hamm will choose to tire first. It feels wrong. Sometimes he can’t tell if its him getting frustrated or the other one. Whether it’s a good frustration or a bad. All he knows is that he needs him.)

“Go without me. I’ll meet you there.” Twisting away from Percy, he moves to pick up the book he let drop. It’s carefully inspected, for any wrinkled page or break in the spine. “I’d like to look at this Charlemont a bit more.”