am i the sinner or the saint

[idesof]

WHO: Doctor Frederick Chilton & ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀ
WHERE: The Hotel Castile
WHEN: Mid-May
WHAT: March seduces a lonesome Chilton over with the ideas of companionship and pampering; Chilton is not yet aware that March's ideas of both those involve a whole lot of bloody, murderous nightmare fuel. Whoopsie daisies.
WARNINGS: It's definitely gonna get a bit messy in the usual ways of their respective canons.



Everything is perfect. It had be. March has spent the last two hours worrying his staff damn near to the bone.

The room is right across from March's own, and since this morning has gone through so much. Carpets were steam-cleaned, the tile was scrubbed, every nook and cranny quite literally turned inside and out to make sure not a single speck of unwanted dust could be found. Bedding was stripped and changed, brand new, high quality thread count. Like sleeping in a bed of fluffy silk, the comforter black with gold trim, pillowcases gold with black trim. The towels match, everything in various shades of gold, black, and white. The stocked minibar, the television stand, even the scattered candles, bowls of fruit (mostly apples and grapes), and the large plate containing a medley of mints and chocolates all match the theme. Several of them are so polished they're reflective, even if the image shown back is somewhat warped. None of the other rooms look like it. Kinda the point.

March fits himself in a fine suit, just a step under the tuxedo, the cravat he wears a deep, endless plum. He stands behind the front desk with a short, dark-haired woman who pulls off the red flapper get up quite well. She notices Chilton's arrival first, March engrossed in some paperwork, and elbows her boss in the side. Hard. Hard enough he makes a noise, touches it, and looks at her like she's lost her damn mind — until she tilts her chin forward and he sees his pal, that is.

March lights up like Christmas morning. Like he's just found Frederick Chilton beneath his tree and none of his other presents matter.

"Frederick!"

He's practically bursting at the seams. He'd spoken a bit about being lonely, and he has been, but this...this is something more. This is the sort of effusive delight shown to old friends that have not been seen in ages, or great friends who have not been seen in weeks, or folks desired to be close friends. Any bags Chilton may have with him are quickly seen to by that same ol' shit of a bellhop, though he doesn't say a word this time outside of line. Rare, but March is coming around the front desk with his hand extended for a shake, a greeting from the owner himself. How fancy.

"So wonderful to see you! I trust the trip over wasn't too taxing."

Leave that for the trip back. If March has any say in matters, his new bestie might not stumble back out those doors for another five days.

Comments

[slightlyoffchilt]

"No, not taxing whatsoever," said Chilton, polite bemusement carved into the corners of his mouth, his eyes. March's exuberance could prove to be uplifting, but it was just as easily overwhelming; Chilton felt he needed a moment to breathe a second wind before continuing. He used that moment to spare a glance to the bellhop, having remembered the man from March's address to the Network just the day before. A terse head nod, a strained smile.

His eyes were then dedicated again to March.

"Good to see you, James. Hope I have not interrupted...?"

Chilton's gaze drifted upon the paperwork on top the front desk. None could question March's industry, the man always seemed to hum with an endless electrical energy. It was almost paranormal, at times. Chilton's own energy, at least in this moment, was muted by comparison. While his pristine posture had not suffered, there was a hollowness to his stance -- the lifeblood in his gait had faded, sickened. Chilton carried a gauntness about him, the stretch of loneliness already carving into his flesh.

He maintained that polite smile.

[idesof]

"Not at all, not at all! Double-checking and triple-checking, you know, the humdrum part of running a hotel you certainly don't want to listen to me yammer on and on about."

March's energy kept up. He turned at Chilton's side, taking the lead by way of walking together. Like equals. His smile, the bounce in his step, all remained practically palpable. Something in his eyes, though, seemed to deaden a bit as he took in Chilton's full appearance. Concern overrode eagerness. March lifted a hand to Chilton's shoulder, a quick squeeze turned into a perch.

"I know a masseur who owes me a favor. I'd never been much for massage alive, and it hardly does a thing for me now. Say the word if you're interested, dear, and I'll have him come 'round."

Some people ask if others are okay. Some outright state they look a little under the weather. March figured Chilton a man who appreciated the finer things in life, such as the entire concept and process of a massage, and so he opted for offering all the finer things at his disposal. He's helping.

[slightlyoffchilt]

He found the pampering flattering. What began as a slight, bashful smile transformed into wide-grinned eagerness -- why of course he would love that, what a delightful idea! Always thinking of others, wasn't he?

James possessed an uncanny way of reading people, thought Chilton as he strode alongside, and that seemed to be exactly what he needed right now.

"You are undeniably hospitable." Something of a lazy pun, a forked tongue between hospital and hostel. It was the idea of the housing that had Chilton mirrored to March: they were both lords of their own respective castles. This was the sort of control that could lead to mutual respect, the reflective of their own domains within each other.

His eyes were on the walls, observing in admiration of the controlled color choices, the grooves of architecture.

"Will you be joining?"

[idesof]

Lazy pun or not, March smiled as though Chilton had just told him he was the best buddy a buddy could ask for. He squeezed again, breaking away only to push the elevator button. An old school set of doors closed first, then a pair that seemed to be made of glass — everything altogether about appearance, and capable of warping images. A short ride, but hell if he was about to make Frederick Chilton walk up the stairs.

His new project. A potential pupil. A man who could be truly equal but was holding himself back.

"I will if that is what you want," he said, his face more sunken than usual in one of the closest reflections. "Though I must warn you."

He leaned in, lips curved up, his smile one of passing the pipe, the wine, the knife, the pleasure.

"I have more than a few scars. Nothing that needs discussing."

Or so March felt, drew that line in the sand. He was beyond help and knew it, reveled in it, move along.

[slightlyoffchilt]

"Do you, now?" Chilton asked with the poise of curiosity on his tongue -- and yet, in truth, he only projected himself upon March. He, too, had more than a few scars. He, too, would prefer not to inflict those scars beneath the microscope of a prying mind.

But the sudden bout of empathy couldn't straggle his inquisitive habit for very long. His eyes glided over March's perfectly clothed form, his prying mind wondering. What sort of brutalities had a pleasant man like March tussled with, to earn these scars?

He looked forward again, at the interior elevator doors. He looked at his own reflection in that warped glass -- green eyes, high cheekbones, curled horns protruding from his forehead, a crisp tie. Chilton jolted back, blinking feverishly, staring still at the image he swore he saw, but could no longer conjure.

Ding.

Their floor.

[idesof]

March noticed Chilton's little moment, and carefully to paid it no attention. He didn't react, didn't ask questions, nothing. As though not only had Chilton been seeing things, he'd also been imagining reactions that had never escaped his mind. Wouldn't do to be heavy handed or soft handed, but both in equal measure. Really go for the gold.

"Ah, here we are!"

March led the way — any visible signs, any paled face or wide eyes or other shows of fright, were also ignored when March turned to gesture to the hall itself. He walked backwards, smiling. A dark, hooded figure at the corner of the hall vanished swiftly, the moment Chilton noticed its existence. Easily written off as an odd shadow not being very friendly with the corners of his eyes. A blink would reveal nothing more. Except March pulling a special key with his initials engraved on it to place in Chilton's hand like it was something worthy.

"This will get you into your room, the kitchens, and my office." He smiled, patting Chilton's hand with both of his. "Never be afraid to use it. We've so much liquor, and even more chocolate-covered fruits."

[slightlyoffchilt]

Chilton blinked -- it was nothing, gone. A trick of the light. Nevertheless, Chilton's pulse quickened, and he swallowed. Tension pinched at his muscles as he followed March along this walk. The key was in his palm, his mind whirled back to reality, recalibrating, spinning with the fervor of a barrel in rotation.

"Ah -- thank you."

Fingers closed around the key, and March's hands patted his own.

"Deeply considerate of you, James." Chilton still felt dazed, unsettled, as if his body was swaying even as he stood motionless. It was because of Raina's absence, he determined. His disjointed sensation was due to missing her, feeling the wake of silence she had left upon exportation. She would be back, he believed she would be, but in the meanwhile he had to endure that familiar loneliness.

Chilton pressed the key into the lock, opening the door. He looked back at March, almost imploring permission.

[idesof]

March nodded, smiling, giving that permission with his usual grace and ease. He didn't wait to enter, though. After Chilton made use of his key and stepped inside, March followed...through the wall next to him, moving forward to point as he spoke. Their friendly bellhop made quick work of some wine bottles in an iced bucket before he tipped his hat to Chilton, eyes flashing a shade darker than they've ever been, and walked out.

"Everything's fresh and should be in order, no need to worry. I've seen these, ah, shows? Fascinating lights reveal all sorts of fluids here there and everywhere. We've been rather diligent since, but this room is...special."

Right across from the darkest room in the whole hotel. Oh yes. Special was one word for it. Special never meant good, though, did it?

"Color scheme is all yours. I felt you were a perfect match."

Black and gold. Power and powerlessness, fear and control, in equal measure — all that mattered was perspective.

[slightlyoffchilt]

"Gorgeous. It is simply gorgeous." Chilton's eyes weren't on the friendly-turned-fiendish bellhop, they weren't following the chilled wine, they instead scoured the room with widening appreciation. Elegant, poised, special. James had truly come through as a friend, gifting Chilton with such a luxurious reprieve.

He didn't notice how the shadows flowed and ebbed in the corners of the room.

"What -- or who? -- are your architectural inspirations?" Chilton found the wine, at last, a glass already poured for him. A natural fit, the wineglass to his fingers. "I must know the secret to your good taste."

The molding of the room, etched in gold, was of a particularly cunning design; Chilton had to take a step closer to the nearest wall, his chin angled upwards, to better determine the ambiguous pattern. It almost seemed to shift depending how the light refracted: coronation roses to writhing masculine bodies, woven ivy to a collection of bones.

So different, really unheard of. He blinked, taking a long sip of wine.

[idesof]

What a pal, that James March. He practically beamed at Chilton's reaction, going so far as to stand up a bit on tiptoe. A childish delight rippled through him, impossible to deny as quite boyish, almost even infectious. Perhaps he kept the mustache so people wouldn't confuse him for a teenager and deny him the finer things in life.

"I've been called an art deco freak. There was a time it was all I wanted to see, to draw, to talk about. Everything had to be art deco! The style moderne." March's enthusiasm manifested in his step, in the way he moved his hands about, in his eyes as he stopped to look at a particularly intricate pattern. "Lalique's glass inspired both fear and awe, Jean Dunand saw into my soul, William Van Alen challenged me to reach higher, I wanted to worship Gerda Wegener until neither of us could stand."

TMI? The way he cut his eyes to the side, lips pressed together, gave off the impression he knew such could be considered a bit much and, therefore, would say no more on the matter. Better to snatch some wine for himself.

"After all that study, my ultimate inspiration could only be death itself. Embracing death, and risk, that's a refusal of fear and boundaries and those two things will certainly be the end of any artist if they let it. So I looked to the Aztecs. You know about their ceremonies, don't you?"

[slightlyoffchilt]

"Passionate," he said. Chilton had raised both eyebrows at some of the vivid rhetoric that March indulged -- but it was so understandable, March was a connoisseur. Of course his language would spurn intimate connotation. And Chilton had literally invited him to wax poetic, now didn't he?

"You are an inspiration to us all, James."

But the schools of names aside, March had reserved the most titillating tidbits for last -- death itself, as he had said. It was normal enough for Chilton, who was born into a world of darkness, and those once-raised eyebrows found a middling ground.

"Familiar only with the general ideal of sacrificial ritual," he admitted. "Something about raw hearts consumed -- can't say I'm a scholar of the subject, of course."

[idesof]

An inspiration, well he never. If the cycle of flattery between the two of them never ends, March will be totally fine with it. But that will, eventually, it has to. There has to be that fear and pain before the break, before the true becoming.

There has to be sacrifice for bonds to strengthen.

"Yes. The Aztecs had an obsession with sacrifice! Sacrifice of all creatures and things, not simply humans. Hearts were considered a part of the sun. And so to sacrifice a human properly, one offered the sun back to itself." March lifted a hand to help, and looked absolutely incapable of pulling out a human heart as he did so. The gesture was dramatic but only that; pretense, not true commitment. Not this time. "Every fifty-two years, they had a great sacrifice to keep the world from ending. They offered foods, flowers, gold, rubber, even creatures like butterflies and hummingbirds so their gods could remain strong, and use their strength to keep the world going. Cannibalism was involved in some rituals, yes, and it was all very acceptable. They had beliefs, you see, and they were dedicated. As a young man, I didn't see much of that in the world around me. The Aztecs were a brutal people I could at least admire in their fortitude."

He's just a guy who used a terrifying culture of times past as an escape from a terrifying culture of the present, for sure there is nothing telling past that. Nope. Leave him be.

[slightlyoffchilt]

Cannibalism. Chilton stiffened at the reference, its context hanging around his neck like a fraying noose. Human consumption -- it would haunt him, Hannibal had marked him so many times now in both physical and psychological ways. Cannibalism was the shorthand of his travesty. Chilton closed his eyes for a moment, the briefest moment, and took a deep breath.

When he opened his eyes, he saw blood. Dripping from the ceiling, thick and newly torn, sloppy with fleshy splashes upon the floor. The stench of rot and copper bludgeoned his nose. Chilton jumped, his skeleton electrified, his thighs ready to run -- but another look, and there was nothing. No dark scarlet, no oozing smell, no stains down the wall. Heart pounding, Chilton looked at March. Quickly looked away.

Nothing. There was nothing.

"I -- The Aztecs, yes."

He was sweating.

"What year would this be, as according to them?" A joke, a desperate attempt to collect himself. "I hope for something short of fifty-two."

[idesof]

"I should hope so as well," March played along with a chuckle. "I'd have to do some research to answer your question."

March set his wine to the side and moved forward, placing the back of one hand against Chilton's forehead. His face bore the restrained concern generally seen on parents worried about little fevers. Worried, but with enough tact not to worry the other party. So was James Patrick March, even after withdrawing his hand.

"You're a bit warm. Reasonably so. Losing a love is a shock to the very soul. Burns the marrow of your bones icy hot." Something he related to on a deeply personal level whether he wants to or not, judging by that tone. By that smile. "A soak and peaceful night of sleep might be just the trick, hm? We can have breakfast together in the morning if you'd like."

Toeing the line of wanting to stay but realizing that Chilton may not need that. Not right now. March balances perfectly there, a healthy mix of wanting to comfort but knowing sometimes the best comfort comes after isolated rest and relaxation, and yet also open to Chilton saying no as much as he is to yes.

[slightlyoffchilt]

He nodded. There was no resistance established against March's hand, no darting away -- Chilton stood at attention, although his gaze was fuzzy. Unfocused. Nodding numbly.

He couldn't know what horrors would trail him the rest of this month, how gore lurked in the corners of March's hotel. All Chilton had in mind right now was how James Patrick March was his rock to cling onto amidst these treacherous sea storms, how March was going to take care of him come morning.

Chilton couldn't have known what such care would continue to entail.