Ichor And Steel

Chapter Twenty; An ichor's ardour

ʙᴀʀᴋ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ, ꜱʟᴏᴘᴘʏ ᴊᴀɴᴇ

Mature/NSFW content ;).

A feast! According to Lady Dimitrescu, a decade and a quarter had passed without such a delight and, in its honourable return, an artistry of wedges and slabs of stringy-textured meat, golden chalices brinked with blood wine that stained your tongue like sour blueberries, and lavish cutlery was arranged along with a table-long crimson cloth. Golden leaves withered out of vases and three hefty chandeliers with flambeaus in its black tarnished metal clutches swung over their heads. Inhaling the alcoholic syrups, the three Dimitrescu sisters veered into their swarm-forms and made the overhanging decors swivel, their rusted chains groaning and tugging at the ceiling. Their mother made no attempt in stopping them, acknowledging Mother Miranda's amusement since, after all, the feast was only devised for her pleasure.

Ethan originally found hesitance in the indulgence of a celebration held to laugh at the death of operatives just attempting to do their jobs. But it wasn't them they ate...oddly enough; he thinks it was cow despite the morsel tastings he had. The evening's progression bore a loud talkative nature and soon hysterical screeching of laughter and anger and yelling, Ethan suddenly finding himself in a more sober moment a prime contributor. He conversed nonsense with Moreau and jeered at Dimitrescu who appeared unoffended and instead entertained by this puny blond's ramblings. Heisenberg watched him meticulously across the narrow table, coolly leaned back and chin on his knuckle, the other hand expertly twiddling a knife suspended in mid-air.

"Karl, dear, don't play with your cutlery," Dimitrescu hissed, her chair positioned higher than even Miranda's so her bosom wouldn't squash the table and her high-piled plate of food. "Use your manners—"

TWANG!

The butterknife punctured the evening chatter, pricking into the fine, silken veil of Bela. Her eyes struck wide, but the sickening thrill of menace inspired a giggle, and she ripped the knife free, holding the blade's tip delicately. Dimitrescu resigned to silence as Mother Miranda commended Heisenberg's fondness for his uncle role. He only grinned in return, loosening the collar of his tunic, but his eyes remained lingering on Ethan. The blond cowered into his seat before whispering politely for Donna to pass the jug of blood-wine.

"Ethan, that's your fourth—"

"I can handle my alcohol, Donna," he rasped, the sharper note in his tone heard by the entire table but was answered with smirks.

Donna did as he had asked before excusing herself for the evening. Angie wasn't as enthused to leave but, upon the doll-maker's departure, the feast's festivities dwindled, and the family unsteadily dispersed under shadows and into the dim snowy landscape. The weather abated and allowed an easy traverse to the factory, smog and smoke billowing against the daybreak; alas, their morning seemed years away. When dull sunlight shivered over peaks of snow mounds, pink crystals caught alight and roiled beneath their staggered steps, contending the glistening grip of ice and their knees found relief from the aches when they reached the frontmost hanger-area. It was there the final hours of night spiralled.

Ethan's arms roped around Heisenberg's dense neck and his coarse fingers instinctively draped over his waist, keeping him from puddling on the floor. Chin propped on his friend's chest, Ethan asked, "Kar, I'm confused."

Aren't we both?

He frowned and reeled Ethan into a bridal carry, an urgent regret pounding in his subconsciousness as he wasn't too steady himself. To ensure somewhat of a balance, Heisenberg grounded himself from the thick cloudy haze in his head by gently clutching Ethan.