Fussy At Midnight
Written by Rem
It’s around midnight when your eyes start to burn. Your blocks aren’t nearly as fun as before, the French books Papa got you are too difficult and your tummy is starting to hurt. Everything is simply terrible and awful. For the past hour your had been playing neatly with your blocks, just like Papa likes. You’ve been quiet as a mouse, stacking and building a tower for your dollies to live in. It’s crooked and wrong so you hit it, causing the blocks to clatter to the floor, breaking the silence of Sebastian’s office. That’s when the leather of his chair creaks as he shifts. Papers he had been reading through are placed on his desk and he turns to look at you. He doesn’t need to speak for you to feel his icy gaze on your already cold skin. The heat of the fireplace does little to warm your undead body.
“I thought we agreed that you’ll be quiet while I work. Well behaved children are seen, not heard, remember, mon petit?” his tone is about warm as his gaze. Your Papa was nothing, if not practical. Instead of meeting his eyes, you glare at the collapsed block tower and fiddle with the hem of your shirt.
“The blocks are stupid, Papa. I don’t wanna play with them anymore,” if Sebastian was still alive he might have sighed. Instead he rises from his chair, the click of his shoes against the polished floor makes you shrink into yourself. Still you refuse to meet his gaze. For a moment the only sound in the room is the gentle crackling of the fireplace as Sebastian looms over you. His gaze is heavy on your form, like a physical weight. Finally he scoops you up, making you squeak and wrap your arms around his neck as he adjusts you in his grip. You press your face into his shoulder, trying to hide from him.
“You are tired and hungry,” his voice is a quiet murmur as he starts to make his way towards the kitchen. His steps echo through the hallways of the penthouse, the only sound he actually makes. There’s no soothing heartbeat, no familiar breathing pattern. Just cold, silence and click-clack of his expensive shoes.
“’M’not tired,” you pout into his shoulder, moving your face so you can at least somewhat see where you’re going. Unlike Sebastian, you still try to breathe even though there’s no need for it.
“Yet you’re insufferable. Making too much noise and talking back,” the words lack their usual bite. It’s not the way he speaks to the other fledgling that sometimes visits his penthouse. Once in the kitchen he sets you down on the counter, making sure you’re fully on it before taking one of the wine bottles from the fridge. You weren’t allowed to feed from humans directly.
“Only the best for my childe. Blood from healthiest donors,” the bottle is opened with practiced flourish and he pours some of the blood into a sippy cup. Not necessarily your first choice of container, but last time you refused had ended less than ideally. Sebastian would never let you go into a frenzy, but it had been very close.
When he offers you the cup you already know your line: “Thank you, Papa,” if nothing else, he is right. The blood is sweet and refreshing. Like eating candied flowers with bit of honey on. Nothing like the foods you used to eat as human. Each sip is like nectar that fills you up.
Sebastian scoops you up again, making sure you don’t drop your cup as the two of you head to your room. It had once been a guest room, but now it was your nursery. Heavy curtains and specially made glass to block out the sun. Even your canopy bed had thick fabric draped around it to ensure you would stay hidden from the world. The pastels of your room stood out in Sebastian’s otherwise pristine penthouse. Every other room was either white marble or dark wood, but your nursery looked like it had come out of a nursery magazine. He settles you onto the velvet covers with all the care of a man with something fragile and priceless in his hands. Your sippy cup is almost completely empty when his gloved hand smooths over your hair. He repeats the action until your eyelids start to droop and your cup is empty.
“Enough of this. It’s your nap time,” he murmurs, tucking the blanket around your shoulders. “Sleep. When you wake, you will be better behaved.”
You try to grumble something back, but it’s hard to focus when your belly is full and your eyes keep closing even when you try to keep them open. Small part of you swears his lip seems to twitch into something that resembles a smile. He pays you no mind as he continues to smooth over your hair, and it’s harder to fight against the pull of sleep.
“You’re always causing me trouble, mon petit… Papa is supposed to be working,” his words are so soft you almost miss them, or maybe it’s the sleep that’s taking over your mind.
“Not trouble,” it’s effort to speak and your words are a mumbled mess. They bleed into each other and your eyes refuse to open anymore. You take a deep breathe out of habit as you settle in more comfortably amongst your pillows.
“Sleep. Papa will wake you when it’s time to study,” you don’t hear the last of his sentence or feel him press his cold lips against your forehead. He straightens again, letting the mask of authority slip back into it’s place. There was work to do if he wanted to ensure your un-life was as long as possible. The last sounds heard in your room are his quiet steps and the door locking as he leaves. Nothing would touch you in his kingdom. He’d make sure of that.