Chapter Text
The golden tint of candle-light is Orpheus’ favorite color.
It’s strange almost, how a little flame could emulate so many things whilst being so insignificant. The leaves in autumn; the evening sun; the pages in a fresh book - its color is so precious, yet he could snuff it out at any moment, and deny its existence until it's needed again.
When he lights the wick - allowing its existence again - it is used to deter the darkness before him as he climbs down the ladder. The light blooms as it reveals more of the space around him, and blossoms fully when he finally gets down.
The stone floor is dry and crumbing, leaving fine dust on the floor - an irritable allergen if Orpheus was occupied with keeping this place clean. He considers it briefly every time he comes down here, but when the candle-light reflects off of the copious glass bottles - all placed in chaotic harmony - he realizes he can’t have it any other way.
It all made sense like this. He knew where the belladonna roots were, the laboratory rats, the flasks of mercury and the anesthetics - he’s committed the chaos to memory whilst it still fails and falls into the fog.
It will all be worth it, he likes to think.
He places his notebook on the wooden table, where his latest project was brewing while he was gone. Even as it boils, the liquid stays flat - and the smoke that spews out of the cork flashes him back to times of joy. Brief glimpses of sunny days and smiles; only teeming in comparison to the utter flatness of his expressions - how he feels awfully cold most of the time, and how his heart doesn’t beat as fast as it should. His living soul takes up whatever void exists inside of him, but even then he feels starkingly empty.
The smoke fogs his monocle and he is reminded of these walls again. He doesn’t remember putting the candle in a candelabra, now that he feels it in his hands. Was it so old that he doesn’t even register that it’s here, but more of an extension to the candle itself? This ancient gift - a wedding gift ( god, not like it mattered ), he thinks - was made completely of iron, and traced with intricate patterns. Twists and curves that were incredibly enthralling, yet forgettable at the same time.
It was obvious this was made to be an expensive gift, not a good one.
Candles aligning his walls sit patiently as Orpheus tries to utilize his muscle memory to remember their locations. His gentle touch to their wicks adds that same golden yellow to his world, and reveals the shadow-laden space under that gaze of its sun.
The faint breaths that accompany the space serve more as a greeting than noise. It wasn’t expected that anyone would formally greet him down here, unless someone else were to figure out the existence of this place. Anyone not permitted, particularly.
And, well, he is adept at denying people certain things - to put it simply. Whether it be his own accord, or not.
But he is more concerned about the corner of the room, excusing the glass bottles, the plants and insects, and animals. The little cot with the sunken-in bed that laid flush to the floor. Blonde locks of hair stick out from the bed sheets as their host sleeps peacefully, under the bedsheets - shielding herself from the terrible draft from the walls.
Orpheus can’t help but smile, as odd as it feels on his face. It comes naturally when it comes to her; so small, vulnerable, and susceptible to the world, yet he knows no one would even look in her direction if she were in danger. Turning a blind eye to the weakest seems to be a part of human nature, and if not, being a bystander most definitely. It makes him hesitant. He pauses briefly when they go to the park together: buying treats and pastries for her, to spot what peering eyes would want to hurt her - and how he would hurt them first.
Even now, as he wakes her to prepare her for school, he is still looking.
( lovely paranoia )
“Alice…,” His voice is soft and velvety; love and honey dipped in the milk of his tone, “Wake up. It’s time for school.”
She is still asleep as she tosses and turns, grunting with apprehension.
Orpheus’ grin grows slightly wider, amused. It strains against his lips - finding its place.
“You don’t want to be late today. Ms. Woods has already scolded me about your latenesses - she’ll scold you too.”
That earns a yawn from the young girl, and a rub of her eyelids. Her bed covers are discarded to her side as she slowly sits herself up, in a sleepy daze.
“Good morning, ” she yawns, “Orpheus.”
“Good morning, Alice.”
She hops off the bed, toeing her slippers on and grabbing her stuffed toy.
( he tries not to look at it )
“I washed your clothing last night. They should be in the bathroom.” Orpheus sits at his table, thumbing through his notebook for the relevant notes.
“Thank you.” She smiles, doll under her arm and pajamas wrinkled beyond belief. She makes her way up the ladder, and climbs her way up.
“And breakfast is in the kitchen! I’ll be up there shortly.” He raises his voice to make up for the distance between them, but it falls mostly flat, as he is entranced in his work again.
He trusts that Alice will tell him when to leave.
He adjusts his monocle to make out the smaller notes he made in the margins; Interesting Reactions, Forgettable Hazards, Miscellaneous Ideas for New Concoctions… until he finds what he needs, just under the header: Current Fixations
Invocation of Memories, and The Like.
He looks down the incomplete ingredient list, and sees what he’s already tried:
-Rat Tails
-Galantamine
-Etomidate
-Ferns
-Roots of Altissima
-Various ‘Off-the-Counter’ medications prescribed for amnesia
He places his head in his hands and sighs. It seems that he’s already exhausted everything that made sense in theory. He had made progress, though that progress seems to have stopped.
He is very meticulous when it comes to his research, and becoming the type of soul to keep track of every molecule and every splice of DNA in every elixir and nothing else suits someone more… stable.
And he doesn’t remember being stable. He doesn’t think that the various medical professionals that had a say in his ‘state’ were all wrong.
He turned the knob for the heat down - the plume of smoke billowing from the flask simmering down from its contained rage. He coughs, and his vision whites out for a second before coming back, spotted. He rubs his eyes, and then they are gone.
Annoying.
His hands are like icicles to the warmth of the glass flask, but evens out quickly. It felt like the touch of another; skin against skin that wasn’t cold and grainy and a complete figment of his imagination to which he would remember that there would be no ‘other’ to touch him ever again. There would be one 'other' now, and she was upstairs eating. A glaring reality to his lovely curse - a lonely bird in an empty nest.
His standard procedure would be to check for the proper first-aid supplies before interacting with any fluids; a fine rule for anyone studying potentially dangerous chemicals with no discernable effects. It doesn’t need to be thorough, per se, though the reassurance of proper remedies reduces the reluctance of researching said chemical; and with the research Orpheus does, ‘reluctance’ is less than desirable.
So, he brings the flask under his nose, and breathes in - reluctance to the wind.
He hacks out nothing, and his hands start shaking. They grip onto the flask with flippant will, and then the dread starts sinking in.
Side effect.
Shadows out of the corners of his eyes stand tall, and the void that surrounds him stands even taller. His eyes water from the pungent smell, but the sudden fear that grips him are responsible for a few too.
Side effect.
The shadows, he observed, are like puppets. They do not attack him, nor do they even interact with them, but rather play out whatever fairytale his mind makes up. He sees a few reoccurring ones; the one with the claws, the one with the fountain pen, the raven, the scaled one, the little girl that looked awfully like-
And then it is gone. Like it was never there.
Side effect. All that he knew beforehand.
He sets the flask down as a wave of pain rolls through his head. He forgets, he always forgets no matter how important it is to whatever this mystery he would call ‘My Past’ is. It’s always on the tip of his tongue, just out of reach for him to grab but it’s always taken away. To the back of his mind where filthy truths are buried, and beautiful lies are erected - this is absolute bliss.
No beginning for Orpheus.
No ending for Orpheus.
He could be everything and nothing at the same time - it didn't matter. There will always be an "Orpheus".
The lonely bird is the busiest, he muses.
He places the flask back on the burner, and sets the fire low. Even though he would love nothing more than to ingest the liquid, this migraine would only muddy the results. He values accurate data just as much as new data, and taking a few minutes to collect himself won’t lose him any time.
And he has to bring Alice to school. He can’t forget about that.
He closes his notebook, and places it in his breast pocket, along with his pen. He goes along the walls and blows out every single candle present, including his own, and grabs the candelabra. It provides a heavy weight for his hand to focus on while he climbs up, even though thinking about it makes him groan with annoyance.
( was it his wedding or someone else’s? )
The light of the outside meets the top of his auburn hair, and he is warmed for just a second. Even in the storage room, the small window is directly parallel to the morning sun, and the dust-laden boxes and bottles are blessed that someone remembers their existence, if only for a while. He closes the iron hatch from the outside, and his world is akin to void now. He can forget about it for the rest of time, and he would still remain, strangely.
It makes him uncomfortable suddenly, being away from his work.
He opens the door to the main room and is met with a wooden desk, a wall lined with medicines right behind it. As always, no one is on the other side, but he doesn’t wait for someone to turn up. His work was like a well-kept secret, and the people who knew that secret can already do what he does.
He doesn’t want customers anyways. There’s a reason he hadn’t moved into town yet.
The kitchen was an extension of the storefront - a small room that was previously empty of anything kitchen-like. Orpheus could only muse about what the original purpose of this room was, if not to be completely useless.
It didn’t hold much, on Orpheus’ part. It had a few loaves of bread, a batch of eggs, a carton of milk, and a stick of butter - all stored in a makeshift cooler of his own design. He didn’t have much of an exquisite taste, and he was partially glad that Alice didn’t have one either. He wasn’t one for the finer things, if they were to exist.
Alice was sitting at the small, wooden table he bought specifically for this room, chewing thoughtfully on the toast and eggs he cooked for her. It seems she only just started eating.
He pulled out the opposite seat to her, looking at his own plate of cold, greying eggs and slightly burnt toast.
He can understand why.
Orpheus pokes through it with his fork.
“Have you figured out where you wanted to go today, after school?” The metal teeth of the utensil comb through the gilded white of the egg, “I’ve been speaking to the tailor in town, and he offered to weave a few dresses for you. I’m a bit skeptical, but…”
He trails off into silence once he realizes she wasn’t listening.
She does that sometimes, and she told him that he does too.
“Is there something the matter, dear?”
A frown better fits his face, funnily enough.
“Someone asked about you earlier, but I told them you were busy.”
His heart lodges in his throat.
No one has asked for him, let alone about him for a long time. What has he done? What did he do?
“Ah…”
His mouth goes dry.
“It seemed important. You should go.”
His eggs look inedible now, “Maybe…”
She smiles, her plate partially empty, “It sounded interesting. He even had a badge and everything - a detective, I think! Albeit...”
She gnaws thoughtfully on the last piece of her toast, brownish grains of bread on her cheeks.
Now Orpheus was confused.
“A badge? Did he question you at all?”
She shakes her head, “He seems to only want to speak to you. I don’t know why though.”
The naïveté of children is always worth protecting. Orpheus’ heart is pounding through his chest, and she could be none the wiser.
“I see…, ” He picks up their plates - his food untouched. He could see Alice’s face sour as he throws away his own breakfast, but doesn’t make the effort to comment. He washes the dishes quicker than he should, remnants of food too stubborn to budge under his light touch.
He doesn’t care to finish anyways.
“I’ll be back then.”
She knows what he means.
Alice nods as she places her doll on the table, smiling as she readjusts the various pieces of clothing on it.
“I’ll be waiting.”
He has the feeling that missing school is the least of her worries.
It was possibly that moment when she lays his hat flat on his head, his suit straightened down, his cloth-shoes tightened to his feet that he would not see something so sweet for the rest of time. That his luck has run out, and he was doomed to misfortune from now on.
But enough of his musing! He was already in front of the door, it was about the time to open it.
His hand turns the knob unconsciously, as though he ever goes out into the world in all of his willingness, and he is met with…
nothing, initially.
The anticipation of meeting his fate dims down significantly as he searches, his eyes finding something interesting to focus on.
But when he rationalizes the image of a brown trench coat just on the edge of his doorframe, he feels his heart give way.
He gasps, covering his mouth from screaming too loudly. The stranger, seemingly oblivious to his existence at all, jumps back to his center of view.
He laughs nervously, nails scratching the side of his chin.
“Ah, my apologies…”
His smile is crooked, falling to the side a bit.
Does he have no shame? Hiding away from him - scaring him, yet unaffected.
Despite his reddened skin, impossibly hot from his unfortunate reaction, he still manages to frown - not giving way to his embarrassment.
The stranger fumbles through his pockets, takes out a leather booklet - a badge fitted inside - and places it back into his pocket.
“My name is Luchino Diruse, and I am a private investigator. I assume you are Orpheus, correct?”
His tone is light, despite the current circumstances, as though he were just visiting an old friend. His smile is thin and wiry - off-putting yet welcoming at the same time.
He doesn’t let it phase him, even though he knows the sins his ever-present grin has committed. That no private investigator ever becomes a private investigator without any tricks up their sleeve.
“Indeed.”
His response is curt. There are many reasons why he could be here, but none of them answer how - how could this investigator know about him specifically, and him especially, when he could name about five people who know his name. How could this man, most likely on a bender bringing up cold cases from years past, even think to interact with him?
Who still remembers his existence, and who told him about it?
“Ah, perfect!”
( Orpheus’ sight has degraded some from experimenting, and time, but his eyes couldn’t help but pick up on the little fang peering from his top lip )
He clasps his hands together and his grin grows ever wider. His eyes close in contentment, and he hoists his side-bag to his front. He unclips the flap, and Orpheus bites his lip.
He can almost taste blood.
“Don’t be so down. I won’t hurt you.”
There is a slight curl to his tone - one that sends a shiver to his cold, cold spine.
“I will be questioning you about a few things. It won’t take more than a few minutes.”
He looks through his bag, and takes out a manila folder - pristine and thick, possibly filled with evidence. He unhooks the band, and the remains of what seems to be a letter are present between his thumb and forefinger. His touch is delicate, the charred edges still intact after his retrieval.
( his fingers are long, and thin. Its subtle curl to the knuckles and joints catches his eye, and his abnormally long nails only add to their appeal )
“Do you recognize this letter?”
The writing is small and faint, and even as Orpheus moves closer to observe the lettering, it all falls flat into the yellowish - white background.
( the back of his head ACHES )
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
The investigator frowns, yet his smile seems to stick. It almost makes Orpheus feel bad for being so placid.
“Ah, well…, ” He thumbs through the folder again, an attentive eye whilst he sifts through the documents. It takes a few pointed seconds; of which Orpheus fiddles with his cuticles, adjusts the monocle on his face - observe this ‘Luchino Diruse’ for anything he has got, yet, this amounts to nothing. The moment ends, and only Orpheus knows about it.
Luchino seems to grin unconsciously.
“Do you, perhaps, know any individuals in this photo?”
This time, he gives the item to him, and Orpheus is immediately jittery in his hands. Was it that this photo was sensitive information, and that he is afraid of tarnishing it, or that he feels a sense of deja-vu - holding it in his hands, the rough scent of ink when it was first taken, as though he was there with the half-burnt off mother and father figure, and standing right beside his sister - peeling away from the laminated film, mildly content with the moment as of now.
There are four people, presumed mother, father, daughter, and son. The mother and father stand next to each other - their children directly under them. The father has a hand around his wife’s waist, and she has a hand on her son's shoulder. Other than that, they all lay their arms to the side - straight as boards.
Their eye contact, though, is impeccable. They all stare at the camera with that same dead expression - not even sparing a smile with their sullen look.
With which their placidity bores his eyes into Orpheus, he feels a sense of kinship. A sense of familiarity to the extent that looking at this very picture any longer will cause them to reemerge at his peripherals, a flippant moment where his parents will look at him funnily, wondering why he would stare at such an inane picture.
But it’s…
It’s…
Important? He thinks it’s important. More important than anything he’s ever known.
And yet he has no knowledge of it. What was the point then, if there was no memory attached to it?
But that is Orpheus’ plight. Anyone that lacks a sense of self is bound to go insane, no matter how much of a ‘name’ you collect for yourself. Something will always be missing, and there is next to nothing you can do about it.
Now Orpheus feels the bit stranger for it.
( very strange, isn’t he? does orphy need some help? )
“Orpheus? Are you alright?”
He blinks slowly, a drought from his sclera to his pupil sufficiently passed.
He could see the investigator in his peripherals, bending his knees to reach him eye-level. He could see the shallow ‘care’ he holds in his face, overshadowed by Orpheus’ intuition. It screams at him, that this man is a liar.
( that photo is very, very strange. )
The investigator frowns. He is lying again. Lying about caring about the clear film that is slowly covering reality, lying about sympathizing with his enigmatic suspect - his sense of being taking an unexpected detour; cutting to the next channel, going on hiatus.
Pausing his memories.
( i can take over from here. )
The people in the photo all look in one direction - the camera. They hold secrets He can’t help but discover. It’s in His nature, almost, but with a shift such as this, He can forgive feeling a little out of practice.
“Yes I do know them, I think. Don’t take my word for it.”
Luchino’s eyes widen ( and the slits in his pupils thin ), and he pre-emptively adjusts the lapels on his coat.
“Ah, um, well…, ” he pulls on his collar, sharp nail slightly parting the thread, “I thank you for your honesty. Though, that being the case, I must ask you for one more thing, if you are so willing.”
His language, He observes, is akin to brugmansias. It’s beauty to the listener's ear, his words are beautiful - crafted in such a way to where you can’t refuse. Of course, that is only before touching the flower, to which you’ve already succumbed to its poison.
But-
“I said I wasn’t certain. I am not a reliable witness, Mr. Diruse. I do not see the point to continue this further.”
He is an expert on poison.
The man’s face instantly falls to fear, “No, no - that is not true in the slightest! You are mistaken-”
“I don’t think I am.”
The fear in Luchino’s face is self-evident. Any sense of happiness in his stature has fallen completely to fear, in which the man in front of him is solely responsible for.
He feels... bad about it. Almost. It's more sympathetic than He is capable.
“To be honest, Mr. Diruse, you really like asking questions.”
He steps a bit closer with a gait that you are only born with. He clears His throat, and fixes His gaze on Luchino’s form, and decides that He will be filling in for a while.
“I don’t think I’m obligated to answer any request until I’m sufficiently compensated.”
He holds up the photograph to Luchino, index and thumb delicately holding the edge.
“If you are so willing.” He says mockingly.
A film of drought catches Luchino’s throat and he has no choice but to cough into his hand. He looks to the side, and bites his lip - staring at nothing. He, on the other hand, waits. He observes him minimally, and his eyes rest on his face.
( right on his bandage. an interesting piece of white on his completely brown/beige outfit - hat and trench coat alike )
He can almost hear when Luchino gives way.
“… I will oblige, as long as you answer mine.”
A smirk, almost baring teeth.
“Ah, you’re such a dear, now aren’t you?” He folds the photo and places it into His breast pocket, “Take me in for questioning, if you so choose. You’ll get more out of me than him anyways.”
“Well…, ” Luchino scratches at the sides of his fingers, pale skin turning red with irritation, “It seems you’re already ahead of me then.”
“Don’t flatter me, it was obvious. What do private investigators do except get more ‘information’ for their client?”
“I wonder that myself, ” Luchino chuckles, “I’m sure that my client would be pleased though.”
“Why so? Because you have a ‘lead’?”
“No. It’s because I have two leads.”
His face, although naturally blank, accompanies within itself a sense of cold - almost senseless to the point of unsettling. It spills like icy fog from a freezer, and touches Luchino’s skin - yet, he seems unaffected.
Another smirk, a bit sour this time, “Good for you, then. Congratulations. Just because I obliged putting up with your questions doesn’t mean I’ll make it easy for you.”
“Don’t incriminate yourself too early now Orpheus, ” Luchino chuckles, “I haven’t even taken you to my office yet.”
“As you say…, ”
He trails off, his gaze falling off of the investigator and onto the horizon - an impossibly bright yellow blooming onto its axis. He shifts on his feet for a few moments, and squints at the sight.
It's horrific.
“Give me a second, if you will.”
Luchino holds out a hand, scarring present all over, “Hold on. I think I might have something… that you might want.”
He peeks through his bag, not nearly as intensely as when he was scouring for evidence, as though he was expecting him to ask for this specific item all this time.
It didn’t take long for him to find it, and when he does, he merely laughs at His shocked face.
A black parasol.
“I’ve figured that you would want a parasol, for the sun.” He hands it to him happily, “Feel free to keep it. I have more at home.”
He looks at it - holding it by its handle. He could see the lace edges, and He could feel the soft fabric of the canopy and realizes that He thinks it's beautiful. It’s delayed, almost unrecognized - but it's solidified when He opens it, and the bloom of darkness covers Him. He feels like a bud of a flower, and the shade His petals.
It is beautiful.
“I wonder how you knew that I would want something like this.”
“Well, that’s for us to figure out, no?”
He gestures his hand in a certain direction, motioning for them to start moving.
His lips quirk slightly, almost into a smile - almost into something positive and then he realizes it’s too foreign. Luchino was the 'liar' - Luchino was an intruder into His existence that He didn’t allow in the slightest. If He were to get rid of him, He’ll squeeze him dry of every bit of information he has. Who knows, maybe he knows more than Himself. Maybe he knows the creaks and crevasses of Orpheus’ past that he was too scared to dig out. Maybe he knows the mystery of His own existence, and gets rid of Him first.
His heart pounds in His chest, yet He keeps calm. The possibilities of it all will work him up.
The parasol lays flush against His shoulder blade, and He looks toward Luchino for direction.
He is still smiling.
“Yes, I think so.”
And He doesn't understand why.