these strange afflictions

Acheron

The little apartment is strangely silent, and when the door swings open, not a soul can be seen. On the kitchen table is a messily scrawled note, as though the author had been in a hurry.

Luci,

I'm sorry I couldn't be home to welcome you. Something has been spreading at work and I decided it would be best to quarantine in the labs to prevent you or Elysium from catching ill.

Please be careful and try to stay home, although evidence seems to point towards this illness primarily affecting mages.

I love you,
Acheron

Lucian

A frown pulls at the corners of Lucian's lips, brows furrowed, his gloved thumb worrying the edge of the hastily-scrawled note. He swallows, studying the note again, re-reading it, as if perhaps the words would change upon the paper as he scoured them, searching for some hidden meaning.

This wouldn't be the first time Achie had fallen ill with something infectious, but this is worrying. He'd always been able to quarantine at home before ... what could possibly be so bad that he'd hole up at the academy?

"Ely?" He calls down the hall, voice strained. The door to her room creaks open as he knocks, and another note awaits him, lying plainly on her nightstand, addressed to him.

Her tidy handwriting only further deepens his worry as she writes that she has left for a meeting with a group of mage protectors, and could not discuss the subject of their meeting. However, she also warns him to stay home.

Something isn't right.

He secures his scabbard, tightens his boots. This is not a mystery he is happy to let lie, not when it concerns his husband's health.

Acheron

He knew, of course, that it was unlikely the note would actually convince Lucian to stay home, away from the danger. He had hoped, of course, but he knew his husband like the back of his own hand - Lucian wouldn't stay away when there was danger, especially considering how his husband considered it his duty to protect him.

He hasn't been home in several days, he doesn't realize that Elysium has left her own note behind, doesn't realize that Lucian comes home to an empty apartment and a set of cryptic notes rather than a brief-and-lacking explanation that might have at least reassured him. He's kept himself busy, at least, trying not to fuss about his family even as the days ticked down towards Lucian's return, his concern only growing when the ailment continued to spread unchecked.

The click of the door opening still startles him, for all that he expected it. His head swings towards the door, claws - that he can't seem to clip back, they grow almost immediately into sharp tips - curling into a loose fist, ready to swipe at the intruder until he recognizes the shape of his husband.

"You shouldn't be here." His hands are clumsy, trying not to catch himself on his own claws, teeth drawing back into a snarl that reveals sharp teeth he's been continually cutting his own lips on. Whatever this affliction is, he knows it's been warping him, for all that he's refused to look into a mirror since he's quarantined himself. He doesn't know that his sclera have turned black, the verdant of his irises nearly swallowed by dilated pupils until his eyes resemble black holes, doesn't know that his features have slowly been shifting into something more beastial than human.

"I don't want to hurt you."

Lucian

“Achie …” Lucian’s aching, shattered whisper comes between them at last. Unable to fathom what kind of sickness could turn his soft, sweet husband into what stands before him now, he feels weak, suddenly helpless.

After a long stint at sea, the salt still clinging to his hair, this is the man he wanted to see most. It doesn’t matter then, that he is clawed and fanged and feral - except that it is … startling, at first. It doesn’t matter that he is telling Luci he shouldn’t be here, that he doesn’t want to hurt him. His husband would never hurt him, and he knows this in his heart. Surely not even a strange sickness could change this?

“Have you been feeling … particularly violent?” He asks, brow furrowed deep in concern.

His hands remain still at his side, not even thinking of reaching for his sword. How could he? This is his husband! Of course, if Achie is feeling violent … No, he swallows that thought down as it surfaces. Even if Achie came at him - which he would never, ever do - Lucian is sure he could fend him off without the use of his weapon. He doesn’t wait for an answer.

“It’s alright. Whatever this is, we’ll weather it - together. Like always.” He offers a warm smile, and offers his hand, as if, perhaps, it will change Achie’s mind.

Acheron

His husband's voice is a salve to his wounded spirit, but he cannot let it soothe him. He is a danger - he can feel it, the rage that he has always kept so tight a leash on, that he has pushed down and channeled into the determination that he will not let it overcome him - it is burrowing in his flesh, urging him to strike out and claw at anyone who comes close.

"Yes," he whispers, voice heavy with shame, because he had thought he had mastered these urges years ago, when his brothers - so overcome with rage themselves - had seemingly needed someone steadfast and kind. "I think - I think it spreads through violence." It is the only thing he can think of that would give him the desire to harm Lucian, of all people. Even now, as his husband's hand reaches out, he grapples with the desire to claw at it, to seize it and pull Lucian forward so that he can sink his fangs into him, to rip and tear as though it will soothe the anger in his veins.

"I think now I truly understand how Aristotle and Mathias felt." He doesn't reach for the hand that is offered, hands still curled into claws at his side, but there is no hiding the longing in his eyes for the comforting touch of the one he loves.