Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5394029.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Gankutsuou:_The_Count_of_Monte_Cristo
  Relationship:
      Edmond_Dantès/Albert_de_Morcerf
  Character:
      Edmond_Dantès_(Gankutsuou), Count_of_Monte_Cristo_(Gankutsuou), Albert_de
      Morcerf_(Gankutsuou), Franz_d'Épinay_(Gankutsuou)
  Additional Tags:
      Bondage, Japanese_Rope_Bondage, Hand_Jobs, Seduction, Emotional
      Manipulation, Age_Difference
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-12-10 Words: 5884
****** Red Thread ******
by imiriad
Summary
     The Count prompts Albert to play a game under the guise of a trust
     exercise. Albert gets very wrapped up in it.
Albert takes a gulp of wine, not savoring it one bit. A sure sign of troubled
thoughts. "I... don't understand how a person could intentionally hurt someone
they love."
The Count thinks it's an ironic start to conversation, in more ways than one,
but he approaches it seriously. "It is easy to take another person for granted
out of complacency, no matter how deep your love for them. Often, this
manifests in cruel ways, in thoughtlessness and ingratitude... People are not
so much intentionally hurtful as they are ignorant to how others perceive their
actions." Albert looks guilty at those words. "And yet, at other times... It
may be entirely on purpose. To see the one you love in pain, or even to leave
an emotional scar on them."
"A scar...?" Albert's tone is halfway between horrified and puzzled, so the
Count goes on.
"Is it not natural to want to engrave yourself upon the one you love, so that
you will never, no, can never be forgotten?" The Count had wished for it
himself many times, but all that is left are the dusty ruins of love and
memories that inflame vengeance in his heart.
Albert's lips part, then fall shut, pressing firmly together. His eyes drop to
the table. Before the Count can ask Albert what troubles him, that light voice
comes, wistful. "You must have loved her very much."
The Count has grown used to Albert's sentimentality during their time together,
but it always comes as a surprise when it brushes against his festering wounds.
He wets his dry mouth with a sip of deep red wine, and gives Albert a
reassuring smile. "It has been a very long time since those halcyon days. Time
heals many things."
"Even heartbreak?"
No, the Count thinks. Darkness stirs in his chest, still fed by his hatred, his
bitter rage. He doesn't let the question linger in the air for long. "Surely,
there must be someone you wish to give your own indelible mark, Albert?"
It's a cheap trick, but a reliable one. Albert stiffens, swallowing. All
inquiries of past loves and broken dreams are whipped away by a soft breath and
mere jumble of his words.
"Oh, you know there's no one like that for me!" The awkward, stilted laugh that
follows is cut short by a weak cough. Albert's restless hands twist at the edge
of a napkin. "Not... exactly like that..."
"But?"
A sheepish smile. "I wish that I could have a lasting impression on you,
Count."
"What makes you think you won't?" the Count asks, voice betraying his true
shock. Albert is his pawn, his conduit, his fuse. An irreplaceable cog in the
clockwork of his revenge. For that reason alone, Albert is full of meaning for
him. He had been before they met, too—even as a slew of photographs and lines
of information on a screen. But all the data in the known universe could never
have prepared him for Albert, the living person. The young boy who had become
hopelessly infatuated with him in an instant.
Albert raises his head. "W-well, it's just... You've been all over the galaxy,
and met so many different people. Your stories are so fantastic I can hardly
imagine them sometimes. I... I'm just some boy who has only been to Luna once.
Even Franz is more worldly than me."
"Viscount Morcerf," the Count says, "you are the heir to your father's fortune,
and the son of the great Paris's space fleet commander. You are hardly just
some boy."
Rather than consoling Albert, those words make him frown. He scoffs, "That's my
father's claim to fame. Not mine."
The Count swirls his glass. "Don't sell yourself short, Albert. We are friends,
are we not?" The long sip he takes goes down just a little bitter.
"Of course we are, Count."
"I'm not one to forget my friends, especially one who has been so generous and
trusting of me despite my unknown status. If it wasn't for you, I don't think I
would have had such a smooth integration."
"I only gave you what you deserved, Count! Time and time again, I find myself
being saved by you, whether it's from bandits or my own indecision and
aimlessness. Sometimes it almost feels like..." Albert pauses, then gives a
shallow shrug, hiding his embarrassment with false confusion. "Like you're
watching over me, as silly as it sounds."
The Count can't help but laugh at those words. Albert is closer to the truth
than he could ever hope to imagine. "That is the first time I've ever been
described as a guardian angel."
Albert flushes, and reaches out for his glass to down the last bit in a long
pull.
"Hm-hm. I've remembered something you might find interesting that pertains to
our earlier discussion." Albert tilts his head curiously, a silent beckoning
for him to continue. The Count leans forward, voice deep as he begins, "On the
edge of the Imperium, deep in Eastern space, is a small planet with a very
interesting custom. There, the traditional art of threading and weaving is
considered an expression of one's spiritual devotion, familial adoration, and
yes, even soulful love. The inhabitants have a particular ritual signifying a
relationship more sacred and powerful than any other bond, contractual or
otherwise. An exchange of absolute trust between two people."
He has Albert now. His mouth is open, eyes full of wonder as the Count spins
his tale of a mysterious foreign land. "It is a special kind of weaving,
wherein one partner creates a pattern by winding thorns about their lover's
body. A particular wild vine is used exclusively, but it holds a deadly poison.
If tied too tightly, those venomous thorns will be driven into the bloodstream.
Too loose, and the marks will not be correctly applied—a symbol of weak love
and bad fortune."
Albert gasps at the idea of it. "That sounds horrifying! Why would they put
someone they love through something so dangerous?"
"Isn't that what passion is? You once said you wished for an all-consuming
love, did you not?" The Count smiles as Albert goes still. "You are quick to
trust others, Monsieur Albert, and yet, that trust does not go very deeply.
Carelessly giving out an important treasure like that can lead to terrible
things. Betrayal, hatred, regret."
"What should I do then...? Not trust anyone?" Albert's voice sounds so small
and fragile, the thought alone too terrible for him to bear.
"That is a possible way to live, but not for one like you. Your soul is much
too bright to restrain itself. I suggest you find someone in whom you can
believe over any others, and exercise that belief accordingly. Accustom
yourself to how true faith feels, and separate it from a lower distinction of
trust." It's unnecessary to continue further, but he prods Albert anyway. "May
I perhaps suggest Monsieur Franz, or Mademoiselle Eugenie?"
"While I do care deeply for Franz, and Eugenie is well... Eugenie... I don't
think it's either of them for me." Albert's eyes stare straight ahead, and a
soft smile comes to his face. "You treat me like an adult, Count. You don't
hide things from me just because they're unpleasant, and you ask me to aid you
if I am able. No matter how thoughtless I've been, even if you have to rescue
me afterward... You never tell me how foolish I am." The Count doesn't dare
turn away from that adoring gaze, even if its intensity sears his face. "I
trust you," Albert says firmly, "unlike I've ever trusted anyone."
You silly boy, echoes in his thoughts, sneered with glee. The Count draws the
blinds over Gankutsuou's intruding feelings, but they peek through the crevices
anyway. Another game for Albert to play springs forward in his mind, and from
his mouth just as quickly. "Then, shall we perform our own bastardized ritual?"
Albert draws back in his chair, blinking. He nips at his bottom lip once,
intrigued (always intrigued in him), yet unsure what it would entail. "How do
you mean?"
"A mundane version, without thorns or poison. Even in such circumstances, there
requires an exchange of power and faith. You say you trust me... Do you trust
me not to betray you, or take advantage of your most vulnerable state? Not to
harm you with purpose or through carelessness?" The Count had learned the art
of tying many years ago, during his time of wandering through space in a half-
directed daze. He could have never thought he would end up using it here, on
this particular person.
Albert is too pure, as Gankutsuou liked to whisper with a mixture of enticement
and dread, to let the Count's questions go unanswered. Despite his
apprehension, he says, "Of course I do."
The Count rewards Albert with a wide smile for his honesty, turning away to
look toward the distant elevator. "Bertuccio!" he calls out. Though they were
alone at this area of his dreamy residence, the special monitoring equipment on
his lapel meant that Bertuccio and Baptistin could respond to his every need.
His voice didn't transmit through normal microphones, but with the proper
amplification and equalizing, his words could be audible through the
transmissions. Once Bertuccio's deep voice buzzes back from the speaker in his
earring, the Count describes the necessary equipment they will need for their
game.
Bertuccio is as punctual as ever; before Albert can seriously entertain any
second thoughts, he comes drifting across the manufactured sea.
"Your Excellency." His servant gives a low bow once he lands, then unloads his
cargo from the boat—a tea cart, and a small trunk. The Count is very thankful
for the loyal servants he had acquired over the years. Though their fondness of
him was slowly becoming intrusive, they still performed their duties without
hesitation, no matter how outlandish they seemed.
The Count opens the chest, taking quick stock of the different ropes inside,
pretending not to notice how Albert stares. "Bertuccio," the Count says, "do
see to it that we aren't disturbed unless absolutely necessary."
"Yes, Your Excellency." A few more moments, and they're alone once more on the
small white isle.
Albert dares not speak until Bertuccio's boat has disappeared behind the fog.
"So, er, w-what should I do?" His voice comes out with hesitation, but the
Count can hear the excitement lurking behind it.
"The most vital aspect of this practice is the creation of a one-of-a-kind
artwork. If the resulting pattern is not beautiful, any expression of trust or
affection consequently becomes muddled and ugly."
Albert nods in half-understanding, still waiting for a more obvious answer to
his question.
"What I am saying, Monsieur Albert, is that the first step in such an endeavor
is to assess the canvas." The Count stifles a chuckle at Albert's confused
blink, eyes narrowing in anticipation. "I must ask you to disrobe."
That gives a reaction. Albert straightens in his chair, his face flushing.
Always so worried about seeming too immature and shy, Albert uses the momentum
of his surprise to propel him out of his seat, and whips off his jacket. The
unbuttoning of his top is done at a much slower pace.
By the time Albert sets the garment on the back of his chair, presenting his
bare chest, his energy has faded. His fingers rest at the top of his pants, and
he spares a glance over his shoulder, suddenly hyper-sensitive to the openness
of the Count's home. Even though he knew it lay deep underground, the facsimile
was enough to fool his senses.
"There is no one around but me," the Count says reassuringly. Those words are
enough to draw Albert's trousers down his legs, leaving only the black pair of
briefs snugly hugging his body.
Albert meets his eyes for a brief instant, unable to suppress his sheepishness
any longer. "...Fully undress?"
"Of course. How can someone expect to fully expose their heart to another, if
they cannot even expose their body?" Albert gnaws at his lip, closing his eyes
tightly. The Count knows that he'll go through with it, and soon, those
fingertips dip into the waistband, sliding down his underwear as well, leaving
him completely in the nude.
Albert resists the urge to cover himself, his hands kept stiff at his sides as
the Count rises from his seat to examine him. After a quick glance over, the
Count makes a slow circle around him. Albert's body is slightly more muscular
than he had expected, still in the throes of adolescence. The Count brushes the
back of his hand against Albert's shoulder blade, noting how the muscles twitch
at his touch. The delicately tanned skin is smooth, still mostly hairless and
perfect for binding. It would hold the lingering marks well.
Albert's face is as tense as the rest of him when the Count finishes his round,
cautiously watching him, desperate for any sort of feedback, good or bad. He
makes Albert wait for it in silence.
Finally, he breaks it. "And what a canvas this is. I think any creator would be
blessed to leave their mark on such a stunning form."
The simple praise is all it takes for Albert to relax. A nervous grin comes to
his face as relief sweeps through him. "Thank God... I was worried you'd be..."
The Count laughs at Albert's childish worries. He had so much more to be
concerned with, so much going on that he didn't want to spare a thought to,
lest it ruin his illusions. Reckless youth in the highest degree—its own kind
of majesty. "How could I disapprove? Your body is very beautiful, Albert."
Albert's face flushes deeply. The Count leaves him to his thoughts as he
returns to the box of ropes on the table. There were a number of thicknesses
and colors in the box, but after seeing the blush on Albert's cheeks, one of
them stands out more than any other.
"This shall do very well, I think," he tells Albert, and draws the twist of
stark red rope out of the box. "Red suits you the most. The color of vitality
and enthusiasm. Passion. The young pirate I met a short time ago was rightfully
cloaked in it, too."
"C-Count," Albert sputters, "please don't dwell too much on that day!"
"Why not? Youth is a wonderful thing. Your brash valor clashing against
practiced steadfastness, unfolding in a duel over the sea... I enjoyed watching
your egos collide in a pure, yet visceral manner. Is it crude for me to admit
that?"
"N-no, that's not what I mean!" Albert backpedals over his words in a rushed
panic. "It's just... embarrassing. I feel like a fool when I remember."
"You have nothing to be ashamed of, Albert." His tone softens, slightly. "Not
then, and not now." The Count slowly unwinds the rope as he speaks; it catches
Albert's attention once more. "Are you prepared? The rope will be tight, and
you will be uncomfortable, but you shouldn't be unbearably so. Speak up if you
are in pain... Knowing your limits is also an important strength."
The situation fully sets into Albert now. His breath quickens, nose flaring as
his pupils widen, yet not one question or even doubt passes his parted lips.
Instead, he slowly nods, tentatively eager for the Count to begin.
A smirk comes to the Count's lips at the sight. He moves behind Albert, amused
by the noticeable flinch in his body when he takes hold of his wrists. As he
puts them into position behind Albert's back—laid flat against each other,
palms facing—he leans over to murmur just above his ear. "First, I will be
tying together your arms like so." Albert doesn't move his arms when the Count
lets go and trails his finger up the small of his back. "Next, the shoulders,
chest and neck." His hands skate over Albert's shoulder blades and come around
to the front, meeting at the center at his chest, fingertips drawing out the
future pattern. "Then," the Count says, voice dipping lower, "an elegant column
of diamonds spanning from the solar plexus to the groin." The next line he
draws stops just below the navel, forcing out a shaky breath from Albert's
throat. "Lastly, if you are still feeling up to it after all that..." The
Count's hands creep downward to graze Albert's slim legs. "I shall give you a
matching design above the knee."
His plans laid out in full detail, the Count withdraws and returns to the
table, leaving Albert a moment to collect himself. Albert, usually so
talkative, is rendered to complete silence, still reeling from the wealth of
lingering touches. The Count almost feels bad about teasing him in this manner
when he knows what is to come, but he tells himself that that is the point (and
Gankutsuou tells him that Albert is delicious, exquisite, and they should taste
more and more of him).
One last count of the rope's length and he turns to Albert. "Shall we begin?"
"Y-yes, Count," Albert breathes out. "I'm ready."
"Excellent." The Count stays true to his schedule, first tightening Albert's
hands securely into position. A gentle push at the shoulder and Albert takes
the cue to turn toward him, as the Count slides the first band of rope
underneath Albert's pecs, knuckles lightly scraping at a nipple. A plain
harness would still be appealing, but for Albert, he will make it special. The
twist of rope slides over Albert's shoulder, and before long he's layered a
star onto Albert's breast.
"How do you feel?"
"Fine," comes weakly. "It's just tight."
The Count smiles at that. "Then I'm doing well." As he prepares for the next
step, he casts a quick glance over his handiwork. The particular pose brings
out the muscles in Albert's chest and arms, his complexion contrasting just as
well against the red ropes as he'd expected. A particular story surfaces in his
mind, and he gives a low chuckle.
The laughter is unexpected for Albert, who shrinks back with insecurity. "Is...
there something wrong?"
"Forgive me, I was thinking about a piece of folklore from the Ancient Orient.
One belief among them was that two destined people are physically bound to each
other through a mystical red thread. No matter how far apart or the
circumstance, the linked pair will always find each other in the end. Looking
at you like this, Albert..." The Count curls a bit of the red rope around his
fingers, and stares into Albert's eyes. "Perhaps you and I are connected
through this bond of fate as well?"
He does not mention that traditionally, the two are lovers as well, but when he
sees the flustered look on Albert's face, he doesn't think he has to. "D-do you
really think so?" Albert asks, sucking in when the Count continues on to the
next phase and ties a line of knots down Albert's stomach, ending just above
his cock.
Rather than being tied together, this is far more appropriate for them.
Wielding destiny as a weapon, he would wrap that red thread as tightly as he
could around Albert, just like this—twisting his body and soul into awkward
positions, punishing him, binding him.
"I wouldn't be surprised if it were true," the Count says instead. "Now, this
may be uncomfortable at first. The next knot goes right between your legs. Bear
with it."
Albert's thighs part at the mere brush of his hand, and the idea that he could
take Albert in so many ways, at this very moment, does the strangest thing to
him. That insidious voice in his head slips free from its corner again,
practically slathering.My friend, is this not a perfect opportunity? Enthrall
the young man. Parade him in front of your enemies.
There are many reasons, many conflicting emotions that rise when he sees
Albert's face, but somehow the only one that satisfies him is a mere
placeholder: it's too soon. Making Albert his would throw off the rest of his
plans, so he won't do it. Never once can he convince himself that he doesn't
ache for it.
The Count brings himself back to the present, as he slides the rope between
Albert's legs and twists the next node to sit behind his balls. A near-whimper
escapes Albert's lips when the Count pulls the rope completely through to the
back. "It will need to be tight for now, but the pressure will ease in a
moment." The cord pressed alongside his cock would likely pain Albert if he
waited too long, but the Count's fingers work quickly. He stands against
Albert's back, looking down over his shoulder at the weaving. The ropes draw
across Albert's sides to slip between the knots on his stomach and tug the
edges of each hole into a diamond.
Albert has figured out the pattern now, and swallows audibly when Count reaches
the last two knots. Holding back a grin, the Count murmurs, "Relax, Albert. You
have nothing to worry about." Yet another silky lie, but right here and now, it
isn't entirely untrue. He pulls both ends of the rope through the hole first,
then carefully widens it, slipping one side over Albert's groin. The choked
gasp out of Albert's mouth only ends up more mangled as the Count adjusts the
rope's position.
Once satisfied, he steps back, slipping the cords over Albert's ass at an angle
to capture each rounded cheek. Albert trembles against him as he breathes hard,
but instead of responding to it, the Count dips down, focusing on lacing
together Albert's thighs from behind. His hands skim across the warm skin as he
winds the rope through the necessary loops. He's hardly halfway finished before
Albert's voice comes, wavering, "C-Count, I..."
What has made Albert finally speak up is more than obvious, but the Count
feigns obliviousness anyway, asking with concern, "Are you alright?"
He rises to his feet and turns Albert around, ignoring the soft plea of, "Don't
look..." It's what the Count had been surely expecting and yet, he is
completely unprepared for it. Albert's eyes are clenched shut, his face colored
so deeply with shame that the flush reaches the star at his neck. The
crisscrossing lines enrobe him more sincerely than any other garment, and
perfectly framed in the lowest red diamond, on full display, is Albert's
youthful cock, hardened and thick with blood.
The Count has to catch himself so he doesn't stare, and find his words before
Albert notices how long he's been silent. "There is no cause for worry,
Albert." He sets a hand against the crook of Albert's neck, waiting for him to
meet his gaze. Then, he continues, "Even when things are not inherently sexual,
when one participates in such intimate activities, it is understandable... even
expected, for the body to react accordingly."
"You're not bothered by it?" Albert almost sounds as if he doesn't believe him,
though he would never admit thinking it.
"Of course not. If anything, it is my fault for not explaining how this could
happen." Albert's mouth opens, ready to insist that he isn't to blame in the
slightest, but the Count halts those words with a finger to his lips. "Do you
trust me, Albert?"
The tearful face has left Albert for now, replaced by uncertainty. Whenever the
Count asks, he knows that the answer will be the same, but it's affirmation,
permission, indictment. "I do."
"Then let me take care of you." The Count doesn't give Albert the chance to
misunderstand his words; he reaches down and very purposefully cups his groin
in his hand. Albert gasps out, jerking forward in reflex, and looks up at him
as if he's been shocked.
Confronted with the Count's generous smile, Albert's scandalized expression
fades, and just as quickly, he gives in. "I'll... try," he whispers.
Between the two of them, the Count isn't sure who is being more dishonest. The
tension in Albert's body isn't from distress, but anticipation and the fear of
it. The anxiousness of a distant dream becoming reality before one can come to
terms with it. A part of the Count finds it incredibly satisfying to wonder how
long Albert had been fantasizing about an event like this between the two of
them—would Albert have fallen into his bed if he'd asked of it all those months
ago on Luna? But sensibility reins it in, reminds him that Albert won't ever
make it to his bed, that this will end here and go no further.
"Good." The reply is belated, but with a hand around his cock, he doubts Albert
is very conscious of time. The Count makes him wait a moment longer, so he can
remove a single glove and step closer, wrapping an arm around Albert’s hips.
Then, he begins. Albert whimpers as the Count slowly wraps his cool fingers
around him, gliding up and down, exploring every inch of his length.
Albert's pure heart, still filled with candied fancies, only makes it easier
for him to surrender himself. Those pretty words that the Count had cooed about
trust and exposure and red threads are enough to twist the situation into
something beautiful. Young love is an incredible filter indeed, to read being
tied up and played with by a much older man as a special bond of fidelity, a
romantic notion. It's that part of Albert that reminds the Count of himself,
that makes him want to be needlessly cruel, to show him that you are a stupid
boyandlove means nothingandtrust only means you're in for more pain in the
end.It's an eventuality regardless, because the Count, the man he so deeply
admires, will destroy his family and him.
So the Count is kind. Indulgent. Everything Albert needs.
Albert shudders, pressing his face into the Count's shoulder as the touch goes
further, fingertips dancing across the head. They trail down to his sac and
massage at the soft skin until Albert is shifting his hips in a fruitless
attempt for more friction. The Count reaches between Albert's legs to press the
knot settled against his perineum and when his breath quickens, traces the
length of rope up the cleft of Albert's ass.
"C-Count," Albert breathes, half pleading, close to asking for something the
Count knows he shouldn't give. The Count quiets him with sensation, gripping
Albert's cock once more and stroking hard, faster than before. Albert
practically melts against him, knees shaking, unspoken request forgotten and
drowned by arousal.
"Shhh," the Count murmurs. "Don't dwell on anything else right now." The hand
on Albert's waist drops slightly, clutching at one firm cheek of his ass.
"Focus on this moment alone, right now, between you and I."
Albert nearly sobs at those words. The Count knows just how much Albert enjoys
it, how his heart thumps when he refers to them so intimately. When he's
touching him like this, that doesn't appear to be the only part affected;
Albert's cock oozes as the Count gently squeezes the head, the slick fluid
coating his fingers.
With the extra lubrication, the Count's hand slides smoothly over his length,
pumping it with renewed vigor. A moan finally spills free from Albert's mouth
at the increased pace, and the Count only encourages those sweet noises
further. His gaze moves to Albert's singing lips and suddenly, he is stricken
with the desire to take them between his teeth and suck hard. He looks away
before the thought can overcome him.
"Oh... I-I'm..." Another moan, this time filled with urgency. The Count holds
him steady; Albert is already showing signs of weakness in his legs, and it
wouldn't do for him to collapse now. Albert's chest heaves with labored breath,
hips thrusting into the Count's movement as much as he can in his bonds. He
inhales sharply, on the brink, and for a moment, there is nothing else in the
world.
No past injustices to make up for, no torturous imprisonments or deals with the
devil. Just this boy who adores him, who offers his body to him without a
second thought, skin flush against red lines and glistening with sweat, tender
throat bared as he leans his head back with a wonderful groan. No reason not to
surrender to it and forget about everyone and everything. To take him with him,
disappearing into the cosmos where no one can find them. And Albert would come,
too, willingly.
He does, with a gasp, his semen painting a white line on the Count's shirt, and
drawing the Count back into the world that is. Albert presses his face into his
chest, panting and flinching when the Count lingers on his cock with a few
languid strokes. The Count waits for Albert to stabilize himself, then
retrieves a dark handkerchief and wipes his hand.
Albert's haze hasn't faded one bit, only grown thicker as he looks up at the
Count. If he had free use of his hands, he's sure Albert would be clinging to
him. His eyes shift, searching the Count's face. "Count, I..."
The Count doesn't let him finish. "You must be rather stiff by now, Albert," he
says, stepping back. "Let's see how our pattern turned out, shall we?" Albert
closes his mouth, and nods. He is silent throughout the untying process, and
the Count lets him sink into his thoughts, following the ends of rope back to
their source. Albert shivers as the Count pulls them over him, touches as faint
as fluttering butterflies.
It ends where it began, with the binding at his wrists. The Count holds
Albert's arms while he releases their bonds, slowly letting them down into a
relaxed position. "Are you feeling well?"
"Y-yes," Albert says, voice finally returned. "My shoulders ache a little, but
that's all." He stretches out and rubs at the sore muscles, faltering slightly
when his eyes catch the impressions on his wrists.
"I'm glad to hear it." The Count takes a good look at him, at the intersecting
marks and spiraling rope imprints, the lingering semen at his
stomach—submission in its clearest form. One finger traces the star on Albert's
chest, but he ignores the longing that comes to Albert's face at the action. "I
dare not think anyone could criticize such a lovely work." The Count withdraws
and delivers a small bow. "Thank you for your cooperation... I enjoyed creating
it with you."
Albert's face turns a bright pink as his head lowers. "I... I did, too."
The Count's earring buzzes to life with a reluctant message from Bertuccio,
interrupting their conversation. "Ah, Albert. It appears your friend Monsieur
Franz has come looking for you here."
Albert blinks twice before realization hits. "The party!" he gasps. "Oh, Count,
I completely forgot I had agreed to meet Franz for an event tonight." He pulls
on his clothes in a hurry, then pauses to glance at the Count over his
shoulder. "I'm embarrassed to have to leave so suddenly."
"You should not be concerned about such minor things," the Count reassures him.
"Allow me to escort you to the parlor. I ought to greet Monsieur Franz for
traveling all this way."
Once Albert is dressed, the Count takes his cloak from where he had left it,
drawing it over his shoulders. The Count climbs into the small boat first and
lends his hand to Albert as he steps in afterward.
"If you are able, I would like to see you again tomorrow. I am very interested
to see how our composition has fared in the meantime."
The Count notices the way Albert gingerly runs his hands over a thigh, where
the ropes had been but minutes before. "Will it really last that long?"
"Perhaps not," the Count admits. "But we can always make another, if you like."
Albert would like that very much, the Count knows it, but he restrains himself
to not seem overeager. Fingers still rubbing the pattern through his slacks,
Albert eventually acquiesces. "If I have the time, I will."
 
Franz rises to his feet as soon as they enter the room, relieved to find Albert
in one piece, and suspicious of the Count as always.
The Count doesn't wait for Albert to excuse his tardiness, taking up the task
in his stead. "Good evening, Monsieur Franz. I must apologize for keeping
Monsieur Albert so busy," he says with a laugh. "I had him quite preoccupied
with a certain game, unaware that I was keeping him from his arrangements."
Franz's eyes narrow, fixing on him for a long moment. "I'm glad to see you are
well, Count." The curt greeting lacks any warmth. His attention moves to
Albert, and he sighs when he sees his guilty fidgeting. "You're going to make
us late again, you know."
Albert grows indignant, the flare in temper reminding the Count just how young
he is. "I know, I know! I just lost track of time. I'll give Marquise G. my
deepest regards when we get there." With a bow of his head to the Count, he
bids him adieu. "Thank you for having me today. Good night, Count."
He turns away, but the Count reaches out for his elbow and drags him close. He
leans down to whisper discreetly into his ear, "May I recommend a pair of
gloves for tonight?" Of course, any hint of discretion in front of Franz is
demolished when Albert blushes hotly, slapping a hand over one wrist, where the
marks show past the ends of his sleeves.
Franz raises an eyebrow at the intense response, and his sight soon settles on
the exposed lines. His brow creases as he comes forward, snagging Albert's
other arm. "Come on, Albert," he says, hurriedly pulling him along, trying to
increase the distance between them as much as possible.
"I wish you a good night, messieurs," the Count says. Franz ignores him, and
Albert shoots him a small smile before following his overprotective friend into
the elevator.
Idly curious, the Count presses in the end of his left earring, activating the
ambient microphone in the watch he'd given Albert long ago.
"-fully rude, Franz!" It cuts in at the middle of Albert's annoyed sentence.
"Me, rude?" Franz scoffs. "You're the one who kept me waiting for half an
hour."
"Was it really that long?" Albert sounds surprised. "...I didn't realize how
much time had passed. I meant to meet you after having a short drink, but I
ended up getting, er, distracted."
A few moments pass, and Franz's voice comes, low. "What's with those marks,
Albert? What did he do? He didn't hurt you, did he?"
"Of course not, Franz! You're acting ridiculous! You always do when it comes to
him." Albert adds, "And what I do on my own time is none of your business."
"It is, until it bites into mine." Franz doesn't push further, and changes the
subject. "Speaking of time... The guys were wondering if you were going to make
it tomorrow. You didn't give a straight answer yesterday."
"I... don't think I will, Franz. I just remembered that I had agreed to do
something tomorrow."
Satisfied, the Count mutes the transmission once more.
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