Work Text:
Elendhaven burnt slowly, sluggishly. Reluctantly.
"Last time they came to take while pretending to offer aid; this time, they are showing their true colors," Florian said, not sounding dissatisfied. He did sound, to Johann, still somewhat feeble. It had been touch and go for a while; none of the three doctors Johann had fetched had been able to do more than hem and haw and opine that there was little they could do.
They had been wrong about that last bit: they had been able to die just fine and in doing so, to inspire Florian to complain about Johann making a mess.
Florian complaining at him was not quite as good as Florian struggling, as Florian's heartbeat fluttering against his skin, Florian's strength proving inferior to his own, but it had been better than nothing.
It hadn't kept Johann from fantasizing about killing Florian himself, from ending things with his own hand, rather than leaving it to fickle fate, to worry every time he went out that he might return and find Florian gone.
He hadn't, of course: each time he returned, he had found Florian's bedroom smelling of sweat and piss and blood. Comfortable, reassuring smells.
"I suppose it won't be difficult to find a new house," Johann said. The plague, Florian's plague, was everywhere now. Burning Elendhaven wasn't even a last resort; it was a symbol. A hollow gesture.
"No. There should be plenty available, all reasonably priced," Florian said, as if he had any intention of paying any money whatsoever. The family silver and a selection of books had been packed away safely, to come with them, but that was all. "Don't worry. I should have no trouble keeping you in the style to which you have become accustomed."
Johann allowed himself to imagine it: a new stately mansion, a new town of people who wouldn't notice him. Florian, growing stronger little by little. (Perhaps another medical consultation was called for, though Florian would probably have an opinion about that. Ah well.)
He said, "And then what?"
Florian shrugged. "Perhaps we will simply wait for it to end."
"The plague? Might be a while," Johann said. For several weeks, he had sported a scar from Florian's last efforts to use Johann's blood in his efforts to make the plague more virulent, more resistant to whatever counter measures people might bring to bear. It had hurt when he poked at it for days after, and then it had itched, and just when Johann had decided that he had become bored with it, it had vanished.
"Actually, I meant the world," said Florian. He sounded like a mildly disappointed school teacher.
"Oh." Johann considered that for a moment. The end of the world. "Well. As long as we're together, sweetheart, I'm sure that it will all turn out just dandy."