Ridgefield Planetarium (clutch only) Carmen Suite No. 2
His chest hurt. His arm hurt. His abdomen hurt. His head hurt. Beauregard was suffering. And yet! He found such great reluctance as he waited for Aleksander's arrival that he nearly convinced himself to cancel the meeting entirely. There was, of course, no reasonable way to do this. There was nothing he could say to the man to explain suddenly no longer needing his services.

Going into the medic's room made him very, very nervous. Some part of him was quite sure he would be getting stitches, and he could not imagine anything more horrifying than a needle in the stomach. He simply refused to take any part in it. Beauregard would spend the next month oozing blood if he had to.

A vampire could not feel short of breath given that they did not need to breathe, but certainly he felt some sense of constriction at his lungs, tried to take a breath accordingly, painfully stretched the skin on his chest, felt alarmed by this, repeat.

This level of petty panic was uncharacteristic of him, or so he felt, but the last few days had been stressful enough before he'd had to strangle a man to death while making eye contact with a hideously purpling face.

He paced to the limit of his sanity, sometimes muttering, until he sensed Aleksander was nearby. Then he scurried to the medic area downstairs, as if he had not been wearing marks into the floor doing laps around the lounge.

"Down here, Aleks!" he called, because he was cheerful! Perhaps a good mood would prevent him from needing stomach stitches.
He had moved as fast as he could without relying on the supernatural. Black scrubs on his person and a brown leather bag that acted as his medical bag. Fully prepared for whatever situation might await him at the Planetarium.

Luckily he would be lured by a voice that rather seemed cheerful! That soothed some of his frazzled nerves. Although it did perplex him some. Beauregard had mentioned deep claw marks in chest and arm. Certainly no one would be thrilled by such a thing?

"Beauregard." He hummed fondly as he set aside his bag and motioned to the raise bed for the Dominus to recline upon — assuming he hadn't done such a thing already. He would rummage through the cabinets for a moment before he washed his hands. Everything seemed well stocked enough, if his bag was not enough.

"I won't make you divulge the details of how you received them, however I do need a closer look at them. Preferably let's start with the chest wounds." He did not wish to place his hands upon the other man without him being ready for it.
If this heart could beat, it would race.

Aleksander had a comforting sort of air about him, but the scrubs and bag left Beauregard feeling increasingly lightheaded. He did not want to be stitched up, not in the slightest! Could it not be... magicked away? Or even simply magicked closed. His mouth felt dry enough that his lips seemed to find friction in his feeble smile.

"One of our very own having an accidental bad night," he said, because there was no reason to keep it a secret, even if Aleks kindly hadn't asked for it. "Let me, ah-"

Seated at the bed, he made to unbutton the ribbons left of his shirt, down the chest and at the cuffs. He did his best to play very cool while removing it, but of course every touch of the fabric sent some twitch in his face. A fucking nightmare, all of it.

Then he was staring at the ceiling, feeling like some doughy cadaver on the table. What was the bag for it? What was in it?

If only he could dead sleep himself.
His lips would form a small O at the explanation. Absolutely dreadful, however such things were prone to happen. Especially to the man poised to play their Dominus.

"If anything, it most certainly proved the lengths you are willing to go for us." Aleksander could not say such a thing for himself. A thought solidified as he watched the shirt open. He wondered if he should have just opted to cut the thing open. However that seemed to be such a dramatic option if it was not truly required.

"I...imagine this will not feel well. If you need a break, please let me know." And if that was all, it was time for their session to begin. He would try his best to be delicate as all ten fingertips gently laid upon the wounded skin. A horrible sensation that so easily could have flooded him with memories if he let it. Instead he paced himself as the injury would begin to heal from the inside. The depth of the gashes decreasing with each ticking moment.
That was a kind thing to say. Beauregard, currently a smudge hungry for unrequested kindness, took it with a smile regretfully shaped a bit like a grimace. He felt such immense dread over it all that, again, he wanted to find some way to wriggle out of this short of jamming his fingers into his own wounds to heal them.

Oh. That was actually a very upsetting mental image. He swallowed.

"Can't be worse than getting clawed," he said, except that absolutely was not true. Beauregard felt deeply in his own head as he closed his eyes to avoid staring anywhere directly near Aleksander. Why was this in particular so troublesome? Perhaps simply a series of bad days in a row.

And killing a man. That did not leave him feeling especially powerful, contrary to what one might expect.

Aleks' fingers on his flesh brought some twitch of anxiety, and then, in a moment, the sensation began. Beauregard was used to rapid healing, of course. He'd lived it for many decades. But this was different, some outside force, and as the deeper reaches of the gashes seemed to twinge with life within him, he felt a bit as if there was some worm writhing in each cut.

Why? Why today, Beauregard, why now to find yourself fucking hysterical? He cleared his throat, some strange impulse to break the silence as if otherwise he would hear the sound of flesh mending itself. He wanted to find some quip, but found not a word. So instead he clenched a fist, trying to be subtle about it. This was not even agonizingly painful so much as psychologically upsetting!

At least this would not require stitches. Surely. Surely!
It was an unapologetically slow heal. As if his magic had decided today was the day to make sure every fiber of this man’s being was put together right. Like it used all the care of a grandmother knitting a grandchild a sweater. It truly pained him in the most raw sense. He wished he could vanquish it all within mere seconds.

The thought to compliment Beauregard crossed his mind. Comment on how well he was handling this whole ordeal and yet...some part of him assumed the man knew. That perhaps it might make him feel childish to be complimented on his patience and manners.

He’d simply remain silent. Deeply focused on the work at hand.
Aleksander was taking a thousand years to do this. Beauregard should have been thankful, but instead he could not stop picturing worms in his wounds. This was just his chest, too. This was only a small part.

Hated this. Hated it. Hated everything in the entire world. His face scrunched, and he shuddered in a way that felt uglier considering he was bare chested, stomach clenching.

"I don't mean to rush you," he said eventually in some near blurt of words. "I- do you think you'll be able to do it all? Or, ah-"

Stitches. Worms and stitches. What if he simply died again instead.
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