Archive of Our Own

It has been an exhausting day. What was supposed to be an indolent and languid retirement for his Master and himself has become a cesspool of unorthodox children, and said children—all adults, sans two noble adolescents that each lived longer than all those adults combined—had a tendency of causing problems. The downside of having three ex-hit team members as your school guards is that they keep causing situations that require your intervention—even Tao who has adapted relatively fast to the normal lifestyle had to be addressed once every often with his absurd splurging habits.

Yet keeping them here had been what his Master wanted. If Raizel asked him for the stars, Frankenstein would steal an entire galaxy away from the sky and be home by midnight so that he could pour him a warm cup of tea; this was hardly anything in comparison, even if it did leave Frankenstein fatigued at the end of the day.

"You are tired," Raizel states the moment Frankenstein steps through the door and drops his briefcase on the entrance area. An observation, not a query. Tea in hand, he eyes the vacant seat next to him when Frankenstein approaches and Frankenstein heeds the silent command, situating himself on the empty space instead of hovering over his Master as he usually does. When Frankenstein outlines all he has to do in his mind, Raizel's expression twists in concern. "Will you not stay?"

"A bit of rest would be nice," he confesses truthfully, there being no point to lie with the bond between them. He groans lowly as he lets go of the tension packed into his muscles, sinking into the furniture—it seems that he's misjudged how deep his exhaustion has sunk their claws into him.

Having sensed Frankenstein's concern through the link, his Master nudges him gently towards an alluring wave of calm. "I will wake you in an hour," Raizel says, compassion overflowing in his voice. "Do not be troubled. Rest."

With his Master guiding him, it's only a matter of time until Frankenstein completely sinks into unconsciousness, barely cognizant of the fingers coursing through his hair.

So when he wakes up about forty-five minutes later, delicate touches still reorganizing his fringes, he makes a questioning noise in his throat and cracks his eyes open. His Master's fingers, long and elegant, has interlaced his two bangs to create one exuberant summer braid at the side of his face.

Raizel is staring at him with so much anticipation that he can't help but smile, despite his distaste of having others touch his hair. His Master has been the one exemption of all and everything he did, this time no exception.

Hearing the unvoiced question, his Master explains hesitantly, "Suyi has done this to Yuna's hair. She has told me it is what one does to someone they consider their friend."

Upon hearing the clarification, he shifts through the following thoughts sequentially:

1. His Master touched his hair.
2. His Master thought of him as his friend? Frankenstein did not feel deserving of his friendship, but as his Master's infinite kindness has deemed him worthy, he would treasure it for the rest of his life.
3. It was good that his Master was getting along so well with his classmates and his friends to learn such skills. He had been afraid that his Master's exceptionality would have driven ordinary children away from him, but it seemed that it was meaningless conjecture.
4. Oh god. His Master touched his hair?

To have cold air brush against the back of his neck is odd—this is not a sensation he has not felt for decades, centuries, a millennium—that, alongside the phantom touches of his Master's fingers, has him shivering. He carefully takes the organized bundle of his own hair, cradling it in his hands like something precious, before pushing it back so it may stay draped behind his neck. He smiles warmly, respectfully—because even if hell freezes over, he refuses to be anything but to Raizel—before saying, "It's perfect, Master."

His Master beams back, content that Frankenstein is content. Pleased of his work, he stands and walks away, leaving Frankenstein to contemplate (and resultantly, panic) about everything.

He spends the rest of the day with the braid strewn across the back, but his children are disciplined enough not to comment on Frankenstein's sudden change of hairstyle, and the quick smiles he and his Master shares in secret make it more than worth the odd glances.

The second time it happens, it's during a lab check-up for the trio. The prognosis has been more than positive for everyone—with M-21's vitals at full form, and the Tao and Takeo's stability higher than ever—which meant that everyone's spirits were cheery and energetic for once.

The playful mood lasts until the elevator rings, and the doors slide open to reveal the slender form of his Master. When Frankenstein's voice comes to a sudden halt, the others share a quick glance of confusion then follows Frankenstein's gaze to notice the visitor, also falling silent in the presence of the Noblesse.

Heedless of the uncomfortable silence that has settled, Raizel does not move, rigidly holding his position in front of the door.

It is Frankenstein who finally breaks it. "Master? Is everything alright?" Frankenstein questions curiously, because for anything he would have needed, his Master prefers to ask through the bond.

Raizel continues to stare at him from the door, but opens his mouth appropriately to reply. "Will you be staying here?"

His gaze finds its way to the chart sitting on his hands. "We're done with summaries, but I'll have to run some extra tests to make sure," he hums, giving him the one tender smile he keeps restricted only for his Master and his family as he does. "Is there something you need from me, Master?"

His Master gives a painful wince, and the distress that flows in between the link is so substantial Frankenstein is about to ask why—but before he can, his Master takes steps forward to stop right in front of Frankenstein. It is because of the determination filled in those pupils that Frankenstein does not repeat the question again, and instead tilts his head in question.

Permission obtained, he lifts his hand to collect Frankenstein's chest-length strings into a single bundle. At the series of tentative touches that brush against the soft skin of his neck, Frankenstein makes a sound that he hopes resembles a question, but is realistically closer to a confused squeak. Unbothered, Raizel takes an item from his pocket—it's the ribbon that Frankenstein would often don in more formal circumstances, the one that had been gifted by Raizel himself at their first meeting—and uses the long length of silk to bind them effectively together. Once that the knot is properly fixed and it is obvious that it would not collapse at nearest convenience, Raizel steps away to observe his work.

The trio, stepped away to the side because they know better not to interfere, watch the two of them with fascinated horror. None of them dare to open their mouths—even though their expressions speak far more than their words: they are acting like they have accidentally intruded on what they should have never seen.

Frankenstein would say something about it if he wasn't so busy dealing with confounding problems of his own—Why has his Master come all the way down here to tie up his hair? Many explanations come in quick succession in Frankenstein's quantum mind: Did Raizel see his friends tie hair up, and want to test out on Frankenstein like how it had been last time? Could it be that he actually dislikes Frankenstein's abundant mane? Does he find it too vain on his servant? Before jumping to any hasty, absurd conclusions, he manages to force the question out of his throat. "Master, why did you do... this?" He questions, his hand reaching up to card through the secured strands.

Raizel stops abruptly, his footsteps stuttering before the steps. He turns himself to face all of them, and states blankly as if he is explaining the most obvious fact in the world: "It is... lab protocol. Ms. Park has been most empathic about safety." A pause, accompanied by a soft pat on his shoulder. "I do not wish for any harm to come to you."

Before Frankenstein can even think about formulating a proper response to that, his Master is already gone—vanished past the automatic doors of the elevator.

Once every semester, Yeran would host an outdoors class session for each of the grades—separate from sports day and field trips—fully funded by the school for more vigorous and realistic experiences. For eleventh graders this spring semester, it had been the local park, which Frankenstein had borrowed in whole for the duration of the day.

(How can you afford it? Many people asked, and the real answer to that is that Frankenstein pays out of his own pocket. Money is never an issue for him, has never been an issue to him—and this school has been his raison d'etre until his Master had walked through its doors one day.)

It has been a relaxing day with many activities: The earlier classes versus latter classes soccer game, a grade-scale game of capture the flag, and now everyone had relaxed from the energy-burning to chat amicably amongst each other about the approaching lunchtime.

This meant, for the teachers that had been relaxing the past three hours watching kids kick balls and throw themselves in the grass, they had to start doing something. As the teachers leave to herd the students, Frankenstein approaches the kitchen staff under their makeshift tent, dipping his head to enter the canopy. To his surprise, his Master and the children are inside, helping out.

"Hey, Chairman!" It's Shinwoo who notices him first, as what he's doing is moving ingredients boxes to under the table. His Master's head snaps up at the call of Frankenstein's (fake) name, attention moving from the onions he is neatly slicing into layers. "We were wondering when you'd show up."

"Shinwoo!" Ikhan elbows him hard on the ribs, then turns to give him a welcoming smile also. "What he means is that it's good to see you, sir."

He coughs into his fist, and gives the warmest, most accepting smile towards the two boys. "It is nice to see you all helping out. Is it just the three of you, or...?"

Like clockwork, the other two girls stumble from the side to complete the set, a dishful of prepared vegetables in their hands. They place the bowls on the empty table, where his Master is still diligently chopping the onions. Their faces light up with friendliness once they notice Frankenstein, and Frankenstein gives a little acknowledging nod of his own. "All five of you, I see. May I ask what you're doing here?"

"Well, Rai volunteered, and we thought there's just no way Rai knows anything about this, so we all volunteered to help him out as well. Seira and Regis, too, but they're over at the next tent," Suyi explains, thrusting her thumb towards the way she's come from. "We were helping out there, but Seira is like a cooking machine, so I don't think we have to worry about the galbi. How are you faring with the onions, Rai—Wow, those are some thin onions."

"You have wanted thin onions," Raizel replies, uncomprehending.

"Yeah, but these are molecularly thin, Rai," Suyi chastises gently, while lifting up a layer. "It's practically transparent, like a film. I think you can cut them thicker."

"What are you preparing with the onions?" Frankenstein asks, looking down at the very, very thinly cut vegetable. He has to agree with them; the onions are cut so thin that they could be used in an microscope slide experiment.

"Oh, the yangpa-jeolim to eat with the galbi," Yuna informs him as she lifts a bottle of soy sauce and a bag of white sugar, then drops them on the table with a loud thump. "That's why we asked Rai to slice them thin, so the sauce could seep into them, but turns out he's slicing them too thin—And not fast enough. Could you help out Rai cut the vegetables, Chairman? I'll have to prepare the sauce, Suyi can't cut onions because they'll ruin her eye makeup, and I don't trust the boys with the knife."

"It's amazing how Rai is perfectly fine after cutting all those onions," Suyi remarks in passing wonder. "It's like he's not human, I swear."

"It seems that I have high tolerance," his Master replies after slicing a bigger, thicker slice of the onion. The cut layer collapses onto the cutting board. "Thankfully."

Wincing at the sight his Master engaged in physical labor—voluntary physical labor, but nonetheless—Frankenstein reaches for the apron stacked to the side, wrapping it in front of his dress shirt rapidly. "Yes, so do I! I'll help out," Frankenstein eagerly goes for the knife, but before his hand can reach it, it is pulled from arm's length by a very disapproving Suyi.

"Wait, you haven't tied up your hair yet, Chairman!" She berates casually, tapping her own bun in emphasis. "Even Rai put his hair to a bun, and his hair is much shorter than yours. Which means you have to, too! Thankfully I have a spare band..."

Frankenstein twitches, because not even a single strand of his hair falls out of his scalp unless he wills it to, but there's no way for him to explain so to these children without exposing his true identity, and his Master's. "Ah, of course," he concedes and collects his hair into his fist, except his Master plucks the black coil on Suyi's fingers before he can.

Raizel steps around the table to and at a turn, Frankenstein can see the way how his Master's hair has also been pulled up, and organized into a bundle. Frankenstein would be offended at anyone else anyone else who's dared to humiliate him like this by doing something so frivolous for him, except that this is Raizel—his Master who would never humiliate Frankenstein unless Frankenstein was crossing lines he should not be, or Frankenstein asked for it himself. "Let me do this for you," Raizel's voice is so barely-there that Frankenstein isn't quite sure it's something that had been said, or if he had been told through the link (not that it would matter, since the words have been for Frankenstein's benefits only.)

Raizel, as he's done before, fastens Frankenstein's hair together with the offered band and pulls it into a ponytail, and Frankenstein lets out a soft sigh at the pull. Once the rubber band is pressed as deeply as it can go, Raizel's fingers grab hold of the two side bangs and ties it into a knot to the back, before sliding the ponytail strands into the space between his scalp and the knot. When the bun is finished, his Master takes a step away, and Frankenstein touches it lightly to see that his hair is secured, although not as firm as his own methods. It doesn't matter—it only has to be passable to trick the kids. It is only then that Frankenstein notices how uncharacteristically quiet they have gotten, and his attention shifts to them.

The kids—all four of them, including Shinwoo who is holding a box of potatoes—are staring at them. "Is that foreign culture too?" Shinwoo is the first to break the silence to murmur the question, and winces soon after, most likely from Ikhan kicking him from a place where Frankenstein cannot see.

Raizel, shrugging off the attention, moves to his place behind the table to cut the onions once again, the chop-chop-chop a rhythmic trance for the others to return to their respective responsibilities as well—though Shinwoo and Ikhan continue their banter as they move and catalogue the boxes. Frankenstein also settles by Raizel's side, knife in hand.

Tentatively, he speaks up: "Master, I can take over if you would let me—"

Raizel only shakes his head, bringing the knife to chop off . "There are onions that need to be sliced, Frankenstein."

"Yes, of course, Master."

A few days after the previous incident: a union invasion occurs. Frankenstein sends away the guards to defend the school and the children, who may become unfortunately involved with how close it had been to after school hours. He himself tracks down the source to get rid of it before they can leave any substantial damage in the city his Master lives, or gather information that may become bothersome in Union hands.

The fight is more tedious than difficult, and only takes as long as it takes him because of Frankenstein's determination not to have it affect his Master in any way (in case they have a repeat incident of what everyone calls the Twelfth Elder Incident.) Despite the sheer imbalance in power, due to their numbers, he gets stray cuts throughout his body—though none going deep enough injure him—leaving permanent marks on his (very, very expensive) suit. One of the bullets graze his cheek, and the winds shuffle, making a mess of his meticulously organized hair.

But it's less than an hour later when Frankenstein drives sharp fragments of Dark Spear into the remaining lackeys, knowing that the work is finished through the sound of his body thudding to the ground rather than confirming it with his sight. He retrieves his cell phone from his jacket pocket to call up the KSA—school finished half an hour ago, his Master would need tea.

An exhausted, overworked KSA agent later, Frankenstein rapidly rushes to reach his mansion—except that he does not need to, as his Master has been waiting around the halfway point, away from all the major clashes. He gives him an acknowledging tilt as Frankenstein slows down and approaches with a bow.

"Are you finished?" Raizel asks, eyes fixed over the city landscape rather than Frankenstein's form. Frankenstein does not need eyes on him to know that despite the projected nonchalance, all of his Master's attention is focused on him.

"The attackers have been appropriately subdued," Frankenstein nods. "The children should have dealt with those who attempted to enter the house by now. Shall we be on our way?"

"Wait," Raizel halts him with a hand, and Frankenstein stops as told. "Stay still for a while. Your hair." He winces, eyeing the curls.

"Ah... I'll straight them out when we arrive home, Master."

His Master stands, contemplating. Frankenstein waits patiently, even as he reaches into his school coat's pocket and retrieves a comb—a plain, white one with light glitter. "I have this." At the questioning silence, he replies, "Yuna and Suyi have given it for me, but..."

His Master's physical form would repair itself automatically, never necessitating a combing down. He wonders that's why his Master insists with helping with Frankenstein's preening—he hardly has to do any himself. Now accustomed to the touches, he cranes his neck to present the mess of his hair, like a cat asking for a scratch. "Would you like to help out, Master?"

Raizel eagerly points the cheap plastic into the bunched knot, dragging with intent to undo it. Each and every mess of Frankenstein's hair falls apart with a snap of his wrist, and a firm brush sets the fringes straight. Frankenstein sighs, enjoying the tenacious force against his scalp, and his Master's focus on himself.

They make it home just for dinner.

+1.

Though the household is filled with rowdy children most of the time, there are days when the quiet settles over, when there are no enemies in sight and the children are all away on their own personal missions. In their absence, their world settles into one that Frankenstein has firmly believed to be the most ideal once upon a time—where Frankenstein and his Master lived together in the mansion, and only they. The solemnity suffocatingly settled over the house from the children's absence is a stark reminder of how wrong he had been. Frankenstein, once upon a time in Lukedonia, could fill the entire mansion with his own presence alone. After eight hundred years of aeration, he finds that not even he had been immune from change.

The solitude, although it brings back memories of isolation and loneliness, also comes with its fair share of benefits—one of them being that they would not be interrupted.

So Frankenstein has been making the best of this rare instance of tranquility: a quiet candlelight dinner for two in the balcony, accompanied by wine and sweet dessert. Afterwards, their evening veered into a leisurely make-out session on the couch, where Raizel has been showing his appreciation for all of Frankenstein's hard work for the past half hour—they have all night to themselves and have the time to take it as slowly as they wanted, after all.

Raizel's fangs brush against his lips as he nips softly at the flesh, a command wrapped in the shape of a request. Frankenstein sighs happily and relents, as he always does, to allow Raizel deeper into him. His Master receives his exclusive privilege graciously, both hands reaching up to tilt Frankenstein's head backwards for a better angle, then thoroughly explores the insides of his mouth—dominating the kiss as Frankenstein had shown him many times prior.

It's a heady feeling, to be so thoroughly adored.

When they separate for a quick breath neither one of them really needs to take, Frankenstein is shown the vantage view of all the evidence of their previous engagement: the barest wrinkle on his Master's school shirt, as well as the rising color on his cheeks, and his lips—the sight of his Master's lips bruised to a pretty shade of cardinal red never fails to make his heart skip a beat. He imagines that he's even more a mess, with how much Raizel had pulled on his hair.

As if he knows what Frankenstein is thinking—no, because he knows what exactly Frankenstein is thinking—his gaze flicks once towards Frankenstein's locks then guiltily shift away. Frankenstein runs his hands through his hair to see that indeed, his hair has become an absolute mess—cowlicks have been drawn out of their appropriately fixed places, there are tangling and knots everywhere, and some strands have been bent in awkward angles by the force of the grip. Usually, it would trigger a strong need to groom, but in this particular moment, he finds that he can't bother to care with his Master pressed so close to him, so delightfully apologetic.

"Should I... get the comb?" Raizel, still posed awkwardly over him, offers meekly. He twists his body to face his jacket hanging on a chair, ready to put his words to action—it's only because of Frankenstein's grip on his cuff that he does not move.

"There is no need," Frankenstein murmurs, drawing his Master closer until he's straddling his lap. "It'll only get disheveled again."

"Why would it get—oh," Raizel gets the hint when Frankenstein nips his lips and rolls his hips. "I see."

In the next four hours, they work on thoroughly exploring each other's bodies, decimating any sort of remaining order from Frankenstein's hair and even drawing out some of Raizel's. Afterward, they stumble together into the shower, footsteps in sync like they are dancing according to the beat of the waltz—but rather to the thrumming music of their converged soul.

As he runs the dryer through his strands and meets the focused attention of his Master, he wonders if all the touching before has been less of his Master's affinity for punctiliousness or his wish to engage in ordinary human deeds, but instead some sort of a kink. Frankenstein concludes that it doesn't matter either way.

Except the staring doesn't stop when they tuck themselves into bed. "Is there something you need, Master?" Frankenstein inquires as he fights to keep himself awake, his eyelids drooping not from necessity but from centuries-old habit—he finds it amusing that out of many traits he's had as an ordinary human, lethargy after sex has been the one that's stayed. He draws himself closer until he can see the light and the shadows inside his Master's eyes, the sharp cut of pupils into the irises. "Something wrong?"

"No," Raizel whispers, voice feather-light and diminutive. A gentle touch relocates a stubborn fringe back to its proper place behind his ear. "It is perfect." *You are perfect—*what isn't said is nonetheless caught and reciprocated. "It is all as it should be."

Frankenstein finds that he agrees.

FIN.