14. Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

T he sun had begun its descent towards the horizon as Jonathan emerged from the hedge maze, his mind no clearer than when he had entered. Instead, he was raw and exposed. He wandered the grounds aimlessly, wondering what he should do next. Perhaps go to bed? Or maybe take a bottle of wine and drink until he can’t think of anything anymore?

A weathered sign caught his eye as he rounded a corner of the castle. Mounted above what appeared to be a partially built underground structure, it read simply: “Wine Cellar.” Jonathan’s eyes lit up, a spark of mischievous desperation igniting. He recalled the exquisite vintages he had sampled during his stay. He could still practically taste their rich complex flavors. The Count had such refined tastes.

“Why not?” Jonathan muttered to himself, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “If I’m to be destroyed by my abnormal desires, I might as well go down with a fine vintage in hand!”

Descending the rough-hewn steps into the cellar, Jonathan found himself surrounded by racks upon racks of dusty bottles. The air was cool and musty, heavy with the scent of aged wood and fermented grapes. He ran his fingers along the labels, marveling at the dates - some stretching back centuries.

Jonathan selected a bottle at random and uncorked it. He inhaled the rich, rudy liquid and took in the heady aroma before taking a deep drink.

The wine was exquisite, its flavors unfolding on his tongue like a sensual caress. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment.

Bottle in hand, Jonathan made his way back outside. The grounds seemed to sway gently around him as he stumbled along, taking generous swigs from the bottle. Before long, he found himself singing, his voice growing progressively louder and more slurred:

“Oh, Count Dracula, so dark and tall,

Your gaze upon me, I might fall,

In London’s streets, I’d never dare,

But in your castle, should I care?

Your art so bold, your wine so fine,

I wonder if your tastes match mine,

A Count can do as he may please,

While I’m just drowning in unease!”

Jonathan’s laughter echoed across the empty grounds at his silly little song, a sound tinged with equal parts mirth and despair. “What kind of man are you, Count Dracula?” he called out to the uncaring stones of the castle. “To display such... provocative art so openly? Perhaps your tastes are as abnormal as mine!” He slapped his hand to his mouth. “I probably shouldn’t say that out loud.” He harshly whispered before bursting into laughter again.

He took another long pull from the bottle, the wine trickling down his throat and staining his lips a deep crimson. As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a thought struck him, sending him into fresh peals of laughter.

“Oh, God,” he chuckled, “I’m going to be absolutely sozzled for my meeting with the Count tonight!” Rather than causing alarm, the idea filled him with a reckless glee. Perhaps, with his inhibitions lowered, he might finally unravel the mystery of the enigmatic Count Dracula.

The alcohol coursed through his system, and his thoughts returned again and again to Dracula. In his mind’s eye, he began to construct elaborate fantasies - scenarios where the two of them gave in to the unspoken tension that seemed to crackle between them.

He imagined stolen glances across the dinner table, fingertips brushing as they reached for the same document, hushed conversations in darkened corridors that led to passionate embraces. Each imagined scenario sent a thrill of excitement and shame through him.

Yet even in his inebriated state, a small voice of reason persisted. “You’re being a fool, Harker,” he muttered to himself. “Just because the man has some questionable art doesn’t mean he shares your proclivities. He’s probably just some eccentric European aristocrat. Push too far, and you’ll end up hurt... or worse.”

But the wine had done its work, and Jonathan found it increasingly difficult to heed that cautionary voice. The alcohol had stripped away layers of Victorian civility and fear, leaving him raw and yearning. At that moment, the potential consequences seemed a small price to pay for even a moment of genuine connection, of being truly seen and accepted.

“What would you do, I wonder,” Jonathan mused aloud, addressing the absent Count, “if I were to kiss you? Would you recoil in disgust? Or would you...” He let the thought trail off, too overwhelmed by the possibilities to give voice to them.

A burst of laughter escaped him as he pictured the scene - himself, emboldened by wine and desperation, pressing his lips to the Count’s. What would Dracula’s face look like in that moment? Shock? Anger? Or perhaps... desire?

“And what would my own face reveal?” Jonathan wondered, touching his flushed cheeks. “Terror? Elation? The relief of finally, finally being true to myself? Right before the Count slaps me silly and runs me through with one of those old swords of his.”

Part of him longed to march straight to Dracula’s quarters, damn the consequences. Another part urged caution, reminding him of the precarious nature of his position - both as a guest in the castle and as a man with unconventional desires in a world that showed little tolerance for such things.

The castle’s grand entrance hall spun around Jonathan as he stumbled inside, the wine coursing through his veins and clouding his judgment. The flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows on the ancient stone walls, creating an almost dreamlike atmosphere that perfectly matched his intoxicated state.

As he wandered aimlessly through the corridors, a movement caught his eye. Looking up, he spotted Count Dracula on one of the upper balconies of the inner castle. The Count stood motionless, his tall, dark figure silhouetted against the moonlit sky. He seemed lost in thought, unaware of Jonathan’s presence below.

Jonathan was transfixed, unable to tear his gaze away from the enigmatic figure above. His eyes traced the contours of Dracula’s face, lingering on the Count’s full lips and the sharp line of his jaw. How Dracula’s raven-black hair cascaded down his shoulders stirred something primal within.

In his wine-addled state, Jonathan’s imagination ran wild. He pictured Dracula’s body beneath those fine clothes - all lean muscle and pale skin, powerful and beautiful. The image sent a jolt of desire through him, so intense it was almost painful.

Before he could second-guess himself, the gentleman was moving, darting up the stairs, taking them two at a time, his heart thundering in his ears. In what seemed like mere seconds, he had crossed the balcony and stood before Dracula.

The Count’s eyes widened in surprise, but Jonathan seized him by the lapels before he could speak. With liquid courage doing its work, he pulled Dracula into a searing, passionate kiss.

For a suspended moment, time seemed to stand still. Dracula remained frozen, too stunned to react. The hot silk of Jonathan’s mouth, the sculptural lines of the young man’s body pressed flush against his own—it was overwhelming and intoxicating. Was this what he had dreamed of for centuries?

Then, as if a dam had broken, Dracula responded. His arms wrapped around Jonathan, pulling him even closer. Their tongues met in a dance of desire, the kiss deepening with an intensity that left them both breathless. It was hot, passionate, filled with a longing that had simmered beneath the surface for far too long.

As they kissed, something strange began to happen to Jonathan. The room seemed to shift around him, and the familiar yet alien castle suddenly felt like home. Memories that weren’t his own flooded his mind - secret rendezvous, stolen moments of passion, a love that defied time and death itself.

Jonathan broke the kiss, gasping for air. His eyes, when they met Dracula’s, held a spark of recognition that hadn’t been there before. With a mischievous smirk playing on his soft, wet lips, he tugged at Dracula’s hand. “Follow me,” he said, his voice husky with desire. “I know where we can go.”

Confusion flickered across Dracula’s face. “What do you mean?” he asked, even as he allowed Jonathan to lead him through the castle’s winding corridors.

Jonathan’s only response was a knowing smile that sent a shiver of anticipation coursing through Dracula. The Count felt himself grow hard, straining against the confines of his trousers, as he followed Jonathan’s confident steps.

They stopped before a wooden door that Dracula hadn’t opened in centuries. It led to the tower where he had once imprisoned treasonous nobles - and where he and Béla had stolen away for romantic nights while his wife slept, blissfully unaware.

“How?” Dracula breathed, shock evident in his voice. “How could you possibly know about this place?”

Jonathan’s drunken laugh echoed in the empty corridor as he pushed open the door. They ascended the stone steps, the air growing thick with dust and memories.

The old tower bedroom was a time capsule, untouched since Dracula’s transformation. Cobwebs draped every surface like ghostly lace. The once-opulent furnishings were faded and worn, the rich fabrics dulled by the passage of time. Moonlight filtered through the grime-covered windows, casting long shadows across the room.

In the center stood a massive four-poster bed, its curtains hanging in tatters. Jonathan pushed Dracula onto it, sending up a cloud of dust that sparkled in the moonbeams. They both laughed, the sound a mixture of joy and disbelief at their surreal situation.

Jonathan straddled Dracula, his eyes dark with desire. For a moment, they gazed at each other, centuries passing between them. Then, with a hunger that surprised them both, Jonathan leaned down and captured Dracula’s lips in another passionate kiss.