Work Text:
On the day of the execution of the murderer of grasse, Antoine Richis lost a daughter but he gained a son as compensation from the gods. Laure was the most beautiful woman in grasse, nay, she was the most ethereal in the whole of France. She exuded a virginal divinity unlike that of the other maidens. She was kissed by god and ordained an angel, her exquisite exoskeleton was merely a host to her otherworldly scent. He believed that she smelled of love, unlike its sinful counterpart. Lust was akin to a heavy perfume, it performed like a fog against consciences. It attacked beyond the vigilant nose and into the lungs, it imbued itself into the blood and migrated to the nether regions of the body. Laure didn’t smell of such a despicable thing. Her scent was calm and languid on the nose, when it did evoke a similar emotion as lust, it was often out of willing affection not biological hypnosis.
Now Laure was gone, yet her scent remained. It etched itself onto a new vessel. Grenouille wore his omnipotent scent like a cape. It no longer became an identity but a necessity to fool the humans of the Richis residence. Grenouille laid on Laure’s bed. He laid on his stomach his hand dangling from the bed. His gaze fixed on the door. He lay there like an immortal awaiting death. The monotonous days blended into each other forming an undesirable concoction in his mind. Occasionally, Antoine would invite himself into the room and sit on the chair adjacent to Laure’s bed. He would stare at him with the tenderness of a father and sometimes the chastisation of a sinner. However, this punishment wasn't directed towards Grenouille but himself. Antoine often caught himself in the act of viewing his son as less of a child but as a partner. His reverie often strayed into places of blasphemy and sodomy. He imagined Grenouille as a vehicle for his pleasure. In his deranged fantasy, Grenouille stood next to him as the owner of his residence and gazed at him with unprecedented affection.
The only people at the mansion were Antoine and Grenouille. Antoine had dismissed all the servants. The day he brought his son, the servants swarmed around his room pounding and throwing themselves at the door like infidels begging for a godly pardon. He felt a visceral disgust at the thoughts that these miscreants could potentially gain the endearment of his son that he has yet to gain.
He was glad that his son wasn't a daughter. A daughter held the risk of defilement. She held a womb that could carry the seed and the extension of the offender. There was no maidenhood to be robbed of.
At night, Antoine slipped into Grenouille's room. Grenouille laid in the same fashion he had for days, refusing nourishment or entertainment. But at this time he found the most comforting entertainment of all, he was soundly asleep, it wasn't the light sleep of a knight on guarding duty, but the sleep of a laborer after hours of manual work. Although Grenouille’s physical body stayed dormant, his mind was fretting with thoughts. All kind of thoughts. He entertained thoughts of death and harm. He found himself craving the intimate tenderness of violence. His mind would temporarily forget all about the sentiments it held and would divert its attention towards the newfound injury.
antione sat on his usual chair and crossed his leg like an overzealous young lord at the sight of glory and high position. That position was short-lived and soon Antoine moved himself to the floor. And adjusted his position to face his son. He saw the scars on his face, the remnants of his previous bouts of illness. The lack of external beauty didn’t deter him. Antoine was no longer a man led by his eyes, he became dependent on his olfactory sense. That was something he held in common with his lovely son.
He brought his face closer to inspect Grenouille’s. He moved slowly, afraid of waking his son. The vulnerable creature’s chest rose with every breath he took and his nose still alert for any change in scant. Antonie’s landed on Grenouille’s lips, he remembered Laure’s full pink lips, something she surely didn’t inherit from him. Grenouille’s didn’t just look like his daughter, he was his daughter wearing a different skin.
Antoine brought his face closer and closer, till his lips eventually met Grenouille’s. This wasn't an act of fatherly love, this was an act reserved for a lover. Grenouille’s lips were cold and wet. They didn’t hold the plumpness of his predecessor. He brought his hands to cup Grenouille’s face, the warmth of his skin filled every pore on Antoine’s skin. Flooding him with depraved relishment. He was the only side that found enjoyment in this incestous kiss. It wasn’t by any means a proper kiss. If he were to compare the sensation to something, he would likely compare it to kissing a dead fish. It was merely the implication that he was in a twisted way kissing his deceased daughter.
Antoine broke the kiss with a groan. Scandalised by this intimate encounter with his son, he chastised himself. Yet deep down he knew that this was the only moment he felt that Laure was truly back in his arms. By merging with the man in front of him, he could finally feel her corporeal presence and not just by a tease on the nose.