Claude.

{A/N before I start writing! Go drink some water and eat something if you haven't I like my readers properly taken care of so you can relax while reading <3 this one-shot is loosely based off of Why Didn't You Stop Me? by Mitski, specifically the line "I look for a picture of you to keep in my pocket, but I can't seem to find one where you look how I remember"}

Joseph Desaulniers was a man with a reputation, People say he was kind, others say he was arrogant. People do not whisper of him anymore. He has disappeared, just like his brother did all those years ago. It was a heavy interest for gossip of the townspeople, and they all had stories to tell. A drunken man say they saw Joseph leave with only a letter and a camera, not even dawning a raincoat for how heavy the weather was the night he had left.
Joseph was not a fond memory for the people that once knew him. Before Claude had died, he was much more enjoyable. A couple of children, couldn't be older than seventeen, and they felt like they had the world. Claude had disappeared one day, as if into thin air, and that is when Joseph started to turn into the unpleasant mess that he had become.
The loss of a family member was always difficult, but Joseph's status in society was at such a high place, most people assumed he dared not cope in obscene ways. They were very much wrong.
A barmaid at the tavern spoke of the returning man when it was brought up, how she noted his messy, matted white hair and the eyebags that adorned his blue underlids. He always dribbled wine on his clothing, she said, and he would drunkenly spew at the air.
"I miss you," he'd say, and at tears ran down his hiccuping face when the air did not answer.
Oftentimes, he was clutching a picture. It was not drawn very well, stick men depictions of two young boys holding hands. One had his hair slicked back into a yellow bow, the other's hair flowed freely as ever. They must have been maybe seven when this was drawn, and it was not a very good work of art, but Joseph was known to clutch it to his face. It was tear-stained more and more as the days allowed themselves to flow by.
The customers of the tavern remembered him, too. How he'd sit in a booth at the far end of the tavern, far away from his noble housing at the other side of town. He would only ever drink red wine, and sometimes, the barmaid would have to escort him home early, for he would fall asleep in a pool of his own wine-reeking vomit.
One thing that was collectively learned is that he grew to be pathetic, and his noble status lowered the more he coped this way. It was not a worry for long, however. Joseph had left, one day.
It was a hard time during France. Joseph was a count, he would know this. But he did not seem to care. All he took when he left was an envelope stuffed with a letter and the picture Claude had drawn, and a camera. That was all, and that was the end of the gossip of the townspeople.

Now, in Oletus Manor, the gossip was scarce. Most other hunters did not have interest in Joseph, and he was alright with that. Things had not gotten any better. The loss of his brother still had him a mess, but not a drunken one. He had grown to be obsessed with himself, his beauty. If Claude was no longer able to age, Joseph should not age, either. The mindset kept him constantly driven.
The other hunters had taken note of his youth preservation, though it was of no interest to thm. It was part of his skill, after all. Even if they did have an issue with it, nobody was able to say anything. Ourt of everyone, Joseph may have had the least flawed ehaviours. Percy was obsessed with human science. Bane was nothing but rude. Yhidra and Hastur were eldritch beings with no real desire to be trapped in this manor for their version of eternity. Joseph was mediocre, compared to them.
He allowed himself consistently to think of the townspeople, think of how they must have thought of him. Although the manor limited his access to alcohol, sometimes during these nights he would indulge himself in a few cups of wine, bored and tired. It seemed to not have an effect on him anymore, and that disappointed him greatly.
On nights he missed Claude, he would take the tie out of his hair and let his hands trace it. The bow was Claude's originally, the only thing of importance to him he had left behind. He used to tie his hair back into a low ponytail with it, every single day. Now this habit belonged to Joseph. he tied it the way his brother did, low and loose, so that part of his hair could still rest comfortably over his face when he walked, framing the sides. Admittedly, he disliked this habit. Joseph himself always preffered to keep his hair down, though he felt he did not have a choice. Claude was not here to do his favourite thing, so Joseph did it for him.

During matches, there was an ache deep in Joseph's stomach. The photo world preserved his appearance more than the real one did, and he felt the adrenaline surge through him as his sword made contact with the lifeless photocopies of the survivors. He was angry. The world needed to know his anger, no matter who's fault it was. He felt satisfaction knowing that once the photoworld ended, they were going to suffer. Someone needed to suffer for what the world had taken away from him.
Eventually, he learned, he took note that he was not going to get better. Every time he thought of this, heat surged through him, and it was almost like he could feel his hair dishevelling itself. It never did. The heat would flush his face, make his ears red, burn his chest. It made him think, of when him and his brother were children. Laughing as they ran through their family's garden, having staring contests knowing Claude won them every single time. Joseph was so envious, Claude had such piercing brown eyes unlike his own blue ones, and Claude was able to keep them open for as long as two minutes. If they were commoners, that would be counted as a party trick, most definitely. He imagined Claude laughing, the high, shrill laugh that annoyed Joseph to his wit's end most of the time. Now, he would do anything to hear it again. Hurt anything. Kill anything.
He made a silent vow, when he realizd this. No matter how ruined this made him, he would bring Claude back. Nobody has ever brought a dead man back to life.
Joseph was confident to be the first.