To tell the truth, this story's format is gonna be a tad...weird. At least, to me it is.
Mrs. Lovett climbed up the rickety stairs that led to Mr. Todd's barber shop,balancing a bowl of steaming stew and a slice of bread on a silvery tray. It was nearing the dinner rush for the pie shoppe, so Mrs. Lovett decided to give Mr. T his dinner earlier.
Bu' wos the point? a little voice in her mind whispered. It's not like he ever eats it, anyways.
He sometimes does, Mrs. Lovett argued.
Maybe a bite or two. Wha' are you trying t' do, caring for the man like 'e's your 'usband? Or is tha' wha' you're 'oping for?
Oh, be quiet, Mrs. Lovett grumbled to herself. Tuning out the bothersome voice inside her head, she nimbly opened the door.
The room was dark and dank as usual, with the typical scent of shaving cream and just a pinch of blood, but only if you concentrate hard enough. Mr. Todd was gazing at the shattered mirror, fingering his silver barber blade tenderly. He didn't show any acknowledgment to Mrs. Lovett. Nonetheless, she smiled brightly and stepped in.
"'Ello there, Mr. T!" she sang. "I've brough' your dinner."
He didn't make a sound or utter a single word. Mr. Todd was so silent that noisy activities like opening a creaking door or killing a person was completely hushed. He began polishing his killing demon, his eyes flitting from her reflection on the mirror to the tiny picture frame on the vanity.
"Mr. T, your dinner?" Mrs. Lovett pressed on.
Sweeney Todd didn't answer. He never did. He remained polishing his precious friend, staring at the tarnished picture frame. Lucy's and Johanna's smiling faces seemed to pierce his heart and tear his soul apart. He didn't even spare a glance at Mrs. Lovett.
Mrs. Lovett sighed, moving placing the tray onto the nearby table. "Mr. T, you never eat. T'is not 'ealthy, not eating anything. If you want t' kill the Judge, you're going t' 'ave to be alive and well, you know."
A cacophony of silence followed. Mrs. Lovett awkwardly shifted her weight from one foot to the next. She hated seeing Mr. Todd so miserable and sullen, so she wracked her brain for any kind of cheerful conversation that had nothing to do with pies or barber knives.
"Mr. T, shouldn't you be wearing your jacket?" asked Mrs. Lovett. "S'awful cold ou'side, and it would be terrible if you caugh' yourself a cold." Indeed, temperatures had dropped lower than usual in London, and a nasty illness had been slinking its way through closed shutters and chinks between bricks. Even poor Mrs. Mooney had a running nose recently.
She didn't expect a reply from Mr. Todd. And that's what she got.
Mrs. Lovett dutifully displayed the heavily pie-laden trays to the ravenous crowd, who whooped joyously. She beamed as half-starved Londoners scarfed down her pies, sighing in satisfaction, and belching their compliments like a bullfrog. The cheery atmosphere made her feel warm inside, despite the cold weather. Happiness bubbled inside her as she practically skipped from one table to the next, serving the famous pies to the customers.
"Toby, be a dear and give tha' man another ale, won't ya?" Mrs. Lovett shouted to Toby. The petite boy was barely visible in the whole crowd of people flooding the pie shoppe, but Mrs. Lovett knew he was probably swimming his way through the mess of people and fetching a bottle of ale (hopefully, he would overlook the gin and not steal it from her cupboards like last time).
"Ma'am!" Toby's fragile voice cried out from the loud din. "We're almost sold ou'!"
Mrs. Lovett secretly beamed to herself. Pies were flying out of the oven like crazy, which meant that hundreds of pound notes replacing them. Just as Toby informed her of the lack of pies, a young man traipsed up the stairs to Mr. Todd's barber shop. Mrs. Lovett's grin widened.
"Don't worry, dearie," she hollered, adding a joyful spring to each step. "We'll get fresh supplies soon."
Mr. Todd rubbed his temples, gritting his teeth. A dull but aching throb pounded his head which absolutely irked him to no end. He coughed violently, intensifying the headache by tenfold. His throat felt dry and coarse like a desert on fire, and his head spun and ached. He leaned on the moth-eaten barber chair for balance, breathing heavily. Just breathing felt like torture for him, and it always ended with hacking coughs. Mr. T closed his eyes, trying to shove away the dizzying spell that plagued him.
Mrs. Lovett was right. It was extremely freezing tonight. It felt as if he was frozen in a cube of ice. His eyes glanced at the black jacket he had thrown carelessly over the vanity. He slowly regained his posture and made to slip on the jacket.
Suddenly, the familiar tinkling of the brass bell sang in his ears before he could even reach the vanity. He whirled around to see a figure of a person. A man, perhaps, coming for a shave? He couldn't tell, his eyesight was now smudged and blurred.
"Come here for a shave, lad?" Mr. Todd asked (the person was too tall to be a woman).
"Just that," smiled the young man. He seated himself on the mechanical monster as Mr. Todd laid the white smock over the customer. The craving for blood surged inside him like frothing magma. He could feel the blade in his hands twitch with excitement and yearning as he smeared the thick cream over the victim's chin and neck. He could already see the crimson blood spraying from the man's neck and painting the air with the luscious red, he could feel the warmth of the blood that burned his skin.
"If it's not too much to ask," chirped the man. "I'd like it if you wouldn't leave any stubble around the cheek."
"Don't worry, boy," leered Mr. Todd, his voice lined with excitement. "It'll be the closest shave you can ever get."
But suddenly, Sweeney's throat tightened and seared, as if a thousand knives were piercing it. His lungs seemed to have shriveled up as he heaved for air. His head was now throbbing with immense pain as fatigue poisoned his limbs. The violent coughs were all caught up in his throat and forcefully shoved out, suffocating him. Every cough felt rough and coarse against his throat, tearing it. The barber knife slipped from Mr. Todd's grasp as he clutched the chair for support. His head was spinning so terribly he could barely think or see, or even hear. The customer's shouts of anxiety and concern were slipping from his mind, like inaudible echoes. Bile crept up his throat as he struggled for air and his head felt light and faint.
Before he knew it, he plunged into a sea of darkness.
I'm either on a roll or in a ditch. Two non-oneshot Sweeney fics in the course of two days?! I'm going to have a lot of updating to do. Of course, this one's going to be pretty shorter (I'm estimating five chapters?) than the other one (which may be longer, but I have no idea).
Feedback is greatly appreciated!