Warnings: Gothic-inspired bizarre-ness, mild gore, sexual innuendo, death, and headcanons incorporated.

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Story #11:

"Dead Ringer for Love"

That other half that perfects you isn't the one who lives up to your dreams, but the one who can stand up to your worst nightmares.

-x-

1 – Arthur Kirkland: "Possession"

The FEVER was severe.

And with woes and longings of the mind, do phantasms come to visit. In the dead of night when the wind's unmitigated reach breached his chambers by open windows; Her icy breath bestowing kisses upon trembling lips; Her touch, frosted daggers sifting through skin but doing naught whatsoever to douse the fire. A fire that consumes from within. An affliction he has learned to coexist with, like a proper prince of his castle, dancing with nightmares he's befriended. Inviting them to plunder his soul…

They named it "love" and "desire", this malady that holds no place among common illnesses. One that goes by many tantalizing faces, latching itself to the human heart like a plague –no more than infestations of the mind, blinding and utterly consuming. But the Nation of Romance has forgotten to remember this. He has conveniently misplaced it somewhere his heart cannot reach. In a quaint little castle where shadows are on strings and nightmares come to dance. Where love is spelled not with two, but one. Where all we know and never remember, the prince breaks apart, puts together again and hangs on his walls. Secrets better left to rust and rot away for they are inconsequential. The world will continue to spin without them. As it always has, and always will.

The fever persists.

What nightmares call upon the dream weaver's doorstep? Of one who dreams the dreams that know not confinement of slumber, for even in waking his dreams never sleep. They chase after him and perch upon his soul like a weeping melody to a broken heart. He exists to dream, and to some— he is the dream. He who lived as long and long before the pixies, majestic horned beasts, long forgotten magic and tangible poetry. They, the very tethers of his life-force. And him, their prince. When he lifts his hand to them, so he wills, so prevails.

But tonight the dreamer of dreams is unwell.

And the dreams have gone askew.

His vision weary, transfixed upon the step of the door, knowing a latch held the barrier firmly in place, notwithstanding, an inconsequential detail. Light tapping of heels on the padded threshold steals his breath, and stealthily the door becomes open. His guest slips into his bed like a mirage in the desert—uninvited, but always welcome—the dip of weight, a comforting familiarity. Elegant fingers gently sweep away wheat-golden strands from his frostbitten sweat-peppered brow to bestow there, a breakable kiss.

It's never what he anticipates. For these kisses, they are always cold. But in his mind the mirage is replete. It quenches his thirst even if it burns his lips. Heart-melting in the ghost of a smile that waking visions never spur. Drowning in hues and rhapsodies of his lover's indulgent attentions. Drinking… drinking to his fill…

Drunk.

Swoons and sighs and surrenders fill the air like sandman's dust. He gives all and accepts all, letting spaces in him be filled to bursting. Spilling, wanting, and never-ending… Losing… losing himself—

Lost.

Soon the dream becomes everything, and everything becomes infected, and seamlessly become him. He cradles it lovingly and dotes it, and sees nothing wrong with it. So much so, that he carefully tucks it away within him to keep, like all other secrets—silenced and forgotten. If he can dream it, he can partake of it. And once he partakes of it, it partakes of him. A curse that ails him; like honeyed poison or wildfire that cannot be quelled. There is never enough to begin with, and there never was enough to want. Soon the wanting overtakes dream and dreamer, draping over windows and cracks until there is only vast darkness, void even of shadows. To the blinded, shadows are not made privy. But you need not see to know they are there.

No. Arthur Kirkland is not at all concerned with reality.

He shall fashion his nightmares of fondest dreams. Words he longed to hear, touches he ached to feel. The other's heartbeat steadfast, and a smile he put in place. All fantasies he possessed, great and deep. All secrets he paid dearly to keep. All in this most precious masterwork…

And Arthur Kirkland was sick… so very sick.

Yet it was in this fanciful illness—this discord of mind—where he put all the pieces together exactly the way he wanted, exactly the way he always deemed right. It was in this grand orchestration of phantasms and longings that the nightmare—in the guise of a perfect dream—slowly and surely began to take after flesh and blood. A piece of his heart. A piece of his life. The price it required, paid in full. For this selfish, most coveted little secret, it was no price at all.

A romanticist to the very end…

A fool, ensnared.

2 – Francis Bonnefoy: "Exorcisms"

*'Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do… Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end…'

Francis Bonnefoy chanced upon a secret many lifetimes ago. And like whimsical Alice, he chased that secret down a rabbit hole and ended up in Wonderland. Only when he woke, he was certain he wasn't quite awake. The more he tried to find out where the rabbit went, the deeper he fell. And at the very bottom, he was never sure he found what he was looking for… But it was sure to find him.

Languidly swirling his long-stemmed glass of red wine, he sat waiting. Watching the crackling fire as it licked away at the logs, painstakingly transforming them into glowing embers. To him, fire has always been green. Blinding kaleidoscopic golden dust, blazing red sunspots and green. Alluring as emeralds, scorching as absinthe, and deadly as toxic poison. He hungered to possess it, lusted for the most pervasive of intimacies. To be burned by its touch and engulfed in its fiery embrace. To die by its insurmountable perfection. What is death to one who courts demons and charms his way back from hell? That which he greets like an old lover, with a chaste peck on the cheek. One of many perverse pleasures…

Tonight at the very bottom of that impasse, he knows there is a demon to be courted. It comes without so much as a knock or footfall, slipping clammy fingers around his neck like a noose—not so subtly thinning his passage for breath—amidst whispered taunts and mock-kisses. The usual charming decorum.

As of the moment dying, and yet altogether shamelessly pleased. Too mesmerized to be concerned, by the broken glass and dark crimson ominously bleeding into the carpet beneath his perfectly polished shoes—by the perfect reflection of this phantasmagorical vessel upon stain and surface. But his screaming lungs bring him back to the matter at hand –ah yes of course—dying. Such a troublesome and messy affair! He would do well to enlighten anyone who has never done it before, on how awfully anti-climactic it was, if not melodramatic. Yet the only real instance your consciousness will be most receptive to life is when you are nearest to death, and you will be impressed with an exhilarating feeling, at the knowledge that your soul will finally part from all the woes of this world…

Pity he never becomes dead enough. Instead, he teeters forever at the precipice of endless existence and the so-called "afterlife". He is dead, but just not quite dead enough. Not enough to unsee with his supposedly unseeing eyes, the perfect corporeal ghost of himself, as perceived by Arthur Kirkland's concerted acuities worth a hundred lifetimes. A consummation of hatred, obsession, and madness—but still—the closest to heaven he could get. How could he not have the indecency to smile?

The fingers dig into his throat with more fervour as his aggressor imparts its final words, "It is destiny's folly zat England and I be bound for eternity, be in heaven or hell! A fate dear Ar'zzur can never escape, he does not 'ave a choice…

"C'est temp pour vous de dormir pour l'éternité…!"

…Neither do I. Francis thinks, as he allowed his eyelids to fall.

A loud BANG! rips through his slipping consciousness, and he is free and on the floor, wheezing and coughing, struggling to draw him, empty pools of murky blue stare up accusingly as they glaze stood some distance, déshabille and sagging heavily against the parlour door's frame. There were charming dark lines under his eyes, the barrel of his revolver in one hand, still smoking.

"Feeling… better, love?" was France painfully hoarse greeting, as he struggled to pull himself together.

"Sorry about that…" England muttered as he shifted his weight against the wall. He hobbles over to plop down beside the Frenchman, leaning his head against the armchair's side, and asks—more for conversation than anything, "Are you alright?"

"Bloody." It takes a few minutes of coughing and heaving before Francis speaks again, wiping the blood off his chin, and resting his head alongside England's. "…Nightmares?"

"Nothing… remarkable."

"Oh… And 'ere I zhought 'ee was slightly more charming zan ze uzzers…" France commented casually like it was teatime chinwag. After some moments he grimaced and voiced an afterthought, "How do you always know which one of us to shoot?"

"You're too vain to kill yourself."

"I can't say zat is a very comforting idea."

"Me neither."

"Though I am touched… You go zhrough… all zis trouble… just for ze pleasure of killing me, Angleterre."

"I just came here to clean up my mess, and there is nothing pleasurable about it." stated the Englishman, not bothering to open his eyes—still dazed himself—though he could feel the Frenchman's dubious stare fixed on him, even if he says nothing. "How you take far more pleasure in it than I do is painfully explicit, frog."

"Ah." The Frenchman rubbed his neck, affording a smile, "How could I not…?"

They watched the body evaporate into fine crystals. Then there was only France—bruised and mangled neck, half-buttoned bloody shirt and all. And a paler England, dishevelled hair, feverish steamy breaths and tired blazing green eyes. Soon the lingering taste of blood and wine-soaked lips are ever so tentatively pressing and sliding into alignment with full albeit chapped ones, blending with the bitter tang of medicine and stale tea. Neither could tell if they were truly awake, nor if they were still dreaming, but the world's petty realities ceased to exist for the remainder of the night, and maybe a great deal of the following morning…

War was just another name for this perverse game they liked to play. Altogether harrowing and—not quite—distastefully morbid…

They didn't expect love to be any less.

The End (of this story, not theirs).

Notes:

*Excerpt from the "Alice in Wonderland" classic by Lewis Carroll. (I abhor the animated Disney *cough-sell-out-cough* version.)

This originally had a really glum ending, but it wouldn't be that way in the final rewrite. (*-*) If you made it this far, wow. Cheers!

(10/07/2012 - 01/11/2014)

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