#god DAMN but I wish I could stumble across a mansion on the edge of town and chat up the punk-dressed gardener

[lostlegendaerie]

.n.s.f.w. content in tags

[iceshard1011]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sanders Sides (Web Series) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Characters: Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, mentioned logan patton virgil and thomas Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Background Logic | Logan Sanders and Morality | Patton Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Being Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Explicit Language, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Violence, Blood and Injury, Brief suicidal thoughts, Imprisonment, Temporary Character Death, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Inspired by Art, I Tried, i've had creativitwin brainrot for weeks, something had to be done, Time Skips, Haunting, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders is a Good Brother, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Has Issues, They need hugs, Minor Original Character(s), they're just unnamed antagonists Summary:

Remus wished there were more stimulating things down here. Or that he wasn’t down here in the first place. Or that he was dead.

so @fangirltothefullest is an absolute sweetheart and allowed me to mess with some story concepts from her #halloween au, so cheers. i hope you don’t regret it.

5k word story below the cut :)

A modern-day architect would rather have called the castle a mansion, as it may have remained for that long but certainly not in its prime. By then, it would be overgrown and unkempt, with the rock stained dark and wood rotting, and one of the wings would be half-collapsed. By then, it wouldn’t be considered a castle, much less be considered livable. By then, the lonely halls would be acquainted with grief and heartbreak and a sense of ambition strong enough to feel stifling. By then, the mansion’s story would be long irrelevant and forgotten, save for two important variables.

After all, for a castle, it didn’t have a dungeon.

The cellar, for as large as it was, had not initially been very entertaining. It certainly was at least a little interesting now that anything within Remus’ reach had been torn apart and strewn across the floor. The shackles around his ankles and wrists were thin and flimsy but damned hard to break. He hadn’t even got a crack through the links.

Remus hadn’t gotten any ideas until one asshole ventured down into the cellar, gave Remus a smug smirk from where he was tethered in the corner, and snagged a handful of bottles from the far wall.

After she’d left, sauntering up the stairs like they owed her a personal favour, Remus had stretched his leg as far out as he could and kicked the shelf hard enough that it tipped. The sound of crashing glass and the inevitable distress from future intruders, stumbling down for a bottle of shitty whisky or rum, was enough to satisfy Remus.

Only for a small while.

When they’d found out what he’d done, a few brave pricks had tried to make him pay for it, but he’d got one of them in the groin and the other in the eye. They’d quickly decided the gashes in his legs from the littered glass was enough of a lesson.

It wasn’t.

Taking away their small pleasures wasn’t enough. Making them mildly irked at their lack of celebration drinks only fuelled Remus further.

The next thing in his reach were the barrels. The food didn’t matter all that much; potatoes, apples, a few boxes of nuts. He tipped them over, kicked them open, tried to make the ground as gross as possible and the food as uneatable as he could, all the while trying not to wince at the waste.

The only things that seemed to love it were the rats. Remus wasn’t sure how they got in, because as far as he was concerned the only animals that got into the castle were the ones he had occasionally brought in (at the expense of a poor few maids and their sense of sanitation and Roman’s patience) but they ate at the mess he’d created on the floor. He wished he could have said it was one of the best days of his life when they found the fermented grapes. They also ate the spiders in the darker shadows of the room, which he appreciated. It was a bit of a pain when his body defied him long enough to shut down and linger on the edges of unconsciousness only to wake up and find vibrating spiders itching up his face.

Sometimes, Remus’ acts of vandalization were less petty acts of revenge and desperate attempts to escape his own head because everything hurt and he couldn’t stop thinking and every time he closed his eyes, he was crimson soaked and he hated it and it was too much he just wanted it all to STOP—

Those were the times when the old portraits and unfinished artworks were kicked to the ground, dragged around, torn and ripped and cracked and destroyed. The canvases soaked with the floor and strengthened the damp, musky smell which anyone else would have hated but Remus was used to because he always returned home from trekking through rivers or swamps and Roman would wrinkle his nose at him and shoo him away to get cleaned while Remus just laughed in his face—

The noise made as Remus curled in on himself and pressed his clammy forehead to the ground was nearly inhuman.

He didn’t feel much like a human now anyway. Perhaps more accurately a feral werewolf, or a mutant cannibal with a mouthful of fangs, or maybe even a malevolent spirit scratching and clawing at chains wrapped along his body, if spirits exist, which Remus was loath to admit he had yet to be proved so.

(He’d always said that if he ever found a ghoul, he’d drag it into Roman’s room and set it on him for the pure joy of proving his brother wrong and god fucking damnit could his mind stop thinking for TWO SECONDS?)

Remus wished there were more stimulating things down here. Or that he wasn’t down here in the first place. Or that he was dead.

No one came down here, not after he’d attacked the food and drink and then any face that wasn’t familiar. Which included all of them, now. They had all probably figured that he had enough in the cellar to sustain him for however long they were going to leave him down here. Or they were going to let him die of malnourishment. He didn’t have much of a preference.

(He did, but it wasn’t the “right” preference.)

Once, he wasn’t sure how long ago now — hours, days? — a timid, shy looking servant had plucked up enough courage to venture into the cellar with him. They’d offered some clean food and a cheap chalice of water. He’d been mildly surprised when they’d gone so far as to placing it easily within his reach and not expecting him to pop a shoulder from its socket trying to get it.

Remus remembered thinking, for a moment, that they probably shouldn’t have been down in the cellar, and that food and water was probably not supposed to be for him, and they were probably risking something by doing this, and that they certainly hadn’t been part of the initial takeover.

But then he’d taken one look at what he’d been brought; the cruel reminder that he was stuck in a basement, chained and alive and he would rather just—  just—

He didn’t remember knocking the tray aside or lunging for the servant despite the chains painfully biting and tearing his skin. He could vaguely picture their terrified expression as they whirled and scrambled back up the steps, and the way the light dimmed with the slamming of the door.

He never saw or heard from that servant again. He hoped it was merely because they were scared of him now, and not something more sinister.

Remus shifted, his legs scraping across the ground. He wished the sharp sting coming from where the embedded glass pieces were enough to distract him from the bone deep throb echoing through his whole body.

He twisted his hands, a habit that had gotten him wrists rubbed raw and nails chipped and bleeding. It made his shoulder ache, too. He’d dislocated it at some point. Before or after being thrown into the cellar, he wasn’t certain.

It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if Remus found out he was already dying. Injuries he’d been dealt previously had yet to be treated, and he was willing to bet any chance of freedom that the open, festering wounds were now infected.

Breathing was painful, too. Whether that was the result of broken ribs or something else, Remus had yet to decide.

It didn’t really matter all that much to him, anyway.

Remus closed his eyes and wished for sunlight.

  The bush had clearly been munched. Remus leaned down to squint at it, eyeing the berries and the half-eaten leaves. The muddy banks of the creek proved Remus’ suspicions with a small, almost indistinct trail of hoofprints.

Remus grinned. He shook off the persistent black beetle, which had been trying to crawl onto his boot and turned.

“Alright Moonshine,” he announced. “We’re on the right track.”

The Appaloosa nickered in reply as he swung back onto her back.

“Yeah, I know I can’t call you that in public,” he said, “but there’s no one else around here, is there?”

Moonshine snorted in agreement. Remus nudged her sides and she started forward, delicately clopping over the riverbed. She was much more tranquil than Remus’ old horse, who had been an absolute delight to go on adventures with. Too bad Roman let the stupid advisors boss him into getting rid of her, since she was such a menace. Admittedly, she had been a menace, and admittedly, Remus had loved her very much.

Roman had given him Moonshine and told him to call her Moon in front of anyone else. Remus had decided it wasn’t an all-bad apology. This horse didn’t kick him when he approached her, which he supposed was a bonus.

Given Moonshine’s naturally mild attitude, he was understandably perturbed when she stopped in her tracks and began to back up. Remus frowned and scanned the surrounding trees.

“Nothing’s there, girl. Go on.”

Moonshine snorted anxiously. Her ears swivelled. Remus followed them, glancing back the way he’d come. They weren’t that far from home. What was going through her head?

The horse’s hooves skidded across the ground. Remus narrowed his eyes.

“You smell something?” he asked. Moonshine waved her head from side to side, her eyes rolling. Remus glanced up. Past the treetops, there was a trail of smoke curling up towards the clouds. He couldn’t see where it was coming from, but the unsettled feeling in his gut told him he was quite sure he already knew.

Despite her protests, Remus twisted Moonshine to face the direction of the castle and dug his heels into her sides.

 The slamming of the cellar door flung Remus’ eyes open, accompanied by the rapid thumping of his alarmed heart.

He scowled at the thudding of heavy boots on creaky stairs and wondered where Moonshine had gotten to. He hadn’t seen her since he’d reached the castle doors. He hoped she was still intact. Perhaps she had run away the moment he’d dismounted. Perhaps he was more of an unrealistic optimist than he knew himself to be.

Three pale faces bobbed down the stairwell and approached Remus. Remus greeted them with a snarl and feint, to which they all reacted wonderfully with varying degrees of fear. It satisfied Remus enough to remain passive while the guards gripped his arms and detached the chains from the wall. They dragged along the ground with a painful scrapping ring as they heaved Remus up the stairs.

He waited until they’d kicked the cellar door closed behind them to punch the first guard in the face.

He got a kick to his knee for it, and it collapsed under his weight, but they only had to put more effort into keeping him upright, so was it really much of a loss?

Remus didn’t know for certain where he was being taken — dragged, really — but he had a vague inkling that made something in his stomach uncurl ever so slightly.

Twenty minutes later, the first guard with a soured mood, the second with a bruised cheek and the asshole at the back with a broken nose, Remus considered it a win by the time he was flung to the ground at a pair of pretentiously shined stolen boots that glinted maliciously up at him.

“Providing my guards with a hard time, were you?”

Remus bared his teeth skywards. The asshat snorted, like he was amused at the display, and anger curled in Remus’ gut. He shot up, his chained hands reaching, grasping, clutching mere inches from that smug dickface’s gob.

“Go piss into a wolf den, asswipe,” Remus told him. He got another laugh in reply, so he jerked forward and smashed his head to the man’s jaw.

The dickweed staggered back with an agonised cry, and once more Remus felt something in him curling and clenching and biting because really, he couldn’t handle a little bit of a chipped tooth?

“Fucking pussy,” Remus scoffed under his breath.

The man, who was no more a leader than he was a sack of shit sitting in the middle of a grandly polished entrance room, waved to the balcony. “Get him out there.”

The balcony, Remus quickly found, was the centre of attention for a goddamn amphitheatre-esque performing stage.

“Putting me on my knees?” Remus asked as he was shoved to the ground a second time. Whale Penis sneered down at him, still rubbing his swollen jaw. “It’s not the most romantic setting I’ve ever seen. And you haven’t even taken me out to dinner yet.”

“One more word out of your mouth, and I’ll cut out your tongue before your head.”

“Sorry, you skunk-smelling scumbag-of-puke-smelling plaything for a dog,” Remus spat. “I’m into that.”

Cocksucker curled his lip distastefully. He waved his hand, and Remus was bent over a slab of wood that bit into his throat.

“Personally, I’m a bit of top, myself,” Remus said despite the glint of metal now shining ominously above his head. He had to shout over the noise of the people below. “But whatever. If you’re into doggy style—”

“Enough!” Son of a Screaming Banshee Bitch yelled. Silence fell. Remus squinted down at the crowd, but he couldn’t discern any familiar faces. Either they were hiding themselves from him, or… “I thought you would be far more amusing, yet unfortunately, you’ve proven me wrong. I have had enough of this,  and you.” He shoved a finger at Remus’ face. He’d bite it if he could. (Given his head was trapped between wood, waiting to be severed from his shoulders, he very clearly couldn’t. The urge was still there, though.)

Murderous Bastard turned to the man standing above Remus and said, “Execute him.”

The blade swung down. Remus grinned.

Finally.

 When Remus strutted out into the room, wearing before multiple servants, council members and advisors a frilly green dress blown out around his feet and shrinking down his chest so much it was a relief he did not possess the ideal female body, Roman’s headache returned tenfold.

It didn’t help matters that Remus was continuing a rant from the night prior — one that involved his very open, very shameless, very dangerous thoughts about some poor attractive sod he had seen the week he had ventured into town.

“Remus,” Roman said placatingly.

“You should’ve seen it; he was just looking for trouble dressing like that!”

“I can imagine,” Roman said, not unkindly. Normally, he would indulge Remus for longer, but he could tell that the others in the room were beginning to grow agitated and uncomfortable.

“And I don’t even know why I like him. He’s not even that interesting!”

“It’s all about looks,” Roman assured him blandly, moving his attention to the scrolls before him. One advisor leaned down to murmur their input to him.

“Ah, right!” Remus said, bonking himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand. “Dick size! How could I forget? I must be ill.”

“Remus,” Roman said with a sigh, and his brother finally, finally fell quiet. “I would like to hear more of this, truly, but… Perhaps at a different time?”

Remus wrinkled his nose.

“When I’m not in the middle of a meeting?”

Remus’ scowl deepened.

“That you should be a part of as well?”

Remus’ sour expression dropped. He glanced away, wearing the face of someone who knew they were caught red-handed doing something they should not have been doing. Roman raised his eyebrows.

Remus whirled. His dress swiveled around his ankles. “I’m going hunting.”

“Wearing that?” Roman asked after him. Remus flipped his brother off on his way out the door. Roman squelched his smile when he spotted the disdain on the advisors’ faces. He continued to discuss with the others in the room, quietly wondering how many more seconds in Remus’ presence they were from all having simultaneous strokes.

Luckily (or not) that didn’t happen when Remus poked his head back into the room, his dress swapped for his hunting attire and announced, “I’ll be back by sunset, probably.”

Roman hid his smile and told him, “Bring back dinner.” Remus grinned brightly and Roman was sure one of the counsellors almost squawked in outrage.

Roman was loath to admit it in front of anyone, but going about his day as he was required was a duty nothing short of exhaustingly mundane without Remus. His brother always provided some level of amusement, even if it became distracting at times. Roman supposed that burying oneself into one of the empty armour suits used purely for  décor  and prancing around to ambush unassuming servants was not an agreeable practice. Remus never enjoyed being cooped up in the castle, though. He got restless, and Roman knew he wasn’t simply “acting out” when crammed into small spaces, no matter how large the castle.

By the time Roman emerged and escaped to the balcony, his headache had spiked to a near-migraine. He tried not to slump but leaning against the railing felt pitifully relaxing after sitting rigidly straight for the entire day.

He was so busy massaging his temples that at first, he hadn’t registered the sudden disturbance down the corridor from him.

Don’t groan, Roman told himself as he stifled a heavy sigh and turned, venturing towards the noise. What was he going to have to deal with now? With any luck, Remus was back and causing mayhem. Roman could do with his brother’s carefree nature at the moment.

He didn’t expect the Great Hall’s polished floor to be splattered with blood and all exists guarded at weapon-point.

“I’ll ask once more,” a voice called. Roman traced it to one of the strangers, who was now looking down at a councillor. “The lord of the mansion is… where?”

The advisor’s gaze caught Roman’s, and he pointed without a moment’s hesitation. Disappointing, Roman supposed, but he didn’t have it in him to be surprised. The intruder turned, a wide smile plastered to his lips when he spotted Roman standing in the hallway entrance. The look in the stranger’s eyes was full of confidence, but one that Roman couldn’t see in a leader.

“It’s prince, actually,” Roman said, briskly walking to the centre of the room before one of the lingering members included in the odd style of takeover could take a swipe at him. “Given our parents were connected to the royal family.”

The man tilted his head. “Interesting. Do you always talk so highly of yourself?”

Roman tried not to scoff indignantly. “Do you always invade people’s homes to mock them?”

“It’s a profession.” The man stalked forward, strides long and slow and not unlike a hunting predator. Roman didn’t miss the sabre at his side.

Still, he only barely managed to repress the flinch when the blade was brought inches from his neck. “Are you aware of how many people your parents fucked over?”

Roman gave him a raised eyebrow. “Were you among them?” he asked, his voice pitched innocently.

The man’s expression darkened, but then dropped to be startled when he found his sabre being obstructed by the blade of a golden-handled rapier. Roman gave him a considering look and a smirk that bordered between sly and puzzled.

“This is not how I remember duels beginning,” Roman said. The man frowned, but the way he immediately tried to kick Roman’s knees told the prince pretty much all he needed to know.

“You’re not very experienced, are you?” Roman asked, easily sidestepping a slash for his shoulder. “Did you think you could just storm a random place with force and some scary blades?” He twisted away from a swipe at his ankles.

“I have help,” his opponent assured him. “If I wanted it, you’d be dead already.”

“You should meet my brother,” Roman said. Blood sprayed to the ground when his rapier left a line along the man’s cheek. “If you weren’t trying to invade our home right now, I believe you two would make a great pair for collective destruction and carnage.”

“I’m sure.”

Roman just barely managed to escape the severing of the tendons of his wrist with the next attack. He skipped a step backwards and used the change of weight and positions to darted around the challenger (a mild and rather polite label for the gang who had already taken several lives unauthorised and attacked without the laws of a proper duel in mind). The man’s legs buckled beneath him with one kick, and Roman leapt away before his own legs could be caught by the edge of a blade.

“What is this all about, then?” Roman asked, frowning at the man as he struggled up from the ground. His sword was lowered, if only in consideration for not attacking a felled objector, but his senses were still running on hyperdrive; the servant at the back of the room was still alive, just barely, despite the blood projecting from their throat. The two intruders near the hallway that lead to the armoury looked like they were discussing bets. To the left, a gang member was inspecting the rings on the hand of a dead councilman. “Surely you could have robbed this place by now.”

“I’m not going to monologue and give you a chance to hatch some grand escape plan,” Roman’s combatant snapped, rising to his full height. “I’m not that dull.”

“Oh, no,” Roman said, because that hadn’t actually crossed his mind, “I’m genuinely wondering what you’re thinking.” He was levelled with a doubtful look, so he continued; “This all seems either incredibly planned out or a spur-of-the-moment decision that carried you here with a number of men and weapons. So what do you want? Money? Is it a ransom? The actual lord and lady of the house died months ago. You can’t get revenge on them.”

“No,” the man agreed. “But I can with you.”

Blazing hot pain sliced along the back of Roman’s leg. It was so sudden and intense that he couldn’t bite back the scream that tore his throat. His knee buckled but he regained his balance by twisting away from his attacker from behind and waving his sword.

“I have help,” the man reminded him with a smug smile. Roman’s lip curled in distaste.

“No honour among thieves, I suppose,” Roman mused, grinding his teeth and forcing himself to stand straight. He wrinkled his nose after a moment. “What the hell are you burning?”

“The gardens.”

Roman rolled away from an attack from someone at his flank and whirled to glower at their leader. “Why?”

The brute dared to look Roman in the eye, shrug, and say, “Felt like it.”

Roman growled and left an open gash along his assailant’s dominant arm. The man shouted and teetered back. Roman swiped another wound down his calf. He dodged a hit from behind and ignored the shriek from the attacker behind him as they clutched at their eye.

Two other guards dropped the more their leader was pushed back to the point of the stairs at the back of the Great Hall, where he was tripped and pinned by a blade to his throat.

Roman glowered down at him. “I was already in a foul mood today,” he said informatively, “and I am less than impressed at your vandalization as well as the murder of the people who live here.” His eyes darkened dangerously. The tip of his rapier brushed the bob of the man’s throat. “Letting you go to live the rest of your life in a prison cell seems like a generous offer to me.”

The entrance doors burst open with a thundering crack and Roman jolted, his grip tightening on his hilt in fear of dropping it. He wasn’t expecting his brother to explode into the room in a furious whirlwind and start swinging his morning star.

“Remus!” Roman barked, almost involuntarily. What the hell was he doing here? “What are you doing?”

His brother glanced up, looked Roman in the eye, and smashed the head of one of his attackers beneath his boots. Roman grimaced. More blood spilled onto the floor.

The leader of the foolish escapade launched himself from the ground while Roman was distracted, and the two of them rolled down the steps. Roman flung his arm out to deflect a dagger stabbing for his face, but his sword flew from his grasp, spinning across the floor with a singing screech. He got another punch in on the leader before one of the moron’s backups dove to pin his arms down.

Remus shouted his name, and he twisted his head in time to watch his brother get kneed in the stomach and thrown to the ground.

He couldn't get up; the leader’s dagger was positioned to just barely be touching the edge of his eye in silent threat. He was going on about something to do with revenge and blah blah I’m a villain.  Roman pressed his knees to their chest, gifted him a winning smile, and kicked.

The moment that the man went flying Roman clambered away from the other guard, making for Remus at the same time as his brother smashed heads with his attacker, sending them slumping to the ground.

Relief made Roman’s muscles go weak for half a second, but it was all the leader needed to pounce on him a second time.

“Consider this a generous offer,” the man snarled and buried the dagger to Roman’s chest. Roman scrambled backwards, still looking around for his sword. If he could just—

He cursed as his arms dropped his weight.

“YOU SON OF A BLOOD-SUCKING PIG FUCKER,” Remus roared.

Roman kept his breathing even. He glared up at the criminal. “You’re a coward.”

“And you’re dead,” the man replied. Remus careened forward, missed the leader when he dodged, and paid him no more attention in favour of skidding over to his brother. Behind him, a guard raised a crossbow, but he was waved away. The leader watched the pair before him, something akin to sadistic interest lighting his eyes.

A few moments later, though, he’d wave a hand, and a group of his followers would pin the one with the angrily twitching moustache to the ground and drag him somewhere to be contained. There were more exciting things to deal with, and an emotionally repressed brother going through grieving was not one of them.

Remus was snarling like some wild thing, and when he stopped shaking his brother he whirled around, teeth bared and fists clenched and eyes unfocused.

He was knocked to the ground before he could attack. The leader got a fat blob of spit on his shoes and a disgustingly unfavourable insult hurled at his person shortly before a sword hilt connected with the back of his skull and he went as limp as his brother.

 Remus was having a Very Bad Day.

He wasn’t sure when he decided, exactly. It had probably been on its way for quite some time, but Remus was always bad at calculating emotional responses and realising when Bad Days were on their way, so perhaps this was not completely unexpected. It did not make anything any easier.

The smallest noises around the mansion had him jumping. Earlier, he’d snarled at the door that always creaked in the kitchen. He’d given Thomas a bad scare, too, when he’d looked at the werewolf and lunged for him with his own bared teeth.

Remus hadn’t realised it was so bad until Patton had walked into the room, screamed, and Remus had spun to see all the furniture levitating off the ground.

Growling, he shuddered from head to toe, trying to dispel the jittery energy tingling in his limbs. Which was stupid, he was being stupid. He wasn’t even physical anymore, he shouldn’t be feeling bugs crawling beneath his skin.

He regarded the jagged shards grouped on the ground and wondered if Logan was sick of him breaking his vases. Several vases, multiple lights, any painting he came across and a variety of decorative plates and bowls had already been destroyed in his trail.

He wanted to kick at one of the pieces, but only the wisp of his body misted around the ground uselessly. The chains strapped to his body scraped across the floor. Remus blinked down at them for a moment, and they began to morph into a pair of blood-splattered weapons and a soaked uniform.

Vehement fury boiled out of him in the form of a low snarl.

The furniture in the room lifted again, now shaking like Remus had dumped the bugs on them instead. Something behind him shattered with his clenched fists.

Movement caught his eye and he whirled, claws elongated and teeth sharpened.

Roman regarded him mildly, calmly taking in the destruction of the room. Remus shifted, still bristling, but now silent as he watched Roman move past him and try to push a flowerpot back onto the desk from where it was dangerously tilting forward. It didn’t move, even with his effort. Remus swallowed needlessly and joined him, successfully pushing the pot to a safer position.

“Sorry,” said Remus, sounding like dragging chalk and screeching metal.

Roman glanced at him. He didn’t ask what he was apologising for. He never did. Remus wondered if he feared the answer. “You’re a poltergeist. Isn’t this behaviour standard?”

Remus worked his jaw, but nothing came out. Roman’s gaze swept back over the room. “Logan will be grateful you spared his photo frames.”

Remus cracked a cheek-to-cheek smile full of teeth. “Only for when Patton’s not in the mood.” 

Roman visually sighed, though no sound accompanied the gesture. Remus tried scratching at his arms, but they only phased harmlessly through. He growled to himself. Roman squinted at him. “Your neck is bleeding again.”

Remus took the opportunity to tilt his head exaggeratedly and unnaturally to the side. Roman’s face twitched, a hint of a wince.

“Remus,” he admonished quietly.

Remus shrugged and shifted away. He frowned at the far wall. Roman did not reach for him. He never did. Remus never asked; he had a solid idea why. If he were in his brother’s position, he wouldn’t care much for being affectionate with him, either.

“Virgil and Thomas were making warm drinks when I last left them. Would you like to join them?”

“We can’t drink that shit,” Remus spat.

Roman didn’t react. “It’s not about the drinks.” Remus curled his lip. “I know you don’t like to interact with them, but perhaps it will be good for you.”

Remus gnashed his teeth. The chains curling heavier around his body. He glanced down the hallway. If he concentrated hard enough, he could imagine Thomas’ joyful laughter and Patton’s giggles. It made him angry, how they could be so carefree. How they got away with being monsters and could still smile.

“Come on.” Roman brushed past him, their shoulders just barely touching for a mere moment. “If you hate it still after a little while, I won’t bother you again.”

Remus huffed. He trailed after his brother, shoulders slumped. Roman glanced back at him and he scowled back, making his point evidently clear without whining further.

Then, Roman gifted him a small, genuine smile. Something in Remus’ chest leaped, but it couldn’t have been his heart because that thing didn’t work anymore.

He grinned back, but by the sad look in Roman’s eyes, he could tell his brother knew it wasn’t genuine.

“Only a little while,” Roman reminded him. Remus sighed, low and grating and painful. The blood around his throat lessened, only slightly.

“A little while,” he echoed, and followed his brother.

[bowansparrow]

#17 Kiss of Death

His body ached, but he couldn’t remember a time where it didn’t. It gnawed at his chest, the backs of his eyes, his temples. He’d run out of painkillers ages ago— he really was due for a refill, but he couldn’t bring himself to go get it. There wasn’t a point to it anyway. The meds dulled the aches, but they couldn’t prevent the inevitable: he was dying. And Horus could do nothing about it.

He set the glass of water on the table half full where it joined a older glasses that hadn’t yet been put in the dishwasher. Horus’s fridge was empty, and he didn’t have to check to know it was. Honestly, it was a wonder that he could survive on the orphanage’s monthly check alone.

He took in a deep breath. How long had the doctor said again? His eyes closed.

Whatever it was, Horus couldn’t decide if it was wasn’t late enough, or if it couldn’t come sooner.

**

The loud music of the club didn’t help the beginnings of a headache threatening to form at the base of his skull, but Horus couldn’t bring himself to care as he sipped at the clear blue drink he had ordered. It was pleasant to taste.

It was hot here, crowded with people. He knew why he had come, but damn if he had no idea why he wanted to. This wasn’t his type of scene— usually at least. When you’re dying, who cares, right? But he wasn’t good at this. There were a few careless smiles tossed towards some guys he thought were attractive, though they were inevitably dragged off by someone else seconds later.

Maybe he should leave.

Another glass of whatever he was drinking slid next to his hand and he looked up to warm, olive eyes and a charming smirk. Freckles dotted his cheekbones and his really soft looking brown hair fell to his shoulders, swept back behind one of his ears. Definitely looked around his own age. Taller though. ... Much taller.

“Now what’s someone like you doing here all alone?” the man said, still flashing his smile. Damn his voice was attractive too. It had a slight southern tinge. “Unless you’ve got someone equally pretty taking a breather.”

Horus snorted. “You talking to the heels or the skirt?” He took a less-than-wary sip of the drink he was provided. The man had guessed right and it was the same he already had.

“Why does it got to be one of those when I’ve got a beautiful man sitting here? In my experience, clothing doesn’t make for very interesting conversation. Especially when I’d rather leave them behind entirely.” He winked.

Horus felt his cheeks grow hot. He tipped the rest of the drink back. “Brave words for someone whose name I don’t even know.”

“Hm, would you like to know though?”

Horus moved his braid across his shoulder, running his fingers over the loosened strands. The man’s eyes followed the movements before being drawn back up to his eyes. “Better than calling you stranger all night, wouldn’t you think?”

The man reached out, slowly, and brushed his hand along the side of Horus’s neck. In the lighting of the club, his eyes flashed. “Henry,” he said in answer. “And what should I call you?”

“Horus.”

Henry smiled. “And what brings someone like you to a place like this? Doesn’t seem your style.”

Horus wasn’t sure whether to be offended at that or not. He rolled his eyes and huffed. “Why do you care about that?” Maybe they weren’t on the same page after all. Conversation wouldn’t distract him from the deep ache in his body.

Those olive eyes stared at him, waiting for his answer. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this.

“Want to forget,” Horus relented. He looked away, at his now empty glasses. “Life got dealt a shitty hand so nothing’s gonna matter in a few months anyway, might as well enjoy what I can before I’m bed ridden and waste away to nothing.” Hadn’t really meant to say all of that, oops. Sure, Horus, scare the guy off. That’s what you wanted.

But when he looked back up, Henry was still there, leaning against the counter with his unfairly pretty olive eyes trained on his own. His expression hadn’t changed, and he still wore the slight smirk, despite that Horus had just told him he was months away from his death bed. Maybe that was a plus for this guy— don’t have to worry about someone getting attached if they’re dying.

Eyes still fixed on his, Henry lifted Horus’s hand to his lips, pressing a light kiss to his knuckles. “I could help you forget,” he said. His voice seemed barely above a whisper, yet Horus could hear him clearly over the noise of the club. No one else was near them, it was only him and this man he could hardly say he knew.

Horus forced a half smile, a small laugh, ignoring the pressure against his cheekbones and eyes and inwardly hoping he wasn’t showing any outward signs of it. “Well, you’re doing a pretty shitty job of it so far, aren’t you?”

**

He did forget, at least for a while. The way Henry stroked his fingers down the expanse of Horus’s skin— careful and gentle, yet as if Horus wasn’t going to break, as if Horus hadn’t told him anything was wrong— and kissed him deep and passionate... Horus did forget.

It didn’t seem like they had to travel far back to Henry’s place, and if they did, Horus was thoroughly distracted by Henry pressing him up to a wall and kissing him silly every so often. Horus had been correct with how tall he was— Henry was able to lift him up easily. Seemed like too easily, at times.

He wasn’t distracted enough to notice that the house they reached was absolutely huge. It was more of a manor or a mansion than normal house, yet Horus couldn’t ever remember seeing or hearing about one in his town. House like this was sure to amass some rumors, right?

He was only able to get a few words of the topic out before Henry kissed him again. Horus found himself in a bed, tangled in the sheets and already gasping.

At some point, he wasn’t sure when, Horus remembered talking through the haze, through the forgotten ache, nothing more than a whispered, “I wish I wasn’t dying. I- we could- before—”

Henry had stopped then, for just a moment. He pushed back, propped over Horus and doing nothing but looking down at him in the soft light. His hair fell down, cascading, a mix of bronze and silver from the moonlight filtering through the window, red eyes staring into his blue— red?

He was being kissed again, despite how it was over, it was all over and he should be leaving. That’s how this went right? You weren’t supposed to stay over, to stay longer.

Yet Henry kissed him, kissed him more, ran his lips down Horus’s jaw and to his throat. It—

Hurt.

Horus gasped as he felt the teeth slide into his throat, harder and sharper than before. It hurt, yet when he tried to lift his hands up to push Henry away, they were pinned down, held to the soft blankets with much more force than he could break. He felt the tears at the corners of his eyes now, held back for so long. He let out a soft noise, maybe louder, and Henry released one of his wrists, trailing his hand softly down the length of Horus’s arm until he was running his thumb on Horus’s cheek.

Horus reached, pulling lightly at Henry’s shoulder, not quite scraping down his back. He was dying, he could feel it— it wasn’t in the way he thought it was going to be. Wasn’t that hilarious.

His vision grew blurrier, whether from tears or blood loss he wasn’t sure. Both. His hand fell weakly away from Henry’s back, though he didn’t feel it hit the blankets.

He didn’t feel anything.

**

The ache had returned, though it was more than usual. It was hard to open his eyes— almost impossibly hard. He didn’t want to move. His head hurt, and even when he did manage to force his eyes open, his vision swam and blurred. The room spun, but not enough he couldn’t recognize that it wasn’t his own.

God, he had to throw up.

He forced himself up, his arms shaking, took a deep breath. The curtain was drawn closed and the only light came from the softly glowing lamp in the corner of the room, but Horus could tell it was nighttime.

The bed was empty. Henry was gone.

His feet and legs protested as he stood, nearly collapsing as he pulled on a pair of discarded sweats that were far too big for him. What was he, a newborn bird? He could handle alcohol better than this. Mostly. He put his hand on the wall for support as he stumbled his way to the bathroom.

The light hurt his eyes when he flicked it on. Yet when he blinked and fixed his gaze on himself in the mirror, he froze.

His hair was completely out of its braid— no surprise there. Henry had enjoyed running his hands through it almost too much. Horus hadn’t been complaining.

But his skin was ashy, much duller than its usual warm brown color. His eyes— he loved his eyes most of the time— didn’t seem as vibrant as before, overpowered by the deep shadows that lined under his eyes. His eyeliner was almost everywhere but his eyelids.

And there, on his neck amidst the other, darker marks, were two perfect little holes, scabbed over and free of blood, yet all of a sudden Horus remembered. Not just the night he shared with Henry, but the end of it. What should have been the end of him.

He was glad the toilet was only a few feet away as he collapsed and emptied what little contents were in his stomach. Why wasn’t he dead? Why had he woken up at all? Wasn’t that what he wanted? He hadn’t even fought back. The tears threatened again and he fought them back, breathing heavily. No, he was not going to cry.

His legs weren’t any more happy when he went back to the bedroom and slipped on his shirt from the night before, draped over the edge of one of the chairs. He left the skirt there.

Horus clenched his hand into a fist as he stood in front of the bedroom door, taking in a deep breath as he opened it. No one jumped out at him, and when he looked out, he saw no one in the hallway. This house definitely seemed as big as it looked.

Picking the direction he thought Henry had brought him in the night before, he made his way slowly through the hallways, hand constantly on the wall to support him. For the most part, the only lights that guided him were small night lights and the occasional lamp that had apparently been left on.

At least until he got into what he presumed was the living room. Most of the lights in this room were on, and Horus was greeted to the sound of a tv that broke the cushioned silence of night.

A man sat on the couch, looking directly at him as he stepped into the room. Horus found himself stuck in place as near glowing green eyes met his— were his pupils slit? White hair cascaded down his shoulders and disappeared behind the couch. He was handsome— beautiful, even. Horus became very aware that he looked like shit at the moment.

“Uh,” he said, his throat dry.

“Still alive. I’m surprised. Those pants obviously aren’t yours.” His voice was smooth, fitting for his appearance. The tv paused and Horus couldn’t move as the man stood and, with a walk that screamed predator, made his way towards Horus. Holy shit, he was tall. His hair was also a shocking rainbow gradient at the bottom. That wasn’t expected.

Horus stepped back, his hands shaking as his breath caught in his chest. The man stopped, close enough if he reached out he would be able to grab Horus’s arm. Horus got the distinct feeling of being a deer staring at a leopard.

“Hm,” was all the man said. Then a second later, voice louder, he added, “Henry, your not-dead human’s in the living room!”

“Wait, shit, don’t kill him!” came the answer, muffled as it traveled through the manor. Only a few moments passed before a hand rested on Horus’s shoulder. He was still too frozen to react. “Everett, I can—”

“Explain?” The man— Everett?— crossed his arms, his cat-slit eyes moving from Horus’s, finally, to Henry’s. “I should hope so. You know the rules, Henry. Humans brought to the manor—”

“I— I know. They don’t— yeah. But this one...”

Everett pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh god damn it, Henry, did you get attached already?”

“No! Well I mean— Just listen! He’s—”

“Dying, yes.”

“How—”

“Henry, it’s written all in the smell of his blood.” Everett’s nose wrinkled. “I’m surprised you didn’t taste decay.” He turned and went back to the couch and Horus felt pressure at his shoulder to follow.

He jerked, nearly falling from the sudden movement, but succeeded in removing Henry’s hand from his shoulder. “Horus, please, just—”

“Are you crazy?” Horus spat, stepping away from Henry though it made him dizzy. Henry made a move to reach for him but Horus pulled back. “I’m not— You tried to— You were going to—”

Henry was holding him then, hands surprisingly gentle as they caressed the side of his face and made him look up into deep olive. His thumb ran softly under Horus’s eye. “You told me you didn’t want to die. That’s still true, isn’t it?”

Horus couldn’t pull away. Trapped under Henry’s gaze, Horus felt the words echo through his body. His damned aching body that always hurt, although more so right now than usual. He tried to squeeze his eyes shut but Henry demanded, “Horus, look at me.”

He did. Felt the tears at the corners of his eyes again. God he must look terrible. “Do you want to die?”

“Funny, you haven’t even asked me if I would do it yet,” Everett commented from his original position on the couch.

“Shut up, Everett, this is important.” Henry didn’t look away, waiting for Horus’s answer.

Horus sniffed. Felt a tear slip down the side of his eye and slide down Henry’s finger. “No,” he said quietly, hardly above a whisper.

“I could help you with that,” Henry said.