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truffsoda · 6 years ago

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Star of the Show

An Actor Mark fic that’s only half a vent set before WKM! Anything in bold is the Manor speaking to him.

[SUMMARY: Mark drinks too much, and Celine and William slip up. The show goes on.]

[WARNINGS: alcohol, blood, horror-descriptions of the House’s Entity, cheating, mentions of bile, stabbing, manipulation, mentions of corpse.]

They stood too fucking close together.

Scowling, and taking a too-large gulp from his drink, Mark surveyed the scene though narrowed eyes and a tight smile that he hoped didn’t look as faux as it felt. There were too many people around for him to cause a scene, far too many people — he barely dared confront Celine on anything when there was anyone else around, lest word spread about them being anything less than happy: God knew his reputation and career couldn’t do with those sort of rumours.

Not that they appeared to be rumours at all. Staring at his wife and his— brother, rival, best friend, enemy? — William, Mark saw what he’d been too blind to see previously. A laugh from Celine. A grin from William. A meaningful glance exchanged between the both of them. God, it made him sick: or maybe that was the alcohol. The whole room had gone blurry a few drinks ago, and Mark had never been the best at holding himself together drunk in public, but seeing Celine and William was far too much for him sober. So he drank.

The wine glass was tugged free from his too tight grip, and Mark started, gazing blearily into the concerned eyes of none other than Damien. His only remaining confidant, his ally, his best friend. Damien.

He probably knows about Celine and William, something hissed poisonously in the back of his mind, and Mark, tipsy and cruel, latched on to that thought instantly. Damien probably did know. He was Mayor, after all — and Celine was his sister. There wasn’t a lot he didn’t know, no doubt. His previous sentiments about Damien soured quickly. Damien was just as guilty as William and Celine; covering up their crimes was equally detestable.

It seemed like Mark really was the only hero in his story. That was disappointingly clear.

“Mark, I think mayhaps you’ve drank enough,” Damien murmured, his voice low so as to avoid the other guests at the party, ever the diplomat. He was so concerned about reputation, Mark thought scathingly, ignoring the way he too obsessed about how his public appearance. Did Damien even care about him? Did Damien even care about his feelings at all, or did he care about his reputation first and foremost?

His anger, previously simmering, began boiling up inside of him.

“Oh, please, Damien, you worry too much,” he smiled, but the words came out too sharp and the expression too false, judging by the alarm written over the other’s face. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine. Completely fine.” Maybe he had drank enough. Maybe he was overreacting.

Maybe you should look at your wife. Unwillingly, Mark’s eyes dragged themselves back to Celine.

She was touching him. Her head on his shoulder, his arm around him, both of them looking as if they’d never been happier. They probably thought they were so clever — managing to get away with so much, right under Mark’s nose, managing to flirt so much at his own party. He could imagine them now, congratulating themselves with praise and flirting and—

“Mark.” Drawn from his own musings with the back of his mind, Mark tensed as Damien spoke his name, already on edge. There was a trace of weary annoyance in his childhood friend’s voice, as if Mark was the one that deserved to be reprimanded. As if Mark was the one in the wrong! “Don’t— Perhaps you should lie down. You’re looking quite unwell—”

“I’m fine.” There was definitely malice in his voice, aimed rather unfairly at Damien, but Mark couldn’t care about that right now. “Didn’t I just say that? What I need is another drink.”

Damien’s jaw clenched, and he had the nerve to look concerned still. “I don’t think that’s for the best,” he said, tentatively, “you don’t seem yourself. Maybe—”

Aren’t you sick of his maybes?

The voice posed a good question. He flushed in anger.

“I’m so tired of your suggestions,” Mark snapped, only realising how loudly and drunkenly he’d been speaking when others turned around to glance at him, clearly seeking out the source of the drama. “I know you’re protecting them. I know you know what they’ve done. Get outta my way.”

Without further ado, he elbowed his way past Damien and made for Celine and William, barely restraining the fury from playing over his face. He snatched another drink from a table as he passed by, draining it in agitation and putting it down roughly on another table. Sick. He was sick of Celine’s lies, William’s dishonesty, sick of everything.

Maybe they deserve this, something whispered to him. Mark couldn’t help but agree. They did.

“Well, well, well. What have we here?” His voice didn’t sound like his: it sounded rehearsed, blank with too much anger behind it. Celine jerked, eyes widening, while William only tensed, a sort of readiness to fight slipping on to his face. “My beautiful wife. My favourite adopted brother. How quaint. How perfectly quaint. How sweet. You’re like a— a— happy couple.”

Perfect. Perfect delivery of your lines. Lines? Were they lines? He didn’t know. His anger was rising too rapidly to think.

“How much have you had to drink, dear?” Celine asked, sickeningly sweet, and there was a wary sort of fear in her eyes. She knew this was it. God, this was it, Mark realised, with a dawning horror. This was it. There was no turning back now. “Don’t you think you should go and lie down?”

Maybe he should....

Maybe she’d enjoy you leaving. William would have her all to himself. Maybe you should expose her lies.

“Oh, I’m sure you’d love that, with your darling William to keep you company!”

The beginning of the end.

The night was a haze of blood and wine — of shouting and eventually silence. The crowds, greedily lapping up the drama of the situation, eventually lost interest and left, not too long after William and Celine. Damien, like the sheep he was, followed helplessly after them, making faux promises to Mark to return and help him. Mark lay on the floor, head spinning, mind reeling, and lifted one hand to wipe at his nose. Bloody. Badly bloody. William had punched him, he remembered that much. Had that been before or after he’d called Celine a whore? Before or after he’d screamed at William for betraying him, before or after he’d tried to punch them?

Maybe they deserve to be miserable like you are. The voice in the back of his head didn’t sound much like it was just that anymore. It sounded more oily, more greasy, far smoother. Maybe you should make sure they aren’t ever happy again. Mark blinked drunkenly. He’d heard that voice before. He’d spoken to that voice before. He’d obeyed that voice before.

Maybe you should wake up, little hero.

Maybe he should.

He blinked again, and when he focused, he wasn’t in a brightly lit ballroom. He was alone and only half alive with a bottle of wine clutched in one hand and a knife in the other.

Coughing up blood and bile, Mark rolled on to his side, trembling with exertion. It had just been a memory — an awful memory. He wasn’t alone. He never had been alone. The House was always with him, offering suggestions, opinions, praise. Anything Mark desired, the House gave him.

When he’d discovered the Upside Down world, he’d demanded a neverending starring role as the hero. And the House had promised to give him it, as soon as he completed one little task. A task he’d been wanting to complete for too long anyway.

Revenge.

Maybe you should clean yourself up, the House, not the back of his mind, cooed, in time for your side characters arriving.

“I know,” Mark murmured, voice croaky and dry, but still prideful, “but I… I don’t understand why you’d show me that night again. That party… I don’t understand.”

Maybe you should listen to me. I am the one that has been there for you when you were alone. I am the one that will lead you to your hero role. I showed you that night to remind you of how they hurt you. How they abandoned you. To remind you that I will never leave. I will never hurt you.

He choked on the feeling of its claws in his chest, digging in deep enough to draw blood. But it didn’t, of course. He damaged his own body enough without it doing it for him. “I am the hero in all this. Aren’t I?”

Of course you are. What else could you be? Your humble upbringing, your tragic backstory. There’s no other part for you to play.

Tragic backstory, humble upbringing...? Mark frowned, trying to remember his life that seemed like forever ago now. He’d been raised spoiled and rich, bratty and demanding, with everything he could ever want — he wasn’t humble in the slightest. But then the House cooed at him, brushed a breeze through his hair, and his memories slipped away. Of course. His humble upbringing. He was the hero.

There was no other part for him to play.

Mark clambered to his feet with a grimace, woozy and off balance from both the wine and the death. Inwardly, though, he’d never felt more awake. This was his time to shine. The main event of the story, the climax of the first act of the play. The beginning of his better life. Smiling far too wide for a man that had just been stabbed, Mark turned his attention to the House.

It ... wasn't physically visible to anyone other than him, despite how it felt. Mark could feel it deep within him, chittering and vibrating and clawing, and although the pain had been most unwelcome at the beginning, over time, he’d grown to enjoy it. It was a distraction from the constant pain his broken body was in. The House rustling in his body, restlessly moving from his stomach to his chest to his shoulders to his back and all over, made him feel less alone — like he had a small animal or pet to keep him company. It was hard to tell what shape the House Entity was. Sometimes, he could feel its beak speaking words out his mouth. Other times, he felt its fur run his insides dry and its claws sink into his skin to draw blood. In his best nightmares, it looked like a shadowy outline of him, with glowing red eyes and razor sharp teeth as it showered him with praise and instructions for his role in this story.

You’re perfect, the House crooned at him, and Mark could almost feel its oily embrace. A bolt of jealousy, hot and cruel, shot through him when he thought of Celine and William. How often did they hug, hold hands, kiss, embrace, exchange physical contact with each other? They could do so every day if they so desired. But Mark was alone. William had stolen Celine from him, and Damien had known and still sided against Mark. Because Mark was the only hero.

He ignored the hundreds of unopened letters from the Mayor that were in his room, ignored how genuine Damien had sounded when telling him he hadn’t known about the affair, ignored the part of him that knew deep down Damien didn’t deserve to be dragged into this mess. None of them did.

They wronged you. Mark wasn’t sure if it was the House or himself saying that this time. Either way, he knew it was true. They deserve this. They deserved this. You should punish them. He would punish them. They don’t deserve to be happy when you aren’t happy. They didn’t deserve to be happy when he wasn’t happy.

He needed to get going. With a brief glance in his mirror to check that the House was still around — the mirror that showered his true reflection, the bloodless and disgusting corpse he’d become, the mirror he’d come to despise for telling the truth when he hid in a world of delusions — Mark painted over his rage and pain with a jovial smile. He almost felt like his old self again. Slipping from one black robe to his favourite red one, he tilted his head too far on his neck at the sound of the doorbell.

Showtime.

As he headed downstairs, the House stayed, lingering in the mirror for just a second more. It smiled and dripped oozing black from its expression, remorseless and excited. Its puppet was beautiful, a beautiful broken thing, so narcissistic and desperate to hurt others — it had moulded him perfectly. Soon it would be able to grow more powerful than ever.

The doorbell rang again, more insistent, and it vaguely heard Benjamin’s voice greeting the guest. Its smile only grew. It could taste Mark’s blood, but also his desire for this. It may have shaped him, but his deceit and cruelty and narcissism had been there already, even before the fateful night of the revelation of the affair. The House hadn’t done that, not at all.

With a last, self satisfied grin, the Entity slithered back to its puppet, hanging heavy around his shoulders and letting its tail stroke the wound on the actor’s body.

Beautiful, it lied, and it could tell he believed it.

Mark was the hero in his version of the story, after all, and heroes had to be beautiful. Even if inside they hid something far more sinister.

—————

All critique and feedback is appreciated!! Feel free to reblog or request a snippet with Actor Mark involved!! 💛

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