welp, i fic'd again. this was writted stream-of-consciousness style over a few hours, and it's probably going to show.
but, hey, i thought about these two and thought that it'd be interesting to (briefly) study their characters. please enjoy and leave reviews!
He returns to the Reunion Inn with a vengeful smile on his face.
You're used to seeing it in yourself-You've been at it for years, after all, and you're just now dragging him into your scheme. Every time you've passed by your reflection after a particularly successful plan, you see the exact same smile, corners of the mouth turned up just enough to show teeth, eyes narrowed and brow slightly furrowed. Somehow, however, it's not like looking in a mirror when you look at his face. Rather, you liken it to staring down your past self when you look into the eyes of the Masked Gentleman.
You're still dressed in your usual outfit when he comes back, and the lights in the room are dim. At one point, you called your dislike of strong light and noise weakness. It creates patterns regarding where you move, when you move, what you do. It makes you predictable, or at least parts of you, and even after every effort you've made to keep yourself from creating these patterns, you still hold concern that you'll be noticed for something, anything.
Yet you no longer call it a weakness, not outright.
(You're certain he has some of the same problems as you, though you're not going to pry.)
"I must say, that was impressive," you tell him, "Tell me, how did your second miracle feel?"
He lets out a few heavy breaths, and before you have the chance to wonder if he realized what you're doing yet, he laughs. Good. He still knows nothing.
"I've…" he gasps, "I've never felt more alive."
(You know this to be a lie, of course, but you wouldn't dare say it to his face.)
"I thought it'd feel worse than it did," he continues, "But it didn't. I'm...I'm finally going to take it back. Everything. From him."
The venom in his voice there cuts through the air like a sword through its victim. You're certain that even he believes something is wrong with this, but you know how to play these sorts of games. You'll watch the board carefully and move your pieces when you must...before anyone else can.
He laughs, and you have to restrain yourself from doing the same so that you're able to cut him off.
"Tomorrow," you begin, "You're aware of what you must do, I assume? You've distributed the letters, haven't you?"
He nods, clearly still harboring a lot of energy.
"Y-Yes, of course I have. This one took much more planning than the others," he says, his voice shaky, "But it's coming along wonderfully. After tomorrow, the entirety of Monte d'Or will truly know what it's brought upon itself."
"I highly doubt that. They won't know a thing until your next miracle," you reply, "I have it all scheduled. After the spontaneous combustion...People will be turned to stone. Is that suitably miraculous?"
"Absolutely."
That same grin is still plastered on his face.
Your mind is like clockwork. Every word comes out rehearsed, yet it all sounds so natural to them, and to you. You've lied for years, and you aren't about to stop any time soon. It's not for some sort of high, and it's not because you want to anymore-it's because you have to lie, because it's become a deeply ingrained instinct that won't go away and can't be trained out of you. You are a liar, it is what you are and what you always will be.
There is nothing you would rather be.
(There is plenty you'd prefer to be over this. You simply cannot say it.)
(You want to be a father. A loving father, and a loving husband. All you want is someone else in your life. All you want is unobtainable and you cannot help but muse on this again, letting a silent rage stew in you at thoughts of him, the one who caused it all, the damn beast that sired you in the first place.)
After a few moments have passed, you realize that you were lost in thought there.
When you look at him again, he is taking off his top, letting out a sigh of relief as he places it down on the bed.
His chest is still bound down, and his skin is rough and scarred, hardened from the long hours he spent as a farmer. His figure is broad, but much less muscular than you imagined it would be-his figure, despite all the work as a farmer, is soft. However, there's still strength in his figure that anyone could see-Even if it's not obvious muscle, it's there, tempered by long days in the fields. Barely-noticeable lines accent his arms, and his hands are rough and rugged from his work. The rat's nest he calls his hair isn't any cleaner than when he last talked to you; it's still matted with dirt and filled with sand, gathering in thick, coarse bundles and forming what it is now.
"...Are you expecting me to admire you?" you ask him, "Come now, you can't be serious. I'm only here to aid in your revenge. Nothing more, nothing less."
He laughs at this.
"No, not at all. The suit, it's unbearably hot, is all," he chuckles, "Are you at least enjoying the view?"
He looks at you with narrowed fox-like eyes. He knows you're taking a look at him, of course, but he's the only other person in the room, and the only thing close to good company that you have in a world of harsh neon lights, of heartbreak, and of vicious, vicious betrayal. Not that you mind that last one, given who the instigator of the recent events was.
You have a goal, and you shouldn't be enjoying yourself with these things.
You head over to the bed and lay down, gently running your fingers along the end of your feather boa. Your cape lays beneath you, spread like a fan and cascading over the tailcoat and shirt that were haphazardly thrown on the bed.
"...Did I ever tell you," he says suddenly, "Some of the stories I have from Craggy Dale?"
"Not a one," you reply, "I can't imagine why you'd need me to hear any, though."
"I'd like to tell one, or maybe even a few tonight, if possible. I'm not going back on the plan to return there," he sighs, "I just feel that it'll help calm my nerves in preparation for the next act."
"If that's the case, then go right ahead," you say.
"All right. Well, there was this one time...It happened not too long after I arrived in the town," he begins, "And there was this little girl. She and I, we'd gotten along quite well. I don't think a lot of the town trusted me just then, but this girl, she adored me. I'd been working my hardest, of course, because hard work was the easiest way to get people to trust you in Craggy Dale. It was the only way, from what I saw. Anyway, this girl...She managed to turn the entire town against her in the span of about half an hour."
"Oh?" you reply, listening...intently. You didn't expect to do that-You expected to simply let him talk to you, all out of simple pity, and yet, somehow, he sounds so genuine. If he's about to pour his heart out...Well, you're ready. (Hopefully.)
"Firth, he wanted my head after this incident. All she said was 'Mister Randall, you have to hide me!' What did I do? I listened to her," he continues, "And there was a crowd asking around about her. I thought her parents were just worried at the time, that this tiny girl was just lost and her parents hadn't found her...It turns out...that was the local troublemaker. At that point, she'd run off from a local shop with a hefty sum of money. She'd been damaging fields at her worst, and much of the town hated her. After that incident, even I did, but...At the same time...I don't ever think she intended to cause so much damage. She was horrible back then, yes, but...I can't imagine that she'd have gone so far as to actively want the local farmers to starve. Well, I'd hidden her pretty well before I found this all out. When she was caught, she pointed fingers right away...And I didn't bother to save my own skin."
You wonder why he's telling you all of this, honestly, because you know he's getting to something bigger. You're nodding, giving him your full attention, knowing this is going to lead somewhere.
"...Three days later, her family left abruptly, leaving behind almost everything they owned. I remember seeing her before they left, though-I'd been up early as part of my punishment-and she was wearing her mother's coat. A long, dark blue coat," he sighs, an air of nostalgia surrounding him, "Her father was dressed in something similar, if I remember correctly. Then, he called her over...And she was gone, just like that. We've never been able to explain what happened to them, and nobody ever found out where they went. I know I'm just rambling at this point, but...I was wondering if you had any idea."
You have a very clear idea of what became of this small family.
"No," you lie, "I can't imagine why they'd have left like that."
He shakes his head.
"It's not particularly interesting, and I'm sorry, but...That was my first experience out there. The town's way of saying 'Welcome to your new life,' and its way of telling me to leave the past behind," he says, his voice descending into a growl, "I should have never listened to that. Thank you for showing me the path to what was stolen from me."
"It's no problem at all," you tell him, "Are you feeling any better?"
He nods.
"Much better. Thank you for listening to me. I should be fine now," he sighs, "Though I'm curious about you. I've been curious about you for some time, in fact. I won't pry, I just need to put that out in the open."
You shake your head.
"...Perhaps tomorrow night," you sigh, "Are you willing to wait until then?"
"Of course I am," he replies.
The room falls silent.
You're not quite sure how to respond now-you don't want to tell anything about your past, and you're not sure if he actually has any interesting stories to tell-so you don't say a word. You simply lie on the bed, eyes fixated on the ceiling.
At least until he decides to lie down next to you.
When he does, it doesn't quite register with you for a long moment. His tired-yet-still-wide eyes have focused on you, though it's clear he may be seeking the very thing you are: company. After all, you're all he has right now.
You should have never made it that way.
You are a wicked, wicked creature, and you know it. You have nothing left in you that would ever help someone in any way. In the depths of your despair, you can only look on at the world with a jaded gaze and with a sword by your side. (Usually not literal. Usually.)
When it hits you, however, you look him in the eye like you've never done before.
You are nothing to him, you tell yourself. You've just sent letters and fed his grudge. Nothing good. Somehow, however, he is looking at you and seeing only good in you.
So much good that you can read him like an open book.
You know what he could offer you.
His hand gravitates towards your chest, and you gently bat it away. Somehow, however, you cannot bring yourself to push his body away from you. He is warm.
It's been years since you felt that warmth.
"...Is something the matter?" you say, keeping that helpful facade you've always kept through your meetings with him.
"Er, y-yes," he admits, "There's, ah, something I was hoping to ask about."
You want to feel the warmth of another person against you once again.
"I...I haven't known you for more than a few days, but...Being the Masked Gentleman, it's been dangerous. Stressful. I can't imagine what you've gone through, but I can only imagine how hard it was."
You can't. You've lied to him too many times. You're nothing to him, or at least you will be when everything comes crashing down.
"I was wondering if you'd want to-"
"No," you interject, "I know what you're asking, and I can't."
"...Ah, never mind, then," he says, getting up, "I'm going to take a shower, then. Again...Thank you for listening to me."
He slinks off, and you don't bother to watch him go.
He is beautiful.
Perhaps if you didn't have to lie to him, you would have taken him up on that offer.
Monte d'Or, the city of miracles. A city founded on a search for a single person, the person who just left your side. A city plagued by vicious neon lights and unbearable noise. A city of wins and losses, of the darkest casinos and of the brightest circuses and parades. What lies beneath it is yours for the taking.
Despite any emotions you may feel, you will never feel even a shred of happiness.
As the faint sound of running water from nearby hits your ears, you find it almost...comforting. As if it's going to lull you to sleep.
You aren't even going to bother with taking anything off, however. You've only ever used the inn as a meeting place with him, and things are going to stay that way.
Tonight, when you do inevitably sleep, you're going to sleep with missed opportunities and a grudge in your heart.
You haven't been free for years. You never will be.
You can only silently hope that, when all is said and done, he doesn't come looking for you when he realizes what you're doing.
For yourself.
No.
For everything you've lost.
Surely if you told him, he'd understand.
(He will never know.)