Hello, hello, everyone! Welcome to the first installment of Wicked Wednesdays, my weekly Halloween countdown for October 2012! :3 This story will, in fact, be in two parts, the second half being posted either tomorrow or Friday, simply because it ended up getting terribly long and because the plot is a little bit... ah, convoluted, ahahaha, I felt like it would be a lot to take in all at once.

So this, Yellowing, the first story in the countdown, is a vague Victorian-era(ish) AU with vampires in it. Straight-up Halloween cliche ahoy - except I hope it won't be too cliche, haha.

It takes much of its inspiration from the Bluebeard fairytale/folktale and the title contains a blatant reference to The Yellow Wallpaper and a less blatant reference to The Picture of Dorian Gray.

Yellowing

[1/2]

"It is good of you to come, Monsieur Beilschmidt," Dr Francis Bonnefoy insisted graciously, leaning across the desk. "On such short notice, too. I cannot thank you enough."

"It is nothing," Ludwig Beilschmidt replied with a nod of his head. "Although, if you please, doctor, it is Inspector."

"Of course, of course. I meant no disrespect." Francis leaned back in his chair again, his stiff-laced cravat rustling. "In fact, sir, you have nothing but my utmost respect, hence my sudden invitation."

Ludwig shifted in his seat; he was plainly dressed in comparison to Francis, who - as mayor to his small but well-to-do town - was regaled in an elaborate manner, commanding the finest of silks and velvets to his person.

"You were cryptic in your letter, sir," Ludwig admitted. "I do hope you have not sought to enlist my services by mistake."

Francis shook his head.

"That will not be an issue," he said, lacing his fingers together. "I have been investigating on my own and I am quite convinced that the resolution of this problem will require an individual possessing your unique skills."

Ludwig gave another grave nod.

"You are certain, then, that you have a vampire in your midst?"

"That is what the evidence seems to amount to." Francis lowered his voice, casting his eyes to the window for a brief moment. "The beast in question goes by Lord Arthur Kirkland, a long-time resident in the mansion beyond the outskirts of town. He has taken a great many wives, all of whom have disappeared without a trace. He does not leave the house and does not permit visitors but for one engagement per year: tomorrow evening's Halloween Ball, to which everyone far and wide is invited. People have been known to vanish at these balls, I must add."

Ludwig did not look entirely convinced; but he nodded in understanding and folded his arms.

"You say he does not leave the house?" he repeated. "Then he has servants to run errands for him, I assume."

"Indeed - the usual stock, a few housemaids, a cook, a kitchen-maid, a groom…" Francis frowned. "And then, of course, there is the boy."

"Boy?"

"One might call him the butler," Francis said uneasily, "for certainly he is not a nobleman and seems to earn his keep; but nonetheless he is treated with a great fondness by Kirkland and is dressed very finely. He must be nearing at least eighteen by now; and has been with Kirkland since he was a very small boy." Francis straightened here and gave a haughty sniff. "Of course, he is also a hunchbacked wretch. Perhaps Kirkland merely gets some depraved pleasure out of watching him set to task."

Ludwig coughed.

"I am afraid I cannot make any judgements based on your words, all the same," he said gravely. "I must meet this Lord Kirkland myself in order to determine his nature." He locked his ice-blue eyes on Francis'. "…I do not suppose you might commandeer such an arrangement?"

Francis grinned, smoothing his hair.

"I may have been cryptic with my invitation to you, Inspector," he said, "but my timing was precise. Tomorrow evening is Halloween and you will be accompanying me to Lord Kirkland's ball."

Ludwig cracked a very small smile in reply.

"I shall sharpen my stake."


Alfred was making motions to get out of the grand bed, pushing at the covers, when Arthur reached an arm over his waist and pulled him back.

"I fancy it's too early for that," Arthur whispered in his ear. "Stay a while longer."

Alfred didn't put up much of a fight, nestling back against him with a sleepy smile. Arthur grinned against the curve of his neck and his hand crawled, fingertips encircling Alfred's navel before sliding up over his chest and to his throat; and from here a sweep over the collarbone and firmly, open-palmed, over the hard bulge of twisted bone at his right shoulder. Alfred rolled over and cuddled against him, putting a stop to his wandering.

"I must be up soon," he said in a low voice. "There is much to do today if we are to be ready this evening."

"Ah, yes, that bloody ball of mine," Arthur replied serenely. "People do enjoy themselves at it, don't they?" He walked his fingers up Alfred's spine, making him squirm. "…That is, the ones who leave in one piece."

"Oh!" Alfred bolted upright. "That reminds me, I must bring in the pumpkins if they are to be carved!"

Arthur withdrew, yawning.

"Oh, very well," he grumbled, "if you simply must away at this ghastly hour."

"Shall I bring your breakfast up?" Alfred asked, fetching his livery and beginning to dress before the fire.

"That would be most kind," Arthur said, resting his cheek on one hand to watch the altogether very fine spectacle of Alfred dressing. "I might sleep the morning - I shan't want to be tired tonight and I'm not as young as I used to be."

"You are too hard on yourself." In full splendour, Alfred came to the bedside and sat down to reach for the comb on his cabinet. His disfigurement was small and seemed to matter nothing when one considered that he had the face of an angel - but nonetheless the anomaly in his spine made it more difficult for him to use his right arm.

"Allow me." Arthur took the comb from his hand and pulled himself closer, sitting up to drag the bone teeth through Alfred's corn-gold hair.

"I can do it myself," Alfred grumbled; though he allowed him to do it, polishing his glasses instead.

"I know," Arthur sighed, "but it is a small pleasure of mine. My hair is only good for oiling back these days."

Alfred turned to him and touched his face with a familiar tenderness.

"Do not be melancholy," he said with a smile. "I will bring your breakfast hence and then you may sleep; and this evening you will be in the highest of spirits."

"You are too good to me," Arthur muttered.

"I am, rather," Alfred replied with a grin, pulling back. He started away; but Arthur caught his sleeve, holding him until he turned in puzzlement.

"Before that, however," Arthur said, "would you be so kind as to bring me a glass of water?" He kneaded at his forehead. "I still have the taste of blood in my mouth from last night."


Along the balcony jutting forth above the grand entrance hall hung a great many paintings; and among these was a large splendid one of Lord Arthur Kirkland in the flesh of his youth, a handsome young man in his scarlet dress uniform with soft flaxen hair and piercing green eyes. Though one could still see the decaying remains of this most Romantic figure in Arthur now, Alfred had never known him to look exactly as this portrait showed. He was no older than twenty-five, forever young between brushstrokes and canvas; but he had been in his forties when Alfred had first met him. Now at fifty-four, he was thirty-six years Alfred's elder and had that ethereal echo about him, the one that suggested he had once been in possession of good looks but had long since lost his grip on them.

He was still blonde but the way his hair fell wildly around his face in the painting no longer suited him, hence he wore it combed back in a manner which served to make his thick eyebrows even more severe. He was not the slender creature of this caricature, either, having poured on weight like water in the last decade. Indeed, he over-ate in a manner much akin to panic and drank far too much, too; though perhaps at least half of it came down to mere boredom, since it was true that he had little to occupy his days with. He walked with a cane, a handsome birch whittling with a carved ivory handle, a discharge gift from the army: nothing to do with age, actually, and all to do with some rotten injury or other from serving overseas. He slept a lot and hadn't, to Alfred's knowledge, had a clean bill of health in years.

However, he had a pleasant enough temper, seeming to care about very little; and he had always been very good to Alfred, whom he had found huddled and begging on the streets some twelve years ago (shortly before he shut himself up in his house). Nobody, in fact, had ever been as kind to Alfred as Arthur had; children like him, ones with twisted backs and the like, weren't even considered fit enough for the workhouse and thrown out into the street to die. It was the first time anyone had ever looked twice at him in anything other than revulsion.

It wasn't a free ride, of course. He had been bathed, fed, given new clothes and a room of his own and more or less installed as Arthur's aide, a role which he had been performing ever since. He ran intimate errands for him, sorted his mail, looked after his clothes, brought him tea and generally just kept him company; Arthur paid him small wage, enough to buy little personal things if he desired, in addition to free room and board in return for his service and his silence.

Serving as Arthur's bedmate was newer, occasioning on the eve of Alfred's seventeenth birthday. As Arthur was the only person who had ever shown him such kindness - and this being a new, gentle demand from him - Alfred had not resisted him, growing to enjoy it on subsequent occasions. He had seen the way the young girls in the town looked at him when he was on his errands; their bright smiles at his face turned to side-eyed sighs of disgust when they saw his back and the strange, lopsided posture it gave him. It was clear to him that they would never find him attractive, nobody would, that wasn't the way of their world; but Arthur, the man who had saved him, did. Arthur thought he was beautiful, hunch and all.

They were well-matched, locked up together in their old house, far away from the rest of the world.

(Ah, of course, there were the wives; but none of them lasted very long at all.)


"There you are." Arthur's cane tapped impatiently behind Alfred, who sat on the back steps gutting a plump amber-skinned pumpkin. "…I expect you lost track of the time?"

"Oh!" Alfred tipped his head back to look up at him, his blue eyes wide. "I was not sure when you would rise, I confess."

"It's two o' clock," Arthur said archly; meaningfully. "Tea-time."

"Sorry," Alfred said guiltily, putting the pumpkin aside. "I got carried away doing these pumpkins for the lanterns. Please, do retire to the drawing room and I shall be right up with the tray!"

"Oh, no matter," Arthur sighed, waving his hand at him. "I slept until midday, anyway - I suppose I can bear to push it back an hour." He nodded to the hoard of hollowed-out pumpkins as he manoeuvred his bulk in a careful manner to sit next to Alfred. "I see your time has not been ill-spent, either way."

Alfred grinned cheerfully, holding one up.

"I thought I might carve amusing faces in them," he said. "What do you think?"

"That might be witty," Arthur agreed calmly, lighting himself a little thin cigar. The puff of sweet smoke capered away on the crisp October air and Arthur gave a contented sigh before he started coughing violently, doubling over.

Alfred patted gently at his back. He did not look at him.

"Shall I fetch you some water?" he asked quietly.

Easing, Arthur waved his hand at him again before taking his cigar back to his lips for another defiant drag.

"No, I'm quite alright," he rasped, knocking his fist against his chest. "Just catches up to me, you know…" He took a breath and dissolved into violent hacking once more, dropping his cigar as blood spattered over his clamped fingers. Alfred bent and picked up the smouldering smoke, looking at Arthur over his glasses.

"Excuse me," Arthur said weakly, hurriedly pulling out his handkerchief to wipe his hand clean. "I-I should go back inside."

"Of course." Alfred took his elbow and helped him to get up. "Do you need assistance?" He bit at his bottom lip. "You seem… awfully weak-"

"I'll be alright, you have my word." Arthur shot him a wan smile before hoisting himself back up the step with his cane. He drifted indoors again, slow and deliberate, and Alfred could hear him coughing once more from beyond the parlour.

Leaning back against the stonework, Alfred exhaled and looked at the cigar burning away between his fingers; he did not have a habit of smoking but he finished it, the acrid taste blazing unpleasantly in the back of his throat. He looked out over the grounds, the sun beginning to slink west and gild everything with an amber blush. There was a fresh, crisp earthiness to the air, one that would no doubt carry well into the night. His gaze slid to his pumpkins, piled high like battle-won heads, their innards slopping up the sides of the basin on the bottom step. How splendid they would look tonight in in glowing rank.

He tossed the remains of the cigar into the guts bucket and sat down again, reaching for his pumpkin. It was hard work and he was better with his left arm than his right, clamping them between elbow and ribcage and making a clean job of a messy one as he scooped out their flesh one by one and gave them their faces.

Suddenly it seemed like terribly lonely work.


The jack-o-lanterns were set out in neat rows on the kitchen table downstairs, awaiting their candles; cleaned up, Alfred took the tray up to the bright drawing room, where Arthur liked to work because there was a large couch for him to rest on if he needed it. This was always the first place he looked for him.

Lo and behold, the couch was fulfilling its purpose, Arthur fast asleep in the sun. Alfred quietly closed the door behind him and brought the tray to the coffee table, setting it down. If nothing else, the aroma of tea usually roused him.

Alfred knelt on the carpet beside him, looking down the length of his body. He lay in a twisted manner, making him bulge rather more in places than he might have otherwise, his buttons straining and his silk waistcoat pulled taut over the mounds of flesh beneath. This, of course, was Arthur's hard-won victory, his constant battle to stay as overweight as he possibly could; and Alfred had never known him to be the thin, fit soldier of his most noble portrait, anyway.

His breath came in a rasp, however, and his hair was starting to lose its slick, feathering in little loose fronds around his face. Alfred bent over him, kissing his temple, and then brushed the back of his hand over his rounded cheek, down in a barely-there sweep to his double-chin and the crook of his neck. Arthur stirred, his brow scrunching in irritation.

"Hello," Alfred greeted him gently, smiling as he opened his eyes.

"Good afternoon," Arthur murmured, shielding his eyes from the late honeyed sun. He shifted, pushing Alfred's hand away. "Goodness, I've slept most of the day." He shot Alfred a watery smile. "You'll have to forgive me, I haven't much energy today."

"It's alright, save your strength for this evening." Alfred settled comfortably on his knees next to the coffee table and pulled the tray closer. "I made tea and sandwiches."

"That sounds wonderful," Arthur said absently, looking up at the ceiling. "…Though, truth be told, I'm not all that hungry."

"You should eat something all the same," Alfred pressed, pouring out the tea. And then, when he got no response, more urgently: "Arthur. Please."

"Oh, come off it," Arthur sighed, turning his face to grin weakly at him. "I'm hardly wasting away."

Alfred said nothing to this, only slammed Arthur's teacup down before him and followed with a plate of small, triangular cucumber sandwiches.

"You only ate half of your breakfast," he said coolly. "Now sit up."

"Alfred, you are lucky I'm much too fond of you to kick you down the stairs," Arthur grumbled, taking a grip on the back of the couch to haul himself upright; this proved to be too much for one of his gilt buttons, which jumped ship and bounced loudly across the floorboards. "…Case in point," he went on flatly, looking down at the gaping gap in his waistcoat.

"I'll sew it back on for you," Alfred said nonchalantly, reaching for the button and pocketing it. He stirred his own tea, watching Arthur through his eyelashes. "Will you eat?"

Arthur sighed, taking up his teacup and setting the saucer carefully on his lap.

"I'm so very tired of destroying my body," he said quietly. "All of my joints ache from the weight…" He coughed a little bit into his fist. "It doesn't help that I have hardly any energy, besides."

"Perhaps we shall have to look into acquiring you a wheelchair," Alfred said airily. "I don't mind pushing you around."

"Perhaps," Arthur echoed sadly. "…My, you are full of solutions today, aren't you?"

"I am at your service."

"Oh, and now we're being formal," Arthur said with a smirk. "Very well."

"Arthur," Alfred sighed, looking at him with a pained expression, "I don't want you to be uncomfortable. Anything I can do to help-"

"I know," Arthur interrupted, looking up at the ceiling rose, "but please don't forget how ill I am, love. It'll make it all the worse in the long run."

Alfred fell quiet, distractedly chasing his lemon wedge around his cup. Arthur sipped at his tea, his eyes closing with relish.

"I was making a few little adjustments to the will before my nap," he went on calmly. "Perhaps you would care to look over it when we are done here?"

Alfred was silent for a moment.

"Alfred?"

"Tomorrow." Alfred cleared his throat apologetically. "Per… perhaps tomorrow. I have much on my mind today."

"Ah." Arthur smiled. "Well, yes, maybe that would be for the best. I suppose I forget that you are also my housekeeper, amongst other things. Much of the preparation for this evening's ball has fallen to you."

"I hope we will be ready," Alfred sighed. He watched Arthur pick up one of the tiny thin sandwiches and turn it this way and that. "…Those are samples, Arthur."

"Oh, for tonight?" Arthur took a tiny bite out of the corner and chewed thoughtfully. "It's very good."

Alfred raised his eyebrows as he finished his tea.

"Did you even get any cucumber?"

"I'm sorry, I really haven't much of an appetite," Arthur sighed miserably. "I haven't for a few days now." He took another bite with a bit of effort. "Perhaps I shall feel more like eating tonight."

Alfred set down his teacup and looked at the clock on the wall. It was nearing five o' clock and the ball began at seven.

"I should go upstairs and set out your clothes," he said. "You will need assistance in dressing?"

"I should have thought so, if it doesn't trouble you."

"Not at all." Alfred rose and nodded to him. "I'll be up at around six. If you'll excuse me."

"Of course, love."

Alfred started briskly away, his empty teacup in hand.

"Oh, Alfred!" Arthur called to him suddenly. "Be a lamb - while you're up, can you put the will back in the desk drawer? I shan't be going back to it today. The key is beside the inkwell."

"Of course." Alfred doubled back, heading to the desk; setting the teacup down with a clatter, he snatched up the papers and bundled them back into their manila folder without looking at them, shoving them into the drawer with little ceremony.

"Gently, Alfred," Arthur chided him without even looking.

"Sorry." Alfred locked the drawer and came back to the couch. "Here's the key."

"Will you look after it for now?" Arthur asked, looking up at him. "There isn't room for even a speck of dust in these pockets of mine. I believe I can feel another button about to go."

"Certainly." Alfred slipped the little key into his own pocket. "Will that be all?"

"Quite."

"Then I shall see you at six for dressing."

"You'd best bring the crowbar, I think."

"I believe we'll manage," Alfred said stiffly.

"Hmm." Arthur looked up at him. "…Alfred, I know it isn't pleasant to talk about but it is going to happen. I just want to ensure that everything is prepared."

"I know." Alfred stepped back. "Ex-excuse me, Arthur, I really must be going. I have a lot to attend to."

Arthur said nothing else, only nodded. Alfred hurried from the room, making no pretence about it, not even stopping to retrieve his teacup; he fled along the corridor and burst out onto the balcony, leaning over it to gather his breath in great gasps. There were a few maids in the empty entrance hall below, putting the final touches to the grand Halloween decorations which would greet their guests in two hours time. Their presence made him bite back the sob welling in his chest and instead he drew a single shaky breath, straightening. Arthur's painting loomed over him and he turned towards it, looking up to the towering splendour of the very last of this old bloodline, the strong young soldier immortal by the gift of art.

How he longed for him; he, who had never known Arthur as anything but old and sick, as a man obsessed with gaining weight in a desperate, foolish measure to preserve himself from the tuberculosis killing him as long as he could. Arthur had married, of course; several times, in fact, but they had been a means to an end. He had never had any children. He had never found anyone to be happy with - but for Alfred, it seemed, though he already had tuberculosis by then, having contracted it years before in a military hospital.

Alfred envied and coveted this young Arthur, who had his whole life ahead of him; a life that might have been spent with Alfred had their births not been decades apart. They were lovers, yes, but not the lovers that they might have been, had the circumstances been different. Arthur was the most important thing in the whole world to him, he thrived on his companionship and adored him as his saviour, and soon he would be taken from him. It was clear to anyone just how ill Arthur was becoming and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, Alfred could do.

He didn't want to be alone again. A houseful of blood was no substitute for love.


I know jack-o-lanterns are actually a fairly modern addition to Halloween celebrations but Tim Burton has them in Sleepy Hollow (set in 1799) and if Tim Burton says it's okay then it's okay. :3

Part II soon! Here's to a spooktacular October, everyone!

(Btw, thanks to Haku for her encouragement to totally destroy everyone's mental image of Arthur, that hot young collection of droopy islands, by making him old and overweight and terminally ill. Also not forgetting Alfred's Quasimodo look, lolololol.)