This is the third-to-last installment of Blood like sunlight, the series of Princess Tutu oneshots based on random music. It's the longest and the darkest.
For all those who don't like the idea of Autor ever doing anything to Rue without her permission, well, I don't like it either. They're good people, my favorite characters. I had to set up the situation very carefully and work very hard to keep it as in-character as possible.
As such, this is not a noncon or rapefic. All that happens is touching, and the sexual assault is NOT meant to be "hot". I'm not going to make Autor and Rue act OOC to fulfill a domination fantasy. This is meant to be an exploration of two people caught in a horrible situation who make the wrong choices. Autor is not a monster; Rue is not a victim.
So if you're disgusted by it, well, I am too. That's the point. And if you're looking for a lemon, sorry, this isn't.
Song: Un matin tu dansais
Artist: Daniel Lavoie, Helene Segara
Album: Notre Dame De Paris soundtrack, original French
Focus: dark, creepy Autor/Rue
Scenario: Post-series
Rating: R (T)
Warnings: Sexual assault, as well as discussions of abuse and very dark elements.
Notes: The song is a duet between Frollo and Esmeralda in a French musical based on the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
It starts out with them singing about how they met the one they love, to a light, yearning, slightly twinkly tune. Then he gives her the choice of sleeping with him or dying. She threatens to kill him. It ends with him trying to rape her. All through, it uses the same beautiful tune with only the raw passion of the singers' voices to convey what's really happening.
Frollo, though, is not the xenophobic raging nutcase that Disney made him out to be. It's not malice, but repression and passion that drives him to this point. He's a tragic figure in the musical.
So now that you know what you're in for, enjoy. This is my favorite fic of the series, and I hope you weren't scared away by the explanation. I just don't want anyone upset.
I promise to return you
This is how they say the story goes: the prince and princess fly off in a carriage made of sunlight and majesty, off to start a new life.
Autor straightens his glasses, adjusts his collar, swallows deeply, and knocks on Rue's door.
It takes a few minutes for her to come answer it. She holds the jacket of her old school uniform together with one hand. Underneath, she's wearing her fuscia satin nightgown. She nods curtly and retreats back inside.
He comes in, closes the door behind him, and watches her hips as she goes to the kitchen and sits at the table.
The kitchen is spotless in a way that suggests little use. The table and cabinets and chairs are all dark wood with carved embellishments painted in gold. On one counter, a few spices are opened and spilled.
The two fidget for a while. Then they both mutter "sorry" at the same time.
Autor grinds his teeth together.
"I'm sorry," Rue says again.
"Don't mention it," he says, and adjusts his glasses. Her face is right on a thumbprint, light gray smeared over it.
"You didn't need to come."
"I, um, thought you'd like to know I'm getting earplugs," he says.
She stares at the table. "Sorry—"
"Rue…it's alright. I wanted—look, just tell me what happened."
"I have nothing to say," she says, and he hears an edge slide into her voice. She stands up, goes to the counter, opens a drawer, begins to arrange the fine china.
"Is he gone?" Autor asks.
"I haven't seen him since last night," she says to the china. "He's probably somewhere in the woods. It wasn't so bad, I don't think he's that upset."
"That's good," he says. "Give him some space and we can wait here."
She finishes arranging the china. "Alright, thank you." She turns to smile at him, or at least turn her lips upward. "You're always there, I'm glad you put up with me. Don't you have practice for a recital today?"
He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, coughs. "Yes, in fact."
"Then you should get—"
"Why are you wearing your academy jacket?"
She closes the cabinet door quickly. "I'm cold. And it's rude and improper to appear like this before you."
He stands, slowly, gripping the chair as if he can't muster the strength to support himself. "He didn't—"
This is what they don't tell you: the way she shrinks back when you get close to her now, the screaming at all hours of the night, the prince sobbing and clawing at the door while she holds the key and leans on it and tells him she's leaving, leaving, leaving, once she can move again.
"You're going to be late," Rue says, as evenly as possible.
"Sit down and let's talk."
They stare at each other for a few minutes. He traces in his mind the order of the muffled words and slamming doors and footsteps.
"You're blowing things out of proportion again," she says. "We only have a few days left, you got the letter…please, don't treat me like this. I know what I'm doing. You might not think it's worth—I'm just worrying you, trust me."
Autor begins to pace, from the end of the table to the end of the room and back again. "And what if they don't come back in time? Are you going to get Charon?"
"If I feel like I need to—"
"And by that time he's got the door locked and his hand over your mouth?"
Her grip on the jacket tightens.
"What happened last night?" Autor takes a step toward her. She presses herself against the counter. "What did he—"
"At least trust me to know when I'm in danger," Rue says.
He walks toward her, slowly as he can, and she flinches and looks at the wall and pulls at her jacket. Then, he's right in front of her. So close he could lean in and put his lips over hers.
She turns her gaze to him, looks up into his eyes, and he sees the same fervor and pride in her expression as when she backed him against a wall three years ago.
Then she lets go of her jacket, shrugs it off her shoulders. The purpled pink of her nightgown makes her skin seem even more luminous. White, porcelain as the china, unblemished from the curve of her neck to her tiny shoulders to her cleavage, outlined in the dip of her nightgown.
Mytho didn't lay a finger on her last night.
This is what they don't care about: a boy who isn't beautiful or chosen enough to be a prince lives next door, and he awakes sometimes to listen and imagine the princess cares he does so.
He forgets to breathe. She stares up at him.
"So it was just words," he says.
She gets up, presses herself to him. The jacket slides off the countertop and to the floor. She wraps her arms around him and buries her face in his neck.
He stumbles backward, slightly, to catch her and hold her and swallow until his throat is dry and empty.
"Whatever he said, you know he's not right," Autor says. "Come on, you need to go lay down."
They walk together to her bedroom, holding hands, gazed fixed on the floor when they aren't looking at each other miserably. But once they get to the bedroom, she refuses to lay down on the bed.
The bed is gigantic, its royalty almost too big for the Kinkan-size room. It is draped with a rich canopy of red and purple and deep-ocean blue. It reminds her of her husband, Autor knows. But he can't get her to come over to his house, no matter how easy walking next door and laying down on his bed sounds.
"If you don't sleep you'll be even worse off than you are now," he says.
She lets go of his hand.
"Remind me why we sent them away in the first place," she says, voice barely above a whisper.
He rolls his eyes, huffs "god, Rue, really", then realizes and shakes his head. "I'm sorry. That was—but please. You've got to sleep."
"There's no cure to find," she says. "There doesn't need to be one. Fakir can't write about him. The only thing that needs to happen—"
"I know, I know," he says, and takes off his glasses and cleans them.
She nods, and sits down on the bed to prove she can.
The words on his lips aren't his own, and they're so practiced they're effortless. "You wait for your miracle, because he was strong enough before. You trust in the connection you two share. And you'll stick by him no matter what."
He finishes, goes to a dresser and sets his glasses down.
"Yes," she says.
"But in the meantime, Fakir and Ahiru will look into that healing mechanism, and you need to rest. You need to let me help you. Lay down, I'll keep watch."
She's suddenly drawing into herself, glancing at the bed as if it's a trap.
He feels something very bad come up very suddenly in the pit of his stomach.
This is what they didn't count on: the enemy, as in all fairytales, persists beyond death, and it knows them inside and out, and there's a clattering in the gigantic ballroom which before now had been colorful and perfect and happily ever, and the princess stands and announces the prince must be brought up to his room, must be subdued, must be saved.
"Lay down," he says.
"I'm not tired, I slept last night—"
He steps forward, reaches out to lay a hand on her shoulder. She shivers, goes rigid, stares at the wall.
"He hurt you," Autor whispers. She opens her mouth, but he talks before she can. "You were pretending and I almost thought because there weren't any marks…but he hurt you."
She draws away from him. "No, stop, he didn't hit me."
Autor lowers himself until he is on one knee in front of her, his hands covering hers.
"No, he didn't hit you," he says.
"Let go," she says. Her chest heaves up and down.
He does. He lets his hands fall. Then, he grabs her waist.
Her head snaps up and she looks at the ceiling. "It isn't—"
Autor shakes, digging his fingers into her, feeling her moan in his chest. "Just because he's your husband, he…"
"I don't care—"
Autor springs up suddenly, hauling her onto the bed. "What did he do to you?"
He towers over her. She curls up into herself, turning to her side. She isn't going to look at him, maybe ever again.
"If you tell him no, he has no right," he says. "Not as your prince or as your husband."
She shivers. "I don't care. Maybe being with me…touching me…will bring up the old…in him. I swear he's almost gentle sometimes. It brings us closer to…" the last word is a reverent whisper. "…before…"
Autor climbs onto the bed.
"I swear it isn't that big of a deal," she says.
He moves over her.
Rue looks to the side, but he turns her chin to face him and kisses her. "I'm as much of Mytho as that thing is," he says across her lips. "so let's get closer to before."
She pulls away, curls up into herself. He moves his hand lower, to her neck, lower still, to rest on her heart.
"What happened last night?" he asks, his other hand capturing hers and entwining their fingers.
She doesn't answer.
He cups her breast. "Did he touch you like this?"
She grits her teeth and arches her neck, staring past him, to the drapes. "Yes."
"And then…?" he asks, brushing over her stomach and then tracing her hips.
"No," she says.
He fingers her thigh. "Or did he do this?"
Her breath hitches. She looks up at him, hatred in her eyes.
"I bet you didn't look at him like that," he says, and grabs one thigh to pull it from the other.
"You don't understand—"
He reaches up and tangles his fingers in her nightgown, pulling it to her waist.
"You said I wasn't fit to see you like this," he says. Even he doesn't expect the growl in his voice. "when you were the one who led me on back in the story and caught me. When every day I try to help you, when you know that I love you…"
"Then stop," she says.
Before he knows it he's shaking, holding onto her nightgown for support, waves of guilt and anger rolling over him. He wants to keep himself away from her. He wants to kill himself for touching her. He just went and—
He looks down. A small, cruel smile lights her face.
She will always be the one with the power. He lets go, sits up, stumbles out of the bed.
"Get out of my room," she says.
"He must be inhuman, to control you."
She sits up, adjusts her nightgown. "I told you, it's not over yet. I will save him again. I don't need your help."
He turns away from her. "I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me."
He knows she's sneering without looking at her.
"You promised then that you'd give up your life to save me," she says. "Your dreams of heroism should be a small price."
"You've got to get away from him," Autor says. "And get some sleep. I'll be next door if you need me."
"Night," she says.
He races out the door, down the hall, their hands tangled together. To the kitchen, she holds him. He leaves her house, slams the door, leans against it.
"It's morning," he says to himself. "It's morning."