"Are you hungry, Plasmius?" Frederick yelled to Vlad Masters over the blare of death metal, which, upon taking the wheel, he'd turned up to the highest volume possible. "Do you want to stop for a hamburger?"
"No," Vlad hollered back, his unmanicured nails digging deeply into the leather seat on which he sat beside Frederick—a feeble attempt to keep himself from destroying the radio with one hasty blast, or from being driven to the brink of insanity by the endless chant of hatred-driven screaming—screaming that was passed off as singing. "Can we turn the radio down?"
Frederick laughed, a hearty, free-spirited laugh, one that processed not-so-subtle undertones of excitement…and even if it had not, Vlad Masters could see the emotion shining wildly in his eyes, eyes like two oceans that had been polluted by an oil spill. As he observed the lanky teenager, he could only wonder if this exhilaration might be fueled by something other than the thrill of driving again, and in quite the luxurious car, at that. It was something else, something that drove his normal malicious demeanor away, back into the cave from which it crawled, and it lurked discretely beneath his robust but somehow very soft laughter. It skulked where it was rarely seen, and did its work silently, causing Frederick's eyes to glow with a certain beautiful radiance that made him look almost alive again, as Santa Claus does for millions of children on Christmas Eve. This little thing had brought happiness to Freakshow in troves, but what in the hell was it?
"Why would I do that?" Frederick said, clutching his lower belly—at least, where a belly should have been—with one hand and steering with the other, his knuckles whitened as they curled around the wheel with an uncompromised tightness, still laughing. He was staring at Vlad, his eyes glistening wildly with that excitement and that something. "I love this song!"
"I don't care!" Vlad yelled. "You're giving me a headache!"
"Oh, would you relax? You're too high-strung, Plasmius. I know you aren't as old as your hair might suggest, so there isn't a need to act in that way," Frederick said, smiling at him…blindly steering his convertible with one hand, and recklessly. Because he was not watching the road, his hand was jerking slightly, causing the car to swerve left and right randomly, instilling Vlad with a deep sickness.
"It's your damned driving!" Vlad screamed at him, his soft blue eyes now burning with an uncompromised rage.
"I never did get that license," he said, and laughed again.
Vlad's hand shot out then, almost immediately, and spun the knob that controlled the music's volume swiftly so that the car had gone completely silent, and in this silence, the coyote that howled somewhere in the distance was unheard, for their ears were ringing. And then, Frederick was not smiling. In fact, all of the excitement and that underlying emotion had gone with an unbelievable swiftness but very abruptly. Now, something else inhabited his eyes, but it did not shine. The light seemed to dim, and now its dance was not quick and bright like the swirl of bodies in a masquerade but the quiet first-dance of one who does not particularly care for their partner. He was glowering hatefully at Vlad, his young face sporting wrinkles that derived from the question that rang out in his mind like the toll of a tin bell: Did he really just do that?
As if he'd said this aloud, Vlad said quickly, almost skittishly, as if to justify his actions, "You're going to wake him."
"No," Frederick said knowingly, his tongue clicking, shaking his head as he turned back to the road, a dim hatred still burning in his eyes but coupled with something else—a sense of abandonment, as well as an experienced disappointment. "He's not going to wake up. Not for awhile, at least."
"I'm sorry," Vlad said slowly, tiredly, turning to look out the window on his side, unable to stare at that face, for this face, unlike the face of the clown he'd come to know, was young and beautiful and was, in fact, much less difficult to give into. He thought that if he looked into those eyes long enough, he would turn the death metal right back up, whether driven by the dim sense of guilt he now felt or simply the fear that shot sharply through him for what might lie behind those eyes. "I hate it."
"Most people do," Frederick said, and nodded. "Harry certainly didn't."
Vlad Masters' eyebrows came together swiftly. After a moment of silence, he said slowly, his voice calculating and low, "Who is Harry?"
For a very long while, it seemed, Frederick did not respond. Vlad stared out the window, his eyes wide and flooded by thick fear, as he waited for a knife to be shoved into his spine, to be shot in the head with that camera/gun Freakshow kept, to be murdered right there after he writhed awhile in suspense like in every horror movie he'd ever watched as a boy, knowing he would die but not prepared for it in any case. And he did not dare to look around, for he was fearful of what he might see.
But before he could see anything, Frederick's voice came slowly, and if you listened closely enough, it became apparent it held a shaky quality, one which became diluted by his will to keep control, "I'm going to stop for a burger. I'm starving."
"We really should be getting him back before—"
"It won't take long," he reassured. "I'll go through the drive-thru."
"Freakshow—"
"Call me Frederick. As long as I remain like this, call me Frederick."
A/N:
Hey, guys. Wanted to thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to my darling who created perhaps the best (and only) portrait of Freddy, Kvalificatsia of deviantART. If you'd like to see some amazing works for this story, check out her page!
Also, please review and let me know how you like it! I love reviews and would love more of them! Please? *puppy eyes*
~VC or DM
