creeps creeps creeps and derps
WHO: Fakir, Mytho, a boggart
WHERE: The dressing rooms of the academy
WHEN: October 31st, during the after party
WARNINGS: Creeping. Creeping, creeping, creeping.
SUMMARY: Fakir isn't afraid of death anymore.
FORMAT: Paragraphs. OP was composed on AIM.
The party was winding down when Fakir realized that he'd rushed out of the dressing room so eagerly that he had left his book bag behind. Normally he would leave it until the party's end, but he had brought his journal and... that was a little too sensitive, he felt, to leave lying around unsupervised. Madame Haywood provided him with the little key to the boys' dressing room and shooed him off, making a show of teasing him for having forgotten something. How he'd gotten a reputation for being fastidious, he had no idea.
His bag wasn't in sight when he reached the dressing room and got the door open. Not a good sign. He stepped inside and, after groping for the lightswitch a bit, began his search for it. Maybe someone had decided to do him a favor and put it out of sight until morning. Idiots were so helpful.
"Looking for something?"
The familiar voice held a tone that made it utterly wrong; the presence accompanying it deepening that feeling as it near loomed behind him.
Fakir jolted upright, knocking his head on the underside of the dressing table he'd crawled under. He hardly noticed the pain, too focused on the voice and all the awful memories it stirred in him. He whirled around, jaw set and fists clenched.
The shadows of the room half hid the figure as he sat, half perched on chair Fakir had pushed aside, the light falling just right to show the knowing smirk gracing lips that seemed far too red for the figure.
"This, perhaps?" he asked, holding up the journal, lips curving a bit more, a glint of white sparkling in the dim light.
"Yes. That," Fakir said, not daring to move. His eyes fixed on that smile, on those lips, he scowled. He felt compelled to ask, "Who are you?" though he felt he already knew.
The smile grew, the points of the all too sharp teeth catching the light once more. "Do you really need to ask that question, Fakir?"
Slowly, the figure stood, taking a step forward. First the white tights came into the light, then the long flowing shirt, the ruffles of the costume before the boy himself was revealed, eyes red and glittering as they looked on Fakir with an almost hungry expression.
Fakir took a sudden step back, somehow startled but not surprised. The bottles and assorted googaws littering the dressing table clattered, some rolling off the edge. His heart beat rapidly in his chest as he tried to quell his fear with logic. Mytho was still in costume, still wearing those absurd false teeth.
"This isn't a good joke," he said slowly, hoping that the other boy would catch on quickly. That did make sense. Someone had told him that this would be funny.
A soft, dark chuckle as the boy took another step forward, reaching out to lightly touch the side of Fakir's face, fingers trailing down his cheek to ghost over the side of his neck. "It's a good thing it isn't one then," he smiled.
Warmth crept over Fakir's face, and he flinched away. He swallowed. "I mean it. Whoever put you up to this has a twisted sense of humor," he said, a slight tremor of unease working its way into his voice.
Another step closer, the boy's other hand reaching out to rest on Fakir's hip. "It's your own will that made me this, Fakir, you should know that."
Fakir stilled, hands flexing at his sides for lack of any idea what to do with them. "What are you even talking about?" he asked, glowering into the prince's face. "Stop this. I don't know what you're trying to do, but just stop."
"I read it, Fakir. You left it for me to find, didn't you?" The pale figure leaned in closer now, all but pinning Fakir against the wall, red eyes drawing Fakir's own. "All those things you wrote..."
Fakir's eyes widened drastically, and his face turned bright red. He moved to slip past the other boy, shuddering. "You know not to do that," he said, still trying to find reason in all this. He swallowed again, though his mouth had gone dry. Could that have truly...? No, that alone wouldn't have... It could have. Fakir fell silent. He worried that it would all the time, that his affections would warp Mytho and destroy the kind, innocent person he was. Even if it was a joke, it was a frightening one.
The prince gave a cold laugh as Fakir pulled away, turning to keep his eyes on his prey. "Fakir... do you love me? Me and only me?"
Though he'd pulled away, Fakir's eyes remained fixed on Mytho, wide and unsure and afraid. "I love Mytho," he said after a long moment.
The prince opened his arms wide, smile growing. "Then come to him, Fakir.... We can be together forever..."
Fakir recoiled. "You aren't Mytho," he hissed, having abandoned all hope that this was a joke. Maybe his sacrifice, Rue's sacrifice, had been in vain. "You're that greedy monster, and I hoped I'd never see you again."
"But you must have, Fakir." The prince took another step forward. "Because I'm here because of you..."
"I am here because you love me," Fakir murmured almost inaudibly to himself, fixed in place as his heart and mind raced.
WHERE: The dressing rooms of the academy
WHEN: October 31st, during the after party
WARNINGS: Creeping. Creeping, creeping, creeping.
SUMMARY: Fakir isn't afraid of death anymore.
FORMAT: Paragraphs. OP was composed on AIM.
The party was winding down when Fakir realized that he'd rushed out of the dressing room so eagerly that he had left his book bag behind. Normally he would leave it until the party's end, but he had brought his journal and... that was a little too sensitive, he felt, to leave lying around unsupervised. Madame Haywood provided him with the little key to the boys' dressing room and shooed him off, making a show of teasing him for having forgotten something. How he'd gotten a reputation for being fastidious, he had no idea.
His bag wasn't in sight when he reached the dressing room and got the door open. Not a good sign. He stepped inside and, after groping for the lightswitch a bit, began his search for it. Maybe someone had decided to do him a favor and put it out of sight until morning. Idiots were so helpful.
"Looking for something?"
The familiar voice held a tone that made it utterly wrong; the presence accompanying it deepening that feeling as it near loomed behind him.
Fakir jolted upright, knocking his head on the underside of the dressing table he'd crawled under. He hardly noticed the pain, too focused on the voice and all the awful memories it stirred in him. He whirled around, jaw set and fists clenched.
The shadows of the room half hid the figure as he sat, half perched on chair Fakir had pushed aside, the light falling just right to show the knowing smirk gracing lips that seemed far too red for the figure.
"This, perhaps?" he asked, holding up the journal, lips curving a bit more, a glint of white sparkling in the dim light.
"Yes. That," Fakir said, not daring to move. His eyes fixed on that smile, on those lips, he scowled. He felt compelled to ask, "Who are you?" though he felt he already knew.
The smile grew, the points of the all too sharp teeth catching the light once more. "Do you really need to ask that question, Fakir?"
Slowly, the figure stood, taking a step forward. First the white tights came into the light, then the long flowing shirt, the ruffles of the costume before the boy himself was revealed, eyes red and glittering as they looked on Fakir with an almost hungry expression.
Fakir took a sudden step back, somehow startled but not surprised. The bottles and assorted googaws littering the dressing table clattered, some rolling off the edge. His heart beat rapidly in his chest as he tried to quell his fear with logic. Mytho was still in costume, still wearing those absurd false teeth.
"This isn't a good joke," he said slowly, hoping that the other boy would catch on quickly. That did make sense. Someone had told him that this would be funny.
A soft, dark chuckle as the boy took another step forward, reaching out to lightly touch the side of Fakir's face, fingers trailing down his cheek to ghost over the side of his neck. "It's a good thing it isn't one then," he smiled.
Warmth crept over Fakir's face, and he flinched away. He swallowed. "I mean it. Whoever put you up to this has a twisted sense of humor," he said, a slight tremor of unease working its way into his voice.
Another step closer, the boy's other hand reaching out to rest on Fakir's hip. "It's your own will that made me this, Fakir, you should know that."
Fakir stilled, hands flexing at his sides for lack of any idea what to do with them. "What are you even talking about?" he asked, glowering into the prince's face. "Stop this. I don't know what you're trying to do, but just stop."
"I read it, Fakir. You left it for me to find, didn't you?" The pale figure leaned in closer now, all but pinning Fakir against the wall, red eyes drawing Fakir's own. "All those things you wrote..."
Fakir's eyes widened drastically, and his face turned bright red. He moved to slip past the other boy, shuddering. "You know not to do that," he said, still trying to find reason in all this. He swallowed again, though his mouth had gone dry. Could that have truly...? No, that alone wouldn't have... It could have. Fakir fell silent. He worried that it would all the time, that his affections would warp Mytho and destroy the kind, innocent person he was. Even if it was a joke, it was a frightening one.
The prince gave a cold laugh as Fakir pulled away, turning to keep his eyes on his prey. "Fakir... do you love me? Me and only me?"
Though he'd pulled away, Fakir's eyes remained fixed on Mytho, wide and unsure and afraid. "I love Mytho," he said after a long moment.
The prince opened his arms wide, smile growing. "Then come to him, Fakir.... We can be together forever..."
Fakir recoiled. "You aren't Mytho," he hissed, having abandoned all hope that this was a joke. Maybe his sacrifice, Rue's sacrifice, had been in vain. "You're that greedy monster, and I hoped I'd never see you again."
"But you must have, Fakir." The prince took another step forward. "Because I'm here because of you..."
"I am here because you love me," Fakir murmured almost inaudibly to himself, fixed in place as his heart and mind raced.