The Devil's Joke - Chapter 1
Title: The Devil’s Joke - Chapter 1
Rating: Nc-17 (overall)
Characters: Canada, America, England, France, North Italy, Prussia, Spain, South Italy, and a few others. This also includes their dark (or merely unfortunate) counterparts in the other world.
Pairings: Canada/America, Canada/others, Germany/Italy (other pairings, etc.)
Warnings: This story follows both the regular, light-hearted hetalia!universe as well as the dark alternate universe it crosses over with. Having said that, be prepared for a little violence, suggested dub-con/non-con, hate!sex, and a bit of language... It’s a psychological twist. My apologies.
Disclaimer: The rightful owner would never, in their right mind, treat these beloved characters as horrendously as I do...
Summary: Somewhere through the looking glass, Mephistophelian shadows stir...and they yearn for Matthew like nothing they’ve ever craved before.
~*~The Other~*~
Alone at last, he collapses to his knees on the hardwood floor, exhausted, faint, already stretched beyond his capabilities. The floor whines beneath his weight, a low creak in the otherwise silent room, before his focus narrows to the pounding of his heart and the sound of the wind whistling through the eaves.
Eyes stinging, mouth dry, the air rushes from his lungs in a strangled sob. The first of many. This is his only chance to vent.
God is watching, but He mustn’t care.
No one cares...
He curls his arms around his chest as he chokes on the next gulp of air, tears warm where they trickle down his face. He can’t count the number of times he’s come up here to hide. Too many, he thinks. Too many to count. Too many to continue going on like this...
He’s tired.
He’s just so goddamn tired...
“I know.”
The voice startles him, but he doesn’t flinch. He’s too sore to move.
Lifting his head, vision blurry through the tears, he discerns the faint silhouette of a man sitting on his old oak trunk, back to the attic window, where the sunlight filters in around his head. It’s a mockery of a halo.
Be that as it may, this is as close to angel as he’s ever been.
“W-why are you here?”
“For you, of course,” the shade coos softly, offering his hand in a gesture of goodwill. “Tell me that you want this to end, and I’ll do it. Just for you.”
“That’s not how you operate...”
“For you,” he muses, “I’ll try. No more worries, no more pain-you’ll go on living as though you’ve never known them at all.”
Even if he’s telling the truth, there’s no erasing what’s been done to him...
There’s just no way.
Even so...
“When was the last time you smiled, Matthew?”
...he takes his hand.
~*~Matthew Williams~*~
“Stop that, please.”
Alfred glances at him out of the corner of his eye and pauses, mid-munch, before stuffing the rest of the French fry into his mouth. The chewing commences, lips firmly sealed, and he grins arrogantly as though he hadn’t been stirring up any trouble at all.
Matthew has a feeling he’s only doing this to irritate him.
Holding his hands up in mock surrender, Alfred rolls the top of the MacDonald’s bag shut and pushes it over to the side, away from his paperwork. Matthew’s been trying to pay attention to France’s speech, but it’s an incredible feat when the seating plan put them together, and the smell of the food is actually starting to work on his appetite, and he’s jet-lagged, so, really...
How is he supposed to focus?
“I’m still hungry.”
“Our lunch break is in half an hour.”
“What? I’m a growing country.”
Matthew hasn’t forgotten ‘Manifest Destiny’ just yet, so he excuses his behaviour as a pre-emptive measure on his nation’s behalf and takes the liberty of punching Alfred in the shoulder.
Not hard enough to hurt, of course.
“...You hit like a little girl.”
“You’re getting fat, Alfred.”
“Okay, ouch. You don’t see me making fun of your silly, little, pseudo-French, do you?”
Even though they’re both smiling, Matthew’s prepared to smack him again-but then England throws him a certain ‘look’ from where he sits across the table and it gives Matthew reason to pause as he weighs the repercussions of being chastised by his former guardian in public. Considering the sad amount of attention he’s given most of the time, he really doesn’t want to tarnish the vague image the world already has of him.
(Even if it’ll give his brother a good laugh....)
Taking note of England’s attention, Alfred hums pleasantly in the back of his throat as he settles comfortably into his seat. Satisfied to having won their little banter, Alfred nudges his ankle gently under the table and starts twirling his pencil between his fingers. Foosh-foosh-foosh. Right next to his ear.
Foosh-foosh-foosh...
Foosh-foosh-foosh...
“I swear to God, Alfred-”
“-Merci,” Francis finishes at long last with a little wave of his hand and a courteous bow, ignoring the gentle applause of his peers in favour of glancing briefly at North Italy where the nation is sleeping soundly to his left. A quick nudge from Ludwig startles him from his siesta-an odd sight, in and of itself, considering Feliciano usually avoids napping out in public...
Somehow, Francis’ apparent amusement manages to smooth over the unintended insult.
Matthew would’ve felt guilty himself for losing attention halfway through the speech, but the foosh-foosh-foosh is really starting to get to him and he can’t focus on much of anything other than the smug look on his brother’s face.
He wants to put an end to that sound. Badly. So he reaches over-
-and steals Alfred’s lunch.
“Wait-what?”
Leaning back in his chair, holding the bag as far from his brother as he possibly can, Matthew listens idly to Ludwig as the German announces their break. Alfred will get his lunch back, eventually, but not, perhaps, before Matthew’s had a chance to wolf down the remainder of his fries.
“Mattie-Mattie, come on... You can’t do this to me.”
“It’s a heart attack in disguise. You’ll thank me in future.”
Almost completely sprawled across Matthew’s lap, fingers brushing the side of the bag, Alfred comes pretty close to knocking them both over when the tries to lunge for the meal in question. “But don’t you love me, babe?!”
Matthew snorts derisively-but loses his grip when Alfred inadvertently elbows him in the stomach, knocking his glasses askew in the process. Matthew lets him have the bag but gets one last shot in by shoving Alfred off his lap and onto the floor.
Taking a moment to collect himself, Alfred jumps back to his feet and dusts off his pants before fishing a fry out of the bag. Waving it triumphantly in Matthew’s face, he pops it into his mouth with a decisive smirk, and settles back into his chair.
He chews loudly before swallowing.
“...Victory’s never tasted this sweet.”
Matthew snorts again but doesn’t turn down the fry offered him. He knows how to pick his battles. “Does this mean you’re finally going to stop gloating about the American Revolution?”
“Pft. Fat chance. You gonna kick Quebec out any time soon or would you rather we not talk about it?”
“That doesn’t even compare.”
“Cry me a river, Mattie,” he quips. “But speaking of victories...you gonna help me celebrate?” He finishes the offer with a suggestive brow-wiggle, but keeps his voice low enough to avoid drawing the attention of the herd of nations migrating to the door. “You’ve left me in something of a dry spell since last week, babe.”
“Don’t be lecherous,” Matthew scolds, trying-and failing-to take another swing at his brother.
Thankfully, the great U.S. of A. doesn’t see Francis looming behind him.
“I’ll give up on the lechery when you finally see reason, Matt. Just embrace you’re inner cowgirl and let the good times roll, you know? It isn’t called the ‘wild’ west for nothing.”
Oh, he knows alright...
And so does Francis, which is what earns his brother a well-timed slap to the back of the head.
“Ow.”
“Salaud...”
“Hey-no outside interference, frenchie! This business is strictly between the Americas.”
“Mon petite deserves so much better,” Francis groans. “Such beauty is wasted on the beast.”
“You’ve obviously never seen Disney then, have you?”
Francis smacks him again and looks as though he’s winding up for a good, long rant, but the sight of Feliciano making a beeline for the door distracts him the second he opens his mouth. The frustration visibly eases from his face, promptly replaced by something Matthew can only describe as a cross between mischief and prurience, before darting off after his next victim.
Matthew can’t help but sigh...If Feliciano’s too frazzled to brush off Francis’ advances today, he knows Ludwig won’t hesitate to break the Frenchman’s neck.
The cleanup’s going to be messy.
“And here I thought I had a short attention span,” Alfred chuckles. Tossing the bag of MacDonald’s onto the table, he slouches in his chair and tries to bat his eyelashes as innocently as a superpower can for a nation of his disposition. “Now, what were we talking about...?”
“Lunch.” Rising from his seat, he gives Alfred a look that says ‘And you’re not coming’. “Give me a minute to go grab something.”
“But...”
He takes a moment to swat away the hand that tugs the corner of his suit jacket, not the least bit fooled by Alfred’s failed attempt at puppy-dog eyes. “Try not to destroy anything while I’m gone, ’kay?”
“Really?” Alfred sounds incredulous. Then he smiles and lowers his voice to a whisper. “Come on, Mattie... Twenty minutes. I know where we could go...”
Matthew has half a mind to hit him, again, but he supposes this time he’ll leave a bruise, and there’s only so far they can play-fight before Arthur grabs one of them by the ear.
“If you doodle on my notes while I’m gone, I’ll remove MacDonald’s from Canada.”
Mouth a-gap, eyes wide, Alfred looks as though he just killed his dog. “B-but think of the children!”
“I am.”
“Yeah, well...clearly you’re not lovin’ it enough.”
Matthew can’t help but cringe. “You know, I really wish you weren’t so corny.”
“I wish you weren’t so cold,” Alfred mutters. The double entendre isn’t lost on Matt, but his brother smiles kindly enough that he decides to pull the reins in on his tongue for once. “Oh well...you’re coming back with me to New York, right? Cause Paris is nice and all, but Francis is here and I’m pretty sure he’s on to us.”
‘If only you knew the half of it,’ he thinks. Francis had a nose for love. Hell, the man could smell romance from a mile away.
Returning Alfred’s smile with an affirmative wink, Matthew wanders through the throng of nations chatting idly by the door and navigates his way to the stairs at the end of the hall. France and Italy are nowhere in sight, but then, neither is Germany...
He can’t help but admit that he’s beginning to wonder what’s going on between them. Ludwig’s been as stoic as ever, but Gilbert is practically buzzing with excitement, and Romano is redder than usual livid self. The cherry on top, however, would definitely have to be Feliciano’s sudden change in behaviour. If he isn’t worrying himself to the point of exhaustion, Matthew doesn’t know what to call his sudden bursts of lethargy these days...
It probably doesn’t help that Francis has been on his tail since February, but he digresses.
Humming thoughtfully to himself, he decides it really isn’t any of his business, and that whatever happens will happen despite what he says or does. Although...it wouldn’t hurt to have a chat with Francis. His papa has the nasty habit of getting carried away with himself, after all.
One floor down, second door at the end of the hall, Matthew’s already reaching for the doorknob to his office before he realizes he’s finally made it there. He’s tired, and a little jet lagged, and Alfred’s been about as bubbly as usual, so he chalks up his sudden daze as exhaustion and gives his head a small shake.
‘Wake up, already.”
Pushing his door open with his shoulder, it isn’t until he’s hit the light switch that he realizes there’s something wrong with this scene.
He doesn’t remember it ever being quite this...bright.
Giving his eyes a chance to adjust, he spots the offender leaning up against the wall beside his desk-it’s a full length mirror with a metal frame, fashioned into several, delicate braids of poison ivory and something he can only describe as a mask plastered up above the centre.
...Good grief, he can’t even being to fathom what it’s doing here.
“Alfred...” he mutters, because he has an ever-growing assortment of odd gifts his brother’s sent to him over the years, everything from an orange mixer to some kind of vintage tricycle he found god-knows-where back in 1973. Though, if he had to be honest, the mirror’s really a little too morbid for Alfred’s tastes. There’s nothing fun about. Nothing cheery.
Curious to see whether this really is a gift or if it was sent to him by accident, he closes the door with a gentle kick and talks a tentative step forward, reaching out to brush one of the metallic leaves before glancing at his reflection.
It isn’t his reflection.
Startled, he almost trips over his feet as he stumbles back into the office’s sole bookcase. In truth, the reflection is him, but the Matthew Williams on the other side of the looking glass is hardly up to par as far as his health is concerned. This Matthew Williams is sickeningly pale. There are bruises on his throat where he’s been strangled and he’s thinner than anything Matthew could’ve ever imagined himself being. Starved, maybe, or merely worn down by misery, though the dark circles around his eyes are beginning to distract Matthew from everything else...
His violet eyes are closed.
Matthew can’t help but wonder if he’s...dead.
“If you could save someone from a fate such as this, would you do it?”
His reflection’s lips aren’t moving and the voice doesn’t seem like anything he imagines he’d sound like, but he’s certain that it’s coming from the mirror.
Hesitantly, he replies, “...Yes.”
“In this moment, if the power was yours, and yours alone, would you save a soul such as this?”
Somehow, it doesn’t sound so much like a question as it does a suggestion, as though this uninvited guest has already figured out what he’d like to say. In truth, he wants to say ‘yes’, but every part of him that is Matthew and Canada is telling him to say ‘no’. That it’s wrong;. Oh, so terribly wrong...
He feels as though there’s something pressing in against his chest, like a knife jabbed between his ribs.
“I...”
‘I would,’ he thinks, but he’s so afraid.
Horrified.
...The hell is this?
But he can’t say ‘no’...he’s never said ‘no’. Not to Alfred, not to Arthur, and certainly not to someone that looks as desolate as...well, him.
Taking a tentative step forward, he brushes the glass with his fingertips. It’s cold to the touch.
His reflection doesn’t stir from its upright repose. Deathly quiet.
The deceased on display.
It stirs inside him something he doesn’t want to identity. He’s connected with this pitiful creature somehow and he feels as though if he doesn’t speak now he’ll regret it for the rest of his life.
...
“Yes.”
His answer echoes in the empty office. It thunders in his ears, and in his heart, and suddenly he’s all too aware of what he’s done.
But by then the mirror is crashing down upon him.
And then he sees nothing at all.
~*~|~*~|~*~|~*~|~*~
Two souls in reverse, stretched first from the inside-out before folded in again, hand to hand, eye to eye, as malleable as molten iron. He twisted them in turn through the looking glass, one for the other, before sealing the gap between them, and then he clapped his hands, and smiled, and sat back to admire his work...
Somewhere, he knows, the devil’s laughing.
And he’s laughing with him...
A/N: And so there you have it...chapter one.
Since I’ve read this over a number of times and am somehow always able to find grammar mistakes, please don’t hesitate to correct me on anything. Having said that, reviews are lovely, but I’ll continue writing this regardless of what happens. It’s my little home away from home as I continue weeding out the kinks in Tanz der Vampire fic...
Hope you enjoyed!
Rating: Nc-17 (overall)
Characters: Canada, America, England, France, North Italy, Prussia, Spain, South Italy, and a few others. This also includes their dark (or merely unfortunate) counterparts in the other world.
Pairings: Canada/America, Canada/others, Germany/Italy (other pairings, etc.)
Warnings: This story follows both the regular, light-hearted hetalia!universe as well as the dark alternate universe it crosses over with. Having said that, be prepared for a little violence, suggested dub-con/non-con, hate!sex, and a bit of language... It’s a psychological twist. My apologies.
Disclaimer: The rightful owner would never, in their right mind, treat these beloved characters as horrendously as I do...
Summary: Somewhere through the looking glass, Mephistophelian shadows stir...and they yearn for Matthew like nothing they’ve ever craved before.
~*~The Other~*~
Alone at last, he collapses to his knees on the hardwood floor, exhausted, faint, already stretched beyond his capabilities. The floor whines beneath his weight, a low creak in the otherwise silent room, before his focus narrows to the pounding of his heart and the sound of the wind whistling through the eaves.
Eyes stinging, mouth dry, the air rushes from his lungs in a strangled sob. The first of many. This is his only chance to vent.
God is watching, but He mustn’t care.
No one cares...
He curls his arms around his chest as he chokes on the next gulp of air, tears warm where they trickle down his face. He can’t count the number of times he’s come up here to hide. Too many, he thinks. Too many to count. Too many to continue going on like this...
He’s tired.
He’s just so goddamn tired...
“I know.”
The voice startles him, but he doesn’t flinch. He’s too sore to move.
Lifting his head, vision blurry through the tears, he discerns the faint silhouette of a man sitting on his old oak trunk, back to the attic window, where the sunlight filters in around his head. It’s a mockery of a halo.
Be that as it may, this is as close to angel as he’s ever been.
“W-why are you here?”
“For you, of course,” the shade coos softly, offering his hand in a gesture of goodwill. “Tell me that you want this to end, and I’ll do it. Just for you.”
“That’s not how you operate...”
“For you,” he muses, “I’ll try. No more worries, no more pain-you’ll go on living as though you’ve never known them at all.”
Even if he’s telling the truth, there’s no erasing what’s been done to him...
There’s just no way.
Even so...
“When was the last time you smiled, Matthew?”
...he takes his hand.
~*~Matthew Williams~*~
“Stop that, please.”
Alfred glances at him out of the corner of his eye and pauses, mid-munch, before stuffing the rest of the French fry into his mouth. The chewing commences, lips firmly sealed, and he grins arrogantly as though he hadn’t been stirring up any trouble at all.
Matthew has a feeling he’s only doing this to irritate him.
Holding his hands up in mock surrender, Alfred rolls the top of the MacDonald’s bag shut and pushes it over to the side, away from his paperwork. Matthew’s been trying to pay attention to France’s speech, but it’s an incredible feat when the seating plan put them together, and the smell of the food is actually starting to work on his appetite, and he’s jet-lagged, so, really...
How is he supposed to focus?
“I’m still hungry.”
“Our lunch break is in half an hour.”
“What? I’m a growing country.”
Matthew hasn’t forgotten ‘Manifest Destiny’ just yet, so he excuses his behaviour as a pre-emptive measure on his nation’s behalf and takes the liberty of punching Alfred in the shoulder.
Not hard enough to hurt, of course.
“...You hit like a little girl.”
“You’re getting fat, Alfred.”
“Okay, ouch. You don’t see me making fun of your silly, little, pseudo-French, do you?”
Even though they’re both smiling, Matthew’s prepared to smack him again-but then England throws him a certain ‘look’ from where he sits across the table and it gives Matthew reason to pause as he weighs the repercussions of being chastised by his former guardian in public. Considering the sad amount of attention he’s given most of the time, he really doesn’t want to tarnish the vague image the world already has of him.
(Even if it’ll give his brother a good laugh....)
Taking note of England’s attention, Alfred hums pleasantly in the back of his throat as he settles comfortably into his seat. Satisfied to having won their little banter, Alfred nudges his ankle gently under the table and starts twirling his pencil between his fingers. Foosh-foosh-foosh. Right next to his ear.
Foosh-foosh-foosh...
Foosh-foosh-foosh...
“I swear to God, Alfred-”
“-Merci,” Francis finishes at long last with a little wave of his hand and a courteous bow, ignoring the gentle applause of his peers in favour of glancing briefly at North Italy where the nation is sleeping soundly to his left. A quick nudge from Ludwig startles him from his siesta-an odd sight, in and of itself, considering Feliciano usually avoids napping out in public...
Somehow, Francis’ apparent amusement manages to smooth over the unintended insult.
Matthew would’ve felt guilty himself for losing attention halfway through the speech, but the foosh-foosh-foosh is really starting to get to him and he can’t focus on much of anything other than the smug look on his brother’s face.
He wants to put an end to that sound. Badly. So he reaches over-
-and steals Alfred’s lunch.
“Wait-what?”
Leaning back in his chair, holding the bag as far from his brother as he possibly can, Matthew listens idly to Ludwig as the German announces their break. Alfred will get his lunch back, eventually, but not, perhaps, before Matthew’s had a chance to wolf down the remainder of his fries.
“Mattie-Mattie, come on... You can’t do this to me.”
“It’s a heart attack in disguise. You’ll thank me in future.”
Almost completely sprawled across Matthew’s lap, fingers brushing the side of the bag, Alfred comes pretty close to knocking them both over when the tries to lunge for the meal in question. “But don’t you love me, babe?!”
Matthew snorts derisively-but loses his grip when Alfred inadvertently elbows him in the stomach, knocking his glasses askew in the process. Matthew lets him have the bag but gets one last shot in by shoving Alfred off his lap and onto the floor.
Taking a moment to collect himself, Alfred jumps back to his feet and dusts off his pants before fishing a fry out of the bag. Waving it triumphantly in Matthew’s face, he pops it into his mouth with a decisive smirk, and settles back into his chair.
He chews loudly before swallowing.
“...Victory’s never tasted this sweet.”
Matthew snorts again but doesn’t turn down the fry offered him. He knows how to pick his battles. “Does this mean you’re finally going to stop gloating about the American Revolution?”
“Pft. Fat chance. You gonna kick Quebec out any time soon or would you rather we not talk about it?”
“That doesn’t even compare.”
“Cry me a river, Mattie,” he quips. “But speaking of victories...you gonna help me celebrate?” He finishes the offer with a suggestive brow-wiggle, but keeps his voice low enough to avoid drawing the attention of the herd of nations migrating to the door. “You’ve left me in something of a dry spell since last week, babe.”
“Don’t be lecherous,” Matthew scolds, trying-and failing-to take another swing at his brother.
Thankfully, the great U.S. of A. doesn’t see Francis looming behind him.
“I’ll give up on the lechery when you finally see reason, Matt. Just embrace you’re inner cowgirl and let the good times roll, you know? It isn’t called the ‘wild’ west for nothing.”
Oh, he knows alright...
And so does Francis, which is what earns his brother a well-timed slap to the back of the head.
“Ow.”
“Salaud...”
“Hey-no outside interference, frenchie! This business is strictly between the Americas.”
“Mon petite deserves so much better,” Francis groans. “Such beauty is wasted on the beast.”
“You’ve obviously never seen Disney then, have you?”
Francis smacks him again and looks as though he’s winding up for a good, long rant, but the sight of Feliciano making a beeline for the door distracts him the second he opens his mouth. The frustration visibly eases from his face, promptly replaced by something Matthew can only describe as a cross between mischief and prurience, before darting off after his next victim.
Matthew can’t help but sigh...If Feliciano’s too frazzled to brush off Francis’ advances today, he knows Ludwig won’t hesitate to break the Frenchman’s neck.
The cleanup’s going to be messy.
“And here I thought I had a short attention span,” Alfred chuckles. Tossing the bag of MacDonald’s onto the table, he slouches in his chair and tries to bat his eyelashes as innocently as a superpower can for a nation of his disposition. “Now, what were we talking about...?”
“Lunch.” Rising from his seat, he gives Alfred a look that says ‘And you’re not coming’. “Give me a minute to go grab something.”
“But...”
He takes a moment to swat away the hand that tugs the corner of his suit jacket, not the least bit fooled by Alfred’s failed attempt at puppy-dog eyes. “Try not to destroy anything while I’m gone, ’kay?”
“Really?” Alfred sounds incredulous. Then he smiles and lowers his voice to a whisper. “Come on, Mattie... Twenty minutes. I know where we could go...”
Matthew has half a mind to hit him, again, but he supposes this time he’ll leave a bruise, and there’s only so far they can play-fight before Arthur grabs one of them by the ear.
“If you doodle on my notes while I’m gone, I’ll remove MacDonald’s from Canada.”
Mouth a-gap, eyes wide, Alfred looks as though he just killed his dog. “B-but think of the children!”
“I am.”
“Yeah, well...clearly you’re not lovin’ it enough.”
Matthew can’t help but cringe. “You know, I really wish you weren’t so corny.”
“I wish you weren’t so cold,” Alfred mutters. The double entendre isn’t lost on Matt, but his brother smiles kindly enough that he decides to pull the reins in on his tongue for once. “Oh well...you’re coming back with me to New York, right? Cause Paris is nice and all, but Francis is here and I’m pretty sure he’s on to us.”
‘If only you knew the half of it,’ he thinks. Francis had a nose for love. Hell, the man could smell romance from a mile away.
Returning Alfred’s smile with an affirmative wink, Matthew wanders through the throng of nations chatting idly by the door and navigates his way to the stairs at the end of the hall. France and Italy are nowhere in sight, but then, neither is Germany...
He can’t help but admit that he’s beginning to wonder what’s going on between them. Ludwig’s been as stoic as ever, but Gilbert is practically buzzing with excitement, and Romano is redder than usual livid self. The cherry on top, however, would definitely have to be Feliciano’s sudden change in behaviour. If he isn’t worrying himself to the point of exhaustion, Matthew doesn’t know what to call his sudden bursts of lethargy these days...
It probably doesn’t help that Francis has been on his tail since February, but he digresses.
Humming thoughtfully to himself, he decides it really isn’t any of his business, and that whatever happens will happen despite what he says or does. Although...it wouldn’t hurt to have a chat with Francis. His papa has the nasty habit of getting carried away with himself, after all.
One floor down, second door at the end of the hall, Matthew’s already reaching for the doorknob to his office before he realizes he’s finally made it there. He’s tired, and a little jet lagged, and Alfred’s been about as bubbly as usual, so he chalks up his sudden daze as exhaustion and gives his head a small shake.
‘Wake up, already.”
Pushing his door open with his shoulder, it isn’t until he’s hit the light switch that he realizes there’s something wrong with this scene.
He doesn’t remember it ever being quite this...bright.
Giving his eyes a chance to adjust, he spots the offender leaning up against the wall beside his desk-it’s a full length mirror with a metal frame, fashioned into several, delicate braids of poison ivory and something he can only describe as a mask plastered up above the centre.
...Good grief, he can’t even being to fathom what it’s doing here.
“Alfred...” he mutters, because he has an ever-growing assortment of odd gifts his brother’s sent to him over the years, everything from an orange mixer to some kind of vintage tricycle he found god-knows-where back in 1973. Though, if he had to be honest, the mirror’s really a little too morbid for Alfred’s tastes. There’s nothing fun about. Nothing cheery.
Curious to see whether this really is a gift or if it was sent to him by accident, he closes the door with a gentle kick and talks a tentative step forward, reaching out to brush one of the metallic leaves before glancing at his reflection.
It isn’t his reflection.
Startled, he almost trips over his feet as he stumbles back into the office’s sole bookcase. In truth, the reflection is him, but the Matthew Williams on the other side of the looking glass is hardly up to par as far as his health is concerned. This Matthew Williams is sickeningly pale. There are bruises on his throat where he’s been strangled and he’s thinner than anything Matthew could’ve ever imagined himself being. Starved, maybe, or merely worn down by misery, though the dark circles around his eyes are beginning to distract Matthew from everything else...
His violet eyes are closed.
Matthew can’t help but wonder if he’s...dead.
“If you could save someone from a fate such as this, would you do it?”
His reflection’s lips aren’t moving and the voice doesn’t seem like anything he imagines he’d sound like, but he’s certain that it’s coming from the mirror.
Hesitantly, he replies, “...Yes.”
“In this moment, if the power was yours, and yours alone, would you save a soul such as this?”
Somehow, it doesn’t sound so much like a question as it does a suggestion, as though this uninvited guest has already figured out what he’d like to say. In truth, he wants to say ‘yes’, but every part of him that is Matthew and Canada is telling him to say ‘no’. That it’s wrong;. Oh, so terribly wrong...
He feels as though there’s something pressing in against his chest, like a knife jabbed between his ribs.
“I...”
‘I would,’ he thinks, but he’s so afraid.
Horrified.
...The hell is this?
But he can’t say ‘no’...he’s never said ‘no’. Not to Alfred, not to Arthur, and certainly not to someone that looks as desolate as...well, him.
Taking a tentative step forward, he brushes the glass with his fingertips. It’s cold to the touch.
His reflection doesn’t stir from its upright repose. Deathly quiet.
The deceased on display.
It stirs inside him something he doesn’t want to identity. He’s connected with this pitiful creature somehow and he feels as though if he doesn’t speak now he’ll regret it for the rest of his life.
...
“Yes.”
His answer echoes in the empty office. It thunders in his ears, and in his heart, and suddenly he’s all too aware of what he’s done.
But by then the mirror is crashing down upon him.
And then he sees nothing at all.
~*~|~*~|~*~|~*~|~*~
Two souls in reverse, stretched first from the inside-out before folded in again, hand to hand, eye to eye, as malleable as molten iron. He twisted them in turn through the looking glass, one for the other, before sealing the gap between them, and then he clapped his hands, and smiled, and sat back to admire his work...
Somewhere, he knows, the devil’s laughing.
And he’s laughing with him...
A/N: And so there you have it...chapter one.
Since I’ve read this over a number of times and am somehow always able to find grammar mistakes, please don’t hesitate to correct me on anything. Having said that, reviews are lovely, but I’ll continue writing this regardless of what happens. It’s my little home away from home as I continue weeding out the kinks in Tanz der Vampire fic...
Hope you enjoyed!