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He was dead. This was Horace's first thought - that Jan had not seen fit to let him continue living and whimsically murdered him. 'Whimsically' because it seemed fitting, somehow, for a man caught up in a moment's fleeting storm. His next thought was to wonder if it could really be called murder or simply assisted suicide, considering his own lack of resistance, considering the way he'd arched up into Jan's claws as though they were a lover's touch. Slowly, Horace breathed, feeling every ache and pain in his body spring to glorious life. Everything hurt. Breathing felt funny, as though his throat was still being compressed. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, squinting against his headache. And he realized abruptly, he was gagged and bound quite tightly.

Not dead, after all.

Horace wasn't quite sure if that final conclusion was a comforting one. Slowly, experimentally, he wiggled his toes and then each finger. Or what he could feel of his fingers. His hands were bound behind his back and they hurt, pins and needles and pain and coarse rope. The knots were perfect, of course - perfectly tied, perfectly tight. Jan was nothing if not terribly, horribly efficient when it counted. It was something he'd liked about the other man. For a moment, Horace stared blankly at the ground, thinking of everything and nothing very much at all. He drew in a rattling breath.

Lifting his head, he stared around, blue eyes wary behind surprising clean glasses. Thankfully they were still on;l he was near-blind without them. He was sitting in some cave, somewhere. The sounds of waves filtered through to him and he could just see the daylight that marked the cave's entrance. It was so, so close, but he was so tired and heart-weary and every inch of him ached from being prone for what - hours? Horace had no idea how much time had passed. Nevertheless, he forced himself to move, trying to scoot towards that sliver of freedom. The ropes did not allow such insubordination. How could he have expected anything less?

He checked and twisted and moved as much he could, but it was no use. There was nothing to do but wait. The waves crashed from far away.



Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

It came drifting in with the sea - the sound of music. The voice was not perfect, but close. Abruptly, Horace tried to wriggle harder, his aches and pains burning, heartbeat coming fast in fear. Jan moved into sight, his form moving with the same languid grace as always. No. Horace closed his eyes for a moment, his over-tired brain automatically provideing the next lines.

La letizia si convertia
In amarissimo pianto

He couldn't remember what the song meant (Horace had never known or tried to know, but had merely sung it as taught, without question), but he knew it. The sounds were familiar to him, but only from the mouths of many, a choir of parts, and not the one. Not from Jan. A cold dread settled deeper into his stomach. He looked so happpy in a way, to have Horace here, bound. He looked up as Jan approached, a startled animal caught in a trap, never mind that the trap had been almost of his own devisiing.

Lies, lies, lies, he had to remember that Jan dealt only in lies, in 'darlings', in 'I never wanted to hurt you's. He shuddered when Jan touched his hair - that hand was so tender, just like always. Horace wanted to close his eyes, go back to sleep and maybe he'd wake up to find this was all some sick fever-dream. Hohw could this be the same man? Because he had no choice, because to do otherwise would be foolish, Horace listened carefully, not wanting to meet that strange, hard gaze. His tongue was sawdust in his mouth; it pushed at the gag - he'd tried, of course, to work it off, but it was tied so tightly that Horace's jaw ached.

He nodded, once, swallowing dryly.

Horace's jaw felt as though it creaked when the gag was removed. He gulped the water greedily, a few droplets sliding down his neck to sting against the bruises and cuts there. It was cool and wet and that was all he needed. Once the water bottle was stowed away, he fixed wide, apprehensive eyes on Jan. More to come. This was nothing like the sort of loves he'd devoured before, book by book, hungry for a happy ending. It was nothing like the quiet moments he'd shared with Jan before.

He wondered where it had gone wrong, what exactly he'd done to deserve this turn. But Horace knew - he'd wanted to be everything to a man who was nothing. Despite the heat of the island, he shivered in fits and starts. The scalpel gleamed like a promise he never wanted. But this was what he wanted, wasn't it? Jan's full attention. In this moment, he thought, a thread of hysteria running through his mind, he finally had all of the things he had asked for and none of the things he'd actually wanted. Emotions twisted up tangled thorns inside him. The pale hunter's words flowed around him like water cresting up upon a rock. He heard them, felt them, and only barely comprehended. This... it was only some dream, wasn't it?

"Jan-" he coughed, the motion pulling at the corners of his sore mouth. "-you can't-" He coughed again and Jan was continuing on as though he hadn't spoken. 'I worry about you' he'd said, once upon a time, 'everything's so easily accessible. It could all easily be altered, if someone ever thought about it. Or important things lost, pertinent data 'corrupted''. Horace been so worried about Jan, so worried about false accusations. His thoughts ran circles around his muzzy mind - how could this be the same person? If only he could just reach out, cup Jan's cheek, feel that familiar arch into his hand - he'd always thought the way Jan leaned into touches was very like a cat, but less fickle: steady. If he could just do that, then this would be done, everything would be normal, perfect, ordinary again. He'd do better, he wouldn't ask about America.

Something brown rolled in Jan's hand, the contrast... the contrast against that pale skin... His face paled, pupils dilated, black swallowing up blue as his breath came in short starts. No no no nononono. It wasn't. It wasn't. He yanked at the ropes that bound him, not to get free, but to see, because this wasn't real, was it? Jan's name sobbed out of his mouth, more air than tone.

"Jan, Jan, what did you do?" He couldn't breathe.

He twisted again, trying to see. Seeing was believing and surely not, no, he couldn't have. His hand scraped agsint the rock at his back and he cried out, pain lancing hotly up through his hand. The shock of it forced tears from his eyes. Horace opened his mouth to question, but found he couldn't, instead staring blankly up at Jan, misery in his eyes.

A sob shuddered in his chest as Jan embraced him. The accent - Jan was layers upon layers of lies and god help him, there was a part of Horace that couldn't shake these feelings for him, feelings for the man who stared off into space, who repeated a phrase over and over, rolling it around on his tongue like he could learn its secrets. He'd fallen in love with the lie, but also with part of the truth and it was the truth that would damn him now. The words were so convicing, half exactly what he wanted to hear, half horrible reality. Melody - he must've... Horace's mind skirted that thought, just like he skirted the idea of Jan mutilating him. Don't think, don't think. He thought he was going to be sick.

"I c... I can't, Jan. I can't be Melody." The slight warmth of Jan's body seeped into him and Horace realized he was still shivering. He didn't think it was possible to be cold on this island, but he was learning new things everyday. The thoughts jumbled together like rocks in a tumbler. Maybe, Horace thought fatalistically, one day they'd be smooth, free of jagged edges, shining. His voice was hoarse and the words shuddered out like uneven smoke. "If you can't love... what is this?" Jan was going to kill him. He felt that thought sink into his bones with a dreadful finality.

"She.. Jan, she wasn't taking me away from you. P-please." His voice caught. Jan was all he ever wanted. He wanted to be his enough. But what was enough?

Horace hadn't wanted to be America, not really. He'd wanted to be more, To have both Jan's obsession and physical presence. He wanted to be better than her. The scalpel gleamed like a promise he didn't remember making. "Jan," he breathed, and the rope was sliding down. His shirt was neatly sliced open; that scalpel never even came close to nicking him. Aspired to the divine... He tensed as Jan summoned his gauntlets, blue, icy as his eyes. Horace had thought them somehow warm. His hand hurt so, so much. America was angelic in Jan's eyes; he was nothing - a small slug that Jan could sprinkle salt on to amuse and a small part of him whispered 'at least he is amused'.

"I gave it to you." But he'd also given his jealousy, given his desire, given his need to be better to Jan. Tainted. Horace bit his lip as the man he loved sliced his shield away, felt his teeth break skin. A drop of blood ran down the side of his chin, but what was another small pain among so many? And even now, the sudden shift as his shield tore made him shudder. The scalpel made him shudder in a new way and although Horace violently shook his head, he remained silent. Any word that passed his lips now would only be a plea to a god who didn't care, who didn't mind. And then the gag returned and

The first slice was almost delicate, testing. He flinched, jerked, strained weakly against ropes. But Jan was a professional and his hand did not waver, was as steady as his heartbeat. If Horace hadn't felt that same beat, he might've made the mistake of assuming Jan was stone and not flesh and bone. Deeper, deeper, no. No. Horace's eyes went wide, unseeing, the pain too much even for him. This, this is what he deserved, wasn't it? This is what Jan had told him. Jan's knife scraped along his sternum, digging deeper, as if he would cut the heart out of Horace and put it within himself. But no, Horace was not good enough for that. Jan cut precisely and a strip of his flesh came free and was discarded like trash, red, bloody, like offal from an animal.

Even with the gag, Horace screamed.

At some point, he'd passed out from pain, from horror, from watching Jan's fingers slick with his blood, play with the ragged edges of his flesh. But unconsciousness only kept him safe for so long. When he shivered awake, Jan was still there, a faint, nearly imperceptible smile on his lips. He'd waited for Horace, slowed his work, and likely thought the wait a gift. It wouldn't do for the canvas to miss the art. Another cut, deep - Horace deliriously wondered if Jan would cut deep enough to see his heart. Another strip of flesh, precise. Blood ran freely from Horace's chest; each breath painful, exposed. A thin layer of subcutaneous fat gleamed here and there - bone pinkened by blood. He couldn't think, couldn't speak, could not no longer move except in weak starts and stops. Jan continued cutting and Horace swallowed down his own bile - if only so he wouldn't choke.

The salt brought him back to full consciousness for one bright, blazing moment. It ate into him, flaming his skin, causing his tired muscles to spasm again. Like a slug, he'd dance.

Glassy eyes watched as Jan wiped the blood from his body, streaks of bright red on pale, pale skin. Skin as white as snow, blood as red as blood (that thought made him almost smile loopily around the gag; it was too amusing, really), and... what as black as night? Everything about Jan was pale: hair, skin, even the way he moved. Horace's eyes fluttered closed for a second, then back open. He remembered not the cool blue of Jan's eyes but inside, the minute way his pupils dilated and contracted. If there was a void that lived inside of Jan, perhaps it was there. Eyes as black as night. There, he thought, now he'd turned it into a fairy tail. It was okay. Snow White and the Dwarf Who was Not Enough. It would be hilarious if it didn't hurt so much. For every way he hurt, Jan did not, he reminded himself. But Jan was speaking and, so, he listened.

Semibreve. Semibreve, semibreve. His mind ran circles around the word, tired, trying. He could be the beginning of music, but America held the whole melody. And that was it - America was the canvas for music and Horace was... nothing. He could wear Jan's emptiness on his chest, but he was mortal. And mortal things bled and died and were not allowed to live. Horace was so, so tired. He was never enough, not for anyone, after all.

"My love, my work."

The brutality of those words had Horace squeezing his eyes shut, too tired to even cry. Slowly, he was splintering.


--------------------

Love is cold steel - fingers too numb to feel

The music filtered through the hallway, notes flirting with the dust that danced in the air. Horace laughed, reaching out a hand as though he could capture the sound. Jan sat on the bed next to him, hands laced together. He turned and brushed a kiss over that pale cheek. Jan turned to him, smiling. And it was Jan, but... different, and when he opened his mouth there was only blackness. "I do not need you."

Blindness. Horace blinked, once, breath catching in his throat.

He sat in his room in the basement, notebook pages filled with shorthand scattered around the floor. Horace was filing, re-filing and he loved this part. Organization made him feel accomplished. Jan sat above him, staring into space, fingers threading through Horace's hair. Suddenly, they yanked back and Horace hissed at the small pain, but he didn't resist; he never resisted. Jan leaned down, breath ghosting over his lips. "Again, my darling, you tried to rise. You cannot be enough." Jan kissed him and Horace closed his eyes.

A dangerous idea... almost makes... sense.

It was him, but also not him. The smile his double wore was kind, but somehow bleak. It sent a vague shiver of uneasiness down his spine. "You have nothing to offer him, you know. He does not need you." The Horace who was him and not him moved closer and captured his hands. Horace noticed that he was missing the ring finger of his left hand. Idly, he wondered where a ring would go if he ever got married. Blue eyes met blue and he smiled charmingly at his doppelganger, teeth white and straight. The smile the other him wore faded, twisted briefly into something less than kind, and was replaced by a sweet placidity.

"He can have all of me - this is what i can give."

"Is it not enough. Give it to me instead, you will be enough."

Horace tried to jerk his hands away, but they were held firm. Something on his chest burned when he moved. "I do not know you; I do not love you. But," He could give this specter a small favor. "-you may have have what pieces of me he does not need." The other him shook his head. Finally, he let go and his hands rose to cup Horace's face.

"Do you think I will take the castoffs?" he hissed and his finger became like steel, unyielding, immovable. "Offal; filth before filth. No, give me all of you." The fingers that mimicked his dug into his skin, nails leaving welts, thumb straying close to his eye. Gasping, Horace flung up his arm, trying to knock the other man away. He shoved, stumbling back. When he finally steadied himself, Horace stared wide-eyed as his double, arms flying up to press against his chest. ********, why did it hurt so much? Red was seeping, seeping, dripping through his shirt. A sob caught in his lungs and he pressed a horrified hand to his face. The doppelganger, the ghost of himself sat calmly on the floor. He opened the mouth that was not his and laughed. And the laughter swallowed up Horace's last words as they were spoken, soft, broken.

"I c-cannot give you what no longer belongs to me."

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He awoke with a painful start, tears soaking his gag. The sun had moved; the sea sounded closer. Everything and nothing was the same.