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Pretty Dead Boy...
on love that is filth and beds that are blood
Explicit
Graphic Descriptions of Violence, Major Character Death
M/M, M/F, Other
Daniil Dankovsky/Andrey Stamatin/Peter Stamatin, Andrey Stamatin/Peter Stamatin, Daniil Dankovsky/Peter Stamatin, Daniil Dankovsky/Andrey Stamatin, Daniil Dankovsky & Artemy Burakh, Inspired by Crimson Peak (2015), Crimson Peak AU, Incest, Murder, Ghosts, Gothic Horror, Co-dependancy, Dialogue Heavy.
When his heart is stolen by a seductive stranger, Daniil is swept away to a house atop a mountain of blood red clay-a place filled with secrets that will haunt him forever. Between desire and darkness, between mystery and madness, lies the truth behind it all.
— WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
A MIDSUMMER MIGHT’S DREAM
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Chapter Two
It seems the whole of high society is seated in that ballroom. Vast and richly decorated. Floor polished to a shine, a lavish midnight supper laid out in splendorous array. Candles on every surface, gilt practically dripping from each wall. The guests dressed in finest fashion, draped with pearls, glowing in the ballroom. All the men in tailcoats and gloves, dapper as can be.
At the center of it all, a grand piano, positioned just so, on display for the entire party to watch. A striking burnet man with chiseled features and an intense air is seated at the keys. Clad in poisonous, arsenic green, suit coat so tailored it appears hard to breath in. He looks almost identical to Andrey, apart from his hair. His is much longer, a tad stringy. Not done up like the society ladies, but hanging in a curtain over half his face where he’s bent over the keys. The man concludes his piece (Tchaikovsky, the elder Dankovsky had been right to begin with), and stands to acknowledge the applause, pulling a sleeve up over his left hand as he does, covering a ring. Red diamond, and of luxurious size, on his wedding finger.
Mira brings up an armful or roses, smiling wide; they exchange warm kisses to renewed applause, and a few disapproving murmurs. Neither of them are married, and certainly not to each other. The man takes a final bow, and looks out over the room, expression darkening. Andrey has just arrived, with a transformed Daniil on his arm. Radiant himself, in a new jacket, a dazzling blue. The shade of the single butterfly in his collection, amidst all his beetles.
The buzz of the crowd now is from their arrival, rather than the performance. Murmurs rippling through the audience as the pair cut through the throng. Their appearance bespoke a couple, bewildering the gathered society. Miss Mira Petrova and her mother look utterly distraught.
General Dankovsky stands, and hurries over to his son, Artemy in tow. He nods to Andrey, eyebrow raised. “I congratulate you, sir. Only remarkable… persistence could bring my son out of his cave.”
“Then I’m glad to be of service, Mr. Dankovsky. Like his father, he was not easily moved.” Andrey smiles as he speaks, winning and charismatic.
“None of us are, Mr. Stamatin.” Turning to his son, he asks, “What did he promise you, Daniil?”
“He promised nothing, father. I’m just more pliable than you.” Daniil looks to Artemy then, who is staring at the pair utterly dazzled. “Hello, Artemy. May I introduce Sir Andrey Stamatin?”
He turns to Andrey. “This is Dr. Burakh. The man to see in town if you’re feeling poorly.
“That quite a glowing presentation, Daniil- ” Artemy starts, before Daniil cuts him off.
“He’s brilliant. If you have aches and pains.” That only makes Artemy lower his head in disappointment. Looking as if the compliment itself pains him.
“But I’ve never felt better, Mister Dankovsky, thanks to you.” Andrey does shake Artemy’s hand though, courteous as anything. “A pleasure to meet you, sir, under any circumstances.”
A blinding clap of lighting strikes outside, thunder rolling over the city. The crowd cries out as all gas lamps go dark. Daniil grasps for Andrey’s hand, clutching him in the dark. Servants scurry to light the candelabras, giving the whole ballroom a romantic and mysterious glow.
Daniil looks out through the crowd, watching as the pianist strides to them. A shadow within the darkness following, and within it, Daniil spies twin pinprick eyes glinting. Peering out of a sallow face, sunken and sickly, barely visible within the dark. He recoils, the second time he’s seen his mother’s ghost tonight, and presses closer against Andrey.
The hostess, Mrs. Petrova, appears before them, alongside the pianist.
“Good evening, Sir Andrey, you honor us. Welcome to our fair city.”
“I’m sorry we’re late.” Andrey presses a kiss to the knuckles of Mrs. Pertrova’s hand, in apology and thanks.
“Oh, a kiss. How very rare that is today. Mira can’t wait to say hello.” She turns to Daniil, looking him up and down. “Daniil. What a surprise. Seeing you… sparkle.”
The ghostly afterimage of Daniil’s mother blurs, wafts up toward the ceiling, making him startle again. He tries to collect himself, free hand pressed to his chest. The man beside Mrs. Petrova is watching him closely, as if he can tell what Daniil is seeing.
“Our magnificent pianist is Peter Stamatin, who’s come with his brother all the way from the Urals. Out in the Russian Steppe- or is it Siberia?”
Peter inclines his head slightly, in acknowledgement of the attempt. “That’s entirely dependent upon who you ask.”
“Důmhouse is on the Russian side, Mrs. Petrova.” Daniil says, not unkindly. Peter looks at him again, in new appreciation.
Mrs. Petrova takes Andrey by the arm and leads him away, speaking about his accent and her daughter as he’s stolen. He’s quickly surrounded by a cloud of excited young women, Mira shouldering her way to the front of the pack.
“All that adoration. He positively basks in it.” Peter says, quietly, to Daniil alone. Daniil, who’s eyes rove around the ballroom, searching for another specter, unsure if he wants to find one or not.
“Word travels quickly in Petrograd. Among the young eligible, anyway.” He says, collecting himself.
“Do you not count yourself among them?” Peter asks, delicate sarcasm floating down to land squarely on Daniil, who finally turns to face him.
“It is your brother, Mister Stamatin, who sought me out. Left to my own devices, I avoid parties like this, and the waspish women who flourish here.”
The string orchestra begins playing, a simple, stately thing, as servants clear all the chairs from the dance floor, making the ballroom useable for dancing. Andrey frees himself from the throng of eligibles, and sidesteps Mrs. and Mira Petrova, walking over and bowing to Daniil. The girls look on, devastated.
“Mister Dankovsky. You came this far – will you venture a few steps further?” He asks, holding out a hand.
“I’m not much of a dancer, Mr. Stamatin.”
“Could I be the judge of that?” Andrey asks, already escorting Daniil out onto the dance floor. The dance floor where two concentric circles of guests move rhythmically, clockwise and counterclockwise. The steps are formal and controlled, with each guest holding a lit candle. Andrey grabs two, one for himself and one for Daniil, as they join the outermost circle.
Daniil won’t stop looking to the corners of the room, convinced he’ll see a ghost again. Andrey smiles at him, amused.
“Mister Dankovsky, whatever are you searching for? Here I am.”
“I – I’m sorry. I told you I was seeing things tonight.” Daniil answers, embarrassed, and now gazing into Andrey’s eyes.
All the while, the guests continue moving, dancing in their circles to the music, each one guarding their candle flame. When the music stops, the whole room bursts into joyous chaos, covering their own flames while trying to blow out others. The circles shrink accordingly, and the when the music resumes, so to does the dancing.
“Look at all those long faces. Mira, my father… and your brother.” Daniil continues.
“Peter? He just likes to worry. Any interest who crosses my path – he stands guard.” As they speak, the music stops again and the circles shrink more, leaving only four couples remaining, Daniil and Andrey amongst them.
“Maybe it was a mistake, letting your drag me out here. Mrs. Petrova looks furious- ”
Andrey chuckles. “Just close your eyes then.”
“And if I close them, what? They won’t be able to see me?” he asks, amused.
“Precisely. Won’t you try it?”
Daniil closes his eyes, and lets Andrey guide him round and round… until the music stops. More candles go out around them, and Daniil’s eyes open to see he and Andrey are the only ones remaining on the dance floor. The begin once again to dance, now staring into each other’s eyes.
When the music ceases for the last time, there’s a collective gasp from the crowd, before falling silent. Andrey blows his own flame out, and bows to Daniil, forfeiting the game. Daniil smiles, indulgent, and blows out his own candle as the room explodes into raucous applause. It seems the whole room is delighted. The whole room, that is, apart from General Dankovsky, watching from the side in displeasure.
The next morning, breakfast is brought to Daniil in his room, being left mostly abandoned as he scribbles away in his house robe, an ever growing stack of manuscript pages at his elbow.
So, a new book took shape. All about a young man’s quest to fulfill the legacy of a once-great family. I’d never thought much about the travails of the well-born, but now I was utterly inspired. Fortunately, Sir Andrey delayed his departure, again and again…
The couple in question sit on the bank of the Neva, picnicking together. Andrey is looking over Daniil’s new pages with interest.
“So this fellow, ‘Cavendish’ – your hero – has he no fears? No doubts?”
Daniil shakes his head, taking another bite of food. “Of course he does. He’s haunted by his ancestors. You’ll see.”
“Haunted? Literally?”
“No. No ghosts this time.” Daniil says, looking almost saddened by it. “I’ve banished them from this particular fiction. But they have visited me Andrey, they really have…”
Andrey laughs, and takes a picture of Daniil with a camera, the shutter clicking and the flash bulb bursting.
Another day they find themselves at an exhibition of paintings, French, Daniil thinks, though none of the plaques seem to want to say. Andrey keeps coming back to one particularly abstract sensual painting, Daniil on his arm.
“Why should it be so hard to believe? If one goes by experience and testimonies, more people have seen ghosts than kangaroos. And yet we firmly believe in kangaroos!”
Andrey just laughs again, highly amused, and takes another photo.
Daniil has been pulled out of his room once more, this time to a Sunday concert in the city proper. A brass band playing for dozens of well dressed folk seated along the lawn. Andrey and Daniil stand off to the side, huddling in the shade of an elm tree. Andrey takes another photo of him as Daniil talks.
“To my mind certain dismal places – house, castles, battlefields – they can store and preserve the pain of their deceased inhabitants. Like a wax cylinder and it’s recorded voices…” He has thoughts of how those preserved bits might be reintroduced to a body, but that’s far deeper than he wishes to go at this point, especially to someone he doesn’t truly know that intimately.
“And we’d need Mr. Telsa, or Edison to play them back -?” Andrey asks, amused.
“Stop laughing at me! That is the whole point, some people can ‘play back’ those images and sounds- some others don’t have the sensibility-”
Andrey cuts him off as he seeing a couple of familiar faces in the crowd. “Oh, no – it’s the Petrova women. They haven’t seen us- ”
But, of course, the pair of women are already waving at Daniil and Andrey.
“They have. And hope springs eternal. Come, we’ll join them- Mira can teach me how to charm-” Daniil jokes, trying not to laugh.
Andrey takes him by the arm, leading Daniil to the exit. “You, Mister Dankovsky, need no help in that department. Let us away, while there’s still time.”
Weeks later, Daniil’s sat at the secretary’s desk, outside his father’s office. Typing up the latest chapter of his manuscript. His father emerges from the office, ready to leave for the day, and smiles when he sees Daniil. The retired general sits, watching his son type, waiting for him to pause.
“Going well, I see. Your love story. Has someone swept you off your feet by any chance, then?”
Daniil stops entirely, and looks his father in the eye, unamused. “Let me assure you, father: Andrey Stamatin is a literary godsend. Nothing more.”
“Nevertheless, you’ve invited him to the house. For tea….”
“What of it?” Daniil asks, huffing. “I owe him a debt of gratitude. He’s been invaluable in my work on my book.”
The elder Dankovsky just watches for a moment, as Daniil starts back up typing. “You’ve made a conquest, my dear, whether you know it or not. All I ask is that you proceed with caution.” It’s clear Daniil is happy with Andrey, even if he doesn’t want to admit it to himself.
He's even happier a few days later, in a gorgeous greenhouse, lush and vibrant. An elegant edifice of glass and steel, holding all the emerald beauty of nature safe inside. Two servants set out afternoon tea on a table in an alcove, not far from the entrance.
Daniil surveys it with a gleam in his eye. “It’s al wonderful, thank you. Where is Mr. Stamatin?”
“I saw him in the orchard rows, sir, with his brother.” One servant says. Daniil nods, and moves away, heading toward the orchard himself. When Daniil hears voices, he slows to a stop.
“This is not what we agreed upon. It is not- ” The voice sounds familiar, a lilting, strange thing.
The second voice, however, is immediately recognizable. “What difference does it make to you? None! This is my task- My duty- Is it so wrong for me to decide how to go about it?”
Andrey. Which means the other must be Peter. When Daniil rounds the corner, and enters the orchard row they stand in, the discussion ends. Peter is visibly upset, face flushed and brow furrowed. His shoulders are up around his ears, and his hair still covering part of his face, like he’s trying to hide. He storms off, leaving the greenhouse with nothing left but footprints and the faint scent of turpentine.
Andrey looks to Daniil, the upset on his own face wiping away as he takes the man in. “My brother is… He has yet to grow accustomed to the city, Daniil. And he’s tired of my frustrations too, I daresay. He just- He reached his limit for the day. Likely I’ll find him painting when I return to our lodgings.”
Stamatin gives no opportunity for Daniil to speak, shifting to a delighted grin as he spies the manuscript in Daniil’s hands. “No, don’t tell me. You’ve already finished chapter three?” A lighthearted laugh bursts from the man as he tucks Daniil under his arm and playfully pulls the pages from Daniil’s fingers, steering the both of them back towards the table for tea.
