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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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A strange man exits his carriage before a massive building, tall spires and rough stone all hewn together into a beauty of a space. He enters, and is shown by a steward into a room deep within the building. A long pool sits under high domed ceilings, arches and a beautiful oriental tile decorating the space. Within the pool, General Dankovsky can be seen, swimming laps lengthwise. He is, frankly, still fit as a fiddle, long strokes propelling him forward with an energy not expected from a man well past his prime. Finishing his lap, he climbs out, accepting a towel from an attendant.
“Ah, Mr. Vladivich! I like the club first thing in the morning. It’s quiet, I have the whole place to myself.” He finishes toweling off, and lets the attendant slip a robe on him. Not the flowing dressing gowns his son prefers, but a dignified, simple thing, a house coat, really.
“I hadn’t expected to see you again so soon, Vladivich. What am I to make of it? Good news or bad?”
The man shakes his head. “I don’t make such judgements, Mr. Dankovsky. I only gather the facts, and leave all the rest to the client.”
General Dankovsky opens the envelope, pulling out letters, yellowing civil transcripts, telegrams, and a few faded photographs, worn with age. He looks over them all, eyes narrowing.
“Their peerage and family tree were easy enough to locate – as were the property records, all the way back to the sixteen hundreds. As for the banking information, I relied on a colleague in Moscow. But that – that document…. The Civil Registry – that the real find.” He point to a specific sheet of paper, drawing the retired general’s attention to it. It’s emblazoned with the Důmhouse seal, twin lizards curled together.
“You’ll have your money tomorrow, Vladivich. Share this with no one.” Dankovsky says, tucking everything back into the envelope and getting ready for the day.
It only takes a few days to put everything together. Invitations are sent, and the result is half a dozen carriages and a few motorcars parked in the courtyard of the Dankovsky house, guests trickling in.
Daniil greets the arriving guests, looking utterly radiant, if still dressed in somber shades of charcoal. Coats are taken, greetings and kisses exchanged, and the twins Stamatin find themselves face to face not with Daniil, as hoped, but instead before the elder Dankovsky.
“May I thank you for this invitation, Mr. Dankovsky? It’s most welcome – I know I’ve monopolized your son… and I’ve worried that might not have sat well with you.” Andrey says, turning up the charm and aiming for a winning smile.
The retired General’s brow furrows, looking entirely un-won. “It did not. I’ve been most displeased.” He turns to Peter, giving him a polite nod. “Hello, Mister Stamatin. May I ask – are you the older twin?”
Peter nods. “I am.”
“Well then, perhaps you already know what your younger half is about to learn: ‘The truth will out.’” Dankovsky says, steering them both away from the other guests and into his private library, closing the door behind them all. “No. Sir Andrey. The first time we met, at my office- ”
Andrey looks pained. “I recall it, sir. I recall it perfectly.”
“I imagine it wasn’t hard for you to realize I didn’t like you.”
Peter stiffens, standing a bit straighter. “You made that plain enough to him, sir.”
“Peter- please…” Andrey weakly protests.
Dankovsky ignores the both of them, continuing on. “My son, later on, asked me why.”
“Sir, I am aware that in the business world I have no advantage, no position to offer. But– ” Andrey tries, a desperate edge in his tone now.
“But you love him, is that what you mean to say?” The general is even less amused now.
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“Well, as I said: my son asked me why I didn’t like you. Honestly, at the time, I had no good answer. But- ” He pulls out the envelope of documents from Vladivich. “Now, I do.”
Peter takes the envelope in delicate, nervous hands. Opening it slowly, until he can see the seal blazing on the civil form. His face grows pale, rigid and drawn. Peter turns to his brother, who won’t even look at the pages.
“Does he know?” Is all Andrey asks.
“No. But I will tell him if that’s what it takes to send you on your way.” Dankovsky says, firm.
“I am sure you wouldn’t believe me, but- ”
The General cuts him off. “You love him. I know. You’re repeating yourself.” He hands the twins a check, watching as their eyes grow wide in shock at the amount. “It’s more than generous, I know, and there’s a reason. With that money you can dig iron ore to your heart’s content. Build that contraption of yours. Whatever – but it will keep you far from him.”
The second thing he hands both Stamatins is a pair of train tickets. “‘The Chariot’ sets off for the Urals on Friday. If you want to keep the money… You’d better be on it. Otherwise, that check won’t clear and, one way or another, I’ll have the law on you both. Whatever country you’re in.”
Andrey nods weakly, still staring at the check.
“Good. I’m glad we understand each other. Now- As for my son. Without further ado- You, dear sir… Are going to break his heart.”
Back in the dining room, the table is a flurry of jovial motion, servants coming and going with dishes. The twins Stamatin are given seats of honor.
General Dankovsky stands, raising a glass. “May I propose a toast of farewell? A bon voyage to our questing Baronet and his artistic twin. A safe journey to you both.”
Daniil stares in shock at his father, then at Andrey. Devastation plays clear across his face, eyes wide and pained. He keeps looking between them both for an explanation.
Andrey gets to his feet, raising his own glass. “Thank you, sir. When I came here, to Petrograd, my heart was brimming with a sense of adventure. Here the future actually means something. And although I found no financial success – “ He looks directly at Daniil now, gaze steady, and sad, and unbearably fond. “ – I have found warmth and friendship among you all. And for that, I am grateful. So for now, farewell. May we meet again soon.”
After lunch, the guests mingle in the parlor, chattering happily away. Andrey winds his way through the crowd, approaching Daniil.
“So – you are leaving us now. You might have told me.” Daniil says, a note of petulance creeping into his voice, and a sour, sad look writ across his face.
“I didn’t know how. You’re aware of my situation. Nothing holds me in Petrograd any longer.”
Daniil’s face stutters. Pain shuddering across his features. “Nothing. I see.”
Andrey hands over the manuscript. “Here’s your chapter three.”
“And?”
Andrey shrugs. “Your description of the garden, the maze behind the mill- it’s poetic, evocative…”
“Thank you.”
“And quite unnecessary.” Andrey looks at Dankovsky, observing them from a distance, feeling pressured and pained. Trying to convince himself this is the only choice.
The hurt on Daniil’s face grows. “Pray, elaborate…”
“All of it. The last ten pages. The whole chapter. I would cut it all. Wouldn’t miss a thing.”
“But we want to know if he’s going to find her letter- ” Daniil protests.
“Do we, really? I don’t think so- no- ” Stamatin takes one last look at the elder Dankovsky, steeling himself for what he must do. “You know, for the life of me, I cannot understand how you fathom yourself a writer- The plot is banal, to put it plainly.”
Daniil draws himself up, face hardening now. “It’s not the tale, Mr. Stamatin, but how you tell it- ”
“Precisely my point. We’ve all read this tale- and many others like it. A romance gone wrong.” Andrey shakes his head. “I would advise you to return to your ghost stories.”
“I… I thank you, then, for your frankness, sir…” Daniil says, deflating, trying to keep himself collected.
Andrey goes on, a look of pain on his own face, refusing to meet Daniil’s eyes. “But you don’t have anything to say- about the natural or the supernatural, do you? Nothing of real substance about grief or life or ghosts. Nothing of value on death, what comes after, or how to reverse it, despite what you’ve been saying these past few months.”
“Stop- let me be-“ He’s on the verge of tears now.
“Writing about life… the aches that your describe with such earnestness… the pain- the loss… the love. You haven’t lived at all… In fact, you seen to know only what other writers tell you. How can you even presume to feel-“
Daniil gasps in air, unsteady. “Enough. You’ve made yourself more than plain.”
“- how it hurts to be alone and desperate? How it feels to wish you were the one in the coffin, Or the one digging it back up? All from your comfortable nest here in- ”
He's cut short by Daniil slapping him, hard enough for Andrey’s head to whip to the side, already flushing red. Andrey shakes himself, turning back to see Daniil’s fleeing form, a dark shadow cutting through the bright colors of the rest of the guest’s attire. When he looks at the elder Dankovsky, utterly devastated, Andrey finds a smile on the retired General’s face, clearly pleased.
That night, in the late dark, Daniil lies in his bed, dressing gown pulled loose around him, wiping at his tears. The floorboards creak, soft whispers as the curtains shift. The bedsprings go down, a weight joining him on the mattress, and Daniil freezes, eyes wide, head turned away from the presence. He’s so utterly sure it’s another specter. One he does not wish to witness.
Instead, his father’s hand caresses his hair, brushing strands away from Daniil’s puffy eyes.
“I’m not blind, Daniil – I’m not. I know you had feelings for him. But give it time. You shouldn’t be afraid of being alone- ” The General pauses a moment, thinking. “You still have me… Perhaps you and I- we could go to France. A season in Paris. You could write and I- ”
Good night, Father. I love you – but good night.” It’s clear Daniil wants to hear nothing of it, nor be in anyone’s company at the moment.
Much as it pains him to do so. The old man leaves Daniil to his wallowing.
The next day finds General Dankovsky once again at the club, walking into the pool room in his robe.
“How’s the water today, Ivan?” He asks the attendant, taking a clean towel.
“Just the way you like it, Mr. Dankovsky, sir- “
He smiles. “Very well, then. Be kind enough to order me some toast and eggs. I’ll start with coffee, if it’s hot – “
The attendant nods. “Right away, sir.”
As he leaves, Dankovsky kneels to test the water, sticking in a hand, smiling when he finds that Ivan had been right. It is just the way he likes it.
A figure comes up behind him, reflection barely visible in the pool. The General turns, surprised, but it’s too late. He’s hit across the forehead with a hammer, sending him sprawling to the ground. The figure comes to stand over him, before winding their gloved hand into Dankovsky’s hair, pulling him back and slamming the man again and again into the tiled corner of the pool, leaving blood and bits of brain behind.
His body rolls into the water with a soft splash, as his assailant withdraws. The General rocks gently back and forth in the pool, his fractured, shattered skull birthing forth a plume of dark blood into the pristine water. His eyes are still wide in surprise, though no spark lights them anymore.
When the attendant, Ivan, walks back in , he sees the body and screams, dropping the tray of hot coffee he had prepared.
Daniil walks through the stacks of the public library, looking between the last page from his manuscript, with Universal Decimal Classification numbers scrawled there, and the stacks. When he finally located the indicated volume: a battered copy of Frankenstein, he opens it to find a letter. Daniil blinks back tears, not noticing the shadow gathering behind him as he reads.
Dear Daniil,
By the time you read this, I will be gone. So, these words are my only chance to tell you how much you mean to me. Your father asked me to break your heart and leave you. By this time, surely I have accomplished both. But know this: I leave only because of my present station in life. I shall change it. Even if it takes years, I shall change it – and when I can prove to your father that all I ask of him is his consent – nothing more – then, and only then, will I come back for you.
Forever,
Andrey Stamatin
He turns, headed for the stairs, intent on confronting his father, on finding Andrey, but a woman is standing in his path. His mother, sunken and sickly and most horribly dead, raising her arm, blocking his way. Daniil can see how beautiful she was, even as the worms crawl through spectral skin, and he watches her decompose before him. The book falls from his hands, and Daniil flees, clutching his letter close.
When he makes it outside, he runs to the station, pushing his way through the throngs of families, workers, and businessmen. But it’s too late. By the time he arrives at the platform, the train has already set off, pulled out of the station. Another is not set for the Urals for weeks.
Daniil stands there, defeated, panting, chest heaving as he watches the tail end of the train disappear out of his sight. Little by little, he slowly becomes aware of another presence nearby. Turning, head whipping around, terrified of what ghastly phantom is there this time, Daniil flushes when he instead spots Andrey, amongst the crowds. He backs away, flustered and confused.
Andrey follows. “It seems I missed my train. On purpose, Danya. My brother – he’s on board – but I couldn’t go – not yet.”
Daniil can’t believe it. Wants to, but is unable to shake the feeling this is all some elaborate trick. “When, then? When do you leave?”
“I don’t know – truly I don’t – “ Andrey says, face earnest and eyes wide.
“What do you mean? If you don’t know, who does?”
Andrey steps closer, closing the distance between them. “You, Daniil. Only you know.” He pulls Daniil to him, and into a kiss. Long and passionate and likely far more earnest than their location deserves. Daniil is utterly thrilled.
When he pulls back, he asks, “And what about my book? Is it so awful?”
Andrey shakes his head, emphatic. “No! I loved every word. You must finish it, I beg.”
The pair take a taxi back to the Dankovsky home, and when they arrive it sits in front of the house, engine idling. Daniil and Andrey are in the back seat, locked together in a passionate embrace, mouths and hands roving across each other in ways altogether inappropriate, even in the relative seclusion of the taxi car.
A black motorcar pulls up behind it, and a man gets out, coming up to the taxi and interrupting the couple with a loud knock on the window. The pair startle apart, and the man opens the door. It’s Fedyor, the family’s lawyer.
Daniil takes one look at him, and knows something terrible has happened.
A coroner leads Daniil, Andrey and Fedyor down a hospital corridor. They’re not halfway down it before Burakh appears behind them all, hurrying to catch up.
“Danya. I’m so sorry – it’s incomprehensible – I can’t believe it, how could such a thing happen-? He was a dear friend, you know that- ” Artemy falters when he catches up. Daniil is in shock, holding back his tears as the coroner opens the door to the morgue. Before they can enter, Artemy stops him. “Daniil. Wait.” He turns to the coroner. “I’ll give you a positive identification. There’s no need to Mister Dankovsky to see him. I was his physician.”
Fedyor shakes his head. “And I am his lawyer, Burakh. I am sorry- it’s a legal formality. Obligatory, I’m afraid”
The coroner looks at Daniil closely, studying him. “You must concentrate on the features that remain intact, Mister. Don’t fix upon broken things, things out of place…”
Daniil nods, and he leads them all inside. They gather around a draped cadaver, laid out upon a porcelain table. The sheet is pulled back, revealing the corpse to Daniil and the gathered men. Daniil, who is fighting back tears as he takes in the mangled form of his father. Andrey steps closer, steadying him.
“As the sole surviving relative, you could request an autopsy, but in this case I don’t think it’s necessary. An accident – the floor was wet – “ The coroner trails off.
“Ah, of course. He slipped.” Fedyor agrees.
None of Daniil’s beetles or books or ghosts have prepared him for this. For all his talk of reanimation and scientific ideals, he finds himself barely holding it together. It is different, he thinks, when the corpse in question is one that belongs to you.
Artemy gazes intently at the body, frowning as he gets closer to the late General’s head. He addresses the coroner. “May I, sir?”
He’s already moving the body’s skull, tilting him to get a better look at the lacerations, the broken and dented bits.
Daniil, overcome, startles, and smacks Burakh’s hand away. “Get away from him- This is my father- my- my father. He is- he’s turning sixety next week, and he is- he is afraid of it showing- ” His voice breaks, gasping on nothing. “Afraid of looking his age, you see? That’s why he- he dresses so well- That’s why he swims every day- that’s why he- He loves taking long walks with me, even if he- if he hates the cemetery. He loves it- He loves me- and now… And now I am alone.”
Daniil entirely crumbles then, collapsing into half sobs on his dead father’s chest. It’s easier to seek comfort in the dead than in the living. A habit he never grew out of from childhood. A habit that now, he never will.
