The Last Romantics

The Subjects of Sucess

Victor was looking quite silly with his unstyled hair falling into his face, though it gave him a much less intimidating look, more human than aristocrat.
"I know I'm not your brother, Sherlock. But judging on your method of arrival, I'm all you've got." Victor muttered, giving me a rather pitiful smile before sitting back a bit more comfortably against the headboard, relaxing as best he could before setting his eyes once more on me, as if expecting me to start up the conversation.
"Do you believe in ghosts?" I wondered at last, that being the predominant question on my mind. I don't know what I wanted out of that answer, considering his confirmation would scare me and his denial would leave me skeptical. Nevertheless, I awaited his answer anxiously.
"Yes I do. In fact, I've seen one myself." Victor admitted.
"You didn't?" I exclaimed, allowing a smile of anticipation creep onto my face now as I stared into his illuminate eyes.
"I did, not in this house but in my childhood home. My sister died young, stricken with consumption at the age of four. Well she died shortly thereafter, but a week after she died I had been awoken to the sound of running in the hallways. After a moment of this commotion I got up out of my bed, creeping towards the door, suspecting it to be some sort of burglar. Well it continued like that, up and down the hallways, such a racket that I was shocked my parents weren't already yelling for it to stop. I was curious, and definitely afraid, though when I opened the door I saw my sister, running at me at nearly full speed. I called out her name in shock, and the only words she managed were "Victor, I'm sorry to wake you" before she vanished."
"That's terrifying!" I exclaimed, feeling shivers running down my spine as I looked at the doors leading to the hallway, regrettably on the side of the room closest to me. What lay between the doors and me was considerable space of empty darkness, though whatever would come through the doors would certainly go for me first. I shivered, inching closer to Victor all the while knowing I could not get too close.
"That didn't make me feel much better." I admitted at last.
"Don't ask questions you don't want answered." Victor warned, laughing a bit light heartedly and putting his hand reassuringly on my shoulder, as if to reassure me that he was right here by my side. That made me feel much better, human contact was certainly something that I had been lacking as of late. I appreciated his touch, in fact I leaned into it, and before long I felt him leaning back into me.
"I'm terribly frightened, Victor. Not just of ghosts or thunderstorms, not even of nightmares. But of the future." I shuttered a bit nervously. "What does it have in store for me, for any of us? What if my poetry isn't popular, what if I can't give you any sort of rent, or compensation of any sort? I already feel like deadweight, I couldn't imagine what I would think if I couldn't make an income."
"Sherlock, your poetry is some of the best I have ever witnessed. And I'm quite biased, mind you. You have a gift, a recognizable gift, and before long you'll be just as popular as I was, or perhaps even more." Victor admitted, at last working his arm all the way around my shoulders so that he could hold me to him, allowing me to sit up against his bare chest and steal away his excess body heat. I appreciated this more than anything in the world, I felt more safe now than I had since before I was born, cradled in the arm of a strong and fearless man. My idol turned savoir.
"Are you working on anything new?" I wondered, remembering at last that mine wasn't the only career that we need worry about. Victor laughed; as if that was the same question he had been asking himself for quite some time.
"Nothing major, nothing in publishing format at least." He admitted with a guilty shrug. "To be honest, the ideas just aren't coming as easily as they used to."
"That's just...well it'll pass. You just need inspiration, that's all." I assured him, nodding my head along the divots of his collarbone. Victor chuckled, though he didn't seem all together convinced.
"Perhaps there is a new master in the making, and the world is in no need of two." he muttered.
"That's a terrible way to look at it." I muttered. "You'll think of something, I know you will. And within a couple of years you'll be poet laureate, and I'll be right by your side."
"Poet laureate...Sherlock you flatter me so." Victor whispered. "But this is not our generation, remember. These are the days of reconstruction, of Tennyson."
"He's on his death bed; the papers have been saying so for weeks. When he dies, who will succeed him?" I pointed out, to which Victor scoffed, seemingly annoyed with my optimism.
"A far more experienced, accomplished poet than myself. Perhaps in some coming years, Sherlock. Perhaps in another lifetime entirely." Victor muttered, smiling sweetly and patting my shoulder in admiration.
"I'd like to keep the hope, Victor. I'd like to think that the universe has great things in store for us." I admitted, to which Victor chuckled.
"It does indeed, Sherlock. Great things." he agreed. "But now I think we best focus on getting to sleep. Every day deserves our consideration, and to waste our precious hours of sleep might be neglecting the opportunities of tomorrow."
"Said like a true poet." I muttered, making a move to get off of the bed by swinging my legs in the direction of the door. However Victor seemed to have other ideas, as his grip loosened but did not give way.
"I thought your goal was to fall asleep, unafraid?" he pointed out. I hesitated, admiring his perseverance, though turning a color of magenta I hoped was not visible in the darkness.
"I'm not afraid any longer." I assured rather reluctantly.
"Keep it that way, then." Victor muttered, letting go of my shoulder and gesturing to the pillow which lay beside him, the accommodations for a second person. I nodded, remaining where I was but edging just a little bit farther away from him as I settled myself down in the bed, laying rather stoically on my back and wondering just how willing I was to try to make myself comfortable. I didn't want to toss and turn too much, in fear of waking my generous host.
"Good night Sherlock. Dream of beautiful things." Victor muttered, rolling over towards the opposite wall as if to offer me my due privacy. I swallowed hard, nodding away my nerves and allowing myself to melt into the mattress, appreciating the extra warmth that my companion provided. I didn't offer him a goodnight in return, as I wasn't sure how quickly he could fall to sleep. All the same, I'm sure he knew I said it in my mind. Goodnight Victor. Goodnight.