FicWad

AN: This may make no sense.

Danse Macabre

Is that what our game is called?

What is it like, I wonder, to be admired and wanted by so many people? To be so painfully unaware, and yet so shrewd at the same time? Do you pretend? Because you don't for me. I believe in our game, because in the end, there has to be a winner and a loser. If you win, you will be free from me. If I win, I will get you.

But if you win, will you really be free? Will you still pretend for the sake of others?

I call it a game, but it's inelegant. Games are often for fools, looking for better times past and gone, and so I begin to think of it as more of a dance. It /fits/. We could circle and waltz around each other, round and round.

"Come play with me," I say at times, but do I mean something else? Do I mean "Come dance with me," instead? I can reach for you, and I could pull at your little heartstrings, dangling the blonde boy in front of you. I can tug him upwards, and jump you will, shuffling to the right with a little hop skip. I could make you dance, if I wanted to, and I could do so much than just tug.

And you could do just the same to me, if so inclined. Make me bleed, make me yours, make me dance for /you/. We could court each other under the moonlight, gravestones and skeletal remains shadowing the ground, broken whispers of trees and haunted dolls, circling in a merry go round. You and me, me and you, circling, circling and you could be free anyway, no winning or losing, just our own world where you don't have to be anything for anyone. Wouldn't you like that?

I could find you; I'll let you court me,

And we'll lead each other into our Danse Macabre.

end