Never Seek To Tell Thy Love

Passion was something that had eluded William Blake, despite the tenacity in his tone. He spoke and appeared strongly, but he was all but an empty man; driven only by the need to fill in the void that filled him rather than a heart. Why fight to survive when there is nothing truly worth living for? Everything that could have had meaning to him had ultimately slipped through his fingers like sand, scattering in the wind to be forgotten. There was only emptiness that remained. Nobody was meant to last in his life for long. He told himself. It was an internal repetition, almost a silent mantra. He would never allow himself to break.

The fleeting presence of people around him was emphasized in his treacherous line of work. He lived dangerously, but it rewarded him highly with comfort. Whatever he can earn to fuel a hedonistic lifestyle, which had become a decent placeholder for anything that he felt could fulfill him. It was then he realized that he wouldn’t give the world the smug satisfaction that he ended himself out of his own futile, miserable existence.

Ah, but his adamance that he would die alone meaninglessly was challenged. A small misstep, and he had found himself in a pickle. His enemies were finally breathing down on his neck, inching ever closer, snarling and just about to bite. He was elusive, that much he knew, and he knows he could slip through their fingers and bite back.

But why still try to survive, if it is meaningless in the end? It would have been better if he’d let himself be caught. It’s far less hassle than to think.

The first time he met eyes with what could have been the end of him, something sparked in him. He was meek, soft spoken - oh - he looked delicate. He was pale and rigid, dressed well and was oh so sheepish. Adorable, he’s like a doll. He could break him if he could, but would he be so merciless? He’d be done with this man and he’d forget about him, like he’d do with most people. In a bout of arrogance, Blake mocked the man his enemies sent out to him, but the latter’s words held heavy weights, and Blake was shaken. The split-second glimpse of his gray eyes sent chills down his spine. He was thrilled that this delicate little man would challenge him. Blake could not tell if he felt intimidation or thrill, but that split second made him feel alive. A pity it would not last long.

He was wrong.

He pitied the delicate man, and let him live, not so much as to leave a scratch on him. He couldn’t fight back even if he tried, right? It was a mockery, a message. William Blake was confident that after such an encounter, that meek, fragile man wouldn’t dare encroach upon him again. It was not too long until he knew he was being followed, shadowed, observed; almost like an animal. It was not worth the effort spending resources and his energy for a fight, and had decided hiding would do. Only to be found again, and again, and again. This sheep of a man was incessant, and was growing well to become a thorn on his side.

Two can play at that game, doll.

Blake only remembered his face from the many times he has run into him. He never cared to get his name, settling only to call him a “little doll”, which only earned him a tougher time eluding this man. It became harder and harder to escape every time. He barely remembered his face, but his mind was brilliant. He would end up thinking ploys to escape him, outsmart him and turn the situation on him. Every plan he conceived was foiled, and that doll would only inch closer and closer, breathing down his neck. When Blake expected him to finally bite, he’d leave with a light warning. It didn’t take too long to know what he was doing.

But what mattered more was that he felt that thrill. It then dawned on him that he might as well fight fire with fire.

Blake studied his mind the more he confronted him; fervently seeking out this doll whom he knew could be the one to lead him to his eventual death. It was a game of cat and mouse, both who knew how each others’ mind games worked. There was a thrill in coming out on top, and even if he didn’t come out the victor, he’d anticipate when that doll would deal the final blow to him. For once in a long time, William Blake felt alive.

Was this what passion felt like?

It was sick and twisted, that much he knew. Did he care? Barely. He’s found his little tango partner, one that would keep him on his toes. Ah but he tired out his doll quite a lot didn’t he? Whilst being enemies they knew quite a lot about each other already, all from their little games.

He scared him when he came knocking at his door. His eyes were raw with shock and fear despite their tiredness, and Blake could only feel pride rise in his chest. This doll’s fear of being killed by the very man he was chasing was not unfounded, but Blake only wanted to wish him well. It was another ploy, but also the start of some complicated friendship.

His name is Edgar, he found. Edgar Allan Poe, a curious name.

They were enemies, but they’d have tea together, go for strolls. They both knew that one could kill the other at any moment. Blake; however, found no joy in the thought of seeing the light fade from Edgar’s eyes. Something about them stirred something within Blake, and it didn’t take long for him to understand. This is the closest to a real friend he could have gotten.

From tea time meetups, to nightly strolls, to plotting against each other, to sharp debates. It was rinse and repeat. It had almost become routine until Blake found his very enemy between his legs, his own voice betraying him and screaming Edgar’s name. Where he expected kisses, he was met with bites, gasping as his lover’s teeth sank into his neck. It was a harsh treatment that kicked Blake down a notch, grounding him. Gentle caresses down his flushed cheeks became harsh tugs at his hair, the sight of stars becoming blurred with tears. This feeling of groundedness brought him the closest to Heaven as he damn could be, if it even existed.

He’d sing praises in Edgar’s ear whenever the latter made him see stars. He’d give him the illusion of love that he himself could only conjure from a lack of it. Edgar filled this void that he had his whole life. In fleeting moments of passion and false affections, William Blake felt loved, protected, fulfilled, completed. With this false sense of fulfillment, he fed into Edgar’s voids as well, showering him with praise, and giving him a reason to feel he was important. His mind was brilliant, but his person did not match. Blake could see it in Edgar’s eyes when he praised him, gave him importance and fed his ego; he was alight.

It wasn’t love, but it was the closest thing to love that either of them have ever gotten.
It wasn’t contemptible, it wasn’t lamentable.
It was; however, dangerous and a farce, but it was fine.
It was better to live like this before they faded away.
At least, they would have felt fulfilled in a sick and twisted way.

The exact moment Blake knew Edgar was in danger, he called a truce and saved his life. His enemies being Blake’s own, seeing as they attempted to dispose of Edgar for only being able to get information out of him rather than eliminate him. His reasonings were selfish; however. There was no love, no real compassion. Only self-interest and the fulfillment of his needs.

Nobody else could give him the thrill Edgar did. His face he can live without; but that mind, that mind scared him. He sought to break it, perhaps; or to keep it close, he doesn’t know. William Blake will never admit to his dire need of some form of companionship, one that had eluded him his whole life.

It was easy after that. They had reached a point where they probably would not call each other enemies. Visitation would become frequent, as well as the ever growing silent acknowledgement of each others’ needs. Neither would be vocal about it, and simply settled for silence like it was nothing. Like their rivalry in the past was nothing. Whatever falseness was present in their bond, they said nothing. As long as voids were filled, it was fine. Blake would look at Edgar’s writing, and Edgar would pay attention to whatever Blake ended up doing. He often found him illustrating in his free time, and he enjoyed watching him. They paid such close attention to their hobbies and interests that it was almost intimate.

One day marked the finalization that there was perhaps something genuine blooming between them. For the trouble he had caused Edgar, Blake had gotten him a little raccoon. Nobody knows how and when it happened, just that it did. That time, it was but a juvenile. He had never seen Edgar’s eyes light up with such a genuine joy that it was enough to melt him. The small creature was named Karl, and he was well loved and cared for. Whatever Karl did, he gave way to more open affections. After all this false love they’ve been going at, it had finally felt real. Blake no longer cared to think properly. This is what he wanted, what he needed. He finally acknowledged it, and opened his heart for Edgar. He had never done that to anyone, but in the heat of the moment he felt it was finally right to live openly.

He forgot that nobody was meant to last in his life for long.

He didn’t know what went wrong. He didn’t know where he fell short. Edgar was gone, without a trace. His essentials and personal effects were still there. Everything he owned remained in the now abandoned home. Karl was missing as well. It had only been a year since they seriously started dating, since Blake had opened himself up for a man he finally knew he loved. His world shattered, and he began recounting his misgivings even if they were not related to Edgar in the least bit.

What did he lack for Edgar to leave without a word? What had he done in excess? He did not know. Any contact of Edgar’s he ask, they would just say he cut them off for no reason. All this searching and he had reached a dead end no matter what he did.

Again, he saw himself utterly defeated. His happiness whisked away in an instant. For the first time in a long time, William Blake allowed himself to break.