A/N: Another story, another day... Oh! The plot bunnies are killing me! Again, I'm not certain whether to keep this story going (though I would prefer to) and this is where you peoples tell me what ya think. This story takes place sometime in the late 1800s in Venice. Eriol and Syaoran are English Viscount and Baron. Tomoyo and her mother are prominent ladies in Venice, but I'll get into that later.

Disclaimer: All characters in this story belong to the wonderful people at CLAMP; I own nothing and lay claim on nothing. Also, this is the only time I'm saying this (for this story, anyway) and therefore, if you wanna sue me, tough luck.

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Danse Macabre

Chapter 1: Overture

Overture: Music An instrumental composition intended especially as an introduction to an extended work, such as an opera or oratorio.

"We have arrived, Sirs."

Hiiragizawa Eriol exhaled a breath he didn't quite realize he was holding and looked up at the drone-like cabin boy, the source of the disruption. He had previously been staring out of the dust covered window at his side. He was aboard the Peridot, a small but luxurious ferry especially for the elite. Outside, the waters of Canal Grande were giving away to the bustling port, as if in welcome to the city of mystique and ancient traditions.

Eriol thanked the servant with a bland wave of his hand and took a sip of his slowly cooling tea, glancing at his companion while doing so. His best friend and relative, Li Syaoran, was sitting across a small round table from him, reading a tattered-looking tome. The youth was completely immersed in the book. Eriol sighed and shook his head wryly. Syaoran had a tendency to be a little – oh, did he dare think it?– thick-headed. This oftentimes made Eriol, who was renowned for his admirable-like patience, scream in frustration.

"Did you hear?" He asked his companion.

Syaoran looked up, blinking questioningly. It was all Eriol could do to keep himself from tearing at his shock of raven hair. He sighed, vexed, and pointed to the growing outline of buildings outside the window. "We've arrived."

Syaoran answered with a barely audible "oh" and returned to the book in front of him.

"Shouldn't you be a bit more excited?" Asked Eriol, taking another sip of his tea, crossing his arms afterwards.

"Why should I be?" returned his chestnut-haired friend, not looking up from the text.

"Why not? Here we are, in one of the most romantic, intriguing and majestic cities in the entire world, and all you do is point your nose in that book. Look around you, smell the air. Doesn't it feel like you have been transported back in time?"

With a sigh, Syaoran replied, "The only thing I see is old houses and beggars on the streets. The only thing I smell is dusty air. There is nothing special here that I wouldn't have an opportunity to witness back home."

Eriol exhaled sourly and pouted. He still considered himself to be an age when pouting wasn't considered childish. "Syaoran, Syaoran. Don't you have an imagination? Think of the possibilities? Think of all the 'what if's."

"Let me tell you what will happen, Eriol, during this little excursion of ours," Syaoran began with a trace of sarcasm, finally settling his amber eyes on his friend. "We will arrive at port, where somebody will try to steal your wallet and then you'll ruin your expensive suit in the mud. When you get to your aunt's place, you'll be too tired to do anything else. And afterwards, you'll hide yourself in the library, writing cheques and greeting cards. You'll end up spending the entire vacation cooped up in the manor, and then I would be the one commenting on your lack of enthusiasm. In truth, this vacation is just a waste of time. Nothing good will come out of it."

Eriol looked at his friend for a long moment, even though one of his instincts screaming for him to contradict the taciturn boy. He knew he could, too. No one had managed to beat him at a debate; he considered that one of his top achievements in life. Instead, he bit his tongue and stole another sip of tea, which was bordering on cold by now. Syaoran had always managed to turn his words around, to add an extra meaning to a seemingly simple thing. The two of them were always at odds. 'That's what keeps us together', Eriol thought; he hated people who were too agreeable, it made no fun in life.

Syaoran and himself had been friends since before he could remember. They had never showed it, but both cared about each other very much. While Eriol was the more fun-loving of the two, Syaoran was more subdued. His quietness had served as a weak front to hide his deep intensity. In fact, and Eriol would swear all his family fortune over it, Syaoran was one of the most passionate people he had even met. The bespectacled youth was glad that it was Syaoran who was there with him at the moment, despite his aloofness.

Eriol feared that the only reason Syaoran agreed to come was to pursue his art. His chestnut-haired friend was an amazing artist, producing vividly intriguing and visually pleasing scenes. Not many people knew about this talent, however, as Syaoran tended to shy away from the rest of society (which often made Eriol tisk in disappointment). Syaoran's art was his secret passion, an almost sinful pleasure he allowed himself to practice to get away from the aches and pains of modern life. On a different side, Eriol had a hunch that Syaoran had just wanted to look after him, like an overprotective brother.

In all too soon, the little ship docked at the port and Eriol was forced to abandon his cold tea, which he didn't mind too much, and head to the exit. Outside, the sun shone bright, glistening off of the muddy waters. He could smell the difference in the air; the scent of work, spice and age. The buildings were huddled close together, towering over him, threadlike alleys leading onto the maze of the inner city. The natives going to and fro wore simple clothing in earthy tones, talking animatedly in a melodious language. Eriol truly did feel as if he was out of time, or, more accurately, back in time to when tradition reigned.

It was both welcoming and alienating. Foreign, he thought. As it turned out, there was not a single attempt at his wallet and the ground was surprisingly clean. He later nudged Syaoran in the side and smirked winningly.

"Oi, Eriol!" The youth hear his name shouted through the hubbub and woke up from the momentary lapse. There was a swarm of people pushing and rushing all around him, hefting heavy suitcases and carry-ons onto hansoms and to porter boys.

He glanced up in time for another call, and spotted the face of his aunt, waving heavily jewelled arms to get his attention. He smiled almost ruefully, lifting up his suitcases and poking Syaoran in the ribs, who, too, was immersed in observing his surroundings. Eriol's Aunt Nakuru Akizuki had always been an eccentric sort. Her closet seemed to be abundant with flashy dresses and large, feathery hats. She was twenty-five, six years older than him, but sometimes acted like his mother. She stood out of the entire crowd in her crimson chemise and flaming hair, although a person would have to be deaf not to notice her.

"Oh, Eriol, I've missed you so much!" He winced slightly when Nakuru threw her arms around him and pulled him for a tight, bone breaking hug. She had a very strong feminine cologne on, Eriol could almost see the stars dance in his head from the smell.

"Is that Syao-chan?" Nakuru exclaimed, freeing Eriol before his rib cage could crack, and moving off to her new target.

Syaoran squirmed and replied with a curt, "Hello, Akizuki-san," before being pummelled with the same crushing hug.

"Why, you've both changed so much since last I've seen you!" She said breathlessly and starry-eyed. "You must be the most sought after skirt-chasers in all of England!"

Both Sirs chose to ignore her comment, despite the faint dusting of rose along their fair cheekbones, and set out to look for a porter.

Technicalities over with, the duo was led to a waiting gondola, Nakuru bravely in the lead, chatting amiably.

Eriol shook his head with an almost imperceptible chuckle and followed along. He had received a letter not two weeks ago from Nakuru. He thought the sudden message to be odd, given that the last time he heard from his aunt was all of five years prior, but it intrigued him nonetheless. The letter had asked him to come to Venice, where Nakuru was currently residing. She wrote that the infamous Venetian Carnival was soon to happen and that she thought it was a good opportunity for Eriol to "loosen up." Of course, Eriol had clearly seen her attempt to "bring him out to the world," it was her main vigilance since he was a small child.

At first, Eriol was apprehensive about the proposition; he thought it was too much of a bother, too personal and carefree for him. But then, Nakuru had said that the ancient city would interest him (in more ways than one) and he had yet to disagree with her. So, he had agreed, only if Syaoran would tag along, even if Eriol had to bludgeon him to death. If truth be told, Eriol thought this to be a good opportunity to relax, and Lord knows, he hadn't been relaxed for a very long time. There was a sense of loss, of incompleteness within him, and he had an undeniable urge to find the missing piece, to the puzzle and to himself. Maybe here, in Venice, he would find what he chased after...

Inside the gondola, when everybody were seated, Eriol was amazed at the sensation. The gentle lull of the boat against the rolling waters. The sheer sensation was like gliding on air.

"Have you found the one yet?"

Nakuru's voice broke his reverie and he looked up from the water to glance at her, brow arched. Syaoran snickered from off to the side, murmuring something resembling to "him?! Never!" and peering over the sketchbook spread on his lap.

"You said something?"

With a frustrated sigh Nakuru repeated her question, "Have you found the one, yet?"

Eriol didn't need to ask what this "one" was; he already knew. It has been going around as a joke between his relatives. 'Almost twenty and without a wife?!' they would say and snicker behind discreet hands. It was true, there was no body in his life after in the incident with the Mizuki Baroness. The episode had left him completely crushed and he had not wanted a repeated occurrence. Eriol did not mind much, he never really cared about what others thought of him. Someone had once told him to follow his heart, to not let obligation tie him down. He was adamant about sticking to that dogma.

"Why do you bother asking him when you know he's a hopeless fool?" Syaoran piped in, all too glad to help out his friend, or further intensify his misery.

"Yes, but still... There could have been a small possibility..." Nakuru twiddled with her lace gloves, nibbling on her scarlet painted lip. "I've met some nice beauties here. Fashionable, eligible, and rich. Suppose I introduce him to some of them?"

"What are the probabilities that he won't bite their heads off?" Returned Syaoran. Eriol had a tendency to be a little... rough around the edges, chiefly allotted to Kaho Mizuki.

"True. It's still worth a try, though."

Eriol fidgeted nervously in his seat, tugging surreptitiously at his collar. It was as if he wasn't even there. The two were discussing his love live, and he was suddenly left out of the conversation!

"Since when have the two of you become partners in crime?" He asked, a bit miffed.

Nakuru smirked and reached a hand across the space that separated their seats, patting him on the knee. "Everything for the good of my precious Eriol-chan!"

"Yes, everything for our little Eriol-chan!" Syaoran parroted, looking decidedly pleased.

"And what about you, Syao-chan? The last time I checked, you were as single as a wolf. Maybe we should introduce you to some nice, Italian ladies, hm?" Eriol shot back with a smirk, gleefully watching Syaoran gulp.

"He has a good point, Syaoran," Nakuru broke in-between the Sir's glaring contest with a girlish giggle. "I should introduce you both to Ladies Naoko and Chiharu when we go to the masquerade ball tonight. Very nice girls, will make great wives one day. Ooooh! I know the perfect outfits for you two! You'll look so dashingly handsome!"

While Nakuru continued talking about that night's events, both boys looked positively sick. Eriol could just imagine himself being dragged here and there in a ridiculous outfit, being sold out to the Venetian Woman's Society. At least he was not going to suffer alone. As the saying went, the more the merrier. For the meanwhile, he slumped slightly in his seat and let the gondola whisk him away.

(tbc...?)

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It feels so strange to be writing a story that has to do with music so soon after Rhythm Divine. At least this story focuses more on the idea of Carnival rather then the cantos and crescendos. Plus, I'm kinda afraid to write that angst fic I had planning, and it isn't even that long! Maybe....