A.N: the first of a long series of horror/romance/supernatural/angst one-shots.

Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh or the Disney Anastasia song 'Once upon a December'

Blood and Roses

Waking Dreams

The music box played over and over the same tune, the same song, the same tinkling tiny bells that had been Yuugi's favourite sound in the world.

Over and over the figures rose from the lifted lid, twirled together in a dance that never ended, a lord and his lady made of bright, bright gold spinning on the turning carousel that was their existence.

Again and again the key was turned, the mechanism rewound, the clockwork ticking softly under the sound of the bells. The moments of awful silence when the tune faded made him fumble with the brass key on the back, made him think of the silence in the house.

Then the tune would begin again and his ears would be filled with the happy chime of childish joy, it made him smile in a twisted bitterly pleased way.

The music lied.

The golden figures had long turned dull with the tarnish of time.

And Yami never saw the light of day again.

The room was heavy with age, moats of dust flittered like dying butterflies around the stale air of his single room, thick heavy velvet curtains covered the narrow windows, sometimes the wooden floor creaked of its own accord.

He was sat, shoulders hunched as always in the same stiff backed oak chair that he always did, that he always would. His eyes were devoid of anything, his skin was sunken and stretched, the hunger roared within him.

The music kept playing.

There was a bed, by the far wall. Four-poster. King size. He had always given Yuugi the best of everything. The mattress had been soft, springy; it used to smell of their passion and their perfume. Now it smelt of musky aged wood.

The sheets were crumpled and unmade the same as they had been for years now.

The sheets were stained with old blood, once red, darkened rusty with time.

It didn't smell of blood, not anymore.

There was a rug on the floor. Deep red and gold. Yuugi had liked it, had said it was perfect. Outside the world carried on. Sometimes, during the day, Yami would pause to listen to the horses pulling their carriages, the merchants shouting in the market, a baby crying two rooms down. No one came to the house anymore, they all knew about the cursed man that resided within.

The floor was littered with broken things. Pictures fallen from the walls, the paint peeling off their frames. A porcelain figurine from the drawing table lay in delicate shards by his feet, its once softly frozen face scattered across the floor a single blue eye remained intact, staring blankly at the wooden ceiling. The oil lamp, thankfully empty and unlit, lay where it and fallen and rolled in a corner, now coated in the designs of the spiders.

During summer the room grew stifling hot, in winter bitterly cold. That was how he measured time.

The bells began to slow. The embracing figures grew sluggish.

The dreams still came to him. Only they couldn't be called dreams because he never slept. A sweet smile, a softer touch, a laugh brighter then sunshine, skin silkier then moonlight, eyes that twinkled like a thousand violet stars.

He didn't react now like he used to, he new they weren't real. Just memories, just mirages, just fantasies.

Yami knew he was mad.

One hundred years he had walked this earth. And not once had there been one like Yuugi, never one so simple in complexity, never one so kind in nature, never one that gave like Yuugi did.

He regretted it. But regret was not the word; there was no word strong enough. What he had done he could not clearly remember, what had made him do it even fuzzier. He just remembered he had been angry, he just remembered frustration. A friend had angered him, another enemy had gotten away, and he hadn't had time to eat. He came home to where Yuugi had been waiting as usual…

He didn't remember. Only screams, only blind desire and hunger, only the blood in his mouth had mattered.

The music slowed to a stop.

His fingers hastened, jerking stiffly, to rewind the key. The silence was defining. His skin was like parchment dried in the sun. The purple stones embossed in silver ivy glinted in the lack of light as he twisted the box again to lay it in his palms, resting on his lap. On his dusty old black dress trousers.

There was a vision with him now. A perfect stolen image of his perfect beautiful lover, it smiled with Yuugi's mouth, it knelt by his side on Yuugi's knees, and it held his dead hands with Yuugi's hands. He could feel the touch like it was real, it was warm and soft enough to be Yuugi's skin. But he dreamt.

As the tinkling bells began again the image began to sing with Yuugi's silver voice.

Dancing bears

Painted wings

Things I almost remember

And a song someone sings

Once upon a December

Someone holds me safe and warm

Horses prance through a silver storm

Figures dancing gracefully

Across my memory

He felt for an instant, warm again, whole again. The voice was perfectly real, a perfect imitation. But he couldn't get carried away, he couldn't. This had happened before. This had caught him so long ago, the fist time they met Yami hadn't seen Yuugi. He'd heard him singing this song and had followed the enchanting sound like a bird follows the sun.

The image of Yuugi smiled in his song, tightening his imaginary grip on Yami's hands.

Someone holds me safe and warm

Horses prance through a silver storm

Figures dancing gracefully

Across my memory

Far away

Long ago

Glowing dim as an ember

Things my heart used to know

Things it yearns to remember

The vision's hands moved upwards from his own touching his cheeks with gentle caresses, pausing as the bells slowed again, looking at him. And finally, slowly, it finished its song as the last notes of the music box faded away.

And a song someone sings

Once upon a December

The touch left him then, slipping away as the song did. And Yami felt his dead heart break into even smaller pieces as the image faded away, standing and disappearing.

He would always remember that song, the words that went with the music box's tune.

He twisted the key again to rewind the mechanism. To fill this haunted house with its futile attempt at joy. To fill his ears with its whisper of old and never forgotten love.

Yami knew he was mad.

And always would the music box play.

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A.N: Written in an hour rather then English coursework... well I like it anyway. -Yawn- bed now.

You can look at this however you want but I wrote it so it could mean two different scenarios, one a little nicer the other. If you want to know what the two meanings are I will send them to you... through a reply if you review -sly laugh-.

Don't expect the next story soon, I have too much to do. But I can tell you it's werewolf orientated.

Review Please!