Summary: A bitter VictorxVictoria oneshot. Rated K+ for mild thematics.

Author's Note and Disclaimers: I cannot claim any of Tim Burton's fabulous ideas for my own. Therefore, I have resigned myself to writing fanfiction. )

Rating: K+. Why?: Nothing absolutely horrible in this one, just a few hints of angsty thematics.

Moths Drawn Toward a Flame

Outside, the wind howled particularly viciously and the bare limbs of trees creaked under their burden of ice. Encased in the sanctuary of the Everglot mansion, a single cozy flame warmed Victoria's room. Though the light was small, it was sufficient for her work and for escaping the undesirable weather outside.

The once steady glow of the candle began to flicker intermittently. Victoria looked up from her sewing, only to discover a moth flitting nervously around the candle's edge. Its antics distracted her momentarily; its persistence in seeking the flame was truly admirable.

And yet, each time it could never get any closer. Its only option was to beat the edges with its wings; attracted by the brightness but repelled by the heat. Did the poor creature not understand the futility of its task?

Victoria tried to pay it no mind and continue with her sewing, but the frantic flapping of wings soon became too much for her. "Shoo!" She waved with her hand. "Go on!" Soon her hand resembled the moth itself as she struggled to scare it away without putting out the candle. "Goodness, you silly thing… ouch!"

Sharply she drew her fist back as it encountered the flame. With no one to see, she plunged her pinky into her mouth in an effort to ease the pain. Her assailant seemed to laugh: its beating wings quickened pace as if to mock her injury.

Victoria suppressed any anger at being beaten by a moth and examined the burn. It was nothing serious, but still stung to the touch. Many young ladies might have burst into tears at the sight of their pretty hands so disfigured, but not Victoria. Instead, she found herself puzzling once more over the moth. Did it truly know the danger it tempted by seeking the flame?

Slowly she became aware of a distant music. It had been playing for quite some time, but its quaint tune had only just become audible. As if it were a dream, Victoria reached for the candle and glided in a daze towards the tremulous sounds. Robbed of its light, the moth followed slowly behind.

At the top of the stairs, Victoria paused. Who could it be that chanced to play so mournfully? She did not doubt the beauty of the music, but tugged her heart in a direction that could only lead to despair. However, she could not go back. Upon first reaching her ear, the melody had ensnared her and continued to hold her spellbound. Not knowing anymore if it was her own willful pursuit or a trap, Victoria descended the stairs.

The grand piano sang most loudly to her now, as if willing her to free it from the wicked composer who evoked the minor haunting chords. Cautiously she turned the corner to find a man, tall and thin, completely possessed by his music. "…Victor?"

He started at the sound of her voice, sending his carefully selected notes all into a jumble. "Victoria!"

Victoria chided herself mentally for thinking the music could have come from anyone but Victor. But why was it so melancholy? It was so far removed from a festive wedding song that it made her wonder…

He stood before her now with an air almost akin to embarrassment. His nervousness made her wonder what, in fact, she had intended by interrupting his performance to an empty room. They stood facing each other for a while, uncertain of how the other would react. Finally, Victor took a hesitant step forward.

"W-was there s-something you wanted?"

His stammer never failed to amuse her. It always broke the ice between them, and yet… the ice should have been broken long before. Victoria fidgeted with the lace hem of her sleeve. Why did she feel uncomfortable all of a sudden?

"I wondered if you could tell me…" she began. But as soon as she did, she was uncertain of how she would finish. She was not even sure of what she had planned to ask in the first place. Why you play your music so sadly? Why you jumped when I came into the room?

Why you stammered when you said my vows, and why you said Emily's flawlessly?

Now she could not meet his gaze. "Why…" Her eyes fell once more on the flickering light that she carried and the insect that flitted about it. "Why moths are drawn towards a flame?"

Of all things to come out with! But now that she had, she could not turn back. "Why do they persist? They can never get closer."'

Victor studied the moth as though he needed evidence to answer her question. After a few moments, he replied softly, "Perhaps it is not that they want to get closer… it is that they cannot get away."

She was about to remark on the curiosity of his answer when she realized the obscurity of her own question. It only uncovered more questions: questions that could not be answered. Suddenly she needed some reassurance; an affirmation that he was not an illusion which would fade away into the night like a cloud of moths. She reached to clasp her husband in a warm embrace, to know that beneath his paleness and frailty, a real human heart was still beating.

His touch was cold.

The candle, which she had set on the piano, flared suddenly and then ceased its flickering. Upon skirting the flame, the moth had come too close.