Title: Isle Fractions
Fandom: Rave
Disclaimer: Umi-chii still can’t make Hiro Mashima sell Rave.
Author’s Notes: I’m back to writing this after I went through schyra’s post of her old, unfinished Rave arts. lol That somehow reminded me of these fics, and soon, I’m back into writing Isle Fractions. It’s been nearly 2 years since I last wrote for Isle Fractions, the last date being May 2007. …Wow.

By the way, there's a collaborated version of this with schyra titled Whispers, though I think it's the only first chapter (hence the similarities).

2. Down and Dirty

With all of the broken furniture gone, the house felt emptier than it previously was. The moth-eaten couch was gone, nearly all of the beds were gone as well, and more than half of the mansion’s chairs were given away. The only wooden furniture left were tables and desks, and the white grand piano on the grand staircase’s second flooring that, strangely enough, was the only well-kept furniture in the house.

The owners must’ve loved it, Lucia thought, when he found the musical instrument as the only thing covered with a cloth.

“Hey, dad!” He called over his shoulder. His blond hair was tied up with an elastic band, its color matching his dark red shirt and military green cargo shorts. “What’re we going to do with this piano?”

Half a floor under him, King grunted at the sudden loss of proper footing, the weight of a new couch heavy behind his back.

“Dad!”

“Shut up, you brat! Help me here!”

“This is why I said we just hire some help.” He muttered as he stomped down the wooden stairs. They had removed its red carpet and discarded it almost immediately when they found most of its edges tattered.

Creak.

He paused, right foot just hovering on the third step from the bottom. Slowly, he set the foot down next to his left foot, staring at the wooden board, his black sneakers looking like two huge stationary rats. With the same slowness, he raised himself to a step, before stepping back down onto that creaking floorboard.

There was no sound.

His breath hitched, and hitched even higher when he repeated his steps over that certain board, from above then from below.

What the hell…

“Oi, Lucia! We’re not playing hopscotch here!”

“Dad… did you check the stairs?”

“Yeah, I did,” his eyes didn’t leave the board as his feet remained planted on it. “I actually had some of those chemical injected onto it. The entire thing’s hollow in the inside. Those termites ate everything, and am ‘fraid there might be some more pests living inside. The Insectiminator will be coming back tomorrow though, so don’t worry.”

But it’s odd. The sudden sound…

Or maybe he’s just tired and sleepy that his mind started doing this weird shizkaboo on him. Yeah, maybe that.

“Dad, it’s seriously late. Aren’t you done yet?”

“Hold it, kid. Gonna finish fixing this couch here…”

Lucia frowned at his father, who’s busy finding the right angle for the couch. Grumbling, he stormed down the stairs, ears mindful of any sound it’ll make.

Creak.

This time he whirled around as he landed on the bottom step, the board stretched elaborately with carvings on its side. He put his heel on the bottom step before laying the rest of his foot over it. Then he stomped hard on the step, hard and loud enough to earn another ‘Oi!’ from his father.

“What the hell are you doing, brat? Don’t go breaking those stairs! I just had them fixed!”

“But they’re not,” Lucia wanted to say. But he didn’t, not when his eyes were darting back and forth from one step to another, until finally, it reached the white grand piano on the second flooring. It sat there with its outer rim propped up. His father thought it’ll look somewhat ‘cool’ to have the outer rim opened. He hadn’t thought it’ll only collect more dusts that way. Or that it’ll creep Lucia out more than it had when covered.

Ten minutes later, after more arguing and exchanging of insults, father and son finally righted the couch’s angle, tilted 45 degrees facing the left staircase.

“Now we can finally go to sleep!” King exclaimed, grinning triumphantly at the couch. Lucia could only let a cheek twitch violently, because one, that was the very first angle they tried before the arguments started, and two, he’s tired. He had been roaming the garden and marking out the places he had to tend, not to mention he had been manhandled nearly for the entire day by a large wild cat.

Now that he thought of it, where the hell did that cat run off to?

“Hey, dad,” He asked, turning away from the couch as he surveyed the large living hall. “Where’s Katzchen?”

“The cat?”

“Yeah…”

King shrugged, wiping off the sweat on his brows. “Haven’t seen that big cat. By the way, I’ve cleaned the first two bedrooms in the west wing. You go and have your sleep first. I’ll just put away these stuffs.” He heard his father said behind him.

“Alright. Night, dad.”

“Night, kiddo.”

He took the right side of the staircase, dragging his feet purposely over the fourth step, waiting for that creaking sound. He wasn’t surprised when there was barely a sound other than the heavy rubber soles of his sneakers on wood.

Maybe it really was just him, he mused. Maybe it’s just the time and the fatigue combined, not to mention the eerie aura the grand piano imposes from the second flooring.

Reaching the second flooring, he took another flight of stairs stretching to the left and straight to the west wing, leading to a hall of doors on both sides, all of them bedrooms. Most of them had double doors with brass doorknobs, a large ornately framed painting hanging above a small wooden table, some still with vases while others were left with nothing but an old table cloth, between each pair of doors on the right side.

“Whoever used to live here must be real lookers,” King had said earlier this afternoon when he was helping his father put in a new mattress onto the new double-sized bed. And now that he paused to stare at the painting between his room and his dad’s, he realized his father was right.

The painting was that of a tall, haughty looking man with broad shoulders, ashen blond hair combed back as eyes so stern and almost grey (honestly though, he couldn’t tell. The painting was so old and had already faded on some spots) stared hard at the painter, a large hand resting on the head of a plush couch that must’ve been vibrant red in color. Sitting there on the couch was a woman with almond-shaped eyes and a quirked smile, wavy blond hair styled into a beehive, wearing the typical fluffy ballroom dresses of the 18h century. On her feet was…

“A crocodile?!” Lucia spluttered, eyes widening at the creature on the painting. Yep, a crocodile all right.

“Crocodile where?!” Someone behind him suddenly yelled.

King was some few steps behind him, fussing around the hallway with curses and threats.

“Dad, it’s in the painting. Not on the floor,” Lucia said, pointing at the mentioned painting. “And I don’t think there’ll be crocodiles tonight, not after Maine Coon attack.”

The elder Leagrove stood next to his son as he stared up at the painting, whistling beneath his moustache when his eyes found the crocodile.

“A real looker, I say.” King muttered.

Stepping away, Lucia went for the door to his left, leaving the first room for his father.

Creak.

He froze, hand inches away from the doorknob. His eyes shot straight towards the wooden floor under his sneakers. He could sense a repeat of his previous experience at the staircase.

“Dad, the floor just creaked.” He called for his father, eyes not leaving the plank. He stood there, waiting for his father’s reply, until nothing but silence answered him. Blinking, he turned his head and stared at his father. Or rather, the space his father should be occupying.

“Dad?” He called out hesitantly, and waited. Again, nothing but empty air. “Dad, this isn’t funny!” He called out again, this time louder as he walked away from the door. He could feel it—his heart, the erratic beating, the sudden increase of his breathing rate. “Dad! Don’t joke around like this!” He yelled at the empty hallway until he arrived back at the grand staircase.

Then he stared some more at the large main hall before him, jaw slacking off. And then he screamed.

“Oi! Kiddo!”

He ran and he ran back into the hallway, deeper into the hallway, past grinning paintings and stretching shadows beneath his shoes.

“Damn it, Lucia! Wake up!”

Someone was shaking him, he could feel it, that violently jerk of his head, back and forth, left and right, shaking him so hard as if there’s naught a bone in him or trying to break through gravity alone.

“Lucia! Wake up!”

“Back”

He heard it, that hissing whisper next to his ear. He batted at it, as if it’s there, occupying solid space.

“Back”

He heard it again, this time longer and more snake-like. And then he felt it—that cold lick of air on his cheek, just inches away from his earlobe. And then he slipped and he sprung forward, hand grabbing empty air as he stared at his father’s worried face, eyes the same golden shade of his wide in fear and concern. He nearly choked on his own breath when he saw his reflection in his father’s eyes; his trademark scar, his wide eyes and his pale face, he could see all of them in his father’s eyes.

“What the hell is the matter with you?! Asking for sleep then suddenly screaming and frying the shit out of me!”

A dream... it was all… a dream?

“Dream…” He whispered aloud. “A dream.” He repeated some more, as if convincing himself. But it felt so… real yet so unnatural at the same time… “The painting.”

“The what?”

“The painting,” King was looking at him worriedly, that rare ‘father’ look he only gives when he’s seriously concerned. “There was a painting, on the hallway, west wing, next to my room…”

“That painting? It’s gone now, don’t you remember? You even helped me remove it for the auctioneer.”

His head shot up instantly at his father’s words. They… sold the painting?

“Well, not really... Actually, sort of, since the auctioneer paid us for that painting and he’s gonna sell it tomorrow for a bigger wad of cash—”

“We have to get that painting back!” He had no idea what the hell was wrong with him, but he was sure of it. He was really sure of it, that that painting wasn’t meant for another house, and that painting wasn’t meant to leave this house. That painting was meant for that huge empty space outside his room, and he didn’t even know why he was fussing over that painting when he could’ve bought a better, livelier and less gloomy painting. But he knew he wasn’t fooling himself when he felt that sudden jump of his heart, that sudden skip of a beat; something bad would happen if that painting went missing.

“What the hell are you talking about? You’re the one who said it’s a good idea to sell it for the local auction!”

“I changed my mind!” He had to get it back. He has to get it back! “We have to get it back, dad! Now!” He yelled as he leaped off the couch, grabbing his jacket hanging over the couch before dashing out of the house.

“Hold it! It’s minutes till midnight! Road’s closed and town is dead, kiddo!”

“I don’t care! I have to get that painting back!” He yelled over his shoulder as he don on his jacket, practically jumping over the porch’s steps and into the muddy tracks, leaving imprints of his sneakers’ soles.

“Lucia! You don’t even know where the auctioneer lives!”

“Then I’ll just find my way around.” He told himself as he pushed the rusty front gates open and ran straight into the dark forest.

He must’ve been mad to suddenly run out of the house just to get a painting back dead in the middle of the night. And when asked, ten years later, he must’ve been possessed to go that far.

“I feel lonely, love…”

Doryu suddenly stared at his candelabra. He blinked at the candle, at its fire. It had flickered. He hadn’t mistaken it. And he’s not mistaken at all to know that candlelit fires aren’t meant to flicker when there’s barely a soft night breeze nor a blow of a breath in the room. There’s barely a sign of life in the room, in fact, other than his soft but nearly dead breathing.

“I, too, my love…”

There. The fire flickered again. The dark-skinned auctioneer quickly stood up from his seat, leaving his quill perched on the ink well before he walked away from his desk to check on his window.

“I want to go back home…”

It’s locked. His windows were locked, shut real tight. It’s impossible for the tiniest gust of wind to enter the room.

“So many times, we’ve been separated…”

He grabbed the curtain and pulled it close. At least when there’s an escape of wind, he would know from the shifting shadows on his wall. Calmly, he returned to his work, sitting down on the wooden chair, fingers gripping the quill gently again.

Just as he’s about to sign the contract, the ink well burst, and soon, there was nothing but ink all over the table and the contract and on his hands, some even reaching his monocle. Swearing loudly, he threw the quill onto the floor and was going to dab the ink stain on his vest with a handkerchief until he saw the painting he had sold to Don Ruby.

“Mr. Doryu!”

Slowly, he inched towards it, hand absently still dabbing himself. That painting wasn’t supposed to be here anymore. Don Ruby had come to pick it up hours ago, right after he paid his payment.

“Mr. Doryu! Please open the door! I need to talk to you!”

He ignored the incessant banging on his front door as his eyes attached to the painting, at the pair of reptilian eyes mesmerizing him, pulling him—

The door slammed open and Lucia barged into the house, a huffing and panting King five steps behind him.

“What the fuck—”

“Mr. Doryu!”

“That was very uneventful.”

“Was it? I found it entertaining.”

The piano played a soft melody as the hammers struck and the strings stretched.

“Tell me, Blue. What were you hoping for?”

A loud boom sounded in the main hall, the sound as loud as an explosion. The staircase’s wooden floor shook as the strings vibrated violently, the chandelier shaking from the resonance.

“I was hoping for something more exquisite.”

TBC