Title: Falling Demons

Fandom: Great Expectations

Summary: "She's beautiful and naïve and nothing to you, and words are only words. So you'll walk away as planned, because there's more for you in affluence than in love." What if Compeyson had actually loved Miss Havisham? Disclaimer: I don't own Great Expectations, and I'm certainly no Charles Dickens. Enough said.

Twice or thrice you've thought of confessing.

Twice or thrice you've thought of being honest.

Twice or thrice you've thought of her. You're distinguished and smart and Janus-faced, though, and sympathy is for the weak. So you'll walk away as planned, because there's more for you in affluence than in love.

Heartless.

Petty.

Cruel.

She's beautiful and naive and nothing to you, and words are only words. So you'll let them slip and fall away, because in the end, it doesn't matter. You know the pain will fade someday.

Heartless.

Petty.

Cruel.

You swear you're none of these things.

But you're wrong.

And somewhere in you, you know it.

You're worthless without this falsity and fortune.

But you know you're falling. An angel, you're not. A demon, you are.

And fallen demons don't find happily ever after in love.

It's not something you like to think about. In the moments before sleep, you think about anything but your desire for mercy, for forgiveness, for affection. In the moments before sleep, you think about riches, about possessions, about a life of easy wealth.

But you still dream about it—about her. You still dream about the future she expects—the future you want more than you could ever let on.

It's not real.

You can't let it be real.

It's fate for you to abandon her.

It's fate for you leave her impaired and alone.

It's fate for you to be heartless, petty, and cruel.

And on the outside, it's so dreadfully simple to put on your devious façade.

On the outside, it's so easy to be her mendaciously loving fiancé.

Inside, though, you're falling apart at the seams.

Inside...inside, you're dying.

You think it's not fair for love to have interfered. You think it's not right. But then you think that maybe, perhaps, this is your punishment. The most blissful, suffocating Eden of punishment possible.

She loves you.

You love her.

It should be the simplest of recipes for nirvana.

But it's not. It's complicated, convoluted, and any attempt at relief would be fruitless.

So you swear you'll follow through on this deception.

And this time, you're not wrong.