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Tell me again, why do I need one of these things?

Renfield dreams. Some times, he wants nothing more than to get…

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fraser: confusion Of Mounties
Renfield dreams.

Some times, he wants nothing more than to get lost in dreams. These dreams of artic beauty, the dreams of wild nights in a city not quite his own, the rock-star fucking... nobody said his dreams had to be meaningful and deep. Renfield liked them shallow with sex as a complimentary peanuts on his flight beyond the end of the earth.

Some dreams, he even flew, unfurling impossible wings to climb the stairs to heaven. Coasting on air pressure as he reaches the unreachable stars. Some dreams, there is even somebody waiting to meet him and Renfield can feel this desperate yearning in his heart as he climbs closer to this figure standing in the sun. And then, he burns like fallen wax and plumments into wakefulness. When it's not just Renfield freed from dreams, Mark holds him close and lets his tears run clean.

The only thing that touches that terrible yearning, that terrible hole in his soul is Benton Fraser and he is Mark's. And that is enough to cut like razor blade feathers alling to earth and cutting at Renfield's naked back.

The worst dreams are indescribable, and as a man who makes his living in words, that is a great and terrible curse. The pain that drives him to write disolute parodies of truth and lets Benton to hawk them to the higest bidder.

Renfield knows about curses and fate and darkness - the three of them were born to this. Whatever Mark says, this isn't about the three muskateers, the Olivier movie, the book or the candy bar.

The worst dreams come in small dark moments.

Where he is alone and can see no stars to guide him; not that it helps, he flunked scouting and cookery. Fair enough, he just didn't feel safe out there in the wilderness and no number of adults and

The worst dream is the one his is dreaming now, as he lies in city-darkness, city-silence fails to wake Renfield and city-air breathes whistling through the characterful window. Here, in Mark's mediocre corporate apartment, he dreams. And here there was no means of excape, no brother to watch him sleep, no lover to touch his body, just that horribl humid heat of a city night.

In his dream, Benton is naked. This dream starts like the others, but it catches the unwary. And the unwary is always Renfield, however he thinks himself wise to the signs; something about the porcelin sheen of his milk-white limbs disturbs Renfield. Benton is sitting, one leg held close to his chest in a coy promise of wonderful delights to come. Something is wrong here. Kyaking and leaping into rivers, frosted and sore from riding with the dogs, returning days later with chillblanes and tape recordings... Benton has no perfect body. There are scars and there are places where thing don't look quite right - like the knife wound in his thigh and the otter-shaped scar on his navel.

Renfield cries out to his dream self. His mind has no part in the decission; his body, his heart and his lust have staged a mutiny. Renfield cries out as every step he gets closer to the tar-baby, as he steps into the trap, rides into the pass and walks into the murderous valley. The current draws Renfield under, cast adrift in the slate green sea that overwhelms his coracle. All he can do is watch from under the surface, every panicked breath a mirror to this warped dream.
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