Art of dragonflair137's fanfiction for phbigbang. I hope I did justice to her fanfic, which is incredible, and everyone should check it out! I only wish I could have done more.
Thanks so much to everyone who took interest in the Pandora Hearts Big Bang!!! The challenge is not over, works are still being uploaded and submitted, but as tomorrow is the 18th, here I go!
I was completely overwhelmed by the response we had from everyone, so many people registered and got interested in the challenge and I wanted to thank you, you've all been absolutely amazing these past months! It's been a brilliant journey, we wanted to send Pandora Hearts off with a bang, and we've definitely achieved that and more!
Special thank you to the artists, for taking part in this and creating so many amazing pieces, I haven't seen and read all of the collaborations yet but I plan on it and what I've seen so far was absolutely brilliant! I am sorry for the many delays and late answer, and thanks once again to everyone for never getting mad about this!
To the readers and watchers and fans, please take the time to share and comment on their works, even a very tiny message or a keysmash is enough to make artists smile, and getting feedback on your creation is always a precious gift!
And of course an extra special thank you to ryoura, you've been the best partner one could ask for, I couldn't and wouldn't have done this without you! You started supporting this project long before its creation and were a huge support and help, even taking on all of the work in my stead when I couldn't and despite being super busy already!! Thank you for bringing the PHBBC to life and light, and for being such an amazing friend! ♥♥♥
Thank you all, for your kindness, brilliance, patience, support and more! Thank you from the bottom of my heart!
Characters: Oswald Baskerville, Jack Vessalius, Levi Baskerville, mentions of Lacie Baskerville
Summary: Oswald isn’t sure if he believes in the supernatural. Yet the fact remains that Jack Vessalius has been haunting his dreams for weeks—and despite their collective knowledge of dream psychology, it seems as if Jack is there to stay.
(Modern AU in world not quite our own. Alternatively, "A Study of Two Men Fumbling Around in the Dark.")
Part One: In which Oswald ruminates, Levi (not really) illuminates, and Jack (in the strangest way) adjudicates.
You are seated in a room whose walls seem to press in closer every time you blink. You are worried you will be here so long the air becomes too dense to breathe, so you try to regulate your breaths—not so much as to conserve the oxygen as to convince yourself that you do in fact deserve to leave.
“Not so fast, Oswald,” Levi says as you make to stand up. He waggles a finger too close to your face. You sit back down, feeling as if you have just lost at his game. “We haven’t talked about your dreams at all. How do you expect me to help you if you give me nothing to help?”
You wonder if you should tell him you don’t want to think about it; you just want the problem to go away and that’s why you made the first appointment. But you remember you’ve been waiting for it to go away for weeks. Your mouth goes dry, so you take a sip of the water his assistant has all but shoved at you. “Dr. Giles.”
“Call me Levi,” he insists, again.
“Dr. Giles,” you repeat. You take another sip of water. It does nothing to ease your words past your throat. You take a deep breath and try again, but the sounds that pour from your lips sound nothing like the truth. “I have a lecture at four. I’ll see you next week.”
--
Es war, als hätt' der Himmel
Die Erde still geküsst
Dass sie im Blütenschimmer
Von ihm nun träumen müsst
--
part one: your name is oswald
--
Your name is Oswald Konig. You are in law school. You have absolutely no use for your philosophy B.A., but you leave the certificate up on your wall so it doesn’t look so empty. You think of yourself as being quite honest despite your reserve about looking at anyone too long—
(as if they can read the shadows under your eyes)
—so you peel the inutile thing off your wall at least once a week as a sign of acquiescence to the purposelessness of your higher education.
Your roommate does not appreciate your honesty. He shows his concern by closing the doors softly, like folding origami. “Are you alright?”
“It doesn’t look right,” you say.
Arthur Barma, your roommate, sighs. “You know, Oswald, I think you should come with me to the film club once in a while. Shutting yourself out isn’t working, is it?”
He means well but even his kindness is heavy-handed. You take a sip of your tea and lean back against the wall. Somehow the winter has seeped through—a reminder that this world is thinner than you think—and you try not to catalogue the way the chill sweeps along your spine.
“Um—did I bother you?” Arthur asks. “I didn’t mean to.”
You close your eyes.
“No.”
--
Your name is Oswald Konig. You take four sleeping pills before bed, pausing before each one to forget the quiet scrape of medicine against your throat. You think about music notes sometimes—your eyes shut, thumb over the hollow of your curved fingers. You never do get to unpacking your Walkman or your sheet music but you like having the boxes around to remind you that this silence is self-imposed.
Levi, the school psychologist, would say you’re taking control of what factors you can, but Levi is there to assure your school you won’t crumble under the combined pressure of functioning and the bar exam. He seems to think the best way to accomplish this is to pick you apart for his malicious pleasure. But you do acknowledge he’d do a better job if you weren’t so adamant about keeping the peculiarities of your dreams to yourself.
You get the glass from the windowsill.
You swallow. The water is ice-cold, soothing, and it stops your thoughts.
As you stuff the cup between the books on your windowsill, you close your eyes.
(soon
soon
too
soon)
Your name is Oswald Konig. For the past two weeks, there has been an intruder in your dreams.
--
Jack Vessalius is waiting for you in Sablier. His legs are crossed. His fingers splayed across the tiles of the roof, neck arched back, face pointing towards the sun like an obscene flower. You’re no longer surprised, but it’s your old house, so the breath catches in your throat anyway.
“Oh! I was wondering when you’d come,” Jack says. He doesn’t look at you. A small blessing. “It’s been a few days.”
You sit down in the garden—not shriveled as you remember it, but speckled with so many dandelions it can pass for winter. The stalks are as green as Jack’s eyes—you take it as natural dream logic.
But you are past responding.
Jack sounds aghast. “Don’t tell me you tried to go without sleep?”
Faintly amused, you think you weren’t planning to.
“Hey, don’t ignore me! It’s bad for you, especially with how you’re a student. Jeeze, listen to me would you? Isn’t it midterm season for you?”
You lie down and watch the clouds. Your alarm will sound at six o’ clock sharp. You can cope with eight more hours of this.
As soon as you think the thought, you realize you’ve just jinxed yourself. Your suspicions are confirmed when an unwelcome mass settles itself against your chest and you find yourself blinking up at Jack Vessalius—who beams at you.
You close your eyes again.
You’ve read that animals sometimes play dead to shake off their predators.
“Hey Oswald.” Jack pokes your cheeks. “I don’t know why I’m here either so let’s get along. It would make the time go faster. Besides, we could figure out if you can do anything to the dream. Maybe you can come up with a theme park or something.”
You get the feeling he is only trying because you don’t want him to; because he expects that you’ll never give in. That’s enough to make you turn away to face the dirt path. Levi is like this too, and you haven’t figured out how to deal with him, either.
The truth is, ever since Jack showed up in your dreams last week and stayed there, you’ve been torn between questioning him until you solved the mystery and staying awake until he just went away. You rationalize by reasoning since your subconscious provided him his personality, you’ll figure out what he’s up to sooner or later…with or without his presence.
(why sablier?)
“I’m not getting up until you talk to me,” Jack says. “I’m pretty strong, you know.”
You take the bait. “Get off me.”
Jack rolls off so that you lay side by side, shoulders touching, his features crinkling upward in a smile of frightful proportions. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Yes it was.
“So dramatic,” Jack says, eyes half-lidded as he squints at the sky. “Come on, this isn’t so bad. We could work out why we’re both stuck seeing each other in our dreams. Besides, you need to contribute to this since this is apparently your hometown, and I’ve no idea where we are.”
You look away too late, having already realized you were looking.
“Don’t you want me out of your head?”
You’re joking.
“Playing dirty, Vessalius?” You shift your neck so that the stitch in your spine pops. You are so much older than seventeen, when you were here last. Sablier goes on existing regardless. Of course. “You found a way in, so find your own way out.”
For the first time, you see irritation flicker across Jack’s face. “I tried already. You weren’t paying attention.”
A pause.
“Look,” Jack says, “you can’t deny that you know this place better than I do. And you’re charming, but I’d rather spend my nights in my own dreams. I know we’ve both figured out this isn’t a one-time thing.”
You frown. You begin to see the irony in trusting this complete stranger to do more for your psyche than certified psychologist Levi Giles.
Perhaps Jack does, too. He holds his hand out to pull you upright even as he hesitates. “It is your dream we’re working with. And I do want to help you, Oswald. I’m not even sure with what, yet.”
(dandelions, salt-tinged air, no air, wine mulled with stolen herbs, the sun always warming)
You want to leave.
“Yes,” you say.
--
But you don’t get around to figuring out immediately.
“Let’s do a trust exercise,” Jack says the next time you meet. He has what you can begin to tell is his usual grin plastered on.
You don’t trust either of you to catch the other, but Jack waves it off with his usual flippancy. Jack, you learn, likes word games—anything from ridiculous childhood riddles to the Saturday crossword. He does them with his feet propped up on the nearest convenient object, his pencil dangling dangerously from his lips. When he can’t think of a word, he thumbs through the dandelions, scattering the seeds one by one. You raise an eyebrow and wait.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“I’ve never thought about it,” you say.
The far off road glimmers in the sunlight. You know there is no water in the dips of tire-worn track, but you keep an eye on the false puddles regardless.
“Mine is red,” Jack says, and this is how you learn he’s an art restorer and his greatest ambition is to restore Papyrus 55001—though you’re not sure why he throws back his head and laughs when you take his word for it. “A shade darker than vermillion. The shade of what they think is Van Eyck’s turban in the self-portrait. I’ve never been able to mix it myself.”
--
Your house is eggshell blue, the paint bunched together in the cracks. Neither of you try going inside, but when Jack dozes off after hours spent exploring the meadow you thought you’d forgotten, you place your hands between the latticework of the windows. It does not fit—your fingers spilling onto the woodwork. Still, the gesture is familiar enough for you to think of Lacie without your usual automatic shut-down.
You are seven years late, your reflection tells you. Six inches too tall.
Bemused, you turn your betrayal around in your head for days.
--
You’re not sure what to do when you finish scouring the meadow for any sign of exit. You’re not even sure what you’re looking for. But Jack laughs and pulls you to the house. You have just enough time to think about saying no.
“It’s locked,” Jack says, bewildered. “Oswald, you’ve locked yourself out of your own dream.”
You blink. When you try the doorknob yourself, it does not budge.
“That’s alright,” Jack decides. He swings a leg onto a window-ledge and uses the cracks where the wood has worn through to pull himself up. You stare at him, and he meets your gaze with eyes fairly glittering with mirth. If he feels unease, he hides it well. “We’ll just go through the chimney.”
“…Thank you,” you mutter.
“What was that?” He’s in the process of pulling himself over the roof. Despite yourself, you hover below him. The action is more familiar than it should be, but you have no time to dwell on it because in the next instant—
“Aha! I knew I’d make it. My specialty is climbing trees, you know.” He has his hands on his hips in some kind of Peter Pan pose. It fits him, oddly; he smiles far too easily at you. Has one too many surprises up his sleeves in a way that can’t be unplanned. “Well, don’t leave me alone up here. Aren’t you going to climb up?”
You step back, the tension leaving your shoulders.
Jack is too used to your silence to stumble. He tucks his ponytail into his collar and walks over to the chimney. Arms held out like a child, he perches on the chimney. He doesn’t seem to understand the drop is enough to break his limbs. “You’re so lazy, Oswald. But if you really want, I’ll open the door for you.”
You are sure lazy isn’t the word for it. “Try self-preserving,” you sigh. “If we can’t get in, we might as well leave it and look somewhere else. I can see the road from here.”
You register that Jack is looking at you, eyes slit in the sunlight. He seems to find whatever he’s looking for in your gaze, because he slips to the edge of the roof and uses the latticework to haul himself down.A relieved breath pushes past your lips. You weren’t aware—
Well, that would make more sense then.
“Lead the way then, Mr. Oswald,” Jack snickers, patting him free of dust. “If you’re so excited.”
You start walking so you have an excuse to turn away from him, more amused than you want to let on. You’ve been around Jack long enough to know he won’t let it go if he realized you ever thought of him as…well, entertaining.
But, you promise yourself, as only slightly more so than the grass billowing in the wind.
--
“You missed our appointment,” Levi says. He doesn’t even pretend to be put out anymore. You’ve seen most of his tricks already. “I was worried.”
You lift an eyebrow at him, unimpressed.
“I’ve gotten attached to you,” he adds helpfully. Then he perks up. “By the way, I have to evaluate your mental health. Your professors are getting worried now that it’s getting closer to the anniversary of the event. They’ve sent word you’re inattentive in class.”
“I’m not,” you say.
Levi plunges on, fiddling with his bangs like he’s bored by this all—no matter how interested he says he is. “I have a theory it has to do with those dreams you mentioned as well. What makes this all so interesting, of course, is that these dreams began seven years after her death. Well, that may have to do with some subconscious connections… You may have associated the memory with seemingly unrelated triggers. Possibly, stress may be part of the problem. It would induce an accelerated heart-rate that your subconscious may mistake as fear.”
You don’t think before you say, “I’m not afraid of Jack.”
Levi leers, leaning forward. You’ve made a mistake; you’ve given him a point he can push at until it gives. “Jack? Is that who you’re dreaming of?”
“No.” Even. Dismissive.
Levi doesn’t believe it for a second. If anything, he only smiles wider. “Tell me about Jack.”
You pretend to check the clock and tap your feet slightly. It’s a good indicator of being in a rush. “I have to go. I promised to help Professor Arnofini—“
“You won’t get away with that this time,” Levi says. His teeth are sharp. Too sharp. He presses his lips together for another unsettling grin when he notices you looking. “I checked your schedule. You’re free for the rest of the day.”
“I don’t have to tell you,” you ground out.
“No, you don’t.” He laughs as if you’ve just told a joke. “But it’s the least you can do for lying to my face twice. Your generation doesn’t have much respect for your elders, eh?”
You twitch before making yourself sit still. Bolting out of the room and slamming the door, no matter how satisfying it may be, will only result in more sessions. And clearly Levi isn’t willing to let you go until he picks apart your head. For a moment, your eyes dart to his practicing degree. You do not know of anyone who would think to give it to him.
“You’ll feel better,” Levi offers. He’s tucked his smile away behind his hand so you don’t have to look at it. You wonder if he knows the effect is still the same: you know it is there. Levi gives you a shrewd look from beneath his pale lashes. “I have to ask, however, if you really do want to feel better.”
Why wouldn’t you? It is not as if you enjoy remembering. It is not as if you like spending an hour longer in traffic so you can avoid the sea staring back.
(you always fall for the bait)
“He keeps showing up in my dreams,” you say instead, gaze trained on the crease between Levi’s eyebrows. You’ve learned to gauge your apparently mental stability by its depth. “I started seeing him on December 21st. He’s shown up every day since.”
With undisguised curiosity, “What about him, then? You said he didn’t scare you, but until now you’ve acted like you were at least uneasy about his presence. Did something change?”
You’ve said too much. The blank whiteness of the walls does nothing to soothe the guilt weighing down the oxygen in your lungs. You know you are being irrational—you owe nothing to Jack, who is nothing but a scrambled brainwave—but you like keeping your word the few times you can. You try to ameliorate the feeling by staring Levi down, but there’s something so strange and wrong about his eyes you end up looking away.
Admittance?
“Your sister is only part of the problem, Oswald.” Levi twirls himself around, once, in his chair. His hand drops from his lips and he comes to a stop with the barest hint of amusement tucked into the corner of his mouth. “Maybe it’s a sexuality crisis. If he’s shown up so many times, he must be your type.”
You consider this for a moment. It is almost too neat of a solution. Even if Jack doesn’t scare you, he puts you on guard. He says too much and gives away too little. It unnerves you. You should know more about him, if he is part of your dream. You shouldn’t think about him as someone separate—as someone real. Nor should you remember the dreams half so well.
Levi is still looking at you, unblinking.
Answers, you decide, are better than sleepless speculation. Faltering now and then, “I don’t think so. It seems more as if he is a real person.”
“Real?”
You frown, hoping that Levi will figure it out on his own. Talking like this is taking its toll. “The first time I saw him, I answered all his questions without thinking. I thought as he was part of my dream, it didn’t matter.”
Levi doesn’t quite roll his eyes, but everything about him suggests he would like to. “Go on, Oswald.”
“The next time I saw him, I figured out he never knew anything I didn’t tell him,” you say at last. Yes, there is a finality lurking in the words. You have been stalling on admitting that. “It seems strange.”
Marble-blue eyes slit. The movement is followed by raucous laughter as Levi tilts back in his chair and places his feet upon the table—his mirth so uncontainable it shakes his entire frame.
You wait.
“Alright,” Levi says, still trying to catch his breath, “alright. You’re a very observant boy aren’t you? I’ll let you go today if you really want—ahahaha—“
So you don’t bother with saying goodbye.
--
There is nothing you hate more than playing the fool, and the train ride to campus gives you enough time to mull over your part. You make a brief stop at the library and pick up a third of its selection of psychology. They are heavy books, but it seems oddly fitting that your arms are shaking by the time you’re back at your dorm.
--
“What’s the real life connection?”
Jack pushes himself into a sitting position, his expression hidden by his loose hair. You’re miles from your old house now, and there is nothing to find but a forest that is no longer mysterious and the last dregs of summer dragging their heels across the scattered wildflowers. “What do you mean by real life connection? Isn’t this just a dream?”
The scenery is faded at odd corners—pretty in the same way Jack is when he wants to be. You take note of the similarity and file it away for later. “Freud,” you tell him. You are hoping you don’t have to ask. “After adolescence, dreams increase in complexity. Rather than wish fulfillment, dreams incorporate conscious and subconscious thoughts and real life experiences.”
Jack catches on, too quickly. “So what am I?”
Yes.
“I think I’m real,” Jack muses. He shakes the hair from his eyes and takes in the tight set of your jaw with something akin to ruefulness. “I already told you I don’t know how I ended up in your dreams every night, but I’ve figured out a few things since then.” He searches out your gaze and holds it. Then, as if it isn’t enough, he shifts closer. “Do you want to stop, Oswald?”
Stop looking for the reason why this is happening? Stop talking? Stop existing?
Jack already knows (how frightening that he does) of one subject about which you are clueless, so you ignore the question. “I read that saying someone’s name more often will—“
“—suggest that they ought to like you. Or trust you.” For the first time, Jack Vessalius is visibly rattled. His smile dangles from his lips, head tilted to the side in a gesture that should suggest polite concern. It strikes you that you have never seen him sit still, with his arms tucked to his sides, knees to his chin. “You think I’m—“
Because you have to know, “Are you?”
Something behind Jack’s face has shattered and slipped razor-sharp shards through his voice. “I’ve never—I don’t want to.”
You watch him push his bangs from his eyes with uncertain hands. You can’t look away.
“Os,” Jack says. Nothing about his reaction lines up with what you know of him—you can hear the plea and you want to claw it from your ears. “Do you believe me?”
(are you human?)
The fairs at Sablier used to sell sea glass in blown-glass bottles with ink-stains forever trailing their fingers up the sides. There were strings of lights winding through the trees, all the way down to the sea. At night, they were nigh indistinguishable from the fireflies.
“Lacie liked going to the festivals,” you tell Jack. Even three turns of the road from the ocean, the wind is briny and cool. You breathe. “One year she thought she could steal a boat for a trip out to Reveille. It wasn’t far—maybe just two miles. No one would have known. They were all by the stalls and the corn-maze.”
All but drowned by the leaves stirring, “Lacie is?”
“My sister.” You pause, but your throat does not dry. Neither does Jack stop looking at you. You grimace, wary of his continued reassurance. “I didn’t agree with her. I thought it was reckless. She told me she would do it anyway, with or without me. But I was scared.”
“Lacie didn’t come back, did she?” Jack asks. His brow is furrowed. No blame in his features. You want to shake him for his decision.
“She never seemed to care about her life much.”
(tellme—)
“But you did,” Jack says, sad in a way you don’t warrant, mournful, maybe for you. His eyes so bright you spot your reflection peering back. Not your fault. “You did care about her, you see?”
--
You stop taking the pills. You soak them in hydrogen peroxide until you can grind them in the kitchen drain. Arthur makes no comment but he leaves phrases of encouragement around your half-conversations for you to stumble upon and think about later.
At night, you do not hesitate to close your eyes, your pillow separating you from the perpetually cold wall.
We've just sent an email to all members with the new deadline, which we've pushed back to the 18th of January, as well as a new check in where we're asking to all members to please send us an update. If you haven't recieved the email for a reason or another, please contact us here as soon as you can!
Hey there :) I was just wondering, is there a finish date for the PH Big Bang? When do we have to have our projects finished?
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