Mess of A Dress

Trigger Warnings for unreality/dream logic, periods/lots of blood, near drowning and suffocation, claustrophobic spaces, discussion of death, violent imagery, symbolism connecting to rape/physical abuse, and internalized guilt around sensuality.

The moment Florence's senses returned to him, he was in that space once more. Dark, expressionless, filled with an assortment of tables and chairs but no other discernible features. With only pitch black as a guide, Florence couldn't tell if he was standing or reclining, something soft albeit stiff pushing up against his ankles and back. It was his only defense against the external chill, Florence hugging onto himself with a shiver.

The light directly above swayed in the breeze, carrying with it a smell Florence couldn't quite place. But it was a clean, pleasant scent. The moment it came into Florence's nostrils, it was as if, for a blissful moment or two, everything else had ceased to exist.

And still, a spike of anxiety was rising in Florence's chest that he couldn't quite shake. He brought up his hand, pressing it against his chest to soothe the flickering there, but it only served to add more heat to its surface.

His eyes shifted throughout the space to look for the source of his agitation, yet, the longer he looked at it, the smaller the space became. The impenetrable blackness came closer and closer, items disappearing until the walls pressed against Florence's hands and feet in a familiar shape. It was larger at its top to accommodate his head and shoulders, but smaller at the bottom for his delicate feet and legs. 

Florence nearly hit his head as he began to squirm, banging against the recently polished wood. There was no light to guide his hands, having to feel along its edges to find the lid. However, no matter how much he pushed, even adding his feet into the equation, it wouldn't budge. The surface beneath him was soft, though it did nothing to muffle Florence's panicked screams at the idea of suffocating.

He kept banging and banging and banging…

…then, there was that sound. A dripping, so quiet at first he assumed it was simply a part of the ambience. But then, it got louder, thundering in his ears and, soon, it was the only sound that could be heard.

The sensations were soon to follow. A bit of wetness, located between his legs, though it struggled to rival the already damp air, followed by something crawling down Florence's thigh. He whimpered, attempting to catch whatever it was, but it just danced between his fingers, leaving a trail in its wake. 

Others came in quick succession, soaking Florence's hands as he cupped them between his knees to catch the rivets. The shaking of his fingers did not help his cause, feeling liquid build in his palm there before raining down.

The back and front of his skirt suffered the same fate, the liquid as warm as his chest and it only worsened the feeling there. He attempted to ring the frills out, though stopped when he realized the cushioning below him had already absorbed its fair share. Though, the last time he checked, it hadn't feel so…slimy.

Florence sat there for a moment, not understanding until the sound began to leave his ears with their partial submergence. The coffin was slowly filling up, already working at Florence's bun and the back of his dress. He could feel parts of his hair tie begin to dissolve, pushing himself against the lid and shouting.

"Help! Somebody, please!"

He kicked it, praying that the wood would become weak enough to break. Yet, even as the walls were overcome by the liquid, Florence's legs leaving splashes in their wake, the structure remained sturdy. 

Florence gasped for air, liquid filling all the way up to his cheeks and threatening to take his nose under next. It smelled strongly of metal, and burned twice as much.

"Help!"

Tears fell down his face, legs coming to a halt and curling against the walls.

"Please…"

And yet, there was no response.

A part of him just wanted to lay back down, allowing the mystery puddle to dissolve this body, and he'd just fade into the dark without so much as a sound.

He was about to, eyes fluttering closed, when he heard a muffled, "tsk, tsk, tsk."

Florence's eyes were thrown open, squinting with the sudden change in brightness as the top of the coffin was pulled off. Pale, lightly muscled hands casually tossed it to the side, followed by a slightly obscured face as it craned down. That man was squatting just above, the sound of the waves fading and being replaced by the quiet ambience of the place.

It was morning again, leaves dancing in the wind, and sun shining down as it began to arch more and more above Florence's spot. Though its rays did not dare touch the shadowy figure where he sat, the crow from before resting on his shoulder and picking at its own feathers. In fact, looking past the brightness, it didn't light up much at all, except for Florence.

For a while, Florence just floated there, mouth open to gasp for air but becoming frozen in his shock, until the man reached down and grasped onto his fingers. His larger hand effectively covered Florence's smaller one, gripping on tight before hoisting him up. The man's expression didn't so much as falter at the wetness present.

Florence traveled up that dirt passage, bits falling down as he attempted to dig his feet into its sides. He kept brushing up against them, his bun now disheveled and he could only imagine what the rest of him looked like.

As if hearing this thought, the man laughed, the static in his voice only worsening at the sound.

"Relax, it shouldn't be that difficult. Just, take a step forward," the man said, and Florence reluctantly stuck his foot out.

In the blink of an eye, the ground was only a few inches away from him, allowing him to step onto its verdant surface. Upon reaching the top, however, Florence almost fell straight back down again. His sleek flats struggled to get a hold of the grass, slipping and sliding along. Florence held onto the man, whom he'd stumbled into in his struggle, until he found his footing, not daring to look into the man's smug face in the meantime. The man's hands had moved from Florence's own to his interconnected wrists to offer better support.

By the time he could stand up properly, the man's touch loosening as he did so, Florence felt out of breath. His body heaved up and down, skirt feeling hefty against his knees and threatening to take him under.

Florence looked down, breath quickening at the state of his vision. It was blurred, chest looking far larger than he remembered, making everything else small in comparison. The fabric of his dress was so crisp looking this way, coarse beneath his fingertips like it was made out of plastic instead. He had to physically press his top down in order to see past it, grimacing as he did so.

Taking in the rest of the dress, it all began to sink in. The fabric had turned red, covered in a goopy substance along with his skin. Turning and glancing back into that hole, the coffin below was full of a familiar, crimson liquid. It had begun to pour out, cementing itself into the dirt and causing the walls to crumble at an even faster rate. 

Florence could only look at it for a minute, before the heat building up in his pours brought his attention to his exposed legs and arms. All at once he was overwhelmed. There was so much phlegm his stockings had completely fallen around his ankles in a slop.

"Shit," Florence said, attempting to brush it off his skin in vain.

It was only getting deeper and brighter, beginning to fall onto the grass and causing it to decay beneath its touch.

"Aw. Did you make a mess, my sweet?" the man asked, looking Florence up and down.

His voice followed the rhythm of the dripping, carrying easily between the two.

Florence kept his breath tempered, not avoiding the man's unseen eye contact and staring into the void. Yet, no matter how many times he opened his mouth, no words would come out.

He was just stuck taking in the man's features, looking for any other sign of disgust, anything, in his body language. But, his shoulders remained level, and his limbs stagnant.

The man waited and, when Florence still didn't respond, a faint smirk made its way onto his lips.

"You're so mature. Has anyone ever told you that?"

Florence took a step back at the shift in tone, the man's voice becoming lower and his chin tilting down to match.

"Just how mature?"

"Fairly mature. In your late twenties, and yet, you've been through so much. You know what you like and what you don't like, even if the men around you don't always listen to you. Isn't that right?" he asked and Florence swallowed.

Florence tensed as the man began to circle around him. He shifted with the wind, proving Florence's theory that it could bend him so easily.

"In some ways, I suppose."

In his eagerness to stay away, Florence nearly fell into that hole again. He was fortunate enough to jump just at the right time, managing to swing over that chasm and barely landing on the other side. He quickly stepped away from the edge with a breath of relief, though this act only made his current gushing worsen.

He shivered as with more blood came more pain, forcing him to hunch over as he clutched to his chest.

"The pain only lasts for a while," The man reassured him, though he didn't stop his pursuit. 

His voice remained docile, Florence gritting his teeth as he was stuck in place. The hole only served as a small barrier, the man easily walking around to stand beside Florence.

He did so with the grace of a ballerina, standing tall with his hands behind his back and a subtle smile on his lips.

"Should I…clean you off?" he asked, bringing up his hand and preparing his fingers to snap.

"No!"

In an instant, Florence had flung himself forward, putting his hands on the man's to stop him in his tracks. Florence blinked at himself, shoes planted into the mud to carry his weight as his front had stretched out to reach.

"S-stop that! I know your games now and I don't, I don't…" Florence said, hand lowering, lowering, lowering…

Florence's hands felt like butter as the man touched them, holding Florence up with the submission of his knees.

"Games? I'm not playing any games. I simply want you to give into your hidden desires. Must this be such a negative thing?" he asked, cocking his head.

Florence could feel his feet continue to slip, the liquid welled up in his shoes pouring out of their fronts as they touched the ground. At this point, the man was the only thing keeping his knees from touching the grass.

He looked up, eyes becoming watery. 

"Please, if you're doing this, make it stop."

"Me?" the man asked, putting a careful finger on his chest, "Why would I ever do such a thing? I wish to help you out with those desires of yours. Unless you find pain desirable, I don't see why this would benefit me."

He tilted his head, smile becoming wider as he pulled Florence closer.

"Unless…do you perhaps like it?"

Florence looked at him in horror, mouth gaping and eyes becoming as big as saucers. He reached down, grabbing some of the lubricated mud and throwing it straight into the man's face. The man managed to dodge it by turning the other cheek, head lulling back as he let out an airy laugh.

"Why would I like this! What kind of sick joke is that?" Florence said, taking a sharp breath in through his teeth.

His vision was becoming wobbly, and there was no way this amount of blood was natural. At this point, it was making a pool all around his feet, and his earlier act of rebellion hadn't helped. He took another, deeper breath in.

"I'm…I'm sorry. P-please just help me!" he said, giving the man's hands a begging squeeze.

The man just watched as Florence fell into the puddle of his own body fluids, slowly lowering him there. Afterward, the man knelt down, coat scraping against the darkness.

"Help you? Dear, it's a perfectly natural process. You have no reason to fear. I'd never let anything-"

He was cut off as Florence grabbed onto his button-up, leaving red on the white in his wake.

"Just make it stop!" Florence screeched, only able to keep his hold for a second longer.

Before he knew what was happening, his fingers slipped, sending him hurtling face first into the shallow lake. He pulled his face up and spit out the liquid, the strands that had freed themselves from his bun becoming just as coated as his face. Florence looked up again, the man not moving from his spot despite the splash significantly coating him as well.

"As I said, it's perfectly natural. You're calm now, because you know my words to be the truth," the man said in a hushed whisper.

Florence's breathing evened out, relaxing into the liquid as he sat up on his knees. The man nodded along as Florence adjusted himself.

"It's warm, isn't it? Your own blood is so warm. Isn't it so wonderful the way it embraces you so lovingly?" the man asked, though there was a power in his words that exerted that of a question.

He lowered himself even further in front of Florence, scooting closer and closer until he too was sitting inside the puddle. 

His skin was silky as he pulled Florence into his lap, Florence's body making a squelching sound at the contact. His legs felt like cotton beneath Florence's, absorbing the crimson and pulling him into his chest.

"So warm," he said, Florence's eyes struggling to remain open as the heat radiating from his body only increased.

Except, this time, it was a pleasant warmth.

In this instance, the man perfectly resembled one of those heating pads Florence would use during these times. He even pressed his stomach against the man despite himself, feeling immediate relief from the pain

"That's right," the man said, hand coming up to brush Florence's hair until it unraveled, "You have nothing to fear."

Florence smiled, in heaven for a short while until the relaxation had given him enough time to process. In the safety of the man's arms, he began to wail. Except, there were no tears, at least, not in his ducts.

Another wetness presented itself. It was from the same source and yet, it was different this time. Colder, smoother, pushing against the blood on his legs so that Florence could see his skin again. It caused his eyes to widen before it all went white.

When Florence woke up, all he could process was a soft whispering, a pain in his lower abdomen, and the emptiness of the space beside him. The cedar bedspread was pushed down with an imprint, most likely containing his scent, even now. 

A stirring from the side spoke for that emptiness, Florence looking up and allowing his eyes to adjust. They were greeted by that sharp nose and bowtie lips, except, their color was warmer than earlier.

The whisper became clearer to Florence as those lips moved and his mind stirred.

"Oh…you're finally awake."