Chapter Text
Richard didn’t have many friends, and it made sense, the rumors floated around that he was bad luck. Family perished right after his birth, father, mother and brother all dead, sent to live with his grandfather, then he died too.
That’s why Richard had grown so attached to Victor, the only boy in their little town who didn’t avoid him. Though Victor was five years older than Richard, he was the only one Richard could safely call his friend.
Their first conversation echoed through his ears as he sat on a train heading for London, Richard had wandered up behind him while Victor was sketching and nearly scared the poor boy into the stream. Richard too had jumped back and started apologizing, shielding himself as though he was about to be struck.
“I’m sorry!” He’d cried “I just wanted to see what you were drawing!’
“O-Oh It’s a butterfly” Victor had responded, before showing the smaller boy his sketchbook. That had been the beginning, their friendship had flourished despite Nell’s best efforts to prevent her son from associating with “that wretched boy” her tune had changed slightly when she learned of his inheritance. When his grandfather passed he left a sizable fortune behind, with Richard as his only heir, everything would be his once he turned eighteen. That had warmed Nell slightly to his existence and led to her tolerating their friendship.
The both grew, Victor became a handsome young man, while Richard stayed forever baby -faced and his small stature made them an odd pair to see around, then Victor became engaged to Victoria Everglot, and Richard felt his heart start to ache, he didn’t know why, he didn’t resent the woman and she seemed nice enough. But every time he or Nell (usually Nell) brought up the engagement, Richard felt his heart twisting. Then Victor had disappeared, whisked off to the land of the dead with The Corpse Bride, Emily. He’d been ready to give up his life for her, Richard would never see him again. Alone again. Things only got worse after that.
A parade of psychiatrists came through trying to convince Victor it was all a dream, Richard once again became Victor’s confidant, and his heart had swelled. Then Victor was sent away to London, “for treatment” Nell had said. The only solace Richard found was in Victor’s letters, one every week, that was how he had found out that Victor had been sent to the Houndsditch Home for Wayward Youth, he began to mention a friend he had made, a woman named Alice, he talked about how exciting she was and how he had begun to love her, and that old pain came creeping back, and a doctor that caused his friend great fear, Richard felt a strange anxiety settle in his stomach. And then the letters stopped. One week became two, then three. Anyone else could assume Victor just wasn’t interested in continuing their friendship, but not Richard, fifteen years of living on the street, he’d learned to know when something was wrong.
He’d used his meager savings to get a train ticket into London, he’d start with that doctor, he didn’t know quite what he would do if he found someone had done something to Victor, but he knew he couldn’t sit idly and wait.
The train lurched to a stop in Moorgate station, Richard swallowed a lump, and stood, clutching the last letter he had received. With a deep breath, Richard stepped off the train and followed the crowd into London