OK, this took me a pretty long time to write up, and I still think it could use a little more work but, instead of obsessing over it, I decided to post it to see what everyone else thinks.
Anyway, that characters will probably be a little OOC, since they're younger than they are in the Manga and Anime.
I don't own KHR!
Quick warning, this fic contains quite a bit of blood and murder and whatnot, so if you don't like that type of stuff then I suggest that you don't read
Picture of Insanity
The soft scratching of colored pencil crayon against paper filled the room; a rather ominous noise, made that way by the near silence and the gothic, almost foreboding appearance of the place. The long, wine colored curtains were drawn to a messy shut, almost as if one had done it in a hurry. The dark walls were adorned by large, gold framed paintings which hung motionlessly, collecting more and more dust as time went by. On the black marble floor, surrounded by a sprawl of colored crayons and working in candle light was a small blond boy, scribbling furiously over the once white sheet of paper. A wide, rather manic grin addressed his features, taking up the lower half of his face as he discarded the brown pencil he was using. His small yet slender hand stole its way from underneath the oversized shirt he was clad in, and hurriedly fumbled around with his crayons.
He plucked up a dark shade of red and grasped it firmly between his index finger and his thumb before he scribbled on his creation, breaking the tip of the pencil ever so slightly as he did. Casting the red aside momentarily (he may need it later), the boy picked up an orange. He used it, broke it and half and then threw the pieces with the others before reaching for his next choice of color, maroon. He used, he broke, he threw. The routine continued, the throwing of the pieces getting harder and harder each time until one crayon, the gray one, managed to get lodged in the wall. Not noticing the half of his gray crayon that was in the wall, the young boy hovered his hand over his favorite, the red. Red was a nice color, he decided. He studied his drawing carefully from underneath the shag of hair that was on his head.
The crude, yet detailed drawing of his brother's lifeless body covered in red crayon caused the boy to grin.
The crude, yet detailed drawing of himself, looming over his brother's lifeless body caused the boy to laugh.
A chilling, malicious but somewhat childish giggle came from his mouth as he found himself going wild with the red coloring crayon. He grasped the color more firmly in his hands and literally drowned the drawing of his brother with it.
Finally, after he had snapped and thrown the red crayon, he snatched up the black. Poking his tongue out slightly, he pressed down hard with the black graphite at the bottom left corner of his picture. 'By Prince Bel' was written in his six year old scrawl, even decorated with a little crown to top of the backwards 'B' for Bel. Grinning in satisfaction, Bel stood, letting his work of art flutter down to the cold marble floor. In his hand he held a little brown bear with its small head that had been half ripped off at the seams, only hanging on by a couple of threads and letting white cotton spill out of the allocated neck area.
He plodded out of the room, into the corridor, were he heard classical music being played. His manic grin fell slightly. He did not approve of the classical genre, and no matter how many times he demanded his father not to play it he was always ignored. He glared at the large wooden door behind his hair and proceeded to open it. There he saw his father, clad in an expensive Italian suit and smoking a cigar. Bel scowled, his grin long gone. He also did not approve of smoking, it made his lungs hurt and it made him cough. He was a Prince and Princes did not cough. His fingers twitched and he tightened his grip on his mutilated bear.
'Father's stupid, isn't he?' he muttered to his bear. The man sat in the leather chair turned his head to face his son, a displeased expression on his face. The cigar that poked out of his mouth was removed and a gentle but scolding glare settled on Bel.
'What are you doing in here, Rasiel?' he asked in a voice that was too soft to match his facial expression. Bel clutched the bear to his chest, ignoring the cotton that was spilling out to the floor, gradually making the stuffed toy look more anorexic than lovable. Slowly, another grin made its way to Bel's face and he stared up at the man he called his father and he laughed. He laughed in anger, in annoyance, in a twisted caricature of the word funny. His father faltered and put the cigar back into his parted lips.
The only way most people could tell the two young Princes apart was the way they laughed.
'Oh,' his father said in a lesser tone of voice, 'it's you Belphegor.' He ignored the crazed laugh and shooed his son out of the room. 'Get out now, boy, your father has work to do.'
'Belphegor,' Bel repeated quietly as he was pushed out of the room. The horrible piano played from the record player and the disgusting violin screeched loudly. He didn't like instruments. His father didn't care what Bel found displeasing though. He looked to his bear. 'People are s'pposed to listen to Princes,' he muttered to it. 'Father's breaking the rules again. Ushishishi.' Slowly, he made his way from the horrible music that pained his ears. Princes shouldn't have to listen to such repulsive noise that could not be classed as music. That's what Bel thought anyway.
His bare feet clapped quietly as he walked down the corridor once again. Despite the fact that he looked like an average six year old he still gave off an eerie atmosphere, as if there was some unfound malicious intent behind that smile of his. Both of the boys, being twins, had the same smile, but Bel had a strange talent of giving of a disturbingly sinister impression. Rasiel's grin, on the other hand, was contemptuous and arrogant. Bel had always been rather odd though.
His hand traced the walls as he strode purposefully along, his stubby legs taking short steps. The bear, which he now held by the paw, was dragging behind him, losing more and more cotton as Bel walked on. With his other hand, he absently played with the small tiara-like crown that was perched on his blond head, serving purpose as a headband to keep his bangs in his eyes. After all, nobody was bestowed the pleasure of seeing the Prince's eyes. He laughed again, causing a passing maid to glance at him with a perturbed expression on her face. Prince Bel had always been one to disturb the maids, more so than his brother, Rasiel. It seemed that everyone preferred Raisil over him.
'Rasiel, babe,' a familiar voice called from behind him. Bel stiffened, the grin not falling from his face. His fingers subconsciously began playing with his bears stuffing as the click of heels echoed throughout the corridor. 'Rasiel, I've been looking all over for you.'
A rather pretty woman appeared in front of him. Her short blonde hair fell over one eye, hiding it in the strands much like the two Prince's did. Her other eye, however, was as clear as day. The striking blue orbs gazed fondly at Bel as she bent down to his level. A tiara, which seemed to be much more dazzling and interesting than Bel's, was sat on her head. It seemed to match the white mink coat that was draped around her shoulders fashionably.
'Rasiel,' Bel repeated as he smiled adoringly at his mother. He had always liked his mother. Her presence was acceptable, unlike his father. Prince Bel would always allow his mother to bask in his companionship.
It was very well known in the Palace that Prince Belphegor had a very selective memory. If he did not want to keep something in mind then he would not. That was why he did not dwell on the fact that his mother had called him by the wrong name. His hands began working their way around his bear's neck.
'Come on, Rasiel, honey, mama's got a present for you.' Not noticing that, once again, his mother had gotten the wrong name, Bel followed. His hands began tightening around the dismembered and mutilated neck of his bear.
Suddenly, another voice chimed in. 'Mama!' The pitter patter of feet against the marble was once again heard as Rasiel himself ran towards the woman. Instantly realizing her mistake, the twin's mother pulled Raisil into a hug, crushing his head against her bosom.
'Belphegor,' she said in a scolding tone, 'why didn't you tell me it was you?' Rasiel struggled to turn around in his mother's grasp as he sent a triumphant smirk to his younger twin. Their mother stared disapprovingly at Bel as she tapped her heeled foot impatiently. 'I almost gave you Rasiel's gift. That was not very nice, Belphegor.' Bel's grin had dropped as his curtained eyes bore into her in shock. Did his mother always act like that with him?
His hands subconsciously twisted the ripped neck of the bear, accidentally pulling off the head that was already half off. He turned in what appeared to be slow motion and ambled aimlessly away from his mother and his brother. Bel, as said before, had a selective memory. Princes shouldn't have to remember the bad things.
As his mind wiped away the recent memory of his mother and Rasiel his legs wandered. He didn't know where he was going. Eventually, he found himself in the kitchen. He grimaced. This is where the servants worked. What was a Prince like him doing in a place where commoners had dwelt? He laughed.
Just as he was about to turn away a gleam of silver caught his eye. He caught his breath in his throat as he approached it. It was a knife. He did love knifes. Rasiel and he had been trained with them, but they weren't real. In fact, Bel had never been allowed a real knife before. The blade he was currently gazing at was a carving knife. He let his hand hover over it hesitantly in amazement. He was a master at knife throwing, yet he could not seem to remember that Rasielhad mastered it a whole month before him. Slowly, his usual, macabre grin grew onto his face, which was reflected in the dazzling knife that lay in front of him, almost as if it was begging him to take it.
The disfigured bear slipped to the floor, forgotten, and his hand carelessly reached for the blade. His fingers danced over the glittering metal excitedly before resting on the handle. It was so pretty. His eyes widened in admiration behind his veil of hair. It was like the knife was speaking to him. Asking him to take it, to use it. Should he use it? He ran his index finger along the sharp edge, nicking the tip at the top. He quickly drew back his hand at the unexpected pain before looking at the small wound. There he saw a little pinprick of blood. His mouth became slightly agape as he marveled his blood, his royal blood. It was beautiful. He turned his finger around, letting the crimson liquid drip down to the floor. The boy was absolutely mesmerized.
A laugh flowed from his mouth.
His eyes travelled momenterally from the blade for a moment in favor of looking around the room. Rasiel's afternoon drink sat on the counter, ready to be served to his master. His laugh grew more psychotic as he pulled a box from his pocket. He had been planning on putting laxatives in his brother's drink for quite some time, but he never thought about brining a knife into the plan.
One, two, three, the laxatives were poured into the cup until a rather dangerous total amount of six was mixed into the drink. Rasiel would pay from belittling him. His insane chuckle filled the empty kitchen as he mixed in the laxatives. Soon he would kill his only brother. That, unsurprisingly, did not bother him. An added bonus to his plot was, once Rasiel was dead, he would be able to become King. He would not be the younger twin any longer. Rasiel would die and Bel would take his place as King.
'Prince Belphegor,' the Chef said, 'what are you doing in here, young master?' He crossed his arms and stared at the younger of the two Princes. Fortunately for the malicious boy, he had already mixed in the laxatives and had hid the knife up his ridiculously oversized sleeve.
'You shouldn't talk to the Prince like that, peasant,' Bel remarked, looking up at the mustached man. The Chef sighed and watched as Bel deliberately made his way out of the kitchen. He would never understand that child, no one would. He carefully picked up Rasiel's drink and handed it over to his apprentice to serve to the other young master. After all, Rasiel was planning on sparring with Bel later in the afternoon and he needed to rehydrate himself.
Bel smirked in satisfaction as he watched the servants walk off to deliver Rasiel his daily drink. His fingers traced the edge of the knife that was up his sleeve absently as he waited. It would happen soon.
Their fight commenced at their usual time, five o'clock in the afternoon and, as usual, Rasiel was confident in his win. His smirk was arrogant as he gulped down the questionable contents of his glass. This time, unlike all the others, Bel would win.
The two circled each other, each wearing identical grins. The only difference between the two of them was the color of their shirts. Rasiel wore white whereas Belphegor wore black. To keep to the flow of battle as routine as it usually was (he did not want Rasiel to know that he had done something different) he moved first. Like he would usually do, he lunged forward.
'Stupid Bel,' Rasiel laughed as he anticipated Bel's deliberate move. Their fake knives clashed against each other as they fought, giving off the false sound of steel ringing. Their supervisor scoffed and shook his head. It went that way every time the twins fought. Bel would attack first and Raisil would counter with a stronger move that would knock Bel to the ground. The two would wrestle along the grass until Bel got overpowered by his brother.
Sure enough, the supervisor's prediction was correct. Well, most of it was.
'See, stupid Bel,' Rasiel bragged as he pinned his younger brother down, 'this is why I'm going to be King someday.'
Bel stared up, he grin unwavering. 'Ushishishi.' Rasiel stared at his rather insane twin quizzically. In their normal fights, he could almost feel Bel's glare as the younger of the two made a snide remark. However, this time Bel just smiled. Something was up. Rasiel was not a genius for nothing. He was immediately suspicious.
'You can be King, Sil,' Bel offered. 'That is if you're still alive.' Rasiel stared at him, wondering what on Earth was going on. Then, it hit him. His stomach gave out a protest, causing Rasiel to stumble backwards in pain. He doubled over and sent a glare to Bel.
'What did you do?' he hissed. Their supervisor stood up suddenly, wondering whether he had to intervene. Bel just simply laughed before turning to the supervisor.
'You're services are no longer required, peasant,' Bel said. The supervisor raised a brow as Bel ambled towards him. He did not realize that the young master had a knife until it was plunged into his stomach. Another crazed laugh emitted from Bel's mouth as he twisted the carving knife deeper and deeper until the supervisor was stained red.
Rasiel stared in horror as Bel murdered their sparring supervisor as manically as Jack the Ripper would kill a concubine. He would never have thought that Bel would actually kill someone. Slowly, deliberately, Bel turned to stare at his brother. You could almost see the insane look in his eyes, despite the fact that they were both hidden by a shield of hair. The grin he wore was no longer the usual creepy smile he would give to people, but was now one of hate and maliciousness. Bel was serious and Rasiel could do nothing about it. He clutched his stomach and fell to the floor as his little brother advanced in on him.
'This is why you're going to be King, Sil?' Bel asked, twisting the blade around in his fingers. 'I don't see a King. You wanna know what I see?' Rasiel groaned, his hidden eyes wet with unshed tears. 'Ushishishi, I see a loser!' And with that, Belphegor jumped on his brother, holding his knife up to his throat.
His grin grew as he drew a little bit of blood from his brother's neck. 'Maybe I should cut up your throat and watch you bleed,' he said in a near whisper. 'But, then again, I have always wanted to hear you scream. Shishishi!'
He didn't bother holding his squirming brother still as he plunged the knife into his abdomen. Raisil let out an agonizing scream as blood spurted out of his wound. Again and again Bel thrust the knife, laughing crazily. The blade went deeper, faster, harder with every stab. The sickening sound of broken flesh filled his ears. That, accompanied with the mutilated screams of his brother was music to his ears. It was much better than that classical stuff that his father listened to.
The knife carved into Rasiel's skin as Bel continued to plow it into him. Eventually, Rasiel's screams became nothing more than mere gasps and strangled cries. It wasn't as satisfying as screams. Slowly, Bel brought the bloodied knife to his eyelevel. Red had always been his favorite color. The blade came closer and closer to his lips and, before he knew what he was doing, he ran his tongue along the edge, not bothering that it could cut him.
Blood, screams, knives, pain, hurt, torture, hopeless cries of agony. Bel threw his head back and laughed. He laughed so hard, so manically, so brutally. He had so suddenly become addicted to the wonderful ways of sadism and had fallen in love with the pleasurable sounds of screams.
He wanted more, he needed more.
He wandered away from the supposed corpses of his older brother and sparring supervisor in search for someone else. Who else would fall victim to Prince Belphegor?
Now, as he walked along aimlessly, he was drenched in blood. Rasiel's blood had stained his shirt and face and had matted his hair. Bel didn't mind. The blood felt good against his skin. That creepy grin would not be leaving the face of the Prince anything soon.
He began to kill everyone he saw, maids, nannies, butlers, cooks, everyone, just to hear their screams. They were all so different, it was amazing. He did not know that such joy could come out of other people. His legs followed the horrible sound of classical music. That horrible excuse for music was drowning out his precious screaming. He would have to do something about that. His extremely bloodied hand fumbled with the polished door handle as he stepped over a maid that had carelessly gotten in his way.
There, sat in his chair, completely oblivious to what was happened, sat his father, listening to that music. Bel padded towards him, leaving bloody footprints in his step. His father would not go down without a fight so, to his disappointment, he decided to make it quick. It was a shame. He would have loved to have compared his father's screaming with Rasiel's. That didn't matter. If he prolonged his father's death then the man would have somehow stopped him. Bel didn't want to stop. On its own accord, his hand made a quick move and, as if he had not done it, slashed the burly throat of his father.
'Hm,' Bel mused. That death was very unsatisfying. To make himself content, he watched the blood drip from the knife onto the black marble floor. The grin he wore came back and he pushed the blade back up his sleeve. All of the servants in the Palace were now dead. There was no one left.
'Rasiel,' a voice suddenly screamed from the door. Well, she was left. 'Rasiel, oh, my baby!' His mother quickly ran up to him, pressing him into a bone crushing hug. 'What happened? Are you hurt? Did anyone touch yo-'
Bel grinned into his mother's fur coat as the knife buried deeper into her abdomen. 'Ushishishi. My name's not Rasiel.'
'Bel-phegor,' she spluttered. A trail of blood spilled out of her mouth and dribbled down her chin.
'Scream mama,' Bel whispered into her ear. 'I wanna hear you scream.' The woman, still clutched onto Bel, slowly fell to the floor. The hair that covered her left eye had fallen to the side of her face, leaving both eyes out in the open.
Her grasp loosened and she fell on her side, her blood soaking through that expensive mink coat that she had loved so much. Bel smiled at her dead form before looking around.
She hadn't screamed either.
Now there was no one else. Nobody left to kill. Nobody left to scream for him. Gradually, Bel sank down next to his mother and buried himself in her mink coat. After all, he had always loved his dear mama. He cradled the knife to his chest and, with the malicious smile still etched upon his utterly satisfied face, let his eyes droop to a close.
Day after day he would stay there, next to his corpse of a mother. It was a wonder that nobody had found the completely massacred Palace. Still, it didn't matter. Bel had everything he needed; but his addiction for screams never did die. However, he would not leave the Palace on his own, his mother never allowed him too. Instead, with the occasional trip to the kitchen, he stayed next to his dead mother, spending most of his time asleep and hugging the knife as if his life depended on it.
Until one day, his little routine was changed.
'I found him,' a near-broken voice said. Bel opened his eyes and sat up to look at the boy that had entered the room. He was a strange looking boy with a long, mesmerizing sword in his hand and short silver hair. The boy looked like he had just begun puberty or something. Bel stared at him, well, he stared at the boy's sword.
Another boy came into the room, this one a little older than the first. The second boy, who seemed to be stoic to all of the corpses that littered the Palace, was of no interest to Bel, for he did not have any sort of blade on his person. He did, however, have a rather familiar drawing in his hands. The words By Prince Bel were only just noticable from were Bel was sitting.
'Get him and bring him with us, trash,' the second boy said, stuffing the picture in the first boy's hand before turning around and striding away as if he owned the place. The first, sword wielding boy glared before looking at the picture.
'You're one twisted kid, brat,' he said, his voice going slightly higher in the middle of his sentence. Bel looked at him in interest, watching the sword gleam in the dim light of his father's study.
'Who're you?' Bel asked, not taking his eyes of the sword that the boy held. Imagine how many people died screaming by that blade.
'Your future, now come with me, kid.'
Bel's eyes lit up. 'The Prince demands your knife,' Bel ordered, pointing at the boy's sword.
'Yeah, well you're not getting it. Now are you coming or am I going to have to carry you?'
Bel grinned, catching the silver haired, sword wielder by surprised. He probably didn't expect Bel to be so creepy. Bel laughed and fell down purposely.
'Carry me,' he ordered. The silver haired boy growled but, since Bel was only six years old, complied. 'Wait!' Bel reached down and pulled the tiara off of his mother's head while shaking off his own. 'This one's better.' The sword-boy looked at the young Prince questionably before carrying him out of the room. The tiara that Bel had stolen off of his mother's corpse was much too big for his small head and looked rather comical. He didn't care though. He clung to the strange sword-boy's jacket, his hidden eyes not leaving the long sword that he carried.
'Hey, peasant, where're we going?' Bel asked absently reaching out to stroke the shining metal of the boy's sword.
The boy was silent for a moment, a slight grin across his face. 'Kid, I'm taking you to the Varia.'
The silver haired boy tightened his grip on his sword as they reached the front doors of the Palace, still holding the blood soaked Bel in his arms. The blood was dry and had turned a murky brown. Bel had decided that it was much prettier when it was fresh.
Bel looked at the boy quizzically, not that you could tell since his hair was covering his eyes. 'The Varia?'
The sword boy smirked knowingly as he sat Bel down in the car that they had waiting and handed him a small custom made knife. 'You'll see, brat. You'll see.'
Obviously, the two boys at the end were younger versions of Xanxus and Squalo. I've only realized that Squalo would only be about twelve years old if I made Bel six, but I didn't want to change Bel's age. So, let's just say that Squalo was actually twelve when the Varia was created :|
Also, I don't really see Raisil as one to scream when getting stabbed, but he's a kid and I guess any kid would scream.