I love how short the summary space is-you barely get to know what you're in for! But that aside, this is my first attempt at writing seriously again since my complete writer's mental break down block, but I suspect that's blown over...so now it's time to see if I can, figuratively speaking, walk again! Let's see if Sebastian and that master of his can give me a jumpstart.
So please, try not to mind too much the OOCness moments should they occur... I have watched the anime, read a few of the mangas and gushed over the second musical (although in terms of getting to know the characters, it didn't do much and probably just tainted everything)-I'll try my best! And I apologize for any grammar/spelling mistakes; I'll catch those darn things in time.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of Kuroshitsuji and while the plot has been, I'm sure, done numerous times, it's a first for me! :D Now, enjoy and tell me if it's worth continuing.
During the dawn of the new century, a feeble, wavering cry arose and with it, a frail sense of awakening that only time would strengthen. Though as fragile as the pitiful summon was, it still caught the attention of a certain demon, for his world had been lifeless, bleak and gray beforehand.
It was that pathetic mewl, that soft hiccup of distress that had the demon rooted by the infant's cradle. With heavy eyes, he watched the tiny being—too small to properly be even called a baby—squirm in loose blankets; there was no tight swaddle to offer him security and his undoubtedly empty little stomach caused him great pain. Though until the awakening was complete, the demon could not infringe on a human's offspring and the most he could do was comfort the neonatal, who been left alone in a dark bedroom, seemingly forgotten in the night.
He extended an index finger, gently brushing it against the infant's soft, damp cheek; instantly, it turned its head, tiny lips parting hungrily, latching onto the middle knuckle, where it began to suck ravenously. Not wanting to disappoint, the obsidian-haired demon pulled his finger away and he was sadly amused when the newborn had the nerve to unleash an angry-sounding little cry before coughing piteously. Once again, he caressed its cheek and a small mouth stretched open, revealing a miniature pink tongue. The demon smiled when two blue orbs alighted upon him; the heartbroken smile threatened to fade when frustrated whimpers began to sound.
The dark immortal leaned down, deeply breathing in the infant's milky scent, nuzzling the side of his face when he still attempted to nurse. He brushed his lips lightly against his forehead, his hands aching to hold the small perfect being, but he didn't dare, since he knew it would only lead to him committing a crime. And while there was nothing physically stopping him from doing such a thing, he was aware of the new rules to be followed. "Forgive me, little one," he whispered solemnly, tightening the blankets with his free hand. "I must leave you here. For until you remember me, there is absolutely nothing I can do."
Each step he took away from the crying wisp of a baby, his deadened heart bled a little more.
Twelve Years Later
Now he knew why he had been drawn to her. It wasn't her kind-hearted, infectious smile or her gentle brown eyes that won him over, nor was it her fiendish benevolent soul that beckoned him, though slightly alluring it was—for it was twisted. It was simply the way she smelled; a kind of scent that wasn't hers to begin with, but one that coated her clothes, fragranced her skin with an infinitesimal delicateness. It was extraordinarily similar to—
"Well something's got you captivated," the brunette observed, setting down her ice cream sundae.
Now he knew exactly why he had been drawn to her—because it wasn't her, it was him; the fated boy who happened to have been walking down the sidewalk across the street; his unmistakable aura radiating dimly.
She turned in the cafe's patio chair, glancing through minimal traffic until she spotted what he saw. "Ah I see Sebastian, he would attract your attention," she said wisely, licking her spoon. She turned back around. "I bet he would be the type to call upon your services—if he hasn't already."
The demon playing part-time boyfriend arched a thin black eyebrow. "You are quite a perceptive treasure, darling," he said, reaching across to take her hand. He seems to be doing alright. "Pardon me for allowing myself to become distracted."
"Out of all of them, I got the one who couldn't change with the times." She removed her hand and rolled her eyes. "You've been distracted from the beginning. You're not the first de—devilish boyfriend I've met," she said, smiling sweetly at a passerby. "My best friend had one and he was completely devoted to her…it really was kinda sickening in a way because it only ever ends one way. You guys play our feelings like a well-loved guitar. Bastards."
Sebastian was silent. He was still watching the boy, mahogany eyes mesmerized and glistening with disbelief; hesitancy held him back. While he seems to be getting closer, he has not yet awakened…
Her eyes were drawn to faint fuchsia glow on her 'boyfriend's' scarred left hand. She clucked her tongue and began rambling innocently. "He goes to the middle school that's attached to our high school. I think he's in…sixth grade? Such a lil' cutie, but already, it's as if he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. He used to literally bump into me all the time. I had a textile class down there and I was always running to be on time—he's got a bad eye and he'd never notice me coming around the corner and, smack! He'd step straight into my path and I'd send him flying."
Ah, now that would explain the smell.
The senior gave a tragic smile, pushing away her desert. She held out her hand, which the demon immediately noticed and took, helping her up. "Take me home to say goodbye. I've got the majority of what I've wanted done and that's good enough for me." She looked across the street, though the student had long disappeared. "You've never looked that way at me, so he must be better." She suddenly laughed happily, flashing him a cheerful smile. "And I'm not one for letting fish get away!"
When she had called for the help of the supernatural, she hadn't been expecting a damaged demon—hadn't even been aware that such a being could exist. But damaged he was, for besides his laconic morose nature, his solemn haunted dull red eyes, and the perpetual rain cloud over his head, he had no official contract to offer her. He could never truly be her demon and therefore, was not bound by her word. Nevertheless, one didn't throw out a dog simply because it was missing a hypothetical limb—all she needed was its bite and Sebastian could certainly bite.
Sebastian turned to her, surprised. Her selfless eyes bore into him and for the third time, the demon wondered how a human like her could have fallen so low as to call on his kind for help. "I must disagree. I have not fulfilled my end of the—"
They were still in public view, so the girl stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his waist, lowering her voice to an intimate whisper. "Immortal beings or not, you'll never fully understand us." She looked into his eyes. "When we love someone, there isn't a single thing a human wouldn't do. And that goes for everything we hold dear and treasure. Now call me naïve, but I think if demons could let loose a little every now and then…they'd realize the same thing—of course it probably wouldn't ever be out of love, but whatever you guys feel—you're wholly entitled to it. And being the kind person I am, I want to help; everyone deserves their own form of happiness, or whatever it is you call it. I love my family, I wouldn't hurt another soul. Sure I'll never get married, I'll never be able to have kids," she looked down, "but I've achieved my goal. So don't question me. It's an order. We're through."
She was quite the sweet girl. Prancing throughout the house, hugging her parents and all her siblings and making them laugh—they weren't aware of the heinous crime their daughter had committed and it was apparent that they'd never find out. By having entirely too much love for them, she was indeed heartless and overzealously sadistic—as the poor bastards she tortured to death found out. She bade her little sister goodnight and made her promise to never forget her, and shouted to the rest of the family that she'd be back late; a celebratory date with her boyfriend was in order.
"Ok, Sebastian. I'm ready when you are," she smiled, taking his arm and turning back to wave at her somber sister. "I only have two more requests—one that you must follow and one that I would greatly appreciate." He opened the car door for her.
"I want my death to have been in the past—let me be a sweet, faded, painless memory." She sighed, closing her eyes against the brilliant orange of the setting sun. "And please, before you go eating any other souls…if you could finish off the other two. I really don't want them thinking that I've forgotten about them…it'd be so cruel of me."
"Even after you are gone, I shall care out your last orders with care. You needn't worry." He pulled into the park parking lot. "I do not lie."
"I know. Thanks for being awesome. You don't make a bad boyfriend either." She leaned over the glove compartment as the car stopped and grabbed his arm. Sebastian glanced down at her, catching her demure smile. "Let's have one last picnic," she concluded. "Your eyes look so pretty when they sparkle. I mean, the only time they ever sparkled was today when you looked at the boy, but still... After me, they'll be doing that a lot more, right?"
He had always known he was different. From the first cognitive thoughts, he knew something was amiss; there had been a mistake in his creation. He hadn't been as attached to his parents as other toddlers his age had been; he never ran to Mommy, never tried to be like Daddy. His blue eyes never shone with exuberant joy upon seeing them, but rather with the contentment of familiarity—as if his parents were replacements he had come to accept. But besides those little quirks, he appeared to be a normal child in the beginning.
The little boy cherished being read to with a fierce passion and his mother would endure a myriad of hours of sitting in the cushioned bay window with her small son nestled like a napping kitten against her side. She'd read fairytales, folk stories, nursery rhymes and when he was older and could handle bigger words, children's books like Hansel and Gretel and Alice in Wonderland. When she had no more books, she'd make up stories and when that grew old, she'd sing lullabies and when the lullabies failed to soothe him, she'd reread all the little books and the boy would be content. It was the only time where he practically allowed her to cuddle him.
His father had always been proud of his only son and he took great joy in taking his family to church on Sundays. And because the young boy liked to receive compliments from his father, he always made sure to behave. His father being a scientist and having a firm anchor in genetic engineering ironically had no effect on his religious views, though he always made sure to keep his work separate from family life. For bonding, the two would spend quiet evenings crafting; he would fashion crosses of various sizes and the child used the wood scraps to build little houses for his soldiers.
At age eight, the boy's peculiar habits became increasingly more noticeable. Mirrors entranced him and his mother would find him staring into his reflection. At first, she passed it off as a silly thing until she came to realize that even if he was admiring himself, it was strange to do so for hours. It seemed to be his cerulean eyes that were captivating him; the longer he stared, the harder it was to snap him out of it. One day when she asked him about it, he appeared puzzled before replying, "They're old. They aren't really mine."
And then it fell apart.
He became more withdrawn and he acquired new mannerisms, a shorter temper and his speech pattern was apt to change. When he talked with an accent, his mother, who found it endearing, would smile and make nothing of it. But her heart ached terribly when her little boy no longer seemed to have an interest in being read to and his room became the preferred retreat for the evening instead of spending it with them. His already-low tolerance for physical contact vanished and after a frightful episode at church when the priest had grabbed his arm to lead him to the altar—and the terrible rage her husband exhibited when they had gotten home—she secretly took him to a pediatrician who referred them to a physician who explained haphephobia.
The boy had always known he was different, but he didn't know what it could mean and unidentified fears plagued the perplexed child. What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he control the way he felt? His fed-up father had sensed the changes as well and being a devout Christian, was determined to figure out what possessed his son to act so oddly and extinguish it. By any extreme measures necessary.
"AHHHHHHHHHHH!" With sweaty hands tearing at the softest locks of the darkest navy, Cerul shot up in bed, choking forcefully as the air he tried to hastily suck in contained nothing but thick acrid smoke. He screamed again, covering his ears, forcing his shrill voice to go as high as a young boy's conceivably could, but it didn't make the smoke disappear and the blankets continued to smother him. And worse yet, no one could hear him. The heat of the blankets intensified and prior experience had him scrambling off the bed before the covers erupted into searing flames.
Chest tightening, he ran across the burning carpet, flinging the door open, crying out as the door knob instantly blistered his palm. Being severely handicapped in one eye didn't slow him down as he tore through the mansion; he knew the layout by heart.
The crimson inferno was on his tail, chasing him down the corridor—fresh air fresh air, he needed fresh air! He dodged the flaming painting before it fell and flung himself down the wooden steps before the weakened structure could collapse. His lungs were about to burst from the lack of adequate oxygen, his slender legs threatened to give out as he pushed them to the extreme. But he knew he would make it, not once yet had he not—and still, he was terrified witless every single time. He wrenched open the front door.
Trembling violently, he sunk to the dew-dampened grass and crawled pathetically over to the great oak tree, where he sat, shaking, back against bark, crisp air biting his flustered skin. In the burnt remnants of his tattered white nightshirt, he curled up on the crumbly earth, watching the engulfed mansion burn with weary eyes. He shivered, pressing his seared hand close to his mouth, closing his eyes as another shiver wracked his small frame. With deepened breaths, he let himself relax—safe outside where the air was clean and the strange fire was confined to the mansion.
He fidgeted in his chair, feeling extremely restless; he didn't actually want to succumb to the little movements his body made, but he was plain exhausted and his body twitched from muscle spasms as he tried to keep awake. The teacher, an older woman in her early sixties who tried too hard to be 'cool' and casual with her students, droned on happily about the caste systems in other countries. Her voice floated by unheard by Cerul as he tried not to focus on a certain uneasiness in the air. It was as if there was something prowling that the atmosphere wasn't equipped to handle; like an approaching cataclysmic thunderstorm on a clear blue sky. Which was odd because it was the same scene every day.
Cerul sat at his desk, front row, farthest from the door, right next to the smudgy finger-printed window; the closer he was to outside, the better. A couple of poorly-disguised giggles arose from the back and after a few moments, a girl came shoving her way down the aisle, her hip accidently brushing against his elbow—he jolted away from the contact, tucking his arm protectively against his side.
His abrupt movement caused a disruption that had the whole class analyzing him with judgmental eyes. The girl flipped her hair over her shoulder, scoffing. "Way to overreact, weirdo," she muttered.
Cerul only glared at her retreating back and faced the window again, sinking into his chair. He watched the branches quiver as they acquired the weight of an animal, presumably a large bird.
The teacher cleared her throat. "Ok, eyes back up here—at least pretend you're paying attention."
The bell rang. Mrs. Hansen sighed. "Ok, never mind, wander away." She set the piece of chalk down. "You have an essay due in two weeks—no less than seven pages!" she reminded the students, all of them rushing to leave and not giving the slightest acknowledgement they heard her.
Cerul trudged down the sidewalk, his ridiculously heavy backpack straining his small shoulders. With the street on the right, he had his head slightly turned, left eye vaguely on the lookout for any car going too fast or swerving too close to the curb. He picked up his speed, remembering his mother had requested to see him. Perhaps I can finally tell her about... The nightmare in which he awoke in a burning mansion was no recent occurrence; to be exact, it first appeared when he was ten years old. For the most part, the nightmare stayed the same, but sometimes the weather that would greet him outside would be different, or he would hear agonized shrieks amidst the burning flames. For two years, he'd been having the same nightmare, though the repetition of it did nothing to dull the distressing fear he'd feel and lately, he'd been having the nightmare more and more often—so much that going to bed was a necessity he was beginning to dread. Other than the irrational fear, he recognized nothing of the dream, not the mansion, not the room he assumed was his, nor the voices that sometimes could be heard.
Nothing of it even remotely made sense: Cerul's family had never experienced a fire, he never experienced the death of a loved one and his house was the exact opposite of a mansion—it wasn't that they were poor, but with the way his father handled his wealthy income, they might as well have been.
Her blue eyes were pained, love-stained. She smiled, in the hopes of inducing one from her son. "Smile for Mama?" she pleaded, her careful, nurturing fingers wrapping around his slender wrist, beckoning with a gentle pull. "It's been so long since I've seen one." She sensed his hesitance as her other hand grasped the fabric of his blue sweater, tugging downwards. The boy obliged reluctantly, immediately being pulled onto her lap, resisting as she tried to cradle him against her chest. There was a thump at the paneled window.
Hiding her hurt at the rejection, she smoothed down the blue material. "How was school?" she cooed lovingly. He remained sullen, sitting uncomfortably on her lap, staring at the tiled floor. The room reeked faintly of lemony disinfectant. She's at it again. She rubbed his shoulder lightly, touching the side of his chin next to his cheek, giving a motherly smile when he still reacted by slightly opening his mouth, though he struggled with the natural temptation to turn his head. She cradled his face, making him look at her, the intensity of the tranquil blue of his eye calming her nerves. "My handsome Cerulean, my sweet baby-faced Cerul."
Do you honestly think lavishing me with affection will make me cling to you? Cerul looked at his mother, studying the signs of stress and worry that were etching her young face. Or perhaps it's remorse… He felt pressure on his eye patch and he moved back until he could see her hand clearly. He didn't like not knowing when she was going to touch him. "Sorry," she said, tapping his cheek softly with her index finger. He stiffened when he recognized the guilt swarming in her eyes. "How is it?" She tried to pull off the patch and he quickly snatched her hand before she could lift it up. "Maybe it'll get better if you use it more often," she suggested.
"It will never get better," he said briskly.
"All it does is gives me a headache." He was glaring at her now.
She noted the way he still pronounced certain words and ignored them, caressing his cheek, hoping to erase his sudden anger. My curious child. "Ok sweetheart." She worried about him, she could tell he was in pain, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get him to open up. He needed someone to trust again and unfortunately, she wasn't in the position to be there for him constantly. "Do you want me to tell you a story?" She tried once more to pull him against her bosom and he pulled away like a colt refusing to be dragged by a halter.
"Stop it mother!"
The thump against the glass was louder.
She froze, fearful that he'd get up and leave, but much to her saddened heart's relief, he stayed if not a little more rigidly. It had taken years of persistence and patience to get to the point where she was now with him; while not even blue moons assured a hug on his part, he at least accepted her touch—most of the time. He glowered, gaze intensely focused on the unwelcoming tiles. The sunshine streaming in through the window begged to lighten their spirits.
"If I want to be held, I will be the one to initiate it."
She nodded, placing her hand on his back, rubbing a continuous circle. "Do you have any homework? Why don't you get it out and I'll help you with it?" Her son said nothing and she pressed her lips together, deciding to go for a more authoritative approach. "Cerul, look at me."
Picking up on the change of tone, he turned only to have her grab his chin. He didn't pull back, though his eyes flickered. "Is there anything you want to tell me? Is anything bothering you? Now is the time to say it."
Because you say so? He looked down. "Mother, what could you possibly do?" Her response was a hum; the throaty noise washing over him, lulling his eyelids to droop. A careful stroke to his cheek.
"Cerul, as your mother it hurts me to say this, but there isn't much I can do for you—all I can give is advice and pray that you take it." There was a gentle shift as the boy slumped forward, a hand propped against her shoulder. "What's happened is unfortunately irreversible and life is too short to just sit about and contemplate the methods of revenge."
A shadowy stirring tickled the back of his mind and he swallowed the faint uneasiness of familiarity.
She leaned her head back, long dark hair slipping back over her shoulder. "Besides, it always finds a way to turn around and end you..." Like it has me… "You haven't been sleeping well, have you sweetheart?" She smiled warmly as his eye fluttered open.
But it wasn't your fault… "Play cards with me," he rewarded suddenly. He prepared himself to scoot off her lap, but as soon as his feet touched the ground, he was fiercely pulled back in a desperate embrace.
"Please don't go, don't go, it's been so long since I've—" she was interrupted by a nasally beeping alarm. The visit was over. An apologetic smile traced her lips and she reluctantly released him.
The high security door slid open harshly, destroying any connection between them and though he never showed it, the soothing effect he sometimes allowed his mother to have on him evaporated.
Cerul slid off her lap, turning around to stare at her. The two prison guards entered the visiting room, rudely hollering that their time was up due to the violations against physical contact. "My little prince," she smiled. "Would you give your dear mother a hug?" Her eyes stung when a slight scowl emerged. She urged herself to not take it personally. "Maybe next—"
He stepped forward, turning his head away, encircling her shoulders, hands resting feather-light on her shoulder blades. Containing no intimacy of any sort, the gesture met the basic minimum required to be called a hug. But his mother barely noticed—all she saw was the effort her son put forth. He pulled away. "Be good," she whispered softly, holding back tears, grasping his hand one last time. "Mama loves you. So much." She continued to smile tenderly even though Cerul's face was emotionally blank.
The guard clapped his hands, shooing the boy in front of him. "Alright alright, time's up. C'mon kid, I'll escort you to the entrance."
She caught Cerul's glance before he left the room; her son's blue eye calmed her nerves and with her free hands, she blew him a kiss as another guard unlocked the handcuffs that had chained her ankles to the metal chair. May there be a next time.
"You should know better, when you hear that knock against the panel, it's time to quit," the warden chastised. "These physical violations won't look good. Not on your record."
She held her head proudly. "I haven't done anything wrong. He's my son and I'm free to hold him."
He felt no need to think about it, nor a need to talk about it—not that he had anyone to talk about it to. His mother was in jail and it was most likely that she would die there. Cerul trudged the long way back home to the half-empty, lonely and dark duplex.
Instead of entering through the front door, he made his way to the back. Long ago he decided that families entered through the front and ghosts, criminals and forgotten ones through the back.
The tiny court area, which had various stone tiles either missing, cracked or overturned, was sheltered with a garden of overgrown shrubbery, weeds and a mass of flowers—Queen Anne's Lace, foxglove, and white roses—lay rotten on their deathbed. Ironically, a few Bleeding Hearts, stunted and sickly, managed to grow feebly, their dull heart-shaped petals drooping in sad clumps to the dirt; a perfumed stench permeating the air like gradually baked death with a sweetened glaze. A partially-hidden granite birdbath, in which no sane bird dared to bath in, stood amongst the choking hypericum bushes.
Cerul turned the lock, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck prickle up before he slipped inside. For a family, the place bordered on being too small, but for one—and a small one at that—it was much too large. Thick burgundy curtains, embroidered with rose heads, allowed only the most determined rays of sunlight to peek through, illuminating the scores of dust speckles dancing idly above the dark couch and fringed rug; the matching recliner and disused rosary-decorated fireplace were left in hazy shadows.
On the left, equally somber, dismal and dusty, the bay window and breakfast nook, once a place to relax and snuggle amidst large throw cushions, were shrouded in suffocating darkness. Glided crosses hung on the sun-bleached Victorian wallpaper. In the back, was the kitchen, hidden behind an archway. Behind the stairs, the front door was located, along with an abandoned dining room and coat closet.
Oppressed by the static silence that seemed to seep from the walls and ooze from the wooden floors, the boy quickly made his way up the stairs to his room, locking the door.
Spacious in size and sparsely decorated, his room seemed rather uninviting—yet to Cerul, it was his safe haven with its beige walls and sand-colored carpet, the bed pushed off to the farthest corner from the door on the left side, while a glass desk occupied the right. A large frameless mirror hung on the wall and across the mirror was the wooden-slated closet door.
Pursing his lips before pulling the lower one in to bite it, a habit that often left him pouting with a slightly swollen lower lip, Cerul unzipped his backpack, untangling black earbuds from crinkled papers, tugging on the cord before the green iPod emerged. Moving quickly, he removed the cord, tossing it on the bed, taking his iPod to the desk, plugging it into his laptop, where he accessed the video recorded earlier that day. His teacher's voice could be heard in the background.
"Ok, we're all big boys and girls, right? And I don't mean that in the physical way, so no need to whine to your counselor about feeling pressured. I can handle making sure you all have the audio, but getting the moves?" A brunette woman walked into the camera's view, waving in a couple of experienced students. "Well darlings, watch and learn as much as you can. I'll go it over step-by-step in a couple days, but by then I expect you to be familiar with it." She winked.
Cerul sighed, disinterest suddenly dulling his intentions. He closed the laptop and sunk to the floor, rubbing his forehead. Succumbing to lethargy, his shoulder soon met the soft carpet as did his head and there he laid. What is the point? He had no one to talk to, no one to offer quiet company; he was utterly alone and that aspect was always magnified after visiting his mother. I won't visit her again. There is nothing to be gained from seeing her. He stared at the wall trimming.
Quite a bit of his time was usually devoted to homework and studying, but no matter how many hours Cerul labored over his assignments, he just couldn't seem to get it by himself. He tried and he failed. Recalling lectures and reading notes only left him confused and with more questions. And at the moment, he didn't want to bother.
Cerul rolled onto his stomach, feeling his eyes grow heavy. The lack of adequate sleep was beginning to take advantage of his still body, paralyzing his arms and legs. I can't fall asleep…not just yet…please. What could he do to distract himself while using only minimal energy? The mirror popped into mind.
He sat criss-cross, his reflection staring back at him expectantly. He covered his eye patch; even with it on, he refused to open his eye. He could never handle the drastic, disconcerting way he saw things. But when everything began to morph out of focus, the blotch of black proved to be too distracting, so with hesitant fingers, he untied the patch, letting it fall to his lap.
He stared and stared until the boy he was staring at wasn't himself anymore. Disdainful mismatched eyes on a round pallid face, framed by midnight blue hair, a full-lipped mouth resting at a pout; forever a noble chip on his shoulder. Silence was persuasive and he felt himself drifting. Though the interruption of sound—from a large passerine bird to be exact—went by unregistered by the brain, the boy gave a sudden blink nonetheless, and in that moment, an eye shot open that was not blue. A sickly violet surrounding a dark fuchsia iris, an even darker shredded pupil dilating. The eye fascinated him as much as it sickened him, for there was no white. Unnatural and alien-looking.
The troubled boy fell victim to his own gaze, both eyes rolling up. He had no one check on him to make sure he was alright.
So, what'd you think? First chapters are always the hardest, but I hope it was decent! Sebastian and a little baby-cuteness 3. Reviews are always adored and replied to ^-^