Flames.
Feathers.
Alone.
Dark.
Light.
You…?
Who are you?
Even after all this time, I don't know who you are. You're a secret. I want to know that secret. And still, you are hidden deep within some mist, some strange curtain or veil I can't pull aside. I can see your shape, your shadow, but not you.
I don't know everything I'd like to about you.
You never cease to amaze me. I know that I can always believe in you, no matter what.
Because when the piece pile up and it's just the king, when there are no escapes and the king tumbles to the ground, I know you'll be there. You told me so, so you'll be there.
I suppose I love you.
Although, it's only a suppose.
I don't really know if I do or not.
I don't feel like I'm old enough to know, despite everything I've been through, all those different hells, some deeper than others, but… Love is something I can't ever be really sure about. And you're the worst of all of them.
Sebastian.
You really are.
I suppose that's why I love you. Because you never change, yet you never cease to change. You're unpredictable, you're like the ocean. Once a storm hits you are unstoppable, and above all else—
You never lie.
I know it is because of the contract, but I don't know.
I never know, with you.
I suppose you're beautiful.
I like it when you play the violin. You're quite exceptional, as expected. I hated playing the violin. I always expected too much of myself. I never could appreciate the gentle movements, the grace, as much when I played. Only when you did. When you do.
Do, or did?
It's hard to tell which tense to use these days, since I'm starting to feel the end drawing ever closer.
Each day is one day less.
I don't like to be one of those sorts, one of those people who say that you should live life to the fullest because you don't have all that long. Those people sicken me. Hatred and revenge are my life. How could I understand their sort of life? It's filthy in its own way, along with those stupid people obsessed with 'purity'. Those people are really the worst.
Purity.
Disgusting.
Even as my pen writes the word I can't help but feel revulsion boiling inside me along with hatred.
I don't know why I'm hiding this from you.
It's silly.
Everything I'm writing you already know, don't you?
Young Master. Bochan. My Lord.
Is that all I am to you? Am I just your meal? Am I just… a boy to you? Who am I to you? To everyone?
All these stupid questions.
Foolish insecurities that one thinks of while writing by light of a candle and the moon far too late into the night.
Sebastian…
There, you've done it again. You knew I was awake again, and brought hot chocolate, did not ask what I was doing, and left. I don't understand you. You're not a father figure to me, no, that sort of thing is silly. You're not exactly… a friend. I don't know what to call you. You're more than just my butler, my hell of a butler, you stupid, arrogant, snotty, idiotic, shameless, cunning, sly…
Demon.
I love you.
I hate it, I do. I hate that I love you. I don't know if it's love, or some sick thing that's come to be because of the contract, but…
I don't know.
I suppose I love you.
Suppose.
Even so, it's strange to think that I do. Love is such a foreign word I don't know if my lips can form the syllables anymore. Love is like a smile. I've forgotten. Love is like a laugh ringing through a room. It's not mine.
So, as the pieces pile up, will you show me? Will you see if I can still speak the word, Sebastian?
Will you somehow bring it out of me with some sly smirk, some sort of promise, a deal?
Perhaps.
I should stop writing this. But I can't. I'm just writing. Nothing else. I don't even know what it is I'm writing anymore. My eyes, red-violet and as you told me once, the azure of the sky, are drifting to the gardens, the moon.
And yet I still write.
Perhaps I'll write more tomorrow.
There's so much blood on my hands.
I hate it when that happens. When the fabric of my gloves when I go out gets soaked in it, literally or figuratively… Blood. The color of roses.
The crimson of your eyes.
Perhaps that's why I don't think of blood as being disgusting anymore.
It reminds me of you.
Of whispers late at night when I can't sleep, of protection, safety, of some strange beauty and elegance that doesn't belong here, on this earth.
Would you stop smiling like that?
Like you know more than me? It pisses me off. I can't stand it. Every time you look at me you seem like you—you're just mocking me. It's maddening. That- that smile. That damned smile. The one that—that—
I hate it.
Just like I hate how you never go away, just like I hate how I never want you to go, how you can't go, how I'd hate it if you left.
It makes me feel stupid.
Like maybe you do know more than I do. You… probably do.
And every time you look at me with those infuriatingly beautiful blood-crimson eyes…
I look away.
I look away because I know you.
It's like you can see inside my head, and you know everything. You're prying me apart and testing what you see, trying to see if—if I'll taste any good after all.
Souls.
Souls are stupid things. I feel as though I don't have one, after… after everything. I keep saying that, 'after everything'.
And as the end draws nearer, I say it more and more often, 'after everything'.
Sebastain.
Your name flows easily, it ripples like a calming ocean, and still, Michaelis, you hint of danger. Everything about you hints so subtly of the danger and power that you are.
Sebastian… your name is interesting. I don't know why I called you 'Sebastian' but it seemed so fitting. One day I finally looked it up. Your name is from the Roman name Sebastianus which meant "from Sebaste" in Latin. Sebaste was the name a town in Asia Minor, its name deriving from Greek sebastos, "venerable". Venerable itself is an interesting word; 'commanding respect because of great age or impressive dignity; worthy of veneration or reverence, as because of high office or noble character.' Noble character indeed.
You strike a noble figure, for sure. You in your fancy trim suit. You're so vain, Sebastian. You really are. But, I suppose (I'm supposing a lot lately) that I'm victim of that sin too.
Sin.
Is it really that big of a deal? Everything is trivial when the end is drawing… closer.
When I'm starting to feel your gaze intensify, when you—you draw so close. Like you are the end itself.
You are the end.
The end of me.
I've never liked endings, but it seems all that I'm good at. Ending things.
So I'll keep ending until the end.
And loving you in that strange way, I suppose.
The love that is not love.
With all these 'after everything's and 'I suppose's, I thought I might actually get somewhere.
Understand something about myself.
But I was wrong.
I've come to realize things that I… didn't want to. Like my 'I suppose' love for you. And… I want that less than ever. I've always known that I'm alone, always known that. But you…
You.
You're there.
With me.
Until the—
The end.
My end.
It's almost dawn. I've been up too late again. You'll probably let me sleep in. You always know when I do this—stay up this late. And you'll have tea and breakfast ready just in time, won't you? And your blood-crimson eyes will glance from me to the window, back to me, and note the circles under my eyes. 'Up late, Bochan?' you'll ask, and I'll say nothing. I'll drink my tea. 'Something troubling you?' you'll ask. 'No, what is the schedule for today?' I'll ask, and then there will be no more questions directed at me.
Dawn.
A beginning.
A beginning in light.
I've never belonged in the light, though, have I, Sebastian?
A/N: I wrote this at one in the morning. I have no idea what the hell it is. owo It came from nowhere. It confuses me. I couldn't stop writing. I was thinking, "Oh, this'll be a nice little drabble, about a page-" NO. Five pages. I don't get it. At all. I like it though. ;AAAA;
Reviews go straight to my heart guys. I won't lie.