Title: November the Second
Author: Neko-chan
Fandom: Kuroshitsuji (manga; chapter 35)
Rating: T
Pairing: Undertaker/Charles Grey
Summary: As the flames of the manor burned as bright as hellfire, two men's paths crossed for the first time—but not for the last.
Author's Note: Yes, you did read the pairing right. Needless to say, this is why mhikaru shouldn't beg me to not do something (because I am a sadist and a Scorpio at heart~) and then leave me unsupervised. *skips merrily about* Many thanks go to the members of BlackButler(dot)net who did end up encouraging this into existence when I posted about it. You know who you are, and this is dedicated to you all. ;D *hearts*
Additionally – I know that this pretty much comes out of left field. If you have any questions regarding any element of this fic, let me know (either by PM or leave a review with your email address) and I'll be happy enough to answer any questions~
November the Second
The manor was burning, burning bright and the flames of the souls lost to that very same fire slipped away with barely a sigh of protest. They might as well have already been dead, though a few of them—those still faintly conscious of what occurred around them—could be heard screaming from the hilltop where the man in black reclined upon the rider's platform of his funeral carriage.
An enigmatic smile curled his lips upwards as he bit into another treat, licking away the small crumbs that gathered about his mouth, and his gaze remained intent though hidden from the world by the thickness of his bangs.
He had warned the Earl.
Had warned the Earl's father and his grandmother before.
Idly, svelte fingers swung Claudia's memento mori back and forth along its chain, black fingernails twining about the silver gilt before drawing the string of keepsakes back into the pocket that they usually resided in. He had warned Claudia, indeed, and Friday the 13th had been the day that she had died—an unlucky death, and one that she passed onto her son and grandson: murder, fire, and consumption by a demon that played at being a butler.
Undertaker chuckled softly to himself as Sebastian's outline appeared in the doorway to the mansion, stark black against the cleansing, bright flames—ironic, in a way, given the beast's true nature.
He took another bite of the treat, listening for the satisfying "snap" as the dog bone biscuit broke in half. He ate it voraciously, enjoying the feeling of being briefly human—human enough to enjoy sweets, though still inhuman enough to pass judgment on another's soul. There was a barrier, a razor-thin line that had to be carefully toed, and Undertaker had learned to step upon it in such a way that he fell neither left nor right, but continued on as he had for so many years.
"Even though I told him…" the black-clad mortician mused aloud to himself, amused smile still tugging his lips upwards in a mischief-laden expression that was severely out of place given current circumstances. "To hold each and every soul dear. Because you hold great power, you gradually fail to understand the importance of things that cannot be recovered… you will realize that once it's too late."
He leaned back further against the seat, watching like a distant god as life and death battled for supremacy and dark, ash-ridden smoke billowed up into the nighttime sky. Despite the Earl's foolishness, the arrogance that the demon was beginning to cultivate for his own reasons, it still remained an impressive sight.
The string of memento mori weighed heavily in his pocket.
XXX
It was nearing dawn when Undertaker guided the cart to the road that led to London, the back of the carriage filled with the remains of the charred children's bodies—all that was left after the Earl's impromptu funeral pyre.
So many new guests to inspect, to welcome to his home—to keep his other long-term residents happy; so many old guests to bury since the rotation was forever continuous. His long fingernails caressed over the reins of his horse as he thought of the autopsies that awaited him back at his morgue, his funeral home, and the rest he would have in his least comfortable coffin once his work for the day was finished.
Always working, always busy—
But, then again, death was a constant in this world.
As the horse meandered its way down the road, going at its usual pace—which didn't matter to Undertaker since a funeral home's horse should always have a stately, somber gait for appearance's sake—he reached into his favorite urn and brought out another dog biscuit, biting into it with relish.
He was unsurprised, however, as the pale-haired man stepped out from the woods to block his path. The white-suited man smirked easily, hip cocked to the side with lazy arrogance as he eyed the unthreatening posture of the undertaker riding along. "By Her Majesty's will, I'm to demand to know what you intend to do with the remains of the victims from Earl Phantomhive's botched mission."
Undertaker chuckled at that in answer, letting his horse plod its way forward, though he brought it to a stop when he was parallel with the Queen's Butler.
"I'm going to bring them home," Undertaker answered with a lopsided, amused smile—knowing full well that the boy wouldn't have understood the double meaning hidden within his words. "I am, after all, a mortician~"
The butler scowled in irritation, knowing that he was missing something—something that Phipps would catch if the other had been there, something that Grey knew he was missing because he had always enjoyed action and activity more than discussing things, than the observations that he had done the night before.
"You have been given no authority—" Charles began before a biscuit shoved into his mouth silenced his words. He frowned up at the mortician, munching his way through the biscuit—food was food, right?—though he still didn't bother to draw his sword since the black-clad man was obviously no threat. He could easily beat him in a fight if the discussion became much more heated.
It was a surprise, then, when Undertaker reached out and hooked his finger in Charles' tie, dragging the Queen's Butler closer with strength that bordered on inhuman. Charles' eyes brightened at the thought of a fight and reached down to wrap his fingers around the hilt of his sword; but that was foiled as Undertaker's hand clamped down on his wrist and kept the blade sheathed.
"Your Queen reigns over the living, but I am the one in charge of the dead," Undertaker chuckled softly as he changed his hold to forcibly tilt Charles' head upwards. "Don't try to restrict my jurisdiction, silly boy."
"Let me g—"
Once again, Charles Grey's snapped-out words were cut short by the gray-haired man stuffing another dog biscuit in the butler's mouth; it would do much to silence both the prattling of the boy's mouth, as well as the rumbling of his stomach. Charles, in answer, scowled darkly and tugged on the hand that Undertaker still had captured, hoping to force himself free—and all the while, continued to chew furiously through the treat so that he could free his mouth for snarled words, insults and orders thrown together in a vicious, dangerous tone.
He never got the chance to speak again, however.
"Like the Earl Phantomhive, you, too, will need to be retaught to value each and every soul—and learn, as well, that some things cannot be recovered." The arrogance, after all, oozed off of Charles in a palpable scent, stinging the air with lack of concern and lack of mercy for others; dedication had trumped all for this particular man. It was appealing, in a way; but, more so, it was dangerous in that Undertaker knew what was in store for this man.
Still, at least he could have fun with this new toy for as long as he could. What point was there in being called an Evil Nobleman if one didn't take advantage of that title from time to time? And the furious, outraged expression on the boy's face—apparently, it had been a long time since he had been talked down to—was all the more entertaining.
And Undertaker did so love entertaining things.
Holding Charles Grey's chin between his black-tipped fingers, Undertaker tilted it upwards so that he might steal a kiss, the butler's angry snarl breathed out against his lips—and the gray-haired man just chuckled in response.
Perhaps…
The events that were about to break upon the shore and weave themselves into existence would be fun. It had been a long time since something was truly fun to Undertaker, and—at the very least—this boy would prove to be an interesting distraction. Which was, also at the very least, a satisfying exchange, the mortician thought, as Charles Grey's free hand suddenly wrapped tight in his hair to roughly drag the black-clad man closer.
Humans were such a hypocritical, paradoxical, enigmatic lot.
End.