Penchant For Beauty
Aleister Chamber, a man of aristocracy renowned as the Viscount of Druitt, has a penchant for beauty, if not apparent enough.
He is a patron of the arts— of the most exquisite graces of life. The living incarnation of Dionysus in his time. A paragon of pulchritude so romanced with the conception of beauty that he will take part in embodying beauty in its finest form and welcome it so passionately, like a lover wound in his arms.
Beauty possesses an alluring charm to the eyes of the beholder. One that could make the most twisted and vile things morph into the most resplendent rose in a field of thorns. It can veil the hideous scars and tears into a mask of a captivating smile.
Beauty is pleasing.
Beauty is magnificent.
Beauty is essential.
But alas, his father has no regard for beauty. Pointless, that is what he will always say with such nonchalance and disdain. He is a gray figure so austere and daunting that the mere sight of his eyes holds raw authority and the slightest lash of his tongue can extinguish the flare of his passion in his too frail, juvenile heart.
"Shame on you, boy! A son of mine has no need for such trifling things."
If he dare shed a tear, a strike from his leather belt will eventually come for him.
His father is a cold and cruel man, who preferred ambition over art; magnanimity over ecstasy; expectations over passions; and his pride over the love of his son. He always chastises him to act his best for the sake of reputation. He always derides him that his fallacies are nonsense. He always scolds him for the smallest acts of defending himself.
Albeit he became the docile boy who sought for his acknowledgment once, he never once said he cherished him. Not one bit.
His father is terrible. He is a hideous man. A very, very hideous man.
"Poor, pitiful child. Your mother is here for you."
His mother coos so mawkishly that it sounds almost sickening. She is a radiant blossom in a pastel garden who bears pollen so sweet that it can poison. A woman so entranced with her beauteous appeal and acts that the sound of praises enlivens her narcissistic spirit and the silent sniffs of envy make her proud.
His mother is a well-bred noblewoman with a flawless face that can conceal her wretchedness. She is the one who introduced him to the glamor of beauty and pretense— of self-indulgence, deceit, and exploit. She always dotes him like a spoiled child. She always teaches him the art of eloquence and coquet. She always endows him with flamboyant attire and makes him look comely.
She always promises him that he will be the most handsome boy from the other children for she is her son, and no son of hers will be a sore to the eyes of her cliques. He will be impressive, charming, and beautiful, much like his mother.
He did become the gorgeous son she desired, but no matter how she doted him saccharinely, kissed his forehead every time he executed an act so excellently, and said she loved her little prince. No ounce of love was in her voice. It was lulling, smooth, and oddly cold, like his father's.
Her eyes say it all. He is not her son, but her doll to display and brag about.
His mother is awful. She is a hideous woman. A very, very hideous woman.
He never loved them.
Then again, he never knew what love was like.
Not from his family, not from a lover, not from his peers, or the world.
Though he found love in beauty.
Beauty has a myriad of diverse faces that never once strike him disheartening and loathing like the sight of his parents. For one, it can be apathetic yet can still appear welcoming like his facades and emotions that feign warmth and passion in flowery occasions. It can attract a humoring audience that will listen to his words and laud him for the sake of it. It can beguile like how he lures a woman to his bed for an arduous night or to her lovely demise.
Beauty can grant satisfaction. Simply by gazing at his own reflection, he is beauty himself.
The embodiment of beauty.
So his admirers remark with awe.
Ah, yes. He loves the sound of that grand title.
Beauty is seductive.
Beauty is deceitful.
Beauty is the best mask.
Maybe, he takes more after his mother after all.
He chuckles to himself.
A/N: I'll be honest...I do not know what spirit took over me to actually write this!
For one, I (strangely) found Viscount Druitt an intriguing character. I mean literally. We all could see that Yana Toboso has a penchant for writing subjects that involve things that are seen as romantic or beautiful is, in reality, not exactly what they seem or plainly not at all. Then, this man who seemed so fond of beautiful things just had to be more than a comic relief character and maybe something deeper.
Then it hit me. He's a sociopath. Aside from the passionate outbursts and theatrics, this man is actually as cold and depraved as much as the beauty of his exterior, like most of the cast. Well, skipping my theories aside, this is the closest thing I could make as to why he behaves like he usually does and where his fondness in beauty began.
I hope I got that right. Ah, and thanks for reading.
Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.