WARNINGS: SELF-HARM, CHARACTER DEATH, SUICIDE. DO NOT READ IF YOU MAY BE AFFECTED BY THESE TRIGGERS.
He walks into his grand bedroom and slams the door.
He wishes and hopes and wonders, as he always does, if his ever-faithful butler will hear the whispers and sighs and moans emanating from behind the gold-trimmed door, just like every night.
The hope lasts for a couple seconds, just like it always does. He hasn't been disturbed once.
And so he leaps atop his fluffy bed, adorned with brocade comforter and silken sheets and goose-down pillows, and opens the drawer of his ornately carved nightstand, and closes his fingers around the straight razor he hides there.
For Luka, my little prince.
For Claude, my golden knight.
For Ciel, my dazzling king.
For Sebastian, my bloody knave.
And as the first little red line bloomed across his skin, he meditated on the last line of that little poem that had, by now, become a ritual. Bloody knave. Luka had tears in his eyes, in the very corners, when he died. Maybe Sebastian drained all his blood and healed him up so no one could see. Then he walked away all spattered in blood to go find his next victim.
Bastard.
A gasp emanated from trembling lips as a delicate blue vein was nicked. Shit. This had only happened a few times, but the blood got everywhere and made such an awful mess, and he couldn't bear Claude's incessant snide questioning about the marks on his snow-white sheets.
Pale feet pattered over the floor to the bathroom attached, where scarlet blood dripped into the sink freely. Water was good. Washed away all traces. But you could never quite get the stains out of towels. He had learned that the hard way.
When Luka fell ill one day, he got a nosebleed. It was nothing serious, but it required a threadbare towel to be nicked from the local linen shop. The two boys were hoping it could still be used after, but the blood dripped and stained everywhere. They had to burn it. Luka was plied with hugs and kisses and nearly all of the food, to keep his strength up.
Funny how even the worst memories can turn into some of the best.
A knock resounded on the door, and no time was wasted before Claude strode in, catching sight of a shaking Alois clutching a straight razor. Golden eyes narrowed. Alois caught his breath, waiting for words of comfort, reassurance that everything was alright, stroking of hair and clutching of tailcoat.
Claude turned and left the room silently, closing the door behind him.
Alois dropped the blade, trembling too badly to continue. Soundless crying turned to sobs, which turned to screams of anguish. And then, he sat up, wiping the tears away. He shrugged on his purple coat, to hide his mutilated wrist. He brushed his silky golden hair, batting his eyelashes, making sure that busy mind was restful and those painted eyes were peaceful. He blew a kiss to the mirror.
And then he drove the blade into his lily-white throat, and those painted eyes saw only darkness.