WARNING: No smut in this first installment, but it will happen eventually, so be warned. Also if you object to, or just plain don't care for, yaoi/BL/male characters being naughty, then go away. NAO.

DISCLAIMER: Kuroshitsuji/Black Butler and its characters belong to Yana Toboso and Square Enix.
"The Spider and The Fly" belongs to the late Mary Howitt (1799-1888). It was published in 1829, so the events of this fiction take place between that date and 1839.

I tug at my jacket and fix my glasses for the umpteenth time. I know it is futile; there is nothing wrong with either. Still...

He will enter this place five minutes from now, carrying his formidable weapon one-handed as though it were a twig. Death incarnate, so achingly perfect.
I will stand in a line with the others and dutifully bow at his passage, and he'll nod at our lot while heading for his office. His impossibly long hair, tied back into a ponytail, will bounce softly as he walks past us, and we'll find ourselves staring at his door, blinking away the afterimage of our brush with a legend.

Yet this time around, it is different. He lingers in the Hall to address us, his subordinates, uttering words I cannot bring myself to grasp.
Retirement.
How is that even possible?

My feet move of their own volition when he motions me to follow him in his office. I sink into a chair, dumbstruck, and listen to him pronouncing me his successor.
I want to laugh at that, but I don't. Of course not; it wouldn't be like me. Yet the bitter irony of it is not lost: he has taken notice of my efforts, after all. How desperately I have striven, over the last few years, to prove myself to him, to make up for the mediocrity I had purposely cloaked myself in at the Academy… biting back my pride, maiming my potential, so as to end up where I truly wanted to be. Dispatch Division, the one he leads directly.
I worked under the assumption that this would never change. As it appears, I was mistaken.

He briefs me on the procedures for closing a few pending files, managing the death lists, and dealing with whatever responsibilities my new position entails. I nod at all the right moments and interject a couple times, and his answers are concise and to the point. He never, ever smiles at me, not even at the very end, when he formally shakes my hand and seals my fate with his parting words.
Congratulations, Supervisor Spears.
If truth be told, I am not smiling either. Congratulations, for what? I am left in charge of an empty husk, like a dead body whose soul has departed.

I close the door and breathe deeply to shake myself free of the overwhelming dizziness.
My peers – no, my underlings – rush for a chance to slap me on the back, to protest their great esteem for my person, to swear they always knew it would have to be me. And again and again I am forced to endure the hateful word, Congratulations, rolling out of every single mouth.
The wind has changed. I can't blame them, really.

"CONGRATULATIONS, WIIIIIILL!"

As was to be expected, Sutcliff's reaction is loud, over-the-top, and terribly embarrassing.
He has hurled himself at me like a fiery cannonball, nearly knocking me to the ground in his enthusiasm, and is now proceeding to simultaneously shout his happiness right into my ear and crush my rib cage by hugging me with all of his considerable and utterly unfeminine strength.

Grell Sutcliff, my fellow student at the Academy. My only friend, my-

He smiles at me, genuine pride shining in his eyes. Those beautifully expressive eyes of his, framed by lashes too long to be natural.

Of them all, he alone cares. The usual need to cuddle him, to hold him close, is almost overpowering but I don't, of course not. People are watching.
How long will it take him, I wonder, to realize what this promotion means to us, to our... relationship, for lack of a better word?
Until today, sidestepping his advances was just a matter of screening him from gossip - the nasty, hurtful sort that his gaudy appearance does nothing to defuse, honestly. Right now, for the two of us to ever be together is simply out of the question.

I don't have the heart to hold his doting gaze, thus I cravenly allow mine to trail to the window while mumbling something about propriety and decorum. It is by sheer coincidence, then, that I spot the familar outline heading down the street below, away from HQ and our lives.
He must have slipped out of the place at some point, brushing past me while I was engrossed in my unexpected triumph.
I am no better than the rest.

I peep at him through the windowpane, my right hand resting on Grell's shoulder with studied nonchalance.
Even with my gloves on, the glorious red locks are amazingly soft under my fingertips. Weird how, after so many years, I still get the sensation that they should feel different. Slick, perhaps, as if dipped in blood, enticing and repulsive at the same time - or maybe hot, intolerably so, each single strand like a searing wire.

I doggedly refuse to dwell on this reverie of mine; it is of no consequence. I stare down at my mentor instead, quickly drifting away into the haze of the human world. He looks so tiny from up here, and because of this I can't read his features as he abruptly comes to a halt, just before turning the corner, and looks back.

There is no way that he can spot me from where he is standing; that much, I know. I know, on a rational level, that it is not me that he's gazing at. Which is all fine and good, yet doesn't help one bit to assuage the surge of guilt that is threatening to overwhelm my senses.
This can't be the end of it. It would be... not right. Not proper.

I extricate myself from Sutcliff, wrapped around me like a constrictor snake, and push away the flunkeys milling around me, none too gently. They don't matter.
It is not for their sake that I mutter an impromptu excuse about something I forgot to ask the outgoing Supervisor. I only bother because of Grell, as an half-hearted attempt to take the sting out of my hasty retreat. I know he will pout and whine anyway, and be a nuisance throughout what's left of his shift, and lash out at anyone unadvised enough to get near him. There will be complaints, but with those I can deal.
Right now the only thing I couldn't cope with would be the sight of yet another pair of green-golden eyes, filling with hurt and reproach.

I fling myself across endless corridors and down one flight of stairs after another, all the while pondering the pretext I just advanced. It wasn't that spurious, honestly.
Because as I finally come out into the chilly London air, I realize there definitely is something I need to discover about my predecessor if I am to keep my peace of mind.

Now if only I could understand what it is.

This drabble represents an homecoming of sorts as far as I'm concerned, since I haven't written fanfics (of even been aware that was still alive and thriving) for a full decade.

Even nowadays I still dislike posting stories before I am fully done with them, but seeing what is happening in the manga - chapter 62 being the most recent issue at the moment I'm writing this - I thought it better to get this off my back before the Campania arc proceeds to disclaim Undertaker's legendary status (boy, but I so hope it won't happen - and not only because that would throw this fic's starting assumption out of the window!)

So be patient while I figure out and write next part, and please comment! Some honest feedback would make me happy!

Also, here's a fun little game (since no one reads afterwords anyway LOL) - what do you think Will wants to know so desperately? Me wants to hear some theories!