A/N: A first attempt at fanfiction. I took liberties with this, and I hope you don't mind. Let me explain a little, because my brain is a cluttered maze. So, let's say Sebastian did take Ciel's soul. Let's say Ciel reincarnated and forgot everything. And well, let's say that Sebastian just wasn't fine with that.

Disclaimer: I (obviously) do not own Kuroshitsuji or any of its characters. If I did, it would be yaoi by now. ;) Just kidding. But seriously.


THE BLACK BUTTERFLY

by Never A Morning Person

Dream.

It feels so very fragile that you are afraid that if you don't step too lightly the whole thing will shatter under your toes and you will end up falling into endless darkness. But at the same time, because dreams are nothing but contrapositions, this one holds such a reassuring solidity that you are finally convinced that you can move, so you do. You carefully place one foot in front of the other, fearful as you take the first steps, more confident once you see that nothing happens, there is no shattering, no infinite plummeting. Just sand, there is sand.

The dream has taken you to an island of sorts, the sand is white and warm, and you can almost see sparkling blue where all the white ends. "This is odd," you think out loud because there is no-one here to hear you talking to yourself. You have never been to an island before, never felt warm sand tickle your skin, and England's shores are nothing like this. Sharp green rocks and gray waters is what they are. Beautiful, but nothing, nothing like this.

The idyllic nature of this place stirs something dark inside you, the notion that you don't belong in such a place almost nauseating. This is unbecoming your nature; it's too heavenly for the prickly thorns that surround you, the heavy shadows that make you what you are. You get the sudden feeling that someone wants to make up for something by bringing you here.

You start running suddenly to chase these thoughts away because they are just too complex and confusing for you right now, and you've reached the big blue sooner than you expected –sooner than possible, but you don't ponder on it too much. You're in a dream, you can't afford to think. The feeling of Idon'tbelong now nothing but a distant, barely-there humming at the back of your brain.

There's a pier right in front of you when you stop running, as if waiting for you to step on it (this is a dream, after all), so you do. The thing doesn't screech or protest against your weight, it's welcoming and warm, like the rest of the dream. You move forward calmly, taking your time as a soft breeze makes your hair sway. Once your reach the end of the pier, you decide to sit down on the wood and dip your feet in the water. It seems like the right thing to do.

You do not know how long you spend with your feet in the turquoise waters, motionless and serene. Time is nothing but a measure and it holds no importance here. On some level you have now accepted this, this entire parallel universe that stretches out around you. Even if someone is trying to atone for something, you find yourself accepting the gift. You'd be ungrateful not to.

The moment you make that thought, something changes in the blue sky you are gazing upon. A black dot appears, far in the distance. At first, you think your eyes are playing tricks on you and blink a couple of times to clear your vision. But the tiny dot persists.

It grows larger.

And larger.

At some point you realize that it isn't a tiny dot at all. It's many tiny dots approaching, a flock of black dots flying towards you.

You cock your head to the side, thinking that the black creatures approaching hold no place in this white world, much like you. You vaguely feel sorry for them, and for yourself. You stare at them as they come closer and closer, merely observing them from a distance, your head completely blank.

And then a question arises, what are they?

And the answer comes, almost instantly-crows. They are crows.

And then panic comes, like new, boiling blood in your veins, like a blow to the gut.

"Crows!" you think in shrieks, "Crows!" and your hands tremble on your knees. You want to move –try to move, but your body won't obey because this is a dream and you have no control over it.

"Let me go let me go let me go!" you scream at no-one and nothing, and of course, there is no response, no result to your helpless yelling. The invisible fingers that are keeping you still won't let go. You are powerless, a toy, a puppet.

The dream is merciful enough to let you close your eyes, and now you're thankfully blind, trapped and waiting to be lost in a sea of deathbirds.


Crows.

You don't know why, but you've always hated them.

Crows.

No, it's not so much hate as it is fear, bewilderment.

Anticipation.

Crows-your heart beats faster.

Crows.

Crows are red eyes and black feathers, crows are hoarse croaks and sly smiles.

Crows are death and the devil, they are corpses and cemeteries, they are black nails and low voices, sneering replies.

Crows are bad luck, crows are yesmylord and obedient bows, arrogance and idonotlie, crows are someone, something, sometime, but you just can't place it, can't remember it, can only feel it –could always feel it- coiled at the pit of your stomach.


You open your eyes.


What you see is a small, fluttering thing.

What you see is a black butterfly.

Without thought, you extend your arm and trap it between your fingers, a cage of flesh and bone. The movement of its wings is light kisses on your skin and forgetting everything for a moment –crows, feathers, death- you smile. The creature's wings have beautiful crimson eyespots.

You remember beautiful crimson eyes.

And then they're suddenly here, the dark things, enveloping you in a veil of blackness. But you are no longer trembling because even though it's absurd –it should be crows and you know it- this is not crows, not death, just hundreds, millions of tiny black butterflies kissing your skin wherever they can reach, and you shouldn't be afraid because-

I do not wish to scare you.

Because this dream is a form of atonement.

And when your skin can no longer sense the shuddering caress of paper thin wings, the butterflies and the darkness have disappeared and fear is nothing but a word, you know without having to see.

He's finally here.


He is here, but not quite.

It is not so much a presence as it is an omnipresence, you don't know where he is exactly, if he's sitting beside you on the pier, if he's hovering over you like a statue of darkness, if he's kneeling at your feet. You can see him, but you can't. He's both near and far, here and there, everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

You can feel it in your gut –your heart perhaps?- all this, this world of blinding white and black butterflies, is his doing. And you don't know why, but right now, you really want to make him speak.

"Who are you?"

He smiles. No answer. He just…smiles. It makes your chest ache.

"Answer me, who are you?"

Your voice adopts an unusual tone. You don't think you've heard yourself speak like that before. It echoes like authority, like control, power, pride. This is the voice of someone who thinks himself above others. The voice of a boy with a ring of blue diamond and a heart of crimson revenge.

Your thoughts are a tangled web, and you're caught in it, and he's the spider and he opens his mouth to speak and you hold your breath without realizing it.

"You know who I am, Ciel."

Your name.

Your eyes widen a fraction. He's right. You know who he is. Not in the concrete sense of knowing, of firm certainty, but in something like remembering past lives, like trying to make out figures through thick fog and blurry water.

Ciel. Your name. Something doesn't feel right.

"Yes," you mutter "I think so." He nods, wherever he is –kneeling, standing, sitting, here there, everywhere. You want to ask him why everything is so terribly absurd, did he bring you here to mess with your head? You refrain out of pure pride. He shouldn't see you weak, at loss. He must not. Even when you were nothing but a child without a family, too much rage and too much power, he never saw -

"What is the matter?"

Never saw what? You can't remember, his words broke your train of thought and now it's lost. You shoot him an annoyed glance. He shouldn't interrupt you.

"Why am I here?" you ask coolly, as you think you should.

"Do you not like it here?" he counters softly tilting his head to the side, and using a tone that is tenderly condescending and a little devious. His eyes are twin pools of fiery red, his hair is ravens' wings and his lips a gentle teasing curve. You like him more when he's like this, a gentle smirk playing at his lips. His smile before, it was unsettling. It was innocently glad, it was sincere, you almost believed in it.

You want to touch him.

"Answer my question," you order, and your fingers burn. You want to fit them at the dip of his collarbone, his cheekbones, the line of his smirking lips. It is a strange desire. It's the need to verify he's really here; you want to see if it's still the same.

"I wanted to see you," he replies. "And you wanted to see me." He sounds self-satisfied. How dare he.

"You do not know what I want," you cut him off. "How could I want to see you when I know neither what you are nor where you come from, when I don't know what you w -"

"You know the answer to all those questions, Ciel."

Again, your name. It's not right. How can your own name feel wrong at someone's lips?

You know the answer, he said. Why does it feel like the truth? You do, you do know, you just need some help remembering, putting the puzzle pieces together. Someone to guide your hand. But you wouldn't ask him to. You wouldn't ask for help.

"Why butterflies?" you ask next, disregarding his previous comment, trying to look unaffected, calm. "You are not butterflies." Of that you are certain.

"Crows scare you, Ciel."

"Stop calling me Ciel!" you burst out suddenly, impulsively, because it's driving you insane. Your lip trembles in frustration and the bastard grins, grins sweetly and mockingly and says:

"It is your name, is it not?"

He talks to you like you're a child, a spoilt, beloved one.

"You know what I mean, Sebastian."

Sebastian.

"Ah."

Sebastian.

His little exclamation, almost a sigh of relief. It rings like welcome home to your ears, and you strangely feel like crying. Sebastian. Cakes and silverware, candles and white gloves, contracts and damned souls. Sebastian. How could you forget?

"Yes. Yes, my Lord."

It's Sebastian.


"Why are you here, Sebastian?" You use his name, overuse it, in excess, greedily. Sebastian. Sebastian. Sebastian. It's like you're trying to make up for lost time, for all the things you didn't and still don't remember. At least, you remember him. Who he is. He's Sebastian.

You don't like it when he doesn't answer you.

"Sebastian."

"I told you, Young Master. I'm here because-"

"Because you wanted to see me." You finish the sentence with a sneer and turns his face towards you. There's surprise in his eyes and you think you like it. You think it's delicious.

"You don't believe me?"

"I…" You hesitate. Is there a reason why you shouldn't? I do not lie, like humans do. He said that, once. Did he ever break that promise? Did he ever harm you? You don't remember. Is there even a point anymore? Does it matter? Did it ever matter?

"Do you trust me, my Lord?"

You find yourself smiling absently and you do not care to stop it. You're used to your body and mind doing strange things by now. You don't look at him as you reply.

"I shouldn't, should I?"

"But you do."

And even though he will think himself victorious, and it will make you appear like a weak child, even though you are human and you can lie, you choose not to..

"Yes," you whisper under your breath, and his smile is satisfied and annoying, but that's alright –that's the way it should be- you've missed it.


There are eyes on you. Exploring. Tracing. Mapping you out so intensely that it feels almost like a physical touch. It irks you a little, it's strange. You turn to face him, raise an eyebrow inquisitively. Something is different in the way he's staring at you. Something has shifted in his gaze.

"You've grown, Young Master."

"I'm only sixteen years old."

"You were not sixteen when I saw you last."

Oh.

The demon's voice is somewhat cold. He looks away, looks into the sky or at the sea, doesn't look at you. You feel like you should apologize for your sixteen years.

"But that was a long time ago," he adds, as if you didn't know that. Such a long time ago, a lifetime ago, and all you can remember is fragments, shadows, ghosts.

You want to ask how old you were when he last saw you, what did you look like, did you have the same amethyst eyes and small hands, was your voice the same, was your hair as long and as wavy. You want to ask when and how and why. You want him to fill all the gaps in your memory, all the lost shards of another life. You hate not being able to remember.

Something dawns on you. It makes your heart skip a beat.

"Sebastian."

"Yes, my Lord?"

"Will I remember this when I wake up?"

He must have sensed the tinge of panic in your voice, because he finally turns and looks at you. His eyes are blood-red, but soft, like the black butterfly's wings. You know you won't like the answer.

"Some of it, yes."

"What will I remember?"

"The sea and the sand. The wind. Perhaps the butterflies. Nothing too unpleasant."

Your eyes widen, your mouth is dry. You glance at him, and find him almost smirking, cruel and gleeful. You want to slap him across the face but your hands are shaking too much.

"Is there anything else you'd want to remember, Young Master?"

"Not really, no. No."

You. You. Your name. The curve of your wicked grin, your crow-black hair, your devilish eyes, your face, your voice. You. I want to remember you, my name on your lips, you, crows and darkness and fear, I want to remember you, everything unpleasant, however unpleasant, everything that hurts, bites and stings, I want to remember you.

"I don't want to remember anything else."

He can see through it. Of course he can. You bite your lip, knowing somehow that this desperate urge to latch onto him and never let him go, this pathetic need to cry in frustration because you can't handle forgetting again, the tremble of your fingers, the lump in your throat, they are all betraying the fact that you are not quite the person he remembers. The person you used to be –you can sense him at the back of your brain- he wouldn't try to hold on, he'd be too proud to shiver or cry, he'd think this panic a degrading thing, he'd kill and bury it.

You are not him.

Two beads of warmth leak from your eyes. Tears. You make no attempt to dry them. They run down the sides of your face, and Sebastian sees them. He stares at them as if they're an alien, supernatural thing. As if they are wrong.

"We will meet in the human world, Ciel." He says apologetically, and you hate him for it.

"I told you not to call me Ciel!" you cry out, feeling offended and ridiculed and small.

The smile he gives you could even be called melancholic. It makes everything worse.

"You're not Young Master anymore, Ciel," he mutters quietly.


What.

His words make your entire world erupt.

How dare he. This is the worst thing, the worst thing he could have ever said. Not Young Master anymore. Why? Not anymore-why? Because you're sixteen? Because you don't remember, because you cry? Because you're weak? Do you seem weak to him?

Or rather…

Are you the one that's weak? The one that manufactured an entire dreamworld just to find a Young Master that died years, centuries ago? The one that created a white hallucination of seas and sand in order to be absolved of a sin that's lost and forgotten? The one that traded crows for butterflies to keep from scaring you away? Are you the one hunting after a shadow? Are you the one that's latching on, that can't let go?

How dare he.

Your right eye burns fiercely and when you turn to look at him, he nearly flinches.

"I will always be your Young Master."

It's an order.

It sounds like a curse.

This is what he wanted. It makes him smile.

"Yes, My Lord."

This is what you want.

It makes you smile as well.


He leans forward and kisses you.

Because he's everywhere, you're not sure where his lips land, if it's the top of your head, the back of your hand, the center of your chest. You feel him on your lips and the curve of your neck, your fingertips, your eyelids. You feel him everywhere.

You grip onto him, but you're not entirely sure what you're holding onto either, if it's his shoulders or his hair, the soft fabric of his shirt, his forearms, his wrists, or maybe it's everything, maybe you're simply holding onto him, or onto the dream itself, because he is the dream and you know it's almost over.

But that's fine, because even if you forget, you will always remember.

Even if you don't meet again in this life, he will always haunt you.

You'll always be his Young Master, and he will always be your loyal guard dog.

And it's as much a blessing as it is a curse.

FIN

(…or TBC?)


A/N: So, people? What do you think? I hope this wasn't too confusing.

As you can see, I'm not sure whether this will be continued or not. Time will tell. :)

Oh, one last thing.

This story was written for two of my favorite people, two of the coolest, most amazing nutcases in the universe. Duchess and Sister, this is for you. A small birthday present. Happy Birthday to the Royal Twins from Kath, with loads of sparklesparkle, inspiration, kafriles and, um, butterflies? Keep up the awesomeness, loves.