Bound
By Kris
Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.
Note: This drabble seems more like prose poetry than an actual story, so please excuse the excessive allusions/metaphors/similes (descriptions).
His fingers consume the crossfire of sounds and loneliness, the window fogging with his labored breathes that expel from deep within the core of his soul. Snow clings to the moist glass in a helpless manner, mocking the boy's state by parading innocent intentions with underlying malicious contradictions. Nails bite the pane, cursing the weather, society, and trifle circumstances as cerulean eyes take in the uninhabited garden below his perch with its wild nature overtaking simple reason. The tiny white crystals coat the decay, lending the illusion of purity that otherwise masks the robbed virginity of all that once grew confined in decadence. Luscious coats of asylum white blind the onlooker and the boy does shield his eyes under the long black lashes pinned to him from birth. Shifting away, it is the same scene before that provides a blurred lens to the setting surrounding him, hiding all that hand-painted delicacies prided themselves for and disregarding tiny details that would once serve to ignite the emotions. Such hollowness afforded melancholy, a malady much preferred by young maidens who set out to find love; only to be scorned in pursuit as it makes for a more interesting conversation. He is not amused and thus blinks baby graced eyes so full of hatred that a matron could not bear but to remedy. Mind you, he is not one for interaction choosing, instead, to hide behind a veil of supposed privacy as not to prick his naivety by having it thrust into his round face. Nor would he like it to be known, his purposed weakness, as it would at once crumble his foundation and thus plunge him into eternal mortification and decline the likes of which age would not be able to pull him from his grave.
Before him bows the oddity of his existence; that sinister smile so gracefully illuminating a fake visage meant only to fool outsiders in this little game. Black hair sweeps forward, casting shadows that roll over every contour his flesh offers, hiding his auburn orbs that burrow into the boy's soul. He does not shudder as this is not the first time the demon burned wicked intentions into his wretched form and it most certainly would not be the last. The ticking of a clock mounted on the desk flings precious moments away, stealing breath wasted in limbo and allowing familiar unrest to invade the room. The other man waits patiently, his back a slender outline of the servant he was reduced to by due contract, one the boy was sure he was ready to devour. Full, sweet lips part to allow an order to slip through, meaningless in the grand majesty of the plan they had concocted, but nevertheless crucial in implementation. Demon though he may be, he accepts such with minimalistic delicacy and leaves the room, exeunt, door left from the desk at which the boy becomes fascinated with the parchment piled in front of him. Candlelight flickers and eyes suddenly become heavy, laden with all the fixtures of an adult realm, lending no room for mercy in light of a child.
It is then that the boy slides forward, ignoring the passionate embrace of the winter season that brings with it the allure of warmth and comfort, seeking instead the folds of his arms and the crooks of his body. He collapses into himself, forehead soaking in the radiant cool of the mahogany of his faux resting place, the day wearing thin the vivaciousness of youth. Darkness was forever looming closer; it seems, with no end but forgiving slumber that was, itself, punctuated by abounding nightmares filled abruptly with the lives of the undead. Flashes of red mixed with Asian inspirations, mingled with blood and blue lips, fastened together with premature goodbyes and coffins lined with fresh flora. Icy water nips the heels of the untamable fire that rages in his heart, fighting for dominance within a frail, diminutive body wracked with sin. Marionettes unfolded surreal dramas on the back of his lids, carnivals crammed with beasts and men alike, indistinguishable, are silent but active, enticing, seducing. Mansions subdued family secrets, burning them like dry paper and then expelling them into memory-less voids that are unreachable by human desire alone.
Life can be interpreted by those in which one comes into contact, defined by the very existences that seem to allude the very definition, layering values, principles, sins, and lust, one after the other, stacking higher and higher. Like the Tower of Babel, however, it will get struck down and rendered unrecognizable jargon in the minds of those involved, much less blasphemous gibberish to outsiders. Now, with sleep banking slowly, but surely, but boy gives in, allowing the desperation brought on by months without another to comfort his torment to assuage his grief. His body relaxes and his breathing slows, welcoming the sweet surrender unconsciousness provides.
Later, when the young boy is fast in the throes of dreamscapes that turn bloody, screams smothered with silence, will the butler come in and stare at the small human frame before him. He will cock his head to the side, red eyes narrowing into menacing slits, a smirk dancing wildly on his lips and, for a moment, the boy will be in dire danger. The demon will linger near his throat, poised but unmoving, looking for all the world like an incubus come to claim his prize. However, with a flourish, he will right the boy in his capable arms, carrying him like his age into the master bedroom, lovingly placing him into his bed with all the pretenses of the wolf who dawns female clothing to entice the unsuspecting. Blowing out the candle, however, reveals a side no one but the boy had ever seen of the man who stays faithfully, forcefully, by his side. Heels will clack down the hall, reverberating like the moans of all those that came before his present master, all the souls buried within the pit of his being. The butler waits patiently, ruthlessly, for the day when the contract will be fulfilled so that, sprawled before him, will the boy taste as decadently bittersweet like the chocolate morsels the butler is prided for concocting. Only then will he smile and only then will he rest.