He wasn't an old man, but he was grey. His hair had gone from ink black to iron in the span of a mere three years, not that anyone had cared to notice. He was a respectable age still, forty-five, and a year younger than his brother. His given name was Edward. Every now and then, he thought about it – the absurdity of its simplicity - and it made him giggle.
Marriage had occurred almost twenty years ago, and it had not lasted long. His wife took to bed two months after their wedding and died of consumption. God bless the poor, fragile thing. He had not taken another wife since. No woman of title would have him, not after a certain incident involving two choir boys – a scandal that had shattered his reputation forever and, had he been the eldest son, would have driven his family name into the dirt. Thankfully, he had managed to dance by execution altogether, settling for a black scowl and sharp reprimand from the reigning monarch. Because he was not the eldest son, and his older brother was none other than Quintin Phantomhive.
That alone had been his saving grace… as he was consistently reminded every day of his life.
His plummet from the heights of society had been swift and efficient as an executioner's axe.
Now he lived on his brother's charity alone, floating around the Phantomhive manner and shunned like an unsightly cobweb. His sister-in-law hated him, shooting him grave looks and shuffling her children away from his path whenever she caught of glimpse of him down the hallway. His brother ignored him, unless it was to chastise him in one way or another – largely, these days, it was about his appearance. His hair was too long, his nails needed to be trimmed. And for God's sake, brother, black is best suited for mourning, not afternoon tea.
Needless to say, he existed largely on the mansion's upper levels… tucked away in secret rooms and dusty libraries where no one could rap him on the knuckles and remind him to be grateful.
His room could graciously be described as a mess. He had a bed, but he didn't use it. It was buried beneath stacks of books, usually something pertaining to the occult. He had gone through great pains to procure them and was glad for his brother's lack of attention to his existence, for they had spawned in quantities too large to shove under his mattress any longer.
Rather than his bed, he slept in a coffin. His own coffin, in fact, he had had himself measured. Ever since he had watched them lower his dear, puny wife into the ground – sheltered by that immense, groaning beauty – he knew he had to have one of his own. He had begged Quintin for one – using words such as "please" and "only thing I ever wanted". His elder brother had caved, warning Edward that he would not pay for anything ridiculous or extravagant.
Edward had laughed, and sent his measurements gleefully to Venice.
The coffin was imported months later, intricately carved by rough Italian hands. You could smell the sun in the oil that sealed the dark wood and made it shine. It was line with black satin, cushioned with down, and little sachets of pine needles had been tucked into the corners. He had spent days cooing over her, running his tongue over her smooth curves, stripping down to his bare skin in order to feel the soft, cool satin. Sometimes, he would close the lid, and imagine he was dead. It made his heart pump with excitement, the feeling of the sides closing in, of his breath shortening as he started to run out of air. He wanted to be inside her forever, cradled by her arms for eternity, safe.
Many times had he closed the lid and envisioned what it would be like to die, stroking the shaft of his own painfully erect cock as he did so. Every time, he reached the precipice of orgasm, and every time he denied himself ejaculation.
It wasn't time yet. Because, regardless of what everyone thought or said… Edward still had something to live for.
His nephew, Vincent Phantomhive, who more than likely was not aware of his existence.
Vincent Phantomhive, at the tender age of thirteen, had already mastered the art of disdain. There were glimpses of it every time he flashed that haughty, superior look across the room. He was fond of correcting people. He corrected his tutors on their history. He corrected his father on most business matters. He corrected his mother, when she addressed him by any endearment other than "Vincent". He had always been a precocious child, but Edward knew that if the boy had a mind to, he could seize the earldom by its throat and rule the family with a cold, manipulative hand.
Edward liked to lurk in the door and shadows of the study, watching Vincent during his lessons. The future earl always managed to look bored, swinging one delicate leg with its perfectly formed calf over the other, his cheek resting against his curled fingers. His black hair – too long for what was appropriate for his age – framing a sharp, smooth jaw still in formation and padded by a layer of baby fat. Edward wanted to run his hands up those smooth calves and bite the inside of those creamy white thighs. He wanted to suck on supple, tender skin and turn it purple. He thought of taking Vincent's garter between his teeth and pulling back before releasing it again, and liked to imagine the sharp snap it would make against such firm, young flesh. There would be welts, bruises, bite marks… each one traveling up and down that delicate body, and his nails would draw red paths connecting each one.
Pain. Ecstasy. He wanted to know what Vincent's cool, arrogant expression would come to resemble when marred by both.
"I know you."
Edward was startled. The boy's voice carried across the room, and his cold blue eyes pieced the shadows that usually concealed him so well.
Edward looked up, meeting the boy's gaze, and gave a wide grin.
The tutor had gone, probably in tears.
"Do you?" Edward crooned, not moving from his spot. "Who am I?"
"You are the grey man." Vincent brought his nails around to observe them, picking at an unsightly hangnail.
Edward's smile broadened, stretching the corners of his mouth in an unsettling way. He stood, the black tails of his coat dragging over his seat, and he made quick, long strides towards his nephew.
"Yes." Edward said. "You are quite right. I am the grey spectre of this manor."
"You watch me during my lessons." Vincent said, narrowing his eyes. "And when I sleep. Sometimes you are there in the corner. You don't think I can see you, but I do."
Edward laughed. He tried to soften it; so it came out closer to a wheeze.
Vincent lifted his chin. There it was, that precious disdain.
"You don't want to hurt me." Vincent said.
"Oh, but I do." Edward giggled, dropping to one knee beside the future earl. "In all of the ways you will find pleasurable." Edward slipped his hand over the boy's ankle, only daring to touch that much. That beautifully formed calf was within inches of his reach, and he could not bear to bring himself to sully it just yet. He wanted to memorize its shape, the taunt muscles, the glorious creamy satin skin.
Vincent gave him a long look through lowered, thick black lashes. The boy could not know how he was seducing the older man with the firm set of such a shapely, red mouth that he didn't' even know he possessed.
"If you'd like," Edward said. "I can show you where I live."
Vincent looked around, as if deciding whether or not he had anything better to do. He then shrugged, and one leg slid over the other; such a curt, precise motion making Edward's heart flutter. The boy rose to his feet, and then nodded to Edward as If indicating he was now permitted to lead the way.
Edward knew that at this time of day, no one would be in the hallways. It was a short distance from the study to his room, quite thankfully. When they reached his bedchambers, he closed the door, locking it behind him.
Vincent wrinkled his sharp nose.
"What is that smell?" the boy asked.
"Pine," Edward said, placing his hand against the small of the boy's back. Vincent didn't seem to notice. He walked over to the coffin, immediately drawn to its beauty, as Edward had hoped he would be. He could only ever fantasize about having both of his beauties in the same room, reveling in each other's perfection.
"Why do you have a coffin in your room?" Vincent asked. "Do you intend to die, soon?"
"We all must die. And the wisest of us will be prepared." Edward approached the boy again, reaching around his chest and slipping long, skinny fingers underneath the lapels of his small coat. Vincent glanced over his shoulder, then shrugged, allowing Edward to slip the coat off. It fell gracelessly to the floor.
Edward's blood was pounding in his ears. This was the closest he had ever come to a religious experience. He placed his hands on the boy's trim waist, lifting him up effortlessly and setting him on the lid of the coffin.
Edward knelt again, keeping his shoulders hunched to shave a few inches off his excessive height, even kneeling on the floor. He cupped Vincent's expensive black heels and slipped them first one, then the other off delicate feet. The garter clips were next. With great relish, Edward reached up, setting his open hand against Vincent's thigh. He leaned over, kissing the inside of it, where it was still cool.
Vincent leaned back, settling against his palms, regarding the man in front of him with what could be considered mild interest. He spread his legs further, as if to see what the man would do. Edward allowed his lips to wander further, kissing the place on Vincent's thigh where the hem of his shorts ended, and the skin was getting warmer, the closest to the groin without being obscene.
Edward fulfilled his first fantasy. He slid his tongue underneath one of Vincent's garter straps, taking it between his teeth and pulling back. It smacked against perfect flesh, and Vincent twitched in surprise, though his expression never changed.
Edward kissed the heated, red mark left behind by the garter strap. Then he unclipped it and its twin before pinching the tops of the boy's silk stockings between his fingertips and peeling them, slowly, away from the holy calves his newfound god.
Vincent's skin was softer than the satin of his coffin.
Edward opened his mouth again, sliding his tongue over his drying lips and pressed his mouth greedily to the child's leg, sucking as hard as he could. Not a sound, not even another twitch from Vincent. Edward dared to go further, biting down on the firm flesh. When he pulled his mouth away, there was an ugly dark bruise, a hideous splotch of color on a perfect canvas.
The older man was overcome with desire at the sight of the bruise. He wanted to devour every inch. He wanted to take every part of Vincent that he feasibly could into his mouth, sucking and biting, making him writhe and scream.
He closed his eyes. Savor, Edward, savor.
Edward removed the other stocking, sliding it down and giving Vincent's second calf the same treatment as the first. It was impossible to hold back. He had to claim more, had to venture into more delectable territory. Edward reached up and grasped Vincent's shorts, prepared to yank them down the boy's hips. He wanted to see sharp hipbones, the deep crevices that would lead into parts too soft and delicate at this age. He could not wait to sink his teeth into them, to hear the scream being ripped out of Vincent's throat.
His head snapped backwards, a small foot slamming into the soft part of his chin. Edward blinked in surprise, an odd sound emerging from his throat at the sudden impact. He pulled his head back down to look at Vincent. The thirteen year-old was looking down his nose at the older man, resting his icy toes against Edward's chin, utilizing them to grip his bottom lip and tug on it in a way the older man found endearingly odd.
"No." Vincent said, his young voice edged with authority.
Edward opened his mouth and inhaled as if to speak, but then he paused, his brow furrowed. It was like he didn't comprehend entirely what the boy had said.
"…No?" Edward asked.
"I did not give you permission." Vincent said coldly, and pushed himself forward on his palms. He slid over the surface of the coffin, dropping off the side, bare feet landing on the wooden floor.
Edward stared at his young nephew for a long minute before his face split open in a grin. Vincent glared at the expression, but Edward could not hold back his wild laughter as he rocked back on his knees and fell flat on his back, his chest convulsing until it pained him.
"I fail to see what is funny." Vincent said stepped closer until he was standing by Edward's head and looking down.
"Everything," Edward gasped. "Everything is so delightful and… amusing!" his laughter was cut off as he choked, the sudden violent pressure courtesy of a dainty heel grinding down into his throat.
"Vincent…" Edward tried to spit the word out of his mouth. It amazed him, how helpless he suddenly found himself, his breath stolen by a young boy's heel.
He couldn't breathe. And he loved it.
"You are trying to say something?" Vincent leaned over, putting more pressure on the older man's throat, short enough that he could get close to Edward's ear. "Wipe that grin from your face or choke to death on your laughter, old man."
Edward's smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He whined when Vincent did not let up his heel immediately; and when the boy finally did, he pulled his foot back and settled it on top of Edward's hand, pressing all his weight down onto the older man's fingers.
Between soft flesh and unforgiving wood, Edward was in ecstasy with the promising throbs that would hopefully give way to real pain.
"I see you following me." Vincent said, his words a dim echo from their earlier conversation. "I know the sort of things you want from me. You have had a taste, and now…" he ground harder against Edward's fingers. "…You want more. Every bite will cost you dearly. This isn't a game to see who will win. I have already won; your vulgar groveling has made that clear. And now we are going to see exactly how much you can endure… before you break."
Edward sucked in a deep breath, staring up into emotionless blue eyes.
"…You think my groveling is disgusting?" the older man asked.
"Yes. I expect to see more." Vincent lifted his heel. Edward pulled his hand to his chest, cradling it as he sat up. He ducked his head, gray hair falling free of its binding into his face, hopefully enough to conceal the corners of his smile.
"All for you, little cruelty." He whispered. "Just for you."