Chapter 3

The boy had tensed to a point where Sebastian anticipated the sound of him crumbling into little pieces. His aunt was holding the eye patch in one hand while the other was strategically placing strands of hair in front of the uncovered eye.

"If it helps," Sebastian said from behind the canvas as he started sketching the surroundings, "I can't see anything."

"Oh, but I'm sure you wish you could," the boy muttered under his breath as soon as Madame Red stepped aside.

Since he was right, Sebastian couldn't deny it. So he just acted as if he'd never heard it. "If you would just relax," he said, noting how stiff the boy was, "I'd be very grateful."

Nothing happened.

Sebastian cocked an eyebrow. The boy wanted his eye patch back, but he guessed that this wasn't going to happen anytime soon. If he wanted to get a nice portrait out of this, Ciel really would have to relax a little.

"I don't lie," he continued, wondering what could reassure this kid so that he could just do his job and do it well, "so I'm telling the truth when I say that there is nothing to see. But," he added the moment the boy opened his mouth, "if you wish, we may put your eye patch back on. I can ignore it while painting."

Ciel drew his eyebrows together, looking at him sceptically while he was trying to persuade the boy's aunt into giving him back the eye patch. "I don't want it back," Ciel said just before Madame Red could be convinced of Sebastian's arguments. Such a defiant child. "I can perfectly relax without it."

Sebastian was soon going to throw something at him. However, he maintained his friendly expression, no matter how hard it was at the moment. "Then do it."

With a sour expression, the boy leaned back in the armchair, his visible eye focussing on a spot behind Sebastian ('Angelic Symphony' was the picture's name, done with pastel colours). Slowly, the tension left him. A distinctive edginess was still present in the exaggerated stiffness of his posture, but his facial expression was void of tension.

Sebastian could finally focus on his art. The charcoal sketch didn't take long, but he nevertheless spent additional time on it. When he looked very closely, he could see a jagged, pink line beneath the tips of teal-coloured fringe. They were too short to cover the scar completely. Upon seeing it, there was nothing he wanted to do more than walk over to the boy and just lift the hair out of his eye. But that would be very selfish, so he simply entertained the idea instead of compulsively acting on it.

"Who is this picture for?" he asked lightly as he noticed that the boy was starting to move out of boredom.

"Me," Ciel replied in the most disinterested tone one could manage.

Upon hearing this, Sebastian immediately dropped his hand from the canvas. "That sounded very enthusiastic."

"I mean no disrespect…" Ciel shrugged, letting the rest of the sentence hang in the air.

"But?" Sebastian put back his piece of charcoal and challengingly raised an eyebrow. "Could it be that you don't want to be drawn at all?"

At his words Ciel's eyes darted to his aunt. "That's not true."

"Is it because of the eye patch?"

Another negative response, even though Sebastian couldn't shake off the feeling that Ciel did have a problem with exposing the eye. He also seemed to have a very good reason for that, if one considered that scar. Sighing at the effort that handling children brought along (how did Claude manage his brat?), Sebastian quickly thought of something. It was the boy's present after all. "When I draw somebody… I want them to be able to recognize themselves in what they see in the product, especially when it comes to private paintings. This" – he nodded at the artificial way the boy was sitting – "is nothing you will like when it's finished." He turned to Madame Red. "No offence intended."

"None taken," the woman replied with a pensive expression. He could have bet she'd disagree, but nothing came.

"I would advise you," Sebastian continued, turning to the boy again, "to go home, get the things you like, dress the way you want to, and then come back tomorrow. We shall choose the room you want to be drawn in and you can sit or stand or do as you wish as we start afresh."

That seemed to spark Ciel's interest, even though his expression was still guarded. "It at least sounds like an idea."

"What kind of artist would I be if I couldn't do that?" Sebastian smirked. Aunt and nephew got up and he showed them to the door when the chauffeur arrived. Watching them go, he sensed that he hadn't done this without hidden intentions. He was trying to understand Ciel and what helped him better than this painting? It would at least be a start. He was burning to see what Ciel would bring along the next day. Surely the boy would challenge him.

After all, Ciel was what he liked to see as an equivalent of a muse.

OOO

Ciel did not disappoint.

He returned wearing a set consisting of a black shirt with ruffles under a burgundy jacket, shorts in the same colour and black knee-high stockings. His violin was with him, lying in its case. He pressed a sports bag into Sebastian's hands and went up the stairs without any greeting. This time, Sebastian overlooked it. It wasn't as if he'd expected anything else. The boy seemed to have an aversion towards strangers.

"Where is that saloon from yesterday?" Ciel called down from the right staircase.

Sebastian smirked. "I'll show you." He jogged up the stairs and the boy followed him. When they arrived in the saloon, Ciel chose to sit on the cream-coloured Victorian style couch that Sebastian had to pull into the centre of the room as a result. Then the boy took a medium-sized but beautiful chessboard out of his sports bag and placed the black and white figures on it. Sebastian quickly left to fetch his utensils again, and when he returned, the boy was finished. Sheets of music were scattered over one part of the sofa and he had unpacked his violin, tightening the bow hair while slouching comfortably on the sofa. The instrument was propped up against his upper thigh.

Sebastian stared. "I'm going to charge more for all those details." Not to mention how long this would take.

"Then draw them well," Ciel retorted, sitting up a little to fit the violin between his shoulder and chin. There was this forced relaxation in his movements that Sebastian hoped would soon disappear. "I hope you don't mind if I practice a little bit."

Whatever keeps you calm. "Not at all. I'd love to get a private concert." Setting up everything he needed, Sebastian found himself amused when he spotted the first sheet of the piece. "The Devil's Trill? You can play that?" The additional 'at your age' fell under the metaphorical table.

Ciel looked at him with a bored expression.

"I couldn't do that until I was eighteen." He began his sketch, mentally noting that the boy was almost smiling in satisfaction now. "But I started much later than you."

"Probably." Ciel's smile grew a fraction even though he still seemed very tense. That child was horribly sceptic of him.

Sebastian looked up when the boy started to play, the sweet yet dramatic melody filling the air. "Is that Beethoven?" he asked after a while.

Ciel gave him a minuscule smile in response as he continued the solo. It sounded lonely without an orchestra supporting it, but Sebastian didn't mind. He was glad to see that while he played his body was gradually relaxing, making it easier for Sebastian to capture the boy's essence in his work. Perhaps he knew that at least for now, there was no reason to be tense and overtly on guard.

When the solo finished, Sebastian was almost done with the sketch. There was a long stretch of silence that could have been filled, but he didn't feel the need to. Besides, it was a comfortable silence. After several moments, Ciel began a less difficult piece, slightly turning his head towards Sebastian. "Is it worth it?"

Sebastian, in the progress of mixing his colours, halted for a split second, slightly confused. "Pardon?"

"I looked you up, you know." The piece, as if mocking the artist, changed into major now, played at a slightly faster pace. The bright tone didn't go too well with Sebastian.

And maybe he wasn't that tense anymore because he'd come prepared.

(Know your enemy, even though Sebastian was hardly a threat.)

"The Michaelis family line dates back to 1700. It is split into an outer and an inner circle, the latter consists of the family head's closest relatives, excluding the younger siblings. Throughout the years, this hierarchy hasn't changed, causing tension between the two groups.

"Your father was the last head of the family. You, as the only son, could have been the next owner of your family's hotels."

"I see you've done your research," Sebastian muttered, starting to prepare the colours needed for today. The information on him and his family could be found if one cared to look for it. Most didn't.

"Better than well," Ciel said, "for there is a part that not many know about. Ten years ago, your father declared one of your cousins his heir as you publicly declined to be the one. What people don't know is that prior to this declaration, you'd already been disowned, not because you wanted it but because you wished to study art."

Sebastian couldn't help but be surprised. Where had he gotten that from? This boy was even more interesting than he'd thought. "Being heir to the Michaelis family has always been somewhat strenuous and restricting. You can't lead a chain of hotels by studying art." He smiled. "But it was worth it." He almost asked why Ciel would want to know about something of this nature when he saw the boy's pensive expression as he was regarding his violin. Hadn't Ciel been the son of a CEO? Sebastian had paid attention to that piece of news two – almost three – years ago when England had been scandalized about the murder of the boy's parents. Only ashes and burnt bone fragments had been found. Rumour had it that many bones had been removed before the police could arrive.

Sebastian had painted a picture back then.

As far as he knew, the company inherited by Ciel had been given into the care of his other aunt, Frances Middleford until he was of age. By asking Sebastian whether doing what he loved had been worth it, Ciel showed that he wasn't sure which path he should take.

It wasn't Sebastian's place to help him.

The happy tune went on and on and on, provoking and increasingly unnerving. After a while, Sebastian couldn't stand to hear it anymore. "Would you mind playing something else?"

Ciel barely grinned and offered Beethoven's 'Eroica'.

Even worse.

Sebastian rolled his eyes but couldn't help the small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

The boy's chauffeur came two hours later to pick him up. "Do you mind if we just leave it this way?" Sebastian asked.

"This is your house. I should be asking." Ciel raised an eyebrow at him, but then he shook his head and only packed his violin and bow. Clutching the case in his hand, he let Sebastian lead the way back to the main door.

"See you tomorrow," Sebastian said, smiling as the boy went to the car.

Ciel huffed and climbed in the vehicle's backseat. The chauffeur closed the door and nodded at him in acknowledgement, but the artist couldn't help but wonder why he was smoking when had a child to drive around.

… Well, that hadn't gone as bad as expected.

Looking into the sky, he noticed that yes, it was really pitch black outside. This day had passed fast as he'd been working on two paintings. It was easy to for him to lose his sense of time when he was doing what he loved most. Deciding that he should stretch his legs, he quickly put on his outdoor clothes and closed the door behind him. He could walk around the mansion and have a small workout that way, but he found himself leaving the grounds. His way unsurprisingly brought him to Undertaker's house, which was a few blocks away. As he knocked on the door, he wondered who'd be at his house at such a time. Somehow, there was always someone at the Undertaker's, but usually it was Gregory Violet, his apprentice. Sometimes Grell was there. Even Edgar (and his little blond friend) visited from time to time when his and Undertaker's free time happened to overlap. (Claude didn't. He always claimed he couldn't care less. Nobody but Edgar actually minded.) Undertaker could bake, listen, and loved having company, plus he had a wonderful garden. No wonder everyone was visiting. Once one got used to the fact that there were dead people in the room across the kitchen, since that was where the mortuary began, Undertaker's home was the place to go to be entertained or cheered up when needed.

The photographer/mortician opened the door, smiling widely at his friend. "Welcome, Sebastian. You haven't visited me in a long time~"

"Since everyone is visiting you, I'm sure you didn't mind."

Undertaker let him in. "My house is more often void of visitors than not, actually. Of living visitors, that is. The dead like me; they usually come in loads to get ready for their final parties." He cackled – and that was where Sebastian understood that this should have been a joke – as they went to the kitchen. "How come you grace me with your presence? We've already seen each other this weekend. Not that I mind having you around…"

"I've been taking a walk, that's all." Sebastian listened to the beeps of the stove as Undertaker switched it on to heat water. "So I decided to exploit your hospitality since you came by late at night on Saturday."

Undertaker grinned widely. "Trying to exploit me will only end in you having to entertain me a bit more."

Together they went into the living-room. Undertaker let himself fall onto the couch while Sebastian chose to sit on the same exemplar on the opposite. There was a small coffee table between the two pieces of furniture on which Undertaker rested his socked feet. This time, Sebastian got to see The Simpsons in pink. The bright pair of socks contrasted comically with the man's gothic attire. Undertaker really liked shuffling around in the brightest socks the market had to offer.

"So, how's the boy?"

Sebastian blinked and then saw what the other male was holding. "What- When did you take that?" He reached across the table, snatching his phone from Undertaker's hand.

The silver-haired man waggled his fingers with absurdly long nails. "That must have been magic."

"Or stealing, who knows?" Sebastian pocketed the phone.

"You can hardly call it stealing when I'm giving it back to you." Leaning back in his chair, Undertaker folded his hands in front of his chest. "The boy?"

"Knows that I've been disowned." Sebastian shrugged. "Now that he knows about that particular detail, we should get even by him telling me about that month."

"The one during which everyone thought he'd died?" Undertaker turned his head when somebody entered the living-room. "He wouldn't tell you."

"Not yet." Sebastian nodded at the newcomer.

"Maybe you should leave a few things unsaid." Undertaker watched as a small tray with three steaming cups of tea (and four glasses containing other beverages) was set down. Realization dawned on his face, followed by a small smile. "I see what you're trying to do here. It doesn't mean anything if you try getting things out of him because your art might benefit from his secrets..."

"You're mistaken," Sebastian said as his friend (acquaintance) accepted the offered cup. "It's not because of my art."

"Yes, it is. You've always been like that. Remember the last one who'd had the bad luck of becoming your source of inspiration?" Undertaker cackled. "You tricked her, played her, had an extremely creative phase and then dumped her. Mind you, I was the one who found her face down in a pond by the forest… Thank you by the way, Gregory~" He took a small sip. "Even though you didn't have to do that."

"The water was boiling," the raven-haired said, "I was in the kitchen… why not?" Due to his monotonous voice, the question sounded more like a statement.

"Infallible logic," Undertaker muttered.

"Mind if I take a seat?"

"Not at all," Sebastian said, smiling. Gregory was always at Undertaker's house. So often that it surprised you when he declared he'd be going home. He almost lived here.

"Tell me, Greggie, were around when Sebastian found his last muse?" Undertaker asked. "My memory tends to fail me, and I'm not even thirty yet."

"I've been around long enough to see the boy before the young lady," Gregory supplied, completely unfazed as he gave Sebastian the other cup of tea.

Undertaker blinked. Sebastian too. He'd almost finished school back then. Gregory couldn't have been older than… eleven?

"I've been helping you with the corpses since you lured me in as a ten-year-old," the youngest among them said to Undertaker, looking at him from beneath his hoodie. "I used to see the boy around." A pause in which he looked at Sebastian. "I also saw what became of him: He broke. Badly."

"Because of the car that ran him over?" Sebastian asked.

Undertaker immediately burst into a laughing fit. Gregory remained unaffected, blowing into his beverage with a straw. "He walked onto the street knowing that the car was too close."

"Truck," Undertaker corrected, giggling. He had the weirdest sense of humour. "And look at you: The two of you had been close, yet you don't even care."

Leaning back, Sebastian shrugged. "I fail to see what you're trying to prove."

"You find them during a creative block," Undertaker said, "you charm them, tempt them, and then you suck them dry and rip them apart." He nipped thoughtfully at his tea. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you take something away and leave the vessel while you benefit from what you've reaped. And yet, when you are full of ideas and they are lying at your feet, you don't even blink as they pass away. When your creativity runs dry again, you find the next one. None of them matters to you, not even while you're reading them like books."

Sebastian stayed silent, wavering between untamed anger and… indifference.

"You can't tell me you're not thinking of your art while trying to learn all of little Phantomhive's secrets." Undertaker grinned widely. "I'd like to see you care about one of them, one day. It will be hilarious."

Sebastian didn't say anything to his defence, knowing that once Undertaker had made up his mind about something, changing his view was nothing more than wasted effort.

(And maybe because there was a dash of truth in what the man said.)

However, he had one thing to say: "It's not my fault that they died."

"I wonder," Gregory murmured against his straw.

Silence emerged, weighing heavily on Sebastian's shoulders. He wondered whether he was the only one feeling that way. Perhaps he was, for Undertaker would have broken the quiet earlier otherwise.

"To get to a more agreeable subject…" He lifted a decorative pillow and handed him a lavender-coloured envelope. Sebastian didn't even ask why he would keep a stash of letters underneath a sofa pillow. "Did he invite you, too?"

"What's this?" Sebastian took the envelope and opened it. It turned out to be an invitation to Ash Landers' Sylvester party at the artist's house. "I haven't checked my mail today. Surely he's invited me, he always does."

"Are you going to be there this time?" Undertaker asked.

Why not? He'd attend this one time.


So, chapter 3! I hope you enjoyed it.

I also hope you'll tell me how you liked this chapter! I reallly love hearing from you and always read your reviews :D Reviews keep me motivated.