Exsequor

Summary: "I can't see..."

A/N: Medical information ahead. Long research is long. Also, as of this time, whole eye transplant is not possible. *Sigh* Oh, and as of 10/21/2010, this fic has 8,973 hits, 79 alerts, 80 faves and... 67 reviews. :I Keep the reviews coming! :D

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It was Saturday. It was a day of vacation for the little tots in England. And yet it was dark for a certain child.

He could feel a shudder of breath from the shells of his suddenly sensitive ear. Like the calm calling of the ebbing sea, it soothed his four senses.

All he could hear was a scream. A high-pitched scream with a heartbreaking wail.

And then...

Nothing more.

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"Will he be alright, doctor?"

"Is my brother okay?"

"How are his eyes, doctor?"

"Will he live?"

The doctor—the eye surgeon, to be exact—was trying to calm the family of three, along with the brother of the patient, he assumed, only for his words to be cut off, and his reassurance to end in vain when the young boy finally cried in the arms of his mother. Apparently, when Sebastian shakily declared to Ciel that his vision had faded, Ciel couldn't speak and had asked him to slowly repeat his words. When he did so, Ciel then turned to William who immediately understood his young lord's voiceless order. He called for the master of the house, and also Charles. Poor, poor Charles, the only thing he managed to say to his young brother was to "tell him that it's not happening". The Phantomhive couple, in haste, then brought the child to the nearest, and also the best, optical hospital that they could find. Vincent had been secretly looking for the best hospitals for Sebastian since Charles told them the child's condition.

And since then, the Phantomhive household was in a total wreck on nervousness.

Once in the hospital, Charles—who protectively carried a sweating and crying Sebastian in his uncharacteristically unsteady and shaking arms—then looked for the doctor they had called on the way. He tried, oh, how much he tried, not to cry and give his weak and fragile little brother to the arms for the doctor and beg for him to help regain his brother's vision. Vincent was able to calm him after the child was put on a stretcher and brought to one of the eerie and silent rooms, which was thankfully not an emergency room, considering the fact that they still not know the condition of the child. And Ciel was brought in for a reason, because the child was with him when the fading vision happened.

The doctor—after asking Ciel some questions—then proceeded to ask the still trembling and crying Sebastian on the cold stretcher, some questions along the lines of, "When did this happen; does your eye hurt; did you tell anyone about this?" and other questions that seem to rush in and out of Ciel's consiousness, like the ebbing tide of his blue eyes. The only thing he could think of at that time was for Sebastian to get alright, and nothing else. It was unfair, he had thought, that Ciel has a perfect vision while his best friend lied there, all blind and weak to the world around him.

Ciel suddenly felt weak, every ounce of his tiny body breathed liquid fire of desperation to save his friend, anything, anything at all, just to save him.

"Will he live, doctor?" was the child's question once the interrogation on Sebastian's condition was over. The raven-haired boy was still in the room Ciel and the doctor left him in. They had moved to another room, one that is welcoming to the eyes at first glance, one that has green mint walls and the sickening smell of antiseptics filling the air. Ciel managed not to choke at the scent.

The doctor, a middle-aged German with blond hair and a goatee, sat uneasily on his swivel chair, his hands were clasped together on the newly-disinfected table, and looked at the young child in front of him, who was still sitting on Rachel's lap.

"He will live, little one."

And Ciel was about to sigh, to heave a weight he had been carrying for the past few hours, until the doctor spoke once again.

"But I'm afraid he'll never see again."

And Ciel's world stopped.

"What?" It was the voice of Charles, the poor and still trembling stepbrother, who had spoken their reactions.

The medic bit his lip and took hold of a model of an eye from his right side, his palm was a bit sweaty when he touched it, but he didn't mind it at all as soon as he explained further.

"The retinas of both of his eyes got detached."

Rachel, who was looking left and right aimlessly, looked at the eye model in front of her, "What do you mean, doctor?"

Dr. Romisch Greis, as the name tag on his coat said, cleared his throat before continuing. He detached the eyeball model in half and pointed to a red part inside it, "Our retina, which sits at the back of the eye, sends pictures and surroundings to our brain, you see. It is held firmly by blood vessels and neurons that channels from our optic nerves to the brain. The retina is like a postage stamp, or rather, its size is like a postage stamp, which is small if you think about it." He poked the thin film of pinkish red with his finger, the thickening accent of his native tongue was slowly being shown the more he spoke, German and English accents mixing together, "It is very thin, thus, our retina is delicate." He looked at the couple and the white-haired man, who nodded nervously, before he continued, "Should our retina... gets torn," as though for emphasis, he peeled a bit of the thin film of the model and put it back with care using the tips of his balmy finger.

"Water, or how we eye doctors would like to call, the vitreous gel, can get behind the retina and it can accumulate through time. Should that happen, it, meaning the gel that fills the inside of our eyes, can be the cause for the retina to slowly detach, from the tissues of the eye, and it can cause the blindness that, should I dare say, we all dreaded for."

The four people in the room were as silent as the wind, neither moved, nor breathed.

The doctor sighed and moistened his chapped lips, the hold on his eye model was slowly slipping, and so he held it firmly in his grasp, refusing to let it go until his explanation is quite finished.

"Usually, only one eye can have a retinal detachment; but in the child's case, you see..."

Vincent's hands quivered on his lap, words being tongue-tied at the tips of his pale lips, struggling to find the words he dared never to say, and before he knew it, his voice leapt in between his mounds, "He has both of his eyes' retinas detached?"

A grave nod was the doctor's reply.

And Charles wept.

"My dear, dear brother... No..."

His silent sobs filled the room, it would have been louder had his hands not been on his mouth, and Ciel watched in silence with a gloomy look reflected on his usually joyful eyes. He is still young, only nine years old, but he accepted the knowledge being fed to him like a professional. He had to be strong, all for Sebastian. Some of the words were deep, he had to memorize them for further research at hom in his father's library.

Ciel's vision was being blurred by the oncoming waterfall of tears that threatened to spill from his eyes, despite the fact that he kept telling himself to be strong, he could never help it. His poor, poor and precious friend, blind.

"Will it have a cure?"

All heads turned to the source of the voice.

It was Ciel.

Teary blue eyes gazed pleadingly to the gentle eyes of the doctor.

"Can Sebastian be cured, Mister Doctor, sir?"

And for a moment, the German remembered why he became an eye surgeon. He smiled, a tight-lipped one (and also fought with the onslaught of tears), and patted Ciel's midnight blue locks, "Yes, little one. He can be cured."

Charles then looked up, not caring for the stains of tears that marred his pale face, "How?"

Dr. Greis smiled and inwardly heaved a sigh as he took out a pamphlet and placed it in front of the twenty-two year old, "In it are the possible treatments for your brother. The first one," He pointed on the black swirls of ink on the glossy parchment, "Is the scleral buckling."

The young boy twisted his tongue and tilted his head, his eyes locked on the German's lips, and tried to produce the same sound the doctor just said, "Sc... Scl..."

"Scleral, little one."

A pout, and then, "Scleral."

"Good."

The doctor returned his gaze to Charles, "The scleral buckling is the process of identifying the tears or holes in the retina through a microscope or a focusing headlight." His hands swayed in a few gestures of his own, the movements of his hands were being followed by a pair of royal blue eyes (scrutinizing as always, much like his father), "The surgeon will then seal the tear with a laser. The sealing of the tear is permanent, thus, no liquid shall pass to the retina. Now, the scleral buckle, which is made most of the time with silicone, will be then sewn to the outer wall of the eye, which is called the sclera. The buckle will then hold that piece of silicone in the sclera so the hole will then be pushed against the wall of the eye."

Charles nodded—but blocked some of the words for some reason—as he looked at the piece of paper with the image of an eye drawn on it.

The doctor then pointed to the next option on the paper with his finger.

"Next... is the pneumatic retinopexy."

Ciel was silent, his brain cells tried to retract the words that was just uttered. Reti... something.

Rachel moistened her lips, the taste of her cherry-flavored lipstick tickled her tongue, as she looked at the pamphlet with a curious stare, "That procedure is almost the same as the scleral buckling, isn't it?"

The doctor nodded and chewed on his lip as he scrunched his chin and scratched it, "Mm... Well, yes, I suppose you can say that. The only difference in this method is that the surgeon will insert a gas bubble inside the eye's cavity to push the detached retina against the sclera. And," He pointed on the paper again and looked at Vincent with a mouth that resembled a circle, "It has a lesser cost than the scleral buckling."

Charles began to fold the glossy material of parchment in half, and fold it back again to reread its contents, "What is the catch?"

The German sniffed a huff of air as he leaned back on his chair and played with the eye model for the third time already, a glimpse of hurt shown in his waning blue orbs, "The patient would have to position his head, most likely while looking down, in order for the procedure to be properly placed. I don't recommend it for the boy, though, it would be uncomfortable for him." He shook his head in emphasis and placed the model of the eye back on its place near his right, and looked at the flustered young man with a sincere gaze.

"I would never want my little brother to be uncomfortable as he already is."

The blond smacked his lips, hands now slowly turning back to its normal temperature, "Those are the only options I can give you right now, but... Let me ask you something, young sir. It has been bothering me for quite some time since I checked your brother..."

"—If it's about why our surnames are different it's because—"

A palm was quickly placed in front of him, and the German doctor continued, "That is not my concern, Mr. Grey. I could see he is adopted, I see no resemblance between you two at all. Uhrm. Well, my real concern, and I can see how much you would go to great lengths for the safety of your step-sibling—"

"Please don't say 'step'."

A pause, and then, "Alright. I can see how much you would go for the safety of your brother, but please tell me..." He took off his glasses and placed them near the piled papers on his left, and eyed the white-haired man with a serious expression, waning blue eyes locked with a puffy blue-eyed one.

The Phantomhive family waited with a bated breath.

"Did, how should I say this... Um, did your brother... did he have a previous injury or anything along the likes of it?"

Charles was stunned, "...Why?"

The doctor played with the rims of his glasses, and pondered the exact and proper words to phrase his sentences, as though the life of the child depended on it. And it does.

"Well, as far as I can see it, your brother has little cuts on his eye, specifically, on his iris."

Charles didn't speak.

The doctor, yet again, reclaimed his hold on the eye model and poked the black circle of paint on the middle, "This, part of his eye is riddled with tiny scars that can only be seen with a microscope. The iris of his eyes are colored red. Now, as far as I know, the only persons who have this kind of tint on their eyes are the people who are born as albinos, who have this pinkish-red tint on their eyes."

Vincent looked at Rachel, then at the silent college student, he waited for him to speak, to utter anything at all for an explanation of sorts. But nothing came out, and so the doctor continued, "People originally have several colors of eyes, you see, some can have green, blue, like yours, or brown or black or—"

"He was hit."

The German looked at Charles, who had his head held down hidden from his curious gaze, "Pardon?"

The pale-faced man heaved a sigh filled with his anxious thoughts, and looked at the doctor.

And Charles Grey told and retold the doctor the cruel fate of the young boy of nine.

And Ciel could only silent sat on his mother's lap, with his mouth agape, certainly trying in vain not to absorb the words being drilled and cemented into his young brain cells and to be stored in his memory for years to come.

He had never known his dear, dear friend suffered all the while.

He never knew that that was how his "big brother" Charles met his closest friend.

And Ciel wept from the inside of his dying heart.

Why didn't you tell me?

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"—stian."

Silence.

"...Sebastian."

"Honey, please don't wake him up..."

"N-no..."

"He needs to sleep, Ciel."

A sniffle, "N-no..."

"I'm sorry, little Ciel, if only I told you this sooner then maybe—"

"—oisy..."

Silence.

"Sebastian?"

A silent groan was a reply from the shifting covers of the cold bed, "Uhrm?"

And two little arms wrapped themselves around the blind child's nape as said child sat up.

"Can you still not see?" was Ciel's introduction, and he was answered with a grave nod. Sebastian's eyes were set unknowingly elsewhere, trying to decipher where he and his friend are now, only to end in vain as soon as a blinding shade of gray and black flooded his sight.

"—m sorry."

He felt a shake of a head, strands of hair playing on his ghostly pale cheeks, as his friend uttered a mumbled, "—'ts okay," as a reply.

And nostalgia hit him, like an invisible thread that he shall never reach again. All mangled words and sylabbles were spluttered from their young lips, as though they were five years old once again. As though he could see once again.

He felt his world slipping from his slowly moistening eyes.

It took a second to realize that the water—the tears, as soon as he tasted it on his dried and numb lips—were his, but were also not his. It was shared. A shared grief between him and the one currently holding him like there's no tomorrow. Ciel had been crying, that much he could feel, but he could also hear other sounds—chokes of stifled cries and stifled sniffles—bellowing in the shells of his stinging ears.

His whole body hurts just hearing the sounds of crying. It reminded him of the times when his brother secretly bawled in the confines of his room late at night, when he thought he had already tucked his precious little brother in the warmth of his cat-designed blankets and coverlets. Charles never knew that little Sebastian would sneak away from his room and stalk his brother wherever he went, only to end up seeing Charles, the proud and obnoxious Charles Grey, crying, in his room, wailing like it's the end of the world. Sebastian thought his eyes and ears were deceiving him, that all of it was a hallucination due to watching too much of those dramas he has seen on television. But as soon as he saw the slight tremble of lips on his brother, he could swear he saw him mouth his name. On Charles' clammy and shivering hands, was a small crumpled up piece of paper. It was wet and marred and unintelligible from the seemingly endless rain of tears his stepbrother had poured on it. And Sebastian could only stare in a statuesque fascination.

He did not dare to ask about it the next day, and the next, and the next, and the next days after, and the following weeks, the following months, and the following years.

And as Sebastian wrapped his frail and trembling arms around the trembling mess of Ciel, he now realized what that little slip of paper was.

It was a doctor's memo regarding his condition.

And Sebastian hugged Ciel tighter than he had a few minutes ago.

"I'm sorry."

"D-don't be... 'Tshould be m-me..."

"Don't cry now, children. Don't..."

Rachel hadn't managed to finish her sentence as soon as a stern hand was placed upon her shoulder, and she did not need to look to see who it was. For the trembling hand and the cold ring were the only things she needed to know that it was her husband, who also wept for the young boy.

He is very young.

And he is already suffering.

"...Where am I?" he managed to whisper through the dark blue locks of his friend. He smelt of chocolate and bubblegum today, he had thought. How amusing.

Ciel sniffled and wiped his nose on his tear and snot-stained shirt, all the while never relinquishing the hold on Sebastian as he replied, "Back home, in my room."

"...I see."

There was a minute of agonizing silence, an awkward and unbearable silence, and then...

"...Where is my brother?"

Rachel bit her lip once again and raised a hand to her chapped and lipstick-stained lips to force herself to stop crying. He is too young!

Vincent stood up and clamped his lips before answering the child's question, "He is in the guest room."

"...Is he crying, too?"

A sad smile, and a wipe of a hand on his eye (it was dust, not a tear, Vincent thought with a choked sob), "...Yes." No need to beat around the bush now.

"...Alright."

And Ciel kissed his temples, and each eye, and cupped his face close to his own, "You'll see again, Sebastian. I swear it. I swear it."

Vincent and Rachel, for the most part, were shocked. Sure, they have seen their son being affectionate towards the red-eyed boy throughout the years, a few hugs here and there, a peck on the cheek or on the forehead here and there, and lots of cuddling, but not this much. And the couple looked at each other, and back at their son and his friend.

He loves him more than he should.

And Rachel couldn't fathom if she should be happy or sad.

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The sun came and went, and the stars and blue and black covered the heavens, along with the lonely and waning moon that watched on the sleeping people of London, content to give its share of light through the windows of every household. And yet...

Ciel couldn't sleep, and Hypnos couldn't make the child do a trivial thing such as for him to take even a ten-minute nap.

His eyes—which were straining to see through the dark—were trained on the vague outline of Sebastian's sleeping form. He had slept in early due to crying the whole day, although he had the time to kiss Ciel on the forehead and bid him good night, both of them knew that everything as of now was anything but "good". In fact, it was the worst.

I swear I'll make you see again, Sebastian.

It was for another hour, two forty-five in the morning to be exact, that Ciel finally had a truce with his current enemy, Hypnos, the so-called "god of sleep". But before he closed his eyes and let Sleep take over him, he managed to clutch and kiss Sebastian, not on the forehead or on his cheek or on his eye, but a chaste kiss on the lips. Soft and warm, the child had thought.

And he stayed that way until the morning.

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It was a fateful Sunday morning. The sun rose from the skies and prodded London into another day, another sad and gloomy day. Although the sun greeted their faces, it was quickly covered with clouds, huge and grey. And it a matter of minutes, it was raining.

Not that it was any different, it is London, after all.

"Today, young sirs, we have tapioca and Danish pastries for breakfast, and the usual bowl of cherries, of course, along with master Sebastian's favorite mac and cheese."

And William set the dishes on the table on the bed. He knew better than to greet them with a "good morning", when clearly everything is not "good". Ever since the announcement inside the house that their master Ciel's friend Sebastian has fallen blind, William became even more detached than he already is. He feared the fate of the child, of what would happen between his master and his friend. There was a sickening itch at the back of his neck since the announcement was made, no matter how much he shrugged it off though, he suddenly felt the urge for the past to come back, for the times when Sebastian would play a prank or two at the stoic butler, for the times when William would gaze at those scarlet eyes. He had known the reason why they were red, he had heard it all too well since Charles had taken a part in the heart of the Phantomhives.

William felt regret tugging at his throat for not being able to be as nice as possible to the child when he could still see the world in blinding colors.

Ciel helped Sebastian sit up from the bed—he remembered how his lips felt cold when he shifted away from the child, and he prayed that William did not see such a thing—and he fed him (Ciel didn't touch his food until Sebastian was finished, much to the butler's dismay), to which the butler frowned upon, seeing his master fumbling and fawning over another person, it should be William's job.

"Young master, your food is getting cold."

"I can do what I want, William."

The butler was strucked, it had never occured to him that the child would talk back, even to a servant. William was about to comment regarding the child's behavior until Ciel spoke up.

"I won't eat anything until Sebastian is finished eating."

"But I can eat just fine, Ciel. Don't worry about—"

"No. I'll feed you, and that's final."

And Sebastian didn't reply after that.

William could only stare, his green eyes never wavering while looking at the young child. He could see Ciel struggling not to cry, and for once, William Truffle Spears felt a ripple in his cold heart.

It was love that the child had for the boy.

And the butler felt a tug on the edge of his thin lips.

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It was a fateful Sunday afternoon, where the clouds had disappeared and made way for the sun to reign the skies again.

The children were in the gardens, sitting atop of the newly-trimmed grass, still damp, but they paid no mind. Pluto and Tabitha were sleeping soundlessly near the porch, leaving the little boys to their little whims. Ciel sat with his legs crossed across from Sebastian, who was quietly sulking in the recesses of his mind. The blue-eyed boy weaved a wreath, one that he tried to make for Sebastian. He tried weaving the stems together, only for them to end up getting bent on too much force and were later snapped like a twig. He had collected quite a number of the little white flowers—almost leaving the bush that the flowers resided in barren—and he was sure that Ronald would buy another sack of their seeds later on. It was on the fifth try that Ciel finally managed to make a proper flower crown to put atop of his friend's hair, he was proud of his work, to say the least. All the years of seeing Sebastian doing all the wreaths for him had finally paid off, and it was time for Ciel to take over... for the meantime.

"There."

The garland was placed on Sebastian's jet black hair, and some of the petals fell on his locks, which looked like newly-fallen flakes of snow, to which Ciel beamed.

Sebastian smiled a smile of his own, pearly whites barely seen, as his eyes—glazed and dull—were cast towards the grass beside his knees, and those thin and seemingly delicate and pale fingertips danced on the tips of the flower petals, teasing, touching, trying to feel them on his heightened sense of touch, and when he felt a drop of a petal severe itself from the flower, the boy smiled and took the petal to his lips, kissing it affectionately once, hoping that Ciel was looking, which he is.

"Come closer," was his soft whisper to the petal, but Ciel knew what the other really meant.

And the blue-eyed boy came closer, until the tips of their noses were touching in a chaste distance, but not so chaste, a gesture of affection and trust...

In what seemed like a split millisecond, the blind child kissed the other boy's brow, and Ciel felt warmth on his forehead as the gentle press of the lips caressed his skin. And Ciel closed his eyes as he felt a hush of warm breath breach through his little ear.

"Thank you."

And Ciel was too glad.

And so the kiss was returned, on the cheek this time.

"You're welcome."

And all was silence.

Sebastian sat there on the now dried grass of green, his back against the bark of the willow tree that he grew to love through the years. The tree provided him security for some reason, an unknown feeling of nostalgia and euphoria, and he assumed it's all because of the boy currently lying on his lap. Ciel's head was gently resting on Sebastian's pale legs, his eyes looking into the sea of red above him. His thoughts drifted back to yesterday's events, and he wrinkled his brow as he remembered the look on Sebastian's eyes when he told him he could not see. The child's thoughts then drifted back to the kind doctor's words, that everything should be alright if a donor would kindly grace their presence.

A donor.

According to Ciel's trusty dictionary that rests on the top of his dresser—which he faithfully reads whenever he has a word or two that he failed to understand—a donor is someone who gives something; be it money or something with a high value to those needing it, in this case, an eye donor.

Ciel then glanced back to the pools of red, which were directed upwards to the tree branches and leaves, Sebastian's left hand never left Ciel's head, as he smoothed out the unruly strands every now and then. Blindly, the child had thought.

It would be nice if there were donors willing to give a part of their eye—the cornea—to be exact. But as of this moment, there was none. Ciel briefly wondered how transplants happen. Or how they were even endured. Would there be pain? Or would it be painless? Would you be blind, too? He wondered.

If he could share his pain with me, then everything would be alright.

"...Sebastian."

The one that was called, all blind and yet smiled that calm and content smile, tried to gaze his eyes to Ciel, only for his eyes to end up being guided to his chest, as Ciel would assume, and he tried not to cry. "...Yes?"

There was a minute of silence, neither had chosen to speak even as the winds danced on their lips.

He waited, and waited. What would his adorable friend want? A new batch of hard candies, perhaps? Or maybe he found a squirrel on top of the tree and wished to grab it? Or maybe it was tea time already? Or maybe—

"Share me your pain."

—What?

"...What?"

Ciel, determined to get his point across, suddenly sat up and knelt beside the befuddled boy, and cupped his face in between tiny and damp hands. "Share me your pain."

"What do you mean?"

And Ciel kissed the boy's lips once more, a chaste one, a hesitant one, and Sebastian was too stunned to speak of the action his friend just performed. And with no time to speak, the other boy spoke, stern and serious. And had Sebastian been not blind, he would see the tears that flowed with pain and agony from the sea of blue that he loves.

"I'll give you my eye."

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And the plot thickens. :D I love Kuroshitsuji Flele Ciel. He inspires me with his cuteness. :3