It was difficult for Logan to be subtle about this. Occasionally, he managed to escape his boyfriend's presence or sneakily check his watch, but he always found himself somehow gravitating back to his beau's side. That would be wonderful and something he appreciated ordinarily, but in this one, specific, instance, it really wasn't. He had things that he needed to do.
The next time he caught Kristopherson talking to one of the other partygoers—almost all of which were somehow customers of his—the incubus fled, having noticed that the time was reading several minutes past the meeting time on his watch. He didn't get far on his own, however. His shoes hit the hard floor three times on the other side of the ballroom door, when a gloved hand reached out and grabbed his shoulder, causing the incubus to nearly jump out of his skin as he cracked his tail to the side like a whip. It made contact with the person behind him, but he didn't hear a single yelp.
"Mister Kendrick…" Sebastian's voice greeted. He wore a smile, yet didn't seem too terribly pleased. "My apologies for frightening you. Are you alright?"
"Sebastian! It's just you. I'm so sorry! I hit you pretty hard… Are you alright?" Meekly questioned Logan.
"Quite so, but you're late for your meeting with the master." the butler stated matter of factly, ignoring the fact that he was just struck. Giving him a gentle nudge toward the stairs, Sebastian began herding him toward the office, eager to get this task over and done with so that he could continue attending to his massive laundry list of duties. "Come, now. I will escort you, there."
It felt like Logan's feet hardly touched the ground with how quickly they were moving. The incubus was given more room when they reached the stairs so that he wouldn't fall, before finding himself trailing behind the butler as he walked purposefully down he hallway. He had to admit, it was a little intimidating, being on his own in a part of the house that he had only visited maybe once or twice, but nothing felt strange or out of the ordinary—well, for the Phantomhives, at least.
The décor was perfectly suited for an old mansion with a somewhat dark flair, with paintings depicting somewhat morbid scenes interspersed with more ordinary photographs of the family. There were a few portraits that Logan thought would definitely follow him with their gaze had this been the Scooby Doo haunted house the Earl was apparently going for, but in the nicest of ways. Logan wasn't bothered by any of it. It all just clicked together in a way that made sense for this family and since they were perfectly nice people, it came across as eccentric and charming, as far as the incubus was concerned. It was only when he and the butler drew nearer to the office that he began to feel that something was amiss.
The door was opened for him and he was ushered inside, finding Ciel sitting alone on one of the sofas in the office he shared with his spouse. The Watchdog seemed tense—alert, in a way that was strange for a person sitting in his own home. It was like the Earl was sitting in a doctor's office or waiting for the headmaster to give him a stern talking to. His posture was stiff and he sat with his arms folded and his legs crossed. Logan just thought that he looked uncomfortable, even if it was only for the brief second before Ciel looked up to greet him. Still, even though he stood up and welcomed the incubus into his space with a smile, it seemed like he just couldn't shake it off, for whatever reason. Logan had seen Ciel act naturally before, but this? His gestures, expressions, and tones felt rehearsed. In a way, they were. He was just rusty.
"Welcome back." Ciel greeted. "How are you enjoying the party so far? Did you have trouble getting away?"
"A little bit. Kris' senses are unreal. He just kept noticing me!" Logan answered back.
"That's werewolves, for you. They can even smell trouble brewing." Gesturing to the couch in front of him, Ciel sat down. "Please," he said, prompting the other man to do the same as he did. With that, he crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands in his lap, trying to get comfortable, or at least appear comfortable when he wasn't. "So, shall we get right down to it, then? Now what can I help you with, Logan? It must be a bit unusual, for you to come and ask someone like me."
"It's not, really—well, some details, maybe, but the root of it is kind of 'normal,' I guess? Depending on what you consider to be 'normal,' I suppose…"
"My 'normal' and the 'normal' of most people seem worlds apart, a lot of the time. It really depends on what the issue itself is." Tilting his head, the Watchdog asked: "You aren't in any kind of trouble, are you, Logan?"
"What? No! No, no. No trouble…" insisted the incubus, waving his hands in front of him. "It's just… Well, it feels a little bit awkward to say, since I've never really brought it up in front of anybody before… You're the first person I'm going to tell, so I'm a bit nervous."
"Take your time. I'm in no rush to head back downstairs." the Watchdog answered, glancing toward the door.
The other man followed his eye in that split second and thought nothing of it. Ciel was known for not being particularly fond of parties, after all. It made sense for him to want to hide out for at least a little while. Still, it was difficult for Logan to explain, despite having all the time in the world. The group dynamics were somewhat set and Logan didn't want to disrupt the balance of it. Unfortunately, these sorts of things have a tendency to rock the boat, at least a little.
"I was wondering…" he began before stopping himself, reassessing, and then trying again. "I mean, I don't…" Logan noticed the Watchdog arching an eyebrow. He was really making a fool out of himself, it seemed. He felt himself getting hotter and tugged at the collar of his shirt just a tad. Then, Logan took a deep breath.
"Okay, I'm just gonna pull a Jim and rip off the bandage, here… I want to propose to Kristopherson, basically. I know it may be a bit soon after Travis and Patricia's wedding, especially since they haven't even come back from their honeymoon and all that, but that's not why I'm doing it. This is something that I've been wanting to do for a while, and I really think Kris is the one, so I wanna do it right, but I just don't really understand human customs around it and-"
"Easy, Logan. Slow down. You're going to pass out, if you don't take a breath soon." interrupted the Earl, raising his hand to stop the poor incubus. Still, despite his somewhat harsh words, he smiled. It was the first genuine smile Logan had seen the man wear since he walked into the room. "That's wonderful news. I'm glad to hear it and am completely supportive of the idea. If you think you're ready and you really want to take Kristopherson as your spouse, then that is simply the logical and obvious choice to make."
"Oh, thank god…" the incubus breathed, finally relaxing somewhat. He honestly hadn't realised how fast he was talking, so it still felt as though his tongue was a bit tied. "I was worried you might think it's too soon."
"Nonsense. Look at how fast I snatched up Jim. If you find someone you love and who makes you happy, then seize the opportunity and don't let them escape." The way Ciel smiled was a little bit unnerving and the way that he clenched his fist for emphasis made it look like he was talking about a kidnapping. Thankfully, Logan knew better. "What do you need advice on? I'm more than happy to help a friend."
"It's… A bit silly, but… Well…" Sheepishly, the incubus clasped his hands together in his lap and twiddled his thumbs, focusing his gaze on them all of a sudden, rather than the bluenette. His cheeks flushed, turning a slight blueish purple. Then, he clenched his hands together and squeezed them tightly, steeling his nerve. "I haven't got a ring, yet…" he confessed, "I know that's what humans do when they propose, so I've bee trying to look into it. There's no jeweler in Gehenna, so I snuck out to London and went to a library and looked it up on the computer. There's way too many styles to pick from! And so many metals and 'cuts' and jewels… I hear humans prefer diamonds, so I was looking into that, and I also read that you can't be too cheap with it, so considering all of that and Kris' tastes, I just couldn't find one that I can get! They're all so expensive! Some of them are up in the thousands and I know Kris is from a rich family, so I'm not sure how expensive it needs to be, but I can't make that happen! There's just no way! I just don't know what to do about it and then there's the wedding itself, and…"
"Logan…" Ciel interrupted once again, "Slow down. Take a deep breath. It's going to be alright. I understand perfectly well what you're going through. It's the first move and the symbol that tells the world your intentions. It's an incredibly important piece. But, it's just one piece…"
"I know, I know. Then there's the wedding to worry about…"
"No, I mean that it is one piece. It's important, but in the grand scheme of things, how important is it, really? You remember the story of how I proposed to Jim, yes?"
"After washing ashore after getting kicked off a ship in a fight you forfeited?" Logan bluntly asked.
"Ouch. Harsh…" kidded the Phantomhive with a small chuckle. Leaning forward, he said: "I'll let you in on something, so try your best to remember… Have you ever seen Jim wear his engagement ring?"
Furrowing his brow, the other man paused, trying his best to recall. However, he was only able to shake his head. "No? I don't think so?"
"That's because he can't wear it like one normally would. It doesn't fit on his finger once he puts on his wedding band. I bought him a chain so that he could wear it as a necklace, and he went on and one about how much he loved it. It didn't matter that it wasn't perfect. It didn't matter that it wasn't the way it was 'supposed' to be, even with the admittedly catastrophic proposal. We were married and we love each other. That's all that mattered and that's all that still matters. Kristopherson may have expensive tastes, but has he ever turned down a gift from you?"
"No… He hasn't." Logan replied, lifting his head somewhat.
"Even when it was handmade instead of store bought?"
"I mostly give him stuff I've made… The whole house is full of furniture I built."
"Do you think that someone who doesn't appreciate the time and thought you put into something you've given him would do that? Do you think he would reject a ring from you just because it doesn't cost five kidneys?"
"Probably not… But… I still don't want to skimp out on it. I feel like if I'm going to spend some money on something, it should be something like this."
"Have you thought about a budget?"
"What kind of budget do you think would be appropriate?"
"Now that, you're asking of the wrong person…" the Watchdog stated, rubbing his chin. Leaning back in his seat, he crossed one leg over the other and thought. "I haven't the faintest. I never considered it, myself. I only thought about what Jim might like. However, I understand that that just isn't a possibility for most people's financial situations… How about… Eight-thousand?"
"Eight-thou-? Thousand?" Running a hand through his hair, Logan shook his head. "There's no way I can afford that!"
"Seven… Thousand?" Confusedly suggested the bluenette, holding up nine fingers.
"Drop the thousand for a second…" said the incubus, pinching between his eyebrows. "Is it really necessary?"
"None of it is 'necessary,' per se… You asked, though." Clearly, the bluenette indeed was not the person to ask about this. While he was a bit more "down to earth" than most people of his economic standing, he was also susceptible to the same discrepancies in understanding the cost of everyday things. "We'll have to think more creatively, then…"
"That would take several commissions to pay for… I also have to pay for necessities and stuff… Uh… Let's see… Eight thousand divided by… how many?" mumbled the other man, talking to himself while counting on his fingers.
"In London, just one of your pieces would sell for that much, depending on the complexity. Even a simple bookshelf made out of real wood could go for a thousand. Maybe you could expand your market?"
"No way. There's no way I could be some hot-shot Londonite businessman… I'm just not the type! Just the setup alone would take up everything I have!"
"Ah, that's right… Well then, we'll just have to come up with something else."
While Logan may not have been a businessman to the same absurd degree that Ciel was, he was still good at what he did and knew basic principles such as this. It wasn't an insignificant thing to drop some money on starting a business, especially in London. Advertisement alone would be ridiculous in order to attract the sort of clientele the Phantomhive was referring to, so the idea was moot from the very start. Of course, Ciel did have one suggestion, although he was certain that Logan wouldn't accept it.
"Why don't I just loan you the money?" suggested the demon. "No interest, no deadlines, and no catch-just pay me back when you can." he said, having absolutely no intention of actually enforcing that his friend must pay. He wanted to just give Logan the money and be done with it. It was a drop in the bucket for him, but he knew that Logan could never accept that sort of handout. He was too honest and fair.
"Absolutely not." Just as Ciel expected, the suggestion was denied outright. Logan held up a hand and waved the Watchdog off. "I can't just take your money. I wouldn't, normally, but especially not with something like this. This is too important for me to not earn it myself. I know that may seem a bit ridiculous, but… I'm serious about Kris, and it feels like—oh, I dunno… Like it's not… 'Legitimate,' if I don't? Does that make any sense?"
"Of course. You have your pride as a man and a partner. You want to be the one to give it to Kris in all aspects, and that is respectable. It's admirable, even. In all honesty, I feel as though I would be the same way." The Watchdog paused for a moment, trying to think of some sort of alternative or compromise. Negotiation was key to any business dealing, after all. "What if I gave you a job?"
"What kind of job?" Logan asked. "You mean like a commission?"
"I don't know. I'm sure I can think of something…"
"Ciel, don't make something up for me to do… That's just making the commission itself a formality."
"I have things for you to do. Plenty of them. With an old house like this? Surely there's something I can have you do…" Those words, however, were the catalyst for an idea. It struck Ciel suddenly, causing his eye to light up and the corner of his mouth to turn upwards. Leaning forward, he made his own proposal. "Actually, Logan… I do have something I need done. Something big. You'd probably need your whole crew for it, and you could make the money all in one shot."
"Go on…" Raising a brow, the incubus felt skeptical, especially given how the other man made it sound so ominous.
"A little ways from here is a house that I own. It's old. Very old, but I'm currently in the process of having it fixed up. I was planning on having Revy rent it from me, and then when or if he moves out, I might rent it to someone else. All of the electrical and plumbing is done, but it needs to be put back together, so to speak. Carpet put in, walls patched up, stairs fixed… That sort of thing. You did work on buildings before, didn't you? I've been looking for someone to do work on it, anyway. Think you might be up for it?"
It was a surprising deal, do say the least, as Logan wasn't aware that the house was still being worked on. Briefly, he heard Kristopherson mention that the Phantomhives were undergoing this process so that the second oldest Macken brother would have a place of his own without having to pay London prices or stay in HELLSING barracks; or at least, he felt like he remembered it. He wasn't sure, but what he was was immediately interested, even if he didn't know if he really wanted to go through with it. It was an incredibly big undertaking, after all. Old houses like that tended to have far more problems than one initially saw, so it may be a long time before he's finished and in addition, it would be a lot of daily commuting for himself and his team. The latter wasn't particularly a problem, since he had gone away to work in Pyestock from time to time, which took him away for days at a time. He had done worse, obviously, so this was more than doable. Yet, a job for the Phantomhives always paid well and on time. Despite his evil tendencies, Ciel was notably kind to those who worked under him, so he wouldn't pull any shady business, like refuse to pay until the end. Logan would be able to expect steady, consistent pay for quite some time with this and with that extra money, be able to afford a proper ring for Kristopherson.
"I'm interested…" finally spoke the incubus, rubbing his goatee. "I'd have to see the house first, though, to give you a prospective quote…"
"I would expect nothing less." Ciel answered with a smile. "And contracts would need to be signed. But, if you would be up for it, I would be incredibly appreciative. Allowing supernaturals into our spaces is just far easier than run-of-the-mill, unaware, humans. We can be more upfront."
"Yeah, I can understand that. But, uh… Since we're being candid—and I mean no offense, but…"
"You won't be damned for signing a plain business contract with a demon, no." answered the Watchdog, chuckling a bit at the relieved sigh that escaped his friend. "Many people would sell their souls for money, but that's not an exchange I'm particularly interested in."
"Then I'm interested! We just need to arrange for a day where you can show me the property, and I can get you that quote!"
"I'd be much obliged. Let me just get my datebook so we can work this out…"
Most people would agree that one should never mix friendships with business, but the two found the transaction to be mutually pleasant. Logan was pleasant to do business with and so was Ciel. Neither of them needed to hide anything from the other and there was no need to use any underhanded tactics, as both of them wanted the other to benefit from the experience. Truly, it was as straightforward as it could be.
The tension that the Phantomhive had stored in his body slowly dissipated throughout the conversation. His shoulders visibly relaxed and his expression softened. Subsequently, the air around him became more hospitable, as strange as it might sound. It was as though his stress had permeated the room, before, but now, there was only a whiff of it. Then, the transaction came to a close and Ciel felt a spike.
He and Logan had decided on a day and shook hands, sealing the agreement. They would meet again for Logan to carry out his inspection and then proceed from there. Their grip was strong and sure, something they both took notice of and were impressed by. No one who owns their own business or regularly made such arrangements regularly would be worth their salt if they didn't know how to give a good handshake. But, with that, it was time for Logan to take his leave. They agreed that he should go ahead of Ciel by a few minutes in order to not make anyone suspicious—despite nothing shady occurring. As Logan excused himself and returned to leave, Ciel felt a wave of unease wash over him.
It started with imaginary pinpricks to his back—nothing painful, like it had broken the skin, but uncomfortable. It was like whatever was doing it was letting him know that it could press harder and make him hurt if it wished. It wasn't just Ciel, however. No, it was the room itself. Logan himself had made the room hospitable with his presence, but as he grew further away and wrapped his fingers around the door handle, the range of the safety he provided went with him and the room began to squirm.
Once he was gone, Ciel turned his head and his body with it, forming a complete circle in the place where he stood as his eye scanned the room. Nothing was out of the ordinary. There was not one book, one knickknack, one furniture a millimeter out of place. The same old bookshelves lined the walls, sturdy, and fixed in their places. The screensaver on his computer lazily droned on without disturbance. The same throw cushions sat in place on the couches, only displaced by the two men sitting on them just moments before. There was nothing in the gaps between the seat cushions. The dimensions of the room were correct. Yet, the man still found himself strangely unnerved. There was nothing out of the ordinary and no strange presences in the nearby vicinity, yet why did he feel his skin crawl and as though his back was open?
There was not a single sound to be heard apart from the ticking of the clock on the wall, ticking in a steady beat. Tick, tick, tick-it's second hand steadily moving along it's face without care for the Watchdog's plight. The man stood still and focused his hearing, but he could not hear what he knew to be there. There was no murmuring of the party downstairs, peppered with the occasional loud tither of someone being struck just right by a joke that was told. He distinctly remembered hiring musicians and singers to perform for his guests, but there was nothing there. No life apart from his own could be detected within or beyond the four walls of this room and it made Ciel feel uneasy. But, since he knew that there was nothing to fear and that the others were downstairs, what could he do? Only a few seconds of the minutes he was meant to wait had passed, so he sat down, resigning himself to endure the silence for it's duration.
The cushions beneath him sank under his weight, but he could not lean back and relax. Something was preventing him from doing so, but he couldn't tell what. After all, he was alone. There was no one there with him, so what made him feel this way? It was like something was attached to his back and no matter how he moved, or how he turned his head, he could not see it. All he could do was stay alert and stay calm, but the latter was becoming more difficult as the clock continued to tick away. Tick, tick, tick-agonisingly steadily and agonisingly slow. He hated that he could not see the back of his own head.
"Tick, tick, tick," sounded the clock. It felt closer, somehow, and his body started to feel warm as the ticking of the clock reverberated in his chest. Tick, tick, tick. His breathing was quiet and didn't come out fast enough as he tried not to make a sound. He didn't want to disturb the silence. While he dreaded its existence, he also dreaded its absence. Tick, tick, tick. What was happening outside? Were the others having fun? Was one of the bands performing? Did Logan make it back downstairs alright? Tick, tick, tick. What if he hadn't? What if he got held up, somehow?
Maybe he started talking to someone on their way back from the bathroom downstairs and hadn't made it to the ballroom, yet? Tick, tick, tick. Perhaps he was on the stairs? Tick, tick, tick. What if he tripped on the stairs? Tick, tick, tick. What if he was hurt? Or maybe he never even made it to the stairs at all? Tick, tick, tick. What if he was still on this floor? Tick, tick, tick. What if he was still in the hallway outside? Tick, tick, tick. What if he was still outside the door? Tick, tick, tick. What could he be doing there? Tick, tick, tick. Was he just standing there? Tick, tick, tick. What if he was laying down? Tick, tick, tick. In a pool of blood? Tick. Eyes staring blankly ahead? Tick. And whatever got him was still there?
Tick. The image of a gun barrel flashed into the Watchdog's mind and he slapped the back of his head. Keeping it there, he whipped around in search of the object, only to get a good look at the bookshelf behind him. There was no one there. He was alone in this room. Yet that did not soothe him. Standing up again, he closed his fingers, pulling at the hair on the back of his head. He could feel it in his hand and he could feel his hair being tugged on, but the action felt difficult, somehow. It's like his fingers didn't want to cooperate. What was he so out of sorts for? It was completely unlike him. Letting himself go, he scanned the room again before deciding enough was enough. He didn't know how much time had passed and at this point, didn't care. He was leaving this room. He went through the necessary motions in order to fulfill this action, standing up, walking to the door, and placing his hand on the handle. All that was left for him to do was to turn it and walk through the doorway into the hall.
But his hand would not budge. The door was unlocked. He could see that, but the handle would not turn. The thought of successfully doing so hurt. It hurt him to open this door. His eye was transfixed staring down at the wooden barrier, trying to see through it in order to soothe his mind, but there was nothing there-nothing he could sense, anyway, but what if he was wrong? He imagined Logan again, laying on the floor on the other side. What if the incessant gnawing in the back of his mind was correct? What if, when he opened the door, his nostrils were assailed by the familiar scent of iron and viscera and another stain appeared on the rug that would never leave, even long after the rug itself was replaced? The room itself began to burn his back as he stood there, indecisive with his back open to it. The room was rejecting him, but he didn't think he would feel much safer in the hallway.
Gripping the handle more tightly, now, the clock ticked in his chest. Tick, tick, tick. It ticked in his ears. Tick, tick, tick. It ticked in his fingers as it became more difficult to actually feel the metal in his hand. But he must continue on. He knew that it was unlikely that anything out of the ordinary would be beyond that door, but he needed to continue on. If something had happened to Logan, then surely, something had happened downstairs.
Downstairs, where all of his family was waiting.
Roughly pushing down on the handle, the man ripped the door open and rushed into the hall. He did not smell blood. He did not see anything with his wide eye as he urgently scanned the hall, whipping his head from side to side and turning around in order to look behind him. He did not hear the party downstairs, though, so the fact that the hall was barren did little to make the gnawing cease.
He needed to look, he thought. He needed to see. He needed to go down there and make sure that nothing was amiss. Turning his body, he set off toward the stairs, walking quickly with wide steps. Surely, everything downstairs was normal. People were down there, having fun and laughing. Bands were playing and food was being eaten. Relationships were being forged. Nothing should have changed in his absence, apart from perhaps Jim explaining it away if asked about it.
The noise he was expecting could not be heard, though. The house felt dead and still. Its walls stood upright, its doors were shut, and every room he passed was empty. At least, they should be. He couldn't sense anything, yet he still felt this relentless unease gnawing at his core, shaking it, and telling him he needed to run. The paintings of people on the wall stared down at him. The lights illuminated the hallway so that he could see very clearly, yet what was hidden in the cracks of the wood where he could not see? What was lurking there, watching him? Watching his family? Were the rooms really empty? He would not know until he looked. Was the party still happening? He would not know until he looked. Was his family still alright without him? He would not know unless-
He feet stopped moving. The wood creaked beneath him, taunting him for his hesitation. His back began to burn once more, prompting him to turn around to check his flank, only for him to be met with the same, sterility that he was met with at his front. There was order. There was unease. Order could not be trusted, after all. Just like how he could not see inside of the rooms and know what was inside unless he looked, he could not know that this order was genuine unless he took a peek at what was behind it. This hallway was just a hallway. This house just a house. Yet why did it feel so hostile toward him? Why was its architecture and its décor, which ordinarily provided comfort and security, suddenly hate him so? Why did it burn him? Why did it gnaw at the recesses of his mind? Why, when it was so obviously well lit, did it feel like there were monsters hidden where the corners met and in every key hole? This house was alive and it hated him. It hated his family. It led him running in the wrong direction when he was supposed to be running toward the stairs.
Ciel must have looked so silly, rushing through such mundane, unassuming walls, but to him, they oozed with malice despite their aesthetically pleasing appearance. When a house is permeated in death, the only way to remove the remnants is to remove the affected areas. Remove the furniture that was stained and carve out the pieces of wall and floor that were contaminated, like carving out flesh. But even then, the danger still loomed. This house was living, you see. It was alive now that there were people living there, but it was still haunted by its oldest occupant. Ciel Phantomhive wandered its hallways and felt the malice and intention to harm that resided there.
He did not know what compelled him to run to his bedroom, but out of some bizarre, inescapable compulsion, he did. His body moved without him telling it to, but regardless of why, he was there, standing in front of the door. This time, as he reached for the door handle, however, he could not bring himself to touch it right away. Instead, he stood there, trying to will himself to open it.
Ciel just needed to check on the rooms contents, was all. It didn't need to take long. One good glance around each room would suffice and he could be on his way. Once more, he stared at the wooden barrier in front of him, his head tilted toward the floor. Something was there. This time, he knew it. He could not see, hear, smell, or sense it, but he knew it to be there—something so horrible and disgusting that even he could hardly bear it.
Even the most intimate of spaces had been invaded by the unseen hatred that his home held for him—the room where he slept, vulnerable and safe with his husband. But now, he did not feel safe. Gripping the doorhandle was like gripping the handle of a blade and holding it up to am old wound, tracing it along the sensitive, scarred, skin without slicing it, but knowing that at any moment, one could. It had happened already. Once before, he had turned that handle and taken that plunge, so now, he wanted to listen to that hesitance he felt. He had received his warning and once again, he was given the choice as to whether or not he heed it. The house was unsafe. He musn't go in there. The house told him not to go in there.
It twisted its dimensions and marred its architecture, increasing the height of the door and the height at which the door handle hung, forcing the man to reach up to hold it. The hallway grew to an impossible size, its angles coming together in dramatic fashion in ways that made him feel three feet tall. A gust of the putrid smell of fresh blood made his nose scrunch as his face stood at the height of the keyhole. Looking through it, the room was concealed in darkness, with unknown horrors hiding in the shadows, just waiting for him to come in so they can get him, hurt him, and mar him beyond recognition.
More pressingly, however, was the large lump that was on the other side of the door, in the floor, just behind the sofa that had it's back facing toward him in the front room. The Phantomhive couldn't see it, but he knew it was there. He didn't know how he knew, but he did and that was all that mattered to him. He didn't want to see it. He had to see it. He didn't want to, but he needed to. He didn't need to, but he did. He already knew what was there, but he had to make the choice to open the door. The image appeared to him in his mind's eye in a flash, causing him to wince, scrunching his nose ans squeezing his eye shut as he recoiled from the sharp pain it brought—like a hammer striking down on a nail or a blow directly to the nose. Holding on to the door handle for dear life, he managed to stay upright, but the invisible force struck him again and again—right hook, left hook, center—making him see things without seeing them with his eyes. It wasn't hallucination, but memory.
Two figures, laying on their sides in the floor, holding one another in one final, eternal, embrace. It was an image of protection, of devotion, of love, of pain, of sorrow, of death—joy cut short and innocence colliding with the harshest of realities in a manner so cruel, it was obscene. It was the last time he ever saw those two. Their faces, who he had seen smiling joyously and beaming with pride for their son, now twisted and lifeless on what was supposed to be the happiest of days. They were gone, now, for forever and always, except they weren't. Over time, Ciel's memories of them faded, but the damage that was done? His wounds still ached. And yet here he was, holding a knife against them in his hand, hemming and hawing over whether or not he should make a cut.
Closing his eyes did little to shield him from the sight. It lived within him, floating about aimlessly until it rubbed up against a sore spot without rhyme, reason, or warning. But memory was a strange thing, unfortunate as it was for the Watchdog. It could fade, it could change, and it could be built upon over time. No man had mastery over time, so past could come colliding with the present at any moment and there was nothing anyone could do about it. A head of long, blonde, hair stood out against the blackness, illuminated by the light Ciel had let inside long ago and suddenly, his flesh was ripped open as he remembered that he had been looking for his husband downstairs. The door was now open as Ciel was compelled to continue his search.
"Jim!" he shouted, calling out into the dark room. "Jimmy!" No one answered back. He took a few steps inside and frantically looked around, spotting nothing out of the ordinary. A table, a chair, the TV mounted on the wall, a vase, but no Jim.
Taking wide steps, he stomped his way through the room and swung open the bedroom door. A bed, a dresser, a chair, but no Jim. He advanced to the dressing room, finding much of the same. Nothing was out of the ordinary in the bathroom, either, but it brought him no comfort. If anything, he found it painful, as he couldn't find what he was looking for. There was nothing there. There was nothing to see, nothing to do, nothing to fight, nothing to defend. There was nothing and he was helpless against it. Nothing, but his own reflection in the bathroom mirror staring back at him.
Standing in the doorway, with the door handle still in his hand, he stared at the image an slowly came to the realisation that the ghost standing there was him. His eye was wide and his shoulders rose and fell with fast, laboured breaths. His skin glistened with sweat and he wasn't even aware that he could sweat. Dressed in one of his nice, fancy, suits, he stood there looking ill—like bile was welling up in his throat as the dirge in his mind marched ever onward to the beat of a steady drum. But it, too, would slowly fade into silence.
The ghost in the mirror was real, just like these rooms. Everything was in its proper place, from the pair of toothbrushes waiting in their holders and the throw pillows on the sofas, to the partially read book on the night stand and the phone charger plugged into the wall near it. It was real, he was real, and he was there again, having returned to the realm of the living. He hadn't realised how fast his heart was racing until then and his knees felt weak. Panting, he struggled to catch his breath, and reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow with his palm. This was his house—he held mastery over it; and this was his room. It belonged to him and that was the way that it was. No one else apart from his spouse inhabited this room, not even the lump on the floor in front of the door. It wasn't there anymore. It hadn't been there for a very long time.
Letting out a shaky breath, he leaned his back against the doorframe, pressing the wood into his spine as he reached up and rubbed his eyes. There was a party going on. That's right, and everyone was waiting downstairs. "Oh…" he sighed, grunting as he steadied himself. Folding his arms across his stomach, he pressed them hard into his abdomen, seeking to soothe the dull pain he felt. Shaking his head, he slowly stumbled back through his rooms. He walked out of the bathroom, into the dressing room, through the bedroom, and stood at the threshold between the prior and the front room. His gaze was transfixed on the invisible stain in front of the door.
The floor had been replaced, the rug disposed of, the wallpaper replaced, and yet the stain remained. The man didn't want to approach it. There was an air of danger about it—the spot where the previous Earl died. He didn't want to stand where Vincent stood and not even our of fear for his own safety. It just felt like something was there and he didn't want to know he was there. Clumsily, his lungs fumbled to push out air. His breath was shaky as he rubbed his face, trying to soothe himself and wipe the sleep from his eyes. Keeping his hands there, he stared into the blackness behind his eyelids and stood there, finding comfort in it. It was minuscule and didn't last, but it was enough for him to find the will to move to one of the couches and sit down—not on one, but in front of one, so that his back was neither facing the door nor facing the window. With a grunt, he lowered himself onto the floor and sat with his legs straight out in front of him, placing his hands on his knees while staring at his feet.
It was absurd, how exhausted he felt. It felt like he had just come home from a mission, but no, he never even left home. The hands on the clock barely moved, but it felt like he had been running around for hours, despite having not fulfilled his initial mission of going downstairs to find Jim. He simply didn't have the energy for it right then. It had all been wasted on something that he realised didn't exist. None of what he had just went through was real or warranted, as far as he could see, now. Worse, he simply couldn't figure out why it had happened. It was such a strange thing, feeling this pain, now. Surely, enough time had passed for him to be over it by now, so what was the point of all of that? Tiredly, he leaned his head to the side, resting it on the seat of the couch next to him. He needed to go downstairs. He knew that eventually, people would start wondering where he was. Yet right then, he couldn't bring himself to face them. If what he had seen in the mirror was true, then he surely looked as dreadful as he felt. Moreover, he needed to find the will to be able to pretend to be charming for several more hours. Good god, it was only a few hours into the evening…
Time didn't make any sense in that room. Sometimes, it felt as though he had been sitting there for hours, while at others, he felt like it was a few minutes. How much time it actually was, he didn't know. He didn't care. It was obvious that he needed something to happen, but he wasn't sure what. It had been a very, very, long time since he had felt like this—so long, that he didn't know what to do when it happened. It was all a blur as a heavy fog rolled in inside his mind.
Slowly, his head sank into the seat of the couch beside him as he gave up on the idea of getting up promptly. His senses were shot and he was still reeling from what had just occurred, even though he knew that he should be doing something. It just didn't feel like he could. After all, the party downstairs was so far away from that room—so far that he could not hear it. The only sound that drilled against his eardrums was the sound of a clock ticking on the wall. Tick, tick, tick…
The thought of getting up and running caused him to ache, but Ciel did not want to be alone. He ached for someone to be there—anyone at all—just someone to remind him that the world outside that room existed and that all was well. He needed to know, even if he didn't have the mental strength to find out on his own. As much as it ailed him and bruised his already battered ego, he didn't think that he could do it himself. Ciel, in this moment, wanted someone to come find him and make him feel better about the situation. The seconds ticked by on the wall, raking against his mind like nails on a chalkboard, as each movement of the second hand raked against his mind like nails on a chalkboard. Each passing second was another second having waited and another second that no one was there. Maybe no one would come? Maybe there was no one left to come find him? Maybe he would be stuck waiting forever? Ciel's face twisted in agony at the thought as he pressed it deeper into the cushion, bringing his hands close to his body. It hurt. Whatever this was that had him in its grips hurt and it wasn't the sort of day to day pain that he was accustomed to. It was deep, yet oh-so-comfortable taking up residence inside of him—sort of like it had always been there. It was a familiar pain, but one that he found difficult to endure. His body could heal, but this shook his very soul and there was nothing he could do about it.
No matter how he held himself, no matter how he sat, no matter how he tried to shove the horrible things that popped into his head away, nothing he did made him feel better. Whatever this way, it seemed far beyond his capabilities to handle right then and he hated it. He felt so small and weak. He felt insecure and like the world around him was on the verge of collapse. He didn't know why or how, but it did and he couldn't fix it. Earl Ciel Phantomhive could not fix it. And so, if anyone was going to walk through that door, they needed to do it soon. He needed to be snapped back to the present and told that none of that was real. He needed someone to hold him steady so that he could stand up again. As much as he absolutely loathed to admit it and felt a visceral repulsion in doing so, the Earl needed someone to help him. Yet no one was there.
So he sat in that room, once again waiting for someone to come retrieve him. There was no reason for him to believe it to happen, but he wanted to hope anyway. The idea that no one would come terrified him, so he instead tried to rationalise that someone would. "People will realise I'm missing." he thought. "Someone will wonder where I am, so someone will come looking for me." Wrapping his arms around his shoulders, he brought his legs in close against his body. It hurt. His chest ached and his brain itched, like a wound that was scabbing over. "Surely, they would. Surely…"
The clock on the wall ticked steadily forward, making it so that Ciel could never feel the silence completely.
A/N: Hello, everyone! How long has it been? Three weeks, now? That's got to be a new record, for me... It feels horrible. I've been slowly chipping away at this during our time apart, but with work and all, I've only been able to get in about an hour every other day. Really, I could probably go for each day, but it's been a rough few weeks at work and I needed the time to recover lmao. I'm gonna try for it in the coming week, though, so there's that.
This chapter was supposed to be longer, but I decided that it would feel better to split it, I think. When I tried to combine them, it felt too rushed and clunky, y'know? I guess that's sort of the mood of the chapter, but not for the scene I was writing! So we'll pick it back up next time. Thank you so much for being patient!
Rough night for Ciel, though, ain't it? I don't really know what else to say about that, though lmao. Y'all are smart. Y'all can figure out what his deal is. Let's see... Anything else I need to address? I can't think of anything, but stopping here seems a little abrupt... Guess I'll just wrap it up, for now...
Until the next chapter, my duckies~!