"I am not so noble that I would stake my life for someone else. Nor am I so forgiving that I would sit by and allow someone to trample me. I am a selfish, and self-righteous human being! That's why! I...to clear my own shame...I used your power. Not for anyone else! But for myself!"
There are no such things as ghosts.
His father told him so.
When they were young, and every shadow was a dark presence, when every creak was a footstep, every far off noise a wail, their father would come, called by their terrified voices, and sit by their bedside to tell them there were no such things as ghosts.
When Auntie Red told him that sometimes people who die in big mansions stay a little longer, and isn't your mansion rather big? their father told her to stop teasing them, and there were no such things as ghosts
He promised.
The boy knows now there are demons, and even reapers, (even if he wouldn't have believed in them either, back then) but he puts that record on repeat: There are no such things as ghosts. There aren't. Father promised. There are no such things as ghosts. No such things as ghosts. No such things as ghosts.
He needs it to be true.
But when he first lays down at night, sometimes he can still feel his mother's touch.
Her hands are soft, and her words are softer as she leans in to kiss him goodnight. Her kisses are like raindrops, like butterflies. He can still hear her say sweet dreams my little angels.
And he hopes to that means he'll dream of her.
Because dreaming of her means dreaming of purity and love, of one more candy couldn't hurt. Dreaming of her means dreaming of pretty white dresses, and frills in the wind. Dreaming of her means dreaming of the way her face lit up whenever she saw them, especially at times like their birthday; when the Christmas tree glittered with a thousand lights, and the ribbons on their presents shone beneath them. It means dreaming of how excited she was just to say those words: happy birthday. And with her smile, they believed it would be happy, that they were the most important people in the world to her. Dreaming of her means dreaming of someone who knows what it's like to be sick and frail, and less than I should be, but loved, and loving, all the same.
And those are sweet dreams.
But when he feels her touch, when he dreams of her, now, she haunts him.
Dreaming of her now means dreaming of the last time she kissed them goodnight, and the last morning the called their names with bright eyes. It means an echo of her voice that seemed so strong then, and so fragile now. Dreaming of her now means listening to her say what a wonderful celebration the evening will be, and dreaming of her now means dreaming of her silence at the time when the 'wonderful' should begin. Of the ticking minutes by when she didn't come, and feeling each tick twisting his gut. Of walking downstairs, alone—alone, so very alone—to see the lights of the tree, the reflection of the presents, flickering, breaking, and going dim. To see the world torn apart, painted red. Red lips, to even more red on her clothes, in her eyes, on the floor. A red embrace of death. Dreaming of her now leaves a hollow ache where love was. And it is worse to feel her touch in that space between sleeping and waking now, because her hands are cold and her voice colder, and it is not the comfort of a mother's touch he feels, for his mother is no longer real, and if she is here, now, she is something else entirely.
There are no such things as ghosts.
But sometimes, as he's trying to fall asleep, he can still hear his father's words of wisdom.
He can still hear his voice, so full of confidence when speaking to all the other nobles; all those who wrong him, and right him, all the friends, and all the fakes. He didn't care. Nobility was in his bones, and nobility poured from his lips, shone through his eyes, was in every syllable he wrote.
He can still remember the warmth he felt when they sat on his lap, and he read them bedtime stories by the fire, and how they begged for just one more.
And when he says don't grow up too fast, he hopes he'll grow up to be like him.
Because growing up to be like him means devotion, determination, and gentility.
Growing up to be like him means winning despite the odds, it means having a kindness about you that is palpable, and a dignity and grandeur in every motion that he hopes he can one day embody.
And, in that case, it is a good thing to grow up fast.
But when he remembers those words now, they haunt him.
Because he has grown up too fast. Forced into a mold, taken from the toys and candy, to paper and a forked tongue. Growing up is not a privilege, it is a chain. Growing up to be like him now means cheating and lying, manipulating the rest of the world, and bending it to go his way, because otherwise it won't. It means his laugh is coarse, and his smile is a mask for the world to call him by. The dignity and grandeur are manufactured, a reflection of something that once was real, that he can never emulate himself.
And when he hears those words of wisdom before sleep, they are a curse. They are not his father's teachings, they are a restless toll for his sanity, telling him he got it all wrong, that he was never supposed to be the one to gain the title.
There are no such things as ghosts.
But sometimes, when he wakes up in the middle of the night, he can still see his brother's eyes.
Blue and glimmering with hope and heroism. Eyes whose light never seemed to falter, no matter the circumstances, and became brighter whenever they turned to him. Eyes that urged him to be stronger.
And when those eyes, full of tears, say the words We'll be together forever, he hopes it'll come true.
Because being together forever means innocence and bravery. It means he can take on the world, as long as Ciel is with him. There is no such thing as failure, and no such thing as sadness. Together forever means laughter and candy and chess. Together forever means that childhood never has to end. And while Ciel will be the earl, his brother will be no less, and he will be protected. He will have a reason to get back up when he falls, and keep standing. And he will have a reason to do something, be something, too.
And when they were in those cages, when they were tortured and branded and scarred, it meant that the ending could still, even then, at its worst, be a happy one, as long as they were together. They were together. We will always be together.
Like the sky and the stars.
All it took a merciless hand, and a knife, to rip out the last pages of the story with the words written: happily ever after. And we'll be together forever means a bloodstain big enough to cover the world. And it does. It covers his entire world. It never leaves him. Being together forever is a ring Ciel swallowed, the one that said that he was the heir and the earl, the one they had to rip back out of his dead body. Being together forever means seeing those blue eyes go dim on that alter, just like those on the Christmas tree (and he doesn't believe he'll be happy anymore). And it means seeing those eyes staring back at him in the mirror every day, but their light has flickered and died in him too, and they are now brimming with darkness rather than light. The same eyes, but, of course, not the same. He was stained that day too, and one is not blue at all anymore, it is violet, and it does not glow with inner innocence, but with demonic intent.
Being together forever is this name, this title he carries: "Ciel." And together forever means he will always be a mirror, a tainted reflection. Never himself. Always this faded copy of Ciel.
Together forever is this false image of someone who is not, and can never be, Ciel. Who is branded by the bloodstain, by the ring, branded by his brother, and his demons, who will never leave him as long as he lives.
These creatures, whatever they are, don't just come every once and a while. Their existence doesn't ebb like the tides, or phase like the moon. Every night these images, this world of hurt, will not leave him. They burn, and they do haunt him. These images, these voices, these feelings… when there is nothing there.
He tells himself that: there's nothing here. I'm alone. He puts that on the record too.
But the more he hears himself think it, the less he believes it.
Every night his mother is at his bedside. Her hands are so soft you'd think they're made of ashes. Her voice is so thin; you'd think it was just the wind.
Every night his father stands before him, and his comfort crackles like fire, his eyes spark, but his form so dark you'd think that's all he was made of: darkness.
And worst of all, every night, his brother lays beside him. But he is not a living, breathing thing, but a bloodied corpse, animated by some sick puppet strings; a life severed, a life he stole for his own.
And it is the demon's fault. He will not deny the existence of demons. Not anymore. He won't even try, won't even start. It is the demon's fault he's dead. They wanted him there. Those people—can he even call them people?—wanted power, prowess, fame, money. But it was his brother, and his words that brought the evil into this world.
Maybe he could have refused. Maybe he could have trod the path of innocence still. Kept his heart clean.
But he took the demon's hand.
And now, he asks the demon to stay. When animate memories kneel by his bed, stand over his head, when they bloody his sheets, he asks the demon to stay with him. Not to kill them, because he knows they are not real. He just asks him to stay, because maybe the presence of something else real, even if it is a demon, makes him feel like maybe his father was right, maybe they aren't real after all.
But they still come. No matter what he tells himself, or what he believed the night before, tonight is another story.
And he asks the demon to stay, because the demon is kinder than the ghosts are.
When he goes to the cemetery, he isn't sad for them, not anymore. He is too numb for sadness. He isn't sorry, even if she should be.
No, this is a much stronger, darker emotion. Something like anger, but colder. Something like distain but warmer.
When he goes to the cemetery, it is not a question of his sorrow, it is a question of his sanity. As if he is trying to tell himself, this is what's real. These gravestones. These names. This is where they lie. And they do lie.
It is not for them. He is not coming to pray for their souls, or mourn them.
He doesn't ask the demon to take him there either. He isn't sure why. He wouldn't have questioned it if he did, and that may have been faster than this secrecy. Maybe it's because it makes him look weak; like he cares, or like he needs someone to take care of him, or that he can't talk to the dead alone.
He's been doing that for far too long.
Maybe because this is one of those things he has to do alone. Something he has to convince himself, and anyone else's presence will make it harder for him to argue with his past.
He comes to the cemetery to beg the ghosts to leave him alone. He leaves flowers to give them something to tie them to this patch of earth, rather than his house.
He might have screamed if he truly was weak, or hadn't grown up in the way he did. Screamed, not because he was sad they were gone, or wished they would come back, but screamed at them for staying with him for too long. But he was stronger than that, so he stood, and stared, and looked on. As always, never letting them know there was anything darker in him.
But they never answer his requests.
He knows they are not there, beneath the ground. He knows that the headstones are just some trophy for dying, where they write your name in stone, but it could have belonged to anyone else, if you had won the race a little sooner, or a little later.
He goes there because he knows that his father was wrong. Because they are not beneath the ground; they are in his house, in his head. His mansion is haunted. Those who died there do linger. Every shadow is their presence, every creak is their footsteps, every far off noise is their wails. He is sure of it. And though they may only exist for him, inside his head, it does not mean they are not real.
One day it will get better. As time goes by, the ghosts' visits will become less frequent, and he will believe in them less and less, convince himself once again that they are not real. That they may not be in the ground, but they don't need to be inside his head anymore either, and the more he lets them take up space in his head, the more they distract from his mission now. So he breaks their hold on him, and they shatter like glass, and he continues on. He takes the demon's hand, and the future.
One day he will convince himself once again they are not real. But another day he will see a living ghost, outside his mind. He will see his brother, his brother's corpse, animated. He will see all the dreams, nightmares and memories breathe again. And he will start to wonder once more if maybe it wasn't all in his head, if maybe all those things he saw and felt were real after all.
And it won't just breathe either, the ghost will kill, and it will speak. It will voice all his insecurities and lies, and expose him for the copy he is. That just when he has started to believe the lie, (he's always known, when you believe a lie long enough it becomes the truth), he will be reminded that he is not Ciel, that he never has been. And those words we'll be together forever echo, and resound, and haunt him all over again.
But on that day, he will also realize that to say ghosts are real is only half the story. The living can be ghosts too.
In fact, the living are the real ghosts. They may walk like everyone else, and talk like everyone else, but their bodies are haunted, dead, but alive, and they bring destruction wherever they go. They are more deadly than the dolls, and more ephemeral than the ghosts.
And his mansion is not, and never has been, haunted by their souls.
It is haunted by his own.