Disclaimer: No~
Author's Note: I feel like it's been ages since I last wrote something…
Warnings: Simply written; more of a writing exercise than a ficlet. Inspired by the artwork of Goodbyemyheart. :3
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Noir
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Click.
Ciel Phantomhive is bored.
"Your turn," he grunts, tossing the trinket to his butler. The room is pitch-black, save for a sliver of slithering moonlight; the silvery gleam cuts across the monochrome rug like an ethereal blade, crafted from liquid mercury. And as the beloved toy arcs over that insubstantial barrier, its metallic coating glints and glimmers: flashing like a falling star.
The butler snatches the bauble from the air—interrupting its artful display of parabolic tumbles—, and in a single fluid motion twists his torso towards his tamer.
Click.
No flash, no powder. No scent of brimstone, no roaring in his ears.
"Young master," Sebastian breaths—as if in apology— bowing from somewhere within the gloom-obscured emptiness. The earl cannot see his slave's reverential gesture; all he knows of his servant is the scarlet flash of enchanted irises, and the irrefutable hold that they have over his soul.
A clattering skid; the knick-knack twirls across the wooden floorboards, coasting to a gentle stop— just close enough to brush against his toes. The leather armchair groans as the teenager bends forward, lifting the beloved plaything into his small, porcelain hands. Yet, as time wears on, even the silken pleasure of polished mahogany and glossed ivory fails to ignite any sort of flame within his gut.
There is but one fire in his life, now. One inferno, one passion. One curiosity. Blazing at him from across the room, growing brighter and stronger and hotter as the hours-days-months-years crawl by. It feeds, drains, consumes.
There is nothing else.
Click.
"Hmph." Another deft toss, another adroit catch. The shadows may have blinded him, but in the wake of his sightlessness the boy's other senses have heightened: he can hear the rhythmic rattle of shifting machinery—tinny clangs and clanks that are imperceptible in daylight, but near-palpable at night; he can smell the iced perfume of iron as it burns his nostrils, creeps down his throat, frosts over his lungs; he can feel an invisible entity pointing at him, looming over him, laughing and mocking and pulling on his puppet strings, grinning like a corpse as he taunts in whispered purrs…
The child in the lounger wonders vaguely whether tonight will end in a delicate cough ("Does the young master wish to recycle this pellet?") or a—
BANG.
Thunder, lightening, smoke. Ashes, sparks, bitter vapor.
No pain.
"Oh dear," the unruffled devil murmurs, holding a white-hot bullet between two slender fingers. The air is tinged with the aroma of burning cotton, of overheated weaponry; Sebastian wears a soothing smile as he lowers the smoldering pistol to his side. "It appears that you have lost this round, my lord."
Ciel Phantomhive says (feels) nothing.
Only boredom remains.
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