Disclaimer: I get really sick of answering this question.
Author's Note: Poor goodbyemyheart is gonna get mad at me for putting off "Remember December" again, but I promise to get it done~ I just had to finish this little ficlet first.
Warnings: Refers directly to episodes 9 and 24 of season one. Confusing style. Written and edited in a rush.
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Talbot Revisited
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He wasn't sure what drove him to do it. At first, anyway. Wasn't certain which of the myriad of strange new motivators
emotions
that he had started to feel had lead him back
home
to the Manor after so very, very long. Couldn't quite fathom the reason he trailed through the dust, stiletto heels click-clacking over warped wood as he searched the charred corners of the decrepit home, rotting from neglect but too
haunted
historic for the locals to bear the thought of tearing it down. And it was just as well, for if they had, they might have destroyed the demon's treasure… and no one wanted that, now, did they?
No.
He found the trinket he'd been searching for hidden beneath the floorboards of the study, the ancient timber evermore scarred by the weight of the mahogany desk that had once sat directly atop it. He pulled up the beams with the lightest of touches
like the touch he'd left upon that waiting porcelain cheek
and rustled through the cobwebbed gloom until his talons brushed against it, and the box's hollow insides sung like pine-hued chimes. With careful, precise movements, he hefted the delicate cube into the hazy sun of the antiqued room, scrutinizing it from this angle and that, making sure that nothing had broken. Nothing
everything
had.
Some things, once lost, can never be returned.
With slow, deliberate moments
so careful, so precise, spidery fingers tip-toeing up the gentle curve of an inner thigh
the devil set his find atop the tilted remains of a three-legged table, popping its cap and waiting
100 years
10 seconds.
And there was blackness, only blackness
inside of the tiny corner closet, except for the faint red glow of his candle. He kept the crimson light low, as low as
his spirits
the rhythmic slosh, slosh, slosh of bitter liquids, fake-human-nose scrunched visibly against the pungent smell of escaping vapors. Unpleasant but necessary, a price he was willing to pay, for with it the stench brought the
truth
person he so longed to see, and it made every pain worthwhile. For a moment, for an instant. Just before it made everything
absolutely intolerable
worse. For still, he knew. And he had said it before: the image reflected in a picture was but an illusion. However, even if it was an illusion, wishing to hold onto it was one of the hollow dreams humans
devils
have. One of many hollow, empty dreams
that lurked just-behind his eyelids, waiting patiently, like the memories of nightmares so appalling, his heart ached and yearned for them— clinging to his soul like ghosts
that haunt those who still live. Who will continue to live
forever
no matter how horrible a prospect it sometimes seemed. And now was one such time, insides caving in upon themselves as the demon gingerly thumbed the glossy print he'd pulled from the chemical bath. It was such a delicate thing
that precious soul
the flimsy paper, and yet it managed to carry the weight of his entire world. And for a long, long while, he simply stared at the photograph: the petite arm around his shoulder, the china cheek against his temple, the satin mouth that was breathing
whispering, as when alive, his sweet, shallow exhilarations quickly climbing the treble scale as he moaned
into his ear, murmuring something that the monster would never again hear, no matter how hard he strained. But he knew
he knew
and it made him want to
weep
tear the photograph into pieces. Even though he realized that he never could. After all, he was
Sebastian Michaelis
a devil of a butler, and a butler could never treat his master in such a way—even if it was simply his master's visage. And so, instead, he slipped the picture into his breast pocket, there to remain
with its mate, its partner, the original snapshot—a sepia-hued scrap upon which a 12-year-old slumbered beside his obsequious servant
for all of time. And as the moist paper touched his
heart
icy flesh, the demon reflected. Considered, acknowledged. For no, he hadn't been sure what had driven him to do it. At first, anyway. Wasn't certain which of the myriad of strange new motivators
emotions, human emotions
that he had started to feel had lead him back
home, yes, home
to the Manor after so very, very long. Couldn't quite fathom the reason as he traipsed through the slanted hallways, stiletto heels click-clacking when they found the shattered cobblestone of the front drive. But now, he thought he knew. And he was glad.
For, as a servant of Phantomhive, wasn't it only natural that he should miss his young master?
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