Disclaimer: I own nothing, like always.

Author's Note: I misread some of the fanfic that I was editing for Sky Michaels, and my misunderstanding resulted in this. Funny how often that tends to happen… *pointed look at "Opus"*

PS. Hey, ff(dot)net readers! Check out my author bio page for links to LJ-only stories I've written. You know. If you're interested. C:

Warnings: Takes place (long) after the ending of season II. The usual fail editing. There's other stuff I should probably say, but that would spoil my fun, and no one reads these things, anyway. XD

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Inevitable

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It was inevitable, really, that they should meet again. Of the hundreds of thousands of millions of humans—or human-shaped monsters—that skittered and scattered, crawling atop the surface of this decaying earth, only a handful were cursed with the promise of immortality. With an eternity to squander and only a very small world in which to spend it, statistically, he should have realized that they would wander into one another, sooner or later. And although he isn't sure if this counts as "sooner" or "later" (it is rather difficult to judge, when time no longer has meaning), he does know that it is a Tuesday afternoon, gray and bitter—December, dead, and dreary. The bare branches of the potted trees that line the road are trying to scrape the clouds from the sky; he considers scraping at his eyes, hardly daring to believe what he sees.

But there the boy (or boy-thing) stands, looking just as he did That Day so many centuries ago… only thinner, perhaps. Gaunter. Corpse-white and paper-thin and all the more beautiful for it, his cobalt-blue eyes churning and shifting and shining like the ocean that laps against the not-so-distant coast. Though the wind is vicious and vigorous today, the child-creature's bare hands hang outside of his coat pockets—brittle little icicles of skin tipped with black, glossy and rotten. His silver-spun hair looks like silk in the shadows, and his poise and posture are posh and perfect; he doesn't so much as sway as the torrent of busy business men, of working women, of speeding students, of chattering children bump-brush-bang into him, as if oblivious to the presence that he exudes.

Well, perhaps they are. But he isn't.

They have been gazing at each other for a full five minutes, now. Unblinking. Unmoving. The child-creature seems unsurprised, all things considered… had certainly reacted more subtly than he had. For the briefest of moments upon first noticing each other, the boy-thing's eyes had widened the scantest half-millimeter, flashing vermillion in the afterglow of a passing car. In the next instant, the predictability of the situation seemed to have registered in his brain, and he has since been regarding his gawking companion with an imperturbable, impassive sort of stare.

But then…

"…would you care for some tea?" the boy-thing asks coolly. Casually. As if they were nothing more than two friends, serendipitously bumping into one another after a boring week apart. And perhaps they are, really. Who's to know, when time no longer has meaning?

X

The child-creature (he isn't quite sure what to call him, yet) knows of a place, a fancy place, with lush carpets and velvet draping and crystal chandeliers. Light is cast by bulbs and candles in equal measure, and the warm air is scented with white rose and gardenia, just like the gardens of the past. Though it is clearly a restaurant for society's crème de la crème, the boy-thing he follows garners a table with a simple snap of his frosted fingers. And if his irises glimmer scarlet in the process, well, he tries to only half-notice.

The maître de leads them to a square, cherry wood table dripping in doilies and lace and ivory linens, where tiny cups of bone china are already waiting. One Wedgewood beauty almost looks as if it's breathing: thin, vine-like plumes of ethereal mercury swirl steadily skyward, melting the chill from the tip of his nose and the apple of his cheeks. The second delicate dish is empty, and it is this seat that the boy-thing chooses. He crosses skinny ankles, positions himself regally atop the plush velveteen cushion, and tastes the air with the tip of his tongue.

As he exhales, a small smile graces his petal pink lips. "It is a lovely scent, don't you agree?"

He would agree, could he find his voice. He isn't sure where he had lost it, but he wishes for its return post-haste. In the meantime, he forces his stiffened neck to nod (spine creaking unwillingly) and—when gestured to do so— lifts his drink to his maw with the lightest, gentlest, most careful of his touches. His stomach is full of butterflies that even the cloying flavor of jasmine cannot drown; his hands tremble around his cup for more reasons than he can count.

"You look wonderful," the child-creature says mildly, but he is not entirely sure if that is meant to be a compliment. There is something like pity in the boy-thing's mismatched eyes, something like understanding; he takes an elegant sip of nothingness. "Who would have thought that a human could look so healthy at the age of two hundred and seventeen?"

In response, he shifts atop his pillowed seat: fidgets, visibly antsy, as if he can't quite get comfortable, despite all of the luxury around him. But finally, when he opens his mouth, the faintest wisp of a whisper comes tumbling out— tired, worn, and weary. "That's just it," he murmurs, staring sightlessly into his teacup. The pallid liquid ripples in his grasp, pulsing in time to his shivering heartbeats. "I'm starting to think that… that perhaps I'm not human, anymore."

"…hm." The child-creature hums, vague and noncommittal, as he regards his downcast companion. "Well," he then returns, dipping a petite spoon into perfumed oxygen and giving it a crisp stir. "It is a fact we all must face, sooner or later."

X

"Would you tell me what happened next?"

They are on the street again, footsteps echoing through the alleys as they trample atop elongated silhouettes: people, animals, buildings. Their casters are no more real to them than the shades themselves; they are solid, unaffected, even as time stretches and compresses and contorts the gloomy figures that lie beneath their feet. It is a dark fate. But if it was dark before, it is darker now; streetlamps sputter on, leaving patches of luminescent gold upon the shush-strewn sidewalks.

"What is there to say? We lived and died as best we could. Only they did the latter better than me."

A quiet laugh, like muffled music in the mind. "You were always earnest," the boy-thing chuckles, flicking his companion a half-lidded glance of sneered affection, "but never skilled. Not at any job."

He considers being insulted. Instead, he returns the smile. And though the expression is rusty with age, dusty from disuse, when it creeps across his mouth, he feels more like himself than he has in many long, lonely years.

X

He isn't sure where they are going—if his companion has a destination in mind, or if he is even meant to follow. But he has nowhere else to be, and no reason to fear ill-will, so he follows at length, and when his presence doesn't seem to bother the child-creature, eventually becomes comfortable trailing along in his wake. So comfortable, in fact, that he feels a question leap from his lips before he can stop it.

"What happened to you?" he asks, and he is not quite sure if it is fear, or awe, or trepidation that thrums in his voice. Maybe it is a combination of two. Or maybe it is all three: a curious chord, taut yet quivering, like the strings of a singing instrument. "After you left with… what happened? Why did you go?"

In reply, the boy-thing hesitates—both in word and in deed— as he considers the other's query. But soon, the sound of decisive, efficient footfalls recommences; he stares into the metropolitan night and chews on a sigh. "I didn't wish to hurt you."

Incomprehensible silence.

"Hunger is a disease," the boy-thing expounds… though, in truth, this explanation is no more informative than the first. "Unremitting and terminal. And, in so being, is more virulent and vexing than any potion or poison that runs through your veins."

"Hunger?" He frowns, the paradigm of innocent confusion. "If you're hungry, you should have eaten something… back at the… restaurant…"

He falters, he finishes; the child-creature is laughing again, low and black and amused. Like sugary molasses, sticky, sweet, and ensnaring… He feels uncomfortably caught in the candy-coated sound, twitching like a moth trapped in a fluting web of snickers.

"Mine is a hunger that conventional foodstuffs will never slake," he purrs in way of clarification, and offers no more answer than that. But he doesn't need to, not really, for his eyes are flickering again: feral and feline, flecked with shards of flaming ruby.

And though he isn't sure if he believes in God anymore, (not after all this time, not after all he's seen) he is suddenly quite convinced of the existence of the Devil.

X

Their feet come to a stop before a snow-covered house, ranch-styled and tangled in a net of wilted ivy. No light peeks through the latticed windows, only a crucifix of aged wood; the man strung upon its beams watches the world with sad, grainy eyes, and half-looks as if he is trying to pound down the glass. As the dying idol pleads mutely with those unfortunate enough to stroll past, serrated bricks of wall and chimney seem to crumble and molder like incense and ash.

"Do you live here by yourself?" he can't help but demand, tone tinted with concern, for no matter the reality of the situation, the boy-thing beside him looks like… well, just that. But even as he asks, the child-creature is shaking his head, a look of unvoiced contempt slithering upon his porcelain face.

"I live here with my master."

"Your… what?" Another frown, deeper this time—more of a scowl than anything, indigent in its bewilderment. "But aren't you…? I mean, shouldn't you be the…?"

"Oh, I am. Eventually. In the end." The boy-thing sighs flippantly, with a pretty tweak of pouted lips. "But regrettably, I have not yet reached that point with this monster."

For a moment, rather than consider the gravity of the child-creature's situation, he ponders the paradoxical choice of insult. Of "monster." For really, if there are any in the world fit to be labeled by such a word, it would be—

"Finny, a monster is something that I wouldn't want to see under my bed," the boy-thing drawls, rolling his eyes as he seemingly reads his companion's thoughts. "And while to find you in such a place would undoubtedly startle me, I think I would be more frightened of my slippers."

Finny starts. Blinks. Then grins, unable to quash the mental image that blossoms in the back of his fanciful brain. Nor can he smother the giggles that bubble and burst in the back of his aching throat… or the tears that burn and boil behind his glassy green eyes. Because yes, that was just what he'd so longed to hear—and of course, if anyone was to know what he needed, it would be…

"Thank you, young master," he warmly whispers, running a fleece sleeve over his winter-flushed cheeks. "And, though it isn't my place, I'd just like to tell you that I think the s—!"

But when he turns to share a glance with Ciel, he finds that his companion has vanished. He is alone on the walkway, blanketed in blackness; there is nothing in the world but himself, the wind, and a single, bead-eyed crow, watching the motionless house from the branches of an evergreen. The reticent bird spares Finny a fleeting, familiar glance before returning to its sentry, shaking a wing in a dismissive gesture.

The blonde can (ironically) no longer muster the strength to be surprised. But that doesn't keep a final grin from tugging on the corners of his mouth, nor a chortle from tripping off his tongue. Time has no meaning, but it has been too long… even if it only feels like yesterday. All the same…

"Right, right, I'll return to my work," he mumbles, sniffling around a beam as he spins away. There is no need to be sad, after all; this may be farewell for now, but in a world as small as this… well. They would meet again soon. "Goodnight, Mr. Sebastian."

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