Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2093328.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Kuroshitsuji_|_Black_Butler
  Relationship:
      Sebastian_Michaelis/Ciel_Phantomhive, Claude_Faustus/Alois_Trancy
  Character:
      Claude_Faustus, Ciel_Phantomhive, Sebastian_Michaelis, Alois_Trancy
  Additional Tags:
      Animal_Death, Animal_Abuse, Psychopathology_&_Sociopathy
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-08-06 Words: 1307
****** All the Demons ******
by Neffectual
Summary
     Children who kill are the darkest side of humanity, something ruined
     before it even came to bloom; but there are different sides to each
     of them.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
He sleeps like a baby, feather-light lashes draping over alabaster cheeks
stained with the faint pink hint of exertion and heat from the bathwater. The
same pink stain as slicks the white porcelain, diluted red from the droplets on
the floor, soaking into the oak floorboards in the dusty silence as the Louis
XIV clock ticks on the mantel, counting the seconds down until the eyes will
fly open, one deep blue pool, the other purple and stained with the taint of
hell. For now, the soft sounds of a cloth on the bath, smearing the pink
thinner and thinner, mingle with the soft breaths of a sleeping angel.
Sebastian has his shirt sleeves rolled up, gloves off as he cleans, the mark on
his hand throbbing gently with the proximity of his master. It hurts, but not
beyond measure, and besides, he's always been stoic about pain. In that way,
the two of them are more evenly matched than many others.
When they're on the prowl, they're both blank; Sebastian calls it the face of
the wandering father, and always casts a glance ruefully upwards when he speaks
about it. Murder is nothing to them, the pain of others is nothing, but there
is no enjoyment in it, merely matter-of-fact need. These people are evil, they
need to die. The young master never stops to question if he shouldn't, in fact,
be classed as evil too, for the murder he commits in the name of justice. And
that's the secret, in the end, his lack of empathy would damn him, but his
solid belief in his Queen, his country, his God save him, time after time,
leave him walking that precarious line between good and evil, each death at his
hands tipping him back towards the centre of the scale, but never weighing him
as heavier than the feather of lies.
The two of them stalk the night like killers on the loose, cats slinking
through the darkness, and always, always find their prey. He is the Queen's
Watchdog, and he always gets his teeth into the meat, and the man who slides
away into the inky blackness behind him is a hellhound, eyes red, teeth bared,
always answering to his master. Be it right or nay, this child has a developed
sense of right and wrong; he is always right, and everyone else is always
wrong. This isn't unusual in those in his circumstances, but for once, he is
endorsed by those above, he is pure, he is sweet, and his demon companion can
not help but wonder if this contract, too, will be rescinded. Perhaps it need
not be honoured by the angel child, he considers, wiping away at the blood on
the floor, too late for it not to have dug into the grain. His master's coat
drips onto yesterday's newspaper, awaiting cleaning, in the hallway, more spots
of crimson falling. But what, Sebastian wonders, does blood matter when you
have no cares to honour it?
He dances wildly, like a puppet, all glee and vim until the lights go out and
he is struck with the axe, falling to the ground. The triplets play violin, the
lighting is dizzying, and everything is off-kilter, like a humming noise you
can't quite place. Claude clenches his hand around the back of the chair,
knuckles going white under the glove, and tries to resist the urge to beat the
brat until he stops crying. When the boy falls still, panting, he simply
gestures to the chair, and the boy sits, eating his soup as if he hadn't just
made a literal song and dance about it, as if he isn't the most annoying,
aggravating individual on the planet. The knuckles tighten as the boy spills
the soup, green all over the tablecloth, and Claude makes a list of things
he'll do when he gets the chance.
When Alois was younger, the old man bought him a succession of pets; it had to
be a succession, because none of them ever lasted very long. The hamster found
itself involved in an experiment in drowning, the kitten was sliced thinly from
the feet up, to see how long it would live for, the rabbit was stamped on until
its spine broke, and the white mice were burnt, squeezed, burst and bitten. No,
pets don't last long in this household, and the staff aren't exempt, either.
They've all felt the boot, the hand, even the furniture, on the occasions when
the master can be bothered to throw that about as well as his weight. In this
house, the master's whim is everything, and his whim is so often violence. In a
way, Claude recognises the pattern; the boy is sick, insane, wrong inside, his
lack of empathy and lack of feeling turning him into a thrill seeker, and the
greatest thrill of all is the death of another. Hannah watched him dance and
laugh at the death of the village, as the whole swathe of it burnt, and she
knew, even then.
They're alike, though, as two new pins, in their attitude towards others.
Claude isn't fooled in the slightest when the brat says he loves him; what he
means is that he'd love to manipulate him, love to see him twist and hurt like
those in love do to each other. Well, he's not stupid, and the boy deserves the
crushing blow dealt to his skull if he thinks he is. Of course, the brat comes
back, worse than ever, eyes pleading, begging for attention. Claude thought
they'd cured him of high ledges when they taught him that hanging off
windowsills for shock value didn't work, but it seems the master has developed
a taste for higher places. And it's not like Claude wouldn't laugh in the
brat's face if he fell, but that's not his body up there. His body is stripped
naked and curled up for storage, a spare in case it's needed – that body
belongs to a pure soul, untainted with death. However, he thinks, as he watches
the body teeter on the precipice and idly considers the mess it will make when
it splats, what use is a pure soul if you can't make it scream a little?
Whilst the two of them are twisted together, Ciel struggles to stay above
water, above the thoughts which tell him to kick, to beat, to snarl and claw at
everything, struggles to keep the calm façade on, even as Claude attempts to
slide a hand higher up his thigh. Alois sings at the thought of Claude beneath
him, bloody and bruised, manacled, perhaps, and it turns Ciel's stomach. That
is wrong, without a shadow of a doubt, to hurt the one who keeps you. He keeps
craning his neck for Sebastian, needing to see him, needing something familiar
to latch onto, but it is too late. Alois wins out.
Although Ciel vanishes into the depths, Alois is, for the first time in his
life, unsure. He is feeling – feeling – something new, something strange, which
he thinks might be a little like guilt, or sickness. The other boy has left
pieces behind, thick, bloody pieces, chunks of saccharine, and he's swallowed
them all down by mistake, not knowing they were full of shards of glass. He
feels full, aching, and know, for the first time, what it means to know right
from wrong. He wants to glory in Claude's constant defeat in the maze, the way
he snarls as he reappears, but instead, all he feels is a deep hurt that the
demon will not even lie to say he loves him. It never mattered before, but now,
with these new sensations, it seems that it is the only thing which does. The
glory of killing is no longer as bright as the glory of love.
End Notes
     Ciel's profile is based on the classic sociopath - a knowledge of
     right and wrong based on the values of a peer group. So as he is
     advocated by the Queen and told he has behaved by Sebastian, he
     believes his actions are right, and this is why, despite being a
     killer himself, he has a pure soul.
     Alois, however, is based on the way child murderers who grow up to be
     psychopaths tend to act. They torture animals as well as those around
     them, revel in violence, and take power and satisfaction in the pain
     of others. The thrill is all that matters, there is rarely a motive
     to their killings.
     All in all, I wanted to focus on the differences between the two
     boys, and the similarities.
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