[Claude's pajama shirt is probably starting to grow damp from Alois' tears and hot-breathed babbling about how that fucking pile of shit is going to ruin everything (as though things haven't been close to ruination already) and Claude, Claude do something about it and he's going to take Ciel, he's going to take Ciel, I hate him I hate him I hate him- Alois really hates him. Alois hates Sebastian Michaelis so much, and just as Ciel had wanted Alois to burn the gifted bluebells, Alois wants Sebastian to be burned in turn. He wants Sebastian's bones to melt or burst or whatever the fuck bones do when they're exposed to the surface of the sun. He's saying all of this - burning and bones and how much he hates the things he's hating right now - and then he grips at the side of Claude's shirt and lifts his wet face to look up with reddened eyes.] Oh, [he says, and then starts to lose his breath.] Claude, Claude, if you d- died-
[Everything is gone wrong. Panic is blooming into his face more fully each second, as he goes paler and lets go of the strings of his thoughts.]
[Claude feels his eyes burn hotter than the surface of the sun that Alois is wishing for.
All along, Claude was wrong. He has been very wrong all this time. The original basis of their contract hasn't been nullified--Alois Trancy still loathes Sebastian Michaelis. Although the reasons why have changed, the outcome desired remains the same. Claude had to tell lies to get Alois to feel even half the hate his demon has for Sebastian, but now... there are only indefensible truths left...
Save Ciel Phantomhive from the demon that intends to take him away.
It's so storybook, it hurts. Claude feels giddy.
Nothing happens immediately, though. Nothing happened immediately the first time around. They had to wait years to maneuver the key pieces into position. For now, sparkling scarlet fades from Claude's eyes, and he sits up in bed with Alois still pressed against him, feeling stronger than he has in years. This is the strength of Alois' convictions--the passion that Claude Faustus is in love with.
In an abrupt tumble of velvet and dimming light, Claude rolls them over until they're together beneath the covers. Some species of spiders make burrows below ground--they can pretend they're trap-door spiders waiting for their prey to walk by unawares.]
Master, [he says, almost cooing, cradling Alois against himself.] My master, it shouldn't be necessary for me to say this so many times--
[It's darkened but not dark down here, so his smile is somewhat obscure.]
[Swaddled in velvet and warmth and cresting emotions, Alois lets himself feel small and a little bit safer. He curls, with his legs around Claude's hips, and tucks himself in as much as he's able. His mouth feels like's he's taken a mouthful of tea still too hot. This time, as their contract takes its now-needed shape, Alois' face isn't nearly so dry as the first. He's not as young and he's not as red, but his heart is beating more quickly. His fingers dig into Claude's back as he wrings pajama fabric in his fists.]
How can you say that?
[There are some times where it's best to lie to Alois. During others, the thought of false words is awful. He won't allow any empty promises here.]
How can you say that if he's already- [Teeth grit.] He's going to suffer. Endlessly. Fantastically. He'll wish it was only a bird forever eating his fucking liver, I swear. He won't ever have anything again, Claude.
[His anger makes their den so much hotter. That passion is inflamed entirely, right now, and he's grown pink-faced and harsh-breathed for it.]
[Claude is certainly a wicked demon, but he is not the sadistic sort: he derives next to no pleasure from causing pain without reason. Sampling the sadism of others, however, especially from his masters, is one of his favorite flavors in the entire known universe. And then on top of that, like metaphorical warm cherries and melted chocolate and burnt marshmallows and--maybe he's getting a little bit carried away-- When their sadism is part of fiery retribution, it tastes the fucking best to him. He didn't want to wake up to those ugly red eyes this morning, but he'll look at them gladly if it means being burned by an Alois Trancy this passionate.
It feels like he has been submerged in boiling wax. If he had less restraint, he'd be moaning right now.]
Yes, yes, yes, [he says, using honeyed tones. His words should glaze Alois.] You will be the one to cause Sebastian Michaelis to suffer. [In the past, he made similar assurances whenever things weren't going their way. Until the angel lopped off Sebastian's contract arm, Claude couldn't be sure that they were going to steal Ciel away in time. It was a very last-minute thing; probably stressful as hell.]
--Shall I tell you a story?
[An ideal situation for the truth, really.]
Of how I died.
[His fingers are bare and flaring along Alois' spine, forming chords and playing scales. It's all he can do to keep drawing that passion to the surface, transforming it into heat he can literally suck from the air. He shivers, congratulating himself, because Jim Macken went from blank numbness to frothing at the lips in rage. Oh, the beauty of these unwavering assertions...]
[The offer catches Alois' breath in his throat, and he goes still, fingers rigid but tight. His fingernails press into the fabric of Claude's nightclothes. That feels good. Applying pressure with crooked fingers feels good. He wants to bite something. With a deep exhale, his muscles unwind. His head aches fiercely, and his eyes do, and his shoulders do, but the ivory keys of his vertebrae are striking all sorts of notes to knock around in his skull. Alois inhales again and it's with an astringent shudder.]
Tell me, [he breathes before he can stop himself, and wonders if he'll be sick, because he doesn't want to hear how Claude dies - he tells himself that it doesn't count and that it's not the truth of things at all, but Alois Trancy loses sight of which truths of his do and don't apply to the rest of the world - but he finds himself needing to know, like he needs to cling to this body he willed into his possession.
His eyes, blue and burning, dart across Claude's face: cheeks, chin, eyes, brow, jaw, nose, mouth. He's looking for the story already; he wants to fist his hands in Claude's hair and scream for it, either begging or demanding. Alois licks his lips, and says more urgently,] Tell me, Claude.
[It has never felt better than now to say those words. Claude wants to say more, much more, a million more yeses and ten times the I want yous. Right now, more than anything, Claude wants to pick up Alois, carry him into the washroom, and deliberately take care of him-- He wants to bathe his human's body with ten reverent fingers and a terribly tender tongue. He'd wash between every toe, and floss around every tooth, cleaning Alois thoroughly until he sparkled as much as the fiery Hope Diamond. Afterward, if only Alois could allow it, Claude would get on his knees and thank him for existing, and perhaps find out if Alois is hot enough to singe his tongue.
That will have to wait, however, he tells himself. Being in close proximity to Alois is making him feel less in control than he would like to. He doesn't want to lose his mind when they have so much to do in regards to making Sebastian suffer. Still, this is definitely a soul worth tearing apart--it's not only a ripple, but a tsunami in the long, long, idle life of a demon.]
Then, if you'll permit me...
[Claude reaches behind his back to retrieve one of Alois' hands. He gently overlaps it with his fingers curled over the edges; displaying extreme care, he extricates that tiny but ferocious grip from his shirt. Together, he guides their hands around and down, and against the darker green hem, and then under the hem, underneath his pajamas. He presses Alois' palm to his skin and realizes it's been a while since they've touched like this. His skin is smooth and strangely cool, like sculpted marble at room temperature, and it's exactly what Alois wanted from him.
Then, as he moves his human's touch higher, that smooth skin abruptly becomes disgustingly cratered. The pockmarked scar inflicted by Lævateinn is ungodly and ugly as hell--its ridged tendrils wrap around his chest like scarification from jellyfish stings. Alois wasn't looking in the right place for the story, that's all.]
Close your eyes and listen to me, [he murmurs, as if he's going to sing a lullaby. His teeth are aching with the need to bite something.] It began with a formal duel between demons.
Hoheo taralna...
[Oh. Maybe it isn't bullshit after all.]
Rondero tarel.
[The words themselves are almost tangible, almost as comfortable as them holding hands, as entrancing as the unintimidating darkness on the back of their eyelids even though demon eyesight is quite different from what you're used to. their colors are brighter, the edges of things are sharper, and you can see everyone's auras undulating in the air like individual war banners. inside this cave, it's like being in the center of a starstorm to you--its glowing green crystals are almost painful to look at. hannah anafeloz hurls lævateinn at the rocky ceiling and then smiles wickedly as she explains the terms; what's at stake for the duelists. standing in front of you is sebastian michaelis, and you hate him so much it's fucking unreal.
from there, everything is a fast-paced clusterfuck. most of your thoughts are incomprehensible to you, contained inside an ancient language you don't understand right now. all you know is that you're fighting very hard for your life and the right to your master. hatred spirals out of control while lævateinn keeps exchanging hands and the isle of the dead falls the fuck apart. within a minute the duel moves from the crumbling cavern to this free-fall into a deep gorge, along a fault line that sebastian provoked earlier. it's fucking disgusting that he doesn't care at all about sacred places.
sebastian claims lævateinn again and grins at you, but you have a plan to end this once and for all. you fall and land on an outcropping of rock, and make your wrist tense as you produce webbing, ready to claim the revenge you've craved for fucking thousands of years of looking at this smug motherfucking FUCKER so you think (in english) i've got it and (in german) ich hasse dich and (in hebrew) neshomeleh and (in ???) y'hah y'hah y'hah y'hah y'hah y'hah
and then the outcropping crumbles and you think, never mind.
the pain of being skewered is strangely muted and detached. lævateinn is a frosty sharp twinge in your side, right where the spear of longinus was driven into jesus christ, exactly where alois trancy did/does/will get stabbed. shitty blood rushes into your mouth immediately, and for the first time in months, your thoughts are coherent:
Where is... Words keep dying and drying up as Lævateinn's influence overtakes your mind. Alois... Trancy... You don't cry, you just can't, but your eyes get hotter with sigils and things. Alois... While you talk to Sebastian, all you know is you're acknowledging how much of a fuckup you've been. Your feelings of regret are intense. And the guilt tastes like lava. Not a human's guilt, but the closest a demon can get to experiencing it. Through the contract, Alois Trancy answers you with, Hey, Claude, are you angry? but what else you say to each other is garbled as the contract goes into fluxon't let that happen. I swear to you.]
Master, we have sworn ourselves to each other to beyond the end. [Claude has been speaking in reality all this time.] But there is no conceivable means through which Hannah will be used against me again.
[The vision gets stripped away, but only after a half-second glimpse of someplace fuzzy white, wonderfully warm, and densely covered by bluebells.]
[For once, only this once, for the first time since Jim Macken had opened his eyes onto a place void of even a single beam of moonlight - the only time in all the while that Alois Trancy has looked at Claude's eyes and seen the sick, squirming demonic nature of his black, black pupils - he wishes he couldn't see anything at all. Claude doesn't cry, he just can't, but Alois has tears all down his face while he watches Claude's past and his own future with closed eyes and erratically fluttering lashes. It's all a little bit much for him to comprehend- not exactly the memories themselves (which are horrifying but imaginable), but the senses; the way things look through antiethereal eyes. The way things taste - if you slip coals over your gums, is it like this...? - and the sounds of words that his human mind shouldn't even be able to try to process. The hate hate hate hate hatred for a slyly smiling demon makes Alois throb with but we share this, it's a part of both of us. He decides, while his lungs burn, that he will never stop hating Sebastian Michaelis, not for all the world. No one will take that away from him, just as no one will take Claude Faustus away from him; just as no one will take Ciel Phantomhive; just as no one will take Luca Macken. Your Highness- he'd sooner storm the place where the streets are made of gold and dethrone a doddering old deity.
Alois comes back to himself like he's just come back from drowning.
It must have been a sea he's drowned in, because he can tell there's salt on his face and on his lips. Saline, it's a little sticky where it's started to dry, but that doesn't matter much since it's washed over again with fresh tides of tears. Alois is gasping and grasping and shaking so hard that it's nauseating. The skin near his eyes is red; his cheeks are chalky.
There are doubts (why is hannah holding ciel what did you do) and there is stinging fury. What's more important right now is the words Alois wrings from his throat like so many more tears.]
You won't let that happen. You swear to me.
[His speech is testament to how this wracks his body, but these are the most scalding orders he's given. They're forged right from his core.
Finally he looks at Claude's face, and his eyes are brighter from all the crying, and tears are still welling against his eyelashes, and his chin trembles and though he is planted firmly, his roots shrivel, a little.]
You can't.
[What a trauma to his human frame. His fingers are curled against Claude's skin, now, and he's glad for it, because he needs to know that the body he dreamed is still there. The scar is ugly - feels ugly - but Alois wants to move his tongue along it and learn its ridges and valleys with their contract laid bare. He wants to make it his own by impressing bruises of his fingerprints into the skin over and around it. He never wants anyone else to see this scar. His teeth are clamped together harshly as he still stares, and loves and hates with all his might. It's a lot of might.
He doesn't know how much he needed to know all of this.]
hell yes I'm editing this.stabilimentumJune 2 2011, 10:02:10 UTC
[Claude was patiently waiting for Alois on the surface of the waters of their shared minds. While he watches Alois struggle to breathe, Claude is reminded of how awfully awesome it was to torture Ciel into submission through a dunking tank and special water. Like he did back then, Claude cradles his master's face with one hand, his palm catching most of the new tide of tears. The saline is so hot that he almost expects to get burned, and once his skin is sheathed in heat, he brings it to his mouth and sucks it dry and clean.
Alois tastes darker and saltier than the black sea surrounding the Isle of the Dead. More sacred, transformative, and powerful than anyone knows.]
As you wish.
[The demon's eyes are seething ruby again, and they're staying that way for the time being. On the inside, Claude feels like birdsong; he's entwined with music.] If it is your wish, master, I will never let you go. [He's singing when he says,] Please calm down, [with trills of delight,] and remember to breathe. Try to breathe with me. [In their velvet den, the air is hot, humid, salty, and tinted sunset colors from his eyes and their exposed, provoked seals. It's like sitting inside of a tin of Red Moon Shadow tea. Claude inhales slowly and wonders how he could have been so stupid.]
Apathy into desire, lies into truth, and screams into silence. [His hand returns, soaking up more tears. Hannah got to drink these, too, didn't she? And then she got to eat this soul? Well, with the most recent order, the story will never unfold in such a repulsive manner again.] That's what makes...
[... just a quirk of his lips. They both know how the rest goes. No matter what Alois wants from him, Claude won't be able to deny him anything as long as his soul stays this passionate. He'd allow Alois to learn his supernatural scar with tongue and teeth; he'd gladly have Alois inflict new marks on him. Rip free his hair, gouge out his eyes, rend the flesh from his bones--all of it, any of it, Claude wants it so badly.
It makes him no better than livestock, but Claude just wants to feel owned.]
hell yes i'm crying forever.masterbaitingJune 4 2011, 12:04:54 UTC
[The light-show of his own passion makes Alois' heart beat a little less oddly, but the oft-scorned and ever-wanted phrase gets it started all over again. As you wish, Claude says.
You say to God, ‘My beliefs are flawless and I am pure in Your sight.’
Alois breathes.
Oh, how I wish that God would speak, that He would open His lips against you
His forehead touches just above Claude's clavicle. Inhale: it's deep, reminiscent of gasping but with a sense of afterglow. Exhale: it's against Claude's skin, near where buttons meet.
and disclose to you the secrets of wisdom, for true wisdom has two sides. Know this: God has even forgotten some of your sin.
Claude had made Jim Macken bloom into Alois Trancy without the stray dog even realizing that there was passion. Alois had come alive and didn't notice it until he was reminded that being alive hurts very, very badly. Apathy into desire is uncomfortably accurate, and fingers like bird legs rub over scar tissue, above it onto smoothness, and then below it onto other smoothness. He touches Claude and it's like a blind child using his hands to read his favorite bed time story, a book that's been lost underneath his bed for too many insomnious nights. The blind boy must have been plagued by shapeless monsters in absolute and unending darkness. Alois feels like Bartimaeus under Jesus' hand, able to see again, liberated from creeping beasts (as he presses himself against another).
His hand goes flat against the scarred side of Claude's ribcage.] A Trancy butler, [he whispers. He's remembering to breathe, yes.]
I don't like this blanket. Cover me with another.
[That's a test. He doesn't give a damn about the blanket; what he wants to hear is-
The very real possibility that he won't get what he's after makes him shudder. In a strange way, Alois feels spent, like he's been tumbling about in sheets rather than sitting mostly stationary. It's nicer than it is unsettling. He lifts his head from Claude's collar and keeps his fingers inside pajamas. In Numbers and Joshua and Chronicles and Job, and even in King David's Psalms, it's made readily apparent that if you are unfaithful to God, you will be crushed as easily as that sovereign bond between Man and Maker. Is Claude getting off easy, this morning? Alois takes his hands away from his demon's pajamas, from his scar, and rests one thumb at the corner of each hellish, glittering eye. They don't press inward as he might've done to Hannah; he traces them out and away, instead, like a Pharaoh's elegant kohl. Pretty. Alois wants to paint Claude's face, but with his fingers and lips instead of brushes or colors.]
let me be ridiculous at you for a sec here. 1/2stabilimentumJune 5 2011, 05:22:25 UTC
[Claude has never felt this much like he has a heartbeat of his own. Every irregular smack and stroke of his master's heart is being repeated inside his own chest, striking up more uncontrollable notes to knock about unholy hollows. When he said, As you wish, he intended it like a prayer; his tone would have fit with Agnus Dei. The notes are accompanied by soft-strange violin resonance, which Alois had noticed when they met again and confused for secret singing. As he lies here and lets the orders sink in, the music sinks even further through him, increasing in volume from pianississimo into fortondoando. The louder it gets for them, the more it resolves and reveals what it is: his love.
And nothing about this music is anything like those bullshit hymns that praise God.
Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, Both now and always, and unto the ages. Amen.
Fuck no.
If he knew how many Biblical references were being used to describe their relationship, he wouldn't nearly look and feel so damn pleased with himself. He relaxes with Alois secure against him, letting his master's fingers go free, letting his own modestly curl up in the bedding. They aren't doing anything too physical, and yet he does feel like they're dancing at the hips to some sinful rhythm. His skin is slightly damp from emotional exertion, causing his scar to feel slicker and silky to the touch. Lævateinn's darkness distorted this flesh when it raced through his veins faster than adrenaline, leaving behind a bizarre scar as a constant reminder of what his indiscreet hubris got him in the end. The rest of him here, the remainder of his body with demonic eyes and black nails, is an even more enduring memento of what happened when he lost faith--or had faith in the first place--in the Father.
The Holy Bible is dripping in blood, Alois Trancy, but it's mostly a collection of legends--merely trivia for dealing with daily dilemmas. All this shit about Job and Bartimaeus and other miracles is founded on fallacy and historical revision. Your demon was there for what really happened, for as far back as mortals know. Claude can tell you that God was dipped in honey and sugar in even the Old Testament, by humanity desperate to believe in something. While Claude wasn't one of the first celestial beings, he was created to deal with the first and worst of God's many atrocities: the splitting of humanity from few genders into many. God tore them asunder in a paranoid fit, right down the middle, and separated the children of the sun, moon, and earth. The transition wasn't the easiest, needless to say; it wasn't like humanity wanted to forgive God for that. Having run out of ideas, God created a slew of new angels and told them to fix it.
If Sebastian Michaelis is the "originator" of hatred, then Claude Faustus is responsible for--]
As you wish, master.
[It was an ingenious solution at the time. Claude spun special threads out of light and used them to mercifully suture shut the God-given wounds, ending the screams of asymmetrical, bleeding, quivering beasts. He sewed love into every human being, straight up their backs like corset ribbons. Though he lost touch with it, even though he ended up hating it for a while, Claude will never stop valuing love and the hope it provides for a future. Not even God could imagine that for His People.]
If you have no preference... [Pale eyelids lower a subtle amount, long lashes catching sultry red and glimmering like a star-filled nebula.
He pulls aside the heavy velvet blankets before they can offend Alois any further. (He kind of wants to burn them, too, since nothing unwanted should come in contact with his master.) Before too much cold air can accost them, he grabs on to another blanket--a large afghan he idly crocheted right before Hannah arrived.
It's made from royal purple cotton yarn pulled into a spider web pattern, with shining gold stabilimenta in random places. Warm and smooth, but not as oppressive, the afghan slides on and around them, covering them both from the neck down.
As he tugs one corner into position, he murmurs and means,] Whatever you wish.
[It's warm, and it feels like it should be perfect. Parts of it are, at least. Parts of all of this seem crystalline, and the picture's skewed only by lovely-cut facets. It's fantastic. Alois draws his limbs in and wants so badly to be right where he is.
It's when he thinks too hard on it that he finds the impurities. If he strains everything too thoroughly, or combs through with too-fine teeth, he'll hit the snags: he'll remember that such sacrilege isn't meant to be revered like this. He wonders if a love affair with an angel would leave him any less likely to rot, and then sets himself to laughter whilst his face goes hidden against Claude's collar bone, just underneath his shoulder. With this, Alois is certain that their sizes are perfect. Claude's body was made for him to nest against. (That's not really an exaggeration.)
There's an amount of greed, he finds, after having seen like demons do. Alois wants to know: how does he look to Claude? He wants to know: ]
What do you look like to you?
[Though blurted thanks to jittery impulses, this is asked quietly. His cheek, now, rests against Claude's finely tailored clavicle; both sets of fingers are curled loosely against the top of his pajama top. It's when he catches himself looking at nothing from underneath his eyelashes that he realizes he doesn't need to keep his eyes open, so he shuts them, and it's nice, and it's safe. Right now, he feels very safe. Despite having just watched a demon die, he feels like Claude could kill anything. It's a little like having your own throne in the middle of a lion's den. There's adrenaline in that, too. You can lay amidst the lions and still acknowledge what they're capable of with their teeth to your body. Alois knows that, and has the urge to bite first. There's a thrill in the thought.
He's glad he didn't ask Claude what he looks like through demonic eyes- he wants to know, but he's also frightened of how different they might look to one another. There are sayings about how love makes a person blind, or makes things more beautiful, and those sorts of things - illusionary, in essence, and Alois wants to be real to Claude but he wants to be embellished, too. He wants to be the best thing; he'd love for his banners to be brightest. For some reason - survival instinct? - his body still harbors signs of fear from the sensory shocks he'd experienced: like a little bead of water on a blade of grass, too heavy but unwilling to stop his clinging, he trembles. Despite it, he smiles, and isn't really sure why. Could also be instinct. He must just need to bare his teeth.
Like flowers closing for the night, his fingers curl more tightly. -Maybe his hands are more akin to flytraps. He wants to chew.]
[... it would be immeasurably easier to describe what Alois looks like to him. Despite the inherent complexity, Claude could actually quantify everything in appreciable human terms. First, he'd say Alois is not unlike a "living constellation," defined by the seven primary chakras that are located up and down his body. They're starry vortices of color and heat, some more distinct than others, shaped like flowers and unfolded fans. All of them are interconnected via rippling ribbons, forming the astral treasure known as Alois Trancy--he's part wind, jewel, secret, and spirit. Finally, his ribbons weave to and blend into the greater, grander Design, a system more infinite and beautiful (and sinister) than any spider web known to exist. Sadly, many connections go dark where they've been bruised and broken by contract contact with the demon.
Claude's own threads are silver-black, forming immense nets to ensnare Alois' stars. The nets glimmer with the energy he's stopping up and leaching away during every second his master lives. --How do you explain the spiritual equivalent of an embolism?]
Hmm...
[Stalling so he can think, Claude hums and tucks Alois against himself, and then the afghan against both of them. It is warm here, all thanks to Alois, whose body heat inspires inside Claude a certain sort of greediness. If he were allowed to, if it weren't self-destructive, he'd spread out this warm body beneath him and drive it to new record highs in temperature. There might be time for that someday, when he's dealt with the impediments, but for now he holds on to Alois platonically--aside from the slide of fingertips down his spine.
No reason to tremble, Claude thinks. No need to be so afraid. He is not going to fail again. He is not going to die again. He feels like he could take on Sebastian Michaelis right now--or anyone at all, even the Holy Father--for how strong he feels with this human to draw from. By the way, embracing a demon isn't about eternal damnation--it's giving up on hypocrisy; acknowledging your imperfections. Claude knows repentance isn't real, not really, not when you're damned if you do and damned if you don't. He'll act as the throne among lions, or something steadfast to bite on, or the sponge for every possible confession if it'd matter. He feels safe, too, holding Alois. Invulnerable. This is how it should be.]
Not so many colors as you, [he murmurs at last, his fingers creeping lower. He touches the tip of a chakra called Manipura.] And not nearly as bright.
[Manipura is situated on Alois' spine, directly behind his navel. To Claude, it looks like a downward pointing red triangle with a bright yellow circle around it. He teases the numerous black petals on the outside, listening to the ember-crackling of various vritti, or psycho-physical propensities, hidden in each. (Thirst is his favorite for this chakra, followed closely by jealousy. They're both on fire, in ecstasy.)
Shutting his eyes, he can still see how colorful and alive Alois is. His fingertips burn as he dips them deeper into Manipura--into the center of willpower and achievement.]
My light has already gone out.
[Extinguishment happened a long time ago, so he doesn't flinch to say it anymore. After a moment of lingering, his hand moves along and crosses over the lumbar region, searching for the highly risqué Swadhisthana at the tailbone. It contains unconscious desires, especially sexual desires, and can make or break the saints when they're facing temptation. Knowing better, he doesn't try to provoke it too much.]
[That is somehow terrible to hear. Expected, entirely logical considering what Claude is, but it's terrible. It's easy to think, It's not fair. What had Claude even done to have God cast him out? (Is that how it went? Alois doesn't like to think about the distance between him and his servant- that he loves Claude so much yet knows really very little about him.) It must have been awful, whatever it was, to have his lights put out like that. Darkness is a cruel punishment.
The love churning around in his chest is enough to make him dizzy. It's really not fair.]
I'm right here, [he says, and then flushes and thinks it might sound stupid. But- if he is colorful and he is bright, then Claude shouldn't be missing anything at all. He hides himself, or tries to, but speaks again anyway: ] That's not what you look like to me, so that's not what you look like.
[Alois Trancy will be the one to define how exactly Claude's perceived, thank you very much.]
My eyes will find what needs to be done and then your hands will do it. It works like that, doesn't it, Claude? [And now he's squirming, restless against the soft walls of their warm cocoon, restless against how strong and real Claude is. With scrambling hands and a fluttering heart and a suddenly commanding tone, he says,] That's how it is. That's what you are.
[Alois' hands, in this case.
Limbs are rebelling. Alois' arms are over Claude's shoulders; his knees are moving from hips to the bed, and he's pressing all his weight forward. He wants to be able to push Claude over - he wants to be held up on top of the world. He's fierce again. He's refusing his own fright.]
Sebastian Michaelis - his light's going to go out. You can stand on his rotty fucking guts for all I care. You don't need color. [Not when I'm over you. Claude's fingers play him like strings. It's the same as stoking coals. He wonders briefly and very suddenly if he's crying, and hopes he isn't, but doesn't want to lift his fingers to check whether his cheeks are wet again. (They aren't, but his eyelashes are.)]
[I would begin here, Claude thinks. Right here. And right here is right at the basal end of Alois' spinal column in the vicinity of his coccygeal plexus. It's right below where Claude has slid a few of his fingers to explore and exploit the next chakra like spectral, free-flowering fruit. He pushes past the many petals of Manipura to tease bitterest, crimson Muladhara. Right inside is the foundation of Alois Trancy, where physical and psychic longing resides, where Claude would devour the flesh itself from the inside on out. Already soulless, Alois' body would sleep through it, oblivious, unable to feel pain. Blood simply tastes best when it's still moving, you see. And Claude saves the succulent soles and souls for the very last bites.
He's salivating when he says,] That's exactly how it works. [His voice is damp with it. He isn't trying to hide it.
Alois fights back against him with all his squirming--it's something instinctive; contracts reformed do mean meeting sooner ends. Claude really does enjoy the feel of a butterfly struggling, wrapped and trapped in silk. Their cocoon rustles with each movement, as if it might shift or slip off, which Claude knows is possible when Alois is (potentially) strong enough to get away. Claude allows himself to be pushed over, then, and brings Alois along with him, letting them settle with Alois perched above him.
That's enough upheaval for now. His master has done very well this morning--he has been a very good boy. For his rekindled passion, Alois deserves a reward, so Claude finally stops the intangible torment of jewel-secret-spirited nodes. Claude's hands travel back up the pretty nightgown, high enough to touch slender shoulder blades and then shoulders.
A reward. Yes.]
Thank you.
[From shoulders to neck, Claude keeps his touch gentle, even though it's so easy to break a human. He flirts with soft blonde hair until his fingertips curl where it's warmest behind Alois' ears, or the perfect place to hide for smaller forms. Thumbs are stretching and tracing over his master's nearly-a-year-older contours, thoroughly memorized by now, but no shame in checking.]
You are my most generous master, [he murmurs, going from ears to face in earnest to absorb tears before they can fall.] To give me whatever it is that I'm lacking. [The disturbing part is how he's not even lying anymore. He won't dwell on what his Father did to him, though, not now. He's victorious and he knows it; he's at least proud of himself.] I am not sure what I should do in return, for the opportunity to be a part of you. [And to make you a part of me.]
[Everything is gone wrong. Panic is blooming into his face more fully each second, as he goes paler and lets go of the strings of his thoughts.]
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All along, Claude was wrong. He has been very wrong all this time. The original basis of their contract hasn't been nullified--Alois Trancy still loathes Sebastian Michaelis. Although the reasons why have changed, the outcome desired remains the same. Claude had to tell lies to get Alois to feel even half the hate his demon has for Sebastian, but now... there are only indefensible truths left...
Save Ciel Phantomhive from the demon that intends to take him away.
It's so storybook, it hurts. Claude feels giddy.
Nothing happens immediately, though. Nothing happened immediately the first time around. They had to wait years to maneuver the key pieces into position. For now, sparkling scarlet fades from Claude's eyes, and he sits up in bed with Alois still pressed against him, feeling stronger than he has in years. This is the strength of Alois' convictions--the passion that Claude Faustus is in love with.
In an abrupt tumble of velvet and dimming light, Claude rolls them over until they're together beneath the covers. Some species of spiders make burrows below ground--they can pretend they're trap-door spiders waiting for their prey to walk by unawares.]
Master, [he says, almost cooing, cradling Alois against himself.] My master, it shouldn't be necessary for me to say this so many times--
[It's darkened but not dark down here, so his smile is somewhat obscure.]
I will not fail you again.
And my death cannot be replicated here.
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How can you say that?
[There are some times where it's best to lie to Alois. During others, the thought of false words is awful. He won't allow any empty promises here.]
How can you say that if he's already- [Teeth grit.] He's going to suffer. Endlessly. Fantastically. He'll wish it was only a bird forever eating his fucking liver, I swear. He won't ever have anything again, Claude.
[His anger makes their den so much hotter. That passion is inflamed entirely, right now, and he's grown pink-faced and harsh-breathed for it.]
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It feels like he has been submerged in boiling wax. If he had less restraint, he'd be moaning right now.]
Yes, yes, yes, [he says, using honeyed tones. His words should glaze Alois.] You will be the one to cause Sebastian Michaelis to suffer. [In the past, he made similar assurances whenever things weren't going their way. Until the angel lopped off Sebastian's contract arm, Claude couldn't be sure that they were going to steal Ciel away in time. It was a very last-minute thing; probably stressful as hell.]
--Shall I tell you a story?
[An ideal situation for the truth, really.]
Of how I died.
[His fingers are bare and flaring along Alois' spine, forming chords and playing scales. It's all he can do to keep drawing that passion to the surface, transforming it into heat he can literally suck from the air. He shivers, congratulating himself, because Jim Macken went from blank numbness to frothing at the lips in rage. Oh, the beauty of these unwavering assertions...]
Of why I know better.
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Tell me, [he breathes before he can stop himself, and wonders if he'll be sick, because he doesn't want to hear how Claude dies - he tells himself that it doesn't count and that it's not the truth of things at all, but Alois Trancy loses sight of which truths of his do and don't apply to the rest of the world - but he finds himself needing to know, like he needs to cling to this body he willed into his possession.
His eyes, blue and burning, dart across Claude's face: cheeks, chin, eyes, brow, jaw, nose, mouth. He's looking for the story already; he wants to fist his hands in Claude's hair and scream for it, either begging or demanding. Alois licks his lips, and says more urgently,] Tell me, Claude.
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[It has never felt better than now to say those words. Claude wants to say more, much more, a million more yeses and ten times the I want yous. Right now, more than anything, Claude wants to pick up Alois, carry him into the washroom, and deliberately take care of him-- He wants to bathe his human's body with ten reverent fingers and a terribly tender tongue. He'd wash between every toe, and floss around every tooth, cleaning Alois thoroughly until he sparkled as much as the fiery Hope Diamond. Afterward, if only Alois could allow it, Claude would get on his knees and thank him for existing, and perhaps find out if Alois is hot enough to singe his tongue.
That will have to wait, however, he tells himself. Being in close proximity to Alois is making him feel less in control than he would like to. He doesn't want to lose his mind when they have so much to do in regards to making Sebastian suffer. Still, this is definitely a soul worth tearing apart--it's not only a ripple, but a tsunami in the long, long, idle life of a demon.]
Then, if you'll permit me...
[Claude reaches behind his back to retrieve one of Alois' hands. He gently overlaps it with his fingers curled over the edges; displaying extreme care, he extricates that tiny but ferocious grip from his shirt. Together, he guides their hands around and down, and against the darker green hem, and then under the hem, underneath his pajamas. He presses Alois' palm to his skin and realizes it's been a while since they've touched like this. His skin is smooth and strangely cool, like sculpted marble at room temperature, and it's exactly what Alois wanted from him.
Then, as he moves his human's touch higher, that smooth skin abruptly becomes disgustingly cratered. The pockmarked scar inflicted by Lævateinn is ungodly and ugly as hell--its ridged tendrils wrap around his chest like scarification from jellyfish stings. Alois wasn't looking in the right place for the story, that's all.]
Close your eyes and listen to me, [he murmurs, as if he's going to sing a lullaby. His teeth are aching with the need to bite something.] It began with a formal duel between demons.
Hoheo taralna...
[Oh. Maybe it isn't bullshit after all.]
Rondero tarel.
[The words themselves are almost tangible, almost as comfortable as them holding hands, as entrancing as the unintimidating darkness on the back of their eyelids even though demon eyesight is quite different from what you're used to. their colors are brighter, the edges of things are sharper, and you can see everyone's auras undulating in the air like individual war banners. inside this cave, it's like being in the center of a starstorm to you--its glowing green crystals are almost painful to look at. hannah anafeloz hurls lævateinn at the rocky ceiling and then smiles wickedly as she explains the terms; what's at stake for the duelists. standing in front of you is sebastian michaelis, and you hate him so much it's fucking unreal.
from there, everything is a fast-paced clusterfuck. most of your thoughts are incomprehensible to you, contained inside an ancient language you don't understand right now. all you know is that you're fighting very hard for your life and the right to your master. hatred spirals out of control while lævateinn keeps exchanging hands and the isle of the dead falls the fuck apart. within a minute the duel moves from the crumbling cavern to this free-fall into a deep gorge, along a fault line that sebastian provoked earlier. it's fucking disgusting that he doesn't care at all about sacred places.
sebastian claims lævateinn again and grins at you, but you have a plan to end this once and for all. you fall and land on an outcropping of rock, and make your wrist tense as you produce webbing, ready to claim the revenge you've craved for fucking thousands of years of looking at this smug motherfucking FUCKER so you think (in english) i've got it and (in german) ich hasse dich and (in hebrew) neshomeleh and (in ???) y'hah y'hah y'hah y'hah y'hah y'hah
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the pain of being skewered is strangely muted and detached. lævateinn is a frosty sharp twinge in your side, right where the spear of longinus was driven into jesus christ, exactly where alois trancy did/does/will get stabbed. shitty blood rushes into your mouth immediately, and for the first time in months, your thoughts are coherent:
Where is... Words keep dying and drying up as Lævateinn's influence overtakes your mind. Alois... Trancy... You don't cry, you just can't, but your eyes get hotter with sigils and things. Alois... While you talk to Sebastian, all you know is you're acknowledging how much of a fuckup you've been. Your feelings of regret are intense. And the guilt tastes like lava. Not a human's guilt, but the closest a demon can get to experiencing it. Through the contract, Alois Trancy answers you with, Hey, Claude, are you angry? but what else you say to each other is garbled as the contract goes into fluxon't let that happen. I swear to you.]
Master, we have sworn ourselves to each other to beyond the end. [Claude has been speaking in reality all this time.] But there is no conceivable means through which Hannah will be used against me again.
[The vision gets stripped away, but only after a half-second glimpse of someplace fuzzy white, wonderfully warm, and densely covered by bluebells.]
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Alois comes back to himself like he's just come back from drowning.
It must have been a sea he's drowned in, because he can tell there's salt on his face and on his lips. Saline, it's a little sticky where it's started to dry, but that doesn't matter much since it's washed over again with fresh tides of tears. Alois is gasping and grasping and shaking so hard that it's nauseating. The skin near his eyes is red; his cheeks are chalky.
There are doubts (why is hannah holding ciel what did you do) and there is stinging fury. What's more important right now is the words Alois wrings from his throat like so many more tears.]
You won't let that happen. You swear to me.
[His speech is testament to how this wracks his body, but these are the most scalding orders he's given. They're forged right from his core.
Finally he looks at Claude's face, and his eyes are brighter from all the crying, and tears are still welling against his eyelashes, and his chin trembles and though he is planted firmly, his roots shrivel, a little.]
You can't.
[What a trauma to his human frame. His fingers are curled against Claude's skin, now, and he's glad for it, because he needs to know that the body he dreamed is still there. The scar is ugly - feels ugly - but Alois wants to move his tongue along it and learn its ridges and valleys with their contract laid bare. He wants to make it his own by impressing bruises of his fingerprints into the skin over and around it. He never wants anyone else to see this scar. His teeth are clamped together harshly as he still stares, and loves and hates with all his might. It's a lot of might.
He doesn't know how much he needed to know all of this.]
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Alois tastes darker and saltier than the black sea surrounding the Isle of the Dead. More sacred, transformative, and powerful than anyone knows.]
As you wish.
[The demon's eyes are seething ruby again, and they're staying that way for the time being. On the inside, Claude feels like birdsong; he's entwined with music.] If it is your wish, master, I will never let you go. [He's singing when he says,] Please calm down, [with trills of delight,] and remember to breathe. Try to breathe with me. [In their velvet den, the air is hot, humid, salty, and tinted sunset colors from his eyes and their exposed, provoked seals. It's like sitting inside of a tin of Red Moon Shadow tea. Claude inhales slowly and wonders how he could have been so stupid.]
Apathy into desire, lies into truth, and screams into silence. [His hand returns, soaking up more tears. Hannah got to drink these, too, didn't she? And then she got to eat this soul? Well, with the most recent order, the story will never unfold in such a repulsive manner again.] That's what makes...
[... just a quirk of his lips. They both know how the rest goes. No matter what Alois wants from him, Claude won't be able to deny him anything as long as his soul stays this passionate. He'd allow Alois to learn his supernatural scar with tongue and teeth; he'd gladly have Alois inflict new marks on him. Rip free his hair, gouge out his eyes, rend the flesh from his bones--all of it, any of it, Claude wants it so badly.
It makes him no better than livestock, but Claude just wants to feel owned.]
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You say to God, ‘My beliefs are flawless
and I am pure in Your sight.’
Alois breathes.
Oh, how I wish that God would speak,
that He would open His lips against you
His forehead touches just above Claude's clavicle. Inhale: it's deep, reminiscent of gasping but with a sense of afterglow. Exhale: it's against Claude's skin, near where buttons meet.
and disclose to you the secrets of wisdom,
for true wisdom has two sides.
Know this: God has even forgotten some of your sin.
Claude had made Jim Macken bloom into Alois Trancy without the stray dog even realizing that there was passion. Alois had come alive and didn't notice it until he was reminded that being alive hurts very, very badly. Apathy into desire is uncomfortably accurate, and fingers like bird legs rub over scar tissue, above it onto smoothness, and then below it onto other smoothness. He touches Claude and it's like a blind child using his hands to read his favorite bed time story, a book that's been lost underneath his bed for too many insomnious nights. The blind boy must have been plagued by shapeless monsters in absolute and unending darkness. Alois feels like Bartimaeus under Jesus' hand, able to see again, liberated from creeping beasts (as he presses himself against another).
His hand goes flat against the scarred side of Claude's ribcage.] A Trancy butler, [he whispers. He's remembering to breathe, yes.]
I don't like this blanket. Cover me with another.
[That's a test. He doesn't give a damn about the blanket; what he wants to hear is-
The very real possibility that he won't get what he's after makes him shudder. In a strange way, Alois feels spent, like he's been tumbling about in sheets rather than sitting mostly stationary. It's nicer than it is unsettling. He lifts his head from Claude's collar and keeps his fingers inside pajamas. In Numbers and Joshua and Chronicles and Job, and even in King David's Psalms, it's made readily apparent that if you are unfaithful to God, you will be crushed as easily as that sovereign bond between Man and Maker. Is Claude getting off easy, this morning? Alois takes his hands away from his demon's pajamas, from his scar, and rests one thumb at the corner of each hellish, glittering eye. They don't press inward as he might've done to Hannah; he traces them out and away, instead, like a Pharaoh's elegant kohl. Pretty. Alois wants to paint Claude's face, but with his fingers and lips instead of brushes or colors.]
Cover me, [is his quiet repetition.]
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And nothing about this music is anything like those bullshit hymns that praise God.
Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit,
Both now and always, and unto the ages. Amen.
Fuck no.
If he knew how many Biblical references were being used to describe their relationship, he wouldn't nearly look and feel so damn pleased with himself. He relaxes with Alois secure against him, letting his master's fingers go free, letting his own modestly curl up in the bedding. They aren't doing anything too physical, and yet he does feel like they're dancing at the hips to some sinful rhythm. His skin is slightly damp from emotional exertion, causing his scar to feel slicker and silky to the touch. Lævateinn's darkness distorted this flesh when it raced through his veins faster than adrenaline, leaving behind a bizarre scar as a constant reminder of what his indiscreet hubris got him in the end. The rest of him here, the remainder of his body with demonic eyes and black nails, is an even more enduring memento of what happened when he lost faith--or had faith in the first place--in the Father.
The Holy Bible is dripping in blood, Alois Trancy, but it's mostly a collection of legends--merely trivia for dealing with daily dilemmas. All this shit about Job and Bartimaeus and other miracles is founded on fallacy and historical revision. Your demon was there for what really happened, for as far back as mortals know. Claude can tell you that God was dipped in honey and sugar in even the Old Testament, by humanity desperate to believe in something. While Claude wasn't one of the first celestial beings, he was created to deal with the first and worst of God's many atrocities: the splitting of humanity from few genders into many. God tore them asunder in a paranoid fit, right down the middle, and separated the children of the sun, moon, and earth. The transition wasn't the easiest, needless to say; it wasn't like humanity wanted to forgive God for that. Having run out of ideas, God created a slew of new angels and told them to fix it.
If Sebastian Michaelis is the "originator" of hatred, then Claude Faustus is responsible for--]
As you wish, master.
[It was an ingenious solution at the time. Claude spun special threads out of light and used them to mercifully suture shut the God-given wounds, ending the screams of asymmetrical, bleeding, quivering beasts. He sewed love into every human being, straight up their backs like corset ribbons. Though he lost touch with it, even though he ended up hating it for a while, Claude will never stop valuing love and the hope it provides for a future. Not even God could imagine that for His People.]
If you have no preference... [Pale eyelids lower a subtle amount, long lashes catching sultry red and glimmering like a star-filled nebula.
He pulls aside the heavy velvet blankets before they can offend Alois any further. (He kind of wants to burn them, too, since nothing unwanted should come in contact with his master.) Before too much cold air can accost them, he grabs on to another blanket--a large afghan he idly crocheted right before Hannah arrived.
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As he tugs one corner into position, he murmurs and means,] Whatever you wish.
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It's when he thinks too hard on it that he finds the impurities. If he strains everything too thoroughly, or combs through with too-fine teeth, he'll hit the snags: he'll remember that such sacrilege isn't meant to be revered like this. He wonders if a love affair with an angel would leave him any less likely to rot, and then sets himself to laughter whilst his face goes hidden against Claude's collar bone, just underneath his shoulder. With this, Alois is certain that their sizes are perfect. Claude's body was made for him to nest against. (That's not really an exaggeration.)
There's an amount of greed, he finds, after having seen like demons do. Alois wants to know: how does he look to Claude? He wants to know: ]
What do you look like to you?
[Though blurted thanks to jittery impulses, this is asked quietly. His cheek, now, rests against Claude's finely tailored clavicle; both sets of fingers are curled loosely against the top of his pajama top. It's when he catches himself looking at nothing from underneath his eyelashes that he realizes he doesn't need to keep his eyes open, so he shuts them, and it's nice, and it's safe. Right now, he feels very safe. Despite having just watched a demon die, he feels like Claude could kill anything. It's a little like having your own throne in the middle of a lion's den. There's adrenaline in that, too. You can lay amidst the lions and still acknowledge what they're capable of with their teeth to your body. Alois knows that, and has the urge to bite first. There's a thrill in the thought.
He's glad he didn't ask Claude what he looks like through demonic eyes- he wants to know, but he's also frightened of how different they might look to one another. There are sayings about how love makes a person blind, or makes things more beautiful, and those sorts of things - illusionary, in essence, and Alois wants to be real to Claude but he wants to be embellished, too. He wants to be the best thing; he'd love for his banners to be brightest. For some reason - survival instinct? - his body still harbors signs of fear from the sensory shocks he'd experienced: like a little bead of water on a blade of grass, too heavy but unwilling to stop his clinging, he trembles. Despite it, he smiles, and isn't really sure why. Could also be instinct. He must just need to bare his teeth.
Like flowers closing for the night, his fingers curl more tightly. -Maybe his hands are more akin to flytraps. He wants to chew.]
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Claude's own threads are silver-black, forming immense nets to ensnare Alois' stars. The nets glimmer with the energy he's stopping up and leaching away during every second his master lives. --How do you explain the spiritual equivalent of an embolism?]
Hmm...
[Stalling so he can think, Claude hums and tucks Alois against himself, and then the afghan against both of them. It is warm here, all thanks to Alois, whose body heat inspires inside Claude a certain sort of greediness. If he were allowed to, if it weren't self-destructive, he'd spread out this warm body beneath him and drive it to new record highs in temperature. There might be time for that someday, when he's dealt with the impediments, but for now he holds on to Alois platonically--aside from the slide of fingertips down his spine.
No reason to tremble, Claude thinks. No need to be so afraid. He is not going to fail again. He is not going to die again. He feels like he could take on Sebastian Michaelis right now--or anyone at all, even the Holy Father--for how strong he feels with this human to draw from. By the way, embracing a demon isn't about eternal damnation--it's giving up on hypocrisy; acknowledging your imperfections. Claude knows repentance isn't real, not really, not when you're damned if you do and damned if you don't. He'll act as the throne among lions, or something steadfast to bite on, or the sponge for every possible confession if it'd matter. He feels safe, too, holding Alois. Invulnerable. This is how it should be.]
Not so many colors as you, [he murmurs at last, his fingers creeping lower. He touches the tip of a chakra called Manipura.] And not nearly as bright.
[Manipura is situated on Alois' spine, directly behind his navel. To Claude, it looks like a downward pointing red triangle with a bright yellow circle around it. He teases the numerous black petals on the outside, listening to the ember-crackling of various vritti, or psycho-physical propensities, hidden in each. (Thirst is his favorite for this chakra, followed closely by jealousy. They're both on fire, in ecstasy.)
Shutting his eyes, he can still see how colorful and alive Alois is. His fingertips burn as he dips them deeper into Manipura--into the center of willpower and achievement.]
My light has already gone out.
[Extinguishment happened a long time ago, so he doesn't flinch to say it anymore. After a moment of lingering, his hand moves along and crosses over the lumbar region, searching for the highly risqué Swadhisthana at the tailbone. It contains unconscious desires, especially sexual desires, and can make or break the saints when they're facing temptation. Knowing better, he doesn't try to provoke it too much.]
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The love churning around in his chest is enough to make him dizzy. It's really not fair.]
I'm right here, [he says, and then flushes and thinks it might sound stupid. But- if he is colorful and he is bright, then Claude shouldn't be missing anything at all. He hides himself, or tries to, but speaks again anyway: ] That's not what you look like to me, so that's not what you look like.
[Alois Trancy will be the one to define how exactly Claude's perceived, thank you very much.]
My eyes will find what needs to be done and then your hands will do it. It works like that, doesn't it, Claude? [And now he's squirming, restless against the soft walls of their warm cocoon, restless against how strong and real Claude is. With scrambling hands and a fluttering heart and a suddenly commanding tone, he says,] That's how it is. That's what you are.
[Alois' hands, in this case.
Limbs are rebelling. Alois' arms are over Claude's shoulders; his knees are moving from hips to the bed, and he's pressing all his weight forward. He wants to be able to push Claude over - he wants to be held up on top of the world. He's fierce again. He's refusing his own fright.]
Sebastian Michaelis - his light's going to go out. You can stand on his rotty fucking guts for all I care. You don't need color. [Not when I'm over you. Claude's fingers play him like strings. It's the same as stoking coals. He wonders briefly and very suddenly if he's crying, and hopes he isn't, but doesn't want to lift his fingers to check whether his cheeks are wet again. (They aren't, but his eyelashes are.)]
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He's salivating when he says,] That's exactly how it works. [His voice is damp with it. He isn't trying to hide it.
Alois fights back against him with all his squirming--it's something instinctive; contracts reformed do mean meeting sooner ends. Claude really does enjoy the feel of a butterfly struggling, wrapped and trapped in silk. Their cocoon rustles with each movement, as if it might shift or slip off, which Claude knows is possible when Alois is (potentially) strong enough to get away. Claude allows himself to be pushed over, then, and brings Alois along with him, letting them settle with Alois perched above him.
That's enough upheaval for now. His master has done very well this morning--he has been a very good boy. For his rekindled passion, Alois deserves a reward, so Claude finally stops the intangible torment of jewel-secret-spirited nodes. Claude's hands travel back up the pretty nightgown, high enough to touch slender shoulder blades and then shoulders.
A reward. Yes.]
Thank you.
[From shoulders to neck, Claude keeps his touch gentle, even though it's so easy to break a human. He flirts with soft blonde hair until his fingertips curl where it's warmest behind Alois' ears, or the perfect place to hide for smaller forms. Thumbs are stretching and tracing over his master's nearly-a-year-older contours, thoroughly memorized by now, but no shame in checking.]
You are my most generous master, [he murmurs, going from ears to face in earnest to absorb tears before they can fall.] To give me whatever it is that I'm lacking. [The disturbing part is how he's not even lying anymore. He won't dwell on what his Father did to him, though, not now. He's victorious and he knows it; he's at least proud of himself.] I am not sure what I should do in return, for the opportunity to be a part of you. [And to make you a part of me.]
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