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[stabilimentum]

[A smooth, sedulous voice answers:]

You have reached Claude Faustus, butler to the Earl Alois Trancy. How may I be of service?

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[faking]

I hate it, [he manages, for how tight his throat feels.] Whatever—

[Made you like this.

Alois feels like he's been dropped from somewhere high. Or like only his skin has— like someone's taken his skeleton out of him and kicked the rest down from a steeple, then stuck his bones back in to cruelly let him ache. That's ridiculous; he wasn't the traumatized one. But he doesn't know what the trauma is from and that's one of the most frightening facets of the situation.

The backs of his hands are pressed up against the wall near his own head; his fingers are curled very loosely against his palms, spectacles dangling from the left. He isn't looking down at Claude, but straight ahead of himself. There's nothing particularly good to see. That's fine, because his eyesight's blurry from welling tears anyhow. Sparsely, they drop from his eyelashes.

He'd really thought Claude would kiss him right then. How embarrassing, that his eyes had closed until Claude's forehead had touched his chest.]

I'll make noise for whatever I please, [comes his shaky voice after a painfully dry swallow.] I'll—

[Lots of threats tonight, isn't it.]

You're not allowed to leave where I want you. So I'll make as much fucking noise as I want to. Claude.

[He's thought about it before, himself. Not with any intention of doing so - but he's imagined it, just leaving. Running away into trees or new buildings, from everything in the world. Picking up his brother and living in a burrow under a bush. Alois has imagined leaving, or telling Claude to leave, because he wonders what would happen, because curiosity and neediness drive him to fantasize about what attention this may or may not garner.

Hey. Are you angry?

They'd bought each other, but sometimes Alois is terrified he's overdrawn.]

Don't tell me not to be loud, [he murmurs very quietly. Then his hands are in Claude's hair - the glasses' arms, folded against his fingers, barely obscure his touch.]

[stabilimentum.livejournal.com]

[You already hated it, he thinks, despite how muddled his mind is. That was why..

If it weren't for Jim Macken rejecting God, none of this would have happened. Claude feels paralyzed for a moment, every one of his nerve endings unresponsive, when he thinks about God waltzing in and summarily redeeming his master. It could happen in the blink of an eye--before Claude could react. Anything at all could happen like that. With a start, he curls his fingers in tightly, making two fists in the nightgown's fabric. He has to mind his p's and q's, it seems like, so he doesn't provoke real retaliation.

Elisha said, If he does his best to stay out of the way...? Of course, there's omniscience, which is horrifying. Claude can't police his thoughts; they're always unbridled and depraved. It isn't fair when God made demons this way.]

Hush, [he mumbles, his lips moving slowly. Any closer and he'd be kissing Alois' sad little heart.] I won't be leaving you behind.

[Not for tonight, anyway. At least not for the time being. Maybe as soon as Alois falls asleep, Claude will run away and not be so painfully obvious. Maybe next week, while surveying the grounds, he will run to the edge of their property and keep running until he goes over the southern cliffs. Maybe the fall onto the rocks and into the water wouldn't kill him, but he knows the Pull essentially destroys anyone who swims out too far. Maybe, just maybe, on some distant date, he will provoke Hannah into running him through with her sword and then Alois will be free of all this bullshit.

Oh, there are warm hands caressing his hair. And his eyes are burning like they're submerged in sulfur. The pain is worthwhile--a reminder he's real--and he's tempted to kneel here and not say or do much else for a while. He knows solace can be found in Alois' feelings for him, and expectations for what the butler Claude Faustus should be. Eventually, those expectations would override any insecurities, allowing Claude to get up and bring Alois back to bed.

Another outburst is more than likely later on, judging by the frequency of his panic attacks, but it might be better to put it off while he can. (Nothing whatsoever is under his control, so he doesn't know if he's what will ever fit in this world.) Then again, his outbursts are getting more and more violent over time; Claude was already so fucking close to plundering Alois' body and soul. And Claude... really, he doesn't... even want to take Alois' s-- No.]

Master...

[Communication between them should be possible. He knows it is; he has firsthand experience with telling Alois Trancy everything ever. But nirvana suspended his mental reservations, while Siren's Port does not.]

If I were to explain myself, I am not sure you would understand.

[His fear dwindles and winds down, losing its hurricane force. Now he mostly feels exhausted, and wonders how it's possible for a demon to contain so many emotions. He doesn't want to feel anymore--he preferred grey ennui and black hatred to these vivid rainbows invading him. (That's a lie, but he won't admit it.)]

[faking]

[Good, Alois could say. Good, that you won't leave me. He could audibly praise Claude, or express his gratitude. Instead his fingers play at Claude's scalp and he tries very hard to breathe entirely normally. It's not working well. But if Claude won't leave him - that's what matters right now. Some of his own panic ebbs.]

Don't say if you were like you're not going to.

[It's scary. Whatever Claude might say, it's really, really scary. Alois thinks back to visions of saturated colors and stark auras and crystalline things, and he can't help but wonder - but his spine wants to run away from him at only the thought of those things all over again. It was thrilling, but instinctively horrifying. Maybe he liked the adrenaline, but it's mostly Claude's secrets and self he wants. All of them, and all of it, and all of Claude—

His hands slide from Claude's hair down to each side of his face, and he brings it away from his chest, tilts it up toward himself.]

Claude.

[The glasses are set back on Claude's face. He's looking down at Claude with sore eyes and defiance.]

I want you to tell me the story.

[stabilimentum.livejournal.com]

[Claude really was expecting Alois to say something like that. --Maybe not in those words exactly, but definitely what essentially amounts to the tell me. Hearing it is still somehow startling, though, and it just about shows on his face, like a trick of the light, the too-white glints being cast on his cheeks from settling glasses. His expression does flicker with something upset, yet doesn't shutter and close off; he can't retreat behind any more feigned, filthy frigidity.

I want you to tell me the story. Not the first time Claude has heard this phrase. He realizes that it's been a while since the last time he differentiated between--well, between the Alois Trancy of Siren's Port and the Alois Trancy he left behind (or was let go by?) inside nirvana. Naturally, the latter had little to lose in learning every secret there is about his demon. They were going to be together, and it was supposed to be for forever, so why the fuck not? But here in this place, for Alois to want to know when there's a distinct tomorrow, Claude finds that impressive and knows it must be scary. For such a scared little boy, Alois Trancy is the bravest person he's ever met.

Blinking once, Claude also notices slight smudge on one of the lenses. His master's fingerprint, it looks like, smeared halfway down the outside. He'll leave it for now as a reminder.]

Yes, Your Highness.

[There's a noticeable pause before he pulls away and sits back on his heels. Then, uncurling his legs out from under him, he changes position until he's sitting cross-legged, facing his master. Gently, he reaches up and takes those once-roaming hands in his own so he can lead Alois downward to sit with with him on his lap. The vestibule's coat room is almost nothing like the bluebell-covered fields of nearly-paradise, but there are comforting similarities: it's unusually warm and smells dense, and they're halfway hidden by the racks of coats instead of tall stalks. Where they're sitting, the electrical lighting seems dimmer, diffused evenly everywhere, even though he'll never have trouble seeing his master.

Claude has said this all before, once before, but he needs to provide context.]

I spoke to my Father for the first time in longer than I'm able to remember.

[It hurts an appalling amount to put the truth into words. Ah, that's how it goes when you're alive; stranded in reality. Maybe he won't be able to do this--? He falters visibly, his mouth going dry.]

[faking]

Your father, like—

[But no, not Claude's father. Rather, Father, and his own mouth feels a little dry, too. Curled in Claude's lap, nestled against his chest, he isn't looking at anything while truly seeing it. Instead he has a view of a long green coat. Is that Jack's? It doesn't matter; it doesn't even register with him. He just listens.

Now, it isn't that Alois believes there is no God. There must be, because of demons and things, and even because of angels and things. It's just that God mustn't give a shit or care an inch, and Alois Trancy isn't going to bow to something that has no investment in whether he smiles or cries or lives or dies. So really, God might as well not exist, since there's clearly no use for Him.

...He doesn't want to actually use that word at Claude - 'God,' that is. Besides, maybe demons have regular fathers. Maybe their families are ancient but still - families.

Alois doesn't want Claude to have a family. His fingers curl against Claude's ribs.]

Why?

[stabilimentum.livejournal.com]

[The whole heavenly host of angels could be considered a family. (Unlike the demons--at most the demons are estranged, distant relatives to each other.) There's real standing and respect in Heaven: some angels are older, some younger, and mentorship is provided. Claude doesn't want to think about his former family when it fucking hurts to. It was a very long time ago, so long that he believed the pain of severance had suffocated beneath all his repression. Since when do demons have post-traumatic stress disorder anyway? He remembers feeling so free after he Fell--aside from the initial screaming agony of the transformation and landing. It was almost like a spell, a curse, had been lifted from his shoulders. This really shouldn't bother him.

Of course, he has been putting this off for thousands of years. Nirvana wasn't a cure-all at all.]

I did not realize it was Him at first, [he says, his voice getting lower, his breath cool and arid like the desert. He tries to shut his eyes--and sees stained glass, marble columns, and sparkling white feathers--which doesn't last long.] He has incarnated in person here; He was on the Network. I spoke to Him.

[Slowly, for his own comfort, his thumb rubs circles on the back of Alois' hand.]

He is still angry.

[It was infinitely easier to deal with that when he thought they'd never see each other again.]

[faking]

[It'd be nice if Claude was taking comfort in him. Alois wants that - We'll never be apart, now, is what he'll say just before Claude takes his soul. He'd haunt Claude, if he could, cold and incorporeal but forever right there. Having Claude take his essence, all of him, will have to do instead. So, when Claude thumbs slowly, Alois feels a little less weighty, but doesn't fully understand why.

He doesn't take his hand away from Claude's, but he moves the other up against one pale cheek, rests fingers against a strong jawline. Alois is shifting in Claude's lap, rising up a little bit; his hair, the side of his head, sets against Claude's chin.]

I didn't see Him.

[Otherwise he might've shouted at God himself. He's never been afraid of playing with demons; why oughtn't he speak his mind to the Almighty?

And if God is what brought Claude to his knees like that, Alois hates Him for it, but at least—]

I'm not angry, [he says suddenly, and fiercely, with desperation bleeding into it. All at once, he's holding Claude's cheeks with both hands, facing him properly, too earnest for what this is. He knows he's not the same, but - he wants to be what this fallen thing can't have.] And it's bullshit if He is. No one needs to speak to anything like that, anyway - it doesn't do any good, Claude. You did. You listened to me, right?

[And he's close, and almost frantic with how he speaks, and he has no idea how Claude Fell so far in the first place, but whatever it was is fine if Claude can be on this level, with Alois, here and now.]

So I'll listen.

[stabilimentum.livejournal.com]

[Claude is so glad that his master hasn't seen God; and with any luck, that will never happen. Seriously, it's scary that the mere thought of losing Alois to salvation is enough for Claude to reconsider story time to go for the throat. They'd be better off combined into one than star-crossed and separated by means of redemption. One way or another, they're going to be together forever, even if that involves both of them dying. Nirvana has shown him--

For all its suspending self-awareness, nirvana showed him how he was the happiest he ever was when belonging to this child. He wants another forever from Alois, not greedily until the end. 'Till death do us part' doesn't apply to them. It'd be one and then the other right after.

Instead of mercifully (and mercilessly) taking Alois' soul, he pays attentive attention to everything Alois is saying. A demon's master is equivalent to God, or should be, whether or not there's resentment. This is their penance, after all: necessary service to the favorite Creation to survive adequately. Claude has never considered humans to be inferior clay pieces, though they're his primary food source and he doesn't regret it. When he feels particularly sacrilegious, he even says grace.

Let us pray. Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.]

--Master, [he says, dipping into a murmur, in confronting these earnest hands and fierce tones. The desperation is endearing, and downright flattering, except he doesn't intend to inspire more panic. Wavelengths once jarred hard are easily slipping back into sync. The harmony makes him feel warmer on the inside, which he admittedly likes. Some of his tiredness is melting away.] Master, I know you accept me.

[This might be a mistake, but it's Alois' fault for hitting too close to home. Home is where the heart is, they used to say, and Claude doesn't have a heart but he might've had one when playing pretend in eternal enlightenment. Leaning in now, they're close enough to kiss--and then they do because he wants to--and theirs is a soft, quiet kiss; hushed and hushing. They fit together well, like a pair of butterfly wings folded in, very soft and on this side of cool. Claude, at least, can taste the little bit of the saline that slid down and has since dried on Alois' lips. Makes him really thirsty for a better taste of the nectar. Salt into sugar.

It's chaste as unsunned snow, and his eyes stay open and mellowed. He wants to look as much as possible before it's too late. Withdrawing after a moment more, he smiles faintly to indicate an unspoken please and multiple thank yous.]

So you'll listen. [And Alois already has listened to him, to every one of his secrets, to reciprocate what Claude's done for him since before they had a contract. As the spider, as the stagnant and lonely demon, Claude spent many hours just listening to Jim Macken cry.]

Will you pass judgment on me?

[faking]

[What's most interesting is that when Claude kisses Alois, it makes some things inside of him tremble less, but other things tremble more. It's the good sort of trembling that starts up instead and he's almost sure of this; a fluttering, rather than something like a cup of runny custard sitting through any sort of aftershock. He is a harp, and not a cello: lighter, and not deep and mournful. He can breathe. Then he sees Claude's subtle smile and he can't again. Maybe the spider before him has wrapped his mind all up in webbing, for how diluted everything but Claude feels.

Alois stares up at Claude through his eyelashes, so suddenly set silent. They did fit together well— of course they did, Alois had always wanted that. He wants it again, now, if only because it feels incredibly familiar, like a place he's been meaning to re-visit, pay his respects to. That's a comfort. Claude is a comfort (and comforting him is as much, too). A stinging part of Alois wants to ask, Do you love me? but he's never said that outright before and the first time isn't going to be in a coat closet.

He swallows, compulsively licks his own lips because he feels dry, and then flushes at the foolishness of doing so.]

I might, [he says, whilst already his tone oscillates between firm and not. He wants to be so strong, but he also wants to be protected.] You'll have to wait and see what happens, won't you?

[There were times, before all of this, when Alois would grow anxious and antsy during bed time stories. He'd twist his bedsheet in his hands and ask after the ending, and Claude would urge him to be patient. Alois could only wriggle beneath his blankets and try so hard to keep awake until the story was through.

Be patient, Claude. And maybe he's asking for faith in himself, too.

Not at all mindful of his fingers, refusing to consider that Claude could just eat him, could chew him down in probably seconds and swallow everything inside of him and everything about him, Alois makes lines on Claude's face. He's working like a little artist, or like a cartographer. This is an elegant peak, his fingertips say, and, This is the best valley. Tracing Claude's features is easy, because he's looked at them so many times anyway. He likes the feeling that he's drawing Claude right into existence on his own, right now. I made this.

Galatea had probably been even colder to touch than Claude.]

But whatever it is, it's for me to decide, [he says quietly, prodding lightly at Claude's chin. That decree should be enough.]

[stabilimentum.livejournal.com]

[How surprising. It doesn't take a disaster to go back. No matter how highly he values hope, the pessimist in Claude is unhappy. The rest of him is unrealistically pleased with the rest of this.

What this is, in this instant, for this instant at least, is the sense that Claude really is all wrapped up in Alois Trancy and the ethereal netting of nirvana. They are protected this way together; he'll keep Alois safe through the story. Behind thin, fragile webs, threaded by the spider for beauty's sake, Claude retreats into hazy dilution not unlike a waking dream, bringing Alois with him for just the time being. It's easy to see through and out of, but he wants to stay in this cocoon of pleasant sensations for sound and touch. In here, he can hear Alois' special music as clear as crystal, and for once his master's song isn't sad--it's tremulous, but not sad. It's like the flickering flame on a candle that will take the whole night to burn down. (Whenever Alois was good, Claude would light many candles in his room to comfort him during moonless nights.)

Being with Alois can lead to these spontaneous fits of synesthesia, where the demon experiences countless involuntary, cross-sensory metaphors. Claude breathes in slowly and smells bath soaps and appreciable starlight; he feels the smoothness of gold, too, even while touching handwoven white lace. It's bizarre but he likes it, because no one else but his Father has made him feel too much like this.

Overwhelmed, on a whim, he subtly crosses his fingers and starts holding his breath. There are plenty of superstitions for breath-holding, for making wishes on stars or stopping spirits from stealing it. Tunnels and bridges and cemeteries all get this reaction from humans--their breathing stopped for the duration it takes to pass by. Claude wonders which one he's bothering to do this for. His master could be the tunnel that will show him to enlightenment. This is very likely a bridge between them, and they're crossing it in order to reach better understanding. And, honestly, one of them did die; might still be dead, too. Alois might as well be trying to draw life into a phantom, since Claude feels so pale and immaterial whenever they are apart.

He doesn't even know what he's thinking anymore. It's hard to think when he's nirvanic like this. Listening to Alois' decree, reminded of Hannah telling him to have faith in them, Claude exhales when he finally realizes that acceptance does go both ways. The potential to be unconditionally happy has always been here.]

Yes...

[I should not be so docile, he thinks.]

That is your inviolable right as my master.

[I should not be so ungrateful, he thinks.]

My first name was... [Then, pausing, he slides his tongue over his teeth (which are humanlike right now, except for the pair of canines that seem sharper than is normal). He considers saying his Name in his native tongue, although it's near-impossible to repeat for a mere mortal. It required an unreal amount of practice for Alois to learn to say it elsewhere.]

Decarabia.

[The most pronounceable version, and its five syllables make Claude's own face feel warmer--there are uncertain flecks of redness patterned on his cheeks. It doesn't matter if he has said so aloud in the past (only if Alois asked), or whispered it in the subconscious hallways of mostly forgotten dreams. Saying it here, and now, feels like the very first time all over again.]

It has no meaning because He stripped it of meaning. [Refusing to lose momentum, he leans forward into Alois and his words, their lips almost meeting to pay more respects.] A very long time ago, longer ago than I'm able to tell you, He stripped me of all meaning for questioning His unfairness from on high. My master, I understand the balance of things and why strife has to exist, but not why He chooses to treat it as though it's a stage play performed for His sadistic amusement.

He has no respect for those who do worship Him.

[That's nowhere close to The End, but Claude finds himself needing to breathe.]

[faking]

Deca... rabia.

[It's at first said cautiously, like a test, like something will happen once it's out of his mouth. Nothing does. He waits, feels like shivering, and looks at all of Claude's face. His lips, previously soft and hopeful for another touch, are almost pursed.] Decarabia, [he then says again, with a measure of certainty this time.] It's pretty.

['Pretty' wasn't the right word to use, he realizes, as soon as he says it. Beautiful would have been better, but that doesn't feel right either, and Alois doesn't want to blurt his amendment. Warm-faced, he looks down, but his fingers are staying at and near Claude's face.]

Decarabia.

[He looks up again.]

But I like your name now better.

[His hands push back a little; he plays with the edges of Claude's ears, and the dark hair near there. Claude likes to nestle in that spot, doesn't he? Alois can see why. He's almost rubbing Claude's ears like Claude is his dog.]

He sounds like a piece of shit, [Alois says honestly.] Your - Him, I mean. [He manages to give pause for only a moment before asking,] Does it hurt? Keep telling me.

[In this, Alois has started walking and refuses to stop, even if the hill is kind of steep. And he's going to make Claude walk with him. Claude is soft, and Alois wonders if maybe they could live here, in the closet. How long would they need to be gone for anyone to realize? Come morning, Luca and Ciel would, at least. Alois imagines breakfasting here, imagines making a bed of Claude's chest and then waking to find Claude in the closet's hidden kitchen. He also wonders what would happen if he kissed Claude right now, and thinks that Ciel would yell at him, and thinks he might not get anymore words, too. With a hinting frown, Alois pulls at one of Claude's earlobes, as though it might switch Claude's voice on again.]