IC contact

[stabilimentum]

[A smooth, sedulous voice answers:]

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

Comments

[offline notes or smth] seth turn custom comment pages off B|

[wishgrant]

[ sometime over the course of the day, claude will be able to find a picture slipped under his door. ]

[reaction] whoops my bad

[stabilimentum.livejournal.com]

[Claude picks up the adorable little drawing of a duck and stares at it. And stares. And stares, and stares and stares and stares.

And then the drawing abruptly disintegrates into less than a handful of ash. Yeah, he mad.

He returns to his research without a second thought.]

[faking]

[It's not very late in the morning at all, but Alois is awake anyway. It was a rough sleep, shifting against Ciel and waking a thousand times during the night, so around 7:45am he decided that he cared fuckall about trying to doze yet again, and resigned himself to butterfly books and electronic games involving throwing birds at things. He's also still in the habit of poking through to see if anyone's said anything distracting enough to keep him occupied.

Sebastian Michaelis' face is enough of a distraction that he'd rather be bored forever.

Alois should probably be praised for the self-restraint he shows. He slips quietly from the bed, very carefully so as not to call attention from a stirring Ciel, and lets his white nightgown fall to his knees. He walks across the bedroom without creaking any floorboards. He opens the door, makes it into the hallway, and closes it behind himself without slamming it.

Very controlled.

His footfalls are bare and heavy and he's irritated with the house for its size; Claude's bedroom will take him a minute to get to and he wants to stop chewing on his lips now. Upon his arrival, Claude's door is thrown carelessly open, and hit carelessly shut. The first thing Alois does throw himself onto Claude's bed— onto Claude, who is underneath covers. The second thing he does is press his face against Claude and scream. He can hear startled spiders about the room and doesn't really give a fuck.

While not exactly a common method of starting the morning, this isn't the first time Alois has woken Claude with nothing but a tantrum— however, this is very serious, and he's as afraid as he is angry.]

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[It's true that demons consider the act of sleeping little more than a luxury. They don't have any need to sleep, not when their bodies are recharged by human souls--but Claude Faustus is a skilled practitioner of hedonism. He surrounds himself with any and all luxuries, whatever he can get away with, from how much he sleeps to the food he eats to various material amenities. If he were a dragon, he'd have his own treasure hoard.

The best example of gluttony is his bedroom right here, which he has transformed from austerity into extravagance. It was unremarkable when he arrived, save for a few pieces of drab furniture and thin blinds for the windows. Now downright epicurean, it boasts ornate wallpaper in royal blue and gold, furniture crafted from pitch-black wood, heavy curtains of high-quality fabric, and more than one Ming vase of fragrant roses. The hand-wrought metalwork never stops gleaming, just like the frighteningly dense spider webs on the ceiling and in every corner.

His large bed is comfortable, and the covers he's cocooned in--more butterfly than spider, really--are thick and velvety, other than one mauve afghan he crocheted himself. He sleeps on his back most of the time, seemingly dead (oh...) to the whole world, since he recedes someplace very deep in order to trawl dreams that don't belong to him.

Of course, Claude wakes up the instant Alois opens the door. Considerate, Claude decides to feign sleep, assuming Alois just wants to crawl in beside him platonically as he's done in the past. His master's sudden mood could have resulted from pretty much anything--remembered nightmares, stubbing his sensitive toes, wanting breakfast right fucking now.]

Your Highness...

[The fear is a legitimate concern, though. Definitely nightmarish. The screaming, too, disturbs him with its desperation. Claude pushes away the covers so he can reach around Alois' shaking shoulders, trying to discern what's happened without having to ask. He plays a wide chord along the spine, vertebrae like piano keys, and receives memories instead of notes.

Blood red eyes.

Oh.

He inhales involuntarily. Under his pale green pajamas, he begins to sweat.]

[faking]

[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.]

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[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.]

I will not fail you again.

And my death cannot be replicated here.

[faking]

[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.]

[stabilimentum.livejournal.com]

[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...]

Of why I know better.

[faking]

[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.

1/2...

[stabilimentum.livejournal.com]

Yes, Your Highness.

[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

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on'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.]

[faking]

[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.

[stabilimentum.livejournal.com]

[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.

[faking]

[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.]

Cover me, [is his quiet repetition.]

let me be ridiculous at you for a sec here. 1/2

[stabilimentum.livejournal.com]

[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.



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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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.

6/05 sometime in the evening.

[ferventknight.livejournal.com]

[After the entire fiasco at the restaurant a few hours ago, Elliot had finally returned home. But as a side trip, he ran to get a few meals for the younger people within the house..

Give or take a few of the adults, which brought Elliot here to Claude's room. He had just a few small boxes in his hands (the happy meals, obviously) and a seperate bad that was in the other. Pausing, he slowly knocked on the door in the attic before looking around.

Ah.. This wasn't weird, right? And Elliot couldn't really help but feel the slightest intimidation from Claude ever since he punched Alois in the face. But since Claude had actually cleaned his room since the incident that involved more than just a small amount of blood, Elliot should feel better.

Keyword: Should.]

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[Claude's bedroom is tucked into one corner of the attic, as far away from the other servants as he can possibly get. Even in front of the doorway, the heavy smell of his room's special roses should be apparent; they're underscored by what must be dark chocolate. On the door there are several obvious metal locks, deadbolts and combinations, which will only open on their own for his master. A pale pink Post-It Note rests smack dab in the middle of the door, bearing a crudely drawn sigil on it that has no obvious meaning.

Silence. No answer at all.

It could be Claude is sleeping, or maybe he--]

Mr. Nightray.

[--is standing right behind Elliot. Adjusting his glasses curiously. Like master, like servant--except Claude seemingly came out of thin air.]

Is there something I can help you with?

[Claude hasn't shown any enmity toward Elliot, aside from that non-confrontation weeks ago. Really, he was quite quick and discreet about cleaning up Elliot's room of spilt blood; he hasn't breathed a word of that strangeness to anyone. All he left in his wake was the pleasant, soothing scent of pine oil cleaner.

... oh, speaking of smelling... it's above the roses, and...... enhancing the chocolate........... Happy Meal? Nnngh. Claude looks down at the bag and squints slightly.]

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[What?!

Elliot had visibly jumped on the spot the moment he had heard his name. Shit, this man gave Elliot the creeps. That was completely unnecessary, Claude. Quickly turning around, he glanced up at the taller man.]

S-sir. I came here to thank you-- [If you can even call it that. Elliot realizes what Claude had been looking at before raising it awkwardly. Presenting it to the male, the Nightray calmed down from the slight scare given to him not even moments ago.]

I ran an errand [not even that.] and figured I'd get something for you as well. For what you did for me; I really appreciated it, sir.

06/01

[snakeofaguy.livejournal.com]

[To say feelings are conflicted would be an understatement. The entire night had been consumed with trying to understand the meaning of the gifts that had been settled for him in front of his door. Even once nighttime came and he swattled himself in a thick robe to keep warm, those gloves stayed on his hands. Even once sleep overcame him, warm and comfortable in his bed with his family surrounding him, they were there, his fingers curled around each other, cheek to hand. Morning came and he laid in bed, lethargic with the storm the night before and the small cold front it brought with it. For a long time, his thoughts fumbled around the gloves as he rubbed his fingers together to feel the softness more completely, the warmth more reassuring than anything he'd ever known. Inside a house of turmoil, and safe under his covers with these little gifts and thoughts of...

His face has been flashing with heat since the night before and it's around midday that Snake takes it upon himself to resolve this. Perhaps he's sick, and if he is, the he needs to let Ciel know. He's never felt quite like this before but this world is strange, so there could be many explanations, right? Once dressed, despite it being afternoon when he rises, he makes his way down the stares, listening to the hissing songs of his family. The house is safe. The house is clear of danger. Everything is normal.

Green eyes cast outside at the rumbling clouds. Weather. It might be the weather. It's been so gloomy and sunless, the faint chill of winter somehow still sneaking its way into the summer breeze. Maybe his body is reacting to that. A convicted nod comes when the clouds part just a little, giving a beam of sun. The garden, he will sunbathe in the garden. The glass patio doors are pushed open in silence, his passage through the house as silent as the rest of his family's. There's one spot he adores, and his mind is focused no that, not on the gloves that are settled in his bedside table drawer upstairs. Not at all.]

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[Surprising someone is the least harmful way to force their emotions to flare. Fear, panic, astonishment, realization, and relief--Claude enjoys seeing and feeling them flash and fade in rapid succession. While he waits for Elliot to settle and say his piece, Claude continues to stare at the fast food as though he would eat the bags and boxes whole. Shit, he is hungrier than he thought.]

You are quite welcome, [he replies, looking up again. His gaze lingers on the center of Elliot's chest, where his life force does not originate from. Claude has to wonder how long it'll take for the disembodied soul to start rotting.] However, as I've said before, it was not at all any trouble. A good butler should be prepared to assume the housekeeping.

[Peering into Elliot's eyes, Claude takes the bag of food from him. The bag's paper is warm and he wants to hug it to his chest, snuggling it like a security blanket. He refrains for the sake of propriety.]

I wonder which toy I'll acquire... [Somewhat amused, actually.] There was a Lamborghini Gallardo LP570-4 Superleggera die-cast car I had my sights set on. [He reaches into the bag to retrieve a few French fries, which he eats one at a time, slow and steady. His self-restraint is admirable--of course, once Elliot is out of sight, he'll shove everything inside his mouth.]

You have my greatest gratitude, sir. If you find yourself in need of more assistance, please to be letting me know.

Re: 06/01

[stabilimentum.livejournal.com]

[There is a gigantic caterpillar out in the gardens. It's a sleek, black, plush-looking creature currently resting on a decorative circle of asphalt that absorbs heat very well compared to other walkways and patios. Set amidst blooming wildflowers and sandstone garden spheres, the caterpillar is positioned exactly where the sunlight is strongest and therefore the warmest. It soaks up the heat greedily, basking while the clouds allow it, squirming slightly in pleasure. Grotesque, maybe, but it's peaceful.]

Good afternoon, Mr. Snake, [says Claude Faustus.

His quiet voice carries when he wants it to. So does his scent, which for now is cool and hinting at crisp, reminding passersby of freshly-made cucumber salad. The caterpillar begins to wriggle more and more, scraping its bottom half over the asphalt, until it's able to sit up and turn around and look at Snake.

--Oh, it's none other than Claude Faustus wrapped up in an extremely cushiony sleeping bag. His entire body, except for his face, is covered and framed with the thick black fabric. Instead of his usual glasses, he's wearing dark designer shades that complement his bizarre inspired-by-Kafka appearance. For a spider, he sure seems ready to spin a cocoon.

His expression is so damn serious, it's stupid and silly. Here he is, sitting in a sleeping bag, presumably soaking up all the heat he can get from it and the absorbent asphalt beneath him. His mouth is a thin white line, almost a frown, although that's due to how his insides ache rather than any approaching snakes. Weather this depressing isn't unfamiliar to him, and it isn't helping his waxing moodiness any. Sebastian Michaelis recently returned to Siren's Port--somehow, he doesn't remember anything about Claude. The general idea was valuable for renewing his vows with Alois Trancy, but Claude didn't expect to ever be forgotten after everything.]

The sun should remain like this for approximately one more hour.

[The demon's blood runs cold these days; his biology is somewhat consistent with a poikilotherm, or an organism that derives heat from environmental sources. The sun is one of his favorite methods to warm up, which is why he's out here while the warming is good. A long time ago, he'd do this in Alois Trancy's company on sunshiny afternoons.]

If my presence is an inconvenience to you, I'm perfectly willing to move elsewhere.

[Given the ridiculous drama inside of the household--for example, Ciel Phantomhive trying to murder him--Claude doesn't want to be seen as the antagonist. He's holding off on provoking Ciel any further, hoping resentment will fade over time and Ciel's servants will just leave him alone. Spending his days outdoors is how Claude gets away from the temptation to ruin Ciel even more.]

voicemail;

[cursestained.livejournal.com]

Claude Faustus. [The syllables are smooth over Naoya's tongue--and amusing. Faustus, Faustus. It makes him wonder what Mephistopheles is up to these days, but the less he knows the better. ]

You had asked for an estimate of my expenses. The living expenses come to...[Rent around 600 for a small place in sector 4. Easy to keep an eye out, didn't attract much attention. 400 for utilities. Food...

...Naoya was the sort of man who survived on cheap tastes.]

$1800 a month will cover all of my needs. The equipment will be 10,000--I will assemble it myself. [Naoya is quietly building you something powerful and something--modifiable for his own needs. He doesn't need expensive parts or high specs initially--what he needs are things that don't fail under what he does to them.

A true artist can create beauty with worthless tools. Naoya doesn't think of it quite that way, but he knows how to work with whatever he has.]

As for a time to teach you...please pick something that works for yourself.

return phonecall;

[stabilimentum.livejournal.com]

[Whether his return call is answered or forwarded to the inbox:]

Mr. Naoya, I thank you for being prompt in this matter.

[Claude has listened to Naoya's voicemail almost a hundred times over, picking out every single nuance in it to get a better feel for the sort of person Naoya is. A voice can only say so much about someone, of course, but Claude does know he needs to be cautious going forward. For example, the price tag on that system is definitely higher than he expected overall. Either Naoya is interested in plainly overpriced parts, or there's more going on than meets the eye, either good or bad. This wouldn't be the first time Claude has lost money on an investment due to pure human greed.

It's a good thing greed is one of his favorite sins. As long as he's amused, he is willing to deal with it.]

$1,800 per month is sustainable for the long-term. If you require advance payments, or additional allowances, please don't hesitate to request readjustment. [Claude seems more generous than not when it comes to money. While money is technically meaningless to him, he feels better when he has more and believes others tend to feel the same way.]

$10,000 for the equipment is also doable; however, I will require more time to amass that amount in hard currency. It would be in our best interests to minimize reliance on the city's banking systems.

[There are many reasons for his mistrust, but he moves on:]

My schedule varies from day to day due to the nature of my work, with more time afforded to me at night and in the early morning hours. If you have any nocturnal tendencies, that arrangement would be ideal for me.

voice; hey bb

[cursestained.livejournal.com]

[Naoya had answered, although his silence might have made it seem otherwise while he listened. He appreciates that Claude has clearly thought through what he's been asked, and Naoya appreciates that. Working with idiots, as easily manipulated as they are, is just more aggravating than he wants. The Shomonkai was bad enough.]

Understood--given the buyout, the reluctance is...understandable. If you wish to...observe what I am making, I wouldn't be offended by the caution. [His voice is smooth, and cool, but there's an undercurrent--one Claude is certainly observant enough to find--of amusement. It isn't a scam or a trick; simply two powerful systems, augmented with Naoya's own way of doing things.

Magically protecting hardware is a pain, and difficult, but well worth the money. He'll spell the hardware first, and if he's asked he'll explain plainly--but he doesn't intend to offer that piece of information.]

The nights are fine for me. Simply be sure to let me know before your arrival. [So he doesn't magic you in the face.]