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metamorphosis2011-03-30 08:59 pm
flair) wrote in metamorphosis2011-03-30 08:59 pm
Entry tags:
234;
Title: the people who do not dance are those of the dead
Characters: Alois, Ciel
Rating: PG-13 for grossity. And Alois Trancy.
Herp derp. Prompt is "hallucination" from15_minute_ficlets. Set in sirenspull, because evidently I have a thing fro writing things in that continuity without actually being there.
Sometimes, he has hallucinations.
He knows he should tell Ciel about them. He knows he should tell Ciel about how they're of Claude and how they ask him to dance and how he accepts, and of course he should definitely, definitely tell him how real they feel, a hand on his hip and the other helping to steadied himself on the hallucination's feet by his free hand. Sometimes, Claude forgoes the dated, social aspect of it and picks him up instead, dances with him like that. No matter what, though, it's still a dance - the same old thing. Claude, kneeling, holding out his hand, those tawny eyes sending shivers down his spine.
And Alois can't not accept – it's like he's not allowed to. Even if his lips start to form a refusal, the word comes out yes, and even though he starts to step back, he steps forward. Maybe he should start stepping forward. Maybe he should start saying yes.
Maybe he should tell Ciel.
Then one day, the hallucinations stop and it's real. He can feel Claude in the city before he can see him-- a mixture of emotions rises to his throat once, twice, and spills in to the toilet waiting below. His fingers, hot, grip the white porcelain toilet seat, blissfully cold. He heaves again and shuts his eyes this time. The sound sickens him, and it's after a long moment he reaches for the toilet paper and rolls it out, rolls it until he's got a fair amount ripped off and wipes his mouth, leaves it in the toilet and flushes. He stands, shakily, and freezes for a split second when he sees Ciel in the bathroom doorway, via the mirror. His grip loosens and tightens once, twice, and he tries to smile. Maybe he's not as convincing as he thinks, because Ciel steps closer and, rather stiffly, rubs his back.
It's a nice moment. It's shattered when Ciel speaks.
“Is he here?”
It's hard to maintain a straight face – not in a good way. His face half feels like it wants to scrunch up and cry, and half feels like it wants it fall onto the floor. He wants to cry. He wants to scream. He wants to tear the mirror off the wall – grab it by its sides, with the hell cares if they cut? Just a flesh wound – and throw it on the ground, watch it shatter into a million pieces. He wants to see what he looks like a million times over, wants to see a million reflections of that one gorgeous blue eye Ciel has. He wants to stand up and become a walking tornado, throwing every fucking thing he can find and throwing it every fucking where he can.
He settles for laughing. It starts out low, like a chuckle, and grows in volume; it drifts off into a high, needling sound, almost hysterical. And maybe he is, just a little, because Claude's here. What a fucking stupid question, Ciel Phantomhive. Ciel waits until he's finished, pausing in his rubbing, and not starting back up when he speaks again.
“Alois, is he here.”
It isn't a question anymore. It's a statement – dry – even though it should be a question. Or is he asking if Alois is here? Alois doesn't know – he closes eyes, feels his lips stretch into a smile and when he chances a look in the mirror, it's an ugly, twisted one. He tries to fix it, but it twists more, and he gives up and stares at the sink beside him instead. His voice is a little softer than he expected – was that him, or someone else? - and he's a little raspy when he replies.
“Yeah.”
Characters: Alois, Ciel
Rating: PG-13 for grossity. And Alois Trancy.
Herp derp. Prompt is "hallucination" from
15_minute_ficlets. Set in sirenspull, because evidently I have a thing fro writing things in that continuity without actually being there.Sometimes, he has hallucinations.
He knows he should tell Ciel about them. He knows he should tell Ciel about how they're of Claude and how they ask him to dance and how he accepts, and of course he should definitely, definitely tell him how real they feel, a hand on his hip and the other helping to steadied himself on the hallucination's feet by his free hand. Sometimes, Claude forgoes the dated, social aspect of it and picks him up instead, dances with him like that. No matter what, though, it's still a dance - the same old thing. Claude, kneeling, holding out his hand, those tawny eyes sending shivers down his spine.
And Alois can't not accept – it's like he's not allowed to. Even if his lips start to form a refusal, the word comes out yes, and even though he starts to step back, he steps forward. Maybe he should start stepping forward. Maybe he should start saying yes.
Maybe he should tell Ciel.
Then one day, the hallucinations stop and it's real. He can feel Claude in the city before he can see him-- a mixture of emotions rises to his throat once, twice, and spills in to the toilet waiting below. His fingers, hot, grip the white porcelain toilet seat, blissfully cold. He heaves again and shuts his eyes this time. The sound sickens him, and it's after a long moment he reaches for the toilet paper and rolls it out, rolls it until he's got a fair amount ripped off and wipes his mouth, leaves it in the toilet and flushes. He stands, shakily, and freezes for a split second when he sees Ciel in the bathroom doorway, via the mirror. His grip loosens and tightens once, twice, and he tries to smile. Maybe he's not as convincing as he thinks, because Ciel steps closer and, rather stiffly, rubs his back.
It's a nice moment. It's shattered when Ciel speaks.
“Is he here?”
It's hard to maintain a straight face – not in a good way. His face half feels like it wants to scrunch up and cry, and half feels like it wants it fall onto the floor. He wants to cry. He wants to scream. He wants to tear the mirror off the wall – grab it by its sides, with the hell cares if they cut? Just a flesh wound – and throw it on the ground, watch it shatter into a million pieces. He wants to see what he looks like a million times over, wants to see a million reflections of that one gorgeous blue eye Ciel has. He wants to stand up and become a walking tornado, throwing every fucking thing he can find and throwing it every fucking where he can.
He settles for laughing. It starts out low, like a chuckle, and grows in volume; it drifts off into a high, needling sound, almost hysterical. And maybe he is, just a little, because Claude's here. What a fucking stupid question, Ciel Phantomhive. Ciel waits until he's finished, pausing in his rubbing, and not starting back up when he speaks again.
“Alois, is he here.”
It isn't a question anymore. It's a statement – dry – even though it should be a question. Or is he asking if Alois is here? Alois doesn't know – he closes eyes, feels his lips stretch into a smile and when he chances a look in the mirror, it's an ugly, twisted one. He tries to fix it, but it twists more, and he gives up and stares at the sink beside him instead. His voice is a little softer than he expected – was that him, or someone else? - and he's a little raspy when he replies.
“Yeah.”