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Immortal	By : zoni Category: > Black Butler (Kuroshitsuji ???) Views: 4535 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji. I do not make any money off of my fan fiction.

Chapter List
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Chapter Two

The clothing is different, but I have never been as certain of anything as I am of the fact that the person who just passed me is Ciel Phantomhive. Not someone who looks like him, or a boy who has a passing resemblance. I am absolutely positive that it was him. Impossible. Ridiculous. And yet true. Less than half a second has passed since he left the shop and I already know what I have to do. Turning, I step out of the line and follow him.

The jingle of the bells on the shop door barely register as I step out into the noisy world outside of the cafe. I look both directions, trying to discern which way he went. He is easy to spot amidst the light foot traffic on the sidewalk. The stores are not yet busy, and many are not even open. There are only a few people standing in between us as we both walk swiftly down the sidewalk. He has picked up a brisk pace, walking down the street as though he has done this same thing a hundred times before. While the distance between us is closing, he is still too far away for me to catch up without running. I do not know what I will do when I actually get to him. I simply know that I must.

Ahead of me, his pace speeds up and he raises his head to look towards an alley that he is coming up on. Ignoring all of the other pedestrians, he turns and vanishes around the corner. I follow him. The alley is long and narrow, brick walls on either side. There are a couple of dumpsters standing off to one side, but it is relatively clean and completely unoccupied except for the two of us.

"Please wait," I call out. I do not really expect him to stop. Not in this part of the city, not in this situation. No normal person would. However, his steps slow. One. Two. On the third, he turns slightly to look at me.

His face is colored with disbelief as he sees me standing there. The expression quickly turns into surprise and apprehension. I can barely hear it as he whispers my name. "Sebastian."

Any doubts that I might have had, any thoughts that it might not have been him, vanish instantly at the sound. The person in front of me is Ciel Phantomhive. But how? Everything that I found about him when I decided to look told me that he had died only a short while after my departure Nothing had said that he was alive, and most definitely not like this. Even though I followed him, I am every bit as surprised as he is. However, I think I am handling the shock better than he is. His hands are trembling on the white paper of the cafe bag that he has clutched between them. Quietly, I whisper, "Young master."

"So," he says. He takes a deep breath and lets it out roughly. Straightening himself and tightening his grip on the bag, he collects his thoughts and brushes off the look of surprise. His uncovered eye never leaves my own "After all this time, you've finally come to collect."

The century of time seems to make no difference to him. The first thing on his mind and out of his mouth is our unfinished business. I would have hoped for something else from him, if I had ever anticipated anything like this. If I wanted to take his soul, I would have. I had hoped that he would realize that when I left. Apparently, that hope was in vain. It would seem that there are many things I do not understand. "I am not here for your soul," I tell him. "However, young master, how is it that you are still... here?"

I cannot think of a polite way to ask that question. There are a dozen questions running through my mind, it was simply the one on the forefront at that moment. I do not understand this. I do not enjoy situations which I do not understand. I have never seen anything like this. When I left him, more than a century ago, I told myself that I would never see him again. Never speak to him again. I would not get involved again. At the moment, everything that I am thinking goes directly against that.

Behind him, the smooth shape of a black limousine pulls up in the alley that runs perpendicular to the one we are standing in. The young master flicks his eyes back towards it, looking at the tinted windows. He ignores my question completely when he looks back at me. "I have to leave."

He turns and opens the door of the vehicle, preparing to step inside. At this moment, I know that I have a decision to make. I do not know why he is still alive. However, I also realize that I don't really care about why. I feel an unexpected surge of relief at the simple fact that he is. If I so choose, I could let him vanish into that vehicle. I could allow him to drive away and I could keep the promise that I made to myself never to interfere with his life after I left. Or I can step in once more, even if only for a moment.

As soon as the thought comes to mind, my decision is made. I was deceiving myself the first time that I left. I do not think that I would care to do so again. Before he steps into the vehicle, I call to him again. "Just a moment."

His hand tightens on the car door, but he pauses and turns to look at me. The fear from earlier is no longer visible on his face. In its place, there is uncertainty and reluctance. I cannot tell if the reluctance stems from wanting to leave or wanting to stay. The expression is a momentary weakness and it is quickly replaced with a look of feigned indifference. "If you are not here for my soul, then we have no business to conclude, demon."

He regards me coolly for a moment, waiting for my response. I don't know what response to give, but I do know the outcome that I desire. I bow to him, placing a hand over my heart as I have not done for more than a century. "As your former servant, I would like to request a chance to speak with my master."

The formality of the words feels out of place in the modern world. If I have once again come across my young master, despite my intentions to stay away, I would like to have a little longer to speak with him. Our contract is still intact, even though I have disregarded his orders for so long. Even though I abandoned him. Despite my negligence, I will follow whatever decision he makes now.

He watches me, as if looking for something. Whatever that is, I cannot tell. I cannot even fathom his thoughts. A few moments pass, and I wonder if he is simply going to leave without saying another word. Instead, he inclines his head slightly. Slowly, he responds, "All right. I have to leave now. When?"

"Would tonight be a possibility?" My schedule is empty, but I do not doubt that John Anderson will have some grief to give me. I am now running quite late. I cannot guarantee how long that will last, only that he would never allow it to cut into his evening. It is strangely uncomfortable to have to arrange an appointment with my former master. It doesn't feel natural. He doesn't speak, but he nods. I ask, "Is there somewhere that you would feel comfortable meeting, or would you like me to come to you?"

"I will come to you," he responds. It isn't a question. I pull a small memo pad from one of my pockets along with a small pen and quickly jot down the address of my apartment for him. I cross the distance between us and hold the paper out for him. Small fingers snatch it away from my gloves, careful not to touch. He gives me another long, burning look and then vanishes into the limousine. The soft purr of the engine is the only warning I get before it drives off. I am left standing in the alley, wondering what has just happened.

John Anderson is not an imposing man. He resembles a toad. Short, overweight and balding, he glares at me over thickly rimmed glasses as I stand in his dining room. His gaze switches from myself to the pink and white bags and cups that I have brought him from the cafe. Sniffing, he makes a disgusted face in their direction. "You're late."

"I am sorry, master," I say as I bow lightly. "There was quite a wait at the bakery."

"Quite a wait?" He spits as he talks, flecks of saliva landing on his dining table. "There are no excuses, you beast. You should have been there earlier if there was a wait! And what the hell are these?"

His thick hands sweep across the table, knocking the cups and the bags to the floor. The contents spill out across the marble. I stand there passively and let him scream. He is becoming quite red in the face. "This isn't what I asked for! You're completely incompetent. I don't know why I even bother, you piece of shit. Why the fuck didn't you bring me the usual?"

"Most unfortunately, your preferred bakery is closed temporarily due to a problem with the health department," I tell him.

"There are no excuses! You, of all people... fuck that, you're not a person," he spits, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket. He lights it and takes a drag. "For something like you, that shouldn't be a problem. I don't know why I keep you around."

"Even though I am a demon, there are some things which even I cannot change." I loathe this man. There are few people who draw my ire the way that he does, and yet he and I are bound together in a contract. I am sorely tempted to end things here and now. I wonder if he is even worth devouring Demons do not get ill, but I suspect that he still might manage to give me food poisoning.

Staring at his cigarette, he asks, "Do you have it?"

"Of course," I respond. I pull a sheet of paper out of the pocket in my slacks. Handing it over, I step away from him. Every morning, along with the customary pastries and coffee, I also give him a list of the trades and transactions that he will need to make to ensure that he continually builds wealth. It is not as though I am unaccustomed to easier ways of building wealth, but my master prefers to do so through his chosen career. Since my arrival, he has not lost money on the stock market even when making abysmally poor decisions of his own.

Mr. Anderson fists the paper in his sausage-like fingers and looks it over "Fine. Get out of my apartment. Keep your phone on."

"Very well," I say, bowing and turning to leave. He always tells me to leave the phone on, but nothing ever comes of it. He knows that he could call me through the contract if he really felt like it. Thankfully, he has not felt that need.

The walk from my master's apartment to my own is forty seven blocks. He purposefully rented a unit that would keep me as far away from him as he considered practically possible. I could take a cab and save myself the walk, or even travel faster by my own natural abilities, but I find the walk pleasing. The weather is crisp and beautiful, even for this time of year. It is not an imposition and it will give me ample time to consider the events from this morning. They weigh heavily on my mind.

I have lived a very long life, but even I have never encountered something like this. Humans are mortal creatures. They live short lives, never more than one hundred and twenty years even in the extreme. They get sick. They age. And yet, this morning, I found that Ciel Phantomhive has not died Not only that, he has not aged even a day since I last set eyes on him. I truly do not understand.

At my apartment building, I let myself in and walk up the six flights of stairs that lead to my floor. Once inside, I close the door behind me and lean back against it. Reaching up, I pull off the thin cotton gloves that I wear even now and let them fall to the floor. Holding my left hand up, I examine the mark of the contract seal. It is different than it was when I was only contracted with Ciel Phantomhive. After all, every contract shows up on this same hand. John Anderson has added new striations, new lettering and new markings to create an intricate pattern of black lines in my skin.

When I left my former young master, I told myself that I would never see Ciel Phantomhive again. That is why I took my time on that last evening and allowed myself those last few meaningless moments at his side. It was my decision and it was inevitable. I knew that he would age. I knew that he would die.

And yet, he didn't.

This situation now is entirely unprecedented. Even more so now that he has agreed to meet with me, to speak with me. What do you say to the master you abandoned, to the soul that you spared? I do not have the answer to that question. However, I need to know why my young master did not age. I need to know why everything that I found told me that he was dead when he is anything but that. I cannot lie to myself, however. The mystery bothers me greatly, yes, but that isn't the real reason that I wanted to speak with him. I have missed his presence.

For now, I will settle for trying to learn more about this situation with the only resource that I have at my disposal in my apartment. I walk through my home and sit down at the computer that resides on a desk in my bedroom. Opening an internet browser, I begin to look for information. The last time that I looked into any of this, I discovered that Earl Ciel Phantomhive died of pneumonia in 1892. Now, I wonder what other inaccuracies might exist in the information online.

Mentions of his name online are few and far between. Information about him is even more scarce. The most I am able to find are references to the establishment and progression of Funtom Company, his most public endeavor. One website even has a photograph of him with all of the household servants, myself included. I remember the photo. It was taken at his fiancée's insistence. How very nostalgic, though I do not care to have a photograph like that of myself online. Following the website's lead, however, I go to the main website of Funtom Company.

Even after my young master's supposed demise, Funtom Company did not decline in sales or expansion. That is why they are now the third largest children's toy company in the world. I had never wondered how the company had continued to progress after his death. Ciel Phantomhive was the reason that the company thrived. Only a child knows what other children truly want If my young master is still alive, then perhaps he still has his hand in the business.

A history page for the company makes only a passing mention of my young master. Instead, it cites his father as the founder of the company. A list of previous company presidents indicates that from 1892 until his death in 1904, Tanaka took care of the business as the head of the company. A sensible choice. I greatly respected the man for his capabilities with business, people and matters of safety. That is why I entrusted my young master to his care when I had gone. After that, however, the trail seems to run cold. There is no additional information to be gleaned, aside from the fact that the presidency has changed hands every three or four years like clockwork since Tanaka's passing. Currently, all business operations are being overseen by one Frederick Randall. There is no photo provided. Everything about the company and the people that run it seems vague.

I have done the best that I can do without going directly to the company for information, and I find that unnecessary. My curiosity has not been appeased, but I will wait. There is nothing to be done for it. Somehow, my young master is alive and well at the age of 135.

The hours have passed and the day has started to turn to evening. The sun is setting as I read through another volume of classic literature that can be found around the apartment. It is not my typical choice of pastime, but it suits my tastes today. I am not used to having this much time to spend on myself. The knock at my door comes as a welcome interruption. I slide the book onto the coffee table and look at the small cell phone next to it before I walk to the door. Putting my hand on the knob, I open it.

Ciel Phantomhive is standing in my doorway. He is dressed differently than he was this morning. Khakis and a navy blue sweater look tastefully casual on him. He looks very wary of me.

"Please come in," I say, sweeping my arm towards the interior of the apartment. He looks past me, uncertain. I can remember his first assumption from this morning. It's easy to guess what he is thinking. "If I had wanted to harm you, I would have already done so."

He hesitates for a moment longer and then walks inside. The front door of my apartment opens on my living room, sparsely decorated by Mr. Anderson. I have not felt the compunction to change the decor. A couch and two chairs provide some seating around the coffee table. Moving quietly, I sit on the couch and wait to see if he will follow my example. He does, seating himself in the chair that is both furthest from me and yet closest to the front door. I wonder if I should offer him something to eat or drink. I do keep food in the apartment, though only for show. I have never managed to figure out what humans find so delicious about processed and packaged food.

Before I can say anything, he speaks. "So, why now?"

"What do you mean?" I respond, curious.

"Why did you wait until now? Why are we sitting here and talking like this?"

I gather that he has also been wondering about our meeting, but there seems to be more to his questions than meets the eye. His assumption that I had come to take his soul, his questions about timing. Is it possible that he believes that I had vanished with the intention of returning? Humans are sentimental creatures, but I had never thought that he might hold that sort of idea for very long. Even for his age, when I left, he had always been rather sensible. He had been strong, in his own way. I never would have guessed him to be that fickle. My brows crease lightly together as I consider that. "I am afraid that I do not understand."

"You've been gone for so long, Sebastian. Don't pretend that you don't know what or why I am asking, he says. He takes a breath and then looks at me a bit more directly. "Is that even your name any more, demon?"

"I am still Sebastian Michaelis," I answer quietly, "but I truly do not know what you are asking."

He huffs, unhappy at having to be more direct. "Why did you ask to see me? You could have found me at any time if you wanted." He pauses and looks away, quietly adding, "I don't understand why you left in the first place."

Try as I might, over the past century, I had not been able to keep myself from wondering what had become of him. It would seem that the same is true of him, as well. I can only imagine what that must have been like for him. I will confess that I had not stopped to consider the parallels to other things he had gone through when I left. Perhaps I should have. Very few things in his life were permanent. I was just another inconsistent addition to his existence. If I had stopped to consider orders he had given me, I might have realized that. To never leave his side. It had not been an order given out of consideration for his safety. That was one of many orders I have since broken. I had my reasons. Looking at him evenly across the room, I meet his gaze without emotion when he looks up at me. "I had no conscious intention of returning to you. However, when I saw you in the coffee shop this morning, I was surprised. As for why I asked to speak with you, it was because I wanted to do so. I was curious."

"Surprised? Curious?" His voice is skeptical as he arches an eyebrow. The skepticism turns into a frown as he thinks this over. Realization strikes and he sits forward slightly, frowning. Taking on a note of disbelief, he asks me, "You didn't know, did you? That I was still like this.""No," I respond honestly. "I did not know. I was under the belief that you had died some time ago. I had hoped that you might explain how this was possible."

"I've had so much time to wonder about that," he laughs, entirely without humor. "And here I have looked over my shoulder for years. I wondered when you were going to come and collect your dues. Wasn't that the entire point of our contract, so that you could eat my soul?"

"It's ironic, isn't it?" He pauses, falling silent as he thinks. His eyes are fixed on nothing, drifting around the room as he considers the generic decorations that cover the walls and furnishings. "The contract might be why, I guess. I don't know. You would know better than I would. I figured you would know, that you did know. Or that you had done it on purpose. I always thought that you'd come back when you got hungry enough. I'm guessing they don't have Tupperware for souls." He smiles as if he is making a joke. I don't find it amusing. I have no idea how to respond to that. Slowly, he looks back towards me. Reaching up with one hand, he pulls the eye patch away from his face. It falls loosely into his hand and he looks at me with both eyes. The contract seal burns in his right eye as clearly as the day that it was made. "Why did you put this here, Sebastian? Wasn't it so that you would be able to track me down no matter what happened, no matter where I went? Our contract was completed a long time ago, you just need to finish it."

His words cut into me like knives. His words, while inquiring, aren't really a question. They're an accusation. Is there a possibility that he is right, that my failure to complete my end of contract has somehow frozen him exactly as he was at the time that it was fulfilled? I honestly do not know. Most of my masters have not survived a day past the completion of their contract, let alone a century. I do not have any experience on which to base an opinion. Regardless, can it actually be that he wishes that I would have taken his soul? That he actually wanted to stop existing? I can't even imagine, though I have met people for who that is true. Perhaps he simply did not want me to leave any more than I did. That doesn't change the fact that his soul was the original reason that I offered to enter into the contract with him. I tell him so. "That was the original intent, yes. However, you have nothing to fear from me now."

"Why is that?" He looks straight at me as he stands up. His voice gets louder and rougher with each word, unfitting for one so small. "Why am I here? Why did you leave, Sebastian?"

He isn't looking at me as he paces around the room. I am not certain if he actually wants me to answer, or if he is simply upset to the point that he is talking simply to talk. I stand, wanting to do something even if he isn't actually wanting a response. What could I do to calm him down? I stand and walk towards the kitchen. "Let me get you something to drink, young master."

"Don't call me that!" He rounds on me just as I reach the doorway that leads into the dining area. For being nearly a foot and a half shorter than I am, he manages to be a rather imposing presence for a human as he glares up at me intently. "You left. You never came back. You never listened when I called for you. Don't pretend that I am your master when you clearly do not think so. Why, Sebastian? Tell me why you left."

At this moment, the most nonsensical sensation is taking hold of me. I am quite irrationally happy about the fact that he is yelling at me. I never expected to find him alive. I never expected to be quite so pleased about that discovery, either. And yet, he is standing in front of me and berating me for my failings and it is the most delightful thing that I have experienced in years simply because he is alive. While perhaps not the ideal scenario, I am grateful that I have had this opportunity to see him like this. I had forgotten what it felt like to be around him like this, even if he is quite unhappy with me. He has not changed even with all the time that has passed. That fact makes me glad.

At the same time, I am quite ashamed of myself. My leaving did none of the things that I had hoped. If anything, I fear that it may have marked him in a way that I neither desired nor intended. I knew that he would be upset by my departure, but I never expected it to weigh on him for as long as it has. Certainly not for a century. That I had not intended. It was a miscalculation on my part, but this... unintended consequence was not foreseeable, even by myself. I did not, and still do not, have any desire to see him in pain. For that, I must apologize. He is watching me even as he waits for a response. Slowly, I sigh. "I left because I no longer desired to bring an end to your life. I am sorry if that displeases you."

"If it displeases me?" His voice is incredulous, even as he yells. One of his hands is fisted in my shirt, holding the fabric to keep me from moving away as he tells me exactly what is on his mind. "My life was... is... inconsequential. My entire existence should have been forfeit the moment that my revenge was complete. No, before that. The moment you and I agreed to the contract. I finished my half of that. Taking my soul was your part. I never wanted to live this way for this long. Tell me why, Sebastian!"

My mask of complacency is slipping and I find myself smiling. Amazing. More than one hundred and twenty years have passed since the night that I left, and yet right now it seems as if no time has passed at all. Nothing has changed, even though everything has. To think that this one small human has had this much of an effect on me is remarkable. I do not mind. I have missed it. This anger, this defiance. This is why I came to care for him the way that I did. I have already broken our covenant and soiled our agreement. I suppose that telling him the truth, as I always have, cannot make things so much worse. Unable to resist the temptation, I reach up and brush several strands of his slate hair out of his eyes and look down at the contract seal that stares back at me. "I left because I had come to care for you more than a demon - or a butler - ever should, my lord."

For a long moment, he stares at me as his mind processes what I have said to him. I can see the understanding sink into his eyes as he glances at the hand that I have run across the side of his face. All of the anger that was in his expression a moment ago is gone, replaced by something closer to hurt. He takes a step back and lets go of my shirt. Then, her pulls that hand back and slaps me. The sting of it is nothing more than I deserved. Even so, the strike is weak. His hand falls down to my chest and he strikes me again, yelling at me as he does so. Insults, curses. The phrases are barely coherent as he pounds his fist against my chest. I let him. Each strike weakens even as his voice becomes garbled and he collapses against my chest, still muttering under his breath as he leans against me. I can smell salt in the air even as I feel his hands clenching into fists against my chest.

Quietly, I ask, "Young master, are you crying?"

"No!" The muffled response is much clearer than his incoherent cursing, even if it's partially obscured by my clothing. He hasn't told me off for addressing him as young master. I wish that there was something I could do to make this better. Very slowly, I reach my arms up and wrap them around his body to try and comfort him. He doesn't push me away.

"I am sorry," I say, "that I caused you pain."

"Idiot!" The insult is surprisingly loud. He isn't crying any more. Slowly, he moves so that his forehead rests against my chest, no longer burying his face in the fabric. I can feel the heat of him through it. Very quietly, he continues. "You weren't... the only one who felt that way."

My heart constricts as I hear the words. "What do you mean, young master?"

"Isn't it obvious?" He tilts his head back to look at me. The skin around his eyes is slightly reddened from the brief spat of tears. The emotions on his face are entirely unguarded, even as I lean closer to him almost without meaning to. His face is less than an inch from my own. I can taste his breath. He sighs and takes a step back, putting some distance between us. "It's late and I should go. I was only supposed to be here for a few minutes, anyway."

"Young master," I say in acknowledgement.

He reaches into a pocket and removes a small piece of paper, which he then hands to me. "If you ever regret leaving my service, call that number."

Without another word, he turns and vanishes out the front door of my apartment. The piece of paper in my palm is plain, white and high quality paper board that is roughly the same size and shape as a business card. On one side there is a phone number printed in a plain, professional font. I will never understand the fascination that humans have with telephones. There is nothing else written on the card.

I should call that number if I ever regret leaving his service? I have regretted that decision since the day that I made it. However, I have never thought that it would be wise or even possible to rectify that particular mistake. And there are complications.

The small black cell phone on the coffee table buzzes, accompanied by the shrill electronic sound of the ring tone. John Anderson is calling.

To be continued...
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Immortal