#love how seb's an outright facetious bitch meanwHILE dai is like sweet and sincere about it but his being dark means

[dnangelic]

' i-infamy ?! '

the word seems to instantly jolt him . close to hives , his skin prickling , every thin hair on his arm swift to stand up straight on end . a word like infamy ... was really bad , wasn't it ?! ( like horrible , like heinuous , like --- dark . )

' n-no ! it's not like that or anything ! like hiwatari-kun and sagami-sensei , i mean --- er , u-um ... ' would someone like sebastian have been able to recognize any of these names ? arrive , vanish , do everything in a blink and leave nary so much as a single trace behind --- his family had instructed him over and over to be capable of severing any sort of loose strings in the midst of plotted , robbing act .

( why dare to admire his enemies , anyways ? )

was it too simple , too laughable , that just because he wanted to think they were friends ... no , that because he just wanted to somehow be friends them , that he should have therefore made every effort to be kind , and speak up in their defense ? even knowing that they might never have done the same for him , or for his far more rotten , wretched parts .

' t-they're not that bad , i mean ... i don't think infamous is a good word for them ... ' though , maybe and maybe not . before the hikari alone , what other artists played god , to the extent that their creations came to life out of nothing but the meager likes of stone , paint and wax ? man's first golems and homonculi , created in the perverse shape of themselves : both infinitely beautiful and hideous .

their broach of every natural law and order could have lent itself to their infamy , if only what vicious storms of emotion surrounding their works didn't coil about them like the still , untouchable calm of an eye of a storm . and there , braving the cuts and razor , racing edge of the roughest winds , was the black half of the kokuyoku ... what black wings even now remained bound to his body .

' ... i'm sorry . ' trailing away , clutching to himself at his hands , daisuke's will shrinks and relents , wilting meekly beneath the other's blase accusations . certainly , he feels every invisible pressure like a block of lead , hitching his shoulders high in a hopeless defense against what felt like , polite and composed as it was , an adult's chide .

' i don't ... actually know if i'm really friends with any of them . i only sort of know them , so i didn't think anything was that interesting to talk about --- um , hiwatari-kun is the same age as me , and he's the one who comes from a really family . the hikari ? their artworks always end up in museums and stuff , they've been making masterpieces for over four hundred years . i've only really learned a few things about ... um , shadows and circles from him , though ... '

embarrassing basics that anyone , even a toddler should have been able to comprehend .

' sagami-sensei was a sculptor , and someone who won top prizes every year in azumano ... our standards for art are the highest in japan , so it was a big deal when he was going to start teaching part-time . but then he quit right after his practice internship and decided to go back to art --- ' cheeks flush and he laughs ; he doesn't dare to pry at sebastian's turn , deeply curious as he remained to the other's work . ' he was really cool . he always seemed to know what he was doing when he was making art , hiwatari-kun too , i think . i'm not really anything special , especially compared to them ... '

humility blends in warmly with a loitering sense of shame .

' really --- really-really , i don't think i could give you good advice or critiques even if i tried . not to mention , since i was the one who asked you to draw something for me in the first place , if i were to suddenly get all nit-picky or something over it when i probably couldn't do any better , i'd feel ... um , really mean . '

“‘Anything’, you say?” The question is rhetorical, said merely to hear himself speak more than anything—the pen is all but flying across the sketch-page already, the illustration coming to life beneath his fingers without pause. “It’s quite my luck that I can work with such an open-ended wish, then.”

A chuckle is tacked onto the end; he can’t help the tease, can’t help from making his own amusement, at the young man’s expense. He thinks, for a moment, of how very dangerous that word is, when spoken to a creature like him—one cannot, should not, face his kind and say they wish for him to do ‘anything’. Even if it is just in the context of a quick drawing, such a thing bears consequence still (nothing is trivial, unless he so chooses to see it so).

Consequences, however, do not always have to be meted out on a grand scale; he is no stranger to doling out more than is fair, at times, but he is also not without his understanding of what could be too far. So Daisuke will suffer a small laugh, if only to satisfy Sebastian’s inability to ignore such the infraction (and for the better that he does—Saying such things, most especially without hesitation, can get even the most iron-willed beings into trouble, some day.)

“My, but do forgive me; I assumed not that you had meant so, either.” He corrects his own infraction easily, only sparing a glance (calculative speculation masked into apology) up from his work before he returns to it again. “Neither is it so unusual to assume that I have created art for my Master, however; what I meant is that his age is not the correlation to my doing so.”

Really, it is not as if he’s complaining; his meal does not need to be artistically inclined in order for him to consume it, after all. Beyond what is required of his education, his Master hardly partakes in the more creative avenues of life as it is (a soul living only for and until its want for revenge is fulfilled will hardly allot itself time for the finer aspects of existence).

“Nevertheless, there is no need for apology.” He continues on, the matter dismissed as easily as the clouds parting above them to reveal the sun. “Offense was neither intended nor done, if I may so humbly assume myself; there is no need for worry.”

But, oh, satisfaction curls deep and twisting within his mind as the young man finally gives in. Dark, smug elation is hard to keep from his own features; even if it took time, he got what he wanted out of the offer, and it is nothing short of pleasing.

Is it not so much easier to simply relent, to acquiesce to one’s own desires? Human’s overwhelmingly have such an inability to resist them for long, and even with a far more limited patience for waiting to see it done than he lets on, he will never tire of seeing attempts to try crumble with just a bit of prodding.

“That you would accept our gift at all is gratitude enough.” Especially for myself; I require nothing more. “Please, I implore you to think nothing of it.”

His duty as both creature and butler fulfilled, for the time being, he hardly notices when his own hands still over the paper. What he’s drawn is one of the roses growing in the garden, close-up and detailed—simplistic in its choice, perhaps even predictable given where they are, but he’s sure it matters not. Not just for it having gone said, but also because the young man had been enthralled by them upon initial sight. Though, to think it’s merely his duties that give him pause would be wrong, because what is this about him knowing famed artists, might young Daisuke elaborate on that—?

(Ah, but wait; it would not be so off-base...)

“...Young Master Daisuke,” he starts, , “it was not to my knowledge that you were of such infamy yourself!”

A light scold, mostly untrue; he’d done his reading of the Niwa family several days prior to the young man’s arrival, but what-with the warning of the Phantom Thief appearing, he hadn’t gotten far. Other than being of worth-enough to have his Master agree to their young son paying a visit, there’d been little other evidence to suggest they were of nobility beyond any norm—knowing artists of any sort was mere territorial expectation.

(And yet, he still can’t help but to want to press; if only to see what is found in doing so.)

“To be so acquainted with famous artists,” it doesn’t matter that they weren’t named or known to him, “that they give you advice, surely you would know something of criticism. Might this be a way for you to judge my talents instead of merely observing them, despite the knowledge that my own work will pale in comparison to such famed individuals? How very cruel of you; to make me think you were merely interested...”

Feigned self-doubt sees him sighing dramatically, tilting the sketch away from the human’s sight. Surely he could have been warned he would be in the presence of one like this, he would have prepared his heart—!

(His facetiousness knows no bounds.)