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Diederich is eighteen, and he is fairly confident about his prospects for a bright future.
His schooling is worldly and its standards of excellence are beyond reprimand. Weston is a respectable establishment, sought out by many and accessible to few as a place to study and absorb the finest traditions tested by time, to train your body and spirit under its strict regimen, and forge friendships and connections worthy of the finest of noblemen.
In his senior year and a prefect of the Green House, Diederich feels modestly proud of his own accomplishments. He has worked hard, applying himself to studies relentlessly from his first day at school, and now he feels as comfortable as any Englishman navigating the maze of Weston's customs. Athletic accomplishments have come through honest hard work and not a little bit of aptitude, and the uniform emblazoned with a lion in gold and green fits him like a second skin.
Of course, he doesn't let any of it get to his head. He realizes full well it is just a stepping stone on a way to bigger, nobler accomplishments. He dreams of glory, of shining uniforms, of recognition for his services.
Unfortunately, the same cannot be said about everyone on Weston's premises.
Hands clenched into fists, he marches towards the lawn by the main school building, the place where this absolutely useless guy, an utter disgrace to his prefect’s title, is said to have been sighted last.
And of course, there he is, true to the worst rumours.
Diederich’s eyes lock on a figure sprawled in the grass by the fountain in the most libertine of fashions. Face hidden behind a book balanced lazily on his fingers, one leg comfortably resting on the other, the uniform coat lying crumpled at his side - in other words, a blatant picture of someone who most decidedly did not spend his afternoon fulfilling his prefect duties.
“Hey, wake up, mole!”
“Ahh,” comes a light voice, only barely muffled by a tome of Aristoteles. “I could have finished reading this in three more minutes.”
Diederich feels his temples throb with annoyance.
“There is no way a prefect is allowed to enter the lawn in order to nap!”
The ever-rising irritation doesn’t help with remembering the exact rules and provisions he’s itching to quote, but he thinks this guy must be violating at least a dozen of them just by lying around so bonelessly and carelessly in plain sight.
“Don’t be so uptight, Diederich.”
The anger sends heat waves down his spine, and Diederich almost feels his blood boil at the smooth insolence of the address, at the offensive ease of casual conduct, at laughter hiding behind hooded eyes.
“And I’m not called ‘mole’. It’s Vincent Phantomhive.”
It is not the first time they talk to each other, but it feels like their first proper exchange - of insults, of threats, of thoughtless words that turn out to be the weightiest of them all.
Phantomhive sidesteps around Diederich’s righteous anger and challenge and straightforwardness as lightly and easily as he dodges his more mundane duties, and Diederich cannot accept it.
They fight. They strike a bet. Somewhere between wanting to choke Phantomhive on his breezy laughter and shake him by his sloppily-tied cravat Diederich delivers the reins of his life right into Phantomhive’s hands.
Diederich doesn’t know it yet, but very soon, he will.
* * *
Diederich is twenty, and the idea of homicide is familiarly tempting.
“Explain to me again, what are we doing in this - “ he makes a sweeping gesture that fails to encompass all of his disgust - “den of lowlifes?”
The opium smoke saturates the entirety of the place, hanging in front of his eyes like a stifling curtain. The sounds of wild debauchery are loud enough to waft through the closed door. He feels hot and overdressed under layers of his clothes, but he doesn’t even want to loosen his cravat in this place. Sweat trickles down his face, and Diederich feels personally offended by the fact that Phantomhive looks entirely too comfortable in his dark velvet tailcoat.
“You?” Phantomhive says thoughtfully, lightly probing the cabinet door with his gloved hands, as if it was the most natural thing to do in this environment. “Accompanying me, of course, like the loyal fag you are.”
He flashes him an openly obnoxious smile and goes back to scrutinizing the wooden panels under his fingers.
Diederich fights an urge to kick something, and contemplates the virtues of investing into iron-tip custom-made boots for their next… expedition.
Phantomhive takes it as his cue to continue being insufferable, as always.
“And I am patiently waiting to make acquaintance with a person who may be willing to serve Her Majesty’s interests, with a little bit of persuasion on our part,” he says, now trying to coax the drawer open with the tip of a knife that has somehow materialized in his hand.
Diederich sighs and moves closer to the door to keep watch.
“I can only hope they will be as cooperative as this lock,” Phantomhive says with fake humility as he pulls out a stack of papers from the drawer, and hides them somewhere on his person.
Not a moment too soon.
Diederich is startled, because instead of a heavy male gait, he hears quick, light footsteps, and he can only cough a warning before a woman enters the room in a swirl of heavy skirts.
Of course, by then all evidence has already been removed from sight as if by a magician’s hand, and there is nothing but Phantomhive’s innocent smile to indicate anything has transpired at all in the few minutes the two gentlemen were left alone in the room.
Unfortunately, most people don’t know to recognize it as a sign of trouble, choosing instead to be taken in by Phantomhive’s smooth looks and slippery pleasantries.
Diederich scowls, adjusts his collar, and longingly thinks about setting this place on fire.
“Gentlemen, my apologies for making you wait,” says the woman in tones as sultry as the rest of her.
“Madam, the pleasure of seeing you is the greatest reward for patience.”
His head bent over her hand in a very convincing approximation of an adoring kiss, Phantomhive’s smile over the lace-covered knuckles grows infinitesimally wider. The woman flutters her eyelashes and bends towards him with undisguised interest.
Diederich thinks his assistance with persuasion would hardly be necessary tonight. He wishes he had worn something lighter.
* * *
Diederich is twenty-three, a promising officer speedily climbing up the German military ranks, and very distressed about having the future of the said career in the hands of none other than Earl Phantomhive.
Who, of course, is entirely too pleased with it.
“Why, Dee, you don’t need to be shy about it! After all, it’s only fair that a senior should lend a hand to their cute fag when they are troubled by something.”
His sympathetic smile is grating on each of Diederich’s nerves.
“This is no laughing matter, Phantomhive!” he grinds through his teeth, but then forces himself to take a deep breath, bites back his pride and continues in a lower voice. “The guy is slippery as eel, and never blackmails his victims directly. Documents and money always change hands through a chain of unsuspecting civilians, and he hardly ever uses the same person twice.”
The scrupulousness with which the criminal hides his trail is only matched by his audacity in choosing his targets. Diederich curses the ill fate which allowed him to sniff out the information that jeopardizes the reputation of a certain German minister, and curses not being able to do anything about it on his own.
“So while you know in whose possession the envelope is at the moment, the knowledge is short-lived,” Phantomhive nods as he pours more tea into Wedgwood cups and moves the sandwich platter closer to Diederich.
He scowls at the pallid slices, an insult to the bread they make at home.
“Absolutely useless, unless we can get to him tonight, because tomorrow it will be someone else again,” he admits with a sigh, finally giving up and biting into the tasteless dough. “If this information leaks out, it’s not just my head that will roll. The honor of my country is at stake.”
“My, my, don’t speak so glumly and humbly, it’s bad enough you’re so serious all the time,” Phantomhive dismissively waves a macaroon his direction. ”We simply must restore your splenetic spirits, my friend, and you came to the right person for it.”
Diederich feels some of the heavy tension pooled at his shoulders leave him at the prospect of immediate action.
“So you can get us to him? Are we breaking in?” he asks, mentally running through the list of things he needs for it.
“Not exactly,” Phantomhive smiles, and calmly finishes his tea. “We’re going to Berkshire to see a play.”
“Will people sing for bloody hours in this one? My ears barely recovered from the last time I went to the theater.”
Diederich pulls away the heavy velvet curtain to get a better view of the Windsor crowd mingling in the pit below. He would be hard pressed to care about any thespian tomfoolery on a good day, but now he feels trapped in this lushly decorated private box, forced to feign interest in a staged play when he is starving for action.
“Mind your language, Dee,” Phantomhive reprimands off-handedly, looking perfectly at ease himself. “Her Majesty does not look kindly on foul-mouthed ruffians.”
“She’s not going to be seeing us today, is she?” Diederich asks cautiously. His insides turn cold just from imagining being the focus of her attention.
“It is flattering that you believe I could get you an audience with the Queen as quickly as procure ourselves an invitation to one of her plays,” Phantomhive smiles as he makes himself comfortable in one of the ornate rosewood chairs. “Besides, where have you heard of a watchdog that brings problems to the royal attention instead of solving them?”
“You didn’t tell me what we’re doing here,” he grumbles. “What am I supposed to think or do?”
Phantomhive gives him a long, appraising look clearly designed to set Diederich’s teeth on edge. He resists the urge to self-consciously adjust his uniform.
“You only need to be your charming self, Dee. Have faith in your senior - and greet your new acquaintance,” Phantomhive says, already bowing his head to a stranger making his way into the box.
“Lord Beechworth, thank you for your kindest invitation! We’re so obliged!”
Diederich feels his every nerve flare to life with the knowledge that this rotund man holds the key to his problems, and hopes the brisk salute covers up his excitement.
“Lord Phantomhive! And your dear friend! Such a welcome addition, I must say, I am very cheered by the prospect of having your company for the evening. And we can’t let your guest leave without seeing a play as fine as one here, can we?”
Diederic feels hyperaware of everything, and it seems to him that Beechworth’s bright silk frock coat is taking up half of all the space inside the box, and calmness is hard to come by. In contrast, Phantomhive looks completely unfazed as he calls for a footman with the drinks, and Diederich is suddenly grateful for his presence.
Not that he’d ever admit it out loud.
An hour and two champagne glasses into the play - which is mercifully free of any singing, god bless - Diederich starts to have his doubts.
Contrary to his expectations, Phantomhive is yet to make a single attempt to charm Beechworth or get close enough to him to pick anything from his pockets. In fact, he hasn’t done anything but gossip in Diederich’s ear about the attending public, make animated remarks about the play itself, and remain completely oblivious to the burning glares sent in his direction.
Diederich does not dare do anything more open to turn Phantomhive’s attention back to the task at hand, because he has already caught Beechworth look at them more than once. Diederich breaks in cold sweat at the idea that the mark might suspect anything, and his heart pounds like a church bell every time the man moves in his chair. But Beechworth just fishes out an embroidered handkerchief to wipe his face, then fiddles with the buttons of his waistcoat, and after a while, takes off his heavy frock coat and noisily arranges it on the back of his chair - and there is nothing Diederich can do besides looking daggers at Phantomhive.
At some point a ruckus breaks out on stage, and Phantomhive is doubling over with laughter, barely able to do anything except wipe off tears of mirth and pat Diederich weakly on his knee. Before Phantomhive can be properly reprimanded for this lack of decorum, Beechworth startles Diederich by moving his chair away with a scraping noise.
“Apologies, gentlemen,” he says as he makes his way towards the exit, fanning himself with the handkerchief. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I think I need a breath of fresh air.”
As soon as he disappears behind heavy drapes, all signs of uncontrolled amusement on Phantomhive’s face are gone.
“Now,” he says, quick as lightning to get to Beechworth’s chair, and Diederich immediately assumes a position by the box entrance that would best let him hear approaching footsteps and make sure any activity in this cramped place can’t be observed from outside.
Phantomhive’s hands expertly feel every pocket and fold on the endless expanse of the frock coat for the coveted package, and Diederich bites his lip, forcing himself to stay calm.
“How much time do you think we have?” Even if their luck holds, and the letters are indeed here, they will still need to replace the originals with the forged papers. And fixing the seals back is a tricky matter that requires time and steady hands.
“Barely enough,” answers Phantomhive. “I chose a harmless diuretic that was the fastest to take on, but the rest I cannot predict.”
Champagne, Diederich realizes belatedly.
The seconds tick away, each one feeling as long as a full eternity, until with a quiet exclamation Phantomhive cheerfully waves a rolled envelope at him. Diederich feels light-headed with relief, even knowing it is yet too early for complacency.
His heartbeat is the loudest thing in the room as he watches Phantomhive neatly break the seal off the paper and replace the letters. The only thing left to do now is to re-seal the envelope and put it back to where it was, and Diederich almost starts believing that they will get through this unscathed.
And then they both hear footsteps.
Phantomhive looks at Diederich.
“Well, I guess it has come to that,” he says with a curious expression, and straightens up.
A mixture of anger and fatalism washes over Diederich - to think how close they were to just wrapping it up smoothly! - as he watches Phantomhive approach him with a glint in his eyes. He opens his mouth to ask what they should do next, ready to break into violence at the first suggestion.
What he is not ready for, however, is a warm pressure of lips, dizzying breath washing over his face, easy burn of fingers against his jaw.
Phantomhive kissing him, holding him pinned with surprise in his place, almost burying him in the soft curtains hiding the entrance.
In plain sight for anyone coming through the said entrance.
Diederich has a fleeting thought that his agitation and anger must have reached some threshold of transcendence, because his consciousness has soared somewhere up above where it wouldn’t be blown to smithereens by what is going on in his head.
Whatever it is, it almost drowns out all other sounds.
As if through a thick wall, he hears a gasp, a soft apology barely audible through the rush of blood in his ears - and then, hastily retreating footsteps. He feels rather than than hears Phantomhive take a step back.
His eyelids feel too hot and heavy when he opens his eyes.
“What - are you doing?”
What has he done is a bigger question, and Diederich can’t mouth it yet.
Phantomhive looks steady and serene, if a bit short of breath, and it is a bit too much to behold.
“Me?” he cocks his head to the side, shrugs and goes back to Beechworth’s chair. “Just buying ourselves some more time.”
Diederich stands and watches while Phantomhive fixes the seal back on and puts the letters back in whichever folds of the frock coat they came from. He is still silent when Phantomhive hands him the papers that are worth more than one life in Germany.
“What happens now?” Diederich asks, as his imagination fails him completely.
“Absolutely nothing,” replies Phantomhive with a brilliant smile, and Diederich winces. “We quietly leave, and Lord Beechworth continues with his plans for the evening, happy to keep a private secret he believes needs keeping.”
Diederich chokes on his next question, and Phantomhive take some pity on him.
“In some circles, Lord Beechworth is known as a man of certain affections. He’s a darling, really, wouldn’t hurt a fly - but he would never marry, either.”
Diederich feels ill-consoled with the news. He opens his mouth to tell Phantomhive all his thoughts on the subject - and closes it again, choosing to grip the letters inside his pocket instead.
“I knew you’d see the truth of my words,” Phantomhive beams at him and pats him on the arm. “You are blessed with a trustworthy and understanding senior, my dear fag.”
* * *
Diederich is twenty-eight, and marginally alarmed with his recent discovery that there is some enjoyment to be derived from English sandwiches.
He takes another bite and resumes pacing around Phantomhive’s library.
It isn’t like he has actually missed the taste of them - that would be unimaginable. It is much more logical to assume his appetite has peaked after a journey that brought him here.
Diederich curses under his breath and takes a much crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket for another inspection, even though by now he knows by heart what the telegram says. Summons to ‘be at manor in 2 days’ caught him in a moment of quiet evening rest - one of the blissfully many quiet evenings in the years that followed Phantomhive’s marriage - and threw him in a mad chase first after a night express to France, and then to the earliest ferry over the channel.
Now that Phantomhive has settled down, and with more people around him to send on shady errands for watchdog duty, Diederich has been fully expecting to find an emergency on his arrival.
Instead, he has been met with the housekeeper’s profuse apologies for receiving him in the absence of the lord of the manor - ‘I’m sure he will be back shortly, he hasn’t left any other instructions, just took a carriage with Tanaka-san the other day’ - and what seems to be an unlimited supply of sandwiches.
And Phantomhive’s family.
The door to the library creaks open, pushed by the weight of a child’s body hiding behind it.
“Dee?”
Blue eyes too large for his tiny face, cheeks puffed and lips quivering, Ciel Phantomhive peeks out from behind the door, seemingly undecided whether he is more afraid to take a step inside or stay in the hallway.
“Don’t call me that, boy” Diederich frowns and clicks his tongue. Phantomhive had better not be teaching this child his terrible ways from a tender age. “Where are your manners?”
The boy presses himself into the door, practically disappearing in the folds of his nightgown, and offers him a sweet smile disconcertingly like one of his father’s, if a bit shakier and infinitely more sincere.
“Good evening, Dee! How are you?”
There is nothing to say to that, so Diederich just rolls his eyes and sighs in defeat.
“What are you doing out of bed at this hour, boy?”
His question provokes an unexpected result, as the boy practically jumps away from the door and throws himself at Diederich.
“I’m scared, someone wants to come into my room,” he mumbles, burying his face into Diederich’s uniform.
His military training has not prepared him for emergencies like that, so he just stares at the bundle of pastel ruffles clinging desperately to his pant leg.
“Do you mean there is something like a monster under your bed?” he wagers eventually.
The boy shakes his head without unburrowing his face from Diederich’s clothes, and possibly smearing tears and other baby snot all over his uniform.
Diederich stoically remains strong and understanding. Rachel has retired for the day very early, prompted by her frail health, and library was closer to the nursery than the servant’s quarters, so the boy has probably just reached out to the nearest adult.
“No,” Ciel gets out at last. “Not under the bed. I think someone wants to come from outside.”
Diederich abruptly stops trying to figure out whether he could somehow deliver the kid to the housemaid for further babysitting.
“From outside?” He tries to remember which way the windows in the boy’s room face. “Are you sure you’re not imagining it?”
The boy finally lifts his head and gives Diederich a woeful doe-eyed look that is inexplicably good at making him feel guilty for no reason.
“Alright,” he concedes, and gives what he hopes is an encouraging pat on the boy’s shoulder.
The boy squeaks. Diederich sighs.
Maybe Phantomhive should actually teach the boy some of his ways.
“Alright,” he repeats, more resolutely this time. “I’ll go check what beasts lurk outside your window, and you stay here.”
Dragging the frilly kid with him might mean putting him to risk, if there is, in fact, an intruder.
The kid, however, seems to have different ideas - his eyes become two pitiful saucers. Diederich feels a very familiar sort of irritation bloom at these baby steps in heartless manipulation. Knowing full well that brute force is futile against it, he tries a more subtle approach, hoping the kid doesn't yet boast his father's cunning.
"I need someone to keep watch in the library," he says in his most authoritative tone. “There are important books here and - “ his eyes land on the unfinished plate at the desk “- sandwiches. You think you can do it, brat?”
He feels the death grip on his pant leg slacken, and then Ciel lets him go, seemingly awed by his own bravery.
“Good boy,” gruffs out Diederich. “Don’t leave the room, be ready to report to me once I’m back.”
Diederich closes the library door behind him, and goes in the exact opposite direction from the nursery, as far away as he needs to see the nursery wing from the hallway windows. Even brief inspection tells him that the boy wasn’t wrong - the window to his room is wide open, and there is a thin rope leading to it from the rooftop. Diederich feels his eyebrows rise in surprise - where are Phantomhive’s servants looking?
Tanaka isn’t here, he remembers. Phantomhive left the house in a rush and took Tanaka with him.
And quite possibly with just enough time to send an urgent telegram.
With a grim sense of purpose, Diederich soundlessly retraces his steps. He checks his handgun - wearing it on his person has become a habit after many years - but after brief consideration, reaches for something less lethal instead.
He grins at the weight of the brass knuckles on his fingers - they were only less lethal in theory, and yielded excellent results when applied wisely. A weapon for an officer they might not be, but if years of being dragged around to seediest places in all of Europe taught him anything, then it’s not to look a good dirty trick in the eye.
He cracks his neck and goes in.
Twenty minutes and five unconscious bodies later - otherwise mostly unharmed, not counting a toll paid in bruises for their reluctance to communicate the purpose of their arrival - Diederich critically surveys the nursery. With regret, he admits that the room is probably no longer fit to actually host one overly impressive child for the night, at least not until the housemaids have cleaned it up.
He wonders if he will need to resort to reading fairy tales out loud to send the little heir to sleep on one of the cushioned library chairs. Maybe he should tell the boy some German tales, he thinks, they might do him some good if he is to be brought up by Phantomhive.
But the child manages to evade Diederich’s best intentions in the trademark Phantomhive fashion - he is already fast asleep, his body practically curved into a ball much like a frilly cushion.
“What a nuisance,” Diederich shakes his head, and takes off his coat to cover the child.
He doesn’t risk moving the boy to another room, so he grabs one of the remaining sandwiches and flips open the first book within his reach.
This is how Phantomhive finds them the next morning - Diederich fast asleep in a chair, guarding his son and his home when he was forced to leave them vulnerable.
* * *
Diederich is thirty-four, and he has never been angrier with Vincent before.
* * *
Diederich is thirty-six, and finds great comfort in cursing a Phantomhive again.
“Why, you brat!” he says, laughing at a proposition so audacious and preposterous that it could have only come from a person presiding over a circle of mismatched shady characters calling themselves evil noblemen.
A different person, a different circle.
Leaner, hungrier. (Unforgivably younger.)
Same power to command, same pride in the name, same insufferable smirk.
Same job for Diederich, really.
He finds a more comfortable position in his chair and prepares for a long night.