Work Text:
Welcome to the scene, where we tell our story, the next part. By now you’ve seen our sheep has gotten far away from those nasty wolves, and has been for a year. But you didn’t think this was a happy ending, no, those are for fairytales, we talk stories of tragedy here. Our dear Cecil, almost sixteen, he waltzes on thin air, strings of his weakened and neglected joints taken by his own hands. The orchestra practically plays around him, and you keep that in mind, it’s important.
Now, Cecil’s story, oh Cecil, where do we begin with him? Some run away from Italy, taken in by a French tailor, poor boy doesn’t even know who he was or is anymore. A kid who feels deep, who talks in gleeful smiles, who ducks under his covers when the growls arise to his window. And oh! You didn’t think the wolves didn't know where he was, did you?
Of course they do! The wolves, those yellow eyed flea bags, are always watching! They know that boy’s every move, I won’t spoil that too much, but read closely, anyone could be a wolf, they hide in the shadows and come in packs. They smell fear too, they thrive on it, gives them a kick like a drug.
Now, now, don’t go so quickly, stay a little longer, listen to me and try to put the pieces together. Our Cecil is a secretive young man, won’t tell you about that mentor of his and how he hurt his leg, won’t tell you his own dark thoughts that grow in his head. Especially won’t tell you about his little Johanna, the things he’s seen done to sheep like her, don’t think about how she won’t be young forever
Dear reader, this is more than a story, this is a boy’s life. And don’t be fooled, he’s got it good for a runaway who can snap at a dime, good mentor, good lamb, for gods sake! He’s friends with the prince even! All that for a boy who’s so caught up in his own past.
Who can blame him, I suppose. He doesn’t believe he’s a wolf, and he’s certainly no street cat looking for a fight, no, no. Even if he were a cat, he’d be declawed like that little Capulet girl, hah! Cecil, he’s a sheep, not even a ram, some little lamb with a faded tag on his ear, discolored wool, and chipped hooves. He’s not a wild thing, quite domesticated actually, and his owners want him back.
That kid blurs the line between a person and some pretty little prop that some maid forgot to dust for a year. Makes himself all extravagant, wants to be the talk of the party and make himself known, but he’s too scared for all of that. Can’t tell you why yet, that’s not my job here, just be patient, our next scene will only take some time. Even the greatest playwrights didn’t write their plays in a day.
So don’t get loud, and don’t protest, our sweet Cecil will get his time. And those wolves don’t appreciate when you see them, they don’t want your attention, dearest readers, focus on Cecil. You see a wolf, you don’t yell, you don’t run, you stay still, and you act like it’s not there.
Because when the wolves come knocking, you better shut your eyes and bide your time.
Now welcome to the Dubois ball where we lay our scene.
——————————————————————
François found Cecil outside of the ballroom, sitting on the floor next to the door. A couple servants had tried to check on the boy, he knew that because they had come to him with concerns about a potentially lost child. And while he knew Cecil was lost, but it wasn’t in the ‘can’t find his parents’ way servants thought it was. He sighed and took a seat next to the young man, nudging him slightly with his shoulder.
Cecil looked over, fingers pulling at the skin on his lips. He’d told François about how he wanted to kick the habit of picking his lips, but he never did, in fact he started picking at his face, arms, and legs too. It started small in a way François never noticed, but when Cecil would have scabs and bits of blood on his face and under his nails, it wasn’t something that could be easily ignored.
He tried to think of how to start the conversation, taking the boy’s hand in his, guiding it away from his face. Of course Cecil just switched to picking at himself with his other hand, François suddenly despised his friend's long nails. His lips were torn raw and bloody, but Cecil’s fingers tried at every little piece of skin he could. François quickly grabbed his other hand too.
“Cecil, dude, talk to me. What’s up?” François asked. Cecil opened his mouth with a sigh, stuttering over his words, repeating ‘I’ and ‘uh’ over and over again. The frustration in his face told François that the boy knew what he was saying, but his words were just jumbled up. “Deep breaths and slow.”
Cecil took a deep and shaky breath and François could see the tears starting to form.
“I’m just thinking about my dad and how even if I was dead, he’d never really mourn me, just get sympathy from others and—” Cecil spoke almost too quickly for François to understand before stopping abruptly. The prince could see the boy trying not to breathe, not to sniffle, and not to be seen. He buried his face in his hands, François knew that was his way of avoiding embarrassment, to Cecil, crying meant weakness.
François never knew much about Cecil’s life prior to France, Cecil didn’t usually talk about it. But he had found Cecil crying once before, the poor boy hid in the closet, blabbering about how emotions are embarrassing. Then the next day he was smiling like nothing ever happened.
“Hey, hey, it’s ok. You can cry, Cecil, no one’s judging you.” François tried to reassure him.
“They’re always judging…I’m always judging. I’m a product of them.” Cecil whispered, strained and forced. He took a few more deep breaths, managing to get himself under control before his breathing got away from him. Cecil took one last breath and wiped his eyes, a small yellow glint shining from them that François barely caught.
There were many things he noticed about Cecil that no one else seemed to pick up on, it made François feel crazy. But poking and prodding the bear—wolf? Cecil seemed fascinated by wolves from what François saw. He always drew them— wasn’t on his list of plans. François stood up too, gently grabbing onto Cecil’s arm.
“Cecil, if you ever want to talk to me, I’m here for you. Always.” Cecil looked intrigued by François’ offer, but ultimately shook his head no.
“I’m fine, François, it’s your party, go enjoy it.” The boy laughed, punching François’ arm playfully.
“I want to introduce you to May and all my friends.” François blurted out in an attempt to get Cecil to stay. Cecil just froze, and a thousand emotions crossed his face until one adjacent to fear and with a hint of anger settled. The prince worried he’d made the wrong choice for a moment.
“Yeah, François…I’ll meet them, I said I wanted to after all.” Cecil looked down and nodded. François took his hand and led him back into the ballroom, the overcrowded mess of people seemed never ending. The chatter was almost too much for François, he worried that it was too much for Cecil too.
However, the boy seemed just fine when François turned to check on him. That was a lie actually, Cecil seemed absolutely terrified, just not at the noise, François figured it was because he missed Johanna who had to stay home. He still didn’t get how a small lamb—hogget, technically— was meant to handle taking care of her owner’s sick mentor. He didn’t understand a lot about Cecil’s home-life, it was strange to a prince, but he was happy with it, so François was happy for him.
Juliet found them first, she was beaming as she took François’ free hand before seeing Cecil. When she did see him, though, she squinted her eyes and tilted her head a bit like she recognized him. Cecil squeezed François’ hand tighter as Juliet studied him, and frankly, he didn’t know how to help.
“You look familiar, have we met before?” Juliet asked, still searching for where she knew him from. François was half happy to see that they already knew each other, the other half confused since Cecil insisted on not knowing them. François had actually made a joke once when he was at the shop picking something out for May, he didn’t remember the joke exactly, just that it mentioned Verona and made Cecil snappy.
“You must have confused me with someone else, I don’t believe we’ve met before.” Cecil stuck his hand out for her to shake, and Juliet took it happily, keeping her smile. However, the suspicion never left her face, but she didn’t press on.
“Right, Juliet, and you are?”
“Cecil Augustus, it’s great to meet you.” He greeted warmly, but something in his voice had François confused and conflicted. Juliet had a great memory, if she said she recognized Cecil, she couldn’t have been lying. But she led the two over to the rest of their friends anyways, talking to Cecil like she wasn’t stuck on knowing him.
Romeo was the next to raise an eyebrow at the boy, opening his mouth to ask if he knew Cecil as well. But Juliet stopped him quickly.
“Everyone, this is Cecil! He’s Frankie’s friend!” She stepped next to Romeo, grabbing his arm causing him to tear his gaze off Cecil. François turned to May, the only one who actually seemed like they didn’t know Cecil.
“Cecil, this is May, they’re my partner who I told you about!” François gestured at them and they waved politely at Cecil. Cecil managed a small ‘hi’ before looking back at Juliet, and the two stayed in this awkward staring contest. François tried to fill the silence, but his arm was grabbed tightly and he was pulled into the crowd.
He pulled his arm away, glaring at the person who grabbed him, but all he saw was one of the servants. He looked terrified at the prince’s cold look and François’ chest filled with guilt and embarrassment.
“I’m sorry, I just—I…” His cheeks burned and he grabbed a glass of wine, sipping it while he walked off quickly. He looked around for his friends, but the ballroom only seemed to crowd further, bodies nearly crushing him as he squeezed through. He had no idea how he had ended up so far away from his group, he could have sworn he was only dragged for a second.
“François.” A voice called, familiar, yet so strange and distant. The room started tilting and François tried not to freak out more, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and his knees felt weak. “François!”
His glass clattered to the floor, remaining contents spilling out, and there were only more unfamiliar people. He felt jostled, he thought he heard himself yell, but he wasn’t sure if it was in his head or out his throat. A hand grabbed his shoulder firmly, and he spun around with an outstretched arm.
The sound of his hand colliding against another person silenced the room. And François shrunk as he recognized who had grabbed him.
“I am so sorry!” He stammered as his dad rubbed his reddening cheek. “Here, let me—”
“How much have you had to drink?” Lance asked, ignoring his son’s apologies. “You’ve been wandering around the entire party.”
“No, it was only a couple seconds. I was with everyone else, then I got pulled away, and no one was there who would’ve pulled me away, and then everything got fuzzy and spinny—” François tried to explain quickly, but from his dad’s expression, he wasn’t sure the words were coming out right.
“Were you drugged?” His dad lifted François’ chin, snapping in front of his face. “We need to find Angelique.” Lance concluded
“I need to get back and make sure my friends are ok!” François’ interjected, but the bile rising to his throat wasn’t on his side. His whole body was betraying him, his legs were about to give out, his vision was beginning to darken and everything was happening quickly. “Have someone find them, dad, please.” He barely managed without giving out entirely.
——————————————————————
Cecil had left the party early, he had figured François did too. They were separated in the crowd and being around people from his past was beginning to make him anxious. He would have liked to stay longer, but François leaving made him want to cry, and wanting to cry made him want to die instead. He didn’t think he minded death though, he always wanted to know what would happen, and there was the bonus of his family possibly being sad when they found out.
But that didn’t matter anymore, so Cecil kept walking. A trash bin clanked against the ground and Cecil almost stopped and turned around, but he knew better. He kept his eyes forward and his feet moving, ignoring the footsteps sounding from right behind him. He fought to keep his breathing steady, trying not to hyperventilate or cry in fear of whoever was behind him.
He ignored the whispers of his old name as best as he could, but given the gruff and taunting voice that spoke it like a slur, it was difficult. Cecil picked up the pace just a bit, acting like he didn’t hear a soft ‘shink’ from behind, he just had to pretend the howling wasn’t there. But it was, there was someone behind him ready to attack, to drag him to a place he refused to call home. And there were no witnesses around.
But they wouldn’t, no, they really wouldn’t. They couldn’t take him back, he’d scream, people would hear, someone would come to help. He picked up the pace more, following a rhythm.
One and two and three and four and one and two and three and four and
But the footsteps were keeping the rhythm like he was, and those boots were loud. The taunts grew more personal, Johanna, his mentor, François—
François
And it all clicked, Cecil wasn’t abandoned by his friend at the party. He stopped and turned around, the one thing he was never meant to do, but he stared at the towering figure. And the figure stared back. Everything in Cecil cried wolf, he always cried wolf, but this time the wolf was really there.
The wolf was right in front of Cecil and armed and he had lured Cecil away by taking François out of the picture. Cecil had put his head in the wolf’s mouth.
“You didn’t…You really didn’t—Why would you?” Cecil nearly sobbed, taking a step back. The wolf didn’t move, he just laughed, and Cecil hated him.
“Oh.” He practically purred, one final click of his boot against the pavement sent Cecil running. Sure, his dad was fast, but Cecil was lighter with long legs, he could put up a chase.
Cecil took a sharp turn through an alley, leaving the light of street lamps behind. He took another turn, hearing a thump against a wall and a grunt of pain. Cecil knew the alleys better than the wolves, he had the advantage, and everyone knew it.
Oh, Cecil. How could you be so foolish?
His shoes skidded as he took one final turn out of the alley. He threw himself against the door of the shop, locking it quickly with shaking hands and bolting upstairs. He slammed his bedroom door shut, his heart thumping in his ears. It felt like an hour before he could stand and breathe again, but he was thoroughly shaken and exhausted.
Cecil craved sleep he knew he wouldn’t get with all the howling and growling he heard, even when they weren’t there, they were judging. He hated himself for feeling weak, if he had to have one thing from his family, he wished it was their ability to act like nothing was happening. His mind played a symphony of creaks and scratches, laughter and scraping. He stumbled to his bed with his hands over his ears, trying to block out what was in his head.
Johanna managed to stay sound asleep in Cecil’s bed right up until Cecil grabbed her and held her close. She bleated sleepily as he pulled her to his chest, curling up in his bed. He wouldn’t ever let Johanna go to the wolves, he wouldn’t ever give her up for the world. But they had tried to take François from him, they were getting impatient now, he’d just have to be sneakier and more clever. They couldn’t go after him forever even if they had tracked him down to Paris, even if they had for months.
There were too many thoughts stuck in his head. His red and puffy eyes locked on the ceiling, drawing out scratch marks with his mind, trying to believe they weren’t there. Cecil was fucked, he was starting to run out of wits and energy to keep running around some forest. He was to the point of returning to a pond, like some lamb led away by a wolf in the middle of the night.
But that was exactly what he was after all.