Work Text:
Feminine
Adjective; having qualities or an appearance relating to that of a woman or a girl.
Prince Ciel of France is born a male.
However, he seemed… off like most men in this world.
He was sweet, charming, clumsy.
He wore his heart on his sleeve, passionate and uncaring.
Long, blonde hair, accessoried in a red hairbow.
The modifications he made to his uniform—
The frills at the cuffs,
The jeweled jabot on his neck,
All of it…
It wasn’t out of defiance, nor was it rebellion.
To simply put it…
It was for fun.
Silly, stupid fun.
But he is not supposed to be like that.
He is not supposed to look as if he were…
“Effeminate”.
“Womanly”.
A masculine appearance was what best suited him.
After all… that’s what most students said about him, correct?
He’s not a woman.
He’s a man.
And men do not dress or act like that.
———
“Oi! Ciel!” A student called over at the school courtyard. Ciel turned around, “Hm?”
“Fix up that look, would’ya?” He said rather brashly. “You’re a prince, so act like it!”
“… What are you talking about?” Ciel asked, shoulders tensing upward in discomfort.
The student stamped up, gesturing vaguely at his appearance, “The ribbons and shit!” He told him, continuing to wave on at the uniform. “You look like a girl!”
Ciel stepped aback, pointing towards him, “You have no right to talk to me like that—“
The student didn’t bother to relent, “Yeah, yeah, you’re on Council.” He rolled his eyes, “You’re a man, aren’t ya?”
“And…?”
“People are talkin’.” The student jabbed his chest, “What are ya’? Some sorta’ faggot?”
…
“Help yourself, already. You look fuckin’ stupid.” He shoved him back, walking away and back to his friends.
Ciel stood there, shocked.
His eyes moved to the ground.
Why isn’t he moving?
He should’ve scolded him.
He should’ve told him off, reported him— anything, really.
And… this is the first time he fell silent.
He looked at his uniform, the cuffs limply falling on his wrist.
It was beauty he once thought and prided himself on.
Beauty that let him be free, alive.
Beauty he was suddenly ashamed of.
Is this wrong?
Am I wrong?
“Help yourself, already.”
…
Ciel walked out of the courtyard, heading towards the dormitory building.
———
The moment he entered his room, the façade broke.
His breath turned shallow and heavy.
His body began to quiver and ache.
His hand ran through his hair almost aggressively, catching the ribbon and ripping it off his head.
He didn’t care if it hurt or not since he had already thrown off his blazer and the accessory onto his bed.
Ciel headed towards the en-suite bathroom, and locked the door behind him.
Click.
He caught his breath, before he opened the mirror cabinet.
A pair of metal scissors.
He yanked on a fistful of his hair and opened the blades.
Si Dieu veut que je sois un homme, alors je le serai.
Snip.
Snip, snip, snip…
Golden hair littered the bathroom floor and sink.
Each cut was more desperate, more frantic than the last.
When there was nothing left but air… Ciel placed down the scissors to look at himself in the glass.
Who are you?
Who am I?
His hair was uneven, jagged, torn.
Once adorned in accessories, laid barren and flat.
The prideful prince who never bothered to fit norms…
Reduced to a mutilated version of himself, distorted and ugly.
He was a boy that felt too deep.
A boy who forced himself into something unrecognisable.
A boy who cut himself down to fit a mold.
A boy now standing in front of a mirror, broken.
He felt… something.
What is this feeling supposed to be?
Happiness?
Satisfaction?
Freedom?
Punishment?
Whatever it is… it isn’t enough.
Not even by an inch.
It would never be enough…
Never…
“Hic… hic…”
Ciel choked on his own shuddering breath, his knuckles turning white from gripping the edges of the porcelain sink as tears dripped from his glassy eyes. His shoulders folded inward before he stumbled back and slid back against the door, sitting with his arms and legs together as sobs left his throat.
The silence in the bathroom was deafening, as if the emptiness were to suffocate him in.
Pourquoi Dieu a-t-il fait de moi un homme?
Pourquoi Dieu a-t-il fait de moi un monstre?
Pourquoi, Dieu? Pourquoi?
Je ne veux pas être un monstre, Dieu.
Je déteste ça.