Okay! My second Kuro fic (well...kinda. I'm writing some drabbles...) But I really like how this one came out!

BUT PLEASE PAY ATTENTION! We're going to play a game. There are two endings to this fic. You are allowed to read both of them, but FIRST, PLEASE READ THE CORRESPONDING ONE TO THE GAME! Here are the simple rules of the game:

1. At the end of the fic, in the author's note, there are two questions (well, more like qualifiers...). Pick one, and it will give you which ending to read.

2. Leave me a reply with which ending you got, and which one you liked best! That's all!

Hope you enjoy!

Being dead is not so much different from being alive.

Ciel ponders this as he walks down the street, watching as the rooftops carry on the small shower that ended long ago, droplets falling down into gathering puddles below

(a fair few unsettled by waves, but those a mere foot to the left or the right untouched).

They make no noise, but not much does any more. Ciel taps the tip of his now-closed umbrella into one of the waiting pools, disturbing the stillness of the sun-through-clouds picture with the barest ripples.

He moves on.

Today is a day much like any other: the streets of London are empty, and the rain falls intermittingly, making the cobblestones shine in a way he never appreciated until now. They catch the smallest hints on sunlight and sparkle, disarmingly, like a friend amongst the dreary days

(but does he need a friend?).

The city is clean, perhaps one of the only differences readily obvious. The streets have no litter upon them, no old newspapers, no ticket stubs or receipts or lost coins. No people. No thieves or murders, no kidnappers or stalkers

(no fiends in red with wicked, sharp teeth).

The city is clean of everything.

Everything except for himself.

His feet tap along the street, and after a few

(minutes, hours, days)

he turns his umbrella to act as a walking stick. Its metallic click as it beats the stones beneath it strikes up a conversation with the sharp rapport of his boots, the only noise in a silent world.

-ooo-

Back at the manor, everything is as he left it

(empty, cold, unoccupied)

and he shrugs his coat off, hanging it on the rack with his hat and umbrella. The only real difference here

(no tears, no explosions, no breaking china, no laughter)

is that the garden is overgrown. It flourishes, dying every winter and coming back stronger the next spring. Flowers trail petals lazily across the lawn, red on white on yellow on blue on green. The hedges sway in the wind as it picks up, too-long branches dancing against the clouded sky.

When night falls, he goes to bed.

The sun rises, and at some hour of the day he gets out of bed. He pulls his outfit of the day out of the wardrobe, smoothing its wrinkles and laying it on his bed. He removes his nightshirt, white fabric sliding over white skin and leaving his arms and chest open to the goosebumps that race along them. He dresses

(buttons in the right holes and hair combed after a few tries, but by now he's gotten used to it)

and heads down to the kitchen. The cabinets are orderly, as he left them, but there are mountains of cups on the sideboard. All colors and kinds of teacups are stacked, dirty, by the sink. It would have made … cringe, but Ciel won't do dishes, not yet. And there always seem to be more cups around. He doesn't eat

(doesn't have to)

but he still enjoys tea. So he makes a new pot and pours himself a cup, sitting at the servants' table in the kitchen, instead of in the dining hall. Sometimes it makes him feel better, but not today it seems. He sighs and debates silently whether or not to throw his teacup, but decides against it. It wouldn't make him feel any more comforted.

He learned long ago that only the things he touches make noise. His cane taps along with him as he walks, his chair scrapes against the floor as he pulls it out, but rocks don't splash in puddles when they leave his hand.

(Teacups don't split the air as they shatter on the floor, set after set. Phantomhive Manor used to have fifteen sets of china. Now it has twelve.)

Ciel walks to the door, puts on his hat and coat, grabs his walking stick, and leaves. He will walk around the town today, like every day, as far as he can go. Looking for anything.

-ooo-

Ciel doesn't speak. He thought

(weeks, months, years)

ago that perhaps it would help. But it doesn't. It simply reaffirms the silence, the fact that there is no one here to answer him.

("Maylene," he called, once. "Finny, Bard, Tanaka!" But not … no. He knew he wouldn't be able to bear the silence of the lie, the "I will follow you to hell, young master," that never came true)

And once, once he called out to his parents. Perhaps the

(living?)

could not hear him, so he tried the dead, with no response.

And sometimes he wonders why he is here. Is this the nothingness promised by being eaten? Or did he get away? Is this hell? Of course, there is no one to whom he can address these questions, not even a bird.

(Sometimes he imagines a raven)

But he doesn't speak, walking down the road, passing other abandoned houses with steadily expanding gardens.

-ooo-

One year.

-ooo-

Ten years.

-ooo-

Twenty years.

-ooo-

One hundred years.

-ooo-

London has become a jungle. No houses but his have fallen to decay, but vines and roots and branches have teased open doors and pried open windows, making the houses their own. Outer London went first, but soon the entire city was overrun, green hiding the once-shining cobblestones. He has lost his only friend in this lonely world. Ciel doesn't care.

He has run out of cups.

-ooo-

He has gone quite mad, he has decided. Everywhere, there is a crow that follows him. Or over there, a black cat by the alley, hiding within the ivy-covered doorway of what had been the Undertaker's shop. Or there, a flash of a smile in the window of Scotland Yard.

(He has begun talking to himself again.)

He wonders, sometimes, if this is his punishment for trying to live a life alone when he was surrounded by people. By his careless but well-meaning servants, by his fiancée

(with her unwelcome but not unpleasant visits)

and by …, all smiles, and posture, and perfectly baked sweets. He does not feel undignified, though he wonders if he should, as he drinks his tea from a bowl. He still refuses to do dishes.

"My, young master," he says to himself as he surveys the kitchen, hat and coat on and walking stick in hand, "you have made quite the mess. Do you have any idea how long it will take me to clean this up?"

And he laughs as he leaves, and shouts back to himself, "Years!"

-ooo-

He chases the cat for hours. For weeks, for months, for years. For only seconds before it is gone again around a corner and he has lost it. And he howls at himself for missing it, and storms into the square.

He finds a statue to talk to, touching its face and wishing it would speak back.

He has taken to lying there, in the square. It has been days. Yes, days since he's seen the cat, or the crow, or the phantom smile in the window. He is sure of this, as he is sure of nothing else. It has rained, and the wind has turned cold, and winter is on its way.

"Look at you, young master," he whispers. "Come inside or you'll catch your—your death." And he laughs himself sick, because it is somehow very funny.

And then the cat is there, in the alleyway across from him. By the time he stands, it has vanished. He stares, and his mouth works frantically. For a moment

(a year)

he is afraid that he has forgotten the name. Forgotten, as he has wished for many eons to do. But it comes springing out of his mouth, the only noise among the roots and trees and flowers that have taken over London. The only noise to grace their unresponsive and uncaring ears as they turn their faces away to the sun and leave the boy in the square alone.

"Seb…Sebastian! Sebastian! Please, wait! Wait for me! Sebastian!"

And there is stillness.

Okay! Now, to the endings!

If you have an opinion on choclate, read ending one.

If you like oranges, read ending two.

Okay? Have at it!