There was the revealing of the evidence in paper form and little roses taped together with practically perfect handwriting.

In one sliding door of destiny, Edward Midford shot up and out of the Swan Gazebo, Greenhill for once following after him instead of the other way around, since Edward knew his cousin and Greenhill knew enough about the voice of Maurice Cole to know when he was about to lose his composure.

This is not the entrance to that door of what might have been.

This is, in fact, the door taken in which the P4 and their loyal fags wait a little, Edward reigning in his control on his emotions. Ciel has the evidence, he'd planned to see it through, otherwise the lot of them wouldn't have found the gazebo filled to bursting with a conversation and confrontation taking place across the water.

All fate needs, capricious as it is, to give a solid victory or bring victory at a price, is a matter of moments and choices.

In this case, giving Maurice Cole enough time to remove more than the front of a shirt with the slice of scissors stowed away, and a single shoe taken off, in spite of Ciel Phantomhive saying 'please' and 'stop'.

Edward had lived long enough to remember all the times he'd been angry. Truly angry, not just mad or disappointed, but angry.

When his mother had announced that Elizabeth would be marrying their first cousin of all people, Edward had been angry.

When they'd all been told that Phantomhive Manor had been burnt to the ground, the servants and the family missing or killed on the grounds, Edward had been angry.

When the Campania had been under the threat and attack of those Bizarre Dolls and Ciel had returned to the main horror of the ship, rather than leave with his family and servants to safety, Edward had been angry.

...This, standing in the frame of the door broken in after everyone in the gazebo had heard the shuffling, and the goading, and the cry for help, Edward racing like thunder after lightning at hearing Ciel (tiny, tiny, younger cousin Ciel) cry out in any sort of way...

Rage.

He'd never seen Ciel naked, even when they were young enough not to know any better and couldn't stand being outside in sweltering heat by the seaside and their parents wouldn't begrudge them much; nor when they shared a bath going on vacation together, in thanks to the many bubbles that were always used for someone so small.

This parasite upon Red House and the school in general had no right, none at all, to strip Ciel bare and take photographs; other boys assisting in the treachery and pinning sparrow bone thin arms and legs to the floor in awkward fashion so they could show things Edward had never been aware of and, in honesty, had never wanted to know.

Translucent white skin, ribs visible even in good health, bruising that was old (little ones that looked like bubbles; Cheslock had mentioned Purple House chasing him off) and newly forming (like a footprint), red fresh blood in long descending streaks doubtless caused by those scissors lying beside Cole like an accomplice.

Ciel trying to pull his legs frantically up to cover his exposure, keeping that right eye shut tight even without the patch still tied up, head twisting and choking repeated, "Off me, off me, off me!" as Cole used one free hand to point a finger like an arrow at a horrifying little mark Edward would look back on and realize that Ciel had tried damn hard to make sure nobody knew about.

Edward would never forget. And his rage was so strong that he would never forgive.

But he asked no questions. He respected his cousin too much for that. And he had no right to know after so much time.

"If Tradition is so absolute," Ciel hissed low and frightening from his place beside the porcelain toilet, head bowed to his knees and disgust at himself and his Prefect palpable in the air; it seemed like he was talking to himself in all honesty, but Bluewer couldn't be certain, "Then why does it only take one person to break it?"

He might as well have shot Lawrence in the chest with a rifle point-blank with the question, intentional or not, lucid or dreaming.

The Prefect was only just aware of his head of house cautioning Bluewer not to touch Phantomhive, "In this state, I've no doubt that he will break your arm," before removing the elder boy from the water closet so he could handle it himself.

Standing in the hallway, he couldn't help the hideous reality that he was so, so, so grateful that he wasn't Prefect to Red House or Green House.

He may have to wake up in the middle of the night because Phantomhive has sat bolt upright in bed every other night for the last two weeks, spooking McMillan enough to follow his friend to the toilet, where he always locks the door and begins the process of violent heaving into a bowl or slapping freezing cold water against his face, leading Clayton to wake Bluewer up to inform him, but...

At least he isn't housed with Midford, still angry and dark as any of his friends and classmates had ever seen him, using fencing and cricket practice to take out his anger at what he felt was his own failing, but wasn't only laid on him.

At least he isn't housed with the little bastard that was due to return from his suspension any day; or with a certain prince of Bengal that was actually an entirely different kind of person from the norm in English society in that he was actually a decent person who cared less for his reputation than he did for his friend (or "little brother" as he'd repeated in the infirmary when he'd heard about Cole's suspension and didn't see Ciel at tea time; pacing long strides through the halls in frustration and fury while wishing to see Ciel and just be there for him).

Sleep would not come at all to him with such a question roving in his skull like white grubs and ugly things under a rock.