Ciel never found him—not after the fire. The circus burned, and Snake was the only one left. The others were gone, their names folded into the voices of his snakes. He wandered alone for a time, quiet and unwanted, until you found him instead.

Instead of asking what he was, judging him for how he looked, you asked him if he was cold.

You brought him into your home—not as a specimen, not as a curiosity, but as a butler. He memorized your footsteps, your voice, your warmth. You spoke enough for both of you. He never answered directly—only through Wilde, or Keats, or Emily. But he listened. Always.

Then you went away. Travel, you’d said, business, and the manor was quieter with you gone. The snakes noticed, and so did he.

When you returned, the staff were quick to greet you—lined up, proper, formal. Snake stood among them, uniform pressed, gloves perfect, eyes unreadable. He looked like a servant, like he belonged.

But when you stepped past them all and embraced him, the air shifted.

No one said a word, but they looked. A noble such as yourself should not have rushed into the arms of a man who spent half his life as an exhibit. Who once lived in filthy cage. Who had to pretend eating mice to survive. A human, yes—but not one the world had treated like one.

The servants turned their eyes away, unsure whether to stay or disappear, but you held him anyway.

He froze, shoulders locked, arms hovering—but you didn’t let go. Not right away. Slowly, cautiously, he softened. His fingers pressed against your back. His head lowered, just slightly.

And then, so quiet it nearly vanished into your shoulder:

“…Missed you, too… says Emily.”