Like paired collapsars, they revolve around each other, spinning ever closer.
As Ciel sits at the edge of his bed, about to lean back onto the mattress, the scars of his childhood flare to mind.
"Will do you what I ask, demon?"
It is no order.
"Yes, my lord."
Ciel rises once more to face Sebastian, who still stands before him. Laying one hand upon his butler's breastbone, he guides Sebastian to sit and lie back onto the bed himself. Then Ciel sinks down over his butler, long locks hanging in a veil around their faces.
Inevitably, they kiss.
Their love is a game, and Ciel sets ever more complicated rules.
"You shall not speak or use your hands," he declares. "You shall not move your legs."
Laden with power, the words bind Sebastian more firmly than any rope. And so he stretches to the edges of his magic, of himself, and strains to please his master, who grows bolder and devilishly creative. Given his nature, Sebastian plays many a devilish trick of his own.
("I can't help but feel the tentacles were cheating."
"Now, how could I be your butler if I refused to bend the rules?")
The reaper flees, abandoning his sickle. That night, Ciel traces lines on Sebastian's chest, sparks glimmering in his eyes as he marks that impenetrable armor.
"You even bleed beautifully."
He plays with the scythe, drawing a little blood and many absent-minded chuckles. Yet when he slices where the reaper had earlier, he hears no laugh.
"Sebastian?"
"Perhaps not there."
Ciel pauses, then presses a kiss to the reopened wound, even as the indomitable flesh knits back together. When he strikes again, now marring uninjured skin, Sebastian releases his millennia-old numbness, lets the blade break through and feels.
As ever in their intricate relationship, Ciel plays the master, taking the position of power as he summons his demon and orders him into his bed. He looms over his monster, tying him with words, making selfish demands, claiming those marble limbs with bites and scratches and kisses. As ever, he knows his power is a lie, as Sebastian wears his servile mask, making a show of offering himself to tempt his so-called master. As Sebastian draws him in, tasting him, consuming him in warmth hotter than hellfire . . .
Ciel throws his head back and laughs, reveling in the illusions.
"Don't move."
"Young master—" Now prone, Sebastian moves to raise himself up.
"Don't," Ciel intones. "The reapers said exertion will only speed the poison. Lie still; I'll follow the warlock's antidote recipe . . ."
Their gazes lock as Ciel considers fleeing, leaving his butler to perhaps lose his life, breaking the contract, throwing himself to the mercy of Agni and Lizzie and other, not inconsiderable human allies . . .
Sebastian silently closes his eyes and lowers his head back to the ground.
Ciel starts, then gives a strangely tender smile. Glancing at the instructions, he begins to brew the antivenom.
The contract is complete.
Ciel sits on a marble bench and stares at his butler, here at the end of everything, while Sebastian kneels before him on one knee, head tilted down.
"Look at me."
He leans close and exhales, just inches from his demon's lips.
"Do you need it?"
He thrills to see the silent plea shimmering in crimson eyes.
"Very well, then," Ciel murmurs, gripping Sebastian's jaw one last time and drawing him close. With one last, forceful kiss, he gives his servant release from his hunger.
Like paired collapsars, they inevitably collide and become one.