AN: This is manga-verse, as I've read all the chapters so far but have only watched a few anime episodes, and usually like to go by manga canon with any series I'm into anyway. This would presumably be set sometime after the current Campania arc. This was pretty spontaneous and written really quickly, so it may be clumsy and full of mistakes. Sorry if that's the case. I characterized Tanaka the way I did because of that whole "Don't mourn for servants, your father never did that," part, which made him seem a little harder than previously. Read and review, please!
Warnings: Some mentions of sex, the implication that Ciel was sexually abused by his captors, and pre-slash (Seb/Ciel) of a sort of "when you're older" variety.
In that distant past, behind the veil of blood and fire which blocked it from sight, it was Mother who tucked him in at night and hovered over him when the coughing seized his whole body; it was Father who pulled him onto his knee and told him tales of serving the crown and doing away with evil. But it was Tanaka, brusque and stern, who dressed and undressed him, who pulled a comb through his hair without care for the painful yanks and tugs. Tanaka was not cruel...but he was Father's man, all the way, and he did not transition well from the firmness of watching over a Phantomhive lord to the softness of touching a sickly child.
Perhaps that was why these quiet times in the evening and morning were among the few things he found truly enjoyable. Things which had once been associated with happiness now brought pain...but the opposite was also true. In that other life, having his hair brushed had been an exercise in discomfort, so it was now one of the rare things which had become better rather than worse after his childhood died. It was perhaps the only thing left which was truly relaxing; more so even than sleep, where the nightmares lingered, waiting for him to join them. Here, with the soothing slide of fingers and comb through his hair, he dozed; not so awake that the memories plagued him, yet not so asleep that the dreams captured him. Here, he rested.
He refused to pretend. He refused to make up some happy fantasy. He would not imagine parental affection from the creature behind him. He would only savour what truly existed; the warmth of the chest that his head occasionally brushed against, the gentleness of the gloved hands guiding his head to turn this way and that, the caution with which the comb was pulled. He knew what he was; a lamb, being raised carefully for the slaughter, well fed and nurtured until he was ripe for feasting upon. He'd heard before of people who preferred to raise their stock with love, whether simply from kindness of character or from some belief that affection made the meat better. Sometimes he wondered whether Sebastian believed the latter.
It didn't matter one way or the other, of course. He would achieve his goals, and then he would lie down and bare his throat for the wolf's fangs, a willing prey. Perhaps he might ask, Would you rather the chase, or the surrender? Shall I lie down, or shall I run? Perhaps he might grant that choice to the demon, a small repayment for the gentleness with which he had been fattened up for the table.
"Young Master?"
He did not start, simply came back to the present quietly, leaning his head back and staring up into ruby red eyes, picturing his own blood marring softly curved lips. The image was not frightening. It seemed...right, somehow. Death must come to all, and he would much rather be devoured by this deceptively beautiful and gentle creature; a creature he had chosen as his means of death, than be robbed of life by the ones who had already stolen his happiness and youth.
"What is it?"
"Your hair is finished. Unless you'd like me to continue?"
He shook his head, aware that he was tousling his hair again, and stood.
"I'll get dressed for bed now."
His nightshirt was already laid out on the bed. Rows of buttons easily came apart beneath skilled fingers, and Ciel stared at the dark head of the demon kneeling before him, resisting as always the half-formed desire to bury his fingers in ink-black hair and revel in touching another living being, even an ostensibly evil one. So much less evil, in so many ways, than so many humans.
Gloved digits brushed his skin just slightly as they pushed his shirt over his shoulders, and he wondered...wondered whether a day would come when this contact would mean something different. He was halfway through his thirteenth year, well aware of the subtle changes already creeping through his body; welcome in that they would bring adulthood and strength, but unwelcome in that he had no desire to be reminded of what lust was. He dreaded the still far-off day when he would be expected to move over and within Elizabeth in the darkness, dreaded the horrific images and memories which would flash before his mind's eye, dreaded the likeliness that he would be unable to even become aroused. He dreaded being forced to touch and be touched by anyone other than his demon; the only living being whose every movement he could predict, or at least change to his will if he could not predict it. If ever a day came when lust, that all too human instinct, churned in his belly and boiled in his blood, he already knew where he would turn for satisfaction.
Because you will drive away the memories of their hands, wash those pictures away with memories of their blood. Because your darkness covers the stains they left.
His nightshirt was pulled over his head, and he easily slipped his arms into the sleeves, starting slightly as one of Sebastian's hands settled on his shoulder, an unfamiliar gesture.
"Young Master, if I may say so, it is wise to plan ahead, but never wise to devote so much time to the future that you lose the present. Many things will happen as you age and progress towards your goals." And therefore towards the inevitable end. "But for the moment, it is time for a child to sleep."
He didn't even bother barking at the demon for calling him a child, didn't bother questioning how Sebastian had read him so well. Instead, he crawled into bed and let hands which would not be a lover's hands for several years yet pull covers over him. Gloved fingers brushed once over his eyes, encouraging them to close, and for the briefest of moments, as he drifted towards the world where nightmares dwelt, he almost thought it pleasant to be a child.