Although it's been less than a month since I last appeased my most damnable craving, my incessant hunger has again grown ravenous and cannibalistic, rendering me so hollow and cold I should like to scream against the intensity of my visceral pain.

Instead I lay quietly awake on our bed, my wife draped across my bare chest, and stare up into the shadows. Lizzie's warmth rolls off my chilled skin as if repelled, as if my flesh is encased by an impermeable shell like a physical manifestation of the invulnerable façade I must wear day in and out.

She breathes a contented sigh and snuggles against me, deeply asleep and comfortable despite the knotted ropes of muscle within her pillow. What would she think, I wonder, if she knew how often I envied her softness and her trusting vulnerability, her sense of security, the open ease with which she accepts and bestows affection . . . Perhaps she does know. Too often I see wistfulness in her green eyes, as if she wishes she might find a way to hold me even when I'm in her arms.

Struggle though I do to give what remains of myself to her, I'm irretrievably beyond her reach. Even though she searches intently, she doesn't see.

Perhaps it's best she doesn't, for if she ever glimpsed the pathetic, agonized child at the core of the man she married, how would she ever look at me again?

Somewhere beyond our chamber door I hear a distant grandfather clock chime twice. Too soon the sun will rise on a world of malcontent and greed, and I will have to crawl once more into its diseased underbelly in attempt to expunge the worst of its rot. Such is the purpose of The Earl of Phantomhive. Her Majesty will care not whether her dog is well and rested, so long as he's able to fetch and kill and heel on command—and should he fail . . . well, there's a fresh pup who's already begun to wean just down the hall.

Close your eyes. Go to sleep, Ciel.

I tell myself I wish I could . . . I try to convince myself I'd like nothing more than to nestle my face against Lizzie's silken hair and find her within her dreams. Perhaps there I might become the man she pretends I am . . . a man who belongs to her, who loves her beyond all others.

I try, Elizabeth. I fight and deny with what little I have left, but . . .

The gnawing pain at my core tells me, quite unnecessarily, that I'll never be hers. Nor will sleep grant me brief escape from the demands of my soul, from my overwhelming and wretched need to be seen and accepted and . . . touched.

I'm losing his game, Lizzie. What's worse? It's becoming harder and harder to convince myself I shouldn't let him win.

I hug Lizzie close, lift her from the bed, and then gently lay her down again. She slips out of my arms and puddles against the silk sheets with another soft sigh, and then curls onto her side without waking.

After removing the medical patch from my right eye, I've no need for a lamp, for the demon's mark emblazoned across my iris awakens to my intent and lights my way. I slip into my robe and pad barefoot out into the dark hall.

Our bond leads me through the silent manor, down the stairs and through a labyrinth of narrow hallways beyond the kitchens to an end room with a window facing out over the rose garden, which has just begun to bloom.

There's no need to knock, for he knew I was coming even before I left my bedchambers. The brass doorknob feels warm beneath my palm and welcoming as it turns in my grip.

Dim candlelight throws flickering shadows over barren walls, across his smooth, pale skin, dances within his cherrywood eyes which I meet and hold even before I cross the threshold. Propped upon one arm, he watches me approach from a bed dressed in white silk and pulls back the covers, inviting me.

Despite the many times I've beheld his nudity, I am, as always, overcome by his beauty. He is a study of contrasts made flesh; onyx and ivory, pallor and blush, strength and grace. While my starved gaze roams over his leanly sculpted perfection, my body thrums and my blood races. My hard veneer cracks.

The door snicks closed and the lock tumbles into place of its own accord as I shrug out of my robe and lower onto his bed.

He opens his arms to me and I slide wordlessly into them. With a satisfied sigh he enfolds me within his full embrace, and the last of my crumbling shell disintegrates beneath the glide of his hand over my spine. I shudder with sudden, weightless relief and melt against him, closing my eyes as I relish his heat.

He holds me close until I am warmed through, and then he threads his fingers through my hair and gently tilts my head back. "Look at me, Ciel."

With his caramel-coated issue of my given name, he frees me completely. I need not be his Master or anyone's Lord. I'm not the earl of anything, and I'm no one's dog. Within his arms, I am simply Ciel.

As I open my eyes and bare my soul to its possessor, my heart aches for the power to simplify him. Would that I could reduce him to a mere man with only the murmur of the name I gave him when I was a child, but he will eternally be my death and my damnation if not my butler, my sword and my shield.

"Sebastian," I try, because, despite futility, I must. Because the broken spirit of the whimsical child I once was, because the aching soul of the once joyful boy who only he can see and soothe, has long since fallen in love with him beyond all arguments of my stubborn and formidable reason.

The remainder of this story contains mature content only suitable for mature readers. This story in its entirety can be found on AO3 (archive of our own). On AO3, search: haldolhs

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