What He Didn't Have
unbetaed, version 1.6
'Sebastian. Let me feel your heartbeat.'
••
It was a rare night where young master felt like accomplishing little more than curling his legs under him on the fur couch, exhaling occasionally to watch the misted puffs of air escape into shadows beyond window sills.
Hapless piles of paper lay strewn across his work desk, some already marked with an untidy scrawl of the Phantomhive signature. Young master no longer had heart for paperwork. Surely, he began to think, even the young heir to the Phantomhive fortune deserved to sit in armchairs without hot cocoa – he chuckled, here; how perfectly juvenile.
He lifted a small hand to adjust his eye-patch, slightly tilting his head to scrutinize his room as it was in pitch black. It was a rare night where winter winds did not rustle through the vacant branches of evergreen trees. There seemed to be no wall – far walls fell into the enveloping darkness – or, perhaps, there truly were none. His gifted butler was a master of his art after all.
Ah, yes. His butler. The tiny bell winked, catching the barely existent light from God knew where. Young master rang it. It made no sound.
The gently opened door revealed an indistinguishable hallway and familiar scarlet eyes. In that one moment –
'…Sebastian.'
Midway sifting through forsaken papers, the black butler paused, a waiting silhouette in the dark with a lilted smile he was certain young master could feel.
'Come here.'
He obliged with a bow and a hot mug of cocoa to be served, taut tailcoat wrinkle-free despite ludicrously swift movements. He was next to his young master as the boy propped his cheek up on the other palm. There he was again, his butler and his impeccability. – that one moment, young master remembered nothing but the steady rhythm pulsating through him, almost for once wishing his butler would not fail him.
'Let me feel your heartbeat.'
A clever remark froze on his butler's lips; the lilted smile did not.
'You know I could not very well accede –'
Young master waved him off mid-sentence. He knew, of course, that he could not. He knew they were foolish, these childish whims. Laughably ridiculous requests for his own merriment. He exhaled throatily. Another breath into the shadows. It was a rare night where his butler let him down, at last.
Slender fingers wrapped tightly around the curvature of the steaming mug now set on the coffee table. The young master raised his hand to bring the mug to his lips. He had expected as much – yet, as the viscous liquid warmed his fingertips and tongue, it carried a quiet disappointment along (that his butler had failed him at this simple task; that his butler was perhaps not truly invincible).
He hardly noticed the firm fingers not impolitely curled around his resting wrist.
'Sebastian, what –'
'I could not very well accede, but I will, my lord.' In the dark his omnipotent butler guided his arm along, up, straight, resting for not a second longer on his crisp tailcoat, soft dress shirt, and what stayed invisible beneath its silkiness. Then it was back, like a ball in a ball game –Ciel Phantomhive felt his hand being pressed against his very own erratic heartbeat. Still, Sebastian wore that all-knowing lilted smile.
'My lord, my heartbeat is right here.'