3/decomposition
"This should make you feel better," Sebastian said.
"Will it?" Ciel said wryly, but he opened his mouth for Sebastian to hold the dropper above his open mouth. His master, so knowingly putting himself beneath Sebastian's deadly touch; he did nothing more than twist his face slightly as the drop fell onto his tongue, and where the drop fell, a blackening started, burning through the muscle like acid. He swallowed, sighing, and relaxed onto the bed, closing his eyes.
Tinted glass in hand, Sebastian wondered why part of him wanted to shake his master, to insist the brat order him to stop, or to tell him what this tonic was truly meant to do; and then punish him for it. It wasn't like Ciel to give in, nor to let Sebastian have his way without argument… but then, it wasn't like Sebastian to poison him, either.
The fever hadn't gone down. If anything, it had risen; when Sebastian checked the temperature of Ciel's skin, pressing his own lips to the demonling's hollow throat he felt the burn of it against him like a coal-fire. Even that gentle touch left a dusky bruise, purpled and strange, and Sebastian rubbed his hand—in their new, clean gloves—across it as though he could coerce it away.
There was something like corpse-flesh to the sheen of him, he realized, though Ciel was still breathing deeply and regularly; though he'd only yet taken two drops. A creature frail and powerful, sleeping on a bed of dreams.
Sebastian slipped off his shoes, slipped off his socks, and climbed onto the bed, the rumpled sheets pushed aside, the expanse of his master's skin. He sat at the juncture between the young man's parted legs, the soft wool trousers under his palm, the naked, narrow waist; he leaned forward to rest his own head upon Ciel's collarbone. He closed his eyes.
Beneath his sleep, empires unravelled. In the corridors of his dreams, he saw strange figures trapped in iron maidens, none with eyes. He walked down a constantly sloping hall, trying to reach the center, smelling the perfume of grave-flowers, spider-lilies, burning red.
His shadow stretched across the floor in front of him, hiding the narrow walls. His shadow, chased with wings, and a raven's harsh call.
He woke holding his master's hand, slim violinist's fingers and perfect dark nails. They were rotting at the tips, sweet and spongy; one finger broken off in his hand with a hollow snap. Sebastian stared: at that curve, that careful piece, like a curled tail. The stump where it had pulled away was bloodless, streaked with pus, and crumbled when he touched it.
He looked up to find Ciel watching him.
The rotting had bloomed across his master's lips, a dark stain across his mouth and cheek; it made a blackened swirl across his neck, a crumbled mess at his shoulder, taut muscle almost eaten away. Everywhere Sebastian had touched him.
"Young master…" he whispered.
"Interesting, isn't it?" Ciel said. "You ought to lodge a complaint against whomever made that tonic." His master stood up, or tried to; he lost his balance by the bedside and had to hold fast to the bedframe, a look of furious concentration in his eyes.
When Ciel finally managed it, his eyes lit in satisfaction, and he walked carefully to the window, opening the shade. "Oh," he said. "It's still night." He turned around, the bright sparks of his pupils casting eerie light across the room; then the contract flared up purple between them, buzzing and bright, like a current.
But Ciel said nothing.
"Don't you have an order for me?" Sebastian asked quietly.
"At the moment?" Ciel shrugged. "No. Why—ought I to?" He looked challengingly at Sebastian, who opened his mouth, and closed it again.
"Surely you don't trust me," Sebastian said, uncertain.
"I told you I never had," Ciel said.
.
.
.
