The moon was a bare sliver that night.
On his way to the apartment, he had been accosted by several boys who wanted to know what he was doing in a neighbourhood like this, dressed all fancy. It only took him a few minutes to make the eldest break down and run for it, the rest panting at his heels, and still he wanted to kill them for making him tarry at this juncture. Already, the cakes he had baked for the young master were beginning to cool.
He sensed the settling of the winter frost, his throat dry as he lingered by the open corridor. The lift had rattled upwards slowly, inch by inch, and so, he had plenty of time to consider all the possible reasons he could use to justify his visit.
When he had left the young master the night before, cold and unsatisfied, he had stepped out into the streets with the chill settling into his bones, and walked right into the evening fog, so achingly familiar. He remembered the unevenness of the stones paving their way, the steady click of their shoes across the ruins and the black soot that had rested against white pillars. Across from them were the broken masses of stone and marble, and the cold had been present even then, a gift in the early hours of the day as his young master gazed at him impassively, languidly, and requested his death.
And then, just as swiftly, took it back again.
He shuddered hard, an intense memory burning into his mind as it replayed itself.
A small mouth, pursed with the unpleasant taste of blood. Crimson dripping off the side of that sharp chin as glittering eyes, defiant, pleading, helpless, anguished – looked up at him and long, elegant fingers pulled him closer.
"More," he whispered.
Sebastian breathed in deeply, a tingling sensation running down his spine. It had been so many years ago and he remembered each detail in a cold, diamond clarity.
His young master had been every inch the lord he had known, until the very last moments. The child had called for his death, as unperturbed as though he was demanding to sample a particular pastry, and in the final moments, the boy had still responded admirably in the face of his quaking terror. Smiling, he had leant in closer, delighted by the close proximity of his prey and his long awaited feast, smelling the light fragrance that clung to the lapels of the boy's shirt and the smooth silk of his neck which was a pleasure to caress and to grip in iron steadfastness as he leant in even closer. He watched that blue eye blink and dilate in possible fear and arousal, and he had dived in for his long-anticipated reward, almost snarling in his impatience.
It had hurt. He had enough blood on his hands to know how bad it could get but his suspicions were confirmed when his young master gasped and bucked beneath him, his body writhing and long, elegant fingers clawing at his back helplessly, his mouth hot and wanton as Sebastian drank in the finest distillation of a living soul and indulged in its uniquely rich, splendid taste. The young master had cried out against his mouth then, and whispered for more and he struggled to recall a moment where he had adored his shallow, weak master more.
He had caught his breath, a single finger tracing the path of Ciel's face until it swiped away an errant drop of a glimmering, liquid sphere. Was it pride, or was it sorrow, that buried itself in his heart when he saw the child gasp, his breath unsteady as he struggled to reacquaint himself with reality.
A little more and the child would die.
A little more and this moment would surrender to the inevitable.
His thoughts raced, his hand still gently caressing the boy's hair, the child looking up at him with the strangest expression, one mingled with as much resignation as there was pain. He wanted to laugh, to weep, to cut away the ties between them until he could no longer sense this tiresome blend of emotions that made him unlike himself.
"Ask me," he whispered at last.
If his young master desired it, nothing would stand in his way. He would tear apart the inevitable ending to create a place for the boy to exist, a place untainted with the trenches of sorrow and despair that Sebastian had saved him from.
The boy look startled at his demand, his eyes already drooping from the effort and the raw, torn anguish that must have been wrecking his fragile frame. Already his hands were beginning to fall from Sebastian's shoulders, and he shivered incessantly with the wintry weather and the loss of his blood.
"Ask, and I will do it," he promised quietly, resting his forehead against Ciel's own.
The child shuddered and breathed in painfully, his eyes dilated with agony.
"Sebastian…save me."
Demons lied as easily as they breathed.
Really, the young master should have known better than to have been so vague.
END CHAPTER