The first of many; they begin as the curtain rises.
– – –
Soft weight, fragile body, delicate child - porcelain doll in his butler's strong arms, more pet than master.
More hunted than hunter.
Less than a man, more than a boy, angelic demon in disguise. Holy child, wonderful child, sins of a prostitute yet pure as a saint.
His butler can't help but think that maybe he's bitten off a bit more than he's willing to chew.
– – –
"Sebastian."
His tone is flat, eyes are dull, soul burning listlessly in his reminiscence. It's painful, says his hallow gaze, painful and difficult to dwell on.
The contract.
Their contract.
"Yes?"
His answer is slow, painstakingly so.
"I don't want to die yet."
The tall man's eyes widen a fraction; he is surprised, but he hides it behind a carefully composed mask.
"My Lord, our contract has not yet been fulfilled. When the perpetrator has -"
"Yes, yes, I know all that," the boy says waspishly, cutting his servant off. "I am well aware of the dealings of our contract." And the childish outburst of icy face fades as he grows somber again.
He is hesitant.
"What I mean is that I do not wish for life to end."
Butler blinks, and master continues.
"I want to know what it feels like to have - want to find - something to live for."
And a demonic grin splits the black-cloaked butler's face - his canines gleam, and deep in his chest there is a distant rumbling of cruel thunder-laughter, and Ciel does not know; his face is pressed into the breast of his servant, like an infant to its mother's bosom.
Blind trust.
His eyes glow red. His tone is gentle through pointed teeth.
Trust me, trust me, and I shalt deliver thou unto the next world by genteel hand.
"My Lord,"
Trust me, trust me, and eternal peace shall find you.
"-the sole reason I serve you-"
Trust me, trust me, and you shan't cross in vain.
"-is that you've already something to die for."
– – –
He opens the curtains, and light washes 'cross the boy's sheets.
His smile is knowing as his lord shifts beneath his covers, thighs rubbingpressingneeding in a subtle display of you-needn't-see-this. Flushed cheeks against creamy skin against white bed - all mussed with sleep and dreams and things usually left unmentioned - coalesce into one sunlit blur.
"Would the young master prefer earl grey or jasmine tea this morning?"
He almost sounds arrogant - completely improper, but the boy ignores it.
"Earl grey."
No need for extravagant words. No need for respect. No need for anything. Just an order.
Only an order.
"And does the young master wish for anything else in particular?"
His voice is smooth as honey, oil, silk. He likes this game.
His master's (predictably) vivid blush is enough to answer for him. Pink face, pink mouth, pink neck, pink -
"What are you implying?"
He doesn't miss the flash of crimson in Sebastian's face; lips curl up ever-so-slightly on both sides. Feline grin, predatory grin - run run run little mousey, this tiger wants to play.
"I did not mean to imply anything; I was simply inquiring if the young master was...requiring anything in addition to his morning tea."
But his leer is just as wide, no teeth showing. Half-moon eyes, calling, luring, beckoning, teasing -
But little mousey knows this game; he's played before, and knows how to win - but O, tempting is the conciliation prize! - and he knows how to fight - pleasure, pain, bliss! - and he can triumph when pitted against any and all - sweet sin, so much to be gained -
And his thoughts break, and his cheeks colour darker, and his finger motions -
"Come."
And his butler's smirk grows, because he knows he has won.
"Yes, my lord."
– – –