Disclaimer: Stop asking me, already!

Author's Note: This was supposed to be a Ciel introspective that takes place at the end of the Jack the Ripper arc, and it's sorta still that. But mostly not. XD; Sorry~

Dedication: For LJ user may_unleashed. HAPPIEST OF HAPPY BIRTHDAYS! 3

Warnings: Fluff, I guess? Occurs after Sebastian gets all bloodied up, but before Madam Red's funeral. References manga chapter 12.

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Onaji

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"Repulsive."

The screech of ripping gauze bounced off of the shadowed walls of the kitchen; the white ribbons of torn, glossy material glinted like strips of petrified snow in the flickering lights of the single candelabra. Three wicks, molten-red with flame, cast rosy light upon Ciel's fragile hands— hands that were as pale as the cloth that they held, their highlights and lowlights shifting as the tiny digits constricted around their task. The boy's words (those already spoken, as well as those that had yet to be uttered) were frosted, and full of such a bitter ice that they froze the air around them. Oh, yes, Winter was coming—Jack Frost did not simply linger outside the door. Rather, he had invited himself inside, and was staying as a guest in the manor; Sebastian could almost see his master's voice as he spoke, the syllables and sentences floating from his pursed lips like silvery plumes of sound…

The butler slowly unbuttoned his tattered shirt, allowing the browning blood to seep into the whorls and swirls of his fingertips. "Young master?" he murmured as he did so, careful to keep his tone light—his gaze downcast and demure. The child was in no mood to be (further) toyed with, and he, quite honestly, was in no shape to toy. "Is there a problem?"

For a full three minutes, his somber lord's only response was a piercing, mismatched stare. One a shade of dull vermillion, the other a glassy tint of azure, the eyes slid up and down his servant's exposed form, drinking in each curve and crevasse, every bump and abrasion. Muscles, tendons, flesh, hair; pride, stubbornness, drive, ambition. Traits both familiar and foreign, unique and cliché, reflected in skin and aura.

"...yes," the earl then muttered, insipid and flat, slipping noisily from his wooden stool. Brittle arms, still incased in common cotton, unfurled and lifted, as if crucified on air; a single silvery slip of cloth dangled from his fists. Ciel made his way forward, forcing one end of the binding into the demon's hands. "The problem is you. You're a stupid faker, that's what you are. A horrible pretender, and I find it highly distasteful. You waltz around, acting invincible, but look at you— you're just as weak as anyone else."

"…indeed." Sebastian— both amused by and aware of the truth behind this complaint— felt his lips quirk upward, forming a flickering ghost of a grin. But as his little charge began to decorate him like a maypole, twirling round and round and round, he held the bandage to his oozing gash and feigned contriteness, as a good butler should. "I apologize most profusely for forcing the young master to pay witness to my shame," he murmured, inclining his head a reverential half inch. Not that he expected (or desired) forgiveness…

Which was just as well, for the boy would never give it.

"What's more," the child grumbled as the other bowed and scraped, carefully synching the thick band of fabric around his devil's ragged chest, "you're a liar. You've been lying to me. You've got a soul of your own, don't you—since you have a Cinematic Record. Or whatever the hell those things were called… And yet you parade around as if you're entirely different from m— us humans…"

Sebastian grunted, clearing his throat so as to garner his tamer's attention.

"In my defense—ah—I do not believe I ever claimed to be a soulless being," he began, but cut himself off with another cough (brisk and flustered) as his master glowered, snorted, and tightened the gauze's knot with a vigor that was neither warranted nor necessary. And while oxygen wasn't a necessity for the butler, it still felt wholly unpleasant to have it squeezed so forcefully from his battered lungs… "In any case—haa—, it is not a lie that I must also consume souls—"

"And that's another thing," the boy continued, interrupting as blithely as if he hadn't heard Sebastian at all—which was neigh-impossible, as he was no more than six inches away from his servant's startled face, at this point… his palms splayed gingerly across the stained expanse of the creature's now-bandaged chest. "You act so disgustingly independent. Like you're perfectly capable of being self-sufficient… But you need me, Sebastian. You do." The nobleman nodded, swift and forceful, as if in confirmation of this claim. "You need me to hide you, and care for you, and provide you with a home and clothes and… and food."

The last word was a whisper, but it echoed like a scream. And in response, the demon cocked his pretty head, watching with some degree of surprise as his master's delicate shoulders began to tremble. Nearly imperceptible, at first, but gradually growing more and more obvious—his lily face splotching with patches of rose, watered by the tepid tears that he tried ever-so-desperately to keep locked within his swollen ducts.

Sebastian considered this lovely display, pupils waning as his tamer's hands tangled within the binds of his bandages, like a fly within a web.

"… sadly, I must disagree with your assessment, my lord," the butler then decreed, his voice soft and his gaze softer-still as his slender fingers lifted, lingered, lowered— carefully cupping the shoulders of his downtrodden, downcast master. Ciel instinctively flinched. "I am perfectly capable of standing on my own two feet, without the assistance of anything or anyone. However…"

He gently tapped the grieving earl's wobbling chin, forcing that hazy, multicolored gaze upward.

"However, I have chosen to take you as my master," Sebastian concluded, gently brushing stray locks of rumpled moonstone hair from Ciel's weary, sadness-streaked face. "I made that decision, knowing full-well what I was agreeing to. And there is no shame in being dependent upon a person if that is what you desire, correct?"

The child said nothing in response to this, but his wavering grip and quavering bottom lip spoke of desperate agreement—of silent gratitude. In lieu of words, Ciel shuffled another half-inch nearer, so close now that the demon could feel each snuffled burst of breath explode across his torso; could hear every tooth in his clamped jaw chatter; could sense the boy's smallest tremors, poised as he was between his servant's parted knees.

And there he stood, as if waiting for something to happen.

Sebastian smiled. He knew what the boy wanted. And, as a servant of Phantomhive, it was his distinct pleasure to fulfill his lord's every desire. Thus, with a grunt and a sigh— ignoring the nobleman's halfhearted protests, as well as the outcry of agony from his own body—, the devil unceremoniously pulled his charge into his lap, and wrapped his arms around him.

"We are not so different, you and I."

Ciel—either out of shock or agreement— fell quiet. Fell still. Allowed his servant to rock him steadily back and forth, back and forth— so slowly that he hardly noticed, but so pointedly that he felt his nerves begin to sooth. A musing sort of melody wheedled its way into the silence, improvised and jovial, lulling and low, resounding as a lullaby within the exhausted earl's ears. With a droop, snap, sag, his head fell heavily against Sebastian's shoulder, and oh, the warmth of the devil's broken body seemed to obliterate even the memory of the (fear) chill.

His eyelids fluttered, mind turning to nothing more than white static…

Hours passed. The little boy slept. And all the while, Sebastian sat with his charge safely enveloped in his arms, not wanting to let him go.

After all, just because someone is capable of surviving on their own, that doesn't mean they wish to be all by themselves.

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