Disclaimer: Nope.
Author's Note: Inspired by White Silver and Mercury's fic, "p h a n t a s m a g o r i a." Though it also reminds me of an old FMA fic I once wrote… XD;
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Weeds
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There comes a day when he can no longer wear shorts.
Ciel sits, impassively sipping his tea, as his butler observes the damage: runs slender fingers over the curve of his thigh, the round of his knee, and gingerly tests the flexibility of the crooked joint. The pallid expanse of the boy's snowy flesh appears even whiter—ghastly so— when framed by the royal blue fabric of his comforter and sheets; comparatively, Sebastian's gloves look a murky shade of cream as they smooth over his master's cooling skin.
The devil smiles. "…you are so beautiful, my lord," he breathes, lying lips curling back, back, back, revealing dagger-sharp teeth and a serpentine tongue. The slippery muscle lashes wet, whip-like kisses against the child's bony hip, accentuating his words with pink-colored nibbles: carnations that bloom beside the irises, columbine, violets, and moss that have flowered upon the boy's torso and pelvis, and now slither south to ensnare his shins like the creeping vines of ivies.
The first black rose had appeared that morning. Sebastian lavishes the budding blossom with all manner of attention, for that particular plot holds so many memories… Ciel continues to nurse his refreshment, entirely expressionless— except for the raspy gasp-hiss-moan that squeezes from his pursed lips as his butler's eager mouth finds his tender chest.
Three inches from his delicate sternum. Inflamed from ancient punctures, briefly patched, and now oozing acerbic pus. The liquid rot cakes his tamer's pealing flesh, leaving fissures upon his breast as epidermal cells succumb to the poison.
The demon purrs, relieving his charge of his unbuttoned nightshirt. Once upon a time, such a shirt could have lasted them a few months. Then a few weeks. Then a few days, and now a few hours. Time is a fickle mistress… "Had you forgotten, young master?" Sebastian whispers as he tosses the ruined fabric into the fire, pressing a second, third, fourth cantarella-sweet kiss against the ebony wound. The flames blaze, and the smoke smells of brimstone. "I warned you, That Day… you hadn't much time."
The little boy says nothing, instead choosing to drain his porcelain cup. His petite fingers quiver upon the golden curve of the china handle. His butler straightens, stands, looms— drinking in the lovely sight of the decomposing nobleman. Soon, he will not even be able to move those tiny hands of his… what a pity it would be. Almost as tragic as the day that his vocal cords disintegrated, crumbled into dust with a rip, tear, snap.
"Those Occultists took everything from you," Sebastian reminds, preparing the daily selection of bandages and garbs. A mismatched gaze watches the demon as he glides, pulling autumn-esque attire from the recesses of his master's summer wardrobe. "Your parents, your home… your very life. And I can do nothing but offer your soul bitter vengeance. At this rate, we shall have to locate a new vessel in order for you to obtain your goals."
In that moment, a thought occurs. The servant pauses. "…or is that your intention, young master?" he inquires, and yes—there is the faintest hint of surprise in his low, silken voice.
Ciel, of course, does not verbally respond. But his stare flicks meaningfully towards the sunny window, and that is answer enough. Outside, Sebastian can see the cheerful blonde gardener strolling through the labyrinthine grounds, not a care in the world nor a thought in his mind. Understanding is instantaneous.
The devil leers, wearing the grin of his pretty young master— the smile of a skull with wide, empty eyes.
"Yes, my lord."
And from the earl's right cornea, death radiates.
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