Disclaimer: I own so little it's really quite pathetic.

Author's Note: Oh my God, first fic from Japan~

Anyway, this was entirely inspired by yinake's fic, "Entropy." And she did it better. So you should probably go read that instead. :3

Warnings: Sebastian being a devil. Written and edited quickly, because I no longer have any free time. :D

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Broken

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Every night, Sebastian tears Ciel to pieces.

"Young master," the butler purrs, white-gloved hands gliding over skin as soft as satin, as pale as porcelain. Fabric stalls, catches, shifts— hisses like embers as trailing fingers create friction-fire, blazing upward from buckled shoes to sagging knees. "Your feet are tired, are they not? It is so demeaning, such a strain for a gentleman of your noble stature to be made to walk. Don't you agree? Allow me to take the liberty, then, of insuring that you need never walk again…"

With the gentlest touch, a tiny foot streaks like an inverted star through the stark-white room. A snap, a screech, a snarl; a second booted limb joins the first, skittering across the hardwood floor and spinning, spinning, spinning in concentric, dizzying circles, bouncing against the far wall and eventually sliding to a silent stop. From the base of twin ankles, what was once stored safely inside begins to surge, spill, and gush, making a foamy mess that Sebastian is, for once, happy to leave be.

The demon stands.

"Young master," he murmurs as he straightens, barely more than a slipping shadow as he touches a stationary arm. Like its pair, said arm hangs as a dead weight from an off-cream shoulder—a shoulder that vanishes beneath the ruffle and lace of dusty, archaic foppery. "You seem to have soiled your delicate hands with ink. Have I not told you time and again to be careful when signing documentation? It is ever such a chore to clean those stains… Perhaps this will keep you from being so untidy in the future."

As one, two lanky arms are yanked from their frail sockets, leaving gaping holes that ooze excretion as shredded white bits explode (as if some sort of firework) from the oval hollows that the demon has now created. The tiny body sitting atop Sebastian's bed does not so much as sway; it sits, motionless and mute, leaving little more than a wrinkle atop the butler's bedspread.

Well, a wrinkle and a pool of innards.

The devil tosses the arms away without so much as a glance to acknowledge where they land.

"Young master," he continues in a soft, sultry drawl, twisting his body to kneel behind his companion. Hands clothed in bleached cotton coil possessively around a supple chest, tiptoeing down the staircase of buttons that lead from sternum to stomach. "I am sorry to hear that supper was not to your liking. But as you are so picky, perhaps it would be easier to eat nothing?"

In an instant, one pallid glove has vanished; when it reappears, it is accompanied by all of the beautiful byproducts of swift evisceration. Pearl beads pop from their specified holes and find new homes on the dirty floor: clattering and bouncing and rolling this way and that, like dozens of bitty glass eyes.

The butler allows himself a heady chuckle, low and thick and sweet as molasses… and just as cloyingly black.

"As I thought, young master," he whispers, directly into the fragile curve of an ear— hand buried deep, deep, deep and fingers wriggling like maggots as viscera and bowels mix with buttons and laughter and thinly veiled disgust, "you are heartless after all."

He pulls out like he always does (no matter the context or situation): apathetic and vaguely bored. But soon condescendence is replaced by vindictive amusement, and the promise of future delights elicits giggles and canines. Irises of russet brown twinkle with the faintest glitter of incandescent vermillion, their ethereal gleam reflecting in the glossed rounds of his companion's unblinking stare.

The devil smiles, and for once does not bother to control how far his smirk slits his maw.

"Young master," he coos, lovingly tender as his palm lifts to caress a small, spongy cheek, "I believe it is my turn to give you an order…"

The feel of his fist around that malleable throat is so utterly intoxicating, he hardly spares a moment to appreciate the sensation—

"Break."

—before he cleaves the small head from its body with a satisfying riiiiiiiiiip.

For the briefest of moments, Sebastian indulges in the afterglow of a job well done: admires the chaos that has engulfed his tiny room in the dimly lit servants' quarters.

And then, as he does every night, he pulls out his sewing kit.

He gathers up the brown felt feet, the corduroy arms, the discarded buttons; he gingerly sets the head in his hands atop his nightstand and collects each fluffy flake of cotton stuffing that has come to blanket his floor. He selects the proper colors of thread (an ashen peach, a vivid blue, a selection of dark grays and watery crimsons), laces a needle, and begins to put "Ciel" back together— fix him as only he can. Because that is the (desire) job of the Phantomhive butler, is it not? To break his little lord down until he is nothing more than a hundred thousand shining pieces of shattered soul… and then to stitch those pieces back together so masterfully that the world can't tell that he had ever been anything less than perfect. Day in and day out; morning, noon, and night. That has been the butler's prerogative from the very beginning— every second, minute, hour, day since the fateful formation of their unholy contract, and this cycle first began.

But Sebastian can see it. Yes, he can— no matter how flawlessly he fixes the boy, he keeps on breaking apart. Comments and whispers, commands and pleas, violence and anger and desperate, wanton writhing… each instant is a new crack in his mask, a new tear that bleeds sanity. And with every new line of stitches, it is getting harder and harder to hide how damaged Ciel Phantomhive truly is. Soon, he will (quite literally) be falling apart at the seams…

Which is just how the devil likes him.

So when Sebastian looks up— intending to pluck a fresh spool from his nightstand— and notices the stitched smile of the yarn-topped head that watches him work with black button eyes, he offers a devious grin in return.

"Young master," he then warns, pink tongue flashing along his lower lip in a blatant display of hunger, "I am running out of thread."

Somewhere far above, the breaking doll sleeps.

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