Disclaimer: I own even less than usual. Which is, in fact, saying something.

Author's Note: Tomorrow I have an oral, the day after I have a written exam, and the day after that I have another written exam. And what am I doing right now? Writing fanfiction of fanfiction. Oh yeah. Priorities. I haz them.

Warning: Fanfiction of White Silver and Mercury's "rooks and romanticide." So, you know, you might want to read that first. Takes place during Act II, scene ii. In no way does justice to the original fic, and is probably not at all what the author had in mind, eh heh. (Sorry. orz Though, in my defense, this is just one of many different scenarios dancing around in my head…) SebaCiel.

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closer

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The air inside St. Vincent's was heady and thick, the brisk sweetness of November midnights vanishing with the closing creak of a gilded oak door. In that instant, coolness was replaced by a cloying claustrophobia, the thrill of paranoia scented with the pungent perfume of half-melted candle wax and still-smoldering incense. Frankincense, myrrh, sandalwood. From canisters and cases inscribed with holy texts, fragranced smoke swirled skyward, reaching towards Heaven, clouding over the moonlight that illuminated the glowing stained glass, the grimacing crucifix, the lily-white skin of the boy who stood close, close, close.

So close, in fact, that Sebastian did not notice the aroma of the church. Was no longer aware of the heavy atmosphere, oppressive as its priest's archaic lectures; forgot the way each breath tasted of yellowed paper and bitter wafers and rotting sin. True, the flavor was strong, but Ciel's was stronger still— peppermint sugar and lavender soap, lingering like morning mist on the tip of his tongue. For while the kiss was nothing more than a feather-brush of trembling lips against the furthest corners of his mouth, and while the self-made breezes that shifted through hoary locks should have retained their hallowed odor, the young earl had a way of wrapping the entirety of the universe around his little finger— twisting reality until there was nothing left but him. The memory of his warmth, his touch, his essence, bouquet.

And still, he stood so close.

"…my lord is full of surprises," Sebastian said in lieu of a more conventional salutation, long lashes fluttering in an amused sort of surprise. The half-mast stare, full of embers and warmth and emotions that Ciel would rather-not-name, made the boy stiffen in embarrassment, gaze slicing to the pews that awaited them just-beyond the shadows.

"What is there to be surprised about?" the younger one then grumbled, arms shifting in prelude to further movement— one booted foot half-lifting for a backwards shift. "It was just a friendly greeting. Don't read anything into i—"

Mouth, arms, legs, thoughts came to a still when five long fingers wrapped around a frail shoulder, holding Ciel in place. Mismatched eyes widened, a shiver of something not wholly unlike fear shooting from the base of his throat to the tip of his tailbone. In retaliation (or was it out of instinct?) the boy whipped his hand around, violent intentions clear enough to be easily avoided; a second set of leather-gloved digits coiled gently around his wrist, serenaded by a low chuckle.

"And will you not allow me to return the same courtesy?" Sebastian murmured, releasing both shoulder and arm when the disgruntled Ciel gave an insistent pull-yank-tug, wrenching himself free. Through the consecrated gloom, his cheeks shone the same rose-red as the smoldering tapers left burning before an effigy of Mary.

"You forget your place," the earl hissed, rubbing at his wrist as if it had been bruised… but his feet, perhaps surprisingly, had ceased in their fidgeting; he made no other attempts to relocate himself. Instead, he remained close, close, close, as if waiting for something to happen.

The gunslinger smiled, a flash of ivory teeth. "I assure you, I have not," he avowed, head and torso tipping as if in a reverential bow. And yes, it was, but also— but also… "Currently, I am in a near-empty church, standing obsequiously before my lord, the Earl of Phantomhive, and he is kissing me."

The vibrant blush darkened, fading from summer strawberry to ripened cherry. "Kissed," Ciel corrected softly. Quietly. With a flustered schoolboy's insistence, torn between pouting and screaming. "Kissed. Not 'kissing.' It was just a silly whim… and as you have no right to deny me my whims and wishes, whatever they may happen to be, I simply followed through with it."

Sebastian's grin widened, adding a spark of affectionate mischief to his pretty auburn eyes. "Ah," he then purred, understanding coloring the velvet veneer of his voice. "In that case…" Silken forelocks tumbled forward, ebony silk tickling nose, cheeks, temple—and not just of its owner. Ciel sucked in a noiseless breath as the gunslinger before him altered his world, perfuming it with clove and cinnamon and autumn-apple-spice… And so ensnared were his senses, the church—his position— his family— his duties became nothing more than forgotten details in the back of his mind, his ears ringing with silence and blood flow and the pounding of two hearts as Sebastian whispered sweetly, as if into his very soul:

"Is it thy wish, then, to form a contract with me…?"

It was a question that Ciel did not (would not? could not?) respond to. But, at the same time, neither could he resist the allure of further temptation. Another kiss— dry, ginger, tentative, no more a greeting than his own had been… But it was good, so good, and when God had seen such things, hadn't He given Himself free reign?

One, two, three, four, five, six, but ah— no rest on the seventh; instead, there was tender tongue and clicking teeth and muffled gasps and tiny bubbles of lust that fizzed just-beneath quickly pinking skin, painful and pleasant and perfect. And though their yarning bodies remained pointedly apart (and what a beautiful torment it was, the too-distant aura of such comforting heat!), needy hands twined and twisted in the moonlight, as if in personification of more powerful bonds, even-now twining and twisting around mind, heart, soul…

And if either man had maintained the capacity for philosophical thought, they may have recalled the stories of Noah and Job, Abraham and Isaac, the Israelites and Moses; of the marriages and divorces and deaths that had taken place almost-exactly where they stood…

Love is an aching, ripping, terribly destructive emotion.

They lowered themselves into a waiting wooden pew, knees giving way as politeness melted into passion.

What a fitting place, really, for a covenant to be born.

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