Disclaimer: Nope.
Author's Note: I didn't have time to do anything for Ciel's birthday, so I at least wanted to do something for Christmas.
Warnings: SebaCiel. Does this count as a songfic? XD;
XXX
Merry Gentlemen
XXX
"God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay…"
They were back again. The carolers, that was—their raised voices weaving together to form a single, powerful entity, echoing down the alleyways like the tolling of Big Ben. Sopranos and altos, tenors and basses, adults and children; varied yet harmonized, a verbal tapestry of multicolored threads. Impassioned and sweet, their lilted words drifted upward, downward, all across the treble scale; through the icy curtain of pre-dawn smog, cotton-soft puffs of ivory down did the same, clinging wetly to the feathery frost that had stained the glass of the bedroom window.
"…remember Christ our savior was born on Christmas day…"
He hadn't had a window, then. He didn't know if snow had fallen that Christmas— if it had gathered on the cobblestone, if it had shimmered atop the lampposts, if it had somehow managed to blanket all of the grime and filth of this abysmal hellhole known as Earth in a delicate shroud of virginal white. Like the gauzy train of a blushing bride… rather, of a painted, lying whore.
"To save us all from Satan's power when we had gone astray…"
The sleep-tousled gentleman snorted, the sound of his scoff bouncing off of the still-shadowed walls—resonating like the inane choral melody that even-now clawed at his ears, his heart, and the gray-dyed corners of the townhouse bedroom. And his fingers, in turn, clawed at the eiderdown and the starched linen sheets… but that was for a different reason entirely, oh yes— oh…
"Oh, tidings of comfort and joy—"
"Such tidings? In London?" an amused Sebastian husked, velveteen voice as low and soft as the fingers that drifted across the small boy's stomach, dancing along his raised ribs as if they were some kind of instrument. And indeed, the gesture birthed sounds as beautiful as such; much more so than the simpering of the choir— whispered moans and airy sighs, staccato and whimpered. Like the previous evening's symphony, this early-morning reprisal had begun in pianissimo, but soon the music of their duet (like other things) had swelled and surged; his master trilled in carnal pleasure, arch-rub-sliding against the mattress, the bed frame, his equally-sleep-tousled butler. "Shall I… put an end to their lies, my lord?"
"—Comfort and joy—"
The night prior, on the year's most-hollowed eve, Ciel had charged his willing servant to chase away the strangers who had gathered on his doorstep, long before they had a chance to tell him what their true love had given them for the holidays. (If it wasn't a product of the Funtom company, he couldn't think of a reason why he should care.) And all things considered, this blasted tune was far more grating than any ditty about birds in fruit-bearing trees; it was painful enough to revisit one birthday in that God-forsaken cage, much less two— particularly on the day when God was meant to…
Ah…
"I believe you have… nn… more important duties to attend to…" the young earl breathed, twining possessive arms around an elegant, sweat-slickened neck. A grind, a thrust, a hiss; Ciel bore the pale of his own slender throat, regal drawl punctured by a pleasure-riddled groan.
Yes. Leave the senseless sheep to their stupid, silly kowtowing.
"Oh, tidings of comfort and joy."
He'd found his comfort (and joy) with a different shepherd.
XXX