Work Text:
The ash fell out of the metal bucket and rose in a fine cloud before settling in the whorls of the carpet. For a moment Meirin merely stared at the mess and then she began to ineffectually scrape at it. Ciel looked at her hands: the ash coated her fingertips and her palms. Ciel wanted to look away, but could not. Ash always disgusted him, but he could not stop staring and imagining his own hands thickly covered in pale ash, everything he touched or smelled contaminated by that pervasive powder.
“Sebastian,” he said, into the quiet room, and Sebastian appeared as if he had been waiting for just such a call. He meant to tell him to clean up the mess, and to indicate Meirin along with the ash, as if they were one and the same, but he did not. He simply said he was going outside; and outside he breathed in the cold country air, and tasted ash and only ash, gritty in his throat and between his teeth.
*
Ciel knew that in Herculaneum the people had not died from breathing in the ash cloud. They had not died in their houses, as in Pompeii, desperately struggling to keep out the inescapable grit of falling ash, but had run out to the beaches, to the sea, and had died, clutching their skulls as their brains boiled within them, their feeble human forms unable to withstand the terrible heat of Mount Vesuvius and Vulcan.
Ciel knew all this, and when he had been told, he had not pressed the heal of his hand to the top of his head to check that his skull was intact, and that his brain would not boil, but had simply nodded, imagining the people running from their houses, their feet blistering on hot ground, and had thought that it seemed a pleasant way to go.
He liked to think he knew a lot about heat, about dancing flames and branded flash. He liked to think that he knew what he preferred, and that the traces of ash on his skin would hurt more than his brain boiling merrily in the cup of his skull, fragrant as the finest tea from Fortnum and Mason.
*
In his dream, Ciel walked barefoot across a London street. The filth of manure and ash and countless other kinds of effluence oozed between his toe and stuck in black globules to his ankles.
Ash. Ciel's body twisted in the bed, his hands balling into fists. He did not mewl or cry out, and the silence in the room was broken only by the shifting of the bedsheets. Ash. In his dream, Ciel's hands were covered in ash, the colour of his skin invisible beneath the grey powder, and the Ciel of the waking world still saw traces of it embedded into the whorls of his palms.
The dreaming Ciel stared at filthy feet and hands. His face itched, and he thought he could feel some small insect crawling across his forehead, but he could not touch his face with those hands. He could only hold them in front of him, awkwardly, as his skin stung. In the dream ropes sprang up from nowhere, wrapping themselves around his hands, though the waking Ciel would have remembered the arms that held him as he was tied up.
The ropes burned, digging into his flesh and causing the nerves to tingle, but Ciel did not quite loose sensation in his fingertips. He flexed his hands desperately in the dream, though the sleeping Ciel's fingers did not twitch. He could not smell in his dream, but somehow the smell was evident anyway, the reek like a beast of its own, made up of his own smell of ash and filth and sweaty skin, and the odour of the room in which he crouched, which stank of years and years of rotting food, urine and, most overwhelming, the colonies of rats and flies which lived and died there.
In the dream, the smell was a beast of its own, and its constant probing in Ciel's nostrils, in his mouth, in every breath he took, was more pervasive and more painful than the memory of the nakedness and powerless that dogged him during the day. The stench slid beneath his skin, and in his dream his mouth filled with maggots and he choked and gasped and began, at last, to beg, but his throat was too thick with the writhing mess to form words.
He woke, gasping, and cried out, “Sebas—! Sebastian!” before he could stop himself. He pressed one hand up to his mouth and bit at the side of it, tasting soap and skin. The bed was too warm, and too wet, and he wished he could control his blush. It was dark, but he knew Sebastian would be able to see it anyway.
The door opened almost soundlessly, and Ciel raised his chin defiantly. “Clean up this mess,” he said in the haughtiest tone he could manage, before swinging his legs out of the bed and finding the cold floor with the soles of his bare feet.
“Did my young master have another accident?” Sebastian said.
“Shut up,” Ciel snapped, and stood, in his wet clothes, shivering in the cold air, waiting for Sebastian to take care of things.
*
The waking Ciel sat alone at the lunch table. Distantly he was aware of his servants shouting to one another and of the meal Sebastian had laid before him. Somewhere inside him a distant Ciel gave himself desperately to the contract he had made again and again, and somewhere else another Ciel walked down a London alley-way with a knife pressed against his tender ribs. They both seemed simultaneously far away and unimportant and more present than anything in the room—than the table with its crisp, white cloth, or the smell of violets and gillyflowers from the garden.
“Is the meal not to your liking?” Sebastian said, and Ciel looked down at the plate of breaded meat and vegetables. He pressed his fork against one of the meat parcels, separating the meat from the batter. It reminded him faintly of peeling away blistered skin, or of pulling the bedsheets off a mattress.
“It is fine,” he said. “I will go to my office now.”
The room was quiet and here, often, he could devote himself to work on his company if he did not have to turn his attention to his duties to the Queen. He opened his desk drawer and took out a folder of crisp documents, but he did not really look at them, merely laid them on the table, the words swimming merrily as fish before his eyes and off the page. He rested his chin on his hands and thought about Sebastian holding a single candle before his face as he walked down a dark corridor, and about his eyes dry as kindling as he lay awake for long hours.
*
Nakedness meant little to him now. Once perhaps showing his naked skin, its shadows and contours, would have signified some kind of intimacy but Ciel's nakedness had been witnessed for too long and by too many people for it to matter any more. Besides, being naked in front of his butler counted for nothing: Sebastian was the one who tied his shoes and combed his hair; of course he knew Ciel's naked flesh.
Before he had started having Sebastian he had wondered what his butler might look like naked, whether his flesh was marred with the spots and sores like the other men Ciel had seen, or whether it maintained an inhuman perfection. He had wondered, briefly, about the colouring and length of Sebastian's cock, and the quantity of his pubic hair. The answers, when he had learnt them, had come as no surprise to him.
Ciel's cock was small and his erections brief, so he did not use it to take Sebastian. Instead he preferred to use his small hands, inserting finger after finger and, once, his whole fist. Even this had elicited no reaction from Sebastian. His slicked his hand with olive oil or butter and explored the surface of Sebastian's arse before sliding one or more fingers within him.
Sebastian never became erect at these times, though Ciel wondered if he would if he was ordered to. Sebastian had not easily complied with the order to strip, but he had eventually been compelled to do so. Sebastian could argue with him, but in the end he only had one answer to give. Ciel liked the simplicity of that.
It was an experiment, and Ciel was interested in Sebastian's reactions. Ciel himself had screamed, whimpered and begged when a man had done this to him, and he wondered if he could ever prompt Sebastian to do the same. He doubted it.
Sebastian rarely spoke when Ciel ministered to him thus, and Ciel having told Sebastian to stand naked on all fours on his bed would sometimes slid his fingers out of Sebastian and creep round to the foot of the bed so he could look at Sebastian's face. Sebastian wore the same expression of grim amusement as he did when Ciel called for him in the night.
Ciel began to take Sebastian in this way shortly after his thirteenth birthday. It had seemed like doing this would satisfy the uncomfortable urge within him, that rose, unnameable, when he saw Sebastian laying the table for his dinner, but after a few attempts, he became sick of Sebastian's long, bitter silences.
“This is merely an experiment. You are the only one to whom I can do this,” he had said; and it was only an experiment. He would stop it, he decided, when Sebastian finally gave some sign of discomfort (the flaccid cock was certainly not enough).
*
Ciel had infinitely more patience and determination than many people, but he tired of his experiment after a few more weeks. The sight of Sebastian's behind made his throat itch and he tired of seeing him exposed on his bed in such a manner. Besides, Sebastian's breathing never so much as hitched and Ciel decided to turn his attentions elsewhere.
(Some people might have considered the fact that there is a difference between an immortal demon and a terrified boy, but Ciel did not.)
His filled his thoughts with the murders of young girls, with the weakness of bodies and their tightly packed entrails, with old skulls, their faces seeming to stare despite having sockets dry of eyes, with rooms heavy with the stench of opium and death, and with the squeaking of distant rats. He slept poorly, but better than before.
In his dreams, Ciel rubbed ash from his eyes with filthy hands and gritted his teeth, wondering whether his mouth would be invaded next by a too-large penis or a meal swarming in maggots. He woke choking and retching and wondered if those nights were better than the ones where he woke wet and cold.
*
Ciel dozed during lessons in mathematics and Latin and he found it hard to wake up properly even when Sebastian fenced with him. The foil struck his arm and upper thigh, making the flesh there sting. Later he stood in the garden, tenderly touching the slightly swollen skin and relishing the slow pain that lurked there. Distantly, he heard the melodious tinkling of a fountain.
Rage, muse, sing the rage of Peleus' son Achilles. Revenge, Ciel thought, looking at the papery violets in the long grass. He had been waiting such a long time for the final gasp of agony, for the cold teeth rending his skin. He longed for them as one might long for sleep after thirty hours of wakefulness.
In his office, he stared at textbooks, documents, poorly-written police evidence. Sebastian brought him Prince Regent cake, and Ciel let the thin layers of sweet praline and sponge melt on his tongue, far more pleasing than any savoury dish. He found it hard to drum up the energy to chew even the tenderest meat or the most delicately buttered carrots.
“You hurt me when we were fencing,” Ciel said.
“You were distracted, young master.”
Ciel looked at the cake on his plate with its neat geometry of icing and sponge. “You left marks on my skin,” he said. Some part of him wanted to add: I liked it. Do it again, but he flinched from that part.
“Ah. Would you like me to rub some oil on the bruises to sooth them?”
“No,” Ciel said. “Get out.”
Sebastian gave him his familiar look of polite disinterest and left the room.
*
He woke, breath harsh in his throat, trying to blink away the thin layer of ash which stuck to his face and the creases in his eyes, and which he could not see or wash away, and which he could only scrub at, frantic,with the heals of his hands. He sat up, drawing his knees to his chest, the bed cold and damp and familiar under his shaking limbs. He waited until his breath had slowed down, and then he called for Sebastian.
Sebastian was quiet and efficient as he replaced bedding and brought water for Ciel to wash in. Only his eyes looked mocking. Ciel shed his nightshirt and stood naked and slightly damp, shivering in the cold room and watching Sebastian's efficient hands remake the bed.
“Sebastian,” Ciel said, “Put your hands on my shoulders.”
Sebastian twitched the eiderdown smooth and said, “It is too late for games, young master.”
“Do it, Sebastian,” Ciel said, and Sebastian crossed the room to him, standing tall and immaculately dressed in front of the flushed boy. He put his hands on Ciel's shoulders lightly, soft in their cotton gloves.
“Not like that. Squeeze me,” Ciel said, and Sebastian applied light pressure.
“No, harder,” Ciel said, annoyed at the urgent, breathy tone to his voice. “You bruised me earlier. Do it again.”
“Why, young master?”
“Just do it,” Ciel said, and Sebastian squeezed again, tight enough that Ciel could feel pressure on his bones, but not so tight it would leave a mark. Ciel knew Sebastian could have crushed his bones if he wished without exerting any effort. He wanted a terrible ache beneath his skin; he wanted Sebastian to blow off the ash cloud.
“Hit me, then,” Ciel said. His jaw trembled. “Hit my face.”
“It is not seemly for a young gentleman to ask such a thing,” Sebastian said.
“Shut up. Do it,” Ciel said. Sebastian hesitated, smirking at Ciel, his hands light as moths on Ciel's shoulders.
“That's an order, Sebastian. Do it,” Ciel said, and Sebastian deftly raised his hand and slapped Ciel's cheek. It stung, but only briefly.
“That's nothing,” Ciel said. The ash was heavy as a pall in front of his eyes. “Again. Harder,” and Sebastian did it again, this time hard enough to make an audible sound of cotton on skin, and to make the bone beneath Ciel's corrupted eye burn for a moment.
Ciel put his hand to his face, testing the skin there.
“Is that all?” Sebastian said, and Ciel wanted to beat away the mocking glint in his eyes.
“Yes,” Ciel said, and let Sebastian leave the room; he stood on his cold bedroom floor for another moment, and some part of him wanted to scream with frustration at Sebastian, at himself, at his unblemished skin. Instead he slid between the fresh, cold bedsheets, naked because Sebastian had not provided a clean nightshirt, dry eyes watching a dark room.
*
His days were defined by Sebastian's hands. He was woken in the morning by Sebastian drawing the curtain, and the last thing he saw before he tried to sleep was Sebastian's hand on the candle stick. Those hands arranged papers on his desk and brought him meals. He saw them dusting rooms and laying tea sets even when he was trying to think of other things.
He was compelled by Sebastian, not just by his demonic eyes and the contract that held them together, that held Ciel in this world, fettered to the strand of a spider's web, but also by the the deftness of his movements and his white-gloved hands. He was the only thing that did not seem to be dimmed and veiled in ash. Most objects in the waking world were mere distractions, and hard to focus on because Ciel was so completely turned to his internal world of pain and revenge, but Sebastian was always sharply defined.
Ciel looked at the fires and the candlesticks and began to wonder about burning himself on the grate; whether that sudden pain would remind him of his peeling, blistered skin after the fire, or if it would sooth him, like the brains bubbling and boiling within those heads at Herculaneum.
Occasionally he wondered if he wanted to fuck Sebastian, or have Sebastian fuck him; but he shied away immediately from that thought. To be carried by Sebastian was an embarrassment, to have Sebastian clean his sweaty skin made him cringe: to see himself or see Sebastian brought to the point of orgasm would be merely humiliating. Ciel's external world revolved around Sebastian and only Sebastian, and while many men had had Ciel, Sebastian need not be one of them. Besides he had already seen Sebastian's upturned arse, and felt the hot flesh inside it: he had no wish to repeat that experiment.
He had worked it out that day he stood among the violets, his skin sore from fencing. If he wanted anything from Sebastian, if that sensation of longing that stuck to his skin told him anything, it was that he wanted Sebastian to hurt him.
And that would come, would come as inevitably as flame devours wood: the mouth would finally open and the teeth would be bared.
*
They stood on the dock, side by side in their dark clothes, listening to the sounds the wind made in the rigging of the ships. The sails had been furled, but there were still the sounds of rope hitting wood and metal clanking against itself. The water gurgled, too far inland to be properly tidal, but surging still, among the deep hulls of the ships.
The cold wind stung Ciel's lips and cheeks, though Sebastian seemed to be impervious. They spoke to a member of Scotland Yard about fresh corpses and patterns of blood. Ciel saw a new expression flit over Sebastian's face as they discussed the entrails of prostitutes, and there was heat in that expression, and something like desire. Only occasionally was Ciel reminded that Sebastian must long for his death in the same way Ciel himself did.
They stood on the dock, close enough that their arms brushed against one another, waiting for the final heat of revenge, and noiselessness of blood spilling from wounds.
*
They waited a long time (though it should not have seemed like many months to one who was immortal) while Ciel slept on an ashy bed and Sebastian polished the silver and punished the servants, and then, where death should have come, fierce and tender, Ciel instead lost his human flesh, and blinked new eyes and forgot how desperately he had once desired Sebastian's final bite.