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Sebastian will always remember this, he thinks.
Brush of early morning light against still-unblemished skin, soft clink of utensils against polished porcelain as a generous slab of bacon is cut into, fragrant tea from a cup lifted towards a soft pink mouth damp from a full breakfast. Sebastian, across the table, mirrors this movement and meets the amused eye of his master. A fleeting moment, untold private joke between earl-and-butler, demon-and-human.
The train engines thrum underneath them, fast and steady towards her destination. Single-minded in her pursuit of the finish line, lacking the sentience to realize she is forever caught in a cycle of back-and-forth—or, at least, as long as her mechanisms run and her exterior remains intact.
Sebastian presses a smile against his cup, amused by his own musings.
Ciel quirks an eyebrow at him. Faintest of grease stains along the rim of his own cup, in the shape of the curve of his mouth. “Would you like another?”
“The young master truly wishes to remain in the dining car as opposed to the privacy of our room,” Sebastian comments idly, a non-answer. Not that it matters, for Ciel is already beckoning a passing server, wordless curl of a delicate finger and meaningful glance at their cups.
Prim and proper, every picture of the nobility he has built himself to be.
(As though he were not just on the cusp of falling apart days prior, suddenly thrust into a waking nightmare. As though Sebastian had not held those cheeks between thumb and forefinger, crumb stains all over the pretty purse of that mouth, and berated the young lord for his dreadful table manners.)
Cup refilled. Sebastian takes a tasteless sip, scalding liquid down his throat. The smell, at least, is pleasant. The company all the more so, almost at eye level for once across the narrow table, though still requiring Sebastian to dip his chin somewhat for proper eye contact. A nudge against his calf, and he glances down to see the polished tip of a shoe there, Ciel’s legs fully outstretched underneath the table. Accidental brush.
Growing pains to set in soon, if given the chance. If the young master were to remain long enough for it.
“I see you were also sincere when you said you wanted to stretch your legs, sir,” Sebastian observes, tiniest tug of an amused smile at the corner of his mouth. “Not that there is much to stretch. I imagine our room would have proven sufficient enough for it.”
“Silence, you,” Ciel says, no real heat. He keeps his foot where it is, deliberate this time, a physical and metaphorical toeing of the line. Improper nudge, yet giddy with it, faint flush sitting high on his still-soft cheekbones. He props his chin onto a fist, turns his head some until he is gazing out the window. A strand of hair, lighter in color underneath the full brunt of the sun, falls out of place from behind his ear.
Perhaps, in another time, under different circumstances, Sebastian would have nudged back. Allowed himself the indulgence of reaching across the table to tuck the strand back into place, let his fingertips linger over a blush-stained cheek.
“I could use something sweet,” Ciel says. Half-lidded gaze as he idly watches the world pass by outside, mouth set in a soft pout.
Sebastian at least allows himself a smile. “I am afraid dessert is reserved for after proper meals only, sir.”
“Is breakfast not a proper meal?” Ciel asks, tsk spat out through a corner of his teeth. “I’ve just had a full English. This is an order, Sebastian. Get me something sweet.”
Childish request, childish use of power. Lighthearted idle talk to pass the rest of their time with, after the debrief of their plans, as though they are not stepping headfirst into something that might prove far greater than either of them have ever prepared for.
As though—
A yawn catches Ciel off-guard, lulled no doubt by the soft thrum of the train’s engines, causing his cheeks to further stain pink and his wide eye to cast a quick embarrassed look Sebastian’s way. He looks so young all of a sudden, and Sebastian’s approximation of a human heart aches something fierce in response.
—they are not already there.
//
“Acceptable,” Ciel says, fork licked clean, a dollop of whipped cream the only remaining evidence there ever was something on his plate. “Though I have had better lemon custard pie.”
A meaningful glance sent Sebastian’s way.
Sebastian, on his fourth cup of tea he cannot properly taste, dips his head in humble gratitude. The appearance of it, at least, as is proper. Internally, he knows well enough that Ciel will never have sweets anywhere that can hold a candle to Sebastian’s baking.
“You are too kind, my lord.”
Over halfway through their journey, now. Some stragglers arrive into the dining car for late breakfast, some having the same idea as Ciel and lingering long after their meal, heads buried in the morning paper or turned outward to watch the view. Children run down the narrow aisle between tables, giggling mid-chase. A pair of businessmen loudly discuss projections for the coming year some four tables down. Across from them, a family of five tries to appease their crying youngest, infant of a thing cradled against its mother’s bosom.
Sebastian sees the way Ciel’s eyebrow twitches. Napkin to his mouth, indelicately wiping away at the residue of sweet-sour custard. He scrubs a little too hard, skin on the bottom corner of his lip lifting lightly, white and jagged-edged. “Come, Sebastian.”
“Oh?” Sebastian teases, even as he begins to rise from his seat. “The young master no longer wishes to partake in tea and enjoy the view?”
Ciel scoffs. “This place is rapidly turning into a circus.”
And so they return to their private room, Sebastian three steps behind. Master-and-servant, in every sense of the word.
More cramped here, indeed. But not so much that Ciel has need to bump knees with Sebastian, once by not-accident, and then again with the very tips of their shoes once they have both settled back into the plush seats. Neither make the move to pull away. Same view outside this window, unassuming greenery and open sky, interplay of speckled shadow and glittering light across Ciel’s pensive face.
What has you so troubled, my lord? Sebastian thinks to ask, but doesn’t. He has a good idea. Put on a brave front his lord might—and though the authenticity of that bravery holds up under most people’s scrutiny—if one peels back all of the protective layers built up in the last three years, one will always find but a child cowering in that very core.
In some ways, that is all Ciel will ever have the chance to be.
So Sebastian stays quiet, merely observing. Re-memorizes the dips and contours of that face, taking stock in his mental inventories the ways it has changed, the many ways it has remained the same.
(Safekeeping. Snapshot of the mind’s eye, photograph to be pulled from his internal catalogues years and years down the line, once all of this has passed.)
Mouth pressed tightly. That little piece of skin has come off, teeth digging down to fully tear it away from the lip. Little dot of blood in its wake, pinprick in size.
Ciel does not seem to realize he is bleeding now.
“Sebastian,” eventually breaks the silence, half-whispered, the last syllable tapering off in a way that distorts itself. Seconds dragged into minutes, it feels like, something akin to regret. Ciel bites the tip of his tongue once in self-reprimand, but the name is out there. Attention called.
“Young master?”
“If,” Ciel begins. Tense line to his shoulders, gaze still lingering on the view outside the train window, but deliberately now. No longer leisurely, a purposeful avoidance of Sebastian’s eyes. Another attempt: “If this does not end well and something were to happen, I want you to know I will hold up my end of the bargain still.”
Sebastian finds himself blinking in genuine surprise. He had guessed, of course, what has been running through Ciel’s head this entire time. Their plans, what the game is, which pieces to move across the board when they cannot quite see what the layout of the other side is. Backup plans. Fallbacks.
But not this. Not potential failure, at least not one that will be spoken out loud.
“My soul, that is,” Ciel needlessly clarifies. “It is still yours to take.”
“Naturally, sir,” Sebastian says, blinking once. Tense, so tense his little lord is, sitting across from him. Child doing its best not to cower.
“And,” Ciel adds, “if things seem to be coming to that, then act the beast you are. Destroy me, before they can.”
If we fail, do not let the Undertaker do to me what has been done to my brother.
Sebastian bows his head in reverence. “Of course, sir. Although, if I may”—he lifts his gaze without moving his head, looking at the boy through his lashes—“what kind of butler would I be if I were to let things resolve like that, young master?”
Ciel glances at Sebastian out of the corner of his eye. Half-met gaze.
Sebastian dips his head further, hand over where the heart would be. Utter sincerity as he declares, “I assure you, sir. As long as this body is able to mend itself and you are able to utter your commands, and even beyond all of that—beyond all possible limits crossed—I will ensure that your demise will be by my hand, and mine alone.”
Breath released from the slight parting of those lips, shaky. Loosening of the shoulders. As close to slumping as Ciel would allow himself, at least in such open broad daylight.
“You are comforted by that, my lord?” Sebastian cannot help but inquire.
“Of course,” Ciel says, another shaky breath out. Hesitant beginnings of a laugh attached to it, tinkling of chimes in Sebastian’s ears. Ciel turns to face him properly. “My death by your hands is the only guarantee I have left.”
Roughly an hour left to Brighton. An opening in that single eye, clear and blue.
“Sir,” Sebastian says, crossing the line, indulgence on an upturned hourglass. He reaches the narrow distance between them, gloved fingertips grazing the rapidly-flushing cheek.
Sand trickling through. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
“Sebastian,” Ciel says. “Come over here.”
//
Mouth pressed against that needle-point wound, blood already dried up. Sebastian worries at it with his teeth, just a touch, coaxing the skin to reopen itself and yield a sweet taste of red to him.
Ciel makes a soft noise, face held in place by Sebastian’s palm. He tries to shift, turn just enough to be able to properly meet that devilish mouth.
“Sebastian.” A protest. A request.
Honey-sweet, sticky-slow beneath Sebastian’s fingers. He laughs low underneath his breath, rumble of a sound against the corner of Ciel’s mouth, and finally kisses him properly.
Request granted.
Slick of bacon grease and tacky residue of lemon custard. Precious little gasp of surprise and the wet parting of lips, young and eager. Sitting on the same side of their private little room now, Sebastian pulls Ciel onto his lap, easy as anything. His master allows this, settling himself comfortably, calves dangling off, back of knees pressed tight against Sebastian’s thigh. Twist of the upper body, curious little hands reaching up to leave ghostly touches across Sebastian’s jaw.
Sebastian smiles and kisses his lord again. And again, again, relishing in the way those lips chase after his whenever he pulls back, his spoiled little master with a constant craving for sweetness.
He must really believe the end to be near, Sebastian thinks. To allow this, finally, to be rid of this final piece of resistance between them. Paper-thin barrier of a wall, silhouettes of desire viewed from the other side, missing the finer details but unmistakable in its general shape nonetheless. Laid bare now, Ciel’s need to seal the deal in every way possible, Sebastian’s need to stake claim in equal measure.
Both their desires to be close. To have this, whatever this is, in all its entirety.
(Before it becomes too late.)
“You are quite terrible at this, my lord,” Sebastian chuckles quietly, letting Ciel leave a fluttering trail of kisses across his jaw.
“Be quiet,” Ciel mutters, sinking his teeth in reprimand.
Outside, the train continues on her journey, cutting a dark line across the scenery.
//
“So this is Brighton,” Ciel says. Composed now, not a single hair or thread out of place, if not for the slightly swollen quality to his lips and the steadily-purpling soft bruise just peeking out the edge of his stiff collar. Things only noticeable if one were looking close.
Sebastian is looking close.
“The town is awfully busy for December,” Ciel remarks rather dryly, casting a side glance towards Sebastian. Twinkle in his eye as he spots the matching bruise when Sebastian lifts a hand to get the attention of an idling carriage driver, angrier purple-red through the hole of the glove above where the button closes.
Sebastian chooses not to call his lord out on it, merely smiling as he relays facts about the town’s tourist attractions to the half-interested boy.
They head towards the awaiting carriage once the driver nods his confirmation. Ciel nudges an elbow against Sebastian’s side as he passes by, walking on ahead. He sends a secret smile over his shoulder, no other words needed, trusting Sebastian to follow.
His own smile passing over his lips, Sebastian takes a second longer to memorize the way his master looks now, dark overcape fluttering prettily in the December breeze, quiet tck of his walking stick against the brick-laid ground.
And Sebastian knows, with absolute certainty, that he will always remember this.