In his Arms

The Phantomhive country manor is quiet, for once. Sebastian has seen to the preparations for the next day already, the servants are fast asleep. Had they been closer to the city, the bell could have been heard just tolling eleven at night. As they aren’t, the only sounds that are audible – to Sebastian’s ears at least – are those of the night; the steady beats of an owl’s wings as they cut through the velvety darkness; the soft, careful steps of a fox’s slender paws; all of night’s predators are awake and stalking their prey.

The devil has no need for stalking, however. His prey is nestled between lush, warm sheets, easily accessible if he so wishes. The room is dark and cool, not that Sebastian cares much about the heat or cold of the human realm. He longs for his wings in nights like these, irrationally, craves to will them into existence, spread them, join the owl in its hunt. It will stay a wish, however, and an empty one until he has taken the young master, until he has that delectable soul firmly in his grip and down his throat. From his perch lounging against the headboard of the bed that is too large for the little Earl, he gives an inaudible sigh and looks down at the one thing shackling him into place.

Ciel’s soft cheek is pressed against his sternum, warm and pinchable, forcing the demon to lean back quite awkwardly, his upper back against the pillows, the back of his head against the wooden headboard if he doesn’t want the boy’s neck at an angle that will hurt him come morning. Sebastian wants to prevent that almost desperately. The brat is unbearably irritating on his best days; cranky from sleeping wrong, Sebastian’s day is sure to be hell. He smirks at the pun in his head. Ciel summoned him from one hell to drop him into another, coldly so and without caring much about his comfort. It’s that attitude that drew the devil towards the brat in the first place. For so tiny a being, the young master has a surprisingly dominant personality.

Sebastian glances down at the boy that has wrapped himself around him; he stays close to the boy most nights now. Ciel has ordered him at first, following the Ripper case, to stay with him until he was asleep – by now, three weeks later, the boy still suffers nightmares that are drenched red and filled with a horrible metallic shrieking. Sebastian hasn’t seen the young master this skittish since the first weeks after lifting him from that cage, it worries him. He knows the young master misses his aunt; when he summons his minions, his navy blue eye strays to the armchair she favored more oft than not. It stays empty, out of respect for the madam. Eventually, Sebastian has taken to sitting on the edge of the boy’s bed so he can work on the estate expenses at least; by now, Ciel insists he stays in bed with him. The moment the devil is positioned and the candles blown out, Ciel scoots over, throws an arm over the butler’s middle, and presses his cheek to the chest that he can’t hear a heartbeat from, but is warm and breathing and soothing.

The devil sighs again; like this, he can’t even work. It’s not that he can’t sleep or doesn’t ever, but the young master has ordered him to keep watch over him, and so he does. He has one hand, the left one with its mark, resting on the boy’s narrow back, between his shoulderblades; he uses the other one to brush the fine, slate colored hair back from the boy’s forehead. Ciel looks younger when he’s asleep, the dense fringe of his dark lashes shadowing his round cheeks, his wispy eyebrows relaxed above them. Sebastian lifts his hand and bites the middle finger of his glove, drawing the soft, sleek cotton off in one smooth motion. His eyes glow a soft, warm garnet as he brings his hand down and once again strokes the soft hair with his bare fingers, feeling the silken strands slip between them, soft as luxurious cat fur. He has to smile a bit; Ciel might prefer dogs, but there is no doubt he is more feline in nature: haughty, moody, quick to anger and to soothe, pliable and even affectionate when needed. Even his looks: hair, expression, the way his lips feel like the supple, plush, pink paw pads of a kitten beneath Sebastian’s thumb as he traces it along the boy’s mouth. Ciel grumbles softly to the touch and squirms for a moment before stilling. The devil strokes the back of his knuckles over one velvety cheek as if it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Ciel turns over onto his other side and Sebastian shifts to accommodate him, curving against his back to hold him close and bury his face into the soft hair. The boy smells sweet like lavender and almost soap, bitter like tears and grief, plain perfect in Sebastian’s opinion. He wonders how long he will have to stay with the child while Ciel mourns for what was left of his mother’s side of his family. His palm splays over the thin chest and feels the little heart beating steadily beneath the delicate ribcage.

He finds he doesn’t mind having to stay one bit.