Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sebastian’s body slides off the hooked blade like a wet rag, collapsing in a gasping heap on the floor. His rattling breaths are drowned out by maniacal cackling. The silver-haired former reaper wobbles, almost buckling under the weight of his own perceived comedic genius.

“Sebastian—"  Ciel rushes over to his fallen butler. Sebastian had been hurt by the Undertaker’s scythe before on the Campania, but his current condition made that look as trivial as a splinter.

Sebastian’s eyes are locked wide. His bloodied jaw hangs agape. He gasps for a breath that refuses to come. His attention is divided between protecting his master and forcing his abdomen to knit itself back together in record time. One of his hands, shaky and blood-soaked, raises to cover his master’s eyes. He doesn’t want Ciel to see him like this. His young master instead looks up towards the source of the damage.

Undertaker could simply kill him there and then, so why stop? Why isn’t he approaching to finish the job? The answer to the unspoken question comes cryptically, now perched atop a nearby roof. Undertaker squats down, sitting on his heels. He takes a vial from his coat pocket; its contents glimmer in the moonlight like acrid static, filling Ciel with unease even from that distance.

“You’ll ‘ave to forgive me milord,” the Undertaker sing-songs at the huddled pair.
“I was an active reaper for so so long, I’m finding it quite difficult to break the habit of… administering Last Rites.”

He erupts into another fit of cackling, dangling the vial over the edge of the roof tauntingly, before stuffing it back into his pocket and straightening with a satisfied sigh.
“Do let me know how he fares with it, Ciel. It’s truly a shame I can’t stay to witness it myself. Toodles!”
In a flash of silver he’s gone. The words Last Rites hang in the air like a guillotine blade poised to strike. The space left empty by the Undertaker’s laughter is filled by ragged bubbling breaths.

Ciel returns his attention to the mangled demon he’s knelt next to. With the fight over, he looks more closely at the damage sustained by Sebastian.
Bile rushes to the back of his teeth. He clasps a hand over his mouth and turns away. Ciel had seen death in many forms in his life, and most of those corpses had looked to be in better condition than Sebastian did right now.

“Mast—” Sebastian reaches for his young lord but is interrupted by an expulsion of his own. Blood spews from his mouth, far too much to be considered a mere inconvenience. The coppery sludge pools beside him, reflecting the moonlight back to him.
The two cough, gasping for air to clear the bitter aftertastes from their mouths. Ciel shuffles back half a step on his knees, trying to look at Sebastian without actually seeing him.
“How bad is it?” He asks, maintaining his firm tone for the time being.

Sebastian attempts a snide chuckle at his young master’s concern, but is interrupted by one of his intestines seeking to escape the confines of his healing skin. His voice is strained, pained, raspy, though still drenched in his signature confidence.
“Ngh-- I’ve certainly been in better shape, my lord. Nevertheless, I will survive.”

Sebastian was telling the truth, he had no choice in the matter due to the contract, but something felt off about his injuries. He dismisses it as simply having been too long since he was last so badly wounded, a careless lapse in memory for how bad it’s supposed to feel.

“Y-you should stay warm, my lord, as soon as I am able, I will return us to the manor.”

Ciel nods.

“Yes, right. Don’t take too long, the smell of your blood is horrid.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The carriage ride back towards the manor is quiet. Ciel sits in the cabin alone save for the murmurings of his own thoughts, and a stubborn chill seeping into his bones. Normally Sebastian would have insisted Ciel take his coat, however the coppery slick that drenched it had been enough for Ciel to suggest they burn the garment altogether. He keeps his arms folded stiffly across his chest, a prideful refusal to acknowledge any lingering concern from the fight. The pose’s resemblance to a self-hug was coincidental and utterly irrelevant. Utterly.

Atop the carriage, Sebastian’s grip on the reins is white-knuckled, almost trembling. His shuddering breath forms puffs of fog in the cool night air. Occasionally the carriage hits a bump in the road, ripping hisses and grunts of pain from the butler like a secret ripped from beyond the grave.

Hearing Sebastian’s noises, Ciel calls from inside the carriage.
“Oi, take it easy up there. You’ve bled more than enough for one evening.”

The wheels rattle against the uneven road.
The horse’s hooves clip-clop rhythmically.
A stray gust of wind whistles through a gap in the carriage door.

“Y-yes… lord.” The butler replies.

His makeshift bandages are already soaked through, even with all the energy he was putting into his body’s reconstitution. He frowns down at his abdomen, as though to scold it into cooperating.
He readjusts his gloves for the umpteenth time, as though it would halt his shaking hands.
His razor-slit eyes blink too often, as though they could wipe away what was to come.
His quiet sputtering, wincing, and fidgeting endure until the carriage reaches its destination.

As though any of it would save him.

Chapter Text

The following days in the manor are mostly as they have always been. Ciel by some happy miracle avoids catching a cold from his exposure to the elements, and Sebastian keeps his wounds hidden from the other staff. That being said, Ciel notices Sebastian excuses himself to change bandages more often than usual for his recovery. Surely just a consequence of the extent of his injuries, or perhaps a ploy to irritate the young lord by being absent more frequently, then by being absent almost more often than not. There is a sense of unease that sits on Ciel’s shoulders, something he can’t quite place, images that linger behind closed eyelids, whispers that caress the back of his mind.
All a load of nonsense, really.
Nothing of import.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Monday 22^nd – Breakfast

Ciel arrives at the dining room for breakfast. He is presented with a spread fit for a king, as is usual. Sebastian approaches wordlessly from the right with a silver pot in his right hand and pours silently, showcasing his expert silver service. Ciel stiffens as the smell of the brew hits him, he glances down at the cup to see the rich brown liquid his butler is pouring.
“Sebastian,” he says coldly, “what exactly are you doing?”
Sebastian blinks. He finishes the pour flawlessly, as usual, before straightening to address his master properly.
“I’m pouring your coffee, my lord. Why is something the matter?”
“Yes,” Ciel says sharply, pausing for Sebastian to correct the mistake automatically.
He doesn’t. Those amber eyes remain locked onto his, they carry an air of almost genuine confusion. That only serves to irritate him more.
“It’s coffee, Sebastian,” Ciel prods, “I’ve always hated the stuff. Take it away and bring me something proper to drink.”

Sebastian blinks again, his eyes drift down to the cup he filled. His gaze lingers a moment longer than necessary. He could have sworn that he had been asked for coffee this morning. Though on second thought, it does seem out of character for his master to request anything of the sort.

“Ah yes, you are right, as always, my lord. How careless of me, allow me to fetch you something more suited to your delicate palate.”
“Don’t mess with my food like that again, Sebastian, you hear me?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Sebastian picks up the cup and saucer with grace, moving swiftly without spilling a drop. He leaves the dining room, donating the remains of the brew to Baldroy.

“You made this for the young master?” Bard sniffs the liquid before pulling his face away from the cup with a grin.
“Well it’s no wonder he don’t want it, this is some proper strong stuff, Sebastian! You sure you wanna give it to me? Smells expensive.”

“It’s already been brewed, I can’t exactly return the beans now, can I?” Sebastian smiles, transferring the coffee into a flask more suited to the chef’s destructive tendencies.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to make tea for the young lord.” He gives a quick nod to Baldroy before moving back to the kitchen. As he walks, he hears the chef’s voice drift quietly, speaking to himself.
“The young master hates coffee… Why would he even ask Sebastian for it?”

Sebastian glances down at his abdomen again, feeling a twinge of pain beneath his bandages. He was still bleeding, slower now, mercifully. But that should have stopped by now, surely. He dismisses the thought, after all he had been more badly injured than previous encounters with the Undertaker.

But he could have sworn Ciel had asked for coffee…

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Tuesday 23^rd – Afternoon Tea

Sebastian arrives at his master’s study with the afternoon refreshments. He had taken extra care to ensure that he wasn’t serving anything unusual to the young lord. Mey-Rin is in the room, dusting shelves whilst Ciel skims some documents.

Sebastian moves gracefully as always, presenting the meal with finesse as he gives the details of its contents. He pours the tea for his master flawlessly, and the blend is to Ciel’s liking.

As he bows to take his leave, Ciel hears something strange from the butler’s lips. Words, perhaps, but at the same time perhaps not. Sebastian exits before Ciel says anything.

“That was strange,” he comments idly. “Mey-Rin, did you hear what he said?”
The maid looks to the door confusedly.
“I did, but that didn’t sound like any English I’ve ever heard, so it didn’t. O-or well. Any other language so far’s I can tell.”
“What sounds did you hear?” Ciel asks with a raised eyebrow.
Mey-Rin tries to mimic the strange syllables, but stumbles over them.
She tries again, and an entirely different range of noises tumbles out in her attempt.

“I can’t say it,” she huffs, frustrated. “I know what I heard, but I can’t get me mouth to make the shapes. It’s like me tongue’s all full o’ lead somehow. Sorry young master,” she gives him a resigned bow, Ciel holds his hand up to dismiss the gesture.

“No need to apologise, I’m sure I couldn’t replicate it either. Put it out of your mind for now, likely just another of Sebastian’s parlour tricks.”

He speaks calmly, assuredly. He gives Mey-Rin the sense that everything is as expected.

Thankfully telling lies comes easier than speaking in tongues.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Wednesday 24^th – Corridor

Sebastian hums to himself as he carries his master’s mid-morning tea to the study. He has taken to changing his bandages before presenting Ciel with any food or beverage. Despite the fact that his wound was only lightly seeping, he didn’t wish for the smell to be off-putting for the young lord, especially surrounding mealtimes.

He arrives at the door and politely knocks.

Silence.

His brow furrows. He knocks once more.

Silence.

Sebastian tenses, opening the door cautiously.
“Young master, are you—”

The sight before him steals the rest of his sentence from him, freezing his body into place.

This isn’t the study.

His eyes dart around the empty games room, lingering briefly on the dart board and pool table.
“But… What..?” he whispers to himself. He had been certain he was headed to the study, he knows the manor like the back of his hand, his every day is spent here, he restored it from ashen rubble, for goodness’ sake.
So why doesn’t he recognise this room?

“Oi, Sebastian,” his young master’s voice from a few doors down snaps him back to reality. He straightens to smile at his master.
“What are you doing? Don’t tell me you’ve managed to get yourself lost.”

He glances back into the room. Of course he recognises it, his master often entertains guests here. He gently closes the door and smiles, a little uneasily.

“Forgive me, master. Please return to your desk and I shall bring you your tea.”

Ciel stares at him just long enough to make the demon feel under suspicion before nodding and retreating to his study.

Sebastian holds back a sigh of relief and follows his master inside.

He had wanted to say something akin to “Don’t be silly, of course I’m not lost,” something to dismiss his own concerns along with those of his master.

But that would have been a lie…

And Sebastian isn’t allowed to tell lies.

Chapter Text

Thursday 25^th – In conversation

The servants split up and each take charge of a different section of the manor. They all swear that they can hear a draught somewhere in the manor, but none of them can pinpoint its location. All the places they just knew they’d heard it prior were sealed tight, no sign of a breeze or chill to be found. Surely all four of them couldn’t be wrong, so they set out on a wild breeze chase.

Ciel allows them to go about their ghost hunt despite not having the slightest idea what they’re talking about. That is, until Sebastian arrives to discuss plans for one of Ciel's future engagements.

His words are unimportant, nothing he says or does is out of the ordinary.

But whenever Sebastian speaks, Ciel swears he can hear a soft… something… behind it all. A cold breathy sound, like a soft breeze, like billowing fog, like a whisper.
But Sebastian is not whispering. On the contrary, he’s speaking quite clearly. But Ciel could almost be certain that the butler is speaking twice at once, not in double-speak or twisted meanings, but rather a second softer voice whispering near-silently along with him. Sebastian seems blissfully unaware of anything of the sort, and so Ciel dismisses him when their conversation is through.

Once Sebastian leaves, Ciel stands on his chair to properly check the window behind him. It's sealed perfectly. No sign of draught or cold. Nothing.

A knock at the door pulls his attention.
“Come in,” he calls back, still stood atop his chair to look over the window. Perhaps he had simply missed a flaw in the seal?
Tanaka enters, closing the door with a reverent bow.

“Oh, Tanaka,” Ciel blinks “I thought you were Sebastian.”

“My young lord, you shouldn’t be standing on your chair like that, if you fall and are injured, I may never forgive myself.”
Tanaka moves with surprising swiftness to stand next to his young master. Ciel places his hand on the man’s shoulder for balance, more for Tanaka’s comfort than his own.

“I thought I heard that breeze you and the other three have been talking about,” Ciel explains
“It’s the first time I’ve heard it for myself, so I wanted to check the window.”

“We’ve searched the entire manor, my lord. All the doors and windows are quite secure. Sebastian had been with each of us when we heard the sounds, so we even asked him to double-check. He said he hadn’t heard a thing.”

That gives Ciel pause. Sebastian hadn’t heard it? But everyone else in the manor had? How? Ciel steadies himself on Tanaka as he gets down from his chair.

“If Sebastian says he heard nothing, then perhaps it was nothing.” he says, sitting at his desk again.

“My lord, you don’t sound entirely convinced,” Tanaka comments, his knowing eyes softening at his young master.

“I am convinced,” he lies, “but perhaps we should be more careful about the manor. I don’t want to work you all too hard. Auditory hallucinations are often an early sign of stress, after all.”

Sebastian had been present for all instances of the reported sounds yet claimed no knowledge of it. He hadn’t noticed anything when speaking with Ciel or he would have moved to investigate the window himself.

Sebastian could hear things humans couldn’t, not the other way around. But how could he have been whispering alongside his own voice and not known about it?

Ciel dismisses Tanaka politely and leans back into his chair. For reasons he can’t identify, the words Last Rites drift back into his mind. He shakes his head to dismiss the thought. That vial the Undertaker had held must have just been a silly trick to worry him.

Sebastian is fine, there couldn’t possibly be anything wrong with him.

Sebastian is always fine. There has never been anything wrong with him.

Sebastian would be fine. Whatever was wrong would surely pass.

No.

Nothing’s wrong with Sebastian.

Nothing can be wrong.

Everything’s fine.

It’s okay.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Friday 26^th – A Stitch in the Evening

Mey-Rin hears Sebastian humming softly to himself from the library. Noticing none of the lamps or candles are lit, she walks in with a small lamp to find him.
Instead of the butler, she finds one of his tailcoats sitting on the young master’s armchair. The seat is still warm, but there’s no sign of Sebastian anywhere. She picks up the coat to discover that not only is the threaded needle still attached, but the front of the coat has been peppered with buttonholes. Tens, possibly hundreds of masterfully stitched buttonholes scattered all about the front. Something about it makes Mey-Rin feel uneasy. She quickly drops the coat back onto the chair where she found it and rushes out of the library. As Mey-Rin finishes her work for the evening, she finds that she can’t put the image of the coat out of her mind. It's as though the buttonholes were hundreds of hand-crafted eyes staring back into her soul, their gaze inescapable.

Like something unfathomable stalking from the depths.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Friday 26^th – In the Kitchen Before Bed

As Baldroy prepares for bed, he hears movement from the kitchen. As he moves down the corridor, the sounds become clearer. It sounds like Sebastian mumbling to himself as he moves about the kitchen. Before Baldroy can reach the kitchen door, a most unlikely sound halts him in his tracks.

A light-headed, almost dizzy, giggle. It was Sebastian’s voice, alright, there was no mistaking the smooth baritone. But something about it felt so unnatural, the deep sonorous tones pitched up in hazy, breathy delirium.
Baldroy swings the door open to see if he’s okay-

And finds the kitchen empty.

Sebastian’s giggle still echoes along the tiled floors. On the table, there lies a cup with a single spoonful of loose-leaf tea in it, but no liquid. Alongside the cup sits the tea caddy, full to the brim with still-bubbling water. A teaspoon swirls lazily in the caddy, as though the thick leafy concoction had been furiously stirred but moments ago, and the spoon held nothing more than the memory of the movement.

Baldroy looks closer at the tea caddy to see that it had been previously filled, not with tea leaves, but with what looks to be loose parsley, resulting in a tea caddy’s worth of dense parsley-broth. The tea leaves in what had presumably been Sebastian’s cup - well - that definitely is tea, but he couldn’t place the blend, the sight and smell of the leaves somehow defy description.

Baldroy didn't know why, but something in his bones told him that wasn’t intended for human mouths, not even as a poison.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Friday 26^th – Under Moonlight

Finny sits up in bed, groggily rubbing his eyes. He glances at the clock on the wall. 3:45am? Why could he hear Sebastian humming outside at 3:45am? He glances out the window to see yard trimmings littering the gardens.

Shuffling out into the cool night air, Finny follows the herbicidal trail along the hedge-bank. After two or three minutes he finds the hedge trimmers resting on the grass. The tool lies between a beautifully sculpted topiary bush, a barren rose bush trimmed to the same shape,

And…

A carefully stacked pyramid of rose flowers…

Ones that had been shorn from the aforementioned bush.

There are two fresh shoeprints on the ground, they look like Sebastian’s, but the butler was nowhere to be seen.

Finny looks around, but seeing no sign of Sebastian, shrugs off the feeling, chalking the distant humming up as something half-remembered from a strange dream.

It’s more pleasant than any alternative Finny could think of…

Chapter Text

With another long day of work behind him, Ciel stands next to his bed as Sebastian helps him undress. His butler’s odd behaviour for the past week has pulled at the corners of his mind and tied knots in his stomach. Today had seemed something resembling normal again, leaving Ciel more relaxed. As Sebastian removes Ciel’s shirt, he’s humming softly to himself. Tom, Tom, the Piper’s Son, if Ciel isn’t mistaken. The lyrics drift into his mind alongside the hummed melody.

Tom, he was a piper’s son,
He learnt to play when he was young,
And all the tune that he could play—

Tom, he was a piper’s son

That wasn’t right. Ciel glances down at the demon who seems eerily unaware of his premature loop.

He learnt to play when he was young,
And all the tune that he could play…..

Tom, he was a piper’s son,

Ciel tenses. There’s something about the children’s song being butchered by Sebastian that would make anyone uncomfortable. It’s at this point he notices the shake in Sebastian’s hands, not quite struggling with the buttons on his cuff. Ciel pulls his hand away uncharacteristically slowly, like he was trying not to startle a sleepwalker.

“Sebastian, what’s going on?”

The humming doesn’t stop.

Tom, he was a piper’s son…

Sebastian doesn’t react to Ciel’s movements. His hands remain where they were, twitching, fumbling in the air with a cuff he no longer held.

He learnt to play when he was young…

The melody trembles in time with his failing hands. For an instant, Ciel sees a flickering of red and razor-black pupils before the familiar amber returns to stare into the empty space where Ciel’s hand used to be, calmly focusing on the task he was no longer performing.

“Sebastian,” Ciel reasserts, “Answer me when I speak to you.”

A wet breath rattles in Sebastian’s chest. Ciel sees now that his eyes are glassy, unfocused. The coppery smell of blood drifts back into the young lord’s nostrils. Not human blood, no. Something more bitter. More unholy.

“What’s happening, my lord,” Sebastian echoes softly, almost cooing, “What’s happening. W-what….” His voice falters, giving way to the coarse humming,

And all the tune that he could play…

And all the tune that he could play…

And all the…

And all.

“M-my…. Lord….”

A trickle of tar-like blood creeps from the corner of his mouth. Still, his empty spasming hands attempt to undo the button on some imaginary cuff.

Ciel recoils, losing his balance and falling back onto the bed. His feet graze against Sebastian’s chest with the momentum. The touch elicits something from the beast, a guttural noise, a roll of thunder trying to surface from waterlogged lungs. Sebastian flinches back, his arm moves to cover his chest awkwardly; and yet his hands, twitching with mindless devotion, continue to grasp at the button that isn’t there. His eyes flicker between human and demon, man and beast, stability and… Something far from it. His head sways too fluidly, too quickly, as though awash with the tune he could no longer produce.

“Sebastian? Stop what you’re doing!” Ciel’s voice cracks, an overwhelming cocktail of fear, confusion, anger.
“Get a hold of yourself! That’s an order!”

Sebastian’s trembling ceases entirely, and for a moment there is silence.

Deafening.
All-consuming.
Silence.

Sebastian’s left hand slams into his right forearm, gripping the limb so tightly his finger joints snap like rotten twigs. The creaking groan of straining bones fills the air, as though they too wished to sing of Tom the Piper’s Son. As though to answer the question trapped in Ciel’s throat, Sebastian’s voice floats like grave dust and gravel.

“H-hold… Obtained… Mast-ter…”

His neck jerks with a sickening wet crack to lift his head, glowing slit eyes locking with Ciel’s. That bitter-tasting blood drips from his nose, and seeps out through the gaps in his monstrous jagged grin. Ciel had never noticed before just how many teeth Sebastian has. Too many.

This heaving, bleeding, self-shattering thing was Sebastian - and yet it was not Sebastian at all. Ciel remains frozen on the bed, eyes wide and jaw locked open in horror. He searches Sebastian’s face for signs of malice, of mischief or hunger or provocation, anything to suggest that this was an elaborate trick.

He sees nothing of the sort.

Sebastian’s eyes stay locked on him, glassy, unblinking, possibly even unseeing. The impossibly black fluid drips down his face, onto his shirt. He does not blink. He does not flinch. His shattered hand remains clamped firmly shut on his own arm. The muscles tremble. That grotesque, too-wide smile threatens to tear his face in two down the middle, yet he does not stop. There is no joy in it. There is nothing Ciel can recognise in it, but there is something ablaze in it, something nameless, something feral. Sebastian’s appearance, his mindless and literal interpretation of Ciel’s order, the way he kneels at head-cocked attention, none of this was a game. Ciel shakily props himself upright, using every ounce of strength he has not to show fear as Sebastian’s glazed unblinking eyes follow him. It isn’t enough.

“Tell me what’s wrong, Sebastian. Speak.”

Sebastian’s head nods clumsily, as though he remembered what a nod was, but not how to execute it. His grin does not recede, nor do his eyes blink. His movements are almost excruciatingly slow. He moves his hands to his own shirt and, rather than unbuttoning it, simply tears it open to reveal the bandages around his waist. They had not been changed in several days, Ciel can smell that much. Sebastian’s torso is covered with what looks like thousands of lightning scars etched into his flesh in black. Veins, pulsating with apparent infection. The longer Ciel stares, the more he feels he can see the veins writhing like dying snakes beneath his skin. He feels their eyes on him though he knows they have none.

“It--” Sebastian rasps, struggling as though every word is cauterised in his throat
“I c-cant--”

The edges of Sebastian’s form shimmer like an optical illusion. Ciel’s stomach churns, immediately he wishes he hadn’t asked Sebastian to speak.

“V-viscera.”

Wisps of darkness lift from his shoulders like smoke made sinew.

“M-memor-ry."

His voice splinters across octaves, slipping one and two layers beneath itself, until the sound resembles three mouths in chorus failing to agree. His body lurches with the effort, trembling on the verge of collapse.

“Rot.”

The word sloughs out of him like a bloated corpse into a pit.
And more follows.
Not Words. Not Sounds.
A feeling that writhes in the air, a noise that fills Ciel’s teeth and hair and bones.
It smells like church bells and screams,
It sounds like bile and honey,
It tastes like mauve and the darkest of lights,
It feels like a locust swarm set ablaze.

Ciel does not know how loud it is.
He cannot possibly know.
He was never built to comprehend it.

His head throbs, overwhelmed with the burden of witness no human was intended to bear.
He shuts his eyes,
Covers his ears,
And screams in chorus with the writhing mass before him.

-click-

The soft metallic noise outside silences the two in an instant. Ciel hesitantly opens his eyes, breath trembling, heart pounding.
Sebastian stands at the window, unmoving save for the wispy tendrils flicking from the edges of his form, like a statue gently aflame.
A lone gunman crouches in the bushes outside.

“Sa-afety,” the word leaves Sebastian’s mouth like a dragged boulder.
Before Ciel can process or object, Sebastian’s form ceases to exist as what would strictly be called a body. Instead, Ciel sees only the impression of him; a man-shaped void disintegrating into flicking wispy filaments that churn like burning paper. In that living nothingness, two white circles remain, impossibly bright, impossibly clear. They aren’t eyes so much as punctures, holes through which something worse than Sebastian himself may be watching.
The mass sinks down through the floor, slowly, but with sickening ease.

The screams of the gunman peal out into the night for just an instant before they’re swallowed by the darkness that unmade him.

His terrified echoes last longer than he does.

Ciel stares out the window, legs pulled tightly to his chest. His fragile frame trembles violently, his weak lungs wrestle every breath from the unforgiving air.
For a moment, he is alone.
For a moment, he is safe.

Sebastian leans over Ciel’s shoulder from behind, their faces a mere inch apart.
“You. Need sleep,” he says, trying to make the rumbling growl feel comforting. He fails.

Ciel yelps and scrambles away from Sebastian, just barely managing not to fall off the bed. He hadn't noticed Sebastian rematerialise so suddenly behind him.

From this close he can see Sebastian’s face is slick with sweat, his bangs cling to his forehead like bad calligraphy in a language that never bore script. His glassy eyes don’t move in a way that could ever be considered natural, and his chin is coated with that bloodied tar as though he had been sick.

Sebastian stiffly moves to the curtains, pulling them mostly closed. The fingers on his left hand are still broken, jutting out at all the wrong angles like gnarled branches. It may just be the terror playing tricks, but Ciel could swear that the butler’s limbs were the wrong length, mismatched pairs cobbled onto a torso to which they did not belong.

Sebastian’s gaze stays fixed on his young master, and as he leaves the room his neck twists inhumanly to maintain it. His eyes feel simultaneously piercing and unseeing.
“Goodnight.” The word tumbles from his lips as though its shape were foreign, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste.
He blows out the candles and shuts the door.

He leaves Ciel alone in the dark.

Chapter Text

Ciel remains huddled in place long after Sebastian leaves the room, his body locked in place, backed up against the headboard. He can’t hear anything over his own pounding heartbeat, over his trembling breath. He can’t decide if he would rather hear his surroundings or remain deafened by terror. The darkness is all-consuming, his eyes dart about the blackened space as though he could see through it all, as though he were expecting to meet Sebastian’s eyes adrift in it, as though it would keep him safe.

Sebastian had never acted like this, not even in Wolfsschlucht, when he had tried to devour his soul. That had been beastly, ghastly - yet it had been controlled and refined. This had been something else. Something raw, something writhing. This is a side of Sebastian Ciel had never seen, never considered. He would often joke about Sebastian being a wild uncontrolled monster but had never once thought about what that may look like.

Had he lost his mind?

The thought echoes in Ciel’s mind longer than he’d like. Had Sebastian lost his mind? Was this because of the Last Rites the Undertaker had talked about? What could that even mean? How could Ciel find out? He knew nothing about demons; he had thought them immune to anything other than a Death Scythe. Could they go mad? Would they fall ill? Could--

-scratch scratch scratch-

Ciel’s breath hitches in his throat, his eyes shooting upwards to the sound. Something scratching in the ceiling, like iron nails patiently working their way through the beams.

The sound vanishes the moment he looks up. Ciel remains motionless for what feels like an eternity. No more scratching.

Trying to shift the seeping dread from his bones, Ciel moves slowly, quiet as death, to pull the covers up around himself for some semblance of control.

Children often say that the monsters can’t get you if you’re wrapped in blankets. Ciel knows better. Monsters take no notice of linen barricades. And yet the act gives him something almost resembling comfort.

He wraps the blanket tightly around him, rolling side to side to tuck it beneath himself in a mock-embrace. He does not see it this way, the manor is simply a bit chilly, and he would rather cocoon himself than call someone to light a fire.

As the terror within him loses its sharpness, a bone-deep exhaustion coils around the boy. He looks at the bedroom door, watching, waiting. He feels his eyelids drag down against his will, the sweet song of slumber beckoning him to close his eyes.

As they finally slide shut and the last vestiges of consciousness slip through his fingers, he hears it again. That soft, patient scratching from the world above. The sound is like iron files, like rats, like gentle rasping breath. Not any louder, not any closer. Just… Waiting.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

He wakes. It is still night. Perhaps only 20 minutes had passed since he fell asleep. The scratching noise halts mere moments after he notices it again.

Had it only started again now? Or had it been caressing the beams all this time, a clawed lullaby over his sleeping head?

Something catches his eye on the floor – his shoes. He had kicked them aside earlier while preparing for bed, but now they rest neatly side by side, freshly polished and gleaming in the moonlight. Ciel doesn’t remember anyone entering the room.

Ciel feels sleep whisper softly to him, to unclench his jaw and close his weary eyes.

He tells himself to stay awake.

He fails.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

His body jerks as he wakes a second time. Once again, the scratching halts its monotonous melody. He sits up, eyes darting about the room. There is no sign of Sebastian in the room. He relaxes a touch, leaning back against the headboard. His shoes remain neatly in place, no more refined than when he last woke. His clothing still lies crumpled on the floor, still bearing smatterings of Sebastian's blood. His cufflinks glint gently on the nightstand.

Cufflinks? Ciel hadn’t worn those cufflinks that day. He hadn’t worn them all week.

And yet there they sit, polished to perfection just as his shoes had been. His shoes which had glistened in the moonlight.

The moonlight.

Ciel looks to the window. The curtains are shut tight, far tighter than before. They forbid the moonlight to spill into the room, as though it were an offence to the unholy dark smothering him. Someone had been here. Close enough to touch, close enough to whisper. Ciel feels eyes upon him, though he believes the room to be empty.

He sits slumped against the headboard. He waits. He watches. He does not know what he waits or watches for. He simply holds silent candle-less vigil over himself.
His head droops forward – he jerks it back.
His eyelids sag – he shakes his head.
He tries to count his breaths, to anchor himself in the now, but the numbers slur and slip away like blood in water.

He commands himself to stay awake.

He fails.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

His body lurches, sitting bolt upright. It is still night. The room is still empty. It seems that he is still alone. He hopes that he is still safe. On cue, the scratching dies out once more.

At the foot of the bed Ciel sees a chair, one that usually resided elsewhere in the room. There is an outfit laid out upon the seat, perfectly folded, ready for morning - should morning ever arrive. Ciel snaps his gaze to the door and feels a shift in his eyepatch before it falls uselessly into his lap.
The knot had come undone.

The knot had been undone.

The air holds a bitter aftertaste, like tea left to steep too long in a copper pot.

Ciel leaps up from the bed, feet landing on his discarded clothing with a stomach-churning squelch. He looks down in horror. His previously spattered clothes now lie in a pool of cold, almost syrupy fluid. He feels the sins of a thousand lives seep between his toes.

Ciel retches.
The bile scorches his throat and makes his eyes water. A violent encore forces the burning slick through his nose.
Sebastian had been here; he must have been. How long did he loom, watching, bleeding, waiting. Sebastian’s wounds were mostly sealed. How long could it have taken to form this lake of iron and tar at his feet.

Ciel grabs his eyepatch and clumsily ties a knot – one far too tight for comfort. He backs himself into the corner opposite the door, as though the walls would lend him their strength. He crouches down in a feeble attempt to hide from that to which he is eternally bound.
The seconds pass like years, the minutes like epochs. The dark surrounds him. He waits for something, anything to happen. He strains to see and hear that which cannot be seen or heard. The dark envelopes him. He feels the urge to close his eyes and surrender to the seemingly endless night. He slaps himself across the face in bold retort. The dark holds him. Sleep strokes the edges of his thoughts, patient and soft, curling its fingers around him like ivy. He bites his lip until it bleeds. The dark cradles him. He digs his nails into his hand to imprint crescents upon his flesh as though the moon would lend her light to the symbols to protect him.

A velvet noose tightens around his mind.

The dark cradles him.

He tugs at his hair.

Each blink is a step closer to oblivion.

He begs himself to stay awake.

He fails…

And only then, in slumber’s palm, the familiar tendrilled dark returns.
It rocks him in impossible arms, humming cradle-songs never meant for human ears.
Its voice carries the air of iron files, of rats, of gentle rasping breath.

Sweet as tar.

Soft as rot.

Chapter Text

The fireplace crackles low, bathing the room in a soft golden glow. Ciel rests his head against his father's chest, their hearts beat as one. Gentle. Calm. Loved. Vincent's arms are strong around him, steady as the armchair beneath them. It's long past Ciel's bedtime, but he has been granted a rare opportunity. He may stay up for as long as he wishes. Another has already fallen asleep and been taken to bed, it's just his father and him now. They are warm. Happy. Safe. Whole. 

Ciel doesn't understand why, but the peace makes him feel a little sad. He presses himself closer into his father's chest, tiny arms straining to embrace the Earl.
A warm chuckle reverberates in Vincent's chest, shaking any worries loose from Ciel.

"You needn't worry, it's alright, I'm not going anywhere," he coos, his hand rests atop the boy's head, gently petting his mop of hair.
"I promised, once you can stay awake you can stay here with me for as long as you like. It wouldn't be like me to go back on my word, now would it?"

Ciel giggles, holding his father close, shutting his eyes and simply enjoying the peaceful evening. Vincent smiles, humming gently to his beloved son. The tune is familiar but Ciel can't place it, like words half-heard whilst falling asleep. He doesn't mind. He smiles - really smiles.

Vincent's tune softens, lulling the child to rest. 

Tom, he was a piper's son.
He learnt to play when he was young.
And all the tune that he could play

Ciel feels something tighten in his chest.

Was 'over the hills and far away'.
Over the hills and a great way off,
The wind shall blow my top-knot--

-bang-

The gunshot pierces the silence almost as quickly as it does his father's skull. Ciel recoils as his father's head snaps backwards, mouth agape and blood trickling from between his unblinking eyes.

The humming doesn't stop - dear lord why doesn't it stop? 

Tom, he was a piper's son.

Tears pour down Ciel's face, he tries to get away, to go get help, but his father's arms tighten their grip on him, coldly locking him in place. 

He learnt to play when he was young.

The voice splinters, two and three layers in chorus now. They blur into one unholy amalgam of not-quite-Vincent.
Ciel reaches up towards his father's face but does not touch it.

And all the tune that he could play...

The humming is laboured, raspy, wet. Like iron files. Like rats. Like a roll of thunder trying to surface from waterlogged lungs.

Tom, he was a piper's son.

Ciel looks down to see his father's hands are no longer hands, but clawed black voids, tendrils flicking like flames. The darkness spreads like disease, corrupting what little was left of his father. The grip on Ciel tightens, threatening to rend the flesh from his bones if he struggles. Ciel grabs his father's face and pulls it down to look at him, crying, pleading for him to come back, reminding him of the promise that he could stay as long as he wanted. He does not meet his father's eyes.

He meets Sebastian's.

He learnt to play when he was young.

The corruption writhes up Vincent's arms, clawing, tearing, flaying his face. It tears chunks of the late Earl away to reveal Sebastian beneath, eyes glowing and glassy, mouth coated in tar. Ciel chokes on the smell of decay. He gags at the feeling of blood slick upon his feet.

And all the tune that he could play...

The impossibly cold flames pour into Ciel's mouth and nose as they engulf his father's face. Before he too is snuffed out by this writhing dark, he sees a single tear fall from what was once his father's eye.

He hears his name...

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It's Ciel's own blood-curdling scream that wrenches him from fitful slumber, he sits bolt upright in bed just in time to see Tanaka sprinting into the room.

"Young master! Are you alright?" 

Ciel battles to control his breathing, his throat raw from the shriek.

"I-I'm fine, Tanaka," Ciel lies unconvincingly. Tanaka approaches, hand outstretched in apprehensive concern.

"My lord you're shaking like a leaf. Last time you screamed like that was--"

"Tanaka, I'm fine," Ciel snaps uncharacteristically, finishing Tanaka's statement for him. 
"Just a particularly rotten nightmare. That's all."

Tanaka is silent for a moment, lips pursed as though holding back that which is better left unsaid.

"My lord, I have been asked to step in as your butler once more."

Ciel's eyes widen slightly, eyebrow raised.

"Sebastian left me this note, informing me he has taken ill and feels unable to fulfil his duties as of present." Tanaka explains, producing the letter from his pocket.

The handwriting is unmistakeably Sebastian's, though the end of each line curves downwards ever so slightly, as though the paper it had been written on were showing the early signs of a stroke. Ciel hopes Tanaka hadn't noticed this. He knows Tanaka had.

"He has asked that we don't fetch a doctor for him," Tanaka continues, "though I must say it's unacceptable. A Phantomhive butler refusing medical aid when his master needs him? Were it anyone else Sebastian would say they weren't worth their salt."

"No doctors," Ciel quickly interjects, his mind racing to come up with an excuse. Tanaka was right, refusing vital care when it is so clearly needed wasn't behaviour fit for his butler.

"Sebastian... can't see regular doctors."

Tanaka raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, is that so my lord?"

"Y-yes," Ciel presses on, cursing his mouth for moving faster than his mind. "He mentioned something to me before, some sort of condition he has? Perfectly managed, no ill-effects, but... other doctors panic needlessly over it. They do more harm than good."

Ciel feels himself digging his own grave with every passing word of this foolish lie.

"I can't recall what he said it was," he adds for good measure. There's no way Tanaka will believe a word of it, but he had to try.

Tanaka's pause seems to last an eternity, the old man's knowing eyes peering through Ciel's very soul.

"Hm, very well, my lord," he says finally, "Do you happen to know who Sebastian's General Practitioner is, then? If he is this unwell it may be worth consideration."

Another pang of panic flits through Ciel's spine as he is once again forced to think quickly before his morning tea.

"I have it written down in my study, I'll check in on him and see if it's necessary."

Tanaka nods, though his gaze lingers on Ciel for a moment too long.

"If you'll excuse me, my lord, I shall fetch your morning tea and newspaper."

Ciel nods, dismissing him.

Just before the door closes, the temporary butler pauses.

"Young master... The last time I heard a scream like that... I failed your predecessor. I will not fail you too. Should matters worsen, no orders - neither yours nor Sebastian's - will stay my hand."

The door closes with a soft clunk, hearing Tanaka's tone, Ciel briefly wonders if his own coffin would make a similar sound.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It's only when Tanaka returns that Ciel realises the pile of his discarded clothing from the night before is gone, as is the pool of blood and vomit they lay in. Ciel would have almost been willing to believe that had all been part of his nightmare too, if there hadn't been specks of blood about his toenails.

As he is dressed, he realises that he has no memory of getting into bed. He recalls fighting sleep as though his life depended on it, then the feeling of being in his father's arms in his dream. While Ciel can't entirely dismiss the thought, he sets it aside for the time being.

Breakfast is... tolerable, he supposes. Having heard about Sebastian being ill, Baldroy had taken it upon himself to craft a "Special Surprise Breakfast to keep the master's spirits up," and Mey-Rin and Finny had only been too eager to assist.
Surprisingly it's not wholly inedible, even for his palate.

Meal finished, he thanks the servants for their care and announces that he is going to check on Sebastian, insisting that no one go in with him and that he will hear no arguments.

Whatever it is he is about to behold, it must be he alone that does it.

Chapter Text

Sebastian closes Ciel's bedroom door, realigning his neck forwards with a swift crack after his owl-like eye contact. He does not hear Ciel move from his perch against the headboard. He can't hear anything other than the boy's trembling breath.

Sebastian looks down at his hands. His right hand twitches and jerks, trying to complete the task of unbuttoning Ciel's cuff once more. The left is mangled and bone-splintered; it does not join the feeble dance of its counterpart. The darkness is restrained for now.

Sebastian had never felt like this before, not in all his millennia. It feels beastly, ghastly, utterly uncontrollable. He recalls his master's jokes about him being a wild uncontrolled monster, and for a moment feared what might become of him.

Had he lost his mind?

The thought lingers not at all, slipping from Sebastian's grasp like blood into water. He makes a sound, scratchy, wet. The sound is from his throat, though it seems to echo from elsewhere, cosmically displaced.

He walks away. His footsteps are slow, quiet as death. As he moves, he looks down at his exposed bandages.

They're filthy.

He tears the offending cloth down the middle and removes it in one swift tug. He holds the tacky rag in his hand, blissfully unaware of the scabs that had been removed with it.

Better.

He does not bother to fix his shirt - or perhaps he does not notice that it needs fixing. Either way, the manor is quite warm, and Sebastian would rather make it to his destination than senselessly cocoon himself in garments once more.

Sebastian enters his own room for the first time in months. He rarely sleeps, so he has little need for it, and Ciel conducts regular cat-checks to be sure he isn't harbouring more feline fugitives. But for now, he thinks it suitable. He lies down on the bed. He does not get under the covers, demons care little for being swaddled in linen.

He stares at the ceiling.
Something is wrong, his mind is hazy
He's been making mistakes.
Everything feels foreign.

He stares at the ceiling.
He can't think properly.
He's losing words.
Everything feels familiar, but off.

He stares at the ceiling.
He feels his eyes grow heavy, though not with sleep.
Something stirs in his mind, a sweet song of servitude beckoning him to his duty.

He tells himself to stay put.

He does not.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Sebastian blinks, emerging from the dense fog of his own mind. He is holding Ciel's shoes in his hands. He has clearly polished them to a flawless shine, though he does not recall retrieving them. There is an odd scratching noise - Sebastian does not recognise his own rasping breath. He looks up from the shoes.

This is Ciel's room.

He looks over at his young master, mercifully still asleep, but stirring. Sebastian hurriedly places the shoes down neatly before dissolving through the floors in an echo of flameless smoke.

He returns to his room. He returns to his position on the bed, his mind reeling as best it could. Every thought feels like a river of resin flowing uphill, impossible, unnatural - even for him.

He looks down at his stomach, the wound is freshly opened.
A fight?
His blurred gaze lands on the bandages discarded on the floor, a swathe of scabs decorates the cloth like ivy strangling oak.
Oh yes, that's right. The altar.

That didn't feel right.

That didn't feel wrong, either.

He shakes his head to dismiss the thought and allows his eyelids to slide shut.
Something in his mind whispers softly to him, to open his eyes.

He commands himself to stay put.

He does not.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Sebastian's head snaps up, mind emerging from the amnestic ocean swimming in his skull. There is a scratching sound, like iron files. Sebastian finds his hands on Ciel's curtains, though he cannot recall if he had been opening or closing them. It is still night. He shuts them tightly, hoping that should his master wake now, that he would be concealed in the dark and go unnoticed. Sebastian's gaze falls on his left hand, previously splintered and gnarled, now flickers as chilled black flame. At least his fingers aren't broken now. Though perhaps he should have fingers. Ciel shifts in his sleep. Fingers were a problem for later. He notices a set of cufflinks on the nightstand. Sebastian cocks his head; he hadn't seen those cufflinks in /years/ /days/ a week. He sees the cloth used to polish them. He holds it. He stares at it. Ciel stirs. Sebastian dissipates.

He goes back to his room. He inspects his appearance in the mirror. He does not recognise the vile thing staring back at him. In the mirror he sees a well-dressed butler, porcelain skin and rich amber eyes, an exemplary, capable, powerful butler.

He looks down.

He sees a gaping hole, an impromptu toothless maw - though perhaps there were bones in there to be found. A drop of coppered tar slips from his nose, he feels as though it takes with it something he cannot hope to regain. He does not grieve it. His flickering left appendage - a hand it is no longer - moves to explore the gap in his self.

His vision blurs.
His vision clears.
He returns to bed.

He stares at the ceiling.
He looks at his wound.
He looks at his former left hand.

He stares at the ceiling.
His head raises - he jerks it back.
His eyelids twitch wide - he closes them.

He remembers to stay put.

He does not.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Sebastian staggers. He is drowning. He wrenches his mind from the festering bog; it slips from his hands. He retrieves it again and again - each time he recognises less of the bloated decaying thing he finds, though he knows that it must be his. He is folding clothes, laying them out on a chair for the morning. It is very important for his young master to be presentable, after all. 

Why am I here?

He blinks.

He is standing over Ciel's sleeping form. Sebastian's left arm is little more than a memory, his right hand twitches inches from the back of Ciel's head, the edges of his fingers give way to flickering night. He sees the string of his master's eyepatch undone. His mind is blank, but his body remembers the movements as though they happened yesterday... Or perhaps last year? It matters not.

Was I fixing it?

He blinks.

He is standing over Ciel's sleeping form. His wounds gape anew. He watches, he bleeds, he waits. He feels the sins of a thousand lives pool at his feet. He does not take his eyes from his young lord, he does not blink - perhaps he does not recall how to. He knows not how long he has been here, he does not care - perhaps he does not recall how to. The hours pass like seconds; the seconds themselves cease to exist entirely.

There is nothing to fix.

He blinks...

The child is at rest.
Sleep has long-since taken his body and mind.
Sebastian recalls having a body; having a mind.

He bundles the feeble thing into something he believes to resemble arms.
He rocks the boy with borrowed tenderness - he knows not the source.

He hums through lips he no longer remembers.
His voice carries the air of iron files, of rats, of gentle rasping breath.
The melody is soothing like tar. It is patient like rot.

It is the lullaby the angels will sing at the end of days, if he recalls correctly...
He does not.

Chapter Text

It hurts.

It hurts in ways Sebastian couldn't have imagined.

He can smell church bells and mauve, he can hear bile and honey, he can taste foreign screams and the darkest of lights, he feels like a locust swarm devouring itself, he cannot see - he cannot see.

Sebastian trembles, pressed low into the corner of his room in a feeble attempt to hide from what he is, and from that to which he is bound. His "hands" flicker in and out of comprehension, embedding themselves into the walls, as though either flesh or stone were nothing more than wet paper - he cannot tell which. Dark tendrils lurch from him, swarming across the walls and floor. He pants with lungs that do not need it; he searches with eyes that cannot see; he reaches out with limbs he cannot move. The dark surrounds him. He hears things - unknowable things. His body is misshapen, malformed, born of seemingly endless night. He commands the tendrils of his form to heed him, not to consume him. The dark envelopes him. He knows that he is Sebastian, he knows that he is a demon, he knows that he is bound, he knows that he knows little else. The dark holds him. Something whispers to stand tall and leave, to be rid of this place. He bites what may have once been a lip until its surface breaks. Thorns of his own [un]-making etch themselves into his mind, strangling him like ivy. The dark restrains him. A tendrilled noose tightens around his throat. The dark immobilises him. He digs what were once charcoal nails into what used to be flesh, as though he could still imprint crescents to remember something - anything. Hideous sounds - inhuman sounds - skitter from him.
The dark fights him.

The dark is him.

The bedroom door opens cautiously, but smoothly. Ciel enters without a word - his eyes are cast down. He flinches at the writhing snapping tendrils about the floor, they recede from his feet. He closes the door behind himself and keeps his eyes low. He moves one foot to the side, the writhing yields the space to him like frightened leeches, pooling instead about the space he left. He puts his foot back and once again Sebastian's expanse shifts away from him - like living carpet.

Ciel looks up at his butler. He does not see a butler. He sees something resembling his butler cowering, trembling like a terrified child hiding from itself.

"Sebastian," the name slips from his lips in what sounds like pity in concern's clothing.

The demon's eyes - if those endless white voids could still be called eyes - respond to the sound incorrectly, flicking to the wall rather than to his master. The wispy mass seems to be listening, waiting. It makes Ciel shudder.

"You look pathetic," Ciel comments. His tone would normally be mocking, disgusted, venomous. It is none of those things. It might have even been something resembling tender if he were capable of such a thing. He receives no response, the void stares blankly ahead.

"You're trembling like a child." 
Ciel should know - he had done the same just last night.

There's a small sound in the corner, quiet but high in pitch - gibbering from an incorporeal mouth... or perhaps mouths. Ciel hopes that it's Sebastian trying to respond - that would at least mean he had heard him. There's a wet snap as the silhouette's head twitches up, now staring at a different nothing on the ceiling. Ciel isn't sure if the demon can see. Ciel isn't sure he'd want Sebastian to see him. Ciel reflexively takes a half-step back. The bespoke 'carpet' yields.

Ciel takes off his eyepatch, looking at the gangly form in the corner. Something churns in his stomach - not eldritch fear - something familiar - something long-buried. He swallows it down once more and steadies his voice.

"Our contract still stands," he declares, "You told me that you would survive. You cannot lie to me, so you will survive."
That was not an order. It was a decree, perhaps a poorly worded request - a desperate plea for reality to bend to his will when Sebastian could not.

"Sebastian,"
The demon's neck twists too far in the wrong direction to almost look at him, white voids threatening to bore holes in the space three feet to his master's right.

"This is an order. You are to remain within the confines of this room until I instruct otherwise. If I say your name in the meantime, that is not a cancellation of this order. If you leave this room without my instruction it would constitute putting my life in danger. Am I understood?"

The gibbering grows louder, more frenzied, more voices, less emotionally recognisable. Ciel cannot hear Sebastian's silky baritone amongst the chittering choir that echoes from the newly-blackened floor and walls. Ciel sees a purple sigil glow softly somewhere within the writhing mess, visual proof that not only was Sebastian still in that swarm of living ink, but he was still bound to the Earl, and had received the order.

The contract indeed still stands.

Ciel turns to leave to discover the door coated in that cold flame. The gibbering picks up in speed, but softens in volume. He reaches towards the doorknob, the leech-like writhing doesn't give way.

"Let me out, Sebastian."
The door opens on its own. The inky floor still yields to his feet as he leaves. The door shuts behind him, locking with a few too many clicks.

Holding doors open for his master... Perhaps there truly is still a butler in there.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Ciel's head flops down onto folded arms, the soft thud echoing briefly against the mahogany desk beneath him.

Wads of crumpled paper adorn the desk like an incomplete funerary wreath, dusty books lie stacked on either side of the young earl - a leather-bound tomb he constructs brick by brick. Each addition is an admission of defeat. He hates it.

"There's nothing for it," he huffs to the empty room, "he's not going to recover on his own... at least not in any suitable timeframe..." he needs help, is left unsaid. The room hears the unspoken words all the same.

But how could he help him? Ciel doesn't know the first thing about demons beyond the few scattered tidbits Sebastian had said in passing over their years together. 

Ciel needs information, and the books he had acquired are only fit to serve as paperweights for the other useless tomes beneath them.

He considers the church - but the clergy weren't likely to have accurate information, and were very likely to seek to destroy Sebastian rather than help him.

Satanic worshippers then.

No.

Had Undertaker's status as former grim reaper been revealed without him turning traitor, Ciel would have gone to him, but seeing as he was behind this mess, that was even further off the table.

Which leaves...

"Oh God," he groans. God does not respond. His skin crawls at the thought - he wonders just briefly if Sebastian's current flickering flesh feels similar.

He wracks his brain for an alternative. He even considers prayer - to god, to the devil, to the stars in the night sky or even the damned kitchen tilework - anything that would show him another way out.

He gets no response from any such power.

Ciel summons Tanaka to his study, requests some strong tea, and begins writing something down.

Sebastian owes him for this - big time.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Thankfully the Earl's powerful position means that he doesn't need to wait very long to enact this loathsome plan. Sebastian's ordered confinement also improves the odds of it going as intended.

Ciel remains in his study, telling Tanaka that he has urgent work that needs doing that night, and that he didn't wish to endure more fitful sleep after his dreams the night prior. It is a silly, childish thing to say, one designed to pull on Tanaka's heart strings. The hint of truth makes it even more effective. Ciel feigns work in the empty room, at the lonely desk. The manor is warm. Ciel's study is cold. He insisted the fire not be lit, and when Tanaka had left him to his work Ciel opened the window behind him. He writes. He waits.

A rustling in the bushes. The night air is still - the breeze is innocent of all charge.

Ciel tenses momentarily. He wonders if Sebastian dispatches would-be assassins like this every night. He hopes this to be a fluke, a lucky break, lest he be without Sebastian's protection for more than a single night.
Very few would ever consider an attempt on their life to be lucky. Surviving one - yes, very much so, but not the appearance of an assassin themselves. 

A slow steady breath leaves the Earl. His hand closes around the pistol in his lap. He prays for luck, he prays to borrow Mey-Rin's eyes - her expertise. 

He turns to the window.
He fires.

Someone crumples to the ground outside.

Ciel's breath surprises him - shaky and jagged in his throat. He had killed before, he had seen death in its many forms countless times over. Why, he asks, why was this any different?

Because he was vulnerable without Sebastian.

The thought unsettles him, much like the silence in the air that followed the gunshot.

Had he failed? Had he done something wrong? Was he not going to get a response? Worse - was he going to get the wrong response?

"What? NO! No-no-no-no. No."

Ciel winces at the shrill voice from outside. A strangled groan and a sigh of immense relief fight each other to escape him first - they settle for a disconcerting draw.

"I didn't work myself to the bone all week and get a fresh manicure from that hag in accounting for this! "

High-heeled ankle boots clop like hooves as she lands on the Earl's windowsill. He staggers back as she slips through the window with uncanny ease, eyes blazing.

"Listen here brat," Grell snarls, "Where's Bassy? I didn't let William run me ragged at work all week just to watch some wannabe hitman get killed by a runt like you! "

She jabs Ciel in the chest with a finger. He hates it. As much as he cannot stand Grell, he is relieved that none of the other reapers had appeared. That would have been disastrous.

"Grell, s-so good to see you," he lies, his palms facing outwards at his chest in the universal gesture of please-don't-kill-me-I-can-explain.

Grell scoffs, rolls her eyes and cocks a hip. The woman is the very embodiment of impudence, if she could mint it into coin she could fund the British Empire for centuries to come.

"Yes, yes - I'm a gift to the world, I know," she rattles off flatly, "Where is my darling Bassy?"

"That's..." Ciel swallows.
"That's actually why I wanted to see you."

Grell arches an eyebrow.

"Wait- you shot that stupid man down there so you could see me? "

"Regrettably, yes."

"Well spit it out then, I'm a very busy woman you know. I've got a week's leave coming up and I want to get this shift's work over with."

Ciel gestures to a chair opposite his at the desk. Grell plops down into his chair with a grunt, propping her head up on a lazy fist. Ciel moves to protest, but opts to save his breath and takes the opposing seat.

"He's been injured--"

"So?"

"... by Undertaker--"

"So? "

"Would you kindly let me speak? "

Grell shrugs in mock-apology, signature razor-toothed grin firmly in place. Ciel's brow twitches.

"Undertaker attacked us about a week ago, and Sebastian isn't recovering - he's getting worse. I think he's been poisoned but I don't know anything about demon physiology so I can't even begin to figure out what's wrong. I... I need your help."

That gets Grell's attention. She sits forwards, leaning on the desk with a focus in her eyes unlike any Ciel has seen in her before. Ciel doesn't wait for her to speak, wanting to endure her shrill ramblings as little as possible. He knows she hates him, the feeling is utterly mutual. If he has any hope of getting her help he needs to sell this to her - hard.

"You're a Grim Reaper, souls are your livelihood, surely you must have access to some knowledge on demons and their physiology."
Ciel avoids the word anatomy like the plague. 
"Frankly, I can't trust any other reaper for the task; simply put, your colleagues lack a certain finesse. This requires delicacy, a woman's touch. Besides, I'm certain that you wouldn't mind getting to spend time up close with Sebastian."

Grell's eyes sparkle, excitement swelling in her like a kettle coming to the boil. Ciel thanks his genes for passing along his father's charm as he delivers the killing blow.

"We would be in your debt, Grell. And I would ensure Sebastian repays you for your kindness. You have my word."

That crucial word 'we' dances into Grell's ears, the promise of Sebastian's repayments sets her blood aflame. Ciel watches in satisfied horror as Grell's pupils double in size. He can smell her theatrics coming a mile away - and is powerless to stop them.

"Oh, my wounded prince, that you should be bartered like coin for your own salvation is nothing short of torture!"

Her hand flies to her forehead and she leans backwards off the side of Ciel's chair, one leg kicks into the air in thespian flourish. Every word jabs into Ciel's mind, but he remains still, too appalled to move, too proud to flinch. If he could have turned to stone in that moment he would have done so happily.

"And I alone can bring you sweet release from your feverish torment! My darling! My love! I swear upon the very stars that I shall tend to you day and night, through dawn and dusk!

She clutches her chest, Ciel hopes her fanatical shrieking doesn't draw the servants to his study. 

"And though our love is forbidden as Reaper and Demon, it shall be the very thing that heals your poisoned veins. Alas, my Romeo, you have fallen to your draught, but I am no Juliet who wakes too late to save you! I have tasted death's sweet kiss once before, and I shall taste it again in your treacherous embrace, Bassy~!"

"Would you stop that!?" Ciel shouts, finding his voice once more amidst the chaotic display. Grell's reverie snaps, her eyes shoot sideways to him in wholehearted disgust.

"Ugh, you upper-crust types have no appreciation for theatre," she gripes, returning to a more acceptable seating position.

"So are you in?"

"Oh, I am, little lord, 'til death do us part!"

Ciel groans, shaking the woman's hand.

Chapter Text

Having hastily finished her collection of the poor aspiring assassin Ciel had shot, Grell follows the Earl, practically skipping through the long corridors towards Sebastian's room. Her mind races, what could possibly be awaiting her within that beautiful sanctum of his? Any number of dramatic images rampage through her mind's eye, each one more tantalisingly over-the-top than the last.

Reaching their destination, Grell is beside herself with excitement, giddily shifting her weight from foot to foot as Ciel approaches the door. He leans against the wood, trying to listen. He hears nothing - not that nice kind of nothing where it's simply quiet, the kind that implies peace - he hears a deafening preternatural lack of sound.

"Sebastian," he says, trying to make his voice sound in any way imposing. "I am going to open the door and let someone in. This is an order, you are not to attack or deal harm in any way, understood?"

He hears the door unlock with too many clicks, but otherwise that hollow soundlessness persists. He turns to face Grell, keeping his hand on the doorknob.

"Alright. Try to be calm, he's not exactly... himself." Ciel cautions.

"Oh shut up and open the door already," Grell whines, clearly not understanding just how much Ciel is understating the situation.

Ciel opens the door just in time for Grell to barrel through the gap, he wonders if she would have simply crashed through the wood panelling had he not moved it quickly enough.

"I'M COMING MY DARLING BASS--"

The door slams closed behind her, the unnatural silence swallowing the rest of her words.

Ciel stands outside. He hears nothing - and he waits.

After about two minutes, the doorknob quivers in an uncertain grip, the door creeps open. Grell emerges, closing the door behind herself without looking back. She is pale. Her eyes are distant. The only sound to be heard is the door locking behind her. She stares through the wall ahead of her as though through her own unfamiliar soul.

"What the fuck is that..." she mutters, all her usual energy and theatrics forgotten. 

Blinking, she remembers herself, and most importantly her audience of one, the young Earl standing to her right.

"That isn't my Bassy," she stammers, trying to kick-start her signature bravada with moderate success. "You promised me a wounded prince, not some shambling mountain of leeches!"

"Shambling?" Ciel echoes - his stomach churns. "He's moving?"

"What do you mean? Of course he's moving! " Grell snaps. "I wish he'd have stopped! "

"So can you help or not?" Ciel snaps back, his patience for the red-head growing thinner by the second.

"I don't even know what I'm looking at in there, I thought you meant some kind of infected wound, some sort of-- well anything recognisable!"

"So after all that talk you're completely useless, then?" Ciel groans.

"I am not," she spits, "I just don't know enough to deal with that."

A thought strikes her.

"But I do know someone who should know... And he owes me a favour! You bluebloods love that sort of thing, don't you? Trading favours for favours like children trade sweeties?" she sneers through razor-sharp teeth.

Ciel says something in response but the blood-red reaper doesn't bother to listen.

"Then that settles it! I'll go pay him a visit, I'll be back in a flash, Lordling, ta-tah for now!"

Before Ciel can object, Grell leaps gracefully out of the nearest window, disappearing in a blur before she hits the ground. Ciel stares at the space she disappeared from over the grass, groaning in dread at the thought of who she might bring back to the manor - and wondering if the person following in her wake could possibly be more insufferable than her.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The hour and a half after the red reaper's departure feels like several lifetimes to the young Earl. He waits outside Sebastian's room for some of it, trying to listen in as though his human ears could penetrate whatever unholy silence swallows the other side of the door. He raises his hand to grasp the doorknob more than once, and quietly rescinds the motion each time. He returns to his study, assuming the reaper may return through the same window she had the first time - Grell's most predictable trait is her unpredictability, after all.

He sits at his desk and writes to pass the time. He can do nothing useful before the reaper's return, and he doesn't much fancy the idea of trying to sleep. The words he writes hold no importance, he finds himself transcribing a long piece of Latin text for the simple purpose of occupying himself.

"Si Deus me dereliquit, Diabolus me ducet," his pen scratches into the paper - a mindless, repetitive task.

"Si Diabolus me dereliquit, Mors mei misereatur."

His study door opens without the courtesy of a knock, and Grell strides in with her hands clasped behind her head, elbows out. There is a shorter fellow in tow; his phosphorescent eyes give him away as a fellow reaper. He is clad in a crisp white coat, not unlike what a doctor might wear. His spectacles are round, and his dark green hair juts out to the sides, giving his head a somewhat triangular shape.

"Now this is a nice place," the stranger muses, "there's really a demon living here?"

Ciel blinks at the unusual man.

"Another reaper? You know I want Sebastian alive by the end of this, don't you?"

Grell scoffs and places a hand at her hip.

"Yes, mother, I'm well aware of that. Othello here owes me a favour after a little mishap at the accounting staff's Christmas party about twelve years ago, so he's promised not to put dear Bassy to sleep like the unruly dog he is."

Her words carry an unusual mixture of excitement and loathing, Ciel doesn't have time to dissect her every word. He extends his hand awkwardly towards the new reaper.

"Othello, is it? I suppose it's a pleasure--"

His hand is quickly grasped by Othello in a vigorous two-handed shake.

"The pleasure's all mine! I've never been this close to a living contracted soul before!" Othello beams, blissfully unaware of his rude interruption. "And you're so young- Oh-! Want some liquorice?"

The man pulls a small bag of black sweets from his coat pocket. Ciel holds his hands up with a grimacing smile.

"N-no, thank you. That's quite alright."

Grell rolls her eyes, flicking her hair from her shoulder in a crimson swoop.

"Ugh, Othello, you don't have to go buttering him up like that - he already needs you here."

Othello stashes the bag back in his pocket, giving a sheepish chuckle in response.

"I know, I know, I'm just so excited about this! So where is it? Do you have it restrained somewhere? How did you restrain it?"

Ciel's brow twitches. While less gaudy than the crimson nuisance, this new reaper is insufferable in his own enthusiastic way.

"He's in his room, I've ordered him to stay there until I instruct otherwise. I'll bring you to him."

Ciel stands from his desk and leads the way out of the room. 

Othello follows close behind with Grell sauntering in tow.

"Let's go see what's left of your butler, then!" Othello chuckles.

Ciel's stomach drops. He hopes there is enough left to save.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The trio stand outside Sebastian's room - this time it's Othello that's brimming with excitement, bouncing on his heels lest he explode with anticipation. Ciel and Grell share a heavy silence as they wonder what awaits behind that door.

"Sebastian," Ciel says, trying to make his voice seem anything other than anxious.

"We're coming in. Just... Try to stay calm."

The door clicks unlocked.

Ciel turns the doorknob.

The three exchange a glance.

They step inside.

The first thing that greets them is the air. It's heavy, hot, metallic, and faintly sweet, like inhaling a dying candle. There is no breeze, yet the air stirs, waxing and waning as though the room itself were breathing in gentle slumber.

The light from the hallway does not spill into the room as it should, it scatters, refracts, not willing to push back against that endless dark within. That darkness that clings to every surface - it might even be mistaken for shadow at a glance, but shadows do not glisten, they are not wet, they do not breathe.

The three do not know when the door closes behind them, only noticing that it had closed.

Ciel looks down at his feet - the darkness does not yield to them as it had before. The floor feels almost as though it were made of taut skin, gently giving beneath his weight.

At first there is nothing but that blackness, the dark that clings like tongues, the dark that sheens like oil. There is a briny smell - salt, iron, ozone, dust. The flickering candles cast shadows to the shimmering walls, the three intruders see themselves reflected in the slick void.

Othello steps forward, the mirrored sheen beneath him rippling faintly at his movements. His reflection moves with him - though a moment too late. The reflection's hands tremble silently, as though writing on its own leg with some unseen pen.

Grell turns to the wall, she feels her own eyes staring back but can only see her silhouette. She feels a familiar kiss of steel upon the wrists of a man who shared her life, her death, her name - but never her soul. 

Ciel glances. He sees. He looks away.

Their eyes slowly adjust - or perhaps the dark merely grants them permission to see. There is a movement, a soft undulating in the slick of the ceiling.

And then they see him.

Sebastian hangs suspended just two feet below the ceiling, stomach turned up towards the sky. His silhouette wisps away at the edges, it dissolves to sinewy tendrils at his chest, his knees, the lapels of his coat. They rise, anchoring him to the blackened ceiling like rope, like roots, like veins. His clothing is tattered, trailing downwards from his form, swaying gently as though he were suspended underwater. It is impossible to tell where cloth ends and flesh begins - perhaps such a boundary never existed. A faint hum reverberates in the air - not quite a sound, more a pressure against the eardrums, in the bones, teasing whispers to the nerves of the teeth. Sebastian's form; the silhouette - the tendrils - the oil-slick - the shadows, all of him trembles with the memory of motion. He appears coiled in his repose, not in a readiness to strike, but in an effort to remain still.

His head is tilted back at an unnatural angle, the jaw slack, lips parted in silent respiration. His eyes are shut - in reverie, in rest, in revulsion, in ruin. From this upside-down vantage, his hair hangs like locks of ink dripping to the floor.

"Incredible," Othello breathes, eyes wide with an awe that could almost be mistaken for reverence.
"He's keeping himself still, even as he's discorporating."

The sight feels less like witnessing a demon in agony, and more like beholding a god in chains. There is power, leashed by its own hand. There is hunger, starved into statuesque obedience. This impossible creature held aloft in apparent repose by inky entrails ascending to the ceiling - or perhaps descending from it. Ciel can't tell if it's a trick of the light or if the room itself breathes in tandem with the rise and fall of Sebastian's chest.

A single droplet of Sebastian's hair drips to the ground. It lands, rippling into the floor's sheen in silence as though seeking not to wake the demon.

His eyes open.

They are not amber, they are not white, they do not glow red with feline intensity. They are unseeing pools of mercury, glimmering mirrors that drink in the light rather than emit it.

"Beautiful," Grell mutters under her breath. Her voice is a lull of horror - she does not think any of this is beautiful.

Ciel sees himself reflected in the depths of his butler's eyes. He cannot look away - though he desperately wants to. He cannot speak. He does not know if he should.

"It is a monster..."  the words come - presumably - from Sebastian, though they are not heard so much as they are felt from all around, the hauntings of an unremembered dream festering.
"Begot upon itself, born on itself."

Something in the walls shifts all at once, and yet does not move an inch.

The reflections of the three watch on. They stand. They breathe.

Ciel moves a half-step back, his hand finding purchase on the doorknob. He feels more eyes on him than are present — he feels less eyes than he should. He opens the door and the light from the hall does not cross the threshold. He sees his reflection knelt in benediction. It looks up at Sebastian's chandeliered self. Both of its eyes bear the seal of his contract, satanic sigils that fail to obscure the wide-eyed adoration in its gaze. Its mouth does not move, it does not make any sound but Ciel knows it is praying - and praying to Sebastian. It breathes with him. The walls breathe with him. The air tastes of pennies and incense and sick. Ciel holds his breath as he leaves, quietly escaping back to the light.

The door closes behind him yet his reflection remains — swaying gently to some unheard hymn as it continues its unblinking prayer.

A letter opener appears in the hand of Grell's silhouetted image. Grell shakes her own hand to the side; to prompt her hollow counterpart to drop it. It does not. Instead the shadow's hands rip at its own hair, tearing at the long locks to leave a short matted wreckage behind. Using the letter opener it slashes wildly - possessed - tearing from itself flesh and feminine clothing alike. Grell moves backwards to seek an escape from the darkened room. Her newly-shorn silhouette kneels, ominously dripping arms outstretched in praise to the divine ornament of Sebastian's form. Grell wishes she could see the silhouette's eyes. She knows she would not be met with any gaze she wishes to ever see again. That face has not belonged to her since she died. She opens the door and slips back into the light of the hallway.

The door closes behind her, yet Grell's shadow persists even after the genuine article has left. It joins Ciel's mirror image, sinking to its knees, arms reaching desperately for the object of its unsurpassed worship.

Othello raises a hand to his mirrored self. The mirror responds in kind, a moment too slow. The reflection smiles, wide - Othello himself is not smiling quite that much. Othello quickly moves to write something down, the reflection joins in. Othello looks back. The reflection does not. It writes. It scribbles. It draws diagrams. Othello looks. The reflection does not look back. The words scatter from the pages up the reflection's arms in a murmuration of ants. It draws Sebastian's tendrilled entrails. It writes. The words crawl up its face, covering all visible skin. Othello steps backwards, moving to the door. The words pool at the reflection's feet, they scramble back up its legs, pouring into its eyes, its nose, its mouth. It sketches Sebastian's sacred auto-vivisection. It writes. It smiles. The reflection grows pale, it cries, it gasps, it writes. 
It chokes.
It falls to its knees, gasping silently for a breath it presumably does not need.
It writes.

With a shudder Othello finally opens the door to join the others in the hallway. His eyes linger on the scene a moment too long before leaving the reflections to their worship, the closing door condemning them to their sacrament of darkened silence.

Chapter Text

The three stiffly return to Ciel's study to talk things over. Ciel requests tea, informing Tanaka, with flawless aristocratic stability, that Othello is Sebastian's doctor and that Grell is his assisting nurse. Grell's coarse jokes about skimpy uniforms and thermometer placement are, mercifully, kept to herself. Tanaka, adept in the art of noticing without remark, does not ask follow-up questions. He brings the tea as requested, opting for a mild blend in the futile hope that his young master may still attempt sleep before dawn. He bows to excuse himself once more, leaving the three to sit around the young lord's desk.

Once left alone, they discuss their reflections in Sebastian's room-encompassing self, how each one showcased some core part of themselves that they each hide away; Dependency — Insecurity — Obsession. They talk about how Sebastian is at the core of it all, in their deepest flaws he is their downfall and their salvation. The words flow like blood, like secrets, the burdens of five lifetimes borne to the harsh world that created them. They talk about how they are doomed to want him, to need him, and equally so, are doomed to succumb to their worst selves basking in that dark glow. 

In reality, they say none of this.

A wordless agreement never to speak of their mirrored selves - their truest selves - hangs in the air, much like a certain reposing beast, just two feet below the ceiling, bathed in hushed scattering moonlight.

Othello is the first to break the silence, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"So what exactly happened to him?" he asks. He holds a notepad in hand, his pen hovers gingerly over the page as though the act of writing suddenly left a bitter aftertaste in Othello's mouth.
"Grell mentioned some kind of poison? I didn't think demons could be poisoned."

Ciel sits back in his chair, fingers steepled as he recalls the details.

"That's my best guess; after he injured Sebastian, Undertaker said something about 'administering Last Rites' and held up this vial of something I couldn't identify. It looked..." his brow furrows as his exhausted mind tries to find words to explain what he saw.

"I can't explain how, but it looked like the feeling you get when your leg falls asleep after sitting for too long," he tries, hands held in front of him as he fails to find a gesture to evoke the correct feeling.
"Or the sort of... fizzing you see before you faint? Like fleas made of metal, ashes but alive."

The reapers look at Ciel as though the poor boy had finally lost his mind: confusion with a sprinkle of pity. It's awful.

"Riiight," Grell drawls, "and do you have anything useful for us to go on?"

Othello seems deep in thought, however, searching for a memory just out of his grasp.

"Last Rites," he echoes softly. "I haven't heard of any substance called that before... Could it be something he made himself? He's an experimentalist, and the naming sounds right for him at least; he's got a flair for the dramatic - a bit like you, Grell."

Grell almost chokes on her tea, staring at Othello and mock-retching.

"Don't you dare compare me to him! He has no understanding of character depth, he's all laughs and no humour!"

"If it's something he made himself," Ciel interjects through gritted teeth, desperate to pull their conversation back on track, "Do you have any way to figure out what it could be?"

Othello shakes his head.

"Not if he keeps discorporating like that. If it's his physical form that was injured then I'd need to see the wound itself. No body - no data, I'm afraid."

His eyes light up; he leans over Ciel's desk, almost spilling his untouched teacup.

"But you're in a contract with him! Do you perhaps think you could tell him to return to his usual shape? To keep his form stable?"

Ciel recoils at the sudden jolt from the reaper. He blinks.

"I... hadn't thought it an option," he admits sheepishly. "I told him to get a hold of himself recently and he grabbed hold of his arm so hard his finger joints snapped like wet chalk."
He shudders as the awful sound echoes in his mind.
"He's not usually so literal when following my orders, so I've been a little hesitant to issue them in case they backfire."

He had also been hesitant to even be near Sebastian, and this mirror-room incident hadn't helped matters.

"But doesn't Sebastian like playing little tricks on you?" Grell asks, head-cocked and legs crossed. "Yes, the finger-breaking is a tad over-the-top, even for my tastes, but he likes toying with you."

Ciel shakes his head.

"He does, but I'm certain that's not what that was. There was something different about it... Like he only heard the meaning of each word in isolation, rather than the sentence as a whole."

Like his mind is coming undone, he thinks. He does not grant the words his breath.

"Well, why not give it a try?" Othello asks, that giddy excitement gradually finding purchase within him again.

Ciel moves to speak but is interrupted by Grell shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

"Personally I think we should leave the sleeping prince be for a little while," she says. "And I know it clearly doesn't matter to you two, but some of us need our beauty sleep."

Ciel blinks, though he is clearly relieved that an excuse had come from someone else.

"Reapers sleep?"

"Yes, we do. It's very important, you wouldn't want the person collecting your soul to be tetchy, now would you?"

A small grin creeps across her features.

"Well... You wouldn't need to care about that, but the rest of mankind most certainly should."

"Grell has the right of it," Othello chimes in with a small stretch of his arms.
"I've also just come off a long day-shift in the lab, so I'm wiped!"

"In exchange for your help in this matter I can provide rooms for you both should you wish." Ciel offers, holding back a stretch of his own.

"Oh my, a sleepover at the illustrious Phantomhive estate? How lucky we are." Grell purrs.

"But on one condition," Ciel adds, "you two are not to go wandering about the manor, especially not before the morning when I can inform my staff of your presence... and under no circumstances are you to approach Sebastian without me."

The decree disappoints Grell less than Ciel had expected it to — and disappoints Othello more. Both reapers nod in agreement with the terms.

Ciel once again calls for Tanaka and, much to the interim-butler's relief, informs him that he intends to go to bed. Tanaka leads the two reapers to their respective rooms. Othello eagerly insists on taking whichever of the rooms is closer to Sebastian's, claiming that a doctor should always be near his patient at times like these. Grell asks Tanaka if the rooms come with all the standard accoutrement, or if company is provided also. Othello notices something in her eyes that suggests she would not be particularly pleased with either answer.

Finally, Tanaka returns to his young master's chambers where the young lord has already begun undressing — a pitifully clumsy display.

With a small smile, the butler moves to assist.

"I must apologise, my lord, I failed to greet your guests in the appropriate manner, I didn't even notice them arriving to the door. It is inexcusable."

"No need to apologise," Ciel cuts him off, "as a specialist doctor it would seem that Sebastian gave him a key to the staff door by the kitchens. They had my permission to use it and didn't see fit to make a spectacle of themselves."

"I see... And will the good doctor and nurse be staying with us long?"

"It's hard to say for certain, that all depends on Sebastian's recovery."

He stifles a yawn.

"Please do not overconcern yourself with him, young master. It's unbecoming of a Phantomhive Earl to worry so much for a mere servant; I'm certain Sebastian would agree."

Ciel raises his arms, taking the opportunity to stretch as his nightshirt is pulled over him.

"While I will admit his recovery does occupy my thoughts, I am certain that he will be fine. But I should like to observe the doctor's work, perhaps I can learn more about this condition of his. It would help us to avoid this sort of thing in the future if I understand what triggers it and what may help."

"You truly are kind, master, I am sure Sebastian will greatly appreciate your efforts."

Climbing into bed, Ciel turns to face the butler at the door.

"Thank you for indulging my working so late, Tanaka. Whilst I'm likely to be tired as a result, don't let me sleep in late. I want to be up early as normal so I can be there when the doctor starts treating Sebastian."

"Very good, my young lord," Tanaka replies with a bow.

Ciel wraps himself in a blanket cocoon and quickly drifts off into sleep, his exhausted mind refusing him even the faintest hint of dreams.

Chapter Text

Beakers and vials, vials and beakers, weighing scales, scalpels, specimen, and  — most importantly — notepad and pen. Everything is in its place, as always, but it's always good to triple check. The lab is flooded with a cold light, sterile, perfect for study. Machinery and equipment purr through their work in the background, once you get used to it all it's really easy to tune out. The air has a hint of formaldehyde to it — it ensures everything is clean and won't interfere with his results. Othello likes it like that, even if it is a little stronger today. He jots something down, perhaps the date and time, it's not all that important; he's the only one going to look over the notes, and he punched in to use the lab anyway so there's always going to be a record. He never forgets a case, especially not one this interesting.

He turns to glance at his specimen atop the table next to him, a nondescript individual lying on its back, abdomen pinned open for photographs. Its eyes are closed and it seems calm despite some small jittering movements in the hands. A surgical tray next to it holds a series of jars, most empty, some containing a dark, flickering nothing-of-a-something. Othello clears his throat to shift those wispy metal-sweet fumes tickling the back of his tongue. He makes note to talk to the rest of his team about using quite so much when cleaning - it isn't cheap stuff. He glances at the time — his arm itches lightly, he scratches it. He continues his writing.

"Okay, October the 10th," he mutters, pen gliding over paper. In his periphery he sees something skitter up his sleeve. He freezes — is it a bug? It had better not be a contaminant or this study is ruined. He pulls up his sleeve.

"October the 10th" — the words are there plain as day, just above his sub-standard bicep. He shakes his head to dismiss the thought and returns to his notes, speaking as he writes.

"Contracted Demonic Specimen captured in England by—"

More skittering, and this time he feels it. 

He checks once more.

"Captured in England by Contracted Demonic Specimen"

Blinking at the words, he shakes his head to dismiss them, rolling his sleeves back down. He tells himself he has to stop pulling so many late nights, it's not like he gets rewarded for the unnecessary overtime. All he's doing is exhausting himself.

With a steadying breath he takes his scalpel in hand with a smile. The scalpel sits beautifully between the callouses on his fingers — they're old friends, practically made for one another. The figure remains in place, still fidgeting away quietly to itself. Othello feels something cool against his chest — his shirt is open?

He glances down.

[SPECIMEN] - says the angry red brand across his chest.

"W-what?" he runs his non-cutting hand over the marks, it's real alright. It feels like wax embedded in his skin, unnaturally smooth and puckered inward as though the flesh still flinched.

"Is that report finished?" a voice calls unseen from behind him.

"Almost!" he calls back over his shoulder. He steadies himself and begins his work anew. He makes another incision and the pieces dissolve to flickering flame at his touch. He furrows his brow, cuts again, a smaller piece this time. Again, reduced to inky flame. He coughs, something burns in his throat, biting and antiseptic, sweet and bitter, like old pennies and rotting fruit.

He stops to smell his breath.

Formaldehyde?

His head swims and he shuts his eyes to steady himself.

Groaning, he opens them slowly. He is staring at the ceiling, he feels cold metal against his back. Had he collapsed? Had he hit his head? What's that ache in his back — or is it his front? Maybe it's his everywhere. Othello's cloudy mind concludes that the pain must, in fact, be coming from his 'everywhere'.

Another voice comes from the side, a silky baritone he had only ever heard in a room of blackened mirrors in a child-Earl's manor house — it feels like years ago now.

"Continue your observations, Othello."

He tries to sit up but his body does not respond, the pain locks him into place.

"Yes, of course," he hears his own voice call back, but it does not come from his own mouth.

He sees himself, another of himself, approach him as he lies on the specimen table. The Other Othello is armed with a scalpel and an all-too familiar twinkle in his eyes.

"Wait—"

But it's too late. The scalpel is pressed into his exposed flesh and it burns, it sears, it carves. Othello tries to cry out, he cannot. His chest feels lighter, unburdened of something important.

"Liver looks good, what's next?"

He hears a jar pop open, a wet slopping sound, and then sees the closed specimen jar be placed next to his head. The label is written in his own hand. "Liver" it says.

That doesn't look like any liver Othello had ever seen.

A floating globule of black swirling ink. It spits blotchy words onto the glass; Specimen — Assessment — Analysis — Sample — Savour. The words soak through the glass of the jar and skitter up the walls, multiplying on the ceiling and cascading back down to the floor. The whirring of equipment rushes to a roaring in his ears. Or perhaps it's just the sound of his own terrified pulse.

He writhes with flesh that refuses to budge—

"Reaction times: None Observed."

He screams with a voice that does not make sound—

"Verbal capabilities: None Observed."

He cries — oh, how he cries. The salted tears are the only release he has left, the only release he ever had. They stream down his unmoving cheeks and drip into the shells of his ears.

"Oh? It's crying? I didn't think they could do that," his other muses to itself.

"Best look into that."

A hand covers his eyes. The world goes dark.

There is something resembling darkness, something resembling silence, nothing resembling peace.

He feels the sensation of light before he recalls the feeling of sight.

He can't feel his body; no arms or legs, no chest or face.

The world looks wrong, like being trapped on the wrong side of a shark tank, the lab refracted, straight lines bending unnaturally. As his vision adjusts he sees that his nondescript specimen is gone — or rather, he can finally see just what his specimen has always been. He sees himself across the room lying back on the specimen table. He is alone, there is no other Othello. Somehow Othello knows there had never been one. He holds his death scythe in one hand and his own entrails in the other. He giddily mumbles what may have once been words to himself as he carves, as he dissects. A blood-soaked finger furiously paints the word "specimen" on the table, on his leg, across his own face, over and over and over until he is simply tracing shapes in a puddle of coppery sludge.

Something glints in his vision — two chartreuse rings suspended in ichor and glass, and a label viewed from the wrong side, penned in his own hand — "Eyes".   

His gaze settles upon his own bloodied face to realise in horror that he has no eyes.

Well of course he doesn't have eyes, silly.
They're in this specimen jar across the room.
How else could he see what he's doing?
He had needed a better vantage point from which to view this infernal auto-vivisection.

His own head snaps up, gaping empty sockets staring blankly back into his displaced eyes. He raises a bloodied finger to his lips in a gentle shush, like a teacher keeping a surprise from a student.

"Continue your observations, Othello," he mumbles giddily, deftly reinserting his death scythe into his own gaping chest. He can do nothing but watch this hideous display — the desperate search for knowledge as it cannibalises itself. The world begins to grow dark once more, leaving Othello staring in the dark, left with nothing but those terrified rings of chartreuse glaring back at him.

Chapter Text

The dressing room in this theatre is simultaneously the best and worst place in the whole building. It's warm — but you wouldn't bake to death like beneath those stage lights. But beneath the lights you're on display with an adoring crowd at your feet. Back here all you have are your castmates — and they're a right snarky bunch. The acoustics back here are simply dreadful — but the floor doesn't creak and groan or dole out splinters like the stage does. It's all swings and roundabouts, at the end of it all, really.

Grell stands in front of the shoddily-lit full mirror and smiles. Her red dress is soft as rose petals, her hair is beautifully arranged about her shoulders, she has a string of pearls around her neck — pearls wouldn't be her usual choice, heavens no, but needs must when your character is a money-grubbing tramp. Her makeup is thick, strong enough to be seen by even the blindest of patrons at the very back. It's almost smothering, but at least they let her use a rouge that suits her this time.

Looking closer she notices something on her chin. Her stomach drops. Stubble. She groans, a ragged ugly sound. She leans closer to the mirror — God, it really is noticeable even beneath all the makeup. There's nothing for it, she'll need to shave. Thankfully she has plenty of time before her entrance. She grabs a straight razor from her cosmetics bag and pulls the skin taut. She carefully presses the blade gently to her cheek, a movement she could do in her sleep. She feels something tug at her scalp. Blinking, she sees that her hand is holding a letter opener - not her razor. Her stubble is untouched. Her other hand clings to a chunk of long flowing hair - shorn. She yelps, dropping the severed strands. It's okay - it's alright - it's just a piece from the back, no one in the audience will notice if she tilts her head right, and she can wear a nice hat after the show. She hadn't gotten to wear that new hat-pin she'd bought herself to celebrate the show's debut. It's fine. It's fine.

Footsteps... A voice... William's voice.

"Madame Sutcliffe, you're up."

She curses under her breath, leaning in to quickly remove the stubble from her cheeks. The letter opener presses to her skin. She holds her breath. Another tug at her scalp, another clump of hair in her hand, thicker than the last.

"What!? Nonononono—"

Footsteps...

More hair.

A voice...

Less hair.

Ronald's voice.

"Oi, Sutcliffe, come on! You're gonna be late!"

"Shit— Coming!"

She tries and tries and tries but she just can't get it. She stares down in horror at the luscious flowing carnage - ropes of red locks spool about his feet. He looks back at the mirror; his once beautiful hair is shaggy and short; it's all split-ends and regret. His horrified gaze drifts to the thing adorning his cheeks. Not stubble now, a full beard; the sort that adorned the faces of respectable clerks or barristers — short, neatly trimmed, every hair in its place. He could never grow it like that when he was alive; he had been cursed to live as a man and couldn't even do it properly. Typical. Hands trembling, he tries once more, pressing the blade to his cheek — he feels a cold sting followed by an uneasy flowing warmth on his wrists. 

His string of pearls tightens about his neck, morphing into a necktie as it chokes him. He hears the muffled cheering of the crowd roar to a deafening buzz, applause and laughter clawing at him. They know, they know he's a fraud, a cheap imitation and nothing more.

No footsteps...

He gasps for breath, hands clawing at the necktie.

A voice...

His reflection in the mirror warps into the silhouette of the long-haired woman he had been just moments ago, the woman he could never truly be. He cannot see her face, only the shadowed outline of her form.

Sebastian's voice...

"Mister Sutcliffe..."

Freeing one hand from its struggle against the necktie, he reaches towards the woman on the other side of the glass, reaches for the one thing more important than air. She reaches back. The second his hand touches the glass the silhouette shifts - leaks like breathing ink from the mirror and cascades up his arms. The oil-slick coats his skin, smothering him. The woman in the mirror laughs — he cannot hear her, but he knows it is a wicked and cruel sound. He is surrounded — nameless, faceless, bespectacled suits — hundreds, thousands of them. The ink-slick burns his flesh, the suits chant out of sync, a cacophony of damnation, his original sin;

"Mister Sutcliffe — Mister Sutcliffe — MISTER SUTCLIFFE"

The oil pours over his face. As he is snuffed out, he sees something shift in the mirrored woman. Her eyes slowly fade into view as her long hair sheds in a cloud of black feathers. His eyes lock with hers — he sees them...

Her eyes are not chartreuse.

Chapter Text

"Young master, it is time to wake up."

Ciel stirs at the sound of Tanaka's voice and gentle shaking of his arm. As expected he's exhausted after two nights of too little, low-quality sleep. He groans softly as his eyes adjust to the morning sun spilling in through the windows.

"I've brought you your morning tea and your newspaper," Tanaka continues.
"Dr. Othello and Nurse Grell are already at breakfast, it would seem they were eager to get started with Sebastian."

Ciel blinks. Doctor and nurse? That's right, he had lied and passed off the two reapers as medical professionals. He prays the two can keep up appearances for a short while — and shudders when he recalls Grell's past attempts at such.

"They're up already? I shall have my tea downstairs in that case. It isn't good to keep them waiting."

"As you wish, my lord."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Ciel arrives at breakfast and sees the two reapers sitting quietly across from one another. They look awful, like they barely slept a wink between them. Othello moves to add yet another lump of sugar to a cup of coffee. He watches his own hands intently, as though wondering who they truly belong to. Grell stares at her reflection in her own cup, absently twirling the lengths of her hair in her hands. The tension in the air is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Ciel awkwardly assumes his seat at the head of the table.

"Good... morning?" he tries.

"Morning," the two reapers reply quickly in unison, not looking up from their respective activities.

That's odd.

"Did you not sleep well?" Ciel tries again, taking a sip of his own tea.

"Oh I'm just so excited to get to work, I couldn't sleep right," Othello chirps.

"The thread count of those bedsheets is absolutely abysmal," Grell grumbles.

They both lie. They both know it. They both keep it to themselves.

Grell snaps out of it first, taking a hearty gulp of her coffee before Mey-Rin pours another cup with visible concern on her face. There already seems to be a routine in place with the sleep-deprived reapers. Ciel wonders how many cups they've had between them before his arrival. He doesn't dare ask.

"At least you can afford the good stuff," she concedes.
"The coffee back at headquarters is atrocious."

Othello joins in with a weary chuckle,
"Oh yeah, General Affairs really do just order whatever slop they can get their hands—OW!"

Grell glares daggers at him over the table, retrieving her foot from his shin slowly.

"You," she stage-whispers, "you're the doctor — you're the one in charge of the coffee."

"Why would a doctor order the coffee?" he responds in kind, "You're the nurse!"

"That's not a nurse's job! Who's the bloody receptionist, then?"

It seems they had had this conversation already this morning, perhaps even multiple times. Ciel sees just how difficult it is for the two to keep up appearances and clears his throat, hoping to steal some of the spotlight.

"Right. Baldroy, Mey-Rin, I forgot to introduce our guests. This is Doctor Othello and Nurse Grell, they will be attending to Sebastian while he is unwell. Please be sure to let Finny know about their presence here, I know he can be a little quick to act when there are strangers about."

The two give a quick bow to the medical professionals sat at the table. Mey-Rin adjusts her glasses before whispering to Baldroy.

"Grell? You mean like that butler what Madame Red used to 'ave? I thought 'e was a bloke."

Grell's eyebrow twitches; she puts her coffee cup down with a sharp clack.

"Yes, it would seem that I'm doomed to hear that a lot," she snaps through a gritted smile, "Nurse Grell Sutcliff at your service."

Mey-Rin looks like she's about to faint from embarrassment. She stammers and babbles to try and find a suitable response for having so clearly insulted a guest, but is silenced as Grell raises a gloved hand to the maid.

"Oh please, I can hardly blame you, I am a most marvellous actress, wouldn't you agree? Yes, I've decided to start a career in healthcare to honour the late Madame Red. We were terribly close as you know," she grins, eyes darting briefly to the horrified Earl at the head of the table.

Ciel can't say a word against it — if Grell's words had been genuine then kicking up a fuss would be the height of disrespect both to her and to his late aunt, but to reveal that Grell is lying would jeopardise their entire operation, and may even result in the reapers attacking Sebastian while he's still weak. Damn it all, she has him in a bind — a social bind. His least favourite.

"Yes... How good of you," he says wryly, biting through a piece of fruit too firmly, his teeth clacking against the fork.

Breakfast goes without further incident, though Grell and Othello glower at one another as though they were capable of telepathy if they focused hard enough. Ciel's gaze moves from one to the other like watching a tennis match between two very angry statues. It would almost be amusing if it weren't for the circumstances.

The air only softens once the three move towards Sebastian's room. Othello and Grell release a breath held far too long, shoulders slumping under the weight of improvisation. Ciel regards them with quiet bewilderment.

"I thought you called yourself an actress," he says teasingly, "that was a dreadful performance."

"Oh don't you give me that. I'm not an improv artist, I work much better with a script — and a proper audience." Grell huffs as she fixes a strand of hair that didn't need fixing.

Othello knows better than to open his mouth and invite trouble.

Once again the three reach Sebastian's door. They stare at it. Nobody reaches for the doorknob.

Othello breaks the silence.

"You just twist the doorknob—" he starts.

"I know how doors work you cretin," Ciel snaps back. "I have to order him to take the right shape first. I'm just trying to word it properly," he continues, only half-truthfully.

There's a heavy pause in the air.

Ciel steps towards the door, steadying himself.

"Sebastian," he says, the name sounds dangerously close to a question.
"We're coming in. This is an order — stabilise yourself. You need to take on a human form so we can look at you properly. I won't accept a sub-par performance, do you hear me?"

The door clicks unlocked. There is no other response.

Ciel and Othello exchange a glance, Grell fidgets with her hair.

The three take a breath, preparing to see what they cannot possibly prepare to see as Ciel opens the door.

...

...

...

They are met with quiet.

Not silence.

Just quiet.

The nice kind of quiet that implies peace.

Light filters in through the window as it should, casting gentle shadows of the window frame on the floor. The air sits as it should, no undulating or heaving, just a gentle stillness, as you would expect when entering a quiet room of this size. Sebastian, too, sits as he should. He is sitting on the edge of his bed, facing away from the door. He's only slightly too still, either way it's all a marked improvement from his earlier appearances.

Ciel approaches him first, and that's precisely when he notices that Sebastian isn't quite as he should be.

His left hand, still mangled, now has too many fingers — and what baffles Ciel more is that the additional appendages, too, are bent and broken, as though the damage is performative, or perhaps systemic. Sebastian's right hand, conversely, has too few fingers, yet the sum total between both hands does not come to equal ten.

When Sebastian breathes, slowly, steadily, the rise and fall one would expect to see in the chest instead comes from just one side, as though his lungs and diaphragm lay twisted within him. His arms and legs look like they're just slightly the wrong lengths.

His face is the worst of it, Ciel can't look at him too long without feeling weak in the knees. It's a human face, alright, but the eyes don't match, but then they shift and the colours match, but they're the wrong shape or size, they boggle like a rat chewing its own tail. His mouth is pressed into a tight line, hiding something, but Ciel can see the shifting beneath the skin, he can only imagine what configuration of teeth Sebastian currently has.

Grell stares in utter disgust, Othello practically skips forward. Sebastian tenses, a low grinding sound like boulders against bone shimmers from the butler.

"Easy there," Othello says with a chuckle, "I'm not here to kill you, I just want to look. You can't expect this little guy to know how to fix you, can you?" he thumbs to Ciel who balks in response.

Sebastian remains still.

"Let him see the wound, Sebastian," Ciel says, keeping his gaze fixed firmly below Sebastian's chin.

Sebastian hesitates, then opens his shirt. Grell leans forwards excitedly, then shudders away, suddenly finding cause to clean her glasses on her coat.

It hurts to look at it, like something the human eye should never behold.

Othello furrows his brow as he leans in to look at the incomprehensible mass.
"This isn't going to help much, I need it to all be... visible?" he tries to explain.
"Can you stabilise your form at all? I'll walk you through what it's supposed to look like, can you get your face together?"

There's a low gurgling sound from somewhere beneath Sebastian's feet, they all know somehow it's coming from Sebastian himself. It isn't a happy sounding gurgle.

"Do as he says, Sebastian, the sooner we figure out what's wrong and get you mended, the sooner they can leave," Ciel says stubbornly.
"I want this ordeal behind us as quickly as possible so you can repay me for all the effort I'm putting in to fix you."

There is a series of wet slipping noises and a few uncomfortable clicks as Sebastian's face composes itself into something resembling his usual self. Othello's eyes sparkle as he inspects the demon's handiwork.

"Incredible! Your eyes are still glassy but we can let that slide seeing as you're so unwell," he beams, quickly jotting something down on a notepad.
"And you have the right number of teeth too! Okay, let's move on to the neck and then the spine. Can you manage that?"

For the first time in far too long Sebastian's mouth opens, and he speaks. His voice is soft and silky smooth, albeit a little wet, like he needs to clear something from his lungs.

"Yes. The neck..."

Another series of unsettling clunks and pops as his neck returns to the correct length, vertebrae appearing and disappearing beneath the skin as needed. It makes Ciel's stomach churn. Grell can only stare on from behind the butler, her expression unreadable.

"And now the spine," Sebastian continues levelly, almost airily.

His spine reconstitutes itself with a similar chorus of grinding sludgy noises. Othello is stunned, staring in awe at how the demon's form ripples and shifts. Part of him wishes he could have seen the bones forming directly rather than just the impression beneath Sebastian's skin.

"Brilliant," Othello grins, quickly jotting something else down.
"Now do you want to tackle your organs next or stick to the skeleton?"

"And now the spine," Sebastian repeats, his tone identical.

Othello looks up from his notes, confused.

"No, you've already done that—"

The reaper is interrupted as Sebastian's body spasms — the crunching of new bones forming echoing in a way that would suggest he is otherwise hollow. His skin juts out in awkward shapes, newly stretched to accommodate the impromptu scaffolding sputtering into being inside him. Othello pales.

"You've already done the spine! You have too many bones now—" Othello pleads, but it doesn't matter. The demon doesn't seem to hear him.

"And now the spine..."

Ciel steps back away from the demon, eyes wide as he beholds what should have never been.

Sebastian jerks and lurches and slumps forwards, coiled like a spring ready to snap. His back tears open as more bones burst through, rapidly reaching upwards — any semblance of vertebrae being quickly forgotten as they fuse and merge into one great bleach-white mass.

"What are you doing!?" Othello yells.

"The spine." Sebastian's reply cuts him short.

Grell realises in horror that the object of her obsession isn't just spewing clean bone aimlessly — that would have been too nice — he's taking root. Vertebrae and stray femurs coalesce into a mighty trunk, sprouting unholy branches at increasingly disturbing angles. The cacophony of cracking, groaning bones fills the air like a locust swarm set ablaze, like an itch in your teeth you can never hope to scratch, like your own skin trapped in cannibalistic regurgitation.

For an instant, which is simultaneously too long and too short for comfort, nothing further happens, those bleach-white bones gleam cleanly in the morning light through the windows. Then he seems to sweat — blood — no. Not blood. Not quite.

Sinew.

Flesh and tendons seep from unseen pores along the bone, as though he is constructing this osseous dendriform behemoth in reverse, or perhaps simply as Othello had guided: starting with the skeleton.

The flesh fills out the branches with raw, seeping foliage that refuses to drip to the floor. The branches blossom into flowers of the brightest black, shining blooms of impossible night which wither and give way to beautiful, terrible, bitter fruit. First the fruits simply resemble faces, then heads, then necks and spines. Tens, hundreds, thousands of corpses, impossibly packed into the space, adorning those weeping branches in silent agony. There is no rest for the wicked, least of all for those rendered here in effigy. They are Sebastian's former contracts, his former masters, his former meals — and in the centre of it all, like a prized jewel in this parade of damned souls, hangs Ciel Phantomhive, chest torn open, twinned sapphiric eyes staring blankly forward, a tormented vision of legacy and prophecy all in one.

Ciel backs himself up against the far wall at the sight, a piercing shriek tearing its way from his throat.

The sound does not leave the room, and yet the birdsong from outside still trickles in, a taunting reminder of how helplessness truly feels, when even hollow-boned birds sing over your agony.

The cry is drowned out by the revving of blades as Grell takes her death scythe in hand.

"I've had enough of this," she snarls, lowering her stance in preparation to charge.

Just as the red reaper raises her scythe to rush the arboreous mess of flesh and bone, the air shifts, the dangling feet of the corpses recede, then the spines, then the necks. The heads revert to simple unknowable fruits which peel open into those glowing black blossoms.

Blossoms furl into branches, branches shrink into the trunk which in turn pulls back down beneath skin. As quickly as it had begun, the butler knits himself whole anew. 

Ciel is pressed low on the floor against the wall, no longer screaming but still fighting the swirling bile in his gut after such a sight. Grell spares him a momentary glance, though not even she can tell if it is out of concern or something else.

Sebastian straightens himself up slowly, a puppet with no strings discovering autonomy.
He looks... perfect.

Hair swooped, focused amber eyes, just the right amount of flush to his skin, eight unbroken fingers and two perfectly suitable thumbs. No sinew or blood, no mirrors or ink, no flickering shadows or loose bones, no additions or omissions.
Just Sebastian.

And there is quiet.

Not silence.

Just quiet.

The nice kind of quiet that implies peace.

Despite all evidence to the contrary.

Chapter Text

Sebastian is lying back on the bed, amber eyes fixed on Ciel still huddled on the floor, pressed firmly against the wall. Ciel doesn't look back at him — can't look back at him. He grits his teeth together and forces a façade of composure into place. He's certain Sebastian can hear, maybe even sense, his pounding heartbeat rattling in his ribcage. It doesn't matter; once Ciel controls what little he can, he'll be fine. Once the reapers see a moderately disinterested noble who just doesn't see the point in standing, rather than a frightened child who can't trust his legs to hold him, then he'll be fine. Because if you tell a lie well enough it becomes the truth. Ciel is not hurting, Ciel is not scared, Ciel is not dead, Ciel is not hanging from a bone tree, Ciel is not panicking, Ciel is in control of the situation, Ciel can control Sebastian, Ciel is just fine, and he is sitting on the floor entirely by choice.

"How did he fix his clothes after all that?" Othello murmurs to himself, staring at Sebastian's pristine shirt which shows no proof of any supernatural biological events whatsoever, stubbornly bleach-white and well-tailored. He shakes his head to pull himself into the now and smiles at the demon — a little too wide for any patient to mistake as simple bedside-manner.

"Right, then, let's get that shirt open so we can have a look at you!" Othello chimes, stepping forwards before Grell boots him aside with an exaggerated side-swish of her hips.
"Not so fast, Lab-Rat," she sneers, fingers waggling like a Dickensian villain as she approaches Sebastian.
"I've waited far too long to undress this devilish delicacy myself, and I'm not about to let you cut in line!"

To everyone's shock — most of all Grell's — Sebastian doesn't resist as she slowly undoes his shirt, not even as a range of pitchy lurid noises gush from her in half-cooed words and gravelly lustful phrases. Ciel is grateful that he's only half-present in the room, or he fears he would have learned some new concepts he never needed to know.

"Oh Bassy," Grell croons, admiring both the chiselled porcelain torso and the monstrous wound adorning it.
"You really are a dog, you know, keeping me at arm's length all this time and then letting someone else tear you up so beautifully. If I were a harsher woman I daresay I'd never forgive you, but I just can't stay mad with a body like that."

It's Othello's turn to push Grell out of the way now, making the two look like squabbling siblings fighting over who gets to play with a new toy. He looks closely at the gash, muttering to himself.

"Yeah, that's a mess, alright," he says, rather unhelpfully.
"This happened a week ago, so why haven't you healed yet? Sure, it was a death scythe that messed you up, but you survived the attack so surely there should be some progress."

Grell peers into the gaping gash, puzzled.

"Yes, you're right. Even though I haven't wounded my dear Bassy quite this badly in the past he’s still always recovered quickly."
Her mouth curls into a sly grin.
"I do love a man with stamina," she purrs — Othello expertly ignores her.

"This 'Last Rites' thing you mentioned," Othello calls over his shoulder to Ciel.
"You said it looked shiny? Sort of metallic?"

"Yes, and wet, but not quite," Ciel replies from his safe space on the floor, trying to sound only vaguely interested rather than newly traumatised.
"Like it had some kind of oil in it maybe? It moved like a liquid but didn't look like one."

"Ugh, you'll never be a writer with flimsy descriptions like that," Grell sighs, shaking her head disappointedly.

"I'm afraid she's got a point," Othello says, "it's not a whole lot for us to go on. If I could get a sample that'd be perfect, but I can't see anything that matches your description anywhere in here—"

"Wait. Everyone be quiet," Grell suddenly snaps.

Othello and Ciel stop talking, Grell huffs dramatically and swivels to face Ciel, hands planting themselves on her hips.
"I said be quiet, stop wheezing over there, can't you hold your breath for just five seconds to let me listen?"

Ciel begrudgingly holds his breath as instructed, unaware that his asthma had been making itself known.

Grell leans in towards Sebastian's chest, pulling her hair to the side and closing her eyes to hear better. They snap open and she straightens, staring down at the wound, visibly baffled.

"It's faint," she says, "I can barely hear it, but I'd know that sound anywhere. There’s a cinematic record rattling in his chest."

Ciel and Othello stare at her, one dumbfounded, one doubtful, it's hard to tell which is which.

"Are you sure?" Othello asks cautiously. Grell huffs and folds her arms.

"Of course I'm sure, I have to listen to it every single day. What sort of a reaper do you think I am that you'd think I wouldn't recognise a cinematic record!"

Othello raises his hands defensively.

"Alright, alright, but that doesn't make any sense, Grell. Neither of our scythes have touched him, we're not trying to look at his record, I can't even see one in here."

"Yes, but that fluttery ticking noise doesn't just happen inside someone for no reason, Othello."

"You're right, you're right," he concedes, angling his head to get a better view inside the wound. Grell grins.

"Oh, I just love it when people tell me that. Go on, Othello, say it again."

Othello ignores her demand, slipping two blunt hooks under Sebastian's skin and tugging almost gently enough to suggest caution. He gently elbows Grell, signalling her to hold the wound open so he can see better. She shrugs and takes the hooks in hand, holding them as steady as she can.
Othello takes a scalpel and a small set of tongs in hand as he reaches into the wound. Ciel’s eyes widen as he watches the reaper begin to slice a sample of flesh from his eerily still butler who still stares, expression unreadable as his eyes threaten to bore holes in Ciel’s retinas — as though the demon hadn’t caused enough damage to the boy’s eyes already in their contract.

“Hold the hooks nice and steady, Grell,” Othello murmurs to the red-head as he carefully removes a sliver of slick, plum-dark flesh from Sebastian’s abdomen, placing it into a small jar he had prepared.

“Okay, Sample A: taken from contracted demonic subject’s… eh, I’ll call it a liver for now, I suppose,” he mutters to himself again as he jots down notes in his notepad. He places a label on the specimen jar before closing it; “Liver” it says. It looks very similar to most livers Othello had seen in his time, but the sight of the jar still gives Othello pause as a sickly shiver runs down his spine from a half-remembered dream he would rather wholly forget.

“Come on Othello,” he mutters, re-focusing on the task at hand. “Continue your observations. I’ll have a look at the stomach next.”

He opens another specimen jar in preparation and returns with the scalpel and tongs again. Ciel looks away, suddenly feeling ill at the sight of someone rummaging in Sebastian’s abdominal cavity while the butler’s eyes remain locked on his. The past is a terrible thing to hold in the present, after all, even just in approximation.

Othello begins his incision, trying to take a good enough sample that he won’t need to come back for seconds. The second the blade hits Sebastian’s stomach, the demon recoils, blazing red eyes locking onto Othello as he snarls and swings a fist towards his face. Othello yelps, just barely managing to duck away from the blow, his scalpel and tongs clattering to the floor still coated in Sebastian’s blood. Grell curses, dropping the hooks as Sebastian leaps to his feet and tries again to land a blow on Othello. She moves quickly, driving her shoulder into Sebastian’s side to knock him off-course before his fist can connect with Othello’s spectacles. He snarls like an animal possessed, whirling around to snap his teeth too close to her cheek with a sharp clacking sound that rings out more beast than butler. She grabs his still-flying fist and wrenches it to the side trying to twist it behind him, but he uses her iron grip to pull her around, his other hand rushing to claw at her throat.

Othello staggers back, hand flying to grasp the handle of his death scythe clipped at his hip — he can’t risk throwing it into the fray, he’s just as likely to hit Grell as he is Sebastian. Ciel presses himself back into the wall, frozen in shock. The way Sebastian moves, it reminds him too much and yet too little of the night they met, the lethal precision is there, but the control is woefully absent. His stomach churns and he finds himself wishing he was witnessing that first night once more rather than the wild display before him.

Grell ducks low, rushing forwards to slam her shoulder into Sebastian’s to force his weight back onto one leg. She hooks her own leg around it to sweep the limb out from underneath him. Sebastian fails to dodge the sweep, his leg raising, his body twisting with the momentum — but the demon does not fall, instead swivelling unnaturally despite his displaced balance. He rounds again and grabs a fistful of her hair, yanking her forwards and slamming his forehead into hers like a ram locking horns.

Grell reels, black spots momentarily clouding her vision. She glances to her death scythe resting on the other side of the room — she doesn’t have a clear path to get to it, not with Sebastian in such close quarters.

“You bastard! How many times do I have to tell you, not my face!” she snarls furiously, darting to the side, fist swinging in a wide arc to drive the knuckle of her thumb into Sebastian’s gaping wound. The butler doesn’t even flinch. Grell's fist sinks into the bloody mess of flesh and sinew, her glove tearing as it snags on a jagged bone fragment within the abdominal maw. Sebastian bares his teeth like a rabid animal and emits an awful gravelly churning noise, somewhere between a whisper and a booming roar, between bile and magma, an ancient abyssal sound that fills the air like tar and smog.

“Sebastian— what are you doing!?” Ciel shouts from his spot on the floor. Sebastian’s head snaps to look at Ciel and he instantly wishes he hadn’t made a sound. Those blazing eyes look straight through him, simultaneously calculating and alert, wild and panicked. It reminds Ciel of a deer staring headfirst into a muzzle-flash of a gun, and also of the hunter taking the shot. He doesn’t see any signs of his butler behind that twisted gaze.

“Sebastian..?”

The young earl doesn’t have time to decipher the scene in front of him, however, as Sebastian roughly throws Grell to the side, sending her tumbling over the bed. He drops to all-fours and bolts directly towards Ciel, charging like a rabid beast that knows it is dying and seeks to take its predator down with it. Ciel’s hand flies to his face, tearing away his eyepatch. Ciel is scared, Ciel is panicking, Ciel is not in control of the situation, Ciel does not know if he can control Sebastian. Ciel is already dead. Ciel is not fine, he is frozen in fear on the floor — he has no choice.

“SEBASTIAN, STOP! SLEEP— THAT’S AN ORDER!” he screams.