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"You haven't healed yet," Ciel said.
Outside there was a cool patter of rainfall on the patio. Raindrops looked like white streaks against the night, visible through the kitchen window but not touching the glass. Sebastian glanced over from the saucepan of milk he was heating with a smile.
"A reaper's scythe is capable of significant damage to any type of being," he said. "Demons included. But these wounds will heal in time."
Ciel's eyes tracked down over Sebastian's clothes, wide tears showing the bloodied skin underneath. His waistcoat was soaked with it, the material running a darker shade of black, and as Ciel watched — cold, eyes hooded — and as Sebastian stirred the warming milk, casual, calm, a fresh drop of blood dripped to the kitchen floor.
"You'll clean that when you're done," said Ciel, his voice hollow.
"Yes, Young Master."
Ciel rested his chin on his palm. If he stared at the opposite wall long enough, the pattern blurred together, became a blank square of white canvas as far as the eye could see. His brain played tricks on him, projected too-fresh memories: the mutilated body of the prostitute, her blood splattered up and down the wall, soaking into her mattress and dripping on the floor. The scent of his own bile as he threw up between his feet, the warmth of Sebastian's body behind him, holding him safe. Madame Red, her chest split open by a reaper's scythe; that wet clatter of something hard falling to the cobblestones at Ciel's feet, his confusion before he realized what he was looking at: splinters of white bone from his aunt's body, still half-wrapped in flesh.
If he thought about it too long his thoughts would spool back even further. To the cage. To the ache between his legs. To the numb fear of certain death.
Ciel glanced sideways. "That's enough, Sebastian," he murmured.
Sebastian turned to look at him. He was good at affecting expressions of astonishment, affection, loyalty. You could almost be fooled by them, if you weren't on your guard: his wide eyes, his confused blink, his submissive bow of the head. "I'll dispose of this, Young Master—"
"Leave it," said Ciel.
Sebastian's expression smoothed out. "It will spoil."
Ciel shook his head. He motioned for Sebastian to come to him, the same way he would motion to a child or a dog, and Sebastian came. He knelt at Ciel's feet without being ordered.
"I want to see your wounds," Ciel said.
This was what true surprise looked like on Sebastian's face. No innocent widening of the eyes, no blinking. Instead Sebastian tipped his chin down and a ghost of a smile touched his lips, and the deep black of his eyes flashed red.
With gloved hands, he opened his waistcoat. Torn fabric was drying into his open wounds, the fibers held tight by a crust of blood, but Sebastian shrugged out of his clothes without wincing. He folded his shirt and waistcoat on the kitchen floor at his side — he swept his hair back from his forehead — he almost smiled, his chest bare, his hands still gloved, his wounds on full display.
There were deep, jagged gashes on his shoulder, splitting through the muscle like butter. There were open wounds on his biceps, each one like a gaping, toothless mouth — wet and red on the inside, almost inviting. But the best was just below his rib cage, in the flesh of his abdomen. Still leaking dark sheets of blood that dribbled down Sebastian's side and soaked into his waistband, the lips of this wound sagged together, hid the worst of it from view.
"Sit up straight," Ciel said.
Sebastian adjusted his posture. He placed his hands on the arms of Ciel's chair: eye to eye now, Sebastian's breath cool and inhuman on Ciel's lips. He was studying his master's face as Ciel leaned forward — searching him even as Ciel searched his body.
Small, clean, aristocratic fingers stroked the seam where Sebastian's flesh parted. The pad of Ciel's thumb ran along that dark line, a gentle pressure that forced the wound open just a little, revealed a hint of the blackness inside. Blood stained Ciel's fingernails like a watercolor wash, pale and unreal at first, like a child's bad dream.
Sebastian's skin was hot to the touch here. He breathed slowly and evenly and kept his posture upright. A stink of copper filled the air, curled down Ciel's throat into his lungs, threatened to choke him. But he kept his face blank, and without asking or warning, he parted the lips of Sebastian's wound and dipped his fingers inside.
Torn muscle gave way to his touch. A wet hot tunnel squeezed tight over his hand: a firm and slippery organ pushed back against Ciel's fingers when he went too far, and Ciel pushed too, scratched it with his fingernails until he could feel the gore gathering beneath them — the organ breaking open bit by bit — the flood of something gritty and semi-solid entering Sebastian's bloodstream.
"What is this?" Ciel asked.
Sebastian smiled as Ciel slipped his hand out, his cuff stained with blood. "That would be my liver, Young Master."
Ciel wrinkled his nose. He made to wipe his hand clean on the tablecloth, but Sebastian stopped him — caught the Young Master's bloody hand in his own, his thumb broad and strong against Ciel's small palm. It dug into the scant meat there, pressed gently between the bisected lifeline and guided Ciel's hand to his lips.
Ciel's bloody fingers disappeared into Sebastian's mouth. His tongue curved against them — woke up the nerve endings in each one — dipped into the gaps between them, licked them clean, sucked them dry. His teeth scraped against the pad of Ciel's index finger as he finished up — a little painful, a little playful — and Ciel's hand was lily-white again, the slick red wash of blood all gone.
But Sebastian couldn't clean everything — not with his tongue. When he let Ciel go, there was still a black layer of blood and flesh beneath his nails, and Sebastian's eyes were flashing scarlet, his gloved hands hot against Ciel's thighs, his face so close — his wound stretched open and dribbling blood onto his trousers, leaving his lap wet and making the fabric cling.
Cool, uninterested eyes stared into flashing scarlet ones. Sebastian's lips were swollen, bloodstained. They stretched into a smile when Ciel leaned forward, when he ran his thumb over the open wound as if to seal it.
"It doesn't hurt," Ciel said flatly.
"No."
"It won't kill you."
"No," Sebastian said, eyes glinting.
Madame Red. Mother and Father. The cages, the other children, the hands on Ciel's legs, the men tearing him open, splitting him apart. He put one hand on Sebastian's shoulder for support, felt the firm muscle and bone there: utterly human, utterly not. Indestructible.
He hooked his fingers into Sebastian's open wound again. Wet flesh slipped beneath his hand; fresh blood poured out to wet his sleeve, to stain Sebastian's stomach, his clothes, his pristine white gloves. He didn't flinch; he didn't whimper; he didn't curl in on himself; didn't die.
He let Ciel stretch his wound wider. He let Ciel dig his hand in, let him touch the organs there, feel how quickly they healed when they were scratched.
He accepted Ciel's kiss — possessive and rough, sharp teeth, fresh blood — with a smile.