Chapter Text
Sebastian Michaelis did not sleep. Not truly.
Yet this morning, he woke.
It was not the sharp awareness of a demon emerging from meditative stillness, nor the slow rising of one anticipating orders. It was a rude, human awakening — lungs drawing in air too quickly, heart pounding erratically, skin chilled by the morning frost bleeding through the manor’s old stone walls. He blinked against the dull light creeping between the curtains.
Something was wrong.
He sat up.
A dull ache threaded through his back and shoulders, as if the mattress had not yielded properly beneath him. His skin felt too sensitive — each touch of the bedsheets a quiet assault. No internal fire of power, no lurking whispers of souls or sin. No darkness curled at his fingertips.
Sebastian stood, bare feet against the cold floor, and immediately felt the loss: his strength was gone. Where once he moved with inhuman fluidity, he now stood on trembling legs.
His eyes snapped to the mirror.
Gone were the faint crimson embers that used to glow in his irises. In their place: plain, human eyes. A rich brown, but unremarkable. His skin had a pallor to it, but no otherworldly sheen. He looked tired. Vulnerable.
Human.
For a long moment, he simply stared.
Then, without a word, he reached for his gloves.
***
The manor was quiet as he dressed. Every motion felt foreign in his own body, like playing a familiar tune on a poorly tuned instrument. He nearly dropped the silver cufflinks. His fingers trembled when tying the cravat. He bit the inside of his cheek — pain flared sharply. Too real. Too mundane .
He descended the stairs carefully, noting every creak of the wood beneath his soles. There was no sound of Ciel stirring yet. A small mercy.
“Breakfast,” he muttered. “Tea. Newspaper. Fire in the hearth.”
Sebastian moved through the kitchen like a specter wearing a mask of competence. Each task, one he could do blindfolded on a bad day, now became a calculated effort. He fumbled with the knife while slicing the bread. He burned the edge of the omelet. The tea took longer than it should to steep correctly.
Control yourself.
He couldn’t let Ciel know. The boy was sharp. Perceptive. Too much so.
As if summoned by the thought, light footsteps echoed from above. Sebastian straightened, schooled his expression into neutral calm, and turned to face the dining room entrance.
The door opened.
Ciel Phantomhive stood there in his dressing gown, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand. He looked at Sebastian with his usual mixture of expectation and impatience.
“You’re slow today.”
Sebastian offered a small bow, pushing aside the knot of fear in his chest. “My apologies, young master. The tea took longer than anticipated.”
Ciel frowned, then crossed the room to sit at the table. He glanced at the newspaper beside his plate, then at the omelet.
Sebastian watched him, tense.
Ciel took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.
“It’s a bit… smoky.”
Sebastian inclined his head. “A momentary oversight. I’ll prepare another if you—”
“No need,” Ciel interrupted, waving a hand. “Just don’t let it happen again.”
The words stung more than they should have.
Sebastian turned back to the kitchen, his mask of servitude intact. But beneath it, panic simmered. How long could he keep up the charade?
How long before the boy realized that his perfect, tireless butler was now just a man in black?
And worst of all — did he still want to serve?