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The rains began at midnight with a clap of thunder that woke half the dorm, sending down heavy rivets that soaked and swelled the earth, turning up a thick mud that was becoming hazardous to the shoes and trouser hems of Weston’s students as it crawled towards noon the next day. Ciel gritted his teeth to prevent them from chattering as he pulled his school blazer tighter around himself. God, what he wouldn’t give for a hot cup of tea and a thicker jacket.
With all the charitable donations that the peerage heaped upon their alma mater, one would expect that the hallowed halls of Weston could afford to be insulated against the damp, but apparently— like so many of the school’s traditions— shivering through the early years of Latin classes was a rite of passage.
The only person unaffected was Master Abrams, likely due to long-term exposure, if the gray crawling up his temples was any indication. It hadn’t progressed so far that Abrams could be mistaken for anything older than just the wrong side of middle age, but the man droned with the practice of the ancient.
Out of all the subjects at Weston, Ciel despised Latin the most, and, judging by the creaking of seats and the glazed-over faces of his classmates, he wasn’t alone. But while they suffered from general boredom, Ciel’s disdain came from repeating material he’d already covered. Sebastian may be a horrid, meticulous taskmaster, but there was a reason Ciel had yet to hire an outside tutor, although sometimes he fancied sacking Sebastian anyway, if only to see the demon’s aggrieved expression.
Now, Ciel would have welcomed the sight of “Master Michaelis" and his ridiculous spectacles. Unfortunately, his butler was assigned to the senior boys, so Ciel was forced to waste time with assignments as challenging as a child’s primer to avoid the unwanted attention of poor grades. At least the homework in Sebastian’s class would have been worth doing.
A pointed clearing of Abrams’s throat shocked the class to awareness, and his gray eyes flicked up from a dog-eared copy of the Aeneid. “I’d like someone to translate the next passage.”
Half the boys immediately averted their eyes, hurriedly scribbling with their pencils as if politeness would prevent Abrams from calling upon them when they were preoccupied, while the other half met the teacher’s penetrating gaze head-on in hopes seeming properly engaged would have the same effect. Ciel opted for the latter.
When no one immediately volunteered, Abram’s focus shifted to a dark-haired boy in the third row, whose head was ducked so low he appeared to be folding himself in half. “Mr. Draper, if you would.”
Muffled snickering started at once, and Ciel scowled at the nearest offenders, but surrounded by the scions of other noble houses, it had less effect than he was accustomed or comfortable with. It was a small consolation that Baron Clinton’s son, who sat to Ciel’s right, looked properly cowed.
Alan Draper flinched but did not move, frozen as a cornered animal playing dead. It was a discomforting sight. Despite being from different houses, Ciel saw enough of Draper laughing with his fellow Lions during meals or roughhousing in the halls to know the boy was by no means shy, but the Latin classroom reduced him to a church mouse.
“Mr. Draper,” Abrams repeated when the boy remained seated, an edge to his tone.
“Sorry, sir,” Draper mumbled, standing as he did so. Ciel couldn’t see Draper’s face from his fourth row seat, but a flush was already crawling past his shirt collar to pinken his ears. His shoulders were rigid.
Knowing what was coming did nothing to soften the blow, and Ciel cringed as Draper began to read. The pronunciation was wretched. And it only got worse the longer it went on, devolving into stuttering stops and starts the more aware Draper became of his own mistakes. Ciel wished Queen Dido would impale herself faster.
However, the meaning was there, even if its delivery was jagged. Abram’s class had no assigned seats, and the few times Ciel was near enough to see Draper’s returned translations, there’d been barely any corrections. Draper obviously understood what he was reading; his tongue just couldn’t form around the words.
“Stop.”
A collective sigh of relief came at Abrams’ command. Draper swayed slightly, liable to keel over.
“You’ve not improved,” Abrams observed. He rounded his desk, setting the book on the tabletop. “Have you been practicing like I told you?”
Draper gave a tight nod.
Abram’s brow furrowed, deepening the wrinkles on his face in a way that made him look both older and sadder. “Obviously not enough.” He opened his topmost drawer. “Show me your hands.”
Air shifted at the appearance of the strap; a held breath silence thick enough to choke on, and Ciel’s gaze automatically dropped to his desk. He’d become familiar with the implement during his brief time at Weston, and it seemed that each teacher owned the same one: a strip of worn brown leather long enough to hit both palms simultaneously if the hands were pressed together. Ciel imagined they were among the first furnishings when the school was built.
Classroom correction was not a foreign concept. Despite being his servant, even Sebastian wielded some pedagogical authority during their lessons and was happy to crack a riding crop across his master’s palms on occasion.
It was a dynamic that seemed necessary to a 10-year-old Ciel, desperate to mold himself into the Earl of Phantomhive; the Queen’s Watchdog; someone who would not falter under the weight of his stolen birthright. And Sebastian was not spared from the pain of transformation either. Ciel ensured the demon got as good as he gave until he earned the title of Phantomhive butler.
Even as the mantles settled on their shoulders, it hadn’t occurred to Ciel to change this arrangement. If his parents were living, his teachers would have been granted the same license with him. It was the natural way of things.
Yet, that did not prepare Ciel for when, during his second day of classes, his history teacher pulled three students to the front of the room to strap them for fidgeting. It had not gotten easier to witness since.
Abrams did not order Draper to the execution block; rather delivering himself to the hands already raised in supplication. The first crack was so loud Ciel mistook it for lightning, eyes darting to the rain-washed window before the second strike made him realize his mistake. Draper took those stoically. The third did not give him the grace, drawing a pained whine from deep in his throat that made second-hand humiliation burn within Ciel like a furnace.
Pained gasps followed the next two before Abrams stopped. It was an excessive amount considering Draper’s otherwise good class performance, but this was the result of being deemed a repeat offender, Ciel supposed.
“I hope this serves as good motivation,” Abrams said, giving a resolute nod as he considered the marks.
Breath rattled out of Draper’s chest, and his reply was barely audible. “Yes, sir.”
The return to normal instruction was brief as the bell for the mid-day meal soon began its ritualistic chiming, dampened by the roaring downpour.
Draper was already halfway out the door before Ciel rose from his seat, and he swallowed a curse, rushing to follow. Luckily, everyone was eager to leave for the dining hall, so Ciel didn’t have to muscle past any dawdlers and was spat out into the corridor just in time to see Draper round the corner. There was no use shouting after him now.
“Damn it," Ciel hissed and broke out into a sprint.
While weaving around clumps of chattering students slowed him, it didn’t take Ciel as long as expected to catch up to Draper. Perhaps all the cricket practice was doing him some good.
“Draper, wait,” Ciel gasped out.
The boy stalled, mostly out of shock at who was speaking to him. They’d never exchanged words before. “Phantomhive?”
Still catching his breath, Ciel nodded to an inset classroom door that created a niche in the hallway. Draper considered him for a moment, puzzled, before assenting.
Somehow, Ciel never noticed the several inches of height Draper had on him until they were face-to-face, and was instantly annoyed that he had to tilt his head to look the other boy in his red-rimmed eyes. “Do you possess any kindly, preferably hard-of-hearing, grandparents?”
Draper’s nostrils flared, lips pursing, and Ciel immediately saw the error in his approach. He spread the hand not occupied with his books in a placating gesture. “I’m not trying to make fun of you, I’m offering advice,” Ciel paused, choosing his next word carefully. “When you practice your recitation, you do so quietly to yourself, correct?”
Looking abashed, Draper said nothing. Ciel continued. “If you’re going to be stuck with Abrams for the next few years, you need to get used to speaking in public. Practice in front of your family over the summer hols, so when you return, you’ll be able to picture them listening when you’re called to read again.”
“That’s…not a bad idea,” Draper said. His expression suddenly turned awkward, and a hand came up to rub the back of his neck before it was hurriedly tucked away in his pants pocket instead. Ciel’s stomach clenched. “We’re not in the same house, so you really didn’t have to go out of your way to talk to me, so…thank you. Really.”
“Please, don’t trouble yourself over it,” Ciel cleared his throat, gesturing towards Draper’s hands. “If you don’t want to visit the school physician, ask after McMillan from Blue House. His eldest brother is studying medicine, and he’s got it in his mind to follow suit. He can at least give you some disinfectant.” Ciel’s nose wrinkled. “Who knows how long that thing has been rotting in Abram’s desk.”
And with that, Ciel swiftly ducked away and swept down the hall before Draper could do something ridiculous like thank him again.
Having spent the first ten years of life lulled to sleep by the huff of his brother’s soft breath, often right next to his ear, and the faint rustle of legs shifting under cotton sheets, it was not surprising to Ciel that he’d settled into dorm living fairly easily. He could do without MacMillan’s snoring, but that only happened when the other boy had chocolate for dessert, and tonight’s menu was thankfully devoid. Knowing this, it took a moment for Ciel’s sleep-addled brain to figure out what had roused him, if not MacMillan’s foghorn-esque breathing.
A huff of exasperation spilled once Ciel identified the muffled noises were still coming from the expected source, and he fumbled with the closed bed curtains—the dismal weather that started two days prior was determined to stay, necessitating keeping them shut to stave off the creeping chill—to better hear whatever fuss MacMillan was kicking up.
“Alcott, you can’t expect me to help if you don’t let me look.”
MacMillan’s whispered plea was answered by a choked-off cry, and Ciel’s brow furrowed, widening the curtain’s opening so he could peer out, only to be met with the blue wall of MacMillan’s own drapes.
“My brother sent me a whole med kit, so I really can make you feel better,” MacMillan tried again.
When his patient didn’t respond, MacMillan sighed and switched to a soft cajole better suited for plying nursery children. “I need practice if I’m going to be a doctor someday, so you’d really be doing me a favor by letting me treat you.”
A beat passed, and then came a flutter of fabric. MacMillan hissed through his teeth.
“Is it bad?”
“It’s-” MacMillan stopped. His next words were thick with put-upon cheer. “You must have done something worthy of the school records for the headmaster to cane you so thoroughly."
Another wet sob. “But it wasn’t him. Richards did it.”
Pieces slotted together in Ciel’s mind at the name. Everyone in Blue House knew that Richards was a right bastard, with the sole exception of Bluewer, because in addition to being a bastard, Richards was sneaky and kept his more objectionable behaviors hidden from the head prefect. Chiefly, smacking around his fag, who Robert Alcott had the misfortune of being.
Watching Alcott get the skin of his arm twisted over breakfast until it turned purple for bringing Richards lukewarm tea, Ciel was relieved he had Sebastian to siphon off his own fag duties to, secure in the knowledge that the result would be exemplary. While Cleyton didn’t seem overtly cruel, Ciel doubted he was above administering physical means if he felt Ciel was slacking.
With teachers unable to constantly supervise, Weston permitted some self-governance within the student body, granting prefects the right to dole out punishment. Somewhere in the 200 years since, the net unofficially expanded to include good-standing senior boys and, as far as Ciel could tell, anyone who thought they could get away with exercising the authority. And when it came to disciplining your fag? It was carte blanche.
Whatever hardships Alcott dealt with now would be rewarded in a few years when he could slavedrive his own junior boy, so there was no point in objecting to tradition. Trial by fire and all.
Ciel rolled over, curtains swinging shut, and folded his pillow over his ear to block out Alcott’s crying.
The next afternoon found Ciel in ill temper. He’d been unable to fall back asleep even after Alcott offered his final gratitudes to MacMillan and limped back to bed, only succumbing to fitful dozes that somehow made him more aware of the deficient rest. The resulting purple bruises under his eyes were unsightly, but thankfully encouraged his classmates to offer him a wide berth.
It was also still bloody raining. Forget all the missed practices; if things didn’t dry up soon, Ciel doubted there would even be a cricket tournament. And where would his mission be then? Head swimming, any information Ciel’s teacher hoped to impart about the Great Rebellion went straight to his mind’s drain pipe, and Ciel was not interested in ever fishing it out. The instant the bell tolled for the day’s second break period, Ciel went straight to Sebastian’s office.
The demon did not flinch when the door slammed open, nor did Ciel expect him to.
He’d made peace with Sebastian using his magic to track him, unable to begrudge a skill that proved useful more times than not. Although Sebastian made an effort to appear as though he wasn’t anticipating his master’s arrival, sitting behind his desk with bowed head and pen nib gliding across paper. The perfect tableau of the diligent educator.
Sebastian finished whatever he was writing with a flourish before setting it atop his neat stack of graded assignments. He regarded Ciel over his glasses. “Sleep well, my lord?”
Too exhausted to quip back, Ciel merely grunted, dumped his schoolbooks atop the papers, and collapsed into the vacant armchair next to the window. His head lolled to find a cup of tea already steaming on the side table. Demon tracking magic, indeed.
Finding no immediate orders forthcoming, Sebastian resumed his work. Ciel’s books were redeposited on the desk’s edge, and the butler made a show of straightening the squashed documents with a hum. Eyes rolling, Ciel sipped his tea. Darjeeling.
Warmth flowed to Ciel’s core, and he yawned, sinking deeper into the overstuffed chair cushions. Laughter sounded up from the main courtyard where a group of boys were using a dented can as a makeshift football, uncaring of the wet hair plastered to their foreheads or the mud stains running up their trousers as they slid across the damp green. Ciel watched them through half-lidded eyes, a sudden ache enveloping his chest.
Attending Weston was becoming troublesome for Ciel’s convictions. Three years ago, presented with a painful past and a finite future, Ciel chose the present as the length of rope he would bind himself with. Why dwell on suppositions of what life would be if events had unfolded differently, if he’d made different decisions? The fact was that Ciel had sold his soul to the devil for vengeance, and he didn’t regret it.
It was simple when the differences between his current and former circumstances were too stark to invite comparison, but Weston was proving to be the bleedthrough, and Ciel could not help studying the impression.
From there, the imaginings came often and unbidden. Ciel’s sorting into Sapphire Owl felt a foregone conclusion, but what of his brother? Encompassed by a sea of color-coded uniforms, Ciel frequently found himself trying to place his mirror image among them, and landing on Scarlet Fox more often than not. His twin was never particularly bookish nor aggressively athletic, and it seemed an appropriate choice for the heir to an earldom—the possibility of him donning the colors of Violet Wolf was so laughably unthinkable that it didn’t merit a passing thought.
Would he be upset they’d been placed into different houses? It was nice to believe so. He’d always been so insistent on them staying together as children, falling into hysterics at the mere prospect that Ciel would rather move to London than take up the local priesthood. Fondness tugged at the corner of Ciel’s lips, and he smothered it with the rim of his teacup.
“It’s odd,” Ciel said, apropos of nothing. “That being the Watchdog would eventually lead me to the one place that I never required its power to enter. For once, my life is the same as it would have been if I’d never…”
Became ‘Ciel’ at all.
Heat blossomed across Ciel’s face as he allowed the musing to trail off. His born identity was something that the earl rarely alluded to when in his right mind; a self-imposed restraint whose lapses Ciel thought he’d outgrown. Apparently not. Silence stretched, and anxiety skittered across Ciel’s skin, waiting for Sebastian to tout the sentimentality as proof of wavering convictions.
But the demon failed to react. Chairback facing away from his master, Sebastian continued scratching at his papers as though Ciel had not spoken. It was an impossibility that he had not heard the slip-up, but either he’d deemed it unworthy of response or decided to let it slide in a rare bout of altruism. Ciel highly doubted it was the latter.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to disagree with you, young master,” Sebastian said, finally, not deigning to turn around. He added another heavily marked assignment to the growing pile.
Or he wanted to see me squirm first. Irritation at his butler’s predictability was a welcome reprieve from the earlier panic, and Ciel snapped. “Explain your meaning.”
Sebastian pulled the leather chair away from the desk and spun it towards Ciel in a move that would have required a great deal of awkward shuffling if it were anyone else, and set clasped hands atop the knee of his primly crossed legs. Ciel’s annoyance grew.
“I suppose the first part was correct. If all had gone to plan, then you would have eventually attended the family alma mater. It is your second statement I find fault in.”
Sebastian slipped into that patronizing croon he favored whenever he was about to eviscerate Ciel’s Latin—his teaching attire only aided the illusion—and Ciel automatically straightened. “You claim that your life, or rather, your time at Weston, is the same as it would have been if you had not taken up your current title, but it is only because you are Earl Ciel Phantomhive that everything so far has come to pass.”
Ciel scoffed. “Well, obviously, I know that.”
“Do you? Because you speak as though everything you’ve done here has not been in service of your mission.” Sebastian smiled, a curled finger resting under his chin as he tilted his head as if in thought. “Ah, and let us not forget how different things would be if I were not here to do your chores.”
Ciel glared at the jab, but said nothing else. He had been stacking the board with the wrong game pieces. Of course, it would not be his current self at Weston alongside his brother and cousin, but the sickly meek spare who’d have no reason to curry favor with the prefects; the kind of weepy creature who would be slinking into MacMillan’s bed to get bandaged after a thrashing from his seniors.
He hated when Sebastian was right.
Waving his hand in dismissal and dutifully ignoring Sebastian’s answering smirk, Ciel’s focus returned to the abandoned can lying in the middle of the now quiet courtyard. Its paper label had sloughed off and was lying in the grass, battered to a wet, mangled pulp by the rain.
There was another piece he’d overlooked. His brother would not have been “Earl Ciel Phantomhive” either. If their predecessor lived, then his twin was just another noble heir in a campus full of them. If he’d been in Scarlet Fox as Ciel imagined, then who was to say that he wouldn’t have shared the same fate as whatever happened to Derrick Arden, or been victim to one of Maurice Cole’s plots? The sense memory of fingers curling between the buttons of his shirt to wrench it open made Ciel queasy, and the cooling tea went down heavy as he tried to clear the taste of sick from his dry mouth.
When it came to relieving excess energy, twirling a pencil between one’s fingers was, Ciel found, a poor substitute for bouncing one’s leg. Unfortunately, that option was both undignified and drew too much attention, something Ciel was keen to avoid when Abrams was already in a state.
The man had swept into the room almost five minutes late—which Ciel previously believed as likely as ice skating on the Thames in August—with a haggard expression, windswept clothing, and an oppressive air that slowly choked out all the oxygen in the room. Draper almost fainted on the spot. Luckily for him, Abrams was more interested in quizzing his students on barely reviewed material (and handing out demerits when they evidently got the answer wrong) than in recitation.
Save for Ciel, who’d twice bypassed Abrams’ wrath thanks to Sebastian’s tutoring. Truly, the last thing he needed was some foolish blemish on his record impacting him meeting the headmaster when the cricket plan was finally back on track.
When the clouds broke that morning after a near week of constant downpour, Ciel sent word to Sebastain to expect him in the office for lunch; eager to begin strategizing on how to make up for lost practice time. And, although he would not say it aloud considering Sebastian’s already inflated ego, Ciel was also anxious to eat a meal that was not prepared by the lackluster kitchen staff. Perhaps he should ask Edward if stomach pain was another Weston rite of passage?
“Phantomhive.”
The bark of Abrams’ voice cut through the air, and Ciel’s eyes snapped to the front of the room, pencil stalling. “Yes, sir?”
Despite earlier attempts to smooth his bedraggled clothing, Abram’s black tie was still dangerously askew, closer to his right shoulder than the center of his throat. The chalk pinched between his fingers was not faring much better. Full-length at the beginning of class, it had been worn down to a nub from the veracity of Abrams’ verb conjugation upon the blackboard, and white dust ran down the length of his dark suit-clad arm. Ciel fought to keep his face neutral.
“That was the second time I called you,” Abrams frowned. “I don’t see what could be more important than paying attention in my class. Please, do enlighten me.”
I could compile a list if you’d like.
“There’s nothing, sir,” Ciel demurred. He angled his head so his bangs fell away from his eyepatch, hoping it made him look suitably pathetic. “I’m sorry. I suppose the pleasant weather distracted me. It won’t happen again.”
A considering hum. The click of chalk on wood. “I’m sure it won’t. Hands, Phantomhive.”
Ciel’s mouth fell open, staring uncomprehendingly as Abrams opened his desk drawer and pulled out the strap in a pantomime of his actions from mere days ago. A look around found the same surprise reflected on his classmates. Usually, Abrams was not so liberal with the implement.
He’s doing this because he couldn’t give me a demerit, Ciel realized. Damn his pride. He should have given the man the satisfaction of a wrong answer.
Abrams was about halfway to Ciel’s seat when a whispered hiss came from his right.
“Phantomhive. Stand up.”
The earl startled, shooting to his feet before he could be further penalized, and thrust out his hands with barely concealed petulance. There was nothing to do but let Abrams take his pound of flesh; Ciel just hoped he’d be quick about it.
Having never been personally acquainted before, Ciel was mildly distressed to find that the strip of leather was more intimidating up close. It was stained; the surface marred with faultlines from repeated use, and Ciel pressed his lips together to prevent them from curling.
Abrams gave no further preamble, swinging with the ease of the veteran disciplinarian. The strap came down.
Ciel gasped, then slammed his mouth shut so fast his teeth clicked.
Abrams was barely pulling his strength at all!
Unlike Sebastian’s riding crop, the strap covered the full width of Ciel’s palms and part of his fingers, leaving behind a welt that scalded as though Ciel had braced himself against a wood stove. Resisting the instinct to shake out the sting, Ciel exhaled sharply through his nose. At the spilled sound, some of the boys leaned forward like hunting dogs smelling first blood, and a different kind of heat rolled over Ciel.
He’d been at the center of such attention before. Masked faces leering down at him, cooing and thumbing away tears when the smell of Ciel’s own burnt flesh made his eyes water, choking on spit because no more screams could be rung from his throat.
A high-pitched buzzing began in Ciel’s ears, and beads of sweat pooled on the reddened skin. He could leave. All he had to do was whisper Sebastian’s name, and he would come, and pull Ciel from class, and—
What? The demon would never let Ciel live it down if he tapped out of a schoolboy punishment. He was being ridiculous.
Gnawing the flesh of his cheek between his molars, Ciel took the second strike silently, and the next with a hitched breath. It hurt. Infinitely more than expected. His heart may as well have been cupped in his hands with how intently he could feel its pulsing.
But it was done. One for each correct answer, and another to grow on. Dropping his arms, Ciel’s fingers closed in a protective curl as his shoulders loosened. He started to sit.
“I did not dismiss you, Phantomhive.”
“What?”
The words burst out heavy with incredulity, and Ciel cringed as he saw their effect play across Abrams’ face. “What I mean is—” He stopped. What did he mean? Ciel’s attention roved to the side, as if another apt instruction would deliver itself, and found only Draper’s eyes, sick with sympathy.
“…I believe I have already learned my lesson quite thoroughly, sir,” Ciel settled on, lowering his chin. “I apologize for the earlier disrespect.”
The pregnant pause as the room digested his gall was a more welcome familiarity. In the arenas of life, Ciel was accustomed to his appearance garnering a certain reaction, that condescending twist of the mouth that signaled that someone was humoring him—the child earl stumbling in his father’s too-large shoes, brought out to perform a parlor trick. Ciel reveled in it. Because, eventually, he got to see those faces slacken when the force of his skill, his status, or his sword forced them to bend knee.
Drawing himself up, Abrams cut it all away with a voice of steel. “The length of your punishment is my decision, not yours.”
It was the expected response, yet it still landed like a stone upon Ciel’s rib cage, forcing the air from his lungs. The buzzing returned.
He couldn’t reason his way out. He couldn’t stop Abrams. He couldn’t call Sebastian.
A feeling that Ciel recognized, but had become unaccustomed to in the last three years, crawled up his throat with hooked feet and lodged between his vocal cords. His arsenal was empty, and he was helpless. Because Abrams was an adult, and he was a child, and that’s all that mattered in this arena.
Slowly, Ciel opened his hands.
“Shit,” Ciel hissed and spat out another mouthful of bloody saliva.
It stuck to the side of the rust-stained sink, joining the other globs logged there, and he grimaced, nose crunching. A tongue swiped across the wound in his cheek, and metal erupted across his palate. He spat again.
At least the bleeding was slowing. Ciel had bitten through his cheek during the final lash, and the stupid thing had been sluggishly leaking since; his stomach nauseous with the amount of blood he’d swallowed back waiting for the mid-day bell. Good thing Abrams’ thought “six of the best” was sufficient enough.
Carefully turning on the tap with the pads of his fingers, Ciel washed out his mouth and stuck his hands under the cold stream for good measure. They were on fire. If this was Abrams’ usual strength, then Draper deserved the damn Victoria Cross.
Sighing, Ciel stooped down to nestle his head between his outstretched arms, forehead resting on the sink's edge as flecks of water bounced off porcelain to land in his hair like rain droplets. He closed his eyes. It was easy to pretend the rushing was the sound of a filling tub, and his shoulders slowly unwound as he imagined sinking into that enticing heat, the dead skin boiling away until he was red raw and new. Only a few more weeks.
Ciel groaned unhappily at the thought. That was a few weeks too many. He didn’t even want to think about returning to Abrams’ class after today. The one consolation was that Ciel hadn’t made a fool of himself in front of his classmates, as far as he could recall. Admittedly, his memory of what occurred after Abrams declared his extended sentence was fuzzy around the edges, but he’s neither wailed nor cried. His mangled cheek and dry eyes were proof of that.
There was nothing to do but endure until his mission was complete. Ciel shut off the sink and shook his hands dry. As nice as it would be to hole up in the lavatory and lick his wounds, Sebastian was expecting him for lunch, and Ciel was neither in the mood for the demon to come looking for him or, worse, someone else discovering he wasn’t in the dining hall.
Still, there was a great deal more fumbling than expected transporting himself and his class materials to Sebastian’s office without aggravating his injuries. By the time Ciel forced his way in after several seconds of wrestling with the doorknob, he simply opened his arms and let the books crash to the hardwood rather than try to maneuver them onto a table. Sebastian raised an eyebrow.
Ignoring the butler’s reproachful look as he went to tidy the mess, Ciel eyed the steaming plate of mushroom risotto waiting on the desk. Hollowness stretched his stomach, only for realization to curdle it. If he wanted to eat, he’d have to pick up the fork. With his hands.
Bypassing the plate setting for the armchair, Ciel crossed his arms and tucked the offending appendages from view. “I’m not hungry.”
The returning sound Sebastian made in the back of his throat was unconvinced as he placed the stacked books on the desk’s corner. His right glove came off with a pull of teeth, and a cool palm landed on Ciel’s forehead. The earl jumped. “What are you doing!?”
“You don’t seem to be running a fever.” Sebastian tugged the glove back on as he spoke. “Perhaps there is some other ailment that would affect the young master’s appetite?”
The pair stared at each other for a long moment as Ciel weighed his options. There was little doubt that Sebastian would figure out what was plaguing him eventually, and the longer Ciel held out, the more juvenile he would seem when the truth was uncovered. With a put-upon sigh, Ciel conceded, splaying his fingers for inspection. The cool water may have been a temporary balm, but it had done nothing to soothe the angry flush of skin, severe against his pale complexion. He barely suppressed a cringe at the sight.
“Oh my, what happened here?” Sebastian cooed, failing to sound sympathetic.
Grievances balanced on the tip of Ciel’s tongue. For an instant, he thought of spilling all the unfairness he’d endured like a child who tattles solely for the sadistic pleasure of watching righteous judgment be levied on their tormentors from behind their parent’s leg, but he swallowed it down. Sebastian would do no such thing. Besides, just because he’d been beaten like a child didn’t mean he had to whine like one. Ciel shrugged, voice even. “Abrams found my behavior objectionable.”
Sebastian quietly absorbed the information. “And he used the strap, I presume?”
Ciel’s skin prickled. Of course, the demon would make fun of him. “Yes,” he bit out.
An unreadable emotion clouded Sebastian’s face before it smoothed out again. He gathered his brown leather medical bag—because what kind of butler would he be if he didn’t have one at the ready—and sat in the chair opposite Ciel’s. Ridding himself of his gloves, Sebastian applied a clear gel to the wounds, infusing the air with the strong smell of earth. Ciel sighed as the cooling effects took hold.
“Aloe vera is quite useful for burns,” Sebastian commented idly. He reached for the gauze. “Good thing the skin didn’t break. I can’t have you catching your death from some infection. I shudder to think how long that… implement has been residing in Abrams’ desk.”
Ciel huffed out a laugh, despite himself. “You've read my mind.”