Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I.

One night there is a knock at the back door, and the housekeeper, a huge woman who looks like a toad, who's not sleeping at this late hour, but leafing through a novel borrowed from her landlady, in which the vanilla, strained-tender sex scenes ooze with more dirt than porn with gang bangs in an abandoned workshop, grumbling under her breath, unlocks the door.

“I’m here about the ad. Do you still need a maid?”

The housekeeper, who suffers from night blindness and has poor vision in the semi-darkness (which is why she simply leafs through the book, rather than reading), at first doesn’t understand who exactly is standing on the threshold — a boy or a girl.

The hair is short, boyish, but the voice is soft. A roughly cut shirt hangs on the body, emaciated to the state of a porcelain figurine, but, you know, whoever this person is, he (or she) tried to look neat. To make a good impression.

It turns out later: it is a boy and a boy, as expected, poor, looking for some kind of work, just so as not to end his miserable existence in some ditch outside the city — and this is only the outskirts of London, not even London itself. The housekeeper changes her irritation to mercy and lets the unfortunate man in. Until the morning.

In the morning, the landlady talks to him — a beautiful woman with silky hair, a sickly skin color, painted beauty spots, Mrs. Michaelis. Who is he, where is he from. He obediently answers all the questions: he grew up in London, but his father went broke, and now he is looking for at least some way to earn a piece of bread — even if it is a job as a maid, even if it is not a man’s job (the ad didn’t say that they are looking for a footman, otherwise he would have gone to be a footman).

She is wary:

“Broke? are you by any chance the Phantomhive?”

He nods. Yes, ma’am, it is him. His name is Ciel (and no, he is not the older twin, the older one in London, ma’am).

She doesn’t think long. She says that they’ll take him, but if he’s lazy, shirks work, or does it poorly, they’ll throw him out.

“I don’t like slackers,” Mrs. Michaelis purses her lips with disgust. It is only eight in the morning, but they are already lipsticked dark red. “If you came to work, then please work.”

“Who likes them, ma’am? You can’t live long as a slacker,” Ciel sighs.

He is taken. Thus, in the huge family estate of the Michaelis, a wealthy noble family, a new maid named Ciel appears. The last name is omitted.

II.

He doesn’t even have to be taken to London to see a dressmaker: the uniform is there, left over from the previous maid. While Ciel is tangling his apron, Mrs. Michaelis complains about the previous maid: the bad girl secretly got married and ran away! bitch.

Ciel doesn’t plan to run away to the altar yet, so he’s not a bitch.

The dress is long, ankle-length, black — almost mourning — strict, modest: his frightening thinness and bony limbs are not visible. Mary Jane shoes — also black — are a little big, but they hold well on his small feet and have not fallen off yet. The apron is white, with frills, the bonnet is also white and also with frills. The stockings are white, but without frills. Ciel is not even embarrassed that he is dressed in women’s clothes: while his grandfather was in charge of everything, he wore stockings and shorts that resembled a skirt — it was called something special, but he no longer remembers. When his father came, that time ended.

Ciel is given his own room — a tiny closet, covered in cobwebs and littered with dust — and a bunch of things for cleaning. You can start right now, says Mrs. Michaelis. You will be paid a pound a month.

Ciel thinks: not much, but good. Considering that he is given food and shelter, it is a good salary. Just for some trinkets.

The clock strikes eight. The butler, a man of about forty with carefully styled hair, goes to wake the masters' son.

III.

The masters, the Michaelis, have a son. An heir. A young master. The latter is for Ciel, as he should address him according to the rules of etiquette. Ciel knows.

This is how the servants of his house once addressed him. A young master.

This charming creature of four years old, instead of playing, turning railways, organizing wars between tin soldiers, looking for treasures hidden by him or imagining himself a captain of a long sea voyage, hangs around Ciel all day.

“Where are you from?”

He has such huge and dark eyes — two abysses full of chocolate. Ciel loves chocolate, but hasn’t eaten it for a long time.

“From London,” briefly. Ciel doesn’t want to talk about himself too much. It’s not to create a mysterious image and show off, he just doesn’t want to listen to gossip about his father’s disgrace — a spit in the face of the human race, just a bastard (may he die somewhere in the slums, the old fuck). He’s heard too much already.

“And how is it?”

Horrible. Disgusting. Unemployed. Penniless.

“…Damp.”

The young master doesn’t ask anything else, and Ciel takes advantage of the pause to brush the dust off the shelf with a brush, and then put all the framed photographs, figurines and other things in the same order as they were before.

“What’s your name?” the young master asks again. Restless childish curiosity. Ciel thinks that when he was four, he, too, must have been so curious.

Now this time seems too far away, although he is only ten. Six years difference — between them simply an abyss.

“Ciel.”

The young master frowns. On his cute face, this expression seems wrong.

“What a strange name.”

Ciel doesn’t answer, wiping another shelf.

Many say that his name is strange. Unusual. As if Ciel himself doesn’t know that this is an unconventional French name among the prim English names.

“My name is Sebastian,” he doesn’t quite firmly hold the last syllable, and it sounds sweet. “Nice to meet you. Mum says that you need to be polite.”

Your mother is right, Ciel thinks sadly.

“Me too, young master.”

He feels a little humiliated, but this is only an echo of the feeling — it is familiar.

“You are beautiful.”

Is this also politeness? Ciel still blushes.

“It’s not proper for a young master to say such things to a mere maid,” Ciel mutters and sneezes into his sleeve. There’s too much dust.

IV.

“Bless you,” Sebastian answers cheerfully. “And you’re not a mere maid. You’re Ciel.”

V.

Sebastian really likes Ciel.

As far as he knows, Ciel comes from a noble family that went bankrupt when his father came to power, and Ciel has been serving his family since he was ten. As a maid.

Sebastian adores Ciel. Well, first of all, Sebastian’s parents like him because he does his job well, doesn’t steal or slack off, and he sometimes gets a little extra money on top of his salary. Secondly, he always looks good in this modest black dress with a white collar and cuffs, apron and bonnet — a la French maid, and he always smells pleasantly of washing powder and soap. Thirdly, he has a sweet smile and a beautiful laugh, but he smiles and laughs very rarely.

His fate is too hard. Sebastian is only four years old when he first notices the seal of humility and slight sadness on Ciel’s face — his seductive sinful mouth has barely noticeable sad wrinkles, although he is only ten.

Six years difference — between them a gap in both physical and mental age. In mental even more, because Ciel has to grow up so early.

Ciel is hanging wet laundry from a basket on long ropes stretched between trees, when Sebastian runs up to him. There is nothing special about it, even if it is the son of his masters, because children (even four-year-olds) are always interested in children older than themselves — older comrades, taught by experience and life, with a richer imagination (and vocabulary; but Ciel doesn’t teach Sebastian to swear, because the mistress will kill him for it — Ciel, not Sebastian).

“Ciel,” Sebastian lightly tugs at the hem of his skirt with his weak childish hands. Ciel smooths out the sheet on the line. He seems to be lost in his thoughts.

“Ciel,” a little more demanding, but not in the commanding tone in which his parents speak. For now, this is a childish demand, not overgrown with cold contempt and dry habit.

Finally, Ciel — romantic, lonely Ciel, full of longing for what he’s lost — turns around, and Sebastian hands him a soft pink peony, picked from a flowerbed, and smiles broadly.

“For you.”

Ciel doesn’t need anything.

The most precious gift to him is praise from his masters: the higher his rating, the less likely he is to be thrown out on the street. He has everything he needs: food, shelter, clothes — he’s paid a salary, and he even bought himself a book; he’s still a nobleman and needs food for his soul no less than food for his body.

And yet Sebastian gives him a slightly tattered, but obviously lovingly chosen peony. How can he refuse? Especially when his chocolate eyes are so wide and hopeful that Ciel will be pleased.

“Thank you, young master,” Ciel smiles softly and takes the flower with his soft, callused fingers. Once beautiful, idle hands that have known hard work. “It is very beautiful.”

Later, he will place the peony between the pages of a book. He will hide it carefully.

“I will put it in the book and it will dry.”

Sebastian understands: Ciel promises to cherish it, and not just throw it away when its fleeting beauty fades. He is only four years old, and words do not come to him; all he can do is nod.

He hugs Ciel with childish innocence and buries his face in his chest. Ciel is quite short for his age, but still taller than Sebastian.

Ciel freezes for a moment at the unexpected touch, his hands awkwardly in the air. The laundry basket is forgotten at his feet.

He can feel Sebastian’s warm breath through the thin fabric of his maid uniform, and he can feel his small fingers grasping the ties of his apron.

Slowly, carefully — as if touching something precious — Ciel lowers his hands to return the hug. Hesitantly.

“Young master…” he mumbles barely audibly. Sebastian giggles and nuzzles his nose before pulling away.

“I’m not bothering you anymore.”

Sebastian watches as Ciel deftly hangs up each item. Sebastian can’t help; he’s too small, and the basket is too heavy for him to lift it even slightly. The clothespins are too big for him to manipulate effectively, so he just watches.

When he grows up, he wants to take on some of Ciel’s responsibilities, take some of the weight off his narrow shoulders. Someday.

“Will you read to me?” Sebastian begs, tugging at Ciel’s dress again, but this time it’s a gentle, soft movement, not demanding anything. A request.

Ciel, unlike many servants, can write, read, and count, and even speaks a little French. Well, sometimes he’s asked for little things, like reading what’s in the newspaper, or taking dictation from someone else.

“Please?” He adds when Ciel doesn’t respond right away. “Please, Ciel?”

“When I’m free, okay?”

The laundry is drying in the May sun.

VI.

Time passes. Sebastian grows quickly, and Ciel slowly, but he is still taller.

Ciel becomes Sebastian’s mother’s confidant — the overgrown vixen complains about her husband, and Ciel listens to her and consoles her. This seems to improve his standing with Mrs. Michaelis, and he gets a day off.

Ciel is dozing with his head resting on his crossed arms, lying on a wooden table, in the sun, when seven-year-old Sebastian finds him in the small room. Ciel’s modest room is sparse and cramped, furnished sparsely, only the bare necessities, but it is clean.

On the table lies a book with a dark red cover. Sebastian knows it well — Ciel sometimes reads it when he has an hour or two to rest (which is rare). There are no pictures in it, and Sebastian finds it rather boring.

Between the pages is a dried flower, very old and colorless. Only a faint pink tint remains, reminding us that there was once a colorful, fragrant splendor here.

The sight of Ciel sleeping touches something tender in Sebastian’s young heart. The stern lines of fatigue imprinted on his face soften in his sleep, giving way to a vulnerable calm. And this, too, is painful — how little peace Ciel gets in the ever-turbulent mill of life. Ciel is always busy and working.

Quietly, trying not to disturb him, Sebastian approaches, his light steps almost inaudible on the worn wooden floor.

He stops next to Ciel and admires his beauty, lost in adoration. Sebastian gently brushes a strand of blue-black hair from Ciel’s forehead.

Sebastian sees a dried peony in the book and thinks.

He thinks about this flower and the importance Ciel attaches to the old, ugly, withered plant, and wonders if he will ever be that important to Ciel. Maybe now, while he is still small, childish and naive, he should impress upon Ciel that he is important, show him how much importance little Sebastian attaches to the former noble, what emotions burn in his heart for him every day, even if they remain one-sided and rejected. It doesn’t frighten him, because he still has a lot of time. He is even glad that Ciel is older. Ciel is already an adult (almost), which means that he will make the right, balanced decision, so that Sebastian can trust him with his fate without fear. It sounds too serious and ridiculous for a seven-year-old child, but that is how Sebastian thinks, even if his judgments are not always correct. He gently places his small hand on Ciel’s on the table, small and calloused, but gentle.

“…Hm?” Ciel opens his eyes, and for a second they reflect the sunlight. The drowsiness quickly leaves him. “Is Mistress looking for me?”

As usual, he thinks about work. However, what else should Ciel be thinking about? Sebastian doesn’t know.

“No,” Sebastian shakes his head, his fingers tightening slightly around Ciel’s. “It’s your day off, remember?”

He doesn’t go into details, but his gaze lingers on Ciel’s face, noting the way the sunlight plays on his eyelashes, and the slight blush of sleep.

“I forget,” Ciel mutters. “I guess I’m too used to doing without it.”

He straightens up and stretches slightly. Ciel allows himself such liberties in his communication with Sebastian. His frilly bonnet lies on the table next to him.

Sebastian feels a twinge of sympathy.

He wants to do something to help Ciel get more rest.

“Have you read?” Sebastian asks quietly, although he already knows the answer. The book is always there, a constant companion in Ciel’s meager room.

Ciel looks at the book, too.

“A little. And rereading letters from my mother and Sirius.”

Ciel receives letters from his mother and twin brother from time to time. He talks little about his family, and even less about the contents of the letters. Sebastian knows that Ciel receives them about once every few months.

“…Do you miss them?”

Obviously, you do, but Sebastian is just a silly little boy. He can’t help but ask the obvious.

“A lot,” Ciel sighs, and it’s a heavy sigh. Too heavy.

He hasn’t seen his family in three years, a long time, and he can’t even say for sure where his mother and twin brother are, he can only pinpoint their locations by the addresses on their letters, which change quite often. Ciel rarely answers letters, firstly because he can’t afford to, since he’d have to spend a lot of money on paper and get hold of sealing wax somewhere, and secondly because he’s not always sure that his letters get through. His mother and Sirius, for their part, write their letters on old scraps.

Sebastian is still too young, only seven, and he doesn’t quite understand the meaning of time, the vast empty spaces where absence becomes a painful, painful presence, but he can feel it.

Without thinking, he reaches out and gently covers Ciel’s palm with his own in solidarity. It’s a childish, clumsy touch, but there’s warmth in it, a sincere promise of support.

“Maybe… maybe you’ll see them again someday,” he mutters, his voice full of hope.

Ciel works so hard. He deserves some time with his family. Maybe Sebastian can convince his mother to give Ciel two days off so he can go to London?

“Maybe you can save up enough money and go visit them…”

Sebastian wants to help him. Give him all the money, just so Ciel can be a little happier. Take him anywhere he wants, so that a smile can bloom on his sickly pale face, losing its color.

“When I grow up, I promise you’ll see your family again,” quickly, unexpectedly, and with such absolute certainty that it’s not a promise, but an oath. Sebastian squeezes Ciel’s hand a little tighter. “You’re not alone in this.”

Ciel’s eyes widen even more than usual.

One day, Sebastian will find the right words to make Ciel the happiest person alive. One day.

VII.

“I have a dream,” Ciel says, almost in a whisper. “When I save up enough money, I want to go to London. I’ll look for Sirius and my mother there, and if I’m lucky and everything works out…”

“It will,” Sebastian says decisively. “Everything will work out, Ciel.”

At least Sebastian will believe.

“But I’ll miss you. You’re nice.”

Ciel’s expression softens when he hears Sebastian’s words, and warmth spreads through his chest. He’s still a child, but he already understands the value of affection. Ciel reaches out and gently strokes Sebastian’s head.

“You’re just adorable,” he murmurs. “I’m not leaving yet. There is still much to do here.

He doesn’t add that he likes this place very much — and Sebastian.

VIII.

Ciel, as always, is diligently sweeping the floor, but there is a certain listlessness and absentmindedness in his movements. Sebastian’s mother, who by this time has become even more sympathetic to Ciel (she firmly believes that any work should be rewarded, because Ciel is the most conscientious and honest worker in their estate, and for this she dotes on him), asks if everything is all right.

Sebastian, who at this time is sitting in an arithmetic lesson with a visiting teacher, hears:

“My mother is dead.”

Ciel’s voice is strangely hoarse, as if he had been crying all night. And so it was — a silent, desperate cry. But instead of asking for a day off, Ciel, as usual, washes, sweeps and scrubs.

“A month ago. The telegram arrived yesterday.”

For a month, Ciel didn’t know that his mother was lying in a grave — or in a ditch — without even a coffin, that she was being eaten away by worms and rotting in the ground.

The air around Sebastian seemed to freeze. The numbers and equations blurred, and the teacher’s voice became a meaningless background hum.

His fingers gripped the pencil so tightly that the wood creaked, and the teacher sighed, probably about to reprimand him again for being distracted.

My mother is dead.

The words echoed in his head, a painful echo that took his breath away. All color drained from his face as a burning fear began to bubble up inside him.

How much hardship could this man endure before he broke under the crushing weight of it? Where did these misfortunes and misfortunes come from that haunt Ciel, poisoning his life?

His heart is pounding. He vaguely hears his teacher’s disappointed sigh.

Without a word to his bewildered mentor, he slams the book shut and runs out of the room, propelled by an invisible force.

He finds Ciel in his little room, not crying, just sitting on his neatly made bed with a hard mattress, his hands clasped in the folds of his skirt between his legs. The usual gracefulness of his posture is gone, replaced by a tense stiffness, as if he is holding on by sheer force of will.

For a moment, Sebastian simply looks at him, unable to utter a word. Then, without hesitation, he crosses the distance between them and hugs Ciel tightly. His small body trembles slightly as he presses his face into the fabric of the dress, clinging to it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “I’m so, so sorry…”

He doesn’t know what else to say — no words can heal this wound.

Ciel hesitates, but accepts the sudden embrace, placing a gentle hand on Sebastian’s back, who presses his face tightly against his chest.

“It’s not proper for a young master to cuddle with a mere maid,” he mutters.

“You’re not a mere maid,” Sebastian quietly protests, pressing himself against Ciel’s chest. “You’re Ciel.”

…

“You’re not alone in this.”

Ciel sighs.

He cries for a long time in this cramped room, and Sebastian brings him a glass of water from the kitchen.

“Thank you,” Ciel mutters. His beautiful blue eyes are a little puffy, but he’s still beautiful.

And then he laughs, and the laugh is bitter, dry, and so tasteless. The silver bells fell silent and seemed never to ring again.

Sebastian winces, and his small hand clenches into a fist. In that moment, the world seems cruel and unfair, taking away this good man’s laughter to create bitterness. Sebastian cannot understand why, even after all this time, someone who deserves happiness as much as he does is doomed to unhappiness. It seems illogical.

“My dream is gone,” Ciel says. “Now I can spend the money.”

He has saved only seventy-two pounds over these long years. This money is not enough for a long comfortable existence. Maybe for a month, or maybe just a week.

“Your dream is still here…”

“No, young master. It’s pointless now,” Ciel shakes his head. “Maybe Sirius is already dead too, I just don’t know it yet… I’m definitely not going to London.”

Sebastian takes the glass from Ciel and sets it down on the table with a quiet clink; kneels down in front of Ciel, gently taking his trembling hands in his own, squeezing them with confidence, firmness, and warmth.

“No,” he says firmly. “I can’t accept this, and neither can you,” and for a ten-year-old, this is the biggest leap in development, but he doesn’t care. If saying this will make Ciel forget about his sadness, he will speak as maturely as possible.

Ciel deserves something more than life, something equal to pain; and that means someone who reminds him of joy and pleasure. At least that.

“Don’t say that. Even if Sirius is dead — and I don’t believe that — don’t give up so easily!” With all the tenderness he can muster, even in the midst of his fury at Ciel’s ignorance of his importance to him, Sebastian reaches out with both hands and places them on Ciel’s cheeks; gently grasping and caressing, trying to hold their gaze as the most loving person might caress the most beloved person in the world.

“You can’t give up, Ciel,” he insists, and there’s a desperate plea in his voice, but he doesn’t look away, trying to somehow get into Ciel’s eyes. Deeper. Inside his head. To see the ruins. “Your dream isn’t about Sirius, or London, or your mother… it’s about you. It’s about hope, about fighting, about not letting the world break you. You can’t let it die, because if you do…” His voice breaks.

Killing a dream is killing yourself. It’s a double-edged sword. No matter which way you cut it, it won’t do any good.

“Young master…” Ciel gently places his hand on Sebastian’s palms, on his idle soft fingers — softer than marshmallows. “It’s okay. I can have another dream.”

As if changing dreams is like changing gloves.

Sebastian tenses up. He clenches his teeth, fighting the urge to object, to be indignant, but he doesn’t have time to argue — Ciel is upset. He needs to get him out of this negative state, not explain what he thinks is wrong.

Sebastian hugs Ciel one last time and makes him one last silent promise, which he will keep, no matter how painful or sad it is.

You are not alone in this.

IX.

Ciel sweeps the veranda while Sebastian hangs around him.

“Are you so interested in looking at me, my lord?” Ciel asks and sneezes into his sleeve. There is a lot of dust here. His twisted lungs wheeze softly.

Sebastian winces guiltily at Ciel’s words, a blush creeping up his cheeks. He didn’t mean to make it so obvious, but Ciel had always had keen eyesight. In truth, he’s drawn to his every move, every little action filled with grace and quiet determination that enchants and moves him. Not just his looks. It’s a different kind of beauty, but just as mature. Ciel is nineteen; he could be a Weston College graduate.

He turns away abruptly, feigning interest in the distant trees, a flush creeping up his neck. The youth in his body creates a heat that melts his brain and clouds his thoughts.

“I… I just wanted to see if there was anything I could do to help you…”

“Thank you for the offer, young master, but it seems you have a fencing lesson coming up soon. I can handle it myself.”

Sebastian’s fingers tremble, torn between the desire to obey and the overwhelming urge to stay. Fencing lessons are the last thing on his mind, with Ciel’s mere presence making his pulse quicken, and it has nothing to do with his constant running.

“But…” He hesitates, his voice dropping to a whisper as he gets closer.

His gaze lingers on the curve of Ciel’s shoulders, the way his slender fingers grip the broom, and then he quickly looks away, feeling his throat tighten.

He doesn’t even realize how obvious it is.

Sometimes, behind that severe and modest black dress, you can see the charming curves of Ciel’s body, if you find the right angle, light, and position. Many in the area say he is handsome. Ciel was even approached for a match, but Sebastian’s mother firmly refused.

Ciel sighs.

“Well… alright. Please bring the laundry basket.”

Sebastian smiles quickly, but before his body can react, his brain catches on to some details again. That black, shapeless maid dress looks good on Ciel…

That thought triggers another burst of something more complex for his small teenage mind.

“Of course,” he says too quickly, heading to the laundry room with nervous energy, trying to push away all unnecessary thoughts.

The curves of Ciel’s hips are visible under the dress.

…

Shit.

X.

Ciel has another day off, and he’s dozing at his desk again, just like he did a few years ago, but for Sebastian, it’s not as innocent as it used to be. His puberty-wracked brain.

Every curve is like a siren song that his wild, crazy hormones can’t ignore. At some point, things will get worse or better. If Ciel sleeps like this, it could cause problems. More serious and complex than he would have expected, had he seen how much passion was bubbling in his fragile teenage mind.

Ciel deserves a rest.

And yet Sebastian’s gaze returns again and again, lingering on the soft rise and fall of Ciel’s chest, the graceful curve of his neck. The desire to be closer, the likes of which he has never felt before, is an order to his heart itself to simply obey.

To press his lips to his lips or his neck in an adult manner, to caress his shyly hidden chest, to put his hands on his hips, to spread his lithe, thin legs, to impale him on his cock and hear the clinking of porcelain.

These desires exist.

It is wrong, but the heat spreading in his lower abdomen doesn’t care about morality. He swallows hard, torn between the desire to retreat and…

A floorboard creaks under his foot. Sebastian freezes, panic surging through him as Ciel stirs slightly. His heart is about to jump out of his chest as those blue eyes, clouded with sleep but quickly clearing, open.

“My lord?” Ciel’s voice is soft, questioning.

Caught. Exposed.

“What happened?”

Sebastian’s breath catches in his throat, his entire body burning with a mixture of shame and something far more dangerous. He clenches his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms, and forces himself to take a step back.

“Nothing,” he lies, his voice strained. “I just… thought you were cold.”

The excuse is lame, pathetic, but it’s all Sebastian can come up with as Ciel’s gaze, still sleepy but still piercing, lingers on him. He turns sharply to the window, pretending to adjust the curtains, just to have something to direct his shaking hands toward.

“You need to get some rest in bed,” he mutters. “Not… not like this.

Not where I can see you. Not where every innocent movement of your body makes me suffer in ways I can’t understand.

“You look worried, young master. Is something bothering you?”

You. You, youyouyouyouyou you y oou yo uuu

“Nothing really important,” Sebastian manages to say, forcing himself to keep his voice calm as he turns back. His gaze flickers over Ciel’s face, then quickly away. “Just… my Latin lessons. And… stuff.”

Like the way your hair falls in your face when you bend over. Like the way your lips part when you concentrate.

He wants to do something grown-up, but Sebastian is still a silly little boy. Even if he is thirteen. Even if he is the heir to his father’s title, lands, estate, and untold wealth.

Ciel stretches and yawns, covering his mouth with his hand.

Sebastian suddenly thinks.

Perhaps he will always be a little boy to Ciel. And Ciel will think that he is still too little for grown-up things.

XI.

On Ciel’s twentieth birthday, Mrs. Michaelis gives him a corset. For special merit.

“Why do you lace the corset in the front and not in the back?” asks Sebastian, who has already turned fourteen in October. He sits on Ciel’s hard bed and watches him. “Mum’s corset laces in the back.”

“Well, my lord, Mistress asks the maid to help her dress, so the corset is laced in the back, but I don’t have a maid (I’m a maid myself, haha), so I lace it myself — in the front,” Ciel answers, fiddling with the laces. In principle, he likes it. He feels attractive. The corset emphasizes his waist and slightly rounded hips.

“Do you want me to lace it in the back?”

Ciel raises an eyebrow and looks back at Sebastian.

“Are you sure, young master? Corsets are quite difficult to lace.”

“Ciel, you learned how to do it. So I can too,” Sebastian shrugs and stands up. Over the past year, he has grown taller, and now they are about the same height.

Ciel relents. Why not let him try?

“Okay, young master. Just be very careful, okay? The laces are quite fragile.”

And, you know, Sebastian is surprisingly careful, tugging the laces so that the corset fits snugly, but not too tightly. He also adjusts the frill of Ciel’s apron.

When Sebastian finishes, Ciel takes as deep a breath as his lungs will allow. So quiet.

“It’s done,” Sebastian whispers, and Ciel can almost feel his lips on the back of his neck.

“Thank you, young master.”

Ciel wouldn’t mind if this was done every day.

XII.

Sebastian learns that Ciel has asthma.

One December morning, around nine, the other maids notice that Ciel is missing, and one of them goes to his room.

Ciel is running around with a fever, and he is very, very ill.

Mrs. Michaelis, who values ​​Ciel as an employee, sends for a doctor and gives instructions on what to do. Usually, servants are not fussed over like this, but no one Sebastian can remember being so ill.

There are fears that it is pneumonia or something worse, but no one knows that it is simply a severe attack that has developed into a fever. Ciel wheezes, gasping for breath.

By midday, he finally calms down, and Mrs. Michaelis, angry that the doctor will not arrive — it snowed heavily the night before and the roads are covered in snow — sends the old housekeeper to look after him. But she soon gets bored, and goes off to get some old newspaper, the kind used to cut up fish.

And then Sebastian slips into the closet.

Ciel is lying in bed, his hair scattered across the pillow and his hot forehead. His cheeks are still a bit red, and his breath is whistling, but he already looks a little better. Gossip Hera told Sebastian such nonsense, as if Ciel were dying.

“Ciel…?” Sebastian asks in a whisper, carefully placing his palm on his cheek.

Ciel’s long, curly eyelashes flutter, and he opens his unfocused eyes. They shine, and this shine is meaningless, there is no clarity of mind in it. Sebastian is frightened for a second.

Ciel’s trembling hand weakly rises and covers his palm.

“…My lord?” a wheeze. Sebastian simply puts the familiar syllables together to form words; he barely understands what Ciel is saying.

“It’ll be okay,” Sebastian mumbles. “Soon. Very soon.”

Ciel doesn’t answer, and Sebastian feels like he’s waiting for more words, but Sebastian doesn’t know what else to say.

Later, he watches from the doorway, secretly: the doctor, a potbellied and mustachioed but active old man, is rubbing Ciel’s chest with a pungent-smelling oil and explaining: Ciel is asthmatic. Most likely, the spasms in his lungs began due to a lot of physical activity, freezing, and a lot of dust.

Well. Ciel works a lot. His coat is mended in many places, and more than once. There’s a hell of a lot of dust in this house.

Suddenly, Sebastian thinks: Ciel, his Ciel, might get kicked out.

That same evening, he pesters his mother with questions.

“My dear, when Ciel gets better, I’ll discuss everything with him myself,” she strokes Sebastian’s head, although he is already quite a big boy.

“Then can I go to London tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

Sebastian spends a lot of his savings, but it’s worth it.

A couple of days later, Ciel finally comes to his senses, and Sebastian eavesdrops again. A terrible habit, but useful.

He sees that Ciel is no less scared than he is. Now his mother will say that she doesn’t need sick people, and Ciel will be thrown out.

But Mrs. Michaelis only offers to reduce the amount of work for Ciel with the same salary, but:

“I-I can’t…” Ciel shakes his head so hard that it’s a wonder he didn’t break his neck. “No, no, ma’am… It wouldn’t be right…”

“It wouldn’t be right to constantly treat you or torment you until you die. It would be better if you just worked less. We have enough other maids who slack off too much.”

“…Thank you, ma’am. I really appreciate your, uh, generosity…”

Sebastian catches Ciel at the door and drags him into the closet.

“My lord, are you planning something…?”

“Yeah, a surprise. You should like it.”

Ciel seems even more nervous, and, opening the box that Sebastian gives him, he lets out a surprised breath. All the nervousness has gone.

“This is…”

“I thought you might need it. I don’t want you to get cold.”

This new coat is black, made of thick fabric, very warm inside. Ciel tries it on almost fearfully, as if he’s afraid it will disappear, and he feels hot almost immediately.

“My lord, you shouldn’t have done that…”

“Why is that? It suits you very well.”

Ciel blushes, although he tries to look away, and Sebastian is slightly flattered.

He carefully adjusts his collar and looks into Ciel’s eyes for a second. Bright as the sky, and clear. A healthy look.

“…happy birthday.”

Definitely a happy one.

XIII.

Time passes. Ciel is twenty-three, Sebastian is sixteen, and he has outgrown Ciel. By a head.

Sebastian leads him deeper into the garden.

“Young master,” Ciel mutters, “you know I need to do the laundry, and you have a dance lesson…”

“They can wait,” Sebastian replies. “The waltz and the bed linen are still here.”

He has a more important announcement.

They stop under an old, withered oak tree that Sebastian loved to climb as a child. He exhales and takes Ciel’s hands.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a long time.”

Ciel blinks in confusion. Somewhere above them, a wild dove coos softly. The wind whispers through the leaves, and spots of sunlight fall on Ciel’s shoulders and face.

Sebastian squeezes his hands lightly. The strange shadows dance on him too, but they emphasize determination, not confusion.

“I love you.”

Everything that has been pent up inside him, easily bursts out.

“You are the most irreplaceable person to me,” Sebastian swallows. “Ciel, I want to make you happy. Happier than anyone in the world.”

I will pay for your education at any school you want to attend. I will buy you any clothes you want. You will never have to work or live in poverty again. I will find your twin brother, just tell me. Just tell me, and I will do anything for you.

“M-my lord…” Ciel mutters, looking at their hands: Sebastian’s with black silk gloves, and Ciel’s with calluses. His cheeks are charmingly red.

Sebastian’s thumb slides over those calluses, the rough evidence of years of service, and something in his chest clenches violently. He lifts Ciel’s hands to his lips, kissing each work-roughened finger.

“I mean it,” he murmurs, his voice low and compelling. The daylight makes the cufflinks on his expensive doublet glitter gold as he gently lifts Ciel’s chin.

A breeze rustles the leaves above their heads, bringing with it the scent of roses from the garden.

“Please tell me you agree? Ciel, tell me you’ll at least think about it.”

“My lord… don’t you think I’m too old for you?” Ciel whispers, barely audible. “Six years is a big difference…”

Sebastian’s expression hardens, his grip tightening just enough to emphasize his resolve.

“Age is just a number,” he says firmly, his voice quietly insistent. “You’ve been by my side since I was a child — you know me better than anyone. And I know what I want.”

He steps closer, the height difference now apparent as he looks down at Ciel, the shadows of the oak dancing across his face.

“Tell me,” he asks softly, “do you truly believe that these six years mean more than everything we’ve been through together?”

His thumb traces the outline of Ciel’s cheekbone, lingering on the flushed skin.

“Or are you just afraid?”

“…a little,” Ciel admits honestly.

He hasn’t believed in being happy for a long time. Fate has never been kind enough to him, and he carries this heavy cross forever.

“Then let me disabuse you of that,” he whispers, leaning in until their foreheads are almost touching. “Day by day. However long it takes.”

The words sound like a vow, spoken into the space between them, like a secret.

He wraps his other arm around Ciel’s waist, holding them together as the wind whips at their clothes.

“You don’t have to believe me yet,” Sebastian continues, his voice softer. “Just… let me be close enough to show you.”

Somewhere above them, a dove flutters into the air, its wings flapping in the heavy silence.

…

“Can I kiss you?”

“…yes, you can.”

Sebastian lets out a shaky breath, his entire body shaking with barely contained excitement. He cups Ciel’s face in his gloved hands, as if holding something precious, before finally closing the distance between them.

The kiss is soft at first, hesitant, Sebastian pressing his lips to Ciel’s. But when Ciel doesn’t pull away, Sebastian deepens the kiss, making a low noise in his throat and running his fingers through Ciel’s raven hair. The taste of him is sweeter than anything Sebastian could have imagined during all those stolen glances over tea trays and laundry baskets.

He pulls away only when they need to catch their breath, and presses his forehead against Ciel’s again. His voice is shaking with emotion.

“Do you believe me now?”

Ciel’s voice is barely audible, but Sebastian understands.

“Good,” he murmurs, running his hand over the back of Ciel’s head. “Because I’m never letting you go.”

The distant chimes of the mansion’s tower remind them both of unfinished business, but Sebastian only smiles, slowly and mysteriously, and kisses Ciel’s temple one last time.

“Everything else can wait,” he declares, intertwining their fingers. “Today… we’re skipping it.”

XIV.

They run away to London. Ciel thinks it’s a crazy dream.

Sebastian buys him a lot of clothes: frilly shirts, high-waisted trousers, shorts, stockings, suspenders for them, shoes (several pairs), a bunch of different ribbons. Ciel is very nervous about the receipt.

“It’s too expensive…”

Sebastian’s hand falls on the small of his back, and he leans down to whisper in Ciel’s ear:

“Nothing is too expensive for you.” His words are warm and quietly devoted, his thumb gently stroking the fabric of Ciel’s new shirt.

He snatches the receipt from Ciel’s trembling fingers and tears it in half, not even glancing at the amount, letting the pieces fall to the polished floor of the boutique.

“You deserve to feel silk against your skin,” Sebastian continues, running his finger along Ciel’s collarbone. “And I deserve the privilege of seeing you in it.”

The shopkeeper discreetly looks away as Sebastian presses his lips to Ciel’s flushed cheek.

Ciel, now completely flustered and embarrassed, shifts nervously, unsure of what to do with himself. Sebastian chuckles softly and pulls away to give the shopkeeper a practiced, charming smile.

“We’ll take everything,” he states, earning another nervous bow from the shopkeeper. “Please deliver to our home. I’ll give you the address.”

He leaves a note, directs Ciel to the door, and doesn’t stop until they’re out on a busy London street, where the sounds of carriage wheels and shouts of shopkeepers deafen them. Sebastian turns to face him, his expression suddenly serious.

“Are you okay?” he asks, cupping Ciel’s face gently. “Did I embarrass you?”

“Uh-huh…”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, though there’s no real remorse in his voice, just a gentle amusement.

He tucks a stray strand of hair behind Ciel’s ear before stepping back and offering him his hand. The crisp London air carries the scent of fresh bread from the nearby bakery.

“Want some tea?” Sebastian suggests, nodding toward the cafe across the road.

“Um, okay…”

Sebastian’s lips curl into a smile as he leads Ciel down the cobbled street. An anchor in a sea of ​​pedestrians.

XV.

Order: two cups of Earl Grey tea, a slice of Prague cake, and Ciel’s thighs. What do you mean, you don’t have Prague?

They take a corner table, and Sebastian gently paws Ciel’s thigh. Ciel grumbles that the young master is too young to do such things. Sebastian laughs and pinches him affectionately.

His knee touches Ciel’s under the linen tablecloth.

“I think this is a dream,” Ciel mutters, looking around. Charming curiosity.

“I can pinch you,” Sebastian offers.

“No need… I don’t want to wake up yet.”

A slow smile spreads across Sebastian’s face, and he gently squeezes Ciel’s hand.

“Then I won’t let you wake up.” He brings Ciel’s knuckles to his lips and kisses them softly, his dark eyes never leaving Ciel’s face.

He winks, and the effect is only slightly spoiled by a small coffee stain on his crisp white collar.

Ciel grumbles and wipes the stain away. The maid, obviously. That tiny drop breaks the spell, and Ciel isn’t as embarrassed as Sebastian imagined.

XVI.

“My lord… can we visit St. Paul’s Cathedral?”

“Of course. And please, just call me Sebastian. Okay?”

“Okay…”

They walk down the street, and many people look at Ciel. Knocked out of his work routine by a love affair, he has acquired a certain airiness and special charm. Sebastian thinks: this is how a grisette seamstress from Hugo’s novels should look, not yet having lost her face of a worker, but relaxed by frivolity.

Sebastian slightly hugs him, and Ciel shyly asks him to let go, please, my lord— oh, I mean, Sebastian. Sebastian laughs.

He is so cute in these high-waisted trousers and a fluffy shirt. It is unusual to see him in anything other than a strict, modest black dress that hides all the charming advantages of his body: slightly rounded hips, a thin waist, slight angularity.

They visit the Cathedral, and Sebastian thinks Ciel just wants to pray, but they go behind the church to the cemetery behind it.

Ciel glides between the rows of tombstones, some pompous, some simpler, reading the inscriptions. Sebastian follows closely behind.

“Whose grave are we looking for?”

Ciel shakes his head uncertainly.

“Anyone’s.”

Either his mother’s, or his father’s, or his twin’s.

They find it. The family crypt in the very corner, unkempt and unsightly, made of rough stone.

Ciel’s grandfather, his grandmother, who left them before he was born, his father (who died a year ago), his mother, and his twin brother. In a row: Cedric, Cloudia, Vincent, Rachel, Sirius.

A single tear rolls down Ciel’s cheek. Sebastian squeezes his hand protectively and doesn’t let go.

You are not alone in this.

Rest in peace, for there is someone to cry for you, and those tears will be priceless.

XVII.

They return to the small house they rented for the trip, quite late.

Sebastian slowly and sensually unbuttons Ciel’s shirt. Ciel no longer twitches as much as he did today, when they tried on new clothes.

“You are beautiful.”

“…thank you.”

Sebastian really wants to comfort him, to smooth out his sorrows, to take them away and swallow them, to drink from this leaden cup.

Ciel is a bashful virgin, and the mourning black dress just begs to cover his nakedness, but Sebastian is too ardent to put it back on.

Sebastian is not tempted by lust either, but his mind, crippled by lust, vile tabloid novels and servants' gossip, moves him: his hands sensually pinch Ciel’s nipples, causing pitiful sobs, his lips press hotly to those sharp shoulders and thin neck. Ciel involuntarily arches under him, and it is beautiful, more beautiful than Sebastian imagined.

A gentle kiss on the cheekbone and an equally gentle spreading of his thin legs. Ciel clings to him as if he is afraid that he will fall, but Sebastian holds him securely.

At one time their parents did something similar. Funny.

This is sex without penetration. Sebastian repeats the experience he read: he rubs his bloodshot penis between Ciel’s thighs and runs his hand along Ciel’s member. And kisses him. It seems to be interfemoral sex or something, Sebastian didn’t really go into that kind of detail.

Ciel spills into his hand, Sebastian on the floor. Ciel wheezes weakly.

“Are you okay?” Sebastian places his hand on his prominent chest. He’s afraid. He remembers how bad Ciel was a few years ago.

“Yeah, don’t worry… my lo— I mean, Sebastian,” Ciel, completely confused, stutters and falls silent.

“Ciel, calm down. Breathe.”

Ciel obediently inhales and exhales — shallow, but Sebastian doesn’t force him to go beyond his capabilities.

“Don’t be afraid to call me by my name. I suggested it myself, so I don’t mind, right?”

“R-right…”

Sebastian smiles and gently nuzzles Ciel’s cheek. Then he washes him with his own hands. Ciel is so small and fragile, and he wants to take care of him.

Ciel looks at the ceiling through his eyelashes.

“The last time someone bathed me was fourteen years ago…”

He vaguely remembers a flock of maids who took care of him. Their young master.

“Get used to it, I want to do this every day,” Sebastian smiles.

“W-what are you saying, no need… I can do it myself…”

“Come on, Ciel, don’t push away such a tempting offer,” Sebastian washes the foam off his thin shoulders with warm water. “Is it so bad — when someone takes care of you?”

Ciel looks at the soapy icebergs in the water and mutters:

“No… but I find it strange. You’re still my master and…”

Sebastian’s finger is suddenly on his lips.

“No, Ciel, we’re equals now. Not master and maid, just lovers.”

Lovers. A rather strong word, but they love each other, right? Ciel, like a doe or a wild cat, is just being cautious for now, testing the waters and new territory. Sebastian has no doubt that Ciel likes him, he’s just waiting for Ciel to stop being so nervous and relax.

Otherwise, Ciel wouldn’t have gone with him and let him kiss him. Ciel has honor. Once, at a ball, some elderly aristocrat started hitting on him, but Ciel rebuffed him without a second thought, even though he was a man of higher rank. If he hadn’t liked Sebastian, he would have pushed him away or turned away, that’s for sure.

Sebastian hugs him by his wet shoulders.

“Ciel, relax. It’s alright, right?”

“Right... Today is nice,” Ciel mutters and smiles at the corner of his lips. “It was fun…”

Except for going to the cemetery.

Sebastian sighs and, noticing Ciel’s small but sincere smile, can’t help but smile too. He tucks a damp strand of Ciel’s hair behind his ear, touching his skin with his fingertips.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he mutters. “I’d like to make every day like this… if you let me, of course.”

Don’t rush Ciel, move slowly and measuredly. Ciel is just getting used to him, to them. Sebastian doesn’t want to pressure him and rush him. They made love today — that’s progress, right? Sebastian gently strokes Ciel’s sharp collarbones and kisses behind his ear.

“I want every day to be a holiday for you,” Ciel’s hair smells fresh. Sebastian could breathe this smell forever. “I want you to wake up with a smile every morning and fall asleep with it every night.”

There’s so much warmth in Ciel’s blue eyes. It’s a June sky or a tropical ocean. Sebastian wants to dive in.

“And I want to be the one who makes those smiles,” he whispers.

It’s pathos to say such things and then kiss, but it’s a beautiful pathos.

Sebastian almost feels like he’s on stage, even though there’s no one in the bathroom except them.

XVIII.

“I like kissing you…” Ciel mumbles, looking down. His timidly and shyly lowered eyelashes moderate the coquetry of his lower half of his face. He’s so cute. Sebastian wants to eat him.

Is this normal?

They go to bed together, and Sebastian listens to the quiet wheezing of Ciel’s lungs. Asthma can’t be cured. But there are ways to ease it, right?

In the morning, they’ll go to the pharmacy. And eat something tasty. And then they’ll walk around the city. Sebastian wants to buy Ciel a few more books, but he needs Ciel to choose what he likes himself.

Quiet wheezing. Sebastian presses his own chest a little closer against his narrow back. Ciel mumbles in his sleep, turns over and buries his face in his shoulder.

Quiet wheezing. Maybe it’s Ciel’s soul wheezing, not his lungs, a soul killed by the misfortunes that befall him.

Happiness has no tomorrow. Turgenev, probably. What’s the point of this quote if Sebastian doesn’t put them off for later? Memory, like the sea, brings strange things to the shore of consciousness, and these can be shells or pearls or just sea debris like tree branches and seaweed. Sebastian kisses Ciel’s temple. The lace of this nightgown suits him.

Tomorrow Sebastian will take Ciel’s hands again, like a week ago, stroke his healing calluses with his fingertips in expensive gloves, and say: marry me! and then promise again: I will make you happy! Ciel will hesitate, get flustered, blush charmingly, and then look up with that hard, determined look he’s worked with for most of his life and say yes with confidence. Maybe he’ll kiss Sebastian himself, or Sebastian will kiss him, and they’ll secretly get married, and Ciel will be the most beautiful bride in the world with a bouquet of peonies in his hands, and then they’ll run away somewhere far, far away. It sounds incredible and almost unrealistic, but Sebastian wants to do it exactly like that.

Sebastian is dozing, and his dozing is sweet.

The happiest person alive is sleeping next to him, and it’s not because of idleness or the pleasant realization of having money or something even more base and ugly, but simply because they’re sleeping together and Sebastian is hugging him so tightly and tenderly, as if he’ll never let go.

The clock strikes eleven and there’s only an hour left until midnight, but the spell won’t be broken when it arrives.

06.06.25 — 25.06.25