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Sometimes, I hate him.
At least, that's what I tell myself, especially when he's trumped me and his mouth curls up at the corner and his voice takes on that tone, the one that says he'd be laughing himself sick if he weren't so damned proper.
Propriety. When did I stop caring about such things? Of course my reputation in society must be guarded, lest I bring shame on my family name, but inside my home, things like etiquette and form seem trivial and pointless; it doesn't really matter one way or the other if I use the silverware in the correct order, or if I choose to drink from my water goblet while I still have food in my mouth. I'll complain about my lessons if I don't wish to do them, or walk about in my shirtsleeves if that's what I please - although I've learned through painful experience that going about in stocking-feet is unwise when your home is largely floored in hardwood and marble tile. I very nearly went headfirst down a flight of stairs that way, and despite the fact that he caught me up and prevented it - and his irritated expression was entertaining to see - he might very well let me fall next time, provided that I'm in no danger of dying from my injuries, and I don't fancy getting a broken arm just to annoy my butler.
I stopped harassing him just for my own entertainment long ago, mostly because there's very little fault I can find with him, and it’s a waste of energy trying. He's learned to make excellent food, handles social requirements with grace and impeccable manners, is well-versed in almost everything, is ever prepared for unforeseen complications, and follows my orders exactly - sometimes in an aggravatingly literal fashion. He is, quite simply, the perfect butler.
One would never suspect just how furious that makes me.
His perfect smile, his perfect bow, that perfect voice that murmurs and croons and teases and lilts from that perfect mouth, on that perfect face that causes women - and the occasional man – to develop some kind of brain fever that saps their willpower and makes them compliant and stupid and willing to do whatever they must to keep him near.
Is that what's happened to me?
Is that why I'm awake, sitting here staring at the bedside clock that tells me it's half-past three in the morning? Is that why, instead of sleeping soundly as I should be, I feel cold and frustrated and out of sorts? I've tried reading; I've tried counting sheep; I’ve tried just lying still with my eyes shut tight up; I’ve even tried clenching and relaxing all my muscles again and again. Nothing seems to be having an effect on this wretched sleeplessness, and what really drives me mad is the fact that when I finally asked myself what I truly needed to fall asleep, he was the first thing that came to mind. I'd like to say it was only because I wanted a cup of hot milk, and since he'd have to prepare it for me, I thought of him as part and parcel... but I'd be lying.
Because what I immediately thought of was his scent, the texture of his clothing, his solid arms and gentle hands lifting me, the tickling brush of his hair, his warm breath on my cheek, that honeyed voice murmuring quiet, soothing things into my ear. That is what I want, what I need if I am to sleep at all tonight, and it galls me right down to the bone.
I could just call for him and he would come, but what in the world would I say? I may have stopped agitating him just for the fun of it, but the inverse is, unfortunately, not true. He still takes great pleasure in humiliating me - though only when we are alone, of course, because his position requires that he make me look good at all times - and if I confessed that I cannot fall asleep without him nearby, he would torment me mercilessly for weeks.
What shall I do, then? If I simply stay awake all night, I shall be a fine mess by mid-morning; I'm certain a spoonful of laudanum would produce the desired results, but then no one would be able to rouse me for several hours, and I'm sure to have a full schedule tomorrow. Not to mention the fact that the key to the medicine chest happens to be in my damnable butler's possession, of course. Perhaps I could just ask him for it - surely he would not find it unusual if I asked for a key to something in my own home. Then again, he would want to know why I needed medicine, and I suppose I could tell him it's none of his business, but that's extremely unlikely to work. I'd be confined to the bed with a thermometer under my tongue and a wet washcloth on my brow before I could so much as blink.
Perhaps I'll just take a walk. The staff are all asleep, and the household should be quiet and dark - no one will pester me or get in my way, and I don't even have to bother with trying to dress myself. Just a short walk around the house to clear my head, tire me out a bit. Then back to bed, and off to sleep with no more fuss or absurd thoughts. Right, then.
Has my home always been so large? I’m honestly not all that certain that I’ve ever even been down this hallway. Perhaps it only seems so because it’s so dark and I can’t see very much; it's quite a bit darker than I thought it would be. Have I ever just walked around the manor at night like this before, without a lamp or candlestick? Only once, that I can remember... but I don't like to remember that night, the night when I lost everything, the night when hands came out of the shadows and snatched me up and--
There's a light up ahead, coming from behind a door... I wonder who...
Oh. I've come straight to his room, without even noticing. Is it the mark binding us that pulled me here? Does this Faustian contract draw us together like magnets? How else would I have just blindly strolled to his bedroom without thinking about it? It can't be because I actually want to see him that badly.
The door's slightly ajar, and when I peer through the crack, I can see him sitting at the writing-desk, his tailcoat hanging on a hook nearby, the oil lamp burning on the shelf above him; his hand gracefully dips the pen and then returns to move across the paper without so much as dribbling a single drop of ink, and I wonder what he's writing - perhaps a shopping list, or a plan of the clothing ensembles I shall wear? He seems so focused on what he's doing, yet so content - surely he doesn't enjoy all that trifling nonsense? Then again, perhaps doing something mundane is the height of entertainment for a devil who's lived long enough to have done everything else many times over. I wish I could see over his shoulder, if only to watch him write; his penmanship is flawless, an elegant script with no great blots anywhere, carefully arranged in perfectly straight lines across the page. I actually enjoy reading messages and other things he's written, even just his shopping lists, because his handwriting is so pleasant and interesting to look at. It's also amusing, because despite his great skill at pretending to be a normal - if amazingly talented - human butler, his calligraphy sometimes has a certain medieval form to it, an old-fashioned sort of look that betrays his age. Perhaps--
The door suddenly opens and he's standing there looking down at me, his expression full of surprise and a little amusement. "Young Master? Is something the matter?"
Oh, bloody hell. What do I say?
"Is there something you need? Why are you out of bed so late, and without a lamp?" His gaze travels down my body, and he clucks his tongue, looking vexed. "And without slippers, or even a dressing gown, for that matter."
Say something, Phantomhive!
"Young Master? Are you all right?"
"I can't sleep." Not exactly what I intended to say, but at least something finally came out. What is wrong with me?
His eyebrow creeps upward a bit. "Are you unwell?"
"Yes. No. I..." Gah! Stop looking at me like that! You don't care one bit whether I feel well or not, unless there's some possibility of me dying and taking your precious dinner with me. "I can't sleep."
He ushers me into the room and guides me into a chair. "Did you have a nightmare?"
"No! Stop asking so many questions, it's annoying!" Stop pretending you care - I can see right through your perfectly constructed facade, demon, no matter how hard you try.
He sighs, looking a little flustered. "Very well, but if you do not tell me what is troubling you, I cannot be of much use to you."
You trouble me. Your presence troubles me, your absence troubles me, your voice and your smile and your false kindness trouble me – but my inability to tell you any of this troubles me the most. "Just carry on as you were. I'll be fine in a moment."
"Young Master, surely you didn't come to me in the middle of the night to watch me copy lists from my memorandum-book." What is that look on his face? Vexation? Amusement? Even though I've forbidden him to do so, he could very easily read my thoughts - is he mocking me because he knows why I'm here, but won't admit it?
I don't even know why I'm here.
He reaches out and touches my face, and his palm is cool and gentle on my cheek. "You're rather flushed - are you feeling feverish?" I huff at him and he chuckles. "Ah, yes - I was told to stop asking questions. My apologies, Young Master."
He kneels beside the chair, and he's so close that I can smell that cinnamon-and-clove scent I've been inexplicably craving; his words are teasing, but his tone is almost affectionate, and with his hand cradling my face like this, I could almost believe he really does care what's on my mind. "I'm fine, Sebastian. Just... let me sit here for a few minutes."
His thumb strokes my cheekbone, very lightly. "You'll catch a chill sitting there in just your nightshirt."
Don't. Don't try to make me think you care. You don't. I know you don't. But I can't stop myself from leaning my cheek into your hand, just a tiny bit; can't help breathing just a little more deeply to inhale your sweet scent; can't drag my eyes away from your collar, so casually unbuttoned to reveal your white throat. "It's fine."
"I would offer you a lap blanket, but I'm afraid all I have is the quilt. I'll get it for you if you like."
The idea of being wrapped in his bedding is strangely appealing, so much so that I almost tell him to fetch it - but then I realize it's only because I want to be wrapped up in him, his arms, his scent, the comfort that comes from knowing he's there and I am safe; I am horrified and ashamed of myself, and I leap from the chair as if it's on fire. "Don't bother!" I want to run back to my room and just be done with this folly, but I am loath to leave his presence - and so I end up standing in the middle of the room, shifting my weight from foot to foot, unsure of what to do and feeling ridiculous.
“Young Master, you’re behaving very strangely – perhaps I should put you back to bed, so you can get some rest.” He sounds so perplexed that I almost laugh.
“I tell you I can’t sleep, and your remedy is to put me back to bed?”
“Well, you’re far more likely to fall asleep while lying in bed, as opposed to wandering the halls in the dark.” He does have a point there, but as it is currently, I’m just as unlikely to fall asleep in my cold, empty bed as anywhere else.
“You continue your work, and I’ll observe. I should know the ins and outs of my household, shouldn’t I?” He stares at me as though I’ve gone mad, and maybe I have, but I blunder on anyway: “And I want to make certain none of your ‘lists’ involve arsenic in my tea.” What the hell was that? Even I’m not convinced by that line!
He looks terribly surprised for an instant, then averts his eyes with that half-cough that’s meant to cover a laugh but fails every time. “I assure you, Young Master, none of Mrs. Beeton’s recipes involve arsenic. But if you are determined to watch me plan next week’s menu, you’re quite welcome, I’m sure.” He brings the side chair I just vacated over to the desk and sits in it, offering me the larger, more comfortable one. “Please, sit.”
I bristle at this, though I’m not sure why. “I’ll stand, thank you.”
He suddenly rises, picks me up, and places me firmly into the chair, as if I were a doll he’s positioning on a display shelf. “I must insist, Young Master.” His smile is strangely brittle.
“I don’t want to—“
“I’m very sorry, but I won’t have you hovering behind my shoulder,” he says, his eyes narrow and glowing ever so slightly beneath the fringe of black hair shading them from the lamplight. “It puts me on edge.”
I force myself to laugh. “What, do you expect me to plunge a dagger into your back? Idiot.”
His mouth curls up into an evil, open-mouthed grin that shows his wolfish teeth. “If the chair is not to your liking, I could always hold you on my lap.”
An image comes to mind, unbidden: Sebastian sitting at the desk with me perched atop his left thigh, my bare legs hanging down between his knees. “What are you saying? I’m not a lap dog, stupid!”
His grin gets wider. “Then please do your ‘observations’ from this chair, so as not to distract me.”
I consider debating the point with him, but the look he’s giving me makes me change my mind. A wise man must choose his battles, and Sebastian doesn’t seem to be backing down. This chair is rather comfortable, anyway. It’s also still warm from when he sat in it, and it smells of him. Things could be worse, I suppose.
He turns back to the desk and continues writing; I watch him for several minutes, but despite his fascinating handwriting, it really is very dull to watch him work. Page after page after page, complete with small notes in the margins as to where the best place to acquire such-and-such spice is, what color candles would look best with this china pattern and that tablecloth, what after-dinner wine pairs well with which dessert. Does he do this every week? I would die of sheer boredom inside of an hour, I should think.
Before I quite realize it, I’ve turned my attention to his face instead, and I’m watching his eyes move back and forth as they follow the words; his lashes, long and black like a chimney sweep’s soot-brush, flicking through the air as he blinks; his fine, straight nose in profile; his mouth, with those thin lips that look so hard when he presses them together in irritation; I find myself noticing how soft those lips look just now, how nice they are to look at. The tip of his tongue slides between them for just an instant, and I feel so strange, admiring the way the light shines across the wet surface.
I take a deep breath, but I’m immediately filled with Sebastian’s scent, Sebastian’s presence, the scratch of his pen, the firelight dancing over his hair, and instead of steadying myself, I find myself sinking without moving; my body is so heavy and I’m as fluid as a raindrop, falling through space to splash onto the earth and disintegrate.
And then somehow I’ve been re-formed and I’m rising into the sky as if on a cloud, and the wind it breathes onto me is warm on my skin; it takes me a moment, but I finally come to my senses and I discover Sebastian’s lifted me up and is carrying me. “Wait…” I can’t get my bearings – was I asleep? We must still be in his room, because the lamplight looks the same. “Wait, I…” What was I going to say? “Where are we going?”
“You were asleep, Young Master, so I thought it best to put you back to bed. I apologize for waking you – I didn’t mean to.” Is the regret in his voice due to his having accidentally woken me, or the fact that he must now deal with me again?
“I don’t want to go back to my rooms.” I feel stupid and childish just saying it, but this small, quiet room with its plain white walls and sparse furnishings and its one great window over the bed – it’s where I want to be just now, and all the minions of Hell couldn’t keep me away, not even the one who’s currently carrying me.
He sighs. “Young Master, please be reasonable. You’re obviously exhausted, and if you don’t get some sleep—“
I sit up in his arms and hold onto his shoulders firmly. “I’ll sleep here!”
He blinks, his face just inches from mine, and I’d love to know what’s going through his infernal mind right now. “Here? You want to sleep in this room?”
I set my jaw and tighten my grip, trying to make my expression as commanding and no-nonsense as possible. “Yes. What of it?” Go on, Mister Perfect-Butler Michaelis, tell me it isn’t proper for the master of the house to sleep in a servant’s quarters, I dare you! “It’s my house, and I can sleep wherever I like.”
His keeps his expression carefully neutral, but I can practically see the cogs turning in his head. Finally, he exhales a conceding breath and drops his gaze. “Very well.”
I’m so relieved that he isn’t going to challenge me that it isn’t until he bends to turn down the covers that I realize his intention. “Wait, what are you doing?”
“I’m preparing the bed so that you may sleep in it.” He fluffs the pillow, despite the fact that it’s in brand-new condition – he’s probably never put his head on it even once. I almost expect to see a little puff of dust when he touches the bedding, but of course he’d never allow such a thing to happen; I’d wager a hundred pounds that he changes his linens weekly like the rest of the staff, even though he never sleeps on them. “I’m afraid it won’t be quite as comfortable as your own bed, seeing as I have no duvet, but if you are tired enough to sleep in a chair, I daresay you won’t mind it.”
He leans forward to set me onto the mattress, but my arms tighten around his neck and hold fast. “Wait, wait – this is your bed!”
He stands upright again with a thinly disguised huff of exasperation. “Young Master, honestly! You may be within your rights to sleep in any room you like in your own home, but I shan’t allow you to sleep in a chair, and this is the only bed – where else would you have me put you? Would you prefer the washstand, then? Perhaps you’d find the inside of my wardrobe more to your liking?”
His tone is so annoying that I’d like to kick him, but I can’t with my legs hanging at this angle, so I give a dangling lock of his hair a sharp tug instead and I’m rewarded with a wince and a cross look. “Don’t be insolent! Of course I don’t want to sleep in the wardrobe – I’d probably die of the allergic reaction I’d have to all the cat hair, anyway.”
His angry expression melts away and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. “Well then, will you allow me to put you into the bed, so you can go to sleep and I can finish my work?”
“…All right.” I tug that lock of hair again, lightly, just to tease him. “As long as those linens are clean.”
“Of course,” he replies, smiling, and lowers me to the mattress. He was right – it isn’t as soft as my own bed, but there’s something oddly comforting about the firmness of it, something supportive and reassuring. “I would never put you into a bed that wasn’t clean.”
I lie back on the pillow, and he pulls the covers over me; the heavy quilt is warm and soft, and somehow, even though he most likely never sleeps in it, the whole bed smells of him. “Sebastian?”
“Yes?”
“…Nothing. Never mind.”
He smiles at me. “Goodnight, Young Master. Sleep well.”
“Mmm.” I close my eyes and wait until he moves away, then half open them; he’s turned the lamp down so as not to disturb me, but through my lashes, I see him sitting at the desk again, writing, and I watch him for a while: the muscles in his back moving under his shirt, his blue-black hair gleaming in the dim light, the slope of his shoulders, the narrow contour of his waist.
Soon enough, I’m drifting off, the scratching sound of his pen a strange, soothing lullaby, like the rhythmic patter of rain on the roof; and I’m not quite certain, but I think perhaps he comes to my bedside at some point and brushes my hair back from my brow. It’s probably only a dream, one I’ll forget as soon as I wake up and go about my business.
Sometimes, I hate him... but for now, I’m wrapped up in him, and I’m exactly where I want to be.
END