Human kind have one way. We have another. Their end is final. Ours is not. In the earth, it rotted wood. In the eternal darkness, we will see and hear and feel. — Miriam Blaylock, The Hunger

He materialized into the tangible world some eons ago—so long ago that the three realms were still blurred together, bleeding through a dark eventide of starry nights and ceaseless tomorrows. During this time, he knew nothing but the hunger. It grew, bit by bit, until it corrupted his reason and he could think of nothing but the gnawing, burning ache that pierced through his body like a celestial sword of fire.

That, then, was the hunger.

It stained his insides, rusted his organs with dried blood until he fell, a pillar of salt crumbling under the August rain. His mind split and everything rushed forth all at once; the darkness molded itself into visible shapes, and voices of unintelligible speech were heard. This was his clearest memory—a painted ebony image tarnished with globules of crimson paint; souls chained to jagged black rocks, rivers of fire and mountains of chaos brimming with the anguished cries of fallen sinners and unrepentant kings. He crawled away, turned his back to the whispering darkness and entered this realm of organized insanity to bow before the fallen angel, so elegant against his kingdom's crown.

He pressed the knowledge of demonic truth against this fledging's forehead and the hunger subsided.

Souls.

That was what he needed.

Souls. Sustenance. Survival. The answer seared itself into his fragile mind and above, the caverns of the abyss opened to allow a glimmer of moonlight to shine through.

And he looked—dumb, deaf, but cognizant—the darkness had never possessed such beauty. For the rest of his days, for the rest of his black eternity, he would covet this memory, this selcouth lullaby of lost, forgotten truth.

The moon.

The grandfather clock ticks, precisely and carefully, in the walnut embossed hallway. It fills the manor with its monotonous little clicks that somehow soothe Sebastian's tarried soul.

Or was it less of a soul and more of an essence?

He feels the hunger gnawing within him, scratching and clawing as he polishes the silver.

No.

He has no soul.

He is starved and wanting, desirous of the child-earl's soul—one that darkens with every hour of every day. He performs his part well, every t crossed and every i dotted. The butler bows, the butler cleans, the butler does as he is told.

But the hunger. The hunger is unrelenting, seething beneath a paper thin surface of disguised self control. It is the puppet master that punctuates the butler's every action—human engagements, whether soaked in blood or cyanide, are insignificant compared to the hunger that rages beneath this patented facade. Mankind is a trivial necessity that provides for angels their glorious due and gives to demons their only meal. It is the lifeblood of their kind and Sebastian has been without such a supper for decades.

Demons of a higher caliber have gone centuries without decadence but he is a gourmet—and he is hungry.

Oftentimes, Sebastian would touch and prod at the soft skin of his master, marveling at its rich perfection and creamy, meringue white color. It was soft and oh so supple, relaxing like satin beneath his fingertips. The texture was childlike but his eyes—the eyes were two hard sapphires radiating hatred and sodomy. It tantalized the hunger as a sweet roll might a starving orphan.

The earl was a collection of the finest ingredients melded into a cauldron of human negligence and vengeance. He was a meal of excellence that required extreme patience—a sous-vide foie gras so to speak, one prepared under medium-heat and garnished with an abundance of waterlily shallots.

Tea is taken at two, served with a side of those biscuits the Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrovna lent her name to. These are small, circular biscuits flavored with vanilla and hard to the touch. Sweetened with Caribbean sugar produced from the blood of natives and borne by Englishmen who profited from their suffering—the similarity, the butler smiles, is not so surprising.

The earl takes his tea and biscuits, complaining bitterly about the lack of cocoa ("Young master, the marquess' supper party shall provide plenty of that") whilst reading the evening Times. "I want actual food." The child complains, glaring at the little porcelain jars that contain honey, sugar, and clotted cream. "Get me something to eat."

"My lord—"

"I don't want this."

Sebastian's teeth glint in the cold sunlight. "And what would you prefer?"

The earl pauses. "Traditional spongecake with a side of lemon curd and powdered sugar will do."

"You'll spoil your supper."

And I've been waiting far too long for mine.

The child-earl glares. "Unless otherwise stated, the confections paired with tea are generally sweet and in most cases, take the form of a pastry. In this case, I chose a cake—so prepare it. It's not as if I'll live long enough to suffer the consequences." This is a brutal reminder to the nature of their relationship and the demon within him surfaces—for half a second.

His eyes flash scarlet and his hunger—that craven, unmistakable hunger—burns with cold fire in the shell of Sebastian's body.

The contract holds him to obedience and his hunger pushes him to acquiesce.

With a bow, the butler obeys.

"Yes, my lord."

There is a smudge of lemon curd on the corner of Lord Phantomhive's mouth. He pushes the plate aside to take his tea, leaning back in that monstrous armchair the color of burnt umber. Sebastian watches, eyes glimmering as the earl takes a sip—and then two—but that bit of sour-sweet lemon topping remains untouched on the corner of his mouth.

He says so out loud.

"Allow me, my lord." The demon in him screams with hunger and desperation as Sebastian moves to the earl's side, tilting his chin up as he produces a handkerchief out of the darkness surrounding them. "You were in ill humor before." He murmurs, voice low and conscious as Ciel remains seated, one sapphire eye locked on Sebastian himself.

"You were no better." The earl counters. "You dare deny me what I want when I've already consigned to you my soul." He scowls. "A petty, childish move of power."

"I was merely concerned for your welfare."

"What pretty lies you spin."

He discards the handkerchief. "How quickly you forget, young master—I am yours to command. Since the day those words left your mouth, I have not told you a single lie."

"You tell half-truths and mordant entendres. You worry for my health but only for your own gain."

The lavender dusk settles around them, giving this moment a hint of solemnity, as if it is singular—so completely singular—and will never happen again.

"How shrewd you are." The demon admits, and how deeply you drink from the well of bitterness.

"You sound surprised."

"Perhaps I am."

The earl laughs—a caustic, inhuman sound. "Don't play me for a fool."

"My previous employer thought I was in love with her. She tried to wound me several times with her affairs and thought I would relinquish her soul out of simple human affection." Sebastian pauses. "We were both assigned a role and I played my part well. That, my lord, is all."

"She believed you to be in love with her?"

"Indeed."

Ciel scoffs. "How nonsensical."

"Might I inquire as to why, my lord? Do you believe me to be without emotion entirely?"

"You are what is convenient to you." The child's voice is cool and sparse. "If I were a Turkish warlord you would not be who you are at present."

"Ah." The sunset is a watercolor of fire—liquid gold shot through with dying red-orange. "You think of me only as a butler?"

Ciel turns his head and their eyes meet. "What more do you need to be?"

He opens his mouth to speak but the hunger interrupts, catching hold of Sebastian's unneeded breath and yanking him below, angrily burning as starvation thrums through him. His mind clears and reason returns, chasing away the bout of untouched madness.

"Nothing, my lord," the butler clears his throat, "I am what you command me to be."

The earl nods, curt and cold—held together by arctic ice.

Erstwhile, the hunger burns.

Notes:

- "…those biscuits the Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrovna lent her name to" — refers to the Marie biscuit created by the London bakery Peek Freans in 1874 to commemorate the marriage of Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrovna of Russia to the Duke of Edinburgh.

- sous-vide: a method of cooking first described by Sir Benjamin Thompson in 1799; food cooked in this manner takes a particular long time to peak/finish.

- "…waterlily shallots" — a pun on Lord Alfred Tennyson's poem 'The Lady of Shalott' (a perfect poem for Ciel if there ever was one)

A/N: Inspired by the 1983 film of the same name starring the incomparable David Bowie and haute couture fashion queen Catherine Deneuve.