A/N: Sebastian's POV. Post-anime. Demon Ciel. Set in the future sometime.
Virtually, you could call this many things.
I wrap a gloved hand around a golden knob, unlocking the door of the five-story penthouse flat and continue to back away, holding the door open for my master. The soles of his designer boots from Adam Derrick's winter collection, tapping with every meaningful stride, echoes off the marble tile. The racket continues down each hallway, resounding in every corner. I quietly close the door behind us, then proceed to grasp the shoulders of his Gianfranco Ferre fur cloak as his gracefully slides out of it. I turn, carefully hang it on the mahogany coat hanger, and follow my ward over the central olimpia rosette and down the carrara white arabescato-floored hallway.
My lord enters his bed chamber and sits on the edge of the 1300 thread-count silk down comforter and releases a small sigh of relief. I toss an inquisitive glance his way as a kneel in front of him and begin to remove his footwear. He closes his eyes, tipping his head to the left slightly, and relaxes his petite shoulders.
"Over the years, clothing has become progressively more comfortable."
"It is easier to administer and remove, also." I add, gently tugging his shirt away from his slim silhouette. As I remove each article, I fold it neatly, then drape a sizable towel made from Brazilian cotton over him and lead him to his bath.
You could call this "demon's aesthetics" and acknowledge a butler's role is to obey, run interference for, and tend to his master. You could allude to the shame and humiliation that failure would bring upon said demon.
Despite the fact that my master is also a demon and petty things like water temperature should not phase him, my master is meticulous and particular. After the bath is nearly filled with water at the perfect condition, I add half a cup of bergamot extract, a palm's worth of burnt sugar scented oil, and a drop of cedar-wood spirits. I cross the Bianca venatino marble floor, taking Young Master's meager palm with my lithe fingers, and help balance his weight as he steps in. I pause for a scanty moment, and furrow my brow at the chill in his hand, making a mental note to turn the heat up as well as light the fireplace in is room tonight.
You could perhaps call it pity. Pity, at such a lonely, helpless soul. Pity, for how he is incapable of taking care of himself. At times, I fancy a wonder at how he would fare if I left. Of course, I would never. He would be so very lost, it would be almost humorous. There is much benevolence on my part, you could say.
The younger demon eases his velvet-smooth skin into the bath slowly, savoring the smells and sensation. Once settled, I begin to dampen an Egyptian cotton wash rag. However, my charge appears to have other plans. He smiles deviously, and decides to play one of his childish games; he begins squirming out of my grasp. He moves from one end of the lengthy tub to the other, using his slippery state to his advantage anytime I'm able to lay a hand on him. I smirk as he flails about, my annoyance having worn off the first few times he decided to amuse himself in this way during his bath time. After letting Young Master have his fill of entertainment, I stand and wrap both arms around his drenched form to still him. Even holding him close, I barely manage to hear him holding back a snicker. Having caught him at my own soaking expense, I finish bathing him, and wrap him tightly in a towel.
"My, my, Bocchan," I start as I pick him up less than gracefully, "You have been quite troublesome today. What should your punishment be?" As expected, my words cause quite an upstart, and I find myself struggling with a damp little devil. He leaps out of my arms and disappears, faster than any human could. I smirk yet again at how he tried so very hard to hide a smile.
You could call this a way to pass the time. We demons live a very, very long life; if things are always the same, life is quick to get boring; and my master is known for rarely being boring. I tease my master and he enjoys making things difficult in revenge. You could say this is how we make the time pass.
As I dress Young Master in his night shirt, he releases a small yawn. He blinks twice, and long, dark lashes flutter. He fights the weariness gathering in his eyes that is attempting to coax them shut. I turn to prepare the fire in the furnace and I hear his bare feet pad over to the window. Sufficient in the crackling fire, I stand and cross over to stand behind my master. Snow blankets the night, and the sound of the city can be heard from a distance. I glimpse down at his reflection in the pane. He takes notice, and yet no words are spoken. He doesn't need to say a word. I allow a small grin to grace my ward, and tenderly take him into my arms. I carry him to his mattress, and steadily lay him down as he closes his eyes.
I pause. A second passes by. Then another. One sapphire orb pops open, and then the other, as he stares at me expectantly.
I hesitated only to relish that very gaze. Grinning fully, I remove my tailcoat, vest, and shoes then climb into the bed beside him. I wrap my arms warmly around his tiny frame, and he nuzzles closer to get comfortable. I close my own eyes, breathing deep in the scent of bergamot, burnt sugar, cedar-wood, and one unique aroma I could only describe as "Bocchan". I, too, can now relax and let my guard down, pleased with the knowledge that since Ciel Phantomhive became a demon, he simply cannot achieve a decent night's sleep unless he is in my arms.
Yes, you could call this many things, but not love. Defiantly, defiantly not love.
A/N: Sebastian's denial :p I wrote this for my little sister. Her birthday is soon, and she loves Kuroshitsuji, but she's too young to read M fics and she wanted more fics that were appropriate. Here you go! Happy Birthday! :D