Takes place before Season 2.

Don't read this when hungry.

TO CONSUME.

first course.

White wine for the boy with the fair hair and the dancing, cornflower blue eyes, slowly tipped into a goblet by the butler behind him—a tall creature with a mahogany gaze. Red wine for the darker-haired boy across the table, decanted with a twist of the bottle by the butler with still gold eyes and glasses.

Ciel Phantomhive has long ago grown bored of these private dinners between the young aristocrats of England meant to promote connections among the next-to-rule. He sits poised at the table, hands relaxed under the spilt garnet tablecloth, surveying with more interest the vast array of silverware than the boy across from him. Conversation before the beginning of a meal is often dull, but it would be rude to let one's eyes wander around the dining hall, despite how great the temptation is to stare at the people behind his seated dining partner.

Behind Alois Trancy, Sebastian Michaelis stands erect with a graceful smile aimed at no one. A little farther, Bard, Finny, and Meirin stand together decked in formal wear, weighed down by towels and water jugs and glancing awkwardly at the people behind Ciel.

Ciel wants to turn around to look at them even more—the butler who'd matched Sebastian in height but not demeanor, the young woman with a shivering downcast gaze, and the neatly-groomed triplets who mirror his own three servants in an infinitely more refined manner. The only other presence in the vast hall is that of a piano player near the doorway, striking sporadic notes that float down to them like feathers.

It's one of those dinners. Where, in a show of hospitality, Ciel's servants attend to Alois and vice versa. Each earl chooses the menu the other will be served—it's all a fancy parade of each one's wealth and good taste. Ciel has done it before and he can survive it again.

Both butlers pour them ice water, then disappear off to the connecting kitchen. The silence sweats. Ciel involuntarily glances at his tablemate, who is twirling around a golden fork with no regard for manners or the overripe atmosphere.

The butlers reappear with plates held high. Sebastian places the dish before Alois with one unbridled and elegant motion. Ciel narrows his eyes as he announces, "Prosciutto-wrapped figs in olive oil," in a voice silkier than the garnet tablecloth and all too close to Alois's ear. It is no wonder that the boy's pale eyes trace the butler's receding form before even glancing at the plate.

In contrast, the Trancy's butler—Claude, he recalls—presents Ciel his dish without wasting a single word or motion. "Oysters on the half shell," he says in a voice deeper and more mechanical than Sebastian's before stepping out of sight.

"Let the meal begin, then!" Alois says in that voice that reminds Ciel of some fluttering, flirty bird. He lifts a prosciutto-wrapped fig glimmering with olive oil under the chandelier light and consumes it slowly. "As I expected, you have great taste, Earl Phantomhive! It's both sweet and savory, like nothing else I've had before!"

Ciel spouts some indifferent polite nonsense in response, and continues to fish out the slippery meat from a chilled oyster shell. He'd seen enough oysters at banquets before to know that they were served amongst royalty for their obscene shape and their rumored aphrodisiac properties (underneath, the aristocracy yearned for freedom from their corsets and waistcoats). For the head of the Trancy household to choose them for Ciel… how disgraceful.

"How are they?" Alois twirls a dripping toothpick upon which a fig had been skewered. "People call them 'mouthfuls of the sea' after all."

"Quite well-prepared," Ciel responds without emotion. "You know, there's a saying that 'Poverty and oysters always seem to go together' due to how many of England's poor eat them pickled. It's astonishing that you've managed to prepare them in a way that presents them so… regally, Earl Trancy."

Sebastian casts him a sharp glance.

Alois either ignores the gibe or fails to register it, yet Ciel notices that he snaps the toothpick when he sets it down on the oil-drizzled plate. "I could just choke on the formality right now. Earl Phantomhive, call me Alois."

Ciel sighs. "In that case, you may call me Ciel."

Alois slowly licks the olive oil off another fig, but the morsel before his mouth fails to hide his sharp-edged smile. Ciel's eyes suddenly widen.

Is it his imagination—or is there something on Alois's tongue?

second course.

When the plates are adorned with nothing but toothpicks and oyster shells, Sebastian and Claude clear them. Another moment of silence descends as the butlers retreat to the kitchen.

"You haven't touched your wine," Alois smirks as he takes a sip of his own. "I had Claude pick it personally."

"Thank you." Ciel takes the smallest sip he can. He is not fond of alcohol. The aroma nevertheless perfumes the inside of his mouth, trapping it into a too-strong aftertaste.

Alois raises his goblet. "To the Queen."

His smile is too vibrant; it clashes with the garish setting. Ciel resignedly lifts his own goblet. "To the Queen."

They drink. Ciel winces into his swallow.

The tapping of formal shoes on the tiled floor alerts them to their next course.

"French onion soup," Sebastian announces, again so close to Alois's face that the boy's pale eyes greedily follow him until he steps back.

"Beef consommé," Claude says, sliding the bowl in front of Ciel without fanfare.

They begin to eat again, talking of trivial things, both sitting straight as pins in the high-backed chairs. Despite Alois's lazy, sprawling motions, he lets not a drop of soup fall onto the dark red creases of tablecloth.

The consommé is clearer and more transparent than the sky on a summer day, yet Ciel cannot rinse his mouth of the taste of the red wine. It sits there like a rotting flower, withering the savor of the soup.

"Sebastian-san's cooking is amazing! It even rivals Claude's!" Alois laughs. Behind him, Sebastian bows deeply and murmurs something Ciel strains to hear. The fair-haired boy does not turn around, but his lips part and his fingers clench the polished spoon tighter.

Neither boy finishes his soup. With two coinciding gestures, they signal for the butlers to take the bowls away.

In the wake of their disappearing tailcoats, Ciel starts as something brushes his calf. "Sorry," Alois murmurs, shifting in his seat. For the first time Ciel is aware of their proximity. He makes a half-motion towards his sweating glass of ice water, but at the same time Alois raises his wine goblet.

third course.

"To your health," —a curious tilt of that fair-haired head— "and mine."

"Agreed," Ciel murmurs, raising his goblet halfheartedly. Over its rim, he sees Alois take a generous swallow of white wine, afterward licking his lips to scavenge any runaway drops. Ciel hesitantly takes a full mouthful of his own wine. It's like eating a flower, ravaging a bouquet—all sweet-smell and poison-taste. It burns down his throat; for a moment the sensation of the wine mixing with his same-colored blood steals him over completely, and he wants to gasp for air. The wine goblet trembling in his hand blurs into the tablecloth that is the same breathless garnet hue—all stirs together in his woozy vision, then falls apart to reveal Alois's sparkling blue eyes and parted, upturned mouth.

As he sets down the goblet, a gloved hand slips a plate in front of him. "Odalisques' salad," Claude says. The dish is colorful, a treat to the eyes—translucent slices of white onion and opaque sections of orange resplendent in drops of their own juice, all under a thick dressing and garnished with olives and mint leaves.

From across the table, Sebastian slides an earthy-looking dish in front of Alois. "Cremini mushroom and fennel salad with white truffle olive oil," he says as though it is a lover's secret. His tongue weaves the foreign syllables together easily, and this time Alois turns his head as if to address the butler. But he falls silent instead and turns to look at the shocking green of the fennel next to the brown of the mushrooms, both of which are gently sprinkled with parmesan shavings.

"This looks quite sophisticated," Alois remarks, selecting his salad fork among the line of golden utensils. "By the way, do you know what odalisques are?"

"Female slaves in the harem of a Turkish sultan," Ciel recites without opening his eyes, savoring a section of bursting orange. The dressing contains alcohol, although it is in too small proportions to rinse away the taste of red wine. "Nowadays they're glorified fantasy figures in Oriental paintings. What an interesting namesake for a dish."

Alois laughs breathily as if to ignore the sarcasm in Ciel's voice, and his leg brushes Ciel's again without apology.

Ciel finishes the entire dish save for the mint leaves, eating the olives last with his fork. Each thin slice of onion momentarily relieves his mouth of the pungent wine's flavor with a sharp crackle. Nevertheless, lethargy settles over him even though the main dish has not yet been served. An hour must have passed already with only the tongue-teasers of appetizer, soup, and salad. And he is already so tired of this.

"Ciel?" He looks up; Alois is stroking the stem of his wine glass with one hand while the other rests lazily below his cheek. "You're turning a little pink."

"It's nothing," Ciel replies, without raising a hand to ascertain the warmth in his face.

Claude takes away his plate as quietly as he had presented it; Sebastian mirrors his movements on the opposite side of the table. A few splashes of piano notes decorate the oppression in the air. Alois's fine fingers curl around the stem of his goblet, and Ciel knows what comes next.

fourth course.

"To our families."

What a ridiculous toast—each knows the state of the other's household.

"To our families," Ciel echoes, tipping the goblet as he brings it back to his mouth. More warmth floods him as he puts it back down; one of the triplets emerges from behind him to refill it. Alois finishes his goblet too, and Meirin takes a shaky step forward, uncorking the wine bottle. But Alois takes his time licking off the rim of the glass before offering the goblet to her, which she takes with trembling fingers—that goblet with the stain of his tongue on it, that tongue that somehow seems to reflect the golden light of the chandelier—

He accepts the filled vessel, setting it beside his plate with a delighted smile. Ciel regrets pairing white wine with Alois's meal, because as the night drags on Alois only seems to grow more lucid, while he himself seems to be growing lethargic, intoxicated by the red. Something is not quite right. Something is stirring, restlessly piecing together the night. The chandelier is too dazzling, the tablecloth too deeply red, Alois's eyes too cunning. Ciel feels as though he is slipping away.

The butlers reappear with lidded dishes. Claude sets down one before Ciel, then pulls away the polished silver to reveal a sumptuous stew of deep reds, browns, and greens. "Lapin au vin rouge: Rabbit in red wine sauce."

Sebastian likewise lifts the silver lid from Alois's plate with a flourish. "Salmon piccata." The salmon's pink flesh is studded with jewel-like capers and rests on a bed of rice.

"Bon appétit," both butlers whisper, and step back.

Neither boy speaks before he has tried his dish. The rabbit has the texture but not the flavor of chicken—a rich, gamey taste swathed in what seems to be the same red wine as that in his goblet. Each swallow strengthens the course of the wine in Ciel's blood, the beat of it, fueling his heart. He eats slowly but diligently, watching Alois pluck capers with his fingers and bring the salty buds from fish to mouth.

"You've put together a great meal, Ciel," Alois says, drying his fingers on a napkin. "Everything goes well together and has this light feel."

"Thank you." Behind his eyes, Ciel's head is spinning as he mechanically cuts slivers of rabbit. "Your choices compliment each other well too. Except…"

"Mm?"

"…the wine is a little strong."

Alois laughs. The night goes on. Halfway through their main course, Alois's leg brushes against his again and stays there. Ciel pretends not to notice. He finishes his dish first. By then, the hall appears dizzying and garish, tinged with the leaden taste of wine. The intensity of the chandelier light on the silverware, the mosaics on the walls, the richness of the tablecloth hurts his eyes, so he focuses on the boy across from him, whose fluttering lips seem to lead to sin.

At last Alois renounces his fork, and the butlers sweep over the scene again, disappearing with the dishes into the kitchen. Ciel's eyes want to drop closed—enough of decadence, enough of nobility, enough of pretenses—but a movement underneath the table jolts him back awake.

Alois's stockinged leg slips out of its high-heeled boot and lifts up, the toe stroking Ciel's knee, then moves forward up his thigh. It stays there, toe and heel poised halfway between knee and hip, a soft and weightless presence.

Ciel's world spins. He at once celebrates and curses the curtain of the tablecloth that hides the spectacle from sight. And Alois's fingers stray towards the wine goblet.

fifth course.

"To you and me," Alois whispers.

Ciel raises his goblet without a word and drinks. The wine is not so bad anymore, now that it has permeated every inch of his being. Still pungent, sharp, smelling simultaneously of roses and sweat. Alois's toe curls on his thigh.

Sebastian and Claude reappear with the desserts. "Apricot soufflé," announces Sebastian, sliding the small plate before Alois. The pastry is fluffy and shows no sign of collapse, looking rather dignified in its dusting of powdered sugar and its bed of warm apricot sauce. Yet Alois's eyes are focused on Ciel's dish.

"Crêpe Suzette," Claude says, presenting a raw-looking crepe on a dish with one hand. In the other is a bottle of Grand Marnier.

"Watch this," Alois says.

Claude opens the bottle and twists his hand in a way that should send the liqueur flying everywhere—instead, the Grand Marnier drapes itself perfectly over the crêpe. Then he produces a box of matches, lights one, and touches it to an errant stream of alcohol.

The crêpe is lit ablaze, sucking the flame greedily from the match. Ciel forgets his headache for a moment, entranced by the flame, by the sweet-smelling heat, by the dark presence of the butler next to him. Finally the fire dies down, clothing the crêpe in a thick, caramelized sauce. From somewhere, Claude produces a handful of fresh raspberries, which he scatters upon the dish before stepping back. Prickly raspberries—bursting, urgent—more red—wine, tablecloth, blood—

Ciel's head hurts.

He somehow manages to lift his fork and knife and slowly consume the crepe, from the bright raspberries to the sweet sauce. Everything seems far away—the servants, Sebastian's somewhat concerned expression, the lingering piano notes drifting down from the doorway—except that boy across from him poking at his soufflé and tracing his thigh with a toe.

At the close of the course, Sebastian and Claude carry off the dishes. Ciel is burning. The room is burning. He feels sweat on his neck, feels wine run inside him where blood ought to.

Alois lifts his goblet.

sixth course.

"To our pleasure," the fair-haired boy murmurs, too low for anyone except them to hear.

His voice no longer sounds like the chirping of a bird to Ciel, but rather swells with the excess of sugar, fine meat, and alcohol. Ciel drinks without acknowledging Alois's raised glass. Poison—

His vision swims. No longer aware of what exists, he can only feel Alois's foot on his thigh, begging it to part from the other. When he sets down the wine goblet, unable to see properly and an absurd beat thrashing his forehead, he imagines Alois climbing across the table, scattering plates and silverware, imagines himself being pulled out of his chair to be consumed by the blue-eyed boy.

Wine streams from their bodies; they are streaked by sweet and savory sauces; Alois presses him against the lush folds of garnet tablecloth and rips him open with golden fork and golden knife. Meirin fills their shattered wine glasses while Bard and Finny pillow Ciel's head on napkins. The strange, tanned maid cleans the blood that drips onto the tiles, and the triplets smother the two boys with strange and exotic condiments—wasabi, horseradish, redcurrant jelly—as their three faces unite in obedient subservience to the fair-haired boy. And the piano player slams his keys with the abandon of an artist, forsaking those spare, floating notes for a heavy dirge.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ciel sees dark twin figures bearing more plates. The vision dissipates; he is in his seat, slouching, and all sensations suddenly escape him, turning everything black. His hearing is the last sensation to leave his consciousness. Alois whispers, "Too bad you're missing the cheeses," and his amused exhalation, a single laughing breath, follows Ciel into oblivion.

—poison?

Alois arranges a devastated expression on his face when Ciel passes out, and rudely shoves his foot back into its boot. "Claude! Sebastian-san! Ciel has…"

The butlers set down their dishes of savory cheese and crackers, Sebastian with more urgency, though he turns back and says, "Please excuse the young master from the table," before scooping up Ciel. He disappears into a connecting room of the rented palace, followed by the three Phantomhive servants.

The hall is suddenly larger. Alois leans back for the first time all night into the seat. "Ahh, that went well, didn't it? But you didn't put too much in the wine, did you?"

"No." Claude adjusts his glasses with one white finger. "The earl will wake tomorrow with nothing more than a headache that may be easily passed off as a hangover."

"Really? Great!" The table trembles as Alois kicks the chair back, stretching out over its red-and-gold embroidery. "Ne, Claude. You can get me alone with him somehow, right?"

"Of course." Claude heads for the door that Sebastian had passed through. "In the meantime, master, I suggest you try some of the cheeses Earl Phantomhive has chosen to serve you."

"As if I hadn't had enough of this gluttony already," murmurs Alois, only loud enough for his servants to hear. Not one of them even shifts. They stay behind Ciel's chair as if still serving an invisible master.

In mere moments Claude returns from the doorway, accompanied by Sebastian and the three Phantomhive servants. Sebastian's expression is crinkled in distaste. As they pass him, Claude nods almost imperceptibly.

Alois jumps up and steals from Hannah's hands the bottle of red wine. He races towards that door, beyond which is a golden hallway bedazzled by mosaics—the only door that is a crack open is the one two doors to his right—

Ciel is there, half-conscious on an overlarge velvet armchair. Alois locks the door behind them and sets down the wine on the floor.

"How are you feeling, Ciel?" he asks, his tongue dancing in mockery. The other boy's eye is half-open, his thin lips parted, just open enough to fit one of Alois's fingers if he wanted—

He pulls off the flimsy eyepatch and forces opens Ciel's right eyelid.

"Come on, look at me."

Half-consciously, the boy obeys, and the white of his eye is replaced by a large, full iris, in which is a familiar supernatural sign. Alois stumbles back but laughs and laughs and laughs.

"I knew it! I knew it. All those rumors of what a perfect butler you had—I knew you had to have done it! Made a contract to have your soul stolen. Ahhh…"

The eye droops closed.

"But this won't do, Ciel. I'm the only one who can have a butler like that. You can't have one—you haven't gone through what I have and you don't deserve one—"

Alois uncorks the bottle of wine.

seventh course.

"To your destruction," Alois whispers, and pours the remaining wine over Ciel's body.

The younger boy shudders, never startling out of half-consciousness. Alois laughs and laughs—how small Ciel is, how he never noticed—and watches each rivulet of drugged wine make its way down the folds of Ciel's fine clothes and pale skin.

Out of impulse, Alois opens that right eyelid again, and Ciel's gaze swivels up to showcase that magenta pentacle. Alois sticks out his tongue, gilded with a gold star, and brings it to Ciel's eyeball.

He stays there for moments uncounted, both hands on Ciel's wine-sodden shoulders, feeling the synthesis of their contract marks, their mutual damnation. In the end they will both be consumed—but Alois can make sure he won't be the first.

At last Alois draws back. As his tongue leaves Ciel's eye, the lid slips shut again, but his left eye remains half-open.

"I'm going to brand you now, Ciel." Alois sinks onto the armchair—already red velvet, now stained darker—and pulls the boy roughly into his grasp. "With this cursed tongue." You'll be mine long before that greedy demon of yours gets you.

And he licks off the wine from every exposed inch of Ciel's skin. Its pungent bouquet is complemented by the boy's sweat, and its stunning sharp taste is bridled by salt. Ciel stiffens in Alois's arms, even if he cannot sense what is happening. When Alois reaches his exposed thighs, the dark-haired boy trembles.

Now that not a drop of wine colors Ciel's skin, Alois leans back into the armchair. He closes his eyes and weighs the feel of Ciel's body close to his own, high with the excitement of knowing a secret. Slowly the power of the drugged wine clouds his mind, too weak to push him into unconsciousness but too strong to keep him alert.

A knock on the wooden door. He opens an eye.

"Master. The coffee and petit fours are ready." Somehow, Claude opens the locked door from the outside and comes in without acknowledging the boys' positions. He sets down the platter beside Alois on a nightstand, then notes his unfocused gaze. "Did you drink some of the wine?"

"I didn't drink it," Alois smiles, pulling Ciel closer. "But I did have some."

Claude sighs, and brings the cup of coffee to Alois's lips. "Then drink this. It'll wake you up."

It does just that, to the fair-haired boy's dismay. Rational thought returns to him. "Where's Sebastian-san?"

"Preoccupied." Claude leaves the room, taking the empty wine bottle with him. "I'd say you have about an hour. I'll bring you a change of clothes then since you seem to have spilt some of the wine."

The lock turns in the door. Alois hooks his legs around the smaller boy and leans against the armrest. His meandering fingers select a petit four blindly, then bring it to his mouth. He selects another one and crushes it against Ciel's unmoving lips.

"Too bad you didn't get to taste the rest of what I planned for you," he murmurs. "These confections are for refreshing the mouth before the next meal. And I really do look forward to another."

Alois slips his branded tongue against Ciel's collarbone. The younger boy's eyes finally slide shut.

thank you for the meal, it was delicious.

.

.

.

"Poverty and oysters always seem to go together" is from Charles Dickens's novel Pickwick Papers.

'Odalisques' salad' is the only dish here that I couldn't find an equivalent of online; that name seems to have been born out of the fancy of the author of the cookbook I was using. No, I didn't invent it.

Don't even ask me why, but the wires between food, sex, and pleasure must have gotten tripped up in my brain.