Chapter 1: Agrizoophobia
Disclaimer: No bocchans running around my household
Warnings: Boy/boy, slight CielxAlois, future libidos revealed, alotoframbling, presentandpasttensemixups, nobeta, didntbothertodoublecheck, hue
OH GOD PLEASE DON'T READ THIS. DON'T READ THIS FANFIC. IT EMBARRASSES ME. DO YOURSELF A FAVOR AND CLICK ON THE BACKSPACE BUTTON AND LOOK FOR A BETTER SEBCIEL KUROSHITSUJI PLEASE.
The action of throwing someone or something out of a window.
My name is Ciel Phantomhive—just Ciel Phantomhive. I am British by birth, turning a dopey sixteen years by today, linked by inducing memories and cuffed to the border of an admonishing train heading to the inferior likes of boarding school. Heh, well whoop de bleedin' do.
I prefer not to speak of my appearance but for your ruddy sake, I suppose I can let this one time be an exception. May as you will, a Phantomhive only gives second chances. As it is aforementioned, my brain has been functioning for sixteen years. However, of course, consideration (accusation) of yours truly taking in the insolent act of eradicating all the essential brain cells not unlike the majority of humanity is a high probability, but I assure you: I don't.
There may be a detailed visualization of a lanky teenager, with a lazy, unsophisticated, ugly breed of smirk and giant, square hands squashed in unkempt pockets for stashing unbelievable amounts of porn, or whatever my insane arse generation desires to mooch. They find it unnecessary to comply to morality (mind boggling bints), is what they think. I adorn a regretfully petite physique that can be mistaken, as I was before, for a mere child ranging from thirteen, to Jesus Christ, what, an infant? A female? Granted, the first twelve years of my life exchanged levels of pain, level to level for this cause only. And I don't mean failing to contribute in puberty, god no—just a painful pinch of snarky vomit-coloured hair, the remains of a disgusting, half-bitten jeer, and the name he goes by, Maurice, an insufferable prick that never hesitated to punch my guts in and threatening to fuck my mother. Haha. Hahahaha. God knows how many factors of the concept in attempting necrophilia. God also knows the quantity of individuals not knowing the difference between fuck and fuck up. Not that my mother wasn't fucked up.
He's obviously built—well, more built than I. A dashing shade of sheer blond in a curly mop atop his head, like a strange feline in heat who decided to dump its weight on a mass of shit. I don't feel the need to go into too much detail on this particular subject, but all I can say, is he is well-liked. Well...more liked than I. Exactly why he chose specifically to do me in besides McMillan who is charming in attitude but loserly in his figure, like mine, the shores of dignity does not know. Well, there he goes again scooping up the remnants of trash treasured and played with as if toying the likes of seventy year old rapists who assemble their carefully located Lego sets and secure them again, this time on an infant's naked, plump bottom which recently felt the warm hands of his mother's in which he'll never feel again.
My hips jut out awkwardly in retaliation to my stupid, tiny waist, a disheveled sense of grimaces producing a disagreeable ambiance.
Preventing to explore the outdoors and despising the intruding sun rays on hot, pink skin and instead learning to refrain inside the luxurious cushions of couch, smoothly coated carpet and cooling air conditioner has in expense and repayment, converted my yellow skin (I had a major case of pneumonia as an infant) into a deathly, unhealthy looking white.
Consequence after consequence like I'm cursed from the damned above. I attained a mysterious colour that shrivels down the strands of my cranium. A jealous teal-colour: a promise of my dead father's protruding raven curtain combined with wisps of my dead mother's sluggish yellow, blonde head that proceeded to bounce with her tiny breasts as she strode forward. I know what you're thinking, 'Why Shiely! How can you possibly know that when your parents are long-gone, dead and died before you gained the ability of speech?' First, don't call me Shiely. It's Ciel. C-i-e-l. Second, I live with Aunt Angelina in suburb of Australia (having moved down from England to gain a small fortune), a carefree adult with the antics of a child, always thinking like an excitable gossip girl. Whenever her meds were on low course and her eyes were shifty, she took it upon herself to venture me in stories of my mother and father, even taking out her private album under the main bed to emphasize how gorgeous my dad's cheekbones were. However, she never had time for me.
"Aunt Angelina, I'm bored," I said often.
"Madame Red, please Ciel. Didn't I just buy you a card game?" She would say.
"It's only meant for a multiplayer game plan..,"
"That's nice, dear."
"Madame Red, I finished the Sudoku booklet."
"Madame Red, I cooked us dinner."
"Madame Red, I took a dump so hardcore it landed two holes in the hoarding toilet bowl like two eyes resembling the face of Maurice who bullies me constantly (the guy that you're supposed to acknowledge), it probably made two boomed double pledged all-star shit when it hit the bottomless fucking dump mouth of norm China, the world of Nackle, where Jackie Chan's going to read my vows to eternal glories', the truckload's going to start like zombie one man standing apocalypse, except bleedin'...elaboration on the Mayan theory isn't cutting it, because it's real and happening—for once, the big Yoda would stop on the road and gaze longingly at the distance, mercy Mommy dark's gonna be all up with"dang" and we will die without bomb fried chicken shelter even though I was creator and called necessary server dibs with an additional, freaking napkin."
"Madame Red, I finished my homework."
"Madame Red, I brought in a lonely, pitiful puppy who was bound on the streets of Bethlehem."
"Madame Red, I delivered a criminal to justice."
"Madame Red, I got a girlfriend."
"Madame Red, I sold all your clothes for dinner tonight."
Please take note that these snippets of dialogue were based on true life situations. Regardless, Madame Red wasn't all incompetent and unhelpful. It wasn't at all her fault that she was born with the mental capacity of a goat stricken in fear. And if there was going to be a Zombie Apocalypse produced from my pert bottom, I suppose I would try and save her. After all, we're family, right? Wrong.
Who is she to send me to boarding school? Who is Mr. Evolution to even consider haughty plans for boarding school? What is it but your average, snotty nosed brats who subconsciously contradict that we have to evolve from stupid, dumb infants? They are in fact, equivalent to baby-nosed toddlers. Waddling from here to there, giggling because Frank or whatever got the cooties despite owning the age of sixteen or seventeen. Actually, now that I think about it, it's all going to be anexact, larger version of school for the last eleven years, only with a prominent unmistakable policy that we had to not only tolerate, but live with those gobbling, attention-seeking bunch of inflammable geese.
Madame Red was her stage name. Angelina was the representation of her soul, hence all the encouraged direction to call her Madame Red. She did work terribly hard though, deserving a few life points here and then, always coming 'home' (a dopey apartment room with one small forbidden dog and two shaggy beds) with swollen eyes and goose bumps initiated in her pink flesh that come from her taking of night-shifts.
We displayed a nonchalant, fine relationship, the one that stayed silent amidst family members and differs from the formal respect we accept. I stay out of her meddlesome relationships and problems; she stays out of my antisocial concern-worthy life and gives edible food. Give the fam a gold medal for heart-touching feel-good antics that would go into record reality TV shows. You know, those ones where the kid is constantly haunted from the ghastly beast under his bed, and there's this little baby input that can shoot poop by command?
Once things were starting to perk up, (I pay my one quarter, she pays the rest and all that,) she was successful in buying the next plane ticket to France and lodging up all her gear for a permanent stay. Just after the last suit case did she inform me of her latest boyfriend who promised her a happy life in Paris. I of course filled all the paperwork. A simple thank you, Ciel, I love you Ciel would have been nice. Instead, I got:
"I enrolled you into boarding school, Ciel. I hope to God you don't mind; Ash wanted me to come over as quick as a jiffy!" She announced enthusiastically while giggling her giggly laugh, patting the walls of our now ex-apartment affectionately.
The dark yellowed splotches on the wall used to spook me out as a child, like some unknown seal under the threat of converting into the arms of Never-land, or some crap like that. Yes, Peter Pan—I don't like books. Happy endings just for the sake of happy endings are just too unreal for my liking. I stick to the facts; the slimy strings of otherworldly capture stinks its stupid stench. Horror movies are a whole other story. A revolting one, if I can appoint my opinion. Who wants to watch something just to point out their inner most fears? Fear is a bad thing—fear is evil. Fear makes you feel tiny, inferior to infernos functioning in the atmosphere.
I don't remember replying to Madame Red. Digging deeper, there was a chance that I slammed the door on her, with a look of betrayal. But if that really happened, a stoic, passive Phantomhive would have walked out seconds later with a plaster of a neutral face and a subtle nod to bid goodbye.
This is exactly how, I presume, I'm now on the next train to Robbinton Secondary College, Boarding School. It consists of a whole night trip with hand dandy makeshift cabins. Like I could sleep, here on a rickety bed that showed pathetic workmanship (I mean, red with purple?) with trains rattling on train tracks, letting out whispers of warning. Something along the lines of 'notice me, notice me, hear me roar, you're not going to sleep tonight. Oh and you're going to boarding school'. I guess I can't complain though; for once, Madame Red chose nicely. Ash was, for further exaggeration, a five dollar bill short from being a billionaire and counting. I couldn't care to pay attention to details but I'm pretty sure he was the head of some big, champion company that literally dominated over others. He agreed to pay for some part of that molly-boo trip and my school funds.
The god-awful train came to an abrupt halt, the breaks screeching against the metal tracks and my delicate head almost came into collision with the wall. Staring outside the window, the trees were scattered in this area and had aloofness towards the ambiance, like the wind always caressed nature's furniture at a daily basis. That was however, all I can see. Outside was dark as sin, resembling the fur of wolf omen. I remember once being afraid of the dark. It was terrifying, learning that it wasn't just the fear of dark, but stage one hallucinations caused by the worst expectations. Meaning it was all in the back of my head, my small, child-looking, teal head.
The door to my cabin slammed open.
Startled, I flung my gaze behind my shoulder just in time to see a blond male stepping onto the clear floor-boarding, humming in content to the particularly warm ambiance he received as he hung upon my domain. His scant choice of clothing and permanent snarky features on his stuck up face said that while he's happy now, other times, his face would stage a knack of disinterest and snide remarks about everything, as if he was bored in life. Moving on from his disagreeable look and surprisingly obvious posture, he was still an inch from my reprimanding bubble.
"I thought I booked a private cabin?" I shot out pointedly, my accent lacing elegantly through the words. Madame Red be damned; I'm rather proud that I brought somewhat little of my past back into reality. Internal, like a dream now with proof.
"Was that a question, rich boy?" He drawled out lazily, picking off lint from his knee length pajama shorts and flicking them irritably in my direction. His tone was lax, carefree, something that would make Madame Red's nose wrinkle. His flicking, curious blue eyes could subtly follow a zooming fly.
I shot my nose high, upwards. "It was a fact, and then a question mark." To so eloquently state, there was an automatic whiff of dislike hidden in the musk as we speak.
The blond actually smirked. "Then, apparently not, Pom." The curve of his tongue caressed the words like he said it about a million times, a well practiced certainty that would allow someone to stare.
I scowled and he made himself at home, dumping his luggage that was nearly double his size on to the other rickety bed, next to my rickety bed. We did have some space kept, which was considerably great.
"I don't suppose you're going to bring some of your equally as magnificent friends?" It needed to be said; I needed peace and quiet and no more people to grace me with their presences.
"Ey-Ey," He answered, pointing an accusing pointer finger in my direction. "I'm one of a kind. My magnificent stature is off the charts. Peasants don't reach that level and my arse is plentiful for worthy eyes." He grinned as I rolled my eyes.
To tell the truth, I didn't understand a word this guy was spouting. He staggered from pole to pole and swung his legs immaturely as they hung off the supplied bed, a stuffed toy with a makeshift crown atop the furry head bouncing along with the covers as he applied pressure. Narrowing one's eyes comes instinctively when disapproving.
I dug into my back, roaming the feel of satisfying leather purchases to clasp the edge of a reassuring book. Hardback, ah one of my favourites. The book was scooped up and placed on the edge of my bed, about ready to feel for a set of noise-averting ear muffs that only does have its job. Incidentally, I skipped from some place in the middle just for the irony of the situation. One unreeling sentence jut out prominently, which drove my attention to the familiar state of text. L'oiseau que tu croyais surprende...The bird you had thought you caught beat its wings and flew away.
Lovely and befitting. My roommate was unblinkingly rummaging through all his suitcases but managed to put me out of misery, which I was surprisingly grateful for. There was a good, satisfying ten minutes of solid silence before my reading time was finally disrupted by a phone call. After ten minutes, I was still stuck on that very line, which now looked like unsophisticated blobs of ink weary to eyes.
"Then I'll meet you tomorrow night at eleven, babe~"
I whipped my head over my shoulder to shout out a well practised glare at this despicable nuisance. The guy nodded into the phone, a flirtatious grin playing amongst his face, and his wormy fingers curling their way somewhat provocatively against the hardly placed bed sheets. He was blindingly tangling the chord through his slim digits and was dangling the phone on his shoulder, the smooth cheek of his face holding it steady as he spoke. Now I couldn't place too many things I check-listed for birthdays. Ten seconds in, and he finally acknowledged me.
"Hah-since when did the definition of tolerate get messed up with love? Please? Thank you. Be a darling, won't you, and tell Sutcliff to go fuck himself. No, god, they already banned his chainsaw. Good point. Tell Claude I love him? What did I tell you about your slimy fetishes abou—holy shit, I have to go!" He smacked his head in a mock-dope effect.
I heard another voice over the receiver.
"Alois Trancy, if this is another one of your 'oh whoopsie, gotta scoop a poop, don't even get me started-"
"Hannah, that's harsh, I really do have to go, is Claude there, is Sebastian there, tell yourselves I love you all," He started listing them all out on his fingers.
I could hear nothing but a female grumble in reply.
"Nah, I just have this beast staring me down," his eyes made contact with mine and he flashed a challenging grin. "New student, methinks. Quite cute too, if he'd get rid of that ugly expression which seems to be permanently glued on."
I stood up. I sauntered over to him. I grabbed the phone. And I slammed it down.
In a matter of minutes, my roommate had risen up to his heels, having a good one or two inches in height from me, which was seemingly unfair. A slow grin still curved his features even when the look hardened, if possible. The train's sound of rattling annoyingly against the base was near-transparent, you get used to it after a while, so it would seem. For a minute, I was afraid he was going to punch me, but now his eyes were glinting in fascination.
"Why, new stu!" He gasped; his two hands cupping my face caught my off-guard as I stumbled forward. The expression on my face should be hilarious because he was now laughing whole-heartedly. "Didn't your mother tell you that it's rude to eavesdrop? A private conversation is a private conversation," He held one finger up on emphasis.
"Don't touch me." I grit out, swatting his hands away as I harrumphed back onto my bed. "And no more phone calls." Trudging the duvet up to retaliate against the wall, I slid into the warm mouth of one rickety bed, trying the ultimate best not to expect any cockroaches crushed under the mattress. Ugh, too late. My head came into collision with a pillow from home, the soft rebound making me sigh happily, but inwardly.
Once settled down, I set my gaze onto the teenager who was halfway from nodding solemnly before bursting into small snickers. He jumped forward on his own bed, a creaking noise developing under the wood cracks.
"You're seriously some cooped up, freaking lime competitor, aren't you? Do you have what, like, a butler at home at your mansion?" He mocked, blond strands falling onto his face as the mattress deflated underneath him.
I turned to my side.
"So, what are you really, a new student? I don't think I've ever seen you around." He proposed, his voice ringing heavily with cheeping excitement. If he were to step outside, there was no doubt that any tone of his own voice would have echoed along the dark hallway of train cabins. For once, I felt pity for the poor bloke who had to drive snotty children to school for a living.
I was face to face with the wall, debating on what type of person the male was. If I ignored him, would he leave me alone? Or would that spur him on?
"New guy, new guy, heeeey, new guy, new guy!"
Apparently the latter. I was never described to be someone relenting.
Hurriedly, I pushed the covers down in attempt to sit up and shoot him an exasperated look of annoyance. Watching his bubbly form squirm on his bed in turn made my fingers itch to pinch the bridge of my nose. "Can you please...refrain from opening your mouth?"
He pouted at me—the brat actually pouted at me. "Fine. But now I know definitely that you're a new kid..." He jumped up. "Want to know how?"
The sarcasm didn't manage to pass through one ear or the other, because he said: "Because you're shooting me down. And no one nailed on school campus shoots me, Alois Trancy, down. Not even the seniors." He looked mildly satisfied to himself (really?), arms crossed as his chin lifted.
Alois Trancy? What kind of bizarre name was that? But then again, I was told my name was rather peculiar as well. But this? I studied the blond a one over, once again. Alois' skinny arms coiled around each other like two snakes with hungry glances (and genitals, did snakes have genitals?) and his hair ruffled as if before he boarded the train, he took a ride atop the ceiling of said train. The sickly sweet aroma that transparently surrounded him reminded me of a cruel, vile beast disguising itself in one harmless looking, and I daresay not too bad-looking human male. Wait, I take it back. In some kind of disgruntled sense, it wasn't too much of a hanky job, naming him Alois.
Despite the person, curiosity got the better of me. "Why?" I asked solemnly, staring right into the eyes of a newly found beast.
Aforementioned eyes seemed to sparkle with excitement. "You'll find out soon enough, growing grasshopper of Robbinton Secondary College, Boarding School, RSCBS for short, Robbinton Secondary College, Bull Shit for realists." He bantered shamelessly.
"So what's your story?" He propped his blond head on his white palms.
"You knoooooow, why you enrolled in the first place? Parents got divorced?"
"Fight with parents?"
"Huh." No sincerity. "Foster parents were fed up from keeping you secretly inside their cellar, having only adopted you because of the shitload of money that your parents dumped on you?"
"Are you for real?"
"Fortunately for you, yes. Cutie." Alois hollers, his teddy bear tumbling under his shins.
Wait, everything snapped like a furious demeanour. "I'm not cute!"
"Hey wait," His fingers snapped in realization. "I never got your name. Very rude of you." He commented with his chin tilting up. I scowl.
"It's Ciel." It left my lips before I could over-think it. I seemed to have a phasing talent for it recently. I would later know that informing Trancy of my name would be like offering the red, plush lips of the beautiful Madame Red to a dirty, shady black shawl hunch man on the streets.
Insert the most disturbing, undignified bulging of eyes and wibbling pout look here.
"Hurrrgh. Ciel Phantomhive,"
"Creepy as," Alois whistled, his eyes flickering in mild fascination, perhaps studying over me. I felt the necessary urge to pull the blanket over me once again. "You sound like one of those sinister criminals,"
"And you don't sound like those Korean wrestlers in jump-suits?"
"...Are you an orphan willing to perform an experiment, hence the boarding school?"
"...Or are you like, a seriously skilled combat spy who's targeting the principal for some transparent rival school?"
"...But you don't seem like that whole body builder ordeal,"
"Maybe that's specifically why they chose you, because you look small, and weak, fragile and pretty."
"Hey, try me! There's some awesome films out there where ultimate feminine bodies wreck havoc against actual, builder-looking villains. Like you know in NF1 where that petite girl goes up against-"
"Trancy, go to sleep. Please."
"But why do you call me Trancy? Is that like a condition amongst all your-"
"Alois, I will hurt you."
Black and blue. Now, that doesn't sound right, while you're bruised, you're just blue. Or red. A lot of red. Where does that black come from? A spiritual sort of sense, maybe. Yet even then, Black isn't the colour of surrender—white was. And to elaborate on that thought, white was also the sign of peace. Black and White aren't even colours in the first place. A young teacher once told me that they were both similar, but completely different contrasts. She was a little black and blue in the heart. Maybe. For a prolonged time of humanity, Black and White was what separated us. Humanity is stupid. All else, everything, is stupid. Madame Red is probably half way to Paris by now, on the edge of eating fried snails or whatever the hell they offer in that god forsaken country.
I am stuck here, and there, in a black hallway with no end. The air is so dense, it won't transmit any sound. Like the time when my life reached the max, my mother's dainty hands cupping mine, I was about three, I think, when Mother and Father went out in declaration of anniversary and never came back. They died on their anniversary. Isn't that ironic? Mother's coat tendrils tickled my face, and Father's callused palm would caress my flesh.
Was the colour orange named orange first before the fruit orange? Why are goldfish called goldfish when they were really orange; when they should be called orange-fish? Why does stupidity ex—
"iel? Ciel? Ciel...Ciel, wake up!"
My weary eyes shot open, tempted to shut tightly once again as bits of sunlight seeped through the filtering eyelashes. Somehow there was a figure that decided to blur its features and produce annoying sounds that prevented sleeping. I swatted them away. Another sudden wisp of cold air, but I payed it no mind. Shortly after, there was a welcoming heat that pressed itself onto my abdomen and thighs. Nicer. I opened one eye in gratitude. Ah, Alois, my mind-numbing temporary roommate.
"Ciel, hey guess what," He says, attempting to pry my eyes open. "We're dorm buddies! You're moving in with me!"
Or not. Dear God.
"Cieeeeeel! Come on, wake up you lazy arse!"
More press. I blinked my eyes open fully. As I started to ponder, I immediately know surroundings now. Blanket whipped off in a grim attack to wake, sunlight streaming through cracks of the blinds—curtains were hooked elegantly to one side as if we recently had a butler stroll through here, Alois looking painfully bright and as cheerful as ever despite the time, legs clapped aside the lever blanket in the middle, arms around—oh, he was on—
"Trancy—get off me!" I shove him off my body, which he was previously straddling. His failing of stifling his grin protruded in a small pout instead as a thump acknowledged when ground met bottom. He let out a whine of discontent and pulled himself right back up, his light hair bouncing off his young face.
"Oooh, is someone a little innocent?" Alois cooed, his eye lids covering the utmost half of his crystal orbs.
"Don't." I scold as I fall, head first and back into the glorious plumpness of my pillow-which is soon taken away, prompting the back of my head to thump into the hardness of the mattress. Glowering at Trancy, he merely shrugs before edging the pillow away, sitting on the other side of my bed like a pet in claim.
"Ciel," He shakes me, and I rise like a vampire from its outdated coffin. I didn't just use a vampire reference. "Ciel, for fuck's sake, wake up, you gotta change!" I am driven off my sleeping position and somehow ended up on the floor, bottom first.
"What are you talking about?" I snap back, blue strands of my naturally groomed hair sticking all over the place, urging me to run a fine hand along its boundaries.
"We're almost there, coots. And unless you want to spend your first day in your sleeping attire, wherein you'd probably get violated by the likes of-"
The next few minutes, he proceeds to stare at me, and in turn I stare back expectantly. Judging by his blank, every-doofed expression, he hasn't obtained my prominent message. I stare harder.
"What!?" Alois cries out.
"Blimey, Scott!" He raises his hands up defensively, tuning his voice an octave higher with perfect curves just to mock me.
He starts too soon, and a moment later, Alois spins back right around with a disgusted look on his face. "Wait, I don't want to go out there. Do you know what time it is? I'm not even fresh yet! Aren't you now blind to the pearliness of my skin!? It's dreadful, Ciel...!"
An expectant stare is what he receives; thy expectant stare is all thou shalt get.
"Don't make me come out!" Alois pleads.
I pinch the bridge of my nose with my fore-finger and my thumb. Handy dandy, knittles prick, he fondles with time, so he squick. The blond is hopping from toe to toe, I don't know what the hell he's going on about, much less understand what he's trying to say. The particle insisting to push in between fresh and flesh doesn't make it remotely correct despite coming out of Trancy's mouth. Why, out of all people, did he lodge up with me first? After seconds, and rattling of train garbage, and hushed chatter from outside the cabin, I give him a subtle, irritated nod.
He ought to comply.
"I mean it," I manage to gruff out before tossing off my sleepwear, and flinging it into a lifeless mass on my bed in quick succession, hopping onto one foot to tug up my dress-shorts uniform and settle it on my narrow hips. To be complete honest, it's undoubtedly embarrassing changing with a turned back, like an expectant, filthy little thief on the streets of Venice.
"Why do you take so long?" Alois whines.
"Count backwards from twenty." I reply flatly as I fiddle with the protruding buttons delectably placed on the Bonner polo shirt of Robbinton Secondary College, Boarding School—RSCBS for short and Robbinton Secondary College Bull-Shit for realists. What a humorous little fucker. It can't be all that bad, I conclude absent mindedly, Alois' muffled words buzzing like a pest in the background output.
After perfecting the polo shirt display, checking only by first view, my hands fondle bemusedly at the supplied tie, brimming with spurts of maroon to blue at the tip. I could never do these. I can remember, as a child, gazing in awe at my father who could close up and finish the complicated knot of a tie as if it came in instinct. Huffing, the school tie is tossed onto my temporary bed.
I buckle up my belt, and it somehow remains lopsided. Frowning, it's tightened once again to the point of being unable to breathe before it lets out an exhale and adapts to the coach material. The school blazer must have been created by utter wisps of black shadows on the verge of boredom, strips of blue and maroon bordering the collar creasing, while the rest of the cloth remains a dull grey. The kind of grey you see on a wrinkly elephant, on a no expenses trip to the zoo. It's slid down to my abdomen and just barely covered the belt, though the sleeves are baggy and hollow, as if mocking my size. A quick glance outside, informed me of morning and a good least thirty minutes before us students actually get off the train. My head, I think, has finally evolved into something progressive, as it is now immune to loud, wailing train screeches. Barely had enough sleep tonight, this welcoming committee for new students better be quick. All there is to do is wait, possibly arrange the beddings, take a dump, then slouch onto the dorm bed which is soon to be seen.
I did my shorts the wrong way round.
"5-4-3," He recites all three numbers with little space in between, and I have no time to think. My shorts are down to my calves and revealed skin will be all there is. I squeal—no, huff inwardly—he's turning around, fuck—my hand hovers over something solid—
He turns around. I slam the cool surface of a lamp base into the side of his face. Alois' shallow ocean orbs widen for a quick ten seconds, hesitate like the limited time a fish gets when hushed out of water, and falls onto the ground. He makes a rather satisfying thump too. Jolly good, Ciel. Only on the train to boarding school and you already knocked out a fellow student.
My shorts are flicked off, and as quickly as it is, they are smoothly adjusted, twisted and slid back into place. The soft fabric is at one of its points, and gets rid of the lump I dread when turned backwards. Shoes and socks go next, and the unconscious body goes unnoticed.
Finally finding everything of standard level, Alois' face gets prodded by the tip of my shoe. "...Alois?" I say uneasily.
Fighting the worms of wrong that proceed to hammer its way into my stomach, I find myself edging closer, folding my legs to the knees so they hit the ground, and towering over the blond, shaking him necessarily. Alois is just an inch from stirring, so the shakes get harder. The soft palm of my hand itches, and I slap him on the face. It wasn't a particularly hard one. Alois—no wait, why are you still down there—Alois come back to Earth, holy—
His eyes snap open and a yell leaves my mouth, tumbling backwards, and hands still tingling. Trancy shoots right up, his body straight forward and the side of his face a deep beetroot red. The base of my lamp is half forgotten, hopefully. A guilty expression gets aimed at him, but he just stares at me in bemusement.
"Aw man, I don't feel too good. Why is my face burning—hold up, did I smash my face against the dorm door again?"
"Godamnit. What time is it, about nine?"
"Hey, Ciel, we're already here! Wanna come down with me? I gotta introduce you to Hannah, and Claude, and Sebs, and Grell, and Timber, and-"
Alois pouts. "But they'd love to meet an interesting fella you are. People like you just down stroll down our streets every day."
"Good one." I shoot back, sauntering over to my promised region of the room, the wheezy sneezes of a mild head ache forming into existence.
"Want a tour around the school?"
do yourself a favor and don't go on