This little one-shot was, as usual, written in response to something on Tumblr. My Sebastian, sebastianphantommichaelis2, was posed with a question concerning who Sebastian would call were he trapped on a doomed, burning plane, and what he would say to them. In response to this question, she wrote a short, paragraph of a ficclet, and I later chose to write Ciel's side of it.
This is a modern-day!AU, working with the assumption that both Ciel and Sebastian are humans, and Ciel around the age of 16/17/18 – so in his late teens.
Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji, or any of the characters in this story.
The late night phone call had gone ignored; a pillow pulled over his head the only response to the incessant chimes. He'd drifted off quickly enough, reminding himself he needed to get up bright and early – despite the tiny, impish voice telling him making a certain someone wait a few extra hours wasn't that big a deal, and would teach him a lesson about being away for so long. And so, for hours, the phone, and the recorded message, went ignored, and Ciel slept soundly.
He awoke to the buzz of an alarm clock, scowling at the rude interruption to his slumber, and forced himself out of bed. Showering – nearly falling asleep again in the process – and dressing, the television was switched on for some minor distraction while he nibbled on some toast. Of course, there was little interesting in the way of early hour shows, and so the news was settled on, the teen flopping back against the couch, tossing the remote away and continuing to eat his breakfast.
The teen froze sharply, though, as the large, emphasised title of 'BREAKING NEWS UPDATE' flashed across the screen, quickly accompanied by some video. A short, fuzzy video of a shattered, smouldering wreck. The announcer started to speak, voice flat as always, staring through the screen as though this story wasn't breaking the hearts of God knows how many people outside the tiny studio they worked in. A plane. Flight from Miami. Intended to land at Heathrow airport. Where he was meant to meet Sebastian in an hour or so. Very few survivors found so far.
At some point, he'd started holding his breath, a trembling hand lowering to set his toast back on the plate, and then to set the plate on the coffee table. Maybe... Maybe they had their information wrong. Or Sebastian had told him the wrong airport. Or... Or... Forcing down the panic, the slate-haired teen got to his unsteady feet, heading for the phone, the blinking '1' going unnoticed as he hurriedly picked up the receiver, dialling in the familiar number and holding the phone to his ear. 'The number you dialled in unavailable. Please check the number and try again. The number you dialled is unavailable. Please check the number and try again. The number y-'. Hanging up, he forced another ragged breath, staring at the phone. He'd turned it off. He'd turned the phone off while on the plane. That was why he hadn't answered. He was fine. Of course he was fine. Sebastian was always fine. Lucky bastard.
The flashing red number finally seemed to register with the male, and he hesitantly reached out, pressing the 'play' button – 'You have –one- new message. Message received –today- at –one-thirty-four a-m' – and hoping beyond hope it was anyone but-. "Ciel?" No. Oh God please no. Not him, too. Anyone but him. Please. "Hey, I know it's probably late in London, that's why you didn't answer..." He should have. He heard the damn thing ring. He should have got out of bed, he should have picked up. Please, please let this just be a message that he'd caught an earlier or later flight. But he could hear the sounds of panic in the background, of people rushing, coughing, crying, screaming. Please no. "I don't want you to worry or anything, I just wanted to say that... well it's been a long trip, and I miss you..." And to think he'd been considering being late, just for some petty payback. He wouldn't of been, though. Any longer separated from the older male was painful, especially now. And the background panic was increasing. He could hear shuddering, rattling, the sounds of the plane starting to give out. "So yeah, I just wanted to say that I love you. And I'll be home soon." – 'End of messages.'
By the end of the message, a hand had planted itself over his mouth, and he was silencing pained sobs, tears streaming down his cheeks. No. No no no. Please no. This couldn't be happening. Please. He had to still be alive. He had to have survived. Unable to keep himself standing, he slumped to the floor, turning baleful mismatched eyes to the television screen again, silently begging the announcer to list the survivors, to say 'Sebastian Michaelis is among the survivors', anything to prove there was no need for pieces of his heart to continue fracturing and breaking away.