Ohmygod, guys, I found these pictures that are just PERFECT for Skye and had to show you! Les links: /blingee/view/106351304-The-Girl-With-The-Blue-Umbrella-Ciel-
/blingee/view/128240733-Ciel-the-Girl?query=ciel+phantomhive+girl&offset=3
post/19829352027
/blingee/view/125770359-emo-ciel-girl
Hope those links work. It's just awesome that I found them. Her style is kinda gothic/chic, so just to help you visualize it… since I'm sure you're more used to Ciel as a boy. Oooh, I promise you guys, this will get, very, EXTREMELY interesting when Sebastian comes into the picture! ;) *nosebleed* Sorry… I'm a bit hyper today.
Anyways, yeah. Enjoy chapter two.
Disclaimer: Nope, Kuroshitsuji was invented by Yana Toboso only. I had absolutely nothing to do with that. I'm just a huge fangirl who's married to Sebastian. 3
2. Cold Fire
When I walk into the school, I'm greeted by a cacophony of sounds and emotions and thoughts all vying for attention as masses of obnoxious, careless teenagers push through the halls, searching for familiar faces and bumping others out of their way. I'm jostled from side to side and my head spins, disoriented. Pathetically, I cling to my bag, duck my head, and dart through the crowd. Being short does have its advantages.
The day passes agonizingly slowly. My classes are so tedious that by the time my third period rolls around, I'm ready to implode from the pure monotony of it all. I once read a philosophical novel that I can't remember what the title was, or who wrote it, but I remember very clearly that he stated that ennui has a higher risk of killing you than fear, despair, heartbreak or any other intense sentiment.
I now understand this completely.
My third period is history, taught by Mr. Frederick Anderson, which is about one of the most dull, typical names in all of history. How many people in the world have the last name 'Anderson'? It's so unoriginal. Even my name, which is based off the freaking sky, is more interesting.
Mr. Anderson rattles off the names of the class for attendance while students bicker and whisper amongst themselves. I sit at a table by myself and observe them. How insipid they all are, wrapped up in their little soap bubble worlds where anything outside is inconsequential. Not to mention, their posture is absolutely terrible. Even though I generally have excellent posture, I can feel my spine straightening itself even more, stiff as a board, as if to make the contrast between them and myself more evident. I am not one of them and I do not share their little petty problems or interests. I'm better than them all.
My eyes pass over a girl with titanium-blond hair who is laughing obnoxiously, to other students who are all similarly forgettable, until I see one boy. He looks older than the rest, not thirteen but at least fourteen—or maybe that's just because of his outstanding height. He's slouching in his chair so that his tailbone scrapes against the edge of it, his long, slender legs crossed. One of his knees is jiggling a rhythm, bumping the frame of the desk. Languidly, he doodles across his page, occasionally glancing out the window dreamily or tapping his desk with a pencil restlessly. His hair is a gleaming fair yellow blond, like ivory-spun gold, and falls in disarray to his shoulders, with locks tangled here and there or angled across his pale face. When he turns, he catches sight of me and suddenly goes still. His eyes make shivers dance up and down my spine: they are gorgeous, but cold—a frosty shade of blue that is reminiscent of glaciers. Although they seem impassive, I can see a flicker of some underlying emotion reflected in his irises, like a rainbow dancing on ice: hard to catch, but there all the same. It strikes me why they call it eye contact.
For some reason, he enthrals me. I gaze at him with a little frown until he sticks his tongue out at me and grins sloppily, dropping his cheek into his palm so that his head rests heavily on his hand. His eyes drift away from me as something on the ground captures his attention.
I exhale sharply and turn away, back to the whiteboard where the teacher is lecturing about Napoleon, gritting my teeth all the while. He is just as trite as the rest of them, I tell myself. Not deserving of my curiosity. Yet I can feel him watching me again, his gaze stroking my body like the north wind Boreas' caress. How is it possible that eyes as bitter and wintry as his can scorch my skin with so much heat that I feel like I'm burning all over again?
Ignore him. Focus on the teacher. Sure, this school is stupid, but I can at least try to learn something while I'm here. Napoleon. Think of Napoleon. How idiotic of him to lead a troop in Russia in the middle of winter. Winter. His eyes are winter and full of cold fire.
Realizing the direction of my thoughts, I fold my hands into fists in my lap and squeeze them. The pinpricks of pain where my nails cut into my skin are welcome and bring my mind to the present, to Mr. Anderson's loud drawl and the squeak of markers on the whiteboard.
Suddenly, the titanium-haired girl lets out a screech and shouts, "A spider!" She scrambles away and points accusingly at the harmless black dot that's now on the leg of her desk.
What follows is pandemonium. Girls shriek and jump on top of their tables, clutching their purses and each other's arms. Boys yell loudly, shouts of "Kill it!" and "Catch it!" and even "Throw it at the teacher!" rebounding from the walls.
Oh. My. God. It's just a spider. This isn't even worth rolling eyes over. I sigh and tap the top of my desk with a fingernail, waiting for Mr. Anderson to successfully subdue the panicked class.
The blond girl, having decided that screaming her lungs out isn't going to do anything about the spider, grabs a textbook and advances menacingly. Suddenly, a shadow falls over her and a hand whips out, snaking around her wrist. She looks up.
The icy-eyed boy is standing over her, her arm ensnared in his firm grip. A sinister smile plays at his lips as he casually twists her arm to the side, delighted at the crunch of bone. He squeezes and she whimpers. Even from where I'm sitting, I can hear the shattered bones grinding in her arm. Rather than repulsion, I only feel irritation that the boy is interrupting our class with this. Ugh. Truly, public school is so vulgar.
"James Macken!" Mr. Anderson snaps, horror etched across his worn face and adding more lines.
'James' freezes and his smile fades slowly like a flame flickering out on a candle. Cold fire. "What?" he demands. His eyes find mine again in the now silent classroom, and they narrow slightly. "Why the fuck are you looking at me like that? She tried to kill it." He tightens his grip around the girl's arm for emphasis and she whimpers.
Is he talking to me? He's looking right at me, almost accusingly. As if I'm the one who is in the wrong here. I get the sudden, inappropriate urge to laugh contemptuously at him. Look at you, pretty boy, thinking you're so significant and making a fool of yourself in front of all these dumbfounded teenagers and the teacher.
Vaguely, I wonder why I am not horrified like everyone else at this sudden turn of events. Why am I not green in the face, sweating, nauseous, or even frightened of him? Maybe I am the one who is wrong. Am I so emotionally detached that I can't even muster up sympathy for the girl? Maybe Aunt Angelina is right. Maybe I am too withdrawn, too taciturn, too indifferent. Curiously, these entertaining thoughts only bring a smirk to my face. If I'm an atrocity, I don't care.
While I've been lost in my thoughts, the girl was carried out of the room by two boys and Mr. Anderson has told James in a choked voice to go straight to the principal's office. A vivacious peel of laughter catches my attention, bringing my mind to the present. My eyes find him again. James is laughing, or perhaps giggling is the right word, reminding me of a bottle of champagne that's been shaken and then opened with an explosion of sweet bubbles.
"Thank you for your attention!" he announces, doing a little pirouette and bow, his hair flowing behind him. The glaciers flash at me, amused and hurt and hateful all at once. "I'll escort myself out."
I watch him leave, trying to ignore the sensation of having a strange connection with him and instead focusing on how I can use this situation to my advantage. Aunt Angelina will certainly hear about this. Perhaps this will convince her that public school, with its spiders and fits of aggression and boys with eyes full of cold fire, is no place for me.
