Thank you all for the reviews and critique. I will try to take them all into account! Here's to chapter two:
Afternoon
Ciel's cellphone is the most important item in the world to him. It had been a birthday present he received a few years ago from Aunt Angelina, a little while after he had started his modeling career. Everyday the phone's screen, front, and back is cleaned (with special attention given to the screen), the case is cleared of any dust or dirt that may have miraculously gotten into it, and the plastic covering over the screen is adjusted whether or not it needs adjusting.
He never lets the battery run lower than 89% charged, and when it's time for bed, he'll leave the phone on his nightstand, wrapped in a cloth, placed in its box with a rectangular cut in the bottom so the cord can fit through and charge all night.
Unlike most teenagers Ciel knows, he leaves his phone mostly devoid of any evidence that it belongs to someone. The wallpaper and ringtone are left at default, there are never any saved voicemails or texts, and the application icons have never been moved.
Though there are the games...
Many games are downloaded onto his phone, and he usually plays them on the way to a photo shoot. Sometimes he buys and downloads them as an award for the accomplishment of a certain shoot. Sometimes he buys two a week, maybe three, and once he masters all the levels, if it's a good game, he'll play it once more, or he'll delete it and look for another game to download.
He carries his cellphone everywhere; never leaves home without it. And Ciel is carrying his cellphone as he walks to the agency building after school that day, too.
The silver trinket is stuffed into his pocket so the rain won't damage it while one hand is keeping the pocket closed. He walks briskly down the sidewalk, shielding his face with his other arm, squinting through the onslaught of droplets and maneuvering the best he can. The water is already seeping through his clothes and sprinkling the back of his neck. Oh great, I should have brought an umbrella, he thinks.
Still clad in his school uniform, he enters the large, airy agency building, now straight-faced and rigid. He walks past the secretary, and notices its Irene today at the desk. That's right, it's Tuesday, he reminds himself, as he gives her nod as a greeting. She nods back and smiles softly; her mannerisms are worthy of being a secretary, but her face looks like a beauty pageant winner's.
He walks towards the back rooms of the agency, the area where he usually goes after school, and stops inside the 'Inspection Room−' a vast space that almost looks like it could pass for a ballet study. The wall is made of pale, polished drywall, the windows are lined with black sills, covered in curtains, and there's even a barre in the corner, though Ciel has no idea what it's used for.
Already inside the room waiting for him is his makeup artist (and also somewhat of a personal trainer), Francis Midford. A serious, calculating, all-business woman, with a strict tongue and judgmental eyes, a tight blonde ponytail-bun with a curl dangling down the left side of her face. She stands in the middle of the floor, checking her wristwatch, dressed in one of her two-piece business suits and heels.
She sees him and her face crumbles into a signature glare; she gives him a once over before indicating for him to come closer.
Ciel drops his bag to the ground and walks over to her, and before he can even blink, he finds himself being wrestled out of his blazer and dress shirt and placed onto a scale.
"You're late," Francis says; her eyes never leave the scale's screen. She pets down Ciel's locks of unruly, drizzled hair, layering some locks under others and smoothing them all in line on top his head. "Five minutes late. This is the third time."
"The bell rang late and I was being followed," Ciel grumbles in response, trying not to let Francis see he's shivering. The water that had clung to his neck is now dripping down his chest, rolling over his skin. He feels a tingle in his cheeks when she looks up at him and stares him straight in the face with her lowered eyebrows.
"Followed by who?"
"The student body."
"You finally gave in to Angelina's proposal?"
He says nothing because he has no time to say anything− the numbers on the scale stop flickering and they freeze.
Francis lifts her glare back onto him like a laser, only, its more intense this time, and Ciel steels himself in an instant for chastisement.
"You gained weight," she says in a low voice. "What have you been eating?"
Ciel steps off the scale and replaces his dress shirt before answering, "My chef made a large breakfast today and−"
"You know you have to keep a precise weight, Ciel."
He flounders for a bit with his words, going through all of the possible things he could say in his own defense. Nothing reaches his mind's surface. Nothing that he wouldn't be shot down for saying. Nothing that wouldn't produce some kind of argument between the two of them.
There's a lapse of silence for a minute before Francis holds out her hand and orders, "Give me your phone." Ciel knows where this is going.
Hesitating for only a second, his hands levitate over his pocket for a moment before they reach in, clasp the phone, and place it into her outstretched palm. She, in turn, places it into her pocket, turns on her heels and says, "You'll get this back at the end of the week."
Ciel stays silent.
Another presence appears at the entrance just then, and Ciel sees his agent standing in the doorway (well, it would be a doorway if the room had a door) before walking in, all smiles, as per usual.
"Good evening, Mrs. Midford," he says brightly in her direction. She responds with a nod towards him, gaze unwavering, lip locked in tightness as she peruses him as well. She gives that look to everyone, most likely scrutinizing them and writing up a mental list of all of their faults and defects. And maybe she even creates lists of how makeup or exercise might fix a blemish here or banish a bit of fat there.
He then directs his attention directly on Ciel. "Hello Ciel. Are you doing well?"
"Fine, Sebastian," Ciel answers tersely. He makes sure his voice is vacant of stress, or disappointment even though he feels a mix of these things now. He reaches down then for his backpack, undoing the zipper before he places his navy blazer, which had just been clumped together in a pile in his arms, laden with raindrops, into the bag.
"Such terrible weather we're having. I hope it will let up before the next assignment," Sebastian says in mock worry, though his voice is lined with a slight tone of mirth that Ciel knows all too well.
"What assignment?" Ciel asks, and he finds himself being motioned over for the second time that day. He follows Sebastian out the 'Inspection Room' and into the man's office, standing a moment in the doorway before entering the room.
"There's a new assignment taking place in Los Vegas for a magazine," Sebastian says, and Ciel sees him watching him as he makes himself a seat near Sebastian's desk. "They've asked you to model a pirate costume for a Halloween spread."
"Halloween? That's weeks away."
"It's a release for their October issue."
"A spread?"
"Well, actually, you'll be on the cover."
Ciel tweaks his eyebrow skeptically, but Sebastian only flashes him his feline-esque smirk.
"You got me on the cover?"
"Of course; only the best jobs for my client. It's a well-paying assignment." Sebastian is a good agent, and he has been for the years that Ciel's been modeling. He's professional, puts his time to good use, and is much more organized than any one else Ciel knows. Though sometimes he's brutal− when he books two local assignments in a week.
Ciel rungs a hand through his hair, and immediately begins thinking of the tutor he'll have to bring, how long he'll be away, the plane ride and what he'll bring to keep himself occupied, the signed note he's going to have to give his teachers to explain his absence− darn, and the school year had just started, too...
"It'll be a collaboration photo-shoot," Sebastian continues, flipping through a file labeled 'Los Vegas'. There are only about two pages in the file, Ciel sees, yet Sebastian keeps flipping back and forth between the two pages as if he's double checking information.
"Who will I be working with?"
"He's fairly new, but very popular. Alois Trancy, I believe, is his name."
Ciel pauses, feeling almost as if all the air has been knocked out of him. The boy he had met that day in the hallway was to be his co-worker. The boy with the large fanbase, and the blue eyes, and the blonde hair, and the boy that smelled of cherries and honey. That Alois Trancy...
"I suppose that would be fine," Ciel says as he eases back in his chair, resting his back against the cushion and closing his eyes for only a split second. His bangs fall into his eyes from the movement, though he doesn't bother to brush them away just yet. They shade out almost all the light that lay on his closed eyes.
"It will only take a few days. If everything works out, we might be finished early, and will be back in England before five days have passed." Sebastian stands up, and Ciel takes that as a signal to do the same and follow him out of the room.
Just like Ciel Phantomhive, Alois Trancy also visits his agency after school. The agency building is rather drab and somber on the outside, and Alois knows that he would forget about it in a week if he didn't patronize it as often as he does. The building is black, rectangular-shaped, and in fairly good-shape. Not a single window is cracked or smudged, and the swinging doors are nothing to complain about.
Alois walks in and the air conditioning hits him instantly. He is far more pleased by the interior than the exterior. Inside the building is sleek and jazzy, casual, and doesn't smell like Spring & Renewal Febreze. The wallpaper, though it has no eye-catching pattern or design, is creme-colored and fits the room perfectly. The rugs are wine-red, fuzzy and soft− 'Probably woven cotton', Alois thinks.
The first room is the lobby. To the right is the receptionist desk, made of some kind of dark brown wood. Behind the sides of the desk, there's a computer and an empty swivel chair, flanked by two evergreen, potted houseplants that Alois is sure are already dead, if he could get a better look at them. To the left is the soda vending machine, the neon red screen spewed the color red everywhere throughout the room. In the centre of the lobby is a narrow hallway, leading to the offices of the employees on either side of the aisle.
Alois' favorite spot is by the door: an upholstered, two-seater settee, placed near a circular side-table.
He takes a seat, and he is torn between feeling happy or sad that he is alone in the lobby. No sooner had he been released from school had he changed from his school uniform into his black-and-white striped shirt with tie, grey jacket, black leggings, and sneakers. He lays against one of the headrests, sprawled all the way out so he can look at his fairly clean sneakers. From his jacket pocket, he produces a dark blue Poptart packet that he bought from the school's vending machine. After ripping it open with zero effort, he begins nibbling away the breaded part.
The Poptart is strawberry-flavored, plain, yes, but Alois loves strawberry. The breaded part is the worst to get through, and Alois usually picks it off and throws it away, but lunch had seemed like forever ago, so he decided to just eat through it anyway.
The side-table nearby the settee is loaded down with dozens of magazines filled with snap shots and glossy pictures of some of the other models that the agency hired. Alois flips through each of them boredly, searching for only one magazine in particular. He finds it under the heap and pulls it onto his lap. Posing on the front cover is a version of himself that he barely recognizes, but he remembers the shoot in its entirety. It had taken place in Oxford, and had been his debut. The few shots they took had been published in the Japanese-British fashion magazine 'Confession', and had launched his career, promptly making him famous in England.
The picture featured him sitting on a futon mat in front of a white tea set, dressed in an oversized scarlet kimono with cobwebs and golden-purple butterflies inlayed in the design. Alois remembers quite clearly that the photographer and the director of the shoots promised him that if the shoot was successful without any interruptions or problems, he could take the beautiful kimono home. Now that kimono is hung in the closet, and Alois never wears it unless his stepdad makes him.
Alois shuffles the magazine to the top of the pile, then settles to take another bite of his treat−until it is swiftly snatched from his grasp. Alois leans his head upwards so he can look at whomever is behind him.
He first notices the slanted eyes of golden, then the drooping, ebony bangs, then the glossy, lenses of glasses, all belonging to his agent.
There's a quick bullet of ecstasy that warms in Alois' stomach as he sits up, turning to face Claude, flashing his winsome smile. But Claude is as emotionless as always, stoney-faced. His mouth is in a straight line as always, and his eyes are fixated on Alois. Alois eats up the attention.
"You know you're not supposed to be eating stuff like this," Claude says, and without a single glance back, he tosses the packet into the stainless steel garbage can behind him with a plop. Alois watches for a second as the trash can lid tumbles over and over itself, then beams at Claude.
"I've been following your calorie diet for two weeks straight; I think I deserve some kind of reward."
Claude watches Alois' smiling face with his usual solemn stare, and Alois feels the slight prickle of irritation in the back of his head. 'You're supposed to be proud of that', Alois thinks, 'You're supposed to compliment me on that. Instead you give me that impassive face like you always do. Screw you, Claude'. He is unaware that his face is losing its shine and that the corners of his lips are collapsing to a slack.
"You have to look your best for the upcoming shoot," Claude monotones, and he turns on his heels and heads off down the aisle to where the offices are hidden.
Swish; another bullet is shot through Alois' system, and he brightens as excitement overcomes him. "Another shoot?" he asks, "Where? Is it out of the country?" If Claude says yes, Alois will be so happy he will do cartwheels in the middle of the street, even though it's raining. If Claude says no, Alois will kick cars instead. Anywhere is better than being in the house with his stepdad.
Alois steps off the couch, adjusts his jacket and chases after Claude into the darkened hallway to catch his reply.
"We're going to America; Los Vegas," he says, and Alois thinks he'll burst. They turn and enter Claude's office.
It's a clean, dainty little office, with locked filing cabinets, a desk filled with stacks of papers, manilla folders, and paperclips, and a chair that Alois almost uses as a coatrack. Claude picks up one of the folders, flips it open and pulls out of a file filled with black ink words.
"This is the document containing information about the request." He hands the paper to Alois, who greedily eats up all the words with his eyes. Unfortunately, the paper is none too interesting, stating the location, time, photographer, and other information he doesn't necessarily care about. All he needs to know is that he's over a thousand miles away from home. That's all he cares to know.
At least, Alois would like to think that. Claude rounds the chair, gathering up the other folders and stacking them neatly, saying almost conversationally, "It's a collaboration shoot."
Alois almost doesn't hear him. He's busy planning how many days he might be away from home. But he does hear Claude, and he looks up from the document, blonde hair falling into his wide blue eyes. "What's a collaboration shoot?"
"A photo shoot where you'll be posing with someone else. You'll be on the cover again."
Excitement bubbles in Alois' stomach. He breaks into a smile at this thought and stands up, the paper crinkling beneath his fingers from how tightly he's gripping it.
"Oh? Who will I be posing with?"
"Ciel Phantomhive."
Alois giggles. He almost doubles over in laughter from the rush of excitement. That boy with the blue eye he had seen just that morning. That mysterious, pale boy that Alois felt almost compelled to examine and learn all there was to know about him. He interested Alois from just one glance, much more than anyone else could have. That boy harbored some secret, some kind of personal story that Alois thought might be fun to hear about. There was some kind of secret Alois felt compelled to divulge.
"When will we be leaving?"
"Three days from now− Friday evening. I'll pick you up at five." And with that, Claude turns around and exits his office. Alois follows, still clutching the paper in his hands. He shuffles all the way to the exit in the lobby to find it's pouring again. He'll get his clothes wet, but he doesn't care. He tells Claude 'bye', to which the man only nods back. Turning around, he shoves the paper into his pocket and leaves, wondering what it would be like to do cartwheels in the rain.
Critique and suggestions for the second chapter would also be appreciated. Thanks for reading.