(no subject)
Day: 105
Characters: Ciel Phantomhive (monophthalmus), anyone else on L1 or staff.
Summary: Lunchtime + Nudity + Ritualistic Scarring = Ciel Hates Everyone
When: Day, Lunch
Where: Dining Hall
Status: OPEN, Incomplete
Meals in the dining hall were something Ciel had adjusted to, for some given value of the term "adjusted." He ate - usually ate - with the table manners he would have used before the Queen, pointedly ignored the way the nurses eyed and counted their knives and forks, and plastered over the dreck in front of him with memories of chocolate mousse, poached salmon, and Ceylon tea. It left him in a distracted state, but it filled his stomach.
Most days.
Laundry days were different. Today was different. Ciel hadn't paced over to the tables like he was lazing his way across his own manor. He'd rushed - scurried, really - up the stairs and down the hall, doing his best to keep well ahead or behind of anyone else. Then, when he was inside, it had been the chair farthest to the end of the farthest table that he'd picked out.
Now, the earl's posture was almost laughable. He looked determined to sink beneath the table and fuse into the chair beneath him all at once, with his lower half slumped to disappear beneath the wood above and his back pressed as straight as it would go against his chair's rear. An uncomfortable pose, that, but one he was holding onto fixedly...because it was one that left the brand on his upper back exposed to wood instead of open air, that left him concealed, if not quite inconspicuous.
It made things tolerable, at least as long as Ciel left his head bowed over his untouched food and breathed in slowly. His gut could go untended for the day. That was what was necessary, just now.
Characters: Ciel Phantomhive (monophthalmus), anyone else on L1 or staff.
Summary: Lunchtime + Nudity + Ritualistic Scarring = Ciel Hates Everyone
When: Day, Lunch
Where: Dining Hall
Status: OPEN, Incomplete
Meals in the dining hall were something Ciel had adjusted to, for some given value of the term "adjusted." He ate - usually ate - with the table manners he would have used before the Queen, pointedly ignored the way the nurses eyed and counted their knives and forks, and plastered over the dreck in front of him with memories of chocolate mousse, poached salmon, and Ceylon tea. It left him in a distracted state, but it filled his stomach.
Most days.
Laundry days were different. Today was different. Ciel hadn't paced over to the tables like he was lazing his way across his own manor. He'd rushed - scurried, really - up the stairs and down the hall, doing his best to keep well ahead or behind of anyone else. Then, when he was inside, it had been the chair farthest to the end of the farthest table that he'd picked out.
Now, the earl's posture was almost laughable. He looked determined to sink beneath the table and fuse into the chair beneath him all at once, with his lower half slumped to disappear beneath the wood above and his back pressed as straight as it would go against his chair's rear. An uncomfortable pose, that, but one he was holding onto fixedly...because it was one that left the brand on his upper back exposed to wood instead of open air, that left him concealed, if not quite inconspicuous.
It made things tolerable, at least as long as Ciel left his head bowed over his untouched food and breathed in slowly. His gut could go untended for the day. That was what was necessary, just now.