Baroque

Baroque (Part 1)

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Beginning Notes:

The scenes involving Serge\'s past are based on volumes 8 and 9 of the manga. I\'ve decided to summarize them as they, along with volumes 5-7, are too long a digression from the present conflict, and I felt that they simply needed to be distilled into a few paragraphs, with additional details added throughout the rest of storstory. That way the action wouldn\'t be hampered by a long flashback. I\'ll be doing the same thing with Gilbert\'s own past.

The names of Serge\'s aunt and grandmother are my own idea and aren\'t based on the manga (I don\'t have the translations for the volumes after book 1). Finally, Pascal\'s reference to mining a diamond was taken from Ferris Bueller\'s Day Off. ^_~


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PART 1

“And how’s our new chick doing? Getting along nicely with the rest of the animals in the barnyard, I suspect?”

Carl laughed lightly as he poured himself a cup of tea. “Very nicely, yes. I thought you’ve met him, Pascal.”

“No. Never have.”

Carl turned around and regarded the lanky figure that stood by the window, gazing thoughtfully out into the gray, windswept scene. “Never? Where on eahavehave you been? Serge’s been in every class we have--even sat a couple of seats away from you yesterday.”

Pascal glanced over his shoulder and cocked an eyebrow at his friend. “It’s called studying, Mise,” he replied dryly, absently pushing his glasses up a freckled nose, further burying his eyes under thick lenses and the unruly fall of gold hair that framed his face. “I’ve been in the library, studying.”

“And you don’t have enough time to mingle with anyone? How sad.” Carl cocked his eyebrow in return and made his way to an armchair, settling himself down, crossing his legs and resting his saucer on his lap. “Serge’s been adjusting pretty well. He’s eager to learn just about anything.”

“Wait, wait…”

“Anything academic, of course! Christ, Biquet!”

“What? Don’t look at me that way--you’re the one who stuck the new kid in Room 17. What else am I supposed to think?”

Carl flushed as he frowned at his companion. “I’m not whoring him, you Neanderthal. Where else am I supposed to place him? In one of the spare rooms with the seniors?”

“Well, I guess that would be whoring him, eh?” Pascal smirked, and it took some effort for Carl to take a genteel sip of his beverage.

“Oh, just shut up and stare at the rain.”

“It’s not raining right now.”

“You know what I mean.”

Silence fell--at least for the moment--with Pascal turning his attention back to the desolate autumn scene outside, clasping his hands behind him in an attitude of idle thought, a quiet hum vibrating in his throat. Carl sighed quietly and continued to drink his tea, leaning back and feeling the comfortable padding cushion his weary back and cradle him like a womb. He’d always loved spending the final afternoon hours in his room, surrounded by nothing more than the familiar sight and scents of his books and his tea pot, the kettle warming nicely on the small burner that had been his privilege as the class president. His friends stayed on occasion, but they often proved to be more of a nuisance to his nerves, and he preferred spending the time alone. Pascal, however, had always been the exception to the rule, and Carl had decided that the end of a hard day maintaining order in the sophomore ranks entitled him to intelligent conversation and wit, and Pascal supplied that quite nicely.

The calm was eventually broken with a lazy inquiry.

“So what’s your real reason for placing the new chick in that particular coop, Mise?”

Carl blinked. “Beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

He watched Pascal watch the outside, his figure lightly encased in the fading light as clouds swirled overhead, collecting in a heavy, dreary mass once again and threatening the land with yet another day of downpour. Carl remained silent for a few seconds before turning his attention back to his tea.

“Serge is Gilbert’s perfect roommate.”

“Why?”

“Because he knows nothing of what Gilbert does.”

“He will.”

“His opinion of Cocteau isn’t tainted…”

“Yet.”

“And he’s got a pretty good chance of helping Gilbert out.”

“Helping?” Pascal snorted as he glanced over his shoulder again, this time raising both eyebrows at his friend incredulously. “Helping? How on earth will he manage to pull that off?”

Carl sighed, shaking his head, as he stood up to refill his cup. “The problem with you, Pascal, is that you’re a pessimist.”

“You mean a realist.”

“Unlike you and the rest of this school, I believe that Gilbert’s good--deep down, he is.”

Pascal laughed dryly. “And your problem, Carl, is that you’re an optimist. You sound a little--well--biblical at the moment.” The boy shuddered visibly.

“Maybe I do. Biscuits?” Pascal shook his head, and Carl continued to pour himself another cup. “Maybe I do. You can’t deny that man’s more than just a collection of complex biological systems, Biquet. Gilbert--even with this--propensity for…”

“Say it.”

“…sex…”

“Shit. That wasn’t the word I was hoping you’d say.” Pascal grinned broadly. “It’s this year’s resolution for me to get you to say the ‘f’ word by Christmas without running to your Bible for instant absolution.”

“You’re an ass.”

“A man of the world, dear Carl. A man of the world. And I did get you to feel a little more at home with cursing.”

Carl rolled his eyes and picked up a biscuit, gingerly carrying his booty back to his armchair and settling himself back in. “As I was saying, even Gilbert and his loose lifestyle…” Here Pascal erupted into stifled laughter, punctuating it with breathless outbursts of “you’re such a damned prude,” but Carl ignored him. “…is capable of redemption. I’m hoping that Serge will be a good influence on him.”

“Hmm. Well--if that’s the case, Mise, I’m a little concerned about our new chick.”

“Oh? You don’t think Serge will be able to hold his own?”

Pascal was silent for a moment as he continued to gaze out the window, and after a time, Carl began to doubt whether or not his friend had heard him. He was about to speak when the other boy sighed heavily, lifting his face just as the first drops of rain began to pelt the glass, his eyes seemingly fixed on the rapidly increasing rivulets of water that snaked down the cold surface in a thousand tiny wet capillaries.

“Man,” he began, his voice low and hypnotic, his words coming out in a languid stream. “Domain: Eurkaryota, Kingdom: Animalia, Phylum: Chordata, Subphylum: Vertebrata, Class: Mammalia, Subclass: Eutheria, Order: Primates, Suborder: Catarrhini, Family: Homindae, Genus: Homo, Species: Sapiens.”

Carl frowned as he peered through the faint mist that floated gently out of his cup. “What of those?” he asked though he knew--and he feared--what the other boy was trying to force him to admit. “How does scientifically classifying humanity give you cause to worry about Serge? Yan’tan’t deny the fact that we’re set apart from other life forms by virtue of our capacity for reason.”

“And as animals, we’re also guided by instinct.” Pascal threw Carl a quick glance and a wry smile. “Instinct, Mise. Impulse. Give us the right time and situation, and reason becomes a moot point.”

The other boy regarded him quietly, his tea and his biscuit sitting largely untouched on his lap.

“We’re still brutes by nature,” Pascal said before turning back to watch the rain.

**********

Gilbert took the last piece of bread in his hand and shredded it, scattering the crumbs over a tiny area. He watched the small bird hop awkwardly around, its injured foot curled up protectively against its body, as it fought to peck at the proffered meal.

“I don’t know why you can’t get out of here,” the boy half-whispered to the tiny creature as he leaned forward to rest his chin on his hands, unmindful of the dirty floor and the scattered piles of soil and broken pots that littered that particular corner of the greenhouse. He was on his knees, his uniform now soiled from both the bread and the dirt around him, as he tried to get himself as small and as close to the bird as he possibly could.

He’d spotted the injured animal a few days ago, and he’d since been trying to get it to fly through a broken section of the glass or the open door. But the bird couldn’t seem to grasp his purpose. It was all Gilbert could do, then, to smuggle the bread he received as part of his meals and feed the creature with it.

“You do know that you’re going to die if you stay trapped in here,” he added, pale features darkening a little at the thought.

The bird didn’t seem to mind spending the rest of its days there, however, and it simply continued to hop around, its beak busily pecking at the scattered crumbs.

Gilbert suddenly heard the door to the greenhouse open, and he immediately shifted and staggered to his feet, momentarily upsetting his patient (or pet as he’d secretly called it), and the bird frantically beat its wings and fluttered clumsily to a nearby shelf--out of reach and in safety.

“It’s about time you arrived,” the boy retorted without turning around to look at the newcomer. He knew, after all, whom it was, and he automatically glanced down and proceeded to undo his sash.

“History,” came the familiar snarl, followed by a heavy thump. Gilbert could only imagine that the history paper had just been unceremoniously slapped on one of the shelves nearby. “I fucking hate History.”

“You could’ve said ‘no.’” Gilbert pulled his sash off and tossed it aside and began to unbutton his modified cassock. “No one forced you to do this.”

“Hey, hey! Turn around when you do that!”

The boy turned around, his momentum not once breaking. He hadn’t bothered to look at his companion and, really, wasn’t inclined to do so. Pale, thin fingers deftly worked their way down the front of his uniform.

“Look at me.”

Gilbert looked up, his eyes resting on the flushed, leering features that he’d grown to despise--and desire. Green gaze, just a moment ago softened by compassion, had now shifted to cold indifference, and he met Max’s stare levelly--almost challenging the larger boy with its icy defiance.

“What, that’s it? That’s fucking it?” Max exclaimed, his nostrils flaring in his anger.

Gilbert coolly stared at him. “What?” he replied dryly. “I’m taking my clothes off, aren’t I? What more do you want?”

Max pointed at the history paper a co of of feet away--neatly typed and formatted as required. “I went through hell writing that damn paper for you!” he roared. “Precious time that would’ve been spent doing something else but writing that stupid paper was wasted for you! The least you could fucking do is make this worth every drop of sweat that was spent!”

The smaller boy frowned. “You want a show?” he asked incredulously. “Is that it? A show?”

“God, you’re so dense.”

“What’s the big deal, Blough? Hmm? Why should I bother putting on a show for you if we end up on the floor, anyway?”

Max stalked up to him, and Gilbert retreated instinctively though he continued to regard the senior with bold derision, his eyes narrowing at the look of cold fury that was now being leveled at him. His fingers continued to fumble for buttons though the sweat that now dampened his palms made it a tad awkward. He felt his body tremble, the fiarliarly terrible thrill coursing through him at the raw, primitive power that he was now sensing from Max. Nerve endings flickered, and his body blindly sought, leaning forward as though on cue even if Gilbert’s mind kept a hard, biting grip on its own thoughts as pleasurable anticipation, dread, and contempt all warred for dominance.

Dominance.

Power and dominance.

A fleeting glimpse of tightly-coiled rope peeking out of one of the pockets on Max’s backpack sent yet another thrill through him. Terror defined it this time, but its force was too weak, its hold on his mind too loose to fend off the quiet voice that slowly veiled his senses with words of lifeless reassurance.

/He’s not afraid to hold you./

A large, thick hand found its wayGilbGilbert’s back, its fingers raking through fine waves of hair in a languid massage before they curled around soft clumps, anchoring themselves securely against the boy’s scalp as they tugged firmly though not painfully, jerking the boy’s head up until Gilbert couldn’t hide his gaze in the shadows of his hair.

The sound of a zipper being roughly and impatiently torn open reached Gilbert’s ears, and he watched Max’s face shift in expression, muscles twitching, stiffening, softening, mirroring the brewing excitement that lit up the eyes as they raked their way around the smaller boy’s face, consuming inch after porcelain inch, hard, thin lips quivering from an aborted sneer.

“You--owe me--whore,” came the tremulous hiss.

Still securing Gilbert by his hair, Max now fumbled for his sash, tugging desperately at the silky piece of fabric and cursing under his breath, eyes still glued to his partner’s. Gilbert watched the anticipation grow in Max’s face- the the way the senior’s mouth weakly mouthed his words, hanging slack for the most part--saw the way the freckled complexion darkened as blood rushed to his face--saw the anger and the desire well up in his eyes.

Max’s touch would burn today.

Terror and contempt had now woven themselves tightly with the more promising stirrings that warmed his body, and it was with an oddly cold, drunken pleasure that Gilbert watched Max watch him as he slowly, deliberately, ran his tongue over his lips, retracting it just as lazily before murmuring, “Fuck you, Blough.”

Then he felt himself pushed down, his knees bending without resistance, and the thick hand that kept its grip on his hair pushed his face forward till his nose was pressed against Max’s groin, and his throat was filled with the other boy’s inflamed length.

**********

“Dismal test scores--very dismal.”

“Cheer up, Carl. People will get rattled enough to do better next time.”

Carl sighed, staring at his shoes. He and Pascal had just left the administration building, a stack of papers cradled in his arms. The rain had finally stopped, and the two boys took advantage of the momentary respite to run from the sophomore dormitory to the faculty offices in response to a summons from their literature professor, who had tests that needed to be returned to the students before they assembled for dinner.

“Let’s walk through the trees,” Carl declared glumly, indicating the wooded area that flanked the path connecting the dorms with the administration building. Students wandered up and down this path, and Carl didn’t feel up to answering people’s questions regarding their tests. He’d just caught a glimpse of the results, and he was appalledhis his classmates’ poorer than usual showing this time around.

“Look, people slack all the time. The term’s just started, and everyone’s still in holiday mode. Let reality give them a sure, swift kick up the ass. They’ll get it all together after this, trust me,” Pascal said as he strode purposefully through the t, hi, his eyes taking in the sight of balding branches and gray skies with vague interest.

“Sorry, Biquet, but I can’t help but worry.”

“Like the wonderful mother hen that you are.”

“I’m serious, Pascal! I’m the damn class president! Things like this worry me!”

“That’s why you were voted class president. You take the burden of the whole universe on your shoulders, while we all get to run out and play. Of course, that means having to put up with occasional periods of Carl Mise-style brick-shitting and head-banging, but who says life’s perfect?”

“Why do I hang out with you?”

“Because you lust after my testosterone-packed, lickable physique and trouser-wetting charms.”

Carl’s normally placid features contorted wildly into a grimace as he glanced at his companion. “You’re trying to bait me again. It’s not going to work, you know.”

“Yes, it is. Look. I can see your jaw muscles spasm. I feel a smile coming on.”

A hand flew up and quickly shielded Carl’s left jaw from Pascal’s scrutiny, and it was all dark-haired boy could do to allow a rather clumsy squawk escape his throat, and Pascal dissolved into fits of loud, guttural laughter.

“Oh, fu…” Carl sputtered, the word freezing in mid-talk.

Pascal immediately fell silent as he stared at his friend, his eyes widening in eager anticipation. But Carl’s mind worked at a furious pace and immediately caught the near blunder, and he fought to save himself.

“F…fu…”

“Go on, say it! You know you want to! Cuss me out! Come on!”

“Fu…f…fuf…fu…fudge!”

The bespectacled boy stared at Carl in incredulous silence, his jaw hanging low, while the latter squared his shoulders, cleared his throat, and confidently blurted out, “Fudge!”

Carl blinked then flashed his friend a broad, triumphant grin. “Fudge,” he repeated. “Fudge, fudge, fudge.”

Pascal merely stared back in stunned silence before he shook his head in pity. “Jesus, are you uptight,” he grunted, brows furrowed in concern. “You know, Carl, if I were to shove a piece of coal up your ass, I’d be mining a diamond in a week.”

Carl felt his face burn for a moment before he finally allowed the humor of the moment to touch him, and he burst out laughing as well, doubling over, with Pascal chuckling bemusedly beside him as they moved on, picking their way once again through the trees. The dismal test scores fin finally forgotten--even if at least for the moment--while the friends chatted over other things.

Carl felt himself relax, his body softening at the release of pressure and his steps growing lighter as he went along. During a lull in the conversation, the boy glanced up and observed the heavy clouds that continued to hang like a broad, ancient canopy above them. The breeze picked up, and dead leaves fluttered at their feet, with some being wrenched off branches and floating lazily down. The scent of wet earth assailed Carl’s senses, and he inhaled deeply, enjoying the comforting effects freshly-washed nature tended to offer him. He was about to say something about the state of some of the trees that grew at the eastern end of the campus when a black lump lying at the foot of an old oak caught his eye, and he stopped in his tracks.

“Pascal…”

“Hmm?”

“Wait a minute. I see something.”

Pascal, who hadn’t noticed him stop (being much too immersed in his contemplation of the flowering shrubs to their left), finally halted his progress, blinking in some confusion at first as his mind seemed to catch up with the moment. He stared blankly at Carl, who was now frowning and narrowing his eyes at the dark lump.

“What is it?”

Carl merely shook his head and turned away from their path, pushing through wet brush and finally stopping a few yards shy of the oak tree, his eyes widening in horror.

“Oh, Christ!” he exclaimed and immediately darted forward. “Pascal, it’s Gilbert!”

“What?”

“It’s Gilbert! I think he’s hurt!”

Carl dropped the folder of tests on the wet grass as he fell to his knees, reaching out to place a hand against the pale forehead that peeked out from a damp clump of blond hair. His heart lurched at the heat that seared his palm.

Gilbert was lying on his side, curled up in a fetal ball, his uniform partly undone and his sash carelessly and loosely wrapped around his waist. His weathered satchel lay nearby, and judging from the dampness that darkened the leather, Carl guessed that the boy had lain in the rain for some time.

“Damn it,” he hissed as he gingerly brushed wet hair off Gilbert’s face to get a better view of his classmate’s features. He gently moved the other boy’s shoulder, forcing him to turn and face him for an easier inspection. “Pascal!”

Pascal crashed through the bushes, panting, and stumbled to his side, a small cry of surprise escaping him. “My God! What happened?”

Carl had peeled the front flap of Gilbert’s uniform off the stricken boy’s shoulder, exposing a few small bruises on a thin arm, indicative of rough handling.

“Who did this to you?” he whispered in horror when his eyes, inspecting the invalid carefully, finally settled on the more ominous purple marks that circled Gilbert’s wrists. They were light, but they were present all the same, and Carl felt a rush of anger wash over him. “Who the hell did this to you?”

“I’ll get my first aid kit,” Pascal offered, and before Carl could say anything, he was running through the trees.

“Gilbert--Gilbert,” Carl urged quietly as he carefully shook his classmate’s shoulder. “Wake up. It’s me. What happened to?” ?”

Gilbert shifted, a small sigh escaping his lips as his eyes fluttered weakly open. Carl watched patiently as the other boy blinked, frowning at him as both his vision and mind cleared. Green eyes, hazy from the fever that now racked his system, slowly focused, their normally brilliant shade now dimmed from memories of the recent past.

“What?” the boy muttered.

“Oh, thank God you’re awake,” Carl breathed, forcing a reassuring smile. “I wasn’t sure…”

Those same green eyes suddenly hardened in recognition, and Gilbert interrupted with an icy “What do you want, Mise?”

“I want to help,” Carl replied, unfazed. He was used to the other boy’s curtness, especially toward him. “Gilbert, what happened?”

“None of your damn business. Leave me alone. Just leave me the hell alone.” Gilbert closed his eyes and, swatting away Carl’s hand, he turned and settled himself back onto the wet grass, pulling his uniform back up and securing it with a hand under his chin.

The other boy shook his head wearily but refused to give up, his panic levels rising as he caught sight of faint tremors wracking his classmate’s form. “Pascal’s coming back with the first aid kit,” he said. “Let me help you up. You shouldn’t be lying on the wet ground like this. You should be in your room, resting…”

“Do you want me, Carl?”

“…and you…” Carl stumbled, blinking. “Beg your pardon?”

“No one’s around. My uniform’s undone. How convenient for you. Go ahead and do it.”

Gilbert’s eyes flew open once he’d finished speaking, and they settled their gaze on Carl, who could only regard him in mute astonishment.

“Are you deaf or something?”

“Gilbert,” Carl finally stammered, his face heating up as the other boy regarded him steadily. “That’s insane. I’m not like that.”

“Oh, aren’t you?” the latter scoffed.

“I’m not! I only want to help--please let me help you.”

“You’re not like that, huh? Hypocrite. I’ve seen the way you stare at me when you thought I wasn’t looking--hiding behind your Bible or your missal, dribbling all over your uniform like the perfect model of morality that you are.”

Gilbert’s eyes narrowed to virtual slits as he spat out his words and struggled to stand up, ignoring Carl’s offer of help and even slapping the other boy’s hand away when the latter tried to grab hold of an arm for leverage.

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Gilbert! I’m trying to help!”

“I never asked for it,” Gilbert replied quietly once he’d finally stood up on wobbly knees, awkwardly pulling his uniform close while fumbling for his bag. He finally grabbed hold of the shoulder strap and slung it over his shoulder, visibly wincing at the exertion, but he held his ground, regarding a stunned Carl with a look of contempt. “I don’t need your help. Go on and run back to your flimsy chapel for your prayers and your cozy little room where you can wank off your frustrations. Must be hard being class president. Imagine all the little sacrifices you have to make just so everyone else gets to aspire to be like you.” A bruised hand raked through wet, tangled hair, and Carl was treated to the sight of cold, marbleized perfection, and he swallowed when he realized that he was beginning to stare helplessly--just as he’d done before in spite of his fierce denials even to himself.

Gilbert smirked. “Hypocrite.”

Then he spun around and stumbled off, disappearing into the thicker cluster of trees that ran along the campus’s periphery. Carl, for his part, could only watch the trees get enveloped by the wind, his numbed senses barely taking in the sound of Pascal’s voice calling out for him.

**********

The school year was already a month into the new term when Serge arrived, and the heady bustle that defined every waking hour threw the boy into a good deal of confusion, having been long used to the severe calm of his grandmother’s home, after all, with the wide spaces and the stiff elegance of every antique piece that was set in its preordained place throughout the mansion. When he’d been so long resigned to the empty coldness of wealth, he was now forced into a world of ceaseless bustle, his senses overcome by the sight and sound of youth in all its glorious, impetuous splendor.

The academy, he quickly learned, was quite rigid in its standards and demanded no less than the students’ best as they all competed for accolades and the much-desired attention of interested universities, who competed in their turn for the best of the best, coaxing the students and their parents with honeyed words once the boys reached their junior year.

But there was time enough for that, Serge realized, as he held his breath and took the plunge, throwing himself without a second thought into the thick of things and giving them his all. Here, after all, was where he belonged--in school, with his peers, learning, learning, learning.

He did not belong at home, surrounded by a dozen servants who doted on him in direct violation of his aunt’s cruel injunction to let the child be in spite of the all-too-obvious need he had for company and affection. The boy was orphaned at five, rejected by the only family left to him, and allowed to live under his grandmother’s roof only because his now deceased grandmother willed it, having long forgiven her son for his elopement with a wealthy brute’s kept woman and thus plunging the family into disgrace. But Madeleine Battouille could never forgive her brother, and Serge’s presence served as a stark reminder of her family’s shame, compounding her bitterness at the thought of being cheated her share of the family fortune. She’d even gone so far as to reject each and every suitor who’d come her way, determined to keep the money and the property within her grasp.

“The Battouille name dies with me,” she was once heard to declare with all the passion that her shrunken, debilitated heart could contain. “Let my bastard nephew spawn his own race of filth. None of them will ever be a Battouille.”

It was no secret, after all, that she’d campaigned to have Aslan cut off without a penny, but her mother rejected her claims and kept her will intact, dying only a few days after a newly-orphaned Serge was brought home, terrified and lost and friendless. And while the frail, elderly woman at first feared that the boy wouldn’t take to his family well, Serge’s natural sensitivity and desire to please immediately attached grandson to grandmother in ways that astounded many, much to Madeleine’s dismay. And it was said that Josette Battouille’s final words were a fiercely whispered plea, murmured into the boy’s hair as she held him close to herself as though clinging to the memory of her own lost son.

“Oh, that God preserve my Serge from the sins of the past.”

And with her passing came the death of hope, and Serge was raised in a cold, isolated household, the only privilege he was allowed to enjoy was that of being given music lessons by the best tutors. Madeleine’s feelings of betrayal encompassed all, and every day of the boy’s young life was nothing but a tapestry of calculated machinations that were subtly put into effect--the kinds purposefully designed to break the boy’s will and to instill in his impressionable and greatly substandard mind her undeniable right as the true Battouille heir.

And the bitter, vindictive woman would have succeeded in her goal had it not been for the servants’ compassion for the lonely boy. They’d risked all to befriend him and provide the connection he so desperately needed, what with Madeleine’s intiontion to keep him sequestered from society, his only contact with the outside world being nothing more than the occasional private tutor and the weekly church service.

But now he was in school, in the company of his peers, allowed to live as he ought to live. He’d already made a few friends though he considered Carl to be his best friend--his very first, he’d be quick to note with a shot of pride. And with Carl’s tireless support, it didn’t take long for Serge to fall into a rhythm with which he could live, and the boy embraced every opportunity that came his way.

He’d only been with the academy for a week, and he was already dizzy though elated with his accomplishments.

So far he’d met with nothing less than success, and he felt as though he could burst from the excitement. He had his friends with whom he could share his triumphs, and they were good enough sports to indulge him, but there were, naturally, times when they simply couldn’t be there to listen, and it was those times when he wished that he could do a better job bonding with his roommate, so he could at least enjoy an occasional chat with him.

As it was, Gilbert didn’t seem inclined to befriend him, the other boy barely acknowledging him whenever he was present, which happened to be a rare situation with which to begin. For reasons that Serge couldn’t even begin to grasp, his roommate didn’t think twice in breaking academy regulations, staying out late and not creeping back to his assigned room till past curfew. Serge himself had stayed up, anxiously awaiting the other boy, and feigning sleep when the latter finally did come “home.” And as he watched in the dark while Gilbert undressed and crawled into bed, he resolved to talk to his roommate about this situation in the morning; however, the morning always found Serge waking up to an empty room, Gilbert having gone at an absurdly early time.

“Is he avoiding me?” Serge couldn’t help but ask one time as he dressed up, regarding himself in the mirror with an air of self-recrimination. His eyes would stray to the tanned complexion that filled the mirror’s reflective surface, and his spirit sank. “What did I do wrong?”

“havehaven’t done anything wrong, Serge,” Carl once reassured him with a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Gilbert’s just--well--he’s eccentric in his--habits. There’s nothing wrong with you, trust me.”

That helped ease his spirits a little, but a quiet little voice nagged at him still, and it was all Serge could do to lose himself in his schoolwork even more if only to distract himself from his perceived inadequacies and imagined faults. And after about four days of this, he’d finally resigned himself to the idea that Gilbert was just as Carl had described him: eccentric.

Though he continued to wonder why his roommate hadn’t gotten into trouble with the academy’s administration yet for brazenly flouting rules.

Every night, after all, the student monitors would make their rounds, taking roll right before lights out. The boys would assemble before their bedroom doors, waiting for their names to be called as the monitors made their slow progress from one end of the hallway to another. Serge had noted that all the other students always stood in pairs, their roommates accounted for as was expected, while he stood alone.

“Room 17!” one of the monitors would call. “Battouille! Cocteau!”

“Present!” Serge would reply, and the monitors would pause in their tracks, regarding him with an unmistakably bored air.

“Gilbert not here?”

“No, sir. I don’t know where he is.”

A tense silence would follow that revelation, with the monitors exchanging arch smiles while scribbling something down on the attendance record before moving on to the next room. And all around, Serge would feel eyes fixed on him, quiet whispers filling his ears as the other boys spoke in hushed tones with each other while watching him with varying degrees of amusement. He’d once tried to get someone to tell him what was going on, but no one thought it worth his time to enlighten the befuddled boy, shrugging him off with a careless “Nothing--we were just wondering where Gilbert could be at this godawful hour” before walking back into their rooms, laughing quietly, and Serge was left standing alone in the hallway.

The evening of the seventh day after his arrival wasn’t any different from the rest, but Serge had gotten used to his roommate’s habits at this point and simply retired after roll call, allowing the ceaseless rhythm of the rain outside lull him to sleep and ease him into soothing dreams of long gone days spent in his parents’ company.

“You’re much too big to sit on top of the piano now,” his father laughed as he pulled Serge off the instrument, placing him on his lap instead before playing his mother’s favorite nocturne.

Serge watched in growing wonder at the way his father’s fingers seemed to melt into the keys, turning into exquisitely skillful extensions of the instrument itself, coaxing some of the sweetest sounds he’d ever heard out of such a huge, ponderous thing. He leaned forward, reaching out to touch the keys, when he felt himself slide off his father’s lap and topple to the floor with a little cry of surprise.

Serge gasped as he sat up in bed.

“Wh--what happened?” he breathed as his mind slowly cleared, and the heavy remnants of sleep dissolved into wakefulness.

He blinked, feeling a little disoriented, and glanced around the room. It was still dark. The rain continued to pour outside, striking the bedroom window with dull, rhythmic thuds. Serge let several seconds pass before he sighed and shook his head.

“It was only a dream,” he murmured and lifted the covers to burrow under them once more. As he did, he caught sight of the bedroom door’s dim outline and frowned. “I didn’t close the door? I thought I did.”

He kicked the covers off and slid off his bed, stumbling groggily forward as he groped his way in the dark, his ears barely picking up the sound of his bare feet shuffling on the cold, wood floor. He’d reached the door and had taken hold of the doorknob when he suddenly felt something cold and wet attach itself to his ankle, and he fell back with a cry, landing hard on his rump.

He’d barely recovered from the shock of the moment as well as the pain from his fall when his eyes fell on something pale lying right next to his leg. Swallowing, Serge slowly moved his foot away, warily eyeing the object, ready to fight back if it posed a threat. But it didn’t move even when the boy cautiously pushed himself away and crawled toward his writing desk. He stood up, clinging to the desk for support, not once taking his eyes off the thing on the floor. Reaching out, he groped for the small lamp and flicked it on, his breath catching in his throat when the feeble, yellowed light broke through the inky darkness, and he saw what it was that had clung to him so desperately.

Gilbert lay crumpled on the floor, his uniform soaked and muddied and barely covering his thin form. The boy was pale--unnaturally pale--and he didn’t seem to be breathing.

Serge stared in horrified silence for several seconds, his body unwilling to respond to his mind’s frantic urging. But his tongue was eventually loosened, and he stammered, “Gilbert?”

The boy on the floor remained quiet and unmoving even as Serge finally found his wits and hurried to his roommate’s side, fearfully examining him for injuries. Relief didn’t come when he found no sign of blood, however, and after receiving nothing but silence when he repeatedly called Gilbert’s name, Serge leapt to his feet and ran out of the room, crying out desperately for Carl.

(tbc)