Baroque

Baroque (Part 4)


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Beginning Notes:

The references to Gilbert’s past involving his mother are taken from Volume 7. And unfortunately, I think this’ll be the last ter ter that’ll largely benefit from Emily’s translations. (see Monochrome in the links page)


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Gilbert quietly stepped into Room 17, shedding his coat and letting it drop on the floor as he stood in the middle of the room, staring at his writing-desk and the aborted letter that remained there.

Thoughts of his guardian assailed his mind, and he swallowed, feeling his gut tighten against the anger that once again began to churn inside. Two months and still no letter—no, not even a measly note.

“What have I done wrong this time?” he whispered bitterly.

With a ragged sigh, he walked up to his writing-desk and regarded the blank stationery, the initial anger now giving way to an even more dreadful sensation—one that Gilbert had always loathed and feared the most.

Helplessness.

“Why won’t anyone tell me?” He reached down and tore the sheet of paper from its pad, crumpling it into the tiniest ball he could manage before turning around to fling it across the room—not caring where it landed or what it struck. A brief spurt of anger needed its release, and he gave it willingly.

Watching the small ball of tightly crumpled paper fly through the inky darkness, however, proved to be inadequate. Even the act of throwing, with his body expending a certain amount of force in completing it, was largely ineffectual.

Anger continued to boil. Frustration mounted. Terror—familiar, despised, and lingering—clawed its way out of its repressed prison. Gilbert’s body shook as he felt the threads snap, and he was hurtling through space, unable to grab hold of something—anything—that wouldp hip his rapid descent. He winced as he placed a hand against his chest, gingerly massaging the dull throbbing that now pressed heavily against it.

It was a familiar pain—one that hearkened back to duskier moments of his childhood. It was a sting—a spindle prick that always sent him sinking into a state of near-senselessness, disembodied and yearning for relief and yet unable to fully articulate this need. Gilbert understood its nature—if only at a deeply intuitive level.

And it came back to him—again and again—a pattern that repeated itself so many times that he’d grown to accept that he was born into an endlessly moving machine of disquiet, one that could only be silenced through the same brand of pain effected by that spindle prick.

Pain canceled out by pain.

A quiet sound suddenly reached his ears. He instinctively turned to face his bed, where he now found a long, lanky figure lying casually on the sheets, arms crossed under a shadowy head, ankles idly joined, feet lightly tapping each other. Even in the room’s murkiness, Gilbert still recognized the complacent grin that welcomed him back.

“You’re so predictable, Dren,” he said.

“No thanks to your open invitation this afternoon.”

“I told you to stay away.”

“Which is Gilbert-speak for ‘Come fuck me.’” A low chuckle followed. “Now am I right, or am I right?”

Gilbert smirked. “I have a roommate…”

“Who’s out of commission for the time being.” Dren stretched out an arm and pointed at a small rag that sat in a crumpled heap by Serge’s bed. Gilbert stared at it in disbelief, which soon dissipated into admiration once realization dawned.

He looked back at Dren, his smirk melting into a lopsided, close-lipped smile. “I’m impressed. I’ve never had anyone go this far for me before.” He paused as he watched the senior move, stretching languidly before sitting up and swinging spindly legs over the bed’s edge. “And you’re not afraid of getting kicked out by Rosemarine?”

Dren laughed, jerking his head in Serge’s direction. “Who’s going to tell? Him? Stupid little git didn’t even know what hit him.” He stood and walked up to Gilbert, who merely watched him through the shadows. “Besides, he’s got no one else to blame but you.” He reached out and casually, without hesitation, began to untie Gilbert’s sash.

The smaller boy narrowed his eyes. “I’ve never given my consent,” he noted, dropping his voice to a near whisper. “This is rape.”

“Fuck you. Who’d believe that Gilbert Cocteau was raped? You’d spread for a goddamn raccoon.” The sash was torn off his waist, and bony fingers began to fumble for his uniform’s buttons. Gilbert couldn’t help but grin at the sight of those fingers stumbling in their task, ill-concealed excitement rendering them awkward and unsteady.

“I’ve got nothing to lose. I’ve been failing my classes in this damned cloister—my chances at getting into a decent university no better than shit under my shoes. If I get kicked out, I might as well go with a bang. No pun intended.”

Gilbert felt a hot, heady thrill sweep over him, momentarily dulling the lingering pain from earlier, and he offered the other boy a tight smile. His breath hitched when his altered cassock was pulled off him, and his bared skin tingled in the night air.

“If I get caught, you’re going down with me. I’ve got two people who’ll happily testify on my side, and there’s really not much to prove, is there? If you did get raped, it’s because you asked for it. The whole damn school’s just been waiting for the other shoe to drop.” It only took a couple of seconds for Gilbert’s trousers to be unzipped, another couple of seconds for them to lie pooled around his ankles along with his underwear.

Then he felt hot, sweaty hands groping their way up and down his back, fingers digging painfully into his skin, and a tongue tunneling inside his ear. Gilbert couldn’t help the ragged gasp that burst out of his lips at the contact, but his mind managed to retain its delicate hold on lucidity.

Paor por pain.

His eyes flew open and stared, glazed, at the ceiling, a jubilant grin now creasing his face. “No one’s going down with you, Dren,” he whispered.

A quiet chuckle met his declaration. “I don’t think so. This is no one else’s doing but yours.” Dren pulled back and stared at Gilbert with a smile of contempt. “Let’s see now. Blough keeps bragging that the little cock-tease likes it rough. Is that right?”

Gilbert merely returned look for look, the hot, heady thrill sweeping over him again, doubling in its force. His body shivered in its wake. Do it, his mind cooed. s ses see how far you’re willing to go for me.

Dren’s eyes narrowed when defiant silence reigned. Then he suddenly swung his arm and backhanded the smaller boy, sending him tumbling into his bed with a small cry. The shadows spun before Gilbert’s eyes as he fell heavily on the sheets. The left side of his head felt momentarily numbed before a steady throbbing took hold, and he didn’t realize that he was being wrestled down, his shoes and socks being torn off him, his limbs being thrown apart, and a heavy object taking its place between them.

Someone whispered in his ear, but he knew it wasn’t Jack Dren. /Yes. God only knows what you deserve./

The older boy was now lying on top, kissing him in a way that repulsed him. Gilbert’s mouth was forced wide open, stretched as though his throat were being minutely examined. Shudders of disgust wracked the smaller boy’s frame at the feel of Dren’s tongue snaking its way in, thorough and unpolished in the way it swept around Gilbert’s mouth. It brushed across teeth, pushed against gums and tongue, crudely insistent in the way it fought to fill every crevice and hollow with its slimy presence.

/You like that? That’s for making your own mother hate you./ A faded image flashed before his eyes—a woman with gold hair, her face contorted with rage, her mouth moving soundlessly, those phantom words nothing more than memory now, yet their force could still tear through Gilbert’s mind.

He squirmed under Dren’s tongue.

The relief that came from its eventual retraction was short-lived as Dren lavished his face with equally messy, equally wet kisses—as an eager dog would its favorite master. Gilbert instinctively shrank from the contact, but he was held fast against the mattress. Once or twice he turned his face away—only to beced ced back into position by a hand clamped painfully on his jaw, and his mouth was once again pried open and invaded by a squirming, tentacle-like tongue.

He fought hard not to gag.

/She left you. They all leave you. Oh, poor baby./

The older boy was grinding his hips uncomfortably against his, rubbing what felt like a surprisingly large erection against his own. The pressure was hard—as though Dren were desperately trying to burrhrouhrough the pale body beneath him—and Gilbert struggled to push him away to relieve himself of some of the weight, only to have the other boy snarl a curse and grab his wrists, pulling his arms up and above his head and ordering him to keep them there.

“I’ll fucking tie your hands to the headboard if you keep moving them,” he barked before moving down to chart a wet path down Gilbert’s chest and stomach, alternately licking and nipping till he reached the other boy’s cock and quickly swallowing it whole. No preamble, no teasing preparation.

/Reptiles like him, though—yes, they’ll always be there for you. They’ll never go away./ ilbeilbert arched against him, suppressing the soft moans that welled up in his throat as he threw his head back. Dren was just as wet and sloppy in the way he nursed the boy, drenching him with spit, his tongue restlessly sliding up and down the shaft and his lips clamping down tightly on the head as he sucked hard. Gilbert’s fingers grabbed fistfuls of the bedsheets, curling fiercely around them as the boy moved against Dren’s mouth—hips thrusting insistently, demanding more of the same crude attention, strangled gasps hissing through clenched teeth. And Dren was only too happy to oblige. Gilbert’s eyes flew wide open at the feel of that familiar burning in his groin, and his body began to strain.

“Oh, fuck…” he gasped as he squirmed.

/They’ll always want you./

Dren immediately pulled away, aborting his release, and turned him over before his mind could catch up with the moment. Dazedly, Gilbert stared at the shadows as he stood on all fours, barely even aware of the way his cheeks were roughly parted to make way for the tongue that now worked to drown his hole in a thick coating of spit.

“Down. Down,” came the breathless command, and Gilbert’s head was suddenly shoved into the pillow and fixed there by a hand that secured itself with a fistful of his hair.

The boy felt a nudge against his opening before Dren pushed in with a low grunt. Gilbert grimaced at the discomfort and tried to protest loudly, but the pillow effectively muffled his words, and all that reached his ears was a series of weak whimpers. He felt his bowels being forcibly openeds ins insides being exposed to the world as though demanding a closer scrutiny. His scalp burnt as Dren’s grip on his hair tightened in conjunction with his penetration.

“Augu,” the boy groaned into his pillow, the sweat beading on his forehead. He could barely breathe against the soottootton and feather stuffing.

Dren began to move inside him, harsh and rhythmic in the way his hips rocked against Gilbert’s buttocks, plunging deeply and pulling out till only the head remained buried before thrusting in again. His cock grated the boy’s insides—the initial discomfort of being ripped open maintained by that ungodly thing, any promise of pleasure, however faint, no longer there.

/Good to know that someone does want you, eh?/

Pleasure, pain—Gilbert’s bodyldn’ldn’t seem to delineate the two. He was so hard that it ached, and he struggled to reach down and touch himself, but Dren kept grabbing hold of his wrists and snatching them away. It was all Gilbert could do to sink bonelessly into the mattress, eyes staring into the darkness, leaving his body to move and react on its own.

The older boy continued to move inside him, fucking him with a ferocity that not even Max had managed to do, kinks and all. This was two months of bottled up lust being unleashed in him. Gilbert could feel the sweat drip onto his back, coating him with salt and dirt and someone else’s musk. Dren would pause to bend down and lick his ear or bite his shoulder, whispering coarse names and obviously getting off on them and the perceived power he had over the smaller boy.

He had stamina; that was certain.

After what seemed to be countless numbing minutes of having sex done on him, Gilbert felt the discomfort escalate into all-out pain, and his body began to fight against the soreness that now wracked his insides. His muscles tightened defensively against the persistent battering, and his ears barely took in the string of soft curses that fell out of Dren’s lips as the other boy slowed down before grinding to a halt.

He felt the larger body drape itself over his, and he was suddenly cocooned within a circle of sweat-slicked arms. He took several deep breaths once his head was asedased, mist-filled eylindlinded by gathering tears.

“Open up, goddamn it!” And Gilbert felt that wet, snake-like tongue trailing up and down the side of his neck before delving into his ear yet again.

Something in him collapsed; he couldn’t tell what. But his body relaxed, and his ears were filled with words of encouragement that seemed to be lifted straight from bad pornographic movies. Whore. Cockslime. Cockjuice. Fuckhole. Boyslut. Dren cooed them, mouthing them almost lovingly as he began to move again, his pace increasing till he was pistoning with redoubled fury, and Gilbert’s cries were muffled against a hand that firmly clamped against his mouth.

/God knows what you deserve./

“Augu,” he wept before the threads snapped once more, and he was hurtling through space.

********** SergSerge stirred, his mind slowly and painfully being raked back into wakefulness. His senses were nothing but a huge muddle of darkness and light that collected, swirled erratically, and coalesced into a blinding, throbbing pressure that threatened to crack his skull open. There were sounds as well—or what seemed to be sounds—coming from everywhere and nowhere. The boy couldn’t tell. He simply felt himself being sucked through a vacuum, dragged forcibly back out from a state of complete nothingness, to be gradually bombarded by an onslaught of sensations that seemed to fight desperately for release, and his weakened body could barely accommodate their demands.

A small cough escaped his throat as his mind finally—though feebly—grabbed hold of the present moment, barely hanging on with slippery fingers.

“What…” the boy whispered hoarsely. He blinked his eyes open and his vision into focus. “I…Gilbert?”

He realized that he was staring at the wall, his eyes barely able to take in the jagged shadows that seemed to be painted on it.

“Where’s Gilbert?” he stammered quietly then turned his head. He winced at the sudden and overpowering throb that pressed against his brain and the momentary surge of naushat hat assailed his gut.

The room swam, and it was all he could do to lie helplessly in bed, his foggy gaze now fixed on—though still not seeing—the bed across the way from his. He noted vague movement in the darkness.

Ah, yes. Gilbert was finally back. Where’d he gone, anyway?

“Must talk to him—apologize…”

Serge blinked several more times. Light and shadows soon shaped themselves into a harsh cacophony of images that momentarily hung suspended before the boy’s eyes and then sank into his brain.

He stared in momentary confusion at the scene before him.

Gilbert was in bed, yes, but he was naked, the figure of a larger boy sprawled on top of him as he lay face down.

“What—what’s happening?” Serge whispered. Then clarity and horrified realization finally slammed his mind into the present, and he gasped, fighting against the sheets that were entangled with his legs as he stred ted to sit up.

Muffled cries and harsh, ragged, and heavy breathing filled his ears as the two bodies continued to move against each other—obscene in the ferocity of their joining—grotesque in the way they reminded Serge of an exorcism, with the larger body grinding desperately against the smaller one—as though purging itself, emptying itself, tearing the very bowels out of its system. Trapped and pinned firmly against the rumpled bedsheets, the smaller figure alternately welcomed and struggled against its obvious master—legs spread and straining, arms locked inside another circle of arms, fingers clawing at larger hands that barely silenced incoherent cries. Occasional breathless curses sliced through the thick air.

Serge forced his body to move in spite of its initial resistance, his eyes wide and fixed in horror at the scene before him. Sliding mindlessly out of the sheets, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and felt his right foot touch something cold. He glanced down and numbly took note of a damp rag on the floor.

Clumsily, his mind read everything, piecing things together until the indecent tangle of bodies before him seemed to laugh at his confusion, the rag by his foot underscoring the mockery of their tone. Serge felt himself mentally slapped, and sudden rage swept through him. He moved undetected from his bed and staggered to the door, reaching out and flipping the light switch and flooding the room with a garish brightness that blinded him. He pinched his eyes shut reflexively but then forced them open, squinting as he regarded the two figures suddenly struggling to extricate themselves from each other’s hold.

“Get out!” he cried.

“What the fuck…” a low, guttural voice snarled, and the larger figure sat up, staring at him in some confusion at first before leaping off Gilbert’s bed, stumbling around as he tried to pull his trousers and underwear back up.

A second or two of tense silence fell heavily on everyone as Serge and the other boy stared at each other, the latter fumbling awkwardly with his zipper and button, looking decidedly out of humor at being unseasonably interrupted. Serge tried gnorgnore the rapidly shrinking erection that was just now shoved unceremoniously back inside its protective cover—as well as the disgust that brewed in his stomach.

“I said, get out.”

A quiet, derisive chuckle met Serge’s hoarse command. “Get out?” the stranger echoed. “Who’s going to make me? You, you little shit?”

“Why not? This is my room, too!”

The chuckle rapidly turned into harsh, braying laughter. “Oh, that’s sweet! That’s sweet! Your room? This is your room by default, punk! You’re a fucking squatter, using up space in Gilbert’s room.”

“I was put here…”

“Because the damn school didn’t have any more room for your pathetic little ass.” The taller boy snorted as he strode confidently forward, his figure looming over Serge’s slighter one as he stared the boy down, aquiline features contorted into a sneer. “You’re just extra baggage, kid. An extra body filling up the extra bed. Deal with it.” He paused and leaned down, placing his face a few inches away from Serge’s while firmly jabbing the boy’s shoulder with a bony finger. “You’re nothing.”

Serge fought the bile that had begun to churn in his gut. He’d heard those words before—thrown at him—purposefully crafted insults that were meant to break him under his father’s own roof. For a moment, he thought he was looking back at his aunt’s flushed, leering face and hearing her bitter, vindictive words, and something in him began to fight back—something both terrified and weary of being terrified—something that had long understood, and yet was systematically bullied into ignoring, his own value.

Serge was afraid, yes. He could hear the frantic hammering of his heart in his chest, could feel the blood drain away from him and leave him numb with cold. He could feel his body tremble from the strain and the horror of the present moment—and especially of the realization that he was utterly alone, completely helpless against forces that now conspired to bring him down.

“Life’s a bitch, isn’t it?” the stranger noted complacently, raising a hand to toy lazily with the tousled frame of dark curls on Serge’s head. “The haves and have-nots—you can only be one or the other, and when life screws you over—well—life screws you over.” He laughed.

“In that case, you’re screwed,” Serge hissed, slapping his hand away and moving toward the door. “Get out of here before I’m forced to call someone.”

“You think anyone cares? You think no one knows about what goes on in Gilbert’s room? God! You’re a bigger idiot than I thought! Why else won’t anyone want to share space with him
S
Serge rested his hand on the doorknob and turned around to regard his adversary coldly. “If no one cares then it shouldn’t be a problem walking out the door, should it?” He smirked. Time to toss a name or two around. “Or are you afraid that Rosemarine’s going to find out about this?”

It was a wild stab in the dark, and Serge understood that. Knowing nothing about the other boy, he simply played his cards blindly, trusting to nothing more than luck.

“Rosemarine doesn’t give a shit—just like the others.”

“Then it wouldn’t bother him if you were to be seen walking out this room past curfew.” Serge turned the knob and was opening the door when a sudden flash of panic crossed the other boy’s face, and the latter lunged forward and threw himself against the door, shutting it with a loud bang that just about shook the entire building—movingh toh too quickly for Serge to be able to absorb his triumph at the insane gamble he’d just made.

“You little…”

Serge’s world suddenly spun wildly as he barely caught sight of a clenched fist appearing from nowhere, flying at him and causing a burst of blinding white stars to explode behind his eyes and his body to topple backward. Books flew out, scattering sheets of paper all over as he fell hard against his writing-desk, crying out at the pain that tore through his side and his jaw.

His world had barely managed to right itself when he was suddenly grabbed from behind, spun around, and struck again, sending him falling heavily against the wall, the sickening sound of flesh, muscle, and bone crashing against solid wood roaring in his ears. Another agonized cry tore through his throat as he sank to the floor. His head throbbed; his vision dimmed; his shoulder felt as though his arm were being wrenched out of its socket.

He opened his eyes and rested them on his roommate’s blurry figurerelyrely making out Gilbert’s pale form as the other boy sat up and leaned against the wall by his bed, languidly posed as though he were a sitter being painted by an obscene Italian master—pornographically liquid, still, and silent throughout the whole thing. And when Serge’s vision cleared, he saw that Gilbert was watching things unfold with the most unnatural air of detachment. He simply stared at his injured roommate—eyes dulled as they peered out from under a disheveled mop of gold hair, mouth fixed into an unmoving half-pout. He neither stirred nor spoke—gave no signs of life—no indication that he cared at all or whether or not he was even part of the present moment.

Blank.

Impassive.

Cold.

“Gilbert,” Serge managed to stammer, wincing at the sharp pain as he felt his lower lip crack open when he spoke. “Are you letting this happen? Why won’t you do something?”

The words were barely out of him when his assailant kicked the side of his thighs, and he was once again crying out in pain, doubling over on the floor and weakly grabbing hold of his throbbing limbs.

“What, you think he’ll do anything for you, punk?” came the sharp retort from somewhere above him. Panting, Serge braced himself against the wall as he struggled to his feet. “He wants to see your sorry little ass get kicked if that’s what it takes to get you to shut up and leave him the hell alone.”

“He wouldn’t,” the boy whispered hoarsely as he fumbled for the edge of his desk and used it for leverage in his struggle to raise himself. His muscles felt as though they were on fire, and he couldn’t help the hot tears that sprang up as he fought against the pain. “Gilbert wouldn’t do it.”

“Like hell he wouldn’t. If you weren’t out cold earlier, you would’ve heard what he was saying about you—all those secrets that come out in the middle of a good fuck, you know?”

“You knocked me out…”

“Doing everyone a favor. Plain and simple. Face it—you’re a goddamn nuisance.”

Serge shook his head, this time fighting against what he was hearing. “You’re lying,” he hissed, his eyes once again resting themselves on his roommate’s silent form. “I haven’t done anything to him.” With waning hope he regarded the other boy—waiting for some response that would validate his belief to which he’d been stubbornly clinging.

But Gilbert continued to watch impassively, and the persistent notion of betrayal finally sank into Serge’s battered mind. Disbelief and confusion soon dissolved into cold, numbing rage. Serge felt his system freeze and fall silent—all noise of rushing blood and throbbing muscles suddenly dying into a sensory vacuum—and his voice hardened as he now addressed his roommate. “This isn’t fair. I’ve never done anything to you.”

“Listen up, kid—here’s the deal…”

Serge barely felt the hand that was placed roughly on his shoulder when he suddenly lashed out in an explosion of cold fury. His mind not once registering the pain that wracked his bruised body, he turned sharply and knocked the hand off him.

“Don’t touch me!” he cried. “You make me sick!”

The other boy, caught completely by surprise, stumbled back a couple of paces and wasn’t given any time to recover. Serge lunged forward and shoved him away with a violent heave, pushing him further anrtherther back and in the direction of the door, yelling himself hoarse as he did.

“Get out! Get out!”

He hurled himself against the taller boy once they reached the door, and both flew back, hitting the wall with a loud thump and an explosion of curses and grunts. Serge immediately fumbled for the doorknob and gave it a vigorous twist while he fought to pin his adversary against the wall in spite of his clear disadvantage in size. Then the door was flying inward, the two grappling boys stumbling out and falling onto the hallway floor and filling the airh crh cries of pain and anger as they tumbled over each other.

“Fuck!” came the agonized howl from the other boy.

Serge staggered to his feet just as the lights came on, and doors up and down the hallway opened. Students stepped out and stared at them in shock and amazement, the sleep obviously having left them sometime ago—most likely when the fight had begun. Some had thrown on their robes, and some simply stepped out in their pajamas—all completely stunned at the sight of the half-naked, downed boy and of Serge planting himself at the doorway and facing his adversary with a look of icy rage.

The vanquished glanced wildly about, horror now marking his features as the swarm of students thickened around them. With a cry of dismay he leapt to his feet and flew back to the door—only to be stopped short when Serge braced himself where he stood, throwing his arms out to the side and clinging tenaciously to the doorframe, pressing his mouth into a thin line as he glowered at his opponent. He held his ground, using his body—smaller and thinner than his opponent’s—as a shield while the latter tried to push his way back into the room, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead from his efforts.

“Let me in!”

“Screw you.”

“Fuck you, asshole, let…”

Something flew above Serge’s head and struck the other boy squarely in the face, cutting him off abruptly. It was the latter’s discarded uniform; Gilbert had flung it back at him.

“Get out,” came the quiet order from somewhere behind Serge, who continued to cling to the doorframe.

Silence fell for a mere second as the tall boy gaped, aghasGilbGilbert,” he gasped. “You’re not…”

“I am. Get the hell out, Dren.”

The boy named Dren stared in complete disbelief, scarecrow-like figure hunched against the bundle of clothes he held against himself. And when it was clear that Gilbert wasn’t going to change his mind and Serge wasn’t going to move from his position, the look of dismay quickly turned to one of rage as Dren turned and ran off with a loud curse, shoving his way past the other students as they continued to crowd the hallway.

Serge watched the figure disappear before he stepped back inside his room, ignoring the stunned questions that were now being hurled at him by his peers. He shut the door with a firm click, pausing and staring at the knob as he struggled to collect himself before facing his roommate.

Gilbert stood a few feet away—still naked save for his coat, which he’d thrown carelessly around his shoulders. He regarded Serge in the same cold silence as re—ure—unnervingly inscrutable and yet simultaneously defiant in his reserve.

Serge could only stare back, the rage still prickling him as thought after thought about Gilbert’s betrayal assailed his numbed mind, none of which managing to gain a firm enough hold so that all fell away, and the boy was still left with an emptiness that chilled him.

As though completely severed from his physical form and hovering above and watching the proceedings with horrified fascination, he saw himself walk up to Gilbert, regard him silently for another second, and then swing his arm and strike his roommate across the face with his open palm.

The sharp sound of skin hitting skin sliced through the tense silence in the room, yet Serge was barely even aware of it.

Gilbert didn’t speak a single word or make an effort to defend himself from the attack. He merely looked back at his roommate when his head snapped back, his features still nothinge the thlanklank, unyielding marble. The reddish mark that suddenly bloomed on his cheek seemed not to affect him at all.

Serge quietly walked to the wardrobe and threw the doors open. He rummaged through his clothes and pulled out a long shirt, taking it back with him as he planted himself once more before Gilbert. Working swiftly, he yanked the coat off his roommate’s shoulders and flung it across the room, momentarily baring the other boy to his numbed gaze before throwing the shirt over his head.

“This was my dad’s,” he finally ground out. His voice sounded so distant and unrecognizable to his own ears. “It’s clean. You can borrow it for tonight.”

Gilbert merely stood before him, regarding him with a mixture of amazement and scorn now—at least, Serge noted icily, he was finally showing signs of being alive once again. Taking in a deep, ragged breath, the dark-haired boy stared at his companion in mounting frustration as the latter remained immobile—obviously rebelling against the unspoken command to put on the shirt.

“Wear it!” Serge finally hissed, and when Gilbert remained defiant, he moved forward and grappled with him, taking hold of the other boy’s wrists and forcing them through the sleeves.

Gilbert suddenly came alive then—a flash of anger enlivening his lately dulled eyes—and he struggled against Serge’s efforts until it was all the other boy could do to shove him roughly down on his bed, straddle him, and continue to dress up iup in spite of the furious resistance being put up.

“Get off me, goddamn you!” Gilbert snarled as he flailed ineffectually against Serge’s persistence.

“No!”

“Get off!”

“No!”

Within seconds he was properly dressed for bed, and the two boys were panting heavily from their efforts, the looks they exchanged registering barely suppressed anger. Then Serge pushed away and stood up, roughly pulling the sheets up and over Gilbert. “I’m not going to say anything more about tonight,” he declared, “but get it into your head that I’m not going to take any crap from you or from anyone—ever. This is my room just as much as it is yours; I have rights. And if you can’t deal with that, it’s your problem, not mine.”

Gilbert merely narrowed his eyes at him before turning around to face the wall, and Serge was left with nothing more than weathered defenses that finally crumbled, a cathartic release of anger, horror, shock, and terror that had collected and were forcibly bottled up in his system’s desperate bid for self-preservation. He turned away and stumbled toward his bed, his knees suddenly giving out from under him as his shield dissolved, and he was once again battered by the pain of strained and bruised muscles and the sharp sting of his roommate’s betrayal.

He could have been hurt by the anesthetic. In the hands of a careless, thoughtless adolescent hell-bent on seeing his small, myopic views validated, he could have been killed. And for what? Serge felt sick at the thought.

He collapsed even before he reached his bed, sinking to his knees when his tightly constricted chest finally gave out, and he buried his fan thn the sheets, the violent sobs that shook his body barely muffled by them.

**********

Serge stared glumly at himself in the mirror the following morning. Impeccably dressed as usual, his uniform crisp and clean, his hair brushed, and his face washed, he still showed distressing signsthe the previous night’s ordeal. His eyes were puffy from all those tears, and while he wasn’t sporting a bruise anywhere in his face, his lower lip was swollen into a lopsided shape, the cut healing slowly. He wasn’t even sure if he could smile without reopening the wound.

He sighed. It wasn’t like he truly felt like smiling, anyway.

The boy turned away and gathered his things, throwing one final glance in the direction of Gilbert’s bed—now empty, of course, the bedsheets just hastily pulled up, the pillow carelessly fluffed and tossed down.

He looked away as his mind fought against any and all thoughts about Gilbert and his conduct that night. He gave a helpless shrug. “He can do what he wants—doesn’t look like anyone cares, anyway. Why should I?”

The boy continued to gather his things, mentally noting his activities for the day and using them to push all other extraneous, undesirable ideas out of his head. He needed clarity today—perhaps more so than ever.

“One thing at a time,” he told himself as he stepped out into the hallway, pau for for a moment to take a deep, refreshing breath. “Mass first, classes next, hang out with Carl and Pascal after. Yes, that sounds good.”

Throughout the day, Serge tried hard to ignore the glances that were constantly thrown in his direction. Students—particularly the sophomore ranks—regarded him with odd looks all around, mostwhicwhich, he thought wiome ome anxiety, being those of newfound admiration and respect.

“What’s there to respect?” he muttered as he pointedly sat away from his classmates during recess, taking care to bury himself between the pages of a novel under a balding tree while the rest of the world moved around him. “I was just trying to protect myself. Anyone would’ve done the same thing.”

He’d be momentarily disturbed from his reading by a passerby or two who’d call his name, waving excitedly at him or giving him a thumb’s up sign. There were even a few who blatantly regarded him as a hero of the academy, whistling and letting out whoops of triumph as they ambled by, calling out, “There’s the pride of the school! Yes!”

Some students eagerly introduced themselves to him, clearly asserting their rights in befriending the newcomer and welcoming him in their ranks.

Two such students planted themselves before him, grinning widely and extending their hands at the befuddled boy. One of them, a short, freckle-faced redhead, blurted out, “Hi, I’m Kurt Stahler, and I think you kick major ass!” His companion, who seemed to be his complete antithesis—tall, willowy, blond, and quiet—merely shrugged with an embarrassed little smile. “Abraham Necroix,” he added as Serge shook his hand, the latter feeling some mortification at his lightly battered appearance in spite of the boys’ greater interest in his exploits. A bruised countenance, he later realized, however, was the mark of a hero, and instead of receiving ridicule, he was showered with praise though it took a bit of a while for him to get used to the thought.

But perhaps what proved to be an even more surprising idea—one that didn’t seem to take as long for him to accept—was that of Gilbert suddenly being conspicuously present in every single class that day, beginning with Mass. Serge himself had to do a double take as he searched for a free seat, his gaze fixing itself on the familiar figure of his roommate sitting somewhere in the room, looking every bit a part of the student body and the activity as anyone. Even the other students seemed surprised, with those sitting next to Gilbert occasionally looking at their seatmate with an air of confusion, but the boy didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t seem to care.

Gilbert looked the model student—from the top of his well-combed hair to the tips of his polished shoes—that Serge couldn’t help but steal occasional glances in his direction, watchin sin silent fascination as his roommate went about his business with the same air of reserve and even haughtiness, managing to answer questions thrown at him by their professors with quiet dignity. Not once did he glance at Serge; not once did he acknowledge the other boy’s existence.

All the same, however, Serge did feel a shot of pleasure at the sight of the usually wayward boy in class, diligently keeping up with the lessons and the required work, astonishing everyone else in the process.

“How odd,” he murmured as his glance strayed for the umpteenth time in Gilbert’s direction during their Latin session. “For me to get this excited over someone coming to class—it’s not like I cared about his slacking in the first place.” He tried not to smile (his injured lip forcing him into a crooked pout instead) as he quietly watched his roommate—the thoughts of all that had happened the previous night suddenly dissolving in the warmth of the afternoon sun. In the end, he decided that his pleasure had everything to do with his tendency to take pride in others’ success, and to him, Gilbert’s presence in their classes all day long was indicative enough of the other boy’s desire to elevate himself in spite of what he did (and will likely still do). And Serge was happy with that.

All Gilbert needed, perhaps, was a push—a rude awakening of sorts—where someone simply took him by his shoulders and shook him vigorously till realization dawned. And Serge secretly basked in the thought that his suffering the previous evening was the catalyst for his roommate’s reformation, and he couldn’t help an occasional smug little smile break out.

“You should’ve called for help,” Pascal huffed as he, Serge, and Carl sauntered down the leaf-strewn pathway to the dormitory that afternoon. “I would’ve come and creamed his ass.”

“I can take care of myself, thanks,” Serge laughed, lightly kicking a small pile of leaves and watching the brittle collection explode in a mix of red, gold, and brown.

Pascal chuckled. “I’m sure that was a real Kodak moment.”

“Oh, it was. He was bigger than me, too, and I whupped him.”

“Cocky little turd.”

Serge shrugged and laughed along, not at all minding Pascal’s rough tousling of his hair and playful slapping of his back. It had been a satisfying day all in all, with Serge being pleasantly surprised throughout, not so much because of the sudden attention that was now being showered on him but also because of Gilbert’s clear attempts at changing his behavior.

Besides, the day was unusually bright and warm, and reports had spread that the good weather was expected to continue for some time. Serge, moreover, was to spend the rest of the afternoon in the company of his friends, to be spoiled rotten in Carl’s room with tea and baked sweets.

Being a hero was good.

“I’m glad to see Gilbert finally making an effort in our classes today,” Carl noted after a moment of companionable silence, with the three boys listening to the crunching of leaves and grass underfoot as they neared the dormitory. He glanced at Serge and offered a small smile. “Let’s hope that this goes on.”

Serge nodded, returning his smile.

“I’mry try that you had to go through what happened last night, Serge, but I’m happy that you’re his roommate. He’s not a very easy sort to get along with, so I think it’s—great—that you’ve hung on this long.”

“It’s a damned miracle if you asked me,” Pascal noted.

Carl hesitated as he averted his gaze and stared at the path before them, his face lightly scrunched up as he deliberated. Then finally, reluctantly, “Are you thinking of changing rooms after what happened last night?”

The boy shrugged and massaged the back of his neck. “Um—no.” He cleared his throat at the look of faint anxiety that now darkened Carl’s features. “No,” he repeated with greater conviction, his voice louder and firmer. “It’s too much of a hassle for you and administration to shuffle people around. Besides, I know that—well—no one wants to room with Gilbert. I’d rather stay.”

Carl still looked a little uncertain, and Serge lightly patted his friend’s arm. “I want to stay,” he added with a reassuring smile. “I can hold my own.”

The taller boy regarded him in silence for a second before he allowed a smile to break out, and he visibly relaxed, his body slumping a little as a weight seemed to lift off him. He nodded. “You sure can. But Seremememember that we’re also here for you. All right? If something—anything—happens, we’ll be there to help.”

Serge smiled back. “I know.”

The subject was soon expertly and smoothly changed, when Pascal began to offer his observations on Darwinian Theory, and the three boys were enmeshed in a lively debate that would occupy just about their entire time together. Serge treasured that afternoon as he felt his physical and emotional exhaustion slowly disappear, the shadows that lingered from the previous evening evaporate amid good conversation and even better company.

And with the whirlwind of studying for upcoming tests bearing down on the students, he’d even manage to forget about Jack Dren till Carl told him two days later that Rosemarine had expelled the senior the morning after the incident.

“I to bto be there as the sophomore class president on Gilbert’s behalf.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“Dren blamed Gilbert for setting him up, but it didn’t do him any good—even had a couple of people confirm what he said. He still got kicked out, and Gilbert got to stay.”

Serge frowned. “What, he’s not even going to be punished? Even if he didn’t set the guy up, he still encouraged him to knock me out—didn’t do anything to keep me from getting hurt.”

Carl shrugged and let loose a helpless little sigh. “I know, but no one touches Gilbert, Serge. No one.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I don’t think it matters whether or not you do.”

Serge watched his friend, confounded, and it was all Carl could do to offer a lifeless smile and a more lifeless pat on the arm before turning away with an air of resignation. In the meantime, Gilbert continued to apply himself, slowly earning his professors’ admiration and his classmates’ fearful suspicions.

(tbc)