Baroque

Baroque (Part 5)


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Beginning Notes:

Gilbert’s relationship with Auguste is altered in this fic. Yes, there’s systematic manipulation, the purpose of which will be revealed in future chapters, but the nature of the older man’s control over the boy is different. Carl and Pascal, moreover, are problematic characters that I try to give a little more life to.

In the manga, Pascal insists on leaving well enough alone, and yet he shows revulsion and even a hint of fear toward Gilbert when Serge asks the boy to join their company. Carl, in the meantime, seems very passive and weak when confronted by Gilbert’s presence. In the manga, he turns to Pascal for help when Gilbert appears in the room with them and begs Serge to keep on his toes when Gilbert’s around. Not exactly the kind of behavior I expected in someone who’s supposed to be the leader of an entire class.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


PART 5

“You know, sometimes I think that we would’ve been better off had you just let that asshole have his way with Gilbert.”

Serge gave a slight start and glanced at Kurt as the two sat on the grass, enjoying the afternoon sun. Nearby, Pascal was attempting to clamber up a tree in hopes of collecting something organic and vile for their biology class. He’d fallen off twice already, and in spite of Serge’s concerned urging for him to quit while he was ahead (and stake out another tree—one that was safer, of course), he insisted. At the moment, the boy had thrown his cassock aside and was gingerly groping his way up the branches, the sound of ripping fabric and passionate cursing interrupting the afternoon calm on occasion. Serge winced. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how his friend’s shirt would look after he’d gotten what he wanted.

“What are you talking about?” the boy demanded, a little shocked at what he’d just heard. “They shouldn’t have been doing that in the first place! It was rude, and it was dangerous! I’m surprised that Gilbert lets himself get treated that way.”

“Well—you obviously don’t know anything about him,” Kurt replied with a smirk before stretching his arms high above his head and letting out a loud yawn. “He’d spread for a goddamn raccoon.”

“Kurt!”

“It’s true! Just ask anyone!”

“And no one’s done anything to help him?”

“Help him? Help him with what? He wants it! He’s always asking for it!”

Serge’s facial muscles tightened as he glowered at the other boy, who completely ignored him. “You’re saying that Gilbert deserves to be used that way?”

Kurt waved a hand impatiently before settling himself down on the grassy carpet, closing his eyes with a contented sigh as the sunlight flooded his moon-like face with its warmth. “My point is that Gilbert’s now showing up in class…”

“And that’s good!”

“No, it’s not. It’s freaky. He’s freaky. At least before we didn’t have to see him all the time.”

Serge sighed, shaking his head as he watched his companion relax before turning away to watch the scattered groups of students walk by. “I don’t get it,” he murmured. “Everyone’s so quick to judge him, yet no one wants to help him out.”

He shifted and drew his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around them, dropping his gaze on the dead leaves that collected at his feet. His thoughts strayed back to that day’s history class, where Gilbert arrived a couple of minutes late, apologizing as he did (much to everyone’s shock, it seemed), before taking his seat beside him.

“May I?” he’d asked, and Serge coolly nodded.

The other students stared—some whispered—some tittered. A quick glance in Carl and Pascal’s direction revealed the former turning a little pale and visibly stiffening, the look of studious interest suddenly replaced by one of ill-concealed discomfort, while the latter merely gave them a cursory scan, vague interest barely lighting up his eyes. Serge was most certainly struck by such a response from his friends. Pascal, he certainly understood well enough. The bespectacled boy’s interest in Gilbert was strictly academic—if not scientific. The way he observed his wayward peer reminded Serge of a researcher quietly gathering information for his studies, working with his subject with as much emotional detachment as could be expected in a man of a strictly rational bent. Carl, on the other hand, was a good deal more elusive. Gilbert unnerved him, yes, which didn’t come as a surprise to Serge, seeing as how his roommate unnerved the entire school, period. However, he also sensed something much deeper than mere discomfort there, but Carl had proven to be a very difficult nut to crack, refusing to say anything about his dealings with Gilbert other than what Serge already knew. And it was all Serge could do to watch his friend in helpless wonder and mounting frustration.

In the middle of the lesson, Serge had felt something nudge his hand, and he turned to find a folded piece of paper lying on his desk. He glanced at Gilbert, who showed no indication of knowing what was going on, looking completely immersed in the lecture as he took up his pen and began to scribble down notes as he listened.

Serge took the note and read it. It was an apology written by his roommate, which immediately melted his heart and sent his defenses crashing around him. While it was true that he was pleased to see Gilbert being diligent in his schoolwork, he’d still harbored a degree of distrust toward his roommate, one that kept coming back to nip at his heels in spite of all efforts at ignoring it or shoving it aside—that is, until that moment.

Two words: “I’m sorry.”

A simple enough message that looked even deeper and more profound, with the almost child-like scrawl that spelled it out. Staring at it in suse, se, Serge had felt himself moved, the earnestness of the message coming through with a good deal of clarity. He stole a glance in his seatmate’s direction and softened further at the sight of the other boy lost in thought, alternately chewing the tip of his pen or raking his hair back as he frowned at his notes.

There was absolutely no indication of the fateful evening’s sordid events having had any lingering effects on him—or that Gilbert had actually been an active participant in the distasteful incident. The boy looked as though he was completely untouched—neatly attired, freshly scrubbed, porcelain doll-like, and meekly subdued—one would never guess that this boy boy had been caught in bed with a ruthless bully a few days before, being roughly handled and yet welcoming the humiliation with such wild abandon—at least in Serge’s eyes. The ensuing silence stung him just as much—Gilbert’s coldness and absolute refusal to acknowledge his existence, the effects being comded ded by their proximity with each other and the almost claustrophobic limits imposed on them by their shared space.

It had been painful being forced to go about his business feeling the heavy, stifling silence bearing down on him whenever Gilbert was present. He hated being purposefully ignored or shunned by the very person with whom he had to share living quarters. The discomfort was unbearable, but he couldn’t devise a good enough scheme with which to clear the air and to be reconciled with his roommate, thus putting an end to the ongoing disquiet between them. True, it had been easy—too easy—for him to apologize to his aunt for everything that had gone wrong in everyone’s lives, but this was different.

The stakes felt higher somehow even though he really couldn’t understand why he thought this to be so. His brows had furrowed in some confusion as he continued to regard his seatmate, taking care to keep his head bowed so as to avoid being seen by their history professor.

No, no—Gilbert couldn’t be that lost to the world, he’d determined. What he was seeing then—the sudden diligence, the obedience, the simply written apology—was nothing else but hope—a sign of reformation—or at the very least a willingness to change.

/I think he’ll be okay,/ Serge silently noted, a rush of warmth enveloping him. And with newfound hope, he immediately scribbled “it’s okay—I’m sorry, too” on the note before pushing it back toward Gilbert and then losing himself in the lecture, a little smile easing his spirits at long last.

Serge’s mind wandered back to the present, and he sighed as he stared at the leaves, barely hearing Pascal’s triumphant whoop at his success—finally—in scaling the tree.

“I made it! I told you I can!” Pascal crowed, and Kurt laughed lightly. “Now to—what—oh, damn it! I left my stuff in my bag! Hey, Kurt! Could you grab the tweezers and the petri dish from the pocket?”

Kurt sighed and stumbled to his feet. “Tsk! Moron!” he grumbled, and Serge chuckled quietly.

**********

The air in Carl’s office was calm, the fading afternoon light that streamed through the windows lending the small area a somber, soothing feel that often made visitors long to sit back on a comfortable armchair, curl up with a good book, and lose themselves in their reading for the rest of their lives. Even Serge had once noted that he wished that he could use Carl’s sanctuary for his own.

For this particular afternoon, however, the charm seemed to have lost its potency—at least to the room’s assigned owner.

“What do these people do?” Carl groaned, bowing his head as he raked both his hands through his hair in a gesture of ultimate frustration. “How, in God’s name, do they prepare for these tests?”

Pascal glanced up from his book to regard his friend, who was sitting behind a small desk, his requisite teacup within reach, a stack of papers lying before him. “What’s up?” he asked. “Did we all screw up again?”

Carl nodded without looking up, his fingers now deeply buried in his hair.

“Everyone’s just overwhelmed with schoolwork…”

“There’s no excuse for this, Biquet. None. Don’t rationalize the scores.”

“Couldn’t hurt to try.”

Carl sighed heavily as he finally raised his head to take another sip of his tea to calm his nerves. He couldn’t understand why, in spite of the time allotted to prepare for the recent slew of tests, his classmates still managed to flounder, their dismal performance mockingly underscored by the bright red marks that peppered their exams.

Not all the students sank, really. By and large, the sophomore class was almost evenly spread out in terms of the range of grades, but Carl had hoped for much more from his peers. He’d been working hard, after all, in setting an example, sacrificing so much just to offer himself as his classmates’ role model as was expected from the class president.

He wasn’t perfect. He knew that. Lingering shadows of his close encounter with Gilbert clung to his mind, emerging every so often and taunting him with reminders of his shortcomings, which, in turn, pushed him to raise his expectations not only of himself, but also of his classmates. He’d hoped that his class’s average would be a grade higher than what it was now, and he felt frustration begin to set in.

“Carl, relax. You’re not the professor here. The only job you have is to give our papers back to us.”

“I can’t help it, all right? You’ve no idea how it feels working your butt off just to see all your efforts go down the drain.”

“Shut up. Yes, I have,” Pascal snorted. “Everyday, as a matter of fact. You know, you’re no superhero. You already have the burden of leading the class on your shoulders; don’t carry the weight of our own screw-ups as well. It’s not healthy.”

Carl stared at his friend. If only Pascal understood how difficult it was for him to simply let go. He felt—no, he knew—that his classmates’ success in school had taken on a whole new meaning to him after that afternoon with Gilbert. He could not—could not—let so many things slide so easily. He couldn’t. It was a compulsion that had grown to consume him now, and he couldn’t shrug it off so easily if he wanted to.

“Mise, for once let the world deal with its mistakes. If you were a woman, I swear you’d make the worst mother.”

Carl sighed as he sifted through the papers, carefully arranging them in alphabetical order. “I honestly can’t fathom anyone taking on this really passive—almost fatalistic view of things,” he declared a little testily as he bent over his work. “You, of all people—the rational atheist. One would think that you’d be championing free will over circumstance and all that.”

“I know, but after a certain point, you have to know when to back down. You can only take charge of your life for so long before you have to accept that beyond that, other forces are at work, and there’s nothing you can do about what hap nex next.” Pascal glanced up from his book and peered over his glasses at his friend. “Remember Oedipus.”

“Don’t start.”

He chuckled quietly but fell silent and resumed his reading. “Take it easy, for Christ’s sake. I’ll sneak you some communion wine if that’s what it takes to get you to mellow down.”

Carl’s frown deepened as his head snapped up, and he stared at his friend in even greater shock. “Communion wine? Pascal, you didn’t!”

“Just once.”

“Just once?”

“Just a sip! Just a sip! Good grief!” Pascal blurted out, flushing a little. “The world isn’t about to spontaneously combust, Mise! Breathe! Come on, before you pass out!”

Carl opened his mouth to say something scathing—even withering—when tentative knocks on the door momentarily broke up the conversation. He merely glared at his friend, who offered him a cheeky grin.

“Yes, come in!” he called out, and the door immediately opened, and Serge peeked in, looking disheveled and flushed. He was even panting a little as he spoke. “Serge! Are you okay?”

The other boy nodded, swallowing. “I’m fine. Just got back from a soccer game with Kurt and Abraham. Hey, do you guys want to join us in the common room? We’re hanging out there till dinner.”

Pascal wrinkled his nose, his eyes moving up and down Serge’s lightly soiled figure. “What, with you guys reeking of sweat and grime? I don’t think so.”

Serge merely rolled his eyes. “Wimp. Carl? You coming?”

Carl smiled wearily and pointed at the stack of papers before him. “I can’t. Sorry, Serge. I’ll join you at dinner.”

“Oh. Okay. Later then.” With that, Serge beamed, waving at his friends, before withdrawing and leaving the two staring at the door in thoughtful silence for a second or two.

“Pascal…”

“Hmm?”

“Did I just make a monumental mistake with Serge?”

A moment of silence met his words, and Carl glanced at his companion and found Pascal still staring at the door, his features now lightly scrunched up in deep thought. Finally, the other boy spoke. “Serge is—naïve. Very—naïve. Impulsive, thoughtless—I’m sure…” he paused as he glanced at Carl with a wry little smile. “I’m sure he doesn’t even understand why he does what he does. He’s got a lot of high-flying notions about right and wrong, sure, and he probably tries to live by them, but I doubt if he really understands his own compulsions—just as much as I think Gilbert doesn’t really understand his.”

His friend nodded gravely. “I know. My problem right now is whether or not Serge’s naïveté will work to his advantage.”

“I think it will. It’s his nature. No one can fuck with nature.”

“Tell Pavlov that.”

“That was behavior, not nature.”

Carl laughed, shaking his head. “Someday, Biquet, I’ll have the last word yet. Someday.”

Pascal merely grinned at him, his manner softening as he regarded his friend, before shrugging and turning his attention back to his book. Carl resumed sorting through his classmates’ papers, pointedly trying not to look at the grades that littered the upper-right corner of each exam. He’d have to figure out what to say when he chewed them out once their tests were back in their hands.

He took another calming sip of his tea.

**********

Gilbert stared at himself in the mirror.

“This is insane,” he muttered under his breath as his eyes rested their gaze on the short robe he’d thrown on. He’d discarded his cassock and replaced it with a lounging robe, and he stared at it in some dismay as the soft, silky material draped languidly over his thin frame.

He took a deep, ragged breath as he fought off yet another surge of bitterness that began to churn in his gut. How long would he have to debase himself? He scowled darkly at the mirror when his mind flittered to that odious hour a few days ago spent locked away in Rosemarine’s office, listening to a cacophony of voices raised in anger, the air filled with accusations hurled in every direction.

The student supervisor was furious, almost losing his legendary bearing as he verbally dueled with Dren. Gilbert could still recall with some vividness the sights, the sounds, the smells—the tension-filled moment that simply crackled with so much heat and electricity of the worst kind. He remembered the way Carl stood in the thick of things, bewildered and most certainly torn in his defense of Gilbert, not once glancing in his classmate’s direction as he passionately attacked the testimonies given by Dren’s lackeys—testimonies that were so transparent and obvious in their contrivance that Rosemarine could only shake his head and turn away to stand by the window and look out while the accused continued to rail. The verdict had long been determined, it seemed, regardless of everyone’s claims; what had transpired in the student supervisor’s office had been nothing more than a matter of form, a mindless adherence to academy procedures in cases such as this.

Dren was expelled and his cohorts formally reprimanded. Gilbert remained unpunished, a notion that obviously didn’t sit well with Carl. The sophomore class president, looking pale and tense, merely thanked Rosemarine stiffly once the others had gone, and without condescending to show some degree of support for his classmate, he merely turned and walked out, passing Gilbert without so much as a word.

He’d done his job, after all. He didn’t need to do anything more.

And what had transpired afterward turned out to be the cause of Gilbert’s current misery. Rosemarine regarded him steadily, his gaze not once leaving the younger boy even as he moved to his desk to retrieve the slender rod that he often carried with him. Holding it in one hand and lightly tapping it against the palm of the other, the he slowly walked around the desk and circled Gilbert as a vulture would a moldering carcass. Even with his hair gathered at the back and secured at the nape of his neck—with long waves tumbling out and hangin gon golden ropes that airily framed his face—he still looked impossibly severe, the sharpness of his gaze only serving to emphasize his detached superiority.

This he did in silence for the entire duration of his “survey,” speaking only once he’d completed his circuit and stopped before Gilbert.

“What do you have to say for yourself now?” he finally asked, his voice firm and low. He continued to tap the rod against his palm. Gilbert tried not to take too much notice of it as he returned look for look, tilting his head back in a clear show of defiance.

“I told him to stay away.”

“I know you’re not an idiot, Gilbert, which makes it very, very difficult for me to believe a single word you say. Hold out your hands. Palms up.”

Gilbert flinched instinctively. “I didn’t do anything,” he hissed, pressing his hands against his sides.

“That may be true, but I’m merely following orders. Hands out. Now.”

Toy boy breathed deeply, shakily, and he slowly stretched his arms out, holding his hands with their palms up. A quick glance revealed the barest sheen of sweat that had begun to break out on the skin. All the same, he met Rosemarine’s stare with practiced ease, his features calm as ever.

A mere second of silence was all the warning Gilbert had before his senses were shattered by the sound of the rod whistling through the air and of it striking his palms sharply, the familiar crack echoing in his ears as he fought to keep himself from shrinking from it. The painful, almost debilitating sting that followed brought tureture to his eyes, but he fought them back, remembering what had happened when he’d allowed a stray tear to escape in the past. It had taken him a long time to be able to grasp a pen securely afterwards.

“Auguste will be—very disappointed, I’m sure,” Rosemarine noted idly as he stepped away and walked back to his desk, once again taking his place behind it. He regarded Gilbert with a complacent smile as he sat back in his chair and continued to toy with the rod against his hand. “And you know what happens when he’s disappointed.”

Gilbert remained silent as he brought his hands down, pressing them against his sides, seeking the comfort that came from the contact between soft, warm cotton and raw, reddened palms. “You’re telling him about this?” he finally demanded, his voice a little hoarse.

“Of course. I’m under orders, Gilbert. You’ve been entrusted to me—in a way—and I’m not one to take any of my duties lightly.”

The boy swallowed, fighting desperately against the painful confusion that welled up in him. “He—spoke to you, didn’t he? Just now?”

“Only to check up on you, which is something one should expect from his guardian.” A flicker of light brightened Rosemarine’s eyes at the mention of “guardian,” and his smile broadened into a grin of superiority, but Gilbert’s mind was much too muddled to completely absorb it all. “He wants to see good progress reports from your professors, Gilbert, not complaints about how uninterested you are or how brazen you are in demonstrating your contempt for your education. You know he’s got high hopes for you.”

“I hate this school,” the boy cut in, the words barely escaping his clenched teeth as he glowered at the older student. “I want out.”

“Unfortunately, your guardian wants you to stay, and if you want to see him in a couple of weeks, it’s in your best interest to give him what he wants.” Rosemarine smirked at Gilbert’s look of astonishment. “Yes, he’s coming to visit you—that is, provided that you turn yourself around.”

And so there it was.

In spite of his intense dislike of his classes, his classmates, and his professors, Gilbert forced himself to be good. He’d heard the whispered questions and snide remarks that that were exchanged whenever he passed by the other students, but he ignored them all, bending his thoughts on Auguste and his promised visit. Surely this period of humiliation would be well rewarded in the end, and he felt a giddy thrill course through him whenever he comforted himself with reassuring thoughts of his guardian’ndinnding arrival.

And so he’d been behaving as any model student would behave, even managing to impress his professors enough to earn him good reports when the day came for faculty to submit their midterm assessments. Unhappily for him, however, the most recent check with Rosemarine yielded one more trial for the boy, and that was for him to mingle more with his peers. His guardian, he was told, was adamant that he should establish good, strong bonds with his classmates and his roommate. He needed to be drawn out of his shell, according to Rosemarine, which yielded his reluctant effort in patching things up with Serge and for his even more reluctant acquiescence when his roommate invited him to spend time with the other students in the common room that afternoon.

“You’ll have fun,” Serge declared with an enthusiasm that irritated Gilbert even more. “Everyone will be there!”

Gilbert had sighed and nodded vacantly, saying, “Fine. I’ll be there.”

So he doffed his cassock and threw on a lounging robe in its place, sighing heavily as he went, hoping to God that the time would fly quickly for him.

The boy went down the stairs and negotiated his way through the hallways till he found himself standing a few feet shy of the common room doors, staring dully at them for a long moment. He willed his feet to move, but they seemed to be firmly secured to the floor, and it took some doing for him to take a step forward, his spirits sinking more and more with every inch covered. The noise of lively, young voices raised in cheerful conversation reached his ears, and he wanted to shut it all out, but he knew that he couldn’t. He shouldn’t.

He paused at the doorway and peered in, his gaze moving from one end of the room to another and taking in the sight of students in varying looks of casual dress, lost in conversation or play as they mingled freely with each other or remained with their groups, with some sitting on couches and armchairs and others lounging on the floor. The hearth beckoned to him with its cheerful light while a few students crowded around it, arguing lightly among themselves on how to properly roast chestnuts.

Gilbert deliberated for a moment. Perhaps he could while away the time playing cards with someone. Yes, that sounded good. Card games were non-intrusive and harmless, after all, and he wouldn’t mind spending time in his peers’ company for a couple of rounds. His gaze strayed to the billiard table at the far corner of the room, and he smiled slightly. He could also ask someone to teach him how to play pool; he’d always been curious, after all.

“Oh—there you are!”

Gilbert turned and found Serge grinning and waving at him from across the room.

“Come on in, Gilbert!”

He took a step over the threshold and froze when he realized that the room had suddenly fallen silent, and all eyes were now fixed on him. He stared back at the other boys in some surprise at first before he began to feel his defenses rise up and shield him from the looks of obvious dismay, horror, and even anger that were now being leveled at him from all around. He saw raised brows and gaping mouths as well as scowls that grew darker every second.

The sheer force of everyone’s resistance against his presence almost caused him to fall backward, but he held his ground and hardened himself, meeting everyone’s stare with one of cold indifference and an air of superiority.

“Don’t be shy!” Serge laughed as he leapt to his feet and hurried toward him, leaving Kurt and Necroix seething where they sat by the window, watching the proceedings with thinly-veiled looks of contempt. “Come on, Gilbert, let me introduce you to everyone.”

Gilbert gave a slight start as he turned his attention to his roommate, who was now standing before him, reaching out to take his hand in his.

Introduce him to everyone? his mind echoed incredulously. Who did this newcomer think he was?

Green eyes narrowed as they fixed their hardened gaze on Serge, who seemed oblivious to his annoyance. The other boy simply held his hand tightly, giving it a gentle tug as he pulled his roommate into the room.

“Kurt and Abraham are teaching me how to play chess,” Serge declared, his eyes twinkling merrily. “I’ll need to challenge you to a game, so I can practice.”

Gilbert noted, with some degree of horror, that the other boy seemed to glibly disregard the contempt with which he was being met as he was taken deeper into the den of wolves. In fact, Serge even dropped his voice to a whisper as he noted, “No fighting with anyone, promise?” when Gilbert turned to glare at a boy who stood nearby—one who’d just muttered, “Slut” in a tone that was hushed and yet loud enough for him to hear clearly still in the deafening silence of the room.

Gilbert bristled. He was being enticed to mingle with a crowd that clearly didn’t want him there, and it was being done with such blatant disregard to his own growing discomfort. Serge continued to chat him up as he tugged at the boy’s hand.

Then suddenly, a thought struck him—painfully clear and so compounding the anger that was now being directed on his roommate and his damned thoughtless affability.

Gilbert was very well aware of Serge’s growing reputation as the school’s newest hero. He’d watched his roommate get pounced by other boys eager to shake his hand and secure his friendship. He’d seen the way Serge warmed up to the attention and his rapidly escalating popularity.

The boy was basking in fame. And at that moment, he was simply toying with Gilbert—poor, lost, misguided Gilbert—showing him off to his hordes of worshippers as a greedy carnival owner would his best sideshow.

Yes, a sideshow. He was nothing more than a sideshow to a vainglorious little upstart.

Now gripped by fury, Gilbert planted his feet firmly on the floor, and when Serge tried to urge him to “stop being so shy” with everyone, he tightened his grip on the other boy’s hand and gave it a firm yank. The move was unexpected, catching Serge completely off-guard, and he stumbled against Gilbert with a little cry of surprise, and he was pressing his roommate against the wall by the door.

Gilbert almost laughed at the look of confusion that clouded the other boy’s features as Serge blinked, and he continued to hold his roommate firmly by the hand, his fingers tightening even more at the slightest feel of a struggle. He leaned against the wall, smirking at the scattered cries of dismay that filled the room as the other students watched.

“If in case you hadn’t noticed, bright eyes, everyone in this room doesn’t want me here.”

“That’s not true,” Serge stammered, coloring, as he shifted under Gilbert’s gaze. “They’re just not used to seeing you here. That’s all. You just don’t hang out with anyone.”

Gilbert shifted, tilting his head slightly to one side and exposing a little more of his neck. His smirk broadened at the sight of Serge’s eyes falling on his throat, the confusing swell of emotions flickering wildly across his face as the flush deepened.

“What guarantee can you give me that I won’t be harassed by anyone here?” he asked, dropping his voice to a near whisper, his words coming out in a quiet purr.

Serge swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied a little shakily, alternately averting his eyes and then helplessly resting them once again at the subtly proffered flesh that was only a few inches away from him. All it would take was a slight inclination of his head, and he’d be kissing the side of Gilbert’s neck. “Stop—stop teasing, Gilbert. This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not joking around, either. If I’m going to join you, I want a guarantee from you—oh, great hero—that I wouldn’t be harassed by your cronies, who seem to think that I’m nothing more than shit under their shoes.”

“They won’t!”

“Give me a guarantee!”

“What? I don’t…” Serge paused, the distress momentarily shadowing his features as he continued to stare at Gilbert’s throat before something clicked, and the clouds slowly dissipated. Gilbert could see the alteration all too clearly. The look of a flustered, baffled boy was now replaced by a calm, pale mask as Serge raised his eyes and regarded his roommate with a light of understanding brightening his gaze, and he spoke with a coldness that surprised even Gilbert.

“You don’t have to join us,” he finally said, quietly, firmly. “I thought that maybe you’d want to spend time in everyone’s company, and I was going to introduce you to my friends. But I won’t now.”

His suspicions had been confirmed. In a vague, fleeting moment, Gilbert felt an odd wave of dismay lightly flow over him, but he collected himself quickly enough and offered a tight smile. No, he refused to be affected—touched—by what this presumptuous, patronizing little boy said or did. “I thought so,” he replied just as quietly. “Coward.”

Serge merely watched him in stony silence, and Gilbert sighed.

“Fine. Let me go.”

The dark-haired boy shook his head, not once moving his gaze. “No. You let go.”

The silence that bore down on them was asphyxiating and heavy. Gilbert regarded the other boy bitterly, and he whispered, “Fuck you, Battouille.” He loosened his grip on Serge’s hand before slapping it away, and Serge was stumbling back with a little cry of surprise.

And almost as though a spell had just been lifted, the room suddenly burst into life, and the air was filled with voices that praised Serge and condemned Gilbert, with some students clapping and whistling as they crowded around their hero. Serge looked anxious and uncomfortable by the swarmbodibodies that closed in, but Gilbert could see that he still seemed flattered by it all, regardless.

“Whoa! You did it! You did it!”

Gilbert seethed and shook his head. “Stupid…”

“Ah, Gilbert! Why stand by the door? Come on in! There’s plenty of room for everyone!” a voice crowed, and the figure of a tall boy suddenly loomed before him, staring him down with a broad, impish grin.

“Yes, we’re so sorry for not being so friendly before,” another boy chimed in as he appeared beside the newcomer, also leering at the quiet figure before them. “It’s just such a rare thing for us to have you here!”

Before Gilbert could say anything more, he was grabbed on each side and was being dragged into the room. A quick glance in Serge’s direction revealed nothing but a small crowd of students still milling around his roommate, their voices loud and excited as they continued to sing his praises. Gilbert pulled at his arms, but he was held fast, and he was being led to another group of students who stood by the hearth, watching him with contemptuous triumph.

“We’re having a chestnut roast,” one of the boys noted. He held out a small shovel piled with freshly roasted chestnuts before him, and Gilbert could still see faint wisps of smoke rising up, spectral-like, from the fragrant stack. “Have some with us.”

The other students laughed loudly as the boy pushed the shovel till it was a mere two or three inches under Gilbert’s nose, and Gilbert shied violently away and struggled against the two students who continued to hold him in place.

“Aww, what’s the matter?” a voice taunted. “Our chestnuts not good enough for you?”

“Maybe they’re too hot for him.”

“Bother! What else does he want?”

“Fucking brat.”

“I know. And here we are, being nice to him and all…”

Rage now consuming him, Gilbert squirmed then forcefully stomped on one of his captors’ foot, and the boy howled in pain, instantly releasing him. He swung his newly liberated arm wide, knocking the shovel away and sending the hot chestnuts scattering in every direction. The boys leapt to safety with cries of alarm save for the one who held the shovel. He was now hopping around, cursing as he held his hand against his chest, his face flushed and contorted into a wild gce oce of pain. A reddish mark had begun to form on his hand, where a freshly roasted chestnut had apparently struck him.

“Get your stinking food away!” Gilbert snarled.

“That hurts! That fucking hurts!” the injured boy cried. “You stupid slut! What the hell was that for? I wasn’t even doing anything to you!”

“Make him clean up the mess!”

“Yeah, it was his fault, anyway! Clean this up, Gilbert!”

The boy felt himself pushed forward, and he stumbled he fhe floor while the others backed away, forming a half-circle around him as they watched eagerly.

Gilbert stared at the scattered chestnuts in frozen silence, his mind working furiously to right itself and claw its way out of the mess of thoughts and sensations that had begun to bombard him mercilessly. The humiliation was strong—painful, debilitating. Before his classmates, he was on his hands and knees, staring at chestnuts that he was ordered to pick up. He wanted to lash out—rage in his own lost, hopeless way—punching and kicking something, crying out till his throat dried up and crumbled, weeping till all the jagged shards that claimed his insides were all purged in his tears.

But he couldn’t. He felt his system shut down, the defiant fire in his spirit effectively doused, what precious little that remained of his own self-respect dissolving into inchoateness.

Perhaps—perhaps—if he simply obeyed, the world would finally see him.

Absently, his eyes dulled and glazed, Gilbert began to move. He crawled slowly around, gingerly picking up chestnuts that stung his hands and gathering them in a bowl that one of the boys had kicked in his direction with a “Here! Use this!” and a manic cackle. He couldn’t begin to tell how many times he’d flinched at the searing touch of a roasted nut, snatching his hand away with a hiss of pain before hardening himself further and snatching it up to deposit in the bowl. His fingers and palm felt raw, and his body rebelled with every nut he had to retrieve, reluctantly allowing itself to move its limbs in spite of the hollow urging of his mind.

“Hey, don’t forget the one that’s near the fire!”

Gilbert sat on his heels and glanced at the hearth. Near the edge of the fire sat a chestnut.

“You know how Watts can’t stand any messes around here! Go on! Pick it up!”

A burst of laughter rippled through the boys who gathered around. Time seemed to stretch out before him, and without even knowing it, Gilbert had shifted and moved toward the hearth, completely unmindful of the heat that slapped him as he neared. His gaze was still fixed on the chestnut that lay a few inches from the edge of the fire, and he leaned in and reached out a hand into the fire.

He wasn’t even aware of the ensuing sounds of confusion and raised voices and of feet shuffling madly on the floor as though people were stumbling against each other. His entire world was simply centered on the thin hand that continued to reach into the fire, the warm glow infusing the skin with a preternatural light that made it seem to pulsate with energy.

“Stop! Stop!”

Someone grabbed his shoulder, and he was suddenly and roughly pulled away. The world spun, the fire’s brightness inexplicably shadowed by dimmer ceiling lights as he fell backward in an awkward tumble.

“Serge! What’re you doing?”

“This is stupid!” came a familiar voice, and Gilbert dazedly turned to find his roommate standing near him, angrily facing the other students and shielding him from them.

“He made the mess! He should clean it up!”

“What, by burning himself?”

“It’s his fault! Why are you defending him?”

The boy who’d handled the chestnuts stared at Serge incredulously. “Wait a minute,” he breathed, his eyes widening as he gingerly rubbed his injured hand. “Wait a minute! I can see what’s happening here! You two are together, aren’t you?” The other boys gaped.

Serge huffed as he strode toward a pitcher of water. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he growled.

Without another word, he picked up the pitcher and plunged his hand in the water, soaking it and his shirtsleeve up to the middle of his forearm. He waited for a few seconds, looking pale and grim and causing a momentary hush to fall on the students. Then he pulled out and strode up to the hearth, sinking to his knees and causing scattered cries to rise up around him as he reached into the fire, using his drenched hand ick ick up the chestnut and retrieve it, tossing it into the bowl once he’d done.

“Oh, my God! Did you see that?”

“Man, that was cool!”

“He did it! He did it!”

Another explosion of cheers rose up around them, and Gilbert scrambled to his feet, returning Serge’s look of concern with one of rage. His roommate had done it again—had raised himself in the eyes of their peers—all at Gilbert’s expense.

Suddenly Gilbert was forgotten, and boys began to crowd around Serge yet again, patting his back roughly and ignoring his protests. Twice he tried to look over everyone’s heads, straining to catch a glimpse of Gilbert, who’d now withdrawn and was standing by the window, almost paralyzed by mortification and anger as he watched the other boy get almost literally swallowed up by heaps upon heaps of loud, enthusiastic praise.

“Damn you,” he hissed, his eyes misted.

/“Serge Battouille!”/

Silence immediately fellthe the raucous crowd, and everyone turned to find Carl and Pascal standing at the doorway. Pascal stared at the group, completely confounded. Beside him, Carl looked positively livid, his normally gentle and placid features deeply flushed and contorted into a mask of intense rage. Seeing their normally mild-mannered class president in such a state seemed to unnerve the boys, and most cowered before him, dropping their gaze to the floor as they shifted uncomfortably on their feet—their manner heavy with guilt.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Carl bellowed. The students winced, and more heads bowed.

Serge cleared his throat. “I—I was trying to help,” he stammered.

“Help?” Carl echoed incredulously, and when Serge’s gaze moved to settle on Gilbert, Carl’s followed. Gilbert could see, even from a distance, Carl’s facial muscles tighten up even more, his lips thinning as he pressed them into a grim line, the struggle for control clearly marking its progress in his face. “I see,” he added quietly.

Then he turned his attention back to his errant classmates. “All of you—go to your rooms,” he declared. “I don’t want to see any of you till dinnertime. Do you understand? Not one.”

“What, everyone, Carl?” Kurt broke in a little plaintively. “Abraham and I weren’t even part of the group!”

“When I say ‘everyone,’ Stahler, I mean everyone.”

Kurt fell silent, and his shoulders slumped.

“Right,” Carl ground out. “All of you—get out. Now. Now!”

Chastened, the students shuffled out in silence, leaving Carl and Pascal standing by the door. Serge lingered, looking as though he wanted to speak with Gilbert, but the other boy had absolutely no wish of giving him the satisfaction. He walked past the three without a word and thisapisappeared beyond the door to make his way through the hallways, blindly following the floor and not even knowing where he was headed.

The only thing of which he was sure was the endless rows of faces that leered at him from the antique portraits that lined the walls, long gone administrators who now looked at him with contempt and amusement as he walked past them. He could even swear that he heard them quietly berate him with a whispered “Tsk, tsk!”

Gilbert broke out into a run and, ignoring Carl’s injunction, burst through one of the side doors and fled the building, throwing himself in the mercy of the gathering darkness and calm that enveloped the world outside.

**********

“What the hell were you doing, Serge?” Carl demanded once the room was left to themselves.

“I was trying to help Gilbert,” the boy replied a little nervously. Seeing Carl in this mood was completely unsettling. “They were making him pick up the last chestnut in the fire.”

Pascal shook his head. “God, Serge.”

“So you willingly risked your safety for him.”

The boy shrugged helplessly. “I just couldn’t stand by and let things happen, Carl. I’m sorry if I…”

“That’s enough. I don’t want to hear it.” Carl took hold of Serge’s hand and inspected it. The ash was now clinging to the skin in patches of gray mud. The shirtsleeve was completely soaked. “Is your handtingting?”

“A little.”

Carl shook his head, pinching his eyes shut as though in an effort to stave off a strong thought or emotion that threatened to weigh him down. He took a deep, ragged breath before releasing Serge’s hand and moving off. He paused by the doorway.

“Don’t ever pull a stunt like thgaingain, Serge.”

“But…”

Carl waved him into silence. “No. No buts. I don’t give a damn about your gallantry. Just don’t ever let yourself get sucked into something like this again. You got that?”

“Carl…”

“Did you get that? Damn it, Serge, I asked you a question!”

Serge swallowed and nodded. “I got it.”

Carl stared at him in furious silence before turning his attention to Pascal. “Look after his hand,” he said before walking out of the room.

Serge watched the door wretchedly. He barely even felt Pascal’s hand on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Come on, Romeo,” his friend sighed. “It’s the infirmary with you.”

(tbc)