Baroque

Baroque (Part 6)

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Beginning Notes:

So sorry for the delay on this, everyone. I have four WIPs I\'ve been trying to juggle, and so far I\'ve been failing miserably. *sighs* To that end, \"Bean Sidhe\" (Gundam Wing) is on temporary hold while I grapple with the other three fics, which includes this one.

For those of you familiar with the manga and/or the anime, this chapter touches on the boys\' trip to Arles. It deviates in a lot of ways from the events since I cut out several scenes involving Gilbert\'s past (from the manga, anyway), and, well, Max and Gilbert really can\'t ride a horse around town at this day and age, can they? ^^;;

I also realize that the characters sound more like American kids when they speak. I\'m writing more along the idea that the dialogue should be treated as though the characters are speaking in modern French vernacular which, of course, includes a lot of slang.

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PART 6

Once every two months the students of the academy were allowed to venture out into the world, where they were to spend an entire day in unfettered, careless abandon—a reward, Serge discovered, for surviving several weeks of grueling academic work. He wondered, with some amusement, how the poor citizens outside the school took to the boys’ rowdy presence, with the whole lot of them being unleashed in one eager swarm.

“Some of us end up in Arles,” Carl told him with a laugh as they lingered in his office, waiting for the breakfast bell to ring. “A lot of us take the train to Marseilles, and those of us who live nearby go home for a day visit. Some just choose to stay here and veg.”

“It’s a free-for-all then?” Serge asked, surprised, as he stood by the window to watch small groups of students happily biding their time outside.

“Well—kind of,” Pascal piped up from his corner, where he was lazily draped on Carl’s favorite armchair, refusing to budge even when Carl tried to shoo him away. “So long as you—ahem—don’t do anything to smear Laconblade Academy’s reputation,” he added, altering his voice after clearing his throat to mimic their principal’s low, barely coherent rumbling. “Remember the uniforms you wear, gentlemen. These are badges of pride—never take them lightly, and never give this academy reason to hide them.”

Carl laughed, shaking his head, as he moved to the mirror to work on his tie. “You know, given all their concern about the school’s reputation being reflected on these things we wear, you’d think that admin would let us run out of here in casual stuff instead. I always feel like a businessman when we have a free day like this. It’s always so hard relaxing looking like an underage CEO.”

Serge glanced down at his “outdoor uniform” as he’d called it. What Carl had noted was true, he thought. It was a day for the students to roam free beyond the campus’s stifling borders, and yet they were all forced to wear a uniform that only served to leash them back to the school. Rather than allowing the boys to charge out in sweaters and jeans or slacks, they were all being marched through the gates in crisp white shirts, matching gray jackets and trousers, and black ties, the only real freedom they enjoyed being that of choosing the coats they wished to wear with which to protect selvselvrom rom the brisk, autumn clime.

“Lord, Carl,” Pascal declared lazily. “The school doesn’t have enough money to plant tracking devices in our navels, so this is the only way for them to make sure we don’t get out of line. It’s one of those psychological trip things, you know—pure mindfuck. We’re being manipulated into good behavior like the obedient little lemmings we are.”

Carl snorted as he neatly tightened his tie’s knot. “Yeah, right. Like these outfits had really done their purpose in keeping people in line.” With a triumphant little smile, he straightened his collar and stepped back from the mirror, critically eyeing himself before regarding Serge through the glass with an arch smile. “You wouldn’t believe, Serge, how many students had been caught by shop owners stealing fruit from outdoor fruit stands or taking illegal sips of wine or beer somewhere. Whatever respectability’s usually attached to these outfits is really not worth anything if you’ve got a bunch of teenagers being let loose after weeks of forced academic labor.”

Serge grinned. “I can see that.”

The bell eventually rang, and the three friends ambled down to the dining hall, where noisy, excited students all gathered to await their principal’s announcement, which had always been the signal for the day. And, to Serge’s amusement, the man echoed Pascal’s words verbatim, and he could barely stifle his laughter as he listened, his eyes fixed on his friend, who looked incredibly bored out of his mind while lip-synching along.

The rest of the students, being used to this tradition, clapped politely rather than explode in loud cheers as Serge had expected. Some merely looked impatient and grumbled through the whole speech. Others ignored their principal and simply held whispered conversations with each other.

And it was then, while Serge was taking stock of his classmates, when he realized that his roommate was nowhere to be seen. He frowned. /Don’t tell me he’s going to skip breakfast again./

“Hey, Serge! You listening?” Kurt’s voice broke through his thoughts, and Serge blinked.

“Huh?”

“God, you weren’t even paying attention to what we were saying! What’s wrong?”

“Oh—well—I was just wondering where Gilbert could be right now. I don’t see him anywhere. It worries me when he doesn’t show up for a meal.”

Kurt made a face as he spread some butter on his toast. “Gilbert, Gilbert, Gilbert,” he retorted. “Can’t you not talk about him this once, for Christ’s sake?”

Serge stared at his friend. “Well, gee, Kurt. He happens to be a friend of mine, and the last time I checked, friends look out for friends—or have the rules changed since I went to bed last night?”

“Touché,” Necroix noted, snickering, as he took a sip of his orange juice, which only served to irritate Kurt more. The shorter boy turned to his seatmate and gave him a sharp jab on the side with his elbow. “Ow!” he cried, jumping in his chair, barely managing to keep his orange juice from sloshing out of the glass. “Shit, I told you to quit that, Stahler!”

“Shut up,” Kurt sniffed before turning to Serge. “Look, it’s just—it’s just that no one at this table really wants to hear about Gilbert. I mean—you might like him, Serge, but we don’t. He’s such a freak.”

“Kurt!” Carl growled. “That’s enough!”

Serge cocked an eyebrow at his redheaded friend before his gaze skimmed over the students who sat around him. Most averted their eyes and lost themselves in their meal while others watched him a little guiltily. Kurt didn’t seem to give a damn as he continued to eat. Necroix poked self-consciously at his eggs. Pascal’s attention seemed to have been fixed on one of the windows that yawned from the dining hall’s eastern wall (and in truth he hadn’t been listening to the conversation since the meal started). Carl quietly ate though Serge had caught his friend stealing glances at him, his air a little grave and thoughtful.

A jolt of anger coursed through the boy, and he tossed his napkin down by his plate. “Okay, fine,” he said testily. “Let me spare you any more agony and go look for my friend myself.”

Kurt coughed and watched him stand up. “Serge!”

“It’s rude to talk when your mouth’s full, Kurt.” Serge nodded at Carl. “I’ll be in my room.”

Without another word, he stalked off, pointedly ignoring the bewildered grumbling that followed at his heels.

“What the hell was all that about?”

“Kurt, just shut up.”

“Goddamn, the way he keeps carrying on about Cocteau, you’d think they’re fucking married or something!”

**********

Gilbert absolutely hated being disturbed while reading—especially when he’d been sucked completely into a book, hungrily devouring line after line of text, his mind working feverishly in its efforts at comprehension and absorption, and his mood fired up with endless mental pictures coaxed into existence by the seductive power of the written word.

Besides, he’d perched himself comfortably on the windowsill, where he’d been spending the morning reading. The windowpanes were flung open, allowing the crisp morning breeze to envelop the thin figure that welcomed it, the bright sun to lavish its attentions on every inch of skin, hair, and fabric.

He’d lost all sense of time as he was catapulted forward by the words that spoke to him from the pages that lay spread out before his eyes. It was a moment of pure sublimity—one that was all-too-quickly shattered by the knocking on the door.

Gilbert glanced up with a whispered curse, and he glared at the figure that stepped inside.

“Gilbert,” Serge began as he walked toward his roommate. The boy paused in his tracks midway through as their eyes met. “What—don’t give me that look.”

“What do you want?”

“Do you always need to have someone come in here to fetch you for meals? Unless…” Serge paused, his brows furrowing. “Unless you’re scared of everyone downstairs—especially after what happened in the common-room. Look, there’s really nothing to be worried about. If anyone gives you a hard time, you’ve got me and Carl and Pascal there to help you.”

Gilbert blinked before regarding his roommate incredulously. “Scared?” he echoed. “Scared? Of whom? Those losers in the dining hall? What the hell have you been snorting, Battouille? What makes you think that I’d actually be frightened of idiots whom you surround yourself with?”

He almost burst out laughing at the sight of Serge looking momentarily puzzled and lost, seemingly unable to comprehend his meaning. In his pristine suit, the boy looked almost infantile in the way he struggled with Gilbert’s words and that for the briefest moment, he seemed not only to have shrunk, but also to have regressed by at least ten years—hair tousled, eyes wide and confused, mouth pinched into a rigid, thoughtful line. And, yes, for the briefest moment, Gilbert was knocked off his center at the sight—and at the thought that his roommate, in spite of his brilliance, was really no better than a child.

“God, you really are a simpleton,” he breathed. “Did you honestly think that you could just waltz into people’s lives, throw your weight around, and expect the whole world to get better?”

A flicker of dismay shadowed Serge’s features, but the boy was blessed with a spirit that even Gilbert hadn’t yet seen in anyone, and he recovered with amazing speed to scowl at his roommate.

“I can’t believe you’re still twisting things around! I tried to help you back there!”

“Help? Help? Don’t make me laugh!” Gilbert snorted, slamming his book shut and flinging it on his bed with some energy. He shifted and stood up on the windowsill, grinning at the look of horror that now fixed itself on Serge’s face.

“Gilbert, get down from there!” the other boy cried, rushing forward. “You’ll fall! Get down, now!”

“You know what I think, Serg thi think you’ve put up a damn good performance back there in the common-room. What a thrill it must’ve been to rescue poor, helpless little Gilbert from the hands of bullies—especially with all the attention you’ve already received from that night. Wow. Right in front of half of the sophomore class, too. That thing you did—wetting your arm and diving for that nut in the fire—that was an especially nice touch. Very dramatic.” Gilbert sneered as Serge stopped just a foot shy of the window, looking downright terrified and pale. “I know what you’re all about, Battouille. You’re no different from Carl and his prissy brand of meddling. And I’m sure that you’re here, trying to get me to join you and save myself from dying of starvation because you’re such a big hero.”

“Gilbert, I said get down!”

“Then why don’t you be the great badass that you are and save me from danger, huh?”

Serge moved before Gilbert could finish his taunt, and he flung his arms out and grabbed hold of the other boy’s shirt, giving his roommate a mighty yank until both of them were tumbling back with cries of surprise and of pain, rolling onto the floor in a tangled heap. Gilbert’s vision momentarily darkened, his mind whirling crazily as he finally came to a stop, pinned in a knot under Serge. His world eventually righted itself, and he found himself returning Serge’s look of incredulity with one of contemptuous triumph.

“So,” he half-whispered, panting and narrowing his eyes and regarding the other boy’s flushed countenance from the shadows of his lashes, “now you’ve got another act of heroism to share with the rest of the world. You’ve just saved your freak of a roommate from impending death. God, what a feather to your cap this is, Serge. Now be a good boy and bask in your laurels with everyone else and leave me the fuck alone.”

He watched Serge swallow, his shock and confusion slowly giving way to controlled anger, judging from the way his face and his body tensed up as he continued to hover above the other boy in a tangle of limbs.

“If anyone’s an idiot in this room, Gilbert, it’d be you,” he ground out. “I honestly can’t see how you can go through the day thinking crap about people.”

“It’s not that hard, believe me. All of you give me plenty of reason to do that.”

“You’re crazy.”

Gilbert casually ran his tongue across his upper lip and smiled. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

Serge extricated himself and sat up, pushing away from Gilbert and planting himself at a discreet distance as though suddenly frightened of his roommate. “Listen,” he stammered, flushing. “I don’t want to fight with you. Come with me to Arles. I’m sure we’ll find a lot of fun things to do there. I hate seeing you cooped up like this—and I’m not just saying that to patronize you, either.”

Gilbert sat up, completely disheveled now, and he regarded his roommate in thoughtful silence for a moment. For the second time since Serge arrived, he found himself thrown off his center—suddenly caught off his guard for reasons he never thought possible. He despised his roommate, yes, but at that moment, he couldn’t deny an unexpected, acute awareness of the other boy’s—something. It was really more of a fleeting—a very fleeting—glimpse of that something he’d never seen before—or perhaps he’d never before allowed himself to see in anyone. Gilbert couldn’t tell. For now, he was simply too busy fighting to gain a foothold and thus some degree of control over the situation once more.

And to his greater amazement, instead of rebuking his roommate further, he found himself asking in an almost awed whisper, “You really want me to come with you?”

“Well, yes—of course. Why shouldn’t I?”

A voice raged in Gilbert’s mind, furiously reminding him of Serge’s propensity for self-aggrandizement, but it failed in taking a firm hold on the boy as his defenses continued to waver. He felt suddenly disembodied—hanging in space without any means of saving himself—all threads that connected him to his world suddenly dissolving into inchoate air. And before he knew what was happening, he was allowing Serge to help him to his feet, showering him with promises of a fun day together with their classmates while leading him to the wardrobe, urging him to dress quickly or else they’d miss their van.

And Gilbert did.

He was standing before the mirror within minutes, fixing his tie and brushing dust off his jacket and trousers in complete bewilderment while Serge chatted him up as he sat on his bed, patiently waiting. He was done just when someone began to knock on the door.

“Serge?” came Necroix’s muffled inquiry. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, I’m coming!” Serge leapt off the bed and grinned at his roommate. “Let’s go.”

Gilbert quietly followed him to the door and into the hallway, where the other students stood in an excited cluster. He hovered behind Serge and contented himself with watching the proceedings, noting with vague interest that Carl wasn’t there.

“Hey, where’s Carl?” Serge asked as though reading his mind.

“With the van driver,” Pascal replied. “He’s making sure that we don’t get left behind.” He paused to smile complacently. “Just one of those perks of being the class president. You get to pull whatever strings you damn well please, and you always end up getting what you want.”

“I hope it’s a big enough van,” Serge laughed. “I’ve just asked Gilbert to come with us.”

Silence—heavy, tense, and deafening—fell on everyone. And as it did, Gilbert slowly began to feel his spirit, just moments ago freed from its constraints, sinking back into his universe. The dreary narrowness and isolating silence that defined his world served as a bitter yet familiar counterpoint to the brief moment spent in terrifying independence—and the more terrifying sense of warmth that he’d felt in the room, when he listened to his roommate’s reassurances—when he’d so foolishly placed his trust in a person who was just as much a hypocrite as the others who now regarded him contemptuously.

Gilbert silently cursed himself his weakness as his shields once again erected themselves, slamming into place with even more ferocity now as he watched his peers in icy silence.

“If he’s coming then I’m staying here!” Kurt finally blurted out, coloring deeply as he glared at Gilbert.

“Same with me,” Necroix added more quietly though no less angrily, and the hallway was suddenly filled with grumblings and plaintive whining from a few other students who came with Serge’s friends.

“Aw, come on, Serge, we’ve been planning a good trip since this is your first outing!”

“Why can’t he go with someone else? He’s got lots of friends, anyway!”

“Is Gilbert really coming with us?”

“Why?”

Gilbert bore the humiliation as well as he could; what he needed more than anything else was for Serge to say something—do something—to prove himself to his roommate. In a last-ditch, desperate effort, he’d even manage to cling to the faint hope of hearing reassurances from the other boy, but he couldn’t silence the triumphant crowing of the voice in his mind as it laughed maniacally at his misguided faith.

/What did I tell you, you moron?/ it hissed. /You can’t trust him and his damn superiority. He’s no better than the others./

He watched Serge listen, dumbfounded, to the round of protests that hammered him from all sides, and he couldn’t help but shake his head with a quiet snort. “I figured just as much,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on his roommate.

“I don’t see why he shouldn’t come with us,” Serge finally managed to say, his voice wavering in its firmness, obvious in its reflection of his divided mind.

“You don’t see?” Kurt cried out incredulously. “What…”

“Listen, if this is going to be such a problem for everyone,” Pascal broke in and forcing everyone to fall silent, “then it’d be better for the group to split up. Serge and Gilbert can go to Arles together, and you guys can hang out with each other. Sounds logical enough to me.”

“Logical, my ass. We wanted Serge to hang out with us.”

Serge fidgeted. Gilbert smirked, bitterly congratulating himself at accurately reading his roommate’s mind. It was obvious—painfully obvious—that Serge needed his friends’ affirmation, which was, by and large, being jeopardized by his decision to bring Gilbert along.

“Well—I suppose,” came the weak little squawk. “I guess this is the best way, right? Pascal?”

“God, you’re pathetic,” Gilbert broke in. It took some doing for him to keep himself from exploding where he stood—though as to why—whether in triumph or rage or extreme mortification—he couldn’t clearly determine. “Do yourself a favor, Battouille. When you get to the marketplace, buy yourself a couple of balls that actually function.” He glanced at Pascal, his scowl deepening. “What the hell are you looking at, eunuch?”

Pascal blinked, and the last that Gilbert saw of the boys in the hallway was of Pascal glancing down at his crotch, exclaiming, “What, they’re missing? They were there the last time I checked!”

Gilbert retreated into the bedroom, slamming the door shut and locking it from within, ignoring Serge’s pleas for him to come out as the other boy began to hammer insistently on it. “Gilbert, come on! It’s okay! I promise I’ll stay with you! Open the door!”

“Oh, that’s real precious,” Gilbert retorted quietly as he made his way back to his bed, eyeing his discarded book and then glancing down at the outfit he wore. “My hero,” he spat out as he furiously shrugged off his jacket and tore his tie off his neck before picking up his book and planting himself on the windowsill once more.

From without, he could hear the boys’ barely muffled words of encouragement to Serge as they worked hard to coax him away from Gilbert. His roommate’s own protests—his declarations of loyalty to the ostracized boy—rapidly weakened in strength, and what had begun as “I shouldn’t have done that to Gilbert—I think I ought to stay with him” had evolved to “Okay, I guess you’re right—I shouldn’t let this ruin my day.”

“At least I know where your priorities are, Serge. Self-serving jerks are always so transparent.”

Before long he could hear Serge and his friends’ excited chattering below as they all burst out of the building in an eager throng, hurrying out toward the collection of vans that awaited students to transport to Arles. Gilbert fought off the urge to watch his classmates go, and while he could feel Serge glancing up and staring at him as he was escorted away, he reveled in that one final act of defiance, of ignoring his roommate and imagining the look on Serge’s face as he continued to read at the window.

Within seconds, all Gilbert could hear were the quiet rustlings of balding branches and the dead leaves that scattered themselves before the morning breeze.

**********

Carl was a touch annoyed at the students’ petulance involving Gilbert—scolding the boys, even—but to Serge’s dismay, the class president seemed vaguely relieved at the intelligence. He offered a reassuring smile to his friend as the boys all piled into the van, giving his shoulder a light squeeze.

“That’s okay, Serge,” he said. “Cheer up. I’m sure Gilbert will be fine. Just hang out with us. There’s so much for you to see.”

Serge nodded and clambered in, taking his seat near the rear, where Pascal had reserved some space for him and for Carl.

The ride to Arles was quite an adventure though Serge hated to be the poor van driver at that moment. The students all broke out in song, letting loose the first wave of tension from their systems by singing impossibly bawdy songs—songs that even made Serge blush to hear. He blinked, his jaw dropping, as he stared at his companions, who, though dressed impeccably in understated suits and sitting still in their seats, were filling the air with off-key voices celebrating a girl’s loss of virginity.

“Where’d they learn this song?” he gasped, turning to Pascal, who merely laughed and waved him away.

“Religion class,” his friend replied cheekily.

“That’s not the worst of it,” Carl broke in, shaking his head bemusedly. “Wait till the one about the two drunken rabbits comes on.”

“I don’t even want to know.”

“Too late. You will.”

It didn’t take too long for the van to reach its destination, and the students were almost literally tossed out by a frazzled van driver by the tourist information office.

“I’m coming back with the others at five,” the man snapped. “You’d better all damn well be here because I’m not about to wait around for anyone, period! Yeah, getting your butts hauled off by the police isn’t even going to fly with me, you got that? Be here, or you’re walking back to school!”

Without waiting for a response, he shut the van doors with a heartfelt curse before driving off in a cloud of dust and smoke.

“Nice guy,” Serge noted, turning to grin at his friends. “Though I’ll have to say that I don’t blame him for being really crabby.”

Carl nodded as he led his friends away. “I’d be pissed off, too, if I were forced to listen to songs about drunk, horny rabbits once every two months. Come on, guys. Keep close to the group.”

The small cluster of friends ambled down the road, with Sergpingping in no small wonder at his new environment. Ignoring his friends’ lively declarations of how he’d love the Cathedral of St. Trophime, the Musee de l’Arles Antique, and a host of Roman ruins consisting of baths and aqueducts among others, Serge’s gaze wandered all over, taking in the glorious array of new and old structures and the open-air tour trains that crawled out from the tourist office to take visitors through the winding streets.

“Wow,” he breathed.

He followed his classmates, now seasoned visitors of the city, as they led him in and out of shops, making him pose every five minutes as they took pictures with the disposable cameras they’d all purchased at one of the stores. He, too, availed himself of the opportunity to collect as many memories as he could in the company of his friends as he asked an occasional pedestrian to take pictures of the entire group.

And all would have worked well had it not been for an unexpected jarring of his memory when the group paused by an old-fashioned clock-maker’s shop to peer through the window and ogle the display of intricately-designed clocks.

“Your sister might like that one with the shepherd, Pascal,” Necroix noted, pointing at a clock near one end of the display table.

Pascal snorted. “Yeah, she would—just to take the damn thing apart after complaining of the way the whole thing looks like some kind of misogynistic conspiracy, with the shepherdess’s breasts practically hanging out of her costume like that.”

“Whoa. Patricia’d say that?”

“Trust me, Abraham. She’s got an opinion about every damn thing.”

“Must run in the family then.”

“Oh, ha-ha. Bite me.”

While his friends lost themselves in friendly banter, Serge’s attention was drawn toward a young girl who was walking along with her mother, curiously eyeing the small group of well-dressed boys as she passed by. And when her gaze rested on Serge, the boy couldn’t help but give a slight start.

Her height, her build, her eyes—even her hair, to some extent—reminded him of Gilbert. The curiosity in her look seemed to be tempered with the same brand of melancholy that he’d always seen in his roommate—the melancholy that he felt Gilbert tried to mask with the usual haughty carelessness and well-aimed, sharp words. Her figure—slight and a little awkward because of her age—mirrored Gilbert’s own body, which (and here Serge couldn’t help but wince at the thought) the boy was only too glad to treat with such dangerous disregard. The girl’s eyes were of a similar green shade, but Serge was quick to note that their brightness was defined by a warmth and unaffectedness that he’d never seen in his roommate’s, and here, he supposed, was where the similarities ended. And as the girl walked by, her gaze softening to one of shy admiration, Serge couldn’t help but feel his spirits sink.

“Hello, earth to Serge!”

The girl and her mother moved off, and the moment’s influence disappeared along with them, and Serge was left standing by the shop’s window, looking confusedly about, unable to catch up with the moment while his friends broke out in laughter.

“Whoa, is the new chick in our coop suddenly in love?” Pascal asked, staring down his nose at his friend. “Steady, Serge, steady.”

Kurt quickly whirled around in time to catch a glimpse of the girl, and he turned to Serge with a broad, irrepressible grin. “Man, she’s hot! You know how to choose them, all right!”

“Nah, too skinny for Serge,” another boy piped up.

Serge laughed along, taking care to seem a lot more careless and light-hearted than he really felt. He was a little aghast at the realization that the influence the girl had on him seemed to be more of the lingering kind, and he found his mind suddenly—and painfully—filled with thoughts of Gilbert, once again rousing the guilt that he’d managed to suppress. He began to wonder what his black sheep of a roommate was doing at the moment while he and his friends were losing themselves in the streets of Arles, having the time of their lives.

/This isn’t fair,/ he told himself morosely as his friends led him further on. /He should be here with us. I should’ve stuck with him./

For several minutes, Gilbert continued to haunt his mind, and just about every thing that caught his or his friends’ attention was, in one way or another, linked back to the ostracized boy. And it didn’t take long for those mental connections to find expression through the occasional remark absent-mindedly made by Serge. When the boys stopped inside a costume shop, for instance, Serge was drawn toward a black velvet, hooded cloak that was lined with dark green silk. As he lightly fingered the fabric, he unthinkingly noted, “I can see Gilbert wearing this. I think he’d look good in it. He’s got that old-fashioned kind of—I don’t know—look, I guess, that would work pretty well with something like this.”

“Uh—yeah, sure,” Kurt replied, to which Serge merely smiled faintly before moving off to inspect another antique ensemble, completely distracted by his thoughts.

In a bakery, Serge couldn’t help but declare that Gilbert would be the type to be partial to marzipan, and in a bookstore, he pulled out books that he believed his roommate would find interesting and was, at one point, on the verge of actually purchasing a couple of titles.

Kurt and Necroix exchanged puzzled glances as he stood nearby, thoughtfully fingering the books, muttering to himself, to be roused from his musings by a sharp call or an increasingly irritated observation on his lapses.

On their way to Carl’s favorite restaurant (where they’d decided to have lunch), the group passed by a music store, where they lingered for Serge’s benefit.

“A piano!” he exclaimed, eagerly peering through the shop window to stare at the instrument.

Carl watched him in some amusement. “You seem pretty excited. Do you play?”

“Yes, I do! I haven’t played for a while, though, since my aunt stopped my music lessons.” Serge paused, sighing wistfully. “I miss playing. I wish the school offered piano lessons on the side. Now that I’m not living at home, my aunt shouldn’t mind letting me have lessons here since I wouldn’t be bothering her with my playing.”

Carl continued to regard him, now more in astonishment than amusement. “Had I known about this, I would’ve told you right away about Professor Luche and Professor Renet. I’m sure they’d be glad to sign you up for music lessons.”

Serge brightened. “Carl, I’d love to have music lessons! It’s something that I’ve always wanted! Do you think you can help me?”

“I’m sure I can,” the other boy replied, grinning as well. “With a look like that, Serge, one’s got to be a certified idiot to deny you anything.”

“Hey, do you guys want to check out the bullfights?” Necroix asked.

“That’s incredibly barbaric,” Pascal snorted, pushing his glasses up his nose. “You people can certainly go, but I’m not about to be party to an animal’s senseless slaughter all for the name of sport.”

The group was now entangled in a passionate debate regarding the boys’ day-long itinerary when a familiar voice raised in laughter reached Serge’s ears, and he froze.

“What…” he stammered, whirling around, his eyes scanning the general vicinity. Another burst of laughter—this time much more defined—made him turn sharply to his left. He barely managed to hear Carl’s inquiry.

“Serge! What’s wrong?”

“I—thought I heard—uh…”

“Hey, is that Gilbert over there?” someone from the group piped up, and Serge felt his blood turn cold as his gaze finally found its target.

Yes, it was Gilbert’s voice he’d just heard. And his roommate was there—just across the street, lost in conversation with an older man, who was leaning idly against the wall of a store while carrying a paper bag in his arms, towering over him and grinning down at the boy with condescending pleasure. He was well-dressed—obviously an executive type—though Serge couldn’t even begin to imagine where in God’s name his roommate had met him.

He watched the two speak—almost intimately, he was alarmed to note, with Gilbert playing the flirt as he smiled, tilted his head back in that familiar way, his arms loosely crossed on his chest with one hand lazily toying with his now loosened tie. Serge felt a sickening twinge in the pit of his stomach at the sight of the older man grinning almost predatorily at the smaller boy, his gaze unashamedly traveling up and down the figure before him.

“What the hell’s he up to now?” Necroix hissed, but no one could answer him.

“This is embarrassing!”

“And to think that he’s wearing the school uniform while he’s picking up guys twice his age!”

“Fucking slut!”

A brief glance in Pascal and Carl’s direction showed the two boys watching silently as well, varying degrees of amazement and horror shadowing their faces.

The man chatted up Gilbert for a few seconds more before pulling what looked like a six-pack from the paper bag he carried and handing it out to the boy, gesturing for him to turn around and placing the whole thing inside the backpack Gilbert had with him. The boy merely grinned, not even minding the none-too-subtle brush of the man’s fingers against the back of his neck as his companion zipped the bag shut. It was done quickly, smoothly—so much so that a passerby wouldn’t even have realized what was happening, and a look around the area revealed no one else watching the proceedings save for the group of students who stood in stunned silence across the street.

Gilbert turned around and looked almost coy as he thanked his companion (at least that was Serge’s guess), smiling winningly before walking off with his prize, now oblivious to the man’s lingering stare as he seemed to switch gears, weaving his way through the morning pedestrian crowd to a waiting figure nearby.

Max Blough sat astride a moped, busily lighting a cigarette and obviously waiting for Gilbert to join him. He took a couple of drags, lazily scanning the crowd as he did, completely unmindful of every rule he was breaking just by standing there in the same suit as the other students, his jacket most likely stuffed in Gilbert’s backpack along with the younger boy’s. His shirt was wrinkled with the top button undone, his tie carelessly knotted and hanging rather low. Before long Gilbert reached him, and they spoke, quietly laughing together as though sharing a private joke, and Serge couldn’t help but suspect that the lascivious executive was no other than the subject of their jest. He watched Max pull Gilbert close by his collar for a rough kiss—congratulatory, it seemed, for a job well done as the older boy complacently patted the backpack in smug victory. The mere thought made Serge’s stomach turn, but he couldn’t keep himself from suspecting the worst as he watched the two break apart and Gilbert take his place behind the senior.

The moped roared to life, and Max expertly pulled away, hollering at people while Gilbert let out whoops of triumph, his voice clear and hollow in Serge’s ears.

The vehicle cut a sharply curving path as it made a U-turn, pedestrians scattering here and there and yelling at the two riders in alarm, and Max and Gilbert rode past the gawking group of boys in a burst of smoke. Gilbert’s gaze met Serge’s for the briefest moment as they sped off, and the boy smirked, leaning closer to Max as he tightened his hold around the latter’s waist, pressing his cheek against Max’s shoulder.

That gesture, Serge was certain, was meant for no one else but him. It was a clear enough indication of Gilbert’s contempt for his roommate—an undeniable show of defiance and complete independence from the other boy’s influence. He could even hear Gilbert’s voice in his mind—victorious, cold, and pleased.

/You can’t touch me, Serge. I’m way above you./

Silence lingered in the vicinity as the sound of the moped melted into that of city traffic, and the boys stood in a stunned group before the piano shop. An eternity seemed to pass when someone finally found the voice to break the trance.

Serge turned to his companions. “I’m sorry,” he began, his voice quavering a little. “This is all my fault. If I only brought Gilbert with me—or stayed back with him—this wouldn’t have happened.”

The others blinked.

“What’re you talking about?” Carl replied. “Why on earth would you apologize for his behavior? Serge, he’s always been like this. You know that by now.”

“Yes, but—I think I drove him to do this. I shouldn’t have left him. Now he’s embarrassed the school—embarrassed you guys—and—is messing around with Blough.”

“What do we care what he does?” Kurt snorted, grimacing in the direction in which the moped had disappeared. “Let him screw around with whomever! Why should it be our problem? Come on, are we going out to lunch or what?”

“Serge?” Pascal pursued, frowning in some concern. “You okay?”

“No, I’m not,” Serge retorted, his agitation escalating. He ran a hand through his hair as he started to pace around, ignoring the other boys’ bewildered looks. He was angry, and his chest felt unbearably tight—and he couldn’t understand why. His friends were right, and he knew it and accepted it, but he couldn’t seem to absorb what they’d been telling him.

Gilbert was no concern of his. He could run off with whomever he pleased, and it was his decision to make, not anyone else’s. No one—no, not even he—had the right to dictate how the wayward boy should conduct himself. Serge understood that, and he did accept the nature of its truth.

So why couldn’t he just let things be?

“Maybe I should just go back or something,” he finally blurted out, his distress compounding further with every passing second as his mind continued its relentless hold on the final image he had of Gilbert pressing himself tightly against Max, grinning smugly at Serge as he disappeared into the traffic—and beyond all reach. “I’m not feeling well. I’m not going to be good company to anyone right now.”

“Oh, this is just great! I can’t believe this is happening!”

Carl snapped, “Kurt! Shut up!”

“No, I won’t! I’m sick of this! Ever since breakfast, all we got out of him is ‘Gilbert this’ and ‘Gilbert that’!” Kurt cried, flushing. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Serge? Are you getting hung up on him?”

Serge stared at him. “What?”

“The way you’ve been going on about Cocteau…”

“What do you mean ‘hung up on him’?”

“Both of you, stop it!” Carl broke in.

“God, you’re so fucking dense! Okay, fine! Let me spell it out to you, Romeo! You’re hung up on that little faggot!”

Rapidly brewing anger now turned to icy rage. “Take that back,” Serge hissed, balling his hands into white-knuckled fists.

“You’re hung up on that dirty little faggot!”

“Take that back!” Serge cried as he lunged at his livid friend, arm swinging, his fist sending Kurt’s head snapping to the side and the other boy tumbling backward, dragging Serge down with him.

Rage—uncontrollable, terrifying in its suddenness and ferocity—consumed Serge as he grappled with Kurt, throwing punches blindly while the two rolled all over the pavement in a furious tangle of limbs, their cries shattering the otherwise calm air. His mind continued to cling to that final glimpse he’d had of his roommate, mocking him incessantly with phantom images of Gilbert’s triumphant smirk. His insides felt as though they were being forcibly ripped out of him—that he was being literally torn open by invisible hands and savagely disemboweled. One part of him fought desperately to rid his mind of Gilbert’s image, but another seemed to revel in the pain it induced as it held on tenaciously until Serge felt as though his mind would break from the strain.

Kurt proved to be just as determined to cause as much damage, and Serge received several well-aimed punches, which only served to inflame his rage and force him to fight back with greater energy. Around him, the world spun as the two boys tried to pound each other to the ground, and a confusion of voices—not just theirs—now filled his ears.

“Stop it! I said stop it!”

“Jesus, they’re going to kill each other!”

“Pascal, quickly!”

“I got him, Carl! I got him!”

Serge suddenly felt himself torn away from Kurt, and he was bodily lifted from the other boy, still swinging and kicking.

“Damn it, Serge, get a fucking grip!” Carl roared, and Serge was finally restrained by his friend, his arms pinned to his sides as Carl wrapped his own firmly around the boy. Pascal, in the meantime, had Kurt restrained the same way so that the two combatants could only rage at each other in a battle of words.

“What the hell makes you any better than him, huh?” Serge cried as he struggled against Carl’s hold.

“He’s a fucking freak! He’s a filthy cocksucking freak!”

“Jerk! And you’re so perfect? You hypocrite!”

“Shut up! Shut the fucking hell up, both of you!” Carl continued to yell.

With a snarl, Kurt managed to break away from Pascal and staggered back, pale and disheveled and bruised as he glared at Serge, running a sleeve against his mouth, which was now bleeding and swollen to twice its size.

“Fine, fine, I’m gone. Screw this,” he hissed. “Screw you, Battouille.”

Without another word, he hobbled away, Necroix and the other boys following him in a shocked daze, throwing helpless glances over their shoulders at Carl, who merely nodded his assent as he continued to hold his friend down. The small group of passersby who’d gathered around slowly dissipated as well, muttering among themselves and shaking their heads bemusedly at the three students who remained.

The trio remained silent for a while, exchanging nothing more than weary glances as they panted from the exertion. Serge finally felt his anger seep out, and with it every ounce of energy so that by the time he was completely calm, he found himself leaning heavily against Carl, unable to move a limb. Every inch of his body throbbed with pain, his face most of all. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how he looked at that moment.

“Serge…” Carl began in a tired voice.

“I’m okay. I’m okay.”

Serge lifted a hand to touch a particularly sensitive area of his cheek, and he was surprised at finding his fingers wet with tears and blood. He never even realized that he’d been crying.

A few feet before him, Pascal stood hunched over as he leaned against his knees, his head hanging weakly down while he fought to recover from the ordeal. Taking several deep, calming breaths, he presently looked up to regard Carl through glasses that now sat at a skewed angle on his nose.

“Carl,” he breathed incredulously. “You said the ‘f’ word. Twice.”

(tbc)