Baroque

Baroque (Part 7)


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Beginning Notes:

I\'m including part of \"Phantasmagoria\" in this chapter not because I want to toss in a lemon but because I want to emphasize Serge\'s confusion and (sexual) awakening (besides, \"Phantasmagoria\" is a sidefic to this chapter). The roles have also changed. In the manga, Gilbert is the aggressor in Serge\'s dream, not the other way around. I prefer to have Serge as the dominant in this chapter and to give him a more active role in his transformation.

I\'m dumping Liliath Florian as well. His character adds nothing to the story as far as I\'m concerned. The rest of Volume II is also being dropped, save for maybe a couple of references made to some scenes in the next chapter.

An Apology:

In transforming the story into a modern setting, I\'ve managed to blur out the lines between American and French culture in so many different ways. For this fic, one of my biggest errors is my using the American system of classifying high school students without realizing it (i.e., referring to them as freshmen, sophomores, etc.). As I\'ve never gotten around to learning more about the French system, I just thought I\'d point out this incongruity if, indeed, it is one.

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PART 7

Carl called his mother, and the three boys were eventually picked up by an excited Mrs. Mise, who reassured a mortified Serge that it wasn’t too much trouble at all having them over.

“I’m always happy to meet Carl’s friends,” she declared, nimbly maneuvering the car through traffic as they fled Arles in one group, leaving Kurt and the others to enjoy the rest of the day off wandering through the city on their own. “Especially you, Serge. I’ve heard nothing but good things about you, and Carl’s never one to exaggerate.”

“I’m sure, though, that you never expected to meet him in this condition,” Pascal noted wryly, and Mrs. Mise laughed.

“Well, boys will be boys, I’m afraid. And though I’m too tempted right now to hit you all with a lecture, I’ll stop myself. I’d rather leave you to think about what’s happened and gain something from it on your own.” She paused to peer at Serge through the rear-view mirror. “In the meantime, I’ll have to take care of those cuts and bruises when we get home.”

Serge flushed and thanked her, sinking in his seat in an embarrassed (though no less pleased) flutter. Carl and his mother, he understood, were rather close (the little family having been abandoned by the father when Carl was just a toddler), and he let them catch up on lost time as his friend, who sat in the front seat, began a litany of goings-on at the academy, while Mrs. Mise interjected the occasional commentary. Pascal, for his part, was quite content sitting in the back and listening to the conversation with a pert grin, shaking his head and muttering mild obscenities whenever he caught Carl exaggerating certain points though he never took the trouble of correcting him.

Serge merely looked out the window and watched the landscape fly past, his thoughts once again fixing themselves on his roommate in spite of all efforts not to. He was now much too exhausted to feel anger, but the sickening feeling at the pit of his stomach lingered, and he couldn’t quell it if he tried. A dull, throbbing ache seemed to shadow that nausea, and he knew neither its origin nor its nature. It was simply there—an insistent pain that reverberated throughout his system, weighing down every inch of his body and sinking his spirits even more. And when the feeling refused to abate after a while, it was all the boy could do to gingerly massage his chest, his eyes still fixed outside though no longer seeing anything more than a gathering mist that, he knew, wasn’t really there.

“Why is he doing this to me?” he asked himself, wincing a little from the ache. “What did I ever do to him? Is it too much to want to be a friend?”

A keen stab of anger tore through him at the thought of Max being in Gilbert’s company. He’d long known about the older boy—about his bullying manner, his arrogance, his utter disregard of the feelings of others. Most of all, he’d long known about his seemingly undisputed claim over Gilbert, which was made all too obvious in the way he took great delight in demonstrating possession in public. It tended to be a rare enough occurrence, which made it all the more jarring when it did happen.

He’d strut around the grounds with his arm draped almost painfully tightly around Gilbert’s neck, ensuring the smaller boy’s pres rig right beside him—practically pressed uncomfortably against his side. In odd moments, he’d grab Gilbert by his collar and pull him close for a public kiss, which was usually aggressive and dominating, sending passersby or onlookers turning their faces away in mortification. At times he’d muss up the boy’s hair, laughing out and obviously tickled at the way Gilbert would look as though he’d just been roughly taken by the older student.

Tongues wagged, of course, given the amount of fodder the pair offered them for gossip. Max and Gilbert were generally held in contempt, regardless of whether or not the students minded the nature of their relationship. Even those who were quite tolerant of same-sex relationships were aghast at the couple’s obviously low opinion of academy rules or even basic standards of conduct. Or so it seemed.

When at first Serge had believed this to be due to the students’ keen understanding of proper decorum and tact, Pascal quickly destroyed every single theory he’d manage to raise (if only for his own comprehension).

“From what I’ve observed, people can’t stand him not because he’s gay,” he’d noted as the boys waited for Carl’s mother to arrive, resting at an outdoor café and enjoying some refreshments with which to settle their nerves. “It’s because he’s got power. Kurt and the others talk down on him all the time because they’re scared shitless. Being gay is just one cog out of a thousand that make up the Gilbert Cocteau machine, and I’m sure that some of us freak out over that fact. Bute ale always believed that things are a lot more complicated than that.”

“Why? He’s never done anything to hurt them.”

“It’s his behavior, I suppose. And I’ll go on and say that his mere presence threatens them as well.”

Serge sat in thought for a little while. “I remember Kurt once saying that we were better off when Gilbert wasn’t showing to class—at least then we didn’t have to see him.”

“I remember that. Gilbert’s honest—brutally honest and not just in the way he talks. He’s forcing people to face some of their worst fears everyday—every time they see him. He doesn’t even need to say anything to anyone to scare people. I think he reminds them of what they don’t want to know.”

Serge frowned, even more puzzled. “I don’t get it. Like what?”

Pascal merely regarded him with a cryptic smile. “You’ll have to look inside yourself to answer that question, Serge.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re obviously feeling threatened as well, and I’d rather see you figure things out on your own if you want to understand your roommate some more—and yourself, for that matter.”

Serge scratched the back of his head vexedly as he mulled things over for a bit before glancing back up at his friend. “What about you? Did you ever feel scared or threatened?”

“By Gilbert?”

“Yes.”

“No—in a pretty odd way, I feel equal to him. Heh. Arrogant much?” Pascal laughed lightly. “Seriously—I’ve always considered him to be my antithesis, and I think he understands that, too. We can’t be together for more than a few seconds, or we’ll end up canceling each other out.” He offered his friend a sheepish little grin and a shrug. “Strange how things work, eh?”

Serge merely stared at his friend, snickering. “Pascal, I think you’ve read too many science fiction books. You’re not making any sense.” In spite of the seeming lightness with which he was treating his friend’s analysis, however, he did feel a little disconcerted.

He refused to say any more, keeping one thought to himself—that of Pascal and Gilbert perhaps being, deep down, terrified of each other, given the sharp divergence of their natures. It was logical enough, especially if one were to consider their characteristically easy dismissal of everything around them and, indeed, the air of superiority with which they’d often regarded the world. In each other they saw that which they’d long resisted—supreme rationalism in Pascal and unbridled sensuality in Gilbert. Yes, Serge could certainly see why his roommate and his good friend seemed to conscientiously maintain an impossible distance between each other. He’d caught an ugly glimpse of what could happen had they been forced into closer contact more often—with Gilbert, that morning right outside their bedroom door, snarling at Pascal and calling him a eunuch before the other students and Pascal speaking as though the other boy was either below his regard or was nothing more than an inanimate object that used up space.

Serge’s mind fixed itself on that conversation as he continued to mull over Gilbert and his curious influence on him.

“I don’t feel threatened,” he muttered at the window as the car sped on. “I’m just worried about him and what he’s doing to himself. I don’t see anything there that would scare me. If anything, I feel sorry for him.”

The image of Gilbert disappearing into traffic, holding tightly on to his bully of a lover lingered in his mind. Yes, there was a lot for which he felt sorry on his roommate’s behalf.

Poor Gilbert. Poor, deluded Gilbert.

**********

Carl sighed as he paused at the doorway, surveying the scene. His friends were lounging in his mother’s garden, carrying on a lively conversation about flowering breeds as they walked among the prized collection of shrubs and trees, pointing out plants that they recognized. Serge and Pascal carried plates piled with pastries with them as they wandered lazily around, feeding themselves and leaving a trail of baked treats wherever they went.

“You’re supposed to eat at the table, you slobs,” he called out wearily. This must have been the fifth time he’d told them that, and they still refused to listen. He crossed his arms on his chest as he watched them glance at him, blink, then pick up where they left off, their voices low as though both boys were lost in a secret.

Carl rolled his eyes and stepped forward, shutting the back door quietly behind him. Minor irritation aside, he did feel grateful for having his two best friends over, bearing witness to a side of him to which no other person in the academy had ever been privy. By nature reserved, mild-mannered, and soft-spoken, Carl had also been keen on being able to invite someone over for a visit—if only for a couple of hours.

His position as the class president had successfully driven a wedge between himself and his peers, after all, his being an honor student as well as a quiet boy having done not much more than widen the gulf further. He dared not admit to feeling an almost crippling sense of loneliness in spite of his central place among the sophomore ranks and how his classmates’ reverence and near-blasphemous adoration of his abilities merely exacerbated his solitude.

No, he never asked to be placed on a pedestal. All he wanted was to do what he did best and still go about no differently from his peers. But it proved to be a vicious cycle to the fatherless boy. The harder he worked to prove his worth, the more he was adored, the more he felt pushed away, and the more he felt the need to prove his worth.

And he was certain that had it not been for Pascal’s constancy and Serge’s warming influence, Carl would have long collapsed from the strain.

“If you can’t beat them, join them,” he grumbled good-naturedly as he sauntered over to the others while they inspected a lush, dwarf citrus tree. “That’s a calamondin,” he called out. “My mother makes marmalade out of the fruit. And you guys are making a mess.”

He regarded Serge’s bruised features as the other boy glanced up at him, idly munching on a fruit tart. He was a good deal worse off than he was after that incident with Jack Dren, Carl noted with a grimace. Even after his mother had washed him up and Carl had dressed his wounds, the signs of his earlier fight with Kurt were all too clear. Purple shadows around his left eye looked stark against his skin. The cut on his cheek was covered with a bulky piece of gauze protection. There were small scrape marks along Serge’s temples as well, where the boy had struck the pavement when he and Kurt fell, grappling furiously with each other. The back of Serge’s hands were injured as well, the scratches looking red and ugly though the bleeding had stopped.

“How’re you feeling, Serge?” Carl asked.

“Fine, thanks. It hurts a little when I chew, but I’ll be fine.”

“Is your jaw hurting?”

“No, my cheek—where I have that cut.” Here Serge pointed at the bandage.

Carl nodded before flashing his friends an awkward smile. “Guys, I’m sorry for everything. I should’ve handled things much better than I did.”

“What’re you talking about?” Pascal replied, looking mildly amazed. “The fight was inevitable…”

“Because of me,” Serge immediately cut in, flushing, but Pascal silenced him with a firm shake of his head.

“No, no, no—something like this was bound to happen, Battouille. Laws of Physics, almost—I don’t think anyone would’ve been able to prevent it if he tried. Cause and effect—action and reaction—regardless of how Gilbert behaved in public, I think that we’d still end up here, bruised faces and bruised egos and all. Things have just been building up for some time now, and something just had to give.”

Carl scowled at his friend. “Pascal, I wish you’d stop treating everything as though they were nothing more than scientific experiments to you. I hate it when you make it all seem so cold and mechanical. Are you avoiding something here?”

The other boy regarded him steadily, pushing his glasses against his nose as he did. “I choose to keep my distance and my objectivity. That’s my style, Mise. That’s how I try to understand things.”

“It’s not always the best way…”

“You try to keep your distance because you don’t want to get hurt,” Serge piped up almost distractedly. He was staring at his plate as he spoke, and Carl wasn’t even sure for a second or two whether or not the boy was responding to his conversation with Pascal.

“I’m sorry?”

Serge glanced up and regarded his friends thoughtfully. “You’re no different from Gilbert—both of you. You have your own ways of keeping yourself from getting hurt by everyone else. I’m not saying that it’s wrong, but I understand if you need to find a way of coping. I don’t see Gilbert behaving any differently from anyone.”

Carl sighed and averted his gaze to stare blankly at the shrubbery. “You’re justifying his behavior.”

“Sort of. I’m trying to understand.”

The taller boy nodded, his shoulders slumping a little. “Serge, I’m thinking of pulling you out of Room 17. I’ve spoken with Mr. Watts about it, and we think that we can make arrangements with the academy for you to have your own room somewhere.”

“What’re you talking about? I’m fine where I am.”

Carl’s mind settled itself on an all-too-familiar moment in the murky past, and for several seconds, he wasn’t seeing his mother’s garden but rather the trees that littered the schoolgrounds. He wasn’t standing up but rather lying on the leaf-strewn floor—not alone but in an intimate embrace with Gilbert, their mouths pressed together, his hands moving of their own volition as they worked to unbutton the other boy’s uniform. He could still feel the echoes of being gripped with sudden horror at what he was doing, his humiliation being reflected in Gilbert’s smile and laughter as the boy wallowed in his triumph.

He swallowed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not above admitting my own mistakes,” he finally said in a near hush. “I’ve—misjudged Gilbert—really misjudged him—and I want to keep you from being another one of his—conquests, Serge.” He looked at his friend, who was now watching him with a slight frown. “I’m really sorry for putting you through this. You didn’t know any better, and I was wrong in using you like an experiment of some kind…”

“No differently from me, I suppose,” Pascal observed though not without sympathy. Carl could only nod self-consciously at his friend before moving forward.

“You deserved better from me, Serge. I’m sorry. I really am.”

Serge was silent for a bit, turning his gaze away and idly tapping his plate with a finger. Then he shook his head slightly, glancing back at Carl with a little smile. “I don’t want to be moved out, Carl. I don’t. If I did that, Gilbert’s not going to change—he’ll think that he got the better of me, when he didn’t. He never has.”

“Oh, really,” Pascal coughed.

Carl tried to shut away the image of Serge being in his shoes that fateful afternoon, himself lying on top of Gilbert, helplessly succumbing to the other boy’s influence. For a moment, he felt like a filthy voyeur. “Do you want to be like Max Blough?” he demanded in a fierce whisper. “It’s easy putting up with his crap right now. I can see that. But I know he’ll be pulling all the stops when you least expect it, and there’s nothing you can do about it. He knows your weakness, Serge. It’s a matter of time before he’ll start using it against you—maybe he’s already started, and you don’t even know. I can’t have that happen.”

A light touch of a hand against his arm immediately snatched him back to the present, and he gave a start, blinking in some confusion as he turned to find Serge regarding him with an earnest smile.

“My dad kept a journal,” the other boy said. “I still have it with me, and I read it sometimes when I want to have a heart-to-heart talk with him. One of the things he wrote was that it’s important not to avoid committing sins; otherwise, you wouldn’t see the truth.” Serge’s eyes misted over. “He wrote that after he and my mother eloped.”

Pascal pressed his lips into a thin, hard line and walked off without another word.

Carl watched Serge fight to regain his composure, which he did quickly enough. He flushed and offered another smile before reaffirming his resolution to stay in Room 17. Carl understood well enough what that meant. And as he followed his friends around the garden, he realized that that had been his final chance to save his friend—to make reparations for what damage he’d unwittingly inflicted on a wide-eyed innocent—that that had been his final chance, and he failed.

He glanced up at the sky and took several deep breaths, feeling nothing but hollow comfort from them.

/No, no—Serge made his choice,/ a voice in the back of his mind whispered. /You’ve done what you can for him. It’s out of your hands now./

“I wish it weren’t,” he whispered back.

Mrs. Mise presently called them back into the house, tempting them with a homemade feast put together especially for them.

**********

Serge leaned against the windowsill as he peered out into the darkness beyond, frowning. “He’s late again,” he muttered at the sight of moonless desolation that now defined the schoolgrounds.

/He’s not your concern. Leave him alone. Worrying about him like an abandoned lover only means that he’s gotten the better of you./

“I’m not an abandoned anything,” the boy huffed, pushing himself away from the window and walking back to his writing-desk, taking his place behind it for the dozenth time that evening since he retired after dinner. “I just hate it when he stays out so late like this. I hope he gets locked out sometime if that’s what it takes for him to get a clue.”

He sighed heavily and rested his chin on his hand as he forced his attention back to his homework. His eyes saw nothing beyond a notebook filled with Latin scribbles, which now looked like nothing more than a disjointed mix of symbols that he couldn’t even understand. With mounting desperation, he tore off a blank sheet of paper and picked up his pen and began doodling idly, his attention far, far from the present moment, his eyes turning glassy and blank even as his hand continued to move. Crude, abstract shapes began to appear, and his pen moved over them again and again, the tip digging deeper and deeper into the paper till the ink literally soaked through the fibers and shredded them, and the boy suddenly realized that he was now doodling onto his notes.

“Oh, no,” he gasped, snatching the tattered sheet away and surveying the damage in some consternation. Lines, curves, and angles littered his Latin notes now, and he reassured himself that at least they didn’t need to submit these exercises to their professor.

With another heavy sigh, Serge capped his pen and tossed it on the desk before standing up and walking back to the window to peer through the curtains. The wind had begun to pick up, eliciting a mild oath from the boy, who, upon catching it, could only laugh dryly at himself.

“Bad habits picked up from Pascal,” he said. “I’m surprised that Carl lasted this long without saying every cuss word that’s out there.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when he finally spotted two figures appear from the gloom.

/They’ll see you. Move away from the window. You’ll make them think that you’ve been waiting up all this time for them./

“That’s because I was,” he replied.

Serge watched the two figures as they walked toward the building, pausing in their tracks halfway through to share a kiss. It was a lingering one, he noted with some disgust, and he couldn’t help grimacing at the sight. There was a brief flare of anger as he watched Max once again affirm his rights over the younger boy. Even with the murkiness outside, Serge could still see the larger student’s every move—the way his hands traveled possessively over the smaller body they held, the way his head moved from side to side as he claimed kiss after kiss from Gilbert, the way his face disappeared against the smaller boy’s neck.

He was mortified at what he was doing, yes, but he felt compelled to stare, and it seemed as though something deeper inside welcomed the painful iciness that slowly coursed through his veins brought on by the sight. Loathing, fascination, and shame all bore down on him with equal weight and ferocity, his system slowly buckling under the strain in spite of all efforts at fighting it off.

Gilbert presently broke away from Blough, pushing hard against the latter till he was released, and he walked off without another word, while the older boy moved in the direction of the seniors’ dormitory and disappearnto nto the night. With a small grunt of annoyance, Serge yanked the curtains close before walking back to his desk to resume his schoolwork.

Or, rather, stare at his schoolwork for several minutes till the door of his bedroom opened, and a disheveled Gilbert walked in.

Serge stiffened but refrained from glancing up, fixing his gaze resolutely on his notes while he kept a painful grip on his pen (which never once moved). He listened to his roommate walk toward his bed, listened to the sound of his jacket sliding off his shoulders to land with a muffled whump on the bed and the sound of his tie being pulled off his neck with an almost deliberate slowness. Gilbert said not a word the whole time, and judging from the idle pace with which the other boy stripped down, Serge couldn’t help but wonder if Gilbert were taunting him again. He could practically feel the other boy smirking at his back.

He swallowed, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder. The bed creaked as Gilbert sat on it in order to remove his shoes, and before long, the sound of leather falling on wood reached his ears. He listened to his roommate pulling his socks off and dropping them on the floor, his breath catching at the sound of a zipper being slowly undone following that. Serge bent his head lower, pinching his eyes shut when his mind took on the burden of showing him what the other boy was doing since he steadfastly refused to look in the first place.

/What’re you doing to yourself?/ he cried out silently, feeling the heat in his face. /Stop it! You idiot!/

He’d braced himself for that moment—prepared himself mentally for whatever might come. He’d convinced himself that he was a great deal stronger than he at first believed, reminding himself that it was Gilbert, not he, who was in desperate need of help. What he’d hoped to do was to prove to his roommate that he was, indeed, strong and by no means a victim of his manipulation and his contempt. He was planning to apologize to Gilbert for leaving him behind—perhaps, he’d thought, admitting his error would show the other boy that he was no coward, that admitting his error would immediately strip Gilbert of whatever superficial power he possessed over him, leaving them both on equal footing and therefore with no chance of being either victim or bully.

But Serge couldn’t shake off this anger that had been bubbling just under the surface since that morning, when he’d spotted Gilbert and Max together in Arles. It had exploded, horrifying even himself, and it had been fearfully suppressed afterwards—but in no way had it been effectively dealt with—no way had it been made harmless, deprived of its poison. It lingered, kept its hold on his mind in spite of all of his reassurances to his friends, and he’d been functioning under its influence ever since. A ragged train of thoughts marched through his head—disjointed and grotesque, dark and sensual, maddening in their inchoateness—disturbingly intoxicating to the boy, whose confusion compounded itself with every passing minute.

Something had been awakened—of that he was certain. But he didn’t know what it was, and he didn’t know how to control it. All he knew—all he understood—was the fact that he was drowning in sensations and irrepressible emotions, and he terrified himself.

And, as though to mock him further, he heard Gilbert pull his trousers down—perhaps even his underwear.

“Gilbert,” he quickly blurted out, fighting desperately to keep his voice from betraying his escalating discomfort. “I want to talk to you.”

“Put a lid on your lectures, Battouille,” the other boy replied coolly as he slipped into his pajamas (the sound of which offered some degree of relief to Serge). “I don’t want to hear any of your pompous, holier-than-thou bullshit. I’m tired. I had a long day.”

“I don’t care what you think. I’m saying this, anyway.” Serge stood up and walked toward his bed, pausing for a moment to gather his thoughts as he stared at his sheets. “I’m—I’m sorry for leaving you this morning. Had I been—been…”

“Less of a stuck-up jerk?” Gilbert offered with a dry laugh.

“Had I been more considerate of your feelings, I’m sure that you wouldn’t have—degraded yourself with—with Max. It’s my fault that you had to resort to that, and I apologize.”

A moment of heavy silence followed. Serge took a deep breath and turned around to look at his roommate and found Gilbert regarding him with a look of scornful amazement. The other boy’s mouth curled into a sneer.

“Degraded myself?” he echoed. “My God, are you so full of yourself that you’ve been walking around, believing that I spent the day with Max to make you jealous? You’re fucking priceless, Serge. Just priceless.”

Serge winced and silently counted down, feeling his anger settle once again. “I don’t want to fight with you, Gilbert. I’m trying to have a conversation.”

“Conversation? Oh—you mean you’re flaunting your superiority over me.”

“No! Damn it, Gilbert, will you just shut up and listen?”

Gilbert’s eyes widened, and instantly, Serge regretted his outburst. A flicker of realization brightened those eyes, and they narrowed vulturously. His roommate, he knew, had locked on to his weakness, which he’d just thoughtlessly exposed in an unschooled, uncontrolled, emotional eruption. His blood froze when Gilbert slowly shifted and stood up, his eyes fixed on him, his derisive sneer now marked by one of easy triumph.

“Why so tense, Serge?” he asked smoothly as he slowly made his way toward the other boy. “Has it been a lousy day for you?”

Serge backed away, his hands blindly groping behind him. “What’re you doing?” he hissed.

“You’re hurt. Tsk. What happened to you today?” Gilbert reached out to touch the bruise around Serge’s eye, but the other boy shied violently away, stumbling backward and hitting the window with a dull thump.

“Stay away from me!” Serge whispered hoarsely as he pressed himself against the window, regarding Gilbert in paralyzing fear, completely stripped of all pretense of control—control that he now, belatedly, realized he’d never had, and that all control, all power, had always been with Gilbert, not him. “Don’t touch me!”

The other boy merely smiled at him complacently as he moved forward, effectively pinning Serge against the window, stopping only a few inches before him.

“Gilbert, don’t…”

“Ssshh—Serge, don’t run,” Gilbert cooed, and Serge felt his face anchored by a pair of hands, his vision momentarily blocked by a kiss gently, deliberately planted on his bruised eye.

/Don’t run—don’t run… /

Serge felt himselnkinnking, and he desperately reached out for something to which he could cling before he’d drown, all consciousness now filled with nothing else but a pair of warm, pliant lips pressed against his, gentle and languid in its demands for him to welcome them, which he did—eagerly and hungrily.

And all reality ceased.

**********

Among the thick, rich layers of rumpled brocade and satin lay a boy, completely still. He was in the throes of a deep, deep sleep, judging from the barely discernible rise and fall of his chest. Serge’s gaze wandered over the carelessly sprawled figure and took in the sight of slender proportions, pale skin made even whiter by the light that blanketed it, hair of gold spilling onto plump pillows in glorious disarray, and the vague flush that lightly dusted both cheeks and lips, inviting in their subtle presence.

/See me./

Serge swallowed the growing lump in his throat. He continued to stare, completely unaware that he’d just dropped his sword, not even hearing the loud clatter it made at his feet as it struck the stone floor.

“Shouldn’t this be a—girl?”

Did it matter? This was something he wanted, wasn’t it?

/Pity me./

Something stirred inside the castle’s violator—an odd urging that seemed to have come from recesses deeper than he’d ever imagined—hidden little crevices of which even he hadn’t been aware. It roiled and gurgled weakly at first before spreading slowly out as ripples would when a pebble disturbed the black surface of long-calm waters.

/I’m imprisoned./

Swallowing n, fn, feeling his cheeks warm up as he did, the young nobleman took one clumsy step after another, his eyes not once relinquishing their hold on the luminous, slumbering figure before him. He slowly sat himself on the side of the bed, gently taking the pale hand that dangled languorously over the edge and holding it between his own.

/I’ve wandered the ramparts and the hallways for a hundred years, seeking companionship and finding none./

The fine, graceful lines of the prone figure seared themselves firmly in the boy’s mind, branding it with a vision that even blindness would never erase. He raised the limp hand to his lips for a kiss, shuddering at the contact and the stirring in his gut that had now grown in intensity and urgency. His gaze once again fell on the cold, placid face and especially on the lightly parted lips that continued to beckon to him.

He fought—gallantly fought—against the influence of a vulnerable pout—but his mind seemed to have been detached forcibly from his body, and as though in a dream, where he was floating above the room and gazing down at the proceedings, he watched himself grasp the limp hand more tightly against himself as he reached out to gently stroke the white forehead, fingers lightly trailing down the fine slope of a nose as he moved his hand to rest it against the boy’s cheek.

What was happening to him?

/I’ve been abandoned./

He was suddenly being pulled forward and down, his eyes closing against the blinding glow of moonlit skin, his own mouth automatically parting in welcome to still lips.

What was happening to him?

And almost in immediate answer, a thought flashed briefly across his mind, and he froze.

The reward, he finally realized, his mind regaining its lucidity even if only for a mere second. This was his reward—his prize—the reason behind the thick briars that walled the castle in—the reason why courtiers now lay in ageless sleep, permanently fixed where they fell, sacrifices to this strange boy’s fate. Serge grinned against his slumbering lover’s mouth, parting it further as his own opened into a smile. Feeling the boy’s teeth lightly graze his lips, he released the limp hand and brought both of his against the other’s face, firmly cradling it between his palms as he deepened the kiss, intent on claiming his reward with tentative sweeps of his tongue inside the pliant warmth.

His virtue had held up against the briars, easily vanquishing them. He…and only he…earned this.

/I’m tired of being alone. I’ve been waiting for a hundred years for someone to pass through the thorny borders./

He shifted without releasing the other boy, climbing onto the bed and placing himself on top of the prone figure, pushing himself between lifeless knees and parting slender thighs without much ceremony. No, the stirring had grown quite insistent now, and he trembled at the prospects. There was very little opportunity for him to ponder ceremony.

His mouth finally moved, trailing eager kisses across the sleeping boy’s cheeks, lips and tongue thorough in their exploration of every smooth inch of flesh. His fogged mind could barely take in the faint though heady scent of satin and roses and sleep that had now become the boy’s very essence.

So this was the reward set aside for heroes. Complete, uncompromising surrender as payment for the prisoner’s release. Serge shivered at the thought, delighting in its dark lure. He was, after all, a young man of principle, yet he certainly wasn’t a fool. He understood well enough the deeper, largely feared side of human nature, and he also understood that while principle was certainly well and good, it could only serve a man for so long. It was simply a matter of time before carefully-wrought defenses would fall under influences much too great for a mere mortal to bear.

And all men, after all, were born weak. For the first time in his young life, he exulted at the thought.

He claimed the boy’s lips for another deep kiss before moving down the slender column of his throat, licking and nipping as he went.

/Will you help me out of this prison?/

“I will,” he murmured against the boy’s skin. “Show me how.”

His fingers shook as they fought against the lacings of the other boy’s shirt, tugging awkwardly until knots were unraveled, and the thin strip of ribbon was being pulled out of eyelets, exposing more skin to his view as the shirt front slipped open.

Serge lost no time in pulling the shirt open some more, partially sliding the silky material off the boy’s shoulders, and he was kissing the gentle dip at the base of the throat—the one that still faintly pulsed with life—and the soft rise of an adolescent pectoral—not quite developed but certainly hinting at a man’s firm musculature.

Silence filled the turret’s upper chamber, to be broken on occasion by the quiet, helpless sighs of excitement and trepidation that escaped Serge’s throat as he lightly sucked on a newly exposed nipple, alternately kissing and rubbing his face against his insensible lover’s body, drunk out of his mind from the heated stirrings that now flooded his senses and against which he was much too weak to fight.

Though it wasn’t as if he really wished it.

/Wake me./

“Yes, yes—I will…”

Did flesh always feel—and taste—this good? Something had taken over now, Serge realized. Something that ran deeper, something more primal that had long lain dormant—something that had just been liberated, and it stumbled about, exulting in its newfound freedom by taking and taking and taking—seeking desperately to drown itself in excesses that it had craved and had been denied for far too long.

Serge could feel the heat radiating from his own skin as his mouth wandered in vague patterns all over the sleeping boy’s torso, his tongue leaving a damp trail that made white flesh shimmer faintly in the moonlight. His eyes, dimmed with hunger, barely managed to take in the sight of a faint flush infusing the skin that he’d just touched, providing him with a visible reminder of his progress and most certainly undeniable proof that the sleeping boy was responding to his ministrations.

His own needs burnt him, and twice he had to pause, bowing and pressing his eyes tightly shut as he fought off the rapidly escalating heat that forced its way to his groin, his fingers curling desperately into brocade sheets, the sweat-dampened palms pasting the fabric against his skin while irregular breaths hissed through clenched teeth. Once the fire had subsided to a lingering and insistent though bearable discomfort, Serge would listen to the wild rush of blood that thundered in his ears as he counted down some more, determined as he was to regain control of the situation. No, he wasn’t about to let his body ruin his progress so far. What he needed was the same methodical brand of resistance that had served him well in conquering the briar hedge.

And so for several seconds he lay on the sleeping boy’s body, his ear pressed against skin now faintly tinged with rising warmth and a slowly growing awareness of tactile sensations. Serge, giddy with his own awakening, pressed gentle kisses on the other boy’s chest as he waited for his body to quiet down, soothing himself in the process.

/Open my eyes./

He moved up in time to see the boy’s mouth looking much more alive now, deeply flushed and swollen and most certainly difficult to resist. He smiled before bending his head for another kiss, deep and searching and insistent while his hands wandered impatiently. Tanned fingers raked through hair, pressed against faintly throbbing veins, flicked at stiffening nipples before stroking flanks and diving further down. He followed their lead, helpless against the force that pushed him onward as he gave the other boy one final kiss before sitting up on his heels, dazed and unable to fully comprehend what he was now doing.

Feeling disembodied, he simply watched himself lift each leg to pull off the soft velvet shoe that now hindered his progress, listening to the soft thumps as both were tossed unceremoniously to the floor. Reaching out, he grasped the band of the light blue hose that was his sleeping lover’s last defense and pulled it down, once again gently lifting each leg to liberate it completely, taking care to press a fervent kiss on the side of each knee before he let go. It wasn’t long before the other boy lay just about naked before him, what fleeting sense of modesty there was barely sustained by the silk shirt that was spread wide open around his shoulders.

Serge stretched out over the still form and lost himself in sensation now, urging the other boy to wake up with every touch, every kiss, every small nip. The passivity was tantalizing—the unconscious invitation for dominance too overpowering to resist. The boy offered himself to the rescuer—partially unwilling, perhaps, being in the deep prisons of sleep, but his voice urged to be taken.

And who was Serge to deny him that?

/Open my eyes to the world. I want to see the world./

He sat up once more, flushed and overly heated and breaking out in sweat, now having completely forgotten about the injuries he’d sustained in the briar hedge. His eyes, dilated and unfocused, were fixed on the indecently sprawled figure before him as he fumbled clumsily for his cloak, practically choking himself as he ripped it off his neck and shoulders and flung it across the room. Then he fought against the stubborn clasps of the belt that held his doublet securely together, tearing the offending accessory off him with a quiet curse before yanking the doublet open and ignoring the sound of popping buttons as he shed that off.

The heat in his groin had intensified, rising once more to a level that threatened to shatter his mind. He could still leave if he wished it.

If he wished it.

But the lifeless boy continued to beckon—pale, slender form, now slightly flushed from earlier explorations, lying vulnerable and exposed—limbs spread conveniently, planes and curves and hollows illuminated by an insistent moon. There was innocence there, of the kind that only sleep could bestow, but the invitation that was its other half—the allure that such an unconscious brand of innocence would effect—the allure that was further heightened by the temptation of opportunity—was always a formidable force.

Serge had to throw his head back, forcing his eyes on the shadowy ceiling as he pulled his hose down, freeing himself and shuddering from the sudden sting of the night air against overly sensitized flesh. Control—he should learn control. He didn’t even bother taking the rest of his clothes off.

/Awaken my senses./

“I’m here,” he gasped. “I’m here. I won’t leave you
H
He spat on his length and coated himself, his entire body now trembling uncontrollably from the weight of anticipation and terror as he moved, lifting the other boy’s legs and draping them over his shoulders to lift those hips for his intrusion.

He stared at the calm beauty beneath him as he shifted in preparation, momentarily bending down to plant another kiss on those proffered lips before he finally moved.

A small guttural cry escaped him as he pushe, th, the sudden shock of pain of such a resistance catching him off-guard for a few seconds. The other boy was impossibly tight, and his penis burnt from the slow, steady forcing to which he subjected both of them. He clung desperately to the extravagant covers beneath the body he was now—and his melting brain had argued against this word—defiling with such blind recklessness.

He’d earned this, his tattered mind insisted. He’d conquered, and he’d liberated. This was his due, and it wasn’t as if the other boy didn’t wish it. He came to claim what was his. It was only fair.

He pushed—and pushed—and pushed till he couldn’t push any further. His insensible lover lay jackknifed under him, and he watched eagerly for signs of life other than the deepening flush that was slowly spreading throughout the slender—once virginal—body. It was a bid as well to keep his mind from centering on the pain and the overpowering discomfort of initial contact as he waited for his body to harden itself against the effects.

/Make me feel once again./

He was nothing more than one collection of tight, raw nerves, sensitized almost to a maddening point, the confusing swirl of pain and pleasure winding firmly around them as he moved inside the other boy, bowing his head and listening to himself breathe raggedly between tightly clenched teeth.

“Feel me,” he hissed, his thrusts falling into a more even rhythm. “Wake up and feel me.”

Sweat beaded across his forehead, and one by one they trickled down, some following the gentle slope of his nose, some traversing the tensed muscles of his cheeks, some trailing along the soft angle of his jaw line.

This was his reward—his prize. The blessed witch who’d fought against beauty and innocence had given him much more than he could ever hope for. And perhaps that wasn’t what she’d initially set out to do. What jealousy, what spite that had goaded her on to throwing this golden-haired boy into a deep, hopeless sleep and those around him to succumb to the dictates of time in spite of their earlier slumber seemed to have backfired. No, she mustn’t have anticipated the arrival of a nobleman—especially after all those who were now entombed in her thorny walls—who was strong enough to overcome her malice—though with what it was he’d managed to conquer the castle, Serge had yet to discover.

Helpless gasps and breathless whimpers now filled the turret’s upper room, the sound of skin slapping against skin heightening the indecency of the moment.

/Wake me!/

Serge bent down to claim another hungry kiss from his lover, whispering against the warm lips, “Feel this, damn you!”

And almost in answer, he felt the body beneath him shudder, a half-choking sound bursting forth from the mouth on which he’d been lavishing so much attention. His heart gave a small leap of triumph when the boy’s head slowly moved, the smooth brows crinkling a little as he was lured, painfully, from the depths of a century-old slumber.

Serge paused, breathing hard and watching the droplets of sweat pool on the pale body that he’d now inexorably claimed for his own. The other boy let out a quiet moan before his eyes fluttered open, blinking sleepily as they fixed themselves on the figure hovering above him. His lover was startled by the sight of bright green eyes, momentarily unfocused and bewildered in their stare.

Serge could barely keep a smile from breaking out as he gazed wonderingly at the vision below him. “I’ve come for you,” he whispered. “You’re no longer trapped here.”

The other boy merely regarded him in confused silence at first before Serge felt a sudden burst of agonizing pleasure tear through his system, and he collapsed against the other boy, crying out as he was forced to resume his deep exploration, his thrusting now rapid and almost violent as his body fought off the rising tide. But it was too late, and he buried himself fiercely and deeply inside his now awakened lover, his arms tightening around the body beneath him as he spent himself in the pliant warmth, sweat practically pouring out in countless rivulets and drenching the other with their salty moisture.

Serge was barely even aware of the other boy uttering a small cry while he climaxed in him—could barely feel the fists tightening against his chest as the latter tried to push him away. He was much too far gone to do much about it, and it was all he could do to lie on top of him, fighting to catch a breath as his body recovered from the mind-numbing experience.

He listened to the sound of ragged breathing and small gasps that mingled in the night air before he pulled out, exhausted beyond words but willing to give his partner just as much pleasure. He’d begun to move for that purpose when the other boy spoke.

“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice a little hoarse from a hundred years of disuse.

Serge sighed and swallowed, offering him a weak grin as he lightly brushed gold hair away from his eyes, exposing the vibrant shade of green to closer scrutiny. “I was called,” he replied. “I was meant to come here.”

“Why?”

“For you.”

“What’s the year?”

Serge told him, kissing him lightly when he did and feeling a gentle warmth course through him.

The other boy shook his head. “You shouldn’t have come,” he said bitterly, and Serge stared at him in some confusion, the fond smile frozen on his lips. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“Why not? I heard your voice call for me.”

“You heard nothing of the kind. No one was talking to you but your own delusions.”

Serge’s smile remained, however. Surely, this boy was simply disoriented and frightened, unsure of what he’d do now that he was back in the land of the living. But that shouldn’t be much trouble, he thought. He was there, after all. He’d help his lover back to his feet, and he was willing to do what he could to ensure that he’d survive.

“I’ve no delusions.”

The other boy looked pale and drawn now, distress darkening his features. “I belong to my world, not yours. I was never meant to live in your world. Nothing you can do will save me.”

And with that, the boy began to melt away…literally. Green eyes deflated and sank into their sockets, dragging smooth eyelids down with them until nothing but two hollow circles stared back at Serge. Lightly flushed cheeks shriveled into a sickly yellow hide that seemed to melt against the skull that held them up. Full, shapely lips parted as they disappeared into discolored teeth. Gold hair dulled into a brittle mass that fell in small clumps on the now rotting pillows.

Like Eurydice’s return to the underworld, the boy departed, leaving nothing more than faint echoes of his resignation to his fate, words that stung his once-lover, the realization of the truth of his words effectively sending Serge’s hopes crashing down around him.

All around, time had finally caught up, throwing everything into their real state. Even the bed began to groan under the weight of the only living being in the room, and Serge was staring down at a century-old corpse.

**********

Serge’s eyes flew wide open as he let out a choked cry, clamping a hand on his mouth to stifle the sound. For a moment, his world had darkened, and he could see nothing but a black void. But it cleared soon enough, and he was staring at a familiar ceiling. His mind dragged itself out of sleep and shook off the confusion that had firmly shrouded it, his eyes straying to his writing-desk beyond the foot of his bed.

“A dream,” he whispered once his heart had slowed down. “It was only a dream.”

A sudden stab of pain on his cheek woke him further, and he winced, gently running a hand against the bandage that Carl had carefully placed there earlier. Images suddenly flooded his mind—recollections of the most recent past, which included rolling around on the pavement with Kurt in the middle of Arles, fists flying as he violently defended Gilbert’s honor…

Serge blinked.

Gilbert.

He turned and found his roommate asleep, tucked comfortably under his blankets, looking as innocent and as untainted as one could possibly be. His heart stopped at the memory of what happened after Arles—of Gilbert taunting him as he returned from his adventure with Max (of which nature Serge dared not guess)—of the bright-eyed boy forcing a kiss from him, the two of them sliding slowly down to the floor as Serge vainly grabbed on to the curtains for protection—of Gilbert laughing his triumph when Serge suddenly realized that he’d rolled himself on top of his roommate, dominating the exchange now and claiming kiss after demanding kiss from the complacent boy.

Serge felt the sting of tears as he was suddenly assailed by voices in his head, accusing and condemning him for being such an immoral, perverted creature—for reciprocating Gilbert’s kiss and feeling pleasure in what he did.

He quickly clasped his hands on his chest and pinched his eyes shut as he whispered a quiet prayer of forgiveness, promising all the saints that he’d go to confession at the first opportunity, calling on them to protect him from himself—from his humiliating shortcomings.

He was a good boy. He was principled. But he was caught in a moment of weakness when he kissed Gilbert, and he swore that it wouldn’t happen again. He’d do nothing to bring shame to his dear parents’ memory.

No, he’d sooner die than cause them…their souls—any degree of pain.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry,” he whispered, running a sleeve against his eyes. “I’ll do better. I know I can.”

Lightly sniffling, he stole one final glance in Gilbert’s direction and saw that the tree outside their window had cast its shadow on the sleeping boy so that its thick, gnarled, and balding branches looked like a blanket of briars that cocooned him. And Serge was certain that if he were to reach out to his roommate, he’d be caught in the brambles, his struggles further imprisoning him within the twisting tapestry of branches and thorns, his life sucked out with the eventual passing of time, the roses easing the sting of death with their ghastly fragrance and soft kisses.

**********

Pascal glanced up from his breakfast bowl and surveyed his surroundings. There were only a few students milling about the dining hall. It was to be expected, most of the students usually opting to sleep in the day following the Arles daytrip. He sat alone, contentedly finishing his meal while reading a book, his breakfast, for once, not bothered by a hundred young voices raised in cheerful chatter.

As his eyes strayed around the room, he caught sight of two familiar figures just entering the door, and he had to do a double take.

Serge and Gilbert walked in—hand-in-hand, at that—the picture of absolute contrast, spea vol volumes of what had transpired the night before. Serge looked pale and haggard, his eyes fixed on the floor as though the boy were afraid of looking anyone in the eye. His injuries still looked fresh and stark against his now bloodless complexion, and Pascal made a mental note of pulling his friend aside later to clean his wound and change the dressing.

Gilbert, on the other hand, looked unusually relaxed and cheerful—even friendly. He smiled at the other students, who could only blink and stare, rendered speechless with bewilderment. He was the one holding on to Serge, and even from a distance, Pascal could see the firm, unyielding grip in which he’d enclosed his roommate’s hand. There was power in that hold—there was control.

“You’re an interesting specimen, Gilbert Cocteau,” he sighed, adjusting his glasses on his nose. “But don’t think this is over. It isn’t—not by a long shot.”

Gilbert led his roommate along, chatting incessantly while Serge remained silent, deciding to take the same table where Pascal was quietly dining. Once they drew near, he spotted the bespectacled boy and grinned more broadly, nodding his acknowledgement and following it with a “Good morning, Biquet.”

Pascal watched him and returned his greeting, his features thoroughly schooled in the way they showed nothing more than mild fascination or amusement toward the waywboy.boy. “Good morning, Cocteau. You’ve had a good night, I see.”

Gilbert rested his chin on his hand, his glance briefly straying toward his pale roommate. “I did, thanks. Had a talk with Serge. We understand each other now.” Here he paused and took hold of Serge’s arm, giving it a gentle squeeze.

(tbc)