Fill 2/? - School Days: Ties and Tattoos
anonymous
March 20 2011, 23:50:33 UTC
Marcus pulls his tie off with a sigh of relief, shoving it in his blazer pocket. Technically, he could get into trouble for that sort of rule-breaking, but it’s only the first day of term so he’s not too worried. Plus, he’s an in older form in the well established Calleva House. From what he’s heard, nobody’s going to give him shit.
His leg aches mildly and he rubs at his thigh absentmindedly, while trying to work out where he's supposed to go next. His stuff’s already been taken over to the house, but he has yet to introduce himself to the house head, a student named Placid Terrance (which seems like rather an unfortunate name in Marcus’s opinion, but who is he to judge?)
He crosses over the green grass, enjoying the sun, the scent of the air after last night’s rain. Marcus had liked London, but here there was space to breathe. Hopefully some good running tracks if there’s any luck at all.
The sound of shouting draws his attention and he meanders over to a group of boys making a circle behind the exercise hall. Marcus’s height gives him the advantage. In the middle of the circle he can see a scrawny looking younger boy, maybe fifteen, sixteen. He‘s on the small side, with light brown hair and a sharp, tense look to his face. His shirt and blazer are gone. He’s in his undershirt and trousers, glaring daggers at the boys around him.
“Take it off!” One of the other boys push at him.
Slowly, the boy removes his undershirt revealing a pale, wiry torso. He has a tattoo on his right arm, a curving strange design. The tattoo surprises Marcus. He didn’t think they were allowed tattoos at Eagle. Still, he has to admit, it suits the younger boy, making him look tougher, more capable somehow.
Not that it’s doing him any good at the moment.
“Put ‘em up!” A spectator shouts as yet another one steps into the circle. He’s bigger than the boy with tattoos. Not a fair fight at all.
Tattoo-boy faces his opponent warily as the larger boy starts to circle him. The boys in the crowd shove him forward, sprawling at the feet of the larger boy.
He kicks his boot sharply into Tattoo-boy’s stomach. “Get up and fight.”
Tattoo-boy rolls with the kick and gets up. He flips his attacker the bird, receiving a punch in the jaw for his cheek. He stumbles backward, and the crowd push him forward again. Still, he refuses to defend himself.
The larger boy proceeds to kick the shit out of him, until Tattoo-boy finally stays down. Marcus hesitates. He has no idea why they’re fighting, other than all the others are dicks…and the most sensible option is to stay out of the whole thing.
The attacker undoes his trousers, taking out his dick. “You little shit, look at me.”
Tattoo-boy's flat on his back in the grass. He's panting, and there's blood coming from his mouth. He keeps his gaze focused on the sky above, not acknowledging him.
Still, Marcus has never had the best head for sensible options, if his past behavior is anything to go by. He knows his father would disapprove, but at the moment he doesn’t give a shit.
“Hey.” He pushes through the circle of boys easily. They disperse quickly, taking in his size. “Back off.”
At that, Tattoo-Boy looks up. Wary surprise is written all over his face, like he doesn’t trust Marcus’s intervention.
“Or what?” The attacker sneers. “I’m just gonna give him a little shower. He needs it.”
“Or I rip your dick off and stuff it down your throat,” Marcus says calmly.
He’s a head taller than the other guy, and his instinct tells him the guy’s a coward at heart. The attacker hesitates, then shrugs. Deliberately, he turns and pisses on Tattoo-boy’s shirt and blazer where they lie in the grass. Marcus’s jaw tightens, but he lets it go. Finishing up, he shakes the last few drops off his dick and tucks it away.
“He’s all yours, new boy.” With a flick of his boot, he rolls Tattoo-boy over toward Marcus.
The crowd disperses and Marcus is left alone with Tattoo-boy sprawled at his feet.
Fill 2a/? - School Days: Ties and Tattoos
anonymous
March 21 2011, 00:01:41 UTC
“Are you okay?” Marcus asks.
Tattoo-boy snorts. “What’re you playing at?” He pushes himself up, wincing at the pain in his ribs.
“Nothing. I’m just…trying to help.” Frankly, Marcus had expected the kid to be, well, grateful. Not acting like it was Marcus’s fault that he’d gotten his ass kicked. That was his own damn fault.
“Oh really?” Tattoo-boy grabbed his undershirt, pulling it on. “And why’s that?” He moved in, glaring up at Marcus. “You think I’ll suck your cock because you saved me, is that you what you think?”
“What? No,” Marcus had had no such idea. Of course now that the kid has mentioned it, he can’t help imagining it. Shit. That’s the last thing he needs.
“Well, good, cause it’s not happening. I don’t like Americans, and I don’t need your fucking help.” Huffing in disgust, Tattoo-boy scoops up his shirt and blazer, rolling them into a sodden mass.
Marcus watches him walk away. “Nice tattoo.” He mutters lamely. What the hell had that been about?
Fill 3a/? - School Days: Ties and Tattoos
anonymous
March 21 2011, 02:57:38 UTC
(Note: I gave Esca his father's name as a surname.)
At last Marcus finally makes it over to Calleva House. It’s on the far side of the school, surrounded by thick tall trees. The front door’s open so he goes in. The first door on the right turns out to be study, so he goes in. The room’s well furnished, tastefully so. His father’s portrait hangs over the fireplace. Marcus gazes at it, wishing just once…it didn’t matter.
“Halloo.” Another boy appears in the doorway. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Placid Terrance.”
“That’d be me.” The other boy offers a welcoming hand. He’s attractive, in that overly pretty sense, smooth olive skin, wide green eyes, and jet-black hair. He’s so not Marcus’s type. A memory of the wiry tattooed-boy skips through his mind, and he brushes it away firmly. This is not the time or the place.
“Marcus Aquila.” They shake hands.
Placid looks impressed. “Your father was one of our best.” He nods toward the painting.
“I know.” Marcus says. He doesn’t mean it the way it sounds, but he can’t think of anything more to say.
“I was just about to have tea. Please.” Placid gestures toward a chair. “Now where the hell is that fag?” He goes out into hallway, shouting for someone named, “Cunoval!”
Marcus sits in the chair offered to him, and tries not to look at his father’s painting. He can feel its eyes upon him.
Placid returns. “The little bitch better show up soon if he knows what’s good for him.” He takes the other chair.
Marcus raises his eyebrows.
“Lower form boy,” Placid explains. “He’s doing general house duties until I find a fellow sixth former to give him too.”
“Right.” Marcus has no idea what any of that means. He dimly remembers his dad telling him some stories about the boys required to do whatever the head boys wanted them to. That must be what Placid is talking about.
Still, he’s not expecting it when Tattoo-boy comes through the door, and stops dead, looking at him like Marcus is the last person he’s ever wanted to see in his life.
“Did I say you could come in?” Placid asks, looking bored. “I thought,” Tattoo-boy swallows, but continues. “I thought you called me.”
“That doesn’t give you any reason to forget your manners. Go out and do it properly.”
Tattoo-boy retreats and closes the door. He give it a second, and then knocks.
“Come in.”
Tattoo-boy enters again and waits, not looking at either of them.
“Well?” Placid snaps. “Go and fetch our tea.”
Tattoo-boy leaves gratefully.
“He’s trouble that one,” Placid sighs. “I’d have him transferred, but it never looks good when we can’t deal with one of our own properly. You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. Course.” Marcus nods.
Tattoo-boy returns with a tray. He sets it down on the table-between Marcus and Placid, then steps back. As he does, Placid flicks a finger at him languidly. “What’s that?”
“Sir?” Tattoo-boy’s tone holds none of the belligerence when he spoke to Marcus earlier. Now he sounds muted, as though they’ve managed to subdue him somehow. For some reason Marcus finds this unlikely.
“Your shirt…"
Tattoo-boy swallows. “It’s borrowed.”
“Borrowed?” Placid quirks an eyebrow. “From whom?”
“One of the other boys.”
“I find that unlikely.” The head boy drawls. “No one would lend you a shirt. You stole it. Now, the question is why?”
Tattoo-boy darts a look at Marcus, as though he’s waiting to see what he’ll say. When Marcus remains silent, he finally says, “I fell, sir. Got some mud on it.”
“Liar. What really happened, Cunoval?”
Tattoo-boy considers this, then finally… “Johnson pissed on it.”
“What?” Placid exclaims. “You let him piss on your school blazer.”
“I didn’t let him.” Tattoo-boy says through clenched teeth.
“Did you stop him?”
“No.”
“Then you let him.” Placid stands. “By the desk, now.”
Tattoo-boy obeys stiffly. Marcus watches the scene with a sense of trepidation.
Fill 3b/? - School Days: Ties and Tattoos
anonymous
March 21 2011, 03:02:43 UTC
“Bend over.” Placid goes to select a cane from the stand in the corner.
Tattoo-boy takes a deep breath and does so, pressing the tips of his fingers to his shoes. Placid takes up his position behind him. “Count aloud.”
The first crack of the cane makes Marcus jump. He can only imagine what it’s like for the boy receiving the punishment.
“One.” The boy’s voice is strained.
Crack.
“Two.”
Placid swings again.
“Three.” Tattoo-boy inhales sharply.
The next three blows fall quickly, and then Placid sets the cane aside. “Straighten up.”
Tattoo-boy does so, jaw set against the pain.
“If you let such a thing happen again, you’ll get twice that amount, understood?”
Tattoo-boy nods.
“Good. And if I catch you stealing again, I'll have your ass tossed out of school. You’re a disgrace to the house of Calleva, Cunoval, but I will beat some respect into you sooner or later. Now go and finish unpacking Aquila’s gear.”
“What?” Marcus looks up. “He doesn’t have to.” The last thing he needs is for someone to go through his belongings. His fists clench as he thinks of what he’s packed in there.
Placid waves a hand. “It’s what fags are there for. You haven’t got your own yet, have you? This’ll save you the effort.” He snaps his fingers. “Tell you what, why don’t you keep him for good?”
Tattoo-boy's head snaps up at that. If Placid looked at him then he’d see the raw hatred displayed there. However, he doesn’t, and Marcus thinks that’s probably best all around. He doesn’t know if the kid could take another beating, and personally he doesn’t want to find out.
“That’s alright.” He tries to brush off the offer, but Placid is adamant.
“I mean it. We’d assign you one eventually anyway. This’ll just save time. Besides, I have the feeling you’re just the one to teach him how to behave.”
Marcus tries again. “I have no use for him.”
Tattoo-boy looks at him oddly then, like he has no idea what to make of Marcus.
“Bollocks,” Placid snorts. “There a hundred uses for a fag. It’s settled. He’s yours till the end of term, or until we find you a better one. Agreed?”
“Fine.” Marcus agrees at last, helplessly. What else can he do?
“Kneel.” Placid barks.
Tattoo-boy walks over and drops to his knees in front of Marcus, who tries not to stare.
“Go on.” Placid orders.
Tattoo-boy lowers his head. “I am my master’s hound to lie at his feet.” The words sound forced from his mouth.
“Uh…okay.” Marcus looks at Placid helplessly. What the hell is he supposed to do?
“It’s a thing. We call the fags ‘hounds,’” Placid waves his hand. “Pat him on the head.”
“Right.” Marcus hesitates, then lets his right hand rest on Tattoo-boy's head briefly. The other’s boy hair is soft beneath his fingers, and for a moment, Marcus wonders what it would be like to run his fingers through it. Then he removes his hand and sits back.
“Now you’re dismissed.” Placid says. “Come on, Aquila. Have some tea.” He starts to pour while Tattoo-boy gets to his feet and leaves.
Re: Fill 3b/? - School Days: Ties and TattooscoeurdesoleilMarch 21 2011, 15:46:44 UTC
This is great! Love how their relationship starts off so analogous to in the movie and wheee! you used Esca's famous line ("I am my master's hound...")!
Fill 4a/? - School Days: Ties and Tattoos
anonymous
March 23 2011, 23:15:07 UTC
“You’d probably rather have a drink.“ Placid goes and pours a whiskey for both of them. Marcus accepts it gratefully. If there’s one thing that definitely helps with his leg, it’s that. He slugs it back, and lets the familiar burn wash over him.
By the time he goes upstairs, he’s almost forgotten about Tattoo-boy…who turns out to be lying on his back on Marcus’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. He leaps up at Marcus’s entrance and goes to stand at the foot of the bed.
“Oh…right.” Marcus stops. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do with the boy. “Um.” He knows what he’d like to do…But that's a different subject entirely.
Tattoo-boy keeps his eyes on the ground. His entire body is poised defensively, yet there’s a defiant slant to his chin.
“What’re you…Are you waiting for something in particular?” Marcus asks desperately.
At that the boy snorts, and then tries to turn it into a cough. “Yes.”
Marcus waits. “Then…well, you’re gong to have to tell me what it is, because I have no idea.”
Tattoo-boy looks up then. He regards Marcus with wary eyes. “I’m waiting for you to punish me.”
“What for?” Marcus is thoroughly confused now.
“The way I spoke to you earlier.”
“Why would I do that?” Marcus sinks down onto the bed. His leg always bothers him more later in the evenings. Now it's stressed and aching. He grinds his knuckles into his thigh to dull the pain.
“If I talked to like that to any of the others, they’d have my head.” Tattoo-boy looks at Marcus almost curiously.
“Oh.” Marcus considers this. “Why’d you do it then?”
“I…was angry, and I had no idea who you were.” Tattoo-boy shrugs.
“So, if you had known…it would have been all ‘Sir, yes, sir!’?”
Tattoo-boy just stares at him, then half smiles. “Yeah, I suppose.”
“Right.” Marcus nods to himself. “Well, I’m not going to punish you for that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s stupid and I don’t fucking feel like it.” Marcus says irritably. “If you really want to be useful, you can show me where you stowed all my gear.”
Fill 4b/? - School Days: Ties and Tattoos
anonymous
March 23 2011, 23:19:06 UTC
So the boy does, pointing out the obvious places. Marcus resisted the urge to check his bags, but at last he can’t hold back any more. He slides his hand along the inside of his duffel and freezes. The lining is empty. He feels it again, and looks at Tattoo-boy.
“Alright, what’d you do with it?”
“What?”
“You know what.”
Tattoo-boy gives him a blank look. Marcus has the boy up against the wall in an instant. He ignores the hiss of pain as he presses Tattoo-boy’s bruised ass up against the wall.
“Tell me where you put it or I’ll give you something to cry about.” Marcus threatens. Tattoo-boy has his face turned resolutely side-wise; he’s expecting to be hit. And Marcus lowers his hand, feeling a surge of guilt overtake him. He backs away.
Hesitantly, Tattoo-boy reaches down into his boot and draws out the knife. Marcus grabs it out of his hand, breathing a sigh of relief.
“Why the fuck did you do that?” He demands.
Tattoo-boy shrugs. He leans against the wall, still watching Marcus. “You going to report me?”
Marcus snorts derisively. “For a knife I’m not supposed to have in the first place? Hardly.” He puts it in his pocket and looks at Tattoo-boy. “What’s your name anyway?”
“Esca.”
Marcus nods. “I’m Marcus.” He holds out his hand and Esca just stares at him. “Fine. Whatever.” Marcus drops his hand awkwardly. “Look, what am I supposed to do with you?”
“You really have no idea, do you?”
“We didn’t do this…” Marcus gestures vaguely. “In the states.”
“Why are you here anyway?”
“My mom died.” Marcus says shortly. “I was always supposed to go here, cause of my dad, but...”
“But?” Esca waits. He’s curious, though he doesn’t want to admit it to himself.
“I didn’t want to.” Marcus says. It’s half true.
“I don’t blame you.” Esca mutters.
“What about you?”
“Oh, you know…” Esca says vaguely.
Marcus doesn’t know, but he won’t pry if the kid doesn’t want to tell him.
“How old are you anyway?”
“Sixteen.” At Marcus’s look of disbelief, Esca looks defensive. “Yeah, I know I’m little. What of it?”
“Nothing.” Marcus shrugs. “So….tell me how does this work?”
The sullen look returns to Esca’s face like a cloud. “I have to do whatever you tell me to.”
“Really.”
“Really.”
Marcus considers this. He can’t help noticing how Esca’s tensed, his hands clenched knuckle white at his thighs. ‘What does he think I’m going to make him do?’ Marcus wonders.
“So…tell me then, why didn’t you fight earlier?”
Esca exhales. “That’s what you want…”
“Yeah.”
Esca just shakes his head. At first Marcus thinks the kid is going to tell him to go screw himself, but then… “We get written up if we’re caught fighting. I can’t get any more marks. It was better…to take it than to fight.”
“Better to get the kicking you got…” Marcus finds this hard to believe.
“Yeah, it was.” Esca says stubbornly.
“Okay… I just wanted to know.”
“Why’d you step in?”
“It wasn’t a fair fight.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Believe what you want. I’m going to take a shower.” Marcus starts taking his blazer off.
Esca hesitates.
“What?”
“Am I dismissed then?” Esca asked awkwardly.
“Absolutely.” Marcus unbuttons his shirt, just enough to pull it over his head. Esca watched the growing expanse of tan skin, exposing taut stomach muscles, the slight curve of Marcus's hips…and then he leaves before Marcus catches him eying him.
Fill 5a/? - School Days: Ties and Tattoos
anonymous
March 25 2011, 03:13:14 UTC
Marcus showers, letting the hot water soothe his leg. He feels mildly better, though not really. He’s partly homesick, although he likes England. The trouble is, California was never home either. Marcus doesn’t know where he belongs, not really.
The younger boys are all at the dining hall when Marcus goes downstairs. There are five other sixth form boys in Calleva House, besides Placid and himself (all with their own fags, naturally). Marcus is introduced to his fellow six formers over at their private dinner table. Gabriel, Henry, Damon, Paul, and Craden. They’re all well mannered, well-dressed and they make Marcus feel more than a little uncomfortable. He doesn’t fit in there. Least of all, when they start talking about footie.
“You’ll go out for the team, of course.” Craden says, like there’s no doubt anyone of Marcus’s size is athletically inclined.
“Uh, no, actually.” Marcus shifts uncomfortably. He hates explaining this, hates that other people can’t just leave him alone.
Esca glances up from where he’s tending the fire. Only Marcus notices, and he can’t help wondering what interested the other boy.
“Why not?” Craden asks in surprise.
“My leg. I injured it awhile back.” He left the subject there, didn’t particularly want to talk about it.
“Oh well, that’s a shame. Your father…”
And there it is. The whole spiel. Marcus tries not to show how much he’s tired of this particular subject. Fortunately, at that moment, Esca shifts the poker and a large coal falls out upon the carpet.
“You little shit!” Placid jumps up. “You’re ruining the carpet.” He smacks Esca across the ear. “Pick it up.”
Esca reaches for the fireplace shovel, but Placid pulls it out of his hands. “With your hands. Go on.” Esca hesitates and Placid cuffs him across the other ear.
“Hey.” Marcus says. “He doesn’t have to, does he?” Surely they won’t actually make Esca pick it up with his bare hands?
“Yes, he does.” Henry interjects.
Marcus looks at Placid. “I thought you said he was my fag.” It sounds more possessive when he says it. Mine. He’s not entirely sure he doesn’t mean it that way.
“That doesn’t mean he can simply ignore orders from the other heads either.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want his hands burned.” Marcus says.
“Very well.” Placid says coolly. “I always knew Americans were soft, but this really does show your hand….” He hands the shovel back to Esca, who scoops up the coal and drops it in the fire. By this time it’s burned a black mark through the carpet. Marcus ignores it.
“Go to my room and polish my shoes.” It’s the first time he’s given Esca an actual order, and he’s surprised how easily it falls from his lips. Esca escapes almost gratefully. Of course when he gets upstairs he’ll find out that Marcus’s shoes are in no need of polishing, but that’s fine.
“You will have to learn to be harder on him.” Damon tells Marcus.
“I suppose.” Marcus noncommittally. He intends no such thing.
His leg aches mildly and he rubs at his thigh absentmindedly, while trying to work out where he's supposed to go next. His stuff’s already been taken over to the house, but he has yet to introduce himself to the house head, a student named Placid Terrance (which seems like rather an unfortunate name in Marcus’s opinion, but who is he to judge?)
He crosses over the green grass, enjoying the sun, the scent of the air after last night’s rain. Marcus had liked London, but here there was space to breathe. Hopefully some good running tracks if there’s any luck at all.
The sound of shouting draws his attention and he meanders over to a group of boys making a circle behind the exercise hall. Marcus’s height gives him the advantage. In the middle of the circle he can see a scrawny looking younger boy, maybe fifteen, sixteen. He‘s on the small side, with light brown hair and a sharp, tense look to his face. His shirt and blazer are gone. He’s in his undershirt and trousers, glaring daggers at the boys around him.
“Take it off!” One of the other boys push at him.
Slowly, the boy removes his undershirt revealing a pale, wiry torso. He has a tattoo on his right arm, a curving strange design. The tattoo surprises Marcus. He didn’t think they were allowed tattoos at Eagle. Still, he has to admit, it suits the younger boy, making him look tougher, more capable somehow.
Not that it’s doing him any good at the moment.
“Put ‘em up!” A spectator shouts as yet another one steps into the circle. He’s bigger than the boy with tattoos. Not a fair fight at all.
Tattoo-boy faces his opponent warily as the larger boy starts to circle him. The boys in the crowd shove him forward, sprawling at the feet of the larger boy.
He kicks his boot sharply into Tattoo-boy’s stomach. “Get up and fight.”
Tattoo-boy rolls with the kick and gets up. He flips his attacker the bird, receiving a punch in the jaw for his cheek. He stumbles backward, and the crowd push him forward again. Still, he refuses to defend himself.
The larger boy proceeds to kick the shit out of him, until Tattoo-boy finally stays down. Marcus hesitates. He has no idea why they’re fighting, other than all the others are dicks…and the most sensible option is to stay out of the whole thing.
The attacker undoes his trousers, taking out his dick. “You little shit, look at me.”
Tattoo-boy's flat on his back in the grass. He's panting, and there's blood coming from his mouth. He keeps his gaze focused on the sky above, not acknowledging him.
Still, Marcus has never had the best head for sensible
options, if his past behavior is anything to go by. He knows his father would disapprove, but at the moment he doesn’t give a shit.
“Hey.” He pushes through the circle of boys easily. They disperse quickly, taking in his size. “Back off.”
At that, Tattoo-Boy looks up. Wary surprise is written all over his face, like he doesn’t trust Marcus’s intervention.
“Or what?” The attacker sneers. “I’m just gonna give him a little shower. He needs it.”
“Or I rip your dick off and stuff it down your throat,” Marcus says calmly.
He’s a head taller than the other guy, and his instinct tells him the guy’s a coward at heart. The attacker hesitates, then shrugs. Deliberately, he turns and pisses on Tattoo-boy’s shirt and blazer where they lie in the grass. Marcus’s jaw tightens, but he lets it go. Finishing up, he shakes the last few drops off his dick and tucks it away.
“He’s all yours, new boy.” With a flick of his boot, he rolls Tattoo-boy over toward Marcus.
The crowd disperses and Marcus is left alone with Tattoo-boy sprawled at his feet.
Reply
Tattoo-boy snorts. “What’re you playing at?” He pushes himself up, wincing at the pain in his ribs.
“Nothing. I’m just…trying to help.” Frankly, Marcus had expected the kid to be, well, grateful. Not acting like it was Marcus’s fault that he’d gotten his ass kicked. That was his own damn fault.
“Oh really?” Tattoo-boy grabbed his undershirt, pulling it on. “And why’s that?” He moved in, glaring up at Marcus. “You think I’ll suck your cock because you saved me, is that you what you think?”
“What? No,” Marcus had had no such idea. Of course now that the kid has mentioned it, he can’t help imagining it. Shit. That’s the last thing he needs.
“Well, good, cause it’s not happening. I don’t like Americans, and I don’t need your fucking help.” Huffing in disgust, Tattoo-boy scoops up his shirt and blazer, rolling them into a sodden mass.
Marcus watches him walk away. “Nice tattoo.” He mutters lamely. What the hell had that been about?
Reply
At last Marcus finally makes it over to Calleva House. It’s on the far side of the school, surrounded by thick tall trees. The front door’s open so he goes in. The first door on the right turns out to be study, so he goes in. The room’s well furnished, tastefully so. His father’s portrait hangs over the fireplace. Marcus gazes at it, wishing just once…it didn’t matter.
“Halloo.” Another boy appears in the doorway. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Placid Terrance.”
“That’d be me.” The other boy offers a welcoming hand. He’s attractive, in that overly pretty sense, smooth olive skin, wide green eyes, and jet-black hair. He’s so not Marcus’s type. A memory of the wiry tattooed-boy skips through his mind, and he brushes it away firmly. This is not the time or the place.
“Marcus Aquila.” They shake hands.
Placid looks impressed. “Your father was one of our best.” He nods toward the painting.
“I know.” Marcus says. He doesn’t mean it the way it sounds, but he can’t think of anything more to say.
“I was just about to have tea. Please.” Placid gestures toward a chair. “Now where the hell is that fag?” He goes out into hallway, shouting for someone named, “Cunoval!”
Marcus sits in the chair offered to him, and tries not to look at his father’s painting. He can feel its eyes upon him.
Placid returns. “The little bitch better show up soon if he knows what’s good for him.” He takes the other chair.
Marcus raises his eyebrows.
“Lower form boy,” Placid explains. “He’s doing general house duties until I find a fellow sixth former to give him too.”
“Right.” Marcus has no idea what any of that means. He dimly remembers his dad telling him some stories about the boys required to do whatever the head boys wanted them to. That must be what Placid is talking about.
Still, he’s not expecting it when Tattoo-boy comes through the door, and stops dead, looking at him like Marcus is the last person he’s ever wanted to see in his life.
“Did I say you could come in?” Placid asks, looking bored.
“I thought,” Tattoo-boy swallows, but continues. “I thought you called me.”
“That doesn’t give you any reason to forget your manners. Go out and do it properly.”
Tattoo-boy retreats and closes the door. He give it a second, and then knocks.
“Come in.”
Tattoo-boy enters again and waits, not looking at either of them.
“Well?” Placid snaps. “Go and fetch our tea.”
Tattoo-boy leaves gratefully.
“He’s trouble that one,” Placid sighs. “I’d have him transferred, but it never looks good when we can’t deal with one of our own properly. You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. Course.” Marcus nods.
Tattoo-boy returns with a tray. He sets it down on the table-between Marcus and Placid, then steps back. As he does, Placid flicks a finger at him languidly. “What’s that?”
“Sir?” Tattoo-boy’s tone holds none of the belligerence when he spoke to Marcus earlier. Now he sounds muted, as though they’ve managed to subdue him somehow. For some reason Marcus finds this unlikely.
“Your shirt…"
Tattoo-boy swallows. “It’s borrowed.”
“Borrowed?” Placid quirks an eyebrow. “From whom?”
“One of the other boys.”
“I find that unlikely.” The head boy drawls. “No one would lend you a shirt. You stole it. Now, the question is why?”
Tattoo-boy darts a look at Marcus, as though he’s waiting to see what he’ll say. When Marcus remains silent, he finally says, “I fell, sir. Got some mud on it.”
“Liar. What really happened, Cunoval?”
Tattoo-boy considers this, then finally… “Johnson pissed on it.”
“What?” Placid exclaims. “You let him piss on your school blazer.”
“I didn’t let him.” Tattoo-boy says through clenched teeth.
“Did you stop him?”
“No.”
“Then you let him.” Placid stands. “By the desk, now.”
Tattoo-boy obeys stiffly. Marcus watches the scene with a sense of trepidation.
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Tattoo-boy takes a deep breath and does so, pressing the tips of his fingers to his shoes. Placid takes up his position behind him. “Count aloud.”
The first crack of the cane makes Marcus jump. He can only imagine what it’s like for the boy receiving the punishment.
“One.” The boy’s voice is strained.
Crack.
“Two.”
Placid swings again.
“Three.” Tattoo-boy inhales sharply.
The next three blows fall quickly, and then Placid sets the cane aside. “Straighten up.”
Tattoo-boy does so, jaw set against the pain.
“If you let such a thing happen again, you’ll get twice that amount, understood?”
Tattoo-boy nods.
“Good. And if I catch you stealing again, I'll have your ass tossed out of school. You’re a disgrace to the house of Calleva, Cunoval, but I will beat some respect into you sooner or later. Now go and finish unpacking Aquila’s gear.”
“What?” Marcus looks up. “He doesn’t have to.” The last thing he needs is for someone to go through his belongings. His fists clench as he thinks of what he’s packed in there.
Placid waves a hand. “It’s what fags are there for. You haven’t got your own yet, have you? This’ll save you the effort.” He snaps his fingers. “Tell you what, why don’t you keep him for good?”
Tattoo-boy's head snaps up at that. If Placid looked at him then he’d see the raw hatred displayed there. However, he doesn’t, and Marcus thinks that’s probably best all around. He doesn’t know if the kid could take another beating, and personally he doesn’t want to find out.
“That’s alright.” He tries to brush off the offer, but Placid is adamant.
“I mean it. We’d assign you one eventually anyway. This’ll just save time. Besides, I have the feeling you’re just the one to teach him how to behave.”
Marcus tries again. “I have no use for him.”
Tattoo-boy looks at him oddly then, like he has no idea what to make of Marcus.
“Bollocks,” Placid snorts. “There a hundred uses for a fag. It’s settled. He’s yours till the end of term, or until we find you a better one. Agreed?”
“Fine.” Marcus agrees at last, helplessly. What else can he do?
“Kneel.” Placid barks.
Tattoo-boy walks over and drops to his knees in front of Marcus, who tries not to stare.
“Go on.” Placid orders.
Tattoo-boy lowers his head. “I am my master’s hound to lie at his feet.” The words sound forced from his mouth.
“Uh…okay.” Marcus looks at Placid helplessly. What the hell is he supposed to do?
“It’s a thing. We call the fags ‘hounds,’” Placid waves his hand. “Pat him on the head.”
“Right.” Marcus hesitates, then lets his right hand rest on Tattoo-boy's head briefly. The other’s boy hair is soft beneath his fingers, and for a moment, Marcus wonders what it would be like to run his fingers through it. Then he removes his hand and sits back.
“Now you’re dismissed.” Placid says. “Come on, Aquila. Have some tea.” He starts to pour while Tattoo-boy gets to his feet and leaves.
Marcus tries not to watch him as he goes.
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By the time he goes upstairs, he’s almost forgotten about Tattoo-boy…who turns out to be lying on his back on Marcus’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. He leaps up at Marcus’s entrance and goes to stand at the foot of the bed.
“Oh…right.” Marcus stops. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do with the boy. “Um.” He knows what he’d like to do…But that's a different subject entirely.
Tattoo-boy keeps his eyes on the ground. His entire body is poised defensively, yet there’s a defiant slant to his chin.
“What’re you…Are you waiting for something in particular?” Marcus asks desperately.
At that the boy snorts, and then tries to turn it into a cough. “Yes.”
Marcus waits. “Then…well, you’re gong to have to tell me what it is, because I have no idea.”
Tattoo-boy looks up then. He regards Marcus with wary eyes. “I’m waiting for you to punish me.”
“What for?” Marcus is thoroughly confused now.
“The way I spoke to you earlier.”
“Why would I do that?” Marcus sinks down onto the bed. His leg always bothers him more later in the evenings. Now it's stressed and aching. He grinds his knuckles into his thigh to dull the pain.
“If I talked to like that to any of the others, they’d have my head.” Tattoo-boy looks at Marcus almost curiously.
“Oh.” Marcus considers this. “Why’d you do it then?”
“I…was angry, and I had no idea who you were.” Tattoo-boy shrugs.
“So, if you had known…it would have been all ‘Sir, yes, sir!’?”
Tattoo-boy just stares at him, then half smiles. “Yeah, I suppose.”
“Right.” Marcus nods to himself. “Well, I’m not going to punish you for that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s stupid and I don’t fucking feel like it.” Marcus says irritably. “If you really want to be useful, you can show me where you stowed all my gear.”
“In the usual places.” Tattoo-boy says helpfully.
“Show me.”
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“Alright, what’d you do with it?”
“What?”
“You know what.”
Tattoo-boy gives him a blank look. Marcus has the boy up against the wall in an instant. He ignores the hiss of pain as he presses Tattoo-boy’s bruised ass up against the wall.
“Tell me where you put it or I’ll give you something to cry about.” Marcus threatens. Tattoo-boy has his face turned resolutely side-wise; he’s expecting to be hit. And Marcus lowers his hand, feeling a surge of guilt overtake him. He backs away.
Hesitantly, Tattoo-boy reaches down into his boot and draws out the knife. Marcus grabs it out of his hand, breathing a sigh of relief.
“Why the fuck did you do that?” He demands.
Tattoo-boy shrugs. He leans against the wall, still watching Marcus. “You going to report me?”
Marcus snorts derisively. “For a knife I’m not supposed to have in the first place? Hardly.” He puts it in his pocket and looks at Tattoo-boy. “What’s your name anyway?”
“Esca.”
Marcus nods. “I’m Marcus.” He holds out his hand and Esca just stares at him. “Fine. Whatever.” Marcus drops his hand awkwardly. “Look, what am I supposed to do with you?”
“You really have no idea, do you?”
“We didn’t do this…” Marcus gestures vaguely. “In the states.”
“Why are you here anyway?”
“My mom died.” Marcus says shortly. “I was always supposed to go here, cause of my dad, but...”
“But?” Esca waits. He’s curious, though he doesn’t want to admit it to himself.
“I didn’t want to.” Marcus says. It’s half true.
“I don’t blame you.” Esca mutters.
“What about you?”
“Oh, you know…” Esca says vaguely.
Marcus doesn’t know, but he won’t pry if the kid doesn’t want to tell him.
“How old are you anyway?”
“Sixteen.” At Marcus’s look of disbelief, Esca looks defensive. “Yeah, I know I’m little. What of it?”
“Nothing.” Marcus shrugs. “So….tell me how does this work?”
The sullen look returns to Esca’s face like a cloud. “I have to do whatever you tell me to.”
“Really.”
“Really.”
Marcus considers this. He can’t help noticing how Esca’s tensed, his hands clenched knuckle white at his thighs. ‘What does he think I’m going to make him do?’ Marcus wonders.
“So…tell me then, why didn’t you fight earlier?”
Esca exhales. “That’s what you want…”
“Yeah.”
Esca just shakes his head. At first Marcus thinks the kid is going to tell him to go screw himself, but then… “We get written up if we’re caught fighting. I can’t get any more marks. It was better…to take it than to fight.”
“Better to get the kicking you got…” Marcus finds this hard to believe.
“Yeah, it was.” Esca says stubbornly.
“Okay… I just wanted to know.”
“Why’d you step in?”
“It wasn’t a fair fight.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Believe what you want. I’m going to take a shower.” Marcus starts taking his blazer off.
Esca hesitates.
“What?”
“Am I dismissed then?” Esca asked awkwardly.
“Absolutely.” Marcus unbuttons his shirt, just enough to pull it over his head. Esca watched the growing expanse of tan skin, exposing taut stomach muscles, the slight curve of Marcus's hips…and then he leaves before Marcus catches him eying him.
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Yay! That makes me happy!
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!!!
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The younger boys are all at the dining hall when Marcus goes downstairs. There are five other sixth form boys in Calleva House, besides Placid and himself (all with their own fags, naturally). Marcus is introduced to his fellow six formers over at their private dinner table. Gabriel, Henry, Damon, Paul, and Craden. They’re all well mannered, well-dressed and they make Marcus feel more than a little uncomfortable. He doesn’t fit in there. Least of all, when they start talking about footie.
“You’ll go out for the team, of course.” Craden says, like there’s no doubt anyone of Marcus’s size is athletically inclined.
“Uh, no, actually.” Marcus shifts uncomfortably. He hates explaining this, hates that other people can’t just leave him alone.
Esca glances up from where he’s tending the fire. Only Marcus notices, and he can’t help wondering what interested the other boy.
“Why not?” Craden asks in surprise.
“My leg. I injured it awhile back.” He left the subject there, didn’t particularly want to talk about it.
“Oh well, that’s a shame. Your father…”
And there it is. The whole spiel. Marcus tries not to show how much he’s tired of this particular subject. Fortunately, at that moment, Esca shifts the poker and a large coal falls out upon the carpet.
“You little shit!” Placid jumps up. “You’re ruining the carpet.” He smacks Esca across the ear. “Pick it up.”
Esca reaches for the fireplace shovel, but Placid pulls it out of his hands. “With your hands. Go on.” Esca hesitates and Placid cuffs him across the other ear.
“Hey.” Marcus says. “He doesn’t have to, does he?” Surely they won’t actually make Esca pick it up with his bare hands?
“Yes, he does.” Henry interjects.
Marcus looks at Placid. “I thought you said he was my fag.” It sounds more possessive when he says it. Mine. He’s not entirely sure he doesn’t mean it that way.
“That doesn’t mean he can simply ignore orders from the other heads either.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want his hands burned.” Marcus says.
“Very well.” Placid says coolly. “I always knew Americans were soft, but this really does show your hand….” He hands the shovel back to Esca, who scoops up the coal and drops it in the fire. By this time it’s burned a black mark through the carpet. Marcus ignores it.
“Go to my room and polish my shoes.” It’s the first time he’s given Esca an actual order, and he’s surprised how easily it falls from his lips. Esca escapes almost gratefully. Of course when he gets upstairs he’ll find out that Marcus’s shoes are in no need of polishing, but that’s fine.
“You will have to learn to be harder on him.” Damon tells Marcus.
“I suppose.” Marcus noncommittally. He intends no such thing.
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