Fic: The Kids in York (2/7)
Title: The Kids in York (2/7)
Characters: Marcus/Esca, Liathan, Cottia, Uncle Aquila, Placidus, etc.
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Warnings: high school AU so the boys are 16/17
Word Count: 46k (8,100 this part)
Summary: Cottingswood High, Yorkshire. You get all kinds, but as someone who's bounced around Child Services, has a hot-headed chav for a best friend, and gets mistaken for a girl by the daft new student in History, Esca MacCunoval is not your ordinary kid.
PART TWO: Liathan is a Two-Bit Tosser Who Pisses Himself Like a Retarded Monkey Which, That’s Unfair, Apologies to the Monkey
It's period five. Esca's skiving off English. He'll get the call home, o' course, stupid automated thing from the main office, ratting him out, but luckily Robert either doesn't know how to work the voicemail (probable) or he just doesn't give a rat's arse about what Esca gets up to during school (definite).
Liathan blows smoke into his face.
"Fuck off, mate," Esca says, waving off the cloying stink of pot rising up around them. "Don't wanna be inhaling none of your rank-ass skunk weed, for fuck's sake."
"Ey, why not? This is premium grade, top-shelf mari-ju-ahna, ya hear? You ought to be begging me for sloppy seconds." Liathan takes a long hit from his joint, the paper burning down almost to his mouth.
Esca ducks the inevitable plume of smoke exhaled his way, pulling his rucksack off his shoulder and tossing it onto the grass with a thud. Hoists himself up onto an empty bar that hasn't got a bike locked to it.
"I hate that shit," Esca moans. "Makes my eyeballs hurt, and then I feel retarded as fuck for the next few hours, almost like your level of retarded. Which is really bloody retarded." Esca shudders. "Yeah, no thanks."
"Ta, mate," Liathan says sarcastically, leaning over from his seat on the bike stand next to him and flicks some ashes onto Esca's lap. Esca kicks out in his general direction, landing nothing.
"Aye, give me a jimmy of whisky any day," Esca says absent-mindedly.
They sit in silence for awhile, Liathan puffing away at a second joint, Esca closing his eyes trying to feel the wan, autumnal sunlight filtering through the open mesh of the bike shed and onto his face.
Suddenly, the cage gives a great rattle and Esca pitches forward with surprise. Catches his feet just in time, heels digging into the mushy grass beneath him.
"Fuck's sake!" Liathan barks, throwing the stub of his spliff onto the ground and leaping off his seat. "We're trying to have a little relax, here, you bloody asswipes!"
Esca's eyes widen when he see Marcus jog over, chasing the errant football that'd crashed into the bike shed. He's wearing a P.E. uniform, the heather grey shirt, while normally swimming on the other boys (namely, Esca), looks about two sizes too small on Marcus.
And Jesus, the navy P.E. shorts are even shorter than the ridiculous things Marcus voluntarily puts on; Esca can practically see his balls hanging out for fuck's sake. As for the scar, now that he's looking for it, he can see raised, pinkish skin running up Marcus' calf, bone-side, zagging across his kneecap before fading out into the olive skin of his thighs.
"Fuck's wrong wif you?"
Liathan's quiet voice does more to startle Esca than any of his usual shouting.
"Nuffink," Esca says too quickly. Fuck, he can feel his cheeks warm up.
Liathan calls out to Marcus, "Fetch your bloody ball like a good puppy and fuck off, would 'ya? You're killin' my high with all your caveman grunting and stomping about."
Marcus shoots Liathan a dirty look, swiping the football off the grass with one hand and tucking it under his arm. He's about to turn and get back in the game, which is still going on ten or twenty yards away where the mixed P.E. class is in session, when Esca yells out:
"The fuck you running about on your leg, for?"
He feels more than sees Liathan send him a perplexed look. Hell, it's probably on Esca's face too-he didn't mean to say that, the words came from bloody nowhere.
Marcus turns back to Esca with a stubborn expression on his face; one that Esca is getting to know quite well.
"It's fine," Marcus grits between his teeth.
Liathan perks up next to Esca, like a wolf scenting prey. "Ey dago, whas wrong with your fucking leg? Hm? You a cripple or something?"
"My leg. Is fine," Marcus growls. His arm's clenched so tight 'round the football, Esca thinks it might pop like an overinflated tyre.
Trying not to think too much about what he's doing, Esca pushes off the metal bar and strides out of the bike shed, up to where Marcus is so that they're out of earshot from Liathan.
"What the hell, Marcus. Don't tell me you've been running around, being some big football hero on a leg that don't work so great. I saw you in class this morning-you looked like you were shitting a brick trying to keep it together."
"I don't owe you an explanation," Marcus says. "In fact, I never should've told you about my injury." His cold words hide nuffink; he's clearly mortified, especially in front of Liathan who's watching them like he's stalking his dinner.
For a guy who's so confident about everything else, Marcus sure as hell gets his knickers in a twist over a stupid broken leg.
"You should tell Mrs. Harding about it. I'm sure you can do weights or something, you shouldn't be running a fucking marathon on that thing," Esca says, trying to sound gentle. Doesn't want to scare Marcus off from a good idea.
Marcus' eyes warily flick over Esca's shoulder to where Liathan's probably gotten bored by now. Probably lighting up a third joint; Lie-Lie's a right fucking idiot sometimes, he likes smoking too much and getting paranoid. Says it's funny, the shit that runs through his head while it's happening. Never mind Esca's the one who has to hold his hand as he's rocking back and forth in a corner somewhere.
Marcus looks back to Esca, and he seems to relax a bit, broad shoulders easing up. "You're right," he relents. "Maybe I'll talk to Mrs. Harding. I’m really supposed to be keeping off this leg until next PT."
"Ey, you know," Esca says, snapping his fingers as he thinks aloud. "I’m good at shit like that. Liathan's mum owns a spa, she taught me some stuff, like massages and whatever. I can take a look at your leg, you know, if you want..."
Esca trails off, realizing-with no small amount of horror-exactly what he's saying. "Oh shit," he says, rubbing his face with both hands. "That sounds completely faggy. Fuck. Sorry. I'm not like, trying to feel up your balls or nuffink. I'm just pretty good at it, but, erm, yeah never mind, forget I said anything-"
Marcus reaches out and grips Esca on the bicep with his free hand. "Esca," he says, small grin lurking somewhere in his eyes. "You're rambling. And stop. That'd be great, if you could check out my leg. I'm not used to this weather, so it's been acting up all week. So...thanks. If the offer's still on the table."
Marcus keeps holding on to Esca's bicep; he's got no bleeding sense of boundaries. Esca tries to ignore how his face is probably ripe as a red fucking tomato as he replies, "Yeah, 'course. After school, maybe? But I'd have to get some stuff from Liathan's, so, erm. A little later?"
Marcus lets go of Esca's arm, pats the same spot genially. "Yeah, that works for me."
They make plans. He takes Marcus' number and dials it with his mobile, so that Marcus will have his too. Esca doesn't have any experience with dating, but it feels an awful lot like they're setting up a date. Fucking hell.
"I'll see you tonight," Marcus says with a grin wide enough to be on a toothpaste advert.
"Erm, yeah. T'ra," Esca mumbles back.
-----
When he heads back under the bike shed, Liathan's pissed himself laughing. No, seriously-that's Lie-Lie's bloody rank piss that's stained his jeans dark blue right at the crotch.
"You're bloody something, you know that?" Esca gripes, though he's unable to hide a smirk at how utterly ridiculous Liathan is. Helps him up into a sitting position, then squats in front of him. "You gonna be okay? I'm heading back to class."
Liathan covers his face with his hands, shoulders shaking. "Holy Jesus Mary and Joseph," he manages. "Everyone's right. You're a bloody faggot, aren't you?"
Esca feels the blood drain from his face. It’s no worse than the usual slurs Liathan will sling at Esca, but it's too much, too soon after he's bloody well enacted the opening sequence to a skin flick by offering to give Marcus a massage.
"Wait!" Liathan shouts, hand outstretched but Esca's moved away. "I don't care if you like it up the bunghole! People do all sorts of fucked up shit! You'll always be my wittle Eschka."
Esca grabs his rucksack off the grass. "Fuck off, cunt," Esca says, nudging Liathan in the shoulder with his foot so that his giggling friend topples backwards, hopefully into his own puddle of urine. "I'll show you much of a faggot I am when I fuck Davina in her car after school."
"Yeah, yeah," Liathan laughs him off. "I'll see you later, FagCunoval."
"She likes it doggy-style!" Esca shouts back, storming off to his next lesson.
-----
After school, Esca makes up some excuse to Davina about leaving his shit at their place. Lie-Lie's still too baked to notice that Esca is lying right out his arse, so Davina shrugs and takes them both back to their house.
No, strike that. Davina takes them back to their mansion. Cos the thing is, Liathan might be a fucking chav of a little swot, but it ent real. None of it's real, cos Lie-Lie née Liathan Brendan Rhona III is actually about as loaded as one can get. Davina only works a job cos she wants the experience, cos she’s lovely. Not because she needs the money.
Nah, the Rhonas are proper loaded. Their da owns something like half the city through real estate, which also means he's bloody busy and could give a flying fuck that his wife's up the duff again or whatever.
Which is why Lie-Lie's so fucked up in the head. Which is why him an Esca are friends.
Esca's about to follow Davina through the front entrance, but Liathan blocks him with his arm. "Wait," he says, sounding dangerously serious. "Stop."
"Whatsit?" Esca asks.
"Why you comin' over, Esca? What are you doing?"
Esca bounces from foot to foot.
He's coming over to ask Mrs. Rhona the best way to massage a hurt leg, maybe pick up a bottle of oil cos you can't do a proper rub-down without it. He's coming over so he can go to Marcus' right after, prepared to make his leg hurt less, and to do it right. It's just fair, all right? He feels bloody guilty about kicking Marcus to his knees now that he knows about the injury. Hopes he didn't fuck anything up permanently.
Ha! Esca can see hisself, he knows what bloody rot it all is, the thoughts in his head. Proper truth, he doesn’t know what he’s doing.
"I come over all the time," Esca says cagily.
"Yeah but, you said you left something in my room. You didn't leave anything in my room."
Fucking hell, Liathan gets scary Rain Man sometimes while he's flying high. "S'wot?" Esca says, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I wanna come over. Liverpool's gonna get their arse handed to them against the Gunners, which means Robert's gonna be cross-eyed pissed and double pissed off, which means he's gonna fuck up the closest thing to him, which is gonna be me if you don't let me come in right now. An I don't wanna get fucked right now, m'whole body still bloody hurts from Monday."
Liathan blinks at him slowly, as if considering Esca's words. Esca can't imagine what conclusion he's come to, though, as Liathan's eyes suddenly turn nervous. He leans in to whisper, "Fuck, Esca. You should'a said, mate."
Esca licks his lips. "Said what, now?"
"That Robert's abusing you like that."
Esca frowns. "You know he smacks me around a bit, so what?"
"No, I mean." Liathan looks over his shoulder, where the gardener across the street is hosing the grounds of a gated house. "I didn't know he abused you like that. Like, you know." Liathan makes an 'o' with his thumb and forefinger, then thrusts in and out of it with his opposite index finger.
It takes a bit to make the connection, then Esca's cuffing his stoner fucktard of a friend 'round the head with a half-hearted backhand. "You're something, you know?"
"Is that why you don't like fanny no more?" Liathan asks, louder but no less serious. Starting to sound a bit upset, in fact. "Fuck, Esca. Don't let Robert turn you into a turd burglar!"
"Bloody hell," Esca laughs. "The fuck they put in that skunk, today?" He shoves past Liathan and enters the Rhona house.
-----
Esca catches Mrs. Rhona in the courtyard. It's chilly out, it being October and all, but she's got a heavy wool shawl wrapped 'round her shoulders as she sips her tea, reading a magazine about clothes or makeup or summat.
"Mrs. Rhona?" Esca asks, knocking on the glass door politely, though he's already stepped onto the cobblestone outside. She beckons him over.
Mrs. Rhona isn't a warm lady. Even with seven kids, she's about as maternal as Jeannine is-meaning about as maternal as a spider that eats her own young-but at least she's never looked down on Esca even though he's a swill-mouthed orphan who lives on an estate Mr. Rhona could probably buy ten times over, that is, if he wanted to, but no one in their bloody right minds would bloody want to, cos it's a shite estate full of broke-ass cars parked on weedy lawns and dirty plastic flamingos out front.
Esca declines the tea that Liathan's mum offers to ring for. But he does ask her for tips on how to relax a leg that's acting up a year out from being broken all over. She's succinct, but tells him enough so that Esca can feel less like a charlatan when he goes over to Marcus' and more like he can actually help the naffin' Roman.
Mrs. Rhona directs Esca to her bathroom upstairs, where she keeps extra bottles of herbal massage oil and other products from the spa inside a cabinet. Esca opens the wrong one at first; sees two neat rows of orange prescription bottles, lined up like marching soldiers inside her medicine cabinet. Quickly shuts it and tries the next little door, relieved when it's filled with what she said it'd be-spa supplies-and pulls out the first bottle of oil he sees.
All right. Armed and loaded. Esca descends the main staircase, taking two steps at a time until he's gone underground into the basement, where Liathan's room is.
Inside the gloom, he can barely make out Liathan's silhouette playing video games on a small telly.
"Ey fuckhead, I'm heading out," Esca calls from the doorway.
"Don't let Robert pound you in the arse unless you like it," Liathan replies, his voice monotone. His attention's onscreen, where he's killing Nazis with a grenade launcher. His high must’a worn off, cos he’s back to being a right arsehole.
Esca rolls his eyes. "See you tomorrow," he says. Liathan waves him off.
All right, then. Esca checks his mobile. It's five o'clock.
He ent nervous. He isn't.
-----
"Where should I..." Marcus looks around his bedroom, Esca's eyes following his.
It's a pretty large room. Not as big as Liathan's original bedroom (before he relocated to the basement, on the grounds he didn't want to "live in wealth like the intern-fucking, parasitic money-sucking dicksuck like his father, this perfectly sound basement would suit him much better, thank you very much"), but Marcus' room is still big enough to hold about five cars inside it.
There's a queen bed in the corner-the comfort of which Esca has tested personally, just a few days back, though he'd been too fucked up to really notice the quality of its bedsprings or whatever-and a modern-looking birch desk in the other corner. A standard weight machine hangs out near the bed, which feels so bloody Marcus, it don’t even stick out.
All the bits and bobs about the room feel like the Roman, in fact-sturdy and practical, with traces of warmth in places you wouldn’t expect. Like the single framed photo of what must be his parents on the wall, a younger Marcus with them. They’re in an orchard of some sort, trees all around, swollen bags of fruit crowding their ankles.
Marcus’ laptop has a rugby sticker on it, some Italian crest Esca doesn’t recognize. On the nightstand, the surface is completely clear but for the leather-band watch Marcus normally has on.
“Do you want a chair?” Marcus asks, sounding rather at a loss.
"Nah, I’ll be moving around,” Esca says, realizing he probably looks like he’s casing the joint. He draws his eyes away and picks the obvious place for Marcus to sit. “You can go on the bed. Wait, no-" He’s nearly forgotten how bloody gay this whole thing is; Esca doesn't need to make it worse. "Never mind. The bench," he amends, gesturing to the weight machine.
Marcus nods amiably and lumbers over. His leg is clearly still giving him trouble; he winces as he lets himself down, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bench, barbells to the right of his head. He looks up at Esca, blinking expectantly.
He's facing the first-story window, so the setting sun bathes Marcus in low, warm light. He looks even more tan than usual. Kind of orange, actually. His eyes are practically glowing.
"What now?" Marcus asks.
Esca coughs. "Face the other way," he says, making his voice as professional as he can. "Like you're gonna lift weights."
Marcus obeys, turning to Esca, straddling the narrow, padded bench. The sight of it makes Esca's palms sweat for some reason. He tries to be discrete about wiping them against the sides of his legs as he steps over to the foot of the bench.
"Okay, so. Lie down." Esca hopes his voice doesn't sound as strangled as it does in his ears as Marcus lets himself fall back.
Luckily, Marcus is wearing shorts, so Esca doesn't have to make him take his trousers off or anything just to get to his leg. Jesus, his face is getting red just thinking about it.
He does, however, have to get Marcus' trainers off. Notices how Marcus tenses up as Esca kneels down.
"Jus’ gotta get these off," he explains, working one shoe from Marcus foot, throwing it over his shoulder.
"Should I put some music on?" Marcus chuckles. "Barry White, maybe?"
Esca's bloody thankful Marcus can't see his face right now. "Fuck off," he says, yanking Marcus' dirty sock off and tossing it towards his head, which earns a cross between a snort and a giggle.
Jesus Christ. Esca rubs his face with his shoulder. "Stay bloody still," he says, working off Marcus' other shoe and sock.
Done. Marcus is ready. He's turned quite still, in fact. Esca is ready. He's got the bottle of oil next to the bench, and a small rag soaking in a bucket of hot water on the other side.
Well, nothing for it, right? Esca got himself into this bloody situation. He's gonna see it through.
"Leg up," he says, letting Marcus know what's coming next, the way Mrs. Rhona coached Esca. Marcus' leg is heavy in Esca's hands, muscled and solid like it ent broken in three places with probably enough metal inside it to stick magnets to.
Esca pulls the injured leg towards him, sets it onto the bench so that the sole of Marcus' foot is facing him.
There's a tiny mole on Marcus' big toe. There's a slightly larger mole on the ball of his foot. Esca wants to draw a line between the two.
"What, do my feet smell?" Marcus asks. He's joking, but he sounds a little apprehensive too.
"Not any more than you normally do," Esca replies easily, reaching for the oil. With a little snick, he pops the lid open.
Squirts a dollop of oil into a cupped palm.
The feel of it-slightly clammy, but perfectly greasy and quick to warm-is so familiar. The smell of it, faint but there, herbal like sage or whatever it is people put next to roasted potatoes-is also familiar.
How had he not fucking recognized the bottle when he grabbed it?
It's familiar cos this is stuff Esca uses to wank with, and now he’s gone half-hard without a beat. Fucking hell. Must be that Pavolian thing or whatever, something about dogs, like you're so used to a particular trigger that your body anticipates what's next without even checking if it's okay by you.
This ent okay by Esca; he's not about to have a wank. He's trying to be bloody professional about remedying the damage he'd done to Marcus the day before. This is NOT the bloody time to be sporting a stiffy.
"What are you doing down there?" Marcus' voice filters over.
Fuck. Esca slaps his hands together and vigorously rubs them together, heating up the oil between his palms.
"Shut up and think of the queen," Esca says curtly. He pulls his palms apart with a little squelching sound, then promptly grabs Marcus 'round the ankle with two hands-
Wills his half-mast erection to make itself scarce-
and slides his palms up Marcus' scarred calf, quickly, almost roughly. The dusting of dark hairs on Marcus' leg catches the oil, and by the time Esca's reached his knee he has to go back to the little bottle and squeeze out another handful.
The bottle makes an obscene sound when he lets go and air gets into the tube, propelling another whiff of sage. Fuck, he can practically feel his hand on himself, if he just wrapped his fingers around his dick and gave it a slow, hard pull…
He's just thankful Marcus' eyes are on the ceiling, where they'll stay for the next half hour.
So instead of his own dick like he wants, Esca reaches for Marcus' thigh, thick as any rugby player’s, and glides his palms over the smooth, built muscle. When he digs a little too hard Marcus grunts; Esca eases up, but not too much or else it won't do him any good.
"Don't be such a pussy," Esca says, taking his embarrassment out on Marcus. "It's just a massage. I'm not trying to re-break your leg or nuffink."
"Dude, it hurts."
"That, right there!" Esca pulls his hands back and rises up on his knees, making sure his tented denims are still out of sight before catching Marcus' eye with a little wave. " 'Dude.' What sort of piss-poor Roman says dude? You're not even from bloody Italy, are you?"
Two spots of colour rise up on Marcus' cheekbones. "I am too. I just grew up on a military base, okay? But my entire family lives in Rome. Well, Uncle and Father excepted." He turns shifty, eyes wandering away.
Esca takes pity. Lord knows he doesn't want to discuss his own family matters with anyone, much less a near-stranger he’s only known since Monday. No matter how strangely comfortable Esca feels around said stranger.
He rocks back onto his heels and proceeds to massage the bunched up muscles of Marcus' calf.
"So. American, then? Bloody Yank."
"I'm not-" Marcus' next words evaporate, taken over by a little gasp. Esca smirks. Oh, he knows. He's bloody good at this. Furrows his brows and gets in real deep, kneading the knotted ligaments just above Marcus' knee.
"God. You're good at this." Marcus sounds out of breath.
Esca smirks. "Was just thinking the same thing meself."
"Cocky bastard."
"Rightfully so."
The only response he gets is a bitten-off noise, which is gratifying enough that Esca wants more. So he pulls out all the stops.
Adds a bit more oil onto his hands. Places his thumbs at the arch of Marcus' foot, and digs.
"Oh..."
Esca massages around there a bit, moving a little to the left, then the right, then up some. He's good at the build-up too, knows just when to lightly trail his thumbs down, inciting a small spasm and a choked laugh. Counters it with a hard push into the heel of Marcus' foot and drags all the way up to the tips of his toes, earning a low rumble. Finally, Esca indulges himself and connects the two moles on Marcus’ foot with a teasing swipe of his left thumb.
"Jesus," Marcus yelps, foot jumping.
"Hmm?" Esca smiles, kneeling up a bit to check Marcus' expression at the other end of the bench. He's pleased to find Marcus in obvious bliss, lips pursed in an ecstatic little 'o' shape, like he’s seconds from drooling on himself. Attractive.
Even still, something about the sight makes Esca's dick twitch. God, he's getting off on all this power, ent he? Marcus is like putty under his hands, and it feels damned good, Esca won't lie.
He's fully hard now, not least because Marcus has taken to groaning every time Esca does something he likes. He started off quiet, restrained, like he couldn't help the noises coming out of him but was damned well trying to. It's been fifteen or twenty minutes now, though, and it's like Marcus doesn't even realize how he sounds no more.
It feels like a bloody game. What movement will make what sound? How silly can Esca make Marcus sound?
"Fuck," Marcus says, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Esca," he whinges.
Pretty damned silly, Esca thinks, with no small amount of pride. He inches his fingers higher up, walking them up like itsy bitsy spiders, cos his fingers are starting to get sore from all the deep tissue crap. He's just playing now, really. Marcus' thigh jerks, kicking up the hem of his loose basketball shorts and revealing his tan line. Olive skin gives way to pale territory, the border of which Esca traces with his thumb, smearing oil across it like he's painting in colour.
"I'm getting tired," Esca complains, flicking his eyes up to see if Marcus is even paying attention, cos he's gone completely still, no longer responsive.
His eyes snag halfway up, however.
Through Marcus' shorts, Esca can see the mound of Marcus' bits. He isn't entirely hard, but not entirely soft, either.
It's automatic to snatch his hands back, face burning.
Fuck. That wasn't what this was about. Forget the fact he's excited, too, Esca's trousers trapping his cock in a denim prison.
"Esca," Marcus says, sounding panicked. He sits up as he yanks down on the hem of his t-shirt, trying to hide his crotch, but it's no use.
"Shit, I'm sorry," Marcus says, his face bright red. "I didn't know. I mean-"
"Forget it," Esca says, hunching over to hide his own uncomfortable state. He shoves his hands into the bucket next to the bench, water gone lukewarm, and scrubs his palms free of massage oil with the towel that's in there. Wrings it out, splashing onto himself and a bit onto the carpet, then slaps the wet towel onto Marcus' thigh with a loud splat.
"Look, it's no big deal. Happens all the time," Esca babbles, scrubbing Marcus down with two hands, rough like he's sanding down a block of wood.
"All the time?" Marcus frowns. "Like, with other people?"
"Yeah, sure," Esca says. He drops the towel into the bucket, getting more water on himself. "I mean, not me personally, no. Not me. But Liathan says so. He’d know, yeah?"
"Liathan?" Marcus asks dubiously.
"He's a right naffin' retard, but sometimes it ent all bullshit."
"Right," Marcus says uncertainly. His face is still flushed, but at least his stiffy's gone down. Not that Esca checked. But those shorts are bloody thin, don't leave nothing to the imagination, s'all he's saying.
Esca tosses the greasy bottle of massage oil into his rucksack, then picks up the used bucket of water. "I gotta go," he says, standing up too quickly, water sloshing onto his trouser leg. "Robert's gonna be pissed I got home so late." Also, Esca's dick isn't cooperating like Marcus' is, because it's still half-interested. And while Marcus has a reason for his body to betray him-Esca? No bloody excuse for getting turned on by touching another bloke.
Fuck's sake. Esca swallows hard and turns around. "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah? Hope your leg feels better. Sleep well. Erm. I mean, I hope you can sleep, cos you're right cranky otherwise. Don't want you taking it out on me again in the morning."
"Wait," Marcus says, sounding upset. “How are you going to get home? If you wait two seconds, I can grab my keys-“
Trapped in that little box of a car, all dark and cosy, Marcus taking up the entire space with his huge, footballer build as Esca desperately tries to wile away a rogue erection? Ha bloody ha. No merci.
"How you think I got here? Took the bus," Esca says, already edging his way out Marcus' bedroom door. "And I can take it again. I'll see you tomorrow."
He dashes down the corridor, going out the way he came. He thinks he hears Marcus call after him, but he can't stay another bloody second, he just can’t. Marcus might notice what’s going on below Esca’s belt. As if this weren't awkward enough, already.
Outside the front door, Esca tosses out the dirty water into the neatly manicured hedges, then swings the bucket over his shoulder like a bookbag.
The bus stop is a couple blocks down. As Esca rounds up to it, his mobile buzzes in his back pocket.
Esca swings the bucket to his left hand and pulls out his mobile. His default ringtone of Whodunnit? growls to life, Eve Libertine’s screaming vocals sounding crap on such tiny speakers. Marcus' name blinks innocently on the outer screen.
Esca deliberates picking up, but he takes too long and eventually the mobile rings out. Esca wonders if Marcus will leave a voicemail.
He doesn’t.
But then a text comes through, and Esca flips the screen up.
Sorry for making you uncomfortable. It was just a really good masage, didn't mean anything. You can copy my notes tomorrow and i wont even complane :)
Esca wets his lips, unsure of what the tugging sensation in his chest means. It feels strange. Marcus does bloody weird things to him.
He snaps his mobile shut and doesn't reply. He'll play it by ear tomorrow. Hopefully his brains will come back before then, and he can function like a human fucking being again.
-----
As soon as Esca reaches his drive, he smells trouble.
The lights are all on in the house. Above the front door, too. Esca briefly considers climbing through his second-story window, but that’s daft-it’s his own bloody house, innit? Why the fuck should he be sneaking in like a bloody thief in the night?
Squares his shoulders and marches up the front entrance. But before he can even get his keys out, the door snatches open.
It’s Robert, his face ruddy as a red balloon. “The fuck time’s it?” he splutters, breath reeking of alcohol. “Just now you get home, Esca? I needed you to pick up some bloody toilet paper, but the grocery’s fucking closed now, innit?”
“It’s called a mobile, Robert,” Esca grouses, squeezing past the great slug. “You could’a rang me if you weren’t too fucking lazy to get off your arse and pick up the phone.”
“The fuck you say to me?”
Esca picks up his feet, hoping to avoid a fight, but Robert can be awful quick for such a fat bastard. Fists a hand into Esca’s leather jacket and yanks him back by the scruff like he’s a fucking dog or summat.
“I asked you a question, you ungrateful little shit.”
Esca steels himself with a sharp inhale through his nose and says, “I called you a lazy, sodding arsehole-“
He expects the backhand across his cheek, ‘nuff so that he moves with it, absorbs some of its bite. Pulls his head right back and stares insolently into Robert’s glinting, ice-blue eyes.
“Where were you, anyway?” Robert slurs, pulling Esca’s face near his. Bloody disgusting; Robert’s face is all dried out from the oncoming winter, and he’s got white crusties in the corners of his mouth and on his chin. “You smell like-like trees, or summat.”
Must be the scent of the massage oil, still lingering. “Out with Liathan. We were naffin’ about at the park,” Esca lies. Doesn’t know why, he just does. “Now can I go upstairs?”
Robert looks Esca up and down, like he’s just noticing all the crap Esca’s laden down with, his rucksack and the bloomin’ bucket still knocking about. His thick fingers loosen in Esca’s collar, giving him a shove towards the stairs instead.
“Liathan,” he snorts. His voice is quieter, like he’s talking to his self, but Esca can still hear him en route to the staircase. “Should’a figured you was out shagging your boyfriend in the woods. Fucking nancy boy.”
For fuck’s sake. All fucking day long, Esca gets shit from people. Gets shit from Ronald and his rugby shitheads-gets it from Lie-Lie too, hell. And now Robert? He’s bloody sick of it. Bloody, fucking, sick of it.
“So what?” Esca snaps, whirling around. He throws his rucksack and bucket onto the stained carpet, twin thuds at either side of him. “So fucking wot if I have a boyfriend?”
Fuck. He dunnae what he’s saying, words taking right over. “So maybe I do. Maybe I like it up the arse. Maybe other boys like it up the arse, and I don’t mind giving it to ‘em. So I ask youse, so fucking what? What you gonna do about it?”
Robert turns a dark shade of aubergine, the colour crawling all the way down the stretched-out neck of his grubby white tee. His face is twitching, like he wants to say something arse-rippingly rude, but hasn’t quite landed on the verbage just yet.
“Nothing to say to that, hm Robert? That’s wot I thought. Cos you can’t do anything to me. It ent a crime no more, being a poof. And if you kill me you’ve got Child Services to deal with. Won’t get no more of that extra dosh at the end of the month, yeah? And how’s you gonna pay for your fucking Tetley’s if not by the hand’a the government-“
Robert launches himself forward, his apish arms swinging towards Esca, two burly fists coming, one-two, one-two. Esca dances away, hopping backwards, tripping over the foot of the staircase so that he lands on his arse, slide-thumping down a step.
“I’ll kill you,” Robert roars, coming after him. Shit.
Esca scrambles around and yanks himself up with the banister, gets his feet under him as he dashes up, two steps at a time. He doesn’t expect a thrown bucket though, which slams right into his lower back, wooden handle of it smacking into his ribs, bloody fuck.
Esca crumples into his side, wincing as he feels the tender bones cry out in agony. Fuck’s sake, they were just starting to heal up. He needs to keep moving, though. The landing’s only a few feet away. If he can just get into his bedroom he can lock himself in, and Robert usually leaves him alone after that. With a heaving limp, Esca hobbles up another stair-
Behind him, Robert gets a meaty hand around one of Esca’s ankles and pulls him down, easily enough cos Esca’s maybe a third of Robert’s weight. Goes south like a right rag doll, in fact, every edge of the wooden stairs making itself known to Esca’s chest, his stomach, his knees, unforgiving in their greeting as he’s dragged down the stairs.
“I don’t give a right bloody shit about Child Services! You’re a sick little monster, and I’ve had enough of you-“
Fuck, Robert’s as livid as Esca’s ever heard him. For the first time, fear creeps into his chest, cold and clutching. He tries to shake Robert off his trouser leg, but the great brute’s got both sausage arms around him, determined to haul Esca to the bottom of the stairs.
“Ge’roff me,” Esca gasps, kicking his trapped leg. Might as well be stuck under a lorry though, the good it does him. His voice ratchets up an octave. “For fuck’s sake Robert, stop it!”
God, he wishes he had his blade. Never should’a given it away. He could stab Robert in his right ruddy face, that’d make him let go, for sure. Fucking hell-
Grasping about with his hands above him. Esca squeezes his eyes shut. Fingers desperate and searching, they finally bump into the edge of the bucket. Doesn’t give it any thought-wraps his hand around the edge and swings it down, right into Robert’s scrunched-up, hateful face.
With a bellow like a wounded beast, Robert’s hands fly up and Esca kicks into them, Robert slapping his own face, no appendages to catch himself as he tumbles backwards.
Esca doesn’t turn around to look. He can hear it, all right? The crash and rolling tumble is e-fucking-nough to know what’s happening back there, down at the bottom of the stairs, that it can’t be good. The cheap walls of the house shudder with the whale’s descent.
Esca gets to his feet and runs up to the landing. Swings a right and gets into his bedroom, slams the door behind him with a bang, hard enough to make a frame fall down somewhere in the corridor, the shattering of glass splintering the air.
Fuck, Esca thinks.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Esca paces, best as he can, holding the right side of his ribs and wincing with every breath taken.
He stops to rub his face with his hands. Feels something wet and warm smear down his cheeks.
He gets in front of his mirror and checks what it is. It’s blood, he thinks. It’s all over his hands, anyway. His shirt is black so he can’t see the extent of the damage, but the fabric’s wet, sticking to the side of his ribs. He can’t be arsed to check it right now, though, it’s going numb, anyway.
There’s no noise from downstairs, not a peep. Esca never thought he’d see the day he actually wanted to hear Robert clumping about.
Jesus fucking Christ.
He jostles out his mobile. His hands are shaking, making it hard for him to type out to Liathan:
im comin ovver
and off it goes with a little swoosh, envelope flying away into the tiny, pixelated stars on his mobile screen. Esca flips the lid shut, sticks it into his back pocket again.
His rucksack’s downstairs. Esca ent going back for it though, no way in hell. So he grabs the only things he can think of-his iPod and charger, a clean shirt, clean pants. Lopes into the bathroom next door and plucks his toothbrush from the cup on the sink.
That’s it then, innit? Esca stumbles back into his bedroom, looking round to see if he needs anything else. Nothing stands out, though; it’s all just third-hand furniture and clothes from Tesco. Four horrifying years in this little shithole, and all he’s got to show for it can be stuffed into his jacket pockets. The only things that ever mattered to him got left behind in Kingston, burned to rubble in his old house along with his two parents, his two brothers.
Outside, he hears Robert’s clunker pull onto the lawn, the bumper dragging across the kerb with a loud, familiar scrape.
Jeannine’s home. No time to be daydreaming. Esca throws his spare shirt over his shoulder and steps onto his futon bed. Wrenches the window open-normally a simple affair now made difficult as pain lances through his side-but it’s got to be done, and so Esca does it.
He pulls the glass up a couple feet. Enough for him to duck his head under, curl his body through the gap, and step onto the pitched roof that overlooks their neighbour’s tiny, overgrown garden.
With practiced motions, Esca skids down to the edge of the roof and lowers himself overboard, wincing as his torso’s stretched taut before letting go of the gutter. He drops down about five feet, trainers squeaking on wet grass.
He’s behind the house. But even from here, he can hear Jeannine’s shriek.
With a determined set of his mouth, Esca lowers his head and starts the ten-mile trek to Liathan’s.
-----
It’s two in the morning.
“Bloody hell,” Liathan greets him at the door, voice rough with sleep. “It’s called ducking, Esca.”
“Shut up,” he replies wearily, too tired for swapping insults with Liathan. “Just let me in.”
Liathan obliges with a sidestep, letting Esca limp past.
“For fuck’s sake Esca, you’re bleeding onto our tile.”
“I’ll clean it in the morning,” Esca says. Only realizes Liathan was saying that out of horror, that he’s actually proper concerned about Esca, cos Liathan goes to grab a towel and some bandages from the nearest bathroom.
“Why didn’t you say something?” Liathan says, after he’s caught up to Esca halfway down to the basement. “I could’a gotten Daffy’s car, picked you up somewhere.”
“Didn’t want to bother you.” Esca blinks, concentrating hard on making it down the stairs in one piece.
One step.
‘nother step.
Easy, now.
He hears Liathan say his name behind him, but it sounds like an echo, bouncing inside his skull.
Esca.
Then, quieter. Esca!
-----
In the morning-
Scratch that. In the afternoon, when Esca finally wakes up, it’s cos his mobile’s buzzing by his ear.
Blearily wipes his nose, cracks open one eye. Luckily, it’s dark out so he can blink his way to consciousness without sunshine stabbing his pupils into morning shock.
Looks ‘round himself and recognizes Liathan’s room. He’s on Lie-Lie’s squashy, two-seater sofa. No windows down here for light, just the red numbers of Liathan’s bedside clock and some other electric glows like deep-sea creatures trying to catch worms. The clock says it’s half-past three, nearly time for school to let out.
The mobile buzzes again, insistent. Esca gropes under his pillow for the offending device and checks the latest text.
It reads: if you bite it, Daffy’ll cry, an then i’ll hafta come kick your rotting corpse.
Scrolls back to the preceding text that woke him up, also Liathan.
still alive?
Esca snorts a little, closing his mobile. But the outer screen stays lit. Two texts still unread.
They’re both from Marcus.
Esca rolls up with a groan, propping himself up to his elbows. The right side of his ribs throb with fire, but-after a cursory check-least his bones aren’t poking out. He just finds sloppily-applied gauze, stuck to his skin with Scotch tape.
He sits all the way up, thin blanket pooling over his thighs. Only then does Esca flip open his mobile again.
Where r u?
That one’s from the morning. The second message: Is this about yesterday?
That one’s from about an hour ago. Esca hits ‘reply’.
His fingers hover over the numbers, but he doesn’t know what to type. He could say ‘no’, that he didn’t skip school cos of Marcus bloody Aquila and their awkward non-date-that-felt-like-a-date. But then he’d have to explain why he wasn’t in class. And the idea of mentioning Robert makes him queasy. Fuck, he doesn’t even know if the bugger’s still alive, or if Esca’s gone and killed someone overnight.
The cursor flashes at him, slowly, lazily. Like it’s rolling its eyes at Esca, wondering why the bloody fuck he’s taking so long to bang a message out. It gives up on him, the screen going dark.
Esca mashes a button to get it bright again.
He ought to just make something up. That he’s come down with something, a cough, a fever; he’ll be back in no time. That he hasn’t given Marcus’ ill-timed boner a second thought since it happened (false). But then, he’d eventually have to go back to school to keep up the façade, and Esca ent doing that, no way. Thas the first place Jeannine would go to look for him.
His mobile powers down again. This time, Esca lets it. Claps his mobile shut and tosses it onto the coffee table with a clatter. Falls back against the sunken cushions of Liathan’s sofa and blows the fringe out of his eyes.
Better to say nothing at all than to sound like a complete twat.
Feeling tired again, Esca closes his eyes and rests awhile longer.
-----
“Your boyfriend was asking after you,” Liathan says when he gets home. He throws his rucksack at Esca, who catches it with grimace. Rocks up all the same, swinging his legs over the side of the couch to sit up properly.
“What are you on about?” Esca asks, though he’s got a sneaky feeling he knows already.
“Your boyfriend. You know, the Italian Stallion. Tall as a tree-“ Liathan raises a cupped palm, so high he grazes the low ceiling with the backs of his knuckles. “Dumb as rocks. Wanking material for Kirby and all the other footballers after they found out he used to play fly-half for the number one team in Italy. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. Malarkey will be so heartbroken.”
“It’s Marcus, you tosser. And he’s not my boyfriend,” Esca says, without real heat. “What did he ask you?”
Liathan whumps down onto the sofa, jostling Esca’s cushion from the force of it.
“Ey, you didn’t take these?” Liathan asks, reaching forward to pick up two tablets on the coffee table. “It’s codeine, man. Not even the generic shite. Swiped ‘em from Mum.”
“Didn’t see ‘em,” Esca says distractedly. “Well?”
Liathan shrugs, tossing back the little pink pills and swallowing audibly.
“Well nuffink,” he says after. “He asked where you was. I called him a dago. Then Daffy arrived and I came home to you.” He makes a kissy face at Esca, who shoves him away.
Liathan just leans back on his couch, stretching out like a languid cat. “So,” he continues, propping his feet up on the low table. “Wot’s your plan? Much as I’d love to hear you bitch at me twenty-four-seven, you can’t stay here forever. Da wouldn’t let you. Hates freeloaders.”
“I ent a freeloader,” Esca says roughly. “This is just temporary, aye? I gotta make tracks, anyhow. Jeannine will eventually come looking for me here.”
“Well, I didn’t hear nuffink about no dead bastards today, so Robert’s probably still breathing. Shame, that.”
Relief courses through Esca’s body. “Never thought I’d be glad to hear that, but I am. I’d be right fucked if the plod was after me. Still, I can’t go home, thas for fucking sure.”
“So rent someplace.”
“M’not sixteen yet, not for another two weeks.” Esca turns to Liathan. “Maybe you can hide me here ‘til then. Your da wouldn’t have to find out.”
Liathan sits up. “What are you, Anne bloody Frank? I can’t do that, there’s about twenty other eyes and ears in this fucking household, you know that. Can’t bloody well keep you under my skirts, can I?”
“Eh,” Esca grunts, flopping onto his back. “Worth a try.”
“I can give you a couple days. After that you’re on your own.”
On his own, on his own. Esca’s always on his bloody own.
Liathan slaps him upside the head.
“Ow!”
“Quit feeling sorry for yourself, it’s bloody annoying. Just bounce around ‘till then, yeah? Wot about Molly Aiken? She practically gags for your weenie whistle every time you’re within ten feet.”
Esca wrinkles his nose. “Gross. No. I’d rather sleep in the street.”
“Your foreign boyfriend, then?”
“Wot?” Esca looks at Liathan like he’s grown two heads. “I don’t-I barely know him, Jesus Christ,” he splutters.
Liathan laughs, slapping Esca hard on his back like he’s forgotten about Esca’s broken ribs, fucking ow.
“Quit it, you’ll make it start bleeding again,” Esca says, squirming away.
“Whinger.”
“Arsehole.”
Liathan pokes Esca in the ribs. It’s on the wrong side, luckily, but Esca yelps anyway and shoves Lie-Lie’s stupid, laughing face as far away from him as possible.
Back | Next
Master Post
Characters: Marcus/Esca, Liathan, Cottia, Uncle Aquila, Placidus, etc.
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Warnings: high school AU so the boys are 16/17
Word Count: 46k (8,100 this part)
Summary: Cottingswood High, Yorkshire. You get all kinds, but as someone who's bounced around Child Services, has a hot-headed chav for a best friend, and gets mistaken for a girl by the daft new student in History, Esca MacCunoval is not your ordinary kid.
PART TWO: Liathan is a Two-Bit Tosser Who Pisses Himself Like a Retarded Monkey Which, That’s Unfair, Apologies to the Monkey
It's period five. Esca's skiving off English. He'll get the call home, o' course, stupid automated thing from the main office, ratting him out, but luckily Robert either doesn't know how to work the voicemail (probable) or he just doesn't give a rat's arse about what Esca gets up to during school (definite).
Liathan blows smoke into his face.
"Fuck off, mate," Esca says, waving off the cloying stink of pot rising up around them. "Don't wanna be inhaling none of your rank-ass skunk weed, for fuck's sake."
"Ey, why not? This is premium grade, top-shelf mari-ju-ahna, ya hear? You ought to be begging me for sloppy seconds." Liathan takes a long hit from his joint, the paper burning down almost to his mouth.
Esca ducks the inevitable plume of smoke exhaled his way, pulling his rucksack off his shoulder and tossing it onto the grass with a thud. Hoists himself up onto an empty bar that hasn't got a bike locked to it.
"I hate that shit," Esca moans. "Makes my eyeballs hurt, and then I feel retarded as fuck for the next few hours, almost like your level of retarded. Which is really bloody retarded." Esca shudders. "Yeah, no thanks."
"Ta, mate," Liathan says sarcastically, leaning over from his seat on the bike stand next to him and flicks some ashes onto Esca's lap. Esca kicks out in his general direction, landing nothing.
"Aye, give me a jimmy of whisky any day," Esca says absent-mindedly.
They sit in silence for awhile, Liathan puffing away at a second joint, Esca closing his eyes trying to feel the wan, autumnal sunlight filtering through the open mesh of the bike shed and onto his face.
Suddenly, the cage gives a great rattle and Esca pitches forward with surprise. Catches his feet just in time, heels digging into the mushy grass beneath him.
"Fuck's sake!" Liathan barks, throwing the stub of his spliff onto the ground and leaping off his seat. "We're trying to have a little relax, here, you bloody asswipes!"
Esca's eyes widen when he see Marcus jog over, chasing the errant football that'd crashed into the bike shed. He's wearing a P.E. uniform, the heather grey shirt, while normally swimming on the other boys (namely, Esca), looks about two sizes too small on Marcus.
And Jesus, the navy P.E. shorts are even shorter than the ridiculous things Marcus voluntarily puts on; Esca can practically see his balls hanging out for fuck's sake. As for the scar, now that he's looking for it, he can see raised, pinkish skin running up Marcus' calf, bone-side, zagging across his kneecap before fading out into the olive skin of his thighs.
"Fuck's wrong wif you?"
Liathan's quiet voice does more to startle Esca than any of his usual shouting.
"Nuffink," Esca says too quickly. Fuck, he can feel his cheeks warm up.
Liathan calls out to Marcus, "Fetch your bloody ball like a good puppy and fuck off, would 'ya? You're killin' my high with all your caveman grunting and stomping about."
Marcus shoots Liathan a dirty look, swiping the football off the grass with one hand and tucking it under his arm. He's about to turn and get back in the game, which is still going on ten or twenty yards away where the mixed P.E. class is in session, when Esca yells out:
"The fuck you running about on your leg, for?"
He feels more than sees Liathan send him a perplexed look. Hell, it's probably on Esca's face too-he didn't mean to say that, the words came from bloody nowhere.
Marcus turns back to Esca with a stubborn expression on his face; one that Esca is getting to know quite well.
"It's fine," Marcus grits between his teeth.
Liathan perks up next to Esca, like a wolf scenting prey. "Ey dago, whas wrong with your fucking leg? Hm? You a cripple or something?"
"My leg. Is fine," Marcus growls. His arm's clenched so tight 'round the football, Esca thinks it might pop like an overinflated tyre.
Trying not to think too much about what he's doing, Esca pushes off the metal bar and strides out of the bike shed, up to where Marcus is so that they're out of earshot from Liathan.
"What the hell, Marcus. Don't tell me you've been running around, being some big football hero on a leg that don't work so great. I saw you in class this morning-you looked like you were shitting a brick trying to keep it together."
"I don't owe you an explanation," Marcus says. "In fact, I never should've told you about my injury." His cold words hide nuffink; he's clearly mortified, especially in front of Liathan who's watching them like he's stalking his dinner.
For a guy who's so confident about everything else, Marcus sure as hell gets his knickers in a twist over a stupid broken leg.
"You should tell Mrs. Harding about it. I'm sure you can do weights or something, you shouldn't be running a fucking marathon on that thing," Esca says, trying to sound gentle. Doesn't want to scare Marcus off from a good idea.
Marcus' eyes warily flick over Esca's shoulder to where Liathan's probably gotten bored by now. Probably lighting up a third joint; Lie-Lie's a right fucking idiot sometimes, he likes smoking too much and getting paranoid. Says it's funny, the shit that runs through his head while it's happening. Never mind Esca's the one who has to hold his hand as he's rocking back and forth in a corner somewhere.
Marcus looks back to Esca, and he seems to relax a bit, broad shoulders easing up. "You're right," he relents. "Maybe I'll talk to Mrs. Harding. I’m really supposed to be keeping off this leg until next PT."
"Ey, you know," Esca says, snapping his fingers as he thinks aloud. "I’m good at shit like that. Liathan's mum owns a spa, she taught me some stuff, like massages and whatever. I can take a look at your leg, you know, if you want..."
Esca trails off, realizing-with no small amount of horror-exactly what he's saying. "Oh shit," he says, rubbing his face with both hands. "That sounds completely faggy. Fuck. Sorry. I'm not like, trying to feel up your balls or nuffink. I'm just pretty good at it, but, erm, yeah never mind, forget I said anything-"
Marcus reaches out and grips Esca on the bicep with his free hand. "Esca," he says, small grin lurking somewhere in his eyes. "You're rambling. And stop. That'd be great, if you could check out my leg. I'm not used to this weather, so it's been acting up all week. So...thanks. If the offer's still on the table."
Marcus keeps holding on to Esca's bicep; he's got no bleeding sense of boundaries. Esca tries to ignore how his face is probably ripe as a red fucking tomato as he replies, "Yeah, 'course. After school, maybe? But I'd have to get some stuff from Liathan's, so, erm. A little later?"
Marcus lets go of Esca's arm, pats the same spot genially. "Yeah, that works for me."
They make plans. He takes Marcus' number and dials it with his mobile, so that Marcus will have his too. Esca doesn't have any experience with dating, but it feels an awful lot like they're setting up a date. Fucking hell.
"I'll see you tonight," Marcus says with a grin wide enough to be on a toothpaste advert.
"Erm, yeah. T'ra," Esca mumbles back.
-----
When he heads back under the bike shed, Liathan's pissed himself laughing. No, seriously-that's Lie-Lie's bloody rank piss that's stained his jeans dark blue right at the crotch.
"You're bloody something, you know that?" Esca gripes, though he's unable to hide a smirk at how utterly ridiculous Liathan is. Helps him up into a sitting position, then squats in front of him. "You gonna be okay? I'm heading back to class."
Liathan covers his face with his hands, shoulders shaking. "Holy Jesus Mary and Joseph," he manages. "Everyone's right. You're a bloody faggot, aren't you?"
Esca feels the blood drain from his face. It’s no worse than the usual slurs Liathan will sling at Esca, but it's too much, too soon after he's bloody well enacted the opening sequence to a skin flick by offering to give Marcus a massage.
"Wait!" Liathan shouts, hand outstretched but Esca's moved away. "I don't care if you like it up the bunghole! People do all sorts of fucked up shit! You'll always be my wittle Eschka."
Esca grabs his rucksack off the grass. "Fuck off, cunt," Esca says, nudging Liathan in the shoulder with his foot so that his giggling friend topples backwards, hopefully into his own puddle of urine. "I'll show you much of a faggot I am when I fuck Davina in her car after school."
"Yeah, yeah," Liathan laughs him off. "I'll see you later, FagCunoval."
"She likes it doggy-style!" Esca shouts back, storming off to his next lesson.
-----
After school, Esca makes up some excuse to Davina about leaving his shit at their place. Lie-Lie's still too baked to notice that Esca is lying right out his arse, so Davina shrugs and takes them both back to their house.
No, strike that. Davina takes them back to their mansion. Cos the thing is, Liathan might be a fucking chav of a little swot, but it ent real. None of it's real, cos Lie-Lie née Liathan Brendan Rhona III is actually about as loaded as one can get. Davina only works a job cos she wants the experience, cos she’s lovely. Not because she needs the money.
Nah, the Rhonas are proper loaded. Their da owns something like half the city through real estate, which also means he's bloody busy and could give a flying fuck that his wife's up the duff again or whatever.
Which is why Lie-Lie's so fucked up in the head. Which is why him an Esca are friends.
Esca's about to follow Davina through the front entrance, but Liathan blocks him with his arm. "Wait," he says, sounding dangerously serious. "Stop."
"Whatsit?" Esca asks.
"Why you comin' over, Esca? What are you doing?"
Esca bounces from foot to foot.
He's coming over to ask Mrs. Rhona the best way to massage a hurt leg, maybe pick up a bottle of oil cos you can't do a proper rub-down without it. He's coming over so he can go to Marcus' right after, prepared to make his leg hurt less, and to do it right. It's just fair, all right? He feels bloody guilty about kicking Marcus to his knees now that he knows about the injury. Hopes he didn't fuck anything up permanently.
Ha! Esca can see hisself, he knows what bloody rot it all is, the thoughts in his head. Proper truth, he doesn’t know what he’s doing.
"I come over all the time," Esca says cagily.
"Yeah but, you said you left something in my room. You didn't leave anything in my room."
Fucking hell, Liathan gets scary Rain Man sometimes while he's flying high. "S'wot?" Esca says, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I wanna come over. Liverpool's gonna get their arse handed to them against the Gunners, which means Robert's gonna be cross-eyed pissed and double pissed off, which means he's gonna fuck up the closest thing to him, which is gonna be me if you don't let me come in right now. An I don't wanna get fucked right now, m'whole body still bloody hurts from Monday."
Liathan blinks at him slowly, as if considering Esca's words. Esca can't imagine what conclusion he's come to, though, as Liathan's eyes suddenly turn nervous. He leans in to whisper, "Fuck, Esca. You should'a said, mate."
Esca licks his lips. "Said what, now?"
"That Robert's abusing you like that."
Esca frowns. "You know he smacks me around a bit, so what?"
"No, I mean." Liathan looks over his shoulder, where the gardener across the street is hosing the grounds of a gated house. "I didn't know he abused you like that. Like, you know." Liathan makes an 'o' with his thumb and forefinger, then thrusts in and out of it with his opposite index finger.
It takes a bit to make the connection, then Esca's cuffing his stoner fucktard of a friend 'round the head with a half-hearted backhand. "You're something, you know?"
"Is that why you don't like fanny no more?" Liathan asks, louder but no less serious. Starting to sound a bit upset, in fact. "Fuck, Esca. Don't let Robert turn you into a turd burglar!"
"Bloody hell," Esca laughs. "The fuck they put in that skunk, today?" He shoves past Liathan and enters the Rhona house.
-----
Esca catches Mrs. Rhona in the courtyard. It's chilly out, it being October and all, but she's got a heavy wool shawl wrapped 'round her shoulders as she sips her tea, reading a magazine about clothes or makeup or summat.
"Mrs. Rhona?" Esca asks, knocking on the glass door politely, though he's already stepped onto the cobblestone outside. She beckons him over.
Mrs. Rhona isn't a warm lady. Even with seven kids, she's about as maternal as Jeannine is-meaning about as maternal as a spider that eats her own young-but at least she's never looked down on Esca even though he's a swill-mouthed orphan who lives on an estate Mr. Rhona could probably buy ten times over, that is, if he wanted to, but no one in their bloody right minds would bloody want to, cos it's a shite estate full of broke-ass cars parked on weedy lawns and dirty plastic flamingos out front.
Esca declines the tea that Liathan's mum offers to ring for. But he does ask her for tips on how to relax a leg that's acting up a year out from being broken all over. She's succinct, but tells him enough so that Esca can feel less like a charlatan when he goes over to Marcus' and more like he can actually help the naffin' Roman.
Mrs. Rhona directs Esca to her bathroom upstairs, where she keeps extra bottles of herbal massage oil and other products from the spa inside a cabinet. Esca opens the wrong one at first; sees two neat rows of orange prescription bottles, lined up like marching soldiers inside her medicine cabinet. Quickly shuts it and tries the next little door, relieved when it's filled with what she said it'd be-spa supplies-and pulls out the first bottle of oil he sees.
All right. Armed and loaded. Esca descends the main staircase, taking two steps at a time until he's gone underground into the basement, where Liathan's room is.
Inside the gloom, he can barely make out Liathan's silhouette playing video games on a small telly.
"Ey fuckhead, I'm heading out," Esca calls from the doorway.
"Don't let Robert pound you in the arse unless you like it," Liathan replies, his voice monotone. His attention's onscreen, where he's killing Nazis with a grenade launcher. His high must’a worn off, cos he’s back to being a right arsehole.
Esca rolls his eyes. "See you tomorrow," he says. Liathan waves him off.
All right, then. Esca checks his mobile. It's five o'clock.
He ent nervous. He isn't.
-----
"Where should I..." Marcus looks around his bedroom, Esca's eyes following his.
It's a pretty large room. Not as big as Liathan's original bedroom (before he relocated to the basement, on the grounds he didn't want to "live in wealth like the intern-fucking, parasitic money-sucking dicksuck like his father, this perfectly sound basement would suit him much better, thank you very much"), but Marcus' room is still big enough to hold about five cars inside it.
There's a queen bed in the corner-the comfort of which Esca has tested personally, just a few days back, though he'd been too fucked up to really notice the quality of its bedsprings or whatever-and a modern-looking birch desk in the other corner. A standard weight machine hangs out near the bed, which feels so bloody Marcus, it don’t even stick out.
All the bits and bobs about the room feel like the Roman, in fact-sturdy and practical, with traces of warmth in places you wouldn’t expect. Like the single framed photo of what must be his parents on the wall, a younger Marcus with them. They’re in an orchard of some sort, trees all around, swollen bags of fruit crowding their ankles.
Marcus’ laptop has a rugby sticker on it, some Italian crest Esca doesn’t recognize. On the nightstand, the surface is completely clear but for the leather-band watch Marcus normally has on.
“Do you want a chair?” Marcus asks, sounding rather at a loss.
"Nah, I’ll be moving around,” Esca says, realizing he probably looks like he’s casing the joint. He draws his eyes away and picks the obvious place for Marcus to sit. “You can go on the bed. Wait, no-" He’s nearly forgotten how bloody gay this whole thing is; Esca doesn't need to make it worse. "Never mind. The bench," he amends, gesturing to the weight machine.
Marcus nods amiably and lumbers over. His leg is clearly still giving him trouble; he winces as he lets himself down, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bench, barbells to the right of his head. He looks up at Esca, blinking expectantly.
He's facing the first-story window, so the setting sun bathes Marcus in low, warm light. He looks even more tan than usual. Kind of orange, actually. His eyes are practically glowing.
"What now?" Marcus asks.
Esca coughs. "Face the other way," he says, making his voice as professional as he can. "Like you're gonna lift weights."
Marcus obeys, turning to Esca, straddling the narrow, padded bench. The sight of it makes Esca's palms sweat for some reason. He tries to be discrete about wiping them against the sides of his legs as he steps over to the foot of the bench.
"Okay, so. Lie down." Esca hopes his voice doesn't sound as strangled as it does in his ears as Marcus lets himself fall back.
Luckily, Marcus is wearing shorts, so Esca doesn't have to make him take his trousers off or anything just to get to his leg. Jesus, his face is getting red just thinking about it.
He does, however, have to get Marcus' trainers off. Notices how Marcus tenses up as Esca kneels down.
"Jus’ gotta get these off," he explains, working one shoe from Marcus foot, throwing it over his shoulder.
"Should I put some music on?" Marcus chuckles. "Barry White, maybe?"
Esca's bloody thankful Marcus can't see his face right now. "Fuck off," he says, yanking Marcus' dirty sock off and tossing it towards his head, which earns a cross between a snort and a giggle.
Jesus Christ. Esca rubs his face with his shoulder. "Stay bloody still," he says, working off Marcus' other shoe and sock.
Done. Marcus is ready. He's turned quite still, in fact. Esca is ready. He's got the bottle of oil next to the bench, and a small rag soaking in a bucket of hot water on the other side.
Well, nothing for it, right? Esca got himself into this bloody situation. He's gonna see it through.
"Leg up," he says, letting Marcus know what's coming next, the way Mrs. Rhona coached Esca. Marcus' leg is heavy in Esca's hands, muscled and solid like it ent broken in three places with probably enough metal inside it to stick magnets to.
Esca pulls the injured leg towards him, sets it onto the bench so that the sole of Marcus' foot is facing him.
There's a tiny mole on Marcus' big toe. There's a slightly larger mole on the ball of his foot. Esca wants to draw a line between the two.
"What, do my feet smell?" Marcus asks. He's joking, but he sounds a little apprehensive too.
"Not any more than you normally do," Esca replies easily, reaching for the oil. With a little snick, he pops the lid open.
Squirts a dollop of oil into a cupped palm.
The feel of it-slightly clammy, but perfectly greasy and quick to warm-is so familiar. The smell of it, faint but there, herbal like sage or whatever it is people put next to roasted potatoes-is also familiar.
How had he not fucking recognized the bottle when he grabbed it?
It's familiar cos this is stuff Esca uses to wank with, and now he’s gone half-hard without a beat. Fucking hell. Must be that Pavolian thing or whatever, something about dogs, like you're so used to a particular trigger that your body anticipates what's next without even checking if it's okay by you.
This ent okay by Esca; he's not about to have a wank. He's trying to be bloody professional about remedying the damage he'd done to Marcus the day before. This is NOT the bloody time to be sporting a stiffy.
"What are you doing down there?" Marcus' voice filters over.
Fuck. Esca slaps his hands together and vigorously rubs them together, heating up the oil between his palms.
"Shut up and think of the queen," Esca says curtly. He pulls his palms apart with a little squelching sound, then promptly grabs Marcus 'round the ankle with two hands-
Wills his half-mast erection to make itself scarce-
and slides his palms up Marcus' scarred calf, quickly, almost roughly. The dusting of dark hairs on Marcus' leg catches the oil, and by the time Esca's reached his knee he has to go back to the little bottle and squeeze out another handful.
The bottle makes an obscene sound when he lets go and air gets into the tube, propelling another whiff of sage. Fuck, he can practically feel his hand on himself, if he just wrapped his fingers around his dick and gave it a slow, hard pull…
He's just thankful Marcus' eyes are on the ceiling, where they'll stay for the next half hour.
So instead of his own dick like he wants, Esca reaches for Marcus' thigh, thick as any rugby player’s, and glides his palms over the smooth, built muscle. When he digs a little too hard Marcus grunts; Esca eases up, but not too much or else it won't do him any good.
"Don't be such a pussy," Esca says, taking his embarrassment out on Marcus. "It's just a massage. I'm not trying to re-break your leg or nuffink."
"Dude, it hurts."
"That, right there!" Esca pulls his hands back and rises up on his knees, making sure his tented denims are still out of sight before catching Marcus' eye with a little wave. " 'Dude.' What sort of piss-poor Roman says dude? You're not even from bloody Italy, are you?"
Two spots of colour rise up on Marcus' cheekbones. "I am too. I just grew up on a military base, okay? But my entire family lives in Rome. Well, Uncle and Father excepted." He turns shifty, eyes wandering away.
Esca takes pity. Lord knows he doesn't want to discuss his own family matters with anyone, much less a near-stranger he’s only known since Monday. No matter how strangely comfortable Esca feels around said stranger.
He rocks back onto his heels and proceeds to massage the bunched up muscles of Marcus' calf.
"So. American, then? Bloody Yank."
"I'm not-" Marcus' next words evaporate, taken over by a little gasp. Esca smirks. Oh, he knows. He's bloody good at this. Furrows his brows and gets in real deep, kneading the knotted ligaments just above Marcus' knee.
"God. You're good at this." Marcus sounds out of breath.
Esca smirks. "Was just thinking the same thing meself."
"Cocky bastard."
"Rightfully so."
The only response he gets is a bitten-off noise, which is gratifying enough that Esca wants more. So he pulls out all the stops.
Adds a bit more oil onto his hands. Places his thumbs at the arch of Marcus' foot, and digs.
"Oh..."
Esca massages around there a bit, moving a little to the left, then the right, then up some. He's good at the build-up too, knows just when to lightly trail his thumbs down, inciting a small spasm and a choked laugh. Counters it with a hard push into the heel of Marcus' foot and drags all the way up to the tips of his toes, earning a low rumble. Finally, Esca indulges himself and connects the two moles on Marcus’ foot with a teasing swipe of his left thumb.
"Jesus," Marcus yelps, foot jumping.
"Hmm?" Esca smiles, kneeling up a bit to check Marcus' expression at the other end of the bench. He's pleased to find Marcus in obvious bliss, lips pursed in an ecstatic little 'o' shape, like he’s seconds from drooling on himself. Attractive.
Even still, something about the sight makes Esca's dick twitch. God, he's getting off on all this power, ent he? Marcus is like putty under his hands, and it feels damned good, Esca won't lie.
He's fully hard now, not least because Marcus has taken to groaning every time Esca does something he likes. He started off quiet, restrained, like he couldn't help the noises coming out of him but was damned well trying to. It's been fifteen or twenty minutes now, though, and it's like Marcus doesn't even realize how he sounds no more.
It feels like a bloody game. What movement will make what sound? How silly can Esca make Marcus sound?
"Fuck," Marcus says, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Esca," he whinges.
Pretty damned silly, Esca thinks, with no small amount of pride. He inches his fingers higher up, walking them up like itsy bitsy spiders, cos his fingers are starting to get sore from all the deep tissue crap. He's just playing now, really. Marcus' thigh jerks, kicking up the hem of his loose basketball shorts and revealing his tan line. Olive skin gives way to pale territory, the border of which Esca traces with his thumb, smearing oil across it like he's painting in colour.
"I'm getting tired," Esca complains, flicking his eyes up to see if Marcus is even paying attention, cos he's gone completely still, no longer responsive.
His eyes snag halfway up, however.
Through Marcus' shorts, Esca can see the mound of Marcus' bits. He isn't entirely hard, but not entirely soft, either.
It's automatic to snatch his hands back, face burning.
Fuck. That wasn't what this was about. Forget the fact he's excited, too, Esca's trousers trapping his cock in a denim prison.
"Esca," Marcus says, sounding panicked. He sits up as he yanks down on the hem of his t-shirt, trying to hide his crotch, but it's no use.
"Shit, I'm sorry," Marcus says, his face bright red. "I didn't know. I mean-"
"Forget it," Esca says, hunching over to hide his own uncomfortable state. He shoves his hands into the bucket next to the bench, water gone lukewarm, and scrubs his palms free of massage oil with the towel that's in there. Wrings it out, splashing onto himself and a bit onto the carpet, then slaps the wet towel onto Marcus' thigh with a loud splat.
"Look, it's no big deal. Happens all the time," Esca babbles, scrubbing Marcus down with two hands, rough like he's sanding down a block of wood.
"All the time?" Marcus frowns. "Like, with other people?"
"Yeah, sure," Esca says. He drops the towel into the bucket, getting more water on himself. "I mean, not me personally, no. Not me. But Liathan says so. He’d know, yeah?"
"Liathan?" Marcus asks dubiously.
"He's a right naffin' retard, but sometimes it ent all bullshit."
"Right," Marcus says uncertainly. His face is still flushed, but at least his stiffy's gone down. Not that Esca checked. But those shorts are bloody thin, don't leave nothing to the imagination, s'all he's saying.
Esca tosses the greasy bottle of massage oil into his rucksack, then picks up the used bucket of water. "I gotta go," he says, standing up too quickly, water sloshing onto his trouser leg. "Robert's gonna be pissed I got home so late." Also, Esca's dick isn't cooperating like Marcus' is, because it's still half-interested. And while Marcus has a reason for his body to betray him-Esca? No bloody excuse for getting turned on by touching another bloke.
Fuck's sake. Esca swallows hard and turns around. "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah? Hope your leg feels better. Sleep well. Erm. I mean, I hope you can sleep, cos you're right cranky otherwise. Don't want you taking it out on me again in the morning."
"Wait," Marcus says, sounding upset. “How are you going to get home? If you wait two seconds, I can grab my keys-“
Trapped in that little box of a car, all dark and cosy, Marcus taking up the entire space with his huge, footballer build as Esca desperately tries to wile away a rogue erection? Ha bloody ha. No merci.
"How you think I got here? Took the bus," Esca says, already edging his way out Marcus' bedroom door. "And I can take it again. I'll see you tomorrow."
He dashes down the corridor, going out the way he came. He thinks he hears Marcus call after him, but he can't stay another bloody second, he just can’t. Marcus might notice what’s going on below Esca’s belt. As if this weren't awkward enough, already.
Outside the front door, Esca tosses out the dirty water into the neatly manicured hedges, then swings the bucket over his shoulder like a bookbag.
The bus stop is a couple blocks down. As Esca rounds up to it, his mobile buzzes in his back pocket.
Esca swings the bucket to his left hand and pulls out his mobile. His default ringtone of Whodunnit? growls to life, Eve Libertine’s screaming vocals sounding crap on such tiny speakers. Marcus' name blinks innocently on the outer screen.
Esca deliberates picking up, but he takes too long and eventually the mobile rings out. Esca wonders if Marcus will leave a voicemail.
He doesn’t.
But then a text comes through, and Esca flips the screen up.
Sorry for making you uncomfortable. It was just a really good masage, didn't mean anything. You can copy my notes tomorrow and i wont even complane :)
Esca wets his lips, unsure of what the tugging sensation in his chest means. It feels strange. Marcus does bloody weird things to him.
He snaps his mobile shut and doesn't reply. He'll play it by ear tomorrow. Hopefully his brains will come back before then, and he can function like a human fucking being again.
-----
As soon as Esca reaches his drive, he smells trouble.
The lights are all on in the house. Above the front door, too. Esca briefly considers climbing through his second-story window, but that’s daft-it’s his own bloody house, innit? Why the fuck should he be sneaking in like a bloody thief in the night?
Squares his shoulders and marches up the front entrance. But before he can even get his keys out, the door snatches open.
It’s Robert, his face ruddy as a red balloon. “The fuck time’s it?” he splutters, breath reeking of alcohol. “Just now you get home, Esca? I needed you to pick up some bloody toilet paper, but the grocery’s fucking closed now, innit?”
“It’s called a mobile, Robert,” Esca grouses, squeezing past the great slug. “You could’a rang me if you weren’t too fucking lazy to get off your arse and pick up the phone.”
“The fuck you say to me?”
Esca picks up his feet, hoping to avoid a fight, but Robert can be awful quick for such a fat bastard. Fists a hand into Esca’s leather jacket and yanks him back by the scruff like he’s a fucking dog or summat.
“I asked you a question, you ungrateful little shit.”
Esca steels himself with a sharp inhale through his nose and says, “I called you a lazy, sodding arsehole-“
He expects the backhand across his cheek, ‘nuff so that he moves with it, absorbs some of its bite. Pulls his head right back and stares insolently into Robert’s glinting, ice-blue eyes.
“Where were you, anyway?” Robert slurs, pulling Esca’s face near his. Bloody disgusting; Robert’s face is all dried out from the oncoming winter, and he’s got white crusties in the corners of his mouth and on his chin. “You smell like-like trees, or summat.”
Must be the scent of the massage oil, still lingering. “Out with Liathan. We were naffin’ about at the park,” Esca lies. Doesn’t know why, he just does. “Now can I go upstairs?”
Robert looks Esca up and down, like he’s just noticing all the crap Esca’s laden down with, his rucksack and the bloomin’ bucket still knocking about. His thick fingers loosen in Esca’s collar, giving him a shove towards the stairs instead.
“Liathan,” he snorts. His voice is quieter, like he’s talking to his self, but Esca can still hear him en route to the staircase. “Should’a figured you was out shagging your boyfriend in the woods. Fucking nancy boy.”
For fuck’s sake. All fucking day long, Esca gets shit from people. Gets shit from Ronald and his rugby shitheads-gets it from Lie-Lie too, hell. And now Robert? He’s bloody sick of it. Bloody, fucking, sick of it.
“So what?” Esca snaps, whirling around. He throws his rucksack and bucket onto the stained carpet, twin thuds at either side of him. “So fucking wot if I have a boyfriend?”
Fuck. He dunnae what he’s saying, words taking right over. “So maybe I do. Maybe I like it up the arse. Maybe other boys like it up the arse, and I don’t mind giving it to ‘em. So I ask youse, so fucking what? What you gonna do about it?”
Robert turns a dark shade of aubergine, the colour crawling all the way down the stretched-out neck of his grubby white tee. His face is twitching, like he wants to say something arse-rippingly rude, but hasn’t quite landed on the verbage just yet.
“Nothing to say to that, hm Robert? That’s wot I thought. Cos you can’t do anything to me. It ent a crime no more, being a poof. And if you kill me you’ve got Child Services to deal with. Won’t get no more of that extra dosh at the end of the month, yeah? And how’s you gonna pay for your fucking Tetley’s if not by the hand’a the government-“
Robert launches himself forward, his apish arms swinging towards Esca, two burly fists coming, one-two, one-two. Esca dances away, hopping backwards, tripping over the foot of the staircase so that he lands on his arse, slide-thumping down a step.
“I’ll kill you,” Robert roars, coming after him. Shit.
Esca scrambles around and yanks himself up with the banister, gets his feet under him as he dashes up, two steps at a time. He doesn’t expect a thrown bucket though, which slams right into his lower back, wooden handle of it smacking into his ribs, bloody fuck.
Esca crumples into his side, wincing as he feels the tender bones cry out in agony. Fuck’s sake, they were just starting to heal up. He needs to keep moving, though. The landing’s only a few feet away. If he can just get into his bedroom he can lock himself in, and Robert usually leaves him alone after that. With a heaving limp, Esca hobbles up another stair-
Behind him, Robert gets a meaty hand around one of Esca’s ankles and pulls him down, easily enough cos Esca’s maybe a third of Robert’s weight. Goes south like a right rag doll, in fact, every edge of the wooden stairs making itself known to Esca’s chest, his stomach, his knees, unforgiving in their greeting as he’s dragged down the stairs.
“I don’t give a right bloody shit about Child Services! You’re a sick little monster, and I’ve had enough of you-“
Fuck, Robert’s as livid as Esca’s ever heard him. For the first time, fear creeps into his chest, cold and clutching. He tries to shake Robert off his trouser leg, but the great brute’s got both sausage arms around him, determined to haul Esca to the bottom of the stairs.
“Ge’roff me,” Esca gasps, kicking his trapped leg. Might as well be stuck under a lorry though, the good it does him. His voice ratchets up an octave. “For fuck’s sake Robert, stop it!”
God, he wishes he had his blade. Never should’a given it away. He could stab Robert in his right ruddy face, that’d make him let go, for sure. Fucking hell-
Grasping about with his hands above him. Esca squeezes his eyes shut. Fingers desperate and searching, they finally bump into the edge of the bucket. Doesn’t give it any thought-wraps his hand around the edge and swings it down, right into Robert’s scrunched-up, hateful face.
With a bellow like a wounded beast, Robert’s hands fly up and Esca kicks into them, Robert slapping his own face, no appendages to catch himself as he tumbles backwards.
Esca doesn’t turn around to look. He can hear it, all right? The crash and rolling tumble is e-fucking-nough to know what’s happening back there, down at the bottom of the stairs, that it can’t be good. The cheap walls of the house shudder with the whale’s descent.
Esca gets to his feet and runs up to the landing. Swings a right and gets into his bedroom, slams the door behind him with a bang, hard enough to make a frame fall down somewhere in the corridor, the shattering of glass splintering the air.
Fuck, Esca thinks.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Esca paces, best as he can, holding the right side of his ribs and wincing with every breath taken.
He stops to rub his face with his hands. Feels something wet and warm smear down his cheeks.
He gets in front of his mirror and checks what it is. It’s blood, he thinks. It’s all over his hands, anyway. His shirt is black so he can’t see the extent of the damage, but the fabric’s wet, sticking to the side of his ribs. He can’t be arsed to check it right now, though, it’s going numb, anyway.
There’s no noise from downstairs, not a peep. Esca never thought he’d see the day he actually wanted to hear Robert clumping about.
Jesus fucking Christ.
He jostles out his mobile. His hands are shaking, making it hard for him to type out to Liathan:
im comin ovver
and off it goes with a little swoosh, envelope flying away into the tiny, pixelated stars on his mobile screen. Esca flips the lid shut, sticks it into his back pocket again.
His rucksack’s downstairs. Esca ent going back for it though, no way in hell. So he grabs the only things he can think of-his iPod and charger, a clean shirt, clean pants. Lopes into the bathroom next door and plucks his toothbrush from the cup on the sink.
That’s it then, innit? Esca stumbles back into his bedroom, looking round to see if he needs anything else. Nothing stands out, though; it’s all just third-hand furniture and clothes from Tesco. Four horrifying years in this little shithole, and all he’s got to show for it can be stuffed into his jacket pockets. The only things that ever mattered to him got left behind in Kingston, burned to rubble in his old house along with his two parents, his two brothers.
Outside, he hears Robert’s clunker pull onto the lawn, the bumper dragging across the kerb with a loud, familiar scrape.
Jeannine’s home. No time to be daydreaming. Esca throws his spare shirt over his shoulder and steps onto his futon bed. Wrenches the window open-normally a simple affair now made difficult as pain lances through his side-but it’s got to be done, and so Esca does it.
He pulls the glass up a couple feet. Enough for him to duck his head under, curl his body through the gap, and step onto the pitched roof that overlooks their neighbour’s tiny, overgrown garden.
With practiced motions, Esca skids down to the edge of the roof and lowers himself overboard, wincing as his torso’s stretched taut before letting go of the gutter. He drops down about five feet, trainers squeaking on wet grass.
He’s behind the house. But even from here, he can hear Jeannine’s shriek.
With a determined set of his mouth, Esca lowers his head and starts the ten-mile trek to Liathan’s.
-----
It’s two in the morning.
“Bloody hell,” Liathan greets him at the door, voice rough with sleep. “It’s called ducking, Esca.”
“Shut up,” he replies wearily, too tired for swapping insults with Liathan. “Just let me in.”
Liathan obliges with a sidestep, letting Esca limp past.
“For fuck’s sake Esca, you’re bleeding onto our tile.”
“I’ll clean it in the morning,” Esca says. Only realizes Liathan was saying that out of horror, that he’s actually proper concerned about Esca, cos Liathan goes to grab a towel and some bandages from the nearest bathroom.
“Why didn’t you say something?” Liathan says, after he’s caught up to Esca halfway down to the basement. “I could’a gotten Daffy’s car, picked you up somewhere.”
“Didn’t want to bother you.” Esca blinks, concentrating hard on making it down the stairs in one piece.
One step.
‘nother step.
Easy, now.
He hears Liathan say his name behind him, but it sounds like an echo, bouncing inside his skull.
Esca.
Then, quieter. Esca!
-----
In the morning-
Scratch that. In the afternoon, when Esca finally wakes up, it’s cos his mobile’s buzzing by his ear.
Blearily wipes his nose, cracks open one eye. Luckily, it’s dark out so he can blink his way to consciousness without sunshine stabbing his pupils into morning shock.
Looks ‘round himself and recognizes Liathan’s room. He’s on Lie-Lie’s squashy, two-seater sofa. No windows down here for light, just the red numbers of Liathan’s bedside clock and some other electric glows like deep-sea creatures trying to catch worms. The clock says it’s half-past three, nearly time for school to let out.
The mobile buzzes again, insistent. Esca gropes under his pillow for the offending device and checks the latest text.
It reads: if you bite it, Daffy’ll cry, an then i’ll hafta come kick your rotting corpse.
Scrolls back to the preceding text that woke him up, also Liathan.
still alive?
Esca snorts a little, closing his mobile. But the outer screen stays lit. Two texts still unread.
They’re both from Marcus.
Esca rolls up with a groan, propping himself up to his elbows. The right side of his ribs throb with fire, but-after a cursory check-least his bones aren’t poking out. He just finds sloppily-applied gauze, stuck to his skin with Scotch tape.
He sits all the way up, thin blanket pooling over his thighs. Only then does Esca flip open his mobile again.
Where r u?
That one’s from the morning. The second message: Is this about yesterday?
That one’s from about an hour ago. Esca hits ‘reply’.
His fingers hover over the numbers, but he doesn’t know what to type. He could say ‘no’, that he didn’t skip school cos of Marcus bloody Aquila and their awkward non-date-that-felt-like-a-date. But then he’d have to explain why he wasn’t in class. And the idea of mentioning Robert makes him queasy. Fuck, he doesn’t even know if the bugger’s still alive, or if Esca’s gone and killed someone overnight.
The cursor flashes at him, slowly, lazily. Like it’s rolling its eyes at Esca, wondering why the bloody fuck he’s taking so long to bang a message out. It gives up on him, the screen going dark.
Esca mashes a button to get it bright again.
He ought to just make something up. That he’s come down with something, a cough, a fever; he’ll be back in no time. That he hasn’t given Marcus’ ill-timed boner a second thought since it happened (false). But then, he’d eventually have to go back to school to keep up the façade, and Esca ent doing that, no way. Thas the first place Jeannine would go to look for him.
His mobile powers down again. This time, Esca lets it. Claps his mobile shut and tosses it onto the coffee table with a clatter. Falls back against the sunken cushions of Liathan’s sofa and blows the fringe out of his eyes.
Better to say nothing at all than to sound like a complete twat.
Feeling tired again, Esca closes his eyes and rests awhile longer.
-----
“Your boyfriend was asking after you,” Liathan says when he gets home. He throws his rucksack at Esca, who catches it with grimace. Rocks up all the same, swinging his legs over the side of the couch to sit up properly.
“What are you on about?” Esca asks, though he’s got a sneaky feeling he knows already.
“Your boyfriend. You know, the Italian Stallion. Tall as a tree-“ Liathan raises a cupped palm, so high he grazes the low ceiling with the backs of his knuckles. “Dumb as rocks. Wanking material for Kirby and all the other footballers after they found out he used to play fly-half for the number one team in Italy. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. Malarkey will be so heartbroken.”
“It’s Marcus, you tosser. And he’s not my boyfriend,” Esca says, without real heat. “What did he ask you?”
Liathan whumps down onto the sofa, jostling Esca’s cushion from the force of it.
“Ey, you didn’t take these?” Liathan asks, reaching forward to pick up two tablets on the coffee table. “It’s codeine, man. Not even the generic shite. Swiped ‘em from Mum.”
“Didn’t see ‘em,” Esca says distractedly. “Well?”
Liathan shrugs, tossing back the little pink pills and swallowing audibly.
“Well nuffink,” he says after. “He asked where you was. I called him a dago. Then Daffy arrived and I came home to you.” He makes a kissy face at Esca, who shoves him away.
Liathan just leans back on his couch, stretching out like a languid cat. “So,” he continues, propping his feet up on the low table. “Wot’s your plan? Much as I’d love to hear you bitch at me twenty-four-seven, you can’t stay here forever. Da wouldn’t let you. Hates freeloaders.”
“I ent a freeloader,” Esca says roughly. “This is just temporary, aye? I gotta make tracks, anyhow. Jeannine will eventually come looking for me here.”
“Well, I didn’t hear nuffink about no dead bastards today, so Robert’s probably still breathing. Shame, that.”
Relief courses through Esca’s body. “Never thought I’d be glad to hear that, but I am. I’d be right fucked if the plod was after me. Still, I can’t go home, thas for fucking sure.”
“So rent someplace.”
“M’not sixteen yet, not for another two weeks.” Esca turns to Liathan. “Maybe you can hide me here ‘til then. Your da wouldn’t have to find out.”
Liathan sits up. “What are you, Anne bloody Frank? I can’t do that, there’s about twenty other eyes and ears in this fucking household, you know that. Can’t bloody well keep you under my skirts, can I?”
“Eh,” Esca grunts, flopping onto his back. “Worth a try.”
“I can give you a couple days. After that you’re on your own.”
On his own, on his own. Esca’s always on his bloody own.
Liathan slaps him upside the head.
“Ow!”
“Quit feeling sorry for yourself, it’s bloody annoying. Just bounce around ‘till then, yeah? Wot about Molly Aiken? She practically gags for your weenie whistle every time you’re within ten feet.”
Esca wrinkles his nose. “Gross. No. I’d rather sleep in the street.”
“Your foreign boyfriend, then?”
“Wot?” Esca looks at Liathan like he’s grown two heads. “I don’t-I barely know him, Jesus Christ,” he splutters.
Liathan laughs, slapping Esca hard on his back like he’s forgotten about Esca’s broken ribs, fucking ow.
“Quit it, you’ll make it start bleeding again,” Esca says, squirming away.
“Whinger.”
“Arsehole.”
Liathan pokes Esca in the ribs. It’s on the wrong side, luckily, but Esca yelps anyway and shoves Lie-Lie’s stupid, laughing face as far away from him as possible.
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