It didn't help that the Viscount found it impossible to be a morning person in the slightest way when stuck inside the windowless dining hall. It was easier in the spring, when there was almost always some kind of athletic practise to take part in outside before breakfast. The early morning sun soaking into his hair and running across his shoulders was more stimulating than the blackest tea.
It was early autumn at the moment, though, with the sun more often hidden behind muggy clouds. Any sporting activities were conducted either inside the stuffy buildings of Stonebridge or outside after classes, by which time the sun had usually set.
Scowling, the Viscount snatched up three english muffins from the plate in front of him, sawed them open with a rounded butter knife, and proceeded to layer them with ham, bacon, sausage, steak, kidneys, liver, and fried eggs, repeating the process several times for each muffin. His actions elicited a few half-hearted protests from the other boys, but none cared enough to put up a real fuss. Shoving half of one of the muffins into his mouth, he poured himself more tea that was having no success at stimulating his system.
Peters sat next to the Viscount, resting his chin on the table in front of his plate, chewing without enthusiasm at a piece of steak. Denver was at the end of their table, flicking little balls of greasy bread around his plate with his fingernails. The rest of their dorm mates looked ready to fall asleep, eyelids weighed down by the early morning tedium.
"We won't have first class today."
Denver continued to flick at his plate. "Why not, Roko?"
The dark-skinned boy shrugged sleepily, fiddling with the food on his plate. "Band master has a new scholarship pet. Everyone's to go hear him and the rest of the songbirds play."
The Viscount snorted softly, swallowing the second half of his first muffin. "Being in on a scholarship just means you're a juvenile delinquent that they want to culture and discipline."
"Speaking from experience, your lordship?" Denver managed half a smirk, despite the early hour of the morning.
Midnight blue eyes narrowed coldly at Denver, sharp despite the faint fog of sleep still over them. Choosing to remain silent, the Viscount took a bite out of another muffin, chewing grumpily.
"If it's a Scholarship chosen by the musical dictator though, you know he will be good, even if he goes around planting bombs in his spare time." Peters raised his head, grinning. "The last time I remember a Scholarship being awarded from that old bird was back at the end of first form."
Denver's eyes lit up thoughtfully. "Maybe a Scholarship will bring some life to this bloody museum."
The other boys all nodded in silent agreement, the conversation drifting off as though it had never been, although all concerned thought excitement would definitely improve the overall atmosphere of the school. As they ate, the doors into the dining hall were pulled apart to admit four people, two males and two females, all dressed in identical white suits and carrying small white cases. A few heads rose at the sudden intrusion, eyes widening.
Peters raised his head a bit to look around the boy sitting opposite him, his face turning sickly pale. "Whites . . ." he whispered, causing every other boy at the table to turn about and watch as the group split up into pairs, a male and a female in each, both identical sets walking to different tables.
One pair stopped a few tables away from that of the Viscount's dorm, well within ear-range. The female spoke, in low, controlled, almost monotonous tones. "Is there a Seamus Finnigan here?"
A boy near the end with sleek, short black hair stood up, looking startled, yellow eyes startlingly bright as they widened slightly, pupils barely visible slits. "Aye. I'm Finnigan."
The man began to walk toward the long, lean youth. "Seamus Finnigan, I'd like you to come with us."
Peters' sat bolt upright in his seat, hands clutching at the edge of the table, knuckles starkly white.
"Sorry, mate, I've got these class things. Have to attend them, ya see? Parents are horrible keen on it and everything." Finnigan gave the Whites a rather sickly looking grin as he took a step back.
"Mister Finnigan, your parents would much rather you came with us." The woman clicked her case open.
"Bugger that," Finnigan hissed softly. "Why should I?"
"Mister Finnigan, you have been brought up on charges of Sodomy. As representatives of the International Force Against Unlawful Conduct, it is our duty to escort you to a holding facility to determine your guilt."
"Like hell!!" Finnigan hissed, louder, and tried to move away from the two Whites, only to find his path blocked by the back of someone's chair.
The man grabbed Finnigan's arm before he could bolt. "You are under arrest, accused of practising sodomy with a member of the same gender. You will come with us, Mister Finnigan."
"Blow that!" Finnigan hissed, spitting in the White's face. His form rippled, melting and twisting, a streak of darkness against the brilliant white clothing. Hissing, tongue darting out, Finnigan wrapped himself around the male White's arm, head raised, ready to strike.
The male's face flickered in a slight panic before he tossed the hissing, coiling black adder to the ground, stepping back.
The female rolled her eyes and removed a small taser from her case, bending down swiftly, shocking the spitting snake. "They always think they're the first ones to think of it . . ." she shook her head in faint contempt as the pale blue sparks flitted across the snake's smooth black scales.
Finnigan whimpered softly, curling into a ball with his hands over his smooth black hair.
The male White ran his fingers through his hair for a second before bending down to snap a pair of handcuffs over the shivering student's wrists. The handcuffs were attached to a chain that hooked onto the White's belt. He jerked it roughly, bringing the naked, terrified boy to his feet. "Come along, Mister Finnigan."
The female snapped her case shut cooly, as though nothing had happened, and followed the male back to the doors, where they waited for the other two to rejoin them.
The Viscount craned his neck to stare as a flash of white became painfully visible in the corner of his eye.
The other set of Whites came from the opposite side of the room, leading a tall boy with broad, muscular shoulders by a chain attached to the female's belt. Both Whites sported rather fearsome bruises on their faces and seemed much less amused than the first pair had. The female jerked the chain viciously, making the boy stumble after them.
"Myers . . ." Denver gaped openly.
The boy's hair was long and hung in a complete disarray in a curtain over his face. He walked hunched over, his jacket lost, his pants and shirt completely rumpled. His unseen face was buried in his cuffed hands. A few faint whimpers drifted over to the Viscount's table, barely audible despite the bleak silence throughout the dining hall. Myers was sobbing, softly, his shoulders shaking. "God . . . no . . . this can't be happening . . . No . . ."
The female frowned over her shoulder, jerking the chain again, guiding Myers and the male White to the doors. Without a word, all four Whites and the two students exited the dining hall, not even glancing at the visibly shaken Stonebridge boys.
The teacher supervising breakfast looked even more disturbed, and he ran a finger underneath the collar of his shirt. "Carry on eating, boys, only twenty minutes remaining before first class. Remember, third form, you're all expected to be in attendance for the senior band's concert." The teacher tried to sound firm, yet enthusiastic, but just came off as being rather strained, yet hyperactive.
Slowly, the boys returned to their breakfast.
"I can't believe it . . . Finnigan and Roberts . . ." Denver shook his head. "Pretty damn low on my list for people to be taken by the Whites, I can tell you."
The Viscount shrugged, sipping at his tea, fingers trembling slightly around the handle. "They were on the track team together. Probably someone sent in a report as a joke . . . I'm sure they'll be back in a few weeks. They'll be found innocent."
Peters gaped between them. "Do you know anything about what the Whites do? Really?"
Denver rolled his eyes. "Well, I doubt you know more than the bogeymen stories, Peters. The way you act sometimes . . ."
"Shut up, you prat." Peters snarled, hands curling into tight fists. "I went home this summer to find a completely different person walking around wearing my father's body. The Whites heard a rumour about him, and they came, and they took him away for months and months, and he came back, and he wasn't him anymore, and they took away his shift . . ." A sob rose in Peters throat and Roko gently leaned across the table to pat his shoulder tentatively.
Denver's eyes widened in horror. "Do you think that's what happened to Finnigan? She just touched him with that thing and made him change back just like that . . ."
Peters shook his head wordlessly, slamming his fists down on the table before storming out.
The Viscount shook his head. "The Whites have to do their job, when people defy nature."
A few boys murmured quiet agreement, although none verbalized their thoughts on the matter, the tension still impossibly thick between everything.
"Boys, time's up. Will you all proceed to your classes? Except for third form, of course . . ."
Silent, the hordes of boys pushed up from their tables, trailing out of the dining hall, refusing to look at anyone.
"Peters isn't here." Denver frowned as he threw himself in a painfully angular fold-out chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Can you blame him?" Roko chook his head, settling down for an hour of boredom. "Too bad, though. He'd probably appreciate the Scholarship more than we will."
"He'll be too busy being Mister Walking-Angst for the next days to care," Denver snorted.
Roko sighed, propping his arms on the chair in front of him, shutting his eyes.
The Viscount pinched the bride of his nose, crossing his legs, lying back in his chair. He tipped his head back, staring with faint interest at the ceiling. It was the room generally used for the astronomy class, he realized with some surprise, cleared off all the equipment it was normally cluttered with. The ceiling was made of glass, pure and transparent, to allow the students inside to observe the heavens unmolested by the foul weather. With a few panes of glass pulled away, letting the morning air circulate through, it was almost pleasant to sit in the hard, angular chair, with the soft morning sunlight streaming down and stroking his body. Roko and Denver had lapsed into uncomfortable silence, along with the rest of the students, who were either still unsettled by the occurrence in the dining hall, or had already fallen asleep. Taking advantage of the silence and beauty, the Viscount shifted himself to a more comfortable position, half-closing his eyes and waiting for whatever wondrous talent the new scholarship would display to become apparent.
The senior band, made up of the boys in third form only, slowly filtered in, taking their seats in chairs that looked twice as uncomfortable as the ones the audience of students were being forced to sit in. Sheets of music were arranged with a soft shuffling on sharp edged music stands of cold black metal.
The Viscount made a face and twisted his head slightly to keep the black music stands from marring his vision.
The boys in the band wore black pants, black shoes, and fine looking white shirts just like every other students. They were, however, lucky enough to be rid of the black coats and ties for their performance.
Sighing enviously, the Viscount straightened his head, pretending to be attentive to the voice of the music teacher.
"This year Stonebridge has been blessed by the acquisition of a marvellous young talent from Perffllyn!" the man gushed, frail hands clasped together earnestly.
A few disbelieving murmurs ran along the rows of students before a professor, standing watchfully by the door, silenced them with a glower.
"Mister Goleudydd will therefore be commencing things this morning with a solo," the teacher smiled, not even noticing the slight interruption the student's whispers had caused, and nodded to one of the seated boys.
The Viscount sighed, reluctantly tearing his attention away from the sky to pretend to focus on the new pet rebel Scholarship.
The Scholarship, Goleudydd, stood with an extravagant roll of his eyes, and the Viscount stared helplessly as the boy strode out from between the other band members, stopping at the front of the faint half-circle formed by the chairs and music stands.
Goleudydd eyed the audience of students with lazy contempt in startlingly blue eyes, a smirk touching his lips. Lazily, his empty hand came up to flick a long strand of hair, tied with some sort of white feather, out of his eyes. The sunlight caught the ghostly pale platinum flash, giving the boy's hair a golden tinge, making him look thoroughly angelic. The smirk still on his face, he brought his instrument to his mouth, eyelids fluttering closed.
The silver of the flute gave startling contrast to the Goleudydd boy's gold-tanned skin.
And he played.
The music filled the room, startlingly loud for such a tiny instrument, yet every student seemed to be straining their ears to better catch the wind-soft, melancholy whispers of the flute. The tune was delicate and simple, the notes flitting softly through the ears, gentle and soothing, almost sad. Goleudydd swayed gently as he played, the strand of feather tied hair falling back into his eyes, unnoticed.
Without warning, the tempo changed. Still the same song, the notes rose abruptly like birds soaring into the sky. They came crashing down again, strong and beautiful, full of impossible power. The energy was overwhelming. Goleudydd's movements as he played became more pronounced, the tune seeming to flow through his entire body. The sad loneliness the song had started out as was abruptly the melodic wails of thousands.
Then the softness was back, the quiet, whispered voice of a child lost in the in the world. The notes darted fretfully from ear to ear; gentle, pleading, entreating, begging, coaxing, hopeless, yet full of unending hope.
The music continued until the whispers were mere puffs of breath, sad and gentle.
The final notes died, fading into nothingness.
The Viscount blinked, putting a hand to his head in puzzlement, using the other to wipe at his eyes briefly.
Goleudydd eyed his audience with a smirk, flipping his hair back again, and turning back to his seat.
"Very . . . nice, Mister Goleudydd. Would you, ah, like to tell the audience the name of the piece?"
The Scholarship's eyebrows rose over the top of his stand as he coolly arranged his music. He yawned with obvious boredom. "Reflections of Eternity."
The Viscount swore softly as his fingers stumbled over the same section of the piece for the fifth time that evening. It seemed impossible for him to concentrate this evening. One hand curled into a fist and he nearly slammed it down on the sleek ivory keys.
It was ridiculous. There was no reason for him to be feeling so tense and unfocussed.
Of course, he was here without permission, after curfew. But he was out almost every evening, and had been since second form. Tonight, he’d even pushed a chair up underneath the door handle - just in case.
Growling softly, he plunked an elbow down on the keyboard, massaging his forehead with one hand. Running his thumb over a bee sharp, he considered abandoning what was supposed to be a relaxing habit in favour of returning to his dorm.
“Bloody hellfire, they sure don’t like making things easy for anyone around here, eh?”
The Viscount spun, nearly falling off the piano bench in his haste to stand up.
The window at the far end of the room was open, curtains swaying gently under the power of the night wind.
The Perfflllynian Scholarship boy, Goleudydd, was perched on the window sill. A smirk hovered on pale gold lips, blue eyes dancing impishly. One leg was hooked over the windowsill, the tip of his foot brushing the tiled floor. The other was tucked comfortably beneath him. His overlong strand of hair was still clipped back with the bit of thread and white feather. The rest of the short, platinum locks glistened like silver in the moonlight. His legs were clad in pale blue jeans roughly three sizes too large for the Perfflllynian’s diminutive, slim frame, while sleek, tight red fabric clung to his chest and some of his shoulders.
“You know, your high and mighty lordship, you aren’t exactly presenting a great impression here.” The Perfflllynian boy smirked, his accent causing his words to lilt and dance, rather in the same way he had played his flute during the morning.
The Viscount ground his teeth for a minute before drawing himself up, fixing the younger boy with a stare of pure ice. “What - ” he hissed in the coolest tone of aristocracy, “are you doing here? It’s after curfew.”
“Aye, well then, oughtn’t I be asking the same question of you?” The Perfflllynian laughed, swinging his other leg over the sill, bracing his hands on the window frame.
The Viscount sniffed. “Seniors have special privileges over juniors.”
The pale boy raised his eyebrows. “Aye, I’m sure of that one. That’s why you’ve got the door barricaded and all. Just for a little privacy.” He smirked.
“I do not need to explain myself to you.” The Viscount sniffed. “Do you know who I am?” He winced inwardly as the words left his mouth, leaving his lips feeling frigid.
“Oh, aye, who doesn’t.” The boy rolled his eyes. “Should I bow, Viscount London something mumbly gibberty Amaris-Rane?”
The Viscount’s nostrils flared slightly as he glared at the boy. “Don’t be a twit. Tell me who you are and why you have chosen to break rules in order to pester me.”
Goleudydd put a hand over his chest, imitating the Viscount’s accent. “Ai’m Finley Keely Goleudydd. Ai happain to be eh student at this hare fine school.”
“Good God man . . .” The Viscount rolled his eyes in exasperation, snarling softly. “Why are you here?”
“Well,” the younger boy shrugged lazily, waving a hand in a sweeping gesture that encompassed the Viscount and the piano and the universe in general, “I happen to be enrolled in this here school under special circumstances . . .”
“You’re a scholarship. Get to the point,” the Viscount hissed again, lips flying back from his teeth.
“Aye, aye, hold your temper, no need to get violent now, eh?” The Perfflllynian held up a hand in a pacifying gesture, trembling only slightly. “I play the flute - ”
“I know.”
The pale-haired boy continued stubbornly, only a faint tremble audible in his dancing voice. “I play the flute, that’s why I’m here at this charming school, without me dear old da having to break the bank paying hordes of cash so I can get a bloody wonderful education. Now, that dear old music teacher fellow, he has decided that it would be for the best and all, if we were to be hosting some kind of concert, for me, to be pulling in some extra cash to keep me from having to run about the place starkers.”
“Do all of you idiot Perfflllynians talk this much, or am I just lucky?”
“For shame, lordship. Man of your stature, making such harsh comments . . . Might be having some not so pretty things happen because of them.” The Viscount glared, dark eyes flashing angrily, and Goleudydd continued hurriedly. “The teacher’s wanting me to play this little thing for a couple hours as a concert, but says I’m needing to have back-up.”
“Back-up?”
“Aye, aye, that’s what I said to him.” The impish face looked put upon. “But, you gotta make the best of your situations, aye? So, I said, fine, fine, no problem, but I get to pick who’ll be playing with me, ‘cause I’m a temperamental artist and all.”
The Viscount snorted, loudly, looking unamused.
“So, I ask about my classes a bit, and I hear that Viscount Mumberty Gibbit Whosit plays the piano damn fine.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Thick headed puffed up piece of inbred aristocracy.” Goleudydd’s bright eyes rolled back in naked contempt. “You play the piano. I play the flute. I’m needing an accompanyist and I hear you’re pretty damn decent, as far as these things go.”
The Viscount’s eyes blazed angrily and he stepped toward the window. Goleudydd tried to back up, but found it rather difficult when he was perched on the window sill with nowhere to go but out. “You come in here, invade my privacy, make a bloody nuisance of yourself, insult me, and then have the audacity to ask a favour of me!”
“Look, if you aren’t interested you just need to say so. There’s no cause to be getting violent and all . . .” Goleudydd’s fingers were tightly curled, clutching the window ledge while his legs were drawn up to his chest from their relaxed sprawl. He stank of fear.
“Stupid, worthless little creature,” the Viscount hissed, his face a hands-breadth away from the terrified boys. “Rude. Disrespectful.”
Goleudydd made a tiny, frightened noise at the back of his throat. “S-s-sorry . . .”
“How fast can you Shift, Perfflllynian?” the Viscount growled, silk soft.
“W-w-what?”
“If I were to throw you out this window right now, would you be able to fly, little bird? Or would you crash to the ground before you were able to do a thing?” The Viscount was trembling now, too, with rage and some other strange, unidentifiable emotion, which only made him angrier at the cocky little foreigner. Snarling softly, fangs sharp and visible with his lips pulled back, he grabbed the boy on the window by the front of his brilliant red shirt, ready to hurl him out of the window to his own fate.
Finley Goleudydd’s wide, sky blue eyes met Viscount London’s night dark ones.
Time stopped.
It was the sort of moment where everything suddenly became clear. The hero would realize the proper way to defeat the evil overlord. The detective would suddenly understand how the murder could have been committed using only small graham biscuits. The antagonist and the protagonist would look into each others eyes and realize the only reason they’d been fighting was that they were madly in love with each other.
Finley trembled slightly, gazing into London’s face, and brought one hand up to cover the Viscount’s.
Time started again.
Fiercely, Goleudydd wrenched the Viscount’s hand from the front of his shirt. The sound of ripping fabric was as loud as thunder in the silent room, but both students ignored it. “I should report you to the headmaster for that,” he whispered roughly.
“I really could not care less,” the Viscount hissed in return, taking several steps back from the smaller boy. Sweat glistened on his forehead and his knees shook slightly.
“I bet,” Goleudydd whispered. “Stuck up bastard. Don’t be lifting a hand to help anyone else or anything. Hate to be the one to have started giving you a reputation as a nice person.” Trembling, the boy managed to slide off the windowsill and out the window without falling to his death, disappearing from view without another word.
The Viscount stared at the window in silence until long after the Perfflllynian had left, before replacing the room’s furniture where it belonged and stalking back to his dorm for a cold shower.
Goleudydd scowled at nothingness as he pulled himself up into his dorm through the window, falling soundlessly onto the bed.
He knew he shouldn’t have tried approaching someone like Viscount London, but dammit, he wanted the best pianist available, and everyone said it was the stuck up young lordling.
Sighing, he kicked his shoes off and squirmed out of his shirt. His hands groped without success through his pockets for several minutes before he finally found a small, cheap plastic butane lighter and a plastic bag of hand-rolled cigarettes. His head was throbbing and his chest felt faintly like it was burning from where the Viscount had grabbed him.
Swearing softly under his breath, his lay back, staring up at the moon, half hidden by smokey clouds, and lit a cigarette in hopes of soothing his aching head and frayed nerves.