Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1039740.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Eagle_|_The_Eagle_of_the_Ninth_(2011)
  Relationship:
      Marcus_Flavius_Aquila/Esca_Mac_Cunoval, Marcus_Flavius_Aquila/Cottia,
      Esca_Mac_Cunoval/Servius_Placidus
  Character:
      Marcus_Flavius_Aquila, Esca_Mac_Cunoval, Cottia_(Eagle_of_the_Ninth),
      Liathan_(Eagle_of_the_Ninth), Servius_Placidus, Uncle_Aquila
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Alternate_Universe_-_High_School, Alternate_Universe
      -_Modern_Setting, Yorkshire, Misunderstandings, Jealousy, Child_Abuse,
      Pining, Angst, Fluff_and_Angst, First_Time, Humor
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-04-29 Completed: 2013-11-11 Chapters: 7/7 Words: 46270
****** The Kids in York ******
by aeroport_art
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.
Notes
     Warnings: The boys are 16/17 so while they're underage, the content
     is tame until the end. Esca deals with abuse from foster care
     parents.
     As with most things, this story was not done alone. poziomeczka and
     ladytiferet deserve a round of applause for their constant
     cheerleading in this small but awesome fandom, and it's thanks to
     their hard work in putting out the Sunday Service that this kink meme
     prompt ever caught my eye. Secondly, thanks to acetamide for the
     awesome Northern Brit-pick and tutoring in the English school system,
     without which this entire fic would've been horribly and painfully
     American! You ladies, as well as everyone who left comments and
     followed this story in its awful, hard-to-navigate WIP incarnation in
     the Sunday Service, completely rock.
***** Marcus is a Right Fockin’ Naff Who Needs a Hard Slap to the Face For
Thinking ‘Esca’ is a Girl’s Name *****
"There's an open seat next to Esca."
No shitting way, Esca thinks, crossing his arms over his chest. He slouches low
as he can go and gives an obstinate glare to Mr. Dorsen, who blithely ignores
him as he ushers the new kid—some guy named Marcus, transferring from Rome,
who's wearing bloody Lacoste and khaki shorts that show his fucking knees
because he's either an eight year old boy from the 1920's or the age of Esca's
grandpa—towards Esca's row.
Goddamn it. The empty desk to Esca's left was hard-earned; after months of
Ronald "I'm rugby captain and you're just a shrimp, Shrimp" poking and prodding
at Esca's arm, flicking his ear or throwing spitballs to the side of his face,
Esca had finally lost his temper and framed the shit-for-brains bully in a bit
of vandalism to the headmaster's Maserati. Got ol' Ron suspended from school
'til the end of the term, which means that empty seat? Is Esca's. He won the
window view to the schoolyard, fair and square.
Too late, though. The new kid's picking his way over, snagging his big feet on
snaking straps of rucksacks, smacking Shirley Donaldson in the back of her head
with a clumsy elbow, aiming straight for Esca.
Esca determinedly faces away. The rest of the class might be watching on like
drooling morons, but Esca never does what everyone does. He's his own man, aye.
Behind him, he hears:
"Hi, Esca?"
Judging from the looks on everyone's faces, something's awry. Esca snaps
around, only to see—
Marcus is trying to shake hands with Marjorie Haber, who he has clearly
mistaken for Esca.
"Oi!" he barks.
Marcus falters, turning to the sound of Esca's voice.
"I'm Esca, you fuckin’ naff!"
"Oh, I thought..." Marcus trails off, looking uncertainly at Marjorie again.
She's giggling through her fingers, as is the rest of the class.
"Language, Mr. MacCunoval," the teacher wearily reminds him. Ent the first
time. Won't be the last, neither.
"I'm Esca, you blithering idiot," he amends peaceably.
Marcus flushes, drawing a gleeful smile out of Esca. Serves him right, thinking
Esca's a fucking bird. Fuck that.
The new kid swipes up his bag and moves down a row, squeezing between Esca's
knees and the back of Harry Emerson's chair to claim the empty desk. He’s too
big for it though, arms and legs spilling over like an overstuffed pie. An
elbow catches the side of Esca’s head as Marcus settles in.
Esca goggles, appalled. Just stares as Marcus goes about unzipping his
rucksack, pulling out a canvas pencil case and wide-ruled notebook. The class
settles down, and Mr. Dorsen starts his lecture on the Thirty Years War. That's
when Esca leans in.
"Psst."
Marcus twitches a bit, like there's a fly buzzing near his ear.
"Hey," Esca says, poking Marcus in the bicep with the rubber on the end of his
pencil. "I know you can hear me."
"I'm trying to pay attention," Marcus says irritably. He has a funny accent,
slow vowels and liquid drawl. Sure doesn't sound like a Mario Brother, or
nothing.
Whatever. "You mistake me for a girl again, I'll end you." There. Suitably
threatening, if Esca doesn't mind saying so.
Only, Marcus doesn't seem that threatened. He rolls his eyes and whispers back,
eyes glued to the front of the classroom all the while, "Okay, shrimp."
Oh, that's it.
Esca is gonna end him.
-----
That is, if the rest of the boys in his year weren't trying to end Esca first.
"Eat shite, you pint-sized fudge packer—"
A foot makes its way into Esca's stomach, making him crumple to his knees, the
grit of the tarmac digging through his jeans.
"You lost us our captain, you little shit," Kirby shouts. At least, Esca thinks
it's Kirby, but the lot of them sound the same, don't they? Also, his ears are
ringing.
"Yeah, well," Esca spits. Fuck, that's blood right there. "You lot haven't won
a fucking match in years now, have you? So no great loss, yeah?"
Another kick makes a desperate attempt to unscramble Esca's intestines. Bloody
ow. The concrete flies up to his chin, and Esca stifles a groan.
"Had enough, yet? For a four-foot wanker, you sure run your mouth off—"
Esca throws an arm out and snags the bottom of the closest trouser leg. A hard
yank fells the footballer like a fucking Douglas fir.
"Tim-ber," Esca singsongs, even as his voice is faint and his vision's swimming
with odd little bursts of fluorescent light.
After that's just a scuffle of noise, the cretins—how many are there, Jesus
fuckin' Christ—go at him all at once. Esca's had the shit kicked out of him
plenty of times; he makes up for his smaller stature with savage words, the
combination meaning he's got to scrap his way out a fight on a regular basis.
Can't win 'em all, neither.
The flashing lights behind his eyelids are gone now, he just sees red, just
feels the dull, repeated ache of swift kicks pummeling him from all sides as
he—
-----
When he comes to, the first thing he sees is the goomba. What was his name
again? Mark. Marcus.
"Wha—" Oh, ow. Bloody hurts to talk. Esca settles for a pathetic groan.
"Stop moving," Marcus chides softly, but the hands on Esca's shoulders are
firm. He chuckles lowly. "Wow, they kicked the shit out of you."
"Observant fellow," Esca glares. His glare then goes beyond Marcus' shoulder.
He doesn't recognize the wall behind him, with the framed photos and the edge
of a wooden desk, an Apple Powerbook propped open.
Whoa, whoa. "Where the fuck am I?" Esca asks, struggling to sit up, thin
blanket sliding down his chest. Marcus just shoves him back on the bed though,
and that hurts even more. Esca curls on his side, the one that aches a little
less, and drags the blanket up to his chin, manfully stifling a whimper.
He hears Marcus sigh over him. "You're in my room."
"What are you, a fucking pervert or something?" Under the covers, Esca rubs a
foot against his opposite shin—okay good, trousers still on. But maybe Marcus
is a romantic pervert who likes to take it slow. If he's anything like that
Berlusconi bloke, Esca better make sure he's on guard, bloody Italians and
their roaming hands.
As if sensing Esca's thoughts, Marcus hits him on the shoulder.
"What the fuck!?"
"I brought you back here so you wouldn't get suspended."
Esca rolls over just far enough to give Marcus a cautious look. With just one
eye, cos his other one's swollen shut.
Marcus continues, "I got those guys to back off, but they swore you'd get in
trouble anyway. That if the teachers found out you'd gotten into another fight,
you were suspended for sure. So...I dumped you in my backseat and went home."
Esca blinks. "In a car?"
"No, in a golden chariot.”
Esca generously chooses to ignore Marcus’ tone. “Bloody hell, you’ve got a
car?”
“Yes, I do,” Marcus says slowly. “What about it?”
"Who the fuck in secondary has a vehicle? How old are you, anyway?"
“Just turned seventeen,” Marcus replies, looking uncomfortable. “Had to retake
a year.” Marcus shifts in his seat. That's when Esca notices he's sitting so
close, hand planted right next to Esca's hip. He suddenly feels very hot.
"Yeah, all right. Whatever, so you’re not the brightest bulb,” Esca rambles, as
Marcus sends him a weird look. Oh shit, his gut was right, wasn't it? His arse
is in danger. Esca clenches his cheeks together in alarm.
“Either way I'm not a bloody fag, you know," he says pre-emptively. "No matter
what everyone says. I like cunt, yeah?"
Marcus frowns. "God, you've got a rotten mouth. No wonder people beat the shit
out of you."
"Go fuck your mum."
Marcus snorts in disgust, then stands up, making the mattress rise up behind
Esca's back. God, he doesn't even know why he says things like that. They just
come out, yeah? Can't stop the words that burble out of him sometimes.
Marcus ent a psychic though, can't tell Esca doesn’t mean to be such a bitch.
Marcus claps the lid of his laptop shut, like maybe he was on it earlier when
Esca was passed out.
"I'm doing my homework in another room,” Marcus says, picking up his rucksack.
“Let me know when you can stand up without puking all over my carpet. I'll take
you home." He turns and strides towards the far end of the large room, where
the doorway is.
The back of his orange polo shirt is tucked into the waistband of his khakis.
No—his skivvies. The white "Calvin Klein" logo is perfectly clear, even from
fifteen feet. Esca has to bite his tongue not to say something bitchy. Says
instead, "Marcus."
Marcus pauses by the door. Turns around and fixes Esca with a wary expression.
"What?" he asks.
"How'd you get Ronald's little pep squad off my arse?"
For a while, Esca thinks Marcus won't say anything, cos he's just staring at
him. Esca suddenly realizes he can't be looking too pretty right now. After
all, he can only see out of one eye, his whole jaw hurts when he tries to talk,
and there’s the metallic taste of blood on his tongue from the cut on his
mouth. He's got to be swollen all over, like a lumpy mattress that needs a good
beating. Though that's the last thing Esca needs.
Marcus says nothing. Just blinks, once. Esca feels the sudden urge to hide
under the covers. Doesn't though, which is good cos otherwise he'd miss it,
when Marcus lifts his right hand, the back of it facing Esca so that Esca can
see—
Marcus' knuckles are red and swollen and split, kinda like Esca's lower lip.
Beyond that, Marcus' face is tanned and in pristine condition. His teeth, too,
are bloody bright when he cracks open a slow, triumphant smile.
Esca can't help it, then. He smiles back at the nutter.
-----
Esca doesn't know he's passed out again until he's being woken up. Warm hand
making little shakes on his shoulder. Marcus' big face swimming into view.
"Whassat?" Esca snuffles, wiping the back of his hand across his nose.
"Want dinner?"
Esca blinks. Oh, and both eyes open, too; swelling must've gone down a bit.
"Time's it?" he asks blearily.
"It's eight. We're having chicken."
When he says it, Esca can smell it. Smells fucking delicious, all grease and
butter and herbs filling the room like the best fucking potpurri he's ever
smelled. His stomach gurgles quietly.
"Nah," Esca says, sitting up in Marcus' bed. He's stiff all over and his left
side hurts like someone drove a lorry into it—rib or two's got to be broken,
fuck. "No, take me home."
Marcus stopped shaking him awhile ago, but his hand's still on Esca's shoulder,
he's only now noticing. It's heavy, and starting to warm through Esca's ratty
t-shirt. Marcus takes his hand away.
"Sure. Just let me get my keys."
-----
Marcus drives a second-hand hatchback. Second-hand, Esca thinks, cos the car is
fucking doddery, square-edged with ripped upholstery. Still, it's a smooth
ride, like Marcus knows that every bump and jostle on the road is rattling
straight through Esca's bruised bones.
It's gotten dark out. They don't speak. Marcus doesn't know the streets that
well, so Esca mumbles out directions every so often, just when it matters. Make
a left here; watch for the pot-hole there. All the while, he watches Marcus'
hand on the gear stick, confident and sure as he puts it in higher gear, or
changes down to a crawl.
Slows down to a stop.
"This it?"
Esca jerks his head up, hoping he wasn't caught looking. Looks out the window
instead, and yeah, that's his fucking drive. Robert's '99 Focus parked on the
dead lawn, yep, that's them all right.
"Keep going," he says, two fingers swinging back and forth, urging Marcus on.
The car rolls forward, slow and unsure.
"Yeah, yeah. This is good." They're half a block down, cos Esca doesn't want
Marcus accidentally meeting the foster parents, if "parents" could be a word
ascribed to the navel-gazing, waste-of-space asswipes of Jeannine and her mangy
husband, Robert. Yeah, no. Esca'll take a pass on that, thank you very much.
With a little difficulty, Esca gets out of the car.
Marcus wraps his arm around the headrest of the empty seat and cranes forward,
peering out the passenger door. "You sure this is it?"
Fuck. Out of the corner of his eye, Esca can see the porch light of his house
flicker on. The peeling-painted white door swings open, Jeannine in her blue
dressing gown stepping out.
"You think I don't know where I bloody live?" Esca snaps.
Under the wan light of the overhead car bulb, Marcus frown is etched in shadow.
"Forget it."
Esca swings a proper look over his shoulder, and shit, Jeannine's recognized
him now. He makes to close the door, hearing Marcus rock back to his side of
the car with a creak of old leather, but then Esca finds himself hesitating for
no proper reason. Just—it seems weird, yeah, breaking it off like this. Feels
like Esca ought to...fuck, he doesn't know. Like he oughtta do something or say
something. Like a thank you, maybe?
"You closing the door or what?" Marcus says, sounding grumpy.
"Yeah, sorry." Esca closes the door with a weird, half-aborted move, finally
shutting it the final two inches with a hard whump.
Marcus peels away, filling the air with an obnoxious screech, the smell of
burnt rubber lingering after it.
"Esca!" Just as shrill, Jeannine's voice pierces the evening calm.
Fuck.
-----
The next day is bloody hell, his body throbbing all over like he was something
cold wrapped in rubber bands, then thrust into the tropics of India only to
bloat uncomfortably in his constricting clothes.
"That's disgusting," Liathan sneers. "You blow up all over me, get your nasty
innards on my Louie Baton kicks, I rip your fucking throat out."
"You retarded or summat? I'd be dead already."
"Yeah well, I make you extra dead."
Liathan's a fucking retard sometimes, but he's interesting enough. Plus, they
both love Argy Bargy, so there's always that.
When the bell rings, signaling first period, they both swagger off to their
respective classes—Liathan in Maths (for the third time), Esca to History.
-----
"Marcus. Marcus. Marcus."
Marcus ignores him. Esca frowns. Digs his biro out of the bottom of his
rucksack (because the lesson started twenty minutes ago and Esca hasn't jotted
down a word, so fuckin' what?) and pulls the cap off with his teeth.
He leans over to draw on Marcus' painstakingly neat notes. Right on top of
Marcus' painstakingly neat handwriting.
He draws...a penis.
Marcus pauses, even as Mr. Dorsen keeps droning on.
Esca adds some hair to the testicles with short, happy flicks of his biro.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
Marcus' ears turn pink.
Esca smirks.
"Mr. MacCunoval!"
Shite, the teacher’s gone all pissy, like he's been calling Esca's name for
awhile now. Voice raised like Esca's gone deaf or summat, but he ent fucking
deaf, yeah? Just doesn't care about the fucking French getting guillotined or
whatever, they probably deserved it. Waves his hand dismissively in the air, no
eye contact, then goes back to drawing on Marcus' notes. Adds some hair around
the base of the cock, which he's drawn all soft and droopy cos it's funnier
that way—
"Esca," Marcus says quietly.
Esca pauses, the quiet skritch of his biro going still.
Finally, he glances up at the front of the room. Mr. Dorsen's giving him an
exasperated look, wrinkly forehead beneath bushy, caterpillar eyebrows that are
entirely too large for his small, naked head.
"What is it, sir?" Esca asks politely.
Clearly taken aback, Mr. Dorsen takes a moment to turn to the whiteboard behind
him, where he's been scrawling out random phrases throughout his lecture. He
collects himself, then asks primly, "The name of the period controlled by
Robespierre, just after the start of the war?"
Easy, that one. "Reign of Terror," Esca says. It's the name of a band he and
Liathan went all the way down to London to see, last summer. They weren't that
great, but when the guitarist took his dick out and started pissing on the
front row, well. It was memorable, at any rate.
He goes back to his drawing. He's almost finished with it, just needs to be a
bit hairier on the left ball, and then yeah, that’s it. It's a fucking work of
art, right on top of Marcus' notes. Esca signs his name with a flourish.
To his left, he hears a little whuff of noise, like Marcus is trying to hide a
snort. Esca leans back into his own seat and closes his eyes, feeling oddly
content. It's barely nine-thirty; he can catch a few more winks before
Geography starts at ten.
-----
School blows, though Esca can't say he likes weekends much better. It's a lot
of work staying out of the house all the time, but he's got no choice,
really—it's either that or be forced to deal with Robert and his naffing about;
Robert, who is always home, always pissed halfway to a gutter somewhere, and
always angry about a footie match, or what someone said to him that day, or
bloody anything really while Jeannine's off working three jobs to support
Robert's drinking and the boob job she’s saving up for.
Esca hates being home with Robert and Jeannine. They act like the world's
wronged them somehow, and they can get back at it for wronging everyone else in
return. Usually Esca, cos he's right there.
Fuck. He can't wait 'till his birthday, when he can hightail it out of the
fucking system.
Esca hocks a loogie, ignores the twinge in his neck as he turns to spit onto
the ground.
When he looks up, Marcus comes into view, walking out from the shadowed
corridor of the school and onto the grounds where kids are loitering on the
flat, grassy lawn, or waiting for their parents to pick them up by the kerb.
Esca's there himself, sitting on some bars that are cold as a witch's tit
beneath his arse, swinging his legs as he waits in front of the car park.
Waiting for Liathan, that is. He ent waiting for Marcus, don't be daft. Marcus
just happens to be there. Hasn't noticed Esca yet, he's walking towards his
beat-up hatchback, which is parked on the opposite side of the car park, head
down as he paws through the front zip of his rucksack, likely searching for his
keys.
Esca's hands squeeze around the metal bar. Liathan won't be out of detention
for 'nother hour or so. No harm in saying hullo, yeah?
He makes to hop off the rails, but that's when he sees Kirby and Tom and
Rupert, and another rubgy knobhead the year below start to gather around
Marcus. The fuck did they crawl out from? Marcus doesn't notice, he's got his
head shoved inside his stupid fucking rucksack, just look the fuck up, mate.
Esca drops onto the gritty cement with a little crunch of his Chucks, and
shoves his hands into the pocket of his beloved leather jacket. Wiggles his
fingers through the holes in the lining, shoulders raised up by his ears as he
starts to stride forward with as much aggro as he can muster with two
tender—broken?—ribs (he patched himself up last night, so no big deal. Read on
the internet that broken ribs are fine, don't even have to see a doctor or
nuffink). Esca reckons he’s got one more scrap in him.
By the time Marcus finally looks up from his rucksack, Esca's close enough to
hear—
"Oh, hey guys." Marcus voice is cautious, but still friendly. Such a bleeding
neek.
Esca sees Kirby square his shoulders, the other boys falling behind him in kind
of a V-shape like they're geese or summat.
"Hey, Marcus," Kirby replies cheerfully. "Me and the boys, we're going to
Chicken Cottage. You wanna come with us?"
Esca falters, thrown for a loop. He scoots behind a Ford Explorer. The
situation requires further observation.
Marcus scratches the back of his neck. "What's a Chicken Cottage?" he asks.
Kirby gives a bright laugh, throws his shorn, pudgy head back and outright
brays. The others follow suit, like a pack of hyenas.
All the while, Marcus just stands there. Esca can't read his expression from
here, six or seven cars away, but then Kirby swings a meaty arm around Marcus'
huge shoulders, having to reach up a little, but Marcus doesn't brush him off
like Esca expects him to.
"It's chicken, mate," Kirby chuckles, lightly thumping the front of Marcus'
chest with an open palm. "They got fried chicken where you're from? Where's
that, anyway?"
"Rome. And yeah, we have fried chicken."
"So come on, then. Tom’s brother will drive, we're meeting Ronald there."
In the shadow of the Ford Explorer, warm metal at his back, Esca lets himself
frown. Cos seriously, why the fuck are Kirby and his clowns sucking up to
Marcus? Even worse—why the fuck hasn't Marcus told them to go fuck themselves
yet?
Well, shit. The arseholes are gonna jump Marcus, first chance they get, aren't
they? And they're taking advantage of Marcus' retarded lack of self-
preservation by luring him somewhere the fight ent fair. Kirby said as
much—Ronald was gonna be there, and Esca knows firsthand what kind of slimy,
cowardly things Ronald does to win a fight.
"Sure," Marcus says with a shrug, which makes Kirby's arm slip off. "Why not.
I'm pretty hungry. But I'll take my own car."
"Great," Kirby says, clapping his hands together and walking backwards from
where Marcus is shaking out the keys from his pocket—no wonder the idiot
couldn't find them in his rucksack—and turning to unlock his hatchback. "Just
follow the black Explorer," Kirby calls, pointing towards Esca.
No, not at Esca; no one's seen him. Which means—shit, a cursory glance reveals
a vaguely familiar-looking bloke sitting in the driver seat of the SUV he'd
ducked behind. Tom’s brother, presumably.
Esca scampers away, hands balled up into fists inside his jacket as he makes
for the kerb on the far end of the grounds.
-----
At the entrance of the car park, Esca barely restrains himself from spitting on
the Explorer as Kirby and the others roll past, the naff beats of Drake
thundering out from juiced up speakers.
But then they turn at the traffic lights, and it's Marcus' turn to drive up.
Esca pushes off the tree he'd been leaning against and ambles up, seeing his
own face in the reflected glass of the driver-side window.
He hears the motor go into neutral as Marcus rolls down the window—by hand,
really?—and sticks his elbow onto the ledge, leaning out.
"Esca," he says warmly, with a soft smile. "What's up?"
Something catches Esca off-guard, makes him forget why exactly—oh, right.
Esca scowls. Rests his forearm on the hot roof of Marcus' car and leans in.
"What are you doing, you idiot?"
Marcu's smile fades. "What do you mean?"
"Are you bloody retarded? Hanging out with Kirby like you lot are right proper
mates, you're gonna get twattered, don't you get it?"
"Um, first of all, I have no idea what you're saying," Marcus says, his
expression retreating into irritation. "Second—just because I let you copy my
notes in History doesn't mean you get to tell me what to do."
"Look," Esca says, growing frustrated. "I don't care what you do, you can go
toss one off in the middle of the canteen for all I bloody care. But they're
gonna kick your arse, you understand. You'll look like me—" Esca points to his
purple shiner, at the eye he still can't properly see out of. "—if you show up
to fucking Chicken Cottage thinking you're about to get bloody chicken poppers,
because that's not what’s gonna happen."
Marcus sends Esca a sharp look, like he's seeing something he doesn't like.
Esca's used to that, yeah. But not from Marcus, and it affects him more than
it’s got any right to.
"Esca,” Marcus says warningly. “Get off my car"
"Not until you promise me you'll go right home."
Marcus sets his elbow on the windowsill and steadies himself with one hand on
the steering wheel, leaning out 'til he's nearly nose-to-nose with Esca. The
steely look hasn't left his eyes, which Esca notices are green this close up.
"You made me lose their car," Marcus says, sounding friendly-like but his dark,
Italian brows are furrowed deep. "So, you're gonna tell me how to get to
Chicken Cottage."
God damn it. Esca plants his hands on the edge of the car roof and locks his
elbows straight, away from Marcus' stupid fucking face.
Heaves a world-weary sigh. "It's a right on Atterwith, you pass three lights,
and then turn a left onto Legram. You can see the sign from the street, turn
left into the car park."
Behind them, someone honks their horn.
"Also," Esca adds, because he can't bloody help himself. "You can go fuck
yourself, mate. See if I give a damn when you come to class tomorrow a fucking
cripple."
He doesn't feel the blow so much as taste it, when Marcus splits the cut in his
mouth anew with bare knuckles. Blood runs over Esca's tongue and he swallows it
automatically, retching a little at the familiar taste.
"Thanks for the directions," Marcus says angrily. He pulls back into his car,
puts it into gear and drives off, the car lurching temporarily as Marcus fucks
up the clutch with a grinding noise that makes Esca reel back.
He curses the back of Marcus' car. Wipes his nose, gives a great sniff.
When the next car edges up, Esca sees the girl in the driver seat shoot him a
dirty look. He flips her the bird.
-----
When Liathan finally pulls his head out of his arse and meets Esca in the car
park, Esca may or may not ask him if he thinks Davina—Liathan's sister, who's
picking them up—would want fried chicken, his shout, he feels like a Peri Peri
burger, all right? No need to give a man shit for his fucking cravings yeah,
and Davina's a sight nicer than her twatty little brotha, ent she? So can they
get Chicken Cottage or what?
All the while he's trying to convince Liathan to go, Esca can see for himself
he's gone off the bend. Stalking Marcus like some kinda pervert would, but the
way he sees it—he owes the goomba one. Marcus saved his arse yesterday, cos
much as Esca doesn't give a damn about his edu-fuck-cation, he'd much rather be
at Cottingswood High than lousing about at home, playing punching bag with
Robert. Marcus kept him from being suspended, or even expelled. So yeah, Esca's
indebted to him. And Esca ent a fucking deadbeat like those rugby shitheads, he
knows something about honour.
Enough to keep Marcus from getting positively twattered on his second day at
school, anyway.
Liathan mumbles something like "we'll see" about Chicken Cottage, but Esca
doesn''t have to wait long cos Davina's pulling into the roundabout in her
sensible car, a white Subaru. Esca lets himself into the backseat, Liathan
taking up shotgun in front of him.
Inside the compartment of the car, Liathan's voice is twice as obnoxious as he
turns to his sister.
"Eh, Daffy," he says. "Esca promised us Chicken Cottage."
"I didn't say you too!" Esca protests from the back. "Just Davina, for driving
us, yeah? I haven't got enough money."
"So fine," Liathan says, slamming back against the car seat so that it bounces
painfully against Esca's scraped up knees, the little bitch. "Daffy, you take
us to Chicken Cottage, an' Esca'll buy you a Mountain burger, two spicy chicken
burgers, a large side of chips, and a pepsi. Oh, and whatever you want, too."
Davina sighs from the front seat, pushing her long, brown hair behind one ear.
Her eyes meet Esca's in the rearview mirror.
"Esca, you don't have to bribe me if you want Chicken Cottage. We'll just need
to be done before five, I’ve got a shift at the aquarium tonight."
Esca victoriously reaches up and tugs on the bristles of Liathan's dippy
mohawk, bouncing his skull against the backrest of the car seat. "Thanks,
Davina!" he chirps.
Liathan throws a biro at him from the front, which Esca neatly catches and
secretes into his rucksack.
-----
The three of them shuffle into the overly-lit restaurant and stand in line.
There are a whole bunch of other kids there, as it's just after school. Esca
tries to look nonchalant as he swivels around, looking for Marcus or Ronald or
Kirby, any of those goons.
Aha, he thinks, when his gaze alights on the messy hair of a bloke facing away
from them, busy by the soft drink fountain. That's got to be Marcus; nobody
else but some daft, foreign kid would be wearing a fucking pink polo shirt with
the hem tucked into his waistband. Belted, no less. What a prat!
Marcus finishes topping off his soda—turns around with the cup in hand, his
gaze colliding with Esca's. He looks surprised, then not at all, mouth going
flat with disapproval.
"Esca, man. You bloody in there?" Liathan raps on the side of Esca's head with
his knuckles, which Esca irritably snaps away from.
"Aye, I'm right bloody here, ent I?"
"Then order."
Oh. Esca gives a cursory glance at the overhead menu, mumbles out the first
combo he sees, hands over the only note he's got in his wallet. Hopes it's
enough to cover it.
It is, since he gets some money back, and then the three of them are moving
along to the waiting area.
Marcus is still by the soda fountain, receipt crumpled between two fingers
against his cup. His lips are wrapped around a straw as he sucks down his drink
like he's trying to finish it in thirty seconds, like one a them cheap kids who
want to make sure they get a refill 'fore they leave, get their money's worth.
Esca knows better though; that's angry drinking, not cheapskate drinking.
Marcus' narrowed eyes say so.
Liathan elbows Esca in the side, drawing his attention.
"Bloody tosser, ent he? Fucking polo shirt and tan trousers, like he's gonna go
golfing with the queen or suffink. Maybe we should rough him up, yeah, bloody
ponce fucking deserves it."
"Shut up, Liathan," Esca says, as does Davina. They look at each other and
grin. Davina reaches over and ruffles Esca's hair.
She's only two years older than him and Liathan, but Esca doesn't mind being
treated like a little kid if it's by Davina. She seems so much older. Probably
has something to do with how, out of the scores of children Liathan's parents
have squired, Davina's the oldest. She's basically got a little family of her
own to take care'a. In a way, Esca's part of it, like a proxy child.
"The fuck you lookin' at, eh?"
Liathan's angry voice breaks Esca's thoughts, and he follows his friend's gaze
to find the culprit.
By the soda fountain, Marcus stays perched against the metal condiments
counter, but he pulls his mouth off his straw and straightens up, broad
shoulders making him roughly the size of a brick shithouse.
"Liathan, leave it," Davina says wearily, grabbing her younger brother's
shoulder but he just shrugs it off and starts walking. Fucking hell, when
Liathan thinks someone's dishonoured him or his fucking family—especially when
it's to do with his big sister Davina—ent no way to calm him down, not 'til
someone's face is smashed in.
Esca watches Liathan storm over to Marcus with a sinking heart. For fuck’s
fake, he was here to save the Roman's arse, not to set a fucking rottweiler
onto him.
"Looking at my sister, were you?" Liathan snaps, getting up into Marcus' face.
Doesn't matter Marcus is three times his size; Liathan ent scared of fucking
nuffink. Sometimes that's a good thing; usually it's not.
"Liathan," Esca sighs, following him through the path he'd cleared, patrons
bunched to one side eager to get away from the hotheaded chav with the mohawk.
The staff behind the counter, too, are starting to look at them; last thing
Esca wants is to start trouble for Davina. "Come on," Esca says when he reaches
Liathan. "I want my fucking chicken wings, yeah?"
"You pussying out, MacCunoval?"
"Shut up, no. Just—look at me, Liathan, you think I could take on this fucking
meathead right now?" Esca yanks up the hem of his tee, not even up to his
black-and-blue ribs, but still it's enough to see how much damage he'd
sustained the day before. Even Marcus is staring, eyes bugging out a bit. "I
been pissing blood all day, mate, so can we just fucking leave it?"
Liathan gives him a long, hard look. In the corner of his eye, Esca can see
Marcus' intent gaze on the both of them.
Maybe that's why Liathan pivots in place, jutting his face back into Marcus'.
"Outside," he snarls.
God damn it, Liathan.
Marcus, for his part, doesn't bat an eyelash. He pushes off the steel counter
with his hip and stiffly walks out the restaurant, Liathan hot on his heels.
Esca shoves his receipt into Davina's hand. Doesn't say anything; doesn't have
to. She knows better than anyone what Liathan and Esca get up to.
"Be careful," she says reluctantly. "Don't want your bloodied piss in my car,
all right?"
"Wouldn't dream of it," Esca says with a grim smirk.
-----
Ronald and his lot are gathered 'round the black Explorer, bags of uneaten
takeaway in their hands like they're waiting for Marcus to come out. Whether to
kick his arse or genuinely to share a meal, Esca won't ever know cos things are
heating up now, regardless.
A few yards away, Marcus and Liathan are circling each other, hackles raised.
Esca feels his arm hairs prickle.
Liathan stops in his tracks. Keeping his eyes fixed on Marcus, he stretches out
an arm and points to the gaggle of footballers, addressing them.
"You lot stay out of this. It's between me and Richie Branson, yeah?"
"The fuck you got against Aquila, Freakazoid?"
Liathan whirls around. "You know this toff?"
"Well," Kirby steps up. "Yeah, I mean. I guess so. He's new. But he's reet,
yeah?"
"This twat?" Liathan repeats disbelievingly. "He's faffed up like my dearly
departed grandpa, and you lot think he's reet?"
"What's wrong with how I look?" Marcus asks. He’s ignored.
Ronald and Tom have stepped up now, rounding onto Liathan, bags of takeaway
ditched to the ground behind them, forgotten. Tom cracks his neck, jerking it
side to side like he he's gearing up for kickoff and Liathan's head is the
rugby ball.
"We can't all be bloody chavs like you and your poofter boyfriend," Tom laughs,
his mean eyes flicking over to Esca and back.
Liathan's vibrating with anger now, but he's outnumbered five to one. Six, if
you count Marcus.
Bloody hell. Things are getting out of control.
No one to stop it but him, yeah? Esca strides forward, hand grasping behind for
the blade he keeps tucked in his waistband. He might be recovering from any
manner of bodily injuries, but that don't mean Esca can't be quick when it
matters.
In seconds he's joined the scene where he swiftly grabs the back of Marcus'
collar, earning a little gurgle of surprise as Esca holds the blade to Marcus'
throat. The sharp edge sits just beneath his Adam's apple where the tissue's
softest.
"Esca?" Marcus manages between clenched teeth, his eyes darting to the side,
body trying to rotate around like he wants to see.
Esca doesn't answer, but kicks out the backs of Marcus' knees so that he falls
to the ground, two hard knocks dropping like stones onto concrete. Marcus
hisses, but Esca keeps his blade up, keeps Marcus’ collar taut against his
throat.
"Ey Ronald," Esca says jauntily. "How's your mum doing? Now that you're home
every day, you get to join in when the pool boy comes 'round? Threesomes every
afternoon, mate, can't get much sweeter than that."
"You little shit," Ronald snarls, stepping forward. "I know how much you like
getting slapped around, but don't think I don't call your bluff. You ain't
gonna shank the new kid."
"You gonna test me?" Esca laughs meanly. God, he hopes they don't. His body's
not up for it; he’d fold like a piece of wet cardboard.
Esca unclenches his hand from the back of Marcus' collar and roves up the nape
of his neck, grabbing a messy handful of thick hair which he uses to jerk back,
baring Marcus' tender throat.
"Come on," Esca taunts. "Test me."
Ronald's glaring at him like he can make Esca spontaneously combust through
sheer willpower, but he doesn’t move. Not forwards, but not backwards either.
Esca flips the blade around in his hand so that the pointy tip's pressed into
the base of Marcus' throat, Esca's hand wrapped around the short hilt like he's
having a wank.
He doesn''t take his eyes off Ronald, cos you got to stare a beast down, yeah?
So he doesn't know if he's actually drawing blood with his blade. Kind of hopes
so—not cos he actually wants to hurt Marcus, but because a little blood goes a
long way in terms of getting people to back the fuck off.
Anyway, whatever it is he's doing, it's working. Ronald suddenly deflates like
an air mattress sprung a leak, and he retreats a few feet, back to where his
goons and Tom’s brother are sneering hard enough Esca thinks their noses might
fall off.
He loosens his grip on Marcus' hair. Moves his blade away—
With a surge like an incoming tide, Marcus twists around and curls his hands
into Esca's shirtfront. He looks like a bloomin' lunatic, hair standing up in
unruly tufts, ruby-coloured blood trailing down the base of his throat and into
the half-unbuttoned placket of his pink polo shirt.
"Fuck you, MacCunoval," Marcus growls.
Next to them, Esca hears Liathan pivot, his designer trainers grinding gravel
underfoot. Esca holds a hand up, signaling him to stay put.
"I saved your fucking ass yesterday, and this is how you repay me? Maybe Ronald
and the others were right in beating you within an inch of your life. You're
just a self-serving piece of shit, aren't you?"
With one last, dogged glare, Marcus whips his hands down, releasing Esca from
the inch or so he'd been dragged up from his tiptoes. Esca stumbles a bit, but
doesn't let his expression waver even as inside his head, he's thinking shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
Marcus turns around and struts over to his car. Ronald and Kirby try and stop
him, mumbling something Esca can't hear, but Marcus just shoves them off and
gamely moves past.
The rugby goons shrug. They collect their takeaway from the ground and pile
back into the Explorer without so much as a backwards glance. Maybe they're
shaken; maybe they honestly don't give a shit. Either way, Esca's glad to see
'em fuck off.
Somewhere to his right, he hears a low, appreciative whistle. Turns his head.
It's Liathan, sidling over with his hands in his trackie bottoms.
"Puppy can bite," Liathan chuckles. "That was fun."
Maybe for a dodgy, violent aggro like his best friend. Not for Esca. "Let's go
back inside," he says wearily. "Davina's probably eaten all our nosh."
They round the restaurant and Esca enters the door, beckoning Davina over from
her seat. She gets up with a little smile and patters over, unopened paper bags
crumpling loudly beneath her manicured hands.
-----
On the car ride home, Esca's mind runs on repeat.
He thinks about how Marcus looked when he'd had both hands wrapped in Esca's
shirt—like he wanted to throttle Esca, of course. But under that, upset for a
totally different reason. Like he thought Esca was better than he is—like Esca
betrayed him or something, which is fucking daft, they don't even know each
other. The fuck does Marcus know about Esca, eh? Fuck all, is what.
Doesn't stop the guilt from bubbling in his stomach. Though, that could just as
easily be the spicy chicken wings Esca inhaled in about thirty seconds flat.
Looking down, Esca frowns at the right mess he's made. Sweeps some greasy fried
bits off his lap with a defeated sigh.
-----
Some part of Esca had hoped that by tomorrow, Marcus would've forgotten about
their stupid fight at Chicken Cottage. It wasn't a big deal, anyway, just
something friends do. Roughhousing, that is. Thas how him and Liathan get
along, anyhow. A little scuffle never hurt no one, yeah?
Well, must'a been the dumb part of Esca that done the hoping, cos Marcus sure
as fuck hasn't forgotten. He keeps picking at the small wound between his
collarbones and avoids Esca's gaze. In fact, there's no acknowledgment of any
sort that Esca's even bloody alive, except that halfway through lesson he
scratches a piece of dried blood off his throat and flicks it onto Esca's
table.
"Bloody hell," Esca grouses, swiping the little fleck off his desk. "Don't
throw your nasty scabs on my table."
He hunches over his desk defensively and squints at Marcus, but Marcus just
sits up straighter in his chair so that his big naffin' head blocks the morning
sun streaming behind him and Esca can see his stoic expression with full
clarity as he calls out, imperiously:
"Mr. Dorsen, sir. Could you repeat that last part?"
Mr. Dorsen stutters through a response, clearly unused to students paying
enough attention to bother asking questions. Esca knows that Marcus is just
fronting, though; his left hand's clenched so tight over his left thigh his
veins are standing out, and he's taking enough notes to finish a goddamned
novel by the end of first period. But all it takes is Esca looking past Marcus'
tanned forearms to read the smudgy grey words—
The first year of the Revalution the 3rd estate in June the assalt—
to know for sure that bloody hell, Marcus is just transcribing the words coming
out of Mr. Dorsen's mouth, skipping whole parts of sentences at that. He ent
paying a lick of attention, but he's being a stubborn arse about making it look
like he is.
"Gonna ignore me, then?" Esca hisses. "Look, whas the big fucking deal? I
didn't want you to kick Lie-Lie's twatty little arse. I wasn't gonna really
hurt you. Didn't know you were gonna be such a fucking girl about it."
Esca hears the tiny sound of pencil lead snapping. Marcus quickly thumbs out
new lead, click click click, and keeps scribbling nonsense.
Esca sighs. "Marcus."
Marcus flips a page.
"Marcus. Marcus. Marcus."
Esca hears his pencil lead snap again. With a muttered curse, Marcus clicks
some more out, but it’s done run out. Thwarted, Marcus throws it onto his
notebook like a petulant child. Then, for the first time all day, he turns to
look at Esca.
"What?" he snaps.
Esca had this all planned out, wot he was gonna say, how to make Marcus realize
he was being completely daft about yesterday's non-event, but the words
evaporate from his brain like they were never there.
Marcus blinks at him, quiet and expectant.
"Erm," Esca says, licking his lips. Fuck's sake. He drums his fingers on his
scarred desk—most of the gouges his—trying to think of something to say—
"That's it, Um? That's what you wanted to say. Um. They should give you an
Oscar for that, Esca. Moving stuff."
"Ey, fuck you. I'm trying to apologize here."
At the front of the room, Mr. Dorsen loudly clears his throat. That's usually
Esca's cue to start talking louder, but whatever, Esca's got other things to
think about right now. Marcus is leaning in, the cheap wood of his seat
creaking beneath him.
His knee bumps Esca's under their desks, making Esca jump. Marcus doesn't seem
to notice though.
"I'm listening," Marcus says seriously.
Shit. Why is he making this so hard? Esca darts a look around the room, hoping
nobody's paying attention to them. He's got his fucking rep to think about.
"I'm sorry," Esca says quickly, eyes everywhere but on Marcus.
"Sorry for what?"
"I don't know. For making you mad?"
"Wrong answer. Try apologizing for why I’m mad."
"So you are," Esca blurts, feeling really shite all of a sudden.
"Obviously," Marcus says, keeping his voice down but he's starting to sound
incensed.
"Okay, fine. I'm fucking sorry, all right? I'm sorry for—for—" Esca makes
twitchy gestures with his hands which is supposed to mean "everything" or
"whatever you want" or "I don't bloody know".
"Sorry about holding a knife at my neck, maybe? Sorry for kicking me to the
ground and fucking up my knees, my leg?"
Before Esca can make fun of him for being a right weakling, Marcus barrels on,
"I broke it in three places last year, right in the middle of a game where
scouts were watching me, so don't you dare tell me I'm being a girl, or a
pussy, or whatever it is you were about to say. Year 10 was hell for me, and
then I had to repeat it, so the last thing I want to do is come to a brand new
school in this—this fucking village of a city, and have a pompous little jerk-
off be nice to me one day, then throw me to the wolves the next."
Marcus suddenly unclenches his left hand from his thigh and rubs at the muscle
irritably, the heel of his hand rolling up and down like he's kneading dough.
He still looks annoyed with Esca, but his face slowly colours up in
embarrassment the longer Esca watches him. Like he doesn't want anyone to see
him hurting, 'specially now he's just told Esca he's got a fucked up leg.
"I wasn't nice to you," Esca eventually says. It looks like it takes Marcus a
moment to catch up, to figure out what Esca's referring to. But it teases out a
reluctant smile, and that's good, right there.
"Don't kid yourself," Marcus says.
"Asshole," Esca says automatically. Fuck. "I didn't mean that," he backtracks.
Marcus rolls his eyes. "I know." There's amusement in his face though, hidden
in the tiny quirk of his lips, in the long-suffering sigh he gives.
Esca hopes this means Marcus isn't mad anymore. "I'm not great at words," Esca
adds. "So, erm."
The idea hits him suddenly, and it's so perfect Esca doesn't know why he didn't
think of it last night, while he'd been lying awake in bed mulling over what to
say to Marcus the next morning. He leans forward in his seat, wincing a little
when his tender ribs bump into the edge of his desk. Hikes up the back of his
leather jacket and white tee shirt, his skin prickling a little as it hits the
cool air, and gropes for his blade.
He sees Marcus' green eyes track the movement. His face is eerily blank, like
maybe he's still worried Esca's gonna stick him but doesn't want to show it.
He feels a kick to the back of his chair.
"Esca! What are you doing?"
It's Molly Aiken, who's generally all right but sort of uptight. She loves
telling Esca what to do. He loves telling her to fuck off, mostly.
"Fuck off, Molly," Esca tosses over his shoulder, freeing the sheathed dagger
from the small of his back and wagging it at her. "I ent starting nuffink, but
don't provoke me."
He turns to Marcus, who's watching the weapon with outright suspicion now.
Maybe that's cos Esca's pulled it out of the simple, leather sheath and pointed
it at him.
"Fuck's sake, I'm not gonna stick you," Esca says exasperatedly. "I jus want
you to have it. For now, I mean. Once you trust me not to stab you no more."
Marcus frowns, looking confused in the way only lumbering footballers can. Esca
snorts.
"It was me dad's," he explains, turning the dagger so that it's pointing
towards the front of the room. "B-R-M," he says, showing Marcus the small
engraving at the base of the blade. "Brennan Cecil MacCunoval."
"Was your dad's?" Marcus asks, wrapping his huge hand around Esca's over the
hilt, instead of just waiting for him to pass it over, the clumsy buffoon.
Esca extricates his hand. Scratches his neck, feeling itchy. "He's dead," he
says simply. "Mum too." He's thankful when Marcus doesn't push it, despite the
overt curiosity in his eyes which linger, present and invasive, like he’s
trying to read Esca’s mind.
The stupid Roman finally looks away. He examines the dagger in his hand, then
picks up the leather sheath from Esca's desk and tucks the blade away with
overmuch care.
"Now you know I won’t kill you," Esca says, trying to shake off how unsettled
he feels. "But I'm warning you, if you lose that blade I'll do it anyway."
Marcus chuckles, which makes him look like a daft ten-year-old, his smile is so
fucking guileless. It makes Esca feel all a bit lightheaded.
"Yeah, yeah," Esca says with a sniff. "You call me shrimp again, I'm telling
Liathan you're fucking his sister."
"Maybe I am."
As revenge, Esca digs out a permanent marker from Marcus' pencil bag and draws
a pair of testicles on his forearm. Marcus, like the great idiot he is, lets
him.
***** 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.
***** Uncle Aquila is an Nutter Who Sounds Vaguely Rapey on the Phone But Can’t
Sleep Without His Bunny Slippers *****
He winds up staying another two nights. Gets word from Liathan that Jeannine’s
come ‘round Cottingswood High, as well as the Rhona household. The vultures are
circling. He’s got to find a longer-term solution, and quick.
“What about school, though? You’ll want to graduate,” Davina says, dark
eyebrows wrinkling prettily. She knows about Esca staying in their house. She’d
insisted on taking him ‘out of that little rat hole for an afternoon’.
They’re currently sitting at an overpriced coffee shop at Whitney Quarter, a
shopping centre full of overseas brands that Esca can’t pronounce. S’not
usually Davina’s scene neither, but she said she wanted to treat him.
“I can always take my GCSEs,” Esca says easily. “But right now, I don’t need
more cotton stuffed b’tween me ears, Davina. I need a job.”
It’s obvious she doesn’t like his answer, but it ent like Davina’s got a better
suggestion. If she did, she would’a spoken up.
“I still think you should be finishing out the rest of the year with Liathan,”
she says eventually.
“Yeah, well. I should have two parents and two brothers, a girlfriend and a
garden and a sodding dog, but we can’t all have what we should, can we?”
The words come out more bitter than Esca intends, and he quickly adds, “Sorry.
I just. Haven’t been having the greatest luck, lately.”
Davina says nothing. Just puts her hand over his and it’s cool, dry.
Reassuring. Esca squeezes back, holding on more desperately than he really
wants to. But he lets himself, just this once.
“Esca?”
Esca pulls his hand back, turning around at the sound of his name.
“Marcus?” he breathes, blinking widely. “The fuck you doing here?”
“It’s Saturday…I’m shopping with my uncle.” Marcus’ eyes flick between him and
Davina. “What are you doing here?”
“Wot’s it look like, I’m having tea,” Esca says, feeling his face heat up.
Bugger fuck, he’s been avoiding Marcus’ texts all week. Not even on
purpose—s’just that every time he goes to reply, the very idea of having to
explain how he’s squatting in Liathan’s basement, too broke to go out, too
scared to go home—it’s bloody embarrassing, is what it is. He figured Marcus
would get bored eventually and let it go, but he hasn’t yet.
Davina’s sudden hand on Esca’s knee makes him realize he’s bouncing his leg
under the table. He stops, with concerted effort.
“I thought you needed more clothes,” an approaching voice says. “Why are we
stopped here?” It’s an older man who arrives, stooped in the shoulders but
looking spry enough as he heartily claps Marcus on the shoulder and stops
beside him. “Ah,” he murmurs, eyes trailing Marcus’, where they land on Esca.
“A friend?”
Esca wipes his nose.
Next to him, Davina stirs her lukewarm coffee.
“Oh, sorry,” Marcus says. “Uncle, this is Esca. The one I told you about?”
Esca blinks.
“Esca, this is my uncle. He’s been out of the house the times you came over,
otherwise I would’ve introduced you earlier.”
Next to him, Davina gives a little wave. “Davina,” she says, perfectly at ease.
“Esca’s friend.” Marcus gives his own name in return, but doesn’t sound nearly
as friendly.
Belatedly, Esca notices that Marcus’ uncle has his hand outstretched. “Oh, erm.
Good to meet you. Sir,” Esca mumbles, rising half out of his seat to shake his
hand.
“Please, no need to get up. And just ‘Aquila’ will do. I’m much too young to be
getting called ‘sir,’” he says with a toothy grin.
Esca smiles back, thin-lipped. Bloody hell, he never knows how to act around
other people’s parents and the like.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind picking up an espresso while we’re here,” Aquila says.
“You keep your friend company, Marcus. I’ll be right back.”
He strolls into the coffee shop, leaving the three of them among the exterior
seating. Thank God Davina’s here. Hopefully her presence will deter Marcus from
asking any questions—
“You know,” Davina says, drawing both Esca and Marcus’ attention. “I could do
with a biscuit. Fancy anything, Esca? Marcus?”
Esca shakes his head, eyes saucer-wide.
With an innocent smile, she stands up from seat and flips her long, brunette
hair over one shoulder, then follows Aquila inside.
Fuck’s sake. Esca’s beginning to understand why Lie-Lie’s always calling Davina
a right scheming wench. The description never really made sense until now.
Behind him, Marcus clears his throat. He’s almost afraid to look.
“Esca,” Marcus says.
“Yeah?” he asks guiltily, turning in his seat. Rears back a bit when he
realizes Marcus has sat down, entirely too close for comfort across the small,
round table. Jesus, Esca’s almost forgotten how bloody huge the Roman is. Their
knees bump under the table.
“Where have you been?” Marcus asks, sounding hurt.
For God’s sake, Esca does NOT want to be doing this. Can’t a man be left alone
with his troubles, for crying out loud? And if Esca’s got to have this
embarrassing conversation, must he do it to the wretched melodies of Kenny
bloody G playing overhead?
“I’ve been around,” Esca says evasively.
“Have you gotten my texts?”
“Erm. No?” Esca tries.
“I’m not stupid, you know.” Marcus pauses. “Also, you’re a really bad liar.
You’re supposed to look someone in the eye when you’re lying.”
Fine. Esca looks. Marcus has a leaf in his hair, the daft bugger.
“Tell me what’s going on,” Marcus probes.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because.” Esca drums his fingers on the tabletop. His foot’s started bouncing
again, has to physically put his hand on his thigh to keep from wearing a hole
through the ground. “Cos I don’t want to.”
“Look,” Marcus wets his lips and leans in. “If this has anything to do with the
last time we hung out—“
“It hasn’t got anything to do with that,” Esca says, feeling his face go bright
red. “So will you drop it? I haven’t thought twice about Wednesday, why do you
keep bloody bringing it up?”
Marcus makes a face like he’s been slapped. Esca feels like a right arsehole
now, so he explains hurriedly, “I haven’t been to school cos I can’t, you see.
They’ll find me there. And they’ll make me go with them. I’d rather die than go
back. So you see, it’s just the way it is now, I won’t be in class for awhile,
Marcus. So find someone else to pester. I hear the footballers have crowned you
Ronald’s successor, so off you go, then.” Esca makes a shoo-ing gesture and
clicks his tongue as he would to a horse. “Off you go.”
Marcus sets his mouth in a firm line, and Esca knows he’s about to get an
earful. Grabs his stone-cold tea with both hands, slurps it down if only to
cover his face as Marcus growls.
“Jesus, Esca. If I was worried before, I’m about ready to call the cops for you
now. So you might as well tell me what’s going on, ‘cause I’ll find out anyway.
Who’s after you? And where would they—“
“Ahem,” Davina clears her throat. Marcus trails off, but he keeps watching
Esca, jaw spasming methodically like he’s just barely keeping from shouting,
with or without an audience. When he finally looks away, Esca does too.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Davina says, looking mildly embarrassed. “But I’ve paid
up. And I think your uncle wants to get a move-on.”
“Me too,” Esca says abruptly. He pushes back his chair with a steel screech,
the echo of it loud but lost among the bustle of the weekend crowd.
Marcus swallows visibly, standing up as well. He looks torn, like maybe he
wants to protest, or shackle Esca to the table and get some answers. On the
other hand, everyone’s staring at him. So finally, Marcus drops his eyes. The
leaf is still in his hair, red like all the aspens turning season outside.
Esca reaches forward and plucks the bloody thing out of Marcus’ hair, lets it
flutter to the tiled ground.
Marcus takes it the wrong way. “I’ll see you later?” he asks hopefully.
Esca pulls back, feeling sorry he did it. “Maybe,” he says, but his tone
clearly means no.
Because no, Marcus won’t see him later. Marcus won’t be having anything to with
any of this, cos it’s all a bit fucked.
This is Esca’s problem. He won’t be dragging anyone down with him.
“Pleasure meeting you all,” Davina says, and Marcus’ uncle says something glib
in response before they all part.
-----
Esca’s in the loo taking a piss, still at Whitney Quarter, when his mobile
rings.
He glances at it irritably, trying to finish up. The vibrating is making his
arse cheek go numb.
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, shaking off and tucking himself back in his pants.
Yanks the mobile out and flips it open.
“Aye?” he asks curtly.
“Is this Esca?”
Esca cradles the mobile with his shoulder and goes to the tap, rinsing his
hands off. “Who wants to know?” he asks suspiciously.
“It’s Aquila. Marcus’ uncle. We met about an hour ago.”
Esca wipes his hands on his trousers ‘till they’re dry enough to grab his
mobile again. He switches ears.
“Oh,” he says, frowning. “How did you get my number?”
“Marcus has it, doesn’t he?”
“And he’s going around, giving it to anyone who asks?”
“Oh, well. Not exactly.”
Discomfited, Esca walks out of the loo. Sets off in the direction of Davina,
where he’d her left inside a clothes shop.
“Listen, no disrespect. But what d’you want?”
“Cut right to the chase, I like that,” Aquila chuckles.
Esca finds a bench near Davina’s shop and settles himself on it, resting his
elbows on his knees. “So?”
“So, young man. I’d like to offer you a job.”
Esca runs his hand over his mouth. God damn it, Davina. She must’a said
something to him, back when they were inside the coffee shop together. “How do
you mean?”
“Thing is, I’ve been looking for an extra set of hands to help out around the
house. Nothing in particular, it’s just our housekeeper is getting a bit on in
the years and when Marcus moved in last week, he’s had twice as much work to
do. I don’t want to keep overworking the poor man.”
Esca scratches the end of his nose. “So I’d be doing what, like. Cleaning
dishes or summat?”
“Perhaps. That, some cleaning, some laundry. Yard work too, though we have a
gardener who comes once a week for the heavy duty stuff.”
Okay, Esca can work with this. “All right,” he says slowly. “But if you don’t
mind me asking…why me? Why not find, like, a proper professional to do it?”
“Oh, I tried some agencies,” Aquila says, but then comes a muffled noise like a
hand over the speaker. Aren’t those a little short on you? Esca hears, before
the sound clarity comes back.
“Sorry, I’m still with Marcus. But to answer your question, no one’s been able
to commit to the kind of hours I’m looking for so far.”
“Well, I’m still in school, aren’t I?” Esca hedges. Not strictly relevant, but
he wants to see just how much Davina’s told the man about his situation. the
bloody gossip. “What makes you think I can do the hours?”
“Dear boy,” Aquila says, an edge of sternness weaving between his words. “Don’t
look a gift horse in the mouth. Your friend Davina is worried about you, so I
suggest you drop the pretence.”
Feeling chastised, Esca lowers his eyes and starts picking at a small hole on
the knee of his denims. “Fine,” he finally says. “I can work whatever hours are
needed. But how much are you going to pay me for it?”
“There’s a lad. Now, I was thinking two hundred pounds a week, but I can be
flexible.”
Esca’s eyes bug out. That’s a lot of money. He does some quick calculations in
his head, comparing that with the rent prices he’s researched on Liathan’s
laptop—
“Oh, and that includes room and board.”
Esca fumbles his mobile.
“…understand that you’ll have to think about it—“
“I’ll do it,” Esca interrupts.
The line goes quiet. It stretches long enough, Esca wonders if the call
dropped.
“Hello?” he says. “Did you hear me? I said I’d do it.”
Finally, Aquila’s voice returns. “Marvellous,” he says jovially. “I’ll have my
lawyer draft something up. When can you start?”
Esca’s halfway to saying tonight, cos Jeannine’s sure to come ‘round again,
maybe with Robert or the police this time, but he reins himself in. It wouldn’t
do to come off sounding desperate. Never mind that he sort of is.
“Tomorrow,” Esca allows. “I can start tomorrow morning.”
“Perfect,” Aquila says. “Eight o’clock?”
Esca grins. A right real one, something he hasn’t done in ages.
“I’ll be there.”
When Davina comes out of the store a few minutes later, Esca kisses her
exuberantly, right on the mouth.
“What was that for?” she laughs, wiping it off with the back of her hand.
“For being gorgeous,” Esca says, taking her bag for her. Then, more seriously,
“Thanks, Davina.”
“Oh, never mind that. It’s just to get you out of our hair, innit?”
Esca thwacks her with the shopping bag.
-----
Esca’s alarm goes off at 7AM.
In the dark, Esca hears Liathan throw a pillow at him, only to have it bounce
off a wall and onto the floor.
“Jesus bloody Christ,” Liathan croaks. “Turn that off.”
“All right, all right,” Esca says, messing with his mobile until it’s gone
silent. It done the trick though, he’s awake, and he’s got a job to go to.
A bloody job.
He kicks his blanket off.
“That’s it, then,” Esca says. “It’s been lovely doing your homework and feeding
your gecko those disgusting crickets. But I’m off.”
“Watch your arse,” Liathan grunts, voice faint like he’s got his head under a
pillow. “You know how much old perverts love a ripe scullery maid.”
Esca rolls his eyes. He’d say something insulting, but a) it’s too bloody early
to be thinking up jibes and b) Liathan’s started snoring again.
With a mental shrug, Esca extricates himself from his blanket. Nothing to bring
with him but the plastic bag he’d stuck his dirty laundry in, so with that in
hand, he gets off the couch and gropes his way in the dark towards the
staircase.
-----
“Why don’t we let you get dressed first?” Aquila says evenly before closing the
door to Marcus’ room, Esca backing out behind him with wide eyes. The last
sight he sees before the door swings shut is Marcus in his little striped
boxers—just his little striped boxers—stretched out on top of his covers with a
look of horror on his face.
“Well,” Aquila says, sounding amused. “I suppose that’ll get him out of bed, at
least.”
Esca doesn’t respond, too busy wishing he could bleach his eyes. He won’t be
able to close them for hours without seeing Marcus’ prominent morning wood
behind them.
An unsettling thought occurs to him. “Am I meant to wake him up each day?” Esca
asks. And does he ever wear clothes to bed? he refrains from adding.
“Only if he isn’t up by seven,” Aquila replies. “I hope you aren’t suddenly
concerned about the hours, Esca. Stephanos will insist on having you in the
kitchen to help prepare breakfast each morning at six.”
“No, s’not that,” Esca mutters, when another thought hits. “Erm, sir. Does
Marcus know why I’m here?” He certainly didn’t look like he’d been expecting
him. Not if Marcus’ dropped jaw was anything to go by.
“He knows I’ve been looking for extra help, yes. But he didn’t know I hired you
until—well, just now, I suppose.”
“All right.” Esca rubs the back of his neck. “Do you think it’ll be a problem?”
“I don’t see why,” Aquila says blithely. At Esca’s uncomfortable silence,
however, he casts a sideways look. “Why, do you?”
“No, of course not,” Esca’s quick to respond. “I just…well, I haven’t really
told him I was looking for work. Reckon he thinks I’ll be back in class
tomorrow.”
Aquila turns around, giving Esca an appraising look. “Even knowing your
situation?”
Bloody hell, Davina. How much did she tell the old codger? “I didn’t really
tell him much,” Esca says helplessly. “Or anything, actually.”
“He’s going to ask, Esca.”
“I know, I just. Haven’t gotten around to it yet.” Esca shifts his weight,
venturing a peek at Aquila’s face. His stern expression makes Esca feels about
two inches tall. “You won’t tell him, will you?”
Aquila considers it for a moment, but Esca quickly amends, “I want to tell him
myself. I’ll do it. I promise.”
Finally, Aquila gives a solemn nod. A wave of relief washes over Esca, and he
tilts his head in the direction of Marcus’ door, implicitly changing the
subject.
Aquila obliges. “Are you decent yet?” he calls out.
“Yeah,” comes Marcus’ gruff reply. Aquila fixes one last, all-seeing look at
Esca, then opens the door.
-----
This time, Marcus is wearing clothes. Stupid clothes, yeah—a butter-yellow
shirt tucked into plaid shorts, navy blue sweater draped ‘round his shoulders
like he’s ready for a day of yachting with the Duke of Cambridge—but at least
Esca can look him in the eye without choking on his tongue, yeah?
Marcus gazes back at him, asking Esca directly, “Why are you here?” His voice
is still gruff from sleep and he’s rubbing his eyes, like he can rub away the
image of Esca in his bedroom.
Aquila answers the question. “You know I’ve been looking for someone to help
Stephanos around the house. After reviewing many others, I hired Esca.” He
looks over his shoulder and beckons Esca to step forward.
He does so reluctantly, entering full into the room until the tepid light
falling through the window washes over him. By the bed, Marcus sighs heavily,
chest rising and falling. The sight of it makes Esca grow warm round his
collar, so he lowers his eyes and puts his hands behind his back to keep
himself from fidgeting.
“I should’ve been consulted,” Marcus says, but his resigned tone means he’s
already accepted the fact of Esca’s employment.
Aquila gives a noncommittal shrug. “It was all so last-minute. Now, if you’ll
excuse us, Marcus, I simply came to inform you of our new addition to the
household. Esca still has yet to see the rest of the grounds, and Stephanos
will be wanting him downstairs.” He turns to go. Esca follows suit—
“Wait,” Marcus says. Then, gentler. “Esca.”
With a questioning look, Esca meets Aquila’s gaze. The old man answers it with
a little toss of his head that says go on before leaving the room, shutting
them inside together.
Esca turns around, but finds himself unable to come closer. He’s inexplicably
rooted in place.
“Esca,” Marcus repeats, his voice sounding louder against the stillness of the
room. But then he makes a small grimace and shuffles to the foot of his bed,
lowering himself with difficulty until he’s properly seated. He looks up at
Esca with supplicating eyes, injured leg rigid and unbending before him.
Like an untethered balloon, Esca drifts over.
“Still hurt?” he asks cautiously.
“Yeah,” Marcus murmurs, but he’s got something else on his mind. Green eyes
search his out and when Esca finally lets himself look back, Marcus asks, “Are
you going to tell me what’s going on, now?”
Damn it. He’s got to, hasn’t he? Even promised old man Aquila, just minutes
prior. “Yes,” Esca replies, the short word dragged out of him on a bed of
nails.
He doesn’t know where to begin—what to say to make any of it sound like no big
deal. Whatever he tells Marcus, he doesn’t want to sound like a bloody victim,
yeah? S’bad enough he’s working for him, like a servant boy from some BBC
series; Esca doesn’t need Marcus’ pity to go along with it.
So does he start with Wednesday, after he’d left this very house and gone home
to a belligerent Robert? Or does it go back further than that? Esca MacCunoval,
ten years old: a house, two parents, middle of three sons. Esca MacCunoval,
eleven years old: orphan, last of his family, lost in the system.
Maybe it starts with Lie-Lie, the first idiot Esca didn’t hate on sight at his
new school. He was the first to call Esca a shrimp, the first to have his blood
spilt by Esca’s clenched fist. And afterwards they laughed so hard they
cried—well, Liathan would’ve, if his eyes weren’t so dried out from being high
as a kite. Liathan had pissed himself (an occurrence he’d found shocking at the
time) and that’d only made Esca laugh harder, salty tears streaming down his
face.
No, none of it will do. None of it’s right for Marcus’ ears. Cos the thing is,
Esca ent as pathetic as all that sounds. He ent someone to cry over! He doesn’t
want no one’s bloody money, rattling about in a tin can—doesn’t need oversized
denims for Christmas, doesn’t need a dollar a month like an African baby with a
distended belly on a sodding postcard. He’s a fucking MacCunoval, and he’d
rather die than dishonour his family’s memory by groveling for sympathy like a
worthless maggot.
Marcus’ hand touches his. Esca blinks, looking down.
“I won’t push you,” Marcus says quietly. “You don’t have to tell me if you
don’t want to.”
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Esca doesn’t even realize his shoulders
have risen up by his ears until Marcus wraps his hand around Esca’s wrist and
trails up, leaving chills on his route past the bump of Esca’s elbow, the hill
of Esca’s shoulder. A little pressure there makes Esca lower his hackles, and
from there the fight leaves him like an exhalation.
“Okay,” Esca says dully, eyes fluttering shut from the feeling of Marcus’ palm
on his shoulder, heavy and comforting. Marcus’ thumb traces circles into the
side of Esca’s neck. “Thanks,” he mumbles.
Marcus lifts his hand, cool air displacing the weight. For a split second Esca
thinks he feels the ghost of a touch across his lips, but when he’s opened his
eyes Marcus has leaned back on his hands, which are hidden behind the unmade
covers bunched up around Marcus’ ass.
“Well, go on. Get out of here. I want eggs, and since you’re the help now, you
might as well know I like them sunny-side up.”
That surprises a chuckle out of Esca. “How do you know I won’t poison it?”
“Easy,” Marcus replies serenely. “I’ll make you taste them first.”
“God, you fucking toff,” Esca laughs, shaking off whatever mood had come over
them. “I might be a servant, now, but you better watch it cos I could kill you
in your sleep. I’m just next door, you know.”
“Lucky for me, I can use your knife to defend myself. Now go, ‘cause I want
bacon, too. Three slices.”
“Fat arse,” Esca taunts before he hastens out of the room, using the door like
a shield as Marcus throws his balled-up sweater at him.
Esca shoves his head back through the door. “Are you going to be this grumpy
every morning?”
“God, shut up!” Marcus groans, covering his face dramatically.
“Yes, my lord,” Esca cheekily replies, moving away before Marcus can throw
something else at him.
-----
Fuck’s sake, Esca knew Marcus lived in a big house. He’d been there, hadn’t he?
Never quite got past the first set of corridors though, and stupidly assumed
that was all there was.
Well, he was wrong.
Marcus lives in a fucking villa. When you turn the corner of the main hallway,
it branches off into two separate wings, both of which have at least ten rooms
attached on either side. That’s not to mention the second floor—nor the
third—nor the small country Aquila and Stephanos have dubbed the “backyard”,
which is only reachable through the glass doors at the rear of the house.
It ent a backyard. There’s a manmade lake attached to it, with a charming dock
and wooden punt floating on the gently rippling surface. Beyond that, a vast,
rolling lawn disappears behind a ring of trees—trees that stretch on for who-
knows how far.
A “backyard” does not come with its own ecosystem, for the love of God.
“Come on, now. Waiting for a printed invitation? Get a move on,” Stephanos
pokes Esca with the butt of a rake, making him remember he’s got one in his own
hands.
Yeah, no one needs this much land. ‘Specially not when Esca’s got to scrape all
the leaves off it, Jesus Christ.
“Coming,” he says, trotting after Stephanos so they can start clearing away the
last hurrah of Autumn, which comes in heaps of crunchy, auburn waste littered
across the grounds.
Golden leaves turn to dust inside the rubbish bags Esca and Stephanos reap
everything into—foliage, twigs, and in one instance, a dirty sock with a hole
in it that looks suspiciously the size of Marcus’ big toe. Above their heads,
the oncoming season lurks in wait with its anaemic sunlight, filtered through
naked, craggy branches. By the time Esca gets back inside the house, hours
later, his nose is a jolly red and it won’t stop running.
“Quit sniffling. It’s uncouth,” Stephanos berates. Esca responds with a mighty
one that fills his lungs with cold air, then hocks a mucus-y loogie into the
nearest bag of leaves.
“Disgusting,” Stephanos mutters, but he doesn’t sound all that bothered. Esca
shrugs and follows him.
After the long morning of yard work, Stephanos takes Esca downstairs. While
they’d prepared breakfast by their lonesome, a couple fry-ups hardly requiring
the services of a full staff, this time the kitchen’s already burbling with
voices and smells and the general din of cooking.
Therein, he meets Sasstica, the cook, as well as her eight-year old son, Rowan,
who immediately runs behind his mother and peers out at Esca with unblinking
doe eyes.
“What’s wrong with him?” Esca asks, gesturing at the boy.
Sasstica raises one eyebrow, clapping the flour off her hands to set them onto
her wide, aproned hips. She doesn’t spare Esca another glance though, just
directs her eyes at Stephanos as she says, “A bit younger than I expected. Wot,
did the master pluck ‘im out of juvie or summat?”
The familiar ebb and flow of her speech fills Esca with the oddest impulse to
cross the low-ceilinged kitchen poke more words out of her. Hell, he hadn’t
even realized how foreign the entire bloody household was ‘till now. Marcus is
a Roman, lest he forget, and Uncle Aquila speaks with a distinctly American
twang. Even Stephanos has the accented speech of a mixed upbringing—his English
probably learned from an American, judging by his vowels. Still, he carries
himself with all the regality and priggishness of an Oxbridge swot, never mind
he’s just a housekeeper in the home of an eccentric nutter.
“Now whas wrong with you, eh?” Sasstica retorts, and Esca realizes he’s gone
quiet, lost amongst his thoughts. All the same, he can barely restrain himself
from leaping over the cutting block and giving her a squeeze ‘round her
generous middle for being so damned Northern.
“Nuffink,” he says with a flash of a grin. “I could just do with some lunch,
s’all.”
“Well then, stop standing there catching flies and come help me skin the
potatoes. Yeh won’t eat till after, you hear?”
-----
Over the next couple weeks that follow, Esca effortlessly weaves himself into
the household.
Stephanos is taciturn and strict, but he ent all bad. He’s just comfortable
with his life, with the cards it’s dealt him.
Sasstica also lives at the villa, though she normally doesn’t show face ‘till
about eleven o’clock, just in time to prep lunch if Aquila is home. As for her
son, Rowan’s cottoned on to Esca like a duckling to its imprinted mother. That
first weekend, he can hardly go ten steps without tripping over the quiet,
dark-haired boy. It’d be bloody irritating if it weren’t just as flattering. On
Thursday, he lets Rowan do his homework in Esca’s room as Esca reclines on his
twin-sized bed, listening to Ghost Mice at full blast on his earphones.
In between the small, daily staff, there are the folks who come and go—the
chain-smoking gardener, Ian MacDougal with his pick-up truck full of shovels
and loppers. The driver, a smartly-dressed man in a cap who Esca has yet to
properly meet. Then there’s Katie Park, Marcus’ PT counsellor. She’s a friendly
ginger who’s stops by once every two weeks.
All the while, Aquila spends his retirement shuffling about at home in his
bunny slippers, reading the paper, or entertaining guests who are as mad as he.
Esca swears, one time he smelled the the skunky scent of weed floating around
the arboretum outside. Texted Liathan about it right after, earning a gleeful
response telling Esca to filch the old man’s stockpile.
Sometimes he misses a normal life, yeah. The soothing drone of lessons,
fistfights by the bike shed, lazy hours skiving off class with Liathan. Molly
kicking the back of Esca’s chair in History; Davina driving them around after
school.
Still, the days get on. With the more time that passes, the fear that Esca will
be found and dragged back to Jeannine and Robert’s shithole council estate
fades into the milky film of memory.
The hard work that transpires during the day—it’s more than he bargained for.
Still, the dull ache of tired muscles is a pleasant one, and in the evenings,
there is always Marcus.
-----
“God, move your bony ass over. You’re hogging all the room for such a little
person.”
“Fuck off, mate. I’m twice the size’a you where it counts,” Esca crows, pelting
Marcus with a grape. He’ll have to pick it up later when he cleans out the
games room, but it’s worth the look on Marcus’ face when the green fruit
bounces off his forehead.
“You little…” Marcus trails off in mock disbelief. He makes a grab for Esca
anyway, wrestling him against the cushions with all the finesse and skill of an
elephant sitting on a mouse.
Esca squirms out from under Marcus’ bulk, breathless with laughter.
“I’m limiting you to one piece of bacon from now on, Aquila. You’re getting
fat.”
“I am not fat,” Marcus growls, leaping on Esca again and squashing him into the
corner of the couch, Esca writhing futilely as all he manages to do is dislodge
one of the cushions, which lands ignominiously onto the hardwood floor.
He’s starting to get sweaty from all the struggling, but then Marcus suddenly
freezes on top of him.
“Oh, hey Rowan,” Marcus says, panting softly.
Esca throws him off and scrambles up, seeing Rowan standing by the door of the
games room. “What are you doing up here?” he asks.
Rowan pulls the sleeves of his jumper over his hands and swings them back and
forth a little. “Mum said you were watching a movie. I thought, since it’s
Friday, I could watch with you? But if you’re…” His eyes dart to Marcus beside
him, whose breath is still a bit laboured against Esca’s ear.
“Yeah,” Esca says, elbowing Marcus to the other side of the couch. “Yeah,
‘course you can. Come on, let’s get that cushion back here.”
Rowan toddles over and helps Esca fit the seat back into place. After a bit of
finagling, the three of them are seated on the couch, snug as sardines.
Esca grabs the remote and flips to On Demand. He and Marcus were meant to watch
Bridesmaids, but Esca scrolls right on past.
“Hey, I thought we were—“
Esca shushes him, knocking his knee against Marcus’. “He’s bloody eight,” he
hisses through the corner of his mouth.
“He’s trespassing,” Marcus whispers back.
“He lives here—“
“He can hear,” Rowan’s voice comes through, quiet but sullen.
Esca shoots Marcus an accusatory glare. In response, Marcus grabs the bowl of
grapes and stuffs a handful of them into his mouth.
They eventually land on How to Train Your Dragon, a movie Marcus vehemently
denies ever having watched despite Esca hearing it on Marcus’ laptop just a
week and a half ago through the thin wall between ‘em. Still, Marcus relents
when Rowan keeps asking to watch some samurai movie that looks too gory for a
grown-ass adult, much less an impressionable eight-year-old.
So, dragons it is.
They hunker down, and soon Marcus is hiding embarrassing noises—Allergies, he
insists—at the scene where Toothless gets captured, and Rowan’s fast asleep on
Esca’s shoulder, head lolling until it plumb drops into his lap.
“Bloody hell,” Esca mutters, not sure where to put his hands so he rests one
between Rowan’s thin shoulder blades and the other goes into the boy’s hair,
scratching absentmindedly.
Before they know it, the credits are rolling, room going dark with the black of
the screen. Esca jiggles his legs, one of them dead asleep and prickling with
pins and needles beneath Rowan’s drooling face, but Rowan stays determinedly
unconscious.
Next to him, Marcus stretches his arms towards the ceiling and gives a great
big yawn.
“Later than I thought,” he says, blinking himself awake.
Esca glances at the lit-up clock on the DVD player. It’s 12:36AM.
“You know what day it is?” he asks, a slow grin making its way onto his face.
“Sunday?”
“No,” Esca says. “I mean, well, yeah. It’s Sunday.”
“O…kay?”
“It’s also my birthday,” Esca says triumphantly.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Marcus asks, looking curious as he turns toward
Esca, throwing his arm along the back of the couch behind him.
“I dunno. Never really care much about my birthday. But it’s special this
year,” Esca says excitedly.
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“I’m sixteen.”
“What’s so special about sixteen?” he asks, fingers starting to play with the
hair at Esca’s nape.
“I’m free,” Esca explains with a grin. “No Child Services to breath down my
neck. I could get a small flat, all to myself. Could you imagine anything more
brilliant?”
Marcus’ fingers pause. “What do you mean?”
At the sight of his expression, slightly stunned, Esca backtracks. “Oh, never
mind what I mean. I’m just running me mouth off. I’m not moving out anytime
soon. I’m just…well, I’m glad it’s my birthday. That’s all.”
A strange looks comes over Marcus’ face, switching between too many emotions
for Esca to catch.
“What is it?” he eventually asks. “If you’re worried you didn’t get me nuffink,
there’s always time to fix that. You’ve got twenty-four hours, nearly. I could
use new trainers. Or an Xbox in my room.”
“Yeah, whatever you want,” Marcus says distractedly.
“I was taking the piss,” Esca says, growing worried now. “Whas wrong with you?
You’re daft, but not this daft, usually.”
With a determined look in his eye, Marcus curls his arm around Esca, drawing
him as close as Rowan’s tousled head in Esca’s lap will allow. Ever
resourceful, Marcus uses his other hand to hold Esca’s chin in place.
Marcus’ eyes sink to half-lids.
Esca wets his lips, breathes through his mouth, waiting for something, he
doesn’t know what.
“You’re crushing my head,” Rowan suddenly complains, twisting around in Esca’s
lap with grumpy, sleepy movements. The scuffle makes Marcus pull back. Esca
sees him grip both knees with his hands, knuckles tense.
He tries to send Marcus an inquisitive look, but Marcus avoids the gaze and
stands up. Grabs the remote to shut off the telly, then gathers the empty fruit
bowl as he waits for Esca and Rowan to follow suit.
“Come on, downstairs,” Esca says, ushering Rowan in front of him. He hangs
back, wanting to be with Marcus.
“Did I say something wrong?” he asks quietly.
“No, of course not.” Marcus pauses, looking down at the bowl in his hands.
“Um…what are you doing tomorrow?”
Esca hemms. “I dunno. Stephanos said he had errands for me during the day. But
afterward, nothing really.”
“Well, keep it clear. Okay?”
“Why?” Esca asks, nudging Marcus with his elbow. “You gonna take me out, Marky?
On a proper date with flowers and chocolate and a serenade, yeah? You gonna
find a long spaghetti noodle for us to nosh at the same time?”
Even in just the thin light of the hallway, Esca can see Marcus colour up.
“In your dreams,” Marcus says, shoving Esca.
With a little laugh, Esca pushes back, but only manages bounce off Marcus
distressingly. They make it to the foot of the stairs that way, jostling each
other back and forth as Rowan leads the way like a zombie, too tired to be
fussed with the overgrown children behind him.
When they’re back downstairs, paused in front of their bedrooms, Marcus sends a
shy, sideways smile that makes Esca stare just a bit.
“Happy sixteenth. Good night.”
“Yeah,” Esca replies dumbly. “Erm, thanks. Good night.”
When he enters his room, he has to lean against the closed door to settle his
racing heart. He puts a hand over it, trying to feel if it’s actually beating
as fast as it feels.
Fuck, it’s going like a jackrabbit. Esca scrubs his face with both hands, then
falls onto his bed with a small bounce. Proceeds to bury his head underneath
his pillow, shutting out the dangerous thoughts that threaten to escape his
brain.
***** Oh Cottia, Bless *****
Esca’s in the front garden, nodding along to Combat Rock as he drowns a
flowerless shrub with the hose.
Go straight to hell, boys, Esca mouths, bopping his head. Go straight to—
Someone grabs his shoulder.
“Fucking hell!” Esca yelps, spinning around. Just barely keeps from spraying
his attacker, which Esca soon realizes is actually a girl ‘bout his age, maybe
a little younger, a purple rucksack strapped to her back.
Esca twists off the brass nozzle with little squeaks until there’s nothing but
a drip coming out the end. “Scared the bloody shite outta me,” he says, ripping
his earphones out and shoving them into the pocket of his leather jacket. “Warn
a man next time, yeah?”
“That was a warning,” she says, smiling cheekily.
“Almost watered you along with the bushes.”
“No harm either way,” she says amiably. “Nothing wrong with getting a bit wet,
aye? S’not like I’m dressed in a bloody ball gown at ten in the morning.”
“S’pose not,” Esca says, dropping the garden hose to the grass with a wet plop
and rubbing his chilled palms together. “So, whatsit you want? You’re
trespassing, you know?”
“Friendly bloke, I see,” she says without vitriol. “Well, anyway. I’m here to
see Marcus. Is he in the house? I rang the doorbell, but no one answered. Which
is strange, cos usually Uncle Aquila answers, but last week he wasn’t wearing
any trousers, just a funny dressing gown, and I might’ve laughed a bit at his
chicken legs y’see, so I don’t wonder if I’ve upset him…”
Esca takes a step back, taking a proper look at the girl as she natters on in
her high, bell-like voice. She’s awfully pretty—blonde hair, sunny as straw and
down to her waist. Fine skin like a china doll, her face sweet and round like
one too. And she doesn’t seem like one’a them girls who know how fit they are,
cos she’s wearing a ratty sweatshirt with holes in the wrists that she’s pushed
her thumbs through, on top of oversized jeans with hems that drag in the mud.
“…and I told him, it’s perfectly all right for Italians not to wear trousers.
It’s bloody traditional, innit? Like togas, yeah? Well anyway, I might’ve just
been encouraging Marcus not to wear trousers, cos he’s well fit, I’m sure
you’ve seen. And anyway I think he’ll cotton on to the idea sooner or later,
cos have you seen his shorts? It’s bloody well near the same—“
“Sorry,” Esca interrupts, feeling his blood rush to his cheeks the longer she
chin-wags about Marcus and how he ought not to be wearing trousers. “You’re
looking for him, right? He’s probably still asleep, the lazy bugger.”
The girl giggles behind a hand. “Should you be talking that way ‘bout him?
Wouldn’t want you to get sacked or nothing.”
“Why, what d’you mean?” Esca looks down at himself. He’s just wearing jeans and
a white tee, a leather jacket. Not exactly screaming prole now, is he?
“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way,” the girl says. “Just that—you’re the gardener,
yeah?” She points to the hose snaked over Esca’s left foot. “I just assumed,
since you were watering the bushes. Unless, is this a past-time of yours? I go
around scaring blokes for sport, you go around watering their lawns. What a
pair we make!”
“I suppose,” Esca says uncomfortably. Bloody hell, the girl is strange.
“Anyway, I can grab Marcus, if you like. But, erm. Who exactly are you?”
“Oh, sorry. S’too early on a weekend for me to be remembering me manners.” She
sticks a hand out. “Cottia. I’m just two doors down,” she says, gesturing along
the wide, curving street.
“And what d’you need Marcus for? So I knows what to say to him.”
“He’ll know me,” she says easily. “We got to the same school. He’s been
tutoring me the last few weeks.”
Esca tries not to let the surprise show on his face. It’s not like he thinks
Marcus is a complete idiot or nothing. Just that Marcus ent exactly Mensa
material, neither. He settles for repeating, doubtfully, “Tutoring?”
“He’s teaching me Italian.”
“Ah,” Esca nods. Cottia makes a face.
“I bloody well hate it, but my parents, you see. Completely obsessed with
Italy. They met in Napoli, so everything’s Italy-this, Italy-that. Though I
suppose, that’ll work in my favour when I introduce them to Marcus—“
“What d’you mean?”
“Well, there’s a school disco in a couple weeks. Marcus is going to be my
date,” she says, beaming.
“Oh.” Esca blinks. “Erm, I’ll…go wake him for you, yeah?”
“Oh, you’re lovely,” she says. “What’s your name?”
“Esca.”
“Esca…” she says, turning thoughtful. “Esca…the name sounds so familiar.”
“Well, I used to attend Cottingswood,” he replies. They’re entering dangerous
territory though, so he sets off for the front entrance, taking it for granted
that she’ll follow him, which she does, fluttering behind like a drunken
butterfly.
“Oh, I know! Esca MacCunoval. You’re Liathan’s friend, aren’t you? His sister
Aileen’s in my maths class, we get along rather well. I’ve been over at the
Rhona’s a couple times. Liathan’s mentioned you before.”
Esca snorts, unlocking the front door. “I’m sure he has.”
Once inside, he tunes Cottia out. The elder Aquila is nowhere to be seen, but
unless Marcus has completely changed his habits and decided to venture out
before ten AM on a weekend, Esca reckons he’s still in bed. Stops in front of
his bedroom door and knocks sharply on the wooden surface.
He hears a grumpy noise inside. Yep, definitely Marcus.
“I’m comin’ in,” Esca says, hand on the doorknob.
Before he gets it all the way open, however, Cottia dumps her rucksack on the
floor and flies past him in a blur of gold.
“Marcus!” she calls, bounding into his room and jumping onto the lump beneath
the covers.
Marcus grunts, rolling onto his back. “What the hell?” he rasps.
As soon as his face is revealed, one cheek covered in pillow creases, Cottia
ducks her head down and plants a long, lingering kiss onto Marcus’ lips. Her
hair slips from behind her ear, falling in a thick curtain that obscures them
from view. Esca can hear them though; Marcus gurgles a little, then pushes
Cottia off.
“Jesus, Cottia,” he says, sounding panicked.
“Don’t be shy now,” she says happily. “You agreed to be my date to the Snow
Ball. I’m just practising.”
“It’s a dance, not our wedding,” Marcus complains, sitting up in bed and
rubbing his eyes. “And anyway, what are you doing here? I thought we weren’t
meeting until tomorrow.”
As Cottia responds, apologising for mixing up the dates but not sounding the
slightest bit sorry, Esca quietly lets himself out of the room. The two of them
seem plenty preoccupied, and they don’t need the naffing gardener standing
about like a right creep, watching them snog.
He trudges back to the front garden. Ignores the pain in his chest, a hard
throb like the one time he got stomped by Ronald with his cleats. Almost wishes
it were so simple cos in a fight Esca could just punch back. For now though,
all he can do is make a fist against his mouth and frown into it.
Fuck’s sake. Doesn’t know why he’s gone all upset, anyway. Just knows that—for
all of his daft naiveté—Marcus doesn’t let down his guard easily. He might
tolerate Kirby and the other footballers, and he might be fond of his uncle,
but Esca could swear he only let himself look so rumpled and grouchy around one
person: him.
Well, and Cottia makes two.
-----
Esca doesn’t dwell on the morning’s events, though. He’s too busy, and besides,
what’s the big deal if Marcus has friends other than Esca? It’s a good thing,
innit? Healthy, like.
So Esca throws himself into the day’s jobs: laundry, carpet-beating, a quick
lunch in the kitchens with Sasstica putting him to work, Esca’s grilled cheese
clamped between his teeth as he peels carrots.
He wants to get everything done before it’s too long in the day. Doesn’t know
what Marcus has planned, doesn’t know when he’ll need Esca to be free. So Esca
makes sure he’ll be free.
“Oi, Esca!”
Esca quirks a look over his shoulder, arms laden with groceries as a high-
pitched buzz approaches, growing louder.
Oh, Jesus. It’s Liathan, riding up on his naff mini-moto.
“Fuck’s sake, Liathan!” Esca calls, turning ‘round to face him, walking
backwards. “I thought the plod nicked that stupid thing!”
“Well, I bought ‘nother one, didn’t I?” Liathan slows down, pulling up to the
kerb.
“Waste’a your money.”
Beside him, Arnold—the driver—nudges Esca in the shoulder. “Shall I?” he asks,
beckoning for the groceries with white-gloved hands.
Esca hands them over with a polite thanks, mate. In the street, Liathan
clambers off his toy bike, then drops it onto the Aquila lawn. Claps his hands
against his thighs, like he’s wiping off dirt.
“You’re a waste of my money,” Liathan says, coming over to shove the side of
Esca’s face.
Esca bats him off. “The fuck? I don’t use none’a your dosh.”
“You are tonight. It’s your birthday, innit? Since I’m the number one most
amazing, wonder-filly mate in the entire bloody world, I came to give you your
present.”
Esca snorts, looking Liathan up and down. He’s wearing his Louis Vuitton
trainers, navy tracksuit, and a white vest full of holes; no bloody present in
sight.
“I don’t see nuffink. You come all this way just to bother me at work? I’m
busy,” Esca says, crossing his arms.
“Yeah, yeah. Busy being the dago’s little bitch,” Liathan says, swinging an arm
around Esca’s shoulders. “I remember. But come on, now. It’s your fucking
sixteenth. Let me surprise you. Won’t take but an hour or two, maybe.”
“I dunno,” Esca says. “Depends wot it is. If you’re buying me another lapdance
like last year, you can ride your little buzz-mobile right on home, cos that
was a shite idea.” He shudders, remembering the dancer’s fake tits bouncing
against his chest. She kept trying to make Esca touch them; horrified, he had
to claim poison ivy to keep his hands safe. “‘Sides, I’m supposed to do
something with Marcus tonight,” he adds casually.
“Oooh,” Liathan says, waggling his fingers in Esca’s face. “I see how it is.
You’re getting your willy rubbed anyway, don’t need nobody to pays for it. And
with the master’s son, even. Well done, mate.”
“Fuck off,” Esca mutters, though he doesn’t protest when Liathan steers them
towards the front door. Esca’s about done for the day, anyway—just needed to
put the groceries away, but Arnold’s done it for him.
“So what d’you say?”
“Fine,” Esca capitulates, ignoring Liathan’s crow right in his ear. “But only
if it’s for a couple hours. Marcus was waiting for me to finish work, so let me
give him the heads up.”
They enter the house, Esca tossing furtive, guilty looks around like he’s
smuggling in a girl or summat. At least Liathan ent being a loudmouth no more;
he just follows behind, eyes taking in the Mediterranean-influenced home—its
wide, open corridors, the potted plants flanking the doors, the clay tile-work
on the ground.
They reach Marcus’ room. Esca doesn’t mention his own’s right next door; he
knows how much shit that would invite, and he’d rather avoid it all, thanks
much.
Lifting his knuckles to knock, Esca suddenly notices something in the corner of
his eye.
It’s a grape-coloured rucksack, lying on its side like a man keeled over.
Exactly where Esca left it that morning, after Cottia had dropped it in favour
of sprinting into Marcus’ bedroom and attacking his face with her lips.
It surprises him; Esca assumed she left. But come to think of it, he never
actually saw Cottia go, or hell, even caught a glimpse of Marcus at any point
during the day. They must’a just…stayed in. Gone on with what they were doing.
For hours.
“Fuck’s wrong wit you?” Liathan’s voice next to Esca’s ear.
“Nuffink,” Esca says, lowering his hand. “S’just, I don’t need permission to go
out on my own fucking birthday, yeah? Come on.” Esca pivots around. “Let’s get
outta here.”
Liathan silently pumps his fist in the air, scrunching up his face like he’s
tossing one off. “That’s it, brah. Stick it to the man.”
Esca rolls his eyes, but he lets himself be pulled away and back outside.
“Where we going, anyway?” Esca eventually asks, once they’ve reached the bus
stop and have fuck all to do but wait around.
Liathan grants him a large, carnivorous grin.
“We’re getting tattoos, mate.”
-----
It doesn’t hurt. Just burns, sort of, like he’s been scrubbing his arm with
steel wool—
“Bugger shite, woman, wotch where you point that thing!”
Esca looks up as Liathan ducks away from his tattooist and glares at her.
“I’m only pointing it where you asked, love,” she says mildly. “I warned you,
back of the neck would hurt.”
Liathan mumbles something rude, but obediently turns around and lets her get on
with it. He catches Esca’s amused expression.
“S’not funny, bitch boy,” Liathan grumps.
“Who says I’m laughing?” Esca replies, laughing.
In the end it actually does bloody hurt, but only cos his tattoo took three
times longer than Lie-Lie’s lame-arse Celtic knot. Esca’s ink snakes ‘round his
right arm, triple-tiered and coloured in blue. It’s bloody wicked. In for a
penny, yeah?
By the time they’ve finished, it’s dark out. Heavy moon overhead, the
temperature’s plummeted from a nip in the air to a bone-deep chill.
Next to Esca, Liathan shivers like a puppy shaking off water. “Come on,” he
says. “Let’s get food. I’m fecking hungry after waiting for you for three
sodding hours.”
Esca checks the time on his mobile; it’s nearing nine o’clock. Wonders if he
should skip nosh despite his grumbling stomach. He hasn’t a clue what Marcus
had planned for his birthday, but if he makes a pit-stop now he’s certain to
miss it.
“I dunno, I should probably be getting home,” Esca says.
“To your boyfriend, you mean?” Liathan asks, damn him. “If he had plans or
whatever, don’t you think he would’ve texted?”
Esca frowns, checking his mobile again. No messages, no missed calls.
“Maybe” he allows, shoving the device into his back pocket with a wince as his
sore skin pulls at the movement. “Let’s get food, I’m hungry too.”
Cos Lie-Lie’s right. What’s the point in rushing home in the hopes that Marcus
might toss him a bone? Who says Marcus even remembers the comment he made last
night? They’d both been tired. Maybe Esca took it the wrong way, and here he is
now, bloody well hoping for suffink that ent ever existed ‘cept for in his own
head.
“Your shout, right?” Esca says, trundling after Liathan who’s already
underneath the bus stop, bouncing on his toes.
“Yeah, yeah. Use me for my money.”
“Always,” Esca replies. He joins Liathan beneath the plastic awning where they
wait to the sound of passing cars and each others cold, huffed-out breaths.
-----
It’s almost midnight.
With a full belly and fingers that smell like pizza cheese, Esca slips back
into the house. The corridors are empty, but he toes off his Chucks anyway to
stay quiet, padding towards his room on socked feet.
When he gets to his door, he pauses.
Maybe he should check in with Marcus. Knock first, see if he’s asleep yet. He
wouldn’t have to bring up any of the things bouncing ‘round his head—I thought
we were hanging out tonight, or, What did you do with Cottia all day-long,
cooped up in your room together?
Well, that one’s bloody obvious. What does any bloke do in a bedroom with a
pretty girl?
Frowning, Esca pushes into his own room and drops the small, plastic bag of
tattoo aftercare onto the dresser table. Leans on the edge with two hands,
peers up at himself in the vanity mirror.
Bloody hell, he looks rough. Esca runs a hand through his hair, lifting it up,
wild and messy, then turns around to shrug off his jacket. He’s careful of the
bandage covering his new tattoo as he tugs his sleeve away, gingerly, with two
fingers.
Undresses all the way down to his black skivvies. Usually sleeps starkers, but
it’s bloody cold so Esca rifles through his drawers and pulls out a pair of
pyjama pants, yanks them on.
All right then.
He should go to bed, he thinks, staring at the mattress.
But he doesn’t feel like sleeping yet.
“Damn it,” Esca mutters, turning on his heel and taking the few steps necessary
to arrive at Marcus’ door.
He knocks.
There’s no reply, so Esca tries again, this time asking, quietly, “Marcus?”
When there’s no response, Esca cautiously turns the doorknob, pushing it open
and poking his head through.
With the blinds half-drawn, the window lets in just enough slatted light to see
that Marcus’ bed is empty.
Closing the door gently behind him, Esca sets off down the corridor.
He doesn’t find Marcus in the study. Doesn’t find him in the games room or
guest bedrooms upstairs, or any of the bathrooms. Downstairs, Esca wishes he’d
kept his t-shirt on a bit longer, huddling his arms ‘round his naked torso as
he searches the unheated kitchens and laundry room.
“Fuck’s sake, where are you?” Esca says under his breath, feeling the smallest
kernel of worry plant itself into his chest. Back on the first floor, he’s
about to head into his room to try ringing Marcus, when something gives him
pause.
He turns around, slowly.
At the back of the house, the double glass doors hold reign, moonlight puddling
into the darkened room at its feet. A gut feeling pushes Esca towards it with
cloying, invisible fingers.
-----
Marcus is in the punt.
He looks dead in there, lying like a mummy under a blanket, his face pale and
drawn.
With an urgency that Esca will vehemently deny if anyone ever asks, he rushes
down the gravel path and onto dock that juts into the small lake. Leans over,
knuckles white around the bobbing wooden edge.
From this close, he can see Marcus’ wide chest rise up and down in smooth, even
bellows. Thank fuck; he’s just asleep.
Feeling all a bit silly now, Esca shakes his head at himself and pulls back,
vigorously rubbing his sides as a cold breeze gusts across his bare skin and
makes his teeth chatter. It’s November now, and rightly feels it—spurs Esca to
plant both hands on the dock and stick a leg out towards the boat, where he
gropes for a foothold with socked toes.
Esca unsteadily shifts himself onto the punt, arms stretched wide for balance,
and leaves the dock rocking behind him. Inside the punt, water slaps against
the sides of the hull, but Marcus doesn’t so much as twitch. Bloody idiot could
sleep through the end of the world.
Esca quickly crouches and steals the blanket, hauling it up to his chin until
he realizes Marcus is only wearing a thin pullover, without even one of his
toff polo shirts underneath. His neck looks weirdly lonely without a collar
around it. So Esca lowers himself down to the swaying bottom of the boat,
pushes aside a picnic basket—spares a guilty thought that it might’ve been for
him—then worms a space next to Marcus. Once in place, Esca primly puts the
blanket back over the both of them.
Overhead, the stars are out. In Esca’s old neighborhood he could never get a
good view, not with all the electric lights everywhere. But here, he might as
well be camping. A frog croaks somewhere far-off, its plaintive cry echoing
across the lake.
Next to him, Marcus makes a little sigh. He’s probably about to start snoring.
Esca props himself up to his elbows and looks over, where Marcus’ head has
tilted towards him, his expression serene. In this blue-ish lighting, he looks
like a Greek statue or summat—Roman statue, Esca wryly corrects himself—all
manly and straight-nosed, square-jawed. Everything Esca never was. At least he
hasn’t got those girly lips, full and plump like Marcus is constantly snogging
someone or sucking dick.
A blush warms Esca’s cheeks the instant he thinks it. S’true, though; if Esca
had a mouth like Marcus, he wouldn’t have lasted ten days without getting the
tar kicked out of him at school, or by Robert. On Marcus though, they soften
his face, rounding out otherwise stern features.
He suddenly thinks of Cottia, who’d tasted them earlier today. Wonders what it
was like. He’s never done it before, kissed someone. Not properly, at least.
Were Marcus’ lips as soft as they look? Did Marcus have foul breath in the
morning? Well, that one Esca already knows; he’s the one who has to wake up the
lazy sod. (Definitely foul.)
Still, Esca wonders. He leans in, studying Marcus’ face. His lashes are dark
smudges in the night, fanned over high cheeks. Even in sleep, Marcus looks like
he’s smiling a little; the natural way his mouth turns.
Esca feels his own go dry. Licks his lips, but the cold air just makes them
dryer. And colder. Esca ducks his head down and kisses Marcus.
Mm, warmer now.
Eyelids firmly shut, Esca sighs out through his nose. Marcus doesn’t taste much
like anything, just comforting and soft. Softer than he imagined. Esca puts a
hand on Marcus’ chest to steady himself, lingering just a while longer before
he pulling back. Their mouths make a slick noise as they part, like in the
movies.
Feeling rather daft all of a sudden, Esca tries to draw away. But Marcus
chooses that moment to wake, catching the hand on his chest and sitting up.
Eyes widening, Esca falls back on his other elbow and finds himself locked in a
staring contest with Marcus, who looks rumpled and wild-eyed in his rousing.
“Esca?” he asks, sounding confused.
Esca’s stomach drops. Shit. Was Marcus awake this whole time? What the bloody
hell what was Esca thinking?
“Erm,” he manages, trying to reclaim his hand. It’s like Marcus only now
notices it, eyes falling to where he’s holding it tight.
“Fuck, sorry,” Marcus says, dropping Esca’s hand like it has a venereal
disease. “I didn’t mean to—was I trying to—?” His eyes slip down, away from
Esca’s face to hover somewhere around his chest. “Why aren’t you’re wearing any
clothes?” he finally asks, sounding bewildered.
“Wot?” Esca looks down. Oh. “I am, you pillock,” he says, scooting up in his
seat and yanking the blanket off so Marcus can see his trousers. Long and warm
and decent trousers. Bloody fuck though, the air’s trying to freeze his nipples
off. Esca yanks the blanket back up to his chin.
“Fuck’s sake, didn’t you bring any more blankets?”
Marcus draws his knees up under his arms as he sends Esca a truly heroic eye-
roll. “I wasn’t expecting to do this at midnight, asshole. Where were you?”
“I was…” Esca wets his lips. “I went out with Liathan.” Feeling guilty, Esca
adds, “I was gonna tell you. But you, erm. Seemed busy. So we left. We got
tattoos.”
“Tattoos?” Marcus’ forehead wrinkles, eyes roving across Esca’s body, but he’s
covered in blanket. So he sits up proper, ignoring the sting of winter against
his exposed skin as Esca lets the sheet drop to his lap.
“Yeah,” he says, straightening his arm out to show Marcus the bandage. “You
wanna see?”
Marcus nods. Crowds in as Esca scratches up a corner of the sticky bandage and
carefully peels it back.
Marcus goes strangely quiet as Esca reveals the tattoo. He keeps an eye on
Marcus’ face, but he can’t read the expression he finds there—blank, like
Marcus is trying to hide what he really thinks.
Bugger. He must hate it.
“Never mind,” Esca says, feeling stupid, and a little defensive, as he rolls
the bandage back in place. But Marcus stops him with a hand on his wrist.
“No, wait. I want to see it.”
Their eyes meet. Marcus looks earnest enough, so Esca obliges, pulling off the
entire bandage and tossing it towards their feet.
The tattoo is still greasy with ointment, highlighting the angry, raised ink.
It’s all there, though; three blue coils, made up of geometric links, the
middle one coloured in.
Marcus rests his chin on his crossed arms and looks at it from there, green
eyes travelling up Esca’s bicep like a touch before colliding with Esca’s gaze.
“What’s it mean?” Marcus asks curiously.
“What, I can’t get a tattoo for the sake of being it being awesome?”
“No,” Marcus replies with a small, crooked grin. “You wouldn’t do that. It
would have to mean something.” He doesn’t say it derisively, more like he’s
stating a fact. Esca supposes it’s true.
“This one here,” he says, pointing to the middle band. “Thas me.” Points to the
top band. “Those are my parents.” The bottom. “My brothers.”
Marcus bites his lower lip, chewing on it thoughtfully before he asks, “Where
are they now?”
Esca expects the question. He used to get it all the time, before learning to
avoid it at all costs.
What are you doing for Christmas, Esca?
Oh, but where’s your family?
Haven’t you got a family?
He also expects the question to hurt, but it doesn’t, not from Marcus. There’s
no pity in his voice. Esca’s relieved.
“They’re dead. There was…an accident, when I was ten. House burned down. I
wasn’t home. I don’t even remember where I was. But it wasn’t home. Mum and Da,
Ken and Mack, though; they were there.” Esca waits for the usual feelings to
rush in—for his throat to close up and the anger to ignite—but it’s strange;
nothing happens. He just feels cold inside, a little empty.
“I don’t even remember what I was doing at the time,” Esca adds thoughtfully.
He looks up at Marcus, searching his face for disappointment or disgust. “Is
that horrible? That I, alone, was spared, but I can’t even remember what saved
me?”
“No,” Marcus says simply, his green eyes gone fierce and protective. What, of
Esca? He’s got it all wrong; Esca ent the one who needs protecting. He ent the
one who died that day. No, that would be everyone else, yeah?
“Mack was eight, and Ken, fourteen,” Esca says. God, he hasn’t said their names
aloud in years. And now it’s like he can’t stop. “They said Mack tried to hide
under the bed, which makes sense cos he used to get so scared of the closet in
our room. Probably cos I used to duck inside there and bang on it, pretending
to be a monster or summat.
“And Ken, he jumped out the third-story window. Landed on his neck, the fucking
idiot. We had a fucking tree right outside the bedroom, he could’a just jumped
onto it. Never had any common sense, nevermind how bloody smart he was.”
Esca looks up now, wishing Marcus could remember them too. He’s tired of being
the only one who does.
“Da tried to save Mum, I think, but they were trapped in the living room cos
the ceiling caved in, right in front of the doorway. They said his body was on
top of hers. Typical; she could take care’a herself, but Da always used to be
so fecking obnoxious about making sure we was all right.”
Esca swallows, trying to stop the deluge of words spilling out of him. He lets
his eyes drift back down to his lap and says, half to himself. “I can barely
remember how they look. This was before facebook and the internet, y’know, so
all the pictures. They went with the house. And if I can’t even be trusted to
remember them—me, the only one left—how can I expect anyone else to?”
Next to him, Marcus shifts in his seat, making the boat sway anew. The water
laps at their sides, lazily. “Well,” Marcus says. “They’re carved into your arm
now, so there’s always that.”
The response surprises laugh out of Esca. He slants a look at Marcus with
crinkled eyes. “Aye, I s’pose there’s always that.”
Marcus nods down at the tattoo. “Does it still hurt?”
Esca glances down at it. “Not a lot. Just sore, mostly. Sore and hot.”
With his chin still on his arms, Marcus tips over and blows a cool stream of
air over Esca’s tattoo. It’s chilly, ‘specially with the ointment on it. It
makes Esca’s spine tingle from base to nape, all the hair on his arms raising
up.
His cock twitches, suddenly interested.
“Stop,” he says roughly, shoving Marcus back to his side of the boat with his
knee. “I’m cold enough as is.”
“That’ll teach you to walk around naked,” Marcus grins. “Slapper.”
“What?” Esca squawks. “Where did you even learn that word? And never say it
again, it sounds bloody wrong with a Yank accent. Slapperrr,” he affects.
“Bloody daft.”
Marcus throws his head back, laughing at the sky. “Oh God, Esca. Please—don’t
ever do that again. You sound—you sound—“
Fuck’s sake, can’t even finish his bloody sentence, he’s laughing so hard. Esca
snatches the blanket off’a them and swings it around his shoulders, huddling
underneath. Marcus doesn’t even notice, he’s still chortling like a right
arsehole.
“Fuck off, dickhead. And get me another blanket, it’s sodding cold, if you
haven’t noticed.”
Marcus looks over then, his laughter tapering off. Something mischievous enters
his eyes.
“I can warm you up without one,” he teases.
Esca’s ready retort dies in his throat. He coughs into his blanket instead.
“Wot?” he asks, eyes wide. Cos Marcus couldn’t mean—he doesn’t even. Right?
With small a shake of his head, Marcus lets his mirth run its course until all
that’s left is an embarrassed, but fond smile on his lips, and the way he looks
at Esca like he’s something new.
“It’s called central heating,” Marcus finally says, leaning over his knees to
stand up, wobbly in the unruly boat. “Let’s go inside.” He hops onto the dock,
catching himself. Turns around with a proffered hand, which Esca ignores for a
bit as he collects the picnic basket and the bandage he’d tossed aside,
earlier.
Marcus is still there when he’s ready though, so Esca takes it and lets Marcus
haul him out of the punt.
He lands too close, their toes overlapping, knees bumping. Flustered, Esca
backs up and looks up at Marcus, who he always manages to forget is so bloody
tall. The moon makes a halo out of his messy hair.
“Come on,” Marcus says happily, jerking his head towards the house. He hasn’t
let go of Esca’s hand.
It’s scary to realize, but Esca doesn’t want him to let go. Jesus Christ—he
yanks his hand back and hides it back under the blanket, using both sets of
fingers to clutch the sheet ‘round his neck, like a protective cape.
Marcus doesn’t take affront to it, though. Just sets the course, crunching up
the gravel walkway towards the house.
Esca follows behind, heart palpitating—follows him back inside.
He wants to follow Marcus into his bedroom.
Holy shit. Everyone was right.
Esca’s a bloody poofter.
Oh God,Esca mentally groans. Liathan is gonna have a fucking field day with
this.
-----
“So I says to him, ‘Why don’t you bloody well come, then?’ and Marcus, he says
back—oh, he’s lovely, isn’t he Esca?—he says back, ‘Sure. I guess.’”
Cottia clasps her hands together and sighs dreamily. “Sure. I guess. Have you
ever heard anything so lovely in your entire life?”
Esca scratches his ear. “Erm, no?” Cos it ent ‘lovely’, it’s daft. “Your
serve,” Esca adds helpfully.
Cottia drops the tennis table ball and swings—and misses.
“So anyway,” she goes on blithely, as Esca chases the plastic ball under the
table. “That’s how he asked me out. Why did you want to know? D’you want to
come as well? Cos I think we could work something out. Maybe you can come as
Aileen’s date. But then, who would Liathan go with?”
Esca nearly bangs his head on the underside of the table, cos holy shit,
Liathan’s going to the bloody Snow Ball with his younger sister? Oh, that’s
grand. That’s golden.
He locates the ball and crawls out, saying, “I’ll go with Aileen, put the poor
girl out of her misery, and as for Liathan he can suck my dick six ways to—“
Esca falls a step back, cos Marcus is standing right there. “—oh, hi Marcus.”
Marcus clears his throat. “I don’t think he should do that."
“Why? D’you want the honours?” Fuck’s sake, WHY did he just say that? He turns
to Cottia, praying she’ll start one of her verbal haemorrhages—
“Oh dear, it’s one-thirty. Fawlty Towers is on! I’ll be in the telly room,” she
says, pointing up the stairs.
Damn it, woman. “Are you taking the piss? They’re all re-runs,” he says
incredulously. When it’s clear she’s actually leaving: “And I won that round!”
“I wasn’t even trying,” she replies, turning around to stick her tongue out,
mature like. When she passes Marcus, she sends a cheeky grin and a slap on the
arse.
“Jesus—“ Marcus starts, but Cottia’s already vaulted up the stairs. Esca isn’t
sure if he’s horrified or amused, so he settles for somewhere in between.
When Marcus turns back around, Esca holds up the table tennis ball. “Fancy a
game?”
“Oh, um. Maybe later. I came down to ask if you were busy.”
“Not anymore, I’m not,” Esca says, setting the ball onto the table and laying
his bat on top of it. Sticks his hands in his pockets. “Why, what’s going on?”
“Well, I have to buy a suit this weekend. Mind helping me look?”
Esca wets his lips, taking in Marcus’ chunky knit pullover, the pink collar
crumpled around his neck, his ill-fitting trousers. There are little whales on
Marcus’ navy socks, which he wears with ugly brown moccasins. “I reckon you’ll
need the help,” Esca says, lifting an eyebrow.
“Oh, shut up,” Marcus replies, but he’s laughing. “Let me grab my keys; I'll
meet you in the driveway.”
-----
“Stop fidgeting.”
“I’m not fidgeting. You’re just being handsy,” Marcus grouses, craning away
from where Esca would be adjusting the back buckle of his waistcoat, except
that Marcus keeps bloody well fidgeting.
“Aye, I’ll show you handsy,” Esca says, shoving down the back of Marcus’ head,
making him kowtow. “Handsy enough for you?”
“Argh,” Marcus says intelligently. He’s saved from further abuse, though, when
the saleslady enters the fitting area, a hanger in each hand. Esca steps back
to receive her.
“Here’s the single-button jacket that goes with the waistcoat,” she says,
handing it over. “I also brought in the two-button Camden fit that might look
nice on his frame.”
“You mean, cos he’s fat,” Esca says, hanging up the jackets so he can slide the
first one off its hanger. “It’s all right, you can say it. He’s put on a few
pounds since the weather turned cold, aye. It’d be dishonest to pretend we
weren’t all thinking it.”
“Esca,” Marcus says in a strangled voice. Esca wonders if he’d knotted his tie
too tightly earlier. As for the saleslady, she seems to be stifling a laugh.
“I’ll give the two of you a moment to see which suit you prefer. If you need
any help, I’ll be right in the shop,” she says, before ducking back out of the
fitting area.
“I hate you,” Marcus grumps.
“You couldn’t live without me,” Esca says, trying to keep his voice arrogant,
and not at all hopeful. “Come now,” he prods, holding the jacket at hip-level
behind Marcus and making it dance.
Marcus obediently sticks his hands into the armholes so Esca can slide it up to
his shoulders. Dusts him off, then comes ‘round to the front.
Bloody hell, Esca thinks, leaning back with a finger on his chin.
Marcus is shaking out the sleeves, trying to make them sit right. Hardly any
need, though; they already fit him like a glove.
Marcus looks fit.
“What do you think?” Marcus asks worriedly, buttoning the front. “You’re making
a face like Kirby’s kicking the shit out of you.”
“Ey, fuck you, mate,” Esca says, snapping out of it. “The suit looks fine, all
right? You look—better than usual. I guess that’s what happens when you ent
dressed like a senile old codger, yeah?”
Marcus doesn’t rise to the bait, just turns around and scrutinises himself in
the full-length mirror. Turns to one side, then the other, then finally slides
his hands into his trouser pockets which makes the fabric pull up in the back,
revealing Marcus’ arse. An arse that doesn’t have any business looking so good
considering how much Marcus sits on it, doing naff all but watching footie.
Ugh, bloody hell. “Done with the fashion show?” Esca gripes, storming over to
the other hanger and pulling off the trousers and waistcoat.
“Yeah, I don’t know,” Marcus says, still facing the mirror. “It’s nice and all,
but…it looks like I’m trying too hard.”
Esca comes up behind him, looking in the mirror to see what Marcus sees. S’true
enough, he supposes; Marcus looks like someone else entirely, like a right
bloody model with the black, tailored jacket hugging all his muscles and
dipping low enough to show a good portion of the pinstriped waistcoat, the
trousers seamlessly tapering off just high enough to reveal his whale socks
which, in this ensemble, suddenly seem quirky instead of plain bloody daft.
“You do look a bit of a prat,” Esca agrees, leaving out the part where he looks
like a well fit prat. “Here, try these on.”
Marcus takes the waistcoat and trousers and lets Esca push him towards a
fitting room. Once the door is firmly shut, Esca lets out a sigh of relief,
then busies himself by rifling through a nearby rack.
He can hear Marcus rustling behind him, probably taking his jacket off, and the
relative quiet thereafter must be him undoing the multiple waistcoat buttons.
“So, what’s all the fuss for, anyway?” Esca asks casually, breaking the
silence. “I know you’ve got a suit already; I had to take it to dry cleaning
once. Why do you need something new?”
“You’re the one who’s always making fun of the way I dress,” Marcus says
through the door, followed by the sound of a belt buckle jangling. Esca feels
his palms start sweat. He probably shouldn’t be touching all these expensive
suits like this; not with his damp, paupers’ hands, ney.
“So it’s for Cottia, then,” Esca says, cos he loves being a masochist like so.
“She’ll think you’re fit either way. Trust me, I know. She can’t bloody well
shut up about it.”
“Cottia thinks Alan Alda is hot,” Marcus says, and that flapping noise has got
to be him kicking off his trousers. “I wouldn’t put too much stock in her taste
level.”
Esca idly wonders what color skivvies he’s got on. Striped, like the first time
he walked in on Marcus? Stretched out and bed-headed, Marcus had been so bloody
gorgeous it makes Esca dig his nails into his palm at the memory to keep
from—oh, for cryin’ out loud—
Esca shiftily looks about, making sure the fitting area’s empty before pressing
the heel of his hand to his groin, willing his dick to stay down.
“Esca?” Marcus calls out.
“Yeah, I’m here,” he says, whipping around to face the wall in case Marcus
comes out. Fortunately, Marcus takes bloody forever so by the time he hears the
door reopen, Esca is back to nonchalantly feeling up discarded suits on the
clothing rack.
Marcus’ padded footsteps come to a halt next to him. Esca looks up.
Marcus’ waistcoat is buttoned up wrong.
“For fuck’s sake,” he chuckles. “Didn’t you ever learn to dress yourself? Or
did you always have a house boy available to hold your hand and help you piss.”
“You know me,” Marcus says drily. “Grand sultan of the Seven Deserts. I used to
have two servants to tie each shoe, and one for every button on my shirt, but
then I moved to Britain and all I got was you.” He sounds fond, though, and it
makes Esca duck his head down, focusing on the buttons instead of staring up at
Marcus and blushing.
“You know,” Esca eventually says. “You should just save yourself the brass,
wear the other suit. She likely won’t notice wot you wear. We all know Cottia’s
absolutely barmy. She did choose you, after all.”
“Thanks,” Marcus snorts.
“But even if she is missing a few marbles, she ent bad,” Esca continues,
feeling his breath quicken at what he’s about to ask next. “So…you’re dating,
then?”
“What?”
Esca looks up, square into Marcus’ green-grey eyes.
“You and Cottia. She’s been over at the house almost every day this week.”
Tries not to let the distress sneak into his voice. “Are you two dating?”
Marcus splutters, “She’s in Year Nine.”
“That’s not an answer,” Esca says, pulling back to tuck his hands into his
armpits. “She’s a fine lass, Marcus. You don’t have to keep it a secret from
me.”
A cloud of confusion drifts over Marcus’ face, followed by a furrowed brow like
he’s thinking real hard. “Why?” he eventually asks. “Do you like her?”
“What?” Esca asks, his eyes going round as plates. Marcus shutters up though,
straightening his back and avoiding Esca’s incredulous gaze.
Esca’s just about to deny the allegation, when the saleslady’s voice comes
through the curtains.
“Yoohoo,” she trills, stepping past the curtains and into the fitting area.
“All right, there, lads? Can I help with anything?”
She’s got the double-breasted jacket in hand, and they have Marcus try it on.
The more conservative cut makes Marcus look like a banker or summat, instead of
a fashion model like the previous suit. Either way, he might as well have
stepped out the pages of G-bloody-Q Magazine. And either way, Esca can’t stop
bloody staring. And wanting.
Marcus never did answer Esca’s question. If he and Cottia were dating.
Esca tries not to let it bother him, but it does.
***** Placidus Tribune, Research Intern for the Office of the Inspector General
in the Italian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Wanker Extraordinaire *****
Stephanos whaps Esca’s shoulder with a rolled up newspaper.
“Up you get, lad!”
Bloody hell. Esca opens his eyes; his bedside clock reads 5AM. That can’t be
right. He doesn’t have to wake for another hour.
Shoves his head beneath his pillow, hoping the awful mirage of Stephanos will
dissipate. But instead, it just whaps him again—
“Fuck off, mate,” Esca groans, curling up into the foetal position.
“We’re getting visitors today,” Stephanos says humourlessly.
Esca rolls onto his back, glaring up. “And they’re in the bloody drive, are
they?” Stephanos raises a white, fuzzy eyebrow, but says nothing. “I didn’t
think so,” Esca says. “So if you don’t mind…” He makes to grab his pillow, but
Stephanos smacks it off the bed.
“Ey!”
“They’re coming at nine o’clock, and they’ll want breakfast. So, as I said—up
you get.”
“What about Sassy?” Esca asks, in a voice that is most definitely not a whinge.
“Can’t she clock in a couple hours early? You know it’s a miracle I haven’t set
this place on fire yet, I’m a total berk in the kitchen.”
“She’s already gone off to the shop with Arnold, so you’ll be the last to
complain.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Esca rotates onto his belly and gives a long, feline
stretch. When he turns around, Stephanos is still there.
“A little privacy, yeah? I’m starkers, here, so can you just—you know—” Esca
twitches his finger. “—bugger off?”
Stephanos looks offended, but he leaves anyway with the simple order to be
downstairs in ten minutes.
“Urgh,” Esca moans, tempted to bury himself back underneath covers, but this
ent the schoolmarm asking him, yeah? He’s getting bloody well paid to wake up
when Stephanos says he wakes up.
With a world-weary sigh, Esca sits up and swings his legs over the side of the
bed.
He’ll just have to take out his grumpiness on Marcus in a couple hours. Maybe
borrow that newspaper of Stephanos’ to wake him with, cos it was pretty
effective-like.
The thought cheers him. Esca stands up in the nippy pre-dawn air, where his
bits are trying to crawl back inside his body.
Esca scratches his bum, then pads over to his underwear drawer.
-----
Breakfast comes and goes, but Esca never does see the visitors. He has to stay
downstairs all morning, lest their eyes be sullied by the sight of the house
staff. But then they’re out for the afternoon, touring the city with Aquila,
and now it’s early evening.
They’re all in the parlour room, sitting around like Victorian politicans
puffing cigars in their smoking jackets—but without the cigars and smoking
jackets—
while Esca pours them tea like a right bloody servant. The whole situation’s
annoying enough, but to make matters worse, the younger guest is staring at
him.
Esca looks over his shoulder, but there ent nothing there; nothing but a
bookcase and a few planters. He turns back at the skinny brunette and frowns.
In return, the brunette winks at Esca.
Wot the bloody fuck?
“Ah, Marcus,” Aquila says, standing up as everyone turns to the entryway.
Marcus’s hair is damp and his face looks freshly-scrubbed, like he just got out
of the shower. He probably smells like Dove soap or Head and Shoulders. Not
that Esca knows this cos he goes through Marcus’ bath products; he just happens
to be the fucking cleaning lady of the home. So if Esca’s popped open the lid
of Marcus’ shampoo once or twice, it was only cos it smells nice and not cos
he’s a right creep, all right?
It’s growing warm inside the room. To distract himself, Esca refills everyone’s
tea.
“Uncle,” Marcus greets, crossing the threshold.
“Let me introduce you to my good friend, Claudius Hiero,” Aquila says. “He’s
come from Italy to undertake a diplomatic mission in Yorkshire, so I told
him—why stay in a hotel all week when he could keep an old friend company?”
“We were colleagues, back in Rome,” Claudius explains, his round face shining
with affection. “You should’ve seen your uncle in those days, Marcus! He could
put away twelve pints faster than you could say half-seas over.“
“Now, now,” Aquila says, laughing heartily. “Best not to bring up old
anecdotes, my friend. We mustn’t bore the youngsters with our reminiscing.”
Marcus says nothing, but he catches Esca’s eye and they exchange amused looks.
“Speaking of youngsters, I hope you’ll show Placidus a good time in England,”
Aquila says. At the sound of his (bloody well ridiculous) name, Placidus rises
from his squashy chair and shakes hands with Marcus.
“Placidus Tribune, Research Intern for the Office of the Inspector General in
the Italian Ministry of Foreign Affairs,” he says. What Placidus’ voice lacks
in natural authority, he makes up for in sheer pompousness.
“Ah, you see,” Claudius warmly interjects. “This is why I bring you along,
Placidus. I can never quite remember the full name of our department.”
The men chuckle, the sound of it canned like the laugh track for an old sitcom.
Least to Esca’s ears, anyway. Marcus takes a seat in the empty armchair next to
his uncle, engaging polite conversation with the others as Esca tunes them out.
It’s bloody strange; Placidus keeps glancing at Esca, where he’s standing by
the ficus. What, has he got something on his face? And what was with that
naffing wink, earlier?
With a start, Esca realizes the men have stood up from their seats. Dinner must
be ready. Esca straightens up, collecting the teapot before joining the line of
Italians as they troop to dinner.
-----
Only, Placidus holds him back.
“Apologies, gentlemen. I think I’ve misplaced my cell phone,” Placidus says,
with an overly-familiar touch to Esca’s chest that stops him in place. “The boy
can help me search. I’ll catch up with you all in a minute.”
Esca brushes him off. Has half a mind to tip hot tea all over Placidus for good
measure.
“We can wait,” Marcus offers.
"Really, I insist. I won't hold up anyone else."
Marcus remains skeptical-looking, but eventually they are left alone.
Esca plunks the teapot down on the nearest surface and crosses his arms. “So.
Did you check your arse for your bloody mobile? Cos I’m pretty sure there’s
something stuck up there.”
He’d been aiming for rude, but apparently he misses the mark cos Placidus just
grins at him with an interested glint in his eye.
“I knew you’d be fun,” Placidus says, sashaying forward. Esca would edge away,
but he’d sooner die than back down from a skinny toff, so he holds his ground
until Placidus is close enough to reach forward...
Esca looks down. Placidus is playfully twisting Esca’s shirt around his index
finger, charcoal fabric against pale skin.
Esca looks up. “What are you doing?” he asks blankly.
“You’re cute,” Placidus declares. “Do you have to go home each night, or do you
come with the house?”
Esca thinks he's heard wrong, cos who the hell says things like that? But
Placidus just stands there, smirking at him, looking for all the world like an
algebra-crunching, video-game-playing, sodding hair parted to one side like
someone’s bloody da sodding neek, except for the part where he just hit on Esca
with confidence enough to rival Charlie Sheen, but without the blow and broken
hotel furniture.
“So?” Placidus prompts. He’s untangled his finger from Esca’s shirt and gone
straight for skin instead, rucking up the hem to run a thumb along Esca’s
hipbone. The sensation makes him shiver automatically; whether from revulsion
or not, Esca couldn’t be bothered to ask himself.
Asks Placidus instead, “Are you bloody mental? You’re two seconds from getting
your face smashed in.”
“And yet, my face is still in one handsome piece,” Placidus hums, his hand
roaming up to cradle Esca’s waist and tug him closer.
Fuck. Esca’s gonna deck him. He is. He will. Well, maybe after Placidus stops
running his palm up and down Esca’s back, cos that feels rather fantastic, all
honesty.
His other hand, however, comes from nowhere to grab Esca’s right buttock and
squeezes—
Esca jumps with a curse, catching his hand on the underside of Placidus’ jaw.
It ent a hard hit, though. Not hard enough, that is. Placidus watches Esca,
rubbing his clocked chin appraisingly. “Playing hard-to-get?” he asks with a
smarmy grin. ”I don’t mind. I rather enjoy a challenge, actually.”
“What the bloody fuck is wrong with you?” Esca screeches. “You don’t even know
me. You don’t even know my bloody name—“
“Esca?”
They both turn to look; Marcus is at the entryway, one hand on the wooden
moulding, his head poked into the room.
If Esca were stupid enough to deign Placidus with eye contact right now, he’s
sure he’d find a triumphant smirk in those eyes, the bloody bastard.
“You guys were taking awhile, so I came back to check,” Marcus says slowly,
stepping into the parlour. “Should I call your number, Placidus?”
“Oh, there’s no need for that,” Placidus says merrily, whipping his head around
to face Marcus. He reaches into his chinos and pulls out an iPhone, encased in
reflective gold. “Esca here found it for me. I was just thanking the boy.”
Esca goggles, his face on fire. How can the tosser be so bloody cavalier about
what he’s just done? For fuck’s sake, Liathan was right. Creepy gits really do
love molesting house staff.
Picking up the teapot, Esca shoves past the mini Strauss-Kahn-in-training and
storms out of the parlour. Marcus sends him an inquisitive look as he passes,
but Esca’s too flustered to make eye contact.
He’s just got to make it through dinner. And after that? He’ll bloody well lock
his bedroom door ‘fore he sleeps tonight, cos maybe Esca’s only just met the
bloody wanker and shared one sodding conversation—if one could even call it
that—but he already knows:
Placidus Tribune, Research Intern for the Office of Inspecting Entirely
Inappropriate Things, is going to be a well of trouble.
-----
Dinner is a disaster.
Placidus spends the entirety of it sending Esca sly looks and meaningful licks
of his spoon—a frankly impressive show of multi-tasking, as he also manages to
brag relentlessly about all the influential politicians he’s rubbed elbows with
at the Club d’Oro back home. This seems to grate on Marcus’ nerves, as Marcus
hacks his steak into hamburger meat instead of slicing it like a normal human
being.
All the while, Aquila and Claudius chinwag like two housewives hopped up on
Adderall.
Esca, for his part, mostly tries to hide in the shadows in attempts to avoid
Placidus’ wordless innuendos cos it’s making him sick with embarrassment.
Unfortunately, he’s forced to stick around to refill Aquila and Claudius’ wine
glasses (about sixteen times, the lot of them growing ruddy in the face—Marcus
too, whether from anger or constipation, Esca can’t really tell—while Placidus
is the sole occupant to remain perfectly poised as he fellates his legumes).
After what seems an eternity, the four men finish their espressos and retire to
the library, leaving Esca to help Stephanos clear the table.
-----
Esca wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, wrinkling his nose at the
sterilizing scent of lemon-lime. Great. He smells like dishwashing detergent.
Perfect for a proper house boy.
In a foul mood after a long, long day, Esca trudges up the stairs—tiptoes past
the library, where the Aquilas continue to entertain their Roman guests—and
slides into the bathroom to ready for bed. Esca scrubs his teeth so hard his
gums bleed.
He’s feckin’ shattered. Usually, Esca will unwind with a bit of music in his
room, earphones in as he texts back and forth with Liathan, or he’ll hang out
with Rowan and help with his homework, their heads bowed together in the
kitchen. More often than not, Esca winds up lolling about with Marcus, doing
fuck-all for the remainder of the evening.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, Esca shuts himself into his bedroom cos Lord
knows Stephanos will want to repeat the early routine tomorrow; for as long as
the fucking houseguests are staying with them, probably.
Esca falls back on his bed, savouring the feeling of closing his eyes before
flipping onto his belly. He punches his pillow, then face-plants into it.
It eases around his cheeks, sinking with the weight of Esca’s head. The day’s
worth of hard work slowly floats away. Without lifting his face too much, Esca
shrugs out of his clothes, wriggles under the covers, and goes straightaway to
sleep.
-----
Someone’s knocking on his door.
It ent anywhere near time to wake up—not from how Esca feels, at least, like
he’s clinging to half an REM cycle and nuffink else, but the knocking on his
door persists.
“Go ‘way,” Esca calls out grumpily, even as he grasps under his pillow for his
mobile to check the time.
It’s a little after midnight.
The knocking gets louder.
“Jesus Christ,” Esca mumbles. Louder, “For fuck’s sake, I’m coming.”
He stumbles out of bed, noting the nighttime chill but not enough to bother
putting trousers on. He’s wearing briefs, at least, and that’ll do for
whoever’s bloody well interrupting his sleep right now.
“—the fuck do you want?” Esca slides out the bolt and snatches the door open.
Rears back, as Placidus is looming all-too near, his arm propped up on the door
jamb, skinny hips cocked casually to one side.
“You ran away,” Placidus accuses.
Esca stares in disbelief. “I wake up in four hours, you pillock. Did you think
I was gonna stick around to wipe your arses into the wee hours o’ the morning?”
“No,” Placidus says, raking his eyes down Esca’s body, “but I thought you’d
wait up for me anyway.”
Goosebumps rise all along Esca’s arms, his legs. He wishes he’d put on
trousers. Or the blanket, at least; something to cover up himself up with, lest
his skin be eaten alive by Placidus’ carnivorous gaze.
Tucking his cold hands under his armpits, Esca scowls. “Look, Placidus. I might
be a bloody indentured servant in this household, but that doesn’t mean I won’t
kick your arse halfway into next week if you keep this up. I ent for sale. And
I don’t come wif the house, as you put it. So will you bloody well fuck off?”
“I’ll fuck off when you mean it,” Placidus smirks, and then he has the fucking
audacity to close the gap between them, walking Esca backwards—
“You’re pushing it,” he says flatly.
“You like being pushed.”
It’s a bald-faced lie. Esca’s heart hammers in his chest; he swallows a little
thrill of anticipation, tasting it at the back of his throat.
“I’m warning you…”
“Don’t pretend you weren’t looking back at me,” Placidus says, reaching up to
tuck a curl of hair behind Esca’s ear. Esca twitches away, like a mosquito’s
buzzing there.
“I wasn’t. I don’t know where you’re getting any of this,” Esca says, voice
rising. “I don’t even like blokes, all right? I don’t understand why everyone
thinks I’m a bloody poof, cos I’m bloody well not.” Not strictly true, but
Marcus is the exception, not the rule.
“Then kick me out,” Placidus says, his voice ringing with challenge. “Because I
still don’t believe you.”
Esca inhales sharply through his nose. He’s never dealt with anyone so bloody
obstinate before, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. And then it doesn’t
matter what he does, cos Placidus is leaning down and pressing his lips against
Esca’s—
He tastes like espresso, smoky and bitter—
Esca flattens his palms against Placidus’ expensive, lilac shirt, fingers
tightening for a moment before he shoves.
“—fucking perv,” Esca gasps, hand against his mouth as Placidus falls back.
Marcus’ door suddenly flies open, and Placidus has to jump away to avoid being
swatted like a fly.
“Marcus,” Esca says, eyes going round just as Marcus hooks an arm around his
waist and swings Esca behind himself.
With a few stuttering steps to regain his balance, Esca finds himself in
Marcus’ room. His view to the corridor is blocked by Marcus’ bulk, but he can
hear the conversation, clear as day.
“You’re a guest here,” Marcus says thunderously, “and I’ll respect that. But if
you lay a hand on Esca—if you so much as look at him again—I swear to God…”
Marcus trails off, followed by the sound of Placidus’ footsteps disappearing
down the corridor.
Esca rises to his tiptoes, craning a look over Marcus’ broad shoulder. He’s
caught off-guard when Marcus turns and catches his eye.
“Go to bed,” Marcus says, and it’s like he’s a different person than the one
who just sent Placidus scampering like a timid mouse. With Esca, his eyes are
soft, almost sad.
Esca nods tightly, wrapping his arms around himself as he makes to move past
Marcus. But then he’s stopped, Marcus’ hand on the back of his bicep.
“I meant here,” Marcus says, quiet but commanding.
Esca’s mouth goes dry, but he manages to croak, “I can take care of myself.”
“I know that, Esca.” Marcus’ face darkens. “It’s him I don’t trust.”
Esca feels something hard lodge into his throat. For fuck’s sake, Marcus is too
good for this world.
“I don’t need you to be my fucking bodyguard,” Esca says, but it’s half-
hearted.
Marcus doesn’t respond. Instead, he leaves the room and for a hanging moment
Esca thinks he’s being abandoned. But then he hears the flick of a switch,
lights going off in his own bedroom as the corridor falls dark.
Marcus returns. Walks right past Esca, the muscled expanse of his back striped
by shadows from the window blinds. Maybe it’s from lack of sleep, but Esca’s
entire being aches as he watches him.
Marcus throws himself back under the covers.
Feeling all a bit useless, Esca wonders where Marcus wants him, or why he’s
even here. There’s room enough on the floor, but not enough blankets—
Marcus lifts a corner of the sheets. “Come here,” he says gruffly.
Any other time, Esca would balk. He’s too fucking tired, though—it’s been a
long-ass day, an interrupted night, and he’s got to do it all again tomorrow.
So Esca complies.
Tries to stuff down the nervousness threatening to overtake him. Act casual, he
tells himself, as if any of this is bloody well casual. But the freezing air
beats out any last reservations, and Esca finally walks over. He climbs into
bed with Marcus and pulls the body-warmed sheets over his tingling skin.
For half a breath, it seems like Marcus is going to wrap himself around Esca.
They’re curled the same way at least, like quotation marks, and when the bed
shifts it feels like Marcus is scooting closer.
Esca squeezes his eyes shut and licks his lips, waiting for Marcus’ arm to fall
over his waist, or chest. He’ll tuck himself closer, won’t he? And Esca bets
Marcus will feel like a furnace, all that Mediterranean skin hot against Esca’s
rounded back. The flannel of Marcus’ lounge pants soft and worn against Esca’s
calves, their feet slotted over each other like Jenga tiles.
Nothing happens, though, and when Esca reopens his eyes he feels Marcus flip
over, making the bed rock with his movements until it stops, the two of them
facing opposite directions.
Disappointment settles in Esca’s stomach like a sack of birdseed. He tries to
make himself fall asleep, pacing his breaths to the steady ins and outs of
Marcus’ respiration. But then he remembers—
“I wake up earlier than you,” Esca says, twisting his head towards Marcus, too
lazy to actually turn around.
“I’ll set my alarm.”
The bed creaks under Marcus’ weight, and Esca hears some clicking noises from
behind.
“What time?” Marcus asks.
“Five o’clock.”
“Fucking hell,” Marcus swears, but the clicking sounds continue. “If I fall
asleep in History tomorrow, I’m blaming it on you.”
“Thas what you get, when you sleep with me. I’ll wake you up at ungodly hours,”
Esca replies, the words out before he realizes how they sound. Bugger fuck. He
drops his head back on the pillow and shrinks into a ball. Next to him, the
sound of Marcus setting the alarm slows down, then stops.
Marcus swallows thickly, like he’s gonna say something. But it’s just
silence—stretches on long enough for Esca to inwardly sigh and focus on falling
asleep—when Marcus says, finally:
“Goodnight, Esca.” His voice sounds a little strange, but Esca could be
imagining it. He probably is, in fact.
“G’night, berk.”
-----
Placidus gets in front of Esca, holding up a finger. “We’re going to that
dance,” he says.
“Like hell we are,” Esca scoffs, snapping a dirty dishrag at him. Placidus
avoids it—something he’s gotten better at over the week—but he still takes a
faceful of Flash when Esca spritzes him.
“Hey!” Placidus yells, his eyes scrunched-up. “Rude.”
“S’not rude if you’re being an idiot,” Esca reasons. “Now move. I’m trying to
finish up before Cottia gets here.”
“But I’m bored,” Placidus says imperiously, “and it’s my last night here. Don’t
you have a clause in your contract somewhere that states you have to entertain
me?”
“I’m a domestic servant, not a bloody clown-for-hire,” Esca replies. “An’ even
if I was, I could give two shits that you’re bored. I ent going to some bloody
daft disco put on by poncy teachers and washed-up housewives. The whole thing’s
gonna be dull as a footballer, so my final answer is—“ Esca tuts when Placidus
opens his mouth—“no. Just—no. Now would you get? I'd have been done hours ago
if you weren’t bloody well distracting me.”
“Distracting, huh?” Placidus asks slyly. The buffoon’s got decidedly selective
hearing. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all week. Now,” Placidus
adds, his voice going rhetorical. “How can I convince you of how fun this dance
could be?”
Placidus reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a platinum flask, which
looks to be engraved with his name in looping script, the vain bastard. “What
do you say we liven up their party a little?” he suggests, waggling the
container (and his eyebrows).
Esca huffs out a breath, blowing his fringe up. “I’d rather stay home and have
a wank,” he says, turning around and squirting Flash onto the marble coffee
table. In the corner of his eye, he sees Placidus shrug, then unscrew the cap
of his flask and take a swig.
Faintly, but unmistakably, the doorbell rings.
“Bloody hell,” Esca grumbles, dropping his rag and wiping his palms on his
thighs. “Finish up here, would’ya?” he says to Placidus, who simply wrinkles
his nose in disgust.
The bell chimes again and Esca ditches the parlour room, quickening his steps
until he’s yanking open the front door.
Cottia’s on the doorstep.
Well, it’s either Cottia or someone’s found her doppelganger and plucked her
off the Hollywood red carpet, complete with shiny red heels, a red, sequined
gown, and the perfectly made-up face of a 1930’s starlet.
“Hiya, Esca,” she says, grinning wide and daft and familiar. There’s lipstick
on her teeth; so never mind, that’s Cottia all right.
“You’re early,” Esca says, blinking a bit as he stands back to let her in.
“I’ll get Marcus.”
“Hold on,” Cottia says, her voice giddy.
Without further explanation, she dashes inside, holding her skirts as she
reaches the back of the house, then disappears around the corner in the
direction of the staircase.
Esca rubs his nose, then jogs after her.
He isn’t surprised when Placidus shows up and paces him. “Is that the weird
girl who’s always coming over?” he asks, smelling of whisky. Esca’s mouth
waters a little; he could do with a stiff swallow or two, now.
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t know she was actually pretty,” Placidus replies thoughtfully.
“Don’t you dare,” Esca warns.
This time, it’s Placidus’ turn to send Esca a withering look. “Come on. She’s
like what, thirteen? I’m not a pedophile, here.”
“Yeah, actually, you are. I’m sixteen.”
“You’re legal,” Placidus counters. “Besides, she’s missing some equipment that
I require in my conquests.” He tries to tug Esca closer, but Esca automatically
shoves him off.
They finally catch up to Cottia, who has for some inscrutable reason climbed
the staircase.
“What are you doing up there?” Esca calls out.
“I’ve always wanted to walk down a staircase for a prom, yeah?” Cottia replies
as she fusses with her hair. “Have you ever seen She’s All That? It’s one of my
favourite films of all time. Freddy Prinze Jr. was quite attractive, don’t you
think? Sarah Michelle Gellar is bloody lucky, though she’s lovely too so it’d
be unfair to—“
“You’re a bloody nutcase, you know that?” Esca laughs. “This isn’t a prom. And
this ent even your own home!”
“Details, love. Now come on, go get Marcus! Make sure he stands where Lassie is
now, cos that’s the best angle. I checked the other day.” Cottia claps her
hands excitedly, even as Placidus sneers at her.
“It’s Placidus, not Lassie. I’m not a stupid collie from a black and white TV
show,” Placidus complains, taking out his flask again.
Esca snorts, pocketing his hands as he makes his way to Marcus’ bedroom. His
cheer quickly evaporates, however; stopped in front of Marcus’ door, Esca
remembers precisely why he was trying to finish the day’s chores early.
Last weekend, that first sight of Marcus all suited up had been enough to fuel
Esca’s wanks for the better part of the week. And now, having to send him off
looking the way he looks—outrageously fit—into the arms of a smitten lass,
well…let’s just say Esca was hoping to avoid it all, really.
Before he loses his nerve, Esca knocks on Marcus’ door.
“Cottia’s here,” he says through the wood.
Marcus opens the door. “Already?” he asks, looking anxious as he fiddles with
the knot of his blood-red tie.
Esca bites the inside of his cheek, chest thumping at a horse’s gallop as he
takes in the sight. He’d seen Marcus wear the charcoal suit, yeah, but instead
of pairing it with classic white he’d opted for a navy shirt so dark it could
be black. It’s dead sexy, and his gorgeous eyes look greener than ever as he
watches Esca carefully.
“Do you think the blue’s okay? My white shirt had a stain.”
“It looks fine,” Esca says, swallowing hard. “Better than fine. Okay? You look
good. Really good.” Fuck, he’s flustered. Esca reaches forward and starts
adjusting Marcus’ tie, if only to keep his hands busy.
Marcus dips his head down, like he’s watching the progress. A faint smile
adorns his face, hopeful and pleased. He probably wants to make sure he’s
dressed to impress Cottia tonight.
Esca jerks the knot of Marcus’ tie to the center, then smoothes it out with a
long slide of three fingers down the length of the silk.
Above him, Marcus’ lips part. “I wish you were coming,” he says tentatively.
“It’d be more fun if you were there.”
“You don’t have to feel sorry for me. I ent sore about not being allowed in,”
Esca replies, pulling back. “Didn’t want to go to some naffing school disco,
anyway.”
“Still,” Marcus says quietly.
Esca lets go of Marcus’ tie, taking a step back to scrutinise his work. Takes
his tongue out of the corner of his mouth when he realizes, embarrassedly, he’d
been sticking it out.
“All right. Fit for public consumption, I s’pose,” Esca says. “Come on,
Cottia’s waiting.”
-----
She’s regal, walking down the stairs. Doesn’t even look like herself, yeah?
Cottia’s some beautiful blonde actress with soft, wavy curls framing her face,
and mascara or summat that makes her eyes look huge and sultry. Hell, even Esca
feels something stir in him. Just a little, though—she’s still Cottia, fer
chrissakes.
Esca sneaks a peek to his right, then immediately wishes he hadn’t. Marcus
looks dumbfounded, like he can’t really believe it’s her either.
Cottia glides to the bottom of the staircase, fluttering her eyelashes up at
Marcus, waiting for him to say suffink except he’s too busy drooling, like.
Esca elbows Marcus in the side, hard.
“Oh!” Marcus starts. “You look, uh. Really nice.”
“Thank you,” Cottia says graciously, sounding much older than she actually is.
But then a giggle comes out, and she pops open her glittering red purse to pull
out a boxed corsage.
“Here you go,” she says, bouncing on her toes as Marcus looks down like she’s
handed him a brassiere or something equally confounding. “It’s a corsage,” she
explains. “You put it on my wrist, like a bracelet. And then I pin this
boutonniere on you.”
“This isn’t some American prom,” Esca hisses, but Cottia ignores him and starts
regaling Marcus with which John Hughes scenes she’d like to emulate over the
course of the evening. Esca stops listening.
To his left, Placidus picks his ear with his pinky. “So are we going or not?”
To his right, Marcus glances over like he’s eavesdropping.
“I already told you—“
“There, all set,” Cottia says proudly, dusting off Marcus’ chest, where a
velvety red rosebud now sits upon his breast pocket. “Don’t you look handsome.”
She turns to Esca. “Don't you think he looks handsome, Esca?”
"To a blind person, maybe,” he mumbles. Now Placidus is watching him closely,
and Esca wishes everyone would stop bloody staring at him, he ent got three
heads, has he?
A flash of light pops into the air, blinding Esca temporarily.
“That’s one for the Facebook,” Aquila says genially, and when Esca’s vision
resumes, he sees the old man lifting a giant camera.
“Towards me, now,” Aquila says, watching the camera screen. “Okay, that’s
good.”
“Cheese,” Cottia says, going up on tiptoe to press her cheek against Marcus’.
She looks wobbly until Marcus winds a sturdy arm around her tiny waist.
Esca doesn’t even try for a smile, just glares at the lens. But then he feels
Placidus drape all over him, jostling a look of surprise just as the flash goes
again, bloody great.
“Ugh,” Esca says, shrugging off Placidus, who’s feckin’ heavy for such a skinny
bloke.
“So shy,” Placidus hums.
“So perverted,” Esca hisses back.
Aquila makes Marcus and Cottia pose for more photographs, alone. Then Aquila
warns Cottia not to take advantage of Marcus, to have him home before eleven
o’clock—Esca secretly agreeing with him—and only after several more minutes of
faffing about do they bundle off towards the garage where Marcus will be
personally driving Cottia to the Snow Ball.
As they disappear out the side entrance, Marcus looks like a Disney prince
walking off with a (much shorter, and very red) Disney princess. They just need
a pumpkin coach or summat, it’s enough to make Esca sick. Or want to punch
something.
Esca turns to Placidus.
“Hey, hey,” Placidus says, holding up his hands with a wary look in his eyes.
“It’s not my fault—“
“Shut up,” Esca snaps, holding out his hand. It only takes a beat for Placidus
to get it, and when he does he grins, pulling his flask out from behind.
Esca takes it, tips it back. Drains it like it's water.
“Whoa, whoa, slow down. That’s the good stuff,” Placidus says, beckoning with
his hand until Esca finally returns the flask, and only then cos it’s empty.
Esca wipes his tingling mouth with the back of his wrist. He can feel the
liquor burning away his stomach lining. Good; thas when you know it's working.
“We’re going,” he says determinedly.
Placidus lights up like a Christmas tree. “Sweet. Okay, just—let me refill
this, and then we’ll go find Arnold. He’s always on duty, right? Unlike some
people.”
“How many bloody times do I have to tell you, I ent a slave.”
“Pity. I could make you do anything then, couldn’t I?” Placidus licks his lower
lip and reaches out to thumb Esca’s mouth.
Esca jerks away. “You know I can’t stand you?” he grumps.
“Doesn’t mean you don’t want to fuck me,” Placidus replies smugly.
Esca’s ears go warm, damn them.
-----
"I'm afraid she may be..." Placidus leans in and stage-whispers, "intoxicated.
I found this in her room not an hour ago." He holds up his flask.
The volunteer behind the counter eyes the container with doubt. Esca hopes the
two of them don't smell like whisky. He sure as hell feels like whisky. Her
name tag reads 'Helen'.
Helen asks, "Who was your sister was again?"
"Didn’t I said already?" Placidus scoffs, sounding offended. "Her name
is...Julie. Julie Andr—"
"Molly Aiken," Esca interrupts. As Helen looks down at her guest list, Esca
hisses out of the corner of his mouth, "Lord above. Julie Andrews?"
"It was that or Beyonce," Placidus murmurs back.
"Poofter."
"At least I’m out."
Esca leans over the peeling counter, looking for Molly’s name. It’s right at
top, alphabetical, like. He reaches over to point it out.
"Aha, Molly Aiken," she says, looking up through her dyed-red fringe. "Could
you show some ID—"
"No time," Placidus says, breezing towards the door with his flask held up in
the air. "Intoxicated, right? There's no telling what Maggie will do!"
Esca follows him, hunched over and trying to look nonchalant.
"Wait," Helen protests, twisting in her folding chair as they pass the counter.
"And who's he?"
"Boyfriend!" Placidus disappears into the gym.
"Babysitter," Esca corrects vehemently. Then he, too, pushes through the metal
swing door, if only to catch Placidus' skinny arse and beat it to a pulp.
-----
Inside, it’s dark as Liathan's bedroom, the entire space lit only by the green
and red Christmas lights strung drunkenly across the walls and a few coloured
spotlights. One of them’s pointed to a cheesy disco ball that tosses white
flecks across the gymnasium in slow, dizzying revolutions.
Though a few couples dance awkwardly on the main floor, almost everyone’s
loitering by the food, where long folding tables carry cheap tubs full of
crisps and sweeties. A punch bowl, the size of a hug, oversees a an army of
plastic cups.
Placidus makes a beeline for it.
"What are you doing?" Escs asks, feeling like a harried mother as he chases
after him.
"What's it look like I'm doing?" Placidus grins, halting by the punch where a
mousey-looking kid helps himself to a cupful. Placidus slaps his hand away and
grabs the ladle himself, then starts stirring the bowl, shooing him away.
"This isn't happening," Esca groans.
"Whatever you say. Now help me pour."
Esca makes a disgruntled noise, but still he reaches inside Placidus' open
coat—resolutely ignores the lurid noises coming above him—and digs out the
flask. Off comes the cap, and then Esca’s tipping it over…
“What are you doing?” someone calls out, indignant.
Esca freezes. Placidus stops stirring.
“I acksed you, mate. The fuck you throwing away good booze for?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake, It’s just Lie-Lie. Esca rights the flask and turns around,
expecting to see his friend but standing there instead is some bloody ponce in
a tailored, three-piece suit and his hair—oh Jesus, his hair—
Esca bursts out laughing.
“You—you—“
“Fuck’s wrong wif you?” Liathan asks, but clearly, he knows cos his hand comes
up and self-consciously cards through dark strands, which—instead of its usual,
gravity-defying arrangement—lies flat against his half-shaved head in a
surprisingly successful attempt at respectability, the ends tucked demurely
behind one ear.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph’s right pierced nipple, wot the fuck happened to your
hair? Can’t get it up no more?” Esca snorts. “S’okay, mate. Happens to the best
of us. When we’re eighty, like. But you know, I s’pose it’s all right to let
yourself go when you’re dating your little sister—“
Liathan’s eyes widen.
“—ent a big deal, yeah. You’ve got enough sisters it’s almost impossible not to
snog one’a them at some point—“ Oh fuck, thas the whisky talking, innit?
“I’m gonna murder you, you little shit,” Liathan growls, lunging forward.
Esca backs into Placidus, treading on one Italian-soled foot. “Oops, sorry,” he
apologizes.
“No problem,” Placidus replies, hands coming up to keep Esca balanced. It feels
nice, Placidus against his back, hands on his arms. Fuzzy, like. Liathan socks
him in the gut.
Esca crumples over, groaning. “Fffuck.”
“Teach you to run your feckin’ mouth off. The fuck you doin’ here, anyway?
Thought you weren’t allowed in.”
“M’not,” Esca says, from somewhere on the ground, cos he wound up there,
somehow. “Lassie wanted to come,” he gestures, something icy-wet sloshing down
his wrist. Ah, he’s still holding the flask. Takes a swig, likes the warmth
going down his throat, into his stomach—
“Come on, lightweight,” Placidus says, hauling him to his feet. “You get one
freebie on that ‘Lassie’ shit, but no more. So stop hoarding the whisky, and
share like a good boy.”
“Fine,” Esca mumbles, letting Placidus steer him towards the punch bowl. His
sticks him arm out, aiming for the bright red liquid, but someone plucks the
flask from his hand first.
Liathan throws back the whisky. Glug glug glug, goes his Adam’s apple.
Oooh, Esca thinks gleefully. Placidus will go mental. The Italian prat always
has to have his way. Esca blinks up to see if Placidus’ gone mental. But he
don’t look it. Ent even watching Lie-Lie, proper; Lassie’ straight brows are
furrowed, and Esca belatedly realizes he’s trying to get Esca to stand up
straight with fruitless shoves at his shoulders.
Esca stands up straight, turns around in the skinny ring of his arms.
“Wot?” he asks, their faces near-touching. “What d’you want?” he asks, less
belligerent. Placidus’ eyes are dark—too dark to tell what colour in this
lighting. They’re not green; he would’ve noticed. Marcus’ eyes are green.
“Ugh, get a room,” Liathan grouses, tossing something metallic and hollow-
sounding onto the hardwood floor.
“No need to get jealous,” Esca replies, though his eyes are still fixed on
Placidus’ face, which has slightly devious. “You’ve always got Aileen, haven’t
you?”
Liathan’s eyes bulge. Then with a streaky move—Esca too addled to keep track,
proper—Liathan raises his fist.
“Oi!”
Liathan stops and turns at the girlish voice. After a beat, Esca looks too.
Aileen skips over from the dance floor, her long, French braids bouncing like
licorice whips behind her.
“You’ve got to come dance, Lie-Lie! They’re playing Robyn, but Cottia’s date
won’t dance ‘less there’s another boy doing it, and she doesn’t care but I feel
like a right fockin’ naff being the only one—oh, hi Esca,” she says, stopping
short. The bristly end of one braid immediately veers towards her mouth,
twisted around a nervous finger. One of her habits, long as Esca’s known her.
“Hey Aileen,” Esca says, suddenly self-conscious about how bloody wankered he
is. Liathan’s kid sister’s only what—twelve? Thirteen, now? He ent setting the
best example, is he? Fuck; he thinks briefly of Davina, feeling guilty.
“Will you—erm, d’you want to come dance wif us?” Aileen asks, gnawing on the
end of her braid, doll eyes beseeching.
“Only if you get Liathan to dance, too,” he replies automatically.
“Liathan…” Aileen pleads, turning her wobbling lip to her big brother.
“You lot are bloody wankers,” Liathan gripes to no one in particular, letting
Aileen grab his wrist and drag him towards the centre of the gym which has
filled up some since Esca last looked.
Spinning around, Esca walks backwards with an eyebrow cocked at Placidus.
“Coming? If you’re lucky, I might pencil you in on my dance card,” he says
cheekily.
Placidus grins, snaking after him through the crowd, hands in his pockets.
“Only if they put on some real music. Robyn has got to be the gayest shit ever
produced.”
“Says the gay man,” Esca smirks.
“Says the gay man,” Placidus agrees.
Esca’s back hits up against someone—Liathan, he thinks, if the shove back is
intentional—but Placidus keeps coming forward, keeps coming ‘til his hands
slide inside the flaps of Esca’s motorcycle jacket and his fingers lace at the
small of his back, cool through Esca’s thin, white t-shirt. Fuck, it’s warm
inside the gym, ‘specially with all the folks milling about, now.
“We can’t dance yet. It’s still Robyn,” Esca points out. But he recognizes the
look in Placidus’ eye and knows it don’t make a bloody difference what’s
playing overhead, Placidus has got other things on his mind. Things that Esca
won’t run from, not this time. The whisky in his blood’s making him crave the
touch, his skin singing at any bit of attention.
Placidus’ gaze slips down. Esca bites his lip in anticipation.
Someone grabs Esca by the scruff of his jacket and yanks.
“—fuck’s sake!” Esca yelps as he’s tugged into a half-circle of Liathan and
Aileen, Cottia and Marcus…
Marcus
Esca panics, shaking off Marcus’ hand like a dog thrashing a squeaky toy. “Get
off,” he says, hopping away with terse shrugs of his jacket. When he looks at
Marcus, he’s first confused by the way the room twirls around the two of them,
only to remember he’s three sheets to the wind and lucky to be standing on two
feet, aye.
“Esca, what are you doing here?” Marcus asks disbelievingly, his hands opening
and closing by his sides like he wants to check it’s really him. “I thought you
couldn’t come.”
“You made it! That’s lovely,” Cottia says happily, bumping Marcus aside so she
can squeeze Esca so tight his vision goes a little blurry. Pecks him on the
cheek—something tickles, and Esca wipes the spot with the back of his hand,
smudging ruby red lipstick across it.
“You’ll dance,” Cottia says, grabbing Esca’s hand with the both of hers. “I
know you’ll dance. We can’t get these bloody boys to show us some fun, but I
saw you in the kitchen once, you were brilliant. The broom made such a lovely
prop, the way you swung it about—“
Esca clears his throat, giving Liathan (and his evil grin) a look of warning.
“I don’t—no, Cottia. I don’t want to dance.”
“You sure?” Marcus teases. “Whenever I see you on one end of the hallway, I
usually take cover. I don’t want to get a flying leap to the face.”
Esca huffs the fringe out of his eyes. “I’ll flying leap you right here,” he
complains, giving him the two-finger salute. Easily absorbs Marcus’ playful
shove when it comes, then retaliates by planting two palms on Marcus’ shoulders
to push back, when suddenly—he notices something on Marcus’ neck. It’s a red
splotch, too bright to be a bruise or nuffink.
“What’s wrong?” Marcus asks, hands coming up to cover Esca’s like he’s gonna
peel them off his chest, only he doesn’t, just rests them there.
The splotch on Marcus’ neck. It’s lipstick. Esca’s sure of it.
Marcus has got Cottia’s lipstick on his neck.
And when he looks closer—fuck, it’s on Marcus’ lips, too. Faintly pink, like he
was trying to rub it off, but didn’t do a great job.
Esca snatches his hands back. “I—erm, I’ve got to go.”
“What?” Cottia frets. “But you only just got here!”
“I don’t want to bleeding dance, Cottia!” Esca snaps, pivoting out of the
circle of their friends and stalking towards the exit.
He makes it about three or four people deep, but Marcus’ voice is clear behind
him.
“Esca.”
Esca keeps his head down; maybe he can lose him in the crowd—
“Esca!”
—but bugger shite, he’s still got to wait for Arnold to come around with the
car, doesn’t think he can shake—
“Esca—”
With a sense of déjà-vu, Esca feels his collar jerked backwards. He whirls
around.
“Oi, I’m not a sodding dog.”
Marcus ignores him. “Look, we were just joking about the dancing. I mean,
you’re actually pretty good. So will you stop being mad at us and stay?”
“I’m not fucking MAD, you berk! Do we look like bloody pre-teens, here? Do you
want me to braid your fucking hair? And after that we can gossip about boys and
manicures and pretty frocks, because apparently you think we’re twelve years
old and I’m mad at you.”
“If you aren’t mad, then why are you yelling?” Marcus asks, and the huge drop
in volume points out the fact that Esca is, indeed, yelling.
“Cos I’m drunk,” Esca cries, not caring one way or the other that the students
around them have begun to scatter.
“Oh. That explains why you smell like Uncle.”
Why he smells like—
That steals a laugh from Esca’s throat, too fast to stifle. Fuck’s sake, the
shite Marcus spews sometimes, like he doesn’t even know he’s being ridiculous.
The daft bugger’s always making Esca laugh his nuts off, and for half a moment
he forgets why he’s pissed off—cos Marcus is right, he is mad—but then he sees
Cottia’s lipstick again, and the same pang hits his chest and makes him want to
punch Marcus all over again.
Instead, he turns away.
“Wait,” Marcus says, and at least it ent his collar he’s catching this time,
just Esca’s wrist. “Come on, don’t go.”
Esca bites the inside of his cheek.
He wants to ask…it’s stupid, though. But he wants to ask. So he asks.
“Were the two of you kissing?”
Marcus blinks at him. “What?”
It’s out there now; no taking it back. Esca spins around. “You and Cottia. Were
you kissing? Cos you’ve got—“ Esca scratches the side of his own neck, making
Marcus clap his hand where the lipstick is and come away with a damning smear.
“Yeah. That.”
“No! It’s not,” Marcus protests. “Well, it is. But she kissed me. Not the other
way around.” Marcus’ face falls. “Look, if you like her, Esca—“
“I don’t. Not that way.”
“Then why are you mad—I mean, upset with me?”
“Jesus Christ,” Esca says, colouring up. “I’m not, okay?” Cos he isn’t. Not at
Marcus; he didn’t do nuffink wrong. It’s Esca who’s bollocksed everything up
with his naffing feelings. “Sorry, look—I’m just, I dunno. Too drunk for this.
I’m going home.”
“Wait—” Marcus says, grabbing Esca’s shoulders and holding fast. “I don’t want
you to get the wrong idea. There’s something I wanna tell you. Something…I
don’t think you’ll like. But I don’t want you to leave with the wrong idea.”
An aggro fist clenches itself around Esca’s heart. “I’d rather you not,
actually,” he says, voice sounding funny in his own ears.
“Will you just listen, please? I…I wasn’t going to say anything ‘cause I don’t
want to mess things up between us, like—like put you in a weird position, since
you work for my uncle. And I really don’t want you to leave. “
God, he’s really gonna say it, isn’t he? Marcus and Cottia are dating. It
couldn’t be anything else. Esca closes his eyes and tries to wriggle out from
Marcus’ hands, but they just slide down to Esca’s arms and anchor him in place.
“But I don’t care anymore, okay? I can’t keep pretending—especially with that
asshole hanging all over you—“
Esca’s ears perk, despite the fog dampening his senses. He isn’t quite sure
where Marcus is going with this anymore.
“—I just…I need to tell you,” Marcus says, not a little desperately. He wets
his lower lip and searches Esca’s eyes, like he’s hoping Esca can read his
mind. But he can’t. Esca’s flummoxed. Marcus’ face is swimming a little, Esca’s
brain inching along at the speed of a snail.
“So tell me,” Esca finally prompts.
Marcus swallows visibly. “Promise me first you won’t leave.”
Esca tilts his head, frowning. As he opens mouth to answer that it’ll depend
what Marcus has to say, he spies Placidus weaving through the students.
“Esca?” Marcus asks apprehensively.
Placidus arrives, collecting Esca under his arm. Marcus clenches his jaw, which
goes square. Bugger, Marcus must really hate the bloke.
“Come on,” Placidus says, swiping a casual finger down Esca’s bicep from where
his hand is draped. “I called the car. Arnold’s picking us up behind the
school.”
Marcus flicks a suspicious gaze between the two of them. Like a cat baiting a
canary, Placidus grins. Marcus can barely keep his cool; his eye is doing that
twitching thing, like when Cottia tries to put mascara on him or Inter Milan
loses a game.
“Yeah, so…I’m ready,” Esca says, cos the tension between the boys can only end
in someone—well, Placidus—getting a beating. “I want to go home.”
“Let me drive,” Marcus starts. “I just have to grab my coat—“
“No,” Esca says sharply. “Cottia’s been looking forward to this for weeks. I
won’t have you ruin it for her.”
“She won’t care,” Marcus replies, but his voice is reluctant, like he knows
he’s lost the argument already.
“Goodnight, Marcus,” Esca firmly states. “I’ll see you at home.”
Before they turn, he thinks he sees Placidus wink at Marcus, but that could
just be the vertigo. On the other hand, Marcus grabs at Placidus’ shoulder and
growls, quietly but audibly:
“If you touch him, I swear to God—“
“Look, I wouldn’t do anything Esca doesn’t want,” Placidus says mischievously.
“You got him drunk—”
“Give him some credit, Marcus. He’s a grown man. He got himself drunk.”
Esca’s not getting into this. He’ll step in if he has to, but honestly, it’s
taking all his physical prowess just to stay upright.
Even quieter—but Esca’s ears are attuned, so he makes it out—Marcus says
threateningly, “By the gods, Tribune, I don’t trust you.”
“Good. You shouldn’t.”
With an incredulous shake of his head, Esca starts walking. Doesn’t look back.
***** Esca is a Shameless Slag When Intoxicated and Fairly Sure Placidus Has No
Right Being That Hung *****
He bursts out of the gymnasium with a deep lungful of cold, dry air.
“Esca!”
Placidus catches up with him, swinging an arm over his shoulders. It’s bloody
freezing out, yeah? So Esca buries his face into Placidus’ armpit and sticks
his hands in Placidus’ coat pockets.
“Oh…hey.” A hand comes down over the back of Esca’s neck, fingers cold but the
weight of them, nice. “You’re pretty plastered, aren’t you?”
“Ney,” Esca mumbles, except it comes out ‘aye’. He feels Placidus chuckle, the
scratchy wool of his coat tickling Esca’s cheek. And when Esca opens his eyes,
sometime later (or is it right away?), the long shadows they cast combine to
make one four-legged monster that totters off to the car park.
-----
Esca falls back on his mattress, and it feels like the grandest thing in the
world. For fuck’s sake, who knew his bed could feel so nice? And when did his
body start to weigh twenty stone? He’s sinking through to the ground; his hands
are paperweights, fisted in Placidus’ woollen lapels.
“Oof,” Placidus grunts, stumbling onto the bed as he braces himself over Esca.
His knobby knees bracket Esca’s; his large hands splay by Esca’s ears.
“You’re in my bed,” Esca grins. His bed: the one place Placidus has been trying
to get in all bloody week. Only something’s not right; now that Placidus is
here, he looks less than victorious. In fact, he looks like he’s sucking a
lemon.
“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” Placidus says, his face gone all
funny. It’s a new look on him. Placidus never looks anything but confident, or
horny. Esca’s not even sure what this expression is—
“It’s concern, you jailbait lush.”
“Oh, so suddenly I’m too young for you?” Esca asks, hitching up to his elbows.
“What happened to, oh, you’re legal or, oh, he got hisself drunk, or yeah, I’m
a bloody perv and I fuck whatever moves?”
“I never said that.”
“The first parts, yeah, you did. And you were right. I am legal,” Esca
breathes, reaching up to tug at Placidus’ lapel. “And I want you.”
At least, he wants Placidus to lie down on him. Cos Esca’s feeling bloody horny
and dopey and fantastic, and his eyelids are heavy as sandbags and he wants
nothing more in the world than for Placidus to bloody well do it, to just fuck
him already, make him feel good the way he’s been promising all fucking week—
“Fuck, Esca,” Placidus pants. “Okay, okay. Jesus Christ, I’ll do it. Just stop
talking.”
Esca feels Placidus buckle down to his elbows, springs shifting under them. He
feels Placidus’ hand touch his face, leaving an electric wake as it drags down
his cheek, down the side of his neck. Esca cranes his chin up, wanting more.
Fuck, Placidus says under his breath. Esca hears it though—eggs him on, saying
yeah.
“Yeah,” Esca whinges, wrapping him arms around the back of Placidus’ neck and
pulling him down. His mouth descends, and maybe Esca would be nervous about
it—kissing, cos he hasn’t done much of it, doesn’t know what he’s doing—but it
feels bloody good, warm and engulfing and naughty, much like the whisky
thrumming through him.
They get on like that for awhile, snogging like drunk bastards at the end of
the world. Placidus’ hand feels huge as it sneaks under Esca’s shirt and along
his spine, all the way up between Esca’s shoulder blades. Placidus near lifts
him with that hand alone, pressing insistently upwards until Esca gets the
hint—pushes Placidus off to the side so he can rip off his leather jacket, yank
his t-shirt over his head like it’s drowning him.
When they come together again, Placidus’ coat is nowhere to be found, and the
plastic buttons of his shirt are cold against Esca’s chest, making his nipples
pebble, or maybe that’s from the teasing way Placidus is flicking them with his
thumbs.
“Gods, yeah,” Esca groans, arching into it like it’s supposed to feel
incredible or summat; doesn’t really, his nips aren’t sensitive like a girl’s,
but what does feel incredible is Placidus’ hands on his trousers-front, rubbing
Esca’s hard-on through the denim as he sucks a bruise to the side of Esca’s
neck.
“I told you,” Placidus says, once he’s come up for air. “I told you it’d be
good. We could’ve been doing this all week.”
“Fuck you,” Esca bites, wriggling his hips to encourage what’s happening down
there. Placidus finally stops teasing; he flips open the button and unzips
Esca’s jeans. “Fuck me,” Esca gasps.
“Not yet,” Placidus says, but promises, “Later.”
The fuck me was metaphorical, but Esca doesn’t correct him. He’s a little
distracted by the way Placidus is warming his fingers on Esca’s cock—oh God,
there are hands are on Esca’s cock—and he’s a little embarrassed when a blurt
of precum leaks out, but quickly turns exasperated when Placidus lifts his
fingers to show him with a gleeful smile. Placidus pinches his forefinger and
thumb together, revealing a sticky string of precum when they part.
“That was fast,” he taunts.
“S’not like I came,” Esca barks back. “Trust me, you’ll know when I’m coming.
It’ll be all over your poncy face.”
“That so? I expect I’ll find out in about sixty seconds. Though it’d be
impressive if you can shoot that far when I’m giving it to you from behind.”
Esca digs his nails into his palm, hard as he can, but he can’t even feel them
so it’s no use—his cock twitches, dribbling another bit of precum onto his
lower belly from where it’s peeking out of his briefs.
“That’s what I thought.”
“Fuck you,” Esca complains. “Shut up and do it then.”
Placidus makes a sound that’d be embarrassing for him if he weren’t such a
shameless git. He’s off Esca in an instant, kneeled up and working open the
front of his own trousers.
Esca’s face feels hot. He covers it with his hands—thinks better of it and
relocates them inside his briefs, encircling the base of his dick and squeezing
just this side of too hard.
Above him, Placidus still has all his clothes on, but now he’s hanging out of
his trousers…
Oh.
Esca blinks, wondering if the liquor running through him’s playing tricks. But
his eyes are fine; the sight remains.
The fact remains: Placidus is bloody well hung.
“It won’t fit,” Esca gapes.
“Hm?”
Fuck, get it together. “Nuffink.” Though it explains a lot. The confidence,
namely. Placidus could prolly kill someone with that cock, split him in two. Or
choke him to death. What a humiliating way to go. Death by cock.
“Are you okay?” Placidus asks doubtfully, stroking his dick (oh Jesus Christ,
he ent even fully hard yet).
“I’m fine.” Esca says, digging his thumbs into his waistband and shimmying his
jeans off his hips. Starts struggling when he gets to his knees, but these
trousers, there’s a method to ‘em, see—Liathan might give him shit for his
skinny jeans, but they’re comfortable, yeah—
“It’s kind of wrong how cute you are,” Placidus smirks, leaning down.
“I’ll end you,” Esca snarls, but the viciousness is tempered by the way
Placidus has to help drag his jeans off, Esca’s legs in the air.
“Not before I take care of this.” All of a sudden, Placidus is kissing him
again, and it’s much preferred to his talking so Esca kisses back with abandon.
Down below, he feels his cock—his rather unimpressive cock,
comparatively—strains against Placidus’ palm. Placidus gently cups his balls,
holding them out of the way as he pulls down Esca’s boxers just low enough for
access.
He spits into his palm. Envelops Esca’s dick with it, slick and wet.
“Shit,” Esca curses, flinging his arm over his eyes as Placidus starts pumping
him, his strokes long and earnest like he’s trying to draw water out of a dry
well. Only Esca ent dry, not in any sense of the word, and it’s too much. He’s
too horny—Placidus won’t stop—
“Lassie—”
“Oh my God, shut up,” Placidus says, putting his free hand on Esca’s bare thigh
for leverage as he jacks him harder, faster. “If you call me that again I’m
gonna stop.”
But he doesn’t, and so Esca comes, silently, eyes squinched shut, teeth bared
in a grimace. His hips buck and Placidus has to hold him down as he continues
working Esca’s cock, his thumb firm and hard against the belly of his dick like
when Esca’s massaging out someone’s muscles. Except it’s his dick, and he just
came and Placidus has got to—
“Stop, stop,” Esca gasps. “Oh my God stop, too much.” He shoves Placidus off
with a square foot to the chest. “Stop.”
Placidus tumbles back, rear end perched on his heels as he devours Esca with
his eyes. He licks his fingers, which—Esca would blush if he weren’t overheated
already—are covered in Esca’s spunk.
“Ninety seconds.”
“What?”
“How long it took for me to get you off.”
“Shut up, will you?” Esca says, but he’s too wrung out to make a proper stink
about it.
“Not unless you help me with this,” Placidus says, crawling forward again until
he’s eye-level with Esca…
At which point, Placidus sends a meaningful look between his legs.
A quick glance makes Esca’s heart race again. Placidus is hanging down,
completely erect. His cock is wider around the middle, with a flared, mushroom
head gone slightly purple.
The image is a bit terrifying. But it’s hot, too. Mostly hot. Esca wets his
lips. Placidus kisses him with a loud smack.
“Flip over,” Placidus says, pushing at Esca’s side to help him roll onto his
belly, which—ew, that’s a lot of cold, sticky come he just got all over his
blanket. Whatever; he’ll just add it to the laundry tomorrow—
Placidus spanks him with a loud, crystal clear crack.
“Ow!” Esca yelps, shooting an affronted stare over his shoulder at Placidus,
who looks entirely too happy with himself. “The fuck you do that for, eh? I ent
into that shit, not gonna call you daddy, you fucking perv.”
“Shame,” Placidus grins. “That would be hot. But mostly I just couldn’t help
myself. Your cute little butt was right there.” He pulls on the elastic of
Esca’s pushed-down boxers, letting it snap right against the crease of his ass.
“Fuck’s sake, just get on with it,” Esca groans, letting his head drop between
his shoulders.
He can’t see Placidus no more, but he sure as hell can feel him. Well, his
dick, to be precise.
With one hand rubbing Esca’s arse—right where it still tingles from the
spank—Esca can feel something wet smear between his cheeks, which involuntarily
clench.
Trepidation tastes like salt in his mouth, and Esca closes his eyes, willing
himself not to be such a fucking pussy about this.
“Hey,” Placidus says, still dragging his dick up and down. “Relax. I’m not
actually going to fuck you, you know.”
Esca opens his eyes. “You’re not?”
“God, no. I want you to actually like this, okay?” Placidus tightens his hand,
the one on Esca’s arse, and pulls it aside, letting cool air breeze over his
damp cleft. Esca feels something blunt and wet press in, right where his
asshole is. “Though I won’t lie, you’d feel so, fucking amazing.”
Esca’s heart is in his throat. If Placidus just pushed—just a little bit hard,
hard enough to get that thing inside him—he’d be inside him, holy Jesus fucking
Christ. The pressure is still there, Placidus circling his dick in tiny, little
ministrations, like he’s worming himself in.
Shit. Esca’s not scared—he’ll let him, yeah? But Placidus is—s‘just that he’s
fucking big—
A high-pitched noise escapes from Esca’s throat, surprising and embarrassing.
“Sorry,” he says automatically, trying to calm himself down.
“Fuck, you’re so.” Placidus breathes in through his teeth, and Esca feels his
dick slip so that he’s pointed up instead of in. “I wish we had more time.
Another week, or something.”
He can’t think of anything to say back to that, so Esca moves his arms up and
pillows his head in them, concentrating on the feeling of Placidus rutting
against his arse. Now that the imminent threat of penetration has passed, he
feels himself relax.
Loose-limbed and pleasantly drowsy from coming, Esca closes his eyes, arching
his back a little for Placidus to get a better angle. Both hands are on his ass
cheeks now, Placidus pushing them around his dick. He’s dry humping, Esca’s
skin going a bit tender from all the chafing, but it seems to suit Placidus
fine who’s worked himself into an unusual stretch of silence, but for the heavy
breathing and periodic fucks and Gods which make Esca grin with self-
satisfaction.
A cool drip of precum touches the plane of Esca’s lower back, drizzling down
from Placidus’ frenzied rocking. It won’t be long now.
“Esca,” Placidus groans, leaning his forehead against the back of Esca’s neck.
It’s damp, and Placidus’ hair tickles. The drape of his shirt, forgotten until
now, is cool with sweat against Esca’s back.
He wants it off—wants to get him off—and so Esca forces his arse into the air,
giving Placidus something hard to rub against. It works like a charm, and
before long, Placidus is biting Esca’s shoulder, muffling a whinge as he paints
Esca’s lower back with warm stripes of come.
“Oh fuck,” Placidus groans mindlessly, which makes Esca flush with pride. He
grinds back against Placidus’ still-jerking hips—
The door his to bedroom slams open, doorknob meeting plaster wall with a bone-
rattling thwack as Esca startles. Whips his head around to see Marcus looming
large in the doorway, his face stormy as he begins to stomp over.
“Hey—“ Placidus protests, but then Marcus hauls him off Esca’s back and smashes
a fist into his face, effectively shutting him up.
“Shit,” Esca says, clambering up as he yanks his skivvies back over his arse,
eyes huge when the boys tumble off the bed and onto the ground. “Marcus, stop.”
Maybe he didn’t hear, couldn’t hear—not over the sound of their messy brawling
on the carpet—but Marcus ignores him. Still toffed up in his three-piece suit
and shiny leather shoes, he makes an odd picture lurching astride Placidus’
thrashing body.
”Marcus!” Esca shouts, leaping over to help Placidus, who hasn’t got a chance.
“Jesus Christ, he wasn’t—it wasn’t how it looked,” he pleads, pulling at
Marcus’ shoulder. But Marcus is twice his size, and he ent budging. He’s
frightening like this; far from bloodthirsty, Marcus looks focused and in
control, only the maniacal glint in his eyes betraying any hint that he’s
pounding Placidus into cornmeal.
“He was forcing you,” Marcus growls, followed by another blunt sound, fist
against muscle.
“For fuck’s sake, I wanted it, Marcus!” Esca blurts, as he finally manages to
pry him off. Slams Marcus against the dresser, mirror rattling against the wall
above them.
Marcus glares, fierce and out of breath. Esca twists around and hisses to
Placidus.
“Get out of here.”
The man hardly needs to be told twice. Placidus gets up and backs out of Esca’s
door, tucking himself back in his trousers with an apologetic look in his eyes.
Marcus bucks beneath Esca like he wants to go after him, but the curt backhand
across the face keeps Marcus still.
”Stop it,” Esca commands, putting as much authority into his voice as he can.
In the corridor, Placidus’ footsteps hurriedly fade as Marcus comes back to
him, green eyes familiar once more as they warily blink at Esca.
“I don’t get it,” Marcus says, his voice punched out and strained. When his
eyes trail down Esca’s body, he remembers he’s wearing nuffink but his skivvies
and he’s covered in come. It pulls at his skin, tacky on his belly, his lower
back. God, if he had a rock to crawl under right now.
“I—“ Marcus tries again. “I thought you were straight,” he says helplessly.
“I am,” Esca says on reflex. But shit, he’s being unclear—realizes that when
Marcus’ face sharpens in anger once more. “I mean…sort of. I like birds. But
sometimes I like blokes too. I suppose…all I really give a toss about is sex,
like. If I’m having it or not.”
“Sex,” Marcus says dumbly. “And it doesn’t matter who with. You’ll do it
with—fuck, you’ll have sex with Placidus—“ Marcus stops himself, staring down
as his ears start to go pink.
Esca suddenly notices where they are, sprawled on the carpet gap between Esca’s
wooden dresser and bed. Esca in Marcus’ lap like a sodding dancer at a strip
club, knuckles clenched tight in the fabric of Marcus’ expensive jacket.
Under him, Marcus is tense. Vibrating, almost. Fuck, what if…what if he’s not
okay with Esca tossing off with other blokes? Italians can be bloody
conservative sometimes, can’t they? For fuck’s sake.
“Look, I’m sorry if you’re—“
Marcus surges forward, bashing their noses together.
“Ow,“ Esca yelps, only to to have the noise swallowed by Marcus’ mouth.
A warm palm comes up to cradle the back of Esca’s head, and Marcus angles
himself better, moving his lips so that they’re—oh Christ, what are they doing?
They’re—
Jesus, they’re kissing.
Marcus is kissing him.
Being drunk can’t make you hallucinate, can it?
“Mrrkss,” Esca mumbles, staring at Marcus’ face even though he’s too close and
it makes his eyes cross. “Mrrks, st’pp.”
Marcus bumps his head against Esca’s dresser in his haste to pull back. “Shit,”
he says breathlessly. “Sorry.”
Esca presses the back of his wrist against his lips, which are warm and wet. He
asks Marcus with his eyes: Wot the fuck?
Marcus turns cagey, gaze skittering over everything but Esca. It’s futile,
though—Esca can always get what he wants out of Marcus just by staring, and
right now, even more than wanting another kiss? Esca wants an explanation.
Fuck, he needs one.
Like clockwork, Marcus peers up at Esca through dark lashes.
“And you call me the moron?” Marcus picks up, like they’ve been talking all
this while. He pairs his words with a self-deprecating smile. Esca’s heart
thumps.
Is he saying what Esca thinks he’s saying?
Feeling impulsive—or perhaps just drunk—Esca closes his eyes and leans in,
pushing his mouth against Marcus’. Momentum knocks Marcus’ head against the
dresser once more, but he’s kissing back, holy fuck.
It’s everything Esca imagined. Marcus’ mouth is plush and sensuous—sure in the
way he moves, deliberately kissing Esca’s upper lip, then the lower, before
delving in wholeheartedly. Esca moans, winding his arms around Marcus’ neck to
anchor himself lest he lose himself completely, and when Marcus palms Esca’s
waist and yanks him even closer—Esca’s nipples chafing against the fabric of
Marcus’ suit—a hardness nudges up against Esca’s belly. When he realizes it ent
his own erection, but Marcus’, he nearly blacks out.
Esca breaks away, panting. “Fuck, Marcus. I want it. I want you. For weeks.
Fucking do me, already.”
“Esca,” Marcus says hoarsely. Esca could get used to the sound of his name like
that, syllables dragged over a grater.
Esca rolls his hips and attacks the side of Marcus’ neck, sucking hard right
over the spot Cottia had marked with lipstick. It tastes faintly like grease, a
little salty. It’s not bad, and Esca laves the spot with his tongue until it
just tastes like spit. Marcus rocks up beneath him and Esca rides the swell,
ecstatic.
“Yeah,” Esca sighs, burrowing his face into the crook of his own shoulder, arms
still tight around Marcus’ neck. He’s tingling all over, skin buzzing with the
pleasant numbness of too much whisky but still he can feel Marcus’ hands
roaming everywhere. They sweep down Esca’s shoulder blades and palm the sides
of his ribs. His hands are huge; Marcus could crack him open, just like that.
“Fuck, Marcus.”
In response, Marcus shoves his nose under Esca’s ear and sucks a tight, hard
hickey over his jumping pulse. It stings, quick and sharp, making Esca squirm
in Marcus’ lap.
Marcus groans, the rawness of it making Esca’s head spin. Suddenly, all he can
feel is Marcus’ cock through his trousers—a thick, heavy presence against
Esca’s front, counterpoint to the gentle hands trailing down Esca’s spine.
“Marcus,” Esca gasps. “I want—for fuck’s sake, Marcus. I want you—“
Marcus’ hands freeze, just the tips of his fingertips touching Esca’s lower
back. “Don’t stop,” Esca whines, out of his mind. “Fucking hell, Marcus. Don’t
fucking stop.”
“This. This is a bad idea,” Marcus stutters suddenly, pushing Esca off his lap.
Esca’s skinny shoulders collide with the side of his bed, jolting him. Fuck,
he’d thought—Marcus was kissing him back, wasn’t he?
“What is it?” Esca eventually asks, heart in his throat. Horror creeps into the
pit of his stomach, empty and snatching.
Marcus climbs to his feet, palming the corner of Esca’s dresser to stand at
full height. His dick is still hard, tenting out from dark grey trousers.
“I don’t understand,” Esca says, when the silence becomes unbearable. Marcus is
no help; he simply looks at him, uncertain, like Esca’s the one who stopped a
good thing, yeah?
Esca snags his shirt from where it’s lying in a crumpled ball on the floor and
clambers to his feet, pulling it on. The room lurches and Esca stumbles back,
relieved when the mattress catches his arse instead of the fucking ground, cos
that’d be right bloody embarrassing. He reclines on his hands, shoulders jammed
up against his ears as he sends Marcus a baleful look.
“I won’t tell anyone your dirty secret, if that’s what you’re worried about,”
he accuses.
“Fuck, Esca,” Marcus says heavily, scrubbing his forehead with the back of his
hand. “That’s not it. I…I want this. But it’s just—fuck, you’re covered in, you
know.” Marcus touches his forefinger to his thumb a few times, and Esca can see
his sticky fingers. He can feel how his back is painted up and down with
Placidus’ come, gluing his t-shirt to his skin. “And you’re drunk. You are so
drunk.”
“No, I’m not,” Esca counters, but the point’s lost when his hand slips out from
under him and he jerks to stay upright.
A warm look enters Marcus’ eyes—amused and fond, if disappointed.
Esca glares at him. “Well, I’m not gonna beg for it, yeah? So get out if you’re
gonna go.”
Marcus’ eyes sharpen with something unnameable. He comes back across the room,
Esca’s heart lurching with hope when Marcus bends down to place a soft,
deliberate kiss on his lips. But that’s all he gets, even when Esca reaches up
and tugs on Marcus’ jacket lapels, anchoring him in place.
“Esca,” Marcus chides quietly, lips moving against his before pulling back.
Leans his forehead against Esca’s, who tries to chase another kiss. But Marcus
shakes his head.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he murmurs.
“You can see me now,” Esca insists, cos Marcus’ proximity is making him dumb
and needy and fuck, he wants.
“Not sure I want to,” Marcus teases. “You smell pretty ripe. And I have
standards to keep up.”
Esca snorts. “Whatever, I’ll just call Lassie back in ‘ere.”
Marcus tenses immediately, then tackles Esca with a possessive, thorough kiss
that pushes them both horizontal. Esca’s eyes flutter shut, making a note to
himself to bring up Placidus more often. Behind his eyelids, the ceiling spins
and he ent sure if it’s from the booze or lack of oxygen.
Marcus travels down Esca’s jaw, nipping at his chin before burying his face
against his neck to growl, “You’re lucky I don’t kill that fucker.” And shit,
that shouldn’t be hot. Murderous intent should never be hot, but Jesus fucking
Christ it is.
“I was taking the piss,” Esca says weakly as Marcus ravages his neck, the high
slope of his shoulder. It’s gonna be fucking mess tomorrow, and Esca’s so
bloody turned on at the idea.
“But if you want to make sure, you should stay,” Esca says, humping up against
Marcus’ erection. “Fucking hell, Marcus. Just bloody stay.”
It gets the opposite reaction he wants. Esca can feel his face fall when Marcus
extricates himself, getting off the bed and dusting off his thighs.
“Lord knows I want to,” Marcus says ruefully. “But you need to sleep on it.
I’ll be here in the morning.”
“Ugh,” Esca complains, covering his face with his hands. “I’m offering you sex.
You’re bloody mental not to want sex.”
When Esca peeks through his fingers, he sees Marcus letting himself out the
door.
“It’s not just sex,” he says, so quiet Esca almost misses it. Then he shuts the
door behind himself.
Esca slowly draws his hands away, settling them at his sides. He can feel his
face warm as a strange mix of panic, disbelief, and elation fight for dominance
inside him.
Through their shared wall, Esca can hear the muffled noises of Marcus readying
for bed. It’s familiar; comforting. Enough so that eventually Esca rolls onto
his side, facing Marcus’ room, and simply listens.
The long day catches up to him then, an anvil sinking on Esca’s shoulders. He
drops into the heavy, dosed slumber of the well and truly exhausted.
-----
Esca wakes. It’s early, he can feel it. He feels like shit, his brain throbbing
behind his eyeballs. He’s really fucking thirsty.
When he curls up to a sitting position, his shirt stays plastered to his back
like a second skin. Oh yeah—that. That’s really fucking gross.
Esca mashes his eyes with the heels of his hands in efforts to rouse himself,
then swings his legs out of bed and steals away into the dark, silent corridor
in the direction of the bathroom.
A long shower always feels amazing when he’s hung over, and as Esca stands
under the spray—water turned just this side of too hot—he feels himself slowly
return to the land of the living.
The night’s events float back to him like a dream. Fuck, he’d been so…so
shameless with both Placidus and Marcus, and while Esca refuses to regret any
of it he’s still embarrassed enough about the whole thing he could drown
himself in the shower.
But then he wouldn’t get to see Marcus.
Jesus. Marcus.
Esca shuts off the tap with a metallic squeal.
Toweling his hair dry, it doesn’t cross Esca’s mind not to go where his feet
lead him next. He swings the damp cloth around his hips and holds it there as
he bypasses his bedroom door and lets himself straight into Marcus’ room.
Eyes adjusting, the streetlight that filters in between the blinds is enough
for Esca to make out Marcus’ sleeping form beneath the covers. Esca navigates
errant trainers and textbooks, whispering, “Marcus.”
He hitches the towel up on his hips as he approaches the bed. No reaction,
which is expected. A cursory glance at the digital clock reveals it’s only five
in the morning.
He shouldn’t be here.
But the air is cold against his damp, drying skin, and that’s all the reason
Esca needs to pull back a corner of Marcus’ sheets and slide inside.
Marcus snuffles, recoiling instinctively from the chill Esca brings in. In
contrast, Marcus feels hot, like pavement baked in the sun. Doesn’t seem fair
for him to hoard it all.
“Cold,” Esca mumbles, curling himself into a ball and shoving his feet beneath
Marcus’ thigh.
Marcus freezes, but he doesn’t move away. “Esca?” he asks, sounding confused.
“Yeah,” he replies, too drowsy to add more. Just burrows against Marcus’ sleep-
warm body, enjoying the scent of Lenor dryer sheets that greets his nose. He’s
glad he sneaks extra fabric softener in Marcus’ laundry, now. His clothes feel
so nice.
“What are you doing?” Marcus asks, and the arm he slips around Esca seems like
an unconscious move.
“You said sleep on it. So I slept on it,” Esca explains. “You can’t say no,
now.”
Marcus shifts up on one elbow and blinks at Esca. “What time is it?”
Time to kiss. Time to fuck.
For fuck’s sake, time for them to fucking do it already.
Esca reaches beneath the covers and shoves the towel off his hips.
“Esca?” Marcus says, sounding choked. Maybe it’s cos Esca’s wormed his way into
Marcus’ arms, naked as a babe, and started mouthing at the base of his throat.
“Shu’up,” Esc murmurs, licking.
“Hold on—“
“Seriously, Marcus.” Esca runs the edge of his teeth across Marcus’ collarbone,
displeased when he tastes cotton t-shirt. He asks, trying to keep the
desperation out of his voice, “Can’t we have this yet?”
Marcus freezes, fingers light on Esca’s bare arms. Esca’s heart is somewhere
near his throat. Fuck, he thought he’d learned to stop putting himself in this
position, vulnerable and open. It’s a horrible feeling, like free-falling. He’s
allowing Marcus everything.
Just when he thinks he’s made a horrible mistake, Marcus drags Esca back
against his chest and kisses his face. Not sure where he was aiming—it’s five
in the bloody morning, in his defence. But it feels amazing anyway.
“Yeah,” Marcus says in his ear, rough like sandpaper. “Okay.”
Esca’s eyes flutter shut, and he’s given over to the feeling of Marcus’ hands
tightening on his biceps. It’s short warning before Marcus nudges Esca’s face
with his own, tipping them up so that their mouths align. Marcus tastes like
morning breath, but Esca could give a flying fuck. Just licks his way inside,
possessive.
It’s all instinct from there on. What feels right. Like a heat-seeking missile,
Esca chases with increasing focus. He’s waking up, body electric with every
low-rumbling groan Marcus makes. He’s shutting down, Esca’s brain retreating
like the tide.
It’s nothing like with Placidus. Feels nice like before, but he’s here this
time. This is Esca MacCunoval, hard and aching against Marcus’ thigh. This is
Marcus Aquila, nudging Esca off just enough to yank his shirt over his head, to
kick his boxers off his feet.
“Come here,” Marcus says, and now they’re skin-against-skin. Everything feels
heightened: the burn of Marcus’ short stubble. The coarse hair on his legs, the
smoothness of Marcus’ torso, which Esca keeps running his hands over, greedy-
like.
They’re both turned on as Esca sucks on every bit of Marcus he finds, whether
it’s his neck or each of his dark nipples. All the while, Esca lazily thrusts,
pleased at the silky slide of their cocks rubbing together.
“Esca,” Marcus gasps, alerting him to the fact Esca’s beginning to leak. He
might be embarrassed, but then Marcus roughly grabs his arse and grinds their
hips together, so.
“Fuck,” Esca swears, humping back like a madman. “Fuck’s sake, you can’t just—“
“Can’t what?” Marcus smiles, licking his thumb all innocent like he’s just
catching ice cream. Then he reaches down and smears the tip of Esca’s dick,
slick with precum.
“Jesus—“ Esca squeezes his eyes shut and breathes noisily through his mouth.
“You fucker.”
“Yeah?” Marcus asks huskily. “You want that?”
“Want what?” Esca’s mindless. He doesn’t know what Marcus is on about.
He rolls Esca over like he weighs nuffink. Esca would protest or summat, but
then Marcus is blanketing him, heavy and warm like the sun.
His lips brush up against Esca’s ear, and it almost tickles, makes him shudder.
“You want me to fuck you?”
Jesus Christ. Esca blinks a bit, not sure he’s heard right. But Marcus is
looking back with an entirely serious expression.
It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it. Or fingered himself while tossing off
before. Cos he has.
(A lot.)
The thought of Marcus—beautiful, earnest, and bloody daft-as-fuck
Marcus—fucking him? Hard and unforgiving, the way Esca knows Marcus can be when
he thinks someone can take it?
“Esca?” Marcus asks, and his voice is less confident.
“Aye,” Esca quickly says, reaching up and holding Marcus at the back of his
neck. Makes sure those green eyes are locked on his, cos he wants Marcus to
have no doubts, none. “I want it.”
He doesn’t necessarily mean right that second, but quick as you please Marcus
ducks underneath the twisted-up coverlet. Esca’s got to rely on touch to know
what Marcus is doing down there, but—Jesus fuck—with a warm grip wrapped around
his shaft and the wet, insistent rub against the head of his dick, it’s pretty
obvious.
Wishes he could see it, Marcus’ full lips going down on him. He could compare
it to his fantasies then, although his fantasies never quite covered how much
suction Marcus would use, like he’s trying to hoover Esca down his throat. Or
how much Marcus would drool, Esca’s balls getting wet.
“Marcus,” Esca says, panic alighting when he realizes how he’s close already.
Fuck, it hasn’t even been five minutes yet.
Esca drops his arm over his eyes and starts twisting his hips, trying to shake
Marcus off. Instead, Marcus just makes a muffled, choked sound and rubs at
Esca’s perineum, which is slippery with spit and precum.
“Fuck—“
Marcus pushes a finger into Esca’s arse, blunt and dry. It feels weird, and
it’s enough to stave Esca from orgasm.
“God, Marcus,” Esca says, biting his lower lip. “A little warning?”
Marcus pulls off Esca’s dick with an obscene sort of slurp, then shoves the
covers off so that his bed-head comes into view.
Marcus’ cheeks are red, and his lips—fuck. Esca has to close his eyes at the
sight.
“Sorry,” Marcus says, but clearly he’s not cos he’s trying to worm a second
finger in.
“For fuck’s sake,” Esca grumps, reaching down to tug at Marcus’ hand—wincing at
the sensation of his finger exiting, cos that’s seriously weird—and holds up
Marcus’ hand eye-level.
Esca sucks two of Marcus’ clean fingers into his mouth, the middle and ring.
Wets them nice and proper, like when he’s doing it to himself.
“Fuck. You look.” Marcus licks his lower lip, which is plump and red. “Um.”
Esca smiles around Marcus’ fingers, then pulls off with a slick pop. “Try
again.”
Marcus grins back, then gets back down between Esca’s legs with a quick kiss to
the inside of one thigh. “Tell me if it hurts,” he says, and Esca just kicks
him with his heel like he’s spurring a horse on.
It’s better now, lubed with spit. Marcus adds more, licking around Esca’s hole
which—hm, unexpectedly hot. One finger becomes two becomes wriggling, twisting,
then slow, confident pumping.
This is better. This Esca can get used to. He shuts his eyes and tries to
relax, lets himself imagine it’s Marcus’ dick going in and out of him. Force of
habit. Then he remembers that it actually can be Marcus’ dick, and that starts
him off anew.
“Come on,” Esca gasps, hips thrusting down against Marcus’ fingers. “Enough
already. Fuck me. Don’t make me wait any longer.”
It’s all the urging Marcus needs. As soon as Esca feels Marcus withdraw, he
flips over and presents his backside, pulling his cheeks apart like Marcus
doesn’t know where his arsehole is. Just in case, yeah?
“Jesus Christ, Esca,” Marcus bites out, sounding wrecked. It makes Esca smiles
into the pillow, giving him enough mirth not to panic when something nudges up
against his hole. Feels like Marcus’ fingers, but bigger.
Wait. Shouldn’t there be like…condoms, or summat?
“Did you and Placidus…” Marcus asks tightly. “Were you safe?”
Esca looks over his shoulder, his eyes wide. “We didn’t,” he starts. Licks his
lips. “Not that, I swear.”
The pinched look starts to leave Marcus’ face, and he sighs, visibly relaxing.
“I’ve never, um. So I’m clean.”
Esca feels his heart thud. He can hear how thick his voice is when he responds,
“Me too.”
The look Marcus gives him is too much. Hopeful, happy, and—God, he can’t even
think it. Safe to say nobody looks at Esca this way.
Esca turns back around and buries his face in his arms. “Come on, Marcus. You
trying to give me blue balls, here?”
Esca hears Marcus spit, and then his dick is back where it’s supposed to be.
But better because he’s pushing and Jesus fuck, Esca knew Marcus was big but he
feels fucking massive, like, not-physically-possible amounts of huge.
“God, you’re—“ Marcus chokes out. “Are you sure—“
“Yeah.” Esca cants his hips in encouragement, feeling the head of Marcus’ dick
ease in. Hardest part over, right? “Yeah, come on. Keep going.”
Unfortunately, it just gets harder. Esca feels his erection flag the deeper
Marcus goes, cos—all right, he’ll be honest, it’s still too dry and bloody well
feels like Marcus is cleaving him in half with his cock.
Yet even more than wanting the pain to stop, Esca wants to give this to Marcus.
He wants to make this work. And so he’s relieved that Marcus can’t see how
Esca’s going soft and won’t know he’s half-faking when Esca pants heavily and
moves backwards, getting more—Jesus, there’s more?—of Marcus inside.
“Oh my God,” Marcus breathes, sounding incredulous. He huffs a little laugh.
Esca hopes he hasn’t lost his marbles, but if so at least it’ll be cos Esca’s
such a great lay. Totally worth it.
“This isn’t, um.” Marcus shoves that last bit inside, and Esca’s never been
more glad to feel someone else’s balls swing against his own. Fuck. He’s so
full he can barely breathe. Sounding like he’s having trouble as well, Marcus
warns, “Isn’t going to last long.”
“Then come,” Esca begs. He squeezes his arse and rocks back and forth. It
doesn’t really move Marcus’ cock in and out or nuffink, cos he’s bloody well
plugged tight. What it does do, however, is make Marcus drop his forehead—a bit
damp, his hair still soft—between Esca’s shoulder blades and come with a
stuttering gasp.
Esca hides his face in his arms, feeling content, too happy to dare show it to
the world. Marcus’ hips jerk against Esca’s arse, and his cock feels wetter
inside of him, starting to drag in and out like it’s been greased.
He hits a spot—Jesus Christ, Esca shouts a bit from surprise. Holy shit, is
that…is this why poufs like to fuck each other in the arse? He knew it was
supposed to be good both ways, but wasn’t entirely sure that wasn’t a made-up
story so gay blokes could still fuck each other.
“Oh God,” Marcus groans, sounding shattered. He’s draped all over Esca like
dead weight, and Esca wants to pout a bit cos now, when it’s finally getting
good? Marcus is out for the count.
Esca elbows Marcus off of him, making a face when his cock slips out. It drags
come with it, Marcus’ dick sliding over the backs of Esca’s balls as Marcus
pulls back, away from view.
“God,” Marcus repeats from behind, like it’s the only word he remembers how to
say. Esca’s legs are starting to vibrate from having been up so long, but when
he starts to buckle Marcus is there in an instant, big hands holding him up by
the arse and thumbing his cheeks apart, like a gentleman.
“Oi,” Esca says, trying to send a glare backwards but Marcus avoids the look by
dipping down and—holy shit—sticking his tongue inside Esca’s arse.
Esca struggles to speak but succeeds only in making shocked noises that do
nothing to cover the lewd sounds Marcus makes as he eats him out. The flat of
Marcus’ tongue drags over Esca’s hole over and over again, his lips wrapping
around Esca’s balls one at a time to clean them of come.
It’s too much. The thought of Marcus doing…what he’s doing. Esca ent some
hardcore porno star, yeah? Jesus Christ he’s only a teenaged bloke.
“Shit,” Esca swears, then comes. He ent even touching himself, wouldn’t know
he’d finished but for the liquid skimming across his lower belly. And when he
collapses onto the bed, the covers are soaking wet.
Ears roaring, Esca needs a moment to come down from his high. But when he does,
Marcus is there, next to him with a triumphant look on his face as he wipes his
chin with the back of his hand. He looks like a moron.
“You look like a moron,” Esca mumbles.
“I’m okay with that,” Marcus acknowledges, flopping down. Then, quieter: “I’ve
always wanted to do that.”
“What, lick someone’s arsehole? Bloody nasty, Marcus.”
“No,” Marcus counters. He moves onto his side and holds Esca’s gaze, unblinking
as he says lowly, “Be inside you. Fill you up with my come, then watch it leak
out.”
“Jesus Christ,” Esca breathes, feeling himself colour up. “Shut up.” Even his
ears feel hot. Who knew Marcus was a kinky motherfucker?
Marcus grins, wide and brilliant before leaning in for a thorough kiss. And
when Esca tastes Marcus, in every sense of the word—all right, yeah. His dick
gives a bit of a twitch. Maybe Marcus is onto something.
-----
They see Placidus off in the morning.
Beforehand, Esca warns Marcus to be on his best behaviour. But as they’re lined
up outside the villa, Andrew keeping the car in neutral as Claudius Hiero
climbs into the back, Esca doesn’t miss the way Marcus crushes Placidus’ hand
in his grip, as if the black eye he gave him the night before wasn’t enough
damage.
Uncle Aquila chuckles at the sight, for he may be a strange old man, but Esca
suspects nothing actually gets past him.
“Might want to step in,” he suggests, jovially patting him on the back before
disappearing back inside the villa. Esca looks over by the car; indeed,
Placidus is trying to extricate his hand but Marcus won’t let him.
Esca sighs, walking over. “Marcus,” he says with a touch to the back of Marcus’
elbow. “That’s enough.”
Placidus shoots him a grateful look, especially when Marcus finally steps back.
His eyes don’t waver, however; he’s still trying to set Placidus on fire with
his glare.
Yet Lassie will always be Lassie. You give him an inch and he’ll take—well, he
dances in and steals a kiss from Esca, right under Marcus’ flaring nose.
“I’ll always be your first,” he grins cheekily, before swinging himself into
the backseat and slamming the door shut behind him.
“Tribune,” Marcus shouts angrily, loping after the car as it pulls out of the
driveway. Esca laughs under his breath as he goes after him.
“Marcus,” he says, turning him around by the shoulder. “Marcus. Listen to me.”
“He’s a shitty, spineless little twerp—“
“Marcus.” Esca reaches up, holds his gaze. “Listen to me. You’re my first in
anything that matters.” It’s the sappiest shite he’s ever said in his life
before, so Esca follows it with a punch to Marcus’ chest.
Marcus grunts, but he’s smiling too so that’s good enough.
***** Epilogue *****
Esca can’t stay at the Aquila’s forever. Especially not now, when he and Marcus
are…whatever they are. Uncle might be all right with it, but Esca ent so sure
how long he could stay on without Stephanos or the others treating him
different.
He tells Marcus of his plans to move out by the end of the month and Marcus
promptly freaks out. Not outright, of course; pretends like he’s totally okay
with it, but Esca would have to be an idiot to miss how Marcus grows quiet and
withdrawn over the next couple weeks, and no amount of kissing or reassurance
can shake him of it.
-----
He moves at the beginning of January.
Esca’s got his bags packed—actual bags of clothing and shit—and Marcus loads
them into the backseat of his hatchback cos he’s driving Esca across the city
to his new flat.
They come up to the modest street and Marcus pulls on the handbrake, shuts off
the ignition.
He turns to Esca with wide, green eyes. Looks so young it makes Esca’s heart
hurt.
“I need to give you something,” Marcus says seriously.
“I’m not moving out of the country, you dolt,” Esca says, trying to make Marcus
smile. It doesn’t work though, and Esca feels his palms start to sweat. He
doesn’t know what Marcus has planned. Really hopes it isn’t…well. Esca
nervously scrubs his hands down the sides of his thighs.
Marcus reaches over and flips down the glove compartment, where something
familiar and beloved drops onto his lap.
It’s his father’s dagger, still in the leather case.
Esca picks up it wonderingly. It’s not that he’s forgotten about it, cos fuck
that, it’s the last surviving remnant of his childhood. He could never forget.
But he knew it was safe with Marcus, and so he’d…let it be.
“You’ll want it with you,” Marcus explains, his words awkward and overly
formal. “Who knows how often we’ll be able to—“
“Marcus,” Esca interrupts. “Shut up.”
“What?”
Esca picks up the blade and presses a tight kiss to it, then plants it firmly
into Marcus’ palm. He closes Marcus’ fingers over it and simply holds him there
with two hands.
“Keep it. I’ll feel better if you do.”
Marcus’ mouth makes a small moue of surprise. It’s irresistible; Esca leans
over the gear stick and kisses it.
“Unless you’re trying to break up with me,” he murmurs against Marcus’ lips,
“Keep it.”
Instead of replying, Marcus sighs and returns Esca’s kiss, but with tongue.
They haven’t talked about what it is they’re doing, or what they are yet, but
this…this feels right. It feels like them. And when Esca finally pulls away,
it’s only to cock a lopsided grin at him and say, “But if you lose the blade,
I’ll end you.”
Marcus snorts disbelievingly and starts the car back up with a vibrating
rumble.
“Okay, shrimp.”
Esca sends him a two-fingered salute. Outside, he notices Liathan come out from
front door of his new apartment building.
“Hey faggots, stop snogging on my father’s property!” he yells, striding over
to the boot of the car and thumping it obnoxiously.
Esca checks Marcus’ expression, embarrassed by how horrible a human being his
best friend is, but Marcus just pops open the boot and leans out the driver-
side window, calling out, “You better get used to it, Rhona.”
Groaning inwardly, Esca lets himself out of the car only to get smacked by one
of his heavier bags which he barely just catches.
“Perverts,” Liathan says, hefting Esca’s other bag over his shoulder. “You
won’t get your security deposit back if I find any stains, all right?”
“Fuck off, bastard,” Esca says. Liathan shrugs and heads towards the blue door
entrance, keys jangling.
Behind him, Marcus clears his throat. When Esca turns around, his naff face is
blinking expectantly through the window.
“Wot?” Esca says, scratching his ear.
Marcus purses his mouth, which, wow. Really?
Heaving a world-weary sigh, Esca bends down and pecks him on the lips, feeling
like a right tosser.
But when he pulls back, the soft smile on Marcus’ face makes him melt a bit.
Jesus Christ, Esca deserves all the ribbing Liathan gives him.
“Can I drop by after PT?” Marcus asks.
“Yeah,” Esca grins, switching the duffel bag to his other shoulder. “Course.”
In the meantime, Esca will unpack his things with Liathan’s help. After dinner,
Esca promised Sasstica he’d continue helping Rowan with his
homework—“tutoring”, rather, since she’d insisted on pay—so he’s got that at
seven, while the morning sees his first day at Mrs. Rhona’s spa cos Davina’s
apparently his agent and won’t stop butting into Esca’s life. He loves her for
it though, obviously.
And after that?
Who knows, after that.
Everything’s changing, and yet everything feels like it’s finally settling into
shape. Good days or bad days, Esca’s good at taking them one at a time. He’s
thankful for every friend he’s got, every minute he’s earned for himself—every
smile Marcus sends his way and every sappy kiss and promise shared between
them.
Marcus’ car disappears down the street and Esca shakes his head a bit, makes
his way into the apartment. Any minute now, Lie-Lie’s gonna start bellowing at
him like the belligerent arse he is, and Esca won’t promise he won’t kill him
cos honestly, he’d be doing the entire world a favour, yeah?
So he hefts his bag on his shoulder and walks into his flat, humming under his
breath.
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