Late March found the weather mild enough to spend Saturday afternoon outside.
William sat beneath the horse chestnut ostensibly translating three pages of
The Odyssey. In truth he was watching Lyall and Brutus fence and jotting down
verses in his journal.
Fluidly they dance,
without the coquetry of Romance.
Each the epitome of grace,
Strong of muscle and fair of face…
Countenance of an angel doth my passion kindle…
Blade in hand, the merry band,
snick snack their way
through adventures grand…
They were terrible. William sighed, closing the book with a disgruntled snap. The words simply wouldn’t do as he wished and all his rhymes seemed trite, even farcical on occasion. Still he would endure, until his words, like Homer’s, washed up on a foreign shore to make some schoolboy curse his name.
“Finished?” Lyall asked.
William gave a guilty start and glanced up at his friend who was leaning on the tree, holding two swords and wiping the sweat from his face.
“No, not really.”
“Day dreaming again, huh? Cropper will have your hide if you don’t pass this class.”
“I know,” William said, “but it’s difficult and Cropper forbad Brolly helping me any longer. He says I must learn to do such things on my own, but no other boy manages alone. They have chums to chat with while they work.”
“You can chat with me.”
Shifting over, William waited for Lyall to sit beside him before saying, “But you’re in the fifth and did these classes years ago. I need someone who will study with me.”
“Jones?” Lyall asked, and then frowned. “No, the boy’s worse than you at Greek. What about Forster? He has a bright head on his shoulders.”
“I don’t think he likes me,” William shrugged, not wanting to make much of something that wasn’t important in the greater scheme of things.
“What makes you say that?”
He won’t talk to me, or look at me, William offered silently but said aloud, “Where did Brutus go? I don’t see him.”
Lyall frowned over at the first of the bathing pools, just visible through the trees. “He saw that chum of yours, Price, and chased after him. Dashed if I know why.”
Curious, William thought. What could Brutus want with Elijah?
Bored with his Greek and desirous of stretching his legs, William hopped up and thrust his books in Lyall’s direction. “Carry those back to the study for me. I’ll return before tea.”
The woods resounded to the sounds of splashing boys, cheers and laughter punctuated by sporadic affronted yells as some unfortunate got ducked by his chums. William headed away from the loudest of the noise convinced that Elijah, of all people, would search out a secluded patch of water for his bath.
He was right. About the secluded at least. Though Elijah had not made it as far as the water. When William found him, Brutus had him pinned against a tree, one hand between Elijah’s legs, the other leaning on the trunk just above the smaller boy’s head, and he was leaning down. It was difficult to tell from a distance, but it looked as though they were kissing.
William crept closer, carefully picking his way through twigs and the detritus of winter, using a low bank of brambles to conceal his movements. Soon he was able to make out a voice, deep and sharp, Brutus for certain, but the words were unclear.
He could get no closer and, as nothing terribly untoward seemed to be happening, William chose not to interfere. It wasn’t as though he were entirely innocent of kissing Brutus himself when the opportunity arose.
The couple soon parted. Brutus rearing back, and bringing his hand to his mouth as though stung. “You’ll pay for that, lad,” he said loudly. “Tomorrow. With your little band of protectors at chapel, there’ll be none to gainsay me.”
With that, he ruffled Elijah’s hair and strode off, causing William to duck down to avoid discovery. By the time Brutus was gone, there was no sign of Elijah.
*
The next morning, William had the flux. He blamed sitting on the cold ground and languished in bed clutching his stomach, sighing dramatically and even refusing the toast and jam Lyall waved under his nose. That proved the clincher and when the others set out for chapel, they left William behind with instructions to sleep off his unbalanced humours.
When the door closed behind them, William lay still, listening for their retreat down the hall, before leaping out of bed and donning his clothes at top speed. Twice he dived back under the covers, mistaking heavy footsteps passing by as one of the bigger boys returning, huddling and frustrated by the delay. He needed to find Elijah and hadn’t been able to think of another thing since yesterday’s encounter in the woods. The words ‘you’ll pay for that,’ conjured up images in his mind that he would rather burn than examine too closely.
All these months, while he’d been living the high life, Elijah had been traversing the circles of Hell. But not alone. No, that would have been easy by comparison. He had been forced there at the hands of Brutus. The same hands that bathed William, protected William, brought him to shattering climax every Sunday and Thursday, had, often on the exact same day, piled unknown hurts on his quondam best friend.
Salomon was leaning on the wall outside the prep room when he arrived and interposed himself between door and boy to prevent William entering.
“Step aside,” William said, his fists clenched at his sides.
“I cannot. Brutus told me-”
“I don’t give a damn what Brutus told you,” William growled, advancing until they were toe to toe. “I am telling you to move.”
A taller boy, such as Jones, would probably have laughed in William’s face, but Salomon was a tiny chap, small enough for William, by dredging up memories of Brutus’ body language and posture, to loom over and intimidate.
To William’s amazement it worked. Salomon dropped his gaze and shuffled clear, leaving William free to open the door. He paused, hand on the doorknob, heart racing, before taking a deep breath and barging in.
Two pairs of eyes swivelled towards him and for a long moment none moved. Thus William saw them mid-tableau – Elijah on his knees, head forced back by the hand in his hair, lips parted with Brutus’ cock poised, ready to ram home. It could have been any day in Cropper’s study except that this was Elijah on his knees, not William. Elijah of the tired, resigned gaze. Elijah who was no more than skin and bone. Elijah who had been William’s best friend, full of endearing blushes and shy smiles and now looking like an ancient ailing old man.
Brutus recovered first releasing his hold on Elijah’s hair and letting the smaller boy drop onto his hands.
“Will. I thought you were sick.”
William ignored him and went to his friend’s side. “Elijah? Did you agree to this?”
Elijah glanced up at Brutus and then fixed his gaze on William. “No,” he said. “But he doesn’t listen when I tell him so.”
“Brutus? Does Cropper know?”
“Of course. And approves mightily.”
The answer threw William off his stride. For some reason he had believed this an illicit affair, and was prepared to use that to demand Brutus stop what he was doing on pain of Cropper being informed. But if Cropper knew, approved even – William’s mind shied away from the implications of that – then he had no way of saving Elijah further suffering.
Unless he offered himself in Elijah’s place.
Standing up, William turned his back on Elijah, and placed his hand on Brutus’ chest. Summoning his most winsome smile, he stared up at Brutus and said, “Surely you would prefer to feel my mouth upon you than this inexperienced boy’s.”
“There is something to be said for inexperience. That hitch of breath and look of desperation,” Brutus retorted, then his face grew thoughtful. “Though if you are determined to play martyr I can think of something I would rather feel.”
His palm on William’s arse made plain what it was he wanted, while leaving the decision entirely in William’s hands. To do this would be against Cropper’s direct orders, and would bring his wrath down equally on both their heads.
Seeing William’s concern, Brutus leaned down and whispered, “Salomon will never know and Price isn’t likely to snitch. Think of this as an opportunity to kick over the traces.”
After another second of indecision, William turned and stole away Brutus’ persuasive words with a kiss. Their bodies pressed together, hard and tight, and William pulled Brutus closer echoing the hand on his backside that kneaded and gripped. Having people watch was nothing new to either of them, but this time that audience would not interfere and they were free to continue without risking a pointed cough or a cryptic comment.
William felt his passion rise as Brutus possessed his mouth, breaking down the last of his resistance with his tongue. He kissed better than Cropper, William had always known that and was greedy for Brutus as result. The cruel edge, which in Cropper cut like ice, blazed from Brutus, heating his kisses and making William burn for him.
Breathless, he pulled away, his fumbling hands helpless to do more than tug at Brutus’ suspenders.
“Yours first,” Brutus said, flicking open the buttons with a skilful thumb.
William’s trousers puddled around his feet and he stumbled over the captive cloth when Brutus spun him around.
“Against the wall, Will.”
Hands on his hips, a boot kicking his feet apart, and… damn, “Brutus, we cannot. I’m not ready and the oil-”
“Don’t concern yourself. I’m sure Price will do the honours.”
Confused, William looked down and finally realised where Elijah was; crouched against the wall directly in front of him, lips scant inches from William’s cock and, Lord, could he have looked any more beautiful if he had tried.
“Wet them up well, lad,” Brutus said.
Fingers nudged against his mouth and Elijah allowed them access, sucking dutifully, and wishing they were the pretty shaved and pierced shaft instead. It was so close the heat glazed his cheek and the musky scent filled his head, bringing a rush of water to his mouth and desire to his body. He wanted to taste William so badly. Some weeks, when Brutus had him pinned to the wall, imagining it was William was the only thing that kept him sane. Elijah had never dreamed it could happen though; it was naught but fantasy, a filthy delusion best kept hidden deep in the pockets of his mind.
“Oh, God. Elijah, please.”
William’s voice sounded thick and strange, and Elijah, realising he had been staring for several minutes, looked up and was immediately captivated by the depth of need in William’s eyes, a need that mirrored his own in every aspect. It was terrifying.
He watched as one of Brutus’ hands held William in place, a pale smudge marking the centre of his vest, saw the other push between his legs working against something. He heard the slap of flesh against flesh and William’s breath sob from his lungs, felt the rhythmic pounding in his back, the drops of fluid falling onto his skin, the smell of sweat, the heat, the desire… And then he was tasting, accepting his friend’s body into his own, welcoming it with flicks of his tongue and hollowed cheeks, feeling the scrape of metal on his palate and flesh in his hands and through it all William’s voice saying his name, over and over, and over.
“Elijah, Elijah, God too much! I can’t…can’t…”
It exploded on his tongue, filling his mouth with too much and not enough and he followed right along, cock pulsing against the rough material of his trousers, fingers gouging bruises into William’s hips, Brutus forgotten, school an irrelevance, no space for anything except the taste of his friend and an overwhelming sense of joy.