by W. J. May
With a savage yell he leapt to his feet, landing square in front of Tristan. For a split second, both boys simply stared at each other. Alone, in the center of the room.
Then, without even stopping to think, Simon lunged forward and seized Tristan’s left arm.
The scream that followed was as tortured and heart-wrenching as they come. Tristan made absolutely no move to fight him off. He made no effort to resist whatsoever. When Simon twisted it up behind his back, he fell swiftly to his knees before him, all the color draining from his face.
“Simon,” he gasped, “let go!”
Simon twisted the arm up higher, relishing the control. A little higher still, and he watched as Tristan’s head bowed to his chest in pain.
“Simon!”
“Say that it’s over,” Simon demanded in a soft, but deadly voice. “Say I won.”
“You crazy son of a bitch!” Tristan was shock white and trembling. “That’s enough!”
“SAY I’VE WON!”
With a callousness he never knew he had, Simon tightened his grip and watched with grim satisfaction as Tristan fell forward. There was a mixture of blood and tears dripping from his face.
“Say that I won,” he said again, his voice low and deadly, “or I’ll crack it in half.”
Simon? That little voice in his head was back now, as shaken as he’d ever heard it. Simon, what are you doing?
“Simon,” Tristan panted, he could hardly get out the words, “let go. Please.”
Let go, Simon!
“Not until you say it!”
“I’m never going to say it!” Tristan shouted back.
For a split second, Tristan tried to rally. His muscles flexed and he tried with all his might to push to his feet. But Simon dug his nails between the broken bones and kicked him back down to the floor, holding the arm above his head like some shattered trophy.
Another scream echoed off the walls, bouncing back to them a hundred times before fading away into chilling silence.
It took Simon a second to realize that he, too, was shaking.
Tristan was lying on the floor in front of him—a threat to no one—and yet Simon had never been so scared. He looked at the bloodied, bruised arm clenched in his hand. The one that was causing Tristan such excruciating pain.
All he wanted to do was put it down. All he wanted to do was let it go and put an end to this.
But he didn’t know how.
“Just say you give up.” He was almost pleading now. “Say that I win.”
Tristan cringed against the ground, pressing his forehead into the mat. “I … can’t.”
Can’t. Not won’t.
Simon’s face tightened in confusion, and he lowered the arm a fraction of an inch. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just get on with it, Simon,” Tristan groaned. His voice was shaking as much as the rest of him. “Do whatever it is you have to do.”
For a suspended moment, Simon stared down at the defeated boy. The overpowered boy who refused to admit that he was defeated. A begrudging respect rose up in the pit of his stomach, a respect paired hand in hand with the horrifying knowledge of what he had done.
As gently as possible, he let go of Tristan’s arm.
Instinctively, he knew better than to brace himself for a punch or a flying kick to the face as his nemesis flew forward to continue the fight. The fight was over now. A line had been crossed, on both sides. And one way or another…the game had come to an end.
Game? How the heck was this a game?
Sure enough, Tristan made no attempt to either fight or escape. The second his arm was released he curled it back into his chest, pulling himself to a delicate sitting position. His eyes were red, but he refused to cry. He just sat there, holding himself, until the waves of pain and nausea subsided and he was finally able to catch his breath.
After the noise of the battle, the Oratory was suddenly quiet. Too quiet. The silence echoed back on the boys, descending like a heavy fog. But neither one seemed particularly inclined to break it. In fact, neither one seemed particularly inclined to do anything at all.
A few minutes later, Simon got up and crossed the floor to get his water bottle. He returned after a moment and offered it noiselessly to Tristan. He had been watching the steady stream of blood pour out of his arm, and knew that it should probably be cleaned at some point in case of infection. Or sewn closed. Bleeding out and dying wasn’t the kind of win Simon was hoping for.
Tristan stared at the water bottle for a second, then took it without a word. His face was completely expressionless as he poured it over his arm. A layer of blood washed away, and both boys watched silently as the water dripped down onto the mat.
“What did you mean?” Simon finally asked. “You can’t?”
He wasn’t sure if he was going to get an answer. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure that Tristan wasn’t going to punch him in the face. All he knew was that something had changed between them, and that it was an answer that he desperately wanted to know.
Tristan stared down at the floor as he considered. The color had yet to return to his face, and he was still absentmindedly trembling. But he was calm. Oddly calm in spite of it all.
“I can’t lose this,” he said quietly, glancing up at the high-domed ceiling. “I need to get offered a job by the time I graduate. I don’t…I don’t have anything else to go back to.”
Simon’s face screwed up with a frown. “What do you—”
“My mom’s the one with the tatù,” Tristan interrupted, finally looking him face on. “She’s the only one who understands. As far as my dad is concerned, his perfect son fell in with the wrong crowd, set fire to the guest house, and got sent off to military school.”
Wait…what?!
Simon’s eyes widened with genuine curiosity. “Wait a second, you set fire to your parents’ guest house? Why would you do that?”
For the first time, Tristan’s lips curved up with a hint of a smile. “Of course I didn’t actually set fire to it. That’s the story my mom and I came up with to tell him. It’s not like they could just send me away without a good reason.” The smile faded. “Every day I had to come up with more and more ways to hurt him, more and more ways to break his trust. Otherwise, he would never have let me go. The fire was the straw that broke the camel’s back and got me into Guilder. Of course—it got me disowned in the process. Hence the need for a job come graduation. If I don’t get the PC’s offer…there’s nothing waiting for me back home. There isn’t even a home to go back to.” His eyes flashed up defensively, as if wondering why he’d shared so much. “So when I said I can’t—I can’t. There is no other option for me.”
Simon didn’t know what to say. He’d had no idea. No idea at all. For whatever reason, he’d always assumed that Tristan had the perfect home life. It seemed like everything else about him was perfect—so that would naturally extend to his family as well.
He’d imagined the big house, the white-picket fence—probably a dog running around to complete the picture. He’d imagined a set of loving parents. The kind who would talk to him, and love him unconditionally. The kind that Simon had never had.
He’d never in a million years have imagined—
“What about you?” Tristan interrupted his musings. “What kind of story did you have to come up with to get you in?”
Simon’s face blanked as he thought it over. He’d never once considered it before now, but his mother didn’t have the slightest bit of problem when his father announced one day that he’d be going to a boarding school outside London. She hadn’t had a single question or a single thing to say.
He’d always thought this was normal. That it was something that could be glossed over without any major familial upheaval. Now, he was wondering if every kid at Guilder had to come up with a similar story. Had to alienate one parent to protect the secret of the other.
“Nothing,” he shrugged, “no story. I just sort of came.” It was only after he
said it that he realized how utterly callous it had to sound. In spite of the recent confession. As Tristan’s eyes dropped to his lap with a hint of betrayal, he hurried to clarify. “Only because my mom never talked to me in the first place. There was always the nanny for that. Or she was somewhere halfway around the world. I suppose she didn’t care so much where I went to school, so it didn’t much matter.”
A look of sympathy flickered across Tristan’s face. “That sucks, Simon.”
“It sucks about your dad.”
There was a thoughtful pause.
“We were close,” Tristan said softly. “Really close. Now… I have no idea what he thinks of me. I’m sure it isn’t good.”
“But you can make it up to him.” Simon didn’t know how in the hell it had gotten to the point where he was offering friendly encouragement, but it suddenly had. “After you graduate and get the PC job, you can go back and say it was a phase or something. Pick up where you left off.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Tristan said vaguely. They both knew it was a lot more complicated than that. His eyes flashed up suddenly to Simon’s. “That is—if I get the job. Jason was making it sound like it had to be one of us, or the other.”
Simon blushed a bit, but held his gaze. “Hey, I don’t remember hearing you surrender. You know Jason. He’s probably going to say this whole thing doesn’t count and schedule a rematch.”
Both boys shuddered and then shot each other a faint grin.
Then Tristan shuddered again. “I can’t believe you did that to my arm,” he said softly.
A strange hollow feeling radiated out from the pit of Simon’s stomach. “I can’t believe I did either.” His voice was just as soft. And completely unrecognizable.
He didn’t know if it was something you could begin to apologize for. He didn’t know whether or not he should even try. At this point, he didn’t know whether Tristan would even care to hear it. But perhaps there was something else between them that required making amends.
“I didn’t mean to throw you that day on the lawn.” He spoke quickly but evenly, his eyes locked on the mat. “It was the first time I’d ever used my tatù. I didn’t even know what it could do before then.” His eyes flickered up to Tristan. “So I didn’t mean to. I’m…I’m sorry.”
Tristan stared at him for a moment, then sighed. “I didn’t mean to beat you up.”
Both boys shared a quick look, and Tristan grinned. “Okay, obviously I meant to at the time, but…I’m sorry, too. It’s just—you can be so infuriating sometimes, Simon.”
“I can be so infuriating?” Simon couldn’t believe his ears. “I was just minding my own business when you came up and jumped me! How the hell am I the instigator here—”
“You’ve been a complete asshole to everyone you’ve met since you got to Guilder,” Tristan declared. “All except that friend of yours, Argyle.”
Simon’s voice rose defensively. “That’s not true—”
“Oh, come on. For the first year and a half, you didn’t even bother to learn our names. You just called us by our ink—like that was our only defining feature. And if that ink wasn’t up to your arrogant little standards, then you didn’t bother talking to us at all.”
I wasn’t that bad. Okay. So there might have been a bit of truth to that, but surely it couldn’t have been that bad. “I knew your names,” Simon countered, aware that he was venturing out onto shakier and shakier ground. But even as he said it, not a single other name came to mind. There was ‘shifty eyes’, ‘wolfy’, ‘bad hair Billy’, ‘the eagle’… Shit. Tristan might actually have had a point.
“Please,” Tristan actually laughed as he stretched out his legs, “when you called me Tristan the other day, I about died of shock. Is it really that much of a surprise that, when you finally got your tatù, the rest of us were lining up to see?”
“It was none of your business,” Simon muttered half-heartedly.
“Like you didn’t judge us on ours!”
“Well, that’s different!”
“How?” Tristan demanded. “How is it different?” When Simon could say nothing to defend himself, he nodded conclusively. “Because you’re an arrogant ass!”
Simon’s eyes flashed and the two boys stared each other down. There was already so much blood on the mats that Simon didn’t know how either one could possibly have any more to spare.
But then, instead of denying it, he found himself offering up a rare smile. “Yes—because I’m an arrogant ass.”
There was a split-second pause, and then a chorus of laughter echoed in the giant room.
If Simon knew a few hours ago that he’d be sitting here laughing with Tristan Wardell, he would have figured there was a better chance that he’d be picnicking in hell. Tristan probably would have said the same thing. And yet, here they were. Broken, and bloodied, and bruised to the bone.
And yet…here they were.
“It’s a bad-ass tatù,” Tristan said suddenly. “I have to admit.”
Although there was a great deal of truth in that, Simon shook his head with a weary sigh. “That’s what I thought in the beginning, and now I’m starting to think the whole thing is a lot more trouble than it’s worth. I mean, this whole school is full of people I could accidently bump into and absorb their ink. It’s a miracle I haven’t already lit the place on fire. No matter how hard I try, there’s just no controlling it.” He flashed Tristan a rueful grin. “Case in point: yesterday I spent a good deal of the afternoon as a dog.”
Tristan chuckled, even sounding a teeny bit apologetic.
“At least yours still has a bit of mystery to it. My mom had a fox. Her dad had a fox. His dad had a fox. There’s never any variation. Why do you think I’m always acting like such an idiot just to prove myself? Back-flipping off the astronomy tower? You think that’s fun? Hurt like hell.”
Simon threw back his head and laughed. “Yeah—but it set you up for life. They think you’re a freaking god around here. We go to an all-boys school, and I’ve still managed to inadvertently learn the names of at least twenty different girls who are dying to go to this dance with you.”
Tristan gestured down to his shattered arm. “So I can cling to them like a cripple? A great dancer I’m going to be.”
Simon grinned, but all the talk of the dance had roused another recent memory. “Who’s Mary?”
Tristan’s eyes flashed up. “Mary’s none of your fucking business.” The words echoed back even harsher the second time around, and he caught himself with a sigh. “Mary is this girl who’s just…” He shook his head dismissively. “She’s out of my league.”
Simon leaned back in surprise. He didn’t think that kind of phrase was even in Tristan’s repertoire. In spite of his cautious nature, he felt himself softening even more.
“Come on, it can’t be that bad.”
Tristan grimaced. “It’s worse. I met her in London over winter break. Thought we had…I don’t know. Anyway, I’ve called her four times since then, and she’s yet to call me back. I’m starting to think I just dreamed her up or something.” He laughed casually, but there was a disheartened disappointment buried just beneath. “What about you? I know there’s some mystery girl, because every time I mock you that always gets the biggest rise.”
An hour ago, Simon would have knocked his teeth out for asking. Now, the two of them shared an uncharacteristic smile.
“Her name’s Beth.” It was the first time he’d said it aloud to anyone besides Argyle. And while it might terrify him, it thrilled him at the same time. Just saying her name made it feel all the more real. “She’s perfect.”
Tristan grinned. “They always are. That’s part of the problem.”
The sudden sound of a door made them both jump, and they turned their heads towards the distant voices coming from inside the locker room.
“Shit,” Tristan breathed, “that’s Avery and Mills. They always come in around midnight to train.” He glanced around at the pools of blood shimmering on top
of the mats, before he and Simon shared a look—both thinking the same thing.
They didn’t want to be found here like this.
“Can you get up?” Simon asked doubtfully as he got to his feet.
“Sure,” Tristan said confidently. But as he tried to stand, his face turned a dangerous shade of white and his entire body started trembling. “On second thought, maybe I can just stay…”
Simon snorted and walked over to his side. “Here, let me help you.”
Despite their little talk, Tristan pulled automatically away in open hesitation. Weighing pride over pain. Wondering whether or not to trust.
“Tristan, please.” Simon’s voice dropped an octave as he stared steadily into his eyes. “It’s the least that I can do.”
Still nothing.
“Unless you’d like to explain all this to Avery and Mills—”
“Okay, okay.”
With a gasp of pain and a handful of choice profanities, Simon was finally able to help him to his feet. Pride fell along the wayside as Tristan threw his good arm around Simon’s neck and leaned almost all his weight against him as they limped forward.
“You know,” Tristan panted as they reached the other side, “I’m not sure this is what Jason was talking about when he said to sort it out amongst ourselves.”
Simon chuckled darkly as he kicked open the door. “Are you kidding me?”
“You’re right. This probably is exactly what he meant.”
Chapter 13
The next day in the cafeteria, there were two open seats waiting at Tristan’s table. Argyle regarded them with a look of shock, but Simon grinned at his friend and proceeded forward, sitting down as the grin turned into a big smile.
The rest of the guys around them seemed to have been coached beforehand, because none of them offered the newcomers more than a second glance.
“Hey,” Isaac leaned forward eagerly, “did you guys hear? Tristan was drag-racing yesterday outside London and got thrown through the windshield. Totally wrecked his arm again.”
Simon and Tristan locked eyes across the table, and it took everything in them not to laugh.