"Fifteen minutes before lights out, boys!"

Hamilton let out a deep sigh and carelessly threw his pen over his trigonometry exercise. He was sitting cross-legged on the fine mattress of his bed, sheets spread over the blankets and a huge manual on his knees. He held out his arms over his head and a long growl escaped his lips, stretching his back and shoulders, under the curious gaze of Anderson; he had just come back from the showers, and was rubbing a white towel against his head to wring out his soaked hair. Once the longest wicks managed to free themselves from the cold water and enjoy their freedom by picking up their ginger tint, ceasing to drip on his white tank top, he threw the towel on his bed and let himself fall beside Rob, crushing a few sheets of notes that creased under his weight.

"Look at you, the classes only started a week ago and you're working so hard you already have white hair," James said, smiling and tapping the top of Robert's head with the tip of his finger.

"Go away," he said with an amused laugh while pushing his arm gently. "You, on the other hand, can't say you're the most serious student of this school, right? I don't think I've seen you study once since you got here."

It was true. All the students of Whitwood already crumbled with homework, but James hadn't made any of them. Even if he had wanted it - and he had never found the slightest motivation to spoil the free time they had to work - he would have been incapable of it: he didn't note the courses, except a few words everytime his teacher was watching him. In fact, he had spent all his time scribbling drawings on the corner of his notebook. He was particularly proud of the portrait he had drawn from his mathematics teacher: a cobra-owl hybrid holding a metallic ruler in his little claws. He had even found a role for him in one of the short scenes that he imagined at night, whispering the lines of his characters in his bed, and in which the monster had finished stuffed on the office of Soldier Anderson. Unfortunately, he could not exercise taxidermy on his real teacher, and he had had a hit on his fingers every time that he found out the young man's artistic activities during his course. The poor man never understood this horrific monster drawn on the paper was supposed to be him.

"Studying was never part of my favorite activities," Jamesreplied, opening the drawer of his nightstand to pick up a pack of cards. "Let's have a bit of fun before the vultures turn off the lights."

"I can't," sighed Robert when he stood up, taking his maths book under his arm. "This is Alan's, so I have to give it back to him before it's too late."

He opened the door of their room and hurried down the hallway, James next to him - he seized any opportunity to go out of his room, even though it was only three steps to another door, and Rob quickly stopped questioning him about it. The supervisors, or vultures like James called them, walked slowly outside, an eye on their watch, and were watching every pupil passing in the corridor with a cold and menacing gaze. Once in a while, one of them shouted the number of minutes they had before the night, but James had the strange feeling that they were looking with an almost palpable impatience for students who would have the misfortune not to be lying in their bed when the bell, at the top of the building, would annonce twenty-two hours. They looked like starving predators ready to pounce all claws out on their prey as soon as it moves away from the herd. Unconsciously, James slowed the pace, his hands in the pockets of his grey trousers, openly taking advantage of every second of freedom that was generously offered to him.

Robert stopped in front of the door on the left of the stairs, on which a small iron plate indicated the number 301. Besides James and him, there were only two or three boys running down the stairs to the floor of their room, or walking quickly in the hallway (they were not allowed to run) until they slammed the door of their bedroom. The 301 however, opened with a squeak and a young blond man with light blue eyes appeared in front of them, the face cracked with a broad smile that discovered all his white and square teeth and dug his cheeks of two deep dimples.

"Oh! Rob," he said enthusiastically when the young man handed him his book.

"Thanks for the manual, Alan. I still don't understand the lesson, but I've at least..."

He suddenly stopped talking, seeing two figures slipping out of the room, passing under the stretched arm of the blond man in the door frame. The first boy brutally jostled Hamilton, imposing himself between him and Alan without a glance at him or a word of apology, a smile on his lips. While Robert was making an indignant growl, he spread his thanks to Alan for the help he had apparently given him with some geography duty, but every time he opened his mouth, James could not help but lay his eyes on his broken, pointed tooth, which then appeared between his lips.

Alongside Walter, the second boy looked up, his eyes almost black by the subdued light of wall sconces, and stared Anderson, as magnetized by his brown irises. Neither James nor this boy could remember how many times they had had this silent exchange in the last days; they would meet morning, noon and evening, whether in a hallway, in the library or in the refectory, and their irises would bound naturally before they had fully realized the presence of the other.This contact lasted only a few seconds, before they started to look around them like if they were admiring the frescoes of the walls or the view on the lake that the high windows offered them, but these exchanges of glances were not just the result of chance. They both realised it, but not one of them had felt the urge to speak or attempt the slightest approach. And, even if James had found a plausible pretext for the opportunity to exchange a few words with him, the ridiculous tension that fell on their shoulders as soon as Hamilton and Walter - who was never apart from his friend - were in the same room would make sure to separate them. There was only one evening, at the turn of a bookshelf in the library, that James had thought to distinguish a slight movement on his lips. A whispered 'hi' had reached his eardrums, but he sincerely thought he had dreamed of it.

Despite the faint light, James managed to discern a tiny tremor passing over his lower lip, as if he was finally about to open his mouth, but Walter was quicker: after hailing Alan who closed the door with a tired look, he turned toward Hamilton and Anderson and shrugged his eyebrows in front of Rob's sulking face, who still had his arms bent against him as a shield after the boy's jostling.

"Don't look at me like that, Hamilton. A little nudge is less painful than a broken tooth. Let's go, Andrew," he said with a chin movement towards his friend.

Andrew. So his name was Andrew.

"Four minutes!," a vulture shouted, passing near them before vanishing at the corner of the corridor in hope to find some late comings and goings.

James's eyes danced between the end of the hallway, Walter's back, the stairs he was going down with Andrew, and Robert's big blue eyes when he looked at Anderson. He didn't know in the least why he felt so intrigued by this boy who had, objectively, nothing particularly remarkable. But he found within his eyes, at each of their silent encounters, a strange glow which he could not analyse. He knew it from what seemed like another life. He couldn't remember where he had seen it before, and yet it seemed terribly familiar. It was driving him crazy.

No. No, James couldn't just torture his mind forever without ever saying a word to him. Without ever understanding. And he could not let pass such an opportunity. That would be criminal.

A split second before James's hand suddenly closed on his left shoulder, the latter saw Rob's eyes on his face and, deep in his chest, he felt a pinch of remorse towards the act he was about to commit. A pinch, only, and forgotten as soon as his arm stretched suddenly and his fingers released their grip on Robert.

"Jam...!"

Rob didn't even have time to pronounce his name before he felt himself falling down. An acute exclamation eluded him, but it died in his throat when his back struck the edge of the wooden steps. The ceiling was under his feet, and he discerned the stunned faces of Charles Walter and Andrew Turner before all the colors were mixed in front of his eyes. Soon they were no more than a few white, red, ochre or brown tasks, and then disappeared into the complete darkness when his eyelids closed on their own. He didn't feel pain, but he could only imagine the one that would cross each limb, every muscle of his body when he would stop tumbling down the stairs.

Fortunately, his legs struck the wall of the lower landing, abruptly interrupting his fall and sending a wave of pain through his entire body. Upside down, he painfully opened his eyes in hope of calming his dizziness, but all he could discern was the two figures of Charles and Andrew literally against the ramp, petrified, until the legs of Rob fall softly to the ground. When Robert was perfectly motionless, too stunned to do the slightest movement, the two boys returned their head to James and stared at him with round eyes, jaw hanging. He still had his arm stretched over the void, at the exact spot where Rob had been holding a few moments earlier, and let him fall down his waist before grinning at Walter.

"You got your revenge, darling."

***

"Anderson! Hamilton!"

James made a chin movement when he saw Walter make a big gesture of arms in their direction, indicating the two free places he had reserved beside Andrew and himself. The refectory was already almost full, like every Saturday at noon: most of the students rushed out of the courses, swallowed their meals in a few minutes, and rushed to join their club or some of their friends to take advantage of this half-day of free time. James loved Saturdays. Not only did this crowd of students play with the nerves of the vultures - and God knows how much he enjoyed seeing them running from one end of the room to the other - but it was also the only night of the week when the curfew was taking place an hour later. And all this was nothing compared to what had become, for him, the most exceptional luxury since his arrival in Whitwood: Saturday was the only day of the week when the students' common room was open.

It was a room on the top floor of the dormitory, separating the East wing from the West wing. All week, the heavy arched wooden door that gave access to it was locked by a large padlock coupled with a few chains, and the boys who passed there going their room could do nothing more than let a deep sigh leave their lips and pray for Saturday to come soon. It was not for the pleasure to admire the damaged red rugs that protected the soil, or the hideous tapestries discoloured with the motifs of fauna and flora that decorated the walls, or even to enjoy the comforting fire of the chimney, sitting on the brown leather couches with a good novel. No, there were only two things that attracted the students like pollen attracted the bees: the first was the television, of course, which offered them their unique window on the outside - since any exit from the boarding school was prohibited - and the second was the radio station placed on a dresser under the window, which had appeared to James as surrounded by a golden halo as soon as he had laid eyes on it. Music, here, in Whitwood!

Since the very first Saturday of the year, it was subconsciously admitted that the post of the third floor was, as soon as the common room was opened, commandeered by James Anderson and that his eyes would remain on the radio antenna for hours, ready to pounce on it at the slightest crackle that would disturb the singing of Little Richard or Elvis Presley. Without music, James was slowly dying.

And that was precisely why he was in an unusually playful mood that day: every night, he had a chance to hear the greatest hits of his favorite musicians and, now that he could not listen to his own records, he preferred to die rather than miss it.

"Do you still have bruises on your back?," Charles asked as soon as Robert was seated in front of him.

"Are you kidding me? I look like a zebra," Hamilton mumbled by carrying a hand to his back to massage it gently.

"He has splendid purple stripes from his neck to his ass," James grinned, passing his legs above the bench while biting in a green apple. "It's very convenient to find him among the other guys when taking our shower."

Andrew and Charles laughed heartily and, despite his annoyed growl, Rob soon joined them. This boy was awfully bad when it came to feeling some grudge against his friends and his sense of self-deprecation made him laugh at James' mockeries even when they were directed against him.

After his fall all but accidental in the staircases of the dormitories, Charles Walter had considered him with some curiosity, slightly baffled to see him laughing out-loud with James the next day instead of showing a little bit of resentment, considering the bruises that dotted his skin. In a way, this show seemed to have pushed him to relativize on his own resentment towards Hamilton and, even if he allowed himself to joke about the aerodynamic form of the young man's hunchbacked nose or that he giggled pretending to push him every time they went down the stairs, he seemed to gradually pardon Rob's clumsiness and begin to feel for him a semblance of affection.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

But of course, James did not know that himself was a certain motivation for their reconciliation. Whether on the side of Charles Walter or Andrew Turner, they both heard some rumours circulating in the hallways of the boarding school about him. The narratives of his detached behavior - and again, it was an understatement - in his courses, his regular corrections on the fingers that never managed to put a grimace of pain on his face, and finally the story of passionate love that he shared with the radio station of the common room had not failed to arouse their curiosity. Interesting people were scarce in Whitwood, and more the days passed, more the eccentricities of James Anderson attracted attention on him. And it wasn't always a good thing.

"We're going to work Latin in the library this afternoon, you join us?," Andrewproposed between two bites of his dish.

"I should, yeah, but I've fallen behind in History," replied Rob, cutting out his meat as hard as steel, giving some accidental nudges to Turner in the process.

His knife slipped on his plate, almost stabbing Charles' hand, who had a cautious move back by staring the young man with his little dark brown eyes, silently accusing him of having voluntarily targeted him. In no way needing words to understand this suspicious look, Robert energeticly shook his head, then looked at James in hope of telepathicly imploring him to make a diversion. Instead, he came face to face with the young man's haggard face who stared at them, mouth wide open. A small piece of apple escaped his lips and dropped on his thigh, but he did not seem to notice it.

"Are you guys serious?," he said in a hoarse voice, passing a handle on his lips to wipe the juice. "You know what day it is, right?"

"We know that we have a six-page duty to write," said Andrew, rolling his eyes, waving his fork in the air.

"I don't care about Latin, History or whatever. Do you know who's on the radio tonight? The fucking King Elvis Presley. That's it, himself! And I'm not going to waste this day studying the past. Death to Latin !"

"It's already a dead language."

James answered with a disillusioned glance at Turner on this last line, but the latter only replied by a silent shrug before getting up and throwing the handle of his bag on his shoulder. He picked up the black notebook he had placed near his plate and, as he was about to leave the refectory without a word, he once again felt Anderson's insistent gaze on him. For some obscure reason, and even now that they regularly talked to each other, James had still kept spying on his movements. Himself, moreover, did not seem to be fully aware of this troubling habit.

Andrew frowned, digging a crease at the corner of his eyelid, and he adjusted the tie of his uniform.

"There's a piece of apple on your thigh."

On these words, he turned his back at them and walked away without a last glance. Anderson immediately lowered his head and quickly cleaned the trousers of his uniform, awkwardly clearing his voice, trying to appear as natural as possible. When he turned to the other two, they were finishing their meal with a glance at each other. They did not comment, but their eyes said more than their lips.

***

"Curfew in fifteen minutes!"

Through the reflection of the lamps on the windows of the window hammered by the rain, James saw the lean silhouette of the Vulture, in his suit of a uni-grey, raise his sleeve and pat the tip of his forefinger against the dial of his watch. Without detaching his eyes from him, Anderson raised his hand and slowly turned one of the round plastic buttons of the radio, increasing the volume. The warm and suave voice of Elvis Presley waved softly, then resounded on the walls covered by the hideous tapestries. Still through the reflection of the window facing him, he saw Andrew's face, curled up at the end of one of the couches with his Latin manual on his knees, turning to him. Charles and Rob, sitting with other boys in front of the screen of the television, detached their eyes from the black and white image of a bunch of young women dressed in shiny dresses, to turn to the young man too.

"Anderson," the vulture growled coldly, posing his impenetrable little black eyes on James' neck. "Turn off this radio now."

James was sitting at astride on a wooden chair, his arms against the backrest and his chin on his hands. It had been almost three hours that he had not moved from his position. Not a word, not a sign of interest towards the other human beings who were in the room, even when they burst out laughing at the TV show. The tip of his aquiline nose was almost glued against the radio enclosure, and he only stretched his arms over his head when he was feeling a bit of pain. But if all the aches of the world could not keep him away from his seat, it was certainly not a vulture that would do it: unemotional, he increased the volume again.

"Anderson!"

And again. The television had been turned off now, and all the pairs of eyes were on him in a deep silence only broken by the notes of sizzling music and, soon, by the heavy and quick steps of the overseer when he crossed the room. With a quick move, he clasped James's arm with his claws and brutally pushed him out of his seat. James out of his way and somewhat stunned, he turned off the radio.

As soon as a heavy silence and palpable tension fell on the common room, the vulture carried his little black eyes injected with blood to Anderson. The young man's chest was lifting under the fast, heavy breathing that escaped his lips, whistling between his clenched teeth. His brown eyes were linked with those of the man, and he didn't blink once, desiring in no way to break that threatening look bringing them together. James could feel his blood bubbling in his veins, his ears buzzing and his heart beating in a deafening way against his temples. He loathed this feeling of powerlessness in the face of the authority and power that this man had over him, but he could not release the force which pulsated in his fingers and his clenched fist, which eagerly desired to hit the jaw of this fool. But he had a better idea, an idea that asked him to control his nerves and swallow his rage, at least for now, but an idea that would satisfy him much more when executed.

So he passed the tip of his tongue on his lips and, as much as possible, holding his head high so that he would never have the chance to see him lower his eyes, James turned his back on the man and left the common room.

"Watch yourself, Mr. Anderson," he heard him whispering coldly behind his back before he entered the dormitory corridor.

He turned at the end of the hallway leading to the East wing, leaving his shoulder rubbing against the sand-colored paint. His hands trembled terribly, his teeth gnashed, and he could clearly hear the words that his aunt Helen would say if she had seen him enter into such anger for a simple radio:

There is no need to put yourself in such a state. Grow up, James: there are others ways to settle a disagreement than the use of violence.

Oh, yes. There were other ways. And he knew exactly which ones.

"Anderson!"

He glanced over his shoulder, but did not stop his walk towards the room he shared with Hamilton. Himself, followed closely by Walter and Turner, ran up to him and, as soon as he was at his level, leaned forward gently towards James's face to watch him with as much interest as if a horn had grown in the middle of his forehead.

"Is everything alright?," he asked, frowning and laying a hand on his roommate's shoulder when he opened the wooden door of the room 309.

It emitted a long, disturbing squeak when Anderson pushed it with his fingertips, and then he let his hand close on the black iron handle before turning over slowly towards Andrew, who still had his black notebook against his chest, and towards Charles, whose blond hair still wet from his shower were curling freely on his forehead. As soon as his face appeared to the two boys, they let escape a faint exclamation and had a slight backward movement, staring at the young man with round eyes.

James was smiling. The nostrils of his aquiline nose dug his cheeks, and the few creases created at the corners of his dark eyes gave the picture an almost machiavellian air. There was no horn in the middle of his forehead and yet each of the three boys could easily imagine two small and red ones on the temples.

"Tonight, we're going out," he said in a whistling voice.

"Wh... What do you mean, 'we're going out'?," stammered Robert by blinking his eyelids prodigiously quickly. "What are you talking about? The curfew is in..."

"Six minutes!," shouted a vulture from the end of the hall, before stretching his neck towards the group of boys in hope of spying on their conversation.

"Six minutes," Andrew repeated with a sigh.

James rolled his eyes, spreading his arms, wanting for them to understand his words without the need to extrapolate. It was Charles, this time, who freed himself from his cautious silence by arching one of his eyebrows.

"You mean... sneak out?", he said in a faint voice, almost in a whisper.

"Exactly, Charlie," nodded James with a proud smile, patting his fingertips against the boy's hollow cheek as if to congratulate him.

"You're joking, right?" exclaimed Andrew in a loud voice, drawing again the little black eyes of the vulture on them before he cautiously lowered his voice. "Do you have any idea what we're risking if we get caught out of our room after the lights go out? We're going to get killed, it's as simple as that!"

"No one is forcing you to come, coward."

On this last answer, Andrew let out a strange sound mixing indignation and anger, and his fingers thightened around his notebook. During the brief silence that followed, Anderson saw him exchanging a stern glance with Charles and Robert, as if he silently challenged them to prefer James' unconsciousness to his reasonable decision.

"Oh, stop that! I've been sneaking out since I was twelve. There's no risk of getting caught: with a little caution, we will pass under the noses of the supervisors without them even noticing our presence. We'll not even get out of the building," tempted Anderson by crossing his arms on his chest, before an annoyed grunt escaped his lips. "Anyway, if you don't come, I'll go by myself."

"You're unbelievable," Turner sighed. "And it's not a compliment," he added when he saw the smile that illuminated James' face briefly.

"I'll leave at midnight," he resumed with a cruelly unemotional face. "If you decide to behave like real men, we'll meet in the hall. Otherwise, stay out of my way."

On these words he straightened his back and entered his room to lie on his bed, crossing his arms behind his head and closing his eyes, under the baffled gaze of the other three boys. Not surprisingly, Andrew was the first to push a deep sigh, deliberately loud to be assured that James was fully aware of it, and turned to the stairs, heading for his own room. Escorted by the blue and brown eyes of the other two young men, he quickly descended the steps of the dormitory to the landing on the second floor and disappeared at the bend of a hallway.

Charles and Rob shared one last glance, pinching their lips simultaneously. Andrew and James were like day and night, as opposed in their behavior as in their opinions. Yet, and far beyond the unconscious curiosity that Anderson felt towards the boy, and which appeared in his eyes every time he began to observe his gestures so attentively, they shared a common point which seemed obvious to their two friends: they were, both, as stubborn as a mule.