Chapter Text
He’s going to be late.
In Claude’s defense – it’s not exactly his fault. Most of the time, sure. Fine. He won’t take the fall but he’ll shoulder responsibility for the shortcomings in his own personal life, no problem – but this instance? In particular? Not quite.
It all comes back to one unfortunate shortcoming in the list of other shortcomings titled, things-fallen-by-the-wayside-when-dropping-everything-and-moving-across-the-ocean:
The school forgot to send him his tie.
Which in and of itself, is a minor problem. The major problem is, he’d been so convinced he’d seen it in the bag his uniform came in that the only logical conclusion he could come to at the time, was that he’d lost it. Again, wouldn’t really be a problem if the packet of paperwork and codes of conduct they’d sent him over the summer hadn’t made it abundantly clear the tie of their uniform is to be worn at all times while in attendance of classes during normal school hours.
Because the tie sets off a string of issues, see. A little like the butterfly effect, but considerably less glamorous and definitely less life-altering. More a moth than a butterfly. Claude doesn’t have an issue with bending rules – hell, he’s pretty sure his earrings alone are a dress code violation, but asserting yourself as a troublemaker is something best done quietly, in his opinion, maybe even subliminally if you’re clever enough. And walking into class without his tie on, without any prior connections that’re substantial enough for him to feel a sense of security in, is as good as declaring himself a rule-breaker from atop the teacher’s desk. Which he doesn't mind – it wouldn’t be exactly untrue. But he’d like to have some say in how it happens.
Is he overthinking this? He might be overthinking this.
Still, makes him wonder what must’ve happened to make them institute such an absurd requirement. Is he starting his first day of senior year, or attending a business summit? But that’s a line of inquiry for another day.
Another day, when his room isn’t turned inside out and he’s not about to be late to his first day at Prestigious As We Are Pretentious Academy. He fumbles to buckle his belt, switching his debating brain over from the tie debacle to which pair of shoes he should wear. No point wasting time on something he can’t change at the moment – better to get lost in the merits of whether red or black Nikes clash more with the blue-green plaid of his uniform pants.
He’ll figure something out. He always does. Claude’s worked with less than the 30 minutes he has before his first period AP Literature class. He looks back and forth between the shoes, still packed in the jumble of their box. Good thing he won’t be letting Lorenz into his room anytime soon. Lorenz would probably insist on the dark leather loafers Judith had bought him for his 17th birthday, because he’s boring and practical and a menace to anything that gives Claude joy in life. He’d probably present them up in professional, fancy shoe-holding fashion, and then jump whenever Claude had to touch his hands to take them, and really Claude’s already sick of seeing it, when he makes that face like–
Eugh. Okay, never mind. Too early in the morning to be thinking about Lorenz.
Claude sighs. He tugs on the red pair, and with no less sense of trepidation, a final pat down of his pockets for his keycard and phone, Claude opens the door, and steps out into the hall.
-
Here’s the thing: Claude would like to think himself a pretty big believer in the idea that nothing is preordained.
People aren’t born with destinies to fulfill, or purposes far beyond their own comprehension, none of that classic maybe we were never in control in the first place! rhetoric that writers love to justify their decisions with. Nothing is ever set in stone. People will be people, and that’s almost always a little more complicated than we’d all like to assume. It just feels a bit blame-shifty, which is fine, if there’s a good reason for blame-shifting to happen.
There usually isn’t, though. Anyone who argues the opposite probably enjoys playing devil’s advocate in film class, or setting small piles of garbage on fire for fun. Literally and/or metaphorically, take your pick. Claude’s always up for a little anarchy, but there’s a big difference between meaningful destruction and straight up arson.
The metaphor’s starting to get away from him but – here’s the point. While it’d be nice to believe that everyone has a path, the unfortunate reality is that while fate might make no mistakes, people certainly do. Most of the time, that seems a good enough thing to believe in as any.
That being said (and said quite emphatically, at that) – there’s no denying it’s a strange coincidence that once Claude realizes he’s looking at Dimitri’s face, that Dimitri’s looking back at him, and that they both have 2.7 seconds max to recover before the man named Rodrigue will begin to look between them with a growing degree of concern. The connection Claude makes almost comes as an afterthought, in spite of it all. Dimitri’s sweatshirt is a patriotic shade of dark blue, GARREG MACH LACROSSE 2018 emblazoned in blocky bone-white lettering down the front, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Claude’s eyes keep falling to the words on the sweatshirt – whether it’s because they’re easier to look at than Dimitri’s face, or he’s mildly fascinated with how the illustrated lion seems to be grinning directly at him, he’s not sure. He’d rather not know. He can feel Dimitri staring at him like a tangible thing.
Claude tries not to keep his gaze anywhere for too long, as a general rule, but it takes him an embarrassing amount of time to realize the other door down the hall is ajar, behind Dimitri’s head. He hadn’t been paying it much attention before, too distracted by the yelling and the boxes and, well. Everything.
Claude looks harder, and his suspicion is only confirmed when he sees Blaiddyd typed on a scrap of paper pinned to the door behind Dimitri’s head, in size 18 Times New Roman. It’s laminated – because of course it is. The door Dimitri peeks his head around now bears another name in the same format: Fraldarius.
Thankfully, the universe doesn't give him time to dwell on it, for now.
“Ah, Dimitri, thank you.” Rodrigue gestures at the pile of boxes blocking Claude’s door. “If you don’t mind.”
Dimitri’s eyes tear away, and Claude can see the gear shift happening as he takes a step forward, scrambling to throw it into D3 to make it up the mountain. “Oh. Yes, of course.”
Both Dimitri and The Dad(trademarked) move together, picking their way over the otherwise empty boxes to the ones at Claude’s side, beginning to pull and shuffle and stack with quiet efficiency. Dimitri casts him one final, fleeting glance before he bends to pick up the infamously labeled SWORDS box.
No way. Claude would raise a brow, but he’s not sure Dimitri would get the hint. Really?
There’s no way the guy he’s casually, sort-of-maybe attracted to is going to be living two doors down. Comics work like that. Movies. Books, of a particularly trashy variety, can pull it off sometimes, too. Claude can think of a few (now neatly organized and color-coded on his new shelf, thank you) just off the top of his head that do. He’s read each at least twice but has never once imagined what it’d be like to live through such a mortifying cliché. So mortifying Claude is sure that if this were a movie the reel would play in slow motion, capturing every horrible micro-expression ticking over Dimitri’s face in stunning high definition.
Which would be a lot, considering the longer Claude looks at him, the less sure he is of what Dimitri’s thinking. Gone is the broken-open honesty, the sense of optimistic caution. It’s like walking through a museum of color only to find yourself suddenly face to face with a blank wall.
“Here,” he says, once his tongue decides to stop sitting like a useless piece of meat in his mouth. “I can help.”
Claude bends down and grabs the edge of another long, rectangular box. There’s no label, just a scrawl of black sharpie that reads 30-4-1185 across the top flap. Whatever it means for whatever’s inside – it’s heavy. The effort it takes for Claude to lift just the half closest to him is more than he guessed.
“Ah,” and that’s Dimitri’s voice again, from somewhere over his head. “Allow me.”
Before Claude has the time to process what the words even mean in context the box is lifted, one-armed from his grip. Claude decidedly does not gape when Dimitri hoists the box under his left arm, the sword box beneath his right. Claude hadn’t felt the weight of a sword before, but by the sound of it there isn’t just one in there. If he were to guess there’d be at least ten, and that’s keeping it conservative. As to why anyone would need ten swords let alone more when at boarding school is probably the better question to ask here, but the answer’s clearly right in front of him, plain as day. But even considering whether the swords are made of real steel or not it must be–
Heavy. The answer is heavy. And here Dimitri is picking it up like it’s not at least ten swords in a box, like this is just a thing everyone can do, like he’s made for it. Between this and the way he can climb vertical surfaces with little handholds to speak of is…impressive. Claude’s decides to hold on any further comments, for the time being. Observations should be had when his biceps are visible, preferably at a distance where Claude is able to see them without any obvious ogling. How many Claude’s could Dimitri bench press at a time, he wonders?
For now his guestimate is three. Maybe four. Okay, five tentatively.
But it’s question probably better pursued later. Later, when Dimitri smile isn’t all rounded at the edges with a level of discomfort Claude isn’t sure how to gage. Dimitri doesn’t even seem to be breathing, when their eyes meet for such a fleeting second Claude thinks he might’ve imagined it.
“Excuse me,” he says. Claude steps aside. His back almost hits the opposite wall, his keys jangling in his hand.
And that’s it. That’s all that happens.
Claude watches with little interest as Dimitri carts the boxes inside. There’s some shuffling on the other side of the Fraldarius door, some exchanges Claude doesn't stick around to hear. As soon as Dimitri’s out of sight he makes a dive for his own door handle. He doesn’t even try to fish his keycard out of his pockets. That’s what the physical key copies are for, anyway. Exactly for situations like this. He doesn’t move too fast – he even manages a nod and quiet thank you to the Dad(trademarked. It’s the hair, he thinks) just to help sell it.
Claude knows how to be inconspicuously polite. He’s had a long time to get good at it.
As soon as he’s inside he flips the massive deadbolt, patting the door a few times for – well, he doesn’t know why. Sometimes he has to make sure the wall is sturdy enough before he can breathe again. Sometimes he just needs to feel something solid.
His keys clang when they hit his bedside table. His cheeks puff out when he sighs, and Claude lets his face go slack, tries his best to keep it from folding back up again. A handful of thoughts battle for superiority, and they’re all so goddamn loud Claude isn’t sure where to begin.
Gotta learn to turn down the volume in there, kiddo. And Nader – while not possessing the same success rate as Judith – is also usually just as right.
Claude splays out on his floor, not wanting to get in bed quite yet. He’s had enough new information to last all week.
Or, more like the dangling of possible new information right in front of his nose before it’s snatched away. Like the universe had decided the carrot-and-stick method is the best new way to keep Claude humble.
Well, he can’t help but think as he’s greeted with the now-familiar view of dorm room ceiling. It’s working.
-
Before he continues, let’s state the obvious:
He doesn’t know Dimitri. He was never under the illusion that he did, or, he thinks so anyway. He hasn’t made that rookie mistake in a while. People are always too messy to fit neatly into boxes.
Yet the surprise at seeing Dimitri shift is something he runs over and over and over again. As if remembering exactly when it happened, every little minute detail, could somehow give him a hint as to the How or the Why. It surprises him just how surprised he really is. Hilda’s words come back to him in an echo: only one thing you really need to know. Claude thinks of Dimitri’s hands: healing, peppered with old scar tissue. Every awkward flinch, every fleeting glance from under his lashes.
There’s something there. Claude doesn't know what – but he sure as hell is going to figure it out.
And if he’s maybe (and only maybe) a little hurt that Dimitri actually made good on their mutual promise to pretend not to have met before, if it dampens what little hope he had of making a true friend before the school year began?
Well, that’s between him and the cruel machinations of fate.
When he walks by Dimitri’s closed door the following morning, he doesn’t so much as give it a glance.
-
He meets Hilda at the dorm’s main downstairs entrance approximately twenty-four minutes before they’re to report to their first period classes. Twenty-four minutes, and still no tie.
She doesn’t see him at first, which gives him the chance to poke her in the ribs mid-yawn. She wheels around with a startled yelp and much more speed than the aforementioned yawn suggested possible, swatting at him.
“Claude,” she grouses. “It’s too early for that.”
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he says, skirting around her attempt to kick him in the knees.
She squints at him, her eyeshadow a perfect blend of orangey-sunset pink, lined with a black wing as precise and sharp as a knife. Highlight bounces off her cheekbones like flecks of crushed glass. Even her lips are lined and lip-stained for the occasion, a kind of taupe-y, matte red. From her ears dangle golden hoops, rose pink teardrop pearls nestled in the middle.
Never let it be said Hilda wasn’t willing to put the effort it – when it came to things she wanted, anyway.
“You’re so lively. I thought you weren’t a morning person?” She says, very much sounding like not a morning person herself.
“I’m not.” Claude shrugs. “Where’s Lorenz?”
“He forgot his dictionary, the like–” Her arm waves, as if a hole’s been punched and she’s beginning to deflate. “French to English one? Anyway, do you know when he woke me up this morning? Seven. Thirty. Claude, I don’t think it should even be legal for people to be awake right now let alone then.”
Claude foregoes pointing out the fact that Lorenz forgetting his French dictionary for the first day of school is not only the most ridiculous thing Claude’s heard all week, possibly all month. It’s a candidate for Most Supremely Foolish Thing he’s heard all year, right up there with the fact he’d uprooted himself a month ago by himself and is now hundreds of miles away from everything and most everyone he’s ever known in his eighteen years on earth.
Yeah, he’s not letting that one go – not anytime soon.
Claude half-smiles at Hilda when he says: “And just how did you ever survive such an ordeal?”
“I didn’t, clearly.” She closes her eyes and collapses against Claude’s side, clutching his arm. “I’m going back to sleep until he gets back. How does he expect me to do this five days a week? I’ll die, Claude. I’m not built to live like this.”
“Hey, you’re the one who asked him in the first place. Seems like you sealed your own fate.”
“I mean it. I’ll die. I really will.”
Claude hears Lorenz’s disparaging noise before he sees him, strutting from down the first level hallway like a suburban mom speed-walking on her way to a morning class of hot yoga. She’s late, by the way. That’s important information to make the comparison work.
Alright, maybe that’s a little mean, even for him.
“Hilda.” Lorenz’s voice carries down the hall. “Hilda, we have a situation.”
“Yeah, I know. When’re we taking you to a hair salon?”
Claude can see the eye roll from fifty feet away. The clacking of his shoes on the sleek floor only increase in speed as Lorenz approaches.
“Be serious for a moment. I know that’s hard for you, but please.”
“Alright, alright, but what’s–”
“Have you heard from Yuri recently?”
Hilda shrugs, her shoulder bag rising with the movement. “How recently? Last time I talked to him was in Amsterdam when I went with Holst in like, June? Why?”
“Did he happen to say anything to you about, oh, I don’t know, not coming back for first semester?”
“Oohhhhh,” Hilda says, as if she’s just realized something important. “Wait, you didn’t know about that? I thought he told you ages ago?”
Lorenz throws his hands up in defeat. Stress radiates off him like radioactive chemicals from nuclear waste. Or, wait, is that his cologne? Is Lorenz wearing cologne?
“No, he didn’t tell me until,” Lorenz unlocks his phone with a click, scrolling furiously. “7:59 this morning!”
Hilda pats his shoulder. If it’s her attempt at commiserating, she’s failing quite miserably.
“That’s rough, buddy.”
Lorenz pinches the bridge of his nose with such ferocity he might squeeze it off.
He hasn’t even looked at Claude yet, which – it’s weird, right? He was already being weird before, but this edges into new territory of unknown Lorenz behavior. Even when they fight, Lorenz doesn’t just ignore him. He can never help himself. That’s their shtick.
“Morning,” Claude slips in. He smiles, and he knows it’s genuine because he doesn’t have to make up his mind to do it.
Lorenz only then looks up from where his pointed, slender nose is buried in the bright light of his phone screen. The white flash of it washes over his face from below while the dorm’s fluorescents blare from overhead. Somehow, this makes Lorenz even more pale than usual – a feat which Claude isn’t sure was possible until now. The look Lorenz fixes on him doesn’t linger for long, flipping his uniform-regulation blue and green plaid scarf further over his shoulder. He goes back to his phone.
“Good morning.”
And with that, he’s off.
Lorenz hardly pauses long enough for Claude to catch up, pushing through the doors and out into the dewy morning. Hilda – much to Claude’s mild surprise, is already strolling after him without so much as a second’s hesitation. He watches them walk out the door, side by side, for a single struck moment before he manages to follow. Lorenz is still talking, speaking as if he hadn’t just given Claude the coldest shoulder known since the Ice Age. Or like that time after Claude broke Lorenz’s favorite tea set when they were eight, the one he kept in this little floral-pattern, plush velvet box, and which also – just for the record – was a complete and total accident. In the end it doesn’t matter whether he broke it or not. What matters is that Lorenz had cried, and then he’d cried to his mom, and then there had to be a conversation had, and Lorenz hadn’t spoken to him for a whole eleven days after. Which sucked, because they’d only had the vacation house in Santorini for a few more years before his father sold it, and Claude had spent his last summer there lamenting on the floor in front of Lorenz’s shut door that he couldn’t go down to the docks to swim without him.
The point is: Lorenz doesn't not pay attention to Claude unless there’s a reason.
Hilda slows, waits for Claude to fall into step beside her. Lorenz stays a few strides ahead, still absorbed in whatever no doubt riveting conversation’s scrolling through his messages.
Alright, Claude can admit it: maybe it is a little annoying.
“You do realize what this means though, right?” Lorenz calls over his shoulder.
Hilda hicks her bag up her shoulder. “What, for the club? I mean, yeah, sure…I guess?”
Claude clears his throat. “The club?”
“The newspaper.” Hilda waves her hand in the most lackadaisical way Claude can imagine. “Yuri’s the head editor. Well, he was, anyway, since we were what? Sophomores?”
“Wait. Leclerc, right? Part of the Rowe family?”
“Yep! Have I mentioned him before?”
“Sounds familiar,” Claude lies. He’s not about to tell Hilda he’s heard the name passed around along with his dad’s irritated side comments á la bringing-work-home-for-dinner conversation. Not important right now. Hilda’s talking again.
“I bet you’d really like him. You guys could do all that stuff smart people do together!”
“I’m sorry, come again?”
“Oh, you know. Stuff like…birdwatching? Or watching nature documentaries on PBS? Oo, or chess?”
The laugh bursts out of Claude before he has time to stop it. He’s almost sputtering, which he never does, and maybe that’s a sign his nerves are starting to get to him.
“Wait, do we both magically turn 76 years old if we meet? I think I might be a little offended?”
“Oh, don’t act as if I haven’t personally seen you do all of these things. Sometimes all on the same day!”
“That’s completely beside the point and you know it.” Claude shakes his head in – what? Disbelief? Horror? It’s not until Hilda looks at him that he sees the sharp focus there, narrowing in on him like a bolt of light.
Is she…trying to distract me?
He cocks his head at her. Hilda continues, once again, without seeming to pay much notice.
“Anyway, Yuri’s got an internship in Prague until December, so he’s not coming back until after winter break. Or, that’s what he said anyway last time I talked to him which, really was like, so long ago now. I don’t even know what he’s been up to lately, and with Yuri you never really know until he’s like, telling you. He probably assumed I told Lorenz, or something.”
“Ah,” Claude tuts. “Rookie mistake.”
Hilda bumps their shoulders, her earrings catching the sun through the oaks when she shakes her head at him. Lorenz, for his own part, doesn’t appear to hear Claude’s pointed comment, or any other part of the conversation, really. They walk for at least another three more seconds before Lorenz swivels around, sending both Claude and Hilda screeching to a halt.
“Do you think Mr. Eisner already knows?”
Were Claude not still distracted by his mild annoyance, he’d think the tone of Lorenz’s voice could almost be categorized as hopeful. Claude shifts his weight, sniffs the air and – yep. It’s something dark and spiced, woody with an edge of sweetness. Definitely cologne. A cologne he’s very familiar with. Interesting.
“Uh, probably?” Hilda says. “Pretty sure he’d have to tell admissions he wasn’t going to be, y’know, admitted.”
“You don’t think Mr. Eisner would’ve picked a new editor already, do you? It isn’t possible. It’d be too rash not to consider all the options before choosing, of course. Teachers should be diligent about such decisions.”
“Yeah, of course.” Hilda’s grinning. “Don’t worry though, you’re definitely a shoe-in.”
“Well, naturally,” Lorenz says, with that pompous little laugh he gets. “I didn’t spend all those hours correcting Raphael’s margins for nothing.”
“Exactly! Soooo–” Hilda’s rocking back on her heels. Placating. Claude knows the move. “Don't stress about it too much, okay?”
It works – after a moment. Lorenz flattens out his edges as he sighs, tapping his phone in a nervous rhythm on his sleeve. “Yes. You are absolutely right. Of course Mr. Eisner will make whatever he deems the best choice. I’ve texted both Leonie and Ignatz, by the way. I’m sure nobody’s told them the news, either, and–Claude. Claude, where is your tie?”
He’s going to have this conversation a lot today, isn’t he?
“Don’t know!” he says, grimacing in Lorenz’s general direction without meeting his eyes. Two can play at this game. “My guess is that Barbie threw up all over it and whoever cleaned it forgot to put it back in my suitcase. That’s just a theory, though.”
Lorenz makes a face like he’s said something offensive (cat vomit isn’t offensive, by the way – she can’t help it if she’s nauseous). Claude swears he still catches an unbelievable muttered under Lorenz’s breath.
“Aw,” Hilda interjects. “Has she been having fur ball problems again? Poor baby.”
“Nah, she’s been doing great lately with the fur balls. Sometimes she just eats a little too fast, I think. Makes herself sick.”
“This is not good,” Lorenz is still muttering. “This is not good.”
“I miss her. Oh, we should see if your mom would Facetime her for us sometime!”
Claude would be lying if he hadn’t already considered it, even just out of sheer desperation. It still didn’t feel real that he wouldn’t see his cat again until they went home for Fall Break in a few months. He missed all his clothes being covered in a thin veneer of white hair already.
“Infuriating.” Lorenz starts walking again, now intent on ignoring both of them, apparently. “Infuriating, the both of you.”
“Come,” he calls over his shoulder. “If we go quickly we can make it to the office before class. Claude, you’re in C block, yes? Hilda and I are both in A, but we can manage if we hurry.”
Hilda clutches Claude’s arm as if she’s just been struck by something, pulling him along as her high heel penny loafers clack on the sidewalk. “Oh, shit. Yeah. The principle’s really cracked down the last few years about uniform stuff.”
Claude forgoes pointing out that she hadn’t even bothered to notice he was tie-less until now. That’s not a bone particularly worth picking with her, at this point.
So instead, he picks it with Lorenz.
“Did you memorize my schedule?”
Lorenz wheels around to face him.
“No?” He sputters, indignant. He doesn't elaborate. Claude lifts his eyebrows and Lorenz’s face goes predictably sour.
Well, that’s more like it.
The air’s beginning to warm up, the sun creeping over the red brick buildings in a slow crawl. They cluster closer together as they draw further into the campus proper. Small crowds of other students mill about around them. Hilda elbows him as a warning, which he soundly ignores, because frankly this – whatever this is – goes beyond being her business.
“Really?” Claude draws the e out for good measure. “Because it kinda seems like–”
“Hey there, Ms. Goneril.”
The voice comes so close to his ear Claude near jumps out of his skin. Which is an unpleasant mental image already, and he’s already got the chills on account of merely existing for the past 12 hours.
What happens next almost goes too quick for him to process, because then Hilda’s squealing. Again, right in Claude’s ear – which isn’t too unusual, really, given what kind of friendship they have. But this squeal sounds is a bit different to any Claude’s heard before.
That’s when Claude sees him.
Now, as a preface, Claude’s known his fair share of boys. It’s a fair assumption to make that most people have known their fair share, in fact. But there’s a specific type of boy that tends to lurk in the upper echelons of the high school social hierarchy – and it’s a type Claude would like to think he knows pretty well. His experiences with them range from outright verbal abuse slung down the hallways between classes to unpleasant, sloppy-drunk flirting in the corner of a late-night family restaurant. Not mutually exclusive with the same ones, of course. Either way, when Claude does turn to look at their surprise guest, it’s with the strange realization that he actually recognizes him, which is a first in his entire week and some change since arriving at Mach Prep.
The hair is what gives him away: a dark auburn-ginger that fringes on being outright red but doesn’t quite make the cut. It’s styled into an appropriate mess, a short undercut freshly shaved at the nape of his neck. He’s grinning when Hilda twists around and throws herself into his arms, the smile falling down to a more tired notch when she squeezes his neck. At Claude’s side, Lorenz makes a noise that could only be described as disgusted.
However, he must confess: Claude hadn’t expected him to be so tall.
But perhaps that’s because the first and last time Claude had seen Sylvian Gautier was through the grainy, ethereal filter light of Hilda’s snapchat story as he chugged the entirety of a king cup after an apparent game of Ring of Fire, the “VAIL SKII LODGE & RESORT” logo covering most of his uncovered chest. In the background, a Post Malone song entered its 4th bridge. The whole ordeal lasted a full ten seconds. Claude remembers this, specifically, because of how Sylvain had winked at the camera and the rest of the shot went full found-footage quality for the final three.
Present-day Sylvain Gautier has the key difference of 1) being dressed, and 2) approximately 500% less sloshed. From what Claude can tell, anyway. His coherency, and how he manages to catch Hilda, is a good argument for sobriety.
Sylvain lifts Hilda into the air in what must be a bone-crusher of a hug, if Claude’s ever seen one. She shrieks, in that high-pitched, affectionate way she does when she gets her way, and Sylvain’s mumbling something indistinct into her hair when his eyes meet Claude’s.
Oh yeah, Claude shoves his hands in his pockets, suddenly very aware of the way he takes up space. This one’s trouble.
“Where’ve you been? How was LA!?” Hilda asks as Sylvain sets her down.
“Oh, it was great. Aside from absolutely everything about it. You know how it is.”
“When’d you get in?”
Sylvain makes a face. “Midnight on Saturday? Ingrid arrived at the same time so we just helped each other unpack yesterday.”
“Claude,” Lorenz sigh is blustery at his side. “We should go.”
As if on cue, Sylvain’s attention rounds on them. “Always got somewhere to be, huh, Gloucester? You weren’t even going to stop and say hi?”
Lorenz scoffs, taking a step further into Claude’s personal space. His eye roll is near transcendent. “Hello, Sylvain.”
Sylvain waggles his fingers, his smile closed-mouth and honeyed. “Hey Lorenz.”
“Your summer vacation went well, I take it?” Lorenz asks, because even through his obvious displeasure, the 17 years of social conditioning enacted by Father Dearest always win out in the end.
“Aw, yeah, of course. Filled with lots of – now, what would you call it? Debauchery? Depravity?”
“Eugh.”
“Oh sorry, do you prefer fornication? Sordid rendez-vous?”
“Sylvain,” Hilda grouses, but she’s laughing when she says it so it hardly counts.
Lorenz’s frown deepens, which is a feat in and of itself. “Are you quite finished?”
“I’ve got more if you want ‘em! What about…turpitude? Or indecency?” Sylvain says, and his smile’s all teeth. “Not that you’d know anything about stuff like that though, right Lorenz?”
Uh- Claude has time to think before the tension that’d been hanging above them drops in full force -Oh.
Granted, Claude isn’t privy as to how this dynamic usually goes (an idea he has a feeling he’s going to need to get used to over the next few weeks, but regardless). Even still, he doubts it’s supposed to end with Lorenz clamming up, shrinking away from them like he’s been physically wounded. If the look, albeit very brief look, of confusion that quirks at Sylvain’s mouth is any indication.
Well. Now’s as good a time as any.
“I take it you do know, then?” Claude meets Sylvain’s eyes for the first time in earnest. “About debauchery, that is.”
Sylvain doesn’t miss a beat. “You betcha. If you’re ever looking for lessons I’m here seven days a week.”
Claude doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction, because it was a cheap bone to throw and they both went for it anyway. He knows how these little back-and-forths go. But there’s something about Sylvain’s smile that scratches at the doors Claude keeps locked tight and closed. Whether it’s genuine or not, it’s too early to tell.
So, Claude lets himself smile back. Maybe even laugh a little, as a gesture of good will.
“Sylvain, right?”
“And you must be Claude,” Sylvain says, holding out his hand. It’s hot in Claude’s from being stuck in his pants pockets. “I’ve heard lots.”
Claude’s grin almost drops. Almost. Were he any less on edge than he already was, those words might be sending the alarm bells ringing in his head. But as it turns out, keeping a healthy amount of fear adrenaline in your system is good for appearing as if you don’t actually have fear adrenaline coursing from head to toe. Case in point.
Claude draws his hand back. “I wonder who your source could possibly be?”
In a stroke of what’s either luck or misfortune, Hilda chooses this moment to flips her hair directly into Sylvain’s face.
“Hilda,” Sylvain straightens up, sputtering, but safely out of hair-flip engagement range. Hilda begins to meander ahead, turning to walk backwards when she next speaks.
“May I remind you we have places to be. You know. Class to show up to for attendance points. Gym class to skip.”
In Claude’s blind spot, Lorenz gives a sigh. Good to know you’re still with us.
“Yeah, I’ve gotta meet Dedue and Felix in,” Sylvain glances at his watch, which is appropriately minimalist and expensive-looking. “Right now, actually. Whoops.”
“Go on, then,” Lorenz sniffs.
“So cold. Come on, we’re all going the same place, anyway.”
“Actually we’ve gotta swing by the office first.” Hilda jumps in, turning to walk right-way round once they join her. “Claude doesn’t have a tie, and I’m such a good friend that I agreed to go with him to sort it out.”
“Might I point out it was my–” Lorenz starts.
“No,” Hilda finishes.
Sylvain’s eyebrows raise past the hair falling over his forehead. If his eyes flicker over to Claude, it’s almost too quick to catch. “Well, this is new. Since when were you such a good samaritan?”
Hilda wrinkles her nose. “Uh, since always?”
“Not by my books.”
“Just because I’m not nice to you doesn’t mean I’m not nice ever.”
“Sure! Still not buying it.”
“Good call,” Claude adds.
“Well, hey. Here-”
Sylvain’s already undoing the loosened knot of his tie tucked lazy under his collar. He slides the smooth fabric around his neck, cocks his fingers out when he extends them Claude’s direction. The smile only just touches the corner of his lips.
"Think I can solve your little dilemma without all the trouble," he finishes.
Claude lifts an eyebrow. He flicks his gaze between Sylvain and the tie in quick succession, ensuring he doesn't linger on either for very long.
“Aren’t you going to need that?” he says, leaving Sylvain’s arm hanging there between them.
Sylvain shrugs, strolling with all the confidence one might expect. “Not like the teachers really expect it from me.”
“Sounds like you speak from experience.”
Another shrug. “Maybe. Just a little bit.”
“Save you a trip to the office?” Claude must still seem unconvinced so Sylvain continues after another pause. “Hanneman’s a good guy, don’t get me wrong. But he’ll talk your ear off for half the morning if you let him.”
“Maybe I don’t mind being lectured?”
Sylvain snorts. “Depends. Ever wanted to learn about the nomenclature of mushrooms?”
Admittedly, Claude has not. But it definitely wouldn’t be the most inane subject he’d have invested time in.
Claude tries to meet Hilda’s gaze, but finds she won’t look at him directly. When she does spare a glance his way it’s with a shrug, as if to say yeah, why not? He doesn’t even bother trying Lorenz right now. Definitely not worth it.
“Nah, you’re right. I think I’m good,” he replies, the tie silken and freshly pressed when he takes it from Sylvain’s offering hand. Maybe he should’ve taken that as a warning sign, offhand.
Because this, in retrospect, might be Claude’s first in a long (long) list of mistakes.
-
The room for Advanced Placement Literature is situated at the end of St. Macuil Hall for the Arts, on the far east side of campus. It takes an extra handful of minutes to find it, because Claude passes the dance hall and three art studios thinking he’s in the wrong building before realizing that he’s just in the right place with the wrong mindset. Why not have an English class next to the choir room?
However, upon walking into the classroom itself, things begin to make even less sense.
At first, Claude doesn't quite believe what he’s seeing. He stands in the threshold for what feels an eternity before getting his feet to move again. In reality it can’t be more than a few seconds, but the longer Claude looks around the room the further his nerves begin to fry at the edges.
It isn’t the fact he knows absolutely no one. He’d been expecting that, prepared for it even. Jump in the deep end with no floaties type deal. No, it’s more the fact that he goes in with an plan only to have it blown right back in his face.
He just hadn’t expected it to be his teacher, of all people, to throw him for a curb. Even if it is pleasant to see a familiar face.
“Last name?”
Claude clears his throat. “Riegan?”
“Ah, yes. Of course.” Mr. Chihol gives him a smile best categorized as strained, which is always a good sign. It’s barely 8:30 in the morning. “You’ve had enough time to settle in, I hope?”
“I think so, yes. Thank you.” Claude clips the smile into place on reflex. “And, thank you again for your help.”
Mr. Chihol waves a hand. “Merely part of my administrative duties. Your grandfather has been a wonderful patron. The least we could do is make arrangements for your arrival.”
Claude doesn’t mention the last time he’d seen his grandfather it had ended in pretending not to hear his mom cry half the night through their shared hotel bathroom door. Probably a little bit too much for first day of school mentorship building. He also doesn’t mention last time he’d seen Mr. Chihol himself had been in the rearview mirror of his BMW, staving off the worst case of combination altitude/car sickness Claude’d had since his family trip to the Alps.
“Still, I appreciate it. I know my grandfather does, too,” he says, still all smiles.
Mr. Chihol has gone back to idly tidying his already Spartan desk layout, a color-coded calendar half-highlighted beneath his left elbow. The smile he gives Claude in return seems a touch more genuine – but, perhaps that’s just wishful thinking.
“No assigned seats for the first week,” Mr. Chihol glances at down again at the attendance sheet for the briefest of seconds. “Sit wherever you’d like.”
Claude almost says thanks again, his tongue poised behind his teeth, but he saves it just in time. Besides, having free rein of the seven or so yet-empty desks isn’t exactly something he’s thankful for, anyway.
So, he does what any well-adjusted gifted kid would do: assigns each desk a random number in his head, and runs it through an RNG. The RNG is just his brain, of course, but it does the trick well enough. The desk are nice – polished off-gray tops, sleek artisan wood stained chairs, all set together in pairs. None of them are completely empty, which is fine. What’s he here to do if not make friends?
Don’t think about Dimitri, he reminds himself, before he has even a chance to start thinking about Dimitri.
He settles on the desk set front row, closest to the window. The actual window seat itself is already occupied. So occupied, in fact, that its occupant doesn’t so much as stir from the communion they’re holding between their face, the desk, and the fold of their arms. A uniform jackets sits shedded inside out on the back of the seat, and a puddle of smooth, dark hair obscures any distinguishing features. All Claude can tell for sure is…they’re breathing. Or at least mimicking the motion well enough.
What’s tucked under their arms gives a little bit more of a story.
It still doesn’t tell much, of course. There’s a scattering of red ballpoint pens, a mechanical pencil with its eraser clean chewed off, and a stack of notebooks substituting in as some kind of pillow. The top notebook’s still flipped open, and even if most of its contents are obscured by its owner’s hunter green, uniform-grade pullover, Claude can make out the name chicken-scratched in the top corner of the page. Hevring.
So, the universe has a sense of humor after all.
“Excuse me,” he starts, leaning left to face his desk mate.
A grumble. A Birkenstock’d foot swishes out from under the desk. A sign of life!
“Sorry to disturb your…morning nap. It’s Hevring, right? As in Hevring Hall?” Claude asks, as if he’s speaking to himself. Then, to the approximate human-shaped lump beside him: “You ever get tired of hearing people refer to your last name as the place they live in?”
What he gets in response is entirely muffled by a mouthful of sleeve. Claude tilts his head to an audience of none.
“Sorry, what was that?”
A face emerges from the bundle of arms and pullover. His eyes are shut until he faces Claude fully, blinking and squinting into the fluorescents. There’s a fabric line shaped like a squiggly e pressed into his cheek. Static lifts a few stray strands of murky hair straight towards the ceiling.
“Do you start all conversations like this?” his new companion says.
Claude makes a noncommittal noise. “Sometimes. Only when the other person has a building named after them.”
His seatmate seems to ponder this for a moment, turning the words over in his head. The Squint deepens for a split before softening down to benign placidity.
“Fair enough.”
Claude breathes again. “I try to be.”
A pause. Whatever Claude’s said or done, it earns him a sleepy half-smile. He also makes the discovery that his seatmate’s eyes are, in fact, quite a deep shade of blue, almost black around the edges. Like a bruise.
“I’m Linhardt.”
There’s a limp pullover sleeve extended out to him. As anyone might do with a modicum of logic and manners, Claude grabs the loose fabric and gives it a shake.
“Claude.”
“Von Riegan?”
“Yep,” he answers. Not even a wince this time. Take that. “One and only.”
“Hm.” Linhardt blinks at him. “You know, the auditorium has your name on it.”
“You don’t say?” Claude shakes his head in disbelief. Because even though he did know their swanky new auditorium bore his maternal maiden name doesn’t mean he’s not still shocked every time he’s given a reminder. “Huh.”
“Right? You’d think they’d take our feelings into account, at least.”
Claude can’t help but laugh, just a little bit. Swept up in it all. “Exactly. At least could’ve asked for my help with picking out the carpet.”
“Mm. I like you.” The o sound morphs into a yawn. Linhardt’s eyes fall shut. “Wake me up in fifty-five minutes?”
Claude considers the ramifications of this for a second before asking: “Isn’t that when class ends?”
“Yep.” Linhardt gives a small, serene smile before nestling into the fold of his arms on the desk. “Goodnight.”
And without further ado, the bell rings, and Claude’s first day at the Garreg Mach Preparatory School for Exceptional Individuals begins.