Chapter Text
The silence in the chapel is not out of respect.
It’s boredom, and it’s tiredness, and, in some, it’s a little bit of fear. Punz can see it in everyone around him: the dullness in the eyes that he’s grown so used to seeing during Sunday Mass, as his classmates and peers let themselves drift, practically sleeping with their eyes open. Fidgeting during Mass has never been tolerated by their teachers; even yawning during the sermon will be caught by the Headmaster’s sharp gaze. Punz learnt that in his first year at boarding school and, without realising he does it, he flexes his hand. One of the scars across his knuckles from the Headmaster’s cane shine in the light from the window he sits under.
They kneel for penance and, at his side, Punz’s brother bows his head contritely. “C’est ennuyeux,” he whispers in complaint, and Punz struggles to hide his smirk in his prayer book. His brother is right: this is boring.
“Trente minutes,” he murmurs, and Purpled sighs softly. Punz can’t blame him for not being interested in the Mass. Usually, they both would find it peaceful, able to sit in silence and enjoy the peace that’s impossible to obtain outside of lessons. Yet, when it’s the first day of the school year and the chapel is crammed with students and their parents, the chaplain will often ramble about one thing or another, lost in a tangent that rarely has anything to do with his sermon.
It’s Punz’s seventh year of boarding school, and Purpled’s sixth. They know the score by now.
Behind them, one of the teachers leans forward in his pew, patting them both on the shoulder. Neither brother turns back, not willing to risk a punishment for talking during Mass. “Your mother was unable to make it, boys?”
Punz relaxes immediately. Mr. Archers had been his teacher two years previous, and Purpled’s the year after; although strict in the classroom, the Latin master was always cordial to them anywhere else. “No, Sir,” he whispers back, turning his head just slightly. “Maman was called away to Marseille on short notice. She sends her regards, Sir, she regrets your conversation last semester being so short.”
Archers is married, Punz knows this, so the way the old teacher preens at the mention of their mother makes Purpled cough quietly into his hymn book to muffle his snicker.
“A lovely lady, your mother is. Please pass on my well wishes whenever you write next,” Archers replies, before sitting back in his seat when the Headmaster’s keen eyes snap to them.
They get away without punishment, it seems, when the Mass ends and the chaplain bids them ite, missa est. Their response ripples over the congregation like a wave: Deo gratias.
Purpled laughs softly as they leave the church and head towards the dormitory building, “Je suis d’accord, grâce à Dieu,” and Punz swats at him in response as they walk.
“Behave for once,” he teases, his tongue returning to English when he sees that their schoolmates are running ahead towards their dorms. He and his brother tend to save their mother’s language for occasions when there are people around to listen to their conversations or they’re about to say something for which they may get in trouble. “I think it was a lovely sermon.”
His brother snorts, “Sure. I bet you heard so much of it, mon cher frère. You were dead behind the eyes since before penance.”
Punz doesn’t dignify his words with a response, instead reaching up to loosen his tie and undo the top button of his shirt, rubbing at where his starched collar has chafed his neck. “What floor is your dormitory on? Did you tell me?”
“Second floor, west wing,” Purpled tells him, clicking his tongue in an unimpressed way that reminds Punz wholly of their mother.
He shakes his head, disappointed. “Of course. I’m in the east wing, the fourth floor, I think. Every year, they put us a little further apart,” he complains, looking over at his brother, who is shrugging out of his blazer, down to his shirtsleeves.
“Still not far away enough,” Purpled pretends to shake his head regretfully. Punz swats at him again, but the younger of the two is already ducking under his hand.
A few steps ahead of them, a young man is standing still, picking at his nails. He’s taller than either brother, but blond like them, and he’s wearing his uniform rather than his Sunday best like the rest of their schoolmates. Without meaning to, Punz makes eye contact with him, and the unfamiliar student lights up. “Oh! Sorry, I’m lost, can you tell me the way to the dormitories?”
His accent is strong, the familiar American roll that Punz remembers from his own childhood. At his side, Purpled folds his arms, looking inexplicably unimpressed, and mutters, “Dis-lui qu’on ne parle pas anglais.”
Punz looks at him, aghast. Tell him that we don’t speak English.
The only response he gets is a shrug and a petulant, “Ce serait drôle.”
“Ce ne serait pas drôle!” he hisses, practically between his teeth, before he turns his attention back to the strange student, who is shifting in place, looking uncertain. “I apologise. We’re just heading there now, we can show you the way.”
The other student nods quickly, and Punz assumes that his apology is accepted. “Thank you, I really appreciate it. I’m not even sure what room I’m in, honestly. Could you, uhm…?”
Punz smiles knowingly as they walk, continuing towards the dormitory building. The hand that was in the pocket of his slacks moves into the space between them as he makes a beckoning motion. “Let me look at your sheet.”
He reaches into the inner pocket of his blazer, fishing out the paper and pressing it into Punz’s palm. It’s been folded and unfolded several times, it appears, the creases close to tearing even though their information sheets had only been posted the week before. Punz rubs one thumb over the typewritten words, letting out a soft hum. “Okay, see, it says that your dormitory is 4E12. That means the fourth floor of the east wing, 4E, you understand? And you’re in room twelve. I think that’s across the hall from me, actually, I’ve been put in room ten.”
The student lets out a sigh, clearly relieved. “It seems so easy when you explain it like that,” he admits, a little bashful. He has freckles along his nose and cheeks; they stand out a little more when colour rises to the surface of his tan skin. “Thank you, really.”
Punz smiles, looking down at the information sheet as he folds it up again. He catches the student’s name in the top-left corner and, as he holds the sheet back out, he smiles, “It’s not a problem, Clay.”
Clay looks suddenly startled before he takes the paper with a laugh and pushes it back into his pocket. “My friends call me Dream, if you’d like.”
He inclines his head, agreeable. “Okay,” he says, a soft laugh lighting up the syllables. “Everyone, friend or not, calls me Punz.”
They both reach out at the same time, clasping hands and shaking. Dream’s hand is warm and strong in a friendly way, even if his rough fingers dwarf Punz’s own, thinner and paler. Delicate, he thinks, a little bitter, before shoving that word away.
Purpled crowds into his space as they’re walking. His brother thrusts his own hand out just as their handshake comes to a natural end, and Dream shakes it without hesitation, smiling brightly. “It’s nice to meet you too, uh…?”
“Purpled,” he replies. It may not be apparent to a stranger, but Punz can hear the underlying unfriendliness in his brother’s tone. “That’s what everyone calls me, same as Punz.”
“Pleased to meet you, Purpled,” Dream repeats, and it only confirms that he hasn’t picked up on the slight chill in Purpled’s words, because his smile turns into a grin, and Punz notices he has dimples in both of his cheeks. “You two must be brothers? You look so similar.”
“Oh, let’s not,” Purpled scoffs, and the derision leaks through his voice more obviously now. “We don’t look alike.”
Dream is ignorant to Purpled’s rudeness, whether by nature or by chance. “You do! It’s your eyes, surely, they’re the exact same.”
His brother scoffs again and, finally, Punz has to hiss, “Pouvez-vous être poli?”
Purpled sniffs, disdainful, and turns his head away. “D’accord.”
“I’m- I’m sorry, I don’t speak a word of French,” Dream admits, with a chuckle that holds an air of awkwardness.
“I was just asking my little brother to be polite,” Punz manages, battling every urge to grind his teeth, fighting to keep any annoyance out of his tone.
Dream looks surprised by this admission. “Oh, it’s- it’s completely fine, honestly. I have two younger siblings myself, a brother and a sister, so I’m used to- well, it’s alright anyways!”
Punz manages a smile. “Thank you. Here, this is the dormitory building,” he says, changing tack as he gestures towards the building before them. He remembers his first year of school, aged only eleven and clinging to his mother’s arm, pleading with her not to leave him alone in this huge building. It’s made up of five floors, built tall with dark brick, a grand set of double doors that permits the constant flow of students and parents, in and out with cases and boxes. He remembers having to drag his own case up the stairs in his first year, when he was placed on the third floor, because Purpled had fallen asleep in their mother’s arms; he was only ten, after all, and - back then - he was so small, before puberty struck and he shot up to tower over their mother.
“I greatly appreciate your help,” Dream sighs, “both of you. I would still be standing around lost with everyone running past me if you two hadn’t stopped!”
“Please, we were heading the same way,” Punz shrugs, and casts a glance around the swarm of students and parents bustling between cars and the dormitory building. “Your parents didn’t come with you, I take it?”
Dream shakes his head, “No, my father is out of the country for business until tomorrow. He doesn’t really like aeroplanes, so he wasn’t exactly eager to fly to England with me. And my mother had to take care of my younger siblings, so I came alone.”
He gestures for them to head indoors and speaks as they walk. “I see. In that case, I can show you the storage room where you can pick up your belongings; I mean, I presume your parents shipped them over?”
“Yes,” Dream agrees, nodding as he follows, close to Punz’s elbow. “Are you picking up your luggage too?”
Punz hums his own confirmation, “Yes, Purpled and I came alone this year, Maman had a prior arrangement.”
The entry hall of the dormitory building is nothing special, if you ask Punz. There are a few paintings on the walls, aged but presumably expensive, that have been the same artwork displayed since his first year. Two staircases on either side of the hall stretch upwards, reminding Punz to explain to Dream which staircase he should take to get to his dormitory wing, and between the stairs sits the caretaker’s office. Punz used to be terrified of the caretaker, who would wheeze and shuffle from floor to floor on his nightly rounds, always warning mischievous students of his arrival so they could hide in bed to avoid being caught; when he was caught smoking in fifth year, leaning precariously out his window before one of his final exams, the caretaker had winked at him from the ground below, and Punz had avoided any punishment.
The caretaker is standing outside his office, stone faced as he supervises the students who are collecting their belongings, yet he smiles toothily when the brothers approach. “Back for another year, boy?” he rasps out, extending a hand for Punz to shake.
“Yes, Sir, my final year,” Punz says, quickly shaking the old man’s hand.
The caretaker soon turns his hand to Purpled, who copies the brief handshake. “You keep your brother out of trouble, son,” he orders knowingly. Punz smiles despite the words; since his first year, the elderly man has always called him boy and, when his brother started the year after him, Purpled was always called son. “It would be a shame for him to be expelled with only one year left.”
Purpled responds with a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes, and Punz’s own grin drops. He doesn’t understand the mask that Purpled seems to be wearing, nor can he see behind it. “It’s impossible to keep him out of trouble, Sir, you know that.”
The old man guffaws, “I certainly do. Now, boy, I never forget a face and I haven’t seen you before.”
Dream lights up as he leans past Punz to shake the caretaker’s hand. “Clay, Sir, it’s my first year here.”
“You look a bit tall for a first year,” the old man chuckles, but waves them towards the storage room. “Go on, get out of my hair. Even if you fancy getting yourself into mischief, boy, don’t go dragging your new friend down with you.”
Punz laughs as they pass the caretaker, calling over his shoulder as Purpled pushes open the storage room door. “No promises, Sir!”
They find their luggage quickly enough, once Punz tells Dream that belongings are sorted by their last names. The brothers’ cases are beside each other and Punz reaches out to take both, to carry Purpled’s luggage upstairs for him as he does every year, even when they’re in opposite wings. However, Purpled yanks his case off the shelf with a thud and he’s already turning away as he throws his satchel over his shoulder, storming out of the room without a word of goodbye.
“What-” he finds himself murmuring as he stands baffled by his brother’s behaviour since they left Mass.
Dream approaches from one of the other rows of shelves, a suitcase in one hand and a rucksack slung over his shoulders. “Is he okay?” he asks, casting a worried look over his shoulder.
“Yes, yes, he’s fine,” Punz hurries to say, pulling his own satchel over his head and adjusting the leather strap against his chest. “He just wanted to unpack, he’s… tired. A long day of travelling.”
He doesn’t know if Dream believes him or not, as he doesn’t dare to look up and meet the other student’s eyes, instead pretending to fiddle with the latch on his case. However, Dream hums as if in understanding and says, “Of course, I can imagine. You probably want to unpack as well?”
He’s grateful for the easy out, the chance to leave the awkwardness of the conversation behind. “Yes, definitely,” he agrees, managing a laugh. “Come on, follow me.”
The trek upstairs on the first day of term is always a pain; it’s probably Punz’s least favourite part of moving into a new dorm. There are always people pushing and shoving, or a student who runs past them downstairs with no consideration for the people trying to get upstairs. A dark-haired boy barrels past them and sends Punz’s case to the ground when he loses grip on the handle in favour of bracing himself against the bannister.
“Fucking watch it, David!” Punz snaps suddenly, irritation rising out of nowhere. He shared a room with the other student last year; he liked to make a mess and steal Punz’s cigarettes, but he would return the favour every few weeks when he’d leave a bottle of alcohol under Punz’s pillow, and he regrets shouting at him the second the words have passed his lips.
“Sorry,” the boy mutters, and bolts to the floor below them to disappear down a corridor.
Punz sighs and bends to pick up his case, yet Dream has already grasped the handle and adjusted it in his free hand.
“I’ve got it,” Dream says with a genuine smile, cheeks dipping into dimples as he gestures with a jerk of his chin. “Go on, lead the way.”
He’s too surprised to argue and manages to make it all of two steps before he turns and thrusts his hand into the space between them, clenching his jaw in determination. “I can carry it.”
“Are you sure? I’m happy to bring it upstairs for you- I won’t drop it, if that’s what worries you.”
“I said I can carry it, give me my damn case,” he demands, barely keeping the venom out of his voice. He isn’t delicate, he isn’t weak, he isn’t a fucking girl who needs a man to carry her case. “Now, please.”
Dream looks shocked by his harsh tone. It’s understandable when the short time they’ve known each other has been only friendliness and offers of help. And it’s terrible, but Punz relishes it. He isn’t a girl. He isn’t anything but a boy, a man, with a spiteful tongue. And he can carry his own fucking case.
The case is passed into Punz’s waiting grasp and he turns to continue upstairs, cheeks flushed. He regrets the thick atmosphere, the awkward silence, but not enough to regret raising his voice to Dream. He needed to make a point, and he succeeded. The methods used hardly matter.
When they make it to their floor, Punz quietly points out the common room. There’s one on each floor in both wings, east and west, and Punz has always enjoyed spending time with his classmates in the shared space. They don’t stop to enter the common room yet, instead pushing on in cautious silence to where their rooms are.
The door to room ten is already propped open, already lively with chatter. When he glances into his room, he can’t help but smile at the two brunet boys lounging on the beds.
“One of you is in my bed, so move it,” he crows through the open door; his friends light up with excitement as soon as they hear his voice.
“Punz, bonjour!” the taller one, Wilbur, attempts to say, though his accent butchers the language.
Yet he laughs, rather than feign offence. Part of him thinks, a little regretfully, that Purpled would have acted indignant over Wilbur’s terrible French accent. “Salut, Wil. Hey, George. Did you guys have a nice summer?”
“I spent most of it working for Father,” George rolls his eyes, and Punz’s lips lift in a smirk. “Come in, bring your friend and close the door.”
Punz looks over his shoulder at Dream; the conflicted, confused expression that had twisted his features after Punz had raised his voice at him has finally faded, but there is still a residual hesitation in his smile. Punz gestures over the threshold with a slight smile, “Please, come in. If you’d like to, of course.”
“Alright,” he says softly, passing by Punz to stand in the small bedroom.
He closes the door behind him as Dream, George and Wilbur introduce themselves to each other and exchange friendly handshakes. Finally, Wilbur takes a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. One is placed between his lips and the pack is passed to George, who takes one and pushes the carton into Punz’s hand. He takes two without a word - Wilbur doesn’t protest regardless - tucking one into the shirt pocket over his chest as the other is balanced between his lips, and offers the pack to Dream.
“Oh, uh. Thank you, but I don’t smoke,” he declines, one hand raised.
Wilbur scoffs a laugh, “Good luck getting through the semester in that case,” but he doesn’t attempt to pressure him into taking a cigarette.
“Open that window, Wil,” George orders as he takes the first drag, smoke curling around his clipped accent, “before this place starts to stink.”
“Fuck the window, the courtyard is full of parents,” Punz rolls his eyes as he speaks around his cigarette, holding it in the corner of his mouth as he throws his satchel onto one bed. “Someone will snitch and the first day is a bit early for the Headmaster’s office, no?”
Wilbur exhales a long stream of smoke into the air in front of him. “He has a point, George. At least you don’t have to sleep here.”
“What room are you in?” Punz asks, leaning over Wilbur’s long legs to tap the end of his cigarette over the ashtray that one of them has placed on the windowsill. He inhales from his cigarette again, a long drag that finally starts to work on the stress that today has plagued him with. He can feel the smoke filling his lungs; it’s strangely warm. As he exhales, the smoke drifts towards Dream and, instinctively, Punz waves his hand absently through the greyness so it doesn’t reach Dream’s face.
He sounds a little hoarse when he mutters, “Thanks.”
Punz pretends not to hear him as George flaps a hand in the direction of the door, saying, “Right across the hall. Room twelve.”
“Oh, that’s the one I’m in too,” Dream speaks up, offering a friendly smile in George’s direction.
The other boy returns the smile, clearly pleased by this information. “That’s a relief, I half expected to be stuck with another tosser this year - but you seem alright.”
Wilbur is looking at George while he speaks, and George is more focused on his cigarette; it seems Punz is the only one who notices, because he is the only one looking at Dream. He notices the way Dream’s expression changes into something hesitant, something unsure, and then it’s hidden slightly, like Dream has covered his emotions with a sloppy mask, an act that doesn’t play the part well enough. Punz tries to imagine the reason that Dream is so conflicted; all he can come up with are his harsh words on the stairs, as if the boy on the receiving end may be thinking, how alright can I be when I can’t be trusted to carry a case upstairs?
This time, Punz doesn’t relish the result of his actions, he feels no triumph for his scornful tongue or venomous words. This time, Punz feels guilty.
Wilbur stubs out his cigarette as he chatters on about his mother, but the only person who seems to be listening is George. Dream is staring at his feet, and Punz is staring at Dream, at the crease between his eyebrows and his teeth chewing at his bottom lip.
“Do you want to go and unpack? George and Wil can talk for hours about rubbish - if you like, we could take a walk before lunch is called? I could show you the sports grounds and then the dining hall,” he offers, leaning a little closer to Dream so he can lower his voice, yet not close enough that he would be bothered by the smoke drifting from the tip of his cigarette.
Dream smiles at him the way he had smiled before Punz snapped at him, and he smiles back at the taller student like it comes naturally. “That sounds nice, I’d like to see more of the grounds,” he agrees, and looks down at the fine watch on his wrist, glinting and expensive. “It shouldn’t take me too long to unpack. Does a half hour sound okay?”
“A half hour it is,” Punz beams. Dream turns for the door, bidding goodbye to George and Wilbur, and he pipes up again before the other student can close the door behind him. “And change out of your damned uniform! It’s Sunday!”
He tunes out George and Wilbur’s conversation, letting it fade to background noise as he starts to remove the piles of clothes that his mother had carefully packed for him. At the foot of his bed sits a chest of drawers that he starts to organise his clothes into, occasionally letting out a hum if either of his friends say his name or ask a question and he has to let them know that he’s listening. He finds a cardigan at the bottom of his case that he knows doesn’t belong to him, and he shakes his head slightly. Every year without fail, their mother always manages to put something in the wrong case.
Punz is almost willing to just leave it in his room, to let Wilbur know that it’s Purpled’s so that, when his brother comes to deliver whatever belongings of Punz’s got mixed into his case, his friend will pass it along for him. Then Punz remembers the tension his brother carried since they left Mass, the sarcastic comments and derisive tone, and the way he suddenly stormed out of the storage room. Maybe Purpled doesn’t want to see him, maybe he’s angry at Punz, so he might not bother coming around to Punz’s room.
That thought is all he needs to kick his case under his bed and grip the cardigan in one hand, raising the other in a wave to his friends. “I’m going to Purpled’s room. Save us seats at lunch, won’t you?”
“Who is ‘us’?” George calls back. “You and Dream? Or will the mini-you grace us with his presence?”
Punz just flaps a hand distractedly, “I don’t know yet, I’ll let you know.” And then he’s gone, closing the bedroom door behind him and hurrying down the corridor towards the staircase once more.
He’s careful not to bump into anyone in the busy hallway, occasionally smiling at a classmate or friend if he passes them, but he doesn’t waste time stopping to speak to them, instead politely saying he has to return something to his brother and he might see them in the common room tonight. The way that the dormitory building is laid out is a pain; one staircase goes to the east wing and the other goes to the west wing, meaning that Punz has to jog down to the ground floor, pass the caretaker’s office with a courteous smile, and head up the other set of stairs to the west wing’s second floor.
There are a few people on the corridor when he gets there, but none of them are Purpled. A few doors down, he catches sight of someone who looks familiar and he calls out quickly, “Hey, Levi!”
Levi turns, visibly confused until he meets Punz’s eyes. Then, he breaks out in a wide smile and takes a few steps towards him. “Punz, hi! I was actually just wondering where you were, you’re always in Purpled’s room with his cases on the first day.”
He grins at the other student; Levi is Purpled’s age, they had become friends in their first year and had been inseparable ever since, even as far as Purpled dragging Levi to Paris to spend a month of the summer holidays with them until he went home to the States. “Yeah, he headed up alone this year, I’m just bringing him this,” he explains, holding up the cardigan, “Maman put it in my case by accident. I don’t know what room Purpled is in, though, just that he’s on this floor?”
Levi gestures over his shoulder, “Room five! We’re roommates this year!”
“That’s great!” Punz enthuses, and he finds that he’s entirely genuine. He likes Levi, they get along well; in the years since he and Purpled became friends, Punz has looked on Levi like another little brother. “I’m on the fourth floor of the east wing, in room ten. If you need anything, I’ll probably be there, alright?” he asks, his free hand moving up to pat Levi’s shoulder as he passes him.
“You got it, Punz!” the dark haired boy calls after him, and continues down the corridor towards the staircase.
At the door to room five, Punz raises his hand to rap his knuckles against the door. “Purpled, c’est moi,” he says when a few seconds pass with no response.
After he speaks, the door finally swings open. Purpled looks slightly distressed, his hair more ruffled than it usually is, but he steps back to let Punz enter. “Did Maman put my cardigan in your case, I can’t-” he begins, and exhales heavily in relief when Punz holds it up, “find it anywhere. Every year.”
“Every year,” he echoes with an amused smile, handing the folded fabric over to the younger. His brother seems to be in better spirits now; Punz is already regretting bringing it up, but his mouth runs before he can even consider what to say. “I came to apologise.”
“Apologise?” Purpled repeats, looking over his shoulder as he places the cardigan in a drawer. “Pourquoi?” He sounds truly confused, unsure of what Punz might be here for, what might need to be forgiven.
Punz sighs and leans against the wall, reaching into his shirt pocket for the cigarette he had taken from Wilbur. Holding it up, he asks, “Do you mind?”
Purpled shakes his head, digging into the pockets of his slacks for a lighter, which he offers wordlessly. There are a few seconds of silence as Punz lights his cigarette and returns the lighter, before Purpled finally speaks up, “Give me a drag, if you’re going to smoke in my room.”
Punz obediently passes the cigarette over to his brother, who takes a seat on the edge of his bed, and he exhales a stream of smoke before finally speaking. “You seemed… really agitated after Mass. When we met Dream,” he begins, and watches as Purpled’s expression closes up. He inhales from the cigarette silently and finally holds it out to Punz again, yet doesn’t move to speak. The older one continues, “The more I thought about it, I figured it must be something I said. I honestly don’t know what I said to upset you, but I am really sorry.”
“You didn’t say anything,” Purpled sighs, and it sounds like it’s an admission of a kind. Punz gestures for him to carry on as he takes a long drag of his cigarette and, hesitantly, Purpled obeys. “It… It wasn’t you. Not at all. It was Dream - I don’t like him.”
Confused, Punz pauses, holding his smoke for a second before exhaling. He looks around for an ashtray before flicking the ash onto the floor, ignoring Purpled’s indignant expression. “Alright. Can you tell me why you dislike him? We only just met him today.”
His younger brother shakes his head; Punz can see his frustration growing. Finally, he hisses, “Il te regardait drôlement.” He can feel his features twisting into something disbelieving and he quickly tries to regain his neutral expression, but it’s already too late. Purpled is standing, taking an aggravated step closer, “Te ne me crois pas.”
“I do, I do believe you!” Punz rushes to say, hurriedly holding up his hands appeasingly. “Que veux-tu dire? He was looking at me funny? I don’t understand.”
Purpled looks conflicted, chewing at his lower lip as he turns away, hovering by his bed. He keeps his back to Punz when he mutters, “Like he wanted something from you. Like the way boys look at girls.”
And Punz feels like he might fucking throw up. Suddenly, his brain decides that it all makes sense. The way Dream lit up the first time he saw them, when countless other boys had passed him already. The way he suggested they leave the storage room quickly so Punz could unpack, as if he must be tired from travelling if his brother was. The way he tried to carry Punz’s case upstairs and looked shocked when Punz demanded otherwise. He’s been taking testosterone pills for five years now, he has finally gotten his mother’s permission to start injecting himself instead, now that the injections have been popularised in the last few years. His hair has been short since he was a child, his voice has deepened like his brother’s, he can grow facial hair as well as anyone else his age. For his sixteenth birthday, his mother had written a check for an under-the-table appointment with a doctor she had grown up with, who had agreed to a mastectomy under the guise of breast cancer, which ran in his father’s side of the family. In the end, the doctor had even been able to push for his birth certificate to be changed, facilitating his new name and amending the assigned gender so he was officially male on his documents.
He doesn’t look like a girl, he doesn’t sound like a girl. He doesn’t even act like one. He’s perfected the art of rowdy camaraderie, of playfully insulting his friends, of roaring like a lion during arguments in a way that only men can. He gets in his friend’s faces and shoves them around, using his superior height over most of them in the worst moments of their quarrels, and spits snakelike venom at them when things get more physical. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, or a man who cannot bear to be seen as anything close to feminine. He isn’t anything but a boy, a man, with a spiteful tongue, and the thought of being seen as a girl makes him ill.
The cigarette has burned down to the filter and, distantly, Punz realises that it’s singeing his fingers. Purpled has moved to his side and carefully plucks the cigarette from his hand. Two long strides to the window; he throws the remains through the gap and returns to stand beside the older. He’s still shellshocked, he still feels like he might throw up the light breakfast he had hours previous. He wonders if his father felt like this, from the few whispers he’d overheard between his parents after his father had returned from the war.
“Punz,” Purpled murmurs, hesitantly reaching out so his hand hovers over his shoulder. “You’re as white as a sheet, please sit down before you pass out.”
He shakes his head. “No,” he manages. He has to spit the word out and a wave of nausea follows. “No, I’m- I’m fine. Je vais bien.”
Purpled does touch him now, hand settling on his shoulder anxiously. “You don’t look well.”
“I’m going back to my room,” he mutters, swallowing thickly as he pushes his brother’s hand away. “I want to sleep. I will- I’ll see you when lunch is called. I can save a seat for you.”
The younger stares at him in concern for a few seconds before ducking his head in a nod. “D’accord,” he agrees softly, “Save one for Levi too, he’s excited to see you.”
Punz doesn’t bother telling his brother that he’s already seen their friend in passing, that he stopped to speak with him before he returned Purpled’s cardigan. He, in fact, doesn’t say another word as he turns to open the bedroom door and realises that his hand is shaking.
Purpled’s hand settles on his upper back briefly and he says quietly, “Tout va bien.” Punz manages to make a noise of agreement and his brother sighs softly, sounding relieved. “Okay. Salut.”
“Salut,” he mumbles halfheartedly. Their mother’s language can’t bring the same comfort to him that it usually does; his brother’s soft spoken French can’t help the way he trembles or the way the scars on his chest burn with discomfort. What has it all been for? Has he been kidding himself all this time?
He wanders along the corridor in a daze. His own Maman could walk past him and say hello, the ghost of his late father could embrace him in the middle of the staircase, and he doesn’t think he would even have the presence of mind to react. He feels numb. He feels empty. He feels stupid, utterly fucking naive, that he wouldn’t notice someone’s strange behaviour until his little brother, his mini-me, pointed it out to him. That he was too busy realising that Dream had dimples in both cheeks and freckles on his nose to acknowledge that the other student was treating him like he’s a girl.
He descends the west wing stairs and climbs the east wing stairs as if in a trace. At last, he reaches the fourth floor. He feels completely exhausted by the events of the morning yet a burst of adrenaline sparks him back into life when he sees Dream already standing outside his bedroom. The taller student has changed out of his uniform, now dressed in an expensive-looking pair of jeans and a dark green knitted sweater.
He’s dressed well, Punz thinks bitterly, he dressed well to go on a fucking walk.
And just like that he’s furious again.
“Hello again,” Dream grins, oblivious to Punz’s sudden wave of anger. “Your roommate, it’s Wilbur, right? He said you had gone to your brother’s room. Is he feeling any better?”
“My brother is fine,” he snaps, and Dream’s expression drops immediately. “Now go away, please.”
The other boy hesitates and takes an uncertain step backwards towards his own room. “Did you argue with him or something? Is everything okay?”
“Everything is magnificent,” he spits out, storming past Dream to shove his bedroom door open. He can see George and Wilbur talking by the window, sharing a cigarette, and they look over when they hear his enraged tone. “Now fuck off.”
Dream’s face twists in confusion and he steps forward quickly to hold the bedroom door open, preventing Punz from slamming it in his face. “Have I upset you in some way? I thought we were going to go for a walk and now you’re furious at me.”
“Move your damn hand before I break your fingers in the doorframe,” Punz hisses. He is angry and he is rude, he is not a soft spoken girl. He is a boy and he is cruel. Dream’s hand moves from the door, horrified. “I don’t want to ever speak to you again,” he grinds out for good measure, and slams the door shut.
His friends are silent as he yanks off his tie and kicks his shoes off before he drops onto his bed, lying on his side and breathing heavily.
George is the first to speak up, sounding alarmed. “I thought you were going to punch him.”
“You fucking should have,” Wilbur interjects. His voice matches the residual anger in Punz’s chest. “I’ll do it for you, Punz, if you want. My disciplinary record is still clean, I won’t get expelled.”
“Don’t,” he mutters. It comes out as a rasp, his words trembling as he wraps his arms around his torso. “It’s fine, Wil. Not worth it - thank you, though, for the offer.”
Seconds pass in silence before George pipes up again, hesitant now, “I have to room with him. Should I put in for a room transfer?”
Punz sighs - it feels like the rest of his fury is exhaled out of his lungs with the action. “I don’t care, George,” he says. He can hear the exhaustion in his own voice. “You’ll probably get put with another terrible roommate like last year. I don’t care if you room with him or you’re his friend- in fact, you have my blessing. I just don’t want to ever be around him.”
“Be his friend?” Wilbur echoes, and lets out a sharp, mean laugh. “George, I love you to pieces, brother, but if you befriend that asshole after whatever he did to our friend, you’re dead to me.”
George scoffs derisively, “Of course I don’t want to be his fucking friend. I have some self-respect, Wil, cheers.”
Quiet falls over the room again and Punz closes his eyes. He just wants to sleep, so he won’t have to think about this day but, right as he feels calm enough to drift off, Wilbur murmurs, “Do you want a cigarette, Punz?”
He rolls onto his back, blinking up at the white ceiling, and eventually hums. “Yeah. Would love one.”
They sit together and smoke in silence for an hour, at which point George excuses himself to go and unpack. He isn’t religious - very few of them are - and he has always been vocal in his complaints about wearing his Sunday best, so he ducks out of the room to get changed after patting both Wilbur and Punz on the arm in farewell. He and Wilbur work their way through the rest of the packet of cigarettes, almost entirely in comfortable silence, save for a few moments when Wilbur will speak up with a question about classes or exams.
The brunet is animatedly telling him about the record player that his parents had gifted him for his birthday and poking fun at them for calling it a gramophone, when the bell in the corridor shrills sharply, calling them to lunch.
“Do you feel up to the dining hall?” Wilbur asks as he stands, stubbing out what must be his seventh cigarette since Punz returned to the room. The ashtray is almost full between both of their efforts. “If you don’t want to go, I could say you’re sick and bring a tray back to the room.”
Punz shakes his head, pushing his feet into his shoes with a quiet sigh. “It’s alright, Wil, you don’t need to do that. You know what, I think being outside our room for a little while will be nice; I’m starting to get a headache from all the smoke.”
Wilbur laughs loudly as they open the door to leave their room and claps Punz so firmly on the back that he stumbles forward slightly under the force of it, and he lets out a surprised laugh despite his miserable temper. The bedroom door across from them opens as George exits the room, smiling at them both, and Punz catches sight of Dream silently following him out of their bedroom. He looks like a lost puppy, dejected and upset, and Punz tears his eyes away before he can even begin to feel sympathetic.
Wilbur and George naturally carry the conversation as they leave the dormitory building, heading towards the dining hall that sits across the lawn from the dorms. They join the constant flow of students walking inside and Punz starts to feel himself relax, surrounded by the continual bubble of chatter from their peers around them. They find a table with enough spaces for them all to sit together with relative ease; as they’re all seventh years, it isn’t a difficult task to stare at a younger student until they would scurry off to another table.
The two spots they save, both beside Punz, are filled quickly; Purpled and Levi can easily pick their voices out over the ruckus of the dining hall and quickly slide into their seats, immediately joining in the rowdy conversation. In the same way that Levi has become another younger brother to Punz, George and Wilbur have become older brothers to both of the younger boys. Even though there is only a year between them, the three seventh years take a little too much joy from babying, and often playfully bullying, the two sixth years.
Ham salad is served for lunch, with a plate of bread and butter on each table and large jugs of water and milk, but they don’t dare to touch any of it until the Headmaster leads them through saying grace. They quickly resume their conversation, digging into their meals as George leans across the table for the jug of milk.
“Punz, pour some water for us, won’t you?” he requests, stretching over the table to fill Purpled and Levi’s glasses with milk.
“Yes, Maman,” he murmurs obediently, earning a snort of laughter from Purpled that sends milk spilling over his chin.
Purpled complains louder than he intended to as he wipes his chin with his sleeve, “For God’s sake, Punz!”
One of the teachers passing by snaps his fingers, drawing everyone at the table’s attention with a jolt. He’s staring at Purpled, looking aggravated, and the younger brother baulks under the harsh glare. “My classroom after lunch, boy.”
Purpled ducks his head and mumbles, “Yes, Sir.”
“Look at me while you’re speaking!” the teacher bellows. Students from the surrounding tables turn to observe the scene that’s occurring and Punz has to clench his jaw to keep himself silent as Purpled looks up, cheeks red with embarrassment.
“Yes, Sir, I’m sorry,” he repeats, enunciating his words more clearly this time and, satisfied, the teacher moves on.
Levi pats Purpled on the back sympathetically and says, “Don’t mind Matthews. He takes any opportunity to shout at a student, he’s an asshole.”
With a frown, Punz turns his attention to George. “Matthews was your geography master last year, wasn’t he?” he questions, and his friend nods in response, pursing his lips. “What does he use?”
“Usually just a ruler,” he murmurs, clearly trying to prevent Purpled from hearing their discussion about what the teacher uses for punishments. “He won’t cane someone for something like that, it’s okay.”
Punz nods slightly, looking down at his plate. He hasn’t taken a single bite yet, but he feels like he has no appetite now. He knows from personal experience how common punishments are from their teachers; he used to have his knuckles slapped with a ruler almost daily for daydreaming in class or a sharp piece of chalk thrown at him from the blackboard if he fidgeted too much, and he was sent to the Headmaster’s office at least once a month to be caned for attitude or rule-breaking. He is unfortunately very well acquainted with the punishments at the hands of his teachers, yet the thought of his brother being on the receiving end of the pain he’s so used to makes him feel revolted.
He knows that Purpled has been through it before. He remembers all too well an evening when he was in third year; Purpled was only twelve and one of the maths masters had taken him out of Mass for yawning and beat his knuckles with a ruler. Purpled hadn’t returned to Mass after that. Punz had looked for him for hours before finally returning to his dorm room and found his roommate Sam standing guard outside, waiting with his arms protectively over his chest after he had found Purpled sobbing in Punz’s bed.
Punz has always believed that Purpled is more embarrassed by the punishments than he is hurt or in pain. It’s humiliating to be reprimanded in class in front of all of your friends, or dragged out of Mass in front of your schoolmates and the chaplain, or shouted at for anyone to see in the middle of the dining hall.
Under the table, George nudges him with his shoe. “You need to eat, Punz,” he whispers.
Despite the quietness of George’s words, Purpled overhears regardless and a smile breaks over his face. None of the light reaches his eyes and the humiliated flush is still present on his cheeks. “Exactly, eat your salad. You’re acting like it’s the rations again.”
Punz’s laugh is forced and empty, but he manages to pick up his fork and take a mouthful. “Don’t be dramatic. Nothing was as bad as that - I still have nightmares about the bread and coffee Maman had for breakfast.”
“That was while you lived in Paris, right?” Levi asks, leaning forward over the table so he can see both Purpled and Punz’s faces.
Punz nods, raising his fork to his mouth again. “Yes, I was born there, that was in March. Father was in the Army so Maman and I left Paris to go to the south of France where it was safer. Father hadn’t even met me yet but he managed to visit for two days when I was… probably about seven months old, I think. I’m glad I remember very little from Paris when I was young.”
“It was terrifying,” Purpled murmurs. He so rarely speaks about memories of growing up during the war, and Punz looks at him in surprise. Purpled hurries to say, “I mean, I don’t remember much. When was the uprising, ‘44? I hadn’t even turned three by that point. But I remember the noise and the planes. That’s really it.”
Punz purses his lips and ducks his head in agreement. His brother has always been terrified of flying, even crying when he was younger if an aeroplane passed overhead. Punz understands now, where his brother’s fear of aeroplanes has come from, but he had never questioned it before. Even travelling for school, he has never questioned their preference to take the night ferry, which takes eleven hours in comparison to the two hours that an aeroplane would take. He had never thought to question why they chose the option that took so much longer. He hopes he’d never complained about it to Purpled.
The atmosphere at the table is sombre now, as everyone quietly picks at their salad. Levi is the first to finish and he stands with a bright smile at each of the other boys. “I have to go and speak to a teacher before lessons start tomorrow,” he explains, “but maybe I’ll see the rest of you later tonight? Purpled and I can break into your common room!”
Wilbur shakes his head in amusement, “Seventh years only! You keep your grubby sixth year germs out of our sacred common room!”
His words manage to wring a laugh from around the table, and Levi’s affronted expression makes them chuckle all the harder. “Well, I see where our friendship stands now,” he mutters, turning his nose up in faux offence. “Oh, is that one of your friends? He’s staring at us.”
Immediately, all four heads turn on a swivel to where Levi is looking. The sixth year scowls and mutters, “That’s completely inconspicuous, that is,” before leaving the dining hall.
Dream is sitting alone, a few tables away, but very clearly watching Punz with that hurt dullness in his eyes, still so obvious even with the distance between them. Punz is sure his brother and best friends are glaring venom at the new student, but Dream doesn’t cower under their harsh eyes and, from across the dining hall, mouths the words, ‘I’m sorry.’
Punz jerks to his feet and storms out of the dining hall in tears.