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Chapter Text

The mind-numbing pop music on Radio V hissing out of the school gym’s speakers is interrupted only by the clank!-clank!-clank! of iron against iron as Billy Butcher heaves and drops a hefty load of weight at the bench press machine. His muscles flex with practised ease, and he’s barely broken a sweat. Independent Gym is about the only course he’s guaranteed to show up to – and certainly the only one he’s good at. This is his first year at Vought Central High School, and only his (fifth? sixth? seventh?) seventh month in the US.

Transferred from the UK in disgrace for “behavioural issues” that simply couldn’t be strongly-worded, lectured or – in his father’s case – beaten out of him, Butcher can’t understand how he’s expected to turn into a model student in what is, in his mind, the most lawless, backwards country in the world. Even his Aunt Judy, who he’s been assigned to the care of, is a damned soft touch. At least roast dinners aren’t too far away, even in this godforsaken nation. It’s nice to be a whole continent away from his father’s fists, too, though his shadow lingers. 

These damn Yank teachers can tell him he has a “problem with authority” all they want. The fact of the matter is – of the two only people who have any real, legal authority over him – one has beaten him and his brother bloody since before they could walk; and the other just fucking watched.

No, Billy Butcher doesn’t have a “problem with authority”. Authority is the problem. He only hopes to hell that somehow, some way, his scrap of a little brother Lenny will snap, start acting out, and get transferred over here with him. No matter than Lenny’s a golden child, a rule follower, if “a bit quiet and isolated”, so say his teachers. Butcher needs Lenny to go fucking buck wild enough to get sent to America with him. That way, once Lenny’s safe from his old man, maybe his shadow will leave Butcher, too.

For now, all Butcher has is Aunt Judy – and the ragtag bunch of misfits he’s fallen in with. It’s only the third day of school and, already, Butcher’s had detention every evening. So, though, have the three freaks he’s managed to corral around him. They’re fine enough: they listen to him, they think he’s cool and tough and (apart from that mute one) they’re okay banter, too.

Next to him, doing leg extensions at the max weight, is MM. Marvin Milk is his full name, but that’s poncy as shit, and Butcher wouldn’t be caught dead talking to someone called Marvin. MM’s an alright bloke, probably the best of the lot, and he’s a senior just like Butcher. He’s strong as hell, too, especially for just 18, and he’s the Co-Captain of the Boxing Club. It must give Butcher a little prestige to be associated with him, right? 

He’s a little… off, though. MM’s got these weird, obsessive habits: always squirting hand gel all over his palms, up his wrists, as far up his arms as his shirt allows him. But he’s smart, methodical – and he’s one of the Math tutors this year, which means Butcher can guilt him for all the answers during his mandatory tutoring after school. He’s already had one tutoring session – scheduled after his first day of school, to boot. Butcher guesses the teachers are scrambling to get him to pass, though, because he’s 19 and has just started senior year, having been held back twice. 

Butcher isn’t too worried about any of that. Truth be told, he’s waiting for the education system to give up on him so he can fuck off and join the army or some shit. Shoot some cunts. Proper exciting shit. No luck, though. Not until the Yanks get sick of him, too. Butcher has a gnawing fear that, after that, they might just send him off to another country, then another, then another, and he’ll be stuck doing Algebra II until he dies.

They might even send him to France next, Butcher thinks with a shudder. Then he’d be forced to take that French junior that hangs around with them as a translator. His name is Serge Vidal, but it’s easier – and more fitting – to just call him Frenchie. He’s a few benches down, though he’s making little use of his Independent Gym period. He’s smudged in chalk dust somehow, although Butcher doubts he’s been lifting anything, holding a pink water bottle with faded flower decals, leaning against the wall and looking lovesick. 

He’s looking, of course, at his girlfriend, absolutely flat-out in a sprint on the treadmills. Kimiko Miyashiro, also a junior, though at 16, she’s a few months younger than Frenchie. She’s a hell of an athlete, though. It’s a wonder why she hasn’t joined any clubs after school, but she’s a bit of a lone wolf. She only hangs around with Butcher and MM because Frenchie does, stalking after the group in silence. 

Butcher isn’t 100% sure that she’s actually mute at all. Sure, she has a whole course slot taken up with Speech and Language Support sessions, essentially giving her credit for doing fuck-all, but he isn’t convinced it isn’t all a convenient act for being really antisocial. At any rate, she doesn’t really try to communicate: those little laminated cards given to her that say “Sad”, “Happy”, “Yes”, “No”, “Help please” never see the light of day. Instead, she lurks at the edge of their circle, having what seems to be telepathic conversations with Frenchie, looking into his eyes and darting away, widening her eyes, blinking hard, and then Frenchie will reply. 

She has some sort of rudimentary gestural language, but it isn’t ASL – or even whatever sign language they use over in Japan. Frenchie’s learning it, somehow. Whenever he’s mad at the rest of the group – or just wants to flirt with Kimiko – he signs to her, and she laughs. It pisses Butcher off something rotten. How would he know if they were talking shit about him, right in front of his face? 

Right now, at least, Frenchie’s just making puppy eyes at her as she runs full-pelt. It still turns Butcher’s stomach. 

There are a few others in the gym, but none of them who Butcher knows. It’s a relatively small group: most students are athletically-inclined enough to pick a sport for their PE credit – or, at least, sociable enough to have a group of friends to play basketball with, or something. You’re only in Independent Gym if you: A) hate people, or B) fucking suck at all things physical. 

One of the lads in the gym is clearly, painfully clearly, of group B. A junior, Butcher thinks; he’s seen him come out of Kimiko and Frenchie’s 11th grade English class. Distinctive kid, but stands out for all the wrong reasons. First, he’s about eleven feet tall. Well, maybe not, he’s probably just about Butcher’s height, really, but he just seems so long. He’s all limbs: stickman limbs flopping from his skull, and nothing much else. He’s got a wild mop of curly hair on top of that pencil-straight body, which just makes him look like one of those inflatable dancing tubes outside of a car dealership. He looks like he’d weigh less than six stone soaking wet – and half of that’d be all wild hair and huge, blue bug-eyes.

Yes, Butcher’s certain he’s seen him before. You couldn’t exactly mistake him for anyone else. Henry, his name is. Or was it Harry? H-something, anyway. It isn’t really the name that sticks in your mind, by any means. It’s the sheer fucking hopelessness of the kid. 

He isn’t even helping himself, for God’s sake! At least if he got himself on the treadmill, did a slow little walk for the whole session, he’d have a shot at looking halfway normal. But no, the lad’s decided he’s going to give weight-lifting a shot. He’s a tall kid, but it wouldn’t surprise Butcher if he was the lightest in the room. He’s got a white-knuckled, shaky grip on a barbell stacked with – what’s that? 25KG? – and he looks about stooped enough to topple right over. 

Christ. Well, at least the kid had the good sense to pick this, instead of football or some shit. Jesus, they’d eat him alive out there. Probably squash him.

It isn’t ideal, though, that the kid’s huffing and puffing – and wheezing, every so often – right next to Butcher as he’s trying to get a good pump on. Butcher can handle it about three more wheezes before he drops the bench press with a slam!

“Oi,” He grunts. The lad doesn’t seem to hear him over his own suffering, or maybe he can’t imagine anyone’s choosing to talk to him. Hell, what was his name? “Oi,” he says again, and takes a stab in the dark at– “Hughie!”

The kid flinches and drops the bar. The plate only misses his toes by an inch. “Y-yeah?” He whimpers, like Butcher’s about to fucking deck him right here, for breathing a little loud.

“Can you pipe it down over there, lad?” Butcher tuts. “I’m trying to listen to Radio V’s finest slop this afternoon, alright? Don’t need to hear you huffin’ an’ puffin’ and knocking down the Three Little Pig’s houses.”

It’s a bit of banter. A bit rude, maybe, but he’s a lad. It’s a bit of healthy gym talk.

But the kid – Hughie – turns bright red, and starts stammering, “sorry, I’m sorry, I–”. Butcher swears to fucking God, if this kid cries, he will actually sock him in the face. He just turns around though, shielding his burning face from Butcher, and pretends to tie his shoe.

MM extricates himself from his machine. “Real nice, Butcher.”

“Fuck’d I do?” Butcher scoffs. “Bitta fun, ‘s all. Kid needs to man up.”

“He’s just a junior, man. Lay off.”

“Pssh, what’s a year?”

“A year? Nothing.” MM pokes him in the chest. “But you’re 19, and you should know better. Kid must be 16, maybe 17.” MM shakes his head and walks away to the rowing machine. As he goes he tuts, “Messin’ with kids…”

Butcher huffs. He doesn’t get what all that fucking fuss was about. It’s not like he went up, kicked the kid in the nuts and called him a fag, is it? 

(Matter of fact, that was Hughie he saw yesterday in the halls, wasn’t it? Being kicked in the nuts and called a fag? Huh. Small world.)

By the next week, Butcher’s forgotten that the kid from gym even exists. He’s made it through the rest of Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and already the first day of this week with one detention scheduled for the end of every single day. Go figure. The only thing that gets him out of Monday’s detentions is his goddamn mandatory algebra tutoring – and even then, it’s a toss-up between where he’d rather be.

The only saving grace is that MM is his peer tutor. They’ve become something like friends since their group came together on the first day’s detention: Butcher in for swearing (which he’s pretty sure is a hate crime against the British); MM for fighting when his anger issues got too much; Frenchie for getting caught smoking; Kimiko for… actually, she might have just been hanging out for Frenchie. But even MM can’t save Butcher from Algebra II.

He’s “resitting” it, whatever that means when he never “sat” it in the first place: it’s his first fucking stint in a Yank school. He’s pretty sure it’s just meant to patronise him, or something. Either way, it means MM, well on track with the usual 12th grade program of Pre-Calc, gets the joy of tutoring Butcher on the 11th grade material. It should be simple: MM sits next to him, explains Xs and Ys like a SeaWorld trainer trying to tell a dolphin it needs to jump – no, jump – no, jump. Butcher sits there nodding, writes nothing, and eventually waits for MM to get irritated and just pencil in the numbers for him. It’s a flawless system.

Or, it was, until Ms. Baker, the Algebra II teacher, calls MM over before their Monday session.

MM returns a minute later with a look on his face that falls somewhere between apologetic and “I told you so”.

“They’re switching your peer tutor,” MM says with a shrug. “You gotta go to M-5 next door.”

“The fuck?” Butcher scoffs. “What for? I’ve been doing great work.”

MM raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, a little too great. Ms. Baker got suspicious, so. New tutor.”

Butcher curses, slams the table, and incurs a harsh glare from Ms. Baker. He wrenches his bag up off the floor, tosses his pencil in, crumples his worksheets somewhere into the abyss, and stomps over to room M-5 without even closing his bag. A few sheets of paper fall out into the hallway. MM follows him, if only to make sure he’s actually going to his tutoring instead of escaping the school, and picks up the stray papers on the way.

Butcher barges into the room, takes one look, and turns back. He slams right into MM’s chest.

“Butcher–” MM sighs.

“Fuck no.”

“You gotta–”

“Fuck no!”

Standing just in front of the desk with another math teacher, Mr. Hodgson, is that tall, awkward string bean from Independent Gym. The same kid that nearly burst into tears when Butcher spoke to him. With a Star Wars hoodie that’s massively too wide for him, a collection of textbooks held close to his chest like he’s protecting himself from being shot, and an expression like he’s just been dropped into the lion’s den – is Hughie.

“Him?” Butcher barks, incredulous. “He’s a junior! We’re studying the same fucking course!”

MM shakes his head with a grim expression, like he knows what he’s about to say will only incense Butcher further. “He’s in my Pre-Calc. He skipped a year.” He winces, then adds, “He’s good.”

“Fuck that.” Butcher tries to shove past MM but, hell, he’s not Boxing Co-Captain for nothing. He’s a wall of muscle that won’t let Butcher out into the hall.

He holds out the sheets of paper that fell from Butcher’s bag, stony-faced. “I don’t got a choice in this, man.” He shrugs. “You keep makin’ me give you the answers.”

Butcher rolls his eyes. “You narced on me.”

“I didn’t narc on shit. But when you start getting 100s on your work, I mean, come on. It’s a little bit obvious.” MM pats him twice on the shoulder. “Good luck, man. For real.” Then, as he turns back to room M-4, he whispers, “Be nice to him.”

Butcher kicks his backpack into the room and leans against the door as it closes, arms crossed. Hughie approaches from the front of the room with the laboured dread of a man approaching the gallows. Mr. Hodgson points to one of the desks, already set up with pencils, rulers and erasers, like he’s assigning a cell to Butcher. Or to Hughie. Both of them, perhaps.

Butcher sprawls into a chair with an overly-dramatic sigh, chin high, staring Hughie down. He doesn’t say a word. Hughie sits down beside him slowly, like Butcher might bite, and quietly sets the textbooks onto the desk. He opens it to the spread that corresponds with Butcher’s crumpled worksheets. Stares at it. Then at Butcher. Then back at the book. 

With both boys seated, Mr. Hodgson leaves the room for a while. No doubt he’ll pop back in every ten minutes or so to make sure they haven’t killed one another, like Ms. Baker does, but they’re essentially alone. Hughie visibly pales.

“S-so, um…” Hughie squeaks like he’s just hit puberty. He continues in a strange, wobbly voice, trying for professional and landing squarely on terrified. “We’re supposed to work through the first five questions together, and then see if you can do the next five–”

“Pass,” Butcher grunts.

“…Pass?”

Butcher taps a finger on the worksheets in front of him. “I ain’t doing it.”

“Oh.” Hughie swallows. “Well, y’know, I’m supposed to… I mean, I don’t wanna get in trouble if– if Mr. Hodgson comes back and I’m not… y’know, doing math.”

Butcher snorts. “Then do some math.”

Hughie pauses. And then the kid just… starts doing his own homework. Right next to him. And, well, Butcher was kinda shooting for getting the lad to do his work but, honestly, as long as he gets to sit around doing fuck-all, he’s alright with that.

But then he starts muttering.

“Okay, so, this is, like, not the same as yours, but it’s pretty similar, and I don’t wanna write on yours in case I get in trouble for plagiarism, so…” Hughie tilts his own worksheet so Butcher can see it. He pretends not to watch, but there’s precious little else to look at in here, so he follows the nonsense scribbles the kid makes. “Right, so, this is the quadratic formula, same as in your stuff, so it’s not that much different… So, we put ‘A’ here, ‘B’ here, and this is ‘C’. And then you can fill in…”

It all fades away after a little while, which Butcher is grateful for. But then, little by little, it fades back in – because the kid’s fucking ridiculous. 

Hughie, apparently, feels the need to narrate his entire thought process to survive. Like a hamster wheel, the words must keep pushing onwards to power the action. So he whispers his mistakes to himself, huffs in frustration, chastises himself, then works his way through the logic to the correct way to answer the question, step by step, simply.

And it’s funny. Not in a mean way – just genuinely, stupidly, accidentally funny.

And– Butcher stares at the kid’s worksheet as he goes, accidentally explaining – in the simplest, most common-sense terms – why this is how it works.

And no one’s ever explained to Butcher why math works. Well, technically, nobody is explaining it: he’s just overhearing the whizzing thoughts of a kid doing his homework from a brain that makes sense to Butcher.

Wait. Wait, shit – this is making sense.

Fuck, no. Don’t fucking encourage him. He’ll probably wet himself if he thinks Butcher actually gives a shit about math. Butcher keeps his posture rigid, expression bored to death, and jaw clenched tight so he doesn’t accidentally smirk when the lad trips over his own thoughts.

Hughie glances up once, sees that Butcher is looking, and panics; rambles faster.

“A-anyway, um, that’s just how I do it– It’s not technically right, um, you should probably just do it, like, how the book tells you, um… And, sorry, I talk to myself– when I’m thinking– I know it’s kind of stupid? People think it’s annoying– sorry, I can try to shut up, if it’s bothering you–”

“Christ,” Butcher mutters, “you ever breathe, mate?”

Hughie shuts his mouth instantly. There’s the quiet, yet unmistakeable, intake of breath, shaky, as if Hughie really had forgotten to breathe all this time.

Then, very quietly: 

“…Sorry.”

Hughie makes a visible, conscious effort to shut his mouth after that one word.

And Butcher, entirely against his will, almost smiles. 

Not quite! Christ, not quite. But almost.

The rest of the week passes in a blur of mind-numbing classes (when he shows up), smoke breaks behind the bike shed with Frenchie (when he doesn’t), and detentions (seemingly whether he shows up or not). Thankfully, Mondays are his only tutoring days so, save for Wednesday gym sessions in which he ignores the lad, Butcher sees no more of Hughie. By Friday, Butcher’s second week at Vought Central is nearly over – and he’s no better of a student, no more trusting of authority, and no closer to finding the school’s meatloaf palatable. Most lunches, he dumps his tray in MM’s lap, and bums a cigarette from Frenchie as a meal replacement. That’s about the extent of his personal development in school thus far.

He has a detention this evening, though. Obviously. And it runs long. Of course. Long enough that, when it lets out, it’s at about the same time that Hughie and his fellow nerds are bouncing out of their Friday CompSci Club, chattering in the hall until there’s absolutely no more to say about The Phantom Menace, and splitting off to their lockers; to the bathroom; to the exit to go home. Hughie makes his way down the corridor to his locker, wanting to drop off a few books he doesn’t need weighing his bag down, and pick up his Physics textbook to get a head-start on Monday’s class.

As he gets close, though, Hughie looks up too late to avoid it.

John Vogelbaum is leaning against the block of lockers – the block of lockers right where Hughie’s sits – talking obnoxiously on the phone, like he owns the place.

Which, socially speaking; academically speaking; athletically speaking, he does.

Hughie’s stomach drops through the floor. He’s about the lowest of the low on the school’s food chain. He’s lower than the janitors – at least they get a few “Good mornings” from particularly friendly students. He has no social leverage over John Vogelbaum: star pupil; all-rounder Football Captain, Basketball Captain, Boxing Captain and Track Captain; School President; most wanted for every college around, all offering up scholarships and bursaries to try to coax him onto their side. 

Somehow, though, for some reason, perhaps just a sick sadism, more than his 4.0 GPA, his iron fist over the school, his string of admirers, what John seems to love best is making Hughie’s life a misery.

“Campbell,” John says, hissing the name through his pearly-white teeth like it’ll stain them otherwise. “Got a second?”

Hughie freezes. His throat locks. “I– um– yeah? I just– my locker’s– D-did I– Did I do something–?”

John props himself up from the lockers, hands in his letterman jacket pockets. The smile he flashes is all teeth, but no warmth. Even his blond hair, when backlit by the school LEDs, looks ice-cold.

“Yes you did, my friend,” He says, dangerously calm. “Yes you did.”

“Uh– I’m–I’m sorry. For, uh, whatever I did–?”

“I want you to explain something to me,” John cuts him off. “You see, I was walking down the hallway this morning, let’s say 10:30, and I saw the strangest thing…” He lets the pause tick away, watching the pulse rabbit in Hughie’s neck. 

“Y-yeah?”

“Yes, Campbell, I did. I saw you, in Pre-Calculus, and then I saw Maggie Shaw. I’m sure you know where I’m going with this.”

Maggie Shaw was John’s girlfriend last year. They were something of a power couple around school: the golden boy and the only girl who matched him. Maggie – incredibly bright, Cheer Captain, and drop-dead gorgeous with her red hair and tall, muscular physique – was the only match for John Vogelbaum. In the summer, though, for unknown reasons, the two split up. And – based on how John postures about how much she “wants him back”, how she’s a “slut” – it’s obvious that she dumped him.

“Sh-she’s my seat partner, so we–”

“Oh, I know, she couldn’t help being sat next to some loser, of course,” John glosses over that. “My problem is, I saw you talking to her. Giggling.”

Hughie’s mouth opens and shuts. “I– Well, it’s– I was just being polite–”

John steps closer. “And that gives you the right to talk to her?”

Hughie goes rigid. He can see his heartbeat in his fucking eyes. “I wasn’t– it wasn’t like–”

John scoffs. “Oh my God, re-lax. You think I’m jealous of you?” John full-body laughs, a loud, chesty guffaw, like it’s the funniest thing. “You really think I’m going all alpha dominance over some…” –his icy blue gaze cuts Hughie up and down, clinical– “gay coding-club virgin?”

Hughie’s face burns. He says nothing/

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” John purrs. “This is just a warning. You wouldn’t know about women, so let me educate you.” His hand slams into the wall just by Hughie’s head. He flinches hard. “Girls like Maggie – they’re sweet, but they’re not too bright. They get confused, they get talking to losers like you and they feel… maternal, let’s say. They think you’re safe. ‘Not like other guys’, hm?” The mocking twist of his lips makes what lunch Hughie still has in his stomach curdle. “But you stay in your lane. Don’t come near her, ever again.”

Hughie shrinks back as much as he can, but his back’s already flat against the wall. “I– I didnt– I wasn’t trying to–” Hughie’s breath starts to shake. His throat closes, the words tangling and tripping over each other. He tries to explain but all he can think is don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

“Oh my God, are you actually gonna cry?” John laughs. “Oh, man, I gotta get a video of this!” He’s fumbling in his jeans pockets, swiping up on his phone screen–

–And then:

“Oi.”

The single syllable cracks through the air like a shot.

Both boys turn.

Butcher stands at the end of the hall, backpack slung over one shoulder, a few strands of slicked-back hair hanging in his face from his hands running through it. He’s clearly fresh out of detention and doesn’t fucking need this right now – but the sight stopped him.

John towering over Hughie, cruelty on his lips, stance commanding fear; Hughie shaking like a kicked rabbit, whimpering and trying to make himself smaller, small like a young child, like maybe he could be–

Something in Butcher’s chest had tightened at the sight. Reflexive. Familiar. Unwanted.

When John scoffs, rolls his eyes, and shrugs Butcher off like he expects him to do nothing, like every other lily-livered fucker in this damn school, it flips like a switch. Back to home, back to coming back after school to hear the screaming upstairs, back to–

He doesn’t have time to think about it.

Butcher gets up, right up into John’s space, and shoves him out of Hughie’s way. Maybe because he wasn’t expecting it, because he thought no one would dare, it takes John by surprise. He stumbles back a step or two, then turns on Butcher. The look in his eyes is murderous.

“Shouldn’t make a habit of having young boys against the wall in public, mind,” Butcher hums, nodding at Hughie, who’s slowly slinking further and further down the hallway, trying not to be seen fleeing. Butcher adds in a whisper: “People might get the wrong idea.”

John moves first. 

It’s fast – too fast for Hughie to gasp, and too fast for Butcher to dodge, drained as he is from a mind-numbing hour’s detention. A fist snaps up, and Butcher barely sees it before he hears it:

CRACK!

Butcher’s head whips sideways. Blood sprays from his nose across the wall. By some sheer force of spite, he staggers back a half-step, but doesn’t fall to the floor. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. It comes back hot, streaked in blood. The pain hasn’t registered yet: it feels more like a stuffy nose.

Butcher smiles, teeth tinged red. “That all you got?”

John’s smile drops for a second – just a second – but it drops. Something impossible exists in that second: John Vogelbaum, uncertain. Recalculating. Out of depth.

Then the football coach’s voice echoes down the hallway. “Vogelbaum! Practice! Now!”

John lets out a sharp breath. Clicks his fingers at Hughie. “This isn’t over.” Then at Butcher. “But this… oh, this is just beginning,” He purrs with a sinister smile.

“Glad to hear it,” Butcher deadpans.

Then John walks off, casual and unconcerned – because he doesn’t fear consequences. Consequences don’t exist for a guy like him. Even though Butcher is standing there with blood dripping down his chin, staining his shirt; even though the security camera is right there, blinking at them, having captured it all, nothing will happen.

And the football coach, just at the end of the hall, gets a good look at the scarlet blood pouring from Butcher’s nose… and walks away.

The moment John’s out of sight, sauntering down the hall without a care in the world–

Hughie turns and bolts.

Full on sprints. And the kid’s no athlete, that’s for sure, but he’s certainly a slippery runner. Out of necessity, perhaps, he weaves and skids through corridors like he’s under attack because, certainly during the school day, he usually is.

But Butcher doesn’t know that. 

So he blinks, caught off guard, and then – feeling like maybe he’s missed a trick – runs after him.

“Oi– hold up, lad,” Butcher calls ahead, catching up just as the kid darts around a corner. “The fuck–? Where’re you runnin’ off to?”

There’s a metallic thud as Hughie no doubt crashes into a set of lockers careening around a corridor. It stops him for a moment, when he glances over his shoulder, sees Butcher chasing him, and scrambles. He slides on the linoleum, shoes squeaking, and darts off again.

Butcher’s boot hits the same patch of flooring less than a second later.

“Oh for– what are you running for?” Butcher barks.

“Don’t hit me, don’t hit me, don’thitme, don’thitme–” Hughie’s half-singing, voice all high-pitched and warbly in panic.

“I ain’t gonna fuckin’ hit you, you daft– Will you stop–”

But when Butcher turns the next corner, Hughie’s gone. Butcher strains his ears, but he can hear no squeaking of Converse. Not even laboured, shaky breathing. He crouches against the wall and sighs. Pushes his hair back into place. Tuts.

“Fuckin’ kid,” He sighs. It isn’t – not entirely – bitter.

Then he gets up, sighs again, and leaves.

Back in that hallway where he’d stopped, though, is a cramped janitor’s closet. Amongst a few mops, brooms, and a cloying chemical tang, is Hughie. With a hand clamped over his mouth as he heaves in breaths, he listens for Butcher’s bootsteps. Hears them recede. Then disappear. He counts to one hundred after they fade into silence, and then removes his hand. Breathes.

Nobody comes to rip the door open and beat him up. He breathes again. And again. His pulse slowly begins to settle, but his mind doesn’t. There’s a whirlpool of confusion up there, even now the fear has subsided.

Because this doesn’t make sense, right? People like John torment him, and people like Butcher ignore him. People like Butcher definitely don’t step in. Definitely don’t take a fucking punch for him. Definitely don’t chase after him like– what? Like they care?

Hughie curls in on himself, slides down until he’s sitting precariously on a mop bucket, shaking with leftover adrenaline and hoping his makeshift seat won’t shatter under him. Hoping whatever the hell possessed Butcher to do that, for him, won’t shatter under him, either.

Everyone knows Billy Butcher is only here because he’s trouble, though the rumours vary on just what kind of trouble he is. Some say he killed someone, and it was here or prison; others say he’s an MI6 spy for the UK government; most just really don’t want to be seated next to him on the class chart.

So why, then, would the school’s resident authority-problem, permanent-detention delinquent protect… Hughie Campbell?

He doesn’t have an answer. Only the echo of that punch, the memory of the blood splatter on the wall, and the impossible knowledge that Billy Butcher stepped between him, and the boy no one defies.

Hughie stays hiding in the janitor’s closet long after he knows Butcher isn’t coming back.

Chapter Text

Thank God for the weekend. At least, now that Monday’s rolled around, bringing with it the looming certainty of math tutoring with Hughie, Butcher’s had two days to think strategy. From 9AM till 4PM, it’s business as usual: English Lit if he feels like it; Algebra II if he feels like it; US Gov & Econ if he feels like it… and so on for Bio, Study Hall and Wood Shop. Once that school bell rings at the end of the day, though, Butcher isn’t free. He never is. It’s either detention, or peer tutoring and, after Friday’s shitshow, Butcher thinks he’d rather just be shot in the head.

He saw Hughie this morning, if only by sheer bad luck. In the hallway in between Period 2 and 3, Butcher caught sight of a familiar mop of hair hovering above the crowd. Hughie looked in his direction as he passed and saw him – he must have – but didn’t look at him. Not exactly avoiding him, just too nervous, too Hughie, to risk eye contact. 

Butcher dreaded what that meant for their tutoring session.

Now, though, as Butcher barges through the door to M-5, late as usual, Hughie’s already flicking through the textbook, flannel shirt collar sticking up oddly out the back of his hoodie, and looks about as normal as he ever does. And when Butcher shuffles over to the table, not too fast, not too slow, Butcher can breathe again.

Because Hughie looks up. And he looks less terrified, at least, than he had on Friday.

Butcher grunts a greeting that is absolutely not a greeting, not in any language, and drops into his chair.

“Hey,” Hughie says, quiet, polite, and entirely genuine. He sits down in the chair next to Butcher like usual, then hesitates. “Um. Did your– uh. Did your nose… heal okay?”

Butcher scowls. “You takin’ my medical notes now?”

Hughie’s eyes widen and he looks away. “No, I just– I meant– just ‘cause– John hit you pretty hard so–”

Butcher raises a hand. “Don’t say his fuckin’ name. It’ll put me off my tea when I get home.”

Hughie nods slowly, and pulls some worksheets out. “Right. Sorry.”

And that should be the end of it. But then Hughie, gathering bravery (or maybe just barefaced audacity) from God knows where, inches one of Butcher’s worksheets from last week towards himself. His mouth twists, straightens, then twists, deciding if he should say anything. Then:

“Um… sorry…” he murmurs, scanning the teacher’s markings of the page. “You’ve got the right idea here, actually, but you… maybe… might have carried the negative wrong?”

Butcher waits for that usual irritation to burst within him, the instinctive snap – “What’s it to you?”. It doesn’t come. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe a blood clot from his nose has blocked off something crucial in his brain. Maybe he’s just bitterly resigned to having a tutor half his weight, two years his junior, and twice his intelligence.

Or maybe – it occurs to him with a horrifying jolt – he doesn’t actually mind.

He scrunches his nose up, peering at the question Hughie’s pointing to. “What’s wrong with it?”

Hughie’s head raises just slightly, expecting to have to go on explaining to fill the silence. Not expecting a response. Certainly not a prompt to continue. He taps the line with the eraser of his pencil, tracing the error as he speaks. Butcher would be listening (maybe), if it weren’t for how, with Butcher leaning to see and Hughie running his eraser up the paper, their hands are getting closer and closer and…

Brush.

Butcher jerks his hand away instinctively. Hughie freezes like he’s been stopped in time. Then his face goes beet red.

“Sorry!” He yelps, like he’s just shot Butcher in the leg.

“‘S fine!” Butcher snaps, for reasons he doesn’t understand. He sighs. “Just show me the bloody maths, would’ja?”

And Hughie does. Softly, carefully, talking fast when he runs away with himself, catching himself when he realises he’s rambling, not knowing that’s when the hows and whys of the math make the most sense to Butcher. Not knowing how their brains complement each other. Butcher pretends to be bored by it; that he isn’t following along; that the kid’s explanations aren’t actually lighting up a zone of recognition that 15 years of schooling hasn’t even come close to.

Butcher gets one question right completely on his own. Hughie lights up like someone’s just switched him on at the mains. He breaks into a grin so wide Butcher fears his jaw might fall off, and raises his hand for a high-five.

Butcher forces his expression into the nearest thing to a scowl, and keeps his hands firmly down. He absolutely does not smile. Not even a twitch.

And so it goes. Tuesday to Friday: whatever classes he can be fucked to go to, then detention. Saturday and Sunday: do fuck-all on the couch, then a nighttime walk so Terror can go take a shit in the neigbour’s yard. Monday: smoke with Frenchie round by the bike shelter, then tutoring with Hughie. Get a few questions right, if he’s awake enough. Watch Hughie whoop, all bright-eyed – and don’t react.

Before Butcher knows it, it’s nearly the middle of the semester. The grey, drizzly mornings have begun, followed by the smell of wet leaves and the pumpkin spice lattes the juniors carry around to every class. MM starts wearing these hideous sweaters, way too small for him, that must belong to his dad. Frenchie’s begun sporting an array of tartan scarves – Westwood’s lovechild with Paris, so he claims – and Kimiko dons a beret on rainy days. Butcher wears his leather trenchcoat, same as ever.

He trudges into Independent Gym one Wednesday and sloughs off his rain-soaked clothes to change into his workout gear. They’ll still be wet even after gym no matter what he does, so he just leaves his clothes in a rumped pile on the bench. He’s shirtless, barefoot, wearing nothing but gym shorts when Hughie walks in – late, flushed, soaking wet – and goes to pass between him and the wall.

Normally, Butcher would stand his ground. He wouldn’t waste even an inch’s shift in weight on some fuckass who can’t figure out how to move through a locker room, least of all a gangly junior who goes to Computer Science Club. 

But, as Hughie looks up, clocks, with a rapidfire blush shooting up his face, that he’s right in the space of Butcher’s bare chest, Butcher just… steps aside. 

Lets the kid pass. No contest.

MM, all-seeing as ever, raises an eyebrow. 

Butcher shrugs with a quizzical look, playing all, “What? He’s little? I’d crush him.”

MM keeps staring.

“Piss off,” He mutters. MM just snorts and goes on getting changed.

The actual gym session only makes things worse. It’s the kid’s fault, as usual. Butcher’s just trying to get a good shoulder session in, but he can’t help but see it. Hughie, still doggedly attempting weightlifting – just as doggedly, still can’t put the fucking plates on properly. He’s sort of fumbling with the barbell clips, trying to clip them on tight to the plate so they won’t wobble around like they usually do, and he looks fucking stupid. He keeps pinching his fingers – probably because they’re all like a foot long – and going “ow!”. 

It’s pathetic. Butcher has to put a stop to it.

“Hughie,” Butcher calls. Hughie looks up, and Butcher tuts at him, shaking his head. “Hold the other side, you daft cunt. You’ll have no fingernails left otherwise.”

“Oh–” Hughie says, testing out the other side. The clip slides into place. “Oh. Uh.” He blushes. “Thanks.”

Butcher wrinkles his nose. “Don’t be gay about it.”

MM hears that, too. His eyes narrow in calculating suspicion. 

The coming week brings small changes that shouldn’t matter – wouldn’t matter, certainly, to anyone else – but do to Hughie:

On Monday, Butcher rolls pieces of paper he’s shredding from his worksheet into little balls, waits for Hughie to go off on a tangent, and flicks one at him. And another, during his next ramble. And another. It’s ridiculous, and it’s childish, but it makes Hughie laugh every single time. And, every single time, when Hughie laughs, the corner of Butcher’s mouth twitches like it could – if he’d only let it – curl into a smile.

On Tuesday, Hughie’s eating lunch with his CompSci friends, but Butcher’s just a few tables over, picking at his canteen fare with an unimpressed look. He mutters something which definitely includes “fuck” (not that Hughie’s looking at his lips…) and pushes the tray away. 

And looks up. Locks eyes with Hughie. Who has definitely been staring.

Hughie flicks his eyes away as fast as he registers Butcher’s looking up, and pretends the school lasagna on his plate is the most interesting thing he’s ever laid eyes on. He hopes that, somehow, the burning-hot blush flooding his face and the panic in his eyes are invisible to Butcher. When he risks a glance over to Butcher’s table again, he’s talking to the French guy from Hughie’s English class. 

When Hughie looks away again, though, he swears he catches Butcher’s eyes flicking back over to him…

On Wednesday, he doesn’t get another up-close-and-personal experience with Butcher’s chest (which he really, really, doesn’t want, by the way), but he does get to watch Butcher squat twice Hughie’s body weight. He can see the muscles in Butcher’s thighs flex, twitch and relax all the way up to the hem of his shorts. From there, who knows? 

The Japanese girl, the one who never speaks, catches Hughie’s eye as she’s taking a swig from her water bottle. She tracks Hughie’s gaze to Butcher, and tracks it back. Hughie gulps. He’s certain he’s in real trouble now: she’s part of Butcher’s cohort and surely, if they hang around Butcher, they must all be tough. She steps closer to him. Hughie takes a step back.

All she does, though, is scrutinise him. Up and down, from his sweaty, curl-plastered forehead to his years-old, ratty sneakers. She makes a few, slow gestures, as simple as possible so he can understand:

“YOU. HIM.” She points between Hughie and Butcher. Then she starts counting on her fingers, makes a ‘plus’ sign with her fingers, and counts more numbers. She looks at Hughie expectantly, with a quizzical look on her face.

“I don’t…” Hughie fumbles for the words. “What, numbers?”

She nods. Points at him, then counts again. Okay, so that’s her sign for “NUMBERS”.

“Numbers… plus… numbers?” Hughie repeats what she’d mimed. “Oh, math? That means math?”

She nods again, and repeats her original phrase, expression questioning. “YOU. HIM. MATH?” 

It clicks. “Oh! Yes! Yeah, yeah, I tutor math. With Butcher.”

She nods once more, this time with a smile. One final nod, this one with her chin raised, like she’s settled something, and then she walks away, meeting back up with the Frenchman. She signs what Hughie can only imagine is a relay of whatever she’s just settled, but the gestures are much faster and more complex than they were with Hughie. The Frenchman looks over, narrows his eyes at Hughie, and nods at the Japanese girl. She nods back, signs some more, and then they separate to continue working out. As he passes, the Frenchman gives Hughie a polite little nod. Hughie, bewildered, can do nothing but nod back – and hope that isn’t some secret code for a drug deal.

On Friday, Hughie leaves CompSci Club fearing for his life a little less. Butcher isn’t around though; when he peeks through the window of the detention room – because of course he does – he’s still waiting to be let out. Still, Hughie breathes a little easier on the way to his locker and, sure enough, when he gets there, nobody is waiting for him.

The two of them have inside jokes now. Well, Hughie calls them inside jokes in his mind, at least. In Butcher’s mind, though, he calls them precisely fucking nothing because he isn’t thinking about this. No amount of “not thinking about it” stops, though, the fuzzy feeling Butcher feels in his chest whenever Hughie repeats, in the world’s worst accent, a particularly British British-ism that’s just come out of Butcher’s mouth. The first time Hughie, after taking about twenty little paper balls to the head, says “Piss off”, Butcher swears he could cry out of pride. He settles for the faintest twitch of the mouth.

The week after, there’s a new girl in Hughie’s Pre-Calc class. New in both senses: she’s new to the class, having just tested out of Algebra II early and placed into 12th grade maths as a junior – just like Hughie. She’s also still sort of “the new girl”. Even nearly at mid-semester, she seems newer than Butcher, although they both joined Vought Central at the start of the year. She’s as popular as if she’s been here forever, though.

Annie January, junior, and already eating Maggie Shaw’s dust. If people thought last year that Maggie was John Vogelbaum’s match – with her Cheer Captain status and her measly one advanced class – then Annie January must be his soulmate. Annie’s enrolled into 12th grade English Lit as well as Pre-Calc, and she’s already a rising star in the Cheerleading team. She’s one of the best on the Swim team, apparently a syrupy-sweet voice in the local church choir and – to add insult to injury for Maggie Shaw, it seems – leader of the school Volunteering Club.

In what was a surprise to absolutely no one, the clique of popular students snapped her up before her first week at Vought Central was up. They were ‘The Seven’ informally; a shorthand way to refer to the six students who everyone either wanted to date, wanted to be, or wanted to kill. Vought Central royalty. Formally, John Vogelbaum, born leader of all things dealt in perfection and excellence and Maggie Shaw, who resents her continued status, but cannot shake John’s apparent “territory” claim over her. 

The other seniors are Earving Carter, silent, mysterious and a formidable football star; Travis Nowak, known misogynist and frequenter of the freshman girls’ locker room – who goes unpunished due to his father’s position within the Board of Education. Reggie Franklin, a junior, also recently made the cut for his impressive track times, having won every race he’s competed in this academic year. He’s lined up for a scholarship to a few colleges already. 

Kevin Moskowitz is the seventh, also a junior, who’s as dumb as rocks and has absolutely nothing else about him except that he’s Swim Captain – purely because John doesn’t like swimming. There’s a rumour that it’s because he secretly bleaches his hair blond, and he’s terrified of the chlorine turning it green and exposing him.

Now, even with the eighth addition of stunning Annie January: the golden girl with the golden hair and golden heart, the group remains ‘The Seven’.

Hughie has never, ever had a good experience with The Seven. He’s had neutral experiences – like talking to Maggie in Pre-Calc and nearly getting knocked out by John for it – and no experiences with Travis or Earving, for example. Reggie, who was in his group for PE in sophomore year, has held tight to last year’s rumour that Hughie is gay, and was creeping on all the boys in the locker room. Most people have forgotten that rumour (though they keep their disdain for Hughie), but Reggie never has. He spits “fag” at him whenever he sees him, and threatens to kick him in the nuts if he suspects he’s “looking at him funny”. Sometimes, he actually does kick him in the nuts.

As for John, Hughie goes to bed most nights wondering if he’ll open his eyes in his torture dungeon or something.

Naturally, then, when Hughie asked to be moved seats after the “talking-to-Maggie” incident and found himself seated next to Annie January, he was certain he was done for. Surely, there must have been something more to this sunshine girl who writes out calculus in gold glittery gel pen and apologises when people bump into… her.

So, Hughie was terrified when she first spoke to him, because she’s close to John. Once he gets sick of Maggie, Annie will be John’s next pick, for sure. But he said “Hey” back when she said “Good morning”, and told her what chapter they were on. Sometimes, they’re paired up with their seat partners to discuss a particularly hard problem, and she’s actually… really brilliant. Really brilliant. When they swap books to mark each other’s work, she leaves smiley faces and stars in gold pen where he’s done something really tricky. Every time he gets a 10/10, she writes “Well done!” in curly cursive, and dots a smiley face in the middle of the ‘O’. 

Once, during a partner discussion they’d already finished with, they just started chatting. And she let it slip. Her voice was low and calm, but so level it was obvious she was masking fury as she whispered.

“I hate John– how he treats people, it’s like… I don’t know why anyone even likes him.” She sighed. “I only stick around The Seven ‘cause Maggie’s cool.”

Hughie nearly choked on his own tongue.

Since then, they’ve built a tentative friendship. Annie talks to him in class, asks how his tutoring sessions with “that scary senior guy” are going, and even laughs at his stupid jokes. She lets him borrow her pastel highlighters, and even gave him a blue glittery gel pen of his own to keep. 

She sits with Hughie and his CompSci nerds at lunchtime – inexplicable in and of itself – and, in doing so, snubs The Seven’s lunch invitations, every single day. They don’t let it show, they know she’s too well-liked, but they must be fucking livid. Annie doesn’t seem to care. In fact, she seems to relax around Hughie and the nerds. She says they’re more “normal”, which none of them have ever been called in their lives.

She’s genuinely kind, in a way Hughie’s still learning how to trust. 

And, God, she’s perceptive.

When she catches Hughie staring across the cafeteria for the third time one lunch – right at a certain leather-jacket wearing, permanently-scowling senior – she raises her eyebrows. Hughie blushes, and starts talking at random about a video game he’s been playing lately. It takes a few seconds for his voice to pitch back down to normal. Annie doesn’t push, but she smiles knowingly when Hughie finally meets her eyes again as he explains the game’s lore.

One Monday after morning Pre-Calc, she nudges him lightly as they pack their bags.

“So…” she whispers, “excited to see your maths tutee after school?”

Hughie nudges her back, but looks away to hide how he’s flushed pink. “Shut up,” He says. “We’re not… Shut up!”

Annie giggles and zips up her bag. “I never said you were anything,” She teases lightly as she leaves the room. Hughie’s so red he could be a road safety sign, but Annie never teases cruelly. Hughie appreciates that more than he can say.

The next day, something unprecedented happens.

Butcher doesn’t have detention.

He isn’t trying to skip an actual detention, nor is it some clerical oversight in the system; a teacher forgetting to put his name down on the Tuesday detention list. He really, miraculously has a full hour of freedom: a rare stretch from 3-4PM where he isn’t forced to sit in a room and glare at a whiteboard in silence until the shape of it is etched into his retinas. It’s a delicious luxury, one which can be celebrated only one way: by sneaking round to the back of the science block for a smoke.

He leans against the brick and hopes the bruise-grey rainclouds looming over will hold off on pissing it down at least until he’s finished his cig. The kids pouring out of the school gates are all half-hurrying, hoods up, just in case. Butcher watches the crowd stream out onto the street and split off into little packs of neighbourhood friends, laughing, shoving, brainless. He blows a plume of smoke in front of him, giving him a few seconds’ reprieve from watching the menagerie.

As the smoke clears, a familiar shape catches at the corner of his eye.

Hughie. Walking alone, hood up and hunched over as if he could make himself invisible.

And three juniors – obnoxious, trading looks and smirks like they’ve never had a good, hard punch to the face in their lives – are tailing him. Their footsteps fall too close to where Hughie’s leave the pavement, encroaching on him, making him grip tight to his backpack straps and walk a little faster – as fast as he can go without breaking into a run. They’re sniggering to each other about something. Then one of them “accidentally” kicks at the back of Hughie’s heel so he stumbles. Trips. Falls to the wet floor.

Butcher’s standing ramrod straight before Hughie even hits the ground, cigarette dropped by his feet, forgotten. He crushes it under his boot, swears, and steps out onto the street. 

He doesn’t think about why; just moves. Eats up the distance between himself and the three boys in long, furious strides. The boys are caught up in giggling at Hughie as he tries to collect himself and find his footing again – only for them to knock him back to the floor.

They’re so caught up, in fact, that they don’t even notice Butcher’s approach until he claps one of them on the shoulder. Hard. Hard enough the kid jolts out of his skin.

Butcher bares a grin that’s all fangs. “Alright, lads,” he says, “you mind fuckin’ off?” He presses the hand still holding the boy’s shoulder and squeezes, fingers digging right into the bone. He lowers his voice to whisper, “Gotta catch up with my mate here, you understand.”

The boy nods, wincing in pain, and his two cronies parrot wide-eyed stammers of “Yeah, yeah, sure”. 

They scatter like rats from a rabid dog. One of them nearly falls flat on his face himself in his scramble.

Hughie stands frozen where they left him, half-gripping the low brick wall next to him like he’s afraid he’s going to be knocked down again. His other hand clutches his bag straps in a white-knuckled grip, hands shaking, eyes wide. 

“Wh-what did I–? Did I– did I do something?” He stammers, shrinking back along the wall step by step.

“Eh?” Is all Butcher can say. What the fuck does the kid think he’s done wrong? He rolls his eyes and swears. Hughie flinches at it. “Oh, Christ, lad,” He mutters. “Relax, would’ja? I ain’t gonna deck ya.”

Hughie doesn’t relax even one muscle. Butcher sighs through his nose. Then he shoves his hands in his pockets, and jerks his chin down the direction of the street.

“C’mon then,” He says. “Get walkin’.”

Hughie does, if only in a trance of confusion and lingering fear. He keeps looking over his shoulder as they walk side by side, like Butcher’s arranged to have him jumped. Apart from the little nervous hums he makes as he does so, Hughie is silent.

“Well?” Butcher announces loudly. 

Hughie startles. “W-what?”

“Ain’tcha gonna talk my ear off like usual? If you’re fixin’ to walk in silence, I might as well put me bloody earbuds in.”

Hughie blinks. Then– “Oh! Uh– sorry! I mean, I didn’t– Um– well, like… You remember that game I was talking about last week? Well, I was playing this level last night with my online friends and this new patch – like an update, I guess – just totally nerfed the whole game, I swear, like, the devs hate us personally, and…”

And off he goes. Full ramble mode. He’s staring off down the street as he yammers on, gesticulating wildly, entirely lost in his lore dump. 

For just a second, only because he knows Hughie won’t notice, Butcher smiles.

They fall into a rhythm eventually: Hughie talking at a million miles an hour, pausing only to check if Butcher’s gotten bored of him; and Butcher, hands shoved in his pockets, listening. He doesn’t comment, but he doesn’t tease either. He just walks, and hums a non-committal response when Hughie pauses, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Hughie’s voice trails off in front of what must be his house after the shortest twenty minutes of Butcher’s life. He jingles his keys from his pocket – the ring loaded with about a million merch keychains – and dangles them in his hand awkwardly. He doesn’t go in yet.

“Um…” Hughie says quietly, grinding the ball of his foot into the pavement, “thanks. Y’know, for… you know.”

Butcher grunts. Shrugs. Grumbles a “Yeah.”

And then Butcher waits – actually waits – until Hughie gets his key in the front door, steps inside, and locks it behind him. 

Only then does he turn around and start walking his own way home.

Hughie sees him through the peephole: watches him kick a pebble down the street, turn, and make his way back in the exact direction they came from. Had he dropped something on the way? Is he lost somehow?

It isn’t until Butcher disappears around the corner and goes on walking that Hughie realises, with his heart thudding stupidly in his chest:

Butcher doesn’t even live down this way. Not anywhere near.

He just walked him home.