Chapter Text
"Did you hear the news, Jack?" Maurice said, trailing behind the red head in the straight line led by said red head.
"What news?" Jack said, lowly. Head boy meant you were supposed to follow the rules, not talk out of line. Jack, however, knew how to whisper. Unlike Maurice.
"The boy! The boy!" He jumped, almost tripping over his choir-robes as he stumbled back into line. "The nuns found this boy, right? Super beat up, bruised to high hell." Maurice started, tapping Jack's back. "And boy, he could barely talk! You see, Roger said that his hair was matted and that he spoke in tongues!"
Jack raised a brow, though Maurice couldn't see. The nuns never got boys. They got injured children, unwanted babies, or drunks. Never boys. Jack barked out a laugh. "Tongues? What does Roger know about speaking, let alone in tongues? Doesn't he have Delta in english?"
Maurice laughed as they turned the corner, his teeth on full display as he nodded. "But anyway, so the boy comes in speaking in tongues and panicking. Then, get this!" Maurice started, smirking. "He faints! He breathed so fast he fainted! Roger saw it! He did, ask him!"
Jack walked to the front of the two-level risers, eyeing Maurice. "I will after the sermon. Now shut it!" He bit as Maurice laughed, stumbling to the higher riser and starting his row.
They were early to the sermon to practice. Their choir director, Father Abrams, stood in front of the grouped up boys. He clapped, silencing the last of the chatter before raising his hand. "Grab your binders, turn to page 165. ‘Lully, Lulla Lullay’. Can anyone tell me what its title is in reference to?"
Jack looked around. The other boys looked to the ceiling, the floor, the giant stained glass window with a statue of Jesus. Yeah, pray you remember your Latin homework; Jack thought, as he raised his hand. Slowly, encase someone suddenly remembered and raised their hands giddily.
No one did, so Jack straightened his arm and grinned. "Yes, Merridew?" Jack lowered his arm. "Lul is an archaic, onomatopoeic term derived in latin." A pause, as he saw everyone stare at him in confusion. He rolled his eyes. "Like in the word lullaby." He heard everyone hum in acknowledgement.
"Correct. What is the song about?" Father Abrams asked, and the silence stretched over the room again. Jack sighed, raising his hand again. Faster, not waiting. "Merridew again? Anyone else?" Father Abrams nagged, as Robert laughed. "No, father!" He sputtered out from his giggles. Jack sighed as Father Abrams nodded to him.
"A loss of innocence by death. When King Herod’s ordered to slay all children due to the birth of Jesus Christ. It was known as the ‘Massacre of the Innocents’." Jack held his chin a bit higher as he heard a few claps. Maurice whistled as Father Abrams smiled. "Correct, Jack."
With that, Father Abrams backed up to the edge of the raised platform and slowly raised both his hands. Then, voices slowly erupted.
Jack started, of course.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The sermon was over, and Jack and Maurice wondered off to their dormitory building. Their robes trailed behind them.
Jack wasn't fully paying attention to what Maurice was saying as his steps slowed. "…which is what I'll write to convince my parents to give me pounds this winter holiday!" Maurice said as Jack scoffed.
"Your parents don't just give it to you? Must be quite a sad life you've got, Mauri!" Jack laughed as Maurice looked like he just sucked a lemon dry. "Oh, shut it, you dick!"
Before Jack could land a clean thwack on his back, Roger came running. He landed front the two, panting and laughing. "The boy!" He shouted, pointing to a growing group of both men and boys. Even some nuns. "The boy, he's here! C'mon!" Roger ran, racing past Jack. He felt the wind hit his cheek as Maurice lit up.
Maurice ran too as Jack stood, slightly perplexed. What was so important about a beaten boy? He probably deserved it. Maurice paused, turning around. "Jack? Are you coming?"
Jack shook his thoughts and nodded, speeding up to end up deep within the group. He wedged his way through the little boys, who only came this way because everyone else did. Then through the adolescents, then through the other teenagers. By the time he got to the adults, he could see him.
The boy was his age, 15 at the least. He wore a torn shirt, only torn by his collar bones, as if someone had ripped it by force. He wore dirty slacks, and his hair—as Roger had said—was matted. But Jack could tell it was curly. As for his skin, it was different from everyone around him.
Pale hands waved, blond hair peeked. But this ruined boy had dark skin, that contrasted with the even darker bruises on his face and neck and arms.
He sat there, curled in on himself. Knees to his chest, hands clasped together. He was too skinny for his age, and too tall for his looks. Jack peered at him through the small area between Father Levi and Sister Abigail.
He stared. In an entranced way that he couldn't stop himself from doing. Though, when the boys face lifted from between his knees, Jack saw his pale eyes meet his own light blue. His eyes widened as he looked around.
No one had noticed.
He shifted between the gap of people, and took a step out. In a dazed way, his eyes almost glossed over. Jack held a hand out, and the boy shifted out of himself for just a moment. The boy almost took his hand, and their fingertips touched.
But before Jack could fully pull him up, he was yanked back by his robes from Father Levi. "Merridew!" He shouted, and that seemed to break Jack out of his trance. He looked forward, and the boy had already caved back into himself.
He looked to his hand and felt his throat tighten. He wiped it on his robes and turned away in a black-fabric flash.