ansel

He’s lived a good half of his life in this K-12 from hell. He had become the witness of the ever changing headmaster portraits, they tend to drop like flies, so there’s always a new one every year. He used to be scared of the radiator clangs in the middle of the night, or the way the dorm room breathes. Nothing really truly changes, though. He thinks that’s what drives him crazy. The monotonous routine of it all.

Connor’s up before his alarm does, the sky is still dark from left over winter. Frank’s snoring so loud he almost shakes the picture frames off the nightstand. Connor stretches his arms above him, joint creaking with a satisfying pop. He drags himself to the bathroom, room thick with steam, already buzzing with students weaving in and out.

It’s predictable. The third sink from the left will clog every fortnight, and a dead moth in the light fixtures casting ominous looking shadow over the stalls. Greene greets him lazily, leaning against the towel warmer. Connor nudges Greene’s foot off the metal pole without looking while simultaneously uncapping his toothpaste and starts freshening up.

Will and Olen join him when he’s slathering shaving cream around his lower jaw. “You’re shaving baby’s butt.” Will supplies, blinking tiredly. Connor shaves his smooth face anyways, it feels wrong not to ever since his dad spared his important time to teach him how.

The hubbub around him moves methodically, reminding him of a rehearsed script. Someone’s going to fight over the stall with the warmest water, and Olen’s going to bitch about the rusty knobs that he swears will get him tetanus.

“Where’s Frank?” Olen slides himself to the sink next to Connor, letting the warm water run through his fingers before wetting his hair.

“Conked out,” Connor answers, patting his face dry. Frank’s going to come down with two minutes left at his heel and he’ll skitter to chapel with wet patches on the front of his blazer. It’s just the way it is.

“One day they’re gonna kill him, I swear.” Will comments, warming up the gel in his hand. His blonde curls are wild in the mornings, untamed as if he’d been electrocuted the night before. Someone shoves past them and the sink spits brown water over Will’s sleeve. “Shit,”

Connor dries his hand and checks himself out one last time. He’s handsome. The kind of handsome that earns him a dozen kisses at family reunions or at nursing homes. Satisfied with how his hair falls, he nods to his reflection. “I’ll catch you guys later.”

Olen hums, toothbrush in his mouth. Will’s too entranced in shaping his curls to even notice Connor leaving.

Connor could be blind folded, spun around, and dropped in the heart of these seemingly neverending hallways and he could make his way pretty much anywhere. He climbs the stairwell to his dorm to find Frank still drooling on his pillow. Connor tosses a balled up sock at his face.

Frank’s face crumples, “Fuck off.” He croaks. Connor brandishes a grin, sitting on his own bed opposite from Frank’s, suiting up in his starched shirt.

”Reaves is going to have your head on a pike,” Connor says, figuring his way through a double Windsor knot. “Get up.”

Sunlight reflects into the room from snowbanks pushed against the curbs. It comes into the room watery and flat, dousing the chamber somberly. Sometimes, he thinks this is purgatory, where he spends the rest of his miserable life going through mundane routines, watching shaving foam dribble down his wrist, and shaking Frank from his stubborn slumber. It’s even more depressing in the post-winter months. Or maybe Connor’s just depressed.

He shoves that thought in a box and sticks it between his ribs. Just a few weeks ago was Christmas, he got a brand new hockey twig and a couple tickets before the break to watch the Bruins with his friends. Connor ate his whole body weight in popcorn and even managed to catch a screening of The Exorcist.

He’s also been recently named captain of the varsity hockey team. So like, he’s definitely not depressed or anything.

Frank groans, loud and unpleasant, stretching his limbs over his unmade bed. “I hate my life,” Frank says, kicking his quilt to the floor.

”Hurry up, you can’t miss chapel, again.” Connor tries to be stern. Sometimes, stupid things like missing chapel are just not worth writing bible verses a hundred lines. Frank doesn’t seem to care, though, He’s taking his sweet time cracking each joint.

Frank stands up, scratching at his jaw, “You think if I make it in time I can finally find out why Reaves thinks kneeling longer makes you holier? He times it. I swear he does. He’s down before anyone else.”

Connor shrugs into his blazer, “Yeah?” Frank doesn’t even opt for the bathroom, already scrambling for a strip of spearmint gum and raking his fingers through his bedhead.

”He probably practices it. You know he practices.” Frank says, “He totally has a mirror at home. ‘Am I devout enough, mother?’” For someone who had just woken up mere two minutes ago, Frank’s already chipper. Chipper enough to throw some shit on Father Reaves.

It’s not like he doesn’t deserve it, though. Reaves has always been all over their case since they crossed the Barton Academy threshold a millennia ago. It started when Connor forgot his Bible verses when he was in charge of the liturgy as a wee eight year old, and since Frank’s basically his rambunctious shadow, the dislike extended to him. Then Olen and Will entered the picture, in the form of a Saturday detention polishing old trophies.

Connor doesn’t remember what it was like before Frank. All his life, it has always been Bedard and Nazar. Bedard and Nazar report to the prefect, Saturday detention, Bedard and Nazar do you know how lucky you are to enroll here? To Connor, Frank is the first thing that aided him fresh from abandonment. Cue the dramatics, abandoned is not really the proper word, Barton Academy is a big deal, and it is a privilege to be here. But then again, no word is closer to describing how he feels when he was dropped off for the first time other than abandoned.

So Frank can beat the horse about Reaves for all he wishes. Connor will always owe him a laugh.

“Careful, God’s listening.” Connor says, spritzing some woodsy cologne all over him. Frank coughs, snatching his blazer that was draped over a chair.

”God transferred out sophomore year.” Frank looks like he rolled out of bed and forgot to iron all his clothes, an expected image for him anyways so it doesn’t matter.

Connor stuffs his feet in his shoes when the door bursts open, revealing Will and Olen, already crisp in their pressed uniforms. “Are you guys done jerking off or what?”

”Or what,” Connor pushes past them through the door, catching the last bits of Will nagging Frank over his subpar hygiene.

—

Connor’s been adjusting his stiff back against the cool wood of the pew longer than necessary. Mostly because he’s bored, counting the swirling dust motes drifting through a column of light. Sermons always make him feel restless, his thoughts racing too fast for him to catch up to. He could almost imagine his mom placing her bejeweled hand on his restless knee, bouncing, and bouncing. There’s a seed of guilt swirled in there, the fact that he’s thinking about anything but the word of the Lord.

He tilts his head upwards to the tall arches above him, tracing the wooden beams with his eyes, meeting in the middle at a rustic chandelier. In front of him is the Big Man himself, hanging from a mahogany cross, polished shiny until he could see his own reflection on the pained expression of Jesus. If he were God, he’d be royally pissed if he’s constantly depicted dying.

The room rises, rows of navy blue blazers standing proud, then kneels. Connor follows the motion automatically, the same way he ties his shoes or brushes his teeth. Years of repetition carved straight into the bones. When they sit again, Connor sinks further into the hard pew, shoulders pressing against Will and Frank. Father Reaves stands at the pulpit, shrouded with a heavy cloak around him. Like a gargoyle. Connor has to snort at that thought, which earns him an inquisitive look from Will.

See, Will actually takes this thing seriously. He does the Hail Mary every afternoon, does his rosaries like a good Catholic boy he is. Connor could always catch his squeaky voice in the choir of melted low murmurs.

Connor could never find that peace, though. Sermons and chapels are just tradition with no meaning to him. He flexes his fingers, then clutches the air around him, watching the blues of his veins rise beneath the pale skin of his hand. Restless, and unbounded, he feels like a coiled spring ready to pounce the second the bell sounds.

Connor stares ahead at the row of boys in front of him.

Minten sits two pews up. Connor recognizes the curls first, then the silver flash of his glasses catching the light when he tilts his head down.

”Corinthians,” Will whispers by his ear, Connor looks at him dumbly. Will already has his Bible propped open.

“Right,” Connor says.

He flips open his Bible without looking at the page. It doesn’t matter where it lands, he’s not going to be reading anyways, just mouthing words until it’s believable. But the gravitational pull of curiosity urges him to look forward, straying further from the tiny printed letters, straight at Minten.

Minten is reading. Connor squints. The book in his hand is small. Too thin for a Bible. The cover is pale and flimsy, spine cracked open in his palm, dented with dog-eared corners. Connor assesses, gaze burning a hole through Minten’s nape.

Not scripture.

That idiot.

If Father Reaves catches even a glimpse of this sacrilege, he’ll lose his mind. But Minten just flips to another page, then another. Reaves is going to crucify him.

Frank nudges him back to reality, “You sleeping?” Connor shakes his head, already drifting back up to Minten.

Father Reaves’ drones from the lectern, reading Corinthians in the same swinging tired rhythm he always uses. Connor leans back against the pew, forcing himself to stop being so intrigued by Minten’s act of rebellion. Father Reaves had stepped away from the lectern, making his way between the pews.

It’s funny to see the sleeping boys jolt awake once they sense Father Reaves’ suffocating presence around them. Backs straightening up like pebbling goosebumps. Connor peers between shoulders to see Minten, still reading that stupid not-scripture with Reaves pouncing around the corner.

For someone so smart, Minten is surely a dunce.

Minten doesn’t look up once, careful fingers peeling page after page. Connor feels his heart constrict in his chest, with Father Reaves just a pew away from Minten. He’s going to get his ass handed to him.

”Stop squirming in your seat,” Will elbows him. Face pulled taut, head following every step Father Reaves takes. Connor grimaces inwardly. Just a stone throw away and Minten is done for.

Connor’s hand tightens around his Bible, then he lets it slip between his fingers. It hits the floor with a loud crack that echoes through the chapel. A dozen heads turn.

”Mr. Bedard,” Father Reaves snaps. Connor exhales slowly, Will has the same angered look Father Reaves has right now, mostly out of embarrassment. Connor bends down, picking up the Bible.

”Sorry, Father.” He says.

Father Reaves doesn’t stay there for long, already stomping with his cape fluttering at his wake. By the time he reaches Minten’s row, Minten’s hands are empty, with the chapel Bible lying open on his lap, Corinthians. Perfectly calm, like an angel.

Conor lets out a breath.

A few seconds later, Minten tilts his head just slightly, just enough for Connor to see the corner of a grin.

—

They split up once they’re in the courtyard, each to their own schedules. Connor lags behind, sifting through the crush of bodies to catch Minten. He’s halfway down a stone path, headed to the Science wing with that damn not-scripture tucked under his arm.

Connor doesn’t waste a second, suddenly fueled with this heroic confidence. “You’re gonna get caught,” He says. Minten doesn’t slow down, neither does Connor, scattering to fall in his steps. “Hey, I said you’re gonna get caught. That wasn’t the Bible.”

Connor feels his breath stop in his throat when Minten looks over at him then, expression completely unreadable behind his silver rimmed glasses. Minten’s flushed in the cold, cheeks pink, matching the shade of his lips. “Very observant.”

“I just saved you from a lifetime of Corinthians,” Connor snides, now more ticked off by the fact that Minten has the nerves to act all standoffish. Connor flicks his eyes down toward the scrappy book. “Lemme see it.”

Minten stares at him, his thumb presses into the spine of the book. Connor patiently waits, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, restless, like always. “Fine.”

He hands it over. Connor expects something contraband, a smutty bodice ripper Frank sneaks in to read under the covers. Or something scandalous and racy enough for Minten to risk his perfect standing with reading at a sermon. Instead, it’s a battered paperback with a cracked spine. Connor turns it over, White Nights.

”Doe-stoe-yev-skee?” Connor reads out, fanning the pages. “You’re reading this during chapel?”

Minten has the balls to look annoyed at him, “Seemed like a good time.”

Connor catches the thin graphite lines under some words, smudged notes cramped in the margins. He’s never a big fan of reading, it’s boring, and pointless. Why would you spend your precious free time with a nose stuck in a book when you can literally do anything else?

“You read classics?” Connor turns a page to find even more notes diligently written, “This is like watching paint dry.”

Minten snatches the book back, “Don’t read the notes.”

“I wasn’t, pinky promise.” Connor smirks, an image of Minten studiously dissecting paragraphs in his dorm has conjured in his mind. The amount of time Minten spent on that little thing must be tremendous. “I didn’t take you as a… tragic romance kind of guy.”

Minten must’ve thought he’s had enough of entertaining Connor as he turns to pick up his pace. “I’m not.”

”You obviously love the book,” Connor shoves his hands in his pockets and follows, stretching the distance from his own class further and further in pursuit of Minten. “It’s pretty sappy, you know.”

Minten looks back, “So you’ve read it?” There’s something in Minten’s voice just then, a tinge of hopefulness.

Connor swears there’s a little twinkle in Minten’s eyes when he asks that, “No. My sister has, though. She tells me a lot about what she reads.” Then just like that, the twinkle diminishes.

“Oh,” Minten lets out in a deflated manner. “Right, okay. I have to go to class. I’m sure you have class, too. Bedard.”

Huh, so he does have a snark in him, then. Connor files that away, oddly pleased. Minten transferred a year ago from some fancy Vancouver school, then made it up the rankings in Barton in just a week. He’s sort of a myth.

Connor nods at Minten’s book, “Next time pick something shorter.”

Minten raises an eyebrow, hesitates long enough to keep Connor on his toes before answering. “Are you planning to distract Father Reaves again?”

”If you can’t get out of trouble, I might.”