The air was stuffy in the room, and London loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves as he tried to focus on the essay in front of him. His mind was wondering, because he hadn’t gotten the letter from his dad yet, and he knew that it would come right when he said it would; which narrowed it down only to today, specifically. He laid his quill down on his desk, leaning back in the chair as he rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.
Whatever this letter was going to say, London knew that it couldn’t be good. His father had even warned him about it, though he was fairly certain the short letter from yesterday wasn’t meant as a warning. It was meant to be threatening. The boy yanked on his tie even more, pulling the knot all the way through as he rested his elbows on the desk and told himself to breathe.
To be honest, London almost was relieved when his father’s owl flew through his open window. The huge bird landed on his bed post, dropping the letter from his beak as London reached out to grab it. He ripped through the envelope quickly, just ready to read its contents and be done with the entire situation.
Son,
This letter is merely a formality, informing you that I’ve discussed it with the headmaster that each of your exams and important projects and essays be reported to me promptly. If it will help keep you on task for me to send you letters, then that is what I will do. Your marks, as well, are to be sent to me weekly, and you can expect a letter every Sunday detailing the classes you need to improve on.
I’ve taken it up with your grandmother and I believe you will be spending most of the Christmas holiday with me, so make sure to prepare accordingly. Pack only your best clothes, as there will be many functions to attend.
Also, from what I’ve been told, you have yet to quit that folly of a club you’re so involved in. Unacceptable, London. I want you out of it by nightfall, or else I’ll take further measures to insure that you’re away from the ridiculous behavior of those half-bloods and muggleborn children. Honestly, London, you’d think you didn’t have the brains to tell that you’re better than them. I’m sick of it.
Write me back to let me know that everything is understood.
-Carleton A. Walker
There was something about his dad, something that London couldn’t fight. Even when he was out of his grip, he still had a thumb pressing down on him, keeping him in line. Part of London believed that if his dad really wanted to fight for him, he could take him away from his Grandmum and Aunt Nicole. Carleton Walker got whatever he wanted, and there was nothing that anyone could do to fight it.
He clenched his fists, banging them down onto the table once. His skin stung from the force of it, but to London it felt better than anything his father had ever done to him. His memories started to roll back, just like they did every time he spoke of his father, or thought of his father at all. It was hard to get some of those things out of the mind. All London saw as he closed his eyes was red, and a flurry of fists and elbows and knees and feet, all pointed towards him. The boy jerked each time, like he’d been hit, even though he knew he hadn’t. Not this time.
The thoughts needed to go away, and so he slammed his fists down again, this time letting his hands sting more. He could see the sides of his hands turning red from the impact, and all London thought about was how normal that color looked against the tan of his skin. How perfectly fine it actually seemed to him, because of how often he’d seen it.
London didn’t strike the desk again, he leaned back in his chair and started rubbing at the sore parts of his hands. Maybe they would bruise, and he’d have more familiar marks there, reminding him even more of what kind of man his father was. Reminding him of why he should be able to fight him. And reminding him of why he couldn’t.
He reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a piece of parchment, gathering his quill again as he set out to write the letter back. That’s what his father wanted, so that’s what London would do.
Father,
You can’t just I hope that your letters help keep me on track as well, I’d like for my success in class to rise. I’ve been working harder this year, staying on top of things, and I hope that it helps. It’s what I’m really pushing for out of this year, to raise my marks.
I’ll talk to grandmum about the break, it doesn’t sound like something she would because I’ll need her to send me some more clothes if I’m going to spend the entire time at your house. Or she could send it directly to you, to have it waiting for me. Either way. But I need to talk to her.
I won’t will quit the club. Consider it done.
Also—I’m rather concerned about one of the teachers here. I’ve got good reason to believe that Professor Reed is having relations with one of my friends the muggleborn students. He’s been giving her private lessons, and there’s something not right about the situation. It makes me uncomfortable, and I don’t know what I can do to stop it. Do you have any ideas? What can I do to help make sure that it doesn’t keep happening? Because no matter what the story is, something is wrong, and it’s not a good environment for the students to be around. You’re the only person I know that could help me with this, Dad.
Love you,
-London
Without another word, London sealed the letter into an envelope, and handed it to Langley, his father’s bird. “Take this back to my dad,” he told him gently, and the bird took off out the window. As he did, London let out a deep breath.
His hands still red, London rubbed them against his legs, trying to get the clamminess to go away. He didn’t understand why it was so difficult for him to just write a simple letter to his dad. Didn’t kids to that everyday? Wasn’t it a normal situation? He shouldn’t be this terrified. He didn’t know why he seemed so weak, and frail.
He shut his eyes, seeing another flash back, and he remembered.
As he pushed the chair back, knocking it onto the ground and ran towards the door to try and get some fresh air, London just wanted one thing; he wanted to be stronger.
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Scratchmarks ★ - (Dean/Castiel/Future!Dean) Sometimes sex isn’t a goal, but a method. A method to escape, a method to forget, or a method to communicate, and Dean doubts that his future self is listening to what Cas is saying.
Word Count: 11,860
Rated: Explicit
Complete
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