A short boy with floppy brown hair and somber brown eyes greets him as he leaves the office. "I'm Nick."
Nick's handshake is firm, and somewhat more confident than the rest of his appearance.
"We've got an hour until lunch. Do you want to go upstairs and get settled in or go to the nurse?"
The question takes him off guard. He isn't used to everyone knowing his business. Most pretentious prep schools take student privacy very seriously, meaning that people's personal eccentricities and visits to various professions are rumor, not fact. Other places, your personal details are discussed openly only as punishment: loss of privacy as a loss of privileges.
He decides to challenge with a question of his own. "Why aren't any of you in class?"
"Free Period." Nick has a pleasant laugh. "Beatz has a free period because he doesn't do gym."
"Beatz?" The name catches him off guard.
"Jon Boxer." Nick is more subdued, his eyes hinting at a secret. "He's the beatboxer for our acapela group, the Warblers. We're sort of like rock stars on campus."
"I can only imagine," he retorts dryly.
He suspects that Dalton has a normal level of experimentation for high school students. Given that its a mostly closed campus and the population is, as far as he can tell, 100% male, that likely means a great deal of internal experimentation. This isn't his first all-male environment (that was Shady Oaks correctional institute when he was twelve and still pretty), nor does it have the highest population of gay inmates that he's ever seen (The Way!TM Bible-based Conversion Therapy Camp receives that honor… an irony since he'd never actually shown any romantic interest in men before or after Sarai decided he needed to go), but he imagines that if the Warblers are half as boy-next-door attractive as Nick and can sing reasonably well, they must be as popular as the jocks at Dalton.
Nick continues, oblivious to his reverie. "And, I interned as a page over the summer. Between that and Boys State, the Powers that Be waived my government requirement. So, I spend my forth period studying and running errands for Dr. Dick."
"I see." He decides that he likes Nick. "In that case, I'd rather go unpack. Jon said I was in third annex? With Seb?"
"You're fucked." Nick tells him, an affectionate grin across his face. "I lived wth Sebastian last year. Rule one, never call him 'Seb.'"
He closes his eyes, and balances himself against the wall of the elevator as the rickety old car ascends. He can feel his left shoulder swelling with the exertion of the morning.
This Sebastian person can't be as bad as Rick, Adam, or even the original Hunter Clarington. He doubts he'll need to sleep with a knife under his pillow (although he has one if he needs one) or be sent out on drug runs. He doubts Sebastian will try to steal his clothes, his food, or his medication. But, he's prepared for anything.
He doesn't mention the pain as Nick leads him off the elevator, and down the wide carpeted hall. "Welcome to the third annex, home of the Dalton seniors."
Nick introduces him to Scott, the assistant rector, who passes him a key ring, ID card, and a square of Dove chocolate. Scott seems to have an un-ending supply of sweets. Scott also produces a large cardboard box, neatly addressed to Hunter Clarington in handwriting that can only be Lara's. His sisters knows what he needs, even if he doesn't. Part of him hates them for knowing more about his life than he does, part of him is thankful that they handle the pesky details like uniforms and sheets so he doesn't have to pack them.
As they walk slowly toward his room, Nick observes that Scott is fundamentally a good guy. When Thad got David ridiculously drunk last year on Smirnoff Ice, and David sang "Twist and Shout" in his boxers and a bowtie during the Alumni Fundraising Dinner then stumbled into Scott's bed, still entirely drunk, Scott had simply ushered the boy back to his bed and given him a bucket. No paperwork had been filed against either boy (beyond the campusing that David received for scaring the alumni).
They moved down the oak paneled hallway, past identical wooden doors topped with transoms. These give a peak at the personalities of the residents. A union Jack with the southern cross peaks out the top of 315. Nick indicates it as his room, and explains that his roommate is an encouragable Aussie. Another window is papered with cutouts of girls from magazines. This, apparently, belongs to Roberto, the Resident Advisor.
He's finally lead to 323, with it's plain black paper. This suits him fine.
Nick knocks, but no one answers. The brunette frowns, and tries the door. It's open.
The two enter the open room. His things are stacked neatly beside a bed, the pack resting across the matress.
Nick drops his cardboard box. "Sebastian?"
A moan emerges from a lump under the navy duvet on the other bed.
"Sebastian, this is your new roommate, Hunter."
Another moan, and a middle finger salute. He's relatively sure there's something in there about key somethings, but he's not sure.
Nick shrugs, wishes him luck, and goes off to do whatever he normally does for his independent study.
He sinks onto the blue floral mattress for a minute, and drops his crutches. Ignoring his roommate, he calls Sarai.
She answers on the first ring.
"I'm here," he greets her in French. He and Lara are the only people who ever call Sarai at this number.
"Congratulations." His older sister's voice is dry. She's subtly chastising him for being such a baby and even needing to call.
"I got your package."
"Don't forget to put everything away."
He wonders what his sisters have sent beside sheets. He wonders, for what is likely the millionth time in his life, what they have planned and what they are doing with him.
"I won't."
"And don't hesistate to call if you need anything."
"I won't."
"We'll see you at family week."
"Okay."
"Love you, Brat."
"Love you, too, Bitch."
They have an odd relationship, but his sisters are all that he has. And, he's not sure he would have it any other way. They're meddling busy bodies, but they're possibly the only people in his life, aside from his granddad, who have ever cared about him. At least, that's what Sarai and Lara have always told him.
He knows he should use this as an opportunity to unpack. But, he's damn tired. He's damn sore. And, he's damn sweaty.
He leans his crutches against the headboard, and kicks off his shoes. He carefully releases the Velcro on the AFO on his left foot, adding the molded black plastic brace and the black brace sock he wore underneath to the growing pile beside his bed.
Then, he closes his eyes and leans back on the mattress. Just let Dalton assume that Hunter Clarington a lazy, arrogant, and rich. Don't let them guess that he's scared, alone, hurt, and in pain.
A/N: I'm sorry that this has taken me so long to get out. I've had Hunter dancing around with this since … Wednesday? Thursday night? Anyway, he's been banished back to my closet temporarily and I'm off to do my homework. ... I feel like I should mention that this may or may not intersect with the Warbler Chronicles that I've written, but it's not a part of them. So, Sebastian is diabetic, and Jeff is Aussie. But, the rest, I'm not so sure about. Remember, review are love!