It was a strange sight.
Yuki was asleep, slumped against an armrest of the sofa, his mouth hanging open, glasses askew on his face. One arm was squashed between his side and the back of the couch, the other dangled inches from the carpet. Michel was curled against his chest, fingers wrapped around his shirt, his legs tangled in a blanket. A mathematics text book lay open on the floor, suggesting it had dropped from the couch at some point.
It wasn't the fact that the two were asleep that was unusual. They were, after all, both boys and teenagers and the typical male teenager requires inconceivable hours of sleep. What made it odd was that they were asleep together. They looked so…comfortable. The boys weren't overly friendly with one another, despite Michel's attempts to befriend Yuki, and it was strange to see them in such close, physical proximity to one another.
Fortunately, Aya wasn't easily ruffled by strange things.
He watched the boys for a moment, contemplating over how their lives should have been so different. Both of them, despite the horrific things they had seen, were still very innocent. They were children. Younger than Omi had been when they worked together. Aya knew -they all knew, even Yuki- that no matter what happened to any of them, Michel would still be just as innocent as always. He was fourteen -fourteen- and shouldn't have had anything more to worry about than his school marks and spending time with his friends. He had grown up the way Omi had, trained to be a killer at a young age, and Aya cringed inwardly at the thought of the shrewd politician Omi had become. Fortunately, Michel would never travel that path.
And Yuki…Aya couldn't help but wonder if he was failing the boy. He had brought Yuki to London to take care of him and, by doing so, had made him into a killer. Although…Generally, the four adults discourage the boys from taking lives. If they could help it, the two teenagers weren't involved directly in the missions and often didn't even have to see the resulting carnage from the elimination of a target.
The redhead hesitated in the doorway; unsure as to whether waking them would be better in the long run or not. Being both teenagers and boys, they would undoubtedly be embarrassed to have been found together that way. It would probably be better to let them wake naturally. But then, they would miss dinner. And that would upset Ken, who had tried out a new recipe. It wasn't like they couldn't reheat the leftovers, but Ken would pout because Aya was supposed to be fetching the boys for dinner.
Sighing to himself -how did he always wind up with duties like this any way?- he crossed the room and bent, shaking Michel's shoulder gently. The tiny blond's face scrunched up; he apparently didn't want to wake yet, but he cracked an eye open, then blinked up at Aya.
"What's wrong?" He asked softly, a hint of worry and urgency in his voice that made Aya wince. With their lives, it was easy to assume something was amiss when you were being prematurely yanked from slumber.
"Nothing is wrong." Aya managed half a smile, "It's dinnertime."
"Oh." Now that he'd mentioned it, Michel could smell something that smelled vaguely like Indian or perhaps some sort of stir-fry…Ken must have made something spicy. He let go of Yuki's shirt, careful not to wake the other boy until he was in a less embarrassing position (not that Michel found it embarrassing to be cuddled up with his friend, mind you, but he knew Yuki would, especially since it was Aya who'd come to wake them), and began untangling his legs from the afghan.
"Yuki…" Aya moved on to the American boy, touching his arm lightly, "Yuki, wake up."
The teen grunted in his sleep, shifting to face the back of the couch. Michel stopped rearranging his hair, looking amused. It was near impossible to wake Yuki up and they all knew it.
"Wake up, Yuki." Aya shook his arm harder, almost looking ready to jerk the boy off the couch.
Yuki started awake, rubbing at his eyes with a fist and pushing his glasses back up his nose. "Uh?" He managed rather inarticulately. "Wha…?" The almost-question was punctuated by a wide yawn and Michel couldn't help giggling.
"It's time for supper." He flashed the older boy a sunny smile, rising from the couch and stretching, his shirt ridding up to reveal his bellybutton. "And it smells good."
The dark-haired boy straightened his glasses, yawning again. He hated to be woken before he was ready to wake; it always left him feeling discombobulated. He ran a hand through his hair, scratching the back of his head. His neck was stiff, but that happened almost anytime he slept on the couch. He glanced at Michel as if daring him to mention that they'd been curled up together, but the blond just smiled serenely. Yuki frowned at him and he tried not to grin, knowing that the older boy was just trying to keep up his tough guy appearance.
Dinner was the same noisy affair as usual, with Chloé picking at Ken and Ken rising to the bait. Michel spent most of the meal questioning Yuki about anything important he may have missed at school. Free and Aya were their usual silent selves, observing and making sure that nothing was amiss with their strange "family." The actual meal turned out to be a spicy beef stir-fry, a recipe Ken had found in one of his numerous cookbooks and decided to try. It wound up every bit as good as it had smelled and the end of the meal found Ken and Yuki fighting for the last serving.
Afterwards, Michel, after feeling rather useless and lazy all day, offered to do the dishes, which met with an immediate no. He was about to protest when Aya pointed out that his entire left forearm was wrapped in gauze and bandages and getting them wet wasn't the best idea. Besides that, he had schoolwork to make up, as he would be attending classes tomorrow, since he hadn't seemed particularly ill at all during the day.
"Yeah," Yuki added, "I lugged all those damn books home, you better use them."
Sighing, the blond nodded, knowing there was no winning an argument with both Aya and Yuki. Besides, Aya called the shots around the house. It had been that way ever since he arrived, even though Chloé, Michel and Ken had lived there longer. No matter what any one else said, the redhead's word was always law.
So Michel wandered to fetch his things from the living room and headed up to his room to get to work. Yuki had brought his math, science and health texts for him. Looking over the notes and handouts from his teachers, he thought it seemed like a lot of work, even though it wasn't that much. He tucked the books under his arm and gathered the papers, then padded up the stairs to his room to get the work done.
It was hours later when Free headed upstairs to bed. As he passed by Michel's room, he realized that there was light filtering out of the room from under the door. It was long past the time that the little blond usually went to sleep and Free wondered if he'd fallen asleep while doing his homework.
He pushed the door open gently, peeking into the room. Sure enough, Michel was slumped over his laptop, books, papers and a chewed up pencil littering the bed around him. The screensaver flickering and a small bedside lamp were what had caused the glow emanating from beneath the door.
Free tread lightly across the room, stopping at the edge of the bed and looking down at the sleeping teenager. Michel's head was bowed, hair falling in his eyes. His chest rose and fell steadily; he appeared to be in a deep sleep. Free's expression softened. The tiny blond needed a good night's rest and he didn't want to wake him, even to get him in a more comfortable position.
He carefully extracted the humming computer from his young friend's lap, not bothering to power it down. He tucked it away next to the bed, pushing the cables out of the way so Michel wouldn't trip, should he wake for some reason. Then he cleared the text books and papers off the bed and set about attempting to rearrange the blond without waking him up.
He paused momentarily as the teenager made a sleepy noise, afraid he'd woken him. But no, Michel just curled against his pillow, murmuring something unintelligible. Free couldn't help smiling slightly. He didn't often find reasons to use the word "cute," but Michel swathed in plaid flannel and cuddled up among a pile of fluffy comforters and pillows was nothing but cute.
He stroked back the teen's blond curls, letting his hand linger, caressing his cheek. When had he become so fond of this little bit of a boy? He tried not to think of his life before Michel; that life had been so cold and empty. Meaningless. But Michel…He was like a ray of sunshine; a daffodil blooming in the midst of carnage. His generally upbeat attitude made life a little bit better for them all, but they all knew that Free held him in the highest regard. Which was precisely why the man hated to see his friend suffering, no matter how well Michel thought he was hiding it.
He pulled a blanket up, tucking the teenager in snugly. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do to ensure Michel's happiness after having been the one to rip his family away from him. He had become the teen's self-appointed guardian and caretaker and was trying his hardest to make up for what he had done in the past. Looking after and loving Michel was so easy. Too easy at times. But he was far too disciplined to allow himself a single untoward thought towards the boy, no matter how cute and loving he was. That kind of love was simply not an option.
Giving the blond curls one last fond pat, Free turned out the light and left the room.
-----
Physical education was by far Michel's least favorite school subject. He didn't have the build to be very good at most of the sports the PE class played, such as football, basketball and field hockey. His body was better designed for things such as track and field, swimming or gymnastics. He was lithe and, although he may have appeared scrawny, his body was well-toned, due to his Kryptonbrand training. His training had shaped his body perfectly as a track star, but he simply wasn't cut out for contact sports.
Unfortunately, St. Justin Martyr's was not the kind of school that lauded the physical activities a child like Michel was suited for and the little blond found himself yet again facing another game of football as his seventh period destiny.
He hated the locker room. Hated it with a passion. Ever since he had started school there three years prior, he had been labeled as his class' token pansy, even though he'd never given any indication of his sexuality one way or another. By his twelfth birthday, his classmates had already begun tormenting him and more often than not, the worst of the abuse came in the locker room.
Every time he stepped through the door to change into the school-issued gym shorts and the tee-shirt with the St. J.M.'s logo screen printed on the front, he would be struck with a barrage of memories, none of them pleasant. There had been inappropriate comments, groping, pinching; it was if the other boys had made proving his alleged homosexuality their mission in life.
Even though he wasn't quite sure yet if he actually was any of the things they so frequently called him, Michel knew he wasn't the only one who had the tendency. He knew who watched him in the shower; who stared at his naked little bottom as he turned his back to them, the shower spray pelting his skin. He knew who stared at him during class, undressing him with their eyes. He knew that when some of them tried to touch him, it wasn't just to prove that he enjoyed it; it was simply because they wanted to touch him.
He didn't understand why they couldn't just come to him as friends. If they were all gay or were, at least, questioning their sexuality, why couldn't they be friends? Why did they have to be so cruel? He assumed they were afraid of facing the same treatment he suffered through on a daily basis. If they all banded together, they could have fought back. But instead…
Yuki had become something of a protector for him. When the American had attended school his first day, all of the homophobes had watched Michel lead him to the office and had later made all kinds of comments about Yuki being his new boyfriend. The dark-haired boy, although he was accepting of others' differences, would have none of this and had promptly tossed one of the teasers into a garbage can. Although Aya had been less than pleased, Yuki had never again been labeled as gay and the verbal attacks against Michel had subsided for a few weeks.
But today…
"Hey, Conrad!" Michel flinched at the sound of his surname being yelled across the room. He could practically hear the smirk in his classmate's voice. "What are you waiting for, you bloody fag? Quit standing there and change your damn clothes."
A couple other boys snickered and high-fived their friend as Michel moved towards his locker, running now on autopilot. He had tried once to change his clothes in one of the bathroom stalls, but had learned a valuable lesson that day. Confining himself in the tiny stall had left him trapped with nowhere to go as the homophobes and haters had lain in wait outside the stall.
He quickly pulled off his sweater and loosened his tie, fingers trembling slightly as he unbuttoned his dress shirt. These clothes…This uniform. It took too long to get undressed; too long and he could feel their eyes burning into his back. He hated that feeling of knowing he was being watched; it made the fine hair at the nape of his neck rise.
He slipped his tee-shirt over his head, feeling momentary relief at being fully-clothed. Taking off his pants to put on his shorts had always proved to be more dangerous than changing his shirt and he had to give himself a moment before reaching for the fly of the plaid trousers.
He dropped his pants quickly, kicking them off and reaching for his shorts. He could feel bodies edging closer and he started when he felt a hand on his ass.
"What's your hurry, Conrad? Don't want us to see you?" The hand slid lower, a finger tracing along one of the scars on the back of his thigh. Michel forced himself not to tremble in fear or shiver at the invading, unwanted touch; willed his body to remain perfectly still. "Where'd you get all these scars, Conrad? Are they a gift from the pedophile that's screwing you? Do you like it rough?" At the word rough, another hand groped him through his underwear and he jerked at the touch, eyes welling with tears.
The hand moved again and he heard a different voice in his ear. "Come on, pretty boy…We know you like it. You can't pretend."
He bit his lip, praying to God that he wouldn't get hard. He didn't want this; didn't like this and was afraid his body would betray him. He knew he couldn't give in. That was what they wanted and expected. He forced himself to remain silent as the hand squeezed and he bit down harder on his lip until he could taste blood. Why, oh why, couldn't they just leave him alone? Hadn't they hurt and humiliated him enough already?
He had never bothered to tell any one what sorts of things happened to him. The logical part of his brain knew that, were he to tell Aya or Free, his tormentors would not face a pleasant fate. But he still had some pride and he was ashamed to admit he couldn't fend off these bullies on his own. He was still afraid that any one he told would somehow see this as his fault, even though he knew this wasn't true. But it was just…He felt so worthless; so cheap and dirty. How could any one possibly understand?
He was saved only by the teacher yelling through the locker room for the class to get their asses out onto the field and start warm up laps. He slumped against the lockers as they moved away, one of them giving his behind a slap as a parting gift. It wasn't until the room was empty and silent that Michel allowed himself to cry.
At first, he wasn't even aware he was crying as fat tears rolled off his chin and soaked into the fabric of his tee-shirt. It was when his breath started coming in little hiccup-y gasps -when he was pulling his pants back on- that he realized.
He had to get out of there.
He quickly tore off the tee-shirt, hastily redressing in his uniform, not even bothering to tuck in his shirt or put the tie on. He stuffed his feet back in his boots, fingers trembling too much to tie the laces. Tears were still streaming down his face, but he was silent now; the silence echoed through the large, cavernous room. He didn't know where he was going to go, but he had to get out of that place.
He stuffed his gym clothes back into his locker, grabbed his bag and fled the room. The halls were empty; classes had already started. He figured he'd be able to make a getaway unnoticed, even though he had no clue where he was going. He needed to be somewhere away from the campus; somewhere safe. He could worry about where once he made it out.
He peeked around a corner. There was only one way out of the building when classes were in session, and that was through the main doors, which went past all of the offices. He would have to be careful, were he to make it out without getting caught.
No one was in the lobby. He allowed himself a sigh of relief. Maybe God was on his side for once. Maybe the Devil. With his life, he could never be quite sure.
He crept past the offices, hardly daring to breathe as he hugged the wall. Pretend it was a mission and he couldn't get caught.
The sun was shining, it was a crisp autumn day and Michel was about to burst out into the afternoon sun and make his escape to freedom when a hand grabbed him from behind.
Heart pounding in his chest, he whirled around to find himself face-to-face with Miss Betsy Ebert, the school guidance counselor.
"Where do you think you're going, Mr. Conrad?" She pulled him back into the entryway and he stared up at her, face heating with shame at having been caught. She stood a good five or six inches taller than him and her expression was dour until she took a good look at him. "Have you been crying?"
He said nothing, simply stared. Miss Ebert was a pretty woman, with pale blue eyes, fair skin and extremely dark hair. She was dressed in a smart pants suit, tailored and ironed perfectly and a couple file folders were tucked under her arm. He figured she must have been around Free, Chloé and Aya's age, or maybe even as young as Ken. He'd been in her office numerous times since she'd started at Saint Justin Martyr's the previous fall, but he'd never really bothered to look at the woman before.
Her expression softened slightly and she let go of his arm and she momentarily looked lost in thought. "Michel, right?" Her voice was hesitant and he wondered if the faculty was even encouraged at all to know the students beyond a last name. When he didn't correct her, she offered a ghostly smile and continued. "Why don't you come to my office and we'll talk."
He followed silently behind her, wondering what there was to talk about. She couldn't possibly have any clue what it felt like to be the school's most harassed fag, no matter how alleged his orientation was. And she was a grown woman, not an almost-fifteen year old boy. There was no way she could even begin to understand and there was therefore no reason for them to talk.
She offered him the chair across from hers, the desk between them. He watched as she arranged herself comfortably, hands folded on her desk. Then a thought seemed to occur to her and she swiveled in the chair, sliding open the filing cabinet and pulling it out a new folder, one which, he noticed, was labeled "Conrad, Michel E."
He watched, still silent, as she studied the contents of the folder for a moment. He knew what she would find in there: Average grades except for literature, in which he excelled. Records of many days he was absent, due either to mission-related injuries or illness or even just days where he'd simply been too tired to attend. Family background; mother and father murdered when he was six. Older brother, whereabouts unknown. Taken in and raised by the illustrious Richard Krypton. Home life, stable. Permitted to work outside the school at Krypton's request. Emergency number listed as that of an Aya Fujimiya. He wasn't sure as to whether or not any information would be in there about his school experiences beyond grades and attendance; the school seemed to have a "boys will be boys" policy when it came to teasing.
Finally, she looked back up at him, meeting his gaze. "What happened, Michel?"
He frowned at her, a rebellious feeling welling up from somewhere in the pit of his stomach. Yuki was right. It was none of her business. "Nothing." He said, chin rising defiantly.
She arched a brow. "Nothing? Why were you trying to sneak out of school then? Classes aren't over for another hour yet."
"It's really none of your business, ma'am." He folded his arms across his chest, slumping slightly in the chair and staring at the ceiling. He just wanted to leave. He'd rather go back to class than sit here and listen to whatever she had to say.
"Michel, I'm here to help you." She said gently, "But I cannot help you if I don't know what's wrong."
"I don't mean to be rude, but I don't need your help." Even when being defiant, he just couldn't seem to bring himself to be mean. This woman did want to help, even if she couldn't.
"Would you like to just talk, perhaps?"
He shook his head.
"As you know, I just looked at your file. You miss an awful lot of school, Michel. Is everything all right at home?"
"Things are fine." It was a game to see who was more stubborn now. She was trying to engage him; to bait him so he would talk. He knew the rules of this game well enough. They'd all played it with Yuki or Aya at one point or another.
"It says here that you don't live with Mr. Krypton any more. Your…housemates are agreeable?"
"Aye."
"Would you like to tell me about them? You live with Mr. Fujimiya, but it says here there are four other members of the household. One of them is Yuki, I presume."
He blinked. As he had learned from Aya -and the lesson had been reinforced by Yuki- the best way to win a game of wills was the simply remain passive. Say nothing, if possible, and if not, remain noncommittal. So he kept his mouth shut, staring at the woman, expression neutral.
Miss Ebert sighed and Michel knew he had won. She looked down at the folder again. "I'll have to call Mr. Fujimiya to let him know you were trying to leave, you know."
He shrugged, giving the impression that he didn't care. But inwardly, he was panicking. Aya would not simply accept the phone call and tell Miss Ebert to send him back to class. He would leave the shop to either come get him or to berate him for trying to skip said class. Then Free would know and Yuki would be sure to find out somehow. He hated when every one knew every one else's business, because it inevitably led to questions he never wanted to answer.
So he watched, terrified, as she dialed Aya's cell number and he prayed the man wouldn't pick up. Sometimes when he was in the shop, he turned it off. But no luck; he picked up. Michel listened as the obligatory pleasantries were exchanged and the guidance counselor explained to Aya her reason for calling. After an "all right then; I'll keep him in the office until you get here" she hung up and looked at Michel. "You're to remain here until Mr. Fujimiya arrives."
He felt his heart drop into his stomach. Somehow, returning to class seemed less horrifying than facing Aya's temper.
