Lightning flashes light up the sky, breaking the darkness for a short moments. Then they disappear, the darkness devour them like everything around: the surrounding forest, the spire of the church, the dormitory buildings. Heavy cold raindrops drum on the roofs and windows. From onset by the dusk a squall wind suddenly came and the sky turned black. Thunderstorm burst out in a flash and now, after two hours, it is not going to stop.
Descending downstairs to the common room to check, just in case, whether the windows are closed, Jules does not expect to see anyone outside. In the next flash of lightning a thin pale figure appears, as if a ghost plodding lonely along a wall of the dormitory. If Rosemarine caught somebody after curfew, he would certainly flog them, Jules thinks. But, of course, not in weather like that. Jules probably would not come out too, but this figure is well-known to him.
An umbrella would not shield in such the wind that is why Jules has to come out in what he is right now, wraps himself up better. He hastily unlock the door trying not to make a noise so that, for not wake anyone up (and he is a supervisor of the dormitory building A, he has his own keys) and comes out into the porch.
- Gilbert, - he calls, and the figure stops, trying to discern the voice in the darkness.
Jules regrets not taking the lamp.
Another flash of lightning illumines the space and Gilbert recognizes is the one who calls him. Staggering and trembling all over, he hardly gets to the porch and stumbling upon the door-step, he falls down into Jules arms.
- Get inside hurry, you are drenched and cold!
Jules drags the boy into the room and locks the door, then quickly takes off his own gown and wrapping Gilbert up, leads him upstairs to his room. Once or twice Gilbert shires to take a turn somewhere, and when Jules asks where to he wants to go, Gilbert hoarsely answers:
- I am to Blough.
It seems that Gilbert is not sure of his own words. Jules flinches in disgust.
- Max Blough has already slept, - he says and takes Gilbert to his own room.
Gilbert does not resist. He shivers with cold and maybe with something else. Jules takes a towel and wipes from the frozen boy's head to toe. He has nothing on him aside from a wet shirt, and Jules gives him one of his own. It smells like lavender perfume.
Jules puts Gilbert on the sofa and wraps him up in a blanket, and after hastily makes some tea. In a quarter of an hour he gives a cup to Gilbert:
- Get warm and rest. I would not want you to catch a cold.
Jules says that and smiles, his voice is quiet and peaceful. He gently straightens the blanket, but Gilbert gets hold of his hands and lays them on his own chest invitingly throwing back the head. In reply, Jules just smiles warmly, takes his own hands off, take a book from the table and sits down opposite saying nothing more. Gilbert finishes his tea.
Outside the window it seemingly thunders and rains with triple force. Time goes slowly like venous blood.
Jules sits in his armchair and reads, the light of the lamp exudes his face and his hands holding the book carefully. Jules' hands are gentle; Gilbert knows that firsthand since these hands, with maternal care, treated the wounds on his back inflicted by Blough. And every time after that incident meeting Jules, he makes sure of that again and again. Gilbert stares him from under eyelashes: looks view every detail, without losing anything. He does not know for sure what his savior thinks about.
Somehow Jules is different for Gilbert. He does not try to hurt Gilbert, as many others have done, he does not humiliate him like Rosemarine who disgustedly handing out pokes and kicks like for a dirty stray cat. Jules does not hurt, but does not caresses neither, - like Serge, who does it gently, but confidently, letting go his own inner fire, - or like Augu who does it painfully, but sweetly. Jules has something in his face what looks like August's features, especially in the eyes, but his own are always calm and soft, the do not have a hint lust. Of Jules just hides it deftly. Gilbert does not like this. He does not take his own eyes off, but it seems Jules ignores it completely, his dark eyes still calmly gliding pages of the book. And although the shadows sharpen the features of his face, it rests calm and serene.
There is only and lit lamp between them and that seems that there is nothing else around because everything off the warm yellow circle of light is lost in the darkness. Gilbert is a little sleepy, but he still does not want to back to his ow room. His heart is still in dismay tear apart and does not know with whom he wants to be – with Serge or Augu. He wants to run away, to forget for a while in the hugs of somebody, as he always does. But today, instead of Blough, Jules found him, and instead for hard loving he receives a cup of hot tea and a soft blanket.
Anyway, this is absolutely not what he really wants right now. He does not like the thought that Jules is the same as his master, "saint" Rosemarine, cold and without the flame of passion inside, to which Gilbert deftly calls out whenever he find himself in someone's hands.
Gilbert refuses to believe that.
He stands up from the sofa, blanket slides off his shoulders. The floor boards creak softly under his bare feet. He make a step, the flame of the lamp has time to reflect with a shudder in Jules' surprised dark eyes and goes out in the next moment. Darkness devours everything.
Another step is hardly audible. A flash of lightening illume the room for a moment. Gilbert touches Jules' open lips, sealing question, which is lyf unasked. Jules' lips are soft. He responds to the kiss carefully and slowly. Gilbert feels the warm fingers touching the loose strand of his hair behind his ear, and rejoices at his own new victory.
But the fingers do not shiver.
Jules moves him off, breading the kiss – although gently, - and quietly put the book on his own laps.
- You try in vain, - he says quietly, his soft voice does not sound excited. – Your affords will be wasted anyway.
Gilbert makes hold a step back and kneels in front of him – it is intimate and almost indecent gesture – trying to look into his eyes at the next lightning flash so that to find a wild flame, which he find in Augu's eyes. But in the dark eyes there is enduring quit. Jules draws Gilbert up to himself, makes to sit him into the armchair and unhurriedly puts the book aside. Gilbert stretches out the hands to his chest hooking the buttons of his shirt, trying to reach his sensitive neck, but Jules catches his fingers in his own hand squeezing slightly, second hand covers him with the shawl. Gilbert cuddles the cheek to Jules' warm side, listening to his heartbeat under the soft dressing gown. But all is in vain because it does not make his heart skip beats. It does not make Jules' breathless. He gently runs his fingers through the light short curls which are still wet with the rain. But in this gesture there is nothing passionate or spicy sensual, but only care in it.
Gilbert becomes disappointed with by that, but he does not pull away. Something flashes deep inside his memory – something of those distant days when he was wrapped up the in the blanket and called for his own mother. When he did not know that his own mother hated him. Drumming of raindrops and delicate touches to his hair lull him. Gilbert is falling asleep fleetly, imaging what would happen if Rosemarine suddenly comes. Doubtless, he would flog him by the stick or the lash. Maybe, Jules would be flogged too. Gilbert giggles quietly to his own thought. Having cuddled himself to the warm side, he falls asleep.
And of course, he does not know that Jules is not indifferent to his touches at all, but Jules just knows how to control himself well enough not to do anything inappropriate.
Too much reason not to do anything inappropriate.
Gilbert quietly breathes in the sleep. The sedative in his cup works as it should. Jules turns his head to the window and stare into the darkness for a long time.
Thunderstorm is not going to stop.
