Chapter Text
When he saw Mr. Robertson push back his desk chair and stand, a thick stack of test papers in hand, Jon closed his eyes and began to pray. 70%. 70%, a C-, was all he needed. He heard his teacher walking around the room and he tensed, eyes screwed shut. 70%, please, please.
Mr. Robertson passed his desk and he head a soft noise as his paper dropped onto his desk. Jon’s eyes flew open and his heart sank. 69% stared back at him, the D+ grade written in a quick scrawl over his name marker.
Jon grumbled to himself, head in his hands, “D-plus.”
“Study more,” Mr Robertson said, passing a marked test to his neighbour, “Vocabulary is the cornerstone of the language.”
“I was only a mark off...” Jon said.
“One mark can mean a lot,” Mr Robertson moved through the isles of desks, “People often miss by a mark.”
“Can’t you round up?” Jon whined, “All I need is—”
A sharp pain in Jon’s side cut him off and he spun around. A boy he didn’t recognise sat beside him, pencil still outstretched. The boy was dark, with shockingly pale green eyes and black hair so dark it was almost blue. His sharp eyebrows were drawn together.
“You’re so loud,” The boy snarled, “Stop complaining.”
“Sorry,” Jon said, on instinct, “My parents needed me to get a C-.”
“Why didn’t you study, then?” The boy snapped.
“I did study!” Jon said, “I did all of the worksheets.”
“Well, no wonder you failed,” The boy said, “This man’s teaching is atrocious. Self study is your only hope.”
“How was I supposed to know that?” Jon whined, “And that doesn’t really help me now. When I did practice tests—”
Quick as a viper striking, the boy ripped the test from Jon’s hands and began flipping through it. His heavy eyebrows furrowed deeply, until he scanned the last page and his expression changed to a smug satisfaction.
“Mr Robertson,” The boy said, loudly.
“Yes, Damian,” Mr. Robertson turned.
“You’ve marked Intéresser’s english translation as to interest being the only correct one, and so marked Kent’s answer of to affect as wrong,” Damian said, “But Intéresser can mean both. For example, La balle a traversé son corps sans intéresser les poumons. In that phrase it means affects. Your marking is wrong.”
“Oh,” Mr. Robertson adjusted his glasses, regarding the boy with surprise, “Yes, I think so. Sorry, Jon, you can change that mark.”
Damian dropped the paper back onto Jon’s desk with a scoff, “Amateur.”
“Thank you so much,” Jon shuffled through the paper to change the mark, “I don’t think I’ve seen you in class before.”
“You’re not very observant,” Damian said, “I transferred into your school yesterday.”
“Your name’s Damian, right?” Jon asked, “I’m Jonathan Kent.”
“I know, I read the name on your paper.”
“Your French is really good. Are you fluent?” Jon peered over his arm to see Damian’s test had 100% scrawled across the top.
“Obviously,” Damian said.
“It must be pretty boring to be in these lessons,” Jon said, “like you’re sitting in on kindergarten lessons again or something.”
“I imagine so,” Damian drawled, “I never went to kindergarten.”
“You didn’t?” Jon frowned at him, “Where—”
“Boys,” Mr Robertson said, loudly, “Stop talking.”
*
Jon didn’t see Damian in his biology class after lunch, though he kept an eye out for him. When Damian wasn’t in the changing rooms for gym, Jon decided that the other boy’s presence in his French class was just a fluke. That was, until Jon followed the other boys onto the field and saw Damian lounging by the goal posts.
Jon sprinted up to him, “Damian! You weren’t in the changing room.”
“I changed in the bathroom,” Damian said. He was sitting in the sun, eyes closed and basking.
“Why’s that?” Jon asked.
“I like my privacy.”
Damian wasn’t quite dressed in the school’s gym uniform. He wore the right shirt and shorts, but underneath them, he wore a long-sleeved shirt and dark gym leggings. From the hollow of his throat to his toes he was covered up, except for his hands.
“Aren’t you hot?” Jon asked.
In lieu of an answer, Damian’s eyes snapped open and he rolled to his feet. He began to stretch, catlike. He was shorter than Jon by half a head, with slimmer shoulders, but even though his sleeves it was clear from the small bulk of muscle that he wasn’t a stranger to exercise.
“Boys, gather round,” The gym instructor beckoned them all closer and began the lesson.
It was summer, and most of the boys were buzzing with energy. The gym instructor split them into two teams and started a soccer game. At first, he stuck close to Damian, until the boy informed him, firmly, that they were on opposite teams so would be enemies for the hour.
Jon really enjoyed soccer. In the summer, every step kicked up the fresh smell of grass, the wind smelled fresh and clean. He enjoyed the challenge of stealing the ball, the thrill of a victory—even just the running around, although he had to be careful not to run too fast.
Still, that game was different. Jon could feel Damian’s eyes on him, watching him like a hawk.
*
Jon spotted Damian in his English class next period, but the boy was sitting on the other side of the classroom. Jon focused on his work, but stole glances over at Damian when he had the chance. The other boy looked bored, scratching at his papers which Jon suspected were doodles.
When the bell rang for the end of the day, Jon stuffed his belongings back into his bags and bounded across the classroom, “Damian, let’s cycle home together.”
Damian was still closing his books and putting them in his bag, “You don’t even know where I live.”
“Well, where do you live?” Jon said.
Damian closed his backpack and threw it over his shoulder. By now most of the class had already filtered out into the hallway, but there were still groups of kids who clumped together, talking and laughing, which Damian had to navigate around.
Just as Jon hoped, Damian headed for the bike shed. His bike was a little bigger than Jon’s, with a sleek black frame and yellow-tinted wheels. It was a road bike, light and slim, with broad and narrow wheels. Jon unlocked his smaller, kid’s bike with its chunky wheels.
“I live near the smith farm,” Damian said, when he saw Jon was still following him, “Southward, over the hill.”
“No way!” Jon beamed, “You’re practically my neighbour!”
Damian frowned, swinging a leg over his bike, “I won’t slow down for you.”
“Don’t worry,” Jon said, climbing onto his saddle, bag already resting in the front basket, “I’m probably faster than you, anyway.”
Damian scoffed and pushed off, rolling into the road. He started to peddle, but only a little, letting the bike glide down the shallow slope. Jon peddled hard to catch up with him.
The sun was low in over the hills, but the sky was still a bright, cheery blue. A few clouds clustered over the treetops. The air was cool and fresh. Barely any cars passed them as they rode, but it was always like that. Jon’s route home was usually lonely—most people lived in the other direction, closer to town—and even those who lived in Jon’s direction usually drove home.
Jon kept his eyes fixed to Damian. He couldn’t explain his fascination with the new boy, but he wanted to know everything about him. But the other boy had a distant look, and as minutes of silence passed it seemed harder and harder to say something.
As they rode, the sun sunk a little lower in the sky. It was that point in summertime that was teeming with hot evenings that seemed to stretch on forever. Flies buzzed over the road in tiny clouds.
They passed Jon’s farmhouse, but Jon still hadn’t managed to say anything, and he had a strange feeling that Damian was about to slip away into the night and he wouldn’t see him again. So Jon rode on in silence, along the darkening roads.
Together, the two of them climbed the steep hill that was south of the Kent house, and finally Jon saw another house in the distance. He’d never been very close—it was someone else’s property and was too far away from anything to drive past.
As they approached, Jon realised it was bigger than he had assumed from a distance. It was around twice the size of Jon’s house, and relatively new. The white walls of the large cottage gleamed like a pearl in the sunset.
Damian slowed as they approached the house and stopped at the bottom of the long drive.
“Damian, can I ask a question?” Jon asked, peddling faster to draw level with him. He jumped off his bike
“You’re probably gonna ask me anyway,” Damian said, although when he glanced over his shoulder his expression was less irritated than usual. Jon took that as a good sign.
“If you’re fluent in French,” Jon said, “why don’t you do AP French? Or even skip grades?”
Damian tutted, “If I skipped grades for every subject I was sufficiently over-educated in, I would’ve graduated already.”
“But still,” Jon said, “Maybe it would be more interesting—”
“What about you, then?” Damian asked, “I noticed you were holding back in gym class. You tripped up and you gave up the ball far more than you should have.”
“I’m just kind of clumsy,” Jon said, startled.
“No. I’m certain it was deliberate,” Damian said, climbing off his bike, “For whatever reason, you’re faking ineptitude.”
“Uh, no,” Jon waved his hands, “I’m really, really just—”
Damian’s hands flew to Jon’s face, his palms pressed into Jon’s cheeks. Damian’s thumb brushed against Jon’s eyelash. Jon’s brain felt like it was short-circuiting. He forgot what he had been saying, his tongue thick in his open mouth.
“I knew it,” Damian’s eyes narrowed, “You’ve cycled all this way and you’re not even hot.”
Jon knew he should say something, but he couldn’t get his brain to work. Damian was very close. His hands were surprisingly rough against Jon’s face, his fingers battered and calloused.
Damian released him and returned to his bike. He began wheeling it up his path, “See you tomorrow, Kent.”
Jon closed his mouth. He only remembered he hadn’t said goodbye a few moments later, and by then Damian had already disappeared into his house. Jon stared up at the house for a long while. He swallowed.
His face tingled a little, where Damian’s hands had been. He turned his bike around and set off back down the hill, thinking to himself, it was a good thing Damian hadn’t tested him then. His cheeks were now very hot indeed.