Baroque

Baroque (Prologue)

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DISCLAIMER:

The Song of the Wind and Trees (Kaze to Ki no Uta) is copyrighted to Keiko Takemiya. The characters of this work are used WITHOUT permission strictly for entertainment and not for sale or profit.

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BEGINNING NOTES:

Those of you who\'ve read the manga know how big of a bummer the story is. One of the appeals of the original, I found, is the seemingly countless directions that the story could take. A tweak here and a change there could trigger a whole new set of options, dictating the course of action while retaining the basic plot.

What I hope to achieve here is to offer Gilbert and Serge o opt options as well (and, dang it, I want to give them a second chance). To do that, I\'m taking much of the basic story elements of Takemiya\'s work and rewriting them to fit my purpose while attempting to retain what we recognize as /Kaze to Ki no Uta/.

Character motivations, backgrounds, and most certainly past and present events will undergo several changes while trying to keep within the parameters set by the original manga. Laconblade Academy, therefore, will still be there though the time will be in the present, not 19th century France, etc. And as I don\'t have access to translations past the second chapter of the first volume, I\'ll be making up names for many of the characters, and my interpretation of the manga will largely be on a surface-level.

This is by no means an attempt at discrediting Takemiya\'s work, but rather a fan\'s own piddling effort at an exploration of the baffling nuances of human nature. Maybe I\'ll succeed, maybe I\'ll fail. It\'ll all come out in the end.

Thanks for reading.

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OGUEOGUE

Gilbert’s eyes slipped shut, pinching themselves close as he grimaced, desperately fighting off the inevitable rush of white heat that had begun to brew in the deeper reaches of his body. He could barely feel his fingers tighten even more as they clawed weakly at the leather, now made warm by his slipping form.

Taking in a deep, ragged breath, he forced his eyes open, blinking them feebly and setting his gaze on a clock that hung across the room from where he was draped and spread out on the large leather armchair on which the school counselor normally sat.

Ten more minutes, he noted without much relief before his body lightly spasmed, and he once again fought off the insistent stirrings.

The counselor wasn’t there. The academic day was over and done with well over an hour ago, and the administration building was a virtual ghost town. He was safe where he was, tucked away in a room that seemed to sag under its own venerable weight. Old books, old busts, and old furniture cluttered the dark-paneled area. The academic archaism of the place dwarfed everything both physically and in essence. Boys who were sent to endure the counselor’s lectures and condescension always felt cowed by the room, and they oftentimes sat in terrified or anxious silence before the man, their gaze barely lifting from the muted richness of the rug at their feet.

Even the light that filtered through the tall windows lining the east wall of the room failed to break through the heaviness and instead merely trickled in, blanketing what surface it could with faint and dull whiteness.

It didn’t seem to hush the abandon with which the two figures were going about their business behind the counselor’s desk, however.

Gilbert sat on the chair--or, rather, he was half-prone on it, having slid down and barely keeping himself from slipping off completely by grabbing hold of the chair’s backrest. Naked, exposed, and spread out with his legs draped on each armrest, small, pale body lightly shimmering with sweat, he was offering himself to the larger boy who knelt before him, diligently and with practiced ease suckling him and readying him for penetration--as if he really needed it.

Ten more minutes, he reminded himself, the thought barely managing to tear through the thick haze in his mind. He hated the way Max always started off treating him like a virgin, showering him with gentle, almost tender attention before dropping all pretense to love and just taking him with a ferocity that almost always guaranteed Gilbert a mind-numbing, shattering, and agonizing climax. The prelude was too slow, and the boy wore himself out by fighting off the rush of pleasure that came so easily to him. Iron control was something for which he continued to struggle, and Max knew it and took full advantage of his weakness--power, after all, required it.

Power, yes. Domination.

Attention.

Gilbert glanced down, his mouth limply hanging open as he watched the head of thick, light brown hair bob rhythmically up and down, alternately increasing and decreasing the warm, wet pressure on his painfully engorged length. Thick fingers held his thighs in place, almost brutally digging into white skin and reinforcing the boys\' respective and undeniably fixed roles.

There was an oddly bittersweet warmth that came with the thought, and Gilbert managed to crack a faint smile at the reassurance before he stumbled, his hold faltering.

Pleasure, fended off bravely for some time now, slipped through his grasp and welled up, pushing its way relentlessly up and outward from his groin. Heat tore jagged paths through his insides, and his body could only respond with a helpless, irregular spasming as he pushed himself against the chair, strangled gasps barely escaping his tightly constricted throat.

No orgasm was intense enough to overcome Max’s grip, and sure enough, it was all the boy codo tdo to push and press his upper-body against whatever piece of furniture it was on which he was cemented, his hands tearing at fabric, leather, or wood, his hips being solidly held in place by the senior’s hands and mouth.

Recovery was slow in coming--perhaps because of the way Max dragged things out more slowly than usual, which triggered a release that tore Gilbert apart. Numbly, the boy was barely even aware of his lover speaking to him as his mind fought to right itself. The haze hadn’t yet dissipated when he realized that he was being pulled to his feet, his body limply complying as he stood on trembling legs and was firmly pushed toward the window.

How much time did they have now? He’d completely forgotten to check the clock.

“You didn’t even bother waiting for me. Oh, well. You like the view from here, right?” Max said, his voice low and dry. Firmly gripping Gilbert by an arm, the larger boy marched up to the window and reached out to pull the thick curtains aside, flooding the room with muted light.

Gilbert was pushed against the glass, where he braced himself, thin fingers splayed on the cold surface as his gaze fixed itself on the wall of rain that continued to pummel the school grounds. Ghostly silhouettes of trees broke up the grayness and seemed to watch him wait to be taken.

Max never bothered with preliminaries. Having had Gilbert before, he’d resorted to quick lube work before penetrating the smaller boy without so much as a warning, and it had taken Gilbert a few encounters to get used to his methods.

And so he was taken--roughly, without much ado, being shoved into the glass till his face was almost pressed against it, the relentless push of Max’s body in his buffered by his arms as he continued to brace himself against the window. Gilbert continued to watch the rain while Max roughly ground himself in him, thick hands once again fixing his hips in place and forcing them up till he was uncomfortably standing on tiptoes to accommodate the other boy’s height.

How old were the trees that peppered the school grounds, he wondered. Behind him Max’s pounding had reached a fevered rhythm and was growing more and more brutal in its desperation. Soft curses and grunts and the occasional “God, yes” punctuated the wetter, more primitive sounds of fucking. Gilbert winced at the occasional stab of discomfort, but his body adapted quite nicely, being used to the older boy’s insatiable drive to take and take, heedless of his needs, and he bent his mind--or, rather, what little focus he had at that moment--on the resurging sensations of pleasure that had begun to rack his tired system.

Max’s breathing and periodic outbursts grew louder and more ragged, signaling his pending completion, and Gilbert couldn’t help but breathe a quick sigh of relief.

Then, with a loud groan, Max planted himself more deeply in the boy, tightening his hold further and forcing a tiny hiss of pain from Gilbert. Sweat-drenched bodies convulsed in unison as the silence was torn by groan after groan of agonized pleasure from the senior and hitched breathing from the sophomore.

Gilbert sagged against the window, pressing his damp forehead against the glass as he continued to stare out into the rain, his fingers curling into limp fists at each side of his head.

Max leaned against him for some time as he slowly recovered before pulling out, giving Gilbert’s rear a playful slap when he did.

“I worship that ass,” he drawled before walking off to the counselor’s desk, where the boys had deposited their uniforms. “Come on,” he called out, and Gilbert reluctantly pulled himself away from the window to follow his companion. Max regarded him complacently, a smug grin of satisfaction lighting up his freckled features. “A five-page biology report requires that I dress you back up.”

Gilbert merely stared at him in weary silence. Max didn’t seem to care and, whistling, proceeded to pull out the younger boy’s clothes from the pile, carefully and methodically putting them on Gilbert as though he were dressing up a life-sized doll. He seemed to get a thrill from the mere act of maneuvering the boy’s limbs into trousers or armholes--a thrill that was made even more palpable in the way he slowly, languidly pulled the fabric up and around exposed skin, hiding it from his own admiring view.

It was the triumph of ownership and nothing else. He’d done it countless times in the past.

Before long both boys were fully clothed. Gilbert was busily tying the red sash around his waist when Max walked up to him, waving some papers in his face with an easy grin.

“Your biology report,” he said. Gilbert merely stared at it in silence before taking it off his hands. “Complete with references, annotations, and all other kinds of shit that Watteau will piss his pants to see.”

“It had better be good,” Gilbert replied, and Max laughed.

“Never question me, Gilbert--unless you\'re asking for a grudge fuck.”

The younger boy could barely prevent a grimace of disgust from contorting his otherwise placid features, which Max caught, forcing more bursts of braying laughter out of his huge, robust frame. He reached out and roughly teased the Gilbert’s already disheveled hair and then stepped back, eyeing his creation cheerfully.

“That’s better,” he noted with a wink. “I want everyone to know that I’ve just had you.”

Without another wohe the turned around and walked out, humming to himself. Left alone, Gilbert watched the door close before looking up to note the time.

They’d barely made the last ten minutes.

**********

There didn’t seem to be no end to the rain, and Serge’s facial muscles were already beginning to twitch from all the grimacing and squinting he had to do.

“The gate’s near,” the boy muttered with a small burst of hope, and he shifted the weight of his bags in his tired and sore arms. The path to the academy was deceptively steep, and Serge was completely winded before he’d even reached the halfway point. He was too exhausted and cold, however, to bend his thoughts on his aunt and their quarrel not ten minutes ago, when the boy was unceremoniously thrown out of the warm and dry car into the thick rain and then ordered to walk the rest of the way to his new school.

What did it matter, anyway? he noted silently with a swift stab of bitterness that he immediately pushed away. She’d always hated him, after all. It was without much effort on her part to show her pleasure at the fact that he would now be spending most of his time away from home and away from her, the reminder of his disgraceful heritage finally swept away from her awareness day after day.

Sniffling and sneezing, the drenched boy moved forward, lugging his bags along and feeling dizzy and ill. He managed to get through the massive gates without much trouble, and he was soon trudging miserably up the rest of the path toward the administration’s front door.

A stout, middle-aged man opened the door for him and regarded him in some amazement at first, his eyes moving up and down his soaked person, before he broke out into a warm, genial smile.

“You walked all the way up here without an umbrella, you silly boy?” he noted in a gravely voice. “Do you know how far this school is from the nearest town?”

“No, sir,” Serge replied as he stepped in, shivering and feeling himself reel from the sudden shock of warmth and dryness that now assailed him. “My aunt dropped me off at the bottom of the hill, and I had to walk the rest of the way.”

The man frowned at the small figure before him. “Dropped you off where?”

“At the bottom of the hill, sir.”

“That’s a long walk up! Whatever on earth did she do that for?”

Serge merely shook his head, flushing, before he exploded in a series of violent sneezes, groaning wretchedly once he’d done. His companion looked mortified.

“I’m sorry. There, there. I shouldn’t be asking too many questions, being only the caretaker here. Let me take you to Mr. Watts’s office since the principal isn’t available at the moment.”

Serge thanked the man and followed him through long, dark hallways, shivering uncontrollably even as his body adjusted to the warmth. He tried to keep his mind off his feverish state by drawing his attention to the seemingly endless rows of portraits that lined the walls. They were all portraits of past administrators, it looked like--dignified and very academic-looking, silver-haired men scowling from their massive frames, their figures imposing under somber-colored mortarboards and university gowns. Serge felt a mixture of anticipation and nervousness from the silent scrutiny that he received from all around, eventually averting his eyes and fixing them on his soaked shoes instead, watching with vague interest the tiny droplets of water bubbling up from the stitches with every step he took.

They exited the building and hurried through the rain to reach another large, imposing structure that seemed to stretch forever toward the west. On entering, Serge was once again led through more hallways and again subjected to the stern looks of long-gone professors and administrators.

They presently stopped before a massive door--one that looked no different from all the other massive doors that they’d passed--and Serge was cheerfully ushered through.

“Here I leave you in the capable hands of Mr. Watts, dear boy,” the caretaker declared, his round, weathered face wrinkling from a broad, effusive grin as he took his leave. A light of concern sparkled from his small eyes as they peered out at him from under thick, graying brows, but he was gone before Serge could be sure of it.

“Ah, welcome, welcome!” a strong, guttural voice cried from one side of the room, making Serge jump a little. The boy turned and found a tall, golden-haired man stand up from behind a desk and hobble toward him, expertly maneuvering himself through the piles of books that littered the floor. He walked with a cane, which gave off soft thumps on the rug.

“I’m the dormitory superintendent in this academy,” he continued, stretching out his free hand, which Serge shyly took in his. The boy momentarily felt a surge of fear at the sight of his tanned fingers curled around Watts’s pale ones.

Would the man notice, he wondered as he pulled his gaze away and tried to look more blasé than he really felt. He was unspeakably tired and heartsick, hungry and cold--the last thing he needed was someone giving him yet another difficult moment over the color of his skin. He’d had enough insults for the day from his own aunt.

“I’m Serge Battouille, sir,” he replied, and his anxiety rose when the man froze in mid-handshake, his eyes widening.

“Battouille?” he echoed. Serge was ready to flee the room if needed. “Not the son of Aslan Battouille?”

It was Serge’s turn to turn wide-eyed as he nodded. “Yes, sir. My father went to school here, I was told.”

“Good lord!” the man suddenly cried, and without warning, he pulled the boy close for a hug, his voice rising up in hearty laughter. “Good lord, good l goo good lord! Aslan Battouille’s boy! Oh, how I miss those insane days with your father!”

He presently released the confounded boy, stepping back to observe the still-shivering figure closely now, his grin broad and irrepressible. He shook his head after a moment of awed silence. “I am sorry for frightening you, my dear boy,” he said. “It’s just that your father and I were classmates before, and we were the best of friends. You can’t even begin to imagine all the fun and idiotic things we did and got away with in our youth--well--before he met your mother, of course.”

Here Watts paused, his smile softening to one that was more wistful and even rueful. Serge thought he saw a mist dull the man’s eyes for a moment before it was blinked away.

“Your mother was a beautiful woman,” he noted with some reverence. “I can see her--both Aslan and Paiva, I mean--in you. You’re so much like your parents that…”

Watts once again paused and caught himself, finally turning around and hobbling back to his desk, his head now bowed.

“My parents are both dead, sir,” Serge piped up, blinking for a moment at some confusion. What on earth compelled him to share that bit of information? “They died when I was just five, and my aunt took me in.”

Watts nodded as he took his seat, his air now melancholy. “I know, dear boy. I know. I was told of the accident. I was at their funeral. I barely remember seeing you being pulled around by that--by your aunt.” He sighed and cracked another smile as he reached for a phone. “Well, look now! How can I go around, moaning about the past, when you’re standing there, soaked to the bone? Let me call Carl and have some tea brought in. Go stand next to the fire. Hurry, or you’ll catch a fever.”

Serge nodded and stammered his thanks, moving toward an antique hearth that glowed with a bright, warm fire. There the boy planted himself, feeling the heat infuse his body with a most welcome sense of comfort. As they waited, he was treated to several anecdotes regarding his father, all of which he’d never had the pleasure of hearing before. How could he, after all, when he was so young--much too young--when his parents were forcibly taken from him? And as he listened, he quietly took note of his surroundings--of the merry clutter of books and all sorts of academic accoutrements that lent a very cozy, lived-in feel to the room. Everything was in disarray, with several things lying scattered all over, but none of them seemed to feel like disorganized clutter.

It was, in every sense of the word, a scholar’s room.

Tea eventually arrived, which was followed by the appearance of a tall boy about Serge’s age. He walked in and was immediately introduced as Carl Mise, the sophomore class’s student supervisor. Serge once again felt an immediate pang of anxiety when Carl walked up to him, smiling gently as he offered his hand to shake. Would the taller boy notice how tanned his skin was, and what would he do about it?

Tanned skin--a brand of shame as his aunt had repeatedly told him before--the mark of a prostitute’s son. The first time Serge was told that was the day of his parents’ funeral, when he was surrendered to the care of his reluctant aunt, who’d never forgiven her brother for running off with what she called “gutter trash,” thereby dragging the Battouille name through the mud.

But Carl didn’t seem to notice anything.

“How do you do?” he said, shaking Serge’s hand heartily. “I’m the one you’ll have to answer to, I’m afraid, when Mr. Watts isn’t around to keep you all in line.”

Serge returned his smile, feeling himself relax, finally.

“Do you always look like a seminarian?” he blurted out, unable to stop himself, before coloring profusely at his blunder.

Carl merely laughed along with Watts.

The boy was dressed in a modified Jesuit cassock, the black gown itself sheared to knee-length. Dull gold thinly lined the edges of the collar, sleeves, and flap, echoing the dull gold of the buttons that ran the length of the cassock. A bright red sash was wound twice around Carl’s waist and knotted at one side, the extra fabric hanging down almost gracefully to the boy’s knees. Black trousers and polished black shoes finished the ensemble. And with the way Carl’s short, dark hair seemed to be carefully combed into place as well as the way the boy carried himself, it almost looked as though he was training for the holy orders.

“We all look like seminarians,” Carl replied, still laughing. “You will, too, Serge. This is our uniform.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Carl waved him over to the tray of tea and sweet treats that awaited him, and Serge gratefully accepted the invitation. And as the famished boy virtually inhaled his snack and felt his strength and humor return, Carl and Watts conferred over sleeping arrangements.

“Are there any spare rooms in Dorm B?”

“No, sir.”

“Dorm C?”

“No.”

“Dorm A?”

“Yes, but I don’t think we should put him there. The seniors are too rough.”

“Of course, of course.”

There was a moment’s pause before Carl spoke again.

“Sir--there is a spare bed in Dorm B…”

“Carl…”

“No, wait--it’s only practical, sir,” Carl interrupted, speaking emphatically. “I don’t want to see Serge living with upper-classmen and getting bullied day after day. And--I’m sure Gilbert wouldn’t mind.”

Watts hesitated as he turned his attention to the still-eating boy. Serge watched them in some wonder, but he couldn’t help but trust them. They didn’t eye him warily when he appeared, overlooking what he considered to be the mark of his shame and welcoming him with wide open arms. They liked him, and he liked them back. He was certain that they’d know what would be best for him--a newcomer and an outcast.

“Anywhere’s fine with me, sir. I don’t even mind if my roommate’s a troublemaker,” he said with an encouraging smile, and Carl nodded, giving Watts a knowing look.

Watts merely cocked an eyebrow at Serge. “You say that with a lot of confidence,” he remarked with a crooked little sm


“Yes, sir. I can take care of myself.”

Carl cleared his throat as he still watched the older man. Watts finally nodded. “Fine then. We’ll set you up in Room 17--and see how you like it. Carl, find Gilbert and tell him. I don’t think he’ll appreciate having a surprise sprung at him.”

“Really--sounds like a contradiction in terms, almost,” Carl muttered under his breath, but Serge caught his words still though he didn’t pursue it. Surely this Gilbert wouldn’t mind his presence too much.

Carl opened the door and stepped out, disappearing for several minutes before returning, shaking his head at Watts. “Don’t know where he is right now, sir. I’ll have to show Serge to his room without telling Gilbert. He needs to change and rest.”

“Where in God’s name is the boy? It’s almost dinner time!”

Carl pressed his mouth shut and shrugged, avoiding Watts’s questioning look as he quickly turned away to smile a little self-consciously at Serge. “Are you ready?”

“I am, thanks.” Serge rose after gingerly wiping his mouth. He turned to the dormitory superintendent, who was now watching him carefully--almost expectantly--from behind the desk. “Thank you for the tea and cakes, sir.”

“Don’t mention it, dear boy. Just go follow Carl and get some good night’s sleep. You’ve had a pretty rough trip getting to this point.”

A vague smile from the man alerted Serge that Watts was referring to more than just his journey from his aunt’s car to the gates of Laconblade Academy. He bowed slightly and collected his bags, declining Carl’s offer of help politely as he followed the taller boy out into the hallway.

Carl was a pretty easy person with whom to get along, Serge learned rather quickly. The student supervisor was friendly and very solicitous for his comfort, pestering him every twenty feet if he felt feverish and whether or not he required any medical assistance for his cold. Serge could only reassure him laughingly, feeling himself grow warmer toward the other boy. He’d never before encountered one who accepted him unconditionally, without any hesitation, especially on their first meeting.

Carl’s kindness, when seen in light of the dignity with which he carried himself, impressed Serge immensely, and he couldn’t help but hang on to the other boy’s words with all the faith and unerring trust with which a puppy would receive its new master.

I’m going to like it here, he told himself, a wide smile now creasing his face as he walked down the hallways beside his new friend. Suddenly the formidable portraits of scowling academics didn’t feel so overbearing anymore, and he didn’t even feel the painful weigf hif his bags in his hands.

The two boys had reached the stairs when Carl suddenly paused, glancing up in some surprise.

“Oh!” he cried. “There you are! Gilbert!”

A slight movement at the top of the first flight of steps arrested Serge’s attention, and he watched as a figure materialized from the shadows to peer over the balustrade.

“What?”

“You have a roommate!”

Silence.

Serge watched the quiet, still form bend over the railing, noting with vague fascination the halo of disheveled gold hair that tumbled into the boy’s face, throwing it into even more shadows, obscuring his features completely.

“Gilbert! Did you hear me?” Carl pursued.

“Yes, I heard you. I have a roommate.”

Carl sighed. “Serge, this is Gilbert. You’ll be sharing living space with him.”

“How do you do?” Serge called out, flinching a little at the way his voice sounded so shrill and thin in his ears.

Gilbert merely nodded before disappearing from view. Serge, however, could hear his footsteps on the stairs--slow, dragging, and weary.

He must’ve had a bad day in school, he told himself as he glanced at Carl, who continued to watch the second floor landing, fine, gentle features now darkened by a frown.

“Gilbert!” he called out again. “Where’ve you been?”

A heavy sigh followed. “I was working on my biology paper,” Gilbert replied as he continued to walk up the stairs. “It’s due tomorrow, remember?”

No one spoke after that. Nothing but the faint sound of Gilbert’s tired steps reached Serge’s ears. Not even the insistent pounding of rain against the nearby windows managed to stifle them.

(tbc)