Chapter Text
The mind-numbing pop music on Radio V hissing out of the school gym’s speakers is interrupted only by the clank!-clank!-clank! of iron against iron as Billy Butcher heaves and drops a hefty load of weight at the bench press machine. His muscles flex with practised ease, and he’s barely broken a sweat. Independent Gym is about the only course he’s guaranteed to show up to – and certainly the only one he’s good at. This is his first year at Vought Central High School, and only his (fifth? sixth? seventh?) seventh month in the US.
Transferred from the UK in disgrace for “behavioural issues” that simply couldn’t be strongly-worded, lectured or – in his father’s case – beaten out of him, Butcher can’t understand how he’s expected to turn into a model student in what is, in his mind, the most lawless, backwards country in the world. Even his Aunt Judy, who he’s been assigned to the care of, is a damned soft touch. At least roast dinners aren’t too far away, even in this godforsaken nation. It’s nice to be a whole continent away from his father’s fists, too, though his shadow lingers.
These damn Yank teachers can tell him he has a “problem with authority” all they want. The fact of the matter is – of the two only people who have any real, legal authority over him – one has beaten him and his brother bloody since before they could walk; and the other just fucking watched.
No, Billy Butcher doesn’t have a “problem with authority”. Authority is the problem. He only hopes to hell that somehow, some way, his scrap of a little brother Lenny will snap, start acting out, and get transferred over here with him. No matter that Lenny’s a golden child, a rule follower, if “a bit quiet and isolated”, so say his teachers. Butcher needs Lenny to go fucking buck wild enough to get sent to America with him. That way, once Lenny’s safe from his old man, maybe his shadow will leave Butcher, too.
For now, all Butcher has is Aunt Judy – and the ragtag bunch of misfits he’s fallen in with. It’s only the third day of school and, already, Butcher’s had detention every evening. So, though, have the three freaks he’s managed to corral around him. They’re fine enough: they listen to him, they think he’s cool and tough and (apart from that mute one) they’re okay banter, too.
Next to him, doing leg extensions at the max weight, is MM. Marvin Milk is his full name, but that’s poncy as shit, and Butcher wouldn’t be caught dead talking to someone called Marvin. MM’s an alright bloke, probably the best of the lot, and he’s a senior just like Butcher. He’s strong as hell, too, especially for just 18, and he’s the Co-Captain of the Boxing Club. It must give Butcher a little prestige to be associated with him, right?
He’s a little… off, though. MM’s got these weird, obsessive habits: always squirting hand gel all over his palms, up his wrists, as far up his arms as his shirt allows him. But he’s smart, methodical – and he’s one of the Math tutors this year, which means Butcher can guilt him for all the answers during his mandatory tutoring after school. He’s already had one tutoring session – scheduled after his first day of school, to boot. Butcher guesses the teachers are scrambling to get him to pass, though, because he’s 19 and has just started senior year, having been held back twice.
Butcher isn’t too worried about any of that. Truth be told, he’s waiting for the education system to give up on him so he can fuck off and join the army or some shit. Shoot some cunts. Proper exciting shit. No luck, though. Not until the Yanks get sick of him, too. Butcher has a gnawing fear that, after that, they might just send him off to another country, then another, then another, and he’ll be stuck doing Algebra II until he dies.
They might even send him to France next, Butcher thinks with a shudder. Then he’d be forced to take that French junior that hangs around with them as a translator. His name is Serge Les Saints, but it’s easier – and more fitting – to just call him Frenchie. He’s a few benches down, though he’s making little use of his Independent Gym period. He’s smudged in chalk dust somehow, although Butcher doubts he’s been lifting anything, holding a pink water bottle with faded flower decals, leaning against the wall and looking lovesick.
He’s looking, of course, at his girlfriend, absolutely flat-out in a sprint on the treadmills. Kimiko Miyashiro, also a junior, though at 16, she’s a few months younger than Frenchie. She’s a hell of an athlete, though. It’s a wonder why she hasn’t joined any clubs after school, but she’s a bit of a lone wolf. She only hangs around with Butcher and MM because Frenchie does, stalking after the group in silence.
Butcher isn’t 100% sure that she’s actually mute at all. Sure, she has a whole course slot taken up with Speech and Language Support sessions, essentially giving her course credits for doing fuck-all, but he isn’t convinced it isn’t all a convenient act for being really antisocial. At any rate, she doesn’t really try to communicate: those little laminated cards given to her that say “Sad”, “Happy”, “Yes”, “No”, “Help please” never see the light of day. Instead, she lurks at the edge of their circle, having what seems to be telepathic conversations with Frenchie, looking into his eyes and darting away, widening her eyes, blinking hard, and then Frenchie will reply.
She has some sort of rudimentary gestural language, but it isn’t ASL – or even whatever sign language they use over in Japan. Frenchie’s learning it, somehow. Whenever he’s mad at the rest of the group – or just wants to flirt with Kimiko – he signs to her, and she laughs. It pisses Butcher off something rotten. How would he know if they were talking shit about him, right in front of his face?
Right now, at least, Frenchie’s just making puppy eyes at her as she runs full-pelt on the treadmill. It still turns Butcher’s stomach.
There are a few others in the gym, but none of them who Butcher knows. It’s a relatively small group: most students are athletically-inclined enough to pick a sport for their PE credit – or, at least, sociable enough to have a group of friends to play basketball with, or something. You’re only in Independent Gym if you: A) hate people, or B) fucking suck at all things physical.
One of the lads in the gym is clearly, painfully clearly, of group B. A junior, Butcher thinks; he’s seen him come out of Kimiko and Frenchie’s 11th grade English class. Distinctive kid, but stands out for all the wrong reasons. First, he’s about eleven feet tall. Well, maybe not, he’s probably just about Butcher’s height, really, but he just seems so long. He’s all limbs: stickman limbs flopping from his skull, and nothing much else. He’s got a wild mop of curly hair on top of that pencil-straight body, which just makes him look like one of those inflatable dancing tubes outside of a car dealership. He looks like he’d weigh less than six stone soaking wet – and half of that’d be all wild hair and huge, blue bug-eyes.
Yes, Butcher’s certain he’s seen him before. You couldn’t exactly mistake him for anyone else. Henry, his name is. Or was it Harry? H-something, anyway. It isn’t really the name that sticks in your mind, by any means. It’s the sheer fucking hopelessness of the kid.
He isn’t even helping himself, for God’s sake! At least if he got himself on the treadmill, did a slow little walk for the whole session, he’d have a shot at looking halfway normal. But no, the lad’s decided he’s going to give weight-lifting a shot. He’s a tall kid, but it wouldn’t surprise Butcher if he was the lightest in the room. He’s got a white-knuckled, shaky grip on a barbell stacked with – what’s that? 25KG? – and he looks about stooped enough to topple right over.
Christ. Well, at least the kid had the good sense to pick this, instead of football or some shit. Jesus, they’d eat him alive out there. Probably squash him.
It isn’t ideal, though, that the kid’s huffing and puffing – and wheezing, every so often – right next to Butcher as he’s trying to get a good pump on. Butcher can handle it about three more wheezes before he drops the bench press with a slam!
“Oi,” He grunts. The lad doesn’t seem to hear him over his own suffering, or maybe he can’t imagine anyone’s choosing to talk to him. Hell, what was his name? “Oi,” he says again, and takes a stab in the dark at– “Hughie!”
The kid flinches and drops the bar. The plate only misses his toes by an inch. “Y-yeah?” He whimpers, like Butcher’s about to fucking deck him right here, for breathing a little loud.
“Can you pipe it down over there, lad?” Butcher tuts. “Don’t need to hear you huffin’ an’ puffin’ and knockin’ down the Three Little Pig’s houses.”
It’s a bit of banter. A bit rude, maybe, but he’s a lad. It’s a bit of healthy gym talk.
But the kid – Hughie – turns bright red, and starts stammering, “sorry, I’m sorry, I–”. Butcher swears to fucking God, if this kid cries, he will actually sock him in the face. He just turns around though, shielding his burning face from Butcher, and pretends to tie his shoe.
MM extricates himself from his machine. “Real nice, Butcher.”
“Fuck’d I do?” Butcher scoffs. “Kid needs to man up.”
“He’s just a junior, man. Lay off.”
“Pssh, what’s a year?”
“A year? Nothing.” MM pokes him in the chest. “But you’re 19, and you should know better. Kid must be 16, maybe 17.” MM shakes his head and walks away to the rowing machine. As he goes he tuts, “Messin’ with kids…”
Butcher huffs. He doesn’t get what all that fucking fuss was about. It’s not like he went up, kicked the kid in the nuts and called him a fag, is it?
(Matter of fact, that was Hughie he saw yesterday in the halls, wasn’t it? Being kicked in the nuts and called a fag? Huh. Small world.)
By the next week, Butcher’s forgotten that the kid from gym even exists. He’s made it through the rest of Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and already the first day of this week with one detention scheduled for the end of every single day. Go figure. The only thing that gets him out of Monday’s detentions is his goddamn mandatory algebra tutoring – and even then, it’s a toss-up between where he’d rather be.
The only saving grace is that MM is his peer tutor. They’ve become something like friends since their group came together on the first day’s detention: Butcher in for swearing (which he’s pretty sure is a hate crime against the British); MM for fighting when his anger issues got too much; Frenchie for getting caught smoking; Kimiko for… actually, she might have just been hanging out for Frenchie. But even MM can’t save Butcher from Algebra II.
He’s “resitting” it, whatever that means when he never “sat” it in the first place: it’s his first fucking stint in a Yank school. He’s pretty sure it’s just meant to patronise him, or something. Either way, it means MM, well on track with the usual 12th grade program of Pre-Calc, gets the joy of tutoring Butcher on the 11th grade material. It should be simple: MM sits next to him, explains Xs and Ys like a SeaWorld trainer trying to tell a dolphin it needs to jump – no, jump – no, jump. Butcher sits there nodding, writes nothing, and eventually waits for MM to get irritated and just pencil in the numbers for him. It’s a flawless system.
Or, it was, until Ms. Baker, the Algebra II teacher, calls MM over before their Monday session.
MM returns a minute later with a look on his face that falls somewhere between apologetic and “I told you so”.
“They’re switching your peer tutor,” MM says with a shrug. “You gotta go to M-5 next door.”
“The fuck?” Butcher scoffs. “What for? I’ve been doin’ great work.”
MM raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, a little too great. Ms. Baker got suspicious, so. New tutor.”
Butcher curses, slams the table, and incurs a harsh glare from Ms. Baker. He wrenches his bag up off the floor, tosses his pencil in, crumples his worksheets somewhere into the abyss, and stomps over to room M-5 without even closing his bag. A few sheets of paper fall out into the hallway. MM follows him, if only to make sure he’s actually going to his tutoring instead of escaping the school, and picks up the stray papers on the way.
Butcher barges into the room, takes one look, and turns back. He slams right into MM’s chest.
“Butcher–” MM sighs.
“Fuck no.”
“You gotta–”
“Fuck no!”
Standing just in front of the desk with another math teacher, Mr. Hodgson, is that tall, awkward string bean from Independent Gym. The same kid that nearly burst into tears when Butcher spoke to him. With a Star Wars hoodie that’s massively too wide for him, a collection of textbooks held close to his chest like he’s protecting himself from being shot, and an expression like he’s just been dropped into the lion’s den – is Hughie.
“Him?” Butcher barks, incredulous. “He’s a junior! We’re studyin’ the same fuckin’ course!”
MM shakes his head with a grim expression, like he knows what he’s about to say will only incense Butcher further. “He’s in my Pre-Calc. He skipped a year.” He winces, then adds, “He’s good.”
“Fuck that.” Butcher tries to shove past MM but, hell, he’s not Boxing Co-Captain for nothing. He’s a wall of muscle that won’t let Butcher out into the hall.
He holds out the sheets of paper that fell from Butcher’s bag, stony-faced. “I don’t got a choice in this, man.” He shrugs. “You keep makin’ me give you the answers.”
Butcher rolls his eyes. “You narc-ed on me.”
“I didn’t narc on shit. But when you start getting 100s on your work, I mean, come on. It’s a little bit obvious.” MM pats him twice on the shoulder. “Good luck, man. For real.” Then, as he turns back to room M-4, he whispers, “Be nice to him.”
Butcher kicks his backpack into the room and leans against the door as it closes, arms crossed. Hughie approaches from the front of the room with the laboured dread of a man approaching the gallows. Mr. Hodgson points to one of the desks, already set up with pencils, rulers and erasers, like he’s assigning a cell to Butcher. Or to Hughie. Both of them, perhaps.
Butcher sprawls into a chair with an overly-dramatic sigh, chin high, staring Hughie down. He doesn’t say a word. Hughie sits down beside him slowly, like Butcher might bite, and quietly sets the textbooks onto the desk. He opens it to the spread that corresponds with Butcher’s crumpled worksheets. Stares at it. Then at Butcher. Then back at the book.
With both boys seated, Mr. Hodgson leaves the room for a while. No doubt he’ll pop back in every ten minutes or so to make sure they haven’t killed one another, like Ms. Baker does, but they’re essentially alone. Hughie visibly pales.
“S-so, um…” Hughie squeaks like he’s just hit puberty. He continues in a strange, wobbly voice, trying for professional and landing squarely on terrified. “We’re supposed to work through the first five questions together, and then see if you can do the next five–”
“Pass,” Butcher grunts.
“…Pass?”
Butcher taps a finger on the worksheets in front of him. “I ain’t doin’ it.”
“Oh.” Hughie swallows. “Well, y’know, I’m supposed to… I mean, I don’t wanna get in trouble if– if Mr. Hodgson comes back and I’m not… y’know, doing math.”
Butcher snorts. “Then do some math.”
Hughie pauses. And then the kid just… starts doing his own homework. Right next to him. And, well, Butcher was kinda shooting for getting the lad to do his work but, honestly, as long as he gets to sit around doing fuck-all, he’s alright with that.
But then he starts muttering.
“Okay, so, this is, like, not the same as yours, but it’s pretty similar, and I don’t wanna write on yours in case I get in trouble for plagiarism, so…” Hughie tilts his own worksheet so Butcher can see it. He pretends not to watch, but there’s precious little else to look at in here, so he follows the nonsense scribbles the kid makes. “Right, so, this is the quadratic formula, same as in your stuff, so it’s not that much different… So, we put ‘A’ here, ‘B’ here, and this is ‘C’. And then you can fill in…”
It all fades away after a little while, which Butcher is grateful for. But then, little by little, it fades back in – because the kid’s fucking ridiculous.
Hughie, apparently, feels the need to narrate his entire thought process to survive. Like a hamster wheel, the words must keep pushing onwards to power the action. So he whispers his mistakes to himself, huffs in frustration, chastises himself, then works his way through the logic to the correct way to answer the question, step by step, simply.
And it’s funny. Not in a mean way – just genuinely, stupidly, accidentally funny.
And– Butcher stares at the kid’s worksheet as he goes, accidentally explaining – in the simplest, most common-sense terms – why this is how it works.
And no one’s ever explained to Butcher why math works. Well, technically, nobody is explaining it: he’s just overhearing the whizzing thoughts of a kid doing his homework from a brain that makes sense to Butcher.
Wait. Wait, shit – this is making sense.
Fuck, no. Don’t fucking encourage him. He’ll probably wet himself if he thinks Butcher actually gives a shit about math. Butcher keeps his posture rigid, expression bored to death, and jaw clenched tight so he doesn’t accidentally smirk when the lad trips over his own thoughts.
Hughie glances up once, sees that Butcher is looking, and panics; rambles faster.
“A-anyway, um, that’s just how I do it– It’s not technically right, um, you should probably just do it, like, how the book tells you, um… And, sorry, I talk to myself– when I’m thinking– I know it’s kind of stupid? People think it’s annoying– sorry, I can try to shut up, if it’s bothering you–”
“Christ,” Butcher mutters, “you ever breathe, mate?”
Hughie shuts his mouth instantly. There’s the quiet, yet unmistakeable, intake of breath, shaky, as if Hughie really had forgotten to breathe all this time.
Then, very quietly:
“…Sorry.”
Hughie makes a visible, conscious effort to shut his mouth after that one word.
And Butcher, entirely against his will, almost smiles.
Not quite! Christ, not quite. But almost.
The rest of the week passes in a blur of mind-numbing classes (when he shows up), smoke breaks behind the bike shed with Frenchie (when he doesn’t), and detentions (seemingly whether he shows up or not). Thankfully, Mondays are his only tutoring days so, save for Wednesday gym sessions in which he ignores the lad, Butcher sees no more of Hughie. By Friday, Butcher’s second week at Vought Central is nearly over – and he’s no better of a student, no more trusting of authority, and no closer to finding the school’s meatloaf palatable. Most lunches, he dumps his tray in MM’s lap, and bums a cigarette from Frenchie as a meal replacement. That’s about the extent of his personal development in school thus far.
He has a detention this evening, though. Obviously. And it runs long. Of course. Long enough that, when it lets out, it’s at about the same time that Hughie and his fellow nerds are bouncing out of their Friday CompSci Club, chattering in the hall until there’s absolutely no more to say about The Phantom Menace, and splitting off to their lockers; to the bathroom; to the exit to go home. Hughie makes his way down the corridor to his locker, wanting to drop off a few books he doesn’t need weighing his bag down, and pick up his Physics textbook to get a head-start on Monday’s class.
As he gets close, though, Hughie looks up too late to avoid it.
John Vogelbaum is leaning against the block of lockers – the block of lockers right where Hughie’s sits – talking obnoxiously on the phone, like he owns the place.
Which, socially speaking; academically speaking; athletically speaking, he does.
Hughie’s stomach drops through the floor. He’s about the lowest of the low on the school’s food chain. He’s lower than the janitors – at least they get a few “Good mornings” from particularly friendly students. He has no social leverage over John Vogelbaum: star pupil; all-rounder Football Captain, Basketball Captain, Boxing Captain and Track Captain; School President; most wanted for every college around, all offering up scholarships and bursaries to try to coax him onto their side.
Somehow, though, for some reason, perhaps just a sick sadism, more than his 4.0 GPA, his iron fist over the school, his string of admirers, what John seems to love best is making Hughie’s life a misery.
“Campbell,” John says, hissing the name through his pearly-white teeth like it’ll stain them otherwise. “Got a second?”
Hughie freezes. His throat locks. “I– um– yeah? I just– my locker’s– D-did I– Did I do something–?”
John props himself up from the lockers, hands in his letterman jacket pockets. The smile he flashes is all teeth, but no warmth. Even his blond hair, when backlit by the school LEDs, looks ice-cold.
“Yes you did, my friend,” He says, dangerously calm. “Yes you did.”
“Uh– I’m–I’m sorry. For, uh, whatever I did–?”
“I want you to explain something to me,” John cuts him off. “You see, I was walking down the hallway this morning, let’s say 10:30, and I saw the strangest thing…” He lets the pause tick away, watching the pulse rabbit in Hughie’s neck.
“Y-yeah?”
“Yes, Campbell, I did. I saw you, in Pre-Calculus, and then I saw Maggie Shaw. I’m sure you know where I’m going with this.”
Maggie Shaw was John’s girlfriend last year. They were something of a power couple around school: the golden boy and the only girl who matched him. Maggie – incredibly bright, Cheer Captain, and drop-dead gorgeous with her red hair and tall, muscular physique – was the only match for John Vogelbaum. In the summer, though, for unknown reasons, the two split up. And – based on how John postures about how much she “wants him back”, how she’s a “slut” – it’s obvious that she dumped him.
“Sh-she’s my seat partner, so we–”
“Oh, I know, she couldn’t help being sat next to some loser, of course,” John glosses over that. “My problem is, I saw you talking to her. Giggling.”
Hughie’s mouth opens and shuts. “I– Well, it’s– I was just being polite–”
John steps closer. “And that gives you the right to talk to her?”
Hughie goes rigid. He can see his heartbeat in his fucking eyes. “I wasn’t– it wasn’t like–”
John scoffs. “Oh my God, re-lax. You think I’m jealous of you?” John full-body laughs, a loud, chesty guffaw, like it’s the funniest thing. “You really think I’m going all alpha dominance over some…” –his icy blue gaze cuts Hughie up and down, clinical– “gay coding-club virgin?”
Hughie’s face burns. He says nothing.
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” John purrs. “This is just a warning. You wouldn’t know about women, so let me educate you.” His hand slams into the wall just by Hughie’s head. He flinches hard. “Girls like Maggie – they’re sweet, but they’re not too bright. They get confused, they get talking to losers like you and they feel… maternal, let’s say. They think you’re safe. ‘Not like other guys’, hm?” The mocking twist of his lips makes what lunch Hughie still has in his stomach curdle. “But you stay in your lane. Don’t come near her, ever again.”
Hughie shrinks back as much as he can, but his back’s already flat against the wall. “I– I didnt– I wasn’t trying to–” Hughie’s breath starts to shake. His throat closes, the words tangling and tripping over each other. He tries to explain but all he can think is don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
“Oh my God, are you actually gonna cry?” John laughs. “Oh, man, I gotta get a video of this!” He’s fumbling in his jeans pockets, swiping up on his phone screen–
–And then:
“Oi.”
The single syllable cracks through the air like a shot.
Both boys turn.
Butcher stands at the end of the hall, backpack slung over one shoulder, a few strands of slicked-back hair hanging in his face from his hands running through it. He’s clearly fresh out of detention and doesn’t fucking need this right now – but the sight stopped him.
John towering over Hughie, cruelty on his lips, stance commanding fear; Hughie shaking like a kicked rabbit, whimpering and trying to make himself smaller, small like a young child, like maybe he could be–
Something in Butcher’s chest had tightened at the sight. Reflexive. Familiar. Like home, in the most dreadful way.
When John scoffs, rolls his eyes, and shrugs Butcher off like he expects him to do nothing, like every other lily-livered fucker in this damn school, it flips like a switch. Back to home, back to coming back after school to hear the screaming upstairs, back to–
He doesn’t have time to think about it.
Butcher gets up, right up into John’s space, and shoves him out of Hughie’s way. Maybe because he wasn’t expecting it, because he thought no one would dare, it takes John by surprise. He stumbles back a step or two, then turns on Butcher. The look in his eyes is murderous.
“Shouldn’t make a habit of havin’ young boys against the wall in public, mind,” Butcher hums, nodding at Hughie, who’s slowly slinking further and further down the hallway, trying not to be seen fleeing. Butcher adds in a whisper: “People might get the wrong idea.”
John moves first.
It’s fast – too fast for Hughie to gasp, and too fast for Butcher to dodge, drained as he is from a mind-numbing hour’s detention. A fist snaps up, and Butcher barely sees it before he hears it:
CRACK!
Butcher’s head whips sideways. Blood sprays from his nose across the wall. By some sheer force of spite, he staggers back a half-step, but doesn’t fall to the floor. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. It comes back hot, streaked in blood. The pain hasn’t registered yet: it feels more like a stuffy nose.
Butcher smiles, teeth tinged red. “That all you got?”
John’s smile drops for a second – just a second – but it drops. Something impossible exists in that second: John Vogelbaum, uncertain. Recalculating. Out of depth.
Then the football coach’s voice echoes down the hallway. “Vogelbaum! Practice! Now!”
John lets out a sharp breath. Clicks his fingers at Hughie. “This isn’t over.” Then at Butcher. “But this… oh, this is just beginning,” He purrs with a sinister smile.
“Glad to hear it,” Butcher deadpans.
Then John walks off, casual and unconcerned – because he doesn’t fear consequences. Consequences don’t exist for a guy like him. Even though Butcher is standing there with blood dripping down his chin, staining his shirt; even though the security camera is right there, blinking at them, having captured it all, nothing will happen.
And the football coach, just at the end of the hall, gets a good look at the scarlet blood pouring from Butcher’s nose… and walks away.
The moment John’s out of sight, sauntering down the hall without a care in the world–
Hughie turns and bolts.
Full on sprints. And the kid’s no athlete, that’s for sure, but he’s certainly a slippery runner. Out of necessity, perhaps, he weaves and skids through corridors like he’s under attack because, certainly during the school day, he usually is.
But Butcher doesn’t know that.
So he blinks, caught off guard, and then – feeling like maybe he’s missed a trick – runs after him.
“Oi– hold up, lad,” Butcher calls ahead, catching up just as the kid darts around a corner. “The fuck–? Where’re you runnin’ off to?”
There’s a metallic thud as Hughie no doubt crashes into a set of lockers careening around a corridor. It stops him for a moment, when he glances over his shoulder, sees Butcher chasing him, and scrambles. He slides on the linoleum, shoes squeaking, and darts off again.
Butcher’s boot hits the same patch of flooring less than a second later.
“Oh for– what are you runnin’ for?” Butcher barks.
“Don’t hit me, don’t hit me, don’t-hit-me, don’t-hit-me–” Hughie’s half-singing, voice all high-pitched and warbly in panic.
“I ain’t gonna fuckin’ hit you, you daft– Will you stop–”
But when Butcher turns the next corner, Hughie’s gone. Butcher strains his ears, but he can hear no squeaking of Converse. Not even laboured, shaky breathing. He crouches against the wall and sighs. Pushes his hair back into place. Tuts.
“Fuckin’ kid,” He sighs. It isn’t – not entirely – bitter.
Then he gets up, sighs again, and leaves.
Back in that hallway where he’d stopped, though, is a cramped janitor’s closet. Amongst a few mops, brooms, and a cloying chemical tang, is Hughie. With a hand clamped over his mouth as he heaves in breaths, he listens for Butcher’s bootsteps. Hears them recede. Then disappear. He counts to one hundred after they fade into silence, and then removes his hand. Breathes.
Nobody comes to rip the door open and beat him up. He breathes again. And again. His pulse slowly begins to settle, but his mind doesn’t. There’s a whirlpool of confusion up there, even now the fear has subsided.
Because this doesn’t make sense, right? People like John torment him, and people like Butcher ignore him. People like Butcher definitely don’t step in. Definitely don’t take a fucking punch for him. Definitely don’t chase after him like– what? Like they care?
Hughie curls in on himself, slides down until he’s sitting precariously on a mop bucket, shaking with leftover adrenaline and hoping his makeshift seat won’t shatter under him. Hoping whatever the hell possessed Butcher to do that, for him, won’t shatter under him, either.
Everyone knows Billy Butcher is only here because he’s trouble, though the rumours vary on just what kind of trouble he is. Some say he killed someone, and it was here or prison; others say he’s an MI6 spy for the UK government; most just really don’t want to be seated next to him on the class chart.
So why, then, would the school’s resident authority-problem, permanent-detention delinquent protect… Hughie Campbell?
He doesn’t have an answer. Only the echo of that punch, the memory of the blood splatter on the wall, and the impossible knowledge that Billy Butcher stepped between him, and the boy no one defies.
Hughie stays hiding in the janitor’s closet long after he knows Butcher isn’t coming back.