Enigma Nocturne
folder
DarkFic › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
20
Views:
5,241
Reviews:
5
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
DarkFic › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
20
Views:
5,241
Reviews:
5
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Back in Class
~*~*~*~
Part Ten.
On school day mornings and lunch times, the Theatre homeroom class was always fairly quiet; students from various classes and grades liked to study and read there in-between periods and at breaks.
Jore tried to use that as an advantage to attracting less attention as he slipped through the door during lunch hour. There were a few kids in the room who were studying and talking, but Jore didn’t know any of them well, and he was grateful that he got no more than a few nods and waves from them.
Good, he thought. Maybe this transition won’t be so bad. Jore stayed in the classroom throughout lunch period, reading quietly. He didn’t have lunch; since his “sick days” he’d hardly had an appetite at all. His sister had told him to take care of himself, and he had eaten breakfast, but swallowing was painful, and although he felt chronic drowsiness, he couldn’t sleep well, and it was all he could do to keep his stamina level up to the minimum.
The theatre homeroom teacher left the class and the Advanced American Literature professor came in and set down a pile of books as more students filtered in from lunch. Jore sat casually in his usual desk in the back of the class and tried to look totally normal. It must’ve worked, because a few of his good friends didn’t come over to worry about him.
The professor dragged on about the finer points of cultural and political influence on poetry in post World War II America, and Jore took notes lazily, occasionally tugging on the black palm-gloves he was wearing that were making his hands sweaty. He tired not to think of why he was wearing them in the first place.
Jore enjoyed the mind-filling blandness of the lecture. His thoughts were loosely concentrated, and they skirted around his recent memories automatically, like a superstitious person would avoid a black cat walking by. He was holding himself together.
The professor continued his lecturing. “And in the later 1940’s, the work of John Berryman spurred on the ‘confessional’ genre of poetry, making it a--”
Just then there was a knock at the classroom door. The professor adjusted his large glasses and said, “Yes? Come in,” and the door opened slowly. The school counselor stepped in.
The students who were paying attention saw the counselor, and then many eyes automatically turned to Jore, looking worried; thinking that since his two meetings with the Headmaster, and his recent sick days, and knowing his past history, something was up. Jore saw that they were looking at him, but even he didn’t know what was going on, so he ignored them.
The counselor walked further into the classroom and stopped at the front, and then the vice-principal, Headmistress Clara Beatis, walked in.
Jore smiled at the counselor and Headmistress. He remembered Mrs. Beatis. She and the counselor were good friends, and often worked together, since no member of the staff in the entire school wanted to work with the Headmaster. That’s why nearly all the students in the school looked up to Mrs. Beatis with an appreciative respect, and a majority of them quietly wished that she would take Mr. Nairick’s place as head of the school.
Jore looked down at his notes numbly. He tried not to think of the Headmaster, and calm himself. He needed distraction. He looked up again.
Mrs. Beatis cleared her throat, and then glanced to the door. She made an impatient face and motioned for a third person to come in. Many of the students leaned around in their desks to try and get a better look at who was outside.
Jore was curious. What was going on? He prayed this didn’t have anything to do with him, but something told him it didn’t. He had a hunch that this was a much more positive event.
And he was right.
The door framed a small, thin boy. He looked very young, but the school uniform he was wearing indicated that he was in the same grade as Jore. He had feathery, white-blonde hair that shone like a halo around his head. Obviously very shy, he walked in slowly with his head down until he finally reached the middle of the room and Mrs. Beatis introduced him to the class by his first name, “Am-geen-ay”. He looked up at her for a second with a slightly worried expression, and it was obvious that he was about to correct the pronunciation of his name, but then as he heard a few students whisper to each other excitedly as they saw his eyes, he looked at the floor again. His eyes were different colors, and not regular colors at that. One eye had a bright, sea-green iris, while the other eye’s iris was a very pale, muted blue, and the pupil was milky white.
The counselor got distracted talking to the professor about his new student, and the boy was forced to stand at the head of the class, staring at the floor as the students whispered about him.
Jore marveled at this kid. He had caught a glimpse of a light scar above and below the lighter eye before “Am-geen-ay” had looked down again, but it hardly registered in his mind. He suddenly felt very thirsty, and hardly felt the pain of his torso as he swallowed hard. He thought in awe, ‘This boy is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my entire life.’ Jore was amazed. His thoughts were in chaos, and as he realized that he should probably stop staring, a slight blush rose in his cheeks and he looked back down, pretending to study his notes.
“Alright, ‘Am-geen-ay’, why don’t you introduce yourself to the class?” Mrs. Beatis said and patted the boy on his shoulder. ‘Am-geen-ay’ flinched a little and then forced himself to look up, his face already slightly red. He opened his mouth.
“Um, h-hi, my name is ‘Ahm-jee-neh’,” the boy articulated his name with a slight French accent. He looked back down to the floor. “Amgine… Amgine Nairicks.”
* * *
Part Ten.
On school day mornings and lunch times, the Theatre homeroom class was always fairly quiet; students from various classes and grades liked to study and read there in-between periods and at breaks.
Jore tried to use that as an advantage to attracting less attention as he slipped through the door during lunch hour. There were a few kids in the room who were studying and talking, but Jore didn’t know any of them well, and he was grateful that he got no more than a few nods and waves from them.
Good, he thought. Maybe this transition won’t be so bad. Jore stayed in the classroom throughout lunch period, reading quietly. He didn’t have lunch; since his “sick days” he’d hardly had an appetite at all. His sister had told him to take care of himself, and he had eaten breakfast, but swallowing was painful, and although he felt chronic drowsiness, he couldn’t sleep well, and it was all he could do to keep his stamina level up to the minimum.
The theatre homeroom teacher left the class and the Advanced American Literature professor came in and set down a pile of books as more students filtered in from lunch. Jore sat casually in his usual desk in the back of the class and tried to look totally normal. It must’ve worked, because a few of his good friends didn’t come over to worry about him.
The professor dragged on about the finer points of cultural and political influence on poetry in post World War II America, and Jore took notes lazily, occasionally tugging on the black palm-gloves he was wearing that were making his hands sweaty. He tired not to think of why he was wearing them in the first place.
Jore enjoyed the mind-filling blandness of the lecture. His thoughts were loosely concentrated, and they skirted around his recent memories automatically, like a superstitious person would avoid a black cat walking by. He was holding himself together.
The professor continued his lecturing. “And in the later 1940’s, the work of John Berryman spurred on the ‘confessional’ genre of poetry, making it a--”
Just then there was a knock at the classroom door. The professor adjusted his large glasses and said, “Yes? Come in,” and the door opened slowly. The school counselor stepped in.
The students who were paying attention saw the counselor, and then many eyes automatically turned to Jore, looking worried; thinking that since his two meetings with the Headmaster, and his recent sick days, and knowing his past history, something was up. Jore saw that they were looking at him, but even he didn’t know what was going on, so he ignored them.
The counselor walked further into the classroom and stopped at the front, and then the vice-principal, Headmistress Clara Beatis, walked in.
Jore smiled at the counselor and Headmistress. He remembered Mrs. Beatis. She and the counselor were good friends, and often worked together, since no member of the staff in the entire school wanted to work with the Headmaster. That’s why nearly all the students in the school looked up to Mrs. Beatis with an appreciative respect, and a majority of them quietly wished that she would take Mr. Nairick’s place as head of the school.
Jore looked down at his notes numbly. He tried not to think of the Headmaster, and calm himself. He needed distraction. He looked up again.
Mrs. Beatis cleared her throat, and then glanced to the door. She made an impatient face and motioned for a third person to come in. Many of the students leaned around in their desks to try and get a better look at who was outside.
Jore was curious. What was going on? He prayed this didn’t have anything to do with him, but something told him it didn’t. He had a hunch that this was a much more positive event.
And he was right.
The door framed a small, thin boy. He looked very young, but the school uniform he was wearing indicated that he was in the same grade as Jore. He had feathery, white-blonde hair that shone like a halo around his head. Obviously very shy, he walked in slowly with his head down until he finally reached the middle of the room and Mrs. Beatis introduced him to the class by his first name, “Am-geen-ay”. He looked up at her for a second with a slightly worried expression, and it was obvious that he was about to correct the pronunciation of his name, but then as he heard a few students whisper to each other excitedly as they saw his eyes, he looked at the floor again. His eyes were different colors, and not regular colors at that. One eye had a bright, sea-green iris, while the other eye’s iris was a very pale, muted blue, and the pupil was milky white.
The counselor got distracted talking to the professor about his new student, and the boy was forced to stand at the head of the class, staring at the floor as the students whispered about him.
Jore marveled at this kid. He had caught a glimpse of a light scar above and below the lighter eye before “Am-geen-ay” had looked down again, but it hardly registered in his mind. He suddenly felt very thirsty, and hardly felt the pain of his torso as he swallowed hard. He thought in awe, ‘This boy is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my entire life.’ Jore was amazed. His thoughts were in chaos, and as he realized that he should probably stop staring, a slight blush rose in his cheeks and he looked back down, pretending to study his notes.
“Alright, ‘Am-geen-ay’, why don’t you introduce yourself to the class?” Mrs. Beatis said and patted the boy on his shoulder. ‘Am-geen-ay’ flinched a little and then forced himself to look up, his face already slightly red. He opened his mouth.
“Um, h-hi, my name is ‘Ahm-jee-neh’,” the boy articulated his name with a slight French accent. He looked back down to the floor. “Amgine… Amgine Nairicks.”
* * *