Jn

The grandfather clock in the administrative corridor possessed a heavy, pendulous tick that seemed loud enough to crack ribs. To Charlie Dalton, leaning with both palms braced against the icy pane of a tall lancet window, each swing of the brass pendulum felt like a fresh blow landed against raw skin.

His backside was on fire. A deep, radiating heat throbbed beneath the heavy flannel of his trousers, pulsing in agonizing synchrony with his heartbeat. But the physical ache, savage as it was, paled beneath the choking, sulfurous taste of humiliation lodged in his throat.

Ten strokes. Oak on wool.

“Count them, Dalton,” Headmaster Nolan had commanded, his voice as flat and dry as slate. “Loudly, if you please. Welton men face their corrections with clarity.”

Charlie had intended to sneer through it. He had walked into that tomb of an office with his chin tilted toward the rafters, hands stuffed casually in his pockets, daring the tyrant to break him. He was Charles Dalton; he was jazz in a monastery, lightning caught in a jar of formaldehyde. He had only been sharing a flask of cider and a stolen cigarette behind the boathouse. But little Bobby Higgins, an ambitious first-year with slicked hair and a terrified devotion to the rules, had scurried straight to the proctor like a rat sniffing out cheese.

And then came the chair. The grip of his knuckles whitening against the arms.

“One, sir.” Firm. Even.

“Two, sir.” A smirk curled on his lips, hidden from Nolan’s sight.

By six, the smirk had evaporated into a harsh gasp of air. By eight, Charlie’s breath had splintered in his chest, a ragged, wet sound tearing free before he could swallow it back. And by ten, the tears had spilled over hot and shameful, staining the leather upholstery beneath his clenched fingers. He had sobbed. Openly, helplessly, like a child stripped of his skin in the public square.

Worse still, the sound carried. The heavy oak door of Nolan’s office kept out the draft, but not the raw, choked cries of a boy being unmade. Half the senior wing had surely heard him by now. Higgins would know. Knox, Meeks, Neil—God, Neil—they would all look at him with that sickening mixture of pity and terror.

Charlie scrubbed at his damp cheeks with the rough cuff of his blazer, hissing as the movement pulled the bruised muscle of his lower back.

"Looking for a way out?"

The voice was low, slightly flat in its inflection, lacking the crisp, melodious pitch typical of prep school breeding.

Charlie flinched, whirling around too fast. His spine seized, a white-hot flare of agony shooting down his thighs. A sharp cry slipped between his teeth, and he grabbed the windowsill to keep his knees from buckling.

Standing at the entrance of the adjoining alcove was Louis Keetman.

Louis was nineteen, broad-shouldered and taller than Charlie by half a head, wearing the dark navy blazer of a senior prefect. His sandy hair was parted with austere neatness, and behind his left ear sat the small, flesh-colored apparatus of a hearing aid—a modern convenience that Welton’s board had only permitted after two doctors and a bishop testified to its necessity. Louis didn't wear it all the time, preferring to rely on the terrifyingly sharp gaze with which he read lips, but today the small cord trailed beneath his collar.

"Get lost, Keetman," Charlie spat, though his voice lacked its usual theatrical baritone. It was hoarse, hollowed out by crying. He quickly turned his face toward the grey glass, staring out at the snow-dusted grounds. "I don’t need an escort to the infirmary. I’m fine."

Louis did not reply immediately. He took three deliberate, measured steps forward, the soles of his Oxford shoes making virtually no sound on the runner rug. When he reached the alcove, he positioned himself so he was in Charlie’s peripheral line of sight, leaning his hip against the wood paneling. He kept his eyes fixed attentively on Charlie’s mouth.

"You aren't fine," Louis said simply. His voice was careful, shaped by years of speech therapy that gave his consonants an unusually soft edge. "And you aren't going to the infirmary. You'd rather sleep in the snow than let Dr. Davies write 'contusions' in your school record."

Charlie sneered, refusing to look directly at him. "How perceptive of you, Prefect. Did they teach you that in junior leadership, or did you read my lips through the door while I was getting flayed?"

Louis’s expression didn't shift into anger. If anything, the corners of his eyes tightened with a faint, quiet sorrow that made Charlie’s stomach turn over with self-loathing.

"I was at the end of the hall," Louis replied calmly. He reached up, tapped his hearing aid once, and dropped his hand. "I didn't need to read lips, Charlie. The wood in this house is old. It carries every vibration."

The blunt admission felt like a slap. Charlie dropped his head, his dark curls falling forward to obscure his eyes. His shoulders shook once—a silent, involuntary tremor that he tried desperately to disguise as a shrug.

"So you came to gloat?" Charlie muttered, his voice cracking on the final syllable. "Come to remind me that Welton boys don't bawl like babies? That I brought it on myself?"

"Come with me," Louis said instead.

"No."

"Charlie." Louis reached out, his large, warm hand settling firmly over Charlie’s elbow.

Charlie tried to yank his arm away, but the sudden twist sent another blinding spasm through his bruised buttocks and lower spine. He gasped, his legs turning to water, and he would have hit the floor if Louis hadn't anticipated the fall.

Louis caught him seamlessly, looping an arm around Charlie’s chest and taking his weight without hesitation. He was remarkably strong, braced like the granite foundations of the chapel. He didn't squeeze, and he took immense care not to brush against Charlie's back or thighs.

"Breathe," Louis murmured against the crown of Charlie’s head. "Just breathe. I’ve got you."

"Let go of me," Charlie choked out, though his fingers had involuntarily knotted into the front of Louis’s woolen vest, clinging to the only solid thing in the corridor. "Don't... don't touch me, Keetman. Please."

The final word was barely a whisper, robbed of all bravado, sounding utterly defeated.

Louis didn't release him, but he softened his grip, supporting him under the armpits until Charlie found his footing on the cold floorboards.

"My room is ten feet away," Louis said, keeping his face close so Charlie could see the deliberate movement of his lips. "Nobody is there. No freshmen. No Nolan. Just a fire and a chair you can lie across. Come on."

Charlie closed his eyes, swallowed the bitter bile of his own pride, and gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

It took an eternity to traverse the short stretch of hallway. Every step felt like dragging an open wound across gravel. Louis walked slowly, matching Charlie’s agonizingly halting stride, acting as a human crutch without making it feel like an indignity. When they reached the door marked Senior Prefect – L. Keetman, Louis turned the brass knob, eased Charlie through the threshold, and quietly locked the door behind them.

The silence of the room was an immediate mercy.

Unlike the crowded, drafty dormitories down the hall, the prefect's quarters were private. A small hearth crackled in the corner, casting a dull amber glow over a neat writing desk, a narrow bed, and a pair of modest leather armchairs. The smell of cedar shavings, ink, and peppermint tea hung in the air.

"Over by the bed," Louis directed gently.

Charlie didn't argue. He hobbled to the edge of the mattress, groaned as he lowered himself, and ultimately fell forward onto his stomach, burying his face into the rough wool of the quilt. The relief of taking the weight off his bruised hips was so sharp it brought fresh tears to his eyes, soaking into the fabric.

He hated himself. He hated Nolan. He hated Welton, with its towering ivy-covered walls that felt more like a fortress meant to keep humanity out than to invite intellect in. Tradition, Honor, Discipline, Excellence. Four pillars of cruelty, designed to chisel away every rough, beautiful edge until all that remained was a collection of pale, interchangeable statues fit for Harvard and Wall Street.

He heard Louis moving about the room—the clink of a glass, the rustle of a towel, the creak of the floorboards.

A moment later, the mattress dipped slightly as Louis sat down beside Charlie’s hip, careful to leave space between them.

"Take off your jacket," Louis said softly.

Charlie kept his face buried. "Go away."

"Charlie. You're sweating through your shirt, and your back is tight as a bowstring. Let me help you."

"I don't need—"

"I know what the paddle does," Louis interrupted, his tone completely devoid of judgment. "He caught me in my fourth-form year. For forgetting to turn off the dormitory hall lights. Twelve strokes. I couldn't sit down for a week, and I spent the first night throwing up in the washroom."

Charlie slowly turned his head to the side, his dark eyes rimmed in red, peering up through tangled curls.

"You?" Charlie rasped. "The golden boy? The silent saint of Hellton?"

A ghost of a smile touched Louis's mouth, sad and self-effacing. "I was clumsy. And because I couldn't always hear the bells, they thought I was insolent. Nolan believes pain is a marvelous hearing aid. He thinks it sharpens the faculties."

Charlie let out a bitter, choked bark of laughter that ended in a sharp wince. "The man is a bloody sadist."

"He is an instrument of the institution," Louis said, reaching out to gently loosen the knot of Charlie’s prep school tie. "Which is worse, because he thinks he is doing the Lord's work. Now, lift your arms. Just a little."

Reluctantly, Charlie pushed himself up on his forearms, gritting his teeth as Louis eased the heavy navy blazer from his shoulders. Next came the vest, and then Louis carefully unbuttoned Charlie’s cuffs, peeling the starched cotton away until Charlie was left in his undershirt and trousers.

Louis set a tin basin of cool water on the nightstand, accompanied by a folded cloth.

"May I?" Louis asked, gesturing toward the waistband of Charlie’s trousers.

Charlie stiffened. The wall of bravado threatened to shoot back up, a dark flush rising along his jawline. "Keetman..."

"I am not Nolan," Louis said, looking straight into Charlie’s eyes. His gaze was entirely calm, completely devoid of prurience or mockery. "And I am not Higgins. I'm just Louis. Let me put something cold on it, Charlie. It will stop the swelling."

Charlie looked away, staring at the small fire in the hearth. After a long, agonizing pause, he gave a faint nod.

Louis moved with immense clinical gentleness. He eased the belt free and tugged the trousers down just enough to expose the damaged flesh.

Even prepared for it, Louis couldn't suppress a quiet, sharp intake of breath.

Across Charlie's backside and running into the tops of his thighs were thick, raised welts, overlapping in violent shades of crimson, purple, and broken capillaries. Nolan had struck with clinical, measured precision, landing blow after blow in the exact same channel of flesh. The skin was hot to the touch, radiating feverish heat into the cool air of the room.

"God," Louis breathed softly.

"That bad, huh?" Charlie muttered, his knuckles digging into the bedsheets.

"He was angry today," Louis noted quietly.

"He told me I lacked the moral fiber of a Welton man," Charlie whispered, his voice trembling despite his best efforts. "Told me... told me I was a disgrace to my father's name. And then he made me count. He made me say 'sir' after every crack. Like I was thanking him for it."

A tear leaked from Charlie's eye, tracking through the dust on his cheek.

"I tried not to cry, Louis," Charlie choked out, the admission tearing free like shrapnel. "I swear to God, I bit through my own lip trying to hold it. But by eight... I couldn't. I couldn't stop it. Everyone heard. The whole damn school heard."

"No," Louis said firmly. He dipped the linen cloth into the water, wrung it out until it was damp, and gently laid it across the fiercest of the welts.

Charlie gasped, his whole body arching at the shock of the cold, but within seconds the agonizing burn began to recede into a manageable ache.

"No," Louis repeated, his voice vibrating with rare, fierce conviction. "They heard an old man abusing his power, Charlie. That isn't shame on your head. It's on his."

"They'll laugh," Charlie sobbed, finally burying his face into his crossed arms as the dam broke entirely. The weeping took him over completely now, shuddering through his chest and ribs, rocking his bruised body. "They'll say... they'll say the great Charlie Dalton broke under the stick."

Louis didn't offer empty platitudes. He merely laid a large, warm hand flat against the center of Charlie’s back, between his shoulder blades, applying a steady, grounding pressure that anchored him to the mattress.

"Let them talk," Louis said softly, leaning closer so his words fell right beside Charlie’s ear. "Lions don't concern themselves with the opinions of sheep. You have more courage in your little finger than Bobby Higgins has in his whole pathetic, groveling life. It takes courage to feel things here, Charlie. Welton is built to turn boys into stone. If you cried, it just means you're still alive."

Charlie wept until his throat was completely raw, the tears soaking the quilt, the heavy hand on his back the only thing keeping him from floating away into the dark. Louis remained motionless, maintaining that calm, anchoring touch, occasionally refreshing the damp cloth as it grew warm against Charlie’s bruised skin.

He didn't shush him. He didn't tell him to act like a man. In a school that demanded an unyielding performance of stoicism at every waking second, Louis simply gave him permission to hurt.

Gradually, the shivering subsided. Charlie’s breathing slowed, hitching occasionally on a ragged sigh, until the only sound in the room was the crackle of the birch logs in the fireplace.

The heat of the bruises had begun to dull into a deep, heavy stiffness.

"Better?" Louis asked after several minutes of quiet.

Charlie didn't lift his head, but he let out a long breath. "Cold."

Louis smiled faintly. He removed the cloth, gently adjusted Charlie's clothing to cover him once more, and pulled the thick woolen blanket up over Charlie's shoulders, tucking it beneath his chin.

"You can stay here tonight," Louis said. "I'll tell the proctor you're running a fever. He won't check on you if I sign the sick slip."

Charlie shifted slightly, turning his cheek against the pillow to look at Louis. The prefect was sitting back against the headboard, his face bathed in the amber firelight. He looked older than nineteen, marked by the quiet fatigue that comes from living in a world built for people who could hear things he couldn't.

"Why are you doing this?" Charlie asked, his voice thick and drowsy. "I've been a bastard to you. I made fun of your hearing aid last semester."

Louis looked down at him, his pale blue eyes steady and completely devoid of malice.

"You were angry," Louis said. "You're always angry, Charlie. Because you see the bars on the cage, and the rest of them just think it's architecture." He reached out, brushing a stray lock of dark hair from Charlie’s damp forehead. "And besides. In this place, if we don't look after one another, the stone simply swallows us whole."

Charlie swallowed hard. He reached a hand out from beneath the blanket, hesitating for a fraction of a second before letting his fingers rest over Louis’s wrist. The older boy’s pulse beat there, steady and unbroken.

"Thank you, Louis," Charlie murmured.

Louis patted Charlie's hand once, then rested his fingers gently over Charlie's knuckles.

"Sleep, Charles," Louis whispered, looking away toward the window where the first snowflakes of the evening were beginning to swirl against the dark glass. "Welton will still be here tomorrow. But tonight, you don't have to count for anyone."