Chapter Text
Principal Miller’s office smells like disinfectant and Scotch, an unholy marriage of “cleanliness” and rot that makes Kaelix’s lungs ache. He stands in front of the great mahogany desk with his hands perfectly folded behind him, feet at shoulder-width, chin lifted just enough to project obedience and not challenge. There’s a window behind the desk, shades always half-drawn, sunlight filtered into pale, institutional gray. The carpeting is new, thick enough to muffle a body hitting the floor, if anyone ever cared to test it. Kaelix has never allowed himself to step on it with dirty shoes.
To his left, Zeal drapes himself in a cracked-plastic chair, his legs sprawled as far as the desk will allow, boots scuffing the wall. Zeal’s jacket is black denim, lined with peeling fleece, and whenever he shifts, the friction hisses like a warning. He looks at Miller with the predatory boredom of something that would rather chew its own leg off than sit here one minute longer. A constellation of healing scabs dots Zeal’s knuckles, and he picks at them absently, like this meeting is happening underwater.
Principal Miller is not a large man. His body is nondescript, folded into a pale blue cashmere cardigan that softens the edge of his power. The smile is painted on, each muscle movement controlled, performative. He taps his Montblanc against Zeal’s file, producing a rhythm that Kaelix recognizes, the “I own you” cadence his father uses in boardrooms.
“I called you both here today because, frankly, I’ve reached my limit.” Miller’s voice is syrup over broken glass. “Zeal, I believe you know why you’re here.”
Zeal’s head lolls to the side. He doesn’t answer. Kaelix can see the way Zeal’s jaw flexes under the skin, molars grinding with unsaid violence.
“Your disciplinary record is a ledger of disaster.” Miller flips the folder open. “Vandalism, fighting, property damage, more fighting, an incident with the cafeteria’s walk-in freezer that nearly resulted in frostbite—”
“Yeah, that was the highlight of my semester,” Zeal says. “Thanks for bringing it up.”
Miller’s smile thins, his attention pinning Zeal to the chair. “Let me be clear, One more altercation, and you’re out. No more warnings. No more second chances. Do you understand me?”
“Loud and clear, sir.” Zeal exaggerates the ‘sir’ until it’s razor-thin, almost a sneer.
Miller closes the folder. “Good. Now, Kaelix.” He begins “I received a very illuminating phone call from your father yesterday. He’s concerned that your record, while exemplary, could use more ‘community mentorship’ on the mid-year report.”
Kaelix’s hands clench behind his back, the movement masked by his posture. He can already hear the faint echo of his father’s voice, ‘Don’t forget that you’re an asset. His schedule is packed so tightly that any new addition means less sleep, less food, less Kaelix. He bows his head slightly, a gesture he’s practiced to perfection. “Of course, sir. I am honored by the opportunity.”
Miller leans back in his chair. “You see, Zeal, Kaelix here is one of St. Jude’s shining stars. Debate team, Honor Council, Advanced Placement everything. And yet, he remains humble. Isn’t that right, Kaelix?”
He is supposed to say yes, sir, but his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, sandpaper-dry. He nods. That is safer.
Miller’s eyes slide back to Zeal. “This is what I propose. Zeal, you will report to Kaelix after classes for tutoring sessions. He will assist you with your coursework and, I hope, model better comportment. If your behavior does not improve by midterms—”
“I’ll be shot at dawn,” Zeal says.
“Expelled. But the sentiment is correct.” Miller folds his hands in a cathedral arch. “This is your last chance, Zeal. And Kaelix, I trust you’ll make the most of it.”
Kaelix’s stomach twists, panic fizzing up his spine. He already has thirty hours of extracurriculars a week. He’s behind on sleep. He’s losing time, always losing time, and now he has to shepherd a wolf in chains? Still, he pastes the “Presidential” smile onto his lips. “Thank you for trusting me with this responsibility, Principal Miller. I won’t disappoint you.”
Miller’s expression softens, and the shift is so sudden it makes Kaelix’s vision stutter. He wants to recoil but does not. “I know you won’t,” Miller says, then rises, extending a hand for Kaelix to shake.
Kaelix steps forward. The handshake is brief, but the Principal’s palm is damp and lingers just half a second too long. Kaelix swallows his revulsion. He’s learned that disgust is a weakness, a tell, and if you don’t get rid of it, someone will use it against you. He releases Miller’s hand with a micro-incline of his head.
“And Zeal,” Miller says, turning, “I suggest you show Kaelix the respect he deserves. If you can’t, it won’t be Kaelix’s record on the line.”
Zeal’s mouth contorts, somewhere between a grin and a snarl. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Miller gestures toward the door. “Dismissed.”
Kaelix pivots on his heel and moves for the exit, every step measured, as if someone might be timing his escape. Zeal stalks behind him, boots clapping on the industrial carpet. In the hallway, Kaelix makes a right turn, heading strait toward the lockers.
He waits until the footsteps are distant before letting his mask slip for a second. He leans against the cold, steel row and allows himself a single, silent exhale. The sound is almost a whimper.
Zeal is already behind him. Kaelix doesn’t know how he moves so quietly, maybe he’s learned to avoid being heard in case someone is listening. Or maybe Zeal is just that kind of monster.
Kaelix doesn’t get a full breath before Zeal’s fist slams the locker, reverberating up his spine, a gunshot echo in the early-morning emptiness. The clatter makes his knees buckle, and for a moment, Kaelix braces for a second blow.
It doesn’t come. Zeal just stands there, blocking the world out with his height and the overwhelming reek of cigarettes that leaks from his jacket. Kaelix keeps his gaze steady, but he can’t make his body go loose, can’t perform calm with Zeal this close.
Zeal leans in, voice pitched low and jagged. “I don’t care how many little gold stars you have next to your name. You do not get to pull me around like a dog on a leash.” The words are sour with threat. Zeal’s hand is still balled; the scabs on his knuckles have opened, a bead of blood rising and breaking.
Kaelix knows this script. Threat, escalation, violence. What surprises him is the strange pulse of relief threading under the fear. Zeal isn’t like Miller, or his father, or the other teachers who smile as they twist the knife. With Zeal, at least, violence feels honest.
He lets his eyes flick, just once, to the line of blood. “I’ve seen your transcripts,” Kaelix says, voice soft, careful, almost apologetic. “You’re not stupid. So why act like it?”
Zeal’s face twitches, half a dozen emotions warring for dominance. Kaelix can’t name any of them. He wonders if Zeal can, either. “Do you ever shut up?” Zeal says, but the words are duller, almost tired.
“I can,” Kaelix says. “When I need to.”
Zeal takes a step back. Kaelix’s lungs expand for the first time in minutes. “So here’s what’s going to happen,” Zeal says. “You’ll sign off on whatever progress Miller wants to see. I’ll show up, sit there, maybe draw dicks on my desk, and you’ll pretend to tutor me. You get your mentorship badge, and I get my parole. We both walk away clean, and nobody gets hurt. Do we have an understanding?”
“Fine,” Kaelix says. “But you’ll actually have to pass. Miller checks.”
Zeal drags a palm down his face, in a groan.
“I’m only doing my job,” Kaelix says, voice soft and formal. “You can hate me if it makes things easier, but we both know what’s at stake.”
Zeal rolls his eyes, then leans in, his breath sharp with wintergreen gum and something like copper. “You really think this is gonna work? I can’t stand you. You know that, right?”
Kaelix nods, fighting the urge to take a step back. “That’s all right. I’m not here to be liked.”
“Right,” Zeal mutters. “You’re just here to look good.”
He lets the words hang in the air, the last blow of the day, and then stalks off, his back straight and shoulders set as if he’s daring the world to punch him first.
The library at St. Jude’s is less a place for reading than a shrine to asceticism. Every surface is polished to an obscene shine: the deep cherry tables, the glassed-in bookcases, even the brass stanchions that keep the “lesser” students out of the archives. The light here is not warm. It is bright, surgical, designed to show every flaw.
Kaelix arrives at 3:45 PM, exactly ten minutes before the appointed time. He slides into the central reading table, places his blazer neatly across the seatback, and begins to unpack. Two mechanical pencils, one black, one blue. A notebook with a leather cover, monogrammed. The advanced history syllabus, colour-coded with sticky tabs, each lesson plan sequenced with a week’s margin for error. The effect is precise, almost military, but it’s the only way he knows how to breathe.
He doesn’t sit right away. He circles the table, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from the blotter. The library is nearly empty at this hour, just a handful of his kind, the preps, the legacy admissions, the porcelain daughters of mayors and surgeons. Kaelix can feel their eyes on him, approval, envy, competition, but he doesn’t look up. He isn’t here to perform for them.
He is sweating under his blazer. The temperature is at least 24°C, but protocol dictates he keep it on. The collar cuts into his neck, the starched cotton scratching his skin until it feels like wire.
He sits, and for a moment, he lets himself hope that Zeal will be late, or better yet, never show.
At exactly 3:55, the double doors to the library slam open. Zeal enters in a cloud of dry ice and static. He’s wearing the same battered jacket as yesterday, cuffs fraying at the wrists, and a pair of black jeans that look like they’ve been laundered in ash. His hair is a catastrophe, dark with a sickly green undertow, and his boots leave muddy imprints on the library carpet with every step.
He sees Kaelix instantly. He walks slow, moving in a loose, loping stride that brings every head in the room to attention. Instead of sitting, Zeal grabs the chair across from Kaelix and drags it out, legs screeching against the parquet. Several students flinch, a few hissed “Shhh” noises bursting like gunshots.
Zeal plants himself, leans back, and drops his boots onto the table, dirt and all. His eyes, a violent sort of violet, lock onto Kaelix and do not blink.
Kaelix ignores the dirt, the boots, the violation of every school rule. He uncaps the black pencil, opens to the first page of the syllabus, and speaks in a tone so polite it’s almost weaponized. “If you’d like to begin with the readings from last week—”
“Let’s get one thing straight.” Zeal leans forward, arms on the table, silver rings clinking against the wood. His voice is low, not loud, but it cuts through the library like a razor. “You stay on your side, I stay on mine. You talk, I’ll pretend to listen so I don’t get kicked out, and then we go our separate ways. I don’t need your pity, and I definitely don’t need your ‘guidance.’”
Kaelix’s eyes flick to the librarian, who is watching them with open distrust. He lowers his voice even further. “I am not here to pity you. I am here to fulfill a requirement.”
“Yeah? Is that what they call it in your world?” Zeal’s lip curls. “Requirements? Is that how you make it through the day? Just a list of boxes to check?”
Kaelix doesn’t answer. He’s used to this, being hated on principle, simply for existing. If he gives Zeal a reaction, it will only feed him. Instead, he slides the syllabus across the table. “If you want to pass history, I recommend reviewing chapters four through six.”
Zeal ignores the paper. He sits up, bracing his elbows on the table, eyes boring holes into Kaelix’s skull. “You think you’re better than me, don’t you?”
“No.”
“Bullshit. You’re sitting there in your three-hundred-dollar shoes, waiting to ‘fix’ the bad boy so you can get another gold star on your resume. Do you even hear yourself? Or are you just reading from the script they gave you?”
Kaelix looks at him then. Not directly, never directly, but at the space between Zeal’s eyes, as if studying a specimen. His face is porcelain, but the hands on the table are trembling, a staccato rhythm barely disguised by the way he fidgets with the notebook spine.
“I do not want to ‘fix’ you,” Kaelix says quietly. “I only want to survive the semester. If you prefer, you can read in silence.”
Zeal grins, but there’s nothing human in it. “Sure, Preppy. We’ll do it your way.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a battered pack of gum, and pops a stick in his mouth. “So, what are we learning today?”
Kaelix opens the textbook, ignoring the taunt. “The Reformation,” he says, voice flattening into the neutral cadence of a documentary narrator. “Specifically, the Thirty Years’ War and its impact on modern political structures.”
“Riveting.” Zeal glances at the ceiling, feet still propped up. “You got a thing for torture, or is this just your natural personality?”
Kaelix is silent for a moment, letting the question die in the air. Then he starts reading, “The Peace of Westphalia, signed in 1648, is often cited as the origin point for the modern state system—”
“Jesus,” Zeal mutters. “You really are a robot.”
“Would you prefer to do this orally, or should I provide you with a summary in writing?” Kaelix asks, tone still even. “I can accommodate either style of learning.”
Zeal barks out a laugh, sharp enough to make a junior in the back row drop her pen. “You got personal preferences all figured out, don’t you? What about your own, Kaelix? You got any, or did your parents breed that out of you?”
Kaelix’s mouth opens, then shuts. He does not know how to answer. Any answer is a trap, and he does not like being trapped. He goes back to the text, reading faster, as if he can outrun the conversation.
Zeal leans in, voice dropping so low only Kaelix can hear. “You ever wonder what it’d feel like to stop performing? Just for one second?”
Kaelix’s hands freeze on the page. For an instant, the mask falters, a flicker of something almost alive crossing his face. He looks at Zeal, not at the space between, but at the boy himself. It feels like staring into the sun.
Then he looks away, spine snapping back to perfect posture. “We should keep our voices down. Some people are trying to work.”
“Yeah,” Zeal says. “Some people are just trying to exist.”
Neither of them speaks for several minutes. Kaelix reads. Zeal doodles in the margins of a borrowed notebook, the ink pressed deep enough to gouge the paper. Their table is an island of silence in a room designed for silence, but it isn’t peaceful. It’s the eye of a hurricane, and they both know it.
Eventually, Zeal breaks the truce. He reaches across the table, too close, always too close, and flicks the black pencil out of Kaelix’s grip. The pencil rolls and clatters to the floor.
Kaelix does not move to retrieve it. He stares at Zeal, waiting for whatever comes next.
“You know, I bet if I cut your strings, you’d just collapse into a pile of dry-cleaned wool,” Zeal whispers. “Wouldn’t even bleed.”
Kaelix doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even blink. Instead, he picks up the blue pencil, draws it into perfect alignment with the edge of the page, and continues as if nothing happened.
But his hands are trembling harder now, and Zeal sees it.
Kaelix’s voice has a way of filling space without claiming it. He reads from the textbook in a smooth, barely accented monotone, each word calibrated to hit just above a whisper. It’s a voice designed to be overlooked by anyone not specifically searching for it.
Zeal, for his part, has stopped pretending to pay attention. He’s doodling pentagrams and dicks in the notebook, and every few seconds, he shoots a glance at Kaelix’s face, trying to find a crack in the smooth, perfect shell. What he really wants is for Kaelix to break, even if it’s just a flinch, a gasp, a flicker of anger. Something alive.
Zeal drums his fingers against his thigh, watching Kaelix's mouth form each perfect syllable with robotic precision. The guy's like a wind-up toy someone forgot to program with actual personality. His posture never falters, his voice never cracks, and his eyes, those icy blue marbles, never light up with anything resembling actual interest. Zeal's knuckles itch with the urge to crack against that porcelain jaw, just to see if the Golden Boy would bleed red like everyone else or leak mechanical oil.
Instead, Kaelix is reciting Protestant doctrine like he’s reciting the terms of his own parole. His hands are flat on the table, the blue pencil perfectly aligned with the page margin. Even the way he turns the pages is silent, as if he’s afraid of leaving fingerprints.
And then, just as Kaelix is explaining the Edict of Nantes, the library doors groan open. The sound is heavy, meant to be unobtrusive, but in the tension-choked air it’s a rifle crack.
A small parade enters, three senior teachers, Principal Miller, and a pair of grown-ups in bespoke suits that scream old money. The group moves in a slow, deliberate orbit through the reading room, voices muted, eyes flicking over students like they’re already appraising their endowments. Zeal recognizes a few faces from last year’s “donor appreciation” assembly. There are no parents here, not really. Just investors.
The teachers glide between the tables, measuring the space with their expensive shoes and tailored blazers, never letting a moment go unmarked. Kaelix doesn’t look up, but Zeal can see the change. He’s gone stiffer, if that’s possible; his spine is a steel rod, and his hands go perfectly still on the table. His face is empty of expression, but his left eye twitches every few seconds, just above the cheekbone, like a muscle refusing to submit to the rest of him.
Miller is talking to the donors, offering them a curated slice of the “St. Jude’s Experience”, how the school fosters excellence, how it “transforms the raw material of adolescence into the leaders of tomorrow.” Zeal wants to gag. He’s heard all this before, watched Miller parade the star students around like trophies. He hates it. Hates that Kaelix is the shiniest one in the case.
But then Zeal sees something that makes him pause, Kaelix isn’t preening for the adults, isn’t basking in the attention, not even in the way that would make sense, given the kid’s resume. He’s tracking the room, every adult movement, every low conversation, like he’s running a silent calculus of threats and escape routes. His pupils dilate when Miller gets closer. His hands curl on the page, whitening the knuckles until Zeal half expects the bones to snap through the skin.
Miller detours to their table, and the smile he gives Kaelix is a knife tucked into a handshake. Zeal expects Kaelix to smile back, flash the “presidential” dimples, but he doesn’t. He just drops his gaze to the book, lips pressed together in a line. Miller lays a hand on Kaelix’s shoulder, and Zeal sees the Golden Boy’s breath stutter, just once, in his throat.
“Working hard, gentlemen?” Miller’s voice is syrupy for the donors, an oil slick for Kaelix.
“Yes Sir.” Kaelix answers instantly. “Zeal has made impressive progress, Principal Miller. I’m sure he’ll have no trouble with the upcoming assessment.”
Miller’s “kind” eyes crinkle, but the smile underneath doesn’t budge. “Wonderful. That’s what we like to hear. You see, Zeal, when you let yourself be guided, you can achieve remarkable things.” He moves his hand on Kaelix’s head, right above the ear, ruffling the white hair in a clumsy, paternal gesture.
For a second, Kaelix looks exactly the same as always, posture perfect, tie straight, smile polite.
But Zeal is close enough to hear it. The tiny, stifled inhale. Not a gasp. Not quite. Just the moment a person stops breathing to avoid making a sound.
Miller’s hand lingers. Not a casual pat. His fingers move, brush through Kaelix’s hair, slide down to the nape of his neck. It’s just a teacherly touch, on the surface, but Zeal’s vision goes cold.
Kaelix doesn’t lean into the contact. He doesn’t move at all, except for a shudder so microscopic it might as well be quantum. His face, his entire body, goes blank. Not like he’s hiding something. Like he’s left.
Miller squeezes the back of Kaelix’s neck, hard, then soft. Like testing a fruit for ripeness.
The thumb strokes the tendon above the collar, right over the pulse point, and Zeal can see the chill ripple up Kaelix’s spine. Kaelix’s face is flawless, but his eyes are panicked, the way a deer’s eyes go when the trap closes and it knows what happens next.
For a second, Zeal is six years old again, watching his father’s hand squeeze his little brother’s shoulder, fingers turning the skin white, the only warning before the backhand. For a second, Zeal is nothing but rage.
The table is heavy, hardwood, but Zeal kicks it so hard the entire thing leaps off the floor. Books go flying, pencils spin into the air. The crack echoes through the library, and every student looks up, startled.
Miller jolts, yanking his hand away. He turns, confusion painted on his face, and Zeal locks eyes with him, nothing polite, nothing respectful, just raw, absolute hatred.
“We’re busy,” Zeal growls. “If you want me to pass, maybe don’t interrupt.”
The air is dead silent. Miller tries to recover his composure. He clears his throat, smooths his sweater, and says, “Let’s keep our voices down, please.”
Then he walks away, the donors trailing after him, shooting glances back at the wreckage.
Zeal doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to say anything. He just sits back, grabs the textbook from where it landed, and slaps it onto the table in front of Kaelix.
“Page twenty-four,” Zeal says. “I think you were in the middle of explaining the Peace of Westphalia.”
Kaelix blinks, refocuses, and looks at Zeal like he’s seeing him for the first time. There is a long, silent moment where Kaelix’s hands tremble, then finally settle. He opens the book, scans the page, and begins to read.
His voice is still melodic, still measured. But it’s softer now, and once, just once, he stumbles on a word.
Zeal pretends not to notice.