Two Kings (History Plays, Book 4)

1: full of ire, in rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire

Richard—twenty years earlier

"Run!"
"What did you do, Harry?"
"I said run, that's not confusing, is it? Run!" My cousin whips past me, hand tightening my arm as he tugs me through the halls of our school, Globe Preparatory Academy. Such a fancy name and clever place for the likes of us. Snot nosed, hell bent thirteen year olds with more pocket knives and access to spray paint than sense. That sentence will be perfectly clear in a moment, I promise.
"Stupid, fucking, fuckhead, fucking cunt," I mumble, though I follow him loyally as we rip through the halls, dodging other students, blending into a sea of navy blue jackets and gold ties. My own, perpetually askew, Harry's too tight around his thick neck, even then built like a small piece of heavy artillery with about the peace keeping skills of one.
"There they are! Get them!" Come cries of overworked assistant principals and a couple of students. Now, they probably didn't even have proof we did it, but rounding us up was kind of a safe bet when basically anything went wrong at school.
"What did you do? I have fucking—fucking stupid fucking practice you sick fuck!" I snarl, as we run down the hall towards the wide, glass double doors.
"Okay, so this is technically—a 'we' situation—,"
"Harry!"
"I got in a fight with Mowbray and I won and hence trouble yeah—,"
"He's on the fucking football team!"
"I notice, yeah, anyway less talking more running," he shoves me through one of the frosted glass doors, dodging right behind me and about to shed his jacket like they won't know it's him if he does that. Stupid little red-headed prick, I could spot him a mile off, and half of Avon could at that point in his illustrious career of getting into trouble anytime he escaped his father's custody. Which was often, by the way.
"Why would you fight with—hell's motherfucking bells," I say the last bit, nearly out of breath, as we pile out the doors to run into, none other, than half the Globe Prep football team.
"Tactical retreat—tactical retreat—,"
"I'm mailing you to Siberia Harry! Flat Rate! Or fucking France you'd fucking hate it they eat small portions of food—I'll mail you in a fucking box—flat rate—," I pant as we run through the school back the way we came, pursued by about twelve members of the Globe Prep football team.
"Don't say things like that around my dad he'd actually find a way to do it; he's been saying he needs to inflict me on Europe," Harry pants, tugging me a different way down a hall because for some reason he wants to die near the gym or something. I don't know.
"Not like you'd stay gone," I mutter. My cousin even then had the habit of turning up like a bad penny no matter how far away you left him. Grounded? He'd show up throwing rocks at my window. ISS? Raiding my backpack and taking my snack cheese. On vacation with his family which is slightly different from my family? Throwing rocks at my window suggesting we go spray paint dirty words on the train. He's like a dog you don't want. You find him a new home he returns not even cross you sold him. That's actually a really close analogy his dad once sent him off as an exchange student and soon foreign diplomat people were coming back with him saying that they were politely requesting he not be in that country anymore. For all my cussing and irritation this school wide brawl we're about to win isn't even atypical. For a Wednesday.
"I would not. You know you need me," cheerfully shoving me in the gym where—oh the rest of the football team is. Right. Okay. We are not on the football team if that wasn't clear yet. We are on the hockey team. My dad taught me how to play hockey. I like playing hockey. I am good at playing hockey when I'm not even good at being alive standing up or talking. My only good attributes are I'm stubborn as hell and I'm good at hockey that is it those are my only redeeming qualities. And I like it because when I play hockey I pretend my dad is watching. My dad is dead. In case you didn't know yet everyone will mention it every five minutes but yes my dad is dead. That's probably the thing I'll be remembered for when I die, I had a dead dad. A dead dad who taught me how to play hockey. I was nothing like him, it was how we bonded, I was good at it and he liked so he liked coaching me on it and so I still play hockey every single day.
Yeah, this stupid stunt is probably going to get me thrown off the hockey team and I still don't even know why it's happening.
"Right," Harry cracks his knuckle, surveying the ridiculous amount of students behind us and in front. He spreads his arms out, a cocky grin on his face, "Who wants to go first then?"
I move to his back, automatically, twitching my shoulders as I shake out my hands. It's not the first time I've fought my way out of a mob but each time I quietly pretend with myself it's going to be the last. Someday I suppose it will be.
Two charge me (like idiots) and three charge Harry (like morons), he just knocks one over, he's built like a brick they're not about to move him, then he uses that one to trip the other two as he punches them, fists flying with all the accuracy of a hornet and the power of sledgehammers.
For my part, I jump, kicking the first one in the chin. I'm getting tall, but I'm thin and wiry, hours on the ice leave me strong but still slender. It's not hard to nail them with sharp kicks to the gut, chin, or nose.
"Are you not fighting with your hands?" Harry realizes about five football players in.
"Yeah, bet you can't," I breathed, flipping on my hands to kick another one in the balls.
"Because you have hockey tonight? God, you're ridiculous and dramatic why are you like this?"
"WHO STARTED THIS FUCKING FIGHT?"
"TECHNICALLY MOWBRAY! AND WHO'S GONNA FINISH IT? ME! THAT'S WHO?"
"Oh and what am I then?" I ask, leaping on one's back, legs around his neck, to smash another with my elbows.
"I don't know but you can't even stand or speak correctly so you know, I'm not gonna say you're HELPFUL."
"Fuck you Harry. For real this time fucking cunt," I keep swearing profusely as I finish off two more.
"I'm gonna ignore that 'cause you have a condition."
"Condition or not I'm going to beat your ass," I snarl, charging one into a row of bleachers, before limping back to see if Harry needs help or if I can get truly cross with him. We're both bloodied a bit and bruised but not really panting. Suffice to say we're sort of bred to do this sort of thing. Fine line of bastards, shitheads, thieves, and cunts we come from. I'd say that's why we're like this, but we don't deserve it really, we're that awful, if you don't believe me yet just watch.
"Oh yeah? I'd like to see you try, Richie," he says, wiping blood from his lip, as the APs descend up on us.
"Well, what the fuck were you fighting with Mowbray for?" I ask.
"He insulted me, and our family—,"
"Yeah, has it not occurred to you don't need to punch or destroy everyone who mildly offends you?" I sigh, as the APs start helping the football players who are unanimously blaming us while we standing having this nice-ass conversation, very calmly, sharing a water bottle I found.
"Just fuck off," Harry shakes his head.
"Well, we're going to be in suspension and I'm gonna miss practice—has it not occurred to you, your actions have consequences?" I ask, pushing his shoulders.
"Me? You're the one who gets out of everything—my dad's never even punished you ever, cause your dad's dead nobody gets mad at you, you never get in trouble whereas I'm perpetually in trouble my mom and my dad both, for stuff we both do," he says, angrily, resisting pushing me away.
"Yeah, I'm so lucky 'cause my dad's fucking dead so I get everything well newsflash, asshole, I'd rather have my fucking dead dad back and be grounded every day of the fucking week!" I cry, feeling my shoulders jerk as I shove him again.
"Well, maybe someday someone won't give you special treatment and then you'll figure out what it's like for everyone to be comfortably disappointed in you and not want you around!"
"I want you around you fucking numbskull even though you're annoying as fuck you little shit," I say, pushing him again, "Why won't you hit me?"
"Cause your dad's dead and you're allowed to go off at people even if you are a cunt," he says, folding his arms.
"I don't want special treatment anymore than I want a dead dad! So fucking hit me you fucking coward," I say, and yes, Reader, I'm well aware that that was not a smart thing to say. The broken nose would remind for years to come never to call Henry Bolingbroke a coward, let alone to encourage him to hit me.
Harry flies at me, fist pounding my face. I feel hot blood rush down it and automatically I'm back up, kicking him the gut, my arm twisting his as his other fist slams into the side of my head.
People are shouting, screaming. The football players rally now, and half the school is chanting 'fight, fight'. The APs try to drag us off but Harry and I wordlessly separate to throw a few blows at them, before going back at each other.
I trip him and we're on the ground, rolling across the gym floor smeared in our own blood. He gets up and kicks me and I catch his ankle, throwing him back to the ground.
We're both up, leaping to our feet just to box each other. He gets a blow to my chin then has the front of my shirt, shoving me into and—okay through the wall to the bathroom. My head narrowly avoids cracking a sink. I wrap my legs around his waist and twist, tugging him to the ground as well.
He has a knife in his hand, slamming it for my arm. I twist out of the way just in time, snatching it up and flipping it before pinning him to the wall by his coat. He shakes out of it, flipping two more knives up into his hands. I catch one mid air the other I deflect with a kick before we're back at it again, hot as hounds over a bitch in heat, slamming the other into the ground, fists flying, grappling for the knife that I now have.
Ice cold water splashes our faces, and we both pause, gasping as it runs up our noses. In that moment I feel hands on the back of my neck, and arms, and we're being hauled apart.
"Do you feel better now?" Coach Bill growls. He's my hockey coach or was. I assume he was the one who found the ice water because a bucket is lying by his feet.
"He never feels better," Harry supplies, as three of the APs restrain him.
"That's true, I do not," I nod.
"I do though. Punching him is thrilling," Harry, nearly cheerfully.
"My office. Both of them NOW," Principal Meres is standing in the broken wall, quivering with anger, searching for his hip flask. This sounds like we're driving him to drink and that's absolutely true. We are.
Fifteen minutes later Harry and I are on little plastic chairs in the Principal's office, holding ice packs to the worst of our bruises, and gauze to the worst of the cuts. Harry is sans his jacket, due to the fight, my white shirt is red with blood from my nose. So. Typical Wednesday.
"Here," I take off my jacket and hand it to him.
"What?" He frowns.
"Your mom said you weren't to ruin another uniform this week," again, Reader, it's only Wednesday.
"She'll figure it out," he says, quietly.
"Worth a try, nobody looks at you if they can help it; she might not notice," I say, giving it to him.
"And nobody actually parents you so they won't mind," he says.
"Your dad parents me."
"My dad doesn't parent me, Rich," he scoffs, "He's aware I'm there. You're somewhere with the dogs."
"I'll take it," I say, sitting back down, "Brothers?"
"Fuck yeah, dumb bastard, didn't know you needed to get punched," he says, bumping fists with me, "Maybe your head will work better now."
"Fucking doubt it," I say, smiling a little.
"That's it? That's really it? You two couldn't do this on—anyone else's time?" Principal Meres is at his desk, working on writing us up, and drinking whiskey out of a coffee cup. Again, that makes him sound like a bad Principal, but consider the way we are constantly.
"Oh we do," Harry says.
"Yeah, 24/7 us," I say.
"You're not special now," Harry says.
"Not at all, but you are blessed to have me, I'm a blessing," I say.
"You're a fucking pain in the ass," Harry says.
"Good thing you are an ass."
"I called your father, Harry, he should be here soon."
"My dad probably started drinking an hour ago, stocks don't close for two hours, he's not going anywhere. Call him up and he'll tell you to keep me, or sell me and give him half the profits," Harry says. That sounds sarcastic; it's absolutely not. And his dad wouldn't necessarily be kidding.
"Oh, he's coming," Principal Meres snarls.
"Someone else probably picked up the phone," Harry predicts, though I'm sure he wants that to be true.
In case it isn't already obvious, Harry's the personification of a grease fire. I'm a half finished person who got poorly made up and burnt in the oven then sent off without my middle baked all the way through.
Harry's dad is one of the richest people in the world. He's stupidly smart, and worse, charming. Suffice to say he has about two ex wives, three mistresses, and two girlfriends, who could pick us up instead of him, if he's feeling charitable. If he's feeling uncharitable, he'll send a car to take us directly to the airport to fly us to a house he holds somewhere and make us do manual labor on it for two weeks using mainly small spoons while we think about our actions. That sounds like a very specific example and that's because it is.
Anyway, he's not the sort of person who picks up two thirteen year olds from school when they get into a fight. So we feel pretty safe. Of course, who should walk through the door but Harry's dad himself? My uncle, a small man, fit, with bright silver hair and an heir of incredible importance such that none dare challenge him. With a shining watch and custom tailored jeans, he bleeds money and privilege.
"What are they doing here?" He asks, strolling in and not even addressing us, just going to stand by the Principal's desk to intimidate him. This works with 99.9% of people.
"They started a school wide brawl. Again. And they broke through a wall. Again. We found them fighting with jack-knives after having broken, let's see, two bathroom stalls, one wall, one sink, fourteen floorboards, and eighteen bones," Principal Meres is that rogue .01% probably because he secretly wants to die.
"So? They're boys. That's good for them. They are behaving like thirteen year old boys. Who I pay your school, an indecent sum of money, to manage, for nine hours a day, more when they have hockey. So. Answer me this, what am I doing here?" He folds his arms.
"You are here, Mr. Gaunt, because when I called you and informed you your son, and your nephew who you are the legal guardian of, were fighting you said 'really? Who's winning?', and then when I did not have that information you hung up, and then when I called you back to let you know the children were still alive, you asked and I quote 'really? Who won?', and so yes, I asked you to come here personally to see the damage that the boys caused not only to the school but to one another," Principal Meres says, voice shaking in rage.
"Right, who did win though? There's money riding on this," he says, getting out a pager to fiddle with it. There's no way he isn't betting with his brothers and sisters, my aunts and uncles, as to who won the fight.
"Did you bet on me?" Harry asks, almost excitedly.
"You bet against me?" I ask, surprised.
"Tell me who won?" He asks, not looking up.
"We weren't really done," I say.
"Yeah, I was doing pretty good, but he got my knives," Harry says.
"Do you want us to finish?" I ask.
"Yeah we can in the yard—," Harry says.
"You are, encouraging—this?" Principal Meres asks.
"No, it was very bad, boys you should be ashamed, also it's fine, draw was one of the options," he says, clearly writing the message, and with no enthusiasm.
"Did Uncle Thomas bet on me?" I ask.
"Yeah, Jesus knows why," my uncle scoffs, listening to the pager.
"Did you bet on me?" Harry asks.
"No, I bet on draw, I win things boy, you should know that," he says.
"How'd you know it would be a draw?" I ask.
"I just said, 'you want to bet on which boy won a fight' all my brothers and one sister said 'absolutely I do' and then I bet on draw, and gave them the options, while standing here, after getting the information from you, now half of them owe me money. Leave nothing to chance, that's your lesson of the day, boys, come on, let's get in the car," he says, about to leave. To be clear, this person could buy and sell not only the school, but the entire eastern seaboard, twice over, and he just spent ten minutes conning his siblings out of maximum, twenty dollars each. That's the pettiness, and inherent competitiveness, of the stock I come from.
"We are not done yet!" Principal Meres says, "They cannot come back here until we settle a few things—-,"
My uncle stops walking, his 'you're inconveniencing a heavenly body, please move on', face, "Yes?"
"For one they cannot tear each other apart in school—,"
"Boys, you good?"
We nod, giving him thumbs up.
"They're cool now. They're just kids."
"They swear—constantly—,"
"The kid has a condition," my uncle says, "You got papers. He's got Tourrette's you can't kick him out 'cause of that."
"That has nothing to do with him," Principal Meres points to Harry.
"Oh. Right," Harry's father says. The thing is, I do have Tourrette's. I have since I was a small, but it took years to get me diagnosed. I twitch, like a lot, so that was why my mom and dad took me to the doctors, but you have to have two tics to get diagnosed and yes, it took four and half years for my family to realize my swearing was something wrong.  Mostly I just twitch my shoulders then this muscle in my arm contracts. Now and then my fingers will jerk too, but the shoulders and the swearing are most noticeable.
"Harry, quit swearing in school, come on, I got a meeting, get in the car," he walks out, barely waiting for us.
We stand up quickly and hurry after him. Principal Meres stutters, but he doesn't dare inconvenience Harry's father again. We'll be back in school tomorrow morning, no question.
There are, of course, two cars waiting at the curb. One for us, one for him. His is idling. His big, and by big I mean hundred plus pound, ink black german shepherd sits beside his car, gussets on a thick leather collar, coat slick and shiny. These dogs are trained in protection (read: biting people) and I've never known my uncle not to have at least one.
"Go, car, Harry, be good for your mother," he says, rubbing Harry's short hair. Harry ducks away, glaring at him.
"You're sending me to mom?"
"She did give birth to you, boy," he says.
"You don't even live with her!" Harry says, folding his arms.
"I noticed, but you got in a fight with your cousin today, so you don't have the moral high ground. Obviously I need someone to watch you so yeah, you're going to your mother, bye, have fun," he says, not overly affectionately, putting on mirrored sunglasses that probably cost more than half my organs.
"Richard gets to go to the house," Harry says, upset. So, since my dad died, my uncle, Harry's dad, has custody of me, full, legal custody. Ergo I always live at his house, while Harry has to go and live with his mom and whoever else might want to take him.
"Richard doesn't need watching, he didn't start the fight, did he? The entire fight, not whatever you were scrapping over," he folds his arms.
Harry hangs his head. He's never not started it.
"I did—I did, Uncle, I started it," I say, quickly. Harry looks at me in surprise, "I got to swearing at them—they were making fun of me."
"Okay," he looks between us like he knows we're lying, "Both of you can go to his mom's then. Fine. But no fighting for her, got it? None of that, you don't need to be going at each other. You two are the best friends either one of you is ever going to have, you got it? If this entire world crashed and burned you two would still have each other. You can piss each other off, but you can't forget that you love each other, got it?"
"Yes sir," we nod.
"Come here," He puts an arm around each of our shoulders, "All right? This world is a rough enough place, you don't need to war between yourselves."
"We were just messing around," Harry says.
"Yeah, we're fine, Uncle, I promise," I say, hugging him quickly. My dad hugged me all the time. Big, crushing hugs he was so strong, even with the cancer. I never get hugged now.
"Good, now go on, get in the car," he says, messing up both of our hair, my blonde curls, Harry's short bright red locks that he keeps cutting shorter and shorter.
"Can I take Nyx?" Harry asks, pointing at the dog.
"Yeah, go on," his father says, shrugging after a moment. Then he snaps his fingers and the big dog trots up to his side."Make sure you walk him, all right? I'll see you in a couple of days. I've got to catch a plane."
"Yes sir," we both nod. By catch a plane we know he means his own private plane that will be ready and waiting for him. He doesn't want the flight crew having to wait.
We run and get in the limo that's waiting for us. Nyx waits for us to climb in then hops up, lying down the the rubberized floor, his head on Harry's feet. Harry doesn't understand dogs, girls, or Harry, but that doesn't stop him from being obsessed with all three.
"He'll come back quicker missing the dog," Harry predicts, petting the dog's ears. The dog does not like this, but tolerates his young master.
"He might not," I say, though it may be true, he might miss his expensive, highly trained attack dog before his errant son.
"Why'd you tell him you started it?" Harry asks.
Because I'm never going to give up on you, Harry. Just don't give up on me, even when I'm not worth it. Because he's right someone has to look out for the two of us, isn't going to be the rest of the world. Because everyone deserves a little grace now and then when we don't deserve it. Because stupid and fucked up as we are you're still my Harry.
"Why were you fighting with Mowbray anyway?" I ask, twitching my shoulders because I can't say any of that other stuff. No matter how much I should.
"He was talking shit about you. Said you don't deserve your dad's fortune," he says, shrugging a little. "So I hit him."
"Harry," I sigh. So, my father wasn't rich, not like Harry's dad. But he did have certain connections to an import export business he was set to inherit from my grandfather (that's as illegal as it sounds), and when my grandfather passed it all is technically mine. Except I'm thirteen. So other people do it partially including Harry's dad, who, while he doesn't want any part of it he's rich enough on his own, generally looks out for me. It's not the same, being looked out for, as parented, is it? I'm just kept an eye on, like a stray dog.
"What?" Harry asks, innocently.
"Never mind," he's not gonna get it is he?