White Valley Prep [BoyxBoy]

2 - thomas

"Thomas."

I look out the window, the dark sky and bright stars. 

"Thomas!"

"Yes?" I snap up, looking at my driver. I relax at the sight of him; he's not one of my parents or a boss. The least he can do is give me an instruction passed down. "Yes, Ron?"

"It's Principal Ron to you," he scowls. 

"No, it's not." I sigh. "Now, what did you want me to waste my time talking about?"

"We've accepted a scholarship student," he says. 

"Does it matter?" I frown. 

"The first scholarship student," he corrects himself. 

"So?" I frown. "It's not my school. It's yours."

"Yes -" Ron hesitates. 

I continue to look out the window. 

"I - I thought you'd want to know..."

I snort. "Why would I care?"

"Y-you're King." Ron glances at me through the rearview mirror. "You... don't care?"

"Is he a Jack? Or even a Rook, at that?" I murmur. 

"N - no. He's a scholarship student... and extremely poor." Ron looks at the road again, swallowing visibly. 

"He's a pawn?" I laugh. "Why would I bother with a pawn?"

"The school made this decision on its own. He has perfect scores, Thomas. Full marks, extra-curricular, wonderful reports from teachers -"

"On its own?" I look over at him with amusement. "You mean you made a decision for yourself, instead of running to my parents, and the parents of my Jacks, as usual?"

"I - we -" Ron stammered, before drifting off into silence. 

"Mm. Exactly." I replied. 

"You missed an entire day of school, Thomas."

"I know."

"How are your hands?" He glances at me, worried. 

"Fine." I snap. "They're fine."

The car is filled with a dark silence. It's oddly relaxing as we drive through the woods, up the winding road to White Valley Prep. 

"I'm sorry, Thomas, we should have had more people protect you -"

"I said it's fine!" I snarled. 

"... yes." Ron said softly and then didn't look back at me again.

He dropped me off at the boy's dorms, and I stumbled up to the right floor and flicked on the lights to my room. My mother had arranged for me to live by myself, and the room was decorated with the same lovely pieces, the same taste the designer had addressed to our house. I looked around before tearing the throw blanket off the couch and carefully taking the photos and paintings out of all the frames. I throw gray shirts over the white lamps and mess up the perfectly made bed. Flakes of blood dust everything, but I ignore it as I tip the books and sit down heavily on my desk chair. 

My mother has had a small, old photo framed and put on my desk. It's of when I was eight, small with lighter hair and a wider smile. I'm standing next to a boy a few inches shorter than me, with straight, fluffy brown hair, blushing and unable to stare directly into the camera. I smile softly at the photo, and tip it over so the face is down against the desk. 

Michael, I think, leaning back. 

So much has happened since you left. 

Since you broke our promise.