Of Rhinos & Griffins

I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn’t believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about...like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees.
-Nick Caraway, The Great Gatsby



Maths is filled with several terribly unsubtle innuendos and the odd dirty joke from Nikesh, and Rhys decides pretty early on that the best course of action is just to ignore him until he gets bored of it, which hopefully shouldn’t be too long. It’s not like he can’t take a little ribbing every now and again, Rhys reasons, considering Merryn’s favourite pastime is taking the piss out of him.

(Right now, Rhys can’t quite recall what possessed him to befriend Nikesh, doesn’t know what made him think it would be a good idea to have yet another person around to make fun of him all the time.)

He’s maybe rethinking his stance on that when the bell goes at the end of the lesson and the girl sitting in front of him turns around, red-faced and barely holding back a giggle, and asks him if he’s in drag.

Nikesh collapses into hysterics and when their teacher turns round to shoot the both of them a pointed glare, he only laughs harder.

(Rhys is a little disgruntled, really, because wearing skinny jeans and an androgynous cardigan and a tiny bit of eye-liner does not constitute drag. Although, the glittery monstrosity coating his skin – which still refuses to rub off, even though he consistently rubs at it when something in his peripheral vision sparkles – probably does.

But hey, Rhys’ll pick drag queen over sparkly vampire any day of the week.)

At any rate, Rhys heads off to English in a pretty shitty mood. He likes English, though, likes books and the printed word nearly as much as computers and lines of code. He can almost feel his spirits lifting as he traipses past the posters of various literary greats tacked up all along the walls of the English corridor, and there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his lips when he pushes the door to his classroom open and strides in.

He greets his teacher with a mumbled, “Hi Mrs Niall,” before sliding into his seat at the back of the classroom.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she warns him just as he’s setting his stuff out on the tale. “I’m mixing you up to work on paired analyses of the main characters of The Great Gatsby.”

Rhys doesn’t even bother stifling his groan. “Aw, Miss, can’t we just work in our own groups for once, please?”

“Working with new people is good for you, Rhys,” Mrs Niall tuts, with a good-natured shake of her head. “The fresh perspective is very useful, and it’s an important life skill to be able to work with people you aren’t friends with. And besides, I let you lot choose your groups last lesson and you barely wrote more than the title.”

She narrows her eyes disapprovingly at him from behind her glasses, and Rhys fixes his best meek look in place. It can’t be very good, because she just laughs at him.

“That’s not going to work on me, Rhys,” she informs him, shaking her head. “You’ll work hard this year, I know you will, you just need a little prodding in the right direction. Now then, you can work with Remy, and you can do... hmm, how about the great Gatsby himself?”

Remy? Merryn’s Remy? Rhys’s gaze shifts to the direction Mrs Niall is indicating and confirms that, yes, it is the same Remy that Merryn has barely stopped waxing lyrical about since the first day of school, a mere two days ago. Wonderful. Sighing, Rhys gathers up his books and heads across the room to where Remy is sitting.

“We’re working together,” Rhys informs him, plonking his stuff down next to the boy. “Mrs Niall’s put us in groups to work on characters.”

“Oh, right, okay.” Remy looks up, then, smiling uncertainly, and now that Rhys is properly looking at him, he can kind of see why someone might possibly find him at least vaguely attractive. He’s got nice eyes, Rhys concedes, a shade of green that could be described in various flowery and evocative ways if Rhys were the type of person to compare eye colour to apples or emeralds or four leaf clovers.

Benedict has nice eyes, Rhys thinks, a little absently, then: whoa, where the fuck did that come from? Damn Nikesh putting ideas in his head. Pushing the thought firmly out of his mind, Rhys forces himself to smile back at Remy.

“Wait. Don’t tell me. Dark hair, hipster geek glasses and a general air of nerdity.” Remy peers at him for a few seconds, gives a decisive nod and then says, “You must be Merryn’s brother.”

“I don’t know that I must be, but yeah. I’m Rhys.” Rhys pauses for a second, looking expectant. “Remy, right?” he continues, when it becomes evident that the other boy is not going to provide his name. At Remy’s surprised look, Rhys simply says, “Merryn.”

Remy doesn’t look surprised any more – only a little bit smug – when he says, “She talked about me.”

“She mentioned you,” Rhys corrects, unable to help the irritation that creeps into his voice. “And so did Benedict.”

Remy frowns, face blank. “Benedict?”

“Small. Black hair. Glasses.” Rhys grits his teeth when Remy’s face shows not a hint of recognition. “Generally attached at the hip to my sister?”

“Oh, right, him,” Remy says, nodding. “He sits by us in Maths. He’s a bit weird, isn’t he? He never talked or anything.”

Rhys’s eyes narrow behind his glasses. “Benedict’s not weird,” he snaps, and okay, maybe he is, just a little, they all are. And it’s not necessarily a bad thing, being a little bit out of the ordinary – in fact, he is inclined to think it’s an extremely very not bad thing – but Rhys’ll be damned if he lets Remy call Benedict weird with that sneer curling his lips and that contemptuous tone of voice like it is.

If Merryn were here, she’d break into a well-polished speech about how the concept of ‘weirdness’ is simply designed to play on people’s desires to fit in and be accepted by their peers in order to keep people within carefully constructed social groups that limit their creativity and their individuality and, most of all, their freedom.

As it is, Rhys settles for glaring at Remy like the boy’s eaten his baby. Remy looks like the sort that eats babies for breakfast, snacks on toddlers for tea. Rhys thinks he’s justified.

“He’s not weird,” Rhys repeats, because he feels it’s important enough to say twice, “he’s awesome. He’s just a bit shy and he doesn’t talk unless he has something to say and he’s not that good with new people and he can be awkward sometimes but that does not make him weird, okay?”

“Okay,” Remy says, slowly. There’s a curious look on his face, like he’s contemplating something he’d never considered before. “I didn’t mean to offend you or anything. I didn’t realise you two- I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well,” Rhys mutters, pushing his hair back off his face with one hand. Remy looks sincere, eyes wide and contrite, and the apology has kind of thrown him off, a little. “It’s fine. It just bothers me when people make fun of him, you know? He used to get bullied a lot when we were younger and-” Rhys bites his lip, quickly swallowing down the rest of whatever he was about to say, because that isn’t something you just tell people, particularly people you barely know or like or trust.

Remy is nodding, though, face soft like he understands. “So what are we supposed to be doing?” he asks, quickly changing the subject.

“Brainstorming Jay Gatsby,” Rhys informs him. “His character, his motivations, what he represents, all that good stuff.”

Remy wrinkles his nose, reaches for one of the pens, stares decisively at the sheet of poster paper in front of him. “Okay then. Let’s start with how shallow he is, shall we?”

Rhys’s brow furrows, any good feeling towards the other boy evaporating as quickly as it formed. “What? How is Gatsby shallow?”

“You have read the book, haven’t you?” Remy asks, and there’s a condescending edge to his tone that Rhys instantly detests.

“Of course I have,” Rhys retorts, sitting up straighter in his seat. “Have you?”

“Yes,” Remy says, and the patience in his voice is almost on par with the condescension. “Gatsby is obsessed with wealth and high society and even when he manages to acquire enough riches to purchase a mansion in West Egg and throw lavish parties every five minutes, it still isn’t enough for him. He’s only in love with Daisy because of what she represents: the wealth he craves, her inherent grace and charm, her position in high society. To be perfectly frank, there is nothing about him that is not shallow.”

“But- but-” Rhys splutters, flailing around madly for a coherent, intelligent reply. “It’s not that simple! There’s- there’s more to it than that.”

Remy raises a sceptical eyebrow, motioning for Rhys to elaborate. Rhys splutters some more, tries to recall an argument from the deep recesses of his brain, finds he has none. Closing his mouth with an audible grind of his teeth, he thinks he maybe ought to amend his previous statement: he loved English, before, but he’s not sure he can any more when there are blonde-haired, green-eyed, ridiculously attractive boys ruining the essence of one of his favourite books.

It all goes downhill from there, really.



Merryn and Benedict have orchestra at lunch, so they have to scarf down their sandwiches at record speed before grabbing their instruments and heading back through main school to the hall.

(This means, of course, that both Merryn and Benedict miss the infinitesimal tightness in Rhys’s face and the sourness to his expression and therefore cannot do anything about it. Nikesh doesn’t know him well enough to notice something wrong, and Rhys doesn’t know him well enough to tell him.

Besides, it would sound stupid and convoluted said aloud, he knows. How is he supposed to say, “I don’t like the guy my twin sister is currently enamoured with because he’s kind of a dickhead who enjoys ripping apart great, classic novels and he is just nowhere near good enough for her,” without coming off sounding like a stupid, overprotective brother?)

The hall is already half-full when they get there, people clustered around in their groups of instruments, and they busy themselves with setting up in the corner by the rest of the wind section. Merryn gets out her clarinet and starts piecing it together, and Benedict does the same with his flute.

“Fancy seeing you here,” a familiar voice says, too close to Merryn’s ear.

Merryn gives a start, sending a sheaf of music sheets tumbling from her lap, but Benedict grabs them before they can fall to the ground. Face burning, she takes the sheets from him with a muffled thank you, shoves them back into her instrument bag and looks up, locking onto vivid, amused green eyes.

“Remy! Hi! What are you doing here?” He holds up his instrument case with a meaningful quirk of his eyebrows, and she stammers out a laugh. “Right, of course. I didn’t realise- so what do you play?” she asks quickly, before she can embarrass herself more than she already has.

“Violin.” Remy is likely just humouring her because really, that should be obvious from the distinctive shape of the case. Merryn’s past being embarrassed at this point. “You?”

“Clarinet,” she replies, stroking the instrument fondly so she doesn’t have to meet his gaze. “Benedict's a flautist.”

Remy eyes Benedict strangely, and it’s the first time he has even so much as looked at the other boy. “You play the flute?” he says, and there’s a note of incredulity inflecting his tone. “But that’s a girl’s instrument.”

Benedict just shrugs, affecting apathy, but Merryn bristles on his behalf. “Excuse me? A girl's instrument?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean-” Remy says quickly, but Merryn silences him with a cold, blank stare which cools her embarrassment and shrinks it down to nothing.

“Plenty of males play and have played the flute, notably James Galway who is nothing if not a musical genius, so it is by no means ‘a girl’s instrument’,” she continues, drawing exaggerated air-quotes in the air at her last words. “Also, the mere idea that anything, especially a musical instrument, could be gender-specific is utterly ridiculous and just another one of society’s heinous heteronormative stereotypes that-”

“It’s fine, Merryn,” Benedict mutters, gripping his flute with both hands, eyes fixed on the floor.

“It is not fine,” Merryn says fiercely, still glaring at Remy, arms folded across her chest.

“Of course, you’re right, I’m so sorry,” Remy apologises, but he’s not looking at Benedict. “I shouldn’t have said that; there is no excuse for such a blatant display of chauvinism. I’m sorry, Benedict.”

And Benedict just shrugs again, so Merryn supposes he’s forgiven him, if he was ever really offended in the first place. It’s kind of hard to tell, really. And if he’s forgiven him, then there’s no reason for Merryn to hold a grudge, is there? So when Remy turns a hesitant smile in her direction, she returns it, albeit a tad reluctantly.

He opens his mouth to say something, but then Mrs Bellwood calls out for silence, waving her conductor rod around in what is probably not supposed to be a threatening manner but kind of really is. The entire room falls silent and Remy edges back to the strings section with an apologetic smile aimed in Merryn’s direction.



Despite Rhys’s hearty claims to the contrary, Nikesh is almost one hundred per cent certain that there is something going on between him and Benedict. He’s seen things, tiny displays of affection – just, for example, the way Rhys unconsciously leans into Benedict whenever they’re standing close to each other – that could almost be entirely innocent and easily explained away by the closeness of their friendship. But there’s just something about it all, a vague sort of intimacy that makes Nikesh wonder if his suspicions aren’t entirely unfounded.

It is Benedict, though, and Benedict is one of those people who don’t even look like they know what sex is, let alone harbour any desires of having it. He doesn’t even really seem like Rhys’s type – not that Nikesh knows Rhys well enough to know his type or if he even has one, but he seems like the kind of person who goes for the whole tall, dark and brooding thing.

All in all, then, it’s a pretty good thing he has Biology with Benedict after lunch. It’s a chance to talk to him alone without the others around, because Benedict hasn’t talked to him very much so far. Which is fair enough, really, since he’s usually with Merryn and Nikesh is normally with Rhys. That’s just the way it’s worked out.

(Nikesh wonders momentarily how things worked out before he came along, if Rhys ended up playing gooseberry all the time, or if he went off with other friends, or if Benedict was the third wheel, or if, maybe, they were one of those rare groups of friends who could pull off being a threesome without leaving anyone out. He’d like to think it was the latter, but he’s not so sure.)

Benedict arrives late, clutching an instrument bag between his fingers and apologising profusely to Miss Fairfield. He slumps into the chair next to Nikesh and gets out his books, returning his attention to the front as quickly as he can.

Nikesh tuts at him mock-reproachfully, and Benedict gives a start. “This is unacceptable, Benedict. You are two whole minutes late. I hope you have a good excuse for such appalling behaviour.”

Benedict’s face is red, and he’s biting his lip. “Um, well, orchestra ran over a little and I had to run all the way over to the sixth form block to get my books and then run back to the labs and there were so many people in the corridor and-”

“Relax,” Nikesh laughs, shaking his head at the boy. “I was joking.”

“Oh.” Benedict visibly relaxes in his relief. “Sorry. I- I can’t really tell. Sorry.”

“No need to apologise,” Nikesh says awkwardly, feeling for some inexplicable reason like a bit of a Class A prat. Being mean to Benedict is kind of like kicking a puppy, he observes, except the puppy is nowhere near as good at tugging on your guilt strings. “So, you were at orchestra? Cool. What do you play?”

“Flute,” Benedict replies, rueful smile ready on his lips. (He’s heard one too many, “But that’s a girl’s instrument,” over the years, and Remy’s little jibe at lunch hurt more than he chose to let on.) “I play piano, too, but not in school.”

“Ooh,” Nikesh says, impressed. “Nice. I always wanted to play drums, you know, have a rock band and all that, but I’m not really good with music. What about you, you any good?”

Benedict chews his lip, cheeks flushed. “Um, well, I’m sort of... I’m okay, I suppose?”

Nikesh arches an eyebrow. “Don’t want to blow your own horn, eh?” He thinks of Rhys and smirks. “I’m pretty sure you could find someone willing to do it for you.”

(As usual, the innuendo goes right over Benedict’s head. Honestly, the boy is more innocent than Nikesh’s seven-year-old brother. It’s kind of ridiculously adorable, when it isn’t just pathetically sad.)

Benedict ducks his head, peering shyly back at him from behind his glasses. “I, well, Merryn says I’m really good, better than the first flautist. She plays clarinet, so she should know. And Rhys says I can really blow, but he doesn’t play anything so I’m not sure how he would.”

Nikesh lets out an involuntary giggle at this revelation. “I think I have a few ideas,” he says, vowing to never, ever stop giving the other boy shit for this. Benedict gives him a strange look, and Nikesh adds quickly, “But I’m sure you’re great, though, really.”

Benedict smiles timidly at him before returning his attention to his book.

They don’t do much talking after that; Benedict is painfully shy and only volunteers information when specifically asked for it. Nikesh ends up mostly talking about himself, which he doesn’t really have much of a problem with.

If it helps any, Benedict seems genuinely interested in listening to Nikesh talk, and when he starts complaining about his various brothers and sisters, (“Two of each and I’m right in the middle, oh my fucking God”), Benedict quietly admits – without being prompted to – that he doesn’t have any siblings.

“Loads of cousins, though,” Benedict continues, nodding. “My mum’s got quite a few brothers and sisters ‘cause she’s Italian-” (and, okay, that’s another thing Nikesh wouldn’t have guessed about him, but now he knows, it kind of makes sense) “-and they’ve all got loads of kids. Not so much on my dad’s side, though.”

“Asian,” Nikesh says matter-of-factly, holding up a hand. “I know all about massive extended families, trust me. I have a shit-ton of uncles and aunts and cousins and second cousins and great aunts and great uncles, and that’s before you even get to the in-laws.” Benedict makes a little humming noise that Nikesh takes as agreement. “But you don’t have any brothers or sisters, though, that’s awesome. Bet you get spoiled rotten.”

Benedict shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “Not really. I live with my gran, and we don’t have all that much money. Besides, I always wanted a brother. Or a sister.” He bites his lip, hiding a wistful smile. “But I’ve got Merryn and Rhys for that, I suppose.”

Nikesh frowns at that, because he’s pretty sure you aren’t supposed to harbour intense sexual desires for people you consider to be family. Pretty sure that’s kind of, well, illegal. Or at least strongly frowned upon. In decent society. Well. In most societies.

“So,” he says casually, “you and Rhys and Merryn. You’ve been friends for a while, right?”

Benedict nods. “About ten years.”

Nikesh maybe takes a few seconds to marvel at that, because he doesn’t think he still even talks to anyone he knew when he was six. “How’d you meet?”

“My gran lives next door to them, and I used to visit her a lot when I still lived with my parents, and we’d play together and stuff. But we didn’t really become proper friends ‘til I moved in with Nonni a few months later and started going to the same school as them,” Benedict explains.

Nikesh frowns, confused. “Why’d you move in with your nan? Did something happen to your parents?”

“They moved,” Benedict says, matter-of-fact. “They got jobs at CERN and they had to move to Switzerland but I didn’t want to go so I didn’t. I moved in with my grandmother instead.”

Nikesh just gapes at him for a few seconds. “What, and they were okay with this?” he says eventually. Benedict nods, looking uncertain. “And you- you actually wanted to?”

“I didn’t want to move,” Benedict repeats. “I didn’t want to leave Merryn and Rhys.”

(Nikesh wonders what that says about Benedict’s parents, that he’d rather be parted with them than his best friends, and decides it’s not really his place to ask.)

“Besides,” Benedict continues, “Nonni pretty much brought me up until that point anyway. It wasn’t like living with her would be a big change. And there’s the massive extended family, so I’m not on my own or anything. And I wouldn’t have been able to take Einstein with me, and I couldn’t just leave him behind.”

“Einstein?” Nikesh queries, eyebrows raised.

“My cat,” Benedict explains. “Merryn named him.”

And Nikesh chuckles because of course Merryn would name a cat after a physicist. Only she would think Einstein would be a decent name for a pet, honestly. “You haven’t got a dog called Newton, do you?” he asks, only half-joking.

Benedict shakes his head, looking glum. “Nonni’s scared of dogs so we don’t have one.”

Nikesh swallows a laugh, nodding as sincerely as he can manage. “That sucks, mate.”

“Yeah,” Benedict agrees, “it sucks like a vacuum.”

“Or a black hole.”

“Or a black hole,” Nikesh agrees, grinning.

Benedict smiles back, pleased, then ducks his head and returns to scribbling down notes. With great reluctance, Nikesh follows his example; it’s not like he’d actually get anything done if he were to leave it to do at home, after all.

“Hey Benedict, you got a rubber I could borrow in that massive bag of yours?” Nikesh asks, turning to him.

“I have pencils, pens, rubbers, rubber bands, paper clips, a scientific calculator, a non-scientific calculator, a graphical calculator, sharpies in all the colours of the rainbow, a pencil sharpener, tape, string, scrap paper, tissues, hand gel, plasters, scissors, post-its, highlighters, a hole punch, a thirty centimetre ruler, a fifteen centimetre ruler, a stapler, super-glue, board pins, a magnifying glass, a hairbrush, deodorant, a torch, nail clippers, Vaseline, a fob watch, a bow tie, a sonic screwdriver, painkillers, spare gloves, a pack of cards, a spork, spare earphones, an earphone splitter, a scarf, a top hat, a lock, a pair of gloves, sweets, lollipops and some ribbon,” Benedict recites without missing a beat. “Oh, and my lunch box.”

Nikesh just stares at him open-mouthed for a few seconds. “I’m not even going to ask how you remember all that.”

Benedict flashes him a smile, wide and goofy and so bright Nikesh is momentarily stunned.

“Photographic memory,” Benedict informs him, before rooting in his bag for a rubber and presenting it to him with a flourish. It’s small and round with a tiny Romulan on the front. Nikesh takes it from him, hiding a smile, and has the sudden, not entirely unexpected feeling that the four of them are going to be fantastic friends.

(It’s kind of a very nice feeling, really.)



On their way out of the Biology lab, someone pushes past Benedict and nearly knocks him into the wall – they would’ve done, too, if Nikesh hadn’t grabbed him and steadied him before he could make impact.

“Hey!” Nikesh yells after the figure pushing through the crowd. “Watch where you’re going!”

“It’s okay.” Benedict looks up from straightening himself up and brushing himself down, self-deprecating smile already in place. “I get pushed all the time, it’s fine.” Nikesh looks momentarily furious that anyone would do anything as horrible as push him around and Benedict ducks his head, partly embarrassed and partly pleased by the fact that he cares. “It’s not like they do it on purpose; my size isn’t really conducive to smooth corridor transit.”

Nikesh just stares at him for a few seconds. “I’m going to pretend I understood what that last part meant,” he says slowly. “Keep dodging butterflies, okay? And try not to get killed on the way to... Maths, isn’t it?”

Benedict nods, eyes solemn. “I shall indeed try. I hope you enjoy your free.”

Nikesh gives him a brief, one-armed hug that’s more of a squeeze around the shoulders than anything else before disappearing into the crowd. A little puzzled, Benedict hitches the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder, shrugs and shuffles down to the maths block.

Merryn’s already there when he walks through the door, talking animatedly to Remy, and Benedict thinks, oh, of course, she had Politics with him. His stomach churns with something painfully familiar as he walks over, sets down his stuff and mumbles, “Hi.”

“Hey Benedict,” Merryn tosses over her shoulder, before plunging back into her discussion with Remy about something that sounds vaguely political. Benedict wrinkles his nose.

They don’t have Mrs Pettilfork this lesson; instead, Miss Yates is sat at the front of the class, painstakingly explaining something they went over in their last lesson with Mrs Pettilfork to someone in their class. Mrs Pettilfork isn’t a very good teacher.

Benedict assembles his books neatly on the table in front of him and waits patiently for Miss Yates to finish so they can start the lesson. Beside him, Merryn and Remy are still deep in discussion, throwing political jargon at each other that makes Benedict’s head spin.

The thing is, though, and this is a very important thing, they’re not actually arguing. Sometimes they come close to it, but for the most part the discussion is civil and all the points seem to be mutually agreed upon and Benedict is so confused because Merryn never agrees with anyone if she can help it. Merryn never, ever misses out on an opportunity to argue with someone.

He glances back over at the two of them, gives a little start when Remy leans forward and – in a way that could almost, almost have been entirely innocent – brushes his fingers along the top of Merryn’s hand. Her cheeks redden, she stumbles over her words, but she doesn’t pull her hand away and Benedict thinks oh.

Oh.

Benedict’s lips twitch and he looks away, suddenly not wanting to intrude on what he’s now certain is a Private Moment (capitals necessary). He reaches into his bag for his pack of cards to play a quick game of Solitaire on the table, but his fingers close around something else entirely. Frowning, Benedict tugs the piece of paper free and smoothes it out under his nose to read.

He blinks at it for a few seconds, then rereads it to make sure he’s not seeing things. There’s a neat, typed message that looks nothing like words and everything like gobbledygook glaring back at him from the page. Benedict has no idea how it ended up in his bag, if it’s even meant for him, who wrote it. But he doesn’t particularly care; he’s more interested in the cryptic message it bears.

It’s code, he thinks, probably. Rearranged, the letters probably form some kind of secret message or something. Benedict glances at it again, frowning, trying to make out some sort of pattern, but it’s too complex to spot that easily.

He distinctly remembers Rhys programming a cipher a few years back, remembers the other boy’s excitement when he got it to work, thinks he could probably ask him to use it to decode the words for him. Thinking about it, he could probably decode it himself, given the time or energy or effort, but the student at the front is shuffling back to his seat and Miss Yates is getting to her feet, smiling, to explain the wonders of Decision Maths, and Benedict shoves the piece of paper into his planner to come back to later.

Benedict’s so engrossed in the lesson, staring with rapt attention at Miss Yates as she explains the difference between a traversable diagram and a semi-traversable diagram, he manages to completely and utterly forget about the mysterious piece of paper at the bottom of his school bag.



“Oh, Merryn, I nearly forgot,” Remy says, as they put their stuff away at the end of the lesson. “I’ll need your phone number, if we’re going to do this Politics presentation together.”

“Oh yeah,” Merryn says, sounding distracted. “Of course. Give me your phone; I’ll just put it in.” Remy hands it over, watching her fingers glide over the QWERTY keyboard on his phone, and he smiles at her when she gives it back. “And you could come over to my house this weekend and we could write the presentation then, if you like.”

Remy’s nodding as he gets to his feet, smoothing down his shirt. “I’d like that very much. What time would suit you?”

“I’m usually up before ten o’clock, so any time after that?” Merryn suggests, and Remy nods. “Eleven, perhaps?”

“Eleven sounds good,” Remy agrees with a decisive nod of his head. “I assume you already put your address in my phone?”

“Of course,” Merryn says briskly.

Remy smiles, shifts his bag onto his shoulder and says, “Great. I’m looking forward to it. See you tomorrow, Merryn.”

Merryn gives a casual, almost bored nod, but the minute Remy turns around, her face breaks out into a giant, goofy grin and she starts dancing around on the spot, hips wiggling, arms flailing.

She stops abruptly when she notices Benedict grinning at her.

“Don’t say a word,” Merryn warns him, eyes narrowed. “It is not like that. It’s for purely school-related purposes. It is not a date.”

His grin stretches wider. “I didn’t think it was.”

She narrows her eyes at him, then mutters, “Oh, shut up,” nudging his shoulder with the pointy end of her elbow.

“I think it’s great,” Benedict says earnestly. “You like him, he likes you, you’re both happy. And don’t even try to deny it; I saw that little dance you were doing just now.”

Merryn tries to glare at him, but it’s tempered by the face-splitting grin on her lips. “Come on,” she says, grabbing his arm and linking it with her own, “Rhys and Nikesh are waiting for us.”

She’s still smiling when they halt by the bike racks, and it doesn’t even waver when Rhys and Nikesh exchange confused looks over her head.

“What happened?” Rhys hisses to Benedict. He’s hanging back on the frankly pathetic pretence that his lock is a bit stiff, but Merryn headed off with Nikesh with only a slight look of suspicion, so he probably got away with it.

Benedict shrugs. “She’s only smiling,” he points out. “It’s not like she never smiles.”

“Yeah, but not usually for no discernible reason,” Rhys mutters. “It was Remy, wasn’t it?”

Benedict nods, grinning, but Rhys doesn’t look excited like he thought he’d be. In fact, Benedict would go so far as to say he looks the very opposite of excited. “You don’t like him,” Benedict says, eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you like him?”

“He’s interested in my sister, I think that gives me the right to hate him,” Rhys retorts.

(Benedict wants to remind him that Merryn hates ‘all that archaic bullshit’ and would probably maim or seriously injure him for assuming the role of over-protective older brother, especially since he has no right to, considering she’s technically the elder of the two. He doesn’t think that would go down well, though.

He also maybe wants to mention the fact that he said nothing about actually hating the guy, but there’s this fierce look in Rhys’s eyes and Benedict knows that look, knows Rhys, and there’s more to this that Rhys isn’t letting on.)

“You all right?” Benedict asks, eyebrow quirked in question. “You seem a bit...” He trails off, making a vague, demonstrative motion with his hands.

“I’m fine.” Rhys’s gaze is lowered, fixed on the lock on his bike which actually is refusing to open now. “Just having a bad day, that’s all.”

And Benedict doesn’t quite believe him, but he only smiles, pats Rhys’s shoulder and gives the key in his lock a firm tug before ambling off, bike trailing along with him.