Boys Like You Love Me Forever - 1/2
Title: Boys Like You Love Me Forever
Author: radiogaga33
Artist: snomuss
Characters/Pairing: Marcus/Esca, Cottia, Uncle Aquila
Type: High School AU
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~13K
Warnings, etc: Past character death (AU take on canon character death); underage where it applies (Marcus and Esca are both 17)
Disclaimers: No claims to any copyrights, trademarks, or any other intellectual property. I do not own these characters. They belong to their creators. This is purely a work of fiction. It never happened.
Author’s Notes: Written for the Eagle reverse big bang. I make no claim to the version of soulbonding used in this story. I cobbled it together from other ideas throughout other fandom. Many thanks to ratbert71 and tommyglitter for the short-notice beta help.
Summary: Esca is a hipster, Marcus is mainstream, and this is what happens when they turn out to be bondmates. Basically, high school AU with bonus soulbonding and the usual teenage angst.
Boys Like You Love Me Forever
It happens like this: it is the first day of senior year, and Marcus is waiting in the Calleva High School admin office with his best friend, Cottia Harris. They are both volunteers for the student welcoming committee, a group of seniors helping out by giving early morning tours to the transfers on the first day of classes. It was Cottia’s idea, volunteering, and Marcus had said no at first, shy as ever and nervous at the thought of escorting a bunch of strangers around school.
It’s easy to assume certain things about Marcus Aquila. He is handsome, tall and broad-shouldered, newly chosen captain of the football team and top of the Calleva High popularity food chain by default. It’s easy to assume that he is carefree and outgoing, happy to put on a show for a couple of newbies. But if you think beyond last year’s Homecoming game-and all the way back to sixth grade-you would remember the quiet, skinny kid who’d showed up in the middle of the year, pale and drawn and weighed down by a large metal brace strapped to his left leg. An easy target for put-downs and gleeful bullying, and Marcus had gotten both in spades. Sure the brace is long gone, and sure the only evidence it was ever there is the barely noticeable limp Marcus gets after several hours straight of football practice. And sure, these days, he has about nine inches and eighty pounds on the kid he used to be, but the memories are never far (none of the memories of that particular year ever are) and Marcus prefers to stick to what he knows and who he knows. Keep his head down as much as he can. Just keep breathing.
So, yes, when Cottia had suggested volunteering, Marcus had shaken his head firmly and said no. But Cottia had pleaded, threatened and sweet-talked Marcus all through August until he’d finally said yes. It was inevitable really, Cottia may be five foot three with a wild mop of fiery red curls and pale skin peppered with freckles, but underneath all that sweetness and light is a spine of steel and razor sharp intent, and when she wants something, she gets it, including this.
So there they are, chatting away, gossiping about all the teenage angst, revelry, meltdowns and showdowns over the summer as another couple dozen of their classmates turned seventeen and learned the names of their bondmates. They’re laughing about Lucas Jones, whose bondmate had turned out to be his best friend’s little sister, when Principal Stephanos’ office door swings open and the most gorgeous boy Marcus has ever seen walks out.
Marcus stops mid-sentence, mouth hanging open as he gapes at the boy. He takes him in: from the carefully tousled hair, black plastic framed glasses, striped button-down and tweed bowtie to the gray vest, skintight black jeans and red and white Chuck Taylors. Marcus’ gaze sweeps back up, tracing over all the smaller details, like the steely blue gray of the boy’s eyes (dark and intense and calling to mind a winter thunderstorm), the slightly crooked line of a strong nose, the thin curve of his mouth and the stubborn jut of his chin. The boy is all odd angles and hard lines, short and lean and kind of feral looking despite the air of casual hipster cool he projects. He is a sum of disparate parts that add up to a compelling whole, a combination that shouldn’t work at all, that Marcus shouldn’t want so much-except that it does. And he does. Want, that is.
Marcus stands there, arms hanging at his sides and eyes fixed on the boy for several seconds, before he realizes that the boy is staring right back. Later, Marcus will wonder if he imagined it, but right then, he swears the boy looks the way Marcus feels, like he has been hit by a ton of bricks, like he couldn’t look away if his life depended on it. But before the giddiness even gets a chance to bubble up in Marcus’ chest, some indecipherable emotion flashes quicksilver fast across the boy’s face and his face darkens with a scowl. What…no, Marcus thinks frantically as Principal Stephanos steps forward to tap the boy’s shoulder and point at Marcus before walking back into his office.
Marcus looks down at the slip of paper he’d been given by the secretary when he first walked into the admin office. Esca McCunoval.
He moves toward the boy, heart beating a little too fast. “You’re Esca?” he asks, holding out his hand toward the boy.
“Last I checked,” Esca replies, voice flat and brittle, not that Marcus really notices, too distracted by the unexpected British accent and the sensation of Esca’s bare skin meeting his in a reluctant handshake.
“I’m Marcus,” he says, holding onto Esca’s hand a touch too long. “Marcus Aquila.”
Instantly, Esca goes rigid, snatching his hand out of Marcus’ grip as if he had burned him. “Aquila. You’re Marcus Aquila?” he asks.
Marcus hesitates, wondering at the incredulity in Esca’s tone, the strange rawness to it.
“Uh…yes?”
Esca gives him the once over, taking in Marcus’ varsity football jacket, plain white t-shirt, loose-fitted blue jeans and brand new Nikes, before muttering a vicious curse beneath his breath and backing away. “You have got to be kidding me,” he says to no one in particular. Then he turns sharply on his heel, hitches his bleached leather messenger bag higher on his shoulder and practically runs out of the room.
“Hey, hold up,” Marcus yells, rushing to the doorway after him. “I’m supposed to give you a tour!”
“If I get lost, I’ll be sure to call you to come save me,” Esca throws over his shoulder just as he disappears around the corner, leaving Marcus staring in the direction he’d gone, a little shattered and a lot confused.
What the hell just happened?
“What in the world was that all about?” Cottia asks breathlessly as she comes up behind him, looking down the hallway as well.
Marcus shrugs helplessly, want and disappointment sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach. “I have no idea.”
* * * * *
It happens like this: weeks go by, and Marcus is no closer to figuring out what happened that first day of school. He’s no closer to Esca either, and not for lack of trying.
That first day, Marcus looks up at the beginning of fourth-period Calculus to find Esca walking past his desk. He reaches out without thinking, grabbing a hold of Esca’s right wrist and starting to say hello, only to be stopped cold by the way Esca yanks his arm away and pins Marcus with a glare. “Don’t touch me again,” he hisses, tugging the cuff of his shirt down so it settles flat over his wrist again before marching over to the other side of the room, picking a seat as far away from Marcus as he can get.
Marcus doesn’t touch Esca again, but he keeps trying to engage him. He starts walking the long way to his locker in the mornings just so he has reason to pass by Esca’s, to say hello to him even though all Esca does is ignore him and turn his back pointedly as he shoves his messenger bag into his locker vehemently and pulls out textbooks so forcefully that it’s a miracle they stay in one piece. Marcus tries smiling at him in the hallways when they pass each other, Marcus with Cottia or one of his football teammates, and Esca with Liathan Prince (always Liathan, not that Marcus is keeping track or jealous or whatever) and a couple of the other theater kids he has fallen in with, the artsy types with their all-black ensembles and ever-present cups of Starbucks skinny triple-shot lattes. Marcus smiles, and Esca greets him with unforgiving scowls, an impenetrable wall still despite weeks of trying to break through.
But Marcus keeps trying. He gleans what he can from afar and catalogues all the little details, filing them away and constantly searching for more. He learns that Esca moved here to Georgia from London at the beginning of summer because of his father’s job promotion to chief of the Blue Shield security systems division at Brigantes International. He learns that Esca joined the school dance team-a detail that has Marcus hanging around the auditorium after school, hoping to catch a glimpse of Esca going into rehearsals for the fall recital before he himself has to get to football practice.
He learns other things too, things no one has to tell him: the way Esca’s left foot is always tapping a little at his desk in Calculus, as if Esca’s head is full of music only he can hear. And the way he tugs on his right earlobe and tilts his head when he is thinking hard. And the way he throws his head back when he laughs at something Liathan says during lunch period in the cafeteria, lips parted and eyes crinkling at the sides, while Marcus watches from his own table, stomach roiling with want and envy, wishing Esca would sit next to him, laugh at something he said. Wishing Esca would look at him like that, bright and open and almost sweet.
But Esca never does.
* * * * *
It happens like this: Mr. Cradoc announces a pop quiz in Calculus and has them grade each other’s papers, first collecting them all, and then distributing at random. Marcus manages to contain an entirely laughable squeak of a sound when he looks down to see “Esca MacCunoval” written across the paper Mr. Cradoc hands him, but it’s a near thing. And fine, so maybe there’s something slightly creepy about the way Marcus runs his fingers over the pencil marks on the paper, memorizing Esca’s cramped, painfully neat handwriting as he grades along with the rest of his class while Mr. Cradoc reads out the answers, but that’s neither here nor there, because Marcus would sooner move to a Siberian gulag than admit he ever did that. But he will own to the way his heart skips a beat in his chest, and his cheeks flush with anticipation as he walks over to Esca’s desk.
“I got your paper,” he explains quietly when Esca looks up at him with a disconcertingly blank expression.
“You did really well,” Marcus says when Esca takes the proffered sheet of paper without comment.
Esca glances down at his paper. “Thanks,” he mutters, shrugging and looking away.
Marcus goes still with surprise. This is the first time in weeks that Esca hasn’t simply ignored him. Frantically, he tries to think of something to say, of how to act, how to take advantage of the unexpected crack in the solid wall he has been running headlong into for days on end. But, before he can think of something, the bell rings and the big moment passes him by. Esca slams his textbook shut, grabs his notebook and vaults out of his chair, bumping Marcus’ shoulder as he brushes past him and walks out of the room.
Marcus is still standing there when the class empties out, looking down at Esca’s desk, trying to sort out the jumbled mess of thoughts in his head when he hears Mr. Cradoc call his name.
“Any reason you’re still here, Aquila?” his Calculus teacher asks. “Shouldn’t you be at the auditorium for the bonding seminar right now?”
The reminder is what finally snaps Marcus out of it. He grabs his things and heads straight to the auditorium, bypassing his locker. There is already a long line of seniors grabbing the boxed lunches set up in the hallways outside the auditorium and Marcus joins them, grabbing one for himself before wandering into the brightly-lit space, scanning the endless rows of seats for Cottia and hurrying over to sit down next to her.
The annual bonding seminars are part of the globally mandated curriculum for children. Every year since the first grade, they are herded into auditoriums around the world and taught all about the soulbond, what it means and how it is formed. Marcus already knows that when he turns seventeen next week, he will wake up to find his bondmate’s name written across his right wrist. He already knows what it will look like: a tattoo, two shades darker than one’s natural skin tone and slightly raised, like scar. He has seen the pictures during the annual seminars, and the markings firsthand on just about everyone seventeen and older who doesn’t wear the neoprene government-issue privacy bands on their wrists.
A bondmate. It’s the one thing that always gives Marcus hope. The one thing that has kept him afloat in the years since his whole world had gone to hell. The thought, the promise that he won’t have to live the rest of his life all alone. Before he is even fully conscious that he is doing it, Marcus looks around the auditorium until he spies Esca slouched low in his seat, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Liathan Prince.
Marcus has liked other boys before, but now he gets that all those other times were…vague inclinations at best. He has never been instantly drawn to someone like this, has never wanted like this, in a visceral, tangible way that keeps him up at night and has him falling over himself to catch Esca’s attention. Marcus looks down at his bared wrist. What if a week from now, Esca’s name is written there? Marcus knows better than to hope, and yet he indulges the fantasy anyway, lets his imagination run wild for a full minute before reigning it in. What if?
Marcus looks up, gaze straying over to Esca once again. But this time, his heart ends up beating out of rhythm. Because Esca is looking straight at him. Marcus sees Esca’s eyes widen in surprise before he ducks his head, a deep flush creeping into his cheeks and reddening the tips of his ears. Look at me again, Marcus thinks as he watches Esca rubbing his right wrist over the dark fabric of his long-sleeved shirt. He could last another couple of days on that, on nothing but a look and a murmured “thanks” at the end of fourth-period Calculus. Please look at me, he thinks fiercely in Esca’s direction, but for a while, nothing happens. Then, just as Marcus is about to give up, Esca looks up again with a shuttered expression that Marcus can’t quite decipher, not from this distance. Esca catches Marcus’ gaze and holds it for a long minute, and then he looks away, cold and dismissive as ever, like Marcus is nothing.
* * * * *
It happens like this: Marcus is sitting in Calculus again, slumping low in his chair and sighing pitifully as Mr. Cradoc carries on in his soul-crushingly boring monotone. Listlessly, Marcus glances at the long stretches of equations scrawled across the chalkboard, trying and failing to follow the thread of the endless lecture on indefinite integrals. Pay attention, he chides himself. Calculus is his toughest subject, the one class that requires his absolute focus at all times. But let’s face it, getting a good grade in Calculus has been a hopeless cause ever since Esca MacCunoval walked into the room, loose-limbed and carelessly gorgeous, looking like everything Marcus has always wanted and more.
Esca. In an instant, Marcus’ boredom falls away, and he sits up straight in his chair. He tells himself that he won’t look, not this time, not today. But he looks anyway-he always looks-chancing a quick glance across the room at where Esca is leaning forward in his chair, elbows braced against his desktop as he stares intently at the chalkboard, keeping pace while Marcus is failing miserably. Esca’s desk is right by the first set of large windows in the classroom, and the sunshine slants across his body, highlighting a mix of blond, copper and gold in his light brown hair, and showing off his pale skin to perfection. And even though Marcus can only see him in profile at the moment, his memory easily fills in all the hidden pieces, all the little details Marcus admires from afar.
Not that any of that matters now. Marcus looks down and runs his thumb along the bared skin of his right wrist. Tomorrow, he turns seventeen, and his bondmate’s name will be written there, an indelible mark until death. He promised himself years ago that finding his bondmate would be his first priority always, and he means to keep that promise. Which means he will have to forget about Esca, let this hopeless-obviously unrequited-infatuation go. No more stolen glances from across the room…unless-
Marcus shakes his head before the thought is fully formed, as if the motion will somehow shake it loose, as if he hasn’t been hoping for two months that when he wakes up tomorrow, he’ll find Esca’s name written across his skin. Marcus thumbs at his wrist again, completely distracted, when all of a sudden, the air around him goes eerily still. He looks up to find half the class staring at him and Mr. Cradoc watching him with an expectant look on his face. Shit. He has missed something.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” he says.
Mr. Cradoc frowns and points at the board. “What’s the next step in the equation?”
Marcus stares at the half-finished equation scrawled across the board while the class sits silent, watching him. “Um…you have to…umm…” he mumbles, stalling for time.
“I wouldn’t hold out hope for a correct answer, Mr. Cradoc.”
Marcus turns to find Esca looking at him too.
“Did you have something to add, MacCunoval?” Mr. Cradoc asks.
“Nope. Just making an observation. You need at least two brain cells to rub together to solve that equation, and I’m pretty sure Marcus here is working without a spare.”
For a split-second, all Marcus notices is the fact that Esca said his name, that Esca is talking about him. Then, on the heels of that, the rest of Esca’s words register and Marcus hears the mocking laughter of his classmates echoing around him. For a terrible moment, he is eleven again, in his old chair at the back of the room, metal brace strapped to his wounded leg. Cripple, retard, cyborg, ironboy-the old insults dig deep again, memories with teeth.
“That’s enough,” Mr. Cradoc says. Marcus barely hears him, not with the noise roaring in his ears. “Calculus isn’t a bloodsport, last I checked. Aquila, pay attention next time,” he says to Marcus before turning back to the chalkboard.
“Now, let’s finish this equation. Remember that we can’t integrate products as a product of integrals and so, first, we need to multiply the integrand out before integrating, and then….”
Marcus tunes out almost immediately, too caught up in his own head to pay attention. He recalls how it used to be, how small and alone he had felt back then, defenseless as the other kids had mocked him. They’ve conveniently forgotten now. These days, they’re only too happy to do him a favor, invite him to a party, obsequious to a fault now that he has climbed up the social hierarchy. Marcus tolerates them because he has to, because it’s high school, and everyone’s just trying to get out alive. He glances at Esca, angry and disappointed. I thought you were better than that.
As if Esca can feel the heat of Marcus’ gaze, he turns around right then, lips hitched in a smirk. Marcus isn’t sure what Esca sees, isn’t sure how much of what he feels is written across his face, but there must be something there. Because the smirk vanishes and Esca looks stricken for a moment before turning away with a guilty expression.
Marcus turns his gaze back to the chalkboard and picks up his pen. He makes himself stop thinking about Esca, about the harsh words and the strange look afterward. For the next twenty minutes, he diligently fills his notebook with symbols and figures and little explanatory notes, and he doesn’t give into the urge to look across the room again. Esca isn’t for him. Marcus would do well to accept that and move on. Starting now.
* * * * *
It happens like this: Marcus’ new resolve lasts all of thirty minutes before his thoughts stray back to Esca and his eyes follow quickly behind.
“You know what’s awesome? How you’re totally not staring at Esca MacCunoval right now.”
Marcus’ eyes snap back to Cottia and a soft blush colors his cheeks. It’s lunch period and they’re sitting in their usual spot, just the two of them perched at the end of a long table packed with an assortment of brainy, wallflower types. The first and only time they’d tried sitting with Marcus’ football crew, the experiment had ended in a shouting match during which Cottia had made a linebacker cry actual tears. Marcus, of course, should have seen that coming, considering the way he and Cottia met. It was spring break during seventh grade, and he had been walking around the neighborhood alone when he’d run into a group of bullies. Cottia had stuck up for him. He still remembers how she had appeared at random and how quickly she’d moved, a whirlwind of freckled skin and wild, red curls, socking the ringleader dead in the jaw and kicking another boy in the shin before the bullies had run off, clearly more bark than bite. Cottia and Marcus have been best friends ever since.
“I wasn’t staring at him,” Marcus protests feebly, picking up his fork and poking at the lump of mystery meat on his plate.
“Sure you weren’t, loverboy,” Cottia replies with a teasing grin. She rips open a packet of ketchup and douses her French fries with it. “Don’t get me wrong, no judgment here. He’s a pretty piece. All the girls and half the boys are in love with him. Must be the couldn’t-care-less hipster thing. Having a crush on Esca is totally in fashion right now.”
“Oh god, if you’re about to say Esca is the new black, I’m gonna commit seppuku by mystery meat.”
“What is that?” Cottia asks, leaning forward and squinting at Marcus’ plate.
“I have zero clue.”
Cottia reaches across with her own fork and breaks off a piece. “Turkey meatloaf,” she declares around her mouthful. “Not bad either.”
“Mystery solved,” Marcus says distractedly, gaze drifting back to Esca’s table already.
“Marcus?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re staring again.”
Marcus goes red with guilt and turns back. “Sorry,” he says.
Cottia shrugs and pops a French fry into her mouth. “Don’t sweat it. If it makes you feel any better, I’m staring too.”
“What?” Marcus exclaims.
“Not at Esca. Sheath your claws, babe, I’m not your competition. Fortunately for you, I’ve only got eyes for his friend.”
“Liathan?” Marcus says incredulously. “Since when?”
“Since he started riding a motorcycle to school.”
“Traitor,” Marcus says without any real heat at all.
“Can you blame me? Tall, dark, handsome, speaks French, rides a Harley,” Cottia says, ticking each one off with her fingers. “He’s basically the perfect man. You need to hurry up and get into Esca’s pants so I can get with Liathan by association. Do you think I can get him to talk dirty to me in French while I’m bent over his Harley?”
Marcus clamps his hands over his ears. “Please stop. You’re traumatizing me.”
“Aww, innocent little Marcus Aquila.”
Marcus bristles at that. “There’s nothing wrong with waiting until the soulbond,” he says defensively before casting a pointed glance at Cottia’s right wrist, which has been sporting a stranger’s name since the middle of May. “And what do you think your bondmate will have to say about this whole Harley-riding, French dirty talking plan of yours?”
“Listen, what Nicholas Choi-whoever that is-doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides, if he’s my bondmate, then that means he’s my perfect match. So he’ll completely understand that getting into Liathan Prince’s pants immediately, if not sooner, was of the utmost importance back in my horny teenage days.” Cottia says the last part with an obscene waggle of her eyebrows, and Marcus can’t help smiling in response.
Just then, the sound of laughter carries across the cafeteria, and Marcus doesn’t even have to look over to know that Esca is the one laughing. He has memorized the sound of it already.
“I keep hoping it’s him,” Marcus confesses in a small voice.
Cottia’s grin disappears. “Marcus,” she starts quietly. “You know the chances of that happening are, like, slim to none, right?”
“I know, I know, but I can’t help it.”
“And even if the chances were great,” Cottia continues, “even if it all worked out, you know that half the world doesn’t really believe in the soulbond anymore. Lots of people give up on finding their bondmates, or they find them and still end up with someone else. It happens all the time.” She holds up her right arm. “This is only potential. It isn’t a guarantee of anything.”
“I know.” Marcus sighs softly and looks down at his untouched food. He feels Cottia’s eyes on him, and hates himself for dragging the mood down.
“But hey, maybe I’m totally wrong,” Cottia says with forced cheerfulness. “Maybe you’ll end up with Esca and I’ll end up with Liathan, and we’ll double-date straight through graduation. And then you won’t have to get all jealous and growly when Liathan touches your boy, ‘cos you’ll be safe in the knowledge that I’m banging him every day of the week and twice on Sundays.”
Marcus bursts out laughing. “You’re a horrible person, and a bad influence.”
Cottia flashes him a wolfish grin. “I’m perfect, and you know it.”
“I do,” he says, grinning right back. “Forget Esca. Who needs him, when I’ve got you?”
“That’s the spirit!” Cottia says, all bright eyes and toothy grin.
She picks up her turkey sandwich, and Marcus follows suit, digging into his turkey meatloaf and potatoes. The rest of lunch period passes by in a haze of gossip and meandering conversation, and if Marcus’ gaze strays a few times over the next half hour, instinctively seeking out Esca in the crowd, well, Cottia has the good grace not to comment.
* * * * *
It happens like this: Marcus startles awake on the morning of his seventeenth birthday, yanked from hazy dreams by the obnoxious blaring of his alarm clock. The moment his consciousness catches up to the rest of him and he realizes just what today means, he bolts upright in his bed and almost brains himself on his wooden headboard in his rush to pull the cord on his bedside lamp. And it’s right after that, right after the room is flooded with the warm glow of light and Marcus looks down at the name marked into his skin that the whole world as Marcus knows it tilts sideways all around him.
Esca MacCunoval.
Marcus stares at the name in disbelief for a long moment, certain that he is imagining this, that he is still dreaming, that this is just another hopeless fantasy about the impossible. He casts a glance out at the rest of his room, half-expecting to see purple unicorns, floating houses, intergalactic spaceships and all the other usual suspects from his more outlandish dreams. But everything he sees is normal: his dark green rug, his computer desk and chair, the half-open door of his closet and the ever-present basket of laundry that needs folding and putting away.
This is reality.
Marcus looks down at his wrist again, holding his arm straight up to the light. What if it isn’t him?, a doubtful part of Marcus thinks. But how many Esca MacCunovals could there possibly be? And besides, Marcus realizes with a jolt, he recognizes that handwriting, cramped and painfully neat, like Esca had carved his name into Marcus’ skin himself.
This is reality. Esca MacCunoval is his bondmate. They can be together. Marcus will have the soulbond like he has always dreamed of, and he’ll have it with Esca. The realization washes over him, sweet and warm, and Marcus sits there with an embarrassingly loopy grin on his face as the joy of it settles into his bones. A solid minute passes like that, with Marcus tracing over Esca’s name on his wrist with his fingertips, but eventually, a nagging thought starts elbowing its way straight to the forefront of Marcus’ consciousness. There is something he has to remember, some detail he is forgetting in the rush of discovery. Marcus frowns, searching through his memory, trying to pin down the elusive detail. He looks down at the slightly-open drawer of his nightstand, down to where he can see the light blue packaging of the neoprene privacy band that had been shipped to him a month ago, and suddenly, he remembers.
That first day of school, when he had reached for Esca in fourth-period Calculus and Esca had yanked his arm away. Marcus sees it clear as day now, sees the edge of neoprene peeking out from under the skewed cuff of Esca’s shirt before Esca tugged it back down over his wrist. Esca has already turned seventeen. Esca already knows. It all falls into place in horrifying slow-motion: the way Esca had gone rigid when he heard Marcus’ name for the first time, the way he’d almost sounded panicked when Marcus had touched him, like he was afraid that fleeting contact alone could force the soulbond. Contact with intent. Marcus has heard those three words every year since his first bonding seminar. Contact with intent creates the soulbond.
Marcus sits there in a daze as it hits him all at once. He is silent for a long while, barely breathing, until finally, the haze begins to clear, slowly but surely, anger displacing the staggering shock. Esca knows. Since the first day of school, he has known and said nothing, done nothing and turned away every time Marcus worked up the nerve to wander close to him. All this time, they could have been together, they could have tried, they could have-
Marcus flings away his blanket and climbs out of bed. He marches heavily around the room, getting all his gear ready for school, his movements tight and abrupt, stilted with rising anger. Half an hour later, he races down the staircase and heads straight for the front door with his backpack strap hanging off one shoulder and his sportsbag hanging off the other.
“Hey, where’s the fire?”
Marcus pauses halfway to the door at the sound of his uncle’s voice. He turns around to find Uncle Aquila tucking his folded newspaper under one arm and pushing his wire-framed glasses back up the bridge of his nose. He is dressed already, always the early riser, a habit that two decades of retirement from the army still hasn’t beaten out of him.
“I have to get to school,” Marcus says.
“Really?” Uncle Aquila casts a pointed glance at Marcus’ right hand, deliberately turned inward to hide the mark on his wrist. His uncle has always had an alarming ability to see right into Marcus, to read his mind clear as day. “Why don’t you come have some breakfast. You’ve got time. We can…talk.”
“I really have to go.”
Uncle Aquila flashes one his enigmatic smiles. “Alright then. Never let it be said that I stood between a young man and his education. Do I get to wish you a happy birthday at least?”
“Sure,” Marcus says weakly, feeling terrible for trying to run. He hugs back hard when Uncle Aquila closes the distance between them and pulls Marcus in close, chest to chest, both of a height, though Marcus is broad where his uncle has gone lean with age.
“Go on, then,” Uncle Aquila says afterward, already unfolding his newspaper. “Birthday dinner at eight. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t,” Marcus promises before hurrying out the door.
The drive to school passes by in a rush as Marcus pushes the speed limit all the way, anger and rising fear roiling in the pit of his stomach. He parks in his assigned space in the student lot, grabs his backpack off the passenger seat and practically sprints into the building. Marcus marches straight to Esca’s locker, playing all the permutations in his head, all the different ways this could go. When he gets there, he finds Esca standing with Liathan and another boy, the three of them chatting and laughing as if everything is perfectly alright, as if Marcus’ world hadn’t crashed sideways an hour and a half ago.
“I need to talk to you,” Marcus says.
Esca flicks a dismissive look his way. “We don’t have anything to say to each other.”
“I disagree.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“I turned seventeen today,” Marcus says, taking satisfaction in the way Esca stiffens and his eyes go wide with surprise. Marcus moves closer to Esca. “Do you still think we have nothing to say to each other?”
“Esca, is everything okay?” Liathan asks, eyeing Marcus warily.
“It’s fine. I just need to set something straight.” Esca slams his locker shut and turns back to Marcus. “I’m not doing this here,” he says before pivoting left and making his way through the growing crowd of students milling about in the hallway before homeroom bell. Esca hurries out a side door, not bothering to look over his shoulder to check if Marcus is following.
Of course he would assume, Marcus thinks bitterly as he hurries after Esca. And why shouldn’t he assume, when Marcus has been making a fool out of himself for weeks, trying to get close to Esca while Esca has probably been laughing all about it with his friends, with Liathan, with everyone. Cripple, retard, cyborg, ironboy. Let’s all have ourselves a laugh at Marcus Aquila’s expense.
“You knew,” Marcus says the moment they’re outside. “All this time, you knew and you didn’t say anything.”
“Right,” Esca says, features drawing tight. “Because I’m supposed to be ecstatic that you’re my bondmate, correct? I should have kissed the ground because I drew the captain of the football team, right? Because you’re so wonderful and perfect. You and your teammates, walking around school like you own everyone and everything in it. Run around a field and win a couple of games and you think the rest of us should just fall over backwards and give you anything you want.”
Esca’s voice has gotten progressively higher, and by the end, he is yelling, voice tight with rage and a strange shade of sadness. It makes Marcus stop short, his own anger bleeding out of him in a dizzying rush as confusion washes over him.
“I don’t think that. I’ve never-”
“Oh please,” Esca interjects. “I know all about boys like you.”
“Boys like me?” Marcus echoes, getting more confused by the second.
“Yes, boys like you. With your letterman jacket and Calvin Klein jeans and shiny sneakers and tidy white socks. Hundred dollar haircut, brand new car, fancy house and fancy parents. Getting everything handed over to you for so long, you think you deserve it. You think you’re something special because you managed to peak in high school. You don’t even know you’re nothing but just another ant marching, a mindless, hyper-mainstream drone. If you ever had an original thought in your vacant head, it would die from loneliness!”
Marcus stares at Esca in shock for a long moment, too dazed to process Esca’s words. Whatever this is, Marcus lost the thread minutes ago, or perhaps he never had it in the first place.
“Esca,” Marcus starts shakily, hopelessly confused at the bent of the conversation.
Esca looks away, arms folded over his chest. “I’m not fifteen anymore,” he says, voice cracking, tone softer now and a suspicious glint in his eyes. “I’m not blind anymore, and I’m not going to ask ‘how high’ just because the local golden boy told me to jump.”
Marcus struggles to breathe, wondering how this all got away from him so fast. His anger is long gone now, and all that is left is the fear. That this is where it ends for him, that he’ll lose something else he cares about, only this time, he never even got to have it in the first place.
“I’m not asking you to jump because I said so. I would never ask anyone to do that, let alone you. You’re my bondmate,” Marcus says. Despite everything, it doesn’t feel strange to say it out loud. It feels right somehow, like a long-forgotten truth springing back to life. He moves forward and touches Esca’s arm. “We’re meant to be together.”
Esca backs away. “The hell we are,” he says. “Don’t touch me. As if I’d tie myself to a boy like you.” His eyes narrow, gaze hard and unforgiving. “I hate everything you stand for, everything you are.” Esca tugs up the long sleeve of his burgundy sweater and pulls off his privacy band, revealing Marcus’ name on his wrist, the letters scrawled in a sideways slant, a mirror-image of Marcus’ handwriting. “And this?” Esca continues, holding up his arm, “this doesn’t mean a goddamned thing.”
With that, he turns and walks back into the building, pushing past the crowd of students that have gathered around the open doors to watch the scene unfolding in the school yard. Marcus looks up, noticing the audience for the first time and cringing. Dimly, he notices Cottia peeling away from the crowd and moving toward him. She approaches him slowly, apprehensive, cautious, like he is an injured animal that needs gentle handling. It’s not so far from the truth.
“Marcus, are you okay?”
Marcus feels a warning burn in his eyes and a tell-tale tightening in his throat. He will not lose it here, in front of everyone. He has entertained the crowd enough already.
“I have to go home.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Cottia offers.
“No. I need to be alone. I’m sorry, I have to go.”
“Marcus-”
“I have to go,” he says again before turning around and running away-from the crowd, from school, from Esca-as fast as he can.
* * * * *
It happens like this: Marcus manages to make it back home in one piece, and spends the rest of the day sitting in an armchair by the window in Uncle Aquila’s study, ignoring the intermittent buzzing of his cellphone, text messages from Cottia and phone calls from Uncle Aquila going unanswered. He sits there and plays through the events of this morning and the last several weeks since meeting Esca. For hours, he tries to figure out what he did wrong, where it went sideways, how it all ended up in such a hopelessly tangled mess. But by the time the sunlight fades away and twilight settles, Marcus still has no answer.
He is still sitting in the armchair, staring blindly out the window, when he hears the sound of a car door slamming closed in the driveway, quickly followed by the sounds of Uncle Aquila entering the house, dropping his briefcase in the foyer and wandering through the passageway, calling Marcus’ name.
“I’m in here,” Marcus calls out, scrambling to his feet as Uncle Aquila walks into the room. “Good evening, uncle.”
“So, I got the strangest call at work from your high school principal today,” Uncle Aquila begins, sitting down on the leather sofa in the study and gesturing at Marcus to sit beside him. After Marcus obeys, he continues. “He said you had skipped school and football practice too. Now, I was sure we couldn’t possibly be talking about the same person, because the Marcus Aquila I know would never do that.” A meaningful pause follows. “Not without good reason.”
“I had good reason,” Marcus says quietly.
Uncle Aquila nods, like he was expecting that answer. “What is his name?”
Marcus hesitates before answering. “Esca MacCunoval.”
“And you know who he is?” It’s more of a statement than a question.
“He goes to school with me. His family moved to Calleva from London this past summer. I see him every day.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“He turned seventeen already. He knew about us already, and when I confronted him today, he told me to leave him alone. He doesn’t want anything to do with me. He hates me.”
“Are you sure?”
“He said so in front of half the school this morning.”
“I’m sorry,” Uncle Aquila says, hushed and sympathetic.
“I’ve wanted the soulbond for as long as I can remember. When I was younger, it was because of how happy Mom and Dad used to seem, how much they loved and depended on each other. Then…after the accident, after…Mom died and Dad brought me here…I wanted the soulbond because of the promise of it. The promise that I’d have someone to love, someone who loved me. That I wouldn’t have to spend my life alone. I figured I would probably have to wait-lots of people have to wait. Maybe a few years, or even a decade, but eventually I would find my bondmate. Well, it turns out I didn’t have to wait at all. He walked right into my life, but the kicker is, he can’t stand the sight of me.”
Marcus breaks off for a moment as his voice goes quiet and shaky with the threat of tears. “What’s wrong with me?”
“There is nothing wrong with you,” Uncle Aquila says immediately. “Sometimes, life doesn’t work out the way you want. As much as I wish you didn’t, you know that better than anyone. And this Esca-you can’t force the soulbond. Trying to do that never works out very well for anyone involved. You both have to choose it. But if he wants to be left alone, you have to respect that.”
Marcus’ spirits plummet even further. It’s one thing to know it, but it’s quite another to hear it said plainly. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me that everything is going to be alright? That this will all work out in the end?”
Uncle Aquila’s lips curl up in a small, sad smile. “In six years, I’ve never told you anything I wasn’t a hundred percent sure was true. I’m not going to start now.”
Marcus looks at him, taking in the familiar shock of white hair, bright eyes and wire-framed glasses. He recalls the first day he met his uncle. Marcus’ father had driven south for ten hours straight, from Philadelphia to Calleva, while Marcus shifted and turned in the backseat, trying to hide his grimaces and soft groans as pain shot through his injured leg. Marcus’ father had left him here, with his older brother, a stranger that Marcus had only ever seen in faded family photographs before that day. “Just for a little while,” his father had promised, taking off his football ring with its bright emerald stone and handing it to Marcus. “Hang onto this for me, won’t you? Until I come back.” Marcus had nodded, too dazed to argue. For years, Marcus had waited, staring out the front windows every night, watching the street for his father’s Jeep, until one day when his Uncle had stood beside him and wrapped his arm around Marcus’ shoulder. “He’s not coming back, is he?” Marcus had asked, finally facing the truth he had been denying for years. “No, he isn’t.” Uncle Aquila hadn’t lied to him that day. He has never lied to Marcus, not even when Marcus wanted him to.
“Have you eaten today?” Uncle Aquila asks, pulling Marcus from his wandering thoughts.
“No,” he replies, belatedly aware of how hungry he is.
Uncle Aquila looks at his wristwatch. “I can move up the reservation for dinner to seven.”
“I don’t-can we cancel dinner? I just don’t feel up to facing the rest of the universe right now. Can we order in?”
“We can do that.” Uncle Aquila stands up. “How about a pizza? I’ll even let you pile on a double portion of mushrooms.”
“But you hate mushrooms.”
Uncle Aquila flashes him a bright smile. “I’m always willing to suffer through for my favorite nephew.”
“I’m your only nephew, uncle.”
Uncle Aquila shrugs, still smiling. “Details, details,” he says lightly.
That evening, they stay in, tucking away three-quarters of a large mushroom and pepperoni pizza between them, talking about everything except the elephant in the room, the one thing casting a pall over what should have been a good day. It isn’t until later that night, when Marcus is lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, that he thinks about Esca again. He lays it all out once more, rifling through his memories, re-examining each event, from the first day until this morning. But there’s no solution to be had, no easy fix, no happily ever after. Esca doesn’t want anything to do with him. And when someone hates you that much, the best thing you can do is stay far far away. For his own sanity, Marcus intends to do just that.
PART 2
Author: radiogaga33
Artist: snomuss
Characters/Pairing: Marcus/Esca, Cottia, Uncle Aquila
Type: High School AU
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~13K
Warnings, etc: Past character death (AU take on canon character death); underage where it applies (Marcus and Esca are both 17)
Disclaimers: No claims to any copyrights, trademarks, or any other intellectual property. I do not own these characters. They belong to their creators. This is purely a work of fiction. It never happened.
Author’s Notes: Written for the Eagle reverse big bang. I make no claim to the version of soulbonding used in this story. I cobbled it together from other ideas throughout other fandom. Many thanks to ratbert71 and tommyglitter for the short-notice beta help.
Summary: Esca is a hipster, Marcus is mainstream, and this is what happens when they turn out to be bondmates. Basically, high school AU with bonus soulbonding and the usual teenage angst.
Boys Like You Love Me Forever
It happens like this: it is the first day of senior year, and Marcus is waiting in the Calleva High School admin office with his best friend, Cottia Harris. They are both volunteers for the student welcoming committee, a group of seniors helping out by giving early morning tours to the transfers on the first day of classes. It was Cottia’s idea, volunteering, and Marcus had said no at first, shy as ever and nervous at the thought of escorting a bunch of strangers around school.
It’s easy to assume certain things about Marcus Aquila. He is handsome, tall and broad-shouldered, newly chosen captain of the football team and top of the Calleva High popularity food chain by default. It’s easy to assume that he is carefree and outgoing, happy to put on a show for a couple of newbies. But if you think beyond last year’s Homecoming game-and all the way back to sixth grade-you would remember the quiet, skinny kid who’d showed up in the middle of the year, pale and drawn and weighed down by a large metal brace strapped to his left leg. An easy target for put-downs and gleeful bullying, and Marcus had gotten both in spades. Sure the brace is long gone, and sure the only evidence it was ever there is the barely noticeable limp Marcus gets after several hours straight of football practice. And sure, these days, he has about nine inches and eighty pounds on the kid he used to be, but the memories are never far (none of the memories of that particular year ever are) and Marcus prefers to stick to what he knows and who he knows. Keep his head down as much as he can. Just keep breathing.
So, yes, when Cottia had suggested volunteering, Marcus had shaken his head firmly and said no. But Cottia had pleaded, threatened and sweet-talked Marcus all through August until he’d finally said yes. It was inevitable really, Cottia may be five foot three with a wild mop of fiery red curls and pale skin peppered with freckles, but underneath all that sweetness and light is a spine of steel and razor sharp intent, and when she wants something, she gets it, including this.
So there they are, chatting away, gossiping about all the teenage angst, revelry, meltdowns and showdowns over the summer as another couple dozen of their classmates turned seventeen and learned the names of their bondmates. They’re laughing about Lucas Jones, whose bondmate had turned out to be his best friend’s little sister, when Principal Stephanos’ office door swings open and the most gorgeous boy Marcus has ever seen walks out.
Marcus stops mid-sentence, mouth hanging open as he gapes at the boy. He takes him in: from the carefully tousled hair, black plastic framed glasses, striped button-down and tweed bowtie to the gray vest, skintight black jeans and red and white Chuck Taylors. Marcus’ gaze sweeps back up, tracing over all the smaller details, like the steely blue gray of the boy’s eyes (dark and intense and calling to mind a winter thunderstorm), the slightly crooked line of a strong nose, the thin curve of his mouth and the stubborn jut of his chin. The boy is all odd angles and hard lines, short and lean and kind of feral looking despite the air of casual hipster cool he projects. He is a sum of disparate parts that add up to a compelling whole, a combination that shouldn’t work at all, that Marcus shouldn’t want so much-except that it does. And he does. Want, that is.
Marcus stands there, arms hanging at his sides and eyes fixed on the boy for several seconds, before he realizes that the boy is staring right back. Later, Marcus will wonder if he imagined it, but right then, he swears the boy looks the way Marcus feels, like he has been hit by a ton of bricks, like he couldn’t look away if his life depended on it. But before the giddiness even gets a chance to bubble up in Marcus’ chest, some indecipherable emotion flashes quicksilver fast across the boy’s face and his face darkens with a scowl. What…no, Marcus thinks frantically as Principal Stephanos steps forward to tap the boy’s shoulder and point at Marcus before walking back into his office.
Marcus looks down at the slip of paper he’d been given by the secretary when he first walked into the admin office. Esca McCunoval.
He moves toward the boy, heart beating a little too fast. “You’re Esca?” he asks, holding out his hand toward the boy.
“Last I checked,” Esca replies, voice flat and brittle, not that Marcus really notices, too distracted by the unexpected British accent and the sensation of Esca’s bare skin meeting his in a reluctant handshake.
“I’m Marcus,” he says, holding onto Esca’s hand a touch too long. “Marcus Aquila.”
Instantly, Esca goes rigid, snatching his hand out of Marcus’ grip as if he had burned him. “Aquila. You’re Marcus Aquila?” he asks.
Marcus hesitates, wondering at the incredulity in Esca’s tone, the strange rawness to it.
“Uh…yes?”
Esca gives him the once over, taking in Marcus’ varsity football jacket, plain white t-shirt, loose-fitted blue jeans and brand new Nikes, before muttering a vicious curse beneath his breath and backing away. “You have got to be kidding me,” he says to no one in particular. Then he turns sharply on his heel, hitches his bleached leather messenger bag higher on his shoulder and practically runs out of the room.
“Hey, hold up,” Marcus yells, rushing to the doorway after him. “I’m supposed to give you a tour!”
“If I get lost, I’ll be sure to call you to come save me,” Esca throws over his shoulder just as he disappears around the corner, leaving Marcus staring in the direction he’d gone, a little shattered and a lot confused.
What the hell just happened?
“What in the world was that all about?” Cottia asks breathlessly as she comes up behind him, looking down the hallway as well.
Marcus shrugs helplessly, want and disappointment sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach. “I have no idea.”
* * * * *
It happens like this: weeks go by, and Marcus is no closer to figuring out what happened that first day of school. He’s no closer to Esca either, and not for lack of trying.
That first day, Marcus looks up at the beginning of fourth-period Calculus to find Esca walking past his desk. He reaches out without thinking, grabbing a hold of Esca’s right wrist and starting to say hello, only to be stopped cold by the way Esca yanks his arm away and pins Marcus with a glare. “Don’t touch me again,” he hisses, tugging the cuff of his shirt down so it settles flat over his wrist again before marching over to the other side of the room, picking a seat as far away from Marcus as he can get.
Marcus doesn’t touch Esca again, but he keeps trying to engage him. He starts walking the long way to his locker in the mornings just so he has reason to pass by Esca’s, to say hello to him even though all Esca does is ignore him and turn his back pointedly as he shoves his messenger bag into his locker vehemently and pulls out textbooks so forcefully that it’s a miracle they stay in one piece. Marcus tries smiling at him in the hallways when they pass each other, Marcus with Cottia or one of his football teammates, and Esca with Liathan Prince (always Liathan, not that Marcus is keeping track or jealous or whatever) and a couple of the other theater kids he has fallen in with, the artsy types with their all-black ensembles and ever-present cups of Starbucks skinny triple-shot lattes. Marcus smiles, and Esca greets him with unforgiving scowls, an impenetrable wall still despite weeks of trying to break through.
But Marcus keeps trying. He gleans what he can from afar and catalogues all the little details, filing them away and constantly searching for more. He learns that Esca moved here to Georgia from London at the beginning of summer because of his father’s job promotion to chief of the Blue Shield security systems division at Brigantes International. He learns that Esca joined the school dance team-a detail that has Marcus hanging around the auditorium after school, hoping to catch a glimpse of Esca going into rehearsals for the fall recital before he himself has to get to football practice.
He learns other things too, things no one has to tell him: the way Esca’s left foot is always tapping a little at his desk in Calculus, as if Esca’s head is full of music only he can hear. And the way he tugs on his right earlobe and tilts his head when he is thinking hard. And the way he throws his head back when he laughs at something Liathan says during lunch period in the cafeteria, lips parted and eyes crinkling at the sides, while Marcus watches from his own table, stomach roiling with want and envy, wishing Esca would sit next to him, laugh at something he said. Wishing Esca would look at him like that, bright and open and almost sweet.
But Esca never does.
* * * * *
It happens like this: Mr. Cradoc announces a pop quiz in Calculus and has them grade each other’s papers, first collecting them all, and then distributing at random. Marcus manages to contain an entirely laughable squeak of a sound when he looks down to see “Esca MacCunoval” written across the paper Mr. Cradoc hands him, but it’s a near thing. And fine, so maybe there’s something slightly creepy about the way Marcus runs his fingers over the pencil marks on the paper, memorizing Esca’s cramped, painfully neat handwriting as he grades along with the rest of his class while Mr. Cradoc reads out the answers, but that’s neither here nor there, because Marcus would sooner move to a Siberian gulag than admit he ever did that. But he will own to the way his heart skips a beat in his chest, and his cheeks flush with anticipation as he walks over to Esca’s desk.
“I got your paper,” he explains quietly when Esca looks up at him with a disconcertingly blank expression.
“You did really well,” Marcus says when Esca takes the proffered sheet of paper without comment.
Esca glances down at his paper. “Thanks,” he mutters, shrugging and looking away.
Marcus goes still with surprise. This is the first time in weeks that Esca hasn’t simply ignored him. Frantically, he tries to think of something to say, of how to act, how to take advantage of the unexpected crack in the solid wall he has been running headlong into for days on end. But, before he can think of something, the bell rings and the big moment passes him by. Esca slams his textbook shut, grabs his notebook and vaults out of his chair, bumping Marcus’ shoulder as he brushes past him and walks out of the room.
Marcus is still standing there when the class empties out, looking down at Esca’s desk, trying to sort out the jumbled mess of thoughts in his head when he hears Mr. Cradoc call his name.
“Any reason you’re still here, Aquila?” his Calculus teacher asks. “Shouldn’t you be at the auditorium for the bonding seminar right now?”
The reminder is what finally snaps Marcus out of it. He grabs his things and heads straight to the auditorium, bypassing his locker. There is already a long line of seniors grabbing the boxed lunches set up in the hallways outside the auditorium and Marcus joins them, grabbing one for himself before wandering into the brightly-lit space, scanning the endless rows of seats for Cottia and hurrying over to sit down next to her.
The annual bonding seminars are part of the globally mandated curriculum for children. Every year since the first grade, they are herded into auditoriums around the world and taught all about the soulbond, what it means and how it is formed. Marcus already knows that when he turns seventeen next week, he will wake up to find his bondmate’s name written across his right wrist. He already knows what it will look like: a tattoo, two shades darker than one’s natural skin tone and slightly raised, like scar. He has seen the pictures during the annual seminars, and the markings firsthand on just about everyone seventeen and older who doesn’t wear the neoprene government-issue privacy bands on their wrists.
A bondmate. It’s the one thing that always gives Marcus hope. The one thing that has kept him afloat in the years since his whole world had gone to hell. The thought, the promise that he won’t have to live the rest of his life all alone. Before he is even fully conscious that he is doing it, Marcus looks around the auditorium until he spies Esca slouched low in his seat, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Liathan Prince.
Marcus has liked other boys before, but now he gets that all those other times were…vague inclinations at best. He has never been instantly drawn to someone like this, has never wanted like this, in a visceral, tangible way that keeps him up at night and has him falling over himself to catch Esca’s attention. Marcus looks down at his bared wrist. What if a week from now, Esca’s name is written there? Marcus knows better than to hope, and yet he indulges the fantasy anyway, lets his imagination run wild for a full minute before reigning it in. What if?
Marcus looks up, gaze straying over to Esca once again. But this time, his heart ends up beating out of rhythm. Because Esca is looking straight at him. Marcus sees Esca’s eyes widen in surprise before he ducks his head, a deep flush creeping into his cheeks and reddening the tips of his ears. Look at me again, Marcus thinks as he watches Esca rubbing his right wrist over the dark fabric of his long-sleeved shirt. He could last another couple of days on that, on nothing but a look and a murmured “thanks” at the end of fourth-period Calculus. Please look at me, he thinks fiercely in Esca’s direction, but for a while, nothing happens. Then, just as Marcus is about to give up, Esca looks up again with a shuttered expression that Marcus can’t quite decipher, not from this distance. Esca catches Marcus’ gaze and holds it for a long minute, and then he looks away, cold and dismissive as ever, like Marcus is nothing.
* * * * *
It happens like this: Marcus is sitting in Calculus again, slumping low in his chair and sighing pitifully as Mr. Cradoc carries on in his soul-crushingly boring monotone. Listlessly, Marcus glances at the long stretches of equations scrawled across the chalkboard, trying and failing to follow the thread of the endless lecture on indefinite integrals. Pay attention, he chides himself. Calculus is his toughest subject, the one class that requires his absolute focus at all times. But let’s face it, getting a good grade in Calculus has been a hopeless cause ever since Esca MacCunoval walked into the room, loose-limbed and carelessly gorgeous, looking like everything Marcus has always wanted and more.
Esca. In an instant, Marcus’ boredom falls away, and he sits up straight in his chair. He tells himself that he won’t look, not this time, not today. But he looks anyway-he always looks-chancing a quick glance across the room at where Esca is leaning forward in his chair, elbows braced against his desktop as he stares intently at the chalkboard, keeping pace while Marcus is failing miserably. Esca’s desk is right by the first set of large windows in the classroom, and the sunshine slants across his body, highlighting a mix of blond, copper and gold in his light brown hair, and showing off his pale skin to perfection. And even though Marcus can only see him in profile at the moment, his memory easily fills in all the hidden pieces, all the little details Marcus admires from afar.
Not that any of that matters now. Marcus looks down and runs his thumb along the bared skin of his right wrist. Tomorrow, he turns seventeen, and his bondmate’s name will be written there, an indelible mark until death. He promised himself years ago that finding his bondmate would be his first priority always, and he means to keep that promise. Which means he will have to forget about Esca, let this hopeless-obviously unrequited-infatuation go. No more stolen glances from across the room…unless-
Marcus shakes his head before the thought is fully formed, as if the motion will somehow shake it loose, as if he hasn’t been hoping for two months that when he wakes up tomorrow, he’ll find Esca’s name written across his skin. Marcus thumbs at his wrist again, completely distracted, when all of a sudden, the air around him goes eerily still. He looks up to find half the class staring at him and Mr. Cradoc watching him with an expectant look on his face. Shit. He has missed something.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” he says.
Mr. Cradoc frowns and points at the board. “What’s the next step in the equation?”
Marcus stares at the half-finished equation scrawled across the board while the class sits silent, watching him. “Um…you have to…umm…” he mumbles, stalling for time.
“I wouldn’t hold out hope for a correct answer, Mr. Cradoc.”
Marcus turns to find Esca looking at him too.
“Did you have something to add, MacCunoval?” Mr. Cradoc asks.
“Nope. Just making an observation. You need at least two brain cells to rub together to solve that equation, and I’m pretty sure Marcus here is working without a spare.”
For a split-second, all Marcus notices is the fact that Esca said his name, that Esca is talking about him. Then, on the heels of that, the rest of Esca’s words register and Marcus hears the mocking laughter of his classmates echoing around him. For a terrible moment, he is eleven again, in his old chair at the back of the room, metal brace strapped to his wounded leg. Cripple, retard, cyborg, ironboy-the old insults dig deep again, memories with teeth.
“That’s enough,” Mr. Cradoc says. Marcus barely hears him, not with the noise roaring in his ears. “Calculus isn’t a bloodsport, last I checked. Aquila, pay attention next time,” he says to Marcus before turning back to the chalkboard.
“Now, let’s finish this equation. Remember that we can’t integrate products as a product of integrals and so, first, we need to multiply the integrand out before integrating, and then….”
Marcus tunes out almost immediately, too caught up in his own head to pay attention. He recalls how it used to be, how small and alone he had felt back then, defenseless as the other kids had mocked him. They’ve conveniently forgotten now. These days, they’re only too happy to do him a favor, invite him to a party, obsequious to a fault now that he has climbed up the social hierarchy. Marcus tolerates them because he has to, because it’s high school, and everyone’s just trying to get out alive. He glances at Esca, angry and disappointed. I thought you were better than that.
As if Esca can feel the heat of Marcus’ gaze, he turns around right then, lips hitched in a smirk. Marcus isn’t sure what Esca sees, isn’t sure how much of what he feels is written across his face, but there must be something there. Because the smirk vanishes and Esca looks stricken for a moment before turning away with a guilty expression.
Marcus turns his gaze back to the chalkboard and picks up his pen. He makes himself stop thinking about Esca, about the harsh words and the strange look afterward. For the next twenty minutes, he diligently fills his notebook with symbols and figures and little explanatory notes, and he doesn’t give into the urge to look across the room again. Esca isn’t for him. Marcus would do well to accept that and move on. Starting now.
* * * * *
It happens like this: Marcus’ new resolve lasts all of thirty minutes before his thoughts stray back to Esca and his eyes follow quickly behind.
“You know what’s awesome? How you’re totally not staring at Esca MacCunoval right now.”
Marcus’ eyes snap back to Cottia and a soft blush colors his cheeks. It’s lunch period and they’re sitting in their usual spot, just the two of them perched at the end of a long table packed with an assortment of brainy, wallflower types. The first and only time they’d tried sitting with Marcus’ football crew, the experiment had ended in a shouting match during which Cottia had made a linebacker cry actual tears. Marcus, of course, should have seen that coming, considering the way he and Cottia met. It was spring break during seventh grade, and he had been walking around the neighborhood alone when he’d run into a group of bullies. Cottia had stuck up for him. He still remembers how she had appeared at random and how quickly she’d moved, a whirlwind of freckled skin and wild, red curls, socking the ringleader dead in the jaw and kicking another boy in the shin before the bullies had run off, clearly more bark than bite. Cottia and Marcus have been best friends ever since.
“I wasn’t staring at him,” Marcus protests feebly, picking up his fork and poking at the lump of mystery meat on his plate.
“Sure you weren’t, loverboy,” Cottia replies with a teasing grin. She rips open a packet of ketchup and douses her French fries with it. “Don’t get me wrong, no judgment here. He’s a pretty piece. All the girls and half the boys are in love with him. Must be the couldn’t-care-less hipster thing. Having a crush on Esca is totally in fashion right now.”
“Oh god, if you’re about to say Esca is the new black, I’m gonna commit seppuku by mystery meat.”
“What is that?” Cottia asks, leaning forward and squinting at Marcus’ plate.
“I have zero clue.”
Cottia reaches across with her own fork and breaks off a piece. “Turkey meatloaf,” she declares around her mouthful. “Not bad either.”
“Mystery solved,” Marcus says distractedly, gaze drifting back to Esca’s table already.
“Marcus?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re staring again.”
Marcus goes red with guilt and turns back. “Sorry,” he says.
Cottia shrugs and pops a French fry into her mouth. “Don’t sweat it. If it makes you feel any better, I’m staring too.”
“What?” Marcus exclaims.
“Not at Esca. Sheath your claws, babe, I’m not your competition. Fortunately for you, I’ve only got eyes for his friend.”
“Liathan?” Marcus says incredulously. “Since when?”
“Since he started riding a motorcycle to school.”
“Traitor,” Marcus says without any real heat at all.
“Can you blame me? Tall, dark, handsome, speaks French, rides a Harley,” Cottia says, ticking each one off with her fingers. “He’s basically the perfect man. You need to hurry up and get into Esca’s pants so I can get with Liathan by association. Do you think I can get him to talk dirty to me in French while I’m bent over his Harley?”
Marcus clamps his hands over his ears. “Please stop. You’re traumatizing me.”
“Aww, innocent little Marcus Aquila.”
Marcus bristles at that. “There’s nothing wrong with waiting until the soulbond,” he says defensively before casting a pointed glance at Cottia’s right wrist, which has been sporting a stranger’s name since the middle of May. “And what do you think your bondmate will have to say about this whole Harley-riding, French dirty talking plan of yours?”
“Listen, what Nicholas Choi-whoever that is-doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides, if he’s my bondmate, then that means he’s my perfect match. So he’ll completely understand that getting into Liathan Prince’s pants immediately, if not sooner, was of the utmost importance back in my horny teenage days.” Cottia says the last part with an obscene waggle of her eyebrows, and Marcus can’t help smiling in response.
Just then, the sound of laughter carries across the cafeteria, and Marcus doesn’t even have to look over to know that Esca is the one laughing. He has memorized the sound of it already.
“I keep hoping it’s him,” Marcus confesses in a small voice.
Cottia’s grin disappears. “Marcus,” she starts quietly. “You know the chances of that happening are, like, slim to none, right?”
“I know, I know, but I can’t help it.”
“And even if the chances were great,” Cottia continues, “even if it all worked out, you know that half the world doesn’t really believe in the soulbond anymore. Lots of people give up on finding their bondmates, or they find them and still end up with someone else. It happens all the time.” She holds up her right arm. “This is only potential. It isn’t a guarantee of anything.”
“I know.” Marcus sighs softly and looks down at his untouched food. He feels Cottia’s eyes on him, and hates himself for dragging the mood down.
“But hey, maybe I’m totally wrong,” Cottia says with forced cheerfulness. “Maybe you’ll end up with Esca and I’ll end up with Liathan, and we’ll double-date straight through graduation. And then you won’t have to get all jealous and growly when Liathan touches your boy, ‘cos you’ll be safe in the knowledge that I’m banging him every day of the week and twice on Sundays.”
Marcus bursts out laughing. “You’re a horrible person, and a bad influence.”
Cottia flashes him a wolfish grin. “I’m perfect, and you know it.”
“I do,” he says, grinning right back. “Forget Esca. Who needs him, when I’ve got you?”
“That’s the spirit!” Cottia says, all bright eyes and toothy grin.
She picks up her turkey sandwich, and Marcus follows suit, digging into his turkey meatloaf and potatoes. The rest of lunch period passes by in a haze of gossip and meandering conversation, and if Marcus’ gaze strays a few times over the next half hour, instinctively seeking out Esca in the crowd, well, Cottia has the good grace not to comment.
* * * * *
It happens like this: Marcus startles awake on the morning of his seventeenth birthday, yanked from hazy dreams by the obnoxious blaring of his alarm clock. The moment his consciousness catches up to the rest of him and he realizes just what today means, he bolts upright in his bed and almost brains himself on his wooden headboard in his rush to pull the cord on his bedside lamp. And it’s right after that, right after the room is flooded with the warm glow of light and Marcus looks down at the name marked into his skin that the whole world as Marcus knows it tilts sideways all around him.
Esca MacCunoval.
Marcus stares at the name in disbelief for a long moment, certain that he is imagining this, that he is still dreaming, that this is just another hopeless fantasy about the impossible. He casts a glance out at the rest of his room, half-expecting to see purple unicorns, floating houses, intergalactic spaceships and all the other usual suspects from his more outlandish dreams. But everything he sees is normal: his dark green rug, his computer desk and chair, the half-open door of his closet and the ever-present basket of laundry that needs folding and putting away.
This is reality.
Marcus looks down at his wrist again, holding his arm straight up to the light. What if it isn’t him?, a doubtful part of Marcus thinks. But how many Esca MacCunovals could there possibly be? And besides, Marcus realizes with a jolt, he recognizes that handwriting, cramped and painfully neat, like Esca had carved his name into Marcus’ skin himself.
This is reality. Esca MacCunoval is his bondmate. They can be together. Marcus will have the soulbond like he has always dreamed of, and he’ll have it with Esca. The realization washes over him, sweet and warm, and Marcus sits there with an embarrassingly loopy grin on his face as the joy of it settles into his bones. A solid minute passes like that, with Marcus tracing over Esca’s name on his wrist with his fingertips, but eventually, a nagging thought starts elbowing its way straight to the forefront of Marcus’ consciousness. There is something he has to remember, some detail he is forgetting in the rush of discovery. Marcus frowns, searching through his memory, trying to pin down the elusive detail. He looks down at the slightly-open drawer of his nightstand, down to where he can see the light blue packaging of the neoprene privacy band that had been shipped to him a month ago, and suddenly, he remembers.
That first day of school, when he had reached for Esca in fourth-period Calculus and Esca had yanked his arm away. Marcus sees it clear as day now, sees the edge of neoprene peeking out from under the skewed cuff of Esca’s shirt before Esca tugged it back down over his wrist. Esca has already turned seventeen. Esca already knows. It all falls into place in horrifying slow-motion: the way Esca had gone rigid when he heard Marcus’ name for the first time, the way he’d almost sounded panicked when Marcus had touched him, like he was afraid that fleeting contact alone could force the soulbond. Contact with intent. Marcus has heard those three words every year since his first bonding seminar. Contact with intent creates the soulbond.
Marcus sits there in a daze as it hits him all at once. He is silent for a long while, barely breathing, until finally, the haze begins to clear, slowly but surely, anger displacing the staggering shock. Esca knows. Since the first day of school, he has known and said nothing, done nothing and turned away every time Marcus worked up the nerve to wander close to him. All this time, they could have been together, they could have tried, they could have-
Marcus flings away his blanket and climbs out of bed. He marches heavily around the room, getting all his gear ready for school, his movements tight and abrupt, stilted with rising anger. Half an hour later, he races down the staircase and heads straight for the front door with his backpack strap hanging off one shoulder and his sportsbag hanging off the other.
“Hey, where’s the fire?”
Marcus pauses halfway to the door at the sound of his uncle’s voice. He turns around to find Uncle Aquila tucking his folded newspaper under one arm and pushing his wire-framed glasses back up the bridge of his nose. He is dressed already, always the early riser, a habit that two decades of retirement from the army still hasn’t beaten out of him.
“I have to get to school,” Marcus says.
“Really?” Uncle Aquila casts a pointed glance at Marcus’ right hand, deliberately turned inward to hide the mark on his wrist. His uncle has always had an alarming ability to see right into Marcus, to read his mind clear as day. “Why don’t you come have some breakfast. You’ve got time. We can…talk.”
“I really have to go.”
Uncle Aquila flashes one his enigmatic smiles. “Alright then. Never let it be said that I stood between a young man and his education. Do I get to wish you a happy birthday at least?”
“Sure,” Marcus says weakly, feeling terrible for trying to run. He hugs back hard when Uncle Aquila closes the distance between them and pulls Marcus in close, chest to chest, both of a height, though Marcus is broad where his uncle has gone lean with age.
“Go on, then,” Uncle Aquila says afterward, already unfolding his newspaper. “Birthday dinner at eight. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t,” Marcus promises before hurrying out the door.
The drive to school passes by in a rush as Marcus pushes the speed limit all the way, anger and rising fear roiling in the pit of his stomach. He parks in his assigned space in the student lot, grabs his backpack off the passenger seat and practically sprints into the building. Marcus marches straight to Esca’s locker, playing all the permutations in his head, all the different ways this could go. When he gets there, he finds Esca standing with Liathan and another boy, the three of them chatting and laughing as if everything is perfectly alright, as if Marcus’ world hadn’t crashed sideways an hour and a half ago.
“I need to talk to you,” Marcus says.
Esca flicks a dismissive look his way. “We don’t have anything to say to each other.”
“I disagree.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“I turned seventeen today,” Marcus says, taking satisfaction in the way Esca stiffens and his eyes go wide with surprise. Marcus moves closer to Esca. “Do you still think we have nothing to say to each other?”
“Esca, is everything okay?” Liathan asks, eyeing Marcus warily.
“It’s fine. I just need to set something straight.” Esca slams his locker shut and turns back to Marcus. “I’m not doing this here,” he says before pivoting left and making his way through the growing crowd of students milling about in the hallway before homeroom bell. Esca hurries out a side door, not bothering to look over his shoulder to check if Marcus is following.
Of course he would assume, Marcus thinks bitterly as he hurries after Esca. And why shouldn’t he assume, when Marcus has been making a fool out of himself for weeks, trying to get close to Esca while Esca has probably been laughing all about it with his friends, with Liathan, with everyone. Cripple, retard, cyborg, ironboy. Let’s all have ourselves a laugh at Marcus Aquila’s expense.
“You knew,” Marcus says the moment they’re outside. “All this time, you knew and you didn’t say anything.”
“Right,” Esca says, features drawing tight. “Because I’m supposed to be ecstatic that you’re my bondmate, correct? I should have kissed the ground because I drew the captain of the football team, right? Because you’re so wonderful and perfect. You and your teammates, walking around school like you own everyone and everything in it. Run around a field and win a couple of games and you think the rest of us should just fall over backwards and give you anything you want.”
Esca’s voice has gotten progressively higher, and by the end, he is yelling, voice tight with rage and a strange shade of sadness. It makes Marcus stop short, his own anger bleeding out of him in a dizzying rush as confusion washes over him.
“I don’t think that. I’ve never-”
“Oh please,” Esca interjects. “I know all about boys like you.”
“Boys like me?” Marcus echoes, getting more confused by the second.
“Yes, boys like you. With your letterman jacket and Calvin Klein jeans and shiny sneakers and tidy white socks. Hundred dollar haircut, brand new car, fancy house and fancy parents. Getting everything handed over to you for so long, you think you deserve it. You think you’re something special because you managed to peak in high school. You don’t even know you’re nothing but just another ant marching, a mindless, hyper-mainstream drone. If you ever had an original thought in your vacant head, it would die from loneliness!”
Marcus stares at Esca in shock for a long moment, too dazed to process Esca’s words. Whatever this is, Marcus lost the thread minutes ago, or perhaps he never had it in the first place.
“Esca,” Marcus starts shakily, hopelessly confused at the bent of the conversation.
Esca looks away, arms folded over his chest. “I’m not fifteen anymore,” he says, voice cracking, tone softer now and a suspicious glint in his eyes. “I’m not blind anymore, and I’m not going to ask ‘how high’ just because the local golden boy told me to jump.”
Marcus struggles to breathe, wondering how this all got away from him so fast. His anger is long gone now, and all that is left is the fear. That this is where it ends for him, that he’ll lose something else he cares about, only this time, he never even got to have it in the first place.
“I’m not asking you to jump because I said so. I would never ask anyone to do that, let alone you. You’re my bondmate,” Marcus says. Despite everything, it doesn’t feel strange to say it out loud. It feels right somehow, like a long-forgotten truth springing back to life. He moves forward and touches Esca’s arm. “We’re meant to be together.”
Esca backs away. “The hell we are,” he says. “Don’t touch me. As if I’d tie myself to a boy like you.” His eyes narrow, gaze hard and unforgiving. “I hate everything you stand for, everything you are.” Esca tugs up the long sleeve of his burgundy sweater and pulls off his privacy band, revealing Marcus’ name on his wrist, the letters scrawled in a sideways slant, a mirror-image of Marcus’ handwriting. “And this?” Esca continues, holding up his arm, “this doesn’t mean a goddamned thing.”
With that, he turns and walks back into the building, pushing past the crowd of students that have gathered around the open doors to watch the scene unfolding in the school yard. Marcus looks up, noticing the audience for the first time and cringing. Dimly, he notices Cottia peeling away from the crowd and moving toward him. She approaches him slowly, apprehensive, cautious, like he is an injured animal that needs gentle handling. It’s not so far from the truth.
“Marcus, are you okay?”
Marcus feels a warning burn in his eyes and a tell-tale tightening in his throat. He will not lose it here, in front of everyone. He has entertained the crowd enough already.
“I have to go home.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Cottia offers.
“No. I need to be alone. I’m sorry, I have to go.”
“Marcus-”
“I have to go,” he says again before turning around and running away-from the crowd, from school, from Esca-as fast as he can.
* * * * *
It happens like this: Marcus manages to make it back home in one piece, and spends the rest of the day sitting in an armchair by the window in Uncle Aquila’s study, ignoring the intermittent buzzing of his cellphone, text messages from Cottia and phone calls from Uncle Aquila going unanswered. He sits there and plays through the events of this morning and the last several weeks since meeting Esca. For hours, he tries to figure out what he did wrong, where it went sideways, how it all ended up in such a hopelessly tangled mess. But by the time the sunlight fades away and twilight settles, Marcus still has no answer.
He is still sitting in the armchair, staring blindly out the window, when he hears the sound of a car door slamming closed in the driveway, quickly followed by the sounds of Uncle Aquila entering the house, dropping his briefcase in the foyer and wandering through the passageway, calling Marcus’ name.
“I’m in here,” Marcus calls out, scrambling to his feet as Uncle Aquila walks into the room. “Good evening, uncle.”
“So, I got the strangest call at work from your high school principal today,” Uncle Aquila begins, sitting down on the leather sofa in the study and gesturing at Marcus to sit beside him. After Marcus obeys, he continues. “He said you had skipped school and football practice too. Now, I was sure we couldn’t possibly be talking about the same person, because the Marcus Aquila I know would never do that.” A meaningful pause follows. “Not without good reason.”
“I had good reason,” Marcus says quietly.
Uncle Aquila nods, like he was expecting that answer. “What is his name?”
Marcus hesitates before answering. “Esca MacCunoval.”
“And you know who he is?” It’s more of a statement than a question.
“He goes to school with me. His family moved to Calleva from London this past summer. I see him every day.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“He turned seventeen already. He knew about us already, and when I confronted him today, he told me to leave him alone. He doesn’t want anything to do with me. He hates me.”
“Are you sure?”
“He said so in front of half the school this morning.”
“I’m sorry,” Uncle Aquila says, hushed and sympathetic.
“I’ve wanted the soulbond for as long as I can remember. When I was younger, it was because of how happy Mom and Dad used to seem, how much they loved and depended on each other. Then…after the accident, after…Mom died and Dad brought me here…I wanted the soulbond because of the promise of it. The promise that I’d have someone to love, someone who loved me. That I wouldn’t have to spend my life alone. I figured I would probably have to wait-lots of people have to wait. Maybe a few years, or even a decade, but eventually I would find my bondmate. Well, it turns out I didn’t have to wait at all. He walked right into my life, but the kicker is, he can’t stand the sight of me.”
Marcus breaks off for a moment as his voice goes quiet and shaky with the threat of tears. “What’s wrong with me?”
“There is nothing wrong with you,” Uncle Aquila says immediately. “Sometimes, life doesn’t work out the way you want. As much as I wish you didn’t, you know that better than anyone. And this Esca-you can’t force the soulbond. Trying to do that never works out very well for anyone involved. You both have to choose it. But if he wants to be left alone, you have to respect that.”
Marcus’ spirits plummet even further. It’s one thing to know it, but it’s quite another to hear it said plainly. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me that everything is going to be alright? That this will all work out in the end?”
Uncle Aquila’s lips curl up in a small, sad smile. “In six years, I’ve never told you anything I wasn’t a hundred percent sure was true. I’m not going to start now.”
Marcus looks at him, taking in the familiar shock of white hair, bright eyes and wire-framed glasses. He recalls the first day he met his uncle. Marcus’ father had driven south for ten hours straight, from Philadelphia to Calleva, while Marcus shifted and turned in the backseat, trying to hide his grimaces and soft groans as pain shot through his injured leg. Marcus’ father had left him here, with his older brother, a stranger that Marcus had only ever seen in faded family photographs before that day. “Just for a little while,” his father had promised, taking off his football ring with its bright emerald stone and handing it to Marcus. “Hang onto this for me, won’t you? Until I come back.” Marcus had nodded, too dazed to argue. For years, Marcus had waited, staring out the front windows every night, watching the street for his father’s Jeep, until one day when his Uncle had stood beside him and wrapped his arm around Marcus’ shoulder. “He’s not coming back, is he?” Marcus had asked, finally facing the truth he had been denying for years. “No, he isn’t.” Uncle Aquila hadn’t lied to him that day. He has never lied to Marcus, not even when Marcus wanted him to.
“Have you eaten today?” Uncle Aquila asks, pulling Marcus from his wandering thoughts.
“No,” he replies, belatedly aware of how hungry he is.
Uncle Aquila looks at his wristwatch. “I can move up the reservation for dinner to seven.”
“I don’t-can we cancel dinner? I just don’t feel up to facing the rest of the universe right now. Can we order in?”
“We can do that.” Uncle Aquila stands up. “How about a pizza? I’ll even let you pile on a double portion of mushrooms.”
“But you hate mushrooms.”
Uncle Aquila flashes him a bright smile. “I’m always willing to suffer through for my favorite nephew.”
“I’m your only nephew, uncle.”
Uncle Aquila shrugs, still smiling. “Details, details,” he says lightly.
That evening, they stay in, tucking away three-quarters of a large mushroom and pepperoni pizza between them, talking about everything except the elephant in the room, the one thing casting a pall over what should have been a good day. It isn’t until later that night, when Marcus is lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, that he thinks about Esca again. He lays it all out once more, rifling through his memories, re-examining each event, from the first day until this morning. But there’s no solution to be had, no easy fix, no happily ever after. Esca doesn’t want anything to do with him. And when someone hates you that much, the best thing you can do is stay far far away. For his own sanity, Marcus intends to do just that.
PART 2