Um ... Yeah, this is something that I swore that I'd never write, but the plot wouldn't leave me alone, even though it makes me almost sick to write such a thing because I definitely do not condone such relations.

WARNINGS: MxM romance, teacher/student relations, not entirely consensual sex with a minor (thirteen/fourteen year old), blackmailing, threatening, creepy teachers, swearing. All this is later on throughout the story, so if any of this bothers you, please don't start reading this . . .

Yes, this is a repost of the exact same one as before, except I made some major changes to the chapter because I redid my entire plan for it.

Enjoy . . . ?


Watching

William notices him.

Of course he notices him; it's impossible not to notice him, because he's literally as bright as a beacon, tousled blonde hair and soft gray eyes and pale skin that looks so smooth and so touchable and glows in the light from the window that's on the wall opposite the one he's leaning against.

He's the new kid in the class, Anthony, shy and quiet and withdrawn, eyes always glued either to his paper or his pencil (never pen) or his lap. Half the time he's listening and taking notes, diligent and hardworking and focused (his tongue always pokes out when he's focused). The other half he's muttering small curses and glancing between his notes and his work because he doesn't get it, scholarship student or not.

He's a good boy. All his teachers say so, and all the teachers he had before say so. It's no wonder that he got accepted into this school, prestigious, all-boys academy out in the middle of nowhere.

But Anthony is silent. The other children talk to him, but he always either remains silent, politely ignoring them until they leave, or he glares at them until they go away. It's a cute glare, brows furrowing, meeting in the middle, and his eyes sharpen and glint (he wants to bottle it up).

He doesn't know when he first started watching. Certainly not the first day the boy walked into his Chemistry class with a note from the principle, when small fingers accidentally brushed against his own, and a timid smile, unsure and hesitant, was flashed his way.

Of course not then, because then he never let his eyes settle on the line of the boy's back, taking in his posture or the way he would sit in the corner (sideways, back to the wall, legs tucked neatly beneath the chair, ankles crossed), frowning at his paper when he didn't get something.

He doesn't notice the way he sits in the back, chewing on his pencil (HB2, still never pen), scribbling away in his notebook, equations and masses and degrees and melting points and boiling points and polarity even though it means next to nothing for him.

He can see the small curses that slip through his lips as he scratches something out (he won't erase without a proper eraser), glancing up at the board and writing something else.

Anthony forgot his calculator, has to borrow the one of the boy sitting next to him. Neil something, if his memory is to be trusted at all. Neil Sanders, he checks on his class list.

He watches Anthony from the front of the class, where he stopped in his lecture so that he (and the rest) have a chance to copy what he wrote down. He doesn't want to watch, not this closely, in such scary detail, but he finds that he really can't help himself at all.

It's a sort of (morbid) curiosity, not morbid, but bordering, teetering on the edge. It's nothing but a passing interest, because he's something new and something else (something beautiful).

Anthony's pencil settles on the paper, fingers running through his hair. He can't help but stare at him, entirely fascinated. It's probably gone on for too long and the boy must feel eyes on him, because he glances up and and flushes, bright red and fumbles with the pages of his textbook.

But the eyes never leave him, because he's interesting, different from the thirty other children that are in the class.

The class is over, and Anthony is approached by another child, olive skinned and dark brown hair, making the boy shine more in the early afternoon light that dapples him through the open window on the opposite wall.

William calls Anthony over, turning gray eyes over to him, surprised but not shocked, and the darker boy leaves, closing the door behind him with a dismissive slam.

"Anthony, it seems to me that you aren't really understanding any of this," he begins, walks around his desk, leans back against it. His arms fold and he stares at boy down his nose, because he's small.

The boy, Anthony, glances away, fiddles with the strap of his shoulder bag. He doesn't have to leave, the teacher knows, because he doesn't have another class after this, because they were all full when he transfered here. (English, Maths, lunch, Chemistry, spare, Social Studies).

"I ... I'm sorry, Mr. White, sir ..." he says, fumbling and distraught because he can't fail. "The schooling here is different than what I'm used to and ... I'll work harder, I-"

But there's a finger on his lips (cold and chapped) and Anthony goes quiet, eyes crossed and staring at the finger which is tickling the tip of his nose.

(Hardly indecent, but it sends a thrill through William's spine.)

"I'm not mad at you, Anthony. I was just wondering why you never came to see me for extra help." Because he's a teacher and he's supposed to help his students. "Tell you what, I have the nothing to do today after class, so how about you swing by and I'll try to explain the lesson to you again?"

Anthony pauses and nods quickly. "Today?" he asks, pulling his planner out from his bag. He glances up at William, and the gray of his eyes is captivating and something that he hasn't seen before.

"Unless today is bad for you. You can come by whenever you need to, I'm usually here," he snaps out of the boy's eyes, blinking and shaking his head minutely to clear it.

Anthony nods and puts the small book away without writing anything down. He stands there for a couple more moments, and then turns to leave because there's nothing left to say. Mr. White's gaze is following his heels, he can feel it.

Anthony passes him, arm close enough to touch, so that's what he does, fingers reaching out and curling around the pale white wrist. "Why don't we start now?" he suggests, letting go now that he has his attention and sitting back in his chair, taking out a textbook that's worn at the edges, filled with scribbles and post-it notes and notes and highlights. "You have that test in a few days, right? I know you have next period free."

Anthony nods, eyes suddenly guarded even though there's no reason to guard them, and gets a chair, sitting down beside his teacher, who takes out a fresh piece of paper, beginning to draw diagrams and symbols on it. He explains what he's drawing, and Anthony is silent beside him, watching and nodding vaguely, eyes hiding behind a fringe of blonde hair.

(He's warm and William can feel it radiating off of him in waves.)

The hour passes and Anthony stands to leave, stuttering something about having to go to his next class, and for some reason he's awkward, pulling his bag up onto his shoulder and walking to the door, disappearing into the hallway without a word except the promise to be back tomorrow.

William leans back in his chair, running his hand through dark russet hair, over his face to rest in his lap. He sighs because the boy isn't someone that he wants to get close to (needs to), and he has never craved something so forbidden before, even though there are plenty of things more forbidden than a friendship with a lonely student, he reasons.

But he's captivated, because the child is one of a kind, and he's small and he's fragile and he's young. But he has an accent that can't be placed because it's almost untraceable unless one really really listens (like he does) and he finds it adorable (it's European).

He wants Anthony('s friendship). It's something that he as a person desires; that people feel close to him, like they can trust him, confide in him. He wants that with Anthony (and so much more). He wants it, even though he knows that he shouldn't, couldn't, normally wouldn't.

William brushes it off, picks up his briefcase and slips in his textbook, pulling out his notes for his next class that should be filing in at any moment (Anthony isn't in it).

He's improved, less questions wrong on his next homework assignment on this subject, which is as always, neat, so so neat and on time, but still not passing.

"Do you like the boy that sits next to you? Neil, is it?" he asks because he wants to (has to) know. Anthony looks surprised, looking up from the pencil in his hand, because he's back again. He had been so shy (adorable), asking if William would be willing to help him again, because he didn't understand again.

Thin shoulders shrug noncommittally, placing the eraser of the pencil against his lips and chewing on it gently. "I don't know. Why do you want to know, sir? Is there something wrong with him?"

(Because he shouldn't be close to you), "Because I haven't seen you interacting with anyone, and it had me a little worried about you," he says instead, killing the other words in his throat, because they're out of place and they're unneeded and it isn't what he wants to say because it isn't what he's thinking.

Anthony nods and goes back to the equations on his paper, and his pale cheeks are lightly, pleasantly flushed a gently, soft pink (they're usually darker).

He's content, for now, with the friendship that's slowly forming between them (because he can feel it), and he's happy knowing that Anthony is still shy and quiet during most of his classes. He knows this because he talks to the other teachers about the boy all the time, under the guise of worry when all he really wants is to know (everything).

x

Non-morbid curiosity swells in William's gut, and eventually everything just doesn't cut it anymore. He has to know absolutely anything that he can. He doesn't know when a passing interest turned into this ... he doesn't know what to call it (obsession).

The week continue, and Anthony continues to warm up to him. William loves it, revels in it. The boy has his complete attention, and there's no backing out now because September is almost gone. William sighs and leans back in his chair, watches the class file out, Anthony somewhere at the back.

Anthony slowly warms up to him, while William is already warmed to him (strawberry ice cream in July sun). He's practically melted in the boy's hands and the boy, in all his innocence, doesn't seem to notice it at all.

(He's with Neil.)

But he knows that he doesn't talk to Neil that much, because every time he sees them together, Anthony has an irritated look in his gray eyes, and Neil is laughing at him and teasing him. But Anthony doesn't like him, not at all, (he likes William).

He does. William knows this, because he draws out their after class lessons longer than the half an hour that they've been condensed to (he does, Anthony does). He talks to William instead of working, talking about a novel he wrote, or the way that Americans spell everything wrong, (always forgetting 'u's, is it really hard to just add another 'u'?).

He's English. Anthony never answers when he says where he's from, but the accent has finally been placed, and now William knows that he's English, from England. And for some reason that makes him all the more adorable (enticing).

William doesn't know when the spark appeared, at the base of his spine or at the back of his eyelids or at the base of his neck (everywhere), but it's there every time Anthony is there with him, talking to him, telling him stuff, eyes shining brightly and no longer reserved.

Anthony is sarcastic most of the time when he's ranting about things, and it's adorable in William's opinion. He finds it all adorable, from the accent, to the furrows that appear when his brow is furrowed to the curses that he's always muttering. It's all adorable, endearing in a way that it couldn't be (shouldn't be) – on anyone else.

William wants to know more.

So he goes to the office, takes out the file, because he's allowed to, because he's a teacher. Now he knows that he's from Bristol, in England. He got into this Academy through a scholarship, a genius when it comes to literature, weak in chemistry and mediocre at all other sciences.

Has a half-brother, related through their father, no mother.

But he still wants to know more, so he follows the boy after class, when he goes back to his dorm (second floor, fourth from the right). When he goes for lunch (always a sandwich, eaten by the oak tree on the grounds), he watches from the window, when he's looking outside and sometimes, Anthony will look towards the building and he'll see the thoughtful look and he'll want it (bottle it up and keep it on his mantle).

William likes learning. He loves knowing things. He knows how to learn and how to find out and how to know, so finding out about Anthony isn't hard, not at all. He can find out more, if he asks around, but he'd rather that Anthony himself tell him the rest, because it's better that way.

William doesn't know when it got like this, but he doesn't care. He doesn't mind, because no one needs to know. The spark that's sizzling beneath his skin grows hotter and hotter every time gray eyes meet with his, and a blush reigns over over pale skin (cute).

x

He can't exactly say when his thoughts began to mutate. But he still can't bring himself to care. He can't help but wonder, what's the harm in a little indulgence?

(On a bed, unbuttoned shirt and nothing, legs raised and spread wide apart).

It isn't like he plans to act on it, anyway. So where's the harm?

(Bent over a desk or hands braced against the wall, head tipped back and moaning vulgarly).

William sits back and laces his fingers behind his head, still looking out the window at the thoughtful boy that's going to be in here next, dappled with golden afternoon sunshine that makes his pale yellow hair shimmer like spun gold.

The shimmering does nothing to help the situation, just makes it seem that much more surreal.


to be continued ...


So ... yeah. Posted it, hated it, took it down, edited it, posted it again and here it is! Again ...

Read and Review please!