Marshal was tired as he sluggishly pulled himself through the school hallways. Perhaps spending the night chatting to Witches and investigating morgues was not a clever idea. The books hung heavily in his arms as his focus was entirely spent on cradling them close to his chest, and walking through the busy school.

The various bumps against his shoulders from passing students, something he would actively try to avoid, barely even registered as he made his way to the row of red lockers where his was housed.

Upon finding it, he turned the dial entering the correct code and opened it with a squeak before placing his books inside, and giving a large and tired yawn. Thankfully he had Art as his next class, a lesson he not only enjoyed, but found it a complete breeze. No thinking there, just feeling and expressing it all on paper.

That was when he turned to see three, large, students standing menacingly before him. He vaguely recognised them from around school, but couldn't place a name to any of their faces. They were intimidating in their stature, much more so with the three of them side by side. Clearly favouring the more athletic classes; they were all much bigger than his short and stocky frame. They stood in front of him like a veritable wall of muscle and weight. Staring at him with a mixture of disgust and what Marshal could immediately recognise as a look that spelled trouble.

Marshal ducked his head in a sign of passivity, hoping that they'd let him pass, and tried to move onwards and to the side. His chest immediately sunk in a distinct, dreadful, manner as one of them stepped in his way.

"Excuse me." Marshal offered politely, timidly. But looked straight into the eyes of his obstructor, as a show of confidence, when he did not move.

Before he could protest further, a powerful shove slammed him backwards into the lockers, causing the air to immediately evacuate his lungs as he let out a heave in a gasp for breath. He managed to land on his feet however, as panic began to set in he stared wide eyed in disbelief at his attackers. They held gleeful, malicious expressions, the centre most figure cracking his knuckles.

Marshal gave fleeting, searching, glances to the few students that had stopped to watch in horror or some form of amusement, as the rest of the student body hurried on their way in a bid to keep out of it.

Again, before Marshal could call for help, a fist landed neatly on the left side of his jaw. His head snapped to the side violently, his body following, as his vision immediately began to blur and grow fuzzy. His head began to ring in a high-pitched whine, while he crumpled to the ground. Marshal was unable to get his bearings as a solid and swift kick to his abdomen caused him to lurch forward sickeningly like they were trying to kick his stomach into his throat. He tasted bile.

"Faggot." He heard a voice spit venomously, followed by a literal glob of spit, that landed slick on the cheek that had already begun to bruise. The word stung more than the fist. It cut straight to the core, and would rend him hollow and alone. He felt weak, hurt, and a distinct sense of poisonous hate at the tears that threatened to breach his eyes.

Marshal had never been bullied before. He wanted his friends. He wanted them to explain that everyone is just highly strung because somebody was murdered on school grounds and that they're just lashing out. Who knew one word could hurt so much?

Marshal winced slightly as he placed a deceptively strong hand on the lockers at his side, and slowly pulled himself up, using them for balance as his head began to clear. He looked to his attackers, steeling himself for the oncoming attack. He would fight.

The man reared his fist back, a twisted grin of determination etched on his face, and just as he leaned forward to throw the swing; he found he could not move an inch further. Another hand had caught him at the forearm in a frighteningly tight grip. A hand that belonged to a smiling: Alaric Santana.

The student seemed to make even Alaric look small. He was thicker and taller, Alaric's hand didn't even fit all the way around his arm, and yet with a mere squeeze of his fingers the bully was brought to his knees with a yowl of pain.

"Hello" Alaric chimed merrily, before tightening his grip further. The bully crumpled, having to use his free hand to catch himself on the floor against the pain before he instinctively reached for Alaric's fingers in an attempt to pry them off. But a single glance at Alaric's expression halted his actions, as he somehow got the understanding that doing as little as possible may let him keep his arm intact. His face had turned red from the pain, as he tried to fight back tears with small whimpers and sniffles.

His friends did not move.

Alaric simply leaned in a little closer. Eyes burning studiously into the confused, hulk of a young man, before releasing his grip and watching with small satisfaction as the three students scurried off.

"They won't bother you again, I'll make sure of that." He said, looking from the corner of his eye to Marshal while watching the boys run off through the other students until they were out of view.

Alaric walked over to his beaten friend, noting the welt that had already begun forming on his jaw, coupled with a thin trickle of blood escaping the small cut to his bottom lip. Marshal gave a hiss and wince of pain. Frowning in frustration as Alaric wiped the blood away with the pad of his thumb.

"Thank you. But you didn't need to do that, I can take care of myself." Marshal said, trying to fight the heat building in his cheeks from the embarrassment of having been saved. He looked to the ground, but that was mostly to keep from looking at the unwavering gaze of Alaric who still stood so close to him. So close that Marshal became acutely aware of the body heat Alaric lacked. He was cold, like it was pulling the heat from everywhere else, and yet he couldn't help but feel the distinct warmth from Alaric's actions.

"You can." Alaric said very matter-of-factly, as if he was scolding a child for an unnecessary failure. "So why don't you?"

Marshal didn't have an answer. He toyed with the idea of keeping the secret. But even that seemed pathetic.

When he looked up again, Alaric was gone. His absence dauntingly obvious in the space he once stood. Marshal had never met someone who had quite the presence over silence as Alaric had. It was weird to think about: his silence could be loud, deafening. But it could also be just a little too quiet than any reasonable person would be comfortable with.

"Are you okay?" Marshal reactively flinched at the low, worried tone of the voice beside him. It was Mark Lawrence, who was studying Marshals face with a distinct chord of worry etched into his expression. "Marshal?" he asked again, calling Marshal to stop staring in return.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Thank you." He said sheepishly, momentarily rubbing his fingers through the pale blonde strands of his hair, before realising how awkward that looked and hurriedly dropping his hand to his side.

"I think what you did was very brave, by the way." Mark offered with a wry smile.

"Yeah? Getting beat up was brave?" Marshal chuckled sarcastically, although immediately regretting it as Mark seemed to scowl at himself with the sudden realisation of how stupid that sounded.

It was then that Marshal felt something strange as he watched Mark for a brief second. How he chewed on his bottom lip, and seemed to rarely look at Marshal directly. How he was doing everything he could to keep his hands busy. Playing with his fingers, before shoving them in his pockets quickly. Was Mark nervous?

"You got back up." Mark started, catching Marshal's gaze with his own that held a sense of reverence within them. "They beat you, and called you that disgusting word, but you got back up. That took some guts."

"Oh... Thanks." Marshal replied, and there was a thick quiet that hung between them after. There was something there, like a sudden anticipation, a dammed up electricity waiting to be unleashed.

"Okay so, uh... Shit." Mark began looking away from Marshal, who looked very confused at this point. "Okay, this is clearly not the time, but if I don't get it out I'm never going to be able to unless drunk."

"Uh... What?"

"Did you maybe wanna go catch a movie with me sometime?" Mark blurted out, his chest looking fit to burst.

"Uh... What?"

"We don't have to go to a movie if you don't want! We could go for food or we don't have to do anything, you can just forget I asked you if you'd like. That'd probably be easier." He laughed uneasily, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"Are you- I mean- me- and you-- What?" To say Marshal was dumbstruck would be an understatement. His heart simultaneously beat furiously with panic, his palms needlessly sweaty, but he was somehow so confused and awestruck by the situation that he only faintly noticed. He had turned red from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, as everything began to click into place in his mind.

"I guess what I'm trying to say, ask, is: Will you go out with me?" Mark said, letting out a deep exhale as he did so. Although he looked more worried that Marshal seemed to be staring right through him, and was almost completely unmoving.

"Holy shit..." Marshal whispered in disbelief

"You can say no if you want, just please stop staring at me."

"Yes!" Marshal shouted, immediately clasping his hands over his mouth before lowering them to his sides and clearing his throat. Doing his best to regain an appearance of calm. "I mean yes. I would love to go out with you."

"Really?" Mark looked puzzled, before a relieved smile came over his face. "That's great!"

"Wait..." Marshal said suddenly taking a suspicious stance to the now worried Mark. He crossed his arms defensively over his chest, before licking his bottom lip and saying: "You're not just asking me because I'm the only guy that you know who's also into dudes, and you're just trying to work the gay out of your system are you?"

Mark paused for a moment. Thoughts flashed by in rapid succession as they were displayed in his expression. Offended, confused, worried. For a moment Marshal felt a horrible weight of guilt as the price for his question. Had he been too harsh? But on the other hand, didn't he deserve to know if he was just going to be used by someone just trying to figure things out? Would he even be okay with that?

Eventually a look of understanding spread over Marks face, and he shook his head.

"No. I want this." He said with finality, sending Marshals heart into such a spin that he considered hanging onto the lockers again.

"Then it's definitely a yes."

"Great! How's Wednesday six o'clock sound?"

"Sounds good."

"Alright then! It's a date!" Mark said immediately setting off a steady blush that sprouted across his face. "I'm... I'm just gonna go..." He continued awkwardly, gesturing with his thumbs, and starting to walk backwards, smiling at Marshal the entire time until he was gone from view.

And once again Marshal was left alone. Although this time, he couldn't stop smiling either.

A benefit to being close friends with Alaric: was privacy. Nobody used the showers at school for more than ten minutes if Alaric had gym class. Although his friends were the exception to this rule.

Rhys let the hot stream of water belt down his back as it pummelled across his shoulders. His hands braced against the cool tiles of the wall as he washed away the gym session.

It was a calming five minutes of solitude, before Alaric walked in. No towel in sight as he strode in with all the total confidence of a house cat who caught the canary. Believing itself to now be worthy of its kingship to a pride of lions.

Alaric would never admit that he sweat like the rest of the students. Kings don't sweat. They glow. His body glistened over every curve, every swell of muscle, every dip in the skin that wandering fingers would beg to roam. To touch. To taste.

"It'll never not confuse me how a fish can be afraid of water." Alaric spoke as he turned on the stream and stepped under. His hair immediately flattening down against his head as the clear water slid down his face and torso in glittering trails. It was a similar comment to the one he always made about Marshal never showering, swimming or anything of the sort. The young man even hid from the rain. Not once in his childhood had Alaric seen Marshal even get close to a body of water. He knew why, of course, but never could help but speak his mind once a thought about any of the group came through.

Marshal had always been a wonderfully open person to his friends. What you saw is what you got. Something Alaric found profoundly confusing. In the sweltering heat of summer, at the ages of fourteen, when the group came up with the idea to go swimming: Marshal could not. He was afraid, paralysed in fear at the mere thought.

It was revealed that Marshal Barrock, the merfolk, was deathly afraid of water. He'd almost been drowned by a whirlpool, and has refused to step into the water ever since. He'd gotten better over the years. He no longer had panic attacks when Alaric pretended to trip while holding a glass of water nearby.

Rhys chose not to comment. He tended to be overly protective of Marshal, his tone could get snappy in defence. Even if the disparagement was nothing more than endearing jests, as was the usual tool that Alaric used to express his fondness of people.

It was as Alaric turned to face the wall that Rhys saw the tattoo. It sat just below the base of his neck, and curled in a strange assortment of geometric patterns. The lines varied in thickness and direction, and the entire thing couldn't have been more than four inches down, while just about wide enough to barely touch his shoulder blades at the side.

"Would you mind if I got a closer look at that?" Rhys asked, his heart making a sudden lurch in his chest as he did so. He was unsure why it did that, and it unsettled him. He had seen Alaric's tattoo plenty of times. He'd had it since he was sixteen, and Rhys just noticed one day that it was suddenly there.

"Rhys: If you wanted to be close while wet and naked, you needn't corner me in the school showers... All you had to do was ask" Alaric toyed with a knowing grin, turning ever so slightly to face Rhys who scowled slightly.

"You're funny, but seriously: I wanna get a closer look. Can I?"

Alaric merely nodded as he turned back to face the wall.

Rhys stepped, careful not to slip on the slick floor, as he crossed the relatively short distance to where Alaric stood, and began to inspect the tattoo intently.

Whenever he changed the angle of his head, where the light would catch the tattoo, the ink would shimmer in colour. Like a streak of light that would run on a metallic surface as you passed it by. The ink itself was a darkest blue, but the light was the colour of the sky.

He felt Alaric tense his body suddenly, as Rhys bade a delicate pair of fingers to lightly follow the line work, as if trying to figure out the pattern here.

"Yasmine gave you this..."

"Yes." Alaric whispered, and for the first time: Rhys heard Alaric's voice quiver. "It's how I'm able to walk in the sun. She gifted it to me. Said she had worked on the spell from September to June."

Rhys was silent, remaining close but no longer inspecting the tattoo as he waited for Alaric to continue. Alaric dare not open his eyes. They moved beneath the lids as if watching a replay of a fond memory. His lips would upturn at the edges, in a half smile, every half a second or so.

"She said she got tired of me looking so miserable and broody every summer" he chuckled happily "She apologised, saying she was never any good at anything more than scribbles but had googled how to do a prison tatt and was ready to go. But she sat with me, for six hours. Six hours, talking to me, whispering dead languages into a needle and ink, and afterwards? I got to stand in the sun, for the first time in my life." Alaric lowered his head slightly, as if allowing the jet spray of the hot water to wash away the shadows he felt at his back. The memory of her hands, a ghost of the warmth sat there still, as she held the skin steady. The pinch of the needle now itched in it's phantasm, and he could faintly hear the sound of laughter, the joy of her words. He remembered the smell of the ink as it wafted like a ghost by his nose, and her sweat as time went on mingling with the cut flowers she normally wore. She smelled of those flowers still when they saw her lifeless body last night.

It was then that his fists clenched against the wall, before he allowed them to drop at his sides. That was when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Warm. Comforting. As if it were her. There was a mixture of guilt and disappointment as he opened his eyes to look up, only to find that it was Rhys offering an understanding smile his way.

Alaric shrugged his shoulders, turning slightly so he didn't have to look at anyone any more, and he swallowed his hurt down.

"It's one of the many reasons for the distaste my father has for me. Witches do not give gifts easily. An optimistic side of me says that he's just worried. What if the magic wears off, or I get hurt in the middle of the day where he cannot reach me? But the side that's probably right tells me he is cruelly jealous that I can go where he cannot. That I have- -"

"People who love you." Rhys finished as Alaric faltered.

Rhys was beside himself in this unusual moment of openness that Alaric had displayed, and to him of all people. It made a fondness for him blossom within his chest and he felt an uncharacteristic sense of closeness with Alaric in this moment.

Alaric looked up, an uneasy smile temporarily shattering his usual expressionless demeanour he had regained. He had shared far too much to his liking. He felt open, and unusually exposed. Raw and without armour. For the first time in a long time: Alaric felt scared. Awkward, unable to grasp what to do next or what to expect. But Rhys was just standing there, smiling gently. Welcomingly. As if he understood, or at least was willing to do anything to try and understand. It was nice.

"Father says you should come by sometime. His flowers are dying." Alaric mentioned. Quickly diving in the direction he felt most would save him from sharing more.

Rhys chuckled before giving an affirmative hum.

That was when the pain hit. It wasn't a strong pain. At least not at first. It was distant, like Alaric could feel it coming, while it pushed its way from the centre of his chest and bloomed outward into a pulsating ache. He gripped his chest in confusion, his eyes searching no where in particular for an explanation.

"What? Alaric, what is it? Are you hurt?" Rhys asked with a worried tone, as he stood closer while Alaric rubbed his chest.

The realisation came quickly at this knowing, unfamiliar pain. It was something completely new, like discovering that something deeply personal had been taken from him, and leaving him hauntingly hollow at the thought. As he tried to focus, tried to find understanding, a single name was called to the front of his mind:

"Shawn..." Alaric's voice came out in a tone of understanding. He looked to Rhys as the pain began to numb with a look of distant disbelief "I think- I think Shawn has just been... killed."

A/N: Oof these monster length chapters Man... I promise they want all be super long, and they won't all have Alaric in them, I just love him a fair bit is all ^,..,^

ANYWAY what did you guys think of the chapter?

But most importantly: Thanks for reading