On what spring rain left behind.

Chapter 1

New school. Serge Battour had had many beginnings, and this was just another one. Or so it seemed. Coming from a small town in the Tyrol, he traveled back to France upon the death of his parents, hoping for a fresh start in his father's former school. He used to attend a small school in the middle of nowhere, it was the only one in a big area, and he never saw any of his classmates outside of class for that reason. The teacher's weren't the best, and most people didn't care about getting a good education. There was only one piano teacher in town which he visited twice a year, except in winter, and most he knew was thanks to his father, Aslan Battour, son of the owner of a large and well known tech company.

Life before was simple. And happy. And easy and beautiful and just enough. School was too. His father was too. His mother too. Now, standing before the cold iron gates, he thought, what brought him there? What took him away from his life, from everything he knew and loved? He clenched his fists around the handle of the suitcase and raised his chin, he would honor his father's memory and attend Lancombrade, even if it was the complete opposite of all he knew. But when he entered the old building, his face immediately softened, he couldn't help but feel marveled, him, stuffed in a black and white uniform, standing in the middle of a beautiful, early 19th century building. His doubts dissolved and his worry faded away. All his father knew and all his father was was thanks to this school. And he wanted his son, his biggest pride, to study there too. He knew he was stepping into an unknown world, but he also knew he would soon make that world his.

— — —

"Him? I mean… It's him. And he's just a… Poor, unsuspecting new student, how do you want to place them together?"

"I know it's weird, but… If he hasn't heard anything yet, it will be better. Maybe even…"

"Alright, alright, I trust you, but shouldn't we tell him? You must have his number…"

"God save me! I'll send him an e-mail or something… You know people talk when you… Talk to him. Or about him. He doesn't give his phone, anyway."

"Uhm… Who are you talking about…? Where am I going to… Sleep?"

Serge stood between Mr. Watts, who appeared to be one of his new teachers, and a boy who introduced himself as "Maisser, Karl Maisser", and with his new bleached cuffs, Serge didn't know if he should address him as Mr. Maisser, Maisser, or just Karl. He decided to ignore that issue for the time being and focus on the more pressing matters. Like who his new roommate would be.

"God save us, you're already thinking about sleeping with him!"

Karl made a small whine that sounded like a kitten's and pressed his hands together in a silent prayer, just like Serge had always seen the old ladies in his town do.

"Eh?!"

"You can't turn back now, Karl. He looks like a good guy. It will go okay. I hope…"

And before Serge realized—or had any say in it—he had been placed in the room of a mysterious boy everyone seemed to avoid for an unknown reason. When he arrived to his new dorm, he smiled, it was more than he could have ever asked for, two beds pushed against each side of the room, an open window in the middle, where he could see the trees in the gardens swaying silently under the night. He took out everything he could, blankets, clothes, books, even small trinkets he didn't know why he brought with himself. A beautiful portrait of his mother was placed next to his bed, next to his heart. Hundreds of ideas came to his mind, everything he could do to make that place feel like a piece of home, of himself. From blankets to posters, low lights, a painting hanging on the wall… It all made him realize something strange. While his side of the room already looked comfortable and homey, the other side was painfully naked, a mattress covered only by a sheet of white blankets, too light looking for the time of year. A locked wardrobe and a desk that looked as dusty as his. Nothing other than that. The unkempt state of the bed was the only thing that signaled someone living there. Serge looked away. Maybe he arrived late just like himself. Maybe he was sick. Maybe… He couldn't look at the bed. It felt wrong, too bare, too hard, too weird. Roll call arrived, and no one came. Maybe that's what's wrong with the guy, he thought. Maybe he's just never there.

"Room 17, Gilbert Cocteau!"

No one answered. Karl Maisser looked at him. Everyone was tense.

"Serge Battour."

"Present!"

The corridor immediately erupted in whispers, looks, and laughs. People pointed at him, covering cruel smiles behind their hands.

That night, something other than sleeping filled Serge's time. Before he realized it, he had already taken out his phone and was typing something in the search bar.

"Gilbert Cocteau…"

A name that would soon become something strangely important in Serge's life, but that was something both of them had yet to discover.

— — —

Not many results appeared, most of them unrelated or about people with similar names. The most relevant result he found was a company of transportists between europe and asia, with its base in Marseille. The owner, with the same surname, wasn't said to have a son by the name of Gilbert. Serge sighed. He didn't understand the growing interest in a boy he had never heard of. Sleep took his consciousness away, the gentle wind lulling him away. He would never remember it, but at that time he was sure that a gentle laugh was carried by the wind.

Days passed and nothing was heard or known about the boy. People stared at him in the corridors and teachers looked away. He felt like he was a prisoner of his own body, unable to run away or to fight. Words spread like fire in the school, and soon everyone knew about the new gypsy boy who shared a room with Gilbert Cocteau. Serge just smiled and kept going on. His classmates asked about how he was living with a prostitute. The next thing he knew was talking with the director about proper behavior and how fighting wasn't allowed in school grounds. He just defended his mother's honor, or so he thought. After that, people laughed harder. Days blurred together. And like a spring rain that washes everything away and hopes for a new start, Friday came. Most students lived in Arlès or in other nearby cities, allowing them to spend the weekend with their families. Serge was not one of them. At first he enjoyed the silence that was left after everyone went home, but then he felt lonely. He hoped someone else would stay too, maybe he would be able to get friends for once. With that, he changed into more comfortable clothes and left his room with a new objective.

When he stepped into the common room, he only saw one person, an older student who kept failing year after year despite his intelligence. He smoked as he leaned on a couch, reading something Serge would later identify as a child's health book. He quietly approached, sitting nearby.

"You haven't met him yet, have you?"

Serge looked up. The other boy pushed up his glasses lazily and smiled.

"Gilbert, I mean. I'm Pascal Biquet, nice to meet you."

"Oh, I'm… Serge, Serge Battour! It's a pleasure. And no, I haven't seen him yet. Do you know him?"

Pascal cackled.

"Not personally. He's one of my favourite… Subjects to study. He is quite interesting, I must admit."

"Subjects to study…?!"

"Don't take it too personally, boy. Gilbert is… Hard to describe. Full of himself and yet totally empty. I'm sure you will see it for yourself soon."

"But is he okay? I mean—I haven't seen him yet!"

"I'm sure you will meet him soon, don't worry. He does this more often than not. But stop talking about him and tell me, I must know, what is your ascendence? I can guess it's…"

Time flew and it was almost nighttime when they finished talking. Pascal turned out to be a very smart and interesting individual whos company Serge enjoyed highly. They talked about thousands of things, Serge's childhood, Pascal's future, the school, the people. Pascal asked and Serge answered. Serge wondered and Pascal retorted. Serge finally felt this was his place. He would go on, no matter who his mother was and no matter who his roommate was, because even if that left a mark on who he was, just like everything else, he still was himself, he was Serge Battour and no one would take that away from him.

— — —

First mission accomplished, a new idea came to his mind. One of the reasons he was eager to come to the school was the music. While he didn't had the opportunity to study music and piano seriously back at the Tyrol, he knew Lancombrade had not just one, but several music rooms with the same instruments his father once played. With his mind set on seeing the school's grand piano—he wasn't worthy yet of playing such an instrument!—he parted towards the main building. Just like the rest of the school, it was dead quiet too. He peeked into one of the rooms, empty. The next one too. The third, though, amazed him to no end. A beautiful instrument stood in the middle of the room, yellowing keys signaling hundreds of years of beautiful music. He was sure it was older than his father, even, as he approached it. In the ow evening night, it looked even more majestic to him. One thing was clear to him, he wasn't enough to play it, but he would practice and practice until he became worthy of its regal sound.

While he stared at the piano with an amazed look, something brought him back from his dreamy admiration. A sharp sound, to be more exact. Someone playing. And not any instrument, as he calmed down from the initial surprise, he identified the source, a bright red and shiny electric guitar, no less. And the owner was far from what he expected, a petite boy, practically in his bones and with a quite sickly skin colour, stood. Blond hair fell to his shoulders, he was sure the boy had curly or at least wavy hair, but in the state it was, it just fell down straight. His uniform was also very battered, full of dirt and other stains he didn't feel like identifying. And yet, yet, his green eyes pierced his soul like nothing else did, he felt bare in front of the boy's gaze, like all his identity was suddenly uncovered for everyone else to see, everything he kept to himself surfaced and spilled out, thoughts, feelings, dreams. Out for everyone to see. Or at least, out for green eyes to see.