Relatively Speaking (Marshal)

[Arthur Bishop]

Arthur sat alone in his usual position in the crowded lunchroom: his half-finished meal resting on the table in front of him and a thick book spread open in his lap. Peering at the thin pages of the book, the boy appeared utterly oblivious to the world around him. A portrait of concentration. Things had been relatively quiet around the school the past few days and the prefect was enjoying some much-needed free time. He turned the page.

If the prefect was being honest with himself he would have to admit that he was horribly bored. The book was less than thrilling but there wasn’t much else to do. All that waited for him outside was an allergenic death trap, Devlin, his friend and sparring partner, had disappeared somewhere for the day, and there was nothing to do in his dorm other than a massive pile of homework. So he sniffed and turned another page, having not fully comprehended the last one. It occurred to him that he could try to make some new friends while on the island, but the thought of forcing uncomfortable small talk on one of his unsuspecting peers seemed a bit cruel and would certainly not win him any favours as a prefect. He gave a quiet groan and closed the book, resting his chin on his hand as he dully watched the students buzzing about the lunchroom.

[Marshal Bishop]

"This seat taken?"
Marshal abruptly interrupted the prefect's dull life with a tray of food and a hint of a forced smile in his mouth. The lunchroom was filled, with students, it's difficult to say that there was any place better or worse than the one across from the white haired prefect. He seemed rather quiet, though Marshal wasn't really using his powers of observation and glazed over many points that would show that Arthur is not one for chit chat.

Marshal stood there a moment, awaiting response as he held his tray, watching the boy for a response.

[Arthur Bishop]

Arthur was startled out of his stupour as the boy approached him. He straightened himself quickly as if he had been caught doing something wrong. It took the prefect a moment to comprehend what the boy had asked. “Oh, no. Please make yourself comfortable,” he gestured towards the empty chair with a wave of his hand. It seemed his plans to avoid small-talk had fallen through, though the prefect hadn’t made much of an effort to avoid it. He studied his guest over his plate of greens (although they had been cooked so thoroughly they were practically browns). The boy had clear skin and his hair seemed well-kept. He was notably tall with a lanky physique and there was something familiar about him in the face, but Arthur couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.

“So, err, have you been here long?” asked Arthur. As much as it pained the quiet boy to prompt his guest into conversation, he supposed it would be far more uncomfortable to sit in silence. He maintained his rigid posture although his expression was one of calm indifference. His fingers tapping on the tabletop betrayed his unease, but the prefect didn’t seem to notice.

[Marshal Bishop]

"Thanks," he scooted the chair back as he started with his brown greens fearlessly chewing them. "Been here a while."He spoke, chewing his food. Observing the person across from him. He seemed socially nervous, uneasy, and, from what he could tell, disturbed by something, perhaps how he ate.

"How 'bout you?" he reciprocated the question, chewing as he spooned up more "vegetables". He looked Arthur in the eye, as in analyzing him. There was something familiar about the boy. He just didn't know what. "You have a name?" he asked upon the completion of the other question. Mindfully chewing the vegetables as he watched the boy tap his fingers rhythmically
on the table.

[Arthur Bishop]

Arthur was rather put-off by the boy’s insistence on speaking and chewing at the same time. The prefect couldn’t help the disapproving downward tug of his lips as he tried to ignore his own discomfort. It was not his place to comment on the boy’s table manners, Arthur reminded himself, so he straightened his shoulders and forced a polite almost-smile as he soldiered through the conversation. “No,” he replied, wondering vaguely how he’d ever thought the boy seemed familiar. Arthur was certain he would remember someone with such poor manners. “I’ve only been here a few weeks, though it feels like longer.” It was then that he noticed the boy watching his fingers. They paused in their path and Arthur knitted his hands together self-consciously without comment. The almost-smile dissolved once more into indifference.

“Yes, Arthur Bishop,” he introduced himself, extending a hand for the boy to shake before quickly returning it to its previous position as if not trusting it to behave itself. “And you are?” he prompted. The last thing he wanted to do was encourage the boy, but it was too soon to excuse himself without being rude. For now he was trapped by social obligation.

[Marshal Bishop]

He smiled chewing his vegetables, but he was unprepared for such a similarity in names. The name, Bishop was common enough as it was but he couldn't help but give a small half laugh at the news. He looked over The boy's face once more as he swallowed the greens. "Marshal," he paused a moment reaching for his glass, "Marshal Bishop." He drank with a nod, as if toasting the boy's long life or to some clear family relation. There the glass remained for a moment as he took his drink.

He gave a relaxed exhale, as if the boy across from him had given him some most insightful news. "Good t' see another Bishop." Marshal set his glass down, a small and almost taunting smile tucked into a dimpled cheek. "You're from Britain then?" He continued per custom.

[Arthur Bishop]

A flash of anger touched the prefect’s eyes for a moment and then vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Unimpressed, Arthur considered the boy before him. Bishop was not an uncommon surname, but there was something about Marshal’s relaxed attitude that wormed its way under the prefect’s skin. Struggling to remain indifferent, Arthur plucked at an imaginary stray hair on the cuff of his sleeve so that he would have an excuse not to look at the boy as he tipped his glass in Arthur’s direction. He felt like he was being mocked.

“Yes, very good indeed,” he drawled in response to Marshal’s comment. The tension in the prefect’s shoulders only seemed to intensify as the boy carried on casually. Though the prefect’s face remained passive, there was no denying that Marshal had struck a nerve. Arthur wasn’t sure why the other Bishop’s company bothered him so much. Perhaps it was because there was a certain resemblance that he couldn’t help but notice despite his best efforts to ignore them. If Arthur tried hard enough he could almost convince himself that it was merely a trick of the light. Both boys reached for their forks at precisely the same moment and Arthur pulled his hand back as if it had bit him. “Mh,” he offered Marshal an apologetic smile as his hand settled back on the table, knuckles white as he clenched his fist a bit tighter than necessary.

“Oh, yes. London, to be specific,” he pretended that the awkward moment had never happened. “And you’re American? That must be,” he paused, cleared his throat, and chose his next word carefully, “interesting.” Sitting rigidly, Arthur forced a conversational smile that probably looked something more like a grimace. He was in pain, after all. “My father used to travel to the United States on business, though that was a long time ago,” he continued, “what do your parents do, Marshal?” Arthur picked up his glass and took a sip from it.

[Marshal Bishop]

The boy across seemed almost in pain, though despite his best efforts Marshal couldn't pinpoint what exactly was causing his company to be so sore. Marshal reached for his fork, seeing that Arthur had done the same. Marshal gave a smile and in return he seemed to get a grimace.

"Hm." He forked more vegetables into his mouth, watching Arthur closer. Tense shoulders, forced smiled, hands in lap, it was a surprise that he hadn't caught the hint earlier.

Marshal -to this boy, at least- was bad company. The boy's tone and pause before the word "interesting" was almost clear evidence that Arthur had intended another, harsher word before the quick substitution.

"My parents? Oh," he swallowed, "well. I don't exactly know what they do." It was the truth but not quite the full truth. Marshal's status as an orphan made this moment a bit odd. "Don't know them too well." He stated simply, reaching for his glass of water for moderate safety. ". . ."

"Ahm." he cleared his throat with a slight tilt in his head, "What business is your father in?"

[Arthur Bishop]

Retreating into his glass, Arthur sipped at his water until he felt composed and ready to make a fresh attempt at the conversation. He watched from the corner of his eye while Marshal swallowed and shifted as he spoke. Arthur got the impression that he was breaching dangerous territory with the boy. Carefully, he lowered his glass back to the table between them. Keeping his grip on the glass, he peered through its translucent contents only to find Marshal’s image flipped, mirrored and distorted by the refracted light. Maintaining the uncomfortable silence that pressed down on them, Arthur watched the refracted Marshal reach for his own glass, only looking up when the boy cleared his throat.

“Ah, my father,” he began. The prefect ran a hand through his hair, pausing before moving into the well-scripted and frequently rehearsed speech. “He’s involved in politics. Foreign relations, to be more specific. At one point he was an ambassador to the United States, but he was recently elected to the Commonwealth as the High Commissioner of Botswana.” He rattled off the sentences with an air of boredom, his eyes shifting around the lunchroom before finding their way back to Marshal. “Err, it’s still basically an ambassador position, but it’s exclusive to certain countries,” he explained, uncertain about how familiar Marshal might be with British politics. “Anyway,” Arthur cleared his throat and ran a finger under the collar of his shirt, “he’ll be living there for the next five years.”

Arthur cleared his throat again and shifted a little in his seat, finding himself uncomfortable with the minor deviance from his usual off-handed description. His stomach squeezed with self-consciousness as he quickly changed the topic. “So, how do you like it here?” his fingers now tapped against the curved surface of his water glass without him noticing. “The agents claimed that Ashford is meant to offer some of the greatest education opportunities of any secondary school in the world. But, I’ll admit, I’m a bit skeptical of that assertion. I wasn’t aware that the school existed until I’d already been accepted. Don’t you think it’s a bit odd?”