The Boys’ Book of Martyrs
Flash fiction about admiring martyrs in entirely the wrong way
He must have been fresh out of the seminary — he surely couldn’t have been much older than us. He had that sort of fresh, flushed pink complexion that made him seem to be permanently blushing. Dark blond hair and clear blue eyes. I pegged him as Irish before he gave us his name as Conway, though he spoke a slightly plummy Queen’s English, so it must only have been his people.
“Now boys,” he said. “Today, I want you to put some thought into your final piece.”
Joshua Armitage and I exchanged looks across the classroom. Today, we would have some fun.
You must understand, we were not cruel people by nature, but our years at that Jesuit college had instilled in us a certain appetite for survival. Some of that survival required a regular fortification of the spirit, such as can be had from putting a member of staff at a disadvantage. Even in our final year, with the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel firmly in sight, we weren’t guaranteed to prevail. This was a war, as the headmaster was all too fond of reminding us, and the battleground was our souls.
I fetched down a large tome of religious art, such that virtuous schoolboys like ourselves were encouraged to draw inspiration from, and slammed it down on my desk, flicking through the various images of saints and martyrs, until I came to my favourite of St. Sebastian by Honthorst. Last year, I’d made a point of seeing it in the National Gallery and discomfiting our previous art master. One of the main advantages, apart from the obvious, was the painting’s passing resemblance to my good chum Armitage.
I sat staring at the painting intently, taking down notes in my sketchpad and tracing my fingers across the lean sculpted muscle of the bound figure. Just to set down the bait, you understand.
I felt the young priest arrive at my back, but pretended to be too intent on my work to see him. I took a minute longer to turn.
“Saint Sebastian,” he said. “And who is this version by?”
I turned and met his trusting blue eyes. For a moment my resolve wavered, but no, I would bring this home. There were graver matters at stake than a young man’s discomfort. This was a war and in war, there are casualties.
“Honthorst,” I said. I ran a finger delicately down the arm of the figure in the painting, lingering on its bicep. My fingers are long and slender; Armitage thought them my best feature. But most importantly, I was aware that their elegance gave this gesture a particularly suggestive air. “It’s one of my favourites. How he captures the physicality,” (I lingered on this word), “of Sebastian as a soldier… don’t you think it’s magnificent?”
Mr Conway didn’t reply at first. He shifted uncomfortably and swallowed, as if struggling for moisture. “It is very well done,” he said, finally. “Byrne, is it?”
“That’s right, Sir,” I said. “Patrick Byrne. I was thinking I might do a series on the martyrs. Do you think we could get some life models in for me to study?”
I met his eye and locked my gaze to his more directly than was comfortable. I flicked my tongue lightly across my bottom lip.
“I’m not sure that would be…,” he trailed off.
Around us, the classroom had hushed as my fellow students realised there was entertainment to be had.
“Is Byrne being provocative, again?” Armitage piped up. He stood and strode over, claiming the room as his own, his shoulder’s broad, blazer discarded so that his muscular frame showed clearly through his shirt. Armitage was captain of half the teams in the school. I had no idea why he chose to be my friend, save for a certain mutual tendency toward anarchy. Well, that and the sex.
He frowned towards me and then offered an open, solicitous smile to Mr Conway. “You mustn’t let him bother you, Sir,” Armitage said.
I placed my palm on the desk in a way that seemed casual and accidental.
“I was only discussing my final project, as Mr Conway asked.” I pouted at Armitage, playing up my part.
His hand slammed down on the back of my hand so hard that, even though I knew it was coming, I still jumped. Pain shot through my hand. Armitage ground his palm down. I closed my eyes, wondering if Mr Conway would notice my insistent erection under the desk.
“He really is a dreadful deviant, Sir,” Armitage said. “It’s best to be firm with him. Isn’t that right, Byrne?”
“Yes,” I gasped, my pleasure only too evident in my tone.
“You see, he identifies with these martyrs in entirely the wrong way, Sir,” Armitage said, finally removing his hand. “What do you say, Byrne?”
“Thank you,” I said breathily, trying not to laugh.
“I should think so.” His stern tone was giving way to amusement. “You may come and thank me properly, later.”
I smirked and Armitage let out a snort. The rest of the class laughed, some uncomfortably, others in on the joke.
“Sit down, Armitage,” Mr Conway said, his voice quavering.
Armitage towered over him by nearly a foot, his physicality showing no respect for the division between boy and man that the schoolroom depended on. “Of course, Sir,” he said lightly, taking a further moment before he followed Mr Conway’s instruction.
Mr Conway looked from Armitage to me, face purple. I let my lashes fall in a sham of modesty. He turned on his heel and rushed out the door.
The headmaster would cane me tonight. Armitage would be spared, of course, for being good at sport. But I didn’t care. I was sure I’d find something distracting to think about.
