Idiot and a Dagger (Nigel short story)

Hello everyone, this is just a little something before I continue to main plot for Jareth and Cole. A Nigel episode!
This takes place a month after Jareth's Birthday

Warning-
slurs, light blood




Nigel was sat at the end of Cole’s king sized bed with his elbows on his knees and his bare feet flat against the green carpet. He held his hands clasped together and let his head hang heavy between his shoulders as Cole spoke at him from the bathroom. The fan above him whirred, and rain speckled against the window above Cole’s desk.

“Nearly a month now, and not a thing has been done! I’ve half a mind to release the damn news to the public and pray that they present him to me,” He said over the running sink.

“Some poor lass would rip him to bits if she found him,” Nigel said.

“Well- and who's to say he hasn't been already? God sakes, he’s probably dead.”

The sink went silent and the bathroom light flicked off. Nigel raised his head and watched Cole glide across the room to his mahogany dresser where he began to sift through night shirts. He already wearing one. 

Nigel stood, and after his knee popped, he went to Cole.

“I won’t be having any of that, Cole. He’s only run off somewhere, he can manage. If not, he’ll come back.”

Nigel looked over Cole’s shoulder with his hands on his hips, and Cole closed the drawer to look up at Nigel.

“He’s never been able to take care of himself. He’s had everything done for him his entire life,” Cole said. “He can’t feed himself, honestly…”

“Have you been managing him your whole life?” Nigel asked.

Cole’s stache stayed bristled, and he stared up at Nigel through his eyebrows. Nigel reached up to cup Cole’s jaw, and Cole turned his head away.

“Aye,” Nigel said, then tilted his head to keep eye contact. “Don’t be that way.”

He once again attempted to hold the side of Cole’s face. And when Cole allowed it, he began to stroke his thumb back and forth on Cole’s just shaven cheek, which felt like velvet under Nigel’s calloused knuckle. He watched his thumb cover a beauty mark, then reveal it, then cover it.

“There’s more we could be doing,” Cole said.

“Not tonight,” Nigel replied.

Cole shook his head, but did not step away. The two men stood in the low-light of a single bedside lamp, and shared silence.

Nigel watched Cole’s soft, pretty face. His long lashes fanned over his skin as he closed his eyes, and his stern brows lightened. Despite Nigel’s aged eyes -and in the dim light- he could see the individual hairs that formed a full stache on Cole’s upper lip. He tried to recall if Cole had a secret birthmark that hid under it.

Then, he pictured Cole without it. His gentle features with no facial hair. It would make him appear incredibly innocent, perhaps even girlish. Would he have an otter face like Jareth? Did he have a cupid’s bow or none at all?

And, for the first time in a very long time, Nigel thought of a school boy named Seamus.

“What were you like when you were little?” he asked.

Cole scoffed without opening his eyes. 

“Were you a tattle?” Nigel asked, grinning.

“No.” Cole opened his eyes. “I was… Fine. I was a normal child.”

“Did you have friends?”

“Yes. Of course I did.” 

“Of course,” Nigel said.

“I did!” Cole lifted his head from Nigel’s hand.

Nigel hummed.

“And- surely you were so popular.”

Nigel shook his head no.

“I think I would’ve gone and tormented you,” he responded.

“You do,” Cole said with furrowed brows, and Nigel grinned.

“No, weren't the same then. I was a terrible, rotten thing. I think I would have tormented you, Cole.”

“You were a bully?”

“I was.”

The bedroom door creaked slowly, making both men flinch. Nigel turned, and at the very edge of the door was one small hand and half of Sonya’s face. She said nothing, and stared up at Nigel.

“Sonya!” Cole said, walking out from Nigel. “What are you doing?”

“Can I have a glass of water?” she asked and came out from the doorway holding the paw of a white stuffed rabbit. She was dressed in her pink night gown that had a white lace collar.

“Don’t let that drag on the floor,” Cole said.

Sonya held the rabbit in her arms.

“You are perfectly capable of walking to the kitchen yourself,” Cole said.

Sonya said nothing, and Cole placed his hand on her back to guide her out. Nigel frowned.

“It’s awful dark down that hallway, hard to make it down the stairs,” he said.

“She’s nearly eleven,” 

“Get me a cup then?” 

Cole eyed Nigel.

“Alright, alright,” he said.

Cole opened the door and reached back for Sonya to take his hand. She did, but as she left she looked back at Nigel. And when he smiled at her, she quickly looked away.

“Does Nigel have a home?” She asked down the hallway.

“Please be quiet, Sonya,” Cole responded.

Nigel slipped his hands into the pockets of his silk night pants, then walked back to the edge of the bed. The carpet floor beneath him creaked quietly with each step, and the window above Cole’s desk rattled from a spring storm. He pressed his weight onto the mattress and sighed slowly through his nose. He thought, privately, of a boy named Seamus McCarthy.

Seamus McCarthy stood at 4’3 and had a face spattered with freckles. They spread along his rounded nose, eyelids, and down his neck into the collar of his St. Doyle uniform shirt. He walked with a limp, spoke quietly, and had no friends because he was probably a poof. He was a full year younger than Nigel.

At thirteen years old, Nigel stood against the slick brick wall beside an alleyway that Seamus walked through each afternoon to get to his mother’s apartment. Above Nigel hung a wooden sign that read ‘shoe repairs’, with a red arrow that pointed down the alley. The cold wind had flushed Nigel’s nose and ears pink, and his hand shivered as he raised his cig to take a breath.

 He had one hand buried in the pocket of his gray wool St. Doyle coat, where he turned the wooden handle of a dagger.

And as he heard the off-rhythm clacking of Seamus’s black shoes on wet pavement, he kept his head hung. He only raised his head after Seamus passed him and dipped into the alleyway where his steps began to echo. Nigel dropped his cigarette and stood away from the wall. He then turned into the alley and began stalking behind Seamus.

The boy turned to eye Nigel, and after looking forward again he began to jog. Nigel jogged too. Seamus began to run, and so did Nigel.

The wet clack of shoes on wet brick echoed up the long alley as Nigel chased Seamus. And when he began to close the gap between them, he reached out with spread pink fingers to grab the back of Seamus’s shirt. (Seamus’s school coat was lost in a house bombing at the beginning of the year, and had yet to be replaced.)

His fist clamped around the fabric, and he yanked Seamus back. He took the boy’s damp wrist and pulled him close before shoving him against the rough cobblestone wall.

“Fuck off Nigel!” Seamus said, ripping his wrist away. Seamus jerked to the left, and so did Nigel. Then, Seamus stood with his back against the wall.

“Drop your bag,” Nigel said, quickly.

“No,” Seamus replied.

“Go on!” 

Seamus reached up with both hands to hold the strap of his leather satchel. He glared up at Nigel, and Nigel stared back. 

Then, without looking away, Nigel dipped his hand into his coat and wrapped his fingers around the cold wooden handle of his dagger. He drew it forward, pointed it at Seamus, Then clicked the button at the center. A thin silver blade shot forward. The dagger shook in the open air, and Nigel’s hand refused to steady.

Seamus watched the dagger, then he watched Nigel’s face.

“Drop your bag.”

Seamus slipped the strap off his shoulder and placed his satchel on the brick ground. Nigel hooked his heel on it and pushed it behind himself.

“Do a little fag dance,” he said.

Seamus stood very still, and his already cold bitten face went pinker. And when Nigel jerked the dagger at him he flinched, and began to stiffly hop from foot to foot. He raised his hands, palms out and fingers spread, and he did not look at Nigel.

Nigel’s hand shook, and his heart beat heavy against the back of his eyes. He stared at Seamus as he pranced from foot to foot, but Nigel was not smiling.

“You’re a little fag. Say it.”

“I’m a little fag,” Seamus said.

“Pull your pants down,” Nigel said, suddenly.

He felt a weight drop in his chest, and the steady fog from his nose stopped. He stared at Seamus- who stopped dancing- and Seamus stared up at him.

“No,” Seamus said.

Nigel bit his lip.

“I’ll cut your ear off,” He said.

“I’m not doing that,” Seamus replied.

Nigel swallowed thickly and dropped his hand to his side. He looked down at Seamus’s shoes for a while, and for a very long time neither boy said anything. Then, Nigel reached forward to clamp Seamus’s collar. He raised his dagger to hook it on the start of Seamus’s ear, but Seamus turned his head to the side in a quick jerk. A thin slit was cut from the top of his ear to his brow which formed a pink line. It bloated with glossy red, then dropped in the center and slid down Seamus’s jaw.

“Stop!” He said.

“Stop squirmin then!” Nigel replied, and pulled him in to shove him against the wall again.

“I’ll do it!”

“Do it then! Go on!”

Nigel let go and stepped back while still pressing the knife forward towards the younger boy.

Seamus held his belt, and began to slide the leather strap from its anchored spot. The jingle from his metal buckle echoed in the alley. And when his pants fell, the fabric pooled at his ankles which revealed two very thin, very white legs. He held his hands over his briefs, and he shivered.

Nigel watched Seamus with blank eyes. And while he was staring at Seamus’s bare legs, Seamus began to cry. Nigel looked up at Seamus’s face, but his head was dunked down with his black hair curtaining his face. He cried quietly, and a dot of red left his chin and hit the ground.

Nigel slowly closed the dagger and put it in his pocket. He took a step back.

“Aye!” 

Both boys looked up.

The window to a flat above the repair shop had opened, and a stubble jawed, red haired man in a pale green coat leaned out the edge. He eyed them coldly, then he drew a pistol from his coat and pointed it down at the boys.

The alleyway echoed with a loud crack, and the cobblestone beside Seamus spit dust. Both Nigel and Seamus split, taking off in opposite directions.

“Go on, get outta here!” The man called.

Nigel sprinted down the wet brick to the other open side of the alley where a horse was surprised to see him and let out a displeased yip. The rider scolded him, then trotted away.

Nigel turned to look back down the alley.

Seamus was still limping to the other side, pulling his pants up around his waist. His shoe caught and slipped on wet gravel, and he fell, stomach down with a grunt.

In that moment, watching Seamus McCarthy sit up with mud on his shirt, Nigel felt evil.

There was another time, when Nigel was a year older, that he noticed Seamus sitting over a bridge that passed above a shallow stream. A mile away across a field of thick grass was the Angus farm, where a shire horse was lazily hauling a cart of potatoes down a dirt road. The farmland was muted under the gray cover of clouds above.

Seamus was sitting alone, smoking, kicking his feet, with something in his lap. He was wrapped in a crocheted scarf, a knit sweater, and long slacks.

Nigel only spotted him after rounding the pathway on his bike, which gave him away as the rusted chain cranked noticeably with each pump. Seamus looked up, Nigel abandoned his bike, and both boys started running.

At the bottom of the bridge’s dip, Nigel caught Seamus’s wrist.

“What's that?” He asked.

“Sod off-”

“Is that a journal? You’ve got a journal.”

In Seamus’s free hand he held a small, black leather notebook. Small enough to fit inside the inner pocket of a coat, or a handbag.

“What were you writing?”

Nigel pulled Seamus’s wrist in and outstretched his hand to reach for the notebook. Seamus stretched himself open to keep it from Nigel, so Nigel shoved Seamus hard enough to make him stumble back and fall where the cobble path met dirt. When he leaned down and grasped the notebook, Seamus hugged it.

“What’s it you want to hide so bad?” He asked, pulling.

Seamus didn’t reply, and Nigel gave a harsh yank.

When the book popped free, Nigel split it open and turned away. The page was blank, so he closed the notebook to sift to the front.

“It’s mine!” Seamus said, standing to grab for it.

Nigel raised it above his head and grinned as Seamus jumped for it. He felt the much shorter boy’s fingertips graze the book just once. 

“What were you writing about, McCarthy? Mm?”

Nigel walked away from Seamus and opened the book, careful to keep Seamus behind him by turning when he tried to reach around him. He took hold of the first page and ripped it clean from the spine it was sown into. He let it go, and the wind caught it.

He ripped another, then another, until he was standing at the edge of the bridge. Seamus gripped Nigel’s sweater and yanked his arm back.

“Stop it!” He said.

While he looked at Seamus’s face, Nigel tossed the notebook over the edge of the bridge. The flat face hit the water with a thunk. Seamus’s face was red and he let go of Nigel to limp beside him, looking over the edge.

Nigel’s smile faded, and he looked over the edge too.

In the center of the stream below them laid the opened notebook, caught on a rock. Water lapped over it’s yellowed pages, sogging them. Nigel suddenly wondered, really, what was written on them. One by one, the pages decayed from their holding place and floated down the river. While he watched them, Nigel became very aware that he didn’t feel how he thought he would.

It was then- with his palms on the stone ledge looking down- that Nigel was pushed forward. His hands scraped, his body flipped, and he hit the sleek rocks of the stream on his back. Cold water splashed, and soaked into his sweater and slacks. His lungs had knocked into shock.

He laid upright, staring up at Seamus, and tried to gasp. 

Ten minutes later, after Seamus took his bike, and he managed to breath again, Nigel sat up and criss-crossed his leg in the cool water. A limp page floated lazily past him, and he reached out to pluck it out of the water. It hung like a handkerchief, and he laid it out on his knee to read it.

It was a pencil sketch of a shire horse grazing. The horse was adorned with a saddle with clear celtic knots carved into the leather. Nigel thought it was nice.

He lowered his knee, dunking the page back into the water. He wondered if Seamus hoped the fall had killed him.

The last time Nigel and Seamus saw each other was when Nigel was fifteen. Seamus was standing over the edge of the peer setting up his fishing line with a cooler next to him, and Nigel pushed him off. Seamus landed in the lapping, freezing water with a loud splash. 

Nigel stood overhead with fog swirling from his nose each time he exhaled. Seamus’s slacks, shirt, and new St. Doyle coat soaked in the water, and weighed him. When his head surfaced he yelled;

“I can’t swim!”

Then dipped under the water again.

Nigel’s grin dropped. He looked across the road where an old woman hobbled with a cane, and a car rolled past her. He looked back down, and Seamus’s black hair was a faded under the water.

“Seamus!” He called. Then, he turned to the street again. “Help!”

Another car rolled by and Nigel waved his hands. The car turned the corner, out of sight.

He looked back down again, and Seamus had not surfaced. Suddenly, and after a jerk of hesitation, Nigel began to strip off his coat, then kick off his shoes.

Both boys sat at the edge of the dock. dripping, shivering. Their faces were sickly pale, and their lips white. Nigel could prominently see the blue veins on the back of his hand through his thin, cold skin. A steady wind blew against them and their wet clothes, seeping through the damp fabric to chill it. 

Nigel looked at Seamus, who sat silently next to him.

“What’dya mean you can’t swim? Why can’t you swim- for fucks sake!”

Seamus said nothing.

Nigel stared at his face, and waited for him. And after Nigel smacked his soggy shoulder, Seamus stood up and limped down the dock. Nigel thought then, and even in adulthood, that Seamus could have strangled Nigel. He should have. 

A week later, Seamus and his mother had moved across the sea to Liverpool.

The door closed, then locked three times, and Cole rubbed his face with his palm. Even now, before bed, Nigel could see Cole’s peacock wrist watch strapped around his wrist. It peeked out from the sleeve of his nightshirt, then disappeared when he dropped his arm.

Cole put his hands on his hips and looked at his bedroom desk. Then at Nigel.

“I can’t have you staying here with me. I don’t like… this around my children,” he said, motioning to the space between them.

Nigel watched him tiredly. And he smiled.

“If you’d like you may take the guest room, but I won’t be sharing my bed with you any longer. Not when the kids are staying here.”

Nigel had heard this for the third time. And for the third time, he would wait a day or two until Cole lingered at his doorway come nightfall, and bend to his own boundary. But tonight, Nigel shall be staying downstairs.

“Alright,” he said.

“Alright then,” Cole replied.

Nigel stood and walked to Cole- who puffed himself up- and Nigel kissed his forehead. He slid his hand around Cole’s waist, but did not pull him in.

“What do you want for breakfast?”

“You don’t have to do that,” Cole said.

Nigel said nothing.

“Sausage, bread, and eggs is all,” he said. His eyes went down to Nigels shoulder. “I can manage the tea.”

“Alright.”

Cole’s hands lifted from his hips, and briefly flattened on Nigels upper chest. Then, he dropped them at his sides.

“Goodnight,” he said.

“Night,” Nigel replied.