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Nobody's Twisting Your Arm

Summary:

Once again, Paul has to change school due to his father's career ambitions. How bad will it be this time? He's used to bullying, being the principal's son. But at RAKIS, things might get worse than ever before. For there's this guy Feyd, who's giving Paul a really hard time. As he's about to find out Paul's most intimate secrets, something else is awakening inside Paul...

Notes:

I know a bit about Dune but nothing about high school. And I like to switch between tenses. Sue me. For visuals, Paul looks like Timothée in Bones & All; Feyd looks like young Sting.

Chapter 1: I Don't Like Mondays

Chapter Text

„And then I twisted his arm and punched him in the face again and again. He wailed, spluttering blood, and begged me to let go of him.” Sardonic laughter accompanied those very first words Paul heard when he stepped through the entrance doors of RAKIS (Royal Academy for the conveyance of Knowledge, Ideas and Science), his scholastic home for the next year.

They were uttered by a tall, muscular redhead whose soft face looked rather innocent, which made the tale he told sound all the more savage. He was surrounded by a gang of guys with shaved heads dressed all in black leather.

Paul instinctively turned the other way and gave the group a wide berth as he passed through the hall looking for the director’s office.

He already hated his new school. Junior year kicked off to be a nightmare.

He recalled what his mother had told him over breakfast this morning (not that he had eaten much, his stomach already turning at the thought of the start of the new academic term).

“Give it a chance. You must face your fears.” At least she’d had the honesty to forgo an encouraging smile. Her grey eyes were serious but there was no pity in her gaze. Small mercies.

“Well, it would help if my father wasn’t the new principal.” Paul had mumbled while sullenly crumbling a piece of toast all over his plate.

“You know that your father wasn’t too keen to take over here. But it was a case of emergency. When he was called in he couldn’t refuse.”

‘Bla bla bla’, Paul thought. His mother never tired of defending his father’s career choices, depicting them even as sacrifices he made for the sake of others. Though to Paul it looked that everybody but his family came into the equation.

It had been bad enough as a sophomore at his last school, a somewhat elitist boarding school by the sea.

Paul could still hear the taunting voices of his fellow pupils sing:

Chubby cheeks, dimple chin
Rosy lips, teeth within
Curly hair, very fair
Eyes are blue - lovely too.
Teachers pet, is that you?
Yes, Yes, Yes!

It was not that his cheeks were chubby. On the contrary. He was all elbows and knees. Which had made reciting the nursery rhyme even funnier for his classmates.

The rest – unfortunately – applied, which had given Paul a hard time since he was about twelve. Being cute was okay for a little boy but not for a teenager. His looks had led to all sorts of name calling. ‘Princess’ and ‘fairy’ had been the nicer insults hurled at him on the sports field during PE.

Well, and now RAKIS.

Despite its name, the school was set in an area euphemistically described as socially disadvantaged. Which meant is was a shithole, plain and simple. Crime, drugs, violence, poverty – you name it, RAKIS got it aplenty.

Of course, his dad couldn’t resist to take over when the former headmaster was kicked out in contempt; officially for meddling with the lunch money. But Paul had listened in on the late night talks his father had held with the school board. There were wild accusations flying around: corporal punishment of pupils, even sexual abuse allegations. The disgraced Vladimir Harkonnen had left scorched earth.

A hotspot like RAKIS was exactly the pedagogical playing field Paul’s father had longed for. Finally, he could bring education to the underprivileged. If he succeeded at RAKIS, only the sky was the limit. Paul envisaged his dad already dreaming up his new manifesto as Secretary of Education.

And so here they were.

The old principal’s name had not yet been removed from the office door Paul forced himself to knock on.

“Come in!” His father’s voice – deep, sonorous, full of confidence – answered from the other side of the frosted glass. “Ah, Paul, it’s you. Good to see you. Can you help me move this desk over there by the window?”

His dad was already starting to make a difference to his office. A withered palm tree had been discarded in a wired waste paper basket. Books piled high in one corner. Heavy dark-brown leather furniture had been pushed to the side, and against one wall leaned a picture of what Paul believed was the old headmaster: a fat, round face, lots of chins, fleshy lips and small, cruel eyes with a piercing stare. Paul wouldn’t have wanted to face that man alone in this room.

A few minutes later the heavy old desk was placed where his dad wanted it.

“This is much better.” Leto Atreides brushed his hands on his trousers as he leaned back against the desk, smiling at is son. “You look fucking miserable.”

“I am.” Paul answered. No use to lie to his father. He shrugged, kicking the thick dark carpet with the white tip of his Converse.

“I know this isn’t easy for you…,” his father set off on one of his motivational speeches. Paul was literally saved by the bell.

“I have class. Do you have my papers?” Paul reached out as his father took some documents from a shelf. “Thanks.”

He was already at the door when his father offered: “I can drive you home this afternoon.” Paul knew this was his father’s way of a peace offering. He wouldn’t make it easy for the old man.

“I’ll take the bus.” He closed the office door behind himself and sprinted down the corridor. Only when he reached the by now almost empty main hall did Paul realize he had no idea where to find his class.

As he stood there looking left and right for an answer – luckily, the group of leather boys as Paul called them to himself was nowhere to be seen – a girl skidding around a corner bumped into him, sending her books and his papers flying all around them.

“Shit!” The girl exclaimed, crouching down to retrieve her stuff.

“Sorry.” Paul just stood there and watched her.

“Won’t you help me?” She looked up at him, pushing a strand of brown curls out of her eyes and behind her ears.

“Sorry.” Now Paul got on his knees too and began sorting his papers from her notepads.

“I’m fucking late. Mr Halleck will skin me alive.” She finally seemed to have collected her books and got up.

“You’re in Mr Halleck’s class? Classical poetry?”

The girl nodded, straightening the long skirt of her plain mud-coloured dress.

“Me too.” Paul said sheepishly. The girl just stared blankly at him. “I’m new here.”

“You don’t say.” The girl started to walk down a corridor. About ten meters ahead she turned back to Paul. “You coming, or what?” And she smiled.

Paul ran up to her and together they hurried towards a bright orange classroom door. Before they knocked the girl looked at him and said: “I’m Chani, by the way.”

“Paul.” Said Paul.

“Okay, let’s face our demons.” The girl took a deep breath before rapping her knuckles against the battered metal.

 

Paul wasn’t sure if he liked or despised Mr Halleck. After entering his classroom, the teacher had first scolded Miss Keynes for being late AGAIN before he’d turned to Paul.

“And I don’t care who you are, just find a seat so we can get on here.” He’d gestured towards the rows of chairs and desks and Paul had slipped onto a free seat as far back as possible, grateful for at least some more minutes of anonymity before his fellow pupils would find out who he was.

Now Paul was listening as Mr Halleck, a tall man looking more like a boxer than a poetry teacher with a prominent scar on his chin, outlined the curriculum of the next year. Some rather boring sounding old pieces they would have to work through were interspersed with modern authors Paul loved. When it came to assign presentations, Paul put his hand up at the mention of Paul Celan.

“Anyone else? Come on, help the new guy.”

To Paul’s utter astonishment, a beautiful blond girl sitting in the front row raised her hand, turning back towards him and giving him a rather mysterious smile.

“Miss Corrino, thank you.” Mr Halleck nodded towards the blond. “And your name is?” His pen was hovering above his list as he seemed to see Paul for the first time.

Before Paul’s mental eye flashed a few memorable instances of bullying he’d had to endure at his last school: being locked in a toilet cubical while other pupils threw used toilet paper over the partition; the dinner lady openly spitting onto his food because his father had expelled her son from school; a fresh dog turd left in his locker; not to mention the frequent beatings he took at night after curfew in the boy’s shower room, administered with a bar of soap in a sock…

Teachers pet, is that you?

His only companions Paul had found at the school’s pet zoo. He didn’t know why he’d liked the desert shrews best. Maybe because they were kind of cute and ugly at the same time? Another name for them was Muad’dib.

“Muad’dib.” Paul said quickly; holding Mr Halleck’s gaze.

The teacher raised an eyebrow but jotted down the name before continuing to assign further papers.

When class was over and Paul was packing up his things, the blond girl sauntered over to him.

“Hi, I’m Irulan.” She offered him a soft hand to shake. “It’s obvious that we two don’t quite... belong here.” She still smiled sweetly as her eyes wandered the group of teenagers around them. Most were dark, their clothes cheap and plain, while she wore something bright and tight and shiny, perhaps even made by a designer. At least it looked expensive. Paul had an eye for these small things.

He immediately disliked Irulan’s attitude.

“Give me your phone.” She demanded, entering her number after Paul reluctantly handed over his device. “Call me this afternoon.” She turned and rushed out, leaving the light smell of exclusive perfume behind.

“Bitch.” Chani seethed next to Paul. He jumped. “Good luck with her.”

“Is she that bad?”

“Worse.” Chani made a retching sound. “Where’re you off to next?”

“Philosophy with Mr de Vries.”

“Ah, fuck… someone hates you.” Chani shook her head. “It’s on the second floor, up the stairs at the end of the corridor, room 203. He’s a true asshole. Beware. Vlad loved him.”

“Vlad?”

“Our old principal.” Chani gave him a hard look. “You can call yourself lucky you missed him. But his cronies are still working here. Sorry, I’ve to go. Maths with Mr Hawat. Will you meet me for lunch or do you want to hang out with Irulan and her posse?”

“Where?” Paul felt his face heat.

“By the bike shed. I don’t like eating at the cafeteria. And they don’t like us. We bring our own food.” With that she turned and left.

 

The first shock in Mr de Vries’ class is that the innocent looking brute Paul had overheard in the hall this morning is sprawled over a chair at the back of the room.
He’s talking animatedly with a big, muscular guy looking more like a senior, so Paul wonders what he’s doing here. There’s also a certain resemblance in their looks – the ginger hair, the pale eye colour, the full lips – but Paul doesn’t dare to look too long in fear he might attract the boys attention.

He chooses a seat as far away from them as possible, but it’s no good.

“Hey, you.”

Paul doesn’t look up as he gets his notepad from his backpack.

“Hey, you!”

A shadow darkens Paul’s desk.

“My cousin is talking to you.” The big guy is standing in front of Paul, leaning in close while putting both his hands on his desk. His fingers are thick as sausages.

Paul looks up, then over. “Hi.” His voice is small, quivering. He hates himself for being afraid of these two, but they trigger some of his worst fears.

“You’re new here.” It’s not a question. Paul just nods.

The one still slouching on his chair is chewing his full lower lip while seemingly thinking what to make of Paul. Peripherally, he registers that the classroom is filling with more pupils but Paul’s gaze is glued to the redheaded boy.

He winks at Paul. The other one bending over his desk chuckles. Paul forces himself to stay very still but his fingers are leaving sweaty marks on his notepad.

“What’s your name?”

Paul swallows. “Paul.”

“Paul.” It sounds like a four letter word. Well, it is a four letter word, but these two make his name sound ridiculous.

The fat guy leans in even further. “That’s a faggot’s name.”

And there it is. Paul feels like he’s trapped in a time loop.

“You’re a faggot, Paul? I think he’s a faggot, don’t you, Rabban?”

“Definitely.”

“And what do we do with faggots?”

Paul is not to know what specific treatment they have in mind for him. From the door a snarling voice calls: “Feyd! Rabban. What are you doing here? Out!”

The shadow hovering over Paul disappears, clearing the view. He can now see the teacher, a small thin guy with bushy eyebrows and a quite intense stare.

Even Feyd sits up straight under that stern gaze.

They’re studying Machiavelli in this lesson. Paul tries to concentrate but he imagines feeling a pair of pale eyes staring daggers at the back of his head. He doesn’t dare to turn around and check, but he feels the well-known tingle of fear.

‘I must not fear…’ he recites his mom’s mantra. Easier said than done.

When class is over the boy called Feyd shoulders him hard in passing, knocking his books out of his hands.

“Faggot.” He hisses, giving Paul a dangerously saccharine smile.

Paul waits until everyone else has left before stepping into the corridor. Eventually, he finds the toilets and locks himself in a cubicle. He lowers his head between his knees, sitting on the closed toilet lid, taking deep breaths. It’s kind of disgusting here, with puddles of whatever liquid on he floor and cigarette burns decorating the door, but there’s no other chance to privacy in a school.

He knows this all too well.

He also knows that he fucking hates it here.