IC “Jehan is so wonderful. He’s my most special friend.”
Dorian tried to ignore the high, squealing voice that was supposed to be an imitation of him. For all his bravado and his research in insults of the world, he knew it was far safer not to rise to the bait and poke the dragon.
“He’s so magical that he farts rainbows,” Matthieu continued in the same falsetto. It was reasonably easy to ignore. It was a poor imitation, and so ridiculous, and Dorian knew it was just to to try to get a reaction. To give Matthieu an excuse…
“Did he write to you again today, because he can’t bear to be apart from you?” Matthieu mocked, changing tack as he failed to get a reaction. Dorian’s head snapped up. It was one thing for Matthieu to be mocking him. That was nothing new. But attacking Jehan’s acts of friendship hit a nerve. And the trouble was Matthieu was so stupid. So easy to attack right back… At least when it was at this stage. In a verbal slanging match, Dorian usually came out on top. He just ended up paying for it later.
“You’re just jealous because you don’t have any friends,” Dorian countered, “At least, not ones smart enough to write a letter.”
“Like I want a bunch of sissy letters from people. Letters are gay. Trust you to find the only person who’s as much of a freak as you, chochotte,” Matthieu taunted, pleased at finding a weak spot.
“We’re not freaks! Maugris!” he exclaimed, “Just because you don’t know how to relate to another human being. U vas est' litso obez'yany,” he added.
“What did you say?” Matthieu asked, thrown by the abrupt switch from French. For a second he had assumed Dorian must have switched to Chinese, because what else would it be? Only it wasn’t.
“You don’t understand?” Dorian asked in mock surprise, “It’s because you are myasnaya golova.”
Dorian saw the warning sign - the frown of anger as the argument overtook Matthieu’s capacity.
“Shut up! What are you calling me?”
“I can’t both shut up and tell you the answer, myasnaya golova.”
He ducked the swing that Matthieu made for him and made a run for the corridor. Dorian couldn’t outrun Matthieu, not for long. He had being light and agile, and the head start on his side. And the fact that part of his ‘fight smart’ strategy was to know where the other members of the household were. He had only to duck into a room just along the corridor, where his mother was arranging flowers. Matthieu came tearing in after him, his frown of anger deepening as he saw that Dorian had found a safe space.
“Boys?” their mother asked, sensing the atmosphere, “I hope you are not fighting. It’s nearly Christmas.”
Matthieu would not tell on their mother to Dorian about the name calling. He knew Dorian had a million times the dirt. And besides, he would rather pay him back later, in his own way.