When Charlie limped through the door the next morning, Kit was waiting for him. 

He was hung over, and he was contrite. He'd be a better uncle. He'd be... Responsible. Um... Dependable.

Shit, had school already started?

What time is it? Charles thought, and glanced at his wristwatch -

Eight forty-five?

"Shouldn't you be at school?" he croaked, wincing at the way his voice sounded. 

He noticed that Kit was wearing his new school uniform - white shirt, dark green jumper and checkered slacks - but no tie, and his sneakers instead of black shoes. His shirt was unbuttoned, trousers rolled up, jumper tied about his waist. Charles blinked.

Since when did uniform regulations get this lax? He had gone to Catholic school, and from what he remembered...

His nephew raised one straight, dark eyebrow. "Never hurts to be fashionably late."

Then he gave him a slow once-over, and Charles felt himself flush up to his ears. He knew what he must look like - yesterday's clothes, the smell of booze clinging to him, bags under his eyes and bruised lips.

"On your first day?"

"'Specially then. Gotta make an entrance."

Kit pulled out one of the high chairs lining Charles's kitchen island, motioning for him to sit. He was too exhausted to protest, slumping into the seat.

Meanwhile, the younger man had pulled some kind of mixer out of one of his cabinets, and a bunch of stuff out of a fridge Charles was pretty sure had been empty yesterday. 

"You can cook?" He couldn't hide his surprise.

"Nope. But I can make a hangover cure."

He threw some ginger into the mixer, a whole peeled orange, brown sugar, and...vodka? Charles tore his gaze away - he didn't want to know. 

The sound of the mixer ripped through his pounding head.

"God, please, stop it..."

"Quit whining. Drink this."

He slammed down two glasses - one with tap water, the other bright orange - in front of Charles. 

"All of it. Oh, and here."

He pulled three little white pills, all different shapes and sizes, out of his pocket and placed them on the counter.

Ibuprofen, paracetamol, diazepam - valium, Charles thought.

Paracetamol put a strain on your liver, as did heavy drinking, and they were not a good combination - but did Kit know that? 

It's almost as if he's testing me...

But that was being paranoid. And wasn't diazepam prescription? 

He the valium, Kit watching him before turning back to the sink and washing out the mixer - very loudly, Charles thought. 

"You look a lot like her..." he murmured, without turning around. 

There was something in his voice, Charlie thought. But he was to hungover to make sense of it. A tightness to his shoulders maybe, an odd tone to his voice.

"Not as bitchy though."

"Kitty wasn't bitchy..."

"Sure she was."

"Well, does being a bitch run in the family?" Charles snapped, rubbing his throbbing temples. 

The words slipped out before he could bite them back. His nephew cast him a look over his shoulder, suds coating his hands.

"Sure it does." 

Kit flashed him a grin for the first time and Charles froze.

"Just like being a slut."

Charles could feel his cheeks flush beet red.

He thinks I'm talking about him, Kit thought, watching his uncle blush and squirm. 

It would have been funny - except he was tired and grumpy, having been up since dawn, unable to sleep after his nightmare. 

He looks just like her. 

Just like his mom. It made Kit feel sick, angry, and guilty, every time he looked at his uncle. The first time he had seen Charlie at the airport, his heart had nearly stopped in his chest. 

He was not looking forward to his first day of school. 

After pausing to see that Charlie finished everything, he said,

"Good boy," just to push his buttons, and watched his uncle's eyes narrow in anger and embarrassment. 

"Now go take a shower and get your ass to work."

Kit slung his canvas bag over his shoulder and swaggered over to the front door. 

"I already found your spare keys and some cash, by the way," he added as an afterthought. "For the bus. Keep drinking fluids today, and take it easy."

Charles stared after him. He already looked a little better after the remedy Kit had made him. It had worked like a charm on his mother too. 

"Why are you...looking after me?" he asked, his expression forlorn. 

Kit sighed. "You know why."

He shifted his weight, one hip jutting up and out, the other shoulder dropping, turning his body into one long S. 

I'm not going back into foster care - I won't ever. So it's here, or the streets. 

"I can take you on, Charlie. Two years - until I turn 18, I'll look after you."

I took care of her.

"In return, you just leave me alone. Don't get nosy. Got it?"

Without giving him time to answer Kit swept out the door, letting it slam shut behind him. 

He had to hustle now, if he wanted to make it in time for second period. 

"You're over an hour and a half late."

"I'm aware." 

He was also aware of the burning stares of all the students in his new class, on every inch of his body. 

St Michael's was an all-boys private school in one of those red brick buildings from the turn of the century, unlike the rectangular, 1980s 'block of cement' public schools he was used to attending.

How could Charlie afford to send him here? He had mentioned that his boss had recommended the school, but was it included in his job or something?

Nice apartment, fancy clothes, expensive school - and he was only 24.

What exactly do you do, Charlie? Kit thought as he stood before his new homeroom teacher, a relatively young guy with leather patches on the elbows of his jacket and hair parted to the side like a 1940s movie star.

"Your uniform is in clear violation of our dress code."

"I thought that was more of a suggestion."

"Do you have your gym clothes with you, at least?"

He shook his head.

"Well, ask coach to borrow some. Go take your seat."

"Sure, whatever." 

Kit quickly realised that he was way behind in every subject. 

But the point of school wasn't good grades - it was just passing, so that the teachers would leave him alone. He thought he could manage that much.

PE was no different. 

Ball sports - Soccer. Well, he didn't really mind the opportunity to kick in some shins. 

However, after he had tackled one too many of the taller, heavier students to the ground, despite the fact that they didn't necessarily hold the ball, the coach put him in time-out. 

Halfway through his time on the bench, he saw one of the boys he had knocked down go up to their teacher and ask to visit the restrooms. Kit narrowed his eyes.

Restroom, he thought. What a prude way to say, 'Place where you take a shit.'

After class, he was held back to help put away the equipment and receive a stern lecture on sportsmanship and coming prepared.  

So he wasn't too surprised when he returned to the now-empty locker rooms and found that his trousers were missing, replaced with a short, checkered skirt. 

"Those little shits..." 

I'll show them.

He showered and took the uniform's green-and-gold necktie from his bag, pulling his hair back with it. 

Then he put on the skirt and his white skirt, leaving the bottom half undone and knotting the ends of it at his waist to show a sliver of smooth skin. 

Best to wait until next period started and the hallways were empty - they might be waiting for him to come out. And what did it matter if he was late for another class? 

Once he showed up like this, Kit would have bigger problems. 

He pushed away from the hard wooden bench and left the changing room. 

Kit strutted up the empty hallway in his new school uniform sans pants. The skirt they had left for him must have been from a local girl's school - the colour clashed slightly with his tie.

But if they thought he would back down just because someone stole his trousers during gym and left a skirt instead, they didn't know Kit Callaghan.

He would stride into maths class, sashay right up to them in this blasted skirt, and -

Someone was crying inside the boy's restrooms. Not just crying - begging. Kit stopped in his tracks.

"Please, no - you don't have to, please let me go - "

He slammed the door open, pausing in the doorframe to take in the scene in front of him.

Even in such a fancy school, huh?

Two boys, one with chestnut hair and the other with black, were crouched over a blond, pretty, somewhat chubby kid. His face was red and streaked with tears, and his pants were around his ankles.

The other two had him cornered against a wall and one of them was stroking his own prick though his trousers. They looked excited - then startled as they whipped around to face him.

"Wha - What are you doing here? Get out!"

Kit's eyes flashed. "D'you know what? Don't think I will." And he leaned against the door, lounging, looking as relaxed as he possibly could.

His eyes scanned their faces, poses, the way their bodies angled. 

"Get out before we take you instead!" The dark haired boy snarled.

"Come on, Tyson," the brunette said to his friend, "Let's just leave before he calls a teacher."

He made towards the exit, glancing back at his accomplice, shrugging.

Kit slammed up his foot against the doorframe, blocking the way. He could see the boys' eyes widen, following the long line of his slim, bare leg to where his foot rested, almost level with his shoulder.

"Oh no," he purred, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his beautiful face.

"Where do you think you are going?"