Chapter Text
The wind stirred the vast expanse of grassland, a restless sigh that set waves of green awhirl, stretching endless toward the distant horizon. Here and there, tufts bowed beneath its gentle but ceaseless breath.
A tall, yellowing tree—its bark etched with fine striations—shed a single leaf, which drifted softly upon the hush of wind to come to rest with delicate grace upon the lap of a young gentleman seated beneath.
Farther off, a group of students were busy with rugby. The field lay mottled in green and brown, churned where boots had torn the earth. The goalposts loomed, rusty and tall, their yellow paint peeling. Shouts and laughter rose, their banter softened by the distance. The scent of wet grass and earth filled the air, mingling with the faint tang of sweat and mud.
From the window of the neighboring dormitory, one might have glimpsed a slender figure crowned with a mop of dark curls, seated upon the grass and scribbling indecipherable marks upon a sheet of paper. Having just smudged “Charles Spring” on the upper-left corner of the staff paper, he capped his fountain pen and slipped it into the pocket of his waistcoat.
Within the dormitory walls, another gentleman hummed a sonata. Scarlatti’s notes fluttered softly from his lips, as he played an invisible harpsichord with delicate fingers, awaiting the gentle boil of his porridge.
The chamber lay in disarray. Though the white, quilted beds were neatly made, the rest of the room was scantily furnished. Books and scattered sheets of music littered the floor, some stacks serving as makeshift nightstands or tables. Illustrated periodical clippings, chiefly portraits of scantily clad men, were pinned haphazardly to the walls. A patch of ink marked the sole table in the room, beside which rested a stained rag and a dark-brown glass bottle of foul-smelling cleaner, long since abandoned and forgotten.
Creaky steps on the floorboards, and the gentleman’s reverie dissolved. The porridge bubbled louder, a domestic insistence, alive and demanding.
“All done, then?” the man said, turning off the stove with a soft click.
A wicked, dimpled smile—like a secret turned outward—spread across Charlie’s face. “I think I have finally managed to create a good motif.”
There passed a beat—time suspended in air—the ether itself held the fragile tension poised to snap. Both gentlemen remained still, their stares locked.
Then, the man lunged.
“No! The ink’s still fresh, you beast!” Charlie twisted and flung the page; it fluttered, swayed, then collapsed gently onto the floorboards.
Charlie laughed, wild and breathless. The man pinned him—ragged and heavy, hands catching wrists, knees pressing thighs—blooming petals spreading wide, unfolding, coaxed open. They panted, wanting; breaths catching, fast and burning against the quiet air, sighs shallow and caught between their parted lips.
Silence.
“Nicholas, you hurt me,” Charlie pouted, small and wounded.
“O damn! O! God—I am terribly sorry, are you alright?”
Charlie’s grin gave him away.
“You scoundrel!” Nicholas groaned.
“Just wait for the bloody score to dry first,” Charlie muttered. He rose, brushing off his waistcoat, a feigned nonchalance—mocking and deliberate—distancing himself from what had left him breathless, undone. He bent to retrieve the discarded page, examining the ink with meticulous scrutiny.
Nicholas watched from the floor, still kneeling. The room held its breath, suspended in quiet desperation.
Charlie set the score atop a precarious stack of books—careful, too careful.
“Good to know that you actually hate me,” Nicholas said, light almost—but it wavered.
Charlie paused. “You know that’s not true,” he said, voice quiet, eyes soft.
Nicholas stood slowly, dusted his knees, and moved toward the stove. The porridge had thickened; he gave it a lazy stir, then ladled it into a chipped ceramic bowl. Steam curled upward in delicate ribbons, catching the light like breath on a winter morning.
Charlie flopped onto his bed, limbs sprawled, fingers ink-stained and smudged. He lifted one hand and squinted at the mess he had made of it.
“Your hands are a disgrace,” Nicholas said, crossing the room with the bowl.
“Occupational hazard, Nick,” Charlie replied, eyes closed, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
A bell rang, sharp and sudden. They froze.
Nick took a final spoonful of porridge, then headed down the stairs to the dormitory door. Charlie remained seated, listening.
“Hi,” Nick said, mouth half-full of oats.
Charlie arched an eyebrow, pretending not to care.
“Telegram for you, Sir. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
“No, thank you, Weaver, that's all,” Nick said, still chewing.
“Very well, Sir.”
Charlie stood, eyes flicking to his score still damp on the pile. He inked his fingers again as he picked it up.
Turning, he gestured vaguely at Nick, who looked puzzled upon entering the room. Charlie rolled his eyes; he grabbed an elastic band from the floor. He fidgeted with it—snapped it against his wrist, stretched and held it, stretched and let it go—then flopped back onto the bed.
He watched Nick, waiting. Nick did not meet his gaze, glancing out the window instead. He slid his telegram into a book, a secret kept close.
Nick finally spoke. “What has got into you, my young fellow?”
“I’m starving,” Charlie whined.
“I’m surprised you haven’t helped yourself with my food yet.”
“Don’t want to move.”
“Scared your masterpiece is going to fall off your head?”
“I’m not well,” Charlie sighed.
A pause lingered. “Need sunlight. This place—it’s like drowning in the darkness at the bottom of the ocean.”
Nick seemed elsewhere. Charlie rose slowly, grabbed Nick’s leftovers, and settled back on his bed. He ate deliberately, savoring each bite before setting the bowl carefully atop a stack of books.
“Well, you’ve got me. Your personal sunshine.”
“Shut up.” Charlie chuckled softly.
For a moment, the room was still and quiet. Nick was still staring out the window, seeking an unspoken answer to whatever plagued him. At last, Charlie spoke, breaking the silence.
“Come here.” The invitation was soft, patient. Charlie patted the rumpled bed beside him.
Nick hesitated—half a breath, a flicker of something unreadable—then slid closer, folding into the space. His arm curled around Charlie’s waist, a slow, grounding weight.
The linens rustled, cool and crisp against the heat of their bodies. Ink-stained fingers brushed absently against Nick’s auburn hair, tracing absent lines that dissolved before meaning could form.
Charlie felt the steady rhythm of Nick’s breathing as he rested on his lap, the faint pulse beneath his ribs, the warmth bleeding through fabric and skin. The scent of oats lingered faintly, mingling with sharper tones—cologne and sweat.
They settled into a fragile stillness. Charlie’s head found its place against Nick’s shoulder, a deep sigh escaped him. The quiet hum of the dormitory faded into the background, leaving only the soft cadence of their shared presence.
“So. The telegram. Who sent it?”
"None of your business," Nick said playfully. Charlie scoffed.
"Just news from a friend."
Charlie hummed in disbelief. “Really?”
“No.”
Nick’s gaze slipped away, his voice distant.
“I'm sorry. It's classified,” he murmured, voice low, a fragile shield.
The playfulness lingered but fractured; something heavier settled, malingered—unspoken, tainted.
footnotes
Domenico Scarlatti (1685–1757) was an Italian Baroque composer, renowned for his 555 keyboard sonatas that expanded the technical and expressive capabilities of the harpsichord.
The harpsichord is a keyboard instrument popular during the Baroque period, known for its distinctive bright and plucked sound produced by quills that pluck the strings when keys are pressed.
