Sanctuary fanfic: "Portrait of an Independent Genius," Chapter 5
Huge chapter is HUGE. Oops. Well, there was no good place to cut it.
Title: Portrait of an Independent Genius
Author: bad_hay
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: John Druitt/James Watson
Chapter warnings: Sex between two teenage boys, brief mention of sexual and physical abuse
Spoilers: Since this story chronicles John's history, I'm gonna be safe and say any flashbacks up through the most current episode are fair game.
Disclaimer: Sanctuary and its lovely characters are not mine. Montague John Druitt, the real-life cricketer, is also not mine, but if he were I'd hug him and apologize for screwing with his life.
Chapter summary: He’d been dreaming, a long but by no means unpleasant dream of summer sun and meadows and grass sticking inside his shirt collar. And James, of course. Practically all his dreams these days were about him to some degree.
V. Then Sin I
“If it be a sinne to love a lovely lad
Oh then sinne I, for whom my soule is sad.”
~ Richard Barnfield, “The Affectionatte Sheppheard”
Dear John,
We were all thrilled over the news in your last letter! Father talks of nothing but Winchester winning the Cricket Championship and his poor colleagues are probably sick to death of it. William was rather sullen when he found out; his courtship of Miss Fairfield has been quite overshadowed. Edward and Arthur are now determined to be champions like their brother. Hettie has been the unfortunate target of more than a few errant cricket balls this past week.
I told Mother of your victory but am not certain she truly comprehends. She has it in her head that you and William have been kidnapped, to be ransomed later for our family’s nonexistent fortune. I remind her daily that you’ve only gone back to school but she frequently forgets. I’ll wager if I didn’t return each night she’d believe me shanghaied by pirates as well. She sleeps often now and when I try to rouse her she gives me a befuddled look. At least she consents to eat again.
Edith misses you terribly. She sends her love and asks that you write a few letters addressed solely to her. She’s become quite a demanding child in recent months…
So read all the letters from home. What comfort could John possibly give? He did his best to regale Gee with good news, but her reciprocated happiness seemed feigned. The role of mistress of the house had steadily crept upon her until it rested completely on her sagging shoulders. Now it was Gee who wrote letters, Gee who minded the servants, Gee who received callers and lied to their faces. All is well, Mother is feeling a little under the weather today, I’m certain she will be better next week and so forth. John wondered how long she could keep up the façade.
He felt a prick of guilt for not writing more, but what was the point when the news never improved? Ethel’s birth brought no reprieve from his mother’s illness; indeed she was worse than ever. All summer long he’d watched her waste quietly away, unmoved by the baby’s cries or even her laughter, something she’d always loved before. John wasn’t sure she remembered Ethel’s name. Father had given up trying to cure her and instead attempted to make the world forget she existed. He dismissed Dr. Cattermole, telling him his services were no longer required and he would be tending to the family’s medical needs himself. Gee instructed the younger children not to mention her to friends, and the servants claimed Mrs. Druitt was out whenever someone called unexpectedly. It was as though Mother had become part of the house itself, a mere piece of furniture to be hidden or replaced at their convenience.
James’ cheerfully sardonic letters were John’s only solace. They awkwardly carried on their…affair (if it could be called such a thing) through the spring and into summer. On paper it was carefully coded, as James’ housekeeper had a habit of opening any mail whether it was addressed to her or not. John got quite good at twisting classical poetry to suit this purpose, particularly Virgil, whose Eclogae vel Bucolica he found buried in the back shelves of the library:
What I could I have sent to the boy, ten golden apples plucked
From the woodland tree; tomorrow I will send as many more.
This note he sent with some apples (red, unfortunately) from his mother’s favorite tree.
James’ replies contained no such references, owing to his distaste for what he called “those Roman codgers,” but were warm nonetheless. Trapped at Windermere again, he instead regaled John with horrifying anecdotes on relatives, or more commonly, the Linnean Society’s latest findings. John quickly learnt to tease out bits of affectionate concern commingled within his otherwise dry reports (Your last reply seemed melancholy, even for you-hopefully this copy of Keats’ letters I found in Ambleside will lift your spirits).
But John’s loneliness was exacerbated by more than just emotional needs. Now he’d had a taste of physical gratification beyond mere nocturnal fantasy and there was no going back. The first few times had been a lot of artless fumbling and exploration, but it did not take long for John to understand what the poets were talking about. James had gotten under his skin somehow, had become a biological necessity with no substitute. Three months apart seemed horribly unfair, as though he’d been robbed of something he had a right to. Hettie always said he was a spoiled child at heart-possessive, if not downright greedy.
Between the lack of James and Mother’s illness, what was left for him at home? He and William were all but strangers, stopping by every so often to observe a new level of madness. Winchester offered the same basic comforts, minus the collapsing household. When summer ended he made no protest. Gee would later tease him, saying he practically ran to the carriage, but John found this too near the truth to be funny.
~
John woke with no memory of falling asleep. He glanced down at his copy of “The Clouds,” which was digging uncomfortably into his thigh, and reached for his pocket-watch. Nearly midnight. He’d been dreaming, a long but by no means unpleasant dream of summer sun and meadows and grass sticking inside his shirt collar. And James, of course. Practically all his dreams these days were about him to some degree. John lay back against the pillow. The warmth still lingered. He shifted against the mattress, trying to recall it in more detail, but got nothing. He frowned at his watch again.
James arched his eyebrows as John pushed the door open. “You’re still awake?”
“More or less.” John stifled a yawn and crossed the room to sit on the bed beside him. “I fell asleep reading.”
“I would too, if I had to sit through Aristophanes for any length of time.” He put aside his own book, unsurprisingly a large tome on pangenesis. “I’ll never understand what you see in those dreary old playwrights.”
John smirked, leaning into his friend. “They’re entertaining…mostly.”
James made a noncommittal sound. “So what brings you here in the middle of the night? As if I couldn’t venture a guess.” His eyes roamed over John, taking in his mussed hair and rumpled shirt, the top three buttons already undone. John flushed slightly. James’ examinations always made him feel exposed.
He stared back, trying to gain a sense of James’ mood. “Am I so transparent?”
James coughed lightly, grinning. “Not at first glance, no, but as you may recall from Anatomy, the human male’s arousal has a certain level of obviousness to it, and yours is pressing into my leg right now.”
John snorted, his face undoubtedly redder. “Sorry.”
“No you’re not.”
“No,” he agreed, reaching for James’ shirt buttons.
James chuckled and brushed the hair back from John’s face. He let his hand map the front of John’s body, sweeping along his neck and collarbone, palm flattening against his chest and down…
John groaned as James unbuttoned his trousers with maddening precision and grasped his already hard cock. His own fingers fumbled in their progress.
James pressed his lips against John’s temple, one hand beginning to stroke him with a maddening rhythm, the other still tangled in his hair. “Never mind the shirt,” he muttered. John nodded dumbly, somehow managing to get James’ trousers and underwear off without too much effort. He wrapped his fingers around James’ erection and felt the hand in his hair clench in response. They stayed that way for several minutes, exploring each other, the only sounds in the room their shared panting.
John felt himself getting close and clutched James’ wrist to stop him. They let go of one another and shifted on the bed, John wrapping his arms around his friend from behind. For a moment he didn’t move, allowing himself time to enjoy the warmth spreading between them, the curve of James’ hipbones under his fingertips. John sighed deeply and felt damp strands of the other boy’s hair tickle his cheek. Growling, he nipped James on the neck, not enough to really hurt but more than enough to drive him mad.
His bit of mischief had the desired effect. James moaned rather indiscreetly, grabbing John’s arm with surprising pressure. “I wouldn’t have answered the door if I’d known you were going to torment me like this.” He hissed.
John snickered. “And here I thought I was the impatient one. But if you insist…” He licked two fingers and slid them down to press James apart. “All right?” he asked.
“Fine,” James grunted. John positioned himself and thrust gently, testing him. When James made no protest he grew bolder, pushing further. The hand on his arm tightened again and he felt James shiver. “John-”
“Good?”
“Acceptable,” James muttered drily, earning him a cuff on the shoulder. He laughed, breaking off abruptly with a gasp as John began to move, settling into a slowly building rhythm.
The friction quickly grew maddening and they struggled to keep quiet. John thrust desperately, grasping James’ hips hard enough to leave marks, the tightness in his groin almost unbearable. This was the part of sex he found so glorious, that instant of animal insensibility before the fall, a moment of pure instinct where neither of them had any control…
John came suddenly, biting back a cry at the last second. He clung to James’ waist and let the tremors pulse through him, eyes closed, mind wonderfully clear. There was an abrupt and slightly painful sensation as James followed him over the edge, twisting violently in his grip and then falling still, his panting just audible over the pounding of John’s heart. For many minutes neither of them moved. A familiar exhaustion washed over John and he yawned, resting his head against James’ back.
“Don’t you dare fall asleep,” his friend warned. “I have no hope of dragging you back to your room.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” John mumbled. James was delightfully warm. “Just resting my eyes.”
~
“And then, in front of everyone, he starts telling me my essay’s rubbish and in all his years of teaching he’s never seen anything so poorly researched and so forth. He must’ve gone on for five whole minutes!”
“The man’s an utter bastard,” John reminded him. “If you’re not one of his favorites it doesn’t matter how long you spent writing it.” Still fuming, Wallace balled up the offending composition and hurled it in the direction of the river. It landed with a disappointing crinkle several meters away.
James gave them a rather supercilious glance over his book. “Ah, the perils of choosing the classics ladder.”
John stopped writing mid-sentence to jab the other boy with his pen. “Because there are certainly aren’t any conceited people in the sciences at Winchester.”
“None at all,” Wallace joined in dryly. “Models of humility, those men. Especially when they go around telling select persons-what was it again?”
James narrowed his eyes. “It was Rosier, whom I believe counts as only one person. And I simply told him I thought he looked a bit closer to our simian ancestors than the rest of the population.” John and Wallace burst out laughing, Wallace’s hoots quickly turning to his usual hiccups. At that James’ stern visage cracked and he chuckled along, albeit more softly.
It was some time before any of them could regain their composure. At last John sat up and reached for his unfinished letter. “Let’s hope you can outrun him,” he said, only partially joking. Being unapologetically smug and on the c ladder was bad enough. James didn’t need a public thrashing added to his reputation.
“Not an issue,” he said, flashing John his wry you worry too much look. “I’ll wager he didn’t even understand the sentence.”
~
In late September the weather took a turn for the worse. Following a week-long rainstorm, an unseasonable chill settled over the school. Friends retreated inside rather than lingering to talk, Collegemen ran to their classes and cricket became downright unbearable. After two weeks of numb toes and frostbitten fingers, John harbored fantasies of catching a few of the larger rabbits roaming the grounds and fashioning himself a nice fur coat.
One October night he returned from a lively club debate (“Bondage to Fashion - A Social Evil?”) and found the jug of water on the nightstand frozen solid. Grumbling at no one in particular, John stomped down the hall and hammered on James’ door.
“Come in quickly and close the door behind you,” said a muffled voice. John obeyed and discovered James huddled beneath the bedcovers.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Provided you don’t let any cold air in, no.” Laughing, John stripped off his coat and shoes and crawled under. James yelped as their bare skin connected. “Good God, your feet are like icicles!” He tried to scramble to the opposite side of the mattress but John had already clasped him around the middle.
“Don’t move. You’re curing my hypothermia.”
“I loathe you,” James muttered, but he stopped struggling and began vigorously rubbing John’s hands between his own. “I wish this blasted ice age would end; another week trapped in an enclosed space with our primeval classmates may just drive me mad.”
“What, more than usual?” John remarked. He rested his chin on James’ shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of new books and the tobacco he’d recently taken up smoking. Years later, the smell still made him pleasantly sleepy.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed,” James was saying. “Some of the other fourth-years have started a…moral campaign of sorts.”
It wasn’t like him to be so cryptic. “What on earth does that mean?”
James was silent a long time. At last he murmured in a low voice, “I think they know about us. Or about me, anyway.”
“About…you?”
“Don’t be stupid, John.” He could feel the tension through James’ whole body. “You must have heard some of it.”
And so he had-the occasional sidelong stares in the dining hall, vulgar jokes that went on a touch too long, and whispers, whispers that sounded a lot like “mandrake” no matter how John’s mind tried to twist them. He forced a cheerful tone. “It’s only foolish prattle; you shouldn’t let it bother you…”
“It’s not prattle!” James sounded almost fearful. “It’s a serious accusation. If they look a bit closer they might start on you, too.”
His tone alarmed John, but their whole conversation still seemed overblown. Student conspiracies, a moral crusade against James of all people…it was too extravagant to be real. “I think your classmates can find better targets than the likes of us.” That was good. Try to keep it light.
“Oh yes, I forgot you have connections. It must be nice, being the Golden Boy of Winchester Cricket. Keeps the inquisitors away.”
John snorted in disbelief-since when was James jealous of him? “That’s hardly fair.”
“You’re right,” James said suddenly, squeezing his hand. “Forgive me, John.”
“It’s nothing,” he muttered impatiently. John laced their fingers together, nudging James playfully. “You know, I think you’re spending too much time in the chemistry lab. The fumes are starting to affect your brain.”
Even facing his back, John could imagine James’ frown, his dark eyebrows furrowing as they often did while reading Darwin by candlelight. “Perhaps you’re right. Pity I won’t get fresh air anytime soon.”
~
Looking back John marveled at his own naiveté. Leaping to conclusions wasn’t James’ style-he was a scientist, after all. Any deduction, no matter how minor, was always arrived at through observation and the painstaking collection of evidence. They could have been more careful, had he only listened.
The end began innocently enough. On the day before Halloween, Winchester scored a splendid victory against Charterhouse. The team left the field and was immediately charged by a swarm of excited spectators. Exalted and breathless, John squeezed through the gauntlet of accolades and shoulder claps and found James on the other side. He couldn’t even remember which words passed between them-likely nothing more than heartfelt congratulations-but the next moment John was pulling him behind the benches for a kiss. James laughed at his eagerness, suggested they find a more private spot and that was that.
James wasn’t at breakfast the next day. John thought nothing of it; he often forgot to eat, particularly when he was absorbed in some new book or experiment, but when lunch came and his place remained empty he grew a bit worried. Perhaps he was ill-unsurprising when one considered how much pressure he put upon himself. John made a mental note to bring him something from dinner and dashed off to cricket.
When he burst into John’s room after practice he looked quite ill indeed. James had always been pallid; a symptom of his tendency to cloister himself and read for days at a time, but now his face was positively ashen. He closed the door behind him and locked it, looking frantically about as if he expected someone to leap on him from behind the wardrobe.
“You look terrible!” said John. “Where have you been all day?”
“The headmaster’s office,” James muttered. “They saw us.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Yesterday!” he sputtered. “After the match. Or rather, they saw me. I was there for five hours and no one mentioned you.”
John’s stomach gave a horrible lurch. “Who reported you?”
“I’ve no idea. ‘Anonymous witness,’ they said.”
“It was Rosier,” John hissed. He thought of the anger in the other boy’s face the day they met. We’ll have to teach you how to play one day. “He’s a bloody hypocrite, too, everyone knows about him and that first year…”
James sagged onto the bed. The manic energy seemed to have gone out of him completely, replaced by a grim resignation. “It doesn’t matter. They won’t go after him for that.”
“Why not? Because he calls it ‘discipline’? Perverse bastard, he’ll be sorry he didn’t keep his mouth shut.” John needed to move, to run, to do anything that might untwist the knot in his gut. He began pacing the room, ostensibly looking for something on which to submit a report of his own.
“John, what are you doing?” His voice was frighteningly slow and emotionless.
“There we are-” John snatched up a scrap of paper from the floor and moved to sit beside James. “I’ll turn myself in, they won’t be as hard on both of us, if we pretend to be sorry they might let us off with a few detentions-”
“No you won’t.” James said stiffly.
“Don’t be so damned noble, I’ll do whatever I pl-OUCH!”
James suddenly grabbed John’s arm and twisted it behind his back. Shoving him against the pillow, he bent low to whisper in his ear. “Listen to me, John. If you turn yourself in, I’ll never speak to you again.”
“Get off! Are you mad?” John tried to wrench his arm free, but James’ grip was alarmingly strong.
“I’m quite serious. You have a reputation here and I won’t let you destroy it for me.”
“Come off it, James, you can’t mean that…”
“I do!” He looked stricken. “Please, John.”
John’s eyes were beginning to water from the pain. “All right! I won’t say anything.” James released him and he sat up with a gasp. Perhaps a different tact… Massaging his shoulder, John tried to lean against James but he shrugged him off. “You shouldn’t have to carry this alone. They could expel you.”
James chuckled bitterly. “Not likely. My marks are too high. They don’t want to lose someone like that.”
Ordinarily John would have teased him for his arrogance. Instead he said, “At least let me vouch for your character.”
“No. It would look suspicious.” James sighed. “The headmaster said the punishment would be administered tomorrow.”
“What sort of punishment?” John asked gloomily.
“He didn’t say.” James stood, putting on a depressingly false smile. “Perhaps I’ll just have to write one hundred lines: I will not bugger my classmates in public.”
John forced a laugh.
~
It turned out to be far worse than lines. The headmaster, weakling that he was, handed the problem of punishing James over to the Prefects. He received a very public flogging and staggered home to Chernocke with bloody scores on his back. No amount of pleading would convince him to go to the infirmary, so John made a feeble attempt at treating the wounds himself. I’m no physician, he warned. You’ll likely have scars. James spoke little during the process, and when it was done he blithely thanked John and left without another word.
Their friendship became unbearably proper. When they studied together now it was usually in the common room, and if they happened to retreat to one bedroom or the other James always kept the door open. Taking the hint, John stopped trying to visit him at night. His formerly pleasant dreams diminished, leaving a profound melancholy in their wake.
The incident left John with a deep sense of shame. He cared nothing for the school’s perceptions of morality, but he knew he had failed James at the worst possible moment. Instead of standing by him, instead of doing as he pleased and telling the rest of Winchester to bugger off, he had taken the coward’s way out, and look where it got him. They’d stolen his chance-no, their chance at happiness, and he hadn’t even fought back.
He would not let it happen again.
Glossary:
- C Ladder: One of the three academic tracks (A, B or C) formerly used by Winchester College. The A ladder was for classics, B for history and modern languages, and C for math and science.
- Mandrake: Victorian slang for a male homosexual.
Title: Portrait of an Independent Genius
Author: bad_hay
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: John Druitt/James Watson
Chapter warnings: Sex between two teenage boys, brief mention of sexual and physical abuse
Spoilers: Since this story chronicles John's history, I'm gonna be safe and say any flashbacks up through the most current episode are fair game.
Disclaimer: Sanctuary and its lovely characters are not mine. Montague John Druitt, the real-life cricketer, is also not mine, but if he were I'd hug him and apologize for screwing with his life.
Chapter summary: He’d been dreaming, a long but by no means unpleasant dream of summer sun and meadows and grass sticking inside his shirt collar. And James, of course. Practically all his dreams these days were about him to some degree.
V. Then Sin I
“If it be a sinne to love a lovely lad
Oh then sinne I, for whom my soule is sad.”
~ Richard Barnfield, “The Affectionatte Sheppheard”
Dear John,
We were all thrilled over the news in your last letter! Father talks of nothing but Winchester winning the Cricket Championship and his poor colleagues are probably sick to death of it. William was rather sullen when he found out; his courtship of Miss Fairfield has been quite overshadowed. Edward and Arthur are now determined to be champions like their brother. Hettie has been the unfortunate target of more than a few errant cricket balls this past week.
I told Mother of your victory but am not certain she truly comprehends. She has it in her head that you and William have been kidnapped, to be ransomed later for our family’s nonexistent fortune. I remind her daily that you’ve only gone back to school but she frequently forgets. I’ll wager if I didn’t return each night she’d believe me shanghaied by pirates as well. She sleeps often now and when I try to rouse her she gives me a befuddled look. At least she consents to eat again.
Edith misses you terribly. She sends her love and asks that you write a few letters addressed solely to her. She’s become quite a demanding child in recent months…
So read all the letters from home. What comfort could John possibly give? He did his best to regale Gee with good news, but her reciprocated happiness seemed feigned. The role of mistress of the house had steadily crept upon her until it rested completely on her sagging shoulders. Now it was Gee who wrote letters, Gee who minded the servants, Gee who received callers and lied to their faces. All is well, Mother is feeling a little under the weather today, I’m certain she will be better next week and so forth. John wondered how long she could keep up the façade.
He felt a prick of guilt for not writing more, but what was the point when the news never improved? Ethel’s birth brought no reprieve from his mother’s illness; indeed she was worse than ever. All summer long he’d watched her waste quietly away, unmoved by the baby’s cries or even her laughter, something she’d always loved before. John wasn’t sure she remembered Ethel’s name. Father had given up trying to cure her and instead attempted to make the world forget she existed. He dismissed Dr. Cattermole, telling him his services were no longer required and he would be tending to the family’s medical needs himself. Gee instructed the younger children not to mention her to friends, and the servants claimed Mrs. Druitt was out whenever someone called unexpectedly. It was as though Mother had become part of the house itself, a mere piece of furniture to be hidden or replaced at their convenience.
James’ cheerfully sardonic letters were John’s only solace. They awkwardly carried on their…affair (if it could be called such a thing) through the spring and into summer. On paper it was carefully coded, as James’ housekeeper had a habit of opening any mail whether it was addressed to her or not. John got quite good at twisting classical poetry to suit this purpose, particularly Virgil, whose Eclogae vel Bucolica he found buried in the back shelves of the library:
What I could I have sent to the boy, ten golden apples plucked
From the woodland tree; tomorrow I will send as many more.
This note he sent with some apples (red, unfortunately) from his mother’s favorite tree.
James’ replies contained no such references, owing to his distaste for what he called “those Roman codgers,” but were warm nonetheless. Trapped at Windermere again, he instead regaled John with horrifying anecdotes on relatives, or more commonly, the Linnean Society’s latest findings. John quickly learnt to tease out bits of affectionate concern commingled within his otherwise dry reports (Your last reply seemed melancholy, even for you-hopefully this copy of Keats’ letters I found in Ambleside will lift your spirits).
But John’s loneliness was exacerbated by more than just emotional needs. Now he’d had a taste of physical gratification beyond mere nocturnal fantasy and there was no going back. The first few times had been a lot of artless fumbling and exploration, but it did not take long for John to understand what the poets were talking about. James had gotten under his skin somehow, had become a biological necessity with no substitute. Three months apart seemed horribly unfair, as though he’d been robbed of something he had a right to. Hettie always said he was a spoiled child at heart-possessive, if not downright greedy.
Between the lack of James and Mother’s illness, what was left for him at home? He and William were all but strangers, stopping by every so often to observe a new level of madness. Winchester offered the same basic comforts, minus the collapsing household. When summer ended he made no protest. Gee would later tease him, saying he practically ran to the carriage, but John found this too near the truth to be funny.
~
John woke with no memory of falling asleep. He glanced down at his copy of “The Clouds,” which was digging uncomfortably into his thigh, and reached for his pocket-watch. Nearly midnight. He’d been dreaming, a long but by no means unpleasant dream of summer sun and meadows and grass sticking inside his shirt collar. And James, of course. Practically all his dreams these days were about him to some degree. John lay back against the pillow. The warmth still lingered. He shifted against the mattress, trying to recall it in more detail, but got nothing. He frowned at his watch again.
James arched his eyebrows as John pushed the door open. “You’re still awake?”
“More or less.” John stifled a yawn and crossed the room to sit on the bed beside him. “I fell asleep reading.”
“I would too, if I had to sit through Aristophanes for any length of time.” He put aside his own book, unsurprisingly a large tome on pangenesis. “I’ll never understand what you see in those dreary old playwrights.”
John smirked, leaning into his friend. “They’re entertaining…mostly.”
James made a noncommittal sound. “So what brings you here in the middle of the night? As if I couldn’t venture a guess.” His eyes roamed over John, taking in his mussed hair and rumpled shirt, the top three buttons already undone. John flushed slightly. James’ examinations always made him feel exposed.
He stared back, trying to gain a sense of James’ mood. “Am I so transparent?”
James coughed lightly, grinning. “Not at first glance, no, but as you may recall from Anatomy, the human male’s arousal has a certain level of obviousness to it, and yours is pressing into my leg right now.”
John snorted, his face undoubtedly redder. “Sorry.”
“No you’re not.”
“No,” he agreed, reaching for James’ shirt buttons.
James chuckled and brushed the hair back from John’s face. He let his hand map the front of John’s body, sweeping along his neck and collarbone, palm flattening against his chest and down…
John groaned as James unbuttoned his trousers with maddening precision and grasped his already hard cock. His own fingers fumbled in their progress.
James pressed his lips against John’s temple, one hand beginning to stroke him with a maddening rhythm, the other still tangled in his hair. “Never mind the shirt,” he muttered. John nodded dumbly, somehow managing to get James’ trousers and underwear off without too much effort. He wrapped his fingers around James’ erection and felt the hand in his hair clench in response. They stayed that way for several minutes, exploring each other, the only sounds in the room their shared panting.
John felt himself getting close and clutched James’ wrist to stop him. They let go of one another and shifted on the bed, John wrapping his arms around his friend from behind. For a moment he didn’t move, allowing himself time to enjoy the warmth spreading between them, the curve of James’ hipbones under his fingertips. John sighed deeply and felt damp strands of the other boy’s hair tickle his cheek. Growling, he nipped James on the neck, not enough to really hurt but more than enough to drive him mad.
His bit of mischief had the desired effect. James moaned rather indiscreetly, grabbing John’s arm with surprising pressure. “I wouldn’t have answered the door if I’d known you were going to torment me like this.” He hissed.
John snickered. “And here I thought I was the impatient one. But if you insist…” He licked two fingers and slid them down to press James apart. “All right?” he asked.
“Fine,” James grunted. John positioned himself and thrust gently, testing him. When James made no protest he grew bolder, pushing further. The hand on his arm tightened again and he felt James shiver. “John-”
“Good?”
“Acceptable,” James muttered drily, earning him a cuff on the shoulder. He laughed, breaking off abruptly with a gasp as John began to move, settling into a slowly building rhythm.
The friction quickly grew maddening and they struggled to keep quiet. John thrust desperately, grasping James’ hips hard enough to leave marks, the tightness in his groin almost unbearable. This was the part of sex he found so glorious, that instant of animal insensibility before the fall, a moment of pure instinct where neither of them had any control…
John came suddenly, biting back a cry at the last second. He clung to James’ waist and let the tremors pulse through him, eyes closed, mind wonderfully clear. There was an abrupt and slightly painful sensation as James followed him over the edge, twisting violently in his grip and then falling still, his panting just audible over the pounding of John’s heart. For many minutes neither of them moved. A familiar exhaustion washed over John and he yawned, resting his head against James’ back.
“Don’t you dare fall asleep,” his friend warned. “I have no hope of dragging you back to your room.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” John mumbled. James was delightfully warm. “Just resting my eyes.”
~
“And then, in front of everyone, he starts telling me my essay’s rubbish and in all his years of teaching he’s never seen anything so poorly researched and so forth. He must’ve gone on for five whole minutes!”
“The man’s an utter bastard,” John reminded him. “If you’re not one of his favorites it doesn’t matter how long you spent writing it.” Still fuming, Wallace balled up the offending composition and hurled it in the direction of the river. It landed with a disappointing crinkle several meters away.
James gave them a rather supercilious glance over his book. “Ah, the perils of choosing the classics ladder.”
John stopped writing mid-sentence to jab the other boy with his pen. “Because there are certainly aren’t any conceited people in the sciences at Winchester.”
“None at all,” Wallace joined in dryly. “Models of humility, those men. Especially when they go around telling select persons-what was it again?”
James narrowed his eyes. “It was Rosier, whom I believe counts as only one person. And I simply told him I thought he looked a bit closer to our simian ancestors than the rest of the population.” John and Wallace burst out laughing, Wallace’s hoots quickly turning to his usual hiccups. At that James’ stern visage cracked and he chuckled along, albeit more softly.
It was some time before any of them could regain their composure. At last John sat up and reached for his unfinished letter. “Let’s hope you can outrun him,” he said, only partially joking. Being unapologetically smug and on the c ladder was bad enough. James didn’t need a public thrashing added to his reputation.
“Not an issue,” he said, flashing John his wry you worry too much look. “I’ll wager he didn’t even understand the sentence.”
~
In late September the weather took a turn for the worse. Following a week-long rainstorm, an unseasonable chill settled over the school. Friends retreated inside rather than lingering to talk, Collegemen ran to their classes and cricket became downright unbearable. After two weeks of numb toes and frostbitten fingers, John harbored fantasies of catching a few of the larger rabbits roaming the grounds and fashioning himself a nice fur coat.
One October night he returned from a lively club debate (“Bondage to Fashion - A Social Evil?”) and found the jug of water on the nightstand frozen solid. Grumbling at no one in particular, John stomped down the hall and hammered on James’ door.
“Come in quickly and close the door behind you,” said a muffled voice. John obeyed and discovered James huddled beneath the bedcovers.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Provided you don’t let any cold air in, no.” Laughing, John stripped off his coat and shoes and crawled under. James yelped as their bare skin connected. “Good God, your feet are like icicles!” He tried to scramble to the opposite side of the mattress but John had already clasped him around the middle.
“Don’t move. You’re curing my hypothermia.”
“I loathe you,” James muttered, but he stopped struggling and began vigorously rubbing John’s hands between his own. “I wish this blasted ice age would end; another week trapped in an enclosed space with our primeval classmates may just drive me mad.”
“What, more than usual?” John remarked. He rested his chin on James’ shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of new books and the tobacco he’d recently taken up smoking. Years later, the smell still made him pleasantly sleepy.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed,” James was saying. “Some of the other fourth-years have started a…moral campaign of sorts.”
It wasn’t like him to be so cryptic. “What on earth does that mean?”
James was silent a long time. At last he murmured in a low voice, “I think they know about us. Or about me, anyway.”
“About…you?”
“Don’t be stupid, John.” He could feel the tension through James’ whole body. “You must have heard some of it.”
And so he had-the occasional sidelong stares in the dining hall, vulgar jokes that went on a touch too long, and whispers, whispers that sounded a lot like “mandrake” no matter how John’s mind tried to twist them. He forced a cheerful tone. “It’s only foolish prattle; you shouldn’t let it bother you…”
“It’s not prattle!” James sounded almost fearful. “It’s a serious accusation. If they look a bit closer they might start on you, too.”
His tone alarmed John, but their whole conversation still seemed overblown. Student conspiracies, a moral crusade against James of all people…it was too extravagant to be real. “I think your classmates can find better targets than the likes of us.” That was good. Try to keep it light.
“Oh yes, I forgot you have connections. It must be nice, being the Golden Boy of Winchester Cricket. Keeps the inquisitors away.”
John snorted in disbelief-since when was James jealous of him? “That’s hardly fair.”
“You’re right,” James said suddenly, squeezing his hand. “Forgive me, John.”
“It’s nothing,” he muttered impatiently. John laced their fingers together, nudging James playfully. “You know, I think you’re spending too much time in the chemistry lab. The fumes are starting to affect your brain.”
Even facing his back, John could imagine James’ frown, his dark eyebrows furrowing as they often did while reading Darwin by candlelight. “Perhaps you’re right. Pity I won’t get fresh air anytime soon.”
~
Looking back John marveled at his own naiveté. Leaping to conclusions wasn’t James’ style-he was a scientist, after all. Any deduction, no matter how minor, was always arrived at through observation and the painstaking collection of evidence. They could have been more careful, had he only listened.
The end began innocently enough. On the day before Halloween, Winchester scored a splendid victory against Charterhouse. The team left the field and was immediately charged by a swarm of excited spectators. Exalted and breathless, John squeezed through the gauntlet of accolades and shoulder claps and found James on the other side. He couldn’t even remember which words passed between them-likely nothing more than heartfelt congratulations-but the next moment John was pulling him behind the benches for a kiss. James laughed at his eagerness, suggested they find a more private spot and that was that.
James wasn’t at breakfast the next day. John thought nothing of it; he often forgot to eat, particularly when he was absorbed in some new book or experiment, but when lunch came and his place remained empty he grew a bit worried. Perhaps he was ill-unsurprising when one considered how much pressure he put upon himself. John made a mental note to bring him something from dinner and dashed off to cricket.
When he burst into John’s room after practice he looked quite ill indeed. James had always been pallid; a symptom of his tendency to cloister himself and read for days at a time, but now his face was positively ashen. He closed the door behind him and locked it, looking frantically about as if he expected someone to leap on him from behind the wardrobe.
“You look terrible!” said John. “Where have you been all day?”
“The headmaster’s office,” James muttered. “They saw us.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Yesterday!” he sputtered. “After the match. Or rather, they saw me. I was there for five hours and no one mentioned you.”
John’s stomach gave a horrible lurch. “Who reported you?”
“I’ve no idea. ‘Anonymous witness,’ they said.”
“It was Rosier,” John hissed. He thought of the anger in the other boy’s face the day they met. We’ll have to teach you how to play one day. “He’s a bloody hypocrite, too, everyone knows about him and that first year…”
James sagged onto the bed. The manic energy seemed to have gone out of him completely, replaced by a grim resignation. “It doesn’t matter. They won’t go after him for that.”
“Why not? Because he calls it ‘discipline’? Perverse bastard, he’ll be sorry he didn’t keep his mouth shut.” John needed to move, to run, to do anything that might untwist the knot in his gut. He began pacing the room, ostensibly looking for something on which to submit a report of his own.
“John, what are you doing?” His voice was frighteningly slow and emotionless.
“There we are-” John snatched up a scrap of paper from the floor and moved to sit beside James. “I’ll turn myself in, they won’t be as hard on both of us, if we pretend to be sorry they might let us off with a few detentions-”
“No you won’t.” James said stiffly.
“Don’t be so damned noble, I’ll do whatever I pl-OUCH!”
James suddenly grabbed John’s arm and twisted it behind his back. Shoving him against the pillow, he bent low to whisper in his ear. “Listen to me, John. If you turn yourself in, I’ll never speak to you again.”
“Get off! Are you mad?” John tried to wrench his arm free, but James’ grip was alarmingly strong.
“I’m quite serious. You have a reputation here and I won’t let you destroy it for me.”
“Come off it, James, you can’t mean that…”
“I do!” He looked stricken. “Please, John.”
John’s eyes were beginning to water from the pain. “All right! I won’t say anything.” James released him and he sat up with a gasp. Perhaps a different tact… Massaging his shoulder, John tried to lean against James but he shrugged him off. “You shouldn’t have to carry this alone. They could expel you.”
James chuckled bitterly. “Not likely. My marks are too high. They don’t want to lose someone like that.”
Ordinarily John would have teased him for his arrogance. Instead he said, “At least let me vouch for your character.”
“No. It would look suspicious.” James sighed. “The headmaster said the punishment would be administered tomorrow.”
“What sort of punishment?” John asked gloomily.
“He didn’t say.” James stood, putting on a depressingly false smile. “Perhaps I’ll just have to write one hundred lines: I will not bugger my classmates in public.”
John forced a laugh.
~
It turned out to be far worse than lines. The headmaster, weakling that he was, handed the problem of punishing James over to the Prefects. He received a very public flogging and staggered home to Chernocke with bloody scores on his back. No amount of pleading would convince him to go to the infirmary, so John made a feeble attempt at treating the wounds himself. I’m no physician, he warned. You’ll likely have scars. James spoke little during the process, and when it was done he blithely thanked John and left without another word.
Their friendship became unbearably proper. When they studied together now it was usually in the common room, and if they happened to retreat to one bedroom or the other James always kept the door open. Taking the hint, John stopped trying to visit him at night. His formerly pleasant dreams diminished, leaving a profound melancholy in their wake.
The incident left John with a deep sense of shame. He cared nothing for the school’s perceptions of morality, but he knew he had failed James at the worst possible moment. Instead of standing by him, instead of doing as he pleased and telling the rest of Winchester to bugger off, he had taken the coward’s way out, and look where it got him. They’d stolen his chance-no, their chance at happiness, and he hadn’t even fought back.
He would not let it happen again.
Glossary:
- C Ladder: One of the three academic tracks (A, B or C) formerly used by Winchester College. The A ladder was for classics, B for history and modern languages, and C for math and science.
- Mandrake: Victorian slang for a male homosexual.