Alistair’s open disdain hung in the air like a noxious fume, thick and suffocating. The polite veneer he’d worn since our first year, the one that had fooled so many, had peeled away entirely after the wretched incident in the studio’s furthest annex. Now, his eyes, once capable of a chilling warmth, met mine with a glacial indifference that spoke volumes. It was not merely a slight; it was a public declaration of war, etched into the very fabric of the Academy’s whispers.
Elias Vance, poor, bewildered Elias, now occupied the coveted easel beside Lord Alistair Thorne. His presence there was a constant, stark reminder of my own displacement. My gaze, though careful to remain neutral, often snagged on Elias’s slight figure, a knot forming in my gut. He sat where I had once stood, where Alistair had once cast his calculating, possessive shadow over my canvas.
I might have mastered the art of impassive expression, but my heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Shameless, perhaps, in my ambition, yet utterly incapable of feigning ignorance to the shame that now shadowed my every step. I refused to become a sniveling wretch. The courage to address Lord Alistair, to bridge the chasm that had opened between us, simply did not exist within me.
A melancholic fog began to descend, blanketing my days in a dull ennui. Occasionally, a spark of petty vengeance would flare, a fleeting desire to see Alistair brought low. But always, the rational mind prevailed, and I endured.
That arrogant fool, Lord Alistair, blinded by his own unchecked emotions, had begun to regard me with a childish, yet potent, envy. The reason was painfully clear: Elias Vance.
My loathing for Elias, however irrational, deepened with each passing day. He was never mine to begin with, yet it was not enough that he had usurped my place beside Alistair; he had twisted Alistair’s affections into a weapon, turning him against me. A vicious pang, sharp and unwarranted, branded Elias’s image in my mind.
Whether his actions were intentional mattered little. Emotions, I knew, rarely bowed to logic. Blaming him offered a convenient scapegoat, a small comfort in this miserable reality. It allowed me to breathe.
Yet, my choices remained rational. I understood Elias was merely a pawn, swept along by Alistair’s imperious will. Consequently, I never allowed a flicker of hostility to mar my composure when our paths crossed.
Part of it was pride, a fierce embarrassment at the thought of revealing my raw, unseemly jealousy. But more than that, I knew that to lash out at Elias would only make me appear a pathetic fool. It would solidify Alistair’s contempt. And the other students, ever eager for gossip, would whisper words far more damning than mere jealousy – words like “depraved” and “unnatural,” labels that could obliterate a man of my humble station.
“This is intolerable,” I muttered, the words barely a breath. A cold shiver traced its way down my spine. The thought of such a damning judgment—of being branded with the most fearsome stigma in this constricted world—made my stomach churn. I hated it more than Alistair’s hatred itself. The dread was a physical ache.
Mr. Percival Ashworth’s sardonic face inexplicably materialized in my mind. Why him? Perhaps because he was the most irritating, yet consistently present, individual in my orbit. What would he say if he knew the true depth of my turmoil, the unspeakable nature of my private thoughts? Probably something like: ‘Turns out Finch is just another sordid pervert, then, eh?’
The image of Percival’s disdainful gaze, his sharp tongue flaying my secret bare, made my fists clench. It was a horrifying vision, enough to bring a bile-like taste to my throat. No one, absolutely no one, must ever discover the truth.
Friendships, I had learned, were often built on sand. As Alistair’s alienation of me became undeniable, my ties with his immediate circle naturally frayed. Amusingly, Mr. Gareth Blackwood, once a staunch fixture in Alistair’s shadow, sought me out yesterday, engaging in a rather pointless conversation.
“Finch, Ashworth was looking for you earlier.”
“Indeed? For what purpose?”
“He simply was, I believe.”
Such useless exchanges, devoid of genuine intent, became commonplace. It seemed the Academy now perceived me as gravitating towards Percival Ashworth’s orbit rather than clinging to Alistair’s declining star.
Not that the old ties were entirely severed. Occasionally, during physical training or a chance encounter in the morning, polite greetings were exchanged. This was mostly limited to Gareth Blackwood.
“Finch, good morning!”
“...Morning, Blackwood.”
I remembered one such awkward exchange, Gareth’s voice dropping to a low murmur.
“Thorne’s been acting rather… oddly lately. The way he treats Vance… almost unseemly, wouldn’t you say?”
My expression, I must admit, must have conveyed a certain distaste, for Gareth seemed to interpret it as agreement. He continued, describing how Alistair would compel Elias to sit beside him, his hand clamped possessively on Elias’s arm, refusing to release him.
I gritted my teeth, my fists clenching beneath the table. My response was cold, clipped.
“Such disgusting affairs are of no concern to me.”
That silenced him immediately. Gareth had, of late, been making subtle overtures towards Percival and his friends. He seemed a man quietly seeking an exit from Alistair’s ever-darkening shadow. Perhaps his confidences were merely a means to ingratiate himself.
Today, as often happened, Percival Ashworth and I were the last remaining souls in the painting hall, the other students having dispersed.
Percival leaned against the arched window, his silhouette stark against the fading afternoon light, staring down at me. Was he ignoring me? Or merely dissecting my every tremor? Annoyed, I turned my head, determined to return his silent dismissal.
“Finch.”
“What is it, Ashworth?”
“Let’s acquire some ices after classes. That pistachio sorbet we had last week was quite palatable.”
Percival utterly disregarded my attempt at ignoring him. As he spoke, he idly tossed a rubber ball, stolen from a younger student, across the high-ceilinged hall. It bounced erratically, threatening to strike a delicate plaster bust, but no one dared admonish him.
He cultivated an air of utter indifference to the surrounding atmosphere, selfish and unburdened by social niceties. I watched the ball’s erratic flight, a frown deepening on my brow, finally breaking my silence. My irritation at his brazen self-centeredness sharpened my tone.
“You mean the one you devoured entirely yourself? You purchased it solely for your own consumption, did you not?”
“Hardly. I simply possess a predilection for green.”
“So my own preference held no sway?”
“How was I to discern your desires? You offered no counsel.”
The ball had by then rolled beneath a draped easel. Percival extended a hand, a silent command. A nearby junior, flustered, awkwardly retrieved it, placing it in Percival’s open palm. Percival idly rotated the ball in his hand, then remarked to the retreating boy,
“Our gratitude, blockhead.”
What an utterly exasperating character.
‘Blockhead this, nincompoop that.’ Every utterance from his lips grated on my nerves.
Honestly, it defied logic that someone as obnoxious as Percival Ashworth chose my company over Lord Alistair’s. He ate with me, sat with me, attended lectures beside me. True, Alistair was absent from the Academy more frequently now, but Percival could easily seek him out.
A thought struck me, sudden and unbidden, and I voiced it without prior consideration.
“Why do you not frequent Lord Alistair’s company these days?”
Percival, mid-throw-and-catch with the rubber ball against the wall, froze. He then turned to me, his expression uncharacteristically puzzled.
“You had a falling out with him,” he stated.
“I?”
“Yes. You and Thorne.”
“I am aware. The rupture was mine. Why does that pertain to you?”
“Your observations are truly bizarre. It is because you are my acquaintance.”
Percival scanned me from head to toe with an oddly blatant gaze. Feeling uneasy, I averted my eyes and countered,
“You were also acquainted with Lord Alistair, though.”
“My dear fellow. You are quite comical. What, are you implying we are not friends?”
His tone was now incredulous, a finger pointing at me accusingly.
“No, I am your friend. But you were also friends with Lord Alistair. Why, then, do you align yourself with me?”
“Well, because I have known you longer.”
“What absurdity are you speaking? We became friends through Lord Alistair, did we not?”
“See here. What utter nonsense are you spouting? We were quite close in our first year!”
“When, precisely?”
“Seriously, Finch, you are a complete scoundrel. Unbelievable. Back in the refectory, we exchanged glances perpetually!”
“Oh… those times.”
“So, what, was I the sole individual who perceived a burgeoning camaraderie? You charlatan. That is why, upon discovering we were in the same class, I approached you first! And you do not even acknowledge that? Unfathomable. I am quite disappointed in you.”
“Ah.”
“Truly. Beyond belief. How could you be so… so faithless?”
“Very well, my apologies. I beg your pardon, is that sufficient?”
I mumbled my apology hastily, a strange memory stirring of those awkward, yet surprisingly frequent, encounters from our first year. Could he have interpreted those intense stares as anything but silent challenge, simmering hostility? And then, a more disturbing realization struck me: had the first suggestion of shared meals, the initial overture, not come from Alistair, but from… Percival himself?
The thought landed like a heavy stone in my stomach, leaving me momentarily stunned. It was unsettling, almost shocking. Yet, unwilling to delve further into this labyrinth of misremembered origins, I feigned understanding, nodding slowly.
“Alright, alright. I comprehend. My apologies.”
“I was genuinely quite vexed just now.”
Percival fixed me with a brief, piercing glare. At times, the workings of his mind remained utterly opaque to me.
“And besides, Lord Alistair is behaving with singular peculiarity.”
“...”
“The fellow is completely unhinged at present. He has always possessed a certain eccentricity, but this? This is… quite beyond the pale, indeed.”
He grasped the rubber ball with four fingers, idly spinning it about his temple with his index. The sight brought to mind Gareth Blackwood and the other students who had, with varying degrees of awkwardness, attempted to confide their observations about Alistair.
From that alone, one truth emerged: Lord Alistair Thorne’s reputation, once unassailable, was in freefall.
“Unnatural.”
The word—the most feared, most damning stigma in the circumscribed world of young gentlemen—sent a cold tremor through me. My body trembled, barely perceptible. Yet, at the same instant, a wave of profound relief washed over me that no one knew *my* secrets. Did that relief signify a greater value placed on my own skin than on Alistair’s? The thought was a disquieting one.
Unease gnawed at me as I met Percival’s gaze, feeling like a blasphemous priest harboring a vile secret before a stern deity.
“Indeed, me,” I murmured, a strange laugh escaping my lips—a bitter mixture of fear and derision.
It was almost laughable that, to the casual observer, I was Percival Ashworth’s closest confidant. In truth, I was no different – a criminal marked by an unholy stigma. Only months prior, I had been Lord Alistair’s closest friend. And yet, here I was, merely hiding, having barely escaped a filthy trap. I had only avoided being caught. That was all.
---
It was dawn. A muffled rap sounded at the door of my humble lodging. A note, delivered by a sleepy messenger boy, unexpectedly arrived. The hour, barely four in the morning, made me wonder if the preceding days were merely a fevered dream. Though I had deliberately avoided Alistair to shield myself from further hurt, my heart still gave a wild leap, fantasizing that the message might be from him.
I rubbed my eyes hurriedly, checking the sender once more. My feelings were utterly conflicted. Part of me wished it were merely one of those solicitations for dubious loans. But as soon as my gaze fell upon the elegant, if frantic, script, I knew it was not from Lord Alistair.
“Jules, I must beg your forgiveness for this untimely intrusion. Could you possibly step outside your residence for a moment? I am truly sorry. I am deeply sorry.”
“Just this once. Pray, just this one time.”
Lord Alistair would never, under any circumstance, offer me an apology.
Among my peers, only two individuals addressed me as “Jules,” and of those two, only one possessed such a desperate, pitiful tone. How had Mr. Elias Vance even discovered my address? The moment I read the words, my face twisted into a scowl. I wanted nothing to do with him—never wished to see him again. His presence was always, invariably, unpleasant.
Yet, despite my internal protestations, I swung my legs from the bed, buttoned my shirt, and rose. I walked to the door, but paused before opening it, resting my forehead against the cool wooden frame with a profound sigh.
“…Damn it all.”
It was an overwhelming sensation, like a suffocating knot tightening in my chest. That was the only phrase that captured its essence. I clutched at my waistcoat. I had always prided myself on my academic achievements, on the breadth of my vocabulary acquired from countless books, yet no word I knew could adequately express this intricate, tangled mess of emotions.
It was simply… complicated.
The hatred I harbored for Elias Vance, the memory of his face, bruised a tell-tale purple (or so I’d heard), the desperate days I’d spent trying to create distance between him and Alistair—all these feelings swirled into a maelstrom. Biting my lip, I fiddled with the brass doorknob, then closed my eyes and turned it with a decisive twist.
In the small, neglected garden, the cold morning dew clung to the air, heralding the arrival of a crisp autumn. To avoid the sodden grass, I stepped carefully onto the cool marble flagstones. The chill of dawn made me pull my jacket tighter around me. My toes, peeking from the front of my slippers, carried me all the way to the front gate.
I paused there, a soft click of my tongue, and gripped the handle. The creaking of the hinge made me flinch, and I opened the gate even more slowly, cautiously.
Beyond the wrought iron, illuminated by the gas lamp on the asphalted lane, stood Elias Vance in his Academy uniform. His head was hung low, and he idly scrawled invisible shapes on the ground with the tip of his worn shoe.
“...Mr. Vance.”
At my voice, Elias’s head snapped up like lightning.
“Jules! Jules!”