Finch. My surname is Finch, and my given name is Julian, though few within the gilded halls of the Royal Art Academy dared use it. It was always 'Mr. Finch,' a deferential address to the scholarship student, or, if I was truly unfortunate, merely 'Finch' from Alistair Thorne. The first to call me so, stripping my name of its formal weight, had been Alistair himself, during our inaugural year. A careless familiarity I found both infuriating and undeniably intimate. He was, even then, a striking contrast to me. From the careless sweep of his rich dark hair to the languid grace of his posture, Alistair embodied everything I was not. Academically, his interest wavered like a candle in a draught, yet his innate talent, when roused, could outshine the most diligent scholar. My own precision, born of desperate effort, felt almost crude beside it. Did I look down upon him, this scion of privilege? Normally, I held firm convictions about social strata, reserving my respect for those who earned it through merit. But Alistair Thorne defied such neat categorization. When our gazes first met across the crowded lecture theatre, his eyes—hazel, keen, and startlingly direct—held me captive. They bore into me with a force that precluded any easy dismissal. Alistair possessed a peculiar scent. Not the cloying sweetness of common perfumes, but a faint, elusive fragrance of expensive tobacco and something wilder, like a summer storm upon a distant heath. It drew me, despite myself. Like a moth to a flickering gas lamp, I found myself drawn into his orbit, an unwilling participant in his careless whims. I often sought out superficial similarities between us. Our shared artistic passion, perhaps, or the undeniable fact that both of us, in our own spheres, commanded a certain reluctant respect. These flimsy justifications allowed me to tolerate, even welcome, his presence. The Academy itself was a microcosm of London’s stark divisions: the opulent borough of Belgravia on one side, its elegant townhouses boasting lineage and wealth, and the grimy, industrious East End on the other. Students arrived from both. My own origins lay in a respectable, though far from grand, dwelling on the outskirts of Kensington. My parents, though not titled, held a quiet pride in their achievements, a legacy I carried with a mixture of honour and burdensome expectation. This modest standing, coupled with my scholarship, was a double-edged sword: a testament to my ability, yet a constant reminder of my precarious footing. Alistair, of course, belonged to the upper echelons. Once I ascertained this, my peculiar fascination intensified. It provided a perverse validation for my interest, a reason to approach him without succumbing to the shame of my own desires. We became, in a fashion, companions. While I excelled in the meticulous rendering of anatomical studies, Alistair commanded the social landscape of our cohort. He effortlessly attracted the most influential and charming students, quickly establishing himself at the apex of the Academy’s informal hierarchy. He became, without question, the most talked-about student within our year. --- The tightly shut door before me remained unyielding for an age. My stomach clenched with a familiar ache, a nervous spasm that mirrored the churning in my gut. Then, with a soft click, it yielded. Through the narrow gap, I caught a fleeting glimpse of Alistair’s flushed neck and the bare curve of a shoulder, before his hand released the handle. The heavy oak threatened to swing shut once more, but I moved with desperate speed, slipping inside before it could fully seal. Within the grand hotel suite, Alistair Thorne was already seated upon the rumpled bed. He wore little but a loosely tied silk dressing gown, his dark hair a disheveled cascade, and a half-smoked cigarillo clenched between his teeth, though unlit. A faint scent—expensive civet mingled with the cloying sweetness of lily-of-the-valley, unmistakably feminine—clung to the air. “Damn it. My uncle’s been hounding me again. If his valet calls, you were here, studying with me. Understand?” He snapped his gold-plated lighter open and closed, a restless movement. The cigarillo remained unlit, but his posture, the slight slump of his shoulders, broadcast the languid weariness of recent exertion. My stomach twisted. I rubbed it absently, moving closer, and snatched the bitten cigarillo from his lips. My voice, when it came, was sharper than I intended. “Why should I?” “Because we are companions,” he drawled, his gaze sliding over me with an unnerving detachment. Companions. The word, stretched out by his casual indifference, felt like a deliberate insult. It tore at something fragile within my chest, yet I maintained an expression of cold, unwavering calm. Such control was my only armour. “Just know,” I said, my voice low, “I shall settle this debt, one way or another.” “Naturally,” he murmured, a dismissive wave of his hand. The air still reeked of those cloying lilies and the faint, sweet musk that only women—society women, expensive women—possessed. I’d learned to identify such nuances of scent only because of Alistair, a bitter testament to his influence. Whispers followed him like shadows. From his preparatory school days, tales of his illicit conquests had circulated, scandalous enough to curdle milk. They spoke of assignations in forgotten corners, of lost innocence in shadowed alcoves. Even then, they said, Alistair had possessed a maturity beyond his years. His features, bold and finely chiselled, lent him a brooding sophistication. Most mistook him for a gentleman of at least five-and-twenty, not a mere student. Upon entering the Academy, he had openly frequented the seedier clubs of Piccadilly when boredom struck. With a generous allowance and a convincing forged identity, he would charm any woman he desired, indulging in casual trysts as though they were a harmless pastime. His striking good looks were a gilded cage, concealing a hedonistic soul. Individually, his eyes, nose, and mouth were not, perhaps, remarkably perfect. But taken together, they formed a countenance of inexplicable magnetism. No one believed him a mere youth; his aura was far too refined. I glanced around the lavish suite, feigning interest, though my inspection was without purpose. The heavy, perfumed air, saturated with the aftermath of his escapade, made my gorge rise. “Where is Silas Blackwood?” I asked, my voice tight. “He departed,” Alistair said, leaning back against the headboard. “...” “That fellow is quite mad, I swear. A complete absurdity.” Alistair rested his chin on his hand, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. I scowled, the image of Silas’s sharp, severe profile rising unbidden. Silas Blackwood was, without question, the second person I found most intolerable. He had only grown close to Alistair during our second year. And though I detested the admission, they had become inseparable, a fact that grated on my nerves. While Alistair was the undisputed social titan of our particular artistic cohort, Silas, a brilliant, if caustic, sculptor, held a similar, formidable reputation among the sculptors and architects. Still, our paths rarely crossed. The only times I saw him were in the grand refectory, where all Academy students dined. Once, a fellow student had nudged my shoulder, whispering, “That’s Blackwood, you know.” Curious, I rose slightly on my toes to peer over the sea of dark-suited figures. Among them, a tall, lean young man, with an almost ascetic intensity, stood out. I knew instantly it was him. His eyes, dark as polished obsidian, seemed to absorb all light. “He looks to have a most disagreeable temperament,” I murmured. One of Alistair’s more sycophantic hangers-on, always eager to agree, replied, “Indeed, rather. They say he’s utterly consumed by his own convictions.” I merely smirked, offering a half-hearted nod. As much as I loathed to admit it, I could understand why he and Alistair were often spoken of in the same breath. That only fuelled my dislike, yet I found my gaze inexplicably drawn back to him. A kind of austere magnetism, that was my first impression of Silas Blackwood. By some strange chance, our eyes met. It was peculiar that he noticed my scrutiny amidst the clamour of the refectory. His long, narrow eyes and thin pupils held a striking intensity. Reflexively, I flinched, as if struck by a cold gust of air. ‘What are you staring at?’ I imagined he conveyed, though his lips did not move. He narrowed one eye, a silent challenge. Honestly, I felt a prickle of intimidation, so I feigned indifference and turned away. Then, loud enough for the student beside me to hear, I remarked, “He looks like a hungry peregrine.” After that, Silas and I often exchanged glances, though we always ignored one another. Whenever our gazes crossed, he would typically lower his head first, only to look up moments later, our eyes locking again. Nine times out of ten, he was the one to break contact, but occasionally, I found myself following suit. I lost count after the eighteenth time. --- By some cruel twist of fate, Alistair and I found ourselves in the same advanced painting class again for our second year. While a part of me, the part I despised, thrilled at this continued connection, another sight quickly extinguished any flicker of pleasure. A familiar, infuriating face was there: Silas Blackwood. It was Silas who spoke to Alistair first, a cool, level query. “Thorne. Shall we discuss this wretched assignment over a coffee?” Damn him. And just as everyone had anticipated, the two of them became fast acquaintances. Alistair, a man who revelled in his own charismatic brilliance, found in Silas Blackwood a kindred spirit, a worthy counterpoint. Silas was masculine in his severity, successful among his peers, and undeniably well-regarded for his intellect. Their companionship was inevitable. In the common room, the students often debated: if Alistair Thorne and Silas Blackwood were to truly clash, who would prevail? From my own perspective, the two would never genuinely contend. While Alistair and I were opposites on the surface, Alistair and Silas Blackwood were remarkably similar in their uncompromising ambition and disdain for the mediocre. Yet, there was one stark difference between them. Silas possessed a strange, almost puritanical streak. Despite the visible scars of some past bohemian excess – perhaps a wild, early youth – he sometimes acted with an unexpected rectitude. For instance, when Alistair felt the pangs of a carnal appetite, he would simply select a suitable companion and spend the night in her arms. He would then, with a shocking lack of discretion, recount his morning-after adventures to anyone who would listen. Silas, in contrast, would merely dismiss such salacious remarks with a dry laugh or a cutting observation. Sometimes, he would mock them outright by turning the conversation to the deplorable state of modern art, or by mercilessly dissecting the technical flaws in a classmate’s work, leaving the poor victim speechless. “This ‘masterpiece’ has more structural integrity than your moral fibre,” he might sneer, “and yet it crumbles before my eyes. Perhaps you should seek out a more robust subject matter, or, dare I suggest, an actual understanding of composition.” Even his crude remarks were laced with an acidic wit. When the opportunity arose to visit a notorious gaming den Alistair frequented, a place of ill repute, Silas declined, stating with baffling sincerity, “My integrity, such as it is, is reserved for my work, Mr. Thorne.” Alistair had offered to procure him a particularly convincing forged invitation – a favour he’d never extended to me – but Silas had dismissed it as a useless trifle. Alistair’s immediate circle found Silas’s eccentricities entertaining, but I did not. The reason was painfully simple: he was close to Alistair. And they moved about the Academy like favoured confidants. That alone was enough to fuel my simmering resentment. It was a searing jealousy, raw and unbidden. Still, I managed to endure Silas Blackwood’s presence. One of my few strengths lay in concealing my true feelings, no matter the situation. Besides, he was now irrevocably linked to Alistair. Yes, everything in my carefully constructed social life, my artistic pursuits, my very sense of self, revolved around Alistair Thorne. Truth be told, there were more days when I felt a profound frustration with myself for this wretched dependency than days I truly thought of Alistair with anything resembling affection. I often felt like a complete fool, a mere shadow tethered to his light. Yet, despite the self-loathing, I remained unchanged. As Alistair tossed a few casual instructions my way before disappearing into the adjoining washroom for a shower, I sat in thought, the scent of expensive perfume still clinging to the velvet upholstery. A few minutes later, the gentle, insistent ring of the speaking tube sounded from the bedside table. Fresh from his ablutions, Alistair emerged, dripping wet, and snatched the receiver, tossing it carelessly toward me. I caught it with a practiced hand. On the other end, a crisp, refined voice – that of Alistair’s personal valet, Mr. Davies – inquired after his young master. Clearing my throat, I answered, wondering why I bothered to compose myself. “Yes, this is Finch speaking.” “Finch? Are you with Mr. Thorne just now?” “Indeed, I am, Mr. Davies.” “Ah, I see. A relief, truly. I confess, I harboured concerns that Mr. Thorne might be... indulging in his usual diversions. You possess such a pleasant timbre, Mr. Finch.” “Thank you,” I replied, the lie already forming on my tongue. “No, genuinely. And how do you find yourself this evening?” “I am quite well, I thank you. And yourself?” “The same, Mr. Finch. You speak with such propriety. If only Mr. Thorne exhibited such manners. That boy, alas, possesses no decorum. So, you were… engaged in your studies, then?” “Precisely. Mr. Thorne must have quite forgotten his communication duties. He has been rather consumed with preparations for the upcoming examinations.” “So, you have been studying together, this entire time?” Mr. Davies’ voice held a touch of hopeful disbelief. “Yes, Mr. Davies. He has been in my company without interruption.” “Well, that is a profound relief. If he is with you, I can rest assured.” “It is nothing, truly.” “No, Mr. Finch, it is something significant. With you, he can scarcely wander into mischief.” “Indeed. I shall ensure he returns to his residence safely.” “Good. Pray, do take care of him. Remain companions, and avoid any disagreements.” “Of course, Mr. Davies. A good evening to you.” Lies, expertly spun, flowed from my mouth with sickening ease. After ending the call, I placed the receiver back on its cradle. Alistair, now fully dressed in fresh garments, merely offered a curt “Much obliged” as he adjusted his cravat. Without another word, I turned to leave. He made no effort to detain me. “Later, Finch.” That was all he offered. It was to be expected. This fragile, deceptive understanding was all our relationship amounted to. The vast chasm between us, carefully concealed by a veneer of casual companionship, was painfully clear. Perhaps that was why I quickened my pace, hurrying out into the gaslit labyrinth of the city. My throat ached with the effort of swallowing down so much unspoken truth.

A Concession to Vice