Alistair’s open aversion settled over Julian like a persistent chill. Not a surprise, perhaps, but its starkness still smarted. After the rather unfortunate incident in the old gymnasium stores, the polite facade Alistair maintained for the college’s more traditional dons vanished. Now, young Percival Thorne occupied the space beside him at every opportunity, a fixed shadow. Julian, for his part, was no stranger to concealing true sentiment behind a placid countenance. Yet, he lacked the fortitude to feign indifference, to hold his head high amidst the quiet shame. He would not be a pathetic, cringing figure. Simply approaching Alistair, as if their recent estrangement were a fleeting jest, felt beyond his reach. A current of melancholy and weary resignation began to drag at him. There were moments, fleeting and sharp, when a petty vengeance would ignite, a hot spark in his chest. But always, it dwindled. Always, he endured. That infernal Alistair, so volatile, so easily swayed, now regarded Julian with a childish resentment, an almost envious glare. The reason was painfully clear: Percival Thorne. Irrespective of intent, Julian found his disdain for Percival deepening. Thorne was never truly ‘his’ to lose, but it felt as though the boy had not merely usurped Alistair’s attention but weaponized it, turning Alistair’s affections into a cudgel. A truly vicious boy, Julian decided, despite all logic. Feelings, he knew, often defied reason. Blaming Percival was a necessary fiction, a convenient scapegoat for the miserable situation. It allowed him to keep his footing on the treacherous ground of Ashworth’s social strata. Still, Julian prided himself on making rational choices. He understood Percival was merely a malleable piece in Alistair’s possessive game. Consequently, Julian never displayed outward hostility. To do so would expose an unbecoming jealousy. More damning, it would paint him a fool, further cementing Alistair’s distaste and inviting the college’s swift, brutal judgment—a whispered label of being ‘unnatural’ or ‘perverse’. “...This is intolerable,” Julian murmured, the words tight in his throat. The resentment churned, a more potent venom than Alistair’s outright hatred. Then, incongruously, Edmund Crowley’s face drifted into his thoughts. Why Edmund? Perhaps because the boorish fellow had become his most frequent, if irritating, companion. What cutting remark would Edmund offer if he knew the depths of Julian’s thoughts? Likely something akin to, ‘Turns out Beaumont harbours some rather queer affections, eh?’ The imagined sneer, Edmund’s disdainful gaze, made Julian’s hands clench. The image was stomach-churning. To be exposed, even to Edmund, was unthinkable. Friendships, Julian observed, proved remarkably porous. Once it became clear Alistair and he were no longer on easy terms, his connections within Alistair’s coterie naturally thinned. Amusingly, the group’s most peripheral member, Elias Finch, had approached him only yesterday, engaging in a rather pointless exchange. “Beaumont, Crowley was looking for you earlier.” Elias’s voice was hesitant. “Indeed? What for?” Julian asked, a precise arch of his brow. “Could not say, Beaumont. Simply mentioned your name.” Pointless exchanges. Empty chitchat. These days, Julian found himself, by general consensus, more closely aligned with Edmund’s small, unconventional circle than Alistair’s. Not that the old ties were entirely severed. Polite greetings still passed, occasionally, during games or a chance encounter in the morning. Mostly, this was limited to Elias Finch. “Morning, Beaumont!” Elias offered one brisk morning. “...Good morning, Finch,” Julian replied, his voice carefully neutral. Julian recalled a particular awkward exchange when Elias had leaned closer, muttering beneath his breath. ‘Alistair’s behaviour… rather peculiar, wouldn’t you say? The way he treats Thorne… almost unsettling.’ Perhaps Julian’s expression betrayed some discomfort, for Elias seemed to interpret it as agreement. He pressed on, describing how Alistair would compel Percival to sit with him, seize his arm, refusing to release him. Julian’s jaw tightened. He gritted his teeth before replying, his voice clipped. ‘Such distasteful displays are of no consequence to me.’ That silenced Elias immediately. Lately, Elias had been quite overtly cultivating favour with Edmund and his companions. He seemed, Julian mused, a man quietly seeking an exit from Alistair’s shadow. Perhaps his confidences were merely an attempt to forge a new allegiance. --- Today, as often happened, Julian and Edmund were the last figures lingering in the lecture hall, apart from the scattered students gathering their texts. Edmund, leaning against the lecture theatre’s worn oak paneling, observed Julian with a peculiar intensity. Whether he was ignoring Julian or simply appraising him, Julian couldn’t say. Annoyed, he turned his head, electing to return the favour. “Jules.” Edmund’s voice cut through the quiet. “What is it, Crowley?” Julian asked, without turning. “Let’s procure some lemon tarts after classes. The ones from the High Street bakery were quite palatable last time.” Edmund’s voice was languid. He ignored Julian’s deliberate slight, idly tossing a small, leather-bound ball, meant for hand exercises, across the room. It ricocheted off a desk, then a vacant chair, threatening to strike a retreating student. Yet, no one dared object. Edmund possessed a remarkable indifference to atmosphere, to social propriety. He was, Julian often thought, selfish in the purest sense. Julian’s frown deepened as he watched the ball’s erratic flight. His irritation, a sharp edge in his tone, finally broke his silence. “You mean the tart you consumed entirely yourself? You purchased it for your own pleasure, as I recall.” “Hardly. I simply found the tart’s zest particularly appealing.” Edmund shrugged. “So my preferences were of no account?” Julian pressed. “How could I possibly divine your preferences, Jules? You offered no counsel.” The ball, having completed its journey, rolled to a stop near a junior student. Edmund extended a hand, a silent command. The student hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved the ball and placed it in Edmund’s palm. Edmund absently twirled the ball, then addressed the retreating boy. “Many thanks, you cipher.” Such an abrasive temperament. ‘Loser this, cipher that.’ Each pronouncement grated on Julian’s nerves. It struck Julian as deeply illogical that Edmund, with his unvarnished bluntness, chose to linger with him rather than Alistair. They ate together, sat together, attended lectures together. Alistair might be absent, but a simple missive or a brief rendezvous was easily arranged. The thought, unbidden, prompted a question. “Why do you not frequent Alistair’s company these days?” Edmund, mid-toss, froze. He turned, a puzzled expression on his face. “You quarreled with him, didn’t you?” “I?” Julian scoffed. “Yes, you. You and Alistair.” “I am well aware. I was the one involved in the dispute. What concern is it of yours?” “You utter the most peculiar things. It is because you are my friend.” Edmund’s gaze, oddly frank, swept over Julian. Unease prickled at Julian’s skin. He averted his eyes. “Yet, you were also Alistair’s associate,” Julian reminded him. “How droll. What, are you suggesting you are not my friend?” Edmund’s tone turned incredulous. He pointed a finger at Julian. “No, I count you as a friend. But you were equally close to Alistair. So why do you seemingly take my part?” “Because I have known you longer, naturally.” Edmund offered the explanation with baffling simplicity. “What nonsense are you speaking? We became acquainted through Alistair, did we not?” “Jules, honestly. We were quite close in our first year!” Edmund insisted. “When?” Julian asked, genuinely perplexed. “Truly, you are an insolent fellow. Unbelievable. We exchanged glances in the refectory, frequently!” “Ah… those moments,” Julian murmured, a flicker of memory. “So, I was the only one who considered us friends, then? You charlatan. That is precisely why, upon finding ourselves in the same lecture hall, I sought you out! And you do not even acknowledge it? Preposterous. I am quite put out.” “Oh,” Julian managed. “Unbelievable. Simply… unbelievable. How could you inflict such a slight upon me?” “Forgive me. I am quite sorry, truly,” Julian mumbled, hastily. He recalled those awkward, yet undeniably frequent, glances from their first year. So, that fell within Edmund’s definition of ‘friendship.’ Julian felt somewhat defrauded. He had always interpreted those silent exchanges as a sort of simmering hostility. Then, a more unsettling thought: could it be that the initial suggestion for shared meals had not come from Alistair, but… Edmund? The realization struck him like a sudden squall, leaving him momentarily winded. It was disquieting, even shocking. Still, he wished to avoid further entanglements. He offered a pretense of understanding, nodding stiffly. “Very well. I comprehend. My apologies.” “I was genuinely quite vexed just now.” Edmund’s gaze remained fixed on him, briefly. Sometimes, Julian truly failed to grasp the labyrinthine workings of Edmund’s mind. “And furthermore, Alistair’s conduct is becoming genuinely peculiar,” Edmund continued. Julian remained silent. “That fellow is quite unhinged, in truth. He always possessed a certain eccentricity, but this? This verges on… well.” Edmund gripped the leather ball, lazily spinning it around his temple with an index finger. The gesture brought to Julian’s mind Elias Finch and the other classmates who had, with varying degrees of awkwardness, alluded to Alistair’s behaviour. From this, one thing became clear: Alistair’s reputation, once unassailable, was in precipitous decline. “Unnatural.” The word, a damning whisper in the gilded halls of Ashworth, sent a chill through Julian. His body trembled, subtly. At the same time, a surge of profound relief washed over him that his own private inclinations remained undiscovered. Did that relief imply a greater self-preservation than loyalty to Alistair’s former friendship? Julian regarded Edmund’s face, a blasphemous priest hiding his secret before an unwitting confessor. “Indeed,” he murmured. A laugh, a strange hybrid of fear and derision, escaped him. It was almost comical. To others, he was Edmund’s closest confidante. In truth, he was no different—a criminal, branded with an unholy stigma. Only months prior, he had been Alistair’s closest friend. Now, he merely hid, nestled in a filthy trap from which he had barely escaped. He had only avoided capture. That was all. --- Dawn broke, a sliver of grey light at the horizon. A message, from an unknown number, arrived unexpectedly. A call at four in the morning. Half-awake, Julian for a moment imagined the entire unfolding drama was a dream. Though he had carefully avoided Alistair, protecting himself from further injury, his heart gave an involuntary leap at the thought that the message might be from him. He rubbed his eyes, hastily, and re-examined the sender. His feelings were a tangled mess. A part of him hoped it was merely a spam message, an offer of disreputable loans. But as he deciphered the brief content, he knew it was not Alistair. “Jules-ah, forgive my intrusion at this hour. Might you step outside for a moment? My sincerest apologies. Truly, I am sorry.” “Just this once. I beg you, just this once.” Lord Alistair would never, under any circumstances, apologise to Julian. Among Julian’s immediate circle, only two individuals addressed him as ‘Jules,’ and of those two, only one was quite so pitiful. How did Percival Thorne even know his address? The moment the message registered, Julian’s face contorted into a grimace. He had no desire to see him—ever. Percival’s presence was always an unpleasant burden. Yet, despite the surge of revulsion, Julian pushed himself from his bed. He buttoned his dressing gown, and rose. He walked to his door, but stopped short of opening it, resting his forehead against the cool oak frame. A deep sigh escaped him. “...Damn it.” An overwhelming constriction, a knot in his stomach, was the only adequate description. He clutched at his chest. He had always prided himself on his academic achievements, his vast lexicon garnered from countless volumes, yet none of his words could fully articulate this intricate, tangled mess of emotions. It was simply… complicated. The hatred he harboured for Percival, the vivid memory of the boy’s bruised, purpling face from that fateful day, and the desperate, calculated distance he had sought to maintain, all swirled together. He bit his lip, his fingers fidgeting with the cool brass doorknob. Then, with a decisive twist, he closed his eyes and turned it. In the garden, a cold morning dew clung to the air, heralding autumn’s approach. To avoid the damp grass, Julian stepped carefully onto the cool, smoothed marble flagstones that bisected the lawn. The chilly dawn compelled him to pull his dressing gown tighter around him. His toes, peeking from the front of his slippers, carried him the length of the path, to the front gate. He paused there, a moment of stark deliberation. A light click of his tongue, then his hand closed over the handle. The hinge creaked, a mournful sound, making him flinch. He opened the gate even more slowly, deliberately. Beyond, illuminated by the gaslight on the asphalt thoroughfare, stood Percival Thorne. He wore his Ashworth uniform, his head bowed low, idly tracing invisible shapes upon the ground with the toe of his polished boot. “...Percival Thorne,” Julian said, his voice flat. At the sound, Percival’s head snapped up with a start. “Jules! Jules-ah!” “What is t–”

A Web of Unspoken Things