Julian Beaumont moved through the Ashworth refectory with a practiced, quiet composure. His life, meticulously sculpted by the rigid expectations of his family and the unforgiving social strata of the college, had instilled in him an almost unnatural self-control. He found vulnerability detestable, a weakness to be exploited, and so, even when the air around him vibrated with discord, he presented a facade of remarkable calm.
This trait, often mistaken for a lack of passion, sometimes led fellow students to label him as overly earnest, perhaps even dull. It was not that feelings of vexation or agitation eluded him; rather, every raw emotion, every slight and fear, had long ago been compressed into a protective shell. Over the years, this hardening had rendered him largely impervious, or so he believed, to true provocation.
Even Alistair, with his casual cruelties, rarely pierced this armor. Julian’s ability to remain dispassionate had, in fact, been instrumental in securing his place within Alistair’s orbit. He was a suitable companion, discreet and intelligent, maintaining a respectable, if precarious, position within the collegiate hierarchy. A position he had painstakingly, often exhaustingly, cultivated and was determined to preserve.
“Beaumont.” Peregrine Ashworth, draped across a polished oak bench, a half-eaten roll forgotten beside him, raised an eyebrow. His voice, edged with a familiar disdain, carried across the din of the midday meal.
Julian merely offered a polite, almost imperceptible nod. His gaze, however, lingered a moment too long on Peregrine’s smirking countenance. The scion of the college’s founding family was an enigma Julian found both unsettling and, at times, strangely compelling.
“What a terribly serious expression, Julian. Are you calculating the caloric intake of your mutton?” Peregrine’s lip curled, a hint of genuine amusement in his eyes.
Julian’s jaw tightened. “A man must be mindful of his constitution, Ashworth. Not everyone possesses your… unburdened constitution.” The retort, a veiled reference to Peregrine’s inherited wealth and privilege, slipped out before Julian could fully rein it in. He instantly regretted the breach in his carefully maintained reserve.
Peregrine merely chuckled, unaffected. “True enough. Some of us are not burdened by… ambition.”
Julian’s knuckles whitened against the rim of his plate, but he swallowed the sharp reply that rose to his tongue. Engaging Peregrine was a fool’s errand, always. Instead, he forced his attention to Alistair, who had been listening with an indolent smile. Alistair’s appetites were boundless – not merely for food, but for attention, for deference, for control. Since puberty, Alistair’s impulses had only sharpened, his manipulations grown more sophisticated, his targets more vulnerable. He moved through the world with an assumption of entitlement that Julian found simultaneously repugnant and mesmerizing. Just now, Alistair’s gaze, heavy and possessive, had settled on a figure across the vast hall, an unfortunate student whose shoulders seemed permanently hunched: Thomas Thorne.
It was late August, the very cusp of the new academic year, and Thomas Thorne had already been thoroughly ostracized. Yet, even this complete isolation seemed insufficient for Alistair.
While Alistair’s immediate cronies—Cecil, Marcus, and Phineas—often lingered after the bell, waiting for him like eager spaniels, other, more peripheral figures like Edgar and Phillip would bolt from the refectory the moment the luncheon announcement sounded.
During his first year, Julian had been part of Alistair’s innermost circle. But by the second year, things had subtly shifted. It began with a casual remark from Phineas: “Beaumont, you still picking at your plate? Alistair and the chaps are already half-way to the pitch.” Without a direct dismissal, Julian found himself excluded.
His pride had stung, a deep, unpleasant ache. But Alistair had not cared. Whether Julian remained or departed made no discernible difference to him. The realization had been humiliating. Julian glanced at Alistair and, his voice barely a murmur, asked, “Am I truly so… deliberate in my eating?”
“Of course, you are. You chew your food like a thoughtful cow, Beaumont, while the rest of us are finished in five minutes flat,” Alistair had replied, dismissive.
“Yes, we’re always late for cricket because of you,” Cecil added, nodding vigorously.
Julian had felt a flush rise to his cheeks. “Ah.”
“We’ve a wager match with the fellows from King’s House today. Go eat with Ashworth.”
Julian’s throat had tightened. His pride prevented him from begging to stay. Besides, he rationalized, the indigestion that had plagued him throughout his first year was likely due to his frantic efforts to keep pace. And honestly, the very thought of clinging to Alistair’s coat-tails, like some barnacle, repulsed him. So, he had not pleaded. He had not protested.
And just like that, he was out of the primary group. His own will, his desires, were utterly irrelevant.
Striving to appear indifferent, Julian found his eyes meeting Peregrine’s, who was now lounging on his desk, idly bouncing a small rubber ball. Peregrine looked at him, then asked, casually, “When do you intend to partake of luncheon?”
“…”
“I typically venture forth in approximately ten minutes.”
“Yes, that… that suits me as well.”
In truth, Julian had never eaten at that hour. But his instinct for survival, for maintaining some semblance of social belonging, even with Peregrine, asserted itself. The first time he ate lunch alone with Peregrine, he left half his food untouched, feigning a lack of appetite. Peregrine, observing his plate, merely arched an eyebrow.
“Are you truly eighteen, Beaumont, and still particular about your gruel?”
“What concern is it of yours?” Julian shot back, a petulant edge to his voice. It annoyed him, this casual intrusion.
“Honestly, you behave like a child.”
“Even adults do not consume the Ashworth fish pie without a degree of… deliberation.”
In their first year, Alistair and Julian had been almost inseparable. By the second, those moments had dwindled, largely due to Peregrine’s growing influence over Alistair. Yet, Julian had no right to complain. Peregrine, by birthright and temperament, outranked them all.
Peregrine and Alistair’s circles overlapped, primarily comprised of the more boisterous, less academically inclined students at Ashworth. These were the types who would forge leave passes or slip out of class, exploiting the lax indifference of tutors who rarely confirmed their whereabouts.
Alistair, ever mindful of his parents’ scrutiny, usually remained in class until the final bell. As for Peregrine, whose reputation was almost as storied, Julian had once asked him why he bothered to stick around.
Peregrine’s response had stayed with him. “Do you perceive me as so pathetic?”
“No, but your… associates often exhibit such tendencies.”
“Associates? What absurd cant is that? They are not my associates. They are rabble.”
“What?”
“A student’s duty, Beaumont, is to attend his lectures and absorb his learning, is it not?”
“That is correct.”
“Then do not lump me in with such rabble. It… vexes me.”
“Yes. My apologies.”
“I was not soliciting an apology.”
It was, of course, a perfectly reasonable statement. Yet, hearing it from Peregrine Ashworth, a boy whose “friends” skipped school with alarming regularity, felt utterly absurd.
Regardless, Julian had spent most of his second year in this new, uneasy configuration with Alistair and Peregrine. He had come to view it as a quiet space, a sanctuary of sorts, one into which no one else could intrude. It would have been perfect without Peregrine, but surprisingly, they coexisted with more ease than expected. He did not care for Peregrine, but Peregrine was not so intolerable that Julian would storm off. He was simply… a persistent irritant.
But Thomas Thorne, and Alistair’s fixation, turned even these measured days into a simmering nightmare.
Today, however, felt subtly different from usual.
“Damn it. Cecil and Phineas, those blighters,” Alistair muttered, rubbing his temples as the fourth period drew to a close. “They’ve absconded again.”
Julian, hearing Alistair’s voice, turned immediately. His tone, laced with an unfamiliar anticipation, asked, “They have gone?”
“Bloody fools.” Alistair let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his dark hair. “Now, who am I to grace with my presence at luncheon?”
A small flicker of hope, bright and dangerous, ignited within Julian’s chest. His fingers trembled slightly as he tightened his grip on the back of his chair. Alistair’s eyes fell upon Peregrine, who was seated beside him, wholly engrossed in sketching something on a discarded parchment.
“Ashworth, I shall be joining your company today.”
“Do not. You were not invited,” Peregrine replied, without looking up, his voice flat.
“Continue with that insolence, and I shall ensure your mouth is otherwise occupied.”
“Heavens, Alistair, today truly makes me wish to connect my fist with your countenance.”
“Attempt it, then, you imbecile.”
“Such bravado for a fellow who would otherwise be dining in solitary misery.”
Julian could not hold back. He interjected, his voice too eager, too desperate. “Come now, let us all dine together. We cannot simply abandon Alistair to eat alone.”
His desperation must have been glaringly evident. Alistair smirked, a triumphant glint in his eyes, and glanced at Peregrine with a sly grin. “See? I possess most loyal companions.”
“…”
“What do you surmise, Ashworth? Beaumont is rather useful, would you not agree?”
Peregrine scowled and, with a swift, fluid motion, swept Alistair’s leather pencil case off the desk, sending it clattering to the polished floorboards. Whether Peregrine held any particular affection for Julian was irrelevant. What mattered was that Alistair would be joining them for lunch.
It had been so long since they had shared a meal in this manner. Julian felt an almost childish thrill. He even forced himself to consume the despised boiled cabbage, a side dish he usually avoided.
But Alistair paid little attention to his food. His eyes, keen and predatory, scanned the refectory as if seeking prey. Julian, too absorbed in Alistair’s presence, barely noticed Peregrine pilfering a few of his untouched roast potatoes. Then, without warning, Alistair’s fork clattered to his plate. His free hand shot out, seizing the arm of someone passing by.
Julian looked up. It was Thomas Thorne.
“Sit here,” Alistair commanded, gesturing with his chin to the empty seat beside him. “You have no other companions with whom to dine, in any case.”
Thorne’s face flushed a deep crimson. His eyes darted nervously around the hall, briefly meeting Julian’s, before he bit his lip and slowly, hesitantly, lowered himself into the indicated seat.
Julian felt a cold shock. He was dumbfounded. Since when did Alistair concern himself with Thorne’s dining arrangements? The very reason Thorne had no companions was entirely Alistair’s doing. Alistair detested any show of camaraderie towards Thorne.
A bitter taste, like gall, rose in Julian’s throat.
Unconsciously, Julian slammed his spoon onto his tray. The sound was sharp, jarring, cutting through the general chatter. But the only one who reacted was Thorne, who flinched, his eyes wide with alarm. Alistair, however, remained fixated on Thorne, a possessive smirk playing on his lips.
Damn it. At that precise moment, Julian felt the years of carefully constructed composure begin to fracture. The protective shell, painstakingly hardened, cracked with an audible snap in his mind. He tried to halt the disintegration, but he could not. Perhaps he had reached a breaking point he had never known existed.
Clinging desperately to denial, Julian snapped at Thorne. “Thorne. Leave. Now.”
“H-huh?” Thorne stammered, bewildered.
“Do not heed Alistair. Simply go. It will be… fine.”
“Beaumont,” Alistair’s voice, dangerously low, cut across the space between them.
When Julian told Thomas Thorne to leave, Alistair, who had ignored the loud clamor Julian had made moments before, finally ground his teeth and glared. That glare, however, only solidified Julian’s resolve. He fixed his eyes stubbornly on Thorne.
“I shall manage this. You are free to depart.”
“Uh, o-okay.” Thorne’s voice was a whisper.
“And Alistair, cease this charade immediately.”
“Yes, I concur,” Peregrine chimed in, his words muffled by a mouthful of food. His sudden interjection felt utterly out of place, yet undeniably Peregrine. He chewed and swallowed, deliberately slowly, before glancing between Julian and Alistair, a smirk irritatingly plastered across his face. “What are you staring at? You are quite ruining my appetite.”
As always, Peregrine’s unnecessary provocations grated on Julian’s nerves. The fellow was insufferable, no matter how Julian viewed him. Ignoring him, Julian turned back to Alistair. “Leave Thorne alone.”
“Who in blazes are you to dictate my actions?” Alistair shot back, his face tightening.
“It is… vexing for the rest of us to observe.” Julian did not blink as he met Alistair’s furious gaze. Alistair slammed his fist onto the table with a thunderous impact. Thorne, who had been sitting awkwardly on the edge of his seat, flinched and squeezed his eyes shut. Peregrine, on the other hand, chuckled lazily, raising a hand in a gesture of mock surrender.
“Count me out of this particular fracas.” He licked a bead of water from his lips and added, “Let us decide by majority vote. I am neutral. Julian wishes him gone, and Alistair insists he remains.”
For the record, Peregrine was one of the few who consistently referred to Julian as “Julian” rather than “Beaumont,” and Julian found it irritating every single time. That irritation, a mere ripple in the storm, now surfaced in his tone. “Stop interjecting. Your vote does not even count.”
“Why not? There is another person right there.” Peregrine, unfazed, smirked and gestured with a casual flick of his hand towards Thorne. “What? Is Mr. Thorne not a person?”
“You are… insufferable.”
“Why is he so quiet? Let him articulate his own desire.” As if Thorne could possibly speak in this charged atmosphere. Julian sighed at Peregrine’s thoughtless antics, picked up his spoon, and idly stirred his rice. That was when Alistair tapped his finger on the table, a slow, deliberate rhythm.
“If you depart now, Thorne, consider yourself… utterly ruined from this day forward.”
Tears welled in Thorne’s large eyes, shimmering as he looked at Julian, a silent, desperate plea for help. Julian’s lips pressed into a thin, grim line.
“It is quite alright. I shall intervene,” Julian said, striving to offer Thorne reassurance.
“Beaumont,” Alistair growled, his voice tight with anger.
Julian forced himself to meet Alistair’s gaze, feigning a calm he did not feel, battling an overwhelming urge to break down entirely. To suppress it, he looked up at the refectory ceiling for a brief moment before lowering his head and replying, as nonchalantly as he could manage, “What is it?”
“You…” Alistair clenched his fist, glaring at Julian with an intensity that felt capable of searing through him. Still, Julian had to endure it. His instincts screamed that he could not abandon Thorne to Alistair’s devices.
But Alistair’s focus shifted, once again, back to Thorne.
“I-I’ll go,” Thorne stammered, his voice trembling uncontrollably.
“…”
“Th-thank you, Julian.”
Thorne hurriedly stood, his footsteps unsteady, and practically fled the refectory. As soon as he was gone, Alistair turned abruptly, his gaze, now cold and sharp, burning into Julian’s. The facade Julian had so carefully constructed felt like brittle glass, cracking further with every beat of his racing heart.