A peculiar disquiet settled in the very marrow of Julian Beaumont’s bones. He found himself consumed by an insatiable curiosity, a parasitic itch, regarding Barnaby and Caius Finch’s interactions now that Caius was back within Ashworth’s hallowed walls. What transpires between them after the last lecture bell rings? How do their paths diverge, or, more worryingly, converge, through the labyrinthine corridors and quadrangles?
He had observed Caius’s quiet retreat from the lecture hall, usually following a discreet interval after Barnaby’s boisterous exit. It seemed improbable they walked abreast, yet a persistent image plagued Julian: Caius, a young man of considerable height and presence, trailing Barnaby like a shadow, clinging to proximity. Even as this notion took root, a prickle of dread traced Julian’s spine. It felt akin to prying open a forbidden reliquary, exposing not merely despair, but a cruel, insidious hope that mocked his better judgment.
Indeed, a tiny casket, best left sealed, containing not only ruin but a tantalising sliver of possibility. Knowing its perils, one still yearns to peek within.
“...I must be quite mad.”
His faculties were clearly compromised. Despite this self-admonition, Julian found himself, on a particularly grey afternoon, veering his path to follow Caius from the library. Keeping a cautious distance, he ensured Barnaby would remain oblivious to his tail.
He did not pursue far. Caius paused near the archway leading to the ancient botanic gardens, his gaze fixed intently upon Barnaby’s receding figure. Faded stone, ivy-choked walls, a rusted iron gate leading to a forgotten path, and the ubiquitous Ashworth dust motes dancing in shafts of weak sunlight defined the tableau. Barnaby in the lead, Caius silently following, and Julian, a distant observer. It struck Julian as profoundly pathetic, a scene thick with unspoken longing. He turned back, a grimace tightening his jaw.
Later, in his dimly lit study, the gas lamp a solitary star against the gloom, Julian reflected on his restraint. A surge of satisfaction warmed him. Curiosity had nearly claimed him, but what horrors might he have witnessed had he pressed on? Ignorance, in this case, proved a potent balm. To merely flirt with Pandora’s box was wisdom enough; to fully unlatch it, an unforgivable folly.
Barnaby’s fixation on Caius intensified, an almost palpable pressure in the air. Caius, in turn, seemed to shrink from Barnaby’s intensity, perhaps repulsed, perhaps merely discomforted. Repulsion seemed the likelier truth. How could one feel anything but disdain for a tormentor? A perverse sense of relief settled over Julian. He had, after all, allowed Barnaby’s earlier aggressions towards Caius to proceed unchecked. Perhaps it had been for the best.
Julian laced his fingers behind his head, his gaze drawn to the ornate plasterwork of the ceiling. The delicate cornices and plaster roses spoke of generations of inherited comfort. He had been born to privilege, an only child, rarely denied a whim. Everything had always seemed within his grasp.
“...Damn it all.”
He had once believed himself immune to such base frustrations. Until, that is, he had found himself irrevocably, undeniably, drawn to Barnaby. That scoundrel had, with brutal efficiency, unveiled the merciless truth: life seldom bends to one’s will. Julian suspected Barnaby was learning that bitter lesson too.
Ah, the world could be a singularly cruel mistress.
At least Julian had cultivated the art of self-control, mastering the subtle concealment of his true affections. Barnaby, however, was so consumed by his emotions that he seemed oblivious to the raw intensity of his own gaze when fixed upon Caius. This sudden, abnormal fervour must surely unsettle Caius.
Julian understood Barnaby’s plight intimately, having endured a similar crucible. Yet, where Julian had learned to bear it in silence, Barnaby seemed incapable. Consequently, instead of subtly wooing Caius, Barnaby’s actions frequently earned him outright aversion. This, for Julian, was a convenient development.
“Pray, remain utterly oblivious,” Julian murmured into the quiet room.
Or better yet, let Caius weary of Ashworth and depart. Julian harboured no deluded hope that Barnaby would then turn his attention to him. Indeed, such a prospect held a terrifying allure. Julian simply yearned for the day he no longer harboured feelings for Barnaby, and for Barnaby to find solace elsewhere. A simple, impossible wish. For the world rarely deigned to fulfil such desires.
Another unsettling shift occurred. Barnaby, who had previously indulged in a succession of rather notorious liaisons – whispered about in hushed tones over port in common rooms – now found ways to position himself near Caius. In the common study, he began to occupy a desk two rows ahead of Caius, ostensibly for better light. It meant his broad shoulders frequently obstructed Julian’s view of the blackboard during Professor Alistair’s logic lectures. Caius’s original desk-mate, a fellow named Fitzwilliam, offered Julian an awkward, apologetic glance, a tight smile caught between embarrassment and mild irritation.
“Evening, Beaumont.”
Julian exchanged a brief, curt nod with Fitzwilliam. He was not interested in pleasantries.
Barnaby sat beside Caius during a particularly dry lecture on Classical Greek syntax, utterly silent throughout the entire hour. Julian, from his vantage point across the room, found himself praying—no, desperately wishing—they might remain thus, frozen in this brittle, uncomfortable tension, for the remainder of their academic careers. That one day, this agonizing tableau would fade into a forgotten, indistinct dream.
Another alteration presented itself. Barnaby, whose weekends had once been synonymous with boisterous excursions to questionable establishments, appeared to have curtailed his more public indulgences. Or so it seemed. From the scattered snippets of gossip Rhys sometimes relayed from the smoking rooms, the profligacy hadn’t ceased entirely. Yet, he no longer boasted of his conquests during morning tutorials, nor did the faint, cloying scent of cheap perfume cling to his person.
For Julian, this was a small mercy. He no longer had to endure the ignominy of proximity to Barnaby’s debauched escapades.
“Barnaby, old chap, no more messing about then? Like this?”
Percival, a lanky fellow from Barnaby’s coterie, swayed suggestively, hands gesturing towards his lower regions with vulgar pantomime. Barnaby’s face tightened into a scowl. Glancing sharply in Caius’s direction, Barnaby snapped back.
“You oaf! I told you to cease that vulgar display in public!”
“Why the sudden prudishness, eh?”
“Mention it again, Percival, and you’ll regret it.”
“Oh, come now, Barnaby—”
“I said, hold your tongue!”
“...Very well.”
The others in the group visibly deflated. Barnaby, with his imposing build and air of jaded experience, had once served as a magnetic conduit for the burgeoning curiosities of Ashworth’s more adventurous students. Most of Barnaby’s companions had already dabbled in forbidden territories. Compared to the truly naive, they were easily stirred. With Barnaby’s reticence, their attention predictably drifted to Rhys. But Rhys merely bared his teeth in an expression of undisguised disgust.
“Filthy perverts.”
“Ah, there he goes again! Rhys and his tiresome moralising!”
“Such a zealous fellow. Honestly, what a waste.”
Laughter rippled through the common room, brief and dismissive. Most of their set had, at some point, ventured into forbidden territory, but for some inscrutable reason, Rhys Davies had not. They teased him good-naturedly, dubbing him 'The Vestal Rhys,' though no one dared to truly disrespect him. He was Rhys Davies, after all. He possessed a certain insouciant charm, his actions casual, his barbed wit easy to absorb. Many found him appealing, often remarking on how his amiable disposition belied his rather intimidating countenance.
“Davies, you imbecile, stop glaring at me. You’ll make me spill my claret.”
“Indeed, that fellow’s got an unsettling gaze.”
“Do you dolts have a death wish?”
Rhys scowled, and the group erupted in further laughter, though the jest had worn thin. A few hangers-on at the back of the room, perhaps more acquaintances than friends, contributed their sycophantic chuckles. Sitting amongst them, Julian stared blankly at his own lap, lost in thought.
...
If memory served, he had never felt a genuine stirring of ardour for a woman. By default, it made him, from birth, entirely inclined towards his own sex. He had experienced arousal watching illustrated accounts of various liaisons, but never once, during his solitary vices, had his imagination conjured a female form. The former seemed to be about the sheer intensity of the situation, the latter, a complete absence of desire. He had, at Barnaby’s insistent urging, once attempted to enter a notorious private club. No luck; he lacked the requisite identification. He had waited outside until Barnaby’s return. Brothels? Repugnant. The mere thought of such places filled him with a visceral revulsion. Why any man would seek them out remained an enduring mystery.
Due to these perceived peculiarities, his acquaintances occasionally, jokingly, referred to him as ‘Julian the Ascetic.’ In truth, his abstinence was less a choice, more a forced reality.
He exhaled a quiet sigh.
The others were too preoccupied with Rhys’s latest anecdote to notice. Seizing the moment, Julian glanced at Barnaby, who sat silently. His gaze was fixed, as ever, on the back of Caius Finch’s head, where Caius meticulously studied some Latin text across the room.
And, as always, Julian regretted it. Why had he looked? Why the perennial curiosity? To distract himself, he posed a pointless question to Rhys.
“Davies, do you genuinely intend to remain celibate until you marry?”
Rhys, lounging in his chair with proprietary ease, suddenly fixed his gaze directly upon Julian’s lap. The intensity of it was so discomfiting that Julian instinctively crossed his legs. What in heaven’s name?
“You are not my intended, Beaumont, so why the impertinent inquiry? What, are you offering your services?”
...
Of course. Rhys always laced his observations with such malicious wit. The others guffawed, and Julian delivered a sharp kick to Rhys’s shin. Such was the monotonous rhythm of his days—a constant, wearying repetition.
---
Alone in his rooms, Julian often found himself adrift in thought, contemplating a myriad of scenarios. Inevitably, these musings occasionally spiralled into strange, forbidden fantasies.
Today, his mind wandered to what might have been, had his affections settled upon Rhys Davies rather than Barnaby. It would surely have been a less torturous predicament. Had he loved Rhys, he would, at the very least, have been spared the exquisite heartbreak caused by Barnaby’s entangled relationships with others.
Even so, heartbreak would still be his constant companion.
Neither Barnaby nor Rhys, after all, would ever return his affections. But at least his heart would not ache with the particular agony inspired by Caius Finch’s existence.
This train of thought inexorably led to familiar feelings of inferiority and a dull, simmering anger. In the end, he simply yearned to graduate, to put Ashworth and Barnaby behind him, to become a stranger once more.
---
At some point, Julian had unconsciously acquired the habit of placing his hands beneath his desk whenever he sat down, ostensibly to adjust his study lamp or shuffle papers. This furtive practice had begun in his second year at Ashworth, and the cause was invariably the same—other men. As he idly fiddled with the buckle of his trousers, a familiar debate commenced in his mind. Should he? Or should he not? A faint, rhythmic click of metal against his nails filled the quiet room. Just as he applied a deliberate pressure with his thumb to unfasten the buckle, a sharp rap sounded at his door.
“Beaumont? Are you at your studies?” It was Professor Alistair’s voice, unmistakable.
“...Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!”
The sudden intrusion nearly propelled his heart from his chest. Clearly, the fates had conspired against him this evening. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms. Damn it all.
---
Lately, Barnaby had become an especially grating presence.
Sometimes, when Caius’s gaze inadvertently flickered towards Julian, Barnaby would deliberately interject, initiating a robust conversation with Caius. Caius, caught in the awkward crossfire, would glance briefly at Julian, his lips parting as if to speak, only to close again. Then, as if keenly aware of Barnaby’s possessive scrutiny, he would lower his head, offering a barely audible response.
“Y-yes, Barnaby…”
Such was the pattern. Caius, perhaps emboldened by Julian’s previous intervention, began subtly seeking him out more, even daring to address him simply as ‘Julian.’ Aside from a handful of family members, almost no one called him that, making the change strikingly noticeable. Caius seemed to believe he was being discreet, but he was far from it. The most infuriating aspect was Barnaby’s inability to conceal his discomfort whenever Caius attempted any gesture of familiarity.
“Caius Finch, stop bothering Mr. Beaumont while he’s engaged in his studies.”
“What?”
“Cease bothering him. Do you not comprehend?”
“Oh... uh, y-yes...”
When Caius stammered and avoided his gaze, Barnaby, with a childish display of pique, slammed his fist against the leg of the desk beside him. Julian feigned utter obliviousness. Annoyingly, the rather naive Caius seemed to think his use of ‘Julian’ no longer drew unwanted attention. He grew bolder, using the name with increasing casualness, as if it were a perfectly normal address.
“Uh, Julian... I apologise for disturbing your concentration.”
Julian stiffened, staring at Caius in disbelief. Was the man insane? Barnaby was seated barely a yard away.
Predictably, Barnaby pounded his fist on the desk once more. Confound it all.
“You! Caius Finch!”
“...Huh?”
The atmosphere soured instantaneously.
“I informed you.” Barnaby’s anger was blatant, a low growl.
“I told you not to call him ‘Julian,’ did I not?”
“...W-well...”
“Address him as Mr. Beaumont. That is his name—Mr. Beaumont.”
His gaze, sharp and almost predatory, swivelled to fix upon Julian. Julian despised that look and instinctively lowered his head, feeling a flush creep up his neck. At that precise moment, Rhys, seated beside him, casually draped an arm over Julian’s shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured near Julian’s ear.
“Barnaby, if you continue down this path, you’ll truly make a fool of yourself.”
“What in blazes are you talking about, Davies?”
“I’m saying you’ll live to regret it.”
Rhys smirked, and Julian felt a flicker of irritation. For one reason only. Barnaby’s anger intensified, his jaw visibly clenching, but his fury was now split between Caius and Rhys. For a moment, a fragile peace returned to Julian. A small, fleeting victory.