Alistair’s Keeper. The appellation clung to Julian like an ill-fitting, threadbare cloak, its weight a constant, dull ache beneath his scapula. Each utterance, each fleeting thought of it, served as a stark reminder of the precipice he now stood upon, gazing into the chasm of adulthood. It felt foreign, this newfound responsibility, a garment not merely unfamiliar but fashioned for another man entirely.
Night upon night, Julian wrestled with the unbidden mantle of guardianship, a burden inherited not by blood, but by a twisted confluence of circumstance and a pragmatic streak he rarely acknowledged. His days at Ashworth College, once solely devoted to the hallowed pursuit of knowledge, now fractured into a relentless, demanding rhythm.
Mornings were a blur of classical Greek and ancient Sumerian cuneiform, followed by hurried luncheon at the refectory, the scent of boiled mutton doing little to stir his appetite. Afternoons saw him slip away, a ghost through the cloistered quadrangles, bound for the Finch Sanatorium.
Lectures, once sacred, became mere background noise. His mind, usually a voracious sponge for intricate syntaxes and obscure lexicons, now wandered to the hushed corridors of the infirmary, to the particular tilt of Alistair’s head when lost in thought. Julian, ever the meticulous scholar, found his notes growing sparse, his marginalia less insightful.
A heavy sigh escaped him each evening as the carriage pulled up to the imposing wrought-iron gates of the sanatorium. Yet, as he stepped into the reception hall, a pale figure invariably emerged from the antechamber, animated beyond his usual languor. Alistair Finch, with a quick, uneven gait, would rush forward, as if a precisely wound mechanism, patiently awaiting its key.
And just as reliably, Alistair would unburden himself, a torrent of grievances cascading forth, recounting the day’s indignities within the sterile walls.
“They speak of another round of treatments, Julian. Ah, the sheer tedium of it all! My constitution, though somewhat weakened, yearns for substance, not this gruel fit only for infants. And the incessant ticking of that clock in the day-room… one is driven to distraction, I assure you.”
The stream of complaints, delivered with a genuine downturn of his lips, rendered Alistair no different from a frustrated schoolboy, trapped in a grand, gilded cage.
Julian offered a small, barely perceptible sigh. His hand delved into his satchel, its leather worn smooth from years of scholarly transport. A faint, cloying sweetness, the scent of baked goods, now permeated the rich aroma of old parchment and leather dressing. A grimace touched Julian’s lips, fleeting yet potent.
But a deeper distaste for carrying the offending package openly had won out.
“What is it?” Alistair’s voice, initially laced with his familiar petulance, now softened, edged with a nascent curiosity. A peculiar light entered his eyes, chasing away the gloom.
From the satchel, Julian produced a small, carefully wrapped box. It contained an offering, simple yet potent.
“A modest confection. Mrs. Gable’s latest. I inquired, and they informed me your digestion has improved sufficiently for such a treat.” Julian’s tone remained detached, formal.
“A confection?” Alistair repeated, the word a small, bright thing on his tongue.
“Do not imbue it with undue significance,” Julian added, a slight edge to his voice. “It was merely a convenient stop on my route.”
Yet, the very counsel he offered, he himself had already transgressed. The memory of his meticulous search, the precise directions he’d extracted from a porter regarding a purveyor of wholesome, palatable fare suitable for a convalescent gentleman, remained a carefully guarded secret. He wished to project an image of detached benevolence, an act of pure, unadorned kindness, nothing more.
But even that seemed to be more than enough for Alistair.
He scratched behind his ear, a nervous gesture. The skin there, Julian noted, was flushed pink. His gaze drifted downwards, drawn, as if by an invisible thread, to Alistair’s right hand. The fingers, especially the little and ring, did not quite straighten. They curled slightly, stiff, bearing the lingering legacy of his unfortunate fall.
Julian’s features tightened almost imperceptibly. Why did that slight, almost imperceptible deformity so captivate him? Why could he not simply avert his gaze? A quiet constriction settled in his chest.
“—T-Thank you.” The words were soft, uncharacteristically subdued. Alistair glanced at Julian, a fleeting meeting of eyes, then quickly averted his own, fumbling with the ribbon on the box. Was it genuine surprise, or a practiced display of discomfort at being caught in such a vulnerable moment? As if detection would lead to some form of unspoken censure.
Julian watched Alistair devour the pastry, crumbs scattering on the linen cloth, a singular, unselfconscious focus in his movements. He leaned back against the plush velvet settee, his body betraying a profound weariness.
It was an untidy sight, this raw, almost animalistic consumption.
Alistair’s right hand, specifically his little, ring, and middle fingers, still refused to fully obey. Julian could not discern if this was genuine impairment, or merely an exaggerated display for his benefit. Slowly, Julian shifted forward, taking the small fork from Alistair’s hand.
“Perhaps a little more of the fruit tart?” he murmured.
“...” Alistair paused, his mouth full, his eyes wide.
“The strawberry, then.”
At the very least, Julian felt a peculiar, insistent duty to acknowledge the truth of Alistair’s wounds, both visible and unseen. Alistair, his lips smeared with pastry, lowered his head slightly, a small, unreadable smile playing upon his lips. Julian found himself utterly confounded.
Why this creature, whose fingers were permanently marred, whose spirit was so often shadowed by the confines of his convalescence, could still summon such a smile, Julian could not fathom. He truly, utterly, did not understand.
He could not bring himself to look directly at that bright, unsettling cheerfulness. What could possibly be so amusing? If it were Julian in that predicament, he suspected he would simply wish for oblivion.
Julian selected a perfectly ripe strawberry half and offered it to Alistair’s waiting mouth. Alistair chewed with vigour, the smile never quite leaving his face.
This young man, Alistair Finch, always managed to disturb Julian’s carefully constructed composure.
---.
Truthfully, the reason for the confection, and for his visit that day, had less to do with Alistair’s delicate constitution, and more to do with an encounter at Finch Hall the preceding afternoon.
It was the second time Julian had called upon the Finch family estate since Alistair’s riding accident. To his surprise, he still possessed the special pass, granted by Mr. Finch himself, allowing him access to the family’s private collections and, by extension, to Alistair’s personal effects. In all his dealings with Alistair, Julian had only ever encountered his immediate family three times within the sanatorium walls.
Once, a brief, formal visit from Mr. Finch. Twice, an even more perfunctory appearance by Mrs. Finch. Alistair’s mother, in particular, adopted a saccharine gentility towards Julian, as if offering a tacit reward for his assumption of the filial duties she had so readily delegated. During her last visit, Alistair had merely rested his chin in his hand, his gaze fixed on his mother’s retreating back, an unreadable expression on his pale face.
Julian’s purpose in visiting Finch Hall had been simple enough: to collect a fresh selection of books, some drawing paper, and a particular silver-mounted pipe that Alistair had requested. He knew, better than anyone, the crushing ennui of prolonged confinement within an infirmary. Having endured his own period of recovery following a childhood mishap, he understood precisely the small comforts that could stave off despair.
He had convinced himself it was merely a pragmatic act. Not sympathy. Certainly not affection.
That day, instead of returning directly to his Ashworth rooms, Julian had chosen to commute from his humble lodgings in the town. On his way, he had stopped at Finch Hall.
The imposing mansion, with its grand, if somewhat austere, façade, had welcomed him as always. But Lady Eleanor Finch, Alistair’s elder sister, had not. Julian found her in the antechamber of Alistair’s personal study, leaning against the polished oak panelling, a faint scent of lilies clinging to her elegant silk gown. Her voice, when she spoke, was as dry as old parchment.
“Still playing tutor to my brother, Beaumont?” Her tone suggested disdain, not inquiry.
Julian felt a flicker of quiet indignation. How could she, Alistair’s own sister, maintain such a detached, almost casual, indifference to his plight? That instinctual sense of familial obligation, ingrained even in Julian’s own more humble upbringing, made him silently, perhaps unfairly, judge her. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it, until her words, like a cold draught, made him acutely aware.
He clamped his mouth shut, his hands continuing to arrange Alistair’s requested items in his satchel.
“Indeed.” His voice was clipped.
“He’s become quite *fixated* on you, you know. Utterly absurd. The crazy bastard.”
Julian’s hand froze, mid-fasten on a leather strap. He turned, slowly, as if drawn by an unseen force.
“...Fixated on me?”
Lady Eleanor’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows arched. “What, does that disquiet you, Beaumont? Or does it, perhaps, flatter your academic sensibilities?”
“It does neither. I merely asked.”
“Nonsense. No one merely asks. One wishes to know, therefore one asks.” She muttered the last part under her breath, yet Julian caught every syllable. Disgusting.
Ignoring his presence, she stepped closer, a predatory grace in her movements. This family, it seemed, possessed an uncommon talent for disregarding the inconvenient.
“Tell me, where did you disappear to after you concluded your term at Eton?”
“I returned to my studies.” His reply was terse. The whole damned university town, he knew, was aware of his peculiar trajectory, the scholarship boy who had outshone his wealthier peers.
“It’s not as if I sought the information. But Alistair... he became quite unhinged, you see. A theatrical fit. That scoundrel, who rarely set foot in chapel, suddenly began to pray, a desperate, loud petitioning. Not long after, he tore apart the gilded rosary Father gave him—a family heirloom, you understand—and screamed profanities against Providence.”
“A rosary?” Julian felt a knot tighten in his stomach.
“Indeed. He used to hold it quite dear, you know. Spoke of it as a token of Father’s esteem. Then, suddenly, God was a ‘blind, deaf tyrant,’ a ‘cosmic jape.’ He then locked himself in his chambers and refused to emerge. Finch Hall, for a brief period, knew a blessed quiet. He simply refuses to see who the real villain of the piece is, the fool.” Her voice, which had dripped with mockery, suddenly dipped, hushed.
Perhaps it was the expression on Julian’s face.
“What on earth? Your face is quite flushed, Beaumont.”
“It is not.”
“Oh, but it is. Surely you do not... harbour some affection for him? Do you, for heaven’s sake?”
“I told you, no.” Julian’s voice was firm, though he felt a betraying heat creep up his neck.
“...Good heavens.” Lady Eleanor gasped, a gloved hand rising to cover her mouth, as if in genuine horror. “You are quite mad, Julian. Truly.”
Why did she persist in this absurd insinuation, despite his denials? Annoyed, Julian yanked the satchel’s zipper shut with a decisive snap. He felt a rare, sudden urge to retaliate, to wound her with a truth he’d only recently deduced.
“Why do you speak so to me? Your father intimated that Alistair was… something of a burdensome second son.”
“What in blazes are you babbling about now?” Her eyes narrowed, her composure momentarily fractured.
---.
A True Contradiction. The thought echoed in Julian’s mind. He knew it to be true. Professor Eldridge, his mentor in ancient languages, had once remarked, with a wry smile, that for all his detached academic rigour, Julian Beaumont always managed to perform an act of unexpected kindness in the end, no matter his initial, pragmatic intentions. But now, he possessed an unimpeachable excuse.
The faded, almost invisible scars that crisscrossed Alistair’s back, visible only when the sanatorium physician changed his dressings. Just as Alistair could not meet Julian’s eyes in moments of profound vulnerability, Julian found himself unable to dwell upon those silent testimonies to Alistair’s suffering.
“Julian.” Alistair’s voice, raspy from his earlier monologue, drew Julian from his reverie. “Yes?”
“Then… may I believe in you?” His voice, raw and low, seemed to creep closer, winding around Julian’s senses. Julian pretended not to heed its pull.
Yet, he listened.
“What precisely do you mean?”
“I shall not… cherish you.”
In that single, breathtaking instant, Julian’s carefully constructed composure shattered. His heart plummeted to the floorboards. His stomach twisted into a knot. A sharp, suffocating constriction tightened around his chest. The question almost escaped his lips, unbidden, primal: *Why not?*
The words were at the very threshold of utterance, and only then did he fully grasp the scandalous, forbidden nature of the query, the true, hidden yearning it would betray. *Julian Beaumont, you are a damned fool.* He clenched his fists, forcing the words back down, swallowing the bitter bile of his own unexpected revelation. Yes. This was for the best. For both of them.
“Then instead, I shall simply… believe in you.” Alistair’s words came, strange and unsettling, tangled with a peculiar blend of sorrow and a newfound, almost joyful, conviction. Like a disciple receiving a revelation. Was there any other way to describe him in this bewildering moment? Julian found himself unable to fully comprehend the meaning of Alistair’s pronouncement.
And yet, he did not pull his hand away, did not rise from the settee, did not flee.
The suffocating weight pressing upon his chest no longer merely squeezed; it pierced, a sharp, cold agony.
“I am an atheist now, Julian. Honestly, you are far more efficacious in my life than any distant deity in the heavens.”
“Silence, Alistair.” Julian’s voice was strained.
“You blaspheme with every breath.”
“No, not so! I was raised a devoted believer, you know! A pillar of Sunday devotion!”
“Then what, pray tell, was that just now?”
Alistair shook his hands frantically, as if his very existence depended upon his denial. His tone was desperate, on the verge of tears. If Julian did not believe him, he truly might weep.
Caught entirely off guard, Julian found himself speechless.
Then, as if a sudden resolve had seized him, Alistair slid off the settee. He dropped to his knees before Julian, a theatrical, almost ritualistic gesture.
“Then I shall demonstrate.”
“Alistair, what in heaven’s name are you doing?”
A large hand, surprisingly strong despite its damaged fingers, closed around Julian’s foot. Julian had been sitting with one leg propped idly on the settee, his foot dangling slightly. He slid forward, barely clinging to the edge of the seat, his foot now held captive in Alistair’s grasp.
Alistair’s gaze fell upon the faint, pale line across the sole of Julian’s foot, the scar from a shard of glass, long ago, during a forbidden scramble through the dusty stacks of the Ashworth library. His brow furrowed in concentration. And then, to Julian’s utter disbelief, Alistair’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
Julian jerked back, startled, attempting to pull his foot free. Before he could fully escape, Alistair lowered his head.
“What are you—”
“*In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti*,” Alistair murmured, the ancient Latin words a resonant whisper.
Cold fingertips brushed against Julian’s ankle, a sharp ache shooting up his calf, deep into his stomach. What in God’s name was this madman doing? Julian tried again to yank his foot free, but his strength, mysteriously, utterly abandoned him.
Alistair looked up at Julian, once. His face, startlingly, displayed not a single trace of revulsion, no hint of disgust. Instead, it was an expression of pure, unadulterated reverence.
Like a devout believer touching a sacred relic.
“I greet the tangible.”
He pressed his lips to the instep of Julian’s foot. His fine, soft hair brushed against Julian’s ankle, a light, unsettling tickle on his skin. The gentle pressure of Alistair’s lips traced a path across the delicate arch of his toes.
“S-Stop it…” Julian stammered, throwing an arm over his face, as if to ward off an unbearable sight.
Alistair’s right hand, the one with the weak, damaged fingers, tightened its grip on Julian’s ankle. And in that moment, a moment suspended outside time, Julian Beaumont ceased to resist.
Those three weak, slightly deformed fingers held him fast. A delicate, fragile pressure tapped lightly against his skin. The lips that, moments before, had cursed the heavens, now traced a slow, almost sensuous path up his calf.
And Julian did nothing to halt him. That’s when the chilling realization settled upon him.
This relentless, incurable entanglement—this nightmare of his young adulthood—had only just begun.