Alistair. My given name is Alistair. Finch is the burden of my lineage, a name that clings to the earth. Yet some here, particularly after that first Michaelmas term, persist in branding me ‘Finch’ as if it were my sole appellation, a mark of my station. Thorne Beaumont, with his unsettling knack for formalizing trivialities, was the first to adopt it. He, above all others, seemed to relish the sound. Since then, it has been ‘Finch.’ Though a select few, those too inconsequential to truly matter, still utter 'Alistair.' A triviality, but one that pricks.
Beaumont, in every conceivable metric, was my inverse. From his towering, careless posture to the sun-kissed hue of his skin, a stark contrast to my own pallor, he embodied an opposing force. Academically, he idled near the bottom of the form, yet his intellectual pursuits, though unorthodox, were fiercely keen. I, meanwhile, navigated the upper echelons with a meticulous, desperate diligence.
Did I immediately dismiss him upon our initial encounter? My pragmatic view of the social strata dictated I should. Every soul, I believed, possessed its rightful, immutable place. Yes, I should have. Yet, with Beaumont, the customary disdain faltered. When first our paths crossed, his light, almost golden eyes, held a force that resonated, demanding a recognition I was loath to grant.
Beaumont possessed a unique resonance. It was not a vulgar perfume, but a subtle intoxication, a dangerous allure that clung to him like a second skin. Perhaps the lingering essence of expensive tobacco, aged leather, and something undefinable — the very essence of his casual disregard. Like a moth drawn to a clandestine flame, I found myself unwittingly snared in the orbit of his brazen candour, compelled to converse, to orbit.
I often sought common ground between us. Surface-level affinities, such as our shared position within the academy’s more visible cliques, or our respective origins from families of means. Aethelgard Academy, in its ancient wisdom, drew from two distinct tributaries: the venerable estates of the landed gentry and the bustling, often precarious, fortunes of the burgeoning industrialist class.
Fortunately, my own lineage, though modest by the standards of Beaumont, granted me passage from the latter, the more 'respectable' side. Not merely of means, but of a specific, albeit lesser, gentry that still commanded a sliver of social purchase. Born an only son to parents whose aspirations were pinned to my academic performance, I grasped this fragile privilege. It was this, this singular, fragile justification, that allowed me to approach Beaumont without a complete loss of dignity. We became companions, by his design.
Just as I navigated the treacherous currents of academia with precise calculation, Beaumont navigated the intricate social hierarchies with an effortless, almost brutal, grace. He drew the academy’s most influential, most dangerous, elements to his side, and within a mere month, his writ ran unchallenged across the West Wing. Thorne Beaumont was, without question, the most notorious figure in our year.
---
The heavy oak door before me, grim and unyielding, remained shut for what felt an age. My stomach clenched, a hollow knot of apprehension tightening with each passing moment. Just as my hand instinctively reached to rub the ache, a soft click. The door eased open a fraction. Through the narrow gap, I glimpsed Beaumont’s flushed skin, a crimson stain high on his cheekbones. His hand, still reddened, released the latch. It began to swing shut again. I slipped inside, desperation a cold prickle against my skin.
Within the chamber, Beaumont already occupied the rumpled bed. He wore only his trousers, barely fastened, a thin cigarette clenched between his teeth, gnawed rather than smoked. His gaze, languid and heavy-lidded, flickered to me.
“Damn it all. My father’s hounds are baying again. Answer his summons if he rings, Finch. Tell him we were… engaged in our studies.”
He idly clicked a silver lighter open and closed, the small snap echoing in the close air. He made no move to ignite the cigarette. But his countenance bespoke a profound indolence, a lingering satiation that curdled my stomach. I approached, rubbing the raw knot beneath my waistcoat, and plucked the abused cigarette from his lips.
“Why should I, Beaumont?” My voice was sharper than intended.
“Because, Finch,” he drawled, a faint smirk playing on his lips, “we are… companions.”
Companions. The way he stretched the word, drawing out its syllables, always struck me as oddly melancholic. It felt as if my chest were being rent asunder. I kept my expression an impassive mask.
“Consider it a debt, then. One I shall exact payment for, in due course.”
“As you wish,” he murmured, the smirk widening. “My gratitude.”
The air hung heavy, cloying with the mingled scents of something illicit – perhaps an expensive, exotic perfume, clashing with the stale tang of fine claret and the faint, unmistakable residue of another’s presence. Feminine and fleeting. Frankly, it was Beaumont who had, through his various illicit escapades, educated me in the particular nuances of such scents.
Whispers clung to Beaumont like the cloying mist outside – tales of midnight revelries in London, of forged passes into exclusive clubs, of tutors paid handsomely to look the other way. Even in his early years at the preparatory school, the rumours suggested a precocious libertinism. It was said he’d lost his innocence in the school’s very vestry, with a classmate. The narratives spoke for themselves.
His appearance, even then, defied his years. Most who encountered Beaumont for the first time assumed him to be a man of twenty-five, not a mere student. His bold, defined features lent him a brooding, sophisticated aura. Once he entered Aethelgard, he openly frequented certain establishments beyond the academy gates whenever boredom struck. Money was no object, and somehow, he procured convincing documentation of an adult birth year. He brandished it with an audacious confidence, ensnaring alluring women, turning casual liaisons into a regular pastime. His striking looks served as a potent veil for his hedonistic lifestyle. Individually, his eyes, nose, and mouth were not particularly remarkable. Yet, assembled, they formed an inexplicably captivating visage. His refined aura led many to believe him far older than his actual age.
I scanned the chamber as if searching for some tangible evidence of the night’s indiscretions, though the gesture was hollow. The heavy atmosphere, thick with the aftermath of his escapade, caused a wave of nausea to ripple through me.
“Where is Croft?”
“He departed some hours ago.” Beaumont waved a dismissive hand.
“...”
“That scoundrel is quite mad, when one truly considers him. A farce.”
Beaumont rested his chin upon his hand, a soft, cynical chuckle escaping him. I frowned. Julian Croft. The second most irksome individual to grace the academy's venerable halls.
Croft only cultivated his close acquaintance with Beaumont in our second year. As much as I loathed the admission, their incessant proximity lent credence to the idea of a genuine companionship. When Beaumont’s notoriety held sway over the West Wing, Julian Croft commanded his own formidable reputation within the East. Still, our paths rarely intersected. My only glimpses of him were within the communal dining hall, a cavernous space shared by students from both wings.
Once, during luncheon, a classmate nudged my shoulder with an elbow, whispering, “That’s Croft, over there.” Curious, I rose slightly on my toes to survey the throng. Among the sea of black-coated figures, a tall, sharply angular young man stood out. I knew it was he, instantly.
“He bears the look of a malicious disposition,” I observed.
One of Beaumont’s more eager acolytes, lingering nearby, agreed, “Indeed, a touch. They say he’s singularly self-absorbed.”
I offered a dismissive smirk, a half-hearted nod masking a deeper, almost unsettling recognition. As much as I despised the truth, I understood why he and Beaumont found themselves in a strange, often unspoken, rivalry. That only served to deepen my antipathy, yet I found my gaze unwilling to stray.
A dazzling gloom—that was my initial, peculiar impression of Julian Croft.
By chance, our eyes met. It was uncanny that he noticed my scrutiny amidst the clamour of the dining hall, so many gazes fixed upon him. His long, assessing eyes and thin pupils made a striking impression. Reflexively, I flinched, as if struck by a hurled stone.
‘What are you staring at?’ His lips, I imagined, formed the words. He narrowed one eye at me. Honestly, a chill of intimidation traced my spine. I feigned disinterest, turning away. Then, loud enough for the fellow beside me to clearly hear, I uttered:
“He resembles a viper.”
Thereafter, Croft and I often made eye contact, a silent, almost ritualistic acknowledgment. Whenever our gazes locked, he would lower his head, a subtle refusal to engage, only to look up moments later, his eyes seeking mine once more. Nine times out of ten, he was the first to yield, but occasionally, I found myself mimicking his retreat. I ceased counting the instances after the eighteenth encounter.
---
As if by some perverse orchestration, Beaumont and I found ourselves assigned to the same form again for our second year. While a clandestine flicker of satisfaction ignited within me, a familiar, unwelcome face soon appeared. It was truly surprising—and utterly infuriating. For the first time, I was afforded a proper, sustained view of the man behind the infamous reputation: Julian Croft.
It was Croft who addressed me first, with an infuriatingly casual air.
“Finch. Shall we break bread at the same table this evening?”
Damn it all.
And just as everyone within the academy’s gossiping circles had anticipated, Beaumont and Croft cultivated a form of companionship. Beaumont, a man who relished the reflection of his own brilliance in others, found Croft—a subtle rival, yet undeniably his equal in cunning and command—a suitable mirror. Croft was masculine, successful among his peers, and undeniably well-regarded. Their alliance, if not a friendship in the traditional sense, was an inevitability.
In our forms, the whispered debate often arose: should Beaumont and Croft clash, who would prevail? From my own analytical perspective, a true, physical confrontation between them was inconceivable. While Beaumont and I were superficially opposites, Beaumont and Croft were remarkably similar in their underlying ambition and predatory intellect.
Yet, a stark distinction set them apart.
Croft possessed a strange, almost puritanical streak. Despite his carefully dishevelled hair and the sardonic twist to his lips, he sometimes affected the demeanour of a zealous moralist. For instance, when Beaumont found himself aroused, he would simply choose a suitable companion and retire for the evening. When questioned about his nightly escapades, he would proudly recount his steamy early morning adventures. Croft, by contrast, would merely scoff at the typical lewd remarks, sometimes mocking them outright by seizing the arm of a portly student and squeezing until a yelp escaped.
“This specimen possesses a bosom more ample than most debutantes. Grope him instead. And truly, fellow, you appear quite ghastly. Invest in a proper corset, would you? Cease parading such offensive lumps.” Even his crude remarks were laced with an acidic sarcasm.
Yet, when the opportunity arose, Croft would utter something bafflingly earnest, such as, “My honour is reserved for the family name, and the Lord of my future.” That was the undeniable difference. Beaumont once offered him forged documents—a courtesy he had never extended to me—but Croft dismissed the notion as a vulgar frivolity, refusing outright.
Beaumont’s circle found Croft’s eccentricities endlessly entertaining. I did not. The reason was simple: his insidious proximity to Beaumont. They wandered the grounds like intimate associates. That alone was sufficient cause for my simmering resentment, a bitter draught of jealousy.
Still, I managed to maintain a civil façade with Croft. One of my dubious strengths was the ability to conceal my true sentiments, regardless of the circumstance. Besides, he was close to Beaumont. Yes, everything in my precarious social landscape revolved around Thorne Beaumont.
To be honest, there were more days when self-loathing consumed me for such pathetic subservience than there were days I spent truly contemplating Beaumont. I often felt like an utter fool. But even so, I remained chained to this pattern.
As Beaumont muttered a few parting words before disappearing into the adjoining dressing room for a shower, I sat lost in thought. A few minutes later, the insistent trill of his telephone broke the silence. Fresh from his ablutions, Beaumont retrieved the instrument from the bedside table and tossed it to me. I caught it. On the other end, the imperious tones of his father resonated.
Clearing my throat, I assumed my most composed, academic voice. Why, I wondered, was I even striving for this charade?
“Alistair Finch speaking, my Lord.”
“Finch? Are you with my son, Thorne, at present?”
“Indeed, my Lord, I am.”
“Ah, I see. I worried unnecessarily. I feared Thorne might be engaged in some… less than academic pursuit. You possess such a reassuring timbre to your voice, Finch.”
“Thank you, my Lord.”
“No, truly. How fares your morning?”
“It fares well, thank you. And your Lordship?”
“The same. You speak with such polished refinement. If only Thorne possessed half your manners. That boy is an absolute barbarian. So, you were engaged in your studies together?”
“Yes, my Lord. Thorne, I daresay, must have forgotten to apprise you. He has been rather immersed in preparing for the Michaelmas examinations.”
“So, you have been at his side this entire time?”
“Yes, my Lord. He has been with me, without interruption.”
“Well, that is a profound relief. If he is with you, Finch, I can rest easy.”
“It is nothing, my Lord, truly.”
“No, it is something. When he is in your company, he cannot embroil himself in mischief.”
“Rest assured, my Lord. I shall ensure his safe return to the academy halls.”
“Good. Take care of him, Finch. Remain friends, and do not quarrel.”
“Yes, my Lord, of course. Farewell.”
Lies, expertly woven, flowed effortlessly from my lips.
Upon ending the call, I tossed the telephone back to Beaumont, who offered a curt “My thanks” while fastening his shirt. Without another word, I turned to depart. Beaumont made no move to detain me.
“Later, Finch.” That was the extent of his farewell.
It was to be expected. This was the meagre sum of our relationship. The vast, unbridgeable chasm between us was laid painfully bare. Perhaps that was why I quickened my pace, hurrying from the oppressive chamber. On my hasty retreat through the academy grounds, my throat ached, a dry, inexplicable constriction.