Work Text:
It didn't matter if the essay Patrick had written while high on speed was an atrocious mess of non sequiturs, hyperbole and shoddy citation - what mattered was that he hit the word target and handed it in, in the first place. Especially after the disaster of last week. He’d handed in his essay on Hopkins hideously late with yet another mass of apologies. His tutor had been suspiciously congenial in extending the deadline.
Patrick didn't want to push him further into making the other shoe to drop, better to not even think of the possibility of rustication. His work at Oxford was the only thing that gave him a shred of meaning in life. Else he could just as well OD in his flat in London, nothing to stop him there. (Not that he didn't already have a taxi waiting to take him to London, mind. Think of it… as a reward for getting work done.)
His essay planning may be out of sync but his cravings had long become like the better circadian rhythm. But for the clock on the mantle above the disused fireplace - with regret he’d noted that he’d never be able to kill himself with carbon monoxide poisoning… - he wouldn’t have been able to tell what time it was anyway, for he’d kept the windows closed and curtains drawn.He didn’t exactly want to display that he was sitting at his desk in his underwear, breathing in the stale two day old air, sweating with the exertion of writing. His title, ironically enough: “Drugs, Death and Debauchery: Colonialism and Opium Dens in British late Victorian Decadent Literature”. Not that he didn’t feel like a real-life Dorian Gray now and again.
He ripped the last page out of the typewriter to join the other ink-stained planes of wood pulp. Now - the only thing left to do: shower, get dressed and drag yourself to your tutor's pigeonhole. Then you can disappear to London until the tute tomorrow afternoon.
Wrapped in a bath robe and holding the first set of clothes he’d wear in a day, he stepped out of the darkness of his room to slink to the communal bathroom. Gathering the presence of mind to push open the door had taken a minute.
come on, come on, come on
He recoiled from the light on the stairway and the creaking floor boards. Dim, but still brighter than his desk lamp. He didn’t want to imagine the pain he’d be in if it was sunny outside. Don’t forget the sun glasses. A shower and shave later he discovered that: alas, it was.
'And the sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new'. Even with the sunglasses on he had to set down his bag and lean against the wood paneling in the hall for another minute to get used to the light and over the sudden vertigo. Footsteps. Stebbins from a floor above? Better to beat an escape to avoid him.
Squaring his shoulders he stepped out into the quad, the gravel underfoot jarring in his ear. The landscape gardener who had that idea should have been fucking fired - the gravel will ruins shoes. Whoopsie, nearly stepped on the grass there, Patrick. You really should be more careful, mon garçon. Not now. No voices. Not now. Unbidden images appear: the gravel gleams white, white like the crests of waves, white like the cliffs at Beachy Head plunging into the sea, white like gravelly beaches south of Lacoste. No, no. no.
Passing through the archway into the next quad, turning the corner towards the plodge he passed McDougal from his year. A nod, a smile and that conversation is evaded. But - McDougal seemed unusually tense, clutching a letter in his hand - bad news? He was usually such a jovial guy. A look over his shoulder but McDougal’s vanished.
“Good morning’ Mr Melrose.” Shit, of all the possible porters on duty and it had to be the head porter? Always seemed that bit too perceptive for comfort.
“Good morning Mr Hadley. I’d like to sign out please.” Please, just get the register. Just get the damn register. No small talk, please.
“How is the girl friend?” Ah yes, the sick fake girl friend in London that he’d invented to fob off the noisy porters. Fuck.
“Still no sign of waking up, I’m afraid.”
“Yes… A car crash is nothing to laugh at, innit?” Who the. Fuck. was talking about laughing? Are you stupid or are you suspicious, trying to catch me out? No, this is just the paranoia talking. Christ.
“There you go, Mr Melrose,” finally , finally - the register - with a slightly shaky hand he signs quickly.
“Thank you, Mr Hadley. And…” Holding up the wad of compressed tree that got wasted on his essay is self-explanatory, effective to ward off further conversation.
“Of course, off you go. hand that in.”
A dash for the pidge. First his tutor’s. Finally rid of the essay - at least until tomorrow. No, don’t think about that. Then his. A wad of letters and what feels like one lone postcard is hastily stuffed in his overnight bag.
And then he is finally free to step out the gates and into the waiting cab. As it drives away he feels his shoulders finally relaxing infinitesimally.