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“Oh, for – I’m a Wells, I go to Oxford for Christ’s sake; I should be able to tie a bloody Windsor knot!”
It should be noted that no one else in the room would respond to the young man’s muttering, as there was no one else in the room. Bertie Wells was quite tired, quite frustrated, and quite alone.
A Windsor knot – by far the simplest way to tie a tie, and the sort of thing that he had been capable of doing by the time he was six years old. The sort of thing that any young scholar at Oxford would be expected to do every day, especially for an end-of-term celebratory dinner with the rest of his college.
And yet, at this moment, the most impossible of tasks. His hands were shaking too badly, in part due to the draughty room and in part due to – well, if he knew that, he’d probably be able to control it.
In truth, Bertie Wells was having what could only be described as a Bad Day. He’d woken up late and missed the first few minutes of his morning lecture, earning him a rather sharp reprimand from the professor, and then he’d had to spend all afternoon rushing around Oxford completing errands, buying this present and that, all while battling the holiday-makers who insisted on arriving three weeks before Christmas even came about.
And now this failed, pitiful attempt at a simple knot was simply the last straw. To his absolute horror, his eyes began to feel distinctly watery, and Bertie was suddenly rather thankful that he was alone in his bedroom.
Unsurprisingly, the quiet did not last.
Someone knocked on the door, and Bertie most certainly did not jump.
“Who – who is it?” he called.
“Only me,” a familiar voice replied. “Hurry up, Wells, or we’ll both be late to dinner and look like proper fools.”
God, Harold Mukherjee certainly couldn’t walk in and find him in tears over – what? A failed tie? How utterly pathetic. It was hard enough to see why Harold stuck around without him having to see Bertie in such a state.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, I won’t be a minute! I’m just getting dressed.” He made a valiant – and pointless – attempt to wipe his eyes before restarting the painful process of sorting the tie.
“Still? When the hell did you start getting ready?”
Twenty minutes ago, Bertie thought bitterly.
“Oh, leave off.”
But when two more attempts at tying a simple fucking Windsor knot ended in him dropping the end of fabric, again, any attempt at holding back the tears was rendered quite useless. A quiet stop escaped, and though he quickly clamped a hand over his mouth, Harold Mukherjee had better hearing than most bats.
“Bertie?” he called, now considerably less insistent. “Everything alright in there?”
“Of course!” Bertie called back, fully aware that he sounded borderline hysterical. “Course, I’m fine, I just can’t – no, everything’s fine!”
Maybe Harold would be kind enough to leave him to his misery?
“I’m coming in.”
Shit.
“No, no no no it’s –”
The door opened.
“… fine,” he finished lamely.
Harold simply stood in the doorway for a few long moments, staring.
“Bertie,” he finally said slowly. “What the hell is wrong?”
And that – that was just too much. Whatever was left of his defences crumbled, and Bertie let out another, more audible, sob.
“I’ve just – I’ve just been having the most awful day! I got yelled at by a professor for tardiness and I spent all afternoon surrounded by annoying shoppers, who insist on covering the town even though Christmas isn’t for another three bloody weeks, and now I can’t even tie a tie correctly like some kind of – of idiot, and it’s all just a bit much!”
Harold had kindly not interrupted his hysteria, instead watching him with a looked that was somewhere between fond and exasperated, and maybe just a little bit sad. He moved further into the room, shutting the door gently behind him, and held out a hand.
“Come here. Let me fix it.”
“H-huh?”
“Your tie; let me do it for you.”
Dumbfounded, Bertie moved forward. Harold reached out and gently took the wretched fabric from his still-shaking hands. Within seconds, a perfect Windsor knot lay flat on his chest.
“There,” Harold said softly, “All done.”
He moved one hand from Bertie’s chest to caress his cheek. Bertie leaned into the touch, feeling rather than seeing it as Harold wiped a stray tear away.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“Any time,” Harold murmured back. “I closed the door. It’s just us.”
Bertie nodded slowly, and it came as no surprise when Harold leaned in and gently pressed their lips together. One of Bertie’s own hands came up to cradle the back of his head, and Harold made a soft noise in the back of his throat and pressed closer.
They stayed like that for a few moments, the kiss soft and surprisingly chaste. When Harold eventually pulled away, Bertie’s eyes stayed shut for a moment as he tried not to chase the warmth. When they fluttered open, rich brown eyes were watching him with an impossibly tender expression.
“I believe we have a dinner to attend.”
Bertie took a deep, steadying breath, and felt calmer than he had since the night before.
“Yes. Yes, I believe we do.”