Chapter Text
"Philip! Glad you could make it old chap."
Bright lights flood into Phil’s vision as he adjusts to the blinding white glare of the overhead lamps. Every Thursday the five members of the University of Oxford’s photography club meet in a small and dusty room where they spend their time comparing cameras, developing prints, and sharing successful shots. Most days, however, they spend the hours simply fooling around - for the five budding academics these meetings are sometimes their only respite from the stresses of Oxford’s grueling workload. Currently inside the room are the founders of the club: John, a stocky, blond maths student with blue eyes and ruddy cheeks, stands a metre or two away from Bill, a lean, gangly, physics student whose pale hands currently adjust the dials on what appears to be a brand new camera. Walking over to a nearby table, Phil puts his leather satchel down and rummages inside it for a roll of film that’s in there somewhere ...
Bill clears his throat.
“As you may have guessed by now, we seem to be a little short. One can only assume that Mary and Beth are engaged in more... exciting activities once again this week” he sneers in a silky, well-spoken voice, raised eyebrows betraying a mocking yet joking intent. The other two boys chuckle in unison.
Phil lowers his satchel to the floor and then stops as something catches his eye.
“Blimey Bill, is that the new Zeiss-Ikon Contessa?”
A smirk twinges on Bill’s lips as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his reddening nose. “It was a gift from John. I tried to tell him that he didn’t have to, but he absolutely insisted,” he replies, swiveling round to face the boy behind him. “You shouldn’t have, honestly John. You really do spoil me.”
“Oh William , it was really nothing” he smiles, giving Bill a tender punch to the shoulder before turning his attention back to a faulty lamp.
‘ William ’?
Phil has never, ever heard anyone call Bill by his full name before. He observes the blush on Bill’s face spread across previously pallid cheeks. The relationship between the modest, reserved physics geek and the charming, outgoing mathematics whizz had always been an enduring mystery to him - despite being such an unusual pairing, they seem to have found something in common between them. Before he can think about the subject any longer, Phil is interrupted by the sound of giggling coming from just around the corridor.
“Alas! The latecomers arrive at last,” declares the bespectacled brunette, eyes remaining focused on his new camera as the shouting hushes to a stifled whisper.
Two figures creep into view at the open doorway.
“Having fun are we ladies?”
“Oh, put a sock in it you old fart,” quips the taller of the two, ignoring Bill’s steely-eyed look.
“Evening everyone! Sorry we’re late,” beams the other girl as she shrugs off a grey duffle coat, hangs it up on the dark, wooden door and turns towards the table, rubbing her hands together in an attempt to defrost them. A second later her companion strides towards the nearest table and sets down a large leather handbag onto the floor with a clunk, before dragging out a stool and sitting down.
“Evening Mary, evening Beth. What were you two up to?” Phil asks, rising from his seat to search some cupboards.
“Beth and I were in the... library, writing an essay. You know, the one that’s due soon,” Mary assures him.
“You mean the draft on Early Medieval Literature? Wasn’t that only set yesterday?”
Mary shoots Beth a panicked glance.
“Draft, essay - what difference does it make? Anyway, these things take time, and I’ve always thought that it’s good to get on top of something like an essay” she replies, fiddling with a dog-eared folder.
Bill fidgets. “I can think of someone you were getting on top of.”
Mary gasps. “Cheeky git! I’m keeping an eye on you,” she retorts, getting up and stomping over to the other side of the room to bury her blushing face in some cupboards. “I’m watching you too, John.”
Phil turns back to his own cupboard with a smile. Under a pile of dusty papers he finds the trays he was looking for, dislodges them from the mess, and waves them around in his empty hand for the others to see.
“Hey John, Mary, I’ve got the trays for the stop baths,” he announces, turning around to hand the pile to whoever is nearest. John walks over and takes them with a nod of the head as Mary ignores him completely.
Phil studies the black-haired girl as she huddles next to her companion, the pair of them whispering and sniggering to themselves about something or other. At 5’10” Mary towers over Beth, who is a good 6 inches shorter. A flash of red lipstick spreads over Mary’s wide smile as she sweeps a strand of long, dark hair away from her angular face. The smile reminds him of the eleven year old girl that had sat down next to him in an English Literature lesson nigh on eight years ago. Known for her harsh tongue when it came to the male sex, Phil was initially apprehensive when she had first pulled up the empty chair next to sit down him, only to be immediately reassured by the fondness she bestowed upon those she took a shine to. It had surprised him, but it wasn’t unwelcome. A week after they had met, when asking why she had decided to sit next to him, Mary had sprung a phrase upon him that still perplexed him even to this day.
“We’re the same, me and you. I can sense it.”
Now, as he observes how Mary’s demeanour softens when gazing into Beth’s big brown eyes, Phil has an uneasy feeling that he knows exactly what she was referencing all those years ago.
“God damn this tap! The water’s bloody well cut off again . One would assume that the University of Oxford would have a better plumbing system than this,” John bemoans, wrinkling his blonde brows in animated frustration. “Phil, would you be a dear and fetch a jug for us?”
“Yeah, su-”
“We’ll go!” Exclaim the girls with a questionable amount of excitement, barely waiting for a reply before dashing out of the room arm in arm.
John frowns for the second time this evening. “O-kay. Guess that one’s sorted.”
Half an hour passes, and there is still no sign of either the water or the girls who volunteered to retrieve it. Slightly exasperated, Phil offers to be the second party to set out in search of the all-important liquid as he’s fairly certain he knows of a working tap in some room or other from across the Liddon Quad. Putting on his woolen coat and grabbing the largest water-vessel in sight, he frantically tries to rack his brains for the room in question as he prepares to brave the winter cold.
Scurrying across the Quad Phil plunges his hands into silk-lined pockets as the icy wind nips at his pale face. He drinks in the crepuscular surroundings - Oxford’s colleges make for a staggeringly decadent feast, particularly when shrouded by night. His gaze lands upon the red brick checkerboard of Keble College’s Victorian chapel, the beauty of which is enough to reduce his previous flight to a mere stroll. Stained glass windows emit a warm, inviting glow as metal crosses glisten like stars against the black velvet sky, dark and mysterious. The night sky is like curtains at a theatre, pulled back as if to say ‘here is the stage, open to you, ready for you to write any script that your heart desires. Romance, adventure, fantasy, or tragedy - your performance can be anything that you wish it to be.’ On nights like this the romance of Oxford’s ancient grounds creates pools of emotion inside his chest that well up and threaten to bubble over in divine ecstasy. He sighs to himself, content and calm. Tonight is one such night. After reeling around the quad’s fountain for a minute or two Phil finds himself approaching the open chapel door. As he passes it his ears catch the sound of people speaking - not only are they speaking, but if Phil’s knowledge of Shakespeare is correct, they are acting . Instantly forgetting his aquatic assignment he climbs up the steps, treading softly to conceal the sound of his presence, and steals around the doorway to the entrance of the chapel. Peering through the open doors he catches a glimpse of a dozen or so students standing close to the altar, scripts in hand, eyes on page. Their voices echo around the stone walls, dancing from floor to ceiling. He listens in.
“...see your son:
Towards him I made, but he was ware of me
And stole into the covert of the wood:
I, measuring his affections by my own,
That most are busied when they're most alone,
Pursued my humour not pursuing his,
And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from me”
So it was Shakespeare! A tender nostalgia washes over him as he reminisces upon his own memories of studying Romeo and Juliet many years ago. And what splendid surroundings to rehearse in! Lofty ceilings bounce words from pew to pulpit as low lamps give golden mosaics a magic sparkle. Leaning against the old wooden door Phil focuses on the students, with one boy in particular catching his eye.
“My noble uncle, do you know the cause?”
The boy playing Benvolio is a handsome devil, to put it plainly. He speaks with such fervour, such infectious vigour, and a passion which tugs at his heartstrings and makes Phil glad to have found someone so evidently fond of Shakespeare as he is. The boy’s tie is pulled awry on an unbuttoned shirt, green jumper knotted loosely around his neck. Phil’s heart flutters, mesmerised as he watches the boy delivering his lines.
Phil had known that he was “queer” from a young age. He had heard the word uttered under hushed tones between his parents as they discussed relatives, family friends, celebrities, or anyone whose campiness stuck out sorer than the lacquered nails on an East-End boy down in the dole-house. But Phil didn’t wear makeup, and he didn’t sound like a woman, and he didn’t spend his time discussing boys with his female classmates. What he did have however, was one fateful family holiday in Corfu.
It was a torrid, languid, lethargic day, and another year spent back at the old house in Greece. The sun beat down in waves, burning Phil’s pasty skin as brother Martyn shoveled sand onto his feet. The summer reading he had brought with him wasn’t tickling his fancy, and Martyn’s game was beginning to get tiresome. Phil sighed, staring out towards the vast expanse of clear azure water. As he pondered over ways to alleviate his boredom a delicious, impulsive desire to indulge in mischievousness began to trickle into his veins.
“I’m going for a walk. I shouldn’t be too long.”
His mum had looked up from her book and squinted, both shielding her eyes from the sun and expressing amazement that her youngest son was actually choosing to do physical exercise.
“Okay, stay safe poppet. Oh - and be back before three o’clock!”
After an hour or so of traipsing across sand and traversing through pine trees, he eventually had found a secluded alcove on top of a steep stretch of rocks, away from tourists, facing a small bay with not a soul in sight. Laying down on the smooth, warm stone, he placed his head under the shade of a tree branch, closing his eyes and feeling the caress of the sun on his bare chest as a slight breeze tickled the prepubescent hairs on his abdomen.
Finally, peace at last.
A brief slumber had been interrupted by talking coming from below. Feeling slightly sluggish after basking in the lazy heat he had opened his eyes and crawled over to the side of the rock, peeping over the edge to investigate.
A man had wandered into the bay with a woman by his side, and as the couple walked across the sand Phil’s eyes had meandered over the man’s body; he was blond, he was tall, his stance was confident, and the muscles on his back rippled as he stretched his golden hands towards the sky. The man checked his watch as the woman looked around as if waiting for someone, before the pair of them came together for an embrace as they faced the waves that crashed on the bay.
Phil couldn't stop staring from behind the bush. There had been something about the way the man’s body pressed against the woman’s back, something about the way his hands wound around her waist, smoothed over her breasts and briefly graced the skin around her neck - there was something about it that conjured up a feeling inside him that he had never experienced before. After a short while the woman turned her head and tapped her partner on the shoulder, pointing at the rocks just beyond Phil. He ducked, heart racing in fear as he lost his footing and slipped across a rock, blushing furiously and wincing as his feet landed on a sharp stone. Unable to bear the thought of missing even a second of this secretive encounter, he got up immediately and watched on. Through the leaves he had seen an olive-skinned man with dark, curly hair appear from the side of the colossal boulder, stepping towards the couple as the woman pried herself from the blond man and ran towards the newcomer. As she landed in his arms he swept her off her feet and swung her in the air as she laughed. The hug ended with a hand around the waist, and a brief peck on the lips.
Phil adjusted his glasses. Was he mistaken, or did he just see this lady go from fondly embracing one man to sharing a kiss with another? The pair linked arms and strolled towards the first man, who fiddled with the hem of his tight navy swimming trunks as he beamed back at them. The dark haired fellow opened his arms and shouted a few Greek words to the blond man.
“Είσαι τόσο όμορφος, χρυσέ μου!”
A slap on the back, a playful punch, and then they too had leaned in for a kiss. Not a peck on the cheek, not a swift gracing of the lips - Phil had been fairly certain that this was the act that the boys back at boarding school had described using the word “French”. But two men…? He took a deep breath. Shuffling out from under the shrub he brushed some leaves off from his trunks, only to freeze in confusion when he felt something hard underneath.
He looked at the trio below him, observing how the men clutched each other’s faces and kissed each other eagerly, before looking back down at his shorts. The boys back at boarding school had talked about this too, although it had never happened to him until now. Peering back at the empty forest behind, he had double checked, then triple checked that he was alone.
It would be terribly, terribly embarrassing if someone caught him mastur-
“ Splendid job everyone, I could really feel the intensity tonight. Let’s call it quits here. Oh, and remember - we haven’t got long now until the real thing, so make sure you learn those lines!”
Snapping back to reality, Phil adjusts his eyes to see actors and actresses put down their scripts and begin talking to each other, evidently weary, but animated nonetheless. He searches for the actor playing Benvlio, searches for that brown, curly hair, and then suddenly they lock eyes. The boy had been staring directly at him. In a flash the other man breaks eye contact, and resumes conversation with the girl next to him as she hoists a long brown coat over her shoulders. Oh dear. They must be coming this way.
Phil decides that it’d be best to evacuate the chapel before the situation becomes ever so slightly awkward, and so he turns to walk away, heart thumping in his chest. A hot flush creeps over his cheeks as he makes his way towards the exit, the image of the boy’s brown eyes burn in his mind as he hesitates in front of the doors.
In an unexpected burst of confidence Phil takes a few paces back, cranes his neck to peer through the doors to the chapel, and sure enough he sees that same boy walking down the aisle and talking to his friend. Eventually he catches sight of Phil watching him, his face flashing a look of pure confusion. Shit. Panicking, fumbling and stumbling, Phil dashes out of the portico, heart racing and nerves alive as he speeds across the quad and as far away from the chapel as possible. He squints at his watch - nearly 8 o’clock. Damn this godforsaken water!
Bill and John appear to be in a cheerful mood when Phil nervously slinks back into the photography room. As such, he is instantly forgiven for being the third person in one night to give up water collection in the name of secret romantic pursuits. Feeling guilty nonetheless, he volunteers to be the one to lock up the room for the night as compensation, enjoying the peaceful silence as he sees to the mess left behind.
He roams around the room, closing cupboards here, pulling in stools there. There’s a spatter of black ink on the table, no doubt left by Bill and his insistence on using a dip pen to write everything from letters to classwork to scribbled ideas on dog-eared notebooks. As he gets a cloth to wipe it up he feels a soft sense of contentment as he reflects upon his new life here at Oxford. Secondary school was rotten, absolutely rotten; teased for being smart, teased for being tall, teased for wearing glasses, teased for any reason which made him different to the brutish, snobbish bastards that ruled his school’s hierarchical roost. Before they can bubble up to the surface Phil tries to quell those raw, rough memories, reminding himself that it’s all in the past, and he should be focusing on the present. He’s growing into his authentic self, he’s started dressing however he likes, he’s made genuine friends who he can talk to, he’s academically stimulated without the fear of being called a geek, and, in time, maybe he’ll be able to express that other part of himself too. With a sigh, he throws Bill’s inky rag into the sink, puts John’s screwdriver into a drawer, tucks in the stool that Mary dragged out from the desk and picks up a pen that must have fallen out of Beth’s pocket. The peace in his chest leaves him with no doubt that he’s got everything now - no more fear of rejection, no horrible need for awkward explanations. Just friendship, companionship, and unspoken understanding. Blinking with embarrassing rapidity, he cleans up the last of the mess.
*knock knock*
Mary and Beth? In the split second it takes him to turn around, Phil prepares a quip or two to tease them with. To his surprise, and his horror, he is instead met with the sight of 'Benvolio' leaning against the open door, arms folded, ankles crossed, sly smirk plastered onto his mischievous face.
"You could have just come in if you wanted to, you know. We don't bite."
Phil’s heart races and his stomach sinks at the realisation of what’s happening. It was bad enough that he’d been caught once staring at the object of his admiration, but multiple times? And now said object is here, standing in the doorway, smirking at him? In the midst of his fluttering Phil hungrily consumes the face opposite him. Tousled chestnut curls flop onto strong brows, and freckles speckle his cheeks like stars that lie next to petal pink lips. His demeanour is deliberately indifferent, trying to appear nonchalant, but with such purposeful neutrality that the man betrays a sense of impatience - desperation, even. The handsome devil chuckles at Phil's silence.
“Ah, apologies - quite rude of me not to introduce myself first. I'm Daniel,” the boy continues, “and um, we're putting on a production of Romeo and Juliet in a few weeks, if you want to come and see it,” he offers, patches of his jaw flushing red. Phil blinks, unsure of what to say, and the young man’s eyes fall to the ground briefly before thrusting his large hands into trouser pockets.
"Sorry, perhaps I assumed that-"
"No, no, it's alright," Phil finally replies, desperate to stop the potential tragedy of this charming man leaving him forever, never to speak to him again. "That'd be great. I um, I really like Shakespeare."
The boy’s eyes flick upwards to meet Phil’s briefly before he nods, turning his vision towards the ground once again as he bites on his lips to stifle a smile. His eyes dance across the floor as if plucking up the courage to look back up at the blue eyed boy, which he does, thank God, for when their eyes lock together (and Phil swears it’s not his inner English student making him think this), it feels as if two worlds connect, two universes collide, two strings of the soul’s yarn reaching out and tying knots and weaving together, two hands meeting and fingers intertwining and grasping onto each other with a forceful connection. It’s breathtaking. It’s almost too much.
The boy unleashes a grin, and Phil is so, so thankful for it, for when he does his entire face lights up like a candle burning in a dark room, wide flash of white teeth and crinkled eyes unashamed and clumsy like liquid wax spilling and dripping down onto bare skin, burning it with its hot droplets as they maintain their electrifying gaze. Daniel sighs.
“Okay, fantastic. Dates are yet to be confirmed, but so far it’s looking to be some time after Michaelmas ends. I’ll er, I’ll let you know.”
“Great, yeah, I’ll come along!” Phil beams, drumming his fingers on the counter behind him.
“Mmm.” Another moment of silence. “Will you be... here, next Thursday? Same time, same place?”
“Oh, er, yes, we meet here every week,” Phil stutters, “the photography club, that is. We meet here on Thursdays. Weekly.” Cursing himself for tripping over his words in front of someone who had spoken so confidently and so eloquently before, he takes in a deep breath, calming himself.
“Alright,” the boy laughs softly, “I’ll see you then”. In one swift movement he pushes his back off the door frame, grabs the other side, and swings himself off down the corridor, heels clacking on the tiles as he goes. Buckling up his satchel Phil strides out of the room, managing to catch the sight of Daniel speeding off down a flight of stairs. As he turns the lights off and shuts the door, he closes his eyes and exhales.
He checks his watch. Only 6 days, 23 hours and 38 minutes until he’ll be here next Thursday, same time, same place. He parades down the corridor, slight skip in his step.
Maybe he’ll get to explore that side of his personality a little sooner than he might have previously thought.