Chapter Text
It was depressingly telling that informing his parents he was going to study at Cambridge had been Warlock’s most effective rebellion yet.
His father had been absolutely set on Yale, and his mother had been so worried he would go to Harvard- neither of them had even considered that he might blindside them so entirely. England? He might as well have said Saudi Arabia. All of his friends (read: all of their friends’ children) were going to Yale, or Stanford, or heaven forbid Duke or Brown. Warlock knew no one in England- he hadn’t been once since his childhood return to the States.
It was a good university, though, he had argued, and besides he had never submitted his application anywhere else. Cambridge or bust.
The summer had not been enjoyable, but no matter. He had gotten away with it in the end- and, more importantly, gotten away altogether. The half-hour wait he’d had to endure on the shitty airport shuttle upon arrival had been the highlight of his year: sitting in silence staring out of the window and knowing everyone he knew was across the Atlantic.
For all of his melodrama, he had some qualms about the whole thing. For one, the weather in England was terrible, and he really found the accent quite annoying. He also didn’t like standing out as so irrevocably American, not least because the English all assumed he was a moron for it. Everything was also small and old and inconvenient, and there was no AC or functioning heating. And, of course, despite his best efforts, he would miss home somewhat- he had a friend or two he actually liked, and his parents weren’t entirely terrible all the time, so there were some moments in which he thought he might’ve just gone to Harvard with much the same effect.
Still, though, as he clambered out of the Uber with his suitcase in tow, staring up at the sandy stone gate of Pembroke College, he thought this had been the right move. Students were milling about with parents in tow, lugging boxes and juggling keys, and no one here would clap him on the back and say Dowling, my man! and invite him to some Young Republican affair.
He collected his keys from the Porters’ Lodge, where he couldn’t help but quirk a brow at the fact that there were still people called Porters in existence and that they wore bowties, then set off through the college. He had no idea where he was going, but he hadn’t wanted to ask, and he thought following the students in blue jumpers around was probably a safe bet.
Pembroke had not been his college of choice. He had considered Saint John’s out of reflex, then realised that the whole point was getting away from people who knew his father by name, and finally applied to King’s on a whim, figuring that it would at least be entertaining to tell his parents he’d gotten into the Commie college. Then he had interviewed, and the next thing he knew he had gotten in through the pool, an offer to Pembroke.
It was a nice college, Warlock thought, gazing at what he assumed was the library as he strolled past. Smaller than Johns or Kings, but then maybe that was a good thing. He’d googled it after accepting his offer, and it didn’t have much of a reputation, beyond being generally chill and having good food. A blank slate.
Avoiding more than one helpful looking Freshers Rep, he found himself facing the building he’d seen on his lease document- New Court, he thought. His rooms were in O staircase. He had considered just balloting blindly, but then there was no point living in squalor when he had the money to go someplace nice- and it was strategically a good move for making friends, in the early days, to be able to host parties. He hadn’t thought there were double rooms available for first years, but he’d taken it anyways. Gift horse in the mouth, and all that.
Lugging his suitcase up three flight of stairs was somewhat annoying, but once he pushed his door open he relaxed, pleased. The space was roomy- two big windows overlooking the lawn, a desk positioned in front of them, and then a couch, a wardrobe, and a bed, slanted against the wall nearest to him. He took this in, then frowned. If this was a double-
The door to his right pushed open, and suddenly he was staring at a girl- short, dark-skinned, wearing a bright yellow skirt and a turtleneck. She gazed at him with something like disbelief, not quite surprise.
What the fuck, Warlock thought, and retraced his steps mentally, but no- the key had worked on the door; this was his room. Aloud he said: “And you are?”
Instead of answering, the girl shot him a dark look and retreated into the room. “Adam!”
This was rude, Warlock thought, but didn’t let off, rolling his suitcase stubbornly further and walking over to the door, where the girl was still standing. He hadn’t yet stopped when two more people appeared behind her, both tall, one with the chest of a footballer and one built like a beanpole. The beanpole blinked, eyes owlish behind glasses; the footballer merely raised one brow, then the other.
Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s rude to stare? Warlock almost asked, but then someone else was pushing through them, the group parting automatically, and Warlock was looking into bright blue eyes- or rather the blue eyes were looking into him, with such abnormal ease that he took a step back.
“Oh,” presumably Adam said. “Hello.”
They stared at each other a moment longer, Warlock abruptly feeling rather clammy and on edge, until he finally remembered himself and shook himself awake.
“Is anyone going to tell me what the fuck you’re doing in my room?”
“Our room,” Adam corrected, easily. “We’re roommates, it seems.”
He said this very convincingly, so that Warlock felt it was true- and it had to be, or else why were they there?- and yet, stubbornly, he resisted.
“Cambridge doesn’t do roommates.”
This much was true. He hadn’t wanted a roommate- it was one of the things he’d liked about Oxbridge both. And yet the group only looked at Adam, and Adam looked at him, still appraising, still unfazed.
“I guess they do now,” Adam said. The girl groaned.
Warlock shook his head, feeling groggy. “Look, I don’t know what- I signed a lease, okay, it was for a set of rooms.”
“This is a set of rooms,” the footballer pointed out. He looked amused now, in a resigned sort of way. His accent- and Adam’s, actually- was different than Warlock had expected, gruffer somehow. “Did you check if you were leasing both?”
“Jesus,” Warlock said. This made all four of them exchange looks, which was worrying in the sense that Warlock fundamentally could not live with conservative Christian nutjobs. Then he looked around, considering his options. “And you’re okay with that?”
Adam inclined his head. He hadn’t stopped looking at Warlock once; it was distinctly uncomfortable. “I’d quite like a roommate.”
For some reason this made the girl snort, still unamused, and the beanpole pushed his glasses up long-sufferingly. They were fucking weirdos, Warlock thought, resigned now. He shrugged.
“Then fine, I guess. They better not be charging us double.”
“We can go and check in with Becky,” the girl said, eyeing Adam. “But I doubt it.”
“Sure,” Adam said, and smiled, or did something which felt like a smile. “Well, nice to meet you, roomie.”
They looked as if they were about to retreat, and Warlock suddenly realised they still hadn’t introduced themselves- he’d been going with probably Adam and the rest of them. “Hey- I didn’t catch your names.”
“Oh, sure,” Adam said. “I’m Adam.”
He didn’t offer a hand to shake, so Warlock hesitated, but he kept his hands to himself and squared his shoulders. “Warlock.”
This gained him the usual reaction, though not much from Adam, whose eyes glittered.
“Your name is Warlock?” the girl asked, rather scathingly, which he would resented more if he hadn’t gotten the strange impression she was directing her ire towards Adam.
“All right, Pippin Galadriel Moonchild,” the footballer said, and failed to dodge the blow she sent his way entirely. He was still wheezing when the girl deigned meet Warlock’s eyes.
“I’m Pepper. That’s Brian.”
“Wensleydale,” the glasses boy piped up, because of course he was. “I mean, Jeremy. But no one calls me that.”
“What do your parents call you?” Warlock inquired, raising a brow.
“Youngster,” Wensleydale said, somewhat mournfully. And that was that.
He half-expected them to start asking questions then- you’re American? Where are you from? Where are your parents? but they seemed otherwise occupied; it befell Adam to essentially banish him to his own room with a nod.
“See you in a bit, then.”
“Sure,” Warlock echoed, and watched the door shut, and wondered what the fuck he’d gotten himself into.
He had absolutely no idea what to make of their initial encounter, and Freshers Week (really a laughable three days) was filled to the brim with meetings and tours and painful Equality and Diversity workshops, so by the time he’d stopped by the office and gotten confirmation that by some blip in the system he had indeed landed himself the only two-person set of rooms in Cambridge, he still couldn’t place how he felt about his roommate or his friends.
He’d met Adam’s parents very briefly on move-in day, both extraordinarily British and normal, and had seen brief flashes of the group since, but they went everywhere in a closed pack, and if Adam was in alone Warlock didn’t see him. It was very weird, he thought, that their rooms were laid out the way they were- it would have made more sense for the office to be both of their office rooms, and the bedroom both their bedrooms, because as it was Adam needed to pass through Warlock’s to get to his own, which couldn’t possibly be the best arrangement and was sure to become awkward at some point in the year. On the other hand, it meant Warlock didn’t have to share a bedroom, so he supposed he could deal with it.
Term started on a Thursday, for some nonsensical traditional reason, by which time Warlock had done the following:
a) Purchased and worn a gown, which made him feel like a younger and less sallow Alan Rickman;
b) Met his tutor, his Director of Studies, and his fellow PhysNatScis;
c) Incidentally learned that the natural scientists with a speciality in physics referred to themselves as PhysNatScis;
d) Gone to a pub crawl and gotten quite drunk but not very hungover;
e) Bought a potted plant; and
f) Failed to exchange a single word with his roommate.
This final point was somewhat anxiety inducing, though less than it might have been. He didn’t like that they hadn’t properly met yet; he had no idea who he was dealing with, and he never liked going into things blind. Knowing your enemy was the most important step in taking them down, as his nanny had taught him. Quite confusingly, he also vaguely remembered being taught that to know someone was to befriend them, but the point stood.
On Friday he resolved that he would make an effort to catch his roommate at home somehow, at the very least to add him on Facebook or something. He’d tried the latter already, but he hadn’t found Adam on there, even though he’d tracked down his surname on the Matriculation photograph. He had a better chance of catching him in the apartment after lectures, despite his elusive tendencies.
Thus far he had found his lectures enjoyable. It wasn’t that physics were his life’s passion- he wasn’t entirely sure he had one of those- but he had wanted to do something at least somewhat interesting before he inevitably did an international relations post-grad, and he had always been damnably good at maths. Studying pure maths seemed slightly nightmarish, though- he could only imagine the sort of people he’d have to spend time with. The NatScis were a more relaxed bunch, and there were quite a lot of them at Pembroke. He had ample opportunity to make friends.
He made a detour through John Lewis on his way back to college. He had packed barely anything to take with him on the assurance that he would simply buy everything he needed once he crossed the sea, and he was tired of living out of a suitcase. He spent an hour or so buying clothes, then moved onto furniture, self-indulgently purchasing a nice coffee-maker, a record-player, a nicer lamp.
He was difficultly juggling all of these things upstairs when his phone rang, and he just about had the time to unload them onto his bed to pick up, wondering who on earth still called in this day and age.
“Hi, sweetie.”
Oh, of course. “Hey, mom.”
His mother launched into an abstract tirade of questions, mostly frivolous, though he was embarrassingly taken aback by the odd spots of genuine affection that shone through. It wasn’t that his mother didn’t love him- even his father probably did- and she had her moments, but she loved him at an arm’s length, always seeming exhausted by his repeated attempts to draw more out of her. He didn’t think she was fully aware that she’d left him so emotionally starved- she genuinely didn’t seem to have the capacity for more.
Maybe absence really did make the heart grow fonder, he thought, distantly, as she went into a tangent about Brexit and whether he was bothered by it at all. The thought sat poorly with him. People leaving him had never made him love them more, nor less; certainly those who left never seemed to care.
“…and Dad says do go talk to him, he’s a wonderful boy, you know, his father used to work with him at the office in Paris, I think the two of you will get along.”
“Hey, mom?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“What was the nearest town called, where we used to live? I forgot the name.”
“Oh, gosh, Warlock- I’m not quite sure. Near Oxford, though. Sleepy little place- we were usually in London, or the estate. I think it was Burford? They have such silly names. Why’d you ask?”
“Dunno. Just wondering.” He hesitated; usually he’d have moved on, but for a moment he felt almost like he could talk to her. “I guess I was thinking about my tutors and stuff. Where they’d be living.”
“Oh, Mr, uh- Henry, and-“
“Harrison and Cortese,” Warlock corrected, through a sigh. “Yeah. Anyways, I have to go, mom. My roommate’s calling.”
“You have a-?”
It wasn’t true; Adam was nowhere to be seen, as per. Warlock’s mood had soured somewhere between lectures and the present day, a natural consequence of interacting with his family. He hadn’t wanted to be reminded that even here there were plenty of diplobrats and their ilk just itching to ruin his self-imposed exile, and his mother’s concerns about his friendships had reminded him forcefully that although it was early days yet, he had been in Cambridge for a week without having anyone to eat dinner with. Not even his own damn roommate.
He wondered abruptly if Adam was avoiding him on purpose. Maybe he’d taken a dislike to him, or he wasn’t interested in making new friends, or he knew who he was somehow.
He was scowling as he unpacked his things, thoroughly on edge now, and he moved to open the window once he’d hung all of his clothes up, seeking fresh air. Of course, because his life was a cosmic tragicomedy of things never going the way they were supposed to, the previously sunny skies had gone dark, and it was raining so hard he had to drag the window shut.
Other thing Warlock hadn’t done yet: purchased an umbrella. He groaned irately and dragged a hand across his face.
There was a sound at the door, and then Adam was elbowing his way in, Sainsburys’ bag hanging loosely off his arm. There was something moving behind him, which distracted Warlock from the fact Adam was frowning, an expression he had not yet seen him sport. It was-
“Come on, Dog,” Adam muttered absently, the dog traipsing in after him, and then looked up at Warlock, brow relaxing slightly. “Oh, hey.”
“What the fuck is that?” Warlock asked, more shrilly than he wanted to, even though it was very obviously a dog. He had goosebumps, and his limbs had gone stiff.
“Dog,” Adam answered, his eyes narrowed. “He’s mine.”
“You’re not allowed animals in college,” Warlock snapped. Nanny had always said that the best defence was offence- more specifically, spite and cruelty. “Unless he’s a service dog, which would explain some things.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Adam asked, raising two brows; his tone had gone flat. The dog growled lowly, and Warlock had to fight not to jump back. He hated dogs- on a deep, psychological level.
“Oh, figure it out for yourself, unless you need your cult following to do it for you,” Warlock muttered, snide, before managing to shake his head. “No fucking dogs in the room.”
“He’s going to mine, not yours.”
“Shared living space,” Warlock retorted. He could feel the dog devour him mentally. “That thing does not strike me as capable of understanding the difference- and anyway it’s not allowed in college, so why am I wasting my breath?”
Adam considered him; his eyes were dark now, gaze cool in a way that made Warlock flush defensively, like he was being judged and found lacking. “Good question.”
“The dog goes,” Warlock grit out. Then he shouldered past Adam and stormed off, barely resisting the urge to kick at the thing on his way out.
He returned two hours later soaked to the bone and shivering mutinously. The storm had not eased.
Quite possibly as a result of the fiasco with Adam and the dog, which thankfully had not made itself known since, Warlock found himself biting the bullet and heading over to the next CUCA social. It was probably depressing in some way that the Cambridge University Conservative Association was so like every Republican kow-tow he’d attended during high school, but it was almost comforting to find himself lounging in a chaise listening to people debate politics and casually flex their summer holidays in the Seychelles.
He could sense that his appearance had excited them; of the new intake, he was by far the most interesting- an American, for one, but also more generally possessing independent thought and not so easily led to participating in the stale banter of the group. His year’s pickings consisted of two nearly identical brunettes who made a point of calling themselves fiscal conservatives, one nervy pasty guy who seemed somewhat ashamed of his presence, a lanky guy from Eton who kept talking to him about red pills and soy, and a set of twins who reminded Warlock forcibly of the twins in the Facebook movie, except more inclined to ‘play devil’s advocate’ in every conversation they joined. There were others, but they hadn’t been invited up to the lounge, and ridiculously there had been a second lounge, where Warlock finally found himself surrounded by what had to be the CUCA inner circle.
There were ten of them total: the twins, Warlock, and then seven older students. There was exactly one black guy in all of CUCA, and he was in the room, sat by the door scrolling on his phone; he didn’t speak once in Warlock’s presence, to the extend that Warlock wondered if they paid him to be there. The other six were all more typical. Peters and Johnson were the leaders of the group, President and VP respectively; both were smarmy and clever, Eton friends with a title to land and a share in a Fortune 500 company each. Their treasurer was a Northern guy with glasses, deadpan and condescending; then there was the class clown, ‘the Aubster’, a snide third-generation Indian guy implausibly named Kenneth, and the very bored looking Charlie, who ran their Twitter account.
In short, they were all raging assholes. Warlock had intended to go, remember how terrible this crowd was, and never return, but he had forgotten how engaging awful people were, and despite himself by the second half of the hour he had forgotten himself and snorted at some insightful observation on Kenneth’s behalf.
“You disagree, Dowling?” Kenneth demanded, raising a brow. “You think we should have a gender neutral Father Christmas?”
Fuck’s sake, Warlock thought, feeling the attention of the room switch gamely over to them. He was being baited.
“I didn’t say that.”
“No,” Kenneth said, smelling blood. “But you don’t like me saying it’s liberal bullshit?”
“I just can’t imagine caring about the supposed gender of a kid’s story,” Warlock corrected, giving in to the temptation. “Or does it upset you that Santa’s not real, too?”
This won him a few chuckles; Kenneth’s eyes narrowed. “I just don’t like it being part of the PC agenda.”
Warlock shrugged, enjoying the preemptive thrill of a closing argument. “Sure, I guess. I always thought the whole Santa myth was kind of soft. Getting kids to believe some mystical guy will give them gifts all the time- seems very welfare state to me.”
Kenneth blanched; Warlock smoothed the smugness out of his expression and downed his drink. Oh, fine, he’d missed this- for people who touted the term incessantly, conservatives sure tended to be easily triggered. His own political views were inconsistent; he’d mainly spent time with the Young Republicans because none of the Young Democrats liked him. He was always happy to run circles around someone else in a debate, though. It was one of his few distinguishing skills- left over from his childhood Nanny, he suspected. She’d taught him just how to prod holes incessantly.
“Say, Dowling,” Johnson was saying. “How’d you like to come to a party next week?”
“Sure,” Warlock said, and stood. “Text me the address.”
He divided his time for the next two weeks between studies and CUCA socials, which were, if nothing else, somewhere between easy and entertaining. Adam he didn’t see once. The weather had eased up somewhat over the past weekend, to his relief- now that he was out and about, the rain would have been far more annoying.
Wednesday evening, he returned to his room to find the door to Adam’s propped open and the bright sounds of conversation drifting through. He hesitated in the doorway and seriously considered turning on his heel and finding some other way to kill time, but that felt too humiliating. So his roommate and he didn’t get along, fine. He wasn’t going to start living elsewhere every time Adam made an appearance.
He resolutely threw his bag down and began noisily moving to his desk, just to avoid any doubt as to his presence; the noise stopped abruptly, and when he twitched he saw three sets of eyes tracking him through the room, which was disturbing at best.
“Hey, Warlock,” Brian said, chorused by Wensleydale. Warlock suspected he had said it simply for the pleasure of saying his name out loud, given the smile that accompanied it, but he spared him a curt nod, trying not to look at Adam. They were all settled around someone’s laptop, pizza spread on the floor between them; for a moment he was incredibly jealous of them.
“Hey.”
For some reason, Pepper set her mouth and rocked back on her heels, gesturing him closer, which he obeyed despite himself. “Come in, sit.”
“I’m good,” Warlock said, hovering in the doorframe. He was intrigued by her change of heart.
“You’re a PhysNatSci, right?” Pepper asked, in the tone of someone who already knew this. “We were just saying we barely know anything about you.”
Warlock doubted this, but he nodded. “Yeah. Do you three all go to Cambridge too?”
“No,” Pepper answered. So she was speaking for the group. “Adam does, obviously. I’m at Downing- I study law. Wensleydale does Economics at Queens, but he’s really biding his time to do a Masters in Accountancy at the Judge Business School. Brian’s at Anglia Ruskin.”
This made Warlock raise a brow, but it didn’t seem to faze Brian that of the four of them he was the only one not to attend the prestigious university. “Studying?”
“Sociology,” Brian said. “But really I’m just here to hang out. I’ve got an apprenticeship lined up for after.”
“You all know each other from school?” Warlock asked. He was naturally curious, though he usually tried to avoid coming across as such. If this was his one opportunity to figure them out, he was going to take it.
“Childhood, actually,” Adam answered. It was the first time he’d spoken. “We come from the same town. Tadfield.”
Warlock raised a shoulder. “Don’t know where that is.”
“Near Oxford,” Wensleydale supplied. “It’s quite small, but surprisingly eventful.”
“Sure,” Warlock shrugged, thinking about the odds that three childhood friends from the middle of nowhere all got into Cambridge at the same time. “I used to live near Oxford too.”
“You don’t sound it,” Brian said, scrunching his nose.
“He has a bit of an inflexion,” Wensleydale argued. “On the rs and all that.”
“Why’d you move?” Adam asked, cutting through the chatter. Warlock met his eyes and felt himself twitch.
“My dad’s work.” Like pulling teeth: “He’s a diplomat.”
“Oh, cool,” Brian said. “Get to travel a lot?”
“I guess,” Warlock said, warily. He had the abrupt sensation this whole friendly interrogation had been planned. “It’s not as interesting as it sounds.”
“That’s true of a lot of things,” Adam agreed, seriously. His hair was falling into his eyes a little, which made Warlock strangely aware that his own hair was growing long again.
“Adam said you met Dog,” Pepper said, and resisted Warlock’s sharp look entirely. Then she looked at Adam.
“Yeah,” Warlock answered, slowly. This felt like a test, but he refused to be socially pressured into apologising for the whole outburst, although it had been embarrassing on his part. He didn’t want to risk having the dog return. “I did.”
There was a tense beat, then Adam hummed. “I wanted to say- sorry about that. I didn’t know you were scared of dogs.”
“I’m not scared of-“ Warlock started, then wondered how the hell Adam knew this, anyways. They were looking each other in the eye again and he’d sort of lost his train of thought.
“Dog’s not aggressive at all, though,” Adam continued. “And he’s very clever. So I’d quite like to have him around sometimes. But you won’t see him if it bothers you.”
This was a weird way to put it; Warlock hesitated. “If it stays out of my way-“
“He will.”
“Well,” Warlock said, and contemplated refusing, for a moment, just to be contrary, because really- refusing to accommodate his roommate’s insane request to have a dog in their shared dorm wasn’t even being particularly difficult, and he didn’t like to back down from things where he didn’t feel he was in the wrong (or even when he did). They could have an absolutely hellish time co-existing, which he would perversely enjoy in the same way he perversely enjoyed CUCA meetings.
He deflated; a voice in his head was telling him to always be kind where possible, and especially when kindness was unexpected.
“Yeah, fine,” Warlock said. “I’m going to the shops.”
The night was crisp but not cold; the stars twinkled dazzlingly at him like he hadn’t seen in years.
After the whole dog confrontation, things shifted perceptibly in their rooms. The other three were often far more regularly, as was Adam himself, though rarely alone; they greeted Warlock around town, and sometimes drifted over to eat with him at trough, or gestured for him to sit near them if he ran into them in lectures. The latter only applied to Adam, a fact which bemused Warlock considering he was relatively sure Adam had no business attending physics lectures.
He still had no idea what Adam studied. He had let himself stoop to peering into his room once to covertly observe his bookcase, but this was resolutely useless- there were as many textbooks on things like Ancient Religious Studies as there were on Modern Astrophysics. It often dawned upon him to ask, but the question slipped his mind.
Adam, obviously, was the most notable change. The other three were friendly enough, but generally orbited one another (or, really, Adam) with the attitude of people not particularly interested in adding anyone to their little circle. Not for the first time, Warlock had to suppress flashes of jealousy at the thought. He had never known anyone who anchored him in such a way, nor would he ever anchor anyone himself.
In any event, having Adam suddenly present in a way he hadn’t been previously only served to make Warlock ten times more intrigued by him, despite his best efforts not to be. He didn’t consider himself easily interested or impressed; after an upbringing like his, it was sort of a point of pride to regard the world with distant cool. And yet, Adam- there was something intensely magnetic about him; he found it hard to resist even when he was aware of it.
It wasn’t only him, at least. He watched them go sometimes- things simply worked for Adam, and people noticed him wherever he went, just for a moment. When he said things they made sense somehow; when he looked at people they looked back.
There was almost a tension to their interactions as a result, though Warlock wasn’t actively trying to be make it this way, and he didn’t think Adam was either. He wasn’t sure how one-sided the whole thing even was.
For the first while into their uneasy truce, he had half expected them to uphold their silence, considering the only conversation they’d had without the others present had been an argument. Then Adam had emerged from his room one night, brandishing gin.
“Do you drink this?”
Warlock had started and almost fallen off his chair, scrambled to regain purchase, and finally gazed at the offered beverage with mounting suspicion. “I do.”
“Oh, good,” Adam said, and promptly handed him the bottle. “I find it too bitter.”
“Uh,” Warlock had managed, torn between innate suspicion and the feeling that he might as well accept the gift. “Well, thanks.”
Adam had hummed thoughtfully, making his way around Warlock’s room with curiosity and stopping at his plant.
“It real?”
“Well, yeah,” Warlock said, somewhat slighted. “I don’t like plastic plants.”
“Why not?”
“Just- kind of counterintuitive, isn’t it?” Warlock replied, defensively. “The whole thing with plants is that they’re- you know, grown.”
“Right,” Adam said, stroking a leaf pensively. “Oh, it’s quite healthy.”
He said this with mild surprise, which made Warlock bristle sort of resignedly. His fern, like every other plant he’d ever grown, was in perfect health, and never looked it. It was some sort of curse, he was sure, to be able to grow prime specimens that always looked like shit.
“Look, man, did you want something-?”
Adam paused, shook his head, walked over to take a seat on the edge of Warlock’s bed, which made him tense up. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“About?”
“You,” Adam clarified, eyes large and dark. He had an interesting face- between encounters Warlock struggled to remember what he looked like, but up close he was always quite a ways from ordinary, handsome in a rare way. His hair was a default light brown, but whenever he moved it shone golden. His eyes were pale blue, and seemed able to turn any colour at will. His lips were always very red. “I don’t know much about you yet.”
“Didn’t we have this conversation already?” Warlock asked, fighting the urge to cross his arms. “American, diplomat, NatSci-“
“That doesn’t tell me anything,” Adam said, dismissively. Instinctively Warlock bristled.
“What do you know, then?”
Adam frowned, scrutinising him. Warlock sat very still. “You drink gin. You’re scared of dogs. And you take care of your plant.”
For some reason, this made Warlock feel horribly exposed; he cleared his throat and forced his gaze away. “Sure. And you don’t like gin, and you’re not scared of dogs, and you crash lectures you’re not supposed to be attending.”
For half a second Adam actually looked taken aback, a novel expression; he tilted his head to the side. “True.”
“Listen, what do you study, any-“
“Pepper says you’re in CUCA?”
Warlock sighed. “Guess so.”
“I’m not particularly politically inclined,” Adam said, conversational. “I tend to steer clear of positions of power and all that. But I’m not very fond of the Tories.”
“Uh huh,” Warlock said. “Well, I’m not a Tory.”
“You just hang out with Tories.”
“Ding ding, we have a winner,” Warlock said, with a mirthless smile. If this was some kind of intervention, he was not partaking in it willingly. “You’d be surprised, you know, they’re decent company.”
“I doubt that,” Adam replied, matter-of-factly. “So what do you do at CUCA meetings?”
“Oh, you know. Ritually slaughter trade unionists. Try to summon the demon previously known as Margaret Thatcher. The usual.”
“Margaret Thatcher wasn’t a demon,” Adam interjected. “Though they have been happy to claim her various doings as theirs.”
“Right,” Warlock said. Maybe Adam and co weren’t Christian weirdos, then. Maybe they were occultists.
“So,” Adam said, thoughtful. “Likes gin. Scared of dogs. Plant owner. Not a Tory, but not not a Tory.”
“Did I pass?” Warlock asked, raising a wry brow, then felt embarrassed for asking. On anyone else he would have dismissed the whole inquiry from the get-go.
“I don’t know yet,” Adam decided, simply, and stood. “I guess we’ll have to talk more.”
He was by the door by the time Warlock whirled his chair around and shot him a put-off glare. “Don’t I get a say in that?”
Adam blinked. “You don’t want to talk?”
“I still don’t even know what you study,” Warlock muttered mutinously.
“Classics,” Adam said, and smiled. “Most of the time.”
Unsurprisingly, this moment marked the start of a great increase in communication between the two of them. Adam made regular appearances in Warlock’s room regardless of whether or not he’d been invited, though he seemed to have a sort of sixth sense for when Warlock was itching for a distraction or some company, because he rarely invited himself in when Warlock was cramming calculations. Mostly he just waltzed in and started asking questions, or else started discussing some topic that had caught his interest; almost invariably Warlock found himself participating far more actively than he’d intended in whatever conversation occurred.
He found it extremely difficult to place the tone of their discussions, just as he found it almost impossible to define Adam’s personality. He was startlingly direct, often serious, and simultaneously sort of mischievous and carefree in a childlike way, never concerned with social niceties. Above all he exuded confidence, but the genuine variety, nothing like the arrogant posturing Warlock was used to from his peers.
They disagreed on a great many subjects, from the serious to the petty, which seemed to oddly please Adam, who always got a sly spark in his eye when he was arguing with someone. Mostly, though, Warlock had the inappropriate feeling of being a child at a sleepover when it was just the two of them; like it was easy to talk about everything, but also like, without parental supervision, they were up to no good.
Adam was, disturbingly, impossible to keep at a distance. If he was interested in something, he wouldn’t be put off pursuing it; for however long it would last, he was curious about Warlock, and as such managed to knock down his defences without fail as it suited him. Warlock wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about this.
November approached rapidly, newfound friendships cementing themselves; by Halloween night, Warlock had promised to make an appearance at Bop after attending the CUCA dinner. He had sarcastically extended invitation to Adam and the others; his CUCA membership was a sore point with Pepper especially, though Brian and Wensleydale seemed to have decided that it was a part of his general assholery and mostly ignored it.
In truth he didn’t see the CUCA gang nearly as much as Adam and the others believed him to- they were, after all, extremely annoying, and the regular in-fighting got on his nerves. He simply found it helpful to have distinct spheres of activity in his life, as he had always had- the CUCA snide sniping and the Tadfield gang’s fond bickering; his study partners and his drinking group. It allowed him to exist as himself most comfortably, in a way- as a sneering bastard and an socially awkward foreigner all in one.
Still, if nothing else, they put on a good show. Never since boarding school had he so regularly been offered cocaine.
He spent Halloween evening butting heads with the Winkelvii (now known as such throughout the group thanks to Warlock) and then getting involved in some ridiculous drinking game which resulted in him and Johnson matching each other shot for shot off one of the busty waitresses’ chest. He was relatively sure Johnson had won that one, but that was largely irrelevant- they were all hideously drunk by then, the room filled with cigar smoke and the tang of alcohol. In any event he had secured his spot in the group again- they’d been very sore about the fact he’d missed out on three of their open forums, but the nice thing with the CUCA types was that they generally placed having a good time over pesky things like morals or decency.
“You know,” Peters drawled, tying his bowtie sloppily around Johnson’s neck and nudging Warlock’s thigh with his foot, “You made me good money, Dowling; the others didn’t think you’d hold your drink, on account of being a Yank an’ the- the drinking age, and all that.”
Warlock toasted him sloppily, licking the residue taste of whiskey off his lips. “What’s more American than money?”
“Quite,” Johnson exclaimed, grinning toothily. “Yank bastard.”
There were retching noises; the Aubster heaved for a moment, then kicked the champagne bucket away, grin painting itself on his face. “All right, lads!”
“All right,” Johnson snickered back. His head bumped into Warlock’s when he leant back. “Fuckin’ wanker. Clinton is such an unoriginal costume.”
“At least ’t wasn’t Obama,” Warlock muttered, earning him a snort from Peters. He was uncomfortably hot, and wished for a moment they’d just gone clubbing, so that he might have vanished off to a dark corner and gotten some action, or at least outside to some fresh air. He fumbled for his lighter, exhaling gratefully when Johnson twisted to pass him his cigarette.
For one reason or another, he had an implicit position of honour amongst the top dogs in the group; maybe by virtue of his lack of caring about their inner dramas. It was nice, to be able to sprawl around with the leadership and make fun of the others. He had no doubt they mocked him behind his back, too, but they almost always left him a seat open, a courtesy which they did not extend to the group.
“You know what I like about you, Downin’ street?” Peters asked, bending over to ruffle his hair patronisingly. “You just look like you cannot stand a single person you spend time with.”
“Speakin’ of,” Johnson chimed in, jerking upright somewhat and upending his drink on Peters’ lap, who swore profusely at him. “Heard you’ve been hanging around some colourful characters of late.”
“Hartley,” Peters supplied. Warlock blinked at him slowly, trying to keep his face in order and racking his brain for names. “Pippin Galadriel.”
“What a name,” Johnson snickered, head rolling back on the couch. “Hippies.”
Warlock didn’t mention that his own parents were hardly hippy folk and they’d named him after a D&D race; he was trying to decide how to react to the conversation, tongue heavy in his mouth.
“Yeah, I know her. Why? Want me to ‘range a date?”
“You’re so funny,” Peters said, over Johnson’s mocking laughter. “I didn’t realise you were so keen on discussin’ intersectional feminism in the Labour party.”
“We don’t talk politics,” Warlock said, flatly. “And she’s friends with my roommate.”
“Roommate?” Johnson exclaimed, loudly enough that the Winkelvii glanced their way. “Got confused with Durham, there, mate? We don’t do those.”
“Yeah, well. I have one.”
“This is what happens when you don’t go to Johns,” Winkelvii 1 said, mock sympathetic. Warlock flicked him off absently and considered his glass, which was empty. Abruptly he felt he couldn’t spend a second longer in their company. He had no desire whatsoever to discuss Adam and the others with them.
“Speaking of, boys, I have a hot date with the Communist Manifesto, so. Happy Halloween and all that.”
He stumbled his way back to Pembroke, ignoring the mocking calls of the town locals as he passed Wetherspoons in his suit and finally staggering his way into the common room through the back entrance, foregoing the watchful eyes of the college committee, who would have snatched his cigarette away and refused him entry on account of his inebriation.
He had barely set foot into the room, lost in the throng of dancing bodies, when someone’s hand was on his shoulder, and he turned somewhat sloppily to find Adam behind him, eyebrows raised faintly.
“Hey,” Warlock said, unable to control his lopsided grin at the coincidental sight. “Was just about to look for you.”
“I know,” Adam said. He didn’t sound at all drunk. Warlock wasn’t sure if he drank. “What are you dressed as, then?”
“Hm, ah- CUCA member?” Warlock tried, taking a drag off his cigarette. His hand-eye coordination was somewhat lacking; he just barely avoided spilling ashes over his shirt. “Never been big on Halloween.”
“Not even as a kid?” Adam inquired, skeptical. He was dressed up, but Warlock couldn’t figure out what his costume was; he kind of looked like a biker, except he had skull makeup on, too, slightly smudged around his mouth. Maybe the guy from that Nicolas Cage movie.
“All right, sure,” Warlock conceded, exhaling smoke. Adam wrinkled his nose, not necessarily like he was grossed out but more like he was evaluating the smell. He was finding it difficult to stay upright, the music pounding behind him. “But that was mostly ‘cause my nanny was really into it.”
“Your nanny,” Adam repeated, his lips quirking up. Warlock grinned back, loosely. “Of course.”
“Whatever you’re picturing, you’re wrong. Nanny was-“ He stopped, shook his head. Even hideously drunk he wasn’t about to let that all slip. “…Unique.”
“I’ll bet,” Adam said, and then: “You seem very drunk.”
“That’s because I am,” Warlock agreed, complacently. He got more agreeable when he was drunk, as a general rule, which was why he generally avoided getting in such a state. “Hey, where’s your posse gone?”
“Around,” Adam replied, unconcerned. He was eyeing the cigarette now. “Do you smoke a lot?”
“Socially,” Warlock said, closing his eyes. “’m guessing you don’t.”
“Never wanted to,” Adam said. Warlock opened his eyes a fraction, clumsily trying to decipher his expression, and then, emboldened by the alcohol, he shrugged, took the cigarette out of his mouth, and stuck it out in Adam’s general direction.
He might have been leaning too heavily, because Adam gave him an odd look, but abruptly he pursed his lips and accepted the cigarette, and Warlock watched with the sort of vague fascination he watched Discovery Channel with as he gently placed it in his mouth and frowned.
“Just-“ He gestured an inhale. “And try not to choke.”
Adam did; and exhaled quite graciously, for a first timer. The smoke burnt his eyes; he wondered how it hadn’t seemed to bother Adam earlier.
“So?”
“Tastes funny,” Adam decided, around a mouthful of smoke. He passed it back to Warlock, who took a final drag and crushed it mindlessly under his heel.
“Might prefer weed, then.”
“Maybe,” Adam agreed. “I think you’re too drunk to stay here.”
“Yeah,” Warlock sighed. “I only came to fulfil my social obligation to you lot, ’nyways.”
”Consider it fulfilled. Bed?”
“I can manage,” Warlock protested, when it became apparent Adam intended to chaperone him back, although he wasn’t all that opposed, considering he’d nearly concussed himself on the walk to Pembroke in the first place and only avoided serious brain damage because the lamppost had been conveniently bent right where his head had gone. “Your friends’ll wonder where you went.”
“No, they won’t.”
Warlock only sighed, allowing Adam to grab him by the elbow and steer him out of the parlour. His eyes kept slipping shut, so the walk back wasn’t exactly smooth, his head and shoulders bumping into Adam as he dragged him along.
“Why’re you so drunk, anyways? Was this some sort of CUCA hazing thing?”
“Drinking game. Very consensual and all that, don’t you worry.”
“I wasn’t,” Adam said. “I don’t see the appeal, I s’pose.”
“You wouldn’t,” Warlock snorted. They paused in their ascent; he squinted up at Adam and found him haloed by the upstairs lights, gaze questioning. “Least you avoid the hangovers.”
“I always figured people were exaggerating those.”
“Tell that to me when I’m puking my guts out on the floor tomorrow morning.”
“That sounds gross.”
“Yeah, man. Feels gross too.”
He blanked the rest of their conversation, though he did faintly recall being sort of shoved into his bed and maybe making half-joking and hideously embarrassing requests for a bedtime story; in any event, he spent the next morning nursing a surprisingly mild headache and not entirely sure whether he had imagined the presence of the dog in his room or not.
He was about thirteen percent sure it had licked his hand.
After Halloween, things shifted again. In part, this was due to Warlock scrolling Instagram the next day to find himself tagged in a CUCA post with a witty Reagan quote as a caption, which engendered several notable consequences, these being that:
a) His mother liked the post and texted him that she was happy to see him with friends, reminding him forcibly that he’d only even attended that first meeting on her advice in a moment of weakness;
b) Pepper and her FemSoc friends tore into said post relentlessly while he was seated at their table in the library, reminding him that he was part of two groups who very vociferously didn’t like each other;
c) Being that he was on Instagram, he came across the Tadfield gang’s Halloween photos on Pepper’s account, which featured no Reagan quotes but instead a witty inside joke that Warlock had actually sort of been privy to, and remembered that of said two groups, he overall found the Tadfield group far more tolerable.
As a result, Warlock came to the somewhat belated conclusion that there was really no need for him to be spending so much time with a group of people he found insufferable, and that he might as well go to his fellow NatScis when he next wanted to get drunk, considering they were all vaguely unhinged anyways. Besides, he needed some time to focus on his studies- he’d been neglecting physics for being less interesting than maths.
Most importantly, however, things with Adam had changed. Adam seemed to have decided that they were past the point of cautious camaraderie and were now genuine friends, for whatever reason; Warlock suspected that sometime into embarrassing himself he’d accidentally shown himself to be an actual person, or something, or maybe Adam had noticed his reduced CUCA attendance and taken it as a point in his favour.
Being friends with Adam was a whole different story from being friendly with Adam; they saw each other near constantly, and Adam’s dog, which Warlock now saw regularly traipsing around Adam’s room, had taken to wagging its tail contentedly upon spotting Warlock entering the room. They did actual things together instead of just running into each other, or more accurately Adam would decide they were doing something and Warlock would somehow find himself going along with it. They went to the Fitzwilliam, loitering in the basement halls, where Adam pointed out every statute to him and told him their entire mythological significance, and attended service in King’s Chapel, Warlock muttering various fun facts about the angels and demons decorating the room that he couldn’t remember ever learning. At first, Warlock staunchly refused going on bike rides through town, mainly because he hadn’t ridden a bike in years and was unwilling to face this humiliating fact, but somehow Adam talked him into it anyways, and it was easy after all- they started taking long meandering rides through the outskirts of town whenever the weather permitted it, which it almost always did.
Mostly it was their conversations which shifted. Warlock had made a grievous error in letting slip that he’d had a nanny, because Adam pounced on this fact when his defences were down, and starting drawing further childhood anecdotes out of him whenever the mood struck him. Saying them out loud made Warlock wonder not for the first time where the fuck his parents had dug up the absolute nut jobs who raised him, but Adam seemed relatively unfazed by it all, more interested in understanding his various idiosyncrasies than in his parent’s dubious choices.
“Did your nanny have a green thumb? Is that where you got it from?”
“No,” Warlock snorted. “She didn’t have much time for anything like that. I saw her glowering at our rose bush all the time when the gardener wasn’t looking.”
“Oh, the gardener then.”
“Maybe,” Warlock mused. “But he wasn’t- I mean, the gardens were always immaculate, but he never seemed particularly competent. He was more interested in the wildlife and all that.”
“A passion for animals you didn’t inherit,” Adam said, glancing over at Dog, who sat obediently at the edge of his own room. Warlock shrugged.
“No. He did try, though. As did Nanny, actually. I think she tried to get me over my whole phobia of dogs, but it kind of backfired when she brought in the Rottweilers.”
Adam smiled at that, and shifted to cross his legs, contemplative. He always sat on Warlock’s bed when he was in the room, or on his floor, never any of the chairs. Warlock didn’t mind, especially because his covers always seemed slightly warmer afterwards. Their heating was faulty at best, but he only seemed to feel it when Adam was out.
“Anyways, enough with the victimising here. Don’t you have any bizarre childhood stories I can exploit?”
“I don’t exploit your bizarre childhood stories,” Adam said, gravely, though his eyes twinkled. “And my own upbringing was very normal, for the most part.”
This much Warlock knew was true; Adam’s parents were almost overwhelmingly ordinary, to the point that Warlock couldn’t fathom that they’d somehow created Adam of all people. At the very least, they seemed equally bemused by him. Adam was obviously fond of them, but they didn’t speak that often, something which Warlock appreciated, even though he had no right to. It made him feel less exposed.
“That ‘mostly’ leaves so much room for interpretation,” Warlock retorted, now, leaning out of the window to exhale a mouthful of smoke. He didn’t smoke inside often, but he was stress-smoking, or had been until Adam had appeared in his room. Adam didn’t seem to mind. “You could have murdered several people and your upbringing would still be mostly normal.”
“Never murder,” Adam said, in that half-mocking serious tone he used on Warlock more than anyone else, and which Warlock was never entirely sure how to respond to. “Pepper, Wensleydale, Brian and me had a rival gang even then, if that’s the sort of thing you want to hear. It was a very serious rivalry. And our town has a witch.”
“Of course it does,” Warlock snorted, putting his cigarette out and wafting the smoke away. Cambridge accommodation was extremely paranoid about fire hazards. “I assume you weren’t scared of her at all.”
“I’m not easily scared,” Adam agreed, mildly. “And she isn’t very scary.”
“Isn’t? She’s still in town?”
“Her and her boyfriend. They’re quite lovely people. You should come visit, sometime, maybe.”
His gaze was searching; Warlock looked away, fiddling with his sleeves. “Sure. Tadfield holiday.”
“What are your plans for Christmas, anyways?”
“Back to the States,” Warlock said, and controlled his grimace quite neatly. “The weather will be better, at least.”
“It’s warmer in DC?”
“No, it-“ Warlock paused, decided he could let this one out. “I’d miss the snow. I kind of forgot how miserable Christmas is without snow.”
Probably it wasn’t the snow that had made his Christmases so miserable. It had been the only time they’d been alone just the three of them, all the staff sent home for the holidays, and he could only remember sitting in silence at the table, staring outside at the grey wet countryside. Once they’d moved back, though, he’d at least had the snow as an excuse to be out of the house, and he’d spent countless hours making snow angels and sledding down hills alone.
“We don’t get white Christmases a lot,” Adam nodded, pensive. “Global warming, I guess.”
“You could always come to DC,” Warlock suggested, wryly. He could no more imagine Adam interacting with his parents than he could imagine himself in some cozy cottage in Tadfield. “Pursue the snow.”
“My parents would miss me,” Adam said, apologetic like he’d considered it, which was-
A knock on the door, loud and impatient; Warlock started, and Adam sighed and reached to open it.
“I’ve been knocking for five minutes,” Pepper said, pointedly.
“Sorry,” Warlock said, with a confused glance towards Adam. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“Oh, of course not,” Pepper grumbled, unwrapping her scarf. “I was talking to Adam.”
“Didn’t hear anything either,” Adam said, smoothly, and got up to take her coat. “See you, Warlock.”
They vanished into Adam’s room, door shutting behind them, leaving Warlock to stare after them, then catch himself and turn to his desk.
So, fine. He hadn’t been entirely honest with himself. If he had to chronicle the changes in his life since the whole Halloween incident, the most important one was probably the fact he had found himself quite disastrously into Adam.
Really, it wasn’t much of a surprise. Warlock had very low standards when it came to people he’d take home (male, somewhat attractive, maybe not a complete moron), and Adam exceeded those expectations entirely, which catapulted him into dangerous sentimental territory. He was good looking in a distracting way, and he was clever; charismatic like no one Warlock had ever met, possessing an innate pull that affected everyone around him, unconsciously. Most damningly, he was kind, or chose to be with Warlock, at least. Not in a saccharine way- Warlock thought he was a bit of a bastard, sometimes- but quietly, interested in his feelings and prone to remembering things he’d said. Warlock’s most easily exploitable weakness was people being nice to him- Adam was a catastrophe.
Still, Warlock was making the best of his experience in repression to ensure this whole crush situation was never made known to anyone but himself, and he thought he was succeeding, overall. Adam had him on the wrong footing more often than not, but this could be explained away by Warlock’s lack of experience in having real friends. As for the rest, he stamped down heavily on any urges to stare longingly or engage in any flirtatious behaviour, despite how easy Adam sometimes made it to try. There was no chance in hell that this was a reciprocal situation, and he refused to put himself through the torment of rejection and potentially sabotage the best relationship he had going.
He had considered the whole reciprocity thing carefully, but the results were conclusive. Adam did such unfair things as reserving particular smiles for him or telling him he looked nice unprompted, but this was very in-keeping with him as a person; he did the same sort of thing for his friends. When it came to any potential chemistry, he was completely unaffected; while Warlock regularly found himself dry-mouthed and unsure, Adam was unfazed. He didn’t strike Warlock as the type to even feel attraction, considering the way he had moments of almost forgetting people were real in the same way he was. And even then, statistics said he would be into girls- Warlock was already suspicious of his relationship with Pepper.
The whole affair was very inconvenient; Warlock had never been prone to falling so easily for anyone, and he was ill-equipped to handle it. He had conflicting urges to lean into it and to crush it entirely, uncomfortable with the effect it had on him. Love, or whatever it was, was very destabilising, and he was beginning to worry that he was losing his grip on reality, because at times it felt like the world around him was reflecting his own pining. Some days when he spotted Adam he swore the sun started shining through the clouds; he could at times appear as if summoned, and sometimes as they talked Warlock felt as though he had to strain to make out the bustle of the outside world. Once they’d gone punting, pressed together under the blanket in the dismal November drizzle, and when Warlock had stopped laughing at Adam’s dry review of the back of Trinity, he’d looked up to find the falling leaves twirling gently around them.
It was enough to make him question his sanity at times, but then movies and television did make it seem like this was to be expected where love was involved. He’d been imaginative enough as a child, though he’d certainly lost that across the years.
He was sort of relieved the holidays were approaching, in a way. It would give him some reprieve from walking on eggshells. Not so much around Adam, even, but the other three, who were always watchful and potentially able to communicate psychically. He still wasn’t entirely sure whether they liked him or just put up with him for Adam’s sake.
The excruciatingly-named Bridgemas rolled around, bringing much-needed distraction from the final weeks of term. More than once Warlock had found himself cramming essays past midnight with Pepper in their Law Library, nevermind that he wasn’t a lawyer and she didn’t go to their college; Wensleydale’s caffeine dependancy had increased tenfold, and even Adam had taken to grumpily perching over his textbooks once in a while. Only Brian seemed unaffected by his academic obligations, which made him the smartest of them all for eluding the Cambridge trap, Warlock thought.
Bridgemas bop was just as lame as he had expected it to be, but he didn’t feel like he was missing out. He had gone with his fellow NatScis, and thus witnessed some truly stirring renditions of Mariah Carey’s Christmas album, and there was something infectiously entertaining about seeing everyone dressed in hideous jumpers, wearing tinsel and getting drunk. By half-way through the event he had found himself perched near the bar with the Tadfield gang, carefully nursing his mulled wine and watching Adam, Wensleydale and Pepper argue fiercely about economics, Brian laughing by his side. Warlock was barely tipsy himself, having actively avoided getting very drunk within Adam’s company since the Halloween incident, but he was smiling into his drink anyways, feeling festive despite it being a month until Christmas.
“Hey,” Brian said, abruptly, pulling Warlock’s attention away from the curl of hair hanging over Adam’s eyes. He himself was rather further along than Warlock, on his fifth beer and counting. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“You’re into guys, right?” Brian asked, quieter now, though in a casual way. Warlock felt himself stiffen and counted backwards from ten, forcing his posture to relax.
The query was most likely asked in good faith- they were all very involved in LGBT shit, though whether as allies or involved members he had never asked. After he’d realised this, he’d stopped trying to be discreet about his random hook-ups, so it was sort of an open secret. Still-
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Right,” Brian said, nodding, and then his eyes slid to Adam, and when he looked back there was something sharp in his gaze. “So-“
Warlock’s pulse thundered; before he could think twice he was reaching into his repertoire and pushing all of the command he could into his throat. “Don’t ask that.”
For a moment Brian’s gaze held, then something wavered in his eyes, expression slackening. Warlock’s relieved exhale caught in his throat as he watched him blink and frown at his drink.
“Sorry, I- what were we saying?”
“Economics,” Warlock managed, and dug his nails into his palm, getting his breathing under control. When he looked back at the group he found Adam staring at him so intently that the hair on the back of his neck stood up.
“I’m gonna- fresh air,” Warlock said, and stood, pushing through the crowd until he got to the door and stumbled outside, throwing himself into the nearest bench once he reached the smoking area. His heart was still racing, more from adrenaline than anything else now.
He let his head fall back and exhaled, breath clouding in the cold but hard to see in the dark. Pulling the command stunt always had him feeling like he’d run a marathon.
He couldn’t explain how it worked, but he had always shied away from thinking too hard about it, because it felt a tad mystic. A trick his Nanny had taught him, amidst speeches on how to psychologically destroy anyone who stood in his way- if you concentrated very hard and spoke things a certain, darkly motivated way, you could get people to do things. Warlock had never been very good at it, to Nanny’s apparent irritation, though he had tried very hard to follow her lead, very interested in getting people to do his bidding at will. At most he usually succeeded in getting people to stop doing things.
He’d learnt to do the opposite too, to equally paltry success- persuade. This he couldn’t remember Nanny teaching him; maybe the old gardener had. Yes, it had been him- he’d taught him to do it with animals, as he recalled. It had been more like encouragement than anything else, but he remembered getting the birds to follow him to his room once.
God, why had he only recently begun thinking about how fucking weird those people had been? Not that his tutors had been any better- Mr Harrison and Mr Cortese had followed very unorthodox teaching curriculums- but at least they’d never tried to teach him how to summon bugs or make his father’s boss dance a jig.
He hadn’t tried to use either in a while, mostly because they made him feel shaky and weird afterwards, like he was using something not meant for him. But Brian- it had been instinctual. Shit, if Brian suspected, then Pepper and Wensleydale probably did too- definitely Pepper. He would have to avoid them until the holidays. Whatever conversation they were trying to have was not one he was interested in pursuing.
Somewhere behind him he heard the parlour door push open. He turned to squint against the sudden burst of light and sound to find Adam silhouetted against it, and they looked at each other for a moment before Adam stepped out and shut the door behind him, the silence abrupt.
“Hey,” Warlock said, aiming for casual. He itched for a cigarette.
Adam mutely made his way over to him, sat on the bench across from him, and though it was dark and Adam’s expression was hard to see he had the momentary notion that Adam knew, somehow, that he was here to condemn him. He pulled himself straighter, tried to focus his mind, to map escape routes. He had the dark suspicion that trying anything on Adam would fail.
“Aren’t you cold?” Adam asked, finally, just before Warlock could give up and say something politically risqué to distract him.
“Uh,” Warlock said. “Yeah.”
“Then why are you outside?”
He knew, Warlock thought again. Somehow he knew. But no- he couldn’t. “Needed some air. It’s very stifling in there.”
More silence; Warlock felt as though nailed to the spot, like something was raking him over the coals, and then suddenly the feeling stopped. He exhaled shakily. Across him, Adam’s posture had relaxed.
“I s’pose it can be.”
Warlock nodded uncomfortably, hands clenching reflexively at the phantom feeling of unease. From the library they heard the clock strike midnight, and he glanced distractedly at the parlour as muffled cheers reached them, students inside celebrating.
“Merry Bridgemas,” Warlock said, vaguely.
“Merry Bridgemas,” Adam echoed, then glanced upwards. Warlock followed, then started.
From the dark skies above, snow had begun to fall.