Chapter Text
Martin tapped his pen on the paper absently. Every now and then, he abandoned the tapping to instead chew on it. Dimly, he was aware of the other students in the library; a cough, a sigh, the soft drag of books being pulled from shelves. But his attention was fully taken up by The Complete Works of Ben Johnson, currently open on a scene from Volpone.
Which was why, when someone approached his desk, he didn’t notice until that someone softly said, “Excuse me?”
Martin looked up. The interrupter was about his age and had hair the colour of honey. He wore a shirt with the sleeves rolled up all the way past his elbows and the top buttons undone, and a knitted, blue waistcoat. “Yes?” Martin said, feeling uncharacteristically shy.
“You appear to have a book that I need,” the stranger said, motioning to one of the half dozen poetry anthologies on Martin’s desk. His mouth quirked in a half-smile. “That book there is the only one in this blasted library that has anything by Abraham Cowley in it.”
“Oh, by all means.” Martin handed the book over. The stranger’s hands were covered in black ink stains. “You’re writing a paper on Cowley then, I presume?” he asked. Part of him didn’t want this golden-haired and ink-fingered stranger to leave just yet.
“Him and some contemporaries.” His voice was so pleasant Martin was sure he could listen to it forever. “And you?” Not waiting for a reply, the stranger tucked the anthology under one arm and leaned closer to read the title of the book open in front of Martin.
Martin felt heat creep up his neck at this sudden proximity. “My tutor is of the opinion that Johnson’s works are superior to Shakespeare’s,” he explained.
The stranger turned his head in interest; his eyes were the warmest brown Martin had ever seen. There were ink stains on his face, too. Martin imagined him leaning his head on his hand as he wrote.
He had to clear his throat before he could continue. “I can’t say I agree.”
“Is your tutor Whishaw, by any chance?” asked the stranger.
Grimacing, Martin nodded.
The stranger let out a laugh. The way he was standing let the sun shine golden on his face. “My condolences.”
Martin gave a tight smile. He wanted to say something in response, anything to keep the conversation going, though nothing came to mind. The stranger, too, looked like there was something he wanted to say.
But in the end, he just straightened. “Well, best not to keep you,” he said. “I would rather hate to be responsible for you incurring Whishaw’s wrath.”
“Thank you. And good luck with your paper!”
“Thank you.” The stranger lifted the anthology in salute, and just like that, he had left.
Martin sat back. He eyed The Complete Works of Ben Johnson without seeing it. He rubbed his hands over his face, in disappointment that the conversation had been so short, in anger that he had neglected to ask the stranger’s name. He kept his hands over his eyes for a moment. To any passers-by, he would in all likelihood appear simply overworked; in actuality, he was gnawing on the unwelcome realisation that something he had thought long since buried was rising again.
He shook himself and picked up his pen. He was not keen on incurring Whishaw’s wrath, either.
For days, Martin could not stop thinking of ink-stained skin and golden hair.