Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Music acts like a magic key, to which the most tightly closed heart opens."

- Maria von Trapp

Faraday moves to London in April. 

It rains the day he arrives, sheets of water pelting down relentlessly. He tries not to pay attention to the date. It’s almost exactly a year now, since… 

But, no, none of that. He’s not thinking about any of that. That’s the reason he came to London in the first place. 

His new flat is small and cramped, up in the highest storey of a nondescript house in a quiet street near the university. It’s barely even worthy of being called a flat. There is a bedroom he can barely take two steps in before he walks into his furniture, a living room that doubles as a dining room, with both the couch and the table so small they can only accommodate two people, at most. The kitchen is barely even a room at all, and there is no office. It’s a far cry from his old home, and even that was humble. In all honesty, Faraday isn’t too happy about this new accommodation - the size of it, the style of it, everything about it, really But it will have to do. For now, at least. 

The grey light that falls in through the small windows makes the flat seem even smaller, almost sad, with its mostly empty walls and its boring wallpaper and its scarce furniture. No personal belongings, no signs of live in this place yet. It’s alright, Faraday figures. He won’t start at his new position until next week, plenty of time to get settled. It’s strange to think of this flat as his new home, even though it is. That, too, is something that will surely change as he gets more accustomed to it. It will only take a bit of time, some getting used to. Nothing to fret about, this feeling of displacement.

One thing he likes about the place is the view, at least. From his window, he can see the surrounding rooftops, chimneys and gables reaching up into the grey sky. He doesn’t know exactly why he likes it - it’s nothing like the view he is used to, of quaint houses and green fields. It’s nothing special, really. Just rooftops. But, in a way, being so high up makes him feel like he’s barely part of the city at all, and that is nice in its own way. 

Faraday sits down on the couch, springs creaking beneath his weight, and surveys his surroundings carefully, tries to summon up some sense of… peace, maybe, though that’s not really a concept he puts much weight in. But there’s a restlessness inside of him, even though nothing is happening, nothing has been happening. Maybe it’s the change of scenery. That must be it. Surely, it’ll go away soon, and the lump in his stomach he can’t seem to shake will be gone, and he will be as calm as he always is, as he always should be. 

Soon, he’ll be back to normal. When he starts working. When he has settled here, in this new place. He just has to take his mind off of things. Idleness has never done him any good. 

Faraday tries to swallow down that strange unpleasant feeling in the back of his throat, and gets to work unpacking, trying hard not to think about Lidcote, and everything he left behind. 

Surely, all of this will go away once the month is over. Once it’s no longer April. Surely. 

***

That first night, he dreams of Hundreds Hall. 

He sees it in his mind the way it was the first time he saw it, back when he was a young boy. The gardens are a bright green and the house’s facade is positively glowing, intensely enough to hurt his eyes. It seems to shine in the sun, this majestic building, and the sight of it makes his chest twist with furious longing. 

But when he steps closer, hand reaching out in a feeble attempt to touch, to feel, to catch a glimpse of its insides, his vision morphs, the house crumbling before him. 

Then, he sees it the way it was the last time he saw it, just days ago. The facade grey, old, stone cracking open. The roof collapsed, after those storms last autumn. Floors soaked through and broken, after more storms during the winter. Windows shuttered, hidden behind wooden slats. All that glory destroyed, impossible to repair. 

Faraday watches, helpless, as the house breaks down before his eyes, decay eating it up, and tries to hold it together, but his hands are a boy’s hands, too small to make any difference. 

In the end, the house collapses, and takes Faraday with it. 

***

On Friday, Faraday gets invited for a night out with some of his new colleagues. 

They want to get to know him before he starts at the university on Monday, want to welcome him to the city, get acquainted with him. It’s not the sort of thing Faraday typically enjoys, and he is minded to refuse. He hasn’t slept well, these past few nights since he arrived, unaccustomed to the bed and the flat and the city, and the lack of proper rest has left him exhausted and irritated. He dreads the thought of company, of having to engage in polite conversation the whole night, of keeping up pretences. 

But it would be rude to say no, when he is the one this little meet-up is for, and he wants to make a good first impression, wants his new colleagues to think well of him. So he agrees. 

They take him out to a restaurant that he’s never been to before during his past trips to London. It’s small and cozy, teetering just on the edge between extravagant and ordinary. Almost all of the tables are taken, and the hum of conversation is a constant background noise that grates on Faraday’s nerves as soon as they get settled at their table.

There’s six of them in total, counting Faraday. He has seen three of the men before, had gotten drinks with one of them that time he came to London to present the results of his research on Rod… but, no, that’s not something he’s thinking about, not now, not here, preferably not ever again. 

The other men warm to him quickly, which surprises Faraday. He’s not a particularly outgoing person, and barely contributes to conversation. But the others keep buying him drinks, insist on paying for his meal, and the man seated to his left claps his back in a brotherly way that almost makes Faraday recoil. Perhaps they’re all just happy to have someone new in their circle, someone fresh and unknown, happy like children when they get gifted a new toy. Soon, the novelty will wear off, and they will stop inviting Faraday along on their nights out. Or, at least, will be more reserved with him, the way many people are, once they get to know him, and the way he prefers to keep most people at a distance.  

After four rounds of drinks, Faraday allows his mind to drift off and stops paying attention. The men have drifted off into recounting their past adventures and conquests, and Faraday doesn’t know any of the names or places or events being mentioned. He feels like he’s catching glimpses of a world he isn’t a part of, and the thought makes something sour bubble in his stomach. 

Trying to swallow it down, Faraday turns his head away, lets his gaze drift through the room instead of resting on his companions. His eyes dance over the other patrons, groups of friends on a night out and couples dining together. The air is filled with cigarette smoke, and Faraday lights one of his own, relishes the first drag, the smooth smoke filling his lungs and drifting up around his head when he exhales. 

There’s music playing, a pleasant tinkle of light notes drifting through the room, the sound of it quiet and easy. It’s so innocuous, blends so seamlessly into the background that it takes Faraday a very long moment to notice where it’s coming from, to spot the piano positioned in the far corner of the room. 

The man sitting in front of the instrument is wearing a black suit, his broad body swaying in time with the music. Even from the distance, Faraday can see how his fingers fly across the keys with practiced ease. He clearly knows what he’s doing, makes it look effortless, and Faraday is far from an expert when it comes to music, but he knows playing a piano like this is certainly not effortless at all. 

There’s something mesmerizing about watching the pianist play. The movements of his body, of his hands… the rhythm of it all, paired with the warm air and the low tinkle of the notes puts Faraday in a trance, and he finds that he can’t look away from the man. His face is concealed by his hair, falling in soft black waves. Faraday tries to imagine what his expression might look like. Whether his face is overtaken by reverence, whether his eyes are closed or open, whether he’s clenching his teeth or letting his muscles relax as he flows with the music. He has no answer to these questions, but can’t help pondering them nonetheless, involuntarily, like his mind is running without his consent. 

Immersed as he is in his thoughts, captured by the alluring mixture of music and movement, Faraday barely notices when the pianist finishes playing his current song. Only when the man stops swaying, his body returning to stillness as the last notes ring out, does Faraday return to himself. He blinks, somewhat dazed, and doesn’t quite know how or why the music managed to touch him like this. It’s not like him, to let himself be moved by such trivial things. It doesn’t make sense, by all accounts, and it doesn’t make sense either that he’s still trying to shake himself out of it. 

It is then that the man turns; moved, maybe by some sort of innate instinct, some intuitive knowledge of being watched. He lifts his head and shifts and then he’s looking over, staring right at Faraday. 

Faraday freezes, cigarette halfway to his mouth. 

He feels like a deer caught in the headlights, trapped under the man’s heavy gaze. He barely has the presence of mind to catalogue the face he’d been so curious about, notices only the eyes, intent under thick brows. The moment seems to stretch on endlessly, and Faraday can’t move away, can’t help but stare back, enraptured. His surroundings seem to melt away around him, the restaurant fading into the background, Faraday’s breath caught somewhere in the back of his throat. 

Then the man next to him laughs, boisterous and loud enough to make Faraday flinch. To make him come back to himself. He flushes, blood rushing to his head so fast it makes him dizzy, and turns away from the other man abruptly enough to make his neck twinge. His hand shakes as he lifts it to his lips, taking a hasty drag of his cigarette. A bitter taste coats the insides of his mouth that has nothing to do with the tobacco, something acidic coiling in his stomach as he realizes what he has done. 

Faraday tries to swallow it down, and fails, and keeps his tense body turned away from the pianist, even when, after a few minutes that seem to take forever, the music picks up again, first slow, hesitant, then with renewed vigour. 

***

The following Monday, Faraday teaches his first class at the university. 

He stands in the the lecture hall in front of rows upon rows of students. They’re all looking at him, bright faced and eager for knowledge. Faraday talks and quietly wonders whether he looked like that once. He can’t imagine he did. Part of him resents them, for their innocence, their naivety. For how unjaded they are. But he doesn’t let it show, simply goes through the motions, passing the things he knows on to them. 

The day passes in a sort of blur, lectures blending into each other. Faraday is tired, incredibly so, and the tiredness keeps him from being fully present, has him feeling like he experiences every single moment through a pane of glass, one step removed from reality. He didn’t sleep well during the weekend, even worse than the nights before that. The lack of sleep has left him exhausted. 

In quiet moments throughout the day, during brief breaks, his mind wanders. Back to his flat. The three picture frames that hang on the wall, that have been there since he moved in, the only decorations in that place. Photographs of landscapes, encased in shining glass. 

All of them cracked, now. 

One for each night. 

***

Against his better judgement, Faraday goes back to the restaurant on Friday. He spends the whole day jittery, uneasy, and tries to tell himself he won’t go out in the evening, that going out will only make it worse. But when the sun begins to set, his feet carry him through the streets and towards that place, almost of their own volition. Like Faraday isn’t even the one steering them. 

He sits at the bar this time, as far away from the piano as possible, and to the side, so he’s mostly hidden from sight. He orders a drink and lights a cigarette, and stares resolutely at the shelves behind the bar, filled with bottles of liquor.

He does not turn around. He does not survey the room. He does not let his gaze drift. 

The music drifts and flows through the room, weaving gently through the air. Faraday listens to the soft notes, the light tinkle of the keys, the ease with which the song seems to take shape. It’s just as mesmerizing as the first time, even though he doesn’t see the pianist. He doesn’t even need to, can still remember what the man looked like when he played last week. The memory and the sound consume him all the same. 

When the song ends, the silence that follows seems to stretch on forever. Faraday waits, body tense, and drains his glass. There’s sweat gathering at the back of neck, his face bright red. In the few quiet seconds, that bitter taste rises in his throat again, and he feels foolish for coming back here, doesn’t understand what made him do it and hates it more than anything. 

Then, the music starts up again, and as the notes reach him, the muscles in Faraday’s body relax all at once. He sighs heavily, orders another drink. Closes his eyes for a brief moment and simply listens to the music. 

And then, he finally does what he’s been craving all week, and turns. 

He looks at the pianist, at his body swaying in time with the music, and simply watches him play. 

***

It becomes a habit. Faraday doesn’t even notice it has become a habit until it’s already too late, until it’s already ingrained in his new routine. 

Every Friday, without fail, he finds himself back in that restaurant. Listening to the music, watching the pianist play with such skillful passion, sitting at the bar with a drink and a cigarette. Turning away as soon as one song ends, and sneaking more glances when the music starts up again. 

It’s not something Faraday feels like he can control. This habit, his continuous return. Every time he sets foot into the restaurant, he feels like he’s spiralling. It’s a compulsion, happens without conscious thought. There is no decision to be made on his part. Even when he tries to tell himself he won’t come back this Friday, he does. No matter how hard he tries, he simply cannot stay away. 

April turns into May turns into June. 

Faraday goes to the restaurant every Friday. 

He listens to the pianist. 

He tries not to look at him too closely. Fails, too often. 

He goes home, to his small flat, just as grey and dreary as it was on the first day, and goes to sleep, and dreams of Hundreds Hall, crumbling in front of him.

The cracks in the picture frames keep growing. 

And the next week: Repeat. 

***

On a Friday in June, Faraday arrives at the restaurant later than usual. 

It’s one of the first truly warm days of the year, summer starting to roll in, and somehow the city seems to trap in the stifling air and the humidity and multiply it tenfold. Faraday is sweating by the time he pushes the entrance door open, his dress shirt sticking unpleasantly to his back. He contemplates taking off his jacket, but that would break up the careful composition of his clothes, the way every garment complements the others in a way Faraday spent much thought on. It would surely make him look uncaring, untidy. No, better to stay well put together. 

He weaves his way through the tables, like he always does, towards the bar. His usual seat is free, and Faraday slides onto the barstool. Retrieves a cigarette with a smooth motion, lights it as he waits for the bartender. The whole routine ingrained by now. 

But something is off. 

Faraday frowns, confused. He can’t quite place it at first, what exactly it is. Where it comes from, this strange sensation of wrongness. The restaurant looks the way it always does, the bartender is the same, and the music that’s being is played is… 

The music. 

It sounds wrong.

Faraday’s frown deepens, something twisting in his gut, something foreboding, and he knows what he’ll find before he turns. He turns around anyway, his gaze seeking out the piano in the corner, the man who’s sitting in front of it, playing soft tunes… 

It’s a different man. 

Faraday exhales heavily, his gut twisting. Something hot and bitter rises in his throat, making his chest burn and his face burn even more. He tries to swallow it down. Fails. 

It’s a different man. The usual pianist is tall and broad, with dark hair, and a body that moves fluidly to the music, like his body is an extension of the instrument. This one, this new, strange man, is nothing like that. He is smaller, slimmer. His hair is blond and cut short, and his movements seem more tense, less easy, less melodious. 

A white-hot spark shoots through Faraday, making him grit his teeth in anger. Stupid, he’s been goddamn stupid. Coming here, again and again, for what? He feels flustered, like he’s been caught doing something forbidden, as it dawns on him, truly dawns on him, what he’s been doing. Foolish, is what he’s been. 

He stands up quickly, abruptly enough to almost make the barstool fall over. Rickety thing. He can’t believe he’s spent so many nights sitting on it, for… for… for nothing. Faraday takes a deep breath, leaves his half empty glass on the bar as he turns away and walks towards the exit with quick strides. He tries to tell himself all the way there that he hasn’t been coming here because of the pianist, that it doesn’t have anything to do with the man’s strange magnetism. 

But if it didn’t have anything to do with the pianist, seeing someone else in his place wouldn’t leave Faraday feeling like this. So disappointed. So angry. 

He bursts through the front doors, out into the night. The air is still too warm, doesn’t provide the freshness Faraday wants, that he needs. He draws in a couple of ragged breaths, self-loathing shooting in painful stabs through his stomach, slithering through his veins. He feels like he’s poisoning himself, from the inside out, slowly and all-consuming. 

Instead of walking down the street, where other people are traversing around the city, Faraday stumbles down the alleyway next to the restaurant. It’s slim and dark and, most importantly, empty. His hands shake as he retrieves another cigarette, fingers clumsy while he struggles to light it. The smoke filling his lungs is a relief; it chases away the hatred that’s bubbling up inside him, at least for a brief moment. 

He tries to compose himself, tries to take deep breaths and calm his racing heart, to empty his mind completely. But the hatred is too strong. Hatred at himself, for being such a fool, for the pianist and the way he’s been luring Faraday back here again and again, and for that other man, that stranger, who doesn’t belong in front of that piano. But for himself most of all. It burns through him and makes his breath ragged and his jaw clench. 

Enclosed between two buildings as he is, Faraday is sheltered from the people walking by on the street. The air seems warmer back here, stuffier, makes him feel too hot in his clothes, like he’s overheating. Faraday turns, walks deeper into the alleyway, his back towards the street. 

There’s a pile of pallets leaning against one of the walls, and the wood rattles as he comes to a halt next to them. Rats, surely, or a breeze, making the things move and creak. 

Faraday closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see the pallets or the walls or the ground which is wet and sticky with God only knows what sort of substances or the- 

“I’ll see you next week, then! Have a good night- Oh!” 

Faraday jumps, a spike of sudden panic shooting through him at the sound of a voice right next to him. His eyes fly open, his cigarette drops from his fingers, and he swivels around, mouth open on an indignant exclamation addressed at the sudden intruder-

It’s the pianist. 

The right one, this time.

And he’s close. Extremely close. Watching Faraday with a soft expression of shock on his face, his lips parted, his eyes wide. 

Faraday gasps. He takes a step back, trying to bring some distance between them, because they’re face to face, only a short gap between them, and that is just- it’s not acceptable, and he needs to change it, quickly. There’s not much space for him to go, though. The alley is small, and Faraday knows that if he took another step back, he’d be pressed against the dirty facade of the house, which is an even less desirable position to be in. 

Behind the pianist, a heavy door falls shut, banging loudly in the silence between them. Faraday hadn’t noticed it before; it’s a dark colour, blends right in with the grey wall. The light that had been falling through it disappears, plunging the pianists face into shadows for a moment, until Faraday’s eyes adapt to the darkness again after a blink or two. 

This is the first time he’s really seen the pianist up close, and for some inexplicable reason, Faraday cannot look away. Even in the gloominess of the alleyway, Faraday can’t help but catalogue his face closely, paying attention to the details he’s only ever wondered about before, in those brief moments when his thought ran away from him. 

His face is quite strange, something Faraday had noticed only in short glimpses before, but now he can see it all up close; that big nose, slightly crooked, like it’s been broken a long time ago and had never been properly set, his mouth, big and wide with plush lips, his eyes, dark and framed by thick lashes, his heavy brows, the moles speckled across his skin. The dark hair falling in waves over his forehead, framing his features. 

There’s something soft about him, Faraday can’t help but think. Something he hadn’t expected, in his expression, in his mismatched features, despite how intense they seem. Maybe it’s in his eyes. There’s no way to tell, in the dim light. 

The pianist clears his throat, and Faraday realises he’s been staring. He flushes, blinks, and looks away. That hatred twists in his chest again, worms its way through his veins, and he could hit himself, really, because he’s being stupid, self-indulgent, a complete and utter fool-

“Oh,” the pianist says, and his voice is deep, and melodic, and it makes Faraday’s breath catch in his throat. “I’ve seen you around.” 

Faraday’s head snaps around to him, his eyes wide, his face twisting in sudden anger. He’d been so careful, and yet he’d still been seen, he’d been found out, he- 

“You come here on Fridays sometimes, don’t you? I’ve noticed you sitting at the bar.” 

Faraday stays silent. There’s a lump in his throat. He wants to run away. He wants to disappear. The pallets next to him rattle. 

“Apologies,” the pianist is quick to say when Faraday doesn’t respond. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, something sheepish about it. “I don’t mean to imply I’ve been… that I’ve been paying attention to you, specifically. I’m not… well, all I mean is, you’re hard to miss, with your hair, and…” 

He trails off. Huffs, gently, and runs a hand through his hair. 

“I’m sorry, I’m not making this any better,” he says, shaking his head. Then he sticks his hand out, suddenly, and smiles at Faraday again. “My name is Basil. Anthony. I’m a pianist here.” 

Very slowly, Faraday nods. He takes the pianist’s - Basil’s - hand, and shakes it once before letting go again. Quick and efficient. 

“I know,” he says. He clears his throat, swallows to suppress the scratchy quality of his voice. “As you said. I’ve been here before. I’ve seen you play.” 

Basil chuckles. “I guess you have. Apologies, again.” 

Faraday nods. Doesn’t know what to stay, and simply looks at Basil quietly, until Basil raises an eyebrow. Faraday blushes, can’t help it, at being caught. 

“You play well,” he says, just so he has something to say. The candid words feel strange in his mouth; he isn’t used to giving out compliments. 

Basil smiles again, wider this time. There’s a hint of redness in his cheeks, Faraday thinks, but he can’t be sure. It’s too dark to really tell. 

“Thank you. That’s nice of you to say.” 

Faraday wants to scoff, wants to say that he isn’t nice and he didn’t say it to pretend he is. But he doesn’t. 

Instead, he asks: “For how long have you been playing?” Waits, just a moment, before he adds: “You’re very skilled, is all. It’s clear you must have been doing this for a long time.” 

The words make him blush again, and he feels like he’s said too much, but Basil doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Oh, too long to remember, really. Almost my whole life.” 

There’s something wistful in his expression, for just a moment, before it disappears, and he tilts his head at Faraday, looking at him curiously. 

“Are you interested in music?” Basil asks. 

“No,” Faraday says immediately. 

Basil stares. Faraday stares back. He feels like an idiot. He should have said yes. That would explain it, at least, would explain why he’s been back here again and again, why he’s been paying enough attention to Basil’s playing to pick up on his skills. He should have said yes, but he didn’t, and now he looks like a fool- 

Basil laughs, a soft and pleasant sound. It leaves Faraday speechless for a few seconds. He wants to bristle, because he knows he’s being laughed at, and humiliation burns hot on his face, but somehow he can’t, Basil’s laugh is too soothing to be truly mad about it.

“I mean-“ Faraday hurries to say, before Basil can start asking questions, and to divert his attention, to get out of this situation and make the embarrassment dissipate. “I don’t… play, or anything of the like. I don’t know anything about the theory either, I’m afraid. But I do enjoy listening to it.” 

He moves to take a drag of his cigarette, and only remembers he dropped it when he has already lifted his empty hand towards his mouth. His gaze drops to the ground, to the half smoked stub, gone out on impact and lying limply in a little puddle of unspecified origin. 

Basil follows his gaze, and seems to put together what happened immediately. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, patting his pockets. He’s wearing his suit, and it looks good on him, fits him well. “I didn’t even apologize for surprising you earlier. My manners are terrible, here, I really am sorry…” 

He trails off, looks at Faraday expectantly. His hands have dug out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and he’s holding it out to Faraday. His eyes are inquisitive, and Faraday realizes that Basil is asking for his name. 

“Faraday,” he says, reaching out to take a cigarette. He lights it up, takes a drag. Holds the smoke in his lungs before he exhales. “Doctor Faraday.” 

Basil smiles, and lights a cigarette for himself. “Ah, a doctor. Impressive. Well then, Doctor Faraday, no first name, I apologize for surprising you and making you drop your cigarette.” 

Faraday nods. They smoke in silence for a moment. 

“So you like listening to music?” Basil asks then, picking up the earlier thread of conversation. 

Faraday nods, shrugs slightly. “Who doesn’t?” 

He doesn’t mention that he is, usually, rather indifferent to music. It’s just Basil’s playing, specifically, that has him strangely intrigued. But that is not something he could ever utter out loud, so he doesn’t. 

Basil shrugs as well. “You’d be surprised.” 

Faraday hums. Doesn’t know how to respond. Doesn’t think there’s anything there really is to say on the matter. He smokes, and so does Basil, and they stand there in silence for another moment that stretches on and on and on. In the distance, a car honks. Down the street, a group of people is talking and laughing too loudly. The pallets are still for the moment, no breeze, no rats. Just silence. 

“This isn’t the only place I play,” Basil says after a while. He’s done with his cigarette, throws it down and steps on it to crush the stub under his foot. “I’m only here on Friday nights, but there are other places. I play different music there. There’s this café that hires me for lunch hours on weekends, and it’s always nice to play there. Good atmosphere. Good mood. Good music.” He smiles at Faraday. “Maybe you’d like to come by some time. If you enjoy listening to music, you might enjoy it. I’m not the only one playing.” 

Faraday wants to say that he doesn’t care that other people are playing as well, because he has seen many musicians perform in his life and none of them have ever done to him what Basil has done to him. But, again. Not something he can say. Not something he even wants to be thinking about. He shoves it away to the back of his mind, extinguishes the remnants of his cigarette as well. To expel some of the frustration bubbling inside him, just below the surface, and to buy himself time before he has to respond. 

He should say no. 

He should say no, and leave, and never come back to this restaurant ever again, and forget all about Basil and his enchanting piano playing. 

That’s what he should do. That’s what he tells himself he’ll do. It’s stupid, really, that he’s waited this long to do it. 

But instead of a resounding no, what comes out of his mouth is: “Alright.” 

He wants to take the word back as soon as he has said it, but it’s too late. Basil smiles at him, apparently happy about the response, and Faraday wants to disappear again, wants to run and hide. But Basil is already talking, is already sharing the details, the when and the where and the how. Faraday listens, nods along, helpless. 

“Well,” Basil says when he’s done. “It’s late. I should head home.” His eyes widen. “I hope I didn’t keep you.” 

Faraday shakes his head. 

Basil sighs, relieved. “Good. That’s good.” 

He stops, as if waiting for Faraday to say something. He doesn’t. 

“Well,” Basil repeats. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” 

Faraday nods, and they share a long, quiet look, before Basil turns, and walks off, down the alleyway, and then onto the sidewalk, around the corner, and then he’s out of sight. Faraday stares after him, rooted to the spot. He doesn’t feel quite real. This entire conversation doesn’t feel quite real, but at the same time, Faraday knows it is. The cigarettes on the ground are proof of that, as is that bubbling feeling in his chest, getting stronger now that Basil is gone, now that there are no distractions left. 

His stomach roils, and Faraday curses himself quietly, feels himself burning up, feels stupid, stupid, stupid. He never should have said yes. He never should have talked to Basil at all. He never should have come back here. 

This was the last time. It has to be. He’ll end this, now, as long as he still can, before it’s too late, before he’s in over his head. 

He won’t go tomorrow. To that café, to hear Basil play. He won’t go, and he won’t come back to the restaurant either. He won’t go anywhere where he might risk running into Basil ever again. He’ll avoid this entire part of the city if he needs to. 

He won’t go. 

At least, that’s what he tries to tell himself. 

***

He ends up going. 

Despite his best intentions, Faraday finds himself leaving his flat at noon the next day, making his way through the city towards the café Basil had described to him the night before. It’s in the West End, and Faraday finds it easily enough. 

When he pushes open the front door, he is immediately greeted by the sound of lively conversation. The café is full, fuller than he expected, almost all of the tables already taken. The people crowding close together on chairs and the small sofas lining the walls of the room are all disconcertingly young and dressed either casually or unconventionally. Faraday feels immensely out of place, with his carefully brushed hair, his immaculate clothes. He’s sure people are watching him, judging him, and he can feel the prickling of their eyes on him, sharp and maddening. 

This just goes to show that he’s made a mistake in coming here, that he should have done as he planned and stayed at home. But he couldn’t help it, could barely control his body as it made the decision to come and see Basil play again. And leaving now would be… foolish, yes, it would be. Embarrassing, certainly, to enter a café just to turn around and leave again immediately. No, that simply won’t do, it would be even more foolish than coming in the first place had been. 

So Faraday takes a deep, steadying breath, and walks deeper into the room, looking for an empty seat. 

The café is a lot spacier on the inside than it first appears, and Faraday does eventually find a seat towards the back of it. It’s right in the corner, a small chair and table pushed between bigger ones, like it was put there as an afterthought, the whole set up cramped and a little uncomfortable. But it will do, for now. 

He takes a moment to look around the café, tells himself he’s not looking for a piano. He does find one, though, far to the side of the room, atop a little wooden stage, only a few centimeters high. The piano is a smaller one, not at all like the one in the restaurant. It makes Faraday wonder whether Basil will even fit in front of it - he’s a big man, tall, with broad shoulders. It’s not something he noticed on purpose, but he can’t help but think about it now, even when he tries not to. 

He isn’t left wondering for long. It’s only a few minutes before there’s movement at one of the tables closest to the piano, and then Basil is standing there, making his way over to the instrument while talking with someone who’d been sitting close to him. Faraday hadn’t even noticed him sitting there, not until now, and he isn’t surprised about it. 

Basil looks- he looks different, is all. He’s not wearing that sleek suit he wears at the restaurant. He’s in comfortable trousers, wearing a looser shirt, suspenders, no jacket. It’s disconcerting, to see him like that, and makes Faraday’s thoughts halt for a very long moment. He doesn’t want to notice that this more relaxed getup suits Basil much better than the suit ever did, but does so anyway, can’t help it. 

He’s still staring, astounded, when Basil takes his seat on the bench in front of the instrument, and it takes his brain much too long to catch up with what is happening. So long, in fact, that the first notes ringing out through the café surprise him in a way they shouldn’t. 

Faraday has heard Basil play before, many times, but never like this. Usually, the pieces he plays are slow and unassuming, blending into the background, drifting softly through the air. Now, Basil plays differently, lively and joyful and bright. His body sways with energy, and the notes that ring out through the room are enchanting in a way Faraday has never experienced before. They grip his core and make his heart beat fast. They make something inside of him flutter to life, and Faraday doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t know what to do with that strange feeling. All he knows is that he feels that bright energy that Basil seems to be emanating sizzling through himself as well, and that it’s captivating him. That he cannot possibly look away. 

The other patrons, too, seem to be engrossed by Basil’s music. They watch him play and cheer for him, some of them singing or humming along. A couple gets up from one of the tables and starts dancing, right there in the middle of the café, in the scant spaces between the crammed tables and groups. Others encourage them, and soon, more people join them. Faraday can’t help but notice who is dancing - men and women, mostly, but over there, two women, over there, two men. He looks away from them, fists clenching. The table rattles in front of him. No doubt agitated by their eager steps. He tries to ignore it, looks towards Basil again. 

He seems completely enraptured in his own music. His hands fly over the keys, tapping out a quick rhythm, and his body moves with it, the sound seemingly flowing through him. Faraday can’t help but think that Basil belongs right there, in front of a piano, doing exactly this. It just seems so right, to see him sitting there, to hear him playing like this. 

Enraptured as he is, Faraday barely notices the passing of time. One song drifts into the next drifts into the next, and Faraday loses track of everything but the music, everything but Basil. When the music stops, and people clap, Basil standing from the bench and giving a wide smile, a little wave, the hint of a bow, Faraday is surprised that it’s already over. 

He blinks, trying to come back to himself. Around him, people are returning to their seats. The café seems impossibly more crowded now, and the din of conversation is such a stark contrast to the music that it makes him shudder. Still feeling strangely hazy, Faraday shakes his head, then scrunches his eyes shut for a brief moment. He can’t believe something as simple as music played on a piano has affected him this much. It shouldn’t have. With a deep breath, Faraday tries to put himself together. It’s not like him to be… emotional, over something so trivial. 

When he opens his eyes again, he nearly yelps.

Basil is standing in front of him, gazing down at him with a small smile on his face. 

“Faraday,” he says, in that pleasantly deep voice, and Faraday shivers involuntarily. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect to see you here today.” 

Faraday frowns. “You invited me.” 

“I know,” Basil says. He looks around briefly, then snatches an empty chair form one of the nearby tables, positions it opposite Faraday and sits down heavily. “It’s nice of you to come by.” 

Again, that word. Nice. Faraday doesn’t know what to do with it. Feels strange, having it associated with him. 

“Well, it wouldn’t have been polite if I hadn’t,” Faraday remarks. He feels the need to explain himself, though he thinks he shouldn’t. 

Basil chuckles. “I guess so.” 

Then he pauses, tilts his head at Faraday. There’s that curious expression on his face again. It seems so soft. Everything about him does, even more so now that they’re meeting in broad daylight. The warm lights of the café, and his casual clothes, and the unguarded expression on his face, those warm eyes… it’s enough to make Faraday a little breathless. He doesn’t want to examine the reasons, and looks away. 

Basil clears his throat. “So, did you enjoy it?” 

“I did,” Faraday responds honestly. It feels embarrassing to admit to it so plainly, but he figures there’s no use in lying; he’s already made a fool of himself in front of Basil last night, and doubts he can make it worse. “You’re… good. I mean, the way you play, it’s… very enjoyable.” 

The smile that spreads on Basil’s face is wide and honest. It’s a nice smile. It shows his crooked teeth. 

“Thank you,” Basil says. He seems to mean it. There’s something candid about the tone of his voice. 

Faraday nods, an acknowledgment. There’s silence again, between them. Over at the piano, someone else has taken Basil’s place, and new music is ringing through the air. It’s just as lively, just as bright as the songs Basil had played, but… different. In a way Faraday can’t describe. He can’t put words to it, to the way Basil’s music touches something deep inside his core. It’s a strange and daunting thing, something he doesn’t want to examine too closely yet can’t help but notice. Now that someone new has taken the stage, it is all too apparent - the music is good, no doubt, and the technique probably proper, but Faraday doesn’t care for it. Not one bit. 

When the silence has stretched on too long, Faraday clears his throat. He gestures vaguely towards the piano. 

“So, do you do this often? Play, I mean. In places like these,” he asks. He feels clumsy as he says it, isn’t used to this kind of casual conversation. To asking questions and being genuinely curious about the response. 

Basil chuckles, shrugs. “Yes. I don’t do anything else, really.” 

Faraday frowns. “And you earn enough to make a living for yourself? From nothing but music?” It sounds highly unlikely to his ears. 

“Barely, most of the time, but yes, I do,” Basil says with another small laugh. He lifts his hand, runs it through his hair sheepishly. The motion musses the dark strands up, leaves them messier than before, one hanging over his forehead. “Right now, I play at cafés and restaurants most days. Sometimes I do bigger jobs, for special events, but mostly I play at the same places every week. I… I’d like to write music, someday, instead of just playing other people’s work, but… well, for now, this is what I do, and I like it.” 

Faraday hums contemplatively. He tries to imagine the life Basil leads, tries to imagine himself doing something so… uncertain, and finds he can’t conjure up the picture. He likes order, predictability. He can’t imagine choosing to spend one’s life doing something that barely pays enough to bring bread to the table. The wish for more, though, is something he can relate to all too well. 

Faraday pushes away those particular thoughts, of ambitions and wishes and dreams crumbled to dust, and is relieved when Basil opens his mouth again. 

“You said you’re a doctor, right? How do you like it? I bet it’s rough work, being responsible for peoples’ health. For their lives.” 

“It’s…” Faraday starts, considering his words carefully, “Certainly challenging. I enjoy it, though. The fast pace of it. Having to think on my feet. Doing something… that makes a difference. Or, well, I did enjoy it. I teach now, actually.” 

Basil raises a brow. “Really? You don’t strike me as the kind of person who would enjoy teaching.” 

Faraday bristles at the words, automatically. “What do you mean by that?” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything bad by it,” Basil says, tone placating. “I only meant, you seem quite reserved. I would have thought to enjoy teaching, you’d need an outgoing personality.” 

Faraday frowns. He’s not entirely sure whether Basil is trying to criticize his reserved personality or simply making an objective remark. In the end, he decides it’s likely not an insult, because Basil sounds earnest, and his face is soft, the smile on his face not teasing in the slightest. With a quiet sigh, Faraday shrugs. 

“I do enjoy it, actually,” he admits. He thinks it’s the truth, mostly. “It’s challenging, in its own way, but it’s… not bad. So far. I’m still quite new to it. ” 

Faraday cuts himself off, wincing. Hopes Basil won’t ask, but it’s too late for that already. 

“Why did you start? Teaching, I mean,” Basil asks, and he asks it like just any other question, completely innocuous. And it is, for him. But it makes Faraday’s chest twist up, something hot and bitter rising in his throat, memories flashing through his mind; the house, the ruins, David’s voice telling him the news, her voice, telling him… 

“I, uh,” Faraday starts. He swallows, his throat dry. He shifts, and the table rattles. Faraday frowns. He tries to come up with anything to say, but can’t. There’s nothing in his head except those memories, and that feeling in his chest, tight hot bitter, something bubbling right under the surface, something dark and twisted and- 

“It’s alright,” Basil says softly. His voice interrupts the swirling of Faraday’s thoughts, and Faraday blinks, disoriented, feels a little like he’s waking from a dream. “You don’t have to tell me.” 

Faraday swallows again, nods. It’s clear that Basil must have noticed… something, in his expression or posture, or simply in the weight of his silence. He doesn’t know what Basil saw there, or thought he saw, that made him use that gentle voice, that made him utter his reassurance, allow Faraday to keep the things he wants to forget close to his chest. Part of him wants to be embarrassed, wants to be defensive, at having been caught in a moment of… weakness, perhaps, or something close to it. But Basil’s words, his thoughtfulness, are an unexpected kindness, one that surprises Faraday as much as it soothes him, touches him. He’s glad, he realizes, that Basil isn’t prying. Relieved. And that outweighs the embarrassment. 

Around them, people start applauding. The piano player has finished, is standing and bowing, making way for someone else. Faraday had barely even noticed any of the songs he’d played, and feels a strange dissonance at the realization that time has progressed outside of this conversation without him noticing. He blinks, disoriented. 

“Would you like something to drink? Tea, or coffee?” Basil asks. 

The question takes Faraday by surprise, though maybe it shouldn’t. He nods before he’s even had the chance to think about the answer, his body acting of its own volition. 

“Yes. Tea would be nice,” he says, and promptly flushes, because he’s being foolish again, he shouldn’t have agreed, should finally start thinking properly again. 

Basil smiles, delineating Faraday’s thoughts once more. It makes him helpless, stunned. As Basil waves down a waitress, he orders a drink automatically. There’s no rationality involved, no… common sense. His common sense tells Faraday he should thank Basil and take his leave and forget about this, all of it. His common sense tells him he should not, under any circumstances, stay, and drink tea with Basil, when the reason for their meeting is, by all accounts, over and done with. 

But his common sense takes a backseat, for reasons Faraday can’t decipher and can’t control. And even though Faraday tries to tell himself, again and again and again, in a futile attempt to regain some sort of control over this situation, to stand up and leave, he doesn’t. 

Not when their tea arrives. Not when Basil starts telling him more about his music. Not when he responds, and they fall back into surprisingly easy conversation. Not when they order refills for their drinks. And not for the remainder of the afternoon. 

***

Somehow, this, too, becomes a habit. 

Faraday doesn’t understand how it happens, exactly. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, no logic to why he continues meeting up with Basil. But he does, again and again, no matter how often he tells himself that this was the last time. 

The weeks pass, and it goes like this: 

They meet. Faraday watches Basil play. He sits there, mesmerized, as the music worms its way into his very being and finds a place somewhere behind his ribcage to reside in, taking root there and touching him in a way he’s never been touched, in a way he would never have thought possible. After, Basil comes to find him. They sit together, and talk. 

And they talk about all sorts of things, about art and music and work and politics and history. They rarely ever agree about anything, but it’s good conversation regardless, engaging and lively. Faraday can’t remember ever enjoying discussions like this with someone before, can’t remember ever enjoying the simple act of talking to another person this much. It’s strange and something he isn’t used to at all, and it confuses him sometimes, how he can just talk and talk and talk to Basil and not get bored. Even when their conversations drag on and on, and they both forget the time completely, and end up staying together long enough that it’s dinner time and they’re both hungry and they have an excuse to get food together. Even then, Faraday does not get bored, does not want to run away. 

Quite the opposite, actually: The more time he spends with Basil, the more he wants to see him again. 

And when they part ways, sometimes hours later, and Basil tells him where he’ll play next, and asks him if he’ll come, Faraday says yes every time. 

It frightens him, frankly, how easy it is. Faraday isn’t one to trust easily, isn’t one to open up, but with Basil, it’s different. Basil seems to draw honesty out of him almost against his will, and it scares Faraday. He doesn’t want to think about it, tries very hard not to, most of the time. He tries to tell himself it’s nothing special. But it is nice, this… this friendship that’s building between them. Not something Faraday is used to, not something he knows how to handle. But it’s nice nonetheless. Even though, sometimes, Faraday feels like he can barely control it. 

It grows and expands, almost subtly, a sort of natural development. Their meetings go from two to three to four times a week. Faraday feels slightly foolish for it, at times, for how willingly he goes where Basil goes. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when he’s lying awake in his too-small bed with the uncomfortable mattress and the creaky frame, it hits Faraday. What he’s been doing, the implications of it, the sheer foolishness of it all. He lies awake for hours on those nights, while the cracks in the picture frames’ glass spider. When he falls asleep, his dreams are filled with crumbling houses and peeling wallpaper and endless labyrinthine hallways, the voices of children echoing, distorted. But those nights are rare, and most of the time, Faraday can push all of those ugly, dark thoughts away, hide them neatly in a little box in the far corners of his mind. 

And so, despite the fact that he knows it’s stupid, and that he shouldn’t, he keeps meeting up with Basil. He keeps allowing himself to get lost in this, their little routine, this novel thing. Their friendship. 

He ends up following Basil around the city, and lives only for the moments when he gets to see him play, when he gets to hear his music again. 

***

About two months into their arrangement, Basil asks about his first name. The question surprises Faraday, but what surprises him even more is his willingness to answer. 

“It’s Sidney,” he says, and cringes at the sound of it. “But I don’t like to use it.” 

It drags up memories, unavoidably. Of his mother, scolding him, her sharp words cutting through him. The feeling of the round little ornament breaking off under his fingers, small and chubby, like children’s fingers are. Of Hundreds, on that first, bright day. 

For some reason, he expects Basil to pry, but he doesn’t. He simply nods, and there’s that softness in his eyes, the one that Faraday has come to known so well in the past weeks and that always makes his breath catch in his throat. He thinks it might be compassion, and usually he’d hate to be looked at this way, with this quiet sort of understanding, but somehow, with Basil, he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind it one bit, and when Basil tells him that his given name is Vassily, and that he doesn’t like to use it, and his eyes turn strangely sad, Faraday thinks he might look back the same way: With a quiet sort of understanding. 

***

In contrast to Faraday, Basil seems to trust too easily. He wears his heart on his sleeve, his expressions laying bare the innermost workings of his heart. He’s open in a way Faraday has never been able to, and Faraday envies him for it, some days, the ease with which he approaches new people. It’s somehow both foolish and admirable, because Faraday knows that Basil’s softness will get him hurt, has probably gotten him hurt many times in the past. But it’s also something that Faraday has always lacked, something the absence of which he can feel acutely. 

He can especially feel it during those warm summer nights they spend together. How he lacks something, some sense of connection, some ability to relate, to fit in. How he doesn’t measure up, in comparison to Basil. How he’s always at the edge of a crowd, while Basil seems to gravitate towards the center, whether unconsciously or not. During those nights, Faraday is especially aware of his shortcomings, feeling them lodged between his ribs like a sharp knife, poking and stabbing at him incessantly. 

The heat is oppressive even outside that August, and inside the bars and clubs Basil plays at, it’s even worse. The air is stale, humid, something thick and tangible. Faraday sits in the audience with sweat running down his temples, and even when he takes off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves, he’s still too warm, close to suffocating in the crowded rooms stuffed full of people. There seem to be more of them now, the masses growing bigger the higher the temperatures climb. Their bodies press too close, and sometimes Faraday can feel their sticky skin brushing against him, misplaced arms and hands grazing him on accident. It grates on his nerves, all of it. 

Summer isn’t his season. 

Basil, too, acts… different, during summer. There’s a melancholy about him Faraday can’t quite place, and he doesn’t know how to ask, either. The not-knowing, the not-understanding, irritates him, in a way he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand why he wants to know what is going on in Basil’s head. He doesn’t understand why he wants to make it better. He doesn’t understand why he cares. 

So summer is strange, mostly, a mixture of boiling emotions Faraday can’t make sense of. But still, he comes to see Basil play, is maybe, perhaps, a little bit obsessed with it, watching him and hearing him, the stretching moments when he can get lost in the sight and sound of Basil’s music. 

Faraday knows he’s not the only one mesmerized by Basil. He notices it, how the people in the room watch him when he plays, how their eyes light up at his performances. The summer heat seems to change them too. Make them bolder, in a way. After Basil is done playing, they flock to him now, demanding his time, wanting to talk to him, praise him, get to know him. It irks Faraday, seeing these strangers act so comfortable around Basil. It seems… wrong, somehow. 

When Basil stays with them for a while, returns their smiles and answers their questions and laughs at their jokes, Faraday grits his teeth, clenches his fists in his lap. Those moments are the ones that make him feel it again, his shortcomings, his inadequacy. They make him remember how different he and Basil are. How different he is from all the other people here, who are so outgoing and lighthearted and without a worry in the world. 

One time, a young man gets just a little too friendly with Basil. They’re at another West End bar; Basil plays in this part of London most frequently. After the show is over and Basil stands from the piano, the man sidles up to him, pushing close. He’s slender, light haired, pretty, easy going. Seems to be, by all accounts, everything that Faraday isn’t, that he’ll never be, better all around. 

The man tilts his head in Basil’s direction while they talk, like he’s drinking up every word that falls from Basil’s lips. He’s smiling. His eyes shine in a way that seems dangerous. Faraday watches the whole display and bristles, his face flushing in anger at the shamelessness of it all. 

When the man puts a hand on Basil’s arm, the gesture comfortable, gentle, all too intimate, something hot and ugly flares in Faraday’s chest. 

A shocked shouts rings out from the table closest to the piano. 

The man jumps, away from Basil, bringing distance between them. 

Basil flinches, turns, confused and concerned. 

Faraday blinks, dazed, his vision swimming and foggy. 

He looks at the table, looks at the man, looks at Basil. When he sees what has caused the uproar, his stomach turns: All the glasses and bottles on the table have shattered. Shards of glass have flown everywhere. A few people sport small cuts and minor scrapes. The man, who’d been so close to Basil just moments before, curses under his breath. There’s a tear in the sleeve of his shirt, droplets of blood dyeing the fabric red. 

When Basil finally comes to Faraday, a few minutes later, after helping with cleaning up the mess and making sure everyone is alright, Faraday is gathering his things. 

“Are you leaving already?” Basil asks. There’s a sadness in his voice Faraday doesn’t want to examine, disappointment clear on his face. 

Faraday nods, hastily. His throat is tied shut, something bitter and acidic bubbling inside him, the heat of it burning him from the inside out. He doesn’t think he could get out words even if he wanted to. If he opened his mouth, he’s sure whatever monstrous thing is coiled up tightly at his center would jump out and explode. 

He leaves without saying goodbye and hurries back to his flat so fast the way back is a blur. That night, he barely sleeps at all, plagued by nightmares. One of the picture frames falls from the wall with a crash, the glass shattering into a thousand pieces. That ugly twisting feeling stays in his chest all night, having taken residence there with its claws sunk deeply into Faraday. 

He tells himself it’s not jealousy. 

Maybe if he spends enough time trying to convince himself, it will become true. 

***

It’s September when they talk about the most dreaded thing of all: The past. 

They’re out late, having stayed behind at the bar where Basil played for too long. Faraday is just a little bit tipsy, has had maybe one drink too much. It’s late at night when they finally leave, but this time, instead of parting ways, each one of them leaving in the direction of their own home, they walk down the street side by side. 

The air is still pleasantly warm, leftover from summer, but the beginnings of autumn are just around the corner. Faraday takes deep breaths, lets the night refresh him after spending hours in that stuffy bar. He’s acutely aware of Basil’s proximity. How close their arms are as they walk side by side, close enough to brush if one of them moved just slightly. He doesn’t, though, carefully keeps that last bit of distance between them, and simply listens to the sounds of their steps on the pavement, his head spinning just a little bit. 

Basil must feel the effects of the alcohol too. He’s always open, but now everything about him seems looser in a way, his gestures wider, his face more expressive, his voice less controlled, his thoughts spilling out more freely. He speaks differently, like this, his words taking on strange shapes, drawn out at times, the vowels enunciated in foreign ways, some letters becoming harsher, others softer. His accent is fascinating, and as they walk down the street together, Basil talking animatedly next to him, Faraday can’t help the way he gets lost in the sound to the point that he can’t even tell what exactly Basil is saying. 

Until now, he’d never assumed that Basil might change his accent on purpose. There was no reason to suspect it; Basil’s way of talking had never sounded anything but natural. But now that he’s heard this other version of him, Faraday can’t believe he ever thought the way Basil usually speaks is natural. Looking back, it seems obvious that it’s just an act. This accent, those strangely formed words, sound more at home on Basil’s lips than anything else he’s ever said. It’s mesmerizing. Faraday is nothing short of enchanted by the way Basil’s voice sounds, tipsy and uncontrolled like this. 

“You sound better,” he blurts out after a while. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been walking, or where they’re going. He thinks he interrupted Basil mid-sentence, and feels muted embarrassment at his actions, but the alcohol dulls it. 

Basil stops, tilts his head and frowns. It looks funny on his face, the expression exaggerated. “What do you mean? Why do I sound better?” 

Faraday gestures at his face. There it is again, that accent, plain as day now that he knows it’s there. 

“Your accent,” Faraday says, to clarify, though he thinks it should be obvious. “It sounds better. Than the way you usually talk, I mean. It fits you better.” 

He feels a little stupid for saying it, but his inhibitions are undoubtedly lowered, and he can’t bring himself to hold the words back. It shouldn’t be necessary, anyway. Basil clearly needs to know about this important new discovery. 

Surprisingly though, Basil blushes. He looks off to the side, raises a hand and drags it through his hair, making it all messy. 

“Oh,” he makes, and it sounds embarrassed. It makes Faraday frown. “I… I’m sorry, I didn’t realize… I try not to talk like this, usually.” Basil is trying to control it again, the way he forms his words, but he’s failing, and a small frown steals onto his face. 

“You shouldn’t,” Faraday insists. “It’s better.” 

He knows he’s not being very elaborate, but he doesn’t know how else to say it. Basil still looks skeptical, and Faraday searches for something to say, anything. 

“Are you American?” Faraday asks, because he thinks Basil sounds sort of American, except it doesn’t fit completely, and he realizes he’s immensely curious about it. About where Basil comes from, about his past. Realizes, too, that they’ve never talked about this.

Basil lets out a deep sigh. He shrugs. “In a way.” 

Faraday frowns, not understanding. “How…” 

“I lived there for a while. But I lived elsewhere, too. All over Europe, really. I…” Basil sighs again. “It’s complicated.” 

“Tell me about it,” Faraday demands. 

He doesn’t know why he says it. 

He shouldn’t, really. 

Despite his slightly intoxicated status, he’s clearheaded enough to realize he’s about to cross some kind of border, dangerously close to a point of no return. The sensible thing to do would be to take his question back, and then leave. Even though they’ve been meeting for months, and Faraday thinks of the thing between them as friendship during his weaker moments, all Basil really is right now is an acquaintance with no real connection to Faraday’s life. A chance encounter, nothing of substance tying him to Faraday except those meetings happening in the margins of his days. 

Like Basil is skirting the edges of his reality, a man without a past. 

All Faraday knows about him, really, is his current life, no background. 

If they cross this line, if he asks about Basil’s history and Basil answers, there will be no coming back from it. Basil will be real, then, undeniably, a proper person with a proper place in Faraday’s life, with a proper connection. Now, Faraday thinks he could still walk away, if he wanted to. Maybe it’s delusional to think that, maybe it’s already too late. But the not-knowing creates distance, in a way, and sometimes that comforts him. But it irks him, too, and Faraday doesn’t know why, doesn’t know why he wants to know more about Basil, despite the irrationality, the danger of it. All Faraday knows is that he does, and that if Basil opens up, he won’t be able to turn his back anymore. 

While silence stretches between them, Faraday thinks that Basil might turn him down. He hopes for it and dreads it at the same time. His head is swimming with alcohol and conflicted emotions. 

But then, before he can get lost in the spiraling mess that is his mind, Basil opens his mouth. And he begins to talk. 

He’s hesitant at first, the words coming slowly, haltingly, but bit by bit he gains confidence. He talks about his past, the way he grew up. His family. His father. What happened the summer his father died. What he did after. 

Faraday listens attentively and nods and hums and feels something inside his chest twist at the obvious pain in Basil’s voice. It feels an awful lot like sympathy, and it surprises Faraday. Sympathy isn’t an emotion he feels often. 

Basil talks and talks, and he’s being so vulnerable, so honest. It’s scary, the trust he puts into Faraday, to be able to speak so plainly, to open up like this. To let out all that past hurt, the complications. To confide in someone, and trust them to listen. Trust them not to use this new, fragile information to hurt. Faraday doesn’t think anyone has ever trusted him like this before. 

When Basil finally stops, he’s out of breath, and seems to have sobered up some, that earlier brightness drained from him just slightly. But he also holds himself differently; his back straighter, like a weight is gone from is shoulders. 

“So. That’s why I came to London,” Basil says, shrugging, a small frown on his face. “To escape from my past.” 

Faraday huffs. “We have that in common, then.” 

Basil turns towards him, brows lifted. “How so?” 

And this, this might be it. The moment where Faraday has to pick. Between running away, or staying. 

His heart beats in his chest like that of a frightened rabbit, and his throat is suddenly dry, his palms sweating. He swallows, blinks. There’s a rushing in his ears, the world sort of blurring before his eyes as the memories rush back in, images he’s been trying hard to ignore, to forget. They make that familiar bitterness rise up in his throat, like bile, like acid. He swallows again, and thinks, for one moment, that running away would be the easiest option. The safest option. 

But Basil has already said so much tonight. Has already taken that first step, laid open all his hidden pains and secrets, flayed open his chest to let Faraday catch a glimpse at what’s inside, contained behind his ribcage in that place where his heart sits. 

So somehow, despite how much it frightens in, despite how difficult it is, to trust, Faraday opens his mouth, and begins to speak. 

It isn’t as easy for him as it is for Basil. He’s more hesitant, and there are long pauses between his words. He only talks in bits and pieces, leaving much out, because he can’t- there isn’t- it’s impossible to put into words, some of it. But he tells Basil he was engaged, and that there was a house, and a family. Death. Too much of it. The bare bones of it all, really, not even close to the full picture. Faraday doesn’t think he could ever truly explain the full picture - he doesn’t even understand it himself, some days. 

But he does tell Basil some of it, and he thinks, maybe, that’s good. That’s a start. It’s something, for now. 

“I suppose I came to London for the same reason as you, then,” Faraday says after a while. They’re still walking together, and he has lost track of time completely. “I suppose I wanted to… run away. Forget it all.” 

Basil nods. “I understand that.” 

And maybe, he really does. 

“It’s difficult, though, sometimes,” Basil admits after a while. He’s not looking at Faraday as he says it. “I think there are some things it’s impossible to escape from.” 

Faraday hums. “That’s true,” he mumbles, though he wishes it weren’t. 

There’s silence, after that. They continue walking. The night around them is neither quiet nor dark. Both are an impossibility in a city like London. Time stretches, and Faraday finds he doesn’t mind. He knows that, if he weren’t drunk, he’d be all up in his head, having a mild break down over everything he said. He’s grateful he isn’t sober. That his mind is quiet, the shadows within it receding for just one blissful evening. He’s grateful, is the truth, that he’s walking beside Basil, aware of his proximity, and that he can somehow, in a way, enjoy it. Just the tiniest bit. And that, when their arms brush on accident, it doesn’t send the shameful heat in his stomach boiling over. It only makes him feel pleasantly warm. 

That night, Faraday sleeps well, deep and dreamless, and he doesn’t know if it’s because of the alcohol, or because of the honesty. 

***

Life continues much the same, but Faraday can’t help but notice sometimes how different it also is, compared to how it was before. Before he came to London, yes, but mostly before he met Basil. 

In the past months, he has settled into a routine without even noticing. The meetings with Basil, living in his new flat, working at his new job. At first, he thought he’d never get used to life in the city, but one day he blinks and realizes that he has, slow and creeping at first, but completely by now. He feels strangely settled, in a way he doesn’t think he’s felt before. 

He finds that he doesn’t resent his students as much anymore, for that bright eagerness in their eyes. All that is left when he looks at them is a dull sort of envy, but it’s mild, only sitting in the back of his mind. The bitter anger is gone, mostly. 

He hasn’t done anything to make his flat more lively, not really, but a few days after he opens up to Basil during that one endless night, Faraday notices that the picture frames haven’t cracked any further. The sight fills him with an unexpected elation, a sort of lightness settling in his chest that could almost be hope. He tries to suppress it, push it away, lest he be overtaken by it too completely and forget himself. But it stays there for the rest of the day. 

It’s foolish to think it’s all because of Basil, but a small voice in Faraday’s head tells him that it is. And the more Faraday tries to ignore it, the louder it gets. 

***

One night in late September, when they’re saying their goodbyes after Basil has played at a bar, the routine changes. Faraday waits for Basil to tell him where his next gig will be, but instead of telling him the place and time like he usually does, Basil hesitates. There’s a faint blush on his face, and he’s biting his lip, and Faraday can’t make sense of it. 

“I’m actually not playing anywhere for the next few days,” Basil admits finally. He drags his hand through his hair and messes it up, a habit that Faraday has noticed many times before. He only does it when he’s nervous. “A few scheduling conflicts, some of my usual spots are closed. It happens sometimes.” 

Faraday frowns. He still doesn’t get why that has Basil acting all insecure. 

“Alright,” he says, hesitant, slightly confused. “When are you playing next, then? Next week?” 

The thought of not seeing Basil for a week makes Faraday’s chest constrict for some strange reason. It’ll be the longest he’ll go without seeing Basil since they met, all those months ago. 

Basil lets out a long breath. “I wanted to ask you, actually. If you… well, I thought, maybe I could play for you anyway. You could come to my place. I have a piano there, and I could… only if you want to, of course, it’s not…” 

He trails off, coughing awkwardly. Faraday stares at him for a moment, wide-eyed. His throat feels dry, and he swallows around the lump that’s forming there. He doesn’t know what to say. How to respond. 

Following Basil around the city is one thing. Waiting for his performances, counting, sometimes, the minutes until he’ll hear him play again. It’s foolish and humiliating when Faraday thinks about it too much, yes. But there’s still… it doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s just… Just friendship. Yes. Nothing more. 

But coming home with Basil, letting him play not for an audience, a room full of people, but for Faraday specifically… 

That’s something entirely different. 

Something Faraday isn’t sure he’s ready for. Could ever be ready for. 

The voice in his head tells him he shouldn’t. He should say no, and finally put an end to all of this. It would be a perfect way out. There won’t be another moment like this, he thinks, where he can simply turn Basil down and disappear forever. 

But despite himself, he’s curious. He’s eager. He wants to know. Wants to know where Basil lives, what his home looks like. What he looks like, how he acts, in the private confines of his own four walls. If he’s different. If the last bits of pretense and protection fall away. What it would be like, to hear him play, with no one else there, no one there to intrude on the moment and take away from the magic of it. No one there but the two of them. 

Faraday can’t help but imagine it, even though he tries hard not to. He can’t help the way it makes something in his stomach flutter and tighten, the way it makes his face heat up. He swallows again, then clears his throat. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” Basil says. He must have taken Faraday’s silence as a no, and there’s an expression of unconcealed embarrassment on his face. “I shouldn’t have asked. This probably isn’t-“ 

“Yes,” Faraday interrupts him. Basil stares, mouth half open, and Faraday blushes even more. “I mean. I’d like that.” 

As soon as the words have left his mouth, Faraday wishes he could take them back. He feels stupid for saying them, because they’re- they’re too much, too honest, and he’s not- he can’t- this isn’t- 

“Oh,” Basil makes, a soft sigh, a gentle sound of relief. A small smile spreads on his face. “Oh, that’s… great. Here, let me write down my address for you, just…” 

He digs a small piece of paper out of his pocket, and a pencil stub, and scribbles down a few words and numbers. Then he hands the paper over. Faraday takes great care not to touch Basil as he takes it. 

“Are you free on Saturday? In the evening, maybe?” Basil asks. There’s a shaky quality to his voice, like he’s still nervous about all of this. 

Faraday swallows again, nods. He can’t speak; his throat is unusually dry right now. 

“Perfect,” Basil breathes. 

And he seems so… so pleased. So happy, with that smile on his lips and his cheeks coloured a pretty pink. It makes Faraday’s heart trip in his chest, skipping beat after beat after beat. Maybe he’s getting sick. Maybe he has caught a cold. That would explain the dry throat and the wild heart and the heat in his face. 

They agree on a time, figuring out the details quickly, efficiently. Faraday’s heart beats too fast and too hard all throughout, the damn traitor. Part of him is scared Basil might be able to hear it. But he must be hiding it well, because when they finally say their goodbyes, Basil doesn’t call him out or laugh at him. He simply looks at Faraday for a very long moment, gaze heavy. The intensity of it makes Faraday blush deeper, makes him want to run away. 

“Well,” Faraday says, and clears his throat when his voice comes out embarrassingly rough. “I’ll see you on Saturday, then.” 

Basil nods, smiling, and says, “I’m looking forward to it,” before he turns around and leaves. 

Faraday stays where he is, standing still, looking after Basil’s retreating form, and doesn’t say that he is, too. 

***

On Saturday, Faraday stands in front of the house Basil lives in, paralyzed by fear. His heart is pounding, his palms are sweating, and as he looks at the facade of the building, he is absolutely sure that he won’t be able to take another step closer. There is simply no way he’ll make it inside. 

He’s exhausted, his eyes burning and body feeling annoyingly weak. Last night he slept terribly, restlessly. He saw Hundreds in his dreams, but only in bits and pieces. Like it was being reflected at him through mirror shards, and he could never get the whole picture. It kept evading him, up until the moment he woke up. 

Now, he is acutely aware of how tired he is, and of how much of a mistake this really was. He has no idea what to expect, what will happen once he rings the doorbell. How things will change, after. Once again, he’s absolutely frightened by all the possibilities and uncertainties waiting for him. Basil seems to have that effect on him, sometimes. Of pushing him into situations that scare him more than he would have thought possible. 

While Faraday’s mind is still occupied by fearful thoughts and plans to turn around and leave, all muted by the sleepy haze of exhaustion, his body starts moving, an almost unconscious act. His feet carry him to the front door of their own volition, and Faraday blinks, and then he’s suddenly inside the building, walking up the stairs, towards Basil’s flat. 

The door is already open, and Basil is standing there, leaning against the frame, waiting for him. Faraday blinks, confused, can’t quite remember making the decision to come here, can’t quite remember how he even got to this point. But here he is now, and there is Basil, dressed in comfortable looking trousers and a loose white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, the top buttons undone. 

“Faraday,” Basil says as Faraday comes to a stop in front of him. He seems harried, his hair messier than usual. “You’re here.” 

Faraday clears his throat, afraid his voice will come out as nothing more than a pathetic croak when he talks. “I am.” 

Basil smiles at him, and steps away from the entrance, making way for Faraday. 

“Here, come in. The living room is at the end of the hallway. Make yourself at home, please.” 

Faraday hums, acknowledging, and steps into the small hallway while Basil closes the door behind him. He’s too nervous to take a look around, to catalogue his surroundings the way he wants to. His mind is dizzy and his vision blurry at the edges, and even though he’d been wondering about all the details he might find in Basil’s home, now he can’t bring himself to actually take them in. 

As he walks towards the door at the end of the hallway and into the living room beyond, he does notice some things, though: That Basil’s flat seems so much more lived in than his own. That there are things everywhere, clothes and books and papers and knick-knacks and mismatched furniture and trinkets. It’s balancing on the edge between homely and messy, but Faraday doesn’t mind it much. Instead, he finds it almost endearing, and endlessly fascinating, to be able to catch a glimpse into Basil’s life, into his personality, like this. 

The living room is everything Faraday’s isn’t, warm and welcoming and anything but grey. There’s a used-looking brown leather couch, a knitted quilt thrown over the back and a jacket thrown over the armrest. The coffee table is filled with stacks of paper - sheet music, Faraday realizes upon closer inspection. Almost every surface is fully covered, in more papers and books and little personal effects, decorations and the like. The window is open, letting in a gentle breeze, making the curtains flutter. A radio sits on one side table, but it’s turned off. 

The room is a lot bigger than Faraday’s own living room, an observation that stings a little bit. Basil’s entire flat seems to be bigger than Faraday’s, and he can’t help but wonder how Basil affords it. The thought is a tad bitter, a tad jealous. Basil’s place is, simply put, nice, and Faraday can’t quite fathom that this is what he can get with his pianist’s salary, while Faraday still lives in that cramped little shoebox of a flat. But then again, maybe he could afford something like this too. When he’d first moved to London, he hadn’t been concerned with size or status. Just convenience. Nothing but the urgent need to leave, immediately.

On the far side of the room Faraday spots Basil’s grand piano. It’s an obviously old thing, and there are even more sheets of music strewn everywhere in its vicinity - on the floor, the piano bench, the stand, the piano itself. And even though Faraday doesn’t really know anything about music or instruments, his first thought upon seeing it is that it somehow fits. He doesn’t know why or how, but it does. 

“I’m sorry for the mess,” Basil says, entering the living room behind him. “I tried to clean up, but I… got sidetracked.” 

Faraday turns towards him, sees that Basil is blushing a little bit, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Faraday says, and sort of means it. The mess certainly doesn’t delight him, but he also doesn’t mind too much, because what he wanted was to see Basil’s home in its natural state, and that’s exactly what the mess is. 

Basil nods, seeming both relieved and like he doesn’t fully believe Faraday. But he leaves it at that, and asks instead, “Would you like something to drink? Tea? Water? I don’t know if I have any alcohol here, but maybe…” 

“Tea would be nice,” Faraday interrupts him before Basil can get carried away by his own ramblings. 

“Alright. Tea. You can… sit down wherever you want, I’ll be right back,” Basil says, then turns and walks out of the room so quickly it almost looks like he’s fleeing. 

Faraday swallows heavily, and takes a hesitant step towards the couch. It looks comfortable enough, but he still pauses for a moment before can convince himself to take a seat. The cushions sink down beneath him, soft from years of use. Faraday doesn’t lean back, stays sitting with his back straight, his hands folded in his lap, his entire body tense. His palms are still sweating, heart pounding. With how dry his throat is, he’s more than thankful for Basil’s offer for tea. Though part of him wishes he’d asked for something alcoholic, he knows better than to get drunk right now. It would likely just make his nerves worse, and anyway, Faraday wants to be fully present when Basil starts playing. That’s what he’s here for, after all, and he wants to enjoy it to the fullest. 

When Basil returns, carrying two tea cups, Faraday almost flinches; he’d been too occupied with his own thoughts to notice him approaching. Basil doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, has the decency not to comment on it, and simply hands Faraday one of the cups. Instead of sitting down on the couch next to him, Basil walks towards the piano and makes room on the bench before taking a seat there, turning so he can look at Faraday instead of at the instrument. He takes a sip of his tea, and Faraday does the same, ignores the way the too-hot drink burns his tongue. 

“So,” Basil begins, his fingers tapping against his cup. “Would you like to hear anything in particular?” 

Right to the point, then. Faraday doesn’t know why that surprises him. Part of him expected they’d make small talk before, and that he’d sit here trying and failing to come up with anything to say, floundering awkwardly until Basil would gently advise him to leave. He’s grateful that’s not happening, is grateful that they’re not pretending this is anything other than it really is: Faraday coming over to listen to Basil play. Nothing more, nothing less. 

“I, uh. No. No, not really,” Faraday admits. He doesn’t know enough about music to request anything specific, could never pick something that sounds good and that Basil would enjoy playing. “You can play whatever you like. Whatever you want.” 

Basil tilts his head, contemplating, and looks at Faraday intently for a very long moment. Faraday blinks, and looks away. He lifts his cup, takes a sip of tea to distract himself from the weight of Basil’s gaze on him. 

“Whatever I want? Are you sure?” Basil asks finally. He sounds unsure, just slightly. 

Faraday nods. “Yes. Whatever you want.” 

Basil hums, a soft noise. There’s a faint clinking sound, and Faraday looks over to see that Basil has deposited his tea cup on the floor. He’s in the process of rearranging himself on the piano bench so he faces the instrument. There’s something almost closed off about him now, guarded. Or, maybe, like he’s preparing himself for something. Steeling himself.

Silence stretches between them, charged with anticipation and seemingly endless, if it weren’t for the faint ticking of a clock signaling the passing of time. Faraday catches himself holding his breath while he waits, watches on, enraptured, as Basil lays his fingers over the keys almost hesitantly. His gaze is locked onto his hands, his body hunched, nothing at all like his usual graceful form. It confuses Faraday, this change, and fascinates him at the same time. 

And then: A note. 

A single, clear note; finger pressing down on a key gently; the sound of it drifting and soft, ringing out until it dissipates.

Following: Another one, just as clear as the first. Hanging in the air for a moment, solitary, waiting. For the next note. The next sound. 

It comes, slowly at first, a hesitant tinkling, a slowly building melody of high notes. There’s something ethereal about them, about how they ebb and flow and slowly build a tune. Gaining more certainty, more strength, a rhythm. Then, lower notes joining in, harmonies and quicker combinations, until it all builds into one mesmerizing, enrapturing melody. 

Basil’s hands gain certainty, his fingers gain speed, and soon, his body is moving, swaying as he leans into every note, his physical form an extension of the music he’s creating, drawing so effortlessly from the instrument before him. His eyes have fallen closed; he is completely immersed, like he has entered another world, somewhere far away from reality.

Faraday finds that he can’t look away. It’s a physical impossibility. His body is rigid, frozen to the spot. He can’t move a single muscles. He is, to put it simply, ensnared, by the spell Basil has cast on him. It’s not just the music, and it’s not just Basil. It’s a combination of the two, the way Basil and the instrument and the music seem to be one, that has Faraday so endlessly fascinated. The sight of it, the sound, touch a chord inside him he didn’t know existed until this very moment, pluck at it and make it resonate and make his entire body sing. He thinks he can feel the reverberations of the music echoing inside of him, thinks he can feel himself becoming a part of it, too. Can feel himself getting lost in it, disintegrating into it, and coming alive again, reanimated by Basil and his music and the emotions swirling with the sounds, grief and fear and joy and hope, all of it Basil, Basil, Basil. 

And his heart is beating fast, fast, fast, and his breath is coming shallow, his throat is tight, and Faraday has never felt anything like this before. It sits in his chest, waiting to break out, intimidating and monumental and possibly the most beautiful thing he’s ever experienced. He never would have thought himself capable of such feeling. 

When the last note rings out, it seems to stay in the room with them for a small eternity, making the moment stretch on and on. And then, it is gone, just like all the other notes, fleeting things, and all that is left is Basil’s heavy breathing. He sits slumped over the keys, his head down, hair obscuring his face. Faraday watches him and blinks, tries to bring himself back, into his body and into this moment. He realizes his hands are shaking. 

“That was stunning,” Faraday blurts out. He can’t help himself, he needs to say it, needs to get it out. His voice sounds all choked up, and he feels so incredibly vulnerable, feels scared of the magnitude of it. But he thinks, maybe, it’s alright, because Basil is still sitting there, chest heaving, being vulnerable too. 

“Thank you,” Basil says after a moment, the words all croaky and rough. He takes a deep breath, straightens up, drags a hand over his face. “Thank you. I… It’s something I wrote. I’ve never played it for anyone before.” 

The admission hits Faraday like a gut punch, stealing his breath away. He doesn’t know what to do with it, this trust, so freely given, so shamelessly admitted. It makes him feel all sort of things, twisted up in each other. Makes him want to flee, and makes him want to give Basil something in return, to repay the favour. Part of him thinks maybe he should show gratitude, or support, or any other number of reactions that would likely be appropriate. 

What comes out in the end is: 

“Would you play more? For me?” 

There it is again, that vulnerability, that choked up quality of his voice, the way the words shake with unspoken emotions. Faraday wants to hide from it, wants to hide from himself, but doesn’t want to take it back, either, because more than anything, he wants to hear Basil play like this again. More free than ever before. More himself than ever before. 

This is the truest version of Basil he has ever seen, and it’s for Faraday’s eyes only. 

“Are you sure you want to hear more?” Basil asks, sounding almost surprised. 

“I would love to,” Faraday admits. He doesn’t have the energy for pretenses; honesty is the only option. “Please.” 

Basil nods, shakes out his hands before he positions them above the keys. “Alright,” he says, voice strangely soft and cracked around the edges. “I’ll play for you.” 

And then he does. 

Faraday loses himself in it again, all too quickly. He loses track of himself, track of time, track of reality as he listens to Basil’s music. The songs, every single one of them, are expressions of Basil’s innermost self, his deepest thoughts and secrets, his fears and wants and every single thing he has ever felt. Faraday doesn’t need to ask him about it to know that. It’s plain as day, obvious in the way Basil moves as he plays, the way he holds himself, the way his fingers dance over the keys. Faraday doesn’t know much about music, but he knows that this is without a doubt the most raw, the most sincere, the most deeply felt music he has ever heard in his life. 

While Basil plays, Faraday allows himself to relax, lean against the backrest, sink into the couch cushions. He doesn’t take his eyes off Basil the entire time. He drifts off, stays present, gets lost, gets lost, gets lost. In his chest, a gaping hole opens, and it yearns. 

He doesn’t know how long it goes on. Basil plays and Faraday sits and watches and listens and the tea gets cold and the sky outside darkens until the room is cast in shadows. If they stayed like this forever, Faraday doesn’t think he’d mind. 

“I think I’ve played almost everything I’ve ever created for you,” Basil says, after what must be hours. 

His fingers are still tapping out a few last notes, but the piece he’s been playing is coming to an end, and with it a heavy sort of melancholy settles in Faraday’s stomach. He blinks, realizes that he’s already craving more, eager for anything Basil might give him. But he knows Basil has already given him so much, and that he must be exhausted, now. He won’t push for more, even though a greedy part of him wants to. 

“Thank you,” Faraday says instead, and then swallows because he sounds too shaky. “For indulging me.” 

He’s embarrassed, now, just a little, about having asked Basil to play for him. Basil shakes his head though, and stands up from the piano bench. 

“No, thank you, for letting me,” Basil says earnestly. He stretches his arms above his head, twists his fingers and circles his wrists and makes his shoulder crack. 

Faraday cringes at the sound, but refrains from commenting on it, even though his first instinct is to chastise Basil to take better care of his joints. 

“You’re welcome,” Faraday says instead. It’s an awkward thing to say, and he stands as well to cover it up, realizes his limbs are stiff from sitting in the same place for too long. “You… your music is… I mean, it’s very good.” 

He’s never been good at compliments, really, especially not if he means them. 

“You think so?” Basil asks, hesitant. 

Faraday nods. He puts his teacup onto the too-full coffee table, twists his fingers in a nervous gesture. When a small smile steals onto Basil’s lip, making his eyes glint just so, Faraday’s breath catches in his throat. 

“I’ve never played for anyone like this before,” Basil admits. He lets out a heavy breath, shakes his head, slightly disbelieving. “I’ve never wanted to play for anyone like this before. But… it’s different. With…” 

He trails off, and Faraday averts his eyes. Thinks he knows how that sentence was supposed to end. Doesn’t say that he feels it too, how different things are when he’s around Basil.

Needing to move, lest he combust under the tension that is rising between them, Faraday walks over to the piano with a few slow steps. He considers the instrument carefully, not knowing what exactly he’s looking for. It’s a normal piano, nothing special about it. Nothing otherworldly or magical, nothing that could explain the way Basil’s music had transformed him, bewitched him, changed his sense of reality with nothing more than a few notes. There’s no deeper reason behind it, probably: That’s just the way Basil is. The effect he has on Faraday. 

He reaches out, hesitantly, fingers brushing over the keys. They feel cold and hard and unremarkable. Faraday presses down on one, two, three of them, but no magic erupts from his fingertips. The notes ring out and then fade away. For a moment, he stays where he is, facing away from Basil, gaze fixed on the instrument. His heart is beating fast with nerves, anticipation. His stomach is churning, tongue heavy with the words sitting on it, waiting to be said. He’s not sure he wants to utter them, but at the same time knows he has no choice, that he can’t possibly contain him. 

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Faraday turns around. He almost jumps when he realizes that Basil has moved to stand behind him, and now they’re face to face, much closer than they were before. The proximity makes his breath catch in his throat, and when he opens his mouth, his voice comes out quiet and rough. 

“It was beautiful.” 

And he meets Basil’s eyes, unwavering, and means it. 

Basil exhales, the sound of it choppy. He’s so close that Faraday can feel the soft sigh on his face. It makes him shiver, the hairs on the back of his neck raising. The air between them is different now, charged, suddenly, with a sort of sizzling energy. Faraday’s throat goes dry, and he opens his mouth, nothing coming out except for a faint gasp. Basil is looking at him. His eyes are very dark and very warm and very wide. He’s so close. 

“Faraday…” Basil breathes, a helpless quality to the way he says it. Like Faraday’s name is something sacred. Like saying it hurts his throat. 

“Basil,” Faraday mumbles. It’s barely even a word at all, more air than sound, and he doesn’t know why he says it, or what he means, but it feels right in his mouth. 

Basil blinks, the motion slow and drawn-out, and then his eyes drop down to Faraday’s mouth. Faraday’s heart stops. And then his breath stops, his entire body tingling, little electroshocks all over. His brain is filled with static, and his face is hot, and he can see that Basil’s cheeks are dusted with a lovely shade of pink, and that his lips are very soft-looking, red and slightly open and inviting and too close, much too close. Coming closer, because Basil is leaning in now, slowly, so slowly, and anticipation and dread and want curl in Faraday’s chest and he thinks he might die from it, all that want… 

And then, suddenly, finally, Basil kisses him. 

Even though Faraday knows it’s coming, it still takes him by surprise. The moment Basil’s lips touch his seems to happen out of nowhere, and it hits him like a ton of bricks, the floor falling out from under him, his vision blurring, his stomach tight like he’s been punched. 

Basil’s lips are soft. He doesn’t want to notice it, but does. They’re soft and warm and so incredibly gentle on Faraday’s, barely moving, just sort of resting there, slotted together. It doesn’t feel real, and Faraday’s heart is pounding suddenly, is up in his throat and making him choke. 

Faraday can’t remember ever being kissed this tenderly before. 

It’s driving him crazy, makes him feel like he might pass out. 

Basil is so close, his smell surrounding Faraday like a cloud. He realizes his eyes have fallen shut, an involuntary reaction, and now all he knows is Basil, his scent and his taste and the feel of him, that featherlight brush of his mouth, like butterfly wings ghosting across his lips, flighty and careful and wonderful. The moment seems suspended in time, endless, removed from reality, a dream, floating somewhere among the clouds, nothing but a dream, in which they kiss and kiss and kiss… 

Then, Basil sighs, tilts his head, lips pressing closer, and reaches out, his fingers wrapping around Faraday’s arm, and the touch breaks something inside Faraday, makes the the moment shatter. 

Faraday snaps back into himself, suddenly and violently, and flinches back with a gasp. 

Somewhere, he can hear glass breaking, the sound harsh and loud and violent. Cold washes over him, his skin crawling as he takes in ragged breaths. Wide eyed, Faraday stares at Basil. He can still feel the phantom touch of his lips. It makes something twisted and bitter and horrible curl in his gut, makes him feel nauseous. Makes him want to claw his way out of his own body.

Basil’s expression, soft and vulnerable before, crumbles. It’s a whole show, the way his features twist, first shocked, then apologetic, then full of sorrow. Faraday hates it. 

“I’m sorry,” Basil says, his voice all cracked and rueful. “I’m sorry, I didn’t- I misinterpreted, Faraday, I shouldn’t have-“ 

Faraday shakes his head, frantic, trying to cut him off. He doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to hear Basil’s apologies, doesn’t want to hear his damned voice. His head is pounding, screeching, screaming. His mind is caving in on itself. He can’t breathe. He’s shaking so badly he thinks he might collapse. The fire inside him rages, looking for a way out. 

“I should leave now,” Faraday grits out between clenched teeth, and as he looks at Basil, his mouth open and speechless, it hits him again, suddenly and violently, how much he wants Basil. It horrifies him, this desire, the intensity of it. It might be the worst thing he’s ever felt.

He doesn’t wait for a response, realizes he can’t spend even one more second in Basil’s proximity. He simply turns around and flees. There’s no other word for it; his steps are so quick he almost stumbles. As he walks through the hallway of Basil’s flat, he sees that the vases on the sideboard have burst into pieces. He barely avoids stepping into the shards as he runs towards the front door, slamming it behind himself and rushing down the stairs. On one step he trips over his own feet and nearly falls, and then his head is filled with memories, old images merging with new ones. Caroline crumpled on the stairs, lifeless. The way Basil’s kiss had made him feel, removed from himself and reality. The fact that he allowed it. 

And at the forefront, the way he feels now: Burning, burning, burning. 

Faraday runs, air whipping at his face, the street blurring around him, and feels like a goddamn fool. He knew this entire thing with Basil was a mistake, right from the beginning, and he did it anyway. Kept coming back for more. He’s been beyond foolish, really, the absolute worst. It makes him angry beyond belief, at Basil, at his colleagues for bringing him to that restaurant all those months ago, but most of all at himself. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this angry before. He knows, with absolute certainty, the he has never hated himself more than he does in this very moment. 

***

When Faraday gets to his flat, he rips his clothes off, frantically, mindless like a man possessed. The garments suffocate him, and he needs to breathe, needs air. Left in his underwear, he paces through the rooms, a caged monster. His fists clench, fingernails digging into his palms. The pain of it grounds him. His stomach bubbles with acidic shame, making his face flush, making his skin crawl, like insects through his veins. 

He can’t make it stop, no matter how much he paces. He doesn’t know how to make it stop. 

He ends up in his bedroom, and in a moment of desperation, perches on the edge of the bed and grips a pillow, buries his face in it. Screams. Screams until he’s hoarse and his throat is burning, and then keeps screaming until he hears the tell-tale sound of shattering glass. It echoes from everywhere around him. 

Faraday lifts his head from the pillow, sight blurry before he blinks and focuses. The door is still open, an through it, he can see the hallway, and beyond that, the living room. The glass on the floor, the wooden splinters. 

The picture frames have finally exploded, every last one of them. 

His gaze drifts, jumps around. Lands on the big mirror, just a few steps away from the bed. His reflection looks at him with hollow, red-rimmed eyes, and Faraday’s muscles start cramping, clenching up, his teeth grinding and joints cracking with the tension of it. 

He can’t stand the sight of himself. 

He loathes it, this pale and ghostly man in the mirror, the apparition staring back at him. 

It makes the anger bubble up, the hatred, until it’s boiling over, and Faraday watches himself in the mirror, watches his other self distorted by the glass, watches its face twist in fury, skin turning red and eyes flaming and mouth dropping open like a gaping maw, teeth sharp, hungry and destructive. 

The scream that tears from his throat barely sounds human. 

It hurts, it makes every one of his blood cells evaporate, makes his bones shake around and break inside his body. 

He doesn’t stop until the mirror cracks in half, right down the middle, splitting his reflection into two. 

***

That night he dreams of Hundreds Hall, but it’s all wrong. It’s more twisted than ever, falling and crumbling around him, a violent show of disintegration. Caroline is there, everywhere he looks, no matter how much he tries to run from her. She points at him, accusing, in her white night gown, and chants: You! You! You! 

At one point, her face blurs with Basil’s, and then he’s the one on the stairs while the house breaks apart, but Caroline’s voice stays, reverberating around in Faraday’s head, a never-ending litany of you you you, distorted and haunting. 

Faraday knows it’s just a dream, but he’s never been more afraid. 

***

Days pass, one blurring into the next. 

Faraday doesn’t see the faces of the students he teaches, doesn’t know what he tells them, doesn’t linger in the halls of the university to talk to colleagues. He goes straight back to his flat when he’s done for the day and locks himself in, because he doesn’t trust himself not to do something stupid. Doesn’t trust himself, period. 

His nights are restless, dreams filled with indistinct images, shapes and figures blurring, seeping together into one muddled mess. There’s Hundreds and there’s Basil and there are bone-chilling screams and glass breaking and fire roaring and at the center of it all a hatred so destructive it makes Faraday wake up drenched in sweat, fear making his heart trip and stumble in his chest. 

No matter how hard he tries, he can’t get Basil’s face out of his head. Every time Faraday closes his eyes, blinks, lets his thoughts drift off, every time he’s not paying close attention to the machinations of his mind, he sees it again: The soft expression in Basil’s eyes before he’d leaned in, the warmth there, a small hint of fear, maybe, but not enough to make him stop. The trusting vulnerability chased away by twisting hurt when Faraday pulled back, the remorse that had replaced the softness. His lips had been soft, too. His breath had been hot, fluttering against Faraday’s face, choppy and nervous, and his smell had been pleasant, earthy and intoxicating. 

Faraday tries hard to chase all those thoughts away, tries to banish them into that box in the back of his mind, keep them under lock and key. Whatever happened doesn’t matter, shouldn’t matter. It’s over now, he put an end to it. Did the right thing, finally. All of this had been an enormous mistake, this thing with Basil, right from the start, and Faraday did the right thing when he pulled away and ran. It was a mistake, just a mistake, that’s all. No need to dwell on it now. 

But he can’t shake the thoughts, no matter how hard he tries, can’t forget the feeling of Basil’s lips, and every time the memories resurface, the familiar acidic loathing bubbles higher in his gut, eating him alive. 

Faraday tries his best to forget, day in and day out. He doesn’t want to admit to himself that he can’t. Maybe Basil was right, all those weeks ago: There are some things it’s impossible to run from. 

***

The restaurant is always busy on Fridays, which has never bothered him before. But today, Faraday can’t bear the thought of all those people, crowding around him, pressing in close, suffocating him. The thought of going in there, becoming a part of the crowd, makes him feel sick. 

Faraday tries to swallows the tight knot in his throat, stares at the front door, and wonders why he even bothered to come when he can’t even muster up the willpower to go in. 

It was stupid, coming here. Didn’t feel like much of a conscious decision at all, like his body simply carried him, and Faraday curses it for betraying him like this. Now the deed is already done. Another mistake to add to the endless list of mistakes he’s already made. His heart is beating too fast, hurting in its spot behind his ribcage. Unconsciously, he lifts a hand towards his chest, fingers pressing against the left side of it, clutching at his clothes as if that could stop the rapid beat. He swallows again, fells like he’s choking. A tremble runs through him, and Faraday stumbles, tripping over his own feet in his sudden haste to get away from the front door. 

He can’t go in there. He can’t do it. He doesn’t know why he even came here. Stupid, stupid, always such a fool…

His feet carry him down the alleyway next to the restaurant, into that cramped space between two buildings where he first talked to Basil. The memory makes him ache in strange ways, and he tries to push it away. With shaking fingers, he fishes a cigarette out of his pocket. It takes him three attempts to light it, but when he does, the smoke filling his lungs is a welcome relief. 

The stack of palettes has been removed since the last time he was here. All that is left in its place is a blank and empty wall, looking the same way the entire rest of the facade does. Faraday fixates on the spot anyway. There’s nothing to see there, nothing special at all, but maybe it’s that monotony, that nothingness, that grounds him. He stares at the spot and smokes his cigarette and empties his mind, and when the cigarette is nothing but a stub between his fingers, he lights a new one and keeps staring. 

Time ticks by like that. Faraday loses track, and is grateful for it. He doesn’t want to be aware of time, doesn’t want to be aware of space, doesn’t want to be aware of himself. Doesn’t want to worry when Basil will come out, if he’s even playing tonight, how much more time he has left before- 

The door behind him opens. 

Faraday tenses, keeps his back turned, hears the faint echo of laughter and conversation and-

“Faraday,” a voice breathes, so familiar it makes him shiver. 

The knot in his throat is back again, keeping him from saying anything. Faraday doesn’t move, is frozen to the spot. Basil is just as still, doesn’t say another word and stays where he is, behind Faraday, facing his back, out of sight. The door falls shut with a loud clang, shutting out the background noise. Then it’s only the two of them, and the tense silence around them, thick enough to cut. 

Even though Faraday doesn’t think he has it in him to turn around, that he has the strength to face Basil, the courage to be the first one to move, he ends up doing it anyway. He doesn’t know why or how, but somehow, he takes a deep breath, and turns, and then there Basil is, right in front of him. 

He looks like he did the last time and also, somehow, different. It’s only been three weeks since they last saw each other, yet Faraday can’t help but think that Basil is changed, in a way. There’s a dullness in his eyes, something distressed. His shoulders seem slightly slumped. His mouth is parted on a shocked gasp. Faraday finds he can’t look away from his lips. Can’t stop thinking about the fact that he knows how they feel. 

Because Faraday was the one to come here, he thinks he should be the one to start talking, but when he opens his mouth, no words come out. He moves his lips around nothing but air, struggling to come up with something, anything to say, and keeps failing. 

In the end, Basil saves him from further humiliation. 

“Why are you here?” he asks, and something strange happens to his face - he seems to compose it in a manner of seconds, hiding his emotions behind a mask, as good as he can. He’s not entirely successful, his eyes still too honest, but it’s disconcerting to witness nonetheless. Faraday doesn’t understand why he does it, if he’s trying to shut Faraday out or trying to pretend like this entire situation doesn’t faze him. “I mean- what I mean is that I’m glad you’re here, because I wanted another chance to apologize. And I understand I overstepped. I understand that you’re angry, and if this is the last time we’ll see each other, I understand that, too.” 

Ah, Faraday thinks, somewhat stunned. Basil isn’t trying to push Faraday away. He’s trying to protect himself. 

A little too late for that, maybe. 

Faraday shakes his head, still somewhat lost for words. 

“No, I-“ he starts, then stops to collect his thoughts, shakes his head more roughly when they won’t fall into order. “It’ not… I mean to say, I don’t…” 

Faraday huffs, frustrated, embarrassed. He throws his cigarette to the ground, makes an effort to straighten up, appear composed, and suppresses the bitterness rising in his throat. In front of him, Basil swallows, and thinks for a moment. 

“Maybe we could… walk?” he asks, more hesitant than he’s been with Faraday in months. 

“Yes,” Faraday agrees readily, nodding perhaps a little too quickly. “We should.” 

“Alright.” 

Basil still seems hesitant, like he doesn’t know what to expect or how to act, but he nods as well. His gaze rests heavily on Faraday, and they look at each other for a long moment, the space between them charged. Then, as if silently agreeing to do so, they move, turning away from each other and walking down the alleyway with measured steps until they reach the main street and go on their way. 

They’ve done this before, simply walking around together with no destination in mind. In the beginning, Basil showed him around the city, showing him corners of London Faraday had never been to. Later, it had been for no reason at all. There had always been something peaceful about it, about those stretching moments in the middle of the night. Now, Faraday struggles to remember any of that peace, tries to draw it up again and fails. He is tense and jumpy, and all too aware of Basil’s presence beside him. 

He doesn’t know how long they walk. Barely pays attention to where they’re going, loses track of time and space, the way he tends to when Basil is around. They walk in silence, for minutes or hours, streets and houses and lights blurring, Faraday’s mind whirling with everything that is left unsaid. 

Somehow, they end up at the Thames. Faraday doesn’t know if Basil has lead him here on purpose or if it’s a coincidence, but he doesn’t question it. There’s a bench closer to the river, and they walk towards it, sitting down in silent agreement. Faraday looks off into the distance, at the dark water flowing by, moonlight reflected off its surface. The sight of it calms him, strangely enough, pulls him out of his head and into his body, makes him feel more grounded. Maybe for the first time since that night in Basil’s flat, he can almost think clearly. 

“I’m sorry,” Basil says after a while. His voice is quiet, hushed, like he’s worried he’ll scare Faraday away if he talks too loudly. “I truly am. I should not have done what I did. I simply… well. I misinterpreted, is all. I thought you wanted it, too. I thought that was what you wanted all along. I noticed you looking, you know, back at the restaurant, even before we spoke for the first time. That’s why I talked to you, that night. Because I noticed. I always notice you looking. Right from the beginning, and I thought this was the reason…” 

He trails off, huffing. Faraday’s face flushes, burning with mortification. His skin crawls, bile rising in his throat. He can’t believe Basil noticed. He can’t believe he was so obvious, thinking he had Basil fooled this whole time, thinking he’d been, what, inconspicuous, when in reality, he’d been anything but, giving himself away from the very first moment. 

“So. I thought I knew why you were always looking at me. I thought you were sending a message, by always coming back. But I realize I was wrong, and I’m sorry for that,” Basil says, subdued. 

Faraday makes a sound like he’s being strangled. Basil’s words sound awfully close to a goodbye, and even through the mess inside of him, Faraday knows one thing for certain: That he does not want Basil to leave. 

When Basil shifts next to him after the silence has stretched on for too long, no doubt preparing himself to leave, Faraday finally forces his mouth open.

“What if you didn’t,” he blurts out. He keeps his head turned away, eyes fixed on the water, aware of the space between them. 

Basil pauses. “What?” 

“What if you didn’t misinterpret?” Faraday clarifies. “What then?” 

He waits, tense, poised to jump up and run at any second, should Basil say the wrong thing. He’s never been more frightened in his entire life. Doesn’t think he’s ever been this openly vulnerable. The implications of his question, the thing he isn’t saying, is so plain anyway, clear as day even though he hasn’t put it into words yet. It makes him feel like his chest is being splayed open, like he’s lying on an examination table and a crowd of faceless people is prodding around inside him, trying to figure out the details of his innermost workings, and he’s just waiting for them to mock what they find. It’s not like him to let himself be vulnerable. It’s not like him to be so honest. He’s not sure it’s not going to kill him. 

“Then… we should talk about it,” Basil says next to him, slowly. Like he’s not sure he understood right. 

Faraday nods. He thinks Basil is right; this is something that needs to be talked about. He just doesn’t have the words. 

He hesitates for a long time, long enough that Basil sighs next to him. Faraday chances a glance at him; he has slumped back against the bench, his face scrunched up in deep thought. 

“I don’t understand you, Faraday,” Basil says after a while. 

The words probably aren’t meant maliciously, but they sting anyway. Faraday stays silent and waits for him to continue, just to put off having to talk for a few more moments. 

“Most of the time, I have no idea what’s going on in your head. I never know what you’re thinking, and I don’t… I don’t know what to do with that, sometimes. I don’t know whether I got things right, and I’m scared I’ll ruin everything. That I’ll say or do the wrong thing, and scare you away. I don’t want to scare you away,” Basil says. Faraday glances at him again; there’s something fragile in his eyes now. “So you have to tell me what you’re thinking. Or I’ll get it all wrong again. I don’t want that to happen.” 

Faraday sighs, bites his lips, looks at the river again. “You didn’t get it wrong.” 

“Then why did you run away?” 

And oh, Basil sounds so hurt now, even though he’s probably trying very hard to hide it. Faraday swallows, tries to suppress the bitter guilt he can taste in the back of his mouth. He closes his eyes. Maybe this will be easier if he pretends Basil isn’t there. 

“I-“ Faraday starts, then stops, the words caught in his throat. He knows he should apologize, but can’t quite bring himself to do so; he’s always been too proud for his own good. With another sigh, he continues, quiet. “It wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have. Run away, I mean.” 

Basil breathes out heavily. “But something clearly wasn’t right. Or you wouldn’t have left the way you did.”

There’s something bitter in his tone, and Faraday can’t figure out whether Basil is angry at himself or Faraday. Maybe both. Faraday thinks he’d deserve Basil’s anger, for running like that, and now, for being unable to fulfill a simple request. He wishes he could, wishes he could speak plainly and explain what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, but every time he tries, his throat ties itself shut and prevents him from getting a single word out. 

“Look,” Basil says after another too-long moment of silence. “I want you, Faraday. It’s as simple as that. I have no idea whether you want me too, I already told you, I have no idea what you’re thinking, and I don’t… It’s alright if you don’t. It’s alright that you left. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, and I still don’t want that now. But I just… I need to know where to go from here. Yes or no, that’s all I need.” 

Faraday’s fists clench in his lap. He feels a sharp spike of jealousy piercing through his gut. Basil keeps doing this, again and again. Speaking his thoughts so plainly, being so unabashedly honest. Being so endlessly kind, even though Faraday doesn’t deserve it. He resents Basil for it, just a little. For being so effortlessly good, and for how quickly he can forgive. For how easy this seems to be for him. I want you, Faraday. Just like that. Like it’s the simplest thing in the world. 

It’s not that easy for Faraday. He doesn’t think it will ever be. Just the thought of saying something like this makes him nauseous, makes him all twisted up inside, makes him burn with loathing, makes him want to rip off his skin, makes him want to hide forever. 

He can’t do this. Not the way Basil can. He’ll never be as good and kind and easy to forgive, and Faraday is so keenly aware of the differences between them, of all the ways he can never measure up to Basil, all the ways he is… less. Basil could have anyone, should really choose someone else, and Faraday knows he’ll never be good enough, will never deserve Basil when all he is is bristly and bitter and resentful. 

I want you, Faraday. 

The truth is, Faraday doesn’t understand why. 

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Basil says, and Faraday realizes he drifted off, got lost in his own thoughts. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there, quietly. “Just tell me yes or no. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

He barely even knows what Basil is asking for, but he knows what he wants to say. 

He knows it, but can’t get it out. 

What Faraday says instead is: 

“This isn’t… it isn’t that easy. It isn’t that easy for me, and if it was, I would…” Faraday trails off, huffs. He drags a hand through his hair, something he usually never does, but he’s too agitated to sit still, needs some sort of movement. “I wouldn’t have left, if it was that easy. And it seems to be for you, but I don’t- I’m not like that, and I-“ 

He loses his words again, can’t say what he wants to say, the thoughts all tangled up in his head, his throat too tight. A frustrated groan steals past his lips, his fists clenching. 

Next to him, Basil lets out a small chuckle. The sound is so unexpected it makes Faraday look at him again, surprised to see Basil’s lips twisted in a mixture of sadness and amusement. 

“This isn’t easy for me, either,” he admits. “Quite the opposite, actually. It’s difficult, to trust and to open up. I have trouble with it, most of the time. Because it’s easier to protect myself than to let people in. Easier not to get hurt that way.” 

The admission makes Faraday’s eyes widen, his mouth falling open in surprise. He had always gotten the opposite impression of Basil, had always perceived him as someone who trusts quickly, is friendly with everyone, has no trouble opening up, being honest. He can’t have such a skewed perception of Basil after all this time. That would be impossible. Wouldn’t it? 

Basil seems to see the shock on his face and laughs softly again. A sheepish expression steals onto his face, a small smile gracing his lips. He rubs the back of his neck, shrugs a little awkwardly. 

“You make it easy,” he admits quietly. 

The implication is clear: Basil has let him in, and now Faraday has the power to hurt him. 

He finds he doesn’t want to. 

Faraday swallows. His heart is pounding, his shirt sticking to his back with nervous sweat. If he wasn’t sitting down already, he thinks his knees would shake badly enough to make him collapse. Basil is looking at him with his soft eyes and his helpless little smile and it makes Faraday weak, so incredibly weak, every single part of him. 

He takes a deep breath, trembling and fearful. Wets his lips, and hopes his words won’t abandon him again. 

“I don’t- I don’t do these… these things. I don’t. I can’t, I can’t do these things. I can’t do it, it’s not easy for me, I can’t-“ 

Faraday chokes on the words, his voice cracking horribly, and he stares at Basil, miserably, helplessly, desperate. 

“But I want to.” 

Basil’s breath leaves him in a rush, like he got punched, and his body deflates. His eyes start glistening, and it makes Faraday’s breath catch, this… this joy he finds there. His heart is still thundering in his chest, making his hands shake, but Basil suddenly looks so relieved, and somehow, that makes him relax a little, too. He finally allows his tense muscles to loosen, and shifts on the bench, leaning against the back of it, letting his fists unclench, hands falling limply next to him. 

“I’m glad,” Basil whispers, and he sounds so honest, so unabashedly happy, it makes Faraday’s chest twist up in the strangest ways. 

“I’ve never…” Faraday starts hesitantly, looking out at the water again so he doesn’t have to face Basil for another admission. “I want to try, but I’ve never…” 

He trails off, finds he can’t finish the sentence. The truth is, he’s never felt about anyone the way he feels about Basil. He didn’t think it was possible, didn’t think he had it in him to feel this way. He has never allowed anyone to get this close to him before. Maybe he can understand what Basil said: It’s difficult, no doubt, but with Basil, it seems easier than with anyone else. 

“That’s alright,” Basil says, his tone reassuring. 

“I’m scared,” Faraday admits. The honesty feels foreign in his mouth, the taste of it strange and unfamiliar. But it’s a night of honesty, he thinks, and tries to tamp down on the embarrassment threatening to overwhelm in, the urge to flee that’s trying to grip him. 

“That’s alright, too,” Basil says. 

He shifts, and Faraday becomes acutely aware of how close they are. Close enough that Faraday thinks he can imagine the warmth Basil’s body radiates. Basil has put his hand onto the bench between them, his palm flat on the wood, and Faraday wonders if he did it on purpose. His own hand is resting in his lap, but he shifts, sets it onto the bench too. Only a few centimeters between them, now, not holding onto each other just yet. Simply… resting, there, close enough to touch, if Faraday wanted to reach out, or Basil would. The space between them feels charged and full of possibilities, and Faraday’s heart beats faster when he thinks about them. 

“We can try. Slowly,” Basil says gently, hushed. His hand moves a fraction of a millimeter closer. “Step by step. We can just take it one day at a time.” 

Faraday nods, hums in agreement. He shifts his hand, until his pinky brushes against Basil’s, the softest of touches. For a moment, he waits, hesitates. Then wraps his finger around Basil’s, entwining just their pinkies. It’s barely anything at all, but for him it feels monumental. 

They stay there, sitting in comfortable silence for a while. It’s October, but the night is strangely mild, uncharacteristically warm for the season, like summer has been clawing its way back up to the surface for one final, desperate farewell before truly dying for the year. The occasional breeze brushing by barely makes Faraday shiver, and he finds he doesn’t mind just sitting here, by the river, watching the water, with Basil. 

After seconds or minutes or hours have passed, Basil moves, his finger curling tighter around Faraday’s. The shift makes Faraday turn, and he meets Basil’s gaze, realizes Basil has already been watching him for God only knows how long. The knowledge makes Faraday blush. Basil seems to notice, despite the darkness, and smiles. 

“Would you like to come home with me?” Basil asks.

There’s no hidden meaning in his words, but they still make Faraday very warm. He considers for a moment, tries to catalogue his feelings. His heart is still racing, his mind a mess, and that bitterness, that loathing, just waiting to start burning again, is still there. He wonders what would happen if he said yes. What it would mean. If it would be a giant mistake. 

But in the end, he decides that it doesn’t matter. 

Faraday takes a deep breath, steadies himself, then nods, resolutely. 

“Yes,” he says, and his voice only shakes the slightest bit. “I would like that very much.”

***

That night, Faraday sleeps in Basil’s bed, and he does not dream of Hundreds Hall.