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Lucy isn’t sure if her partner knows who she is. She rises to move towards him. In the hustle and bustle of the room, it takes her a minute to find him.
Skull hasn’t moved at all.
She’s not sure why they call him Skull. He’s not particularly skinny– maybe a wee bit, but there’s an odd strength to him, like he lifts weights and listens to religious chanting.
Lucy’s never been to the uni’s gym so she has no idea. Doesn’t wish to find out.
His friends call him Skull and the food service workers call him Skull, and the professors call him Skull, even on day one when no one knows each other.
He’s sprawled in his seat at the end of the aisle, back to the wall, body towards her. He always seems annoyed; when he does smile there’s some malice to it, like he knows something you don’t. Today, he’s wearing that smile though it’s a bit…dimmer, she thinks. More real, if she wants to read into it.
Which she doesn’t.
“Lucy,” he says. “You’re in a group with the smartest man in England. How do you feel about that?”
She rolls her eyes and takes the seat next to him.
“I don’t.”
“You’re not going to ask me what it’s like to be with the most average bird in England?”
She snatches the pen out of his hand and starts brainstorming on his sheet of paper.
“Shut the fuck up or I will fight you in the hallway.”
His laugh is a short, clipped thing, but it’s echo makes her heart feel funny even though he’s just insulted her.
*
Their basic history course is full of students looking to knock the class out early. Very few want to have extended studies. Lucy wants to do art. Skull does want to stay in history, surprising Lucy.
“I thought you’d want to do…archaeology,” she tells him one day in the library. They’re in a study room on the top floor. Lucy’s on her fourth cup of black tea, sweet enough to hurt her teeth so she couldn’t miss the milk. Skull’s had a single energy drink.
“Those things are corrosive. They’ll pickle you.”
“You’re going to become really British when you lose all of your teeth.”
Their project isn’t a small endeavor; it’s a semester-long look at a certain part of history. They are assigned “Medieval History.”
The rest of the details are up to them.
On their first meeting, they hashed out a schedule in between barbs. Lucy had been pleased to find Skull was serious about his schoolwork.
Looks could be deceiving. He still was a prick most of the time though.
“Because I’m Skull I want to look at skulls all day?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re right. I just don’t want to stand in the heat all day.”
As much as she hates it, that makes her smile.
It is early in the semester so the library is mostly empty. They have the blinds drawn in their room to block out distractions– Lucy and Skull both admit they have issues with concentration. That plus the lamplight makes the room feel cozy. The sun sets earlier and earlier each day, and the England weather makes it extra drab. Lucy always wears a sweater on library days, but even then she’s forced to burrow. Sleeves get pulled over her hands, hem gets tucked into the waistband of her skirt so it won’t move and leave her exposed to air.
Skull even notices how easy she is to chill. For some reason, he carries an extra flannel shirt in his bag. He only makes fun of her a little bit when he throws it over her legs.
The general prompt forces them to do tons of research– they do word association games with medieval events as the topics, they make word web after word web trying to pin down something that wasn’t too nebulous but big enough to encompass a semester’s worth of work.
In the last 15 minutes before they part, Lucy has an epiphany.
“What about art?”
Skull looks up from his notebook and nods at her to continue.
“Medieval art! It gives us a lot of different avenues to explore– manuscripts, mosaics, religion! We can do a deep dive on a specific piece, discussing the culture around it. And…I could make something for us. Like a fancy cover that’s kind of like the illuminated manuscripts you see in museums.”
He’s impressed, she can tell from the absolutely not attractive way he purses his lips.
“Can you make something like that?”
“I haven’t before,” she says, trying not to let her voice waver. He doesn’t ask her meanly but she can’t help but feel like it’s a trap, and despite his pretty lips he hates the idea. “But I’m not a bad artist. Here.”
She pulls up her portfolio and lets him click through her heart and soul.
He looks up with wide eyes.
“I think you can do it.”
And though that was all he says, it’s compliment enough.
*
Lucy and Norrie both have cheap smartphones, so their voices randomly become garbled with static, or even sound mechanical.
“You’re robotic!” Norrie cries. “I hope it stops. I’d like you to get a full description out before our phones decide it’s time to die.”
“He’s just…a man I guess? A man that was just a boy. Lots of flannel, lots of black. Trousers though, no denim. Which always surprises me. Leather shoes.”
“You’ve noticed his shoes have you? Any idea on cock size?”
Lucy screams.
“I will not deny I’ve wondered,” she says once she finishes screeching. Norrie tells her she’s a robot again. She keeps going anyway. “But I’ll never find out so it doesn’t matter.”
“Mhm…”
“What? You have that voice.”
“I just have a feeling,” Norrie says. “A good one. Which makes me happy because you deserve good things, Lucy.”
“You do too,” Lucy whispers into the phone. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
*
Lucy goes and goes and goes, so they mainly work around her schedule.
“I can do it for you, Princess,” Skull had said in the beginning. “I’m flexible.”
He had waggled his eyebrows, completely ignoring Lucy’s disgust at the pet name. Every night before bed, Lucy wonder’s if it’s true.
On Tuesdays, the only time they can snatch is a 30 minute dinner. Lucy runs straight from her three hour drawing studio to the Thai takeout place next to Uni. Skull is always there before her, with food ordered so she doesn’t have to wait to eat.
“How you’d know?” She asks on the first night when a plate of her favorite green curry sat on the table, steam rising towards the ceiling.
His smiles keep changing. This one was almost soft.
“Good guess.”
30 minutes was really no meeting at all, but the nature of their project meant checking in almost everyday. It’s nice to have someone to exist with, even if all they do is work in silence. Sometimes she complains about her weekend job, Skull bitches about his roommates. It is friendship. Forced, but glowing friendship.
Skull’s barbed tongue still hits her, but there’s affection behind each quip. His body loosens up too; he throws an arm around the back of her chair when they’re in the library, eyes barely open, trying to finish reading the driest pdf on medieval life they’ve ever seen. It wakes her up every time, the heat of him. He smells of petrichor, and after a long day, a bit of sweat.
Lucy likes it.
*
They meet in neutral places: dining hall, restaurants or coffee shops, the library. Lucy is lucky with a single flat she can barely afford, but she’s so messy the idea of inviting anyone over (besides Norrie, god how she missed her) made her want to throw up. Cleaning has never been her strength.
One morning, on a library day, she gets a text:
Had a shit day luv. Can we study at mine? I’ll make dinner.
Her gut twists with happy nerves. At this point, she enjoys spending time with him. Plus, it’s almost midterms, and their quiet library haven isn’t so quiet anymore.
She fires back a quick
sounds good. don’t call me love.
Before immediately calling Norrie.
“A midday call, duckie? Emergency?”
Lucy’s voice is breathy, like she’s ran a race.
“I’m going over to Skull’s flat. He’s making me dinner!”
“Oh my god…”
“Oh my god!”
“You’re doing it, Lucy, right? Really going?”
“Yes. And I need to tell you something else.”
“What!!!”
“He called me love.”
Skull could probably hear Norrie’s screech wherever he’s at, tinny and loud and beautiful.
“Okay, he did spell it l-u-v.”
“I stand by my scream.”
*
The walk to Skull’s is short, which makes her happier than it should. He rents an old skinny townhome, painted a dark brown and shared with two other men she doesn’t really know.
On the stoop, she hears the faint noise of music (Sex Pistols, she thought) and the sizzle of something on the stove top. She takes a deep breath: in for 4, out for 4, then knocks.
There is the shuffle of feet and then the door swings open.
“Lucy?!” a man she doesn’t know asked.
“Ah…yes.”
He swings his hand out and shakes hers with way too much energy, moving their connected hands up and down several times before letting go.
“Come inside, it’s chilly.”
She follows him in, stopping to hang her beat up leather jacket on their coat rack. Hers had blue flowers painted on the bottom hem and arm cuffs, which was good because three other leather jackets hung beside her own.
“Your girl is here, Skully!” the man yells.
He turns to Lucy, laughing at the insane look that must be on her face.
“I’m staying in my room for the night. Maybe next time you’ll come for family night and we can all eat together.”
“Maybe,” Lucy says, still tongue tied from the your girl comment. She waves at his back in a daze.
“You’re here.”
She turns to see Skull in the doorway to what she assumes is the kitchen. He’s backlit by the light in the other room, dark shadows falling where his eyes are, his lips, over half of his face. She saw the nickname in him like this, his skull coming out to see her. Lucy was surprised that the weirdness, unsettling bit of it all actually excited her instead of made her run. This moment felt like another time, where for some reason she imagines she has seen Skull’s actual skull before.
He grins at her, and it’s a grin her mind tells her is of the past. She can tell she’s missed it.
“Of course I did,” Lucy says. “I’ve spent every week with you for the past two months. It wouldn’t feel right to be in my flat alone.”
He pulls her into the kitchen. For a house full of uni aged men, it’s surprisingly well kept. A table tucked in the corner is set for two, including a few candles. A skinny bouquet of bluebells sits on the counter beside a wooden cutting board Lucy can smell was used for garlic and onion. A few dishes lie in the sink; Lucy admires them, knowing she’s never been good at cleaning as she goes when cooking for herself, nevermind for two.
On top of the hob sits a steaming casserole dish, obviously fresh from the oven. Skull sprinkles chives over the top for garnish, looking back at her with a small, nervous smile, a look she doesn’t think he’s ever given her.
“It’s nothing fancy,” he says. “Just hotpot.”
“I love hotpot!” It was her favorite food, and regardless she would’ve eaten a shoe because he made it for her.
She can’t remember the last time someone made her food.
He serves her, brushing off her help with an eye roll. She’s almost bouncing in her seat as he dishes the lamb and potatoes out in front of her. Before sitting, he grabs two ciders for them from the fridge, hitting them against the counter to open instead of using a bottle opener, something that shouldn’t seem so attractive but does anyway.
“To you,” he says. “Cheers.”
He clinks his bottle to hers, gaze heavy but soft. Like a weighted blanket. In this moment, the most achingly domestic of her life, she feels happy and safe. She hopes he does too.
*
Their chat over dinner is just like their chat over schoolwork: fun and quippy and easy. The hotpot is delicious, and Skull serves her seconds and doesn’t make her feel bad about it at all– she thinks he might have if she denied wanting any at all.
It’s like he knows her, like only a few people ever have. It scares her but she’s always chased a bit of fear.
They do dishes next to each other; Lucy insists on washing but Skull hands her a towel instead.
“Can’t believe you actually have manners!”
They’re close to each other, so close Skull bumps her in the ribs with his elbow.
“Only when I’m trying to impress people. I’ll be back to prickly and unnerving tomorrow on the quad.”
She mulls over that for a little bit, drying the same plate several times before she realizes she’s lost in space.
“I’d give a quid or two to see what’s in that mind of yours,” Skull says.
He’s unusually soft. When Lucy glances at him, he’s heavy lidded and staring right back.
“Why do you want to impress me?”
“Who wouldn’t?” he laughs. “You’re light, sweetheart.”
His words shake her; she’s light ? She’s not sure what he means, but he’s looking at her like she has all the answers, and his lips look so plush and soft, and the spiky bits of his hair look like they want to be mussed up by her hands…
She puts down the dish she’d basically wrung dry and turns. He dries his hands and mirrors her, planting both softly on her neck, thumbs rubbing her jaw.
“May I kiss you, Lucy Carlyle?” he says in a deep voice that makes her want to rub her legs together.
“Yes,” she whispers.
Then he dives in.
Lucy has been kissed before, but it has always been stilted and awkward. All the gentle intimacy that goes with knowing nothing and being afraid to overwhelm the person you want.
Skull doesn’t kiss like that. He kisses with confidence. He kisses like he’s thought about this for months and made several plans to ensure it happens. Somehow his brain works enough to drag his tongue across hers and keep his thumbs moving, soothing her to relax into his mouth.
When he pulls back to see her face, his own is dazed, drunk.
Lucy is taller than average, but so is Skull. It’s fun, being able to look up at him. Especially like this, when he stares down at her with desire, a fire in his eyes she wants to stoke. Cupping her face like she’s something precious to him.
“You’re so soft,” he murmurs. “I want to feel how soft you are, all over.”
One hand moves down to her hip and squeezes.
“Here and your arse, especially. You’re so distracting, Lucy Carlyle. You’re everywhere.”
He leans in to kiss her, a barely there touch before he moves back and repeats with a whisper.
“Everywhere.”
He’s back with more kisses and she’s unprepared for the sheer want he displays with his mouth. Like he’s mapping hers with his. Like it’s not enough to kiss, he has to know the corners of her mouth, the taste of her cupid’s bow, the dip right above her chin. He moans when she slyly swipes her tongue against his bottom lip. It spurs her to show her own desire, as clumsy as it is.
He doesn’t seem to mind. His hands are firm against her, roaming over her clothes, seeing what made her suck in air or giggle. Always returning for rest on her hips, the things she has wished for so long would be smaller.
Not now though; big hips means more for him to hold. More places for his body to press against her own.
He pulls her sweater collar away to leave wet kisses against her neck. The drag of his tongue makes her shiver. Her goosebumps are so hard she’s sure he can count each individual one. A lick against her earlobe makes her press her thighs together.
His hand moves from her hip to where her leg creases. He pauses, pulling away to look her in the eyes.
“Can I go further?”
She’s sure her pupils are blown wide, face stained in a red blush. He doesn’t seem to mind. He wants more. Wants more of her.
“Please,” she whispers.
He returns to her lips, giving her little kisses, while moving one hand between her legs and the other tangling in her hair. That hand massages her scalp, helping to settle her. Then he pulls, lightly but enough that she moans, to expose her neck further.
The black tights she always thought were thick and dependable felt thin now, barely covering her as stroked one long finger softly against the fabric covering her, right above her clit. Her hips tilt involuntarily, and she felt what she knew was an evil grin against her neck.
“You want me?” he breathes out, half question half dream.
Her tongue lays heavy in her mouth, nonsense mumbles and moans sitting there instead of any rational conversation. She lets herself roll with it.
“You’re a black hole and you’re pulling me in.”
She feels that grin again and lets go of the rest of her mind.
For the first time in forever, Lucy lets herself feel.
*
Her picture is a mosaic, a scene of kitchen life that Skull gives context to in the presentation. There are flowers on the table, shadows flung everywhere with tiles that glitter but only after you stare at them for a long while. There’s color, because Medieval life had bright days too. There’s a meal on the table, shared between two people who have more feeling in their eyes than you’d think was possible through any art form. Light through the windows mixes with the houses shadows.
Her professor noted the dark and light were perfectly balanced, in the artwork and their research.
Skull and Lucy loiter in the hallway after the last class, smiling wide.
“So, Lucy dear. Now that it’s over, are you done with me?”
She grabs him by his belt loops and pulls him in for a kiss.
“Once light is swallowed up, it’s changed forever. I’m going nowhere except to your place.”
He messes up her hair, dips to kiss her nose, and takes her hand to walk out of the building, down the street, and into the rest of their connected life together.