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Coming back to college after the rotten vac had been a breath of fresh air, as though he could finally smell gentle aroma wafting from the garden after what seemed like a lifetime spent in the cloistered corridors of his old school. It was as if he had forgotten and then relearned the esoteric art of breathing in the interval between his going home and coming back days before classes began. Presently, Maurice found himself navigating the well-worn, familiar corners of his college to reinhabit his old room.
The turmoil stirred up by the vac; the loss of the personage he had almost held in his palms under the careless, thoughtless direction of his dear Clive; the apprehension of having to face anew the niche he carved for himself with his younger self; the anticipatory excitement at finally being able to see Clive after having starved himself of his sight, his subtly mossy scent combined with the sharper tang of ink and sweat on the hotter days, the way Clive went ever so slightly breathless when he spoke of his beloved classics, the heavy puffs of breath that would hit the side of Maurice's knee when he ran his fingers through Clive's hair, the heaviness of Clive's head and his own heart during such afternoons, blooming with affection and then gently receding as the the pasticheur of life — the day stood as the sole witness to their sordid halcyonian sublimity: all of it swirled together as carps in an overcrowded pond to settle uneasily somewhere in his gut.
He barely laid down his bags when a knock sounded at his door. At this time, it could be none other than Clive. It was Clive who used to arrive a few days before classes, before the other students were wont to arrive. Why he did so, Maurice never did manage to understand but it was a habit he adopted for himself so as to have more time to spend with Clive without the pesteringly vigilant company of his other friends. Fond as he were of them, he did long for the solitude he could not but find in the exquisite pockets of liminality he carved out with Clive.
Presently, his dear friend invited himself in with a rictus grin and mussed hair, coat most likely abandoned with his luggage, Clive stood before him in the beige waistcoat and white shirt that Maurice loved on him. There was something about his eyes, something that wasn't quite right.
There was something about Clive that wasn't right — his hair ever so slightly greasy and uncombed in the manner that he would never in his right mind let stand, the tightness around his lips like a music score stretched too far in a pianoforte while playing Tchaikovsky.
Maurice suddenly felt as if he were looking at his friend, only years older now. He felt small, childish in front of him — unable to speak, unable to tell what's wrong, and equally unable to fix it — just as he had stood over Ada's broken dolls once as a boy, bewildered and unsure how to make her stop crying, how to fix the dolls, how to fix himself and the fact that George left, and how to reach Clive even when he was in the room with him.
"Hullo! Rotten vac?" Maurice tried. Please, please talk to me, tell me how I can help, tell me something.
Clive simply hummed noncommittally and continued examining the magnifying glass on the table. Oh Good Lord in Heaven!
"What about some tea?" Maurice tried again, already standing up to brew a pot.
Perhaps tea would get him to start talking and open up. He did not like that expression on Clive's face. A hum, again. What could possibly be ever so remotely interesting about that damned magnifying glass? No, he is a grown man and the last thing he ought to be is jealous of is a magnifying glass.
The kettle whistled but Clive did not move from where he seemed to have made his stand examining the wretched, surely cursed object. So, Maurice went to take the kettle off, set the cups and the teapot down, pour the tea — no milk and three spoons of sugar in Clive's, and a dash of milk with a spoonful of sugar in his own. He wondered if he'll have to call for Clive or if he will come and sit down on his own accord.
He saw Clive finally put down the magnifying glass and face him where he sat at the table with the tea. Should he have gotten some biscuits as well? Does he seem alright? His hair was blown a bit off from a wind but he hadn't thought to correct it— perhaps Clive will not notice.
Clive kept looking at him, though, standing there mutely. He looks beautiful in the golden light of the afternoon, melancholy, heroic, as though he had just stepped out from one of the Sophocles' tragedies he was so fond of and which Maurice had to study for his translation class. There he stood: beautiful as Ganymede would have been had the professors not been fond of omitting him from each work that the class studied.
He heard Clive exhale quietly and slowly walk towards him. Just as he turned towards the seat which Clive would have taken, he realized Clive was walking in an entirely different direction— he was walking towards Maurice. Clive was walking towards Maurice. Clive was walking towards Maurice.
He stopped on the other side of Maurice's chair, the side near the window, away from the table. His tea will grow cold this way, left unattended and neglected. There was a dull thump as Clive dropped to his knees and sat on the floor, just near Maurice's legs. He cannot breathe. This is not a moment that can exist in time. This is not a moment that could ever exist on earth. This cannot be a moment at all — it must be some illusion, some dream, some apparition sent from Hell or Heaven. Is he damned? Is he being saved?
He heard Clive shakily exhale again and gently rest his head against Maurice's knees. The room glittered with the sunlight hitting grains of dust, and gently caressing Clive's hair and compelling him to close his eyes, tense his already tight face until minute wrinkles formed.
Maurice's hand trembled minutely as he rested his it on top on Clive's head, gentle at first and then with a little pressure: something to ground his dear one and his own self. Distantly, he heard the church bell tolling, marking the fourth hour of the afternoon, punctuated by the loud and fast beating of his own heart. Louder still he could hear Clive's gentle puff of breath against his trouser leg and the quiet, trembling sigh he exhaled. He saw the way the wrinkles on his face smoothed out, the way his shoulders and spine lost their stiffness, and felt Clive slump against him
He ran his hand through Clive's hair slowly — he was right: the hair was greasy and unkempt, perhaps from the humidity, perhaps from a lack of care. Clive must've been busy, then. Maurice raked his hand through, gently untangling the knots, pulling teasingly at the roots and then soothing them with a gentle massage.
He picked up his cup of tea and sipped from it. The tea was no longer hot after having been set out for so long. He drank it anyway, and then brought the cup to Clive's lips to sip from. It's not the way Clive takes his tea, but Maurice could not bring himself to interrupt the fragility of the moment to fetch the other cup from across the table. He tilted the cup slightly to make it easier for Clive to drink, which his dear friend obediently did.
He feels drunk and wonders distantly whether he accidentally poured whiskey in the tea instead of milk in his absentmindedness.
He had feared for a moment that Clive might protest to the taste as well as the milk. In all honesty, Clive takes his tea too sweet— Maurice fears he might one day rot his teeth because of it. No such complaint comes, though.
He drank some more, and Maurice took the cup away to let him catch a breath— the poor, dear man looked rather winded. He caressed Clive's ear, the nape of his neck, the rough texture of his sideburn — also untended — and felt a host of a shiver go though Clive when Maurice played with the shell of his ear. It had become a bit of a game, seeing what made Clive shiver, what made him sigh, what made him twitch, what made him exhale, what made his breathing even out, and what made his breathing pick up.
The room was now bathed in the slight pinkish light of the setting sun as though in reverence to the light flush on Clive's cheeks.
He looks heavenly, as if an angel come down on to earth. For a second, Maurice can barely believe he has him as a dear friend.
He can consume this beloved friend of his whole, nestle him — nestle this evening — safe in the place between in ribs, somewhere behind his sternum where the metronome of his heart keeps beating audaciously. He should be able to carve it out of his chest, he should be able to offer it to Clive with biscuits and tea — wretched thing it is though that he cannot do so. Cursed be the One who made him this defective, who caged his heart from his dear one.
He brings the cup back to his mouth, teases the nape of Clive's neck, drinks, strokes the fine smattering of hair there, swallows, brings the tea back to Clive's mouth, tilts it, untangles a knot near the end of his head that Maurice missed out on when he was untangling his hair the first time, makes sure Clive finishes the rest of the tea, takes the tea cup away, combs his fingers though the hair, sets the cup on the table, and watches the sun go down on them. Clive looks better now, his breathing evened out and face softer in the delicate evening light.
Maurice feels better, too, more settled and calmer. He does not know what is wrong, he does not know how to fix it, but he does know this: he could spend an eternity with Clive, with his dear friend, like this and it would still be too short of a time for him to ever be sated.