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In the shared dormitory of two Oxford undergraduates, everything seemed normal. Charles Wykeham, or colloquially known as Charley, and Jack Chesney were the typical English college men. They attended classes where they studied profusely, and occasionally slacked off. They paraded around Oxford, the college town, spending the allowances bestowed from Charley's millionairess aunt from Brazil, and Jack's father. They had tea together and indulged in perhaps too many crumpets, which pestered Moira to no end. And of course- as all young men do- they fell in love.
Charley fell deeply for Amy Spettigue, the niece of Stephen Spettigue. Charley fancied the young woman, and was constantly trying to invent ways to bask in her company with anyone who could serve as a guardian. Charley wanted to invite her to tea, walk her around the Oxford campus, dance with her at school formals, and entertain himself with her dainty demeanor. Flirt, flirt, flirt, was all he wanted to do. "Typical college men," as Moira would exclaim.
Jack, on the other hand, wound into a rather despairing situation. Jack could not find himself gazing at young English women around campus. He found no pleasure feeling a delicate gloved hand encased by his own. He had no desire for the romantic attention of a lady. Jack found himself wanting the warm, hearty feeling given to him by his roommate. Jack wanted someone like his best friend, someone who could make him laugh and someone to wreak havoc around campus with him.
Jack wanted Charley.
Jack was in love in Charley, with no chance of rescinding the cravings of his wayward heart.
Charley was just too perfect, at least according to Jack. Charley was rambunctious yet studious, full of life and youth, and somehow conceiving the strangest notions. While he had not the build of a military man like Jack's father, Charley had good definition from recreational rugby. Charley's hair was lighter than Jack's, and most certainly had more volume. However, Charley appreciated a proper facade, and would comb it flat. Most individuals who met Charley could describe a certain star in his eyes, perhaps a leftover essence of childhood, that even a poor grade could not tamper.
Those were just the basics about Charley; after living with Charley for so long, Jack knew the deepest parts of his soul.
Almost everyday Jack observed how Charley acted in the shared living space of their dormitory. Charley tended to lick his finger before turning a page of a textbook, even when it's deemed frivolous by an outsider. He liked to gaze out of the window at sunset, searching for the shadow of birds as they catch the fading rays of the sun. He was fond of Rugby, and kept a ball on a shelf beside his bed. While Jack tried not to disturb Charley in the privacy of his room, he did occasionally catch him rubbing the leather of the ellipsoid before an exam.
Sometimes, when Charley was at class, Jack approaches the ball and runs the pads of his fingers over the leather gently. Perhaps it was just a ball for sports, or a lucky charm, but Jack swore to himself that he could resonate with Charley's soul every time he stroked the cherished item. He liked to imagine Charley's grip on the ball, but instead of the ball, his own hand. Would he clutch his hand with firmness, pressing their palms together? Or would he interlock their fingers in a cherishing grip Jack would rather die than escape?
When out in town, the two of them would visit the local pub for a drink. While Jack was not fond of the fiery taste of alcohol, he was very fond of Charley. He was enamored by the way the carefree man's voice rang out with a handsome cadence as he asked for two glasses of "the best whiskey you have!" When the glasses are slid to the men from the bartender, Charley would take his drink in stride. Usually, he'd raise his glass, tipping ever so slightly towards Jack, the ice clinking against the side, before chugging it down. The look Charley gave him had Jack's heart hammering in his chest.
The amusement, the fondness, the anticipation, all a glimmer in his tawny eyes as they met Jack's own misty grey. Jack couldn't care less about his whiskey, no matter how expensive. He hankered to drink up Charley's loving gaze in the warm, dim light of the pub. If only those eyes would look at the him and him alone, and return the hidden affections Jack felt.
After a long day, the college men would curl up on the couch of their shared living room and chat mindlessly about inane events. Jack could listen to Charley blabber for hours about the flotsam and jetsam he found, his homework, his professors, anything and everything. Goodness, the way Charley had a specific lilt in his voice when he was building up to cheeky joke had Jack hanging on to every thread. The playful man would sigh and undo his tie in the privacy of their home before complaining about the weather. It only made Jack want to will the sun to shine every single day in England just so he could see the lively rays illuminate Charley's complexion.
Although, life wasn't all fun and games, and the young men would commiserate with one another. While uncommon, it was not uncomfortable for one to be pressed firm against the other, like a hand in a glove, or a sheet over its mattress. Only in the privacy of their dormitory could they dissolve the stony exterior built by the hardships of life. They were always there for each other. Jack patching up and pampering Charley after a bad injury from sports, Charley soothing a knot in Jack's muscles with those fine hands, Jack serving as a doll for Charley to coddle after one too many drinks, Charley bracing Jack after the death of his mother...
The death of Mrs. Chesney was an incredibly difficult time in Jack's life. Her death was sudden, abrupt, unable to have been predicted. While he was at school, his mother had breathed her last and had swiftly left the realm of the living. Jack underwent a period of suffering and despair, in which the world turned grey and mind turned against him.
The first week after her death, he couldn't bear to leave his room. Choosing to stare at the ceiling with the fact that his mother was now his late-mother replaying over and over every waking minute.
Yet, everyday, at tea time, a cup of earl grey and a couple crumpets were left outside of his door. It was an island of normalcy in a time of tumultuous revolution. The tea- no... Charley was a constant for him. Still going to class, still playing Rugby, still knocking on his door, still leaving tea, even if it went untouched...
When the mourning man finally did leave his room, Charley was right there waiting for him. The Wykeham gentlemen had held him on the couch as he wept. He was sure he had ruined one of Charley's nice jackets with his tears and snot, yet the playful man only complained about it... what, once? He had believed that the tears would never stop, but they did, after a long while; what didn't stop was Charley being there. An eternal presence, watching over Jack like the moon. Or perhaps an angel sent by his mother. If only angels could drink as much as Charley could...
Sitting on the couch and conversing with Charley brought a sardonic truth to him. He was deeply in love with Charley. It wasn't a playful childhood crush, or infatuation for a peer. No, he wanted to lick the whiskey off of Charley's lips. He wanted to leave open mouth kisses on the stubble on his jaw, down his neck, and onto the crest of his collarbone. He ought to unbutton the shirt covering the tone chest he had only seen a handful of times, when Charley haphazardly changed when he would oversleep. He yearned to run his hands across that body with the tenderness of a water skipper gliding across the water, yet with the edge and limerence of an exotic tiger sinking its acute fangs.
He wanted Charley to be his roommate all of his life. He wanted Charley in his bed and forever having tea with him. He wanted- no needed- Charley's hand in whatever marriage equivalent two men could have.
They were together in sickness and in health, in wealth and in debt, in the good and the bad... yet, there was one issue.
Charley loved Amy Spettigue.
And he really loved her. He loved her in the way that Jack knew he loved Charley. If Charley could write without being such a dunderhead, he would have written her enough love letters to cross the Atlantic Ocean. If he were a gardener, he would plant for her enough roses to cover the entire colony of India. If he had the money, he would buy her a palace covered in the finest jewels and pearls and gold pathways where they would get married and live out the rest of their days-
Jack would do the very same for Charley. Yet it was excruciatingly obvious his desires were not only unreciprocated, but unappreciated and illegal.
Jack knew he was in the wrong. He knew he was a sinner, and that having such dubious thoughts only reflected the selfish demons within.
Just a few years earlier, the Labouchere Amendment had passed, which criminalized gross acts of indecency between males, even in private. Not only was he pining after someone who would surely abandon him for his misplaced lust, but he could very well be imprisoned for two years. He knew he would be under scrutiny if he dared utter a word about his attraction: he would be expelled from Oxford college, his friends would turn against him, employers would scoff in his face, and he would never be able to find a lover, as Charley would simply cast him away like ash from a cigar.
Worst of all, it would crush his father. His father had been dealt a faulty hand as of late. First, he had served in India as a lieutenant, where he became a colonel. While he might never speak of the hardship he witnessed, Jack could tell something still weighed heavy on his father's conscience. Second, after the death of Mrs. Chesney, Sir Francis Chesney was exceptionally lonely. He grieved his late-wife for awhile, his face perpetually turned down in a frown whenever he was alone. Third, his father had inherited all of the family debts after the death of relative Sir Murgatroyd Chesney. Managing all the debts as well as the family title alone stressed him out to no end.
Sir Francis Chesney had lost so much in his life, Jack could not allow him to lose his son. Jack himself would not lose his father.
He had already lost his mother, losing his father would scatter his fighting spirit and leave him a shambling husk.
The distraught homosexual tried everything to cure himself of his affiliation. He attended church, kneeled at an alter and whispered his vile desires to the Heavenly Father, sacred Mary, the lamb Jesus- and when he was still with foul intent, he started praying even harder. A whisper to the clouds above, a silent prayer before his meals, a plead for sanctuary as he lie in his bed... a plead for forgiveness as sinful images of the lighter haired man danced in his head.
He tried to get himself to fancy a lady, he really did. He went to his peer's hotspots for spotting beautiful girls. They were beautiful, that much was true, but Jack couldn't stir any desire and couldn't shake his wont. They weren't Charles Wykeham. They couldn't embrace him the way his roommate and best friend could. Those women couldn't hold a flicker to Wykeham's roaring bonfire.
Jack knew he was awful, knew he was sinful, knew he was out of line and wrong in every way shape and form. Charley was the perfect Adam, but Jack wasn't the picturesque Eve. He was the serpent that would drag Charley into eternal hellfire with his scalding passion.
One night, when the two sought each other late in the evening for a mindless debrief, Charley made a confession. The words that left his lips floated in the air and wound around the other. Their wants did not align. The object of want for the Wykeham shattered the dreams of the Chesney. As if staring down at the barrel of a Webley Revolver, Jack had no choice but to hold his tongue. Charley was lit ablaze with prospect, while Jack was doused in the frigid sludge of distress.
"I am in love with one of the sweetest girls in the world! I'd say- I think I am going to propose to Amy soon. What do you think about it, Jack?" Charley proposed- well, not proposed, but presented to Jack. The change in reality was terrifying for him. Charley would live happily with Amy. They'd settle down together in a house, perhaps move to London, and have kids. Meanwhile, Jack would be fumbling for any remnant of the man he loved.
In the moment, he had simply laughed and bantered with Charley: "That girl deserves a nice wedding. Where would you get the money? The millionairess aunt whom you've never met?" He wanted to lie to himself, tell himself that Charley was too immature for such a commitment so early in his youth. Yet, it was his best friend. Deep down he knew Charley had already signed away his soul, leaving the unknown voyeur with nothing.
He couldn't handle it. The sorrow was simply too big for his heart. The desolation consumed his body, his mind, his soul, and overflowed into the spaces he inhabited. His criminal heart wept for the man he wanted, yet could not have. Like Icarus flying over the sea, he wanted to touch the sun, to feel Charley's warmth, even if it meant getting burnt. Or, true to the tale, plunging to his death.
His emotional constipation lead him to the pub without Charles, for once in his life. He sat on the stool alone, nursing whatever he was able to order. It wasn't the fine alcohol Charley enjoyed, but it was the strongest drink he'd ever had in his life. Even if it was diluted with tears.
He knew he made for a sorry sight, but devil-liquor combined with depression left him too dissociated to care. The drinks burned on the way down, yet they kept coming. His pockets got lighter, but like a man possessed he could not stop until that god awful name dissolved from his tongue.
Charles Wykeham. Charley Wykeham. Charley. Wykeham. Charley, Charley, Charley, goodness- what he wouldn't give up for just a taste of Charley.
In his state of intoxication, he nearly believed Charley was sitting in the stool next to him. He had a mischievous glint in his eyes as he raised his glass to Jake. Maybe he'd push over his glass for a sip of his drink. "You'll like this one, just try it!" The liquor ghost cheered to him, the essence of his beloved wrapped around his decayed mind.
He'd raise the glass to his lips and take a swig. He knew he wouldn't like it, but it was mystifying to realize that Charley's lips had rested on the rim of the glass. It was an indirect kiss, the closest he could get to an actual kiss from his fellow student. The phantom conjured by his brain must be laughing at his misery, because he could damn near feel Charley rub his back out of pity. Jack sat up, wanting to silence that bastard and his hearty laughing by pressing his lips against his and-
Charley wasn't there. He came to the pub to get over him, and he had somehow done the opposite.
In his next moment of wakefulness, he was stumbling down the street, back towards his dormitory, with a sturdy figure bolstering his staggering one. His head tilted back at an odd angle, trying to get a look at what he assumed to be Charley. This man didn't have the same soft hair, calloused hands, or sparkling eyes. He looked much more polished, proper, and a tad annoyed. The way his mouth tugged down in a frown, the concern in his gaze... it was his buddy, Lord Fancourt Babberly.
Babbs had picked him up from the pub and had helped him stumble his way home.
He didn't remember much, being blackout drunk, but from what he heard from Babbs, he determined that he had spilled everything. A drunk man was like a tea kettle tipped upside down, or a cracked dam. His dirty secrets spilled and spilled and spilled, because he blabbed and blabbed and blabbed, much to Babb's chagrin.
He didn't remember exactly what he said, or what he did. Jack had actually puked on the road, but Babberly left that part out come the next morning.
He awoke to Babbs sitting on his bed and scolding him for his capricious bout of drunkness. He got chastised for so carelessly admitting to something so illegal, feeling attracted to another male.
Babbs didn't understand him. Why couldn't he just fall in love with a girl? Hell, he should go with Babbs back to Monte Carlo, where he had fallen in love with a girl he didn't even manage to catch the name of. Of course Babbs didn't get it. He wasn't a homosexual freak, lusting after his roommate.
Even while hungover and receiving the scolding of a lifetime, Jack was never able to forget Babb's advice.
"Don't. Tell. Charley."
Every word hung in the air like a dangerous omen, a threat of what might happen if he disobeyed. The words were birds in the sky, shot down without warning, and left with blood seeping into the dirt. The truth stung so violently, but in his dejection, he appreciated Babberly's care. His warning also served as an unspoken promise: Babbs would not dare tell a soul.
Jack's love was a death sentence, and the only solution was to disengage from his yearning, and redirect his future into something more acceptable.
Kitty Verdun became his distraction. She was a lovely girl with a gentle soul. Her laughter was birds chirping in the morning, her skin an unblemished porcelain, her demeanor a tender spring morning. Kitty was perfect. She wasn't perfect for her class or her exceptional posture... As shameful as it was to admit, she was convenient. Kitty Verdun was the ward of Stephen Spettigue, who was also the uncle of Amy Spettigue.
If Charley married Amy as he was wont to, then Jack would marry Kitty. At least that way, they two could almost be considered brothers in law. He wouldn't have to isolate himself from the handsome presence of the Wykeham. They would be able to see each other at family reunions, and Oxford homecoming, and the occasional casual drink.
Sure, he'd never wake up to Charley in the same bed. He'd never watch the sunset with him. He'd never observe that strong body practice with a Rugby ball out in their front lawn. He'd never be able to kiss that charming face, nor whisper sweet-nothings into his ears, nor embody what it means to love someone more than oneself.
It was heartbreaking. Loving Charley was killing Jack inside, chipping away at his peace of mind. Yet, if his death were to be caused by the fatal illness of passion, then let his funeral be the best his country had ever seen!
His heart would not move on. He would marry Kitty Verdun and become the most miserable man alive. He wished for Charley, and he wished to survive, but the two could not coincide, so he chose to survive. He abandoned the infatuation that had shaken his core, and ignored his longing that was too strong to adopt one single name.
In the shared dormitory of two Oxford undergraduates, everything seemed normal. Charles Wykeham, or colloquially known as Charley, and Jack Chesney were the typical English college men. Except Charles Wykeham will live his life to the fullest with the girl he loved, while Jack Chesney will die lonely and forever yearning.