Reading philosophy at university was not what Michael would have expected when he was younger, nor was it a subject his father would have understood, being mostly a military man. But it seemed the most interesting topic and given that he had more than the means, he knew employment prospects were irrelevant. He also knew that once he received the undergraduate degree, he would be done.
Attending lectures and meeting with his tutor, writing papers and, most of all, reading...all the reading. He spent many hours in the library, or in his rooms trying to make sense of the Latin and his Greek was tested beyond what he ever imagined, despite the insistence of the tutors he had at home.
He spent time with others only for meals, and sometimes he would be forced by others to seek out a watering hole in town, but he felt alien to them. Growing up the only child on a remote estate, surrounded by adults, he felt like another species among his fellow students.
Over the weeks, he became familiar with a few fellows and began to feel less an outsider. But the very masculine energy and pursuits he found intimidating, especially Marcus Naismith, who was taciturn, gruff and grim.
Marcus was in the rooms next to his, and occasionally heard him moving around. Somewhere in a corner of Michael's mind he also understood that he reminded him of Thomas, which was confusing as they were nothing alike otherwise that the burnished blonde hair on their heads.
He was struggling his way through some Plato one Friday afternoon in the library, when Stuart came and slapped him on the shoulder. “Michael, you wretch! Come, leave off and join us for a search for gin.”
His red hair was unforgettable and he wondered if his family name reflected the truth about his feet: Broadfoot. He sighed. “Must I?”
“Yes, you must.” He grabbed the book he was reading. “Plato can wait. He's been waiting for centuries...he'll wait a little longer.”
Stuart's eyes were bright and his face kind. He found it hard to resist. “Fine. Give me a moment.”
“Grand! We'll be downstairs when you're ready.”
There were five of them. He couldn't yet remember all their names except Stuart and Marcus. They sat in a pub not far from the campus. It was an ancient, low-ceilinged place with a smoky fireplace and beer and bitter that tasted as old as the place itself.
Stuart, he learned, was the conversational leader. He led them along many illogical paths: from the War, to woman's suffrage, to the price of whiskey, itchy socks: it was all dizzying. Michael tried to be a part of it, but always felt slightly behind as if he had to translate every sentence before speaking: the language of young people was one that he had never learned.
Only Marcus was as quiet as he. At one point Michael turned to him and said, “What do you think of the university?”
Marcus looked at him a moment from eyes that were like cool water. He took a sip of beer. “It's a university, nothing more, nothing less.”
Michael had no idea how to respond to this and Marcus turned away. He felt an elbow in his ribs. “Don't pay him any mind, he's always glum.”
Stuart laughed as he said this and reached around to pat Marcus on the back a moment, who looked at him as if he had said something uncouth.
But Michael became aware that night, and at other times, that Marcus also seemed to look at him when no one seemed to be noticing. Brief, surreptitious glances over his beer glass, but when he would try to catch his eye, he would turn away as if nothing had happened.
One afternoon, a few weeks later, he knocked on Marcus' door one morning, having run out of ink. Marcus looked distinctly annoyed, wearing a white shirt, untucked and his hair mussed.
“What?”
“I, uh, wondered if you had any ink...I seem to have run out.”
Marcus looked at him, his face still. He turned and grabbed a pot from his desk and extended it to him without a word.
“I'll replace it when I go to the shops.”
“Fine.” And closed the door.
To the closed door he said, “Thank you?”
He though what an ass Marcus was. Rude.
He received a letter from John McTavish the next day. A report, really. Everything seemed in order, the house and grounds taken care of, the tenants content, the crops being harvested as they should. He asked for permission to purchase a new carriage or something similar as the one that was used the most was aging. McTavish seemed a confident and competent person, his writing clear and to the point. He ended the letter with, “We hope to see you at the holidays.”
He thought it was an odd way to sign off. Of course he would be there at the holidays. He wrote a reply with permission to purchase whatever he felt was needed.
He put the letter down and lay in his bed, wrapped in a quilt he had brought from home. The walls, he had realized, were somewhat thin in the residence and he could hear Marcus moving in his rooms, hear him lie on his bed. There was silence, then he heard a sound that he quickly recognized.
A rhythmic sound of cloth on skin, a sound he had made himself many times. He thought of Thomas and his lips...he reached down and grasped himself, already hard and listened to the movements next door. It was exciting and confusing as he had not imagined Marcus in this way before. What did his cock look like? He pulled his sheet back and looked at his own: hard and beginning to shine at the end. He took his finger and wiped it across the head, bringing it to his lips. He longed for Thomas and could remember his mouth taking him in, warm and wet. He heard a moan from the the other side of the wall and a picture of Marcus straddling him flashed in his mind; he was splitting him open as he looked down with his stern face and he came with a sudden rush, pouring semen all over his belly.
He was almost appalled that he had imagined being taken by Marcus. He shook his head. The sparks were still flying in his mind as he looked down at himself, watching a stream from his cock dribble onto his belly. The sounds from the next room had stopped and he wondered, suddenly, if Marcus had heard him. Perhaps they had been listening to each other. He was strangely excited by the idea. He ran his finger through the juice on himself and brought it to his mouth, thinking it was from Thomas, that the saltiness, the slightly sour tang was from that lovely, loving boy who was gone.
Over the next few weeks no one had much time for revelry or alcohol-fuelled conversations. Papers needed to be written, lectures attended, tutors to be satisfied. Several times he wondered what the point was. Yes, he was improving his ability to make sense of Greek and understand Plato, but to what end? But he had no choice. His mother had made it all too clear.
Closer to the end of term, he and the little group - who were now his friends – Stuart, Marcus, George, Sam and himself – went to the usual pub and celebrated nothing in particular. Stuart was waxing eloquent about a girl he had met at a lecture who he had not seen before. She was a vision, he said, a treasure. Michael couldn't imagine feeling this way, even if, he had to admit, he might have said such things about Thomas.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Marcus looking at Stuart, a sour expression on his face. He couldn't help but laugh and said, “Marcus, you're not a romantic?”
“Romantic?” He cheeks were suddenly mottled with colour. “What rot!”
The force with which he said this startled everyone at the table and there was silence for a moment.
“Don't pay Marcus any mind. He's a wee gremlin just emerged from under a bridge.”
Stuart often channeled Robert Burns at times like this, which infuriated the true Scots among them who considered him a British phony. Marcus said nothing and drank from his glass.
As they walked back to their rooms, there was silence. Soon Michael realized that the others had gone far ahead of them along the dark streets and he and Marcus were alone. They were both a little drunk and he found it hard to stay steady on his feet. He was aware that Marcus glanced at him, but when he turned to look he always seemed to be looking somewhere else. It was infuriating.
“You don't like me very much, do you.”
Marcus gaped at him, shock on his face. As if in answer, he pushed Michael against the wall of a shop and, taking his face in both hands, covered his mouth with his, mashing his lips into him, forcing his tongue into his mouth. Then he pulled back, turned, and kept walking. Michael, frozen, just watched him go. He shook his head, his body tingling, and caught up. They exchanged no words until they reached the dark hallway where there rooms were.
Marcus opened his door and Michael watched him go in and slam it behind him. He stood for a moment, not having any idea what to do. He took a deep breath then knocked and before hearing an answer, slowly opened the door to Marcus' room and stepped in, closing it quietly behind him.
Marcus was laying on his bed, his hands folded on his chest, staring at the ceiling. He didn't acknowledge that he had come into the room. Michael moved closer to the bed and looked down at Marcus' long, lean form. Marcus turned his eyes to him, no expression on his face. Michael knelt down beside the bed and put his hand on Marcus' stomach, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breath.
Marcus rose suddenly, pushing Michael's hand away. He sat, just staring at him, leaning backward on his hands, as if trying to work something out. Almost angrily, he began to unbutton his shirt, revealing a chest that was lightly textured with fine, blonde hair. He pulled out his arms from the sleeves then threw the shirt across the room.
He fumbled for the buttons of his trousers then slid them down his long legs along with his drawers until he sat, naked, his clothing around his ankles, still staring at Michael.
“Marcus...”
Before he could finish the sentence, Marcus gripped his arms and pulled him to the bed, almost throwing him down to his back, pinning his arms above his head. He kicked off his pants and straddled him, naked, his gaze never wavering. Michael could not miss his cock, which was rigid and almost angry looking, his balls resting on Michael's stomach. His cock was pulsing with his heartbeat.
Without thinking, Michael began to unbutton his own shirt from the top, slowly releasing each button until he reached the place where Marcus' balls sat. He took them lightly in his hand for a moment and said, “You're going to have to move so I can get my clothes off.”
Marcus grunted and moved back. He finished with the buttons and pulled his arms out of the sleeves. Marcus was now on his knees watching him, his cock still hard, looking wet at the end. Michael pulled off his trousers feeling almost frantic, and tossed them to the floor. He reached for Marcus' hands and pulled him down to the bed so he was on top of him, the hardness of him meeting his own, his mouth taking his tongue in, his arms wrapping around Marcus' lean torso, sliding down to feel the smooth muscles of his ass.
Their mouths moved voraciously on each other, Marcus all the while gyrating his hips into him, his cock sliding across his groin and along his own cock. He felt the other man's balls dragging along his cock, then sliding back. He felt almost dizzy with surprise and lust that this could be happening at all, and with the last person he expected.
Marcus leaned back suddenly and without a word slid forward and thrust his cock in Michael's mouth, who was eagerly to take it in. He was thrusting into Michael's mouth, almost choking him until he suddenly pulled out, a long stream of shiny liquid following the wetness of his cock.
“Turn over.” This was all Marcus said. So he did.
He felt vulnerable lying there, his ass visible. Marcus slid his hand along Michael's cleft, then heard him spit and he felt wetness at his hole, then fingers smearing him into stickiness. Without any preamble, Marcus slid his cock up the crack of his buttocks and then began pressing into him, his body now lying over his. He could feel short, almost annoyed breath in his ear.
Michael grunted as the cock began to slide in, his resistance gone, and he was lost in the feeling he hadn't had for so long. But this felt different. More intense, not loving, not playful. This felt like they were animals as Marcus began to thrust forward, jamming his cock deeper and deeper. He felt him raise himself onto his forearms, as if for traction, since he seemed to push harder and deeper, then even harder, pushing him forward against the head of the bed. Michael wondered briefly if David next door could hear them, or if David would care. But the thought was lost as Marcus began to gasp in his ear.
“You're a dirty boy, you fucker, you're a filthy boy...”
Michael almost laughed but he realized there was something so innocent about the voice, as if coming from a little boy and he felt a wave of affection for him even as, with a series of gasps, he felt Marcus climax, his body shuddering as he continued to plough a furrow through his body. Suddenly, Marcus collapsed on top of him, his chest heaving.
For a moment, the room was quiet, but then Marcus pulled himself out of Michael, and leaned against the wall beside the bed. Michael struggled to get up and then sat beside him, his cock still completely hard and slick. Marcus looked down at it and reached over, grasping it in his fist.
Michael moaned as Marcus started to slide his hand from top to bottom, faster and faster. With a gasp, he threw his head back, hitting the wall just as Marcus leaned down to let a few streaks of semen onto his tongue, the rest pouring out onto his moving fist. Again, without a word, Marcus brought the mess on his hand to Michael's mouth, almost forcing him to lick it off. Michael shut his eyes, tasting himself.
“You need to go. No one can know about this.”
The words were low and insistent. Opening his eyes, he realized Marcus was standing, buttoning his shirt, looking at him with that same empty intensity. He slid off the bed and found his own pants, then his shirt. They dressed in silence. He wanted to kiss Marcus, but knew this was not part of the arrangement, if arrangement this was.
Back in his room, he couldn't help but compare what had just happened to the times he spent with Thomas. Grief washed over him and he found he felt almost guilty, that somehow he had betrayed Thomas by allowing this strange, angry man to take him as he just had. His ass felt sore and wet but at the same time he felt sated. At least the base need had been addressed, but he craved something more, something tender, comforting from someone. It was unlikely to be from Marcus.
But it became clear that Marcus had hidden depths. A few days later, in the library, Marcus came by the table where sat surrounded by Greek texts, and tosses a piece of paper at him, and continued walking. It said, “In the empty tutor's room across the hall in five minutes.”
A part of him wanted to refuse, to just let Marcus wait, but the rest of him wanted that intensity again. He packed up his books and left the library. He would have missed the little room if Marcus hadn't told him it was there. It obviously hadn't been used in a long time, filled with old furniture as it was. Marcus was standing against the wall by a small window when he stepped in a closed the door.
His face was softer this time. “Hello Michael.”
He realized he wasn't sure how to respond. “So you talking to me.”
“Yes, well...come here.”
He moved closer to him and Marcus extended a hand. He took it and Marcus drew him into a warm hug. He felt confusion. Was this the same person? What did this mean?
Marcus began to draw his hands up and down Michael's back, then he knelt down in front of him. “Can I...?”
“If you want.”
He felt Marcus' hands open his pants and pull his rigid cock into the air, then into his mouth. He seemed to be suckling on it, as if trying to draw sustenance from him. Michael ran his hands through Marcus' light hair, listening to his mouth working. The suddenness, the surprise of it meant that he would not last long. “I'm close...”
Marcus just moaned into his cock and the vibrations of his voice set him off and he came with sharp gasp, feeling his cock empty into Marcus' mouth, who swallowed hungrily. Then he stood up and their mouths met again. He could feel Marcus' cock pressing through the fabric of his pants. He slid his hand down and held him, looking into his face.
Marcus shook his head. “Midnight. Here. It's too risky in my rooms.” With that he kissed Michael again, softly, with some feeling, looking into his eyes. Then he turned and left the little room. Michael felt dazed, as if he had just been visited by a doppelganger: The two versions of Marcus seemed like different people.
He left the little room, checking the hallway to see if he was noticed, then went back to the library, but found it difficult to concentrate on Greek philosophy. All he wanted to think about was which version of Marcus he would meet later that night.
But the version of Marcus he met at midnight was the same: tender and warm. He was sitting in an old chair when Marcus quietly opened the door. The room had been dark, the little window showing nothing but the night, but Michael had found a candle in the refectory earlier and brought if with him. Marcus came over and looked down at him in the chair.
“Take your trousers off.”
He was nonetheless in charge, even if his voice was gentle. He complied and tossed them on the arm of the chair. He was already throbbing, his cock standing up. Marcus quickly shed his own pants, then knelt down and sucked him in, wetting his entire cock, pumping it firmly as his swallowed him down. He then got up and straddled Michael in the chair, bending so his feet were on either side of him, his lowering down onto him.
He saw Marcus inhale sharply as his cock began to sink in. He moved his hips back forth to help him ease the progress until he was all the way down on Michael's cock, his face now at a level with Michael's, the throbbing hardness of Marcus between them.
“How does this work?”
Marcus laughed. “Just like this.” And he began to lift his hips up slowly, pulling himself along Michael's length then pressing down. Their mouths gradually moved closer to one another, their lips finally meeting in an awkward kiss. Marcus was gasping into his mouth and was beginning to move faster. Michael imagined he was in pain – not from him being inside him, but from the tortured angle of his back. Finally Michael said,
“Let's move.”
He pushed Marcus back and he felt him slide out. “Sit in the chair and I'll take you from above.” Marcus grinned and sat down where he was, raising his legs up and exposing the damp place where Michael had just been. He hooked his arms underneath Marcus' legs and pushed him back at the same as driving himself forward, impaling Marcus with his slippery pole, who gasped and shut his eyes.
In the back of his mind he wanted to pay Marcus back for the way he pummelled him the last time, so he brought the weight of his body to bear with each thrust that began to shift the chair backward. He could hear the wet sound of himself moving in Market in the otherwise quiet room, and the slap of their flesh meeting, the quiet moans from Marcus' throat. He stared down at him, watching his face change as his cock measured his insides, his secret, darkest places.
Now that he felt more free to move, his body began to shimmer with energy radiating from somewhere behind his balls and the little pinprick of light began to radiate hotter and hotter until it ignited and he squeezed his eyes shut as his body, with each desperate thrust, seemed to empty itself in Marcus, who looked at him hungrily.
He finally stopped moving and he opened his eyes. Seeing Marcus just looking at him, he leaned down and licked the sweat from his brown, from his temples, then their mouths met in a slow, gentle kiss that seemed to last hours. Michael then leaned back and smiled at him, saying,
“Which Marcus is the real Marcus?”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Come now. You were a beast the other day, now you're sweetness. So which one?”
Marcus squirmed underneath him. “I don't know. I was in an odd frame of mind the other day. I wasn't expecting...this. You.”
“Nor was I, but here we are.”
“Yes. Here we are.” He pulled Michael to him and bit his lower lip before planting a series of soft kisses on his face. Finally he lay his head back down against the chair. “I should warn you. I can be moody.”
Michael laughed suddenly. “Yes, I'm getting that impression.” He stopped, thinking for a moment. “Do you feel it's wrong what we're doing?”
The other boy thought a moment. “Not personally, but I do know the rest of the world does. The law, for instance.” His tone was almost angry.
“So we need to be careful. I agree.”
He could see that Marcus was becoming uncomfortable, and not just because he was on top of him in an armchair. He pulled himself up and out of Marcus where he had been nestled the whole time. He could see Marcus shiver as his cock slid out of him.
He stood and stretched his arms wide, untangling his muscles as he watched Marcus find his pants. They were silent as they dressed, as if preparing to return to the real world which was, Michael realized, exactly what they were doing. They left the room separately in case anyone saw them even at this late hour.
They met several more times over the succeeding few weeks before the term ended. For Michael, exciting as it was, it also sustained the confusion he had at the beginning. Sometimes Marcus was gentle and intense, other times he was rough, almost brutal, fucking him mercilessly. But the last night before the term ended, they spent in the same little room, fucking each other in turn between naps and swigs from a bottle of wine Marcus brought. It felt celebratory but celebrating what? Michael couldn't say.
They parted a few days later, Michael back to his house in the country, Marcus to Inverness where his family lived in “the quaint middle class” as he called it. Marcus tried to make sport of Michael's privileged life, but when he explained the actual circumstances of his inheritance and the fact that he was alone in the world, he became quiet, contrite.
They kissed in Michael's rooms before Marcus left for the train and the long journey north, then Michael packed slowly what he needed and, as per the arrangement, was to meet John outside. He felt a small pang at Marcus' departure, already feeling his absence. He shook his head, as if to dispel cobwebs, feeling foolish. He went downstairs.
Michael stood, amazed, when John emerged from a black motorcar.
“What on earth?”
“I know. You said I could purchase a new carriage, but we are behind the times. I took the liberty...”
At first Michael was angry, then began to be excited by the prospect and relaxed, accepting that this was indeed a new age. The war, he realized, had changed everything, including transport.
John drove them home, excitedly explaining the advantages of the motor, its speed, its convenience.
“Until we need petrol, I suppose?”
“Oh, I purchased some for the estate so we needn't worry.”
“You will give me the bills for all this, I assume?”
John looked chastened a moment, but then saw the glint in Michael's eyes, and laughed. But said more soberly, “I'm glad you have such trust in me, sir.”
“Oh don't bother with the sir! Just call me Michael or if you're annoyed, call me McLaren! I hate being a 'sir'.”
John swallowed and said, “I'll do my best...Michael.”
Michael realized he felt a little thrill of pleasure hearing his name from this man. He wasn't the dour, emotionless person he thought. He had depths and he realized, with a rush, that he wanted to plumb them.
They chatted about the estate, plans for the holidays, news of the few household staff. Micheal was quiet a moment, then said, as the car crested a hill and they looked down upon the estate, the big house in the distance, “You will stay for Christmas, I trust? I mean...I hope you do, unless your family is...”
“I will be here. I have no family left to speak of and those that remain I do not care for, so I will be glad to share Christmas with you.” He was silent for a moment as the car turned in the long drive, then he said, “I suppose we are both of us orphans.”
Again, Michael was struck by the way he expressed things. There was something so forthright about him, but also suggestive of something, but of what he could not say. They pulled up to the coach house – now for automobiles as well. Michael stepped out of the motor and breathed in the quiet air of the place.
He turned to John, who was looking at him. “It's good to be home.”
John smiled broadly and they made their way in.
