Chapter Text
By the time Alec Trevelyan starts the sixth form, he’s a veteran of boarding school life. Captain of the football team, member of the Combined Cadet Force, Chemistry Club and Language Society – not because he’s a nerd, but because each membership gives him different perks. He’s confident, responsible and high up in the social hierarchy.
As a rule, nobody wants to be Alec’s roommate. Because of the three T: he is known to be tedious, terrifying and troublesome.
It is quite a surprise when two weeks into the first term, the schoolmaster appears at his door with a disgruntled kid in tow, and informs in no uncertain terms that the kid is to be his new roommate.
By habit, Alec filters through the man’s redundant prattling, picking out the essentials. Those are:
Kid’s name is Dominique, he is just turned fifteen this summer, and the school is ‘honoured’ to have welcomed a pupil with such potential, yada yada, and they saddle Alec with him because the kid is allergic to half of the world, and please, please would Mr Trevelyan try to keep him alive?
Alec suppresses a sigh and gestures to the unclaimed half of the room in lieu of agreement.
The housemaster all but vanishes.
The kid begins unpacking in silence. He sets up his desk with precision that Alec begrudgingly admires and fills one of the desk drawers with an unholy quantity of prescription drugs.
“Any good stuff?” Alec tries lazily.
The kid’s hands are still, and he turns to look at Alec. His glasses are too big for his face.
“If you suffer insomnia, maybe,” he replies without a shade of smile, in a voice that still holds a high-pitched boyish lilt.
“You don’t look fifteen,” Alec observes, dubious.
“You don’t look sixteen.”
“Sure. That’s because I’m seventeen.”
Dominique accepts it with an apathetic nod and returns to unpacking.
Alec allows him time and space to deal with it, only distracting again when the kid begins on a messenger bag full of… things . Wires. Electrical components Alec has no name for. A slick, flat rectangle Alec recognises as one of those portable computers.
A fancy thing to have for a fifteen-year-old. Not exactly allowed in the dorms either.
“You know that’s contraband, right?”
“Worry not. Permission for its usage has been coordinated with the school board.”
Worry not? Who the hell talks like that?
Alec decides the boy will be crushed by the school hierarchy before the week is out. He can save his breath laying down rules. The problem will solve itself.
The allergies, though. He’d rather not have the kid kick the bucket on his watch.
When asked, Dominique silently produces a manila folder. Inside it: a four-page comprehensive guide on his allergies - main allergens (wheat, peanut, pollen), possible symptoms, dos and don’ts and a manual for the usage of epinephrine injections.
Alec likes the thoroughness and reads it cover to cover.
“So… no contraband snacks in the room?”
“They are not a problem if you ensure none of them enters my system. Accidentally or otherwise.”
Alec nods. He can work with this.
***
The very next day, Gruesome Gary - a rugby brute with the manners of a hyena - gives Dominique grief in the lunch queue when the kid takes too long to retrieve his food.
“Hurry up, Specs. Some of us need feeding before the day’s end.”
Alec watches, in equal parts intrigued and resigned. The kid is fifteen. Alec cannot simply sit and watch him being bullied by this excuse of a person.
Alec tenses, ready to intervene, but Dominique doesn’t flinch. He gives Gary a slow once-over, opens his mouth, and...
“Apologies. You don’t look all that hungry to me.”
A ripple of laughter spreads through the room. Gary’s ears go red.
Dominique plucks up his tray with a polite much obliged and proceeds to the tables, shoulders straight and head up, ignoring the weight of attention on him.
Alec waves him to his table.
“You’re more than you look, mm?”
“Appearances,” Dominique says, slicing through his rather bland-looking lunch, “are almost always a waste of time.”
***
Alec watches Dominique dismantle the school hierarchy with nothing but cutting remarks and elegant bribery. After a month, it is obvious the kid is not going anywhere. It is also evident that Alec doesn’t need to lecture him on most of the rules. Dominique is the neatest roommate Alec’s ever had. He won’t be stealing his snacks because the cookies and crisps would literally kill him.
The only real problem: the typing. Furious typing well into the night.
“The lights-out is for everyone. Your constant clacking is driving me mad,” Alec mutters into the pillow when he has had enough.
Dominique looks contrite. Yet, he doesn’t simply yield. He negotiates the terms.
“I’m working on a project you could benefit from,” he says. “My nightly work is rather essential. Can we agree on some nights for me to continue and some for me to sleep?”
“That’s a vague promise.”
“Why would I lie to you if it would only cause me trouble?”
Fair. The kid is so cuttingly direct that Alec is unsure he is capable of lying at all.
“How long do you need?”
“No more than a month.”
“Fine.”
***
It’s a rare Saturday when Dominique stays at school, depriving Alec of much-needed solitude.
Alec is sprawled on his bed, shirtless and fresh from a morning run – Walkman playing through the headphones. He’s half-reading “Anna Karenina” in the original. So far, underwhelming.
The sound that doesn’t belong to the dorm distracts him, and he glances up from the page – Dominique is hunched over the phone socket, surrounded by a strange nest of wires.
“What the hell are you doing?” Alec asks, peeling one headphone out.
“Installing infrastructure,” Dominique mutters as he picks up the nest and carefully moves to his desk.
Alec puts the book away and props himself up on one elbow.
The nest appears to be the chain of cables and adapters that runs from the wall to Dominique’s computer. There could be only one reason for this.
Alec swings his legs off the bed. “You’re not…”
“I’ve pirated the library’s dial-up,” the kid interrupts. “We now have unlimited access, if we are smart enough not to attract suspicion.”
Alec is drawn over despite himself. He leans on Dominique’s desk and hunches over the boy to look at the screen.
“How did you?..”
“You wouldn’t follow,” Dominique brushes off. Alec, used to his antics by now, is not insulted.
“Try me.”
Dominique indulges him. Alec follows through the basics of the dial-up’s work, delivered in neat, unhurried sentences, but then Dominique digs deeper – and in thirty seconds, the vocabulary slides off Alec’s brain like water off a duck.
“Fine. Got it. Magic,” Alec concedes with a pat on his roommate’s shoulder, and the kid finally turns to grin at him.
“Any new music you want? You always listen to the same things.”
Alec frowns at the kid.
“You’ve been sacrificing your sleep for that, Trevelyan,” Dominique huffs, as close to amusement as Alec has seen him.
Right. Alec almost forgot about the deal.
“Try The White Stripes?”
“Stop looming.”
Alec drags his chair over. They lean together and watch the progress bar creep forward, fascination, excitement and pride mixing up in the room.
When the music - new, forbidden and free – fills their stuffy, rule-bound dorm, Alec barely holds back an amazed gasp. “You are,” he huffs a laugh under his breath, “Dominique-the-wizard.”
The kid huffs and nudges Alec with his bony elbow. “You can call me Q, you know.”
“Q?”
“Less of a mouthful. Also, you stink.”
“It’s Saturday ,” Alec says like he’s making a point here.
To his surprise, Q relents. “Indeed it is,” he agrees dryly.
***
The connection is a miracle. They use it for academic purposes, of course - but more often they are huddled together at Q’s desk in pursuit of illicit content: slow drip of music rips from Napster, highly specific chemistry forums detailing the production of explosives, blurry JPEGs of things they aren’t supposed to have or see, and video clips of the same nature that make Q blush dark scarlet. The room is chilly, and Q, who’s always cold, leans into Alec’s side. Alec snickers at him without malice and tugs him closer.
***
Alec’s used to an empty dorm during winter break. He has a nominal guardian, but factually, he’s a warden of the state with nowhere else to go.
Q is absent during most of the weekends, so Alec is surprised when he doesn’t pack.
“They’ve gone skiing,” Q explains when asked. “I’m relieved from this particular conscription. Snow gives me rashes.”
Allergic to snow. That checks out.
Alec doesn’t mind the company; Q brings the internet and, better yet, care packages of safe-to-eat dried meats. Having entered the freak final stage of his growth spurt, Q eats it around the clock. And insists on sharing with Alec.
“I can’t feed you back,” Alec tries to argue at first.
“You are the one systematically sneaking a fruit from the kitchen for me,” Q counters. “You feed me plenty.”
Q sticks a piece of spiced meat under his nose. It smells too good. Alec is compelled to accept.
The inevitable happens on a midnight kitchen raid. Either the food labelled as safe wasn’t it, or they weren’t as careful as they thought. It ends with Dominique cocooned under the duvet, pale enough to match the sheets after he spent an hour locked in the bathroom.
“Which one was it?” Alec asks sympathetically, sitting by the bed.
“Wheat. Peanuts choke me; wheat just makes me vomit.”
Alec pats the kid’s hair. He’s clammy. “Need anything?”
“A fully functional immune system would be nice,” Q croaks with dry humour.
“Right,” Alec chuckles and fetches a glass of water anyway.
For the next 24 hours, he plays the nurse – fetches the tea, chases down the clean bedding, forces Q to eat some plain food when he’d rather not eat at all, wakes him if he sleeps too long. Dominique is not asking for any of this, but he’s small and miserable, and leaving him to fend for himself feels wrong.
Even Q assures it’s not the worst episode he’d have to endure unassisted. Or especially because of it.
After one day and one night, Q is back to normal colour and his usual bite. The next morning, while getting ready for a run, Alec reaches for his Walkman to find a burnt CD waiting atop it. In the terribly scribbled list of songs, all the good stuff: RHCP, Slipknot and Muse, but also some Sigur Rós, which Alec knows nothing about. In the end, there’s addition.
Good taste is rare. Don’t ruin it.
***
Combined Cadet Force runs through the holidays, following the assumption that idleness is the devil's workshop. Alec comes back from evening drill to find Q on his bed, wrapped in the blankets with the laptop balanced on his knees while his desk is buried under technical drawings, vivisected circuit boards and three half-empty mugs of tea.
“Working from bed now?” Alec asks as he pulls off his boots and leaves them outside the door.
“Testing the battery life. Also, it’s bloody freezing here.”
Alec gives a vague hum of agreement. He strips down to the dry layer of thermals and drags his chair to Q’s bedside. Even with the radiator behind him, it’s barely enough to chase the sting of cold out.
“What are you doing?”
“Sorting my mother’s emails,” Q replies. “I’ve made the mistake of encouraging her digital literacy and now suffer from her forwarding me chain letters without moderation.”
Alec snorts. “That’s the most normal thing I’ve heard you say.”
Q makes a face but doesn’t reply.
Alec puts his feet on the edge of Q’s bed. Then shimmies his cold extremities under the snuggle of blankets. His roommate doesn’t protest, instead shuffling the blankets to cover Alec up to the knees.
“Do you ever go home for Christmas?” Q asks suddenly.
Alec, who began warming up and nodding off, is caught off guard. “Home…” he repeats to himself, “is complicated.”
“How so?”
Q closes his laptop and directs the entirety of his attention to Alec. It’s unnerving.
“I don’t have one. Not burdened by choice,” Alec explains lightly, almost like a joke.
Q doesn’t laugh.
“For what it’s worth,” he begins slowly, as if hesitant, “you’re better company than most of my family.”
That’s an odd sort of compliment, but Alec feels marginally lighter for it.
“Thanks, I guess?” He smiles and reaches to loop an arm around Q’s shoulders.
“You smell,” Q laments, but doesn’t push him away.
“It’s manly.”
“It’s disgusting, that’s what it is.”
Still, Q remains plastered to his side.
***
By the time spring comes around and daffodils cheer up the view from the dorm room’s window, Alec has stopped thinking of Q as “the new kid” or, indeed, Dominique. Q is just… Q. Cutting-edge smart, precise, impossible to shake.
One evening, Alec comes back from Chemistry Club to Q standing beside his desk and looking at a cream envelope in his hand with an unreadable expression.
His nose is red and his eyes, Alec knows, are redder. It’s the pollen season, apparently.
“Hey,” Alec reveals his presence.
Q doesn’t startle. He’s slow due to his allergy medications.
“This,” Q says, holding the envelope out, “is for you.”
Alec steps closer and takes it, wary but so damn curious.
It is, indeed, addressed to him.
The paper inside is expensive, cool and silky against the tips of Alec’s fingers. The handwriting is looping and neat. It is a letter from Q’s mother, who is thanking him for “looking after dear Dominique”, and inviting him to spend the summer at their cottage in Switzerland as a gesture of gratitude.
As Alec glances up, he notices Q’s expression has soured.
“Gratitude, huh?”
“You’ll see that it’s anything but.”
“Do you want me to go?”
“Wouldn’t be terrible,” Q allows.
“Alright then.”
***
When they’re dropped off at the airport and just… left alone, Alec almost panics. He’s flown before - school trips and such - but never unassisted. Mercifully, Q grabs his wrist before he can embarrass himself, and Alec allows himself to be dragged… somewhere. Turns out, Q has it well under control. He knows where to go and what to say, and Alec pretends to be nothing but an accessory.
On the plane, Q goes pale.
“Airsick?” Alec asks.
“Just don’t like flying,” Q replies tightly. “Distract me?”
Alec is happy to. He chooses to rant about just how much he disliked “Anna Karenina”, playing the silliest bits role-by-role. It works.
After the plane, there’s a train.
As their train begins climbing up, Alec falls silent. It’s absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful. He can see snow at the distant peaks, the glaciers reflecting the sun, and waterfalls tumble into his view so often that he loses count. For one terrible moment, Alec is afraid that he’s going to cry, plain overwhelmed by this emotion he’s never experienced before.
It’s Q's turn to be alarmed.
“Alec? Are you well? I don’t think we’re high enough for altitude sickness to hit.”
“Yeah… Yes. It’s just… pretty, I guess.”
“Ah,” Q says and looks out the window. “I suspect the first impression can be striking,” he amends in the way that’s so very him that this dangerous swell in Alec’s chest eases into a laugh.
Eventually, they get off the train. At the exit from the train station, a man greets them with a beaming smile. At first, Alec thinks it’s Q’s father, but he’s quickly corrected when the man clasps hands on Q’s shoulders and exclaims:
“Young Master! Look at you!”
“Good to see you, Andrew,” Q smiles, and it’s the warmest expression Alec’s ever seen from him.
“You must be Mr Trevelyan.”
“Alec, if you don’t mind,” Alec offers his hand, and the man’s smile gets impossibly bigger as he shakes it.
They drive another thirty minutes, Alec continues to gawk around while Q and Andrew gossip. The man doesn’t call Q “Master” anymore, just Dominique, and that’s a relief.
“Alec? Still fine?” Q turns from the front seat to check.
“The air is strange,” Alec says. He is a little lightheaded but not in a bad way. “You are not sniffing anymore,” he notes. Q hasn’t stopped sneezing, sniffling, and wheezing since late March.
“The air is thinner. You’ll get used to it by tomorrow. It’s too high for my allergies, too,” Q smiles. “We're almost there. Father is out and about, but mother will meet us, so buckle up.”
***
The cottage - though Alec would call it a mansion - perches on a hillside above a glacial lake, the water so blue it hurts Alec’s eyes. Pine forest climbs the slope behind. The roof is gabled, and the shutters are bright green and yellow.
“It’s like a postcard,” Alec tells Q. He doesn’t mean to sound so accusing, and yet. “This is ridiculous.”
“Don’t be fooled by looks. The floor is creaky, the plumbing is ancient, and the nearest shop is down in the village.”
Just as Q grouses, the slight woman sweeps down the porch steps and crushes him in a hug.
It’s Q’s mother – the resemblance between them is uncanny enough to make Alec blink.
“My Mika!” she exclaims. “When have you gotten taller than me?” she asks, teary-eyed.
“Mum, you promised not to cry,” Q mumbles. He sounds a bit annoyed, but mostly fond, gripping his mother back.
“I said I’d do my best. I promised no such things.”
Alec’s chuckle is quiet, but it turns her attention to him.
“Ah, excuse me. You must be Mr Trevelyan.”
“Alec,” he amends, squeezing her narrow hand with a polite bow.
She smiles brightly at him. “Martha. Or Mrs Harcourt, because otherwise this boy will scowl at me for being improper.”
“Sounds like Dominique,” Alec agrees, and it earns him a beaming smile from one side and the jab under the ribs from the other.
She deposits them with Mrs Bunting, the cook, who feeds them a four-course “late lunch” before allowing them to unpack. The food is absurdly good. The guest room’s windows look out to the lake.
Dinner is a little dull, but Alec can handle dull. Out of habit, he scans the table for hazards as he sits. To his surprise, the action is immediately spotted by Q’s mother.
“Worry not, Mr Trevelyan. Dominique inherited his allergies from me.”
And his good looks, Alec almost quips, but stops himself. It’s hardly appropriate.
As expected, he’s asked simple questions that aren’t so simple for him.
He sticks with his official story. His father KIA and his mother had gotten poorly and died when he was eight. His father’s friend had taken guardianship. He’s on active duty, often out of the country, so Alec is at school most of the time. It always lands.
Across the table, Q - who’s never asked about any of this - looks at him strangely. But he never mentions it again. Not after dinner, not the next day, or week, or month.
***
They fall into a rhythm with minimal struggle. Alec keeps to his morning runs, explores the trails along the lake and up the mountains, and practises his French – either with Martha, who’s fluent, or with the locals. Q sleeps late, vanishes into the attic, plays chess with his father, tinkers with Andrew in the garage, bickers and laughs with his mother.
Together they swim daily. Alec discovers Q is a damn good swimmer. Afterwards, they lie in the grass while the sun dries their skin, reading in companionable silence. Sometimes, Alec wanders up to the attic to distract Q until he’s shooed out.
Once, Alec is invited to observe the chess game and finds it incredibly boring. Mrs Harcourt's timely arrival quite possibly saves him from the embarrassment of falling asleep.
“Next time, be rude and refuse,” she advises with a smirk, shepherding him out of the room and onto the porch for coffee. They end up talking music. Apparently, Q has mentioned Alec’s taste in an email.
Alec mutters about the bands, the modern ones and older, skirting over stuff like The Black Sabbath. Seems a bit inappropriate in polite company.
“Do they allow such music at school?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Such stupidity. One would think things change in ten years, and yet.”
Alec frowns, not entirely following.
“Ah. Mika’s brothers finished school about ten years ago.”
“Brothers.”
That’s how Alec discovers Q had brothers, thirteen and ten years older.
“They are, ah. Not on a first-name basis, most of the time,” Martha jokes, but there’s sadness in it.
Alec doesn’t pry.
***
Fed around the clock, Q gains a little substance. Sun turns his skin golden, and the absence of pollen and idiocy softens his temper. He laughs more, splashes Alec in the lake, steals a bottle of wine from the cellar.
“You won’t be able to make Molotov out of that,” Alec jokes and Q gives him a finger.
Alec grins and observes him through half-lidded eyes, all soft skin and bones in sharp relief in the dusk of evening sun.
“My birthday’s tomorrow,” Q offers.
“Wait, what?”
“Uh-huh.”
It passes quietly – an allergy-safe cake, a parental promise of a trip to a computer shop, a present from Alec – a hastily wrapped copy of Fermat's Last Theorem by Simon Singh (acquired only thanks to Andrew, who took Alec to the city with a proper bookstore while Q was still sleeping). Q’s smile for that one is unguarded and should probably be illegal.
Later, they swim. Water, as always, is so cold it steals Alec’s breath away, and they race to the floating dock, Q way ahead and Alec chasing. They collapse side-by-side, dripping wet and panting.
When Alec glances over, he catches Q watching, eyes bright, a smile tucked away at the corners of his mouth.
Alec raises his brows, but Q remains silent. Water laps at the wood. Voices from the shore are no more than vague static. They linger, just allowing the other to observe uninterrupted until Q’s eyes drift closed. Alec watches a few moments more, then follows him down.
***
The attic is Q’s domain: sloped ceiling, smell of pine and dust, the constant whirr that comes from Q’s Frankenstein setup: two monitors, tower case with its side panel off, guts spilling onto the floorboards, wires everywhere, fairy lights snake over the beams in lieu of proper lighting. Under the dormers, a haphazard pile of cushions and quilts, rearranged according to demand and mood.
It’s hot up here in the afternoons, the air heavy with the smell of pine resin. They’re both still damp, dripping the lake water from their hair and swim trunks.
Mindful, Alec flops on the floor instead of the soft pile of cushions.
Q dives straight for the guts of his machine, and Alec sighs, reaching for the magazine he discarded here the last time.
“Do you ever not work on something?” Alec wonders lazily.
Q just shushes him. Alec shrugs and powers through the article about giant vegetables.
At one point, Q dashes out from the attic and returns five minutes later with a familiar bottle and a stack of CDs. He hands Alec the latter, masterfully applies a corkscrew to the former, and takes a swig like it’s not wine but bloody Fanta.
Alec gets distracted from the PC games he was bestowed.
“What?” Q asks.
“Is it juice?”
“Yup. Grape juice,” Q grins and passes the bottle over. “Kidding. Cider.”
It’s chilled, fizzy and sweet with a bitter aftertaste. Very good, like everything in his house, and very much alcoholic.
“So you just… nick a bottle, put it into the fridge, and nick it from the fridge again the next day?”
“Pretty much, yeah,” Q says, booting one of the disks.
“Amazing,” Alec mutters and takes another drink.
They play Heroes of Might and Magic – in alliance, technically, but Alec spends his turns giggling at the creatures’ names and making up the rhymes on the fly, and Q groans about how very useless of a warrior Alec is.
“I’m a minstrel at heart,” Alec sighs dramatically. He rolls over and flops on his back, stretching until something in his spine pops.
“You are a muppet,” Q huffs.
“And yet you invited me here,” Alec opens one eye and squints at Q.
“My mother did. I just didn’t veto it.”
“Oh?” Alec pushes himself up on his elbows. “Any regrets?”
Q stares him down. The attempt at a scathing glare, the poor one at that. Too much amusement – and something more careful underneath.
“One,” Q informs shortly.
They’re closer than Alec realised, lying almost parallel and face to face. The buffer of propriety has evaporated somewhere between turns eight and fifteen. That’s the new arrangement. As new as the fact that Q is almost of the same height as Alec by now. Or Q’s voice that’s been getting all smoke and velvet lately while barely dropping the pitch.
“Which one is that?”
Q leans in. For one terrifying moment, Alec almost shoves him away just because the intense seriousness of Q’s expression makes Alec's hindbrain flinch. But he forces himself to stillness, pulse loud in his ears.
“Is that an answer?” he asks.
“It is.”
Alec closes the distance.
It’s a tentative touch of lips, like testing lake water with your fingers.. Q makes a small sound that Alec feels more than hears, and it deepens – a little clumsy, a lot curious, like all first kisses are.
Q pulls back, a faint blush dusting his cheekbones. “You realise this complicates things?” His voice is dry as ever, never mind the wide-eyed look.
The gall of him, really.
“ You kissed me,” Alec is compelled to point out.
“You let me,” Q counters, fascination and puzzlement warring in tone and expression.
While Alec grapples for a suitable reply, Q shifts and crawls atop Alec’s lap without ceremony. And, well, that certainly complicated things.
Q shifts, settling, and Alec had to bite down a sound threatening to escape. By the look of him, smug smirk and twinkling eyes, Alec can tell it’s not an accident - the brat knows exactly what he’s doing. For someone so guarded and inexperienced, he’s remarkably unselfconscious – maybe the cider has something to do with it.
“Comfortable?” Alec asks, aiming for nonchalance.
Q doesn’t grace him with the reply. Instead, he leans in again – the second kiss is more deliberate, like Q gauging the way in which they would match the best way.
He certainly finds one when he scrapes teeth over Alec’s upper lip – accidentally or otherwise.
“Learning curve,” Q murmurs when they break to breathe.
“Nerd,” Alec huffs a fond laugh.
Q shifts his hips again – and this time, Alec had to catch him, fix him in place by his waist. “Dangerous territory, Harcourt,” Alec warns.
With any other guy, he’d just let it happen. He can’t tell what makes Q special.
Q just laughs – one of those sharp, involuntary bursts – and makes Alec swallow it down, dipping in again. Alec grins, and it makes the kiss turn messy. Q doesn’t mind, pressing into Alec with his whole body, a little too eager. Their teeth clunk together, and Alec huffs a laugh and catches Q’s chin, easing him back.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “Part your lips a little.”
Q scowls but obeys, and Alec pulls him back in and shows how to do it French. The lesson takes, judging by the ungodly sound Q makes and his grip in Alec’s hair.
They both are too warm, the summer heat and eager bodies plastered too close together. Q’s hand strays down between them – no hesitation, no reserve whatsoever. Alec is left speechless by the audacity, but doesn’t stop it, allowing curious fingers to touch.
The floorboard creaks under Alec. Somewhere below, the door; muffled voices. They both go still.
“Cushions,” Q orders in an urgent whisper. “Now.”
They tumble into the nest. Q giggles as Alec flips them over and presses him into the quilts and cushions. He looks half-crazed. Nothing like composed, buttoned-up Dominique Alec knows.
“Trevelyan,” Q whines and tugs at the only item of clothes Alec has on.
“Bossy,” Alec mutters against his lips as he bares them just enough to be skin-to-skin.
“Efficient,” Q hisses back, squirming under him.
“I’ll show you efficient,” Alec threatens a promise.
With Alec leading, it tips from fumbling to at least half-certain. They move together, chasing the pleasure, and Alec is struck by how much it feels like the lake – the first shock, followed by the all-consuming thrill of freedom, chased by the unwavering knowledge he’s going to want to stay there for quite awhile.
Q clasps a hand over his own mouth, trapping the sounds; Alec presses his lips to the back of Q’s hand, muffling himself too.
It’s an easy pleasure when it finally comes.
For Q, it’s anything but – by the end, he had both legs round Alec’s waist and rocks into him with mindless desperation. Alec catches his rhythm and aids the grind, helping him over. Q shudders hard, burying his face in Alec’s neck.
Alec pats his hair, resting the other hand on Q’s ribs, feeling each breath as it slowly evens out, from heaving gasps to settled lungfuls.
Eventually, Q makes a small noise of pure suffering.
“Disgusting,” he grumbles into Alec’s neck. And stays exactly where he is.
Alec grins helplessly, looking at the lazy progression of clouds in the dormer window.
***
The rest of the summer becomes a hungry, curious game ending in fireworks.
Alec tries to be sensible, in vain – Q creeps into his bedroom when the house falls asleep, invites himself into his bed and under the sheets. Alec wakes with a curious mouth in the places it shouldn’t be allowed.
Back at school, they keep the room and the routine. Dominique is just as controlled and methodical, studying long hours as Alec does the same, steady and social. They keep this novel private aspect of their companionship practical – the thing to amuse them at weekends when the dorms are empty; the odd Wednesday after Alec scrubs himself clean after the CCF drills in the evening.
No big words. Inside the school, it’s usual – many do that, some less discreet than others. Outside, it’s anything but. They let it be what it is. Neither attempts to discuss it in more words than necessary for informed consent.
Summer after their final year, there’s no drama beyond what’s appropriate for two unlikely friends. Alec is bound for Sandhurst. Q chooses between Cambridge and Oxford.
They catch one last summer month together - the lake, the Alps, two of them in the present - and fly back to London together. They say goodbyes at a railway station, a long look, a sad smile, a promise to write.
Alec’s heart aches, of course it is, but it’s normal. It’s expected. It’s the weight of the time they spent sharing… too much of everything for it to be wise, and Alec is nothing but grateful for it even as it snags at his heart and makes it hard to breathe.
They keep in touch for about a year. Long emails, the occasional call. The gaps widen. Life happens and pulls them apart, and the momentum is ruthless.
Alec writes his last email in April.
It goes unanswered.
And that’s it.