Roomies Before Arms – Part 6

Everyone in this story is 18+

We were cleaning. Not out of necessity, exactly—our dorm wasn’t that bad—but Sebastian had gotten it into his head that the sock drawer needed “a system” and I wasn’t about to argue.

“You know,” I said, folding a shirt with the lazy precision only years of boarding school beat into you, “I’m not against neatness.”

Sebastian looked up from colour-coordinating his ties. “Really.”

“Truly. I’ve been lining up my shampoo bottles since I was twelve. But you’re on another level, mate.”

He smirked. “It’s comforting.”

“Ironing socks is not comforting. It’s a cry for help.”

He stuck out his tongue, which was new. He’d gotten bolder, cheekier. Ours was an easy rhythm now—like we’d always shared this room, this space, this weirdly charged… whatever this was.

He was sorting shoe polish tins when he said, quietly, “I’ve been to nine boarding schools.”

I glanced up.

“Switzerland, France, Singapore, the States, Canada…” He shrugged. “Scotland. St Paul’s. Here. Wherever my mum or dad—or whatever husband or fiancé my mum had that year—thought would ‘straighten me out.’”

“That’s a lot of uniforms,” I said.

He gave a soft laugh. “And no time to get attached to anything. Or anyone.”

There was a beat of silence.

“You like it here?” I asked.

He nodded slowly. “More than I expected.”

I watched him for a moment, the way his fingers moved precisely over a stack of folded jumpers. “Well,” I said, rising and brushing my palms together, “we’ve earned a break. I’m off to pinch more cleaning spray. If you start ironing my cumrag while I’m gone, we’re having words.”

He rolled his eyes, but smiled.

I left. Halfway down the corridor, I realized something: I wanted to ask him out. A real date. Dinner in Windsor town, maybe. Something normal, for once. I’d never really done that. Not seriously. Not like this.

When I came back, I heard voices.

“…But Mum, I’m starting to enjoy it somewhat. I don’t want to go back to the States now.”

“That's lovely, son. And you’ll always cherish the memories, I’m sure. But this is important. Your father’s divorce settlement was airtight—I can barely scrape by. Since you turned 18, I’m completely dependent on staying in his good graces.”

“You could just sell the manor house. Or the cottage. Or the Bentley…”

“Do you want your Mummy to live in dilapidated squalor? A council house in Sutton, perhaps? Put up my family heritage on auction? Jesus… Sell Renfield manor? Why not dig up my ancestors and toss them on eBay while you’re at it?” Is that what you want?”

“No… Mum, I didn’t mean—”

“Do you know how much I pay just for electricity and upkeep on the manor? I get nothing from those useless ex-husbands. Just a few divorce meagre settlements. And I keep it all going for you. For your legacy. But fine, I’ll throw it all away. Just say the word.”

“No, of course not. I’ll go to Dad. Don’t worry.”

“That’s my good little lad. You were always the gem of my eye, you know that? Anyway, I’m off to Harrods—they’ve a Dior sale on. That’s how much I sacrifice for you. Dior on sale. Like a beggar. Your tuition costs a fortune, you know.”

“Dad pays for that, though.”

“Yes, but I paid for Singapore. Or was it Ottawa? Doesn’t matter. I do everything for you, sweetheart.”

I shifted and accidentally let out a small cough. She heard.

Sebastian looked toward the door. “Oh. Asher.”

Clara turned to me with a practiced smile.

He nodded. “Mum, this is my roommate. Asher Milford.”

She offered her hand with a faintly theatrical tilt. “The Countess of Renfield. Clara Renfield.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Yes, what she said.”

Clara studied me for a moment, then brightened. “Milford. I knew a Milford once at boarding school. The Viscount of Hastings. He went by the most ridiculous nickname… let me see… ‘Squiggy,’ it was!”

I grinned. “That would be my Pa…”

“Nice chap. We went out a few times, but then I met another nice chap and… well, you know.” Clara said, looking nostalgic but quickly seemed to go back to her tragic demure.

Clara looked as us both. “Nice to meet you, Asher. Be a brave lad and say hello to your father from me, would you?”

She kissed Sebastian on the cheek, adjusted her cashmere scarf, and left with the rustle of someone who has never once packed her own suitcase.

When the door shut, silence settled.

“So,” I said gently. “You’re going, then.”

Sebastian looked away. “Yes. Looks like it.”

I nodded. “That’s how it goes, I guess.” Then I added, “Can’t believe Pa shagged your mum at boarding school.”

Sebastian groaned into his hands. “Oh, dear God… But knowing her—she definitely did.”

We both laughed. But only one of us really meant it.

◆◆◆

The dorm felt colder without him. Not in temperature—Eton’s radiators were unrelenting—but in… air. The static had gone.

Sebastian’s bed was stripped bare. No ironed socks. No precisely folded jumpers. No irritatingly aligned shampoo bottles. Just absence.

I dropped onto my mattress, exhaling into the quiet. On my desk, someone had left a small stack of mail—crisp envelopes with calligraphic flourishes and the usual school notices.

And one brochure.

It wasn’t fancy. Glossy, sure. But a bit dog-eared, like it had been passed around or shoved in someone’s bag. The cover showed some leafy campus in Vermont or Connecticut or... somewhere vaguely American. The kind of college where you play ultimate frisbee and debate Sartre under an oak tree.

I flipped it open. Liberal arts. Progressive academics. Interdisciplinary nonsense. Student-led goat co-op. God.

Oxford it was not.

But I kept reading.

My family would have a coronary. Viscount Milford, heir to centuries of starch and Latin, gallivanting off to some second-tier American college. Not even Ivy League. Not even properly scandalous. Just… weird.

They’d freak.

I stared at the photo of the student centre. There were hammocks. And people with nose rings. A girl was painting a protest sign next to someone reading in a tree.

My lips twitched.

“Maybe,” I said to the silence, “that’s not such a bad idea…”