Roomies Before Arms – Part 3

Everyone in this story is 18+

By Thursday, the novelty of a new term had worn off, and the usual social dynamics had slithered back into place like they’d never left. Gabriel Kingsley, in particular, was in full form—loafers polished within an inch of their life, chin permanently tilted ten degrees too high.

I was walking back from Latin when I caught the end of one of his monologues—unfortunately, it involved Sebastian.

“…money doesn’t buy bloodlines, Tucker-Renfield,” Gabriel drawled, leaning against the lockers like he thought they were there for dramatic effect. “No matter how many pairs of cufflinks your father throws at the old boys' club.”

Sebastian stood there, stiff-backed, trying not to let it show. His tie was slightly off-kilter, which Gabriel probably found more offensive than his very existence.

“You know,” Gabriel added with a smirk, “it’s sort of cute, though. Like a mutt trying to play pedigree.”

I stepped between them before I’d even made the conscious decision. “Still going on about bloodlines, Kingsley? Planning to breed yourself this term or just bark a lot?”

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “You always did enjoy rescuing strays, Milford.”

“And you always did enjoy hearing yourself talk,” I said. “Though I can’t imagine why.”

The look he gave me could’ve curdled cream, but he backed off, which was his tell—he never stayed in a fight he wasn’t certain he’d win.

When I turned, Sebastian was already gone.

◆◆◆

I found him nearly an hour later, curled up on the bench beside the old upright piano in the music room. He didn’t notice me at first, or maybe he did and didn’t want to. His head was resting on his arm, one knee drawn up. A half-unpacked satchel sat beside him like it had been dropped mid-thought.

“Didn’t peg you for a musician,” I said lightly, easing the door shut behind me.

He looked up, blinking like he’d forgotten how light worked. “I’m not.”

“Well, you’re certainly brooding in the right setting,” I said, crossing the room. “Bit dramatic, really. Shall I fetch you a violin?”

Sebastian didn’t laugh, but his mouth twitched—barely.

I sat down beside him, not too close. “Ignore Gabriel. He spends half his time fantasizing about being royalty and the other half sniffing his own reflection.”

“He’s not wrong,” Sebastian murmured. “About the mutt thing.”

I tilted my head. “You think being a hybrid is a flaw?”

“I think,” he said slowly, “that it’s very clear I don’t belong.”

“Belonging’s a myth,” I said. “I’ve been here since I could hold a fountain pen and I still feel like an alien most days. Everyone’s pretending. You’re just better at showing it.”

He looked at me then, really looked, and something in his posture eased—not much, but enough to feel.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he said. “Act like none of it touches you.”

“Practice,” I said. “And a complete disinterest in the opinions of anyone who owns more than one tweed waistcoat.”

That got a proper laugh, soft and surprised.

I bumped his shoulder. “Next time someone calls you a mutt, just ask them who their great-great-grandparents were. If they know all the names, they’re either lying or inbred.”

He smiled, barely, and I let the silence stretch. It wasn’t uncomfortable.

Eventually, he said, “Thanks.”

I shrugged. “I was bored. Needed a break from the riveting world of Cicero.”

But the truth was, I wasn’t bored. I just... noticed him. And that was becoming harder to ignore.

◆◆◆

That night, the room was stuffy and I couldn’t sleep.

From the sound of it, neither could Sebastian. He shifted in his sheets like he was battling demons in linen.

“You alright?” I muttered into the dark.

A pause.

“I—yeah. Just hot.”

“Same,” I said, sitting up. “Come on.”

He blinked at me, barely a silhouette. “What?”

“Swimming hall’s empty this time of night. Unless you’re afraid of a little trespassing.”

More silence. Then, “...I didn’t bring trunks.”

I shrugged. “Neither did I.”

◆◆◆

The corridor was dim and echoey, the kind of silence that makes you feel like you're in on something.

Inside the swim hall, the pool looked black and bottomless. I stripped off my shirt and stepped out of my pajama bottoms without ceremony. Sebastian turned politely away, which almost made me grin.

He followed suit more hesitantly, revealing a surprisingly lean frame—pale skin, narrow hips, smooth chest. My gaze lingered a second too long. Just curiosity, of course. Clinical interest of course.

We dove in one after the other. The water was colder than expected, and we came up with twin gasps.

“Jesus,” Sebastian muttered, slicking his hair back.

“Refreshing,” I said, treading water.

We didn’t talk much. Just swam, wordlessly, the quiet laps broken only by the sound of breath and the distant echo of our splashing.

At one point, we ended up resting at the same end of the pool, gripping the edge beside each other.

Our arms occasionally bumped as we floated. Neither of us moved away.

Then, without warning, Sebastian flipped underwater and kicked upward, legs slicing cleanly through the surface. A handstand. In the bloody pool.

He held it surprisingly steady in the shallow end—his slim, pale frame inverted, spine a perfect line, feet pointed like he’d trained for this in secret. The waterline lapped just below his hips, which meant everything south of that floated freely. Floppy. Weightless. Ridiculously exposed.

My eyes didn’t mean to linger. They just did.

His flaccid willy drifted lazily in the chlorinated light, bobbing with every minor adjustment of his balance, his bollocks gently suspended beneath like something sculptural—elegant in the weirdest, most unexpected way.

Then he lost his center of gravity, wobbled, and splashed back down with a sharp gasp. He surfaced, grinning, breathless, water glistening down his chest. But he didn’t meet my gaze. That alone told me everything.

He knew I’d seen.

And judging by the faint twitch in the corner of his mouth, he wasn’t sorry.

“It’s weirdly nice,” he said, voice low as he caught his breath, “being somewhere you’re not meant to be.”

I smirked. “That’s the secret to Eton. You get through by learning when to break the rules quietly.”

When we finally climbed out, dripping and shivering, I handed him his towel. His fingers brushed mine. Just for a second. The contact barely registered—and yet it sparked something anyway.

Neither of us said a word.

But I noticed.

So did he.