Roomies Before Arms – Part 1

Hey everyone and welcome to England!
I’ve been meaning to share what really went down at boarding school with Asher ever since Backbacking with the Boys wrapped up, but I hadn’t quite figured out how—until now. This feels like the perfect opportunity to finally show you some of it.

This is more of a mini story—short and in a few parts—to give you the backstory of Asher and Sebastian. I hope you enjoy it!

If you’re wondering where to start to follow the story in chronological order, I recommend reading this one first, then Backbacking with the Boys, Step Bros, and finally Roomies in Arms (which will return after this.)

Everyone in this story is 18+

The dining room was always too quiet. Even with Pa’s low chuckle and Mummy’s delicate laugh punctuating the clink of silverware, the silence pressed down, heavy and suffocating. I let my fingers trace the stem of my wine glass, my appetite long gone, while they carried on as if everything were perfectly fine.

“So,” Pa said, swirling his port like it was a national duty, “back to Eton tomorrow. Staying out of trouble this term, I trust?”

There it was—the obligatory opening gambit. I looked up, smirking faintly. “Naturally, Pa. Trouble doesn’t find me unless I invite it.”

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair with that maddening air of self-satisfaction. “Good lad. A bit of mischief now and then never hurt anyone—eh, ‘Mopsie’?”

Mummy smiled faintly, not looking up from her plate. “Oh, don’t encourage him, ‘Squiggy’,” she said lightly, her tone floating somewhere between amusement and boredom. “It’s his final year. Time to focus on what really matters—Oxford applications.”

Ah, Oxford. The holy grail. I leaned back in my chair, letting the edge of the glass rest against my fingertips. “Yes, the glittering promise of lectures and punting on the Thames. Truly thrilling.”

“Don’t be flippant, darling,” Mummy said with a shake of her head, though her voice was soft. “Your grandmother would have been so proud to see you there.”

There it was. The mention of Granny—gone less than a week, and yet it already felt like she’d been consigned to polite dinner conversation. The familiar weight pressed on my chest, but I didn’t let it show. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

“She had such plans for you,” Mummy added, her tone almost wistful.

“Indeed,” Pa interjected, his voice sharp enough to cut. “Including that ridiculous trust fund. Honestly, what’s the sense in giving an 18-year-old that kind of money?”

My head snapped up before I could stop myself. I could feel the cool weight of the glass pressing into my palm. “She wanted me to be independent. To make my own choices.”

“Well, you’ve plenty of time for that,” Pa said, waving his hand as though dismissing an errant dog. “You’ll inherit more than enough from us in due course. No need for all this… independence nonsense.”

“Exactly, darling,” Mummy added, her voice sweet as treacle. “What’s the rush? There’s no need to run off and play the rebel.”

I tightened my grip on the glass, though my face betrayed nothing. “It wasn’t nonsense to her,” I said quietly, my voice cold enough to freeze the room. “She knew what she was doing.”

The silence was sharp and brittle. Pa glanced at me over his port, one eyebrow raised. “She was a bit woozy at the end, wasn’t she, ‘Mopsie’?”

I froze. The words hit me like a slap. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the chandelier. My voice, when it came, was sharper than I intended. “She was not. And you know it.”

Pa’s glass paused mid-air. Mummy tilted her head, a faint crease of irritation forming between her brows.

“All right, little mister,” she said with an airy laugh, “no need to throw a tantrum.”

“We’re all upset about losing Grandma,” Pa added, his voice maddeningly calm. “No need to dramatize it.”

My chest burned, but I forced myself to stay silent, locking my jaw as they continued with the meal as though nothing had happened. Upset? I wanted to laugh. They didn’t look upset. They looked as though they’d already packed her memory away with the mothballs.

The rest of the dinner passed in a haze of meaningless chatter. I heard snippets—something about the British Museum gala, Pa’s latest stock tips—but it all blurred into white noise. My thoughts were elsewhere, caught on Grandma’s voice, her steady belief in me.

The trust fund wasn’t just money. It was freedom. A chance to carve out a life beyond the endless expectations and suffocating tradition that hung over every dinner, every conversation, like the chandelier above our heads.

“May I be excused?” I said, my voice steady, even as my pulse thrummed against my wrist.

Mummy waved a hand without looking up. “Of course, darling. You’ll want to be rested for tomorrow.”

Pa grunted an absent agreement, already halfway through some story about his club.

I pushed back my chair, the sound muted against the thick rug, and stood. My steps were measured, deliberate, as I left the room. I didn’t look back.

The air in the hallway felt lighter somehow, though the weight in my chest didn’t lift. Grandma was gone. They didn’t care, not really. Not like I did. Tomorrow, I’d go back to Eton and its rituals, its noise. But tonight, the silence in this house was deafening.

◆◆◆

The letter sat in front of me, pristine and untouched. Her handwriting on the envelope was so familiar, the careful strokes of someone who always wrote as though the recipient mattered. My throat tightened as I opened it, the paper smooth beneath my fingers.

Her words unfolded before me, and I read them slowly, hearing her voice in every line.

My dearest Asher,

If you’re reading this, it means I’m no longer here to tell you in person how proud I am of you—and how much I love you.

I hope you always know that. I’ve loved you since the moment I first held you, with your tiny fists already waving about as though you had the world to conquer.

I know the life you’ve grown up in isn’t always easy. Expectations can feel like shackles, even when they’re gilded. I’ve seen how you navigate it all with such grace, but I want you to know—you’re not bound by those expectations. Not unless you choose to be.

Oxford is a fine path, but it’s not the only one. The trust fund I’ve left you isn’t just a means to an end; it’s my way of giving you the freedom to decide your future. Forge your own path, Asher. Don’t let anyone else dictate who you should be.

And always remember—you are so deeply loved.

With all my heart,
Granny

Her words blurred by the end. I blinked hard, but a tear escaped before I could stop it. I let it fall, warm against my cheek, as the ache in my chest spread outward.

“I love you.”

The words echoed in my mind, simple yet foreign. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard them from my parents. Had I ever?

I clenched the letter tighter, the edges pressing into my fingers as memories of her flooded in. Her steady hands smoothing my hair. Her calm voice cutting through the noise. She saw me. She always did.

A knock at the door pulled me out of the haze. Before I could answer, the door creaked open, and Mrs. Albright stepped in.

“Master Asher,” she said gently, her voice soft but firm, like it always was. “I thought you might need a hand with your packing.”

I turned away quickly, brushing at my face, but of course she noticed. She always noticed. She stepped closer, her eyes on me rather than the packed chaos of my desk.

“Your grandmother loved you very much,” she said, her voice quieter now, like the words were meant just for me.

I swallowed hard. My throat felt tight. “I know,” I said finally, though my voice wavered. “She... believed in me.”

“She did,” she said, her hand resting on my shoulder in that unspoken way that felt more maternal than anything else in my life. “And I do, too.”

Her words hit harder than I expected, loosening something I hadn’t realized I’d been holding onto. I closed my eyes briefly, exhaling slowly, before nodding.

“Thank you,” I said, though the words felt too small.

“Always, Master Asher.” She smiled faintly before turning her attention to the scattered clothes on my bed. “Now, let’s make sure you’re ready for tomorrow.”

I didn’t argue. The thought of folding shirts was too much to handle, and she did it with the same steady efficiency she’d always had.

When she left, the room was silent again. My bag sat neatly by the door, the chaos gone as though it had never existed. I ran my hand over the letter once more, her words lingering in my mind.

Forge your own path.

The tear on my cheek had dried, but the weight of her absence hadn’t lifted. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the packed bag.

Oxford. The trust fund. The life they want for me.

I thought of her words again, her quiet encouragement to live for myself, and for the first time in days, the haze of grief gave way to something else.

Determination.

◆◆◆

The crunch of gravel under my shoes was the first familiar sound I noticed as I walked onto campus. Eton’s sprawling grounds stretched out before me, the same manicured lawns and stately brick buildings as always. It was both impressive and suffocating in equal measure.

I adjusted the strap of my bag, ignoring the stares from a few lads loitering near the library steps. It wasn’t unusual—people looked at me. Some out of curiosity, others out of envy. I didn’t care why.

I turned slowly, already knowing who it was. Gabriel Kingsley.

He looked every inch the Eton-bred aristocrat: tie perfectly knotted, blazer pressed within an inch of its life, and a smugness that could have been passed down along with the family estate.

I didn’t have to look up. The click of polished shoes on the flagstone and the stench of entitlement preceded him.

“Milford,” Gabriel Kingsley said smoothly, like he was tasting something bitter but expensive.

I turned with a sigh I didn’t bother to suppress. “Kingsley. I see restraint still isn't your strong suit.”

He offered a faint smile, eyes cool. “Did you get to bury Granny dearest in time? It’s been a positively lovely week without your holier-than-thou airs clogging up the quad.”

I ignored the bait, though my jaw tightened for just a second too long. He saw it. Of course he did.

“I also heard your roommate was re-assigned,” he went on, brushing a speck of lint from his blazer with theatrical precision. “Again. You do have a knack for making people run, don’t you?”

I cocked my head, affecting mild interest. “Not everyone appreciates character, I suppose.”

“Character?” Gabriel gave a dry laugh. “You mean that charming refusal to follow any rules, respect any traditions, or participate in anything unless it amuses you?”

“I participate,” I said calmly. “I just happen to have standards.”

“Kingsley,” I said, offering a lazy nod. “Still mistaking arrogance for pedigree, I see.”

His mouth twitched into a smile—tight, practiced. “Some of us actually respect tradition, Asher. You might try it sometime.”

I glanced at his crest pin—worn just a bit too deliberately—then back to his face. “Respecting tradition isn’t the same as dry-humping it, Gabriel.”

His eyes flared for half a second before smoothing out again. “Careful. Some of us have reputations to uphold. Family names to protect.”

“And some of us don’t need to wear our surnames like a name tag at a cocktail party,” I replied with a flick of my eyebrow. “We let substance speak for itself.”

He stepped in, voice low, words clipped like they were ironed. “Well. Let’s hope your next roommate has a few too. Might teach you how to conduct yourself like someone who understands what it means to carry a name that matters.”

I let the silence hang just long enough to feel intentional, then offered him a smile that didn’t reach my eyes.

“Careful, Gabriel. Keep clinging to your family tree like that, and someone might mistake you for a vine.”

He didn’t respond—not with words. Just that brittle smile again, the kind people mistake for grace when really it’s just expensive breeding.

I walked past him without another word. Let him think he’d won. The real game never starts until you stop pretending to play by their rules.

◆◆◆

The door to my dorm creaked as I pushed it open, expecting to find my usual space. Instead, I froze.

There was someone else there—a boy sitting cross-legged on one of the beds, posture ramrod straight, a book open in his lap like it was shielding him from reality. His uniform was crisp and fastidiously pressed, but slightly too large in a way that looked deliberate—like he'd rather disappear into it than stand out. Ash-blond hair fell neatly across his brow, not a strand out of place, though it gave the faintest impression it might panic if left unattended.

He looked up when he noticed me, and his blue eyes widened, startled but not surprised. Like he'd anticipated being seen, just hoped it wouldn’t happen yet.

“Oh—hello,” he said, his voice clipped and careful. British, but… softened. Not the Eton drawl. Mid-Atlantic, maybe. The sort of accent you get from moving between too many houses and too many countries.

“Hello,” I said, stepping inside and letting the door click shut behind me. “You’re new.”

“Yes,” he said, sitting straighter somehow, spine like a ruler. “Sebastian. Sebastian Renfield. I’ve just transferred.”

Each word landed precisely, like he'd practiced them in a mirror and didn’t entirely trust them in the wild. He avoided my eyes, fiddling with the edge of his book, and I couldn’t tell if he was shy, cautious, or just very well-bred and emotionally unavailable.

“Right,” I said, tossing my bag onto the other bed. “Well. Welcome to Eton, Sebastian. I’m Asher.”

He nodded quickly, then too quickly, like he wasn’t sure one would suffice. “Thank you.”

The room went quiet. Not awkward, not yet. But there was tension in the silence. Not friction—more like the hush before a string snaps.

I studied him sidelong. He sat so still. Neat. Buttoned-up in every sense of the word. The kind of boy who ironed his pajamas and apologized to chairs when he bumped into them.

“You’re my roommate, then?” I asked finally, just to fill the space.

He nodded again. “Yes. They said it was temporary. Until they sort something out.”

“Right,” I said, leaning back against the wall. I didn’t mention what we both knew—that nothing at Eton was ever really temporary.