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“But it’s wet.”
“We’ve umbrellas to spare,” Darcy said simply.
Bron nodded. Did he want to go, now that the offer had presented himself? Or would he say something stupid, make a fool of himself? Darcy was so suave, standing there in his room’s doorframe and looking more handsome than ever. And he was, for Christ’s sake, in a pair of shorts that had a hole at the crotch and a T-shirt he’d designed himself that said “Bookish & Queer” across the chest. Bron blinked to gain himself some time. Looked again out the window to assess the extremity of the weather. Either way, he knew hewantedto go. But the question was, should he?
“Alright,” he agreed, and asked for ten minutes so that he could dress.
“Fine,” Darcy said, breaking into another grin. “But do wear my favorite shawl.”
“Shut up.” Bron closed the door in his face, forgetting himself in the moment. Quickly he opened it up again to say he was sorry, he didn’t mean—
“Nine minutes fifty-six seconds, nine minutes fifty-five …” Darcy said, to which they both laughed, and Bron rushed to theen suite, where he slabbed toothpaste onto a brush and scrubbed deftly to ensure the annihilation of morning breath, drove a comb through his hair before tying it into a bun, and picked out a blouse with ruffles at the end, and a cute, A-line skirt. Ready to go, he dabbed a spritz of whatever product he could find in the under-sink cupboard—rose-scented room spray, great—and dashed down the stairs to where Darcy was waiting, with Ada standing beside him.
“Please can I come?” he heard her ask. She turned to Bron with glistening eyes. “Please?”
“I said no, Ada. You need to learn to obey. Come on, Bron.” Darcy handed him an umbrella, and Captain started to bark, wanting to follow them outside too. “You get in the car. I’ll be with you in a moment.” He did as he was told and left Ada clinging to the dog and watching him go.
Inside the car it smelled of orange freshener and a harder, more masculine smell, like a worn basketball. Leather. When the passenger door opened, Darcy sidled in beside him, apologized for Ada’s silliness, and told the driver to drive.
“She wasn’t being silly,” Bron said, instinctively feeling the need to defend her and disappointed by Darcy’s retreat into an uncomfortable mood. “You forget she is a little girl and vies for your attention.”
“Little girl or not, she can’t always get her own way.” He looked amused as he said this. “Besides, I want to spend some time alone.” His heart beat. “With you.”
Another beat. Darcy leaned into him.
“Can I say that? Is that allowed?” Gently, he reached out his hand to Bron’s, brushed his littlest finger with his own.
“Yes,” Bron murmured, losing himself. It was so easy to forget all of Darcy’s faults in the otherly confines of the car. “Yes, that’s allowed.”
“Good. I was rather hoping you would say that.”
Bron looked to the green fields, dotted with cows and sheep, as they drove down the St. Neot’s Road. He felt a little carsick,his tummy fizzing, and asked the driver if he could please roll down the window a crack. The sky was a tumultuous gray, and the swaying of the windscreen wipers helped to calm him. Darcy continued to hold his hand. Bron closed his eyes. The traffic grew congested as they crept closer to the city center. He wasn’t sure if the slow movement was helping or if it made his sickness worse. Noticing his discomfort, and his sweating hands, Darcy lightly brushed his thigh.
“We should quite like to stop along the Queen’s Road, if you please, driver. Whenever you find an opening.”
The driver slowed, and the indicator clicked. When the car stalled, Bron stumbled out, which helped to sober him and settle his stomach. When Darcy came around to him, he declined his help.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fine. Just give me a minute.”
How ridiculous he felt, how weak, like a sickly child in need of comfort. The trees were an avenue of bare spindles, and as they walked the muddy path, his shoes got caked in a brown sludge of mud and leaves. But the freshness of the air worked its wonder.
“Better?” Darcy asked.
“Yes, better.”
He could see the backs of Trinity Hall, of Clare College. When they turned into King’s, Darcy showed the porter his alumni card, and the gate clanged open. The lamplit pavement, aglow and speckled with the afternoon’s rain, took them over a bridge, where the river was dotted with punts, and adventurous tourists sat in plastic ponchos, photographing their families coursing along the water.
The great college chapel loomed ahead like the tallest building in the world. Bron imagined what it would be like to run across its roof in the high heavens, look down the pillared spires, the great buttresses holding it aloft. It was this building, Darcy said, that they were visiting. They curved along past the chapel’s face and the wooden door, which he assumed would be the entrance, and instead turned a corner to enter from another side.Within the building, the outside world no longer existed. This was heaven, and heaven was quiet, with carved winged creatures guarding every door. He looked up at the stained glass windows, bringing to life stories of the Old and New Testaments, at the lofty pillars that rose vertically, soaring upward like a latticed spiderweb into fan vaulted ceilings. Each branch looked like a vein, and each vein broke into capillaries. Ten thousand cells. Weightless bone. A living entity. It looked, to him, like honeycomb, the inside of a beehive.
“It’s beautiful,” Darcy stated. And it was. But Bron was meant to say something in return, something equally as admiring.
“It’s magnificent.”
“I like to come here to think, to disappear for a while. It is rather fit for a king,” Darcy said. “Or five. It took five kings to build this.”
“But you are not here to disappear today,” Bron said, commanding an answer from him now. “You wanted me to come with you.”
“Yes,” Darcy said placidly. “I did.”
