He bit his lip. ‘Yes,’ he said, at last. ‘She … I have to go home. She’s not well.’
I had to take a deep breath. ‘You can go tomorrow, can’t you? She’s probably exaggerating. You know what women are like.’ I shouldn’t have said that: I saw his eyes narrow. ‘I don’t mean it like that – only that one night won’t make a difference – please.’
‘You don’t understand.’ He crossed to the desk, looked down at the telegram for a few seconds and then crumpled it into a ball. ‘I have to go.’
‘You can’t. Carfax, you can’t.’ I sounded like a kid. ‘You have to stay for the marks, tomorrow.’
‘It’s not important. They can send me a letter.’ He gave me a crooked smile. ‘If you’ve done better than me, you’ll have to wait and gloat next term. It won’t kill you.’
I exhaled through my teeth. I didn’t know until that moment that I was going to tell him. I perched on his desk, deliberately getting in his way, and crossed my arms. ‘And what if I haven’t?’ I said. ‘What if I came here because I overheard the Magisters talking after the meeting, and I happen to know for a fact that you’ve done rather well? So well, in fact,’ I went on, watching his face, ‘that you’re the first second-year ever to win the Gold Medal?’
He stared at me. I started to laugh.
‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘I did. And you have.’
‘That isn’t funny, Martin,’ he said.
‘I’m not joking.’
‘That’s not … I can’t have done. My game wasn’t that good.’
I could have told him then that I’d submitted Red; but I was enjoying myself too much. And I wanted him to see it on the noticeboard when they put the marks up. I shrugged. ‘Guess it’s better than you think.’
‘But that’s mad – they can’t have.’ He shook his head. Then suddenly he put his hands on my shoulders. I could feel him quivering. ‘You promise? If you’re pulling my leg …’
‘I swear. Cross my heart,’ I said.
There was a tiny moment when he was absolutely still, looking into my eyes. Then he swung away from me, collapsing forward with a rush of air as if he’d been punched in the gut.
‘Are you all right?’ I said. ‘Hey – sit down – put your head between your knees.’
He sank on to the bed and put his hands over his face. He stayed like that, silently, until I started to wonder if he’d had some kind of seizure. Then he raised his head. His face was wet and blotched, his eyes shining. He looked … undone. New. When he smiled, it was as if I’d never seen him before. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Sure and certain.’ I wanted to tell him then. I felt as proud as if I’d won a Gold Medal myself, and dropped it into his hands like a gift. That expression on his face – I did it. I felt like a god.
There was a pause. ‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘What did you get?’
‘I don’t know.’ It’s crazy, I hadn’t even wondered about mine.
He looked away. His forehead and mouth were damp. I think he must have been crying, because a single drop of moisture slid down the side of his neck and soaked into his collar. ‘So,’ he said, ‘do you hate me?’
‘What?’
‘I wouldn’t blame you. I don’t deserve the Gold Medal. Your game was better than mine. I’m not being humble,’ he said, cutting me off, ‘I mean it.’
I swallowed. It took everything I had not to tell him; but I was looking forward to the moment when he’d see it for himself. When he’d realise, and turn to me … ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t hate you.’
‘Good.’ There was another silence. He got to his feet. He seemed to be looking out of the window at the trees and the first stars. But when he turned back to me he had the frown he gets when he’s considering a particularly knotty grand jeu problem. ‘Why not?’ he said.
He meant it. He was genuinely asking me why I didn’t hate him.
I don’t know how it happened.
We were standing face to face. Close to each other, less than arm’s length.
I kissed him.
I need to write it down before I forget. Come on.
So. I kissed him. It wasn’t really – all I did was put my mouth against his, not even … As if I could somehow show him that I didn’t hate him. The moment I did it I thought better of it, a rush of embarrassment and second thoughts and fear that after all I was deluded, that Carfax would be disgusted, horrified, he’d tell the others and I’d get expelled – but then he grabbed hold of me and it honestly took me a second to understand that he was kissing me back, not pushing me away, and – I couldn’t believe it, it was surreal – I stopped to look into his eyes, to check, and then we started kissing again, properly, and I had to break off for a second to laugh, I remember looking down at his floor, the faint fuzz of dust, a grey plume clinging to the corner of the bedstead, I can still see it – and I put my hands in his hair, I was almost scared, somehow, it was so different from kissing anyone else – and then I think I was too gentle because he took over, pushing me, daring me … He dug his nails into the back of my neck and it felt like the most erotic thing anyone’s ever done.
And then later, don’t know how much later, I went to take off his gown, and he pushed me away.
Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. What was I thinking? Carfax, he must be a virgin, he’s as strait-laced as a corset. Even though we were kissing, I should’ve known better than to … It can’t have been the first time he’s kissed anyone, could it? Oh, shit. Maybe it could. And I can see how it would come as a shock, if out of the blue you found yourself kissing another man, if you hadn’t had time to get used to the idea … Anyone would panic. But how was I supposed to know? I was in shirt and trousers, I thought he’d – and he must’ve known that I was – I had – oh this is ridiculous, I can’t even write about it. Maybe he wasn’t turned on at all – I couldn’t feel that he was, but the way he was touching me – I thought it was the way he was standing or something, that – and he was still wearing his bloody gown.
He said, ‘Not now.’
I think I said, ‘What? Why?’
He was breathless. That’s a good sign, isn’t it? He was resisting himself, not me. Right? He said, ‘Not – no.’
‘Did I do something wrong?’
He shook his head. He was very flushed.
‘It’s all right, it doesn’t mean that you’re … just because – I’ve kissed girls too, you shouldn’t worry that …’ I couldn’t form a whole sentence.
For some reason that made him laugh; but quickly, and then he was serious again. ‘Oh, Léo, I wish …’
‘You’re scared,’ I said. ‘So am I. But I promise I won’t tell. I promise.’
There was a pause. He bit his lip, staring at me, and there was something in his face I couldn’t name: not quite hope or fear or shame, all or none of them. I thought then that he might take hold of my wrists and pull me back to him. But he didn’t, and all of a sudden I knew that if I pushed him it would be over.