Devil with Golden Hair

       Tate Persival is almost happy; Lucien is back. Professor Moriarty has promised to find him, and stands by his word. After another lecture, Tate thanks the professor but makes it brief and blurred. It shouldn’t seem strange, really; one’d hardly gush with pleasantries when his friend lies alone in their dorm room and just stares into the wall, emerging slowly from the opium haze. Would any best friend be absolutely happy under the circumstances? Tate clings to the hope that it’s exactly what the Professor will believe, but he’s still afraid that the truth will leak through a trembling voice, through a shifty glance, through Lucien’s name aspirated… Who knows what tiny clue will suffice for the Professor to guess? The intelligence and observation skills of William Moriarty are already a legend at the University of Durham. And then… Tate Persival does not dare to imagine what will become of him. On the first night back, when Lucien still drifts on the verge of opium visions, he gives a confused account of what has happened at the bridge. Resurrected Frida dancing, bullets from the mist clinking at the feet of administrator Bale, professor Moriarty presenting himself as a crime consultant, Bale falling to his death in the dark waters... In a couple of days, Lucien forgets half of those events and thinks the other half to be merely a nightmare. Anyone would take that story for an opiate trip, but Tate believes every word. He remembered Moriarty’s death stare as the latter discovered that Lucien Atwood had been missing. A devil glimpsed behind the face of a polite and gentle young professor. In one more day, news of Dudley Bale’s corpse found downstream fly all over the university, and Tate shivers as if it’s him who has been thrown into water. And he can still end up there. The professor still may guess. Sure, Tate has managed to beguile him, if not on purpose. He is my friend! Fear and surprise placed too much sincerity into that word, and it must have touched some strings in the Professor’s heart. Tate would never believe that an ever-cool-headed and deadly logical professor of mathematics could respect such sappy feelings, but it was said, “Always treasure this feeling of fondness for your friend," and the red eyes grew soft for a moment. And if Tate was flustered by his own outburst, well, it might be attributed to the current fashion for a flair of cynicism among young nobles, while affection and sincerity were viewed as rustic. Sure, Tate treasures his affection very highly and is very glad that it looks like a friendship to others. He shares his lecture notes with Lucien, helps him with the study stuff, takes him out to the town, lures him into cafes to have some tea with pastry, retells funny rumours and jokes... Lucien warms up, at least in public, even if he’s never his old, merry, goofy self. He goes to the lectures and picnics and arranges a proper tombstone for Frida Macaulay. Tate is the only one who hears him cry at night and repeat her name. An obelisk will not bring her back; it’s just a painful reminder. Tate listens to the whimpers in the darkness and clutches his quilt so hard that he might break a nail at any second. And sometimes, for a second or two, he doubts if he’s been right to bring this pain to Lucien. Well, if it’s his fault, he should atone for it. It’s not easy to get some laudanum, but money rules. There are some evident advantages to being noble and rich. Tate chooses a Thursday night in order to have three full days till the next maths lecture. Lucien should not miss them, should not make Professor Moriarty wonder. Then the hardest part follows. Upon some thought, Tate rejects the idea of giving opium tincture to his friend unbeknownst, with sherry. He remembers that honesty is the best mask. When Lucien gets another fit of anguish, Tate offers a remedy to the pain, and he is struck with anticipation when his best friend accepts it. For a second, Tate feels like a Judas but chases the association away. Really, there’s nothing in common; Judas kissed the Saviour to destroy him, and Tate’s intent is to save, though with some more suffering at first. No, really, that would be better. A new administrative assistant is not assigned yet after Bale's death, and no one looks after the students in dorms. No one notices that Lucien Atwood doesn’t leave his room for three days in a row, and only Tate Percival is scurrying out and back to fetch some meals or whisky. Then the three days on the verge of happiness are over. Tate realises full well that he needs a different approach. He won’t be able to hide the smell of opium and Lucien’s blank stare forever. And after mentioning all the missed studies of his friend, Tate convinces the principal to grant the two of them a year off. After all, Mr. Atwood needs to recover after the scandal, and what would cure a soul’s wounds better than a trip abroad? France, Italy, the sea and the sun... And Mr. Percival will be close by to help and cheer the poor lad up. He has settled this question with parents already, both his and Atwoods. They have no objections. At that point, Tate is slightly nervous but hopes hard that the principal will not discuss the trip with Lucien at any length and won’t mention Tate’s correspondence with Viscount Atwood. Lucien knows nothing of those letters and must not know anything. And everything will be fine once they’re on the continent. No old acquaintances, no Moriarty. New impressions, new places, new chances to get some opium without reputational risks. Lucien won’t cry at night; the potion will make him forget that his beloved Frida has died, and no tombstone will remind him of the loss. Oh sure, he’ll think she is still alive, he’ll call out to her at night, his eyes going dim, and every night will be erased from his memory by morning. But Tate can bear it. It’s really a small price for the joy of being close—closer than just a friend, a peer student, or a roommate. To answer to a female name, to whisper words of love, to run fingers through brown hair, to trace the shape of the dear face, to lean in and cling to. To swallow a curse, to clench teeth once again as the name of that girl is exhaled, and to wipe it with a kiss, and to hold the dear body tight till dawn. Tate treasures his affection, even if it’s not pure friendship. The other may see him as a naive pansy, but he will protect the one thing he cherishes at any cost and won’t give his love up to some girl, may she be an angel in flesh. And it didn’t cost much to get rid of a common waitress. It sufficed to inform Viscount Atwood that his son intended to marry a commoner, even at the cost of title and inheritance. In his turn, Viscount Atwood re-addressed the matter to Bale, and as a result, one stupid, hapless girl believing in fairytales about marrying a prince fell from a bridge and drowned. But Tate didn’t expect Lucien to disappear as well, and ate his heart out, wondering if his dear friend had committed suicide. Fortunately, Professor Moriarty found Lucien and got rid of Bale neatly, believing him to be the mastermind behind Frida’s death. Tate Persival assures himself that he’s driven by care for Lucien’s future, but he still wants to get as far from the bridge over the Wear River as possible. In a mirror, he sees a devil in the blue-eyed blonde oaf. So, let it be. Hell is empty, and all devils are here, not just Moriarty.