be not content.
The History Boys.
Irwin. Posner. La Tène and Tower Bridge.
Insert the online equivalent of whistling and walking away, right about... here.
He remembers himself at that age - pushing twenty, crooked part and crooked glasses and crooked smile - and knows he never looked that effortlessly beautiful.
Now, in all honesty, rewinding these words after he's thought them and wincing inwardly... he knows how absurd it sounds. Certainly it does to the casual listener, and certainly it does to him. It's something he'd never say aloud, at least, which would only amplify its absurdity. If only he could un-think it. (Ah, compound verb. And now he's doing Hector proud, however unintentionally, years later.)
For all of the poetry that doesn't spring to mind (and which he would force back down if it did), it's safe to admit that calling the boy beautiful, even if it's only in his head, is a tremendous compliment from someone as critical and quietly judging as Tom Irwin. It's something he's never thought about Dakin, who's undeniably good-looking but not what one would call beautiful, and not even the boys at university who came long before him, tousle-haired and grinning dangerously when they asked to borrow notes, innocent brushes of fingers replayed dizzyingly in his head at night when his roommate was asleep and he was alone with his thoughts.
In literature, there's supposed to be this saying. The quiet ones are the most dangerous.
Or maybe he just made that up.
Fuck it. He's not as eloquent when he's not trying to sell something.
He is beautiful, though. It's more fact than a cheap attempt at mental swooning, as plainly obvious as the names of English royalty (still got a bit of a hard on for our friend Hank VIII, sir?) and the time of day.
In his own school days, he was forced to read awful poems about women whose eyes could cut glass with the truth in them and other ridiculous things that should never be linked to a person's physical description.
But David Posner's smile is sharp enough to scar the hollow of a man's throat.
Even back when he was his student, there was no symmetry to him - just a scrap of a boy that was a tangle of sharp elbows and gawky legs with an unbroken voice - but in the past two years or so, there's been a change. A change so slight, mind, that you'd have to have been looking for it to notice. But it's there. His jaw is leaner, more angular, and his posture, the way he holds himself... more sure. Not confident, not swaggering, but sure. Just a bit. More adult. His voice, though still a soft tenor, has smoothed over and deepened a little more. That's not what makes him stand out, though. There's something else in him, too, that's always been there. The earnest way his eyes broadcast his thoughts, not making an effort to hide anything, is something Irwin could never replicate. Something no one else could, either.
If the prospect of starting something with Dakin came close to making him feel like a pervert, then actually (there's nothing else for it) desiring Posner makes him far more Humbert-esque than he's comfortable with. The comparison is enough to evoke an awful image of cerulean eyes peeking at him from over candy-hued sunglasses, pink lips smirking around a cherry lolly, and he splashes his face with cold water for a full half hour after dreaming it up.
He wishes that he could say that there's someone else (tall and dark-haired and frustratingly confident, perhaps) that he is thinking of when his fingernails dig into the well-worn duvet and his vision finally abandons him, the plaster ceiling above no more than a gaping black hole - maybe that would make it all a little less wrong - but in truth, there is no one. That ambition faded with the awkward avoidance his crutches yielded at the funeral - something that hurt more than he'd ever admit - and washed away more with each passing day. Soon, Stuart Dakin was no more prevalent in his thoughts than former university heartthrob and note copier Nicholas Caruthers, who was likely an overweight, married insurance salesman by now (and Nick, how's that combover doing, by the way?).
And, besides. Tom Irwin's never been one to pine. (Become increasingly jaded and bitter, maybe, but never pine.)
He tells this to himself each time they bump into one another at the pub or the grocery or the cinema, the rest of the exchange following like clockwork. Irwin asks how school's going; Posner answers with the customary respectful-former-student stock, careful not to end his sentences with 'sir.' Posner asks how the programme's going; Irwin makes a mild derogatory comment on the state of BBC2, they laugh politely together, farewells are made, good night and good luck. He runs into the other boys, too, of course, Akthar and Crowther and occasionally Lockwood, all at the same variety of places, but they seem to be just going through the motions, listening because it's expected, their thanks for securing them places at university. Posner is the only one who really listens, head cocked to the side and biting his lip in thought, nodding along with the cadence of Irwin's words, his attention on him and only him, in the way that only one other boy used to. The difference is that Posner's not just snapping onto the more impressive bits of the same speeches and pocketing them for future use.
Then, one day, the pattern changes. It begins like this:
Irwin mentioning a new book on anthropological studies which they could discuss over coffee at his flat and Posner responding with genuine interest. Irwin fumbling with his keys and wondering why it took him so long to notice the delicate warmth in Posner's smile when the younger man closes a hand around his to help steady him. Irwin making the first move for once in his life (finally, for fuck's sake, for once) and finding himself more pleased than he could ever imagine when Posner doesn't push him away and instead breathes resignedly against his lips and threads his fingers against the back of his neck and pulls him closer.
So it goes each time, each chance encounter, with little variation. Better than the former situation, of course, but still not exactly ideal. Posner is always gone before he wakes, his side of the bed neatly made up, a lingering scent of mint soap on his sheets the only evidence that it was more than a bittersweet dream.
And that's all there is to it.
It shouldn't bother him. And-- no, it doesn't bother him. He's a successful man, he's got other things to occupy his time. A quick fuck with a uni student on every odd weekend doesn't equal love. Far from it. And that dull fury that builds in his chest each time he catches the boy staring out the window in a manner that suggests he's forgotten that Irwin is even there... that has more to do with leftover stress from his new producers' string-pulling than anything else. Really.
That doesn't stop him from finally mentioning it.
"You're thinking of him," he says one night. Posner, no longer smoothing his pillowcase with nervous fingers, freezes and turns away. Surprising himself more than anyone else in the room, Irwin suddenly reaches out and cups his face with one hand, grip a bit more forceful than necessary, slowly turning his gaze back into his direction. Posner's eyes are pained.
"Yes."
Irwin chuckles, dry and bitter and ironic and frustrated, and kicks at an unlucky trainer overturned near his foot on the floor. Well, of course. Just because he's finally managed to block out the memory of Dakin doesn't mean that honest, adoring, loyal Posner has. If he was a man better able to laugh at himself, he might have appreciated the irony in that the very things that attracted him to the stupid boy were exactly what would destroy any chance they might've had.
Talk about your Catch-fucking-22.
"No surprises there. It was stupid of me to ask." Although he'd been half-expecting this answer, there was also the chance that he'd get a "no" in response, that he could continue ignoring the far off glint in his eyes and possibly see about going for another round of whatever-this-is-they-have before falling into a fitful sleep, exhausted but not entirely satisfied. For the first time with Posner, he feels vulnerable and weak, and he has to restrain himself from sliding his glasses back on and standing up so that he can tower over him, so that he can feel... competent again. He snorts. "Funny, isn't it, that no matter what, we'll never be able to escape Sir Dakin's charm."
At this, Posner breaks free of the grip he has on his jaw, smacking his hand away like an irritating wasp. "What?"
"It's..." He swallows, ducks his head. Manages a smile that's more a grimace than anything else. "I think it's hilarious. The stuff of poetry, even." He tries not to throw a spiteful glare in the younger man's direction. "That should please you, at least."
Posner lets out an abrupt little noise, a cross between a laugh and a hiccup. "Dakin," he repeats, disbelievingly.
Irwin raises his eyebrows, and before he can continue his pathetic attempt at inquisition (fine journalistic skills there, old boy), Posner goes on, "Don't I wish it were still fucking Dakin!" Here, he forces a weak smile, the right corner of his mouth twisted from gnawing at the inside of his cheek. "Or still not fucking Dakin, to be precise. No." He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs in that theatrical way that only he can make heartbreaking, as if the topic has made him tired. "That, at least, I've had practise with."
If they were in a film, the camera would now rest on Posner, lighting muted and serene, and he would dedicate a generous monologue to whomever it is that his eye is on now. He would cry something like, "O, but you have captured my wandering heart!" while clutching his chest, and Irwin would idle in the background, embarrassed and just knowing that with his rumpled hair and the absence of his glasses, he looks as lost and childish as Posner probably feels.
Instead, Posner just sighs again. Bizarre as it sounds, it's the most mature-sounding sigh Irwin's ever heard from him. It's a near whisper, full of weary surrender, and makes him feel just a bit guilty to know that he was the one to provoke it.
He doesn't bring it up again.
It's two weeks and four days before they next meet, this time at The Rose and Thistle. Irwin's never been a fan of the pub, its crowded atmosphere too loud and disorienting, but as far as Posner-sighting goes, it's proved useful in the past. This is enough to make him stop by after a long day of shooting, and sure enough, the MIA object of his recent thoughts is alone in a booth near the back, in danger of falling into the pint he's quietly nursing. He has the withdrawn, subdued posture of someone trying to hide, but Irwin seats himself across from him, anyway, his cane sounding his arrival with the sharp knock of wood against wood when he leans it against the table.
"Hello."
Posner looks up, faint confusion filtering into his eyes, and Irwin is filled with an odd sense of relief when he realises that maybe he wasn't trying to hide from him after all.
"Oh-- hello."
His smile is strained, but he still asks the right questions and still nods in the right places when Irwin begins rattling away on his latest programme, this one focusing on the cultural impact of La Tène. He remembers Posner once mentioning an interest in taking a module on Medieval Art history, and finds himself for the first time wanting to actually impress him - the way he thought he used to impress Dakin. The old spark that made him so controversial and well-acknowledged in school flares through his words and veins, and the barmaid is barely acknowledged when she drops by to bring Posner a new pint and take Irwin's non-existent order. He doesn't need alcohol; he's too busy being inspiring right now, thanks.
Soon, it's almost like old times again, the occasional darting glances over Irwin's shoulder the only indication that something's a bit off. And that's fine; that's grand, he can ignore it, like he should have kept doing in the first place. And he does ignore it, really warming up when he reaches his one-sided argument that the Mediterranean influence was greater than that of the Anglo-Saxons, until Posner lightly taps him on one wildly gesturing arm.
Pleased at the contact, he stops mid-sentence - something all too rare for him - and snakes his other arm out to trap Posner's hand between his own. He rubs the pale skin stretched over fine-boned knuckles, back and forth, applying gentle pressure, his gaze on Posner's face all the while.
"Finally boring you, am I?"
Posner shakes his head, cheeks flushed and eyes wide, and Irwin has half a mind to lean across the table and kiss him right there, staring patrons and lame leg be damned--
"I'm... er. I'm meeting someone." A sudden swig of his pint muffles Posner's last few words. "Half-past nine."
"Oh."
That's it. Oh. Just a bleedingly pathetic oh.
'I'll be going, now, sir.' 'Oh.'
'I've just remembered how much I hated you.' 'Oh.'
'Have fun fucking your hand for the rest of your life.' 'Oh.'
He glances down at his watch, and the grin now plastered onto his face would be far better suited to someone who'd just swallowed a mouthful of arsenic. "It's about 9:28. I..." He pauses, swallowing the bile rising in his throat. "I'll be seeing you around, then?"
And even though Posner nods and widens his eyes to show sincerity, and is sure to add what a success he knows the new programme will be, honestly, he's never heard such an interesting view on the Germanic influence before - Irwin knows he won't be seeing him again. They may run into one another at the grocery, perhaps, customary greetings and impersonal questions, but it will end there. He might be content to forget his own past by trying to rush forward with the future, but Posner... he's too fucking loyal. Try to drown him in his past, and he just stands there, helping it along by tying concrete blocks to his feet.
On his way out of the pub, he tries to draw up a mental epitaph for the two of them; perhaps something about how Posner was wearing a black blazer instead of the camel pea coat he normally favours. Add to the symbolic funeral imagery; make it a more fitting end to his brief relationship with the boy who breathes poetry. As usual, however, all attempts fall flat, and instead of the simple "circumstance fucked up" that repeated in his head like a mantra after Dakin juggled excuses at the funeral, he's stuck with a continuous loop of "I fucked up" - which is far worse.
If he had a pack of fags and an ounce more of dignity, he'd light up and take the tube to Tower Bridge. Pull his collar around his neck to block the night's chill, stand around importantly, his silhouette casting impressive shadows over the Thames, looking every bit the part of someone who's alone but not lonely. Grab a bite to eat. Work on new programme ideas. Try to start forgetting again.
Instead, he takes his time walking, eyes and ears sharp as ever. He convinces himself that it's a cramp in his leg that's slowed him down, certainly not an interest in something that's none of his business. A trolley lady rattles a plastic cup in his direction and a pair of dolled-up teenage girls glare when he knocks into them, his cane and the balls of his feet doing a poor job of balancing when he rears up, not-so-subtly attempting to see down the far end of the street.
He gets the answer to his unspoken question when someone brushes past him to dash into the pub, the familiar brogue in his hurried "excuse me" enough to give away his identity. It's another boy, but not just any. No, this is yet another who challenged his morals in his year as supply teacher. A boy who swears by religion instead of turning historical subjects into flashy trading cards. A boy who listens to Posner in the same non-judgmental fashion that Posner listens to him.
He hasn't a chance.
Walking home seems a better idea than taking the bus, and he relishes the cold, letting it seep into his bones. Half-drawn out scenarios of smarter things he could have said chase after him, but he pushes them away, barely noticing the ghost of the hand that closes around his own when he fumbles with the keys to his flat.
"I read Irwin as 'I ruin.' Significant, or what?" Timms' voice echoes in his head, smugly amused, and he suddenly wants to punch something.
Irwin. Posner. La Tène and Tower Bridge.
Insert the online equivalent of whistling and walking away, right about... here.
He remembers himself at that age - pushing twenty, crooked part and crooked glasses and crooked smile - and knows he never looked that effortlessly beautiful.
Now, in all honesty, rewinding these words after he's thought them and wincing inwardly... he knows how absurd it sounds. Certainly it does to the casual listener, and certainly it does to him. It's something he'd never say aloud, at least, which would only amplify its absurdity. If only he could un-think it. (Ah, compound verb. And now he's doing Hector proud, however unintentionally, years later.)
For all of the poetry that doesn't spring to mind (and which he would force back down if it did), it's safe to admit that calling the boy beautiful, even if it's only in his head, is a tremendous compliment from someone as critical and quietly judging as Tom Irwin. It's something he's never thought about Dakin, who's undeniably good-looking but not what one would call beautiful, and not even the boys at university who came long before him, tousle-haired and grinning dangerously when they asked to borrow notes, innocent brushes of fingers replayed dizzyingly in his head at night when his roommate was asleep and he was alone with his thoughts.
In literature, there's supposed to be this saying. The quiet ones are the most dangerous.
Or maybe he just made that up.
Fuck it. He's not as eloquent when he's not trying to sell something.
He is beautiful, though. It's more fact than a cheap attempt at mental swooning, as plainly obvious as the names of English royalty (still got a bit of a hard on for our friend Hank VIII, sir?) and the time of day.
In his own school days, he was forced to read awful poems about women whose eyes could cut glass with the truth in them and other ridiculous things that should never be linked to a person's physical description.
But David Posner's smile is sharp enough to scar the hollow of a man's throat.
Even back when he was his student, there was no symmetry to him - just a scrap of a boy that was a tangle of sharp elbows and gawky legs with an unbroken voice - but in the past two years or so, there's been a change. A change so slight, mind, that you'd have to have been looking for it to notice. But it's there. His jaw is leaner, more angular, and his posture, the way he holds himself... more sure. Not confident, not swaggering, but sure. Just a bit. More adult. His voice, though still a soft tenor, has smoothed over and deepened a little more. That's not what makes him stand out, though. There's something else in him, too, that's always been there. The earnest way his eyes broadcast his thoughts, not making an effort to hide anything, is something Irwin could never replicate. Something no one else could, either.
If the prospect of starting something with Dakin came close to making him feel like a pervert, then actually (there's nothing else for it) desiring Posner makes him far more Humbert-esque than he's comfortable with. The comparison is enough to evoke an awful image of cerulean eyes peeking at him from over candy-hued sunglasses, pink lips smirking around a cherry lolly, and he splashes his face with cold water for a full half hour after dreaming it up.
He wishes that he could say that there's someone else (tall and dark-haired and frustratingly confident, perhaps) that he is thinking of when his fingernails dig into the well-worn duvet and his vision finally abandons him, the plaster ceiling above no more than a gaping black hole - maybe that would make it all a little less wrong - but in truth, there is no one. That ambition faded with the awkward avoidance his crutches yielded at the funeral - something that hurt more than he'd ever admit - and washed away more with each passing day. Soon, Stuart Dakin was no more prevalent in his thoughts than former university heartthrob and note copier Nicholas Caruthers, who was likely an overweight, married insurance salesman by now (and Nick, how's that combover doing, by the way?).
And, besides. Tom Irwin's never been one to pine. (Become increasingly jaded and bitter, maybe, but never pine.)
He tells this to himself each time they bump into one another at the pub or the grocery or the cinema, the rest of the exchange following like clockwork. Irwin asks how school's going; Posner answers with the customary respectful-former-student stock, careful not to end his sentences with 'sir.' Posner asks how the programme's going; Irwin makes a mild derogatory comment on the state of BBC2, they laugh politely together, farewells are made, good night and good luck. He runs into the other boys, too, of course, Akthar and Crowther and occasionally Lockwood, all at the same variety of places, but they seem to be just going through the motions, listening because it's expected, their thanks for securing them places at university. Posner is the only one who really listens, head cocked to the side and biting his lip in thought, nodding along with the cadence of Irwin's words, his attention on him and only him, in the way that only one other boy used to. The difference is that Posner's not just snapping onto the more impressive bits of the same speeches and pocketing them for future use.
Then, one day, the pattern changes. It begins like this:
Irwin mentioning a new book on anthropological studies which they could discuss over coffee at his flat and Posner responding with genuine interest. Irwin fumbling with his keys and wondering why it took him so long to notice the delicate warmth in Posner's smile when the younger man closes a hand around his to help steady him. Irwin making the first move for once in his life (finally, for fuck's sake, for once) and finding himself more pleased than he could ever imagine when Posner doesn't push him away and instead breathes resignedly against his lips and threads his fingers against the back of his neck and pulls him closer.
So it goes each time, each chance encounter, with little variation. Better than the former situation, of course, but still not exactly ideal. Posner is always gone before he wakes, his side of the bed neatly made up, a lingering scent of mint soap on his sheets the only evidence that it was more than a bittersweet dream.
And that's all there is to it.
It shouldn't bother him. And-- no, it doesn't bother him. He's a successful man, he's got other things to occupy his time. A quick fuck with a uni student on every odd weekend doesn't equal love. Far from it. And that dull fury that builds in his chest each time he catches the boy staring out the window in a manner that suggests he's forgotten that Irwin is even there... that has more to do with leftover stress from his new producers' string-pulling than anything else. Really.
That doesn't stop him from finally mentioning it.
"You're thinking of him," he says one night. Posner, no longer smoothing his pillowcase with nervous fingers, freezes and turns away. Surprising himself more than anyone else in the room, Irwin suddenly reaches out and cups his face with one hand, grip a bit more forceful than necessary, slowly turning his gaze back into his direction. Posner's eyes are pained.
"Yes."
Irwin chuckles, dry and bitter and ironic and frustrated, and kicks at an unlucky trainer overturned near his foot on the floor. Well, of course. Just because he's finally managed to block out the memory of Dakin doesn't mean that honest, adoring, loyal Posner has. If he was a man better able to laugh at himself, he might have appreciated the irony in that the very things that attracted him to the stupid boy were exactly what would destroy any chance they might've had.
Talk about your Catch-fucking-22.
"No surprises there. It was stupid of me to ask." Although he'd been half-expecting this answer, there was also the chance that he'd get a "no" in response, that he could continue ignoring the far off glint in his eyes and possibly see about going for another round of whatever-this-is-they-have before falling into a fitful sleep, exhausted but not entirely satisfied. For the first time with Posner, he feels vulnerable and weak, and he has to restrain himself from sliding his glasses back on and standing up so that he can tower over him, so that he can feel... competent again. He snorts. "Funny, isn't it, that no matter what, we'll never be able to escape Sir Dakin's charm."
At this, Posner breaks free of the grip he has on his jaw, smacking his hand away like an irritating wasp. "What?"
"It's..." He swallows, ducks his head. Manages a smile that's more a grimace than anything else. "I think it's hilarious. The stuff of poetry, even." He tries not to throw a spiteful glare in the younger man's direction. "That should please you, at least."
Posner lets out an abrupt little noise, a cross between a laugh and a hiccup. "Dakin," he repeats, disbelievingly.
Irwin raises his eyebrows, and before he can continue his pathetic attempt at inquisition (fine journalistic skills there, old boy), Posner goes on, "Don't I wish it were still fucking Dakin!" Here, he forces a weak smile, the right corner of his mouth twisted from gnawing at the inside of his cheek. "Or still not fucking Dakin, to be precise. No." He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs in that theatrical way that only he can make heartbreaking, as if the topic has made him tired. "That, at least, I've had practise with."
If they were in a film, the camera would now rest on Posner, lighting muted and serene, and he would dedicate a generous monologue to whomever it is that his eye is on now. He would cry something like, "O, but you have captured my wandering heart!" while clutching his chest, and Irwin would idle in the background, embarrassed and just knowing that with his rumpled hair and the absence of his glasses, he looks as lost and childish as Posner probably feels.
Instead, Posner just sighs again. Bizarre as it sounds, it's the most mature-sounding sigh Irwin's ever heard from him. It's a near whisper, full of weary surrender, and makes him feel just a bit guilty to know that he was the one to provoke it.
He doesn't bring it up again.
It's two weeks and four days before they next meet, this time at The Rose and Thistle. Irwin's never been a fan of the pub, its crowded atmosphere too loud and disorienting, but as far as Posner-sighting goes, it's proved useful in the past. This is enough to make him stop by after a long day of shooting, and sure enough, the MIA object of his recent thoughts is alone in a booth near the back, in danger of falling into the pint he's quietly nursing. He has the withdrawn, subdued posture of someone trying to hide, but Irwin seats himself across from him, anyway, his cane sounding his arrival with the sharp knock of wood against wood when he leans it against the table.
"Hello."
Posner looks up, faint confusion filtering into his eyes, and Irwin is filled with an odd sense of relief when he realises that maybe he wasn't trying to hide from him after all.
"Oh-- hello."
His smile is strained, but he still asks the right questions and still nods in the right places when Irwin begins rattling away on his latest programme, this one focusing on the cultural impact of La Tène. He remembers Posner once mentioning an interest in taking a module on Medieval Art history, and finds himself for the first time wanting to actually impress him - the way he thought he used to impress Dakin. The old spark that made him so controversial and well-acknowledged in school flares through his words and veins, and the barmaid is barely acknowledged when she drops by to bring Posner a new pint and take Irwin's non-existent order. He doesn't need alcohol; he's too busy being inspiring right now, thanks.
Soon, it's almost like old times again, the occasional darting glances over Irwin's shoulder the only indication that something's a bit off. And that's fine; that's grand, he can ignore it, like he should have kept doing in the first place. And he does ignore it, really warming up when he reaches his one-sided argument that the Mediterranean influence was greater than that of the Anglo-Saxons, until Posner lightly taps him on one wildly gesturing arm.
Pleased at the contact, he stops mid-sentence - something all too rare for him - and snakes his other arm out to trap Posner's hand between his own. He rubs the pale skin stretched over fine-boned knuckles, back and forth, applying gentle pressure, his gaze on Posner's face all the while.
"Finally boring you, am I?"
Posner shakes his head, cheeks flushed and eyes wide, and Irwin has half a mind to lean across the table and kiss him right there, staring patrons and lame leg be damned--
"I'm... er. I'm meeting someone." A sudden swig of his pint muffles Posner's last few words. "Half-past nine."
"Oh."
That's it. Oh. Just a bleedingly pathetic oh.
'I'll be going, now, sir.' 'Oh.'
'I've just remembered how much I hated you.' 'Oh.'
'Have fun fucking your hand for the rest of your life.' 'Oh.'
He glances down at his watch, and the grin now plastered onto his face would be far better suited to someone who'd just swallowed a mouthful of arsenic. "It's about 9:28. I..." He pauses, swallowing the bile rising in his throat. "I'll be seeing you around, then?"
And even though Posner nods and widens his eyes to show sincerity, and is sure to add what a success he knows the new programme will be, honestly, he's never heard such an interesting view on the Germanic influence before - Irwin knows he won't be seeing him again. They may run into one another at the grocery, perhaps, customary greetings and impersonal questions, but it will end there. He might be content to forget his own past by trying to rush forward with the future, but Posner... he's too fucking loyal. Try to drown him in his past, and he just stands there, helping it along by tying concrete blocks to his feet.
On his way out of the pub, he tries to draw up a mental epitaph for the two of them; perhaps something about how Posner was wearing a black blazer instead of the camel pea coat he normally favours. Add to the symbolic funeral imagery; make it a more fitting end to his brief relationship with the boy who breathes poetry. As usual, however, all attempts fall flat, and instead of the simple "circumstance fucked up" that repeated in his head like a mantra after Dakin juggled excuses at the funeral, he's stuck with a continuous loop of "I fucked up" - which is far worse.
If he had a pack of fags and an ounce more of dignity, he'd light up and take the tube to Tower Bridge. Pull his collar around his neck to block the night's chill, stand around importantly, his silhouette casting impressive shadows over the Thames, looking every bit the part of someone who's alone but not lonely. Grab a bite to eat. Work on new programme ideas. Try to start forgetting again.
Instead, he takes his time walking, eyes and ears sharp as ever. He convinces himself that it's a cramp in his leg that's slowed him down, certainly not an interest in something that's none of his business. A trolley lady rattles a plastic cup in his direction and a pair of dolled-up teenage girls glare when he knocks into them, his cane and the balls of his feet doing a poor job of balancing when he rears up, not-so-subtly attempting to see down the far end of the street.
He gets the answer to his unspoken question when someone brushes past him to dash into the pub, the familiar brogue in his hurried "excuse me" enough to give away his identity. It's another boy, but not just any. No, this is yet another who challenged his morals in his year as supply teacher. A boy who swears by religion instead of turning historical subjects into flashy trading cards. A boy who listens to Posner in the same non-judgmental fashion that Posner listens to him.
He hasn't a chance.
Walking home seems a better idea than taking the bus, and he relishes the cold, letting it seep into his bones. Half-drawn out scenarios of smarter things he could have said chase after him, but he pushes them away, barely noticing the ghost of the hand that closes around his own when he fumbles with the keys to his flat.
"I read Irwin as 'I ruin.' Significant, or what?" Timms' voice echoes in his head, smugly amused, and he suddenly wants to punch something.