Chapter 6: Bastard Breeder
The dust motes, stirred to life by their collision, danced in the blade of sunlight cutting through the tower’s gloom. Silence settled, thick and resonant, broken only by their ragged breathing and the distant chime of the hour bell.
Minalan’s forehead rested against the cool brass of the telescope mount, his body humming. A pleasant, deep ache radiated from his core. He could feel the proof of their encounter tracing a warm, sticky path down the inside of his thigh.
Thorne’s weight slowly lifted from him, the absence immediate and cold. The professor stepped back, and the sound of his zipper was unnaturally loud. Minalan turned, leaning back against the mount, not bothering to pull his trousers up past his hips. He watched Thorne’s face, a fascinating canvas of ruin.
The man’s silver hair was disheveled, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped. But his eyes—those piercing blue eyes—were wide with a kind of horrified awe, fixed on the visible proof of what they’d just done, glistening on Minalan’s skin.
“So,” Minalan said, his voice a little rough, a smile playing on his swollen lips. “Keats or Byron for the seminar tomorrow? I’m leaning Byron.More dramatic. Seems fitting.”
Thorne blinked, as if shaken from a trance. He turned away, busying himself with straightening his own clothing, his movements stiff. “Don’t be glib.”
“I’m not. I’m genuinely curious. Also, I’m going to need a minute before I can walk down all those stairs. My legs feel like overstretched elastic.”
“Minalan.” Thorne’s voice was a low warning, but it lacked its earlier force. It was the sound of a dam cracked, the pressure still there but the structure compromised.
“Professor,” Minalan replied, matching his tone with a playful lilt. He reached for his discarded sweater, using it to casually clean himself up. “You’re looking very… post-coital. It’s a good look. Breaks up the whole ‘austere scholar’ thing.”
“This cannot happen again.” Thorne said it to the stone wall, his back still turned.
“You said that after the library. And after your office.” Minalan pulled his trousers up, wincing slightly. “And yet, here we are. Among the stars.” He gestured loosely at the painted constellations above them. “Or at least, their cracked-glass approximations.”
Thorne finally faced him. The conflict was alive in his eyes, a war between yearning and disgust. “Do you understand what is at stake?My career. Your future at this academy.”
“I understand that I’ve never understood Wordsworth until you read him aloud,” Minalan said, stepping closer. He kept his voice soft, intimate. “And I understand that you haven’t written a word of your own in a decade, you told me that. But your hands weren’t shaking when you were holding me just now.”
The professor flinched. That had landed, a direct hit to the unspoken truth. His creative drought, the sterile scholarship, the lonely years in this gothic pile—Minalan had dug it all out of him over whispered conversations in tucked-away corners.
“This is corruption,” Thorne muttered, but it sounded like a line from a bad play, rehearsed and hollow.
“It’s chemistry,” Minalan corrected gently. He was close enough now to smell the sweat on Thorne’s skin, the starch of his shirt, the unique scent that was just him. “Unplanned, undeniable, and currently leaking out of me. So, what now? Do we go back to parsing dead men’s sonnets and pretending I don’t know exactly what your throat sounds like when you come?”
The bell tolled again, marking the end of the period. The tower seemed to exhale around them, the urgency fading into a mundane afternoon.
Thorne’s shoulders slumped, a minute surrender. He ran a hand through his hair. “You have a preternatural talent for reducing cataclysm to casual commentary.”
“It’s a gift.” Minalan smiled, sliding his arms into his sweater. “My room.Tonight. After lights-out. It’s in the west wing, practically abandoned. No one ever goes there.”
“Impossible.”
“Bring your notes on The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. We can… discuss the thematic weight of the albatross.” Minalan’s green eyes glittered with mischief. “I’ll be the albatross. You can be the mariner. Seems appropriate.”
“You are the most vexing student I have ever had the profound misfortune to desire.” The words escaped Thorne in a rush, a confession so blunt it stunned them both for a second.
Minalan’s smile turned genuine, warm. He reached out, just for a moment, and let his fingers brush against Thorne’s clenched hand. “I know. So, are you punishing me, or rewarding yourself? Nine o’clock.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and started down the spiral staircase, his footsteps echoing on the stone. He took the steps slowly, sore in the most delicious way, feeling Thorne’s gaze burning into his back until he rounded the first curve.
Alone in the tower, Alistair Thorne let out a long, shuddering breath. He looked at his hands, then at the telescope mount, the ghost of a boy’s warmth still lingering in the metal. The silence now was absolute, and in it, he heard the crumbling of every wall he’d spent a lifetime building.
Downstairs, crossing the sun-dappled quad, Minalan felt the last of Thorne’s release slick against his skin.A secret. He tucked a wayward strand of dark hair behind his ear, a small, private smile on his face. He had an essay to write, a seminar to prepare for.
And a mariner to drown, later, in the quiet of the west wing.