Work Text:
It was hot and crowded in the Lamb and Flag, worse than the usual Wednesday night crowd, but that was only to be expected at the end of term. Edmund had to shout to catch the barkeep’s attention, and then nearly spilled one of his pints on the way back to the table when a rowdy trio of students wobbled into his path. Luckily, his reflexes were as sharp as ever; Edmund lifted his arm out of the way at the last second, saving both his drink and his shirt.
Several fraught seconds later, obstacles successfully avoided, he slammed both drinks down upon the table and slid into his seat. “If I wasn’t so thirsty, I’d have suggested we meet at mine.”
“Yeah?” retorted Wilkins. “Do you even have space for more than one person in there?”
This was an excellent point. The room Edmund had been renting over the course of the semester was hardly larger than a water-closet. He was lucky the bed fit.
“The library, then,” Edmund amended, even though they both knew the library was still full of students who hadn’t yet finished their last exams. “Anyway, did you read it? What do you think?”
Wilkins had wrapped a hand possessively around one of the drinks. “Mm. Good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah. Well done.”
Edmund looked between the typewritten page and Wilkins’ too-earnest face. “Did you even read it?”
“I did!”
“And all you can say is ‘good?’”
Wilkins grimaced at Edmund, and then lifted his glass to deliberately sample his lager. He set the drink back down, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and said, “It’s good. Fine. It works. What do you want me to say?”
Fine was even worse than good. Edmund held back a groan in favour of sampling his own pint. Then he sighed and pulled the paper away from Wilkins. “I was hoping for something more enthusiastic.”
“It’s an interview with a librarian, Pevensie. Not exactly a thrilling tale of espionage and heroics.”
Edmund sighed again. It was true, and thus was the crux of his problem. None of the interview subjects he had been assigned during his first term working for the student paper had been particularly thrilling. And yes, he had known when he first volunteered to write articles focusing on “human interest” that the point was to delve into the peculiarities of each person’s normal life--finding the stories hidden beneath the surface--but it was harder than he’d anticipated.
Maybe it would have been easier if he could stop comparing them to the often larger-than-life characters he’d known back in Narnia.
“Speaking of librarians,” continued Wilkins, “Did I tell you what happened to--hold on, is that Chapman? One minute, Pevensie.” And before Edmund could say a word, Wilkins had abandoned his seat to disappear into the knot of students in the back corner of the pub.
Edmund shook his head goodnaturedly and looked down again at his article. He couldn’t deny that Wilkins’ assessment was correct: his interview with the librarian had been surface-level at best, and his write-up reflected that. He had been, to put it bluntly, too bored to bother putting in any more effort.
From across the pub, a flash of golden hair caught his eye. Peter, his brain supplied instantly—but just as quickly, he knew it was not his brother. Peter had never grown out his hair in England; that particular length had remained firmly in the Narnian past.
He shook his head and turned to look out the window instead--not that there was anything interesting out there, either. Nothing but the usual pedestrians on their way home from work, with vehicles passing on the street behind them. Dull, all dull.
“All alone, monsieur?”
Edmund lifted his head. It was the golden-haired man, the one he’d spotted across the room, now leaning quite casually against the table and watching Edmund with piercing grey eyes. Something about the man was instantly captivating, so much so that Edmund found himself motioning to the empty seat without hesitation.
“You look,” observed the man, “like you would rather be anywhere else.”
Edmund’s brow shot up. “Is it so obvious?”
“Perhaps not to your friend--” and here, the man nodded in Wilkins’ direction, “--but to anyone who bothers to take a closer look?” He shrugged.
“Not any where else , as such,” Edmund corrected. “ Some where else, specifically.”
Knowingly, the man said, “Ah. A lover?”
If only, Edmund thought, amused. “Home,” he answered.
“Ah,” said the man again, and lifted his glass of deep red wine in a toast. “To nostalgia.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Edmund, and did.
The man made a big show of bringing his wine to his mouth, but he did not drink deeply. Instead, he let the glass hover just below his lips, as if savouring the bouquet more than the taste. When he lowered the glass at last, a single bead of wine remained at the corner of his pale lips; then a tongue darted out, and the drop was gone.
As if he could follow the course of Edmund’s thoughts, the man explained, “I prefer the ritual of drinking wine over the taste itself. There is something about the experience that can be so… sensual.”
“Indeed,” said Edmund, feeling rather brutish with his half-finished pint of lager. His mind went to the rich vintages he’d preferred in his other life: earthy reds in golden goblets, sweet dessert wines in crystal glasses, crisp whites beside the fire at night.
“You are regretting your own choices, I see,” said the man. He slid his glass over the rough pub table, and offered, “Taste this, I implore you.”
And so Edmund set his beer aside and lifted the stranger’s cup to his lips. It was a fine vintage he had chosen, better than Edmund would have supposed this pub to carry. The taste lingered on his tongue as he passed the glass back, heavy and dense. “You are right,” he told the man, “I have a lot to regret.”
“Don’t we all?” The man left the glass in the middle of the table, sparkling in the dim light. His eyes flickered to the paper Edmund had left out. “May I ask?”
But no, Edmund did not want to think further on his failures as a journalist. “It’s nothing,” he said shortly, and swiftly folded the paper to return to the safety of his jacket pocket. But he didn’t want his denial to drive the man away, so he asked, “What brings you to Oxford?”
“Moi?” The man’s pale eyes glittered in amusement. “Many students gather in this hallowed town, this magnifique center of learning, do they not?”
“Yes,” Edmund allowed, “But you are no student.”
“Is it so obvious?”
“Perhaps not to some,” Edmund echoed.
“But you are taking a closer look?”
“Mais oui,” said Edmund, though the words felt heavy and awkward on his English tongue.
The man laughed. “Perhaps, I am looking for companionship. I find myself quite lonesome at times.”
And oh, how Edmund could relate. There were times he felt so alienated, so alone, here in this world. Only seven other people in this entire world knew who he really was, knew of the entire life he had already lived. No one else could ever hope to see past the surface.
He reached out, took another sip of the man’s wine. “Has it helped,” he asked, “coming to Oxford? To the Lamb and Flag?”
“It depends,” said the man.
For perhaps the first time, Edmund felt himself drawn to someone else in this world. There was something about this man--this pale-skinned, golden-haired man--that actually piqued his interest. There were depths, secrets lurking behind those strange grey eyes.
Depends on what, Edmund thought, except he must have asked it aloud because the man answered, “On whether you’d like to find someplace more… quiet.”
Edmund thought, very briefly, of the interview folded up in his pocket. He needed to hand it in tomorrow morning, which meant a rewrite tonight if he wanted to make it any better than good.
“Perhaps,” drawled the man, “you could interview moi?”
Something thrilling ran through Edmund’s veins. Was it the desire he could hear in the other man’s voice, or the secrets behind his eyes? Or was it the fact that he’d referenced an interview despite the fact that Edmund had not once said aloud what his article contained?
And so he leaned over the table and, in a low voice, offered, “I can think of more interesting things to do.”