Blake Hart
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Roomies Before Arms – Part 4
🕑 Added 2025-06-01 16:00:15 +0000 UTCEveryone in this story is 18+
The Eton Winter Formal was always absurd. Gilded hallways, rented chandeliers, and teenagers pretending to be forty-five-year-old diplomats. Someone had even arranged for a champagne fountain, though it was mostly sparkling elderflower.
My date clung to my arm like we were debuting in a period drama. Her name was Élise de Bourbon, because of course it was. She was an actual Bourbon princess, and she said things like “chérie” and “noblesse oblige” without irony.
I’d asked her partly because she was beautiful, yes—but mostly because I’d overheard Gabriel Kingsley say she was “the only fitting date for me.” Which meant he wanted her. Which meant I had to ruin that for him.
She talked endlessly—about riding in Provence, the horrors of state-run healthcare, how her cousin once dated a Grimaldi. I listened politely, nodded at the right moments, even made her laugh once or twice. But my attention drifted constantly.
Across the room, I spotted Sebastian near the back wall, dressed perfectly but lingering like an afterthought. He stood beside a tall potted plant like he was trying not to offend it. A flute of the non-alcoholic fizz hung limply from his fingers.
I excused myself from Élise under the pretense of getting more drinks. She pouted, but let go of my sleeve.
I slipped through the crowd and appeared beside Sebastian like fog. “You look like you’re debating whether or not to just climb into that plant and hide.”
He startled slightly. “I didn’t think you saw me.”
“I have a preternatural awareness for people trying not to be seen,” I said. “Also, you’re standing under the only working spotlight. Bit of a giveaway.”
He offered a smile, awkward but real. “Your date looks… glittery.”
“She is,” I said. “About as subtle as Versailles.”
He glanced over, then back at me. “You’re not really interested in her.”
It wasn’t a question.
“No,” I said. “But Gabriel is. So.”
Sebastian blinked. “You stole a date just to annoy Kingsley?”
I raised my glass. “He’s very easily annoyed and I was bored.”
He looked at me for a long moment, then huffed a soft laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“True. But elegant.”
A beat passed.
“You clean up well,” I said, nodding toward his outfit. “Is that a real pocket square, or are you just mocking the concept?”
He flushed. “It’s real.”
“Impressive.”
Before he could reply, Élise called my name from across the room—drawn-out, lilting, and just this side of theatrical.
“Duty calls,” I said with a small bow. “Try not to actually die of awkwardness while I’m gone.”
He gave me a look that might’ve been a smirk.
And for the first time that night, I actually smiled.
◆◆◆
Later that night and by lights out, Sebastian still hadn’t come back to our room.
I told myself he was probably reading somewhere, or had fallen asleep in some forgotten nook of the library. But something gnawed at me. A kind of low-grade unease I couldn’t shake.
So I pulled on a coat over my shirt sleeves and slipped out into the cold.
The grounds were slick with frost, the air sharp enough to wake the dead. I checked the usual haunts—now-empty corridors, the chapel steps, the covered walk. Nothing.
I was about to head back when I caught a flicker of movement near the stables. A soft sound—something between a whisper and a whine.
I followed it.
He was there. Sebastian. Curled on an upturned bucket, coat unbuttoned, hair mussed by wind. He was gently feeding a foxhound, one of the older ones they sometimes paraded out for ceremonial photos and made the younger boys clean up after.
The dog was resting its greying muzzle in his lap like it had found its one safe place in the world.
Sebastian didn’t look up as I approached, but his voice broke the quiet.
“They wear red coats, blow horns, and call it tradition,” he murmured. “But it’s still just a pack of men chasing something helpless.”
I stopped beside him. The scent of hay and damp fur and winter air wrapped around us.
“Did something happen?” I asked, keeping my voice soft.
He shrugged. “Gabriel said something. Again. Something about how the blood in my veins probably smells like fast food and… social climbing.”
I let out a long breath. “He’s an insufferable ass.”
“He’s right, though,” Sebastian said, his hand idly stroking the dog’s ears. “Not about the fast food. But about not belonging. This world—it’s like some grotesque play, and I keep forgetting my lines.”
“You’re doing fine,” I said.
He huffed. “I iron my socks.”
“...Right,” I admitted. “Well. Maybe not fine. But impressive.”
That got a flicker of a smile.
He scratched under the hound’s chin. “When I was seven, I saw this traveling circus. Tiny, scrappy thing—barely a tent. But they had a man who walked on stilts, and a girl who could swallow fire, and three dogs that danced in top hats. I was obsessed.”
I looked down at him, his pale face half-lit by the moonlight slanting through the stable slats. “You wanted to run away with them.”
“I still do,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Not as a clown, obviously. I’d be rubbish at that.”
“No,” I said, sitting beside him on the cold bench. “You’d be the one who escapes the knife-thrower every night. Everyone would hold their breath.”
He smiled again, faint but real.
The foxhound shifted, pressing its weight more fully into him.
“You really like animals,” I said.
“They don’t lie,” he replied.
And for a moment, we just sat there—me, Sebastian, and the foxhound that no one else bothered with.
