Inescapable History, Inescapable Fates

Henry Is An Imperialist Twat

"I'm not supposed to have a roommate," Henry told Shaan, looking at the short Latino boy in his dorm room, "get him away from me,"

He knew it was an incredibly mean thing to say. The boy glowered at Henry like he was planning to kill him. Shaan pulled Henry out of the room and quickly began text, probably the dean of Sandhurst, Jefferey Richards. Henry was returning for his second year at the military academy and had been promised a private room. Being part of Britain's most powerful military family and son of Arthur Fox, former director of M15, tragically killed in a terrorist attack on the British embassy in Pakistan. The loss still tore through Henry at random moments. The first day of school was one. His father was supposed to be here, beaming with pride. Instead, Arthur Fox was a vile of ashes on his mom's dresser.

Shaan looked up from his phone, "they miscounted beds, there's nothing I can do."

Henry peered through the door. The boy, man, he had to be at least eighteen to be at the military academy, was reading some comically thick volume that looked like it was pulled out of Bodleian Library circa 1534. Tousled curls poured over his forehead and eyes as he focused, like a creature taken straight from Henry's most horrid academically-themed wet dreams. That was another reason Henry needed a room to himself. He wanted to explore his sexuality with other, equally closeted men without having to work around a roommate's schedule. And he definitely did not need to see THAT walking out of the shower dripping wet every morning, or nervously chewing a pencil as it studied, or - god forbid- curled around a pillow in loose pajamas.

"You must do something, I don't even think he's a Sophomore." The color of Alex's fob confirmed it, (red for freshmen, blue for sophomores), "They roomed me with a first-year!"

He was being stuck up and prissy. Shaan probably hates me, Henry thought. But Shaan stayed incredibly neutral, on Henry's side, always. Always since Arthur died. "I will schedule a meeting with the administration. Try to get along with him for now?"

Henry sighed but ducked into the small dorm and threw his stuff on the bed. He turned to the boy, who was reading "A Collection of Important Documents in the History of International Human Rights Law." If Henry kept staring at the boy reading human rights law, he was going to get a boner. Instead, he snapped at him, "Hey, this is the center of the room." Henry motioned to the invisible line dividing the room. "Keep your stuff on your side."

Alex stood up, dropped his book on Henry's side, and shoved past him, hard, to get to the bathroom. "Fuck you, imperialist twat."

Henry picked up the book and flipped through it. The boy had written notes everywhere on the page in Spanish. Henry wished for a moment he could read the scrawled notes. He shut the book. This was a dangerous game, reading this stranger's books and watching him from a distance.

The water turned on in their shower. The boy was showering. A dangerous game. Well, he might as well jump.

Henry opened the book and flipped until the notes stopped halfway through the Convention Against Torture. He flipped back to the start of the treaty and tried to read it with the fascination the boy did. The language was just so dry. Henry was a literature geek, the legalese felt barely readable. But the swooping pencil marks and circles told a different story. What could that boy see in these clauses that Henry couldn't?

"Reading what your parents never taught you?" The boy said, emerging from the shower steamy and half-naked.

"Excuse me?" Henry said sharply. Averting his eyes.

"Nothing." The boy strode to his side of the bed and pulled on a shirt to match his sweatpants. "You're Arthur Fox's kid."

The words hit Henry like a ton of bricks. He couldn't breathe. He felt searing pain crash into his sinuses and he blinked hard to hold back tears. "Yeah. I don't want to talk about it."

The boy laughed without humor. The shape of his mouth turned cruel. "Only the British and Yanquis are surprised when their warmongers die in war."

Henry stood, "My dad was- What are you doing at Sandhurst then? Hmm? If you think Brits should die?"

The boy flushed red and didn't respond. Henry moved to put the book on the boy's desk. He was up in a flash. The boy grabbed Henry's wrist where it hovered above the desk.

"You're on my side." He said, tearing the book from Henry's hand and physically shoving him back across the centerline.

The sudden violence. Or not violence, but physicality. It took Henry's breath away. They stood facing each other, at an impasse.

"Where are you from?" Henry asked. And immediately realized he should have asked for the boy's name first, a more reasonable request.

"Not your fucking business, somewhere where we didn't have to marry our cousins for centuries." The boy said, falling into his bed.