“For without friends no one would choose to live.”—Aristotle, Nichomachean Ethics BK VIII 1155a 1-8

*

Prologue—June 1998

Francis knows something they don’t. This is partly because she’s the professor and they’re her students, and it’s her job to know more than them. But there’s something else they don’t know, something beyond the boundaries of the Philosophy department that she helms. They can see it in her eyes, and she knows this. The way they gleam when she purses her lips together as if she is speaking into history and smiling at an old friend. It’s all intentional.

Francis takes pride in knowing something they don’t. She likes to keep people at arm’s length. It gives her leverage in a world where being one step ahead is a priceless artefact. She knows, too, that she needs to keep this particular group of students at a safe distance. Francis sees the way they look at each other when they think no one else is looking—especially Henry and Alexander. Boys who believe they are Gods will do dangerous things to each other, let alone to everyone else.

Francis knows something they don’t as she leans against the blackboard and rolls a piece of chalk between her fingers. A stripe of white dust stands out against her olive-coloured skin as she folds her hands against her arms.

‘Aristotle wrote that our most important goal in life should be to achieve complete moral alignment.’

The radiator in the corner of the room rattles, sending an echo through the bones of the almost empty classroom. Francis doesn’t let the sea of empty seats hurt her ego. It’s nothing new. Every August, she mulls over the class sheet for the upcoming school year, noting the ever-shrinking class sizes. If anything, it means that Philosophy is more of a secret shared between a few than a subject known by many.

‘It’s the reason we worship Gods; the crux of most religions lies on this very idea. Their perfection gives us something to strive towards. A blueprint. But you won’t gain this harmony by summoning a plague of locusts or moving the sun and sea. It takes something much more human.’

Francis’ lips purse together as she pronounces her Ms, as if she is kissing the dusty air around her. Her chest is rising and falling at a quick pace as she basks in the silence that fills the room. The weight of four pairs of eyes staring up at her act as the fuel to her machine. A machine that is constantly whirring and buzzing and tapping at a notebook, never pausing to take a breath.

‘You have to be a good person.’

She smiles, but she isn’t smiling at her students, she’s smiling deep into history, reliving the birth of the idea, the crux of which the lecture stands.

‘This gives us purpose. It gives us something to wake up for in the morning. And when you’ve become that, maybe your life will have meant something.’

The four students that sit in front of her reach for their pens, as if suddenly they have remembered that they are meant to be taking notes. The chairs groan as the group adjusts themselves, and the scratching of ink onto paper fills the silence that sits heavy on the crux of their necks, averting their stares downwards and onto their desks.

They could each achieve greatness if they just put their minds to it. If only they weren’t so callous and caught up in their pride. Once, Francis caught Julian—the boy sitting the furthest away from her—with a penknife held up to each of their palms. ‘To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods,’ he had claimed. Boys who are this close, they aren’t good for one another.

But Francis isn’t looking at the boys. Her gaze is firmly set on the strip of sunlight that is illuminating the motes of dust drifting through the air. Her brows are furrowed, and her eyes twitch. She stares out of the window as a blackbird hops along a tree branch.

Incense swirls around them, creating a division between the world within the classroom and the hallway outside.

A solitary arm lingers in the air.

‘Do you think any of us have reached that?’

Julian has posed this question as a half-joke, and it lingers in the air as such, before finally falling onto the desk in front of Francis with the weight of a serious accusation.

A coy smile emerges at the sides of her lips. ‘Almost.’

*

Act One—September 1998

A sense of grandeur and the thick smell of cigar smoke hang in the air of a wooden-panelled, dimly lit dining room. It is filled with identical rows of wooden tables and benches. Paintings of academics—noticeably all men—hang around the room. Henry and Alistair don’t seem to notice this fact when they come bundling into the room. An elderly scholar, sat by the entrance, sucks air in through his teeth as they clatter against his chair.

Alexander, who has been waiting for them with eager anticipation, rises, arms outstretched. ‘O, come, be buried / A second time within these arms!’

Alexander and Alistair immediately embrace, like brothers who have returned from war. Henry looks like he wants to, but something unspoken stops him from doing so. Instead—

‘Have a good summer, old boy?’

Before Alexander can answer, Julian slams himself down in his seat.

‘Sorry chaps. Didn’t mean to be a straggler.’ Julian speaks—as he has since he was a boy—like he is the Speaker of the House of Commons. He probably will be, one day, if his ego doesn’t get in the way of his ambition. 

Henry raises his glass. ‘A toast. For without friends, no one would choose to live.’

The men echo his sentiment and take a swig of their drinks.

Alexander leans across the table. ‘Francis didn’t bore you too much with Ancient Philosophy last year, then.’

Henry smiles, more to himself than to Alexander. ‘Not at all.’

There is something else Henry wants to say, but—

Julian beckons to a young waiter, who fills his empty glass to the brim. He gulps down his drink as the others look on in bemusement.

Alistair coughs, lightly. ‘Good wine is a good familiar creature if it be well used.’

Across from them, a cluster of men are watching Julian. Alexander nods in their direction. ‘Jules…watch it.’

Julian is too busy using spit on the end of his thumb to rub a wine stain out of his crisp, white shirt. ‘What? Can a man not enjoy himself?’

Alexander rubs his temples, a heat of embarrassment growing inside him. ‘It’s not a good look, is it? The Dean’s son, swigging back a gallon of wine. Your reputation already precedes you.’

Julian looks up as a scowl begins to form on his face. ‘And what kind of reputation do you have, mate? At least I’m building something for myself.’

Alexander’s hand knocks onto the table. More students turn and look their way. Francis is watching now, too. ‘I suspect it was hardly a challenge, what with daddy’s money padding your pockets.’

As if something has awakened within him, Julian lurches across the table at Alexander. ‘Listen here, you—’

*

Alexander leans against a wall, icing his nose. ‘He’s a prick.’

Henry stands next to him, holding Alexander’s blazer, which is streaked with blood. ‘He always has been. Some things, they’re bound to stay the same.’  

Laughter emits from down the corridor as a group of men leave the dining hall. Henry takes the ice pack from Alexander and holds it firmly against his nose. Alexander flinches.

There is a sorry look in Alexander’s eyes. ‘It’s late. You should go.’

Henry shakes his head. ‘Can Ceyx then sustain to leave his Wife?’

Alexander collects his thoughts. ‘And unconcern’d forsake the Sweets of Life?’

‘You didn’t forget.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Know’st thou not me? Not yet unhappy Wife? / Or are my Features perish’d with my life?’

‘Henry—’

‘—There’s something I need to talk to you about.’

Alexander glances around, a shade of suspicion hardening his expression. ‘Then let’s talk later.’ He shakes himself free from Henry’s grasp. ‘Go and join the others. I’ll meet you at our spot.’

Henry nods, defeated, and walks away. He turns back to steal a look at Alexander, who doesn’t notice him. Alexander’s eyes are shut as he leans into the wall, grinding a sore spot on his left shoulder onto a particularly jagged stone. Somewhere down the corridor, a lightbulb flickers, and a shadow changes shape. For the briefest of moments, Alexander considers remaining in place. Then, after a deep breath, he follows Henry down the corridor.

*

            The boating lake, tucked away at the very edge of campus, hides all manner of sins. Henry is more aware of this fact than ever before as he descends the uneven stone steps that lead to the shore.

Julian shoves a bottle of wine into his back as he tries to hurry Henry on. Henry notes that darkness makes Julian appear scrawny, weak. The dark patches under his eyes appear more prominent as shadows dance upon his face, and his coat practically swallows him whole. Henry reaches the bottom step and turns around, watching as Julian descends the rest of the steps. Julian sways each time his foot meets the floor. The sickly-sweet smell of red wine permeates the space between them.

‘Watch it. You’ve caused enough of a scene tonight.’ Henry says, holding an arm out for Julian to steady himself with.

Julian snarls into his face. ‘Oh, piss off, Henry.’

A crowd has gathered by the edge of the lake, which gently laps against the shore. There is something in the murky water that makes Henry’s stomach flip. Perhaps it’s the lack of knowing exactly where the water ends, and the treeline in the distance begins. The faces in the crowd are illuminated by the bonfire that is crackling on the rocky shore. A ripple of whispers travels around the group as, one by one, they part like the Red Sea. Henry moves towards the front of the crowd, who are looking past him and watching Julian with a collective curiosity. Henry closes his eyes and lets the warmth of the fire lick his face.

Julian pushes his way to the front and stands next to him. Henry looks down at Julian’s hands: his knuckles are white as they grip the wine bottle. Julian inches closer to him so that the wine bottle is pressed against his hip. Henry tries to shift away from him, but the crowd has formed a tight circle.

Julian fishes out a cigarette from his inner pocket and clumsily lights it. He manages to take a few drags before someone knocks into him and it falls to the floor.

Julian leans into Henry and murmurs under his breath. ‘Forbid us something, and that thing we desire.’

Henry doesn’t respond.

This only causes Julian to lean in further so that his warm breath washes over Henry’s ear. ‘Did they not teach you any Chaucer out there? Christ.’

Julian points his bottle in the direction of two boys, who are lingering on the outskirts of the crowd. ‘You know, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but some of this lot, they can be a bit que…’ He belches, and the rest of his sentence gets distorted.

Henry looks around him for a way to slip into the shadows without Julian noticing.

A ripple moves through the crowd as someone begins to pass around bottles and cans. People push around him, and the cold sensation of Julian’s wine bottle against his skin vanishes. Henry glances over to where Julian had stood, but he has disappeared, leaving footprints in the sand and a rancid smell of cigarettes and wine.

*

There is a certain amount of solitude in this part of the grounds that isn’t granted elsewhere. Perhaps it’s because no one in their right mind would venture down to the Boathouse in their spare time, especially not at nightfall. It is situated between tall growing maple trees that swallow the sky above, and finding it takes navigating uneven ground and discarded planks of rotting wood.

Alexander has been pacing for over an hour now. He has flung the doors that lead onto the lake open, and the sight of the vast body of water makes the hair on his arms stand up. A huddle of stars peers down from him over the distant valleys. Moonlight seeps down through a break in the clouds and bounces off the calm water. In the distance, singing. As dry air slowly emanates from the water, Alexander rolls up his sleeves. He stops pacing at the sound of an echo.

‘Henry?’ He turns around to face the door, the hairs on his neck tickling his shirt collar.

No response.

Alexander turns his back on the direction of the noise. The countryside speaks in a language of its own. It must be nothing more than a woodland animal.

He stares out, across the lake. The leaves that overhang across the top of the Boathouse are metamorphosing into a violent shade of red. He wonders what it feels like, to grow attached to something grander than yourself, to change, to die. And then, before Alexander can begin to process what is happening: a yell, a flash of skin, a hit of something heavy to the head, and—

Alexander’s body floats in the water, face down, arms splayed. It shudders, distorts, and bubbles rise above the surface. His arms flail and grab at the air as if he can collect enough oxygen to outset the water that has begun filling his lungs. Blood seeps into the dark water around him, turning it a diluted red.

By the time Henry finds him, his body is calm, unmoving, amongst the ripples of water.

*

The first noise that leaves Henry’s mouth is a scream. His inward Soul with Grief oppresst, that rips through him at the sight of Alexander’s body. It is a guttural noise that reverberates through the trees, rustling the leaves.

The second noise he makes is a twisted line of verse. It is inaudible over the splashes as he throws himself into the water. ‘No… more…Alcyone…’

Henry lunges and grabs Alexander by the neck of his jumper. The material, once soft, sticks to his body like a wet newspaper on tarmac.

Henry tries to heave Alexander onto his back, but this only pushes them both below the water. The two of them become one, as Henry clings to Alexander. Their bodies twist together as Henry thrashes in the water, turning them upside down. They haven’t been this close together since the last night before summer, and a pang of remembrance shoots through Henry’s body.

Now driv’n ashore, and at her Feet it lies

            After what feels like an age, Henry finds his footing against the bottom of the lake and pushes them up, out of the water. He lays Alexander down on the floor of the Boathouse and tilts his head to the side to feel his pulse. His skin is deathly pale, and the way that his hair is slicked back makes him look frail. A cloud has rolled over the moonlight, hiding the scene from the judgement of Heaven above.

She knows too much, in knowing whom she sees

A glint of hope in Henry’s stubborn mind tries to convince him that it isn’t Alexander. It couldn’t possibly be. Boys like him don’t just die. And they’re not just boys, they’re something much greater. There’s a reason Francis can’t quite look them in the eye. Julian is always telling them that in another life, they would have been Gods. 

And in a minute, Alexander is going to take a breath and prove Julian to be correct.

Henry has to pry his eyes away from the body to come to its senses. When he turns back, the truth hits him right in the centre of his chest, and he stumbles back.

Her Husband’s Corps; at this she loudly shrieks.  

With trembling hands, Henry forces his weight onto Alexander’s chest. His body moves in jolting bursts as he mutters—pleads—to Alexander to come on, just wake up. Henry presses his ear against Alexander’s mouth. He thinks he can sense the ghost of a breath—but he could be imagining it, or it could be his own.

Henry uses his last dregs of strength to pound his hands a final time into Alexander’s chest. Alexander’s body moves helplessly at the force of this impact, and his head turns ever so slightly to the left.

To print a Kiss, the last essay of Love:

Henry parts Alexander’s lips, which are as delicate as the petals of a rose. He presses his own lips onto them and blows what feels like all of the air left in his chest.

Whether the vital Touch reviv’d the Dead, / Or that the moving Waters rais’d his Head

            Alexander convulses, his chin rising and jutting with Henry’s. He splutters up water, a helpless act that Henry could watch him do for the rest of his life. Henry pushes Alexander’s hair back and cradles his head in his arms.

To meet the Kiss, the Vulgar doubt alone; / For sure a present Miracle was shown.

            ‘I thought I’d lost you…’ Henry mumbles as he sits Alexander up against the walls of the Boathouse.

There is a gash on the side of Alexander’s head, which Henry gently dabs with his sleeve. Alexander limply lifts an arm and points at the floorboards nearest to the water. Shards of glass from what looks like a wine bottle shimmer in the moonlight. He turns back to Henry and beckons him close. ‘Some villain hath done me wrong,’ he mutters, before his eyes gently close.

These words sit heavy in Henry’s gut. He looks out across the water, and then back at Alexander. His Ceyx, resurrected. The old Gods are dead yet have been reborn in these boys—these immortal, magnificent boys. Francis is right to be afraid of them.