It was never his intention to end up here, in the same place he’d spent was what both the best and worst years of his youth. But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like it.

Ever since Julian’s abrupt departure from Hampden during all the business with Bunny’s death, the Lyceum has remained empty of all humanity, but physically remained the same. The same books in the same places, dirty cups remained in the sink of the small side room, the curtains still half-drawn. When starting his career at Hampden, Henry adopted the office as his own, keeping everything the same, of course.

He liked his time there. He enjoyed being able to wear suits without the constant question as of ‘why’. He was a professor now, the ‘why’ answered itself. He could spend all his time in the ghost of Julian’s presence, sat in his chair, using his old montblanc. He also got to be the smartest in the room, constantly. No higher up treating him as just some kid. He did everything the same as Julian had once done before him. His induction to the class was just as elusive and selective. Just like when he was there, only five students. Five students he could mould and create into whatever he wanted.

What did seem to shake him, however, was you. When he first met you, he’d recognised a younger version of himself in you. Maybe not in the way you behaved or dressed, but in your soul. In your soul, he saw his own. He saw the insatiable appetite for knowledge, the kind of obsession that he’d only ever known in himself.

And he saw him and Julian in the relationship you shared. Where Henry’s desire for praise was more secretive, yours was the most obvious he’d ever seen. He saw it in the way you left extra pieces of work on his desk, he saw it in the way you mimicked his dress and aesthetic. Was this what Julian saw when he saw him, he wondered.

But Henry couldn’t help but indulge it. His hand lingered on your chair in passing, he left extra notes on your work, he dropped off copies of Virgil at your apartment. He couldn’t quite help himself. The relationship only grew from then, into rides home from late night lectures, to quiet extra lessons in the back of the library.

Or course, you’d heard the rumours that had spread around campus. That the reason you were top of the class was because you were sleeping with him, or you were only in the class because you had some obsessive crush. Even your friends had questioned the relationship, in more of a concerned way, however. But you ignored it all, because the way his words and praise made you feel was incomparable to anything you had ever felt before.

“I thought you weren’t fond of Homer.” He said, standing in front of your chair, fingertips pressed against your copy of The Iliad that you’d left on the side table next to your chair (the chair he used to sit in during his study at Hampden, he noted). You did this often, packing up your notes slower than the rest of your class, stopping to tie up your shoes whilst the rest of the class left, just so you had an excuse to stay with him for longer.