Pseudology

Thirteen

EDITED 4/8/13

It was three weeks before Syril finally corned Morton to talk to him; for a well-known person, Morton Reid could seem to disappear at will.

Syril looked uncomfortable as he eyed Morton, who was sitting alone at one of the long tables in the dining hall, often called the ‘orangery’. Pale light streamed through the huge, arched windows and fell onto Morton’s dark brown, slightly curling hair and angular nose.

From a completely detached perspective, Syril- who had to repeat every day that he was in fact attracted to females, not males- could see the mysteriousness and the attractiveness of both of the Reid boys. Morton, being the oldest, was tallest and had the lighter hair of the two brothers that Syril had actually seen, though he had heard Morton say that the younger brother had much lighter hair than either of them. Morton’s curls were slight and only noticeable in the morning- by the afternoon, they had been smoothed down with clean hands. Adrian, on the other hand, had curls which were wild and nearly untameable; they were also considerably darker than Morton’s, nearly being the colour of inky mud. The younger brother was also much paler than Morton, and his eyes were more noticeable and much bigger. Both had reasonably good skin and slim physiques, though Adrian was a little more awkward. Yet both boys had an odd, old fashioned look about them which people found attractive and mysterious, and though Syril honestly wasn’t gay, he could see the attraction.

“Hey, you alrigh’ Mor’on?”

Morton snapped his head up and looked around, fixing his eyes onto Syril. Morton noticed he looked a little dishevelled- his sandy hair was a mess and his face looked paler than usual, stark against his dark tie and suit, which was donned in the last year of the lower school, year 11.

“Yes, I am Syril.”

“Wonderin’ whether we could have that chat?” Syril asked, trying to sound casual. He felt nervousness spread over his face in the form of a gentle pinkness.

“I suppose so, yes.” Morton grumbled, finishing his toast. He sat back and stretched his neck, his eyes resting on Syril. “Look… I-“

“Nah nah nah!” Syril chirped, throwing his hands up. “Don’t apologise! It was too late for me to come to speak to you anyway, and you had a righ’ to be grumpy.”

“I really don’t think I do, you know.” Morton sniffed, pushing hair from his face. “I had not right to snap at you.” There was a pause. “I was… frustrated and concerned.”

“’Bout your brother? Well, that’s actually what I want to talk to you abou’.” Syril suggested slowly, unsure of whether he was treading on fragile territory. Morton had rarely mentioned his brother when they’d been roommates in Year Nine, but Syril wanted to make sure Adrian was alright… for Morton’s sake. He’d seen Adrian pacing in the library several days a week and he seemed frail, almost like a wisp of a person since Morton had talked to him a few days ago.

“Yes. I am… concerned about my brother.”

“Why don’t we take this to the library, eh?” Syril suggested, and Morton nodded.

II

It was a dark day.

Storm clouds had been brewing since the early hours of the cold morning, and Adrian had been looking out of his window for an hour at the sky, noting the different shades of grey which stood out against the dull blue of the supposedly-summer rain. A cool breeze came in and out of the room; Adrian had opened his window at 2.34am when he’d woken up. He’d been awake for seven hours and three minutes, and he couldn’t stand it.