Chapter Text
The first thing Alex learned about Oxford was that the cobblestones were a personal attack.
He’d barely been in England for a week, but already his suitcase wheels had given up, his shoes were soaked through, and his umbrella had decided to commit honorable suicide somewhere near the High Street.
The only thing he was certain of was that this was not the cinematic experience he’d half-imagined when he got his acceptance letter. No golden light. No swelling orchestral music. Just rain. Lots and lots of rain.
Down in the hall, the morning bustle was polite but subdued. Steam rose from somewhere within. Someone laughed a little too loudly, earning several raised eyebrows. Alex poured himself coffee that tasted faintly of burnt toast and sat alone at the edge of a long oak table. Around him, accents tangled. Scottish, London, Midlands, and something Welsh he couldn’t quite place. His Southern American vowels felt tangy in comparison, like coins that didn’t fit in any slot.
He told himself this was why he’d come - a new experience, to start over somewhere where no one already knew him.
When he’d accepted the offer from Balliol, everyone back home had congratulated him, even if it wasn’t exactly what his parents expected. Oxford! Incredible! History, right? You’ll love it!
What he hadn’t told them was that love had very little to do with it. Don’t get him wrong, he loved history, but it was mainly the distance between himself and the arguments, the half-finished things, the house that had started to feel like a photograph of his own life.
Now here he was, holding a cup of less-than-ideal coffee and a half-formed hope that maybe across an ocean he could become who he wants to be.
After his first two lectures, he’d decided to explore. His next lecture wasn’t until the afternoon, anyway. He left the building, stuffed his hands in his coat pockets, and let the streets lead him.
Oxford was older than logic. Lanes curved without warning, alleys opened into sudden quads. Every building seemed to lean inward, as if whispering secrets to its neighbors.
And when he reached the Bodleian courtyard, the world narrowed to the smell of wet stone and paper.
The library’s door resisted slightly before giving way, and he stepped into a warmth that smelled like dust and polish. Rows of oak desks, shelves stretching into dim corners, the smell of old paper - it was the sort of place that made him believe in time travel.
He was still standing there, shaking the rain from his hair, when a voice from behind him said, “You’re dripping on the floor.”
The accent hit Alex. Low, unbothered, very British.
He turned.
The person behind the counter looked a bit older than him - tallish, slim, in a dark sweater (sorry, jumper) rolled at the sleeves. He was stacking books with calm precision, moving like he’d done it a thousand times. His hair was blonde and a little messy, like he’d run a hand through it and then given up. There was a tiny name badge clipped to his jumper: H. Fox.
“Sorry,” Alex said quickly, dragging a sleeve across his forehead. “Still getting used to the whole atmospheric-moisture thing.”
“Welcome to Oxford,” he said dryly. “We schedule rain between lectures.”
Alex grinned. “Guess they must’ve forgotten to add it to my schedule.” Then he added, “But hey, character building, right?”
“Or mold-building,” the person said, deadpan. Alex really needed to figure out a name for this guy. His name probably started with an H, so Harry? Hank? Hunter? He looks kind of like a Hunter.
A laugh escaped before Alex could swallow it. “Guess I’ll learn to ventilate.”
Hunter’s mouth curved up just a little bit. “First year?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Only to people who remember what it felt like.”
For a moment, neither spoke. Then an older woman emerged from who-knows-where, cardigan buttoned crookedly and glasses balanced at the end of her nose.
“Henry, dear,” she said, “stop terrifying the freshers. We like to keep them long enough to become donors.”
So not a Hunter then.
Henry sighed. “Mrs. Pembroke, I’m not-”
She waved him off. “You are.” Her eyes twinkled at Alex. “Ignore him, sweetie. He’s perfectly nice once he’s had another cup of tea and three hours to catalogue his feelings.”
Alex tried not to laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good lad. North tables are warmest, by the way. We keep the heaters alive for sentimental Americans.”
“Mrs. Pembroke,” Henry muttered, but there was a small flicker of affection in it.
Alex ducked toward the suggested tables, heart lighter than it had been all morning. He found a seat by the window where light pooled across the desk in soft gold. Outside, the rain had slowed to mist.
He turned on his laptop, opened a blank document, and did absolutely nothing productive.
Instead, he watched Henry move between shelves, calm and deliberate. Once, Mrs. Pembroke said something that made him smile properly, brief but very real, and the sight tugged at something inside Alex he didn’t have words for.
He told himself it was just curiosity, the kind that came with newness, with noticing details because you don’t know what else to hold on to yet.
Still, when Henry brushed past his stable to shelve a stack of books, Alex’s pulse jumped as if the air itself had leaned closer.
By afternoon, his doc was still empty. He packed up and stepped back into the courtyard, where the rain had resumed. Under the archway, he took out his phone and texted his best friend and sister, Nora and June, back home.
Their replies came faster than expected.
He laughed, earning a side-eye from a passing student.
He slipped the phone away, still smiling.