"Read rather a lot of nineteenth-century erotica. Also investigated claims that Marcus Aurelius is a good read; he is, but not how Davies said he was, more depressing-funny than philosophically revelatory. Which is better, in my opinion. Saying 'the Meditations are rubbish' makes you sound like an idiot, 'the Meditations made me rethink my life' is fine but dull - but 'the Meditations should've been printed as comedy' makes you sound like you have something to say. Which I don't, of course, but it's a point of pride to sound like I do."

"...okay but that all actually sounds fascinating and I want to hear what you have to say about it." He starts getting rid of his clothes, off with his shoes and socks and jacket and everything else. And he doesn't even need to shower or brush his teeth because he is perfectly clean. "Why nineteenth century erotica? And what's up Marcus Aurelius?"

"The Victorians were sick in the head, the bollocks, and everywhere in between. I have an academic interest in both subjects. Marcus Aurelius was the last halfway decent Roman emperor, by all accounts, and his Meditations were a journal he kept that was published after his death by people who thought the last good emperor must've been onto something. Unfortunately the man was constantly miserable, and his journal's not so much 'what is the nature of a man' as 'here's my five reasons I'm not killing myself today, to refer back to when I want to kill myself later'. Which isn't so funny in its own right, poor bastard, but what's funny is that people think, because he was posh and clever and used grandiose language in his therapy homework, that he was a philosophical genius. He's the root of the whole Stoic school of philosophy! If someone gave him Prozac he'd've never said half that shit!"

"...I must be a terrible person because I do actually find that funny in its own right," Pete says, fishing his phone from his pocket before getting rid of the rest of his clothes and climbing up to his bed. "Maybe the text itself isn't. But who amongst us et cetera et cetera."

"Who indeed."

Hywel does not hide his appreciation of the view as Pete climbs, but he doesn't comment either. (He's performing his own nightly rituals, including some very arcane moisturizing.)

Pete flops on the bed and decides it might be a good time to Google the whole concept of "Transfers" or "Travelers". But in the meantime: "Soooo, I heard there's this girl that caught your eye."

"God, yes. Sophie, lovely Sophie Hara... She hit me, once. With a badminton racket. It left my cheek with a hash-mark, and I lined it with eye pencil for days until it faded."

He sporfles into his pillow before lifting his head to look at Hywel again. "That's a response. Why did she hit you with a badminton racket?"

"Told her she should give me a token, like a medieval knight, and when she said she didn't have a handkerchief I said you've got some cotton on you, that skirt's not long enough to - well. She didn't let me finish."

He has to spend a few more seconds laughing into his pillows. "Jenkins, you need to tailor your passes to your audience. Why on Earth did you expect that to—get you anything, really, other than that?"

"You're talking as though I got anything other than what I wanted."

"Is that so. I thought what you wanted was for Sophie Hara to like you."

"Oh, she doesn't. Like, that is. Her scorn is legendary. Better men than me have tried for her heart, and they've had as much impact as the whistling wind; I, a clever fool, content myself with her spleen."

...Pete props his head up on his elbow and peers at him.

Hywel is a dirty, rotten liar.

"I see. Well, if your heart's desire is scorn, far be it from me to deny you it."

"You couldn't if you tried."

With that Hywel climbs into his own bed, wearing no more than Pete, and flicks off his side of the lights.

It was probably just his imagination that made that sound heartbreaking. He's not sure Hywel has a heart to break and if he did he would absolutely not show it to Pete on such early acquaintance.

Off with his lights, too. "G'night, Jenkins."

"Night, mate."

He doesn't immediately sleep—he has a phone, and Googling to do, and besides he is awful at actually falling asleep—but hopefully he will wake up well-energized and ready for a new day and all that jazz. He's a Mary Sue, after all.