The Fall Aesthetic

I.

Callum Humphries was never going to pass this course. Of that, Simon was positive. This was already the third week into HIST 306 and so far the red-head had managed to submit only one complete assignment. The first time he'd blamed hockey practice for distracting him, and the second time he'd laughed it off and said his roommate deleted it by accident. That blasé little gesture of his, running his fingers so effortlessly through ginger locks, had distracted Simon in turn and the TA found himself unable to reprimand the kid despite his best efforts. Blasted jocks and their lack of dedication. He didn't know why Humphries had insisted on taking the course anyway. He didn't need it for his general education credits, he was a bloody third year.

Clicking into the submitted assignment, Simon skimmed the first paragraph. He was...surprised, maybe, at how elegantly Humphries articulated his opening. So then, it wasn't for a lack of understanding or competence that the kid didn't do what he was asked. Simon frowned at the thought and continued reading through the paper, making notes as he went. Somewhere between the closing argument and bibliography, Toast, his roommate's werewolf of a cat, jumped up into Simon's lap and nearly startled him out of his wits. He clicked his tongue at the little Lykoi and gave it a good shoo. Toast simply hopped up onto the dining room table and sat beside the laptop, bright yellow eyes piercing into Simon's soul.

The brunette tsk'd at him. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, standing and clearing a plate of half-eaten frozen burrito. "You can't simply invite yourself up and expect me to drop everything for you." Simon discarded the plate in the sink and went to set the kettle off on the stove.

There was something therapeutic about making oneself a cuppa when the weather was poor. On this dreadfully dank September evening, it was raining as was not unusual for this part of New England. The weather had been outrageously cold this week. Simon sighed wondering if he ought to dig out his scarf for the walk to campus in the morning. On the table, his phone vibrated and the screen lit up with an email.

Subject: Extension request

From: callum.s.humphries.bsu.edu

Even without opening it, Simon was already rolling his eyes in frustration as he glanced at the notification that sprung up on his watch. What would the excuse be this time? Dog ate my homework, need to redo it? Simon scoffed to himself. At least Humphries was being proactive this time with his nonsense, rather than simply smiling away the whole situation without any belief in consequences. The brunette tapped the notification on his watch-face with more force than was necessary and read through it. Oh.

Humphries had a funeral.

Well now he felt like a complete knob.

Crossing the small space back to his laptop, Simon pulled open his correspondence and saw that he'd been cc'd on the email to Professor Lang. Guilt motivated him to hit reply and type out a quick little condolence, neither confirming nor denying the extension request. That was not his scope after all. Simon read it over a few times to be sure he was not coming off completely dry and impersonal, and then hit send just as the kettle whistled over the stove.

x.

Callum was sitting on the bench in front of his locker after that morning's practice, staring at the screen on his phone. He smelled of BO and faint orange blossom, his new shampoo still quite a contrast against the overwhelming stench of sweat and grime. Simon Foxhall had replied to his extension request overnight, but still there was no email from Lang. Cal sighed and set the phone aside to pull off his jersey. It looked like he'd have to swing by the History offices that morning before his flight. Ma would be furious if he turned up in Glasgow not having received confirmation from his professors that he was going to be out. Shucking his jersey aside and grabbing his things, Callum departed for the showers.

The red-head emerged a good twenty minutes later smelling even more strongly of orange blossom but instead of BO, there was a faint trace of sweetness about him: like cinnamon and spice. The air was brisk this morning as he made his way from the rink onto campus towards the history department. Everything was wet and glistening from the rain last night, but at least the sun had started to try and peek out from behind fluffy, white, after-rain clouds. Callum tugged a hat over his damp red hair as he went and shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets. He really hoped Lang would be free and willing to hear him.

The walk was short from the <BSU Rink> to the humanities building and, before long, Cal was knocking on the door to Lang's office. Instead of a balding head however, he was met with a somewhat familiar brunette fringe and a full-fledged backside. Callum tilted his head to the side, unwittingly, and creased his brows together. "Er-- Foxhall?" he inquired.

With a start the brunette straightened and rounded on him, blue eyes darting. He must have been perusing the graduates bookshelf for something very specific to not have heard Callum's approach.

"Yes. Humphries, right?" the blue-eyed gentleman inquired, not a hint of friendliness in his tone.

"Yeah," Callum replied, awkwardly. He'd never spoken much to Foxhall on his own but his general impression had always been that the TA was fairly engaging. It seemed odd to him that Foxhall was being so cold now. "I'm, er, looking for Professor Lang. I sent an email last night about an extension request and I fly out this afternoon."

Foxhall seemed surprised at the comment. "Fly out?" he echoed. "Where is this funeral?"

Was he even allowed to ask that? Callum wondered. Foxhall must have thought the same because a moment later this gaze dropped.

Callum hefted his hockey bag further up his shoulder.

"Glasgow," he replied simply. "It's for my grandfather."

Foxhall had the decency to at least look apologetic as he nodded. "I'm sorry for your loss," he intoned, dryly.

Callum shrugged. "I figured as much from your email last night."

A beat of silence passed between them.

"Well, er-- if you see Professor Lang, can you just let him know I stopped by and remind him about my email?" Callum finally tried. Foxhall seemed to snap back to life at that statement.

"Oh he told me this morning he's alright with the extension," the TA replied, moving towards a small pile of papers and a tomb the thickness of War & Peace on the corner of Lang's desk. "He also told me to give you these. It's the first few quizzes of term and an extra credit assignment. Grades for last week's essay were posted online last night." Foxhall moved to hand him a stack of papers and a squat, fat tomb.

Callum accepted the stack with a nod and tucked it under his arm, folding the papers over the side of the text without looking at them. He'd have plenty of time for that on the plane. "Thanks," he mumbled. There wasn't a hint of genuine thanks in the statement at all; more work was the last thing Callum wanted to worry about this coming week. It was already going to be a veritable zoo at home.

"If I were you I would take extra care with that assignment, Mr. Humphries," Foxhall cautioned. He had a very 'professor-y' tone sometimes that made Callum want to sit up straighter in his seat. "Your score thusly is lackluster at best, but that essay you turned in last week was excellent. I don't know what's going on, but you really should consider trying a little harder. You have great potential."

The look in his eye was sincere, if a bit cold. It felt almost like Foxhall was reciting the speech out of duty rather than genuine belief, but Callum didn't mind. What he resented was the implication that he was not already trying, and trying hard. A small furrow creased his brow, but he didn't comment. Foxhall was another problem for another day.