"Listen, Quinn. I absolutely refuse to let you miss out on the last weekend of proper debauchery before term begins."

It's Saturday morning. The final few days before term begins. Jonathan just wanted to relax, read and roll around their shared flat enjoying the calm before the predictable intensity of the weeks ahead bore down upon him. Frankly, Jonathan couldn't be less than bollocksed with his friend's idea of a weekend of debauchery.

He waved a dismissive hand in his direction while devouring his morning toast with the other. "You and your rabble don't know the meaning of the word." He leaned back in his chair at their cosy breakfast table, sliding the folded morning paper towards him, rolling his head back in mock impatience before gracing his roommate with a narrow-eyed, disapproving stare. "A night in London until the early hours of Sunday morning might qualify."

"Well, unless you've got a rich sugar daddy hiding under the table between your legs right now, giving you the blowjob of your young and impressionable life, Quinn, that isn't going to happen," he replied good-humouredly.

"Cricket," Jonathan huffed into the teacup raised to his lips before turning his attention to the local and world events of the previous week.

Stephen Chaucer - stalwart friend and high IQ'd cohort-in-rabble-rousing - returned the disparaging look. "Merely a means of pacing ourselves for the rest of the day. And night ahead, of course." He leaned forward, those intense, grey eyes flecked china blue perfectly positioned above high, sharp cheekbones - very much a factor in the physical attraction that had drawn Jonathan into his orbit during fresher week - now working double time on massaging his weak spots. "A couple of nice, relaxing G and Ts on the sidelines of the lawn while watching perfectly pert arses ensconced in tighty whiteys that gloriously accentuate every curvy line that casts a shadow in the afternoon sun gliding up and down the playing field."

Jonathan placed his cup, acknowledging the sly grin on his roommate's face that indicated he knew he was on the winning side of this particular discussion. "You make a compelling argument."

Stephen's smile broadened in modest victory. "Part of my charm."

"You could at least pretend to be interested, Quinn."

"I am interested. This gin you've brought along is quite something, Chaucer…" Jonathan yawned into the back of his hand. "You've read Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, I take it?" he asked, sipping his tumbler of clear, cool liquid while tipping his head back to admire the crystal clear blue above him.

"Well, yes. When I was seven years old," Stephen replied matter-of-factly. "I wasn't born in a shed with my head up a cow's arse, you know."

Their other companions, Michael and Terence, laughed heartily. Jonathan didn't think it was especially amusing but given both were quite attractive looking and fancied his friend he let it go. Jonathan was keen to see the man set up sooner rather than later in the term so that he didn't have to suffer the distraction of a physical relationship during term time. He had significant plans and if those plans were to come to fruition, he had to play a long game to prove his worth. Shagging his way around the Cambridge Colleges did not factor into those plans.

Jonathan sat up with his back to the game to face the three of them. "So you are well aware the truths of the game of cricket expounded by Adams? Based on the Krikket Wars? It's poor taste, racially-motivated leanings? Charming and polite yet in possession of cosmocidal tendencies?"

Stephen waved his hand dismissively, gaze glancing slightly to the left over Jonathan's shoulder, eyes widening appreciatively while speaking his next words. Jonathan frowned and rolled his eyes at the boy's easily diverted attentions but didn't divert his own.

"Well quite," Stephen replied distractedly, "though all that doesn't preclude the fact that the fielder hurdling backwards towards us right now has quite the lovely set of—!" Stephen didn't have time to complete his sentence, rolling to the side. Jonathan half-turned his torso, a confused look on his face. The subsequent collision ended abruptly as it had begun, the fielder dipping down before the ball hit the ground close to Jonathan's back, stumbling backward, the momentum carrying him through and into a brief, rough tumble with the wiry student.

Jonathan shook dark, rumpled locks out of his eyes, to meet bright, sky blue ones staring back, blinking at him in bemused recognition.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Jonathan groaned, letting his head fall back on the manicured grassy softness beneath them. "Not you again!"

James' expression was irritatingly amused. Jonathan's, decidedly less so. Untangling himself smoothly from the boy beneath with little hesitation, he sat back on his heels and straightened up, offering his hand while he did so. Jonathan grabbed the proffered limb grudgingly. "You appear to be rapidly developing an unhealthy predilection for destroying my things," he grumbled irritably, releasing the grip and making a show of brushing himself down. Stephen stood up as well and took the few short steps to bring him astride his friend. He glanced at his back. "You look like you've been buggered by a frog, Quinn."

"Oh bravo, James! Good snare!" one of his teammates shouted across the field. James glanced over his shoulder with what Jonathan could only assume he thought was a devastating smile and flexed the wrist of the hand holding the cricket ball. He turned back to face Jonathan, who was still levelling him with what James could only assume he thought was a withering glare. "You should watch your back," said James smoothly with a casual, appraising tilt of his head. "I take it you still have my contact details from the other night in the pub?" he enquired, tossing the ball from one palm to the other while taking a step back towards the game.

Jonathan rolled his eyes when he felt a querying poke to his back ribs from Stephen and the muffled chuckles from their other two companions. "Oh never fear, my good man. The bill will be emailed to you before the weekend is out!" he called to his retreating back.

Stephen casually draped an arm across Jonathan's shoulders. "And who was that gorgeous bit of rough?" he asked in mock innocence. "Been holding out on me have you, Mr Quinn?"

"Gorgeous? Hardly," Jonathan replied incredulous, resuming his seat on the grass, facing the action this time for fear of coming a cropper once again.

Stephen flopped down alongside him. "Well, if you're not game, I certainly am," he ventured. "Did you see the size of his hands? He can play with my balls any time he bloody well pleases."

"For pity's sake, Stephen, you're nothing more than a walking lump of glandular ejaculate."

"I try," he chuckled, not diverting his eyes from James' stocky but attractive form, currently occupied with covering the distance between the stumps as swiftly as humanly possible.

"And is your gaydar completely gone awry? The man is obviously straighter than the international dateline."

"Even that has a few kinks in it," Stephen murmured into his drink, watching Jonathan expectantly with the occasional glance in the direction of the game.

Jonathan shook his head. Stephen was brilliant but he was more than capable of dumbing down said brilliance by being an insufferable arse at times. "What little I know of the offending article to which you refer, is more than enough given the nature of our encounters," Jonathan said crisply. He gave a put-upon sigh at the unfaltering gaze of his companion. "And to answer your question, all I know is he holds a position in the Navy, his email address and that he has been blessed with the most boring name in the world."

"Which is?" Stephen asked.

"Bond, James Bond."