-3-

"Mihael, how in God's name did you come up with this?"

The blonde smirked, letting his feet rest up on the table in front of him. "It wasn't all that, Mail. It was just my term report, didn't take much thought."

Mail's eyes widened at that little remark, and held up the papers in front of him, as if it were a godly gift. "You're completely revising some of the most well-known theories in our world, and you're telling me it wasn't much thought?"

"Well I didn't realize you took such interests in your schooling, sorry for offending you,"

Mail scoffed, setting the papers on the table, running his fingers through his blood-maroon hair. "God, I swear..." he shut his eyes, letting his head fall back upon the support of the chair, "You're one of the most self-assured men I've ever met,"

"Thanks,"

The library was emptying out for dinner, and not many remained amongst its halls of books. Early spring had risen it's head from the cracks of winter, and Mail's family had returned once again from Scotland, (hearby denying Mail of some of the perks of living by himself). The two had grown closer, and frequently would meet up somewhere or another to talk about whatever the daily topic was.

The more time Mail spent with Mihael, however, the more he realized he really was missing something from life. Nate had in the meantime gotten himself a girl, and left Mail with Mihael for company. He knew he needed that little extra thing that only a girl could give him: and he really found himself not craving it. He confused him, knowing that these were the best years of his life, and he was quite unable to find what he wanted out of them.

"You seem a bit off today,"

"What?"

Mihael shook his head, coming to attention at Mail, who stared at him with green piercing eyes. "I had asked you a question, and then you just went blank."

"Oh-right, sorry-um...what was it?"

"Are you ok?"

Mihael laughed nervously, standing up and putting that long hair of his up into a ponytail. "It's not like you to notice something like that, Mail."

"And it's not like you to be so obviously upset about something,"

The flipping of pages miles away was the only thing that could be heard, as the blonde searched within him for an answer to that. His heart thud in his chest, and he took a step away, turning his back on the ginger.

"Will you come back to my house for some drinks? I'll tell you all about that report if you want, Mail."

"Mihael?"

The smile on his face as he looked around was possibly the fakest one Mail had ever seen. "I'll even give you tea if you want, you damn brit, though I was hoping for something a bit stronger."

"Hm...Wonder what my mum will say about leaving the confinds of my dear university,"

"Well excuse my language, Mail," the blonde began, the smile gone from his face, "but fuck your mother, you're well off to do whatever you please,"

Mail really had no choice, at that point, then to go with him, walking the short distance from the library to his apartment.

It was so worn down, Mail had to make sure he had ended up at the right address. Filthy dogs lie in the street, covered in rags and begging for money. Drunkards, already as trashed as one could be, kicked the dogs, and spit in their direction.

"Mihael-is...this really your home?"

"Something like that,"

Mail was, in deed, quite afraid to leave his car out in the view of people such as these; and yet he was brought to the building in a sort of awe. The gates hang off their screws, and squeek as Mihael push them open gently. The grass was unkept, and littered with trash of all sorts. Mihael's head was down; ashamed of such a place he had invited Mail into.

The apartment had seen better days, that much was certain. Stones were covered with vines and mold, and the door shuttered as it was being pushed open. No one had cleaned the wood floors for a good long while, considering the filth collecting on them was truly grotesque.

The blonde led him up the stairs, and down the hall, shivers running down Mail's back as he felt stares on him: he held back temptation and didn't look. He knew he was a stranger here, he in his well-kept clothes and demeanor.

Mihael's door was the second to the last one, and the key opened the door, revealing a look into Mihael's life he had never seen before.

"Here we are,"

Mihael shut the door behind Mail, and took his coat off, placing both his and Mail's on the coat rack by the door. Mail was struck with amazement: Mihael's apartment was the squeekiest clean thing he had ever seen, probably due to the lack of anything in it. There were three chairs, all spread about the small space randomly, and a bed shoved against the wall opposite the one window. It was one room, which seemed to be enough to the young Russian.

There were no items of the past. Not a single thing to make anyone think that this man had a life before he entered Cambridge. Mihael sat on the bed, undoing two of the buttons on his shirt and getting rid of his boots.

"Well, are you going to stand there and gape or are you going to sit?"

"Oh-right." Mail, woken out of his comatose state of shock, immediatley sat in the closest chair he could find, and sat as stiff as a rail.

"You seem surprised," Mihael chuckled, reaching under his bed and retreiving a suitcase.

"I just had expected something a bit more-"

"Oh," Mihael had opened the case, and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, and two glasses, "Something more admirable for a Cambridge elite?"

"I guess you could say that," Mail took in his hand the whiskey given to him, and eyed it curiously, letting his forefinger run around the rim of the old glass.

"I'm not too based on getting the biggest house or the most expensive items, Mail. I spend my time trying to further myself,"

"But you must make enough money to get out of this...place," Mail's eyes trailed to the window, where smoke billowed out of crumbling chimneys.

"What I like about it here," Mihael said idly, downing the glass of whiskey in one fell swoop, "Is that no one asks questions. No one gives a damn about who you are, they just care that you get out of their way,"

"I can see an advantage in that," Mail agreed, downing the drink as well. Mihael went about filling up his glass again, and the red head has his filled as well.

"So Mail; what is your mother like? You always mention her as if she's a beast out of Hell,"

Mail laughed, shrugging his shoulders slightly, "She's not quite that bad. She likes things to be in her control; and with the money she has, she nearly has the whole British embassy at her feet,"

"So I suppose you're just another thing she can control?"

A sigh was released from his lips, and the breath fogged up the cold cup he held in his hands, "Yes,"

"I guess there's not woe in my not having a mother then?"

Mail looked up, seeing the glazed-eye Mihael looking off into the distance. "You don't have a mother?"

"Nah. My dad killed her nearly fifteen years ago."

Mail's expression didn't change much, but he simply looked away, embarrased to have hit on such a topic, and muttered a small 'I'm sorry'. Mihael just shrugged it off, and took a drink from his glass once more.

There wasn't much to discuss for a good while afterwards; the only thing said was 'fill me up again' and that went on until the bottle had been pretty much reduced to half of it's former glory. Mail's cheeks were red with alcohol, and Mihael was swaying a little, as if dancing to a song only he could hear.

Until Mihael spoke, his words slurred with alcohol.

"Y'know...I didn't really invite you here to talk about a damn report..."

"Hm? Oh right...forgot about that..." Mail laughed lightly, hiccuping at the end of his

sentance, and took a swig from his drink-interrupted by the arrival of a warm being on his lap.

Mail looked up, and lowered the drink, so much so that it fell from his fingers and landed with a clank against the wood flooring. "Mihael-what are you doing-"

"I invited you here because I told you I knew who I was. And knowing that much, I have to tell you the truth."

"Mihael I-"

"It really is a shame, isn't it?"

"Hm?"

The cold outside had no effect on the two, admist piles of paperwork and the very structure of those at the mercy of their decisions. The older one, this Watari as he was called, bent over the papers he had been referring to. With reading, he came to a realization, and let out a sigh, returning back to the window.

"A shame that such a brilliant mind should have such a terrible history falling him,"

The second term had been going on for quite a while, and life in the university was going as it always had. The male students, all with their whole life ahead of them, going on happily. The pressure of the Great War was off now: and all was prosperous. Roger was always a skeptic when it came to terms of prosperity. He was the sort that, whenever there was a peace, he knew that something must be brewing in some country or another. The same was that with people; any person who appears sincere must have some sort of hidden meaning behind it.

That philosophy had worked for most of his life.

"Watari, you know we can't have a man like this in our institution, no matter how much of a genius he is."

"Roger,"

The man at the desk perked up, his grey hairs falling about his eyes. Watari, of whom was still staring out at the scenery far below him, spoke again.

"What do you intend we do with him? Isn't it you that said we need a man to bring Cambridge back to its former glory?"

"Well yes, but-"

"Well what? If any man is going to achieve greatness, it'll be young Mihael Keehl. I don't care what his past is, whether he's killed men or simply raped them. That was before. The reality of it is that he is here now, within England's borders,"

"Yes and-"

"And if we were to let him go now, there's no telling where he would let that brilliance take him. To the East, perhaps?"

Roger had stood up, letting the papers of the Russian immigrant fall about the floor at his feet. The chair clattered to the ground with them, and at the sound, Watari looked about.

"You want a man like that representing our academy?"

"No one has to know about what happened those many years ago, Roger. I would encourage you to forget about it, because nothing is going to change my mind on the subject."

"But sir-he was convicted on four counts of rape- on men no less! You expect me to let a man like that just continue life within this country as if it were all completely fine?"

"I expect you to do just that,"