The blazers. Charles can just barely remember the feel of them, scratchy at his wrists, bunched beneath his arms. Pins poking at him since he couldn't afford to get his tailored like the other lads.

"Hilarion was ours. St. Hil's." He says it like it's a curse, like it tastes bad in his mouth. "Named after some old codger who starved himself to death 'cause he was embarrassed about being randy."

There isn't much he remembers from his classes, but that one was amusing enough to stick with him. The stunning result of ten years of formal education culminating in two helpful facts: the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell, and Saint Hilarion killed himself because he wanted to fuck.

"Poor old Hilly would have lost his mind knowing how many blokes were sneaking their girlfriends into his school after hours for a shag."