Part 1 - University
The annex had a particular stillness to it. Not the kind that demanded silence, but the kind that invited it. Its windows were narrow and high, letting in slivers of light that shifted across the tables as the day wore on. Dust floated in the beams like tiny planets, suspended in their own quiet orbit. The radiator beneath the far window ticked softly, a rhythm that Mike had come to rely on.
He always arrived early. Not out of obligation, but out of habit. There was something comforting about the empty room, the way it held space for thought before the world intruded. He would unpack his books with care, lining them up like sentinels. His notebook lay open, though he rarely wrote in it during those first minutes. He was waiting.
Harry was never on time. His entrances were a kind of punctuation. Coat flung over one arm, curls damp from the morning mist, a coffee cup in hand that always seemed too full. He moved through the room with a kind of casual grace, nodding to the librarian, offering a half-smile to Mike as he slid into the seat across from him.
They rarely spoke at first. A nod. A glance. The occasional murmur about the reading list or the weather. But there was something else. Something quieter. It lived beneath the table.
The first time it happened, Mike thought it was accidental. A brush of Harry’s shoe against his own. Light. Fleeting. But then it happened again. A slow press. Not forceful, not hesitant. Just present. Mike looked up, but Harry was reading, his brow furrowed in concentration. Or pretending to be.
Mike didn’t move his foot.
From then on, it became a rhythm. Every Thursday morning, in that quiet corner of the annex, their feet would find each other. Sometimes it was playful. A nudge. A tap. A slow slide along the side of a shoe. Other times it was still. Just the warmth of contact held between them like a shared breath.
They never spoke of it. Not once. But it shaped the space between them. It gave texture to their silence. Meaning to their glances.
Outside the library, they were part of the same orbit. Philosophy lectures. Pub nights. Group projects that stretched into the early hours. But it was in the annex that something deeper stirred. Something that didn’t need words.
Mike began to notice the details. The way Harry’s socks were always mismatched. The way he tapped his pen when he was thinking. The way he leaned forward when he laughed, as if the joy needed to be shared physically. These things lodged themselves in Mike’s memory, quiet anchors in the sea of university life.
He didn’t know what it meant. Not yet. But he knew it mattered.
And every Thursday, he returned to the annex. Not for the reading. Not for the notes. But for the quiet ritual beneath the table. For the presence of Harry’s foot against his own.
For the feeling that, in that small room, something sacred was unfolding.It was never sudden. Their friendship grew the way ivy climbs old stone: slowly, patiently, finding its way through cracks and corners.
After weeks of shared silence in the annex, Mike and Harry began speaking more. Not about the foot touching, never about that, but about the things that filled their days. Books. Lectures. The strange habits of their professors. The way the campus smelled after rain.
Their conversations were easy. Not effortless, but unforced. Mike found himself listening more closely than he did with others. Harry had a way of speaking that made even the mundane feel poetic. He could describe a sandwich with the same reverence he gave to a passage from Rilke. Mike liked that about him. It made the world feel softer.
They started sitting together in lectures. Not always, but often enough that it became expected. Harry would save a seat with his bag, and Mike would slide in beside him without needing to ask. They shared notes, exchanged glances during long-winded tangents, and sometimes scribbled jokes in the margins of each other’s papers.
Outside of class, they began to drift into each other’s routines. A coffee between seminars. A walk across the quad after dark. A shared cigarette behind the student union, where the wind carried the scent of damp leaves and distant bonfires. They didn’t talk about feelings. Not directly. But there was a warmth between them that didn’t need naming.
Mike noticed how Harry moved through the world. He was curious, always asking questions, always looking for meaning in small things. He’d stop to admire a patch of moss on a stone wall or comment on the way the clouds looked like brushstrokes. He was present in a way that made Mike feel seen.
Harry, in turn, seemed drawn to Mike’s steadiness. His quiet thoughtfulness. The way he listened without interrupting. The way he remembered small details, like Harry’s favorite tea or the name of the poet he’d mentioned in passing.
They began spending more time together outside the library. Sometimes in Harry’s dorm room, which was cluttered with books and sketches and half-burned candles. Sometimes in Mike’s, which was tidier, more restrained, but still welcoming. They’d sit on the floor, backs against the bed, legs stretched out. Their feet would touch, bare now, skin against skin. It was never discussed. It just happened.
There was comfort in it. A kind of grounding. The warmth of another person, not in a way that demanded anything, but in a way that offered something. Safety. Presence. Trust.
One evening, after a long day of lectures, they sat together in Harry’s room listening to music. The record crackled softly, and the light from the desk lamp cast long shadows across the floor. Harry was sketching something in his notebook. Mike was reading, though his eyes kept drifting toward Harry’s hands.
Their feet were touching. Not just brushing, but resting together. Still. Familiar.
Harry looked up.
“You ever think about how strange it is,” he said, “that we can feel so close to someone without really knowing why?”
Mike nodded.
“Yeah. I think about that a lot.”
They didn’t say anything else. The silence was enough.
That night, when Mike left, he felt something shift. Not dramatically. Just a small movement. Like a door opening a little wider.
Their friendship was becoming something more. Not romantic. Not yet. But deeper. More intentional. It was growing in the quiet spaces. In the shared glances. In the way their feet always found each other.
And neither of them wanted to name it. Not yet. Naming it might change it. Might make it something else.
So they let it be what it was. A slow unfolding.
It was late in the term when the ritual began to shift.
The annex was still their sanctuary, but the library had grown crowded with exam season. Students filled every table, hunched over notes and laptops, the air thick with stress and the scent of instant coffee. Mike and Harry found themselves retreating more often to Harry’s dorm room, where the light was softer and the silence more forgiving.
Harry’s room was a mess of comfort. Books stacked in uneven towers. Sketches taped to the walls. A blanket draped over the desk chair. The window overlooked the quad, and when it rained, the sound against the glass made everything feel closer. More private.
They would sit on the floor, backs against the bed, legs stretched out. Their feet always found each other. Bare now. Familiar. Trusted.
One evening, after a long day of revision, Harry kicked off his trainers with a sigh and leaned back. His socks were thick and worn, patterned with faded stars. Mike watched him, not with judgment, but with something softer. Something like affection.
Harry caught his gaze and smiled.
“Feet are weird, aren’t they?” he said. “So ordinary, but kind of... personal.”
Mike nodded.
“They carry everything. All the weight. All the miles.”
Harry stretched his legs toward Mike.
“Want to trade?”
Mike hesitated, then slipped off his own shoes. His socks were plain, grey, slightly damp from the walk over. He offered his feet without speaking, and Harry took them gently into his lap.
The massage was slow. Thoughtful. Harry’s thumbs pressed into the arches, traced the curve of each toe, worked into the heel with quiet care. Mike closed his eyes. It wasn’t just relaxing. It was grounding. Like being remembered.
When Harry finished, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against Mike’s sock
“You smell like the walk over,” he said softly. “Wet grass. Pavement. You.”Mike's feet were large something harry hadn't noticed before possibly size 14 the were very feey sweaty and they smelt delicious musky and strong
Mike laughed, but it was quiet. He reached for Harry’s foot and returned the gesture. His hands were firmer, more deliberate. He worked through the tension, feeling the shape of Harry’s day in the muscles and bones beneath his fingers.
Harry’s socks were damp and sweaty and pungent the washing machine in the dorm was broken and hed worn the same socks for a week .strongly scented with the his sweat with the hours spent sketching and pacing and thinking. Mike lifted one slightly, pressing it to his face for a moment. Not to be strange. Not to be bold. Just to be close.
Harry didn’t flinch. He watched him with a softness that felt like permission.
“You always notice things,” he said. “Even the things no one else would think to care about.”
Mike lowered the sock and nodded.
“I think that’s how I remember people. Through the small things.”
They sat like that for a long time. Feet in each other’s hands. Socks beside them. The room quiet except for the rain and the occasional creak of the floorboards.
It wasn’t about desire. Not yet. It was about presence. About knowing someone through the parts of them that carried their weight, their scent, their story.
And in that moment, with their feet bare and their hearts open, they felt closer than they ever had.
The annex was quieter than usual.
Most students had already left for the break. The tables sat empty, the radiator ticking softly in the corner. Outside, the trees had begun to shed their leaves, and the sky hung low with the kind of grey that made everything feel suspended.
Mike arrived first, as he always did. He placed his notebook on the table, though he had no intention of writing. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for anymore. The ritual had become something more than habit. It was a tether. A way of holding onto something he didn’t know how to name.
Harry arrived ten minutes later. His coat was heavier now, lined for winter. His curls were damp from the mist, and his trainers left faint prints on the stone floor. He slid into the seat across from Mike and smiled, but it didn’t reach all the way.
They didn’t speak for a while. Just sat. Just listened to the quiet.
Then Mike dropped his pen.
It clattered softly against the floor and rolled beneath the table. He ducked down to retrieve it, but lingered.
His hand found Harry’s ankle first, then slid up gently, resting just above the sock line. He looked up, and Harry met his gaze—calm, knowing, unafraid.
Mike untied the laces of Harry’s trainers, one by one, with slow, deliberate care. The shoes came off easily, revealing striped socks—faded navy and mustard, damp from the walk across campus. Mike held one foot in his hands, then leaned in and pressed his face against it.
He inhaled very slowly .
“God,” he murmured, “they smell amazing.”
Harry chuckled above the table, a low, amused sound.
Mike stayed there for a moment longer, breathing in the scent—earthy, warm, familiar. Then he retrieved the pen and resurfaced, placing it on the table with a quiet smile.
“Found it.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Did you?”
Mike nodded. “And something better.”
Harry didn’t reply. He simply smiled, then dropped his own pen.
It rolled beneath the table, and he followed.
Mike watched him disappear beneath the surface, felt the gentle tug at his boots. Harry’s fingers worked quickly, loosening the laces, sliding the boots off with care. He held Mike’s foot in his hands—still wrapped in thick grey socks with a frayed heel—and brought it to his face.
He Inhaled deeply.
“Mm,” he said softly. “Yours are even stinkier.”
Mike laughed, but it was quiet. Reverent.
Harry pressed his cheek against the sole, then kissed the arch through the sock. He retrieved his pen and reappeared, eyes bright with something tender.
They sat quietly after that. Feet still covered in socks beneath the table. The annex held their silence like a sanctuary.
No more words were needed. The scent lingered. The warmth remained. The socks stayed on soft veils between skin and memory, between now and the ache of parting.
Later, they walked across campus together. The quad was empty, the buildings quiet. They reached the steps of Harry’s dorm and paused.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Harry said.
Mike nodded
“I know.”
Harry looked down at his feet, then back at Mike.
“Will you write to me?
Mike smiled.
“I’ll send you my socks.”
Harry laughed, soft and sad.They hugged. Not tightly. Not desperately. Just enough.
And then Harry turned and walked inside.
Mike stood there for a long time, watching the door. Feeling the warmth of Harry’s foot still pressed against his own. The scent of damp wool and quiet devotion lingering in the folds of the day.
It was the last Thursday.
But it was not the end
END OF PART ONE
