Whoever Brought Me Here

Augusta Connor

$ 3.99 USD

Previously published in our debut anthology Shackin’ Up

From the cold stone walls of his boarding school Harold is surprised to find himself reunited with a friend of his youth — the older, handsome, enthralling Edmund. After a shared childhood in a stately English home, Harold thought he’d never experience their closeness again, as the expectation of the British upper classes weigh upon both of them. But when a harsh storm leads them to take shelter in an abandoned hermitage, Harold is going to get some lessons on chemistry.

A period M/M period piece set on a chilly winter’s eve in 1930’s England.

(!) Content warning: This story contains a sexual relationship between a 17-year-old character (who would be considered a minor in some cultures) and a 25-year-old character. The characters were also raised as foster siblings.

Your parents invited me home for the holidays, and when it came out that I’d be travelling on the same day as you were set to be done with school, I offered to pick you up.” He turns and grins, his teeth white and straight against his dark skin, a thick black curl escaping from under his driving cap. The deep green of his jumper brings out the warmth of his cheeks, and Harold has to look away.

“Generous of you,” Harold manages, his mind spinning. “Hartley isn’t exactly on the way between East Grove and Milton Park.”

Edmund shrugs. “No, but it’s not too far out of the way. Besides, I needed to put Millicent here,” he pats the dashboard fondly, “through her paces, and… I wanted to see you.”

Harold doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s— they’ve always been close, he and Edmund, but letters are different than actions, and they haven’t seen each other since the summer Harold was fourteen, a year after Edmund left. The idea that Edmund would take it upon himself to go out of his way to fetch Harold home is—

“That storm’s moving in faster than I like,” Edmund murmurs, and Harold glances out the window. A gale has been forecast for days, but it was projected to hold off until the weekend. A quick look at the dark clouds piling up on the horizon and the way the car has begun to shake with the wind, however, puts the lie to that notion and sends a shiver down Harold’s spine. They’re still several hours from Milton Park over country roads, and Milton Park itself lies at the end of its road, back pressed to the western cliffs, with few enough families between it and the town an hour away.

“We’ll be fine,” Harold answers him, more to have something to say than out of any real confidence. “Just keep driving.

from “Whoever Brought Me Here”

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