Schooldays of C.S. Lewis - boarding school misery and theological crisis.

Lewis steps into the common room with Blugg’s boots in hand. The room is oddly still, the usual bluster held at bay by the hush of late afternoon.

At the far side, a neatly dressed boy sits with an easy posture, as if the school’s roughness has not quite reached him. He looks up and takes in Lewis’s dusty uniform and cramped expression.

Lewis comes to a stop near the hearth, the boots dangling awkwardly at his side. Angel’s gaze is brief, but not mocking, more curious than anything else.

The silence of the room makes the question feel unusually clear. Outside the common room, the school keeps moving, but here the moment lingers, waiting for Lewis to answer or ignore it.

Lewis's answer lands cleanly. The words cost him little, and the room does not punish him for saying them.

Angel gestures toward the chair beside him, and the invitation hangs there, plain and unexpected.

Lewis keeps his voice low. The boots tug at his fingers, and the folded note crinkles once against the leather as he shifts his grip.

Angel tilts his head, studying the boots, then Lewis's face, as if matching the errands to the boy carrying them.

Lewis's hand tightens on the note, and a faint crease runs across the paper before he can smooth it flat again.

Lewis lowers himself into the offered chair, careful with the boots and the creased note. The leather settles with a soft thud against his knees, and he keeps his shoulders small in the firelight.

Angel shifts back, giving him room without looking away, while the common room hums quietly around them in the background.

Lewis’s grip loosens a fraction, then tightens again when the note slips against his fingers and makes another sharp crease.

From the room beyond, a passing Blood pauses at the doorway, hears the low voices, and lingers long enough to make the air feel watched. Angel’s smile stays in place, but his eyes flick that way once.

Lewis leans forward in the chair, careful not to jostle the boots, and keeps his voice low. The folded note scrapes softly under his thumb, another crease pressed into it.

Angel's smile thins at the edges as he studies Lewis, more thoughtful now than amused. The warmth from the hearth catches on the brass in his cuff, and he tilts his head as if weighing the whole school behind the boy.

A passing Blood lingers in the doorway a moment longer, then moves on. Angel notices the pause, but does not look away from Lewis.

The words come out in a low, careful stream. Lewis keeps his eyes on Angel as he names the errands, the kitchen, and the boots, then lets the rest of it hang there, plain and ugly.

Angel's expression hardens into something thoughtful and protective. He reaches for the creased note, not to take it, but to glance at the fold marks as if the paper itself can confirm the bargain.

Lewis's shoulders ease a fraction, though the boots still weigh his lap. The common room stays quiet around them, warm with firelight and far from any prefect's ear.

Lewis shifts the boots off his knees and sets them on the floor with a dull thud. The creased note stays trapped in his fingers for half a breath, then he straightens, already turning toward the doorway.

He reaches the threshold in two quick steps, but the load on his arm and the stiffness in his legs make the move awkward. His shoulder clips the frame, and the boots skid sideways, loud enough to bite at the room's hush.

Angel does not rise, but his hand comes up at once, palm half-open in a quiet check. His eyes follow Lewis and then the fallen boots, taking in the hurry for what it is.

Lewis catches the boots before they slide far. As his hand closes on the leather, the note flashes against his sleeve, and he sees a dark smear of coal dust on the back of the paper, like it has already touched the boiler side of the house.

Angel tips his head toward the darker side of the room, making the route with two calm fingers. The common room stays still around them, but the doorway seems less like a trap than a choice.

Lewis takes the hint, and the boy's careful attention turns the errand into something almost orderly. The boots remain in his grip, but the note no longer feels quite so loud against his sleeve.