C.S. Lewis Surving and Overthrowing a 1913 British Boarding School.

Lewis and Parsley come out of the library exactly into the patrol waiting for them. Blugg stands in the corridor’s center, with two older boys spaced at his shoulders like posts in a gate.

The old setup locks into place at once, this is no chance meeting. The Bloods are stationed along the school’s arteries, watching the exits, measuring the younger boys as they move.

Parsley glances at Lewis, then squares himself, small but steady. The pressed leaf is still tucked away safely, and he does not shrink back.

Lewis and Parsley move in step, not rushing, not lagging. The two older boys hold their ground until the pair passes, then their attention shifts at once to the next boys in the corridor, the patrol already at work again.

That boy is liable to receive corporal punishment for his insolence.

C. S. Lewis keeps his pace even, and the corridor gives way under his feet. Blugg’s gaze follows the pair for a moment, but he does not stop them.

Parsley stays at Lewis’s side, shoulders set, as they pass the patrol’s reach and draw clear of the library end of the hall.

The pressure behind them loosens at once, replaced by the broad, open sense of the school’s inner court ahead.

The dark smear on Lewis’s wet cuff catches the light as he swings his arm, then disappears again against his sleeve.

Behind them, the patrol is already turning its attention to other boys, the Bloods’ control continuing as if it were the ordinary shape of the day.

Lewis and Parsley leave the corridor behind and cross into the inner court, the open air easing the tightness at their backs.

They keep moving with the stream of boys toward Hall, neither hurrying nor lingering, just part of the school’s measured flow.

The dark smear on Lewis’s cuff flashes once in the brighter light, then is hidden again as his arm swings at his side.

Ahead, the dining hall grows louder, all boots, voices, and the scrape of benches waiting inside.

Near the notice board, a broad-faced junior stands rigidly to attention, while somewhere beyond the doors the lunch crowd swells and breaks.

At the hall door, the press of boys loosens just enough for Lewis and Parsley to take trays without stopping. The din swallows them at once, and the Bloods’ watching is lost in the crowd.

Lewis’s wet cuff flashes past a sleeve, then disappears under the tray’s rim as he falls into the line for food. The letter stays hidden, untouched.

Lewis and Parsley claim their usual bench in the hall and settle in with their trays. The noise of benches and cutlery closes around them, but the two boys keep to a small island of quiet.

Lewis lowers his gaze to his food, shoulders held a touch too straight. The dark smear on his wet cuff stays hidden beneath the tray edge as he starts eating.

Parsley eats beside him without hurry, glancing once at Lewis and then away again, as if leaving room for whatever comes next.

At the far edge of the hall, the broad-faced junior remains by the notice board, half-swallowed by moving boys, his watch continuing without drama.

Lewis keeps his face calm and his movements ordinary. The pressed leaf in his notebook stays folded flat, and the meal goes on in companionable silence.

Lewis keeps eating, unruffled on the outside, while Parsley finishes a mouthful and glances toward him. The hall stays loud around them, but their bench remains a small, held-together pause.

At the edge of the hall, the broad-faced junior still watches the doors, and Lewis’s hidden letter stays where it is, untouched.

Lewis lets out a small relieved breath and gives Parsley a brief nod. The bench stays steady around them, the hall noise washing past while the letter remains hidden and safe.

Parsley speaks quietly, and Lewis stays still to hear him out. The hall goes on around them, but the little space between the boys feels held shut against the noise.

Lewis takes that in without moving, the dark smear on his wet cuff catching once as his hand rests beside the tray, while the broad-faced junior keeps his station by the notice board.

The words settle between the trays while the hall keeps moving beyond them. Lewis’s cuff hangs damp by his wrist, the dark smear still visible where it caught the light.

At the edge of the hall, the broad-faced junior remains by the notice board, but his head turns once toward their bench, then back to the doors.

The apology leaves him still, tray forgotten for a moment, while the hall’s noise keeps sliding past the bench.

Parsley’s shoulders loosen by a small degree, and the tightness between them eases as if some private brace has been unfastened.

At the far edge of the hall, the broad-faced junior keeps his post by the notice board, while the dark smear still marks Lewis’s cuff near the edge of his tray.

Lewis’s shoulders ease at last, and his hand slips beneath the tablecloth, finding Parsley’s in the blind shelter of knees and wood.

The words come out low and plain, and the small confession seems to steady him rather than shame him.

Parsley’s fingers close around Lewis’s under the table, while above it both boys keep their faces nearly still for the hall.

Lewis gives Parsley’s hand a gentle squeeze beneath the table, and the smile he lifts for him is easy and unguarded. The hall goes on around them, but for the moment the bench feels like its own small country.

Lewis turns his head just enough to study Parsley’s face instead of the plate between them. The smile he finds there is small, steady, and not hiding anything.

Parsley’s mouth softens at once, and he meets Lewis’s look without flinching. His fingers stay near Lewis’s under the table, as if the answer has already been given.

The hall keeps its clatter and scrape, but the space between the two boys feels narrower now, less like a hiding place and more like a chosen one.

At the edge of the hall, the broad-faced junior still watches the doors, while Lewis’s wet cuff flashes its dark smear against the linen as he shifts in his seat.

Lewis’s fingers close around Parsley’s hand beneath the table, firm but brief. The pressure answers the question before either boy needs to make it bigger.

Parsley’s shoulders ease a little, and his mouth lifts with a private, relieved warmth. He keeps his hand there a moment longer, as though testing the truth of it.

Across the inner court, the broad-faced junior still stands by the notice board, but the hall’s noise swallows him into the background. Lewis’s wet cuff turns in the light, the dark smear still visible as he settles back.

Their hands separate, not in retreat, but in comfort. The moment leaves a small, steady quiet between them, with the pressed leaf tucked safely away and the letter still unbothered.