I've decided to do some third person perspective, but please tell me if you think it's not working! Or if you think it works better. ^_^ And if you think this part is ridiculous, tell me that as well, because I'm really not sure...
“…Oh, go on, Blackadder…”
Blackadder, the last person to be picked, left his spot and reluctantly joined the line that had formed behind a boy called August. August was one of the sporty boys whom Blackadder had despised since his first days at St. Bartholomew’s. By the note of contempt in the sports captain’s voice, it was clear that August bore similar feelings for Blackadder in return. For one thing, he knew that Blackadder was only playing this game of rugger because it was compulsory, something that he would never understand. He would have probably stood, aghast, if he’d known that this game was even more compulsory for Blackadder than anyone else. Blackadder had planned to shirk this game as he did most others, only Moreau had sent three Prefects along to make sure that he participated. It was part of his punishment for cheating on the first French test of the year. As it was, Blackadder was forced onto the pitch and was currently planning a spectacular twisted ankle that would come into play before the first half was through.
Melchett stood back to watch the game. He was one of the boys sent on behalf of Moreau. The other two were Ryder and, thanks to some subtle hinting, Barleigh.
Thus was the backdrop for Melchett’s discovery. Later, Melchett thought that it was not exactly a fitting situation for a revelation. Or at least it wasn’t, compared to what it first appeared.
Melchett dug his toe into the ground. Barleigh had a fantastically limited concept of personal space, and was almost leaning against his arm. He looked up, only to knock the boy’s ear with his nose.
“S…Sorry about that.”
George merely continued to gaze out at the pitch, seeming not to have felt a thing, brow furrowed in concentration.
“I’ve always preferred cricket.” Melchett continued, “I don’t mind rugger of course, but cricket’s always been my sport.”
“Mine too,” George smiled, not taking his eyes away from the game.
Melchett smiled. The successful start to the conversation gave him confidence. It was his second real conversation with Barleigh. The last one had ended with his choking on a slice of bacon, and he was determined that this one would be different. Of course, they had talked on other occasions. On the train, in the halls… But Melchett was concentrating on real conversations. The one form of human interaction he had begun to value above all others…
Melchett glanced to his side. George’s eyes trailed the game. No, not the game, Melchett began to realise. Not the game, but a person…
“Erm, your friend seems to be doing a… an interesting job.” Melchett commented casually.
“I meant… Blackadder.”
“Silly me! Blackadder is Eddy – his first name is Edmund.”
“Oh. You know him quite well then?”
George seemed so engrossed in watching Blackadder play that he didn’t guard his words at all. “Oh yes. We’re very much in love.”
In. Love? Did he…? With. Blackadder. Blackadder?!
Melchett gaped, and swayed slightly. He grasped at his head, the shock thudding dully through his body.
And as the syllable left his mouth, everything turned dark.
Eventually Melchett began to regain consciousness. He could feel grass beneath his fingers and, once he remembered where he was, presumed that he hadn’t been long unconscious.
“Melchett? Melchett, are you all right?” He could hear George’s anxious voice above him. The tones would have, a few minutes ago, sent him into a quiet, blissful state. Unfortunately, the one image they brought before him now was that of Blackadder. No, even worse: Blackadder and George.
Slowly he opened his eyes, and smiled in a pained sort of manner. “Oh dear.” He tried laughing a little, “Can’t think what could have come over me.”
Startled, Melchett glanced to his side. Blackadder was standing there, looking rather bored. ‘How could he?’ Melchett immediately asked himself, ‘Could he hear the sound of my heart exploding in my chest? He’s not that perceptive!’
“You – you do?” Melchett asked, immediately frightened and groping for a comment that would diminish whatever Blackadder was about to say.
“Yes,” Said Blackadder, looking strangely at him, “You had this projected at your head.” He dropped a rugby ball at Melchett’s feet, “If I’d been subject to Pinkerton-Fletcher’s toss, I think I’d be on the floor too.”
Pinkerton-Fletcher, a small and generally insane Scottish boy, popped up behind Blackadder to say, “Sorry!”
The head-boy propped himself up on his elbows awkwardly, and surveyed the crowd surrounding him.
“If Flashheart doesn’t mind… maybe I’ll just go to see the nurse in a moment.”
Melchett made it back to the dormitories before anyone else that evening. He sat on his bed, in his pyjamas, and wrote in the back of his Latin book:
“George loves Blackadder. Not only does soul feel like it has been hacked by ice pick, head feels similar.”
Once he had written this, he pulled the page out, tore it, and placed the shards of paper in a drawer, hiding them beneath a pile of other books.