( private log | oxford&cambridge | surprising gifts from space )

[romanticism]

[ There is a dark intimacy to Oxford's bedroom. It's one of the smaller rooms in the house, with just enough room for his ridiculously large bed, a wardrobe and his writing desk. The curtains are heavy and dark, never closed fully so that just a little morning light can fill the room in the mornings. The bed is perhaps the most striking feature, though, with its sheer size and rich, mahogany frame. Oxford has always believed that whether you are alone in a bed or sharing it, space is a sure necessity, and there is more than enough available amongst his thick, soft duvet. Though it might seem an odd choice, his walls are a dark navy - in part to honour his university, and inadvertantly his job - unlike the cream corridors and other rooms of his house. He has always preferred the twilight to the dawn, and the colour reminds him of it, the way it creeps over the sky towards the horizon after the sun has set. His Chelsea townhouse is decorated properly, politely and neatly, but the bedroom, he has always thought, need not conform to the requirements of elegant styling. It is his own, the place he ultimately returns to, and he will have it as he likes. There's nothing like waking up knowing you're exactly where you want to be. Oxford stirs, blinking away the sleep from his eyes, uttering a soft noise under his breath as he stretches out his arms and legs, fingers curling in the (always) white sheets. After taking a few minutes to collect himself and his thoughts, he gives the man next to him a pointed little nudge with his foot, quite oblivious to the fact that there is in fact a rather specific looking tattoo now present on his chest, over his heart. The writing beneath it very much looks like the legible version of Oxford's own handwriting. Their presence, on the other hand, would be something of a surprise. ]