marlowemuses | ❥ sometimes it's meant to be

Entry tags:

❥ sometimes it's meant to be

Charterhouse was one of the most elite, exclusive schools in England.

It housed only boys. Boys of all ages, from ones first learning to button their pants on their own to the ones that couldn't seem to keep their pants on when in interesting company. With a campus that covered more than 27,000 acres, the schools had plenty of room to be spread across. Rich, green grass and old fashioned cobblestone streets—it was the pride of the academic world. Rich in history and pedigree, only the cream of the crop could even glance at an application, much less apply and attend. It was a school for future politicians, royalty, and celebrities. The men bred from Charterhouse were said to be the most cultivated in the world.

And, naturally, the richest. Only those from a well-to-do family could attend Charterhouse. Which was why one Richard Campbell Gansey the Third was one among the golden—like his father before him, and his father before him. The Ganseys were internationally known. Mrs. Gansey: a popular and well-known politician in the United States of America. Mr. Gansey (the Second): an ambitious and clever member parliament. Helen Gansey: fashion entrepreneur and lawyer, likely to end up going into politics once she tired of running the runway.

Richard Gansey the Third: one could only wonder what the future POTUS would do. On the campus of Charterhouse he was a golden boy. Popular—captain of the crew team yet also quite an intellectual, spending a great deal of time involved in the expansion of the library and archiving old, important texts. He was the man that everyone liked and talked to. The laughs of Ganseyboy were oft heard throughout the marble halls of the College campus. Handsome—he was more American than most of his peers, having a presidential and charming look about him, with a perfectly golden sun-kissed tan. Thick brown hair swept back neatly almost always, a square build, gentle olive eyes, and a straight nose. The sort of man that entranced those who spoke to him; that wasn't even taking the velvety, almost magical quality of his voice into account.

What the members of his crew team could never figure out was why Richard Campbell Gansey "Ganseyboy" the Third was always single. Never spoke about his sexual conquests, never brought a girl along to parties (when he attended, reluctantly), never even so much as mentioned being interested in anyone. It boggled their minds. The man spent his time with his nose in dusty old books and wandering around old buildings so often that they had grown concerned; the guy should get laid. As friends, as bros, as fellow eventual members of congress of what-have-you, it was their duty to see their beloved Ganseyboy paired off. Or, at least, getting some kind of action in his youth.

Which was why there was a plan. A plan, and a bet that eventually formed because of that plan. A bet in which a lot of money was placed. For, the subject of their little game (along with good old Ganseyboy) was the iciest, coldest, most shut off of all the students. What was the point if there was no challenge? No doubt, among the boys involved in the bet, there were a few that had been spurned by the ice prince, too. Revenge was a sweet thing. Two birds with one stone: they got Ganseyboy laid and they burned the ice prince that had burned them. Or three—someone was bound to make a tidy profit.

When one of the boys approached the ice prince's brother about setting him up with the charming golden boy on campus, the man had launched at the opportunity—for the happiness of his brother, no doubt, and he was not told about the bet.

That was how it would begin. It was a Wednesday, around 4 in the afternoon, when one of the boys dragged Gansey toward the library. The rest of the boys had made sure it was empty. The one dragging him—Charles Defonte the Second—had begged Gansey for some tutoring in history. It was agreed with Laurent's brother that he would also manage to bring Laurent to the library somehow—and the two of them would be left there together to formally acquaint.

There was no tutoring. Charles shoved Gansey into the library in front of him and then shut the door behind him and locked it. "Oh no," the boy faked a gasp, "the door has gone and locked itself, Ganseyboy! A ghost, it's gotta be. I'll go get the janitor. Be back as soon as I have lunch and then find him!" Leaving a very confused Gansey staring at the door and trying to push it open, to no avail. Locked.

"Do you really think it's a ghost?" he said to no one, because Charles had run off to tell the boys that he'd done his part.

There was another door on the other side of the library that was left for the same to happen to Laurent. Unbeknownst to Gansey, who took a seat at one of the tables and glanced around, quickly. A curious time for there to be no one else in the library.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Laurent barely paid attention through his classes. It took considerable willpower to leave his phone in his pocket, even at the risk of confiscation. The scrolls to be translated were irresistible, and the memory of Gansey's grin was highly distracting.

Slipping out as soon as his morning classes were done, he wove through corridors and stairwells on the shortest route to the parking lot.

He hadn't asked for a description of Gansey's car, and he didn't see his new friend at first glance. Students were milling around, getting in their sleek new vehicles and heading out to lunch, but Laurent didn't spot Gansey among them. His heart was just starting to thud with the horror of rejection when he caught sight of a familiar pair of broad shoulders behind the beaten, bright orange hood of some car that was almost twice their age. He'd assumed it belonged to one of the faculty, some old beater that someone couldn't afford to replace.

Befuddled to find Gansey under the hood, Laurent strolled over, hands in pockets, and bent over to look at the engine, and then at Gansey. Even for Gansey, this seemed like eccentric behavior.

Standing, Gansey scratched his head. Still couldn't find the problem. Adam had tried to each him about engines but it was still pretty complicated... plus, it wasn't like he worked with them for a living, like his friend did.

That was when Gansey noticed the handsome figure in the corner of his eye. Turning his head toward Laurent, he smiled. "Hey! Have fun in class?" Wiping a spot of oil from his cheek with the back of his hand, he stepped back and slammed the hood shut.

"I was just messing around with the engine. Sometimes it makes noise, but it's nothing to worry about. Probably. Usually."

Shrugging, he stepped closer to his friend, "Hungry?"

Perplexed, Laurent looked from him to the car and back again, raising a brow. "This is your car?" he asked, amused, befuddled, and slightly judgemental. Everyone in school knew that Gansey's family was flush. There was no reason at all for him to be driving around with a beater like this. "Did you lose a bet?"

He kind of liked the smudge of oil on Gansey's cheek. It suited him. Stepping forward, Laurent wiped the remains of the smudge away with his sleeve, then dropped his eyes away and went to get in the car.

Fastidious by nature, the car made Laurent squeamish. He wrinkled his nose as he inspected the interior, and very gingerly got in.

The inside of the Pig was relatively clean. A couple of receipts tossed in the backseat along with his sweater. The mess was really hidden in the glove compartment (old beef jerky, an epipen, a dozen or so more receipts, a book, etc) which would remain hidden unless Laurent tried to open it.

Cheek tingling from the brush of Laurent's sleeve, Gansey slid into the driver's seat, eyebrows raised in mild amusement, "What? You don't like the Pig?" It really was like nothing else in the lot; an older car, a bright obvious color, and once it sputtered to life it roared.

Turning his eyes onto the road so he could pull out of his spot, Gansey continued, "I love it. When you're soaring down the highway with the sound of an engine loud in your ears, wind in your hair, arm out the window... well. The Pig feels like freedom to me." Even if it wasn't the most expensive, newest model in the parking lot.

With practiced ease Gansey steered the Pig onto the road that lead off campus. Trees flew by and he rolled down his window, the breeze ruffling his hair, sweeping it across his forehead gently.

"As long as it doesn't catch fire," Laurent said, teasing. He could almost understand the sentiment--there was so much that they were expected to be. Laurent had spent his whole life expected to conform, to fill a role and serve a purpose. He belonged to his country, less and more than his brother. Auguste was Vere. Laurent was the promise of an alliance, the spare prince, the prize to be won. Appearances had always been crucial, and Laurent had designed his to be untouchable. If his fate was to be married off for an alliance, he was at least damn well not going to be pawed at by anyone else along the way.

This car was a shameless defiance of everything they'd been raised to be. It flew in the face of their old money, refined, extravagant backgrounds. Freedom. Laurent smiled a tiny bit. "It's the ugliest car I've ever seen."

He watched Gansey more than their surroundings. The view out the window--trees and fields--he could see those well enough from the school rooftops. Gansey was the sort of view that he'd never before had the opportunity to admire in person. "Why do you care about dead languages so much?"

Gansey's mouth quirked with a smile at the comment about the Pig, quietly amused. The Pig hadn't been named the Pig because it was a delicate, dainty thing. Hand steady at the top of the wheel, Gansey guided the Pig across various roads until they reached the main, long road that headed into town. About a twenty minute drive, you needed a car to leave Charterhouse campus, unless you were fond of walking through wilderness for at least an hour. Maybe more.

Glancing at Laurent in his rearview mirror, Gansey considered the question, as well as how he wanted to answer it. "A few reasons," he responded, focus back on the road lest a deer prance out from the woods. "I've always been a fan of history. There's that. Language is one of the best ways to understand it, as well as other cultures.

"I also find if beautiful. Different writings, and how ancient writing influenced language today. From a linguistic perspective it's fascinating. In particular, I'm a bit fascinated by the history of Wales and one of it's rules—do you know anything about Owain Glyndwr?"

"I don't," Laurent said, watching him with interest. If Gansey was handsome and charming normally, Laurent found him ten times as entrancing when he was talking about history. He listened with a fond smile on his lips, eyes slightly low-lidded as he relaxed into his seat. Gansey's voice sent tingles down his spine, and he couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to hear that voice in a low murmur at his ear.

Unlikely, he knew, but the fantasy was exquisite.

He felt safe with Gansey. Wary though he was about his new friend's car, Laurent liked the way he handled it. Confident, steady, careful. He liked that Gansey's sense of adventure, like his own, wasn't reckless. It was just, maybe... fearless. And, in Laurent's case, came with a particular fondness for heights.

There was little that Gansey loved more than talking about history. Especially this particular brand—his voice was liquid gold as he spoke, like a man in love, smooth and warm. "He was the last native Welshman to hold the title Prince of Wales," he answered, glancing at Laurent with a quirk at the corner of his mouth before looking back to the road. He... quite liked the way Laurent looked, reclined in the passenger's seat, blond hair a stark contrast against black leather.

"In 1400 he instigated the Welsh Revolt against the rule of Henry IV—overall unsuccessful and branded him an enemy of the crown. Despite the orders for his arrest and many rewards he was never caught and never given up by his people. In fact, there is no reliable account of anything regarding his whereabouts or death after 1412. There are guesses, of course, and over the years some supposed information has been found but nothing concrete."

He was quiet for a moment as though he was deciding something, lips pressed together as he considered his words. There were always two versions of the story he told. One that was purely historical, one that was more supernatural. Often he judged the listener as a believer or a non-believer before deciding. With Laurent, it was a little more difficult. It wasn't the same as Declan's line of girlfriends he always brought around, using Gansey as a token (ah yes, look at the friends I keep) as a way to bed them. Those stories were purely historical.

Laurent... was not like that.

"They say that, like Arthur, he's waiting for the call to return and liberate his people."

~~[Gansey I'm sorry]~~

Laurent watched him as he spoke, curious about the topic and fascinated by Gansey. He wasn't a believer--they'd already established that, on the topic of ghosts--but he was fascinated by stories and possibility. He liked the story of the last king, liked the romanticism of a lost ruler.

"I never liked the story of Arthur," Laurent said in response. There was a sharp, cold challenge in his eyes. Intrigue though he was, Laurent liked tearing apart any argument or theory that wasn't strong enough to withstand him. "I don't like the way it's told. Arthur, who united England. I think," Laurent tilted his head, nose wrinkled slightly in pretense of searching for the right word, "that the people who got united might have used the word 'conquered'? If anyone had asked them. And then what? Arthur returns in England's darkest hour? So I suppose the Norman invasion didn't count, since he didn't appear then, when his country was conquered and his people essentially enslaved, and their claim legitimized by a marriage to an out of the way female heir, as I recall? I confess English history isn't my forte. But I suppose he couldn't be bothered to appear anytime during the hundred years war with France? The English civil war? No? And then there's the blitz. That's the part I wonder about, see. Terrified citizens crammed into bomb shelters, praying to Arthur or Jesus, both promised to return in the darkest hour. Emerging into a dawn of rubble, the ruins of London, their home, the pride of England."

Laurent's voice had become sharper, more scathing, but the edge was a defensive one, revealing the sympathy that he felt for the suffering and the wrath he held toward any savior who failed them. "Do you suppose Owain Glyndwr is having a very lovely nap while he fails to answer his cell phone? How many centuries of subjugation do you suppose he'll require his people to endure before he bothers to return?"

Sneering, Laurent looked away down the road ahead of them. His brief flare of wrath cooled again, eyes low-lidded and defenses back to normal. "No. Either those stories aren't true, or the sleeping kings are assholes. They abandoned their people. A promise to return means nothing, if you're not there when your people need you."

It was fascinating, listening (not really seeing, as he couldn't very well remove his attention from the road for long) to Laurent go from relaxed to reeling in less that a minute. Very much like a cat bathing in the sun seconds before it was flying through the air, claws drawn. No wonder that the other boys couldn't deal with it; they were entitled and privileged and, if anyone spoke to them in anything but a pleasant manner, reacted poorly. The image of one of them trying to hit on Laurent only to be blessed with that almost made Gansey laugh—he didn't, of course, because it would be terribly rude of him.

"I can't say I'm exactly a fan of Arthur either," he admitted calmly, unruffled in the slightest by Laurent's lengthy rant. "And I don't think you're wrong. What constitutes as need, when events such as those don't? Is the implication that there will be an hour even darker one day? But one could argue that the myth of Arthur or Jesus gave those people hope through their darkest hour, that there was something good left—particularly for children, who couldn't understand the scope of what was happening. The stories were often told for their sake. They learned the truth later, as we all do, but comfort during crisis... perhaps not a terribly big thing, but something."

"As far as Glyndwr is concerned, it's not quite the same as Arthur—the story I'm interested in, anyway." Turning on his blinker, he eased off the main road, as the town wasn't far. "There's a different myth that during his slumber he was taken across the sea to America and buried by his followers. That he's waiting for someone to find him, to take him, and that person will be granted a single wish. Whatever wish they please.

They could very well not be true, or very well be ... well, unpleasant people," he said, slowly, because Gansey did not curse—even the smallest of them, "... but I find the different stories fascinating." If he told Laurent the entire truth, he was afraid his new friend would not believe him. It was something altogether too personal and likely to give him a panic attack that it was better left alone.

"There's quite a bit about magic and ley lines as well. I've mapped some of those out, and I've traveled to the points where they're the strongest. Without fail, I've seen some interesting things in those places."

Laurent didn't think much of using myths and self-delusion as comfort, but Vere had long since given up their gods as superstition, and Laurent had personal reasons to despise self-delusion.

He let the topic go, listening instead to the rest of the story and what Gansey had to say about it. A single wish, anything he pleased. Laurent turned the possibility over in his mind, with the obvious question on the tip of his tongue.

What would you ask for?

"What kind of interesting things?" he asked, instead. Most of the acid had retracted from his tone. It was hard to stay vitriolic in the face of Gansey's unruffled cheer and passion for his topic, particularly when he was so logical and so curious. Laurent wanted to know more. He wanted that golden voice to keep talking. Gansey's attention belonged to him alone, for the moment, and Laurent felt utterly jealous of that attention, dreading that soon enough it would be pulled away by Gansey's other friends, or by Laurent's more charismatic older brother, universally agreed to be better company than sharp-tongued Laurent. He wanted to keep Gansey's attention on himself forever.

"I was in Ireland two summers ago," he answered, glancing again at Laurent, wishing he could offer the young man even more of his attention, "and tripped on a stone. Later when I found the stone again I noticed it was one in a small circle—should have been more careful the first time around. It was a lucky twist of fate, however. At the bottom of the hill and through the thicket of bushes I ended up almost exactly in the middle of a ley line. There, I found the most peculiar flowers. None like I had ever seen before, and haven't seen since. They had petals like roses but were shaped like stars, and ranged from a lovely sky blue to a deep purple. They were beautiful."

As he drove he gazed at the road fondly, remembering. "And a very nice scent. I fell asleep among them. The next day when I returned with a friend, they were gone. We found them a few miles west. They always stayed within the limits of the ley lines, but never stayed in the same place for longer than a day."

The Pig eased into the town, and Gansey slowed the speed of the car to a more leisurely pace. The stores were small and clean, there were plenty of people walking the sidewalks, and there were plenty of restaurants to choose from.

Pulling into the lot of the pizzeria, Gansey put the Pig into park and flashed his friend a genuine smile.

"I'm sure that sounds utterly impossible, but it's true."

Gansey didn't seem like the type to make up stories, and the story wasn't as impossible as it might have been. Laurent liked the slight flavor of magic to it.

"I've read enough fairy stories to know that I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to fall asleep in a fairy ring. You might get stolen away." I know I'd steal you away, if I were a fairy prince. Laurent smiled at the thought, liking the mental image of Gansey fast asleep in a ring of blue flowers. A handsome gallant lured astray by fairy blooms. What fairy could resist such prey?

He let himself out of the car, hesitating awkwardly by the side of it as he waited for Gansey to join him. Now that they were here, Laurent felt utterly uncertain about what their dynamic was meant to be. Was this a date? Just lunch as friends? An opportunity for further study of their new project? He wanted all of the above to be true, heart thudding with fear and hope that it was on some level a date, and found he had no idea how he was supposed to behave in such an instance.

Flushed and tense, he kept a close eye on Gansey, taking his cues from him.

The comment made Gansey chuckle, tickled by the idea of getting stolen away. Perhaps he was lucky that he hadn't been—faeries, as far as he was concerned, could be just as real as anything else. And if Laurent were one... well, he would not mind getting stolen at all.

Gansey gave the dashboard a pat and hopped out of the car as well, swinging the door shut and walking to Laurent's side. Still, he was trying very hard to think of everything as strictly platonic. Laurent had made it very clear on the roof how he felt about being courted—or so it had sounded—and Gansey had to constantly keep himself in check lest the chemistry he felt (imagined?) make him do something utterly stupid.

He would very much like to take Laurent on a pizza date. And he was sure Laurent would not want to go on a pizza date with him.

"Ready?" Lightly, he brushes his fingers against Laurent's shoulder before shoving his hands into his pockets, biting the inside of his mouth for a moment. "It's a small place but I like their pizza a lot," he continued, figuring that if he kept talking, maybe he wouldn't do something to ruin his newfound friendship. "They'll give you as many toppings as you want." Walking, he lead the way, holding the door open for his friend once they reached it.

"My favorites are sausage and avocado but I can eat just about anything. What do you like?"

Luckily it wasn't that small—just smaller than what rich boys would normally expect. Not waiting for someone to seat them, Gansey lead the way to a cozy little booth in the back.

Laurent winced at the touch, startled by it, and then immediately regretted his reaction as Gansey took his hand away. He hadn't been touched by anyone but Auguste in years, aside from the occasional unwanted grope from pushy strangers, and even Auguste's brotherly hair-ruffling had tapered off as Laurent's defensive hostility increased.

His shoulder felt warm where Gansey had touched it. Wanting to melt under the weight of his crush, Laurent followed him into the diner, feeling suddenly like he would follow Gansey anywhere.

"Artichoke," Laurent said, wrinkling his nose in skepticism at the prospect of avocado on pizza. He slid into the booth across from Gansey. "Bacon." He grinned a tiny bit at that, picking up the menu and then putting it back down.

His hands suddenly felt like foreign objects. He didn't know where to put them, what to do with them. Practically vibrating with nerves, Laurent sat on them. A moment later, he regretted that, thinking that he wanted to look at the pictures of their texts instead.

Flipping through his phone to look at them, Laurent had only just opened his mouth to say something to Gansey when a waitress appeared. Pretty and red-haired, she focused on Gansey, all smiles as she leaned down to show off her cleavage, using the pretense of setting her pad down on the table as she wrote.

Instantly jealous, because Gansey's attention shifted to her to give their order, Laurent glared daggers at her. "Coke for me, thanks," he snapped, when the waitress completely failed to ask him if he wanted anything to drink.

She startled when she saw the look on his face, glancing back at Gansey in confusion and then quickly retreating to the kitchen.

Laurent watched her go, face cold and defensive.

It was something Gansey had gotten used to—so much so that her flirtations barely registered. How many dinner parties had he been to where his mother's friends hit on him? Some merely wanted to flirt for fun, some had more serious intentions. Normally he went places in town that it was less likely to happen—usually he was served by the elderly grandma that worked here, always pleased to see a nice young whippersnapper that didn't curse and read books, but it wasn't always possible to end up the same waitress.

They liked him because he was handsome and clearly well off. Unlike Laurent's tendency to become icy and clawed, Gansey usually became more distant, smiling blandly and entertaining until it was over, or he could gently manipulate the flirtations into some bland topic, like the weather.

Gansey wouldn't have given the waitress another thought if he hadn't seen Laurent's expression. Instantly, he blamed himself, wondering what he had done or said that had upset his friend. Did he want the waitress's attention? Was that his type? The thought made him something... uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry. That was rude of her," Gansey offered, rubbing his knuckles lightly. "I don't like people that are rude like that." Would Laurent feel better knowing Gansey had zero interest in her? That the coast was clear? It was even more unsettling as he quietly realized that he didn't much like Laurent's coast being clear either. What was wrong with him? Usually it was much easier to stifle any sort of personal desire.

Underneath the table their knees brushed and Gansey shifted back into the booth seat apologetically, "—Sorry, we've both got long legs." Maybe he should have gotten a table? Mentally, he chided himself for getting so anxious over little things. It was fine for friends to sit close. It was only intimate to him—he and Laurent were friends. It would be fine if he stopped allowing himself to have selfish thoughts.

Laurent was puzzled by the different aspects of Gansey's reaction. His brow furrowed, instantly disliking Gansey being apologetic and awkward. It didn't suit him, and Laurent wasn't entirely sure what had caused it. It would have made more sense if Gansey had been annoyed at Laurent for being rude, since he had been, and to a service professional.

The apology after their knees bumped was worse, somehow. They were both long-legged, and the booth wasn't that large, but the way Gansey looked so uncomfortable in his own skin made Laurent's stomach turn over with the wrongness of it.

He realized that this was his own fault, and felt sick with guilt. Gansey was being careful for fear of setting off Laurent's temper again. This was why Laurent wasn't worth the trouble of befriending. No one but Auguste would put up with his vitriol for long, and Auguste didn't have the choice.

Leaning back in his seat, Laurent extended his legs under the table. One knee between Gansey's, the other stretched out to the side. He stretched it out, subconsciously, on the outside of the booth, so that Gansey would have to detangle from him if he planned to go anywhere.

Then he took out his phone again. "Which one should we start with?" he asked, making a conscious effort to be less sharp-edged, at least toward Gansey, who had been nothing but kind and respectful.

Thankfully it seemed as though Laurent was back at ease. Gansey relaxed as well, willing any less than purely platonic and brotherly thoughts to the back of his mind. He didn't allow himself to think about how Laurent's leg was between his.

All was well. Laurent knew Gansey was interested in the waitress and that she was free to be interested in, and that he hadn't meant anything untoward when their knees brushed together. With the possibility of talk about texts, Gansey pulled his own phone out. Before he had the chance to drag up his own photos he had to muddle through several texts. The name ADAM was large across the screen, with four texts to answer. Gansey answered them instantly. There were a few other texts that he simply looked at but did not answer.

"I'm not sure." As he flicked through the pictures with one hand, he rolled his thumb over his bottom lip, teasing it in his contemplation. The waitress returned with their drinks while he was studying the pictures. As she put their drinks in front of them she gave Gansey a doe-eyed look, still trying to get his attention but going for cute and mysteriously alluring rather than busty and chatty. Gansey did not notice.

"I think... we might want to start with one that we'll find easiest to decipher," he said, slowly, glancing up at his friend and still not noticing how the waitress was hovering. "I tend to be best at latin, but certainly don't mind studying in order to keep up with your Greek." He offered that with a quirk of a smile, still impressed that Laurent was so talented.

Laurent smirked slightly when he saw how utterly oblivious Gansey was to the attractive waitress, feeling satisfied and triumphant that his claim on Gansey was safe. "Thanks," he said to the waitress, smug and slightly catty as he accepted his drink. He leaned forward over the table, letting her assume whatever she wanted--friends, boyfriends, whatever they were, they were both obviously more interested in each other than anyone else in the room.

"Study with me," Laurent said, heart quickening a little at the smile on Gansey's lips. "We'll need Koine for these, since that was the Greek of Alexandria, so I'll need to study that anyway. And we can always dip into Aeolic if we're lucky enough to find anything by Sappho."

Gansey's leg was warm against his own. It was a nice feeling, and Laurent pushed away a thought that he wouldn't mind more of that kind of contact, wouldn't mind crawling onto Gansey's lap and straddling his thighs for a kiss...

Biting down on his own lip, Laurent willed himself to focus on the texts at hand. Their legs touching meant nothing. It was just a gesture of comfort between them. Friendship. Gansey seemed relaxed again now, which meant he'd done the right thing.

"I wish I'd brought one of my notebooks so we can start work. We could do something easier--the Euripides, that we can compare against other surviving copies--while we're trying to identify some of the more obscure languages."

From the way her cheeks colored, it was obvious that she was assuming something more than friendship. A look of oh, duh crossed her features, as though that perfectly explained why Gansey hadn't openly gaped at her amazing rack. Her return to the kitchen to check on their order left them alone, snug together, as Gansey nodded at Laurent's words. It was... completely comfortable, being close to Laurent, nestled into a small booth while talking about languages. Even though they had just become friends, it felt like they had known each other for longer. And Gansey knew it wasn't because he was very familiar with Auguste—as far as brothers went, they had a couple of similarities, but overall were very different.

"Okay," Gansey answered, more than pleased to study with Laurent. His eyes glittered as he answered, and the look he gave Laurent was a bit too affectionate to be platonic—but he quickly schooled himself so that it was gone in an instant, as though it could have just been a trick of light.

"We can move between studying and translating. And, of course, identifying." He sounded quite excited about the lot of it, pleased to have so much to work on. It would give him direction, something to do while he was stuck at Charterhouse. Once he graduated he planned on traveling, working across ley lines. Not terribly far off, but long enough that the days until graduation had filled him with restlessness before this.

"Since we don't have our books now, how would you feel about working together tonight? We can hole up in the library or—well, if you don't mind coming to my room, we can work there." Gansey certainly didn't mind having Laurent over, even if he was bound to end up having a dangerous fantasy or two at the mere idea. "It's supposed to storm tonight. Usually I find the rain to be calming—makes it easier to study. Especially with a cup of tea or a latte. What do you think?"

Laurent nodded agreement, instantly tempted by the invitation. He wanted to know if Gansey's room would be composed of the same eccentric curiosity and intelligence that had won him over so securely when he'd seen Gansey's notebook. "Hot chocolate. I try to avoid coffee after lunch, or I won't sleep."

Smiling slightly at the pleasure of being so tempted by something, Laurent watched him. He loved the excitement in Gansey's eyes, the engaging smile that invited Laurent to share this with him. It was pleasant and painful to have a crush, mostly pleasant, and Laurent wanted to re-arrange his entire life to center around Gansey. Or, at least, his life at Charterhouse.

"Which room is yours?"

Their pizza arrived and Laurent helped himself to a slice. He ate carefully, holding the pizza on the tips of his fingers, and paused every so often to lick his fingers clean, being as fastidious as a cat. Curious, he took his second slice from Gansey's side of the pizza, laughing and wrinkling his nose at the taste of avocado-sausage pizza. "It's not terrible. Though I still think avocado on pizza is unnatural."

As soon as the pizza arrived Gansey dug in like a man starved, taking a healthy bite of his slice and devouring it in less than a minute. One would never know that he could easily put away a whole pie by himself with such a great figure; genetics were merely on his side, with a scoop of athletics on the side. It also helped that Gansey didn't eat often, seeing as he didn't cook, and often didn't feel like having what they offered at school.

Licking the grease from his fingers before wiping his hands with a napkin. Laurent's reaction to the pizza made him laugh; most people did find the combo a bit weird, which was why he never told anyone to try it. "Ah, but since when is any part of pizza natural?" he argued. "By its creation, pizza is a combination of miscellaneous ingredients tossed together. The pizza—bread, sauce, and cheese—merely serves as a board for toppings, no limitations. My sausage and avocados belong there just as much as anything else."

But that didn't stop him from stealing one of the slices from Laurent's side.

"My room is in the east dorm," he finally answered, content that he had done enough defending of the sausage/avocado combo, "room 5. It's the top floor." Money afforded luxury; the dorm rooms were all fairly big, but the more expensive rooms were entire floors. Gansey hadn't cared, but the room had been given to him when he entered the school. When he left, some other rich boy with parents that were politicians would take it.

"It's the top floor?" Laurent repeated. His room was plenty spacious and comfortable, but even for their prince, Vere simply hadn't provided the budget to secure anything especially ostentatious for him. The ordinary security of Charterhouse was enough, especially since Laurent never left the campus.

"I think the mere existence of avocados renders me wary. They don't grow in Vere." He ate it anyway, finishing the slice and licking his fingers before reaching for another of his own.

He ended up eating only a third of the pizza--Laurent's build was slight, a scholar's build with only light musculature from the fencing practice he attended twice a week. He spent most of his time otherwise in study, or exploration, leaving him healthy and inclined to climb trees and towers, but with a much more slender figure than Gansey's square, broad-shouldered form. "I'll meet you in the library after class. We can study an hour before dinner, and then go to your room for hot chocolate and Greek afterward."

Suddenly remembering Gansey's texts and realizing he might have competition for his time, Laurent glanced defensively toward Gansey's phone. "If... you're not otherwise busy, for dinner."

"The whole floor," Gansey confirmed, polishing off what of the pizza that Laurent did not. "My grandfather, Richard Campbell Gansey Senior, attended Charterhouse back in the day. That was his room. When I came here, they thought it was an excellent idea to give it to me. Probably to pander the old man for some more donations." He didn't sound like he was particularly proud to be following in the footsteps of his family, explaining with none of the exuberance he afforded history. His family's legacy could be... tiring.

Gansey's attention was focused on Laurent's fingers when the man licked them clean. Unfairly fascinating. Again, he schooled himself, a stern reminder that friends did not openly admire the loveliness of their friend's hands.

At the mention of dinner plans Gansey shook his head. "No, I don't have any plans. Adam's working again—he works four jobs just to afford the portion of tuition they make him pay. Plus he needs a new sweater because one of the other students stole his. I offered to just buy it for him but he said no. Doesn't want to belong to anyone or owe anyone anything, that's what he said." Gansey rubbed his jaw, "I tried to tell him that it wouldn't be like that between us but he's stubborn. So he's working extra hours... I'm worried he won't take care of himself."

Pausing, Gansey suddenly realized that Laurent probably didn't care about his concerns. "I'm sorry, got a bit off topic there. That all sounds lovely. The very thought will get me through physics."

"I'm sorry for him," Laurent said, interested in Gansey and his friend despite Gansey's apology for the tangent. "It's unfortunate that Charterhouse doesn't have a better scholarship program. I've never thought about it before, but it doesn't. I know exactly the boy you mean--in the whole school there must be what, three, four? Boys who wear second hand sweaters."

Laurent's brow furrowed as he contemplated the situation. Scholarship boys at Charterhouse. He couldn't think of more than three of them. "There must be one per year. Out of hundreds of students, it's less than one percent. That's shameful."

It was a problem and a challenge, and Laurent was intrigued by it. Not for Adam's sake, but because he had simply been raised to think like a prince, and he liked things that provided opportunities. "Charterhouse prides itself on putting out the best minds of tomorrow, but it doesn't, really. It just regurgitates the wealthy."

Laurent chewed on his lower lip. "I'll put the idea in Auguste's head. Five percent scholarship boys seems reasonable, don't you think? Especially after that pricy renovation that they did on the alumni building. Auguste lives for projects he can champion. He'll start a petition, parents will start calling the school..." Laurent smirked and sipped at his drink. "Low effort on my part, and no way for your friend to reasonably suspect any involvement for you. We do need the improved diversity in our student body."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject