marlowemuses | ❥ sometimes it's meant to be

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❥ 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.

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Laurent also looked up, surprised by the passage of time. "Oh! And we're nearly going to miss dinner."

Quickly gathering up papers and notebooks, Laurent tidied them into a messy bundle which he stuffed into his bag, grabbing Gansey's hand again to haul him out of the room. Locking it, he turned to go and got tangled in Gansey's arm, since he'd forgotten they were connected. Confused, he looked down, puzzled as to how they'd gotten linked again.

"Sorry," he said, letting go. A crease formed between his brows, perplexed as he was by this new tendency he'd developed. "I... that's..." Laurent put his hand behind his back. "Dinner."

Avoiding emotional problems was clearly preferable to facing them. Laurent headed for the outer door, peering out into the rain and wrinkling his nose. "Shall we make a run for it?"

Again, Gansey was winded when Laurent grabbed him and drew him out of the room. It was—an incredibly cute habit, Gansey had to admit to himself, even if it often meant that he'd leave messes wherever he'd been before Laurent whisked him away. This time the books and notes came with them.

"It's all right," he answered quickly, not bothered by it in the last. It seemed like Laurent was embarrassed about it so he wouldn't continue on to say that it was perfectly fine if he wanted to do that, for politeness sake. "Right. Dinner."

Following along, Gansey rested his hand on Laurent's shoulder as he peered outside to see how heavy the rain was. "I... think we can make it," he said slowly, as though he still wasn't quite sure. The rain itself wasn't terrible but it was going to get worse, if the thunder and lightning were any indication.

"If we get soaked, I can always lend you some clothes when we get to my room." Because dinner to go was beginning to look like a good idea.

Laurent's heart stuttered at the hand on his shoulder. It was warm and steady, and made him overwhelmingly want to turn into to the touch, curling into that warm, broad chest.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind, Laurent flashed him a grin and ran for it. His bag should mostly protect their books, and all they had were notes and copies. More copies could always be made.

He was laughing again as they crashed through the doors to safety, darting up the stairs to the dining hall on the second floor. Grabbing a to-go box, he handed one to Gansey and started loading up with food, twitching and smirking every time the thunder rumbled.

He was halfway through the buffet when the power suddenly went out, miring them in darkness. Laurent just grinned. Shutting his box of food, he drifted his fingertips over Gansey's shoulders and secured his grip on Gansey's sleeve. "Come on," he murmured, closer to Gansey's ear than he realized, and tugged him through the darkness toward the stairs.

The instant they crashed through the doors the rain began to come down even harder, pounding on the building. The cafeteria was desolate; everyone else had grabbed what they wanted and ran for cover already. Even the staff was absent, probably off cleaning up puddles of mud left behind by rambunctious boys.

On Gansey's end he'd stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth almost as soon as he reached the buffet, and had been trying to decide of he wanted to bother eating anything else when the power went out. The only light was what was offered when lightning flashed across the sky, soon followed by the rumble of thunder.

The buildings were old. Power could easily go out with how it was structured, though it rarely did. There were back-up generators in some newer buildings but the older ones remained without. Apparently, most of the money students spent on tuition went into pockets of the board.

Fingertips brushing across his shoulders almost made him shiver in pleasure. It felt good. Way too good. Thankfully the dark was the perfect cover for his flushed face and throat. Paired with a voice so close to his ear that he could feel the warmth of sweet breath? Oh, darkness was his best friend.

Following along once more, Gansey dropped the empty box and swallowed the rest of his roll quickly, sinking into the shadows toward the stairs with his friend. Even though he knew the school well he'd never bothered to scamper around it at night.

"Where are we going?" he asked, keeping his voice low like they were sneaking around, rather than just students stuck in a storm.

"Your room," Laurent said, as if Gansey had forgotten. There was a window in the stairwell, giving them enough light to get down safely. Laurent pulled him back to the main doors, looking down into the downpour. "East dorm, right?" he said, squinting down at the heavy sheets of rain.

Letting go of Gansey's sleeve, Laurent ran, expecting to be followed. He hadn't left Gansey with much choice. It was either follow and be drenched, or stay in the safe haven of the main building and leave Laurent to be stranded and alone on Gansey's doorstep.

He didn't stop running even as he reached the dorm. Long-legged and fast, Laurent darted up the stairs, pausing only briefly on the landing to make sure Gansey was still with him. Drenched now and dripping, Laurent's grin was wide, because he lived for reckless adventure like this, and he'd had so little opportunity to find it until Gansey had walked into his life.

"I've never been lead to my own room before," he chuckled, glancing out the window when they passed it by. There wasn't much time for there to be more said; Laurent darted out into the storm and of course Gansey followed. Leaving Laurent to soak was unacceptable, of course, but mostly because he wanted to chase him. Chase, but never catch.

When he finally managed to catch up he was drenched. Slicking his hair back from his face with rainwater he grinned, delighted. What was a little rain? It was cold but it made him feel so very alive. Right down to the marrow.

"You should run track with those legs!" he proclaimed, chest rising and falling from sprinting. "You're a regular cat." Fumbling in his pockets for his key, Gansey took the rest of the stairs two at a time. When he reached his door he pushed it open, tossing the keys into a bowl on table beside the it.

It was a spacious room, but odd. The living room was like a bedroom, with a desk underneath the window strewn with books and papers, a queen sized bed (unmade) in the middle of the wall, a dresser, a well packed book case, and walls covered in maps. There was a small kitchenette off to the side that was clearly never used and three doors down the long hallway.

Gansey went to the dresser right away and began digging through it. Holding up one of his cotton T-shirts and a pair of his sweatpants he asked, "Do these seem okay? They might be a bit big on you, but they're dry."

Laurent nodded, dropping his bag by the desk and taking the dry clothing. He trusted Gansey now, trusted him not to be crude or lecherous, so he had fairly little problem stripping off his shirt in front of him. His pale skin was pricked with goosebumps from cold, and his pink nipples were hard. His flat stomach fluttered briefly with nerves as the shirt was over his head. He hated being vulnerable, even if only for a moment, even in trusted company, but insisting on changing in the bathroom would be to admit that he was vulnerable, and that was worse.

The dry shirt was too large on him, and it smelled like Gansey. Mint and laundry soap. Laurent felt briefly dizzy.

Kicking off his shoes, he shed his pants almost as quickly. There was a brief flash of underwear--briefs, close-fitted, in a satiny dark blue fabric--and long white legs--the light golden hairs so pale and sparse as to be nearly nonexistent--and then the sweatpants were safely on. "Do I get a tour?" he asked, eyes lingering on Gansey. He didn't want to get caught looking, but he certainly wasn't planning to miss any nudity on Gansey's part.

At least half of the boys would have killed in order to see the young prince strip. Gansey had more decency than that, and politely turned away, digging through his drawers rather than stare. He did catch a glimpse of a lovely pale chest and flat stomach when he bent down to grab his sweater off the floor—his heart skipped a beat. But he forced himself to keep neutral, dragging in every skill his mother had taught him about being passively pleasant and unreadable.

Best change as well. His clothes had quickly grown colder, molding to his body in an uncomfortable way. "I'd love to," he said as he stripped off his shirt in one languid movement, pulling the wet thing off over his head and tossing it at his laundry basket. He was evenly golden tan and had nicely toned muscles from crew; not overwhelming, but enough to give him a nice shape.

"But there's not much more to show you, I'm afraid. The door closest to us is the bathroom, the middle door is—well." He rubbed the back of his neck, hooking his thumb into his pants, which pulled them low across his hips. "Truthfully, I have two roommates. My friend Noah stays in the middle room, and Ronan Lynch—you may have heard of him—stays in the back room. I don't go into their rooms."

Plucking another shirt free from the lot, he pulled a black tee over his head, scrubbing the stiffness out of his thick hair once it was on.

Laurent's heart thudded in his throat at the view, impressed. When Gansey's thumb pulled his waistband lower, Laurent's eyes followed, staring for half a second before he pulled himself back together with an appraising lift of his brows. Nice, unstated, but implied.

"What happens if you have guests?" Laurent asked, giving the exposed bed a glance. "Or if you... are you too American to masturbate?"

He asked it with only the slightest curve of his lips, making it hard to tell if it was a deadpan joke or if he actually expected to be answered.

Gansey's eyebrow arched at the question. It was a valid one, he supposed, even if Laurent was joking. Unbuttoning his wet slacks, he considered.

"Well... I've never had company so that's never been an issue." Most men would be embarrassed to admit that but it was simply a fact to Gansey. No one had ever really interested him enough. Never felt attracted enough. Always had better, more important things to do. "And you'd be surprised at how much Americans do that," he laughed, slacks dropping. His legs were equally well defined with traces of dark hair—nothing overbearing, but it obviously existed. He wore a pair of boxers which were dry enough to keep on, because he was stepping into a pair of cargo pants moments later.

Outside thunder crashed, and Gansey glanced out the window, admiring the storm.

"So—we agreed on hot chocolate, I think?" Looking back to Laurent, Gansey smiled. "I don't cook much but I can boil water. Feel free to make yourself comfortable, or look through my book shelves." Barefoot, Gansey went into the kitchenette to drop a kettle onto the stove and search through his little cabinets for hot chocolate. There was no noise from the other rooms, making it seem quite like they were home alone.

"Sorry my bed's a mess. I don't usually make it. Bad habit."

Laurent smiled at the honesty, glancing again as Gansey changed his pants. He took a seat on the floor, starting to spread out pages again. The problem was that so many of them weren't in any kind of order, and they weren't neatly labeled. In most cases, he couldn't tell any more than language, unless he happened to recognize a passage. A few had labels from existing scroll-ends, but most were just mysteries, and then there were the fragments, which were pages of what was little more than papyrus confetti.

Gansey's confessions rolled around in his mind, and he was pleased by several of the implications. No company, which meant no necessary jealousy on Laurent's part. He could monopolize Gansey's attention as much as he pleased. His American response had indicated that yes, he had perfectly healthy urges as a young man. He could have anyone in the school he wanted, or nearly. He just chose not to. Just like Laurent.

While Gansey made hot chocolate, Laurent finished sorting the now damp, slightly wrinkled pages. Greek, 112. Punic, 59. Latin, 40. Coptic, 15. Sanskrit, 4. He set them all in separate piles, then picked up the Greek stack, clearing the rest away. "What Greek books have you got?"

Grabbing two mugs and placing them on the counter, Gansey glanced over to where Laurent had settled on the floor and the bookshelf not too far from him.

"Let me think... I have a lot of Homer, Sophocles, Herodotus, Euripides, Hippocrates, Aristophanes, Plato, Sappho, Aeschylus... maybe we can use some of those to compare? As for language itself, I have a couple of textbooks. Those are on the bottom shelf."

The smell of cocoa and marshmallows quickly filled the room as he prepared their drinks. It was relaxing; alone with Laurent, domestic during a thunderstorm. It would be a lie to say he wasn't thrilled whenever he glanced at the other man wearing his clothes.

"You said Medea is your favorite?" he asked, heading over to sit beside Laurent with the two mugs, grabbing his blanket off the bed so they could use it.

"Yes," Laurent said, glancing up with an unguarded, genuine smile as Gansey sat beside him, bringing hot chocolate and a blanket. "Thank you."

He sipped at the chocolate, found it too hot, and licked his lips in between blowing puffs of air to cool it. "I love Euripides. I'm partial to Electra and the Bacchae as well, but I think I've read a little too much critical commentary on both, so now I have all manner of opinions and angles on them, which both increases and reduces my enjoyment of them. With Medea, I have only my own appreciation and interpretation of it. It's more private. Intimate. I know what I think of it, rather than anyone else."

Sipping again, even though it was still too hot, Laurent licked his lips and considered the pages. "Should we start with the Medea, to compare it to other versions, or should we work on identifying and translating the unknown pages?"

Bringing his own mug to his lips, Gansey considered what they should do. Chocolate warmed his tongue and, after a few minutes of quiet contemplation he responded, "I think I would like to try to translate the unknown pages. I wonder if there's anything new we can find—perhaps it's a little conceited to think we could discover what some very learned scholars haven't... but can you imagine?"

Gently, he traced his fingers across one of the pages. "I wonder if we'll find anything related to Achilles and Patroclus? I'm not sure if I'd call The Iliad my favorite but I've always been very fond of it, particularly their relationship. And how scholars used to argue about whether or not they were romantically involved. Always fascinating to see how different people interpreted the story and their actions."

Taking a sip of his hot chocolate, he glanced at his friend. "I think they were, personally. I've read that some ancient poets wrote poems about them and their romantic relationship. To find one of those would be lovely." Closing his eyes, he basked in the taste of hot chocolate. "Achilles ordered that when he die, his ashes should be mixed with Patroclus' so they could remain together for eternity. That, I think, is love."

Opening his eyes again, he scanned the Medea text. "But if you like this one we can start on it. It may be easier than diving headfirst into unknown territory."

Laurent's smile widened at Gansey's choice of topic and how he spoke of them. It was unbearably charming, and Laurent felt a wave of desire to kiss him. So Gansey was interested in men. Maybe very much so.

"I always thought it was funny," Laurent said, setting the marked pages aside and picking up the unknown ones, like Gansey had requested, "about how the Athenians used to debate about which of them topped. Plato had some very strong opinions on the topic. Have you read the Symposium?"

Choosing the first page for himself and letting Gansey have the other, Laurent set the dictionary and grammar book between them, then pulled up a few resources and dictionaries on his laptop, starting to work on the translation. He chewed on his pen as he worked, making careful notes on conjugation and declension for each word before writing a loose translation of the line beneath that. It was much slower going than he was accustomed to--the photos were often difficult to read, and he couldn't simply check the annotation of an often-translated text whenever he hesitated on a verb, and the shift in dialect made his head ache, since they didn't have a grammar book for the right dialect.

Leaning over often to consult Gansey, Laurent shifted closer to him so that their shoulders were nearly touching, not minding in the least that their shoulders brushed whenever he glanced over to offer his opinion on a word in Gansey's translation, or to ask to be handed one of Gansey's books.

Gansey laughed genially when Laurent brought up the topping arguments. "I have. I agree—very funny. I would think they might switch it up depending on their mood, but who am I to say for certain? It is interesting how fans haven't changed through the years. I imagine Plato might have some very strong feelings about Game of Thrones as well, were he to see it."

Helping himself to the page he was given, Gansey set to the task of translating. As he had told Laurent, languages weren't his strongest suit, but he was dedicated to trying. They had plenty of reference material but it was harder when there wasn't anything to check it back against. What if they were totally off base? They would never know.

The closeness between them was comfortable. He barely noticed how close they had inched, closing the gap between them slowly but surely. Every so often Gansey returned the shoulder brush, asking Laurent for his opinion on a word just as often. The rain continued to pound down against the buildings, thunder rumbling, lightning flashing across the sky.

By chance, Gansey glanced up from his text and his focus landed on Laurent's lips—lovely, utterly kissable, and he was overcome with a queer feeling that he would very much like to beg a kiss off of his friend. Just one would do. It might be enough. But that was completely unacceptable. To destroy their relationship... it would be terrible. Just the very thought caused an ache in Gansey's heart. It would be painful to lose Laurent. Maybe it was crazy to feel that way having only known him for so short a time... but they met for a reason. Gansey believed that.

After a while he sat up and stretched his arms over his head, revealing a slip of belly as he did so. "This is more difficult than I expected," he admitted, yawning against his palm, "but I think I'm working on a love poem. It seems to be short. What about you?"

Laurent's eyes caught on the slip of belly, unable to resist it. "It's a play, but that's the best I can tell. The dialogue is incredibly obtuse, even for Greek drama, or I'm making a mess of the translation because I'm not used to Koine declensions." Rubbing at his face, he sighed, turning his attention to Gansey's page. "It's a love poem? Read it to me."

He leaned in close because he wanted to see--he couldn't resist the scholar's eternal hope that some of Sappho's nine books of poetry would be discovered. Gansey's shoulder was warm against his own, and Laurent realized too late what he'd done, pressing against Gansey's side and asking to be read a love poem. His cheeks and neck went red, but he stayed where he was. Pulling back guiltily would only make it more obvious.

"I think it is," he said, somewhat wary of his own translation. It helped that it wasn't a play—at least, he didn't think it was part of a play. From what he could understand it seemed to be fairly compact.

If Gansey thought anything odd about Laurent pressing close and asking to be read the poem, he said nothing about it. He was actually too worried that his translation was utter poop to realize the implications, though he did subconsciously lean back against his friend, lessening the distance between them even more.

"I arranged it in a way that makes sense to me. It might not be completely right, but... I'm confident that at least some of it is correct." At least a fair amount of the vocabulary. Grammar, on the other hand? He'd just tossed that one to the wind after thirty minutes of trying to position words.

Clearing his throat, he began,

"You, you are...
Just like the sweet apple
reddening at the highest
branch
and missed by the apple pickers...
No.
They did not miss you.
They just couldn’t reach so
high.

You are just like the mountain
Hyacinth,
trodden by the shepherds
next to the purple
blossoms."

His voice was smooth as he spoke, every so often glancing up at his friend, catching his eye. "It doesn't say who wrote it."

Laurent's lips parted, utterly enthralled by the poem, particularly as Gansey recited it. His translation, spoken in his exquisite, mint-tinged voice. It was beautiful, and Laurent almost allowed himself to believe that Gansey meant him. "Gansey, that's lovely. It sounds like Sappho, but I don't recognize it, and I'd worry that it's only wishful thinking on my part to find a poem by Sappho. It's not in Aeolic Greek, I don't think." He ran his finger over the page, considering. "So this would have to be a translation. And it's probably not Sappho at all. You said you had a book of Sappho?"

He ran his fingertips over the translation again, awed. "Oh, but it might be. It's so beautiful. Your translation of it is powerful, Gansey."

The compliment made Gansey smile—he seemed to do a lot of that around Laurent. "I can only hope I've done it some justice." Whoever it was written by. If was indeed one of Sappho's it had to be a translation, which would be a fascinating find. How poetry could move across language several times over and still be powerful.

"I do have some Sappho. Let's see..."

The bookcase was on the other side of his friend. Room having grown chilly from the storm, Gansey didn't have much desire to get up and walk over to it when the blankets were so comfortable. So he opted to stretch across, their bodies very close as he bent forward on his knees in front of Laurent to reach for the book.

"This one." Catching it by its spine, Gansey tugged the book free and relaxed back on his calves. "It's been a while since I've read them. Which of hers do you like best?" Since he seemed to be very fond of her.

"I don't know if I could pick a favorite." Laurent was hyper aware of Gansey reaching across him, practically in his lap. Gansey's shirt rode up as he stretched and Laurent's mouth watered at the sight of bare skin, begging to be kissed or touched. He wondered if Gansey was ticklish.

Swallowing hard, Laurent reached for the book, paging through it. "I ought to lend you my Anne Carson translation. It's the most exquisite thing. She's a poet, and a classicist, and she includes and translates even the fragments. There are pages with just a word, or just a few letters, and somehow that's just as heart rending as any of the poems. I wish I had something comparable for Catullus. He's so passionate and so sharp-edged and clever. But I don't think I'd want to love like he does. Sappho loves like it's a gift, don't you think? Even if it isn't reciprocated, she gives her love like it's something beautiful, like the act of giving is enough. With Catullus, I feel like whether he's in or out of love, he's just all sharp edges and cuts. Everyone bleeds."

Laurent paused with the next page between his fingers, eyes unfocused. His own words got under his skin, and he felt the aching certainty that he was far more like Catullus, which could only lead him to hurting himself and everyone he tried to love. Shaking off the melancholia, he turned the next few pages quicker, focused on his actual task. "Here it is. Look.

Like a sweet-apple
turning red
high
on the tip
of the topmost branch.
Forgotten by pickers.
Not forgotten—
they couldn’t reach it."

His long, pale fingers spread across the words, reverent. "Your version is more like a love poem. And, look, they put the next stanza separately, like it's a different poem. I'd get my copy, that has the Greek and tends to be clear about where the breaks are in the manuscript, but." He glanced toward the window and lifted a brow at a flash of lightning.

Shrugging, Laurent returned his attention to the texts. His eyes lingered on Gansey's translation. "Keep that," he said, cresting his thumb briefly over the bottom of the page. "I like it very much."

Gansey followed Laurent's gaze toward the window. The rain was still relentless in its downpour, not taking a single break. They had said it would be a bad storm.

Even though he was sure the book translation was truer than his, it pleased Gansey to hear that Laurent liked his rudimentary version. There was the possibility that whoever transcribed it had changed some words to their own taste; which, again, made the whole thing fascinating.

"Then I'll give it to you," he said. "To keep." With gentle hands he took the page and folded it along the tear crease, smoothed it down with his finger, and removed the page from his book. Before he folded the page he signed his name at the bottom, a sweeping G and small slanted ansey. Then he pressed it into Laurent's hands.

"Hopefully one day I'll get better at translating. Then I'll give you another poem." To compare the difference. Obviously. That was all.

( It wasn't really all. )

Laurent had no rational reason for taking it, but he wanted it. He wanted the page, messy with notes and translated verbs, He wanted the bold, confident G and the sharp ansey, so that he could etch the letters onto his heart, even if it would be a forgery. Staring at the folded page in his hand, he felt like an impostor, taking the poem so that he could pretend it was about him, for him, a love letter from Gansey. Folding it, he put it into the pocket of Gansey's sweatpants.

He felt suddenly unworthy. Now that he trusted Gansey, knew Gansey, it didn't seem quite so impossible that they should be friends. It did, however, feel impossible that Gansey could ever love him.

He could imagine Gansey with someone warm and sweet, someone full of laughter and goodness. Someone worthy of him. Laurent felt sharp-edged and mousey. Golden sons like Auguste and Gansey married glittering, generous aviatrixes and entrepreneurs. Not self-absorbed, temperamental scholars.

He didn't deserve Gansey, and Gansey was the only person he'd ever wanted. The realization ached. This was more than just a crush, it was a bone-deep yearning. He'd found the epitome of what he wanted, and it was Richard Gansey III.

Knowing that made it better and worse. Gansey deserved better, and Laurent was pretty sure he was unlovable anyway. But, he supposed, at times like this, he could pretend. It would be easy, to imagine that Gansey was his boyfriend, and that the sweet, romantic domesticity of the moment could remain forever.

"Thank you," he murmured, putting the book of Sappho back on the shelf and reaching for the dictionary again. The love poem was like a brand in his pocket, but Laurent's face was as masked as ever.

When he gave Laurent the poem he tried to read the other man's face. Look for something there, something that might give him that push and a reason to venture into less than platonic territory. It would be logical. If it seemed like Laurent felt whatever chemistry he was feeling too, addressing it would make sense.

But there was nothing there to see—his expression was as it ever was, and for a moment Gansey's heart sunk. Of course. Right. Mentally berating himself for letting his thoughts stay again he stood, stepping over to his desk to flip through some papers. No one had ever drawn his attention quite like Laurent had and the normal admonishment of you've been blessed with so much already, stop wanting what you shouldn't have wasn't working as well as it normally did. His family was well off. He'd always lived a privileged life. He'd even been given a second chance at everything. Who was he to try and push himself on Laurent, who clearly hated the idea?

Friendship. That was what he'd been lucky enough to be given and he should be more grateful for just that.

"Would you like something else to drink?" he ventured, picking up one of his journals, "Or something to eat? We've got snacks. Some snacks. A break might be a good idea."

"Yes," Laurent said, eyes trailing Gansey everywhere he moved, addicted to the sight of him. They'd eaten some of the food that Laurent had gotten from the dining hall, but he hadn't gotten much, and it was the odd side dishes from the beginning of the buffet: a roll, some potato salad, several olives, three chicken wings. He was cold once he got up, but he did his best to ignore that, trailing along at Gansey's side as they went to the kitchenette.

"I'm not picky. What have you got?" Leaning an elbow on Gansey's shoulder, he peered into the fridge, considering the options and taking some deli meat and cheese to nibble on, licking his fingers between bites. "Maybe more hot chocolate. Or wine." Laurent's eyes narrowed with playful, wicked challenge, suddenly burning to know whether Gansey was the sort of teenager who kept a secret stash of alcohol. "You look like you've never broken a rule in your life, you know. Even if I do have the very incriminating knowledge that you are easily goaded into dangerous climbing excursions."

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