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

"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."

Having the weight of Laurent's elbow on his shoulder was pleasant. Comfortable. Even if he knew better than to pursue he could still enjoy little things, right? It was a gesture of trust. Ease. Truly, he was blessed.

The fridge didn't offer much aside from those deli meats and cheese. There were eggs, a couple of left over containers of Chinese food, and and a pack of bacon. Not so much as a sign of a vegetable. It wasn't so much that Gansey didn't know how to cook (though his skills were rudimentary at best). But paired with often forgetting to eat at all and having a penchant for pizza? It didn't often happen.

At the accusation that he was a square Gansey grinned, eyebrow raised. "Is that so? What makes you think so? Is it the polos?" Ronan always said it was the polos. Or the plaid. Or the boatshoes. Everything. Everything, mostly.

"We have a few things," he said, opening a cabinet to the side of the fridge to reveal a bottle of both red and white, among other couple of other various kinds of liquor. He was a year older than Laurent as it was and his unofficial roommate was about as Irish as they came. While Gansey wasn't the kind to ever get drunk, he enjoyed a drink or two on occasion. Moderation. Ronan enjoyed a bit more than moderation (a point of their fights, fairly often) but they were working on that.

"There's also beer in the bottom of the fridge."

As for food, he shifted over, reaching for another cabinet. "We mostly buy food that doesn't spoil easily. Things like pasta, sauce, whatever's quick and easy. Ah—we also have some instant brownie mix?" Waving the red box so that Laurent could see, "How good are your baking skills?"

"It's the face, really," Laurent said, smile widening as he teased his friend. "You have this earnest look to you, which is only enforced by the polo shirts and your apparent general determination to be decent and considerate." He took the bottle of red, digging through a drawer until he found a corkscrew. "And the glasses. And the tweed."

Pulling out the cork, Laurent left it on the counter, still pinioned on the corkscrew. Rinsing out his mug, he filled it halfway with wine.

When Gansey asked him if he could bake, Laurent just raised an eyebrow at him. "It has instructions, right? Just follow the instructions."

"I think the tweed looks dashing," he grinned as he bent to grab a bowl from under the sink. The rest of his clothes... well, he couldn't really defend those. Polo shirts were nice, though you never saw a reckless hooligan wearing one.

Plopping the bowl and the box onto the counter, he made to grab a spoon from one of the drawers as well. "Together," he insisted, handing the spoon to Laurent when he finally found one suitable. Easy instructions or not, brownies made together always tasted better.

Cracking the box open, he dumped the brownie powder into the bowl. It came with a packet of fudge which he added generously, for extra chocolatey flavor. With a dash of water the mixture was ready for mixing‐which he left for Laurent as he punched in some numbers on the stove to heat it up.

"No one, other than you, has ever used the words 'dashing' and 'tweed' in the same sentence," Laurent said. He held the spoon he'd been handed, and took a sip of the wine with his other hand.

Frowning when he was expected to mix, Laurent handed him the mug in return, simply pushing it on him and letting go, expecting that he would take it. He stirred the mixture in the bowl. It seemed far too thick, so he added a splash of wine.

Consulting the box as he stirred, Laurent frowned at the bowl. "It's still lumpy. Is it supposed to be lumpy?"

Pointing at the bowl, he leaned against the counter and watched Gansey. Sure, he could be more helpful, but this was far more entertaining.

Laurent put the chocolate-covered spoon in his mouth while he waited for Gansey's expert consultation on the mixture.

"Lumpy?"

Squinting into the bowl, he studied the mixture, trying to judge if it mattered if there were lumps or not. Wouldn't they just melt down? Is that what happened? Did they much care, as long as it was chocolatey and sort of solid?

From what the images on the box told him, some lumps were okay. Well. Theirs had more than some, for whatever reason, but they weren't trying to impress anyone.

"I think it's fine." Glancing up, he eyebrow arched yet again when he saw Laurent sucking on the spoon. So much for any more mixing with that spoon, eh? "Oh, you little fox," he laughed, shaking his head as he swiped his finger into the bowl, catching some of the mixture and quickly swiping it across Laurent's nose playfully. Then he stuck his finger into his mouth to suck the rest of it clean, licking up the length.

Laurent twitched in surprise at the swipe of chocolate to his nose, compounded with the playful nickname. No one had ever dared touch him in such a disrespectful manner before, with the occasional exception of Auguste. No one had ever dirtied his perfect appearance.

He was perplexed, wondering if this was simply how friends behaved. And then he saw Gansey lick chocolate off his finger and his mouth went dry. Frozen in place with shock and lust, Laurent stared at him, spoon still in mouth as he tried to process the series of events that had just happened.

"I think it tastes fine," Gansey continued, as though what he had just done wasn't utterly erotic. Sucking the last bit of chocolate from his fingertip, he tried to remember where the baking pans were—they were so rarely used... probably in one of the cabinets, too.

Before he could bend down and figure out which one actually housed the tin, he glanced back at Laurent, noticing how his friend had suddenly gone quiet. Staring. Ah... maybe he didn't like that?

Gansey offered an apologetic look, "Sorry, did I surprise you? I'll clean you up." It was the least he could do, considering he was the one that did the chocolate smearing. Licking the taste of chocolate his lips, he glanced about for a paper towel, or a napkin.

Trying to recover his wits, which had never before been anything but swift and sharp, while his brain insisted on replaying on a loop the image of Gansey licking his finger, Laurent took the spoon out of his mouth. He set it down on the counter.

Accepting the napkin, Laurent cleaned the chocolate off his nose. He felt distinctly awkward, suspecting that his response had been incorrect, but he had no idea what the right answer was. He was used to being silver-tongued and charismatic, able to charm any number of short-tempered dowagers.

Gansey was a different animal entirely.

"Thank you," Laurent said, head still spinning from the strange newness of this situation. Baking. Teasing. Lust.

Laurent took a larger gulp of wine.

"Of course."

Finally finding the tins, he pulled out a square one that would make the brownies nice and fat rather than spread out and thin. Turning the bowl over it, he watched most of it pour into the tin nicely, folding like it was supposed to, even if it was rife with lumps. Gives it some character, he figured.

Tossing the tray into the oven, Gansey leaned back against the counter with the bowl, content to continue licking some of the chocolate batter for a bit. The added wine complimented the taste, though he was pretty sure that the directions did not exactly call for wine.

He slid his finger through what batter attached itself to the bowl and licked it from his finger again. The last thing he really ate was the pizza—the roll and picking at what small things Laurent had managed to grab before the blackout didn't count—though chocolate batter probably wouldn't satisfy him either.

"What's your favorite food? And dessert?"

"My favorite food?" Laurent repeated, having to think for a moment. "Duck confit, I suppose. We have a chef in Vere who makes it as a specialty. My favorite dessert... hm. Maybe creme brulee? Or pavlova. Something creamy and utterly decadent."

He smiled, having not really thought about it before, but he loved luxury and decadence, though he was more likely to deny himself such things when he was feeling particularly depressed or self-loathing.

Refilling his wine, Laurent held out the bottle to him. If Gansey was going to keep licking his fingers like that, Laurent was going to need more wine in order to deal with it. And if Laurent was drinking, Gansey was going to be drinking. "You're not drinking enough."

"There's wine in the brownie mix," he pointed out, but took the bottle anyway. No harm in one glass. So he likewise rinsed his mug before pouring in some wine. Chocolate and wine was a good mix, particularly because the wine they had was sweet and not dry. A swig from the mug went down easily. The tastes mingled on his tongue.

"Want some?" Offering the bowl by placing it between them, Gansey leaned against the counter and cupped the mug between his hands. "I can't make duck or pavlova but I can make you pasta in vodka sauce," he chucked, looking down into the mug at the richly red liquid as he spoke.

"Or breakfast."

It wasn't long before the scent of brownies baking filled the dorm. Quietly, Gansey realized that he would no longer be able to drink sweet red wine or eat chocolate without thinking about Laurent. Or how very much he would like to beg a kiss off of the man.

"There's only a splash of wine in the brownie mix. And you're baking it," Laurent countered, smiling as he watched Gansey move around the little kitchenette. "Pasta in vodka sauce, huh? How much vodka do you put in?"

Gansey's presence felt warm and wholesome, like sunlight. Laurent wanted very much to bask in it.

Or, even more so, cuddle close for warmth. It was cold in the dorm, and Laurent regretted leaving the blanket with their study materials. He hugged an arm around his own waist, leaning a little closer to the oven and trying to ignore the gooseflesh on his arms. "All right, tell me about yourself," he said, with a playful curve to his lips. "So I don't have to bother requesting a dossier from the Veretian secret service."

"As much as the occasion calls far," he answered without hesitation, looking back up at his friend with a smirk.

"And I'm sure your secret service would be very confused with what they found, if you did that." There was a laugh to his voice as he pushed himself up from the counter, "You're cold, aren't you? Hold on."

It was a bit chilly with the storm. The oven gave off some heat, but not very much. Gansey padded over to his desk and swiped his school cardigan off the chair, returning and draping it around Laurent's shoulders as a means of warmth. It was the cardigan from the winter collection so it was thick, and smelled of mint and his mild cologne.

"There. That's better, right?" Returning to his mug for another sip, he appraised his friend from over the rim. "Now—you'll have to be more specific than that. What would you like to know?"

Laurent's heart lurched as Gansey wrapped the sweater over his shoulders. It was warm, and it smelled like him. Laurent ached with longing, feeling dizzy with it. He'd never imagined that anyone could have an effect like this on him. "Everything," Laurent said, attention caught by a tiny freckle on Gansey's throat. He couldn't help but imagine stepping into Gansey's warm, strong arms and kissing that spot, tasting it.

"But since I already know you can go on for hours if I ask you about any Welsh kings, let's start with the mundane details. Family. Birthplace. Upbringing. Religion? That's important to Americans, isn't it?" Laurent lifted a brow, and there was an atheist's inherent disdain hinted in the question. Vere provided for religious freedom, but the vast majority of the population was not religious, and there was a distaste for 'superstition'.

"It depends on the American. Not all of them are religious—and it's a melting pot of what religions are there. I'm not particularly religious myself but my family practices a Christian faith. Very loosely. Mostly for the sake of appearances, I think, not that they would ever admit it."

His mug of wine was emptier quicker than he thought it would be. Since he wasn't feeling tipsy he took a bit more, pouring it carefully into the cup. "I'm not sure what you've heard so I'll cover the basics. My mother's a senator in the states. My father's part of parliament, here. I have an older sister who spends her time flirting with every career she finds. Right now she's working as a party planner, I believe."

Wetting his lips with wine, he continued, "I was born in the states—Virginia—but spent most of my time bouncing back and forth between there and Europe. Gently guided to every private school my grandfather attended as a boy, right down to our very lovely Charterhouse. I discovered my love for history and ruins in—well, when I was about ten or eleven. Been traveling and digging up as much history as possible ever since."

Talking made it easier to ignore how much he liked how Laurent looked in his sweater. It was too big and hung comfortably on his shoulders, as his weren't quite as square and broad as Gansey's. When he had grabbed the sweater he hadn't thought about it, but, didn't usually Charterhouse boys give their sweater to their lover? Not that he had told Laurent to keep it as a token, tempting as it was.

"Have I sated all your curiosities?" he teased, leaning back against the counter with another smirk.

"Only whetted my appetite," Laurent flirted. When Gansey refilled his cup, Laurent touched a finger to the bottom of the bottle to help lift it, grinning impishly as he did so and watching Gansey's eyes in playful challenge. "What about you? Is your fate decided for you, or will you be allowed to spend your life traveling and digging up history?"

Laurent envied him for that. His own life would be strictly guarded until Auguste married and produced a pair of children, rendering Laurent finally unnecessary. And, he knew, long before that he would be expected to marry to cement some alliance for his country. The thought made him achingly lonely, but he knew it was inevitable. He knew he was suited for it. A diplomat. A trophy. Unlovable.

It was a good question. Gansey was silent as he considered it; that was a ... gray area, for him. For a number of reasons. Some reasons he couldn't even begin to explain. Laurent probably wouldn't believe him.

"It depends on how much longer I'm willing to fight, and how much harder," he finally said, slowly, the words feeling weightier once he said them. "For now, they've been content with compromises. There are expectations. College, eventually entering politics, following along the line. But they don't like fighting. So if I argue, they'll usually leave me alone. Not that it's going to last forever." He shrugged, attention flicking from the wine to his friend.

"As long as I graduate from Charterhouse, they won't bother me about college for a year. I'm going to do as much as possible during that year."

Considering the question in a new light, he studied Laurent's eyes. They were beautiful.

"Is your future set in stone?"

"As good as," Laurent asked. The truth spilled out of him before he realized what he was doing. He'd spent so long bottling up everything, without anyone who would listen. Auguste would always make time for him, but Laurent always felt as though his worries were petty in Auguste's ears. Auguste didn't understand anxiety or depression. He tried, but it was clear he was always pressing back questions as to why Laurent wouldn't just let it go, just relax, just cheer up and stop fighting the whole world.

"I'm Auguste's heir. If anything happens to him, I..." Laurent swallowed, because the prospect was awful. Losing Auguste would destroy him. The thought of producing children made him ill, even if he wasn't required to perform the act himself. "Once he's married, once he has an heir and a spare, then I'll be free to be forgotten, safely out of the line of inheritance. But they'll marry me off before that. For an alliance, for as rich a price as they can get for me, and with the very careful awareness that anyone I marry has a possibility of gaining the title of Prince Consort. Not Princess, if I have anything to say about it. I'd fight that with everything I had. I won't be married to a woman. It wouldn't be fair to anyone involved."

Gansey nodded as Laurent spoke. He was listening to his friend intently, offering his full attention and understanding. Anxiety and depression were things he was keenly familiar with. Putting himself in Laurent's shoes, there were a million things Gansey could see to be anxious about. As much loved as Auguste was, there was still no doubt someone would target him. Laurent could lose his brother. End up ruler, unhappily married to a woman for the sake of an heir. Or he would be married off with likely no choice in the matter.

"That would make me very anxious," he admitted. "As it is, thinking about the future makes me nervous." It was something he had never confided to someone before. "I want to find my own way. Which is selfish, I know. But I want to become something, to fall in love, to make a difference all on my own terms."

The oven beeped and Gansey turned to grab the oven mitt. Leaving the tin on the stove to cool, he tossed the mitt back into its drawer.

"I've never told anyone that before," he added after a moment. "People don't usually understand."

"I understand," Laurent murmured, softly, because he did. The difference, he didn't say, was that Gansey had a chance. To make his own life. To make a mark on the world. To be loved. "I hope you do," he said. It felt like a bland encouragement, though he meant it. He earnestly hoped that Gansey found happiness and love. He deserved it. More than most people Laurent had ever met.

He imagined one day meeting Gansey's spouse. Their golden, charming children. Gansey confident and secure, an expert in his field, perhaps also a politician or diplomat. Happy. Prosperous. Forever out of Laurent's reach.

Feeling achingly lonely, Laurent dropped his eyes. He wanted, but all he could ever have was what was left over, remaining in the gaps and edges of Auguste's life. His family's priorities had always been Vere, then Auguste, then his father and his uncle, and at last, finally, if they remembered, Laurent. More than anything, though he would never put it into words because he knew it to be impossible, he wanted to be someone's first priority.

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