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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"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.

Watching Laurent, Gansey couldn't help but feel that he looked so... sad. Forlorn. It made his heart clench and his throat tighten. Of course he understood the differences between them. Again, Gansey was blessed. He had a chance. Laurent had resigned himself to one of those futures and probably hoped the least terrible of them might happen.

It hurt to see him like this. Even if he hadn't known Laurent for long, Gansey felt him. In his chest. Knew that Laurent was a delightful creature. Kind, clever, mischievous, deserving of ... love.

Before he knew what he was doing, Gansey reached out and brushed his fingers against a few loose strands of blond hair. Gently touching them, brushing them back from that handsome face, nails ghosting across the other man's cheek. It was an instinct reaction. Once he realized what he was doing he cursed at himself, afraid that he'd gone too far.

So he pulled his hand back—but it was too late. The warmth of Laurent's cheek, the smoothness of his skin, was branded onto his fingers.

Laurent startled at the touch, drawing back an inch and staring at him. He didn't understand, and wasn't used to being petted in any context rather than patronizing or lecherous. Gansey was neither. Confused and spooked, like a stray cat twitching away from affection, Laurent's brows pulled together and his lips parted.

He looked lost and vulnerable, more so than he realized, because the simple touch had utterly perplexed him. It didn't make any sense for Gansey to touch him like that.

To touch him like a... a lover. Either Gansey was utterly oblivious and overly touchy with all his friends, or he was making light of Laurent's feelings. Neither option made any sense when compared against Gansey's behavior up to now.

He never learned. No matter how many times he chided himself. Told himself that he would learn from his mistakes. Reminded himself that he already had enough, that he was getting too selfish.

How many times would it take for him to learn?

"I'm sorry," he said, voice quite soft. Part of him demanded he step back and give Laurent space. The other begged to lean in closer, to embrace him. So he was stuck. Unmoving. Not away, not closer, chewing his lip like he very much had something he wanted to say.

The expression on his friend's face was so raw. Lost. Sad. Confused. It sparked a flame in Gansey's chest, a flame that threatened to engulf everything and leave it in ashes. Gods, it was painful. It wasn't in Gansey's nature to hold back, especially when he felt so strongly. He wanted to comfort Laurent. He'd already reconciled that he had feelings for the man, and reconciled again that he could never be with him.

Laurent would hate him. He'd already made that quite clear. Gansey did not want to betray his trust.

But... could he truly keep living this way? It'd only been a mere day and he was finding it difficult to keep his emotions in check. He hated it. Normally straightforward and honest, trying to smother his feelings made his chest ache.

Opening his mouth, he recited a poem.

"Blest as the immortal gods is he,
The youth whose eyes may look on thee,
Whose ears thy tongue's sweet melody
May still devour.

Thou smilest too—sweet smile, whose charm
Has struck my soul with wild alarm,
And, when I see thee, bids disarm
Each vital power.

Speechless I gaze: the flame within
Runs swift o'er all my quivering skin:
My eyeballs swim; with dizzy din
My brain reels round;

And cold drops fall; and tremblings frail
Seize every limb; and grassy pale
I grow; and then...together fail.
Both sight and sound. "

Laurent couldn't look away. Not when Gansey looked at him like that, like he mattered. Gansey's eyes were full of emotion, and Laurent wanted to drink it in.

He bit down on his lip when Gansey began to recite the poem. For him. To him. Sappho, some old, Victorian translation, with the edges worn and the words dusty, but in Gansey's honeyed voice it was perfect.

His brain stuttered, struggling to function under the weight of everything Laurent felt. Gansey looked at him with such incredible earnestness, eyes trying to communicate something, and Laurent wanted desperately to be his, to be loved, to belong.

Overwhelmed by all of his own emotions and incapable of coping with Gansey's, in addition, Laurent took a step back.

Outside thunder cracked and lightning flashed. Gansey looked away then, not wanting to suffocate Laurent or make him uncomfortable. No more. He was getting too close to ruining their friendship and making Laurent hate him.

"Do you like ice cream?" he asked, focusing on grabbing bowls from the cabinet. Scooping some of the warm brownie into one of the bowls, he glanced back at his friend, face smooth and pleasant again.

"Usually I like it when it melts on top of the brownie. It's a great combo."

[~~GANSEY I'M SORRY~~]

Laurent remained perplexed, but the offered out let him feel safe again. "Yes," he said, heart still pounding. Gansey's expression had returned to its former safe, harmless friendliness. As if nothing had happened. "Thank you."

He wanted to ask what Gansey had meant, by the poem. And the touch. And the way he had looked at Laurent. "Does anyone not like ice cream?"

But as the moments ticked by and Laurent didn't ask, the events seemed more and more harmless and mundane. Blest as the immortal gods is he, the youth whose eyes may look on thee... He could only have meant it as a friend. Some guy would be lucky to have you. Laurent would gladly say the same. Any friend would, he was pretty sure. It was a lovely sentiment.

They were friends. Gansey hated seeing him sad. That made sense, and made him all the more fond of Gansey.

Reassured with the explanation he'd talked himself into, Laurent accepted the bowl, taking a bite and smiling. Unmixed brownie powder from one of the lumps popped in his mouth, and Laurent smiled a little wider. "I definitely did not stir this well enough."

Edited 2016-10-13 23:24 (UTC)

[ ~~ONE DAY HE'LL GET IT~~ ]

"I've met a few oddballs that say they don't," he chuckled as he opened the freezer to pull out a tub of an ice cream classic—chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry. Fishing around in another drawer he retrieved the ice cream scooper and turned the hot water on to warm the end, so that they could scoop ice cream smoothly.

It was better this way. For the sake of their friendship, and so that Laurent wouldn't hate him, he could live with it. It was something he was getting better at. Something, he supposed, he would have to get used to for in the future anyway. Denying himself the things he wanted. He had enough. What right did he have to ask for more?

Laurent's lack of mixing skills got a snort from Gansey. "Now we know, right? Still hot brownies, even with a few lumps." Waving the scooper free of the drops of water clinging to it, he sunk it right into the ice cream, offering it first to Laurent so that he could take whatever he wanted, and as much as he wanted.

"Want to ask me another question? There must be something you're dying to know," he teased, remembering to actually turn the oven off, rather than forget about it and leave it on all night.

What did you mean? came to mind, even as his brain skittered neatly around the fact that Gansey had now given him two love poems. By his favorite poet. Who wrote love poetry. That explained itself, after all, he thought, without allowing himself to fully think it, to shape the words in his mind.

"No," Laurent said. Not that there wasn't anything he wanted to know, but that--"I wouldn't trust myself to ask anything right now." Taking his bowl with him, he returned to the papers and sat amongst them.

Sweet smile, whose charm
Has struck my soul with wild alarm

He stared at some of the pages as he ate. It was good, even with their questionable baking skills. Laurent didn't know if he believed that "add water, mix, put in oven" counted as baking. The words on the pages failed to coalesce in his brain. After a moment he realized this was because they were in Greek.

"I'm too tired to translate anything," Laurent decided, sighing once. He felt like a failure, but he couldn't bear to look too closely at the feeling. It contained the destruction of the things he didn't allow himself to want, and having seriously disappointed Gansey. "Can we put on a movie or something?"

Gansey helped himself after and returned the ice cream to the fridge, likewise returning to where they'd been working. He assumed that Laurent meant that he was too tired to think of another question, or the like. There was no other reason he could think of that the man wouldn't trust himself to ask anything.

"Mm?" The man in question looked up from his own papers, spoon tucked neatly into his mouth, as he blinked owlishly at his friend. Tugging it free, chewing and swallowing, he nodded. "Oh, sure. Honestly, I think I'm too tired to concentrate, too." It wasn't entirely true; Gansey was an insomniac by nature and spent hours on end staring at books during the night. Pausing, however, was fine by him. Outside the storm rattled on, even worse by the sounds of it. It only took a few minutes to straighten up his notes.

There was a nice sized TV against the wall. Rolling over on the floor, Gansey grabbed the remote from where it had been tossed and clicked the on button. It flicked to life, and as it did, Gansey glanced out the window again.

"You should probably stay here tonight. I don't think that's going to lighten up anytime soon." As if agreeing, another crash of thunder sounded. "You can take my bed."

Getting up, Laurent went over to the window. He couldn't see much. There were dark, silvery patterns of rain reflected on the surface of the pane, but beyond that was only dark, relieved occasionally by a flash of lightning that lit nothing but clouds. The rain against the window pane sounded sharp. Occasionally, it rattled. Hail. Or just some very angry sleet.

Laurent knew himself, or liked to think that he did. He knew that he was reckless, and not easily turned away from danger. He was not, however, self-destructive. Trying to go back to his own dorm in this was likely to get him hurt.

"I'm not going to take your bed," Laurent argued, continuing to eat his dessert and watch the rain. "It's your bed. And if you say a single thing that implies that I'm too delicate to sleep on the floor, I will be livid." Not that he wasn't willing to accept other potential arguments. Just that he wanted anything along those lines headed off at the pass.

Gansey snorted loudly, still laying across his spot on the floor and watching the weather report on the television. Hail, thunder, rain, and more rain. It was supposed to clear up sometime around five in the morning, they claimed, and that there were power outages across the city.

"Too delicate? You climbed out the library window, scaled the side of a building, and hung out on the roof. You're anything but." From with the ease Laurent did it, Gansey was willing to bet money it wasn't the first time he had. "You're my guest. As such, it's inappropriate for you to sleep on the floor. We may be rude in America but we aren't that rude."

Flipping through the channels once the weather had confirmed that they were more or less stuck, he tried to spot something interesting to leave on. Settling on the history channel, he glanced over to where Laurent was watching the rain.

"I promise it doesn't smell."

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