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 couldn't resist a smile at Gansey's teasing, which did make him feel better. He rolled onto his back again, watching Gansey with an infatuated smile. He wanted, painfully, to reach up and pull Gansey down for a kiss. "Yes," he sighed, feeling the urge to hurl things subside.

Looking away as he turned his clever, manipulative mind to the problem, Laurent frowned. "It doesn't get me out of this, though. They want to make the announcement immediately, to derail some scandal he's tangled up in. And then to fly me out to Gilboa this weekend so that we can be photographed together, looking beautiful. To inspire rumors about me as the possible future Prince Consort." Groaning painfully, Laurent tried again to retreat under the covers.

"Sounds like they're not going to give you much time to meet him and see if you like him or not," Gansey admitted, leaning back onto his own pillow and staring at the ceiling.

"If you truly don't want to, let's think up a series of ways to get you out of it," he suggested, "and maybe one will stick. Is there any reason you can think of that would make your father step down?"

Gansey tried to think, but wasn't comfortably familiar with how Laurent's father was, nor how things worked in the world of royalty.

"It doesn't matter whether I like him or not. As long as we can pretend for ten minutes at a time while we're photographed, his reputation--and mine, I suppose--will be pristine. As long as neither of us get spotted with anyone else." Laurent's eyes flicked to Gansey before he could stop himself, and then his jaw tensed.

No. Photographers knew better than to try and sneak onto the campus, and it generally wasn't worth the trouble--pictures of schoolboys in uniform never sold well in the tabloid papers. And even if they did, his relationship with Gansey was innocent.

"A better offer," Laurent suggested, with a bitter laugh. They weren't going to get a better offer, unless they could find a gay prince of a country that was as influential but who had a better reputation.

A better offer. Gansey almost laughed. So even if he had tried to ask Laurent if he could court him it wouldn't have mattered. He was no prince—sure, he had excellent political standing and his Grandfather had been in line for the English crown—but Gansey had nothing to offer.

"I'm sorry," he said, softly. He was. Laurent deserved to be happy. Deserved to find love on his own and not be used to lessen the blow of someone else's scandals.

"I wish there was something I could do."

Gansey hated feeling useless. Even if this was what they had been talking about last night; Laurent had known it was coming. Maybe talking about it had jinxed them.

"Doesn't matter," Laurent murmured, giving Gansey an apologetic smile even though he was the one who was being forced to meet his fate. "I always knew I'd get set up with something like this. My father--and Auguste, though I'm not sure if he knows about this yet--would probably be willing to let me choose my own partner if I met someone suitable. I always hoped they'd give me a few more years, just in case. I wonder what Gilboa offered them, to push this so early. It's a bit risky, with me seventeen and him... I think it said twenty-one? Some people will look askance just at that."

"They will." Four years, thereabouts. While not a big gap in theory, they were important years. If this Jack had enough scandals for there to be notes on them, it meant that he had some experience. Experience between someone who was twenty one and someone who was seventeen could be considerable.

Or you're just being possessive, whispered a small part of him. That quieted Gansey's thoughts. Possessive? What right did he have to be possessive? None. Adam's comments drifted to mind. About him wanting to own his friends. Maybe he was right.

"So you'll go this weekend?" he asked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, feet on the cold floor again.

Laurent felt bereft as soon as Gansey turned away again. He told himself that was stupid. He had no chance with Gansey, no matter how much he wanted it.

Refusing to get out of bed, Laurent reached for his phone again. "I'm sorely tempted to start drinking," he said, grimacing at the image on his phone. "He's not my type."

Hand tightening on the phone until his knuckles went white, Laurent fought back the urge to throw it. The wave of resistance that emerged at that idea surprised him. If he'd been alone, he would have thrown it. In front of Gansey, however... Laurent didn't want Gansey to see the worst of him, even though he'd already seen hints of it in Laurent's room.

He tossed it, though only hard enough to let it clatter out of reach on the floor, undamaged.

"I'll tell them it's too late. That I'm already claimed." Laurent smirked recklessly, dropping back against the pillows. "Make up a Rockefeller. Stall for a whole week until they figure out it's bullshit."

Gansey watched as the phone clattered away. It wasn't damaged, but he got the feeling that Laurent was holding back. In a lot of ways Laurent reminded him of Adam. They had their differences, but for all of their attempts to keep a calm outer surface, they both felt so strongly. Throwing a phone was just the sort of thing Adam would do if he was upset enough.

"Not your type..."

Gansey mused over those words, falling from his lips like old Virginia velvet, hardly realizing they were said out loud for Laurent to hear.

Turning just slightly to look at his friend over his shoulder, "Then what is your type?" It was an innocent enough question, right? Friends... could ask each other what they liked, in a romantic partner. Even if he was half hoping to hear that he might be Laurent's type, even just a little.

The question felt heavy. It hung in the air between them, like a string pulled taut. The words of the poem in Gansey's voice echoed in his ears, spinning around and around in Laurent's thoughts until he felt dizzy. He couldn't look away. All the hairs on his arms rose, skin tingling and oversensitive, only half because of the cold.

Laurent rose an eyebrow, regaining a little of his sense of humor. "Handsome," he said, deadpan, before smirking a little and making more of an effort to answer the question. "I know my eyes are more likely to linger on men with muscles. I know that I'm drawn to men who are more honorable than I am, though that really isn't so hard to find. Aside from that..."

Tensing, Laurent looked away. "Oh, don't make me answer, Gansey. I don't want to torture myself with the things I can't have."

What things can't you have?

Oh, how he longed to ask. It seemed to him that Laurent could have any man he wanted. Charming, handsome, brilliant, sweet... even with a bit of a temper, but Gansey found that quality attractive, too.

His mind quickly rationalized. He doesn't want to think about that, not when he'll likely have an arranged marriage. He's lamenting his lack of a choice.

"All right," he said, giving his friend a reassuring smile, "I won't make you."

Turning away and staring at the tiny hall and the three doors down it, Gansey chewed his bottom lip. "Actually, I had been planning on asking you if you would like to accompany me to a museum this weekend. There's a hellenistic period showcase. Mostly statues, but also vases, and tapestries. I don't know if you're serious about skipping out on meeting this Jack, but... if you'd like to have an excuse, you can say you've had ... other plans."

A date. He almost said a date but refrained from doing so.

"If you don't want to go, that's all right," he followed up quickly. "I just thought—well, I would like your company."

Laurent smiled, utterly charmed and tempted by the invitation. "I'd love that."

His hands were cold. Laurent curled them into fists and tugged the covers up to cover his chest. "But I can't. You don't get it, Gansey. If I did skip out on meeting Jack, it would suddenly become a subject of international interest to our countries as to why. People would see us together..."

Smirking a little, Laurent tipped his head to the side. "I don't know if you're prepared to deal with being a subject of international interest."

"I don't know either," he admitted with a laugh, standing once more and digging through his dresser for some proper clothes, "but I would, for you." It was meant in both a platonic and romantic way, though he forced himself to focus on the platonic. They were friends. If it hadn't become obvious, Gansey was willing to go to great, great lengths for those he considered friends. Stubborn, he never gave up on someone once he cared about them. And Richard Campbell Gansey the Third was talented at adapting to any situation.

"If you change your mind, just let me know." Finally having chosen some clothes, he tossed them over his shoulder. "I'm leaving the invitation open. It's on Saturday, about two hours away, and I'm leaving early in the morning."

Behind him, his lamp flickered on and off, and his eyebrows raised. "Looks like they've gotten the power back on. Excellent. I'm dying for a quick shower, it feels like the rain from last night is caking on my skin. Wait for me? I'll make you breakfast once I'm out."

Laurent felt like he was being escaped. No wonder, after he'd practically suggested Gansey play the role of his boyfriend.

"Fine," he said, blandly, watching Gansey go.

He pulled the covers back up over his head, wanting to cry. The bed smelled like Gansey, but now it took a lot more effort to hold onto the illusion that Gansey belonged to him.

Dwelling in his self-pity, Laurent stayed where he was. He could hear the heating system click and whir into life, but it was still frigid. The blankets lost warmth too quickly, without Gansey to produce it.

He felt bad for leaving Laurent but he needed time to collect his thoughts. The straight-forward, honest part of himself was dying to just say, Then let me be your boyfriend. The hot water rushing over his skin helped only slightly. He had considered making it a cold shower, but the chill in the apartment had done nothing to help ease his growing affections.

Soaping up, he sighed, bumping his head against the tiles. There was no way Laurent was going to come with him. He was going to go meet this Jack fellow and end up in a long term relationship that Gansey would have to weather as a caring, dependable friend, and then perhaps he'd be invited to attend their grandiose wedding in five years. Ouch.

The shower was short, as promised. When he exited the bathroom he smelled heavily of soap, aftershave, and mint. Exuding a warmth all his own, he glanced over to the bed where Laurent was still curled up, not wanting to disturb his friend if he'd fallen back asleep.

"Do you want breakfast?" he asked, voice gone soft and velvety because he didn't really think Laurent was listening. "I can make eggs, or french toast." Damn. There was no getting around it, even if he was able to fend off most of the terrible feeling by soaking in numbness. He did not like the idea of Laurent cozying up to some fellow one bit. Which only made him feel guiltier—his mantra of you have enough in this world was a heavy one.

Laurent knew that he was being selfish and unpleasant. Gansey's sweet, long-suffering temper must be running short.

"Whatever you like, Gansey," he said, forcing himself to sit up and get out of bed, even though the cold felt so sharp it hurt. The pain felt bracing, compared with the ache in his heart. Setting Gansey's sweater aside, he pulled off Gansey's t-shirt and started putting his own clothes back on. "I don't know if I'll be able to eat much. I'm feeling depressed and selfish, which doesn't usually make me particularly hungry."

He couldn't look at Gansey, forcing himself to move his arms and legs as he got dressed.

Gansey wasn't sure what he could do to help Laurent feel better. He was the sort to look for solutions when there was a problem—but all the solutions he could think up were either impossible or wouldn't work. Laurent didn't want him. Laurent didn't want Jack. What did Laurent want? Freedom? Gansey wanted that too. Sadly, he didn't have any to give his friend. None that would stick.

But he did have an excess of patience. It was simply the Gansey way. Calm and collected when someone was upset or unpleasant. Exuding certainty, steadfastness, willing to play the part of pillar. Gansey was a leader by nature, born to be a king but given the wrong place and time.

"What usually makes you feel better when you're feeling depressed and selfish?" he asked gently, reaching for the small pack of eggs cracking them over a bowl. French toast, then.

"Wallowing in self-pity," Laurent responded dryly. "Which I would still be doing, but I don't want to lose my only friend after only a day by refusing to stop sulking in his bed."

Laurent hugged his arms around himself, coming over to lean on the counter so he could watch Gansey work. "And you not being reasonable and mature. You're very good at being reasonable and mature. It's awful. Please be unreasonable and immature with me, I'd feel better."

His smirk grew slightly as he spoke, voice his usual cool and cultured Veretian accent with the hint of sharpness that made people feel like he was mocking them, which he usually was. But the edge had curled, for Gansey, so that there was only sophistication and a very dry humor laid over his abyss of pain and fear.

"Is it?" Gansey's eyebrows rose as he dropped one of the slices of bread into his egg mixture. Like a sponge, it soaked up some of what he'd prepared. "Hm. Maybe there's some validity to some of the guys calling me 'dad' after all...? I'm not sure how I feel about that." Old, probably.

Cocking his head, he gave Laurent an amused look, "You wouldn't scare me off by sulking around all day. I do, however, like having your company." Letting his pan on the stovetop heat up, he leaned on the counter beside his friend, still considering what he said.

"I can be unreasonable and immature with you." A beat, before he added, "So, how should I do that?"

Laurent smiled a little, feeling warmer just by the comfort of Gansey's company. "I don't know, but I will tell you at once if I get any irresponsible ideas. Also, definitely no nonsense about me accepting my fate or behaving with decorum. That should all be strictly discouraged."

Relaxing into the pleasure of joking with him, Laurent shifted a little closer. "And, if at all possible, helping me come up with ways that I can deceive my father and my brother without utterly betraying my country."

Sighing at that, Laurent's smile melted. He went and fetched his phone, scrolling through the dossier again. "There's nothing about his favorite books. It lists, instead, his favorite drugs."

"Drugs?" There was no doubt from Gansey's tone that he disapproved. Sure, drugs were fairly common on campus—rich boys with nothing to do? Of course. But Gansey was one of the ones that remained firmly clean. Boring, maybe, but he'd rather be boring than stupid. So he tsk'd with his tongue, tossing the slices of bread onto the pan now that it was properly heated.

"I can't say I like the sound of that." It struck him as a red flag. Less so that the man did drugs and more because he got caught enough for his favorites to be known and recorded, even by professional information gatherers.

"Maybe you could play sick?" he suggested, turning back to his friend once the toast was cooking. It gave off a pleasant vanilla and cinnamon scent. "Come down with a convenient fever?"

Laurent's attention returned to him at the tsk, grinning lopsidedly. "Tsk like that again. It makes you sound like you're about eighty. While also being adorable."

He tucked the phone into his pocket, distracted by the pleasure of Gansey's company and how much he wanted to bask in Gansey's attention.

"I assure you, I am not eighty," he laughed, shaking his head. "Is it that bad? Maybe I need to take lessons on how to act like the kids these days." Taking it in good humor, he raked a hand through his thick hair.

"Let me try. It's... wicked lame that your father—no, pops—is out to... what, do you dirty? That guy's he's hooking you up with is a regular—real—ham slice. Wait, I think ham slice is good?"

Puzzled, he tapped his finger against his chin, "Laurent, is a ham slice good or bad?"

Laurence laughed, surprised into it. "It's terrible," he said. "Now you sound like you're ninety."

Watching him with a lingering smile, Laurent felt his heart thud, and lowered his eyes slowly, savoring the yearning he felt. As painful as it is, he liked knowing that he was capable of being infatuated with someone. It was better feeling unrequited love than feeling nothing.

"I wish he were you," Laurent murmured, very quiet.

It was such a quiet murmur that Gansey was almost sure that he had imagined it. That the bread had toasted too much and had sizzled some words. Or that it was just a whisper of the wind. But the bread was still cooking fine and the wind outside was gentle, in comparison to the night before.

I wish he were you.

Because he wants it to be a friend. Because he wants him to be someone compatible. Because... his mind reeled off a series of explanations, but Gansey... Gansey was tired of listening to himself. He had to do it all the time, and it was simply exhausting. That inner voice never shut up.

Making it into a joke would be easy. Only, Gansey didn't want to make it a joke.

"Me?" he asked, just as quietly, looking at Laurent dead on.

Laurent nodded, considering the grain of the carpet. His heart ached.

"Maybe he'll be a little bit like you. I'd like that. Even though it seems like you couldn't be more different. Maybe the partying is just a cover."

He didn't believe it. Looking away, Laurent hugged himself tighter, feeling miserable.

He hoped, at least, that Gansey would take it as a compliment. He didn't seem like the type to lash out over someone having a crush on him.

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