A Comically Spurned Advance

Laurence Troweman was quite convinced, without a shadow of a doubt, that some sort of irreparable damage had been inflicted upon his left shoulder. He stalked away from the clearing of grass where fencing practice was held each week, his equipment crammed into a bag and slung over his right shoulder, and attempted to rotate his arm; the ensuing piercing sensation, which shot all the way up to his neck most unforgivingly, forced him into a full-bodied cringe.

In that moment, he might have said there could be no pain worse than what currently seized his poor muscles…but he would have been, against all odds, incorrect. As he left fencing practice—the very first that autumn at Blackwood Academy, where he was freshly enrolled as a first-year student—he overheard an exchange between two peers which injured him so acutely that he was forced to stop dead in his tracks.

The conversation was between a gentleman and a lady. The lady, who spoke in a dreamy, lilting sort of voice, said, “What fun it was to watch you spar today! You must have practiced for hours to be that proficient with a saber.”

“Oh, er,” replied the male voice. “This isn’t a saber. It’s a foil.”

“...Ah,” said the female voice. “I’m afraid I cannot tell the difference. Silly me! Perhaps you could teach me? Over lunch?”

There was a pause here, during which Laurence came to a halt and glanced back at the couple. He didn’t recognize the woman—she looked about his own age of nineteen, with a pretty, round face and neatly styled brown hair. Her conversation partner, however, Laurence did know, because they’d just participated in the same fencing practice: his name was Oliver, and he was a first year, the same as Laurence. Oliver was a tall, exceedingly handsome sort of man, broad-shouldered and in possession of dark, curly hair that just touched the tops of his ears, with equally dark eyes to match.

It could not be discounted, in addition, that he was quite adept at fencing. That is why Laurence’s shoulder was in such pain: their coach had requested the demonstration of a routine disarming strategy, and while fulfilling this, Oliver had knocked Laurence right to the ground in a surprising display of force and aggression. Laurence felt justified in believing that his new teammate had taken the assignment a tad too seriously.

Now, Oliver was examining the handle of his foil. When he spoke again, his eyes stayed locked on the weapon, as if he were speaking to it rather than the attractive woman attempting to schedule a lunch with him. “I fear I’m due at a professor’s office hours during lunchtime,” he said.

“This evening, then?” she suggested.

Oliver pressed his lips together. “I’d like to, really, but…” He sighed. “I have a dinner party. With the honors society.”

The poor girl released a sad little hum of dismay. “I see. Well, if you ever do find yourself free…”

The silence that hung in the air following this rendered Laurence so uncomfortable that he almost rushed over to fill it himself. Before he could find his feet, however, Oliver said, “Erm…I am rather busy, but…perhaps next week.” He smiled awkwardly at her, and she sighed before wishing him a good afternoon and making haste to leave.

The instant she was gone, Laurence moved in. “Pardon me,” he said. Oliver looked over at him in surprise. “Laurence Troweman,” he said, sticking out his hand. “You knocked me on my backside some twenty minutes ago.”

“Ah!” Oliver said. His face spread into a smile, this one significantly easier than the one he’d worn before, and he snatched up Laurence’s hand to shake. “I’m Oliver, in case you did not know. Oliver Cane. That was a good show, that little spar of ours, wasn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Laurence replied. He adjusted his bag and winced. “I believe you injured my shoulder.”

“My apologies,” Oliver said quickly, drawing his hand back. “I hope there are no hard feelings—”

“None at all,” Laurence cut in, “as long as you do not mind me saying that that”—he jerked a thumb in the direction of the young woman who’d left—“was the saddest social display I have ever witnessed. Have you made that lady’s acquaintance before?”

Oliver shook his head, his thick eyebrows raised in further astonishment. “No.”

“So you did not know her?” Laurence asked. “A pretty woman approached you, complimented you, and asked you to lunch, and you turned her down?”

Oliver blinked, like he was not aware in the slightest that this is what had happened, despite living through it moments earlier. “Oh no,” he said with a grimace. “I…I suppose I did. Dash it all.”

“Did you acquire her room number, at least?” Laurence asked. “In the women’s dormitory?”

Oliver shook his head no once more.

“Her name?” Laurence tried against hope.

Oliver shook his head. “...I am afraid,” he muttered sheepishly, shuffling his feet a bit, “that I have never been very good with…er, women. Talking to them. Courting them…”

Oh, now, this was fascinating—and perhaps fortuitous. Laurence projected the friendliest, most charming smile he could; he’d used this same smile to great success upon numerous occasions. “It appears that way,” he teased.

“Quite a mystery to me why I am afflicted with this curse,” Oliver sighed. “I have sisters, and never struggle to communicate with them. But an eligible lady might as well be speaking a different language.”

Laurence’s smile grew wider, more eager. “Do you ever,” he asked, “similarly struggle to speak with men?”

“Oh no,” Oliver said, sending him a curious look. “Why should I struggle to speak with men?” Rather than answer, Laurence released a very happy little laugh. He couldn’t help it; he was simply too excited. 

Oliver frowned at him and asked, “Are you good at speaking to women?”

Before Laurence could form a response, the round-faced girl from earlier returned to where they stood and blurted, “My apologies, but I realized I had not provided you my name or room number, and thus jotted them down for you here.” She produced a small slip of parchment from the satchel she carried and extended it to Oliver, who took it while wearing an expression of stupefaction.

“Thank you,” he said. “I—er—I shall call on you if I have a free evening.”

Laurence glanced down at the paper, read that the girl’s name was Susan Vaughan, and said, “Miss Vaughan, I do not believe we’ve yet had the pleasure to meet. My name is Laurence Troweman.”

Susan’s eyes flicked over to him, and at once, her face turned a rosier hue. “Hello,” she said. “It’s, er, lovely to meet you, Mr. Troweman.”

“Oliver here was only just expressing his utmost regrets to me,” Laurence said, “that he had not secured your personal information. Clever thinking, returning to provide it to him. Will you be at the party in Catherington’s main square this weekend?”

Susan beamed. “That I shall!” she exclaimed. “My friends and I are all attending.”

“Splendid,” Laurence said. “Then Oliver and I shall see you there.”

“What?” Oliver said. “I hadn’t planned to attend any parties. I have studying to—”

Laurence elbowed him in the stomach, which he felt was fair retribution for what had been done to his shoulder. Oliver fell silent, rubbing his ribs.

“We shall see you there,” Laurence repeated, grinning at Susan. “I dare say Oliver is looking forward to spending the evening with you, Miss Vaughan. He aims to make you a fencing expert by the end of the night.”

She giggled at this, rocking on her heels. “What fun,” she chirped. “I cannot wait.” She took a step back, as if planning to leave, then paused, narrowing her eyes at Laurence. “You know,” she said with a shake of one finger, “you look quite familiar. You remind me of…oh, what is it…”

Laurence attempted to exchange a glance with Oliver, but his companion was reading and rereading Susan’s short note, fingering the edges. 

“Aha! I remember,” Susan said. She snapped her fingers. “Has anyone ever told you that you bear a striking resemblance to Julian Bell?”

Laurence stuck his tongue in his cheek, feigning ignorance. Then he asked, “The actor?”

“Yes, the actor, to whom else should I be referring?” Susan said. “I’ve never met him, of course, no no no, not me. Imagine that, meeting Julian Bell! But you share such similarities with the likenesses of him in advertisements.” She waved a hand over her head. “The dark hair, the shape of your nose and jaw—you must have heard the comparison before. It’s most uncanny.”

Laurence smiled. “You’ve caught me,” he said. “I have heard it before. Sometimes I take advantage of the coincidence—use his name to sneak into exclusive parties.”

Susan let out a delighted gasp. “That is unbelievably devilish!” she cried. “Do you really?”

Laurence winked at her. “I don’t know,” he said. “Do I seem the devilish type?”

Susan giggled some more, her face bright red. Then she bid them goodbye, repeating that she eagerly awaited seeing them at the party that weekend.

Oliver finally looked up from the note to watch her go. Once she was a safe distance away, he turned his foil in his hands and said to Laurence, “My God. I ought to have guessed. Women love you, don’t they?”

Laurence shrugged and smiled.

“You ‘bear a striking resemblance’ to the most famous actor in Brinstan,” Oliver continued, “and it means that women love you. What’s more, you actually know how to speak to them. You must have them falling at your feet with regularity.”

Looking to change the subject, Laurence said, “You’re welcome.”

Oliver blinked. “For what?”

Laurence laughed. “For this weekend. If you do spend Saturday evening with that young lady—which you ought to—you will likely have very little trouble taking her back to your room.”

“Oh,” Oliver said, his eyes widening. “Do—do you think? Oh, damn it. I—I am not even sure if I—why, I’ll have to tidy the books spread out on my desk. And I’ll need to ensure my sheets are freshly laundered, too. What if she—I mean, what if I—I’ve never even—”

Laurence silenced him by placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “She’s a pretty girl,” he said. “If you’ve changed your mind, I’d be happy to redirect her attention. Take her off your hands.”

Oliver’s frame sank under Laurence’s hand. “That might be best,” he squeaked. “I am already in over my head, and I’ve hardly spoken to her.”

Laurence grinned at him. “Let’s have drinks tonight,” he said. Oliver opened his mouth, and Laurence waved a hand, speaking over him: “After your honors society dinner.” He paused, thinking, and then added, “Who chooses to join the honors society, anyhow? Did someone pay you?”

Oliver looked offended. “I’m in the chemistry program,” he said. “Being invited to join the honors society and represent my line of study among the most gifted of our peers is an opportunity I cannot turn down—”

“That’s enough of that, I should think,” Laurence interrupted. He checked his pocket watch. “Ah. We ought to be on our way. I have a class that starts…” He looked closer. “Hmm. Two minutes ago.”

Oliver made a sound not unlike choking. “You are late to class?”

Laurence smiled some more; in all truth, his cheeks were starting to ache from all the smiling, but he could not help it. He really did enjoy Oliver’s company. Besides, it was most humorous to him; the autumn semester had started only two days prior, but he’d already noticed—it would be difficult not to notice—that most students at Blackwood Academy took their class attendance and performance more seriously than…well, more seriously than Laurence took anything. 

He was here to study music, which was undoubtedly the most important part of his life, and even then, he couldn’t care less about missing class. The classroom was not an environment that inspired great compositions; it was a place to obediently play through scales, and thus, a dreadfully banal place to be indeed.

No, he did not much care for class. He looked forward to other experiences instead. “I shall see you tonight,” he said to Oliver. “Meet me in the Phillips Hall rec room, about ten in the evening? I’ll bring the wine.”

At first, he was worried this might once again be met with protest, but to his relief, Oliver nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Ten ought to work.”

“Capital,” Laurence said.

They shook hands and parted ways, and as Laurence walked to class, he tried to temper his excitement to little avail. He felt immensely fortunate; that could not have gone better if he’d planned it ahead of time. A handsome, athletic member of the fencing team afflicted with an obvious disconnect from the female population. It was as if their meeting had been written in the stars themselves.

It had been so long—too long, truly—since Laurence had shared a bed with a man. Women were good fun, of course, but he’d just spent the last several hours of his life watching his male teammates lunge at one another in obscenely tight pants. One could hardly blame him for being in a certain mood about the whole affair, and consequently making plans to free one of those teammates from his tight pants.

Especially if that teammate was Oliver Cane. Firstly, Laurence liked him, and he found that fondness for another’s person usually led to a better experience during intimate acts. It was, at the very least, less awkward. Better still, Oliver truly was attractive, possessing the sort of natural and effortless good looks birthed only from a dose of luck and strong genes. It was also a possibility that he wasn’t quite aware how attractive he was, which further endeared Laurence to him.

He was rather determined to show Oliver a good time, maybe the best he’d ever had. 

And afterward, he thought with another wince, he may find it in himself to forgive the man for trying to break his shoulder.

* * ~ ~ ~ * *

Oliver Cane hadn’t had this much fun in…weeks? Months? God, was it years? It couldn’t be years, could it?

He tipped back his drink, and as the rich liquid warmed his throat, he realized it very well could have been years. He’d spent his entire adolescence preparing in one form or another for his entrance exams and interviews and the like—and then going through his entrance exams and interviews and the like—in order to gain admittance to his parents’ alma mater. It had, quite honestly, been his life’s work up to this point; he hadn’t had a weekend, an evening, or even an hour to relax since he was a child. Now that all his hard work had paid off and he was indeed at his parents’ alma mater, he supposed he had earned some time to enjoy himself.

And damn if he wasn’t enjoying himself. After a busy and productive day rushing from responsibility to responsibility, it felt good to sit back and share a drink with a new friend. 

The rec room was fairly busy for this late on a weeknight, at least from Ollie’s perspective. There were at least two dozen other students here, either milling about and chatting, playing a game of billiards, or participating in a betting game at the card table. A beat-up—or perhaps it was more charitable to describe it as well-loved—upright pianoforte was positioned near the sitting area, and one student sat at the bench, livening the atmosphere with bright ditties.

Ollie tapped his foot to these; he’d always liked music. It was great fun and a form of art all at once. He imagined he might have enjoyed learning to play an instrument if he’d ever had the time. 

He took another sip of his drink and commented, “This song is rather catchy. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard it.”

“It’s from the newest volume of The Musician’s Toolkit,” Laurence said at once. “I have the sheet music. Fun little tune to play. C major, though transposable if desired.”

Ollie sat up straighter, setting his glass on the small wooden table between their chairs. “You play?” he asked.

Laurence nodded, a warm smile on his face. That smile seemed to live there more often than not—it looked natural on him, comfortable. Ollie wished he possessed even a fraction of the coolness that seemed to effortlessly embody Laurence; he was a rigid sort of person himself, prone to overthinking and perfectionism. These weren’t inherently negative qualities, to be sure—Ollie’s high standards for himself, and for life in general, were undoubtedly the reason he’d been admitted to the most elite academy in the country. It’s simply that such traits didn’t translate very effectively to social situations; whenever he spoke to a pretty girl, for instance, his overthinking and perfectionism manifested as, more often than not, total ignorance and paralysis.

He was thinking through how he might ask Laurence for tips talking to women without humiliating himself (or, at least, humiliating himself further than he’d already managed to do earlier that day), when the student playing music finished his song and rose from the bench. He must have decided to turn in for the night, because he joined up with some friends and exited the rec room moments later.

“What a shame,” Ollie said. He ran a finger over the rim of his glass and sighed. “It’s so dull without the music.”

“Never fear,” Laurence said. He finished off his drink in one long gulp, then strode over to the pianoforte. Ollie copied these actions, though he hovered at the side of the instrument, looking on with interest. Laurence adjusted the position of the bench once, twice, thrice. Then he examined the keyboard, murmuring under his breath about the state of it, since it was in observably rough shape. His hands lingered just above the keys, and Ollie thought he was finally poised to begin, but instead, Laurence paused, removed his tailcoat, and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

As he did this, Ollie joked, “I am beginning to think you haven’t any idea how to play after all, given this deliberate delay. That comment about C major was meant to mislead me, wasn’t it?”

Laurence threw him an amused smirk. “You wound me, Oliver,” he said. “Of course I know how to play.” Without further hesitation, he lowered a hand to the keys and began to perform “Hot Cross Buns.” 

One of the billiards players booed; Ollie burst into laughter. He hadn’t laughed this hard since coming to Blackwood. He hadn’t cause for such laughter since leaving his younger siblings, and all their accompanying, humorous antics. When “Hot Cross Buns” came to a close, Ollie was ready to shake Laurence’s hand and congratulate him for the terrific joke; however, he was stunned into silence by Laurence skipping over the last note. In a twist, his fingers flew across the keys at an incomprehensible speed, transitioning the simple tune into a complex and intricate melody unlike any piece of music Ollie had ever heard.

Slowly, the din in the rec room quieted, its inhabitants turning to stare at Laurence’s display of inimitable talent. He finished out his impressive show with a flourish and grinned up at Ollie, his eyes glinting with mischief and pride. For a beat, the rec room was silent; then, the student who had booed earlier did so a second time. “Play something normal,” he heckled, thrusting his billiards cue toward them.

Laurence laughed, though he returned to playing—this time, he opted for a decidedly “normal” party tune Ollie recognized from various fetes he’d attended back home. The room was restored to its previous order in a minute or two.

Ollie leaned against the wall beside the pianoforte and said, “Very well. I see that you can play, and what’s more, you are an incorrigible peacock about it.”

Laurence raised his eyebrows, his hands not slowing for a second. “A peacock?”

“You like to show off,” Ollie explained. 

Now Laurence laughed again. With a wink, he said, “Only for you, Oliver.”

The next two hours passed in a whir of pleasant engagement. Laurence, as it turned out, had just about every song under the sun memorized, which meant there was no limit to requests that Ollie might make. Ollie also took unabashed delight in his new friend’s talent, the peacock nature of it all be damned. They chatted while Laurence played, and he shared that he played several instruments, had taken up the practice as a child, and was attending Blackwood to study music further. Throughout their conversation, his hands continued to move along the keys, emphasizing his lack of need for concentration; it’s as if playing came so naturally to him that he allowed the task to fade into the back of his mind without sacrificing any quality of the music. His ability to play and talk mirrored the manner in which any other person might walk and talk.

At one point, Ollie could not help but ask, “Is everything in life this easy for you?”

Laurence tilted his head in consideration. It was unsettling, quite frankly, how long it took him to think of an answer. “I am not,” he finally decided, “very good at test taking. Exams do not hold my attention, I fear. And they make me unbearably stressed.”

Ollie sighed. Splendid. So the one way in which he excelled over this man was when sitting at a school desk. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him, and he frowned. “How did you fare during the entrance exams?” he asked. “I must have taken twenty during the application process. Do musicians skip such tasks?”

“I did have some performances in place of written tests,” Laurence acknowledged. “But yes, there were traditional exams, too. I’m quite sure I failed half of them.”

“How did you gain admittance to Blackwood, then?” Ollie asked. “I was told your scores have to be the best of the best—”

For the first time since he’d started playing, Laurence stopped mid-song and dropped his hands to his lap. He stared at Ollie, whose words dried up in his mouth from the suddenness of it. Then he glanced around the room and realized with astonishment that they were the only two students left in the room. “Stone the crows,” he said. “What time is it?”

He reached for his pocket watch just as Laurence said, “I’ll teach you to play, if you’d like.”

Ollie forgot what he’d been doing at once. “Really?” he said. “You’d extend such a kindness?”

Laurence nodded. He edged over to the side of the bench, patted the space next to him, and said, “Sit. I’ll teach you a song right now.” When Ollie faltered, looking back at the empty room, he added, “A short one. You’ll have mastered it within fifteen minutes, I promise you.”

Ollie grinned as he took a seat. “I should like to see this. I have never touched a pianoforte in my life—nor any instrument, for that matter.”

“It’s designed to be played,” Laurence said. “If it was difficult, no one would do it. Hm?”

Ollie had to agree. Just as Laurence predicted, fifteen minutes proved to be all that was necessary. Under his capable tutelage, Ollie was tapping out “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” as if he’d become a pianist himself. 

“Look at that!” he chuckled. “It may be easy enough for a child to learn, but I dare say I am nevertheless impressed with myself, rudimentary as this may be.”

Laurence, who had thrown an arm around Ollie about two minutes in to the instruction, squeezed his shoulders and smiled at him fondly. “Don’t you dare discredit yourself,” he said. “You’re a fast learner.”

Ollie smiled in return. “Perhaps I am,” he said. “Perhaps you are a good teacher. I’m much obliged to you for the lesson.”

“Think nothing of it. I liked watching you learn—it was a selfish pleasure, truly.” Laurence leaned closer, reaching across the keyboard to play a silly little trill with his left hand, and Ollie watched with that happy grin on his face, reflecting on his luck.  

This, he thought to himself, was the best night he’d had in ages. A new friend, a good drink, an interesting conversation, and now, he’d learned a song on the pianoforte. He was quite grateful to Laurence not only for teaching him, but for inviting him here in the first place. He’d been unaware until this evening how badly he craved a break from academics. For once in his refined and studious life, he wanted more of this. He wanted to have fun.

At that wish, he remembered their upcoming weekend plans, and ducked under Laurence’s arm, self-conscious. “Erm,” he said.

“What is it?” Laurence asked. He flipped the lid shut over the pianoforte.

Ollie kept his eyes on the lid, which seemed less embarrassing than facing Laurence directly. “I’ve thought it over,” he confessed. “And I should very much like to…er…find success with Miss Vaughan this Saturday.”

Laurence drummed his fingers against his knee, like his mind was somewhere else. Ollie glanced at him and spoke a bit louder. “I’ve never been with a woman before,” he said. “Never been…whoring, or anything like that. And I’m hopeless at speaking to ladies, as you…saw earlier.”

“Yes,” Laurence agreed, and although he didn’t appear to mean it in a cruel way, Ollie was injured nonetheless. 

He flinched at the emotional blow. “Would you ever so mind, er, lending me your assistance Saturday?” he asked. “Much like you did on the grounds today? You seem to know just how to act around women. If you help me with Miss Vaughan, then I might have a chance at…” His words trailed off here.

Laurence smirked. He gripped the edge of the bench with both hands and leaned forward slightly, like he was playing a little balancing game. “Oliver,” he said in a low voice. “You know that you’re handsome, don’t you?”

Ollie blinked, bemused. “My mother sometimes calls me handsome,” he said. “But…to other women? Handsome? I’m not sure I...”

Now Laurence snorted. Ollie could feel the shame and frustration swallowing him from the feet up; he regretted starting this line of conversation entirely. He was just about to make an excuse to leave when Laurence spoke again. “There’s a reason that girl approached you today,” he said. “You’re a treat to the eyes. Attractive as all hell. You don’t need any help to be with anyone you want.” He waved a hand in the air, though his gaze remained steady. “Anyone at all.”

“Oh,” Ollie said, scratching his head and averting his eyes. He felt somewhat nauseous. That shame and frustration was growing overwhelming; he rose to his feet and shuffled away from the bench. “My apologies. I’d best retire for the night,” he said. “It’s been a long—”

“Is what you asked me,” Laurence interrupted, “truly what you want?” Ollie met his eyes again and saw that his friend had rotated to straddle the bench, one elbow resting on the closed keyboard lid. “You really wish for me to help you win Miss Vaughan’s affections?”

Ollie eyed him. This didn’t seem a lark. Laurence was serious. Thus, with a straightening of his posture and a jutting of his chin, Ollie replied with an assured nod.

Laurence nodded in return. “Consider it done, then,” he said. “We’ve no chance to fail.”

Ollie wasn’t quite ready to believe this; still, he was thankful for the enthusiasm and commitment all the same. “If this works,” he said, “I promise I shall repay you tenfold.”

Laurence stood and gathered up his tailcoat. “The only promise I need from you, Oliver,” he said, “is that you will spare me further physical injury.”

At first, Ollie had no clue what this meant; then he recalled their fencing practice and chuckled. “I am sorry about that,” he said.

“Mmhm,” Laurence said, his lips pressed together in skepticism. Ollie attempted to defend himself, but Laurence just wrapped an arm around him once more and steered him toward the exit. 

Throughout the rest of the week, Ollie and Laurence continued to meet—sometimes in the dining hall for meals, sometimes to have company while walking to practice. Ollie even attempted to invite Laurence to study in the library one evening, an offer which was promptly rejected. “You don’t have any studying you ought to do?” he’d asked.

“Of course I do,” Laurence replied. “Though that does not mean I plan to do it.”

Ollie was quite sure hearing this reduced his lifespan by two to three years. Despite some of these fundamental differences, he did enjoy becoming friends with Laurence all the same, and before he knew it, Saturday was upon them. They traveled to Catherington square on foot—it was a waste of the crisp autumn weather to do otherwise—and arrived to a party that was already in full swing.

Laurence informed him during their walk over that this event was being held by the culinary students for the purpose of celebrating a new year at Blackwood. They whipped up all sorts of finger foods and delightful desserts and lined them up in extravagant displays on buffet tables across the main square. Then, as was to be expected, students from every other area of study rushed over from campus to consume as many brownie squares and pieces of pound cake and chocolate eclairs as possible.

In fact, the very first action Ollie took upon their arrival was to stuff half an eclair in his mouth. “Tremendous,” he said through a mouthful of pastry. “Delectable. Indispensable—”

“Oh, hello, Miss Vaughan,” Laurence said.

Ollie began to choke.

“What luck,” Laurence carried on, “to cross paths with you so quickly!”

Susan Vaughan, who was standing with a gaggle of friends on the opposite side of the buffet table, projected a bright and cheery smile at them both. She lowered the eclair she’d been enjoying with a dainty hand, and Ollie’s forehead grew slick with sweat. She was so pretty and composed, with her round face and big brown eyes and gentle movements; there was no chance, none at all, that he’d so much as hold her hand tonight, let alone take her back to his room as Laurence had suggested.

Especially when one considered that he was still choking on his eclair.

“They’re delicious,” Susan said, gesturing to her pastry. “Aren’t they?”

Ollie managed a nod. Laurence took him by the arm and dragged him around the table to stand by Susan’s side, which allowed Ollie enough time to swallow and catch his breath. “Did you know,” Laurence opened, “that Oliver is the best fencer on our team?”

Susan stepped away from her friends and sent Ollie a look so excited, so eager, that he almost launched right back into choking. She couldn’t possibly be that eager to speak with him. The truth must be that she was interested in Laurence, and merely going along with whatever he said in order to win his favor. 

“My older brother used to be on the fencing team,” she told Ollie. “I loved to watch him practice with his trainer. Once, when he was in a good mood, he taught me how to en garde!”

To Ollie’s surprise, she actually hopped into a lunge, landing with one leg stretched out in front. She also plunged her eclair hand into the air so enthusiastically that said eclair flew from her previously dainty hold and landed on the cobblestones underfoot. “Oops,” she mumbled.

Ollie laughed. “I suppose you’d have to hold your foil a bit more tightly than that,” he joked.

She released a good-natured laugh herself. “I’d love to see the proper strategy.”

“Well,” Ollie said, scratching his head, “if you spectate at one of the team’s practices—”

“Oliver has a foil in his dormitory room,” Laurence cut in. His eyes scanned the buffet table as he spoke; he reached out to grab a cream puff, then grinned at Susan. “A few, actually.”

Susan squealed. Squealed. “Oh, would you protest if I requested to come by?” she asked. “You truly are the best fencer on the team, Mr. Cane. I’d love to see your equipment. And if you’d really be so obliging as to allow me to hold a foil…”

“Of course he’ll allow you to hold his foil,” Laurence said with a crooked smile and a wink.

Horrified, Ollie glared at his friend, but Susan burst into giggles. When he met her eyes, she was biting her bottom lip and gazing up at him in admiration. “I couldn’t dream of a more preferable manner in which to spend my evening,” she said, her cheeks bright pink.

It was all Ollie could do to hold his jaw from dropping open. He was utterly and thoroughly dumbfounded. He’d never so much as kissed a woman, and now…this?

“You ought to take your leave posthaste,” Laurence suggested, popping the cream puff into his mouth.

“Wha—do you mean now?” Ollie said, his voice weak. “We only just arrived—”

“I should very much like to go now,” Susan said.

“There you have it,” Laurence said. He wiped his hands together, sending crumbs to the ground, and then clapped Ollie on the back. “The lady has declared her wishes, Oliver. What sort of gentleman would you be if you denied her that which she desires?”

“My God,” Ollie said in a low voice. He leaned in close to Laurence and whispered, “Thank you.” Then he turned back to Susan, took a deep breath to regain his composure, and offered her his elbow. “Shall we—?”

She looped her arm through his at once. “To Phillips Hall, I presume?” she chirped.

“To Phillips Hall,” he echoed. In all truth, he remained in a great deal of shock, though he pushed this aside as best he could to escort her away from the party.

Not without, of course, one last glance in Laurence’s direction. As they headed back to campus, Laurence remained by the buffet table; he sent Ollie a quick wave and a wink.

“Your friend seems nice,” Susan commented, walking alongside Ollie with a little skip to her step. “How long have you known one another?”

Ollie could not believe the answer to this inquiry was four days. But it was the truth, and when he told her, she sounded equally as surprised as he felt. “It’s nice, isn’t it,” she mused, “when one makes the acquaintance of another who instantly and perfectly fits, much like a well-made glove. How marvelous for you both.”

“Indeed,” Ollie agreed, thinking on this with wonder.

They walked in silence for a moment, and though Ollie was quite lost in his head, he was also extremely aware of her arm touching his arm. Then she spoke, and it startled him enough that he nearly jumped. “Tell me about your fencing equipment, then,” she requested. “What is the difference between a foil and a saber? Do you prefer one to the other?”

With a deep breath, Ollie looked down at her and smiled. This was really happening—he dared to believe in it, in himself. He could do this. “There are a few differences,” he explained. Susan nodded, a captive listener. “Firstly, a foil has a unique sort of tip, designed for…”

* * ~ ~ ~ * *

Laurence watched Oliver leave the party while swimming in a sea of melancholy. How bittersweet: to see such joy and incredulity on his face as he escorted Susan away, and in doing so, stamping out another chance for Laurence to take him for himself.

He decided to eat a second cream puff.

“Some men have all the luck,” said a voice to his left.

Laurence drew back from the table; he turned and met the blue eyes of a dashing man. He was on the shorter side, but well-groomed and smartly dressed, his cravat knotted in such a fashion as to communicate that he came from a background of wealth and prestige. He was also watching Oliver leave, and looking substantially bitter about a stranger’s success with a lady. 

“Trouble courting?” Laurence asked.

“No,” the man snorted. He ran a hand over his fair head of hair. “I couldn’t give two sniffs about courting—I’m craving something else entirely. I’d rather have a woman on her knees than drop to one of my own, eh?” He displayed a salacious grin and grabbed a cream puff from the table.

Laurence extended a hand at once. “Laurence,” he said.

“Jonathan,” the man said. He used his free hand to shake, then asked, “Are you new here?”

“First year,” Laurence said with a nod. 

“Ah,” Jonathan said. “Third year, myself. Studying mathematics. Bit of a bore, but there’s good money in it.”

There was no doubt in Laurence’s mind that this man was in absolutely no need of “good money,” and moreover, had likely been in the hands of “good money” since the precise moment he’d entered the world as a privileged infant. This was no matter, however; he was accustomed to the company of people who had grown up much richer than he had, and he liked to think he’d learned to speak their language rather well. 

He thought it beneficial to keep Jonathan talking, so he asked, “Do you concentrate on a specific type of mathematics?”

Laurence then used the following several minutes of Jonathan chattering away about equations and formulas to have a quick little discussion with himself, all in his head. He was careful to keep his eyes locked on Jonathan and nod once in a while, but otherwise, he was deep in rumination.

Four days of trying quite ardently—and unsuccessfully—to charm Oliver had left Laurence in two states of being, and over time, each played against and worsened the other. The first state of being was simple enough, requiring no explanation: sexual frustration.

God, was he desperate for a tryst.

The second was a state he experienced only in rare instances, but tonight was one of these rare instances, to be sure: insecurity. He was a tad concerned he had lost his touch. 

As he studied Jonathan’s balanced facial features, Laurence tossed about the idea of killing two birds with one stone. What the hell, he thought. Why not?

Consequently, when Jonathan came to a pause in his ramblings, Laurence charged forth. “Fascinating,” he said. “Who knew there were so, so very many methods one can utilize to add up sums?”

Jonathan nodded, then paused to furrow his brow. Before he could start up once more, Laurence said, “Forgive me; earlier, you said you were craving something?”

“...Ah,” Jonathan said with a chuckle. “Can’t blame me, can you? I’ve lived with my bloody parents all summer, and we’ve only been back to school a short time. Haven’t had a chance to get what I’m after, if you know what I mean.”

“I know precisely what you mean,” Laurence said.

“And these women,” Jonathan scoffed, surveying the crowds around them in a judgmental manner, “are growing rather stodgy, aren’t they? Every year I find them less willing to go down for me.”

Blackwood students as a rule, Laurence thought with a burst of optimism, made this too damn easy. He asked, “You ever had it from a man?”

Jonathan faltered, then arched an eyebrow. “Can’t say the concept has…ever crossed my mind.”

Laurence let this sit for a moment. Jonathan finished off his pastry in silence, frowning to himself. He crossed his arms. Uncrossed them. Scratched his nose. Then he asked, “Is it good?”

Laurence smiled and shrugged. “If one has the parts,” he said, “then one also has an idea what is effective, does one not? Provides an edge in the whole endeavor.”

“Huh.” Jonathan leaned against the buffet table, his frown softening.

After a quick scan of the square, Laurence pointed in a direction and said, “If you’re curious…there’s a very large tree just over there. Sufficient to provide a fair amount of cover.” Jonathan followed his gaze and stared at the tree. 

When his gaze eventually, slowly, returned to Laurence, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned in close. “You’re serious?” he said.

“I am,” Laurence said. “I’m rather good at it.” He grinned to himself and thought of the accusation Oliver had made earlier that week in the rec room. “...And, quite frankly, I like to show off.”

Jonathan tapped his foot and crossed his arms even tighter, his eyes flitting back to the tree.

“If you close your eyes,” Laurence added, draping an arm over Jonathan’s shoulders, “it might as well be a woman’s mouth. You cannot tell the difference, I assure you.”

This was followed by more silence. Then Jonathan burst, “Goddamn it. Very well—this had better be unlike anything I’ve ever—”

Laurence let out an exuberant laugh and walked off, leading the way through the square. So he wasn’t, he happily concluded, losing his touch. His spirits were entirely restored by the time they’d slipped around the tree; Jonathan leaned back against the trunk, his palms pressed flat to the bark, and Laurence fell to his knees, working step by step through unfastening the front fall of Jonathan’s trousers. The buttons were ridiculously fancy, engraved with what must be Jonathan’s initials, so Laurence was required to stifle a snort. Or an eyeroll. Or both.

It was best to focus on the task at hand. Buttons were inconsequential; he was here for what lay underneath them. He took Jonathan up in his hand, wet his lips, and parted them over the tip. Though his spirits had already been restored, he was emboldened partway through the act by Jonathan’s breath shortening, and then made altogether smug by the release of a full groan. 

Laurence pulled back, stroking with his hand for a moment. “What’s the verdict?” he teased. “Good? Better?”

Jonathan, who had indeed closed his eyes thus far, opened them to scowl at Laurence. “If you talk,” he snapped, “it’s rather difficult to pretend you’re a woman.”

Laurence almost laughed aloud. “Ahh,” he said. “Is that actually what you’ve chosen to do?”

Jonathan nodded resolutely. It seemed necessary, then, that Laurence rise to his feet, press his body into Jonathan’s, and kiss him on the mouth. When this was met with no resistance, he whispered, “Be honest, darling. You’re not pretending a damn thing, are you?”

Jonathan groaned again, the timbre of his voice distinct and enticing. “Just—just get back down there, will you?” he ground out.

Laurence followed orders; he was back on the ground, taking Jonathan to the back of his throat with a very triumphant air, until he paused once more to say, “Pay attention.”

“Pay attention?” Jonathan repeated, affronted. The heels of boats slid slightly in the grass, and he pushed himself back to standing upright. “Why—?”

“Because,” Laurence said casually, “I have every intention of swapping places with you once this is over. You ought to take some mental notes, learn a thing or two before your turn.”

“My turn? That is not what you—” Jonathan started.

“Did you think,” Laurence challenged, “I’d let you get away with not returning the favor?” He tsked and flashed a mischievous smile. “That seems short-sighted.”

Jonathan uttered a somewhat crass word, though he made no real attempts at protest. In fact, it was just after this—paired with a perfectly timed caress from Laurence’s tongue—that he spent himself, gasping a few more crass words and sinking against the tree trunk.

Laurence was back on his feet in an instant, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and wearing a jubilant grin. He allowed Jonathan a moment or two to come down. In truth, he half-expected the man to make a fuss and—as soon as he had his clothing situated—stalk off. But Jonathan proved to be amenable to this proposed exchange of favors. Without a word, he knelt to the grass and got to work. 

Considering it was Jonathan’s first time performing such an act, he wasn’t half-bad at it. It was certainly not the worst Laurence had ever had, and several minutes later, he was nearly overcome. “God—I’m almost there,” he warned. He pushed his weight into his outstretched hand, which was pressed to the tree before him, and curled his fingers against the bark.

Jonathan switched to his hand and tipped his chin up, those blue eyes settling on Laurence with—ha! Was that a touch of pride? 

“Where do you plan to—” he started. He was, however, too late, as Laurence had shifted himself forward just enough to finish on Jonathan’s face.

After this, Jonathan rose to his feet, scowling once again. “What am I supposed to do now?” he demanded. He gestured to his sticky face and grunted with annoyance. “Why would you do that?”

Laurence shook his head, his chest still heaving from the exertion. “I cannot help,” he gasped out with a laugh, “but notice that you didn’t exactly move. You stayed so still, like an obedient boy ought to—”

Jonathan sent him a lethal glare, and Laurence abandoned his sentence to laugh some more. Then he fished around in his pockets until he found his handkerchief, and extended it toward Jonathan. When he received a grimace at this gesture, Laurence sighed and said, “My God, it’s clean. Not as if I had to use it; I swallowed.”

Jonathan snatched away the handkerchief and wiped at his face, muttering under his breath all the while. When he was clean-faced, he returned it and said, “Perhaps next time we do this—”

“Oh no,” Laurence said quickly. He buttoned up his front fall as he spoke. “I’m afraid I don’t make a habit of repeat partners. There is no ‘next time’ to be had.”

“Christ,” Jonathan complained. “That is detestable—you cannot do that to a man. It’s unspeakably cruel.”

Laurence leaned his back to the tree and, feeling rather amused, listened to this with his tongue in his cheek. 

“You do”—Jonathan waved his hand between the two of them, evidently refusing to name what they’d done with words—“this, show me what I’ve been missing, and then…? For God’s sake, never again?”

“Never again,” Laurence agreed. “The real cruelty would be stringing you along, allowing you to think this meant something. Hm?”

This earned him yet another scowl. 

He patted Jonathan on the shoulder and grinned. “Much obliged,” he said. “If you have any similarly curious friends, send them my way. But my terms are final.” He pointed at Jonathan with his index finger. “One time, and one time only.”

“Yes, well,” Jonathan sputtered, placing his hands on his hips. “We’ll see about that, first-year. You think I’m the sort of person to let this stand?”

Laurence positively beamed. He knew he hadn’t lost his touch; he hadn’t lost a damn thing.

He carried this satisfied, invigorated energy along through the remainder of the night. He carried it along to his dreams, as he slept soundly in his room on campus. Finally, he carried it all the way into the next day, when he paid a visit to Oliver’s room down the hall. It was late morning, well after breakfast, but he hadn’t seen Oliver in the dining hall and supposed he may have decided to stay in and—a shudder ran through Laurence at the thought—study. He rapped his knuckles on the door and took a step back, examining the knicks in the wood and kicking the heel of one boot with the toe of the other.

After about ten seconds, Oliver cracked open the door and poked his head through. 

“Good morning,” Laurence said, thoroughly prepared to be bold about this whole affair. “I—”

Oliver shushed him. He slipped out to the hall—still in his dressing robe—and shut the door behind him.

“Is Susan still in there?” Laurence realized.

“Yes!” Oliver whispered with glee. “I cannot believe this. I am enormously indebted to you. She loved the fencing talk, loved how neat I keep my room, loved that you and I have, as she described it, ‘an entertaining and admirable rapport.’ I barely did a thing—we’d hardly been in the room five minutes—when she started kissing me.”

As Oliver talked on with awe about his experience, Laurence’s eyes lowered along his body, taking in his disheveled, slept-in appearance. He truly was an attractive person…Laurence would have expected to feel lustful, seeing Oliver in partial dress. He ought to find the whole situation maddeningly enticing; instead, he was struck with the impression that Oliver looked sweet, like an adorable child in nightclothes. Rather than a desire to get him in bed for untoward means, Laurence felt a puzzling urge to tuck Oliver in and read him a wholesome fantasy tale.

“...and I owe it all to you,” Oliver was saying. “I do hope you enjoyed yourself at the party, seeing as I left so early.” He glanced back at his closed door and lowered his voice. “Did you have any success yourself?”

Laurence shook himself from his doubts and, his jaw set, said, “Yes.” He stared into Oliver’s dark eyes with all the sensuality he could muster. “After you left, I enjoyed some conversation with a man, which led to…” He licked his lips and cocked his head to the side. “...As you so aptly put it: success.”

Oliver blinked at this. Laurence waited with bated breath. Then Oliver broke into a wide smile and said, “Capital! I am thrilled for you. I had no idea you are interested in men, too.”

Laurence had never fainted, but he was quite sure that he was on the verge of doing so now. He frowned, shuffled his feet, and then asked, “Oliver—are you interested in men?”

“Oh, I should think not,” Oliver said casually. “Thought about it once or twice, but men don’t have breasts. Not sure what the point is, then.”

“Ah,” Laurence choked out.

“Oh, my apologies,” Oliver said, his thick eyebrows knitting together with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to offend. It’s all very well if you enjoy such a thing yourself—it’s just an attraction I do not much understand.”

Laurence was at a loss for words. He’d never felt so idiotic in his life. He’d been so certain that Oliver—what with his disconnect from women—it had just seemed obvious that he would be—

“Anyhow,” Oliver said, jolting Laurence from his confusion, “I had best return to Susan. She’s asleep, but I’d hate if she awoke and I was out here. I plan to suggest that we take a stroll about the grounds, maybe enjoy lunch together—if she so desires, of course.” He edged back to his door, then turned to face Laurence again. “I really cannot thank you enough,” he said. “I shall find a way to make this up to you. You are a fantastic friend.”

Laurence nodded, this last sentence echoing in his head. Oliver considered him a friend. He was quite sure he’d never had a friend before—not a true, platonic friendship, anyhow, with someone his own age. The closest “friend” he’d ever had was his governess, and she’d always forced him to eat brussels sprouts, so he saw no issue replacing her in the ranks with a fitting, likable person such as Oliver. Perhaps this could be good for him.

So Laurence grinned at Oliver and tried his hand at friendship. “I am happy this went so well for you,” he said, gesturing to the door. “With Susan.”

Oliver grinned in return. “As am I. Shall we meet for dinner later? We could go to a tavern in town. I’d like to buy you a meal, or even just a drink.”

Laurence nodded again. He moved to leave, then hesitated. If he was going to strive for a real friendship, then he decided that he ought to do the arrangement justice, try something he had never before attempted. “If you and I are to be friends,” he said, “I ought to tell you something.”

“Of course,” Oliver said, his expression growing curious.

“You asked how I was accepted into this school,” Laurence said.

Oliver chuckled and waved a hand. “No explanation needed. You are a marvel on the pianoforte, Troweman. Peacock or not, it is apparent that you belong in the music program.”

“...Thank you,” Laurence said, frowning. “But you were right about the entrance exams. I performed abysmally. Some of my musical auditions were not much better. I suspect the sole reason I am able to be enrolled this year is because of my father.”

Oliver did not appear bothered by this. Indeed, after a brief moment of consideration, he shrugged. “A good number of students are only here because their fathers—or mothers—are alumni. At least you are actually talented.”

“You mistake me,” Laurence said. “My father is not—he has no formal education. He is rich…and…rather famous.”

Now Oliver chuckled again. “Famous?” Then he laughed a bit louder and snapped his fingers. “Oh no. Do not tell me you share a resemblance with Julian Bell because you are his son. That would be beyond belief.”

“But I am his son,” Laurence said, pressing his lips together. “Julian Bell is my father.”

The delight on Oliver’s face was immediate and near overwhelming, like staring into the sun. “That is incredible!” he exclaimed. “Do you receive free tickets to his shows, then?”

Laurence was certain he was unready to explain to Oliver, friend or not, that he did not attend his father’s shows, so he responded to this with a half-hearted nod.

“Absolutely capital,” Oliver said, shaking his head. He turned away and placed his hand on the door handle. “The son of Julian Bell. Imagine that. I have about a thousand similar questions for you; prepare yourself for a barrage of them at dinner.”

Laurence sighed and smiled. “I expect no less.” He tipped his chin toward the door. “Enjoy your day with Susan.”

Oliver’s grin widened at this, like he still could not believe his luck. He swung out his arm in a zealous parting wave before slipping back into the room.

Laurence ran his tongue over the bottom row of his teeth, thinking over what had just happened. Then he allowed himself another smile. 

He hadn’t set out to make a friend, but he was glad for it. Trysts, for him, were a dime a dozen, and he had a very strong and assured feeling that Oliver was one of a kind.