wildestranger (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wildestranger) wrote2008-04-27 06:23 pm
wildestranger) wrote2008-04-27 06:23 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Brendolina; or, the history of a young gentleman's entrance into the world.
Title: Brendolina; or, the History of a Young Lady's Gentleman's Entrance into the World 1/?
Fandom: Bandslash
Pairings: Brendon/Spencer, Frank/Gerard, Pete/Patrick
Rating: PG-13 (will be NC-17 in later chapters)
Words: 5000
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and in no way intended to reflect on any of the people whose names are shared by the characters. If you are one of those people, or acquainted with them, please don't read. Or at least don't tell me about it if you do.
Summary: A scandalous lord is driven into exile, an innocent young man arrives to the city in search of a wealthy bride, and a notorious rake attempts to woo a virtuous beauty.
Notes: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
harriet_vane for reading this through, and for being the most lovely enabler ever. Thanks to pre_raphaelite1 for consultation on commas and other typographical things, and for finally convincing me that this title is, in fact, appropriate. I blame you.
Also, if anyone has any thoughts on good places in which to advertise this, please let me know?
The weather outside was grey and gloomy. Even in the best of years, English springtime was not known for its sunshine, warmth, or other springlike qualities, but hail in April was an unusual low. A suitable accompaniment for these melancholic times, said Lord Way. A bloody good reason to get the hell out of England, suggested his brother, Lord Michael.
Gerard, Lord Way, the most famous poet of his generation, was being driven to exile by his ungrateful country. The scandal had hit two months earlier and grew more insurmountable every day: rumours of sodomy and incest, former mistresses coming forth with complaints of unnatural congress, and servants talking to papers about unlawful embraces between Lord Way and his brother. His poems, which had been praised for their exquisite sensitivity and their moving portrayal of masculine friendship, were now condemned as signs of perverted degeneracy. The young men, who had flocked to his poetry readings wearing black velvet and sporting dark kohl around their eyes (the Orientalist fashion that Lord Way had helped to create), were now most keen to avoid any marks of effeminacy. They were burning his books on Albemarle Street. At least the bad weather prevented that.
Augustus, Lord Way’s hamster, was staring mournfully at the window, and the foul weather outside. Or so it seemed to Gerard. It was sometimes hard to tell with Augustus.
His reveries were interrupted by a knock on the half-open door and the entrance of his steward, Brian Schechter.
“All is ready, my lord. As soon as the weather clears, we may go. Unless you would prefer to wait until tomorrow.”
Gerard turned to look out the window. The hail continued, angry little pellets smashing against the glass. He imagined they were his countrymen, come to take revenge on him for his attack on English morals.
“No. I want to get out of this dismal place. Even a country inn is better than this.”
Schechter coughed delicately. “Excuse me, my lord, but a country inn would not be a good idea in the current climate. You might get recognised and, well. I’m afraid you are all too recognisable at the moment.”
As Gerard opened his mouth to speak, Schechter continued. “And no, a disguise wouldn’t help. Your proclivities are too well-known, my lord.”
Gerard pursed his mouth. It was possible that attending a demimonde ball dressed as a courtesan had been a bad move, in retrospect. Still, it had also been a courageous artistic gesture. Mikey had said so. And that little Ross boy had asked him how he’d got the dress, and clearly taken notes.
“What would you suggest, then? Drive on through the night?”
The smile on Schechter’s face was wan, but it was there, a welcome sight after weeks of dark circles around his eyes and ever-deepening frowns on his forehead. Not that Gerard looked much better.
“Yes, my lord. We have food and drink enough for the journey, and there are fresh horses to be had twice before Falmouth. If we leave by six, we can reach the ship by noon tomorrow. And catch the tide.”
And be out of England by sundown tomorrow. Gerard felt a grin breaking on his face. Away and into exile, but also to freedom.
“Let us go then. And ride like the wind.”
This put a pinched look on Schechter’s face. Sometimes Gerard felt that his steward didn’t appreciate his poetic genius.
“Indeed, my lord. Shall I carry Augustus?”
Both men turned to look at the hamster, who stared serenely back.
“No, I’ll take him in. He can ride with me in the carriage.”
Schechter made another face at that, but didn’t comment. Gerard picked up the hamster cage and poked a finger through the bars to stroke Augustus, who twitched only a little. Augustus was long used to Gerard’s affectionate nature.
With a smile and a haughty step, Gerard Way walked out of his room, out of his house, and into adventure.
: :
Brendon Urie had never been to London before. He had never been out of Yorkshire, which fact seemed more depressing by the minute. In Yorkshire, no one had purple carriages with dragons painted on the sides. Clearly something had been missing from his life until now.
Brendon sighed, and sneaked another look outside at the carriage. A dark-haired man, wearing what looked like a velvet cape and carrying a tiny golden cage, had just stepped out of the townhouse across the street and was gesturing wildly towards the carriage. Another man, in a brown coat and without a cape, was nodding along, with some resignation evident in his posture. Their conversation grew more and more animated, until two other men appeared and embraced the man in the cape. The brown-coated man flinched visibly, and looked around on the otherwise-deserted street before ushering them all into the carriage.
“Enjoying the show?”
Sir Peter was smiling, but there was something in the curve of his mouth that wasn’t terribly friendly. Perhaps all those teeth. Still, Brendon smiled back. Smiling was always a good response, he had found.
“I was only admiring the carriage. I have never seen such colours on a vehicle before.”
Sir Peter laughed, a warm sound that made Brendon feel less like an unwelcome guest. Not that Sir Peter had been anything but courteous, but Brendon was aware that his father had been forced to remind Sir Peter of numerous family obligations before the invitation to London had arrived.
“I’m sure you haven’t, Mr. Urie. But Lord Way is known for his eccentricities.”
Brendon’s eyes grew wide, all thoughts of familial responsibilities and his father’s angry face forgotten.
“Lord Way? The poet?”
Sir Peter’s smile turned cold.
“Quite so. You have arrived on a precipitous day, my young friend. Today the most notorious man in London leaves this city in disgrace.”
The tone of Sir Peter’s voice became mocking, and Brendon wasn’t sure whether himself, Lord Way, or the city of London was the target. Sir Peter seemed rather annoyed with them all.
“I have heard of Lord Way. My parents, they…”
“No doubt they told you many things. Fame attracts scandal, after all, and there’s nothing the mob likes better than tearing apart what they idolised the day before. I don’t suppose you’ve actually read any of his poetry? There are copies in my library, you know. I even have a signed manuscript of The Unicorn Heart, although Ross is probably hiding it in his room. Communing with its spirit and staining his pillow, no doubt.”
Brendon blinked. Sir Peter frowned.
“Stained from tears, I mean. He’s a very emotional boy, Ross. Cries at the drop of a hat.”
Brendon blinked again, then gave a hesitant smile. Sir Peter sighed.
“Oh hell. What am I going to do with you?”
: :
Dinner at the Wentz house was not a formal affair. Sir Peter had said so, but Brendon nevertheless thought it best to wear his finest brown jacket and his new breeches. This turned out to be a wise decision, as he was by far the least well-dressed gentleman at the table.
Sir Peter had changed into a white shirt with resplendent ruffles, a sharply cut black coat, and the tightest breeches Brendon had ever seen. They looked like they would be impossible to sit down in, but Sir Peter showed no discomfort as he sprawled carelessly on his seat at the head of the table. Brendon suspected he might have had a glass of wine or two since tea. There was a suspicious stain on his ruffles.
On Sir Peter’s right side, across from Brendon, was a tall young man wearing the most violent shade of purple Brendon had ever seen (not unlike the carriage earlier on, in fact). The white of his shirt was barely visible through the intricately knotted lilac scarf, and there were at least three shiny brooches on his coat-lapels. Brendon could make out one unicorn, and possibly two dragons.
The gentleman had been introduced as “my ward Mr Ross, a man with poetic ambitions and an exquisite sensibility for fashion. You may notice a similarity between the carriage you so admired earlier and Mr Ross’s current waistcoat? Mr Ross, you see, is an enthusiast.” Brendon had nodded and smiled, and Mr Ross had turned his bored glare from Brendon to Sir Peter, gaining some undisguised irritation on the way. Sir Peter had given another one of those toothy grins, and sipped his wine.
Next to Mr Ross was another young man, in a more sedate dark blue coat and a plain white shirt, his neck cloth simply fastened with sharp lines and a perfectly symmetrical formation. Brendon became uncomfortably aware of his own repeatedly washed and over-starched neck-handkerchief.
He attempted a smile, nevertheless, as Sir Peter was explaining about Brendon’s family and their desire to see their youngest son make useful London acquaintances, preferably among the fairer sex with indulgent fathers. However, as the young man (“Mr Smith, formerly of the King’s Dragoon Guards, and a particular friend of Mr Ross”) did not smile in return, but rather gave Brendon a cool look whilst raising his eyebrow (at this point, Sir Peter was saying something about huge tracts of land), Brendon gave up on trying to look friendly and began to stare at his soup instead. It had peas in it, and Brendon amused himself by inventing adventures for his new friend Mr Pease. Mr Pease did not have to get married, and instead spent his time frolicking with his friends among the shiny green leaves.
Two more plates appeared and were intensely scrutinised (salmon and venison, respectively) as the conversation shifted between Count Saporta’s new race horse, the current fashion in collars (“Too stifling”, said Sir Peter. “Too unoriginal and lacking in colour”, said Mr Ross), and the latest poem by Mr Southey. Brendon sat quietly, half dozing on his seat until he heard his name spoken. Sir Peter was talking, not at Brendon, (which he had not done since the initial introductions) but about him.
“…if you wouldn’t mind seeing that he is clothed and combed and brushed? I’m afraid I’m going to be busy this week, and I know how much you enjoy shopping for clothes. I’m sure Mr Urie would be most interested to hear your theory on scarves and how they complement gentlemanly attire.”
Sir Peter was grinning again, but the teeth were not so unfriendly now and there was a teasing tone to his voice. Mr Smith even rolled his eyes.
Mr Ross, on the other hand, did not look pleased. Nor did he look at Brendon.
“I’ll have you know I have better things to do than to escort schoolboys around London. He’s your responsibility, not mine. And…”
“I’m not a schoolboy.”
Apparently Brendon had opened his mouth and spoken, interrupted another gentleman. Apparently being ignored and laughed at had that effect on him. Or perhaps it was the wine. There had been some wine, Brendon recalled. With every course.
And now he had an incredulous audience, from Sir Peter’s open mouth to Mr Smith’s raised eyebrows. And Mr Ross’s blank look, as if he had assumed that Brendon was in fact incapable of speech.
Brendon cleared his throat.
“I’m not a schoolboy, Mr Ross, I am twenty years of age. And please do not trouble yourself on my account, there is no need to take me shopping. I have brought clothes with me; we do have tailors in Yorkshire, you know.”
The look on Mr Ross’s face suggested that he was unconvinced by this. Sir Peter laughed, but there was no sneer in it.
“I’m sure you do, but what is acceptable in Yorkshire might not be in London. It is essential that we get you reclothed and booted and cravated, Mr Urie. As, ahem, comfortable as I’m sure your current apparel is, it will not impress the ladies. And impressing the ladies, or at least not impressing them unfavourably, is the most important thing for a young gentleman. Especially one in search of a wife.”
Brendon knew that he had to get married, but impressing the ladies seemed a lot more difficult than he had imagined. The girls in Yorkshire hadn’t cared what he wore, as long as he didn’t step on their toes during the waltz (Brendon was most graceful dancer) and kept up a conversation that didn’t involve farming. As Brendon knew very little about farming (despite twenty years of living on a farm – Brendon had a special talent for ignoring all lessons other than music), this had not been hard.
But Sir Peter was still talking to Mr Ross.
“Besides, think of the challenge! Can you change this rustic youth into a fluttering mass of floral patterns and colourful scarves? In, let’s say, two weeks?”
There was a speculative gleam in Mr Ross’s eyes as he turned to peer at Brendon. Mr Smith, on the other hand, looked like he was trying not to laugh. Brendon frowned. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of that many scarves. The ladies in London must be very peculiar.
“Two weeks, you say?”
Mr Ross’s voice was strangely inflected, but there was definitely a certain amount of gleeful curiosity in it. Brendon had a sudden image of himself draped in flowery sheets. Purple flowery sheets.
“Can you have him ready for the Beckett ball?”
“For how much?”
“Two hundred guineas.”
“Done.”
Both Mr Ross and Sir Peter smirked, then looked at Brendon. Brendon gulped. Mr Ross’s tone, when he finally spoke, was bordering on enthusiastic, and there was a strange glint in his eye.
“Tell me, Mr Urie, how do you feel about mauve?”
: :
There were only two candles lighting the room. Pete was still trying to convince Patrick that using more was acceptable, was necessary, even, to spare Patrick’s poor eyes, and that Pete could well afford the expense. He had arranged more to be delivered earlier in the day, so that Patrick would not have to ask (which he would not). But Patrick was a cautious man, as careful with money and things as with his words. Spoken words, at least, for on the written page Patrick was unsparing of anything and anyone. Still, this meant that there were only two candles illuminating the room where Patrick worked, throwing wild shadows on the walls, making Patrick’s pale skin look even paler, and somehow mysterious in the light.
It also meant that Pete was perfectly justified in leaning close to read over Patrick’s shoulder. Even if Patrick didn’t like it, even if Patrick had told him repeatedly that he didn’t like it and thought it inappropriate between a gentleman of Sir Peter’s standing and a gentleman such as himself. He had been kind enough not to mention the impropriety of any intimate touching between men in the current climate (not for the first time, Pete cursed Lord Way and his refusal to hide his vices), which Pete was grateful for, and also took as a reason to do more leaning.
Patrick smelled of ink and over washed linen, and Pete wondered, once again, how such incongruous smells had become the strongest of all aphrodisiacs for him. He allowed himself a slight nuzzle against Patrick’s cheek, then drew back to appreciate the rather formidable scowl that would soon grace Patrick’s face.
He was not disappointed; after a little shudder, Patrick turned around on his seat and scowled. He cheeks were growing red despite the coldness of the room and his eyes were narrowing, pinning Pete to his seat.
And Pete couldn’t help smiling at that, an overwhelming, delighted smile, probably showing too many teeth and making him look deranged. There were advantages to being thought mad, though, it meant that he could get away with things like finding new ways to make Patrick blush.
Sadly, Patrick chose not to comment on this new impropriety on Pete’s part, but instead handed over the manuscript he had been reading.
“It’s about Catholic Emancipation. A reminder of Pitt’s promise to…”
“To remove the restrictions on Catholics to hold office, yes, I know. You’ve told me before.”
Pete couldn’t help smiling again, because a serious and intent Patrick was a lovely sight.
“Yes. Will you print it, then?”
It was clear that Patrick did not like to ask for things, his native dignity scorning the idea of incurring obligations. It was also clear, in Patrick’s steady, modulated voice, that he had learned to do so without compromising his dignity. But even that was too much for Pete. Patrick shouldn’t have to bow before anyone, certainly not him.
“Of course I will. Anything you want, my dear Stump.”
This wasn’t perhaps the best way to convey his sentiments to Patrick. Pete couldn’t feel too bad about it, though, since it caused Patrick’s cheeks to grow even more red and his mouth to form a most expressive line of disapproval. Pete spent a lot of time thinking about Patrick’s mouth and the shapes it could form. Besides, his remark was utterly in earnest.
Then Patrick bit his lip, and Pete lost what little concentration he had.
“It was a serious question, Sir Peter. I wish you would not toy with me in this manner.”
An unfortunate choice of words, there, as Pete’s mind was filled with scenarios of toying with Patrick. Sometimes Pete suspected Patrick of taunting him deliberately. And sometimes he wondered if Patrick read the same sort of torrid romances as he did and picked up the vocabulary of flirtation from there. Probably not, not a good little Dissenter like Patrick. Patrick looked like he might have written a pamphlet or two against gothic novels.
Still, Patrick seemed to have had the same kind of reflections Pete did (without, perhaps, the digression on gothic romance), as he paused in mid shuffle (Patrick tended to shift and shuffle when frustrated, annoyed, or in conversation with Pete) and cringed at his own words. And as much as Pete loved to see Patrick blush, this was wrong. Patrick should never feel embarrassed, not because of Pete.
“I’m not toying with you, Mr Stump. As I said, I am prepared to print everything you give me, be the subject matter what it may. I trust your judgement.”
Patrick’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, and normally Pete would be delighted to watch that, but Patrick was also looking at him, eyes thoughtful and intent. Pete swallowed and stared helplessly back.
When Patrick finally spoke, his voice was mild.
“It would be imprudent of you not to read the text before you print. This is a dangerous business, after all. You should know what you are willing to go to jail for.”
Pete nodded and took a long breath.
“I would also be happy to read whatever you give me, Mr Stump.”
After a few moments of intent scrutiny, Patrick sighed, and nodded towards the papers in Pete’s hand.
“I shall leave you to read, then.”
That should have been it, another half an hour spent in Patrick’s company, but Pete was feeling reckless, like he had revealed too much and not received a response, like there was more that needed to be said.
“Have you heard from Hurley?”
Patrick’s steps came to a halt before the door. There was a moment of quiet before he spoke.
“I visited him yesterday.”
Pete nodded, even though Patrick couldn’t see him.
“How is he?”
“He seemed in good spirits. The food and medicine that you sent have helped with his cough, despite the Newgate dampness.”
“I’m glad to hear it. If there’s anything else you think he needs…”
Patrick turned around, his chin lifted, his eyes narrowed.
“I don’t know why you do this. Mr Hurley is no friend of yours, and two months ago you had never heard of The Gentleman’s Friend. Why should you care if another publication is banned, or another publisher jailed? Our concerns do not effect your life, Sir Peter, and you are no radical reformer. You have no need to trouble yourself with our pamphlets.”
“Perhaps you have inspired me. Perhaps meeting you, Mr Stump, has made me a new man.”
Patrick grimaced. It wasn’t uncommon for him to do this when Pete spoke of his enthusiasm for Patrick, but Pete was hoping to change that.
“Perhaps I’ve come to feel that even a frivolous aristocrat should do something with his life, and use his privilege to change the world. Or perhaps I am a reckless fool, dabbling with dangerous causes just for my own amusement, and destined for ruin like poor Way.”
A sudden stillness took over Patrick’s body. “You are acquainted with Lord Way?”
Not an association one wanted to publicise these days, but this was Patrick. And Pete was not a man who would hide this before anyone.
“Yes, I am. His brother is a particular friend of mine.”
The nod Patrick gave was carefully blank. Pete felt his mouth begin to curl towards a sneer.
“You know, there’s no truth to those rumours. They are affectionate brothers, it’s true, but nothing more.”
Patrick nodded again, then looked down. “And the other rumours?”
“I didn’t realise you were interested in scandal.”
The blush on Patrick’s cheeks began to grow. Pete noted with interest that for the first time since he had met Patrick, this didn’t make him want to follow it with his tongue.
“I take it you disapprove, then?”
“Such activities are against the law.”
“Does that mean we can’t expect a little tract from you to change the law?”
“In the present climate that would be inadvisable.”
“But what if…”
“No.”
Patrick’s voice, usually soft and carefully modulated, was tight with anger. His hands were formed into fists at his sides, knuckles slowly turning white, and there was a quiet sort of fury exuding from him. It took Pete a while to realise that he had been interrupted mid-speech by an employee, by Patrick, of all people. Patrick didn’t look like he was going to apologise, either.
“I once saw a man pilloried for sodomy. A man from my village, a boy I’d gone to school with. They threw stones at him until his head was a mass of blood, until one of his eyes was torn and fell on his cheek. It took him three hours to die.”
Once again, Pete found himself pinned by Patrick’s unwavering gaze.
“So no, Sir Peter, I’m not going to write a pamphlet begging for leniency for sodomites. To speak of it in terms other than rabid condemnation is to court scandal. Men like Beckford, and your friend Way, are allowed exile, but men like me are killed by the mob if not by the law. And it is not worth it.”
Patrick’s mouth stretched into an unhappy line, but his eyes remained hard. Pete swallowed, wet his lips, and said nothing. For a moment they stared at each other, until Patrick’s shoulders began to deflate and he shook his head, once, then walked out without looking at Pete again.
Pete resisted the urge to tear the papers in half. The candles, on the other hand, were no so lucky.
: :
The carriage was half-lit, and Gerard found himself struggling to make out the shapes of the men sitting on the opposite side: Mikey with his spectacles sliding down his nose, his arms crossed over his chest in his usual pose of aloofness, and Schechter, looking out of the window, his face pale and tired in the moonlight. The last change of horses had left them all well-fed and fatigued (Gerard had agreed to Mikey’s request that they stop to eat at the inn, despite Schechter’s repeatedly vocalised misgivings), but there was a strange contentment in Gerard’s soul. Considering the circumstances of their journey, it felt unseemly to be anything but troubled and anxious, on his friends’ behalf if not his own. Yet Gerard was happy.
Frank had fallen asleep soon after they’d left the inn. He was leaning against Gerard’s shoulder, a warm lump pressed close, his quiet snuffles interrupted by an occasional cough. The cold that had made Frank bedridden for two weeks was not yet gone, but Gerard was hoping that the milder weather of the continent would help. Frank had never liked the English weather – it was something he and Mikey had in common. Gerard, by contrast, was rather fond of misty rain. He felt it had a certain poetic ambiance.
Frank had a tendency to get sick easily, but in this case Gerard had decided (and both Mikey and Schechter had concurred) that the timing had been most fortunate. The scandal had struck two months ago, but in the beginning it had been limited to snide comments in the papers, most of which they had been able to hide from Frank. Whispers behind Gerard’s back, lurid speculation amongst the pamphleteers and fiery sermons preached against him (apparently Gerard was involved in a Satanic league of incest) – these were all to be expected, and could be tolerated. But women spitting on his face with impunity in the streets, and the cut direct being offered by acquaintances and former friends, those were a different matter. Frank did not take insults well (his Italian blood made him passionate in defence of his honour, Gerard thought, and felt a fond smile tug at his lips) and any acknowledgement, let alone retaliation, would have made the situation worse. And as Gerard’s particular friend and companion, Frank would have felt compelled to retaliate.
He had been feverish at the time when the decision to leave had been made, and Gerard had spent countless anxious hours worrying about whether Frank would be well enough to travel, whether he could be left alone to recover, and whether Gerard should stay with him regardless of the danger to himself. But Frank had insisted, had told them in a voice still rough from coughing, that he would come too. He was in this country only for Gerard’s sake, after all, and of course they had to leave, and wouldn’t it be nice to see Greece again? They could attend the carnival in Venice on the way, and visit Frank’s mother in Ravenna. They would be welcome there, Frank had promised. People were much more understanding in the continent.
Frank snuffled wetly against Gerard’s shoulder, and pressed closer. Gerard took one of Frank’s hands in his, and couldn’t help the smile that bloomed on his face. Even with exile, even with public disgrace, there was still this.
He caught Mikey’s eye, and gave up trying to suppress his grin. Mikey rolled his eyes, but he was almost smiling too.
It had been a while since he had seen Mikey smile. Gerard knew there were reasons for this – Mikey’s name had been in the scandal sheets too, if not to the extent that Gerard’s had. Knowing that he had been the cause of his brother’s exile had not been easy for Gerard.
“Stop that.”
The annoyance caused by Mikey’s apparent ability to read minds made it easier, though.
“I’m sorry.”
Gerard knew he had said it often, had repeated it more and more in the past weeks as their names were dragged through the mud. Even if he couldn’t regret Frank, it felt wrong that his love should have harmed Mikey in any way. Deprived him of his reputation, his friends and his country.
Mikey rolled his eyes again. One of the things Gerard loved best (and sometimes hated most) about his brother was his refusal to take Gerard’s pain seriously. Especially if it involved him.
“I don’t mind, you know. It’s not like there was much for me there anyway.”
Gerard sighed, and turned to stroke Augustus with the hand that wasn’t entangled with Frank’s. The hamster cage sat on his other side, surrounded by blankets to keep it still and to protect Augustus from the cold night air. Gerard hoped that Augustus would like Europe.
“You had friends there. You could have had a life, done something. You could have got married and had children. Gone into politics.”
The grimace on Mikey’s face suggested how he felt about those two options.
“I doubt it. Besides, I never got a Grand Tour. Now you can show me all the places you saw, where you visited. Where you met Frank.”
“Not very nice for you, though, to be dragged across Europe in disgrace by your notorious brother. By your notorious brother and his catamite.”
Mikey’s sharp intake of breath implied that he might have gone too far. But his brother’s eyes were kind, and serious, when he looked at Gerard.
“You know that Frank would be upset if he heard you use such language. Also, I really didn’t need to know that about your relationship. Neither did Schecter, I’m sure.”
Schechter continued to stare resolutely at the window, pretending not to hear anything that he might be called upon to testify about. His ears were starting to turn red, though.
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just…it’s such a horrible word, and they use it about him. I hate it.”
Gerard knew he was blushing himself, and would have started flailing any moment if Mikey hadn’t put a calming hand on his knee.
“Gee, I know. I know. It’s not true what they say, and you know that.”
“I suppose so.”
Letting a final sigh escape his lips, Gerard leaned back, pressing closer to Frank. He could feel a warm breath against his arm, through his sleeve.
“And as for travelling with you two, there’s nothing I’d like better. Who else is going to make outrageous noises over all the painted churches of Italy? Or try to climb the statues in order to prove that people used to be shorter, and that English men are just unnaturally tall?”
A light snicker came from Schechter’s corner, and Gerard could see the traces of a smirk despite his grave face.
“Well. As long as you’re happy.”
Mikey smiled at that, a real, honest smile that Gerard hadn’t seen in months.
“I am. So stop worrying.”
Augustus began to nibble on Gerard’s hand.
Chapter Two
Fandom: Bandslash
Pairings: Brendon/Spencer, Frank/Gerard, Pete/Patrick
Rating: PG-13 (will be NC-17 in later chapters)
Words: 5000
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and in no way intended to reflect on any of the people whose names are shared by the characters. If you are one of those people, or acquainted with them, please don't read. Or at least don't tell me about it if you do.
Summary: A scandalous lord is driven into exile, an innocent young man arrives to the city in search of a wealthy bride, and a notorious rake attempts to woo a virtuous beauty.
Notes: Thanks to
harriet_vane for reading this through, and for being the most lovely enabler ever. Thanks to pre_raphaelite1 for consultation on commas and other typographical things, and for finally convincing me that this title is, in fact, appropriate. I blame you.Also, if anyone has any thoughts on good places in which to advertise this, please let me know?
The weather outside was grey and gloomy. Even in the best of years, English springtime was not known for its sunshine, warmth, or other springlike qualities, but hail in April was an unusual low. A suitable accompaniment for these melancholic times, said Lord Way. A bloody good reason to get the hell out of England, suggested his brother, Lord Michael.
Gerard, Lord Way, the most famous poet of his generation, was being driven to exile by his ungrateful country. The scandal had hit two months earlier and grew more insurmountable every day: rumours of sodomy and incest, former mistresses coming forth with complaints of unnatural congress, and servants talking to papers about unlawful embraces between Lord Way and his brother. His poems, which had been praised for their exquisite sensitivity and their moving portrayal of masculine friendship, were now condemned as signs of perverted degeneracy. The young men, who had flocked to his poetry readings wearing black velvet and sporting dark kohl around their eyes (the Orientalist fashion that Lord Way had helped to create), were now most keen to avoid any marks of effeminacy. They were burning his books on Albemarle Street. At least the bad weather prevented that.
Augustus, Lord Way’s hamster, was staring mournfully at the window, and the foul weather outside. Or so it seemed to Gerard. It was sometimes hard to tell with Augustus.
His reveries were interrupted by a knock on the half-open door and the entrance of his steward, Brian Schechter.
“All is ready, my lord. As soon as the weather clears, we may go. Unless you would prefer to wait until tomorrow.”
Gerard turned to look out the window. The hail continued, angry little pellets smashing against the glass. He imagined they were his countrymen, come to take revenge on him for his attack on English morals.
“No. I want to get out of this dismal place. Even a country inn is better than this.”
Schechter coughed delicately. “Excuse me, my lord, but a country inn would not be a good idea in the current climate. You might get recognised and, well. I’m afraid you are all too recognisable at the moment.”
As Gerard opened his mouth to speak, Schechter continued. “And no, a disguise wouldn’t help. Your proclivities are too well-known, my lord.”
Gerard pursed his mouth. It was possible that attending a demimonde ball dressed as a courtesan had been a bad move, in retrospect. Still, it had also been a courageous artistic gesture. Mikey had said so. And that little Ross boy had asked him how he’d got the dress, and clearly taken notes.
“What would you suggest, then? Drive on through the night?”
The smile on Schechter’s face was wan, but it was there, a welcome sight after weeks of dark circles around his eyes and ever-deepening frowns on his forehead. Not that Gerard looked much better.
“Yes, my lord. We have food and drink enough for the journey, and there are fresh horses to be had twice before Falmouth. If we leave by six, we can reach the ship by noon tomorrow. And catch the tide.”
And be out of England by sundown tomorrow. Gerard felt a grin breaking on his face. Away and into exile, but also to freedom.
“Let us go then. And ride like the wind.”
This put a pinched look on Schechter’s face. Sometimes Gerard felt that his steward didn’t appreciate his poetic genius.
“Indeed, my lord. Shall I carry Augustus?”
Both men turned to look at the hamster, who stared serenely back.
“No, I’ll take him in. He can ride with me in the carriage.”
Schechter made another face at that, but didn’t comment. Gerard picked up the hamster cage and poked a finger through the bars to stroke Augustus, who twitched only a little. Augustus was long used to Gerard’s affectionate nature.
With a smile and a haughty step, Gerard Way walked out of his room, out of his house, and into adventure.
: :
Brendon Urie had never been to London before. He had never been out of Yorkshire, which fact seemed more depressing by the minute. In Yorkshire, no one had purple carriages with dragons painted on the sides. Clearly something had been missing from his life until now.
Brendon sighed, and sneaked another look outside at the carriage. A dark-haired man, wearing what looked like a velvet cape and carrying a tiny golden cage, had just stepped out of the townhouse across the street and was gesturing wildly towards the carriage. Another man, in a brown coat and without a cape, was nodding along, with some resignation evident in his posture. Their conversation grew more and more animated, until two other men appeared and embraced the man in the cape. The brown-coated man flinched visibly, and looked around on the otherwise-deserted street before ushering them all into the carriage.
“Enjoying the show?”
Sir Peter was smiling, but there was something in the curve of his mouth that wasn’t terribly friendly. Perhaps all those teeth. Still, Brendon smiled back. Smiling was always a good response, he had found.
“I was only admiring the carriage. I have never seen such colours on a vehicle before.”
Sir Peter laughed, a warm sound that made Brendon feel less like an unwelcome guest. Not that Sir Peter had been anything but courteous, but Brendon was aware that his father had been forced to remind Sir Peter of numerous family obligations before the invitation to London had arrived.
“I’m sure you haven’t, Mr. Urie. But Lord Way is known for his eccentricities.”
Brendon’s eyes grew wide, all thoughts of familial responsibilities and his father’s angry face forgotten.
“Lord Way? The poet?”
Sir Peter’s smile turned cold.
“Quite so. You have arrived on a precipitous day, my young friend. Today the most notorious man in London leaves this city in disgrace.”
The tone of Sir Peter’s voice became mocking, and Brendon wasn’t sure whether himself, Lord Way, or the city of London was the target. Sir Peter seemed rather annoyed with them all.
“I have heard of Lord Way. My parents, they…”
“No doubt they told you many things. Fame attracts scandal, after all, and there’s nothing the mob likes better than tearing apart what they idolised the day before. I don’t suppose you’ve actually read any of his poetry? There are copies in my library, you know. I even have a signed manuscript of The Unicorn Heart, although Ross is probably hiding it in his room. Communing with its spirit and staining his pillow, no doubt.”
Brendon blinked. Sir Peter frowned.
“Stained from tears, I mean. He’s a very emotional boy, Ross. Cries at the drop of a hat.”
Brendon blinked again, then gave a hesitant smile. Sir Peter sighed.
“Oh hell. What am I going to do with you?”
: :
Dinner at the Wentz house was not a formal affair. Sir Peter had said so, but Brendon nevertheless thought it best to wear his finest brown jacket and his new breeches. This turned out to be a wise decision, as he was by far the least well-dressed gentleman at the table.
Sir Peter had changed into a white shirt with resplendent ruffles, a sharply cut black coat, and the tightest breeches Brendon had ever seen. They looked like they would be impossible to sit down in, but Sir Peter showed no discomfort as he sprawled carelessly on his seat at the head of the table. Brendon suspected he might have had a glass of wine or two since tea. There was a suspicious stain on his ruffles.
On Sir Peter’s right side, across from Brendon, was a tall young man wearing the most violent shade of purple Brendon had ever seen (not unlike the carriage earlier on, in fact). The white of his shirt was barely visible through the intricately knotted lilac scarf, and there were at least three shiny brooches on his coat-lapels. Brendon could make out one unicorn, and possibly two dragons.
The gentleman had been introduced as “my ward Mr Ross, a man with poetic ambitions and an exquisite sensibility for fashion. You may notice a similarity between the carriage you so admired earlier and Mr Ross’s current waistcoat? Mr Ross, you see, is an enthusiast.” Brendon had nodded and smiled, and Mr Ross had turned his bored glare from Brendon to Sir Peter, gaining some undisguised irritation on the way. Sir Peter had given another one of those toothy grins, and sipped his wine.
Next to Mr Ross was another young man, in a more sedate dark blue coat and a plain white shirt, his neck cloth simply fastened with sharp lines and a perfectly symmetrical formation. Brendon became uncomfortably aware of his own repeatedly washed and over-starched neck-handkerchief.
He attempted a smile, nevertheless, as Sir Peter was explaining about Brendon’s family and their desire to see their youngest son make useful London acquaintances, preferably among the fairer sex with indulgent fathers. However, as the young man (“Mr Smith, formerly of the King’s Dragoon Guards, and a particular friend of Mr Ross”) did not smile in return, but rather gave Brendon a cool look whilst raising his eyebrow (at this point, Sir Peter was saying something about huge tracts of land), Brendon gave up on trying to look friendly and began to stare at his soup instead. It had peas in it, and Brendon amused himself by inventing adventures for his new friend Mr Pease. Mr Pease did not have to get married, and instead spent his time frolicking with his friends among the shiny green leaves.
Two more plates appeared and were intensely scrutinised (salmon and venison, respectively) as the conversation shifted between Count Saporta’s new race horse, the current fashion in collars (“Too stifling”, said Sir Peter. “Too unoriginal and lacking in colour”, said Mr Ross), and the latest poem by Mr Southey. Brendon sat quietly, half dozing on his seat until he heard his name spoken. Sir Peter was talking, not at Brendon, (which he had not done since the initial introductions) but about him.
“…if you wouldn’t mind seeing that he is clothed and combed and brushed? I’m afraid I’m going to be busy this week, and I know how much you enjoy shopping for clothes. I’m sure Mr Urie would be most interested to hear your theory on scarves and how they complement gentlemanly attire.”
Sir Peter was grinning again, but the teeth were not so unfriendly now and there was a teasing tone to his voice. Mr Smith even rolled his eyes.
Mr Ross, on the other hand, did not look pleased. Nor did he look at Brendon.
“I’ll have you know I have better things to do than to escort schoolboys around London. He’s your responsibility, not mine. And…”
“I’m not a schoolboy.”
Apparently Brendon had opened his mouth and spoken, interrupted another gentleman. Apparently being ignored and laughed at had that effect on him. Or perhaps it was the wine. There had been some wine, Brendon recalled. With every course.
And now he had an incredulous audience, from Sir Peter’s open mouth to Mr Smith’s raised eyebrows. And Mr Ross’s blank look, as if he had assumed that Brendon was in fact incapable of speech.
Brendon cleared his throat.
“I’m not a schoolboy, Mr Ross, I am twenty years of age. And please do not trouble yourself on my account, there is no need to take me shopping. I have brought clothes with me; we do have tailors in Yorkshire, you know.”
The look on Mr Ross’s face suggested that he was unconvinced by this. Sir Peter laughed, but there was no sneer in it.
“I’m sure you do, but what is acceptable in Yorkshire might not be in London. It is essential that we get you reclothed and booted and cravated, Mr Urie. As, ahem, comfortable as I’m sure your current apparel is, it will not impress the ladies. And impressing the ladies, or at least not impressing them unfavourably, is the most important thing for a young gentleman. Especially one in search of a wife.”
Brendon knew that he had to get married, but impressing the ladies seemed a lot more difficult than he had imagined. The girls in Yorkshire hadn’t cared what he wore, as long as he didn’t step on their toes during the waltz (Brendon was most graceful dancer) and kept up a conversation that didn’t involve farming. As Brendon knew very little about farming (despite twenty years of living on a farm – Brendon had a special talent for ignoring all lessons other than music), this had not been hard.
But Sir Peter was still talking to Mr Ross.
“Besides, think of the challenge! Can you change this rustic youth into a fluttering mass of floral patterns and colourful scarves? In, let’s say, two weeks?”
There was a speculative gleam in Mr Ross’s eyes as he turned to peer at Brendon. Mr Smith, on the other hand, looked like he was trying not to laugh. Brendon frowned. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of that many scarves. The ladies in London must be very peculiar.
“Two weeks, you say?”
Mr Ross’s voice was strangely inflected, but there was definitely a certain amount of gleeful curiosity in it. Brendon had a sudden image of himself draped in flowery sheets. Purple flowery sheets.
“Can you have him ready for the Beckett ball?”
“For how much?”
“Two hundred guineas.”
“Done.”
Both Mr Ross and Sir Peter smirked, then looked at Brendon. Brendon gulped. Mr Ross’s tone, when he finally spoke, was bordering on enthusiastic, and there was a strange glint in his eye.
“Tell me, Mr Urie, how do you feel about mauve?”
: :
There were only two candles lighting the room. Pete was still trying to convince Patrick that using more was acceptable, was necessary, even, to spare Patrick’s poor eyes, and that Pete could well afford the expense. He had arranged more to be delivered earlier in the day, so that Patrick would not have to ask (which he would not). But Patrick was a cautious man, as careful with money and things as with his words. Spoken words, at least, for on the written page Patrick was unsparing of anything and anyone. Still, this meant that there were only two candles illuminating the room where Patrick worked, throwing wild shadows on the walls, making Patrick’s pale skin look even paler, and somehow mysterious in the light.
It also meant that Pete was perfectly justified in leaning close to read over Patrick’s shoulder. Even if Patrick didn’t like it, even if Patrick had told him repeatedly that he didn’t like it and thought it inappropriate between a gentleman of Sir Peter’s standing and a gentleman such as himself. He had been kind enough not to mention the impropriety of any intimate touching between men in the current climate (not for the first time, Pete cursed Lord Way and his refusal to hide his vices), which Pete was grateful for, and also took as a reason to do more leaning.
Patrick smelled of ink and over washed linen, and Pete wondered, once again, how such incongruous smells had become the strongest of all aphrodisiacs for him. He allowed himself a slight nuzzle against Patrick’s cheek, then drew back to appreciate the rather formidable scowl that would soon grace Patrick’s face.
He was not disappointed; after a little shudder, Patrick turned around on his seat and scowled. He cheeks were growing red despite the coldness of the room and his eyes were narrowing, pinning Pete to his seat.
And Pete couldn’t help smiling at that, an overwhelming, delighted smile, probably showing too many teeth and making him look deranged. There were advantages to being thought mad, though, it meant that he could get away with things like finding new ways to make Patrick blush.
Sadly, Patrick chose not to comment on this new impropriety on Pete’s part, but instead handed over the manuscript he had been reading.
“It’s about Catholic Emancipation. A reminder of Pitt’s promise to…”
“To remove the restrictions on Catholics to hold office, yes, I know. You’ve told me before.”
Pete couldn’t help smiling again, because a serious and intent Patrick was a lovely sight.
“Yes. Will you print it, then?”
It was clear that Patrick did not like to ask for things, his native dignity scorning the idea of incurring obligations. It was also clear, in Patrick’s steady, modulated voice, that he had learned to do so without compromising his dignity. But even that was too much for Pete. Patrick shouldn’t have to bow before anyone, certainly not him.
“Of course I will. Anything you want, my dear Stump.”
This wasn’t perhaps the best way to convey his sentiments to Patrick. Pete couldn’t feel too bad about it, though, since it caused Patrick’s cheeks to grow even more red and his mouth to form a most expressive line of disapproval. Pete spent a lot of time thinking about Patrick’s mouth and the shapes it could form. Besides, his remark was utterly in earnest.
Then Patrick bit his lip, and Pete lost what little concentration he had.
“It was a serious question, Sir Peter. I wish you would not toy with me in this manner.”
An unfortunate choice of words, there, as Pete’s mind was filled with scenarios of toying with Patrick. Sometimes Pete suspected Patrick of taunting him deliberately. And sometimes he wondered if Patrick read the same sort of torrid romances as he did and picked up the vocabulary of flirtation from there. Probably not, not a good little Dissenter like Patrick. Patrick looked like he might have written a pamphlet or two against gothic novels.
Still, Patrick seemed to have had the same kind of reflections Pete did (without, perhaps, the digression on gothic romance), as he paused in mid shuffle (Patrick tended to shift and shuffle when frustrated, annoyed, or in conversation with Pete) and cringed at his own words. And as much as Pete loved to see Patrick blush, this was wrong. Patrick should never feel embarrassed, not because of Pete.
“I’m not toying with you, Mr Stump. As I said, I am prepared to print everything you give me, be the subject matter what it may. I trust your judgement.”
Patrick’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, and normally Pete would be delighted to watch that, but Patrick was also looking at him, eyes thoughtful and intent. Pete swallowed and stared helplessly back.
When Patrick finally spoke, his voice was mild.
“It would be imprudent of you not to read the text before you print. This is a dangerous business, after all. You should know what you are willing to go to jail for.”
Pete nodded and took a long breath.
“I would also be happy to read whatever you give me, Mr Stump.”
After a few moments of intent scrutiny, Patrick sighed, and nodded towards the papers in Pete’s hand.
“I shall leave you to read, then.”
That should have been it, another half an hour spent in Patrick’s company, but Pete was feeling reckless, like he had revealed too much and not received a response, like there was more that needed to be said.
“Have you heard from Hurley?”
Patrick’s steps came to a halt before the door. There was a moment of quiet before he spoke.
“I visited him yesterday.”
Pete nodded, even though Patrick couldn’t see him.
“How is he?”
“He seemed in good spirits. The food and medicine that you sent have helped with his cough, despite the Newgate dampness.”
“I’m glad to hear it. If there’s anything else you think he needs…”
Patrick turned around, his chin lifted, his eyes narrowed.
“I don’t know why you do this. Mr Hurley is no friend of yours, and two months ago you had never heard of The Gentleman’s Friend. Why should you care if another publication is banned, or another publisher jailed? Our concerns do not effect your life, Sir Peter, and you are no radical reformer. You have no need to trouble yourself with our pamphlets.”
“Perhaps you have inspired me. Perhaps meeting you, Mr Stump, has made me a new man.”
Patrick grimaced. It wasn’t uncommon for him to do this when Pete spoke of his enthusiasm for Patrick, but Pete was hoping to change that.
“Perhaps I’ve come to feel that even a frivolous aristocrat should do something with his life, and use his privilege to change the world. Or perhaps I am a reckless fool, dabbling with dangerous causes just for my own amusement, and destined for ruin like poor Way.”
A sudden stillness took over Patrick’s body. “You are acquainted with Lord Way?”
Not an association one wanted to publicise these days, but this was Patrick. And Pete was not a man who would hide this before anyone.
“Yes, I am. His brother is a particular friend of mine.”
The nod Patrick gave was carefully blank. Pete felt his mouth begin to curl towards a sneer.
“You know, there’s no truth to those rumours. They are affectionate brothers, it’s true, but nothing more.”
Patrick nodded again, then looked down. “And the other rumours?”
“I didn’t realise you were interested in scandal.”
The blush on Patrick’s cheeks began to grow. Pete noted with interest that for the first time since he had met Patrick, this didn’t make him want to follow it with his tongue.
“I take it you disapprove, then?”
“Such activities are against the law.”
“Does that mean we can’t expect a little tract from you to change the law?”
“In the present climate that would be inadvisable.”
“But what if…”
“No.”
Patrick’s voice, usually soft and carefully modulated, was tight with anger. His hands were formed into fists at his sides, knuckles slowly turning white, and there was a quiet sort of fury exuding from him. It took Pete a while to realise that he had been interrupted mid-speech by an employee, by Patrick, of all people. Patrick didn’t look like he was going to apologise, either.
“I once saw a man pilloried for sodomy. A man from my village, a boy I’d gone to school with. They threw stones at him until his head was a mass of blood, until one of his eyes was torn and fell on his cheek. It took him three hours to die.”
Once again, Pete found himself pinned by Patrick’s unwavering gaze.
“So no, Sir Peter, I’m not going to write a pamphlet begging for leniency for sodomites. To speak of it in terms other than rabid condemnation is to court scandal. Men like Beckford, and your friend Way, are allowed exile, but men like me are killed by the mob if not by the law. And it is not worth it.”
Patrick’s mouth stretched into an unhappy line, but his eyes remained hard. Pete swallowed, wet his lips, and said nothing. For a moment they stared at each other, until Patrick’s shoulders began to deflate and he shook his head, once, then walked out without looking at Pete again.
Pete resisted the urge to tear the papers in half. The candles, on the other hand, were no so lucky.
: :
The carriage was half-lit, and Gerard found himself struggling to make out the shapes of the men sitting on the opposite side: Mikey with his spectacles sliding down his nose, his arms crossed over his chest in his usual pose of aloofness, and Schechter, looking out of the window, his face pale and tired in the moonlight. The last change of horses had left them all well-fed and fatigued (Gerard had agreed to Mikey’s request that they stop to eat at the inn, despite Schechter’s repeatedly vocalised misgivings), but there was a strange contentment in Gerard’s soul. Considering the circumstances of their journey, it felt unseemly to be anything but troubled and anxious, on his friends’ behalf if not his own. Yet Gerard was happy.
Frank had fallen asleep soon after they’d left the inn. He was leaning against Gerard’s shoulder, a warm lump pressed close, his quiet snuffles interrupted by an occasional cough. The cold that had made Frank bedridden for two weeks was not yet gone, but Gerard was hoping that the milder weather of the continent would help. Frank had never liked the English weather – it was something he and Mikey had in common. Gerard, by contrast, was rather fond of misty rain. He felt it had a certain poetic ambiance.
Frank had a tendency to get sick easily, but in this case Gerard had decided (and both Mikey and Schechter had concurred) that the timing had been most fortunate. The scandal had struck two months ago, but in the beginning it had been limited to snide comments in the papers, most of which they had been able to hide from Frank. Whispers behind Gerard’s back, lurid speculation amongst the pamphleteers and fiery sermons preached against him (apparently Gerard was involved in a Satanic league of incest) – these were all to be expected, and could be tolerated. But women spitting on his face with impunity in the streets, and the cut direct being offered by acquaintances and former friends, those were a different matter. Frank did not take insults well (his Italian blood made him passionate in defence of his honour, Gerard thought, and felt a fond smile tug at his lips) and any acknowledgement, let alone retaliation, would have made the situation worse. And as Gerard’s particular friend and companion, Frank would have felt compelled to retaliate.
He had been feverish at the time when the decision to leave had been made, and Gerard had spent countless anxious hours worrying about whether Frank would be well enough to travel, whether he could be left alone to recover, and whether Gerard should stay with him regardless of the danger to himself. But Frank had insisted, had told them in a voice still rough from coughing, that he would come too. He was in this country only for Gerard’s sake, after all, and of course they had to leave, and wouldn’t it be nice to see Greece again? They could attend the carnival in Venice on the way, and visit Frank’s mother in Ravenna. They would be welcome there, Frank had promised. People were much more understanding in the continent.
Frank snuffled wetly against Gerard’s shoulder, and pressed closer. Gerard took one of Frank’s hands in his, and couldn’t help the smile that bloomed on his face. Even with exile, even with public disgrace, there was still this.
He caught Mikey’s eye, and gave up trying to suppress his grin. Mikey rolled his eyes, but he was almost smiling too.
It had been a while since he had seen Mikey smile. Gerard knew there were reasons for this – Mikey’s name had been in the scandal sheets too, if not to the extent that Gerard’s had. Knowing that he had been the cause of his brother’s exile had not been easy for Gerard.
“Stop that.”
The annoyance caused by Mikey’s apparent ability to read minds made it easier, though.
“I’m sorry.”
Gerard knew he had said it often, had repeated it more and more in the past weeks as their names were dragged through the mud. Even if he couldn’t regret Frank, it felt wrong that his love should have harmed Mikey in any way. Deprived him of his reputation, his friends and his country.
Mikey rolled his eyes again. One of the things Gerard loved best (and sometimes hated most) about his brother was his refusal to take Gerard’s pain seriously. Especially if it involved him.
“I don’t mind, you know. It’s not like there was much for me there anyway.”
Gerard sighed, and turned to stroke Augustus with the hand that wasn’t entangled with Frank’s. The hamster cage sat on his other side, surrounded by blankets to keep it still and to protect Augustus from the cold night air. Gerard hoped that Augustus would like Europe.
“You had friends there. You could have had a life, done something. You could have got married and had children. Gone into politics.”
The grimace on Mikey’s face suggested how he felt about those two options.
“I doubt it. Besides, I never got a Grand Tour. Now you can show me all the places you saw, where you visited. Where you met Frank.”
“Not very nice for you, though, to be dragged across Europe in disgrace by your notorious brother. By your notorious brother and his catamite.”
Mikey’s sharp intake of breath implied that he might have gone too far. But his brother’s eyes were kind, and serious, when he looked at Gerard.
“You know that Frank would be upset if he heard you use such language. Also, I really didn’t need to know that about your relationship. Neither did Schecter, I’m sure.”
Schechter continued to stare resolutely at the window, pretending not to hear anything that he might be called upon to testify about. His ears were starting to turn red, though.
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just…it’s such a horrible word, and they use it about him. I hate it.”
Gerard knew he was blushing himself, and would have started flailing any moment if Mikey hadn’t put a calming hand on his knee.
“Gee, I know. I know. It’s not true what they say, and you know that.”
“I suppose so.”
Letting a final sigh escape his lips, Gerard leaned back, pressing closer to Frank. He could feel a warm breath against his arm, through his sleeve.
“And as for travelling with you two, there’s nothing I’d like better. Who else is going to make outrageous noises over all the painted churches of Italy? Or try to climb the statues in order to prove that people used to be shorter, and that English men are just unnaturally tall?”
A light snicker came from Schechter’s corner, and Gerard could see the traces of a smirk despite his grave face.
“Well. As long as you’re happy.”
Mikey smiled at that, a real, honest smile that Gerard hadn’t seen in months.
“I am. So stop worrying.”
Augustus began to nibble on Gerard’s hand.
Chapter Two