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Michaelmas Term, 1892
The evening had been raucous. Toby, Hugo, Aaron, Jem, and Nicky had crowded into Toby’s rooms after Hall, and the wine had flowed as freely as the conversation. Toby had amused everyone with tales of Win Coll exploits past. Nicky had expressed some entirely correct opinions of John Stuart Mill’s On Liberty, only to find himself hard-pressed on two fronts as Jem and Hugo took turns shouting at him. Even Aaron, normally quiet and measured, had offered a spirited and detailed defense of Charles Darwin’s theories of biological evolution in the face of Toby’s and Hugo’s skepticism.
One by one, however, they had dropped off—Jem first, because he had to rise early to cox, and then Aaron, because he could not afford any sort of mark against him. Hugo stayed a while longer and did his part in helping them polish off another bottle of wine, but even he eventually staggered off to bed.
And then there were two. Nicky and Toby, side by side. Two halves of one whole. Toby lay sprawled on the sofa, one foot on the floor and the other propped on the seat. The posture drew his trousers taut against legs and groin, to interesting effect. The dying fire spangled his hair with jeweled light and painted the fine, elegant lines of his face with shadow; his eyes were heavy-lidded with drink, but Nicky did not need to see them to picture their exact shade of blue.
Nicky sat on the floor, leaning against Toby’s leg. His right arm rested on the seat cushion. If he moved his hand a mere three inches, he would be able to set his hand on Toby’s thigh. A few more inches up and to the right, and he’d touch something considerably more interesting. His mouth grew dry at the thought; his skin felt too tight. Want warmed him like a fever.
Nicky and Toby, side by side. Toby only a few inches away and forever out of reach; Nicky at his feet, yearning for the impossible. His desire sickened him sometimes—both the strength and its imbecilic futility. Might as well try to capture the moon by scooping at a reflection in the water.
“Enjoying the view?” Toby said. Nicky’s gaze flew to his face. Toby’s lips curved in a knowing smirk. He spread his legs further apart. “Like what you see, do you?”
Well, that was him rumbled. In the normal course of things Nicky did his best to contain his mooning—Toby needed no more fuel for his vanity, nor Nicky blows to his dignity. But now, with the room spinning gently about him and the wine he had drunk infusing everything with a throbbing glow, Toby felt like the only fixed point in his firmament.
It would never do, however, to admit to it.
“When the day grows late and the will grows weak, even the most iron-willed may be tempted by the fruits at the goblin market,” Nicky replied.
Toby frowned. “Are you—are you calling me a goblin?”
Nicky rolled his eyes. “I would never impugn a goblin’s character so.”
Toby laughed and threw a cushion at Nicky’s head. “Shut up, Rook.”
Nicky raised an eyebrow. “I’d like to see you try.”
Toby pushed himself upright and moved his fingers to his buttons; his smile took on a wicked edge. Nicky’s heart leapt. “Oh,” Toby drawled, “I can do better than try.”
~~
Some time later, Nicky stumbled out of Toby’s rooms, jaw sore, head swimming, and mouth still tingling with the astringent taste of spunk. It was, depending on how one looked at it, either very, very early, or very, very late: the sky still held to a midnight blue at its deepest point, but the horizon to the east was beginning, just barely, to lighten.
His cock sat heavy and hard in his trousers, aching. Nicky didn’t mind it as such. It was an instructive ache. A reminder of what he could and could not have.
A frigid autumn breeze sliced right through his coat. He squinted again at the east. No mistaking it: the sun was advancing his burning eye, and it was past time, Nicky thought with dour amusement, for his own dank dew to dry. So to speak.
There was hardly any use in going to bed; he’d only sleep through the day and miss his tutorial. He did desperately want some coffee—Christ above, he’d cheerfully commit murder for a hot cup to magically appear in his hands—but it would be some time before the buttery opened.
He took in a deep breath of cold air, and set off on a walk.
He had no particular destination in mind. He walked along Turl, then turned onto the High Street on a whim. The streets were largely deserted and gleamed darkly from a recent rain; the tree branches and grass were rimed with the faintest hint of frost. A light fog cloaked the world, blurring the lines of the buildings and transforming the light from the gas lamps into watercolor smears. He seethed and roiled and steamed along aimlessly until he eventually found himself walking along the eastern part of Christ Church Meadow Walk as it followed the Cherwell south.
Toby had not treated Nicky gently. There had been a moment, towards the end, when he had held Nicky down for so long that Nicky had run out of air, and panic, hot and urgent, had flashed through him. He’d tried to raise his head, but Toby had merely tightened his hand in Nicky’s hair and thrust deeper; it was not until Nicky had hit Toby’s thigh that he relinquished his hold.
For one second, their eyes had met, Toby’s dark with excitement, Nicky’s red and streaming. And then Toby had smiled, cupping Nicky’s jaw, and said, “I love it when you’re mine like this,” and Nicky, drowning in his love, had fallen back on Toby’s cock.
But during those moments, when Toby had refused to let him go… The memory made Nicky’s guts twist with something that felt very nearly like fear, though part of him found it darkly funny, too. Wouldn’t that be a fitting end for him? He could just picture the obituary in the Times: Mr. Nicholas Rook, found choked to death while performing fellatio on the heir presumptive to the Marquess of Grevesham, in the dormitories of St. Anselm’s College, Oxford. Having lived only to eighteen, it is difficult to estimate how many dullards Mr. Rook would have excoriated had he lived, thus saving the world from the blight of their unchecked idiocies—at least, when his mouth was not otherwise occupied.
It was not as if Nicky wanted Toby to treat him gently, and it was not even that he had disliked the rough treatment. A thing that was too easy to do wasn’t worth doing, and there was something gratifying about pushing himself to fit the entirety of an erect prick in his mouth: the challenge of relaxing jaw and throat; the difficulty inherent in suppressing the urge to gag; the incredulity and pleasure he drew from the receiver. Every bit as muscular and athletic an endeavor as fencing, it was arduous, and painful, and that was the point. Opta ardua penis astra sequi, as they used to snicker over in Latin, though ad penis per aspera was perhaps more apt in this case.
There was also no denying that his own prick approved. He never got harder than when Toby used him like this, selfishly and blindly, with no regard for Nicky’s desires or comfort. It was disgraceful, really, how thoroughly he abased himself—how he surrendered his heart and dignity into the keeping of a man who could not even begin considering that Nicky might need to be treated with care—but like the challenge of swallowing a cock whole, the dirty, humiliating thrill was the point.
So why, Nicky thought viciously as he kicked a small rock on the path, did he care about Toby’s treatment of him? What species of deluded dolt was he, to want—what? A tender caress on the cheek? A kiss on the mouth? A declaration of love?
The truth was bitter in his mouth.
A familiar voice drifting out over the water broke Nicky out of his reverie. He’d circled all the way south on the walk and was now on the western stretch where it ran parallel to the river. The morning mist had finally lifted along with the sun, so Nicky was treated to the sight of Jem perched on the stern of his boat, calling out inscrutable orders to his men.
Small, slender, sparrow-brown Jem, with his sharp eyes that didn’t miss much, and a mouth that said even less unless one provoked him or, as was the case now, when steering a team of men with shoulders to rival the Colossus of Rhodes.
The sight pulled a smile from the depths of Nicky’s dourness. It was the first time Nicky had seen him coxing, and it was an unexpected delight. Nicky had never found boat racing especially compelling; being the fastest, like lifting the heaviest thing, had always struck him as a tedious goal—jejune, even; for his part, if he wasn’t continually trying to crack a puzzle, preferably one with blood-curdling consequences should he fail, he couldn’t see the appeal.
But coxing: that required navigating the crew around obstacles and towards advantageous currents that they couldn’t see, while ensuring the men kept to rhythm and didn’t foul their oars. It was a little like driving an eight-horse coach with the horses rigged backwards, and that was a ferocious puzzle that even Nicky could appreciate. Jem coxing was completely different to the shy, quiet man whom Nicky had first met, and different, too, from the firebrand unafraid to tell Nicky, in detail, how wrong he was. This Jem was loud, but also cool, calm, and competent. The fixed point in a sea of striving.
Nicky found that he quite liked this piece of Jem that he was getting to see.
He strode alongside the boat for as long as he could until it outpaced him, the flashing rhythm of the oars lulling him into a sort of half-trance. He didn’t know if Jem saw him; if he did, he gave no sign. That was fine by Nicky. He didn’t know if he wanted to be perceived. It was enough to see a friend doing a hard thing, and doing it well. He now understood the chatter about Anselm’s finally outstripping Magdalen, who’d ruled supreme for years; in fact, he found himself wanting, abruptly and passionately, for them to knock Magdalen off the throne.
Which was absurd school spirit nonsense. Must be the sight of those shoulders—they’d inflame anyone’s spirits.
Jem’s boat eventually disappeared around the bend. A pang struck Nicky’s heart, as if he’d lost something small but precious. More nonsense. His steps slowed, then stopped. He was a little out of breath; how fast had he been walking to keep pace with the boat? For that matter, how long had he been walking?
He pulled out his pocket watch, and cursed. If he hurried, he might return to his rooms in time to change, scrounge up a hot cup of tea, and make his first tutorial of the day without being too shockingly late. He began walking back, then broke into a jog; as he did, he heard in his head Jem calling the rhythm of the strokes, and it was an odd comfort to imagine that Jem, in his own way, was steering Nicky home.
~~
Hilary Term, 1893
Nicky didn’t know why the disappointment nipped at him so sharply. He, better than anyone, was well-acquainted with Toby’s nature, and Toby by nature was beautiful, charming, generous to a fault, and well-endowed in every respect—except with brains.
“I beg your pardon,” Nicky said, “I’m sure I must have misheard. We’ve been talking about seeing this together for months now, and you’ve had the tickets for weeks. Weeks. And this is the first I’m hearing of you taking—who is this again?”
“I say, dear boy, I hope you understand,” Toby said. “I purely forgot that I’d offered to take you when I offered the ticket to Charlotte Wibberley. Have you truly never met her? Ella’s known her forever; she’s reading history, I believe. We struck up a conversation the other day, and once I mentioned that we had tickets, she expressed so much admiration for Wilde’s work that I felt compelled to offer. It would’ve been rude to exclude her, d’you see? I’d ask Ella to give up her seat in a heartbeat, but it wouldn’t be the done thing for two bachelors to escort a young lady to the theater.”
“Rude,” Nicky said in a flat voice, “to have excluded her. But not to cut me out?”
“Oh, Nicky,” said Toby, his voice taking on a hint of impatience. “It’s not as if I don’t see you every day. We’ll have loads more chances to see this together—why, I’m happy to secure more tickets when I’m at the playhouse tonight. My shout, of course.”
Arguing further was an exercise in futility. Nicky could hardly browbeat Toby into changing his mind; they were his tickets, to do with as he wished. To cause a scene would be to act the jealous fishwife, a thought that could only inspire the most violent revulsion. And they were in the buttery, with Aaron, Hugo, and Jem in attendance, though—praise God for small mercies—the other three were having their own vigorous conversation and paying no attention to Toby and Nicky squabbling in the corner. Although to be fair, Nicky thought with some savagery, he was the one squabbling; Toby was merely presenting a fait accompli.
Still, Nicky could not help himself. “I was the one to bring the play to your attention,” he said acidly.
Toby waved his hand. “Oh, you know me. I can never remember those sorts of details. It’s like you’ve always said: if my head weren’t attached to my neck, I’d be sure to lose it.”
He leaned over and put a hand on Nicky’s thigh; Nicky tensed at the warm pressure, and tensed even more when Toby squeezed. “We’ll see Lady Windermere’s Fan together soon. I promise.” He smiled, that soft, fond smile that he reserved only for Nicky and Ella, and Nicky felt himself caving. Self-loathing filled him in a corrosive flood.
“Do as you wish, Tobias,” Nicky said. “I’m not your keeper. You may keep your make-up tickets; I find my desire to attend the play has completely deserted me.”
Toby drew back at Nicky’s tone; he gave Nicky a long, considering look. Nicky kept his face as flat and as expressionless as he could manage.
“Nicky, old chap,” Toby said, a note of wonder creeping into his voice, “you cannot possibly be jealous.”
Nicky stared. An immense pressure built up in his head, like an incipient thunderstorm. He was, he realized distantly, in danger of losing his temper. He drew a long breath. It did not help, but at least he managed to keep his voice low. “I’m not anything, old chap, other than unsurprised at your inability to pay attention to anything other than the exigencies of your prick.”
Toby didn’t look angry. It was far, far worse. He looked pitying and indulgent and a little amused, as if Nicky were a small dog yapping for a treat he held out of reach. “I assure you, I have no designs on la Wibberley; it truly was a mistake. Come now, Nicky. I already said I’ll make it up to you.” He leaned in and squeezed Nicky’s thigh again.
Nicky bolted up from the bench. Everyone at the table stopped talking and stared.
“I find myself in sudden and desperate need of air,” Nicky said through gritted teeth. “I shall see you later, gentlemen.”
The cold spring air felt like a slap to the face in contrast to the warm, close confines of the buttery. It was dark already. At least it wasn’t raining, which was a stroke of luck, as Nicky had forgotten both coat and hat, and he’d rather have his guts drawn than go back inside. He jammed his hands into his pockets for warmth and strode off in a random direction.
He didn’t know why he persisted in expecting anything better—or anything at all—from Toby. The hell of it was, Nicky believed him: he likely didn’t have designs on Charlotte Wibberley. It simply had not occurred to him to consider Nicky when he had offered the ticket.
It was worse than being thrown over deliberately for a shapely bosom and neatly-turned ankles. At least then he would have rated a passing thought. A ball of feeling caught in his throat, but Nicky pushed it down ruthlessly; self-pity ill-became anyone, least of all himself.
A wave of tiredness overcame him. He didn’t know why he bothered clinging on the way he did. Toby didn’t belong to Nicky; Nicky belonged to him. That had been clear since they were in short trousers, and every year, from the time Toby’s interest in girls manifested and Nicky’s decidedly did not, Nicky had braced himself to be discarded like a toy Toby had outgrown.
And yet every year, Toby insisted on keeping Nicky close. There had been the occasional passion, but Toby’s interest would gutter as quickly as it had kindled, and soon enough Nicky’s place by his side would be restored. As Nicky looked at his future with Toby—truly looked, instead of drifting along in an infatuated haze—he wasn’t sure what would be worse: to be finally and comprehensively thrown aside for a wife, or to be held close the entire excruciating time.
It took him several moments to realize someone was calling his name. He looked up: he’d crossed the length of Front Quad and was on the verge of exiting onto Broad Street. He turned around and saw, of all things, Jem hurrying towards him, a bundle in his arms. He strode to meet Jem halfway.
“Forgot your coat and hat,” Jem panted, holding them out. “Beastly cold out, thought you’d need them.”
Nicky stared for some moments, speechless. Jem was winded and favoring his leg. That he’d gone to such trouble for such a triviality—Nicky’s heart squeezed, suddenly and painfully.
“Thank you,” Nicky said, taking the coat from Jem and shrugging it on. Jem was right, it was beastly cold, but he’d been too lost in his fit of pique to care. He shivered and pulled the coat tighter around him, then took the hat and set it on his head. They looked at each other, and for once, Nicky, who took pains to ensure people saw exactly what he wanted them to see, was not entirely sure what his own face was doing. Jem was smiling at him, but there was a hint of a worried crimp to his face, thrown into relief by the light of the gas lamps.
“I brayed like a boatie, just like you were afraid of,” said Jem, “but you were off in another world.”
Nicky huffed a small laugh. “It’s not a reflection of your coxing prowess. I’m quite ungovernable, I’m afraid. You’d do better to shout at a cat.”
“Don’t know about that,” said Jem. “Most cats I’ve known have better manners.”
“Ha! Touché.”
They stood there smiling at each other, and then Nicky noticed Jem shivering. On impulse, he said, “I’ve changed my mind about my walk. Fancy an evening swot? Just the two of us—you’re much more restful than the other three. The Bodleian will be open for a few hours yet, and my rooms are right there; won’t take but a moment to gather my notes. Meet me at my rooms and we’ll walk over together?”
Jem peered keenly at Nicky’s face, and then nodded. “Be back in ten minutes.”
Nicky watched Jem’s slim figure walking into the dark for some time, his distinctive gait recognizable anywhere. He eventually lost sight of him as he turned the corner to head towards Old Quad.
He turned to his staircase, feeling unaccountably lighter.
Jem knocked on Nicky’s door at ten minutes on the dot, and they set off together. Their breath sent feathery plumes that trailed into the night air. Nicky took care to move at half his preferred speed, since the least he could do was to ensure their walk didn’t offer further insult to Jem’s foot. They chatted in a companionably desultory fashion; Nicky, for once, made no attempt at being a provocateur.
“Oh, I say,” Jem said out of nowhere, “weren’t you going to see Lady Windermere’s Fan with Toby tonight? What time does it begin? Wouldn’t do to be late. I’ve heard that tickets for the entire run cannot be had for love or money.”
Nicky stopped. Jem continued walking for a few steps before he noticed Nicky wasn’t at his side and stumbled to a halt, then turned around.
“Nicky?”
Nicky schooled his face and voice into casualness. “Oh, didn’t Toby inform you, dear boy? The delights and mysteries of Lady Windermere’s Fan shall remain unrevealed to me tonight. He was informing me in the buttery that he’d given away my ticket.”
Jem’s eyes widened so much that Nicky could see the gleam of the whites. “He did what?”
“Oh, you know our Toby,” Nicky said, unable to keep an edge from creeping into his tone. “Generous to a fault. He was talking about Wilde with a friend of Ella’s when she expressed an interest in the play and…well, what choice did he have? He is, above all things, a gentleman.”
“But Nicky—” Jem’s face was stricken. “That’s awful! You’ve been talking about going together for weeks now, and nobody loves Wilde as much as you. And that was your ticket.”
Nicky clicked his tongue. “Ah, but that’s where you’re mistaken, my dear Jeremy. The ticket was never mine. It was Toby’s.”
Jem’s brow creased ferociously. “If you’re looking to turn this into another argument about the nature of property—”
“Not at all,” Nicky said serenely, even as something slithered up to his heart and bit into it. “Toby bought the ticket; Toby continues to retain possession of the ticket; therefore, the ticket is his to do with as he wishes. He may burn all of the tickets in a tiny bonfire if he so chose, and it would be well within his right.”
“In the strictest legal sense, yes, but doesn’t the promise mean something? I think it does. It’s not simply a matter of property rights, it’s a matter of, of friendship. Of him keeping to his word.”
“But that assumes he remembered that he’d given it in the first place. You know how he is. If his head weren’t attached to his neck, he’d lose it.”
It felt strange to parrot Toby’s words, as if his ghost momentarily inhabited him. Nonetheless, it was gratifying, in its way, to have Nicky’s hurt vindicated—to receive confirmation that it wasn’t the worst sort of bourgeois jealousy—though it said nothing good about his perversity that he felt compelled to defend Toby’s behavior; however, once he started, he found he couldn’t stop. “If you ask me, he misremembered the number of tickets he’d bought, offered one, and then when he went to count them tonight saw that he only had three.”
Which was not precisely what Toby had told Nicky, but the lie, while kinder to Toby, was kinder yet to Nicky’s feelings.
“His mistake might be genuine,” Jem said, a mulish tinge in his voice, “but that doesn’t change the outcome for you. It’s cold comfort at best. Good intentions notwithstanding, I still think that was ill-done of Toby. At least he apologized.”
Nicky opened his mouth, and then shut it. He didn’t know that Toby had apologized. In fact, he wasn’t sure if Toby had said the word “sorry” during the entire conversation—or perhaps ever—to Nicky. His desire to discuss the ticket debacle evaporated.
“I see no use in weeping over milk so thoroughly spilled,” he said. “Rest assured that I am not covering myself in sackcloth and ashes. In fact, forget I ever told you any of this. Come, let us continue walking. It’s wretchedly cold, and I want out of it.”
“If you say so.”
A silence of some seconds ensued as they resumed their way, and then Jem asked Nicky a question about some rude Latin epigrams he’d stumbled across. Nicky provided an exceedingly blunt translation, and was delighted by Jem’s subsequent sputtering. Jem, it turned out, had not known quite how rude they were.
As they approached the Bodleian, Nicky stole a glance at Jem by his side, small and fierce and true as steel, and was overcome by the wish that he could somehow combine Jem and Toby—only to realize how stupid a notion it was as soon as it popped into his head. One might as well wish for a fencing foil to be combined with a broadsword, and thereby ruin the best qualities of both. No, there was something about Jem that was incontrovertibly and immutably himself, and Nicky wouldn’t change that for the world.
He didn’t know that he would’ve given up seeing Lady Windermere’s Fan with Toby for a quiet night’s study with Jem, but now that they were laughing together over the absurd specificity of Latin obscenities—Jem with horror, Nicky with glee—he decided it had its compensations.