[ utterly disgusted by the result, Cambridge stalked away from his place on Chiswick Bridge and headed away from the celebrations on the Middlesex bank. He had been so certain of a win this year - and he hadn't been the only one - that at first he didn't even have enough grace to bring himself to reply to the text. He curled a lip and ignored it, pocketing his phone and disappearing in to the crowds of revellers thronging the pubs and bars on Clifford Avenue]
[ Oxford barely expects an answer, but nonetheless he strolls along the river at a leisurely pace, wandering the victorious Surrey bank until he reaches Chiswick Bridge. He knows that Cambridge will be somewhere, fuming amongst the saddened Cambridge crowds on the Middlesex bank, and he is quite determined to find him; it takes him a while to reach the other side of the river, but he supposes that the time he takes is ample time for Cambridge to cool down to a more suitable boiling point. On the other bank, however, he hastens his speed somewhat - he doesn't want Cambridge to calm too much, after all. Where's the fun in that? ]
You have no obligation to tell me, of course. Not to worry - I'll find you. O.
[ Again, Cambridge reads the text with seemingly-cool indifference before pocketing his phone with a scowl, but this time he begins to look for Oxford. Chiswick is packed, but Cambridge doesn't doubt how easy it would be to pick out his old rival amidst the crowds... And before long, lo and behold, he spies that familiar face.]
[Cambridge scowls in bad grace as he snakes through the streams of students towards Oxford, his hands firmly jammed in to the pockets of his long, black Boss coat and his eyes narrowed in the watery, grey sunlight. He doesn't say anything as he approaches but resentfully allows Oxford the first salvo of whatever barbs were due to come Cambridge's way...]
[ A very small part of Oxford wishes he wasn't possessed by such a strong insistence to smirk, but it really is very small. His expression is one of truly overflowing pride as he approaches Cambridge, meandering through the crowds with considerable ease. Again that small part of him begs for a companionable or gracious greeting, but it is drowned out by the childishly antagonistic and vindictive pleasure he takes in this victory. As much pride as he has for his city, for his university, for the sporting prowess of the students, part of the triumph does come from the simple fact that he has bested Cambridge. ]
Well, this goes to show just how little these bookies know, doesn't it? [ He pauses, head cocked to one side with insufferably innocent curiosity. ] Tell me, how much did you lose?
[Cambridge makes a small explosive noise of annoyance and disgust under his breath as he looks away across the crowd and debates whether or not he should actually answer that question]
The money is irrelevant now, let's not talk about it.
[He looks at Oxford, his expression thunderous and clearly resentful] And don't give me that look! It should be me looking like a Smug Bastard, not you.
[ Not to worry; Oxford will bring it up again, later. He's very interested. ]
Should? [ Gosh. ] My friend, that lead should have given you some sort of indication that, frankly, you never stood a chance. [ A languid smile creeps across his face. ] That was a deserved win, and you know it. A true display of strength and ability if ever I saw one.
My team had more experience. We were favourites to win for a bloody good reason: we were better. [Cambridge straightens and squares up a little, his chin lifting as he turns from abjectly disappointed to argumental] Your men were just lucky.
[ Oxford laughs, harshly and somewhat scornfully. ]
Is that so! [ He takes a lazy step towards Cambridge, his brow knitted with genuine bewilderment and rather unkind amusement. ] Do you honestly believe that? Where does luck fit in here? If we were lucky, it was due to the fault of your men, not some strange twist of fate. [ There's an honest bristle of annoyance in Oxford as Cambridge refuses to acknowledge the skill of his team, but it is inaudible in his tone, becoming an added sharpness instead. ] Believe what you will, though neither choice is pretty, I'll admit. Either your men made a fatal error of some sort, or my men were simply of a higher standard than yours.
[Of course the truth of the matter is just that the Oxford team soundly beat the Cambridge team through superior skill, but there was absolutely no way that Cambridge was ever going to admit that - and he also knew that arguing so would make him look a little deluded, given the winning margin. Oxford's smirk is painful and rubs Cambridge completely the wrong way; what little of his pride he has left is what stops him from shoving Oxford aside and storming off in public. He restrains himself, but only just - and he sorely wants to wipe that smirk off Oxford's insufferably cocky face. Instead he grits his teeth and bitterly spits out in a low tone:]
Defeat does not become you, Isaac. [ Oxford can feel his irritation and elation simultaneously rise at what he sees as Cambridge's childish display, lip gradually curling into an even more pronounced smirk. ] In any case, you're being terribly vulgar for a public place. Why don't we find a pub that isn't overflowing with spectators, and I'll buy you a consolation drink?
[ It's hardly a companionably spoken suggestion. ]
oh god i hate rereading old phone posts yuckkksiliconfenMarch 28 2011, 20:31:05 UTC
[stiffly:] If you're buying.
[and he's already turning away to sidestep through the crowd, leading the way not to any of the immediate pubs or bars overlooking the busy river but to a quieter side-street bar that had markedly fewer students clamouring around it]
[he chooses a secluded table and removes his coat to reveal the ill-chosen dark blue shirt. He shoots Oxford a warning look that plainly dares him to make a comment about it]
dhnjfksdf me too :c ALL THE TYPOSoxffffffordMarch 28 2011, 20:45:08 UTC
I said I'll buy you the drink.
[ He follows silently, the briefest hints of something not unlike malice almost reaching his smile. The boatrace truly brings out the worst in him - he won't deny this to anyone who might ask, but being conscious of this hardly softens him. If anything, it makes him even worse.
Upon seeing the shirt, he doesn't feel a need to say anything; he's sure the curve of his smile is enough of a response. ]
erk short tag sorrysiliconfenMarch 28 2011, 21:09:38 UTC
[he straightens indignantly at the intensified smirk and snaps:] Oh, do fuck off and hurry up with that drink.
[he arranges himself at the table with his back to the window, all the better to ignore the passing crowds outside the building with as much dignity as possible]
s'fiiiiiiiiiiiineoxffffffordMarch 28 2011, 22:18:07 UTC
[ Oxford snorts, rather unpleasantly, pulling off his coat to dump it with carefree elegance over the back of his chair. With a small, mocking bow he wanders back towards the bar, assuming that he can aptly choose a drink for Cambridge. ]
[ He returns with a double gin and tonic and a glass of scotch, slipping down in front of Cambridge and sliding his glass across the table. ]
[he snatches the drink from the table rather ungraciously but noting with dark satisfaction that Oxford has brought him a double rather than a single. He exhales heavily and knocks back three fingers in one less-than-satisfying draught]
[he sets the glass down again and regards Oxford coolly with his head held high with wounded pride] Right. Go on, then. Say something awful. I know you want to, you're looking so bloody smug it's sickening.
My dear, the best of being the victor - besides the victory itself, of course - is that I barely need to lift a finger, let alone speak, in order to receive a perfectly satisfactory reaction from you.
[ Oxford sits back in his chair, chin tilted upwards with the most obvious arrogance he can muster. ]
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You have no obligation to tell me, of course. Not to worry - I'll find you. O.
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[Cambridge scowls in bad grace as he snakes through the streams of students towards Oxford, his hands firmly jammed in to the pockets of his long, black Boss coat and his eyes narrowed in the watery, grey sunlight. He doesn't say anything as he approaches but resentfully allows Oxford the first salvo of whatever barbs were due to come Cambridge's way...]
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Well, this goes to show just how little these bookies know, doesn't it? [ He pauses, head cocked to one side with insufferably innocent curiosity. ] Tell me, how much did you lose?
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The money is irrelevant now, let's not talk about it.
[He looks at Oxford, his expression thunderous and clearly resentful] And don't give me that look! It should be me looking like a Smug Bastard, not you.
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Should? [ Gosh. ] My friend, that lead should have given you some sort of indication that, frankly, you never stood a chance. [ A languid smile creeps across his face. ] That was a deserved win, and you know it. A true display of strength and ability if ever I saw one.
Reply
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Is that so! [ He takes a lazy step towards Cambridge, his brow knitted with genuine bewilderment and rather unkind amusement. ] Do you honestly believe that? Where does luck fit in here? If we were lucky, it was due to the fault of your men, not some strange twist of fate. [ There's an honest bristle of annoyance in Oxford as Cambridge refuses to acknowledge the skill of his team, but it is inaudible in his tone, becoming an added sharpness instead. ] Believe what you will, though neither choice is pretty, I'll admit. Either your men made a fatal error of some sort, or my men were simply of a higher standard than yours.
[ His smirk says, "You choose." ]
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Whatever it was, congratu-fucking-lations.
[Such a sore loser]
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[ It's hardly a companionably spoken suggestion. ]
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[and he's already turning away to sidestep through the crowd, leading the way not to any of the immediate pubs or bars overlooking the busy river but to a quieter side-street bar that had markedly fewer students clamouring around it]
[he chooses a secluded table and removes his coat to reveal the ill-chosen dark blue shirt. He shoots Oxford a warning look that plainly dares him to make a comment about it]
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[ He follows silently, the briefest hints of something not unlike malice almost reaching his smile. The boatrace truly brings out the worst in him - he won't deny this to anyone who might ask, but being conscious of this hardly softens him. If anything, it makes him even worse.
Upon seeing the shirt, he doesn't feel a need to say anything; he's sure the curve of his smile is enough of a response. ]
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[he arranges himself at the table with his back to the window, all the better to ignore the passing crowds outside the building with as much dignity as possible]
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[ He returns with a double gin and tonic and a glass of scotch, slipping down in front of Cambridge and sliding his glass across the table. ]
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[he sets the glass down again and regards Oxford coolly with his head held high with wounded pride] Right. Go on, then. Say something awful. I know you want to, you're looking so bloody smug it's sickening.
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[ Oxford sits back in his chair, chin tilted upwards with the most obvious arrogance he can muster. ]
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