FIC: Privilege (Shakespeare Richard II [AU], NC17), 1/2
Title: Privilege
Author: angevin2
Play: Richard II (pre-canon)
Characters/Pairing: Richard/Anne; Richard/Robert de Vere; Anne/Richard/Robert
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 12,121
Content notes: poly!fail, incredibly awkward bad-idea!sex, epic cluelessness, expressions of biphobia, misapplication of Brecht, misapplication of Shakespeare, misapplication of the Kinsey scale, gratuitous German, Oxonian namedropping, guys who think lesbian sex is hot, references to Eurovision, denigration of Eurovision, people making funny noises during sex
Summary: Richard kissed a girl and he liked it. And then things got really complicated.
Notes: Part of the big shiny academic!AU Crescive In His Faculty. This one makes reference to a few other ones, but the most pertinent is gileonnen's lovely "Reunification." Also, I have about three unfinished fics that expand on things referenced in this one, but obviously you can't know that because I have not finished them. Also, the bit about Eurovision is probably funnier if you've seen the 1992 UK entry, and Dschinghis Khan. No, I can't explain that either. ANYWAY. This story would not exist without the help of many wonderful people. Chief thanks go to gileonnen for helping to create this infinitely entertaining AU and for saint-like patience; to lareinenoire, absinthe_shadow, and aris_tgd for their tremendously helpful input at all stages, to my dear coz faithhopetricks for Dschinghis Khan, and to speak_me_fair for constant hand-holding, encyclopedic knowledge of Oxford, and for the lovely banner she made for this fic, which is under the lj-cut.
Surely Robert's tongue is an asset to any party?
-- Anne of Bohemia in Josephine Tey's Richard of Bordeaux
O, love's best habit is in seeming trust...
-- Shakespeare, Sonnet 138
Banner by the lovely speak_me_fair
November 1987
It had all been fairly simple, the first time.
The first time, there hadn't been a lot of really complicated negotiation once it became clear where things were going: at some point, Anne had interrupted the making out long enough to ask wait, what about your boyfriend? and Richard had said oh, it's totally fine, we have an open relationship and then he'd continued sliding his hands up her shirt while she started unbuttoning his trousers.
And the whole thing is just completely brilliant. Richard's never actually had sex with a girl before, and he can't get over all the things that are different from sleeping with guys in general, or how sex with Anne is specifically different from sex with Robbie in particular, like how much softer she feels, or the squeaky little gasps she makes when he goes down on her, or the way she wraps her arms and legs around him and buries her face in his shoulder when she comes (and that's without getting started on the stuff she can do to him).
It's only afterwards that things start to get complicated.
When Richard wakes up the next morning he notices that, first of all, she's watching him, and, second, that it doesn't feel weird or awkward at all. Obviously they're doing something right. She leans down to kiss him, and it tastes minty, so she's either brushed her teeth while he was sleeping or she is just everything Shakespeare's mistress is not. Richard is pretty sure he tastes a lot less pleasant.
"So," she says, when they pull apart for air. "I should mention, before this gets too involved, that you're out of condoms." Her expression is baleful. "I checked before you woke up."
"Well," Richard says. "I suppose we'll have to stock up for next time."
Anne starts to laugh in what is patently relief. "Oh, thank God you said it," she says. "I didn't want to ask!"
"You don't have to," Richard says, smiling back at her. "I want to see a lot more of you -- " and as they realize what he's said he coughs and she raises an amused eyebrow.
"And how exactly do you intend to manage that?"
"I have my ways," he laughs, and kisses her again.
"Are you busy tonight? After your tute?" she says.
"Well," Richard says, "and this sounds a lot more awkward than I'd really prefer it to be, but I'm actually having drinks with Robbie this evening."
...okay, this is the awkward part. Anne's expression is crestfallen, and she's clearly trying not to look like it.
"I see," she says, rolling away from him as best she can on the rather small bed and wrapping the sheet awkwardly around herself. After an uncomfortable minute or so, she asks, "What are you going to tell him?"
Richard pulls her back into his arms before he answers. "Look at me, Anne," he says. She turns over, hesitantly, her eyes wide, and he whispers, "I'm going to tell him I'm madly in love with you" -- and she smiles at him in a way that makes him feel absolutely sure of it. "I promise you we'll work it out."
Anne nods, after a moment. "I know you were with him first," she says, "and I know it would be wrong to ask you to choose me over him, or anything like that -- "
Richard isn't quite sure how to explain how he intends for the whole multiple-relationships thing to work, so instead, he takes advantage of her momentary search for words to lean in and kiss her again.
"Hey," he says, afterwards. "I wouldn't totally re-evaluate my sexuality for just anyone, you know."
Because it's totally true -- it's not really the kind of thing you think about logically, even if maybe you should, when you're watching someone you think is just a close friend, since you are gay and thus obviously not physically attracted to her, studying intently while leaning against you on the sofa and you find yourself wondering why it took you so long to notice that her body feels really nice against yours, and why you're fixating on the way she chews her lip when she's reading, and whether asking her right now if she wants to make out would be a fantastic idea. It's the sort of thing doesn't really hit you until you're in bed afterwards trying to figure out where you're going from there: you just had sex with a girl and really loved it, and then you remember having sex with your boyfriend, just to make sure, and that still seems like an entirely desirable thing to do, which must mean you're really bisexual when you thought you were gay.
Richard turns that thought over in his head, trying to get used to it: I'm Richard Bordeaux and I am bisexual. He feels like he ought to be more confused or tortured or like he's turning his back on his gay identity or something, except that he's not at all confused about how he feels, and it's not like he's done anything wrong by falling for Anne, except on a political level, if you are really militantly gay or, alternately, opposed to dating people from Eastern bloc countries, but Richard is really not either of those. So, you know, fuck politics.
Anne smiles up at him again, and she's absolutely radiant. "I never thought I even had a chance with you," she says softly. "So if I do -- I can't let it go. I have to trust you."
"I promise you," Richard says again, "I'll do everything I can to earn it."
"We should get up now," Anne says, after another lengthy kiss. "Before I'm tempted to dismiss the risks of unprotected sex."
Richard groans and rolls over onto his back: having serious discussions about intimate relationships is one thing, but he is not entirely reconciled to the prospect of getting up, which frankly seems like much more work. He watches as Anne slides out of bed and begins to gather her scattered clothing.
"Richard?" she says. "Do you remember what you did with my bra?"
***
Of course, when he actually sees Robbie that evening it's a little bit more complicated than he had hoped, in no small part because Robbie is wearing those pants with the buckles that are indescribably hot if maddeningly time-consuming to remove, but also because it's not like they're going to have a productive discussion about anything in the middle of the Coven, let alone once they're back at Robbie's flat and Robbie's got him bent over the arm of the sofa and is blowing his fucking mind.
And after that it occurs to him that, having spent the last two nights getting vigorously and thoroughly laid, he probably ought to get a respectable amount of sleep before attempting a serious discussion.
The next time he sees Anne is over lunch on Monday and she doesn't even mention Robbie at all, but when she kisses him goodbye before running off to a lecture she whispers "Thank you for not avoiding me," and this makes him feel guilty enough that he calls Robbie to make plans for dinner (at which, he promises himself, he will actually start That Discussion) before heading to the Bod to pore over the Rolls of Parliament on microfilm, which surely has to count as a penance of sorts.
"You going to eat that?" Robbie asks him, later, as he sits on the floor of his room poking anxiously at the curried prawns he is entirely too nervous to eat.
"Maybe?" Richard says, smiling in a way he suspects is rather thin. "I don't think I was actually hungry."
"Something wrong?" Robbie says, moving to sit beside him and sliding one arm around his waist while reaching for the prawns with the other, and Richard leans against his shoulder, just enjoying the feel of his body for a moment before things become incredibly awkward (maybe they won't, maybe he'll totally get it?).
"Not exactly." Richard swallows hard. Really it's best to get it over with. "It's just...well. I know we agreed that we weren't totally exclusive, right?"
"Right..." Robbie says, tension creeping into his voice, and he pauses in the midst of impaling a prawn on his plastic fork.
"Because the thing is -- " Richard sits up straight, then, in order to look Robbie in the eye, though he doesn't quite get there, staring uncomfortably at the uneaten prawn instead. "I've started this -- this thing with someone, and -- "
"Oh, well, there's no need to look so damn tragic about it," Robbie laughs. "Who is he?"
"That's the other thing." Richard swallows hard. "Her name is Anne and she's an engineering student -- "
His explanation is cut off by an explosive coughing fit as Robbie inhales fragments of prawn; Richard rubs his back tentatively. "You okay?" he asks, his voice coming out all guilty and tiny and generally stupid.
"Jesus, Richard, I have curry in my sinuses and you're ditching me for a woman, what the fuck do you think?"
"What?" Richard can feel his face going about the same shade of red that Robbie's, thanks to the spontaneous prawn inhalation, is. "God, no, I'm not! Really. Absolutely I'm not. I promise. Because I love you. That's not going to change."
Robbie has just finished blowing his nose, and he looks up at Richard for a moment -- his frown lightens for an instant, and then he crumples his napkin and mutters, "He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse's health, a boy's love, or a whore's oath," and Richard can feel all of his insides go cold and then drop into his shoes even as Robbie's expression softens. "Oh, God, Richard, don't look like that," he says, and buries his face in his hands.
"I don't see why you can't accept that I'm bisexual." It's the first time Richard has said it aloud, and it feels completely inadequate to the situation and not really what he wants to say right at this moment at all.
Robbie looks up at him despairingly. Richard is really tempted to just lean in and kiss him, but he doesn't think it would help. "You could at least have mentioned that," Robbie says.
"I didn't know it myself until I met Anne." Richard shrugs helplessly, flailing his hands about like he's swimming in some horrible sea of awkward, and Robbie throws his hands up.
"Oh, that's even better."
Richard swallows hard, and then, deciding that nothing he can think of to say is going to sound convincing, reconsiders his conviction that kissing isn't going to help. He leans forward, winding his fingers in Robbie's hair, and, as unresolved as the whole thing is, Robbie doesn't hesitate for more than a second as Richard presses him onto his back.
"Now that's just unfair," Robbie groans, after they've broken for air.
"I can prove I haven't turned straight, if you want," Richard murmurs, his lips brushing against the soft skin just under Robbie's ear, and he can feel Robbie shiver beneath him.
"I'm holding you to a high standard," Robbie says, sliding his thigh between Richard's and making him gasp.
"Remind me again why I put up with you?" Richard props himself up on his elbows in order to get into a better position for glaring, but he is now painfully hard and he suspects this spoils the general impression of disapproval.
"Because I'm really fucking good at getting you off?" Robbie's got his hands into Richard's jeans now, and anything he's got as a rejoinder evaporates somewhere in the back of his brain, coming out instead as a strangled-sounding whimper. "God, you're lucky you're beautiful," Robbie laughs.
"I told you -- " Richard manages, through gritted teeth. "You don't have to be so smug about it."
"Oh, but I do." Robbie's grin is decidedly evil, and his hands are very warm, and -- Richard's pants are suddenly rather sticky, and Robbie withdraws his hands and checks his watch as Richard buries his face in the crook of his neck and shudders against him. "Five minutes," he says. "Guess that does count as not straight, doesn't it?"
"You're a complete bastard, Robbie," Richard murmurs into his shoulder.
"And you love it," Robbie laughs.
"I said so, didn't I -- fuck, Robbie, that's disgusting," Richard exclaims as Robbie wipes his hands off on the back of his shirt.
"Oh, it is not," Robbie says, sitting up. "You know exactly where it's been. Anyway, I am not done with this conversation, but first, it's my turn."
"After you wiped your hands on my shirt?"
Robbie smirks and rolls his eyes. "Because you came all over them."
"Because you had your hands in my pants!"
"And," Robbie repeats, leaning back with incredible self-satisfaction, "you love it." He grins in that way he's got that can reduce Richard to a small and rather aroused puddle, and Richard leans forward and kisses him again.
"I really do," he whispers against Robbie's lips, slipping his hands beneath Robbie's shirt, fingers idly tracing patterns on his chest.
"And that's lovely," Robbie says, indicating the bulge in his trousers, "but this thing isn't going to suck itself, darling."
***
"So I've talked to Robbie about everything," Richard tells Anne on the phone later. "I think we're all right."
"I'm glad he understands," Anne says. "What did you tell him?"
Richard is fairly certain that even on the phone Anne can somehow detect the sudden blaze of heat radiating from his cheeks.
"Erm, you know," he says. "Stuff."
***
Richard has promised Robbie that nothing's going to change, but of course things do. It takes him a great deal more time than it really should to get around to introducing Anne and Robbie, because how the hell do you introduce your girlfriend to your boyfriend, anyway -- but it turns out to go surprisingly fine, thank God for beer. Over Easter vac Richard takes Anne to London to meet his mum, which goes quite well after the initial Nazi-related misunderstandings are cleared up.
This year they all go to May Morning together. It isn't as intoxicating as last year, but it is more grounded.
In the summer, Anne's friends Henry and Mary have a baby, which makes Anne go utterly goopy and provide Richard with numerous updates on little Harry's development. Richard points out that she's utterly adorable when she's being maternal, and she turns beet-red, which makes him do much the same thing since it's obvious where her mind has gone.
Because really, it's not as if they're ready for that yet.
***
June 1988
Richard doesn't exactly mean to come out to his mother, precisely, as having multiple partners, although if he had thought about it a bit more beforehand, it might have occurred to him that seeing as how his father was in fact her third husband, or, more pertinently, second-and-a-half depending on how you wanted to count the first and second, not that Richard has particularly ever wanted to ask about the details -- she was not unlikely to at least be understanding about his own preferences. And he knows, deep down, that he's got to tell her sometime, because he can't exactly go about pretending to be monogamous when it means hiding one of the best things about his life, and when he's not actually ashamed or, really, all that worried about it or anything, just not really looking forward to the possibility of having to explain himself, since most people don't understand (even though Mum probably would even if she didn't say so).
In the event, though, it ends up happening completely by accident while they're having afternoon tea at the Old Parsonage and he's explaining his impending retirement from acting after Twelfth Night finishes up its run next weekend.
"But you're so good at it," Mum is saying. "I know I'm just your mum and I always think you're superb, but you were utterly brilliant as Algernon Moncrieff last year."
"The thing is," Richard says, "people keep telling me that Sir Andrew is the part I was born to play. It's rather put me off acting."
Mum laughs. "Well, it's a better fit than Jesus in the York Crucifixion, isn't it?"
"I told you, they wanted someone they could lift."
"And who was willing to wear a loincloth in public, as I recall."
Richard squeezes lemon into his tea slightly more emphatically than is strictly necessary for simple juice extraction. "The point is," he continues, "that telling someone that his ideal role is Sir Andrew Aguecheek is a horrible thing to say to a man. Robbie has already firmly communicated his intention never to let me live it down -- "
"Are you and Robbie still friends, then?" she says, raising an amused eyebrow.
"Erm." Richard examines his fingers for a moment, feeling caught out. "You might say that."
"You never did tell me what happened with you two, why you broke up. I was surprised you never mentioned it, because you seemed so -- well, besotted with him."
"Well." Richard stirs his tea nervously, never mind that it doesn't really need stirring, particularly. It would be incredibly easy to make something up, but that would feel wrong -- not so much because of the whole lying-to-his-mother thing, never mind that she was traditionally really good at telling when he was doing that, but because he loves Robbie and doesn't particularly care if saying so adds a little more awkwardness to his life.
"Nothing...happened, exactly. We, uh, we didn't, really."
"Oh." She frowns a little, busily applying some lemon curd to a scone, and then her expression darkens. "Does Anne know about this?"
"What?" This is a shocking enough idea that Richard manages to drop his spoon and splash hot lemony tea into his eyes. "God, Mum, give me some credit!"
"Well, I suppose that's all right then," she says, sipping at her tea as Richard flails about for a napkin and wipes the tea splatter off his face; the next half-second is entirely tranquil before she frowns again. "Does Robbie know?"
It is only with tremendous effort that Richard manages to keep from faceplanting directly into a plate of Victoria sponge.
***
The thing that Richard doesn't mention to his mother, since he doesn't quite feel ready for it yet -- and probably she'd say "Well, that's moving a bit fast, isn't it?" and maybe it is, but he's absolutely certain it's in the right direction -- is that he and Anne have been talking for most of Trinity about the prospect of moving in together next year, assuming everyone's efforts to remain in Oxford as postgrads work out (and he doesn't even want to think about what he'll do if they don't, because every time he's tried he feels like throwing up).
The first time he actually floats the idea is to Robbie -- who's never really been keen on the idea of living together for reasons Richard has never precisely understood, but Richard thinks maybe all three of them could be housemates, it would be totally different then -- but Robbie's response to that is "Oh, hell no."
Anne is much more receptive to the idea, but at the same time, she's oddly nervous, even after the exam results (firsts for both of them, which Anne had found gleefully surprising and Richard a source of immense relief that he didn't fuck up epically) portend good things, insofar as the whole thing being feasible is concerned.
"We need to really talk," she says one day at breakfast, "about what's off-limits for us. Before we decide that we're definitely going to move in together. I mean, we've been together for less than a year, and -- "
"Oh, I've thought about that," Richard says. "What if I can have sex with other blokes and you can have sex with other girls?"
Anne puts down her coffee cup and buries her face in her hands for a moment.
"Richard?" she says, looking up at him despairingly. People have been doing that to him a lot, lately. "Schätzelein?"
"Yes?"
"I don't want to have sex with other girls."
"Oh." He absorbs this for about a second before it seems odd, and not a little disappointing. "Why not?"
Anne's expression is now downright pained. "I don't know!" she says, flailing her hands a bit. "I just...am not interested in it."
"Oh," Richard says again.
"Not everyone is bisexual," Anne continues, somehow managing to speak through gritted teeth without actually gritting her teeth, which is kind of impressive.
"Well," Richard says, "isn't monosexuality really a social construct? I don't think we should let ourselves be pigeonholed when sexuality is really more of a spectrum -- "
Anne leans on the table and buries her face in her folded arms. "That is not even close to my point," she moans.
Richard leans over and gently extracts a lock of her hair from his toast.
"You've got jam in your hair," he says helplessly.
"The point is," Anne says, grabbing a napkin and wiping at her hair with more force than is strictly necessary for simple jam extraction, "that I don't think it's fair to assume that everyone wants what you want."
Richard is thrown off-balance enough by this that he has to feign an undue interest in his toast for a moment, even though the proper response is obvious.
"All right," he says, finally. "What do you want?"
Anne stirs determinedly at her almost-entirely-uneaten yogurt; the spoon stands up on its own when she lets go of it. "I don't mind that you have relationships with other people," she says, not looking up at him. "I know you and Robbie were together first, and I don't mind that -- I mean, I like him a lot -- it's just that -- " She runs a hand through her tangled hair and starts over. "I want this to be fair, and I don't know how it can be."
Richard covers her other hand with his own, and her fingers interlace with his, almost instinctively.
"Why not?" he says.
She looks up at him -- Richard can't help but notice (again) how blue her worn blue robe makes her eyes look. He's stricken with a piercing desire to kiss her, but Anne has let him know in no uncertain terms that doing that during arguments, or even emotionally charged discussions since this isn't really an argument exactly, is really terribly patriarchal of him and he should not do it anymore (so he doesn't, except to Robbie, who always lets him, and anyway since they are both men it isn't really patriarchal).
"I don't want anyone else, Richard," she says. "Just you."
There's nothing Richard can possibly say to that. Instead he slides from his chair to kneel beside Anne and wrap his arms around her; she leans down to hide her face in the crook of his neck, clinging to his shoulders as if she could make him absorb her entire body, and what she says next, muffled against his skin, almost breaks his heart.
"And when I tell you I want to make rules, it's because otherwise I'd let you have anything you want."
Richard draws back a little and cradles her face with his hands.
"I want you to be happy," he says.
***
November 1989
It's nearly four o'clock on Monday morning when Richard and Anne return home from Berlin, exhausted, light-headed, and more than a little hung over.
"Oxford feels so quiet now," Richard says, as they lie fully-clothed and unchanged on their bed, trying to work up the energy to change or take a shower or something. "Even when you allow for it being four in the morning."
"It doesn't feel like any of it's real, anymore," Anne says, her eyes wide. "Two days ago I was dancing in Alexanderplatz and now -- I'm back here and I have to pretend to care about my dissertation -- "
"Let's not talk about dissertations," Richard laughs. "I'd rather think about the fact that we're getting married."
"Yes!" Anne turns over onto her side in order to kiss him without having to sit up. When they break apart, Richard notices she's actually shaking a little.
"I would have defected for you," she says. "If you'd asked me to marry you before. I don't think I've ever said it to myself before now."
Richard wraps his arms around her and kisses the top of her head.
"It's all right," he says. "You don't have to choose, now."
"I know," Anne says. "It's just that -- I had always meant to go back, after studying in England. I thought it was the right thing to do to stay, to work for a better kind of Communism. But I'd have given it up for you, if you'd asked."
Richard looks closely at her -- the only light on is the tiny bedside lamp, and her face is deeply shadowed, her eyes hollow with fatigue. (He is not convinced she has actually slept since leaving England -- he distinctly remembers that they have been to bed, as it were, insofar as furtive, muffled, oh-God-can't-wake-the-roommates celebratory lovemaking counts as going to bed, but Anne was always up long before Richard. I don't want to miss anything, she had said.) He knows he will never forget the light in her eyes as she hefted a hammer seemingly as big as she was (it couldn't have been that big, really, he knows that), to strike at the wall, the clash of metal on concrete like bells.
He is utterly convinced that he is willing to do absolutely anything for her.
"If you want," he says, "we can go back. As soon as we're done with Oxford. Before that, if you'd rather do it that way."
Anne smiles at him, heartbreakingly.
"What about Robbie?" she says, and before Richard can even begin to think of an answer, she presses her fingers to his lips. "I didn't have to choose between you and seeing my home and family again. I can't make you choose between me and him."
Richard leans in and kisses her again, very gently.
"I think we should probably sleep," he says.
"I'm not tired," she says, but her eyes are already beginning to fall shut. Richard carefully unlaces her boots, and then pulls the duvet over her before switching out the light, staring at the darkness until he can make out her shape beside him.
They don't talk about Richard's offer the next day. Perhaps it's enough for her that he made it.
***
"You're what." Robbie, frustratingly incredulous, nearly drops his beer all over the kitchen floor. Richard has planned this all so carefully, not springing it on him after sex or anything (he has not noticed a particular tendency to do this, despite what Robbie has suggested) -- and it has apparently made no difference, because it's going to go miserably.
"I told you," Richard says. "We're getting married. You know, like people do."
Robbie buries his face in his hands. "That was an expression of anger, Richard, not a request for clarification."
"Robbie, I don't see what your problem is. Anne and I have been together for two years. We live together, for God's sake. You like Anne."
"That's not the point."
"Why does everyone keep saying that?"
"Maybe because you never seem to fucking get it?"
"Look -- " Richard rubs his eyes for a moment. "This isn't actually about you" -- and Robbie absolutely freezes.
"Isn't it," he says. It's not a question.
"I mean. I don't want you to feel rejected -- "
"You've got a fucking funny way of showing it, then."
" -- because if I could marry both of you I bloody well would."
"You're fucking incredible," Robbie says. "You don't even get that that's the goddamn point, do you? It's all fine for you to act like everyone's equal when you can run off and marry your girlfriend and I can't hold your fucking hand in public without it being a fucking statement, so don't even fucking talk to me about how much you love both of us."
He might as well have punched Richard in the face. It feels basically the same.
Richard spends much of the next week not exactly avoiding Robbie so much as working under the assumption that Robbie is avoiding him, and feeling guilty about being miserable on the grounds that he's getting married and should be happy about it, and indeed is extremely happy about it, but it's hard to act like it when you've been told you're a heterosexist asshole for it, and so you spend a lot of time sulking and being on edge and not being at all fair to your poor fiancee who hasn't even done anything wrong and who is doing her incredibly awkward best to support you at a time when she deserves to be happy not only because she's getting married but also because the oppressive crypto-Soviet government she grew up under has just collapsed.
Another upshot of the whole clusterfuck is that he totally fails to write the conference paper that he's supposed to be delivering in a week and which he has scarcely even looked at since before Berlin. He's sorely tempted to blow off his appointment to discuss it with Simon, but he suspects he is already in the hole for the entire jetting-off-to-Berlin-and-getting-arrested business, even though Simon was actually very understanding about all of it, what with the whole world-changing nature of the thing: it isn't every day that the Cold War comes to a non-nuclear-winter-and-horrible-horrible-death-causing end.
It is much more awkward, however, when you've fallen behind in your scholarly work because you are having a fight with your boyfriend, even if your relationship with your adviser is the kind where you're -- well, not comfortable talking about that sort of thing, because telling someone you are fighting with your boyfriend over the fact that you're marrying your girlfriend is never comfortable even if it's not as bad as actually doing it, but rather, it doesn't feel wildly inappropriate.
Still, he sort of wants to crawl into a hole and die as he explains his personal crisis and the myriad ways it is fucking up his life and, more relevantly at the moment, his conference paper, especially since Simon is sitting there watching him impassively and demonstrating a remarkable knack for smirking even while smoking a pipe (which he clearly does ironically as part of his Queenly Old Oxford Don persona).
"I don't pretend to understand your love life," he says, finally, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I suppose the only advice I have for you is to remind you that it hasn't actually been that long since homosexuality was completely illegal. That wrecked a great many lives, you know. I was about your age in the fifties and I imagine it's hard for someone of your generation to imagine what that was like, even though it's not as if things are particularly rosy even now -- I assume you haven't forgotten protesting against Section 28 last year?"
"No, of course not," Richard mumbles, wishing he had bothered to keep up on his work, so that he wouldn't have had to make excuses for not finishing and consequently wouldn't be listening to Simon reminding him How Things Are For Gentlemen of Our Persuasion.
"It's a major advantage, socially, to be able to pass for straight. I'm sure I needn't tell you so."
"I'm not trying to pass for straight," Richard says.
"But you still need to remember that you can."
Richard looks at his hands for a moment, and then at the bookcase, and then at the prints on the wall behind Simon -- why the hell does he have "Boy Bitten by a Lizard" up there, Richard often wonders: what kind of message does that send to undergrads, not that they'd pick up on the iconography -- before he finally nods and swallows hard. "Can we, um, talk about Froissart now?" he says, but he does get that Simon has a point and everything even though it now feels sort of like he's just had a first-year tutorial on The Gay Lifestyle.
It's nearly midnight when Richard knocks on Robbie's door with absolutely no idea what he's going to say despite spending two-and-a-half pints contemplating it (he's even got a notecard with a lot of false starts which is now no good because they've all been scribbled out). He's even asked Anne for her input, when he called to tell her he'd be home late, but all she said was "Richard, I am probably the last person you should ask about this."
But before he can say anything Robbie pulls him into his arms and exclaims "Christ, I miss you, you fucking bastard," and after that it's not hard to apologize at all.
(continued here)
Author: angevin2
Play: Richard II (pre-canon)
Characters/Pairing: Richard/Anne; Richard/Robert de Vere; Anne/Richard/Robert
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 12,121
Content notes: poly!fail, incredibly awkward bad-idea!sex, epic cluelessness, expressions of biphobia, misapplication of Brecht, misapplication of Shakespeare, misapplication of the Kinsey scale, gratuitous German, Oxonian namedropping, guys who think lesbian sex is hot, references to Eurovision, denigration of Eurovision, people making funny noises during sex
Summary: Richard kissed a girl and he liked it. And then things got really complicated.
Notes: Part of the big shiny academic!AU Crescive In His Faculty. This one makes reference to a few other ones, but the most pertinent is gileonnen's lovely "Reunification." Also, I have about three unfinished fics that expand on things referenced in this one, but obviously you can't know that because I have not finished them. Also, the bit about Eurovision is probably funnier if you've seen the 1992 UK entry, and Dschinghis Khan. No, I can't explain that either. ANYWAY. This story would not exist without the help of many wonderful people. Chief thanks go to gileonnen for helping to create this infinitely entertaining AU and for saint-like patience; to lareinenoire, absinthe_shadow, and aris_tgd for their tremendously helpful input at all stages, to my dear coz faithhopetricks for Dschinghis Khan, and to speak_me_fair for constant hand-holding, encyclopedic knowledge of Oxford, and for the lovely banner she made for this fic, which is under the lj-cut.
Surely Robert's tongue is an asset to any party?
-- Anne of Bohemia in Josephine Tey's Richard of Bordeaux
O, love's best habit is in seeming trust...
-- Shakespeare, Sonnet 138
Banner by the lovely speak_me_fair
November 1987
It had all been fairly simple, the first time.
The first time, there hadn't been a lot of really complicated negotiation once it became clear where things were going: at some point, Anne had interrupted the making out long enough to ask wait, what about your boyfriend? and Richard had said oh, it's totally fine, we have an open relationship and then he'd continued sliding his hands up her shirt while she started unbuttoning his trousers.
And the whole thing is just completely brilliant. Richard's never actually had sex with a girl before, and he can't get over all the things that are different from sleeping with guys in general, or how sex with Anne is specifically different from sex with Robbie in particular, like how much softer she feels, or the squeaky little gasps she makes when he goes down on her, or the way she wraps her arms and legs around him and buries her face in his shoulder when she comes (and that's without getting started on the stuff she can do to him).
It's only afterwards that things start to get complicated.
When Richard wakes up the next morning he notices that, first of all, she's watching him, and, second, that it doesn't feel weird or awkward at all. Obviously they're doing something right. She leans down to kiss him, and it tastes minty, so she's either brushed her teeth while he was sleeping or she is just everything Shakespeare's mistress is not. Richard is pretty sure he tastes a lot less pleasant.
"So," she says, when they pull apart for air. "I should mention, before this gets too involved, that you're out of condoms." Her expression is baleful. "I checked before you woke up."
"Well," Richard says. "I suppose we'll have to stock up for next time."
Anne starts to laugh in what is patently relief. "Oh, thank God you said it," she says. "I didn't want to ask!"
"You don't have to," Richard says, smiling back at her. "I want to see a lot more of you -- " and as they realize what he's said he coughs and she raises an amused eyebrow.
"And how exactly do you intend to manage that?"
"I have my ways," he laughs, and kisses her again.
"Are you busy tonight? After your tute?" she says.
"Well," Richard says, "and this sounds a lot more awkward than I'd really prefer it to be, but I'm actually having drinks with Robbie this evening."
...okay, this is the awkward part. Anne's expression is crestfallen, and she's clearly trying not to look like it.
"I see," she says, rolling away from him as best she can on the rather small bed and wrapping the sheet awkwardly around herself. After an uncomfortable minute or so, she asks, "What are you going to tell him?"
Richard pulls her back into his arms before he answers. "Look at me, Anne," he says. She turns over, hesitantly, her eyes wide, and he whispers, "I'm going to tell him I'm madly in love with you" -- and she smiles at him in a way that makes him feel absolutely sure of it. "I promise you we'll work it out."
Anne nods, after a moment. "I know you were with him first," she says, "and I know it would be wrong to ask you to choose me over him, or anything like that -- "
Richard isn't quite sure how to explain how he intends for the whole multiple-relationships thing to work, so instead, he takes advantage of her momentary search for words to lean in and kiss her again.
"Hey," he says, afterwards. "I wouldn't totally re-evaluate my sexuality for just anyone, you know."
Because it's totally true -- it's not really the kind of thing you think about logically, even if maybe you should, when you're watching someone you think is just a close friend, since you are gay and thus obviously not physically attracted to her, studying intently while leaning against you on the sofa and you find yourself wondering why it took you so long to notice that her body feels really nice against yours, and why you're fixating on the way she chews her lip when she's reading, and whether asking her right now if she wants to make out would be a fantastic idea. It's the sort of thing doesn't really hit you until you're in bed afterwards trying to figure out where you're going from there: you just had sex with a girl and really loved it, and then you remember having sex with your boyfriend, just to make sure, and that still seems like an entirely desirable thing to do, which must mean you're really bisexual when you thought you were gay.
Richard turns that thought over in his head, trying to get used to it: I'm Richard Bordeaux and I am bisexual. He feels like he ought to be more confused or tortured or like he's turning his back on his gay identity or something, except that he's not at all confused about how he feels, and it's not like he's done anything wrong by falling for Anne, except on a political level, if you are really militantly gay or, alternately, opposed to dating people from Eastern bloc countries, but Richard is really not either of those. So, you know, fuck politics.
Anne smiles up at him again, and she's absolutely radiant. "I never thought I even had a chance with you," she says softly. "So if I do -- I can't let it go. I have to trust you."
"I promise you," Richard says again, "I'll do everything I can to earn it."
"We should get up now," Anne says, after another lengthy kiss. "Before I'm tempted to dismiss the risks of unprotected sex."
Richard groans and rolls over onto his back: having serious discussions about intimate relationships is one thing, but he is not entirely reconciled to the prospect of getting up, which frankly seems like much more work. He watches as Anne slides out of bed and begins to gather her scattered clothing.
"Richard?" she says. "Do you remember what you did with my bra?"
***
Of course, when he actually sees Robbie that evening it's a little bit more complicated than he had hoped, in no small part because Robbie is wearing those pants with the buckles that are indescribably hot if maddeningly time-consuming to remove, but also because it's not like they're going to have a productive discussion about anything in the middle of the Coven, let alone once they're back at Robbie's flat and Robbie's got him bent over the arm of the sofa and is blowing his fucking mind.
And after that it occurs to him that, having spent the last two nights getting vigorously and thoroughly laid, he probably ought to get a respectable amount of sleep before attempting a serious discussion.
The next time he sees Anne is over lunch on Monday and she doesn't even mention Robbie at all, but when she kisses him goodbye before running off to a lecture she whispers "Thank you for not avoiding me," and this makes him feel guilty enough that he calls Robbie to make plans for dinner (at which, he promises himself, he will actually start That Discussion) before heading to the Bod to pore over the Rolls of Parliament on microfilm, which surely has to count as a penance of sorts.
"You going to eat that?" Robbie asks him, later, as he sits on the floor of his room poking anxiously at the curried prawns he is entirely too nervous to eat.
"Maybe?" Richard says, smiling in a way he suspects is rather thin. "I don't think I was actually hungry."
"Something wrong?" Robbie says, moving to sit beside him and sliding one arm around his waist while reaching for the prawns with the other, and Richard leans against his shoulder, just enjoying the feel of his body for a moment before things become incredibly awkward (maybe they won't, maybe he'll totally get it?).
"Not exactly." Richard swallows hard. Really it's best to get it over with. "It's just...well. I know we agreed that we weren't totally exclusive, right?"
"Right..." Robbie says, tension creeping into his voice, and he pauses in the midst of impaling a prawn on his plastic fork.
"Because the thing is -- " Richard sits up straight, then, in order to look Robbie in the eye, though he doesn't quite get there, staring uncomfortably at the uneaten prawn instead. "I've started this -- this thing with someone, and -- "
"Oh, well, there's no need to look so damn tragic about it," Robbie laughs. "Who is he?"
"That's the other thing." Richard swallows hard. "Her name is Anne and she's an engineering student -- "
His explanation is cut off by an explosive coughing fit as Robbie inhales fragments of prawn; Richard rubs his back tentatively. "You okay?" he asks, his voice coming out all guilty and tiny and generally stupid.
"Jesus, Richard, I have curry in my sinuses and you're ditching me for a woman, what the fuck do you think?"
"What?" Richard can feel his face going about the same shade of red that Robbie's, thanks to the spontaneous prawn inhalation, is. "God, no, I'm not! Really. Absolutely I'm not. I promise. Because I love you. That's not going to change."
Robbie has just finished blowing his nose, and he looks up at Richard for a moment -- his frown lightens for an instant, and then he crumples his napkin and mutters, "He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse's health, a boy's love, or a whore's oath," and Richard can feel all of his insides go cold and then drop into his shoes even as Robbie's expression softens. "Oh, God, Richard, don't look like that," he says, and buries his face in his hands.
"I don't see why you can't accept that I'm bisexual." It's the first time Richard has said it aloud, and it feels completely inadequate to the situation and not really what he wants to say right at this moment at all.
Robbie looks up at him despairingly. Richard is really tempted to just lean in and kiss him, but he doesn't think it would help. "You could at least have mentioned that," Robbie says.
"I didn't know it myself until I met Anne." Richard shrugs helplessly, flailing his hands about like he's swimming in some horrible sea of awkward, and Robbie throws his hands up.
"Oh, that's even better."
Richard swallows hard, and then, deciding that nothing he can think of to say is going to sound convincing, reconsiders his conviction that kissing isn't going to help. He leans forward, winding his fingers in Robbie's hair, and, as unresolved as the whole thing is, Robbie doesn't hesitate for more than a second as Richard presses him onto his back.
"Now that's just unfair," Robbie groans, after they've broken for air.
"I can prove I haven't turned straight, if you want," Richard murmurs, his lips brushing against the soft skin just under Robbie's ear, and he can feel Robbie shiver beneath him.
"I'm holding you to a high standard," Robbie says, sliding his thigh between Richard's and making him gasp.
"Remind me again why I put up with you?" Richard props himself up on his elbows in order to get into a better position for glaring, but he is now painfully hard and he suspects this spoils the general impression of disapproval.
"Because I'm really fucking good at getting you off?" Robbie's got his hands into Richard's jeans now, and anything he's got as a rejoinder evaporates somewhere in the back of his brain, coming out instead as a strangled-sounding whimper. "God, you're lucky you're beautiful," Robbie laughs.
"I told you -- " Richard manages, through gritted teeth. "You don't have to be so smug about it."
"Oh, but I do." Robbie's grin is decidedly evil, and his hands are very warm, and -- Richard's pants are suddenly rather sticky, and Robbie withdraws his hands and checks his watch as Richard buries his face in the crook of his neck and shudders against him. "Five minutes," he says. "Guess that does count as not straight, doesn't it?"
"You're a complete bastard, Robbie," Richard murmurs into his shoulder.
"And you love it," Robbie laughs.
"I said so, didn't I -- fuck, Robbie, that's disgusting," Richard exclaims as Robbie wipes his hands off on the back of his shirt.
"Oh, it is not," Robbie says, sitting up. "You know exactly where it's been. Anyway, I am not done with this conversation, but first, it's my turn."
"After you wiped your hands on my shirt?"
Robbie smirks and rolls his eyes. "Because you came all over them."
"Because you had your hands in my pants!"
"And," Robbie repeats, leaning back with incredible self-satisfaction, "you love it." He grins in that way he's got that can reduce Richard to a small and rather aroused puddle, and Richard leans forward and kisses him again.
"I really do," he whispers against Robbie's lips, slipping his hands beneath Robbie's shirt, fingers idly tracing patterns on his chest.
"And that's lovely," Robbie says, indicating the bulge in his trousers, "but this thing isn't going to suck itself, darling."
***
"So I've talked to Robbie about everything," Richard tells Anne on the phone later. "I think we're all right."
"I'm glad he understands," Anne says. "What did you tell him?"
Richard is fairly certain that even on the phone Anne can somehow detect the sudden blaze of heat radiating from his cheeks.
"Erm, you know," he says. "Stuff."
***
Richard has promised Robbie that nothing's going to change, but of course things do. It takes him a great deal more time than it really should to get around to introducing Anne and Robbie, because how the hell do you introduce your girlfriend to your boyfriend, anyway -- but it turns out to go surprisingly fine, thank God for beer. Over Easter vac Richard takes Anne to London to meet his mum, which goes quite well after the initial Nazi-related misunderstandings are cleared up.
This year they all go to May Morning together. It isn't as intoxicating as last year, but it is more grounded.
In the summer, Anne's friends Henry and Mary have a baby, which makes Anne go utterly goopy and provide Richard with numerous updates on little Harry's development. Richard points out that she's utterly adorable when she's being maternal, and she turns beet-red, which makes him do much the same thing since it's obvious where her mind has gone.
Because really, it's not as if they're ready for that yet.
***
June 1988
Richard doesn't exactly mean to come out to his mother, precisely, as having multiple partners, although if he had thought about it a bit more beforehand, it might have occurred to him that seeing as how his father was in fact her third husband, or, more pertinently, second-and-a-half depending on how you wanted to count the first and second, not that Richard has particularly ever wanted to ask about the details -- she was not unlikely to at least be understanding about his own preferences. And he knows, deep down, that he's got to tell her sometime, because he can't exactly go about pretending to be monogamous when it means hiding one of the best things about his life, and when he's not actually ashamed or, really, all that worried about it or anything, just not really looking forward to the possibility of having to explain himself, since most people don't understand (even though Mum probably would even if she didn't say so).
In the event, though, it ends up happening completely by accident while they're having afternoon tea at the Old Parsonage and he's explaining his impending retirement from acting after Twelfth Night finishes up its run next weekend.
"But you're so good at it," Mum is saying. "I know I'm just your mum and I always think you're superb, but you were utterly brilliant as Algernon Moncrieff last year."
"The thing is," Richard says, "people keep telling me that Sir Andrew is the part I was born to play. It's rather put me off acting."
Mum laughs. "Well, it's a better fit than Jesus in the York Crucifixion, isn't it?"
"I told you, they wanted someone they could lift."
"And who was willing to wear a loincloth in public, as I recall."
Richard squeezes lemon into his tea slightly more emphatically than is strictly necessary for simple juice extraction. "The point is," he continues, "that telling someone that his ideal role is Sir Andrew Aguecheek is a horrible thing to say to a man. Robbie has already firmly communicated his intention never to let me live it down -- "
"Are you and Robbie still friends, then?" she says, raising an amused eyebrow.
"Erm." Richard examines his fingers for a moment, feeling caught out. "You might say that."
"You never did tell me what happened with you two, why you broke up. I was surprised you never mentioned it, because you seemed so -- well, besotted with him."
"Well." Richard stirs his tea nervously, never mind that it doesn't really need stirring, particularly. It would be incredibly easy to make something up, but that would feel wrong -- not so much because of the whole lying-to-his-mother thing, never mind that she was traditionally really good at telling when he was doing that, but because he loves Robbie and doesn't particularly care if saying so adds a little more awkwardness to his life.
"Nothing...happened, exactly. We, uh, we didn't, really."
"Oh." She frowns a little, busily applying some lemon curd to a scone, and then her expression darkens. "Does Anne know about this?"
"What?" This is a shocking enough idea that Richard manages to drop his spoon and splash hot lemony tea into his eyes. "God, Mum, give me some credit!"
"Well, I suppose that's all right then," she says, sipping at her tea as Richard flails about for a napkin and wipes the tea splatter off his face; the next half-second is entirely tranquil before she frowns again. "Does Robbie know?"
It is only with tremendous effort that Richard manages to keep from faceplanting directly into a plate of Victoria sponge.
***
The thing that Richard doesn't mention to his mother, since he doesn't quite feel ready for it yet -- and probably she'd say "Well, that's moving a bit fast, isn't it?" and maybe it is, but he's absolutely certain it's in the right direction -- is that he and Anne have been talking for most of Trinity about the prospect of moving in together next year, assuming everyone's efforts to remain in Oxford as postgrads work out (and he doesn't even want to think about what he'll do if they don't, because every time he's tried he feels like throwing up).
The first time he actually floats the idea is to Robbie -- who's never really been keen on the idea of living together for reasons Richard has never precisely understood, but Richard thinks maybe all three of them could be housemates, it would be totally different then -- but Robbie's response to that is "Oh, hell no."
Anne is much more receptive to the idea, but at the same time, she's oddly nervous, even after the exam results (firsts for both of them, which Anne had found gleefully surprising and Richard a source of immense relief that he didn't fuck up epically) portend good things, insofar as the whole thing being feasible is concerned.
"We need to really talk," she says one day at breakfast, "about what's off-limits for us. Before we decide that we're definitely going to move in together. I mean, we've been together for less than a year, and -- "
"Oh, I've thought about that," Richard says. "What if I can have sex with other blokes and you can have sex with other girls?"
Anne puts down her coffee cup and buries her face in her hands for a moment.
"Richard?" she says, looking up at him despairingly. People have been doing that to him a lot, lately. "Schätzelein?"
"Yes?"
"I don't want to have sex with other girls."
"Oh." He absorbs this for about a second before it seems odd, and not a little disappointing. "Why not?"
Anne's expression is now downright pained. "I don't know!" she says, flailing her hands a bit. "I just...am not interested in it."
"Oh," Richard says again.
"Not everyone is bisexual," Anne continues, somehow managing to speak through gritted teeth without actually gritting her teeth, which is kind of impressive.
"Well," Richard says, "isn't monosexuality really a social construct? I don't think we should let ourselves be pigeonholed when sexuality is really more of a spectrum -- "
Anne leans on the table and buries her face in her folded arms. "That is not even close to my point," she moans.
Richard leans over and gently extracts a lock of her hair from his toast.
"You've got jam in your hair," he says helplessly.
"The point is," Anne says, grabbing a napkin and wiping at her hair with more force than is strictly necessary for simple jam extraction, "that I don't think it's fair to assume that everyone wants what you want."
Richard is thrown off-balance enough by this that he has to feign an undue interest in his toast for a moment, even though the proper response is obvious.
"All right," he says, finally. "What do you want?"
Anne stirs determinedly at her almost-entirely-uneaten yogurt; the spoon stands up on its own when she lets go of it. "I don't mind that you have relationships with other people," she says, not looking up at him. "I know you and Robbie were together first, and I don't mind that -- I mean, I like him a lot -- it's just that -- " She runs a hand through her tangled hair and starts over. "I want this to be fair, and I don't know how it can be."
Richard covers her other hand with his own, and her fingers interlace with his, almost instinctively.
"Why not?" he says.
She looks up at him -- Richard can't help but notice (again) how blue her worn blue robe makes her eyes look. He's stricken with a piercing desire to kiss her, but Anne has let him know in no uncertain terms that doing that during arguments, or even emotionally charged discussions since this isn't really an argument exactly, is really terribly patriarchal of him and he should not do it anymore (so he doesn't, except to Robbie, who always lets him, and anyway since they are both men it isn't really patriarchal).
"I don't want anyone else, Richard," she says. "Just you."
There's nothing Richard can possibly say to that. Instead he slides from his chair to kneel beside Anne and wrap his arms around her; she leans down to hide her face in the crook of his neck, clinging to his shoulders as if she could make him absorb her entire body, and what she says next, muffled against his skin, almost breaks his heart.
"And when I tell you I want to make rules, it's because otherwise I'd let you have anything you want."
Richard draws back a little and cradles her face with his hands.
"I want you to be happy," he says.
***
November 1989
It's nearly four o'clock on Monday morning when Richard and Anne return home from Berlin, exhausted, light-headed, and more than a little hung over.
"Oxford feels so quiet now," Richard says, as they lie fully-clothed and unchanged on their bed, trying to work up the energy to change or take a shower or something. "Even when you allow for it being four in the morning."
"It doesn't feel like any of it's real, anymore," Anne says, her eyes wide. "Two days ago I was dancing in Alexanderplatz and now -- I'm back here and I have to pretend to care about my dissertation -- "
"Let's not talk about dissertations," Richard laughs. "I'd rather think about the fact that we're getting married."
"Yes!" Anne turns over onto her side in order to kiss him without having to sit up. When they break apart, Richard notices she's actually shaking a little.
"I would have defected for you," she says. "If you'd asked me to marry you before. I don't think I've ever said it to myself before now."
Richard wraps his arms around her and kisses the top of her head.
"It's all right," he says. "You don't have to choose, now."
"I know," Anne says. "It's just that -- I had always meant to go back, after studying in England. I thought it was the right thing to do to stay, to work for a better kind of Communism. But I'd have given it up for you, if you'd asked."
Richard looks closely at her -- the only light on is the tiny bedside lamp, and her face is deeply shadowed, her eyes hollow with fatigue. (He is not convinced she has actually slept since leaving England -- he distinctly remembers that they have been to bed, as it were, insofar as furtive, muffled, oh-God-can't-wake-the-roommates celebratory lovemaking counts as going to bed, but Anne was always up long before Richard. I don't want to miss anything, she had said.) He knows he will never forget the light in her eyes as she hefted a hammer seemingly as big as she was (it couldn't have been that big, really, he knows that), to strike at the wall, the clash of metal on concrete like bells.
He is utterly convinced that he is willing to do absolutely anything for her.
"If you want," he says, "we can go back. As soon as we're done with Oxford. Before that, if you'd rather do it that way."
Anne smiles at him, heartbreakingly.
"What about Robbie?" she says, and before Richard can even begin to think of an answer, she presses her fingers to his lips. "I didn't have to choose between you and seeing my home and family again. I can't make you choose between me and him."
Richard leans in and kisses her again, very gently.
"I think we should probably sleep," he says.
"I'm not tired," she says, but her eyes are already beginning to fall shut. Richard carefully unlaces her boots, and then pulls the duvet over her before switching out the light, staring at the darkness until he can make out her shape beside him.
They don't talk about Richard's offer the next day. Perhaps it's enough for her that he made it.
***
"You're what." Robbie, frustratingly incredulous, nearly drops his beer all over the kitchen floor. Richard has planned this all so carefully, not springing it on him after sex or anything (he has not noticed a particular tendency to do this, despite what Robbie has suggested) -- and it has apparently made no difference, because it's going to go miserably.
"I told you," Richard says. "We're getting married. You know, like people do."
Robbie buries his face in his hands. "That was an expression of anger, Richard, not a request for clarification."
"Robbie, I don't see what your problem is. Anne and I have been together for two years. We live together, for God's sake. You like Anne."
"That's not the point."
"Why does everyone keep saying that?"
"Maybe because you never seem to fucking get it?"
"Look -- " Richard rubs his eyes for a moment. "This isn't actually about you" -- and Robbie absolutely freezes.
"Isn't it," he says. It's not a question.
"I mean. I don't want you to feel rejected -- "
"You've got a fucking funny way of showing it, then."
" -- because if I could marry both of you I bloody well would."
"You're fucking incredible," Robbie says. "You don't even get that that's the goddamn point, do you? It's all fine for you to act like everyone's equal when you can run off and marry your girlfriend and I can't hold your fucking hand in public without it being a fucking statement, so don't even fucking talk to me about how much you love both of us."
He might as well have punched Richard in the face. It feels basically the same.
Richard spends much of the next week not exactly avoiding Robbie so much as working under the assumption that Robbie is avoiding him, and feeling guilty about being miserable on the grounds that he's getting married and should be happy about it, and indeed is extremely happy about it, but it's hard to act like it when you've been told you're a heterosexist asshole for it, and so you spend a lot of time sulking and being on edge and not being at all fair to your poor fiancee who hasn't even done anything wrong and who is doing her incredibly awkward best to support you at a time when she deserves to be happy not only because she's getting married but also because the oppressive crypto-Soviet government she grew up under has just collapsed.
Another upshot of the whole clusterfuck is that he totally fails to write the conference paper that he's supposed to be delivering in a week and which he has scarcely even looked at since before Berlin. He's sorely tempted to blow off his appointment to discuss it with Simon, but he suspects he is already in the hole for the entire jetting-off-to-Berlin-and-getting-arrested business, even though Simon was actually very understanding about all of it, what with the whole world-changing nature of the thing: it isn't every day that the Cold War comes to a non-nuclear-winter-and-horrible-horrible-death-causing end.
It is much more awkward, however, when you've fallen behind in your scholarly work because you are having a fight with your boyfriend, even if your relationship with your adviser is the kind where you're -- well, not comfortable talking about that sort of thing, because telling someone you are fighting with your boyfriend over the fact that you're marrying your girlfriend is never comfortable even if it's not as bad as actually doing it, but rather, it doesn't feel wildly inappropriate.
Still, he sort of wants to crawl into a hole and die as he explains his personal crisis and the myriad ways it is fucking up his life and, more relevantly at the moment, his conference paper, especially since Simon is sitting there watching him impassively and demonstrating a remarkable knack for smirking even while smoking a pipe (which he clearly does ironically as part of his Queenly Old Oxford Don persona).
"I don't pretend to understand your love life," he says, finally, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I suppose the only advice I have for you is to remind you that it hasn't actually been that long since homosexuality was completely illegal. That wrecked a great many lives, you know. I was about your age in the fifties and I imagine it's hard for someone of your generation to imagine what that was like, even though it's not as if things are particularly rosy even now -- I assume you haven't forgotten protesting against Section 28 last year?"
"No, of course not," Richard mumbles, wishing he had bothered to keep up on his work, so that he wouldn't have had to make excuses for not finishing and consequently wouldn't be listening to Simon reminding him How Things Are For Gentlemen of Our Persuasion.
"It's a major advantage, socially, to be able to pass for straight. I'm sure I needn't tell you so."
"I'm not trying to pass for straight," Richard says.
"But you still need to remember that you can."
Richard looks at his hands for a moment, and then at the bookcase, and then at the prints on the wall behind Simon -- why the hell does he have "Boy Bitten by a Lizard" up there, Richard often wonders: what kind of message does that send to undergrads, not that they'd pick up on the iconography -- before he finally nods and swallows hard. "Can we, um, talk about Froissart now?" he says, but he does get that Simon has a point and everything even though it now feels sort of like he's just had a first-year tutorial on The Gay Lifestyle.
It's nearly midnight when Richard knocks on Robbie's door with absolutely no idea what he's going to say despite spending two-and-a-half pints contemplating it (he's even got a notecard with a lot of false starts which is now no good because they've all been scribbled out). He's even asked Anne for her input, when he called to tell her he'd be home late, but all she said was "Richard, I am probably the last person you should ask about this."
But before he can say anything Robbie pulls him into his arms and exclaims "Christ, I miss you, you fucking bastard," and after that it's not hard to apologize at all.
(continued here)