In Which a Meeting for the Ages Occurs

[notjackkerouac]

The thing about England -- about Europe in general, in fact -- is that its public buildings have yet to develop an appreciation for air conditioning. Beads of sweat have started to gather on the back of Jack's neck as he slumps on a bench in the entrance hall of the King's College law library. June in London isn't anywhere near as humid as June in

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[fortiter_in_re]

Sorting through all his papers, finding the correct folders for all of them, signing and stapling where it's needed, James feels immensely pleased with himself. He always enjoys the mock trials much more than the hours of sitting through lectures and poring over massive law books, and this particular one was much more interesting than usual. Selwyn, the poor bastard, had been assigned to take the defence, but the defendant himself had hardly let him get a word in edgewise, spinning stories and coming up with some of the most creative excuses James had heard in a long time

[fortiter_in_re]

It's fifteen, maybe twenty minutes before Jack shows up, and- James has to admit- he's beginning to think that maybe he isn't going to show at all. The thought stings a little, and he's more relieved than he'd care to admit when he sees someone with that distinctive swagger make their way through the door.

He smirks when Jack slides onto the bench next to him. 'No need for lies,' he says mildly. He's not particularly irritated, not now that Jack is here, but there's no need to let him off the hook without any sort of sting. 'Life happens, people are late.'

'And I'm not the only one,' he continues, lifting his glass in indication of Jack's clothes. Very... bohemian chic, perhaps? Would that be the term for it? James doesn't really know. But it's a good look for Jack, regardless of what it's called. The eyeliner especially, rather to his surprised; it makes his already handsome face look almost fey, and James lets his eyes linger, an approving little once over.

[notjackkerouac]

It's not really a lie, because it is harder than most people think to get a cab back from Northaw. Or harder than Jack thinks, at least, any time he needs to make the trek back to London from fielding the Pearl. But if James isn't upset about it, Jack sees no reason to try to defend himself. Best to leave the whole thing behind them

[fortiter_in_re]

'I'll keep that in mind for next time,' James returns dryly when Jack says his wig would go well with the black.

A Black Russian sounds good, and he catches the waiter as he's leaving, ordering one for himself. His glass of wine's long gone, after all, and Friday's his free day; no harm in it.

He gives Jack a somewhat dubious look as he stretches out, feet right up against James's hip and thigh. This is a nice place, after all; a quality establishment. Feet up on the seats isn't exactly the way to go, even if he does rather enjoy the discreet pressure of it up against his leg. He doesn't say anything, but rather lets his glance speak for itself.

The query after his middle name makes him duck his head slightly, biting his lip against a rueful little laugh. 'Nor was this one so popular ever, I shouldn't imagine.' He catches Jack's eye crookedly. 'Lysander,' he admits. 'My parents... they're interesting people.'

[notjackkerouac]

Next time sounds promising, though Jack can't tell for sure if James means that as an open possibility or just a deflection of what Jack's presenting. It doesn't matter much, either way, because Jack plans that there will be a next time, whether James knows it now or not. This night, in Jack's estimation, will go very, very well.

James laughs again and the way he shies away gives Jack a skyview of his cheekbones, the long shadows his eyelashes throw across his face. Jack's about prepared to start guessing when James confesses and Jack laughs. "So James L. is really James Lysander? Fancy that. Parents fans of Shakepeare's comedies, then?"

The waiter returns with their drinks and Jack wraps his fingers around the glass, the ice rattling as he lifts it up in a toast. Though he's not quite sure what to say. Finally he settles on, "To love-lorn wanderers and mischeivous fairies" and grins and drinks.

The cold, sharp flavour bites at his tongue and Jack sighs pleasantly at the feeling.

[fortiter_in_re]

James cocks his own glass towards Jack's in a small toast, raising it to his lips in a drink. The ice clinks against the rim as he drinks, and he smiles tightly around it as he sets the glass down, enjoying the ice cold burn of the liquor.

'I suppose that would make you Puck?' He muses, cocking an eyebrow at Jack. 'If I'm the lovelorn wanderer in that equation, that must leave one of us to be the mischievous fairy.'

It seems a strangely apt thought, and he shakes his head in a little laugh, spinning his glass against the tabletop.

[notjackkerouac]

"Not neccessarily. You might be more of a fairy than I am."

Not that Jack has anything against Puck, but it's little interest of him to be some character from Shakespeare, running around at the whim of Oberon. That's unfitting and a little boring.

"Always liked his sonnets better anyway." He watches James fidget with his glass and nudges his hip with a foot, trying to stop the nervous beheaviour. "So rather than love lorn, to be in Shakespeare, who would you pick?"

[fortiter_in_re]

'Oh, I don't know,' James chuckles. 'I've never been what you could call particularly... puckish.'

He manfully resists the urge to comment on the double entendre around the word fairy.

Jack's foot nudges slightly against his hip, and James slides smoothly away, casting the offending boot a look. He gets the message, though, and ceases his fiddling to take another drink. Jack's question is rather a difficult one, now he thinks about it, and he shrugs.

'Well, Shakespearian characters are hardly much suited for real life, are they? The lovers in comedies always end up happily married at the end, but it's never through any doing of their own, and in tragedies...' he gives an affected little grimace. 'Well, they all die in tragedies. Though I suppose I'd rather be a Lysander than a Hamlet or Macbeth. Quite fond of living, you understand.'

[notjackkerouac]

Jack laughs when James laughs, smiling into the rim of the glass. "Never said you were. Though -- " he gestures with the glass " -- that blazer could be another matter."

He ignores the look, wiggling his foot and chasing after James anyway. James might be right to call Jack Puck. It's certainly better than Hermia, for a start, and there is something far too enjoyable about willfully doing the opposite of whatever James seems to want him to do. He slips his boot once more against James' hip, either giving him the option of dealing with it or falling off the seat entirely.

James makes a fair point, though, and Jack relents a little, lifting his glass to it for another swallow. "Can hardly blame a man for that. Much better to live life like it was a comedy than tragedy, even without Shakespeare."

[fortiter_in_re]

James plucks at the lapels of his blazer, affecting an offended look. 'I beg your pardon. This is a quality blazer, sir; not the least bit... Elton John.' He can't help his smile, though, as he smooths fingers down over the velvet. Maybe it is a little metro. But around Jack, that hardly seems to be a problem.

Falling off his seat doesn't seem to be much of an option, so he just sighs a little as Jack continues to poke at him with his boot. It does kind of feel good, he has to admit, even if it is brazen, given the fact that they hardly know each other at all.

'You certainly seem to,' he comments wryly. And it's true. He's rarely seen someone who seems to play the clown quite as much as Jack, spinning his tales the way he did in court. The get-up, the way he walks; oh, James likes it, no mistake. He wouldn't be out on this date if he didn't. But it's certainly not anything that belongs in a tragedy. It makes James curious, despite himself, to find out more about the rest of him, whatever's underneath the eyeliner and the

[notjackkerouac]

"My deepest thousand apologies," Jack says in mock solemnity, folding his hands together. But the smile gives the lie away. He couldn't be sorry if he tried, which he's not, not when James is sitting across from him, looking like that, inviting Jack eyes to stray if they will to follow his hands on his chest. It's hard to resist the temptation to just lean over and touch the velvet himself, part James' shirt a little bit. The table will make that difficult, however, and Jack does know the rules. Besides, it's far more entertaining to edge the boundaries without actually crossing them. James reacts far more interestingly that way

[fortiter_in_re]

Jack's answer has his pursing his lips, tilting his head back to rest against the plush leather of the bench to regard his curiously across the table. It's a philosophy he can see the logic in, but never one he's lived by. If that were so, he might have run off to Scotland at seventeen for a girl with black hair that fell halfway down her back, might have- on numerous occasions- told his law homework to go fuck itself. But he never did, and so here he is now, on the verge of adding an Esquire to the end of his name, graduating from a very prestigious school and making a proper life for himself. He'd much rather have that than an uncertain summer in love, or a night out with Andrew and Theo instead of in with his books.

It seems much safer to do things the way he does. And he's happy, he just understands that one can't be happy in every moment. There's always a greater happiness to work for; drive and ambition to make it to the next level, and the satisfaction one derives from that

[notjackkerouac]

The look James is giving him is not one of agreement and Jack waits for an explanation, a debate, some kind of challenge. It's a little disappointing when all James gives him is a shrug

[fortiter_in_re]

'I suppose that's true,' James says with a little laugh, because it is. As much as the judiciary or the constabulary might talk about eliminating crime, to suppose that that's really what they want in the long term is simply naive. Jack's words have more behind them than just that, though, and James finds himself curious about what exactly that is. If Jack himself is indebted to yesterday, as he put it, if he cares that he is

[notjackkerouac]

That is the question, isn't it? Jack outright grins at that comment, a little wicked and thrilled. Something in his stomach lurches like it does on take off, the sense of a new adventure dawning on the horizon and nothing seperating it from Jack.

"Everything changes with looking at it the right way. It just depends on what the right way is. There's something to be said for crash landings."

Because that is, after all, why Jack is sitting here now, discussing this with James. If he had thought to check the fusile lodge. If he had thought to stop in Paris instead of risking the rest of the way to London. It could be a Parisian sitting across from him now, correcting Jack's French. More probable, it would be no one, and Jack in some cell, muttering "d'eau" to himself. This reality is far better.

"Some things aren't meant to be circumvented. Better to just let interesting times come. The Chinese call it a curse but the only alternative then is not going into the woods at all."

[fortiter_in_re]

James has never much gone for crash landings himself. He prefers to know how things are going to end, and if he can't figure it out, making sure they go that way himself. What's more, he's got damn good at it. With Jack, though... he'd had no chance knowing how this was going to happen thus far, and even less of knowing how it's going to end. If it's going to end.

He's not entirely sure how he feels about that, and that in itself is rather... exciting.

But even that thought feels like something a blushing teenager might write in her diary, and his lips twist a little as he signals the waiter to order himself another drink.

'You really think so?' He asks, as he turns back to Jack. 'The fairies in those woods aren't always so benevolent, and even when they are, somebody ends up looking an ass.' James meets his eyes, his gaze shrewd, as if he could divine some answer there merely by looking. 'I like to try and be a little prepared, at least.'