FIC: A Find in a Thousand
Title: A Find in a Thousand
Author: angevin2
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Richard/Robert de Vere
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1455
Warnings: general silliness, drunken vomiting, accidental pickups of strange men in parks, gratuitous Britten (not that gratuitous), waving vaguely in the direction of canon from a distant shore
Summary: In which Richard Bordeaux fails miserably at cruising but really doesn't fail at all.
Notes: Yet another Crescive In His Faculty fic -- a little bit of backstory. For highfantastical, who could do with some good cheer in her life, and who requested fic about crescive!Richard's matriculation ceremony. I didn't think I was Oxford-conversant enough to show it, so I went with the aftermath. Many many thanks to speak_me_fair for Oxford-picking.
One of the things Richard has already learned to appreciate in his short time at university is that nobody thus far has learned to find him annoying, and that explaining to people that he is gay generally makes up for some of the loss of goodwill he occasionally incurs by admitting he went to Eton, not that Oxford isn't lousy with Old Etonians anyway, but Richard is trying to avoid them.
That is at least two things, now that he thinks of it. But then, he is quite drunk.
He is pretty sure he ought to be better at drink than this. It's not his fault. He was a swot with no friends. And now -- well, he might acquire some friends at some point, there's people all over Oxford, and unlike Eton most of them are probably not complete bastards, and God, he is so drunk -- but at any rate his presence in post-matriculation piss-ups has yet to prove entirely unwelcome.
He has wandered into the University Parks mostly because he's feeling overly-socialized and because it seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do about ten minutes ago, and indeed it has probably been for the best because the yard glass he's recently attempted has decided it would be a great deal more comfortable on the ground than in his stomach, and it is probably for the best that he is not going to be sick all over everyone in the Turf or, interesting social commentary as it might be, the Martyrs' Memorial, and --
Well, the very green and shiny bush will probably appreciate the fertilizer, and Richard is entirely too pissed to bother about whether puke actually counts as fertilizer or if it's too acidic or what.
Although from the way his throat feels he is a bit surprised it hasn't burned a hole in the bloody thing. Teach him to be excessively clever about aptly named phallic drinking vessels.
He is sitting on the ground feeling very sorry for himself and wondering if he should check on the off chance that he has somehow accidentally stored a toothbrush in his gown. It's not like his teeth are actually going to dissolve in his own regurgitated stomach acid, but you can never be too careful, can you?
"Well, that's incredibly elegant," a voice behind him says, and Richard nearly jumps a foot off the ground. While sitting down. It's incredibly awkward and none too comfortable.
It's good that he spoke up, though, because if he hadn't Richard might not have noticed him, and that would be a shame because he is in fact utterly beautiful, all lit up with the orangey streetlights from outside and the glow from the end of -- it dawns on Richard that he is, in fact, smoking, and so not only is he utterly beautiful but he has also brought Richard the possibility of a respite from the sick feeling in his throat.
"This is going to sound really weird and stupid," Richard says, struggling to his feet, "but...can I borrow your fag? Because I really need to get the taste of vomit out of my mouth."
The man grins at him, and Richard feels his knees go all wobbly in a way that's not just about the booze or the puke. "Only if you promise not to give it back," he says. "Or take it into the Bod. No pun intended. Well. Pun kind of intended."
"Do I have to promise in Latin?" Richard says, taking the fag with slightly shaky fingers before wandering over to a nearby bench to smoke it.
"You know, I could roll you up a fresh one, if you want," the man says, sitting down next to him, and Richard shrugs. "Unless you don't mind exchanging bodily fluids with strange men in parks."
Richard grins, and right now he is quite glad to be drunk enough for his nerves not to fail him, because oh God this bloke is so gorgeous and maybe he is just taking the piss or alternately Richard is not actually trying to bum a fag in University Parks but is passed out on the paving slabs in the Turf courtyard and is having a lovely dream while other people are stepping on his face, but it sounds like he has just hinted that he's queer, maybe, if it isn't ridiculous wishful thinking, and if Richard has a chance with him he thinks he may possibly die.
He hopes that being drunk grants him the ability to be charmingly rakish. It probably doesn't, but what the hell, right? "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you're trying to pick me up."
"Love to, darling, but I have a personal policy that involves not shagging drunk freshers."
"How did you know I was -- " The pointlessness of this question hits Richard's brain a few seconds after the words leave his mouth. "Right."
"It is a bit obvious."
"The drunk part, or the -- "
"Don't take this the wrong way, but that's obvious too."
"Just out of curiosity, what are you doing alone in University Parks, which are actually technically closed, in the middle of the night?"
The (really quite ridiculously gorgeous) man wiggles his eyebrows up and down. "I do enjoy exchanging bodily fluids with strange men in parks. Unless they're -- "
"Unless they're drunk freshers, right."
"Unless they're drunk freshers. And really the exchanging part is more of a figure of speech, in this day and age."
"Of course." There's an incredibly long half-second of terribly awkward silence, and then Richard extends his hand. "Richard Bordeaux, incidentally," he says. "I didn't get sick on my hands or anything, I promise it's fine."
The other man laughs and takes his hand, and Richard can't help but notice that his hands are very warm and that Richard's are quite chilly.
"Robbie Vere," he says, and Richard feels his heart slam against his ribcage, because oh God it's a bloody sign, it has to be, and some part of him is aware that the face he's making is probably unflatteringly fishlike, but all he can hear in his head is --
Here he comes! Starry Vere! Starry Vere!
-- and then he's actually singing it drunkenly: "I'll follow you, I'll serve you, Starry Vere!" and Robbie is laughing at him in a way Richard really, really hopes is affectionate and not what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you.
"Sorry," he adds, feeling his cheeks grow warm. "It's my favorite opera. Britten's Billy Budd, I mean, if you know it, the lead tenor is called Captain Vere -- "
"Well, of course!" Robbie says, smiling. "Can't be a gay man with a choral background without knowing your Britten, after all."
Somewhere in the back of Richard's brain he realizes that an auspicious surname, a willingness to share one's fags, and at least a passing acquaintance with Britten aren't necessarily grounds for love at first sight even when they belong to someone who is absolutely beautiful, but he doesn't care, not even a little.
"Just so it's clear," he says, "I really hoped you were trying to pick me up."
"Well, I didn't figure a straight boy would tell me his favorite opera is Billy Budd. Even if he'd admit to having a favorite opera in the first place." There's that grin again. "You do tend to broadcast things."
"I do?" Richard can feel his head spinning, and he swallows hard, wondering if he ought to just go for it and snog him. "I suppose I do. You know. Too much drink, but -- do you ever just know things about people? Because, all right, I don't actually know you, but I feel like -- I know that I want to, you know? I mean, in more than the biblical sense," he adds, giggling in a way which he suspects would feel really stupid if he were sober, not that he'd be doing it if he were sober.
Robbie smiles again, more gently. "Richard," he says, and and at the sound of his name Richard can feel a sort of buzzing under his skin which only gets worse when Robbie reaches up to touch his face. "You're beautiful. And you're also really fucking shitfaced."
"Right," Richard says, and he knows that somewhere deep down he is disappointed but he can't help but grin, anyway. "I don't suppose that would be advisable, would it." He flings an arm around Robbie's neck. "What about snogging? That all right?"
"Hold still," Robbie says, and then he's leaning in close and Richard's eyes close involuntarily until he's surprised by the scratch of a pen on his forehead, and then Robbie whispering in his ear: "Call me when you're sober, okay?"
Richard can only nod eagerly, wide-eyed, and remind himself to breathe, and Robbie adds, "I'd leave my name too but I don't think you'll forget it."
Author: angevin2
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Richard/Robert de Vere
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1455
Warnings: general silliness, drunken vomiting, accidental pickups of strange men in parks, gratuitous Britten (not that gratuitous), waving vaguely in the direction of canon from a distant shore
Summary: In which Richard Bordeaux fails miserably at cruising but really doesn't fail at all.
Notes: Yet another Crescive In His Faculty fic -- a little bit of backstory. For highfantastical, who could do with some good cheer in her life, and who requested fic about crescive!Richard's matriculation ceremony. I didn't think I was Oxford-conversant enough to show it, so I went with the aftermath. Many many thanks to speak_me_fair for Oxford-picking.
One of the things Richard has already learned to appreciate in his short time at university is that nobody thus far has learned to find him annoying, and that explaining to people that he is gay generally makes up for some of the loss of goodwill he occasionally incurs by admitting he went to Eton, not that Oxford isn't lousy with Old Etonians anyway, but Richard is trying to avoid them.
That is at least two things, now that he thinks of it. But then, he is quite drunk.
He is pretty sure he ought to be better at drink than this. It's not his fault. He was a swot with no friends. And now -- well, he might acquire some friends at some point, there's people all over Oxford, and unlike Eton most of them are probably not complete bastards, and God, he is so drunk -- but at any rate his presence in post-matriculation piss-ups has yet to prove entirely unwelcome.
He has wandered into the University Parks mostly because he's feeling overly-socialized and because it seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do about ten minutes ago, and indeed it has probably been for the best because the yard glass he's recently attempted has decided it would be a great deal more comfortable on the ground than in his stomach, and it is probably for the best that he is not going to be sick all over everyone in the Turf or, interesting social commentary as it might be, the Martyrs' Memorial, and --
Well, the very green and shiny bush will probably appreciate the fertilizer, and Richard is entirely too pissed to bother about whether puke actually counts as fertilizer or if it's too acidic or what.
Although from the way his throat feels he is a bit surprised it hasn't burned a hole in the bloody thing. Teach him to be excessively clever about aptly named phallic drinking vessels.
He is sitting on the ground feeling very sorry for himself and wondering if he should check on the off chance that he has somehow accidentally stored a toothbrush in his gown. It's not like his teeth are actually going to dissolve in his own regurgitated stomach acid, but you can never be too careful, can you?
"Well, that's incredibly elegant," a voice behind him says, and Richard nearly jumps a foot off the ground. While sitting down. It's incredibly awkward and none too comfortable.
It's good that he spoke up, though, because if he hadn't Richard might not have noticed him, and that would be a shame because he is in fact utterly beautiful, all lit up with the orangey streetlights from outside and the glow from the end of -- it dawns on Richard that he is, in fact, smoking, and so not only is he utterly beautiful but he has also brought Richard the possibility of a respite from the sick feeling in his throat.
"This is going to sound really weird and stupid," Richard says, struggling to his feet, "but...can I borrow your fag? Because I really need to get the taste of vomit out of my mouth."
The man grins at him, and Richard feels his knees go all wobbly in a way that's not just about the booze or the puke. "Only if you promise not to give it back," he says. "Or take it into the Bod. No pun intended. Well. Pun kind of intended."
"Do I have to promise in Latin?" Richard says, taking the fag with slightly shaky fingers before wandering over to a nearby bench to smoke it.
"You know, I could roll you up a fresh one, if you want," the man says, sitting down next to him, and Richard shrugs. "Unless you don't mind exchanging bodily fluids with strange men in parks."
Richard grins, and right now he is quite glad to be drunk enough for his nerves not to fail him, because oh God this bloke is so gorgeous and maybe he is just taking the piss or alternately Richard is not actually trying to bum a fag in University Parks but is passed out on the paving slabs in the Turf courtyard and is having a lovely dream while other people are stepping on his face, but it sounds like he has just hinted that he's queer, maybe, if it isn't ridiculous wishful thinking, and if Richard has a chance with him he thinks he may possibly die.
He hopes that being drunk grants him the ability to be charmingly rakish. It probably doesn't, but what the hell, right? "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you're trying to pick me up."
"Love to, darling, but I have a personal policy that involves not shagging drunk freshers."
"How did you know I was -- " The pointlessness of this question hits Richard's brain a few seconds after the words leave his mouth. "Right."
"It is a bit obvious."
"The drunk part, or the -- "
"Don't take this the wrong way, but that's obvious too."
"Just out of curiosity, what are you doing alone in University Parks, which are actually technically closed, in the middle of the night?"
The (really quite ridiculously gorgeous) man wiggles his eyebrows up and down. "I do enjoy exchanging bodily fluids with strange men in parks. Unless they're -- "
"Unless they're drunk freshers, right."
"Unless they're drunk freshers. And really the exchanging part is more of a figure of speech, in this day and age."
"Of course." There's an incredibly long half-second of terribly awkward silence, and then Richard extends his hand. "Richard Bordeaux, incidentally," he says. "I didn't get sick on my hands or anything, I promise it's fine."
The other man laughs and takes his hand, and Richard can't help but notice that his hands are very warm and that Richard's are quite chilly.
"Robbie Vere," he says, and Richard feels his heart slam against his ribcage, because oh God it's a bloody sign, it has to be, and some part of him is aware that the face he's making is probably unflatteringly fishlike, but all he can hear in his head is --
Here he comes! Starry Vere! Starry Vere!
-- and then he's actually singing it drunkenly: "I'll follow you, I'll serve you, Starry Vere!" and Robbie is laughing at him in a way Richard really, really hopes is affectionate and not what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you.
"Sorry," he adds, feeling his cheeks grow warm. "It's my favorite opera. Britten's Billy Budd, I mean, if you know it, the lead tenor is called Captain Vere -- "
"Well, of course!" Robbie says, smiling. "Can't be a gay man with a choral background without knowing your Britten, after all."
Somewhere in the back of Richard's brain he realizes that an auspicious surname, a willingness to share one's fags, and at least a passing acquaintance with Britten aren't necessarily grounds for love at first sight even when they belong to someone who is absolutely beautiful, but he doesn't care, not even a little.
"Just so it's clear," he says, "I really hoped you were trying to pick me up."
"Well, I didn't figure a straight boy would tell me his favorite opera is Billy Budd. Even if he'd admit to having a favorite opera in the first place." There's that grin again. "You do tend to broadcast things."
"I do?" Richard can feel his head spinning, and he swallows hard, wondering if he ought to just go for it and snog him. "I suppose I do. You know. Too much drink, but -- do you ever just know things about people? Because, all right, I don't actually know you, but I feel like -- I know that I want to, you know? I mean, in more than the biblical sense," he adds, giggling in a way which he suspects would feel really stupid if he were sober, not that he'd be doing it if he were sober.
Robbie smiles again, more gently. "Richard," he says, and and at the sound of his name Richard can feel a sort of buzzing under his skin which only gets worse when Robbie reaches up to touch his face. "You're beautiful. And you're also really fucking shitfaced."
"Right," Richard says, and he knows that somewhere deep down he is disappointed but he can't help but grin, anyway. "I don't suppose that would be advisable, would it." He flings an arm around Robbie's neck. "What about snogging? That all right?"
"Hold still," Robbie says, and then he's leaning in close and Richard's eyes close involuntarily until he's surprised by the scratch of a pen on his forehead, and then Robbie whispering in his ear: "Call me when you're sober, okay?"
Richard can only nod eagerly, wide-eyed, and remind himself to breathe, and Robbie adds, "I'd leave my name too but I don't think you'll forget it."