"All of you, gentlemen, are members of the prestigious Cambridge academy. I'm sure you all recall those past, those who have achieved great feats of intellectual nature. We welcome you here, to not only match those that came before you, but to reach further and become the best men you can be; for yourselves, your university, and for your country,"
A toast followed the chancellor's speech, and the freshmen entering into the academy were all welcomed to a dinner. The best of the best were gathered in one setting, and all talked amongst each other happily; hiding behind a veil their true intentions of becoming the better man.
Mail Jeevas took a drag of his cigarette, and blew out a smoke ring, smiling idly at the conversations he had around him: he knew all of them just briefly, but he was a very likable young man. A scotsman through and through, from his red hair to his thin physique.
Across the room, sat a man who defied the odds and had arrived at the highest ranking school in the nation: Mihael Keehl. From the moment one saw him, it was apparent he didn't fit in. He wasn't a brit, he was an immigrant from Russia, and not from the most respected family. He had arrived at Cambridge on wits alone, not by royalty or money. Yet he made the best attempt to hide that, sitting cross-legged in the corner, in suit, alone.
Mail took no notice of the man for a long time, until the merry-making was well over, and the night was cold and deep. He had slipped on his jacket and hat, and after saying good-bye to the meager acquaintances he had made, had stepped out the door. Upon leaving, he found, quite to his surprise, the young blonde outside. His eyes were locked on the full moon above, as if observing if it were different than his moon back in Moscow.
"What are you doing?"
Mail didn't mean to be abrupt in his actions, but took a few steps closer, until the two were side by side, staring up at the sky together. Mihael said nothing for a few moments, and for a second Mail wondered if he were both deaf and queer: until a smirk appeared on his face.
"Waiting to see if anyone would approach me and ask that very question,"
His voice was lush, and yet seemed to have picked up the accent of the nation, the strangest combination of battling countries.
Mail was quite unsure of how to answer this, and blew out a final billow of smoke, stepping the cigarette out with his shoe.
"You're not quite like the other men here, are you, um-"
"Mihael...Mihael Keehl."
Mail nodded, looking up from the ground to meet eyes with the man he had just been introduced to.
"Mail Jeevas,"
Mail stuck out his gloved hand, as he had learned was proper despite the circumstances, and found Mihael didn't take it- instead turned away, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"You might want to be a little more courteous when you meet someone, Mr. Jeevas. Never who they'll turn out to be," He looked back, a pace or two away by now, and smiled, his pale cheeks shining in the dim light, "And if you weren't so interested in trying to make a good impression, you might have noticed that your fly has been undone the whole evening. Good night."
He turned around once more, finally, and walked off down the cobble-stone streets, without another word or notice of Mail, who stood there, shell-shocked, staring after him.
"That damn prat," he began, pacing about the room, drink in his hand, "Who does he think he is, telling me I should be more courteous- he's the one who bloody well told me my pants were undone..."
"Well if you think he is such a prat, Mail, then why are you taking such an insult to this?"
The red head took a drink, letting a drip or two run down his chin and drop onto the floor. He never answered, so Nate continued,
"He obviously wanted you to be upset, and don't you think it's below you to sink to his childish level? It's our first week at Cambridge, and for God's sake can't you act like a gentlemen?"
Mail sunk into his seat, the fire flickering lightly by his feet, "Well at least I have emotions, Nate,"
The man across from Mail simply shrugged lightly, standing up without a reply to that.
"And at least I can act my age, Mail."
He shut the door behind him, leaving the young man in his drawing room, alone, with nothing but his thoughts. It was early morning, and classes began soon, the first of his formal education in such an establishment as this. With a sigh, he downed the last of his drink, and stood up, dressing for class, and was immediately assaulted by maids as he left the room. He shooed them away, not in the mood for intense pampering at the moment, and left the building.
His family was not only sound in their economical standing, but in their intellectual standing as well: he was from those that were the best in the country, and was expected to follow in their footsteps. The perks seemed to outweigh the cons most of the time, but when it came right down to it, the pressure was on him. Yet Mail was Mail, with a smile and a quirky remark, always there to achieve that power he had forced upon him.
He was the sort of man people would look at on the street, and tell their young children that that was what society looked for in a person, and that was what they never could be. It both enthralled and sickened him that the world was only based on looks and money: something he had the most of.
"Mihael Keehl, you are late," were the words first spoken upon the young man entering nearly twenty minutes after class had started. Mail had to blink, looking at the man he had seen only in the moonlight, now in full view for everyone.
He was not very tall, yet that height was skewed by the fact that his hair grew much longer than was acceptable for men of the country. He seemed as if he were an animal trying to fit in with humanity, in the fact that he wore a suit and tie like the rest of them, yet was alienated by the fact that he was at the complete opposite end of the spectrum. The room was silent, and no one said a word except, that is, for Mr. Keehl.
"I noticed." He nodded to the instructor, walked over to a near-by desk, and sat there, sitting at ease while eyes were on him. The elder man in front said nothing, and seemed quite in shock.
"Go on, sir, sorry to interrupt your very important lesson," the sarcasm in his voice was about as thick as his skull was, and caused a few students to laugh around Mail. Yet, with disdain, the man continued on with his lesson on physics, while many took notes very diligently. That is, with the exception of Mihael, who seemed quite bored with the subject; and he seemed intent to make that apparent to everyone about him.
"Mihael," the man said suddenly, causing quite a few people to write down the word, before finally noticing there was really no point in it, "can I help you?"
"Why yes, you can actually," Mihael stood up, and waltzed his way up to the front of the classroom, as if it were nothing, and pointed to an equation on the board.
"I was just wondering, sir, why you seem to make fools of all of us highly intelligent young men, by giving us such a simple problem to solve."
The silence in the room was staggering, except for the strange stagnated noises coming from the professor's mouth. At length, he finally spoke something comprehensible.
"Well Mr. Keehl, it seems like you think you can teach the bloody whole class," he began, his face turning more red by the second, "So here-" he stole a piece of chalk, and marked out the previous problem, instead writing an intricate problem far beyond the minds of Mail or any of the others in the classroom. When he was down, he took a step to the side, and crossed his arms, a smug little smirk on his face, "Solve it."
Mihael stood there for a moment, his eyes glazing the problem over, taking in everything as if a piece of art. Mail wasn't quite sure what to think: the first day of college and here he was, amidst a sort of battle-of-wits with his teacher and the man of whom he had just met a night before. A damned immigrant and an established man with years of expertise on his side, battling as if their lives depended on it. Yet Mihael seemed quite sure of himself, as he picked up the chalk, and wrote a simple number on the opposite side of the equation. Before turning around and letting the rest see what he wrote, he spoke, the smile apparent in his tone.
"Sir, I think you've really out-done yourself this time, in trying to insult my intelligence with such a problem as this," he backed away from the problem, and the realization in the professor's face was quite laughable: his mouth agape, he flipped through the pages of his text-book, back to the problem, and back to the book again. Meanwhile, Mihael simply slunk back to his seat, flipping his blonde hair from his face.
A damn prat, and well proud of it.
When he came back from the meeting of the board, it was dark and well into the evening. The whole class, and many who had heard of the incident were gathered around the building to see what had happened: and many, not knowing Mihael even by name, were on him, asking what had happened.
He answered none of the questions, the inquisitions, but smiled, and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, moving through the crowd and back to the main library, where Mail followed, intending to find a motive for his impudence.
When Mihael finally noticed Mail, tailing him through the rows of books and history, he stopped point-blank, and turned back smirking. "I see you've properly dressed yourself today, Mr. Jeevas."
Mail took a few steps closer, his red hair hiding the furrowed eye-brows. "I see you're still the same, Keehl."
Mihael shook his head, moving through the shelves and idly picking up a book in his small hands, taking no notice of the red-head nearby, "Remember, Mr. Jeevas, you really should be more courteous."
"Me? Courteous?" He laughed, and crossed his arms, taking a few steps closer, "What would you call what you are then? A saint?"
"I would say I'm more of a regular man who's sure of who he is and what he wants in the world. I don't pretend to be anything else, unlike most people here."
Mail knew that it would be quite unacceptable someone of his standing to do what he wanted to do so badly, yet no one was around to witness it. In a moment Mihael's collar was shoved upon the window opposite, with Mail's green eyes staring into Mihael's.
"You've got to be the most narcissistic man I've ever seen: I sincerely hope that wherever the fuck you came from the people there are not quite so pathetic-"
Mail didn't know what had happened, yet he was on the ground, held by his wrists by the man of whom he had just been insulting.
"And I hope you know that all of you are the same: wishing that they could be what they're not and always striving for some ungodly amount of power and never achieving it, dying cold and alone." Mihael glared back into the green eyes below him, and just lie there for a while, Mail looking back up without a single word.
Mihael finally stood up, and shook his hair from his face, brushing a piece behind his ear. "Though you don't seem to be quite so conceited- you seem like you're hiding something, Mr. Jeevas. I just wish you weren't so thick, you might see just what was under that mask of your's."
Mail took him by the sleeve, and Mihael turned around, in time to see a face he did not expect.
"I don't even know you, Mihael. How is it that you seem to know everything about me, suddenly?"
He had hit the mark right on the dot, and Mihael didn't need super-human powers to at least get that much. "Because I actually pay attention to people,"
Mihael had shaken his arm away, turning away and walking off with a brisk pace, not caring to look back: that smug attitude of his was gone, replaced by complete and utter devastation.