So, this is something that I've been working on off and on for a while. Possibly since before we even saw Darcy. I originally intended to make it part of a series of one-shots about Why William Darcy Is Perpetually Single, but I have issues with finishing things, so I figured I'd just post it on its own. I realize that the title makes it seem like there may be more adventures to come, but at the moment I don't know if that will happen, though I suppose I have vague plans. Anyway, George's recent appearances made me pick this story back up and gave me an incentive to finish it because I decided that I needed George and Darcy bromance in my life. Even if possibly no one else wants it, I am very curious about that particular relationship and wanted to see more of it before things went south.
This story takes place before their falling out, obviously, and specifically before Darcy's father died. They may be a bit different from their present incarnations because they're like, ten years younger ish and their brains aren't fully developed and Darcy II hasn't kicked the bucket yet, so yeah. Anyway, Darcy and George are 16-7 in this fic and, I mean, I think it's pretty obvious that they're going to some prestigious East Coast coed boarding school, but I figured I'd state that just in case it isn't clear. Everything else is explained in the fic as far as I know, but feel free to ask questions if you want.
Anyway, I don't own LBD. Or Wickham or Darcy, sadly. I hope you enjoy, and reviews are highly appreciated if you can get around to them.
William Darcy looked over at his best friend, George Wickham, aiming a pleading look in his direction. George nodded to Darcy and then smoothly extricated himself from the conversation he was having with several girls with a wink and a smile and a vow to "catch you later." Well aware that at least three girls if not more were presently staring at his ass, he sauntered over to the lockers where Darcy was waiting with books in hand. Darcy was wearing an uncertain expression, nibbling on his bottom lip in a way that reminded George of one of Gigi's pet rabbits. If he wasn't so distracted, Darcy probably would've been rolling his eyes at the (typical) spectacle that accompanied George. "What up, Darce?"
Darcy just sighed, his gaze flickering past George. It was difficult for him sometimes, being friends with George, the Big Man on Campus, who always had a flirtatious comment or a ready smile, but they had been friends almost since birth. One couldn't help but like him. As much as a teeny, tiny part of him resented this, he couldn't imagine it any other way. George's eyes followed the direction of Darcy's gaze to a petite brunette. Her name was Jane something-or-other, and she was a bookish, quiet girl who was in a lot of Darcy's classes.
He suppressed the urge to do a double-take, silently examining her from afar, wondering if he was missing something. George was a bit surprised, to be honest; Jane wasn't especially pretty. She wore her hair up or back from her face every day, never any make-up. She dressed in modest, colorless clothes that hung on her, making her thin figure seem like it was swimming in fabric. She wasn't exactly his type, and up until now he'd never have thought she was Darcy's either, considering his friend's ultra-steep standards, but there was no mistaking the lovestruck look in Will's eyes. "Okay, so you like her," George said expectantly.
Darcy turned his head abruptly to look back at George, his eyes wide, his cheeks turning just the faintest bit pink. George suppressed a chuckle, giving his best friend a look. God, Darcy could be so transparent sometimes. "Come on, bro. I know that look. It's the same look you had when you had a crush on Isabella Woodhouse in seventh grade," he drawled, knocking his shoulder against Darcy's. Due to their lifelong closeness and mostly similar interests, George liked to think of Darcy as his brother. He let out a laugh at the dark look Darcy threw in his direction (it had not gone well or, indeed, anywhere, with Isabella, who had only had eyes for John Knightley and had started dating him at the beginning of eighth grade) and decided to throw him a bone. "And I presume you want my help," George continued, taking a third look at the girl Darcy was presently admiring. Darcy's shoulders slumped a little, but he nodded minutely, suppressing a sigh.
George was attempting to size Jane up, trying to rack his brain for anything he knew about her. She was kind of a mysterious girl, private. Nothing came to mind aside from the fact that she read a lot, was a bit of a nerd, which was fitting since she was here on scholarship, kept to herself, and had painted a few very nice art projects. She was modest and dressed plainly, refusing to hike up her skirts like the other girls, so George had never taken much of an interest. "You talk to her, don't you? In class?" George prompted.
"Yes," Darcy said after a while, still watching her longingly. He briefly tore his eyes away from her elfin figure to look at George, who was giving him a sympathetic look while silently wondering just how much Darcy actually talked to Jane. "But I... I don't know how to..." He faltered a minute, his fingers curling in the air in frustration. George's brow furrowed, and he motioned somewhat impatiently for the older boy to go on. Darcy sighed heavily, in that world-weary I-take-myself-far-too-seriously-for-a-teenager way that sometimes made George want to just put him out of his misery already. Naturally, a serious expression passed over Darcy's face. "I want to ask her to the dance."
The statement hung in the air for a moment.
Darcy was already regretting he'd said anything, and George was still processing. His eyes widened. "You, at a dance?" George exclaimed vaguely incredulously. Unlike George, who loved a good party, Darcy only came to dances when forced (rarely) and avoided dancing whenever possible despite the many ballroom dance lessons he'd been forced to take for cotillion. "Who are you and what have you done with William Darcy?" Darcy rolled his eyes and looked away, his cheeks turning red. He muttered something under his breath about how George didn't understand, but George placed a hand on Darcy's shoulder, calming him. Those perpetually tense shoulders relaxed a fraction, and Darcy looked back down at George.
"Look, man, I'm just surprised. It's not like you," George said in a softer tone, patting Darcy's shoulder, trying his best to soothe. Darcy's prickly nature and shyness meant that one had to handle him carefully. The two boys were almost the same height; Darcy was a bit taller but prone to slouching, forever trying to slink around unnoticed. Their eyes met briefly, blue on blue, and Darcy seemed to unwind a little. He smiled faintly at his friend, glad for George, one of the few people at this school who actually knew him and bothered to put up with him. George smiled back warmly.
Then both boys looked back over at Jane, who was putting books in her locker and chatting with Diana Rivers, one of her super-hot, more conventionally-attractive cousins. Wickham's smile widened a fraction, and he straightened a little. "You must really like this girl if you want to go to all that trouble," George remarked. Darcy nodded silently, his eyes still on Jane. Had he been looking at George, he probably would've made some quip about his ceaseless primping and preening; unlike the majority of the student body, he did actually realize what effort went into George's machinations to stay on top. "Seriously, good for you, bro," George said sincerely, squeezing Darcy's shoulder.
Darcy could be a bit of a stick in the mud, taking on too much responsibility for his age, but he and his family had always been nice to George and treated him like one of their own. Aside from Darcy's dad, Will was probably one of the best people George knew, a veritable paragon of perfection, so much so that it was sometimes irritating to be friends with him. Ultimately, though, George knew Darcy would have his back, no matter what, so if anyone deserved to be happy (and getting laid), it was Will.
However, up until that point, Will had done nothing but refuse George's frequent offers to help him with women or set him up. He had plenty of excuses, of course: too busy, not in the mood, his family, legalities, other, more pressing obligations, a general lack of patience or interest in dating, but... George was pretty sure that Darcy was just running scared of feeling that way about someone when he, of all people, was aware of the fragility of relationships. George could hardly begrudge him any of this, especially when it meant he got more girls to himself and that he wasn't forced to go on quite so many awkward and awful double-dates with hot girls and their less-than-hot friends. That sort of thing wasn't Darcy's scene, and poor Will got tongue-tied around women whenever he wasn't working or snarking around and inadvertently insulting people.
Sensing an opportunity, George reached over and shut Darcy's locker, grabbing his friend's arm, and all but dragging a resistant and horrified Darcy over to the girls. Darcy was almost flailing, and it looked ridiculous. George was a bit more compact than Will, who was lanky and pale, all awkward limbs and angles. Darcy might've been stronger in terms of raw strength, but he didn't work out nearly as much as George did, and it showed. "Hello ladies. I'm George," he said smoothly, flashing that perfect smile, the one that made girls everywhere swoon. He had no shortage of confidence. "George Wickham," he added a moment later, though that went without saying. What other George was there? He looked from one girl to the other, still dimpling. "I think I've seen you two around." His gaze lingered on Diana in particular, and she blushed prettily under the scrutiny.
Jane noticed this and stifled a smile, her eyes briefly landing on William. She looked away when she found him staring, turning her focus back to George. She knew of George (who didn't?), but she didn't like all that she'd heard about him, and, unlike some other girls, his looks and personality didn't blind her to his less-than-charming qualities. Truthfully, knowing what she did of him and Darcy, she'd never understood how the two could be such close friends. Darcy had morals and virtues that his best friend seemed not only to lack but to be incapable of; all they seemed to have in common was a shared past and the fact that they were both extremely handsome. She quirked a brow in response. "Really? You've seen us around?" she asked skeptically. Her gaze darted back over to Darcy, whose eyes were focused on the floor. "Hi, William," she said after a moment, her voice a bit softer than the harder, more suspicious tone she'd used with George.
Since she wasn't looking at Wickham, she didn't notice the way his strikingly handsome "battle-face" expression softened. Darcy smiled faintly back at her. He had very pretty, clear blue eyes, almost a periwinkle in the right light, Jane noticed, as she often did. She'd often thought he would make a good subject for a painting, but she didn't think her mediocre art skills could do justice to the heavy aura of sadness he seemed to carry with him—she knew what it was to carry something so heavy, so she could not help but recognize it in him. He stared at her intently in silence, as he often did, for a few moments until they all began to get uncomfortable. Then George elbowed him, shooting him a pointed look, raising his brows exaggeratedly. Darcy grunted, rubbing his side absently. "Hello, Jane." It came out just as formal as anything else Darcy said, and George looked up at the ceiling almost disbelievingly.
Jane smiled faintly, shifting a little, moving her backpack from one hand to the other. George glanced between them, staring at each other in silence like idiots. He knew Will was into her, of course, but did she? Darcy did not feel things lightly; he was not a fickle man and the kind besides that who invested everything in you when he believed in you—all or nothing, that was just who he was. And, as reluctant as Will was to let people in, George didn't want to see him get hurt. He couldn't really make out this girl Jane's feelings for his best friend, let alone if she was the sort of girl Darcy ought to be dating, so maybe he needed to take it up a notch. He directed his gaze towards plain Jane, smiling brightly. "So," he began, "Darcy here was just telling me how you have the most beautiful hazel eyes-"
"-I was?" Darcy interrupted, looking a bit startled. He did actually admire Jane's eyes a bit, but he admired her spirit more. George really did know him very well to know that, though, because it was never something he would've said. George gave Darcy an unimpressed, vaguely annoyed look. He was just trying to help a brother out, and of course Darcy was so inept he couldn't even play along right. It never failed to baffle George how someone like Darcy, who ostensibly had it all, could fail so spectacularly at social interaction and flirting.
Jane and her cousin similarly exchanged looks, and Diana giggled. Jane's eyes flicked dismissively from Wickham to Darcy and lingered a few moments on the latter. She was decidedly nonplussed, hoisting up and shouldering her backpack. "My eyes are green." She raised her brows as if daring him to challenge that. Sure enough, her eyes were a lovely sort of dark green, and for a second George got a glimpse of why Darcy liked her—the eyes and the attitude.
Both of these things might've intrigued George himself if Darcy didn't like her and she wasn't so plain, so he supposed he had to respect his friend's taste. George tried not to cringe at the sharpness of her voice, and Darcy shot him a pleading, almost despairing look that all but begged him to intervene on his behalf. George couldn't say no to that look, but Jane was obviously not the type of female who was susceptible to his charms, not like Molly Flanders or Tess D'Whatever.
However, George was far better under pressure than Darcy ever was, so he managed to keep up his pleasant expression. He had a natural ability to adapt to his circumstances seemingly effortlessly that Darcy had always admired and envied. George briefly met Jane's gaze, letting out a somewhat forced chuckle before turning to Darcy, lightly shoving him. "Oh, come on, Darcy, you know you've got a thing for green eyes," he teased, looking from Will to Jane with less than his usual subtlety. Jane actually rolled her eyes at this, even more unimpressed, but she didn't say a word.
Darcy threw George an absolutely mortified and murderous look. "Shut up, George," he hissed, elbowing him so hard in the stomach that George almost doubled over. He might have had he not been standing in front of two girls; he had a reputation to uphold, after all. A mild expression of alarm passed over Jane and Diana's faces; they'd never known Darcy to be violent. George was used to provoking Darcy's ire and settled for a grunt and gingerly rubbing his stomach. Apology flickered across Darcy's face, but George merely waved him off, having forgiven him already. He pushed Darcy; it was just what he did. Sometimes Darcy pushed back.
Jane crossed an arm over her chest and looked at Darcy expectantly. Darcy licked his lips as if to speak, but his throat closed up at the mere prospect, and he looked away abruptly. Jane sighed heavily, turning to go. Seeing this, George attempted to ignore the fading pain in his stomach and crossed over to Diana. "You know, Diana, I was thinking we could all go out some time... you, me," he suggested, pausing for a second as his gaze cut over to Jane, "Jane, and Darcy here." Darcy's brows shot up in sheer surprise as he looked at George's back, seeming utterly horror-stricken. Jane's eyes narrowed in displeasure; she couldn't see herself enjoying any evening spent with insincere George and taciturn William (no matter how much she might've enjoyed getting to know him). "We could get something to eat and maybe get to know each other a little better. What do you say?" he offered, wiggling his brows encouragingly.
"I think that would be great, George." Diana giggled coyly and reached into her notebook, tearing out a piece of paper. She started writing her number down on it, occasionally glancing up at him reassuringly and smiling as she wrote it out. "Here," she said shyly, handing him the piece of paper. "Call me sometime." George glanced down at the sheet, noticing that she'd written down both her cell phone and her home numbers. He nodded, smiling back at her, waving as she moved to catch up with her cousin. Diana tossed her hair and waved back, turning to hide her girlish smile behind her hand.
Darcy was staring at George in awe. He'd practically had to say his name, and this girl George had never met was jumping at a chance to date him and had given him her phone number without prompting, while he'd been talking to Jane for months and hinted many times at the possibility of dating with absolutely no response. Jane was, however, less than impressed or amused. She exhaled sharply, giving Diana an even sharper look. "Diana, what on earth do you think you're doing?! Your brother would not approve of this!" she cried, whirling around and stalking right back over to George. She surprised him further by snatching the piece of paper right out of George's hand.
George had been smirking at the number, imagining how he could get the date to end (the church girls were always the freaky ones, after all). When the paper disappeared from his hand, the smile disappeared, and he found himself reaching after Jane, who was already marching back over to a silent Diana. If it wasn't annoying him quite so much, George might've admired Jane's spirit as Darcy was. Though he was far larger than her, Jane did not back away, to her credit, even when George grabbed her arm and tried to get the paper back. "No," she insisted, pushing him away with a strength he wouldn't have expected from someone so petite.
She'd pushed him away in the exact same spot Darcy had elbowed him in, so George found himself too winded to pursue her. The vaguely alarmed and borderline angry look Darcy was throwing at him also made him relent, shoulders slumping. He didn't like being thwarted in his quest to get some, but, then, Jane did have another hot cousin. Darcy, on the other hand, could only watch all of this in horror, wondering how it had all gone so wrong. George was normally so good with women, and there had been a moment, a terribly brief moment in which Darcy thought it all might still work out.
Jane made her way back over to her cousin and linked arms with her. She ignored the men and turned to address Diana directly. "Diana, you know about George, and you know men like him are bad news," she interjected. She turned just enough to throw George a poisonous glance. "His longest lasting relationship was six weeks," she all but snapped, "You know exactly what he wants, and he'll say anything to get it, and once he does that, he'll throw you away." Diana frowned, opening her mouth to defend him, but Jane shook her head and proceeded to drag Diana down the hallway without so much as a goodbye, much less allowing a (now angry) George to defend himself.
George scowled, his hands curling into irritated fists as he slowly turned around to face Darcy. He was ready to lecture Will on his questionable taste in women and perhaps offer a few "easier" recommendations so that Darcy could work his way up, but catching sight of the look on his best friend's face silenced any suggestions he might've made. Darcy's expression was typically impassive, but only a practiced observer like George could read the traces of mortification, frustration, and disappointment hidden there. Darcy walked backwards until he hit the lockers and repeatedly started banging his head against his locker. George sighed, pursing his lips. "Sorry 'bout that, bro," he offered up with a helpless shrug.
Darcy stopped banging the back of his head against his locker, turning to look at his friend. He didn't have the energy to condemn George's attempts to help him talk to women. He was lucky he'd asked George for help and not one of his more socially awkward friends, though he probably should've realized that George's easy charm was exactly the sort of thing Jane would find repellent. Accepting this, Darcy merely shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, going back to leaning against his locker, his face downcast.
A frowning George walked back over to his friend and their lockers. Darcy turned away, pulling out his bag with more force than necessary, jerking the zipper down, and chucking his books inside. He could really be a pain in the ass sometimes. George's brows shot up in mild alarm, and he took a few steps away from Darcy, raising his hands in a surrendering gesture. He caught sight of the expression on Darcy's face, which was darker than usual, and for a second George debated telling him what he was about to say. However, something about the tight misery reflected on Will's face made George's stomach knot up in guilt, so he felt compelled to speak and do something to soothe his friend, as usual. George licked his lips and took a deep breath. "For what it's worth, though, I think Jane is kind of into you," he said nonchalantly.
Darcy turned to stare at him as if he'd grown a second head. He didn't move a muscle, just stared at George with that burning intensity the men in his family were known for. Though he'd known Will virtually since birth, George was still uncomfortable under the full weight of his scrutiny. It wasn't like George to fidget, but he looked down and shuffled his feet, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. After a long minute of this, Darcy turned away abruptly, shutting his locker and spinning the dial so that it locked. He did this with the terse deliberateness that, more than anything else, betrayed that he was in a state of considerable emotional upheaval. "In what universe could you possibly think that, George? Any feelings she might've possessed for me died the minute you intervened."
George's jaw tightened slightly. While he never said anything without thinking, Will's temper ran a bit hot, and when he was angry, his words tended to sound more blisteringly dry and insulting than he intended. He couldn't even bother being mad since he knew that Will was far more furious with himself than he was with George. He reached out to Darcy, his hand finding his shoulder. He held on despite the other man's attempt to shrug out of his grip. "If she really likes you, Darce, then she's not going to let any stupid things your best friend may have said or done get to her," he countered, moving so he was in Darcy's line of sight, leaning against his locker. The taller man scowled at him, trying to look away, but George kept tilting his head so that Darcy had to look at him. "But, then, maybe you'd actually know how Jane felt if you could just talk to her," he continued pointedly, attempting to give Darcy a look.
Darcy's jaw tightened, and it made all of his features stand out in sharp relief. His irritation was even more plain. He looked away quickly, the way he did when he was afraid he was showing too much emotion. "I do not possess your ability of easily conversing with, let alone charming, women, George," Darcy replied peevishly, bending down to zip up his bag. George rolled his eyes, glancing heavenward as if asking for divine intervention. There was no denying the truth of Darcy's words. As it was, George spun the dial to his own locker, entering in his combination.
"Maybe that's because you never practice, Darcy," he replied breezily, opening his locker. Darcy shot him a dark look, although he could acknowledge that George had a point there. Darcy's attitude towards his peers was never exactly going to win him any popularity awards, and he'd accepted that long ago. He could no more change it, despite all the etiquette and dancing lessons (and all the advice George and other people with better social skills had ever given him) than any other facet of his personality. Still, he couldn't help but envy his friend's social ease. George paused, tilting his head to the side and considering it briefly. After a moment, he licked his lips and turned to face Darcy, his lips turning up into a mischievous smile—the one that meant he was up to no-good (and also made women go crazy over him, despite their better judgment). "Think of it like you're talking to me or Gigi, only you want to do one of us."
Darcy's face immediately contorted into a grimace of disgust. Sometimes George's cruder manners and way of talking about things grated, but he had to admire his friend's directness. Darcy's directness was not generally taken quite as well. George's grin widened, and he chuckled at his friend's reaction. "I'm not even going to gratify that with a response, George." George rather unsuccessfully stifled a snort and raised a brow; did Darcy not realize that that was a response? He turned back to his locker, taking books out and putting them into his backpack almost without thinking about it. Darcy sighed, once again drawing George's attention to him. "You know it's easier for me to talk to people I already know well because I'm not second guessing myself... or their intentions," he replied, looking down and putting his bag on his shoulder.
George frowned. Darcy had a tendency to expect the worst, which made him great at planning for any contingency and the best friend anyone could ever have in a crisis, but it did make him more of a worrywart than most other teenage boys. Even at this school full of wealthy and influential children from the right families, Will was always looking for someone trying to take advantage. Naturally George couldn't help but find this strange given their lifelong friendship, not to mention the thing he clearly had for poor Jane Eyre. "You know, Will," George remarked offhandedly, "being a little more trusting wouldn't kill you."
Ordinarily, Darcy might've softened. George was the only person who had ever called him Will—Will and never William, and if not that always some sort of nickname or other. Everyone else either called him by his full first name or else by his last name, which Darcy had embraced—and why shouldn't he? He was proud of who he was; he was a Darcy, and that meant something, to have a family legacy like that!
To be honest, though, the nicknames sort of bothered him in a way, but it was a George thing, so he'd more or less inured himself to it and come to find it... if not almost endearing, at least familiar and comforting in that. It was comforting to know that George knew him, really knew him, even if no one else did at this school—it was like having a piece of home there with him, even if he saw his father and real sister only sparingly.
Nonetheless, Darcy gave him a hard look, and George sighed wearily. This was an argument they'd had in some form many times; Darcy's cautiousness and habitual restraint clashed (and sometimes complimented) with George's adventurous and often flighty spirit. George held up his hands again in a surrendering expression, pursing his lips. "We should go swimming," he said suddenly, reaching out and pushing Darcy's shoulder. Darcy regarded him coolly, sliding a hand into the pocket of his slacks. He did, however, tilt his head far enough to the side to indicate to George that he was open to the suggestion. "Come on," George coaxed, squeezing Darcy's bicep in a way that was supposed to be comforting, "it'll help get your mind off of things."
Darcy drew his lips together, looking to the side as he considered it. George's expression was eager as always; he spent most of his free time, what little of it there was, in that pool and was as comfortable in water as any mammal could be. In fact, George occasionally reminded him of a dolphin—alternatively friendly and aggressive, "cute" to those who didn't know him well but with sharper teeth than one would imagine. Truthfully, he knew George was right. Swimming usually did help him unwind, and when doing laps until he could think of nothing more than propelling himself forward and feeling the burn in his arms and shoulders didn't work, George would splash him or do something to provoke him, and they would end up roughhousing in the water. Either way, he'd feel better (and sore) afterwards.
Sometimes, if the weather was nice, and they could afford to sneak out, George would drag Darcy out to the Cape, to the beach that recalled their warm, sunny Californian childhood in some small measure. They usually didn't go when it was sunny unless they were with some of the other guys, but there was something soothing about going to the beach at night, just the two of them, and camping on the beach, staying up late and roasting marshmallows like they used to when they were children. After a moment of this, Darcy nodded silently, though the brief twitch of his lips gave him away.
George grinned brightly, patting Darcy on the shoulder. He picked up his bag and jauntily started off for the school swimming pool. Darcy followed him, considerably less chipper (George was about to start whistling; Darcy could tell). The pool was actually one of the few places on campus where Darcy, recently-elected captain of the Diving Team, felt comfortable and in his element, though he would never be quite as happy or carefree in the water as his younger friend. Wickham was faster, better at swimming shorter distances, while Darcy was better at relays and longer distances, despite having the advantage of height and build in his favor.
Glancing back over his shoulder at his friend, George frowned when he saw how slow Darcy was walking—not unlike a man headed to his execution. His curiously far-off expression, however, meant that he was probably still thinking of the girl who'd left. "And you're already imagining her having your children, aren't you?" George said expectantly, fixing Darcy with a knowing look.
Darcy started at the direct address and nearly tripped over his own feet. His thoughts of Jane and the future they might have hadn't yet gone that far, but they were trending that way. How had George known? "What? No, of course not," he exclaimed a bit too quickly. He sounded like a robot and moved like one too, stiffly and slow as opposed to merely deliberate. A bit too obviously, he looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. George stopped and made a show of rolling his eyes at him, utterly unconvinced. Like he didn't see right through Will after all these years?
George stared Darcy down, crossing an arm over his chest and hoisting his bag up further on his shoulder. Darcy stared back but not with his usual intensity. Sometimes he thought to himself that he perhaps enjoyed Darcy's discomfort a bit too much, that it was unhealthy for him to enjoy watching his best friend squirm, but there was just something so amusing about messing with him, about watching his childhood friend shift awkwardly and fidget and try not to look at him. George briefly dropped his gaze and saw, to his utter lack of surprise, that Will's fingers were fiddling with the strap of his sports bag. When he was nervous or at all uncertain about what to do with his hands, Will's fingers danced along to some silent tapping beat of their own, almost as if he were counting.
He cocked his head, dragging his gaze back up to meet Will's somewhat wide-eyed deeper blue stare. "Come on, Will. I know you," he drawled, approaching his friend and leaning in just a bit too close for comfort, as was his wont. There was still something soothing about the way he said he knew Darcy, about the way he said his first name. He threw an arm around Darcy's shoulders with a casual ease, as only a childhood friend could. "You get caught up in your daydreams," he began, starting to walk again. Darcy started to walk with him, and George tampered down his smile a little.
"And you start planning years ahead without considering all of the possibilities..." he continued, ignoring Darcy's vaguely indignant expression (doubtlessly at being accused of not fully thinking something out or considering all the variables). "...or planning how to actually get what you want." Darcy glared at him, and George exhaled, holding up his other arm in that surrendering gesture. "Forgive me," he amended, adding mockingly, "I mean planning how to make her realize you're soulmates and fall in love with you too... if she hasn't already."
This time Darcy outright glowered and pushed a smirking, very pleased with himself George away. "I do not do that!" George's only answer was loud, raucous laughter. He even threw his head back a little, and Darcy responded by attempting to ignore him (which was futile, as George had a way of getting under his skin better than anyone he'd ever met, like a brother he'd never wanted) and stalking past him down the hall.
When George straightened up from laughing at the ridiculous look on Darcy's face as he'd attempted to argue that he didn't overanalyze and plan everything to death and think big-picture, long-term, like the C.E.O. he was meant to be, he realized that Darcy was halfway down the corridor. George let out a breath and hurried to catch up with him. "You so do. You're a planner. It's your nature," George protested, straining a little to match Darcy's strides so that they were even without actually running. He would've said it a bit less matter-of-factly, with a bit more humor, if he hadn't been chasing after Darcy.
Darcy turned to look at him, his face hard enough to be reminiscent of his father, who he was destined to become in some way, for better or for worse. It was an unconscious echo. Slowing his strides now that he and Darcy were once again side by side, George took a deep breath and added after a moment, "You feel things more intensely. In your own emotionally-constipated way." His voice was softer, the words tempered by a strangled laugh and a fond gaze. Darcy, who had been meeting George's stare unflinchingly, looked away abruptly, ashamed as he always was at the power his own emotions held over him and how transparent he was to someone who knew how to look. He wanted to be the master of his own emotions. "There's a passionate na-"
He didn't let George finish the word or the sentence; he knew to some extent what George would say. George would've mentioned the passionate, generous nature looking behind his icy, emotionless facade. He would've sounded a bit like Mrs. Reynolds if he put it on just right, but he would've been mocking him just a little. It was hardly an aspect of his own personality—the absolute intensity of focus and attention that adults had always praised—that he was proud of, and he'd spent much of his life reigning it in. But what good was a passionate nature without expression, without an outlet? "You were wrong earlier," Darcy interrupted.
He had briefly debated saying something about still waters running deep so that he could take the words right out of George's mouth, but he rather enjoyed the look of bemused astonishment his friend was currently sporting. George raised an eyebrow, his mouth a little more slack than usual. He wasn't wrong on many things concerning Darcy due to the benefit of a lifetime of study. "I don't have a thing for green eyes, as you said," he said with a bit of distaste. George rolled his eyes; he'd come up with that off of the top of his head. He moved a little closer to Darcy to study him nonetheless. It was very rare that Darcy talked about what he wanted in a woman and what he was attracted to, so much so that underclassmen sometimes asked if he was going to become a monk or priest or something.
Darcy's reply to such an inquiry was always a curt "no" and a withering are-you-stupid-I'm-going-to-run-my-father's-company-you-idiot look. George's reply was perhaps a bit meaner but no less accurate, "Christ, no! Does he look like self-righteous St. John Rivers to you?" It was not a stretch to say that they both found Jane's male cousin absolutely insufferable in his quest for premature martyrdom and his constant, conscious proselytizing. George had remarked to Darcy more than once that he was one of few who had a "bigger stick up his ass than you."
"Oh, really?" George asked, fixing Darcy with an expectant look.
Darcy threw him a cross look, his jaw tight. "Actually, I prefer blue eyes."
George raised his brows, mildly amused at this. It surprised him a bit, since Darcy's mother had had very lovely hazel eyes. "Really?" he said, raising the pitch of his voice as if he couldn't contain his glee and disbelief. Darcy was not at all amused, so George continued in his lifelong quest to make Darcy even more uncomfortable. "You mean like mine, Willy?" he cooed, leaning in towards Darcy even closer than before and dramatically batting his eyelashes.
Darcy's expression simultaneously conveyed both disgust and dismay, and he reached out unthinkingly and shoved George away. George burst out into hysterical laughter, and Darcy eyed him warily as they finally approached the locker room where they would change. He glanced over at George, frowning, and hesitated a moment before going in. A still laughing George followed him in, resisting the urge to suddenly grab him from behind and make him even more uncomfortable. "Not your particular shade. Too light, too aquamarine. I prefer a deeper shade of blue, more of a cerulean," Darcy said so matter-of-factly, when George was least expecting it, that George nearly doubled over in laughter. It was a typical example of Darcy's especially dry sense of humor in that he'd said it in part to get back George, though it was also true at face-value.
George turned out to be right in that the swimming helped him forget... and that he had other chances with Jane, to talk to her. However, Darcy never did ask Jane to the dance, mostly because he bungled every one of his subsequent attempts to ask her to go to the dance with him, no matter how well their conversations had been previously going. This left Jane rather perplexed by his behavior; she was of two minds about him at best, finding him at times pleasant but other times too something or, perhaps, not something enough, though she could not name the quality. Her interest in Darcy had waned, but he'd come around to thinking that maybe George even had a point about her feelings too—George's judgment on these things, particularly a woman's interest, was far better than his own—and that maybe it was just a matter of time. Maybe he could ask her to prom if he practiced with George and George told him what to say.
At least, that's what he thought, despite George's attempts to get Darcy to look elsewhere, up until a year later when he overheard Mrs. Fairfax talking to one of the other teachers about a scandal that had occurred with one of the teachers. It involved, somewhat unsurprisingly, Mr. Edward Rochester, the mercurial (and generally unpleasant and possibly bipolar) Geography teacher. It was also surprising because, though he could be a bit of a flirt and charmer when he tried to be, Mr. Rochester's personality and person were of a questionable, twisted attractiveness at best. The thirty-five-year-old had apparently gotten involved with one of the students who lived in his dorm, Thornfield Hall. Darcy had found this strange because he'd heard rumors that Rochester was engaged to some Ingram woman, and he knew for a fact, as everyone did, that Rochester had a legitimately violently insane Jamaican ex-wife who had been institutionalized multiple times.
Of course Darcy had known that Jane lived in that dorm, but he would never have in a million years thought that Jane was the student Mr. Rochester had run off to the south of France with... not until he actually heard a disbelieving Mrs. Fairfax say her name. In the limited interactions he'd seen, he'd never seen anything to suggest that they were fond of each other, but then he hadn't been looking or known what to look for. He'd noticed that Rochester took a bit more interest in Jane than in other students, perhaps, that maybe he teased her a bit more, but she teased back. He'd thought nothing of it at the time, but the more he thought about it, the more Rochester's behavior towards him—his seeming irrational dislike of Darcy—made sense. He was always short to him and harder on him, never calling him by his first name, not because he'd been pushing Darcy, as he'd thought, but because he'd been jealous. Jealous, apparently, of a relationship that had only existed in Darcy's dreams.
Apparently Mrs. Fairfax had seen them kissing shortly before their disappearance and had confronted Jane about it. Jane had pointed out that she was seventeen and would be eighteen in a few months and admitted no wrongdoing. She'd said that she and Rochester—Edward—were in love, and Darcy had wanted to throw up because he knew the truth of it, felt it deep in his gut.
George had found out shortly afterward somehow, and he'd tried to comfort him the best he could. He'd stolen some of the finest scotch he could find on campus, and the two of them had gone up to the belltower-clocktower-whatever-it-was and gotten blitzed. Maybe Darcy hadn't felt better, per se, but he'd at least forgotten everything so that much of the pain was a ball of blank space in his memory. The only thing he remembered was the apologetic look on George's face. After a while sitting in silence on their way to getting buzzed, while he was feeling the scotch burning its way down his throat, George snorted and said, "Well, if it helps, she did pick the teacher the most like you to run off with. I mean, he was probably the only guy here more miserable than you, Will. That's gotta mean something, right?" Will had let out an answering laugh that was part a pathetic gasp and a sob.
He learned a lot of things from that. He learned that being half in love with someone is not the same as being fully, wholly in love with someone. But it still hurt. He learned that friends were, well, sometimes more important than anything, and he learned to retreat into them in times of sorrow and heartache, that it was easier to bear the pain if he split it up and shared his burdens. He learned that getting blindingly drunk numbed the pain but ultimately helped nothing, just gave you time to prolong dealing with it.
And, more than anything, he learned to be careful, very, very careful, about who he gave his heart away to. Because they just might break it, and giving someone else that kind of power over you... is an invitation to exercise it.
He probably should've learned other things, more things about women, things that would've helped him later, but he was only seventeen, so those were the lessons he took from it.
It took him a lot longer to learn that he couldn't trust George, that the friendship which had brought him such belonging and comfort was actually toxic, longer still to even begin to understand it. It would be a lie to say it didn't still hurt. That it didn't feel like he still hadn't lost something, like he didn't feel it, his absence, sometimes when he breathed the wrong way.
Some lessons were harder to learn than others.
- Loren ;*