Chapter One: Beginnings
"Every saint has a past, and every sinner a future"—Wilde
"Wilde? Oscar Wilde? Are you paying attention young man?" Oscar looked up, irritation showing in his tempestuous gray eyes.
"Yes, Mr. Palmer?" he asked, voice sounding soft and lilting. "Is there are problem, sir?"
"Have you paid attention to a word of this lecture on the ancient Greeks?" the teacher snapped.
"No," said Oscar, smiling brightly. He could hear the titters of laughter behind him. They had been an almost constant accompaniment to his every mark since he'd first come to Winderrmere High. Everything about him—his long chestnut locks, his mouthful of a name (Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde), his slight Irish accent and his propensity towards waxing lyrical— everything about him was wrong, and an invitation to mockery.
"What?" Mr. Palmer looked taken aback. "What are you—"
"What I mean," the boy said, shutting his book with a snap, "is that I've spent this lecture doing important things. You see, I've already covered all this material. And you're wrong, by the way. Most scholars agree that the destruction of Troy was in 1190 AD, not 1178." At that moment, the bell rang, and the student as one rose and hurried out of the class. Oscar paused only to grab his notebook and, with a wave to Mr. Palmer, hurried out.
He shouldered his way through the boys in the hallway, trying to make it to his locker.
"Hey, Paddy!" came an unfortunately familiar voice. Oscar looked up, glaring at the six-foot wall of muscle, testosterone and bad attitude in front of him.
"Hello Baldwin," he said, sighing. "You know, you'd think you'd get bored at this. Even your miniscule intellect must find it tedious."
"Shut up, Wilde," said the boy, pushing Oscar so he dropped his books. Homer and Herodotus spilled across the cold tile floor.
"Stop!" Oscar cried, his voice sounding out like a bell across the wild green hills of County Kerry. "Those are valuable books!" He made a grab for them, but Baldwin's huge, meaty fist slammed into the side of Oscar's head, and the world spun. Sound filled his head and receded, the dim sound of the second bell vaguely ringing in his ears. He heard footsteps approach.
"Are you all right?" came a voice from beside him. Small, strong hands helped him to a sitting position.
"I, ah, I appear to find myself at an extreme disadvantage," Oscar said, loosening his necktie. He touched his chin gingerly, feeling the red-hot poker-like twinge in his jaw. "I think that might bruise." He finally looked up to see his savior.
Stormy gray eyes met deep forest green ones, and Oscar felt for a moment like the room was spinning once more.
"I'm Robert," said the boy. He was a fine specimen of youth, small and lithe with a bright intelligent face and deep brown hair.
"Oscar Wilde," he said, accepting the boy's offer of a hand up.
"So I've heard," said the younger boy. "I know you've probably heard this a lot, but I kind of want to ask… Is it true?"
"Is what true?" asked Oscar warily.
"Is it true you were cast out of your old school for distributing, um… objectionable materials?"
"Oh!" said Oscar. "You mean the Uranian ideals? Yes, that's true." He looked at the new boy warily, expecting the usual reaction: the disgust, the horror, the ridicule. But none of these came. "Why?" he asked finally.
"Oh," said the boy, lowering his eyes shyly. Oscar noticed his long dark lashes, perfectly framing his limpid emeralds. "I was just, um… Well…"
"Yes?" Oscar asked, hanging on the boy's every perfuméd breath.
"Would you care to show me?" he asked, looking skittish as a young fawn. "Not here, of course. It's too dangerous. But… later."
"I… I think I would love that," said Oscar, gathering his books.
