-2-

The term had finished, and all the students had left the now frigid Cambridge to warmer climate. Winter was truly a Hell of a time to try to finish up a essay, and Mail wished now he hadn't procrastinated as much as he had.

His family had told him to stay in Cambridge until the essay was done, and so his large house was sparse but the maids, Mail, and his thoughts.

He hadn't seen Mihael for the last few days of class, despite the fact that the two always seemed to run into eachother at both supervisions and lectures. They hadn't exchanged a word to the other, except perhaps 'Morning' and 'Good evening'. Mihael kept on with his smug attitude about class, and Mail could tell the instructors truly detested the sight of him. He wondered, idly, why they didn't expell him that first day: before remembering the equation that first day of school.

Of course, he was there on smarts and smarts alone: anything to make the prestigious 'Cambridge' even more prestigious.

Mail would take walks about the campus on occasion, despite the fact that the ground beneath his feet would crack with ice. It was a few days into vacation that Mail finally met up with Mihael, simply by mistake. He had wandered into a cafe, in need of coffee to soothe his nerves, and found the man catering to him was none other than Mihael himself.

"Mihael? What are you-"

"I'm working, Mail, as I would hope you would be able to tell,"

A smart-ass as always.

"Yes, yes..." He deverted his eyes from the Mihael he was quite unable to picture: hair up in a pony-tail and with a full-on butler-like-demeanor. "I'll have...a...coffee."

"Right,"

Mihael moved about the tables with ease, his feminine figure definietly coming in handy when it came to moving about the crowded space. Mail breathed life into his cold hands, the fire flickering opposite of him barely enough to warm people right next to it. His mind was mudded: he wanted to ask Mihael where he had been, and some part of him seemed to want to know everything about the man he had met when his schooling had started.

He returned soon after, placing a coffee in front of Mail, steaming and bringing Mail warmth immediately. Yet, instead of leaving, Mihael instead set himself down at the seat opposite Mail, watching him quite intently.

"So Mail," he seemed to drop his pretencious demeanor here in such a place, "What are you doing still in Cambridge? I thought you would have left on vacation."

"My parents left me here to finish a report I have to do on the theory of evolution...a boring topic let me assure you, especially since the theory just became accepted a few years ago..."

"Hm. What a way to spend your Christmas."

"And what are you doing, Mihael, here in a position like this? Aren't you one of the 'fine members of Cambridge's elite?'"

Mihael laughed, and Mail was quite taken aback by something from the man of whom, last time they had exchanged a conversation, had been tearing Mail apart bit by bit.

"Well, unlike you, I have to work for a living. Life isn't bright for a poor working immigrant like myself, Mail." Though the words were indeed quite depressing in nature, Mail could tell it was being spoken jokingly, and with a smile on his face.

"I suppose I wouldn't know..."

The cafe had seemed to empty while they conversed, and now it was simply the two of them, sitting across from one another while snow powdered the land around them. They talked for a good while, both trying desperatley not to bring up the night early that year.

"I should get back to work, Mail. Good luck on that report of your's..."

"Um...Mihael...I um..."

Mihael looked back to Mail, his eyebrows raised slightly in interest. "Yes?"

"When you get off of work, would you...be interested in maybe having some tea?"

There was no expression on either of their faces for what seemed like hours: Mihael in the process of standing, and Mail sitting there, hands cradeling the empty coffee cup.

"You brits and your tea," Mihael smirked, standing up and adjusting his hair, "I'll be interested, if you include cakes in this deal of your's. If you can meet my demands, I'll meet you outside in a two hours."

Mail left, not knowing quite why he had said that: they weren't friends. In fact, one might say they were enemies. They didn't have much in common, and never really had a worthwhile conversation. Hell, they didn't know eachother. Yet he wanted to know Mihael: in a childish sort of way, he wanted to know everything about the stranger from another world.

Mail hadn't much to do while waiting for Mihael: his house was a good distance away from the cafe, and walking back and forth in this weather would be pure suicide. So the scotsman did something he rarely did. He observed.

It was early in the evening, and in the midst of his dear Cambridge lay many interesting things he had never noticed before. The drunkards sitting in the warmth of pubs, avoiding the life at home and the realities of the world. The children running out of their doorways while their mothers told them it was time for dinner.

Sitting in the pub just down the street, Mail took in the events happening around him, as Mihael had said he did to relate to people so well. He had never had a childhood like that: that in which he would run around freely, with no care in the world. One in which the only thing on his mind was what would happen the next day: not in the next thirty years.

With a sigh, he smoked cigerette after cigerette, trying to step into the shoes of those he had seen on the streets but not really noticed. Hours passed, and people in the bar filtered out and in, each with their own unique story to tell. And each Mail was having trouble depicting what there was to say. What was he doing wrong, that Mihael was able to do so well?

The clock struck nine o'clock, and the old men waiting to spill their hearts out were filtering back into the bar; and with that Mail left, the snow now hiding the streets in a way that even light posts had no power against. It was a Hell of a day to be working, and if anything Mail felt sympathy for the man he knew just briefly.

When he finally forged his way to the cafe, Mihael was there just as he said he would be. He stood outside, snow beginning to pile on his shoulders, and at Mail's arrival he made a slight motion of his head. Mail opened his umbrella, an item really unnecessary in times like these, and shielded Mihael against the snow.

They made their way through the snow storm to the nearest taxicab, and the two were off to Mail's mansion of a house. The two didn't speak a word: it was cold, and Mihael knew as well as Mail that it would be Mail that would have to initiate the conversation: after all, it was Mail who had invited him.

Now that it had come right down to it, Mail had no idea what to say. There they sat, in the drawing room both in two imacuatley plush chairs, sipping on tea in total silence. Why had he done this? He had been a fool to think he could possibly relate to the stranger he had invited into his home.

"Mail, I am sure you didn't invite me here as a friend, we hardly know one another. So what is it you want?"

Mail coughed, putting down his cup to try and look Mihael in the eye-yet something about the way he stared right at you, his blue eyes piercing, made a shiver run down his spine.

"Well it was actually about that..." Mail began, fixing his tie nervously, although it was already as perfect as it could be, "I felt that, well, we might have gotten slighted ideas of one another and um...I for one wanted to know more about you..."

Mihael was surprised, and let it show on his face, but spoke calmly. "That's unlike you, to actually care about what a person is like and not about where they stand socially-"

"That's what I'm talking about Mihael!" Mail had stood up, a glare forming on his face as he looked down at Mihael, who still sat unmoving in the chair, "You seem to have this pre-determined notion of what people with money are like. You, of all people, seem to be unwilling to look past that and see what people are really like. I'd love it if you would take a moment to see I'm not a heartless bastard, and that I actually have sympathy."

Mail breathed out deeply, and from his shirt pocket pulled out a cigerette, lighting it and quickly blowing out a puff of smoke. Mihael said nothing, and for the first time it seemed he was lost for words.

"Alright, Mail, then tell me," Mihael finally began, his voice shakey and without that same calmness it held before, "What are you like behind all this pretending?"

Mail sighed deeply, slumping back into the chair, cigerette still in hand. "Alone," he said quietly, his voice barely a whisper. "Alone and trying to find my place in the world, and trying to be what I'm expected to be."

Mihael could have come up with a snide remark: he could have scoffed at the rich-man's sorrows, and laughed. Mihael could have done a lot of things, all of which Mail would have expected before this.

"There's one thing in which we're the same, Mail..." he took a sip of tea, and let his eyes gaze over to the window, revealing a cold winter night only lit by snow plummeting down, "We both can't quite decide what we're looking for in life,"

Mail glanced up, in surprise, and watched him silently for a few moments, "You've always seemed like you know what you want, Mihael, what with this attitude of your's against society and such."

"Hm. Call it my version of 'fight-or-flight' if you will," he chuckled, brushing a piece of hair behind his ear, "Can't seem to decide which side I want to take."

"I did misjudge you," Mail approached Miheal, who still sat with the same glazed look on his face, "Interesting how much you can learn about a person through such a brief little conversation,"

Mihael stood up, and the two stood in the room, together, looking in each other's eyes like there was more there to learn.

"Well, happy Christmas, Mr. Jeevas. I'll see you at the start of term I suppose," The blonde took a few steps away, and collected his coat from the coat hanger opposite the room. "Good luck with that essay of your's-"

He had been spun around, and found Mail's hands on his shoulder's, a desperate look in those green eyes.

"Mihael-I-..."

"Yes?"

"I apologize for um...what I've said...you are really much different than I've given you credit for..."

Mihael smiled, and took Mail's hands off his shoulders, keeping one hand in his as sort of hand shake. "Apology accepted. Now goodnight Mail, I do have places to get."

"Wait a minute, isn't it about time I say goodbye to you properly, Mihael? Everytime we've met you always seem to be the one off in a hurry..." Mail smiled lightly, his cheeks the tiniest tint of pink.

"I suppose. Well then, your majesty, would you mind escorting me out?"

"Of course, of course..."