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Trent slouches in a velvet-cushioned seat of a small black box theatre on campus. He’d stumbled upon the building during his first weeks at Yale and has yet to see another person occupy the space during the day, outside of a caretaker hoovering the carpet in the lobby. Because of this, Trent has taken to haunting the place when he needs to truly focus all his attentions on his studies.
He tucks his chin into the hem of his turtleneck and breathes in the lingering aromas of deep wood smoke and spice he finds there, letting it ground him and settle his nerves. Trent discovered long ago the power the olfactory system could wield over his concentration. Since then, he hasn’t let a day pass without arming himself with a spritz or two of his preferred scent. Today, it’s a mixture of chestnut, vanilla, and blackened cedar. He indulges in another inhale as he slips further into his academic repose.
The seat creaks under his weight as he drapes one long leg over the chairback in front of him, the bend of his other knee, a makeshift desk for his notebook. There’s a pencil shoved between his teeth and a pen in his hand. He’s revising the mess of notes he’d taken yesterday, streamlining his point of view.
“No,” he hums, plucking his pencil from his lips to erase a bit of frivolous editorialising. He’d smoked a bowl before yesterday’s lecture, and it’d left him with a rather optimistic outlook on life. “Pitiful,” he says as he removes any evidence that he’d ever thought of the Frost/Nixon tapes as groundbreaking. How pedestrian.
The back door of the theatre squeaks open, the old hinges protesting their slumber, and the boisterous sounds of Americans attempting English accents assault his ears. He winces and hunches further in his seat, hoping they don’t notice him.
“Crimm!” One of them shouts, an over-eager undergrad, Trent barely recognises from a party Prudence dragged him to last weekend. His name is Richard. Or Randy. Whatever.
He nods in the kid’s direction. “Yeah, hi.”
“Hi! Hey, you wanna help us out?”
“Absolutely not.” Trent snaps his notebook shut and begins to gather his things.
“Aww, come on! We’re gonna rehearse a few scenes from The Importance of Being Earnest, and your accent is spot-on posh!”
“Thank you.” He bends over to collect his satchel from the floor, his oasis of calm on campus now completely ruined. “But I really must be going.”
To his horror, he can hear Randy or whatever, repeat his words aloud, annunciating every syllable. “—must. Be. Go-ing… How was that?” He asks, his smile verging on psychotic.
Trent is about to retort that Randy-whatever’s parents should have used a contraceptive when another voice breaks through the assembled group. “Hey, Richie, let’s get back to it, shall we?”
Trent’s would-be saviour slaps Richie on the back and urges him towards the stage, pulling his attention. He’s taller and older, probably a graduate student like Trent, and inexplicably sporting a moustache. To make matters worse, he’s wearing buffalo check plaid. Trent can’t see his shoes, but he’s willing to bet they are of the cowboy boot variety, and truly, Trent needs to get the hell out of here. He climbs over the seats to reach the aisle as quickly as he can.
“But—“ Richie says, “Crimm, wait. You don’t have to go!”
“It’s all good, Richie,” The cowboy says as if placating a small child. “We got this. Plus, no means no, ya know? Good lesson to learn.”
Richie frowns. “I know, no means no.”
“See! That’s great. We’re startin’ off strong today.” The cowboy slaps him on the back as they reach the stage, ending the discussion. Trent pauses in his flight, considering something. Their exchange should have come off as cynical, sarcastic even, but the moustached cowboy sounded bizarrely genuine. It sparks Trent’s interest for a single second, and he begins to turn. At that moment, however, the other assembled players start squawking lines in a gobbledygook mess of accents meant to resemble the Queen's English. Trent swallows hard, refusing to be a witness to such atrocities, and, instead of indulging his curiosity, flees the theatre.
A week passes. Trent doesn’t return to the black box theatre. Instead, he wallows in his rooms, drinking too much tea and lamenting that he can’t smoke on campus anymore. Alright, fine, he isn’t drinking tea. It’s mostly gin in his mug. And smoking being a frowned-upon pastime by the narks on his floor, who are simply incapable of lightening up, has yet to impede his intake. In truth, he's curious as to how many more warnings he can accumulate before repercussions darken his door.
A knock sounds behind him, and he flinches; his knee hits the underside of his desk, causing the album Ascenseur Pour L'échafaud spinning on his turntable to jump and skid to a halt. Trent grimaces, wondering if he’s somehow manifested a reprimand from his RA.
“Who is it?”
“The Dean. We’re deporting you over your continuing commitment to academia,” a feminine voice echoes through the door.
Trent slouches in relief. He drops his head into his hands and says, “It’s open.”
Prudence pops her head into the room with a manic grin plastered onto her flushed, freckled face. It’s somewhat terrifying if Trent’s being honest.
“Oh god, what is it? Did someone die?” Trent asks.
“My mother.”
Trent’s mouth drops open.
Prudence laughs. “Kidding.”
“Christ, Pru, you’re a fucking menace.” Trent runs a hand through his hair, exasperated. His overgrown bangs fall into his face, and he pushes them back.
Pruedence folds her arms across her impressive chest and raises a curt eyebrow. “Have you gone fully feral at this point, or is there still time for an intervention?”
“I’m growing it out,” Trent says. “It’s bohemian.”
“It’s insane.”
With a huff, Trent gestures to his supposed best friend with impatience as she lingers in the doorway. “Out or in, woman. Make a decision.”
Prudence steps in and kicks the door shut with her foot, like a donkey or a mule deer with a bone to pick. The entire room shudders with the force of it. Trent swears he sees a minuscule crack in the plaster above the bed grow a centimetre or two.
“Charming.”
“Shut up and listen.” Pru sits on the edge of Trent’s bed, one leg curled under her. Her multicoloured bangles clack on her wrists as she reaches out to grab Trent’s hands. “We’re going to the Berkshires next weekend.”
“No, we’re not.” He’s revising next weekend. He meets with his advisor that Monday and needs to be prepped accordingly.
“Yes, we are. A bunch of theatre kids are going—”
Trent groans. “Pru, no—”
“Yes! Listen, you know Tommy Jenkins Kellogg the fifteenth or whatever? His dad has a mansion out there that he bought for his second wife. Or second mistress. It doesn’t matter.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t. Because I’m not going.”
“Yes, you are.” She squeezes his hands tighter. “You’ll love it. The place is huge. Practically Brideshead-equse—"
Trent scoffs. "Doubtful."
Prudence ignores him and continues. "—There's like ten bedrooms, an indoor swimming pool, a pool house with more bedrooms, tennis courts, full maid service, the works.”
There’s a distinct pain blooming right behind Trent’s left eye. The only thing Trent detests more than the theatre kids that rule this campus are group activities where he is forced to socialise with his peers. He pinches the bridge of his nose, seeking relief. “Eat the fucking rich.”
“Your parents are barristers, you twat.”
“My parents are solicitors. No one’s in line for the throne, for fucks sake.”
Prudence rolls her dark-rimmed eyes, the green of them sparkling with an unhinged sort of joy Trent knows too well. She’s going to win this argument, and Trent will, inevitably, have to go to the fucking Berkshires, wherever the hell that is. Just like he’d gone to that disastrous party a few weekends back where he’d run into… no, never mind. Best not to dwell on that now. He focuses his attentions back on Prudence.
“Why is this even happening?”
Pru shimmies on the bed, jostling it. She’s entirely too jazzed. It isn’t healthy. “You’re truly going to hate the reason.”
“And yet,” he sighs for dramatic effect. “I’m still asking.”
“Masochist,” Pru says.
“Quite.”
“Well,” she shifts, getting closer to him. “Have you ever heard of Summerween?”
Trent blinks at her. “Please tell me that’s some sort of trust-fund fueled music festival and not an excu—”
“—excuse to celebrate Halloween in the summertime. Yup.”
“Americans are fascinating.”
Pru lights a cigarette and blows the smoke towards the ceiling. “It’s from a TV show or something. It doesn’t matter.” Trent plucks the cigarette from her fingers with a reproachful look, and then elbows open the window above his desk to take a much-needed drag. Pru continues talking as if what’s just happened hasn't inconvenienced her. “Everyone’s dressing up. It’ll be fun!”
“For you, I suppose.” Trent releases a trail of smoke out the window and sighs. He’s never opposed to shopping with Pru and finding something sharp to dress in—he does enjoy curating a smart outfit, but a costume is another story, especially on short notice.
“You too.” She relaxes on the bed, balancing back on her arms, and squints at Trent’s hair, her head tilting to the side. “Maybe we can get you some wolf ears, and you can go as Marty McFly.”
A strange noise escapes Trent’s throat as he splutters on his next inhale. “You want me to show up to a house party full of theatre majors dressed as a furry? Are you insane?”
“I didn’t say that!”
“Get out.” He points at the door. “Out.”
She leans forward on the bed, suddenly sincere. “Please consider it?”
“Only if you leave.”
She snatches the cigarette back out of his hand and hurries to her feet. He glares after her.
“Love… youuuu…” Pru sings as she closes the dormitory door behind her.
Once she’s left, Trent moves to shut the window. He catches sight of his reflection in the mirror above his desk and squints into it, assessing the state of his hair. It’s grown just past his ears in the front and brushes the collar of his shirt on the back of his neck. One might still refer to it as being in the “awkward in-between stage” of shaggy to long, but feral?
He shakes off his self-consciousness. “Whatever,” he tells no one and gets up to flip the switch on the electric kettle for tea. The smell of gin lingers in his mug, but he dismisses it in favour of some much-needed caffeine. He resets the needle on his Miles Davis album and lights an incense to dispel the room of cigarette smoke.
While waiting for the water to boil, Trent looks at the framed copy of the famous Napoleon Sarony portrait of Oscar Wilde hanging on his wall and asks him, “Do you like my hair?”
Oscar sits, forever unmoving, with his head resting in his palm, and doesn’t respond.
Trent nods. “Right.” And pulls down the canister of loose leaf from his bookshelf.
Friday sneaks up on Trent like a creepy-crawly in a horror film. The claws of it dig into his psyche on Thursday night as he contemplates a myriad of excuses he knows will not work on Prudence and her stubborn, socialite nature. It fully shreds into him midday on Friday, metaphorically ripping out his throat to leave on the side of the road when Prudence enters his room holding up something for him on a hanger concealed beneath a black plastic bag.
“What is it?” he sighs, resigned.
“Your costume.”
“I told you, I wasn’t going. No means no, Prudence.”
“While that is true, you, however, are, in fact, going.” She brandishes her offering at him.
“Fine.” He plucks the hanger from her finger and peers into it. “You’ve brought me something… velvet?”
“Mmhmm,” she nods, her hands clasped behind her back, barely holding in her glee.
“But…” he pulls out what appears to be a double-breasted velvet smoking jacket in a rich umber colour, bound in matching satin ribbon along the pockets and collar. He looks from the exquisitely made piece of clothing in his hands to the image of Oscar on his wall and back, his mouth falling open in shock. “How?”
“If I tell you, will you promise not to immediately burn it?”
He clutches it to his chest as if he were a mother protecting her child from a terrible fate. “What? Why would I ever—”
“—One of the theatre majors helped me find it for you in the costume closet.”
Slumping, he looks at the jacket in his lap, his good mood fading. “Oh.”
“What is it with you and the theatre kids?”
“It’s nothing.”
“It is one-thousand percent something. But no matter, I’ll just make sure you’re wasted before I ask you to spill your guts to me.” She’s examining her nails as she says this, masking her sincerity with an air of nonchalance.
“That isn’t very ethical of you.”
She grins at him and shrugs. “So? Will you wear it?”
Trent’s thumbs run circles over the silk velvet in his hands. “It is rather lovely.” A thought occurs to him, then. “Will it even fit?”
“Only one way to find out!”
He stands and tries on the coat. The lining slips over his bare arms with a whispered chill, the cool fabric feeling luscious against his skin. It sits perfectly on his shoulders, the drape of the fabric preventing any creases from forming. He looks in the mirror over his desk. “Fuck.” It’s perfect.
“Eeee, it’s sensational on you!”
He smiles at Prudence through the mirror. “I hate you.”
She nods, pleased with herself. “I know.”
The trip up to the Berkshires requires both a train and a hired car. Prudence insists that she has everything handled anytime he inquires. The only thing she tells him is to bring an overnight bag and his half-empty bottle of gin.
“We’re pregaming,” she says, entirely too pleased with herself.
Trent stares at her, affronted. “You are spending entirely too much time with the undergrads, Pru.”
“It’s my job! Besides, I enjoy it.”
“No idea how.” His advisors had asked him if he’d be interested in teaching this semester, but he declined, not wanting anything to interfere with his thesis preparations.
Not that Prudence cares about his studies at all. She pulls out two paper cups from her bag and a can of tonic after they’ve settled down on the train and rummages (without permission) through Trent’s things to find the gin bottle.
“Bless you,” she tells him as she tops off her tonic.
With a resigned sigh, he raises his paper cup in a toast.
There’s a car waiting for them when they disembark from the train. Trent feels just the right amount of fuzzy in the head, the alcohol doing its job to settle his nerves, and allowing him to enjoy the adventure. He would not go so far as to say that he's eager to experience this party, but he's willing to see where the night takes him, like how one would enjoy strolling through a museum or the gardens of a national trust estate they've never been to before.
Within half an hour, they’re approaching one such estate after a long drive through a secluded wood.
“Looks like Hammond’s grandparents’ place, doesn’t it?” Pru says, smiling up at the ivy-covered facade of a neogothic nightmare that must have haunted these woods for centuries. She was correct in that it did have that darkly literary and romantic, Victorian, Lord-Byron-probably-once-had-a-slash-here sort of vibe. Not Brideshead exactly, but close. It’s as if they’ve found themselves somewhere along the outskirts of Edinburgh rather than the Berkshires. It throws Trent a bit because, suddenly, he’s smiling.
He opens the car door once they’ve come to a stop and broadly gestures for Pru to follow him. “Once more unto the breach, my dear friend.”
Pru purposefully tousles his hair, ruining his carefully cultivated coif as she steps out of the car. He squawks at her as she hurries up the drive to the front door, giggling over her shoulder the entire time, practically dropping her overnight bag and her purse in the process.
The sun is just beginning to set behind the house, sending shimmering lines of coloured light across the hardwood floors as they step into the foyer. Pru doesn’t let them linger and drags Trent back towards some other part of the home, her heels thudding loudly on the runners and tiled floors alike.
“Pru!” The Kellogg kid shouts, throwing his arms around her as soon as they step through to what Trent quickly observes is the kitchen. He steers clear of the outlandish display of affection Pru is receiving and watches the exchange with a detached sort of understanding. Tommy steps back from embracing Pru and holds her shoulders as if to get a good look at her, smiling with an awed expression that feels a little too familiar for Trent’s liking.
“Shit, Pru, you’re gorgeous.”
She visibly preens, drawing further attention to her teased hair and red silk chiffon dress. When Tommy asks her what her costume is supposed to be, she holds up her copy of Wuthering Heights and Tommy, if it were possible, manages to look even more confused.
Trent sighs and steps into their circle. “She’s Kate Bush.” He gestures to the novel. “Heathcliff. It's me, it's Kathy. Get it?”
Pru does a little dance as Trent speaks the lyrics to the famous song.
It takes Tommy a painful three seconds before he throws his head back and laughs. “Nice! Love it.” He nods his head in Trent’s direction. “And you, man? What’s this fancy-dandy getup telling us?”
The phrasing of that question does not escape Trent’s notice. He stiffens beside Pru, but she curls her arm around his bicep and gives him a reassuring squeeze. “He’s Oscar Wilde, Tommy.”
Tommy’s eyes widen in recognition. “Oh, hell yeah! My buddy Richie is in the Earnest production they’re putting on at the end of the month.”
Trent manages a nod and then changes the subject. “Where can we… uh…” he lifts his and Pru’s bags with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh, right! My bad. Let me show you your room.” He turns and then throws a wink over his shoulder at Pru. “No pressure to sleep there, though.”
It takes all of Trent’s willpower not vomit on the spot. He swallows his disgust and lets Pru drag him up a back staircase and then down a long hallway full of doors. He counts them as he walks, noting that Tommy stops in front of the fourth door on the left-hand side of the corridor. He realises then that neither of them has inquired what Tommy is dressed as, not that his toga and golden arm cuffs need an explanation. Trent bets himself twenty quid he’d say Trojan Man if he were to give in to his curiosity and ask. So he doesn’t.
Each bedroom has a skeleton key shoved into the lock with a tassel attached. Trent makes sure to lock the door behind them and take the key with him when they leave to descend back into the fray of liquored-up 20-somethings peppering the downstairs rooms with festive wigs and colourful costumes. Party games are happening in a side parlour filled with a billiards table, dart board (that’s just asking for trouble, Trent thinks) and a chess board. Two pretentious philosophy majors (Trent guesses) are doing their best impression of Rodin sculptures as they lean over the black and white checkerboard, their foreheads creased in a mockery of concentration. As he and Pru pass them by on their way through the downstairs, Trent plucks up a knight and manoeuvres it into a position that will allow black to bring out their queen and quickly conquer the board.
“Hey!” the prat playing white says, anger clear in his expression. Trent smirks and walks away. The kid playing black calls out a thank you to Trent’s back, and he can hear the two of them descend into an argument about fairness and external forces driving the narrative forward in unexpected ways.
There’s a punch bowl in the kitchen, and bottles of every shape, size, colour, and content lined up beside it, along with mixers and a bucket of ice, complete with a set of tongs, ready for anyone brave enough to brew up a boozy potion. Trent makes quick work of assembling two gin and tonics and hands one to Pru before someone else can swipe it from the benchtop.
“You’re too good to me,” Pru says, voice elevated over the sound system. Someone’s just switched Depech Mode over to the Wu-Tang Clan. Trent laments the change-up but sips his drink regardless.
“So, what now?”
Pru shoots him a look. “We have fun, you nob.”
“What’s fun about this, exactly?”
She shoves him and walks off into the crowd, twiddling her fingers at him as she goes.
“Bitch,” he says under his breath, even if he doesn’t blame her. She’s probably heading off to find Tommy. Her eagerness to attend this party had become extremely evident the second he saw the two of them making cow eyes at each other.
Trent finds himself back in the games room, hovering over the chessboard and offering suggestions to the two boys sitting there. It turns out Trent had been right: one is dressed as Kant, the other, Freud. They eagerly accept his coaching, barely playing but instead just listening to what Trent tells them to do, fawning slightly at his accent. The thrill it gives him at having two boys listening to his every command only momentarily clouds his growing ennui. He eventually sighs, shakes his empty glass at them by way of explanation and heads back to the kitchen for a top-up.
He’s jostled here and there as he hurries away from the drinks station with a fresh splash of gin in his glass, heading right rather than left this time, wanting air. He finds the back stairwell and hears dim voices filtering down from the upper floors. Curious, he ascends and, instead of continuing down the corridor towards the bedrooms, he turns towards the voices, finding himself in a study, complete with leather club chairs and floor-to-ceiling shelves packed chock-o-block with leather-bound books.
“Oh,” he says to noone, charmed by the space he’s just entered. There’s a hint of weed smoke in the air, but also the sweet-smelling scent of burning cedar. Trent takes note of the roaring fireplace behind two other men who are occupying the space, and he demurs for a moment at spotting them, realising they’re the source of the voices he’d heard. And probably the smell of weed. “Sorry, I was just—”
“No worries, man. Come on in,” one of them says, and Trent halts in his tracks when he clocks the moustache on the man’s face. His eyes snap down to the man’s shoes, and sure enough: cowboy boots.
“Cowboy,” Trent says, unaware he’s speaking aloud.
The other man’s eyebrows rise to his hairline.
“I like your costume,” The cowboy says, smiling. Trent shakes his head and peers down at his velvet jacket, his green carnation a little worse for wear after the war he’d been through getting himself a fresh drink.
“You do?” Trent asks, taken aback, then remembers his manners. “Ah, thank you.”
The Cowboy nods to his friend. “It’s rather fitting of good ol’ Oscar to make an appearance at a costume shin dig, too, am I right?”
Trent wonders at that but the other man answers him before he can even put words to his curiosity by quoting: “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask,” here, he gestures to Trent’s attire and pauses for what Trent can only assume is dramatic effect, “—and he will tell the truth.”
The cowboy smiles, looking satisfied. Trent tips his head back with an “ah,” of understanding escaping his lips. He’s loath to admit it aloud, but he’s afraid he likes these people.
Daring to step further into the room, Trent clears his throat and forces himself to ask a potentially daming question. “You two are theatre majors?”
The other man, whose arms are folded across his chest, snorts while the cowboy shakes his head, still smiling. He stands up and holds out his hand to Trent in a friendly greeting.
“Not exactly. I’m doing a bit of down n’ dirty dramaturgy this semester, and Beard here is just along for the ride.” They clasp hands, and Trent finds himself relieved that the man’s hand isn’t sweaty but dry. His handshake is solid and comforting. “I’m Ted.”
“Trent Crimm,” Trent retorts, his British sensibilities forcing his back to straighten. He manages a smile and quickly lets go.
Ted throws a thumb over his shoulder. “As I said before, that’s Beard.” The man in the chair tips an imaginary hat to Trent. Trent nods in his direction.
A silence falls over the room, and Trent internally berates himself. He very much dislikes this part of socialising. The bit where he has to make small talk and force jovial conversation, where he’d rather just exist. He gathers his strength, along with a deep inhale of breath, and is just about to spout something inane when the man named Beard stands and states, “I’m getting another round. Trent?”
“Ah, sure,” Trent says. Beard leaves the room, pointedly shutting the door behind him. Trent blinks, confused.
“Beard’s quite the empath,” Ted offers, apropos of nothing.
“Pardon?”
Ted gestures to the door. “My assumption there is that he was both thirsty and noticed you preferred a quieter setting than the boisterous activities occurring downstairs. With three being a crowd n’ all, he opted for the two birds, one stone, approach in order to allow you to settle into these here new surroundings.”
Trent isn’t going to pretend not to be impressed by those mental gymnastics. He looks back at the door. “Kind of him.”
Ted grins. “He’s a good guy.”
A thought occurs to Trent then, puzzle pieces slotting together into a quick connection of vague observations. “Oh,” he takes a step back. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
Ted tilts his head to the side. “For what?”
“Three's a crowd,” he quotes. “You two probably wanted privacy.”
Something happens then that sends another gentle thrill through Trent’s system. The corn-fed cowboy in front of him blushes and rocks on his heels. He becomes so flustered in the span of two seconds that he goes as far as pushing his hair back out of his eyes. It does nothing but flop back over his forehead, and Trent can’t help but grin a little.
“Ha, believe it or not, that’s not the first time folks have assumed that about Beard and me, but I hate to break it to you, that’s not what you walked in on just now.”
“It isn’t?”
“Nope.” Ted pops the p, and Trent’s slight grin widens.
He quickly schools his face. “Forgive me. For assuming.” Trent would never be this nonchalant about such a subject if he didn’t think he was surrounded by a collection of people he deemed safe. He didn’t like the theatre kids, but at least he knew he was in familiar company with them. Prudence knew this, too. She never would have offered Trent such a blatantly telling costume if she hadn’t been aware of the demographic of the party. Looking down at his glass, Trent frowns, wondering how much gin he’s actually had today on an empty stomach. He’s feeling entirely too comfortable in this man’s presence.
Ted waves him off. “No worries. Like I said, we’re used to it.”
That was an interesting confession, Trent thinks, wanting to pick at the underlying reasoning behind that statement some more. How long had this man and Beard been friends? How close a friendship was it, and why did more than one person assume what Trent had?
He wants to pepper Ted with these questions, but the door opens before he can, revealing Beard holding a trio of glasses. He deposits two on the low table between the club chairs he and Ted had been occupying and then turns to leave without a single word spoken.
“Beard?” Ted asks, frowning.
“Chess game downstairs.” Beard shuts the door behind him, and suddenly, Ted and Trent are well and truly alone. The nerves begin to return, crawling up Trent’s throat like a spider up a drain pipe. He takes a sip of his drink and forces himself to swallow, grimacing at the harsh flavour. There’s vodka in his glass, not gin. Disgusting.
“You like cards, Trent?”
“Hmm?” Trent asks, finding his voice again. “Oh. Sure. I suppose.”
“Every play Spit?”
Trent nearly spits at the question. “Excuse me?”
Ted laughs. “It’s a card game. Fun for two players. Come on, I’ll teach yah.”
Trent forces himself to sit in the chair Beard had abandoned and switches out his drink for the one Beard had brought him. Ted produces a deck of cards inexplicably from his back pocket and begins to shuffle them, his fingers deft on the cards, moving too quickly for Trent to enjoy properly.
“Before we start,” Trent hedges, taking a sip of the mercifully gin-filled beverage. “May I ask... what exactly are you dressed as?”
Ted frowns at him before smiling. “You called it earlier. I’m a cowboy.” He tsks at himself. “Left my hat and lasso on the train, unfortunately.”
Trent can’t be sure, but he’s convinced Ted had upped the twang of his accent as he spoke, causing a delightful little flutter in the back of Trent’s throat in response. He sips from his glass to cover his smile.
“What self-respecting cowboy leaves behind his hat?”
“This cowboy, m’afraid.”
“Shame,” Trent says, placing his drink down. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the flash of Ted’s white teeth. He’d liked the compliment, no matter how subtle. That’s interesting, Trent thinks.
“It really is, let me tell you. It was a Stetson.”
“What was?”
“My hat. I was going for a whole Sundance Kid look. Don’t get me wrong, I’m aware that I am nowhere near as attractive as Redford, but self-esteem should be more than surface level in my opinion. Ya know? Just feels healthier all ‘round.”
“Ah.” Trent has no idea what he’s talking about, but nods just the same. “Yes.”
Ted sets the split deck down in the middle of the table and claps his hands together. “Now, the key here is speed.”
They play through a practice round as Ted explains the rules to Trent, and soon, the two of them are slapping the table so hard as they run through their cards that Trent’s hand throbs and his cheeks hurt from smiling. After their second round, Trent sheds his velvet jacket, the warmth of the fire filling the room with too much heat for him to remain in multiple layers. Even Ted has undone a few of the pearl snap buttons on his denim shirt, revealing a surprising but delightful amount of chest hair for Trent to sneak glances at as they war against each other.
There’s a competitive nature to this game that goes beyond Trent’s want to win; Trent wants to conquer Ted. He wants to hold that over him. He figures it’s the drink talking, but still, he wants to best this man, and best him good.
Ted’s hand comes down on top of Trent’s the next round, just a second too late. Trent looks up from his victory, grinning at Ted through his lashes. “Got you.”
“Shit,” Ted curses and Trent’s eyebrows shoot up. Ted appears more flustered than Trent would assume. It’s just a silly card game. He tells Ted as much.
Ted shakes it off and runs a hand through his hair. It refuses to stay off his forehead, which clearly annoys Ted but thrills Trent.
“One more round?” Trent offers, grinning. His stomach churns with all the gin he’s consumed, but he lets it burn away at him, simmering low in his belly. He likes the reminder to stay present and not indulge further, even though he still has half a drink left in his glass. Ted, on the other hand, shoots back the remainder of his whiskey and nods.
“Let’s tango.”
Trent snorts. “Tango?”
“Yeah. Let’s boogie. Let’s roll. Let’s shine on you crazy diamond, I wanna rock n’ roll with you and the whole shebang.” Ted’s arms gesticulate wildly as he rambles, and Trent leans back to keep out of swinging distance.
“You’re drunk,” Trent points out to him.
“And you’re prett—” Ted appears to cough halfway through his retort, and he turns, covering his mouth before looking apologetically over his shoulder. “Ah. Sorry. As I was saying: you’re pretty well lubricated too, my friend.”
Trent barks a laugh at Ted’s word choice. It only further proves Trent’s point. He gestures to the pile of cards on the table. “Well?”
“Winner takes all?”
“What do I win, then?”
Ted halts, his follow-up to that question visibly catching in his throat. He covers it with a laugh and wipes at his brow. “It’s warm in here, ain’t it?” He gets up and opens the closest sash window, allowing a wash of cool evening air to enter the room. Trent’s eyes close at the feel of it on his overheated skin.
“Oh, that’s lovely.”
Ted retakes his seat next to him and clears his throat. “So, you in?”
“You haven’t told me the prize yet.”
Ted hangs his head and shakes it back and forth. “I’ve got an idea or two.”
“How am I supposed to be incentivised to win if I don’t know the prize, Ted?”
“Good question, Trent. Gotta trust me on this one, I guess.”
Trent sighs dramatically and flops back in his chair. With a grand sweep of his hand, he says, “If you insist.”
“Speaking of questions—”
“Were we?”
Ted’s eyebrows shoot up. “Were we what?”
“Speaking of questions?”
“Well, we are now, aren’t we?” Ted grins. Trent huffs in exasperation.
“Pathetic. But I’ll allow it.”
“Appreciate you,” Ted nods. “Now. What is it you have against theatre majors, then?”
Tension fills Trent’s limbs instantly. His position of repose in the chair becomes stiff. Had he been that obvious? That transparent that a near stranger could see it?
“Why do you ask?” He deflects.
Not being an idiot, Ted’s demeanour shifts, no doubt picking up on Trent’s sudden unease. He leans over the side of the chair, digging for something in a bag on the floor, only to reveal a flask a moment later. He offers it to Trent, his expression genuine.
With hesitant fingers, Trent takes the flask from Ted, keeping an eye on the man as he unscrews the cap. “I don’t have anything against theatre majors.” Trent tries an experimental swig, the smoke-peat burn of the whisky sliding down his throat with ease. He hands the flask back to Ted with an affected air of nonchalance. It doesn’t pass his notice that Ted’s fingers brush over his on the warm leather of the bottle.
Ted tsks in disbelief. “You’ve said several not-so-kind things about the folks at this party throughout the night. Now, don’t get me wrong, everyone’s experiences are their own, so me projecting mine onto yours wouldn’t be fair. I’m just looking to broaden my understanding, is all.”
Trent is drunk, which is why he says, “I like the way you talk, Ted,” as opposed to what he’d wanted to say, which was (an admittedly flirtatious yet direct), fuck you.
The flush on Ted’s cheeks at Trent’s slip-up is quite the consolation prize, however, and Trent sits forward, balancing an elbow on the chair’s arm. It brings their bodies closer together. Which was, of course, Trent’s intention.
“You want me to air my dirty laundry to you, Ted?”
“If you’re willing to share, I’m willing to listen.”
Trent smiles even as anxiety crawls its way up his throat. “Would you accept that I was sleeping with one, and he was not kind to me?”
The expression on Ted’s face changes so rapidly that Trent blinks in surprise. Ted reaches out a hand. It lands on Trent’s thigh and squeezes. The intimacy of the touch startles him, but Ted’s sincerity burns through any amorous thoughts.
“Trent, I’m sorry. Do you need—”
“Oh, no. Not like that,” Trent states, embarrassed. “No, it wasn’t.” He huffs and shifts in his chair, dislodging Ted’s hold of his leg. His hand had been too warm, too firmly genuine for Trent to think straight. He gathers himself and admits, “It was a mutual arrangement based on convenience. I was foolish enough to develop,” he shudders as he says this, “feelings and everything went tits up from there.”
“Tits up?” Ted asks, smiling. Trent backhands him on the arm.
“I’m being vulnerable, Ted. Your mockery is not becoming.”
“I wasn’t mocking. Just liked the phrase, is all.” They smile at each other, but then Ted adds, “Seriously though, you’re okay?”
“It’s very kind of you to worry, but yes, I’m fine. The experience just left me… unapologetically biased against a core population of the university.” Trent nods to himself, his hair falling into his face. “A very rational and proportional response to heartbreak, don’t you think?”
“Seems perfectly reasonable to me, yeah.”
“Well—” Trent’s throat feels tight. “I appreciate that. And, fortunately, he appears to be absent from this party, so that's a win."
A log in the fire behind them crackles as it breaks into two, filling the room with an orange bloom of light. Trent looks over his shoulder, just now realising how dark it’s become outside the large, casement windows. Ted follows his eyeline around the room, a soft smile on his face. The bass from the speakers downstairs pumps out a steady beat, muffled as it is through the floorboards; far away and unobtrusive in the little bubble of solace Trent’s found himself in with this disarmingly authentic man.
“Atmospheric, huh?” Ted says.
“Quite.” Trent stands, a need to act filling up his nerves. There's a library lamp on a table nearby, and he turns it on. The green glass shade contrasts with the amber glow of the fire and paints the room in a warm, buttery light.
“Nice.” Ted holds up the Ace of Spades in his hand. “Care for another round, Lemmy, dear?”
Trent frowns. “Who’s Lemmy?”
Ted waves away the question. “Nevermind. Have a seat.”
A companionable silence gathers around them as Ted collects the cards and does some fancy shuffling before cutting the deck and handing Trent half.
There’s an odd tension in the room as they stare each other down over the low table in front of them, both poised on the edges of their seats, ready for a challenge. Anticipation builds, and Trent’s mouth quirks up into a grin.
“You go,” Ted says, gracious as ever, breaking the standoff. Trent raises an eyebrow at him, and Ted rolls his eyes. “You won last. Rules are rules, my friend. I’d be impolite to ignore ‘em.”
“Ah,” Trent says, unable to help his smile. “Impolite.”
Ted nods, and Trent concedes. He turns his first card, and it’s as if horses have been let loose from their gates. They flip their cards so quickly that some go flying off the table. Neither of them cares. Trent is smiling so hard his cheeks hurt by the time he runs through his deck and slaps his hand down. Ted looks up at him, mouth open and expression shocked.
“I win,” Trent says, a little too proudly. He flops back in his chair, with a grin on his lips and warmth in his cheeks. He feels good. Happy. And surprised that he’s been able to pass the time with this near-stranger so easily. His legs shift out in front of him as he slouches back, and his shoe touches Ted’s boot. Trent quickly shifts to move his foot away, but Ted’s boot chases him, pressing close. Trent’s smile fades as he takes a deep breath, wondering what is happening. If the tension he’s been feeling slowly gathering around them like stormclouds over a tumultuous sea is all in his head, or if there’s something real forming.
It could be the liquor in his belly, but Trent decides to be brave.
“Ted,” Trent hedges, seeing a mixture of intensity and fear in the other man’s eyes. “It’s okay, you don’t—”
“I want to,” he states, and it’s so matter-of-fact and firm that Trent’s breath catches. He pushes back against Ted’s boot, their only point of physical contact. His hands grip the arms of the chair, his knuckles whitening on the dark leather. There’s only so much restraint a boy can muster in a situation like this, but Trent knows that look on Ted’s face, knows that fear and that longing. He has to be the one to pull this trigger. Trent cannot make that decision for him.
Seconds drag on, and Ted’s eyes dart around the room, his panic evident, but there’s a stubborn set to his jaw, a determined frisson of energy in his body as he sits forward, elbows balanced on his knees, one jittering with blatant anxiety. Trent can’t tell where he’s going to land with his internal struggle, but just witnessing someone like Ted, wrapped up in a pair of tight wranglers and shooting him looks with his brown eyes so dark from want, Trent’s pants feel tight, is enough to force Trent into a limbo of suspended stillness. He doesn’t want this moment to end, and yet he hopes that when it does, it tips in his favour.
Trent dares to lean forward in his chair, not reaching, just closing in on the distance between them, breathing in the same air as Ted’s. His excitement is quickly turning to concern. He dips his head, catches Ted’s gaze and whispers, “Ted?”
A surge of movement occurs, and suddenly, there’s a pair of long legs balanced on either side of Trent’s thighs in the chair, and large, shaking hands holding tight to his face.
“Ted,” Trent tells him, covering Ted’s hands with his own. “You don’t have to do this.”
“But I want to do this,” he says, his jaw tight.
Trent nods. That confession seems to loosen something in Ted’s mind. He sinks further into Trent’s lap, the backs of his thighs softening on top of Trent’s knees, the grip of his hands on Trent’s face sliding down to the delicate skin of Trent’s neck and jaw. Ted’s eyes become lidded as he looks at Trent, his chest moving up and down with bated breath.
“I want this,” he repeats, leaning his forehead against Trent’s. He hovers there for a few minutes, his breathing evening out as it aligns with Trent’s own. He nudges Trent’s nose with his and asks, “Can I kiss you?”
Trent can’t help it. He punches out a curse, “fuck yes,” and pulls Ted’s mouth to his. Trent’s mouth is open almost instantly, pressing closer, taking all he can get of this man who’d just warred with himself over how much he wanted Trent. The thought alone sends a zing of want through him so fast, his hips buck up into Ted’s as a moan escapes his throat.
“You taste so good,” Ted tells him, his mouth trailing down his jaw to his throat, where he sucks the sensitive skin behind Trent’s ear just past his teeth. Fuck, he’s going to leave a mark, and Trent can’t bring himself to care.
Trent bends his head and captures Ted’s earlobe with his teeth, biting down on it only to suck it into his mouth a moment later, soothing away the sting. Ted’s entire body shivers on top of Trent’s, and Trent’s hands run from where they’ve been resting on Ted’s hips back to the curve of his ass, pressing him down further into Trent’s lap.
“Why does this feel so good?” Ted asks, sounding dazed.
Trent grins into his throat and kisses his Adam’s apple. “Because you want me.”
Ted nods. “Yes. Yes, I do.” He pulls back to look down at Trent, who no doubt must seem slightly worse for wear at this point: overheated and hair mussed from Ted’s overly large hands running through it. He can’t keep still while Ted makes a study of him and indulges in a roll of his hips, his neck arching over the back of the chair.
Ted blinks down at him and visibly swallows. “You’re incredible.”
Trent huffs a laugh. This man is clearly drunk on both too much whiskey and raging hormones. Trent doesn’t allow him to bestow any other empty compliments upon him and drags his mouth back down to his.
“Get back here,” Trent insists, his hand firm on the back of Ted’s neck. Ted goes willingly, and they kiss until the tightness in Trent’s pants grows too painful to bear. He breaks away from Ted’s mouth to catch his breath and curse.
“What is it?” Ted asks, eyes darting all over Trent’s body, assessing. Trent pets a hand through his hair, soothing him.
“I need,” Trent shifts in his seat, “shit, I need…” He extracts a hand from Ted’s back jeans’ pocket to loosen his belt and undo the zip of his trousers. Ted’s eyes widen. Trent wonders if it might be panic, but when Ted licks his lips the next second, Trent’s smile returns.
“Not to be too forward but, are you interested, Ted?”
Trent watches Ted nod; it’s quick and eager. He quickly backs up off Trent’s lap, pooling himself onto the floor between Trent’s knees, his eyes wide and hungry.
“You don’t have—”
“I want to,” Ted states, looking up at Trent with a fierceness Trent does not bother arguing with. He pets Ted’s hair again and leans his head against the back of the chair, looking down at him with something akin to reverence. How had Trent gotten so lucky? With this beautiful brown-eyed all-American boy on his knees for him. Trent shivers, his fingers twitching in Ted’s hair.
“You can pull it,” he tells him, shocking Trent. “I like it.”
And then, Ted leans forward and pulls Trent out of his pants. There’s no tremble to his fingers and no anxiety in the line of his shoulders as he takes Trent into his warm, wet mouth and Trent curses at how good it feels.
His hips shift up with the sensation, and Ted moans around him. Trent curses again, feeling quickly overwhelmed by this strange turn of events that landed him in this room filled with firelight and the wholly willing, generous mouth of a stranger. Trent finds himself growing quickly fond of that mouth and the man it belongs to, indeed.
A moan ripples up Ted’s throat and sends a shiver through Trent’s entire being. He can feel the sound practically resonating in his bones as Ted takes him deeper, his large hand joining his mouth as he works to pleasure Trent with the kind of gusto he will now forever associate with cowboys and their corn-fed ways. Trent arches his back, loving every second.
Another moan vibrates through Trent’s skin. He looks down, in awe of what he’s being allowed to witness.
“You like that?” Trent asks, voice rough. His hands are tight in Ted’s hair as Ted looks up at him, eyes dark and earnest. His response is yet another moan around Trent’s cock sucked deep into his mouth, and it takes everything in himself not finish right then and there.
“Can you take more?” He dares to ask, challenging Ted. Ted’s eyes flash to Trent’s, and Trent grins, knowing he’s just said the right thing. Ted removes his hand to cup Trent’s balls and sinks himself further down Trent’s shaft, keeping eye contact as he goes. Trent feels it the moment he hits the back of Ted’s throat, and Ted’s nostrils flare, breathing deeply as he takes in Trent to the quick.
“Shit, Ted,” Trent says, moving to sit up, his orgasm rocketing through him. Trent pulls on Ted’s hair, but all Ted does is close his eyes and take it, takes every spasm as Trent empties himself into Ted’s mouth, his whole body arching off the chair as his head tips back and he cries out into the room.
Trent releases a string of curses as he comes down from such a startling high, as Ted holds the tip of his softening prick in his mouth, his head resting on one thigh, seemingly content to stay there in Trent’s lap.
“Sorry,” Trent says, loosening his grip on Ted’s hair and petting it back off his forehead. “I got carried away there.”
Ted grins and lets Trent’s cock slip from his mouth. His lips are red and wet, and Trent wants to kiss him so hard he scares himself. “Don’t apologise. I could say the same for myself.”
“You’re very good at that,” Trent tells him as he watches Ted sit up, his hands running soothingly up and down Trent’s thighs. “Should I be jealous?”
Ted chuckles to himself as his hair falls forward and he dips his head, suddenly shy. Trent wants to tackle him to the ground; he’s so endeared to this man. “Don’t be. That was… uh… well, not to be crass or anything, but, just to be transparent and open, since we clearly know each other a little better now, that is—”
“Oh my god,” Trent says, sitting up in the chair and holding Ted’s face with both his hands. “Don’t tell me that was your first—”
“‘M’fraid so, your honour.”
Trent’s mind short-circuits. His words leave him. The only thing he can think to do is pull Ted up into his lap and kiss him. This ridiculous, ridiculous man who tastes like whisky and salt and skin, and dammit—Trent is going to have to buy Prudence flowers as a thank you for dragging him to this terrible-wonderful party for fuck’s sake.
After a good five minutes of working himself up all over again, Trent switches their positions; depsoiting Ted onto the chair cushions and folding himself to the floor at his feet. He reaches into Ted’s lap to unzip his fly and happily, if not somewhat aggressively, returns the favour. If he’s a little more vigorous than he normally would be while sucking a man’s cock down his throat, he tells himself it isn’t a strange sort of competition taking over him. It’s simply a want to make Ted feel as good as he’d made Trent feel.
Trent swallows around the head of Ted’s cock and internally boggles at how this fucking cowboy had just given him the best head of his life on his first fucking try. He pushes aside that very distracting thought after Ted runs his hands through Trent’s hair and pulls. Trent’s eyes close on a moan because that felt incredibly good, and he reminds himself to focus on the impressively-sized task at hand.
The night quickly slips away, revealing the bruising purple of early light on the horizon. Trent blinks to wakefulness on a chesterfield sofa, tangled in a throw blanket. He feels warm and heavy, weighed down by a pair of arms wrapped around him and a set of long legs laced through his own. There’s the scratch of stubble on his neck, and the tickle of a moustache as an American cowboy sleeps soundly curled up behind him, and Trent smiles into the dim light. The fire has long gone cold in the grate, and the orange glow of the evening prior has been replaced with the hazy blue blush of a summer morning.
He turns his head, noting the still firmly closed door behind them and wonders if anyone came in during the night to spot them. If Beard ever returned from his chess game, or if Pru got her disgusting wish and ended up shagging Tommy. Questions and thoughts ping rapidfire back and forth through his mind, not allowing him to rest any longer now that he’s become aware of his surroundings. And his need to find a loo.
With careful movements, he extricates himself from the warm, soft embrace of Ted’s body and slinks around the room, retrieving his lovely velvet jacket and his wingtip shoes. When he reaches the door, he hears a grumble from the couch and turns, spotting the utterly endearing sight of a sleep-rumpled Ted with very impressive bedhead looking about the room with confusion on his face.
“Go back to sleep,” Trent whispers. “I’m just going to check on my friend.”
Ted turns at the sound of Trent’s voice, and a dopey smile crosses his face when he spots him hovering by the door. “Hey, handsome.”
Something kicks in Trent’s chest at those words. He can’t help but grin at Ted. “Hey.”
“You running away on me?”
“No,” Trent lies.
Ted reaches out one hand, gesturing for Trent to come back to the couch. Reluctantly, but inevitably, Trent goes.
“Can I have your phone for a sec?” Ted asks, squinting up at Trent.
“I don’t have one,” Trent tells him. The truth, this time.
Ted’s eyes widen. It’s adorable. “That’s a new one. Well, here,” he reaches for a pen on the coffee table and one of the playing cards from last night’s games and scribbles a number down on the face of it. Trent grins at learning that Ted is left-handed.
When Ted is finished, he hands Trent the card and uses his free hand to pull Trent down into a chaste, closed-mouth kiss. He presses his forehead to Trent's and just breathes for a second before releasing him, looking contented and warm, and Trent wants nothing more than to crawl back onto the couch with him.
“Call me. Kay?”
Trent nods.
“It was really great getting to spend this time with you, Trent,” Ted says around a yawn. Trent smiles down at him.
“You really mean that, don’t you?”
Brown, earnest, sleep-filled eyes look up at him. “I do.”
Trent cards his hand back through Ted’s hair, and Ted’s eyes fall closed. He’s smiling.
“Good night, Ted.”
“‘Night, Trent.”
Trent slips out the door, the card with Ted’s number tucked carefully into his pocket. He will never use it, of course. He’ll never get up the courage to call the boy he’d spent one nearly perfect night with in a mansion in the middle of nowhere, Massachusetts. He’ll go to his advisor on Monday and discuss his thesis and how to move forward with his work and his career. He’ll defend his dissertation in a year and move back to the UK within two. He’ll continue with his life, finding a creative outlet in his work, and floating in and out of comfort with his sexuality, leaving a string of lovers of every gender behind him until he marries a woman he thinks he loves and wants to start a family with. And he’ll succeed in part on that score, but the romantic love he holds for his wife will be fleeting, and their relationship will crumble before their baby girl even turns two. The lies and ridiculous rationales he’s told himself over the years that have caused him to go prematurely grey will eventually knock down his door and force him to bear witness to the truth he’s sequestered within his heart for decades. That truth will slap him right across the face when he walks into work one day at Nelson Road Stadium and is faced with a charming American man with a moustache by the name of Ted Lasso.
fin
