John August Saville (uglyties) wrote in athensrising, @ 2008-10-13 08:34:00 |
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Entry tags: | ethan highfield, john saville |
When Worlds Collide (John Saville and Ethan Highfield)
Who: John Saville and Ethan Highfield
What: Their first meeting.
Where: Washington Street and then Ethan's Flat.
When: Saturday, August 21 1880 around 2 pm (you guys don't have to find exact dates, just giving the very first starter date so you can keep track.)
Warnings: None.
Summary: John and Ethan met on Washington street when they both went for the same cab. Pleasantries were exchanged and John offered to help Ethan get himself settled into his new apartment. They get comfortable afterward over a drink and some conversation, neither realizing who the other is.
It was early that Saturday afternoon when the young man stepped from the well-trimmed double doors of the department store, carrying under one arm a parcel wrapped in cream paper stamped with navy designs. They were new ties to wear when holiday was over and university reconvened once more, and John looked forward to trying them on one more time in front of the mirror when he got home. Ah, his taste in ties... bright and chipper and dapper and busy and lovely and wonderful, and all the things that made a tie the pleasant thing it was. Otherwise, he would not like to admit to himself that the day was in other respects dull... his friends had not yet returned from their holidays, leaving poor John to amuse himself. He did admit that he was getting quite lonely and even more bored at the prospect of going home to do nothing in particular, pursing his lips as he watched the crowds bustle this way and that on Washington Street. Sighing to himself, he lifted his hand and begun to hail a taxi. There was never one far away, it taking all of a moment or two for a hansom drawn by a single horse to come clopping down the side of the street.
America was quite beautiful in the daytime, Ethan observed as he rolled his trunk down the street. He'd just come from the harbor, where he'd arranged to have all of his other belongings delivered to his new flat as soon as they were unloaded, but there were some items that a gentleman couldn't leave to chance. He was beginning to feel a bit moist under his waistcoat, and a bit lost, and although he was enjoying the beautiful American weather, for it was most certainly pouring rain in London, he thought it was high time to call a taxi. Surely a taxi driver would know the town well enough to direct him, and he might save a bit of perspiration in the process. He held out his hand, and made his way for the first taxi that stopped. So intent was he on his goal that he didn't see the other young man before he nearly ran him over.
John had dropped his hand as the taxi pulled up to the corner, holding it out level to the edge of the taxi's door. His eyes were on the cab driver, smiling and discussing where his house was. The ambient noise of Washington Street made it hard to hear the trunk being pulled along even as it came near him. All factors that contributed to his being felled onto the ground when the other young man went for his taxi.
"Ah!" he cried out, his ankle catching on the edge of the trunk and toppling him over. He went down head first, putting out his arms to protect his face from the rough road. John's ties went through the air and the package splattered onto the sidewalk, spilling obnoxiously-colored silk everywhere. Rolling over and gasping a breath, John eyed the person who had just run him over.
"Hey! What's your problem?!" That hurt! A lot!
Immediately, Ethan rolled his trunk to a stop and stooped to pick up the hideous ties. He bit back a sneer at the utter lack of colour awareness one must have to purchase such awful items, but he did allow himself to hope fervently for a moment that this wasn't the current state of fashion in Boston. But it was his fault for felling the young man, so he'd be nice. It wouldn't do to make a poor impression his first day in Boston, not before he knew who exactly he was offending.
After picking up the ties and putting them back in the package as best he could, he stood and held out a hand to help the unfortunate boy. "Terribly sorry," he apologized with feeling. "I don't make a habit of injuring strangers. I'm afraid I was just a bit distracted by the beauty of your fine country and not paying attention as I should've."
John's wide eyes stared up at the man, absorbing his very English accent and his polished appearance. However wounded, he could recognize that the young man was making an effort to make amends, and his overall air was one of someone quite cosmopolitan. He was probably a snob, but that put the man and himself in a similar class. John accepted the waiting hand, mustering a smile of deflection.
"I apologize as well for my outburst. It was nothing, really." he agreed, standing and brushing off the front and back of his jacket. He took his parcel back, folding the top of the paper down and trusting the ties were folded properly, even if they weren't. "Thank you. I see that you have that big trunk, so it would be an honor if you were to take this taxi."
The taxi driver, rolling his eyes and waiting for someone, anyone to hop up, for time was money, just stuck his chin to his balled up fist and waited.
Ethan offered one of the smiles he generally used to charm women and moderately intelligent animals. "While I admit I don't quite have a grasp of how things are handled in the United States just yet, I would be honored if you would share this taxi with me and allow me to make amends for knocking you down in the middle of the street and spilling your-" he paused to clear his throat with some difficulty, "-beautiful ties."
He turned to the taxi driver and said, "If you would be so kind, my good man? I understand that time is money, and you will be duly compensated for the time I've been wasting."
John glanced down at the parcel back in his arms, blinking a number of times, before looking back up at Ethan. He thought his ties were beautiful? That was a first. Usually he got complaints and mockeries of blindness... not that he minded any. They just couldn't see the pleasure it granted one to wear such a rich piece of silk. John shot a big, sweet, boyish grin at Ethan, most fabulously pleased at the compliment.
"Very well, it's settled then! Where are you headed, sir?" he asked, stepping out of the way for the taxi driver. The driver climbed down from his seat and bent down, with some difficulty and huffing and puffing lifting the trunk up and plopping it onto the floor of the carriage. He clambered back down with a winded whoosh and red cheeks, giving his back a bend backward before sliding back up to the reigns. That settled, John held out an arm to indicate that Ethan should go ahead in after his trunk.
Ethan was rather more charmed by the boyish grin than he'd like to admit. He climbed into the carriage and sat, waiting for the other man to sit down before speaking again. He'd noticed that the tie John was currently wearing was appalling as well, but he fancied himself the type of person who takes only calculated risks, and it was imperative that he avoid insulting anyone before he knew exactly who they were and how they could hurt him. It was better all around if this man believed that Ethan truly thought his ties beautiful.
As soon as they were both settled in the carriage, Ethan pulled a small piece of paper from the pocket of his jacket. It was the address of his new American lodgings, and he passed it to John, hoping that he would be familiar enough with the area. "I'm headed toward East Street. I'm told it's near Grantmore University." He waited a beat before he added, "By the way, I don't believe I introduced myself before. I am Ethan Jacob Highfield of London and Devonshire."
John leaped up into the carriage and sat down beside Ethan, still grinning as if he hadn't a care any longer. All was forgiven, after all, and he had to admit that his summer ennui had evaporated completely, at least for the time being. He hoped that it might become a lasting thing, at least for the next two weeks until he found himself once again engaged in rowing, ball-playing, debating, and studying. When Ethan mentioned where he was headed, John rose an eyebrow but barely had to glance at the paper. He knew that street by heart. He should have, for he spent a considerable amount of time there.
"Yes, I know just where that is. I'm a student of Grantmore University myself." He paused at that. Student... Oh dear! It hit him quite suddenly, so suddenly in fact that he hadn't the time to prevent himself from sticking a knuckle to his mouth and nibbling it. "You're a -- I mean, you're from Dartingale, aren't you?" No one else ever rented those flats on that street. "It's an honor to meet one of our guests! Welcome to Boston, Mr. Highfield. My name is John August Saville, but please call me John."
He offered his hand once more to shake, not allowing too much time for his name to sink it. If Ethan had heard it yet, it was surely in the context of that foolish poem. Good old Boston, home of bean and cod, etc. etc. The Savilles talk only to Talbots, and Talbots only to God. Horrendous, and remarkably untrue. So they were the two most aristocratic of Boston families, but still...
Ethan shook John's hand firmly. He seemed a nice fellow, if not a little simple. If what little he'd managed to glean about Boston society were true, perhaps John was a bit inbred. That sort always seemed to turn out somewhat simple. "So is it true, then that you talk only to Talbots?" he asked, his lips quirking in a poorly suppressed grin.
"I am indeed from Dartingale," he went on, changing the subject. "I look forward to spending some time at what is reputed to be one of the best American universities." He wondered how much, exactly, John knew about Dartingale, and how much he knew about the art movement at both schools. Most likely not much, judging from the garish palette of ties.
"It couldn't very well be true, could it, Mr. Highfield?" John said with hardy patience, his dear well-bred smile still plastered over his face even at such a straightforward comment. He thought he had heard that the English were very suppressed in their mannerisms, but this one was rather audacious. It was fascinating, even if it left John feeling a little sensitive and lost for words. "After all, I am here speaking to you."
He folded his hands and placed them on his knee now, turning his chin down to stare at the knit of his trousers. He swallowed lightly, wetting his lips with a flick of his tongue to regain his composure. He rose his gaze back to Ethan and wore on cheerfully. "Yes, indeed... I thank you, for your high thoughts on the university I attend. Ah, that is, we all do, and we hope that you enjoy your time with us. If there is anything you are wondering about the university, you have only to request it from me and I will surely help."
John spoke with practiced decorum. He did know a bit about Dartingale, actually, and not all of it was pleasant. The Grosvenor Scandal had been all anyone talked about for months on end the other year, and his friends might have been admiring had mysterious someones not sabotaged some events at Grantmore soon afterward. The rivalry between Grantmore and Dartingale was long and colorful, but the attacks were just too choice, focusing on creative pursuits, to be a coincidence.
Ethan watched John closely, as was his habit when feeling out a new acquaintance. "Oh dear," he said. "I do hope I haven't offended you. I suppose we don't know each other well enough for me to tease you like that. I apologize once again. My mother is always saying my mouth gets me into trouble more often than not." It wasn't a complete lie. Ethan's mother was always saying something like that, but not about his mouth.
"I appreciate your offer for help," he added. "I might take you up on that." It was always good to have connections, after all, although Ethan wouldn't use John for the information he craved until he was sure of how much John knew. He found he was enjoying John's company nonetheless and he began to wrack his brain for an excuse for them to spend a bit more time together once the taxi ride ended.
The admission was very candid and rather pleasing, giving John the satisfaction of having that little bit of Ethan's personality. He laughed it off, shaking his lamblike brown waves about his face, which had the air to it of being rather innocent. That's how John most often came across -- innocent, pampered, a good, wholesome Christian youth.
"Please, Mr. Highfield!" he went on, still calling him 'Mr. Highfield' as he hadn't yet gotten permission to say otherwise. "Think nothing of it! That silly poem has been everywhere... and anyone who stands prominently within the public eye will hear such things once in a while. It is harmless." Truth be told, he liked Ethan perhaps a bit more for his bold mouth. It was entertaining.
The taxi pulled up to a set of buildings along the street, just a street over from Grantmore University and in a very convenient place for guests of honor. They were built from tan bricks just the color of new leather, and had a certain polish to them. John got out, and stared up at the building while the driver took Ethan's trunk from the floor. Stairs led up the side of the building to the second and third floors.
...wait, that trunk was on wheels. "I do hope you have the first floor, Mr. Highfield!" John gasped despite himself. Those stairs were steep, and would be fairly treacherous to the little wheels.
"Please, call me Ethan if we are to be friends," Ethan said automatically, eyeing the stairs himself. He looked at the piece of paper with his address on it once again, and then resumed studying the building. "My flat is number C," he said doubtfully. "I do hope that your American flat numbering systems are simply odd, but that doesn't sound like the number a first-floor apartment would have." He pulled some money from his wallet, including a large tip, and passed it to the taxi driver with his thanks. Then, tightening his hand on the handle of the trunk, he braced himself for the stairs.
John nodded unsteadily, his teeth worrying his lower lip between them. No, that wasn't the first floor. It was the second. Thank God only that it was not the third. The taxi driver, with a generous tip in hand, fled the scene. He would be no help. John fought the urge to hang his head. Being the only other person about, he would have to help Ethan bully that trunk up the stairs, but that was such an ungainly task for one not used to manual labor. Ah well, it was his duty to be of service, and he stepped forward, offering out his hands.
"Ethan, please, allow me to help you with that trunk. Surely we can push it up the stairs together." he offered, indicating with his chin to the second floor. The hands he offered to take one side of the trunk were soft hands, pallid and slender and scrubbed perfectly clean; everything a rich boy's hands should be. Hopefully they would break no nails on their ascent.
Ethan's hands were slender and long-fingered, but they were the hands of an artist. As much as he tried to make them as clean and perfectly groomed as the rest of him, some things simply wouldn't wash off. His mother despaired of his hands belonging to the son of a wealthy mercantile family.
He shot a grateful look at John. "I would be very much obliged if you could help me. I'm afraid it's a bit heavier than I am accustomed to carrying." In truth, the trunk was very heavy. It contained Ethan's best coat, several of his most important books, and all of his art supplies. Ethan didn't fancy himself an artist, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to leave the meager fruits of his labor behind in England.
Well, there was nothing for it, and at least he had help. Bracing himself once more, he hefted his half of the trunk and started backward up the stairs. Ethan wasn't a religious man, but his family were proud members of the Church of England, and he found himself sending up a string of mental prayers that he wouldn't slip on the stairs and die on his first day in America.
John nodded once his agreement to Ethan, otherwise silent. His face went into a somewhat-grimace as he studied the trunk, before finally taking hold of it and hefting the end. By GOD, what was in this thing?! It rattled all about on the inside as if there were rocks in there, and it was damned heavy! Like lifting a bag of bricks! John grunted sharply, his cheeks coloring red, but he held up his side finely. There was a fair bit of muscle underneath that fine charcoal wool, and it showed when his jacket arms pulled taut over his biceps as he exerted himself. He made no comment about the weight of the trunk to Ethan, for that would be ever so rude. The man was here on exchange, and certainly took whatever he could not bear to part with for the next year. Step by step they went up, John trying very hard not to push Ethan and send him into the railing or worse, have him come tumbling down atop John's head!
Ethan huffed and puffed a bit more than he would've liked in front of his new acquaintance, but he managed to keep his footing until at last he found himself on solid, flat ground. He backed up enough for John to reach the top of the stairs before carefully setting the trunk down. Straightening, he placed his hands on his lower back and leaned backward. "I do hope I haven't strained you too much," he said to John. He hadn't missed the way the fabric of John's coat stretched across his biceps. He wasn't as skinny as he looked underneath his clothes. Ethan looked away quickly so as not to be seen looking too closely at his new friend's body, and pulled out his key. He couldn't afford to be branded a pervert, either.
As he turned the key in the lock, he glanced back at John. "Thank you once again for your help. I know I've kept you quite a long time. Would you like to come inside for a drink before you go on your way? It's the least I could do."
With one last shove the trunk rolled onto the landing and John nearly collapsed on top of it, huffing a big puff of breath. He pushed himself up and gave his hands a grateful stretch, linking the fingers together and shoving them outward, hearing a few crackles between his joints and wincing. That was bad news, he decided. It meant he'd be out of practice for this year's tournaments. A few too many pastries and penny licks over the summer, likely, if he was so easily winded. He had noticed that his trousers were feeling a little tight in the waist recently...
"Of course not, my friend!" he played it off with a jolly laugh, shoving his hands into his pockets and pulling his jacket a little tighter around himself, feeling suddenly a little self-conscious of his middle. "I would feel simply awful if I had to go about my business imagining you struggling up the stairs with this by yourself. I would be delighted to accompany you a while longer." He nodded his agreement in the direction of the door. "I would like to hear what sort of plans you have for your time here, if you don't mind my asking."
Ethan opened the door all the way, pulling the trunk inside and then holding it open for his friend. The apartment was furnished, but the air carried the musty smell of a place that hadn't been recently lived-in. Leaving the trunk in the middle of the living room, Ethan began to open the windows, hoping to chase out the musty smell. When he was satisfied, he removed his jacket and hung it up, then opened his trunk and procured a bottle of scotch. He then disappeared to the kitchen, and momentarily returned with two glasses. Carefully pouring a small amount of scotch in each glass, he offered one to John before sitting on the loveseat. He pulled a cigarette case and a book of matches from his pocket, sticking one of the cigarettes in his mouth before offering the case to John. "Smoke?" he asked. With a cigarette in his mouth and the heavy weight of alcohol in his hand, he felt instantly more at home.
"Terribly sorry for the delay in answering your question," he said, crossing his legs at the knee. "I don't have too many plans as of yet, as I haven't quite got the measure of this place. But I do have a passing interest in the art movement I've heard so much about at Grantmore."
Now that his trunk was lying open in the middle of the floor, it was obvious that it contained chiefly paints, drawing implements, tools, and especially several large clay bricks.
John marveled briefly at the readiness of the bottle inside the trunk, grinning wryly at that. He sympathized with the need to have alcohol fast on hand -- there were simply too many occasions for it, and failing that, then the taste of it alone. Gladly, he took the proferred glass and sipped, feeling the cool burn and the quick drying soothe his skin with its restorative sensation. He cast a quick glance over the apartment... nicely furnished for incoming students, though surely it showed a little wear here and there from the abuse of teenage boys.
"Smoke?" caught his attention, and the Saville boy blinked down at the cigarette case like a confused puppy dog. Oh dear, cigarettes... he was so poor at smoking them he often thought he had best decline in company if he could, but not to take one would make him look like a fool in front of this new friend, and making a good first impression was absolutely imperative. With a bit of hesitancy he accepted a cigarette as well, slowly lowering himself onto the loveseat beside Ethan for a light.
It was not the cigarette at first that caused him to choke, but the question. Asked just as John took a long drag on the cigarette, the smoke caught in his throat and he hacked sharply, thumping himself in the chest with his hand.
"Sorry, sorry!" he squeaked, hiding his embarrassment by slapping his hand over his mouth. "I'm not... well, I must say I am not very good with these." To deflect once more he laughed at himself, holding the cigarette down toward his knee. "The art movement, you say? Well, the art classes at Grantmore are quite new... I'm not sure there is any sort of 'movement' going on, unless you are referring to the beginning of those classes in itself?"
It was a bit of a cover story, and John always felt bad for lying, but it was absolutely necessary. Art classes at Grantmore had only begun perhaps three years ago, and his father's friends were ultimately displeased. Art was silly and wasteful and didn't contribute to industry--oh, but it was fine that Mr. Saville's brother had been a painter! Yes, that was just fine! Society would have stopped in its tracks if it knew that the eldest Saville, set to marry the pretty Talbot girl and become the next inheritor of the entire world as they knew it, had founded the very Brotherhood that set itself out to make them look ridiculous. The Brotherhood hadn't done a whole lot as of yet, but they'd gotten a little press and whole lot of speculation. Overall, it was a fabulous thing if Ethan didn't recognize John for what he was. He wasn't ready for that, so he held his position of playing dumb with ease.
Ethan's eyes narrowed at the opportune choking. It was odd for a young nobleman to be bad at smoking, and if John wasn't so simple, Ethan would be certain that he'd choked at the question. But John was guileless, and the more time Ethan spent in his company, the more certain he was that the boy couldn't possibly be hiding anything. So he carefully took a sip of scotch and a long draw of his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs before letting it out. Smoking always made him feel better.
"Of course," he said smoothly as though there had never been a pause in the conversation. "I was referring to the beginning of the art classes. It's an exciting new development for those of us with a passing interest in art. I'm a business major myself, but I find artistic pursuits on the side to be the hallmark of a well-rounded character."
"Same here, same here," John agreed emphatically, nodding his head several times. "I'm not an art major, nor am I really talented in art, but I can appreciate what having those sorts of people about does for the world." Once more he oversimplified his statements and offered up an innocent smile, looking for all the world like a very basic appreciator. He hadn't offered up his major because most laughed when they heard what it was, and somehow John hoped Ethan would forget to ask, lest he think either that John was completely stupid (which was not at all the truth) or that there was something more complex in the lad to be dug at.
To steer conversation decidedly away from himself, John leaned forward and tapped the ash off the edge of his cigarette, but mostly leaning forward toward Ethan, his boyish eyes shining inquisitively. "Please, Mr. Highfield, do go on. Tell me what artistic pursuits you favor?"
Laughing, Ethan took another draw on his cigarette. "Please, I told you to call me Ethan!" he declared. "And I'm afraid I didn't bring much of what I've done. I'm not much of an artist myself, but several of my friends are. And spending time with artists, one naturally picks up some tricks himself."
He motioned toward the trunk with his glass of scotch. "You may peek inside if you want, but you might be disappointed." He'd only managed to bring a sketchbook full of doodles and aborted sketches, and one of his early sculptures he'd been unable to part with. It was a young man with long hair and beautiful features, with only enough detail to imply a softness of emotion. It might have represented someone he'd known, or just a feeling he'd felt, but either way, it meant something to Ethan.
To turn the conversation off his art and the discomfort he felt at the prospect of someone looking at it and judging him based on it, he turned the conversation back on John. "So what did you say your major is?"
John grinned at himself at the chastising, blushing just a little as he turned his eyes away. "It's a habit..." he said mildly as he left his cigarette to burn to ash in the ash tray. "I would like to see your work, though." Taking the offered opportunity, he got up from the sofa and approached the trunk, getting down on both knees to rifle through it with delicacy. He moved each article around with the natural respect one of manners gave to another's possessions, setting things gently atop one another until he found the sketchbook. John made himself comfortable on the floor, folding one ankle over the other and sitting on both feet as he bent over the sketchbook, flipping the pages.
They did indeed show some skill but they were mostly unfinished, which left John with an unfinished impression. Surely the man was not like his own painter, who he loved to watch because he had such graceful hands. But they had their own unique perspective. John found it hard to dislike any artist.
The sculpture was another matter altogether. John picked it up in both hands and stared at it with wonder, gently stroking the young man's long carved hair. "This is very beautiful..." he said softly, making a cradle for it amongst the other things in the trunk and putting it back. He had heard Ethan's question but delayed his answer, in one part due to the fact that the statue was more interesting, and the other that it was time to feel that familiar embarrassment again.
John's eyes flicked toward Ethan, color blossoming in his cheeks again. "Me? Ah... politics, actually."
Ethan had watched John's scrutiny of his trunk with trepidation he hoped he covered with practiced ease. The smoke in his lungs and alcohol in his hand helped, as always. He was a bit relieved when John answered his question, and more than a little intrigued by the blush that crossed his cheeks. Was he embarrassed?
"Politics is certainly an interesting choice," Ethan murmured. "Unusual, certainly, but I suppose it's as worth studying as anything else." That matter settled, he took another draw on his cigarette.
"I'm afraid I don't sculpt much anymore."
John was watching Ethan right back at the moment, wetting his lips briskly and trying not to look too foolish. An interesting choice it was, and unusual, especially for one of his nature. For a long while he had thought it had been a poor choice influenced by childish fancies and delusions, but he refused to believe that everything about the field could possibly be bad. If he was not cutthroat enough to be a governor then certainly he had what it took to be a diplomat?
"Indeed!" he chirped, standing from the floor and giving his pants a quick brush-off. "It's not all I study. I also study philosophy. Ever since I was a child I fancied myself helping people. Of course, the world has changed since then... but I do what I can." Another smile passed his lips and he returned to the sofa, sitting on it sideways and propping his chin up in his hand. "That's truly a shame to hear. Why don't you? It looks like you have an eye for it, and good hands."
Ethan smirked slightly. "You're not the first one to tell me I've good hands. Unfortunately I've been... uninspired of late, and my other talents take up most of my time."
He had to admit he continued to find John rather simple. No one got into politics for such altruistic reasons. Someone who felt he could help people by becoming a politician was either an idiot or a better liar than even Ethan. Studying the other man thoughtfully, Ethan found himself wondering whether this John might be more than he seemed.
"Of course not," John said with flattery that came easily to his lips, looking at Ethan as if he were endlessly fascinated. "It would be a dull-minded person who could not recognize such a thing. After all, you seem to have put such care into rendering the human form, and humans themselves know nothing if not to recognize physical beauty in themselves. It is the one thing, in fact, that every human being feels he is equipped to pass judgment on." A slight, wry laugh punctuated the statement. "Ah, but that's not such a bad thing at all. If we should have only our own company to enjoy in this world, we might as well take paramount pleasure in one another, isn't that so, Mr. Highfield?"
Realizing he had called Ethan by a formality again, John slid his lip between his teeth and murmured, "I'm sorry."
Ethan smiled, but this time, his expression was more than a little pensive. "If you call me Mr. Highfield once more, I'm afraid I'm going to be insulted."
He shifted slightly in his seat. He was beginning to feel a little discomfited by John. He was beginning to seem far too observant to fit Ethan's initial impression of him. "You have quite a way with words, Mr. Saville," he murmured. Perhaps the boy was simply a dreamer after all. "I should like to live in the world you inhabit, where men can take pleasure in one another and politicians use their power to help people."
Leaning forward, Ethan refilled his glass and then John's.
John shook his head rapidly, looking rather sheepish. "I shouldn't like you to be insulted, no. I shall have to be much more careful." His eyes roamed away at the assertion that he had a way with words, traversing the hills of his legs and then tumbling onto the desert of the floor. He didn't quite know what to make of it, and something about the statement of 'men taking pleasure in one another' made him feel ridiculously shy. Perhaps it was simply his own mind making things up, but that just didn't sound...
Well, nevermind. That would be rude to assume. John mustered composure and faced Ethan bravely. "Thank you, for saying such kind things about me. Believe me, I should like to live in that world myself! But it will take work to make such a thing true, if it is ever possible."
Ethan laughed. "Then you certainly aren't an idiot." It had been a close call, but Ethan was more or less sure of that now. Thank god, for Ethan had no patience for idiots, and he'd hate to think he'd wasted so much time on one.
"So tell me, John," he added after a beat, "what are you doing to help humanity reach that lofty goal of yours?"
'Consorting with artists' would have been the truthful answer, and one every so often John entertained blurting out. He wondered what his usual company would have thought of his real habits, though he knew enough of a projection of what the reaction would be, and the urge generally passed away as quickly as it came.
"It starts with oneself." John said again, "And responsibility for oneself. I participate in debates with the university team to sharpen my judgment, and I regularly do charity work. If there is no one left with such vulnerability as to be taken advantage of, slowly such institutions that profit from the life-blood of the disadvantaged will die away, will they not?" And education, an accessible and understandable education for all was key. The foundation of John's Brotherhood philosophies.
Ethan was smiling. "I think I should like to take you home with me," he said slowly. "I think I should like to see my father, my brothers, and possibly every man they have ever consorted with have a fit at the prospect of giving the poor an equal footing with the rich. After all, that's why God gave us wealth, isn't it?" He leaned forward to stub out the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table, still smiling cheekily. "To show that we're naturally better than those without, isn't it?"
Leaning back, he crossed one leg over the other and went on. "Personally, I believe in neither God nor predestination. I believe in beauty as the greatest virtue, and in everything existing for its own sake. Of course, if my father knew that, I'd be disowned so fast, I'd feel the breeze of the door slamming on my arse from across the Atlantic." He knew it was an odd thing for a business major to believe, but the thought of living for the pursuit of wealth disgusted him.
Needing something to occupy his hands, he pulled out another cigarette.
Even if Ethan was smiling, John felt as though he'd made a terrible mistake. He tried valiantly to keep a frown off his face, once more glancing down into his lap. He'd gone and done it again, saying those crazy things that would see him booted from high society should anyone of importance hear them. They already thought he was a naive fool, and if they only knew the depth of his transgression, of his personal attack against his own kind...
"Disregard my ramblings, they are the words of one who has found himself reading too much of late..." he murmured softly, and with an uncharacteristic abruptness lifted himself from the sofa. The rich boy was back, smiling smoothly at Ethan. "Do forgive me, but the hour grows late and I --"
What was that? He paused, cocking his head down at the other man. "Do you really believe that? That's... that's lovely, Ethan." He didn't forget his proper name this time. "I would imagine it would not be an uncommon reaction from our elders... so perhaps it could be our secret." John's smile warmed considerably, invitingly. The contrast between birth and real life did not phase him at all... perhaps it reminded him of himself.
Ethan stood as well, setting his glass on the table. "I really do believe that," he said, "but I agree, it's best if it remains a secret between us. I thank you for sharing my cab and helping me move my things. I'm quite pleased that I've found my first friend in America, and I do hope you'll call from time to time, now that you know where I live." Who knew? Maybe it would prove useful to have a friend who thought so similarly to himself.
John took a moment to look over Ethan's face, to consider what he had learned about him. A handsome Englishman, gifted in sculpture, but perhaps stunted by the very birth that was supposed to elevate him amongst men. It was a very sad story, and John felt the familiar sympathy and protectiveness he had for all of his beloved friends. Gently, he reached forward and clasped Ethan's hand. "I would be honored to see you again. Please, feel free to visit me as well. Take my card." He broke the touch pull out a small parchment card and hand it to Ethan, it bearing his name and address.
Accepting the card gratefully, Ethan smiled. "I would like to visit you. And perhaps we will see each other at school as well. I hope I haven't kept you from doing anything important, and I trust you'll have a good evening." He opened the door for John, showing his friend out with the manners his upbringing had taught him. He was much more pleased with the interaction that he had expected when he'd first run John over with his trunk.
"Not at all," John assured Ethan, tipping his head to him. "I look forward to seeing you. Good evening, Ethan." As he stepped over the threshold he replaced his hat on his head, and strode down the stairs into the late afternoon sun.