Who: Malcolm Sayers and Bertram Eden What: A first meeting and a toga party Where: Cambridge When: Backstory, October 1884 Rating: PG
Being out in the world beyond his pack, Mal felt like the wind was on his back and he was walking new ground. But he had settled into the groove of university. He was terribly excited about the poetry class he was taking. There were authors he hadn’t heard of but fell immediately in love with and familiar ones that cradled his mind and heart.
One October day, he was walking through the corridors when he saw, heard, and smelled the group of young men and Bertie down towards the poetry classroom.
Since arriving at Cambridge, Bertie was rarely found alone, but rather in a circle of raucous gentlemen of his age and rank, all of whom delighted in exploring the joys Cambridge had to offer, inside the classroom and out of it. There was hardly an evening he didn't attend some gathering or walk out to the town in search of life's pleasures, and if there were a few mornings he seemed to suffer for it in an early lecture, well, he was hardly alone.
"Yes, of course, oh, you must come," Bertie insisted, his attention currently focused on Potts, who was characteristically dragging his heels at the prospect of another night out when they had an early class the next day. "Tell him. There will be poetry," he cajoled, eyes alight with mischief. "Practically the entire class will be attending, you...oh, hello," he said brightly as another of their classmates joined the group loitering in the corridor. "Mr..."
"Sayers," Bartholomew rescued him, rolling his eyes as if to say really, Bertie. Bertie thought that quite unjust, as they'd only been in the lecture together for two months, and did not spend a great deal of time in conversation.
"Mr Sayers," Bertie agreed pleasantly, jamming an elbow toward Bartholomew's ribs. "We were just speaking of the poetry reading this evening; would you care to come?"
"Oh, throw him right to the wolves," Potts moaned, and Bertie redirected his elbow.
Mal had quietly been observing Bertie and his group for the last two months. It was so interesting how non-wolves interacted socially. Poetry class was his favorite and there was something about Bertie that attracted his attention.
And as soon as Bertie’s attention turned to him, Mal straightened his posture - inconspicuously sniffing to catch the young man’s scent among the others scents. Poetry was his favorite course since coming to Cambridge.
“Mr. Eden,” Malcolm nodded in return as he stopped just outside the circle of Bertie’s friends. Then a smirk spread across his lips at the mention of ‘wolves’. He was sure Potts didn’t know what he was. Being clever and rolling with the punches were key.
“Poetry reading? Yes, I would like to come along.” He smiled as he adjusted the books underneath his left arm. Malcolm was a still young man with broad shoulders apt for rugby or the like. But he didn’t puff up his chest yet like he did while with the pack. Getting the lay of the land was slow-going for him.
"Good show. You see, Potts, even Mr Sayers will be there. You'll be forgiven bringing a poem this time," Bertie told Mr Sayers with a wide grin. "Just come as you are. Unless you have anything you'd like to contribute, of course."
"You could tell him," Bartholomew chided.
"Now where would be the fun in that?" Bertie countered, eyes sparkling with mischief as he watched Mr Sayers.
"It's not very polite poetry," confided Ichabod, who was a terrible stick-in-the-mud with no appreciation for surprises. "You might well call it bad, even."
"I beg your pardon," Bertie gasped, feigning insult. "My sonnet was very fine at our last gathering."
"Ah, yes," Bartholomew mused pleasantly. "The ode to Molly Coburn's legs, wasn't it?"
"May they live on eternally in verse," Bertie agreed, with a hand over his heart. He tipped a wink at Mr Sayers. "I'll give you the address, it's just near Sheep's Green. Eight o'clock? You'll join us?"
“Oh?” Malcolm asked, tipping his chin upward in curiosity and attention. “Impolite or bad poetry. I wouldn’t mind either. “ He smiled as he peeked in and out of the exchange, watching Bertie.
“I’ll join you. I may even compose a poem for a proper introduction,” he added, smiling brightly. There was something other than Bertie’s natural scent that came off of him and it had Malcolm intrigued.
"Oh, well in that case," Bartholomew said happily, "be certain it is appropriately bawdy. We only recite irreverently ribald verse at these parties."
"Oh, now you have given everything away," Bertie chided in exasperation. "It does not need to be your own," he went on, turning his attention and some sympathy back to Mr Sayers. "Ovid and Chaucer have both made appearances, anything is game." He lowered his voice and leaned in to murmur, "Even John Wilmot, if you have any selections. None of us have been able to find any of the damned things, more's the pity."
"I'm sure it's not even that good," Ichabod offered sympathetically.
"To be banned all through England? It must be exceptional," Andrew disagreed as he joined them outside the classroom. "Hell-o, are we any of us going to class today, or only gossiping in the hall?"
"Class," Bertie said dismissively, but he turned anyway to move toward the lecture hall, casting a warm smile and glance back at Mr Sayers as he did. "Eight o'clock, then?"
Malcolm raised an eyebrow and smirked. “I think I could find something.” The wolf found Bertie’s comrades interesting as the voiced details and opinions. He had a similar group at Black Park, but with more physical contact in public.
“I can always look,” he smiled at Bertie as the young man leaned in.
“Hello,” he nodded at Andrew.
“Eight o’clock,” Malcolm bowed his head slightly and smiled. He was excited to attend the reading and learn more about Mr. Eden.
-
"To the Christian Union for the Severance of the British Empire with the Opium Traffic," Everett toasted, and there was a round of cheers, which Bertie joined in weakly, occupied as he was with all of his limbs floating away from his body. He was not incapacitated, just relaxed, and thoroughly enjoying the performances of the others. Bertie had already performed, a short limerick that was not up to his usual odes to the local prostitutes, but he'd been busy with papers and classes, and had little time to devote to bawdy verse.
He looked around to find Mr Sayers and make certain he'd been properly included in all of the festivities--as the one who'd extended the invitation, Bertie couldn't help but feel obliged to play host for the evening. Bertie found him not far off, and coaxed all of his floating limbs to move in that direction until he could flop down beside Mr Sayers on one of the scattered cushions.
"Are you enjoying yourself?" Bertie asked. He hoped so. Mr Sayers was very quiet and polite, but carried himself with an air of aloof mystery that made Bertie want to study him until he'd unraveled it. If he were horrified by the company Bertie kept and their nocturnal activities, Bertie would not likely have the opportunity.
Malcolm was amazed and intrigued as he was observing at first. But once the opium was passed over to him, the werewolf did partake - becoming more relaxed, but not less inhibited quite yet. There was something about Bertie and his performance. It was so lovely to be in a more bawdy, scandalously free environment.
Reclining on some cushions, he smiled softly as Bertie came over and flopped down beside him. If they were both wolves or Malcolm a bit higher - Malcolm would already be seeking Bertie’s neck. “I am,” he nodded and took another hit of opium. “Is this the extent of the debauchery?” Malcolm whispered as he gazed at Bertie as the opium coursed through him and loosened his inhibitions.
Bertie began giggling, an act embarrassingly brought on only by spirits or opiates. "Tonight," he guessed, looking around the room at their company. "Sometimes we go down to one of the brothels, but I don't know that anyone is in shape for it tonight. I can show you the way, if you want to go. Put in a good word." Bertie grinned, imagining Mr Sayers reclining on a bed with one of the ladies of the night bouncing atop him, and then his grin faded into something slightly more dazed.
"Unless you've already been, of course," Bertie continued, only half-attentive to what was coming out of his mouth. "After so long here, you must have. Unless you have a lady waiting? A marriage pledge?"
Even then, most of the Cambridge set would seek female companionship while they waited for their nuptials, but every so often there was one who didn't join them on the brothel nights. Ichabod was one. Andrew was another, though Bertie thought it might be because he had a mistress already. His lyric poetry on the subject of love was exceedingly detailed.
Malcolm stilled at Bertie’s giggling, amazed by how lovely the young man sounded and looked when he did. “Oh?” he blinked. It was quite the notion. The ‘wolf had passed by the brothels, almost persuaded to partake, but he didn’t take the offers. But he did thank them.
“No, no...lady in waiting or marriage pledge yet. I still have a few years - school and the like.” Malcolm spoke, watching Bertie and not realizing that he was reaching over until he had touched the young man’s collar.
"Yes, of course," Bertie replied inanely, distracted by Mr Sayers reaching for his collar. "First time with opium?" he asked, knowing well the state it could create, particularly in the unwary.
Quentin began to recite, but even before the first few words were out he was met with a chorus of protest from the group, which Bertie twisted around to echo. "You know the rules," he shouted cheerfully. "No Romans unless you're wearing a toga!"
Quentin grumbled, but clearly hadn't prepared another verse, so he took up one of the drapes and wrapped it around himself in a makeshift toga. Bertie laughed again, tipping his head back and then following the weight of it, back down to the floor.
"Do you know Latin?" Bertie asked, his eyes cutting sideways to Mr Sayers, whose Christian name Bertie really should learn before the end of the evening. "Have you studied it? I can translate, if you haven't."
“Yes, my first time. Breathtaking isn’t it?” Malcolm spoke softly, his words taking just the tiniest bit longer to come out.
Then he became distracted by Quentin and then back to Bertie at his shout and his laughter. His eyes zeroed in on his throat as his head tipped back. This sent Malcolm to lie slower, more on his stomach as his finger lightly brushed Bertie’s neck.
“Yes, I do. I have,” the wolf smiled brightly and covered his mouth with his other arm. He was getting giddy and he wasn’t exactly sure why.
"Oh," Bertie answered, strangely disappointed. He would have liked to whisper the verse to Mr Sayers as Quentin declaimed in his drapery-toga. Still, he could be entertained by Mr Sayers' exploration of his collar, which continued with avid focus.
"It can be very strange," Bertie confessed, studying Mr Sayers' expression. Mr Sayers' happiness seemed infectious, bringing Bertie right back up from his brief moment of regret. "Are you seeing something on me that isn't there? I see things, on occasion. I believe we all do."
Malcolm frowned as he noticed the disappointment in Bertie’s voice. “But some translate it differently. I’d welcome your interpretation.” He whispered as he slowly ran his finger between Bertie’s collar and neck.
“Perhaps I am.” He answered and leaned closer, his nose almost brushing against Bertie’s chin.
There was no doubt that he was being humored, but Bertie cocked his head (as much as he was able to, on the floor) and listened until he could catch up with Quentin's reading.
"And when I left you," Bertie whispered, translating a half-beat behind Quentin, "I was so on fire with all your brilliant and ironic humor that after dinner I was still excited, and sleep refused to touch my eyes with quiet. In bed and totally unstrung by passion, tossing in agony, I prayed for sunrise, when I could be with you in conversation."
He opened his mouth to speak the next lines, but suddenly became aware of just how close Mr Sayers had become, and how someone else might have noticed as well. Opium gave everyone a great deal of license, and they all generally agreed to let certain indiscretions pass, but this could be misinterpreted as something that might haunt both of them.
Or perhaps, Bertie realized with a jolt, it would not be a misinterpretation at all.
"Mr Sayers," he warned, although it came out breathy and soft. After a long pause where Bertie blinked and could not think of what to say next, he managed at last, "I don't believe I know your Christian name."
Listening to how Bertie spoke his interpretation of the Latin Quentin spoke, Malcolm could only agree with the words. Perhaps it was the opium, but perhaps it was something else. Being such a young pup, he was curious.
Yet he stilled for a moment, contemplating what he was doing even if he felt it was just fine and too intriguing to stop.
“Hmm?” Malcolm sniffed lightly as he eased back enough to focus his vision properly on Bertie’s face. “‘Malcolm’....’Mal’.”
"Malcolm," Bertie echoed with a smile. "Bertram Eden. Bertie, to my friends. Although I suspect you've been paying more attention than I have, and already know it." He patted Malcolm's chest and decided, "I should be honored to count you among them. My friends, I mean. If you should like to be counted."
Nodding and smiling at Bertie’s words, Malcolm blushed at the young man suspecting what was true. Then he exhaled softly as Bertie patted his chest. “I would be honored to be counted among them, Bertie,” he grinned. His fingers traced the young man’s collar and slowly pulled away to rest on his chest, brushing against Bertie’s hand.
Bertie had the impulse to recite poetry again, but Quentin had finished and there was nothing for him to translate. "Will you be gracing us with a poem tonight?" Bertie asked, belatedly withdrawing his hand from Malcolm's person. He was warm and relaxed, though settled somewhat from his earlier state. He was very aware, in spite of that, of his heartbeat. "We did not give you much warning for it, I know."
Once Bertie removed his hand, Malcolm felt that he could respond. “Yes, I will. It’s quite all right. I have one of my own if that will suffice?” He asked and nodded, watching Bertie and hoping to see and hear him laugh again.
A smile bloomed on Bertie's face again. "Most assuredly," he promised, and added with a hint of mischief, "Shall I announce you?"
Rolling up to a seated position without waiting for an answer, Bertie called out delightedly, "Mr Malcolm Sayers has a poem for us! An original verse, your attention please!"
Grinning back at Malcolm, Bertie set his chin on his hands and waited for the recitation.
Malcolm smiled, feigning a nervous gasp, and shifted to sit up as he was announced.
Then he rose to his feet and pulled a pulled section of linen paper from his pocket. Unfolding it, he cleared his throat and looked around to see all the eyes on him, settling on Bertie’s for a moment.
“At first meeting - joval jest of speaking Instant interest peeking With casual breaths, introductions made
But soon skin meets skin Scents exchanged Imprint without sin Now attachment arranged
Lips upon lips Sips upon another With each taste Their hearts chased
Until each were each other”
Malcolm spoke expressively, looking up at times to the young men around him. His prose was imperfect. But it was heartfelt as he kept making eye contact with Bertie.
Bertie applauded with all the rest, wondering if he'd imagined Malcolm's attention on him more than most, and deciding Malcolm might be seeking approval, or affirmation since Bertie had been the one to lay down the challenge in his invitation.
It was an interesting theme, and one that appealed to Bertie's romantic side--imprint without sin suggested the touch of hands, or as the next stanza accounted, lips, but without the more vulgar descriptions that had characterized their evening thus far. Juliet and Romeo were brought to mind, with their exchange of sin the evening of the Capulet ball. Bertie appreciated the classics.
"You could read that in class," he said, admiring.
"Yes, a little more action in it next time," Andrew called, hands cupped over his chest to demonstrate his meaning, but he was grinning. "A fine first effort."
"More legs!" Ichabod croaked, and there was another chorus of laughter.
"I liked it," Bertie told Malcolm. "Thank you for your contribution to our company. Bartholomew, another smoke for the poet!"
It wasn’t much of a poem. But Malcolm was a budding poet. Smiling at the applause, he nodded and bowed humorously. Each of the young mens’ comments made him smirk and blush slightly. But he took them in stride.
Soon he sat back down on the cushions beside Bertie and nodded. “You’re welcome.”
Malcolm reached for the opium Bartholomew brought over, letting his sheet of linen paper fall to the cushions between him and Bertie. Then the ‘wolf took a nice long hit and breathed out - his body relaxing and laughter escaping his lips. Having such sensitive senses, the opium was potent to him.
Bertie lay back down, eyes closed to keep the room from moving around him. "What brought you to Cambridge, Mr Sayers?" he asked, curious. "And to our good company? What is your course of study?"
Looking over at Bertie, he followed suit - laying down but not closing his eyes. “Fine institution from what I’ve heard and seen.” Malcolm replied, watching and listening to the young man. “Kinship. For the time-being, public leadership but with literature as an underlining.” Quietly the wolf was committing Bertie’s scent to memory along with how he laughed and laid there. Curiosity was ever so seductive.
"Public leadership," Bertie mused. "It is that. Excellent, I mean. There are good fellows here."
He didn't have to open his eyes to pick out the others: Bartholomew, nearest, Ichabod, Quentin, Potts moaning, Andrew still enunciating clearly even after partaking of the opium smoke. "I'm glad you came," Bertie decided abruptly, opening his eyes and twisting to offer Malcolm a smile. "You shall have to come out with us again, now that you know us better. Will you?"
Malcolm’s ears perked up at the other boys’ moaning and Andrew’s still enunciating. But his central attention was still on Bertie. “I won’t become a cruel politician, I promise.” He smiled. Then he arched an eyebrow and almost tilted his head like he would if he were in wolf form. “Thank you. I am glad as well,” he grinned softly, catching Bertie’s eyes. “I will,” he hummed and did tilt his head against the cushion, exposing his neck.
Bertie studied Malcolm's profile, the long line of his pale throat, his lashes. He realized after a moment that he was staring, and shook his head with a smile. Closing his eyes again, he let himself drift back into the haze.