Investigator of the Supernatural, Brewer of Tea (sedulus) wrote in shadowlands_ic, @ 2017-08-23 19:15:00 |
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Entry tags: | bertie eden, malcolm sayers |
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.