Work Text:
It is universally acknowledged that a handsome closeted man, in want of a wife, will reject women until he finds a man that he can elope with. It’s also universally acknowledged that an ugly closeted man, in want of a wife, will be left no choice but to attempt to gain a significant other regardless of how greasy he looks.
Or, in which Darcy and Bingley are secretly in love, and Mr. Collins has an unrequited love.
Tags: gay, unrequited love, mutual pining, angst with a happy ending, PG-13 for cursing and mention of being British
~commission for camelliates by mei~
Darcy flopped into the nearest armchair, utterly exhausted after another three hours of anxiously pacing his 360 acre property while glowering into the distance and pretending he had other things than that on his mind. Despite the fact that he had done absolutely nothing for the last twenty-four hours (practically nothing, in fact, for the last couple years since he had become one of the most eligible bachelors in England) he felt as if he had been drained of all of his youthful energy.
Stretching upward and feeling his spine crack almost as loudly as his sister banging on the piano in the next room, he rolled off the couch and stumbled blearily towards the kitchen. After opening the fridge in search of some food (nothing but six-week old fish and chips in there, as always. What did he expect, he was in England), he disappointedly grabbed for his hat, lying forlorn on the opulent golden carpet of his living room. He would have to go out for lunch, to eat (you guessed it) mediocre fish and chips from the nearest pub.
As he strode past his front door, he noticed a letter on his doorstep. It was tucked into a lilac envelope with Wickham’s spidery handwriting elegantly gracing the front. Darcy rolled his eyes, knowing that he was either asking for money (again) or begging for Darcy to uplift him from whatever ungracious situation he was in this time. He ignored it, but did end up getting sufficiently distracted by it as to trip across his own front threshold.
No matter. Darcy loped down his lawn, letting his polished black shoes sink into the soft grass. The sun beamed into his eyes, and he blinked from the harsh glare, shaking his head to let his wild brown bangs frame his face. (His rugged look and morose lowering of the eyebrows had always been one of his attractions, and whenever they went out for drinks Bingley had always mentioned his windswept, unkempt hair, playfully ruffling it with a laugh.)
Even in moments like this, with the sun shining and all the gems of England at his fingertips, Darcy was still thinking about Bingley and his stupid face: the only thing in the world that he could never have. With a sigh, he looked up towards the horizon, expecting to see an empty cerulean sky save for his forlorn carriage waiting on the driveway.
But no. There was someone there. Darcy squinted, and he could barely make out the shapely figure of Elizabeth Bennet, traipsing down to meet him. His breath hitched in his chest, panic bubbling up, and he knew he couldn’t see her again. She was simply one of hundreds of girls who were vying for his affections, despite her cool and collected demeanor. No, no. Anything was preferable to spending another torturous afternoon with a heterosexual woman. Thinking fast, but not so fast that he actually developed a plan beyond the next ten seconds, Darcy instantly stripped down to his undershirt (a skill he had developed after much experience) and dove headfirst into the emerald waters of his duck pond.
Even underneath the murky waters, he could practically see Elizabeth’s horrified expression. He sputtered up to the surface, and did a few backstrokes for good measure. Make her think that you’re absolutely batshit insane, and maybe she’ll leave you alone, his inner voice suggested. His inner voice had never actually offered any particularly enlightening advice, but it was worth a try.
Splashing around in what smelled like sewage but was probably much worse, Darcy waved cheerfully to Elizabeth. “Hello, care to join me for a dip? It’s very nice around this time of year. Clears the sinuses.” He sniffled, and was dolefully reminded by the chill in his limbs that it was fucking January.
Elizabeth, horrified, turned heel and booked it out of there. Darcy, sopping wet, crawled out of the pond and slipped into his thin overcoat, discarded on the bank. He did not care to go sniveling back to his house where all the servants would see him dripping mysterious green liquid and all the ducks fled from the duck pond and put two and two together, so he miserably hauled ass all the way to the town pub on foot, dreaming distantly of the hot fish and chips and depressing loneliness that awaited him.
When Darcy opened the door to the pub, he instantly saw the one person he had been moping around his mansion for days to specifically avoid. Shutting the door hastily, he ducked into a side alley as fast as his wet socks allowed, but he had left a trail of water that led the criminal right to Darcy, shivering under a tree behind the pub.
“Fitzwilliam, what the hell are you doing? Why are you all wet? And no, do not make a stupid pun about that or I’ll slap you.” Bingley seemed to materialize next to him, reaching out to put his warm, dry coat around Darcy’s shoulders.
Darcy jolted away from his touch, stammering, “g-go away, you’re a criminal. I-I don’t want to talk to you.”
Bingley’s chocolate eyes were soft in the sunlight, but betrayed the swirling storm of sadness in his mind. “And why would I be a criminal? Darcy, I left because I couldn’t stand seeing that woman Elizabeth hankering after you for a second longer-”
“BECAUSE YOU STOLE MY HEART, CHARLES.” Darcy blurted angrily, grabbing Bingley by the collar. His eyes went wide when he realized what he had just admitted, and he hiccuped in sorrow at how badly he had executed that pun. But ah, fuck it. It’s all in the open now, so just put it out there once and for all, counseled the voice in his head. And this time, like all other times, he listened.
“Ever since we were boys, I have always loved you. You, you were so blind to it because you could never see the faults in people. You were always looking for the best intentions, and I was always looking for the worst. You never saw that what I felt for you wasn’t simply for a friend, but for more. You knew, didn’t you? You knew and yet you stayed blind because what? Because you didn’t dare assume I wanted you, so selfishly, all for myself-”
“Because I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t love me-” Charles interjected, but Darcy had already started blubbering and there was no stopping him now.
“And I c-could never have told you, because you would have laughed it off as a joke, or me just being nice to you. And no one believed that we could be together, least of all yourself. This is your fault because you wouldn’t have understood, and I know that you still don't underst-”
And here Darcy let out a monstrously loud sneeze, one so violent that made him (1) drop Bingley and (2) fall on his wet ass. Fucken fantastic, Darcy thought to himself pathetically, picking sullenly at the grass at his feet.
But Fitzwilliam Darcy didn’t have any more time to think anything, because before he knew it, Charles Bingley was kissing him and it was the best thing in the world, everything Darcy had ever dreamed of and more. He tasted like roasted chestnuts and chocolate and longing that had been brewing for years, steeped in the sorrow that could have only come from indescribable mutual pining that I can’t even describe or this fic would be 16k words long.
After what seemed like a blissful eternity and yet the briefest of moments, Charles pulled away, and in that moment, neither of them needed to explain anything to the other. The whole Bennet sister affair, Charles’ departure, Fitzwilliam’s solitude, whether their combined last name would be Darcy-Bingley or Darcey or Bingcy or (God forbid) Binglee: they had all the time in the world to sort it out. And for the first time since they were children and had been torn apart by the knowledge that they could never be together, they had each other. They were like fish and chips: they had absolutely no business being together and yet they were, in defiance of all of the rules of society. And in that moment, just having each other would be enough.
*in another universe, far, far away*
Mr. Collins twiddled his thumbs upon the open pages of his Bible, waiting for the mailman to arrive. It had been days since he had last sent a letter, and he thought that surely this time around the love of his life would respond. It had taken some resolve, quite a few glasses of port, and a bit of self esteem reaffirmation complete with a fashion makeover and hair gel for Mr. Collins to resolve to meet his lover in person if he did not receive a letter by today.
Finally, he heard the rattling of the mailman’s carriage in front of his house. Leaping out of his chair, he danced daintily down the stairs and flung open the door, just to watch the mailman’s horse’s ass receding into the distance.
“Bloody hell, no mail today either!” He swore, kicking at the dust in anger. No matter. This temporary setback had only strengthened his resolve to finally get an answer to his numerous confessions. Crossing himself and praying that he would receive a favorable answer, he set off to confront his crush once and for all.
*
Wickham reclined in his easy chair, tired after a hard day of whatever it is that people with no jobs do. Despite his relaxed appearance, he was on edge. Darcy had not responded to his latest pleas for help subduing that madman that kept sending him letters, although Darcy probably had better things to worry about (hint: it was about time he and his stupid boyfriend got together. Wickham was damn sick of their angsty rants and pitiful pining glances). But Wickham was afraid that time was running out, because if he did not respond to the madman soon he would be in imminent danger.
The imminent danger came knocking on his door only seconds after he had this thought. Wickham immediately tensed, every nerve in his body alight with trepidation. He crept to the door, and edged it open slightly lest it be an innocent wayfarer trying to borrow a crust of bread, or whatever business innocent wayfarers have knocking on doors at 12 noon.
A moon-shaped, pockmarked face ringed with greasy black curls and a garlic shaped nose planted firmly in the center greeted him. He peered down at the stranger’s chapped lips, the mole that punctuated his forehead, and the beady, brimming eyes that were looking at him with such tenderness that Wickham was obliged to step back in disgust and shock.
“My darling! Why haven’t you responded to any of my messages or letters! My dear, please do not be shy-the Bible does not condemn homosexuality at all. In fact, in Mark 3:1-” Mr. Collins began.
In the process of this speech, Wickham had fallen to the floor in consternation. At the invocation of the Bible by Mr. Collins, God blessed Wickham with the strength to grab the door with trembling hands and slam it shut on Mr. Collins’ face. “I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHO YOU ARE,” Wickham yelled, his voice three pitches higher with fear. “PLEASE LEAVE.”
Wickham heard a minute of shuffling behind the door, and finally footsteps down the path to the main road. He breathed a sigh, allowing himself to slump, defeated, against the doorframe. He still had a lingering prickling sensation on his neck, and he turned to see another blue envelope that had been slid under the door. He screamed in horror. Wickham knew that this had not been the first he had seen of his “lover”, and he had a terrible, terrible feeling that it would not be the last.
~Bonus~
And so, dear reader, this marks the end of the tale of two pining gays: one a twink, and the other...also a twink, but one that knew how to hide it a lot better. But I digress. Darcy and Bingley went on to get married, and foster two lovely dogs. And if you’re wondering about our ill-fated Wickham and Mr. Collins, then keep wondering, because I’m not about to tell you how their story ended. That is up to your own imagination.
You may have noticed that there is a marked lack of women in this story, as Pride and Prejudice is, in general, dominated by cishet white men. Rest assured, though, that the one and only woman I have deigned to mention throughout the course of this gay fanfiction has gotten her happy ending in due course. (I wouldn’t be able to tag this as angst with a happy ending otherwise.) Elizabeth slowly spiraled into depression and disrepair after her rejection by Darcy, but was soon saved by the discovery of her own love of her life: cats. Needless to say, she became a crazy cat lady and went on to write the story of her life and the lives of those around her, with a pen in her hand and a cat in her lap at all times. She is very tired now, because she’s taken at least two days to write this story. She is now going to take a nap.