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Bertie Lewis is something of a laugh around his mates, an enthusiastic fuck once you've got him alone, and, by Hugo's estimation, very much needs to learn when to leave well enough alone.
They'd been partners in wet bobs during Summer Half, an acquaintanceship which quickly became more under Hugo's gentle meddling, of this he will freely admit, but Michaelmas has nearly reached its end and yet Hugo still finds himself ducking and dodging the other like a common criminal. it really is too much.
He's just finished laying the groundwork in chatting up the future Earl Dunmore's fag when he spots Bertie catching sight of him, the boy threading through the crowd, all but charging Hugo's way. As has become his dreadful routine, Hugo excuses himself from the conversation and flees.
There's a boy standing against the wall, all on his own. He’s staring down at his feet, done up smart without a soul to speak to. Hugo decides right then that they can help one another.
"My name's Hugo." He uses his greater bulk to shield the other a bit, looming a ways over him. "And I need you to laugh like I've said the funniest thing you've heard in your entire miserable life."
Miracle upon miracles, the twitchy git does. He blinks at Hugo with a rather unexpected set of big, green eyes and then laughter comes bubbling up out of his throat, loud and awkward and utterly fascinating.
Hugo forgets about Bertie, about the Earls fag, all of it. His put-on casualness melts into the real thing as he stares down at the most interesting person he's met in his stay at college thus far. "You're actually marvellous, aren't you?" he asks, which earns another hiccup of laughter. "What's your name?"
"Augustus." He answers like he isn't quite sure that it's him that Hugo is speaking to, even as Hugo's got him all but pinned to the wall he's taken on the duty of holding up all night, the other boys a healthy ten or so paces off. Hugo raises his eyebrows expectantly, and Augustus dutifully adds, "Bidlow."
Ever his father's son, Hugo's well-trained mind fills in the rest: the Bidlows are very wealthy, moreso than the Swanns, but with the eldest daughter a cripple and the only son very obviously Augie, Hugo doubts their standing within society carries much water. Their parents had died — some which-way that Hugo can’t quite remember, leaving it all to the children.
"Augie," Hugo takes care in bestowing the nickname, feeling a bit like a hawk that's caught a field mouse. "How would you like to be my fag?"
Augie blinks at him. "I'm rather certain that I'm older than you."
Hugo grins. "Semantics."
“Swann.”
He blinks at Bertie, surprised. It’s rude, of course, but Hugo had forgotten all about him.
It’s no matter. Hugo sways in close to Augie along the wall, taking care to wind his arm around the other boy’s shoulder, so that there needn’t be any space between them at all. “Oh, Bertie,” he says, pretending to be ruffled and altogether caught out. “How lovely to see you.”
“What do you think you’re on about?” If looks could kill, and all that. “I’d like to speak to you.”
“I’m very certain that you would, but I’ve promised the entirety of my dance card to Augie for the night, you see, so it just won’t do.”
Hugo can see the moment the pair of them realize that their nicknames sort of, well, match. Hugo’s never claimed to be clever though, not once, and honestly, it is likely for the best. Let Bertie realize that nothing about their little dalliance was special or star-crossed or whatever other nonsense he might’ve built up in his head and move on, like all the rest.
“Have you?” Bertie asks it without any sort of hint as to his mood, tone completely flat.
“That’s twice.”
It’s Augie who’s spoken. Hugo tilts his head down to look at him, mouth open a bit in the sort of way his mother would chastise him over, calling it rude. Bertie’s got a similar expression on. “Excuse me?” he asks.
“That Hugo’s shown you that he’s not interested. It’s been twice now.” He’s practically mumbling, and his face has gotten very sweaty. “I think you’d probably better go.”
“Why you rotten little —”
Hugo steps between them, taller than them both, and just as wide as Bertie is. Hugo prides himself on being a good time, but his father has always been the hands-on sort, and so he knows how to hold his own. “I think you should listen to him, Bertie. It really doesn’t become you, hanging on like this.”
Bertie sputters, but there isn’t much left for it. Some of the boys closer to them have heard and are taking the spectacle in. He wonders what they consider to be the more entertaining: his having dropped Bertie, or the likes of Augie having defended Hugo’s honour. Bertie stomps away, disappearing once again into the throng of their classmates.
“I think I might faint,” Augie says, sotto voice.
“I’ve only just found you,” Hugo sulks, “you can’t leave me now. Come.”
He follows Hugo as commanded, not a single objection to the way Hugo’s threaded their fingers together. The rest of the boys look, they also do, where Hugo’s concerned, lust, jealousy, contempt flitting across their faces in his wake. Augie stays with him the entire way, treading along until they’ve reached the gardens between two of the boarding houses, a refuge. Privacy.
Hugo’s quickly coming to realize that Augie is the sort of friend he’s always wanted, one he’s dreamt about his entire life.
He feels, well, giddy, really. More his age than he ever has before. “Sorry,” he says, though he really isn’t. He leans in towards Augie, feels his heart race with how quickly Augie’s eyes close, thick lashes fanned out across the tops of his cheeks — only to pop right back open again.
“We can’t.”
We can’t. Of all the sodding rubbish. “How’s that?” Hugo tries not to sound as petulant as he feels.
“Well, it’s like you’ve said.” His fingers go up to his throat, running along the top-most buttons of his shirt, as if Hugo might’ve seen to them while he wasn’t looking. “We’ve only just met.” They blink at one another. “And, well,” Augie tacks on, “I’ve never.”
“Never?” It seems impossible. Especially at Eton, for God's sake.
That backbone of Augie’s shores itself up again. He’s standing with his chin pointed up, starting Hugo right in the eye, baring himself beneath God’s own sky.
Hugo marvels at him. “Well,” he says, smile bleeding into his voice. “I suppose the school never claimed to teach any of these awful boys taste, did they?”
Augie looks very pleased to hear Hugo say it. “No,” he agrees.
Hugo holds out his hand, looking to Augie expectantly. Augie stays where he is, and Hugo sighs. “I’m an ape,” he apologizes, and then wiggles his fingers in the air.
Tentatively, like he’s afraid that Hugo might bite, Augie’s hand rises up and up until he’s placed it in Hugo’s own. Hugo rewards him by making a large to-do in pressing a kiss to the back of it. It’s a show of his restraint that he doesn’t lick the damn thing, just to enjoy the wonderfully horrified expression such an action would surely bring to Augie’s delightfully open face.
Instead, he enjoys the flush that's developed there instead, Augie’s breathing coming up shallow. “A placeholder,” Hugo vows, and then takes care to return Augie’s hand back down to his side. “Now,” he says, “what say you to me being your fag? I won’t at all guarantee that I’ll be altogether good at it, but I can promise you that I’m certainly worth the trouble anyhow.”
Augie brings the hand which Hugo kissed up to cover his mouth, though Hugo can tell there’s a smile hidden there, for the rest of it shines in his eyes. “You know, somehow I’m rather certain of that myself.”