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***
“Condemnant quo non intellegunt,” (They condemn that which they do not understand) said Alina Cheng in reply to Henry, as she hurriedly packed her suitcase.
It was a pleasantly warm August afternoon, and she was leaving for university in Europe. (Don’t you dare to say it like it’s a country, for fuck’s sake, I am going to Belgium)
Henry vaguely recalls the memory of her sister’s impossibly picturesque room being flooded with sunlight, the light scent of vanilla which had always seemed to linger around, and sundresses scattered everywhere as far as the eye could see.
He remembers being freshly 16, naive and yearning (wanting much much more) and Alina’s compassionate facial expression as he asked;
-“How many people have you kissed?”
-“People?” she furrowed her brows “A lot.”
-“So both men and women?”
-“It’s the same thing Henry. Doesn’t matter who they are, only that you like them.”
Later, after they had long dropped her off at the airport, he found a stray sticky note on his bedside table reading “veritas liberabit vos” in neat handwriting.
“Truth shall liberate you”
If he had kept it, through all these years, no one needs to know.
***
Therefore, Henry Cheng yearned. Not for the materialistic, never. He had his Supra, dream treasures, prized possessions and more wealth than one could ever spend in a life-time.
He ached for something foreign, unknown; a dull pang waiting to be relieved, a flower in need of nourishment.
Aglionby changed everything; Henry had attended enough prestigious institutions to recognize — the expansive courtyard, renaissance building and tennis court, Latin and Ancient Greek lessons — are just mere components of the cautiously fabricated facade.
The students, on the other hand, were intriguing, to say the least.
Henry Cheng had never been one to shy away from the public eye; the combination of not-so-subtle charisma, handsomeness and copious amounts of money served as a good reminder to all the bystanders: he belongs.
Belonged in a sense, Adam craved but never could, while Ronan could but never tried.
“A real Raven Boy,” whispered the trees and everyone who ever caught a glimpse of his 6” 2 tall figure. ”Just like Richard Gansey”
“Bred, born and raised”
***
Henry realized early on, that Ganseyboy was more sophisticated and puzzling than one is ought to be among normal circumstances.
Contrary to popular belief, there were two sides of Richard Gansey; one reserved for the public gaze, perfect masquerade, prudently glued together, never cracking.
This version of Gansey made something venomous stir in the pit of his stomach, unease coating him like the finest veil, sticking to his face.
Mrs. Gansey’s political rallies even proved to be hellish for Henry, who was accustomed to posh crowds, cold handshakes and overly polite smiles. The moment they set foot in Washington, Gansey became way too obedient and malleable, giving up every sense of identity.
Henry wanted to break his father’s nose.
During one of these lavish dinner parties, when the air was humid and suffocating, and they were being served goddamn almond tarts which faintly resembled the taste of ash, Henry put his hand on Gansey’s knee under the table.
He could feel the latter startle, but Henry only gripped his leg a tad bit tighter, stay still, and started drawing random patterns with his index finger.
Gansey’s breathing gradually slowed down, however Henry’s hand remained; Gansey slid his hand on the top of his and mouthed a silent “Thank you.”
***
Henry had come to terms with his sexuality during one of the sailing camps, which his dad had previously insisted on signing him up for.
“One week in the French Riviera,” he claimed.
“I believe you will survive.”
As foreseen, it was full of pretentious governors’ and even more pretentious celebrities’ spoiled children.
What he couldn’t anticipate was a frail French boy with not only a heart of gold, but a golden mouth; making him see stars in his seaside hotel suit.
“Veritas liberabit vos”
***
Vulnerability didn’t scare Henry by one bit.
It made Gansey scared to death.
The second Gansey was fragile, torn around the edges; a mess of anxiety and resentment. A raging insomniac, who drove an orange Camaro, and hyper fixated on mint leaves and a miniature model of Henrietta.
Henry was fond of this Gansey; real, raw, unapologetic.
He let the other know.
“Call me anytime Ganseyboy, and I’ll be there.”
It was mid-June in Virginia, and Richard Gansey couldn’t sleep; the heat was only intensifying his restlessness, distress tugging at the edges. Legs tangled in the expensive bedsheets and drenched in sweat, his lungs were burning. He glanced at the clock; it read 1:34 am.
Monmouth felt too spacious all of a sudden; Ronan was out with Kavinsky: racing, fucking, and dreaming. Self-destructive and illegal, high on adrenaline and whatever dream pill K had dreamed up for them, but feeling alive.
Gansey had never been this envious of them.
Peeling himself out of the bed, he began looking for his phone. Once he successfully located it, he dialed one number out of muscle memory.
A year ago he would have called Blue.
Today, Henry picked it up on the first ring.
-“Hi sweet thing, what may I do for you?” purred Henry at the end of the line.
-”Could you,” Gansey swallowed, voice miraculously hoarse “maybe pick me up? Only if it’s not an issue I,”
-“Hey hey, sure, it’s alright. I’ll be there in 10.”
True to his word, Henry, as a matter of fact, was there in 10 minutes. The Supra pulled up in the parking lot, just as Gansey stepped outside; he could feel the heat radiating from the asphalt beneath his feet.
Henry got out of the vehicle in order to greet him, looking as beautiful as ever, despite the grotesque hour.
Gansey immediately went, tiptoed, to hug him, burying his face in Henry’s chest, but he couldn’t shake off the wave of shame washing over him; did he come across as too needy?
Henry held him close, slick fingers running through his horrendously bedhead hair, casually conversing; ”Have you been getting proper sleep?”
Gansey shook his head.
Despite Henry claiming otherwise, the former drove well; shifting the gear smoothly, the engine growled approvingly. Soft music was playing from the car’s speakers, something R&B which Gansey couldn’t recognize; for him the ride went by a blur, a mix of city lights, convenience stores and constellations.
The Cheng’s property was vast; a seemingly endless dark forest stretched across the grounds, a rather artificial fishing pond which could be seen from Henry’s balcony whenever the weather was clear (“Dad wanted to live out the American dream,” Henry once laughed as he was being asked about the purpose of the lake) and Gansey recalled a faint memory of a tennis court existing somewhere down the road.
Gansey loved Henry’s room; it was warm and bright, paintings, albums and various posters covering every inch of the walls, bookshelves, a map of Europe and king sized bed covered by blue sheets.
Henry got rid of his Polo shirt as he climbed under the covers, patiently waiting for the other to do the same; cricket chirping was infiltrating from outside and the temperature had finally dropped a few degrees.
Gansey clumsily put his own shirt on the top of Henry’s, forming a pile. He could feel Henry stare; not uncomfortably, no never, he was eyeing him appreciatively; Gansey was basking in it.
He slid next to Henry who pulled him close, skilful fingers finding their way in his hair, massaging his scalp.
Gansey examined his features from this proximity and made a discovery that terrified him; he was aware of Henry’s objective beauty, that was all they whispered about, but tonight, he looked so radiant and mesmerising, so young and alluring and alive, that his heart ached with it.
They were kissing.
Gansey initiated it.
”Oh God what if,”
There was no what if; Henry was solid under his hands, confident and consoling, and Gansey had never kissed a man before, but it felt perfectly right and he didn’t want it to stop.
Henry pulled away first, cupping Gansey’s face, fingers caressing flushed skin. “Are you sure Gansey?” he questioned, no sense of resentment.
Gansey thought about it for a second; thought about political rallies, cold winter evenings and hot summer nights, dinner parties and late night drives and parking lots and strong strong hands and he wanted.
He thought about Blue, and how they were destined and meant to be, how she was gorgeous and petite, but didn’t quite make him feel on fire and safe and secure.
“Yes,” answered Gansey, sheepish and a bit insecure. Henry kissed those away, palms moving lower, carving out a place for pleasure.
“Veritas liberabit vos”
***
Henry Cheng had stopped yearning.
See, Richard Gansey wasn’t flawless; he snored, had a bit of a repressed hero complex and accidentally broke one of Seondok’s vases during Easter Lunch.
He was however exceptional; molded by Athena from clay, worry and intellect, knew so much yet so little, in frantic search for a sleeping Welsh king.
Gansey was everything and more; the way he blushed whenever Henry referred to him as beloved, his lightly freckled nose and faint scars on his temple and even his obsessive tendencies.
Henry had learned to love both sides of Gansey; the fake smiles, cold handshake Richard Gansey III, and the Gansey which forgot how to breathe sometimes, knowing one couldn’t coexist without the other.
Some days, while doing something otherwise extremely mundane, like strolling around at a grocery store looking for orange juice; he held Gansey by the waist, who leaned into him, giddy, delighted and so-in-love, Henry thanked his lucky stars, and kissed Gansey on the cheek.
Henry had grown older, wiser, the once famishing wanting subsided.
Their love, however, remained.
Cras amet qui nunquam amavit; quique amavit, cras amet.
(May he love tomorrow who has never loved before; And may he who has loved, love tomorrow as well.)
***