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It was after class, and Michael's entire concentration was on the ache in his arm and the way his body screamed out for a hot bath and a night spent not moving anything at all. He returned the practice sword, not willing to stand out of the way of the others but not quite shoving past any of them. Since his private lessons had started with Master Applethorpe he'd considered dropping the open ones. It was clear that even though Applethorpe had decided to take on Michael for his student he still didn't care about his general classes, not even for Michael's own sake. It was discouraging to see that careful nonchalance, to see obvious and important aspects of style ignored, and there were times that Michael wondered if it wasn't hurting his technique. But the swordsman did still issue corrections, he just didn't do it with the passion he displayed in their private lessons, he didn't issue them with any expectation or demand that they would be followed.
So Michael just worked himself harder, taking this time to teach himself the techniques and to carry through in simple practice what he was taught in combination with so many other things. In truth, there was a certain ease about this instruction, the fact that Michael didn't have to think about what he was doing, because every action was broken into a single, simple movement.
"Excuse me?"
Michael moved out of the way automatically, having returned the sword he'd been fighting with, only to find that the person who'd been speaking to him followed him. He braced himself, staying calm with a firm reminder that had anyone been going to recognize him, they would have done so long before now, and they likely wouldn't suddenly decide to approach him about it.
"I was wondering," the young man speaking to him started, and Michael lifted an eyebrow. He tried to mimic Applethorpe's best indifference, as if it truly didn't matter what this person was wondering. There would have been a bit of the Duchess Tremontaine in it, as well, but Michael couldn't manage it. "Are you doing anything now?"
Michael was sweaty and in clothes that were rough and ill-fitted. The other man was the same, except for the fact that he did not seem to have been working half so hard, and hence was not sweating as much as Michael was. "I had some plans," he said, careful to temper the arrogance in his voice, no matter how tempting it was not to. Whatever this was now, it seemed benign, and there was no need to make an enemy, nor to make himself obvious with an accent so clearly from the Hill. It was a good thing, Michael reflected, that he had spent so much time out in the country with his mother, and it was easy to quicken the gaps between his words.
"Oh. Well, did you want to get chocolate? If not now, maybe next week?"
It was honestly boggling, for a moment. Michael had not come to these classes to socialize, and he wasn't certain that the invitation could properly be taken as that anyway. But then, it also wasn't surprising that someone in this class had found him attractive. He could easily be the best someone like the man in front of him would ever see, even in old, ruined clothing, and for a moment that was an intriguing thought. The chocolate he was being offered, he could imagine, would taste little better than piss. It occurred to him that he still hadn't responded, and that he really ought to have by now. "I hardly think we should go out in this weather without changing into something warmer."
It wasn't a rejection, and it probably should have been. Michael's liaisons were carefully chosen so as to make the right kind of spectacle of himself, and someone who was not a lord would not qualify as that.
"Some other time, then? I could meet you there."
But on the other hand, Michael did need an explanation for his behavior that someone would find if they looked into it, something not obvious but not ruinous. It obviously wouldn’t do to be seen to look too low, particularly if he went to them instead of calling his lover up to his house on the Hill, like would be typical.
And there was the reassuring notion of what look Bertram’s face would wear when he found out. Michael was done with him, now, and he’d been sending less and less subtle hints about it. And if Bertram decided to go after his new lover, so much better that it be someone like the boy in front of him, someone as far from Diane as it could get. He looked, now that Michael bothered to think about it, like a merchant’s son, a little on the thick side, with pretty eyes but without any real sign of proper breeding.
“Where would be close for you?” Michael asked. He had no intention of doing anything more than grabbing a cup of chocolate, but it did matter where. Where he might be seen.
“The Stranger, near the Rhetorics buildings, makes the best chocolate I’ve found.”
A University Student whose father was a merchant might be the best that Michael could find, for his current needs. It was certainly the best he could find without even looking.
“What about tomorrow around three?” Michael suggested. He was supposed to meet Bertram then. It didn’t make it a guarantee that the other man would find out, but it made it more likely, and while Michael might not be much one for gambling, he was certain that word would find its way back soon enough anyway.
“Yes, of course.” The man he was talking to even looked moderately attractive, when he beamed like that. “I’m Grant.”
“Michael.”
“I look forward to it. I’ll see you then.”
Michael shrugged on his coat and left before Grant could repeat the same sentiment any other ways. On his walk back he considered what he would wear to this little encounter. He didn’t think that he could bring himself to put on black, even if it would help him to blend in, even if it would mean he could go with a higher quality fabric. It always made his skin look too pale, particularly in winter.