Most Ardently

by Gabe Cole Novoa

This was what he would hold on to tonight. This feeling. This rightness of hearing Jane call him her brother. One day, the rest of the world would know the truth too.

So what if Darcy wasn’t interested in approaching him, or even looking at him for that matter? Neither was Oliver. He needn’t waste a second more of his time with a boy determined to be so miserable.

Hearing his name brought a flood of warmth, of rightness, and ridiculously, he found himself smiling at it, despite the dire situation.

There is not a girl here whom it wouldn’t be an absolute punishment for me to dance with.”

He knew at once that his instinct around Darcy’s dislike had been correct, and he felt utterly foolish for thinking even for an instant that the other boy was handsome.

He. Oliver couldn’t stop smiling. It was such a simple thing, but the rightness of it was a balm. Being recognized for who he was brought him a euphoria like nothing else he had ever experienced. You see me, he thought, and it made him so happy he wanted to laugh out loud.

“I would love to,” Oliver said, and then the strangest thing happened. Darcy smiled. Just a little.

Bored Darcy might be an arse, but flustered Darcy was adorable.

“We could bring a guest every week if we wanted to. I’d be happy to make you mine.” Oliver arched an eyebrow. Darcy’s face flushed pink. “My … guest. That is.”

You said Darcy was a different person in the company of men—well, you’re a different person when you’re permitted to be yourself.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Oliver said. “If I like it too much, I might want to come every week.” “Hopefully so,” Darcy said without missing a beat.

“Careful,” Oliver said softly, “if you’re too gentlemanlike, I might think you’re trying to court me.”

“No,” Darcy agreed, smiling softly. After some quiet, he added, “I’m glad to have met you, Oliver.”

“You should know my name is Oliver. And I’m … I’m your son.” Mr. Bennet’s smile grew into a full grin, spreading across his face like a plant turning its leaves to the sun. “You most certainly are,” he said, and then his arms were around Oliver.

Like taking a walk with a certain boy in the dark, side by side, so close their hands nearly brushed against each other. Whisper-thin space between them, under the moon and the stars, infinite possibilities laid out ahead of them.

They were two boys dancing together for all in the room to see, and Oliver had never felt happier.

Kissing Darcy was like sitting in the sun on a perfectly temperate day, eating a fresh plate of strawberries dipped in sugar. Kissing Darcy was like jumping off a cliff into a pool of refreshingly cool water. Kissing Darcy was like sinking into the warmth of his favorite blanket in front of a fire. Kissing Darcy was like drinking mulled hot apple cider, the steam making his face flush as the hot, spiced liquid warmed him from the inside out.

What he wished for, what he yearned for, was to be seen as a boy—and one day, a man—by his future husband, and to be treated accordingly.

He needed to stop pretending to be someone he wasn’t, but the impossibility of it all was a crushing weight threatening to grind his bones into dust.

“I love you, Oliver,” Darcy said. “Most ardently.”