Most Ardently

by Gabe Cole Novoa

He let Collins’s and Wickham’s blended words wash over him, as if from a distance, as his mind wandered to kinder places. 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.

“Good morning, everyone. I would like to request Elizabeth’s presence alone.”

i’d actually keel over right there 💀

Originally I thought Jane would be the ideal wife, but after I came to learn she was already nearly engaged to another, I realized the second-eldest daughter was also perfectly acceptable.

that was absolutely the worst way to do that you made him feel like a second choice even if he were actually interested in you- dumb fuck

Did he really just say he would have preferred to marry Jane but he would accept Oliver as a concession?

EXACTLY

Horrifyingly, Oliver could see it. The picture Collins painted was one familiar to him, one that stalked him like a stubborn, looming storm. He saw himself trapped in a suffocating dress with a busk biting into his chest and drowning in petticoats; Mr. Collins, referring to Oliver as his wife, calling him Elizabeth endlessly, speaking to Oliver all day every day without any chance of respite; sharing a bed with Mr. Collins, bearing his children; his body contorting and changing in ways that made him sick to think about as he was forced to carry a child he never wanted to have. The prospect of such a life was dizzying.

He couldn’t marry Mr. Collins. He certainly couldn’t be his wife. He would, Oliver realized without a hint of exaggeration, prefer far darker ends.

He wasn’t even looking at Oliver at this point, which Oliver supposed wasn’t all that surprising. Did Mr. Collins even see him? Or was Oliver just a vessel for him to continue to build his status in polite society?

“I’m sorry,” Oliver said, no longer able to keep quiet as Collins’s proposal became more horrifying by the second. “Do I get a say in this plan of yours? Or are you expecting me to accept your proposal by default?”

MY KINGGGGG

“Mr. Collins,” Oliver interrupted firmly, “contrary to what you may expect, I refuse to treat the course of my future as a business transaction. I cannot, under any circumstances, be your wife. We are not the match you believe us to be, and as flattered as I am by your proposal, I simply cannot accept.”

“Do you really think it flattering,” Oliver said flatly, “to make it abundantly clear that even if I were to marry you—which I will not—I would only be a consolation prize because your first choice of my elder sister isn’t available?”

ABSOLUTE ICON

Oliver couldn’t believe he was still arguing about this. How many times did he have to say no before Mr. Collins accepted it? How could he possibly be any clearer about his refusal? Something hot and itchy rose in his chest, flooding his mind and soul with the impulse to leave this room immediately before Mr. Collins trapped him in it forever. He needed out. He needed Collins to leave. And most of all, he needed to make it abundantly clear that he would never be anyone’s wife—let alone Collins’s. “My answer is no,” he said, fighting to keep his voice calm. “There is nothing you can say or do that will convince me otherwise. I will not wed you, Mr. Collins, not today, not tomorrow, not ever. I apologize for any misunderstanding between us and for any inconvenience my refusal has caused, but my answer will not change.”

And with that he finally turned away and strode out, the door swishing closed behind him with a resounding thunk. Oliver stood, shaking, alone, before he collapsed into a chair and pressed his face into his palms. He wouldn’t cry. Not over Mr. Collins. But he remained like that for many moments longer.

Jane grimaced. Oliver turned to her with a small laugh. “You really did catch Bingley’s eye at the perfect time.”

The nickname, while fine in his childhood, felt like a pair of ill-fitting shoes.

Mrs. Bennet shook her head. “With the way you behave, you’ll be lucky to ever see another proposal.” Oliver’s mouth nearly fell open. With the way he behaved? He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry—as far as he was concerned, he behaved perfectly well in front of his mother. She didn’t even know about his nightly outings, his name, his—anything! And she already thought him so improper as to be destined for loneliness? It would have hurt less if she’d slapped him across the face. Mrs. Bennet turned to Mr. Bennet, who, until now, had been sitting quietly in his favorite chair with a steadily deepening frown. “Tell her, Mr. Bennet,” she demanded. “She must marry Mr. Collins.” She turned back to Oliver, her face red. “Why, if you refuse I shall never speak to you again!” Oliver could barely believe his ears. Did she really think it so impossible that any other man would want to marry him? She thinks it impossible already and she doesn’t even know how much more complicated it is than she believes. It was a harrowing thought, but in the end it didn’t change anything. Oliver didn’t want to be alone, but if the choice was between being someone’s wife and being alone, it wasn’t really a question at all. It wasn’t ideal, but Oliver had never minded his own company. Now with the eyes of the entire family on his father, Mr. Bennet sighed and met Oliver’s gaze. Please, Oliver pleaded with his gaze. Don’t force me to do this. Mr. Bennet couldn’t read his mind, of course, but something s...

Oliver groaned and slumped back into his seat, running his hand over his flattened chest for comfort. The backs of the wooden chair dug into his spine and he grimaced, sitting up. “She was furious, of course. Demanded that I apologize to Mr. Collins and accept his proposal, but when I refused, Father supported my decision in no uncertain terms, so she let it go.” He paused. “Well, she stopped insisting, at any rate. She’s still incensed.” “She’ll forgive you over time,” Lu said. “She will,” Oliver agreed, “but it doesn’t sit right with me that I should be punished for refusing to marry a man guaranteed to make the rest of my life miserable.” Charlotte placed her teacup down on a nearby side table, her laced white boots digging into the green rug beneath them. “She’s only concerned for your future,” she said. “She wants you to marry so that you’ll be secure financially when your father eventually passes.” “I’d rather be destitute than married to a man like Collins,” Oliver grumbled. Charlotte sighed. She looked at Lu, who lifted a shoulder in answer to an unspoken question. “What is it?” Oliver asked. With a slight nod, Charlotte turned back to Oliver. “You realize that if Collins asked me today to marry him I would accept without hesitation.” Oliver balked. “You would agree to marry Collins?” Charlotte smiled softly. “He’s a dull man, and rather full of himself, that’s true. But he isn’t cruel, and he has the capital to support himself and a family. It’s a better situation...

“No one wants to deny themselves happiness, Oliver,” she said. “But many of us have to choose a middle ground if we hope to survive.” She was right, Oliver knew. But marrying a man who would force him to pretend to be a woman, a wife, for the rest of his life didn’t feel like survival at all.

“Oliver! Come swimming with me!” Oliver’s toes sank into cool mud as he stood at the edge of a large, placid lake. He’d removed his shirt already and stood in just his trousers with the sun warming his bare chest—flat from his clavicle down to his hips. The smooth expanse of his skin, like glazed ceramic, was so easy. Natural. His. “Oliver!” The voice came from the lake, where Darcy was treading water. His long brown hair was dark and wet, his grin all but glistening in the light. He waved his arm over his head, water dripping down his forearm and over his bicep. “Come in! The water is so refreshing; you’ll love it.” So, with a grin, he stripped off his trousers and leapt into the lake, his breath catching in his chest as the cool water enveloped him. He broke the surface with a laugh and swam toward Darcy, arms arcing overhead, feet kicking, chest rising and falling back into the water. He’d never swam like this—so easily, so carefree. It had never felt so natural to be in the water, to feel it kiss the bare skin of his flat chest. It was perfect. A dream. He was dreaming. Ahead, Darcy became blurred even as Oliver neared him. He blinked hard, clearing the water from his eyes. Darcy’s face sharpened into focus, then slipped away again, like peering into a stranger’s spectacles. Oliver swam harder, beating his legs faster, and he was so close, but Darcy was blurry and the water was lukewarm. He could barely feel it against his skin anymore. Even the strain in his legs fade...

He dressed quickly, the tension in his muscles easing as he tightened the flattener around his ribs, pushing his chest into the proper shape.

The bartender looked up at him and smiled. He was handsome. Distractingly handsome, really, with dimples and a sharp jawline and a corded neck— “What can I get you?” the bartender asked with that broad, dimple-marked smile. And now he had a decision. This was his last chance to back out. He could order an ale and leave. Or just return home now. But he’d be kicking himself if he didn’t try, so he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I’m … looking for the coffeehouse?” Oliver’s voice broke slightly at the question, and he winced. But the bartender didn’t seem to notice, or if he noticed he didn’t care. Instead, his smile somehow grew even wider. “First time?” he asked softly, and heat crept up Oliver’s neck. Was it really so obvious? Oliver laughed slightly and smiled apologetically. “Yes.” “Not to worry,” the bartender responded cheerfully. “You’ll have a great time. Head to the left side of the room, where you’ll find the stairs up to the lodging rooms. The one you’re looking for is at the very top, the last door on the right. Knock three times and ask for a coffee.” It was all so clandestine, which, oddly, crowded some of his anxiety with excitement. He thanked the bartender, then followed his instructions, through the oblivious crowd, up the creaky stairs, down an even creakier hallway and to the last door on the right. Soft, unintelligible murmurs of voices leaked from beneath the door. Oliver swallowed hard, ignoring the way his heart all but pummeled his ribs, and k...

my precious baby

Oliver spotted two girls wearing trousers and button-down shirts in the back corner of the room, speaking with their faces very close to each other. A few boys and androgynous teenagers sat at a table in the center, playing a game of cards. And sitting just ten feet away on a comfortable-looking green sofa, reading a book was— Oliver’s mouth dropped open. “Darcy?” Darcy’s head jerked up, eyes wide before their gazes met. He arched an eyebrow, then slowly his face relaxed into a hesitant smile. “Oliver! I’ve … never seen you here before.” Oliver sat on the sofa next to him, his anxiety melting away like snow in the spring. “It’s my first time. Do you come here often?” Darcy hesitated. “Not … often. But I do enjoy the company here, when I can make the trip.”

KICKING MY FEETTTTTTTT

“I can see why. I’d been nervous about coming here, but I’m glad I did.” “I’m glad you did too,” Darcy said without missing a beat. “I hadn’t realized you…” He hesitated again. “Fancy men?” Oliver supplied for him. “Yes, I do.” Darcy closed the book and placed it on a nearby side table.

AHAHAAHAHHAHAHA HE SAID SAY LESS

Slowly, he turned back to Darcy with a wry smile. “So you come here to read?” “Mostly.” Darcy’s cheeks pinked and he smiled sheepishly. “Does that surprise you?” He almost said yes, but then he remembered Darcy’s behavior at Netherfield, and of course at the Temple of Muses. Between the two, he’d almost always had a book in hand whenever Oliver had seen him, so maybe it wasn’t so surprising after all. “Come to think of it,” he responded, “it suits your character. So maybe not a surprise, but it is endearing.” Darcy’s smile turned to a grin. “Can’t say there are many who would agree with you on that front, but I’m pleased that you are. You should look at the shelf—some of the books are actually quite good.” “Any recommendations?” And that was how Oliver was drawn into a lengthy conversation on books about men who fancy men, women who fancy women, people who are neither a man nor a woman, and, to Oliver’s true shock, even a couple books about boys who were mistaken for girls and the other way around. (That Darcy recommended those books to Oliver filled him with a fuzzy lightness, if only because it meant Darcy knew boys like him existed.)

Darcy had just pointed out six books that Oliver would absolutely come back to read, when someone sat at the pianoforte on the opposite side of the room and began to play a waltz. Darcy’s eyes lit up and he grinned at Oliver. “Would you care to join me for a dance?” he asked, his eyes gleaming and hand outstretched. Oliver blinked. Dance with Darcy? Dance with Darcy as himself? He’d never imagined it possible, but pairs of people of all genders had already begun dancing. It was safe here, Oliver realized, to completely be himself.

IM GONNA START SCREAMINGGGGG

And unlike every other dance Oliver had seen Darcy at, the other boy looked genuinely happy at the prospect of dancing with him. So, Oliver found himself grinning back. “Why, Darcy, I thought you’d never ask.” When Oliver took Darcy’s hand, a shock ran down his arm like lightning to his nerves. Darcy’s hand was warm, soft, dry. It enveloped his easily, and Oliver followed the other boy to the center of the room feeling as though he were floating. By the time they reached the area where others were dancing, Oliver felt as though he were in a daze. Dreaming. And then Darcy took his waist with one hand and his hand with the other, and he had to be dreaming, didn’t he? How was he actually here, fully himself, dancing with Darcy, of all people? His entire body felt as though it were vibrating—he was impossibly aware of his entire being, of his closeness to Darcy, of the warmth emanating from his dancing partner. They were two boys dancing together for all in the room to see, and Oliver had never felt happier. “And here I thought you didn’t like to dance,” Oliver said with a breathy laugh. Darcy arched an eyebrow. “What made you think that?” Oliver’s heart froze in his chest. Had he and Darcy never spoken about dancing before when he was himself? “Bingley mentioned it,” he answered smoothly, even as his pulse pounded in his ears. “Ah.” Darcy laughed, and the tenseness in Oliver’s shoulders melted away. “Well, Bingley’s right that I don’t generally enjoy dances, but that’s becaus...

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 IM SICKKKKKKKKKK

It would be so easy. “Oliver,” Darcy whispered, his breath hot on Oliver’s mouth. He swallowed hard. “Yes?” “I very much want to kiss you.” Oliver shivered. His heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that he could barely hear his own breath. “Then I think,” he said, his voice trembling, “you should kiss me.” And so he did. Darcy’s mouth was every bit as soft as he’d imagined. His lips brushed featherlight against Oliver’s, a taste at first, then again with slightly more pressure. 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. Kissing Darcy was everything. It was only when they broke apart that Oliver realized the song had ended. Couples were breaking apart, but no one seemed to notice—or mind—the two boys kissing in the center of the room. Oliver stared at Darcy, wide-eyed, his mouth still tingling with the echo of Darcy’s lips. “Wow,” Oliver whispered. And then Darcy released him and took a step back. His expression was closed off—something had shifted in his gaze. The warmth he’d seen there just moments prior was gone, replaced with something unreadable. “I’m sorry,” Darcy said...

Oliver woke bleary-eyed in the late morning light the next day with a renewed determination and sense of self.

“What,” Mrs. Bennet said in a tremulous warble, “are you wearing?” “Trousers, of course,” Oliver responded cheerily. He’d paired the trousers with a linen shirt, and though he’d wanted to wear his chest flattener, he’d opted to skip it if only to avoid uncomfortable questions from Mrs. Bennet. He mildly regretted that decision and mostly tried to avoid looking down at his chest as a result. “Is anyone going to clean up that tea? I can fetch a broom and washcloth if—” “And why,” Mrs. Bennet interrupted, “are you wearing trousers?”

AHHHHHHHHHHHH MY PRECIOUS KING