Most Ardently

by Gabe Cole Novoa

It was a special thing, to have one’s reflection in harmony with who they were.

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.

The air between them was full of tension so thick it was choking.

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

Oliver’s smile grew. Bored Darcy might be an arse, but flustered Darcy was adorable. “Well, I suppose I’m happy to know I don’t bore you.” “Absolutely not,” Darcy said, so quickly that the simple reassurance filled Oliver’s chest with warmth.

“We’re permitted to bring a guest,” Darcy said. “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.” Oliver grinned. How on earth was it possible that this was the same Darcy as last night? Or even this morning? “I’d be honored.” Darcy’s smile was small and sweet—and Oliver found he couldn’t look away. For some reason, he didn’t want to.

well, you’re a different person when you’re permitted to be yourself. You’re so much more at ease, so much happier. It’s not just that your clothes have changed, your entire demeanor is more authentic.”

There was a time when being referred to as a girl or a woman felt off, like trying to force two ill-matched puzzle pieces together, damaging both in the process. But the discomfort that was once easily ignored became exponentially more painful once Oliver experienced the euphoria of being seen as himself, as a boy, for the first time. It seemed the longer he spent in the bliss of being the boy he was always meant to be, the more miserable he was forcing himself to play the part of the girl he never was.

For reasons he didn’t care to examine, meeting Darcy’s gaze was calming. Like the gentle push and pull of the tide, he felt himself slowly drifting out to sea, but it didn’t scare him as much as it should have.

Darcy’s laugh was genuine; it rolled up Oliver’s spine and filled him with warmth.

Darcy’s eyes widened just slightly, but his face morphed into a conspiratorial smile. “You’re right,” he said in a low voice, “that would be terrible.”

He’d just flirted with Darcy. And was Darcy flirting back?

“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.

Because the truth was, he wanted that easy camaraderie. He wanted to be able to court someone without fearing how they might react if they knew the full truth about him. He wanted an openness with someone without fear, without worry. He wanted that ease, but it all seemed impossible.

But this was a list of aspirations, and if he couldn’t allow himself to even dream for this, then what was the point of this list at all?

“You know that all I care for is your happiness. I’ll never force you to marry anyone you don’t want to marry—even if it means you never marry at all.”

“I can’t imagine,” Darcy said, “that you could ever be unextraordinary.”

“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.

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.

The relief of being accepted, of being seen, of his building fear of Darcy’s reaction evaporating like mist—it filled him with light.

“I’d rather be secretly happy with you than openly living a lie.”

Part of him didn’t care if someone noticed his absence. Part of him wanted to be discovered, to be seen. He was so exhausted of pretending, of putting everyone else’s needs before his own. He was tired of trying to make everyone else happy, to his own detriment.

If your feelings are still what they were earlier this month, please tell me so, but I can no longer contain my own. I admire you, Oliver Bennet. Your spirit, your wit, your open honesty—I have thought of nothing else since we first met.” Tears blurred Oliver’s vision, spilling hot over his cheeks and cooling in the rain. “Darcy—” “I love you, Oliver,” Darcy said. “Most ardently.”

Then his lips were on Darcy’s, and the other boy cupped Oliver’s face in his soft hands. They kissed, with rain pattering their faces, with their hair wet and heavy on their foreheads, with their rain-slicked skin slipping against each other. They kissed as Oliver’s tears mingled with the rain, as his heart filled with so much happiness he thought it might just burst, as warmth bloomed in his chest and spread across his body, like a mug of steaming tea in the dead of winter.

“I love you, Fitzwilliam Darcy,” Oliver said. “With my whole heart, I love you.”

Then Darcy’s hand clasped Oliver’s and squeezed tight. The pressure was reassuring, and warm, and Oliver held on to his hand like a guardrail while descending icy stairs. Mrs. Bennet’s gaze flickered down to their clasped hands as the shock on her face morphed to confusion. “Also,” Oliver added, his voice tight with tension. “Darcy and I are, erm, courting, I suppose.”