Chapter Text
Will is bored.
Well, perhaps not bored, not exactly…perhaps that wouldn’t be quite the right word to describe it. After all, boredom suggests a level of tranquillity where there’s nothing worth paying attention to, and what he’s feeling right now seems a little too wary and restless for that. Can it really be possible to feel both bored and stressed, yet also surrounded by distractions? Will frowns to himself at this new dilemma, then proceeds to audition a few alternatives to try and solve it (resentful, frustrated, even the newly acquired British descriptor of fed up) before rejecting all of them one after the other for being equally inadequate. What is it then…what would be the best way to characterise the angst? He pauses for a few moments to dwell on it before starting to frown even harder. Oh God, surely it’s not possible that he’s actually feeling homesick?
Will now takes a moment for a small, private shudder at the idea of something so mortifying as being homesick (which is clearly something sufficiently pathetic that only little kids ought to feel) before deciding to firmly change the subject and start berating himself instead for being such a weird, introspective freak as to want to categorise his mental state so precisely in the first place. Around him the other tourists all seem to be in a state of excessive animation: cheerily clutching their guidebooks, cameras and maps of London, while ooh-ing and aah-ing through the glass cases at the assorted bits of cultural flotsam that the V&A museum has to offer. None of them look bored – or resentful, fed up, or even homesick (cringe) – but Will is used to the sense of not sharing the same feelings as other people so can’t really work up the energy to care about it too much.
In this respect the only true point of commonality he can find is that the two girls standing next to him are also American – although admittedly even that seems to be of limited value, seeing how the fact they’re not part of his group still makes them strangers and therefore just as foreign and unknowable as any of the others. The single positive point in their favour is that they’re both rather glamourous; possibly Californian, or at least close enough to his mental shorthand of what Californian girls might be (honey-blonde hair, impeccable tans, and a certain lilt to their accents which makes every statement sound like a question). For a few moments Will indulges in a daydream about a fantasy version of himself who’d be eager to talk to them – a version who can make eye contact and witty conversation, and who doesn’t stand around mentally scrutinising themselves like a freak – before regretfully turning towards the exit. The taller of the two girls, busy examining a row of Chinese ceramics, now pauses to throw Will a distinctly admiring glance, but by this time he’s moved away so doesn’t manage to see her.
Considering he’s been absent for nearly an hour Will supposes this is also the point he should be making an effort to re-join his own group again; only he can’t really be bothered with that either, so in the end just wanders rather aimlessly into another of the galleries instead. At least this promises to be marginally more interesting than the last one was – and is which is a fairly low bar to pass, but which it still manages to succeed in on the grounds that it’s got a lot of statues in it rather than mouldy, broken old plates which all look like they were grudgingly dug out of a hole in the ground in the ass-end of nowhere. Or more likely stolen, thinks Will with a slight sneer, who spent the flight over reading a journal article about the history of colonialism in regards to British museums. Really, the whole building is nothing more than an evidence room filled with beautiful variations of Exhibit A. Glancing round again at the smiling faces he wonders if any of the other tourists are thinking the same before deciding no: almost certainly not. Instead, they’ll be thinking about how wonderful it all is; and which as a concept is equally hard to relate to, because Will feels like he’s never known that much about beautiful things.
Somewhat numbly he now finds himself staring into a large glass case (broadsword, circa 1800, used at the Battle of Trafalgar), while trying not to get too distracted by the sight of his own reflection. The face gazing back at him is frustratingly young and fragile looking – all wide-eyes and delicate-bones – and has always seemed to become a greater source of dissatisfaction to him with every year that passes. Recently he’s even tried cultivating a beard to give himself a bit of gravitas, although isn’t entirely convinced at how successful it’s been (and in his gloomier moments is forced to concede that it shows an undeniable and unfortunate tendency towards fluffiness). But even worse is how the youthfulness also feels deeply ironic, because if the toils of life are supposed to show on the face – which surely they ought to? – then by rights he should look well and truly fucked.
Will now sighs very softly under his breath before straightening his shoulders to take a step forwards, followed by a second: one foot in front of the other – methodical, purposeful – and determinedly focusing on nothing but the mechanics of motion – left foot, right foot – until he’s moved down the length of the gallery. In fact, he ends up so focussed on it that he makes it most of the way with minimal engagement for anything around him (Greek nymphs to the right, Roman goddesses to the left…either boring or stolen, all of it) although only now finds his attention finally being caught by the exhibit at the very end of the room. Unlike the busts and figurines this sculpture is big; so big it isn’t even on a normal pedestal and has had to be displayed in splendid isolation on its own marble plinth. For a few moments Will hesitates, struck by the sheer spectacle of it, before squinting down at the display card on the base to understand what it is he’s actually supposed to be looking at. In this respect, the explanation for it is pathetically brief; almost comically so compared to the splendour of the actual piece it’s describing. Just a few sparse words typed onto creamy cardboard: Theseus and the Minotaur (marble, 1781-1782) by Antonio Canova.
Very slowly Will now drags his eyes back up again to take in the full extent of the sculpture. The first thing which strikes him is how incredibly smooth and defined the carving is, so much so that the two figures could almost be alive: as if he could reach out his hand to touch them and find they’d both be warm beneath his fingertips. And the detail itself is extraordinary. The hair, the draping of the fabric, the curve of muscles…every single feature reproduced with peerless precision and care. This time a list of mental descriptors isn’t remotely difficult to summon, and unlike before they’re almost falling over themselves to arrange themselves in his mind as a form of tribute. Words like noble, beautiful, and dramatic, all the usual types of stuff. But the thing is…it’s also something else as well.
It’s erotic.
Will clears his throat slightly, then makes a pretence at polishing his glasses with his shirt before glancing rather cautiously at the statue again as if hoping it might have changed its appearance in the meantime. No…no, it definitely is. How is it that no one else seems to realise it? Theseus, proudly sensuous and naked beyond the briefest of loincloths, is straddling the Minotaur with his legs spread wide apart as one slim hand rests along its muscular thigh in a gesture of casual, tender intimacy. And the Minotaur, in turn, is arching its back up beneath him in a way which looks vaguely ecstatic, almost as if it’s in the middle of an orgasm. It’s as if pushing the loincloth side would surely reveal how the Minotaur’s phallus (huge and bulging…monstrous) is buried deep inside the smooth tightness of Theseus’ ass as he rides it for his own pleasure: as if Will should profusely apologise for such vulgar staring before leaving them alone together and shamefully creeping away. The scene is meant to be violent, but the more he looks at it the more he feels that he’s walked in on two lovers, clumsily stumbling into something intimate and private that should never have been witnessed by anyone else.
If you get an erection now, Will tells himself sternly, then I will literally kill you. And there’s a broadsword in the next cabinet, so don’t even think about fucking with me. What’s making it even worse (if, indeed, it’s possible to get any worse – which by this point he’s seriously starting to doubt) is the awareness of a stranger standing several feet away who’s currently staring at the statue almost as intently as Will is. Admittedly, this wouldn’t present a problem in the general scheme of things – Will’s ability to care about other people being normally rather limited – only there’s something about their mutual fascination in the statue that immediately creates a sense of fellowship between them in his mind, despite the fact he doesn’t entirely want it to.
The stranger (who Will now mentally dubs ‘Cheekbones’, given that when viewed in a series of furtive side-eyes it’s the most obvious thing about him) is additionally rather hard not to notice; mainly because, not to put too fine a point on it, he’s strikingly good-looking. Handsome, even. In his humility Will has always been able to appreciate physical beauty in other people, yet he still isn’t used to being confronted with such dramatic examples of it in everyday life and the net result is almost unsettling. In his long dark coat Cheekbones is as elegant and rarefied as any of the exhibits; really he should be the one in the glass cases himself, something to be breathlessly admired while denying permission to touch. Will flushes slightly then removes his jacket, ultra-casual, and carefully knots it around his waist until the sleeves are hanging down to completely cover his groin.
Another word which now comes promptly and unhelpfully to mind is flustered; and which is almost enough to make Will want to reach for the broadsword and put an end to the whole thing here and now, because it so clearly makes him sound like someone who should be lying on a fainting couch like Scarlet O’Hara (and is therefore so incredibly feeble that not even the presence of the beard will be enough to make up for it). It’s only some random stranger for God’s sake, who even cares anyway? Cheekbones himself certainly won’t. Unlike Will he’s a proper adult: the sort who has their own house and a job (which in his case won’t be a mere job, but an actual career) and who can’t possibly have fewer shits to give about the presence of gangly students with fledgling beards who stumble into their line of sight. In this respect another cautious glance confirms that Cheekbones is continuing to stare – almost exactly in his direction – although Will doesn’t quite dare to assume it’s at him so concludes it must still be at the statue instead. Oh God, he thinks helplessly. No doubt he’s really blushing now. It must be so obvious; not even the beard is enough to salvage this one. Really, it's no good for fucking anything…he might as well just shave the bastard off.
From across the gallery the quiet of the moment is now abruptly shattered by a sudden flurry of male laughter; coarsely self-important in its volume, and then accessorised with a few “Yeah dudes” and “For reals” straight afterwards which quickly identify the speakers as American. Will glances up at the noise then gently rolls his eyes to heaven in an ‘Oh fuck all this’ gesture before determinedly thrusting his hands in his pockets. He immediately recognises all of them as members of his own high school party, although still can’t remember what their names are because they never have any true individuality of their own and instead seem to coalesce into a grotesque multi-brained organism like some 1950s B-Movie…a heaving mass of Brads, Chads, and Tads that’s shiny with hair gel and rank with sweat and mockery. At present they’re loudly occupied in sniggering over the breasts of an Aphrodite sculpture, although Will just knows it won’t be long before they spot him and come prowling over. Admittedly their previous attempts to bully him have also been somewhat limited; Will being too coolly aloof and self-possessed to ever be truly bullied successfully, as well as having the vague aura of being a bit too different (a quality which Will himself grimly refers to as ‘unhinged’) that makes them feel he’s not someone they ever want to mess with too extensively. But that still doesn’t mean they won’t at least try, at least in an absence of any more desirable targets. In this respect he feels they’re not true predators – not genuinely dangerous – but rather scavengers that roam around the landscape to hunt in packs. An image of jackals promptly comes into his mind; or possibly hyenas with that stupid, cackling laugh…
Right on cue the ringleader of the Brads now manages to spot Will across the gallery and quickly knocks his friends on the shoulder in a sort of ‘check this out gesture’ before loping over towards him. Will sighs again, struck by a sudden crushing weight of unfairness at how Cheekbones is about to witness this entire scene. In fact, it’s probably that which bothers him more than anything else because it was like they’d had a moment of shared understanding in their mutual admiration of the statue and now it’s all going to be ruined. Will can almost imagine him complaining about it afterwards, perhaps to a smooth-faced girlfriend who (of course) will be just as willowy and glamourous as he is with her dark eyes and jutting cheekbones. “Honey,” he’ll say – because a sense of kinship has now turned him into another American in Will’s mind, despite having zero evidence to support it – “you’ll never believe the scene these dumb teenagers made at the V&A this afternoon.” Then he’ll use a word like ‘aggravating’ or ‘immature’ to describe them, and Will is going to get grouped right in with the rest of them to become another Brad. Rather wildly he now finds himself turning round so he can briefly catch Cheekbones’ eye. I’m sorry, he tells him with yearningly silent sincerity. I’m sorry you had to get dragged into this. I’m sorry your visit was ruined because of me. I’m not like the rest of them though, really I’m not. I guess you won’t care…but I wanted you to know it anyway.
Having finally reached the statue, the group of Brads now draw to a jeering halt so their ringleader can shuffle forward to the front of the pack. He strikes what Will supposes is meant to be an effeminate pose then runs his eyes across both figures in an exaggerated way before waiting for the resulting hoots of derisive laughter which the other Brads obligingly provide.
“N-i-c-e,” he says in a deliberately lisping drawl. “Real nice. Getting a good eyeful, aren’t you Graham. Have you gone gay on us now?”
Will, who was expecting something like this, opens his mouth to deny it only to find that a sudden image of Arthur flashes into his mind and forces him to slowly close it again. Arthur is a neighbour from home, rather bland and middle-aged in his inexhaustible supply of plaid and peaked caps, but also one of the very few people (count-them-on-one-hand) who’s consistently kind and respectful to Will: who always takes him seriously and compliments him in a sweet, sincere way for being excessively smart and capable. Arthur, who would sometimes take Will fishing when he was younger because his own father was always too tired or busy, or who rooted in his attic for his old college textbooks to spend three hours straight coaching Will in calculus so he could ace the math text day. Arthur, who has never said a single word about it, but who shares a house with his ‘cousin’ Theo…and whom Will once accidentally saw kissing in the front seat of Arthur’s ancient pickup truck and immediately understood that cousin was a camouflage for partner to protect themselves from the local ignorance and bigotry. To deny it so fiercely now feels like it would be denying Arthur – to shun him as something aversive and shameful – and so, despite knowing it would make his life much easier, he now forces his mouth even tighter shut and just gives an irritable sigh instead.
“Seriously?” is all he finally says. “That’s all you’ve got? The statue is phenomenal. If you can’t see it, then that’s your problem.”
The ringleader of the Brads, clearly unprepared for such a calm dismissal, falters slightly then casts around at the rest of the pack as if summoning inspiration for a suitable comeback.
“I mean, look at it,” he says eventually in something close to a snarl. “It’s gay.”
“Then it’s gay,” repeats Will in a bored voice. “I thought we’d established that by now?”
“Yeah.” The Head Brad pauses again, lips flapping like a fish on a line as he visibly dredges his mental lexicon for a fresh choice of adjective. “Yeah, it is. It’s gay. So why are you staring at it? Are you some kind of homo?”
“Maybe gayness is in the eye of the beholder,” replies Will in the same bored way. “The inscription implies they’ve just finished a fight to the death. But if you see gay sex, then good for you.”
One of the lesser Brads lets out an involuntary snort of laughter, then quickly tries to stifle it when the Head Brad wings round to glare at him. Internally Will feels his heart sink, almost certain by now that there’ll be a price to pay for such insubordination. You can’t keep doing this, he thinks numbly. His mouth always runs away with him; it’s a hazard of getting so absorbed in other people’s emotions, and if he’s not careful then one day it’s going to end up talking him into truly serious trouble. Even so, on this occasion he can’t really bring himself to regret it because seriously, fuck these guys: he’d rather go down fighting then concede a single inch of ground to any of them. There was even a quote about it in the previous gallery, wasn’t there? He saw it just a few minutes ago, inscribed in swirlingly elegant serif font below a bust of Winston Churchill. Success is not final, failure it not fatal; it is the courage to continue that counts. Briefly he then finds himself gazing at Theseus again as if seeking inspiration: the smoothly carved face, calm and unafraid, serenely taking his weapon in hand to battle insurmountable odds…
From the corner of Will’s eye now comes a sudden flicker of black as someone steps in front of the podium light to send a long shadow spilling across the statue. The movement is extremely smooth and deliberate, rather like satin slithering over the floor, and while common sense suggests it should be the security guard come to intervene Will instinctively guesses it’s not. In fact, he’s not quite sure how he knows this so firmly, yet somehow he does. Later, he’ll even ask himself what compelled him to feel such certainty and still won’t be able to fully explain it.
“Kindly lower your voices,” announces the person in a softly ominous way. Their intonation is very deep – low and resonant, with a curious smoky edge to the vowels – and while there’s no hesitancy in the English has an accent that’s strongly foreign-sounding, even though Will can’t quite place where it’s from. “This is a museum. Not a backstreet bar.”
Will now takes a deep breath and then swivels round almost painfully slowly so he can confirm what he already knows. Up close Cheekbones isn’t quite as young as he’d first appeared to be, and Will is promptly aware of a strange stab of disappointment that this means they’ll surely have even less in common than he’d initially imagined. Not that it’s very easy to say for sure; Will isn’t that good at guessing people’s ages. Late 20s, perhaps? Mid 30s? Early 40s even, who knows. At any rate, he’s old. Older than some of the teaching assistants at the high school, although admittedly it isn’t a mere matter of age that gives him such an incredible air of dominance. In this respect even some of the actual teachers would be reluctant to take on the entire pack of Brads single-handed, instead often resorting to a kind of pleading appeasement (‘Now, come on you guys!’) or blustering fits of shouting which somehow manage to be even less convincing than the pleading is. In contrast, Cheekbones’ tone is calm yet extremely authoritative: so much so that even the Head Brad falters then shuffles his feet with discomfort as Cheekbones stares back at them in a coolly considered way that manages to be imposing and dignified yet also ineffably menacing, even though it’s difficult to say exactly what makes it so. Why is it? Will’s not sure, it just…is.
For a few moments Will suddenly finds himself remembering a hiking trip in Colorado and the guide’s earnest advice about what to do in the event of encountering a mountain lion. Don’t try and run, she’d said, sternly waving her finger at them to emphasise the point. It provokes their attack instincts. Just stay very calm and still. Seeking safety by remaining still…is that what they’re doing now then? Will and the Brads both? From their awkward postures and frozen faces, it certainly seems like it, even though it doesn’t really make sense in this context because there’s nothing more dangerous in front of them than another human being who just happens to be intimidating in a way which Will can’t fully explain.
Of course, there’s the simple visual deterrent of height and musculature, but somehow it’s far more than just that. Perhaps the obvious lack of fear? The imperishable self-confidence? The posture and inflection, all portending decisiveness and invulnerability? Or maybe the very, very faint smile, suggestive of the fact that the idea of someone presuming themselves to be capable of inflicting any kind of harm is endlessly amusing. But whatever ‘it’ actually is has driven a stake straight through the proverbial heart of the Brads’ resolve, to the extent that they now take an obvious step backwards just as Cheekbones takes several gliding steps forward like an animal circling its prey. Will can’t help thinking that there’s something instinctual about their retreat, something primal; impossible to articulate, but simply signalling that the victim knows it’s facing a threat that is too formidable to be managed successfully. He feels that if a furious, snarling dog was present it too would sense the menace in the air and grow subdued and silent – and likewise it wouldn’t fully understand why.
The Head Brad, clearly sensing defeat, thrusts his hands into his pocket then transfers his gum to the opposite cheek before adding, rather desperately: “You got a problem, pal?”
For a few moments Cheekbones simply stares at him, slow blinking like a cat. “What would your opinion be?” he asks in the same calm way. “Do I?”
The Head Brad looks so non-plussed by this that Will could almost muster a bit of sympathy for him. Cheekbones, on the other hand, doesn’t appear to be feeling particularly merciful, as he now lets the silence drag out to maximally humiliating degrees while taking full advantage of his greater height to force the Head Brad to stare up at him in a way that practically screams of submission.
“My own impression,” Cheekbones finally concludes, “is ‘not at present’.” He pauses again then slowly glances along the length of the Head Brad’s face and body. His eyes are very dark – very intense – and in the sickly glow of the lighting almost seem to have reddish tints to the iris. “Perhaps you would like to offer me one?”
Will, in all his life, has never heard anyone take such utter relish at the idea of getting into a confrontation. Go on you little prick, the tone is implying. You have no idea how much I want an excuse to fuck you up – and yet all still delivered in the serenely smouldering voice with its silky vowels and burnished consonants. In fact, it’s perhaps the total lack of anger that’s the most striking thing because anger would be understandable. All of them, both Will and the Brads, are used to adults expressing variations of anger, resentment, or impatience (often all three simultaneously), but this is something more than that. Instead, Cheekbones’ demeanour reminds him of the way a cat watches a mouse before idly stretching out to swipe at it with its paw. You mean absolutely nothing to me, Cheekbones is telling them. Yet I still want a reason to hurt you, simply because I can. Will can’t quite explain it, but it feels as if he’s watching an absolute masterclass in how to use civility as a lethal weapon.
The Head Brad makes an ugly scraping noise in the back of his throat, visibly balancing the mortification of backing down against his own deep reluctance to continue a confrontation he already knows he’s destined to lose. Will, in turn, is so absorbed in what might happen next that he’s actually disappointed when the security guard pauses long enough in flirting with a group of Japanese tourists to finally notice what’s happening and come striding over – no doubt, thinks Will gloomily, to thank Cheekbones for his intervention before insisting the American peasants desist with their bullshit (or nonsense, or tomfoolery, or whatever it is the British say) before throwing them all out. In this respect he really doesn’t think he can stand being classed as another transatlantic yob (or scallywag, or jackanapes) along with the rest of the Brads, so now quickly recruits the wide eyes and young face to get off the bench and put their respective skills into play in the hope that the resulting innocent stare might deflect suspicion successfully. Rather guiltily he also finds himself edging ever-so-slightly closer to Cheekbones to imply that they’re here together (not least because he’d love to see a security guard alive who would dare to throw him out), and the resulting combination appears sufficiently successful to ensure he doesn’t get included in the resulting lecture that the Brads are forced to submit to before being loudly asked to leave.
Will watches them go with a faint smirk on his face before turning round again to stare rather awkwardly at the statue. The standard rules of sociability suggest he should surely exchange a few words with Cheekbones about the scene they’ve just shared together, but while a part of him certainly wants to he doesn’t quite know what to say. Besides, perhaps it would be unwelcome? In fact, it almost definitely would; why the hell would someone like Cheekbones ever want to talk to someone like him? No doubt Will’s already been painted with the same contemptuous shades as the others and should just slink away right now before things can get even more embarrassing…
“You are quite right,” comes a voice from directly next to him. Will can’t quite work out how, but somehow it sounds gentler than it did previously. “The statue is phenomenal.”
Will dips his head in agreement, although still continues staring at the statue itself instead of the speaker. “Yes,” he says quietly. “It is.”
Admittedly it’s not very much, and he knows that if it were anyone else he’d be tempted to garnish this bald little response with something more substantial. Something about Neoclassicism or Baroque aesthetics – the type of inflated phrases he read this morning in the museum guidebook and which his exceptional memory would find it incredibly easy to recall. Only he already has a sense that Cheekbones is the type of person who would instantly see through such jargon for the artificial posturing that it is, so in the end merely adds with simple sincerity: “It’s perfect.”
“A fact which escapes your peers,” replies Cheekbones in the same gentle voice. “Once again, you show good judgement.”
“How so?”
“In that you are right to pity them for their lack of taste.”
“I suppose there’ll be pitying themselves now,” replies Will before adding, rather wryly: “You’re kind of intimidating.”
Cheekbones makes an amused noise; a sort of fluttering hiss through closed lips. “And are you intimated?”
Will hesitates very slightly. “No,” he says.
“Good,” replies Cheekbones, who still sounds faintly amused. “I would not have you so.”
Will hums non-committedly then slowly shifts his weight from one foot to the other and back again. He’s intensely aware of how they’re continuing to look at the statue rather than each other and there’s a surprising amount of frisson to it; as if they’re doing something secret and forbidden, disguising their conversation from the scrutiny of any onlookers. At the same time a part of him really wants to turn round, but somehow it almost feels like it would be a sign of over-eagerness to be the one to do it first. Or maybe it wouldn’t…maybe refusing to look is more suggestive of taking things too seriously? Oh God, why the hell does no one ever bother to give advice about things like this? In this respect, it seems fairly safe to assume that Cheekbones won’t be giving the Etiquette of Looking a similar level of thought. Almost certainly it won’t have occurred to him at all; not least because it actually seems pretty impossible to measure the amount of fucks Cheekbones couldn’t give (mainly on the grounds that science has yet to invent a device capable of detecting such a miniscule amount). If he’s honest it’s the kind of detachment – glamorous and effortlessly aloof – that Will himself aspires to. His own problem is almost the exact opposite in that he cares far too much, despite never really wanting to.
“I’m glad they got thrown out,” he says now, suddenly anxious to confirm that Cheekbones isn’t under any lingering misconception that Will and the Brads belong together. “Those guys are just…”
Briefly he finds himself pausing again, struggling to think of a suitable way to describe it. Normally it would be something like ‘the worst’ (possibly ‘assholes’ or ‘fuckwits’ if feeling particularly annoyed and fretful) but with Cheekbones it seems important to summon something more dignified. Something to further prove that Will and the Brads have nothing in common beyond a similar accent and a mutual high school field trip. After a bit more rumination he eventually settles on: “Ridiculous.”
“Indeed,” comes the reply. “One can only hope they grow out of it.”
There’s a certain wry inflection to the last part of this sentence which makes it clear Cheekbones is not hoping they grow out of it – on the contrary, that he’s hoping they don’t have an opportunity to grow at all – which strikes Will as being unspeakably macabre while also outlandishly charming in how unvarnished and honest it is. Pretty much any other adult he knows would be giving a little sanctimonious speech by now about helping the Brads discover their better selves (assuming such a thing even exists) or exhorting Will to rise above it and discover his better self (ditto). Even Arthur, who tends to be a bit more earthy and grounded than is typical, has a tendency to respond to displays of bigotry and general dickishness with a hearty ‘rise above it’ mentality combined with a call to virtue of being the better person. Cheekbones’ general demeanour throughout the entire Brad exchange screams ‘fuck being the better person’ (or perhaps not screams, but contentedly purrs) and right now feels delightfully and wickedly relatable. Will gives a small huff of laughter to show he appreciates the sentiment – and from the corner of his eye immediately sees Cheekbones’ head turn round so it can look at him directly.
“So…” adds Will. As he’s speaking he turns round too; it’s surprisingly easy now he’s done it and actually makes him wonder why the hell he didn’t try far sooner. “Do you live in London?”
“No,” replies Cheekbones, just as smooth as suave as before. “I am visiting only; rather like yourself, I imagine.”
“That’s right,” says Will, then adds “I’m from America” before flushing slightly at the idiocy of pointing out something that’s already so obvious. Cheekbones gives another of the faint, Sphinx-like smiles in response, although appears to take pity on him by choosing not to labour the point.
“A student, I suppose?” is all he replies.
“Yes,” says Will, attempting to rally a bit. “I’m…” He’s about to say ‘I’m going to college soon’, then quickly changes it to ‘in college’ instead in a rather desperate attempt to appear more sophisticated than he actually is. Not that there’s really much point by this stage; it’s obvious that ship’s already sailed (yeah…sailed then sunk in the goddamn harbour).
“How about you?” he adds hurriedly before Cheekbones has time to query it too much. “What do you do?”
“I’m a doctor.”
“Oh right,” says Will, refusing to be overly impressed. “PhD or medical?”
This reply immediately earns another of the faint smiles. “Medical. I’m a psychiatrist.”
“Oh right,” repeats Will. It’s not really a reply destined to instil much confidence; already he’s starting to wonder if Cheekbones can tell how many he’s been forced to visit himself across the years. Oh God, so many, especially when he was younger. A parade of blandly brutal men – all earnest and bespectacled with their probing questions and clinical manner – yet all still equally committed to dissect his mind with their clumsy categorisations of what could be seen as normal and what is most certainly not.
“I can see you are grasping for a suitable adjective,” says Cheekbones, whose flickering smile is already starting to reappear. “I shall therefore save you the trouble and reply that most people imagine it to be either difficult or disturbing, to which I would say it is neither. On the contrary. There is considerable scope for creativity.”
“Fair enough,” agrees Will rather vaguely. “I guess on some level it must be as much an art as a science.”
“And in that you are probably more correct than you realise,” replies Cheekbones with yet another smile. “As Delany observed, both art and psychiatry are self-perpetuating systems: they promise us a sense of inner-worth and meaning, then spend a lot of time describing the suffering one has to endure to achieve it.”
“Sounds a bit like religion,” says Will, who’s starting to smile too. “Or even Marxism.”
“Indeed. All these meta-narratives.”
“Marxism I could maybe have some sympathy with,” adds Will cheekily. “And at least religion has a bit of application behind it. Psychiatry, on the other hand…didn’t even Freud admit that the art of it was teaching people to stand on their own feet while reclining on couches?”
“He did,” replies Cheekbones who, contrary to expectation, is showing no sign of being remotely annoyed or offended by any of this. “Although they do say that the purpose of art is to convey the truth of a thing, not to be the truth itself.” He pauses then flicks his gaze across Will’s face: from eyes to lips then back again. “I can guarantee that the patients who recline on my couch emerge with all kinds of interesting insights about themselves.”
A host of possible responses now fly through Will’s mind, all of which seem equally impossible to utter due to a genuine risk of them backfiring horribly between mouth and brain and becoming an unintended version of ‘yeah, I wouldn’t mind lying on your couch some time…if I’m totally honest.’ In turn, he’s also unhappily aware of how the clock is now creeping ever closer to 5.30, at which point the doors of the museum will close for the day and they’re going to be forced to head their separate ways. Admittedly Cheekbones also isn’t showing any signs of losing interest yet and wanting to leave, although surely it’s only a matter of time before he does. Why wouldn’t he, after all? Someone like him in the middle of London…there’s a probably a million more interesting things he could be doing. But while Will knows the invitation he’s about to make is almost certainly going to be rebuffed – politely and graciously but rebuffed nonetheless – he somehow still feels like he’d rather regret the embarrassment of asking than repent the missed opportunity of never asking it at all.
“Look, this place is about to shut soon,” he now blurts out. “Can I buy you a coffee or something? It seems like the least I can do.”
Cheekbones’ perfectly shaped eyebrows elevate slightly as if requesting clarification and Will awkwardly clears his throat then thrusts his hands in his pockets again in preparation of making his case.
“I feel like I’ve kind of ruined your afternoon,” he says earnestly. “You were just here minding your own business then ended up getting dragged into that scene. I mean, I could have handled it on my own,” he adds in a firmer voice, “but I’m still glad you did. It’s like having an ally, y’know?”
Cheekbones nods politely to indicate he does know, and Will nods back before adding in a sudden tumble of words: “So you don’t have to, and you’ve probably already got plans – which is fine, by the way – but I still feel bad about what happened. So, yeah, if you did want to, then I’d be happy to get you a coffee.” Cheekbones’ eyebrows gently return to their resting position and Will adds in a final rush: “And-something-to-eat-as-well-if-you’d-like-to.”
Having finally run out of breath Will now grinds to a halt. On one hand he’s rather astonished at his own daring, while at the same time cringing over how needlessly detailed it was…really, he might as well have got out a whiteboard and sketched an actual diagram complete with footnotes. But just as before, Cheekbones shows no signs of mocking or irritation and instead just slowly runs his eyes across Will’s face once more followed by another of the Sphinx-like smiles. Will attempts to smile too in response and then ducks his head slightly before gazing back up at him through a few tangles of hair in a way that’s unintentionally appealing.
“Thank you,” Cheekbones now replies in the same gentle voice. “I would be very pleased to accept your invitation. In fact, if you hadn’t extended it, then I would still have made a similar offer myself. And not from any obligation which you appear to think you owe me, but because you seem like a rather interesting individual – and I would not regret the opportunity to know you a little better.”
“Oh,” mutters Will, who’d been bracing for the inevitable rejection and is uncertain what to say now that it hasn’t happened. It’s rather like the proverbial dog who caught the car; having got what he thought he wanted, he’s not entirely sure what to do with it. “You would?” he adds. “Well…okay then.”
“Okay then,” repeats Cheekbones with another smile. “Indeed.”
Will nods then clears his throat again, reaching down at the same time to retrieve his backpack from where it’s been deposited by the base of the statue. Cheekbones watches him do it in patient silence before adding in the same calm voice: “By the way, do you happen to have a name?”
Will hurriedly straightens back up, gripped by a renewed sense of awkwardness at why the hell it didn’t occur to him to address this glaring issue sooner. Then he has a terrible sense that his palms might be sweating from nervousness, so surreptitiously wipes his hand against the side of his jeans before holding it out rather uncertainly.
“Will,” he says. “Will Graham.”
Cheekbones smiles again, although this time it’s somehow a little less cynical than the others. His hand as it takes Will’s is warm and firm although his eyes remain just as darkly intense as before.
“Hannibal Lecter,” he says. “I’m very happy to meet you.”
