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“Well, I was just wondering why?”
Darcy ambled toward a door, disappeared into a room. Bron thought he might have upset him, and stood back, dazed. Darcy remerged almost as quickly as he’d gone. “I have been feeling rather alone these past few days, and very much lost in my own head. My father, well, he is a nuisance at times, and Ada but a nuisance too, only she is harder to get rid of, like a flea.” He took a deep breath, itched at his skin in jest. This made Bron want to itch too. “I have been trying to get you alone, to talk to you, for days now. But the moment never seemed to present itself.”
Together they looked at the carvings on the walls. Darcy pointed at the symbols of the crowned Tudor Rose, the Beaufort Portcullis. At the organ, the wooden partition that divided the space, Darcy showed him The H’s and A’s for Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. At one point, a priest made his way across the aisle, the altar boys in their white gowns gliding behind him. Darcyadmitted to a time years ago when he thought he’d commit fully to his religious beliefs and join the priesthood.
“How awful would that have been? A life without—” Bron stopped, the words tumbling out without his thinking. Darcy looked at him curiously, his face amused. He was laughing. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
“I never know what you’re about to say, Bron. It’s part of your charm.”
He tried to save himself, deflecting with another question. “Do you think you could have done it?”
“It’s a tough one, but I think so.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
They exchanged a look. “I’m just not a fan of purple,” Darcy replied, and glided down into one of the chambers off the main hall, where they found themselves alone. “And you’re right, I would have missed a life without …” Chains impeded the small room from being fully entered. Above the mini altar was a statue of the crucifixion. Darcy stepped as close to the altar as he could get. “You know, I was married once.”
Bron looked away from the altar and up at him. “What? To a woman?”
“Yes, to a woman. Oh, don’t look so surprised.”
Bron pulled what he hoped was a neutral face. “I’m not surprised.”
Darcy quickly continued. “I knew I had wronged her, but I have atoned for my deceit. We are happily divorced now. Or at least I am.”
“What was there to atone for? It couldn’t have been easy for either of you.” He wasn’t sure why Darcy was admitting all this to him here, and why now, but he was grateful for it. He asked what he thought was the most important question: “Did you love her?”
“In a way, maybe—I don’t know.” said Darcy, clenching his jaw. “But I have never been much good at love.” Love—Bron thought he knew what love was. Would have described it assomething heavy, weighing on the chest like a brick, or a chamber full of water, drowning him from the inside and filling him up until he’d burst. He thought he’d felt it once. Sometimes felt it still. A wound. “Now, may I ask you something?”
“That would depend on what you wanted to ask me.” Bron shifted in his stance.
Darcy stepped away from him, his back turned, and spoke into the air in an inflated tone. “Do you think me handsome, Bron?” Setting Bron’s heart instantly aflutter.
No,he thought defensively, the word almost slipping from his tongue. Not because he didn’t think Darcy handsome. On the contrary, he thought him extremely handsome. Sexy in fact. Had imagined so many precious moments where Darcy had come to him in the night and moaned,“God, you’re beautiful,”to which he’d reply that nobody had ever said that to him before. That he considered himself to be freakish-looking. That it was Darcy who was beautiful, handsome. Who everyone wanted. A manly man. Dating apps told him this much:no femmes. Or they wanted more than he had to offer:Trans. Smooth. No CD. Not some in-between distorted thing like him. So handsome? No. Darcy was much more than that. The crème de la crème of handsome. Someone who wouldn’t usually give him the time of day. And to admit it would be to expose himself. To stand naked in front of him. And he would be laughed at.
“Handsome? And why should my opinion matter to you?”
“I know, I know—you’ve said it before. Looks don’t matter—I get it. But I’m just curious, that’s all.”
“Curious,” Bron repeated. “Alright.”
“Well?” he said, his voice mocking impatience. He stood in a gentlemanly pose, his umbrella used like a mighty cane, a prop. He coughed an amused cough. “What is your verdict? What do you make of me?”
“Hmm.” Bron took steady steps and circled him for effect, scrutinized his nose, the jut of his chin just so, his muscular arms, toned waist; rested a moment too long on his arse, which Darcywas kind enough to pretend to have missed. Bron couldn’t meet his eye after that. “I suppose you are,” he petered off.
“Well, what is it to be? Handsome or not handsome?”
“Well, I’m not sure,” Bron said loftily.
“I am hideous, then!” Darcy declared.
“Indeed, very hideous. Extremely.”
“This is a blow. And here I was hoping for some kind of affirmation. That my looks would be pleasing to you?”
“Alright then, if you insist on my lying to you. I think youarehandsome.”
“Aha! I knew it.”
