The Last Romantics

You Saw Nothing Of The Show

I could not arrive in Victor Trevor's eyesight looking any bit disheveled; no I had to look my best. First impressions, and perhaps only impressions, would have to pass completely unquestionable. Perfectly, that was the key. Perfection. And I was quite good at arriving to such a word within very minimal amounts of time, so quick in fact that I joined my brother at the carriage before he had even realized I was gone, sparkling in my looks que brighter than the snow in the light of the lamp.
"So eager, Sherlock. Try not to look so passionate when we reach the theater, I'm not sure anyone appreciates such emotions these days." Mycroft muttered, taking his seat opposite to me and arranging his coat around his rather larger figure, larger at least than what I remembered him as before. Perhaps he had been indulging while I was away, though with what I could not imagine. Perhaps a life of riches was leading him astray, corrupting his human heart and his naturally thin figure. I tried not to look so anxious; I tried to keep myself under control. I knew that for the duration of the carriage ride Mycroft's glare would be upon me, staring at my face and trying to read whichever emotions were evident upon it. There were some that would go unrewarded, such as boredom perhaps, or exhaustion. Though despite the hour, despite the journey, I was completely unburdened with such excusable expressions. Instead, my heart was racing so quickly that I could not stop to control it. I couldn't get my breathing under control, it would seem as though with every breath I took I only needed more, until most all of my inhales turned to deep gasps as I pulled at all the loose threads inside of the carriage seat. As soon as my foot started tapping my brother shot an unimpressed look, though he was in turn distracted by the very same lights that had caught my attention, the lights of London, appearing well within our view. Thankfully the trip to the city was only about an hour and a half by carriage, and as such we arrived at a reasonable hour of the night. The opera began at nine o'clock, and we had but twenty minutes to spare when we at last stepped onto the packed dirt of the London streets. The theater was alight with conversation, men and women alike wandering the perimeter with their best attire, dressed head to toe in fine silks, sparkling jewels, and drenched in obnoxious perfumes. What light the moon could not provide was supplemented with the oil lamps burning ferociously over our heads, the fire burning bright and the darkness interrupted. I shivered, though not with the cold. I was quite unaware of earthly feelings at the moment, hovering quietly outside of my own skin and transcending above the squalor of the upper class. Their conversations were but noise to me, their smiles wasted. I cared only about their faces, their names, their occupations! Any one of them could be the man I had taken to worshipping, any one could be him! I found myself staring more contently at the older gentleman of the pack, those with white hairs emitted from underneath their top hats, with aged women on their arm. I remembered Tobias telling me of Trevor's age, assuring me that he was not very much older than myself, though for the life of me I could not grasp the idea that he would look so unlived, so unexperienced! I was looking for a man of emotion, and for that I searched for any man who looked as though he had seen the world as a whole, and felt the deep shards of all great tragedies. Who I was looking for did not occur to me, and even as Mycroft was shown to his appropriate box by an usher I was staring for a long while at the wrong faces, automatically introducing myself with much enthusiasm to each and every disappointment presented to me. Members of the Parliament, members of the aristocracy, the son of a textile manufacturer, a cousin the prince...wasted! Useless. It was not until I was introduced to every face in the box that I began to notice the one who had not bothered to greet the newcomers, the one figure in the darkened corner, half concealed under the shadow of the large curtain hung from above our box for decoration. Sitting there above the crowds, emitting just enough smoke from his parted lips to leave the other half of his face up to mystery. All I could make of Victor Trevor in that moment was the back of his head, though from just the way his brown hair shone in the lamps, well I was quite certain. From what I knew of the man, and that was a considerable bit, I could imagine he would be the one to sit undisturbed. More at peace within his own shell than with the company of others, quietly pondering the world as it came to him, and wondering above all whatever was truly impossible.
"Sherlock, perhaps we should find our seats?" Mycroft suggested, nodding his thanks as he was handed a rather generous glass of white wine.
"A moment, Mycroft." I debated, accepting my own glass though with trembling fingers, having found myself almost unwilling to approach the man who may prove to be...well the man who did prove to be, so much more powerful than myself. It took almost no time to decide to step forward, though within my mind days might have passed, eternities... In the time I pondered another billow of smoke was issued from where the figure sat, another breath of contemplation. I began my approach, slowly at first, my reluctance getting the better of my muscles and whatever motivation I could summon within them. However as he came closer I grew more eager, touching the fold in my jacket where I was keeping the book he had created, touching upon the spine so as to encourage myself to press forward. If this was my chance, well this may very well be the only one. Opportunities like this were not supposed to come around too often, when your idol was sitting occupied within your proximity. And so I took the leap, and I found myself at last by his side.
"Mr. Trevor?" I asked quietly, my words forcing their way out of my throat. The familiar syllables, the familiar name spoken so often in my university time...now so strange coming as a direct inquiry. I never thought I would be able to address him... At last he seemed to come alive, with a deep sigh of smoke he turned his head, allowing me for the first time to gaze upon his face. Oh well, Doctor, you are well acquainted with his face I am sure. Though what may seem to be so mundane to myself at the time seemed all together magical. The most beautiful man in all the world, with a face shining in youth and with life, a brain that must have been so large and complex, shoved within the perfectly shaped skull with defined structure in all the right places, and shining skin stretched just tightly enough to gleam in the lamps above. I took a breath, just one, staring upon the complexities of his irises, blue like I've never seen save but in the flowers, and the lips that were curled in such fullness around the stump of a half charred cigarette. I stood for a moment, those words perhaps the only ones I would be able to manage in his presence...a legend. A genius. A God.
"Ah." The man muttered, as if he had been expecting my presence. "Thank you." With those words he stretched out his hand, taking the full glass of wine from my hands as if he had requested a glass earlier. I handed it to him eagerly, though within a moment realized that I was not being recognized correctly.
"I'm...I'm not a butler." I explained quickly, though with a glance to my outfit it would indeed take some proper explanation to tell the difference.
"Then why would you give me your wine?" the poet wondered a bit carelessly, snubbing the cigarette onto the arm of his elegant mahogany chair and throwing the remains off of the balcony and into the crowd below. For a while it must have fallen, and for that duration we were quiet. At last a scream of disgust echoed from down below, to which Mr. Trevor smiled, and continued on with the conversation we were just beginning to have.
"Because you took it, sir." I muttered quickly.
"And are you in a position to give me whatever I desire?" Trevor clarified, sipping at my wine and seeming to find it quite good.
"Yes I suppose so." I agreed quickly, knowing within my heart that I would bow down, heart a soul, to such a man even after having known him for so short a time. He could ask anything of me in those days, and I would comply. Worship was quite like that.
"Then you are a butler." Trevor decided at last, turning his gaze away from me as if he was all together quite bored. He must have met my kind before, blubbering idiots!
"No! No...I'm a fan!" I exclaimed at once, almost shooting out my hand to maintain his attention some way or another. Thankfully I stayed still, for the man seemed to laugh at the confession, his gaze still fixed upon the stage though now with not as much interest as before.
"Indeed? I have heard others go by the name, in fact I have quite a lot of those these days." He admitted at last.
"None like me." I assured anxiously, a confession that was quite true at the time.
"Now that! That sparks my interest." Trevor admitted with a smile, turning back in his chair so that he could look me up and down, wondering perhaps what sort of advantages he could get with me at his feet.
"Glad to hear it, sir." I whispered quickly, feeling the need to address him as such even though we were technically equals. Not intellectual equals, though on the same status monetarily, socially. His name was known, mine was not, though in the end we would be switched in such a regard.
"Sherlock, a minute to sit!" Mycroft exclaimed from where he was on the opposite side of the box, seeming to have removed himself effectively from the company of all but the textile owner, the only person in his particular situation of self-made glory. Maybe Mycroft was attempting to avoid the aristocrats, though it would be more probable the other way around.
"Sherlock...an interesting name." Mr. Trevor cooed. "Better run off then."
"Better, yes." I agreed. "It was a pleasure, Mr. Trevor."
"Pleasure for what? We have not even been introduced." He insisted with a sharp chuckle.
"A pleasure to see you, sir." I said rather stupidly, and with that I nearly ran across the box to my brother's side, almost toppling into a waiter as he went to serve cubes of cheese to any rich man who required some. The opera started almost as soon as I got myself seated, and while I accepted another glass of wine from a waiter I could not stomach anything solid at the moment. The beautiful chords of the singers were but background noise, the main event of the night seemed to be so bothersome to my entire purpose! The show itself was nothing, absolutely nothing, in comparison to the marvel which sat across the box. I found myself so often staring in Mr. Trevor's direction that he caught me more than once, his long and elegant form sprawled across his chair like a throne. He was accompanied most directly by the son of the Lord, whoever he may be. I did not listen to his name, only in fact to his title and purpose of being here. Perhaps that was how he introduced himself in full, I did not really remember. That was the man who took the seat next to Mr. Trevor, often times leaning over to express his opinions on the piece being performed. I remember feeling a sort of jealousy, not necessarily in response to Mr. Trevor's actions in return (for he seemed very uninterested in the comments of his companion, as if the man had become on absolute bore) but in fact just of the proximity. I told myself repeatedly that if it had been me sitting next to the poet he would be much more interested in what I had to say. He would be, certainly. I was growing more and more obsessed with his complexion, finding that when I looked away for too long his face appeared behind the blinking of my eyes. I had to look again, had to get a full fix of him before I was either caught or nervous, in which I could look away again. Though in those moments, watching as his lips exhaled deep breaths of smoke, as he raised his wine glass and took a gentle sip, as his hand slipped into the fingers of his closest companion though his head rolled exhaustively the other way... I only felt the shame of my obsession when I was caught by his returning glance, a casual look over his shoulder to where he would always meet my eyes. I would look away, pondering what his glance could possibly mean. Perhaps he looked towards me because was interested, or perhaps he merely looked in an attempt to force me to look away. Perhaps he could feel it when someone else's eyes were upon him, perhaps he didn't find it very favorable at all.
"Sherlock, won't you pay attention?" my brother insisted, prodding me rather angrily in the shoulder as I twisted in my chair for the thirtieth time...that minute.
"I'm sorry." I muttered quietly, rubbing my arm in some agitation before deciding to unearth the book I had concealed in my coat pocket. By the very dim light of the concealed flames above I could still make out the writing, going over it continually in my head so as to make sure each word remained familiar. I knew the sound of his voice, if only slightly, and was attempting to put that voice to use. I tried to imagine him speaking each one of the words he had left for the world, those smooth syllables passing through his lips in a way that printed text could never fully describe. The way he must read these poems, out loud as he writes them at his desk, well it must be without a doubt the most breathtaking experience ever witnessed before. I took a deep breath, remembering how he spoke my name...oh Tobias would never believe where I was right now. Tobias would never dream of it. When at last the opera was over I got to my feet along with the rest of the crowd, clapping my hands in a mock performance of my own, a show I put on to make it appear like I had paid any attention at all. Just as soon as the lamps were relight and unshielded I focused my attention much more feverishly towards where Trevor sat, now supporting the full weight of his companion upon the arm of his chair, as the man rested his arms there and whispered long and urgently into the exposed poet's ear. His eyes were wide, he was quite interested. I was interested as well, what would make him look so entranced? What words, when said in private, could ever enchant the man who owned the whole of human language? Whatever they were, in those days I was determined to recite them.
"To the reception then, Mr. Holmes?" asked the textile owner excitedly, getting to his feet and offering Mycroft a hand as well. My brother accepted, though he yanked his hand away almost as soon as he had found his balance, as if he didn't want to touch human skin any longer than he absolutely had to. Or perhaps he didn't want the other man assuming anything about his lingering fingers, god forbid they lingered just a moment too long...
"Oh unfortunately it is still a long ride home. Can't have my little brother staying up too late, can we?" Mycroft chuckled, patting my shoulder as I strained my eyes to see what had become of Trevor and his companion. They were getting to their feet together, their hands lingering for moments upon the other, Victor's hand on the man's shoulder and the man's arm fixed very anxiously around the poet's waist. I didn't think anything of it at the time, none of the connotations that might have come along in the modern mind. I was too young to understand the concepts I was being presented with, and in short decided that there was nothing to ponder at all. I was jealous, though not of the proximity but entirely of the honor. I wished to touch that man, wished to bask in his gaze.
"We could stay a little longer, Mycroft." I entreated, though even as my words left my mouth I felt as though they were wasted. Even if we did manage to stay I knew my presence would not be of much use. Trevor was as bored of his present situation as anyone could be, and my lingering about may very well be in vain if he decided to disappear off with his companion of choice.
"No come along then, Sherlock. Let us say our goodbyes." Mycroft insisted, pushing me off in the direction of where I had been staring all night, now where the two men were standing still close together, Victor with his arm around his companion's neck but only so that he could finish off his wine. There was not much emotion in his eyes, which I found very surprising indeed. For someone so outright with his feelings I thought he may have had more of them, especially when entangled with some aristocratic stranger. I felt the need to approach, and just as soon as Trevor looked up and caught my eye he flashed a quick smile, untangling himself from the Lord and pushing him aside with not much care in the world. With a single stride he met me half way, and before long I found myself as close as I could ever want to be with Victor Trevor, a drunken Victor Trevor if I may add.
"Sherlock, if that truly is your ridiculous name, I dare assume you saw nothing of the performance tonight." Victor muttered, his fingers curling for a moment in the air before at last finding their designated places on either one of my shoulders. I dared a sharp inhale, feeling both excited and terrified all at once.
"Yes I saw...well I saw bits and pieces." I admitted at last, deciding it was no use trying to lie to him, who may very well have been watching me all the time I was not watching him.
"You like my book, Sherlock?" Trevor assumed.
"Sir, I've read every word. I've read it all a hundred times...I love it." I agreed quickly, spewing off my true feelings before wondering if I was being too indiscreet. The man's face turned to a smile, staring into my eyes now and undoubtedly seeing true admiration, the light of a thousand fires burning within my very soul under his gaze.
"Well then I must tell you a secret, love." Trevor muttered, pulling me in a bit closer and allowing his fingers to play across the side of my cheek . Very slowly he leaned in, the stench of wine on his breath as he pressed his lips up close to my ear, nearly chuckling as he went. "I love it too."
"Very good." I agreed, not entirely sure what to say as he pulled away with that great big smile upon his face. At last he plunged his hand into his pocket, unearthing a little card and holding it out for me to take.
"My card, Sherlock." He announced, watching as my trembling fingers took it with such admiration as would any man take a piece of gold, or a pure diamond. I stared upon that beautiful thing with such pride, holding it within my fingers as if I had been granted something far more beautiful than life itself.
"Thank you." I breathed.
"Don't be a stranger." Trevor warned, and with that he let his hands slide from where they were set upon me, using that final exclamation as a farewell, and turning at last to rejoin his now very bored looking companion. They reunited with a bout of entanglements, and before long I watched the two of them stumble together through the door, disappearing into the thick crowd and regaining the commoners, looking no different than the rest of them when disguised in their appropriate opera attire.