First Impressions: A Modern Pride and Prejudice Adaptation

Chapter 49.1

Darcy was still afraid. He deeply disliked relying on the opinions of others because he struggled to know exactly where he fit in almost anyone's opinions. He had no idea how he was perceived and the concept plagued him from the moment he bid Elizabeth farewell, all through the evening.

He sat on the bed in Bingley's hotel room, one leg tucked under himself, the other hanging off the end of the bed. Bingley was in the bathroom, the door open, loudly brushing his teeth, attempting to talk around the toothbrush. Darcy could hardly make out a word he said, even if his mind had been in the room with them.

He thought about how it used to be, the sense of overwhelming safety of spending time alone with his friend, and wanted to bury his head in his hands. The safety was, if not gone then certainly damaged. Fractured. It made him think of the Japanese ceramics with their cracks filled in with gold. He wondered how one could get their hands on metaphorical gold.

Equally unsettling, but in its own way, was the sudden reversal in his relationship with Elizabeth. He cringed away from comparing Elizabeth to another woman because there was no comparison. But he could compare his own feelings. He read enough of literature to have a distinct image of what love should be, even if viewing life through a novel was not the healthiest way of coping. But it was so unlike any relationship he had ever been in... He had no other litmus test.

The words "madly" and "violently" seemed common, but that was not how he felt. Was not the beginning of love supposed to be an all-consuming emotion? Surely it would block out the rest of his personal anxieties. Somehow, though, it did not. Maybe he was too used to the sensation. Even if it had just now come to fruition, it was too much a part of him already to override other feelings. Was it merely a state of being? That, like being alive, like breathing, like keeping his heart beating, he loved Elizabeth Bennet as his natural state.

When he had been with her, at least, after the initial confessions, he had had such a wave of calm. Now that they were apart, it was gone, and he was frustrated by both sentiments. He was unhappy in his nearly-perfect happiness because when he was out of it, not directly confronted by it, it felt like it could not last. He wondered if he was doing it wrong.

No, he didn't just think he was doing it wrong; he knew he was. But at least admitting he had a problem was half the issue, wasn't it? He could feel his mind spiraling and could not control its descent.

The light snapped off in the bathroom and Bingley stepped out into the room. He wore a pair of sweat shorts slung low against his hips and no shirt, his hair dripping gently down his shoulders. He graced his friend with the peculiar expression he reserved only for Darcy; mouth thinned in concern, eyebrows slightly raised with expectation. He had always known when Darcy was losing it.

"What is wrong with you?" It was asked in such a gentle tone that, under normal circumstances, they had known each other for so long that the response would hardly have elicited a reaction even from Darcy's high-strung emotions. But in their current state, Darcy flinched.

Bingley grimaced. "Sorry."

"Stop that," Darcy snapped back, immediately.

Bingley opened his mouth, began to mouth the word, and stopped. He sat down in a chair in silence instead. Darcy looked down at his clasped hands and said nothing.

"Question still stands," Bingley said after a minute.

"Right." Darcy grimaced. Bingley, in his way, was always more perceptive than Darcy gave him credit for. He had always been quick to pick out Darcy's tells and little twitches of discomfort.

Bingley's expression was the human embodiment of a text message with nothing but a trio of question marks.

He had asked for permission—rather, had told Elizabeth he would be informing Bingley. He had better get it over with. "I... Elizabeth and I..."

"Liz?" he asked curiously.

Darcy laughed, once, tonelessly. If he didn't soldier on, he'd never get it out, not with Bingley prompting him. "I'm in love with her." There. It didn't hurt to say it. It felt almost good; but he had stopped looking at Bingley, which made it easier to say. "We're seeing each other. I don't know who in her family she's telling yet, but she knows I was going to tell you. I don't want any secrets between us. Ever again." 

He didn't look up until he finished speaking; Bingley's mouth had dropped open slightly. When the silence became too long to bear, Darcy said, "Well?"

It took another few seconds for Bingley's jaw to start working again. "You're joking!"

"I am really not," Darcy replied stiffly.

"I don't believe you."

Darcy shrugged, spreading his palms out. "I'm not sure what else to tell you, then." He fidgeted again, considered getting up.

Bingley saw the motion and moved to calm him, reaching out a hand towards his friend's shoulder. "No, no stay where you are. I'm kidding!" He paused, looking Darcy up and down. "Mostly," he amended.

"Ah."

"I believe you, I just don't... I didn't realize..." He swallowed and shook his head slightly. "When...?"

Darcy pulled in a steadying breath. "It's a long story."

"I don't have anywhere else to be."

He was reminded of long nights in the dormitories, sharing secrets and anxieties, hopes for the future that they wouldn't or couldn't write home. He wished he had a better timeline, one that didn't overlap with the disaster of the summer. But he didn't. His story abbreviated events, but not the facts.

When he finished, his mouth was dry. Bingley was leaning back on the bed.

"Wow."

It was Darcy's turn to stare—almost glare—in confusion.

"Good for you."

"I—wait, what?"

Bingley grinned. "You heard me."

"I'm not sure I did."

"I hope you know how you sound when you talk about Liz. It's great for you to sound like a complete idiot every once in a while. Save the rest of us from having a complex."

"I... I don't..." Darcy didn't know what he didn't know, but he was certain the list was innumerable. "I didn't want you to be angry that I was making the same choices I told you not to."

Bingley spread his hands on the bedspread, looking at his fingers as he spoke. "We-ell. I could be. I might have been, last week. But I'd rather you be happy than let myself be angry."

Darcy closed his eyes at the words, his skin and bones singing with a swooping sensation. Within his eardrums, he felt the world spinning around him. It took far too long for him to say, in a small and cracking voice, "Thank you."