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The first time Downey meets Havelock Vetinari, he hates him on sight. There’s just something about the little scag that picks at his nerves.
Small boned and quiet, with a nose and a blazer that are both slightly too big for him, the boy sits through Assembly observing everyone and everything in the hall with calm blue eyes. They pass over Downey and he’s left feeling ridiculously unsettled – it’s as if even at eleven, he’s mastered the art of peeling a soul open and reading inside, is perfectly ready to use what he sees for his own purposes. Downey feels as if he’s being weighed up on a hidden scale, being judged somehow, and can’t help but think that while the boy is definitely a gentleman – they all are – he’s just not... gentlemanly.
Of course, being twelve years old himself, Downey promptly responds to the strange new feeling in his gut the only way he knows how – dumping an inkwell down his collar, dubbing him with a rather witty nickname and generally prodding at the boy every time they cross paths. Anything, really, that might get the little scag to just react.
No dice. While his antics get a laugh from the Selachii twins and even an indulgent eye-roll from Ludo, the Dog-botherer is as irritatingly polite as ever. If Downey had even slightly more nous, he might question why he’s spending so much time trying to get a rise out of a firstie. But then, twelve year old boys aren’t much renowned for their introspection, and life continues.
---
It takes him over six years, but after a long Soul Cake break, during a sweltering Grune term which seems to drag on forever and makes everyone restless, tutors and students alike, Downey realises their confrontations have started to take on a charged quality. It all feels more physical, less petty. There are more brushes in corridors on their way to classes, with Vetinari nodding slightly and Downey lingering, just a bit, just to see him go. More scuffles during the Wall Game. Downey has even taken to tossing food down the table during mealtimes, just to see him look up, everything from apples to sweet-pears to bits of Mrs Sugarbean’s special Octeday pudding (The last was a bit of a wrench. It was really good pudding.)
Vetinari, however, is still utterly, infuriatingly unmoved by it all, and it slowly eats away at Downey. He finds himself staring at Vetinari’s retreating back in the corridor, finds himself muttering under his breath in a way that frightens a passing firstie and has Ludo rolling his eyes at an alarming angle. (Downey often gets the impression that Ludo thinks of himself as a sort of wise and tolerant uncle to their little group, smiling fondly when he thinks someone is being dim. He half-expects him to start chucking people under the chin, sometimes. It’s worrying, especially since he’s actually the youngest and smallest in their year.)
He finds, one night, that the last thing he thinks about before sleep is not the Run or exams or even pretty Franny Eorle, who’d smiled at him throughout last month’s subscription dance, but what an utter scag Dog-botherer is, and how he always has the right words, every time, and how his lips curve ever-so-slightly when he says them. He wonders what those lips would look like if they smiled.
Things come to a head one achingly warm noon, when most of Viper House is either at class or locked in their study, cramming. Downey has been preparing for finals all morning and decides he needs a quick change of shirt – the waves of heat have soaked it through as he practices sudden drops on the south wall. His head aches, and he needs a drink, and he begins to wonder if it may not have been a stupid idea, prancing about outside in the highest heat of the day, but if he gets Dr Nivor for the final, he can’t afford to lose marks for technique.
As he dashes back down the spiral staircase he runs headlong into the scag himself, turning into his own study. The sunlight is pouring in though the narrow window of the stairwell, and it turns Vetinari’s profile into a sort of silhouette, highlighting long black lashes. It’s when he notices these, when his scathing commentary trails off and is met with a dry smile, he realises Something is going to happen. He doesn’t know what. Something has been brewing in his chest for years, and something has to break or he’ll go mad.
Maybe he’s already gone mad, maybe that’s what this is.
He’s not quite sure what he’s thinking when, instead of heading back down the stairs, he strides across the landing, pushes his way into the room, goes after Vetinari.
He’s definitely not thinking at all when he leans over, plants a hand on each shoulder and pulls the younger man towards him gracelessly. Kisses him.
Vetinari has grown into his nose at some point over the years, but it still brushes awkwardly against his own. He hears a sharp gasp over the roaring in his ears. Vetinari smells of tea and lime, a sweet and subtle taste that Downey later places as Earl Blue. The curtains of the study are closed, but he can still feel the sun pounding through, warming his back and giving everything an almost surreal grey glow.
A pair of cool hands come up to cover his own, wrenching them away, and the sensation pulls him back to reality with a jerk. Vetinari just leans away from him, and blinks.
Downey freezes. They’re rooted in a strange tableau, Vetinari’s hands covering his own, clasped in front of them like a priest’s two-handed handshake. Thoughts and afterthoughts begin to drip back into his brain, one after the other. He’s aware that it’s mainly gibberish. He has a vague feeling of hysteria.
This is the first time I’ve ever seen him at a loss. Hah. Finally. Oh.
Damn, this is embarrassing. Oh Damn. At least I’m not dead. Maybe I can pretend to have heatstroke?
This is a very tidy room. Bit drab. There’s an orange on the desk. Oranges. Apples. He ate the apples but ignored the pears, why? Does he not like pears? Pears are not important right now. I can’t breathe. Will he tell? Need air. Maybe he’ll just laugh. I can take that. What was I thinking? Maybe Ludo is right. Why am I so dim?
Gods, I hope Ludo never finds out about this. He’ll probably roll his eyes so far back they get stuck in his head. He’d be half-blind and then how’d he be able to finish the run and oh god the run and oh gods I really can’t breathe. Forget Ludo finding out, what am I doing? I’m worse than dead. Remember that business with the Marquis of Fantailler and his son, last year? Mummy and her friends were whispering about it for months. Dear Io, Mummy’s going to cry. Pa might cry. No, Pa will kill me, Assassin or not. I’m going to have to move to Howondaland. Do they speak Morporkian in Howondaland? Maybe I should grow a moustache.
Somewhere, he finds the strength to pull himself together and actually look up. Dog-bother, Vetinari, damn him, is gazing at him with a very odd expression in his eyes. It’s several hammering heartbeats before Downey identifies it as apologetic.
Before he can so much as clear his throat he’s interrupted.
“Downey. Ah, Richard.” He’s never heard his name on those lips before. It sounds odd, surprisingly gentle, and just...wrong. “I’m really rather sorry, old man, but...no. I think you’ve got the wrong impression. Sorry.”
A slight squeeze of the hands and Vetinari is gone. Downey suddenly feels very cold, even in the baking summer air.
Vetinari never mentions it again, not once in the weeks leading up to graduation. Doesn’t hold it against him, not even when he ascends to the Patricianship. More importantly, he doesn’t hold it over him, not even after the regrettable business with the Gonne, not when Downey makes Guild Master, not even as he raises him to the peerage. He’s a perfect and utter Gentleman about it all, and Downey almost hates him for it.