Chapter Text
Professor Andrew Hozier-Byrne. Professor H.B. Andy, to some. To you, an enigma. A man you have known since you began working with him about a year ago, yet still cannot quite figure out. You were not even sure how old he was, though you presume he cannot be much older than your own 28, since he was fairly new to his position as well, and you recalled him floating around when you were getting your PhD. You also remember your friend found him a bit of an odd one, though nevermind that.
You shared a workspace, floor 5, office 19 in the arts building. It barely held 2 sets of bookshelves and desks, but you have made it work so far. Your relationship developed naturally, something easy and warm before either of you could even call yourselves friends. But you are. Friends, that is.
Andrew thinks so too. At least that’s what he tells himself. You’re married, he’s aware.That fact sits between you, no longer as sharp a pain as it was when he learned of your husband a year ago. Andrew never crosses a line. He’s careful, almost painfully so. He keeps his compliments academic, his laughter measured. If his eyes linger too long, he looks away. If your hands brush when you reach for the same book, he pulls away as if you were a flame and he was an icecube, melting in seconds.
You weren’t an idiot (or eejit, as Andy would say. He always says you’re too American), you don’t miss the way he says your name or lights up when you enter the office. He listens. But you do dismiss the feeling. You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself every marriage has rough edges. You tell yourself not to compare Sean to Andrew, because that wouldn’t be fair.
Sean still has not quite learned how to listen, though. He doesn’t mean to be cruel! He just has a talent for making everything you care about sound small. He calls your work “interesting” in the same tone one might use for a documentary about moths. He interrupts you at dinner. He corrects you in front of people. When you bristle, he says you’re too sensitive. And you are, you know that. A bit of thicker skin would not hurt, and he’s just trying to help. To make sure you come across as intelligent.
Just because he gets angry when he drinks doesn’t mean he’s a bad guy!! He’s misguided. Yes, misguided, unaware.
Tonight it’s time for the annual faculty gala. It is held in an old hotel. Andrew hates these things – the pretending, the peacocking around. But he goes anyway, for whatever masochistic reasons he has yet to uncover. Or maybe it’s the fact he knows he’s in love with you, and maybe he’ll finally get the chance to make you see how much of an arse your husband is.
Pff, in his dreams. His conflict avoidant tendencies run deep. He’s never even thrown a punch, which, considering the fact that he was quite nerdy and scrawny in secondary school before he got tall, is a wonder.
So. Inside thoughts they remain. For now.
He helps himself to his first glass of whiskey of the night, and when he sees the outfit you’re wearing he knows it’s not going to be the last one. You look beautiful. There’s something restrained about you tonight, like you’ve dressed to be admired but not noticed too much. Your husband is beside you, one hand firm on your back, steering you through conversations like you’re an accessory.
Right, that’s what the prick looked like. Andrew had never actually talked to him. If he remembered correctly he worked in the history department-Greek and Roman history or some kind of other old shite. He didn’t care enough to remember. Andrew watches the way your smile flickers when your husband speaks over you. Watches him interrupt your explanation of your own research to “clarify,” even though he’s wrong. Classicists, they think they know everything.
He forces his jaw to relax.
When you finally make it over to him, your face softens in immediate relief, but your husband claps Andrew on the shoulder with false familiarity and speaks before you can: “You must be the famous Andrew. I hear you two are inseparable at work!”
“We collaborate,” Andrew tries to say in a friendly tone, but he can't keep it from sounding slightly clipped. “And we’re friends, of course,” he adds, giving you a smile.
“Ah,” your husband says, smiling thinly. “Of course.”
In an effort for things to stay friendly, you add “Andrew here did a study on Greek myth in modern adaptations, love, I think you’d like it.”
“Did he now? Ah, well, it’s just stories upon stories, isn’t it? Nobody comes up with anything original anymore, in my book. At least they had the creativity back then. Nowadays it's all about adding diversity and inclusivity to history. Just write your own damn thing, right? No need to make Achilles gay–”
“Well there’s subtext, love, that implies-”
And that’s about how far you got before Sean interrupted you and did not give you a chance to interject. Not that interrupting him was a smart choice anyways. The bruise on your thigh was proof of that.
After a few minutes of fast chatting from Sean, you offer: “Why don’t I get you guys a drink?” You slip away when Andrew gives you a slight nod, happy to find a reprieve.
The bar is crowded, as tends to happen whenever you tell university professors there are free drinks. When you flag down a waiter, you feel Andrew sliding up beside you.
“Sean went off to talk with someone else. I don’t think he was enjoying our debate.” he offers, though the chuckle that follows is more sad than it sounds like laughing.
“Sean is.. particular about such things. I'm sorry.”
“No need to apologise.”
There’s a minute of silence before he decides to say something.
“Is he always like that? Sean?"
“Like what?”
“Well, ehm.. he quite likes to have the last word, doesn’t he?”
You’re confused. “Well, yes, he’s an academic. Aren’t we all like that?”
That sad chuckle again. “Not in the way he is.”
“You think he’s controlling,” you say. A statement, not a question.
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“But you meant it, Andy. My relationship is not your business.” It comes out harsher than you intended. “Sean just likes to manage my time well.”
“Right.”
He looks at his feet a second, and seems to realise a few things about the nature of your marriage with Sean. He beats himself up for not realising sooner.
“I should go home, anyways. Got ehm.. a cat to feed. See you Monday.”
And before you can think to apologise for your tone as well, he’s gone. You find some of your other colleagues to attend to, laughing about a recent incident with the coffee machine in the staff room.
Sean returns to your side as the evening winds down. “Ready to go, sweetheart?” You get the sense that no is not an answer, and for tonight that seems like the wrong hill to die on. The fight has drained out of you long ago.
Once you get home, Andy’s words ring through your head. Or actually, the word you said yourself. Controlling. It didn’t even need much prompting. But Sean wasn’t, was he? Sean has been with you for years. He knew when you were tired, made sure you weren’t pissed off with him. He was, for all intents and purposes, your person.
Right?